Indian Abroad

My cousin Ravi and his wife Rola (names changed on request) visited me after a long time. They had relocated to a distant country and were visiting India after more than a decade. Like most people who visit India after a long time, they too were distressed about the condition of the roads, trains, buses, airports and most of all, of public toilet facilities in the country. The conversation led to the high tech facilities outside India, which make life comfortable for tourists. In this context they recalled an incident which makes me wish that someone would impress upon the Minister for Overseas Indians the imperative need to arrange orientation sessions for Indians who go abroad for the first time, in order to familiarize them with the high tech features in public facilities - or they would be caught in terribly embarrassing situations like Ravi and Rola who made their first European tour some twenty years back on a shoestring budget.


It happened in Switzerland, which, they swear, had the most sophisticated, high tech tourism facilities in the world. It was their first foreign tour and they traveled through the whole of Europe by Euro Rail. In Switzerland, while they were in transit in a station, they decided to use the paid shower facility, about which a fellow traveler had told them. It would be much cheaper than checking into a hotel to freshen up.

The minimum rate for a shower was 5 dollars for 8 minutes. Wincing at the thought of parting with 10 dollars for 2 baths, Ravi waited outside the shower unit while its door was being programmed for 8 minutes at the cash counter. As the door of the shower opened, Ravi got a brainwave. He shouted out to Rola to get into the shower along with him and take a quick bath. That way, he could kill two birds with one stone, and the other stone – 5 dollars - would remain safe in his pocket.

Rola had no time to think, ‘cos Ravi was frantically yelling out that that the door would close automatically and she would be locked out - and the poor girl literally hopped into the shower. The door closed. They quickly disrobed - and then the trouble started.

They had no inkling as to how to start the shower.

The familiar tap, which turns the shower on and off back home in India, was nowhere to be seen. They pushed/pressed/pulled every button, every lever, and every handle in the shower room, but the water refused to flow. They started a frantic search for some clue. Rola searched on her side of the wall while Ravi, searched on his, and then he literally crawled on all fours to find out if there were any hidden taps or switches or buttons on the floor. So preoccupied were they with the exercise of trying to decode the shower-operating trick that they didn’t realize that the 8 minutes were over. And horror of horrors! The door of the shower room opened automatically. Within seconds, the outer door of the shower room also opened and in walked a lady with fresh towel and soap for the use of the next customer. Her jaw dropped when she saw the two of them in the shower, in a state of total undress. What could poor Ravi and Rola do other than strike that classic Adam and Eve post-sin pose?

Rola, however, was the first to recover. Sheepishly, she asked the lady how to operate the shower. The lady was very helpful and assured them that she’d extend the time for another 8 minutes and left but not before looking at them with a mischievous smile and remarking “Indians having fun?”

Cry My Beloved Kerala

After each blog about Kerala I take a solemn vow that it’ll be my last. Many who visit my blogs on Kerala have come up with the uncomfortable poser that implies meaningless cribbing/all bark and no bite on my part – and they do have a point. Like they ask, what purpose does mere raving and ranting of a nonentity serve? Hence my resolve to keep mum while Kerala goes to the dogs its own way. But I find myself breaking that resolution over and over again. This time, the provocation was a heartbreaking sight I witnessed, peeping out through the blinds on the second floor of the building where I happened to be when the commotion took place.

Before I relate the episode, just a word about the significance of it: Right now, the opposition in Kerala is on the rampage, on account of a Class V11 textbook that they want withdrawn. Political parties no longer believe that ends DON’T justify the means. The concept of peaceful and civilized protest has been rooted out of the political soil of the state, and goonda raj reigns. Peeping out through the aforementioned blinds, I got a glimpse of the tragedy behind the goondaism in Kerala politics.

It was the last working day of the week at College. A handful of party workers (youth wing) shouted slogans outside the college gate and succeeded in getting the classes suspended for the day. This is a regular thing which we in the education sector have come to accept as part of ‘training the youth to become responsible citizens in a parliamentary democracy’. (Small wonder college teachers in Kerala chose to send heir children to the neighbouring states for post +2 education). To come back to the episode, as the trouble makers were withdrawing from the college gate after they achieved their goal, I ran to the window to have a good look at this tiny group which, in a matter of minutes, brought the days activities in an academic institution to a full stop.

What I saw continues to give me sleepless nights.

In all, there might have been 16-18 young men. Of those I spotted only five people who had that hard angry bigoted demeanor of seasoned party workers, the ‘leaders’ of the group. The rest were all young boys, very young boys, most certainly 2 or more years less than 20. Most of them were uniformed – probably from some professional or Arts & Science colleges that were trying to bring about discipline in their institutions by imposing the uniform rule. They stopped right below my window. The leaders started discussing something very animatedly. The hard, ruthless, pinched expressions on their faces and their aggressive, belligerent body language were scary, to say the least. In contrast, the fledglings who were with them just stood there looking from one leader to the other as the discussions continued. It was the expressions on their faces of these boys who have hardly shed their baby fat, that upset me. They were thoroughly bored, totally unenthusiastic, absolutely uninterested. Obviously they didn’t give a damn about any text that was prescribed for any class. They just stood there, some silent, some talking and laughing quietly at some private joke, obviously unconnected with the burning political issue at hand, while the ‘leaders’ continued their ‘serious’ decision on the ‘grave’ political issue. Soon the group split into two. One went northwards and the other southwards, led by the leaders. I saw the leaders say something to the their apprentices in both the groups as they moved in opposite directions. AS though following instructions, the youngsters – all of them- took out phones from their pockets and started speaking into them. In all likelihood, they were arranging reinforcement at the next venues to which they were headed to pursue their disruptive activities.

How did those boys, hardly out of their knickers, get into the company of these cantankerous characters up to no good, I wondered.

Were they paid for the day to add to the numbers of the strikers?

Were thy threatened and coerced into joining the party that meant nothing to them, to which they apparently had no ideological or any other affinity?

Where are they parents? Why are they so helpless that they can’t see to it that their offspring go to college and pursue their studies instead of becoming tools in the hands of anti social -yes, I mean anti social, it’s not a slip of the finger tips- elements?

My heart went out to the mothers whose hearts must be bleeding, at the fathers who must be racking their brains to figure out where they went wrong.

And I get an awful sinking feeling when I think of the fate of my beautiful Keralam whose future citizens are being moulded by such worthless scums.

My Friend Aleykutty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Kite Runner - A Novel by Khaled Hosseini

A week since I finished reading it

Am still reeling from the impact
Still trembling before the human tragedy
The enormity of it

They haunt me
Those tear streaked faces of children
Orphaned, hungry, terrified
The worst wounds of decades
Of political unrest

Where the clear stream of reason has lost its way
Into the dreary desert sands of dead habits
Tagore’s words –how true of Hosseini’s fictional world

How I wish it were just that
A fictional world

Kalpana

I'll always remember Kalpana 'cos of two unforgettable incidents in which she was the protagonist, and I, a helpless, supporting actor.She was a PUC student in a college in the then Madras where I was doing my masters. But she was almost a foot taller than me - mebbe that explains the allotment of the afore mentioned roles. We became good friends 'cos we travelled together back home for vacations. While I got off at Bangalore, she proceeded to Mysore from where she was 'picked up' by her mother and taken to Coorg. Yes. she had to be picked up- or she would have landed back in Madras. - that's how much she had her wits about her.

Once, we were returning to college after vacation. WE took an auto from the station. The auto took an unfamiliar route. We just had to come all the way down the Mount Road and then turn to the Cathedral Road to reach our college. Instead, the auto turned into a small lane as soon as it entered the Mount Road and went through small gullies we had never taken during all our days in Madras.

Kalpana, despite her size, got jittery. 'N-e-w r-o-u-t-e-,' she spelt out, for fear the driver might follow spoken English.

I nodded and kept silent, keeping a keen eye on the road.

Kalpana got more jittery. 'He might take a l-o-n-e-l-y r-o-a-d-(she spelt out the hyphenated words) and r-a-p-e us". She sounded scared by now.

But soon, the auto turned into the Cathedral Road and we were relieved. Kalpana made something like a sign of the cross and loudly heaved a sigh of relief.

