Friday, January 13, 2012
A winter Evening by the Sea
Monday, December 26, 2011
The Laughter of Jesus
Christ's message IS rejoice and be merry. But that is not the message of Christianity. Christianity's message is: be sad, long faces, look miserable; the more miserable you look, the more saintly you are. Sometimes I really feel for poor Jesus. He has fallen in such wrong company, and I wonder how he is managing in paradise with all these Christian saints, so sad, so dull.
Peter, standing in the crowd, looked up at Jesus on the cross. As he watched, he distinctly saw Jesus motioning him forward.
"Pssst, hey Peter, come here," said the Lord.
As Peter moved forward, two Roman guards blocked his way and beat him till he fell to the ground.
A few moments later, Peter, bruised and bleeding, looked up and saw Jesus again motioning him forward.
"Pssst, hey Peter, come here!"
Looking around, Peter noticed that the crowd was gone and so were the Roman soldiers. He moved closer to Jesus, "Yes, Lord, what is it? What is it you want?"
"Hey Peter," said Jesus. "Guess what? I can see your house from here!"
Sunday, December 11, 2011
St. Antony- A Story
Sunday, December 11, 2011
St. Antony- A Story
It was late January, and it was a holiday. The weather was mild and comfortable at that time of the year. The sea breeze that came from the west blowing in over the inland lake and caressing the bamboo shrubs around the perimeter of the church, brought a heavenly spell, adding to the mirth. Or was it her sheer presence, or was it the excitement and gaiety that accompany a wedding—the wedding of a close friend?
It was early dawn, well before sunrise, and I was woken up to the clutter and chatter—the excited shrieks and conversations. She had arrived by train early in the morning. I sometimes felt an initial awkwardness with young women, so I chose to stay a little longer than usual in bed. When I came out of my room, it was with controlled excitement, curiosity, and caution. I was determined not to reveal my idiosyncrasies to her, whom I had only seen in photographs.
I saw her lazing down the stairs, and I guess the first smile, nod of the head, and "hello" were not too bad. Photographs captured by a camera are sometimes a faint image of what the subject actually is, and they can also be grossly untrue. Something inside pumped up the excitement and heightened my heartbeat. Strange, I thought! The couple of days she stayed at the apartment, whenever I could create an opportunity to be near her and engage in some conversation, I grabbed it, made sure the chance never went begging. I wonder if others noticed the oddity in my general behaviour.
Something kept telling me that there was a mutual attraction, but it was more latent in her!
She came back a few months later. There was no communication between us in that short interregnum. In any case those were the days when one even did not have a dream of mobile phones. However, the second meeting was a friendlier and more alleviating affair. She had come to my close friend's wedding that afternoon. When my friend sent her the invitation to his wedding, she obliged. I was thrilled. Looking back, perhaps destiny enticed her!
After the wedding,at the old basilica we all moved to the adjacent banquet hall for the grand feast that the bride’s father had organised. After the sumptuous feast and the brief revelry involving indulgent wine drinking, we friends left. We took off towards the pier to take the boat ride across the lake to the island. She was the last one to hop on the boat, and I offered her my hand to hold on to while jumping on the rocking little craft, which she unhesitatingly accepted!
We had a refreshing couple of hours on the island. The optical illusion in the west caressing the ocean—the sun setting and the magical shadows it cast on the lush green foliage and trees that straddled the island, the sparkling waters of the vast lake like molten gold in the fading sunlight—all of this was perfect for the occasion. There were three women in the group besides her—her aunt, her sister, and a friend's wife. It was an exciting time, even more so for the two of us, unbeknownst to either of us or the rest. I took care to not betray my feelings or make it obvious to others that I was stung by Cupid. Lest her brothers found out, I was quite self-conscious about myself, I wouldn't go any further.
It was dark when we returned to the boat that would ferry us back to the mainland. The journey back to the apartment had to be sorted out, as some of us had taken a taxi to the wedding, and now we all had to reckon with the few motorbikes we had. I was the only one on my bike and wished I could suggest that she could travel pillion on my Java-Yezdi with me. But timidity stamped out the grit to say so. As luck would have it, or destiny, one of her brothers suggested she ride a pillion with me. And he reminded me to take care of her while on the road. She accepted the suggestion without hesitation. Perhaps that was what she wanted too? I chastised myself for thinking for her. Stupid Cupid! But she traveled the distance back with me.
I rode the bike with great caution and sensed her timidly holding on to my shirt while I manoeuvred through the traffic. On the way back, she suggested that we stop at the church of Saint Antony. She asked if I had any difficulty doing so. I figured it would give me more time with her on the road, and I gleefully agreed.. We went into the shrine. The shrine of the saint was a popular destination for the faithful, who believed that their supplications and petitions would be favourably disposed of by the saint, God's interlocutor. One’s ardent prayers and wishes are sure to be granted! I was curious as to what she wished for and what favour the saint promised her. She bought candles and flowers from the vendor outside, and I joined her in patiently lighting them at the altar. It was indeed a good feeling to be in the shrine with her. I wish time could be stopped.
