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.

SHE

There has always been the one and only irritant which has created small tremors in our midst (me and C). It has been her helpless difficulty in accepting fait accompli when it comes to who are her siblings. There were quite a few heated arguments and yelling from my side. There were times when we chose to ignore the existence of the other for days. And I realised, I guess her as well, that we were being unhelpful to our life by being at logger heads on a subject which is about the malevolence of others.

But painfully I realised the burning ember within her that she has always tried to put away from me. Perhaps it was her way of not accepting and hoping that the reality is not what it is but what she long and yearn it is. Perhaps she thinks that if she breaks down in an unassuming and unguarded moment from the agonising puncture her inner self carries from the spitefulness of her siblings, that would be morally depressing after all the aura and fortification she created around the love they have for her.

I have wondered loudly during many of our discussions and arguments on the matter that she is being foolish showing her left cheek, while they have already mauled the other. I ask her often "why do you have to invite them to spite your whole face when you know that they have done that to your cheek”?

She confesses that she knows they are such, but she cannot be vengeful and dislike them. She laments she cannot hate them for what they do to her. She says that should they be in trouble and need she would be unhesitant to lend them succour. She cannot be what they are. That seems to be the perennial difficulty she would encounter and perhaps she being different is what I, Ara and R are lucky about.

Modern day Pharohs

This is a brief note on the Modern day Pharaohs who crave to reach the nether world with all their trappings from this world intact.

They are  amongst us. And they lost their soul long ago when the life they chose was one of lust for riches. Now they are all in their near twilight times. But the feeling of invincibility rules the roost and has metamorphosed them into impudent lot. The audacity comes from the power of the riches that flooded to them like manna from heaven. The weird sisters of Macbeth (the three witches) where a lot that was unfairly ridiculed as the dark characters. But the witches I speak about are the wayward ones, hand in hand, and assume to be the masters of the sea, sky and land”.

They are witches of dark and contradictory nature, with filthy trappings and activities.

They know that the days of the mortals are few. But the craving to walk the earth forever and ever lingers like the undying tempest.

They have now struck upon the idea of an after life. They yearn and will to carry the booty they amassed through their very many means into the crypt they will finally be interned. Like the Pharaohs they have decided to take into their sepulcher the gold, trinkets, money and all other material garnering they possess. They fear, they fear having to leave all that they possess behind.

They fear being dispossessed in this world. The fear of being dispossessed in the nether world! And like the Pharaohs they fear death and dispossession. And they look forward to the Day of Judgment when they they believe they can carry all that they have with them. Fear has begun to give them sleepless nights.

And yes they are building the Pyramids of the present times so that they can intern in with all that they possess.

The unimportance of being us

 Why do people cling on to the belief in the force they call God, even when it is so apparent at times that the inevitable has happened and if there is, or not such a force , it is helpless and status quo cannot be retrieved, or changed to our desire? Why do people pray for well being and fervently plead to their God for salvation in the after life but blatantly cross the rubicon of the commandments?

Some pray longingly to God for wealth, some for physical well being, some to stave of death, some for nemesis to others and so on and so forth. The other day I got a routed email from an acquaintance – it was titled “The fairy of wealth”.

The message was attached to a picture with a large room stacked with currency and a fairy standing by with a wand. The message exhorted and implicitly warned me that if the pictorial message was not circulated to seven people in the next twenty four hours dire consequences will befall me. I would not decline money if it comes as lottery but was in no mood to acquiesce the fairy.

During a discourse by a reasonably well known and financially galloping mystic, a gentleman I knew, who is worth assets of at least a few hundred million and more ask him in all seriousness if he could teach him alchemy. I for once was fortunate to see the today’s version of ‘Midas’ in flesh and blood.

