Kerala’s Cauldron of Lunacy: A Political and Social Critique

A century ago, Swami Vivekananda labeled Kerala a "lunatic asylum", a critique that still echoes in the state’s complex socio-political landscape. Swami Vivekananda and Sree Narayana Guru were contemporaries and the latter especially an influential figure in Kerala’s spiritual and social reform movements. Despite claims by self-proclaimed "international guru," no evidence—direct or indirect—substantiates a meeting between Vivekananda and Sree Narayana Guru, though their legacies converged through shared reformist ideals. Vivekananda’s 1892 Kerala visit inspired figures like Chattambi Swamikal and Dr. P. Palpu, indirectly supporting Narayana Guru’s anti-caste movement, which culminated in the founding of the Sree Narayana Dharma Paripalana Yogam (SNDP Yogam) in 1903. Today, the SNDP Yogam has been hijacked by charlatans and big money, while Kerala’s political arena remains a volatile mix of opportunism, ideological posturing, and a deceptive calm concealing simmering communal and caste tensions

Swami Vivekanada’s observation holds good even today amidst the chest thumping by the left and center vying for Guru’s legacy. I mentioned this to remind that Kerala is still a cauldron of lunatics and waiting to boil over – the Sangh and the BJP are doing whatever they could to accelerate that.

 

The Left, the Center, and the Sangh: A Brewing Storm

The state’s social fabric, strained by caste, religion, and economic distress, teeters on the edge- a stage to implement the “Gujarat or the Manipur’ models!

 Amidst this, Kerala’s Chief minister (‘Respected’) Pinarayi Vijayan’s silence on Rahul Gandhi’s 2025 "Vote Adhikar Yatra," which alleges voter list fraud by the Election Commission to upend opposition politically , should raise eyebrows .He remains mum on Gandhi’s campaign, which enjoys robust support from the INDIA alliance opposition  and leaders like Tamil Nadu’s MK Stalin. Is this a hint of a subtle understanding with the BJP, or merely hubris?

Ayyappa Sangamam: A Communist’s Religious Gambit

Enter the Ayyappa Sangamam, a conclave of Lord Ayyappa’s devotees, whose celibacy is fiercely guarded by fervent ‘bakths’- devotees!  In an unprecedented move for a Marxist government, ("Respected") Pinarayi Vijayan, the helmsman of the Left Democratic Front (LDF), has championed this religious event, with his comrades (aka) bakths cheering him on. This spectacle, reminiscent of the Maramon Convention on the banks of the Pampa River, is a thinly veiled political manoeuver to bolster the LDF’s image ahead of the November 2025 local body elections and the 2026 Kerala Assembly election. In a recent video clip, ("Respected") Pinarayi Vijayan claimed the conclave was not born overnight but is the product of years of meticulous planning. Planning, perhaps, sparked in the wake of the LDF’s disastrous drubbing in the 2019 and 2024 general elections? For a Communist leader to orchestrate a religious gathering is not just opportunistic—it’s a master class in ideological acrobatics, driven by political survival rather than democratic principles- utter hypocrisy. The trampling of democratic processes by a constitutional body, allegedly with political connivance, seems a trivial matter in comparison.

 

A Chequered Past and a Convenient Amnesia

(‘Respected’) "Pinarayi’s newfound veneration for Ayyappa devotees contrasts sharply with his actions after the 2018 Supreme Court verdict allowing women’s entry into Sabarimala.

Back then, his government unleashed police action against protesting devotees and facilitated the covert entry of women activists into the temple at night, despite a pending review petition. Many Hindus viewed this as an affront, a hubristic slap to their sentiments. Yet, (‘Respected’) Pinarayi’s survival as Chief Minister, weathering this and arrogance leading to the Silver Line fiasco, reflects the CPI(M)’s unwavering loyalty—or is it the cadre’s blind bakthi, akin to the Sanghi devotion to their Vishwa-Guru? The Ayyappa Sangamam seems a calculated bid to erase these memories, papering over past offenses to Hindu sentiments.

 

Kerala’s Real Crises Take a Backseat

While(‘Respected’) Pinarayi  Vijayan fixates on appeasing Ayyappa’s bakths , Kerala grapples with existential crises: a crippling debt burden, financial crunch exacerbated by the Union government’s unconstitutional and criminal intransigence, mounting social, ecological, and environmental distress. For the (‘Respected’) Chief Minister, these state-level challenges seem secondary to personal political consolidation. Critics might argue his governance veers toward Stalinist despotism, cloaked in the garb of Indian democracy, where power trumps principle. This man would have gone rampaging if Kerala was like UP said one comment. One could not blame such opinion. Could we?

Conclusion

Even one hundred years after Swami Vivekanandan’s assessment Kerala remains a lunatic asylum, not just for its historical caste rigidities but for its contemporary political absurdities – enlightenment and reformation on paper!  (‘Respected’) Pinarayi Vijayan’s Ayyappa Sangamam, far from a spiritual endeavour, is a cynical ploy to woo voters, the CPM lost to the Sabarimala fiasco. His silence on electoral fraud allegations, coupled with his past confrontations with Ayyappa devotees, paints a picture of a leader more concerned with power than democratic integrity. As the Sangh and BJP stir the pot, and the Left and Congress bicker over Narayana Guru’s legacy, Ayyapa Sangamam, and sexual escapades of politicians, Kerala’s cauldron of woes and perils simmers, waiting to boil over.

In this context one must take note that Kerala has not yet enacted a comprehensive law specifically targeting superstition, black magic, sorcery, or related inhuman practices, despite recommendations, draft bills, and court interventions. We have had a leftist government for almost ten years uninterrupted! One wonders if the "Respected" Pinarayi’s bakthi for Ayyappa will save him—or if it’s just another act in this theater of lunacy.

WORDS

                                                                     WORDS

 

In college, we used to spend our lunch recess playing Lexicon cards. An uncle of mine thoughtfully introduced me to the game, and I daresay it was the wisest thing he could have done. It sparked a curiosity for words in me. One day, I brought the Lexicon cards to college and introduced them to some friends in class, and lo and behold, they were utterly captivated.

