Requiem for a Turkey

I picked her from a vendor who sells gallinacean birds. In fact she was marked for slaughter. Her whitish feathers and plumes where mud brown out of dirt and the cramped existence in the abattoir. It has been three months since.

I and C used to talk to her when she, out of her curious and inquisitive self ventures on to the veranda of the house.. We used to tell her that she is a lucky turkey. And that seldom will people by fowls from an abattoir and domesticate them. Wonder if she understood us. Perhaps! She, along with the tom turkey we have, always preferred to be near us when we are outside the house. She with her mate  used to follow us around the compound . Twice she fell into the pond, and had to be pulled out. She leans over the edge looking for insects by the ledge of the pond and also to quench .The good thing that came out of her two adventurous falls into water was that her muddy brown plume were washed off the dirt. and became milky white. She even started growing new bright white feathers. We called her ‘Old lady’. Because we did not know her age and presumed that since she was kept for slaughter she must be pretty aged. Sometimes she kept an imperious air. She was agile and some times ran quite fast when chased by the male or the ubiquitous guinea fowls.

She often jumps on to the chair in the verandah and purr. She I guess wanted to be seen sitting next to us. This happens most often in the morning when I and C sit on the verandah with our morning tea. She stretches her neck long and looks at us inquisitively.We felt she is a turkey with human sensibilities.

She had a very annoying habit of teasing the dogs especially Blacky, the Labrador. She used to entertain herself at the dog’s annoyance. She used to stay very near his meshed enclosure and stare at him with a mocking air. The dog gets annoyed and absolutely exasperated that he barks and jumps all over wanting to pounce on her. The acrimony of the dog gets unbearable and we will have to shoo her farther away from the kennel.. C warned her of the danger of getting close to the dog enclosure and irritating it. But I guess she was indifferent to that advise.

Yesterday, strangely she decided to do something she has not done before. Take on the two Rotweillers at the other end of the compound, Rambo and the hyper bitch Emma.

The old lady perhaps found irritating the two dogs at the same time, quite enjoyable. She was moving around close to their enclosure teasing them and enjoying their irritated bark. But then she did the unthinkable. She pushed her head through the metal mesh into the enclosure and clucked at the dogs. And before she could wink or yelp Rambo the Rottweiller had her head in its mouth! It did not take longer than a couple of  seconds. The old lady was limply flapping her wings, and head gone- decapitated – pulled out. The head was gone into the mouth of the Canine. It was ripped off from the torso. The strong jaw bones of the Rotweiller clapped the canines deep into the sides of her head and the force of the pull severed her head along with the strand of the wind pipe.She may not have realised the pain  of the gruesome and brutal manner of death. It was swift!

It was stupid and casual of her to have put her head into the enclosure. Well then she did not realise the reprieve she got when we took her away from the slaughter house. Like many of us she took her life a bit casual and paid the price for the indifference in very, very dear terms.

She now is cleaned and dressed and in the freezer waiting to be meal for the dogs tomorrow.Sadly we found that she had been laying eggs some where in the compound and the crows where feasting on them- she was full of maturing eggs when we cut her open to remove her entrails.

Meenakshi

Some faces can never go away from memory. They are etched in us. And elapse of time seldom eclipses or erases the face.. Even before adolescent days, I was sent to my ancestral house to spend summer vacations. The white sands of that place bordering the sea, with its un- demarcated boundaries between families and homes was indeed a vast expanse, a canvas that an adolescent mind saw as a never ending horizon.

It was there that I happened to know Meenakshi. This must have been in my early teen.

She was pretty and cute little girl perhaps thirteen or fourteen of age. her facial expressions where captivating and her eyes always seem to tell  the wonder the world is .She was sparkling and loaded with life. She used to join us (I and a retinue of cousins) when we venture out to the mango groves and the lily ponds that where strewn all over. She was always effervescent amongst us and in what ever we did and where ever we went. The day used to begin at around 6 in the morn when we children from different house holds used to scamper around the vast expanse and beneath the mango trees in search of  ripe fruits that may have fallen down during the night. And Meenakshi was always the first to be around. It was a sort of early bird gets the food kind of situation.. Hours used to be spent in the ponds frolicking and yelling, splashing water and diving deep and surfacing from nowhere. Meenakshi was ubiquitous in all and every where. She was the daughter of Kaikeki Amma..  Kaiki as we used to call the elder woman used to do house hold chores there. She used to venture to around four houses that where spread around .Meenakshi was the last child of her long line of seven children. Being the youngest of the siblings she had to at times absorb the audacious attitude of some of her big ones. Meenakshi used to tell me how much she loved her family her, mother, father and the sisters and brothers. The family was maintaining on a kind of collective pooling of resources that they bring home. And Meenakshi being the little one was let to enjoy some of the spoils and indulge at times, (but all that was free was always with a rider).