A few months ago I happened to go to a famous and commercially rich temple. In fact I had to tag on with a friend and his accomplices. We were ushered in through a narrow path way (through VIP enclosure) past the serpentine queue of devotees and into the sanctum of sanctorum. I respectfully but with lot of amusement watched them pay obeisance and pray to the deity. At times their expressions were nothing but comical (no pun meant). In fact it was so. The prayer and rituals consumed around thirty minutes. Which also meant that since we were ‘Very Valued’ devotees of the deity we could hang around their much longer while the commoner was whisked away after a glimpse of the deity inside! Once out of the temple the topic of discussion my friend initiated was quite on the matters of promiscuous indulgence. And that he being a media person and consequently a familiar face cannot with comfort indulge in exploits outside marital relationship. So much so for the fervent prayers, respect and fear of God a short while before!

This is the state and statements of a mother, from whom fate had wrenched away her son. The boy in his mid twenties was drowned and body not recovered from a lake in Atlanta US. The parents are practicing Syrian Catholic Christians. The intensity of agony and trauma can be well imagined. The mother has now become a freak and recluse of sorts. She carries the Bible and a photograph of her son all the while. Christian help groups and friends gather in her house often for consoling prayer meetings. She is quiet at times, and then she weeps for long inconsolably. It is two months now since the tragedy. Now she and her husband go to the church every day without fail, perhaps a kind of deluding! They were Sunday church goers and practicing Christians in that sense. She makes statements that “I will not leave that fellow Christ until he brings back my son. He must tell me why he did this to me”. Reminds me of the story ‘Monkeys Paw’, wherein the grieving mother seeks the  powers of the talisman and wishes that their son who was maimed and killed crushed in an industrial accident be brought back to life. And behold he came back to life but it was the crushed and contorted creature that came to them alive. And the father had to usurp the grieving mother and wish the last wish to the talisman to take away the creature –‘their dead son’.

A few months ago on business tour outside India I lost almost a hundred thousand Rupees in an apparent ATM fraud. Coming back to India I have been in constant complaining mode with my Bank. When I realized that I was cheated the feeling was of despondency. Felt like a fool and stupid at that. It could be my careless operation of the dispensing machine. I felt terribly guilty. And goodness forgive me that sum was what was required for the college annual fees for Ara.

However the other day I was informed by the Bank that the matter was sorted out and they have received instructions to credit my account with the sum. Their anti- fraud team had gone through the CCTV footage at the ATM and found what and how the fraud actually happened. It will be insufficient to say how relived I was. When this issue was elatedly told to a family friend she said, “That was the hand of God”. I wondered loudly where this hand of graciousness was when the fraudsters took the money from the ATM.  She said, “well the devil had his way then”.

That tells after all, the matters of life are just another T-20 cricket. You cannot tell which way and how it heads until it is over. A game of chess as the old timers said. And most of the while we play we stay intoxicated by the belief and wish that we are something special to be taken care of and handled with kid gloves. But the God we put up there may think otherwise more than often. He may not need us for the sun to rise and set and the planets to move around the stars. We are not important enough.

…

The Plague

He avoids them like plague”. The statement was from a person who was refering to me the attitude of her friend towards some of his kin. She continued, “While in Coiambatore he prefers to call up on his few friends rather than go to the abhorred lot”.

Made me think a bit, but at the same time also struck a cord with the statement. Yes most of us have encountered people in flesh and blood  whom we later chose to avoid like plague. The civilized thing we could do most is not to burn them at the stake, like they did to plague afflicted lot in medieval times, but keep away.

But what this person referred to was not biological plague but plague of the soul, mind and the heart. Sounds quirk? “And there are many amidst us who are incurably afflicted by the disease of the persona. They walk and live in our midst as carriers of the abhorred bacteria .The melancholia of the matter is they can be more often the people who have been nearest to you”...

I did not bother to continue the discussion. And let the matter rest there. More because it was indisputably so!

The Tenderness of Darkness

The first streak of light that sneaks in through the thick fabric curtain on the French window hits him with the mammoth force of reality. His body clock strikes every morning at the precise and conformed time of early dawn. And he never would be able to slide back into sleep any long. Now the early light of the new day throws ominous amber on the future ahead. He becomes forlorn and listless. He wishes if he could sleep longer. And longer! He recalls that it was total serenity in sleep!

