Carriers of Oral Tradition

This topic suggested itself to me yesterday when I came across a reference to Chanson de Rolland. The very mention of the epic and I found myself in the midst of a royal banquet in honour of Charlemagne emprior (Malayalam corruption for emperor . Tho’ chakravarthy is the word, this is the term my story teller used). A little hungry boy runs into the hall and snatches the hors d’oeuvre from the emperor’s table and dashes out. The emperor orders the boy to be brought in and soon discovers it is none other than his nephew Rolland, whose mother had been banished from the kingdom. The exploits of Rolland then came to me in snatches. I remembered the sense of horror that gripped me at the image of Oliver with his body full of cuts and scratches from the battle being dropped into the well of salt. The Saracens were the villains, I remember, and Charlemagne’s army that Rolland joined was God’s favourite. I remember the final scene of the epic where Rolland, knowing he is about to die, breaks his sword to smithereens, knocking it again and again on a rock. He did not want anyone else to use his precious sword!

The above details may not be accurate for many reasons. It is recaptured from memory of the story I heard as a child from Cicily thathi (thathi is a word for sister among a certain community of Kerala Christians), the seamstress who’d been around in my house ever since I remember. I must have been around 5 or 6 when my brothers and I, with our mouths hanging open at the sheer power of her story telling , sat in front of Cicily thathi as she embroidered delicate flowers on the bed sheets or pillow covers or table cloth or sarees.

Thathi told us a lot of other stories too. Of those, I was fascinated by the story of Pulomaja, the virtuous princess who guarded her chastity fiercely.

The source of her Charlemagne stories was the verses of chavittu nadakom, a Christian art form popular in rural kerala in those days. She was a voracious reader who read novels, magazines, newspapers. She had studied only up to the 4th standard, but was a huge repository of stories, which she gathered not only from what she read, but also from what she heard from her elders.

This set me thinking. Who were the story tellers that shaped my imagination as a child? My mother? No. Not really. She didn’t tell me stories when I was a kid. She did when I grew up and had children of my own. But when I was a school going kid in the lower primary, I used to tell her stories and episodes from school and she used them as illustrations to impart to me practical and spiritual wisdom. But amma was not a storyteller.

Most of the stories I heard were from the domestic helps we had in the house – and we had quite a number . Those were difficult days and amma used to look for the slightest excuse to engage these helps so that they’d get at least 2 square meals a day. Thus it was that there was Cicily thathi who told us literary stories, Rosa cheduthy (term of respect for elder sister) and Maria cheduthy who told us stories handed down by word of mouth.

The cheduthys were not literate and so their stories had a different quality. Besides, they were not discreet enough to know that certain details should not be shared with the children of a very prudish Syrian Catholic family. Their stories sent us into peals of laughter. They were rich in physical description. The women who were the face for vices were invariably shrivelled versions of once well endowed wanton ladies. Mariacheduthy took immense pleasure in graphically describing the now pathetic condition of these sinful women. I once shared the details with amma who was furious and admonished the two cheduthys.

But Maria cheduthy could not be stopped. She resorted to blackmail. She said she wouldn’t tell us any story if we shared them with amma. My brothers, who preferred outdoor games, were not affected by the threat. But I loved Mariacheduthy’s stories with the sleaze she injected into the story of saints and virtuous people and her demo in the form of dance (this almost seventy year old lady showed me how Salome danced to seduce Herod!) and mimicry (she could imitate the emperor’s gait as well as the old wicked half naked witch, bent double on a dirty stick with her shaky grating voice).

Looking back, I realise that a whole new world opened out to me during the time I spent in the company of these cheduthys. Many looked askance at amma for allowing me to spend so much time in the company of ‘those’ people. But I loved them and their stories. The values imbedded in their stories were the same that were taught by amma and my catechism teachers. In the stories told by the cheduthys and lessons taught by the nuns I learnt the same thing – the greatest sins were those against love and chastity. I learnt that there was no sin on earth that God wouldn’t forgive; so there should be nothing on earth that i too can’t forgive. Only, the cheduthy’s had a way of making the value system appear more attractive.

Sometimes, these stories acquired a class colour. I remember Veroni cheduthy, who came into my world when i was a little older, telling me that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for the rich to go to heaven. I laughed out loud ‘cos i knew what she was getting at (she was taken to task by amma for playing truant for a week) and also ‘cos i was taught in my catechism class damage control strategies for being economically better off than her. She became furious at my reaction, and came close to me, stuck her face close to mine and said, wagging a her furious forefinger at me: “You wait and see. When you are roasting in hell, i’ll be reclining against the chest of father Abraham up there in heaven. And when you ask for a drop of water to quench your thirst, i will not give you”. She then did a right about turn and walked off from me, throwing a couple of backward glances to see how the idea appealed to me. Her face, however, was beatific, probably at the thought of amma and me roasting in hell!

I wonder if we have that category of people anymore in Kerala. Highly improbable. Universal literacy dealt the first deathblow to them by giving access to all potential carriers of oral tradition to newspapers, ma magazines and serious magazines. And now with the onslaught of the visual media, who has the time or inclination to be carriers or recipients of oral tradition?

Truth has set me free – the English language and me. In a rambling mode - -

I think every human being is an artist. Every child, unrestricted by the dos and don’ts and fatwas that shape our minds in straitjacket moulds, is an artist. Its unfettered mind sees the world through the prism of unconditioned imagination. As it grows up, there are two ways in which it can develop. It can cling tenaciously to the perspective innocent of life’s schooling, thereby develop double vision as its thinking gets regulated into stereotyped notions. Or it can discipline its life within the rules and regulations of society and wean itself out of the inherent artistic mode of thinking. The first is an artist, in the grip of divine madness. The second, the sane human being – that predictable creature that we all prefer to deal with.

Not my original, as you’d have guessed. “Remember Wordsworth’s “Trailing cloud of glory do we come?”

