The Lankan Tamil Crisis - Reconstructed from Memory & Hearsay

I gained first hand information of the Sri Lankan Tamil crisis in the early 70s. The college in Chennai where I did my PG had Sri Lankan Tamils who told stories about how essential items in the Tamil dominated North east region cost four times more than they did in the rest of Sri Lanka. Items like sanitary pads were available only in the black market - at a ridiculously exorbitant prize. These students used to carry home dried chillies, essential spices from the then Madras when they went home.

So a problem was there. It was genuine, I realized. The political murders that Sri Lanka was infamous for had a background that could not be dismissed. There was some sort of an economic embargo in the Tamil areas which made life difficult for them.

I do not know when exactly LTTE and its supremo caught my attention. But I do remember thinking that a separatist movement was ineveitable. That view was based on my interaction with my Sri Lankan Tamil friends a few years earlier.

Velupally Prabhakaran caught my attention – don’t know when - ‘cos of the name. My father had a friend called Velupilla. You know for some reasons certain names stick in your mind on account of quite insignificant associations. Gradually Prabhakaran began to haunt my imagination. The media took care of it.

The stories of his personality, his ruthlessness crept into my consciousness from the magazines and newspapers of which I was once an avid reader. I could empathize with the cause – the end- for which he fought. My friends from college and their tales never really deserted me. But I grew angry with his methods – the means.

I love Christ.
I love Gandhi.
And Prabhakaran did not fit in this company.

Imagine killing people by garlanding them with burning tyres! No cause justifies such brutality.

And then Rajiv Gandhi happened.

In fact, the people with whom I shared my views on current issues had all expressed anxiety about Rajiv Gandhi playing with fire when he invited Prabhakaran to Delhi and messed around with him. One does not turn a traitor on a person like Prabhakaran and get away with it. We became more anxious when the IPKF became the foe of both LTTE and The Sri Lankan government. with it.

Our anxieties soon translated into reality. Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated.

LTTE was messing around with our leaders, our sovreignity. Of course we were all angry.

Stories about LTTE reached us from our friends working in the Gulf and Saudi. They told us how Sri Lankan Tamils there - from house maids to top executives – had to contribute to LTTE funds under threat of harm to their loved ones back home!

Whatever little sympathy I had with for this terror outfit and their cause faded away without my knowing it.

And then of course there was the issue brewing trouble on our doorstep. Tamilnadu politicians were making hay while the sun shone. They continue to do it – espousing the Sri Lankan Tamil cause- now that elections are in the offing. The flip-flops by the leaders of the DMK and its variations, the filmy fast unto death drama by Karunanidhi, no doubt after getting unofficial information that qualitative ceasefire is about to happen, and the dramatic break of the fast on the Marina beach like a well scripted film – it’s sick. Absolutely sick.

A gigantic humanitarian crisis exists. The Lankan army cannot be blamed. No nation can tolerate separatist movement. No Indian political group should support separatist movement. But Tamilnadu has always done it (especially when the atmosphere gets charged with electioneering) and got away with it.

The LTTE cannot be justified. It’s cowardly to use human shields comprising even children and the aged. The honourable thing for the militants to do is to lay down arms, and for Prabhakaran, to surrender.

This is my take There could be inaccuracies as it is reconstructed from memory and my understanding of the situation. However, I can safely claim that this is the take of the average apolitical Indian citizen of my generation on this issue.

a jumbled but honest confession

Dhanya picked me or picked on me for the HONEST SCRAP award. tank you dhanya. am flattered. but i wish the award came without a prize tag. nevertheless, here i go fulfilling the first condition - to list 10 honest things about myself

i always think the creator made a mistake
while allotting me my gender.

while learning needlework in the Nazareth convent
i have yearned to be out there
climbing trees like my brothers
or playing cricket
or scream from the galleries during santosh trophy.


i have wished i could jump into the periyar river
like my brothers
with only swimming trunks on
and not that horrendous five metre swimming dress
my mother designed for me.

i now wish i had listened to my father
and taken economics instead of literature.
my encounter with literature would then have been
much more pleasurable.
And i'd have been able to talk intelligently on the recession.
tho' must confess i secretly fear i'd not have graduated
had i listened to my father.
My cerebral capacity has its limits.

I'm glad i had the guts to allow my children
to follow their passion for economics and chemistry
tho i'll make that confession only in the blogsphere.
sour grapes, the world would say
'cos they are not doctors or engineers.

i always wonder what people with truckloads of money
do with it.
and why they need so much money.
all those stars and sports stars with the millions.
maybe i'll stop wondering if i make that kind of money.

between twelve and twenty five
i've asked my maker
why he didn't add another two inches to my stature.
I wouldnt have had to hobble around on high heels.

i love blogging.
tho i wish i could write a novel
and have the felicity of expression
and honesty
of arundathi roy and kamala das.

there was a time when i wished
i were beautiful
and brilliant
and talented
and admired
and envied.

today, i am glad to be just alive and kicking.
it's nice to be around still
in this beautiful world.

now for the next condition:
Choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Or improvise by including bloggers who have no idea who you are because you don’t have seven friends. Show the seven random victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog. Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon.

Arun, Aswadhy, Chandy, Jina, Sujatha, Silverine, Mathew

my seven blogger friends - do forgive for harassing you.

The Idle Mind

I am an idler. I love doing nothing. When I travel by train, I’m in a hurry to finish reading whatever reading material I have with me so that I can spend the rest of the journey looking out of the window and allowing thoughts to wander wherever they wish.

I love looking at the landscape that flies past and allow it to play on my thoughts which, in turn, take me to regions inaccessible to man.

As a kid, I have traveled to the world of stars on wings which I got on request from my fairy godmother. I have seen my self as Heidi wandering up the hill and down the dale tending my sheep. I have seen myself as Jill, wearing outlandish British clothes and going up and down with Jack, carrying water in the pail.

As I grew older, I loved to dream of shocking my Malayalam teacher by answering all the questions she put to me, and reading like Chitra who was the teacher’s pet. I have, with glee, seen myself punching that boy on the nose when he complained I was copying from him the multiplication table for three fourth.What I actually did was to hit him on the head with my slate and then was made to kneel down for two periods till I apologized to him. The forced apology made me want to see his nose bleed like my brother told me it happens when boxers punch each other on the nose.

Around this time, I’d have delightful visions of my music teacher Sr. R (who used to shake me up as though I were a rag doll) going up in the air (like I saw in some Tintin comic), as the dynamite on which she sat went off. Of course, I would have had a hand in the dynamite finding itself on her chair.

In high school, I saw myself topping the class and being the envy of Bharathi Balasubramianam who always topped the class. I would also see myself surprising the PT teacher who always admired my never-say-die spirit, by beating Vandana by one metre in the 100 metres race from which, in reality, I always got chucked out in the very first heat.

Still older, I saw myself as a tall and slim airhostess (in reality my stature has always reminded me of the teapot of the nursery rhyme fame), going around serving in the flight, with a charming smile on my face, impervious to the envious admiration of all the female passengers. Around this time. I’ve also seen myself acting in Hindi films. Of course, I’d be stunning, wearing a midnight blue chiffon saree with sequins work on it and dance around the trees with the hero who would keep a minimum distance of six feet from me (so much for my puritanical Nazrane upbringing).

