A Tribute to my Favourite Aunt

She was a wonderful person and I loved her. My world would be different without her in it. Not that i visited her often. Of late, me being away from kochin, and then my illness had prevented me from what i loved doing – looking up my aunts and uncles.

I regret it now. Intensely. Whenever we get a chance, we must visit them. Having not enough time should not be an excuse. For we’ll have all the time in the world for regrets when death , like a thief, snatches them away, without prior notice.

As it happened in the case of my ammai. To think that she’s no longer there when i feel like seeing her or talking to her – it’s painful. The knowledge that she has left my world for good – it’s difficult to digest.

She was my mother’s brother’s wife who inhabited my earliest memories very prominently. She was fun, great fun. Come vacation and she’d come home and take me to her home where i had female cousins around my age with whom i could have girlie talks and games. (i grew up among six boys. My sister, was already across the seven seas by the time i was six).

She used to spend lots of time with us, the small girl’s gang and make us laugh, and laugh at all our stupid stories and the silly things we said and did.

And she was a GREAT cook. The greatest I’ve met, I’d say. She’d announce the special dish she was planning to make and get us all highly excited.

“Today, we’ll make Kashmiri Biriyani”, she announced once.

I was excited. My mother made excellent Kerala biriyanis, and i didn’t know then (I was in high school), biriyani came in other forms too. I hung around her while she made it, and she explained to me at each stage – not the way the divas of the cookery shows do. She did it with so much earnestness and love, in a language that a teenager would understand - a sincere and earnest effort at grooming her niece.

How much garlic do you need, ammai? I’d ask.

The size of a lemon when ground.Ginger too, that much.

And the final product was simply awesome, the taste, the visual appeal and all. I am not exaggerating when i say I’ve never, ever tasted a better biriyani than the one Alekutty ammai made that day.

It’s going to be cashew sweets today, she announced another day.

After she cooked crushed cashew nuts in milk and sugar, she brought it to a consistency where it could be made into small balls, and then threw them into a tray in which she had mixed sugar and mild rose milk colour. My cousins and i sat across her and rolled them in the mixture so they’d come with a beautiful pink coating, and then pop them into our mouths.

Memories. Of the lovely days i spent in ammai’s house. Am getting overwhelmed by them. She was so full of love. So full of fun. So full of laughter.

And her narrative skills were simply incredible. She’d have us all agog with suspense one moment, then have us dissolve in uncontrollable laughter.

She was a unique person and i loved her.

My fondest memories go back to the days i went to boarding school in Pondicherry. She’d come home with a huge tuck box, full of my favourite snacks. Then she’d come into my room to see if she can help with packing. She’d give me bits and pieces of advice – things a growing adoloscent should know, in a light hearted way which’d make me smile but not miss the message.

And when i got married, she asked for the privilege of buying my wedding saree. I still treasure that beautiful piece in golden brocade.

I was her niece, but i have always felt that she loved me like her own daughter.
And it breaks my heart hat I’m so far away that I can’t be there to bid her the final good bye.

Mebbe it’s better that way. I’d rather remember her as my vivacious aunt with a heart full of fun and love, with that irresistible twinkle in her eye!

Of Old men, Amul baby, Shashi Tharoor and Kerala elections: Post election disconnected reflections.

The elections are over but the generation war continues. In the media, which is trying to prolong it.

Yesterday, Shashi Tharoor, the super diplomat (a misnomer? – has been getting his foot in the mouth every time he opens it) took up the cudgels. The Amul Baby is a symbol of development, he tweets. Of White Revolution, of the success of cooperative movement and what not. And the NIE, 15th April 2010, has done everything in its power to sensationalise Tharoor’s tweet as another instance of foot in the mouth. They are using it to launch another controversy on Tharoor, the media’s pet.
‘NEW DELHI: While the entire Congress went hammer and tongs against(sic) Kerala Chief Minister V S Achutanandan's "Amul Baby" remark against Rahul Gandhi, former Union Minister Shashi Tharoor says he does not find it insulting.
"Don't see why "Amul baby" an insult. Amul babies are fit, strong, focused on the future. Symbolise white revolution which brought milk to the masses,"
The party on the contrary had slammed Achutanandan for it.
And then the paper continues “this is not the first remark by Tharoor in which he has taken a different stand from that of the party. His cattle class remarks blah blah blah - - - .

The NIE efforts will come to naught 'cos the party would like to bury the issue in which Rahul Gandhi was the loser and Achumamman came out victorious!

And the people of Kerala had a good laugh - with Achumamman and at R Gandhi. Many, however, were annoyed by R Gandhi’s remark, which was very much in bad taste – particularly since he was backing to the hilt another octogenarian CM in the neighbouring state who has proved to be a super manipulator from his wheel chair, beside being the godfather of scamsters.

Unlike Karuna who has become the very epitome of corruption, Achumamman is known for his uncompromising integrity. But then, the Congress party has perfected the art of backing, and leaving no stone unturned to shield a corrupt or evil ally. They have intelligent, articulate and glib spokesmen (Abihkek Sanghvi & Manish Tiwari to mention a couple) to do that for the party. The KPCC leaders, the Congress spokesmen and that Bong heavy weight FM found Achuthanandan’s remark ‘uncivilized’!!?? oh, come on, give me a break! And they were deafeningly silent on the most objectionable remark made by the 40 year old R Gandhi!!!

This is a country which reveres gray hair, and the “old man” remark by the uncrowned king of the Congress party was most unwarranted. It would have been most appropriate for the Congress party to admit that it was R Gandhi who had his foot in the mouth, and tendered an apology on his behalf, if R Gandhi’s overblown status prevented him from apologizing himself.

Coming to the damage coalition governance has done to the Congress party, the scams rocking the Centre will testify to it. In my state , the most unpardonable action of the party was the way the KPCC and the Opposition leaders went up the hill and down the dale defending Kujnalikkutty. The least they could have done was to keep silent. Oommen Chandy whom I’d always admired crashed beyond redemption in my esteem.

I’m happy about my inability (technical reasons) to cast my vote. It would have seriously affected my integrity to vote for the Congress party that has been mulishly giving protection to scamsters and rapists. To vote the LDF back to power would have made Kerala an unlivable place for the next five years with Gunda Raj of the DYFI taking over. Of course, in the opposition they are even worse – they will not allow a single day of proper governance.

How long are we, the silent majority, going to take this predicament lying down, I wonder?

Carriers of Oral Tradition

This topic suggested itself to me yesterday when I came across a reference to Chanson de Rolland. The very mention of the epic and I found myself in the midst of a royal banquet in honour of Charlemagne emprior (Malayalam corruption for emperor . Tho’ chakravarthy is the word, this is the term my story teller used). A little hungry boy runs into the hall and snatches the hors d’oeuvre from the emperor’s table and dashes out. The emperor orders the boy to be brought in and soon discovers it is none other than his nephew Rolland, whose mother had been banished from the kingdom. The exploits of Rolland then came to me in snatches. I remembered the sense of horror that gripped me at the image of Oliver with his body full of cuts and scratches from the battle being dropped into the well of salt. The Saracens were the villains, I remember, and Charlemagne’s army that Rolland joined was God’s favourite. I remember the final scene of the epic where Rolland, knowing he is about to die, breaks his sword to smithereens, knocking it again and again on a rock. He did not want anyone else to use his precious sword!

The above details may not be accurate for many reasons. It is recaptured from memory of the story I heard as a child from Cicily thathi (thathi is a word for sister among a certain community of Kerala Christians), the seamstress who’d been around in my house ever since I remember. I must have been around 5 or 6 when my brothers and I, with our mouths hanging open at the sheer power of her story telling , sat in front of Cicily thathi as she embroidered delicate flowers on the bed sheets or pillow covers or table cloth or sarees.

Thathi told us a lot of other stories too. Of those, I was fascinated by the story of Pulomaja, the virtuous princess who guarded her chastity fiercely.

