Baggage (BH:D89)

October 31, 2011

The civil supplies minister and Kerala congress leader, T. M. Jacob, passed away yesterday. Decades ago, I had received an award from him. State holiday has been declared, including banks, tomorrow. Amma came back from Bangalore very late yesterday, well, early morning today. It is amazing how the sight of an individual can instantly make one feel better. The unforeseen bank holiday is a relief for her though she wondered why banks should be closed for the death of a state minister. T.M. Jacob is fondly remembered by people of the constituency, Piravam, that he represented for several terms. The queue of people waiting to pay him their last respects snaked down for a kilometer outside the townhall.

Morning: reporting to the hospital to check on last week's test results. The rain made it difficult to get an autorickshaw. Finally one showed up. "Adhikam gutteril onnum idathe pathuke pone chetta," (Brother, please go slowly without falling into many potholes) I requested mindful of my physical condition. The driver was very careful. He even took a deviation to avoid the road in worst condition. The kindness of strangers. Bubbles of warmth in the heart that feels good in the cold rain. 

At a signal, the rickshaw stopped outside a popular vegetarian restaurant. I told Achan that it had recently been in the list of hotels raided for unhealthy preparation and storage of food. Achan said he goes there once in a while, when he is in the area, to have tea. Sometimes with my uncle, mostly with Biju. They would sit in the air-conditioned room. The waiters who served that part of the restaurant recognized them. 

Some years ago, Achan bought a ring from Bhima jewelers. The ring was tiny but it was packed in the usual big, glossy plastic bag which also serves as the jeweler's advertisement. Achan put the ring in his pocket and carried the bag empty. He stopped for tea at the restaurant. Since he didn't want to carry the empty bag all the way home, he offered it to the waiter guy. That Tamilian's eyes lit up, he folded his hands. "Eppadi ungalku thanks solrathennu theryale, saar" (I don't know how to thank you, Sir) he gushed. 

The gratitude for a plastic bag! 

Imagine the life of a man for whom a plastic bag, no matter how fancy, matters! 

Few weeks later when Achan was back there, one of the other regular waiters served him. "Saar, annekku naan irundhirundha antha cover ennakku kedaichirikume" (Sir, if I was here serving you that day, I would have gotten that bag) he told Achan with disappointment visible on the face. 

A group of men for whom a plastic cover was that important; that valuable!

I tried to imagine how their homes would be back in their native villages. I couldn't. 

This is the same India that hosted a Formula 1 race. 

Clearly, we will see only what we choose to see in this land of severely contrasting abundance and abjection. 

I wonder if tears are meant to cover the eyes from sights and reflections that hurt. Or do they spring from humbling realizations to wash the eyes for renewed clarity ?! 

Having grown ashamed of becoming tearful in front of Achan, I looked away. Outside the autorickshaw, the colorful wall posters of various political outfits by the roadside, blurred. 

At the hospital, I am referred to a diabetes specialist. Dr. Gopakumar is an amicable old man. Rimmed glasses, thinning gray hair, a potbelly that doesn't hide under the shirt. For 30 years he worked in the UK. He has relatives in Lubbock, TX. He has been there. Becoming friends was easy! 

"Don't eat too many bananas and sweet fruits. I know lot of people say it is fine. I can't understand why!" he said. "There is this patient I know," he said mentioning the name of a famous merchant family based out of the Chalai market. "His RBS is in 400+. He takes all sorts of medication and is careful about the sugar in his diet. Still no improvement, " the doc relaxed into story telling mode. 

"One day he asked me 'doctor, if we eat plenty of bananas, we won't get cancer, right?' How many do you eat a day? I asked. Only 30-35 of the small ones." 

As soon as doctor mentioned the number, Achan and I couldn't control our laugh. "muppathanjo?" (35?) Achan asked, incredulous. 

Doctor chuckled, "is it any surprise his count is so high?! He said he eats 2-3 bananas from each shop he visits in the market during the day" 

Another physical examination. While getting up to test me, the doctor limped. "I sprained my knee while playing tennis," he explained. "Where do you live?" I asked hoping it must be somewhere around the Trivandrum Tennis Club near our home. "Vazhuthakadu," he said. "We live at Vellayamblam" I said. More closeness! 

"Have plenty of nuts. I eat a lot of them. I don't have cholesterol or heart diseases. People say shrimp is bad. I grew up in Alapuzha. We had 6-7 acres of water logged fields around the house. My dad owned another few acres. Shrimp was plenty. I used to eat a lot in my child. Big ones" he said indicating the size by placing his left palm close to the right elbow of his out stretching arm. "Orkumbo thanne vayil vellam varunnu," (My mouth is watering just remembering it). Your blood pressure is normal," he conversed while testing me. We discuss the greatness of brown rice. Unfortunately, it is not easily available in India. Navara rice can be substitute but is too expensive for regular use.

