On Bharkha Dutt - When Idols Fall

Watching the discussion of the panel of editors on the Bharkha-Radia Controversy on NDTV yesterday added to my confusion rather than resolve it. I’d have liked it much better if it had helped to decide whether the media queen was guilty or not guilty.

In the past six months, a few of my idols crumbled. For me, the most painful fall was that Of Bharkha Dutt, Sashi Tharoor and Vir Sanghvi – in that order. This post is an introspective one. My concern is not whether, say, Bharkha is innocent or guilty, but with the way my mind grapples with disillusionment when an idol falls. The experience is very unsettling.

I’m trying to analyze what happens to the votary when deities prove to have feet of clay.

The mind tries to heal the wounds by fortifying itself to absorb it. It tries to adapt itself to the new reality of the painful wounds. When Sashi Tharoor’s personal agenda behind the Kochi IPL team was exposed by the sweat equity issue, I was upset. I had not only posted blogs in support of him during the elections, but also did my bit in my personal circles to promote him. Here was a man I thought who’d been above blame in his entire career. He appeared to be a genuine person anxious to contribute his mite to making his country a better place. When the scam broke, I told myself – this cant be true. It’s the north Indian lobby working against him and his state.

Then I looked for excuses to exonerate him. I told myself that he and only he could have put Kerala on the IPL map. I tried to invest his effort in this direction with epic proportions. But an uneasy feeling kept nagging at me. Is there no integrity left in this world? Is he too a part of the greedy herd?

Then I adopted the strategy of transforming the body (my mind) on which the wounds were inflicted. So what if he did it? At least, Kerala’d gain by it.

Then cynicism took over. Well, if one has to be effective, one has to play the game this way. I started telling people –so what if Karunakaran lined his pockets heavily building the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium? He did it, didn’t he? No one else could have done it. Isn’t he better than the honest but ineffectual angel like A K Antony?

The same with Bharkha – only in her case it was even more painful. A lot of people I know don’t like her, but I’ve always thought they were jealous. The clarity of her thinking, the felicity of expression and of course, and her guts - gosh she really did us proud.

When the Radia tapes were played by channels I thought – oh no! This cant be. Not she! She can’t be corrupt!

But the tapes were too damning.

So I eagerly listened to the NDTV show with Bharkha and the editors on the Tapes. I listened to it again online. I rejoiced when Bharkha said that she was only playing along with Radia in order to gather information. I believed her. But later I realized I believed her because I wanted to believe her. I didnt want to believe that she had greased her palm portfolio peddling. I admonished my mind when it took upon itself to wonder how much was her monetary share in this power-brokering business. I wanted to believe her when she said that it was an error of judgment on her part to have dealt with such people and made promises to be a go between when she had no intention of doing it. I wanted to believe her when she said she hadn’t perceived that the nexus between the corporates and the government was a big enough story to report.

But the last one was a little too difficult to swallow. No. So sharp a mind as Ms Dutt’s cannot miss the scandalous nature, and therefore the news value of that unholy intrigue which made a mockery of the democratic aspirations of the nation. Imagine, corporates calling the shots on whom to allot portfolios to. And it was painful to suspect that the Kargil heroine and the ruthless pursuer of truth was a key figure in brokering power that makes fools of the voter and the common man!

Soon I found that I couldn’t convince myself of her innocence. The seeds of doubt were sown and watered with ‘proofs’ that she claimed were doctored.

Then that strategy that smacks of cynicism came to my rescue. What if she is dishonest? Hasn’t she done stupendous work for more than two decades? Don’t I still look forward to We The People eagerly?

What if she does what everybody else in her field is doing? What if Shasi Tharoor did what all other IPL companies were doing>

This effort involves a change in the nature of the body (mind) on which the wounds were inflicted – you know a type of numbing with anesthetic and fortification with supplements. In plain speak, I try to compromise my principles, and the things I believe in. I tell myself values and principles are not absolute. They are time and circumstances bound.

Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and with them the pain begins to subside.

This is how idols and icons condition the thinking of their votaries. I realize this. I’m getting caught up in the discourses that they represent. New values are created.

I put a break on this thread of thinking. Integrity, I tell myself, is an eternal value. It cannot be compromised – not even for Barkha Dutt.

But I can’t help wishing that some miracle would happen and Bharkha would clear her name totally and regain her place on the pedestal.

Missing Artefacts

In my saner moments I think i must be mad.

Mind-boggling philosophies that'd dethrone Nietzche

Shed blood at the altar of paradigms.

No hoax, this sacrifice.

Clinging to roots that clutch

And to the steel bar with a toe on the footboard

While eyes dart frantically

Now the clock, now the milk about to spill over,

Now the name boards on superfasts.

Wincing at the ‘over’ signal

Of the BPL washing machine,

Jumping out of the skin

At the whistle of the pressure cooker.

Seismic rumblings erupt and flow

Into shapeless scorching lava.

No moulds to trap the molten flow

Into Artefacts.

Words fail.

In my saner moments I think I must be mad.

Written on July 11, 1994

Sister Jesme of AMEN Fame at the Hay Festival

I had not reacted to Sister Jesme’s Amen ‘cos it was not worth reacting to. The book has no literary value – at least that’s what I think. It’s a very pedestrian forgettable piece except for the sleaze and scandal about convents. To tell you the truth, the book bored me to death.

I’m glad that the Nuns and the Church did not ask for the book to be banned. I’m glad that the Catholics did not go on a book-burning spree. The truth is, the book is not worth the trouble.

So, why do I choose to write about it now?

Well, The Hay Festival is happening in Trivandrum. A few of my friends who attended it called to find out from me if it was true if all nuns were liars and lesbians or practicing heterosexuals.

They told me that Sr. Jesme, in her talk, said something to the effect that all nuns lie in both sense of the word. 1. They utter falsehoods and 2. they are lying with someone or other all the time. It is to this that I am reacting.

Strange that a person who was a nun for 30+ years should come out with something like this. Does it mean that she was doing this for three decades?

Regarding the book Amen- There may be some truth in it. There may not be any truth. I do not know. But common sense tells me that every organization has a bad apple or a few bad ones. But to say that the entire bunch is rotten is to miscarry truth.

Now, I have a reason for sticking up for the nuns. I am a beneficiary of the service they have been traditionally rendering to society.

All my education – from Baby class to Masters - was in convents. They were a great influence on me in my formative years. (I guess I owe my prudishness to this influence J.)

I learnt a lot from them, and I’ve had to unlearn some of what I learnt from them too. But the gains are greater – the loss, negligible.

The education they imparted to me gave not only knowledge and skill, but wisdom too.

They taught me the virtues of love and forgiveness.

They taught me to value human life, human rights and human dignity.

They taught me that honesty is a virtue that cannot be compromised, no matter what.

They taught me to stand firm in the right , and to ask God for light to see the right.

They tried to make a disciplined human being out of the total disorganized person that I was. They succeeded enough in this effort so as to enable me to get on with this business called life without much hassles.

I know that I’m not the most virtuous person on earth or the best specimen of our species. Those who know me will agree wholeheartedly to this admission. I do fall. Often. But each time, the values the nuns imparted to me and which I have internalized, set afoot a correction that, I hope, has stemmed me from stooping to irredeemable depths.

Isn’t all this reason enough for me to stand up for the nuns?

And I have always been most comfortable with most of them.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not implying that those I am not comfortable with are liars and lesbians and highly libidinous people, as Sister Jesme claims. Just as I am comfortable with some human beings and not with some, so too with the nuns.

The point I’m trying to make is nuns are human beings. And you find all types.

They too fall like all human beings. They too try to correct themselves like all human being do, though their benchmark, which is unrealistically high, makes the task difficult for them. It makes the fall appear greater – and our criticism too.

But then who are we to judge?

Enough that they contribute substantially to the well being of human beings.

Enough that their level of commitment to the service of mankind is very high.

Enough that society has benefited hugely from them.

One rotten apple does not make the whole bunch rotten.

Deliriously Disgusted

The Commonwealth Games, Adarsh Apartments and the mind boggling G2 scam – too much.

Rot has entered the soul of the congress party. Time it reinvented itself or got ready for its own requiem.

Disgusting – absolutely.

How much are we citizens supposed to put up with?

How much do we have to get looted before we kick this party out ?

We look back at those days when a Shastri resigned as railway minister on account of a train accident, and a Krishna Menon, because of the unpreparedness of the India army when the Chinese invaded.

