Home, Warm Home

The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow,

And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm

And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

This nursery rhyme kept coming back to me from 22nd of December when it started snowing in Chicago. The tiny flakes of snow floating down fascinated me and from the window of the house, I looked out to see it accumulating by the roadside, topping bare trees and pine trees like icing. People wrapped up in heavy clothes and many booted till the knees moved like automatons determined to brave the cold.

AS I looked out of the window, my fascination for snow-covered land, which had developed in me from childhood from the xmas cards, comic books and Enid Blytons came to my mind. Looking from the window of the house in Chicago the thrill I expected gripped my heart.

And then we went out. Wrapped up in layers of clothes, I still froze – just covering the distance from the house to the car, which was very short! It took a half a minute for the car to get heated. Till then my teeth went takatakatakataka. My nose felt like a piece of ice. I had just begun to literally warm up when we reached the destination, I was dropped off right in front of the restaurant so that I could just rush into it when the car was taken for parking.

There was wind! OH, I thought rather desperately as I negotiated to the 15 short steps into towards the doorway. This is why this place is called the windy city! As the door of the restaurant closed behind me, I remember thinking that it was like someone was shoveling ice on me – ice which penetrated through my clothes and chilled my very bones. Christ’s words describing the end of times came to my mind from out of nowhere. Pray, he said, these things I told you about do not happen in winter!

Ever since that first trip outside the house after it started snowing, my perspective changed. The childhood fascination turned into horror when I looked out of the window; the white snow covered landscape filled me with fear. I comprehensively experienced the full implication of the term BLEAK. And the nursery rhyme kept coming back to me, over and over again.

“What will poor robin do then, poor thing?”

God, what a sensitive little song!

He’ll sit in a barn and keep himself warm
And hide his head under the wing, poor thing.

The poem, I thought, was written with my 2009 - 10 sojourn in Chicago in mind. It was exactly what I did. I kept myself warm in the already centrally heated house in a sweater, jacket and a muffler and refused to step out of the house unless I absolutely had to.

Poor me! The weather is not meant for a tropical creature like me.

I started speaking out loud and longingly about the warm weather of Trivandrum! About the greenery of the land. Of the heart warming view from my apartment, of the tops of the green spread of coconut tree tops from which a house here or a high rise there peeped out apologetically.

I longed for the warm sultry weather of Trivandrum! For the ‘heat and dust’ of India!

I browsed the net and got this explanation of that nursery rhyme:
The purpose of words to 'The North Wind doth blow' is to ensure that a child associates security with home whilst empathizing with the plight of the robin.

I saw myself as the robin with its poor head tucked away under the wing. I empathasised, no experienced, the panic that can seize you when exposed for the briefest moment to that biting windy weather. I comprehensively experienced the full implication of the term WARM. The word acquired a new meaning when I realized that it evolved in the language of a people who battled with this terrible weather most of the year. For them warmth was security.

Am back home and it’s heaven!

DISASTERS

Here now, gone the next moment. The age old truth is ever new and never ceases to fill us with horror, resignation and a sense of futility of human existence.
The appalling figure of the Haitian tragedy – Is human life so worthless? Are human achievements so fragile?
What are we going around for, with chests inflated with the air of perceived omnipotence, with a smugness and complacency fed by megalomaniacal cockiness?
We can land on the moon, conquer it and colonise it. But can we prevent its gravitational power from causing the oceans to rise and submerge man and his work?
Nature has always reminded us harshly about the existence of the human LOC. Through deluges and earthquakes, Volcanoes and Tsunamis, hurricanes and colliding meteors, she has claimed her victims in this war with man outside this LOC, in proportions that are mind boggling. Her ravages are indiscriminate, not selective. She is no respecter of man made hierarchies or categories. Lazarus and Dives, Satyavan or Savitri, Sarah or Hagar, Pandavas or Kauravas – it does not matter: all is fair in war.
Is this a war between man and nature?
Scriptures explain the disasters as divine intervention to bring man to his senses.
Modern day’ rational’ mythologies float popular theories that disasters are nature’s intervention to check population growth.
These theories and interpretation have got man nowhere near prevention of massive disasters. He is helpless against nature’s fury, for whatever reason she chooses to be furious.
The technologically progressive man continues to be in infancy when it comes to controlling nature.
So what do we do?
Honestly, we have no idea. Just sit back and throw up my hands in helplessness, I guess.
There is no escape from the visuals of the disaster. And I tell myself we should not try to escape from them, no matter how painful. If the visuals are painful, what about the actual thing? I was spared this time. So I have the opportunity to feel for my fellow human beings. To empathise.
And we need to manage our responses which more often than not run amok. We need to be stoic, I suppose and subscribe to that Byronic posture of revering the power that does not revere us – whatever that might imply.

What's wrong with Amir Khan movies?

I saw Three Idiots and laughed my guts out. I loved the movie. A super entertainer.

But if I have to vote for the fifty good movies I’ve ever seen, will I vote for it?

The answer is NO. As for that matter, I wouldn’t vote for Lagaan, or Tere Zameen Par. The latter would perhaps just about make it into the 100 best movies. But I’m not sure.

Why is it so, I asked myself. I never go by the critics review. For me a good movie is what I enjoy and what keeps coming back to my mind long after I have seen it – you know like the taste of a dish you have eaten, or is a regular part of your eating habit which you want to think of with longing?

Yes. Now I realize that’s what’s wrong with the Amir Khan movies I have mentioned. They are all forgettable movies. They have no lasting impact on me. Good while they last – and then - - well that’s it.

So I decided to look into my response to these films and find out why I feel this way, why I cannot wax eloquent about them. And these are my conclusions:

· These movies have greater commitment to the box office than to the art form. In the bargain, art suffers. Clichés, stereotypes, slapstick formulae, the usual formulaic fare that cater to the perceived demands of the audience (I always feels the directors underestimate the audience) take away from the internal consistency and the cogency of the theme of the movie which becomes heavily diluted, and sometimes run haywire. This also compels the director to resort to simplistic, shallow execution of the project, totally sidestepping the nuances and subtleties that cause a film experience to rankle in the brain. All the three movies in question here have great themes which could have been explored in an infinitely more sophisticated manner. But the makers decided to keep them basic, naïve and one dimensional. Of course, one cannot blame the film makers for focusing on the box office considering the mammoth investment. But that is no excuse to compromise the internal demands of an artistic piece.

· The second reason that I find these movies not up to my expectations is the obsession with Amir Khan. Again this supports the earlier point that I made. His market value has to be exploited – even at the cost of compromising a potential classic which explores the gray areas of an issue and gets closer to human reality. The movies revolve round the superhero Amir khan, and not the character he represents. The plots, episodes, the script and all – all made only for Amir Khan, the actor who can garner crores on account of his superstardom. Art is compromised to narcissism. Amir Khan is going the Dev Anand way. The latter became a very irritating actor- director ‘cos of his self love which made him impose himself on the audience irrespective of whether the role and the film demanded it.

