Vishu (BH:D254)

April 14, 2012

I don't remember the last time I celebrated Vishu with family. It must have beeen 15-16 years ago. For the last few years, Vishu celebrations had been tied to skype. The most important ritual of Vishu is viewing the "kani". The composition of kani, I suppose, varies from region to region, home to home and has evolved over time. Basically, it is supposed to be a sample of the prosperity. So there is the "uruli" vessel filled representative fruits and veggies, some money and the golden laburnum flowers. The patron god of the festival is Krishna with his penchant for yellow. The metal polished "Aranmula" mirror is also frequently used in the kani. The kani is supposed to be the first thing one should see on Vishu day.

Till last year, Amma used to come on skype during the early evening hours in Texas, on Vishu day and add me to her 'kani' viewing. This morning, she could wake me up. 

The other important ritual of Vishu that kids particularly enjoy is the money gifting called "kaineetam". Grand book purchase plans used to be made during school days in anticipation of the upcoming 'Kaineetam' hauls since Vishu falls during summer school vacation period.

Nandu, the neighborhood little dude, had been doing similar calculations. But he has non-book shopping in mind. He received his school textbooks for next academic year last week. I asked to see his science textbook. The NCERT CBSE textbooks have come a long way, at least based on this scientific sample. The multicolored, liberally spaced lay out with plenty of illustrations is a welcome change from our school days. I buried my nose deep into the book for that new textbook smell. Nandu could relate. "English textbooks smells the best!" he said.

The ritual of "Vayarukanikkal" (viewing the tummy) associated with my sister's pregnancy keeps bringing virtually inexhaustible amount of goodies to the house. This has led to my "Vayaruchadikkal" i.e. the return of my signature beer belly that I had manage to shake off just a couple of months ago. It takes a lot of self control to stay away from a refrigerator and kitchen stocked with puffs, cutlets, halwa, jelabi, laddoos, mysore pak and more!

Folk Song concert in the evening at Vyllopilli Samsriki Bhavan. It rained for a few minutes while I was walking to the venue. Not enough rain to cool the night though. But the music was more than enough to recharge the soul. A perfect evening for the Vishu day.

The Chempakassery Nadan Kala Samithi (Folk Arts Society) is from Ambalapuzha. The show kicked off with an invokation of Krishna. Folk songs of Kerala mostly reflect the life of the poor and downtrodden farmers. They are intensely social. The chorus is absolutely integral. Though 'chenda', other percussion and jingle instruments are used, it is the chorus that sets and maintains the rhythm. The songs are invariably rendered as couplets by the lead singer immediately followed by the chorus. Rajesh Thottapally who played the chenda was brilliant using his bare hands most of the time instead of the traditional 'kol' sticks to play.

The first song was a collection of syllables set to a rhythm. This was accompanied by a scintillating "Mudiyattam" dance by Lakshmi Karunakaran and Omana Purushan. Mudiyattam or hair dance puts any of the head banging rock bands to shame. The women sway and swirl their abundant heads of healthy, long black hair let loose to the music. While shaking and turning heads for maximum, they also rhythmically move up and down the stage in a line with their hands assuming different postures like the namaste.

When the Mudiyattam was going on, I noticed the youngest member of the group, a man barely out of his teens in a blue 'kurta' and jeans a few inches too long. He appeared rather shy. I was happily mistaken. He took over for the next song called "Chenganooraadi" which is an entertaining story in song form. With a deep, energetic voice, Ranjith is a successor in making for the star of folk songs in the state, actor Kalabhavan Mani. Later in the show, he sang a "Mayilpattu Kalipattu" which got the audience clapping along. 

When the show started, there were more people on the stage than in the audience. Probably because of the Vishu feast induced lethargy, the audience swelled to 30-35 only 45 minutes into the show. Lakshmi Karunakaran, the wife of the troupe leader, the grey haired balding wiry Mr. Karunakaran, is the superstar of the troupe. She sang most songs in the evening in a captivating voice that was both soft and strong. Her gestures and movement of stage revealed how much she enjoyed performing. She kept reminding me of famous veteran Tamil folk singer/actor Paravai Muniyamma. 