Every visit to the land of fun and frolic during each summer holidays, and Meenakshi  seemed to be growing in splendour  and lure. During one summer, I noticed that Meenakshi was not around to charm the holidays. I was told that she was married and had gone away with her spouse. I felt a bit forlorn for not only having lost her presence,but out of a bit of envy as well.

Years went by and I met her again during one of my visits to the ancestral home. She was into the mid forties and the travesty of life, I felt had corroded her beautiful face. There where streaks of grey on her forehead. The cheerful girl who used to charm and pleasant with her presence was now doing house hold chores for sustenance. Where she always used to sport a saffron hot red sindhooram , her fore head  was pale.. Her family had hit it rich and moved away .They where now free from all the trappings of the country side and was immersed in affluence and pomp. Meenakshi told me that she visits her mother on most week ends. The old woman Kaikeki Amma who used to vex to meet ends working as house maid now employs a retinue of servants at her beck and call. She owns a rich farm as well. Meenakshi’s life had fallen by the wayside to ill luck and bad times. And she had to come back from the city she lived after her wedding, and take up what Kaikeki Amma , her mother did long before- work as maid at various house hold.

I asked her if she could not approach her family for assistance. She smiled wryly and said nothing. Then she whispered with a faint sob, that she went to see her mother to pay for the half liter of milk she takes home for herself from her mother's dairy farm. And all that her mother could tell her was to remind that she did not pay the month’s bill on time and that the price of milk is not what she pays. Her mother did not see that she was devoid of even the last strand of gold chain she used to wear. And that she had to sell it as a last resort to burn the kitchen stove. Kaikeki Amma  either failed, or did not notice or simply turned her eyes away from the glaring fact that how bereft her daughter Meenakshi  was.

Machiavelli

I have the book “The Prince” by Nicholas Machiavelli. And I have been reading it off and on. Though the book is of a hundred and odd pages and was bought from ‘Land Mark’ Chennai some years ago it has taken me all the while to even reach any where near the end page. Now that I get frequent calls from R and she keeps reminding me of reference books she wants for her political science class, I decided Machiavelli’s ‘Prince’ would be an earnest choice of reference. I have to give her the book when she comes home in a few weeks time.


However to me, a lay person, with little understanding of political treatise and political science, the book was more telling from a social point of view vis a vis myself as a social being and the others - friends, relatives, acquaintances, business accomplices etc.What  is told in the 'Prince' is ipso facto seen happening all around in various relationships.in the present world.

Machiavelli did not precede father figures of political science like Aristotle and Plato but he lived centuries after .He lived in the fifteenth century in Italy, and, is  considered as one of the pillars of political science and the art of  political dispensation, a la Chanakya in ancient India. The “Prince” was published only a few years after his death, though he shared the treatise with his close people.

It is trifle unjust that Machiavelli’s name must be identified with or taken as synonym for wickedness, furtive and be seen as a repelling trait or character in a person.

Machiavelli was born during a turbulent time in Italy. And the Papacy was at one end trying to dominate the Princes and assert divine dispensation. Whilst the princes and the wealthy elite where sceptical about one another and were at loggerheads and war.Machevellie was trained by his strong father and he entered Florentine bureaucracy as junior. He later was sent to French court as envoy. He soon got absolute authority in war related matters and the militia. After a grievous coup de tat he was imprisoned, tortured and let free. He retired and retreated where upon he wrote the “Prince”.

