What Anna Hazare should keep in mind

Peaceful and violent revolutions are destabilizing well-entrenched political dispensations around the world. The mood indeed is catching. It is sweeping over India too, but on a more complex level. The movement triggered off by Hazare is not a fight against suppression of man’s inalienable rights. It’s against the rot that is endangering a political system that ensures fundamental rights. And sadly, the fundamental rights are taken so much for granted that Hazare, the anti corruption messiah, allows sidelining of man’s inalienable right to existence. This we saw when he endorsed Narendra Modi, and held him up as the role model for politicians.

We, the people of India, are so fed up with corruption, and frustrated at our inability to fight it that we look up to Hazare to provide the leadership – as Gandhi and JP did once. JP’s Janata did not survive because groups whose ideologies were fundamentally incompatible were thrown together for a short-term goal of dislodging an autocratic but democratically elected leader who slaughtered fundamental rights through amendments after amendments. One good thing Janta government did in 1977 was the put in place certain built-in defences against easy declaration of Emergency.

I digress, but I wanted to make this point clear. Indian democracy is strong and indestructible, because it is a state of mind – of the people. It is not something that is superimposed on a reluctant people. It comes from within them. Hence it survived famine and poverty, violent and nonviolent left and right wing ideological invasion into its polity, dictatorship and economic lows, wars, terrorism and communalism.

Today, its greatest enemy is corruption. To repeat the cliché, corruption has become a way of life in the country. But we will not allow it to destroy us, destroy our democracy. The country has always thrown up solutions when a crisis that threatens our democracy reaches a point when it cannot but be imperatively addressed. The rise of JP is one such case. Now it is Hazare.

Hazare was destined to be. So it is absolutely important that he keeps himself above blame. He should not indulge in impulsive statements like endorsing a person who committed the worst imaginable crime against helpless humanity. He should not keep the company of people whose credentials are suspect. Not only Caesar, but his wife also should be above blame. If Bushan’s name has to be cleared, take someone else. Our country provides a billion to choose from. Bhushans may be innocent, but the country cannot wait for them to be cleared.

Hazare should not put anyone above the cause. The cause is all-important. Let him not get dragged into a minor tug of war when a great war is being fought. His loyalty is to the cause, not to those who surround him. He should be wise enough to see that efforts are being made to hijack his movement. Unless his vision his clear, his goal is clear, he will be hijacked by vested interest. The movement will then lose its momentum – and direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Narendra Modi’s letter to Anna Hazare

A strange letter. It thanks Hazare for daring to praise him, but “him” is equated with Gujarat. ‘And it was yesterday that I got the encouraging news of your expressing kind words for Gujarat and me.”

The letter betrays the desperation of a man who has been smarting for over a decade from the political ostracism he has been subjected to after the post Godhra riot. Modi uses the open letter to Hazare as a tool to rationalise his ideology. It has the endorsement of Anna Hazare, a man who is at the moment a national hero, and who reflects the frustration of the Indian citizens furious at being swindled by politicians who are worse than conmen. Modi’s effort is to project himself as the alternative to the present political dispensation in the Centre by showcasing his Development agenda at the industrial and grass root levels.

Modi is a smart man. The mood in India is one of intense anger at being swindled by the Congress led government for two terms. And the party did this hiding behind the shield of secularism they know that the people of India are fiercely possessive about. But no one can fool the people all the time. We, the people of India, are throwing up our hands in sheer helplessness at the absence of an alternative. Whom do we vote into power? The BJP? Are they any less corrupt? What about Yeddyurappa? Isn’t he going the Congress and Deve Gowda way? What’s the BJP high command doing about it? So when it comes to corruption and power, they too are of the same ilk. Only, they didn’t get as long an innings in power as the Congress to get deeply entrenched in the unspoken ideology of corruption.

So why not BJP? Speaking for myself, I’m afraid of casting my vote for a party which is professedly communal. Congress, without doubt, plays/has played the communal card. No one can deny it. But its official position in anti communal. Does that mean anything – to swear by secularism while cashing in on communal politics for votes? I think it does. A party which has a secular image to maintain will not make fascism (loosely used) the official policy of the state – as Hitler did. This party will not officially adopt an anti-minority policy as Hitler did, making anti-semeticism a national policy.

Will BJP do this once it comes to power? Probably not. The Assange leaks have shown a hardcore and vocal BJP leader confessing that Ram Mandir was only a political launching pad to catapult the party to New Delhi. Most BJP leaders have democratic values and are committed to secularism and pluralism.

But not so Modi. The post Godhra riots showed his true colours. In his letter to Hazare, he never once mentions why people vilify him. Let him categorically state that he had nothing to do with the carnage which followed the horrible torching of the train by a group of Muslims at Godhra. Let him declare that he was totally innocent of what happened, that things went out of his hands. Never once has he said that. All allegations about his government’s complicity in the pogrom have always been met by silence. When Karan Tharpar tied to get him to talk on it, he walked out of the show in a huff.

And he has been consistently making efforts to parochialise the issue by saying that the rest of India is against the people of Gujarat. There is not an element of truth in that statement. It’s Modi that India rejects, and fears. And when Gujarat keeps voting him back to power, democratic, secular India becomes anxious. What if he becomes the Prime Minister, which is not an impossibility. Modi for PM lobby is a powerful one in the BJP camp.

The very thought of Narendra Modi as the Prime Minister of India is scary.
The Indian democracy is in a precarious position today, and the Congress which has been at the helm of affairs for a long long time has itself to blame for this. Alphonse Kannanthanam, the maverick bureaucrat known for his honest ways has joined BJP. Anna Hazare a Gandhian applauds Modi. True, it’s his development agenda that he lauds, but the message is loud and clear. Ignore his human rights violations. Development at grass roots level, taking care of the villages compensate for crimes against humanity. This is the subtext of Kannanthanam joining BJP,Anna Hazare lauding Modi and the people of Gujarat voting him back again and again.

This is worrisome. Disgusted with corruption, there appears to be a shift in people’s attitude to democratic values. A willingness to compromise on the fundamentals.

This does not augur well for the great Indian democracy.

I'll miss Shikha!