How else would I have it? I told you these movies hardly impacted me, and so I cannot really recall details. No frame is etched permanently in my mind. Yet I remember thinking that in Lagaan, the strategies used to carve BHuvan into heroic proportions were silly. The final winning shot in the cricket match was most laughable. Perhaps if someone else had done it, it’s have been less comical and I’d have been more willing to accept it. The dyslexic background of Amir Khan (TZP)violently yanked into the film towards the end is most irritating. This probably was done to prevent the little boy from stealing the show - which he still did despite the production efforts. The attempt to blow up Amir Khan into superhuman proportion is so blatant, naive and inartistic. In Three idiots, all loose ends are neatly tied up. But the purpose is not to enhance the theme of a faulty educational system but to enlarge the Amir Khan cutout. The end result was that the blow up was so disproportionate that it spilt outside the screen space.

Amir Khan should show a greater willingness to share the screen space with the other actors, if the story demands it. To manipulate the script to revolve round only himself will bring huge profits to the investors, but will cause the movie to be reduced to just another bollywood bash. Classics are made of different material.

You might argue Ami Khan movies are terrific hits, and that’s what movies are all about – acceptance by the audience, entertainment for the audience. I suppose there is a lot of truth in this argument. But I am one of those who want the film to remain with me subliminally long after the laughter or tears subside at the end of the show. Flat characters, formulaic plots, total reluctance to plumb the depths of human experience – all these make Amir Khan movies a very forgettable experience for me. Fills me with a sense of terrific loss, of what might have been if if if - -

The Curious Case of Dr.Shashi Tharoor , the Thinking Minister.

“I think his (is a) very clear summary for us of the way in which Indian foreign policy drew from our founding fathers’ sense of our civilization heritage, the extraordinary contribution of Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru to the articulation of that civilisational heritage, the manner in which that both enhanced India’s standing in the world and gave us the negative reputation for conducting foreign policy as a sort of moralistic running commentary on other people’s behaviour.” said Shashi Tharoor , summing up Bhikhu Parik’s presentation at the event organised by an association of Indian diplomats at Delhi’s Indian Council of World Affairs.

Parekh’s talk on “India’s place in the world” called Nehru’s foreign policy a mistake. Mr. Shashi Tharoor endorsed Parik’s position - and is in a soup. The Congress party is peeved that he dared to criticize the policies of Nehru.

“I am very surprised by Tharoor’s style. He is a member of the Congress and his responsibility is to carry forward the legacy of Pandit Nehru and not to be critical of it,” Congress spokesperson Shakeel Ahmed said.

The height of sycophancy! How else can we describe this ridiculous attitude?

Dr.Parik is a renowned political theorist. Dr. Sashi Tharoor is a renowned intellectual and writer. Has he signed a contract with the congress party to shelve his brains temporarily into the deep freeze while he serves the country as a minister from the party?

Mind you, Tharoor was not commenting, this time, on a current policy. It was his perception of India’s early foreign policy. People see things differently. Also, in hindsight, our perceptions can alter. Is it fair for the Congress party to crack whip on the partymen on the position to be taken on the policies of the Indian National Congress for the past 150 years? Well, they had then better issue tickets to zombies and empty vessels who are capable of only echoing the inane rumblings of the high command on issues which are of interests and concern to researchers and theorists.

And why flay him for faulting Gandhi? Did not Gandhi believe that perception of truth will change with time and situation? Did he not provide for differences of opinion? Hasn’t he stated that "Honest differences are often a healthy sign of progress" and "Honest disagreement is often a good sign of progress"

I belong to the school of thought which endorses Nehruvian economic and foreign policies. But does that mean I must block from my mind all other perceptions of it? Does it mean I should condemn or silence hindsight wisdom?

Dr. Shashi Tharoor’s role in this meeting is not clear from the reports. Was he a moderator? If he was, his function was to be an objective chairperson in an intellectual discussion and not that of a spokesman of the Congress party. Even if he were a mere participant and not a moderator, it was his honest perception that was relevant in a debate following a scholarly presentation. It would be ridiculous, and unbecoming of a thinker to capitalize that platform to toe the party line.

Regarding Shashi Tharoor, the politician, there is every indication that he is getting sick and tired of the his cerebral activity being cabined, cribbed and confined by the lobby of seasoned politicians who never miss an opportunity to cut him down to size. Tharoor’s success would usher in a new type of political leaders who might eventually form the think tank of the party, much to the chagrin of those who stay in power by their sheer political acumen and Machiavellism innocent of intellectual content.

The Aishwarya Rai Complex

She came to me to ask for an extension for the submission of the assignment on the date which was already an extended one.

“Sit down, Jasmine”, I said, pointing to the seat in front of mine at my table in the staff room. I made a mental note of the fact that she chose a time when she knew I’d be alone in the Department.

“You know I can’t extend it anymore. It was already done – and I made it clear that this was the final deadline. And I noticed you were nodding your head vigourously in approval”.

Jasmine was a good student to have in the class. Always sat in the first row, was most attentive, laughed at all the jokes, asked questions (which sometimes were obviously for the sake of asking). I always looked for her as I entered the classroom. In fact, if I didn’t find her in her usual seat, I’d even feel a little lost.

But she rarely did well in her tests. I have had to give her repeat tests to push her through. The problem was language. She came from Marathi medium and hence did not have a sense of the English language while writing. But she spoke without hesitation, mistakes and all.

I was the deliberate choice as a teacher for that class, ‘cos I knew little Hindi and less Marathi. Malayalam wouldn’t work. So the students would mandatorily be exposed to spoken English by a conservative speaker of English.

“Ma’m I had some problem. I couldn’t sit down to write it the past few days”.
I looked at her ‘cos I was always wary of being a confidante of students whose autobiographies, I was warned, could sent your head reeling at an incredibly fast spin.

“Ma’am. I had to get this done”, she said pointing to her hair. I’m very tardy, I must confess, at noticing cosmetic changes which are not glaring like, say, a shaven head, or cropping of long hair or shocking pink or scarlet lipstick.

I looked at her hair and noticed that she had streaks of three subtle colours on her hair. Streaking the hair was just becoming common then (this was in 1998).

“Does it take a long time to get that done?”

“Yes, Ma’m”, Jasmine said animatedly. This parlour is near my house. I always go there so that even if I am late, I can just take a rick home. If I do it here in Santa Cruz, I’ll have to take the train. The rush would be heavy”.

So much of planning, I thought.

“Where do you live?”

“Borivli”

“When did you do this to your hair?”

“You don’t like it Ma’am?”

“Oh, you look good”

I did it yesterday-took nearly an hour and a half. By the time I reached home, I was tired, and went to sleep. Had to start early ‘cos I had the 8 o clock lecture today”.

“But the project was given a month back. The date extension was given a week back”.

“I’ know ma’am”, said the crestfallen Jasmine.

“What were you doing for a whole month?”

“Ma’am. Next time I’ll submit on time. Just this once, please.”

“Sorry Jasmine. Your reason is not good enough”.

“Ma’aaam. How can you say that? See Aiswarya Rai. It’s all the job of the makeup artist”, she declared. “I’ve seen her when she came for a shooting here. She is so ordinary. And my skin is a light as hers!”

You could have knocked me down with a feather!

“Are you trying to be an Aishwarya Rai?”

“It’s not impossible, you know.”

And then I looked at Jasmine. She’s right. It’s not impossible if she added 5 more inches to her height, subtracted 10 kilos from her weight, did a face job around her cheeks to lengthen her cute moon shaped face.

I kept my thoughts to myself and let her talk. It was a revelation to me, that this chirpy girl who sat in the front bench was actually obsessed to the point of distraction about turning herself into a classic beauty. I smiled to myself when she rattled off the names of a few makeup artists who changed ugly ducklings into the glam girls of Bollywood.

