God of Small Things

Sometimes, sometimes often certain individuals, long gone come into our thoughts. They come in like gentle whiff of fresh soothing air, and tickle ones hair pits, one’s heart and soul. Goose bumps all over! As the native Indians, the Sioux say, “The heart soars like an eagle”! Perhaps I may be too enkindled about the feeling the thoughts bring forth? Nevertheless they bring sweet memories in an otherwise cantankerous, perfidious world of people.

In this world nothing comes free and everything has a price more than value and altruism is a premium trait, if not a dying or a dead aberration perhaps noticeable in a few. In such a society this man who I must call as P, for the shortened version of his name and his relationship to me (he was my father’s first cousin and elder to him). I called him “Perappan”. He was an exception, insofar as I knew in his relationship to me and my sister at least!

Memories of him dates back to my very young age of about six or seven and he lived with us , which was then a joint family of sorts .He was unmarried and died a bachelor boy well into his eighties. He was an early riser and used to engage in serious manual labour. The vegetable garden which was then a prideful thing was his creation. He used to gather about fifty odd buckets of water from the perennial well to water his favorite garden. Spinach, Egg plants, cucumber, gourds, red chilies’, bananas, and yam the list was endless! Then the cows- the baths he used to give them (some days, I in tow as an assistant of sorts) by the well.

I remember walking about with him questioning and inquisitive about his work here and the one he did there. Sometimes he would relent and let me do the little job when I was petulant about his refusing to let me do something along with him.

He was a craftsman .That didn’t mean he sculptured femme fatales, charming princes and abstract forms raved by the vain. He was a simple tailor. A sartorial expert- maker of men’s formal wear, the tuxedos and suits and he was quite well known in a small elite circle for his exceptional skills in tailoring. The patterns that dissolved into ones symmetry, that coalesced as a second skin!

If I had had tasted the little things in early life that a child holds close to his heart they were from him. He was in a way my God of small things.

The first Chandamamam ( Ambiliammavan) monthly  children’s book magazine till they ceased publication , the occasional matinée movies, the circus , the fairs  , the visits to the zoo and the beach, the overwhelming journeys in the then admired double decker bus that were grand relics in Thiruvananthapuram, the refreshments and short eats out in  restaurant, the Parry’s chocolates and toffees, the peanut chikkis, the regular supply of shirts and trousers, the unfailing supply of firecrackers for Deepavali , the little doles ( Vishu kaineetam) for Vishu, my first  shuttle badminton racket…...! Thank God! God! If there is one, he was the one, the God of small things, things that now I feel made my life as a little child. They now tower larger than what I have possessed in adulthood thus far. Seem to be huge, very big, priceless and of incalculable value. Things that all the bullion may not suffice to square off. Things that are priceless but are invaluable the most.

I remember him desolate when I strayed a while in my early teens and in shady group of accomplices. Shiver me timbers!

Years later when he was living with his nephew (his sister’s son), I used to go to him often when I was in Thiruvanathapuram, sit with him for a while. He was always pleasantly thrilled to see me and perhaps he also may have sighed that I did not disappoint him as he once may have feared I would. When I bade bye to him at the end of each visit, I used to leave in his palm one hundred Rupee bill. I often noticed a glint in his eyes, a shimmer. Gradually when he was ploughed under by dementia, he used to just sit in the chair and smile when I held his hands. The familiarness, recognition and the glint in his eyes ebbed not too gradually. They became washy from age and I saw he was surely going down, the smile too. The last time I saw him, he was not smiling, but sat with a void look into the distant, or was it into the blank vapidness of the white wall in front. The eyes were of living dead – no glint, no shimmer, and was foggy.

My God of Small Things!

My foot ,Gauche!!!

Use "a" before a word beginning with a consonant or the sound of a consonant. Use "an" before a word beginning with a vowel or the sound of a vowel. The “Madhama” said , perhaps the fifth time  that day, squinting her eyes through the reading glass perched on her nose and with a strain of exasperation she did not think was worthy of an effort to mask. The middle aged Anglican Indian spinster known in local parlance as “madhama” closed the ‘Wren & Martin’, pushed her chair back, stood up and straightened her skirt, tucked at her shirt before asking her pupil, the pure blooded young Indian woman to do the exercise in sentence construction with the words she had noted for her. Then with a noticeable imperious about turn she walked back into the house. Shadow the dachshund scampered behind her from underneath the table. True to its name! The boy was skeptical about the dog and was certain that it has all the trappings of its mistress.

He had been through this exercise daily in the grammar class at the convent across the street. And precisely because of that he was not too keen to sit by the table while the young woman labored at the exercise dictated by the Anglo Indian mam. He moved out further in the verandah of the colonial building that was now the residence of this white woman. He began to observe with awe - visually the artifacts and the furniture there. Surely this woman must be rich to have such a big bungalow and this clean drive way with mahogany trees giving perfect canopy .The May sun was a matter on the road outside and the world outside. In here it was pleasant as the trees would not let the hot rays of the sun scorch the ground below and inside the house the old antique GEC ceiling fans revolved gently, he felt figuratively than purposefully. The grandfather clock in the living room struck four and it brought him back from his thoughts chasing up the unknown hillocks. 

“ Hickory Dickory Dock,

The mouse ran up the clock.

The clock struck one,

The mouse ran down!

Hickory Dickory Dock….”

He sang in hushed voice swaying his hand aimlessly.

It was a routine now for a month. He accompanied his young aunt daily to the white woman’s bungalow. It was after lunch that they set forth on the thirty odd minutes’ walk in the summer sun. Past the junction that served as a flea market till noon every day- the foul smell of fish, rotten-fish still hung in the air like unseen fog and bickering, cantankerous  women still exclaim in brassy voices of what happened in the business hours in the morning, while packing up their unsold wares for the following day. Black restless crows would hop and fly around targeting tidbits and entrails of fish and junk left around. Then past the convent school where he went before the summer recess. The window of his class room STD – IV C on the third floor of the building towards the road side and he would daily notice was not shut close.  She would hold him close to her while they walked and hold the “Singapore “umbrella above her, taking much care that he was safe from the unfriendly sun.

He was eight.

He often overheard conversations at home because the elders thought it was not significant if a little boy like he was privy to the discussions they held. What he sometimes overheard told him that his aunt was sent there- to her father’s ,by her husband who wanted her to undergo a crash course in spoken and written English; to understand the etiquettes of the elite society; to make her a cultivated woman. He did not understand the nuances of the conversations. But he was sure that she went to the Anglo-Indian white woman so that she would teach her English and social behaviour- what important and big  people called  'respectable' (sic). 