Strange. She exists only in my imagination. She was born there, bred there, suffered there, evolved there. Now she has outgrown me, as children outgrow their parents. That’s how it has to be. But that doesn’t change the truth that this weaning is painful.

I’ll miss Shikha when my e novel The Holy Nazrane Family concludes this week. Once the final chapter is uploaded, the umbilical cord is severed. But then that severing took place long time back – the minute she, who was conceived in my brain, took a local habitation and a name in a Nazrane family in Chennai. She has been on her own since. I had no control over. Rather, i had only as much contol over her as a mother, in the final analysis, has over a child. True she conceives it, nurtures and protects it for nine months. But once the infant is out of the protective womb of the mother and breathes in the air of the world, it is an individual.

So was my Shikha. She grew out of me the minute she took her place in the fictional world of my novel. I saw her behaving and dong things that pained me sometimes and made me happy at other times. Many a time she did me proud too. But i must confess that there was little i could do to change her, her life, her travails. Shika is the child of my imagination, but she carried on like any human child. She developed a life of her own, views of her own. She made her mistakes and learnt from them. She suffered, battled with her own conflicts and evolved. I could only stand by and watch – unlike a reatime mother who tries to shape her child and prepare it for life, and extends a supportive hand when the child trips and falls.

A virtual mother doesn’t have that privilege. She can only watch her offspring move about in her world and suffer the trauma of developing an individuality. I could not give Shikha those warning signals. I could just watch her unfold herself and learn the lessons of life the hard way.

Wont a realtime mother make an effort to deflect the course of her child’s life when she sees the child enter the road to peril? Why then does a virtual mother refrain from this intervention?

The reason is simple and that is, the rules are different in the two worlds. The mothers of this world take upon themselves the onus of preparing the offspring for the world which lies before them like a land of dreams, but in truth is also a land of nightmares. They also take upon themselves the equally serious task of ensuring that the offspring does not travel down the road to perdition. But the virtual mother knows better. The minute her child enters the fictional world, she loses control over her. It’s her life after that, which the mother can only record.

And when she finally steps out from the final page into aery nothing, Shikha will sink into oblivion like the millions of others like her. She is not of the material that’ll go down in history.

And I’d have seen the last of her.

But, I’ll miss her.

And there’s no way of letting her know that!

Celebrate

Today is women’s day. For some strange reason, I am in an expansive mood and so not in a frame of mind to contribute my mite to the gender war today. Ever since I came out of my illness, I slip into these euphoric moods and I find myself thanking those forces which decided to give me another lease of life – not once but twice. Today is one of those days when I feel I have won the battle against the killer disease. And I celebrate life - -

When I sat in the balcony reading the newspaper over the cup of tea my Anita made for me, I felt blessed. I could without help perform my morning ablutions despite the wrist pain, which was and is doing everything in its power to distress me. I must admit that when brushing my teeth became a painful exercise, I was shaken - briefly. I was relieved when the scan showed that the pain did not belong to the onco department. It’s an ortho problem, probably the side effect of the treatment. Yes. It did distress me. Is this the shape of things to come, I wondered. Am I going to be dependent on people to even brush my teeth? Yes, I did have a few angry moments – but then that blew over. I found my own way of dealing with it. Wristband, bandage. And then of course accepting what couldn’t be wished away. I decided to will it away. Do you know accepting difficulty – even if it is physical pain- can make the difficulty ineffective? Yes. It’s true. Just don’t let the stupid pain get you. And the battle is won!

Am back to my normal self – despite the wrist pain. You know it takes some humility to accept aches and their fallout. That’s a discovery I made. ‘Listen’, I told myself. ‘What if you have to depend on others? That’s not the end of the world. Cos you are still around on this planet. You can walk, sing, listen to music, watch movies, eat drink, have fun with family and friends, be at your computer for hours, practice music (with the wrist band on) to your hearts content, read newspaper, attend the women’s meeting in the condominium, go shopping, go to the grocers and the cold storage, bake cake on Sunny’s birthday and make Chicken Maryland and Chinese chopsuey and payasam(all with help – so what?), run my home, go out for dinner with friends and family, visit friends and relatives, do Trivandrum –Kochin trip by road or train and and and. Hey, why on earth did I indulge in self pity when this wrist of mine tried to act smart? I have so much to thank God for and I crib about one small irritant!

My elation I guess is fed by all this - and the people around me. The small and big things my family does to make life easier for me. The infinite care with which Anita, my help, does things for me. (How much she has done to make every minute of my life comfortable post disease! How easily she became part of the family after she walked into my apartment four years ago asking for employment! How she lends dignity to her work! How much I have learnt from her about how to deal with life’s problems!) And her anxiety about how I’ll manage when I leave Trivandrum for good three months from now.

I wish I could come with you, she said one day.

Doesn’t matter, I told her.

How will you manage? Will you get someone there who will take care of your diet the way I do?

Don’t worry Anita. God will provide.

And I get propped up by advice from friends - both acquaintances and my net friends who came to know of my illness through my blogs. I get mails with suggestions to fortify the mind to fight the disease. These friends give me books or recommend them - and all have proved to be excellent ones for they convinced me that I am in control.

I know this is a rambling piece. Do forgive. It’s just an effort to understand why I feel elated today. Why, instead of expressing concern about the predicament of women on this day, I am celebrating life.

Celebrating life. That’s what I do. That’s what all should do. We who have a lot to celebrate. We should not wallow in self-pity for the little we don’t have. To have a sense of deprivation is part of human nature. If that is not controlled, it can spread and eat into the human personality - like cancer. The only panacea for this disorder is the age old remedy: When upon life’s billows you are tempest tossed/When you are discouraged thinking all is lost/Count you many blessing name them one by one/And it’ll surprise you what the Lord has done.

We should be able to celebrate life if we are to genuinely reach out to those for whom circumstances are not congenial for such a celebration. A discontent soul reaching out to the suffering humanity cannot do a good enough job of extending a helping hand or going that extra mile. our discontentment would chill the hearts causing insensitivity to set in. The hand extended to offer help would hurt by the roughness of its grip. The extra mile would be grudgingly travelled, and the worn out heart would make us snappy and morose.

It’s only a happy soul with song in her heart who can hear and listen to “the still sad music of humanity”.

