Vegetables (BH:D159)

January 9, 2012

I remember reading sometime back about the increasing usage of 'war-metaphors' in American life. Everything had to be declared a war to grab public attention. War on terror was understandable, but Foxnews started talking about a war on christmas, a war on "our values", war on the way of life etc. 

Despite being a country that has never initiated a war after its independent existence in 1947, India is a land full of "armies" (sena). There is the Shiva Sena and the Ram Sena that spring to mind. Any local politician who dreams of being a satrap prefers calling his outfit a sena. And most of these outfits are pretty war-like in their political approach.

Kerala state government has a 'Karshaka Karma Sena' (Farming army). Three soldiers (or militants) of this outfit delivered the 25 sacks of 'terrace top vegetable garden' program for which we had signed up on Saturday. 

The three mustachioed musketeers displayed a military like hierarchy. This thinnest, oldest gentleman was the leader. The youngest one in the twenties looked quite used to having his suggestions laughed off. But somehow, he belied the air of an impending coup. The third man was like the epic's Bhima, the middle one; bulky, silent, executing most of the tasks. 

They carried the 25 "bio-soil" kits that come in plastic sacks in three trips to our terrace. Arranged in 5 by 5 formation...battalion, legion of health. Seeds and saplings of seven vegetables have been set up. Spinach, cauliflower, okra, chilies, tomatoes, long bean and bitter gourd. I am not sure about the bitter gourd, it might be long gourd.

This Sena departed as quickly as they came refusing even the drink of water that I offered. The major general did ask the infantry man if he wanted the refreshment. They had fifty odd houses to cover in our colony.

An organic vegetable cultivation guide booklet has been provided. Very informative about the common pests and their control. We have two neem trees, so preparing most of the organic pesticides should be easy. The booklet flap notes that 30,000 copies have been printed. Apparently, the government is subsidizing this project at the rate of Rs. 2000 per house. This should give a rough estimate of how much money has gone into various pockets. The corruption sena never sleeps!

The new issue of Madhyamam weekly was delivered with the newspaper this morning. I don't know how people still have the delusion that it is a communist leaning publication. The last two issues went after the culture minister of the previous communist ministry, this time they have gone after the very top, the ex-Chief Minister himself. Mr. Achudanandan displays a rather jingoistic anticorruption stance. So the revelations in the weekly about what has gone on in the background of the newly sanctioned Aranmula airport project might come as a shock for his fans. 

Viju V Nair of Madhyamam is Kerala's Sainath, one of the very few journalist worth that job title in the state. He has presented the story of both the major political parties falling over themselves in writing off the heritage town of Aranmula to the ownership of the Reliance group. 500 acres of paddy fields and green belt have already been acquired. Communist party used to the one preventing big capitalist groups from blatantly exploiting the poor and weaker sections of the society. Now they lay out the red carpet! 

Last night, I had an epiphany. I have figured out the root cause of the ever increasing alcohol consumption among Malayalees. No, it has nothing to do with corruption. In fact, corruption and black money helps with the consumption. 

It is the damn mosquitoes! 

It is impossible for anyone to go to bed with the senses intact. The drone of the vicious bloodsuckers are irritatingly frequent. I have a new "Hunter" electric zapper bat. But there is little a bat can do against the mosquitoes 'sena'. 

Since I was home alone today, I started working on Dr. K.G. Paulose's Sanskrit guide. It is a 30 chapter book based on a hugely successful 30-week course that he had conducted. I am hopeful. The man impresses deeply in the introduction about his love for the language and his admiration for all the teachers he had had. He promises to attempt his best to convey his passion both for Sanskrit and for enjoyable learning in the book. The word Sanskrit was used to name the language for the first time in the Ramayana by Valmiki.

I had dosa for breakfast. Dr. Paulose includes a Sanskrit verse about dosa in the first chapter.

"Induvat varthulakara

kunduvat dhavalaprabha

Indravacha sahasraksha

dosakayah preenayanthu naha!"

[Round like the moon

White like Jasmine

A thousand eyed like Indra

may such dosas satisfy us]

In the introduction and in the first chapter, Dr. Paulose gives two examples of the Kadapayadi system of 'word numbers'. He mentions that once his teacher, K.P.Narayanapisharadi asked him, "How many days did Vashishtha say it will take for Dileepan to see the effect?"

I think this is from some episode in the Ramayana, I am not sure. Dr. Paulose apparently has the whole epic memorized but he couldn't recall any mention of a duration. Narayanpisharadi then recites the relevant verse

"Adooravarthineem sidhim

rajan viganayathmanah"

He goes on to explain that if we consider 'vigana' to mean 'to subtract' then kadapayadi equivalents of adooram (50) and athmanah (28) can be used to conclude that 22 days are suggested for effect (siddhi) to occur. 