Lakshmi and her husband enacted a tragic song about a low caste slave woman forced to work in the landlord's field. He refuses her permission to feed her few days old baby and the baby is dead by the end of the work day. Memories of a shameful past of the land preserved through song. The folk songs were mostly work songs, folk stories or list keeping informative ones that usually take a Q&A format. A "thiruvathira" song usually associated with Onam festival and a Vanchipattu (rowing song) were presented converted to folk song style. A couple of popular ones like "Ninne kaanan enne kalum" were also rendered. 

One thing that struck me was the high status attached to South, the direction, in the songs. Good news, great folks, prosperity, relationships etc were all expected to come from the South. A welcome change from the north-bound attitude that creeps into us thanks to the N on top maps, I guess. During the middle ages, East used to be on top giving us the "to orient" phrase. But the north bias has become so deep seated that the beautiful "Blue Marble" photo of our planet from space has been reversed from original to get north on top. 

Though I have seen deliberate reverse maps, mostly originating from Australia, I had never known a cultural south bias and that too so close to home, till today. A good thing to know on a Vishu day of new beginnings.

Taking into Account (BH:D 253)

April 13, 2012

Morning hours spent with an accountant and then a banker. As part of getting a new designation in a company here, I need to get myself even more identification numbers. The new numbers will be provided when I produce the old numbers that this nation has given me along, with some photographs. The accountant runs a successful firm. And as all managers in the city I have come across, who run successful firms, he complaints about the staff; about their lack of care and commitment. 

Apparently, lack of character is the new character of the younger generation of workers here. Dedication to the job and devotion to the boss exist only on the resume. Religion has finally managed to train a generation of Indians well. Somewhere along the economic liberalization process, that proverbial switch has flicked: from meaningless chants we have moved onto making all chants meaningless. 

The ruling alliance at the state government inducted a fifth minister from the Muslim League component yesterday. Anyone reading today's regional papers would think democracy is a way of governance in which each community sends its chieftains to join a grand council of chieftains. They then carve up the portfolios according to the size of their community and proceed to loot the coffers and the land. 

The current hue and cry is about how the minorities of the land are the majority in the government. Nobody is an Indian or a Keralite anymore. Their only allegiance is to their caste and very specific religious denomination. The Nairs want more ministers. The Nadars want at least one minister. The Catholics can't have enough. The Syrian Christians need more. The Wahabis and the Sikhs are waiting in the wings, I suppose. 

At the bank after the session with the accountant, the conversation is, as expected, about the communal essence of Kerala governance. I am told how some communities are robbed out of their chance to run hospitals and schools. I wonder if Nair engineering is different from Iyer engineering and Islamic dental is different from Christian teeth. "I think we have all misunderstood Gandhi," prefaces the banker. I am all ears. "When he said 'Quit India', he was talking to us Indians, not the British!" Ah....

After the double financial whammy, I seek refuge in the Kerala Bhasha Institute's book stall that operates below the road level, next to the church at Palayam behind the VJT hall. In the absence of alcohol in life, book shops are my bars. 

There is a limit to which stupidity of a society stays entertainingly comical, after that it plunges one into deeply painful, disturbingly ominous sense of tragedy. The way the people of this land identify themselves with unnatural labels and imaginary guardians in imaginary spaces gets to me from time to time. 

Into this society, my sister's baby is soon coming. A couple of books specifically to read to the baby. That should fly in the face of the accusations of trenchant cynicism that I have faced for long! Found a copy of Kadamanitta Vasudevan Pillai's "Padeni", the authoritative work on the folk art form. The book is well aged though not previously owned. I pick up another one on Theyyam. Achan has been down with fever since yesterday. Nalacharitham Aattakatha Second Day purchased for his recouping.

Its been ages since my sister and I worked on The Hindu's crossword together. We enlisted the baby also into the task yesterday. Miserable 25% success. We decided not to blame the new team member. 100% today. Somebody sure is touchy!