Every Malayalee/ Keralite should read this.

This is a comment on my post I am a Malayalee. I thought we Malayalees should know how the world sees us.

Brigid said:

I am from Germany and had settled in Kerala for a year due for doing a humanities project I was doing for my job. I was very much excited to go there first because I got to explore a new culture and country, but now I must say I will never step foot in Kerala ever again. Yes, it's a beautiful place, very beautiful, but as someone said before...they don't like anyone who is not of their kind. I was brashed and harassed because I am a white person and not a malayalee..only a very few people I met were nice, but these people either were shunned out from their community as they didn't follow the expectations as they had visioned life different from the "malayalee" life, or they have been abroad elsewhere,know better how to treat people and are also disgusted by their own people. When I tried to speak in malayalam, I was made fun of and people were pointing fingers and laughing..they also act they are better than me and have stabbed me in the back before. They also love to make snobby comments in front of me because they know I don't understand malayalam. Selfish, arrogant, and very disrespectful. It's funny because when I went to Tamil Nadu and Northern India, they were very accepting and friendly..I made a lot of friends from there. I don't know what makes malayalees think they are better...but I heard from a malayalee friend, who feels the same way and is living in the US that they think they are superior than other people..this why many many malayalees born and raised abroad shun their heritage out, marry outside of Kerala and basically want nothing to do with it.and it should be understood because of the way malayalees behave. I have seen this among malayalees in northern India too..just like the US and abroad, they feel the same. Of course not all of them are like that, but a good majority of them are horrible..sorry, but until they get rid of their racist views and their backstabbing behaviors, I don't think anyone, unless you are a native of Kerala and believe in the same thinking, will ever say "I am proud to be a malayalee".

12:20 AM, February 22, 2011

THE HOLY NAZRANI FAMILY - AN E-NOVEL

My desire to write a novel saw me at the computer day in and day out for ten days in February 2010. The skeleton was over. I thought i'll fill it out at a relaxed pace. That never happened. That will not happen too. Dont feel up to it.

Then the thought came to me. Why not blog it? in this skeletal form? yeah, why not. Maybe, the brevity is ideal for a blog post.

And my efforts will not sink into oblivion.

So here i go, into the blogsphere with an e-novel about an extremely conservative Syrian Catholic family. Those who belong to this community, particularly women, will be able to relate to it, i think. Others will get a peek into this extremely rigid conservative group. Please click on the link below, and do post your comment on it.

http://e-noveltheholynazranifamily.blogspot.com/2011/02/chapter-i-miracle.html

ALL CHARACTERS APPEARING IN THIS WORK ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO REAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

The Bloodless Coup: My Emotional Take on the Egyptian Revolution

Yes, the title is a preemptive tactic against charges of me being only superficially informed and the subject not being properly researched. I write this before I read all those editorials in hard and soft media, on the quiet and peaceful dignity with which the people of Egypt drove out an autocratic ruler who had the backing of the mighty big brother and the small brother who piggy rides on him. It's an emotional response, i admit. But i would like to have it out before my feelings are tempered by common sense.

“Amazing, isn’t it Sunny, that for 18 long days such a huge movement should remain bloodless, that too after the efforts of pro Mubarak miscreants to trigger off violence?” I told my husband.

“I guess’, he said, “it has something to do with the fact that it is a very ancient civilization. The inherent strength is what we saw these past eighteen days.”

I thought he’d hit the nail on the head. Nonviolence is possible only if you are strong. That applies to an individual and a nation. I thought of how Gandhiji baffled the British, both in India and South Africa, with this weapon. It unnerves the opponent – particularly if the opponent has some redeeming human qualities unlike Hitler. Mubarak knew the game was up, particularly since he failed to incite the crowds into violence, which would have given him a reason for suppression.

Today’s newspapers carried pictures of the peopleof Egypt helping the army to clean the 18 days’ mess on the streets of Cairo!

These are a truly evolved people. Wasn’t Nonalignment Nasser’s idea? Was not Egypt the first Arab country to accept the reality called Israel? Anwar Sadat had the foresight to see that Israel had come to stay, and when you cannot avoid the inevitable, it is best to accept it. That’s the only road to peaceful co existence. He took this policy decision knowing fully well it would endanger his life. And it did. He succumbed to an assassin’s bullet like Gandhiji did. Like many champions of non violence, he too had a violent death, sacrificing his life to the idea of a nonviolent Middle-east of tomorrow.

Just a couple of days back, I had to, out of sheer courtesy, listen nonviolently:-) :-( to an Indian citizen cursing Gandhiji for accepting Muslims like brothers. I could have told her that Gandhi was being pragmatic (like Sadat when he went for a truce with Israel). I could have told her that civilizations once evolved through invasions, the violence which followed them and the eventual merging of races comprising the invader and invaded into composite cultures leading to the happy ending of peaceful coexistence . Owing to a historical phenomenon, lakhs of Muslims have become part of India. Gandhi knew that we cannot and should not wish or will our Muslim brothers away. They have as much right to the subcontinent as anyone else. So the best and the right thing to do was to see them as Indians and human beings. That’s the right way out - to make the best of a difficult situation.

But it takes strength born of an inherited inclusive philosophy to rise to such an occasion and address a crisis situation in a nonviolent way.

What happened in Egypt validates the Gandhian method of resistance. Violence strengthens the opponent. Nonviolence disarms them, in every sense of the word.

Today, India seems to have shelved Gandhi. Hence, it is heartening to see another nation following his footprints. The great man would not have lived and died in vain if the middle east became democratic in bloodless coups.

Nostrodamuses of the world have prophesied that the saviour of modern strife torn civilization would rise in the Middle East. Could this be the beginning? Would the fever for democracy that is spreading in the Middle East now result in dispensations that embrace nonviolence? Will Islamic nations which unfortunately had been stigmatized as the breeding ground for violence become the epicenter of a new political philosophy derived from the Gandhian principles of a spiritualised (not religious, please) politics, where ends do not justify means and truth will not be compromised?

One never knows - - - -

I hope the post Mubarak Egypt will not disappoint.