He heard someone comment that his aunt’s husband who was a “big man” in a “big city” was peeved by what he saw as her gauche and lack of etiquettes  in social gatherings. She once told her mother, that he called her ‘a dumb and insipid doll’ who cannot exhibit civilised and cultured conduct. She did not know to shake hands and reciprocate with hugs and kisses when an important person approached her. She had no idea of how a hostess should conduct about at a dinner for the elite clan of her spouse’s acquaintances…. . Her naiveté and lack finesse was glaring and damaging .Her salutation was just a coy smile and a “namaste”. Absolutely uncivilized and gauche!

The big man in the big city wanted to civilise her.

Of Husbands & Wives

I do not mean this for myself. But just musing over wives whom I have known, mine and that of my friends and others; their life’s with their spouses. I do agree that by the same token a woman who may read this can also compare from the other side too.

I have a colleague who I have often noticed speaking to his wife back at home over the phone in an impatient and rude tone. Though I resisted eaves dropping, I have sometimes exercised a bit to overhear his conversation on the phone and I have noticed in the distant unremitting voice over the phone that she does not care to listen to him, but keeps talking when he at this end is violent in tone and asks her to first listen before chattering. Yes, this may be one sided judgment, but what often struck me was his rudeness on the phone and his impatience when talking to her. I have not noticed this when he, for instance talks to his parents. He is not too keen to often go back home either. The bottom line that cannot be ignored is that he married her after a courtship.

A close friend is often blushing when his wife opens out on the arguments and battles that comes about in their midst. The apparent traces of philandering he indulges in. She even hilariously narrated one instance and went on to talk about an argument they had one evening over his wanting to go out to the club for a drink and she suggesting he do it at home and they can be together. He refuses and she proposes an option that she will go with him and gulp down a few drinks too (she is a teetotaler). The situation flares as he stays adamant. She locks the house from within so that he cannot venture out and consigns the key to place where he could not find. He is upset and locks himself in the bedroom and goes to sleep. He later finds her drunk and cuddled up in the sofa in the living room after vexedly polishing off a few glasses of his favourite single malt.  They had an inflamed romance before tying the knot and it is twenty five years since.

There are some who are malleable and often one might wonder if it is not a tad deigned. In some case the act becomes more of a rule and demand than an exception. Puppets on a string? Equally remarkable are the specious husbands; the ingratiating ones. Not necessarily would the wife be a termagant, but they love their act. Perhaps often matter of adaptation?

I wonder where I stand. Fortunately though it has been a life a bit quarrelsome, dissenting and not so pluperfect, it has also been pluperfect as relationships like say, with friends can be .Perhaps, as exasperating, affectionate and forgiving as say even sibs would be. “Touch wood!” I hope C would agree.

.

I would tell this to a person who I know and is by blood related to me. It may be rude to say that he is timorous and callow at forty. That is a pity but is the fact. Romantic blissfulness during the brief dating they had after they chanced to meet in a temple probably was not enough to unveil their selves. Perhaps they were too aware and conscious to let go the armour they held over them. The enigma of the passionate times as always vanished soon and reality knocked on the door. The bitter side of them or either one of them was blown open. And the incompatibility was felt as she claims, by her. She alleges that he may not have felt the difference as he was obsessed with himself- a “narcissist” in her words. Isn’t it true that while you are dating you pretend to be someone else? They both may have .

He is certainly distressed, but she is unheeding and often one feels the woman is inexorable. Well what can one say unto him, but to tell her, “Watching you walk out of my life does not make me bitter or cynical about love. But rather makes me realize that if I wanted so much to be with the wrong person how beautiful it will be when the right one comes along."

Que Sera Sera

He was born and began his life in a faraway land – land of his birth, a land that had history, myths, legends and culture, colourful, so vibrant that he and many of his generation were swept away in its audacity and imperiousness. In the high tide, what people boasted loudly – “rich heritage!” Like many of us who want to glow in the aura of our past. The past, that was of our forefathers! A past, of which we have not seen and should have no bearing upon what we now are! The illusion that we are what it was- “the glorious past”, of which we had no part and can claim nothing of.

It is true that culture, years of tradition and social living as civilization could make people refined; by far better creatures, without gauche. It is also true that what is born with you would refuse to wither away and like little ugly warts, like barnacles stick to you with wickedness.

 He was one such. His grandfather was a person of nauseating wealth and hence, also what brings with such profusion – “influence and power”. Adding up to a potent concoction, “arrogance”! He had his fingers in pies, in places that really mattered. He had a long arm. That served well when he turned eighteen and brought him the passage across the seas to the land farther away. A land, where its people who like Rip Van Winkle believed that the world has not changed, cannot change and also that they still could lord over, the minnows as they see you and I. Where people believed and to great extent true until some years ago, that their folks would be devouring breakfast, lunch and dinner obscenely like rapacious philistines, all at the same time in different places on the globe; where it was twilight, dawn and noon all at  same time, Where the sun never went into the sea. A bizarre matter to think about for ordinary people like you and I! It was not fantastic, in fact it was true.

So, that was where he spent the most fertile time of his life, his youth. The cold wind that blew from the North Sea and the Arctic did little to mellow his enthusiasm for all that was less modest and liberal. Ten years and nine months of fun, frolic and a side dose of university education.

The Irish girl saw him in the rain one day and they walked under the same umbrella to his apartment. It was a special feeling of nearness that accelerated banging of his heart against his ribs, he would later recall.                                                                                                                                                                                                   “Falling in love in the rain and be soaked to the bones. I felt I would fade away in the rain and my bones would melt in the warmth of his clasp.” she would reminisce even many years after. “It was rain drops of love over us” she would add.

Eventually, she tagged to him as the co-passenger on the jet plane back to the land where he was born. She held his hand throughout the precarious air borne journey. She had an aversion for the skies and what hurls through the skies- up in the air with no moorings on the flat earth down below. She did not pray though, for a quick and safe deliverance from the long drawn jet haul through the clouds. It was not that she was an atheist .She was a catholic as most folks are from her country. And she disliked flying.

Back at home, he ventured into territories that were fancy and exotic, though he managed an Engineering degree in metallurgy from the university in “Old Blightly”. He chose to be a wine merchant. There was still a part of the substantial share of wealth his grandfather bequeathed to him and that was tempting enough to be flamboyant and freewheeling. His grandfather, the patriarch had passed away and the clout the family enjoyed receded gradually and purposefully like the ebbing of the tide.