Fish, Bird, Rain (BH:D252)

April 12, 2012

The newspaper distributors association went on a token strike today. So the neighborhood woke up in confusion. Sleepy faces sat on the frontyards and verandahs of almost every house in the colony sipping on morning tea as usual but with the paperless hand not knowing what to do. Some resorted to reading old magazines and even religious texts in the absence of the papers. In the absence of the latest, the search for the new among the old and oldest! 

The newspaper distributors are protesting the low 23% commission that the local biggies Manorama and Mathrubhumi pay them compared to the 40% paid by smaller newspapers. Their absence this morning converted Rema Aunty's hubby into the local newspaper boy. The man subscribes to 7 dailies, so clearly not having them delivered was against the laws of his universe. By 8:30am, he returned from visiting all the newspaper offices in the city, loaded with copies of each paper which he threw over the walls and gates of every house from the car. I suspect there will be some dramatic exchange between him and the newspaper agents tomorrow.

My morning walk was purposeful for a change this morning. I headed to the Connemara market to buy oranges. Though it was only 7 am, the market already looked semi-exhausted from all the dawn hours of activity. The fish market was flourishing. One could sense that from couple of hundred meters away. The slush from the melted ice mixed with mud brought a tinge of adventure to the shopping while negotiating the slippery tiled floor. The smell of sea and fish pierces the nostrils. Much greater wake up kick than the strongest coffee. Early crows hoping to catch the discarded entrails sit in uncharacteristic silence on the eletric wires above. Colorful plastic basins, black rubber display sheets, much abused, aged, scratched, old white paint buckets, thin rivulets of diluted blood, wet clumps of displaced sand. Reseller fisherwomen and hotel purchase managers throng the area along with a few finicky individual shoppers who insist on the quality that is available only in the day's first catch. Anchovies and sardines were the most common today. Intense bargaining was on for the larger tuna and kingfish. In the midst of all the din, a chubby woman balances her sleeping head on her palm precariously over a stack of goldband goat fishes. Fresh sardines were too tempting to pass on. With the customary milk purchase that is a standard fixture of the morning walk, I returned home with items of a fairly balanced diet: fish, oranges and milk. 

Ever since we had cut off the nameless white 'flowerful' small tree that stood near the gate, regular visitor birds have abandoned the garden. As a result, bunches of bright red Ixora fruits stand unpecked, unfeasted. I have been blaming Achan for the cruel singular deforestation that stemmed most from the cognitive dissonance of not knowing the tree's name. It is difficult to butcher a lamb one has named. But a nameless tree is forever in danger. 

A glimmer of hope, bright green with streaks of white and black, in the form of a Barbet this morning. Initially, it played around on the Labarnum cursorily inspecting the token three bunches of golden flowers the tree has sported for the season so far. Then it moved onto the neem descending tantalizingly close to the ixora in that area. 

A crow couple was busy pulling a discarded cable tv wire from the posts near by. So I wondered if the barbet was also looking for construction material. But with a move onto the jackfruit branches, it was pretty clear that it wasn't long term nesting investment but short term hunger that dictated its morning sojourn.

Achan and I sat motionless, silent on the verandah breathing shallow waiting for it to peck on the fruit and herald the return of the wings to the garden. And then at the exact moment it landed on a flexible stem of an ixora...bang! The neighbor's gate unbolted with a resounding call of "Chechiyeeeeee" (sister). The local fish delivery in the morning by Mable. In a flash, the barbet had covered the twenty meters as the crow flies to the secrecy and safety of the abundantly leafed Pomelo tree at Leny chechi's house. Hoping against hope that it will return tomorrow....

Without any preceding thunderous announcement, heavy rains at 1pm. In three doses lasting 25 minutes each, the land was cooled by 3pm. Much needed relief from the the summer heat. A coolness that fills the lungs with deep breaths. Drenched leaves assume a shy green.

Unbelievable chase and win by the Chennai Super Kings in the IPL cricket match against Bangalore Royal Challengers. Blistering 28 from 7 balls by Morkel. Memorable game.