Well, I think I belonged to the first category despite the cast iron strait jacket mould that I was yanked into by the extreme conservatism of my Syrian Christian community. But I’d have struggled to set myself free from it into the world of creativity had I the word , the signifier.

I lost my word power when I got estranged from my mother tongue. With switching over, in the 5h standard, from Malayalam to French as my second language, my severance from literary Malayalam was complete. Then followed a long period of shallow existence in the world and culture of the English language. The fascinating space around me created by the English nursery rhymes, children’s books, comics, classics, bestsellers sucked me into the vortex of a world I had not lived except in my imagination, while physically inhabiting a Syrian Christian home in the small town of Cochin.

Feelings and emotions - intense and overpowering- struggled within me, seeking an outlet I could not provide –for I was caught between two worlds, one created by an alien language, the other, the flesh and blood world i physically and emotionally existed in but whose language i was alienated from. The latter, the real world I was rooted in, afforded exposure to a number of varieties of Malayalam – the refined language of my parents and relatives, the language of siblings and cousins with whom I had fun times during vacation, the vibrant language of the helpers at home, those potent carriers of oral tradition, pulsating with the confrontational experience of the rough life of the fifties and sixties. Yes, that was my language. That was the language in which I felt and thought; that was the language that coursed through my blood stream.

Tragically, when I reached that age when one gets into the grip of that urge to pen down one’s thoughts, words failed me. The English language did not have the resources to express my thoughts and feeling. I didn’t have sufficient mastery over it. After all, how much of it can one have over an alien language? In utter dismay I looked at the huge chasm between the innermost ME and English, the only language in which I could express myself in writing. My sensibilities could not find corresponding utterances in the alien tongue. I was not Tess or Grand Sophy, but Kochuthresiamma alias Molly, the last but one in a large Syrian catholic family, thrown into the rough sea which first the girl child, then the adolescent and finally the woman had to navigate with considerable difficulty in order not to lose her individuality and power of independent thinking.

Despite its extreme patriarchal culture and hypocrisy, the real world that I inhabited was a rich and beautiful one with a lot of love, gentleness, benevolence, benign human values, and customs & practices steeped in secular traditions evolved from 2000 years of give and take, learn and teach interaction with diverse religions. At the dining table, my father spoke about the story of the evolution of Kerala culture. Being a history person he discourses had the accuracy of history and the authenticity of lived experiences. My mother spoke about it all the time, hoping to perpetuate through me the tradition which she was handed down. The seamstress Cicily thathi and Rosa cheduthy in whose company i found myself very often, filled my mind with stories of local origin, folk lore and myths handed down orally. I had it all in my blood. But i couldn’t speak or sing.

I was a broken muse.

I partly blame the way i was taught the English language. AS a child, I was made to believe that it was the most sacrosanct thing on earth. This, unfortunately, happens in convents. This happens at home too. My people were proud about my comfort in the language. As far as they were concerned, my incompetence in the mother tongue was well mad up for. Sister Kevin who taught Wren and Martin grammar made it appear that any violation of rules warranted severe disciplinary action, something equivalent to a firing squad! The English Language became to me a potent deity, an inflexible tool that would not bend in the hands of a Malayalee Nazrani girl who wanted to tell her tale. So i never wrote.

Till

After research –when i was well into thirties. My area of research included the damaging impact of colonisation on the Indian mind. My perception of the English language underwent a sea change in a matter of three years. When i looked back ,i wanted to kick myself for having allowed ridiculous, intimidating notions to stifle my muse. It’s not as though i didn’t know all along that
· This angrezi language was nonexistent before 600 AD or
· It is the most illogical language on earth, the reasons for which i knew only too well
· That the language was considered barbaric by the refined cultures of Europe
· That the grammar and rules appeared only in 18th century, till which time it was a free for all
· And some of these rules were most laughable as they were modelled on Latin from which English did not descend causing them to stick out like sore thumb, and which therefore tended to get flouted by native users, the only faithful followers being the educated colonised!(Colonised in body, mind and soul, UGH!)
· That English achieved this status only in the colonial world.
· That it is a utility language which the world respected grudgingly ‘cos there was a time that the sun never set on the British Empire.

These and many more factors could have exposed to me the clay feet of this language which was given more than its due in the subcontinent. The History of English language which i was superficially familiar with from my early twenties should have broken the oppressive hold this language had on me much earlier. But for some reason it didn’t. It took me three years of intense reading during my research to break free from the inhibiting chains with which the English language kept me a prisoner.

So, now my attitude is
· What the heck. Whatever you want to say, say it. If your grip over the language isn’t good enough, to hell with it. Say it in whatever way you can. Forget the impropriety of the usage. You loyalty is to yourself, your story, not to the language (though i must confess i won’t go as far as ‘nose poking nenjamma’).
· It is usage that determines the precepts, not the other way round.
· When the British colonised the world and then left behind their language, they lost all proprietorship over it. Each region cannot but inevitably manipulate it to suit its requirements. These are not mistakes but differences, which if officialised will acquire the respectable status of a ‘variety of English’.
· The Queens English born in east midland region on the banks of river Thames close to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, is a misfit in the little state of Kerala and becomes effete in the hands of the non native users in this distant geographical location with its very different climate, culture and whatnot, unless the user is able to relate to the language without the colonial slavishness.

These auto suggestions did help, but sadly, i was long past the age of creativity when the film fell from my eyes.

When old order changes - - -

“He loved me unconditionally”, sobbed my son when he was informed of the death of his grandfather, my father-in-law.

My children were his favourite, others said. That might have been true – I ‘m not sure. But the reason is not definitely because they were the son’s children. It is commonly believed that all Nazrani men have preference for the son’s children which definitely was not true in the case of Achchan, as we all called my father in law. My children grew up with him while the other grandchildren grew up abroad. So naturally, there was a mutual closeness between my children and their grandfather. I refuse to believe that there is that patriarchal preference for the offspring of the male.