The source of her Charlemagne stories was the verses of chavittu nadakom, a Christian art form popular in rural kerala in those days. She was a voracious reader who read novels, magazines, newspapers. She had studied only up to the 4th standard, but was a huge repository of stories, which she gathered not only from what she read, but also from what she heard from her elders.

This set me thinking. Who were the story tellers that shaped my imagination as a child? My mother? No. Not really. She didn’t tell me stories when I was a kid. She did when I grew up and had children of my own. But when I was a school going kid in the lower primary, I used to tell her stories and episodes from school and she used them as illustrations to impart to me practical and spiritual wisdom. But amma was not a storyteller.

Most of the stories I heard were from the domestic helps we had in the house – and we had quite a number . Those were difficult days and amma used to look for the slightest excuse to engage these helps so that they’d get at least 2 square meals a day. Thus it was that there was Cicily thathi who told us literary stories, Rosa cheduthy (term of respect for elder sister) and Maria cheduthy who told us stories handed down by word of mouth.

The cheduthys were not literate and so their stories had a different quality. Besides, they were not discreet enough to know that certain details should not be shared with the children of a very prudish Syrian Catholic family. Their stories sent us into peals of laughter. They were rich in physical description. The women who were the face for vices were invariably shrivelled versions of once well endowed wanton ladies. Mariacheduthy took immense pleasure in graphically describing the now pathetic condition of these sinful women. I once shared the details with amma who was furious and admonished the two cheduthys.

But Maria cheduthy could not be stopped. She resorted to blackmail. She said she wouldn’t tell us any story if we shared them with amma. My brothers, who preferred outdoor games, were not affected by the threat. But I loved Mariacheduthy’s stories with the sleaze she injected into the story of saints and virtuous people and her demo in the form of dance (this almost seventy year old lady showed me how Salome danced to seduce Herod!) and mimicry (she could imitate the emperor’s gait as well as the old wicked half naked witch, bent double on a dirty stick with her shaky grating voice).

Looking back, I realise that a whole new world opened out to me during the time I spent in the company of these cheduthys. Many looked askance at amma for allowing me to spend so much time in the company of ‘those’ people. But I loved them and their stories. The values imbedded in their stories were the same that were taught by amma and my catechism teachers. In the stories told by the cheduthys and lessons taught by the nuns I learnt the same thing – the greatest sins were those against love and chastity. I learnt that there was no sin on earth that God wouldn’t forgive; so there should be nothing on earth that i too can’t forgive. Only, the cheduthy’s had a way of making the value system appear more attractive.

Sometimes, these stories acquired a class colour. I remember Veroni cheduthy, who came into my world when i was a little older, telling me that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for the rich to go to heaven. I laughed out loud ‘cos i knew what she was getting at (she was taken to task by amma for playing truant for a week) and also ‘cos i was taught in my catechism class damage control strategies for being economically better off than her. She became furious at my reaction, and came close to me, stuck her face close to mine and said, wagging a her furious forefinger at me: “You wait and see. When you are roasting in hell, i’ll be reclining against the chest of father Abraham up there in heaven. And when you ask for a drop of water to quench your thirst, i will not give you”. She then did a right about turn and walked off from me, throwing a couple of backward glances to see how the idea appealed to me. Her face, however, was beatific, probably at the thought of amma and me roasting in hell!

I wonder if we have that category of people anymore in Kerala. Highly improbable. Universal literacy dealt the first deathblow to them by giving access to all potential carriers of oral tradition to newspapers, ma magazines and serious magazines. And now with the onslaught of the visual media, who has the time or inclination to be carriers or recipients of oral tradition?

Party Spoiler

Recently, I was invited to a dinner which gave me considerable digestive problem on account of the presence of a person who was not exactly the type I would invite to an occasion where genteel people gather. He had strong opinion on every issue . And he was in his elements when he spoke of the religious profession. I’ve known him to be a convent basher never missing a chance to speak of nuns in a very abusive language. Not being a confrontationist, I’ve always avoided any argument on this issue. This time too, I sat through his tirade like every body else did. None of us was a match to his rhetorical powers which could convince one that between the lion and the lamb, the lamb is the predator.

Between the last time I saw him and last week, something world shaking had happened. The Book “Amen’ had come out, and this man shook and shivered like an angry prophet before an audience which apparently, was getting embarrassed by the vehemence with which obscenities flowed from his lips drawn back in an ugly sneer. He reminded me of the hyena, that gluttonous, scavenger predator with its phenomenal digestive power which gorges on not only every part of every smaller animal which can’t stand up it, but also on carrion. It would be a disservice to that king of the animal kingdom to use the lion metaphor, for our protagonist did not have the dignity with which the king of the forest executed his role as the predator that Goddess Nature has endowed on him.

Our man who had been waiting for a chance to launch his invective that could now be peppered with AMEN,got it when someone mentioned the dress code in the college his daughter went to. Our man started. One or two who tried to counter him were snubbed into silence. Others who tried to change the subject failed in their effort. Our man as unstoppable. He pounced on the nuns, tore them to pieces, snapping his head back to rip chunks of flesh off the carcass, shaking his head like we see the hyenas do in the discovery channel, licking the blood covered cadaverous mouth drawn back viciously in a frighteningly unholy glee.

The host was getting embarrassed. He looked helplessly around for someone who cold shoot this “donkey leopard” as hyena is called in Malayalam. The book AMEN had put a vulgar tool into the hands of this person who could hate so intensely. The rhetoric was causing a lot of distress among the guests who had come to spend a relaxed dinner after a hard day’s work.

And then a chit of a girl – a twelfth standard girl – stepped in. She lived in the same apartment as our protagonist.

“Uncle”, she cut in when he stopped to catch his breath, “can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead and ask all you want”, said the “uncle’, apparently disappointed that the question did not come from someone who was older and was known to be a champions of the convent culture.

“Uncle, if you hate the nuns so much, why did you send all your four daughters to convent schools? And why did you come to my father a few months back asking him to get admission for your son’s daughter in the ________ Convent?”

The man was stumped. His jaw dropped, with blood still dripping off his mouth. The guests exploded into a delighted laughter, with some of them challenging him with a come come, answer her. Someone even slapped the young girl on her back approvingly.

Never have I taken so much delight in seeing the discomfiture of a fellow human being.

The Curious Case of Dr.Shashi Tharoor , the Thinking Minister.

“I think his (is a) very clear summary for us of the way in which Indian foreign policy drew from our founding fathers’ sense of our civilization heritage, the extraordinary contribution of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru to the articulation of that civilisational heritage, the manner in which that both enhanced India’s standing in the world and gave us the negative reputation for conducting foreign policy as a sort of moralistic running commentary on other people’s behaviour.” said Shashi Tharoor , summing up Bhikhu Parik’s presentation at the event organised by an association of Indian diplomats at Delhi’s Indian Council of World Affairs.

Parekh’s talk on “India’s place in the world” called Nehru’s foreign policy a mistake. Mr. Shashi Tharoor endorsed Parik’s position - and is in a soup. The Congress party is peeved that he dared to criticize the policies of Nehru.

“I am very surprised by Tharoor’s style. He is a member of the Congress and his responsibility is to carry forward the legacy of Pandit Nehru and not to be critical of it,” Congress spokesperson Shakeel Ahmed said.

The height of sycophancy! How else can we describe this ridiculous attitude?

Dr.Parik is a renowned political theorist. Dr. Sashi Tharoor is a renowned intellectual and writer. Has he signed a contract with the congress party to shelve his brains temporarily into the deep freeze while he serves the country as a minister from the party?

Mind you, Tharoor was not commenting, this time, on a current policy. It was his perception of India’s early foreign policy. People see things differently. Also, in hindsight, our perceptions can alter. Is it fair for the Congress party to crack whip on the partymen on the position to be taken on the policies of the Indian National Congress for the past 150 years? Well, they had then better issue tickets to zombies and empty vessels who are capable of only echoing the inane rumblings of the high command on issues which are of interests and concern to researchers and theorists.