As I grew older, I saw myself - - well. I think I’ll skip that or my near and dear ones who read this will say ambadi kalli. ivulu kollamalloo –

And then there was a time when I saw myself as a globe trotting professor, sporting a dark horn rimmed specks, delivering lectures is the most prestigious universities in the world, the talk of the town, the pride of my community and family. Of course this vision presented itself mostly during my commuting days as I sat (if I managed to find a seat) in the Madras Mail looking out of the window (if I got a window seat and not a space into which I squeezed my seat and did the a magnificent balancing act to prevent myself from falling off), after the superhuman one hour feat of cooking breakfast for the family, packing lunch for the children, preparing snacks for teatime, taking a shower, draping starched saree, jumping into the car whose engine would be kept running by my tense husband and charging into the ladies compartment as the train started moving. Whew!

And then, as I grew older still and more acquainted with the ways of the world, of politics and governance in my beloved country, my dreams took a dangerous turn with sting operations and Suresh Gopi/For the People style of violence dominating them.

My dreams grew toxic.

I stop here. The last thing I want to do is to poison the blogsphere.

Namaste!

I finished my business at my daughter’s school and walked down to the bus stop at the junction just a stone's throw from the school.

It was a beautiful junction. A gigantic tree stood in front of a temple, and spread its branches right across the street. The tree was easily more than 100 yrs old. I stood in its shade, my eyes running over the trunk for some label indicating its age. I found none.

I waited under the tree on that hot day, but enjoyed the wait.

Then it happened the first time.

A car pulled up across the street, bang opposite where I was standing. A gentleman looked out, joined his hands in a namaste. There was an expression of deep devotion in his eyes. Without thinking, I acknowledged the namaste with my own. The car drove off.

I was puzzled. Why did he greet me? Did I know him?

As I stood there trying to solve the mystery, another car pulled up. There was a repeat performance, both on the driver’s part and mine.

No sooner had that car left than another one stopped opposite me. Again that reverential namaste, and I, though flustered, reciprocated.

By now I was confused. And alarmed. Just the previous week Doordarshan had aired Satyajit Ray’s Devi, in which the head of the family gets a vision that the new bahu is a Devi. I tried to remember how my face looked in the mirror before I left the house. Yes, I sported a gigantic Sringar Bindi (Size 1) as also the scarlet red Sindhur. Could it be that -- - - -I brushed aside the silly thought from my mind.

And then another car stopped. This time it was an antique Benz. The person sitting in the back seat rolled down the dark tinted glass and looked out. Apparently he was a Tamilian, and wore a safari suit. The namaste again accompanied an intensely worshipful look, with eyes shut for a few seconds. The glass rolled up again, and the car sped away.

I was totally perplexed and terrible uneasy. I was more or less convinced that I was being mistaken for a Devi? I started looking around for an auto.

Before I could hail the auto that was cruising down the street, another car stopped, right in front of me and not across the road as it was going in the opposite direction. The man sitting in the back seat looked out with joined hands. Automatically my palms too joined in a low confidence namaste.

And then I noticed that he was not looking at me but at something behind me.

I whirled around to discover/remember that I was standing right in front of a temple whose deity was prominently visible. I remembered someone say that the deity of that temple was a very powerful one.

Catch Them Young and Safeguard Secularism: The Need For A Central Board For Regulating Textbook Contents

http://www.hindu.com/2009/04/15/stories/2009041555871100.htm


I remember, as a school going child, my day at school began with India is my country, all Indians are my brothers and sisters being shouted out in as many pitches as there were students in the general assembly in the quadrangle. The immense beauty of that cacophony!!

That practice, sadly enough, appears to have vanished from schools now.

I do not know if this practice was prevalent in all the states in the country, but as a student in schools in Kerala and Tamilnadu , I remember vying with the students around me to be heard when I proclaimed my Indianness, my fellow feelings for the other Indians and my love for my country. It was a good practice. It had a subliminal effect on me, and had a role in creating a sacrosanct aura around the concept of ALL INDIANS ARE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS, irrespective of caste and creed.

The site given above, which appeared in Hindu op - ed page a couple of days ago, is indeed distressing. It talks about injecting communalism in the minds of unformed, tender minds of children in Gujarat as a strategy to usher in Ram Rajya. Indoctrinating communalism in young minds can ensure only intolerance and violence in these future citizens. We see it happening with the Taliban and other fanatical religious groups. The world is reaping the harvest of uncontrolled violence sown through ‘religious’ instruction divorced from secular humanitarian values. An irony, ‘cos religion cannot be divorced from these values.

Now, the RSS-run publishing house in Gujarat has taken a leaf out of this practice of catching them young and poisoning their minds. Yes. It is poison. Hatred is poison. Any text that legitimizes and officialises hatred and violence is poison. Detoxification of the collective mind raised on such ‘righteous’ hatred and violence is a near impossibility. The process of communalizing the tender minds of Gujarat is in full swing now, if the article is to be believed. The motive is political – to ensure vote bank in future for a divisive political outfit.

The centre must step in. Not only in Gujarat but in all states and monitor and regulate the text books prescribed for schools, right from the nursery where, in some states, it is reported that pictures are shown demonizing minority groups.

We need a central regulatory board, totally apolitical in nature, comprising intellectuals of renown. The Board should have a set term and should not be dismantled every time the Central Government changes. Political appointments should not be entertained. Regarding the text books, social studies and history text books should have the same content through out the country The state specific chapters and lessons should be designed by the state board which should be governed by the central board. The content and syllabus designed by the State Boards should be prescribed and published only after getting the approval of the Central board. The state boards should be given strict guidelines to conform to ALL- INDIANS- ARE- MY- BROTHERS- AND- SISTERS CONCEPT.

I wonder if this sounds crazy but unless some bold step like this is taken, India’s secular credentials will become history. The process of sabotaging it is already in the works. A generation anchored in lethal communal ideology is emerging in Gujarat while intellectuals and industrialists sing paeans to the Gujarat mode of Development.

I foresee the type of comments this post will throw up. I will be questioned on why I have no problem with Christian indoctrination and Christian nations’ indulgence in violence through history, or the cracking down on the Sikhs after Indira Gandhi’s death, or Islamic terrorism. Why single out Gujarat alone?

My answer is this. I do have a problem with all this. I do have a problem with every religious or political outfit that brainwashes young minds into accepting hatred as a laudable emotion, and violence as a permissible tool for achieving desired ends. No religion justifies violence and murder. True, Christian nations from the middle ages onwards have indulged in the worst form of violence in the form of Crusades, Holy inquisition etc. But these are shameful chapters in the history of civilization which no one should emulate. These dark, cruel and shameful happenings should not be used as justification or precedence for inculcating hatred among people. The attack on the Sikhs or terrorists attack elsewhere in India are no justification for a State government to officially indulge in the type of indoctrination in the name of Hinduism which is a great religion of peace, a religion which does not provide space for violence. The engineering of the text books to create a generation of hate filled Hindus is NOT the way to counter Islamic terrorism. My problem with Gujarat is that communal politics is slowly but surely gaining legitimacy there, and the path is being made clear to make possible a theocratic state within ten years. For within a decade these fledglings who are being systematically indoctrinated through schools will become competent practitioners of communal politics characterized by hatred, violence and exclusionism.

Let’s remember that much quoted saying that an eye for an eye makes the world go blind. Gujarat is heading for this blindness, for seeds of vengeful hatred are being systematically sown in the minds of the children by the official machinery. All that talk about the sensational and successful development agenda of the Gujarat Government is a ruse to deflect attention from this dangerous, long term strategy to destroy the secular fabric of India.

