Remembering from the margins 11 - Music lessons

I come from a musically talented family. My paternal uncle had had a brief stint with playback singing in the nascent stage of Malayalam cinema. Another uncle who died young was said to be a wizard with musical instruments. The story goes that he used to try all sorts of stunts with them - playing tunes on the harmonuium with his nose being the least difficult of them all!!!!!!!!!!!
All my siblings were comfortable in the world of music. So was/am I- to say we were comfortable, I guess, is an understatement. We love it – given the choice and encouragement, some at least would have taken up professions in it – but in our conservative Syrian catholic culture music , though encouraged, was always secondary to more important, serious pursuits.
Fortunately for us, our parents believed that proficiency in music was a desirable accomplishment. So some sort of music teacher would be in and out of our house all the time. Carnatic music was not our favourite ‘cos of the absence of glamour in our young doubly colonized world filled with western pop and hindi film music. So, when the Bhagavathar came to give lessons in Carnatic music to my two brothers immediately older and younger to me, the tendency was always to find reasons to get rid of him for the day. But getting rid of him, they never succeeded in - father would get into a fit of rage at the very suggestion. So they would sit thru it. I used to take the coffee up to the room where the classes were held. On one occasion, I saw my bothers making comical faces when the Bhagavathar, on their request, was rendering a piece, with his eyes rapturously closed. When he opened his eyes at the end of it, my brothers had appropriate expressions on their faces – soulful, ecstatic which seemed to me more comical than the faces they were making! But the Bhagavathar was immensely pleased by their response and went away a happy man that day. However, on another occasion, he opened his eyes midway and caught them red-handed. Needless to say, he reported the case to my mother. Guess that’s when mom decided the she would no longer be the cause for casting pearls - - - - - - -
But I was not as lucky as my brothers. It was at the beginning of my fifth standard that my mother got the bright idea that I should take piano lessons. I was not against the idea. I was given to a lot of day dreaming and I soon began to imagine myself at the piano before a large and distinguished audience and then the thunderous applause at the end of the performance. The idea really appealed to me. So it was that I was taken by my class teacher to Sister Redempta, one of the two music teachers we had in the convent school.
I saw Sister Redempta and my heart sank. I had just that morning finished reading an illustrated Sleeping Beauty, and sister reminded me of the picture of witch Malice kicking the cat out of her way!!!! Sister Redempta must have been six and a half feet long, or so she seemed to the diminutive person that I was. At least, she was the tallest person I had ever seen in my life. She was thin as thin can be. Her aged and lined face tapered down to a sharply pointed chin with a few long gray and black hair on it. She wore the dark brown habit of the nuns and wore stiletto heeled shoes. I had never seen a nun wearing stiletto heels and they fascinated me. So I stared at her shoes and she jumped up and down in a flurry thinking some reptile was heading towards her feet. Then she looked unpleasantly at me for making her do a violent tap dance.
Sr. Redempta was all that I was terrified of. She spoke no Malayalam. She was strict. She never, never, smiled!!!! And she had a temper. A terrible temper. She used to rap me on my knuckles when I repeatedly made the same mistakes. I was too scared to tell her I made them because I was terrified of her and so was extremely nervous. In fact, I had never conversed with her – couldn’t think of doing such a thing. In fact I couldn’t think of anyone having a normal conversation with her.
Things were ok in the initial days. Then as the lessons became tougher, and she got impatient and I got nervous and made mistakes and she got angry and angrier, life became a nightmare for me. I tried telling my mother that but she paid no heed to it – she thought I was acting up. The worst part was, the music lessons were from nine to ten. The students who came early to school would shout and yell and play orange salami, be quick, the king in the palace lost his ring etc etc, and there I would be sitting beside the scary Sister Redempta, being shouted at, rapped on the knuckles.
In my sixth standard it was worse. My music lessons were in the ante room of my class room and there was only a parapet high jhalf wall partition between these two rooms. My class mates would lean on the half-wall and watch my ordeal. This would make me even more nervous. And to make things worse, I was a being trained for the second grade Trinity College exam, and the pressure to perform was very high. So I would keep on making mistakes, Sister would keep gettig angry - and one day she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me like they describe in the Enid Blyton books –shook me and shook me as if I were a rag doll and my friends laughed and laughed and Sister Redempta got more and more disgusted. Finally she let go and I collapsed on the key board with a loud jarring sound. She got up and went away in disgust. And I picked myself up and continued practice with whatever dignity I could muster. Left to myself, I didn’t make a single mistake! I pleaded with my mother to permit me to discontinue my piano lessons. She agreed but said I should appear for the exam and then only give it up. Unfortunately, I cleared the exam with Honours and my mother changed her mind. After all promises to children are meant to be broken ‘cos parents know best.