Old habits that are in our chemistry, that reside in our veins and every sinews even while we were in the womb- our thinking, the way we feel about others, the intensity of our altruism or the lack of it, the good, the bad and the despicable in us may not be erased by factors and people that come about into our life at different times. They are only eclipsed. Perhaps it is the vile in us that plots our fall. That charts our destiny, different from the course we would want to.

He squandered his heirloom. If it is rude and cruel to say he squandered, one may rephrase it to mean he simply lost. She watched helpless and miserable for him. His overbearing and conceited personality was a burden to her too. Back to more mundane environment but refusing to let go the air and the pomp of the past he continued…. . He really believed of his invincibility, his superiority and cared less for what others valued in their life and what affected their life. In fact he deluded himself into fantasy and trampled upon others too. His immortality- he believed in that too? In the avaricious living he seldom reflected on the fantasy called immortality.

Now he is a depleted image from his past. Of the past, that was he. Emaciated and midway through the therapy. Toxic concoction pumped into his veins at regular intervals but the tumor in his lungs gorging into him further. It plays with him. It takes back seat, gives him a shimmer of hope and then harangues at him as it lords over his fate.  Taunts him! Would he in moments of quiet reflect on the arrogant life he lived? The shenanigans, the instances of deceit to the woman who shared her umbrella in the cold rain long ago? She, who still spends time by his side, holding his hand as she did on the plane many years ago? Of the people who he spite? Would he realize that what he now is,is the sum total of his past? Or is he not?

 Perhaps!

BROODING

                                           Nandadevi at dusk

Destruction, loss, and pain is not unequal, be it anywhere life exists. It is a perverted and bizarre contention that loss of life and agony is insignificant and matter of trivia when it is borne by others, by people of other denominations, faith or race and is the cruelest extent to which human beings can pursue their ideas. The cataclysm in the Himalayas, the devastation of the tsunami or even the directly man made afflictions like genocides and ethnic cleansing we see and hear about are all matters of distress to people who cannot see the difference in the colour of blood and value of life.

I was trying to put myself in the picture of the devastation in the monsoon torrents brought about in the Himalayas. It hurts! It hurts not because of the loss of life, but because the devastation was asked for- we crossed the threshold Nature has been putting backward.

The Gods, I’m certain, would see the picture of Kedarnath in the aftermath of the deluge in the mountains with stoicism. And so should man, with dispassion. The gods were not wrathful nor did they vent their fury through pelting and deluge, for they may have vanished from Kedar long ago with indifference. Looking at the pictures of the ploughed under township of Kedar and the half inundated entombed temple structure, I wondered why was not the town totally submerged down under the rocks, mud and debris? To vanish from the surface like the grandeur of the Mayans or a Pompey! To perhaps be later discovered and to resurface in an age were man has respect and reverence to the fragile blue planet that is his only home like the rebirth of Machupichu.

It was commerce in the hills, in the mountains. There was no sanctity and calm in the frenzied gathering of mortals in what they call as the abode of Gods. The beeline they made to Kedar, by foot and on miserable mules was in a state of divorce from the God they ventured to seek in the mountains. Eyes wide shut and chanting gibberish invocations they were actually defiling Nature. Remember the Lord of Kedar is a yogi, a hermit and a person who resides in the pristine air of the mountains.

The obscene concrete structures that were put up on the mountains jack sawing trees and vegetation were not only an eye sore but brutal violation of Nature. I wonder if any of the four destinations Yamunotri, Gangotri, Kedarnath and Badarinath was equipped with means to dispose tonnes of waste and garbage men threw around with impunity. For many the wailing of Nature is not even a distant whimper.

The rape of Kedar can be seen and understood only by people who go there with their “eyes wide open”. For a supplicant, a petitioner or even a sinner eager to wash away his sins so that he could start all over again and mortals who are anxious of ensuring a star plus afterlife which they expect to ensure from the excursion to Kedar and the mountain shrines, her enchanting self is not noticed. They do not notice the beauty she radiates in the majesty of the snow clad mountains shinning in the noon sun or the crimson ornamental appearance at dusk; the cold gushing water of the rivers; the timid birds that are special to the Himalayas; the silver streaks of waterfalls from distant hills; the lush green flora; besides all that , the music of silence that whiff by if one care to listen, be it day or night and the caress of the cold breeze and the howl of the icy wind at night.

This catastrophe that visited the thousands who went there believing they can buy salvation is not an exception or a misfortune that happened like an uninvited tsunami or a volcanic eruption without forewarning. Similar disasters will be visiting us in other places the Sabarimala for instance or any place where we defile nature and desecrate her.

Closing these parts of the Himalayas for religious excursions or restricting the permissible numbers a year with absolute and impeccable management of the environment must be put forward as possible solutions. Or perhaps we will never learn, understand and take not notice of the foreboding. Such is our arrogance, lust for possessions and selfishness .And in our frenzied mode for salvation we might forget to live the life here and also leave the world an inhospitable place for posterity.

Snippets from a Monsoon Sojourn

“I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.” These are not my words and I must confess to my meager wisdom and wit. That would tell all about why I’m fascinated with quotations.

It was a pleasant stay in Kerala the past two weeks in the skin soaking ambience of the beautiful monsoon rains. When was it last, that I spent about two weeks enchanted by the monsoon spell? Must have been years ago in the past when I was in the teens. The past week, cuddled beneath the sheets in the bed at night sliding into the soothing comfort of sleep, listening to the relentless drops of rain outside was the perfect lullaby even for a middle aged fellow like I. It was then that memories of the many walks, and rides in the rain fleeted in reverse and in time through my mind. The sheer happiness of aimlessly walking about in the rains through the coconut and mango groves caressed by the overflowing ponds in Ambalpuha during the sojourns there on vacation from school; the bicycling in the rains; the ride up the mountains on the JAVA motorbikes and the honey moon ride with C to the hills in heavy rains on the Yamaha 350 cc of yore immediately after our wedding…!

“I don’t chase people when they walk away. It is not that they all are not important to me. I just believe that if they want me in their life they will stay. No questions asked.” Again not my words precisely, a quote certainly!