WE reached the college gate. The young auto driver helped us with the luggage. Kalpana paid him and he spelt out with a twinkle in his eyes, 'T-h-a-n-k y-o-u, m-a-d-a-m'

The second episode was not just funny. It made me angry enough to twist her head off her neck if i could reach that high. WE were going home for summer vacation. Kalpana had fifteen pieces of luggage which we piled into a cab with a carrier. The cab charged us a bomb, and both of us were furious - she with the cab driver, and I with him and Kalpana. As soon as we reached the station, the porters pounced on us. Kalpana knew no Tamil and so I started to bargain with them. Kalpana suddenly let out an excited yell and pointed her long finger towards the trolleys parked under a "self service' name board. I was a little hesitant, cos the porters warned us that we will not be able to handle the trolley. Kalpana pooh poohed what she thought was a sexist remark and proudly strode all her six feet towards the trolley. She pushed it with great ease towards our luggage and together we piled our luggage (her 15 pieces, and three of mine)on to it.. And then we took the two ends of the handle and pushed. The trolley refused to move. I began to feel embarassed but Kalpa would not give up. She pushed and pushed and panted and puffed. The trolley moved one millionth of an inch forward and then refused to be pushed around. I looked at Kalpana whose face had become the colour of tomato. She stared back at me with a never-say-die expression and pushed. And then she did something whch made me want to do the same thing to her. She gave the trolley a violent kick and then let out a yelp, holding her toes and hopping around. By now, the porters were guffawing loudly and a crowd began to gather. I begged Kalpana to let the porters do their job. 'Never', she snapped at me. 'I'll finish this damned thing I've started'. An onlooker then let us into the trick of the trade. He suggested that we check the iron wheels of the trolley and set all four in the same direction and then push. WE went round the trolley and found that that while two wheels were forward looking, the other two were turned in two different directions. With a clenched fist pumping the air, Kalpana let out a triumphant "yes' and we went about fixing the wheels. and pushed. Hurray! the trolley began to move. The audience(porters included) applauded, laughed, hurrayed. WE pushed the trolley smoothly , followed by a large crowd in the Central Station of Madras, with passers by looking at us and grinning from ear to ear, and I wanted drop dead then and there but kill Kalpana before that happened. We must have pushed for about two minutes and then the trolley began to behave like the dhobi's donkey. It stopped and refused to move. By now Kalpana had become a mechanical expert and started adjusting the wheels while I stood there holding the handle sullenly. WE pushed the trolley again. The crowd had grown larger and their excitement increased seeing that Kalpana's colour had turned from tomato's to beet root's. Some one remarked that she was going in for a heart attack. Some one chided me for not pushing with all my might and letting my friend down. The porters loudly remarked that they should look for some other employment. No need, some one said. We'll enrol the ladies in our union. Some one emphatically disagreed.'don't think we'll have any use for the shorter one', he said. I bore it all but did not grin. I began to wonder why the almighty did not choose that momnent to use his legendary thunderbolts to punish me for all the sins i had committed in my life. If media menace was what it is today, that sensational scene would have been on the front page of all the national dailies the next day.

Just then we heard a very refined voice asking us if he can be of help. I turned around and saw a man in his thirties, looking sympathetically/disgustedly? at the two of us who were making a spectacle of ourselves there in the big metro railway station. Gratefully, we handed the trolley to him and he pushed it without much ado. The crowd disappeared slowly-so did the porters. The man unloaded the luggage, put them into our compartment, and started to leave. I asked him what his name was. I took the initiative 'cos i had a terrible feeling that Kalpa was going to throw her arms around his neck and cry on his shoulders. I must surely spare him that, after his wonderful service."Never mind my name. Only, don't bite off more than you can chew', he said and vanished in the crowd.

I've lost touch with Kalpana completely. Wonder if she is somewhere reading this.

From My Commuting Days - An Unforgettable Journey and its Fallout

This is just to put the records straight.

Residing in Cochin and working in Changanasserry, I commuted the distance, enjoying the hospitality of the Indian railways.

It was an unusually humid day in November and the train arrived on the dot at the Changanassery station (a rare, rare event – a minister or a top railway official must have been traveling in that train). I had heard the whistle of the train as soon as I took the turn to the short stretch leading to the station, and broke into a run. As I entered the platform, the engine was chugging and the gangman’s hand holding the green flag was beginning to rise. Seeing me hop, skip and jump across the railway platform, his hand suddenly began to behave like those shots in slow motion, and I hopped on to the general compartment behind the engine (my favourite ladies’ compartment was right at the back – would never have made it there even if I were faster than PT Usha). In a second the train started.

The compartment was jam-packed and I started excuse- me- excuse- me- pleeese my way through the crowd. Just then a friend who was seated comfortably in the side seat got up chivalrously and offered me the seat, which I took, giving him a grateful smile in return. In less than 5 minutes I started dozing. When the train stopped at Kottayam 20 minutes later, a huge crowd tried to fight its way into the compartment while an equally huge crowd pushed and cursed trying to get out of the compartment. Abusive words were freely traded. The train started, and loud angry voices could be heard in the crowded compartment for sometime.

It was the season of Sabarimala pilgrimage, and a large number of Aiyyappa devotees had boarded the train at Kottayam. One of them (apparently from Tamilnadu) stood near me. I think he was one of those hardcore devotees who had taken the vow to grow his hair uncombed for how long I don’t know - and the knotty, brittle copperish hued strands hung around his shoulders. He must have been terribly tired, 'cos, as soon as the train picked up speed, he squirmed his way down through the pressing crowd to sit on the floor of the compartment. Amazed, I first looked down at him sitting there in the space he carved out for himself in that jungle of trousered and saree/salwar draped legs, and then up at the irritated expressions on the faces of the owners of those legs. Then I fell asleep, into a deep deep sleep for more than an hour while the train sped to the next station Piravam Road.

AS the train approached Piravam Road, I came slowly out of the deep slumber. As usual, I became conscious of my surroundings even before I opened my eyes. Then I felt something rather heavy on my lap. I cautiously opened my eyes into thin slits and looked. To my horror and distress, I saw that Aiyappa devotee’s head with the knotty hair resting peacefully on my lap! He was fast asleep!

I snapped my eyes shut immediately, cos I knew that the people around were eagerly waiting for me open my eyes and react.

God, how embarrassed I was! My mind got busy immediately, trying to figure out how I can get that head off my lap. Soon a brilliant idea struck me and, still pretending to be fast asleep I brought my handbag (which I always clutch close to my heart no matter how deeply I sleep) down on the head resting so comfortably on my lap. I made sure it appeared like the unconscious action of a person fast asleep – and it worked. The weight left my lap all on a sudden. I waited for sometime and then opened my eyes, taking care to appear like a person coming out of a deep sleep. The rest of the journey was uneventful, while I sat looking out, refusing to meet the eyes of my friends and acquaintances who stood around.

That is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But truth, unfortunately, has a way of getting distorted.

Apparently, the word had got around – and real fast too, as I discovered the minute I joined my travel companions the next day morning on the railway platform. The minute they saw me, they burst out laughing and asked me how it felt after the yeoman service I rendered to a tired devotee the previous day. I took it all in good humour and sportingly took part in the bantering repartee.

And oh, the story spread. And how? not in its original form, but spiced with plenty of mirch masala. Some versions had it that in my sleep, I clutched that head and held it close thinking it was my handbag! With passing years, the story grew in quantity and quality, and spread among the teaching community of my university, seasoned with mustard and cumin seeds, garnished with curry patha and dhanya patha.

Almost two years after that eventful journey, I was at the centralized valuation camp. Three days after I joined the camp, a teacher from another table came to mine where I sat with the six others in my group, and asked who Miss K-------------- was. That’s me, I said. What can I do for you?

Oh, that’s OK, he said and walked off with a smile on his face. Perplexed, I sat there looking at his receding back and then went back to my work. A couple of minutes later, two more came with the same question. I repeated my words and they too went away without offering any explanation, but with the same smile on their faces. When the next batch came, the teachers in my group took over and insisted that the visitors explain their interest in me. And they did. They wanted to see the lady who traveled 100 kilometers by rail with a Sabarimala pilgrim’s head cradled on her lap.

The next day, I arrived a little late for the valuation. But my friends in my group greeted me with dancing eyes and a loud swamyeeeeeei, aiyyappo!

The story continues to grow. I don’t attend the camps any more but my friends tell me that the story continues to do the rounds. The sabarimala pilgrim, some said, had hair up to his knees. And throughout the journey, I was having a snoring competition with the man! Of course, my fingers were intertwined with his knotty locks, and one passenger had even detected a louse crawling up my hand.