My son came to visit achachan two weeks before the latter got a cerebral stroke. He was on the brink of 95, healthy, cheerful, humorous - and ecstatic ‘cos his grandson had come down for 5 days only to spend some time with him. As I look back at those five days, I get a strange feeling that achachan had been holding out only to see Mathew whose scheduled visits had sent him to the seventh heaven. He was a transformed man after Mathew came. He waited for Mathew to get up in the morning and followed him like a shadow, which my son too enjoyed. They would talk and laugh like old friends meeting after a long time. What they talked about, i have no idea, but they were talking and laughing and appeared to be conspiring all the time. My father in law who was not senile despite his age would pretend to be that just to annoy my mother-in-law and me, and thereby afford amusement to his grandson. Then he’s say, “Mathacha, these women are all old. Both of us are the only young ones here” and Mathew would agree whole heartedly with him.

Mathew wanted me to make homemade ice-cream for old time sake. After one round, I left the half full dish in the freezer. One afternoon after my siesta, I came out into the dining room to find the grandfather and grandson with tablespoons, helping themselves to the ice-cream from the dish straight from the freezer! They were at the last scoop, and laughed uproariously when i came with a small dish to take my share.

On the day before he left, Mathew took us out to dinner at the Mascot Hotel. Achachan had readily agreed to come. Of late, he had been disinclined to go out of the house ‘cos he found it very tiring. Achachan enjoyed the dinner, tried out all his favourite dishes, taking my mind back to his healthier younger days.

A week after Mathew left, achachan asked me, “Will Mathew get a job in Kerala?
“Why should he come to Kerala? He is in the academic field and Kerala is not the right place for that”, i replied.
“I want to see him always”, said achachan.
“When is Renukuttan coming?”, he asked after a moment.
“it’s hardly eight months since she came to see you. How can she come down so often from America?”

The next day, achachan got the stroke.

My daughter came down again to see him but he was in the hospital, in critical condition. It made me feel very sad. Her last memories of achachan too should have been what Mathew carries with him. Achachan tried talking to her as much as he could on the day she spent at the hospital.

During his funeral, I kept updating my children. Soon after I informed them that he was buried, Renu, my daughter sent me this text message: I MISS HIM

Wishful Thinking!

RAJA ORDERS IMMEDIATE HALT TO UNSOLICITED TELE-CALLS.

It took a call to the Central finance minister for the telecom minister to swing into action to issue orders against unsolicited marketing through cell phone.

I hope when Sonia Gandhi comes to Kerala next, the AC of her car breaks down and she is forced to drive down from the airport thru stinking streets. Perhaps a couple of nauseous attack too would be ideal. I close my eyes and see the Congress chief first holding her handkercief to her nose, then the mundani of her saree, looking angrily at the people in the car, removing the nose protection for a moment to yell at them and then throwing up - - - - - - -Oh Lovely!

I hope a day will come when ministers from all parties will get stranded on the roads for a whole day with no toilet facility whatsoever on a lightening demonstration day in Kerala. Better still, stones should accidentally crash in through the glass of the AC cars and mildly graze the forehead, just missing the eye, of a youth party leader accompanying the minister. Gosh, how wonderful it’d be if a minister’s offspring’s wedding had to be cancelled on a hartal day. Now, my next wishful thinking is a little too cruel of me I know, but – would you forgive me if I wish that on a hartal day, the near and dear ones of a few party leaders and ministers get waylaid on the way to the hospital causing immense anxiety to these shakers and movers of political stunts? But of course, I do not wish any serious damage to be done to the sick ones. Only moments of anxiety for their relatives who are political goons.

It gives me immense pleasure to visualise a scene where a meeting hosted in a gigantic air conditioned hall by the Cochin Corporation at 7 pm, with Sreemathy teacher and Electricity minister and KSEB MD as the chief guests. The electricity fails. The KSEB Chief speaks into the telephone and is told that a tree fell here and a transformer got burnt there and no chance of restoring the electricity for 24 hours. The generators swing into action but soon each develops problems. Candles and hurricane lamps appear. The hall gets hot. The windows have to be opened. AND THEN - - - - an invasion of mosquitoes – those carriers of Fileria, Chicugunya, Dengue - - . I can see the ministers and high officials scratching away to glory, some of them as comical as the actor Innocent in Chronic Bachelor trying to get a cockroach out of his shirt; and finally the distinguished guests running out of the hall with swarms of mosquitoes chasing each of them.

Sorry, got really carried away there.

Believe it or not, I’ve always thought of myself as a gentle soul, never wishing to anyone any harm. Am a little rattled that I have this streak of sadism in me.

That guy Freud knew what he was talking about!

Nightmarish Vision

Sometimes I wish aliens would attack our planet. Redemption for mankind breaking up into fragments by narrow political religious, racial, ideological walls seems to lie only in such an invasion. I have learnt in history classes that a common enemy can unite a divided country. So an ET invasion might unite this fractured world. Not that mankind does not have common enemies. What else are poverty, disease, natural disasters? Unfortunately, these enemies are no longer seen as enemies but as issue that befriend those who thrive on divisive politics.

And hence this desire for an alien invasion. But I’m not sure that this will unite all the nations. That happens only in movies I think. If Martians come with superior military technology, the chances are that the big players in the world power politics will vie with each other to ally themselves with the alien invaders to do in the rest of the world.

Can’t help being this cynical. We live in a world where developed countries connive with MNCs whose sole goal is to enlarge their yield. Commercial morality and humanitarian concerns are laughable notions for these MNCs. Giant corporates set up factories without proper safety measures in far away underdeveloped lands, in areas where the poor and the helpless and the voiceless live. Should there be an accident like, for example, the toxic gas leak in Bhopal which claimed tens of thousands of lives besides creating havoc on the unborn generations, the poor countries can be bought off to save the neck of the officials whose negligence lead to human disaster of such terrible magnitude. We saw this happen in the case of the Bhopal gas tragedy, where the powers that be in India shamefully waived every rule in the country to help escape that rogue official whose refusal to pay heed to the warnings of safety audits was responsible for the terrible human tragedy. While the debate rages on in India on the identities of the individuals responsible for helping Anderson to get away to the safe haven of his own country out of reach of the hands of justice of the land of the victims, Anderson enjoys the full protection of the US, the chronic Big Bully in the global power politics. Instead of treating him like a criminal and mass murderer, his country has made it convenient for this brutal merchant of death to live in the plush comfort of his Madison square apartment, in the lap of obscene luxury. Apparently, in the Big Bully’s scheme of things, the life of one of its citizen is worth more than the lives of the tens of thousands of the wretched of the earth from the poorest regions in the Third World.