The Going Daddy (BH:D 251)

April 11, 2012

Spent a sizable chunk of the morning researching webhosting sites in India. Through TV ads, as in the USA, Godaddy and Bigrock have made a popular presence here. Veteran US services like Hostgator also offer an Indian version of theirs. Then there are single plan "green" hosting options like hostpapa. 

I don't get the patriarchal overtones in host names. Wouldn't a mom reference have a more caring undertone?! Gomommy site exists and is about parenting. There is no hostmamma. In the Indian context, I think host-mama with an avuncular twist will serve the same image "Go Daddy" aims for with its sexist TV ads in the US. Also in the market is unlimitedgb that offers perhaps the cheaptes available Rs.999 per year for unlimited hosting, but review sites slam them as a despicable spammer. 

Since the site that is seeking a father online is not very heavy, I opted for Godaddy's 100GB option that comes at Rs. 99 per month for 3 years or Rs. 109 for 2 years. Just to doublecheck about any windows versus linux prefernce he might have about the hosting server, I call our designer dude.

"99 roopa masam valiya mandatharam aayi poyi, Saare" (Rs. 99 per month is great stupidity, Sir)

"Angane aanengil oru mandatharam allatha host paranju tharu" (Then tell me a hosting that won't be stupidity)

"Sir, asianetinte hosting site-il poku" (Go to Asianet's (i.e. local cable provider) hosting website)

"Poykondirikunnu*...." (on my way)*

"Njan saarine kanicha matte mudipura ammachi** kovilinte website avideyanu hosting" (I have hosted that other goddess temple website I showed you earlier there)

"Njan asianetinte plans nokunnu...ethu plana?" (I am looking at asianet's plans...which should I take)

"2 GB memory, 100 GB bandwidth"

"pakshe athinu Rs. 6900 roopa aanalo" (But that is Rs. 6900!)

"athe, pakshe oru varshathekkale saare, mattethu 99 roopa oru masam aanu saare...mandatharam" (Yes, but this is for a year Sir, the other one is Rs. 99 a month.....stupidity)

"mone, kumara, masam 99 roopa varsham ethraya?" (Son, young man, monthly Rs. 99 converts to how much in a year?)

"athu...." (that......)

"ethra varum?" (How much?)

"Sir...."

"ee 1200inte plan aanu asianet vangichu ninne pole ullavarku 7000 roopakku murichu, marichu vilkunathu...unlimited bandwidth polum illa" (It is such 1200 per annum plans that Asianet resells people like you for Rs. 7000...and there is no unlimited bandwidth even!)

"pakshe saar (new lease of life in the voice)...ee saaru paranja sitil da kando vere charges for DNS, SSL ennelam...kando kando" (But Sir..in the site you are saying they are showing separate charges for DNS, SSL etc...look, look)

"sahodara...athu added value provided free of cost ennu vendakka pole ezhuthiyirikunathu kando?" (brother...don't you see it clearly written there that those are value additions provided for free)

"oh...."

"nee designer aayittu irunna mathi....economicsilottu payattanda" (you stay designer don't get into economics!)

*BSNL slow in the morning** Goddess name changed to protect her privacy and divinity

After 10 minutes of the 'check out' process, it turned out that the sugar daddy host insists on credit card and accepts no debit card. May be Mudipura Ammachi was angry!

Yesterday evening after a walk through Kanakakunnu Palace. The myna couples who walk on the palace grounds are the best instructors for walkers. The entire body of the bird moves in an alive, agile pattern with every step in takes from head to tail. Even as they strut along the roadside, they remain forever curious about everything around them that is in their size scale.

On the way back, stopped by at Spencer's to buy toothpaste. International brands, Colgate, Pepsodent and Sensodyne occupy most of the shelf space. Colgate offers a tempting dental family on sale which might be subliminally attracting urban Indian families. This family comes with a lean, hard but quickly breaking bushy haired brush; a fat, soft, shiny large tube of paste and a shorter, chubby tube. And it is cheap too. Just like the real Indian family as the treatment meted out to accident victims on the road and the new divorce laws make it amply clear!

