Who are these Syrian Christians of Kerala. also known as Nazranis? Where did they come from? Who converted them?
A sudden identity crisis, it’d appear. But no. No crisis or loss of identity as far as I am concerned. It hardly matters to me whether my ancestors were Namboodiris, or Arabs or Red Indians or apes. I care two hoots about who converted my ancestors 20 centuries ago. It has no relevance to my existence today. And I think this holds true for most Nazranis.
Then why these queries?
I was casually going thru a book on Kerala history. A chapter titled “Kerala Polity and Life of the 16th & 17th Centuries” has a section on the Syrian Christians of Kerala, where it is stated that Christians were - - -well, read for yourself: 'The vast majority among them were vegetarians; rice, curry and milk being their main items of food. Beef eating had not come into vogue !!!!!!!!! (Exclamation marks mine).The Christians as a class were also not addicted to drinks during this period' !!!!!???? (Exclamation and question marks mine). You could have knocked me down with a feather! It is not just a common joke but also a practice that the Nazrani rushes to the meat shop after the Sunday mass. There is also some truth in the saying that he chooses the church which has a meat shop in the vicinity. And to think that he descended from vegetarian stock!
Ok. This bit of information drove me to the net to find out more about the “vegetarian” Syrian Christian. And there I came across a riot of contradictory opinions, views, theories. Most of them were presented with intense heat. The controversy revolves round the questions of the original caste of the Syrian Christians and about St. Thomas, the apostle having come to Kerala at all. The meat eating habit of the Syrian Christians was used as evidence for both groups to prove their points. I shall, for convenience, call these warring netizen groups the Naboothiri Origin Group (NOG) and the Non Namboothiri Origin Group (NNOG).
The NOG were less vociferous- either they did not feel the need to prove anything to anybody or they didn’t have evidence that’d hold water.
The NNOG -they go livid a t the very suggestions that Nazranis have Namboothiri (Kerala Brahmins) origins. Their proofs:
Brahmins migrated to Kerala only after the 4 century AD. How then could St. Thomas convert them in 1st century AD? How can a nonexistent group be converted? Mmmm. They have a point there.
The NOG counter this argument with a quote from A. Sreedara Menon that ‘the first batch of Brahmin immigrants came to Kerala in the 3rd century BC itself, immediately following the advent of the Jains and the Buddhists. It may be recalled that the period coincided with the Mauryan age in the history of North India when a conscious policy of acculturation or dissemination of “the superior material culture of the Gangetic basin” was pursued by the Mauryan State’. Well, there the NOG has a walking stick to lean on. When ST. Thomas came, the Brahmins were around to be converted.
But the NNOG swear that the Christians were beef eaters and Namboodiris, the Brahmins of Kerala who came from North India where the cow was worshipped did not eat beef. In fact, they claim, the beef eating communities in Kerala were ostracized by the Namboothris. Pre-empting the theory of western influence after the Portuguese efforts at latinization of Syrian Church in Kerala, NNOG vow that a centuries old cultural habit of beef abstinence cannot be changed overnight by laitinization.
Now, the NOG won’t take this lying down. Again they quote A. Sreedhara Menon that ‘The advent of the Aryan immigrants (post 4th century) brought about other significant social changes as well. There was a change in the dietary habits of the people. The use of beef and liquor which was common even among the Brahmins in the early Sangam Age now came to be looked upon as taboo. Those who used beef had now some social stigma attached to their class. The continued use of beef by the panes was perhaps one of the factors which brought about the decline of their social status’. So the NOG aver that the Brahmins too ate beef before the second wave of Brahmin migration, after which they gave it up while the Nazranis continued, as they were already Christians and there was no taboo attached to beef eating in the Christian way of life.
But NNOG insists that this is the clearest proof that the Nazranis are Panas converted and not Brahmin (Namboothiri)converts.
And thus the controversy rages on - --
While the Nazrani continues to eat beef. After all pedigree is no substitute for beef.
And so back to the questions: Who are these Syrian Christians? Where did they come from? Who converted them?
A humble simble group whose paternity cannot be traced?
Some of them, particularly from certain parts of Kerala, are a shade lighter in complexion than the average Malayalee. And so the plot thickens and adds substance to the theory or (oral tradition?) that the Nazranis have decended from the by blows of the Christian traders from Middle East or Rome or Greece.
If that is true, what a fall is there my dear fellow Nazranis. You and I and all of us fall down while theories and theories flourish over us!
My posts on Nazrani:
http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/04/evolution-of-nazrani.html;
http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/04/bringing-up-nazrani-girl-child.html
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Death Penalty in a Civilised Society?
Amidst all the gloomy headlines that greet us everyday, was one with a difference. It went thus: IRAN TO SCRAP DEATH BY STONING. (The new Indian Express, Aug 7, 2008)
That was good news. Countries associated with draconian, hideous, ‘savage’ laws and penal measures are beginning to look at them from a humanitarian angle. But this set me thinking. Who or what is to decide what mode of execution is brutal enough to warrant the epithet “inhuman” or acceptable enough to earn the label ‘civilised”? Why is it that stoning to death creates a moral revulsion in us, the inhabitants of the so called modern, civilised, progressive, liberal society?
Public hanging, public beheading, crucifixion and stoning to death must have had, at the outset, an exemplary purpose, and as such are specifically devised to terrorise the onlookers into deterring them from committing similar crimes. The more brutal, the more it strikes terror in the hearts of the onlooker. For the victim of public execution, there is a denial of dignity in death which can be as painful as the pain of execution. Of these, perhaps stoning and crucifixion are a degree more cruel in terms of the duration of suffering involved in the slow death of the victim. In its actual modus operandi, being stoned in public and by the public is akin to lynching. The faceless fury of the mob adds an element of humiliation to the horror and pain of the punishment. Again, the right to dignity in death is denied.
To come to the query raised earlier, I guess it is the attitude to the criminal that forms the basis for branding the mode of administering capital punishment as human or inhuman. The traditional society(read non progressive, non liberal. noncivilized), holds the attitude that a person condemned to death, from whom has been stripped the right to existence, has no more claim to the rights enjoyed by the living men of the world he is about to leave behind. That world, it is believed, is under no obligation to respect the life and dignity of the condemned person. For, the criminal has forfeited all his rights as the member of the society the minute he commits a crime which warrants death penalty. He is like a dead man walking.
The modern state takes pride in respecting a person’s rights till the last living moment. Efforts are made to make death as painless as possible. The last wishes of the condemned person are respected and he is given a wholesome meal and access to religious solace before execution. But does all this make execution a pleasant experience, or the mode of administering the death penalty less brutal or primitive? Hanging or electric chair or lethal injection is no less obnoxious than the aforementioned methods. They do not enable the person to conquer the bitterness of death. Most certainly, we cannot use the term ‘civilized, to these modes of killing, or for that matter, any mode of killing. For killing – and that’s what Capital punishment is – is immoral, brutal and primitive. I would call all death penalty officialised/legitimized murder.
Capital Punishment is immoral and unethical. Who has a right to take away from another person his right to existence? No judge or jury or tribunal or court can appropriate the authority to condemn a human being to death. Period.
Death penalty is objectionable also on account of the flaws in the justice systems. No legal system is flawless. It is no impossible task to frame an innocent person with a crime deserving capital punishment. It can happen that the defence is unable to prove his innocence in the court of law. It is also possible that a guilty person can get away with murder in the existing system. In other words, the judicial systems of modern states are so ridden with loopholes that miscarriage of justice is a possible eventuality and a common enough happening. This being the case, the state must abolish capital punishment in order to obviate the possibility of an innocent person being deprived of life for a crime she/he did not commit.
Those who disagree can argue that capital punishment is a deterrent and is, therefore, necessary to reduce crimes. Well, I beg to disagree with that argument. From time immemorial, death penalty has been there - all over the world. But man has always killed and looted, and broken every commandment handed down to Moses – and he continues to do it.
Abolition of death penalty in every country in the world would be a major landmark in the human evolutionary process. For that would amount to the official abdication of the right of governments to violate the most fundamental of all human rights – man’s right to life and existence.
Have another post on this issue: http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2006/12/death-penalty.html
That was good news. Countries associated with draconian, hideous, ‘savage’ laws and penal measures are beginning to look at them from a humanitarian angle. But this set me thinking. Who or what is to decide what mode of execution is brutal enough to warrant the epithet “inhuman” or acceptable enough to earn the label ‘civilised”? Why is it that stoning to death creates a moral revulsion in us, the inhabitants of the so called modern, civilised, progressive, liberal society?
Public hanging, public beheading, crucifixion and stoning to death must have had, at the outset, an exemplary purpose, and as such are specifically devised to terrorise the onlookers into deterring them from committing similar crimes. The more brutal, the more it strikes terror in the hearts of the onlooker. For the victim of public execution, there is a denial of dignity in death which can be as painful as the pain of execution. Of these, perhaps stoning and crucifixion are a degree more cruel in terms of the duration of suffering involved in the slow death of the victim. In its actual modus operandi, being stoned in public and by the public is akin to lynching. The faceless fury of the mob adds an element of humiliation to the horror and pain of the punishment. Again, the right to dignity in death is denied.
To come to the query raised earlier, I guess it is the attitude to the criminal that forms the basis for branding the mode of administering capital punishment as human or inhuman. The traditional society(read non progressive, non liberal. noncivilized), holds the attitude that a person condemned to death, from whom has been stripped the right to existence, has no more claim to the rights enjoyed by the living men of the world he is about to leave behind. That world, it is believed, is under no obligation to respect the life and dignity of the condemned person. For, the criminal has forfeited all his rights as the member of the society the minute he commits a crime which warrants death penalty. He is like a dead man walking.
The modern state takes pride in respecting a person’s rights till the last living moment. Efforts are made to make death as painless as possible. The last wishes of the condemned person are respected and he is given a wholesome meal and access to religious solace before execution. But does all this make execution a pleasant experience, or the mode of administering the death penalty less brutal or primitive? Hanging or electric chair or lethal injection is no less obnoxious than the aforementioned methods. They do not enable the person to conquer the bitterness of death. Most certainly, we cannot use the term ‘civilized, to these modes of killing, or for that matter, any mode of killing. For killing – and that’s what Capital punishment is – is immoral, brutal and primitive. I would call all death penalty officialised/legitimized murder.
Capital Punishment is immoral and unethical. Who has a right to take away from another person his right to existence? No judge or jury or tribunal or court can appropriate the authority to condemn a human being to death. Period.
Death penalty is objectionable also on account of the flaws in the justice systems. No legal system is flawless. It is no impossible task to frame an innocent person with a crime deserving capital punishment. It can happen that the defence is unable to prove his innocence in the court of law. It is also possible that a guilty person can get away with murder in the existing system. In other words, the judicial systems of modern states are so ridden with loopholes that miscarriage of justice is a possible eventuality and a common enough happening. This being the case, the state must abolish capital punishment in order to obviate the possibility of an innocent person being deprived of life for a crime she/he did not commit.
Those who disagree can argue that capital punishment is a deterrent and is, therefore, necessary to reduce crimes. Well, I beg to disagree with that argument. From time immemorial, death penalty has been there - all over the world. But man has always killed and looted, and broken every commandment handed down to Moses – and he continues to do it.
Abolition of death penalty in every country in the world would be a major landmark in the human evolutionary process. For that would amount to the official abdication of the right of governments to violate the most fundamental of all human rights – man’s right to life and existence.
Have another post on this issue: http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2006/12/death-penalty.html
Friday, August 29, 2008
LAL SALAAM BUDDHADEB BHATTACHARJEE!
The CPM stands for the right to strike by the working class as a fundamental right, said the party statement. This was an embarrassed reaction to Buddhadeb Battacharya’s landmark pronouncement “I DON’T SUPPORT ANY BANDH’.
Ok. We agree with the CPM that the right to strike, which is the right to protest against deprival of rights, is a fundamental right.
But all those ugly accompaniments of a strike – are they also fundamental rights?
Do fundamental rights include the right
• to terrorise the denizens into bringing normal life to a standstill?
• to destroy public property?
• to pelt stones at public transport?
• to indulge in arson ?
• to beat up law abiding people who choose to exercise their right to work?
• to commit murder?
• to deprive citizens of their right to medical help ?
• to deprive students of the education for which they and the tax payers foot the bill?
• to disrupt exams scheduled by the universities for which hundreds of thousands of students prepare themselves for years, and for which crores of rupees are spent by the government?
• to cause a loss of crores of rupees to the exchequer and public and private enterprises?
I earn my livelihood by the sweat on my brows. Don’t I have my rights? Does the CPM stand by the right of working class( please. who constitute this?) to deprive me, a law abiding and peace loving citizen, of my fundamental rights?
What/who is CPM to decide who should have fundamental rights and who should not? or do they think that the red is more equal that the rest of mankind?
Buddha has spoken at last. The CPM had better pay heed to him or many more Budhas will surface.
A silver lining is, at long last, making itself visible behind the dark cloud created by the muscle power of trade union politics of the bully called CPM.
Ok. We agree with the CPM that the right to strike, which is the right to protest against deprival of rights, is a fundamental right.
But all those ugly accompaniments of a strike – are they also fundamental rights?
Do fundamental rights include the right
• to terrorise the denizens into bringing normal life to a standstill?
• to destroy public property?
• to pelt stones at public transport?
• to indulge in arson ?
• to beat up law abiding people who choose to exercise their right to work?
• to commit murder?
• to deprive citizens of their right to medical help ?
• to deprive students of the education for which they and the tax payers foot the bill?
• to disrupt exams scheduled by the universities for which hundreds of thousands of students prepare themselves for years, and for which crores of rupees are spent by the government?
• to cause a loss of crores of rupees to the exchequer and public and private enterprises?
I earn my livelihood by the sweat on my brows. Don’t I have my rights? Does the CPM stand by the right of working class( please. who constitute this?) to deprive me, a law abiding and peace loving citizen, of my fundamental rights?
What/who is CPM to decide who should have fundamental rights and who should not? or do they think that the red is more equal that the rest of mankind?
Buddha has spoken at last. The CPM had better pay heed to him or many more Budhas will surface.
A silver lining is, at long last, making itself visible behind the dark cloud created by the muscle power of trade union politics of the bully called CPM.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Print Media : On the Decline?
There is no dearth of prophets of doom making predictions about the immediate life threat to the print media. I am an avid fan of both print and electronic media, but of late there has been a change in my consumption of the print media.
There was a time when I used to sit with a gigantic cup of tea and the newspaper in the morning for no less than an hour, and then another half hour in the evening with an equally gigantic cup of tea, going through the editorials which I always kept aside for my evening tea. Today, consumption of one cup of tea in the morning- not necessarily gigantic - is enough to cover the entire newspaper. If a newspaper accompanies my evening tea, it is definitely a different newspaper which I read just out of curiosity to see the how it fits in the events of the day within its ideological frame.
The reason for this change in the pattern of reading the newpaper is obvious. The channels exhaust all news. The local channels exhaust local news. So this makes newspaper reading a little tedious - I always have that deja vu feeling without the supernatural element attached to it. The discussions provided by the channels with various experts usually discuss the issues threadbare, with the newsreader's position (left, right, extreme right) reflecting the agenda of the channel. But that does not take away from the charm of the editorial, which , I find always offers a unique perpective and some good language encounter(sometimes they slip here. very sad.
This explains the way the print media has given itself a make over in the recent times. It now targets readers who are hooked on the entertaintment and serial programmes in the electroninc media. This category of readers has to to be mesmerised by sheer sensationalism. Hence the sensationalizing - sometimes ugly, sometimees indelicate, sometimes indecent, sometimes totally unsanitised, sometimes totally irresponsible - of news.
Another starategy employed by the print media(malayalam local papers) is the expansion of the obituary space. I know people who read the newspapers only to check out the obituary pages. Of course this is a service rendered by the media, and the print media in Kerala has discovered that this service will keep it alive for a long time. So one can expect another page added to the orbituary section.
Allow me now to add my drop to the ocean of predictions - though Cassandra like in my case, I know - regarding the future of the print media.
With the ever increasing reach of TV and the internet, the print media will have to micro focus on local news, local events and local services. Then there would be a minimum three pages of orbituary, sports pages, entertainment pages and one page of national and international news. How they will order it, I have no idea. Since the consumption of sports and entertainment pages will remain high for a long time, these pages would indulge in novel ways of sensationalism, perhaps highlighting sectarian interests in the spotrsworld where the local sportspersons will always be shown as underprivileged, or peeping into the bedrooms of adullterous relationships or deviant sexual practices of film personalities and other celebrities. In short, the newspaper of the future will be tabloids in the vernacular and English Language.
There was a time when I used to sit with a gigantic cup of tea and the newspaper in the morning for no less than an hour, and then another half hour in the evening with an equally gigantic cup of tea, going through the editorials which I always kept aside for my evening tea. Today, consumption of one cup of tea in the morning- not necessarily gigantic - is enough to cover the entire newspaper. If a newspaper accompanies my evening tea, it is definitely a different newspaper which I read just out of curiosity to see the how it fits in the events of the day within its ideological frame.