The second example is more common. The standard first verse that is used to initiate children into learning. "Hari sriganapataye namah". The Kadapayadi equivalent turns out to be 51 which is the number of letters in the Malayalam alphabet!

The first chapter in the book is a brief overview of language families of the world and how they are studied morphologically, analytically and geneologically. Morphologically languages are classified as isolating (like Chinese), agglutinating (English, Malayalam) and inflectional (Sanskrit).

After Panini laid down rigid rules for Sanskrit, it became the language of the elites. The common folk used a diluted, light version which became known as Prakrit. It is from this Prakrit that most of the north Indian languages (Bengali, Punjabi, Marathi, Gujarati,Kashmiri etc) evolved. 

Prakrit was known for its closeness to nature. It was so powerful in describing the environment and landscape that even in the great works of Sanskrit literature, nature related songs were written in Prakrit. In Kalidasa's Shankuntala, the king, his court and the sages speak Sanskrit, while Shankuntala, her friends and the fishermen speak Prakrit. Buddhism and Jainism used Prakrit and Pali. 

Interesting bit of trivia: Prakrit survives today only in the songs of the Kerala temple dance form called Koodiyattam.

Since the veggie garden got inaugurated today, I will finish with an attempted translation of another one of Ajith's poems from 'Leg before wicket'

The Prasadam* of Seeds

-----------------------------------

In the prayer's palm

seeds

to sprout in the soil

where the maggots of the hand's lines squirm

soaked in sweat

Could be the exploding okra

or the bullock that watches the running rope**

or in front of a camphor flame

adorned in turmeric and saffron

could be that stupid ash gourd***

could be the crocodile babies of the bitter gourd

the spiny spinach legs

scavenging around the coconut tree

could be the suicidal, hanging long gourds

Whatever they are, for the next trip

lunch with them

and in the goodbye gesture of

the folding palms

once again, will give

the blessings of new seeds.

*grace, material ritual offering, blessing

** common Malayalam riddle for pumpkin (kaala kidakum kayar oodum = bullock lies, rope runs around)

***referencing the famous Kerala legend about a physician who treated everyone with ash gourd

Sunday Lecture (BH:D158)

January 8, 2012

An unusually hot day for the season. We noticed the heat right from the morning while sitting out to read the newspapers. The rise in temperature had nothing to do with the ironing guys showing up with their carts after a month. The neighborhood promptly pounced on their lax attitude towards labor!

"innekku enna pesa porenge," the inquisition began about their disappearance, "kalyanama, house warmingsa?"  (What excuse are you going to say today? marriage, house warming, global warming?)

The man did not think of applying the global warming excuse to which he does contribute a slightly more than average Indian footprint with his charcoal-based ironbox. Instead,  the Tamilian iron master took it straight to Mullaperiyar dam issue, "bus kedaikale Saar," (There was no interstate bus service!)

"bus ellam randu naal thaane prachanai..." (The bus problem was only for two days..)

"ellai Saar, paathi vandhittu thirumbi pone" (No Sir, I came half way and had to go back)

"We should call some other guys to do the ironing instead of waiting for these guys," came a practical suggestion delivered in a threatening tone.

Nobody was going to look for other guys. These guys came after a gap of one month means that they had several towers of clothes to get through. It took them the whole day. May be it was their prayers that kept the rain at bay. 

As I type it, they are still stretching the final few sarees. They play old melodious Tamil songs while working. It produces the soothing effect of listening to the now extinct transistor radios. Great background score for a Sunday newspaper reading.

By 11am, I was taken to the Kerala government's center for continuing education, commonly known as 'IAS academy'. I was introduced briefly to the head of the operation who has been featured regularly in newspapers about the multiple vigilance investigation against him on corruption charges. He sat in a gigantic office room under the framed photograph of Mahatma Gandhi. I am trying to remember if Gandhi was smiling. He asked if I would consider preparing a GATE/GRE coaching program for them. Polite refusal. The rest of the operation he was running resembles a glorified 'tutorial college'. But as expected, no dearth of students. 

One of my friends had suggested that I try to get the lecture videographed and upload it on youtube. Video camera was a really long shot. It was difficult even to get a projector. We managed one. In the brown metal roofed classroom which accentuated the glare of the red plastic chairs, I began a little after 11:30 on "The Financial Crisis (2008- ) A credit crunch by any other name..." following a very flattering and generously fictional introduction by my uncle. I felt obligated to start by stating that he had overlooked the most important qualification that had brought me there: that I was his nephew!