“You planning to enter movies?”

“No ma’am. Everybody says I’ll get only small roles which are usually bad roles.”

Things were getting complicated.

“Jasmine, believe me when I tell you are an extremely beautiful girl, but in a different way. About Aishwarys Rai, it’s her business to be glamorous. Your business is to be something else. That’s why you are here to do a specialized course. You beauty lies in being yourself. You know no matter how much she tries, Aishwarya Rai cannot become you, or acquire your innocent charm and your type of special good looks”.

Her face brightened up.

It was advantage me.

“I’ll give you another extension, but that is between you and me. Submit the draft you have brought now, and give the final draft on Monday. This is the only time in my whole life as a teacher that I have made this concession. That’s because I know if you put your heart and soul into this, you’ll pass with flying colours”.

She jumped up and touched my feet which I quickly pulled away ‘cos I have the ugliest feet on earth. This habit the students in Mumbai have of touching the teachers’ feet at the drop of a hat was always a cause for worry for me. But then, I too should have told myself that it is not my business to be an Aishwarya Roy!

Jasmine submitted an excellent project, with no mistakes in the language. I didn’t want to ask her if it was her own work. I wanted to believe in her.

I left that institute before she qualified. But for nearly five years, she sent me a card on my birthday. Fours years after this episode, she sent me a letter with the birthday card to tell me she had picked up a job in a multinational pharmaceutical company. She wrote without mistakes (for which I don’t take the credit. I was her teacher only during the initial two semesters).

But I like to think that I did play a role in curing her of the Aishwarya Rai complex.

Christmas Then and Now

Was reading a few blogs and looking at pictures and reports on Christmas – in Dubai, New York, Florida, in the giant metros and in small cities, towns and rural areas too in Kerala. And my mind slid back to sixties and seventies - - -

My earliest memories did not involve Xmas shopping, ‘cos I was a kid. Shopping must have been there, but the instant ready to use items, I’m sure were not there. Not just us children, but those of all age group got involved inn making the pulkoodu (Crib). I still remember a day before Christmas. My father in a Jubba, with his hand on his hip discussing with Mathai who was employed in his office across the street, about the ideal spot for the crib (and mind you, my father was a very busy business man!). I remember anxiously waiting to see if the spot I preferred would be decided on. It wasn’t, and then the six year old me threw tantrums. I was given a hearing and Ichayan (that’s what we called my father) agreed there’s a lot of sense in what I said – on the narrow veranda it was to be. It faced the front compound which could be accessed by a small flight of steps. It would look like the crib is on top of a hill, I said excitedly (am not sure now if the manger where Christ was born was on top of a hill). Yes, the hill effect could be easily achieved if the crib was where I wanted it, agreed my father enthusiastically. Mathai also agreed. And my day was made.

Every bit of item for the crib was gathered by my brothers and I. Some supervised, some moved in an out of the house, in the compound and the adjacent vacant plot getting bits and pieces to put the crib together . I still remember Mathai telling us siblings that if he could cover the superstructure we had built up with brown paper which could be crumpled to get that crushed effect, that’d make it look like a mountain. Some paint was remaining from the maintenance that was done in the house a couple of months back. It could be used to touch up the brown paper to improve the effect. It meant a lot of brown paper, and a lot of money.

“Mollykochey”, suggested Mathai. “You ask Ichayan. He will agree”.

I do not know if I was the favourite, but I remember I was not scared to ask him. He readily agreed, took out a note and gave me.

There was jubilations when I ran back with the money.

It was a great crib that year! Grass was uprooted from the vacant plot and arranged at the bottom of the step to create an impression of a green valley. There was even a lake in front of the crib, at the foot of the mountain, in the middle of the grassland! Mathai dug a shallow hole on the sand, placed a basin in it poured water into it and even put a few live fish into it.(I do not know if there was even a puddle in Bethlehem! But that did not matter).

In the kitchen, amma would be making cake in bulk. Yes, really bulk. Baking was done in the most primitive manner. The small oven which could be kept over the aduuppu (firewood stove) was inadequate. So a temporary firewood stove was made in the backyard, and a huge bell metal vessel (chembu) was kept over this make shift aduppu. It was filled with sand which took a long time to get hot. My brother who was closest to me in age, and I used make occasional inspection of this outdoor oven to see if the sand was hot enough for the cake mix to be arranged in the many dishes it was already poured into. Amma kept a hawk eye on us to make sure we didn't land up in the oven.

Regarding the wine, amma would have bottled it a week before Christmas.

The spade work for Christmas cooking would start late in the evening. The only thing that used to sadden me was the sight of the chicken and duck that were awaiting slaughter. I remember asking Verghese, our very versatile odd job man and who took over the role of the supervisor on that day if it would hurt them when he cut their heads off. We were shooed off when the actual killing took place.

Of course, I could block out that part of the story of the duck roast which was served with appam for Christmas breakfast.

Every Christmas of those decades has memories for me. In my time too, I have tried to keep that spirit of Christmas in my home. Even today, my crib is a cardboard carton, with some grass from the roadside and a few painted clay figures of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, three kings and shepherds, a few sheep and cattle and an angel suspended from the hole pierced through the “roof” of the carton.

But the world has moved on, while I continue to wallow in nostalgia. How different things are now! How commodified is that festival now! The malls and shops glitter with optic fibre lights, eco friendly glare, bright colourful and fluorescent decorations. Cakes – you get any variety of them from the shops. And wine too.

Guess I’m an old timer. All these glitter and glare leave me cold.

God's pet

I am God’s favourite.

Now hang on! Don’t jump to the conclusion that all my castles in the air have materialized into bricks and mortar.

No. Far from it. Far far from it.

Guess that wil happen someday. But by then, I’d, perhaps, have made greater acquisitions besides which all those realized castles will pale into insignificance.

What irony, eh?

The long and short of it is, our aery castles are not what really matter. They turn out to be false dreams. False in the sense they limit our aspirations to easily accessible destinations.

If God picks you as his favourite, the first thing he will do is to destroy those castles, those limiting dreams that cut short ‘a branch that might have grown full straight’.

Guess you might have recognized the last quote. Yes. It is from Marlowe's Dr. Faustus – which tells the story of that brilliant versatile genius who turned to necromancy to give substance to the castles he had built in the air. Remember what a pathetic figure he was at the end of the show? Screaming and yelling for another chance, having realized he had been chasing the wrong dreams! Poor man! The guy ignored that spark which humans tend to ignore, while chasing castles without assessing their worth.

So if your castles start vanishing from your horizons, do not worry, my dear friends. God has picked you. You need not ask to be picked. It is not your choice. It is His.

Now you may ask, why does he pick A, V, L, and Z only and leave out the rest? My answers:
1. I don’t know. God’s logic is light years away from human’s. One life time isn’t enough to travel all that distance. So better to know our limitations and leave it at that.
That’s frustrating, you might say. Yes, it is. But there is a formula which can tackle that frustration. It is: THY WILL BE DONE. It works, you know. Just try it, and see for yourself.
2. You will not really pose this query if you know what it is to be in the A, V, L, Z league. Have you read the Book of Job? Before you ask to be in the AVLZ league, read it. You’ll kick yourself for even wondering at God’s partiality, and you will shout out to him, SPARE ME LORD. I DON’T WANT TO BE YOUR FAVOURITE.