Hillary Clinton is out - How sad!

i feel sad
infinitely sad
granted I know precious little about US politics.
but I know a lot of women here wished to see a woman in the most powerful seat.

guess on our part there’s a deficiency of understanding of the debated issues.
and so our take is this:
she lost out
‘cos she is a woman
and women still live under glass ceiling in the US.
She lost out
‘cos she is a fighter
one hell of a fighter
and might prove to be the ‘only man in the cabinet’
as Smt. Indira Gandhi once did.

and so the muscle flexers of the party
opted for an unknown person
on the strength of a book
and charm of his silver tongue

and the popular appeal of reverse racism
was on their side
in their fight against having a woman call the shots.

of course these are just
the jottings of a woman
with just a superficial knowledge of Am politics.

but there are many such ill informed women like me here
who feel sad.
infinitely sad

My Eyebrows

No. I am not anything like Cleopatra with her legendry nose. My eyebrows could never have created or changed history. But I can safely say that, in my part of the world, I was one among the first generation “pluckers”, as women with shaped eyebrows were called derisively/disapprovingly then.

It all began(Scene 1) with my friend Rachel coming late to class one day, looking different and chic. In no time we noticed that it was the upper half of her face that gave her that sophisticated look. Suddenly my friend Nilu (a Punjabi girl who always resented Sr. M… R…’s constant reminder about young girls behaving in a lady like manner) let out a howl. Sr. C, who was emoting the angst of King Lear dropped her Clarendon Shakespeare and looked at Nilu as though she were a ghost. The two girls and I who sat to Nilu’s left, jumped up and out of our skins and scrambled away, out of the room. Our plump friend who sat to her right jumped out of the window which was next to her, on to the veranda. Pandemonium prevailed in the lecture room while the rest of the girls in the classroom tried to run out. The teacher and students from the adjacent classroom gathered outside our class room, looking scared. Anyway, before a stampede could start, we heard Nilu shout at the top of her voice ‘it’s all right, it’s all right. I’m fine. Please stop.’ Her voice seemed to come from the skies and I followed it to find that she was standing on the desk (not even on the bench), looking sheepish, but gesturing like a music conductor, trying to calm the students, teachers and all. In reply to Sr. C‘s anxious question, she said “it’s Ok sister. I just had a bad dream”

Words fail me when I try to describe the expression on Sister C's face. By nature she was an affectionate and charitable soul but a little jumpy. Left to herself, she’d have laughed it off once she got a grip over herself but the teacher next door, who was watching the whole show, insisted that Nilu be hauled up - and she was. Properly. For howling, sleeping during the lecture and standing up on the desk! She had to explain how she fell so deeply asleep as to have a nightmare. She stuck to her guns but, later, told us her confidantes (5 of us) why she let out that eerie sound. As soon as Rahel walked in, she noticed that she had shaped her eyebrows!! Nilu, having grown up in Delhi and having moved around in the sophisticated circles there, had been a strong advocate for shaping the eyebrows. She felt that we southies were lacking in grooming. And she used to be at me all the time, to get me to shape my eyebrows. When Rachel walked in, Nilu saw that she had influenced at least one of her laidback southie friends, and felt so triumphant that she lost her head and forgot that she was sitting through the most tragic part of King Lear.

After Rachel took the first step, Nilu increased the pressure on me to prune my eyebrows. And Rachel joined her too, probably because she wanted a partner in the crime. Most of our class mates were teasing her all the time, or giggling, guffawing when she passed them.

Now a word about my eyebrows.

They were thick, wild and joined at the centre, and were the most prominent feature of my face. Nilu thought it looked like the wild growth at Tintern Abbey. Now, with Rachel on her side, she doubled her attack till I finally gave in.

Scene 2 took place during the lunch break, in a quiet small class room in the corner. Rachel had come with all the tools required for landscaping my face. (Her pardesi cousin had taught how to go about maintaining shaped eyebrows). The operation shaping began. One of our gang stood watch at the door, but no one came in there till the deed was done. I looked at my self in the mirror. I looked different-couldn’t decide if the change was for the better or worse ‘cos it was a small mirror which couldn’t show my full face.

The curtain went up on Scene 3 when I reached home. I wanted to walk in unnoticed, which was impossible in my house because amma would be waiting for me in the porch when it was time for me to reach home. Yes. She was there. Her face changed the minute she saw me. Anxious eyes wandered over my face but she simply couldn’t make out what had happened to it! Very gently she asked me if I was feeling fine. Not convinced by my exaggeratedly chirpy yes, she placed the back of her palm on my forehead to check my temperature. Then she let me go, but the puzzled, anxious expression followed me. A minute later she came into my room to tell me I should not take bath in cold water as I always do. Throughout the evening, I noticed that her eyes kept straying to my face. I still marvel at the fact that she could not put her finger on what caused the change in my appearance. In a few days’ time, she got used to my new look!

There were no more eyebrow episodes for the next two years when I went to a college in the big metro where I always enjoyed the anonymity that is the welcome companion of a nonentity who wants nothing except to keep a low profile. But the trouble began two years later (scene 4 starts here) when I was catapulted into a small town in mid-travancore, the heart of nazrani orthodoxy, with a job as a lecturer in a women’s college. In the 4000 strong college, there were less than 10 students who shaped their eyebrows. On the other side of the desk, I was the only one. Little wonder I came to be known as “plucker” – for plucking out hair to keep the eyebrows shapely. From anonymity to cynosure of attention – what a painful traumatic transition it was. I dreaded leaving my room in the staff hostel in the mornings. The students seemed to get into a state of excitment whenever they sat in my class or passed by me in the campus. The ‘plucker’ students looked at me with the expression reserved for a comrade – in-arms. My colleagues tried to keep a poker face – which scarcely concealed the glee? amusement? disapproval? marvel that one reserves for an ET.

Well. I survived it. And my eyebrows too. Like an arty novel or film, the story concluded with the protagonist merging with the crowd, losing her /his identity, for my eyebrows gradually lost its unique quality with people on both side of the desk taking to shaping theirs - - - -

Kerala Cracking Down on Unholy Holy Men

The Kerala TV viewers are having a thumping time, and plenty to talk about, what with godmen/ holymen/ swamis/ healers / preachers surfacing, getting caught, absconding and walking into police station with a gun, threatening to commit suicide!!

From Kasarkode to Kanyakumari, the police is on the rampage raiding "ashrams', and the holy men on the run.

What a laughable situation!

Who would have thought a few street smart imposters could have taken the intelligent malayalee for such a royal ride? Isn’t literacy supposed to be a protection against gullibility? One should think not, considering the number of false prophets that are being smoked out - and all of them thrived on the gulliblity of a people who take immense pride in having mastered the three r’s!

Oh yes. These godmen did make their money. And how? One amassed wealth throwing eggs on the wall and making predictions about the future of those who approached him, based on design and colour of the egg matter dribbling down the wall !!! A whopping three hundred crores of rupees is supposed to have passed through “Swami” Santhosh Mandhavan’s Bank account. And he has dabbled in everything from making porn films to raping to drug dealing to hawala to - you name it. Most of these Swami Amrutachaithanyas and Himaval Maheswara Bhadranadjis and those mushrooming Christian religious preachers have huge real estate holdings.Their nexus with politicians and Police have made this God's own land a gold mine for these Godmen and women.

Now, the Kerala government is planning to hold an inter-departmental inquiry into the assets of these false gurus from all religious communities. We can now sit back and laugh at ouselves for having fallen pray to the worms that are going to crawl out of the can.