WE live in a world where human worth is measured in terms of the part of the world to which human beings belong, their race and their utility to the corporates.

We live in a world where there is much talk of justice, but none in practice, where there is much talk of egalitarianism, but none in practice. Giant corporates rule the roost. They manipulate governments across the world and sell their values through media and their suave agents. Wolves in lambs’ clothing rule the world. They have a way of networking with those of their own ilk in all the countries across the world.

When the aliens invade, the world would still be divided – but on different parametres, I guess. Big bully and its power-mongering coterie comprising the corporate world drawn from every country will gang up with the aliens to make the world safe for their nefarious activities.

Permission not to pay tax

Every time we go out, we wonder what has happened to all the good practices we’d seen as we grew up in the city. I’m talking of kochin. Once upon a time, municipality workers with tall brooms used to sweep the streets and leave them clean and tidy. Where has that category of people vanished? Doesn’t the municipality or corporation employ these workers any longer? Have these bodies relieved themselves of the responsibility of keeping the city clean? What are we paying the taxes for? Every resident pays the corporation tax and every employee pays professional tax, both of which are meant for the maintenance of the corporation/municipality.

Last week a friend from Aluva told me that the town stinks with accumulated waste. Residents had taken to the streets to protest against the utter dereliction of duty on the part of the municipality to keep the town clean. Apparently, not much good has come out of it.

Isn’t there something called accountability? Doesn’t the corporation owe anything to the taxpayers who pay their salary? What surprises me most is the total helplessness and inertia of the taxpayers to demand their right to minimum cleanliness.

It’s not as though there are no solutions to the waste accumulating. If the corporation/ municipality can acquire about 30 cents of land eachin a few locations in every city/town and start biogas plants, they can not only deal with the waste but also produce fuel to light the street lights over a large area. Biogas plants occupy so little space and are hassle free and produce useful by-products. In fact installing biogas plants in government schools which provide lunch for students producing, on a daily basis, huge waste which they struggle to dispose of, will go a long way in dealing with bio waste produced by the city. These schools can even make arrangements to have waste gathered from the neighbourhood within the radius of a kilometre or two. Biogas plants meant for institutions can take in more waste than they produce. Residents Associations can have their own biogas plants which will spare the residents the hassle of sneaking out of their houses when the roads are free and chucking stinking waste on the roadside far away from their houses. Ways of dealing with bio waste are plenty. I know this for sure ‘coos I, along with a few friends, was on the verge of launching a NGO for bio-waste disposal last December when fate intervened and deprived me of the minimum health required to run an organisation. But I have done my home work.

The point is 60% of the waste produced in the city of Trivandrum, for example, is bio-waste. All we, the people, need is the will to commit ourselves to keep the city clean. Ways and means to do it will present themselves once we set out to do it.

I was wondering - - - isn’t there some way of making the corporation accountable, some way of twisting their arm to do their job? Can’t we citizens approach the court with a new plea? All the deadlines from the high court to the Kochin corporation to dispose of the waste regularly have been ignored by the corporation. Wonder why it has not been hauled up for contempt of court!

The new ploy could be a request from the taxpayers to be allowed NOT to pay taxes till the corporation does its duty – a class action suit. If a thousand taxpayers can pool in Rs. 100 each, there will be enough resources to take the issue right up to the Supreme Court.

Withholding money will hurt, and resurrect the authorities’ conscience and sense of accountability which lie buried deep under tons of stinking waste.

Nuns' tales - 3

My friend Sister Rose (name changed) was waiting with the crowd which thronged the pavements on both sides of a street in Ottawa (I think) waiting to see Nelson Mandela who was visiting Canada. This was soon after his release and so the halo around his head shone luminous and bright.

It was a summer day and so bright and hot (I was surprised when she told me this ‘cos my idea of Canada was that of a country always dull and freezing). The sun was beating down right into her eyes and she looked around for shade, as she was prone to migraine.There was no shade anywhere and she seriously began contemplating going back to her cubicle in the university where she was doing research. Just then she saw a demonstration moving up the street slowly, with a gigantic banner which cast a huge shadow on several rows of people participating in the demonstration. She craned her neck to see what was written on it. It made no sense to her ‘cos it was in French and she hadn’t picked up enough French yet.

Just then she noticed a lady who was shouting out slogans loud, beckon to her and those around her to join the demonstration. Delighted, Sr. Rose jumped out from the side walk and joined the demonstration. Since the slogans were in French she couldn’t follow what was being demanded but she lipsync-ed to the sound of whatever was being shouted. She felt terribly relieved to be away from the sun and travelled some distance with the demonstrators.

Once she regained her sense of well being from walking in the shade of the banner, she began to look around at the sidewalk, smiling at the faces from the university and the convents she recognised. It was then that she noticed that she was attracting a lot of attention. Her friends from the university were pointing out to her and laughing. The malayalee nuns were also laughing, typically covering their mouths. Even to strangers whom she didn’t know, she seemed to be affording a lot of amusement. They were pointing out to her and laughing.

“Possibly nun's dress” she thought. “Guess nuns don’t take to the streets in this part of the world. If only these people knew the role we played in the Vimochana Samaram back home in Kerala”.

Her row had reached a group of young students who were pointing out to her and guffawing and giggling and dissolving into peals of laughter. Sr. Rose was thoroughly confused . Just then a Canadian colleague who was with this group of students shouted out to her, smiling from ear to ear:”Hey, didn’t know you were one of these”.