The reason for this change in the pattern of reading the newpaper is obvious. The channels exhaust all news. The local channels exhaust local news. So this makes newspaper reading a little tedious - I always have that deja vu feeling without the supernatural element attached to it. The discussions provided by the channels with various experts usually discuss the issues threadbare, with the newsreader's position (left, right, extreme right) reflecting the agenda of the channel. But that does not take away from the charm of the editorial, which , I find always offers a unique perpective and some good language encounter(sometimes they slip here. very sad.
This explains the way the print media has given itself a make over in the recent times. It now targets readers who are hooked on the entertaintment and serial programmes in the electroninc media. This category of readers has to to be mesmerised by sheer sensationalism. Hence the sensationalizing - sometimes ugly, sometimees indelicate, sometimes indecent, sometimes totally unsanitised, sometimes totally irresponsible - of news.
Another starategy employed by the print media(malayalam local papers) is the expansion of the obituary space. I know people who read the newspapers only to check out the obituary pages. Of course this is a service rendered by the media, and the print media in Kerala has discovered that this service will keep it alive for a long time. So one can expect another page added to the orbituary section.
Allow me now to add my drop to the ocean of predictions - though Cassandra like in my case, I know - regarding the future of the print media.
With the ever increasing reach of TV and the internet, the print media will have to micro focus on local news, local events and local services. Then there would be a minimum three pages of orbituary, sports pages, entertainment pages and one page of national and international news. How they will order it, I have no idea. Since the consumption of sports and entertainment pages will remain high for a long time, these pages would indulge in novel ways of sensationalism, perhaps highlighting sectarian interests in the spotrsworld where the local sportspersons will always be shown as underprivileged, or peeping into the bedrooms of adullterous relationships or deviant sexual practices of film personalities and other celebrities. In short, the newspaper of the future will be tabloids in the vernacular and English Language.
Friday, August 22, 2008
To Hell With God’s Own Country
The August 20th hartal, the 82nd in 2008, went a step further than all the previous hartals. Needless to say, the usual occurrences were there. To mention some
• A child suffering from cancer died without medical help as he could not reach the hospital
• A bank was invaded by CITU led by no less a person than the panchayat president himself. Of course, destruction of property and assault of employees followed. Three employees including the manager were beaten up, with all sustaining injuries. And it goes without saying, the policecomplaint filed by the bank dared not identify the miscreants.
• And of course, the Police looked on (they don’t even look the other way any more) while this attack on the building and the employees was going on.
• In Trivandrum city, the commodity most conspicuous by its absence on the streets was the police.
But then these are all very very normal things on a hartal day, and we should be taking them in our stride. By this time, we Keralites ought to have learnt how to deal with hartals.The bank got what it deserved. Didn’t the manager know there was a hartal? He ought to have gone, the day before, to the super market to frantically stock things for the day of the hartal and queued up before the liqour shop, and then sat at home on the day of the bandh , watching cricket and Olympics instead of daring to respond to the call of duty. The boy who died should have chosen another day to die. Didn’t he know that the left trade union had called for a national bandh?
If someone got hurt, they themselves were to be blamed. After all, it’s only on a bandh day that the indolent trade union guys get to do something and expend their overstocked energy. Our part is to keep out of their way, duty or no duty.
But this time, like I said before, the strikers made an improvement on the usual meal. The CITU stormed into the hitherto protected areas- the IT sector and the SEZs. The CI of Police, Kazhakootam issued a written warning to the Technopark officials the day before. “Shutters down please”, it said. “We wont be around if something untoward happens”!! Kinfra was invaded by the striking trade unions. The result? Crores of rupees loss to the protected companies.
Kerala was just beginning to find the answer to the mammoth unemployment problem that had been beleaguering the state for decades. The huge number of students coming out of the engineering and management schools were being absorbed by these IT companies.
This 82nd hartal, I guess, spells the doom of IT industry in Kerala. And the present government is trying to woo foreign investors, and set up a Silicon Valley in Kerala!! What a joke!!
The foreign investors who are already here, should get the hell out of this state. There are places in India other than this strip of land where IT parks can be set up and run without any hassles.
Let Kerala go to the devil its own way.
• A child suffering from cancer died without medical help as he could not reach the hospital
• A bank was invaded by CITU led by no less a person than the panchayat president himself. Of course, destruction of property and assault of employees followed. Three employees including the manager were beaten up, with all sustaining injuries. And it goes without saying, the policecomplaint filed by the bank dared not identify the miscreants.
• And of course, the Police looked on (they don’t even look the other way any more) while this attack on the building and the employees was going on.
• In Trivandrum city, the commodity most conspicuous by its absence on the streets was the police.
But then these are all very very normal things on a hartal day, and we should be taking them in our stride. By this time, we Keralites ought to have learnt how to deal with hartals.The bank got what it deserved. Didn’t the manager know there was a hartal? He ought to have gone, the day before, to the super market to frantically stock things for the day of the hartal and queued up before the liqour shop, and then sat at home on the day of the bandh , watching cricket and Olympics instead of daring to respond to the call of duty. The boy who died should have chosen another day to die. Didn’t he know that the left trade union had called for a national bandh?
If someone got hurt, they themselves were to be blamed. After all, it’s only on a bandh day that the indolent trade union guys get to do something and expend their overstocked energy. Our part is to keep out of their way, duty or no duty.
But this time, like I said before, the strikers made an improvement on the usual meal. The CITU stormed into the hitherto protected areas- the IT sector and the SEZs. The CI of Police, Kazhakootam issued a written warning to the Technopark officials the day before. “Shutters down please”, it said. “We wont be around if something untoward happens”!! Kinfra was invaded by the striking trade unions. The result? Crores of rupees loss to the protected companies.
Kerala was just beginning to find the answer to the mammoth unemployment problem that had been beleaguering the state for decades. The huge number of students coming out of the engineering and management schools were being absorbed by these IT companies.
This 82nd hartal, I guess, spells the doom of IT industry in Kerala. And the present government is trying to woo foreign investors, and set up a Silicon Valley in Kerala!! What a joke!!
The foreign investors who are already here, should get the hell out of this state. There are places in India other than this strip of land where IT parks can be set up and run without any hassles.
Let Kerala go to the devil its own way.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Decline and Fall of Kerala - Just Round the Corner
Can Kerala situation be described as a total breakdown of governance?
The youth activists are on the rampage again. The SFI in Mahatma Gandhi University, and the KSU in Kerala University!
In Mahatma Gandhi University, the victim of their assault was none less than the Vice Chancellor herself. She was coming out of her chamber when these rowdies pushed (!) her violently back into the room ( she didn’t fall, ‘cos the security officer was at hand), back into her seat and then forced her to listen to their grievances - despite her pleas of ill health and promise to discuss the issue the next day.
What a shame! What an utter disgrace?
And this is the second attack on her.
How come these goons get away with it again and again?
Isn't there any one to throw the book at them?
An interesting angle to this story is that the activists were lead by a female student. Yes. Kerala women have achieved gender equality. They have proved that they stand shoulder to shoulder with the males, at least when it comes to indulging in violence.
The Vice Chancellor of Kerala University , who is embroiled in a corruption case regarding the Assistant Grade posting, retired two days back. The matter is subjudice. The verdict is yet to come. Yet, the KSU activists pasted wall posters all over the city of Trivandrum with his photo and the caption "Azhimathi veeran, Lal salaam". This was planned to coincide with the day of his retirement.
Indecent, disgusting behaviour. Are no codes of behaviour applicable to these youth activists? Are they above the law of the land? In the case of the SFI, they can be booked on two counts - manhandling, and wrongful confinement of a person. In the case of KSU, it is a case of defamation - while the matter is still subjudice.
The provisions are there. But who will bell the cat?
They will get away scot free, as they always do. If you belong to the youth/student wing of a political party, you can get away with murder – literally. The arms of law do not seems to be long enough, fast enough and committed enough to catch up with these anti social elements.
And these are the future citizens of Kerala! These anti social elements. They are tomorrow’s promise!
And the universities, where education has taken a backseat, have become the breeding ground for these antisocial creatures.
The leaders of the parties are doing everything in their power to whet the appetite of their youth wings for violence. Or, to be a little more charitable in judgement, is it that they can’t rein in their youth workers? Quite possible, cos the leaders themselves appear to be so rudderless. The rage for power and pelf appears to divorce them from all vestiges of a sense of direction, responsibility, accountability, nobility, decency and integrity.
Today, an all India bandh is declared by left trade unions. The predictions are that Kerala will the state worst hit by it. And it is the 82nd hartal of the year in Kerala!! And with four more months to go before the year ends, Kerala might hit a century and get into all record books.
Somehow I get the feeling that the political parties are vying with each other in having to their credit the highest score in calling for bandhs, disrupting normal life, bringing the state to a standstill, indulging in shameful, barbaric acts of violence and in committing murder. It is similar to the way a country at war has the psychological advantage if the figures of enemies killed are bigger than the enemy's.But here in Kerala, who are the political parties at war with? With the people? if that is true, all the parties should be disqualified, and the state brought under President’s rule.
What a terrible condition for a state to be in!
But, can we, the people of Kerala, be absolved from all blame? I think not. People get the leaders they deserve.
These leaders, perhaps, are a projection of what we are - our alter ego?
I think we Malayalees need to look into our souls to find an answer to what has brought Kerala to this pathetic, shameful condition!
The youth activists are on the rampage again. The SFI in Mahatma Gandhi University, and the KSU in Kerala University!
In Mahatma Gandhi University, the victim of their assault was none less than the Vice Chancellor herself. She was coming out of her chamber when these rowdies pushed (!) her violently back into the room ( she didn’t fall, ‘cos the security officer was at hand), back into her seat and then forced her to listen to their grievances - despite her pleas of ill health and promise to discuss the issue the next day.
What a shame! What an utter disgrace?
And this is the second attack on her.
How come these goons get away with it again and again?
Isn't there any one to throw the book at them?
An interesting angle to this story is that the activists were lead by a female student. Yes. Kerala women have achieved gender equality. They have proved that they stand shoulder to shoulder with the males, at least when it comes to indulging in violence.
The Vice Chancellor of Kerala University , who is embroiled in a corruption case regarding the Assistant Grade posting, retired two days back. The matter is subjudice. The verdict is yet to come. Yet, the KSU activists pasted wall posters all over the city of Trivandrum with his photo and the caption "Azhimathi veeran, Lal salaam". This was planned to coincide with the day of his retirement.
Indecent, disgusting behaviour. Are no codes of behaviour applicable to these youth activists? Are they above the law of the land? In the case of the SFI, they can be booked on two counts - manhandling, and wrongful confinement of a person. In the case of KSU, it is a case of defamation - while the matter is still subjudice.
The provisions are there. But who will bell the cat?
They will get away scot free, as they always do. If you belong to the youth/student wing of a political party, you can get away with murder – literally. The arms of law do not seems to be long enough, fast enough and committed enough to catch up with these anti social elements.
And these are the future citizens of Kerala! These anti social elements. They are tomorrow’s promise!
And the universities, where education has taken a backseat, have become the breeding ground for these antisocial creatures.
The leaders of the parties are doing everything in their power to whet the appetite of their youth wings for violence. Or, to be a little more charitable in judgement, is it that they can’t rein in their youth workers? Quite possible, cos the leaders themselves appear to be so rudderless. The rage for power and pelf appears to divorce them from all vestiges of a sense of direction, responsibility, accountability, nobility, decency and integrity.
Today, an all India bandh is declared by left trade unions. The predictions are that Kerala will the state worst hit by it. And it is the 82nd hartal of the year in Kerala!! And with four more months to go before the year ends, Kerala might hit a century and get into all record books.
Somehow I get the feeling that the political parties are vying with each other in having to their credit the highest score in calling for bandhs, disrupting normal life, bringing the state to a standstill, indulging in shameful, barbaric acts of violence and in committing murder. It is similar to the way a country at war has the psychological advantage if the figures of enemies killed are bigger than the enemy's.But here in Kerala, who are the political parties at war with? With the people? if that is true, all the parties should be disqualified, and the state brought under President’s rule.
What a terrible condition for a state to be in!
But, can we, the people of Kerala, be absolved from all blame? I think not. People get the leaders they deserve.
These leaders, perhaps, are a projection of what we are - our alter ego?
I think we Malayalees need to look into our souls to find an answer to what has brought Kerala to this pathetic, shameful condition!
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Compensation for Suicide?
This is online news:
Thiruvananthapuram,Aug13 (PTI):Kerala Government today decided to sanction an amount of Rs.Two lakh to the family of sister Anupa Mary of St Mary's convent at Kollam who committed suicide allegedly due to 'sexual harassment' by a senior nun.
Speaking to reporters after cabinet meeting here, Chief Minister V S Achuthanandan said crime branch would probe the death under the supervision IG Haridas Nath Mishra.
Why is the government offering compensation for suicide? Does it supect murder? If so, surely it can wait till the crime branch's probe is over? Or is the compensation a tacit way of telling the crime branch what result the government wants the investigation agency to arrive at?
Why this indecent hurry in rushing to give a compensation? Was the nun an earning member of the family?
Will the government give compensation to all who decide to take away their lives, being unable to cope with the problems of life?
By the way, if the nun had not not succeed in her attempt, wouldn't she have been arrested for attempted suicide, which is a punishable crime according to the law if the land? So is the compensation meant for the successful completion of a crime?
The government should have weighhed the pros and cons of the issue before this impulsive decision.
The truth is, when it got a chance to nail its arch enemy - the Catholic Church in Kerala - it threw all logic tho the winds. The haste with which it decided to compensate the suicide was an absolute giveaway.
Goverments should be above vendetta. True, the Left has a five decade old score to settle with the Church. But this is a brainless way of doing it. While the messing around with education can be explained in terms of ideology, what ideology is there in compensating suicide in a state which already has the highest suicide rate in the country? is it an incentive? Will the government oblige if all families of suicide cases apply for compensation?
How can they refuse since a precedence has been set?
An angle the crime Branch should investigate: When did the government make the offer for compensation to the parents? before they spoke to the media or after?
Thiruvananthapuram,Aug13 (PTI):Kerala Government today decided to sanction an amount of Rs.Two lakh to the family of sister Anupa Mary of St Mary's convent at Kollam who committed suicide allegedly due to 'sexual harassment' by a senior nun.
Speaking to reporters after cabinet meeting here, Chief Minister V S Achuthanandan said crime branch would probe the death under the supervision IG Haridas Nath Mishra.
Why is the government offering compensation for suicide? Does it supect murder? If so, surely it can wait till the crime branch's probe is over? Or is the compensation a tacit way of telling the crime branch what result the government wants the investigation agency to arrive at?
Why this indecent hurry in rushing to give a compensation? Was the nun an earning member of the family?
Will the government give compensation to all who decide to take away their lives, being unable to cope with the problems of life?
By the way, if the nun had not not succeed in her attempt, wouldn't she have been arrested for attempted suicide, which is a punishable crime according to the law if the land? So is the compensation meant for the successful completion of a crime?
The government should have weighhed the pros and cons of the issue before this impulsive decision.
The truth is, when it got a chance to nail its arch enemy - the Catholic Church in Kerala - it threw all logic tho the winds. The haste with which it decided to compensate the suicide was an absolute giveaway.
Goverments should be above vendetta. True, the Left has a five decade old score to settle with the Church. But this is a brainless way of doing it. While the messing around with education can be explained in terms of ideology, what ideology is there in compensating suicide in a state which already has the highest suicide rate in the country? is it an incentive? Will the government oblige if all families of suicide cases apply for compensation?
How can they refuse since a precedence has been set?
An angle the crime Branch should investigate: When did the government make the offer for compensation to the parents? before they spoke to the media or after?
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Most Unforgettable Day In My Life
It was the day my son was to join school. My husband gave him a bath, dressed him in his best clothes, handed over to him the new colourful backpack with the accessories for the first day at school. The little fellow hoisted it onto his back immediately, and sat in the cane chair, his face shining from the shower and eyes sparkling with excitement. The rest of us in "Vivien Villa"– my husband, daughter and I- stood there for a moment looking at him, and then we broke up, my husband to the bathroom for his shave and shower, my daughter to her books till the school bus came and I, to the kitchen where I was usually caught multitasking at that time of the day(my niece who has a terrific sense of humour and a way with words always used to tell me that looking at me in the kitchen at that time of the day is like watching a fast forward clip).
I hurriedly put two large frying pans on the stove, poured ghee into them and arranged soaked slices of bread into the frying pan – ten of them –to make Bombay toasts (some call it French toast-but I’m mulish about Bombay). Then I whirled around and laid out four lunch boxes on the kitchen table and then was at the filter filling water bottles. Just then the delicious smell of Bombay toast frying in ghee came wafting up and I whirled around again towards the stove to turn the toasts over. I had just turned the last toast over, looking with satisfaction at the golden brown toast when I heard a loud yell from the bathroom.
I have fixed in my mind certain decibel levels as normal for each member of my family, based on their temperament, age and voice quality. That yell was way above the permissible mark set for my husband, and so, I did a magnificent hop, skip and jump through the rooms, my heart in my mouth.- Geyser shock? Fall? Accidentally cut the jugular vein while shaving? (always imagine the worst - that’s me)
“What’s wrong”, panic, fear in my voice.
“The lock is stuck”. He discovered this trying to come out of the bathroom after the shave in order to get the change of clothes. ”Try opening from outside”
I tried the handle twice. No good. I panicked. I tried it several times repeatedly. No good. I whirled around, and was about to break into a run towards the neighbour’s place when I saw my children standing at the door of the bedroom, looking anxious and scared. Click. I switched on a plastic smile. Then let out a peal of laughter “Papa has got himself locked in. He he he!”