Decided to shun the international brands and go after the all-Keralite K. P. Namboothiri's ayurvedic brand of toothpaste. With this one, at least I know every single ingredient listed on the cover: clove, camphor, cinnamon, dried ginger and black pepper. Except for the flouride bit, I didn't know any of the chemicals listed on the cover of the other brands. 

I remembered Michael Pollan's excellent advice on food shopping in the US, from his great book "In defense of food". Two simple rules: Shun foods that are a complex mix of more than five ingredients. Avoid as much as possible buying foods with ingredients that your grandmother won't recognize. Whenever I had stuck to these rules, during inspired intervals of few weeks, I had always lost weight.

I don't know if Namboothiris as a community are famous for their oral hygiene. The stereotypical and the famous personality images that come immediately to mind with the Namboothiri name all have betel stained, naturally, organically grown, euphemistically "British" teeth as opposed to the fenced-in at childhood, disciplined rows that flash in the all-American toothy grins. 

Despite the lack of flouride, a combination of clove, ginger and pepper can do no harm and do give more of a 'zing' than any 'red hot microgranules' I have come across in the toothpaste business.

As I finish typing this, more news about an 8.6 earthquake off the coast of Aceh, Indonesia is trickling in with the tremors being felt in Chennai, Kolkata and Bangalore. Fingers crossed!

250 Note Out (BH: D 250)

April 10, 2012

William Faulkner wrote, "I only write when I am inspired. Fortunately I am inspired at 9 O'clock every morning." Though nowhere near Faulkner's dedicated habit (and genius) I have surprised myself by managing to stick around with this note writing thingie for 250 editions now! What started off as updates of a continuously surprised back-home expatriate, these have taken on the forms of travelogue, news summary, literature, movie and event review and general verbal diarrhea. 

Though I have rather pretentiously called these notes a public diary in the blog format, obviously they do not possess the intimacy and honesty traditional diary writing entails. And by traditional diary writing, I have in mind the diaries of Sophia Tolstory. Her jottings about living with that grandmaster of literature and philsophic inspiration of even Gandhi, the great Leo Tolstoy, are powerful jolts that crumble the public persona that Tolstory so arduously cultivated throughout his life. 

She wishes deeply in its pages that the man, who analysed all possible complexities of human emotions through his incredible characters, had the capacity to see the neglect she and their children were enduring. "In his diaries, I searched greedily for the word love. I am consumed by insecurity. I cannot see anything clearly," she wrote.

The initial purpose of the notes were to compile perceptible changes in my home town, the beautiful Thiruvananthapuram. Infrastructure and population-wise much seems to have changed here. Yesterday during power-cut, while pacing up and down the street post dinner, Leny chechi asked if I knew what new car neighbors three doors down had bought. Since almost all the houses in the colony were designed to have a single car garage, half of them are forced to park their second car out on the street. 

When Leny chechi's dad had built their house back in the 1970s, he didn't even consider a garage necessary. As the city expands in the direction beyond Technopark towards the north and to Vizhinjam harbor towards the south, two car households are growing by the day.

There are two major changes from the 90s that have been personally noteworthy. Firstly, and immensely thankfully, a whopping majority of public events start on time now. This is a seismic shift in the societal attitude towards time. And it is a change that bespeaks so many underlying changes. 

Secondly, though there are orders of magnitude more schools, colleges, tuition and coaching centers and students of all ages are visible perpetually on the move from classroom to classroom throughout the week, there is a distinct air of nonchalance about them. I wouldn't venture to call it a sense of confidence but the look in their eyes resembles more what I have seen among American youth than what I can remember from school days peers.

Read yesterday about a couple of past incidents from northern Kerala. An eight year old girl had used a domestic broom to beat her father in front of guests because he had changed channels from her favorite show to news. A fifteen year old boy had silently walked out of the house and hung himself to death from a tree after his parents refused him permission to watch TV. 