But it’s of no use, you know. Like I said, the option is not yours. The choice is His. And if you are chosen, you’ve had it.

Poor Job, he just wanted to lead a quiet life, minding his own business. And see what happened. He was chosen as a favourite. And he lost everything. His land, belongings, children. On top of that he got the worst diseases one can imagine – both painful, and in appearance real eye sore that people avoided him like plague. Some of the images of him dealing with his scaling skin are ugh! Yukky, to say the least.

But he came out of it! Yes, he did. You know how?

No. don’t think he grinned and bore it like a true stoic. He didn’t. He cribbed a lot. And cursed a lot too. He cursed the day that he was born and wanted that day to be deleted from the history of man!
But he didn’t curse the architect of his misery. He didn’t look up at the abode of his God and curse! For he KNEW, up there was a force which had a REASON for piling these misfortunes on him. Job trusted him absolutely. He knew he will not be abandoned. And he waited.

And one fine day, that force talked to him. Yes. God came down to speak to man to salute his spirit – that never say die attitude anchored in TRUST.

At this point, let’s just take a look at what this ‘trust’ implies. It means humility. An acknowledgement of human limitations. An absence of arrogance. A realization that nothing is really in our hands.

I must admit there was a point in my life when I thought I could turn the world around my little finger! Set your target, go after it – and it is yours. I think that cockiness showed even in my gait. And then it happened. I was diagnosed with a deadly disease! Down came crashing my arrogant philosophy. It overhauled me, my very thinking process.

Like a flash it came to me. I was a modern day Job. I was handpicked. I was the chosen one. Isn’t that a privilege?

I must admit it was with great reluctance that I accepted my recruitment into the AVLZ league. True, I wag my forefinger up at that divine manipulator on and off and tell him, “Hey, I didn’t ask for this privilege”. Then I heave a sigh of resignation and tell myself “Ok, if I am destined for something, there is no running away from it. After all, it’s HIS choice. He’ll take care”.

Believe it or not, that dialogue (monologue?) makes me FEEL GOOD.

And I move on. It’s not difficult, you know. This autosuggestion can work miracles.

I don’t know how I am going to link up what now follows with the rest of this piece. There is no apparent connection. Maybe you can find the link. But I feel I must conclude this piece with it ‘cos from the moment I started writing this, that telephone conversation kept coming to my mind.

I was talking over the phone to my friend Sister GM, who is a nun – one of the finest human beings I have ever come across. She was one of the few persons I chose to talk to after my diagnosis. I told her I’ll be coming down to Kochin for treatment ‘cos Dr.Gangadharan, the oncologist, is being recommended even by the doctors of St. John’s Medical College.

Silence at the other end. And then in a subdued, strange voice: “Is it to be Dr. Gangadharan?"

Despite being updated about my medical condition, she was hoping against hope for some miracle that would deflect my road to treatment from the Oncology Department. Dr. Gangadharan, for the layman, meant nothing pleasant. He was associated with the killer disease.

A year later, I told Sister GM: “Sister, I consider myself privileged to have been Dr. Gangadharan’s patient”.

I don’t think she was too surprised at what I said. She had been closely following my treatment and had associated herself with Dr. Gangadharan during this period for organizing awareness lectures.

Honest. I simply don’t see the connection between the last episode I mentioned and the rest of the post. It could have been the talk of ‘privilege’ that took my mind to this doctor who is doing God’s own work in this pain filled world.

Or is it that I found some answer to the Job predicament in Dr. Gangadharan? You know something like a model for the castles in the air that evolved human beings should build?

Am not sure.

Any ideas?

How I tackled the Obama dispute

Christmas 2009 found me in my niece’s house. It was a beautiful family affair with ten adults and eight children.

The celebrations began with drinks and starters. That company of adults consisted of maximum- two -pegs and teetotaling young men and women below 45. I mention this just to tell you in advance what followed was not the upshot of inebriation.

By the way, it was a bitingly cold winter day – at least for me who just landed from the warm weather of Trivandrum. Even indoors, I refused to divest myself of my jacket and the other warm outer garments that could be discarded by a seasoned New Yorker. Bundled up in the warm clothes which not only hid the beautiful salwar suit I had on, but also made me look terribly close to a female mallu version of ST. Nicholas, I sat there among my children, my nephew and nieces and their spouses, feeling good.

Being the oldest in the company, I was the grand old lady – and was genuinely enjoying the status and the attention I was getting by virtue of that status, when someone casually mentioned OBAMA and made an off the cuff remark that he can start packing his bag to go back to Illinois in 2012.

And then all hell broke loose. Well No. Not hell really. Can’t call it that if I want to revisit that hell once in a way to get recharged!

Three groups were formed instantly. Pro Obama (PO), Obama critics (OC) and Fence sitters (FS). I belonged to the last ‘cos I didn’t didn’t know the kuttans of US politics.

The PO launched into a eulogy of his health policy. The OC punched holes in the eulogy. The FS s threw their bit in.

Decibels were on the rise.

The OCs felt Obama’s one year in office did not scale up to his rhetoric.

The POs launched into an explosive defense. Fusillade in the respective directions from the Fence Sitters and high precision bomb from the lead PO. All at once.

Decibels rose still higher, and with that the temperature in the room.

I pulled off my jacket and threw it on the empty chair near me.

And the OC struck the POs Achilles heels.

‘What about the 30, 000 additional troops to Afghanistan?

BOOM!! It came close to the first Pokharan test – not the failed one, mind you.

Splinters, shards, radioactive heat –

I stripped off my sweater and threw it on the jacket.

My nephew noticed my action and saw the approaching danger of an uncomely disrobing, and he warned others. They paused for a second, condescended to indulge in a perfunctory laugh and resumed.

Then somebody threw in Israel. Obama was the only gutsy president ever to blunt talk to them. A huge volley of protests followed.

My muffler joined the sweater and I noticed my poor nephew wiping his forehead.

And then everyone was talking – no. outshouting each other. Israel, Afghanistan, teleprompter, audacity, book, insurance. The shouting match reached a pitch that generated a heat level that made me stand up.

My nephew got alarmed, and he blew the whistle.

M’aunty is contemplating what next to discard, he yelled.

Silence.

That did it.

The ‘revelation that was at hand’ brought them to their senses. No Obama was worth the nightmarish vision, they decided.

Soon the temperature cooled and we proceeded towards the table where a sumptuous spread awaited us.

New Year - Happy or Unhappy?

Happy New Year!

What does it mean?

Is it in our hands or any of our well wishers to decide the nature of the year to come?

When I opened the blog page to write about the yet another rise of a new year, I wasn’t sure what my thoughts on the issue were. But then, as it always happens, my fingertips took over, flying over the keyboard, guided by thoughts I didn’t really know were floating around in my mind space.

The thoughts were introspective, and philosophical too, the reason being the usual fare of the New Year eve was not accessible to me. Being away from India, I couldn’t go through the various newspapers and magazines which covered the dying year in all its variety. I missed the explosion of photographs and articles and cartoons and observations by the celebrities, the persons in power and the man in the street. I did not realize how much I missed those till I was actually unable to reach them. I am not an internet person when it comes to news. Guess it’ll take many many more new years to see me substitute the print media with the internet.