And why flay him for faulting Gandhi? Did not Gandhi believe that perception of truth will change with time and situation? Did he not provide for differences of opinion? Hasn’t he stated that "Honest differences are often a healthy sign of progress" and "Honest disagreement is often a good sign of progress"

I belong to the school of thought which endorses Nehruvian economic and foreign policies. But does that mean I must block from my mind all other perceptions of it? Does it mean I should condemn or silence hindsight wisdom?

Dr. Shashi Tharoor’s role in this meeting is not clear from the reports. Was he a moderator? If he was, his function was to be an objective chairperson in an intellectual discussion and not that of a spokesman of the Congress party. Even if he were a mere participant and not a moderator, it was his honest perception that was relevant in a debate following a scholarly presentation. It would be ridiculous, and unbecoming of a thinker to capitalize that platform to toe the party line.

Regarding Shashi Tharoor, the politician, there is every indication that he is getting sick and tired of the his cerebral activity being cabined, cribbed and confined by the lobby of seasoned politicians who never miss an opportunity to cut him down to size. Tharoor’s success would usher in a new type of political leaders who might eventually form the think tank of the party, much to the chagrin of those who stay in power by their sheer political acumen and Machiavellism innocent of intellectual content.

The Aishwarya Rai Complex

She came to me to ask for an extension for the submission of the assignment on the date which was already an extended one.

“Sit down, Jasmine”, I said, pointing to the seat in front of mine at my table in the staff room. I made a mental note of the fact that she chose a time when she knew I’d be alone in the Department.

“You know I can’t extend it anymore. It was already done – and I made it clear that this was the final deadline. And I noticed you were nodding your head vigourously in approval”.

Jasmine was a good student to have in the class. Always sat in the first row, was most attentive, laughed at all the jokes, asked questions (which sometimes were obviously for the sake of asking). I always looked for her as I entered the classroom. In fact, if I didn’t find her in her usual seat, I’d even feel a little lost.

But she rarely did well in her tests. I have had to give her repeat tests to push her through. The problem was language. She came from Marathi medium and hence did not have a sense of the English language while writing. But she spoke without hesitation, mistakes and all.

I was the deliberate choice as a teacher for that class, ‘cos I knew little Hindi and less Marathi. Malayalam wouldn’t work. So the students would mandatorily be exposed to spoken English by a conservative speaker of English.

“Ma’m I had some problem. I couldn’t sit down to write it the past few days”.
I looked at her ‘cos I was always wary of being a confidante of students whose autobiographies, I was warned, could sent your head reeling at an incredibly fast spin.

“Ma’am. I had to get this done”, she said pointing to her hair. I’m very tardy, I must confess, at noticing cosmetic changes which are not glaring like, say, a shaven head, or cropping of long hair or shocking pink or scarlet lipstick.

I looked at her hair and noticed that she had streaks of three subtle colours on her hair. Streaking the hair was just becoming common then (this was in 1998).

“Does it take a long time to get that done?”

“Yes, Ma’m”, Jasmine said animatedly. This parlour is near my house. I always go there so that even if I am late, I can just take a rick home. If I do it here in Santa Cruz, I’ll have to take the train. The rush would be heavy”.

So much of planning, I thought.

“Where do you live?”

“Borivli”

“When did you do this to your hair?”

“You don’t like it Ma’am?”

“Oh, you look good”

I did it yesterday-took nearly an hour and a half. By the time I reached home, I was tired, and went to sleep. Had to start early ‘cos I had the 8 o clock lecture today”.

“But the project was given a month back. The date extension was given a week back”.

“I’ know ma’am”, said the crestfallen Jasmine.

“What were you doing for a whole month?”

“Ma’am. Next time I’ll submit on time. Just this once, please.”

“Sorry Jasmine. Your reason is not good enough”.

“Ma’aaam. How can you say that? See Aiswarya Rai. It’s all the job of the makeup artist”, she declared. “I’ve seen her when she came for a shooting here. She is so ordinary. And my skin is a light as hers!”

You could have knocked me down with a feather!

“Are you trying to be an Aishwarya Rai?”

“It’s not impossible, you know.”

And then I looked at Jasmine. She’s right. It’s not impossible if she added 5 more inches to her height, subtracted 10 kilos from her weight, did a face job around her cheeks to lengthen her cute moon shaped face.

I kept my thoughts to myself and let her talk. It was a revelation to me, that this chirpy girl who sat in the front bench was actually obsessed to the point of distraction about turning herself into a classic beauty. I smiled to myself when she rattled off the names of a few makeup artists who changed ugly ducklings into the glam girls of Bollywood.

“You planning to enter movies?”

“No ma’am. Everybody says I’ll get only small roles which are usually bad roles.”

Things were getting complicated.

“Jasmine, believe me when I tell you are an extremely beautiful girl, but in a different way. About Aishwarys Rai, it’s her business to be glamorous. Your business is to be something else. That’s why you are here to do a specialized course. You beauty lies in being yourself. You know no matter how much she tries, Aishwarya Rai cannot become you, or acquire your innocent charm and your type of special good looks”.

Her face brightened up.

It was advantage me.

“I’ll give you another extension, but that is between you and me. Submit the draft you have brought now, and give the final draft on Monday. This is the only time in my whole life as a teacher that I have made this concession. That’s because I know if you put your heart and soul into this, you’ll pass with flying colours”.

She jumped up and touched my feet which I quickly pulled away ‘cos I have the ugliest feet on earth. This habit the students in Mumbai have of touching the teachers’ feet at the drop of a hat was always a cause for worry for me. But then, I too should have told myself that it is not my business to be an Aishwarya Roy!

Jasmine submitted an excellent project, with no mistakes in the language. I didn’t want to ask her if it was her own work. I wanted to believe in her.

I left that institute before she qualified. But for nearly five years, she sent me a card on my birthday. Fours years after this episode, she sent me a letter with the birthday card to tell me she had picked up a job in a multinational pharmaceutical company. She wrote without mistakes (for which I don’t take the credit. I was her teacher only during the initial two semesters).

But I like to think that I did play a role in curing her of the Aishwarya Rai complex.

Road Rage

I am angry. Furious. And if I don’t write while I’m still fuming, I’ll not write about it at all. Without blinding rage, the whole episode will look too silly to write about.

Ok. I just got back from the vegetable shop round the corner, in front of which I was insulted by a gentleman, probably in his forties, driving with his wife beside him and children behind.

I had ‘looked to the right, then to the left and then to the right again’ as I was taught in small classes before I crossed the road. I saw this Tata Indica coming but it was sufficiently far to permit me to cross unhurriedly. Now let me make this clear. Gone are the days when I made a cheeky dash across the street putting a speeding driver in a dilemma. Today, I crossed the road leisurely because i could afford to do it, and any fool who noticed my pace would realize that walking fast is a difficult proposition for me. This Indica started honking long before it reached anywhere near me. I didn’t realize all that noise was meant for me. I crossed the road and was waiting for the person who stood in front of me to move away so that I could place order for the vegetables when I heard this car honking insistently behind me. Turning around casually, I was shocked at what I saw. The guy had stopped the car just behind me, and was leaning across his wife and scowling at me through the window on her side.

“Chevi ketoodey? (Are you deaf?)’, he snarled. “Chumma erangi nadannekua (you don’t have your wits about you when you walk on the road)”

I was too shocked to react. Before I could gather my wits and retort, the car shot off.

I felt terribly insulted. The vegetable vendor and his assistant tried to shout back at him, but the car had driven off by then.

Why on earth did he behave so viciously? Was he annoyed at my unhurried pace when I crossed the road? Did he interpret my slow movement across the road as lack of respect that was due to his apparently new acquisition?

As I walked back home, I felt like kicking myself for letting him get away with such barbaric behaviour. I thought of the many things I could have told him if I hadn’t allowed myself to go numb with the shock.

“Where is it written that you can insult people once you get into a car?”
No. That was too mild.
“Shut up you upstart” would have been ideal. I tried to imagine his expression at this insult. And then, my imagination took off from there. I saw myself walking around the car, opening it, grabbing him out of his seat by the scruff of his neck and socking him on the nose. I smiled at the thought - and found a passerby returning the smile! I hastened my steps.