Kennedy in Kerala

This ttle might sound strange, but the Kennedys have a close and long lasting connection with Kerala. John Kennedy and his wife Jacqueline dominated the imagination of this state in the sixties. As the first catholic president of the US, he was a rage in the catholic community of Kerala. I was in the primary school when John Kennedy became the president of the US. Those were the days when the only news media available were the newspaper and the radio. I do not remember the excitement in my house when he beat Nixon – but I clearly remember the aftermath. The elders at home talked about the famous debate which turned things around for the young democrat. In the typical Malayalee style, men made dramatic declarations with matching gestures about Nixon’s discomfiture when Kennedy doled out his punch lines (all figments of imagination, I’m sure-there was no U tube or small screen in those days).
I think it was Kennedy’s ascent to the White House which prompted my father to subscribe to the Life and Time magazines. Even as a child I used to be fascinated by this handsome couple. Though I understood nothing, I faithfully looked everyday at the pictures that came out in the magazine –and preserved them till the eighties (all were lost when we relocated - or I would have had a collector's stuff now)
I remember the Cuban crisis. My sister was in the US at that time, and I still remember my mother telling me to get down on my knees and pray that Khrushchev calls back his fleet instead of defying Kennedy’s blockade! God hears children’s prayers, she told me. I remember the celebrations when the Russian premier allowed his better sense to prevail. Kennedy’s victory was like a personal victory for all at home-which included me ( Today I have different notions of who the villain and who the hero were).
I remember the day he was assassinated. Everybody seemed shell shocked. I was in the 5th std then and the school declared 2 days holiday!!! It was a catholic school. I don’t think it was officially declared but we had no classes. When I went to school after two days, I found my class teacher (a nun) in a state of shock. She was talking in terms of canonizing John F. Kennedy!! Thanks to the poor reach of media in those days, Kennedy’s bohemian ways were unknown to my part of the world. I remember the seamstress Cicily thathi (she was a storehouse of knowledge http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/02/cicily-thaathi.html) asking with tears in her eyes “what’s the motivation for Kennedy’s widow to remain alive now?” I still remember the stunned, numb expression on her face when Jacqueline remarried. She couldn’t get over it for days – and she and the rest of the household passed on that resentment to me.
Kennedy is a common name in Kuttanaad, the catholic stronghold in Kerala. I don’t know if, with the priggish Nazrani sense of morality(http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/04/evolution-of-nazrani.html), these name bearers are embarrassed by their name.
The story goes that in the mid eighties, Jackie traveled incognito in Kerala. As she took a boat ride through Kuttanaad, she was shocked to have been recognized by almost everyone who saw her!
Again, when she flew down to Trivandrum and took a pre-paid taxi to the hotel where she had booked, the car driver told her he’ll step on it so tat she can catch at least the last part of the Kennedy serial that was being aired by Doordarshan!!
A coincidence. A couple of days back, Father Teddy, my colleague came home to pay us a visit. In the course of the casual conversation, I told him that Teddy is an unusual name in Kerala. He told me he was named after the last of the Kennedy brothers! Hardly were the words out when the news item came scrolling on the TV screen that Edward Kennedy was taken ill!

Are Mallu Males Perverts?

If making passes at women whenever they get a chance is an index of perversion, well, there are a large number of men in kerala who are perverts. now the question here is, are there a larger number of perverts among males in kerala than in other staes? sadly enough, the answer is yes. there was a time when i used to argue with pardesi mallus about this. i insisted that if there are such perverts at large in kerala, there are an equal number in the other states too. i dont insist on that line of argument any more. After living in Mumbai for more than six years, i must admit that it is a much more pleasant place for a woman to live in and travel about. men mind their own business and are not eternally trying to paw at women.

this is an issue (higher incidence of perversion among mallu males than in males from other parts of india) i hate to talk about 'cos i dont believe in stereotyping. but recently, i had occasion to spend some time with a youngster just out of an engineering college in chennai. he told me horrible, nightmarish stories about ragging there(he made me promise not to blog about it or mention the name of the college till his results are out!!). what shocked and upset me was his emphatic statement that the worst bullys are mallu boys. their ragging is intolerable - and terribly perverted. and there is what is called networked ragging, where mallu boys from various colleges in the city exchange freshers for ragging!! since ragging is not the issue here, i wont dwell on the subject. the point is, mallus are known, aknowledged and accepted as the worst, most perverted, most innovative hazers in all institutions in the country where ragging takes place.

i wish someone would tell me i've been wrongly informed.

http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2009/04/are-mallu-males-perverts-answer.html - pl check thos posts. it's a response from an honest response from a male mallu which i posted, as i was impressed by the honesty. Besides, it throws light on the issue.

Why Godmen become Godless

We have seen this happen far too often. Men of god switching sides. From god’s own people, they switch over to the league of his archenemy. Why does this happen?

Before ruminating over this distressful fact, let’s take a look at this category called god men. There are two types in this category.

Type 1- Scoundrels and fraudsters who don the robe and colours of godmen, capitalizing on 1. human gullibility, and 2. human greed and dissipation. These fraudsters partner with the latter and thrive on the former. The swamis who are hogging the media attention in Kerala at the moment belong to this category. They are petty criminals but perverted geniuses.

Type 2 – These are men with more power than ordinary human beings. Some have prophetic powers. They are, more often than not, full of words of wisdom. And all of them are magnetic personalities who attract people like magnet draws metal dust and shavings. Some of them display magical power like snatching objects out of the thin air. Some of this type usually carry on unscathed till the end of their lives, not getting embroiled in too many controversies, while some fall into disgrace.

It is the Type 2 that interests me. For they are people who have tapped the hidden human potential more than the average person has. It requires considerable discipline, commitment and a deep- rooted faith in the self to acquire that level of control over human faculties. Their methodology of achieving the seemingly superhuman feats can be emulated for personality building or offered as a structured package in schools where the future of a nation lies, or in civil service personnel training institutions where the custodians of the nations administration are trained, or in all in -house training programmes. For, what this type does is to address that flaw in human personality referred to so pithily in that saying ‘the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak’. Their forte is the realization and conviction that with rigorous discipline spelt out by our forefathers in the yogic and similar practices, the weakness of the flesh can be overcome.

It is sad that these men (Type 2) who have succeeded in conquering that insurmountable obstacle to human progress called flesh, should eventually use their power to gratify the flesh. That is when they become corrupt, lose their transparency and become surrounded by coterie and start indulging in anti social and anti national activities.

Why does this happen? After turning this over in my mind for a long time I found the answer. Power corrupts, ever power over the self, unless this power is drawn from a spiritual source. Disciplining the mind should go in tandem with spiritual growth. The empowered mind divorced from the spirit will tip the equilibrium in favour of the flesh, causing a craving to gratify the flesh. The spirit is the conscience that should ideally guide the empowered mind. The spirit is God. Mind power in a spiritually unsound person can be dangerous. It makes these ‘Godmen’ drunk with their mind power. Display of magical powers in the presence of devotees is an effort to ensure large fan following – to keep the herd in their trail.

I wonder if Mahatma Gandhi would qualify to be categorized as a true Godman. At least he made an honest effort to simultaneously develop his mental and spiritual powers. Perhaps he did not succeed fully, but the effort was genuine. This should convince us that true godmen are not available a dime a dozen.

I think I have met a true Godman. Met him a few times. I was a middle school girl then and did not know or care about this godmen phenomenon. He was a priest, must have been in his seventies, skinny as skinny could be, with a long long pepper and salt beard. He wore round Gandhi glasses. The minute I saw him, I felt I was in the presence of untainted goodness. Don’t ask me what gave me that feeling. Was it that smile so full of peace and love for mankind(?)?. I didn’t know anything much about him then. Today I hear his canonization moves are afoot! People who knew him say that he always kept a low profile, lead a simple life and walked miles and miles to see people, no matter what their station in life, to give a word of solace, a healing touch to the wounded heart.

Can’t remember having met another like him.

Because She is a Woman

I notice a certain shifting of position, a re-ordering of values and criteria when men talk about women in high position. I am not talking of that common breed of the male species branded mcp. It’s those liberal, fair-minded and intellectually poised men that I have in mind. Recently, while I was in the company of half a dozen men whom I would place in the latter category, Jayalalitha and Hillary Clinton figured in the conversation. Jayalalitha was corrupt to the core, they stated emphatically. Her style of functioning provided a major role for goondaism. The tone and tenor of the conversation became venomous in a controlled, suave manner – but the appearance of objectivity/impartiality was maintained by a careful use of diction. I pointed out that corruption and goondaism aren’t Jayalalitha’s forte alone. Most stalwarts in regional politics specialize in this. But in unison, they proved me wrong. They tabled a list of Jayalalitha’s real estate acquisition across the globe. The information came from dependable sources. Sources were quoted. Did these sources do a research into, say Karunanidhi’s wealth, or Deve Gowda’s for that matter? The question was dismissed with a casualness which suggested they hadn’t – and the listing out of the malpractices of the ‘film star turned politician with a dubious background’ continued with controlled heat bordering on the danger zones that threatened to rip off that mask of objectivity and poise. The long and short of it is this: it doesn’t matter if Gowda and K’ nidhi are corrupt - after all they are MEN. No. They don’t believe in condoning corruption. But they shrug off corruption as inevitable when the practitioner is a male politician. Corrupt men create much much less shock waves than corrupt women. That is the unwritten, unspoken truth.