We dived deeply into the game. To an onlooker, we might have appeared to be indulging in a game of rummy, something associated with bootlegging gangs peddling moonshine—utterly unacceptable within the college, bordering on sacrilegious and audacious. Our professor seized the cards, wielding them as a convenient whip, especially since he had a few scores to settle with us. The faculty was affronted, and the audacity of a few boys and girls playing cards in the classroom was deemed worthy of severe punishment, akin to being burnt at the stake.

The matter was escalated to the principal, and we were reportedly branded an incorrigible lot. I cannot recall precisely what followed, but our indulgence in the game persisted. This was perhaps encouraged by the principal’s understanding of what the game entailed, which, understandably, further alienated the faculty. Compounding all our infractions into a veritable book of crimes, the faculty could do little more than boycott us en masse.

These words of Pablo Neruda have now reminded me of "L'Affaire Lexicon" from some forty years ago.

"You can say anything you want, yes, sir, but it’s the words that sing; they soar and descend. I bow to them. I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down. I love words so much. The unexpected ones. The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop. Vowels I love. They glitter like coloured stones; they leap like silver fish; they are foam, thread, metal, dew. I run after certain words. They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem. I catch them in mid-flight, and as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, and set myself before the dish. To me, they have a crystalline texture: vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives. And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, and I let them go. I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves. Everything exists in the word."

OLD Town BY THE SEA

 

Those days, I lived with my husband’s parents in their ancestral home in a tiny hamlet tucked a couple of kilometers from the sea—as the crow flies—dotted with coconut palms, jackfruit, cashew, and mango trees. It was an old town, a serene place by the sea. A 17th-century Portuguese church and a nearby Devi temple stood as symbols of social harmony. I often wondered why my husband’s parents chose to settle in a village with only half a dozen Muslim families. My father-in-law, a successful tradesman and highly respected man, was simply known as Kochukunju Musaliar to the villagers. No one cared that he always wore a skullcap and a well-groomed goatee or that he faithfully attended the ancient masjid for five daily namaz. Back then, people didn’t identify others by faith or attire—those were personal, inconspicuous matters. There were no muezzins blaring through loudspeakers; the six families took turns announcing the call to prayer.

The Gulf Boom brought migration and wealth, and today, neo-rich Muslims who bought land in the village flaunt their petro-dollar prosperity. With it came a new mosque, its gaudy ornamentation a stark contrast to the spartan, nondescript ancient masjid—an enduring symbol like the temple or the Gothic church. My father-in-law’s objection to using loudspeakers for the azan was ignored. He argued that loudspeakers were an anachronism in the Prophet’s time and, if purists insisted on strict adherence to the Quran and Hadith, electronic gadgets should be anathema. But Gulf money spoke louder, funding the new mosque.

That serves as an introduction to the old town by the sea.

As a dutiful daughter-in-law, I stayed with my husband’s parents while he worked in a city a hundred kilometers away, returning home on weekends. The village’s laid-back life captivated me: the perennially flowing river gleaming like silver in the midday sun, dragonflies and exquisite butterflies, colorful birds with musical notes, the oriole perched on the guava tree, street dogs wagging their tails and following me, the dense sacred grove near the temple—awesome to me, eerie to some—the gentle ringing of temple bells at dusk announcing deeparadhana, and the spirit of Christ I felt in the ancient church. All were too dear to abandon for city life. My love for my husband was no less than my love for this old town, though some found my choice peculiar. He was happy I cared for his parents, and I eagerly awaited his weekend visits, though we missed each other during the week.

I had a habit of walking at sunrise, a practice from my schooldays at the Jesuit school in Ooty. The gentle nip in the morning air was pleasant. I didn’t notice the man until he caught up with me, slightly out of breath, perhaps trying to match my brisk pace. I’d often seen him at the gate of a house near the post office, its façade reeking of Gulf wealth.

“Haa, young woman, I haven’t seen you around. Are you a visitor?” he asked.

I smiled as I would at an elderly acquaintance. “No, I live here.”

His avuncular expression was noticeable. “Oh, pardon this old man; I don’t recall seeing you. Which household, dear?”

“I’m Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, I see. Pardon me, dear. I was living in my ancestral home in Ranni, but after the partition, my nephews threw me out—ungrateful scoundrels. They said, ‘Ouseph Velliappa, get out; you have no place here.’ Luckily, Clara, my son’s wife, is in Kuwait. She’s a nurse and bought fifteen cents of land to build this house for me and Josutty. We moved in a few years ago…. your husband didn’t join you this morning? I guess he’s lazing in bed, tired from last night’s acrobatics.” He chuckled and winked, halting my walk.

“My husband works in the city and comes home on weekends,” I said, feeling uneasy.

“Oh, goodness, Holy Mary, mother of God!” He looked skyward. “How unkind of him to leave a young woman alone!”

“I’m not alone. I live with my parents-in-law and take care of them.”

“No, dear, that’s unfair. A young woman has fantasies… goodness, goodness me! You can enjoy nuptial bliss only on weekends? How do you manage, dear?” He winked and chuckled again.

I grew guarded. “What?”

“You know what I mean. The acrobatics in bed happen only on weekends. That’s a pity, dear.”

I was incensed. Ignoring him, I walked faster, but he kept pace beside me.

“Dear, how do you tolerate this unkindness? If the female body is neglected for too long, it tightens up naturally.” He winked and chuckled.

I stopped, meeting his gaze. “Look, Ammava, I don’t know you, nor do I want to. What’s your problem to you? My life is my own. You shouldn’t concern yourself with it, let alone approach me with such outrageous questions and suggestions.”

“Dear, did I offend you? See it as the avuncular concern of this old man, Ouseph. I’m advising you out of my experience and care for you. Think how bored you must be, managing alone. A man has responsibilities to his wife.”

I was livid. “Do you know this is harassment? If I report you, you’ll face consequences. Stay away. I don’t need your attention.”

I strode off, furious. How dare he strike up such a conversation? Ouseph, he said! I passed the church, where worshippers were leaving after Mass. Glancing back; I turned toward the police station next to the government primary school. Panting with rage, I stepped inside.

The policeman at the entrance said the SI wasn’t in. Ignoring him, I entered. A constable, about fifty-two, was munching a vada and sipping tea. Another, with sleepy eyes, scribbled on paper. The older constable swallowed a bite, eyeing my sweat-drenched T-shirt curiously.

“I’m here to file a complaint. A man was harassing me. He lives near the post office,” I said in one breath.