Mohanlal and Mammooty

Some are born great, some achieve greatness. I’d always put Maohanlal in the 1^st category – a born actor, a natural; and Mamootty in the 2^nd. There was a time I would never have believed that hard work and commitment could over take natural talent.

But it can, and it has happened in the case of these two great Malayalam actors.

Mohanlal’s movies of the 80s & early 90s had convinced me that he’d easily be among 10 greatest actors in world cinema. Sanmanasullavarku samaadhanam, Nadodikaatu series, Bharatham, Kireedam, Kilukkam, Chitram, Lal salaam, Manichitrathazhu and, and and - - incredible and extremely sensitive performances from this nonpareil of thespians. A versatile actor, a power performer, a deeply sensitive artist who, with great ease, depicted the nuances of feelings. Watching those movies is an education in acting!

And then something happened. Mohanlal stopped growing, evolving as an actor. He allowed himself to be trapped in stereotyped roles. His mannerism in every frame became predictable, typical. Whether his roles, be they in Baletan or Aeram Tanburan, or narasimhan or Ravanaprabhu, it was Mohanlal all the time - he wouldn’t take that effort to get into the skin of the character. It seemed as though the clear stream of talent, which was on its way to the vast sea and should have been fed by tributaries to grow into a large river, lost its way and got diverted to a tiny little insignificant lake which rarely survived the summer drought.

Mohanlal became repetitious. There was no variety in the roles he played to facilitate the honing of his immense talent. His choice of roles betrayed the overconfidence of a man who felt that he had proved himself as an actor and needed to do nothing more as an artist. His fortes were over exploited to the point of irritating the audience. True, he’s an excellent dancer. But the aging overweight Mohanlal prancing around was no longer a feast to the eyes.

But with Mammooty, it is a different story. That he had huge talent became obvious (to me) in Yavanika. He grew from strength to strength, taking a variety of roles – even negative roles as in Vidhayan. His Thaniyavarhtanam, Ponthan mada, Mrigaya, Valsalyam, are some of the films which testify to the infinite variety that this artist is capable of. His unforgettable performance as Kottayam Kunjachan was strengthened by his phonetic skills to absorb regional dialects and convey them convincingly.

I would say that Mammooty is a better manager of his career. While taking up the roles that would provide him with opportunities to improve his acting skills, he took equal care to keep his box office hits ticking by doing his bit of dashing stereo typed roles as the tough cop, honest lawyer and the champion of the underdog.

His more recent movies like Kazhcha, Loudspeaker, Kaiyoppu, Paleri manikyam show this actor in roles very different from each other. He appears to be evolving with every movie. He performs superbly even in the commercial projects. In some of them he excels in comic roles and does delightful fun characters with his hilarious rendition of the Trivandrum or Trissur dialects. His sensitive performance in the movies of the past decade places him in the category of the best actors going in India.

Of him it can truly be said that age does not wither him or custom stale his infinite variety.

Fast Forward

A renowned scriptwriter in Malayalam told me this story as we were traveling in the Parasuram Express chair car.

He (shall we call him Mahavir?) was an English movie buff. I guess scriptwriters are all movie buffs. That’s one source of inspiration for them.

Allow me to deviate for a minute before I continue with the story.

‘Have you read Tess of D’urbeville?”, Mahavir asked me after I introduced myself as a teacher of English Literature.

‘Yes’

‘Pokkaan pattiya oru kathayaanelley?’!!!!!? Literally that meant, “It’s a story worth ‘lifting’, eh?”

I stared at him incredulously. Not that I thought all scripts were original; but this guy was so honest and open about it.

I took an instant liking to him, and he proved to be a pleasant unassuming gentleman and an excellent conversationalist during the course of the journey,

Now to come back this story.

He and his wife used to watch the VCR daily, and it invariably used to be English movies. Their little five-year-old son also was part of this little audience. This necessitated having to fast forward certain scenes.

One day, Mahavir and his wife got into a serious discussion of some family matter while watching an English movie on the VCR. A decision had to be taken and they were weighing the pros and cons of the situation. This activity distracted them from the movie and they turned sideways on the three seater settee to be able to look at each other. Their little son sat between them.

The issue got more and more complicated and they lost their bearings completely – till the little boy shouted shrilly, excited, at the top of his panic stricken voice: ‘Papa papa, quick, quick. Fast forward, fast forward. Quick”.

His shouts brought them down to earth and they looked at him pointing to the screen, which showed a steamy scene between two mega Hollywood stars. Mahavir grabbed the remote, but before he could fast forward it do it, the scene was over.

“Chey papa, it over. No point in fast-forwarding it now’, observed the five year old philosophically.

**

I met this scriptwriter recently, some twenty years later, at a twin theatre. His film was being premiered and he was there to promote it. He came to me when he saw me.

I smiled, impressed that he recognized me after all these years.

“I’ve come to see X movie”, I told him

“Oh, not Y?’ he asked, looking disappointed.

“What’s your interest in Y?’ I asked. I’m laid back on these things. Besides I have a terrible memory. I forget what I read even before I put down the paper.

‘Y is my movie. It’s my script’

‘Ok, shall see it tomorrow. I’ve already bought tickets for the other’.

‘Ok, fine’, he said, and turned away, looking for those who had come to see HIS movie.

“Do you know him?’ asked my friend with whom I’d gone to the theatre.

I told her the story of that train journey.

‘But he didn’t recognize you’, she said.

‘No?’ I asked disappointed. ‘Then why did he come to me smiling, as though he recognized me?’

‘That’s because your face brightened up when you saw him. He thought you recognised him to be the famous Mahavir, the person who had written the script for the movie you’d come to see. Besides, he wanted to promote his movie. After all, he wrote a script after a very long break’.

I knew she was right, and felt a little crestfallen.

Anyway, I told myself. Who do you think you are, Molly? You think you made a lasting impression on him with you showoffy lecture on Tess of D’urberville?

Muktha's Eyebrows

Mukta was a wonderful person to have around. She was doing her Masters in economics and was my roommate’s classmate. She used to come to our room often and create an impact akin to a whirlwind sweeping through the room.

She had thick eyebrows. By thick i mean really really thick. They joined at the center quite unapologetically, and then took off on both sides really really boldly, straying occasionally like unpruned hedge.