The party has lost its conscience – but it has discovered a new mechanism for survival – the spokesmen who can talk crap and make it sound like divine wisdom!

Wish Mainsh Tivwari’d put his eloquence to better use.

And the Gandhi family - suddenly one is getting sick of them.

Suddenly one remembers – Ms Sonia Gandhi had greatness thrust upon her and now her word is the law. Like many Indians, I too was willing to give her a chance – but her country cousin Quotrocci going scot free after looting India disillusioned me. Now when we see her soft pedaling on the scamsters, one begins to wonder - - -

so also her son - another case of greatness being thrust upon. I don’t think we want to see him as the Prime Minister.

The Congress Party of India is over. It should be rechristened as The Corrupt party of India. And believe me, I’m not the only one who feels this way.

If BJP is less corrupt, I wish they ‘d rule – on the imperative condition they bury their communal agenda. After all people and organizations can change - --- . but the recent drama in Karnataka makes us think they are no different when it comes to power mongering and corruption.

The left? They are a confused lot. Their ideology is in a state of flux – dangerous to entrust the country to a party struggling to find an ideological foothold - --- -

About the Janata Dals, the less said the better (except perhaps in Bihar).

The regional parties? The Raja of the telecom scandal gets the protective cover of the Congress for fear of a regional party.

Coalition might be the mantra of the 21^st century – but it breeds corruption on a whopping scale.

The only redemption for the country lies in the voting out of the present decadent breed of politicians, the stalwarts and all.

A simplistic solution, I know.

A dream solution? An honest clean messiah launching a new party with transparency, cleanliness and accountability as its ideology, a training school for the voted representatives of the people .

But again, it's just a dream - -

Obama's Indian Visit - The English Channels - and India's Children of Tomorrow

With the arrival of Obama in India, the English national channels blocked out everything else. It appeared as though the whole country ground to a halt with the arrival of the American President.

Then Obama made his first speech at the Taj – and BJP reacted. Obama didn’t utter the P word (Pakistan). When he spoke of 26/11, he didn’t put the blame at Pakistan’s door. Then the party felt it had overreacted – and retracted. Rudi began to make ahem – ahem sounds and said that he didn’t mean this but he meant that! Maybe the party leadership must have told him that to resist the euphoria might be a mistake. BJP might come to power in the next parliamentary election and Obama might still be around in the White House – so let’s keep him happy sort of a thing. Anyway, what is interesting is that BJP recanted.

But the Channels approach was really really interesting.

NDTV’s Barkha Dutt was as usual trying to project an image of total neutrality, but was actually egging on the expert commentators to come out with tangy statements. But none really obliged. The P word issue had actually begun to look silly.

TIMES NOW took the cake. Arnab in his usual style went hammer and tong after Obama. He pointed out how Clinton during his visit ‘gifted’ India with a condemnatory remark on Pakistan, and Obama should have taken at least a ‘baby step’ in that direction.

Arnab, you are incorrigible!

CNN IBN’s Sagarika Ghose concluded her efforts to sensationalise the absence of the P word with a sensible remark that one should understand that Obama is tight rope walking in south East Asia, and so we should tone down our rhetoric.

HEADLINES TODAY was thoroughly immature. Was totally displeased about Obama’s deafening silence about Pakistan.

Among the participants, i could agree with that outspoken bureaucrat turned politician Mani Shankar Iyer. Why should we expect Obama to say anything about Pakistan, he asked. We know Pak is behind the attack, and it is a bilateral problem. Why drag America into it? He was dismissive in his language and body language about this avoidable storm in the tea cup,and made the BJP and the media look silly.

*

While the inane politicians and stale media made fools of themselves, Young India did us proud. No slavishness, no applause at the slightest compliment about India that dropped from the lips of the US President (unlike the CEOs the day before). The young crowd at St. Xavier’s carried themselves with utmost confidence, and dealt with the President of the United States on equal terms.

When Obama declared that India has risen, there was no thunderous applause. It was as though we don’t need anyone to tell us that. We know. The response of the young girl who stood behind Obama epitomises the attitude of young India. Obama’s acknowledgement that India has risen elicited from her an approving nod accompanied by a poised smile.

About Obama's dialogue with the students at St. Xavier's - guess when Michelle Obama asked the young men and women to field tough questions to her husband, she didn’t think they’d take her so seriously.

For it was young India that forced him to utter the P word.

What’s your take on jihad, was the first question?

Why don’t you declare Pakistan a terror state? asked another.

Of course, Obama handled the questions well and the youth were impressed.

The young India, a sample of which Obama met at St. Xavier’s, is ushering in an India set free from the colonial hangover.

The schriszophrenic India has been cured.

I get a gut feeling India is safe in the hands of this healthy generation.

That Terrible Divali Day

The stray isolated crackers of Divali down here in Trivandrum takes me twelve years back to an evening in Mumbai when sheer terror seized me on the festival of lights.

It was evening and the condominium was celebrating divali with crackers. My husband Sunny got ready to go out into the Mumbai streets to see how the city was celebrating Divali. Normally, i don’t accompany him on these trips to “experience’ the real Mumbai which he said breathed in its vibrant streets flowing with humanity. It always fascinated him that the mighty city could accommodate the poor, the homeless, the middle class and the reeking rich, and he often went out on these expeditions to explore this city with ‘such a large heart’. I stopped accompanying him after a couple of trips ‘cos he’d send away the car and go about on foot, by BEST or the train. I found it too tiring - -

But on that day, i decided to accompany him. Cos, there was no vehicular traffic that day and the inhabitants of the foot path were bursting crackers right in the middle of the streets. I was afraid that in his fascination for the sights and sounds of Mumbai, he’d step on an exploding cracker.

I accompanied him and played my role as his guardian angel so perfectly that he decided to call off the adventure and return home.

We found our apartment empty, cos the children had gone out to where the condominium was bursting crackers. Ten minutes later my daughter Renu came home, cos her friends had gone to their home towns for divali and so she had no company. The three of us were talking over a cup of tea and snacks when the door opened and in walked Mathew with his eyes shut tight, led by two of his friends.

“Uncle, the crackers burst into his eyes”, his friend explained.

BOOM!

Something seemed to hit me real hard in the pit of my stomach and the impact was deadly. And then I felt my heart wrench itself out of the chest cavity and relocate to the skull to pound explosively there. I went numb all over and my thought process was suspended totally.

I became dead to the world.

“Open your eyes, Mathan, Mathan open you eyes’. I heard voices from some space i had taken leave of briefly, and they yanked me back to the sofa where i saw Mathew sitting, and Sunny and Renu bending over him and shouting down at him.

The numbness fled and a terrible sensation – fear, fire, terror? – coursed through my blood and i felt weak. My legs felt as though a ton of weight was tied to them and my mouth felt as parched as dry bones. Terror seized every inch of my being.

Next thing i remember was finding myself shouting along with Renu.

“Can you see, Mathew?’ i pleaded.

“I can, but i have double vision”.

“Oh, God”, i wailed, “What do we do”.

Sunny was already on the phone.

“Who are you calling?”, i shouted hysterically.

“Dr. Ratnaparkhi”, he threw over his shoulders.

“Wash his eyes with plenty of water but don’t rub. Do it till the car comes”, barked sunny, putting the phone down after talking to the doctor.

“No serious damage done”, said the doctor. Just superficial singeing. It’ll be ok in a couple of days”. Then turning to Mathew, she asked. “How did you manage get crackers into your eyes, my boy?”

“Yes”, i almost screamed. I was unwinding, and wanted to cry and laugh. “Yes, Mathew, that’s what i want to know. There were so many others and how come the crackers chose you eyes?” A bit too loud, i knew.

“Molly!” said Sunny sternly and i fell silent. I sat there and thanked God for taking care of my son. I vaguely heard him say that it did not burst, so he went examine the cracker to see what was wrong.

“And then it proved to you that there was nothing wrong with it, eh Mathew?” said the doctor smiling.

Sunny and i laughed, a little too loudly.

On the way back home, i lay back against the seat and felt drained. Thoughts, disconnected and irrelevant, drifted in and out of my mind.

“Instead of playing my guardian angel, you should have gone with Mathew”, i heard Sunny saying.

I said nothing. I was too exhausted to talk and as i drifted off to sleep, a voice seemed to whisper in my ear “Unless the Lord keepeth the city - - - - -

The Marginalised India - Can I Wish it Away?