Are Mallu Males Perverts? The Answer - Straight from the Horse's Mouth

Today, i got a very interesting response to my post titled ARE MALLU MALES PERVERTS?. Click on the link below to read my post.
http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/05/are-mallus-malesperverts.html

Here's the response- a confession, rather:

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Are Mallu Males Perverts?":

every word in this blog is sad but true . Being brought up in Cochin I have done many things which I feel ashamed of now - How ever those days the general attitude of the crowd is to look at every women as a object for pleasure - even though we had good female friends, the moment we are out from their company the natural attitude is to look and strip ever women in the street . In crowded places we have shown atmost vulgarity too - The point is men/boys in general thinks it is OK to do that - After leaving Kerala and living in a different state/country 1. Feel sad and ashamed of how I treated women. 2. Feel pity for all the women in Kerala . All the movies during those times made sure women was abused and pushed down and glorified all that "Very Macho "" !! It is not that I have become a Saint now - I still ogle women - How ever I make sure I dont stare at them constanly and look at them when they are not watching . And stopped taking advantage of the situation where they are in - totally! - even started helping women to some extend - Finally a piece of advise to all Mallu men -If you have even the slightest intention of getting a girl the only way is to show some decent behaviour - Think with your head and not with your co##

Random Thoughts on Elections 09 - Shashi Tharoor, Advani, Narendra Modi et al

The man who jumped on to a rath and traveled from Kanyakumari to Ayodhya to demolish a mosque and let loose communal disharmony in the country now writes to religious leaders swearing to protect “the multi-faith spiritual heritage of India if voted to power”. Not that people don’t change over the years. Had his present posture been prefaced by an apology for his role as the architect of a divided nation, his words would have carried conviction. As of now, one can only say that Advani sure has a perverted and cruel sense of humour!

* * * * *

Coming out of the church after midnight mass on Easter, I collected the longish card that was being distributed at the gate of the church. Distributing novena or prayer cards after service is a common practice. I looked at it to find Shashi Tharoor smiling up at me under an overhanging konna branch with a hand symbol beside his face, wishing me a happy Easter and Vishu. I felt happy. Is it symbolic that this should be given out on Easter? It is predictive of the resurrection of morality in public life in India? Ha ha, if wishes were horses - - - Anyway, Sashi Tharoor’s face is the most visible one in Trivandrum. Congress posters are all over the place and very very prominently pasted. A very different face (he’ll make an excellent poster boy for anti-aging creams, I must say). Taken from many imaginative angles. Seemingly innocent of the filth that distorts the image of our politicians. Once he gets elected (a foregone conclusion or wishful thinking?) will he turn out to be a Dorian Gray? God forbid, but such is my faith in the polity of my dear country.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, netas - of left, right and Centre (read Congress)-are descending all over the state bullshitting the same old stale or toxic crap. When will they realize that they cannot fool all the people all the time?

* * * * *

Elsewhere in the country, Narendra Modi comes up with a metaphor reminiscent of Hitler’s holocaust policy. Congress, being an old lady, is of no use to the country, he says. There is grave danger lurking in this metaphor. In the Jewish concentration camps, the category consisting of the old, the women and children were marked out for the first rounds of gas chambering, ‘cos their utility value was none. If metaphors are windows which expose the hidden recesses of the human mind, Modi is a danger man who can subvert the humanitarian values that form the foundation of a civilized society. And, oh God, he has his eyes on New Delhi!

Maundy Thursday and Indriappam

I have always loved the Maundy Thursday. While it is not all about Indriappam (Kerala version of unleavened bread) and the pesaha paalu (Passover milk), it is also about them. A Maundy Thursday without them is unthinkable to me.

For this pesaha, my maid was on leave. I know many nazarane families have given up this practice of making appam and paalu – but not for a moment did I think of not making it. My eighty plus ammachi (mother-in-law) with poor eyesight and a weak heart and I, still treated like cut glass after my brush with cancer, decided that maid or no maid, appam and paalu we shall make. How can you think of Maundy Thursday without them?

Why is it so, I wonder.

My earliest memory of the Indriyappam and paalu goes back to the days in DARE HOUSE, where I lived from the age of four to ten. The Maundy Thursdays have always been the same. Ichayan (my father) at the head of the table and amma and eight children sitting on both sides of the big dining table. A short prayer and then Ichayan symbolically cuts the first made Indriappam which has a cross on it from two small pieces of palm leaf received on Palm Sunday. Then amma takes over; cuts that appam into as many pieces as there are people seated at the table and staff in the house. Ichayan then dips each piece in the Paalu and gives to each of us and the staff of the house.

The practice is identical in my husband’s house too. I suppose it is the same in all Nazrane houses.

To come back to the question, why is it that I am so particular about this practice? Why is it that I am filled with a sense of guilt? sadness? whenever I have remotely contemplated skipping this custom just for once?

I suppose nostalgia has something to do with it. Sitting around the table for this ritual always takes me back to the many many years we’d done this before. As we children grew up and flew away one by one, the number around the table dwindled. On some Maundy Thursdays, our little nephew and nieces would come home for the breaking of the unleavened bread. Their young bright faces and enthusiasm and chatter would make up for the missing siblings. There were times when my brothers’ friends joined us for this ritual. Yes. There was plenty for the mind to wander and linger over. Nostalgia is certainly not innocent of complicity in creating that compulsive need to perpetuate the practice.

But that is not all. There is something more to it, something more compulsive than nostalgia, something which admonishes the mind when it toys with the idea of skipping the practice. That something has a deeper appeal, but I cannot put my finger on it. The emotions evoked by it defy clear definition but I will try to analyse them here and now.

I think it has something to do with the shared knowledge in the collective consciousness of the nazranes who, for generations have been fed on the Biblical story of Jehovah’s protective arm over the chosen people in slavery, which the feast of the Passover commemorates. Equally if not more important is the fact that it is a reenactment the Last Supper. The text is translated into action year after year in the family on Maundy Thursday, and the whole ritual brings with it a complex interplay of tradition, myth, shared knowledge and spiritual experience which constitute the sense of nazrane identity.

And thus it was that we got the neighbour's maid to grate coconuts. The rest, the two of us managed.

By one thirty indriappam and pasaha paalu were ready.

Once again achachan (my ninety four year old father-in-law) cut the indriappam i.e. broke the bread -unleavened one on this day.

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

Why is he in the fray at all?

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

My take on Tharoor

He is a true global Indian.

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

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

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

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

Why should we elect him?

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

Let’s look at each of these problems.

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

He is too westernized in his thinking

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

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

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

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

Will he win?

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

A word of advice to Tharoor from a well wisher.

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

Wish you success Mr. Shashi Tharoor

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Chilled in Venice and Capuccino

“It will be windy”, Antonio, the travel agent’s local man who accompanied us through the tour in Italy, had cautioned us. “Put on something warm”.

So I pulled the sweater over the salwar suit. My feminist husband who turns macho when it comes to braving inclement weather, chose, however, to wear a half sleeved shirt, and , as a concession (I was nagging) a sleeveless sweater. I must say he looked quite handsome!

As we entered the bus, I noticed that most of our friends were also clothed as though to beat a mildly chilly weather. Of course, none was as inadequately dressed for the weather as my dear husband.

The short walk from the hotel to the bus was brrrrr cold! I got nervous and offered to run up to the room and get the windcheater and the cap for both of us. As expected, the hubby vetoed contemptuously with an upward turn of the left corner of his mouth.