The constable set his tea aside, took another bite, and stared as if I were an alien. The sleepy constable glanced up briefly before resuming his scribbling.

“Look, girl, such cases aren’t our priority today. Everyone’s at the panchayat office for the minister’s visit to open the new building.”

“But you can file my complaint. I can identify the man.”

“The SI must handle this. Besides… women your age and looks should ignore such comments. He didn’t touch you, did he? No? Then…”

“Sir, are you waiting for him to assault someone? If he can make such sick remarks to me, he might molest others.”

“Ayyo, dear, we’re still on night duty since yesterday evening. Come back tonight; the SI will handle it.”

Speechless, I glared in disgust and stormed out.

A cold shower did little to calm my nerves. I barely ate an idli before heading out again, ignoring my mother-in-law’s concerned glance. I marched to the church and interrupted a small parish meeting.

“I want to speak to the priest—Father,” I said breathlessly.

I hadn’t noticed I was addressing Ouseph himself. The dozen parishioners looked at me curiously. I repeated firmly, “Where is Father? I need to speak to him.”

“Oh, dear, what brings Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law to our church?” a parishioner asked.

“I want to see the priest,” I insisted.

“Dear girl, Father has retired to his chambers after morning Mass. If we can help, tell us,” another said.

“Then call him back.” I sank into a vacant chair.

The more I thought of Ouseph’s morning smirk, the angrier I grew. A warm hand on my shoulder startled me. Mariamma Chettathi looked into my eyes, concerned.

“What is it, my girl? Fathima’s daughter-in-law is mine too. What troubles you?”

“But how can that be? She’s not a parishioner, and from another community. Her presence here is inappropriate,” said Sebastian Muthalali, who owned the village department store, recently returned from Qatar.

“Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law need not be a parishioner. This church has benefited from his generosity for years,” an elderly man retorted, silencing Sebastian.

“Tell us, dear, what happened?” Mariamma Chettathi asked gently.

I recounted the morning’s events. By then, Ouseph had slipped away.

“I want Father here. I’ll wait, or I’ll go to the police.”

“Victor, fetch Atchan. Tell him to come now,” Mariamma Chettathi called to a scrawny lad by the priest’s chamber door.

Victor returned, shouting, “Atchan’s gone to town. He won’t be back till late.”

A scooter roared outside and sped away.

“That’s him, the priest. He must have slipped out after hearing this. When has Father ever faced an issue? It’s his creed to avoid them,” Mariamma Chettathi said candidly.

“Koche, don’t you know men often make lighthearted comments? If you take every word seriously, you’ll have no time for important matters,” someone in the group remarked.

“Mariamma Chettathi, will you come with me to that man’s house?” I asked.

After her persuasion, a small group reluctantly agreed to join me. Sebastian Muthalali excused himself, citing his store. “Girl, think twice before escalating this. It won’t do your family’s honour any good. It could become a communal issue, and you’ll bear the brunt.”

“Girls shouldn’t be so stubborn. This is arrogance. Let it pass,” another man said, avoiding my gaze.

The motley group hurried toward Ouseph’s house. Along the way, the muezzin, who calls for prayer at the mosque, inquired about our hasty march. One member of our group called out, “Mullakka, come join us! This concerns one of your people.” Slightly perplexed, Mullakka joined us, but not before casting a derisive glance my way, scrutinising me from head to toe—clearly disapproving of my T-shirt and jeans.

We walked to Ouseph’s house. He was reclining on the verandah, reading a newspaper. A man of about forty-five emerged, smiling. “Welcome! Is the parish committee collecting funds early today?”

“No, it’s about Appachan, your father,” Mariamma Chettathi said.

I stepped on to the verandah. “Ammava, please come out for a moment.”

Ouseph averted his eyes, muttering, “What, dear girl? What can I do for you?”

“Ammava, why don’t you tell these people what you said to me this morning?”

“I’m as old as your grandfather,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Yes, Ammava. That’s what stopped me from slapping you—your age.”

“Hey, what’s this woman ranting about? She can’t barge in and insult my father!” the son said angrily.

“Ouseph, is it true? You know why we’re here. What you said was gross. You should’ve considered the holy sacrament before being so offensive to a girl young enough to be your grandchild. Shameful!” Mariamma Chettathi said sharply.

“Yes, Appachan makes sleazy comments to me daily. I told my husband, but he says to ignore it,” a woman of about forty five said, glancing at her husband and teenage daughter watching from the neighbouring house.

“That’s what emboldens men like Appachan. Your husband should be ashamed. Don’t you have a growing daughter? Would he say the same if someone targeted her?” I said. The man’s head dipped, and his daughter’s face remained expressionless.

“Ouseph, answer yes or no. Is what she says true?” the group’s senior asked.

Ouseph sat silently, palms supporting his head, eyes downcast, unable to meet ours. His pitiful state softened my anger; I felt a pang of pity for this cornered old man. I turned to his son. “Chetta, who else lives with your Appachan besides you?”

“What’s that got to do with this drama?”

“Old age and loneliness, Chetta. You have friends and entertainment, but what about the elderly? No one to talk to, to share feelings or have fun with.”

“Koche, are you saying I don’t care for my father?”

“Did I say that, Chetta?”

“Clara sends a bank draft every month in his name—she doesn’t trust me with money, that foolish woman. He gets sumptuous meals three or four times a day—mutton, beef, fish. He has brandy twice a month, television, cable, air conditioning, Yardley soap, perfume. What more should I provide? Judge for yourselves—I care well for my father. Don’t expect me to massage his feet all day. Now, off with you.”

“Chetta, your Appachan’s silence speaks for itself—what he said this morning, how he spends his days. Chechi has a story too. Who knows how many others do? He’s your parent. It’s kindness to understand their loneliness and insecurity, which food and brandy can’t cure. I’ve said enough.” I turned and walked away.

He shouted after me, “Koche, men crack jokes. Women should laugh it off.”

“Wonderful, son!” Mariamma Chettathi hollered in anguish.

He continued, “You’re slandering my father. When some mad woman spins a false tale, the parish follows. You forgot Appachan’s donations. How do you know she didn’t make passes at him? Her kind of woman could enchant even an old grandfather lying in his grave.”                                                                               Another voice raised from the group—it was Mullakka, his tone dripping with sanctimonious judgment. “You are right, my boy,” he said. “Dressing contrary to what is prescribed, and with the intent to lure men. Satan’s work! A woman should not dare to be like this. Look at her clothes.”

