The influence of the Bible on the English Language was the topic I wanted to cover that day, as part of a dozen lectures allotted to me on Creative Writing in English. Some misguided soul had suggested my name to the Director of the Press Club, which was offering a short-term course in Journalism and in a weak (or confident) moment, i agreed to do those lectures. (I must confess that I was not called after the first experiment).
A knowledge of what constituted the substance with which the language was made up of would help in using it creatively, I thought. Among the major influences on the English Language in its formative stage were the discovery of the Printing press,the translations of the Bible and the printing of the King James version /Authorised version in early seventeenth century. These two factors happening almost simultaneously had the impact of standardizing the language.
One would be amazed at the huge number of the very very common words that we utter on a daily basis as well as the figurative and metaphorical usages that are drawn from the Bible. For some reason, I thought that it would help a person who is to take writing seriously to know the impact the Bible had on the language.
Thus it was that I took a lot of pains to prepare the lecture in which i highlighted the combined impact on the English language of 1. the translations into English of the Latin Bible and 2. the advent of printing into England.The impact was
of standardising the language and establishing the victory of East Midland dialect over others and
introduction of an incredibly large number of words and expressions from the Bible.
I wanted to amaze the students with astronomical contribution of Bible to the English vocabulary. I wanted to surprise them with the list of words that come so easily to us, which could be traced back to the Bible. I wanted to demonstrate how a familiarity with the associative and connotative value of words will give a depth to their use, and would also help in the application of such techniques as, say, extended analogy.
I concluded the lecture with the list that I wanted to surprise them with. After reading it out, I looked up with what I’m sure was an expression on my face that reflected the satisfaction of a job well done.
Any comments, questions? I asked.
He was a frontbencher who on the first day had asked me, “Can CREATIVE writing be taught?”
I don’t remember him asking any more questions after that, but I remembered him ‘cos I was grateful to him for that question which gave me a chance to discuss with them the concept of creativity.
I remember he wore glasses. He always had a smile on his face, the nature of which I couldn’t quite decipher.
After my lecture on the Bible, he asked me his second question – second and last.
Was reading a few blogs and looking at pictures and reports on Christmas – in Dubai, New York, Florida, in the giant metros and in small cities, towns and rural areas too in Kerala. And my mind slid back to sixties and seventies - - -
My earliest memories did not involve Xmas shopping, ‘cos I was a kid. Shopping must have been there, but the instant ready to use items, I’m sure were not there. Not just us children, but those of all age group got involved inn making the pulkoodu (Crib). I still remember a day before Christmas. My father in a Jubba, with his hand on his hip discussing with Mathai who was employed in his office across the street, about the ideal spot for the crib (and mind you, my father was a very busy business man!). I remember anxiously waiting to see if the spot I preferred would be decided on. It wasn’t, and then the six year old me threw tantrums. I was given a hearing and Ichayan (that’s what we called my father) agreed there’s a lot of sense in what I said – on the narrow veranda it was to be. It faced the front compound which could be accessed by a small flight of steps. It would look like the crib is on top of a hill, I said excitedly (am not sure now if the manger where Christ was born was on top of a hill). Yes, the hill effect could be easily achieved if the crib was where I wanted it, agreed my father enthusiastically. Mathai also agreed. And my day was made.
Every bit of item for the crib was gathered by my brothers and I. Some supervised, some moved in an out of the house, in the compound and the adjacent vacant plot getting bits and pieces to put the crib together . I still remember Mathai telling us siblings that if he could cover the superstructure we had built up with brown paper which could be crumpled to get that crushed effect, that’d make it look like a mountain. Some paint was remaining from the maintenance that was done in the house a couple of months back. It could be used to touch up the brown paper to improve the effect. It meant a lot of brown paper, and a lot of money.
“Mollykochey”, suggested Mathai. “You ask Ichayan. He will agree”.
I do not know if I was the favourite, but I remember I was not scared to ask him. He readily agreed, took out a note and gave me.
There was jubilations when I ran back with the money.
It was a great crib that year! Grass was uprooted from the vacant plot and arranged at the bottom of the step to create an impression of a green valley. There was even a lake in front of the crib, at the foot of the mountain, in the middle of the grassland! Mathai dug a shallow hole on the sand, placed a basin in it poured water into it and even put a few live fish into it.(I do not know if there was even a puddle in Bethlehem! But that did not matter).
In the kitchen, amma would be making cake in bulk. Yes, really bulk. Baking was done in the most primitive manner. The small oven which could be kept over the aduuppu (firewood stove) was inadequate. So a temporary firewood stove was made in the backyard, and a huge bell metal vessel (chembu) was kept over this make shift aduppu. It was filled with sand which took a long time to get hot. My brother who was closest to me in age, and I used make occasional inspection of this outdoor oven to see if the sand was hot enough for the cake mix to be arranged in the many dishes it was already poured into. Amma kept a hawk eye on us to make sure we didn't land up in the oven.
Regarding the wine, amma would have bottled it a week before Christmas.
The spade work for Christmas cooking would start late in the evening. The only thing that used to sadden me was the sight of the chicken and duck that were awaiting slaughter. I remember asking Verghese, our very versatile odd job man and who took over the role of the supervisor on that day if it would hurt them when he cut their heads off. We were shooed off when the actual killing took place.
Of course, I could block out that part of the story of the duck roast which was served with appam for Christmas breakfast.
Every Christmas of those decades has memories for me. In my time too, I have tried to keep that spirit of Christmas in my home. Even today, my crib is a cardboard carton, with some grass from the roadside and a few painted clay figures of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, three kings and shepherds, a few sheep and cattle and an angel suspended from the hole pierced through the “roof” of the carton.
But the world has moved on, while I continue to wallow in nostalgia. How different things are now! How commodified is that festival now! The malls and shops glitter with optic fibre lights, eco friendly glare, bright colourful and fluorescent decorations. Cakes – you get any variety of them from the shops. And wine too.
Guess I’m an old timer. All these glitter and glare leave me cold.