Stephen King reportedly writes ten pages a week, even on holidays. On hot, stuffy, indoor days with dry business stuff swallowing life, for me, it is a struggle to come up with even two pages. Yet, I think if anywhere, it will be in this city of 'Bright Infinite Word Mind' that any and all writer's blocs can hope to be cured.

'Bright Infinite Word Mind' is my interpretation of Travancore's presiding deity, the immensely rich ($22B and counting) 'Anantha-Pada-mana-abha' (Infinite-Word-Mind-Brightness). It suits better the god of a city that has always valued learning and placed supreme importance to education. 'Anandapadmanabha' may currently be projected onto a idol with a 'Padma' (lotus) coming out of his 'Nabhi' (navel), but I believe the thousand tongued snake that forms his mattress again signals towards languages and words. 

Vaikkom Mohamed Basheer used to write about the infinite amount of time that is available only in Allah's treasury and not at the disposal of humans. A scintillating supermind of infinite vocabulary is comparably beautiful, a treasury of all the words in all the languages, past, present and future. 

In the beginning, John remind us in his first verse, there was the 'logos'. 

We may or may not choose to belive that about the beginning, but in the end, obviously, words are all we will be left with and all that we can leave behind.

Avalanche (BH:D 249)

April 9, 2012

Rema Aunty came back on Saturday after a 10-day visit with her daughter and grand kids in Dubai. During the customary neighborhood meet up during the half an hour power cut at night, she shared "news" from the Middle East. One of her grand kids has joined a school there. 

"His teacher is a Pakistani," she said. There was a momentary pause that allowed the neighbors to formulate their response to that statement.

I was expecting a wave of moderately alarmed and significantly disappointed "ah"s. I guess she was expecting them too. So she hurried with the follow up just as the sighs began to rise, "He loves her very much. Says she is the best Miss. Her name is Mrs Ashraf." 

I am sure her initial response in Dubai was similar to what she anticipated the neighbors to have. But I am glad she has reformed hers from that standard Indian response to anything with the word Pakistani associated with it.

"It is good thing the kids are getting a wider world view from the beginning, "I philosophized, "it'll help them be less xenophobic and more open-minded as they grow up!"

I didn't have any Pakistani teachers when I grew up. I became acquainted and then friends with students either from Pakistan or of Pakistani origin only at Texas A&M. It was quite easy to see that they are just like me, exactly as any other human being whom it is so stupidly simple to compartmentalize and detest under the easy "labels" at our disposal. Those labels that are a symbol of nothing but our own ignorance and blinkered world-view! 

How can anyone have anything but respect for the likes of Tina Sani, Sanam Marvi and the other marvelous musicians from the Coke Studio? And that is just a tiny sliver of a tiny aspect of Pakistani culture.

Over the weekend, news has trickled in of the avalanche at the Siachen glacier in Kashmir burying around 135 Pakistani soldiers and support staff. Except in areas like the comments section of Indian websites where the utterly unevolved scum of the Indian society type away their frenzied neurosis, the response in India has been the solemn one befitting the tragedy. There is the solemn realization that it could very well have been Indian lives on the other side of the unnatural line. 

Unfortunately due to the politico-religious exploitation of the region and its strategic importance to military, several hundred Indian and Pakistani men need to spend sizeable chunks of time in isolation in the trecherous, glacial, white and silver majestic heights of the mountains.

Coincidentally, the Pakistani President was on a visit to India. While he took one step forward in choosing to visit the dargah of a Sufi saint in Ajmer, he ensured that the perpetual milking of Kashmir issue and terrorism continue to keep our politicians in power and diplomats with a job and perks. 

The Himalayas are not aware of the Hindu or Islamic stories associated with it or the man-made lines cutting through it. Avalanches don't care, no matter what the mullahs or astrologers want to believe and make believe, whether they extinguish Indian or Pakistani life. 