It throbs in his head. He could feel the discomfort the brain is wretched with. The chemical reaction that ensues within his brain traverse all over the nerves- head to toe.

Then suddenly putting him into awe his brain settles into a plateau that runs through with the exuberance and free will of the mountain rapids. There cannot be a hiccup and it can never be forlorn in the days ahead.. He feels the blood pound within him with the air of hope and confidence.

The momentum is lost soon somewhere. It is a free fall into despondency  and despair yet again. He tries to claw back slowly from the abyss that he stares down. But he feels the quick sand is pulling him in.

And it is soon night and dark. He slides into deep sleep and darkness falls upon with the blanket of comfort and reprieve until the early streak of light the next dawn.

Rainbow country

Over past years I have been traveling (purely for sustenance) I have been fortunate to see quite a few countries and places. And have been often asked if I have visited LA and Las Vegas. If I was blessed with wealth to throw around and if it was a few decades ago well then the idea would be tempting. But not any more, more because there are more Spartan places that gives you goose bumps.

I remember the few moments I spent at the Rjghat in Delhi. That was like visiting a haloed piece of land .It was awe filled indeed.

But then the visit to the SOWETO in Johannesburg South Africa was one unique  experience to the heart and mind.

A tour operator of Indian origin from Meerut UP was my guide. He took me around in his tour taxi. He was a third generation  migrant in South Africa.

SOWETO gives one a cultural shock of sort. Perhaps it would have been a traumatic one if I went there in the seventies. But now the roads into what is called the largest slum in the world have a four lane traffic running all way through the town. The slum as it is blithely called is a far cry from the sweltering dusty sewage dump that the slums of  Bombay  are. The houses are decent looking and all sported satellite dishes. Only in some interior corners did I notice shacks,open drains and muck. Though traffic and traffic rules are impudently ignored! Prominently even now, not a single white is seen in SOWETO. The tour guide told me of an instance in the seventies when two Afrikaner policemen who unwittingly wandered into SOWETO were lynched by a black mob. Their body was never recovered.

I was eager to visit Nelson Mandela’s house. We went past a steep gradient- a hillock and past what is even now the official residence of Winnie Mandela.. The former residence of Nelson Mandela is now  museum. It was from here Mandela oragnised the ANC resistance against apartheid. It was here he had those undercover rendezvous with his colleagues in the resistance Walter Sisulu, Oliver Tambo etc.

The house was made of red bricks and could not be not more than 500 sqft. It was on slightly larger piece of land perhaps 1000 sqft. Spartan I thought, was an understatement and blasphemous if one can compare it with the official residences of the Pontiffs who head the religious flock in different corners of the world

. One is engulfed with unbridled excitement when one enters through the small gate and steps into the drawing room. It was like going back into the moments of history. A rocking chair, a pair of leather boots, a single wooden cot a sofa, a table and a couple of chairs were all I can remember in the house. It had one living room a bed room and a kitchen. There were now photographs of the past, displayed. I was told that Mandela came straight from Robben Island off Cape Town after his long incarceration there to this house and lived here for a few days. 

                                                              

The guide, a young black who did his History major told me with impassioned face how he as a little boy along with his little friends peeped through the air vents on the compound wall and saw Mr Mandela sitting in a chair on the verandah. The guy was quivering with excitement. He showed me bullet marks on the wall of the house. They were gun shots that were randomly and indiscriminately sniped at the house by the Afrikaner police force when ever they got the information of Mandela’s presence in the house. The three quarter of an hour I spent in that small little place of history  will be etched in me for ever.

The Regina Mundy is a catholic church in SOWETO and is a symbol now of the resistance. It now sports a new look. But there are bullet scars that tells the agony of the past. It was into this church police fired live ammunition at students who were taking cover from the police firing during the SOWETO uprising in 1976.