Bush at kolahalamedu or Teachers' day out

I wrote this piece for the college magazine. The editors thew it out. Gross, they said. And that too writing such things about teachers!!

Dr. Sister Marty was in her elements. From the word go, she had the mike in her hand, entertaining the excursion group with her mock performance as a tourist guide. It was the teachers' day out and we decided to really let our hair down. No wards and so no need for any masks. No image to live up to - all worries of household management left behind for the day with the husbands. An unreal situation - too good to be true - so there we were, singing our way to our destination Kolahalamedu.

Dr. Sr. Marty saw to it that there was a never dull moment, or a silent moment. Her running commentary, the deliberately stilted language sent us into peals of laughter. We were looking for the slightest excuse to burst into laughter - suddenly all seemed to realise that laughter is the best medicine for all teacher specific ailments - - - --

Now, what are they? these teacher specific ailments? Well, they manifest in different forms . So it's easier to talk about the cause. I guess, it has to do with the teacher being condemned to the same wrong side of the desk throughout her career. And that side of the desk throws up certain expectations. We are perfect - the role models for the wards. And so we are for ever tucking our clay feet away from the sight of the students - does anyone realise what an awkward predicament it is to be obsessed with keeping one's feet out of sight?

And then again, the teacher is the friend, philosopher and guide, all rolled into one. To have such a mighty role thrust upon her on the day the mantle of a teacher falls on her in her early twenties is a terrible thing to happen - the wonder of it is we didn’t crack up under this burden of expectations. Her survival instincts, however, always come to her rescue - she changes her stripes to merge with the environment. The young girl who believed in freaking out suddenly learns to ostentatiously look askance at the very mention of the very term. She learns to mask her speech with euphemisms. She learns to hide her real self behind the mask, which seemed to appear from nowhere. She discovers a dimension to herself, which she didn't know existed. She sometimes marvels at herself - at the way she grew into an image. At other times she feels revolted by the hypocrisy of it all. The fluctuating moods, however, never surface - all glee & grimace are well hidden behind the mask. The MASK - it's like the pair of glasses, which is not a part of you but is very much part of you. That's not you but you are not you without it. You can't function without it.

So, back to Kolahalamedu. Guess it's the freedom from the mask that made us giggly headed. Some had come in the outfit forbidden for teachers - the salwar suit, and all the way to the hills we screamed and yelled the way students do when we shepherd them on their excursions. We played anthakshari. You should have seen the way teachers were grabbing at the mike to belt out the songs!!!! We discovered that one of the youngsters was an excellent singer and were exaggeratedly excited about it. The mike went around while the teachers shared jokes, experiences, and we laughed at each of them, whether they were funny or not.

We were approaching Kolahalamedu. Sr.Marty resumed her commentary and then - - - - dropped that statement.

'There are bushes at Kolahalamedu"

She is a Botany prof. Must be of botanical interest, I thought.

Her commentary continued without any more references to the bushes. She waxed eloquent on the beauty of the landscape and spoke of the glory of living close to nature. Then, as the bus reached the destination, she said “Bush, Bush".

I was confused.

I racked my brains. Could it be something like the burning biblical bush? After all Kolahalamedu was just a stone throw from Kurusumala Ashram. Or could it be some far fetched reference to the American president, who, despite himself, dominated our imagination for all the wrong reasons? No way!

The bus stopped. Sr. Marty announced one last time “Bush, Bush".

The teachers alighted. Wisdom dawned on me as I saw them go up the hills and each disappear behind a bush.

Soon, I too followed suit.