I stopped and turned, meeting Mullakka’s gaze before dismissing him with a look. Then I approached Joseutty, glaring at him. “Call me a slut—it’s the easiest defense, isn’t it? The police warned me that pursuing this could tarnish my reputation and hurt my family. So be it. Chetta, your wife works in the Gulf, sending money for this bungalow and your carefree life. Did your Appachan ever tell you that if she doesn’t have regular sex, her vagina might sew itself .

I walked away, leaving a stunned son and a thrilled Mariamma Chettathi, as her expression told. The group likely stood staring at my receding figure.

 

House of Dark Shadows

Every child growing up is fed eerie tales of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So it was with me. I remember a few elderly relatives and a gaggle of cousins, during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha, regaling me with blood-curdling tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

Walking the narrow, deserted pathways at night was utterly horrifying, even with adults for company. The pale glow of incandescent bulbs atop streetlight poles seemed to cast more shadow than light. Passing by the sacred groves at night, a chilling sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often, we would sprint, muttering holy names. Dark, lonely rooms in the house were another domain where one might encounter the ghost of an old grand-uncle or a hunchbacked great-aunt. Chairs and beds by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. In those village days, toilets were either outside the house, or one had to relieve oneself in the open under a moonlit sky—or, often, a starless, pitch-black one. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins familiar with the place to escort me to the mango tree—a thankless task, as they merely curled deeper under their sheets—or holding a full, almost bursting bladder, counting the minutes of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, and lying terrified until streaks of daylight filtered through the mullioned windows. My elder cousins, relishing the vicarious pleasure of my utter consternation, scared me, a city-born lad, with their eerie tales. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or the fanciful dance of shadows would set my heart pounding so loudly that even a lurking ghost might hear it. Urine would lose direction and force, wetting my undergarments, and in my haste to return to the comparative safety of indoors, drops would trickle down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the departed grand-uncle, watching with amber-like eyes from the sacred grove? Or perhaps the spirit of the woman from the neighbourhood who died of a snakebite? The occasional shrieks and gibberish yells from the lunatic Namboothiri in the nearby illam, where he lived with his octogenarian mother, wafted through the still night, offering no comfort.

Growing up, I recall a late evening walking home after watching the film House of Dark Shadows. Every few steps, I turned to glance behind me. Later, reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula one Sunday afternoon, I sat frozen in my chair, devouring sentence after sentence, page after page, often forgetting to breathe. I hadn’t noticed it had grown dark. This was in our apartment in Kochi, where my housemates were away for the weekend, leaving me alone with Count Dracula for company. I was too scared to move from the chair to switch on the light, preferring to strain my eyes in the fading light rather than stir a limb. Soon, it was pitch dark, save for streaks of light from the streetlamp at the gate. Then, at seven o’clock, the streetlight went out—load-shedding for thirty minutes. In that moment, my resolve to be an atheist offered little solace!

The fear of the dead was profound. Old stories claimed that the dead lingered as ghosts, often seeking vengeance. They carried their animosities into the afterlife, taking neither disobedience nor past rudeness lightly. This dire narrative was instilled in me from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one would die at home or among friends and relatives, for the dead, even without reason, could become our nemesis. Even recently, the tragic death of a friend’s son disturbed me deeply. He was close to me and fond of me. In the nights following his passing, I wondered if he lingered near my bed. Dark rooms at night remained places where the dead might pounce, the grim warnings of my cousins echoing in my ears.

When Amma died, and I spent nearly a year alone in the house after her passing, that fear strangely dissipated. At times, I wished she would appear, so I could address things left undone and unspoken. The confidence that she, even as a ghost, could not and would not harm me was oddly comforting. I could yell at, argue with, or even shout at a mother’s spirit—why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand-uncles or hunchbacked great-aunts. This confidence was both amusing and reassuring.

I still hope that some of those dear to us might visit on a dark, lonely night for a chat, perhaps to resolve things left undone and unspoken. It’s an amusing thought, and I can only laugh at myself.

Burning the Soul

 

He was a timid, shaped by forces beyond his control. How could he be otherwise, dwarfed by self-absorbed adults who scripted his every step? Their judgments loomed, dictating who he should become, what was expected of him. Was he not lucky to escape darker fates—to avoid losing himself entirely or rebelling in ways that might have broken him? He came close. What a fractured, fleeting childhood.

Even now, decades later, the scent of books from the British Council Library lingers. Rainy evenings, with their ceaseless downpours, offered a perfect excuse to delay returning home. Often the library was his refuge. James Leasor, Maurice Proctor, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and James Herriot spun tales that carried him far from his reality. Books on cricket, brimming with timeless photographs, whisked him to the pitches of Old Blighty, Australia, and the Caribbean. Later, he found solace in the Brontës and Dickens. Then came Bertrand Russell –the irresistible, perhaps fortuitously at the most opportune time – late adolescence- and mid-teen. The junior subscription cost just five rupees, yet the tyrants at home argued fiercely over whether he should have such liberty. What if he fell in with the wrong sort? They already suspected he had.

In fifth or sixth standard, Enid Blyton’s stories opened a new world. Her English and enchanting tales sparked reading, an urge for knowledge, and curiosity. The Secret Seven and The Famous Five captivated young readers, while older girls drifted toward Mallory Towers or the romantic allure of Barbara Cartland and Mills & Boon. Blyton’s books, though, were rarely on the library shelves—always borrowed. This scarcity fueled a desire not just to read them but to possess them, a fixation that consumed him.

Each day, Bhaskara Books, the shop on his school route, beckoned. Enid Blyton’s titles glowed from the shelves. Asking the despots at home for money was out of the question—why invite their disdain? A book at Rs 1.50 was a luxury, a frivolity. He should stick to schoolbooks—social studies—or his abysmal mathematics. Yet The Famous Five and The Secret Seven were irresistible. In the early 1970s, whispers of Naxalite ideas—taking from the haves what the have-nots needed—offered a perilous solution. So, he filched. From one of the despots, he pinched Rs 1.50 and, with a mix of pride and thrill, bought his first Famous Five. Like an addiction, Blyton’s world enveloped him. Again and again, each Rs 1.50 fueled another purchase. Soon, all 21 Famous Five and nine Secret Seven books were hidden in a secret corner of the house. He devoured them, pressing his face into their pages, inhaling the scent of fresh paper, lost in their magic.