And the little bits of news I picked up from the internet were not exactly exciting. The conflagration is Karunagapally was really scary –enough to spoil the New Year mood too. But I will leave it at that.

I missed the Indian news channels also -not that I sit through any of them. I flit from channel to channel, which is enough to put me through a mood of celebration and give me a sense that the world has crossed another landmark. The Time square celebrations are something I cannot relate to. So I retired early and snuggling under the comforter, did what I love best – sleep.

Waking up at three in the morning here, I realize that the New Year day is setting back home in India. And then this urge to express my feelings about it gripped me – and here I am looking back at the year that has gone by, look back at myself in the context of 2009.

Was 2009 a good year or a bad year for me?

I have reached a stage in life where I have ceased labeling anything as good or bad. So shall I say that this question brings before the mind’s eye that proverbial image of the glass tumbler holding half its capacity of water? It is for me to decide if it is half full or half empty.

Well, it is half full. And half empty too. What has to be emptied out has to be has to be emptied out. There’s no other way. If the emptying involved the drinking from the chalice, it has to be done. No point in regrets. That emptying had a purpose to serve. Thy will be done!

And what remains, the other half– yes, it’s something to celebrate about. But then, that half is not going to remain in the glass forever. It has either to be thrown out, or drank as though from a chalice or from a champagne glass. There is no knowing which it is going to be. 2010 will have to roll on to give the answer to that question which has always teased man out of thought.

But I tell you, it is we who decide whether the year ahead is going to be happy or unhappy. We have it in us to turn the chalice into a crystal wine glass holding frothing champagne – no, to drink down the liquid of pain as though it is a moment for celebration. That’s what being a human is all about. Happiness is not out there waiting for us to pick it up and enjoy it. It is within us to create and enjoy and bask in. it is we who decided whether we are going to be happy or not. Isn’t that a great thought? It is for us to decide whether the glass is half full or half empty.

The mind can turn things around. Reality is not an external factor. It is a matter of perception. And that for me is the most encouraging thought. It makes me look forward to 2010 with an optimism I have never before experienced beneath the frothy, superficial celebrations of all the pprevious new years.

I am happy on this first day of the New Year. I am happy I missed the newspapers and magazines and the TV channels and the Malayalam comedy shows that would have distracted me from this introspection which , at the moment, makes me feel like the superman who holds my destiny in my hands.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, ALL MY DEAR BLOG VISITORS.

The irrepressible Shahsi Tharoor

Mr. Shashi Tharoor does it once again! Once again, he has chosen to air his views on official matters on twitter. This time it is about the government decision regarding visa.

The very act of doing it once again, knowing fully well the repercussions and impropriety of sharing in the social networking site his personal views on an official decision, cannot be dismissed as the super diplomat having once again got his foot in the mouth.

Is this modus operandi a strategy with him? If it is so, he had better watch out. The congress party is not going to be happy about its party men washing dirty linen in public, or having to rush to damage control moves whenever Mr. Tharoor’s creative fingertips tap out truncated controversial remarks for his fans and for all the world to see.

The Minister of External Affairs has sent out the warning to Tharoor loud and clear. “The broad policy parameters are dictated, decided by the Minister in-charge of External Affairs of this country and everyone will have to fall on the same page," and he goes on: "If there are any perceptions, they should be sorted out within the four walls of the two ministries”.

It is not insignificant that Tharoor has not come up with an apology. The media, which followed him around in the exhibition stalls after he inaugurated it, was greeted by that charming Throorian smile only.

What’s brewing, one wonders.

The government, it is reported, is considering reviewing the two month gap policy in issuing visa. Whether it is on account of their eyes being opened to the commonsensical wisdom of Tharoor’s tweet that the 26/11 terrorists had no visa, or because of the protest from the US and UK, it is not clear. Probably both.

So, is Tharoor using the twitter to bring pressure on the government to see wisdom, or pay heed to his views?

Is this the style of functioning of the new breed of Indian politicians?

Smart, if he can get away with it.

Speculations. Speculations.

In the meanwhile, I cannot agree with Tharoor’s argument that 26/11 terrorists had no visa, and therefore visa restrictions won’t help. The truth is, 26/11 was made possible, made so easy ‘cos of the ground prepared by the comprehensive spade work effected by Headly and his likes who could move freely within India.

Tsunami – On a personal note

I am one of those who become temporarily dysfunctional at the news of a disaster, natural or man made, leading to huge loss of life. Bhopal gas tragedy, Orissa floods, Lathur and Gujarat earthquakes, mass killing in Kosovo, ethnic cleansing in Bosnia, Godhra have all caused me a lot of sleep and peace of mind.

Hitler's holocaust happened before I was born. But when I first heard about it, studied about it and and then read books about it I looked up at the abode of the God of Israel and asked WHY, WHY, WHY? DO YOU KILL US FOR YOUR SPORT?

In my twenties, thirties and forties, I watched movies, read novels with Jewish themes, with a heavy heart. I watched Doordarshan's serialized telemovie Escape from Sobibore. I think the episodes were shown on Thursdays, when I would wake with an unidentified, vague tension which would soon grow into an anxiety which followed me like a nagging companion during the course of the day. Finally, when the time came around for the serial, I waited and watched for it to begin with a deadly calm poised precariously on the edge of depression, horror and infinite sadness.

"Just decide not to watch the serial. Who's forcing you to do it? Why torture yourself?' asked my mother when she noticed how agitated I used to get while relating the episodes to her the next day.

I had to watch it. I had to go through that torture, and feel the pain of a people who had nothing to do with my life confined to a small area in South India. Guess it was my way of getting it out of my system. Confront pain. Sweeping it under the carpet might cause you to trip and fall. Sweeping it up and trashing it was the best way to deal with emotional burdens, I must have thought. I could have decided not to watch that serial. But I felt compelled to do it.

But now I am a changed person. I don't watch them anymore. I can't. My mother's practical advice makes sense. It took a lot of persuasion from a friend to watch Schindler's List, which she described as the story of modern day heroism and sainthood.

But I find I'm not alone in this response to the horror stories of the shameful and painful chapters of life. My brother with whom I share similar inclinations in the movie watching habits too told me the same thing just the other day. He too can't stomach them any more.

Guess it has something to do with the weakening of the emotional intelligence which happens when one enters the fifth decade of life– a weakening of that capacity to manage the emotions which results in an auto suggestion that you don’t have to put yourself through an avoidable trauma over an issue that doesn't concern you.

Why am I indulging in such a lengthy dissection of myself and my responses to this pain filled world? Today is the 5th anniversary of the Tsunami. I remember as I sat watching the terrible visuals of the disaster and the spiraling figures of the numbers of the dead scrolling at the bottom of the screen, I felt numb. But it was not that self acquired defense against emotional trauma that I spoke about earlier. It was on account of another tsunami of emotional upheaval that had descended on me on the Christmas day of 2005.

My eldest brother, a priest, was brought home from the USA in the terminal stage of the deadliest disease of the century. There is nothing worse that watching a loved one fight a loosing battle for life. The pain is so tangible that it chokes you and clogs all those channels of emotion that let in lesser emotions.

Lesser emotions? Thousands of my countrymen in the neighbouring states swept away by giant waves into the land of death from whose shores they'll never return. Is that a lesser tragedy than the death of one loved one who though still young, lived a fruitful life, and was ready to meet his maker?