Curious, Sr. Rose turned to the lady next to her who was yelling out something at the top of her voice.

“What’s this demonstration about?” she asked.

“Oh, you don’t know”, she asked looking surprised.”This is a demonstration for the rights of the lesbians, organised by the local Lesbian Club”.

Nuns' Tales - 2

It was 6 in the evening when Sr. Goretti entered one of the dimly lit bathing rooms which were built in a long row. The thunder showers of October were just over and it was dark. The Septuagenarian sister Goretti pulled the tin door behind her and sent the hook latch home with a flip of her fingers. She then started discarding layers of clothes, something she hated doing. She flung them one by one on the thin line stretched across the corner opposite the door. When it came to the chemise, she hesitated. In her early days in the convent, the chemise was supposed to remain on the body during the bathing act, but over years the unwritten law was put in place that nudity during the act of bathing was not that unpardonable a deed.
She pulled the chemise over her head, flung it over the other clothes and was about to reach for the aluminium mug when she felt a movement under the line where she had put her clothes. Sister Goretti looked in the direction of the sound and she froze!
There, with its head almost touching her long outer habit which hung from the line, was a cobra, its hood spread wide and eyes looking at her with that classic aloofness.
Unlatch the door and jump out, natural instincts told her.
Oh God, How can you, nurture admonished. What, run out in this state of undress in full view of all those novices and aspirants, and also the man who comes to clean the cowshed? No way Goretti.
Goretti’s face became hard. Of course she remained absolutely immobile while these thoughts chased each other in her mind, for she knew the slightest movement and the snake would strike.
She looked venomously at the snake. You vile creature, she thought. Eve fell into your deadly trap and all mankind is still paying for it. But you shall not tempt this Goretti. No you ugly serpent, history shall not repeat. I will not let down my saviour.
And thus stood the serpent in all its crowning glory and Goretti in all her shrivelled nudity, staring at each other, totally immobile.
Oh saints in heaven, help me. How can I make an honourable exit from this wretched bathing room, wailed Sister Goretti while she continued to look with defiant hatred and steely determination into the slanted eyes of the tempter.
More time passed. No miracle happened. Even making a lightning grab for her chemise would provoke the snake and it would strike, she knew. Oh God, I’d be found dead in the bathroom with not a stitch on, she thought distressfully.
Naked I came into the world and naked shall I return thither, came a voice from somewhere deep within her.
Away Satan, she thought. Angrily. So this is what’s called the devil quoting the Bible.
All you saints n heaven, have you forsaken me? she pleaded.
And lo and behold, there appeared in the periphery of her vision a tall new broom, in the corner near the door, just a few inches from her reach.
And then everything happened in a flash. Sister Goretti reached for the broom, the snake struck, missed and the broom came crashing on its head, again and again and again till the magnificent hood was a pulpy mess. Sister Goretti looked at it triumphantly, and snorted with supreme contempt, “What you wretched creature? Did you forget i was named after Maria Goretti, the very epitome of chastity and virtue!” She smirked at the mess and then retched all over the bathing room.
To date, that little convent in the watery Kuttanad sings the praises of brave Sister Goretti.

Nuns' Tales - 1

I love nuns. They belong to a category of people I’m perfectly comfortable with. Of course on most issues I don’t see eye to eye with them. But I know I can’t but be different in my approach to them. More important, they know it too.

From Baby Class to PG i studied in convents. I served in a college run by them. They gave me my sense of values, which, Of course has undergone mutations as I grew older and wiser (?). We have learnt to accept each other with all our differences, and take care not to step on each other’s toes.

I have never felt that teeth- gnashing hatred for or anger towards them, cos the nuns with whom I interacted were good souls. They were judgemental but never uncharitable. They were mulish in their convictions, but only prayed for those who didn’t share them – they did not curse them. They honestly believed that their ministry was to save the lost sheep – tho more often than not, the lost sheep did not believe they were in the valley of darkness. This often caused friction which led to unpleasant exchanges which I had witnessed with much anxiety; but I’ve never had any serious fracas with them. I was always indulgent with them cos I was blessed with an understanding of why they were what they were, and also with the knowledge that they basically have large hearts.

Something I loved about the nuns who were my colleagues was that all of them had terrific sense of humour, and very often the but of the humour was the nuns themselves. here are a couple of stories which have send us in the department into such explosive laughter that the librarian was reluctantly forced to walk into our department which was adjacent to the library, and ask us to keep our voices down.

Both the events happened in a convent in Kuttanaad. Sr Modesta (name changed) was in her late seventies, and belonged to that generation of Catholic women who were taught it was a terrible sin to see their own bodies, leave alone expose a fraction of a centimetre more than was permitted by the laws of modesty. She once went to a doctor (male) with the six year old trainee parlour maid Kunjandy. When the doctor called them in, she asked the bewildered Kunjandy to turn around and show her backside to the doctor. Kunjandy turned around and then stopped, refusing to perform the next motions that would expose her back side to the doctor.

“Lift your skirt, kochey” snapped the angry Sr. Modesta.

Kunjandy froze and refused to budge. Sr. Modesta got up from her chair, roughly bent the little girl over almost double, lifted her knee length skirt, jerked down her billowing cotton bloomer and pointed to a spot on the right buttock saying, “there doctor, there”.

The doctor looked at the spot where she pointed, then frowned, adjusted his glasses, edged himself forward in his chair and brought his face close to the right buttock of the girl who, by now was struggling to set herself free from the vicious grip of Sister Modesta.

The doctor looked up at Sr. Modesta with a puzzled look and said, “I don’t see anything there. There’s nothing amiss”.

Letting poor Kujandy go, Sr. Modesta pulled herself up with haughty dignity and said stiffly to the doctor, “It’s not she but I who have a boil on that spot. I’m the patient, not she.”

The second episode in the next post.

MALAYALA MANORAMA – THE SEXIST DAILY

Guess I'm not mistaken if i claim that mallus all around the world buy Malayala Manorama for its obituary page. AS the paper which enjoys the highest circulation in the state, it is the most sought after paper to announce death. People forget their political and religious affiliations when death happens in the family. Manoram it is – and no other paper.