Hillary Clinton too sufered the same fate in the hands of these men. It is not that they were anxious about uncle sam succumbing to the embraces of Cleopatra. What I could sense was a deep seated but unspoken resentment that she did not have the weaknesses associated with a woman, and she was smart, and stable in time of crisis, and she dared to aspire for the most powerful seat in the world!. Their list of her fatal flaws included vanity, arrogance, overconfidence and of course, corruption – all of which would be soft peddled in a male leader . And they wont give her a chance.

Strange, how men have an extra antenna up when it comes to a woman achiever. It is specially programmed to pick up flaws which would be highlighted in red when they are detected in the female species, but would have an ‘ignore all’ command given in default when picked up in the male species.

my take: A sin is a sin whether a man or woman commits it. Not only ceaser’s wife, ceaser too must be above blame. Corruption in public servants is detestable. A fraudulent practice is no more heinous because a woman commits it, or any less scandalous when a man commits it. No separate standards for the sexes, please!

Remember what the great teacher once(and for all) said without mincing words? Whoever has not sinned can cast the first stone.

PS. Strangely enough, Indira Gandhi did not suffer the same fate as Jayalalaitha or Hillary Clinton did in the hands of these men. When she surfaced in the conversation, it was I who protested against the tributes given to her in turns. I don’t understand how the lady managed to unsex herself in the eyes of these gentlemen. Or are Indian men incurable dynastic rule advocates?

An Apology for Srinivasan's Katha Parayumbol

I got a couple of comments to the post on katha parayumbol, to the effect that it is a substandard film; given below is a cut and paste of my response to them, showing why i like this film:

guess u have a point.

but it's not realism that i looked for in this movie. true, anavalmothiram, vadakku nokki yanthram, Chinthavishtayaya shyamala etc pay more attention to realistic details--but look at his works in a chronological order. you'll find a change-a movement from the realistic to the symbolic. ( all prolific writers show this tendency ). chinthanvishayaya shyamala is less dependent on realistic techniques than his earlier ones. kathaparayumbol has moved more to the symbolic plane- it's like a fable which goes something like this: 'once upon a time there was a small village in the remote highlands of kerala, where lived a good and honest barber balan'. Then balan's fortunes(misfortunes?) are traced. the social context in which this man lives is represented in typical, not realistic manner. all the usual srinivasan ingredients are thrown in, in a deliberately stereotyical exaggerated manner - for the focus of the movie is on

1. the character dileneation of balan -which all of you must admit is done in an excellent manner -with extreme realism - and with no jaada.

2. the fickless of the herd which is shown through stereotyped portrayal. perhaps opting for realistic techniques for this aspect would have made this movie an all time classic but i think balan's character dileneation and the spectacular performance by srinivasan make this film a real worthwhile experience.

besides, i know a person who is so very much like balan the barber - guess that's one reason i could relate--

SRINIVASAN KATHA PARAYUMBOL

braving a migraine, i went to the theater to see katha prayumbol, 'cos my friend Bhawani insisted that it is a must- see movie.

i think it is Srinivasan's master peice. and i am glad i went to the theater to see the film, instead of seeing it on the small screen. it was a great experience. being surrounded, yes, physically surrounded by feelings- cos that is what the movie is all about. about feelings. the feelings of a do gooder, the type you occasionally come across in life but never go ga ga about 'cos she/he keeps a very low profile, is shy about the world coming to know about his instinctive goodness and genorosity. you know, one of those uncomplicated types whose right hand does not know what the left hand does, who believes in minding his own business, in doing an honest job to make an honest living. and one who yearns only for an innocuous existence.

what a well executed film! -dont think i have seen many Indian films like that. cant think of another movie so free of mush which yet got tears streaming down my face out of sheer happiness? or a more complex set of emotions?

when is this genius of a filmaker going to be recognised? i dont think there could be many others who can take you on the journey through the labrynthian complexities of the human mind, laughing all the way but, all the time, making you intensley conscious of dark horrors that lurk in it.

but unlike his usual scripts, katha parayumbol is no dark comedy. oh yes, it has plenty of frames which offer saritical- bordering- on- farcical representations of human vanities - enough to make the film a super entertainer. but then, those are not surface ornamentations but essential weaves in the fabric of the film, showing us how the world appears to a man of the protagonist's nature. Therein lies the beauty of the film.

it's not one of those selfconscious experimental films. it's a plain, simple and honest narrative with a fabular quality. in katha parayumbol, Srinivasan brings down that artificial separation between art/parallel and mainstream movies.

But then we can say that of all his works.

Food for Thought

All on a suuden, everyone is talking of food.

By way of explanation for wheat shortage, Sharad Pawar , Minister for Agriculture, picked on South Indians for taking to chapati eating habit.

Minister for Commerce Kamal Nath thinks that poor people have suddenly developed enhanced appetite. Hence the government is faced wth the new challenge of providing additional meal per day for 15 million people.

And now, the President of America feels anxious about Indian middle class eating healthy, causing global food and economic crisis.

Food riots breaking out in different parts of the world. Food items being rationed even in developed countries.

And the Big brother expects the rest of the world to take care of global food requirements, while he converts food to fuel in order to deal with rising oil price as also to presrve his own oil reserves.

At the bottom line, it's all about food.

When Einstein said “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones", I guess he had no inkling that World War III may be fought over food.

Is our civilization heading back to its primordial ways ?

Who is the fittest that will survive?

George Bush on India's Eating Habits!

Bush said it- bluntly. as he always does. blunt talk. Many tend to dismiss him as cerebrally challenged when he comes out with these what appears to be his usual foot-in-the-mouth statements. The fact is, he was only voicing what the policy makers of America always believed in – no Asian country , be it Iraq or Iran or India, had any right to existence if they posed a threat to American economic interests. Bush was always the voice of the selfish, self-centred uncle sam who honestly believes in making the world safe for America at any cost. He is undiplomatically frank about it. Years back, Woodrew Wilson delicately rationalized Americas entry into the first world war with that ‘makng the world safe for democracy” bit, when actually what he meant was making the world safe for America. That is the great American dream, whatever else idealists might eulogise.


Ok. What if Indians are eating nutritious food and, as a result, the world is ravaged by inflation? What should India do? Starve her people so that American inflation can be capped? Condolleeza Rice’s anxiety about India putting a cap on exports to feed her increasingly affluent population, thereby causing supply shortage in the first world has, one must assume, made her president paranoid. His earlier paranoia led him to create havoc in Afghanistan and Iraq. He still harbours paranoia about Iran. Now it is India that haunts his nightmares. Guess it is China’s devil may care attitude arising from military and economic strengths that prompts him to keep silent about the eating habits of the Chinese people!

Ominous statements that cannot be ignored or taken lightly. Since independence, India has managed to retain her identity in her foreign and domestic policies. Her Non alignment policy, closed economy, nuclear programme, her pro-active role in Bangla Desh liberation and the successful run of democracy for six decades have made the world sit up and look at her as a force to be reckoned with. But the US did not feel threatened by her because poverty and famine were her companions in the post independence period. Now that India has achieved self sufficiency in food, and is well on the way to becoming a super power who can call the shots on many issues, uncle sam is getting jittery.

In the context of such menacing statements, it becomes very important that India strengthens herself politically, economically and militarily. This is a warning to all political parties to keep aside their individual agendas and behave responsibly in a statesmen like manner. The statement of the president of America cannot be dismissed as a gauche turn of phrase.

I GOT MY CENTURY

I get my century the minute I post this blog, I feel happy that I achieved this feat, despite being under the weather for a year.

Much water has flowed under the bridge since I posted my first blog ”Criminally Enlightened”. I traveled extensively to discover my India. I took ill but fought my way back to good health, with the help of near and dear ones. I blogged and blogged reveling in the freedom afforded by my space in the virtual domain – the freedom to be myself, to say whatever I please regardless of how insignificant or irrelevant my words were to the real world I inhabited. I reached out to kindred souls in that virtual space, who took my extended hands and shared thoughts and feelings through their comments and posts. I discovered that this space was also inhabited by some who could not see eye to eye with me on many issues. Their responses introduced, not discordant notes, but a complex dimension to this harmony of souls in this virtual world.

My hundred blogs represent, among other things, a journey into myself to discover and resurrect dormant or forgotten spaces in that unexplored region of memory.

Through this new form of self expression, I confront myself.

May God bless whoever discovered this platform for creativity.