                                                     "Where Hector Peterson Fell"

The Hector Peterson Museum tells the story of white mans savagery and reminds you of the days when more than half of the white race over the world turned a Nelson’s eye to the brutality of the white Afrikaners. This museum stands where Heector a little boy of 8 fell to police bullets while unsuspectingly walking with his sister during the students March against the white rule in 1976. The photograph of his sister running wailing by the side of a black man (who was never seen since) carrying the lifeless body of Hector Peeterson is haunting in memory. The photographs and the  video feeds in the museum  sometimes can bring out the gut from your stomach. It tells us the appalling and gory level human beings can go down when in relation to a fellow being.. And the revelation came to me was that it was not the English perhaps who inflicted the most horrifying savagery on the natives all over but the Dutch in South Africa and the Spanish in the Americas.

                                                         IN SOWETO

When one leaves these symbols in salutation to the human spirit and sufferings it is difficult to understand the heart and the vision of Nelson Mandela that would plead for a ‘rainbow nation’ after all that took place on its soil.

I felt that not even many trips decades ago to LA and Las Vegas with my pockets filled with green backs would let me experience the experience that these places in SOWETO rendered.

Lust for Gold 'Akshaya Tritiya'

Humanity’s craving for gold, an insatiable lust, has been cunningly channeled by bullion merchants through the sudden elevation of the obscure Akshaya Tritiya into a marketing gimmick. The success of Akshaya Tritiya as a tool to drive gold sales reveals how gullible people can be. Even the Bombay Stock Exchange operated on Sunday, May 16, to capitalize on this so-called auspicious day.

Until a few years ago, I had never heard of Akshaya Tritiya. A glance at Wikipedia reveals fascinating myths: Jains consider it auspicious, yet, paradoxically, a faith rooted in renouncing worldly desires endorses a day of material indulgence. Hindus celebrate it as the birthday of Parashurama, who, according to legend, created “God’s Own Country”—an act with consequences we now view with irony.

Why, of all metals, does gold hold such reverence on this day? Why not platinum or even shimmering carbon, which surpasses gold in value? The obsession is baffling. Recall the fable of King Midas, whose greed turned everything, including his daughter, into lifeless gold. If buying gold brings happiness and success, what of the millions who cannot afford a single meal? Are they excluded from the divine scheme? Does purchasing gold trinkets on Akshaya Tritiya absolve past sins? If karma determines one’s well-being in this life and beyond, how does this ritual of acquisition promise prosperity?

Why not channel this wealth into community service instead? Imagine redirecting even a fraction of the money spent on gold to feed the hungry. Investing in gold for financial prudence is understandable, but linking its purchase on this day to a promised deluge of heavenly blessings is absurd. This is yet another example of mindless tradition masquerading as wisdom. The lust for gold—paraded as virtue—is nothing but vulgar vanity, a uniquely human folly worn proudly on our sleeves.

Poems of hope

When I began scribbling in the Blog the first thoughts I aired was on "hope" . And the prehensile hold on hope still somehow eclipses moments of despair.
Two poems that may enliven ones mind........................in moments of despair.

When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

When’re I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

When’re the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel men, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed
beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! How great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppressed,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glittering!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head! 
John Keats ( Hope)

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

IN the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

IT matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

....William Ernest Henley ( Invictus))

Life

Will you know the next moment?

The incongruity of life is the uncertainty of the next moment. Because nature may or may not have a design for us and we know not what it is and what it is not .We do not leave in queue and in the order of entry into this world. The other day the TV channels reported that the Mumbai attacker Kasab may not be hanged for a long time as there are about one hundred plus convicts on the death row and the queue system has to be kept. Strange men do not enforce orderliness of the queue in train stations and public places but is zealous to have it on the death row for people awaiting the hang man.

Coming back to the fickleness of life – two bereavements took place in two different families I’m acquainted with. This happened over the past three weeks.

And both incidences were with ample irony.