When I got this forward, I opened it reluctantly. I thought it must have something to do with the BPL versus the rest of India - APL and above, reaching all the way up to the India of billionaires.

Bachchan’s two Indias were 1. the India on the leash, rearing to go charged by optimism and 2. the leash that is India, that skeptical India looking fearfully down at the bottom of the ravine, asking the leashed India to prove itself and only then it’ll be unleashed.

What struck me was the terrible truth that the class represented by Bachchan is totally oblivious to that India, which starves, hungers, thirsts for the basic amenities, to that India which lives in darkness where electricity is unheard of, to that India which is uprooted, and deprived of livelihood and a roof above its head, to that India for which roti kapada aur makhan is the ultimate and unachievable goal.

I hated this forward for I too belong to this callous India, rearing to go, about to make history and earn all those adjectives, which the world is showering on it!

I too belong to that India which snatches bread from the hungry India and demolishes the tiny hut which gave it shelter from wind and rain and scorching sun so that I can have live in air-conditioned comfort, or travel in hi tech cars.

I belong to that India which kicks another India out of its home all the way to giant metros to live on footpaths and be resented and insulted by the denizens of those big cities.

This forward reminded me of my sins.

And I don’t want to be reminded.

Or feel guilty.

I’d rather continue to bury my head in the sand like the proverbial ostrich, and continue to exist in my ivory tower- -

Till that day the deprived India rises

And guillotines me.

Ms. Arundathi Roy - Stop Meddling Please!

I love reading Arundathi Roy’s articles, even though she tends to ramble. I love her language – its surprise turns. She is a lover of human race, and an ardent advocate of equity. Her earnestness reflects in her style, in her imagery. She becomes extremely poetic at times. She is genuine, not a publicity monger, as many make her out to be. I can sense that when i read her works.

But her position regarding the Maoists and Kashmir, well, it’s a big question mark for me. I cannot subscribe to her views. That’s because i think like an Indian citizen. Roy’s concerns cut across political boundaries, while she enjoys the freedoms and benefits of Indian democracy. She sees herself as a citizen of the community of human beings where there are the privileged and the underprivileged, where there is miscarriage of justice against which she feels the need to raise her voice.

I think like an Indian and i feel that when my country is going through a crisis, i should not do anything or say things which can put the state in a difficult situation. That’s my idea of patriotism, of loyalty to my country. Maybe that’s how nonentities think.

My knowledge of the Kashmir in not that of an expert, but of the average Indian who is convinced that the government of India’s position on Kashmir has been the right one. No matter which government is in power, the Kashmir policy has always remained the same.

We know that right from the time of accession, there has been discontentment among several elements in Kashmir. But we also know that they did not constitute the majority. When Pakistan sponsored an invasion of Kashmir in 1947, the then NC under Sheik Abdulla appealed to New Delhi to send the Indian army which received not only a rousing welcome from the people of Kashmir but also all support to repel the marauders.

We also know that Pakistan too stood in the way of plebiscite on the pretext of demilitarisation as a precondition to it. The actual reason was the fear that a referendum would be in favour secular India.

We know that the separatists were supported and sponsored by Pakistan with the aim of altering the demography of Kashmir. This resulted in the exodus of the Kashmiri pundits and other minority groups.

A referendum would no longer be valid - not without the votes of those who were driven out of Kashmir and are settled elsewhere, or are in the refugee camps.

We also know that the Muslim community in Kashmir is divided. The Shias in Kashmir shudder at the thought of accession to Pakistan, or even azadi for fear of a theocratic dispensation in an independent Kashmir.

So when Arundati Roy talks of voicing the wishes of the people of Kashmir, whom does she have in mind? That section of the population who have found voice because of the support from across the border?

Ms Roy talks of the brutal military rule in Kashmir. Hasn’t she any problems with the ruthless, mindless carnage that the Pakistan sponsored terrorists inflict on the people of Kashmir? Is it their rule that she advocates? The Indian army in Kashmir has come in for a lot of flak, it is true. But when it deals with hard core hate filled inhuman terrorists who not only indulge in bloodshed but also instigate insurgency and terrorise people into indulging in violence in the valley, its predicament is unenviable. Excesses happen, and they cannot be justified. It is a crisis situation. People like Ms Roy who get a lot of media coverage should not be so impervious to the predicament of the government and indulge in such irresponsible clamour for azadi.

Same with her position regarding Maoists, whose appalling violence deserves no justification whatsoever. Let Ms Roy address the situation constructively by using her celebrity status to propagate and perhaps set afoot through an NGO an alternate mode of development which is inclusive. Let her throw her heart and soul into evolving development models which factor in those who are marginalised by the present developmental policies. The nation will be grateful to her.

But if she goes up the hill and down the dale justifying violence and trivialising the sovereignty and integrity of the country, she is doing a terrible disservice to the nation and is no different from the armchair critics of establishment who get carried away by their own voice.

And if her speeches cause disaffection to the state the way Madani’s fiery speeches created the likes of Nazeer Thadiantavide, then the sedition law should be evoked against her.

THE GULLIBLE MALLUS AND THE POLITICAL IAGOS

I wished mother earth would open up and swallow me when i read this story in THE NEW INDIAN EXPRESS yesterday.

The burden of the story is this: Lakhs of rupees is being given to head load workers as ‘nookucooli’ by the KERALA MINERAL DEVELPMENT CORPORATION LIMITED (KMDCL) as per the agreement arrived at between the LDF government and the head load workers unions. Both the LDF and UDF were equally enthusiastic about doling out taxpayers money to the workers for sitting around and doing no work – ‘cos sand mining cannot be done manually. It is being done mechanically. But the head load worker cannot be denied his wages and so the net result is “175 workers were coming everyday to the three points of Kava, Aanakal and Myladipuzha to sign the register. According to the conciliation agreement, the workers will be paid wages for 25 working days in a month. The KMDCL had to pay wages amounting to `52,500 a day and `13.12 lakh a month. “ (THE FULL STORY IS PASTED AFTER THE POST). WHOSE MONEY ARE THE POLITICAL LEADERS – BE IT THE LEFT OR Oommen CHANDYS – gifting away? Why do we, the tax payers allow ourselves to be so criminally vandalised?

Speaking for myself, i have slogged it out for thirty years to earn my bread and to pay the government its taxes. Doesn’t the government owe me anything? Isn’t the government accountable to me? Shouldn’t it ask my permission before it gifts away my hard-earned money to a bunch of lazy bones to get their political support?

I am angry with myself for having been taken for a ride by politicians whom i put into power to take care of my interests. I am angry with myself for doing nothing about it except make some useless noise in the blogsphere.

Impotent rage is frustrating. Isn’t there anything i can do? Except throw up my hands in sheer helplessness? Why do i call myself ‘educated’ when i just sit back and allow myself to be looted by a bunch of good for nothing self seeking politicians and their goons? Nobody hears the gnashing of my teeth at being caught up helplessly in this callous political power game.

I feel cheated and feel worthless that i can do nothing about it.

I’m sure every honest citizen shareS my feelings.

Isn’t there ANYTHING we can do?

*****************

WHO WILL BENEFIT FROM THE SAND MINING MESS?
A Sathis Who will benefit from the sand mining mess?
A Sathis
Express News Service
First Published : 21 Oct 2010 04:21:54 AM IST
Last Updated : 21 Oct 2010 11:24:32 AM IST