When we began our ride back, I was annoyed that the distance to the apartment appeared shorter. I frantically thought of ways to stretch the distance and time so that it could be a long, never ending ride with her.
Did the saint sense my thinking?
Monday, November 28, 2011
There is no Snow on Kilimanjaro
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The Ides of March
" Julius Caesar in derision,"The Ides of March Have come ". The Soothsayer," Aye Caesar, but they have not gone".
Those who extend much credence to the influence celestial configurations exercise on earthlings, wish off ill lucks, good tidings, ill tempered acts and omissions as matters that are not under the realm of ordinary mortals. While the heavens wreck havoc and shower largesse on us they are determined by forces abe initio not within our control. We are just marionettes, mere puppets dancing to the whims of the Puppeteer.
Friday, November 18, 2011
To Sir, With Love
My first teacher was a kind woman who lived near our house and taught at a government primary school. Each day, she arrived at our home for an hour to tutor my sister and me. I was about five, and my memories of those lessons are tinged with a soft haze. She introduced us to the rudiments of Malayalam, our mother tongue, and simple arithmetic. We scribbled on slates with chalk and slate pencils, wiping them clean with the ubiquitous “mashi thandu” humble shrub!
Next came Saroja, affectionately known as Saroja Teacher, a Brahmin in her mid-twenties who lived nearby. When my sister and I visited her home for lessons, we were greeted with an array of Tamil delicacies—sweets, savories, bajjis, and fluffy paniyarams. She taught at Holy Angels Convent School, where we studied, guiding me from first to fourth standard. Her home held a treasure trove: her brother’s vast collection of comics. I was captivated by the adventures of Phantom, Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Casper the Friendly Ghost, Richie Rich, and Mandrake the Magician. Her brother, a spirited dropout, spent his days immersed in comics, relishing food, and setting off firecrackers during Deepavali—a charming rogue by any measure. Saroja Teacher disapproved of my comic-reading between lessons, warning that their imperfect grammar could stunt a child's language. Thankfully, her elder sister’s gentle intervention let me lose myself in those vivid pages.
Around third standard, alongside Saroja Teacher’s classes, we began lessons with Ms. E. Sawyer, a middle-aged spinster who lived across the street. An Anglican by descent—not Anglo-Indian—she tutored us in English, often even in her kitchen as the aroma of her cooking filled the air. Her parrot, Polly, spoke English with startling clarity, outshining our own efforts. Years later, I sought her out after she moved to another part of town. She was very glad I remembered to visit her. But a few years later when I went there to only find strangers living there. If alive today, she would surely be over a century old—a quintessential Englishwoman, an enigma stranded or adrift in the subcontinent.
When I was in fifth standard, Mr. Sankaranarayana Iyer, a retired headmaster in his eighties, began teaching us at home on alternate days. A masterful educator in English, mathematics, and beyond, he transformed learning into a voyage of discovery. His lessons were never forced; instead, he invited questions and wove captivating tales into our studies. I still recall how he eased the dread of algebra by recounting stories of the Second World War, Churchill, and de Gaulle, making the subject almost palatable. His diverse anecdotes kept boredom at bay, embodying his belief that learning should be a joy, not a chore. He taught us through eighth standard. Years later, after college and into my working life, I visited him in Sreevaraham, Thiruvananthapuram. In his late nineties, he was frail yet sharp, recognising me instantly. Our final meeting, at his son’s home, eyes rheumy, found him weakened, unsure of who I was. He passed away soon after.
One moment stands out, etched with goosebumps: a reunion with another teacher after nearly a decade. I had last seen him when I visited his modest apartment at Government Model High School to invite him to my wedding. Retired from teaching, he served as the school’s chief warden, a role offered by the school in gratitude, along with a room beside the boarders’ block. A bachelor with no surviving family after his mother’s passing, he was a respected figure in Thiruvananthapuram. Of medium height, lean, and bald, with a flowing white beard and clad in an ochre dhoti and kurta, he carried the aura of a sage. Nearly every notable person educated at the school had been shaped by his guidance.
It was the morning of my cousin’s wedding in Thiruvananthapuram. As the groom’s traditional reception unfolded at the mandapam gates, I walked beside my cousin in the procession. Amid the crowd, I glimpsed a frail figure with a white beard, and he saw me. With a cry like a warrior’s call, he rushed forward, arms wide, shouting, “Eda Anil!” (Dear Anil). His bear hug was fierce, and I, caught in the moment, lifted him off the ground. Tears glistened in his eyes. As a family friend of the bride and their honoured guest, he brought an unexpected joy to the day. The crowd, unaware of our bond, stood stunned by this outpouring of affection from a teacher to his former student—a mediocre one, at that. He was Mr. Narayana Kurup, beloved “Kurup Sir.”
He passed away peacefully years ago, mid-meal at a local restaurant.
To “Sir, with love!”