‘Looking at your eyebrows, I’m reminded of a not a very long shot of an eagle in flight’, I told her once.

A banana skin landed on my face without any warning and she went into peals of laughter, thrilled at having hit the bull’s eye.

‘Listen you nut,’, I told her. I’m only trying to tell you that you should try to make some sense out of that overgrowth that you claim are your eyebrows’, I persisted.

‘No way’, she said. ’My boyfriend has no problem with them. So what’s yours?”

“What’s that play you were reading yesterday, Molly?’ that was my room mate Leela.

‘Hairy Ape?’ I asked innocently.

Mukta looked around for something to fling at Leela, and finding nothing, grabbed the chair. Leela pounced on her laughing, saying. “ Hey cool it Mukta. It’s your boyfriend I had in mind – he must be a hairy ape himself to like you like this’.

Mukta swung at her, missed and fell. Soon all three of us were laughing out hearts out.

Our taunting appeared to have had an impact, for, a week later, I found Mukta in our room, sitting with her head flung back and resting on the chair back and Sumi from the next room threading her eyebrows. Sumi finished and we looked at Mukta. The transformation was incredible. Looking into the mirror, Mukta herself declared, with her hands on her cheeks Sushmita Sen style, “Where was all this beauty hiding?”

A week later, as I was running down the step during the lunch break I ran into Mukta. I was flabbergasted at what I saw. I grabbed her shoulders and stared at her incredulously, with my mouth hanging open. She tried to shrug off my hands and asked unpleasantly, ‘What’s it? What do you want? Why you staring at me like that?’

‘Your eyebrows have grown back full steam. I just can’t believe this. Just in one week? It’s simply not possible!’

The students who were going up and down the stairs were looking at us amused. Muktha noticed this. Angrily, she knocked my hands off her shoulders and ran up the steps looking furious.

I stood there looking at her, totally bewildered, confused and what not. Can eyebrows grow back like that in a week’s time? It was as it was before she shaped it a week before! And Muktha’s behaviour! Most unlike her – she who I thought didn’t have an iota of unpleasantness in her personality. What the hell was wrong, I wondered as I looked at her disappearing back. She flung a vicious look at me before she disappeared at the landing to take the next flight of stairs.

To date I haven’t forgiven Muktha for not telling me she had an identical twin doing masters in Fine Arts in the same college. The Fine Arts Department was a separate block from the main college, and those students therefore had an insulated presence in the college.

Nor can I forgive my friend Leela for not warning me about Mukta’s twin - identical in appearance but, in nature and temperament, as different from Muktha as two people could possibly be.

The day after I cornered her sister, Mukta walked into our room grinning from ear to ear, and shaking both her index fingers at me while she chanted happily ‘Serves you right, serves you right, serves you right - - - ‘ with her head bobbing up and down with the rhythmic chant.

abandoned

my muse deserted me

leaving behind a vacuum

which grows and grows

and engulfs.

how did I frighten it away?

will it ever return?

dwelling in a vacuum

is no fun.

thoughts drift in

and drift away.

like a yo-yo

with the string snapped

i roll away and stop

in some corner

till the cleaner sweeps me off and dumps me

in the waste bin

to be trashed.

Of Sabarimala, Makara Vilakku and Rationalists.

Every disaster is followed by a cacophony of protests. Some of these sounds are those of legitimate, rightful anger, like the ones we have after the terrible Sabarimala tragedy. Nevertheless, I stubbornly insist on including them in the cacophony. Anger, though legitimate, blinds and blind anger usually causes discord rather than harmony.

The stampede at Sabarimala left us horrified. In my case, I just left me speechless. Disasters killing pilgrims has been a common thing. It defied all traditional logic from which we inherit the faith that those who seek the almighty will always come under the cover of His protection. In deep distress and silence I tried to find harmony in this cacophony – but failed. I read angry blogs cursing the State for its carelessness, for perpetuating the myth of Makara Vilakku. Numb with distress, I read furious blogs, letters to the editors challenging the very God concept.

Harmony, I guess, lies in the ears of the listener, and this listener, accustomed to another harmony failed in the effort to tune my ears to the medley of sounds. The notes that jarred most were in those angry tunes which thematised on the dismissal of the existence of God.

I only know one thing. God cannot exist within the rational jurisdiction of human thinking. One must exist outside this field to see God. To say what cannot be grasped by the faculty of human reason does not exist is both arrogant and foolish. To dismiss every phenomenon that does not lend itself to a rational explanation, as superstition and bullshit amounts to circumscribing life within boring boundaries. Life with all its complexities and gray areas and inexplicable phenomena cannot be demystified so rationally, so simplistically, for goodness sake! Only the instinctual man can have nirvanic glimpses into those areas.

Regarding the raging controversy about Makara Vilakku and Makarajyothi – it is ridiculous to claim that only the brilliant malayalees know that it is a man-made fire and that the non-malayalee pilgrims are idiots who foolishly believe that it is divine. What arrogance! The typical disgusting mallu conceit. We should make a survey of the pilgrims from outside the state before branding them as imbeciles with no common sense in their heads. During my commuting days, I used to have Sabarimala pilgrims from outside our enlightened state as travel companions, and I haven’t heard even one of them claim that Makaravilakku is the outcome of divine intervention. In fact, it is from a group of pilgrims from Andhra that I first heard about the “complicity” (as rationalists would have it) of the KSEB in creating the facilities for the burning of the camphor by tribals.

“Why do you still want to witness the Makaravilakku?” asked my friend.

‘What happens at all religious services – be it in Temples or Churches? Aren’t they executed by human agency in the form of priests? Aren’t priests human? Yet we believe in a divine presence and intervention, don’t we?’

That made sense.

Yes. That’s the truth of the matter. The divine presence and intervention happen in the human heart and mind, and not in the external event. It takes a gigantic leap of faith over and outside the Lakshman Rekha marked by the rationalists to experience God. Thus it is that man goes to Sabarimala and Tirupathi and Velankanni and Jerusalem and Mecca. It’s part of that search for God which man has indulged in from time immemorial, and continues and will continue to eternity despite Bertrand Russels and Tsunamis.

Blame the negligence of the state for the disaster. Or the commercialization agenda of vested interests. But not that quest for divine with which man was born.

