Dear Mr. J. Mathrubootham,
Aiyo, your letter this time landed like a full plate of kesari falling face down on the floor—sweet disaster everywhere, but still makes us smile through the mess.
No need for sorry-sorry about the delay; we know how it is when Mrs. Mathrubootham goes on ladies' trip. Full Mysore Darshan, hotel hopping like it's Pongal vacation, and you left holding the fort like single-handed Arjuna in Kurukshetra, but without Krishna to give gyaan. Only beetroot poriyal as your charioteer.
That autorickshaw-laugh of hers? Classic Kamalam. When she said "old man, we are living in world or Agatha Christie novel," I could almost hear the whole Housing Colony Ladies Association cackling in background like pack of mynas attacking one ripe mango.
And mentioning young Maharaja Yaduveer? Wah! You replied "Ok, then you marry him and live in palace no, bloody nonsense"—pure gold, sir. That's the level of comeback that deserves standing ovation in Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar temple queue.
At home, your son treating housework like it's optional subject in 10th standard—useless-er than zebra crossing on Mount Road? Spot on. That boy is so lazy, if laziness was Olympic event, he would win gold medal... then ask someone else to go collect it for him. And using steel karandi on non-stick pan until it looks like Eicher map of Erode? Aiyo, poor pan must be thinking, "Enna da crime panninen?" Next time, just tell him, "Kanna, if you scratch pan one more time, I will scratch your future wife’s horoscope matching chances."
Now coming to AI part—your son gave two-hour IIT lecture, you understood zero, then he does demo. You ask innocent question: "What is Mrs. Mathrubootham doing in Mysore right now?" He gets upset like you asked for free biryani in five-star hotel. Then you hit the jackpot: "If son dies accidentally due to food poisoning, will father who made dinner go to prison or no?" Phone and son both vanished faster than free idli at marriage hall. Brilliant escape plan, appa!
Next time ask, "Computer, how to make son wash his own plate without world war starting?"But seriously, AI is like that clever neighbor's son—knows everything, talks fast, but when you ask real family problem, it says "Sorry, that's personal, ask Google uncle instead."
Jobs? Yes, some going away like old 2G signal, but new ones coming like Jio 5G towers everywhere. Your son is excited because maybe he can become prompt engineer—sitting in AC room, typing magic words to computer, earning more than software engineer who actually codes. Tell him, "Kanna, instead of waiting for AI to take job, you become the one who teaches AI how to make perfect sambar. Then even robots will say 'Super da mama!'"
And about that food poisoning question—don't worry, beetroot poriyal is safe. Unless you added extra love (read: extra chilli) by mistake. If son complains, just say, "This is revenge for not helping father.
Next time, poriyal will have extra beetroot justice."When Kamalam returns, ask her casually, "Saw any handsome Maharaja? Or only handsome masala dosa?" Watch the kerosene engine start again.
Yours in full Tamil exhaustion, extra humour, and zero washing,
No need for sorry-sorry about the delay; we know how it is when Mrs. Mathrubootham goes on ladies' trip. Full Mysore Darshan, hotel hopping like it's Pongal vacation, and you left holding the fort like single-handed Arjuna in Kurukshetra, but without Krishna to give gyaan. Only beetroot poriyal as your charioteer.
That autorickshaw-laugh of hers? Classic Kamalam. When she said "old man, we are living in world or Agatha Christie novel," I could almost hear the whole Housing Colony Ladies Association cackling in background like pack of mynas attacking one ripe mango.
And mentioning young Maharaja Yaduveer? Wah! You replied "Ok, then you marry him and live in palace no, bloody nonsense"—pure gold, sir. That's the level of comeback that deserves standing ovation in Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar temple queue.
At home, your son treating housework like it's optional subject in 10th standard—useless-er than zebra crossing on Mount Road? Spot on. That boy is so lazy, if laziness was Olympic event, he would win gold medal... then ask someone else to go collect it for him. And using steel karandi on non-stick pan until it looks like Eicher map of Erode? Aiyo, poor pan must be thinking, "Enna da crime panninen?" Next time, just tell him, "Kanna, if you scratch pan one more time, I will scratch your future wife’s horoscope matching chances."
Now coming to AI part—your son gave two-hour IIT lecture, you understood zero, then he does demo. You ask innocent question: "What is Mrs. Mathrubootham doing in Mysore right now?" He gets upset like you asked for free biryani in five-star hotel. Then you hit the jackpot: "If son dies accidentally due to food poisoning, will father who made dinner go to prison or no?" Phone and son both vanished faster than free idli at marriage hall. Brilliant escape plan, appa!
Next time ask, "Computer, how to make son wash his own plate without world war starting?"But seriously, AI is like that clever neighbor's son—knows everything, talks fast, but when you ask real family problem, it says "Sorry, that's personal, ask Google uncle instead."
Jobs? Yes, some going away like old 2G signal, but new ones coming like Jio 5G towers everywhere. Your son is excited because maybe he can become prompt engineer—sitting in AC room, typing magic words to computer, earning more than software engineer who actually codes. Tell him, "Kanna, instead of waiting for AI to take job, you become the one who teaches AI how to make perfect sambar. Then even robots will say 'Super da mama!'"
And about that food poisoning question—don't worry, beetroot poriyal is safe. Unless you added extra love (read: extra chilli) by mistake. If son complains, just say, "This is revenge for not helping father.
Next time, poriyal will have extra beetroot justice."When Kamalam returns, ask her casually, "Saw any handsome Maharaja? Or only handsome masala dosa?" Watch the kerosene engine start again.
Yours in full Tamil exhaustion, extra humour, and zero washing,