But the fear of discovery gnawed at him that was a dire possibility. Each day, he opened the wooden box where they were concealed, touching the covers, smelling the pages, escaping to Blyton’s vivid English countryside. He yearned to belong there, far from his cold, oppressive world—a place more suffocating than a garrote.

Ill-gotten treasures, though, rarely endure. The books were discovered, their pristine pages betraying their newness. Questions mounted. How had he acquired such a collection? His excuses and alibis crumbled, and the despots demanded answers. The Great Dictator’s return loomed, promising an inquisition.

In desperation, he acted. One afternoon, he crept to the terrace, books in hand, doused them with kerosene, and struck a match. Tears burned his eyes—not from the billowing smoke—as the pages curled and blackened. Each character seemed to sprout wings, escaping from the stifling place -soaring in the dry afternoon breeze. Soon, only a handful of ash remained. No funeral pyre could have wounded more deeply.

I'm a Farmer

 

From a commoner's perspective, one can see that perhaps the Supreme Court did not delve into the constitutional validity of the farm laws because, prima facie, they may not have identified anything ultra vires of the Constitution and could not strike down the farm laws, hence opted to stay them till further orders.

But at the same time, on what grounds did the Court stay the farm laws? And if they did so to facilitate the committee they proposed, which would examine the issue, why not then ask the government to repeal them instead? Staying the implementation of the laws in itself reflects the Court’s acknowledgement of their obnoxious and egregious nature.

When the Court observed that the government did not hold consultations on the bills with all stakeholders before ramming them through Parliament, does it not indicate that the bills are bad in law? Why then is the decision to stay them and not to order their repeal?

Is it beginning to suggest that something is "rotten in the State of Denmark"?

The Chief Justice timidly observed yesterday that the farmers may not trust them, but they are the Supreme Court. If the Court finds itself in such an unenviable position, where the trust deficit in the Court is at its nadir, there is no one to blame but the Court itself and the men in robes who occupy the hallowed seats.

The Chief Justice's suggestion that the elderly and women participating in the protest must go back may be, as some say, a ruse to prepare the ground for the government to flex its muscles on the protesting farmers.

Never, in post-independent India, and not even during Indira's reign leading up to the Emergency infamy, have we looked at the courts with such sceptical eyes as we now do. Court decisions and subterfuges over the past three to four years do not inspire any trust in the judiciary either. A sad state indeed!

What is astonishing is the Court's insistence that the farmers' unions should participate in the deliberations of the committee. The farmers rightly fear that they would be led up the garden path by a Supreme Court-nominated expert committee, and once they commit to it, they may have no recourse when some alibi is used to vacate the stay on the farm bills, albeit with some cosmetic changes.

I think we are in for a long haul, which may either end unpleasantly and sound the knell for the Modi government, or result in the complete bludgeoning of the farmers by the government, where we may see the Supreme Court, like Pontius Pilate, washing its hands of the blood of India’s food givers.

If this sounds cynical, I cannot help it, but I earnestly wish I am wrong.

Hanuman Pandaram

 

 As a child, I was fed tales of a bogeyman. Recalcitrant, noisy, and demanding children were warned of a certain "Hanuman Pandaram," who would appear from nowhere, perform bizarre dance moves, then snatch you away and vanish forever. The fear was palpable when we were told that the distant sound of a gong heralded his arrival. Eventually, he did appear one day—and many times thereafter—revealing himself to be a harmless, hunched mendicant who performed a monkey dance, wearing a grotesque mask resembling the primate god Hanuman. He would quietly retreat after collecting alms.

Reflecting on those days, I can still feel the fright that the story of Hanuman Pandaram aroused in us. Yet, it must have been a boon for parents, helping them to rein in and control their children.

I liken that childhood fear of Hanuman Pandaram to the scaremongering of the Modi-led narrative about Muslims and minorities. Just as those tales once served to subdue children, today, populations and societies have been effectively divided, with suspicions writ large. The Hindutva agenda has been smoothly accomplished.

Now, more than halfway through my life, I cannot recall a single instance where I was hounded or discriminated against solely for being born Hindu. It amuses me to hear people parrot the notion that Hindus are under threat in their own country. I challenge anyone of my age, or even younger, to come forward and specify what tangible threat they have faced.

As a child, I visited temples, vying to be at the forefront of jostling devotees, eager to ring the temple bells when the priests opened the doors of the sanctum sanctorum. I would also wander into the school chapel, observing nuns kneeling piously in prayer, gazing with pity at the crucified Christ and marvelling at the saints and frescoes adorning the walls. No one forced me to attend catechism classes. In my teens, out of my own volition, I began to question the futility of supplicating to gods and eventually ceased visiting temples as a devotee. To grow up exercising free will, thought, and decision-making—albeit as something of a rebel—was a unique experience that required a touch of resolve. Fortunately, I had that in abundance. I saw no need to question or worry about my church-going friends or Abdul Harris, a schoolmate who, to our amusement and wonder, once showed us his circumcised penis. That did not make us see him as different. We eagerly awaited the Christmas cake from a friend of my grandfather, which arrived unfailingly every Christmas Eve.

Where was the threat to me? Later, there was none for my children, who spent their entire schooling as boarders at St. George’s Homes in Ooty. It was our decision to inform the school principal that we had no objection to our children attending Holy Mass on Sundays at the school chapel. Mercifully, notions of “love jihad” or “holy crusades” had not yet reached Kerala when I broke ranks and married a Catholic—32 years ago to this day, 23 August.

My Hindu identity, whatever that may be, has neither worn out nor diminished. By not fretting over its definition or feeling the need to safeguard that mirage, I have found immense peace that no gods or places of worship could ever provide.

Twice in my life, both times in my early teens, I was approached and cajoled to convert. First, by the local RSS shakha leaders, whose advances I found strangely abhorrent even then. Later, by a neighbourhood senior, accompanied by the then-SFI leader, who appeared at my gate to recruit me as an active SFI member—an offer that failed to inspire.