Around 50 students in the class. Early to mid-twenties age group. Neatly segragated sexually. Andhra Pradesh DGP would have been pleased at the way the girls were dressed. They might all have been hungry, a whopping majority seemed reasonably alert. 

A couple of girls lost interest by the time I got to "Asset backed securities". Few even took notes! 

Amma sat in the last row. I caught her napping half way through. But the mention of 'Federal Reserve' revived her. 

Through stories of Kahneman, Adam Smith, Goldman Sachs and Alan Greenspan, I wound up by 1:20. Madoff and other Ponzi scheme piqued students' interest. I found an opportunity to squeeze in Dan Gilbert's Stumbling on Happiness. To add some local flavor, I indulged in a very unfair comparison about the Malayalee lust for gold and the Dutch tulip bubble!  

Couple of times I reminded them that the whole presentation mostly just my opinion and they should keep that in mind whenever they hear lectures or read articles on economics and finance! 

Enough head-bobbing of agreement whenever the dismal corrupt state of India was mention. I hope some of these kids actually get into the administrative service and manage to make some difference.

A gracious staff member brought me a glass of lime juice half way through. Since it was way past lunch time, there was only one Q in the Q&A. A particularly enthusiastic guys asked if the Occupy Movement receives covert funding from the likes of Koch brothers...well-informed dude!

Obligatory vote of thanks while I gulped down the lime juice. A thick layer of undissolved sugar at the bottom of the glass. "You should consider giving this lecture again somewhere," Amma said when we got back. I take that as a compliment. In fact, it looks like I will do a repeat performance soon at the Press Club.

After delivering a lecture outlining the latest glitch in capitalism, the afternoon was spent reading the book on Kerala history by the head of world's first democratically elected communist government, E.M.S. Namboodirippadu!

Resident s' Association (BH:D157)

January 7, 2012

25 sacks filled with fertilized soil and variety of vegetable saplings will soon make their way to our terrace. Part of a government program to encourage home farming in the city. The distribution was initiated at the new year celebration of our residential colony association. I skipped the initiation part that included something called "high tea". Since I have been warned off alcohol, I didn't want any of that. 

I showed up fashionably late by two and half hours. By then other events of the evening were in progress. The crowd was slowly gathering since there was a dinner as well. The big banner stretched on the back wall of the stage read 'Resident s'' with a space between t and s where the apostrophe had been avoided by the printer who realized his mistake a little late.

It has been 15 years since I attended any event organized by our resident's association called EGRA, with the EG standing for Elankom Gardens. Except for the fact that the events are now held in a public auditorium, nothing much has changed. That was clear as soon as the organizers approached me to go and "do something" on stage for 10 minutes because next speaker was running late. I feigned the traditional Indian shyness. Luckily a representative of the eye donation campaign took over the 10-minute slot filling. For the whole ten minutes, she repeated the ideas she expressed in the first minute itself.

Following her, the local circle inspector of police showed up to speak about traffic rules. He started off by mentioning that we should all be careful about "trafficking" and noticed that I was smiling in the third row. He said that usually this is a presentation using a projector,so now he was pretty much lost. But I liked how he stood for the entire duration with his hands akimbo, ready for action. Well, except when he had to reach and silence his phone every few minutes.

First he talked about pedestrian rules. In an attempt to engage the audience, he tried asking questions to the kids sitting in the front row. But an old man from the very last row ruined it by insisting on shouting out the answers. 

"Why should we walk along the right side of the road? you, boy in the white tshirt," he said pointing to Achu, Omana's son, sitting in our row. Achu flashed a smile that belied a gnawing deep seated fear of the khaki police uniform. 

"Which class are you in?" the officer persisted

"9th" 

"So do you know..." 

Smile weakens but sustains. 

Old man from the back to the rescue. 

Throughout his speech, the officer used two phrases repeatedly: 'in foreign countries' and 'in a democracy like ours'. He will use the first phrase before talking about some rules that need to be followed. He will use the second to justify why the police is not able to do much about repeated offenses by politicians and big business houses. 

Stressing the need for helmets, he said some people try to provide fake medical certificates to say that they have a condition that prevents them from wearing a helmet. "If you have a medical condition, you shouldn't drive a two-wheeler. Only fit people should drive!" That last sentence turned out to be an inadvertent joke. 

'Fit' is the common local expression for drunkenness. Faint chuckle in the crowd. He cleverly used it to segue into the topic of drunken driving.