WE soon reached the spot where we had to alight from the bus to board the boat that was to take us to ST. Marks Square.

As we walked, the realization hit us with the bitterly cold blast that greeted us, that we had seriously underrated the weather. It was windy all right but the wind bore no resemblance whatsoever to the welcome breeze or even the occasional chilly wind of our tropical homes. This was terrible - felt as though someone was shoveling ice on me as I walked along. I looked around and saw everybody shivering shamelessly. Some were trying to control the jaws which went kadakadakada.

“They should have told us it’ll be this cold”, someone grumbled.
“They dihidihidihid”, voice unsteady.
“They should have told us it’ll be freezing cold! Pah”

As we waited for the boat, we noticed that the water between the jetty and wall was full of rotting leaves.

The Keralites among us tried to make a joke of Venice being the Alleppey of the west but couldn’t get to the end of the joke as our voices dwindled off into a freezing halt. We tried to smile at each other but ended up grimacing.

I looked anxiously at my husband. He grinned at me nonchalantly, but I thought I saw something laboured in that grin.

“Not freezing?”, I asked him.
“Will survive, don’t worry”. Casually.

The boat arrived and a batch of Chinese tourists came out. All of them looked double their size from the layers and layers of clothes they had wrapped themselves in. Their headgear reminded me of the pictures of Eskimos. And as they passed us, they were grinning at us and at each other, hugely amused at us, the poor tropical creatures, shaking and shivering and crouching in the most undignified manner.

The boat was warm and soon we were in our elements. The view on either side was incredible. It felt as if we were moving through the medieval ages. Cameras were clicking furiously but I sat back and enjoyed the feel – the feel of traveling through some age in the remote past, the feel of the romance of a bygone era.

Oh, it was lovely.

How well these Italians have preserved their heritage! The centuries old structures were well maintained. How well developed is their tourism industry. Why can’t we also do this, I thought sadly. We too have an equally great heritage to preserve. Why don’t we get our act together like these people who are so proud of their history and heritage?

WE reached the jetty near St. Marks Square where the guide was waiting for us. Out of the warmth of the boat, we restarted the uncontrollable shivering act. I saw hands disappearing into the sweaters, noses turning red, teeth chattering as people listened to the very competent guide who was least impressed by our frozen condition. She herself was in a great overcoat with a furry collar, and wore a warm monkey cap which covered her ears well (It took all my self control to restrain myself from snatching it off her head and running away with it). She wore knee high boots, and here we were with nothing more than trousers or jeans or churidars or salwars between us and that sadistically biting wind that was, without let up, sending millions of tiny sharp icy darts.

Needless to say, the square was simply out of this world. Soon it was dark and the lights came. The sight took our breath away –the lights were symmetrically arranged for the best effect. The bell tower, St. Marks Church churches with stunning carvings and pillars – oh, it was all so richly carved with figures from history, myth and religion. Only, we were freezing and wanted to get into a warm place to revive our blood flow which, by then, was beginning to get congealed.

My poor husband by then had given up all his macho pretensions, and was making funny sounds.

“What is it?” I asked.
“Chumma” he said, like Mohanlal.
“What are those strange sounds you are making?”
“Hei, it’s nothing”, he said. He tried that lopsided grin which froze half way thru. I noticed the goose bumps on his arms. He was the only human being in that crowded square who had any part of the anatomy exposed to the stinging wind. I noticed that he too was becoming an item of tourists interest.

I wanted to gloat and tell him “Serves you right”. But I didn’t. After all, I can’t behave as though there is no tomorrow.

Soon, it was time for the gondola ride. We chose not to go. Another couple from Kerala too decided to stay back. We were not sure if we could handle the cold(When the group returned after the ride, they told us that the gondola ride was warmer than standing in the Square). Besides, it was dark and the visibility was almost nil. The guide told us that it was worth going just to feel and hear the sound of the water lapping on the sides of the gondola. Well. We have traveled enough times in the snake boats back home in Kuttanaad. So there was no novelty in the experience, we Keralites who chose to stay back consoled ourselves. It was a different thing if we could see the banks, which, the guide had told us, was not possible in that fading light.

So we hung around in the square while the others went for the gondola ride. The ground floor off the pavement of the square was full of shops where Italian jewelry, Murano glass items and a whole lot of other things were very attractively displayed. We tried window shopping. The rates appeared whopping, particularly when we converted euros to rupees; I guess our frozen state too had something to do with the rates appearing prohibitive.

“Let’s get into a café and have something to drink”, I suggested. “It’ll be warm and coffee will warm us up”

We got into a café and ordered cappuccino coffee. We were thrilled at the prospect of sitting in the warm café and sipping little by little piping hot coffee. Soon the order came. Each of us was served, without exaggeration, half an ounce of bitter coffee! We masked our utter dismay behind a poker face while it was being placed on the table. I even managed a sweet thank you in the direction of the waitress. After all, we are the brand ambassadors of our country!

I wish I had taken pictures of our expressions as we looked at the half ounce blackish coffee and then at each other.

“Maybe more will come”, I said hopefully.
“Mmn. kaathirunno” (you can wait forever for it), my friend said.

We tried sipping the coffee slowly but none of us could go beyond one and a half sips. It was over! One and a half sips for two euros!!(More that Rs.120).

“We came in for the warmth. Let’s think that we are paying for getting away from the cold”, I said weakly. After all it was my bright idea to walk into a restaurant and sip a giant cup of piping hot coffee and feel the warmth seep through your body and thaw the frozen blood. I had to come up with some justification.

All the three nodded somberly in unison.

Looking back, we realized that we should have freaked out on some good food and stopped converting. But I think it takes a few days of transacting in the unfamiliar currency to be able to do that. The Venice trip was in the evening of the day we landed in Italy.

And of course, our brains too were frozen, disabling sensible thinking. It takes sometime to handle the alien climate of an alien place too.

Renaissance Visited

I saw. I really and truly saw. With my own eyes.

I saw the Statue of David and the Pieta. I actually stood before them and looked at them. And thought of what the sculptor believed - that a form was always trapped in a stone, and the sculptors job was to liberate it from the stone!

I saw Buonnarotti’s aesthetic extravaganza on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel and on the wall behind the altar.

As a child I had seen them in that gigantic hardbound album of classical art which I couldn’t lift. So heavy it was. My brother Vakkachayan had acquired it from somewhere and it was my favourite pastime turning its pages, from the first to the last and reading the captions and the explanatory notes. Every picture in that book of paintings from the 11th century to the 19th century had a long story behind it. My brother told me many of them, and I poured over those pages almost every day. The Sistine Chapel paintings and the statue of David, I remember, made me blush. I remember the domestic help once teased me for looking at ‘obscene’ pictures.

But last week I saw them all. In flesh and blood(!?). And I looked and looked.

No. I have no trained eye for art. But the idea. Yes. It is the idea that held me enthralled. The idea I had passed on to my students year after year when I introduced them to the Italian Renaissance, the precursor to the English.

Looking up, with my head at right angle to the body, at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the heavily crowded room where cameras were not permitted. I remembered the numerous stories about Michael Angelo. The Agony and the Ecstasy. The spirit of Renaissance reflected in the strange but exquisite co habitation of the Hellenic and Hebraic achieved in the paintings and sculptures of the period. The liberation of art from the straight-jacketed demands of an austere religion. All that I read (without fully comprehending) and taught as part of my profession came crowding into my mind. The feeling was strange. It was like a nostalgia for something I have never seen or experienced – perhaps a nostalgia for an imaginary world I was forced to inhabit as one of the imperatives of my occupation, and which eventually entered my soul and became part of me.