The first was a middle aged woman in her early fifties. A boisterous person that she was, there was no pittance of clatter and chatter where ever she was around. She had enviable means of living and perhaps was oblivious of the inevitable that can befall from nowhere like deluge from the heavens and wash her away before she could blink. While on a vacation in the Far East with her family she died while she was gulping water off a jug. She went out even before she could blink. Strange indeed the capriciousness of life! The autopsy report noted “asphyxiation”.

The second tragic irony  happened in Atlanta US and I guess officially the boy (he was only 26) is not declared dead but missing. However all probability leads to the presumption that he is gone for ever. His parents might, as long as the corpse is not found, presume and hope that he will return one day. This boy had finished his masters in Engineering and I understand was employed in Atlanta. Last Saturday he went on a picnic and a boat ride on the lake with his companions. On the return leg when they were almost nearing the shore some of them threw themselves into the freezing waters .They all had life vests on. But this guy in exuberance ignored the life vest and plunged into the lake. He surfaced twice and then he was gone.

The Dream

To talk about dreams is getting into the realm of the games mind plays when awake and when at rest. It is in fact a highly professional and erudite arena of the Freud’s.. But lay beings like most of us do have ample instances of dreams and night mares that kindle the past and sometimes comes from the past to haunt. It raises questions about the morrow- and at times people claim can be a premonition or harbinger of things to come. But I do not know if human mind through dreams is capable of  prophesying the future with accuracy apart from lamenting  our disappointments from the past, and fantasizing our hopes and fears about the future.

Leaving that aside, I had a dream few days ago that was not a twenty- twenty genre; like hit run and out. But a steady one at that and must have stayed in the dream land for quite a while in my sleep at night. Certainly the longest dream I ever had.

It was thirty and more years ago that I last saw him (live).And though thoughts have remained in and out as often it normally is, and have also had quite a handful dreams about him. But they all were brief and like a whiff of air that pass over you.

He came in from no where and got into conversation with me. I knew we were meeting after a long, long time, but did not gather the courage to ask him where he was all the while. He, I remember looked little older than I’m now, but certainly not like what he looked when I saw him last. His hair was not grey but with even mixture of salt and pepper.It was lush and combed back as he used to.And the thick Hitler mush was in place. We walked together a long way. I do not remember where and when the walk took place. But it was fairly long walk and a long talk at that. I noticed that he was taller than I, by may be 4 inches and more. I was up to may be his ear lobe. That would make him 6 feet 4’..I remember being conscious about how tall I stood up to him. He stood broad at the shoulder and age,( I calculated, eighty seven) did not show on him a wee bit. He had the Pananama cigarette pack in his shirt pocket and also a pack of  I presume "kaja beedis" up his shirt sleeves. I do not recall the conversation bit by bit, but I feel that it was substantial and was more surrounding my life. I vividly remember him enquiring about Ara. He sounded quite odd as to why Ara chose Visual communication for his graduation. I told him that the fellow fancies life in the movies .He was not quite approving of that. There was also discussion on R and as to how she is with her studies? I remember him suggesting that she be directed into a profession more conservative. I guess the conversation went into somewhere relating to my profession. And I recall the approval was not so comforting from his part. There was a comment that I have been direction less from the beginning. He enquired if I heeded his advise of daily going through the “Editorial” of The Hindu, with  the Oxford English dictionary  at hand. And if I spent more time batting solitary throwing the tennis ball on the wall and practicing. He reminded me that was what Len Hutton and Don Bradman used to do at home when they were little. There was a sort of anachronistic comment It was  on a topic that was from the past,though in the dream I was very much in the present. He asked me to remind him at 10 pm in the night to switch on the radio as there will be a broadcast of a speech by Khan Abdul Gaffar Khan. And he is back in India after meeting Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Yahya Khan in Lahore.

He told me that he will be staying on here and may not go back to where he was,and would also like to see Mom. I remember walking him to our old house in Vanchiyoor Thiruvanathapuram. I saw him go in through the gate.

 I woke up with slight alarm. That was my father visiting after almost three and one half decades.