"You don't need medication but lets take a fasting glucose test on Wednesday. Just be careful with your diet" 

Relief! 

"I don't understand how Indians who are perfectly healthy when they live in the west suddenly developed blood sugar issues when they come back to India. There is something in our food." he leaned back in his chair. "The benzoate commonly found in pickles is a definite insulin blocker. But there must be something else too." We left his office after he described exactly what is to be done on Wednesday for the test. 

A rickshaw driver parked outside the hospital was ready to go to Vellayambalam. "Rs 140," he said after we sat down. We got out. It was exactly double the charge. Walking a few meters down the road, we waved down another rickshaw. I repeated the request for mercy when it comes to flying over potholes. The driver was a talkative man with thick Thiruvananthapuram accent and unhealthy lower row of teeth. He unleashed a tirade against the pitiful condition of the roads and the political corruption. 

"I spent Rs 1800 on repairing the suspension and shock-absorbers. Just last week. What is the use? These roads have already destroyed it," he said while we bounced up and down, the muddy water sloshing into the rickshaw from virtually ponds in the middle of the road. "Three weeks back, they had repaired this road. Can you imagine the corruption if such lousy material is used? We drive on this all day. By evening, we get stomach and back pain." 

"It is not like they don't know how to build good roads," I said when we were on the smooth stretch from Pettah to Pattoor after stopping for petrol. 

"Some Delhi contractors made this road. And thanks to corruption of our politicians, they went bankrupt and all their equipment destroyed." he explained. He grew comfortable enough to name some of the prominent political figures. "Saare, that fellow's son wanted a particular girl. But she was already the mistress of the heir to a famous private banking family. So they killed that guy and took the girl. Police charged nobody. CBI filed the same report as police. When it comes to personal matters, both the political parties are friends. All this fighting and agitation is to fool us." 

For a moment I thought this was perfect storyline for a potboiler, then my memory worked. A movie has already been made last year based on this event.

Mourners were coming out of the Pattoor cemetery. Colorful dresses. Black umbrellas. Minor traffic block.

"There may not be any strike or march today because of the minister's death" Achan said. "Yes, one day break for the strike-workers. They will lose their daily wage of 500 rupees, biriyani lunch and 1 bottle liquor for 3 people. That is the going rate for participating in a "political" protest march." 

I wondered if there were any such contract offered to those Occupying Wall Street. 

"Soon these paid agitators and daily-wage professional protesters will demand their own pension fund!" 

He went on to talk about the mother of a student injured in the recent violent student agitation in the city. "She traveled in my vehicle to the hospital," he said, turning back to indicate where she had sat. 

"Her husband left her when this boy was three. She works as a servant maid in different houses. He was studious. But when he joined the University College here, the student party hijacked him. They put him in front of all the marches. Now the police have broken his skull. And the leaders who send these kids out for violence, they sit here comfortably," he said pointing to the political party headquarters that we were passing. I was sure this story wouldn't make a successful movie. 

"These leaders.... they make sure that their fat children study in Bangalore and Hyderabad or Dubai. None of their kids ever come in front of police. Only the poor woman's child should become martyr." The much frequent righteous indignation of the democratically castrated common man!

He must have enjoyed talking to us. He took the roundabout near Chandrasekharan Nair stadium instead of the usual route. 

"Saare, do you know that hospital by the side of Gandhari Amman Kovil?"

Negative. 

"The one that is famous for kidneys?" he said as if it was a restaurant that served the organ. "Run by very rich family. Their son studied in the university college when I was there. His hobby was stealing. He loved it. There was no need for it. But he always wanted to pick locks or pockets. Just for fun." 

"Kleptomania," I said. 

"Oh thanne, pyschology thanne" (O Yes, psychology yes!) he agreed wholeheartedly. 

"He would open university library at night and steal ceiling fans and sell them. One day he was caught red handed. His photo was published in the newspapers next day. Within 3 days, the police officers responsible for the arrest were suspended. The case was dropped. He disappeared out of town for years. I saw him a few days ago driving a Benz car. Only money matters in this country." 

Money indeed, I thought, and the kindness of strangers.

Newspapers today carried half page advertisements to commemorate death anniversary of Indira Gandhi and birth anniversary of Sardar Vallabhai Patel sponsored by the central government. A much smaller box in the Malayala Manorama noted that it was the 21st death anniversary of famous Carnatic and movie playback singer, M.L.Vasanthakumari. Those who are not familiar with her name and voice, might know her daughter, the late actress Srividya.