I am one of those who become temporarily dysfunctional at the news of a disaster, natural or man made, leading to huge loss of life. Bhopal gas tragedy, Orissa floods, Lathur and Gujarat earthquakes, mass killing in Kosovo, ethnic cleansing in Bosnia, Godhra have all caused me a lot of sleep and peace of mind.
Hitler's holocaust happened before I was born. But when I first heard about it, studied about it and and then read books about it I looked up at the abode of the God of Israel and asked WHY, WHY, WHY? DO YOU KILL US FOR YOUR SPORT?
In my twenties, thirties and forties, I watched movies, read novels with Jewish themes, with a heavy heart. I watched Doordarshan's serialized telemovie Escape from Sobibore. I think the episodes were shown on Thursdays, when I would wake with an unidentified, vague tension which would soon grow into an anxiety which followed me like a nagging companion during the course of the day. Finally, when the time came around for the serial, I waited and watched for it to begin with a deadly calm poised precariously on the edge of depression, horror and infinite sadness.
"Just decide not to watch the serial. Who's forcing you to do it? Why torture yourself?' asked my mother when she noticed how agitated I used to get while relating the episodes to her the next day.
I had to watch it. I had to go through that torture, and feel the pain of a people who had nothing to do with my life confined to a small area in South India. Guess it was my way of getting it out of my system. Confront pain. Sweeping it under the carpet might cause you to trip and fall. Sweeping it up and trashing it was the best way to deal with emotional burdens, I must have thought. I could have decided not to watch that serial. But I felt compelled to do it.
But now I am a changed person. I don't watch them anymore. I can't. My mother's practical advice makes sense. It took a lot of persuasion from a friend to watch Schindler's List, which she described as the story of modern day heroism and sainthood.
But I find I'm not alone in this response to the horror stories of the shameful and painful chapters of life. My brother with whom I share similar inclinations in the movie watching habits too told me the same thing just the other day. He too can't stomach them any more.
Guess it has something to do with the weakening of the emotional intelligence which happens when one enters the fifth decade of life– a weakening of that capacity to manage the emotions which results in an auto suggestion that you don’t have to put yourself through an avoidable trauma over an issue that doesn't concern you.
Why am I indulging in such a lengthy dissection of myself and my responses to this pain filled world? Today is the 5th anniversary of the Tsunami. I remember as I sat watching the terrible visuals of the disaster and the spiraling figures of the numbers of the dead scrolling at the bottom of the screen, I felt numb. But it was not that self acquired defense against emotional trauma that I spoke about earlier. It was on account of another tsunami of emotional upheaval that had descended on me on the Christmas day of 2005.
My eldest brother, a priest, was brought home from the USA in the terminal stage of the deadliest disease of the century. There is nothing worse that watching a loved one fight a loosing battle for life. The pain is so tangible that it chokes you and clogs all those channels of emotion that let in lesser emotions.
Lesser emotions? Thousands of my countrymen in the neighbouring states swept away by giant waves into the land of death from whose shores they'll never return. Is that a lesser tragedy than the death of one loved one who though still young, lived a fruitful life, and was ready to meet his maker?
I must confess that the sight of concealed pain, the denial of it, and the awful knowledge that he'll not be around any more - - - it was too much for me. The tsunami on the TV screen failed to impact me the way news of disaster usually did. I couldn't FEEL. The horror and tragedy did not penetrate into those regions of me from where was born all those qualities which made one a sensitive feeling human being.
Now, the very mention of the word tsunami always triggers off mild waves of guilt in me - a feeling as though I have let down my fellow human beings by not feeling enough for them, for not including the victims of this disaster in the experience of pain that I reserved exclusively for a sibling who, ironically, had provided space in his concerns for those in need and pain.
When Mathew asked me if I'd be interested in going for the concert, I said WOW. YES, YES AND YES.
It was to be in Carnegie Hall!
It was Handel's Messiah.
Now, I must admit that my exposure to classical music – both western and Indian – i s next to nil. But FOR UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN,WORTHY IS THE LAMB and of course HALLELUIAH CHORUS, I guess, are items that one listens to and absorbs sometime or other in the course of a lifetime.
Five years back, my husband and I decided to attend the midnight mass at Don Bosco church in Mumbai 'cos the local church choir was to perform the Halleluiah Chorus as the grand finale.
So I guess it's true to say my excitement was about listening to the Halleluiah Chorus being performed by a professional group. It'd be different from anything I'd witnessed.
As we walked into the Hall, Anita and I joked about the various theories on why people stood up during the rendition of Halleluiah Chorus.
"Well, I'm not going to stand up. It'd be an effort for me. What difference would it make?"
"Your wish", said the ever understanding Anita.
The performance began. I must say I was impressed - the fascination of a novice. About something very fundamental. About how ninety voices could sing with such coordination, how 5 cellos and sixteen violins could play in such perfect unison and produce the effect I was listening to. No sound engineering this. It's harmony and beauty that are born of human discipline, hard work and inherent sense of music.
As I sat there, I thought of that miserable day some 40 years back when I was sent from the school to attend an audition for the Pondicherry choir group, and was rejected. That particular group always closed their Christmas performance with Halleluiah Chorus. And I had already begun to imagine myself standing right in the front row of the group, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, my eyes looking at a nonexistent point somewhere in mid air with great concentration – and the final bowing low from the hip in acknowledgement of the thunderous applause to which I myself had contributed the previous two years.
All dreams had come crashing down during the audition before I could get even half way through the number that was given in advance!
And so I sat there on 23 Dec, 2009, and UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN was sung. I listened fascinated and excited, 'cos it was familiar.
Soon I started dozing. What a shame, you must be thinking. But dozing off is not a conscious decision. Each time I woke up guiltily with a start, I saw either Mathew or Anita or Jen having a little bit of fun at my expense.
Finally, I blurted out.
"I've had a long day. Wake me up when the Halleluiah Chorus begins"
And I didn’t voice the thought that came to my mind. "I hope I won't snore!"
I must have dozed off for quite sometime. No. doze is not the word. I fell into a deep sleep – a talent I have for performing at the most inappropriate places.
And then, I became vaguely conscious of a tap on my knee.
And it happened.
HALLELUIAH!