And Sreesanth Wept

What a fall was there my country cousins
When you and I and all mallus fell down
When shameful tears flourished over us
(Quoted with due apologies to Mark Antony for the distortions)

We have seen him dance in the middle; and yell and bicker and make faces and even pray - and we were indulgent even tho we thought he went overboard sometimes.

But when he wept like a ----?! Sreesanth should have contained his tears, like Kapil Dev should have during that famous interview with Karan Tarpar, I felt.

But then why shouldn't he weep? Why shouldn't men weep? Does weeping unman you?Which Scriptures say so? Which scientific treatise establishes this?

It's all part of that patriachal discursive notions which created an order and attitudes from time immemorial with the help of certain controlling images of what a woman and a man should be - images which conditioned societal thinking about the do's and donts for both sexes.

I remember a sentence in Leon Uris's EXODUS which had a terrific cathartic effect on me when i read it as an undergraduate student. It went like this: ARI BEN CANNAN WEPT. The tough guy who fought in his own way for the creation of the state of Israel wept - but not out of self pity. he shed tears for his people and instantly enhanced his stature in the mind of the reader. And then there is that great scene in King lear where Lear comes carrying Cordelia's body in his arms, with tears streaming down his face, and uttering "NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER". I didn't grudge those men their tears. But when Kapil Dev and Sreesahth shed tears, I felt let down.

Why? Cos we have been taught to think that when men cry, it should be for causes greater than personal. Crying out of self pity is unmanly behaviour. Sreesanth confessed that he got an sms from a friend in the US chiding him for his tears. "you are a man and should not have wept", it read. I have seen men fight back their tears during funeral services of their dear and near ones. My son, who was barely twelve, refused to weep when my mother passed away - and ended getting severe stomach ache during the funeral. The doctor to whom we rushed him after the service told us that he'll be ok after he cries his heart out!

When we think rationally - we never do it when it comes to the role of sexes- we will realise that men and women are not made of different clay. And both have tear glands and ducts for the use of which Nature has made no stipulations. The norms are purely cultural.

I think just as we women resent being controlled by stereo typed notions, men too resent it. But they haven't got their act together to start a liberation movement or Masculinist theory.

My Mother and My Son

It was great watching them together. Amma was 75 and my son, 6. They could carry on serious conversations for a long time in the most casual fashion. I used to love coming home to that sight of the two of them in the cane chairs in the veranda, so comfortable with each other, engaged in conversation.

One day, I came home from work and saw amma sitting in the veranda and laughing helplessly. The chair next to her was empty. I sat down in that chair and she told me this:

‘Mathan was telling me about his dangerous adventure in the school today. He and a group of students were throwing stones at a snake. It was a very big snake. When the snake turned and looked in their direction, his friends ran off but he remained there looking for more stones. Just then, the PT teacher came rushing and took him away, dragging him by the hand. I tried telling him that snakes are dangerous things and he shouldn’t ever provoke them. He insisted he was not afraid but I drilled it into his head that a snake bite can kill in a matter of seconds.

“Ok ammamma” he said, “I won’t do it again”. Hardly were the words out when two passers - by on the road called out to me, pointing to something creeping in from under the front gate. I saw a large snake easing itself from under the gate into the compound. It was a rat snake. So I relaxed and turned to mathan to see if he will keep his promise made just a second ago. His chair was empty! I was terrified. Thought he had gone to look for something to attack the snake with, as the cemented compound did not provide stones. I rushed into the house and----saw my brave grandson, the snake killer sitting on top of the dining table, crossed - legged, looking petrified! I tried to explain to him that rat snakes are harmless. But he refuses to budge. Says he’ll get down from the table only after his papa comes home!’ concluded amma, wiping the tears of laughter streaming down her face.

She laughed even more when I told that the snake he was talking about was a python, safely imprisoned in a strong concrete and steel mesh cage in the corner of the school playground.

Strange, how even at that tender age, little boys imaginatively re-enact the St. George feat!

Bringing up a Nazrani Girl Child

I do not know if all young nazrani girls born in mid 1950s were brought up like me. I was the last but one in a family of more than half a dozen male children. As a very young girl, I enjoyed climbing trees, chasing dogs, throwing stones at squirrels and playing cricket(I made up for the shortage of players in both sides!-was a left hander) or Kili(our diluted version of kabadi). My hair, neatly tied up in a pony tail in the morning, would be a terrible mess in no time. Whenever amma caught me running around with my hair looking like a golliwog’s, she used to summon me immediately and tie it up again. This happened several times during the course of the day. On certain days, when it crossed the decade mark, I would get a sound spanking but I would always manage to wriggle out of her grip before she had her fill of spanking.

Of course, she often made remarks about my gender, reflecting her anxiety about my unladylike behaviour. But it was that eventful day, when I squeezed through the window bars of a room on the first floor to get on to the tiled roof of the verandah adjacent to the kitchen, that changed my fun filled vacation routine drastically, tragically. I still remember how I achieved that feat. I worked my way carefully down the sloping roof and reaching the edge, sat down dangerously, with my feet on the metal water drain. I remember feeling literally on top of the world seeing the kitchen backyard in a new perspective. Amma came out to the backyard for something, and I called out to her with all my love for her in my voice. She looked around, not knowing where my voice came from. Then suspicion dawned on her and she lifted her eyes slowly to the roof. I can never ever forget that look of horror? terror?, panic? or all rolled into one? that spread over her face. Then, a slow strange, weird smile spread on her face while she spoke sweet nothings to me. In the meanwhile, our odd job man arrived with the ladder and brought me down from my perch in the heights. Amma’s expression changed the minute she realized that I was out of danger and I saw red lights which warned that I had better bolt. I tried to but she was quicker. What a thrashing I got!! but as usual, I managed to get away when she was only half way through and ran for my life, but not before turning back to look at her and do a little jig to show her I had outsmarted her once again.

That jig did the trick. I was so unrepentant that she decided that it would not do for a girl to grow up like a tomboy. From the next day onwards, I was sent to a convent in the neighbourhood, where I learnt running stitch and hemming and chain stitch and French knots and satin stitch and lazy daisy and and and . I also listened to the lives of saints. The nuns taught me the prayers that would help me to become a saint. I refused to say those prayers because I didn’t want to become a saint. They threw the scare of the devil into me about the devil and hell; told me how beautiful it’d be to go to heaven and sing “holy holy’ day in and day out!

From nine to four, during every midsummer vacation till I reached the fourth class, I went to the convent. After that, we shifted to a different locality where there was no convent within walking distance. Anyway, by then, I had begun to think in a gendered fashion.

The Evolution of a Nazrani

Wonder how many people in this world have heard of Syrian Christians aka nazranis. Well I guess not very more than the nazrani’s themselves and a few more who have had anything to do with them. But the way these nazranis swagger about with inflated chest, one would think they have a pair of horns(ooops! manglish?) and are among the seven wonders of the world!.

Actually they come in all shapes and forms – jacobites, orthodox, catholics, marthomites, malankara, chaldeans, knanayas( this last type swear they are a better breed but nazrani’s pooh pooh that claim).

I am a nazrani myself. I became conscious of my Syrian identity, probably during that blissful period spent in my mother’s womb. I too have gone around for more than a quarter of a century of my life strutting around like chanticleer – all because I was a nazrani!

I think even as a toddler, I knew I was a Syrian-whatever that might have meant to a child of that age. I really don’t remember when I acquired that proud knowledge that my ancestors were namboodiris(that Brahmin of brahmins –yes that very caste into which Adishankara was born!!), and they were converted by none other than St. Thomas, the apostle himself. And I grew up thinking, that in this God’s own country, nazranis were the almighty’s favourites, the aristocrats and the nobility. We were a superior race, the inheritors of a proud parambaryam .

Then something changed – or did it? I don’t know, ‘cos identity is not something that can be sloughed off like the skin of a snake. It’s more than skin deep. It’s in that shared thing somewhere deep in the mind, called collective unconscious? So there is no escape from it. nevertheless, at some other level(the rational level?), I realized the existence of a huge grey area in this body of ‘knowledge’ I had inherited.

And I realized that this nazrani pride is not about being converted by that revered Apostle, or about a long tradition of Christianity practiced by our ancestors or about the jewish/Syrian heritage. It is all about laying a claim to the upper caste. Caste is at the bottom of it all.

More about nazranis later

End this rowdyism, please!