Over the faithful Indian whiskey at a nondescript bar in Thiruvanthapuram, one evening the previous week, I, B and my cousin and B’s name sake, let the spirit of the alcohol sink in us and used the moment to debate on the estranged marriage of the later. Little B, married a pretty lass after a chanced meeting , call it courtship or dating some thirteen years ago. What they did not realize under the unequivocal onslaught of Cupid was that there was bound to be matters of incompatibility that will act like little storms and tempest inside a wedlock. Well that stark realization may have dawned in them after the first few year of wedlock. They have two pretty little girls is a matter apart.The damsel prefers to don the robe of the "damsel in distress"(sic),while the fellow seems to be wearing the cloak of  the innocent and the offended. The fascinating observation came from the advocate who the dame approached to be her counsel in the filing of the petition for divorce. He observed, “She was in my office and went on a monologue that seemed to never stop. She sent me a thirty page official mail citing her points and case for annulling the marriage. But I could not even in the many words she spoke and wrote, notice an iota of  substantial reason for seeking divorce”. 

To me, ironically and rather sadly they seem to be as immature as they may have been in the early days of their marriage and their courtship.

“My wife Mary and I have been married for forty- seven years and not once have we had an argument serious enough to consider divorce; murder, yes, but divorce , never.” Again a quote!

That brings me to the betrothal in the family and wedding bells after many long years. It was astonishing and a matter of amazement how a girl could with open heart accept a person to wed her, someone who she saw and spoke for a while on the phone a little before and after the complete approval from her parents.  Does this expressively rubbish the dating, living together and amorous courtships that precedes betrothal and marriage  and are an accepted aspect in the West , while increasingly replicated in India, these days? It is quite a wonder how the physical law of gravitation and attraction works in the matters of earthlings!

Now the ultimate quote of Osho! ”If you love a person, how can you destroy his or her freedom? If you trust a person, you trust her or his freedom too.”

Osho continues,"One day it happened that a man came to me who was really in a mess, very miserable. And he said, 'I will commit suicide.'

I said, 'Why?'

He said, 'I trusted my wife and she have betrayed me. I had trusted her absolutely and she has been in love with some other man. I will commit suicide' he said.

I said, 'You say you trusted her?'

He said, 'Yes, I trusted her and she betrayed me.'

What do you mean by trust?—some wrong notion about trust; trust also seems to be political.

'You trusted her so that she would not betray you. Your trust was a trick. Now you want to make her feel guilty. This is not trust.'

He was very puzzled. He said, “If this is not trust? I trusted her unconditionally.'

I said, 'If I were in your place, trust would mean to me that I trust her freedom, and I trust her intelligence, and I trust her loving capacity. If she falls in love with somebody else, I trust that too. She is intelligent, she can choose. She is free, she can love. I trust her understanding.'

“And if she finds that she would like to move into love with somebody else, it is perfectly okay. Even if you feel pain, that is your problem; it is not her problem. And if you feel pain, that is not because of love that is because of jealousy. What kind of trust is this, that you say it has been betrayed? My understanding of trust is that it cannot be betrayed. By its very nature, by its very definition, trust cannot be betrayed. It is impossible to betray trust. If trust can be betrayed, then it is not trust. Think over it.If I love a woman, I trust her intelligence infinitely. And, if in some moments she wants to love somebody else, it is perfectly good. I have always trusted her intelligence. She must be feeling like that. She is free. She is not my other half, she is independent. And when two persons are independent individuals, only then there is love. Love can flow only between two freedoms.”

I write this few hours after posting the Post and coming back to read it all over again  I wonder , if Osho's statements have clarity and if I could agree with him perse. The observation on trust seems to be fine. But this acceptance of liberalism in letter and spirit in the name of freedom and individual freedom is rather inexplicable and foggy. Don't you think so?

The Brothers of Karmazova

"The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for him and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract him without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, ……., all from continual lying to other men and to himself."

How perfect a summing up are these lines of Foyodr Dostoevsky!

He ceased to love and all that he showcased as love and affection were charade. His cunning and glory facade was magnified in the form of excessive display of devotion (sic) to his God. And since he began to be delighted in lies, he lost his power to distinguish between falsehood and facts:  he believed and regaled in falsehood and knavish. Thence he lost his touch with his creator. For he lied to him too and bated no eyelid, he believed that his lies were the truth! Truth, he wanted to see and for others to believe.

“What is done is done”, she would fume and no blandishments meant for her husband unlike Lady Macbeth. She would continue, “...and what has to be done must be done, I do not care if it is your mother, sisters, brother or friends”. However to accuse her of the lone source of wickedness and malfeasance would be quite unfair .It must be understood that the two were uniquely created for the other and in fact their self-serving smugness and vile compliments each other.

When serendipity smiles, she hugs. And when it hugged him it was a bear hug. It suffocated him with manna and enkindled the selfishness and arrogance dormant in him.

They were two, he and his brother. Born into a very modest and ordinary family in the pleasant climes of a mountain village, their childhood was lively as that of any other kids reared in the remote quietness of the hills. Until they were in their early teens they had no clue or idea about a world and lands over the hills. The farthest they traveled was the eight kilometers on the serpentine road criss- crossing the Tea and Coffee plantations to the nearest semblance of what was a village. The rickety old ramshackle wooden and tin sheet contraption that they called, “the bus” ran on a rundown Fargo engine scraped by the British military after the Second Great War. The schedule of the bus from the gate of the Church of “The Immaculate Virgin”, a couple of hundred yards from their house to the distant village was a certainty as uncertainty can be. And she plied the distance like a lame tortoise. But nevertheless the bus and the journey in it were akin to a supersonic travel for the brothers.

Old man Karamazov was a good man and he respected his God more than what others did- fear. He toiled hard earnestly and with heart and soul to bring bread and burn the wick at home. He had immense faith in his creator and reared the eight children he had. It will be unfair to discount the hand his wife lend and served him in rearing the kids and keeping their home a little garden of Eden.

In such atmosphere there was bound to be love, affection, gaiety and the struggles are soothed out forgotten and consigned out. Though the fact was that, individual fault lines in the character of the kids refused to be submerged. They did often latently raise their heads. But the gentle Mr Karamazov came down heavily when recalcitrance was noticed.

It was after their few teen years spent aimlessly in the lotus eating wilderness of the hills did Mr.Karmazov decide to send them to a faraway city into the guardianship of their Godfather. The brothers enjoyed the new world. The young Karamazov was wily and a salesman in flesh, blood and breath. A man who could sell a refrigerator to an Eskimo and still have him feel he bought a warmer. He could easily grab a small job in a company and his artful ways and countenance gave him fair speed of rise in the organization. The eldest of the Karamazov brothers though, was content to be in the shadow of his kid brother and be happy with the little blessings that came his way because of the later. Life was fair and splendid! The Karamazov brothers dutifully send regular money through post to their old man back home. In later years one may have to notice this as a strange aberration in their character especially of the youngest. They were noticeably very sensible and a dutiful duo though the young Karamazov was colourful and rather flamboyant in style. His brother though was quiet, preferring to lie low and enjoy the pleasures of the world.