Lieutenant General .R.Gopal

It has been a long journey for many of us in the decades since college—a rollercoaster for me personally. Yet, what brings immense pleasure is watching close friends climb steadily, and seemingly effortlessly, up the ladder of success. The joy and satisfaction of seeing friends scale the heights of their careers are so profound that you must experience it to truly understand.

One such friend, Lieutenant General Gopal R, UYSM, AVSM, SM, of the 8 Gorkha Rifles, retires from the Indian Army today. Another mate, K.T. Ajith, the quintessential Kannur leftist-liberal bibliophile (if I may say so), who forsook a promising career as a Chartered Accountant to join the State Bank of India mid-career, will retire tomorrow as Chief General Manager.

Lieutenant General Gopal R (Retired) stands out. He held the reins of the prestigious Spear Corps, one of the largest and most operationally active corps of the Indian Army, headquartered in Dimapur, Nagaland. An alumnus of the Indian Military Academy, Higher Command Courses, and the National Defence College, Gopal has had an illustrious career encompassing command, staff, and instructional appointments. These include commanding an infantry battalion on the Siachen Glacier, a mountain brigade, and an Assam Rifles Range in South Assam. He was also among the first members of the team that established the Defence Command and Staff College in Botswana.

Gopal is unique for his unwavering commitment to a single goal: a career as a commissioned officer in the Army, pursued with enviable success. His love for the Army, his ambition, his dedication, and his uncompromising devotion to this goal set him apart. Unlike many of us, including myself, who harboured varied aspirations, Gopal’s sole obsession was to be a soldier—a choice he lived with unparalleled passion. What makes his retirement so remarkable, as no diamond could be, is his fulfilling and proud 40-year career in the infantry, a path he chose with singular focus.

I first encountered him at Model High School, Thiruvananthapuram, though we barely interacted then, as I was a different sort, with friends and priorities far removed from lessons or the NCC. Later, while at Mahatma Gandhi College, I would see him pass by every afternoon at precisely 3:40 p.m., speeding home from Mar Ivanios College on his bicycle. We greeted him daily with howls and catcalls, to which he responded with a shy smile before whizzing past, sometimes in his NCC uniform. We would yell “pattalam” (soldier). Now, I can proudly say that I am among the two or three who still dare to call him “pattalam” to this day.

Two years later, we were classmates at Mar Ivanios College, where I came to know him closely as a paradigm of dedication and honesty. His fascinations and indulgences were limited, unlike most of us. His primary passion seemed to be gathering knowledge—sometimes, one felt he was trying to know too much! A teetotaller, he likely left his share of spirits for me. I cannot forget an incident years ago in Tiruppur, when mobile phones were still the stuff of science fiction. Gopal sent me a letter informing me that his Gorkha would pass through Tiruppur (with the train number and time specified) and asked if I would collect a crate of beer. Did I need persuading? Though the train arrived eight hours late, I found a diminutive Nepali Gorkha standing on the platform, holding a crate of beer and a placard bearing my name.

The chaos that preceded his 1980 train journey to New Delhi for the Indian Military Academy interview and selection process remains vivid. An inebriated ticket examiner who tried to obstruct his travel nearly met a furious Gopal’s wrath, for the man was threatening his sole dream. Would he, for the love of God, let anyone shatter it? Fortunately, the situation was defused, and Gopal travelled without further hindrance.

Gopal has a unique trait: he seeks out old classmates, wherever they may be, visiting them during his vacations in Thiruvananthapuram. I have seldom seen such loyalty in anyone else. I, Christy, and Aravind will never forget the regal treatment we received as his guests in his Dimapur bungalow in December 2018. It was awkward and embarrassing when sentries at his gate saluted us each time we stepped out for a stroll or lounged on the lawn. As ordinary civilians, such deference was overwhelming, but looking back, we felt proud to be his friends and guests. That unique status mattered. The times we spent with him in Wellington, Coonoor—first as a Major and student at the Staff College, and later as a Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel—are unforgettable.

If I were to propose a role model for aspiring young people, it would be Lieutenant General Gopal R (Retired). His uncompromising ambition, earnest efforts, dedication, sincerity, and honesty in achieving his goals are exemplary.

Welcome, mate, to the world of civilians and the social media you long avoided. The honour of remaining our “pattalam” is yours alone. With immense pride, I conclude. (I just spoke to Raji, his wife, who said she’s at home waiting for him while he’s at his office in South Block.)

By the Power of Emoticons

I have noticed distinct characteristics in men and women on Facebook. Some men, who tolerate no criticism, disagreement, or even a suggestion, resort to the easiest course—abuse and slander! This behaviour seems endemic among Sanghis and unrefined Marxists. Even fans of the snake wrangler Vava Suresh hurled such astounding expletives at me that they would outdo the venom of the most poisonous snakes. Meanwhile, women, true to themselves, often walk out and block you when you disagree. Both groups seem intellectually bankrupt. What do you think?

Recently, three women slammed the virtual door in my face on Facebook. One returned a few months later, rather subdued, as if she were never the termagant who stormed off with a snort. “Hi, can you tell me what you think of this?” she asked. I sidestepped, replying, “Why are you back here asking me? Why should I engage with someone overflowing with cussedness?” “Oh, sorry about that,” she said. But in less than a month, she walked out again when I disagreed with her conspiracy theories on matters ranging from the moon landing and climate change to the necessity of a Covid-19 vaccine. She boasted that she had never vaccinated her daughter or her pet dogs and never would. I asked, “Not even for polio?” She was imperious, declaring, “Yes, and never.” I responded, “Oh, lady, your daughter is 25 and tremendously lucky, and you were reckless.” She unfriended me on Facebook and blocked my phone too.

Another woman, with a strong detestation for Narendra Modi, caught my attention on Facebook. She seemed knowledgeable and concerned about matters around us, unafraid to express herself strongly. But I soon realised that disdain for Moditva is no guarantee of amicable social relationships. She wrote on her page that no one was to share her opinions or posts without her permission. I wondered if what we write or post on social media attracts copyright law to demand that others not copy. I suggested that the share button implies an allowance for copying, and acknowledging or tagging the source might suffice. I also recommended consulting an expert on copyright laws. That peeved her. She veered off on a tangent, accusing me of insensitivity and disregard for another person’s misfortune. She claimed I expressed amusement through a laughing emoji when she wrote in a brief review of the film Thappad that she thanked her stars she chose to be single.