Recently my father- in -law passed away, and we too made a bee line for the Malayala Manorama office. Now, the obituary column is free of cost. When we get a service free, it comes with certain conditions. Such conditions often reflect the soul of the paper. We see the paper in its true colours. The inherent prejudices and convictions come into play in laying down these conditions. Cos no money is obtained from this service, and so we will have it our way is the attitude. That’s when you catch an organization with its pants down.

I had the occasion to see this popular daily in this not so pretty condition when we were told the terms of the free space in the obituary column. The dead person’s sons in law’s family name can be mentioned but not the daughters –in-laws'!!! Thus it’d be like this: Sons in laws are Dominic Saviour Pattalakkad, Martin de Pores Kuthirakkad, Mani Kurien Kazhuthakad. Daughters in laws are, Sally, Shiny, Reesamol and Ammimni!!!!!???? L

If this is not sexism, what the hell is? As though the daughters in law had no identity whatsoever before they acquired the family name through alliances with the sons of the person whose death is being announced!

Can Malayala Manorama give an explanation for this shameful outdated mindset? Or is the paper trying to live up to its nickname, THE GRAND MOTHER OF KOTTAYAM?

Only, grandmothers these days are more updated in their thinking than Malayala Manorama!.

Cell Phones

My cousin’s children were to come over to my house in Bombay for the weekend. I’ll call them jack and Jill in this narration. Jill lived in Bhayander and Jack in Churchgate. For those who are not familiar with Bombay, Churchgate is the starting point of local trains and Bhayander is way out beyond the suburbs and is the terminus for many trains. I lived in Parel, closer to Churchgate than Bhayander.

Jack and Jill called me up separately to say they’d start by four o clock. SO I expected Jack by five, and Jill after 6.30. I prepared their favourite dishes and waited eagerly for them in my house from where my children had flown away across the seven seas.

By seven, the doorbell rang. I opened to find both of them, with cell phones glued to their ears, muttering ok, huh , ok huh rather unenthusiastically into it. Then they cut off the phone almost simultaneously and looked at each other, shaking their heads in a resigned manner.

“What’s up, guys, I asked”

“I wonder who discovered this cell phone”. That was Jack. A very soft-spoken refined guy.

“How did your parents manage when they sent you to hostels, Mollyaunty? There were no cell phones in those days”, asked my gentle niece.

“Oh bliss it must have been to live in those days”, said jack, his eyes raised to the heavens.

“Hey hey, what’s happening”, I asked.

“Mama has been remote controlling me and appa, Jill”.

“Oh”, I said.

“She called me at 2 o clock and asked me to start only after 5.30. 'Jill ought to be given a head start so that both of you can reach the Sewari station at the same time' ”

“Appa had been tracking me even since I left the hostel for the station”, said Jill.

“And mama would tell me where she had reached. They were calling both of us every fifteen minutes”.

“Are they in their respective offices?” I asked.

“No”, said Jill. “Both are at home. It’s Saturday today, and half day”

“I see”, I said. I imagined them sitting in the drawing room, each with her/his cell phones tracking the train journey of the offspring from two ends of Mambai.

“When I reached Sewari Station, mama asked me where I was waiting. She asked me for a landmark. I told her I was waiting near the step in front of a huge Hutch hoarding”.

“And appa called me around that time and told me to head for the steps and look for Jack in front of the Hutch hoarding”.

Together they got into a cab and around the time they reached my apartment complex, each got a call from the parent. They wanted to know if Jack and Jill had reached their destination!

“Really, Mollyaunty, this is too much”, said Jill. “How did your parents send you to far off boarding schools and hostels in those days when there were no mobiles?”

“Not just, mobiles. There were no STDs in those days. One had to book a trunk call and wait for the call to be connected. Most hostels did not entertain calls from home 24x7. There was a fixed time once a week.”

“Were your parents scared?”

“Don’t know, my dear. You guys will understand only when you become parents”.

This episode takes my mind back to a little incident. Once, I had gone to Mumbai to take care of my son who had a stretched ligament. His leg was in cast but he couldn’t miss classes and sessionals. WE were accommodated in a guest house a stone throw from his college.

It was a public holiday and he was free that day. We got into a discussion about over protective parents.

“I really don’t understand why you guys have to call me so frequently. You know I’m capable of looking after myself?”

“WE came to know about your ligament problem because we called you. You were keeping it a big secret.”

“That’s because I knew both of you’d freak out at something so small”

“Small, eh? You heard what the ortho said”

“Listen amma, I am an adult. I can look after myself. You guys pray such a lot. So why don’t you trust God and just believe that God will take care of things?”

We went on for some more time but I kept silent. It becomes difficult to counter the logic of our children.

The same evening, I went out to Fashion Street and Colaba cause way. I told my son I’d be back in two hours but in two hours only half the job was done. Exactly one minute after two hours, Mathew called me.

“Am not yet done, math”

“Ok”, he said.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, he called again.

“Finished, amma?”

“Heavens NO”

Another quarter of an hour passed. Then he called again.

“Almost done?”

“No”, I snapped into the phone.

“Hurry up. It’s getting late”

“I’m not going to hurry up. I’ll take my time”.

Another 20 minutes and I get the irritating squeal of a text message.

“What on earth are you doing, old lady? I’m getting worried”, it said.

I didn’t respond. I was really irritated.

Five minutes later, he called again.

“Amma”, he sounded tense. “Please stop for the day and come home”.

Annoyed, I decided to call it a day and hailed a cab.

“What was all that about, math”, I asked as soon as I reached home. “It’s totally inconsistent with you high flown discourse this morning?”

“You are an old lady (and I was still a few years away from fifty then) and have BP and the streets are crowded and you are absent minded and careless. So I’m justified in getting worried”!!

My mind now goes further back to those days before cell phones took over our lives. Those were the days when all human beings were compelled to give each other that space into which the cell phones now invade so oppressively.