Avarice was the lecherous maiden that slept with the younger Karamazov. And his acts of felony was unearthed by the company sleuths who were watching his rather extravagant life and they caught him hands on , confronted him and threw him out ignominiously from the job. With the corner stone gone the eldest of the Karamazov brothers was infirm and like a helpless duck caught in the middle of a busy motor way.

Lady luck smiled on the brothers in unexpected and enviable form. It would take a few quires of paper to narrate their rise up the social hierarchy and for the young Karamazov it was phoenix like and of great pride. The lifeline he got was like avenging the ignominy and ill-luck that put him down for quite a while

When the younger Karamazov spake the rest of the clan trembled and they trembled convulsively from fear when his lady spake. Such was the power of wealth that was in their control. He began to expressively use others as means to his desired end. One day he banged his fist with such furiousness and ferocity on the dinner table during a family dinner to observe old man Karamazov’s death anniversary that the whole group of his clan trembled and shriveled. Such was the force of his fist coming down on the wooden table, glasses and plates flew scattered. He said “This is my money, my wealth. It is I and my wife who decide who eats from our plate”. He turned to the old woman and gesticulated with terrific eyes and yelled derisively, “if you want to go back to the house  in that god forsaken hills and into that den plastered with clay and cow dung you can and take with you who among the people here who disagree with me. Here, I’m the lord”, and pointing towards his wife he continued, “beware she will decide who is welcome and who is not. She is the mistress here”. There was appalling terror and hate in his face. As one among who was then, there, sitting perched miserably in a chair nearby saw as she later recollected, “I saw the devil in his face, the devil, Lucifer himself!”

The elder of the Karamazov brothers was as he always was, content with the second fiddle and he preferred the crumbs from his kid brother rather than show the courage and moral fortitude to stand up to him and his ruthless, overly ambitious and pathetic wife. He feigned deafness to all the shenanigans of the duo and there, at the table on that day, he slipped out to smoke his cigars. An artful escapist and self-seeker! He had the right to remain silent but lacked the moral courage not to be silent.

 He surely will have died many a time while he lives.

Men of Such Kind.

“I’m afraid you are a prisoner in your own fort.” I could not get more candid than this and that too when he was the chief. He stared bewildered into my eyes and I knew that what I said sunk in and he was jolted more by, may be my audacity to make that statement without mincing many words. I saw, it was touché! I tried to lessen the impact of the hammer and hastened to add, “I regret having to be as blunt as I was, but the fact is that you are having in your domain two of the most fiendish persons there can be. They are like the Rasputin and the Russian queen and have grown uninhibited that now they see you as trivial, irritating and an expendable joke”.  

After momentary reality of dismay, he soon began protesting in his usual overblown self that he still is the lord what he surveys. Often, his arguments were asinine and expressed defiantly, loaded with arrogance and misplaced pride. The fact as I could see was that his bêtise may see him fall and lay like Ozymandias pretty soon. I was not alone in concluding so. People in the organization even spoke of a re-enact of the horror of the Ides- of- March. They said in unanimity that, his conceit was sure to accompany him even into the grave. Alas, some men are destined to not foresee where their own self will eventually take themselves to!

I have not seen another who was a vacillator than he is. His vacillations were out of fear of the man who grew ominously influential and big under his tutelage. It was akin to a parasite growing larger than the host. His protégé- Anthrax Romin the Greek!

The intrigues, chicanery and maliciousness he condoned and saw as means to greater gains were orchestrated and conducted by Anthrax. Apparently in even time he grew into an albatross and an indispensable part and that if threatened in anyway can pull with him the whole fabric. He was privy to many shady matters and by the fact, held a total asphyxiating control over even his mentor’s life and business enterprise.

When it was about the hag, it has been an open speculation about her power over this fellow Anthrax. Though observations by people may be dismissed as sleazy gossips and innuendos, there was much substance to the probability that she was his concubine or mistress and they were in cahoots with bigger plans that would eclipse the psyche of Shylock. For a characterless harlot to travel with ease from the status of a kennel-keeper and a relegated house maid into a force that has to be reckoned in the hierarchy of the organization and feared would certainly have more than smooth transition that was natural. She exerted immense influence on the protégé. And he, true to his name after the scourge, he can be as villainous as the disease itself. And together they combined to be a force that was reprobate and grossly dangerous.

Once, the Big-man asserted that Anthrax is a “dirty bastard”. I did not respond to the statement as I have known often that he will pamper him and go all over the fellow like a child or a poodle when he sees him and he has not the courage to confront him with such statement. His position as the boss and the lord of the empire he runs, fails to aid him with character and grit to antagonize or ruffle him. He was easily pliable, Anthrax and his accomplice, the woman could do it with their little fingers. It was strange to us more because Anthrax’s shenanigans was more than often compromising the big man and putting in peril the survival of what perhaps his children should be left or bequeathed one day.

Some others have often approached the big- fellow and failed to prevail upon him to untangle himself from the snares of Anthrax. The big man saw him as his “Man Friday”! He refused to heed others when they told him, “He is the reason for the state of affairs. He always has and will continue to derail the organization. In fact he lights the fire and cries out hastening you to run and put it out, in the mean while he‘d have lit another fire. He survives by ensuring you do not at any moment feel that he is dispensable. Look back, what has he brought about since associating with you as a young fellow returned from overseas? Nothing but choking problems and trying situations!”

One day he began in a casual conversation with me to paean him. I listened withholding my annoyance and was later pilloried by others for letting him shower praise on his protégé and continue with his delusions.

The book of living, if written may highlight the importance of one’s ways, path and the people who we keep within our perimeter. For, both can leave indelible bearing upon us and our fate. And this man seemed to be weighed down by his conduct and the company he keeps.

He once told me to my utter disgust when I mentioned some matter thus, “it is a big problem to be left unattended…” He held me literally pulling my shoulder and stated, “There is nothing called big problem in life. Even if your kid dies in a motor crash or what ever, it is only a problem and nothing more.”                                                       

"You see”, he, at another time told me; “I work and keep this wealth for my satisfaction”.I did not want to let him be satisfied with his mean-spiritedness and arrogance. “But Sir, we earn and keep aside wealth or things for our dependents- our kids, our spouse and what we call our family. I would want to do that and so will many others”.                                                                                                                                                              “I’m not foolish to hitch my happiness to my kids and wife, or am I prepared to accept that I earn for them. You know something, if I die today, the only thing they would do is to grab my wealth.” It was quite nauseating and I said to myself, “you make me sick and utterly repelled. I harbour no pity for you, you pathetic fellow”.