Kerala cannot take a single step in the direction of progress until this Goonda Raj is overthrown. It appears to be the order of the day for party workers or party youth wing to take law into their hands. They disrupt entrance exams for which thousands of students prepare for more than two years, for the conduct of which huge amounts are spent. They get university exams postponed if they want to attend some party convention, putting into immense trouble thousands of students, and the universities which are grappling with the massive problem of conducting exams on time. Destruction of public property appears to be their birth right. What happened in MACFAST recently is but one of the many many incidents of free indulgence in violence and public/private property destruction. And a few days back, a team of party workers barge into Forest Inspection Bunglow and forcefully release nine accused of smuggling an endangered tree species (NIE April 5).

A party which either cannot control its workers or has let them lose to lynch, or destroy public property, has no right to rule. What kind of governance can be expected from a political party which has a trouble shooting department to cast protective cover over their supporters who indulge in the worst type of violent and unlawful activities?

The only solution is to ban the party altogether.

Building a New Kerala - can we dream?

The New Indian Express has launched a BUILDING NEW KERALA initiative as part of its cekebrations of 75 years of fearless journalism, to which i sent my views. Needless to say, my contribition was not published. So here it is. Why waste the effort?

Congratulations to The New Indian Express for this valiant effort to salvage whatever is left of Kerala from its own wreck.

But to be hopeful of your success, requires optimsm of Himalayan magnitude. Did your recent anti-hartal initiatives prevent the hartal?

Nevertheless, we are grateful that you are not giving up. If you can sustain this never-say-die attitude, we, the people of Kerala, are with you.

But how to go about building a new Kerala?

I am glad you are talking in terms of building a ‘new’ Kerala and not renovating the old. The old has to be razed to the ground and we have to start afresh, careful not to make the same mistakes.

Where do we start?

From the scratch. Start, perhaps, from the schools -from the very primary level. We need to revamp our education system. Create a new system where the young ones are taught
· to love the country above the leaders and political parties;
· to love the environment;
· to cherish secular values,
· the concept of excellence
· the dignity of labour

Kerala is weak in all these departments. Serious studies must be done to get to the root of the problem, to understand why and how this situation came about. Sociologists’ help must be sought to diagnose the malady that has this state in its grip. In the meanwhile, behaviour therapy can be initiated. Begin with the schools. Catch them young and in eighteen years we will have a clean generation with the right values, capable of putting in place the right political dispensation. Set the remedial programme afoot by teaching the young ones, our future citizens to think clean, think healthy, think positive. Kerala needs to be cured of the cynicism, the mediocrity, the arrogance, that pathologically compulsive obsession with rights and that incredibly shameful deficiency in duty consciousness.

Equally urgent is the need to improve the work culture in the state. Kerala cannot wait for the new generation to emerge from the schools. Is it naïve to suggest that this problem be therapeutically addressed.

The next essential step to be taken is to deal with the culprits who have bought the state to this mess – the ruthless, selfish politicians. How this can be done, we hapless citizens have no idea. These politicians are always outsmarting us. This, I guess, is where a concerted effort on the part of the media can help. If you can do something about keeping politics out of school and college campuses, Kerala will make the Gods turn green with envy. For that is where the wealth of the state lies.

Can you bell the cat?

Kochuthresiamma P J
Changanasserry

Waiting for the Mahatma

It's been a long time since i blogged about Gandhiji. Guess it's on account of someone who told me that i'm overdoing the 'gandhi bit'. But he has never been absent from my thoughts. He intrudes everytime i pick up a newspaper or watch news. When violence rocks tiruvalla and kannur and karnataka and tamilnadu and kashmir and Iraq and the world-- I think of that messanger of peace who showed that non violence is a more powerful weapon than violence. Non violence is control. Control is power. Strength. He taught us truth is God, that truth will set us free - free from fear. Truth therefore is the source of strength.

He made it all look so simple. He translated these ideals into mass action. He proved it could be done. But why is it that we, as a nation in the grip of violence, corruption and fear, have ceased to look up to Gandhi?

My theory is that this is because we have driven Gandhi out of schools. He should not have been sidelined by syllabus setters. He should figure in a major way right from KG to the University level. Someone might argue that this would amount to indoctrination. So what? If indoctrination can bring about peace on earth and goodwill among men, why not?

Commenting on the success of Lage Raho Munnabhai, my daughter wrote "Maybe in all our hearts ,there is much more of the Mahatma than we think there is!"

What a wonderful thought! The more i think of it, the more i feel she is right. But then, why is this Gandhigiri hiding itself? Why this dormant existence for so long? 'Cos it is struggling to find its way out of the darkness of ignorance. Introduce Gandhiji into the schools with a vengeance and Gandhigiri will see the light of day.

Let's hope someday it'll surface and become a collective force once again .

No Money. So Set the Prisoners Free

Was reading a novel the other day. There was this incident where the army decides to release a prisoner 'cos it was proving to be too expensive to keep him a prisoner - he had to be fed. So he is released, which the army authorities feel is a greater punishment, as he would have to beg for food. The place being a frontier territory in the middle of a desert (an oasis settlement), the prisoner cannot leave the place. So he would be sufficiently humiliated, begging for food, from people he once governed. Incidentally, the prisoner was the magistrate of that frontier territory at the time he was taken into custody.

I was quite taken up by the ingenuity of the authorities who killed two birds with one stone - released a man both to spare the state the expenses as well as to add insult to injury by forcing him to beg. But i thought such things happen only in novels - till i read this news item today:

PROVIDENCE, R.I. - Lawmakers from California to Kentucky are trying to save money with a drastic and potentially dangerous budget-cutting proposal: releasing tens of thousands of convicts from prison, including drug addicts, thieves and even violent criminals.
Officials acknowledge that the idea carries risks, but they say they have no choice because of huge budget gaps brought on by the slumping economy.

The officials are aware of the dangers of letting criminals out, but they are still contemplating it as the state cant afford to keep them. Unlike the situation in the episode i mentioned earlier, the community pays for this decision, not the prisoner.

This news item is disturbing. It shows a shift in priorities - money over community/human well being. The implicatons are dangerous. Imperceptibly, a change is creeping into the values that inform governance/policies. Fatten the excehquer at any cost - at the cost of the safety of the community("You're talking about victim safety. You're talking about community member safety," she said. "You can't balance the budget on the backs of victims of crimes."), at the cost of the farmers, who go under, under the impact of the mindboggling "economic growth", at the cost of the marginalised who get still more marginalised as a result of the structural adjustments which aim only at an "economic growth" - at any cost.

This is a global phenomenon which manifests in different forms in different parts of the globe.

i

Kuttanad - ravaged by rain gods and diabolic unions

A terrible tragedy has struck kuttanad. The summer showers played havoc with the crop- which was excellent this year.
being an urban bred creature, i allowed myself to enjoy the welcome summer showers which cooled the scorching earth - till i saw my friends with kuttanaad connections start panicking. there was this person whose father- in- law had 20 acres of paddy, and it was a bumper crop this year. and there was this very close friend who looked at me with despair and something else in her eyes, when , without knowing the implications of the unexpectedly torrential nature of the summer showers, i expressed my bliss about a cool night to look forward to. With deadly calm she told me she got information that kuttanad paddy fields(hers included) , with a bumper produce this year , have been submerged. Harvesting would have been over long time back if they were allowed to use the harvesting machines. The quiet in her voice and that strange look in her eyes were scary.

the local newspapaers told the rest of the story next day( i couldnt see TV news that day)- with pictures of men and women with something like death in their eyes.

man cannot gnash his teeth against the weather gods. But against those crude, brutal, ideology crazed, vulgar , mindless, vicious muscle flexing of the organised labour unions which refused permission to use the harvest machines? How are we to deal with these no good labour forces which have been calling the shots in kerala for , oh, God, how long?

And the Agriculture minister has rushed to the rescue of the labour unions with the dog in the manger policy, which this time has led to an unprecedented disaster. Are we, the people of kerala, going allow those irresponsible poisonous rowdies to get away with this scot free?

I know all these frustrated rantings will end up in a whimper while these power crazed, heartless forces continue with their mission of destroying hope and demoralising the the farmers in kerala.

What can we humans do when forces of both evil and good gang up against us?

Anonymity

I found a book of quotation lying around and was thrilled. I think I was in the third standard, and I needed a sentence everyday to fill two pages of transcription writing (my handwriting was worse than Gandhiji’s - so I was asked to do two pages while one was the normal burden). Strange- the only thing I knew then about that great man , other than his role in our independence struggle was that he had a very bad handwriting. And in all my childhood innocence, I thought that was truly the surest road to greatness. Till sister kevin’s ruler came down sharply on my knuckles.