I read a recent E.O.Wilson piece discussing how humans are, like ants, genetically predisposed to have an ethnic, tribal social spirit. It is a two-sided coin that causes both destructive violence as well as cultural advancements. I don't think the great Dr. Wilson wrote the essay to be taken as a justification for all the nonsensical bigotry, nepotism and narrow-mindedness.

If anything, the awareness that the amygdala that has been pushed deep within our massive brains over the millions of years of evolution, still behaves the way ant brains operate, should make us wary of the "ease" of hate and its pitfalls. 

I hope that one day the entrenched ethnic spirit of the human mind will expand to embrace the entire planet, dissolving the multiple, divisive, primal tendencies that continue to plague it. 

Let there be more Pakistani teachers for Indian kids and Indian doctors for Pakistani patients...

Easter Ducks (BH: D248)

April 8, 2012

The consumption reports for the weekend continue in the newspapers. Manorama says today that 150,000 ducks were sold in Chengannur area alone. Besides the popular runner species of Kerala, ducks from Tamil Nadu were needed to supply the massive demand for duck roast on Easter. For us at home, the special for the day was Bamboo rice payasam. This is the bamboo rice we had bought from Babu chettan's hotel right outside Kuruwa island in Wayanad. 

Bamboo rice was the cause of the feeding frenzy of the jungle fowls that we had encountered while driving through Thirunelli reserve. The final seeding of bamboo before it dies. In payasam, the bamboo rice doesn't take on the sweetness of jaggery like the regular paddy rice or gram tends to do. So the syrup remains sweet while the rice kernals remain chewy. It is a different payasam experience.

Afternoons have become torturously hot nowadays. Any attempted nap results in sweat-drenched t-shirts. I had somehow managed to slip into a heat and sweat induced coma yesterday afternoon assisted by some rereading of Sukumar Azhikode's Tatwamasi. Out of the blue, I dreamt of squeaky little mice. An army of them. Then the squeak grew intelligible. They were speaking in Malayalam. Sooner they were no longer mice. A brigade of over a dozen boys had showed up in the street outside with an improperly inflated football. 

As is usual with games played in Indian neighborhood street, there is more arguing and less playing. In fact, art of debating is what Indian kids excel in. Young Manus and Chanakyas forcefully insist on their own laws and rules, no matter what game. I went to gate to take a better look at the players. I couldn't recognize most of them. School vacation means more kids being dumped at their grandparents. 

"Where are you guys from? I ask. 

Sudden silence. 

"I am just asking so that I know which house to come to when you break something here and run away," I continued. 

Looks of surprise, fear, irritation, disdain, irreverance circulate in the group.

"Yes?" I wait. 

"A-34, Poorna" one of the goalkeepers reluctantly have a house address. 

"Thanks, but why don't you go and play there?" I said and went back inside. 

The voice level in the converted football field dropped significantly. 

An element of care had been introduced. With that the game was no longer enjoyable. For over a decade, since our house was unoccupied, the street in front had become the preferred playing area for the kids around much to the relief of their grandparents and parents. Now, I had disturbed the scheme of things.

In the next 15 minutes, the goal posts moved progressively, in increments of a couple of meters at a time, back up the street, away from our gate. 

I have become one of them killjoys whom I had hated all my childhood. Damn!

Jonah Lehrer has written a wonderful article on insight in the religiously secular Guardian. I can't help think that the Easter weekend timing of the publication is rather appropriate. The thrust of the article is all the latest neuropsychology research that underlines the existence of the depressive, disappointing phase that always precedes spontaneous, delightful insight. 

The right half of the brain kicks in to make incredible connections only after the left brain reaches a point of frustrating saturation. In brain scans, it is the region above the right ear that lights up as intuition strikes. Close to that spot most of us tend to scratch naturally when stumped by a problem. 

Lehrer presents Bob Dylan as a great case study. Dylan hits upon his almost free-form lyrics composition technique only after he had decided to give up on music.

Glorious, inexplicable, life affirming insights appear only after dark, depressing, deathly frustration of the mind. 

Resurrection...takes time....needs death. 

To find that which is totally fresh and new, one must die to everything that is known before.