WHITEFIELD: A SHANGRILA DESTROYED

Thirty years ago, when the name Whitefield was mentioned at home as a possible place to relocate to, it was to me just an English sounding name in the neighbouring state. Little did I think then that this sleepy little suburban village of Bangalore would create in me feelings of such intense nostalgia even today, a quarter of a century after leaving that place.
Strangely enough, not everyone residing in Whitefield responded to the place the way I did. Many who did not belong there but lived there for reasons of employment had plenty to complain. ( If all you need from life is bread, butter and beef, then Whitefield is just the place for you, Mr. Godrej used to grumble). But to me, time seemed to stand still – I seemed to have gone back some seventy-five years to a corner of colonial India where a number of Englishmen (who did not return to their motherland) settled down for a retired life.
Not that there was a single white man or woman in Whitefield – at least there were none to my knowledge. But there were a few hundred old Anglo Indian couples living there, and many of them had a Briton for an immediate parent. Far away from the rush of the city, they lived clinging to their British ancestry. They read with avid interest British newspapers and magazines (usually back issues) and maintained a non-native life style. Their homes were the most breathtakingly beautiful cottages that I have ever seen. They maintained them with fierce loyalty and whitewashed them during Christmas.
As you passed those cottages, aromas, which triggered off memories of food that you have never eaten but only read of, greeted your nostrils. In the beautiful little church that stood on a small hill, there was English service everyday in the morning and evening. The couples in their seventies, eighties and nineties attended the evening service. I remember the formidable Mrs. Tipsol, a widow who walked smartly despite her eighty odd years, leaning ever so slightly on her stylish walking stick. She would nod her cropped snowy head briskly at every passerby who dared to greet her. She would purse her scarlet lips in deep thought as she played bridge in the Whitefield Recreation Club. She would threaten with the walking stick the measly dog, which followed her wherever she went but would never beat him.
I remember the Chartons who were on the brink of ninety. They teased each other and were still very much in love! I can never forget the twinkle in Mr. Charton’s eyes when, in reply to my polite query, he said, “Dying inch by inch, my dear, inch by inch”
After the church service, some of the couples walked to the maidan of the Inner Circle to sit on the stone benches, while some disappeared into the Recreation Club. By seven, most went home to supper and then to bed. Most of them had resisted the TV – perhaps for fear it would shatter their make-believe world.
The Inner circle comprised cottages built in a circle around the maidan. There were a few huge, shady trees that flowered in blue and violet and yellow and flame and white. The sight took one’s breath away. The neat broad mud road that ran round the maidan was bordered by amazingly out- of- this- world cottages. The sheer fairy tale beauty of the sight brought a lump to my throat. For a mind reared on illustrated nursery rhymes and Grimm’s fairy tales and Enid Blyton, Wordsworth and George Eliot, the Inner Cirle was an impossible dream come true.
The locals too somehow fitted smoothly into the picture. The Kannadiga maid who came sweatered to my house at 6am on misty mornings greeted me with a ‘Morning Ma’am’ and used most naturally English words like garlic, mutton, onion, and parsley, and could prepare to perfection soups and jelly, country captain and apple pie!
I lived for five years in a cottage with low roof and a fireplace, in the heart of a five-acre orchard. My heart skips a beat when I remember the sound of the breeze gently rustling the leaves with its mild hum at night. My immediate neighbours were a couple, both above eighty-five, both half English. They rarely invited us in but were very cordial over the wall. Mr. Rodney could be seen even at noon in his pyjamas, sitting on the stone bench under the huge shady tamarind tree. Mrs. Rodney was often seen at the door of the cottage with a ladle in her hand, yelling at her husband.
I remember with amusement the day he called me excitedly with the ‘great news’. “Big wedding coming, Molly”
“Yes, Mr. Rodney? Whose?”
“ You didn’t know?”
He opened a magazine at a full-page picture of Princess Anne and her fiancé. I smiled politely.
“ You are not excited?”
“ Oh, yes, I am, Mr. Rodney”.

Today, not all my newly acquired desi sentiments can stay me from paying this tribute to Whitefield of yesteryears. I hear that Whitefield is horribly crowded today, and many of those couples I knew have been laid to rest. Those dream cottages have given way to high rises. I shall never go to Whitefield again. I want to preserve it in my memory as a relic of what I today describe as the hated imperialism. No amount of theory or patriotism can mute the singing of my heart when I look back at those five years in that sleepy village. For, nostalgia for an imaginary world created by Jack and Jill, and Polly of the kettle fame, found fruition in my life during those years.

