Friday, September 3, 2021

OLD Town BY THE SEA


 Those days I lived with my husband’s parents in their ancestral home in the village. A tiny hamlet tucked up a couple of kilometers from the sea - the way the crow flew, and dotted with coconut palms, Jack, Cashew and Mango trees. An old town and serene little place by the sea! A 17th century Portugese construct church and not far away a Devi temple stood as symbols of social amity, if I may. I wondered why my husband’s parents chose to settle down in that place where they were but only about half dozen families from their own Muslim community.Nevertheless my father-in law turned out to be a succesfull business man and highly respected human being.No one noticed or cared that he always sported a skull cap or well groomed goatty beard,and unfailingly went to the ancient little masjid for five namaz each day, and they were not used to identify his faith then. They were personal, peripheral and incosnpicuous. My father- in-law was simply Kochukunju Musaliar to the village folks. Nothing more nothing less!There were no muizins balaring out through loud speakers, and the six families took turns to announce the call for prayer.  The gulf boom brought with it migaration and  today we see quite a few neo rich Muslims who bought land in the village and flaunting their petro-dollar wealth . That also brought with it a new mosque and its fancy and unaesthetic ornamentaion. How could they resist being content with an ancient Masjid that is as spartan,nondescript and silent though an enduring symnbol like the ancinet temple or the gothic church?. My father- in- law’s objection to having muizins announce prayers through a loud speaker was ignored. They shouted down his question why a loud speaker, a prochronism during the Prophet’s time  when the purists insit life must be pedantic to the dictations of the Koran and the Hadith. The Gulf money spoke and they funded the new mosque.

That goes about as the introduction to the old town near the sea.

 As a dutiful daughter-in-law I chose to stay back with my husband’s parents , while he worked in the city about hundred kilometers away and came home over weekends.The little place with its laid back life and perenially flowing river - its waters gleaming like silver in the mid morning sun, the dragon flies and colourful butterflies, the birds flaunting their musical notes, the street dogs who wag their tails vigorously and followed you,the dense sacred grove near the temple which is awe to me and erie to a few,the gentle ring of temple bells at dusk announcing deeparadhana, and the spirit of Christ that I could see on the ancient church, all, were too dear to leave behind for a city life.My love for my husband was not less than the love for the old town by the sea. But it may  have seem wiered for few others.He, my spouse was happy I took care of his parents and I eagerly awaited his return on weekneds, though we both  missed each other on many other days.

 I have the habit of going out for walk immediately after sunrise ,something that which I carried from my schooling days in the Jesuist school in Ootty.                                    The gentle nip in the morning air was plesant and I did not notice him, until he, a  man of about 70 caught up with me. He was a bit short of breath and may have been trying to catch up with my brisk walking. I have  often spoted him stand at the gate of the house near the post-office, its façade reeking with Gulf money.

 “ Haa young woman , I haven’t noticed you in these parts. Are you a vistor here?”

I smiled like I would to an elderly acquaintace or relative and said, “No, I live here.”

His avancular expression was  noticeable. “ Oh, old man that I’m do not remember seeing you. By the way which household dear?”

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

 “Oh , oh I see, I see. Pardon me my dear. I was living in my ancestoral home in Ranni and after the partition my nephews threw me out, ungraetful scoundrels you see.The had no qualms in telling me. ‘Ouseph velliappa now get out. You have nothing to do here.’ Luckily Clara is in Kuwait, ye she is a nurse- you see , my son’s wife and she bought 15 cents land and build this house for me and  Chackochi. We moved in a few years ago. Haa,  I get it, now, and your husband did not join you for  the morning? Lazing in bed young fellow, tired of the night’ acrobatics , I guess.” He made a chuckle and winked while he said that.I did not notice that he had managed to arrest my walk.

“No, my husband works in the town and comes back only on weekends.”I said feeling a liitle awkward.

“Oh , goodnes, save this girl holy Mary mother of God.” He looked heavenward and then he continued. “How  unkind of your husband to leave you an young woman alone here!”