Towards the end, as he took questions from the audience, sadly it reduced into a grand exercise in excuse-making and passing the buck. 

The father sitting in front of me was busy training his little boys towards an attitude of not differentiating between home and a public place. Wherever you are, my kids, he seemed to say, be noisy and obnoxious.

A pretty young lady sang a recent Malayalam movie song. Fantastic rendition. I asked Dhanush, who was sitting next to me, who she was. He told me her name. That wasn't much help. He saw my expression and told me her nickname. Much surprise. I had carried her around as a baby in the mid-90s. Great to see her blossom into a talented singer and dancer (I am told!)

A group dance followed. A mother-daughter duo along with two other girls. All the three girls had braces. The mother did not. Great commotion among the audience about a mother-daughter pair doing well on stage. Apparently,maintaining oneself well as one ages is a trend that is still catching on in these parts. Having a daughter or son is pretty much considered a license to let oneself go...so to speak.

Final remarks from the husband part of the IAS couple who lives in the colony. He quoted some parable about seasons and keeping equanimity. Vote of thanks. National Anthem.

The final verse of the anthem screwed up by the old uncle who was leading it over the microphone. 

Dinner buffet. Many familiar faces aged by a decade. A few strangers. 

Tomorrow, off to the IAS training academy for the lecture on financial crisis.

Healing Centers (BH:D156)

January 6, 2012

The day started with a quick hospital visit. Rema aunty is recovering from a surgery couple of days ago. Anadiyil hospital is located within the city and is much more compact than the Lords hospital. On the corridor, framed paintings of various pioneers of healing in action: Aeschylus, Marion Sims, Lavoisier...

The trip from there to my aunt's house took me through Mulavana, Kunnukuzhi and Thamburamukku...memories of years of school bus rides to St. Thomas School. We went to aunt's house to deliver her share of the goodies that Ajith's parents had brought yesterday. It's part of a pregnancy related ritual, sort of a formal announcement from the husband's family to the wife's. A supply of murukku, munthirikothu, laddoos, pakkavada and neyyappam means I am all for continuing such traditions!

Achan was leaving for Bangalore today. Among other things that he planned to take for my sister were two bottles of 'Pinda thailam', an ayurvedic massage oil great for increasing circulation and relaxing muscles.

Parts of the Ambujavilasam road still bear resemblance of the 'agraharam' that it once was. Two or three houses open directly onto the street without any porch or verandahs even now. 

'Kolam' on the three red steps leading to one of them. 

The Dhanvantari Matam ayurveda center is at the end of this row of houses. The Matam was established in 1912 and had been flourishing in the 90s when I used to be a regular in this part of the city. Today the building wore a deserted look. I have never been inside this old two-storey building before. 

Nobody at the counter. 

A row of doors lead all the way to the back of the building. 

Framed, garlanded photographs on top of each of the doors. 

Half empty medicine cabinets with glass windows. 

The solitary staff member showed up shortly.

"No stock of Pindathailam"

"What about Dhanvantaram kuzhambu (ointment)?"

"No, Sorry!"

"Will there be restocking soon?"

"The production has been stopped for four months now!"

"Wow...those are like the fastest selling products"

"Yes" he said wistfully,"there are some issues"

"What goes on upstairs?" I asked the question I wanted to ask since the days I used walk down this street to my aunt's place after alighting from the school bus at the last stop, Statue Junction.

"Used to be some lab work" he appeared distressed about the memories I was poking at.

We decided to check out the other famous ayurvedic business, Kottackal Aryavaidashaala, at Statue Junction. We took the narrow road that goes past the small Kallamman temple. Right after the temple, a morning traffic block. 

Ford IKon versus Toyata Innova. 

Both struggling to find themselves space beside a parked old white Jeep. A long tail of autorickshaws growing behind the Innova. Khaki-glad rickshaw drivers attempting to be traffic directors. Two-wheelers and pedestrians sneaking through the narrow gaps. All this din proving too much for the drunkard sleeping in front of a closed shop. The five minute gridlock finally resolved by the Ford turning into the drive-way of a home. 

Homes around this area are living fossils of the different styles of residential construction in the city. Small tile-roofed ones, large tile-roofed ones sprouting wings in the cardinal directions, half-tiled and half-terraced homes, stubby terraced ones, two-storey flat topped ones...

A massive, beautiful, grand peepal tree bordering the road protected by a small Naga shrine. Turmeric powder adorning the stone hoods of the snake gods. A tiny shack selling joss sticks, wicks,oil and matchsticks right next to it. 