Gosh, the power of emoticons struck me. I was truly amused now!

I explained that her comment amused me because these days, we often hear young people say such things, and I knew of a few amusing cases where extreme views were raised for frivolous reasons. Besides, I hadn’t watched the film to critique it, and my expression was neither disapproving nor approving of the story’s premise. She later wrote that she had walked out on an abusive spouse, asserting that no man may hit her or have a say over her body, and accused me of being a true misogynistic sod. By the time I wrote to apologise for the misunderstanding, clarifying that I had no knowledge of her past, that I admired her courage, and that my emoji was not meant to offend, she had blocked me and vanished.

What a fascinating and convoluted place this virtual world of social media and emojis is!

Do I Hate Modi? A citizen's Posit

The usual refrain is, “You ignorant Modi haters, your dislike for the man blinds you, and you refuse to acknowledge the good he has done. You sickular, urban-Naxal, anti-national commies.” This comment has become so hackneyed that it glaringly reveals who is truly ignorant, if not blinded and biased.

Am I biased in my opinion of Narendra Damodardas Modi, the Prime Minister of India? Do I hate the man so much that my assumptions and opinions are prejudiced against him and his nearly six years as the country’s leader? Often, I have paused to reflect: could these critics be right? Are my opinions and comments—though a constitutionally guaranteed right—driven by hatred for the man? Do I hate him?

Heads of state often occupy unenviable positions, and as the Shakespearean lament goes, “…and in the calmest and stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

I pondered deeply, even setting aside Godhra and the Gujarat pogrom, and juxtaposed Narendra Modi with King Henry bemoaning his crown’s burdens, unable to find peace unlike even the poorest. I drew a blank. In his exalted role as the master of all he surveys, Modi, over the past six years as Prime Minister, has failed himself, the people, and the nation. One must be incorrigibly blind or utterly foolish to think otherwise.

Before explaining my stance, I asked his supporters to highlight a few of his achievements that transformed the country for the better, hoping they might sway my view. But each time, I received only invectives and even lost a long-standing friendship. Thus, I hasten to clarify my perspective as an ordinary voter who exercised his right in the past two general elections, unaffiliated with any political party.

True, I had serious reservations about Narendra Modi coming to power, and even more about him retaining it in the previous election. That aside, when he rode into New Delhi in his first term, I fervently hoped I was wrong. His symbolic gesture of genuflecting at the doors of Parliament sparked hope that I had misjudged him. I recalled how his predecessor, Indira Gandhi, treated Parliament like a juggler’s pins, rendering the cabinet and house servile, mauling the Constitution, superseding judges with pliable ones, deracinating democratic institutions, and suspending fundamental rights for 18 long months. Here was a lesser-known, controversial figure—a commoner—prostrating at the doorstep of democracy, as he put it. It was a moment to inspire hope and trust.

I thought his resounding election victory might have chastened him, prompting a call for unity, urging the nation to set aside parochial, communal, and religious intolerances, fostering camaraderie and universal brotherhood. I hoped he would end the inertia of the second UPA government, tackle corruption strangling the nation, restore confidence in the economy, and provide succour to the needy, underprivileged, and marginalised. I expected him to shun the divisive, hate-filled saffron-Hindutva ideology he wielded in Gujarat and strive to build an inclusive, rainbow nation, to paraphrase Bishop Desmond Tutu. I hoped he would uplift the underprivileged, give meaning to Dalit lives by cracking down on casteism and untouchability—still a scourge in many parts of the country—ensure tribals were treated as humans and citizens, not dispossessed, and heed scientific advice to address climate change, protecting the environment rather than ravaging it in the name of development. I believed he would honour the confidence of the youth swayed by his “sab ka sath, sab ka vikas” and “acche din” slogans, halt the disastrous slide in Kashmir, deal with Pakistan and China as a statesman, bolster underfunded health and education sectors, and uphold the scientific temper exhorted by Jawaharlal Nehru and enshrined in the Constitution’s Directive Principles.

Yet, as days, weeks, months, and years passed, Modi’s intentions became less and less curious, to borrow from Alice. As Arun Shourie famously put it, Modi’s rule is “UPA plus the cow.”

1. It became clear we were saddled with a thespian nonpareil, thriving on theatrics, spectacles, gimmicks, and foolery—a sophist peddling falsehoods at every turn. Even his academic qualifications have become an apparent lie and a joke, much like the fantastical tales of his childhood.
2. His ego is so immense that his sole intent is to burnish his image. His knowledge of economics is woefully inadequate, yet his conceit and hubris prevent him from admitting mistakes or surrounding himself with talent and scholarship.
3. Indebted to crony capitalist friends who placed him in the Prime Minister’s chair, he made quid pro quo blatant.
4. Instead of tackling corruption, he effectively legalised it through the egregious instrument of “electoral bonds.”
5. He unleashed sectarianism, granting the Sangh Parivar carte blanche to unleash Hindutva goons on society, targeting Muslims, minorities, Dalits, and tribals, paving the way for lynchings in the name of the cow, Lord Ram, and religion. The gentle cow became a predatory symbol, with law enforcers facilitating crimes by saffron goons.
6. Bigotry became the official religion, and daily doses of outlandish, bizarre idiocy from BJP ministers and parliamentarians became an embarrassment to common sense and the nation.
7. The extent of fear and emasculation among the intelligentsia was evident as early as 2014, when physicians sat mutely through Modi’s speech claiming cosmetic surgery and reproductive genetics existed in ancient India, citing the mythical Karna and the elephant-headed Ganesha. Stupidity seemed seamless under his rule.
8. The most ridiculous, quixotic, and heartless decision—demonetisation—was inflicted on the nation.
9. The GST, a novel tax regime mooted by former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and opposed by Modi as Gujarat’s Chief Minister, was rolled out hastily without proper planning, botching commerce and tax generation. His yearning for theatrics and a place among the nation’s founders led to a midnight Parliament session to announce it, throwing the economy into a tailspin.
10. For the first time in independent India, global financial institutions began sceptically eyeing the statistical figures dished out by the Modi government. The country’s own Department of Statistics distanced itself from the government’s data.
11. Lies and falsehoods became the norm, with cyber cells set up to spread innuendos and canards.
12. The massive defence deal with France was arrogated by Modi himself, with his government stonewalling legitimate queries.
13. Parliamentary procedures were steamrolled with scant regard for conventions and propriety.
14. The Constitution was defenestrated with the abrogation of Article 370.
15. Important legislation was passed as money bills to circumvent debate in the opposition-controlled Rajya Sabha.
16. An egregious law enabling religious profiling, reminiscent of the Third Reich, was passed to identify and sequester Muslims, throwing the nation into turmoil. Modi’s unstatesmanlike remark that protesters could be identified by their dress was infamous.
17. Institutions were systematically encroached upon and packed with ideologues; textbooks were rewritten with Hindutva narratives and mumbo jumbo.
18. Courts and media were bought or bludgeoned into submission, and institutions of higher learning were targeted with canards. Criminals escorted by police were given free rein to attack faculty and students on campuses.
19. Police aided rioters, allowing the capital to burn for three days while targeting Muslims.
20. International reports and WHO warnings about Covid-19’s pandemic potential were ignored for over a month, as Modi prioritised toppling the Madhya Pradesh government and hosting Donald Trump’s visit. By then, the damage was done, and proactive measures were non-starters.
21. Intolerance towards criticism and dissent outdid Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.
22. Contempt for scholarship, intellect, and science was evident, with central funding for research slashed to 0.8% of GDP and funds for education and health cut.
23. If he claims to be a democrat, why has he not faced the media? Not one candid press conference in his tenure proves his reluctance to face the truth.
24. As a Keralite, I cannot forget how malevolently Modi finessed aid from friendly Arab nations promised to the state after the devastating floods two years ago.