And so there I was, falling over my transcription book every evening after school, repeating loudly, word after word, as I carefully formed them between the four lines. Ok. to come back to the subject in hand – that quotation book revealed a great truth to me: the most prolific ‘quotation writer’ was Mr. Anonymous. I remember Sr. kevin’s laughing face with tears streaming down her face, when I asked her who this poet was!

True, anonymity is a blissful state. I have found that every time I have had to relocate from my native place for brief stints. If you are traditionally sari-wearing types, you can get out of that cumbersome attire into more comfortable ones, under the cover of anonymity. I knew a cheduthy, who used to live very close to us. I had seen her only in thuniyum chattayum. One day, her grand daughter brought a photo of that cheduthi taken in Florida; she was in a –hold your breath (‘cos it knocked the breath out of me)- in jeans and T-shirt!!! Another acquaintance of mine showed me a picture of herself in a two-piece swimsuit taken on some beach in the US. She was young with a well-toned body but something was wrong. It took me some time to realize what it was. Either she looked uncomfortable in that unfamiliar outfit or the outfit felt uncomfortable on her. You know, that confidence to carry it off was not there. Then, why on earth did she get into it-and why on earth did she take a picture in it? still worse, why on heaven and earth did she show it to me, carefully keeping her eyes on my face to see how I reacted? God. It was really difficult- keeping a dead pan expression and and then looking up with a stupid grin and tell her that she looked great, with my smile confining itself to my lips. In spite of all my efforts, it refused to travel to my eyes. And why on earth did she have to tell me with a pout: “you know what? You are jealous!”
I have capitalized on anonymity myself on many occasions. I always wanted to look chic and I thought the easiest way to achieve that was to chop off my lifeless hair and style it. Back home every attempt to do that was sabotaged by my near and dear ones who threated to do terrible things (kick me out, disown me, disinherit me---) if I did that. as luck would have it we had to relocate to Mumbai. I should have chopped off my hair the day after I landed there. Instead, I waited for a couple of months – by then I had lost my anonymity and couldn’t muster up enough courage to do it!

But this anonymous business can be quite annoying sometimes. You know when that sometimes is? When you see a response to a blog written by that prolific writer “anonymous”

Why does a comment to a blog need that fig leaf called anonymity?

My Maiden Encounter with Four Letter Words

We were too young to know one must behave with propriety towards the mentally challenged woman who stood on the other side of the raod, outside our gate. My brother and I(6 and 5 years) clung to the gate provoking her. And then-- she uttered that four letter word in Malayalam. and she repeated it –over and over and over again, as tho’ it gave her some relief. This got us curious. What could that word mean? Of course, we knew it had to be an expletive but didn’t realize that it was the most forbidden word in Malayalam.
So off I went, looking for my mother who was my mobile dictionary. I came to the veranda off the kitchen. Three or four professional palaharam (snacks)makers were working full swing, making muruku, achappam, cheeda, laddus, mysore pak etc. we children were not allowed entry into the verandah because lighted stoves were kept on the floor of the veranda. Also we’d bring in dust and sand in the cooking area. And so there I stood in the backyard, at the bottom of the steps of the verandah, calling out to my mother.
Amma soon appeared on the verandah, warning me to stay away from it. I told her I wanted to ask her something important, and she asked me to go ahead and ask from where I was standing. Needless to say, I had to shout while I was talking to her on account of the distance between us.
Amma, amma, what does ---- mean?
All froze. The men busying themselves with their work and my mother. Yes. On that hot mid summer afternoon, they froze. all of them!
and the silence? it was deafening.
I knew something was amiss but didn’t realize what it was. Then amma stirred and started coming down the steps with a strange expression on her face. She walked towards me with a deadly calm, took my hand firmly, turned me around briskly and oh god, --I saw more stars than heavens could hold.
And to date, I have never ever uttered that word.

Cicily Thaathi

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

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

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

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

Teachers, Beware!

it was a shocker-with just a few months to go before I take voluntary retirement, my student who is now my colleague tells me that as a teacher I was a terror!!! and I always thought that I was the sweetest and most amiable person on earth!!

she tells me that the story that is still doing the rounds about me is that once, during my lecture, a fly buzzed around my face. and I looked at it once and it vanished. they don’t know how the vanishing act was achieved. probably got charred, the students still say.

and she remmbers each occasion when I blew my lid off- and the strangest thing is, I don’t remember any of them! in fact I don’t remember ever getting angry with that particular batch. I used to like them and enjoy my lecture sessions with them!!!!!

I had half a mind to withdraw my decision to retire and go on so that I get sometime to repair my image.

no use , my student turned colleague says, too late. there’s a gulf between the person I know as my colleague and the person who was my teacher.

I have just a few more months in service and I have made up my mind that atleast the present batch of students will take home pleasant memories about me.

and so I have started damage control operations.

last week I entered the class room smiling broadly. tried to sustain that countenenance throughout. did I catch the students exchanging furtive glances? am not sure but I certainly do hope I did not over do it. don’t want them to think that I’ve become soft in the brain overnight.

but I intent to keep at it.

in the meanwhile, teachers, be careful how you conduct yourself in the lecture rooms. you are on the wrong side of the desk from where a a perplexed expression will appear like a scowl, a sneeze like a tornado, and silence like an iceberg.

Are Indians getting to be intolerant?

The UP government has banned Jaishree Mishra's book 'Rani' on the grounds that it shows Rani of Jhansi in poor light. Well. True that Rani Lakshmibai of Jhansi hailed from UP, Jodha Akbar from Rajasthan, Bose from Bengal, Sarvarkar from Maharashtra.But none of these states have any proprietory rights over these personlities with regard their depiction in a work of art. they cannot dictate how an artist or a film maker should portray them. a novel or a film is a work of art, and artists have poetic license which society should respect. One can understand if all this fuss and banning is about a documentary which is expected to abide somewhat by laid down 'facts'-but a film and a novel? art is all about the creativity of the artist and is bound to be different. art is art precisely because it can accommodate a plethora of interpretations.



Why have we Indians become so intolerant -and parochial? And why do we brandish history as an alibi to our irrational reactions ariising from unhealthy possessive, parochial claims? We live in times when history is no longer considered factual or autoratative. The so called 'indisputable facts' of history are constructed by the historian whose perception is shaped by his location in particular historical/political/cultural/ideological site. In other words history is no longer considered god's own truth but a discourse in which the 'truth' is only a view point and it is supported by selected facts. this makes history a very unreliable alibi.



i would say the same thimg about people going livid over religious issues too. What harm can a Da Vince Code do to Jesus Christ, or a few Paintings do the deities or a novel do to the Prophet? isn't faith above the representations and perceptions of artists?

like Russel said, if we are sure, we will be unaffected by a different point of view. if our faith is strong, we'll not fly off the handle. Gods can survive blasphemies. they do not want us to take up their cause by banning, burning , breaking or blood letting.

Dangerous game again

The rath yatra has begun and issues best left to oblivion are being raked up again. A couple of decades ago it was Ram janmabhoomi. The profit was reaped by the BJP and the loss, by the country. it divided the nation.

Now the issue is terrorism. And the UPA appears to have no intention of ignoring the issue which they ideally should. Instead what they do is this.

(this is from The Hindu e paper)
What is your record in curbing terror, Congress asks Advani

First set your house in order: Singhvi

Afzal Guru was arrested and let off under NDA rule two months before Parliament attack

Why did NDA government capitulate to hijackers?

and then

“What is their record when Mr. Advani was Home Minister and later Deputy Prime Minister? The nation wants to know what transpired between the Deputy Prime Minister and the then Foreign Minister [Jaswant Singh], on one side, and the Taliban diplomats, the Afghanistan officials and the hijackers of IC 814, on the other, between December 24 and December 31, 1999,” asked Congress spokesman Abhishek Singhvi.

well. the nation wants to know nothing of the sort. we just want to be left alone to lead a peaceful life.

a plea to genetic engineers- is there some way of cloning that extinct species called honest politician/statesman?

Salwar Revolution in Kerala

The government of kerala has permitted school teachers to wear salwar kameez to work. it'll soon be extended to college teachers too.

we must hand it to the various govts of kerala for coming out with such landmark and citizen friendly orders once in a way. and i like the argument that the unwritten law that women teachers wear sarees to work is a gendered one as there are no restrictions on men.

congratulations and thank you, kerala govt. it really required a govt order to change the fossilised mindset of the people.