“ No, no, I’m not alone, I live with my father and mother-in-law.I take care of them.”

 “ No, no, dear. That is unfair. An young woman,will have fantsaies and goodness me,now see you can enjoy the nuptial bliss only a day or so in a week.! Good Lord how do you manage my dear?” He winked and chuckled.

I was quite uneasy and was swiftly on guard.

“What?”

“Ha, Oh you know what I mean. The acrobatics with your husband can happen only over weekends. That is a pity dear.”

 I was incensed , I ignored him and began to walk fast as I could. Surprisingly he was abreast of me.

“ Dear how do you tolerate this unkindness.. you see if female vagina is untouched for long it sews up tight  naturally.” He winked again and the repulsive chuckle followed.

I stopped and turned looking him in the eyes. ” Look, stranger. I do not know you, and do not care to know either.Now, what is your problem here? It is my life and my privacy. You shouldn’t be concerned about it let alone come up to me from nowhere , ask such outrageous questions and make unsolicited suggestions.”

 “Dear , dear . Did I offend you. Just see it as an avancular concern of this old man Ouseph.”

 “Do you know this is stalking and what can happen to you if I report this? Please stay away , there are people to be concerened about me. I do not need you.”

 I walked fast more in anger and utterly annoyed. How dare he come up and strike such conversation. Ouspeh, He said! I went past the Church and worshippers were walking out after the mass. I stopped, and looked back.I turned towards the street leading to my home.I was panting and exhausted more out of seething anger.

 Standing under the shower , cold well water flowing over me, it did little to calm my annoyance and nerves. I barely managed to eat an iddly and even before my mother- in-law could ask something I was out on the street walking towards the church. I gate crashed into the small parish meeting.

“ I want to talk to the priest - the Father? “I said breathlessly.

It was then that I noticed that it was the same old man Ouseph I was addressing. That group of a dozen parishshoners, looked t me with curioisty. I repeated my demand  with firmness. “ Where is the Father. I want to speak to him.”

“Oh my dear young woman, what brings Kochukunju Muslaiar’s daughter in law in to this church?” said a parishoner.

 “ I want to speak to the Priest? “ I repeated .

 “My dear girl, Father has retired to his chambers after the morning mass. If there is something we can do for you dear , tell us.”

 “I can stay put, till he is back”. I moved and fell into a vaccant chair.

 The more I think of  the morning and that old man’s smirkfull face , I began to shiver with anger. I woke up from a trance when a warm hand fell on my shoulders and my chin was lifted . Mariamma Chettathi was looking into my eyes quite concerned.

“ What is it my little girl. Fathima’s daughter in law is mine too. What ails you? If there is something we could do, we should not wait fror the priest.”

 “But how could that be so? She is not a parishoner. And non parishoner  that too from another community sitting here itself is not appropriate.” That was one Sebastin Muthalali who  has the  department store in the village. He  returned from Kuwait a few years ago.

 “Thangal Kunju Muslaiar’s daughter in law need not be member of the parish. For all these years this church has enjoyed all his benevolence. Mariamma chettathi ask her if we could do something for her.” An elderly man intoned and silenced Sebastin muthalali.

  I told them what happened in the morning. But by then he old man Ouseph had sneaked away.

“ I want the Father to be present. I’ll wait for him or I will  go to the police.”

The alatar man  a lean scrawny figure shouted from the door to the priest’s chamber . “ Atchan has gone to town. He left a few minutes ago. Won’t be back till late evening.”

“ Haa that is not surprising. He must have sneaked out hearing all this.When has the Father ever handled an issue. Is it not his creed to escape such situations.” Mariamma Chettathi was candid.

“ Koche, don’t you know it is common for men to pass lighthearted comments? If you begin to take up every word and utterances there will be no time left in a day to pursue other important matters.” I did not care to see who among that motely group said that.

“ Mariamma Chettathi will you come with me to the man’s house?”

I asked  and soon a small group volunteered to join me, albeit reluctantly and after strong persuasion from Mariamma Chettathi.  