Modi’s penchant for theatrics and symbolic gestures has consistently beguiled Indians over the past six years. His plea to “burn him at the stake” if demonetisation failed moved people, but they forgot his offer when it proved a monumental blunder, fraud, and crime against Indians. The drama over the Pulwama attack, where 40 soldiers perished in a high-security zone, remains a mystery like Godhra but stirred such emotion that people rallied behind him. The supposed surgical strikes across the border, evading Pakistani radars to hunt terrorists, anointed him as India’s fearless Napoleon or Lancelot. These incidents propelled him to a thumping majority, but over the bodies of thousands of farmers who ended their lives amid farm distress, 40-year-high unemployment, an economic tailspin, atrocities on Dalits, marginalisation of Muslims and minorities, dispossession of tribals, and unprecedented mutual suspicion in society.

Before the recent theatrics of clanging vessels and lighting lamps, the nationwide lockdown, announced with just four hours’ notice, led to an exodus of lakhs of migrant labourers, defeating its purpose. Modi’s penchant for drama without planning or empathy was evident. These spectacles proved clownish and disastrous, undermining physical distancing. His call for clanging and banging would have been welcome had he shown an iota of sincerity in tackling the communal hatred fanned by his party and the Sangh. I would have joined these symbolic gestures if he had uttered one effective sentence to his bhakts and Sanghi stormtroopers, stressing that unity means inclusiveness across religion, caste, and creed, and that symbolism must translate into reality. I would have volunteered had he not infamously profiled dissenters by their attire—an outrageous remark from a Prime Minister. Let him first target bigotry, regardless of religious hue, if he sincerely seeks unity. Symbolic drama is an irritating comedy and utter dishonesty when Modi has not shown one act of carrying all Indians with him.

It is not just hatred; it is detestation of what he stands for. I am offended that the Prime Minister has created more division than the British did in their imperial history. Mr Modi, there is still time to make amends and leave a legacy that allows posterity to overlook your fallibilities and see you as a statesman.

The nation has been changed forever. Even if Modi is voted out in 2024 or beyond—if elections occur—it will take years to repair the social fabric, for people to trust their neighbours, and for ethnicity, religion, and caste to become insignificant, with harmony, food, shelter, security, and a clean environment becoming existential priorities.

The Wizard King

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a man with a broad chest who ruled over a kingdom where the people’s lack of intelligence astonished even him. He rightly observed this to his coterie. But his subjects, blinkered in their lives, had never seen a donkey and thus could not compare themselves to the timid, foolish beast. They believed their King was clever, and they were as clever as he.

The King was as canny as a fox, though he also fancied himself smart with a high IQ. Kings from other kingdoms longed to politely remind him he was an idiot, like his subjects, but he hastened to hug and charm them upon meeting, so they refrained from candour to avoid rudeness.

The truth was stark: the King frequently appeared on national television, issuing mad decrees he claimed were for the greater common good, demanding compliance that his donkey-like subjects, the fools, gleefully obliged, eagerly awaiting more. He was a sorcerer, hypnotising his subjects, who followed him with a fervour that would make the Pied Piper of Hamelin envious. He proclaimed decrees at night, and the next day, he would wail, beating his chest, urging them to burn him at the stake if he was wrong. They forgave him, unable to bear the sight of tears in his eyes, unaware that his marble-like eyes could not produce tears. Often, he sent a decoy—some say his real old mother—to perform the same tasks he asked of his subjects, and they went wild, dancing and singing eulogies to the King and his old mother. The King spared not even his mother! How noble! In his castle, the King laughed heartily, rocking in his chair, while his donkey subjects brayed in unison, “Oh, great leader, you are the shining star, the burning sun, son of gods; you could never be wrong. You are infallible, the light, and our deliverance.”

One day, shortly before midnight, the King appeared on television, dressed in splendid silk attire with an appliquéd tapestry that, upon closer inspection, bore his name embroidered in gold thread. His snow-white mane was immaculately groomed and waxed with ancient Indian herbs, its aroma stifling even through television screens, yet perceived as fragrant incense by his hallucinating subjects in their dreamy indolence. He decreed that from midnight, he would suspend the earth’s gravity so his subjects could spread their wings, hitherto tethered by evil forces, and fly with abandon. As midnight struck, his donkey subjects flocked and jostled to leap from apartment windows, expecting to float like fairies in zero gravity. Those in hutments scampered up coconut palms to jump and fly. Such was his commanding sway over them that they gleefully leapt and flew—only to fall flat on their skulls and faces, crashing to the ground like hailstones. Their craniums, ribs, and bones snapped like twigs, yet they believed they were flying, feeling the cold wind against their faces. They were in awe, convinced they soared. The wizard King effortlessly held them under his spell, and their broken skulls, dying hearts, and aching bodies refused to accept they had not flown. They bled and bled.