Maybe I’m not making sense.

The Return of the Natives - Are You Ready, Kerala?

The reverse flow has begun. The NRIs who kept Kerala going through the ‘Money Order Economy’ are returning in hordes/hoards to Kerala.

Is Kerala ready for them? The Government is offering rehabilitation packages. But how effective they will be, time alone can tell.

But one thing is certain. Kerala will be hit below the belt with the return of these people who buttressed for decades a comparatively non-income generating state. These Non resident Indians slogged it out in the Middle East, Europe, Africa and the USA to sustain a lazy and arrogant people back home. Now, Kerala will not take kindly to their return. And, these people cannot be rehabilitated unless the proverbial Kerala mindset undergoes a sea change, and a climate is created for investing money in business in Kerala

This brings to my mind an incident I witnessed in 1986, while traveling from Trivandrum to Changanasserry in a bus.

The bus stopped in some place after Kottarkara, and a well dressed man in his early forties alighted. I had the window seat and so I had a good view of the gripping drama which unfolded outside.

Apparently, the passenger was employed in the Gulf and had come home for a vacation. He had boarded the bus from the Trivandrum airport. As he got down, the kili unloaded his suitcases from the top of the bus, and left them in the waiting shed. In the meanwhile, the man had hailed a cab and was about to load the suitcases into the cab when a group of head load workers (hereafter will be referred to as attimaris) circled him. The man very politely said that he didn’t need anyone’s help to put those suitcases into the cab. The attimaris became aggressive. Some raised their voices. Others began to get abusive with the taxi driver, threatening dire consequences if he transported the passenger.
.
“How much”, the passenger asked. Still polite.
“RS. 200” (it was in the eighties, mind you).
The passenger smiled and said, “Come on, brother, you must be joking”. He then offered to give them some money for a cup of tea for each of them.
The attimariwallas became nasty. They laughed raucously; their language and body language changed

“Let’s see if you leave this spot without giving us what we asked”, one of them challenged in the most belligerent, offensive hateful manner.
Another man put his hands on the suitcases.
And then something happened which stunned us.
All on a sudden, without any warning whatsoever, a great transformation came over the passenger. From a polite, peace loving soft-spoken man trying to arrive at a compromise with the attimariwallas , he metamorphosed into a raging bull!
“Take your hands off my box”, he thundered.
Believe it or not, the attimarywalla jerked his hands away as though the suitcases were white hot.
“I slog it out in the desert sun for days and months”, he continued, unstoppable by now, “and you guys cooling your heels here want a share of what I made with my sweat, eh?”(Literal translation)
Then, he unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt and pushed them up his arms, clenched his fist and said, loud and clear in a deadly calm flat voice.
“Come. Who wants 200 hundred rupees? Come and take what I have to give”, he said.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. The attimaris moved back in a group, looked at each other. Then one of them looked at the cab driver and said, “Go on, take him to whichever hell he wants to go to”. Then looking at his fellow headload workers, he said”Let’s not waste time on these good for nothing people”, and they walked off.

Our bus left the stop at this point. The driver, conductor and the passengers were eagerly waiting to see how this drama would end, and I must say that all were happy with the ending.

As the journey continued, I remembered a report which had come in the Malayala Manorama a few days earlier.

A foreign tourist landed in Kochin airport. As luggage, he had only a back pack and a sophisticated video camera with its accessories. The attimaris surrounded him as he came out of the restricted area and told him that as head load workers, it was their right to carry the video camera as it was a fairly big piece of baggage. A fellow passenger, whom the foreigner approached for an explanation of their demands, explained to him the practice of attimary.

The visitor thanked him and walked back to the airport, bought a ticket for the next flight out of Kochin - to Goa.

A Manorama reporter met him at the Goa airport and asked him what made him come to Goa.

“There is no Atti Mary (sounded like attic without the last k sound and Mary, the name) in Goa”, he said.

Things haven't changed in Kerala still. The situation is as bad if not worse.

Now, back to the return of the diasporic population of Kerala, the situation is grim not only for them, but also for the state. Predictions are very disturbing. The most pessimistic prophets of doom see the state plunging headlong into the worst economic abyss with inflation, unemployment, crime rate and suicide rate reaching an all time high. With the elections in the offing, these issues are non-issues to leaders and political parties who, by now, should already have set afoot policies to preempt the projected alarming fallout of global meltdown.

But then, it is too much to expect from our netas a feeling of an urgent need to address these issues. What does it matter to them if the state economy crumbles like a pack of cards? Or trauma grips people across the classes? Or men, women, children succumb in despair to the tribulations of a failed economy?

With political support, unionized labour, Associations of officers and clerical unions in the public sector will continue to agitate for their pound of flesh, totally impervious to the fact that they are highly privileged with an all time high salary, perks and job security in times when retrenchment across the globe is casting dark shadows of uncertainty and insecurity across God’s own country. And what does it matter to our callous netas if this state and its people go to the dogs?

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

He belongs to that endangered species among politicians called Statesmen.

He is clean.

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

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

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

I hope they are listening.

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

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

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

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

May their tribe increase.

Every Woman Has Her Day?

We have come a long way.
The road ahead is longer
And the ordeals tougher, we are told.

Next is flogging in the maidan
Or is it stoning unto death?
That depends, we are told
On whatever it is that suits Him.

Still ahead it’s begging
By the dusty streets
Of busy towns.
But our manicured hands would betray us.
Though the purdah would shield our wounded pride.

Tougher ones will follow, we are told.
Their numbers ever increasing
Like the hydra headed monster
Two replacing every decapitated one.

Will the ordeals ever end?
Will our destination
Remain ever elusive?

And our protests?
Will they remain ever drowned
In the silence of despair and fear?

Media and Terror

It is strange how media is playing in to the hands of the terrorists; and how the government is doing nothing to correct it.

Every act of terror is a statement. A major component of the modus operandi of terrorist activities is to go for maximum publicity. The perpetrators want the statement to travel far and wide, and the media is meekly obliging them.

Media tenaciously clings to its rights – the right of expression, the freedom of the Press, and thrashes out at the government when it places restrictions in the best interest of its trouble shooting operations. This we saw during the Mumbai terror attack. There are many who believe that the situation could have been handled with much less causality had the media not been so keen on updates which were being fed to the high tech terrorists through cell phones. In the name of the freedom of the fourth estate, the media cooperated with terrorists, without meaning to. Apparently, media’s concern was only with its own inalienable rights. But, if an exercise of their rights can be achieved only at the cost of general weal, rights no longer remains RIGHTS. Rights stops being rights the minute they encroach on the legitimate welfare and safety of others. But with the cutthroat competition that channels and print media face, one up mannish attitude prevails, but no sense or sense of propriety and discretion. Responsible behavior is often compromised. And most of the time, the dramatic and melodaramatic reporting and the clever punch lines which might win journalistic acclaim are also what the terrorists want to elicit from these passionate guardians of democratic rights.

As for the government, it lives in such terror of the media that it refuses to take a firm stand with it. With some elections round the corner all the time, the government will not jeopardize its position by earning the ire of the all powerful media, which can make or break its chances of reelection.

The result? The media becomes partners in terrorism and the government just watches helplessly.