They were not amused. “It’s OK.” I persisted through my plastic smile. “I’ll get Vinni’s father. He’ll open it. Don’t worry.”
My daughter went back to her books (a cool customer and I love her for it). My son went slowly back to his cane chair, with a somber expression in his eyes. “Math", i crooned, "you’ve seen this book? It’s soooo funny”. Avoiding my eyes, he took the picture book from me,looking very serious, his face immobile.
I walked out into the compound nonchalantly, but the minute I was out of his range of vision, I sprinted to the gate, out of it, into the neighbour’s compound and up the steps on to the verandah, all in my duster coat!
“My husband‘s got locked in the bathroom”, I blurted out between gasps. “It’s my son’s first day at school. I have a presentation at 10. He has a meeting at 10.30”
The neighbour, who was a civil engineer came with me immediately. He looked at the stuck handle as though he were a lock psychologist and tried it twice. Then turned it several times noisily in rapid succession. Nothing happened. Hearing sounds of shuffling feet, I turned around and saw all the male members from our immediate neighbourhood entering the room. All of them tried the handle in turns. No good.
They stood around the bathroom door, discussing animatedly.
“Basic rule”, that was the lock psychologist. ”The bathroom locks should be weak. Should open with one kick. Nobody observes the rules”
“What’s to be done now?” neighbour A
“Try removing the lock?” neighbour B
“DO you have a tool kit?” neighbour C
I give them the kit (I am briefly slipping into the present tense for special effect). The lock psycho is trying out the tools. I then take a quick peek into the drawing room and see my son craning his neck to look into the room where we are. His eyes meet mine and click, my plastic smile is on. He drops his eyes.
”This won’t do”, declares the civil engineer turned lock psycho, shaking his head.
I suddenly notice that neighbour B is crinkling his nose and sniffing into the air. “Something burning?”
“Must be some one burning the waste”, I suggest.
Then I find all of them crinkling their noses and sniffing.
“Something on the stove in the kitchen?”
“Oh my God, my Bombay toast”, moaned I clapping my hand over the forehead, and charged towards the kitchen. The frying pans were smoking like a coal engine, and there lay my 10 slices of Bombay toast, black as black can be. I quickly switched off the burners and turned around to return to the scene of the stuck lock drama – and, Oh heck! there at the kitchen entrance stood all the male neighbours and my children looking over each others’ shoulders, anxiety written large on their faces!
Out came the plastic smile to my rescue. “It’s Ok, it doesn’t matter” drawled I in a high pitched voice, and laughed heartily as though burnt Bombay toasts were the funniest things on earth. Just then another yell from the bathroom. Dangerous decibel level and all of us charged in a group to the bathroom door.
”What’s burning? Is something burning in the kitchen?” Panic in the voice from the bathroom.
“It’s ok, ok” I said soothingly “I’ve taken care of it”.
I looked at my children and smiled. My daughter went back to her books. My son walked slowly, gravely back to his seat and looked into the picture book.
Then I heard the sound of water falling in the bathroom. Apparently, my husband had decided to make the best of the bad situation, and started his shower. Another cool customer!
Another ten minutes passed while the trouble shooters debated.
And finally, the neighbour A asked,“Shall we get a locksmith?”
“Yeah better”, opined the lock psycho, carelessly putting his hand on the lock and turning it absent-mindedly - and lo and behold! The lock opened!
There was great rejoicing. My plastic smile metamorphosed into an organic one, rising from the bottom of my heart, streching from ear to ear and travelling to the eyes.
And my son came into the room and stood there, looking at my husband whose turn it was now to sparkle from the shower.
The somber look vanished from the little fellow’s eyes which were now dancing with sheer joy.
I hurriedly put two large frying pans on the stove, poured ghee into them and arranged soaked slices of bread into the frying pan – ten of them –to make Bombay toasts (some call it French toast-but I’m mulish about Bombay). Then I whirled around and laid out four lunch boxes on the kitchen table and then was at the filter filling water bottles. Just then the delicious smell of Bombay toast frying in ghee came wafting up and I whirled around again towards the stove to turn the toasts over. I had just turned the last toast over, looking with satisfaction at the golden brown toast when I heard a loud yell from the bathroom.
I have fixed in my mind certain decibel levels as normal for each member of my family, based on their temperament, age and voice quality. That yell was way above the permissible mark set for my husband, and so, I did a magnificent hop, skip and jump through the rooms, my heart in my mouth.- Geyser shock? Fall? Accidentally cut the jugular vein while shaving? (always imagine the worst - that’s me)
“What’s wrong”, panic, fear in my voice.
“The lock is stuck”. He discovered this trying to come out of the bathroom after the shave in order to get the change of clothes. ”Try opening from outside”
I tried the handle twice. No good. I panicked. I tried it several times repeatedly. No good. I whirled around, and was about to break into a run towards the neighbour’s place when I saw my children standing at the door of the bedroom, looking anxious and scared. Click. I switched on a plastic smile. Then let out a peal of laughter “Papa has got himself locked in. He he he!”
They were not amused. “It’s OK.” I persisted through my plastic smile. “I’ll get Vinni’s father. He’ll open it. Don’t worry.”
My daughter went back to her books (a cool customer and I love her for it). My son went slowly back to his cane chair, with a somber expression in his eyes. “Math", i crooned, "you’ve seen this book? It’s soooo funny”. Avoiding my eyes, he took the picture book from me,looking very serious, his face immobile.
I walked out into the compound nonchalantly, but the minute I was out of his range of vision, I sprinted to the gate, out of it, into the neighbour’s compound and up the steps on to the verandah, all in my duster coat!
“My husband‘s got locked in the bathroom”, I blurted out between gasps. “It’s my son’s first day at school. I have a presentation at 10. He has a meeting at 10.30”
The neighbour, who was a civil engineer came with me immediately. He looked at the stuck handle as though he were a lock psychologist and tried it twice. Then turned it several times noisily in rapid succession. Nothing happened. Hearing sounds of shuffling feet, I turned around and saw all the male members from our immediate neighbourhood entering the room. All of them tried the handle in turns. No good.
They stood around the bathroom door, discussing animatedly.
“Basic rule”, that was the lock psychologist. ”The bathroom locks should be weak. Should open with one kick. Nobody observes the rules”
“What’s to be done now?” neighbour A
“Try removing the lock?” neighbour B
“DO you have a tool kit?” neighbour C
I give them the kit (I am briefly slipping into the present tense for special effect). The lock psycho is trying out the tools. I then take a quick peek into the drawing room and see my son craning his neck to look into the room where we are. His eyes meet mine and click, my plastic smile is on. He drops his eyes.
”This won’t do”, declares the civil engineer turned lock psycho, shaking his head.
I suddenly notice that neighbour B is crinkling his nose and sniffing into the air. “Something burning?”
“Must be some one burning the waste”, I suggest.
Then I find all of them crinkling their noses and sniffing.
“Something on the stove in the kitchen?”
“Oh my God, my Bombay toast”, moaned I clapping my hand over the forehead, and charged towards the kitchen. The frying pans were smoking like a coal engine, and there lay my 10 slices of Bombay toast, black as black can be. I quickly switched off the burners and turned around to return to the scene of the stuck lock drama – and, Oh heck! there at the kitchen entrance stood all the male neighbours and my children looking over each others’ shoulders, anxiety written large on their faces!
Out came the plastic smile to my rescue. “It’s Ok, it doesn’t matter” drawled I in a high pitched voice, and laughed heartily as though burnt Bombay toasts were the funniest things on earth. Just then another yell from the bathroom. Dangerous decibel level and all of us charged in a group to the bathroom door.
”What’s burning? Is something burning in the kitchen?” Panic in the voice from the bathroom.
“It’s ok, ok” I said soothingly “I’ve taken care of it”.
I looked at my children and smiled. My daughter went back to her books. My son walked slowly, gravely back to his seat and looked into the picture book.
Then I heard the sound of water falling in the bathroom. Apparently, my husband had decided to make the best of the bad situation, and started his shower. Another cool customer!
Another ten minutes passed while the trouble shooters debated.
And finally, the neighbour A asked,“Shall we get a locksmith?”
“Yeah better”, opined the lock psycho, carelessly putting his hand on the lock and turning it absent-mindedly - and lo and behold! The lock opened!
There was great rejoicing. My plastic smile metamorphosed into an organic one, rising from the bottom of my heart, streching from ear to ear and travelling to the eyes.
And my son came into the room and stood there, looking at my husband whose turn it was now to sparkle from the shower.
The somber look vanished from the little fellow’s eyes which were now dancing with sheer joy.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Tagged Again
Am tagged again! And again by Sujatha!( http://fluff-n-stuff.blogspot.com/2008/08/its-wall-art-time-wall-e.html)
Here are the tag rules
Items on your walls:
Look up from your computer and stare at all the walls in the room surrounding you.
List each item on the wall and its origin (for example : Faded landscape print from _ , Family photo taken in Portland, Andy Warhol soup can poster, Starbucks neon sign, whatever...)
If you are in the great outdoors blogging, the tag will settle for a brief description of the flora and fauna (scientific names would be much appreciated, naturally).
Items on the wall:
I look up from the computer and stare at the walls. Blank. All of them. Origin of blankness? WOW! what a philosophical poser! Am not competent to undertake the history and origin of Soonya. Am not willing to rush in where angels fear to tread.
But this I can say. Blank is beautiful. But is difficult to attain. Have tried to while in savasanam ( my favourite yogic pose). "Concentrate on the sound of the fan" that's my yoga teacher. "Cut out all the other sounds-listen only to the fan (her aniquated fan had the most awful droning sound!). Listen to the fan, only fan, only fan--fan--faaann----faaannnnnnn---after sometime you wont hear it anymore. It will be soonya - blankness of the mind-a near - - - that's how far I hear each time. No. No Nirvanic experience. Only sleep. Gentle sleep. Somebody prods me. It's time for the concluding sloka.The next batch will come. I avoid the teacher's eyes. Sleeping is against the rules.
You are right and wrong Sujatha. A Ravi Varma waits with a few other facsimiles for someone to drill the walls, fix nails( this is Kerala), and release them from the bubble paper and baseboard packing material imprisoning them. Yes . There are a lot of activists in my house, very vocal in their demands for their release from such unaesthetic confinement so that they can take their rightful place on the walls.
Know something? Blank walls are beautiful. Empty walls make you feel less cabinned , cribbed and confined in the apartment existence. A little reluctant to let go of that sense of space.
Here are the tag rules
Items on your walls:
Look up from your computer and stare at all the walls in the room surrounding you.
List each item on the wall and its origin (for example : Faded landscape print from _ , Family photo taken in Portland, Andy Warhol soup can poster, Starbucks neon sign, whatever...)
If you are in the great outdoors blogging, the tag will settle for a brief description of the flora and fauna (scientific names would be much appreciated, naturally).
Items on the wall:
I look up from the computer and stare at the walls. Blank. All of them. Origin of blankness? WOW! what a philosophical poser! Am not competent to undertake the history and origin of Soonya. Am not willing to rush in where angels fear to tread.
But this I can say. Blank is beautiful. But is difficult to attain. Have tried to while in savasanam ( my favourite yogic pose). "Concentrate on the sound of the fan" that's my yoga teacher. "Cut out all the other sounds-listen only to the fan (her aniquated fan had the most awful droning sound!). Listen to the fan, only fan, only fan--fan--faaann----faaannnnnnn---after sometime you wont hear it anymore. It will be soonya - blankness of the mind-a near - - - that's how far I hear each time. No. No Nirvanic experience. Only sleep. Gentle sleep. Somebody prods me. It's time for the concluding sloka.The next batch will come. I avoid the teacher's eyes. Sleeping is against the rules.
You are right and wrong Sujatha. A Ravi Varma waits with a few other facsimiles for someone to drill the walls, fix nails( this is Kerala), and release them from the bubble paper and baseboard packing material imprisoning them. Yes . There are a lot of activists in my house, very vocal in their demands for their release from such unaesthetic confinement so that they can take their rightful place on the walls.
Know something? Blank walls are beautiful. Empty walls make you feel less cabinned , cribbed and confined in the apartment existence. A little reluctant to let go of that sense of space.
Friday, August 08, 2008
A Slice from Childhood Memory
This morning, I was having breakfast in the company of a nonagenarian. Seeing him struggle with the food not really meant for old people (puttu & kadala), I asked him not to force himself to finish it. “I should have been asked before I was served. Now I’ll finish it. Waste not. Want not”
My generation was also taught that rule. Waste not, want not. And my mother went a step further in order to drill this virtue in me. Amma told me that for every grain of rice that I wasted, I’d have to spend 10 years in purgatory. My catechism classes took care of frightening me about the horrors of purgatory. It was as bad as hell where tortures were concerned, I was told, but the only redeeming feature was that there was an end to the sufferings in purgatory. Once we serve out our term there (the duration determined by our sins, which included the wasted grains of rice),we’ll be taken up to heaven where all our dear departed will be waiting for us – that is, those among them who escaped damnation!
And so I was terrified about wasting food. I always made sure that nothing except curry leaves and chilly from seasoning were left on my plate, which the cook (ever ready to clarify my spiritual doubts) had told me would not be factored in for calculating the term to be served in purgatory.
An incident comes to my mind, an incident which took place when I was around five years old, and which still makes me feel yucky after all these years.
During the vacation when all the children were at home, kanji (with kadala or payar thoran and curds and pickle) was served for breakfast on a particular day every week. That was my favourite breakfast but my brothers hated it. On one such kanji day, I was the first to enter the dining room. I took my seat, mixed the kanji with curds and kadala, and was beginning to enjoy it when my brother with whom I had quarreled just before breakfast took the seat next to me. I wanted to enjoy my kanji in peace, with no one needling me. So I picked up my plate and moved with it slowly, careful not to spill the kanji almost up to the brim of the plate. Just as I reached my chair far away from the enemy – of-the- day sibling, he shouted out explosively to upset my balancing act – and the plate tilted violently and there lay my kanji on the floor!
I panicked. Images of purgatory with me in it and tongues of flame licking at me rushed to my mind. I dropped on my knees, and with my cupped hands, scooped up all that liquidy (sorry for the usage-but am no longer an English teacher) kanji from the floor, put it back into my plate and started eating it hastily.
As I was finishing, amma came around to see how we were faring at the breakfast table. When she reached me, her foot slipped on the kanji mess on the floor.
“What is this?”
No answer. We continued to have our kanji breakfast with great concentration.
‘I asked you what this is”
No answer again.
Then to me: “Milly. What is that?” Not fair, I thought. No fun being a girl. Always gets picked on first.
I spilled the beans. Had to. No one fools around with amma when she is in that mood.
“How could you do it Milly”, her distress was too much for me. “Eating things from the floor- you must have taken in millions of germs”.
“But I didn’t want to stay forever in purgatory”, I blurted out. My brothers burst out laughing – and so did amma.
I wanted to kick myself for having believed her. Apparently my brothers hadn’t. Why had I been I so gullible?
Then followed a lecture on hygiene, about the dangers of not observing the rules of hygiene (punctuated by the enemy- of- the- day with remarks like “or you’ll have worms crawling out of your nose and ears and mouth” – I wanted to hit him, particularly when I saw amma suppressing a smile at his remark) and a few stiff remarks on my lack of common sense. My enemy -of- the-day brother suggested that I be given a dose of castor oil which amma thought was a good idea.
That did it. I started bawling at that and made for the originator of that idea. Amma got in between, sent me firmly back to my chair and gave me a dressing down; another lecture followed, this time on ladylike behaviour, to which the villain sibling nodded his head in agreement.
It always ended up like that – with that reminder that ‘after all you are a girl - - - -
My generation was also taught that rule. Waste not, want not. And my mother went a step further in order to drill this virtue in me. Amma told me that for every grain of rice that I wasted, I’d have to spend 10 years in purgatory. My catechism classes took care of frightening me about the horrors of purgatory. It was as bad as hell where tortures were concerned, I was told, but the only redeeming feature was that there was an end to the sufferings in purgatory. Once we serve out our term there (the duration determined by our sins, which included the wasted grains of rice),we’ll be taken up to heaven where all our dear departed will be waiting for us – that is, those among them who escaped damnation!
And so I was terrified about wasting food. I always made sure that nothing except curry leaves and chilly from seasoning were left on my plate, which the cook (ever ready to clarify my spiritual doubts) had told me would not be factored in for calculating the term to be served in purgatory.
An incident comes to my mind, an incident which took place when I was around five years old, and which still makes me feel yucky after all these years.
During the vacation when all the children were at home, kanji (with kadala or payar thoran and curds and pickle) was served for breakfast on a particular day every week. That was my favourite breakfast but my brothers hated it. On one such kanji day, I was the first to enter the dining room. I took my seat, mixed the kanji with curds and kadala, and was beginning to enjoy it when my brother with whom I had quarreled just before breakfast took the seat next to me. I wanted to enjoy my kanji in peace, with no one needling me. So I picked up my plate and moved with it slowly, careful not to spill the kanji almost up to the brim of the plate. Just as I reached my chair far away from the enemy – of-the- day sibling, he shouted out explosively to upset my balancing act – and the plate tilted violently and there lay my kanji on the floor!