Which Front will get the benefit of the sand mining and related works being done at the Malampuzha, Chulliyar and Walayar dams in Palakkad district during the elections to the local bodies?
In general, the answer will be the LDF or the UDF. Whoever wins, the real winners will be the hundreds of workers at the dam site. Lakhs of rupees is being doled out to 175 workers as wage at the rate of `300 a day for no work being done by them thanks to the ‘nokku coolie’ promoted by both the LDF and the UDF.
This is a perfect example of the lack of will on the part of the government to put its foot down by saying that wages will be paid only when sand is being mined from the dam.
“The decision to pay wages for no work being done is a political one and we are helpless,” officials of the Kerala Mineral Development Corporation Limited (KMDCL), which was engaged in mining sand from these dams, said.
In spite of knowing the fact that manual labour be of no use for the mining and sand loading, the LDF Government had decided to involve hundreds of labourers for the work. Opposition Leader Oommen Chandy had also a hand in the decision. The government had forced to work out a compromise agreement because of the protest from the local head load workers against loading of the mined sand mechanically. Finally, it was agreed that each of the registered 196 workers will be paid `300 a day and the workers would be engaged in sundry work like removal of bushes and setting up of bunds. The end result is huge losses for the KMDCL.
The KMDCL is now facing losses on two fronts in Malampuzha. Around 80,000 square metres of sand, which was mined and put on the banks, was submerged in water. Three heaps of sand kept at a height of 16 metres were completely submerged in water. A part of these heaps has already been washed away.
Moreover, 175 workers were coming everyday to the three points of Kava, Aanakal and Myladipuzha to sign the register. According to the conciliation agreement, the workers will be paid wages for 25 working days in a month. The KMDCL had to pay wages amounting to `52,500 a day and `13.12 lakh a month.
Already, public sector undertakings like the profitable Malabar Cements have provided a loan of `5 crore towards the working capital of the KMDCL for sand mining. Currently, the KMDCL is selling sand mined from the Chulliyar and Walayar dams to the public at `990 a square metre. In Malampuzha, the bad condition of the Aanakal-Malampuzha road is causing hindrance in removing the sand. A section of the locals protest against transporting sand through the road demanding that the government should repair the road first.
However, KMDCL sources say that some elements are preventing the removal of the sand to help the sand mining lobby at Bharathapuzha. The KMDCL officials said a basket of sand in Thiruvananthapuram cost `120 while in Malampuzha it was being sold for `30 after being filtered. They said that the road was repaired twice, once by the KMDCL and another time by a Kozhikode-based society.
In Chulliyar, apart from the sand removed by the KMDCL, the local block panchayat had provided 22,000 mandays of work last season under the Mahathma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MNREGS), a Central scheme. The LDF was ruling the local block panchayat.
It remains to be seen whether the LDF or the UDF will benefit from the whole mess.

Annual Fete and Cashew Nuts

‘Molly, i hear that you get the best cashew nuts in Kerala – and cheap too”, said Mother Peter, our HM, arching her eyebrows , enlarging her large blue eyes and shaking her wimpled head vigorously up and down in that typical European style. ‘Write to your father and ask him to send us some for the fete’.

It was to be my first fete about which my friends had raised such expectations. It was a two day event hosted by our school for which the little town of Pondicherry looked forward to the whole year. The school was St. Joseph de Cluny. It was the headquarters of the Cluny convent in India. In Pondicherry, besides the convent, it had two schools – English medium which was going from strength to strength and the French medium with it dwindling population. There was an orphanage too and we boarders were not allowed to mingle with them, though in the same campus.

I joined Cluny in the first year of high school – in the 9t standard. Ever since i joined in June, I’ve been listening to the boarders raving about the annual fete. They spoke about the happening in the previous fete. Most of the conversation was about some boy or the other who could on those two days gain entry into the tall walls of the convent which guarded the chastity of the wards entrusted to them with a fierceness which, at times, was almost comical. At every opportunity, the nuns warned us about the Romeos who waited at the corner of the street.

The streets in Pondicherry are absolutely straight and were cut at regular intervals at 90 degree by equally straight roads. The Cluny convent was spread over three campuses. From the boarding to refectory, we had to cross the street. From refectory to school, we had to cross another street. The Romeos knew our routine, and the fact that the nuns were paranoid about punctuality made it easier for them to wait punctually at the street corners to catch a glimpse of and exchange smiles with their crushes.

Among the senior boarders there were two groups – the ones who had boyfriends and the ones who did not. I belonged to the latter though i had sneaking admiration for those who had the guts to have boyfriends. Now let me get this clear. The ‘boyfriend’ in those days did not mean what it means now. The girls had not spoken even once to their Romeos. All they did was to look down the street and smile at the boy whose looks they liked. And then they would go ‘steady’ with them, i.e., faithfully smile at them whenever they crossed the road. Sometimes the boy would wear a kerchief tucked in the collar. When his girlfriend crossed the road the next time, she would tuck in a kerchief in her collar (our uniforms were collared), and then their eyes would lock and they would smile. And the day would be made for them.
During the recreation time, the girl would talk with high excitement about the kerchief. She would blush and smile and bask in the comments of how handsome the boy was. All of us would laugh and giggle and tease.

I remember the handkerchief episode cos it landed me into trouble. The nuns knew that i was new and uncorrupted and therefore could be used as an agent. The boarding mistress once called me and spoke to me about this and that and without my quite realising it, the conversation veered to the boyfriend topic. In all innocence, i let her into the handkerchief incident and who’s whose boyfriend. She then gave me a French chocolate which i rushed to share with my friends who immediately got out from me what had happened. They ridiculed me for walking into the nun’s trap and yelled at me and called me James Bond and Mata hari and ostracised me. When they got their dressing down from the nuns along with the punishments like cutting out bi weekly walks on the beach(where the Romeos tore down on their bikes with silencers off), they got downright nasty with me.

I was very very miserable cos i had no intention of getting anyone into trouble. My friends from the no boyfriend group consoled me, and taught me how to evade the interrogation of the nuns. I have never walked blindly into their trap after that, but it took a long time for to gain entry into the boyfriend group.

The fete was the time when all these roadside Romeos got entry into our fortress. They quickly found out in which stalls their girl friends were and used to hang around there.

The middle campus which housed the convent, refectory and the orphanage was the site for the fete. The Pandal as the huge semi open auditorium was called, and the playground which he orphanage girls used accommodated the stalls which sold items brought/bought/donated from France. Then handicraft items, embroidered kerchiefs, tea cosy, and delightfully beautiful things done mostly by the orphanage girls were sold at exorbitant price. Things sold like hotcakes. The stalls were manned by us, students of English medium school. Sometime the crowd was so heavy that me with my over protected Nazrani upbringing used to panic. Sometimes tempers rose, for the young crowd was not free from inebriation. Commotion would immediately bring the members of the discipline committee (made up of big shots in the local community), and they would put their foot down. That’s when commotion arose and people flared up. Once this happened right in front of my stall. My partner in the counter had a street corner boyfriend who had been hanging around the whole day, smiling at her and buying things from our counter. In the afternoon, after lunch, he had apparently helped himself to some French liquor. Then he became bolder. He asked my partner for a clandestine date and she was horrified.

‘”i didn’t know you were such a rotten person”, she snapped at him.

“What did you think you were doing when you smiled at me every day?” he asked.

‘I didn’t think you were the type who would get fresh”, she said, getting scared.

‘Fresh? all i asked you was to come with me for a cup of coffee”, he said

Then she said something which made even me want to laugh.

‘You are a very bad boy’, she said, almost sobbing.

By then someone had reported the exchange and the watch and ward arrived and threw him out.

After the fate, for the rest of the year, she stared at the tip of her shoes whenever she crossed the road.

Now to get back to the cashew nuts (i got carried away by memories, sorry), i wrote to my father who promptly send 5 kilos of roasted cashew nuts of the best quality. It arrived four days before the fete. I instantly became the pet of the nuns. Five of us high school students were picked to pack cashew nuts. We put 8 pieces of cashew nuts each into small plastic packets and stacked them on a tray from which the junior boarding mistress took each of them and sealed them with a contraption I’d never seen before. Because of her presence, we couldn’t pop even one piece into our mouths. However, when the work was over, she took some broken cashew nuts which she apparently had sorted out, and gave half a handful to each of us.

These packets would be put on a tray which would be carried around by the students who were members of the JVC Club. The trays were suspended from the necks on pretty satin ribbons. I so wanted to do that duty but as i was not a JVC club member, i was denied the chance. Each packet was sold for Rs. 5, which in the mid sixties was considered to be an atrocious price.

The big day arrived. Being my first year, i was not given stall duty, so i generally went around with my friends and bought things and delicacies and French chocolate drink.

On the second day, my parents sprang a surprise on me by landing up for the fete. They were on their way to Velankanni, and decided to see me and the fete about which i had been raving and for which had asked for more pocket money for the month. Besides, my father had sent cashew nuts (for which he had paid less than Rs. 100/including parcelling and shipping charge). All these had made him curious about the event. So they decided to reroute the trip through Pondicherry.

My mother was simply horrified at the crowd through which her 14 year old daughter was running around freely. She called me and asked me to remain with them. With a protective arm around me, we went around looking at stalls.

My mother always had a fascination for embroidered stuff and so i took her to that stall. She was so taken up by what she saw that she started buying up, despite the fancy price. Both of us were engrossed in selecting the items. After the purchase, we turned around, looking for my father. And lo and behold, there he stood taking out Rs.5 from his wallet. The JVC volunteer (known for her aggressive marketing ) with the cashew nut tray suspended from her neck with colourful ribbons beamed at him as she took the money from him, and handed over a tiny packet of cashew nuts .