I must confess that the sight of concealed pain, the denial of it, and the awful knowledge that he'll not be around any more - - - it was too much for me. The tsunami on the TV screen failed to impact me the way news of disaster usually did. I couldn't FEEL. The horror and tragedy did not penetrate into those regions of me from where was born all those qualities which made one a sensitive feeling human being.

Now, the very mention of the word tsunami always triggers off mild waves of guilt in me - a feeling as though I have let down my fellow human beings by not feeling enough for them, for not including the victims of this disaster in the experience of pain that I reserved exclusively for a sibling who, ironically, had provided space in his concerns for those in need and pain.

Halleluiah Chorus

When Mathew asked me if I'd be interested in going for the concert, I said WOW. YES, YES AND YES.

It was to be in Carnegie Hall!

It was Handel's Messiah.

Now, I must admit that my exposure to classical music – both western and Indian – i s next to nil. But FOR UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN, WORTHY IS THE LAMB and of course HALLELUIAH CHORUS, I guess, are items that one listens to and absorbs sometime or other in the course of a lifetime.

Five years back, my husband and I decided to attend the midnight mass at Don Bosco church in Mumbai 'cos the local church choir was to perform the Halleluiah Chorus as the grand finale.

So I guess it's true to say my excitement was about listening to the Halleluiah Chorus being performed by a professional group. It'd be different from anything I'd witnessed.

As we walked into the Hall, Anita and I joked about the various theories on why people stood up during the rendition of Halleluiah Chorus.

"Well, I'm not going to stand up. It'd be an effort for me. What difference would it make?"

"Your wish", said the ever understanding Anita.

The performance began. I must say I was impressed - the fascination of a novice. About something very fundamental. About how ninety voices could sing with such coordination, how 5 cellos and sixteen violins could play in such perfect unison and produce the effect I was listening to. No sound engineering this. It's harmony and beauty that are born of human discipline, hard work and inherent sense of music.

As I sat there, I thought of that miserable day some 40 years back when I was sent from the school to attend an audition for the Pondicherry choir group, and was rejected. That particular group always closed their Christmas performance with Halleluiah Chorus. And I had already begun to imagine myself standing right in the front row of the group, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, my eyes looking at a nonexistent point somewhere in mid air with great concentration – and the final bowing low from the hip in acknowledgement of the thunderous applause to which I myself had contributed the previous two years.

All dreams had come crashing down during the audition before I could get even half way through the number that was given in advance!

And so I sat there on 23 Dec, 2009, and UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN was sung. I listened fascinated and excited, 'cos it was familiar.

Soon I started dozing. What a shame, you must be thinking. But dozing off is not a conscious decision. Each time I woke up guiltily with a start, I saw either Mathew or Anita or Jen having a little bit of fun at my expense.

Finally, I blurted out.

"I've had a long day. Wake me up when the Halleluiah Chorus begins"

And I didn’t voice the thought that came to my mind. "I hope I won't snore!"

I must have dozed off for quite sometime. No. doze is not the word. I fell into a deep sleep – a talent I have for performing at the most inappropriate places.

And then, I became vaguely conscious of a tap on my knee.

And it happened.

HALLELUIAH!

It exploded into my consciousness – all levels of it. I threw off the great coat under which I'd been snuggling comfortably, jumped up onto my feet without any helping hand and stood there as the ninety voices accompanied by the orchestra rent the air with a superb praise of divine majesty.

And the entire audience was on its feet too, I noticed.

As I stood there, I was goose bumped all over. And tears started streaming down my face!

No, it was not arthritis that made King George stand up during Halleluiah Chorus.

I wonder if I too saw the face of God!

****

[Here's the mail Anita sent after she booked tickets for the show for us:

Wikipedia has an interesting entry about Handel's messiah. try and read. I thought this part (esp the reasons why king george got up) was hilarious.

The most famous movement is the "Hallelujah" chorus, which concludes the second of the three parts. The text is drawn from three passages in the New Testament book of Revelation:

And I heard as it were the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunderings, saying, Alleluia: for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.. (Revelation 19:6)

And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever. (Revelation 11:15)

And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS. (Revelation 19:16)

In many parts of the world, it is the accepted practice for the audience to stand for this section of the performance. Tradition has it that King George II rose to his feet at this point. As the first notes of the triumphant Hallelujah Chorus rang out, the king rose. Royal protocol has always demanded that whenever the monarch stands, so does everyone in the monarch's presence. Thus, the entire audience and orchestra stood too, initiating a tradition that has lasted more than two centuries. It is lost to history the exact reason why the King stood at that point, but the most popular explanations include:

• As was and is the custom, one stands in the presence of royalty as a sign of respect. The Hallelujah chorus clearly places Christ as the King of Kings. In standing, King George II accepts that he too is subject to Lord of Lords.
• He was so moved by the performance that he rose to his feet.
• He arrived late to the performance, and the crowd rose when he finally made an appearance.
• His gout acted up at that precise moment and he rose to relieve the discomfort.
• After an hour of musical performance, he needed to stretch his legs.

There is another story told (perhaps apocryphally) about this chorus that Handel's assistant walked in to Handel's room after shouting to him for several minutes with no response. The assistant reportedly found Handel in tears, and when asked what was wrong, Handel held up the score to this movement and said, "I thought I saw the face of God."^[9]]]

Come Christmas – and the Resolution of Conflict

I love Christmas.

As a kid, I think what I loved about Christmas was that it made God available to me. Made him come within my reach.

During the advent season, the image of a huge old man in a great flowing robe and long white beard who pulled out his trump card weapon of thunderbolts to vanquish Lucifer and his rebel legions, who threw Adam and Eve mercilessly out of the paradise, who punished the erring Israelites through ages, was replaced by a very human and vulnerable god lying on a piece of cloth spread over hay among cows and sheep. The idea of Mary and Joseph knocking from door to door to find a place to deliver none less than the son of god himself, the pictures of the baby Jesus in the Xmas cards, the little figures in the cribs at home, the bigger ones in the churches - all these humanized the almighty who, I believed, dwelt in some remote, inaccessible regions. Making crib was a regular practice in my home. It was high excitement time for us. My siblings and I used to roam in the house, in the compound to pick up items that’d form part of the little crib. It used to fill me with a sense of making a home for the baby God when he arrives

I must say, in my mid fifties, I still get a somewhat same feeling when I make a crib, when Christmas comes around. That part of me has not grown up still.

And then there were the carols. We loved them. They fired the imagination, and created a feeling of joy shot through with a sense of awe at the enormity of the god becoming man event. Rudolf the red nosed reindeer’s story convinced us that this little guy lying in the manger is a God of the underdog. These songs celebrated the triumph of love with tumultuous joy, the reconciliation of god and man and the love of god which made him come down and teach an erring civilization to turn away from its brutal ungodly, inhuman ways so as to bring peace on earth and goodwill among men. The three kings of orient with their gifts of gold, myrrh, frankincense bestowed an aura royalty and exoticism to the nativity scene.

As a kid, how I loved Christmas!

*****

Of late, I find myself discussing certain issues which I normally avoid, with people with different views on them. I wonder why I do it, why I’ve finally decided to face these issues which I had hitherto avoided, in order to be politically correct, or to maintain an image of myself which was not exactly an honest one. Turning the question over in my mind, I now realize that there comes a time in the life of every human being when certain things have to be sorted out and not dodged each time they surface.