I felt his eyes read me and was certain, almost certain that he read my thoughts. He dismissed me with the wave of his palm and his customary fussy and eccentric disposition.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Amour

Amour, as the word “love” in English has connotations with subtle difference and feel. Some words even defy transliteration and are unique in its meaning, spirit, tone and the evocative passion they convey. Though I’m not capable of critiquing a film except as a lay person, I felt empathy and warmth while also failing to find the “le mot juste” for the affection, concern, the impassioned silence the film reflected in the relationship between the aged couple.

The film flew back to my mind when a casual conversation with another threw open the genuine fear and apprehension that can stalk in old age or in midstream if one is incapacitated. I wonder if someone can be fearless and an optimist in  face of  the perils that are hand in glove with old age.

He had a blissful marital life for many years. The tempests that oft startle couples from the slumber and casual moorings that threaten to corrode marriage and to fade out as storms in a tea cup was not strange to him. But he says there was no love lost.

He was a future trader of petroleum and churned dollars with every snap of his fingers. He lost some and often heavily too. He reveled in this gamble and while success serenaded and tangoed with him, he delighted himself. Though, it mattered the least to him he was beheld by many with envy and also as the cynosure. A happy man with an envious family and wealthy too! However the crash a few years ago saw him sucked into the whirlpool and when he surfaced with desperation he saw that the castles he built were washed away in the deluge. It was devastation.

“Yes it was fearsome, but was not as devastating as perhaps the possibility of losing one’s …….” he paused and continued,” A lonely winter of life is frightening.  What would one cherish most, the loving presence of your wife, the affection of your kids or the glitz and relationships that wealth brings? Relationships are, I’m afraid, my friend like swallows in high summer. They fly to distant safe lands when the frost set in and gloomy days loom.” He did not wait for my opinion; he walked out of the room and was gone.

I was spontaneously overwhelmed by the humaneness of the film I saw the day before, “Amour”. I did not need more insight into his story to unravel what he alluded.

The central characters, the old octogenarian couple are retired music teachers living a life of intense bond and affection. When the wife is crippled by repeated strokes and is sinking into miserable physical existence the love and bond among them is tested considerably. It is finally his sheer humanness, courage and unflinching love for her, his wife that leads him to smother her with a pillow and end her agony.

My thoughts went after the stranger who spoke to me a little while ago and agonized to guess his destiny when he sails into the winter of his life, solitary, cold and shivering. But, did I see in his eyes a shimmering flame that may keep him going?
"Begging for love can only add on to beggary", his parting words resonated.

                                                                                                                                

Match Making

“Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

Make me a match,

Find me a find,

catch me a catch.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

Look through your book,

And make me a perfect match…

…….Matchmaker, Matchmaker,

Plan me no plans

I'm in no rush

Maybe I've learned

Playing with matches

A girl can get burned

So,

Bring me no ring

Groom me no groom

Find me no find

Catch me no catch

Unless he's a matchless match.”

“Tradition”, the word describes what has stood the flow of time and the test of generations. I guess one would understand what I refer to. Indeed the institution called marriage and in Indianised Anglican phrase-“arranged marriage”. Call it match making too!

Though I may be seen as a votary of anti-match making because I was recalcitrant and did not heed to the traditional way of match making when it mattered to me personally. I do endorse the values and the meticulous processes that lead up to an eventual betrothal. For, one cannot deny the fact that wedlock is not merely an affair between the groom and the bride, man and woman but it is essentially a liaison between families. This is where family values, integrity, and respectability come to play and lack of it is fraught with unpleasantness that is sure to visit at a much later date well after marriage. I emphasise this to my kids and I do not know if someone can convince me to the contrary.

I was instrumental in the initial discussions that preluded a couple of wedlock and, now, an impending one.

I was shockingly fascinated when I realised recently a gaffe, some twenty and eight years ago when I discussed briefly with my then brother-in –law to be, the proposal for my sister’s hand in marriage. His parents took over the formal matters after my meeting with him. But I realize now, and after all these many years that I (we) may not have asked my sister whether she approved of the match making. Wasn’t it quite impertinent to presume? It is too late to ask her now! Perhaps I must remind him now the gaffe. Sure it is humorous to think about.

A match making that later proved to be a toss-up between spite and or the facilitation of relationship between two mutually malefic couple, took place some twenty two years ago. I was by virtue of marriage related to the man. His parents assigned me as the only male member worthy of initiating discussion with the prospective bride and family. I took up the matter and had to persuade him to accept her proposal as he was quite nervy about his parent’s opinion about the bride and her family. I had to usher a quality that was nonexistent in me-“persuasion” and it worked. I now may be persona non grata in their social list and, as for me, I do appreciate to be distanced from them is an ironical matter.

It will be amusing if I mention now to my brother-in-law, my forgetfulness in not asking his wife (my sister) if she agreed for the match making. Because now, I just concluded the ground work or call it research about the groom for their daughter (my niece).I flew to Abu Dhabhi to meet and chat with the boy before endorsing him from my side to be-“the suitable boy”.

Now, did I remember to ask the girl if she approves of this match making.

                                "....  Find me no find

                                Catch me no catch

                                Unless he's a matchless match.”

An Afternoon One Monsoon

                                                                                                                                                      Monsoon! The nymph that envelopes the land and the heavens with her irresistible enchantment!                                                                                                                                                      

If an ordinary mortal such as I is bewitched by the beauty she brings forth and enhances on all that is in Nature- the air, water, sky, the mountains, the thick green flora and even the often uninviting water buffaloes that stand in the rain fed fields indifferent and caring the least, what wondrous creation can she tempt and provoke in a bard!

The monsoon in Kerala is singular. It is awe and inspiring splendour how she transforms the famished and unquenchable land with her spell. In one whiff of freshness she carries in her bosom she eclipses the dreariness and forlorn. Driving through the land after the spell of monsoon rains, with water dripping from trees that straddle the path, pools of water on the road and gushing by sides of the road in effusive state, eager to join the larger schemes elsewhere down, I and C were on a drive some hundred and thirty kilometers from the dry town in Tamilnad where we then lived.