It exploded into my consciousness – all levels of it. I threw off the great coat under which I'd been snuggling comfortably, jumped up onto my feet without any helping hand and stood there as the ninety voices accompanied by the orchestra rent the air with a superb praise of divine majesty.
And the entire audience was on its feet too, I noticed.
As I stood there, I was goose bumped all over.And tears started streaming down my face!
No, it was not arthritis that made King George stand up during Halleluiah Chorus.
I wonder if I too saw the face of God!
****
[Here's the mail Anita sent after she booked tickets for the show for us:
Wikipedia has an interesting entry about Handel's messiah. try and read. I thought this part (esp the reasons why king george got up) was hilarious.
The most famous movement is the "Hallelujah" chorus, which concludes the second of the three parts. The text is drawn from three passages in the New Testament book of Revelation:
And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunderings, saying, Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.. (Revelation 19:6)
And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever. (Revelation 11:15)
And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS. (Revelation 19:16)
In many parts of the world, it is the accepted practice for the audience to stand for this section of the performance. Tradition has it that King George II rose to his feet at this point. As the first notes of the triumphant Hallelujah Chorus rang out, the king rose. Royal protocol has always demanded that whenever the monarch stands, so does everyone in the monarch's presence. Thus, the entire audience and orchestra stood too, initiating a tradition that has lasted more than two centuries. It is lost to history the exact reason why the King stood at that point, but the most popular explanations include:
As was and is the custom, one stands in the presence of royalty as a sign of respect. The Hallelujah chorus clearly places Christ as the King of Kings. In standing, King George II accepts that he too is subject to Lord of Lords.
He was so moved by the performance that he rose to his feet.
He arrived late to the performance, and the crowd rose when he finally made an appearance.
His gout acted up at that precise moment and he rose to relieve the discomfort.
After an hour of musical performance, he needed to stretch his legs.
There is another story told (perhaps apocryphally) about this chorus that Handel's assistant walked in to Handel's room after shouting to him for several minutes with no response. The assistant reportedly found Handel in tears, and when asked what was wrong, Handel held up the score to this movement and said, "I thought I saw the face of God."[9]]]
This is my three hundredth post, in http://pareltank.blogspot.com alone. My first blog was an accident, in the sense it began as an attempt to post a comment on Shamuel Tharu’s post in INSIGHT JOURNAL, the link of which was sent to me by who exactly I don’t remember. Being a novice at blogging and being an absolute technoignoramus (Which I still am) I created a blogger ID because I understood/misunderstood that comments were allowed only by bloggers. My first few attempts at creating a blog failed but I soldiered on. Every failure made me more determined. And finally Http://pareltank.blogspot.com was created. And wonder of wonders, the comment meant for the Insight journal appeared as my first blog!
It was from my son that I first heard about blogs and then I started reading them. I found them very exciting ‘cos there was an honesty in the blogsphere that we don’t find in any other form of writing that occupy public space. I read blogs voraciously for sometime, not for the quality but for the peep it afforded into the life and ways of people of all age groups, all walks of life from across the world. It offered a window to the other cultures, a window which opened out to a view not available hitherto in the pages of fiction or nonfiction, or research writing or even in movies. There are many many bloggers who create a virtual world which comes very close to life as it really is - without pretensions.
And then I started blogging. I’ve always loved writing but for some reason couldn’t really get down to it - possibly on account of a lack of confidence in myself, of a feeling that I didn’t have that spark in me which converts writing to journalism. Suddenly I realized that here, in the blogsphere, I am the supreme empress. Can write what I like, how I like. Didn’t owe anything to anyone but myself. And so I wrote, paying little attention to everything about the English language that was a pain in the neck.
Soon I realized that blogsphere, alas, is not my domain alone. People who read my blog expressed displeasure at my not crossing the Ts and dotting the Is. My husband was the loudest critic. Being a perfectionist, he admonished me for the typos, the lower case after the period, the errors that creep in when the only editing one does comprises a quick running the eyes down the post.
I hate editing and spending too much time over a piece once it is over. And I found here in blogspace, I could bring out a reasonably acceptable piece, once it is put through a spell check.
My advice to blogger (having written 300, I think I qualify to do it) – if you want to be a prolific blogger, don’t be obsessed with a finely chiseled piece. A spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions sometimes results in rambling, or unusually strong emotions and feeling. Let them be. Don’t pare them down. Spunk and truth might get pared off as what you perceive as trivia. The soul of the piece might get lost.
Soon I had regular blog visitors, about each of whom I formed my opinion. I looked forward to their comments everyday. Some of the most insightful comments came from my daughter who sometimes startled me delightfully with her honesty. All my blog visitors had something new to add to my post, and often opened my eyes to aspects I had been blind to. Yes. The interaction in the blogsphere was an education of sorts.
And I had the pleasantly strange experience of meeting my blogger friend in flesh and blood. Crisgirl or cris seetha. She was everything I thought she’d be. And more. A a petite, smart and soft-spoken girl who created an online community called tidycity.org is now contributing her mite to keep the Trivandrum city clean by sensitizing the people about the need to minimize littering. I attended a meeting she and the Tidycity members conduct in the Museum every Sunday. I was impressed by the commitment of this young group to a cause. And crisgirl is the brain behind it.
Finally, what has blogging done for me? Has it changed me? I guess so, for it provided a platform to debate and sort out issues which you turn over and over in your mind and can’t get away from. I find that once I have posted a blog, I move on. Even if no one chooses to comment, it’s ok. I’ve got something out of my system.
And it gives me immense happiness that I can share the lighter side of life with my blog friends. Not that those post will go down in the history of cyber literature as works of art. But if they bring a smile on one face, it’s mission successful.
I discovered with some surprise, that despite being a regular blogger, I’ve revealed nothing of the real me. I‘ve let the world know only what I wanted it to know. The real me is scrupulously kept out. Will I get the courage to write about it? Why am I so hesitant about demystifying myself?
Perhaps I’m afraid it’ll be like peeling an onion, and the loser would be none other than myself!
she was five when sitting on the step of the veranda behind the kitchen she bent her little head at right angle to see the top of a coconut tree and the branches swaying in the wind beckoning to her to join the birds and the crows disappearing into it or flying out of it and soar into the sky soft in the dying day and wished she were those birds and could fly high and wander into the heavens and say hello to the angels and then return and disappear into the coconut palm.