This is not the first time I’ve seen Malayalees behave like this when they get behind the wheels. Once in the car, they behave as though they are the lords of all they survey. To be fair, this is true not about males alone. Once in a way you come across women too who behave like this – but it is very rarely.

What’s the psychology behind this behaviour, I can’t help wondering? What is it that makes them think that a driving license is also a license to insult pedestrians, or splash water over them on a rainy day? Does driving a car give them a sense of superiority over them? Does it give them a sense of importance and power?

I just can’t figure it out. But I 've figured out something. Wealth and car do not make a gentleman.

V P Singh – The Unsung and much hated Hero

I can foresee the type of vitriol that’s going to be spewed on my blog space with the posting of this blog. Nevertheless, I am going ahead with it, braving the venom. For Viswanath Prathap Singh was a politician I admired very much. Also, tomorrow, the 27 of November is his first death anniversary. If he had had his way, India would not have been an easy victim of Islamic terrorism, in the absence of adequate internal support groups which mushroomed alarmingly in the wake of the unfortunate demolition of the Barbri Masjid.

True, some of his reforms may not have been good for the privileged class – the Indian Middle class- to which I belong. But I admired him precisely for that. He himself belonged to the royalty, but he was not obsessed with his survival. His obsession was with the tasks he felt he could perform given the powerful political positioning that he enjoyed for a brief period. He behaved like a man in a hurry to bring about certain changes in the society before he was toppled and relegated to political oblivion. For this, he took the road not taken by any politician of free India, which, sadly, did not take him to the desired destination. The implementation of Mandal Commission was the first of his major reforms. What followed this brave, bold and daring politically suicidal decision from the then Prime Minister V P Singh is history. Every political party which claimed to be socially progressive dumped him, thereby exposing the hypocrisy of its claims.

The arrest of L K Advani progressing towards Ayodhya is the most gutsy thing that any politician has done. It is Prime Ministers and chief ministers of this material that we need in India today to deal with anti social elements like, say, the Thackerays, who are terrorizing Maharashtra. Today, with the Libernam report tabled, I cannot help thinking if Babri Masjid would still have been there if V P Singh had been the Prime Minister of India then. The Hamlet of the Indian politics, Mr.Nnarasimha Rao, about whom it is believed that he had a hidden communal agenda, behaved in an ignorance-is- bliss manner when the mosque was being systematically demolished as per expert plans drawn up by architectural engineers, and executed by trained kar sevaks. This is true, notwithstanding BJP’s laughable explanation about the demolition being a spontaneous action.

The Liberhan report is politically motivated. The timing and the findings are meant to divert attention from the scams that are casting a cloud over the ruling Congress party, and also to get the minority votes in the coming assembly elections. One doesn’t have to be a political pundit to see that. It’s obvious for the world to see. Otherwise how else could he have absolved the then Prime Minister Narasimha Rao from all blame? AS the top leader of the nation, allowing Babri masjid demolition to happen by looking the other way was a sin of omission for which the nation cannot forgive him – because this nation has paid/is paying heavily on account of that. It’s no secret that the Bomb terrorism which began with the Mumbai blasts, the permeation of terrorists mentality among a large number Muslims who till then were Indians first and then only Muslims, the communal clashes, the Mumbai Riots, ethnic cleansing post Godhra, the jihad spreading like wild fire, the growth in numbers of hate filled kar sevaks, the willingness of Indian Muslims to become jihadis – all these constitute the chain reactions triggered off by that sad demolition at Ajodhya about which Justice Leberham has submitted a report which exempts the main person on whom accountability should have been pinned – Mr. Narasimha Rao.

The Congress party’s secular credentials are also suspect, though, in this aspect it is the best of the bad lot. When BJP, which was giving external support to the VP Singh government, withdrew that support following VP Singh's couragoeus and patriotic action of issuing orders to arrest Advani who was heading for Ayodhya for the grand finale of the demolition drama (began earlier on a rath in Kanyakumari), V P. Singh’s responded with a move which he knew was bound to be a political harakiri. He put the issue to vote in the parliament, hoping against hope that some members of parliament will respect the dictates of the conscience as lawmakers of a secular democracy, instead of obeying the party whip, which in effect, amounted to supporting the communal agenda of the BJP. He chose this course of action knowing full well he will be defeated. But he wanted to create a new culture in Indian politics where conscientious politicians were given a chance to put the country and its constitution above petty party considerations. He felt the cause for which he was willing to throw away his political career was a fundamental issue. He exhorted the Indian politicians to do a soul searching. If he had succeeded, he would have brought in a political culture which would have made India a different place today – a better one no doubt. But he was defeated on the floor of the house which would not have happened if the Congress under Rajiv Gandhi had not voted against the government. The lie of the secular agenda of the congress party was exposed. But then, how could one expect Rajiv Gandhi to forgive the man who exposed his hands sullied in the Bofors deal, or allow a potential political rival to rise on the wave of clean, principled politics? After all, he was Rajiv Gandhi and not Mahatma Gandhi.

VP Singh was a statesman. He was a patriot. He was not a power monger. He was one who was always willing to admit defeat and resign, as a matter of principle. He was also a politician who tried many permutations and combination to stay in power, but only long enough to be able to bring about the changes he felt had to be made in order to create an order where equity was the rule, secularism was an imperative, and in which corruption had no space. But we failed him. We, Indians failed to see the honest politician in him.

After all, this is a nation which murdered the Mahatma.

Every nation gets the leaders it deserves.

But history will remember Vishwanath Prathap Singh as a valiant son of india whose fatal flaw was that he loved his country above his political career, and as one who went down fighting to correct the systemic flaws in the polity of the nation and as a statesman who sacrificed power and position to take that first unpopular step in providing a level playing field for all citizens, especially those who were crushed by centuries of social oppression.

Sachin Tendulkar’s most daring Ton

'Mumbai belongs to India. I am a Maharashtrian and proud to be a Maharashtrian, but I am an Indian' – That was Sachin Tendulkar

That was the master blaster’s most courageous hit.

Sachin, despite being a person who religiously steers clear of controversies, did not shy away from airing his views in answer to a query from a scribe. It required as much courage to make this statement as to go out there in the middle without a helmet and a visor to face world’s fastest speedster all geared up to draw blood. So inflammable are the fumes released into the Mumbai troposphere by the Shiv Sainks and the MNS. The great sportsman skyrocketed in our esteem by daring, in his characteristic quiet and modest way, to make a statement of this nature in a city where the Shiv Sainiks and MNS workers have effectively terrorised into silence all those big names who'd led the Mumbai- for- all- Indians campaigns.

Sachin may not have expected this reaction from the Shiv Sena supremo. But then, who is Mr. Thackeray to deictate whether Sachin should play cricket or golf or kabadi or talk politics or enter politics? Why this sense of proprietorship over anything Marathi? No Maharashtrians should think anything different from or outside the Bal Thackeray's thinking box?

Thackeray appears to be still smarting from the party’s performance at the recent elections. Hell, I guess, has no fury like the Shiv Sena chief spurned by the electorate.

If Tendulkar will stand by what he said, or recant or hold out the olive branch to Thackeray waits to be seen.

But we most certainly hope that an icon like him would lend a hand to the noble cause of unity in diversity.

Requiescat: Dr C R Soman

It was my friend who works in the All India Radio who suggested that I meet Dr. C R. Soman, who would be the best person to advise me on the nitty gritty of starting an NGO. I was hesitant, because I was not sure if a person so busy would be able to spare the time for me.
“You’ll be surprised, miss (she was my student too) but he is a fine person. I can’t think of better person to help you. You’ll be amazed at the things he is doing for the community – so many years after retirement. I’ll talk to him”.

And she did, after which I spoke to Dr. Soman on Friday, the 23rd October over the phone. It was just a one minute conversation during which I fixed an appointment with him for 26th, the following Monday . Just a minute of minimum conversation over the phone assured me that here was a person who was very friendly, helpful and absolutely without airs.