Are we living in a topsy turvy world where the wise saying of our forefathers are being reversed? Do we live in times where invention is proving to be the mother of necessity, instead of the other way round?

Of Amitab Bachchan, Narendra Modi and Kerala

The newspapers are playing it up - the fact that the party which kicked out Abdullahkutty 'cos he sang the praises of Narendra Modi has officially invited Amitabh Bachan, the brand ambassador of Modi’s Gujarat, as Kerala’s posterboy. MODI’S POSTER BOY, BIG B, IS AMBASSAOR OF CPM-RULED KERALA TOO, says The New Indian express of today, Kerala edition

It’s a happy coincidence for the media that the official confirmation from the Kerala government of Bachan’s role as Keralais brand ambassador should come on March 10, the day before the sensational summons were issued to Narendra Modi by the SIT to appear before it and provide answers to certain questions to which hitherto Modi’s reply had been a deafening silence.

Certain issues beg consideration here.

Ø Has Bachan erred morally in agreeing to become the poster boy of Gujarat? An answer in the positive would inhere the presumption that the entire state/population of Gujarat is responsible for the post Godhra pogrom. Cynics might say that they twice re-elected the man who engineered the genocide, and so his actions have the endorsement the people. Well, the issue is complex. Modi perhaps – at least I’d like to believe – was not reelected for his role in the post Godhra ethnic cleansing, but for the much hyped development agenda he promised his state - of which he himself has become a poster boy and a powerful symbol. So powerful that Abdullahkutty from within the ranks of CPM was swayed into praising him. But it is sad, that the people of Gujarat lost sight of the fundamental democratic principles and inalienable human rights which were pooh poohed when the Modi administration cracked down on an entire community to the punish the unpardonable act of miscreants. I would say the election of Narendra Modi twice after the genocide point sharply to the Achilles heels of Democracy.

Coming back to the Amitabh Bachan issue, I got this excerpt from his blog from the following link.

http://calcuttatube.com/amitabh-bachchan-praises-narendra-modi-in-his-blog-47867/47867/

“He (Modi) lives simply and with mere basic needs and most unlike the head of a state. He speaks with affection on development and progress. He is welcoming to fresh ideas and ideals. His oft repeated phrase of him being a CM, a common man, is not misunderstood.

“He does and acts as he speaks.”

“He talks of raising the level of awareness for his state through tourism and I volunteer to participate in any activity that would help promote that,” Bachchan wrote explaining his interest in promoting Gujarat.

Well, I find this shocking and slavish – and absolutely without character. Big B, no matter what a goliath he is, cannot right a terrible wrong by showering such fulsome praise on a man who let loose horror on helpless people, on a Chief Minister, who instead of apprehending and severely punishing those who indulged in the brutal terror act of the train burning, used the state machinery to wipe out a community. And Bachan goes into ecstasy over his life of simplicity. He waxes eloquent on Modi’s mode of articulation “He speaks with affection on development and progress”. I call it a betrayal of the people that Bachan who entrenched himself in the heart of his fans as the angry young man who fought against the powerful to protect the weak and the vulnerable, should sing this psalm of praise to the man who used the state machinery to mow down a helpless community.

Shame on him!

Guess Bachan stood to gain from this association. His films have become tax free in Gujarat. It would be interesting to know the size of the pay packet he gets from Gujarat tourism authority.

Maybe we cannot blame him. The memories of his financial distress before Kwon banega made him a crorepathy must be still green in his mind. And he never claimed to be a champion of the underdog or a principled individual. It is the people who thrust that image on him.

Now that mask - the kereedam- is knocked off, we see the real Bachan.

Does Kerala need such a brand ambassador? How can the government of Kerala unilaterally decide to have a person of dubious principles selling my state?

I am angry.

Is the New Indian Express stirring up a Storm in its V-Cup?

I’ve been loyal to The Indian Express for ever so long – probably from the Emergency days. In the good old days when I had enough health to sit on the floor(thara in Malayalam) , my day began on the floor with my legs stretched out, back against the diwan, a cup of light tea and the Indian Express which my son always thought was a crappy paper. Seeing me on the floor with the paper, he’d say jokingly amma is thara in every sense of the word, meaning sitting on the thara I read a thara paper!

Today I had a reason to think about why I need the The Indian Express the way my husband needs the Malayala Manorama with his early morning black coffee – despite his remarks almost everyday that the paper’s become hollow. One must conclude from this that old habits die hard.

The reasons I arrived at for my addiction to The Indian Express are

1. Being politically correct is not one of its fortes.

2. It does not put the English language on a pedestal and perform poojas to it. It believes in Englishes, rather than Queen’s English.

3. Its editorial too uses the English language rather irreverently, accommdating slangs, elisions and those borderline expressions.

Today’s EditPage, however, took a giant leap from its already liberated position with regard to written language in the most serious page of a newspaper. There was an article by none less than its Editor-In-Chief Aditya Sinha. Talking about who India would give its Oscar award to from among the actors in the political arena in the subcontinent, he felt the best actor award should go to Pakistan Army Chief Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, the reason being, I quote

Suddenly the guy acts as if his balls have turned into cannonballs!!!

My MY! What next?!

GM CROPS in India: Are we being betrayed by our own Judases?

Bashing GM crops may land you in jail !!!

The Biotechnology Regulatory Authority Bill ( BRAB)of 2009 is going to be tabled in the current session of the parliament!

The provisions of the bill are absolutely scary.

Whoever, without any evidence or scientific record misleads the public about the safety of the organisms and products….shall be punished with imprisonment for a term that shall be not less than six months but which may extend to one year and with fine which may extend to two lakhs rupees or with both.

Are we going back to those shameful Dark Age in human history when it was considered right to sentence Galileo to capital punishment unless he recanted? Or is a new Dark Age descending on us, where human life is controlled by Monsantos who have “Pawarful” politicians as their lobbyists willlling to sell an entire nation to satiate the greed of the multinational companies?

That’s not all.