I panicked. Images of purgatory with me in it and tongues of flame licking at me rushed to my mind. I dropped on my knees, and with my cupped hands, scooped up all that liquidy (sorry for the usage-but am no longer an English teacher) kanji from the floor, put it back into my plate and started eating it hastily.
As I was finishing, amma came around to see how we were faring at the breakfast table. When she reached me, her foot slipped on the kanji mess on the floor.
“What is this?”
No answer. We continued to have our kanji breakfast with great concentration.
‘I asked you what this is”
No answer again.
Then to me: “Milly. What is that?” Not fair, I thought. No fun being a girl. Always gets picked on first.
I spilled the beans. Had to. No one fools around with amma when she is in that mood.
“How could you do it Milly”, her distress was too much for me. “Eating things from the floor- you must have taken in millions of germs”.
“But I didn’t want to stay forever in purgatory”, I blurted out. My brothers burst out laughing – and so did amma.
I wanted to kick myself for having believed her. Apparently my brothers hadn’t. Why had I been I so gullible?
Then followed a lecture on hygiene, about the dangers of not observing the rules of hygiene (punctuated by the enemy- of- the- day with remarks like “or you’ll have worms crawling out of your nose and ears and mouth” – I wanted to hit him, particularly when I saw amma suppressing a smile at his remark) and a few stiff remarks on my lack of common sense. My enemy -of- the-day brother suggested that I be given a dose of castor oil which amma thought was a good idea.
That did it. I started bawling at that and made for the originator of that idea. Amma got in between, sent me firmly back to my chair and gave me a dressing down; another lecture followed, this time on ladylike behaviour, to which the villain sibling nodded his head in agreement.
It always ended up like that – with that reminder that ‘after all you are a girl - - - -
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Hiroshima Day
Hiroshima day
What can one say about that terrible crime against humanity perpetrated at 8am, on the Sixth day of August in the year Nineteen Forty Five?
Time, it is said, is a great healer. But this wound, no time can heal.
It should not heal.
It should remain raw and fresh in the human consciousness like a festering wound.
Hiroshima represents the failure of Science,the failure of Enlightenment.
It represents the perversion of human intelligence.
The world has changed since the atom was split. That was Einstein.
Yes. The coming into possession of destructive powers of such magnitude released man from the civilizing chains of love, non violence, respect for life.
A limerick I picked up from somewhere during my school days keeps coming back to me today. It goes like this:
To break a single atom
All mankind was intent.
Now any day, the atom may
Return the compliment.
Yes. Annihilation - that's the promise it holds forth to us. Is it for this that we evolved from primates to what we are now?
The end of life.
The end of imagination( a la Arundathi Roy)
To be one among the other uninhabited heavenly bodies in the cosmos. Was that the ultimate purpose of the existence of planet earth?
Futile ramblings, I know. But I stumbled upon this interview of Paul Tibbets, the man who piloted the aircraft Enola Gay on its mission to Japan to drop the atom bomb on Hiroshima. The interview appeared in The Guardian, on Tuesday August 6 2002. Paul Tibbets was then 89 years old, retired brigadier-general
The interviewer: One last thing, when you hear people say, "Let's nuke 'em," "Let's nuke these people," what do you think?
Paul Tibbets: Oh, I wouldn't hesitate if I had the choice. I'd wipe 'em out. You're gonna kill innocent people at the same time, but we've never fought a damn war anywhere in the world where they didn't kill innocent people. If the newspapers would just cut out the shit: "You've killed so many civilians." That's their tough luck for being there.
! ! !
What can one say about that terrible crime against humanity perpetrated at 8am, on the Sixth day of August in the year Nineteen Forty Five?
Time, it is said, is a great healer. But this wound, no time can heal.
It should not heal.
It should remain raw and fresh in the human consciousness like a festering wound.
Hiroshima represents the failure of Science,the failure of Enlightenment.
It represents the perversion of human intelligence.
The world has changed since the atom was split. That was Einstein.
Yes. The coming into possession of destructive powers of such magnitude released man from the civilizing chains of love, non violence, respect for life.
A limerick I picked up from somewhere during my school days keeps coming back to me today. It goes like this:
To break a single atom
All mankind was intent.
Now any day, the atom may
Return the compliment.
Yes. Annihilation - that's the promise it holds forth to us. Is it for this that we evolved from primates to what we are now?
The end of life.
The end of imagination( a la Arundathi Roy)
To be one among the other uninhabited heavenly bodies in the cosmos. Was that the ultimate purpose of the existence of planet earth?
Futile ramblings, I know. But I stumbled upon this interview of Paul Tibbets, the man who piloted the aircraft Enola Gay on its mission to Japan to drop the atom bomb on Hiroshima. The interview appeared in The Guardian, on Tuesday August 6 2002. Paul Tibbets was then 89 years old, retired brigadier-general
The interviewer: One last thing, when you hear people say, "Let's nuke 'em," "Let's nuke these people," what do you think?
Paul Tibbets: Oh, I wouldn't hesitate if I had the choice. I'd wipe 'em out. You're gonna kill innocent people at the same time, but we've never fought a damn war anywhere in the world where they didn't kill innocent people. If the newspapers would just cut out the shit: "You've killed so many civilians." That's their tough luck for being there.
! ! !
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Pseudo Secularism Again
It was extremely distressing to see the nature of the cyber reaction to the bombing in Bangalore and Ahmedbad. The blame game is on, among the bloggers. If the blog and the comments represent the voice of the educated, privileged sections of India, then we have something to worry about - seriously.
A lot of blogs and a lot more comments blame the government and its pseudo- secularism.
Pseudo-secularism! How I hate the term! A term invented for political expediency, which subsequently gained respectability, and is now creating havoc in the minds of even the enlightened!
The term which provides a protective armour to those who want to launch a violent assault on the sacred value of secularism.
A term which validates the denial of the right to be called Indian to members of certain communities in the nation.
A term which rationalizes the putting back of the clock of history.
I wonder if those leaders who use this term liberally will have the courage to go on record to explicitly define the concept, and then explain how, according to them, it has permeated the Indian polity.
And also change it once/if they come into power with an absolute majority (God forbid)?
Jammu & Kashmir are burning; but, thankfully, India remains calm.
But the virtual world is aflame.
When will we Indians bring down the narrow domestic walls of our minds?
When will we learn to think Indian?
A lot of blogs and a lot more comments blame the government and its pseudo- secularism.
Pseudo-secularism! How I hate the term! A term invented for political expediency, which subsequently gained respectability, and is now creating havoc in the minds of even the enlightened!
The term which provides a protective armour to those who want to launch a violent assault on the sacred value of secularism.
A term which validates the denial of the right to be called Indian to members of certain communities in the nation.
A term which rationalizes the putting back of the clock of history.
I wonder if those leaders who use this term liberally will have the courage to go on record to explicitly define the concept, and then explain how, according to them, it has permeated the Indian polity.
And also change it once/if they come into power with an absolute majority (God forbid)?
Jammu & Kashmir are burning; but, thankfully, India remains calm.
But the virtual world is aflame.
When will we Indians bring down the narrow domestic walls of our minds?
When will we learn to think Indian?
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Sethu Samudram Project - Building Bridges
The Centre, the ASI and their legal outfits are fighting to clear the way for the Sethu Samudram Canal Project which proposes to connect India and Sri Lanka with a tunnel. The project has become highly controversial as it involves the destruction of Ram Sethu, an undersea formation, believed to have been made by Rama. This structure is sacred to the Hindus.
The government is being extremely insensitive and foolish – insensitive to the religious sentiments of the majority, already smarting under the appeasement given to the minorities. Surely there cannot be any world-shaking economic gain to warrant the building of the Sethu Samudram that might let loose another Rath Yatra, culminating in another Barbri Masjid and Godhra and post Godhra carnage and bomb blasts? Is the centre out to create issues and test the secular fabric of india? Don’t we have enough already on our hands?
During the trust motion. the PM accused Advani of triggering off terrorism in India by masterminding the demolition of Babri Masjid. Why does he forget that the issue was reopened by Rajiv Gandhi by permitting worship in a long defunct place of worship? Isn’t the Congress once again indulging in the same mischief with Sethu Samudram bridge?
Or, does the congress have a clandestine arrangement with the BJP? Is it a double edged strategy to provide an issue that will land BJP in New Delhi in the 2009 elections, and the Congress too but 5 years hence, by creating a situation where it can cash in on the minorities' sense of insecurity, and play the secularism card? Anything is possible in the present political scenario peopled by self seeking men and criminals, totally divorced from their conscience. We live in days when principles and ideals have only political utility.
And so, coming back to Ramasamudram controversy, it is immaterial whether Rama or Budha or Christ or Mohammed are historical figures or not. Cultures and religions have grown around them and their teachings. All of them are close to our hearts and minds and spirits. Myths, conventions, customs and rituals constitute the stuff that identities are made of. Our consciousness is pervaded by them and what they represent. Our value systems on which theories of social coexistence are based, come from them. In short, they have become inextricable part of our identity. Challenging them amounts to subverting that which gives us our identities, and therefore, our identities per se.
Nothing can be more foolish than using scientific opinions as trump cards to negate the religious sentiments of the the Hindus regarding the Ram Samudra. Faith and belief are not things that can be put under the microscope. By its very definition, faith is something that transcends reason. If something can be proved scientifically, what is the need for faith? And which scientists, or which organization or society can dismiss faith as superstition on the grounds that there is no proven ‘ truth “ in it. What is truth? Scientific truth? Is there no truth other than what is confirmed by science? True, science searches for truth; but can TRUTH be contained within the limits of science? Are there not truths which lie beyond the reach of science, outside its frontiers?
How plain and poor life would be if ‘yes’ was the answer to the last query. How insipid life would be if it is totally demystified. How incomplete life would be without the Scriptures, the myths, the rituals and cunstoms which hold forth truths of their own that science have not succeeded in annihilating. Perhaps, over a period of time, science has been theoretically challenging these truths - but has not driven them out of the hearts and minds of the people. For faith is rooted in the sixth sense which still remains a grey area for science.
The state must be sensitive to the faith of its people. It should not offend their religious sensibilities. The alternative path for Sethu Samudram is the answer, no matter how much more expensive it might prove. If the government can divert some of the mammoth funds it has in its custody that enables the type of horse trading we saw recently, ten bridges, I am sure, can be built across the Palk Straits.
The government is being extremely insensitive and foolish – insensitive to the religious sentiments of the majority, already smarting under the appeasement given to the minorities. Surely there cannot be any world-shaking economic gain to warrant the building of the Sethu Samudram that might let loose another Rath Yatra, culminating in another Barbri Masjid and Godhra and post Godhra carnage and bomb blasts? Is the centre out to create issues and test the secular fabric of india? Don’t we have enough already on our hands?
During the trust motion. the PM accused Advani of triggering off terrorism in India by masterminding the demolition of Babri Masjid. Why does he forget that the issue was reopened by Rajiv Gandhi by permitting worship in a long defunct place of worship? Isn’t the Congress once again indulging in the same mischief with Sethu Samudram bridge?
Or, does the congress have a clandestine arrangement with the BJP? Is it a double edged strategy to provide an issue that will land BJP in New Delhi in the 2009 elections, and the Congress too but 5 years hence, by creating a situation where it can cash in on the minorities' sense of insecurity, and play the secularism card? Anything is possible in the present political scenario peopled by self seeking men and criminals, totally divorced from their conscience. We live in days when principles and ideals have only political utility.
And so, coming back to Ramasamudram controversy, it is immaterial whether Rama or Budha or Christ or Mohammed are historical figures or not. Cultures and religions have grown around them and their teachings. All of them are close to our hearts and minds and spirits. Myths, conventions, customs and rituals constitute the stuff that identities are made of. Our consciousness is pervaded by them and what they represent. Our value systems on which theories of social coexistence are based, come from them. In short, they have become inextricable part of our identity. Challenging them amounts to subverting that which gives us our identities, and therefore, our identities per se.
Nothing can be more foolish than using scientific opinions as trump cards to negate the religious sentiments of the the Hindus regarding the Ram Samudra. Faith and belief are not things that can be put under the microscope. By its very definition, faith is something that transcends reason. If something can be proved scientifically, what is the need for faith? And which scientists, or which organization or society can dismiss faith as superstition on the grounds that there is no proven ‘ truth “ in it. What is truth? Scientific truth? Is there no truth other than what is confirmed by science? True, science searches for truth; but can TRUTH be contained within the limits of science? Are there not truths which lie beyond the reach of science, outside its frontiers?
How plain and poor life would be if ‘yes’ was the answer to the last query. How insipid life would be if it is totally demystified. How incomplete life would be without the Scriptures, the myths, the rituals and cunstoms which hold forth truths of their own that science have not succeeded in annihilating. Perhaps, over a period of time, science has been theoretically challenging these truths - but has not driven them out of the hearts and minds of the people. For faith is rooted in the sixth sense which still remains a grey area for science.
The state must be sensitive to the faith of its people. It should not offend their religious sensibilities. The alternative path for Sethu Samudram is the answer, no matter how much more expensive it might prove. If the government can divert some of the mammoth funds it has in its custody that enables the type of horse trading we saw recently, ten bridges, I am sure, can be built across the Palk Straits.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Education in Kerala - What a Shame!
I was talking with my 80 + & 90 + in-laws, and once again the thought came to me - it comes every time I converse with people of that generation - that they had a much better education than what Kerala offers in the present day.
Their comfort level in English, their awareness about the world around them, their sense of history, their knowledge of geography are way above that of the students I had to deal during my teaching days. Even as a young school and college going student, I’ve heard my parents talk of the school system they had in their time – and seeing the product that the system produced, I begin to feel that we should go back to those days.
All schools were Malayalam medium till 4th standard. A student who wants to continue in Malayalam medium gets promoted to 1st Form and goes on uninterrupted till she reaches 9th standard, which is the school completion point.
The student who opts for English medium education goes, after 4th standard, through the Preparatory class which gives them intensive coaching in basics in English. After that they go to the 1st Form. School education becomes complete with 6th form.
And I find that, that generation was educated in the true sense of the word. Being a teacher by profession, I can make this statement with authority. Our parents did not have tuitions, or ‘educated’ parents to help them with studies at home. But their standard in written English (spoken too if they were employed in positions which required them to use it) would put not just today’s SSLC students, but also graduates and post graduates to shame. I am not resorting to hyperbole to drive home a point- it’s the plain simple truth.
Yes. I think the education minister should sit up and take a look at what education has come to since the time of his parents, and try remodeling on those lines. Am sure it’ll produce marvelous results.
Of course, a necessary condition would be de-linking politics from reforms relating to education sector. Take a look at this case to see how different things are in other states. A Polytechnic affiliated to the SNDT University in Mumbai offers, among other courses, a diploma in Office Administration and Secretarial Practices. The students are screened for their competence level in the English language the very day they join – an entry level test as it is called. Divisions A & Division B are formed based on the results. Intensive training in spoken and written English (an imperative for the profession they are trained for) is given to the Division A comprising low scorers in the English entry level screening test. In the second year, both the divisions sit together, for, the students of A division would have improved their communication skills in English. There have been instances where those who scored high in the entry level screen test opt for A Division on account of the intense coaching in English they would get.
Try introducing this practice in Kerala. The DYFI and SFI and KSU and SUCI will be on the streets destroying public property and indulging in murder and arson to end the ‘bourgeois, elitist discrimination’!
Of course, it is not fair to put all the blame on the govt and the system for the decline in the quality of education in Kerala. Over the years, Keralites have grown to take education for granted. Our rulers in the pre independence days did us a wonderful service by starting schools in every nook and corner of the state. Our parents’ generation was the first full fledged takers of this education. They valued it. I remember my father telling me that he used to walk miles and miles to attend school. Today’s generation skips classes on a hartal day if they have to walk only walkable distance to school or college. And with subsidies and stipends, education has become cheap. And what comes cheap is not valued, but taken for granted.
And the fees my parent’s generation paid might sound trivial to us in these days when we speak in terms of crores. The women in the thirties had to pay Rs3 ¾ pm whereas men had to pay Rs. 5. The fees for preparatory around that time was Rs.2 ¼. In the school which my mother-in law attended, the boarding fees was 22 idangazhi of rice (1 idangazhi = 1 ½ kg, I think) and Rs. 4/. My father who graduated from Maharaja’s College paid Rs. 5/pm as his hostel fees. All these people I had spoken to sometime or other, swear that their families had to make immense sacrifice to make that kind of payment in cash or kind.
That generation PAID for their education - paid through their nose. They were not imparted education with the tax payers money. So they valued it. And the beauty of it all was, they had no mercenary attitude to it. Education was not considered a mere stepping stone to a job. It was a simple case of love of enlightenment, love of education for its own sake. Many beneficiaries of education in those days went back to their agricultural occupation which they could have managed without formal education. And most women remained housewives. But their education gave them a certain quality difficult to describe. To say that they were resilient, faced life’s wear and tear with a philosophical shrug, and became addicted to reading (and to Malayala Manorama in the Mid Travancore region), is to illustrate only some of the ways in which education impacted them.