I met him in his office (Health Action by the People - HAP) the following Monday. I spent two hours with him. He was working on the computer-was putting together a paper, he told me, for publishing. We have collected so much data that I have decided to publish them in an international journal, he said. I wanted to know more about HAP and he gave a brief but comprehensive description of HAP. He explained why it is BY people and not FOR. Community health is dependent on the awareness of people. Every individual has to be conscious of his/her health. The people themselves must take the initiative of maintaining the health of the community. He told me that the data collected by his NGO provided clear evidence linking obesity to all the ailments that stalk the Kerala population. He spoke of his efforts to spread this awareness among young girls. Catch them before they become obese, was his policy. Prevention is better that cure. He told me how he gave talks to young college going students about maintaining the waistline they have at that moment when they sat in the college auditorium listening to him. Maintaining that waistline has more than cosmetic value – it’s a health insurance.

He detailed out how his NGO engages 120 people to collect medical data across Kerala. Most of them came from financially strained backgrounds but have become income generators for their families after joining HAP. He insisted on these girls purchasing two wheelers of their own in order to facilitate greater mobility. He meant it to be this way – his NGO should function at many levels. Its primary functions are to create awareness among people about health and to gather health data for the research activity of the HAP. The organization also becomes instrumental in providing a livelihood for all those underprivileged who serve it besides making medical test facility available at the doorstep.

I offered my service to HAP. I'd been a teacher, and though am a humanities person, I could make presentations if he gave me the material, I told him. He felt that it did not matter which discipline I specialized in; if the willingness to serve was there, that was enough. He promised to send me the Power Point presentations he had prepared to support his lectures on obesity. Whether he would have taken my offer and actually entrusted the task of imparting health knowledge to a lay person like me, I do not know. But he didn’t dismiss my enthusiasm as futile.

He was not cynical or even skeptical about the NGO I had in mind. He heard me out patiently, commended my willingness to become proactive, but warned me that the road ahead would not be easy. He pointed out with specific examples the hurdles that I was likely to face. One shouldn’t be disheartened by stumbling blocks. Must learn to take them in our stride, he advised.

He gave a copy of the bylaws of his organization and two hours of his time - free consultancy, highlighting the ground realities of floating an NGO. And there was no trace of swagger in his tone!

Last Monday, our group met to work out the action plan for launching the NGO, and we talked about inviting Dr. Soman for the next meeting!

When I told him that I was DR. V P Gangadharan’s patient, Dr. Soman, in a very matter of fact tone stated that “Gangadharan is among the last of a dying species of doctors – dedicated, totally committed, for whom the medical profession is a vocation”. He made non committal remarks about Dr. Gangadharan’s troubles while working in a premier medical institution. A couple of days later, I heard from someone who was in the medical college that Dr. Soman was the one who spearheaded the action to protect and support Dr. Gangadharan during his difficult days, for he was convinced that Dr. Gangadharan was on the right side of the ethical boundary.

While talking to me, the telephone rang and he was making arrangements for two air tickets to Bangalore – for him and his wife. “It’s partly official-for HAP’, he told me by way of a small apology for keeping me waiting while he was on the phone.

I do not know if he made that trip to Bangalore. I didn’t pay attention to the dates he mentioned.

A lean tall man, level headed, low profile, cheerful and apparently at peace with himself, and of that type with whom one doesn’t associate ill health - that was my first impression of Dr. Soman. It shocked me to read in yesterday’s papers, ten days after the only one time i met him, that he was battling for his life. Later in the day, the news of the death of this activist who did make a difference and who still had a lot to give to humanity, set me wondering about those extra terrestrial pilots who steer our destiny.

The Rahul Gandhi Phenomenon

I get the feeling that Rahul Gandhi will do better than his father. In the past five years, this reserved quiet scion of the Gandhi family who could have easily stepped into any position he liked, kept a low profile. Maybe, he is taking a leaf out of the Mahatma’s book by not plunging into politics till he has had experiential knowledge of what it is about.

And he is proving to be a clever politician. Yes. He is playing the Gandhi-Nehru card wherever and whenever he knows it’ll pay dividends. He seems determined to reclaim the Congress Party’s foothold in the Hindi heartland and in Southern India. He seems to have registered some success in this mission, if we are to go by the recent general elections.

I can well foresee the barrage of accusations that’ll jostle against each other in my blogsphere – accusations of me being an advocate of dynastic rule. Regarding that issue, my position is this. The son should not rise only because he is the father’s son. Or the grandmother’s grandson, or the great grandfather’s great grand son, or the great great grand father’s great great grandson. But if the son can rise because he is clever enough to turn his lineage to his advantage, and consequently to the advantage of his country, give him a chance. After all this is a democracy. We cannot deny an opportunity to a person simply because he is the son, grandson, great grandson and great great grandson of a particular family. And the Indian democracy does not have the history of having given a person with the above credentials a free hand to misuse the dynastic advantage to oppress the people. When these advantaged people overstep democratic limits, or fail to perform, the voter punishes him. That’s the tradition in our democracy.

So if a person is young and seems earnest and sensible , and is making every effort to familiarize himself with the huge complex reality called India, let us accept him. Let’s not cry foul simply because he is somebody’s somebody.

After all every human being has to be somebody’s somebody.

During the elections, the media was tom-tomming about his average academic records. To this I say, where is it written that one has to be an Albert Einstein to become the leader of a nation?

The Rahul Gandhi whom all of us dismissed as ineffective, is coming into his own. He is patient, training himself to perhaps lead the country one day, or just to lead the party. He is starting from where an Indian politician always should. From rural India. He is nurturing the party from the grass root level. The party which had lost its directions and was well on the way of becoming just another political outfit, might (let’s hope), under this person reinstate the ideology and values which it had been happily compromising for political expediency. The process is slow, painful and time and energy consuming - and Rahul Gandhi appears to have a sizeable repertoire of patience and energy. He seems to have that race winning quality of slowness and steadiness.

I do hope I am right when I say, if this son rises, it will not be a case of greatness thrust on him because he is born great – it’ll also be because he has achieved greatness.It could be a rare case of the confluence of all those three phenomena that Shakespeare spoke about.

Shashi Tharoor in the Fray: Why we should Give him a Chance.

Why is he in the fray at all?

Possibly because of the weakness the President of the Congress Party has for intellectuals, technocrats and political novices. Also because she has an incurable faith in mallus (!? :-))

My take on Tharoor

He is a true global Indian.

I think most of us in my profession began to take him seriously as he made his presence felt through his literary works. Then, of course, he became the Under-Secretary General of the UN and all mallus were proud of him. When his claim for the position of UN Secretary General was rejected, all Indians were angry. Mallus were more angry. Many said that the US manipulated the appointment ‘cos they knew that Tharoor couldn’t be manipulated. Well, what the truth of the matter is, no one knows. Whatever it is, Shashi Tharoor’s image suffered no damage. He became a man of character and a man with a mind of his own despite his well celebrated super diplomacy.

I attended the inauguration of his AABC at Technopark. Mr. Tharoor impressed me by his very difference. He was picture perfect on the dais which he shared with MA Baby and VS. We saw the diplomat in action on that occasion - strict adherence to protocol, all the right moves and gestures like escorting the CM and The Education Minister to the lectern which was hardly 10 feet from their seats, when the MC invited them for their messages. Tharoor played his role as the host and organizer with much charm and élan.

After the inaugural function in the common hall of Technopark, we had to move towards the AAbc building which was bang opposite the hall. I saw a strange sight which both amused and impressed me. Mr. Tharoor put the ministers in their cars and instead of getting into another AC car and following them to the office , he ran across the compound, across the road and disappeared into the gates of the building! No doubt he was waiting for them when the VIP cars reached the building.

I cannot think of many public figures who would have run like that in the hot sun( except perhaps Alphonse Kannanthanam), totally impervious to the fact that he is a celebrity and a person who missed the highest position in the world by the skin of his teeth.

Why should we elect him?

The points stacked against him are 1.he is inexperienced in Indian politics 2. He is too westernized in his thinking 3. He is not in touch with the ground reality in India.

Let’s look at each of these problems.