Now five decades later she looks down the eleventh floor of a high end apartment in the capital city at the riot of coconut trees at her feet. Watches the birds playing hide and seek among its branches and envies the birds and the crows.
And when she roams in lands without coconut palms her heart swells at the colours of fall at strange trees that flourish in softer climes and looks for birds and crows and feels stirrings in her heart and mind and her whole being and looks for her coconut trees in vain.
If the experiment is successful, the beginning of a permanent solution to the energy crisis is in sight, scientists feel. There’s no dearth of solar energy in space.
Am not competent to even pass a casual comment on the feasibility & success of this project, but I cannot resist the temptation to indulge in a hypothetical fantasy.
What if such solar power stations in the space can take care of the bulk of the energy needs of man?
I see a world jolted by a dramatic and drastic change in the existing economic equations, with the oil prices nose-diving to crash land on the rock bottom. In this world of space energy option, an apocalyptic vision would burst upon the US and the West regarding the Middle East, and they would suddenly become acutely conscious of the sovereignty of the Arab countries. This would result in resolutions being passed to refrain from any more political/military intervention in their affairs. Iraq would be dropped likehot potato and all the American soldiers would be back home, perhaps being trained to fight in space suits.
I have dual vision of the Middle East. One resembles something like the pre oil discovery days; this brings in tow euphoric dreams of the terror outfits dying one by one with the funding sources drying up.
Alternatively, I see the Middle East still enjoying energy monopoly, having invested heavily in the space power stations.
I see the site of international conflict shift to the space. My vision gets clouded when I try to make out the identity of the super powers in this race to colonize the space. India, yippee, I’m willing to swear will be a potent player considering the head start she has in space.
Now back to earth from this phantasmagoric space expedition - what will our planet look like when our focus shifts from the dark womb of the earth to regions beyond its atmosphere?
The past is in the hands of the present – truly spoken by The Stoic. My post on Gandhi threw up this debate between two very enlightened people in the Blogsphere – Charakan and The Stoic. The issue discussed has been a conundrum to me from childhood. I’ve listened to stories of Tippu, the brutal religious zealot who held up the members of the Hindu priestly class by their Kudumi, and put the question “Will you convert?”. If the answer was Yes - the kudumi would be cut off No - the head would be cut off. Subsequently, as one grows up, and begins to confront history through books, conflicting reports greet you. We live in times when decisions are taken, fanaticism thrives and policies are made based on History. These comments show what textual history tells and what oral history tells. I am not claiming greater credibility for the latter. Memory too can be conditioned and have an agenda. My intention in posting these two responses is 1. to emphasise the need to dispel the notion that history never lies 2. to have a healthy debate on this issue 3. to get information about the background of communal picture of Malabar region. First hand reports are most welcome as are those recorded in ‘history’ .
Would be grateful if expletives are kept out. Thanks. Do send your views.
The Stoic said..... History is merely the story as written by the winners. We might read Chettur Sankaran Nair’s ‘Gandhi and Anarchy’, to know Gandhi in his own period. To quote a bit, “His attitude towards the Mopla outrages shows the extent of his surrender. His alliance with the Khilafat movement has led to frightful results in Malabar. The result was, themselves armed and organised, they took the Hindus unawares and committed atrocities too well known, to need recapitulation here — butchered them and inflicted injuries on them far worse than death. For sheer brutality on women, I do not remember anything in history to match the Malabar rebellion. It broke out about the 20th of August. Even by the 6th of September, the results were dreadful. The Viceroy's speech made on that date deserves careful attention. ....The atrocities committed more particularly on women are so horrible and unmentionable that I do not propose to refer to them in this book. This is what Malabar in particular owes to the Khilafat agitation, to Gandhi and his Hindu friends. The President of the Indian Moslem League, following the AH injunction, justified the Mahomedan atrocities as an act of war against the Hindus and the Government. Gandhi too pleaded for the Mahomedans.” 5:50 PM, October 02, 2009
kochuthresiamma p .j said... @ stoic viceroy's speech - there is truth in it - how much, is the question. look back at the first sentence of your comment :-) history is always a pack of official lies- have u read about the british reports of the atrocities by the Indians in the rising of 1857? 9:25 PM, October 02, 2009
Charakan said... A Stoic, The communally minded polititcal leaders and writers along with the British always wanted to increase the divide between Hindus and Muslims.In case of Malabar rebellion also they did the same.But there are enough historical evidence to suggest that the rebellion was a mainly a peasant revolt by Muslim peasants against British rule and the pro British land lords who were mainly Hindus. All Hindu landlords who cooperated with the Moplahs in fighting the British were given protection. Yes, forced conversions and violence against women took place and in later stages it did degenerate into communal violence in some areas.But to dump the Malabar rebellion as a mere communal riot is distorting history 4:22 PM, October 03, 2009 A Stoic said... @charakan: Yes, the Past is in the hands of the Present. Your viewpoint is the current accepted version. Current history also says [watch the TV serials] that Tippu was the embodiment of religious tolerance.
Did the Khilafat have anything to do with the Moplah rebellion at all?
Chettur Sankaran Nair was not an RSS guy, I presume. And he lived in those times, unlike us. 8:46 PM, October 03, 2009 Charakan said... Stoic, my family including my grand parents who were hindus also lived there in Malappuram during that time and I have also some idea of what happened from their stories. Tipu was an invader King who tolerated anyone who agreed to his rule and was not a religious zealot.Many Forts of Tipu in Kerala have an idol of Hanuman guarding its entrance.The communally minded people on either side wanted to make Tipu an anti-Hindu or an Islamist.He was neither and his palace had many officials who were Hindus.Communalism started in the 20th century only. 11:17 PM, October 03, 2009
Charakan said... The Tipu Fort in Palakkad has Hanuman idol at the entrance. It is believed to be present when the Fort was built by Hyder Ali. As you may be aware many of the high-ranking officials of Tipu's Palace were Hindus.Tipu did help financially and militarily many temples. At the same time he also have destroyed many temples. Being a Muslim invader he might have been afraid or reluctant to destroy mosques, but may not have any problem in destroying temples. In summary if you zoom out and look with a wide vision we can understand that he was just a brave Sultan, a ruler who fought the British with the help of the French and destroyed anything which he thought will question his authority. There was no Hindu versus Muslim question then. Only loyalty versus disloyalty to the ruler. The ruler will do anything to sustain his rule. Of such rulers Tipu was notable for his bravery and the will to fight till his last breath in contrast to most rulers of Kerala who saved their skin by aligning with the strongest powers of those times. Read this review of Irfan Habib edited Indian History Congress volume on Hyder and Tipu's rule http://www.thehindu.com/fline/fl1707/17070800.htm
The following conversations took place a decade back when I visited the US for the first time.