If anyone thinks that all this hullabaloo about Makara Vilakku and Makara Jyothi will snuff out that lamp of faith in the heart of those who believe, they are mistaken. It takes more than a mere cacophony to terminate that quest for the Holy Grail.

The Nurses of Kerala: The Unsung Heroines

Some years back, i was invited to give the keynote address at the graduating ceremony of nursing students. As usual, i went with a well prepared speech. But i hadn’t bargained for the intense solemnity of the occasion, and when my turn came to speak, i couldn’t. I was overwhelmed by the sight of the forty odd graduating nurses dressed in white, looking up at me expectantly, seriously. I suddenly felt a lump in my throat and i found myself questioning my locus standi. My position on the rostrum implied the possession of a level of wisdom and a certain degree of competence which qualified me to advise these young ladies who had made a conscious decision to do God’s own work on earth. I felt humble and wholly inadequate all on sudden. My well prepared speech suddenly looked hollow and lacking in auchitya.

My extended silence must have puzzled the audience comprising the graduating students, and members of the management running the nursing school. I could have reeled out the well crafted speech but something wouldn’t let me. On an impulse, i took the audience into confidence. I told them about my predicament. Now i don’t remember the details of the speech, but i do know that whatever i told them came straight from my heart. And the feeling uppermost in me then was a sense of awe at the nobility of those young ladies who chose a life of sacrifice in the service of mankind in pain.

Recently, i had the occasion to go to the Heart Hospital in Bandra. Almost all the nurses there were from kerala. The patients were raving about them, their efficiency, their dedication and friendly nature. I felt proud of belonging to the state they hailed from.

The contribution of these women to the famous kerala model cannot be overrated. I wonder if we in Kerala realise and acknowledge the role of these professionals in enhancing the economic condition of the state. The Diaspora of our women nurses not only to other parts of India, but to all parts of the planet has brought economic stability to a huge number of families across the state. Many of these families would have gone under in those difficult days of social change when land failed to support them, and unemployment was rampant. Young women from traditional families trained themselves for this noble profession and went far and wide to serve humanity and bring income to their struggling families.

I do not know if the heavy contribution of this category of women is officially acknowledged. I do not know if statistics are available to see how many families have prospered on the hard-earned money of these heroines.

And women taking up the nursing profession is not a recent phenomenon. The trend had started long before independence and increased geometrically after that. When times were bad for the once moderately landed gentry in the interiors of kerala, the brave young daughters took upon themselves the onus of taking care of the families. They did not leave it to the males as was the tradition in the heavily patriarchal society of kerala. They chose not to languish in overprotection that the society decrees for women. Instead they decided to stand shoulder to shoulder with the sons to find a profession for themselves and sustenance for the families.

Today nurses from Kerala are a much sought after category, thanks to these women’s exemplary performance in this field for several decades. The profession has become not only very lucrative, but also a launching pad to go abroad. This has attracted males also to this profession and there is a marked increase in men taking up nursing as a profession in kerala.

Kudos to our superwomen, and big thank you from us in Kerala.

Of Onions and Terrorism

In the late nineties, the price of onions soared, aiming, as it were, for the abode of Gods. We were in Mumbai then, and this phenomenon gave nightmares not only to the government which was on the verge of being kicked out by this bulb plant, and domestic cuisine managers like me, but also to my school going son!

The phenomenon now returns. Looks like the average Indian’s purchasing power has increased substantially – that’s why, Vis a Vis the nineties, no State or Central government is tottering, no deafening protests are heard and no nightmares haunt the common man. The BPL man just decides to go without a food item that is obscenely priced – a piece of wisdom that the middle class has not yet acquired.

I tweeted asking for onion-free recipes. Since no one reads or sees my tweets, I got no help from netavians (don’t look up the dictionary – it’s my coinage). But onions opened my eyes to the truth that one has to be a celebrity to have anyone take your tweets seriously. With the net world deluged by twittering sounds, only the rare or exceptionally harmonious tunes, or those emanating from rare or celebrated species will be heard. So am not grumbling. Griping, after all, is not the privilege of the nonentity.

Recently, with a group of ladies, I took a day off to a resort far from the crowd maddened by the exorbitant onion. But there was no escape from onions. I met a lady in the group who became an instant celebrity with the announcement that her cuisine has known no onions. I put in that extra effort for us to become the best of friends. After all one has to learn to live without onions. The plethora of onion-free recipes that was in her kitty excited me and I resolved to try them out one by one. But, I must confess, I haven’t yet begun. Am waiting for the last of the onions (which I use oh! So sparingly)from my last purchase to get over. Mebbe by then, onion prices would come down, with the raids on hoarders that’s going on and the onion treaty with Pakistan signed though after much hiccups.

Let’s hope Pakistan would not hold us to ransom with onions to let go of Kashmir. Forgive me, but I think for the common man, onions at the moment are more important than Kashmir. Oops, I mean the celebrity Indian, not the common man. I have no way of gauging the mood of the common man on Kashmir – he is not very vocal about it. But celebrities yes, they go up the Himalayas and down the Valley screaming themselves hoarse about setting Kashmir free from the brutal Indian soldier! Of late, they’ve been silent. Guess the onions have got to them too.

Talking of Pakistan and India, it appears as though onions would break the ice between the two countries. For time being at least, Pak has agreed to export onions instead of terrorists. This is the best news we’ve had for two decades. I get a gut feeling that if the people of India and Pakistan take over from the politicians, governments and ISI, and leave the rest to onions, peace will descend on the subcontinent and goodwill will prevail among the citizens of India and Pakistan.

PS. An extract from the conversation I had with my daughter before she started from the US to visit us.

R: Amma, what do you want me to get for you from here?

Me: How much are you allowed?

R: 40 KG.

ME: How much to spare?

R: More than 15 KG. What do you want?

ME: Onions.

R: You crazy, Ma?

Me: Yes. Onion crazy.

death

Why do you weep? Did you think I was immortal?

Louis XIV, King of France

A post I read a couple of days back triggered off these thoughts on Death, that only certainty in life.