He is inexperienced in Indian politics – true, I guess. But what are these experienced guys doing? The more experience they acquire, the fatter their pockets become, the greater their nexus with anti social outfits and greater their propensity to play the communal card.

He is too westernized in his thinking

So what? A refreshing change, a new perspective and a global outlook. The country can do with it.

He is not in touch with the ground reality in India.

How many of our netas have that? They are in touch with party's ground realities, not the country’s. Besides, Shashi Tharoor is learning - and learning pretty fast. He’s improving every second.

And then of course, a whole lot of pro Israeli articles he wrote which can be dismissed without much ado. He wrote them not in the capacity of an MP.

Will he win?

No idea. Hope he does. The differences in the party over giving the ticket to Tharoor have been ironed out. The campaign is in full swing. And he is media’s pet.

A word of advice to Tharoor from a well wisher.

Build up a rapport with the intelligentsia of Trivandrun with whom he is very popular. They have a great reach and are a sure route to the common man. They are waiting for a change, for a new face and new mind free from the frog in the well syndrome.

Wish you success Mr. Shashi Tharoor

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Thank You and Good Bye, Sri Mathew T. Thomas, Our Dear Transport Minister

He belongs to that endangered species among politicians called Statesmen.

He is clean.

He is a performer. He had begun to turn things around for the KSRTC.

He is creative, imaginative and resourceful. He had earnestly set about reviving the ailing KSRTC with innovative moves.

But Mathew T. Thomas, the Transport Minister of Kerala had to go. He had to submit himself to party discipline. But he was stoic about it. Cool as a cucumber, and cheerful. “The minister’s post is not my birthright”, the man said! The most quotable quote from a sphere dominated by Pinarayis and Mayavathis and Lalus and others of that ilk.

I hope they are listening.

And the people of Kerala love him. People love honest and performing ministers. To have committed, competent and upright politicians at the helm of affairs redeems our faith in the democratic system.

On a personal note, his wife is my student. She shifted residence to Trivandrum when her husband became the Transport Minister in the LDF government, and commutes to a town in mid-Travancore where she works as a lecturer. She traveled in the ordinary class for more than a year. The ordeals of commuting in the ordinary class can be appreciated only by those who have done it. A few months back, she took first class season ticket when she realized that the time spent in the train can be fruitfully utilized for preparation and paper evaluation.

Recently, I happened to travel in the same train that she commutes in. She came to hear that I was traveling in the next compartment, from a common friend who had run into me in the station. She came over to see me. I must confess that I was flattered that the minister’s wife had come to see me. But what struck me was that she was the same old respectful pleasant and unassuming student who attended my lectures some twenty odd years ago. A very unassuming, self-effacing person who simply did not think of taking advantage of her husband's position.

Not only Caesar, but his wife also is above blame.

May their tribe increase.

Two Great Men - Dr. Aiyyappa Panikar and

This is my third post on Dr. Aiyyappa Panikar. While searching for something else I came across a synopsis which I had written on a bibliography card (!) as demanded by the great man who was then the Director of the Institute where I did research. As I was writing it down with shaking clammy fingers, a fellow Research Scholar told me this story.

Dr Aiyappa Pannikar (AP) was a very demanding Research Guide. He only had to look at a page to detect the grammar errors! His eyes need only to run down the pages of an entire assignment for him to ascertain the quality of the work. If he was in a foul mood, he would tell you in harsh language what exactly was wrong with the paper – whether it was puerile, simplistic, superficial, biased, judgmental, lacks cogency and consistency, or whatever. If he was in a pleasant mood, he would tell you the same things in the most humorously sarcastic language that you will laugh at yourself. Either way, it was an education – a rare one that you will always treasure for it was a clear and emphatic discourse on what research should or should not be.

So, one of his students – it happened to be a nun –once went into his room which was adjacent to the Research Scholars’ room (he was not the Director then – it happened long before my days at the Institute). The Research Scholars’ room and Dr. Panikar’s room, on the first floor, had the corridor on one side and, on the other side, huge half French windows over looking a stretch of vacant plot with trees and wild growth. One would not dare to venture into that plot for fear of snakes and insects. It was as dangerous as going into Dr Panikar's room with a badly done assignment. The Research Scholars’ desks were placed against these windows and they sat facing the windows.

So, this nun announced that she was going to submit the first chapter of the first draft of her thesis and went out. Five minutes after she left the room, the research scholars facing the window saw A4 papers floating over the vacant plot like so many kites out of control. They quickly asked each other to check the papers on their desks to see if their papers were blown off the desk by the ceiling fan. Nobody had lost anything. They were wondering what it could be. Some one said it could be from the desk of the professors’ rooms, all of which had these windows on one side. As they were discussing, one of the scholars spotted the sister walking gingerly into the plot, looking up furtively to see if anyone was watching from the Research Scholars room. All of them kept themselves out of sight ‘cos they realized what had happened, and didn’t want to embarrass her. Apparently, Dr. Panikar had flung the papers out of the window.

The poor sister picked her way through the overgrown grass and thick vines, praying, no doubt, to St. George to keep her safe from reptiles. Occasionally, she would shoot a quick glance at the windows. The Research Scholars watched the entire operation keeping themselves out of sight. Soon, there was only one more sheet of paper to be picked up. It was right below the window of one of the Research Scholars. As she bent down to pick up the paper, he threw down the cigarette he was smoking so that it fell near her paper. She jerked her head up to the window to see her fellow Research Scholar wave out to her with a sweet smile.

That Research Scholar with none other than the late Dr. Narendra Prasad, who later became a famous actor in Malayalam.

The Anatomy of Modern Anglophiles

(Rumaging through some old papers, I came across this piece I'd written a more than a decade ago. I remember it was a journey in the local train in Mumbai from Bandra to Churchgate in the company of a group of young convent educated ladies with magnficent mastery over the English language that inspired me to write this piece)
They come in all shapes and forms. But the classic specimen usually wears her hair short, hoping, perhaps, with the severing of locks can be effected a cut off from the traditions of the culture she was unfortunately born into. However, time and again, she discovers to her embarrassment and ( irritation too), that roots cannot be severed as easily as the mane, for shoots keep sprouting up from some stubborn, hidden roots much faster than her hair grows back.

She speaks English taking immense pains to keep the vernacular flavour from tainting her impeccable language. A votary of the concept of Standard English, she’ll brook no arguments about standard being out and differences being in. Should you dare merely hint at such an outrageous idea, she’d immediately plunge into a heated defence of the sacrosanct nature of the English language with such indignation that it’d silence you forever. And so there she goes waiting for an “S” to be trapped among vowels so that she can go ZZZZing over it while looking down with celestial contempt at her riff-raff compatriots who are too preoccupied with expressing themselves to worry about preserving the Anglo-Saxon quality of a language thrust upon them by a quirk of history. She struts around, poor girl, too pleased with herself and her flawless English to detect the merriment she arouses among those around her who are twisting the language, sometimes stretching it out of shape to accommodate their Indian sensibilities which they respect more than the alien tongue.

And the most distinguishing quality of a present day anglophile is her withering scorn for anything Indian.
”What? Indians write novels in English?” She goes into peals of laughter.
“Rushdie? Oh, he has been in England all along.
“Seth? Well, he was in Los Angeles.
Roy? Mmm, she’s been out of India at least.”
“Indian journalism in English? huh! A disgrace! Indians should stick to the vernacular,”
“Haven’t Indian English journalists brought down governments, caused many an eminent head to roll, exposed scams and kickbacks?”
“So what? Their language is not up to the mark”
Which mark, one does not dare to ask.
And Indian cinema? Poor thing. If not for her superhuman efforts, she’d have retched all over the place.
“Cinema is a western medium”, she manages to stammer out. “Indian film makers can never be comfortable with it”. With a final heroic attempt to contain nausea, she declares that Indian should give up the idea of making movies.
“Plenty of English movies in the market. Dub them”. Mustering courage from her swooning condition, you venture to say,”We are not conditioned enough to enjoy them all that much. We like a little bit of running around the trees with music in the background, a little bit of romance, a dash of mush”
Oh, the pitying contempt in her eyes for the poor Calibans!
And the plight of music in India? How it makes her flesh crawl! When Beethoven thunders, her eyes close and she gets transported instantly to wherever he is at the moment. When the Spice Girls screech, she thrashes around in sheer ecstasy. Let not a Lata Mangeshkar or an Udit Narayan interrupt. Her ecstatic sway would come to an abrupt full stop and her nose would go up, up, up----the sky is then limit. An expression of supreme indifference would mask her countenance.