Kottackal Aryavaidyashaala, established in 1902, is bustling with activity in contrast to the deserted Dhanvantari Matam. Computerised service. Framed, garlanded photographs of family heirs line the main wall. A few people waiting for delivery of their medicine. A young man in front of us in the queue doubts if the powder he has ordered has an expiry date.

"No expiry. It won't get spoiled," answers the sharp, long-nosed, broad foreheaded woman at the counter. She has a long vertical red streak instead of the bindi. Very sharp, very long nose, I must repeat. 

"Then give me 50 packets. And the bill with name clearly. I am going to take them abroad."

Our order of Pinda thailam comes in two small plastic bottles of 200ml each. 

I think I have already mentioned that the substitute care-taker of our grand old man neighbor is himself a 60 year old self-confessed fan of the bottle who talks about alcohol almost nonstop. "I cannot resist when I see the board of a toddy shop. I just have to go inside and have a drink," I have heard him say a couple of times. 

I can relate to his sentiments. It applies to me and book stores. 

Right next to Kottackal Aryavaidyashaala are DC Books and TBS books.

So in we went. 

At TBS books, sloppy,sleepy, morning service. Achan found the Rs. 500 price tag on Pattom Ramachandran Nair's "Encyclopedia of Nairs" prohibitive. I picked up a collection of essays by Akkitham. "Kavitha oru valiya sathyamanu" (Poetry is a big truth) was an irresistible title. Achan got a Malayalam translation of Maxim Gorky's Mother for his Bangalore stay.

I asked for a copy of "Leg before wicket" a collection of Malayalam poems but they didn't have it. The billing took unnecessarily long.

At DC books upstairs, better luck with "Leg Before Wicket". Even better, I found a Malayalam translation of Dr. George Gheverghese Joseph's A Pasage to Infinity: Medieval Indian Mathematics from Kerala and its Impact. I had read the book from A&M's Evan's library. But at $40, it was a bit much to own. The Malayalam translation came at Rs. 140. That is roughly 1/20th of the American price tag to put it in mathematical terms.

'Leg before Wicket' contains 43 poems by Ajith, one of the promising contemporary poets. I read a glowing review of this collection recently in a weekly. Here's my translation, which does not do much justice to the original, of one of the poems.

The Day Before The Divorce

----------------------------------

In the kitchen we

two burners

smoldering

Pressure cooker on one

on the other, frying pan

Knives of words

Onions of history

blistering with each slice

On the bed we are

two pillows

In the garden

A rose watching the house

A hibiscus searching someone on the road

We

in front of others

the gate that comes together only to shut

pushing it open

a postman is awaited

on the terrace

hooked from heart

to heart

on an unbraided thread

dirty linen hung to dry.

Old School Stuff (BH:D154)

January 4, 2012

From kindergarten to class IV, I studied at the Chinmaya Vidyala school located at Kunnumpuram. Primarily because it was close to where we lived and the school was housed in an old building right next to the houses of my paternal aunts. So lunch and evening snacks could be had at their homes. I visited those aunts today and the school was in session as we walked up the narrow lane.

From the old two-storey building in the 80s, the school has expanded into adjacent properties in three directions sprawling across an acre. Five new buildings now surround the original one that still stands.

Since it was only 10am, the shortened version of the national pledge was being loudly recited in the classrooms from one of the buildings. "India is my country," initiated the class leader. The others repeated after her.

I was class leader for most of those days. Yesterday I read the second installment of U.A. Khader's new travelogue on Myanmar that is being serialized in the Madhyamam weekly. Khader's mother was Burmese. He had lived in Burma till he was 5-6 years old. As a man over 60 today, he is having a tough time locating his childhood village. Though a far inferior writer with a much frugal account of experiences, in terms of memory I am in a better situation than him about my days

in Chinmaya Vidyala. The words of the pledge being parroted in unison were enough to trigger plenty of them.

"All Indians are my brothers and sisters" the pledge continued

Back then, the school was small enough to have the entire assembly fit into the roughly 10m by 25m ground next to the building. Lines of tiny heads full of black hair. Colored bows and ribbons on the feminine ones. The P.T. sir would lead the pledge.

He was an old man, always dressed in a white mundu and white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He had the common Malayalee habit of walking with free tip of the mundu lifted and lodged into the left arm-pit. Nothing about him looked like he was qualified to teach 'Physical Training'.

In fact, physical training consisted of an hour or so each week of "exercises" which were done again standing in line,raising arms, spreading them, attention and stand at ease.  When he wasn't imparting such training, he would be walking around the

"campus" with a cane poised to dispense some discipline. I have never seen him cane anyone. Like dictators and religious leaders, he knew the power of symbols!