No one who is, ever asked to be born. I am sure if we were given the choice after being comprehensively informed about the balance sheet of life, many - except perhaps the very adventurous and dare devil types - would have opted out of life. Didn’t someone say more fortunate than the king or the emperor is a stillborn child?

Yes. Life, though beautiful, can be exceedingly painful too.

And sometimes life goes so totally out of our control that we get completely cornered, and walls of despair close in on us and we can only watch on helplessly.

But the irony of it is nobody wants to give up life when that invitation is extended by death.

And, alas! Death is a certainty.

The uncertainties of life are numerous, and the only certainty about it is that we will have to leave it behind someday. It's not a cheery thought even though life can sometimes be akin to a torturing rack. Despite all its miseries, we want to hang on. Some say it's because of man's fear of the unknown - that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

At the base of the story of science is man's desire to eradicate death. From the time of Adam and Eve who tried eating what they thought was the fruit of life which would defeat death, that effort continues. Medical science tries to do the next best thing. If death cannot be destroyed, it can at least be deferred. And postponing death is gaining another lease of life, ironically, with its baggage of problems! From alchemy to cloning, the goal is the same – destroy the destroyer who has stalked man ever since the birth of organism.

Riding in tandem with science are arts, religion and philosophy, all attempting to terminate death. Their tool of annihilation is lexical. Donne used convoluted arguments, aesthetically worded to establish the victory of life over death. Death be not proud, he sang .

Religions try every trick in the book to convince us that death is not the final curtain but a curtain raiser to immortality. Thus, death defeats itself. Buddha taught us how to deal with death. The best way, he pointed out, was to wipe the smirk off its face, and he showed us how to do it. Don’t be intimidated by it, he urged. There is no gloating for the victor if the vanquished is unaffected. The strategy to achieve this state of mind was so complex that his disciples did not grasp it, and disseminated a simplistic version of his wisdom, doing severe injustice to the great man’s complex philosophy!

The much extolled survival instinct of man, as we know, implies a combat against that foe called death which we know will ultimately be the victor. Go down fighting is the attitude about which much is written and sung but the subtext of all the paeans is that our attempts though heroic are all in vain. That adds poignancy to the death narrative. If we look close enough, we’ll recognize that this is actually a sour grape attitude, which goes something like what if we die so long as we die well, showing no fear of death. Thus it is that we blow up to epic proportions the victory over the bitterness of death of those people who laughed at death in the face – like a Sir Thomas Moore who removed his beard from the execution block because it grew after he was sentenced to death, and therefore was innocent of the crime for which he was being beheaded; or a Karl Marx who hollered at his housekeeper who wanted his last words, Go on, get out, he yelled, last words are for fools who haven't said enough; or that Italian painter Pietro Perugino who refused to take his last sacrament saying that he was curious to find our what’d happen to a person who died without it!

Suicide too is extolled (thought not by the state or moralists) by bards because it is perceived as outsmarting death. The person here grabs the bull by its horns before the bull gets him/her. Appealing suicides, however, happens only in stories –not in life. Shakespeare was one for romanticizing and glamourising suicide. Remember Romeo and Juliet, or still better, Cleopatra (though I can never understand why she chose that revolting reptile to do the deed!).

When people choose death over life for principles or convictions, I guess that’s a true victory. It is a pooh poohing of death. It’s an I’d rather die a thousand deaths than betray the life sustaing rules of precious life type of attitude. Ironically, it’s a choice of life over death! An establishing of the superiority of life over death. It’s the ultimate dismissal of death as an inconsequential phenomenon before which life will not bow down.

I know those post is getting me nowhere, and the only thing I have done is to trivialize the only certainty in life. But then, what else should we mortals do? Shiver and shake before this terminator whom we have known from the moment our existence began, this stalker who seems infatuated with us humans? True, there are no authorities to whom we can appeal to place restraining order on this stalker. But we can at least turn our nose up at it, right? Millions have died before us. Millions will die after us. So there’s nothing unique about death. Therefore, let’s not give it more importance than it deserves.

Sour grapes? :-)

My first effort at New Year Resolutions

Another new year round the corner, and as usual I asked my self what I resolved to do or not to do in 2011.

I still haven’t found the answer, cos presiding over my deliberations on this issue was my own face, looking on with a mocking smile as though to say why this farce? Have you ever kept your resolutions?

That sets me thinking. Have I ever given any thought to my New Year resolutions beyond the moment I make it? The train of thoughts takes me to the first New year resolution I ever made.

The earliest resolution I remember was made in the second standard after Sister S, the class teacher described to the class what New Year Resolutions were. I don’t now remember what she told us, but I do remember us children sharing the resolutions we made with each other.

During the noon interval, Chitra announced , ‘ Each time my mother gives me money to buy a toffee from Babychettan’s shop, I’ll buy it and give it to Sr S for charity’ (she stumbled over the word 'charity' for that’s the first time we'd heard that term). She then looked at me and said, “Eddo Molly, can you give me one toffee every day, because I wont have any when I give mine away?’

‘No’, I replied emphatically. ‘ I buy two toffees every day. I’ ll give one to charity daily. You give one from what you buy’

‘I buy only one everyday. If i give that to charity, i wont have one for myself; and if you give to Sister S for charity, you’ll become Sister’s pet’.

‘If you give, you’ll become her pet. Why should I spend money to make you Sister’s pet?’ I countered. (My father was a businessman and I guess that streak of business acumen about getting money’s worth, was in my blood).

‘You are mean’, Chitra screamed.

‘What about you?(appol thaano?). ‘You are cunning. You want to make me spend money and then take the credit for yourself’. My voice had risen and a crowd was beginning to gather around us, like it happens in lower primary when two kids fight.

‘You always buy two toffees. I buy only one. Why cant you give me one?’ Chitra was beginning to scream.

‘Yes. Why can’t you give her one if you buy two toffees everyday?’ butted in a third standard student who had just joined the crowd.

Angry that a senior had supported Chitra, I whirled around and screamed, gesticulating wildly. “She buys one toffee every day. Why should I give her too?’

‘She wants to give it to charity’, said Rema, one of my classmates who’d been a witness to our exchange right from the beginning.

‘Let her either eat her sweet or give it to charity. I’ll eat one and then give one to Charity’. I was livid with anger because of the support Chitra was getting.