Did I say she hates everything Indian? Allow me to withdraw that statement. 'cos she doesn’t, you see. She likes everything ethnic – even if it is dried cow dung used as tablemats. You see, Europeans like all these ethnic stuff. Like them, she too believes that India’s glory lay in the remote past. Nothing of the present is really worthwhile except these relics from the past.

Cocooned in western rhetoric, these creatures head westward when they develop wings. If the westward pilgrimage fails to materialize, they seek out those with feathers of the same hue, and flock together.

This is a vanishing species. Thank God for his little mercies

To Whom Did the Dung Belong?

Vijayamma dropped her broom and came up to me and said that she didn’t feel well. I noticed that she was talking through her teeth and immediately recognized the classic symptom - locked jaw. The girl had tetanus.

I panicked. I was all alone in the house with this young girl who helped out with the domestic chores, and I was not keeping too well myself. Fortunately, she lived in the colony adjacent to our compound and I asked her to go home immediately and ask her aunt (the girl was an orphan) or some relative to accompany her to the hospital. To make sure her people got the message, I called out to her aunt over the wall and asked her to take Viyajamma to the hospital as she had contracted a dangerous, life threatening disease.

I waited anxiously for some news. After more than an hour, I heard the gate open and ran out to see Vijayamma staggering in all by herself. Apparently, she had gone to the General hospital alone. I helped her on to the sit-out where she collapsed. I noticed that her fist was closed tightly over a piece of paper. Pricing open her fingers, I pulled out the chit given by the hospital. It said that she was administered a TT injection but she needed to be taken to the Medical College Hospital without any delay.

I ran to the wall and called out to her aunt, and told her that Vijayamma had collapsed and should be hospitalized immediately. I guess the panic must have made me shout, for in a minute, my compound was full of people, the residents of the colony who were in some way or other related to Vijayamma.

I gave Vijayamma’s uncle money for a cab and immediate expenses. The minute he got the money, he called out to for help to carry her.

“Where are you taking her?” I asked. “Leave her here till the taxi comes”.

“No sir, we’ll take her home now and take her to MCH when I am free”.

I was furious and scared. Guess it showed in my voice when I barked at him to run for a cab, which he did immediately.

Soon Vijayamma was on her way to the Medical College Hospital accompanied by her uncle and aunt with whom she lived.

But the people in my compound did not leave. I noticed that they were engaged in an animated discussion. Some of them looked belligerent. Then a couple of men walked up to me and said:

“This looks like villu vaadam (arrow disease, as tetanus was referred to in Malayalam, as the patient, during the seizures, raises their torso in the shape of an arrow).

“Yes. It is tetanus”

“Isn’t it true that it could have come from her stepping on dung? She has cracks on her heels? “

“Quite possible”. I replied.

And then, with a hardened expression on his face, one of them asked me

“Which dung did she step on? The dung in your cowshed or on the streets?”!!!!

It took all the discipline I was taught to put a lid on my inner fury. I almost blurted out that it was my grandfather’s dung, but then my breeding came to my rescue. Instead, in a controlled voice which did not conceal my anger, I asked him where all this concern was when she went to him and all the people standing there, asking them to take her to the hospital. Then, I quietly asked them to clear out which they did.

Yes. That’s the typical Kerala attitude. When it comes to duties, we are real shirkers. But when it comes to claiming our rights, we’d go as far as checking the DNA of dung to extract from the employer!

By the way, Vijayamma survived.

My Friend Aleykutty

I have decided this shall be my last attempt to blog about my friend Aleykutty. All previous attempts (more than half a dozen) got aborted by my sense of inadequacy. I feared I could not capture in words her person and personality with the limited linguistic resources at my disposal. For how do you analyse what goes into the making of a gentle soul who can laugh at everything in this world, and most of all at herself and her troubles, be they pinpricks or rifle wounds? Life doles out its share of miseries to all – but unlike all of us, Aleykutty can laugh about her share of it. She has that capacity to step outside every trying situation she finds herself in, look at them from the outside with eyes of a story teller gifted with a keen sense of humour, and then talk about them as though they were scenes in a comic play in which she too has a role to play.

Her terrific sense of humour and fantastic narrative skill make her the best storyteller I have ever listened to. She has us in splits all the time.
.
She was the nerve center of the Department (she has retired – how we miss her!). When she sits at the common table placed in the center of the room, others would leave their seats one by one and join her, as though drawn by an irresistible magnetic pull. And those memorable sessions round that table would be like laughter holding both her sides.

The subject of her hilarious stories is usually herself – she is the butt of most her jokes. She stayed in the staff hostel and went home on Friday evenings for the weekend. On Monday, she would arrive with her bagful of jokes and funny stories, built around her journey back and forth, and the weekend happenings in her house in the heart of rural Mid-Travancore.

Here’s one of her Monday stories. She was a little indisposed on a Friday but still chose to travel home, despite feeling nauseous. As soon as she got a seat in the bus, she fished out a couple of lemon flavoured wrapped toffees from her handbag, put one in her mouth and kept the other in her hand just in case she continued to feel pukish. Lost in a reverie, she didn’t hear the conductor asking her to buy the ticket, till he tapped her on the shoulder with the edge of his pencil. She shook herself out of the daydream and told him her destination, and then absent-mindedly handed the lemon-flavoured toffee to him, instead of the fare. The conductor’s eyes flew back and forth rapidly between the toffee lying in his palm and Aleykutty’s face, and then he said to her, “Madam, this is worth only 10 paise. The fare is three Rupees”. Aleykutty’s description of the conductor’s facial expression when she put the toffee into his palm would put the most established author of farcical comedy to shame.

Yet another journey story. This time, she was traveling in an overcrowded private bus, which stopped in a no-man’s land between two stops, in order to issue tickets. Aleykutty, who had a window seat, looked out and saw a barbershop with a name board “Chandrodayam”. From where she sat, she could see the comings and goings in the shop. She sat patiently, looking out of the window, watching rather abstractedly the activities in the barber shop, her eyes straying occasionally to the name board “Chandrodayam”. Soon the conductor came to issue tickets. She gave him three rupees. “Where to?” he barked. Absent minded, Aleykutty replied ”Chandrodayam”. The people sitting near her burst out laughing but the irate conductor snapped, “You don’t need a ticket to go to Chandrodayam, lady. Just get down from the bus and take ten steps forward.”

Aleykutty is not tall. She missed 5 ft by a little more than an inch. Of course, she has plenty of jokes and stories about that. Like this one, when, as a PG student, she was assigned the role of a judge in the College play. With the coat and powdered wig, she looked impressive on the high chair (specially provided to make the judge’s daunting presence fill the stage) in which she sat during the course of the scene. The most dramatic moment arrived. The verdict was going to be delivered. She got up (or down? as she herself puts it) from the high chair and the huge audience dissolved into laughter. The judge, whom they expected to loom large, was shorter standing up than sitting down. Struggling to keep a straight face, she managed to deliver the judgment to an audience in no mood now to listen to any solemn pronouncements. The curtain came down before time and the tragedy ended up as a tragic-comedy!

I have many many more stories told by Aleykutty – about herself, or about her interactions with life, enough to bring out a book titled Thus Spake Aleykutty. But no more stories, ‘cos they reduce her to a mere teller of funny stories, doer of funny deeds. She is more than that. Much more than that. And, I must ruefully admit that, once again, this effort to write about her has failed to achieve the desired results. For I have made no mention of the largeness of her heart, her generosity, her genial outlook on life, her refusal to be judgmental – all of which, and much more, form the stuff she is made of. And if ever there was a person with no airs whatsoever about her, it was Aleykutty. The unassuming manner in which she conducted herself and the self- deprecating manner of speech misled many into placing her below the millionaire slot to which she actually belonged. Never have I come across a more modest, unpretentious, self-effacing person, or one whose sense of humor kept her so alive and sensitive to the lighter side of life.