 Sebastin Muthalllali said he had to open up his store and cannot be wasting time on frivilous  matters. “ My girl think twice before making these little  issues big. Won’t do any good to your family honour and pride. Besides the matter will blow up  into issue between two communities. You may have to bear the brunt.”

“Yes , girls should not be this obstinate . This is arrogance. Let these things pass.” I looked towards the man who said that, and he cast his eyes down not meeting my gaze.

 The small group walked to Ouseph’s house. As we entered the gates we could se the old man reclining in his chair on the verandha reading the morning news paper.

A man of about 40 came out  smiling . “ Yes, yes welcome welcome the parish committee is out early today on fund collection I suppose.”

“ Nothing to do with fund collection. It is about Appachan, your father.”The elderly man in the group announced.

“What about him?” asked the son, a bit curious and surprised.

I moved to the verandha and said.” Appacha why don’t you please come out for a moment?”

 Ouseph timidly looked at me and  cast his eyes down and without looking at me he muttered feebly “What my dear girl? What can I do for you?”

“ Appacha. Now why don’t you tell  these folks what you spoke to me this morning?”

“My girl, I’m old as your grandfather.”I could barely hear him.

“Yes Appacha. That is what stopped me back from slapping you, your age.”

“ Ha Ousephe, is it true what she says? Surely you know why we all are here.All said and done , what you said to her was too gross. You ought to have thought about the holy sacrament you take  before being so offensive and indecent and that to a girl who is just as old as your grand child. Shameful!”

 “ Oh yes daily, this Appachan passes sleazy comments at me. I told my husband but he is always asking me to ignore it and not make an issue.” The middle aged woman who made that observation then  glanced at her husband and a teenage girl who were curiously watching the proceedings from the neighbouring house ,across the compund wall.

“ See that is what embolden people like this appachan. Your husband ought to be ashamed. Don’t you folks have a girl child growing up? Will he  advise the same to her when someone tries this on her?” I could see the man’s head from  over the compound wall go down, and the expressionless face of his daughter.

 “Ouseph , it won’t help if you sit quiet like this. Tell yes or no if what this girl says are true.” The senior in the group said.

 Ouseph was sitting expressionless both palms supporting his head, his eyes cast down.Obviously unable to meet our eyes. That pitful  image seemed to be melting my fury inside, I could not but pity that miserable old creature. He sat there like a cornored old stag, its antlers broke and hanging.I turned to the son said, “ Chetta , who else is with Appachan besides you?”

 “ What has that got to do with this drama ?”

“ Old age and lonliness Chetta. You have avenues to entertain and make merry, obviously friends too. But think of the old . There is no one to talk to , to express their feelings , some banter and fun.”

”Koche what are you trying to tell? I don’t take care of my father?”

“ Chetta , please do not be presumptuous. Did I say so?”

“Then what. Clara sends bank draft every month. She sends it in his name , she dosen’t trust me  with money , that stupid woman. Every day, three or four times he can have sumptuous food. Every day mutton , beef and fish. He even gets brandy bottles twice a month from town. He has televison and cable. What more should I give a parent. You folks can easily conclude . I  take care of my father very well. Now don’t expect me to sit by his feet and massage all day.”

  “ Chetta . Appachan’s silence itself tells the story of what he said, what happened this morning and how he spends each day. See this Chechi too has her story to tell. Who knows how many other folks will have similar embarrassments! It is is your parent. It is only kindness and gratitude if you undesrtood their feelings and old age. I’ve nothing more to say.” And I turned and walked.

  He shouted behind me.“ Koche, you see it is quite natural for men to crack some jokes. Women must be able to laugh it away.”

 “ Haa, all hear wonderful son !” Mariamma Chettathi hollored more in angush and anger.

 He continued.“I see you  folks are determined to slander my father. When some stupid, mad woman brought up a  false story about my father the whole parish thought it fit to come along. How can you be not sure that this woman  did not court my father. After all he type of women are capable of enticing and enchanting  decent men, even old men. I won’t be surprised if she did that. Look at  what she wears.”