We had befriended a family whom we have met often before at the school in Coonoor, but neither they nor we went farther than exchanging acknowledging nods. However a carnival at the school that lasted a couple of days brought us together and before we parted they invited us to their home in Kerala by the foothills of the Western Ghats.

The rains that visit Kerala, particularly the south west monsoon that tee off in June scatter much relief in the border towns of Tamilnad-Coimbatore, Pollachi and Tiruppur. The stifling dryness of the summer slowly recedes unable to confront the wet, bewitching spell of the monsoon rains and the cold air it throws across the mountains. By the time one crosses the bye- pass highway off Coimbatore into Kerala, the resplendent rain clouds that hover over the mountains are a soulful sight. And, as if Nature herself has taken the cue from the man-made divisions of the State borders, the rains that confined to drizzle until there begin to lash as soon as one crosses the State border from Tamilnad into Kerala. It poured and poured in thick drops of shimmering, shiny silver.

It is amazing as to how vegetation changes colour and radiates a splendiferous hue after a few days of amorous onslaught of the monsoon. The dark greyish blue clouds impregnated with rain hover low over the mountains.

On that late afternoon we drove in the sleek Hyundai Accent we bought a couple of months before. We drove through the rain and the car tested wonderful endurance on the slippery roads in the rain and the sharp bends on the road that can be a motorist’s misery. But I loved the drive water splashing in jet from beneath the car. The stretch towards their house off Palghat, by the foot hills brought forth the trancing beauty of nature. It was magnificent display of colours from the heavens - the clouds that engulfed the mountains and then to the expanse on the foothills. Parrot green, lemon green and dark and dark green hue of vegetation. Every leaf and bark of plants and trees were touched by the spell of monsoon and they stood bowed but afresh, washed anew by the rains. The rivers and rivulets were gushing and torrential.

The rains had ceased lashing, but the land and its creatures were in eagerness and bated breath waiting for the next spell. Dark grey blue rain clouds where swirling on the mountains conveying the torrent that would soon come down from the heavens. Street dogs wet to the bones were running about and seemed to enjoy the transformed air. A flock of ducks was frolicking in the muddy waters of the paddy fields and the brook near. Crows wet and drenched in the rain perched on trees and roof tops pecking their feathers clean.

We had slid down the window panes when the rains stopped and switched off the air-conditioner in the car. It imparted a continuous soothing  blast of monsoon air, neither cold nor warm.

The house was cocooned in the middle of a vast rubber plantation and the drive to the house was through the serpentine drive-way with strewn bed of fallen leaves and the rubber trees holding aloft dark canopy .The croaking of the toads lend the silence of the place an oxymoron effect.We seemed to be cut away and mercifully cast away from the civilisation , the monsoon magic was hypnotising then, there!

Elasticity of Demand

The stereotyping of people and profession has been an exasperating malady and a clichéd one, more often noticed in societies in India. I wonder if the same is endemic in societies elsewhere, for instance in the West.

The psychiatrist in a film or play must sport a beard, perhaps taking the cue from Sigmund Freud; a school teacher must necessarily have an over sized pair of glasses; a lawyer must invariably don the ubiquitous black robe or his court uniform even while at private functions; a doctor must have the stethoscope on him 24x7 and so on! The contention may be that the profession or the nature of the person can be conveyed only if they have these special adornments. Hindi flicks in the seventies were dominated by villains who always sported a cloak and had a smoking pipe perched to their lips.

We refuse to unlearn these misrepresentations. What I notice these days often discussed and alleged by mothers of prospective brides and grooms is another facet of stereotyping-stereotyping taken to ridiculous extents! They assume and are convinced that what they presume is what the fact is.

I wonder if during my youth the clichéd statements and inhibitions, that I would call sociological superstitions existed in the same intensity as they do now to derail betrothals and match making. It crosses even bizarre limits when educated parents of prospective brides air such views that are stupid, silly, and illogical and defying sound judgment.

When men of a particular profession is allegedly goddamned to be having affinity and indulgence in lecherous behavior, it defies sound judgment. It is absolutely irresponsible and blasphemous. In Kerala there is an element of antipathy towards women in the medical profession of nursing. Women in the profession are seen as grossly flirtatious and promiscuous. Ironically Kerala has the maximum number of women in nursing. It is alleged that a sailor has a woman in every port of call. And the tag stays, only because of the biased proclivity of some. I have noticed doctors with libertine ways. What about that?

But what is bright as summer’s day is that one need not be a sailor, a nurse or a doctor let alone a techie to be dissolute and promiscuous. Fornication and loose morals are not the prerogative of these selected professions. It can be indulged in by any. And one can still display the countenance of an apostle. And that goes with any one you pick irrespective of what he is, a doc, a janitor, a banker or a bureaucrat.

As some parents describe the scenario as “market value”! It reminds me of the classes in Economics that I sat through drearily years ago; then the in-elasticity of demand (apologies to Alfred Marshall). It is flippant and rather crude way of analyzing and judging in a match making situation, to relate the prospective bride (more often), or the groom as we do commodities and their demand, supply and price line in economics. Then the parents fret when the demand is elastic and the ideal profession from which they look to acquire a groom is in short supply.

But then why do parents stick to their guns and damn some profession?

Doesn't these idiosyncrasies of the society boil down as the over emphasis on conventions and skewed mindset? I wonder if economic independence or empowerment is of lesser significance and wisdom than wedlock. If one sees it so then it is a betise inviting trouble in later life. Even if the groom is acquired or fished out from a profession the parents claim or see to be noble and sequestered away from riotous moorings and forays, does that give a carte blanche guarantee that he may not stumble or go astray. Is there a threshold? In such a god- forbidden possibility is it not wise to be economically independent than be pushed into a matchmaking and relationship where woman is overly dependent on the man for sustenance?

I’m concerned about the education and the right academic qualification for my child and am not harried by the thought of her betrothal. Whether the fellow is a sailor, a doctor, an environmentalist or a bureaucrat, it may not drive me into insomnia. Well certainly not a professional politician, but yes a person who engages in political activities outside his profession and not for livelihood is not an anathema. But eventually it is her choice and I guess education will impart her sound judgment needed to choose a partner.

Gods Own Country

Sitting far away from the State I was born, Kerala, I feel nausea watching the Malayalam Television Channels and glancing through the vernacular newspapers on line. The land of what is officially mooted as “Gods own country”, is, as Vivekananda said more than a century ago is indeed a mad house. A mad house, a mental asylum and incorrigible inmates! The genetic spawning and evolution over the past one hundred years since Vivekananda glossed has not affected any discernible change in the Malayalee mindset- “irredeemable”!

