March 26, 2012 - March 30, 2012
The badminton boys had sought help from his old worn out wooden chair in order to recover a birdie stuck on a sunshade. While pulling the chair, one of them had carelessly dropped his plastic bag to the floor from the chair. Clang was the sound and sharp was the smell as a 500 ml bottle of Old Vat Rum broke and spill on the floor. His duty shirt which was also in the cover was soaked.
Last Friday, before we left for Wayanad, a small but significant alcohol situation had developed in the neighborhood. Our local boys, Achu and Nandu, play badminton using the closed metal mesh gate of the uninhabited "Singapore" family's gate as their net. This family has appointed a watchman who spends the night snoring to glory in Rema aunty's car porch, her's being the "Siamese twin" house of the Singapore house, from 10pm to 5:30am, Monday through Saturday. Most of us woken up during on these days by the noisy sputtering of his autorickshaw's engine early in the morning as he leaves from duty. Besides sleeping, his duty involving water in the plants in that house. Though we had been suspecting for several months, on Friday, fresh material evidence was broken about the suspicion that the man generously "waters" himself too while on duty.
The badminton boys had sought help from his old worn out wooden chair in order to recover a birdie stuck on a sunshade. While pulling the chair, one of them had carelessly dropped his plastic bag to the floor from the chair. Clang was the sound and sharp was the smell as a 500 ml bottle of Old Vat Rum broke and spill on the floor. His duty shirt which was also in the cover was soaked.
The boys decided to keep the matter a secret. But their "hushing up" could be clearly heard upstairs in my study. The matter was public. The senior ladies in the neighborhood took stern action. No more badminton in that area. Since I had left to catch the train to Kozhikode, I couldn't be around for the drama that night when the watchman showed up. This week I learnt that he claimed it was a bottle of Ayurvedic medicine he is supposed to consume before sleeping. The story of the highly inflammable medicine didn't go down well with Rema aunty. He hasn't been dismissed but his snoring has considerably reduced this week.
1996 was the last time all four members of our nuclear family lived in this house. After that we were together for roughly a week before Tara got married last August. Now five of us are back in the house again. The fifth unborn member pretty much dictates almost everything happening in the house these days. And it is certainly one of the greatest delights of my life. From the one off juice preparation duties to the more frequent reading duties, I am all too willing to be at the baby's service.
Though my careful selection of reading material is raising some eyebrows, as long as the mommy doesn't mind, we are ok. I wonder if them tiny eyebrows are raised too. Since I am aware of the epic story of the 'long tail', '12 sigma', exponential butterfly effect possible from half baked unfinished stories read to the awaited baby, I insist on providing as complete a picture and as conclusive a story as possible! There is the poignant realization that once upon a time I too was a baby in the womb who was read to, cared for and enormously looked forward to. Will it ever be possible to do justice to the grand gift of life?!
The newspapers today carried tributes to T. Damodaran, one of Malayalam cinema's most successful screen writers, who had passed away yesterday. Several super hit movies in the 1980s were born from his pen. The careers of director I.V.Sasi and actor Mammootty owe much to this man strong dialog and story-lines. A great friend of M.T.Vasudevan Nair, T. Damodaran focused on the politically charged themes unlike M.T.
March 30 happens to be the birth anniversary of painter Van Gogh and the death anniversary of writer, O.V. Vijayan. Both towering geniuses with unique vision of the reality around them who left images with the brush and the pen to guide our eyes. While Van Gogh's paintings draw millions of viewers and millions of dollars, O.V.Vijayan's "Khasakinte Itihasam" continues to keep intellectuals busy and causes several PhDs in Malayalam every year.
I am ashamed to admit that I read Khasakinte Itihasam only in 2011. That too a copy brought to Houston from Kannur thanks to Kiran. I read in Priya's backyard in Pearland over a weekend and I think she would attest that it was a particularly quiet weekend. Though published in 1950s, the novel remains just as staggering today. 'Khasakinte Itihasam' is not as disturbing as Houellbecq's novels that I admire, but it is tremendously distilled prose that is as potent as high end Tequila. It is impossible not be influenced by Vijayan's style once you have read him. Vijayan packs his Khasak, a village based on real world Tasrak, with characters as captivating as Van Gogh's potato eaters.
A heavy thunderstorm yesterday afternoon provided much relief from the sweltering heat. But the low electricity situation in the state will lead to half an hour of powercut every night from next week. The situation hasn't changed one bit from the early 90s. In the two recent decades India has produced no less than 50 million engineers like me. We are explicitly taught not to solve such problems. Afterall, who wants to give up on the great citizen right to curse the government while sitting in darkness.
Mr. O.K. John's wonderful book on Wayanad provides as an appendix the original paper by Mr. Fawcett, the rediscoverer of Edakkal Caves, published in Indian Antiquary Journal in 1901. Mr. Fawcett talks about his interest in the caves coming from its being a spot of annual pilgrimage of the local Chetty people. He then quickly notes that these Chetty folks shouldn't be confused the well known Chettiyars of Southern India. But the sweeping stereotyping is worth quoting:
"The Chetties above referred to must not be confounded with the well-known traders and money-lenders going under that name throughout Southern India. There is indeed a legend of their having come originally from Tinnevelly, but it will suffice to mention here that their favorite pastime is tiger-spearing in order to indicate the difference between them and the ordinary money-making Chetty of Southern India, the most timid of mankind, who never engages in any sport."
Having played racket ball with Chalamy for several years and knowing the grand political 'games' played by the likes of P. Chidambaram, I will be willing signatory if anyone pursues a retroactive complaint against Mr. Fawcett. In the meantime, I am relieved that the Chettiyars don't have organizations like Chettiyar Sevak Sangh or Jamat-i-Chettiyari that would have burnt all research by Mr. Fawcett based on this comment and refused his ghost permission to haunt Wayanad.
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