How do you live there? That was a lady from Kerala, long settled in the US. I was there last May.It’s so hot and sultry. Got rashes all over. My daughter fell sick with the heat, and had to be hospitalized. God I don’t know how you people live there.
(“Are we rats or worms who survive there?” ) I thought, thoroughly irritated.
But, with a plastic smile, I said: Well, we can’t all possibly kill ourselves, can we?
Then I caught sight of my brother glowering down at me. He called me aside and gave me a dressing down.
But you heard what she said, didn’t you?
You don’t have to sink that low. Well, I didn’t know what was so special about me, except that I was his sister, but I held my peace. One doesn’t usually argue with the first born in the family.
Episode 2
Are you planning to disappear here? (Ividei mungaan pogukayaano?)
I beg your pardon?
Ividei mungaan pogukayaano?
Why should I?
People from Asian countries do it all the time, you know. After sometime, you can get your papers regularized.
But why should I do it? My family is back home in India.
When your papers are ready, you can bring them over. A lot of people do it, you know.
I looked at him in utter disbelief.
We are well settled there, back in India. My husband has a job, I have a job and we are comfortable there.
But this is truly God’s own land. The standard of life this country offers you. The climate. The natural beauty. You must see the US in fall. The colours. Kerala landscape is monotonous in comparison.
I know, but the fact remains I don’t belong here.
That does not matter. Once you come here and settle down, you won’t want to go back.
Mebbe. But I see no desperate need to relocate. I’m quite happy in India.
He shook his head helplessly and shrugged his shoulders as though to say ‘Well, if a rat existence is what you want, it’s your funeral’
Happily, I didn’t have to listen to such stuff during my recent visit to the US. I’m not sure if that’s because our Indian Americans think India is a better place now or because I didn’t do much socializing in that crowd. Whatever the reason, these conversations upset me – still; when I think how insensitive people can be.
Also, it surprises me that educated people can think that there is only one path to happiness – driving pricey cars down superbly maintained roads and highways, living in a/c comfort, eating easily and cheaply available quality food imported from all over the world, wearing the best branded clothes always available on discount sales. True, this primrose path does lead to happiness. But there exists another narrow and potholed road which also leads to the same destination.
Tropical weather can be cruel at times. Mosquitoes can make life itchy. Sultry weather can make you feel dirty and tired as you travel on ill maintained public transport buses, or in autos which hurts your back as they descend and ascend out of broken roads. Poor waste management can be an eye (and nose) sore too.
But running away from it all – will that make me happy? Or rather, will I run away and try to get illegal entry into a strange land because of the opportunities and super sterilised comfort it offers?
Maybe, I’d run away if this tropical sub- continent with all its drawbacks it did not offer me a decent livelihood. Mebbe I’d run away if India was not a democracy.
Mebbe I’d run away if, by doing it, I could delete the reality that is India from my consciousness.
Mebbe I'd run away if, with all its discomforts, we did not celebrate life here.
As things stand, and at this stage in my life, I'd rather stay put here and not opt for comfortable uncertainties.
The moral of the story? Well, none. Was just sorting out to myself why I don’t quite fancy the idea of relocating to the US despite the openings to do it.
I would not have touched this issue with a barge pole, but since the Indian Express has given it an editorial status, I feel I too can talk about the issue of a north south divide in India.
The Express pointed out that the headlines of national newspapers highlighted that the national films awards were bagged by the SOUTH, and raises the question if South and North are different countries.
My experience of living in many parts of India confirms that there is indeed such a divide in the minds of Indians, a fact which seeps through inevitably into the language of their daily parlance.
And there is animosity too – perhaps not with too serious consequences generally. The Shiv Sainik hostility towards the 'Southies' in the sixties and seventies and towards the 'Northies' in the present century, which translates into violent assault, is an isolated localised phenomenon.
When you look closely at the issue, certain nuances become visible. These complexities emerge in metros like, say, Mumbai. Mumbaikers don’t consider themselves North Indians, something which deep down in Kerala, I hadn’t realized. In Mumbai, I’ve had my head bitten off a couple of times for referring to Mumbaikers as North Indians. Mumbaikers are “West” Indians, a category with intelligence and sophistication superior to the rest of India. A slip of the tongue and you refer to them as East Indian, you’ll have your head broken into smithereens – for that is a category for with they have supreme contempt. So we have the North, South, and the West.
From the Kerala where I grew up, I formed the notion that all North Indians are cerebrally challenged, except the Bengalees for whom Mallus have some sneaking admiration. And so it is common to hear us Mallus trying to list out the points of similarities between the Mallu and the Bengalees – fish eating and rice eating habits, light colour of the saree women wear, intelligence, Marxism blah blah blah. My take on this issue is mallus and bongs are as different as two people can possibly be – neither for better nor worse.
Sorry for the digression. To return to the subject in hand - There was a time in my unenlightened youthful days when my friends and I earnestly believed that all ‘Northies’ were ‘Bhaiyyas’, which was a derogatory term used to dismissively speak of the inferior intelligence of North Indians who, we admitted, were fair and beautiful and - well that’s it. Nothing more. The term Bhaiyya as a belittling term was so ingrained in my mind that when my nieces and nephews, in all respect for him, added the word 'bhayya' to my son’s name (because they or somebody thought that chetan or angala was too naadan), I used to cringe inside and pray earnestly that he would not grow up to earn that name! Thank God, in my mid thirties, I was completely cured about my biased and stupid notions of graded intelligence among the Indians.