I almost lost my bearings ,I stopped in my track and gathering my wit I moved up to him – glaring and looking him in the eye, I said. “ Yes, you can call me a slut. Isn’t that the easiest way of defense you men know. I have been warned that if I make  an issue of this it will hurt me , my respectability and family’s status. So be it. Brother, I understand your wife works in the Gulf  and sends you money so that you and this Appachan could built this bungalow and live merrily. Did your Appachan not tell you that if your wife did not have regular sex , her vagina might get sewed up naturally? He warned me this morning.So better take care my friend.”

 I turned around and walked back leaving behind a thrilled Marimma Chettathi as I could see from her face, and obviously a stunt son. The rest of the group may have stared at my receding figure.

 

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

House of Dark Shadows




Every child growing up is fed with eerie stories of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So was I. I remember a few oldies and a bunch of cousins during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha douse me with blood chilling and frightening tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

It was utterly horrifying to walk the narrow and deserted pathways at night even if there were adults for company. The pale lights of the incandescent bulbs atop street light poles seem to provide more shadow than light. When one pass by the holy groves at night a frightening sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often we use to sprint muttering holy names. Dark and lonely rooms in the house were another area where one was quite likely to confront a ghost or spirit of an old grand uncle, or a hunchback grand- aunt. Chairs and bed by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. Those days in the village, toilets were either outside the house or one had to take leak in the open under the moonlit sky, or often under the starless dark sky. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins who were familiar with the place to come along as escort so one could relieve outside by the mango tree and that was a thankless effort. They curled deeper under their sheets. Then holding one’s bladder full and almost bursting, counting minutes and moments of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, lying terrified until streak of daylight wafted through the mullioned windows….! Elder cousins always scared   me a city born  with eerie tales. I felt they even relished the vicarious pleasure gained from utter consternation I felt at night. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or just the fanciful dance shadows played, would send my heart thumping that even the ghost lurking in the shadows could hear it. Urine would lose direction and force and wet the nicker. And in the haste to get back to the comparative comfort of indoors, drops of urine would drip down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the dead grand uncle who watched with amber like eyes in the dark from the sacred grove? Or of that woman in the neighbourhood who died of snake bite? The occasional shrieks and yelling of gibberish by the lunatic namboothiri in the nearby illam where he lived with his octogenarian mother would waft through the still night, not helping to relieve in comfort.

Well, growing up and I remember the late evening- walking back one day after watching the film “House of Dark Shadows”. Every few steps I turned back to look behind. Later, reading the Dracula of Bram Stalker, on a Sunday late afternoon and sitting frozen in the chair unable to move but roving over sentences after sentences, page after page, often ceasing breathing I did not realize it was dark. That was in our apartment in Kochi. My fellow house mates were all away for the weekend and it was me alone and Count Dracula for company. I was even scared to move from the chair to switch on the light. I preferred to strain my eyes in the fading light, than move a limb. Soon it was very dark, but for the streaks of rays from the street light at the gate. Oh behold, it was 7 and off went the street light - it was load shedding for thirty minutes. One of those moments when the resolve to be an atheist was not helpful!

Fear of the dead! The dead are sure to be about as ghosts and would often wreck vengeance. The carried their animosity to their afterlife said old stories. Once dead they did not take disobedience and past acts of rudeness towards them with levity. That was an awfully dire and unkind narrative put into my head right from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one died at home or among friends and relatives. For the dead even for no reason can remember be our nemesis. Even as recently, a tragic death of a friend’s son would disturb me. That was because the boy was close to me, he liked me much. Some nights, immediately during the days after his passing I would even wonder if he was about near me, about my cot. Dark rooms at night were always places the dead can pounce upon you - the grim reminders of my cousins rang in my ears!