Then holding up the packet for me and amma to see, he winked, smiling from ear to ear.

Obama at it again.

Education arms race with India and China! That’s the latest verbal gymnastic by the President of the USA.

Ever since he settled comfortably/uncomfortably in his official chair in the Oval office, Obama has been harping on the threat posed to America’s future by ‘those’ Indians and Chinese. This othering of this particular group with its ubiquitous presence in the USA which has been reeling under recession, is a dangerous trend. Obama’s first outburst in December 2009 coincided with the beginning of assaults on Indian students in Australia. This had caused many a moment of anxiety to Indians who had someone close to them studying in the USA. Obama’s repeat performances make us suspect that he is trying to unite a racially divided country – create a dangerous nationalism - by whipping up a sort of xenophobia. The strategy of creating a Barbarians (substitute Indians and Chinese) - are -coming type of scare among American youth in order to motivate the latter to go to school could trigger off the revival of the dot buster phenomenon.

Guess the president is hardly concerned about such insignificant issues, but his indiscretion causes fear in parents for the safety of their children slogging it out in the universities of the USA, or pursuing careers there.

Yesterday’s newspaper carried reports of Australian government’s anxiety that there is likely to be a reduction of 80% students from India this year. The huge financial loss is a matter of serious concern for them.

When is India going to wake up to the reality of the shameful lacuna in the field of higher education in the country? There is no shortage of brilliance here. The basic infrastructure for education is well in place. It is in the field of research that we are shamefully behind even many Third world countries. It is the quest for excellence in this field that drains our country of aspiring students and professionals. It is not just a brain drain. It is a gigantic economic drain too.

Now that the Bill for the introduction of foreign universities has been tabled in the Indian Parliament, universities like Virginia Tech, Georgia Institute of technology, Lancaster University have already commenced talks on the setting up of campuses in India which will follow the same system as in their countries, and will award UK/US Degrees. The government should expedite matters to enable not only the setting up of these universities, but also their smooth functioning. The Education Minister should stand by his promise of creating a customised regulatory framework separate from that of the existing state aided Universities. A sort of SEZ should be created in order to keep them free from the reservation policies, unionism and the bureaucratic controls that give rise to frustrating delays, and corruption.

India should set up her own research centres of excellence too, and ensure smooth functioning without government interference, trade unions meddling, campus politics and corruption.

Centres of excellence in research are already there in plenty. Collaborative and twinning systems are already functioning smoothly. But these are a mere drop in the ocean of the burgeoning aspiration of the twenty first century India gearing itself to take on the world in this Knowledge era. The State should participate in this effort to set up these centres of excellence in research. With the foreign players on its soil, we can rise to meet the new competition as also be a competitor who gives them a real tough run for their money.

We know the government can find money to invest in tertiary education and research Centres, if it has the political will. The helium balloon of the commonwealth opening ceremony can vouch for it.

It should also give incentives to corporates to establish academic research centres.

Let us, for goodness sake do everything we can to give our aspiring youngsters the facility they so badly require. We most certainly have the resources.

What ARE we waiting for? We don’t have all the time in the world!

The blog comments I reject

It does not matter to me whether my blog visitors don’t see eye to eye with me, or if they ridicule me or my understanding of the issue i deal with or my style. In fact i like comments which reflect such views and i publish them unless they use terrible obscenities or they hurt religious sentiments, customs and practices.

I do get such rejectable comments once in a way.

The two categories of blogs that generate such comments are the ones on Amitabh Bachchan and Narendra Modi.

All my posts on Modi have generated dirty comments. Some are so filthy that I’ve laughed out loudly (sorry. I’m not easily shocked though it is ladylike to be so, i know). In fact it’s a comment on Modi that got automatically published that prompted me to activate comment moderation. But that hasn’t caused me to budge one millionth of an inch from my position on Modi. I cannot drool over his development politics. For me his unofficial official stamp on carnage cannot be compensated by the paradise he might have turned Gujarat into. Two thousand odd people who were snuffed out were denied the right to life in democratic india. To me what happened post Godhra is comparable with the crackdown on Tinaman square. Modi’s re-elections after Godhra are reminiscent of the mass support that brought Hitler into power. Yes, i am a Modi basher – tho an armchair one. I believe it’s my responsibility to be at least that, for i enjoy the fruits of democracy. I owe it to my country. But post Godhra slaughter made me realise man never learns from the lessons history teaches him. That’s why history repeats itself.

Some tell me i am over reacting. But i say no. But i react more than others in my part of the world because i was in Vadodhra when it happened. Some of the images still haunt me.

But the foul comments to my Bachchan blogs are really funny. Most of them are written by those who apparently are not competent in handling the English language. Unfortunately, i don’t know how to get into those comments and do an expletives deleting act, so i reject the whole comment. I get a feeling most of those expletives (an understatement, believe me) are used without a knowledge of the meaning of the word used, or the part of human anatomy that some of the words signify. If i publish them, you’ll laugh your guts out. All such comments are anonymous, but i know their authors are not Malayalees. A Malayalee might get his English wrong but never his obscenities in that language.

My blog which generated such comments, ironically, was not actually on Bachchan, but on a bad piece of journalism on the retake of Sholay. Apparently, they didn’t get the point. They thought i was trying to establish that Mohanlal was a better actor than Bachchan!

Why do these two categories generate such strong emotion, i wonder. I think it’s because both Modi and Bachchan have achieved god like proportions with their fans. Fooling around with deities can win the teeth gnashing wrath of their followers.

After all it’s a very painful experience to be made to realise that your gods have feet of clay.

Thou Shall Not Bend

‘You must not bend”, said my doc. I had gone to him ‘cos of back pain – something a person like me fighting a deadly disease should not ignore.
‘Not even to pick up something from the floor?’, I asked.
‘No’, he said quietly. ‘It’d be nice if you use a walker at home. When you go out, use a walking stick’.

The doc is a soft spoken man of few words and he seemed appalled that the instruction he had given three years back - not to bend - was not taken seriously.

'So it shall be', i told myself. ‘I shall not bend. Nothing to get panicky about’, i said to myself. ‘After all he said i could walk, travel, climb stairs.

But soon i realised that life without bending is not easy. Just imagine you can't bend to scratch your little toe when it itches!

After i got back from the hospital, I was taking the newspaper to my room when i dropped it. I started to bend when a shout stopped me. “Don’t bend, molly” yelled Sunny, my husband who was watching me from the top of the stairs. He came running down and picked up the paper for me and put the walking stick in my hand. ‘Use this’, he said, ‘it’ll remind you that you are not supposed to bend.’

Later in the day, wishing to make myself useful, i decided to help to set the table. The dish in which we served fancy dishes was in the cupboard below the kitchen platform, and leaning on the stick i started to bend down, “Miss, Miss Miss, don’t’, screamed Shiny who looked after me during my treatment. ‘I’ll take it. Don’t bend. Please go and sit at the dining table. I’ll manage on my own’.

Well, so much for my effort to be of help.

The next day I began to feel a little depressed. The implication of not bending at all hit me like a ton of bricks when i dropped my medicine strip and my eighty four year old mother-in-law rushed to pick it up with ‘Molly don’t bend, DONT bend. I’ll pick it up for you’.

Believe me life isn’t easy at all if you have to depend on people to pick up what you drop, to take something out of the lower racks of the fridge, wardrobe and book shelf.

I’ve got to find a way out, i decided. My son said he’d look if robotic hand is available in the US. But then I’ll have to wait till he comes. Till then i didn’t want to keep calling people to help me every time i need something which requires bending.

I looked down at my stick. IDEA! I snatched a chiffon dupatta from the hanger and dropped it on the floor. I then carefully slipped the stick under it and lifted it slowly. Half way through it slipped down. I tried again. It fell when it came almost within reach of my free hand. ‘Damn’, i muttered to myself (I’m not the cursing type – at least not the easily cursing type). i tried again – without success. I didn’t give up but tried again and again and again. I looked around to see if there were any spiders that could inspire me. I should have tried with cotton duppatta first, my common sense admonished me, and i cursed myself for being over ambitious. But by then it became a matter of prestige for me to pick up that colourful chiffon duppatta with my walking stick. i kept trying and trying and trying. And then it happened. It remained on the stick till i raised it high enough for my hand to take it!