The head mistress, Mrs. Indira Kurup, also routinely armed herself with the cane. A petite, wiry lady with graying hair, she dispensed excellent British English sentences in a guitar string twang voice. She insisted that everyone speak at least to her in English in the English medium school. Her husband was some big shot at the Sriharikota Rocket launching station. I remember one morning reading in the newspaper that he had won received some promotion. My parents suggested that I should congratulate her. But that needed to be done in English.

"Congratulations on your husband's promotion," Amma told me exactly what needs to be said. I walked around the school that whole day silently repeating this mantra in my mind, but never quite gathered the guts to tell her. As soon as I saw her, the words congratulation, husband and promotion would jumble up in my head with the rhyming words acquiring an affinity. I am sure the couple of times she noticed me that day, based on my facial expression,she must have thought I was suffering from constipation. I remember her being very friendly the once I met her in her office after I had "grown up" and reached high school in a different school.

Vimala teacher who channeled my first words into four lines of the English notebook. Mridula teacher, Vasantha teacher, Jayanthi teacher.

"I love my country"

Few friends bubble up in the mind.

Anoop S.K.M who became a popular child TV star and continues to act in

serials today.

Anoop S who looked a lot like the 80s Malayalam movie hero, Ratheesh.

I remember a discussion we had the day after one of the Kerala assembly elections. Discussion simply meant exchange of statements we had picked up from our parents. I believed then that "opposition" was the name of a party. So when I read in the newspaper that K. Karunakaran who had been the chief minister and had lost the elections was becoming the opposition leader, I thought he was a clever man who knows how to continue ruling. Anoop was convinced that K.R . Gauri was going to be the next Chief Minister because his uncle had told him so.

Uncles were undisputed oracles in our universe then. 

It was one such avuncular insight that he shared once that offended me greatly. His new "knowledge" was that girls who had birthmarks or moles on top of their

upper lips were bound to have "love affairs" in college. Those were the days when "Love affairs" were a blemish,scandalous, a photoshopped appearance on the cover of FHM etc!

"Left side or right side?" I wanted specification the mole-cular location.

"It doesn't matter." He said.

This information upset me because Lakshmi, the object of my unconditional, undying passion in those days, did have a pretty little black spot to the right upper lip that made her pearly white smile even prettier. It was easy for me to imagine me and her in place of Mammootty or Mohanlal and their heroines in any of the romantic film song of that era.

Boshi, who was equally smitten by her and so was, naturally, the villain in my book. Of course, both of us never consulted her about any of this.

The other Lekshmi and her brothers Eeswara Pillai and Thanu Pillai.

Dhanya, dangerous, because she lived near by and knew

my aunts and would tell on me.

Sabi, who in hindsight, had distinct "Asian" looks.

Harish,the tall one, with his two pretty elder sisters, who came to pick him up from

school and I would tag along since they would help us cross the main road.

Nagasangeeth and Ashok who were the most punished when I monitored the

class. Class monitor. Class leader. Potent position of power!

The seeds of my control freak nature sowed early. 

It was the leader's responsibility to make sure that everyone kept quiet during the "free periods". If someone talked, the leader had to write their name on the

blackboard for punishment later. For each repeat offense, a tally mark would be added next to the noted name. Picket fences of chalk tally marks would be erected

regularly on the board next to names of Ashok and Naga who often

fought each other. Punishment involved either kneeling down or standing outside the class.

Visakh who chewed his tongue while writing.

Shyam Somanath with his toothy grin.

Vinod Krishnan, whose dad dropped him every morning on a scooter. There was a

rumour that they even owned a car!

Manjula, Lakshmi's best friend, who even at that age, had become

formidable bundle of superstitions.  "Don't put your left feet first!" "Don't snap your fingers like that!" "You should lift the book with your right hand only!" and so on.

I think her grandmother living with her might have had something to do with that. My parents knew hers. It was tiny Thiruvananthapuram back then. After Amma told me

that Manjula had a heart condition, I stopped being offensive about her beliefs.

I remember it was a giant leap of faith when I moved on to holding the cap of the water bottle that doubled as a cup, during the short morning break, with just one hand instead of both.

Kid sleuth books and the hit CBI diary movie made us all aspiring investigators. Somebody tripped Hari on the staircase while we were coming back from the

assembly.... Aha! Time for the 3rd standard detectives swung into action with

12-inch rulers that were the only instruments we had. Careful notes were made about the shoe prints on the stairs. After a lunch break of investigation, finally all the blame was put on Nagasangeeth, the standard scapegoat. Undeniably,we showed signs even back then that we would excel in Kerala police or the other corrupt investigation agencies of today.