Remebering from the margins 1- Monsoon in kerala

Monsoon in Kerala
It’s mid May. It’s hot and humid. But I don’t mind it. The rains are not far behind. How I love the rainy season in Kerala. Have always loved it. As children, we hoped and prayed for rains so we could splash our way to school and get there drenched. The teachers would fuss over us. If we were completely drenched, they would take us to the boarding school and get spare dresses which we would change in the parlour.
And then they were the umbrellas. The excitement of buying new umbrellas – those colourful ones in yellow, red and green alternating. Oh yes, I was one for losing them and got spanked regularly but did not mind it ‘cos of the excitement of the new one I’d get the next day.
I remember a funny incident which took place when I was in the middle school. I have a brother who is a master of exaggeration. He once came home with the story of how and man carrying a milk pail was struck by lightning as he was crossing the Maharaja’s college ground. Hid body when found was blue in colour. Brother explained how metal attracts lightening and how one should not have any metal on the body if outdoors during a thundershower.
As it turned out, as I was returning home from school during the Tula Varsham, down came the rain with horrible flashes of lightening and deafening thunder. And I had an umbrella with me. As I was in the middle school, my mom thought that I was old enough for the more expensive steel umbrella, and so I was carrying metal with me that day.The image of the dead blue man kept flashing before me. I panicked. didnt know what to do with that lethal stuff- I even considered throwing it away when suddenly I realized I was right in front of a store (I still remember it. it was called Sovereign stores). The owner knew who I was as I lived just down the road. I ran into the store, folded the umbrella and asked him if he could hold it just for moment. He obliged. The minute the umbrella changed hands, I ran out of the store. I had a terrible feeling that he would follow me with the umbrella as he didn’t want to be the person to be electrocuted. I threw a quick backward glance. I still remember the utter consternation on his face as he stood there staring after me – for it was raining really really hard and there I was discarding an umbrella and running into the rain!!!
As I approached the house, I saw my mom waiting in the porch. She thought I had lost the brand new umbrella and gave me a good hiding. For some reason, I didn’t tell her what I did with it. I was ordered to change, and dry myself well before touching food. As I came down for tea, I saw my mother waiting in the dining room with the umbrella in her hand and a strange expression on her face. I refused to explain my action and I kept mulishly mum. She was thoroughly confused and told my aunt about it. My aunt interrogated me but didn’t get anything out of me. So finally they decided I did it in order to fall sick so that I could keep away from school.

Kaavya Vishwanathan - the poor little ambitious girl

I wrote this letter to the editor of Times of India before the whole story of the Kaavya Vviswanathan fiasco came out – this letter was not published. So I thought I 'll publish it in my e space without changing it ‘cos this was my spontaneous reaction on reading the story. I stand by the central idea that the girl is too young and should not have attempted publishing at all: and the media should leave her alone now.
Dear Sir
However unfortunate the Kaavya Vishwanathan episode is, one should not forget the fact that the person involved is a mere seventeen year old girl. At seventeen an aspiring writer is still very much in the workshop. At that stage of a writer's literary career, the most predominant tendency is imitative. The early works of the greatest of writers will bear testimony to this truth. None less than Shakespeare himself has used huge passages verbatim from his sources (check out the famous description of Cleopatra -,' The barge she sat etc etc'- with the original Plutarch's Lives), but of course copyright laws were not in place then. So he went on to become the Greatest!
I am inclined to believe Kaavya Vishwanathan when she says that she had internalized Megan McCafferty's novels to such a degree that sentences from them appeared in her novel without her quite realizing it. I believe her, particularly since the so-called plagiarized sentences are not ones of extraordinary literary brilliance. Working under pressure of deadline and inspiration (both have a history of going together - remember Dr.Johnson's Rasselas was written in a matter of days to meet the funeral expenses of his mother), ideas and words present themselves in an uninterrupted flow. It is in the saner moments of editing that the writer realizes that there are intertextual presences in her work. Apparently, Kaavya Viswanathan had either no time or the inclination for editing! Probably, the former. The mistake she made was in trying to get her book published before she and the book were ready for it.
Talking about plagiarism, how many books published are totally free from plagiarism? And how many have been withdrawn on the grounds of plagiarism? The withdrawal of Kaavya Viswanathan's novel could have waited till competent authorities studied Opal Mehta alongside McCafferty's novels, and ascertained that the similiraties were more than superficial. And McCafferty, being an established author ought to have been a little more generous about the episode and a liitle less hasty in crying foul- After all, imitation is the best form of praise and appreciation!
But what was most distressing about the whole episode was the unholy glee with which the media pounced on the teenager! Surely they could have been a little more charitable in dealing with the issue- or could have reserved their expert comments till real experts passed their judgement on her work.
And I do earnestly hope that this ugly, heartless episode has not caused the premature death of a literary career.