The Prince is a discourse of prudent and crafty political dispensation. It is simple in context, how a ruler can achieve control over his domain. Scruples and values have no meaning when it comes to struggle and perpetuation of power. Though morality is given a pedestal it is seen in the context of political dispensation and necessity. The criteria are acceptable cruel action, decisive swift and short lived. The book is a manual which explains how to acquire and keep power.

The church proscribed 'The Prince' as it has always done to thoughts .Machiavelli’s   treatise is based on his observation while in the government and the ways and means by which Princes conduct themselves.

 Interestingly Machiavelli did not believe that virtuosity brings happiness.. And terrifyingly he says the ruler better be feared and loved, and better be feared than loved, that he can rule. It is no wonder that taking the Machiavellian cue many coups have seen total annihilation and rooting of the surviving members of a dynasty. Let it be the Bolshevik revolution, the French, or the Mujib family annihilation in Bangladesh, brutal and swift action has been the thumb rule.

 Machiavelli documented his observations as to how, if , when and why . He valued virtue. He valued individual freedom and hence a republic. But he warned, that for freedom and liberty to thrive the citizenry has to be virtuous, courageous and on guard. Though he believed that it is difficult to achieve an assembly of these idealism and they rarely existed anywhere.

Machiavelli believed that human nature was immutable and led by passion.

What is strikingly contemporary is the cunning and deviousness that is orchestrated in day to day life in our society. The usage “Machiavellian”, as an adjective and a synonym  for stealth and wickedness to achieve once end though was only commented upon by Machiavelli is now practiced in his name .The immutable nature of human beings is incorrigible as well. In every aspect of human society and life we can notice the prophecies and inferences of Machiavelli zealously practiced. .If Machiavellian thesis was about drama that would be enacted in courts of princes, and their wily ways to harbour power, in our present day society, it is in fact a daily facet of life be it in politics, business or social and personal relationships.

WHY???

Since sometime I identified two activities that would personally relieve me of stress and strain of the day or the moment. One is cooking and the other, pen my thoughts.

Cooking has not been strange to me. As I learned the subject through practical follies and little success, while I was living in Cochin in the early 80’s.And now cooking, which also includes chopping and cleaning of meat or vegetables are so helpful to relieve stress. Perhaps it is because one is engaged in an act in which full attention of the mind and limbs are directed. And that involvement outside the factors that trigger and contribute  towards stress and strain helps in alleviating the later.

Writing down my thoughts and feelings is another trusted engagement that helps me get over the persistence of stress. And when the electronic aid of Blogging was free at the door step, I thought why not post it as well.

I write this on this Sunday morning sitting at my table in my office. There is no distraction, and no body around except the watchman outside at the gate. And I’m free to type what I feel. And post it as well.

Do I have to trouble and worry if others read my blog post or choose not to? Do I have to worry if others eat what I cook? Well I decided not to,(though the cuisines have not been disapproved yet by any person).And I certainly do think that I must not care an iota  if someone disapproves what I write only because he or she feels that I’m blunt and use strong words and touch upon inconvenient subjects. Honestly, I repeat again, that I write for myself. It is a sort of relieving. Strong emotions evoke strong words and comments. And any one may, and has the right to disapprove. I do not in any remote way want to infringe on that right of a person.

I have in this short span of two odd years of finding the solace in blogging has not in any way directly mentioned any person by name. Though at many times the subjects that I commented and spun can or may be real life characters. It is the experiences in the outside world that provoke ones thoughts. It is the people that you were fortunate or unlucky to be in contact that creates reactions in you. And that is exactly what is helping me pen.And if anybody opines that when I m negative in my blogging or when I harp upon characters that are to be kept away or left alone ,I m in  a way corroding my thoughts , well I have this to state- "in fact on the contrary,when I do exactly that, I m scraping off  the corrosion that may possibly have coroded my mind".

I have no regret about that and I do not see any reason to offer apology. If  I sounded negative it is only a natural reaction to a mendacity and impiety of the subject or people I write about. So who should fret and wonder why I write such?

People of little or no understanding of the situation, thought or the experiences of the other are more apt to be upset when they feel that their sensibilities are questioned by the other through words or letters. And that again is not to be contested. Feeling offended is also ones birth right!

So I will continue to pen and post my thoughts, experiences and feelings. If any body out there feels offended or peeved, skip my blog. I write as I said, like I cook to share invisibly with myself. And intent to continue that lonely journey till biological factors supersede.