Within the southern states, there is this highly ethnocentric notion about the cerebral capacities of the denizens of the four states. Mallus are supremely contemptuous of the talmilians -‘Pandis’ as they call them. The term has a lot of negative connotations, mostly related to unintelligence, colour and lack of sophistication. Regarding the Kannadigas, we talk of all Gowdas as Goondas. I once heard a Mallu assert very authoritatively that the origin of the word Gowda is Goonda!! But there is a huge, unconcealed admiration for the Andhraites. I don’t know what the other southern states think of the Mallus, but I know, from a friend, that they are very wary of us. “If you see a Cobra and Mallu, kill the Mallu first" is a favourite maxim, said my Tamilian friend.
It was during my stint in Mumbai that I came to know that the women with whom I worked (from all parts of India to the North of the Vindhyas) had a fascination for South Cottons. Most of my saris were light printed cottons made in cotton mills in Gujarat. We get them in plenty in Kerala. But my Mumbai friends used to insist that they were “South cottons”. They’d nearly faint in sheer ecstasy when I wear village cottons. Wear a Kasavu sari(Travancore cotton, as they call it), you’ll have to wear an thank-you placard round your neck - or you’d tire your tongue out and weaken you muscles around the mouth expressing and smiling your gratitude for the tsunami of tributes showered on your sari - from the student community too. So the divide also exercises itself in the act of exoticising that strange region to the south of the Vindhyas where a strange species called the Madrasis live!
I remember a common sentiment expressed in Kerala among educated Malayalees in the sixties. South India should have been a different country – at least it should be part of a loose Indian federation where the Centre would have control only over the defense matters. They (? I’m not sure who) were not fair to Kerala, it was felt. It was a case of taxation without representation! The state of kerala gets hardly any representation in the Central government or a decent budget allotment, but it contributes heavily to the Central coffers through exports – don’t ask me how/what -just bits and pieces I have heard and remember.
I remember a very painful incident while working in a college in Mumbai. My very good friend – a Mumbaiker – fumed into the department, dumped her books and handbag on her table, whirled around and asked me: “What is this, molly? Is it to be given according to the whims of the President?” I had no clue as to what she was talking about. Seeing me blink with incomprehension she said ”MS Subhalakshmi is getting Baharat Ratna” “Well deserved, don’t you think?” I asked sincerely. “What do you mean? Why does she deserve it more that Bhimsen Jhoshi?” I could have told her that it was not just her singing skill that won her that honour – but didn’t venture to, seeing how agitated she was. “I’ll tell you why. The President is a South Indian”. !!!!!!!!!
I chose to hold my peace. And it took her a week to forgive me for KR Narayanan, the President from Kerala favouring a South Indian by bestowing on her the highest award in the country.
This type of stereotyped thinking and the animosity it generates are not peculiar to India alone. Russel listed this tendency under the category 'intellectual rubbish' (One Englishman is equal to five French). Modern theorist have written/continue to write libraries of complex, involved abstract theories in strange unpalatable language to establish that there are no distinguishing features that are exclusive to any one category of people. But it’ll take aeons before we humans are able to relate to each other outside the contexts of caste, creed, nationality, class, ideology, race and what not.
Just watched The Orphanage , the Spanish thriller / horror film. I enjoyed it thoroughly.
This set me thinking. I have always enjoyed films with themes of the supernatural. In fact, I like them better than the futuristic ones with robots and virtual world and high-tech stuff. Is it because I can relate better to the spooky world which appeals to the imagination than high tech stuff which taxes the brain? Or is it because robotics belong to the realm of possibilities (ugh!) whereas the other lies outside the domain of human control?
And I know for sure I am not the only one. A well taken movie thematizing the supernatural is always a runaway hit. On the small screen, they don’t even have to be well executed. Judging from the number of yekshi serials in Malayalam which have even IT youngsters glued to the TV, one can vouch for the huge fascination the supernatural holds for the highly literate Keralites.
Why so? Do the stories of ghosts, reincarnation or after death existence captivate us ‘cos they cross the rational frontiers into regions unknown, unfamiliar and inaccessible to the much celebrated rational faculty of human mind?
A time was when man believed in the extra terrestrial and their influence on/intervention in human life. But with the onslaught of enlightenment and the invasion of scientific knowledge with rationalism in tow, the supernatural became regions to which the human mind went on luxury expeditions only. But why do we need to do it? Can’t we be satisfied with the unlimited world certified as true by science, and waiting out there to be explored? Why do we have this craving to take these flights of fantasy to a world where no traveler has ventured into or from whose shores no traveler has ever returned?
Why do I love watching Manichitrathazhu ? Why did Boris Kurloff Tales of Mystery comics lure me as a child with their chilling stories? I could never leave The Dracula alone. The book and the various Dracula movies - if executed convincingly – oh, they hold me spell bound. The End of time films are my favourite too.
That I am the rule rather than the exception sometimes puzzles me. This yearning for narratives which lie beyond the reach of science and scientific testing must be a basic human instinct. Why else was The Sixth Sense an unforgettable experience for all film goers. It just missed the Oscars.
Basic human instinct – isn’t that something we can trust, or rather, we'd be foolish to get dismissive about? Hasn’t someone said that the instinctual man, who constantly honed his instincts, was closer to Truth that the rational man?
This basic human tendency to reach out to that which lies outside the purview of the rational mind – is it the outcome of a gut feeling that truth is beyond our reasoning – or rather, there are truths that lie outside the grasp of the rational mind?
Wordsdworth’s words about what happens when we put our corporeal frame( the physical human body to which belongs the cerebral faculties) to temporary rest, comes to my mind:
the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul; ………………………… And…….We see into the life of things.
We see into the life of things – the ultimate truth! The ultimate truth is what humans reach out to – and his instincts tell him that in order to get it within his grasp, he must break free of the shackles of reason, intellect and cognition.
I think our fascination for the supernatural is a small part of this liberation project and a manifestation of that felt need to believe that there is more to life than what is defined by the limited range of the cereberal human.