Zahira Sheik

Zahira Sheik. I feel very sad for her. She was hardly fifteen when she witnessed the carnage.Poor thingl! the terrible mistake she made was in thinking that justice was an easily available commodity in this world. Just think of what this traumatised girl had to go through in the past few years. Hounded by wolves, pressurised by well meaning activists, disowned by her community , and now perjury charge slapped on her - - - - so young and so completely robbed of a normal life.
And the behaviour of the press in her case is despicable. The unholy glee with which they pounce on this helpless victim of circumstances, the uncharitable way they treat her - the callous repeated references to her 'flip flops' - the total insensitivity to what she must be going thru ---- it's sad. very very sad!
The girl must be cursing the day she decided to do her bit to bring murderers to book.

Extra sensory preception

I am not superstitious-but i believe that a lot of what is dismissed as superstition can have a rational explanation - by and by, time and science will uncover that.
I've had some real experiences for which i cannot offer any rational explanations - like that strange one i had when i was in my early twenties and which continues to baffle me after all these years - - - -
I used to sweep and clean the veranda of our cottage every morning. On the window sill was a wooden letter box which was suposed to hang from a nail on the wall - but no nail went up on the wall - and so it was accepted that the window sill was the place for the letter box. Everyday i would take the letter box and dust it with a soft broom -and then i would start sweping.
One day, as usual, i took the broom and approached the letter box. As i neared it, I stopped suddenly. Don't ask me why - I don't know, but I kept a safe distance from it and stood looking at it. Suddenly i felt chilly and felt goose pimples all over - I could hear my heart pounding in my ears - and then i found myself raising the broom and bringing it down on the letter box. The letter box crashed face down and to my horror i saw a gigantic scorpion clinging to the back of the box.
Now I had never seen a scorpion in that house where we had lived for more than five years- i had no reaasson to suspect that there was any danger lurking behind that box i handled casually everyday.
why did i behave that way? how did i sense that i should beware of that letter box?
I dont know- but this is a true experience -
my mother's excited explaination was that it was my guardian angel - the fruit of all her prayers - - -
I dont know what to think- - Sixth sense? Extra sensory perceptions?

NOT MY DOG /EXPERIENCING AMERICA

A recent conversation with a person who returned from the US after a six month stay there got me thinking. Why am I not enamoured of that land despite the fact that more than half my family is there? These dual citizens seem to have the best of both the worlds – the developed and developing - and truckloads of money. Why is it that I can’t bring myself to accept the offers to sponsor me to become a green card holder?
Mebbe it’s patriotism ; or is it the fear of being uprooted? loss of identity?
Too tired to indulge in an introspection and an analysis. It’s past midnight and don’t have the energy for an intellectual exercise- but I don’t mind looking back at a certain experience I had in the US, which might hold a clue to the answer.
While in the US on a brief visit, I found myself walking along the waterfront in Florida early one morning. There was a row of fenced houses along the waterfront and I was walking briskly on the broad lawn between the houses and the water. All on a sudden a bulldog jumped over the low fencing of a house and charged towards me. I stood there petrified- and the dog also stopped - I got a feeling that the beast also was as scared as I was, and the thought flashed through my mind that it was ‘cos of the salwar kameez I wore which might have made me appear like an alien to that ugly creature (by the way I’m not one of those ardent animal lovers – I prefer human beings). Anyway I stood rooted to the spot for sometime staring at the dog. All right. I can’t stand there for ever – and nobody seemed to be in sight ( what on earth made me venture out all alone in this land where toddlers carry guns to the nursery?) – thought I’ll pick up a stone and looked down - the lawn was so well kept that I couldn’t find even a pebble. The creature suddenly seemed to muster some courage and started moving slowly towards me. I made motions of picking up a stone, and aimed at it. It worked - the thing jumped back and began snarling at me ( ever seen a bulldog snarling – God! don’t people have any aesthetic sense? keeping such a thing as a pet???!) . I repeated this gimmick a couple of times but soon the creature saw through my bluff and started walking towards me – God almighty, I was terrified!! Just then I saw a welcome sight- a well-built middle aged gentlemanly looking white man appeared and was jogging in the direction of the dog and me. The dog also spotted him and appeared to wait for him. I was relieved – at least I will have company in my misery. Still better, a person who will shoo away the animal. The man drew closer but did not seem to slacken his pace as he neared me – soon he was alongside me but he didn’t appear to see/care for the desperate plea in my eyes. And as he passed by me without stopping or even acknowledging the presence of a damsel in distress, I called out to him. THE DOG IS TROUBLING ME, I said. NOT MY DOG, he replied without looking at me, without even altering his pace ever so slightly!!! The days of chivalry are indeed over, thought I with a sinking heart. I felt an intense longing for India where, I felt, even a beggar would have used his stick to ward off the dog - - - - --- .
That stupid creature turned back to me and was in a mood to continue from where he had left off, when a woman came to the wicket gate and called out to the dog. It bounded back to the fence , leapt over it and walked back to the house along with the woman. It threw a couple of backward glances at me which made the woman stop in her tracks, turn around and glare at me as though I were the canine creature indulging in bullying !! God knows what she thought I was up to! Not that I care a damn!