When Amma died, and I spent almost a year alone in the house after her passing, strangely that fear was not felt. Sometimes I wished she confronted me and I could straighten with her things left undone and not spoken. Well the confidence was there, she may come as ghost or spirit but cannot hurt me, won’t hurt me! Even the mother ghost can be yelled at, argued with, shouted at and why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand uncles, and hunchback aunts. The confidence I felt was often amusing, or was it comforting?

I still hope some of them who were close to us would come by one of those dark lonely nights for a chat. Perhaps help us even out things left undone and unspoken!

It is an amusing thought. I can only laugh about myself.

 

 

Sunday, August 8, 2021

The Burnt Soul

 

The chap was timid. He was made to become one. How else could he be different when he was directed by quite a few self obsessed adults? When you are always lorded over and are the victim of patriarchal diktats, along with insensitive women folks who pulled at your hair, lucky if nothing worse happened and one did not got lost. He almost was!  Oh a forgetful childhood!

Some days even after many years, the smell of books from the British Council Library wafts into the fellow’s nostrils.  Those rainy evenings and the incessant downpour came handy to create an alibi for being late back home and the British Council Library served as refuge. The James Leasor’s, and the Maurice Proctor’s  exchanged their plots with him; when the  books on cricket and the classic photographs in them took him across the seas , land and mountains to the cricket grounds of distant Old Blighty . He met the Bronte’s, Dickens and the rest later though.  The annual subscription for juniors was a paltry five Rupees; there was animated discussion among the despots back home about the wisdom of letting him, a little boy go to the library. Consider the possibilities of the chap becoming friendly with undesirable company and going astray!

It was while in the middle school days when he first tasted Enid Blyton. Blyton was then the initiator into good English language and a wizard in snaring kids into the habit of reading and knowing. The Secret Sevens and the Famous Five where mostly endearing to boys and girls hung with Mallory Towers while little older ones with, “they walked into the sunset, hand in hand”, genre of Barbara Cartland and Mills & Boon. However Blyton books where hard to come by and often listed borrowed. That was when the irresistible urge to not just read them, but possess them became quite an infatuation in the fella.

Every day, the book store en route to school beckoned and Enid Blyton smiled at discerning kids from in there. Ruling out the idea not to plead with the despots back home to buy those books was simply a foregone wisdom. They never would, after all Rs 1.50 was a heck of a sum for book and what a waste it was to buy one! The Blyton and the Famous Five kids along with the Secret Sevens were impossibly irresistible. That was when unwittingly and unbeknownst to the fella Naxal ideology loomed about suggesting a possible solution. The early 70’s were the era of Naxalite actions! When the haves do not provide you, the have-nots must wrench it out. So he did. Filched from one of the despots the ‘million amount of Rs 1.50’, then with pride and immense satisfaction bought the first of the Famous Five oeuvre. Like  the pleasant soothing of Marijuana , Blyton possessed him and what else was the recourse but keep sneaking in and lift  Rs 1.50  and buy  another when he had devoured the earlier one. Then another; then another; and then again another! Lo behold the 21 editions of the Famous Five and the nine Secret Sevens were safely locked up in a mystery corner in the house. The dire consequence of despots stumbling on them was a looming nightmare and possibility. Every day he surreptitiously managed to open the wooden box and feel them all over , smell their pages and get transported to the environ Blyton so vividly painted. How one wished one was born there and not in this dark, cold, insensitive and coercive place!

 Like all good things ill-gotten, the books were soon found out and the question rose how and from where that collection, bundle of new books came to him.  Alibis where weak because the pages smelt new and someone decided further investigations were required. Let the Great Dictator come back home, the inquisition shall begin.

Desperate times call for desperate and cruel short circuiting. He sneaked up to the terrace with those books and poured kerosene on them and watched painfully each character in them waft into the air carried by the wind and smoke. Soon there was no trace of the books but a palm full of messy, dark ash. A funeral pyre would not evoke so much tearing of the soul as those burning books did that day.

 

Tuesday, January 12, 2021

I'm a Farmer

 


What one can see from a commoner's perspective is that perhaps the Supreme Court did not go into the constitutional validity of the Farm Laws because primafacie they may not have seen anything ultra vires of the constitution and could not strike down the Farm Laws hence opted to stay it till further orders.