Can a virgin become pregnant and bear a child, as prophesied in the Old Testament, and stated in the Gospels?

My mind says, well, why not? If, today, man , with the aid of medical technology, can impregnate a virgin without male physical intervention, why should it not be possible for that extra terrestrial creator of the galaxies who has been micro and macro managing his creations for billions of years?

Do prayers and rituals make sense?

Well. Who are we to say no? Prayers and rituals are our medium to communicate with that celestial force whose existence man has never been able to deny, or eliminate from his consciousness, despite the rationalists’ efforts and the scientific debates. Isn’t that reason enough to prove the existence of a controlling force? And we need to communicate with that force. And we do it through prayers and rituals and religious practices. I once had an argument with a scientist who ridiculed me for resorting to structured prayers.

“The very idea of god bewilders me” he said. “Imagine the mind blowing nature of his creation. How can your puny novenas mean anything to him?”
“How then do you pray?” I ventured.
“I think of Him, the enormity of his performance, and then I can’t pray. I feel inadequate.”

Well then, I’m better off, I thought to myself, but I didn’t respond to him then. But today, I’d be more vocal. A force which is able to create on such a massive scale paying attention to trillions and trillions of minute details, isn’t he capable of deciphering the puny jumble of sounds emanating from none other than his own creatures?

To my scientist friend I can now give this answer. Any form of communication raised to the almighty will not go wasted. We humans need to raise our thoughts to the eternal regions. My way or style may not make sense to my neighbor but it’ll make sense to that power above which gave us that capacity to raise our voice to him. If my way of communicating to god gives me the satisfaction of having communicated (it comes in the form of a peace: “I give you peace, my peace I give you”), that’s enough.

Who is anyone to say that the arduous pilgrimage to Sabarimala, or the tulabharam at Guruvayur, or the novenas to our lady or the way of the cross or the haj are exercises in futility? That’s our way of reaching out. The human way of communicating to that unknown God whose presence continues to be experienced in the human heart after millions of years of life on this planet.

And so, I am not apologetic about celebrating the birth of God this Christmas. The conflict has been resolved. The almighty can choose his ways of reaching out to us. How foolish of us humans to rationalize his ways applying our inadequate intellectual yardsticks! Aren’t there truths that lie beyond our rational faculties? Is the mighty creator so limited that he can be contained in our cerebral space?

Enough that I raise my voice. The great and mighty creator of this vast cosmos would sort out my jumbled sounds in his way, in his time.

Star Power

Meera Jasmine, the actress from Kerala who enjoys great popularity in the southern states, was for a brief period, a student of the college where I taught. I was on leave while she was student there. So I haven't even seen her. But I took a lot of pride telling people that she is the student of Assumption College where I taught. Of course, I was careful to leave out the all important fact there I have never taught her and I wasn’t there in the college while she was there and have seen her only in films.

It so happened that I had to stay in a bank’s training college in Hyderabad for a few months. Those who served us at the dining table were very deferential to the guests, and, since both my husband and I believe in treating them also with deference, we called them by their personal names and maintained a good rapport with them.

Once, at the dining table I suggested to my husband Sunny that we go for a Telugu movie. So I asked Sridhar who was laying the table , for his suggestions. He mentioned the name of a movie which’d been running houseful for sometime.
The actress is Meera jasmine from Kerala, he said.
Pointing to me, Sunny said ”Meera Jasmine studied in her college.”

Sridhar’s eyes rolled in wonder and ecstacy.

Really? Was she a good student?, he asked.

I saw Sunny opening his mouth to say that I hadn’t taught her .I quickly cut in in my broken hindi that she had been a very good student. I wasn’t lying. I have heard my colleagues say that she was a good student.

Excitedly Sridhar went about laying the other tables in the room while we watched with amusement the beatific look on his face.

Normally, I had my lunch alone on weekdays as Sunny would be away at work ,and I’d usually wait till the trainee officers rush in the mess hall subsided. That afternoon, I saw Sridhar,s face light up when he saw me. I started my lunch and reached out for the gravy to go with roti. Suddenly Venkat appeared from no where, grabbed the dish befor me and was serving into my plate. He wouldn’t stop even after I repeatedly told him that I’ve been served enough. And then I was surrounded by Krishna, Muruga and four others, all vying with each other to serve different dishes into my plate.

I was perplexed, ‘cos I’d forgotten the Meera jasmine episode. I was squirming with unease at the unusual attention I was getting. I always like to be left alone while eating, and five to six young men standing around and watching me put every morsel into my mouth made me self conscious. So I looked up and around at their faces and told them “I’LL manage”. I spoke in English ‘cos I didn’t know how to say that in Hindi.

And then one of them blurted out’ “Madam, You taught Meera Jasmine?’

I was caught off Guard. To lie or not to lie was the question. So I managed to lie and not to lie. I smiled from ear to ear at him.

All on a sudden, all of them were asking me questions – some in Telugu, some in Hindi (they knew I knew no Telugu).

The first question that was thrown at me was a dangerous one. An honest reply would have dampened their enthusiasm, besides taking the newly acquired Meer Jasmine halo away from me. A dishonest reply would endanger my soul for violating the 9th commandment.
“For how long was she in your class?”

Perched between the horns of the dilemma, my mind worked quickly.

Hindi nahi samchey. Thoda thoda maalu. Aap kya bole, me nahi samchey.

He put the question in Telugu. Telugu? nahi malu. Kab nahi maalu.

I’m street smart, no? I’d managed to snatch my soul from the clutches of falsehood without endangering the halo that was bestowed on me for being Meera Jasmine’s teacher.

I quickly finished my lunch and escaped before they discovered someone who knew Malayalam or Tamil.

After that, during lunch, I withdrew into myself after the initial greeting smile, and had my lunch looking blankly into a book I had finished reading.

And basking in the glory of an unachieved distinction.

My Triple Century In The Blogsphere

This is my three hundredth post, in http://pareltank.blogspot.com alone. My first blog was an accident, in the sense it began as an attempt to post a comment on Shamuel Tharu’s post in INSIGHT JOURNAL, the link of which was sent to me by who exactly I don’t remember. Being a novice at blogging and being an absolute technoignoramus (Which I still am) I created a blogger ID because I understood/misunderstood that comments were allowed only by bloggers. My first few attempts at creating a blog failed but I soldiered on. Every failure made me more determined. And finally Http://pareltank.blogspot.com was created. And wonder of wonders, the comment meant for the Insight journal appeared as my first blog!

It was from my son that I first heard about blogs and then I started reading them. I found them very exciting ‘cos there was an honesty in the blogsphere that we don’t find in any other form of writing that occupy public space. I read blogs voraciously for sometime, not for the quality but for the peep it afforded into the life and ways of people of all age groups, all walks of life from across the world. It offered a window to the other cultures, a window which opened out to a view not available hitherto in the pages of fiction or nonfiction, or research writing or even in movies. There are many many bloggers who create a virtual world which comes very close to life as it really is - without pretensions.

And then I started blogging. I’ve always loved writing but for some reason couldn’t really get down to it - possibly on account of a lack of confidence in myself, of a feeling that I didn’t have that spark in me which converts writing to journalism. Suddenly I realized that here, in the blogsphere, I am the supreme empress. Can write what I like, how I like. Didn’t owe anything to anyone but myself. And so I wrote, paying little attention to everything about the English language that was a pain in the neck.