The present day scenario is very depressing. As a teacher I have seen how students come to class and sit there bewildered when I start to teach in English (unfortunately, I am a teacher of the English language). If I ask them a question and insist they answer in whatever broken English they know, they’ll look at you with such a trapped expression that you excuse them hastily lest they send you running for smelling salts! Of course there are exceptions but the general rule is this.
What has gone wrong? Where and when? All the ‘progressive’ reforms have only made matters worse. Why isn’t anyone doing a serious study on this issue?
This year Kerala registered an all time high in SSLC pass percentage. That it was a political decision, there is no doubt. The situation at the moment is: there are many students who cannot not be accommodated for Plus One, despite the tall claims of fair admissions through Single Widow Admissions. The best beneficiaries of this crisis are the political parties. All those SSLC passed students who are not likely to get admission into schools form a veritable goldmine for parties to get recruits
What has gone wrong with Kerala education is, as I see it:
Politicization of all decision, including reforms related to admissions, examinations, pass percentage, fees - the works. The populist reform of introducing group system in SSLC to allow more and more students to pass was the first major death knell to education in the state. More and more electorate friendly reforms followed.
So, what is the role of academics in this scenario? Well nothing - except be happy tools in the hands of politicians and political parties.
What a fall from the days of yore!.
In the meanwhile, I hear the requiem being sung for quality education in the most literate state in the country.
And the red carpet that had been rolled out for mediocrity has been extended to welcome sub mediocrity.
Their comfort level in English, their awareness about the world around them, their sense of history, their knowledge of geography are way above that of the students I had to deal during my teaching days. Even as a young school and college going student, I’ve heard my parents talk of the school system they had in their time – and seeing the product that the system produced, I begin to feel that we should go back to those days.
All schools were Malayalam medium till 4th standard. A student who wants to continue in Malayalam medium gets promoted to 1st Form and goes on uninterrupted till she reaches 9th standard, which is the school completion point.
The student who opts for English medium education goes, after 4th standard, through the Preparatory class which gives them intensive coaching in basics in English. After that they go to the 1st Form. School education becomes complete with 6th form.
And I find that, that generation was educated in the true sense of the word. Being a teacher by profession, I can make this statement with authority. Our parents did not have tuitions, or ‘educated’ parents to help them with studies at home. But their standard in written English (spoken too if they were employed in positions which required them to use it) would put not just today’s SSLC students, but also graduates and post graduates to shame. I am not resorting to hyperbole to drive home a point- it’s the plain simple truth.
Yes. I think the education minister should sit up and take a look at what education has come to since the time of his parents, and try remodeling on those lines. Am sure it’ll produce marvelous results.
Of course, a necessary condition would be de-linking politics from reforms relating to education sector. Take a look at this case to see how different things are in other states. A Polytechnic affiliated to the SNDT University in Mumbai offers, among other courses, a diploma in Office Administration and Secretarial Practices. The students are screened for their competence level in the English language the very day they join – an entry level test as it is called. Divisions A & Division B are formed based on the results. Intensive training in spoken and written English (an imperative for the profession they are trained for) is given to the Division A comprising low scorers in the English entry level screening test. In the second year, both the divisions sit together, for, the students of A division would have improved their communication skills in English. There have been instances where those who scored high in the entry level screen test opt for A Division on account of the intense coaching in English they would get.
Try introducing this practice in Kerala. The DYFI and SFI and KSU and SUCI will be on the streets destroying public property and indulging in murder and arson to end the ‘bourgeois, elitist discrimination’!
Of course, it is not fair to put all the blame on the govt and the system for the decline in the quality of education in Kerala. Over the years, Keralites have grown to take education for granted. Our rulers in the pre independence days did us a wonderful service by starting schools in every nook and corner of the state. Our parents’ generation was the first full fledged takers of this education. They valued it. I remember my father telling me that he used to walk miles and miles to attend school. Today’s generation skips classes on a hartal day if they have to walk only walkable distance to school or college. And with subsidies and stipends, education has become cheap. And what comes cheap is not valued, but taken for granted.
And the fees my parent’s generation paid might sound trivial to us in these days when we speak in terms of crores. The women in the thirties had to pay Rs3 ¾ pm whereas men had to pay Rs. 5. The fees for preparatory around that time was Rs.2 ¼. In the school which my mother-in law attended, the boarding fees was 22 idangazhi of rice (1 idangazhi = 1 ½ kg, I think) and Rs. 4/. My father who graduated from Maharaja’s College paid Rs. 5/pm as his hostel fees. All these people I had spoken to sometime or other, swear that their families had to make immense sacrifice to make that kind of payment in cash or kind.
That generation PAID for their education - paid through their nose. They were not imparted education with the tax payers money. So they valued it. And the beauty of it all was, they had no mercenary attitude to it. Education was not considered a mere stepping stone to a job. It was a simple case of love of enlightenment, love of education for its own sake. Many beneficiaries of education in those days went back to their agricultural occupation which they could have managed without formal education. And most women remained housewives. But their education gave them a certain quality difficult to describe. To say that they were resilient, faced life’s wear and tear with a philosophical shrug, and became addicted to reading (and to Malayala Manorama in the Mid Travancore region), is to illustrate only some of the ways in which education impacted them.
The present day scenario is very depressing. As a teacher I have seen how students come to class and sit there bewildered when I start to teach in English (unfortunately, I am a teacher of the English language). If I ask them a question and insist they answer in whatever broken English they know, they’ll look at you with such a trapped expression that you excuse them hastily lest they send you running for smelling salts! Of course there are exceptions but the general rule is this.
What has gone wrong? Where and when? All the ‘progressive’ reforms have only made matters worse. Why isn’t anyone doing a serious study on this issue?
This year Kerala registered an all time high in SSLC pass percentage. That it was a political decision, there is no doubt. The situation at the moment is: there are many students who cannot not be accommodated for Plus One, despite the tall claims of fair admissions through Single Widow Admissions. The best beneficiaries of this crisis are the political parties. All those SSLC passed students who are not likely to get admission into schools form a veritable goldmine for parties to get recruits
What has gone wrong with Kerala education is, as I see it:
Politicization of all decision, including reforms related to admissions, examinations, pass percentage, fees - the works. The populist reform of introducing group system in SSLC to allow more and more students to pass was the first major death knell to education in the state. More and more electorate friendly reforms followed.
So, what is the role of academics in this scenario? Well nothing - except be happy tools in the hands of politicians and political parties.
What a fall from the days of yore!.
In the meanwhile, I hear the requiem being sung for quality education in the most literate state in the country.
And the red carpet that had been rolled out for mediocrity has been extended to welcome sub mediocrity.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Am I My Brother's Keeper?
The other day there was a news item on how two head load workers rushed Aiyeneth (poet) to the hospital from an accident site, and were rewarded by a public sector bank for it. I guess this must be one way of discharging Corporate social responsibility - by encouraging such humanitarian acts which should come naturally to us, but unfortunately don’t. The news item brought to my mind my involvement in a similar situation some fifteen years back.
October is the month when the North East monsoon visits Kerala. It is the time of the year when you’ll be caught in the thunder shower if you don’t rush home after work. One such October evening saw me hurrying to the bus stand at around 5 in the evening after work. I had to pass the main overcrowded junction (kavala) to reach the bus station. As I was waiting at the zebra crossing, I saw an auto come close to the footpath at breakneck speed, and run over the right foot of a woman. A young policeman started giving the auto the chase but as he ran, he called out to the passersby to take the woman to the hospital. What followed could constitute the theme for a brief a comedy show – a tragicomedy, would be more correct, for it testifies to callousness that we humans are capable of.
The minute I heard the policeman shout out, I bolted across the zebra crossing. I told myself “Got to go a long way. The locals will do it”. At 90 degrees to the zebra crossing there was one more to be crossed and as I waited for the signal, I tried looking through the corner of the eye to see what was happening at the accident site. I couldn’t see through the crowd. So hoping that someone would have taken care of the lady ( but knowing fully well, deep inside me, that nobody would) I threw an elaborately casual glance (often times we try to fool ourselves) across the Zebra path. To my horror, I saw that the lady, who had been dragging herself towards a jewelry shop, collapse there on the granite platform encroaching into the pavement in front of the shop. She was wailing, and bleeding profusely from her foot. People walking up and down gave her a passing glance (like my elaborately casual glance) and, like I too tried to do, went their way hoping someone else will do it. Through the tinted door of the shop fitted with gleaming thick steel handle, the employees in the gold shop were watching the woman, now weeping aloud and begging to be helped. I waited for a couple of minutes, one-liner save-the-situation prayers racing through my mind, one after the other.
“Yippee! You’ve heard me, Lord, thank you, thank you. That guy is looking earnestly at her- he’ll---oh, no. He too is a shirker - like me!”
My God wasn’t going to let me off so easily. The woman stopped crying and lay down as though she had lost faith in humanity.
I retraced my steps with a sinking feeling. Why Lord, why do you do this to me? I want to go home - it‘s getting to be very dark. And I don’t want to take all that responsibility.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I went back, grudgingly. I couldn’t walk away ‘cos if something happened to her, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself after that.
The woman was hefty. I needed help to lift her to her feet.
“Sir, can you help me?” He looks though me as though I am transparent. (Do I sound like Phil Collin’s Another Day in Paradise? :-))
I asked another and another and another, panic rising.
No one would come to my assistance.
I stood there bewildered, not knowing what to do, when, out of nowhere, two of my students came running. The three of us helped the woman - now rather weak, and weeping weakly and groaning in pain -to the zebra crossing and then the next drama began.
I stopped an auto and we started helping the woman into it. Just then the driver turned around and saw that this was an “accident case”. He violently pulled up the starter lever and swish, he vanished! We had the same experience with two other autos.
Eh, listen you sitting up there so coolly, I prayed (?), what have I done to deserve this?
“M’am, shall I ask the traffic policeman for help?”(This cop was in the elevated island right in the dead centre of the junction where the four roads meet). That was my student.
Almost as if he heard her, he turned around and showed the stop sign. Till the traffic cop gave the green signal, all vehicles had to wait behind the zebra crossing to allow pedestrians to cross. We noticed an unengaged auto waiting at the signal, and started helping the woman into it. The auto driver protested but he couldn’t rush off as the round stop sign plate still faced our side. Anyway, by then I had decided I’d put my foot down and not let him go. What the heck, is this my responsibility alone? I asked my students, in a loud voice, to take down his number, and then told him that if he does not take us to the hospital, I’ll lodge a complaint. He grumbled, pulled a long face but I got in after the lady and the auto started.
The govt. hospital was only a furlong and a half from the kavala, and he kept muttering something under his breath all the way (Why blame him? I was also muttering against the almighty for putting me in a spot like that). We reached the hospital and two attenders helped the woman out of the auto. Taking change out of my handbag, I turned around to pay the driver, but the auto had vanished! The man and the vehicle had fled as though the very devil were after them!
What happened in the hospital was even more upsetting. But that can wait- - -
October is the month when the North East monsoon visits Kerala. It is the time of the year when you’ll be caught in the thunder shower if you don’t rush home after work. One such October evening saw me hurrying to the bus stand at around 5 in the evening after work. I had to pass the main overcrowded junction (kavala) to reach the bus station. As I was waiting at the zebra crossing, I saw an auto come close to the footpath at breakneck speed, and run over the right foot of a woman. A young policeman started giving the auto the chase but as he ran, he called out to the passersby to take the woman to the hospital. What followed could constitute the theme for a brief a comedy show – a tragicomedy, would be more correct, for it testifies to callousness that we humans are capable of.
The minute I heard the policeman shout out, I bolted across the zebra crossing. I told myself “Got to go a long way. The locals will do it”. At 90 degrees to the zebra crossing there was one more to be crossed and as I waited for the signal, I tried looking through the corner of the eye to see what was happening at the accident site. I couldn’t see through the crowd. So hoping that someone would have taken care of the lady ( but knowing fully well, deep inside me, that nobody would) I threw an elaborately casual glance (often times we try to fool ourselves) across the Zebra path. To my horror, I saw that the lady, who had been dragging herself towards a jewelry shop, collapse there on the granite platform encroaching into the pavement in front of the shop. She was wailing, and bleeding profusely from her foot. People walking up and down gave her a passing glance (like my elaborately casual glance) and, like I too tried to do, went their way hoping someone else will do it. Through the tinted door of the shop fitted with gleaming thick steel handle, the employees in the gold shop were watching the woman, now weeping aloud and begging to be helped. I waited for a couple of minutes, one-liner save-the-situation prayers racing through my mind, one after the other.
“Yippee! You’ve heard me, Lord, thank you, thank you. That guy is looking earnestly at her- he’ll---oh, no. He too is a shirker - like me!”
My God wasn’t going to let me off so easily. The woman stopped crying and lay down as though she had lost faith in humanity.
I retraced my steps with a sinking feeling. Why Lord, why do you do this to me? I want to go home - it‘s getting to be very dark. And I don’t want to take all that responsibility.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I went back, grudgingly. I couldn’t walk away ‘cos if something happened to her, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself after that.
The woman was hefty. I needed help to lift her to her feet.
“Sir, can you help me?” He looks though me as though I am transparent. (Do I sound like Phil Collin’s Another Day in Paradise? :-))
I asked another and another and another, panic rising.
No one would come to my assistance.
I stood there bewildered, not knowing what to do, when, out of nowhere, two of my students came running. The three of us helped the woman - now rather weak, and weeping weakly and groaning in pain -to the zebra crossing and then the next drama began.
I stopped an auto and we started helping the woman into it. Just then the driver turned around and saw that this was an “accident case”. He violently pulled up the starter lever and swish, he vanished! We had the same experience with two other autos.
Eh, listen you sitting up there so coolly, I prayed (?), what have I done to deserve this?
“M’am, shall I ask the traffic policeman for help?”(This cop was in the elevated island right in the dead centre of the junction where the four roads meet). That was my student.
Almost as if he heard her, he turned around and showed the stop sign. Till the traffic cop gave the green signal, all vehicles had to wait behind the zebra crossing to allow pedestrians to cross. We noticed an unengaged auto waiting at the signal, and started helping the woman into it. The auto driver protested but he couldn’t rush off as the round stop sign plate still faced our side. Anyway, by then I had decided I’d put my foot down and not let him go. What the heck, is this my responsibility alone? I asked my students, in a loud voice, to take down his number, and then told him that if he does not take us to the hospital, I’ll lodge a complaint. He grumbled, pulled a long face but I got in after the lady and the auto started.
The govt. hospital was only a furlong and a half from the kavala, and he kept muttering something under his breath all the way (Why blame him? I was also muttering against the almighty for putting me in a spot like that). We reached the hospital and two attenders helped the woman out of the auto. Taking change out of my handbag, I turned around to pay the driver, but the auto had vanished! The man and the vehicle had fled as though the very devil were after them!
What happened in the hospital was even more upsetting. But that can wait- - -
Saturday, July 26, 2008
The Week That Was - Jumbled Reflections
What a week it has been!
A one day match in the Parliament, a close fight, a nail biting finish(the speaker was seen literally biting his nails)and then allegations of mathch fixing to be followed by investigations and then - nullifying the outcome of the match?
And now the blasts. Low intensity they might be - but two lives lost, many seriously injured.Every innocent life lost is a reason for tears. Panic, fear and a sense of insecurity descend on the nation once again.
Who is doing this? And why?
Do they think bombs and bullets can destroy a nation? We, as a nation, have survived many a trauma - and did not go under. Will not go under.
These mindless cowardly killings should serve only to re enforce our nationalism, bring home with force the thought that we need to continue being resilient, and be proud of being an Indian. The best part of Rahul Gandhi's recent speech in the parliament was when he said :'I speak, not as a Congress Party member, but as an Indian'. Let us all think and behave like Indians.
What can we do as individuals?
We can begin by blocking resentment and bitterness from entering our hearts. It isn't easy, particularly in times of crisis such as this. But keep our poise, we must. We must make a conscious effort to forgive and go forward, instead of gritting our teeth and baying for vengeance. We must us keep in mind Gandhiji's words that an eye for an eye makes the world go blind. That blindness we do not want. Let us not invite that darkness.
What should our leaders do?
That's the question. Their blind hunger for power, the ideology blinded political moves, the lure of the pelf which blinds them to the responsibility that rests with them. Power, ideology and money - all blinding factors which operate independently or in combination to make possible the entry of king makers and criminals and shameful horse trading into the Parliament and make a mockery of democracy and its institutions.
I wish there were a panacea - an ottamooli - that we can administer to cure our leaders of their blindness!
And we, the people need to be proactive. We can make a start in our small little worlds, in our small ways. Starting from our own minds, then in our immediate surroundings, in the people we come into contact with in our daily interaction with life, we must sow the seeds of patriotism, statesmanship and devotion to principles. Our Speaker Somnath Chatterjee's display of these qualities came as a draft of fresh air in the polluted atmosphere of the Parliament, as a ray of hope. Let us take leaf out of his book.
Let us hope our leaders - at least some of them- get inspired by this remarkable Parliamentarian and follow his footsteps.
I am confident that India will bounce back, as she always does, after these setbacks. Becaus we the people love our counry.
Jai Hind
A one day match in the Parliament, a close fight, a nail biting finish(the speaker was seen literally biting his nails)and then allegations of mathch fixing to be followed by investigations and then - nullifying the outcome of the match?
And now the blasts. Low intensity they might be - but two lives lost, many seriously injured.Every innocent life lost is a reason for tears. Panic, fear and a sense of insecurity descend on the nation once again.