But at the same time on what grounds did the Court stay the Farm Laws? And if they did so to facilitate the committee they propose which will go into the issue, why not then ask the government to repeal it rather? Staying the implementation of the law in itself reflects the Court’s acknowledgement of its obnoxious and egregious nature.

When the Court observed the government did not have consultations on the Bills with all stake holders before ramming it through Parliament, does it not tell us the Bills are bad in law? Why then is the decision to stay and not order the repeal?

Is it beginning to tell us something is "rotten in the State of Denmark "?

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

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

Never, in post independent India, and not even during the Indira reign running up to the Emergency infamy have we looked at Courts with sceptical eyes as we now do. Court decisions and subterfuges over the past three to four years do not lend any credence to trust the Judiciary either. A sad state indeed!

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

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

If this sounds cynical, I could not help, but I earnestly wish I’m wrong.


Wednesday, August 26, 2020

Hanuman Pandaram

 


 When I was little, children were fed the story of a bogeyman. Recalcitrant, annoying, and clamant children were told about a certain man called ‘hanuman pandaram’ who would appear from nowhere and does bizarre dance moves before he plucks you and vanishes, never to come back. The fear was telling when we were told that the distant sound of a gong was warning his arrival. Eventually, he did come one day and many times thereafter, which told me that the poor soul was a harmless hunched mendicant who did a monkey dance wearing a grotesque looking mask resembling the primate god- the proverbial “hanuman”. He quietly retreated collecting alms.

When I recollect those days, I can tell the fright the story of ‘hanuman pandaram’ aroused in us. But it must have helped many parents to arrest and control their children.

I can liken that fear of Hanuman –pandaram with the scaremongering of the Modi led malice about Muslims and minorities. Like then, when the purpose was served- kids could be controlled and brought to heel, today, the population and societies have been effectively divided and suspicions writ large. The Hindutva agenda has been smoothly accomplished.

Growing up and now after more than half the life span gone by, I cannot for a moment recollect one instance where I was hounded or discriminated against, only because I was born Hindu. It amuses me to hear people parrot what has been fed to them, that the Hindu is under threat in his own country. I dare one person of my age or even younger to come forward and clarify what exactly is the threat he or she faced.

As a kid I went to temples, vied to be in the forefront of the jostling and elbowing devotees so that I could ring the temple bells when the priests threw open the doors of the sanctum of Sanctorum; as a child, I could even go into the chapel in the school and observe nuns kneeling down with piety in prayer and with pity I would gaze at the crucified Christ, then wonder about the saints and the frescos that adorned the chapel. No one forced me to attend catechism classes in school. When I was in my teens I could, and out of my own volition begin to question the frivolity of supplicating to Gods and even forever put stop to temple going as a devotee. And to grow up as a person exhibiting free will, thought and decisions, (albeit certainly a rebel), is a unique experience which takes a little bit of resolve. Fortunately, I wasn’t too bad with that! I did not see the need to question or worry about the church-going friends or Abdul Harris –the school mate who even confessed and showed us to our amusement and wonder his circumcised penis. That did not make us feel he was different. We would eagerly wait for the Christmas cake from a friend of my grandfather, and that arrived unfailingly on every Xmas eve.

Where was the threat to me? Later, not even to my children who had their entire schooling as boarders run by St. Georges Homes in Ooty. It was our decision to write to the school principal that we had no objection in our children attending holy mass on Sundays at the school chapel. Mercifully “love jihad” or “holy crusades” had not arrived in Kerala when I broke ranks and married a catholic and it is (32 years to the date on August 23, tomorrow).

My Hindu-ness has not worn out or diminished, whatever that may be. But fortunately, by not fretting to know what it was and not caring to safeguard that mirage, it gave immense peace that no Gods or places of worship can give.