Soon I realized that blogsphere, alas, is not my domain alone. People who read my blog expressed displeasure at my not crossing the Ts and dotting the Is. My husband was the loudest critic. Being a perfectionist, he admonished me for the typos, the lower case after the period, the errors that creep in when the only editing one does comprises a quick running the eyes down the post.

I hate editing and spending too much time over a piece once it is over. And I found here in blogspace, I could bring out a reasonably acceptable piece, once it is put through a spell check.

My advice to blogger (having written 300, I think I qualify to do it) – if you want to be a prolific blogger, don’t be obsessed with a finely chiseled piece. A spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions sometimes results in rambling, or unusually strong emotions and feeling. Let them be. Don’t pare them down. Spunk and truth might get pared off as what you perceive as trivia. The soul of the piece might get lost.

Soon I had regular blog visitors, about each of whom I formed my opinion. I looked forward to their comments everyday. Some of the most insightful comments came from my daughter who sometimes startled me delightfully with her honesty. All my blog visitors had something new to add to my post, and often opened my eyes to aspects I had been blind to. Yes. The interaction in the blogsphere was an education of sorts.

And I had the pleasantly strange experience of meeting my blogger friend in flesh and blood. Crisgirl or cris seetha. She was everything I thought she’d be. And more. A a petite, smart and soft-spoken girl who created an online community called tidycity.org is now contributing her mite to keep the Trivandrum city clean by sensitizing the people about the need to minimize littering. I attended a meeting she and the Tidycity members conduct in the Museum every Sunday. I was impressed by the commitment of this young group to a cause. And crisgirl is the brain behind it.

Finally, what has blogging done for me? Has it changed me?
I guess so, for it provided a platform to debate and sort out issues which you turn over and over in your mind and can’t get away from. I find that once I have posted a blog, I move on. Even if no one chooses to comment, it’s ok. I’ve got something out of my system.

And it gives me immense happiness that I can share the lighter side of life with my blog friends. Not that those post will go down in the history of cyber literature as works of art. But if they bring a smile on one face, it’s mission successful.

I discovered with some surprise, that despite being a regular blogger, I’ve revealed nothing of the real me. I‘ve let the world know only what I wanted it to know. The real me is scrupulously kept out. Will I get the courage to write about it? Why am I so hesitant about demystifying myself?

Perhaps I’m afraid it’ll be like peeling an onion, and the loser would be none other than myself!

Tiger Woods and the Squealing Women

Pity, that women should do this. They go to bed with celebrities and then go to the press, or write memoirs or threaten to reveal it all - all to make a fast buck. I think they do a great disservice to their gender.

It appears as though the bed is the shortcut to making millions. The more deep and dark and intimate the secrets these women reveal or threaten to reveal, the greater the treasure waiting for them.

I am beginning to think that commercializing a liaison is no different from what a sex worker does.

And with a lewd public out there to lap up the sleaze, and media to gratify its smutty cravings, looks like this tribe of women will increase.

Guess I should be ready for brickbats from those of my own sex for letting down women. But man or woman, there are certain codes of decency that should be observed in human relationship and behaviour. Women, after having consensual sex with a celebrity and then brandishing that liaison and its sleazy details before the world to get cheap publicity and big money – well, hardly dignified, eh?

Washing dirty linen in public is not what a self respecting human would do. And talking of self respect. Do these women have any of it? What does a woman, as for that matter, any human being gain if he/she gains the whole world but loses SELF RESPECT? Can a Channel 5 or Clive Christian or Armani designer perfume override the obnoxious stink of the dirty game they are playing?

What’s the new set of values emerging?

Guess I sound like an antiquated voice from some remote, irrelevant past!

The Coconut Tree

she was five
when sitting on the step
of the veranda
behind the kitchen
she bent her little head
at right angle
to see the top
of a coconut tree
and the branches
swaying in the wind
beckoning to her
to join the birds
and the crows
disappearing into it
or flying out of it
and soar into the sky
soft in the dying day
and wished she were those birds
and could fly high
and wander into the heavens
and say hello to the angels
and then return
and disappear into the coconut palm.

Now five decades later
she looks down the eleventh floor
of a high end apartment
in the capital city
at the riot of coconut trees
at her feet.
Watches the birds
playing hide and seek
among its branches
and envies the birds
and the crows.

And when she roams
in lands without coconut palms
her heart swells
at the colours of fall
at strange trees that flourish
in softer climes
and looks for birds
and crows
and feels stirrings in her heart
and mind
and her whole being
and looks for her coconut trees
in vain.

Road Rage

I am angry. Furious. And if I don’t write while I’m still fuming, I’ll not write about it at all. Without blinding rage, the whole episode will look too silly to write about.

Ok. I just got back from the vegetable shop round the corner, in front of which I was insulted by a gentleman, probably in his forties, driving with his wife beside him and children behind.

I had ‘looked to the right, then to the left and then to the right again’ as I was taught in small classes before I crossed the road. I saw this Tata Indica coming but it was sufficiently far to permit me to cross unhurriedly. Now let me make this clear. Gone are the days when I made a cheeky dash across the street putting a speeding driver in a dilemma. Today, I crossed the road leisurely because i could afford to do it, and any fool who noticed my pace would realize that walking fast is a difficult proposition for me. This Indica started honking long before it reached anywhere near me. I didn’t realize all that noise was meant for me. I crossed the road and was waiting for the person who stood in front of me to move away so that I could place order for the vegetables when I heard this car honking insistently behind me. Turning around casually, I was shocked at what I saw. The guy had stopped the car just behind me, and was leaning across his wife and scowling at me through the window on her side.

“Chevi ketoodey? (Are you deaf?)’, he snarled. “Chumma erangi nadannekua (you don’t have your wits about you when you walk on the road)”

I was too shocked to react. Before I could gather my wits and retort, the car shot off.

I felt terribly insulted. The vegetable vendor and his assistant tried to shout back at him, but the car had driven off by then.

Why on earth did he behave so viciously? Was he annoyed at my unhurried pace when I crossed the road? Did he interpret my slow movement across the road as lack of respect that was due to his apparently new acquisition?

As I walked back home, I felt like kicking myself for letting him get away with such barbaric behaviour. I thought of the many things I could have told him if I hadn’t allowed myself to go numb with the shock.

“Where is it written that you can insult people once you get into a car?”
No. That was too mild.
“Shut up you upstart” would have been ideal. I tried to imagine his expression at this insult. And then, my imagination took off from there. I saw myself walking around the car, opening it, grabbing him out of his seat by the scruff of his neck and socking him on the nose. I smiled at the thought - and found a passerby returning the smile! I hastened my steps.

This is not the first time I’ve seen Malayalees behave like this when they get behind the wheels. Once in the car, they behave as though they are the lords of all they survey. To be fair, this is true not about males alone. Once in a way you come across women too who behave like this – but it is very rarely.

What’s the psychology behind this behaviour, I can’t help wondering? What is it that makes them think that a driving license is also a license to insult pedestrians, or splash water over them on a rainy day? Does driving a car give them a sense of superiority over them? Does it give them a sense of importance and power?

I just can’t figure it out. But I 've figured out something. Wealth and car do not make a gentleman.