Who is doing this? And why?
Do they think bombs and bullets can destroy a nation? We, as a nation, have survived many a trauma - and did not go under. Will not go under.
These mindless cowardly killings should serve only to re enforce our nationalism, bring home with force the thought that we need to continue being resilient, and be proud of being an Indian. The best part of Rahul Gandhi's recent speech in the parliament was when he said :'I speak, not as a Congress Party member, but as an Indian'. Let us all think and behave like Indians.
What can we do as individuals?
We can begin by blocking resentment and bitterness from entering our hearts. It isn't easy, particularly in times of crisis such as this. But keep our poise, we must. We must make a conscious effort to forgive and go forward, instead of gritting our teeth and baying for vengeance. We must us keep in mind Gandhiji's words that an eye for an eye makes the world go blind. That blindness we do not want. Let us not invite that darkness.
What should our leaders do?
That's the question. Their blind hunger for power, the ideology blinded political moves, the lure of the pelf which blinds them to the responsibility that rests with them. Power, ideology and money - all blinding factors which operate independently or in combination to make possible the entry of king makers and criminals and shameful horse trading into the Parliament and make a mockery of democracy and its institutions.
I wish there were a panacea - an ottamooli - that we can administer to cure our leaders of their blindness!
And we, the people need to be proactive. We can make a start in our small little worlds, in our small ways. Starting from our own minds, then in our immediate surroundings, in the people we come into contact with in our daily interaction with life, we must sow the seeds of patriotism, statesmanship and devotion to principles. Our Speaker Somnath Chatterjee's display of these qualities came as a draft of fresh air in the polluted atmosphere of the Parliament, as a ray of hope. Let us take leaf out of his book.
Let us hope our leaders - at least some of them- get inspired by this remarkable Parliamentarian and follow his footsteps.
I am confident that India will bounce back, as she always does, after these setbacks. Becaus we the people love our counry.
Jai Hind
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Ramblings from a Magic Carpet
My brother downloaded some music and sent me a CD full of our family favourites - of the sixties and seventies. I played them and ---
Do you know that music can transport you through time and space? And then soft land you through mists of oblivion into forgotten regions in the vast realm of memory?
Yes. That’s exactly what happened for more than an hour when I sat in the room of the staff hostel listening to the songs we used to listen to as children, sitting before the Telefunken radiogram or the Grundig spool tape recorder. The first number was Cliff Richard’s Young Ones - and the mists begins to clear. I saw us siblings (we were quite a number) sitting together around these gadgets, listening, talking, arguing – S Janaki is better than P Leela, Jayachandran is a better than Yesudas in certain types of rendition(my music savvy brother), Jayachandran potta potta potta ,(my youngest brother –too small to take on the senior one on one), MGR is a hopeless actor (the youngest one takes a swing at the speaker), Umrigar is the greatest - none like him(that was the last but one), stories of the ongoing tussle between Minnal (nickname of an upright and uptight SI) and Sarkar Mohammed (a dashing dare devil , I think), I’ll tell amma you are actually playing book cricket when she thinks you are studying(the youngest). Then I’ll tell her you ate meat cutlet from the fridge on Friday (The last but one).
Yes. Music, more than anything else, can stir up memories of distant days and breathe life into the hazy shadows which never desert the mind but lie inert in some uninhabited alcove of that region. Scattered bits of memory fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle and images flit thru the mind, one after the other, images which move, speak, laugh and quarrel. Delicious smell of olath Irachi or chemmen frying come wafting in from our kitchen on the other side of three/four decades, to complete the images regrouping themselves in the mind with every song.
And then, one after the other, came the numbers Atlantis and Foot Tapper – both by Shadows. I got a jolt. For I was flung far far away from my childhood into the imaginary(?) city of Camelot. Images of King Arthur and his knights sitting around the round table, with their metal helmet and metallic woven armours (forget what they are called) riding leisurely through the streets of Camelot, the Excalibur, the Holy Grail. I stretched my memory to include Knight Lancelot and Queen Guinevere but couldn’t. Possible that the children’s version of The Knights of the Round Table that was gifted to me for my birthday was a sanitized one with no space for romanticized adultery. On that same birthday, my brother brought home the small turntable record of Shadows with Atlantis on one side and Foot Tapper on the other. These days, I listen to those numbers often, now that I got them with me once again. I think they are the best pieces of instrumental music I’ve ever heard. And, I guess their power to transport me to the chivalrous, idyllic world of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table through childhood memories, has something to do with what those numbers do to me.
Do you know that music can transport you through time and space? And then soft land you through mists of oblivion into forgotten regions in the vast realm of memory?
Yes. That’s exactly what happened for more than an hour when I sat in the room of the staff hostel listening to the songs we used to listen to as children, sitting before the Telefunken radiogram or the Grundig spool tape recorder. The first number was Cliff Richard’s Young Ones - and the mists begins to clear. I saw us siblings (we were quite a number) sitting together around these gadgets, listening, talking, arguing – S Janaki is better than P Leela, Jayachandran is a better than Yesudas in certain types of rendition(my music savvy brother), Jayachandran potta potta potta ,(my youngest brother –too small to take on the senior one on one), MGR is a hopeless actor (the youngest one takes a swing at the speaker), Umrigar is the greatest - none like him(that was the last but one), stories of the ongoing tussle between Minnal (nickname of an upright and uptight SI) and Sarkar Mohammed (a dashing dare devil , I think), I’ll tell amma you are actually playing book cricket when she thinks you are studying(the youngest). Then I’ll tell her you ate meat cutlet from the fridge on Friday (The last but one).
Yes. Music, more than anything else, can stir up memories of distant days and breathe life into the hazy shadows which never desert the mind but lie inert in some uninhabited alcove of that region. Scattered bits of memory fall into place like a jigsaw puzzle and images flit thru the mind, one after the other, images which move, speak, laugh and quarrel. Delicious smell of olath Irachi or chemmen frying come wafting in from our kitchen on the other side of three/four decades, to complete the images regrouping themselves in the mind with every song.
And then, one after the other, came the numbers Atlantis and Foot Tapper – both by Shadows. I got a jolt. For I was flung far far away from my childhood into the imaginary(?) city of Camelot. Images of King Arthur and his knights sitting around the round table, with their metal helmet and metallic woven armours (forget what they are called) riding leisurely through the streets of Camelot, the Excalibur, the Holy Grail. I stretched my memory to include Knight Lancelot and Queen Guinevere but couldn’t. Possible that the children’s version of The Knights of the Round Table that was gifted to me for my birthday was a sanitized one with no space for romanticized adultery. On that same birthday, my brother brought home the small turntable record of Shadows with Atlantis on one side and Foot Tapper on the other. These days, I listen to those numbers often, now that I got them with me once again. I think they are the best pieces of instrumental music I’ve ever heard. And, I guess their power to transport me to the chivalrous, idyllic world of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table through childhood memories, has something to do with what those numbers do to me.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Beware of Kids!
Yes, they are cute but there are times when they can be such brats. I can deal patiently with their naughtiness and tantrums but when, in all their innocence, they make you go crimson in the face with embarassment, well – that’s when I could, with the greatest pleasure, give them a good hiding!
My mother used to relate an incident every time the conversation revolved around the ‘innocent’ utterances of children. Two of my siblings – shall we call them Georgy and Porgy?- had this habit of helping themselves to snacks served for guests at the dining table while the latter were being entertained. Once they(Georgy and Porgy) nearly cleared all the plates while the guests were still there, and so amma thought that the time had come to discipline them. She sternly told them not to touch anything on the table in the presence of guests, but could help themselves freely to whatever they wanted once they left. This instruction was given while waiting for some half a dozen very sophisticated (US returned) relatives who had terrible airs about them – you know the type that makes you uneasy, the type you have to suffer whether you like it or not, the type before whom your image is very important to you.
The guests arrived and the table was set and all the home made goodies spread out. The guests sat at the dining table and started helping themselves to the snacks. Georgy and Porgy waited, on the opposite sides of the room, each leaning on the walls on his side, eyeing the table. Amma was keeping an eye on them and she was quietly amused at the way they were ogling at their favourite snacks. It was torture for them, she could see, and every time they looked pleadingly at her, she’d shake her head firmly, a stern look on her face.
The guests took an unusually long time at the dining table, talking and picking something or the other from the plates now and then.
And Georgie and Porgy began to get impatient. Georgy appeared to be the one whose self-restraint had reached the tether end, for he would move towards the table as though mesmerized and magnetically drawn by something there. Amma would then be instantly at his side, gripping his arm firmly and directing him back to his position against the wall. Porgy did not leave his wall but the tortured expression on his face was so comical that amma had difficulty trying to control her laughter. But she was pleased - with herself that she could discipline them, and her little boys that they could exercise that much of control over themselves. Just then she noticed that Georgy had left his wall and was walking towards the table as though in a trance. She was on Porgy’s side of the table. She started off quickly towards Georgy, but before she could reach him, there he stood between two chairs, and with excitement bordering on hysteria , he was pointing out the various snacks dishes as shouted out to Porgy: ‘Porgy, when these people go, you take avalose unda (index finger touching the avalose unda plate) and cheeda (index finger touching the cheeda plate) and I’ll take achappam(streaching across the table to touch the plate) and cake and mysore pak”. The last two items were to his left and right, and he stretched out his hands to point them out simultaneously, making him look like a choir conductor in the grip of an ecstatic frenzy.
Poor amma. Though she could laugh heartily each time she related this incident, I can imagine how terribly embarrassed she must have been! She nearly fainted with mortification but fitted a plastic smile which she beamed at the American returned guests, who were quickly getting up to make way for Georgy and Porgy who had already launched a violent attack on the dining table.
My mother used to relate an incident every time the conversation revolved around the ‘innocent’ utterances of children. Two of my siblings – shall we call them Georgy and Porgy?- had this habit of helping themselves to snacks served for guests at the dining table while the latter were being entertained. Once they(Georgy and Porgy) nearly cleared all the plates while the guests were still there, and so amma thought that the time had come to discipline them. She sternly told them not to touch anything on the table in the presence of guests, but could help themselves freely to whatever they wanted once they left. This instruction was given while waiting for some half a dozen very sophisticated (US returned) relatives who had terrible airs about them – you know the type that makes you uneasy, the type you have to suffer whether you like it or not, the type before whom your image is very important to you.
The guests arrived and the table was set and all the home made goodies spread out. The guests sat at the dining table and started helping themselves to the snacks. Georgy and Porgy waited, on the opposite sides of the room, each leaning on the walls on his side, eyeing the table. Amma was keeping an eye on them and she was quietly amused at the way they were ogling at their favourite snacks. It was torture for them, she could see, and every time they looked pleadingly at her, she’d shake her head firmly, a stern look on her face.
The guests took an unusually long time at the dining table, talking and picking something or the other from the plates now and then.
And Georgie and Porgy began to get impatient. Georgy appeared to be the one whose self-restraint had reached the tether end, for he would move towards the table as though mesmerized and magnetically drawn by something there. Amma would then be instantly at his side, gripping his arm firmly and directing him back to his position against the wall. Porgy did not leave his wall but the tortured expression on his face was so comical that amma had difficulty trying to control her laughter. But she was pleased - with herself that she could discipline them, and her little boys that they could exercise that much of control over themselves. Just then she noticed that Georgy had left his wall and was walking towards the table as though in a trance. She was on Porgy’s side of the table. She started off quickly towards Georgy, but before she could reach him, there he stood between two chairs, and with excitement bordering on hysteria , he was pointing out the various snacks dishes as shouted out to Porgy: ‘Porgy, when these people go, you take avalose unda (index finger touching the avalose unda plate) and cheeda (index finger touching the cheeda plate) and I’ll take achappam(streaching across the table to touch the plate) and cake and mysore pak”. The last two items were to his left and right, and he stretched out his hands to point them out simultaneously, making him look like a choir conductor in the grip of an ecstatic frenzy.
Poor amma. Though she could laugh heartily each time she related this incident, I can imagine how terribly embarrassed she must have been! She nearly fainted with mortification but fitted a plastic smile which she beamed at the American returned guests, who were quickly getting up to make way for Georgy and Porgy who had already launched a violent attack on the dining table.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Kerala - No let up in the blood-letting
Another life lost - in the name of a text book. Not that the state needs any reasons any more to mow down human lives. Of late, they - human lives- have become the most worthless things - the cheapest tokens of political protest, the most common/vulnerable casualty of violent politicisation of issues.
All parties are now outsourcing violence - either to their youth wings or mercenaries. A time was when the Congress Party exercised some restraint when it came to unleashing violence or their violence dispensers. But looks like their previous stint in power(2001-06), during which they were blockaded from performing by the opposition, has made them frustrated and therefore reckless. Governance had become impossible then with the shamefully irresponsible behaviour of the CPM in connivance with the Karunakaran faction. Disruption by the opposition of normal day to day life, of routine educational and developmental activities had been the order of the day. The Left was at its worst during that tenure of the UDF govt, with obstructing governance being their only agenda. It had to prevent the Congress Government from performing lest it get re-elected. Now that the Left is in power, The Congress has decided to pay them back in the same coin.
So now whom do we turn to for some restoration of sanity in the State?
Are there any leaders in Kerala who can put the state above party loyalty? Any one like Somnath Chatterjee, our Lok Sabha Speaker?
I am reminded of the Biblical story where God gives word to Abraham that he'll spare the city from destruction if there were 10 good men in it. Yes, ten good leaders in the state, who can put the people above the party can save this state in its headlong plunge into a 'bloody' disaster.
The leaders have let us down one by one. The exodus from the state has begun. Check out this link to find out more: http://my-think-pad.blogspot.com/2008/04/exodus.html
All parties are now outsourcing violence - either to their youth wings or mercenaries. A time was when the Congress Party exercised some restraint when it came to unleashing violence or their violence dispensers. But looks like their previous stint in power(2001-06), during which they were blockaded from performing by the opposition, has made them frustrated and therefore reckless. Governance had become impossible then with the shamefully irresponsible behaviour of the CPM in connivance with the Karunakaran faction. Disruption by the opposition of normal day to day life, of routine educational and developmental activities had been the order of the day. The Left was at its worst during that tenure of the UDF govt, with obstructing governance being their only agenda. It had to prevent the Congress Government from performing lest it get re-elected. Now that the Left is in power, The Congress has decided to pay them back in the same coin.
So now whom do we turn to for some restoration of sanity in the State?
Are there any leaders in Kerala who can put the state above party loyalty? Any one like Somnath Chatterjee, our Lok Sabha Speaker?
I am reminded of the Biblical story where God gives word to Abraham that he'll spare the city from destruction if there were 10 good men in it. Yes, ten good leaders in the state, who can put the people above the party can save this state in its headlong plunge into a 'bloody' disaster.
The leaders have let us down one by one. The exodus from the state has begun. Check out this link to find out more: http://my-think-pad.blogspot.com/2008/04/exodus.html
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Come Entrance Exams and - -
When I joined service in a college, some thirty years back, in a small town in Mid –Travancore which I had always associated with extreme conservatism, I did not bargain for the type and size of talents displayed by the student community. The intra-mural competitions were big events which stretched on for weeks. The classical music competitions used to be held over a period of two days. The folk dance and classical dance, both solo and group- each of these events took two full days to complete. The judges were well known experts in their fields.
The long and short of it is – every other girl could sing or dance ,or sing and dance, or respect these forms of art. Parents spent a lot of time and money to train their children in whatever form of art their wards were interested in or had talent for. Students spent a lot of time and energy to become accomplished in their chosen fields.
Today, in the same college, getting students who can give quality performance is no easy task. Those who do volunteer to do it, more often than not, lack calibre, expertise. Classical music and dance have given way to cinematic (now banned – the term I mean)dance and film music. Not that there is anything wrong with or inferior about either. It’s just that they require little or no training. In these days, when making value judgement is considered a mortal sin, I make bold to say that those were good days, when young minds were put to rigorous but enjoyable training to master the complexities of classical art forms. Those were the days when the students and their parents believed that to acquire skill in classical forms of art was a worthy enough mission, and that there were things as important in life as the entrance exams - which brings me to the villain of the piece.
I do not remember in which year the entrance exams to professional courses were introduced in Kerala- but the decline of interest and engagement in arts and fine arts mentioned above became instantly felt after the introduction of this phenomenon. I hear stories of how school and pre degree students who were being trained either in music or dance were abruptly taken out of these classes and admitted to coaching classes giving training for the entrance exams. Kala was cut down to size. But the sense of rhythm inherent in human nature cannot be suppressed. Fortunately, the TV which quietly made entry into every home in Kerala provided plenty of models of disco/cinematic dancing. Centres which taught disco dancing began to appear in big towns in Kerala where young people went to shake a leg in order to fulfill their urge to sway to rhythm.