I have always loved the Nilgiris. As a child, it was the wooded mountains, the smell of eucalyptus as we climbed and then the chilly weather that fascinated me. It used to trigger off my childhood imagination which identified this place, so different from my Kerala, with places that I read about in the fairy tales. It was like an imaginary world come true.
I have never lost that fascination for Ooty andCoonoor. And in the last week that I spent in Coonoor, I had the same stirrings in my heart that thrilled me in my childhood days.
What is it that fascinates me about this place, I asked myself.
The incredible scenic beauty, I guess. As my brother and I drove through the Coonoor Kotagiri route, I looked out of the window of the car, thrilled by the sheer beauty of blue tinged mountains upon mountains, playing hide and seek behind the clouds and mist. The slopes were either heavily wooded or covered with tea plantation.Oh! It was simply beautiful and the feelings it evoked transported me to times and places I have visited only in the books. Was Camelot like this, I wondered. As a child so full of the stories of the Knights of the Round Table, I was convinced that King Arthur’s magnificent capital was somewhere in those distant blue hills which kept popping up thru the clouds. This time too, I couldn’t get Camelot out of my head. Silly and stupidly romantic, you might say. But the fact remains that Nilgiris makes me both silly and romantic.
I love the remoteness of the place. It seems to be so far from the busy world I live in – and so different. Wrapped up in warm clothes, the people too look so different. Move away from the crowded little town of Coonoor, and you are among the most incredibly beautiful hills. And the lovely chilly weather adds to the ambiance.
I visited Rev. Father Patrick who was the parish priest in a tiny area where the church going people consisted of factory workers. Wearing a sweater, muffler and a cap, he came out of his little house to welcome us. WE had some tea and biscuits with him while he spoke of his God and his parishioners. The gentle soul reminded me of Chaucer’s Poor Parson. He then took us to the church which stood in the adjacent compound in the midst of a garden full of flowers. My God! Everything straight out of the fairy tales!
The growth of the little town made me feel sad. As I stood outside the cottage on Quail Hill where I stayed and looked at the medley of buildings and the shanty shacks on the hills across mine, I wondered where the town planners were when this virgin landscape was disfigured by structures which were ugly as they did not fit into the profile of the Nilgiris.
God has made this world so beautiful, I thought as I visited two old people who lived in a cottage in a 10 acre land through which bisons walked around as though they owned the place. Real estate agents are overactive here making transactions for city dwellers who are pouncing on this paradise to gobble up the land to build hotels and guest houses to attract tourists – or small houses into which they can steal away from the hustle and bustle of life.
How long will it be before this lovely place is transformed into a crowded city, its trees cut down, its slopes covered with ugly buildings, and the tea estates vanish to give way to small holdings that house monstrous pieces of architecture that distort the very character of the hilly Nilgiris?
The excerpt given below is from LIVE, a pull-out of CHICAGO TRIBUNE OF June 3, 2009. The article titled I'M CREEPED OUT . . . GET ME OUT OF HERE by STEVE DAHl is about Patti Blogojevich, wife of Rod Blogojevich, former Governor of Illinois, snacking on a tarantula during the show "I'm a celebrity---get me out of here"
Dahl writes:
As I was watching Patti Blogojevich eat a tarantula on Monday night's premier of " I'm a celebrity...get me out of here!". I was wondering what the rest of the country - and the world, for that matter - thinks of us here in Illinois. I mean, she was the first lady of Illinois for more than five years, and now she is chowing down on an arachnid to allegedly support her family. At best, it gave Illinois a Hollywood feel; at worst, it made us look THRID WORLDISH!!!!!!???? (punctuation and emphasis mine).
And then he goes on:
The producers of "Celebrity " are quite emphatic about proclaiming that all of this JUNGLE STUPIDITY (emphasis mine) is going on in the name of charity etc etc etc
Regular readers of the paper say that such remarks are frequent, and cause no eyebrows to be raised, even among Indians.
So, the Third World comprising snake charmers and mahouts, drug peddlers and hungry mouths has a new attribute too. Tarantula eaters!
I remember, in the high school (in Pondicherry), we had a lesson titled " The Treemen of Travancore", written by a European tourist. These tree men ate tadpoles, and my classmates asked me if 'd ever lived in a tree house and eaten tadpoles. How exciting, they thought! Some, however, asked me if all that was real or the figment of some tourist's imagination.
Coming back to the CT paper. Am I over reacting, making a blog out of this?
The solution to the resentment towards Indian students who can afford education abroad does not lie in diplomatic efforts. That’s a stop gap and contingent solution. But the real long term solution lies in India improving the educational infrastructure in the country.
With the type of media coverage it is getting, there is likelihood of this resentment spreading to other parts of the developed world which have been wooing Indian students both for the revenue (income from international students is a major source of revenue for Australia) they bring and their contribution to research. But racist attacks are often beyond the control of the governments. Its increase in these difficult times of financial meltdown is an indication of the rightful-heir-being-denied –the -legacy –by-the-adopted syndrome. This is the most dangerous type of resentment ‘cos at the bottom of it is the feeling of righteousness, of fighting and killing for a just cause.
In addition to this is this branding of Asians as terrorists. The Indian students in Australia have reported that they often have had to confront hostile queries about whether they are Afghans or Pakistanis, and whether their jacket conceals bombs!
It is the most undesirable situation that we have here.
Why does a country like India which exports such a huge number of techies and researchers to the world, depend on these developed countries for quality higher education for her students?
Sixty years of independence is a long time. The issue should be addressed aggressively. We have the educational infrastructure. It’s not as though we have to start from the scratch. We have to bring them up to international standards. There are a few suggestions to address this very serious issue.
· Keep Centres of learning totally free from politics. No unions, be it those of students, employees or the teaching faculty. · Invest hugely in research infrastructure. · Provide sufficient funding for deserving researchers in place of the shameful pittance doled out to them now. A decent package will attract to our universities the best hands that, in the present scenario, go to foreign universities for quality, state of the art education and become vulnerable to shameful racist attacks. · Offer enviable package to the faculty. This will attract the best hands to the teaching profession. This move is already set afoot in the country under pressure from the UGC. · Attract funds by offering very attractive tax benefits to corporates who donate to the cause of education in proportion to the profit. · Have in place a fool proof accountability system for the universities. · Ensure efficient administrative machinery in the universities. The red-tapism that is the bane of any university with government funding is a huge drain on the resources of the university in terms of time and performance. · Every state should have such universities in proportion to its population.