So much for the man, the woman and the animal of the developed world!

The Beatles and me

I must have been in my early teens when the Beatle mania burst into my part of the world. John, George, Paul and Ringo filled my small world, leaving space for none else. Those were days of the turntables, spool tapes and radiograms. I used to keep the spool tape ready and wait expectantly, tensely for a Beatle number to be announced on the radio, then bounce to the tape recorder & switch it on when McCartney’s voice drifted from the radiogram, through the disturbance and all.
Of course the elders were disapproving – of the Hard Days Night and the No Reply----; and ‘when my heart went zoom’ my father's face would turn livid, and would look as though he’d have a blood vessel burst when the voice scaled higher & higher with ‘miiiiiiine!’.
It didn’t improve matters when my siblings started demanding that their trousers be stitched skin tight and they be permitted to grow hair. On the last count my father held his ground but lost out on all the rest to the Beatles. We begged and pleaded and managed a good collection of The Beatles LP's and singles.
Now, I’m well into fifties and must confess that I never really grew out of the Beatles. I have tried to analyse this lifelong obsession with this group. It’s funny, the way I sit bolt upright when I hear a Beatles number unexpectedly or the way I buy a magazine if there’s some indication that there’s an article on them inside-----. Initially, I toyed with the idea of presenting a research paper on their lyrics but soon gave up the idea because the requirements of research and its methodology can never provide space to reveal the way this alien group dominated my childhood imagination, then pursued me with different types of appeal in all stages of my life and continues to create an intense, almost unbearable nostalgia with Yesterday and And I Love Her and I should have known better------------
If you think long enough on it, it’s strange how in those days when we never saw their live performance on TV, when all we had were stills of LIFE magazines which I treasured till recently, we KNEW how they performed, how they looked in action! and the shots we saw much later were not any different from what we imagined them to be. Could it be that they are an extension of some suppressed impulse in you waiting for release?
Paul was my favorite; maybe because it was his voice that rendered all those numbers in an untrained but irresistible style, and which sent my mind thru' the English countryside that I’ve never visited. He is still capable of evoking pictures of the aging Eleanor Rigby looking out of her lonely window or a 64 year old couple in the Isle of Wight with grandchildren Vera, Chuck and Dave on their knee!
And their melody, I wish I knew enough about music to go into its intricacies. But this I know. There are very few songs that move me like And I Love Her and Yesterday. Never have I heard such absolute harmony of the sentiments and strain as in these two songs!.

jetairways

Am the type who gets weak kneed each time I have to board a flight -made a trip by jet airways recently. doesn’t help when the Titanic signature tune is played repeatedly during the course of the flight. On nearing Mumbai, the aircraft couldn’t land on account of non-availability of runway- it circled over the Mumbai airport for half an hour waiting for the signal – circled to the tune of Titanic – believe me it was horrible – one reads about coincidences – and despite my efforts, my overactive imagination went berserk and there flashed before my mind’s eye images of the next day’s newspaper with clever headlines about a disaster---kept my eyes shut tight – and then, O God, that titanic tune came floating down again- it was too much – shut my eyes even tighter and put my head down – my co passenger thought I was going to be sick and reminded me about that a bag was in the seat pocket if I wanted to throw up- didn’t respond – appealed to all the saints in the heavens – reminded St. Christopher that I had asked him before I left home to take care of me – thought I’d approach someone closer to the Almighty – Angel of God, my guardian dear - - - -cried my panicking heart – thud-bump-bump-thought it was over – my eyes flew open to catch a glimpse of this beautiful life before the flames consumed me – and then - -lo and behold!!! - we had landed -----