Ideally, when terror strikes as it did in Mumbai and Lahore, the media should refuse to give it coverage. Of course, it should be reported but no visuals, no discussions till the situation is under control. As a matter of policy, refuse to give terror the visibility it craves for. But invariably, what happens, inadvertently though, is the glamourisation of the terror act, and more often than not, the viewer ends up developing a sneaking admiration for the terrorist’s modus operandi and professionalism. This is exactly what the terror merchants want to tell the world. They want to sell the idea of their professionalism and preparedness to take on the world.

On its own initiative, media will not restrain itself to the extent of withholding visuals and emotional reporting by high profile journalists. A national disaster that can enhance its viewership will be looked upon as a kill, as the occasion and moment to attract sponsorship. For the media, patriotism is only second to commercialism.

So the initiaitive should come from the government. It should either take the media into confidence and arrive at an understanding on how it should behave in times of terror strikes, or it should declare a state of emergency as it is constitutionally entitled to do during war time. For terrorism is war. No denying that. Only, the nature of warfare is different.

Needless to say, all countries battling terror or not supporting it, should do this. Nations of the world should agree on this policy of regulating media behaviour during terror attacks in any part of the world. Otherwise, an effort in this direction by one country will be rendered futile. I know this idea sounds wild and unthinkable and naïve. But the way terrorism is growing across the globe, the governments will have to tread hitherto untravelled paths to combat this danger. Depriving terrorism of publicity is not a complete solution, but is definitely a part of it. No stones must be left unturned to drain terrorism of its life blood.

To Smile or Not to Smile

‘What does a smile cost you?’ asked my mother-in-law when I told her about running into a neighbour from our hometown, outside the supermarket. My brother had been with me and we were coming out of the Complex compound when this middle aged thin man started walking towards us, looking as though he wanted to speak to me.

‘Looks like one of those well dressed tramps who come with sob stories and end up asking for money”, I told my brother under my breath. I had remembered a similar story told to me by one of my colleagues just two days before.

The man, walking quickly towards us, reached us. I noticed that my brother was about to say something to him. But the man was already asking me with a smile if I were so & so's daughter-in-law and so & so’s wife.
Yes, I told him. He then identified himself. He was our neighbour back home ( obscenely rich, i remebered the name) and when I didn’t return his smile, he thought he should come up and identify himself.

“How stupid you are”, protested my brother, totally annoyed. “I was about to ask him for some money. That’s the best way to drive off decent looking mendicants”.

My mother-in-law had a good laugh when i my narrated this incident. She tried to imagine the situation where my brother beat him to it and asked him for money, and the explanations I would have had to concoct to be seen in the company of a man who asks for money from total strangers. “Surely, you cant tell him you mistook him for a beggar; also, you can’t also introduce M as your brother too”. Wiping tears of laughter, she advised me not to be so miserly with my smile.
“Nobody will smile at you if they don’t know you; You have such a terrible memory for faces. So just smile back. It costs you nothing. Otherwise you’ll offend people”, she said.

Yes, after all, what does a smile cost me I thought. And I practised her advice, smiled at everybody who smiled at me, whether I knew her/him or not.

And then, one day, at the railway station of the small town where I worked, I was waiting for the Madras Mail. My friends from the other colleges and offices hadn’t yet arrived. So I sat on the bench, and looked around.

Then I saw him.

A tall square faced man with light eyes. I knew I had seen him somewhere. He looked very very familiar. I must have been staring at him for I saw him look straight at me. Then I saw a hint of a smile on his face.

I gave him a broad, charming smile.

I usually look away after smiling at a person whom I didn’t recognize. But before I could do it, I saw a startled expression on his face. Then he too smiled. And started walking towards me.

I was desperately trying to remember who he was, where I had seen him but couldn’t. He sat on the other end of the bench. I looked at him, hoping to place him from the conversation. He turned his head and smiled hesitantly. Suddenly, like a bolt of thunder lighting up the sky, the truth was revealed to me. Yes, yes, with that same abruptness that the law of buoyancy exploded on Archemedes, and which made him rush down through the streets of Greece in a state of undress!

In flash, I knew why he looked familiar.

He looked exactly like Kapil Dev who was a much fêted celebrity then, and so was among the most visible faces in India.

That’s why he looked familiar!

Disaster! I didn’t know the man, and I had smiled at him!

I jumped up from the bench and walked quickly towards the book shop, and searched and bought a magazine I did not want. As I turned to leave the shop, I saw the man standing behind me. Then I rushed to the soft drink counter of the railway canteen and asked for a Fanta, stood there and drank it. Turning around, I saw him standing there, too.

I panicked. As usual I started knocking at heaven’s gate to pull me out of the mess I had got myself into. “Please, pleeeease, God. Deliver me from this stalker!”, I pleaded.

Tanta daang! At the entrance of the platform, my friends appeared – six or seven of them! And they stepped on to the platform laughing and talking.

I bolted towards them.

I must have looked flustered, ‘cos they asked what the matter was. Without looking at the man, I told them that the man standing near the refreshment counter was stalking me.

There were a few very bold ladies among them and they decided to handle him. I pleaded with them not to.

“That’s why these rascals behave like this. They get away with everything ‘cos women don’t react.
“No. no. Listen to me first and then decide whether to give him a dressing down’.

I told him about the blunder I made. They had a good laugh.

“Never smile at a man unless you are 200% sure you know him”, they advised.

Times must have changed a lot since my mother-in-law’s days, I thought ruefully.

Ever since, I don’t smile, even at my husband, if I see him outside the house unless I’m sure it’s him and not someone who resembles him.

Slumdog Millionare Should not Have Won the Oscar?

Netizens have received the Slumdog Millionaire’s achievements with mixed feelings. Opinions are divided almost 50/50 between those who feel the film deserved the accolades it received and those who feel it didn’t. Now the print media has begun reflecting the views of those who believe that the film got more attention than it deserved.

I haven’t seen the movie yet, so am not in a position to talk about its merits. But the logic that informs the negative responses deserves to be looked into. Take a look at this excerpt from the link I have given at the bottom of the page.

Other than Slumdog, I have seen only one film out of the other four nominated. But I've read about all of them. The one that I saw is The Reader. The subject is far more intellectually challenging, emotionally moving and morally disturbing than Slumdog can ever hope to be. - - - -
But look at the themes of the other movies that were nominated this year. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, the love story of a man who is born as an extreme geriatric and keeps getting younger and dies as a newborn. Only for a brief period of time are the man and his beloved around the same compatible age. Of course it's an impossible concept and completely unbelievable, but it's a high concept. Milk is about the first openly gay man to be elected to public office in the United States; Frost/Nixon about the first interview disgraced US President Richard Nixon gave, to has-been TV journalist David Frost. For both of them, it is a chance for redemption, for a somewhat sane life. These are all big themes. I am not doubting Slumdog's quality as a film in any way. Danny Boyle is one of the most talented directors around. But comparing Slumdog to The Reader is almost impossible. It's like comparing A Christmas Carol to Great Expectations.

Scrooge won, little Pip lost. But that's the way it has been with the Oscars

Interesting, isn’t it? But the reference to “a high Concept” and “big themes”, and the purportedly reductive comparison of Slumdog Millionaire to A Christmas Carol betray the grip on the author of certain notions of canonicity and high culture.

If the problem cited is with the execution of the film, I have no arguments against it. But that’s not the case. He writes: I am not doubting Slumdog's quality as a film in any way. Danny Boyle is one of the most talented directors around,. So that’s not the issue. The issue is the theme of the movie. It’s a problem with the size and height of the theme.