Cicily Thaathi

She was part of out large household, and used to do hand embroidery as also assist the tailor with hand work. Her time schedule was from 8.30 to 5 o lock. We children used to be ecstatic when she had to stay over. ‘Cos she was a wonderful story teller.

Her father was a small time fish vendor whom amma patronized. One day he asked amma whether she could give some employment to his daughter. The only skill she knew was hand embroidery. Those were days of famine and amma, with her compassionate nature and strong aesthetic inclinations, asked him to bring his daughter over. She thus became part of the household for more than two decades.

As she embroidered delicate designs on the fabric, she would tell us stories. She was a voracious reader (I remember, on the days she stayed over, she used to ask us to get all the magazines and whatever books we could lay our hands on and would read, oblivious of the surroundings. while we hung around with excitement, waiting for her to tell us the story she had read just then). She must have had access to books too. It is from her that I first heard the various episodes from The Song of Roland. I still remember the excitement with which my brother and I listened to that episode where Roland, as a small boy, snatches a dish from Emperor Charlemagne, not knowing that the latter is his uncle. I still remember the expression of distress on my brother’s face as I stole a look at him through tears, as thaathi gave graphic description of how the wounded Oliver was put in a salt well by the Saracens. Cecily thaathi used recite the verses and then explain the lines in the language we understood. And she had this habit of switching over to the recitation at the climactic moment, thereby sustaining the suspense for a few minutes longer. I remember, when a few references came from The Song of Roland in our PG lectures, I could nod intelligently and call out a few names of characters and episodes, much to the surprise of both my teachers and classmates, for I was, as a rule, the silent one in the class. Looking back, I think thaathi must have had access to the scripts of chavittunadakam which was a popular Christian art form. Whatever her source, she could fire our imagination and cause our small horizons to widen. Both my brother and I have a love for history and I think we can give the credit for it to Cicily thaathi.
She told us the story of the good and virtuous Pulomaja. I don’t remember where the story was set or any other details; but I remember that the story was so captivating that we were 15 minutes late for lunch, and got spanked royally- both for coming down late and for slowing down thaathi’s work. But we went back to her, time and again to hear the stories - fables and myths, story of Maria Goretti and Alexander and and - - -. After we heard Maria Goretti’s story, we began to suspect that our ironing man Alexander was the reformed Alexander who killed Maria Goretti. One day, my brother and I decided to confront him with the big question, making sure there were enough people around to protect us while we sprang the question “are you the Alexander who killed Maria Goretti?” The audience comprising the cook and the domestic help went into peals of laughter while Alexander did not seem amused. “yes” he thundered, his white eyes staring fiercely at us from his ebony face, and we ran to Cicly thaathi with the confirmation that the Alexander of the story was down there ironing clothes. How thaathi laughed. Tears streamed down her face while she told us that the villain Alexander, though still alive was in ‘uuuuurope”. “But he has admitted killing Maria Goretti” I insisted. “He was only trying to fool you’, assured thaathi.

I have a lot more to tell of the spinster Thaathi who lived a life of extreme dignity till the grand old age of 85, sewing(though almost blind) till the moment she got up from the mat on which she sat, in her own tailoring shop, to cross the road and got fatally knocked down by a speeding vehicle.

DR. Aiyyappa Panikker (AP) : random, unforgettable, privileged memories

DR. Ayyappa Panikker’s first anniversary which was observed a couple of months back resurrected in me memories of my brief association with this great man.

After my first meeting with him( about which I blogged on the day I heard of his demise http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2006/08/dr-ayyappa-panikker.html ) I kept a safe distance from him. I like geniuses. I stand in awe of them and am totally tongue tied in their presence. So I prefer to admire them from a distance, and that’s how I admired Dr. Panikker. But there were times when that distance had to be collapsed - for official reasons, as he was the Director of the Institute where I did my research.

I remember the day I presented my synopsis to the doctoral committee which he chaired . I had given the synopsis to all the members of the committee earlier , except to Dr. Pannikker. He was not in at his usual time and I prayed that he wouldn’t be in during the presentation. But the gods wouldn’t have it that way. Pannikker sir walked in at the stroke of eleven when the presentatation was scheduled and I extended the synosis to him. He took it from my hand, his eyes running down the first page, and by the time he settled down in the chair he had turned over all the pages. And out came the remark ”This young lady seems to be very generous with her articles”!!! Without exaggeration, it took him less than half a minute to locate the slips in the language – and I was speechless –with admiration, fear. The rest of the presentation was a nightmare. He shot questions after questions which I couldn’t answer, even when I knew the answers – for fear they might sound inane - - so badly did he shake my confidence.

Looking back, I realize that that episode shook me out of my complacency and I instantly, without my knowing it, set high standards for myself - which manifested, ever since, in me going over and over again over a written piece meant for submission( I’ve let my hair down only after acquiring this web space for myself) and going to books, sources to make clear in my own mind , theories and concepts. I learnt that the golden rule for a researcher is that nothing can be taken for granted. And being intensely conscious of the huge gray areas in our mind, is actually the true beginning of wisdom.

I was not his student but as the director of the research institute, he kept himself posted about the performance of each research scholar enrolled at there. I was a consistently hardworking research scholar(that attribute of the average, I guess). But there came a period in my research tenure when work took a second place, with domestic inconveniences to be attented to. Being mortally scared of AP, I didn’t confide in him – cant think of anyone asking him for concessions on account of personal problems. One day, he sent word through my guide to ask me to get a grip on myself. He mentioned that I had started off well - had been a very earnest student – but of late I had been slackening my pace. I was astounded! and pleased too that my earnestness did not go unnoticed by the great AP.

Panikker sir’s quick and sharp wit was famous. Every day, some research scholar or other would walk into our common room with some delightful tale of his wit. There is this story of one of his lady students who put in an application for leave on account of her HUSBANDS’ illness. One glance at it and out came the remark from AP. “ My sense of propriety prevents me from asking how many and which one’.

There is yet another story of how he was in discussion with a Prof about the lull in publications at the centre, when one of the scholars at the research centre entered his office room and informed him that she was going on medical leave on account of pregnancy related discomforts. She was the second person that day who asked for leave for the same reason. Looking at the Prof who sat in front of him, he grumbled that “ people register for Ph.D here and produce nothing but children’.

Wish his students would get together and bring out a book on AP’s quick wit and sense of humour.

Understanding Kamala Das/Kamala Suraiya/Madhavikutty

She is honest. honest to the core. only the dishonest will label her honesty as sleaze!

she is brave. one has to be brave to be a Madhavikutty or Kamala Das or Kamala Suraiya in a cynical, hypocritical and censorious state like Kerala.

And she is not consistent. Inconsistency is the privilege of an utterly honest, brave person. perception of truth changes with experience of life. it's mulish to stick to a once made statement, a once taken position , simply to APPEAR consistent. Consistency is meant for the average - not for the genius.

She was honest when she said My Story is not her autobiography. every one has a story to tell. if you and I tell our stories, we will not allow ourselves to be chained down to pedestrian facts - if we are true artists. Our perceptions/creativity will modify/reinvent our true experiences. We will move freely between fact and fiction, between the ground reality and the imagined - if we are true artists, if we possess an elevated level of negative capability.

As an artist, we would owe nothing to anyone. We owe it to us, only to us, to be honest to ourselves, and our creation. The creation takes on a life of its own, dictating rules that necessitate the creator to forget her identity as a person (Madhavikutty, in this case) and respect the identity of her creation - her WORK OF ART. A true artist listens to the demands of her creation. A lesser one will be dictated by such extraneous matters as the societal sensibilities, sense of propriety - - -.

Kamala Das is an artist par excellence – a nonpareil in English literature.