Now i can pick up a lot of large and flexible objects with the help of the stick. But things like pencils, pens, spoons still pose a problem. Am sure eventually I’ll be able discover the technique of picking them up from the floor with the walking stick.

I have also found an easy to way to take things out from low shelves. Initially i tried sitting on a low stool but it became a pain going to where the stool was, pushing it with my stick to the site of operation.

Again i sat down and thought. IDEA! Yes, an idea can really change your world. As a kid and a teenager, I had learnt Bharatanatyam. So i was pretty flexible though not exactly anorexic. That day, when it was time for the evening news, I decided to switch on the TV myself instead of calling for help.

The plug point was just a feet above the ground. I could have switched it with my walking stick but i had misplaced it and everyone had been looking for it since morning with no success. So i decided to try out the Bharatanatyam technique. I went close to the switch, bent my knees keeping my body erect like the way Chandrika teacher taught me decades age and yippee! I switched on the TV without anyone’s help, and without the help of even the walking stick ! I felt grateful to my mother who is no more, for bulldozing me into each dance class all those years back.

The time came for me to go home to Trivandrum where Sunny was staying alone during my treatment in kochin. I felt pretty excited as much about going back to the familiar place as about having my husband around to do the bending tasks for me.

Then disaster struck, though of a temporary nature. Sunny sprained his back and was absolutely bedridden. Sitting helplessly in kochin, i looked up at the Almighty and asked, ‘Hey mister, what have you against me?’ ‘Nothing dear lady’, he seemed to say. ‘Just leave it to me. I’m here to take care of things’
‘Ok, sir”, i said shrugging my shoulder resignedly. But it made me feel better.

When we reached my apartment in Trivandrum, Sunny was waiting supported by a walking stick! I looked at him and burst out laughing.
“Am much better now’, he said. ‘Can move about, but cannot bend. Bending causes excruciating pain”.
‘So ‘m better off than you. I have no pain’
That doesn’t mean you should bend”, he said rather sternly.

Later in the day, we wanted to watch TV. The switch point was again a feet above the ground. I had started walking towards it with my walking stick poised to press the switch with it when i saw sunny bending his knee in that classic Bharathanatyam pose till he could comfortably switch on the TV!

Now i think i know how the basic pose of Bharatanatyam originated! An ancient Indian method of dealing with sprained back must have caught the aesthetic eye of some innovative artist who saw the beauty and the possibilities of the human body as it lowered itself at the knee keeping the torso erect.

The Media Menace

For the past few days, the media was full of what would happen when /if the Ayodhya verdict is announced. TV channels flashing news, breaking news, newspapers carrying banner headlines – both indulging in speculation of a future that might never happen – rather that would not happen if the media did not provoke, subtly coerce and tease the aggrieved (allegedly aggrieved) parties into violence.

The media is behaving with absolutely no responsibility. The build up for Ayodhya began a month back. What is it trying to do? Reminding the warring sects to get their weapons honed for the unleashing of violence? Is this the media’s way of ensuring them that it has whipped up feelings and has created expectations and the ideal climate for bloodshed, and so it now the turn of the two communities to meet the expectation built up by it?

In 2006 January when Arjun Singh tried to raise the reservation quota in the IITs and other premier educational institutions, the coverage of the issue by Rajdeep Sardesai and his channel was dangerous and objectionable. The visual of the burning Goswami (the self immolation in protest against Mandal) was played over and over again as though to invite some misguided youth to take cue from him. Sardesai was literally jumping around with excitement – like a predator which had a taste of blood and was waiting with excitement for some prey to take the bait.

Looking back, i feel that if the media was totally banned from the precincts of Taj –nay, if there was a total ban on reporting the updates on the terror attacks in Mumbai, the NSG would have done a much more efficient job without the media taking away the surprise element from the rescue operation. Remember, Arnab Goswami got vicious and nasty at the government’s move to block the media from reporting? and te government buckled in to the ire of Times Now!!

The Indian media needs to be reined in. it should not, as it does now, put business above the country. Responsible journalism is what India needs at this juncture. The country is going through difficult times. Media should not make it worse by giving Kashmiri separatists, terrorists groups and Maoists the free publicity they seek. Cutting off publicity for these terror groups is akin to choking off their life breath. Sensationalising their terror activities is just what they want.
I believe in the freedom of speech but if this freedom is used to help seditious groups and terror elements hell bent of breaking up India, it is time something was done about it.

Incidentally, after that entire hullabaloo created up by the media, i get a pleasant feeling that the commonwealth games are going to take place without any serious hiccups.

Related blog: Kerala – a Media Constructed Image?

A letter to the Editor - ignored by The New Indian Express.

The following post is my letter to the editor of The New Indian Express in response to an extremely offensive article by one Ms. Alexandra Delaney, an English lady, who confesses that, while in Kerala, she pretended to be a French national in order to be spared the torture of having to listen to “Kerala English”. Needless to say, my letter was not published. I admit i overreacted – but then, insults always provoke strong, emotional reaction.

Forgive me, my blogger friends, for imposing this trashed letter on you. You see, i spent half an hour writing this. Why waste the effort, i thought - - -

Unfortunately i couldn’t locate the Ms Delaney's letter on the net.

PS A blog visitor located the link.

Dear Sir

I found Ms. Alexandra Delaney’s article titled English in Kerala or Kerala English? (TNIE, Sept 23) not only offensive, but factually incorrect and totally lacking in knowledge of the situation in which English is taught in the schools in the state.

Let me begin by reminding Ms.Delaney that English is not our mother tongue. Our mother tongue is Malayalam. We have the necessary communicative skills in our mother tongue, and look upon English as a utility object. Yes, call it mercenary attitude if you like, but I feel no need to be apologetic about it. We do not feel obliged to speak the language the way it is spoken by the native speaker of English or to keep pace with the changing idiom of English as it is spoken in England. Why should we? The Keralites with their “Kerala English” which makes Ms. Delaney’s flesh crawl have made their presence felt indispensably in the English speaking world. We have been able to extract the benefits of the language to the hilt. That’s enough for us. We have our mother tongue to fall back on, and Kerala English to communicate with other non-Keralite friends. Let Ms. Melaney suffer no heartburn on account of our deficiency in handling spoken English.

Now to come to some points she has raised: the stress pattern. Contrary to what she has said, in no state in India do the speakers of English use the stress pattern of British English. All Indians distribute stress evenly over all the syllables in the word. Perhaps a handful of those who do use the British stress pattern have had their education in the premier schools in the country or outside India. In this context I would like to ask Ms. Delaney if the American English follows the British stress pattern.

I do not agree with her that the “rigid implementation of teaching material and the purely text book teaching” is responsible for the “poor speech” of those she has this grouse about. There are a lot of issues regarding the teaching of English at school level in Kerala about which she knows absolutely nothing. I don’t intend to go into the issue here. It’s too unwieldy. But the lady’s pronouncement on what is wrong with the teaching of English in Kerala afforded me a lot of merriment (hope this usage doesn’t make her want to "scream"). I do hope she will refrain from behaving as though she is the last word on the system of education in Kerala which is complex with both social and political implications.

I found the following statement totally unwarranted: what is surprising, however, is the confidence with which Keralites speak English, despite being considered as confused and incorrect to outsiders. Well, that was a really nasty statement to make. It amazes her that with grammatically incorrect English and entirely unsuitable vocabulary, we Malayalees are able to communicate with each other in English. What on earth is her problem? That her mother tongue is being distorted? Well, let me assure her that we have not signed contract with the British to maintain the purity of the English language and keep it free from the influence of our language. We do not think being able to speak English like the native speaker of English is the ultimate achievement in life. The language has its uses as the medium of communication for official purposes and career advancement, and for communication with the outside world. That’s it. We have enough knowledge of English to do well in our life and careers anywhere in the world.

If the lady doesn’t like being asked her "good name", and from "which place" she comes from and “how she likes Kerala food”, I think she had better think of packing up her bags. We don’t intend to change our way of speaking English to please Ms. Alexandra Delaney.

Kochuthresiamma P J
Thiruvananthapuram

Here's the original article.

http://expressbuzz.com/biography/english-in-kerala-or-kerala-english/209179.html

National award for Bachchan - for what?

Amitabh Bachchan’s performance in Paa wins him national award for acting! :-)

It would have made plenty of sense if the award was for fancy dress.