The whole class had to chant chapter 12 of the Bhagavad Gita everying morning. Standing with folded palms and eyes closed. This exercise lasted a fairly long time especially in a seven year old's life. 

One day, while half way through the prayer, I became aware that I might not be facing in the right direction towards the teacher. You see, my feet weren't pointing

in the same direction. 

Worry! 

The chant continued from my mouth, but my brain was busy adjusting one feet to match the other one's direction. The Sanskrit mantras supposedly cleansing my soul, I was engaged in the pivotal perturbation of my soles. 

Borderline Panic! 

The marginal adjustment continued for the rest of the prayer. With eyes closed, of course!

When the final verse was chanted and the whole class opened their eyes, there I was, miraculously facing the exit.

From the smile on our class teacher's face, I am sure she was cheating with her eyes open and amused all along by my devotional spin.

"...and I am proud of it"  as the class leader finished the pledge this morning, from among the repeating chorus, a distinct louder voice pulls itself ahead of the group.

Hmm...there is an aspiring usurper among the back-benchers. 

Leader beware!

Longsight (BH:D153)

January 3, 2012

"Athu kodutho saare? shaye entaduthu oru vaakku paranjengi njan eduthene!" (Did you sell it, Saar? Tsk...if only you had mentioned it to me)

With these words and visible disappointment, the electrician sat down on the single step in front of me in the verandah. 

His dejection stemmed from the sale of our old car. Since he planted himself in front of me, I placed the Madhyamam weekly, with the half-read eulogy of Christopher Hitchens, on the window sill. This was going to be long. 

But before recounting his lament, the story how the weekly came into my possession.

One month and one week after my second surgery, I managed to embark on my first solitary walk this morning. As I walked up the street, one of the neighbors asked if I had briefly gone back to the US. My absence has been conspicuous! 

The express purpose of my walk was to obtain a copy of the weekly. Our newspaper agent started delivery of the Mathrubhumi weekly from this morning, but he didn't have an agency of Madhyamam. 

Achan and I had walked to the Museum,walked a round inside the campus and walked back home yesterday evening but there wasn't a single magazine shop on the route. So my plan was to walk till Sasthamangalam, in the opposite direction, half a kilometer away, in search of a copy. 

At the Congress party HQ right outside the colony, several state government cars. Ministers number plated 69 and 72 were definitely there. Judging from the numerous police jeeps lining the road, more ministers must have been in attendance. All the policemen had congregated around one jeep. They were reading some paper that was spread out on its hood. Jovial atmosphere. No scent of security threats in the air. No dogs. 

Half of my walk wasn't very fruitful partly because there aren't many petty shops on the way and partly because I was busy on the cellphone. Getting close to Sasthamangalam, the hopeful sight of publications neatly hung from a rope in front of a petty shop against the backdrop of wide variety of banana stems. 

Getting closer, realization of misplaced hope. 

All of them newspapers. Manorama, Mathrubhumi, Kerala Kaumudi, Mangalam and Indian Express (or the new Indian express as they insist on calling it). No magazines were hiding behind the bananas.

The vegetable vendor woman was doing brisk business at 10am. Unripe jackfruits piled on the footpath. A house cat sipping water that hadn't drained away after a car wash. Cap less bottles, emptied out of their celebration, abandoned by an electric post. 

Sasthamangalam junction has acquired a red hue. Communist party cadres have erected red banners all around to announce the party meeting that begins on the Feb 7th. I hope they leave the color intact for Valentine's day as well. 

I do a full circle around the round about. Hope rises again at the sight of 'Suhara Juice Center'. The shop has women's magazines suspended inside plastic wraps. I make unfair associations with America's wrapped mags. I remind myself that this is India, I won't be considered a pervert for examining the jacketed publications. 

Vanitha, Grihalakshmi and Kanyaka glisten inside their sheaths. India Today hangs unprotected. 

But no sign of Madhyamam. To ward off the morning sun, a brown canvas tarpaulin was stretched across the shop face. The juicer was comfortable in the darkness inside. I ventured into his den. 

"Saare, Madhyamam undo?" (Sir, do you have Madhyamam?). 

He smiled and head-bobed a no. 

"Evide kittum ivide aduthu?" (Where can I get it nearby?) I pressed on because he, with his scruffy beard and thick framed spectacles, seemed knowledgeable about magazines. 