"Christ of Saint John of the Cross”

While aimlessly browsing the internet, I stumbled upon a section dedicated to Salvador Dalí, the surrealist artist and iconoclast who redefined the concept of art. Though I can’t draw a straight line, I’ve always been captivated by Dalí’s unconventional appearance. I first encountered him years ago in the obituary column of The Hindu. His striking facial expression and meticulously waxed mustache were as esoteric as his creations. Later, I came across a few of his paintings and an article in a magazine highlighting his whimsical, unpredictable persona.

Delving deeper online, I uncovered fascinating details about his life and work. One painting, in particular, seized my attention from the first glance: Christ of Saint John of the Cross. To me, it’s an extraordinary piece that feels more like vibrant cinematography than a traditional canvas. The bold colors and unique perspective create a powerful, almost otherworldly effect. This depiction of the crucifixion—a subject so familiar and frequently explored—stands out as strange yet uniquely compelling, showcasing Dalí’s ability to transform the ordinary into the sublime.

Like many of Salvador Dalí’s creations, Christ of Saint John of the Cross offers a glimpse into his temperamental and unconventional personality. Intrigued, I delved into his biography. Dalí was born in Figueres, a Spanish town near the French border, not Cantilena, Italy, as some might mistakenly assume. Raised by a strict, disciplinarian father, Dalí grew up alongside two siblings: an elder brother, who died young, and a younger sister. When Dalí was five, his father took him to his brother’s grave and declared that Dalí was his brother reincarnated. Dalí internalized this belief, which profoundly shaped his psyche. He later described himself and his brother as resembling “two droplets of water with different reflections,” a poetic reflection of how this early experience molded his eccentric and surreal identity.

Salvador Dalí’s life was marked by turmoil and tragedy. He lost his mother to cancer in his teens, a loss he deeply mourned. Dalí described her as a revered figure who helped him cleanse the “blemishes of his soul,” shaping his emotional and artistic core. Later, his wife, Gala, reportedly administered unprescribed concoctions that exacerbated the nerve damage caused by Parkinson’s disease. A mysterious fire in his apartment, still unexplained, led some to speculate that Dalí attempted suicide. In his final years, he deliberately dehydrated himself, seemingly to hasten his death.

The painting Christ of Saint John of the Cross emerged from an inspirational dream. Dalí portrayed the crucifixion with striking originality, omitting bloodstains, nails, or a crown of thorns. The figure of Christ appears to float above a serene body of water, with fishing boats in the foreground and a dark sky overhead. Guided by his dream, Dalí chose an extreme, almost cinematic angle for the cross, creating a surreal and transcendent vision of a familiar subject.

Mallu notes

The recent ruling of the Kerala High court banning (the so called) public meetings on public roads and motorways evoked as expected outrage amongst the political clan of the state.

Some of the clan members are so distressed by the courts observation and strictures that they might  even claim that the court is a protégé of the United States of America.

I heard one political creature on the television ask if the court wants public meetings to be held in “poora parmabu’, away from the glare and publicity of a public through way. Little did the ignorant fellow realize that in the age of visual and mass media explosion, even if a political meeting is held in Timbukootu it will be viewed and seen by the masses.

The political class of the state claims that all the jamborees and meetings on road sides are organized for the welfare and good of the public. They swear that the hardships and agony people encounter during such meetings are meant to tell the whole world that people of Kerala are enlightened and conscious of their rights and will resist injustices meted out to them.

I really wonder if in the whole world it is only Keralites who are conscious of their rights (obviously not of their duties). If one travel to other states in India one will not see the sit in agitations at the State Secretariat gates. But in Thiruvanathapuram that is now part of the daily life. Only Keralites are starved off their constitutional rights! Seems people in other States are either nit wits or are content. Keralites might say that other state dwellers are nit wits. Daily rallies and demonstration are never ending in Kerala. Even the co- habituating West Bengal is different. Keralites have now become a class apart who relishes opposing any thing and every thing. And if people cannot discern with reason then what behoves of a claim of one hundred percent literacy?