Am sure the poor Big B himself is embarrassed to be caught up as the protagonist in this national joke.

I don’t know if i can i call it the national blunder of the decade? We have to wait for the completion of Commonwealth Games to know which is the greater /worse blunder.

But it beats me - what on earth were the jury thinking when they zeroed in on Bachchan’s performance in Paa for best actor award? Did they redefine the concept of ‘acting’ and exclude emoting with facial expression from the definition?

I think they owe an explanation to the nation about the criteria for this ridiculous ,howler of a choice.

The Tragic Dismissal of Professor T J Joseph - a teacher's point of view

The sacking of Prof T J Joseph disturbed me just as it had all right thinking people of the state. I was itching to write about it but my usual hesitation to criticise the church held me back till now. Now i can no longer rein in my feelings of extreme distress.

I am a college lecturer myself, and so i understand how things happen in a college, how the question papers are set.

Paper setting is not an easy job. Even without all the political correctness we have to worry about, it is a difficult job. A lot of time, thought and planning goes into it. The questions have to cover the entire portions allotted, it has to focus on those portion that were not covered in earlier exams, the portion covered in the earlier exams cannot be ignored though. Besides all this the paper has to be impeccable, factually and language wise. A teacher spends a very long time taking care of all these, and is very careful. But despite all the efforts, errors creep in. After all, it is human to err and teachers are human. A teacher is not a perfect human being, a veritable storehouse of knowledge, who never ever makes a mistake in life or in the class room. She is one who strives to be that, gets half way through in that direction and is always aware that there is a long way to go still.

But a teacher is imperatively a person who knows how to deal with the knowledge at her disposal in order to impart it as education to the students. Hours of preparation goes behind every lecture.

Now coming to Prof TJ Joseph, we must admit it was foolish on his part to use the word Mohammed in that particular context. But i am absolutely sure that he did not mean the Prophet. Why on earth should he take the trouble to offend the sensibilities of a community? He should know fully well what the consequences would be. The mistake he made was that when he chose the passage, he did not factor in the truth that there are certain elements in the community who are fanatical and who suffer from an intense sense of persecution mania. These people feel that all the world is out to insult Islam which is simply not true.

The professor was being naive. He thought , and rightfully so, that Mohammed is just a name, and that simple explanation was enough for him to use that name in that unfortunate passage he picked up from the books prescribed for reading in the syllabus. If he had used the name Joseph or Matthew or Paul or Alphonse(all Christian saints), or even Emmanuel(which is Christ’s name), this problem would not have snowballed into such a huge issue. In fact it would not have been an issue at all. No one would have noticed it, cos after all what’s in a name? That must have been his logic.

Believe me, sometimes a teacher’s logic, clouded by academic considerations alone, falls short of politically correctness. It does happen. I know it. Even if someone points this out, we tend to stick mulishly to our view. At that point of time, the mind thinks that it is ridiculous that a perfectly innocent statement should be so wrongly interpreted. In our foolishness, we think such ridiculous interpretations should not happen. This must have been how the professor’s mind worked. “If i’m asked, i can always say i didn’t mean the The Prophet”.

Needless to say, the easiest thing would have been to change the name. But the poor man did not think it important enough.

It is true that the question papers are submitted to the office and the Principal is the official approver of it. But it is simply not possible for the Principal to go through them. Nevertheless, when something like this happened, he should have owned up the responsibility and apolgised to the community for an unintentional offence, instead of washing his hands of the poor teacher and sacking him. What loyalty can the institution expect hereafter from its teachers again?

It is very obvious that the enquiry by the management was not a fair one. The simple logic is why should a teacher with an impeccable record of 20 odd years, who led a totally innocuous and noncontroversial life to date, to whom his job was all important indulge in the dangerous act of antagonising a community and thereby jeopardise his job, his safety and that of his family? He would NEVER do it. And the management knows it.

The management has come up with some atrocious statements:
The DTP operator had pointed it out to the teacher about the use of the forbidden name. Well, since when is a DTP operator to decide what a teacher should do? Of course, in this case the DTP operator was more worldly wise, but education is a degree different from worldly wisdom, and teachers, the dispensers of education sometimes tend to be idealistic and short on worldly wisdom. Society should be a little indulgent towards teachers. It would have been nice if it departed from its usual practice of treating this category of people as punching bags.

Secondly, the management has stated that it is willing to take back the professor if the Muslim community forgives him!!!! What does it mean by Muslim community? Isn’t the group of muslims who were among the first to donate blood to the victim of this terrorist act part of that Muslim community whose pardon the management is seeking? Let the management define term ‘muslim community’.

The Muslims do not need forgiven the Professor. Why should they, when they have not taken offence or have any grudge towards him? The management is doing a disservice to the community by identifying these lumpen, fanatic group as the representative face of the Muslim community which is as sane and secular as any other community in the state.

This appeasing attitude is most shameful. I would have expected the management to live and act by the principles they swear by – Christ’s principles. I wish the management of Newman college would go back to the Bible and find out how Jesus Christ the founder of Christianity and the Lord of love and forgiveness and compassion would have reacted in this situation.

The management has no mind of its own? It does not have its own sense of right and wrong? No discerning power? Does it need to take lessons on love and forgiveness and compassion from an external agency? Is this management which runs an educational institution so starved of values and a sense of fair play – and courage?

What a shame! What a terrible shame!

I dreamt of Brutus and Mark Anthony in Kerala

I had a dream some years back. A strange dream it was. Why I should have dreamt of Brutus and Mark Anthony, I haven’t the vaguest idea. I had’nt thought of them/spoken of them around that time. Yet I dreamt about them.

I do not remember what Brutus had said. But I do remember seeing Brutus standing tall a erect, in the fatigues of a Roman soldier, earnestness and sincerity writ large on his face, speaking in a rather stiff, baritone voice with no dramatic intonation whatsoever. The blue shirt, green shirt, red shirt head load workers of Kerala who were listening to him were moved to tears, and quite unembarrassed about it.

The only words of Brutus that i recall is the oath he administered to the assembly, which the huge crowd of head load workers, with their right arms stretched out, repeated after him with a thunderous resonance. Here’s the oath:

WE THE HEAD LOAD WORKERS OF KERALA SHALL HITHERTO EARN OUR SALARY. WE SHALL NOT CLAIM NOKUCOOLIE. WE SHALL NOT OVERCHARGE FOR THE WORK WE DO. WE SHALL NOT USE ABUSIVE LANGUAGE.WE SHALL NOT THRUST OUR SERVICE ON PEOPLE. WE SHALL AMEND OUR BODY LANGUAGE. WE SHALL LEND DIGNITY TO OUR LABOUR BY PUTTING OUR HEART AND SOUL INTO OUR WORK AND PASSIONATELY ABIDING BY THE WORK ETHICS SPELT OUT BY OUR LEADER BRUTUS AND BY OUR COMMITMENT TO THE NEW AGENDA.

Wiping their eyes with the red thorthu on their shoulder they sat down and waited for the next speaker. In walked Mark Anthony. There was something wrong with the way he looked. I remember thinking in my dream, “hey, this guy is a fraud’. His face was exactly like Richard Burton’s – light eyed, light complexioned and receding forehead. That was OK. But he wore a shirt the front portion of which had two colours. On the left of the placket was red and on the right, blue. The sleeves were green and they were rolled up half way up the biceps. The red thorthu was on his head in the form of a cocky turban. He wore an atrocious lungi folded over well above the knee and tied over his ribs. Some striped inner wear almost reaching his knees was peeping out cheekily.

He walked in with a slovenly gait, a beedi smoking from his fingers. The crowd greeted him with boos, but quite unfazed, he walked up to the mike, put his right elbow on the lectern, took a deep drag on the beedi and blew the smoke in circles and watched them as the circles dispersed and disappeared into the air. The boos died down and the crowd too watched the circles forming and then becoming ill defined and disappearing.

Soon silence fell. Mark Anthony threw away the beedi and looked at the crowd with one end of his lips lifted in a crooked, scornful smirk.

‘So’, he said, ‘comrades, you are giving up your rights, eh?’

Silence greeted him.

‘Eh, eh eh?’ We went on without raising his voice too much.

‘You fickle minded fools’, he roared abruptly, making the audience sit up with a start. ‘You traitors’, he continued roaring.’ You have betrayed the blood, sweat and tears of generations of thinkers and leaders who laid down their lives, suffered torture at the hands of brutal police toeing the line of the bourgeoisie, to win you the rights to earn a living without working. And now you stupid proletariat, you want to work?’