None of these is impossible or unrealistic suggestions. WE only need the political will to do it. It is time the people of India began to clamour for it. If we let things by, the status quo will continue.
Only the crying baby gets milk.
Perhaps the wails should emanate from the blogsphere.
They make me uneasy. those prayer cum threat (sometimes veiled) forwards.
I know many who just delete them without a second thought. But somehow i find it difficult, though of late i have begun to do it selectively.
You claim to be a rational creature, i tell myself. but the truth, i guess is, i am not.
Or, why do i still insist that we are not three in number when we set out from the house for an auspicious or important occasion? I remember the daily routine during my daughter's SSLC exams. My husband , i and my daughter set out from the house together. She was dropped at the school, i at the bus station and then he went to the office. Since she was going to appear for the crucial exams which were to decide her future, i would wait at the gate so that we didn't set out in three, a number which was considered ill omened! My husband who, as a rule, is dismissive about such "superstitious practices", did not protest . Guess, he too didn't want to take a chance :-) . I still do it, but make sure it is done without drawing attention .
I have this habit of branding certain clothes and accessories as 'unlucky'. I remember the silk salwar suit i was wearing when the radiologist dropped the bombshell about me being diagnosed with a dangerous disease. We had dropped in at the the Diagnostic clinic after a party. I was wearing the most expensive Salwar suit i ever bought.
I gave it away to my maid who nearly fainted on receiving the expensive gift. She knew it was a brand new outfit.
"Why pass on an unlucky object to her?", my friend asked me when i told her.
"What's unlucky for me need not be unlucky for another person", i replied. 'Anyway, i didn't give her the Dupetta. So the unlucky combination is not complete".
My friend shook her head in disbelief. I thought she even looked disgusted when i told her about the fate of my brand new Biba salwar suits that I'd worn during the visits to the docs who confirmed the disease. I gave them to my sister in law who had to tamper with their perfect cut to suit her measurements. I thought my sister in law too looked incredulous when i told her why i am giving her those clothes, and why i refused to give the complete set(to break the unlucky combination).
And i always describe myself as a rational being!
Thus it is that i hesitate to delete those forwards which come with threats of divine retribution if i don't forward them to the specified number of people. Why take a chance with the ire of the almighty?
For a sample of the threats:
Some are blatant. They go something like this.
'If you don't sent this to 10 people, within 24 hours something terrible will happen to you". Some mails specify the nature of misfortune that will, without doubt, befall you if you break the chain- like loosing all your money, disease invading your family, losing job and the like. These mails sometimes give list of people whom disaster struck like a thunderbolt. That makes it really scary.
Some threats are subtle and use emotional blackmail as a tool.
"You have No hesitation to forward jokes, even vulgar ones. Cant you do this for God" or "Not only are you depriving yourself of a big bonanza, you are also depriving 10 others(instructions are to send to 10) of a fortune.
Some of the prayers/thoughts forwarded are truly inspiring or appropriate to your mood or the crisis which you find yourself in. But the minute i see the attempt to threaten/cajole/emotionally blackmail, i withdraw into a protective shell, and ponder over how to handle it.
Earlier, i sent them to those i knew believed in God and his bountiful as well a retributive nature.
Now, i edit them. I remove all the threats and pass them on, hoping that at least one of the recipients will forward to someone. Thus I wont have to carry the burden of the guilt of having broken the chain.
Now, i have started deleting them. I delete them without opening 'cos i know that once i read and see the samples of the disasters that will pursue me in a battalion, I'll lose the courage to delete.
I ask myself: Why am i like this? I ought to be totally unaffected by these forwards. I ought to know that whoever generate these mails are not prophets or seers or messengers of god, but - - . But who are they? Why do they do this?
Are these the efforts of well meaning souls to do their bit to establish the kingdom of God? Do they want to build up a virtual army of God to implement his laws on earth?
And who are these 'theys', these 'start' points from which these messages originate and spread all over the virtual world through the agency of even the so called rational people like me, who, for some strange reason cannot mete out the dismissive treatment these forwards deserve?
Questions and questions for which i have no answer.
Dhanya picked me or picked on me for the HONEST SCRAP award. tank you dhanya. am flattered. but i wish the award came without a prize tag. nevertheless, here i go fulfilling the first condition - to list 10 honest things about myself
i always think the creator made a mistake while allotting me my gender.
while learning needlework in the Nazareth convent i have yearned to be out there climbing trees like my brothers or playing cricket or scream from the galleries during santosh trophy.
i have wished i could jump into the periyar river like my brothers with only swimming trunks on and not that horrendous five metre swimming dress my mother designed for me.
i now wish i had listened to my father and taken economics instead of literature. my encounter with literature would then have been much more pleasurable. And i'd have been able to talk intelligently on the recession. tho' must confess i secretly fear i'd not have graduated had i listened to my father. My cerebral capacity has its limits.
I'm glad i had the guts to allow my children to follow their passion for economics and chemistry tho i'll make that confession only in the blogsphere. sour grapes, the world would say 'cos they are not doctors or engineers.
i always wonder what people with truckloads of money do with it. and why they need so much money. all those stars and sports stars with the millions. maybe i'll stop wondering if i make that kind of money.
between twelve and twenty five i've asked my maker why he didn't add another two inches to my stature. I wouldnt have had to hobble around on high heels.
i love blogging. tho i wish i could write a novel and have the felicity of expression and honesty of arundathiroy and kamaladas.
there was a time when i wished i were beautiful and brilliant and talented and admired and envied.
today, i am glad to be just alive and kicking. it's nice to be around still in this beautiful world.
now for the next condition: Choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Or improvise by including bloggers who have no idea who you are because you don’t have seven friends. Show the seven random victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog. Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon. Arun, Aswadhy, Chandy, Jina, Sujatha, Silverine, Mathew
my seven blogger friends - do forgive for harassing you.