went to mohammed ali road after reading in the newspapers about the roadside hospitallity of rotis, tandoori chiken, mutton - - -
reached there by nine pm. is this what is meant by the term ' sea of humanity'?-women in black burkhas, men in flawlwss white and white skull caps- hundreds and hundreds of them; people like us who came to be part of this wonderful celebration of 'breaking the fast' ; rows and rows of stalls selling suits, dresses,chappals, belts, accessories, shades, hosiery-you name it! hundreds haggling, buying , moving on to the next stall- as tho they had the whole day before them- and it was well past nine!
And of course there was this aroma of roti and tandoori cooking. we waited for seats. tables were put out perpendicular on the both sides of the road with only pedestriams and two wheelers moving up and down thru the space in between. our turn came. we ordered roti, mutton cury and tandoori chicken( forgot all resolve to avoid chicken in the wake of the hype about the bird flu). Soon we were joined by a family- as soon as they took their seats, they spread on the table the newspapers they had brought along with them. they gave us a few sheets and suggested we too take this precaution against the not too clean tables. soon food came-never have i eaten such delicious preparations!
we do a lot of eating out- but this was a unique experience. looking back, i realise it's the ambience, that atmosphere charged with the feeling of camaraderie, goodwill that made it so different.
Life can be so beautiful if we can keep things at a very simple level and keep it free from the caste- creed- nationality notions and all the complexities they involve.

oh when will it suffuce?

The blasts in Delhi. Terrible. That irish poet's lines keep resonating in my mind.
Too much of sacrifice will make a stone of the heart
Oh when will it suffice?
yes, when will all this hate get spent ? it took more than two centuries for that to happen in Ireland. isnt that too long a period ? feel numb with depression. cant go on.

all about Mahatma, modi and hitler

a lot of excitement about the supreme court's decision on cow-bull-buffalo slaughtering. narendra modi's response was sensational! he triumphantly recalled that Mahatma Gandhi too recommended banning of cow slaughter. Pity, a few years back he didnt recall what the great man had to say about human slaughter....
talking about the Mahatma, went to mani bhavan last week - surely the residence (occasional tho) of the father of the nation for seventeen years deserves a better deal than that!!!!
went around the shabby rooms and saw the exhibits. saw the letter Gandhiji wrote to hitler pleading with him not to start a war! wonder if hitler ever saw that letter- wonder how he reacted.
gandhi and hitler - the two people that dominated the imagination of the last century! does anyone know what they thought of each other?

random thoughts

a term has come to an end- suddenly my hands a re full- with time to spare- cant remember all those things i promised myself i'd do when i get time-
went to the beautician and chopped my hair- i look weird - how do i face the world? i did- no one seemed to notice- except the person i wished wouldnt notice. 'how do i look?' 'great' with a pained look.
decided to knock off a few kilos-walked for an hour almost after a long time- came back and looked into the mirror - looked as if i'd shed one nth od a gram somewhere-decided to keep up the good work i began- just then came dewali goodies from my good neighbour- how did they know that crunchy cadburys was my favourite - not everyday that one gets a lavish helping of it- tommorrow is another day -shalll walk an extra half hour.

Strange feeling

I teach- i belong to the old world- but the new never ceases to fascinate me- dont want to be left behind-so here i go bloggin-
can someone tell me about bloging-i mean in what way you find it exciting? any dangers i should watch out for?
ok-why did i decide to become a blogger? well, i write -a lot- a couple of my articles saw the light of the day-the rest must have landed in the editors' trash bins - but like all aspiring scribes i think i talk sense ----

criminally enlightened!

Mr. Tharu, your journey from a caste ignorant human being to an intensely caste conscious (and apologetically so!)Syrian Christian is hardly an edifying narrative. Tragic that the ultimate outcome of academic research is the perpetuation of another discourse in the name of progressive politics.
During your ‘criminally ignorant’ days, didn’t you have friends who were dalits but to whom you attached no such label? How do you serve the cause better by imposing caste meanings retrospectively on your past interactions with them or by being born again with an identity constructed consciously in terms of the counter narrative which has been doing the rounds centres of learning for some time now?
Believe me, the patronizing condescension keeps popping up throughout the piece.
Kochuthresiamma PJ