Over the past two decades of my life in Tamilnad I can remember of hardly a handful of hartals or general strikes ( bandhs). Whilst I understand that in Kerala such horrible events are four times over the annual privilege leave credited to a worker. I have not encountered any obstruction or hooliganism in Tamilnad while I have been out in my car or two -wheeler on such a day. But, I can still remember with quite a  trepidation the menacing faces of some VHP activists who threatened to smash my car while I was driving down to Thiruvananathapuram on a hartal day enforced by that out fit.

In Tamilnad farmers rotate their crops. They do inter cropping that fetches income during the non yielding times of the main crop.And that, being a scientifically and financially sane policy, the land also stays fertile and is not starved off its natural and regenerating nutrients. Farmers cultivate, maize, millet, ground nuts, sugar cane, banana and rice depending on the seasonal cycle. And the communist cadres in Tamilnad have not ever thought of decimating the cultivation. While in Kerala we hear and see of hooliganism wrecked on crops in the name of outlandish policies which the communist brethren of Tamilnad or even West Bengal let alone their inspirational mother land, China seldom enact. In the highly intellectual land of 'mallus' will the officialdom and their cronies allow a farmer to choose his crop, to vary his farming , to supplement with inter crops?No well not!. That will tantamount to ideological blasphemy.And the result is Tamilnad and Andhra have surpassed the land of 'mallus' with regard to food grain production and even cash crop cultivation. If it comes to a situation where in the Tamil folks decide to not sell farm products to Kerala, the vast intelligent and conscientious lot of that state will have no other recourse but to starve or learn the nuances of making “rubber sap” edible.A improvised version of alchemy perhaps!

And worst of all the vast of the lot in Kerala are sexually perverted and sick. This inference is not isolated or personal. But expressed to me by the very many who live their. I had a near terrifying time personally when I took my children and my friend’s adolescent daughter to a one day cricket match in Cochin. The eyes of the young and old where lecherous and menacingly eying and stripping that skinny little girl. I had to forget cricket and keep a watchful cocoon around her. And as recently as a few weeks ago the daughter of  another friend who just finished her Engineering tell  C that in Kerala men rape you everyday  mercilessly with their eyes.

Living in Tamiland over the past two decades has made me distance from any idea of going back to Kerala if given a choice. Not because it is heavenly here, but because even God has vanished from 'Gods own country' long before. And ,"all the kings men and all the kings horses can never put Humpty Dumpty together again”.

Little lady with the lamp

This happened a few years ago. And R was in the middle school class.
C spoke to me about her father’s death anniversary. And that she would prefer to visit his grave in the Kilpauk cemetery in Chennai where he was laid to rest. She confided that she needed some peace of mind on that day and so did not want to spend the day with her clan who as usual where all slated to make the anniversary day a day for feasting and superficial prayers. She also disliked the retinue of prelates who would descend on her clan’s bungalow. She traveled to Chennai by the overnight train on January the 11. I booked her return tickets on the 12 th evening flight from Chennai to Coiambatore . And assured her that I will pick her from the airport.

On the 12 th evening I and R (she had holidays) drove to Coiambatore. to pick C when she was back .

The drive back to our place was almost an hour and it was a bit late around 9 in the night. R took the rear seat of the car and we thought she slept off. C began to tell about her brief time in Chennai; her visit to the cemetery and how she got the care- taker to clean the tomb stone and arranged for some flowers to be laid on, and the time she stayed by the grave in quiet.

She also dropped over at her brother in law’s flat to enquire after him. He was living alone and after a by pass surgery of the heart. His wife  suddenly developed anathema to him. Perhaps he was past his prime, perhaps he was a handicap with a heart condition! Who can tell the wiles of woman without being charmed by her deceit? It was apparent from what C was telling me that he was finding it difficult to meet ends. And with no one for company, help or comfort. The discussion on this gentleman and the wickedness of people concerned went on for most of our drive back home. We in fact could only sigh for him.

C told me later next day that R was awake all through the drive back from Coiambatore . And she went to C first thing in the morning and said, “amma I was awake while you were discussing about ‘daddy’( she calls her uncle daddy).And I listened to all that you and atcha discussed. I have about one thousand rupees with me from my last birthday and other times. You can send that money to daddy. He is in need.”.

She was then twelve and I wish and hope that she carries such a heart through her life.