"dow..aa irakathil kanuna valiya kettadathinte thazhe oru kadayund...avide urappayittu kittum" (There...down that road, there is shop in the ground floor of that big buidling....you'll surely find it there)

As I crossed the road, heading towards the 'valiya kettadam', it dawned on me that I had picked a 'Suhara' juice center to ask about 'Madhyamam' which is unfairly labeled as 'Muslim' weekly.

The shop I was pointed to was called "Chinthya" (thoughtful, I suppose). 

Tea, snacks, books, magazines...the board listed the services.

Heavy racks (you dirty minds!) were placed outside the shop. 

Wider selection of magazines. Comics. 'Tell me why' books. 

But books and magazines up front were really just a front, the practical side of the business were the tea and snacks. 

Aroma of fresh puffs and 'vada' waited to tear into the wraps of Femina and Women's Era. Bunch of young men, with their backpacks, from the nearby 'coaching center' hung around. 

I unclipped a Madhyamam and handed two five rupee notes, over a topless pyramid of puffs, to one of the men inside who was busy mixing "double strong tea".

It was this Madhyamam with glorious eulogies of Vaclav Havel and Christopher Hitchens (clearly nothing Islamist about such a publication) that I was reading when the electrician sat down in front of me in a story telling mood.

"I have been looking for a second-hand car to help me with the business," he continued. "It is difficult to transport stuff in my bike most of the time. I have already expressed interest in one car. A 96 Zen with air-conditioning. I will offer Rs. 50,000. The a/c is not working that well. Do you think it is a fair price?"

I nodded not wanting to get into the valuation business and interrupt his flow.

"I only need to drive it around the city mostly. Maximum, I will take it to Guruvayoor. They plan to sell it in four months. Also, Saare, once I have a car, I can do some side business," he winked. 

I was intrigued.

"I can run it like a cab for my neighbors. Drop them at the railway station, take them to the market etc. For a couple of hundred rupees"

"You can offer to help them with wedding invitations," I suggested. He liked how I was thinking.

"You see, Saare, it is important for me to have more sources of income. There is no guarantee that my son will take care of us. Once he gets a job, may be soon he will think, "Oh, I should get married now", after that we cannot predict how that girl is going to handle the situation. I have to watch out for me and my wife." 

"How old is your son?"

"22"

I was a bit surprised because this father hardly looked 40. "What does he study?"

"Engineering. Computer Science. At the Narayana College in Tamil Nadu."

"He must be close to graduating..."

"Yes, it is his final semester."

"I hope he gets a job soon."

"I hope so too. Initially I took a loan to build a room upstairs for him in our house. We thought it can be done in 1.5 lakhs, it cost us 3 lakhs. Now with rest of the educational loan, we owe the bank nearly 10 lakhs."

"He should be able to get a job with his degree. He should be able to pay off the loan."

"He should be. But he doesn't have to. Right, Saare? The loan is in my name. He may not say so, but he can very well tell me that it is all my debt. Even if he doesn't his wife can. Once he has a job, he will want to start a family soon. I am not blaming that girl, " He continued about his son's imaginary future bride, "people have gotten used to different lifestyles. They may not compromise. So they will be thinking far ahead into their own future. I don't blame them. Things have become expensive. Right, Saare? We go to drink just a cup of tea and it will turn out to cost Rs. 115, so we might have to borrow Rs. 15 right there because we have only hundred rupees in our pocket. 

[Pause. Eyes skyward. Continues] 

"They will have their own plans. They won't want two old people draining on their income. So we have to plan."

I stuck to the easy smile response.

"I have been working with this medical equipment contractors. For 15 years, my salary has been only Rs. 6500. Last year, finally they hiked it up to Rs 8000. But that is like what rich folks spent on one night's dinner out. You know what I mean! I have taken all these loans for my son's college. If he doesn't pay them off, I will have to. I don't know how much longer I can do these electrical and plumbing business. Well, electrician's work I can do for more time, but plumbing becomes difficult with age. Soon if I apply too much strength with my pipe wrench on some heavy duty tap, it will be my bones that will be twisted. Bones are gone when we get old. Right, Saare? I do brass polishing also. Already some times my arms shaking if I am holding a little too heavy brass lamp," He finally stood up.

"I would have surely bought the old car from you. Next month I will get some fund from work of Rs. 40,000. I can use some savings added to that to buy that car. We have no pension, Saar. So I have to plan on working whatever my health will permit as long as I can. I will come back with a replacement" 

He walked away carrying the electronic chalk of the tube-light that had blown on the night of installation itself last week. 

If only there was a shop that issued replacement warranties for parental anxieties...