The only far reaching thought that entrenched in Kerala and that aided immeasurably in transformation of social and economic livelihood of the dwellers of the State was the philosophy of Communism and socialist ideology. These revolutionary ideals did trigger social emancipation in the mid and later part of the twentieth century. But now the same philosophies and their excess are a challenge and a liability. The communist ideology is now defunct and irrelevant socially, economically and environmentally, but spoils the Mallu mind as much as the far right views.  The Malyalee acts aggressively and negatively to any situation and he has no sense of priorities that assists in betterment and quality of life.

No election in Kerala , though a cent percent literate (sic) State has  had social , economic and environmental issues as vital subjects in the agenda and upon which a political party or a candidate was judged or chosen into the legislature. The pathetic state of affairs in a State that boasts of all-round health care and forward thinking populace is blatantly obvious if one cares to gently remove the exotic muslin veil of the cliché ,”Gods own Country”.

Mallus love sleaze, vitiated pleasure as much as they love alcohol. A State minister and a talented one at that as well as an achiever in the portfolios he handled so far, is proclaimed first by a debased political henchman of having been at the receiving end of physical assault by the husband of his alleged paramour. The eternally misdirected press and the predatory visual media laps it up in glee and sautéed with further innovations and ingenious masala takes it to the salivating masses. After much hullabaloo and opportunist acrimony orchestrated by the infertile and impotent opposition, the story takes a twist with a new plot and it turns out that the minister was indeed assaulted but by his own wife, an accredited doctor of medicine and not by any stranger. The minister is accused by his wife of incessant physical and mental torture (she nevertheless bore him two boys during their seventeen years of marital cohabitation). The bottom line is that the whole episode that was scripted and dramatised, had the tacit approval of the minister’s maverick father who wanted his son out of the government so that the foot soldiers that stood by him all many years can access trappings of power that was denied to them by the young minister, his son.

The bottom line is the print press and the visual media in the State are gaga over the la affaire and anchors are vying to show off their skills at insinuation and innuendo. The State Assembly had to be dispersed for as many days now as the opposition created melee demanding the resignation of the minister and the Chief Minister who they accuse of tacit complicity in the minister’s conduct.

The pressing problems of the State – the utter chaotic state of sanitation and garbage disposal, the abysmal state of motor ways, perennial transport bottle necks, the apathetic government health care and dispensation, the lost case of water resources and potable water, the rising cost of living, the degradation & rape of environment, the lawlessness, free for all acts of muscle men with political clout, corruption, so on and so forth, are as always in the back burner, usurped now by the marital discord in the life of a State minister.

It was buffoonery and pathetic to see on televisions Sate opposition leaders boycotting Assembly proceedings and congregating on at the Assembly gates braying for the resignation of the minister and the Chief Minister over the issue. They hardly ever thought of demanding that the total breakdown of garbage disposal in the State be attended to, or ask why the tiny State with three International Airports will want another one in Aranmulla on pristine farm lands, while motorable roads are in dire straits of disrepair. Or the precarious perch of a ubiquitous white elephant draining tax money- the KSRTC .

The state of affairs in Kerala may not be an exception, but a random sample of the country at large.

Long, long ago Winston Churchill the arrogant English man remarked why he saw Indians unfit for Independence. “Power will go to the hands of rascals, rogues and freebooters; all Indian leaders will be low caliber and men of straw. They will have sweet tongues and silly hearts. They will fight amongst themselves for power and India will be lost in political squabbles. A day would come when even air & water would be taxed in India”

The man may have harboured racist mindset, but jingoism apart we must admit he prophesied and did that fairly well. Perhaps Indians are vying to prove him right and Kerala is leading the charge of the light brigade.

The visionary English commoner!

(a+b)2 =?

Good times are short-lived; good times fly by ;( reminds me of the Kingfisher Airlines advert here, ha!!).Talking about times that are good and cherished, the week’s journey to back home and amongst familiar faces, while refraining from the less desirable only enhanced the time spent with the rest( a few, importantly C & A may comment on my being brusque and candid for comfort).

Well there was plenty of spirit, the cherished and the enchanting Glen Livet Single Malt and the lesser cousins of the desi variety; plenty of food especially the daily lunch- the bewitching  dishes of the Mallu kind that was cooked by one of the most favorite- mom!(  chembavari choru,ayala curry, erusheri, avail, chura vattichathu, netholi curry, pullinkari……”).

Tucked in at the corner of the sprawling lawn of the TVM club and in the much cooler air of the night fiercely protected even from rains by the thick overhead canopy of the huge mahogany trees twice my age if not more, I sat and reflected back at the years and stared helplessly at the fact that, a decade and few years more from now, I will be a septuagenarian. Insipid or is it helplessly hastening fact? The less comforting matter of commencing a life midstream or when towards into the rapids- changing course midstream and more perilously because it is closer to the falls!

“(a + b)2 = a2 + 2ab + b2.” He said aloud and I was startled from the stark dream- thought I briefly had slid into. He did refer to his late mother even the previous day when he dropped by at home after knowing of my being in town. I could sense some controlled emotion in him when the topic of discussion was about her and the mess the super-specialty hospital in Thpuram ravaged upon her and in the bargain certainly hastening her passing.

“The difficulty is that I miss her much more amongst the seven of us, perhaps more because of the fact that since I was little I was living with her. The void is quite sore even though she died at a good ripe age.” he said. “The amazing fact was her knowledge of math and her adroitness in algebra even while she was bedridden. You see she was from the old school education and thorough in what she learned that she often used to correct my son in his homework. She used to answer in a trice to our question in jest, what is (a+b) 2.She would say with a wry smile a2 + 2ab + b2.”

“Well she was quite fortunate, she lived a good life, she bore seven children, reared them well and also traveled a fair bit outside India – to Rome in particular where my sister took her once.” He was pensive.

“I guess she lived fairly long after you father’s demise?” I asked.

“Yes, yes she did thirty five years!” he replied.

And he continued, “She sometimes reminisced with satisfaction what father told her when she expressed to him once her fear of her old age, that since the Christian succession laws disqualified married Christian women from inheritance- assets of their paternal or maternal family, she may find it tough in old age from the lack or deficit of financial independence. It was a tough task for them as you can imagine, bringing up seven children and of which there were three girls who had to be married away.He told her this that proved reassuring and a fact, 'I have given you seven children and if not all seven at least one of them will take care of you till your last day', She was indeed  taken care by all!”