What the entrance exams have done to Kerala – at least in the part of Kerala I speak of –is, they have enlightened the parents about the futility of art. Traditionally, Kerala was a place where it was believed that training in some form of art would enrich the experience of life, train and discipline the mind, add a deeper dimension to personality, and also enable one to deal better with this business called life. This inherited wisdom was uprooted and blown away overnight by the hurricane which came in the form of entrance exams which descended on the state in the eighties. I tend to compare my pre-entrance with the post-entrance students. The difference is not in how they dance on the stage. It is in how they conduct and carry themselves, in their weltanschauung and the way they face a crisis situation. The pre-entrance lots – they were respectful but they could challenge you in class. They were involved in the happenings in the classroom. You entrust them with a job, they would do it with such heartwarming earnestness and sense of responsibility. They would sometimes walk up to you and ask whether you would recommend this book or that, or if their understanding of some book they'd just finished reading was right. They somehow gave you the feeling that they believed that learning was its own reward. They made you feel happy and grateful for being allowed to contribute to the learning process. And they made your heart swell with pride when they interrupted your lecture with ”Ma’am, aren’t you contradicting yourself?” For they were genuinely interested in the process of education. They had the time and inclination to actively engage themselves in the process of holistic development which educational institutions attempt to offer. And the post-entrance generation? Well, they are different. I guess it is the prospect of the entrance exams looming large and intimidatingly before them that makes the difference.
Sweeping generalizations, I know. I could be wrong. But a huge change has come over the attitudes to life in the post entrance days, both of the parents and therefore of the students. It would be naive to attribute the change in the timbre of the student personality to decline of interest in arts. But I can safely say that this disinclination for anything other than entrance test related activities is symptomatic of this change. And I prefer the good old days.
I’ll conclude with a small incident. A few of weeks back, my friend’s college- going daughter started quizzing me about how to get a book published and how to get a publisher to accept a book. She’s always been a quiet one and so I was surprised. I asked her about this sudden interest. It’s not sudden, she told me. She writes short stories -it’s a passion with her. I remarked that her father, who himself writes extremely well, must be excited about her interest. She kept silent. A couple days later when I met her parents, I talked to them about this. I was told in no uncertain terms not to give their daughter any bright ideas. Let her first learn to earn her bread and then she can think of writing, I was told. But what harm does a little bit of writing in free hours do, I persisted. She ought to be studying, and not wasting her time indulging in such useless exercise.
Guess we live in times when man lives by bread alone.
The long and short of it is – every other girl could sing or dance ,or sing and dance, or respect these forms of art. Parents spent a lot of time and money to train their children in whatever form of art their wards were interested in or had talent for. Students spent a lot of time and energy to become accomplished in their chosen fields.
Today, in the same college, getting students who can give quality performance is no easy task. Those who do volunteer to do it, more often than not, lack calibre, expertise. Classical music and dance have given way to cinematic (now banned – the term I mean)dance and film music. Not that there is anything wrong with or inferior about either. It’s just that they require little or no training. In these days, when making value judgement is considered a mortal sin, I make bold to say that those were good days, when young minds were put to rigorous but enjoyable training to master the complexities of classical art forms. Those were the days when the students and their parents believed that to acquire skill in classical forms of art was a worthy enough mission, and that there were things as important in life as the entrance exams - which brings me to the villain of the piece.
I do not remember in which year the entrance exams to professional courses were introduced in Kerala- but the decline of interest and engagement in arts and fine arts mentioned above became instantly felt after the introduction of this phenomenon. I hear stories of how school and pre degree students who were being trained either in music or dance were abruptly taken out of these classes and admitted to coaching classes giving training for the entrance exams. Kala was cut down to size. But the sense of rhythm inherent in human nature cannot be suppressed. Fortunately, the TV which quietly made entry into every home in Kerala provided plenty of models of disco/cinematic dancing. Centres which taught disco dancing began to appear in big towns in Kerala where young people went to shake a leg in order to fulfill their urge to sway to rhythm.
What the entrance exams have done to Kerala – at least in the part of Kerala I speak of –is, they have enlightened the parents about the futility of art. Traditionally, Kerala was a place where it was believed that training in some form of art would enrich the experience of life, train and discipline the mind, add a deeper dimension to personality, and also enable one to deal better with this business called life. This inherited wisdom was uprooted and blown away overnight by the hurricane which came in the form of entrance exams which descended on the state in the eighties. I tend to compare my pre-entrance with the post-entrance students. The difference is not in how they dance on the stage. It is in how they conduct and carry themselves, in their weltanschauung and the way they face a crisis situation. The pre-entrance lots – they were respectful but they could challenge you in class. They were involved in the happenings in the classroom. You entrust them with a job, they would do it with such heartwarming earnestness and sense of responsibility. They would sometimes walk up to you and ask whether you would recommend this book or that, or if their understanding of some book they'd just finished reading was right. They somehow gave you the feeling that they believed that learning was its own reward. They made you feel happy and grateful for being allowed to contribute to the learning process. And they made your heart swell with pride when they interrupted your lecture with ”Ma’am, aren’t you contradicting yourself?” For they were genuinely interested in the process of education. They had the time and inclination to actively engage themselves in the process of holistic development which educational institutions attempt to offer. And the post-entrance generation? Well, they are different. I guess it is the prospect of the entrance exams looming large and intimidatingly before them that makes the difference.
Sweeping generalizations, I know. I could be wrong. But a huge change has come over the attitudes to life in the post entrance days, both of the parents and therefore of the students. It would be naive to attribute the change in the timbre of the student personality to decline of interest in arts. But I can safely say that this disinclination for anything other than entrance test related activities is symptomatic of this change. And I prefer the good old days.
I’ll conclude with a small incident. A few of weeks back, my friend’s college- going daughter started quizzing me about how to get a book published and how to get a publisher to accept a book. She’s always been a quiet one and so I was surprised. I asked her about this sudden interest. It’s not sudden, she told me. She writes short stories -it’s a passion with her. I remarked that her father, who himself writes extremely well, must be excited about her interest. She kept silent. A couple days later when I met her parents, I talked to them about this. I was told in no uncertain terms not to give their daughter any bright ideas. Let her first learn to earn her bread and then she can think of writing, I was told. But what harm does a little bit of writing in free hours do, I persisted. She ought to be studying, and not wasting her time indulging in such useless exercise.
Guess we live in times when man lives by bread alone.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
"Where is your Mother?"
On that day which I would like to erase from my memory, I went, as usual, into the Director’s room to sign the attendance muster as soon as I reached the Research Centre. The visiting professor from England was in Director’s room with his daughter, a young girl in her mid teens. The Director (my boss) asked me to take her around and introduce her to the other research scholars while he finished his business with the visitor.
I took her into the large spacious airy room where we research scholars sat. We sat down at the large common table in the centre of the hall so that others could join us as they came in. And then I turned to her with a friendly smile which she returned.
“How do you like Trivandrun?” I asked – the standard question, I know but I couldn’t think of anything original.
“Oh it’s a lovely place!”(I think she meant it). “I call it a city lost in trees”
‘Eh?”, I said surprised.
I began to think that she too must have read that travelogue written by I don’t remember who which had a chapter titled The Treemen of Travancore. I remember I was furious when I read it ‘cos in all the fifteen years that I lived (I was 15 when I read that piece,) I had never seen people in Travancore living on trees and eating tadpoles live.
“We have a room on the sixth floor” she explained “and when I look out of the window, I see only palm trees”.
Actually she was right. In those days there were only a handful of high rises in Trivandrum, and from the height from which she surveyed the city, a splendid view of greenery would greet her.
And then I made that fatal mistake.
“Has you mother come too?” I asked!
Oh, we Indians. Why do we always have to ask about father mother brother and sister every time we are introduced to a person? Why don’t we realize that it is impolite, for these questions are an intrusion into the personal sphere which many would like to keep private?
“No”, she said, without batting an eyelid. “My parents are divorced”
My ears were on fire. “I’m sorry”. I stammered.
“That’s OK. My step mother is here”.
I nodded, struggling to conceal my embarrassment behind a smile.
Just then my friend Aparna (name changed like all the names that’ll appear in the rest of the story).
“Hi, Milly. Good Morning”, she said.
“Meet Michelle Tate. Cleanth Tate’s daughter”
“How do you do?” said Aparna
“Hello” said Michelle
“Is this your first visit to India?”
“Yes.”
”How long have you been in TVM?’
“WE came two days back.”
And then from Aparna‘s lips fell those deadly words.
“Where’s your mother? Has she come too?”
Michelle repeated what she told me. Aparna shot an annoyed look at me for not having warned her, but then, I didn’t get a chance to warn her. Besides, who ever thought that a great intellectual like Aparna would be stupid enough not to know that one should not ask such questions to a stranger, particularly if she is from another country and culture?
And then the one and only Bhasker walked in. He’s one of those characters who you’d call hyper - was always in a state of excitement. He saw Aparna and me with a white girl and came enthusiastically toward us.
“Hello. Who do we have here?” he said beaming at all of us.
I performed the introductions, and then he started his round of queries.
“First visit to India?”
“Yes” said Michelle, trying to sound and look friendly.
“It’s a beauuuuutiful place, isn’t it?” He had a soft soulful expression in his eyes. “Did you see the Taj Mahal”
“No. Not yet. We’ll visit North India next week”
‘Who’s the we?” asked Bhaskar.
Sensing that he was approaching the danger zone, I tried to edge closer so that I could give him a warning kick. But I didn’t move fast enough for out came The Question
“Has your mother come?”
“No”, a staccato tone. This time she didn’t offer any explanations.
“What is she? A career woman or a housewife?”, asked the incorrigible Bhaskar
“My mother is an archeologist”, said Michelle.
Did she sound tired? Did I hear something like a resigned sigh from her?
”Oh’, said Bhaskar. He was unstoppable. “Then it’d have been lovely if she could also have joined you, no?”
“Heavens no”, Michelle burst out. “There’d be such a row!”
Bhaskar looked stupefied and, with eyes like saucers, he looked from one to another. By then I had moved close enough to give him that kick.
Unfortunately, it was harder that I intended it to be and it landed on his shin. I think he was about to repeat the word ‘row’ with a rising intonation when my kick landed on his shin, and he let out a yelp starting with R. "What on earth are you doing Milly? Why did you kick me?” he yelled angrily at me.
I didn’t look at Michelle. I couldn’t face her. I didn’t look at Bhaskar. I didn’t trust myself. But I looked at Aparna in utter dismay.
And she rose to the occasion. She got up, not abruptly but as though it was the most natural thing to do after the first session comprising introductions, and offered to show Michelle around the place, an offer which the poor girl accepted gracefully.
After that awkward episode, I made a resolution never to ask a stranger personal questions. But I must admit that old habits die hard and on a few occasions I have slipped. But only on a couple of occasions did I ask the wrong questions to wrong people.
I took her into the large spacious airy room where we research scholars sat. We sat down at the large common table in the centre of the hall so that others could join us as they came in. And then I turned to her with a friendly smile which she returned.
“How do you like Trivandrun?” I asked – the standard question, I know but I couldn’t think of anything original.
“Oh it’s a lovely place!”(I think she meant it). “I call it a city lost in trees”
‘Eh?”, I said surprised.
I began to think that she too must have read that travelogue written by I don’t remember who which had a chapter titled The Treemen of Travancore. I remember I was furious when I read it ‘cos in all the fifteen years that I lived (I was 15 when I read that piece,) I had never seen people in Travancore living on trees and eating tadpoles live.
“We have a room on the sixth floor” she explained “and when I look out of the window, I see only palm trees”.
Actually she was right. In those days there were only a handful of high rises in Trivandrum, and from the height from which she surveyed the city, a splendid view of greenery would greet her.
And then I made that fatal mistake.
“Has you mother come too?” I asked!
Oh, we Indians. Why do we always have to ask about father mother brother and sister every time we are introduced to a person? Why don’t we realize that it is impolite, for these questions are an intrusion into the personal sphere which many would like to keep private?
“No”, she said, without batting an eyelid. “My parents are divorced”
My ears were on fire. “I’m sorry”. I stammered.
“That’s OK. My step mother is here”.
I nodded, struggling to conceal my embarrassment behind a smile.
Just then my friend Aparna (name changed like all the names that’ll appear in the rest of the story).
“Hi, Milly. Good Morning”, she said.
“Meet Michelle Tate. Cleanth Tate’s daughter”
“How do you do?” said Aparna
“Hello” said Michelle
“Is this your first visit to India?”
“Yes.”
”How long have you been in TVM?’
“WE came two days back.”
And then from Aparna‘s lips fell those deadly words.
“Where’s your mother? Has she come too?”
Michelle repeated what she told me. Aparna shot an annoyed look at me for not having warned her, but then, I didn’t get a chance to warn her. Besides, who ever thought that a great intellectual like Aparna would be stupid enough not to know that one should not ask such questions to a stranger, particularly if she is from another country and culture?
And then the one and only Bhasker walked in. He’s one of those characters who you’d call hyper - was always in a state of excitement. He saw Aparna and me with a white girl and came enthusiastically toward us.
“Hello. Who do we have here?” he said beaming at all of us.
I performed the introductions, and then he started his round of queries.
“First visit to India?”
“Yes” said Michelle, trying to sound and look friendly.
“It’s a beauuuuutiful place, isn’t it?” He had a soft soulful expression in his eyes. “Did you see the Taj Mahal”
“No. Not yet. We’ll visit North India next week”
‘Who’s the we?” asked Bhaskar.
Sensing that he was approaching the danger zone, I tried to edge closer so that I could give him a warning kick. But I didn’t move fast enough for out came The Question
“Has your mother come?”
“No”, a staccato tone. This time she didn’t offer any explanations.
“What is she? A career woman or a housewife?”, asked the incorrigible Bhaskar
“My mother is an archeologist”, said Michelle.
Did she sound tired? Did I hear something like a resigned sigh from her?
”Oh’, said Bhaskar. He was unstoppable. “Then it’d have been lovely if she could also have joined you, no?”
“Heavens no”, Michelle burst out. “There’d be such a row!”
Bhaskar looked stupefied and, with eyes like saucers, he looked from one to another. By then I had moved close enough to give him that kick.
Unfortunately, it was harder that I intended it to be and it landed on his shin. I think he was about to repeat the word ‘row’ with a rising intonation when my kick landed on his shin, and he let out a yelp starting with R. "What on earth are you doing Milly? Why did you kick me?” he yelled angrily at me.
I didn’t look at Michelle. I couldn’t face her. I didn’t look at Bhaskar. I didn’t trust myself. But I looked at Aparna in utter dismay.
And she rose to the occasion. She got up, not abruptly but as though it was the most natural thing to do after the first session comprising introductions, and offered to show Michelle around the place, an offer which the poor girl accepted gracefully.
After that awkward episode, I made a resolution never to ask a stranger personal questions. But I must admit that old habits die hard and on a few occasions I have slipped. But only on a couple of occasions did I ask the wrong questions to wrong people.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Tears for the Dead
I know this is a strange subject to write on. But a certain item I read in the newspaper a few years back and a certain incident I saw rather recently keep coming back to me every time I attend a funeral – and, I feel ashamed to admit this, I get clinical at funerals, and watch how the bereaved ones behave.
The story that I referred to was a report on the sudden unexpected death of a young prominent industrialist. The report quoted a high profile journalist who had rushed to the house of the industrialist minutes after he heard of his demise. The industrialist had been a good friend of the journalist whose brief words to the press betrayed his awe at the atmosphere in the house where a death had taken place. He was greeted by complete silence. No one wept, sobbed or sniffled. His widow sat next to the body in a plain white sari. His mother too. Their faces were expressionless. The behaviour of the other relatives (not many had reached) too could be fitted with a similar description. There was of course reference from the journalist to the dignity and calmness with which death was confronted, but the subtext of his words was that the presence of death was tangible, and totally unsettling. I got the impression that it was an altogether new experience for him.
A few years later, a young girl I know lost her father and I went to her house on the day of the funeral. She was in a room surrounded by relatives. She was quiet but had a strained expression on her face. The minute she saw me, she broke down uncontrollably. Immediately her aunts went at her – gently of course, but persuasively.
“Is this what your faith teaches you?”,
“you know now he is where there is no pain”,
“ God calls his favourites early” .
They went on and on and on till the girl literally switched off her tears and sat there looking at me, poker faced. My heart went out to her, but how does one tell her,"Go ahead and cry your heart out. You owe in to your father and to yourself”, in the face of such formidable unrelenting efforts at cultural conditioning to deal with the inevitability of death? I remembered the journalist’s awe when he described his visit to his friend’s house. And I understood how that silence is achieved – I saw it in the making. I saw it in its workshop.
Ever since these two episodes, I’ve developed this horrible habit of assessing the behaviour of the bereaved ones at funerals. Most people weep openly, and this averts a burden from settling down on the minds of the onlookers. I manage to get over my blues after a funeral even before I reach my home – except on that occasion that my young friend was coerced into keeping a calm and stoic demeanor by well meaning relatives. And though I was never anywhere near that industrialists house, that picture given by the journalist continues to haunt me. On both these occasions, it appeared as though the bereaved conscripted me to share the burden of grief which they were conditioned not to unload through tears. I am sure the journalist too felt the same – though he didn’t say it in so many words. By the way, in both cases, the people concerned belonged to the same community.
I fully understand and appreciate the fact that this edification exercise would have begun as an effort to come to terms with the inevitability of death – to inculcate a sort of Donne like attitude of Death-be-not-proud-cause- you-cant-bend-or-break-me. But then, aren’t there a few certainties before which it is better for mankind to be humble and submissive? There is no greater leveler than death – shouldn’t we pay our respect to such a democratic institution whenever it visits us? Of course, there are people who are made of the stuff which makes them very irreverential in their attitude to this occasional visitor. They take bereavement in their stride. I both admire and envy them – they are a class apart. But to deliberately and consciously deny yourself and the departed loved ones tears in the name of dignified bearing and image construction is unfair both to the living and the dead. The least we owe our dear departed is tears. Tears are not a luxury, but a right, ‘cos they are an essential mechanism of nature to keep that thing called sanity going.