Now, who is to decide how to hierarchize the quality and importance of themes? True, the reverse development of Benjamin Button is strange, curious, interesting and daring. The predicament of a gay public figure in Milk and the intense moral drama of Frost/Nixon are sensitive, challenging and intellectually appealing themes.

What about the theme of Slumdog Millionaire? Is it trivial? A social problem best swept under the red carpet of the Oscar venue?

On two scores, the comparison to Charles Dicken's Christmas Carol is appropriate. 1. In Victorian England, the novel revived a new interest in the spirit of Christmas which was being reduced to a mere bash by those who enjoyed the fruits of the Industrial Revolution. 2. Though a fantasy tale, it was a emphatic censure of the social evils thrown up by the Industrial Revolution. In a fabular style, The Christmas Carol poses the question to the conscience of Victorian England turning a blind eye to huge marginalisation of human beings. And the question is one that is hugely relevant today, in these days of a corporate friendly mode of development across the globe. And the question Scrooge puts to the ghost is “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The answer Scrooge gets is “Yes. You are.”

Well, Slum Dog poses the same question. Is that question any less relevant than how challenged people or gays or the privileged deal with their life situations?

Is the issue of sixty percent of a city’s people living in slums something that can be dismissed on account of its lack of intellectual appeal? In what sense is it not a high or big theme?

Or is it that, by Hollywood standards, it is a low budget film?

What/who decides the height and size of a theme?

Aren’t we Indians angry because the film defamiliarizes the ugly reality of the underdogs of our society? Because it causes the film to fall off from the eyes of us, the twenty first century Scrooges?

http://in.news.yahoo.com/48/20090224/1241/top-it-shouldn-t-have-won.html

Stray Afterthoughts on India at the Oscars.

I was waiting for the euphoria to die down somewhat.

It feels great. We always knew that AR Rahman was a rare genius. I love music but have little or no knowledge of its science. But one doesn’t have to be a music academic to know that AR Rahman is the rarest of gems. I can never forget the first the first time I heard Chinna China Asai in Tamil. I was checking university papers. The song stunned me into inaction, suspended all my senses except that of hearing. It was nothing like I’d ever heard before. The novelty of it – the sounds and their management, the sound of water?, a brook tripping over stones? all captured in a harmony that I was sure would suspend the motions of the stars. Such was the total effect. It was incredible. Listening to Chinna Chinna Asai for the first time was an experience - of a sensation coursing through my blood; it was not just an act of listening to a composition. It was like being part of a hitherto unheard harmony of strange sounds descending from another galaxy. When Ar Rahman tamilised Beethoven in Thiruda Thiruda, I was bewildered, dazed, and ecstatic. The space between systems of music seems to collapsed totally.

Now, of course, the novelty has worn off.

However, we didn’t need an Oscar to tell us what AR Rahman’s place was in the world of music. But we are happy that he got this recognition.

But it took an Oscar and other international awards for Pookutty to make us realize that the ‘technicians’ are/have to be artists par excellence, that there is a high degree of aesthetics involved in the role of these technicians. I remember, more than twenty years ago, my very intelligent niece Anita was very vociferous on this issue. Strange, it took a quarter of a century and an Oscar to make me realise how truly she had spoken.

Both the Oscar award winners carried themselves with extreme dignity and confidence at the function and after.

But our own dear Anil Kapoor. What on earth got into him! On several occasions he made us go red- eared! But what took the cake was his excited declaration ('Guess who came on the stage after the best movie was announced?' Anil Kapoor -) that Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russel came to the stage to congratulate the Slum Dog team, that Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt came to his house(?), “they didn’t know who I was, they didn’t even know I'm an actor - - –“!!!??? He was incoherent with excitement.

Oh, he embarrassed us, to say the least. Why doesn’t he realize that the adulation of millions of his countrymen is a greater recognition than a few Hollywood stars shaking hands with him?

And so back to my pet theme. When will we recover from this colonial hangover?

Thank You, Resul Pookutty.

I come from a country and civilisation that gave the world the word that is preceded by silence and is followed by more silence. That word is 'Om'. So I dedicate this award to my country," said Kerala-born sound technician. This is not just a sound award but a piece of history that has been handed over to me.

Thank you, Resul Pookutty. Not just for the Oscar, but for going out there and proclaiming to the whole world, and to India in particular that he is an Indian, he is proud to be an Indian and that the Indian heritage is his too, despite being a Muslim.

He went a step further. He dedicated the Oscar to India as a gift on the day of the great festival of Sivarathri which India was celebrating while the Oscar function was going on.

He represents the true spirit of India , that secular backbone of the Indian psyche which holds this country together despite the concerted efforts of agents with petty political agenda to polarize this great nation on communal lines.

His speech took me back to my college days when we were Indians first.

Thank you Pookutty. May your tribe increase.

Two Great Men - Dr. Aiyyappa Panikar and

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

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

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

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

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

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

GUILT

I was reading in the Yahoo news the reaction of boys who live in the slums to The Slum dog Millionaire.

‘After watching Slum dog Millionaire with intense concentration, barely moving from his cross-legged position on the floor, 12-year-old Vijay Kumar, a rag picker around Old Delhi railway station, grinned: "I really enjoyed it. It shows my life, the way children like me eat and sleep together, how we live”’

‘Asked if the film was 'true', they exclaimed 'yes!’ That's what slums are like, that's how the police harass us, that's how some boys get into crime or glue-sniffing, that's how middlemen approach us and ask us to entice children to be sold to gangs, that's how we share our food and help one another’.

I’ve lived in Mumbai for almost six years. I still go to that big city on and off. Yet, if you ask me about the ‘street urchins’, I’ll hardly be able to tell you anything about them. After reading this bit of news I made an effort. A serious one to recall some contact or conversation I had with them. A couple of instances came to my mind but looking back at those made me feel ‘not good’. Did it take a Britisher(I have not yet seen the movie) to open my eyes to that terrible reality for which, I too, as a citizen, is responsible, which, I too could have seen if I had opened my eyes wide enough?

A brief conversation I had with a boy was way back in 1999. The cab in which I was travelling had stopped at the traffic signal at Peddar Road. I saw the cover of a thick book pressed against the window of the cab, which I rolled down ‘cos I wanted to buy the book. The boy – about 10 or twelve- was repeating mechanically “STAREPORT, SO RUPIYA (Star Report, 100 Rupees). Hundred rupees was dirt cheap for a book on Kenneth Star’s investigation into Clinton’s sexapades, which was released in the US just the previous day, and I opened my purse. The boy’s eyes lighted up. But my friend who was travelling with me in the cab asked me not to buy it. Though she spoke in Malayalam, the boy got a clue that she was dissuading me from buying. ‘Stareprt, so Rupiya’ he raised his voice. There was plea in it. ”Madam. Hundred rupees only, madam, hundred Rupees only” he begged. “Don’t buy it Molly. It’ll be sleazy. Your children will read it if you take it home”. I hesitated. By then the boy was pleading in both English and Hindi. The signal changed and the car moved with the boy running along with the car repeating “hundred rupee only madam, only hundred rupee”. I looked straight ‘cos I couldn’t buy it even in I had wanted to. The taxi had gathered speed and I had to fish out money from the wallet in the hand bag. So I turned deaf and blind and sat back as though the boy did not exist.

There was an almost identical experience at a signal at Bandra. This time, he had a bunch of beautiful fresh roses for a mere Rs. 15. I had opened my handbag to look for the wallet when the same friend told me that the flowers are stolen from the graveyard. Something about that put me off and I repeated my performance at the Peddar Road signal. This time too, as the taxi gathered speed, I turned deaf and blind and sat back as though the boy did not exist.