‘You want to work? You want to live by the sweat of your brows? You want to earn you salary? Then GET OUT OF KERALA. YES’ he roared ‘GET OUT OF KERALA’

'Your leaders first struggled and fought, then pressurised all governments to wrest the sacred right to earn a fat sum without moving your little finger, and now you want to throw that right away? Ugh, ugh, ugh?’ He snorted into the mike.

‘No comrade, no’, shouted the audience.’ No’.

‘And what is this new agenda? New goal that Brutus put into your silly heads? Increase production? Whatever for? Why should you care about the size of the cake so long as you are assured by your unions that you get your share of the cake, EVEN IF THERE IS NO CAKE. Where in the world are there workers who get every month without fail their share of a nonexistent wealth ?’

‘Nowhere, nowhere., yelled the crowd.

‘Yes, nowhere in this world. Remember, nowhere. Only in Kerala. That's why it is called God’s own country. We earn without sweating. Don’t you know “thou shall live by the sweat of your brows" is God’s curse on Adam when the latter was driven out of Paradise where they did not have to work? Work is a curse. A punishment. Your leaders redeemed that lost paradise where man could eat, drink and be merry without working. That’s the paradise which God made for Adam and Eve. Your leaders have outsmarted governments, why even God himself to create a paradise for you here in Kerala, and now you want to throw it away? You want to throw it away, ugh?’

‘No, No’, they yelled.

‘Down with the traitor Brutus’, someone yelled.

‘And’, thundered Mark Anthony, ‘if Brutus has put the idea in your minds that the absence of generation of wealth in this paradise will throw cockroach in your Kanji (literal translation of Malayalam idiom meaning ‘deprive you of your livelihood’), let me tell you this. With more than 2 million malayali NRI’s slogging it out outside India, we the labour class will never starve.’

Thunderous applause.

‘Long live money order economy’, yelled Mark Anthony waving the read thorthu which he had ripped off his head with flourish.

LONG LIVE MONEY ORDER ECONOMY, shouted the crowd

I woke up with a start at the sound of the alarm clock. It was early morning. I had to board Madras Mail at 6.15 am after cooking breakfast for the family and packing lunch for my husband and two children. I dragged myself out of the bed thinking ruefully “Why wasn’t I born a head load worker?”

It was just another day and then - - - - - -

I felt an icy hand clutch at my heart, squeezing my life breath out, as Sunny, my husband said “Molly, I can’t read. Everything looks blurred” .We were in the car, on our way to work, he to his bank and me to my college. I’d noticed that he had been alternating between fiddling with his glasses and adjusting the distance of the Economic Times ever since he got into the car.

“But you were reading the newspapers very comfortably in the morning”, I managed to choke out, desperately trying to keep panic out of my voice.

“Yes, I had no problem then, but I did have a problem when I was trimming my mush”
I remembered that he had told me that he couldn’t see properly as he was levelling his moustache.

“Don’t let it turn out like the case of pandan and manian”, I had joked then. Cos I didn’t take it seriously. Thought it was just one of those things.

Sunny stopped trying to read Eco Times and looked ahead. “I can’t read the hoardings too. They are also blurred”.

I wanted to cry, but I kept calm. A couple of months earlier, my mother-in-law’s vision had deteriorated alarmingly overnight. “Macular degeneration”, the doc had said, “part of ageing process”.

But surely there’s an age for it, i thought. Sunny was too young for it.

This thought hung between us but we didn’t say it out loud. I knew the same thought was going on in his mind just as he knew what was on mine.

“Let’s go back and see a doctor”, I suggested.

“Maybe it’ll improve once I’m in the office”.

Both of us were silent till we reached my college.

Half an hour later, Sunny called to say he is returning home and will pick me up on the way. I called up my son Mathew who was at his college in Mumbai itself and told him to ask his local friends about a good eye specialist.

When we reached our apartment in Pareltank Road, Mathew was waiting for us in the garage, looking scared. The poor chap was never good at camouflaging his feelings.

I’ve fixed up appointment with a doctor at Dadar. 7oclock”, Mathew said.

During lunch, we avoided the topic that was uppermost in our minds. The conversation was strained, but we managed to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

By 6 o’clock when we started for Dadar, I was a nervous wreck, though I put up a brave front. I went around taking care of trivial things like checking if the iron was switched off, windows were closed – all just to keep panic from rising and consuming me.

At the eye specialist’s, both Mathew and I barged in to the consultation room. The doc didn’t like it, it was obvious but, I guess, our collective tension was so tangible that he sensed it. He decided not to make an issue of it.

After a brief consultation he checked Sunny’s glasses. Then he asked Sunny to sit in the patients chair and tried lenses of varying power. The first lens which were close to the one Sunny was using made not much of a difference. He tried two more sets and then picked lens which were apparently of much higher power. He placed them in that eye gear.

“I can see much better', Sunny said, a slow grin spreading over his face. I looked at Mathew and he was also grinning like a zany. I didn’t realise I too was doing the same. The doc soon decided on the lens, and gave the prescription.

“When did you last change your glasses”, asked the doc.

“Some four years back”

The power has jumped dramatically”, said the doc.

“But he read the newspapers without any problem this morning”, I blurted out.

“Guess it’s the case of over strained eyes suddenly giving way – like an over strained body is capable of pushing itself by sheer will power, but breaks down completely when the body resources reach their nadir point”, speculated the doc.

‘Have you come across any case like this before?’ I asked.

“No. I must admit it is strange that the power should increase so much in so short a period. It needs to be investigated”, said the doc.

I told him about his mother's eye. The doctor said nothing and kept a poker face."Anyway, get a new pair of specs. He can work with it. Let's wait and watch for a week".

WE placed order for the glasses and returned home. We were silent on the way home. Though we were relieved at the temporary solution, an uneasy feeling of a vague fear hovered in the atmosphere.The term "investigation" kept nagging my thoughts.

After dinner, Sunny as usual sat up leaning against the headboard of the bed and switched on the TV. In a minute he switched it off, took off his glasses, gave them to me and lay down.

“Might as well sleep. I can’t see anything. Everything is blurred”

I felt that fear landing on me once again. I decided to check my mail on the computer which was placed on the computer table near the bed. The computer table had three shelves and the telephone was on the top shelf. As I was about to place the glasses next to the phone, I saw another pair of glasses identical to the one he'd just handed to me.

Heavens!! That was Sunny’s glasses!! The one near the phone!

I looked at the one i held in my hand and suddenly things fell into place.

Both of us once had spectacles with identical frames. But I had discarded my pair a year earlier when I bought a pair with progressive lens. Actually, i hadn’t exactly thrown the glasses away but had kept them in the kitchen to be used there.

I could feel a huge weight lifting from my chest. But I wanted to be sure.

“Sunny”, I called him.

“What”

“Can you sit up for a sec”

He sat up. I switched on the TV and then handed him his pair of glasses, which had been sitting quietly near the phone since morning, totally oblivious of the whole dark comedy that was unfolding in our home.

He looked puzzled but obliged me by putting it on.

And then he let out a big shout followed by
I CAN SEE!

Mathew came running from his room to find me laughing and crying and Sunny suddenly transformed to his old light-hearted self.

“I can see, Mathew, i can see”, he said, a little too loud still.

I have no words to describe the expression on Mathew’s face.

By then I had figured out what had happened. In the morning, after checking the mail, Sunny was about to go into the shower when the telephone rang. It was a long conversation during which he had absentmindedly removed his glasses and kept them near the phone.

Meanwhile, I was in the kitchen with my kitchen glasses on, packing lunch when the door bell rang. It was Sunny’s colleague Mr. D from across our flat who wanted to have a word with my husband. As I was going in to call Sunny, I had taken off my kitchen glasses and had put them on the dining table. Sunny was still on the phone. I told him Mr. D was waiting and then hurried to get ready.

Meanwhile, Sunny saw MR. D out and as he walked past the dining table, he saw my glasses which he mistook for his. That’s how trimming the mush became an ordeal.

Listening to my explanation, Mathew’s ecstatic expression began to metamorphose into one of indulgent disgust. “You guys are quite a pair”, he muttered as he walked back to his room, shaking his head in disbelief.

Mistaken identity can give rise to a comedy of errors, but, believe me, mistaking one spectacle for another can take you through the most complex and traumatic of tragic emotions.