The story that I referred to was a report on the sudden unexpected death of a young prominent industrialist. The report quoted a high profile journalist who had rushed to the house of the industrialist minutes after he heard of his demise. The industrialist had been a good friend of the journalist whose brief words to the press betrayed his awe at the atmosphere in the house where a death had taken place. He was greeted by complete silence. No one wept, sobbed or sniffled. His widow sat next to the body in a plain white sari. His mother too. Their faces were expressionless. The behaviour of the other relatives (not many had reached) too could be fitted with a similar description. There was of course reference from the journalist to the dignity and calmness with which death was confronted, but the subtext of his words was that the presence of death was tangible, and totally unsettling. I got the impression that it was an altogether new experience for him.
A few years later, a young girl I know lost her father and I went to her house on the day of the funeral. She was in a room surrounded by relatives. She was quiet but had a strained expression on her face. The minute she saw me, she broke down uncontrollably. Immediately her aunts went at her – gently of course, but persuasively.
“Is this what your faith teaches you?”,
“you know now he is where there is no pain”,
“ God calls his favourites early” .
They went on and on and on till the girl literally switched off her tears and sat there looking at me, poker faced. My heart went out to her, but how does one tell her,"Go ahead and cry your heart out. You owe in to your father and to yourself”, in the face of such formidable unrelenting efforts at cultural conditioning to deal with the inevitability of death? I remembered the journalist’s awe when he described his visit to his friend’s house. And I understood how that silence is achieved – I saw it in the making. I saw it in its workshop.
Ever since these two episodes, I’ve developed this horrible habit of assessing the behaviour of the bereaved ones at funerals. Most people weep openly, and this averts a burden from settling down on the minds of the onlookers. I manage to get over my blues after a funeral even before I reach my home – except on that occasion that my young friend was coerced into keeping a calm and stoic demeanor by well meaning relatives. And though I was never anywhere near that industrialists house, that picture given by the journalist continues to haunt me. On both these occasions, it appeared as though the bereaved conscripted me to share the burden of grief which they were conditioned not to unload through tears. I am sure the journalist too felt the same – though he didn’t say it in so many words. By the way, in both cases, the people concerned belonged to the same community.
I fully understand and appreciate the fact that this edification exercise would have begun as an effort to come to terms with the inevitability of death – to inculcate a sort of Donne like attitude of Death-be-not-proud-cause- you-cant-bend-or-break-me. But then, aren’t there a few certainties before which it is better for mankind to be humble and submissive? There is no greater leveler than death – shouldn’t we pay our respect to such a democratic institution whenever it visits us? Of course, there are people who are made of the stuff which makes them very irreverential in their attitude to this occasional visitor. They take bereavement in their stride. I both admire and envy them – they are a class apart. But to deliberately and consciously deny yourself and the departed loved ones tears in the name of dignified bearing and image construction is unfair both to the living and the dead. The least we owe our dear departed is tears. Tears are not a luxury, but a right, ‘cos they are an essential mechanism of nature to keep that thing called sanity going.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The End of Silence
am no poet.
i know that.
my muse died young
a slow death though
with growing estrangement from my tongue
and my self.
a casualty of imperialism
and acculturation.
but of late I find myself
tinkering with free verse
in the alien tongue.
the genre issues a license
the poetic license
liberation from the strain
of logical exercise,
And offers a mould
that won’t crumble
when loaded with feeling.
minds crippled with entrenched silence
turn to the spirits of the muses
inevitably.
can they be raised from the dead?
will they take kindly
to the strange sounds of broken silence?
i know that.
my muse died young
a slow death though
with growing estrangement from my tongue
and my self.
a casualty of imperialism
and acculturation.
but of late I find myself
tinkering with free verse
in the alien tongue.
the genre issues a license
the poetic license
liberation from the strain
of logical exercise,
And offers a mould
that won’t crumble
when loaded with feeling.
minds crippled with entrenched silence
turn to the spirits of the muses
inevitably.
can they be raised from the dead?
will they take kindly
to the strange sounds of broken silence?
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Amma Buys Me a Saree
I was looking through some old photographs and saw one of me in a saree which took my mind to the day my mother and I went to the newly opened Parthas to buy it.
I am not one of those who pull out all the sarees in a shop before I choose one. If I find one I like, I stop looking for more "selection', and make the purchase immediately.
On that day, amma and I went straight to the cotton saree section. A youngish sales boy was at the counter. He pulled out one stack of sarees and I immediately found what I was looking for. It was a beige coloured plain saree with a lovely temple sculpture figures on the border in dark maroon. Usually, amma is the one who takes the initiative to close the deal, but this time, she just stood there, her eyes fixed on the saree. Perplexed, I turned to the sales boy and asked him to bill it and pack it. Then I felt amma's gentle hand on my arm. I turned to her and was startled to see that she had bent over with her face close to the saree and was squinting down at it. Alarmed, I asked her
'What is it, amma? What's wrong?"
She looked up, gave me a strange grin and said,
"I forgot to take my glasses"
"But surely you can see the saree without them" said I, more alarmed than ever. Oh God! Could something have happened to her vision - something I had failed to notice?
Suddenly, she straightened up, looked at the sales boy, pointed to the silk section and asked him to bring some sarees from there. My heart leapt - she was going to surprise me with a silk saree, I thought.
As soon as salesboy started walking towards the silk section, amma grabbed my arm, lowered her voice, and in a conspiratorial tone urged me.
"Moley, this saree you've selected. See if those women on the border are wearing clothes. You said they are temple sculptures, didnt you? Quick! Before he comes back"
Eighteen years after that incident, amma and I were sitting on the veranda of her house when a house to house saree vendor came in with his wares. I was about to send him away when amma called him in. It was the 21st of December, I remember, and she asked me to take a saree. It was to be her Christmas gift to me. After the vendor left, I reminded her about the way she tried censoring my saree years back. Tears of merriment running down her face, she denied ever having done it.
She didnt live to see another Christmas after that. I have maintained her last gift to me in perfect condition - wear it once in a way and relive those moments.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Tagged
Am tagged. By Sujatha of Fluff "n" Stuff
Tagging makes me nervous for many reasons. The most important one being I'm terrified of chains - probably 'cos of the description of chain reaction by my English teacher who taught us about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She told us that once a reaction is triggered off, it cannot be stopped till half the world is desrtroyed. She also told us that the end of days prophesied in the Bible would come as a chain reaction. So i vowed - no chains for me.
The least important reason - this machine before I am sitting at the moment is too complicated for me. I'm still in the primary school level where it is concerned. I only know how to handle the minum functions. Of course I intend to correct this situation 'cos this contraption is hijacking our lives. Look at me. I've forgotten the art of writing on a paper with a pen after I started keying in my thoughts (not that my handwriting was anything to brag about-a letter I once addressed to my Birmingham penfriend landed up in Bhurnanganam post office near Pala in Kerala).
So Sujatha, forgive me if i dont tag five people - i just dont know how to do it ( am wondering how i can take it out on you for forcing this confession out of me).
Now to take care of the Tag instructions.
Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
The nearest book - A 93 year old English Bible ( published by Burns oates and Washbourne Ltd, London in 1914) which has a place next to this machine. It is the Bible I've been reading since I was in the high school. My father (think he bought it as a young high school boy) got it bound for me and so it is still in good condition. This is the book which unfolded the beauty of the English language to me. It has travelled with me (I travel a lot) and has been my constant companion in all the changing statuses of my life.
The three sentences after the 5th sentence on page 123:
But the princes offered onyzx stones, and precious stones, for the ephod and the rational: And spices and oil for the lights, and for the preparing of ointment, and to make the incense of most sweet savour. All, both men and women with devout mind offered gifts, that the works might be done which the Lord had commanded by the hand of Moses. All the children of Israel dedicated voluntary offerings to the Lord.
Exodus. Chpt.35. Verses 27-29.
No comments on the lines except that 1. where rituals are concerned, people have not changed after 2000+ years 2. I love onyx
On being Ritualistic- would some try blogging on it?
Tagging makes me nervous for many reasons. The most important one being I'm terrified of chains - probably 'cos of the description of chain reaction by my English teacher who taught us about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. She told us that once a reaction is triggered off, it cannot be stopped till half the world is desrtroyed. She also told us that the end of days prophesied in the Bible would come as a chain reaction. So i vowed - no chains for me.
The least important reason - this machine before I am sitting at the moment is too complicated for me. I'm still in the primary school level where it is concerned. I only know how to handle the minum functions. Of course I intend to correct this situation 'cos this contraption is hijacking our lives. Look at me. I've forgotten the art of writing on a paper with a pen after I started keying in my thoughts (not that my handwriting was anything to brag about-a letter I once addressed to my Birmingham penfriend landed up in Bhurnanganam post office near Pala in Kerala).
So Sujatha, forgive me if i dont tag five people - i just dont know how to do it ( am wondering how i can take it out on you for forcing this confession out of me).
Now to take care of the Tag instructions.
Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
The nearest book - A 93 year old English Bible ( published by Burns oates and Washbourne Ltd, London in 1914) which has a place next to this machine. It is the Bible I've been reading since I was in the high school. My father (think he bought it as a young high school boy) got it bound for me and so it is still in good condition. This is the book which unfolded the beauty of the English language to me. It has travelled with me (I travel a lot) and has been my constant companion in all the changing statuses of my life.
The three sentences after the 5th sentence on page 123:
But the princes offered onyzx stones, and precious stones, for the ephod and the rational: And spices and oil for the lights, and for the preparing of ointment, and to make the incense of most sweet savour. All, both men and women with devout mind offered gifts, that the works might be done which the Lord had commanded by the hand of Moses. All the children of Israel dedicated voluntary offerings to the Lord.
Exodus. Chpt.35. Verses 27-29.
No comments on the lines except that 1. where rituals are concerned, people have not changed after 2000+ years 2. I love onyx
On being Ritualistic- would some try blogging on it?
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Indian Abroad - Part II
The second episode is not a hi tech one. It could be funny if you try visualising it. Want to give it a shot? Then read on.
Ravi's and Rola's last destination before they crossed over to England was France. After a day of sight seeing, Rola was tired and decided to stay back in the hotel room while Ravi went for a walk. As he ambled along the street, he casually asked a person on the street if there was some place nearby which was of interest to tourists. The man replied in rapid French. Ravi understood not a word of French. Nevertheless, he walked along the direction the man had pointed to. It took him to a beach. As he walked down the beach, he saw a demarcated area. The name boards in different languages told him it was a nudists’ zone. It very strictly stated that nudists were prohibited from coming out of the segregated area. Since it was not stipulated that clothed people couldn’t enter the nudists’ area, Ravi entered and sat down on a reclining chair. A few minutes passed during which he generally enjoyed the peasant breeze and the view. Suddenly, he spotted a nude woman coming purposefully towards him. When she reached the spot where he was sitting, she stopped and said in heavily accented English, “15 dollars, please”. “What for”, asked my bewildered cousin. “You sit in chair. 15 dollars charge”. “Then I stand up’ said Ravi and got out of the chair. “No good’, she insisted, “you already sat. You must pay”. “I won’t pay”, said Ravi and he walked away. She followed him, talking sharply in French. He started running and she ran after him. He was faster and soon reached the boundary, which he crossed, but which she couldn’t, as she would be fined 50 dollars if she stepped out of the nudists’ zone. Ravi turned back and smiled at the fuming nude lady and walked away, feeling quite pleased with himself.
Ravi's and Rola's last destination before they crossed over to England was France. After a day of sight seeing, Rola was tired and decided to stay back in the hotel room while Ravi went for a walk. As he ambled along the street, he casually asked a person on the street if there was some place nearby which was of interest to tourists. The man replied in rapid French. Ravi understood not a word of French. Nevertheless, he walked along the direction the man had pointed to. It took him to a beach. As he walked down the beach, he saw a demarcated area. The name boards in different languages told him it was a nudists’ zone. It very strictly stated that nudists were prohibited from coming out of the segregated area. Since it was not stipulated that clothed people couldn’t enter the nudists’ area, Ravi entered and sat down on a reclining chair. A few minutes passed during which he generally enjoyed the peasant breeze and the view. Suddenly, he spotted a nude woman coming purposefully towards him. When she reached the spot where he was sitting, she stopped and said in heavily accented English, “15 dollars, please”. “What for”, asked my bewildered cousin. “You sit in chair. 15 dollars charge”. “Then I stand up’ said Ravi and got out of the chair. “No good’, she insisted, “you already sat. You must pay”. “I won’t pay”, said Ravi and he walked away. She followed him, talking sharply in French. He started running and she ran after him. He was faster and soon reached the boundary, which he crossed, but which she couldn’t, as she would be fined 50 dollars if she stepped out of the nudists’ zone. Ravi turned back and smiled at the fuming nude lady and walked away, feeling quite pleased with himself.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Breaking the Magic Wand
They ask me how it feels
the day after
Does it hurt?
do you miss it all?
The routine. the role,
the camaraderie
the feel of belonging.
The burden, the deadlines.
The young minds – impressionable
the puzzled frown
the joy of the idea
the starry excitement
the faces volatile as knowledge unfolds
Do I miss all that?
Strangely enough, no.
Didn’t I love it all?
I ask myself.
Where, then, are the pangs?
Ripeness is all.
Stoicism born of a second lease of life !
Life -
to be celebrated
till the last breath
Every change brings a new horizon
So, how does it feel
the day after?
Serene as I scan the new skies
words falling around me like pleasant showers
‘you gave better than your best, mom’.
‘really m'am, we are proud to be your kids - we treasure your classes – sorry if we let you down – thank you’
What more can I ask?
the day after
Does it hurt?
do you miss it all?
The routine. the role,
the camaraderie
the feel of belonging.
The burden, the deadlines.
The young minds – impressionable
the puzzled frown
the joy of the idea
the starry excitement
the faces volatile as knowledge unfolds
Do I miss all that?
Strangely enough, no.
Didn’t I love it all?
I ask myself.
Where, then, are the pangs?
Ripeness is all.
Stoicism born of a second lease of life !
Life -
to be celebrated
till the last breath
Every change brings a new horizon
So, how does it feel
the day after?
Serene as I scan the new skies
words falling around me like pleasant showers
‘you gave better than your best, mom’.
‘really m'am, we are proud to be your kids - we treasure your classes – sorry if we let you down – thank you’
What more can I ask?
Indian Abroad
My cousin Ravi and his wife Rola (names changed on request) visited me after a long time. They had relocated to a distant country and were visiting India after more than a decade. Like most people who visit India after a long time, they too were distressed about the condition of the roads, trains, buses, airports and most of all, of public toilet facilities in the country. The conversation led to the high tech facilities outside India, which make life comfortable for tourists. In this context they recalled an incident which makes me wish that someone would impress upon the Minister for Overseas Indians the imperative need to arrange orientation sessions for Indians who go abroad for the first time, in order to familiarize them with the high tech features in public facilities - or they would be caught in terribly embarrassing situations like Ravi and Rola who made their first European tour some twenty years back on a shoestring budget.
It happened in Switzerland, which, they swear, had the most sophisticated, high tech tourism facilities in the world. It was their first foreign tour and they traveled through the whole of Europe by Euro Rail. In Switzerland, while they were in transit in a station, they decided to use the paid shower facility, about which a fellow traveler had told them. It would be much cheaper than checking into a hotel to freshen up.
The minimum rate for a shower was 5 dollars for 8 minutes. Wincing at the thought of parting with 10 dollars for 2 baths, Ravi waited outside the shower unit while its door was being programmed for 8 minutes at the cash counter. As the door of the shower opened, Ravi got a brainwave. He shouted out to Rola to get into the shower along with him and take a quick bath. That way, he could kill two birds with one stone, and the other stone – 5 dollars - would remain safe in his pocket.
Rola had no time to think, ‘cos Ravi was frantically yelling out that that the door would close automatically and she would be locked out - and the poor girl literally hopped into the shower. The door closed. They quickly disrobed - and then the trouble started.
They had no inkling as to how to start the shower.
The familiar tap, which turns the shower on and off back home in India, was nowhere to be seen. They pushed/pressed/pulled every button, every lever, and every handle in the shower room, but the water refused to flow. They started a frantic search for some clue. Rola searched on her side of the wall while Ravi, searched on his, and then he literally crawled on all fours to find out if there were any hidden taps or switches or buttons on the floor. So preoccupied were they with the exercise of trying to decode the shower-operating trick that they didn’t realize that the 8 minutes were over. And horror of horrors! The door of the shower room opened automatically. Within seconds, the outer door of the shower room also opened and in walked a lady with fresh towel and soap for the use of the next customer. Her jaw dropped when she saw the two of them in the shower, in a state of total undress. What could poor Ravi and Rola do other than strike that classic Adam and Eve post-sin pose?
Rola, however, was the first to recover. Sheepishly, she asked the lady how to operate the shower. The lady was very helpful and assured them that she’d extend the time for another 8 minutes and left but not before looking at them with a mischievous smile and remarking “Indians having fun?”
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