I do not know how I’ll explain my self to the Almighty when the day of reckoning comes.

These are but a couple of incidents, and they point to an unpleasant truth that I am living in an oasis of plenty amidst a wasteland of hunger and want. Don’t the oases have a tradition of keeping their resources open for the hungry and thirsty and shelterless travellers?

Disturbing questions which I push aside - for I want to continue to violate the tradition of sharing the oasis with the less fortunate travellers of the desert!

But these seizures of guilt return over and over again – only to be to be calmed and controlled by the drugs of convenient theories and pragmatic philosophies.

Babuchayan, My Brother

On February 1, 2005, Babuchayan passed away. He was Father Abraham to the world, but to us, he was Babuchayan, our brother. He was the eldest and I, the last but one in the family of eight. He joined the seminary after graduation, but used to come home twice or thrice a year, and whenever he came, it was always like the old times.

Sure he was intelligent, but was not the most brilliant of human beings. But he reached heights that are denied even to the most brilliant of the brilliant. Both in worldly and otherworldly achievements, and also in the hearts of the people he dealt with.

Being the first born, he was intensely conscious of his position and responsibility. But that couldn’t suppress his joie de vivre. Like those occasions when we siblings cracked jokes that a priest was not supposed to appreciate. He would hoist that very serious look on to his countenance to mask his struggle to contain laughter, and would admonish us like a good priest should, till one of us told him something like “Come on Babuchayan, you better laugh or your sides will burst”. His control would then crack and he would dissolve into helpless laughter, and in the intervals of the paroxysms of merriment, he would say ”Naughty jokes, you must not crack such naughty jokes”

One of my earliest memories of him goes back to the time I was around 5 or 6. The radio was in his room, and for some reason, he disapproved of my sister listening to it for too long. I still can’t figure out if this is on account of patriarchal hangover or because he thought she should be studying. On this occasion, he had gone out for his evening walk. My sister sneaked into his room to listen to the radio, keeping me posted in the balcony to announce his return. As soon as I saw him open the gate, I ran in and informed her, and she quickly switched off the radio, ran into her room and buried her head in her books. Babuchayan came into his room, and immediately put the back of his four fingers on the radio (like we check the temperature of a person), and then marched into my sisters room.
“Were you listening to the radio?”
“No. I was studying”
“Then how come the radio is hot?”
“I don’t know”
To me,” Was she listening to the radio?” I was too young to have learnt the art of saying white lies, and blurted out the truth.
He shook his index finger at her saying, “Just you wait. I’ll tell amma”.

I have fond memories of him which take me back now to an afternoon in the drawing room of our house where my brothers and I were having post lunch gossip and fun session. One of my brothers asked me to get something to eat from the larder. I came back with a large plate full of laddoos, and all of them pounced on it. Then Babuchayan made an announcement.
“For one week we’ll give Molly some rest. We won’t make her run errands. Even girls need a break”, he said.

I wanted to fling myself on him and give him a bear hug but, he, being averse to any such demonstrations of affection, would have jumped up and run for his life had I tried. So I limited myself to just clapping my hands joyfully and looked gleefully at the disapproval writ large on the faces of my siblings closer to me in age. That one week that followed was bliss. That’s when I got an inkling as to what it feels like being a male child in a Nazrane family!

After his ordination, he was posted as the assistant parish priest in a big parish in the Nilgiris district. He was so earnest to do, to the best of his ability, his duty to his Lord and Master that he visited all the homes of his parishioners twice, on foot, within the space of six months, at the end of which period he fell ill with over exhaustion.

His next appointment as the Vice Principal and then the Principal of a boy’s school in the diocese brought out the dynamic person in him which we had not seen before. He had a major role to play, right from getting students for the school in the year it was founded to its development as one of the most innovative schools in that town. He was the first to introduce yoga, computer courses, and classical Indian dance in boys’ schools in that district.

In the late 80s he organized a national Chess tournament in the Nilgiris District. He got the public sector banks and companies to sponsor it. Young Viswanath Anand and the then big names like Dibayendu Barua and Manual Aron were some of the participants. Difficult to think of a priest, even today, taking such initiatives.

He was the member of the Lions Club. He encouraged his teachers too to take membership in clubs. I got this information from a teacher who worked with him. As we stood outside the IC unit two days before my brother died, he told me this:

“I was a shy person from a remote village in Tamilnadu. A month after I joined, Father arranged to have me inducted into the Rotary Club. Seeing my reluctance, he explained ‘You are good at your work but you need some more exposure when you deal with the type of students who come to this school. Besides, it’s good for your growth too’”. He continued “He made me what I am today. You talk to the other teachers who worked with him. They’ll also tell you similar stories’

From the conversation I had with the stream of visitors who came from his diocese and school in Nilgiris, I came to know, for the first time, of the enormity of the monetary help he had been giving to individuals, both lay and religious, and to institutions, after he rook leave from the diocese to work in the USA. “No one who approached him for help was turned away”, his close friend, a priest, told me.

All this was news to us siblings ‘cos he never told us about this. I now wish I had known this. May be then there would have been another dimension to the great regard I had for him – you know that special reverence that we always have for an altruistic person. To me, he had always been my brother Babuchayan, always generous with advice and admonitions, laughing uncontrollably at the jokes we cracked, scolding me for giving up the music lessons after seven years of training – scolding me not just once when I did it, but every time he saw me in the 35 years after that.

“You should not have stopped”, he said rolling his eyes in his typical angry way. “To be able to play piano is such a rare thing in our country. If you had perfected that skill, you could have made plenty of money giving lessons and helped people in need with that extra money. Besides, it is a kala. No. you should not have stopped. You should not have stopped” Almost the same words each time he saw me all those 35 years after I took the decision to stop getting trained in piano.

Last September, I started music lessons again, after 35 years. As I was going for the first lesson, I remembered his words and found myself thinking wistfully that had he been around, I could tell him. I smiled to myself thinking of his reaction and his “you should not have stopped” encore.

In the funeral address delivered by the officiating Bishop from his diocese, there were repeated references to the enormous monetary contribution my brother made to various worthy and humanitarian causes in the diocese. We siblings looked at each other. Why we were kept in the dark, I wondered. A true follower of Christ, I guess. The left hand should not know what the right hand was doing.

During his hospitalization, all who visited him from Nilgiris spoke of his ‘innocence”. Strange word, I thought, to describe a 66 year old person. But yes. He was that. Innocent. Not really a man of this world in many ways. He thought the world was a good place and a good person could do good things if he set his mind to it. He didn’t know how to hide his feelings. He was so transparent that you would know if he was angry or happy or nervous or amused or tense or embarrassed. No. Babuchayan could never conceal his feeling. Childlike. That’s what he was. A simple, honest, straightforward, innocent person with a tremendous drive and confidence in himself which made him rush in – with success too- into areas that the average person would hesitate to tread.

When he was finally laid to rest in Kochin, we, his siblings, stood around the grave, our feelings under iron control and maintaining a poised demeanor. As the casket was lowered, suddenly his colleagues from the school and his friends from the diocese where he worked burst out in unison. loud and clear into a Tamil song, tears streaming down their faces!!

That’s when I realised that they have seen a side of him which we siblings didn’t get an opportunity to see. There was much more to Father Abraham than the Babuchayan we knew and loved and still miss after three years.