Article27(1) seeks to keep the information related to the research, approval and science of the GM products out of the purview of the Right to Information Act.

If this is not a violation of the fundamental rights in a democracy, what is? Are the desi GM lobbyists totally devoid of any integrity, commitment to the people of India and farsightedness? Have they no qualms about setting afoot a process that will put the very survival of this countryinto the hands of a few global giants?

Moreover, the three member experts of the biotechnology department can overrule the position taken by any state in relation to GM technology.

So it is outside the powers of any state government to refuse the introduction of these dubious seeds into their state. The “PAWARFUL” lobbies see enlightened states like Kerala and the enlightened farmers of states like Karnataka as obstructions in their devious scheme of selling out the country for thirty silver coins!

The draft bill also states that the BRAI will set up its appellate tribunal which will have jurisdiction to hear arguments on the issues concerning biotechnology. In case of any disputes, petitioners can only approach the Supreme Court.

Thank you BRAI for your little mercies. WE, the citizens of India, are grateful to you for the thoughtful concession - of not holding the threat of imprisonment and fine over us if we approach the apex court for our fundamental rights..

**

The issue with GM products are 1. the research regarding the health hazards has been inconclusive to date and 2. they are terminator seeds which will put the Indian farmers, and in turn the whole nation at the mercy of multinational s companies who manufacture and sell these seeds. This is the neocolonialism which may be defined as the Giant corporates' surreptitious efforts to enslave Third World countries on account of the greatest lure of capitalism that these regions offer : the market. Perhaps, it is not fully right to define this market as confined to the Third World. These corporates capitalize on the great divide that is dividing not just the Third World, but all nations across of the world, viz, the class divide. India too now has Supermarkets provisioned with “ORGANIC FOOD’ section with its prohibitive prices and the normal unlabelled food section for the ordinary plebeians which forms the outlet for food with a high level of toxicity .

**

For a brief run down on the GM seed issue from the net:

December 2, 1998: Indian Government Summarizes Threat Posed by Terminator Seeds

Several weeks after banning terminator seeds in India (see Before October 10, 1998), Shri Sompal, the country’s minister of agriculture summarizes the threat posed by the technology in a public statement: “This is lethal and poses a global threat to farmers, biodiversity, and food and ecological security. The use of this technology would threaten the farmers’ rights to save the seed for their harvest. Because of the lethal nature of the product, the public has been asked to be wary of the introduction of genetically modified foods in many parts wherever this technique is being tried to be introduced. The farmer will be dependent upon terminator seed and will have to buy the same seed again and again. The company producing the seed can charge any price from the farmers. The farmer will not be in a position to use seeds saved from the previous crops. It will threaten the farmers’ expertise in seed selection and traditional conservation-cum-improved ways of carrying forward the seeds. The technology would have serious implications on the crop biodiversity. It may lead to gradual extinction of traditional varieties. Crop related wild

varieties, important for natural evolution for crop species would be affected by cross-contamination. This concern would be of special relevance to India, since the country abounds in land races and wild relatives of crop plants.” [REDIFF, 12/1/199

2005: Indian Planters of Bt Cotton Incur Higher Costs than Growers of non-Bt Cotton

A report by the Indian government finds that Bt cotton grown in India in 2005 experienced a higher incidence of pest and disease and produced lower yields than non-Bt cotton. The report recommends that Bt cotton be planted only in irrigated fields that have fertile soil. Another study, conducted by a number of civil society organizations, finds that farmers who grew Bt cotton in Andhra Pradesh collectively incurred $80 million dollars more in farming costs than non-Bt cotton growers. [CENTRE FOR SUSTAINABLE AGRICULTURE, 3/29/2006]

January 1, 2006-August 26, 2006: Thousands of Indian Farmers Commit Suicide

Between January and August 2006, an estimated 1,920 Bt cotton farmers in Vidarbha, Maharashtra (India) commit suicide because of rising debts. And between June and August, the suicide rate reaches one suicide every eight hours. The higher cultivation costs associated with genetically modified Bt cotton (see, e.g., 2005 ) has made it more difficult for farmers to pay back their loans. Roughly 2.8 million of the 3.2 million cotton farmers in the Maharashtra province are currently in default. More than 50 percent of the farmers who commit suicide are between the ages of 20 and 45. [DNA INDIA, 8/26/2006] The epidemic of farmer suicides began in 1994 when India liberalized its economy and devalued the rupee. [DNA INDIA, 8/26/2006]

Category Tags: Farmers' rights, Indi

February 2006-March 2006: Sheep Die after Grazing on Bt Cotton Plants

In the Warangal district of Andhra Pradesh, India, more than 70 Indian shepherds report that 25 percent of their herds died within 5-7 days of continuous grazing on the leaves and pods of harvested Bt cotton plants. The shepherds noticed that the sheep became dull or depressed two to three days after grazing on the plants. They developed “reddish and erosive” lesions in the mouth, became bloated, had episodes of blackish diarrhea, and sometimes had red-colored urine. Post-mordem examinations of the animals revealed the presence of black patches in the small intestines, enlarged bile ducts, discolored livers, and the accumulation of pericardial fluid. Investigators suspect that the deaths were likely due to the Bt toxin in the leaves and pods of the Bt cotton plants.

**

In view of these, how can any government keep the updates on the research and policies regarding these deadly products from the people who elected them to power to protect their interests? Doesn’t this highhanded attitude amount to a serious breach of trust?

Science is all about experimentation and conclusions. The latter might change with new facts and discoveries emerging from the former. To enlighten the people about the scientific theories, methodology of research and conclusions regarding the products that are introduced into the country, is the sacred duty of the government. The right to take informed decisions about the food they eat, whether it is toxic or not, is the inalienable right of the people. NO GOVERNMENT CAN THROW US INTO JAIL FOR EXERCISING THAT RIGHT.

The government which even remotely considers formulating such draconic measures should be thrown out of power.

Hoping and praying that BRAI won’t throw me in the can someday for this piece.

I remain anxiously yours

Pareltank