‘But she thought of it first’, said the wise but partisan Rema, ‘and now you are stealing her idea’.

I lost it. ‘If it was her idea, let her give her sweet. I’ll also give my sweet to charity. That’s my New Year resolution too’, I all but yelled.

The crowd had been steadily growing. The little onlookers were asking each other what the bone of contention was. Groups were talking animatedly to each other. Sides were being taken. The crowd split itself – physically- into two parts. My supporters stood behind me, literally, and Chtra’s, behind her. I was happy to note that the size of the two sections was even. It soon became my friends against Chtra’s.

Rema, the leader of the Chitra camp shouted, ‘you are mean and cheap. You want to become Sister S’s pet. So you are stealing Chitra’s idea’.

Vidya, who took upon herself the leadership of my camp retorted sneeringly.’Chitra is cheaper. She wants to eat at Molly’s expense and still get popular with sister S. Is that a decent thing to do?’

A huge volley of protest rose from the Chitra camp. It soon became a shouting match between Rema and me, Chitra, and Vidya, Rejiv and Shirley, Lija and Betsy, Lulu and Shobana - - -. Little girls and boys jerking their heads, flaying their arms, yelling and screaming.

Then the bell rang to indicate that the noon interval was over.

I wanted to have the last word and so I shouted at the top of my voice, ‘ I have decided to give one sweet to charity everyday’.

Silence followed. Then someone asked. “Who’s charity?”

Chitra and I looked at each other, but said nothing. We had no idea if it was a person, place or thing.

Then Rejiv, the Mr. Know-all in our class who could lie without batting an eyelid, came to our rescue. Pointing to the orphanage run by the nuns, he said ‘She’s a cute little girl who lives in that orphanage'.

The Great Love Story of Christmas

It’s three hours past midnight on December 25, 2010 and I decide to liberate Christmas from the habits and memories of childhood that surround this festival. Of course cakes and ale, crib and carols, appam and stew and the lunch spread I would not give up. But surely Christmas is more than all that, I tell myself.

What is it? Why is it what it is?

I pause and think – deeply.

And realize that Christmas is a celebration of love. Love born in a stable in Bethlehem some two thousand odd years ago, and culminated on the cross at Gogotha. Greater love this no man has than he who lays down his life for his friends.

It was a love that revolutionized human thinking. Guess I should qualify the term ‘human’ to European.

The love story from Bethlehem to Golgotha showcases a love that is

nonviolent

forgiving

sharing

compassionate

egalitarian

humble.

It’s a love that negates the ego.

The brutal civilizations of Europe did not understand this love fully then. It does not understand it today too. Nevertheless, it drove home some concepts superficially, and thus the violent games in the massive arenas of the “great ancient civilizations” eventually lost their legitimacy. The idea of human rights was sown in the European minds, though these rights continued to be violated.

This is what Christianization of Europe means. It’s a shift in the Weltanschauung of a people leading to a sea change in a brutal, depraved civilization. A worldview, which provided for human rights, saw its origins in that cradle in Bethlehem.

I sometimes wonder what would have been the fate of the colonized world if the European countries that colonized the Asian countries had not been touched by Christianity. Arenas that host the depraved gladiator games would have sprung up in every conquered nation, in addition to those brutal practices that were integral part of the barbaric civilizations of Europe.

It is this that we celebrate on the Christmas day, though we don’t pause over it long enough to realise it. We celebrate the love story began in Bethlehem that humanized the brutal civilizations of Europe which later undertook the brutal projects of colonization.

I shudder to think of the predicament of the colonies (which were bad enough) without the restraining hand of Christianity.

P S. It is a matter of immense pride to the Indian subcontinent that five hundred years before this great love story of Bethlehem began, it had produced a Buddha who fine-tuned the then existing Weltanschauung of the region with ahimsa, equity and compassion.

MALAYALEES AND BENGALEES

Initially, I wanted to give this post the title MALLUS AND BONGS. Then I settled for the present one ‘cos I felt it’d invite more hits:-)

What provoked this post is an oft-repeated claim (which I heard today again) that mallus and bongs are very similar in many aspects. A couple of years back, a junior research scholar brought in this idea in her presentation at a seminar. I was sorely tempted to give my take on it during the discussion time but refrained, knowing that it was her maiden presentation, and negative reaction could dampen her spirits.

The basis for this claim is ridiculous, and is this: both people have rice for staple food, and are incurable fish eaters. The women of both states wear light coloured sari. Both states were pioneers in Marxism.

They were a few more points of similarity, which I don’t now remember, but they too were equally superficial and silly as the above mentioned ones.

My take on this is this. Mallus and bongs are as different as two people can possibly be, and neither is the looser on account of it. The two have nothing in common. Marxism in both states is the result not of similarity of the people but on account of certain cultural, political and social factors which are totally different in both states.

But what irritates me is the sense of pride with which this claim is made by mallus. Why should mallus take pride in these so-called similarities? Cant we be happy just being ourselves? Do we need a point of reference to prove our worth?

Some time back, a rather prominent mallu media person in an English channel was asked about her mallu origins. The emphasis with which she stated that her connection with Kerala is minimal as she was born and brought up elsewhere made me want to throw a rotten tomato at her.

What is so shameful about Kerala that we should be so ashamed of our roots? I find this common among mallus who grew up or live outside the state. I wonder if this is on account of them being trapped in the stereotypical images of kerala and its people that have been doing the rounds in the country for a long time.

In this context, I am reminded of that national integration video that was made in 1986 (or ’87 – I’m not sure), and played in doordarshan over and over again. All the states were represented by people or milieu that reflected development or sophistication of those states. When Kerala’s turn came, it was a lungi (only) clad mahout sitting on an elephant singing entey swaravum, ningaludey swaravum - - - - -. It used to make me immensely angry that this was the official image of kerala that was being propagated. Bengal was represented by a coated and booted Arun lal and some other celebrities in starched or raw silk kurtha stepping elegantly out of electric train in slow motion. In contrast, the mallu is projected as evolutionary dropout, not having progressed beyond the half naked phase and the pachydermal mode of transportation.

I think, as a people, we Keralites have a lot to be proud of. Let no one convince us otherwise.