Yes, twice in my life and both occasions in my early teens I was stalked, accosted, and cajoled to convert. First by the local RSS Sakha bosses and then by the neighbourhood senior who along with the then SFI leader showed up at my gate to enroll me as an active SFI member.

The former was strangely abhorrent even then and the latter not inspiring enough.

Saturday, June 13, 2020

Lieutenant General .R.Gopal



It has been a long ride on the road for many of us in the decades that went by after college. A rollercoaster to me personally. But what gives immense pleasure is when you see close friends go up the road, steadily, and (it may seem) effortlessly. The pleasure, the satisfaction one gets to see friends scaling heights in their career is so immense that you must love it to feel it.
One such mate is leaving the Indian Army today. Another bloke will retire from the State Bank of India tomorrow as the Chief General Manager. KT.Ajith the bibliophile, quintessential Kannur leftist liberal (if I may) who cast away what could have also have been a promising career as a Chartered Accountant and joined the SBI mid-stream.
But Lieutenant General Gopal.R UYSM, AVSM, SM of the 8 Gorkha Rifles stands out. Lieutenant General R Gopal held the reins of the prestigious Spear Corps. Spear Corps is one of the largest and operationally active Corps of the Indian Army and headquartered in Dimapur, Nagaland.
Lieutenant General Gopal R, (Retired) is an alumnus of the IMA, Higher Command Courses, and the National Defence College. He has had an illustrious career encompassing command, staff & instructional appointments including those of commanding an Infantry Battalion on the Siachen Glacier, a mountain brigade, and an Assam Rifles Range in South Assam. He was one of the first members of the team which established the Defence Command and Staff College at Botswana.
Gopal stands out unique for tethering himself to one solitary goal in life- a career as a commissioned officer in the Army and to succeed. He indeed did that enviably! His love for the Army, his ambition, his dedication, and the uncompromising attachment to the only goal in his life- to be a soldier! It was a sole obsession unlike what many others like me harboured. And what makes the position he retires worthy as no diamond can be is that he has had a satisfying and proud career spanning 40 years. A soldier who chose the infantry as an obsession!
I first saw him while we were in the Model High School, Thiruvanathapuram and interactions may not have happened because I was a different fish and had other friends and priorities than being obsessed with lessons or the NCC. Later, while I was in the Mahatma Gandhi College, I saw him pass by every afternoon at 3.40 pm precisely on his bicycle. Speeding back home from MarIvanios College. We used to greet him every day with howls and catcalls. He would shyly smile and wiz past, sometimes in his NCC uniform. Those days we would yell,”pattalam”.Now, I can audaciously mention that I’m among the couple or three who dare call him “pattalam”, even to this day.
Two years later we were in the same class at Marivanios College. And since those days I have seen him at the close quarters as the paradigm of dedication and honesty. He has limited fascinations and indulgences unlike most of us, and perhaps what that dominates his attention is gathering information. Sometimes one feels the guy is trying to know too many things. Idiosyncrasies!
A teetotaler. Perhaps most of his quota of spirits were utilised for me. I cannot forget one instance many years ago when I was in Thiruppr. Those days’ mobile phones were yet to be outside science fiction. He sent me a postal mail that his Gorkha would be passing Thiruppur (time mentioned along with the train number) and would I collect a crate of beer from him. Did I need any persuasion? Though the train arrived late by about 8 hours, I could see a diminutive Nepali Gorkha standing on the platform just outside a compartment with the crate of beer and holding aloft a placard with my name on it.
The melee and furore that preceded his train journey in 1980 to New Delhi for the interview and selection process to the IMA are still vivid. An inebriated TTE who tried to finesse his travel almost got strangulated by a furious and incensed young Gopal. For the drunken man was shattering his only dream, and would he for the love of God let someone do that and have his way? Fortunately, the situation was mollified and he could travel on the train with no restraint.
The bloke will seek his old classmates wherever they might be and visit them during his vacation here in Thiruvananthapuram. This is a unique character and seldom have I seen this in any other.
I, Christy, and Aravind can never forget the Royalty we were when we spent a few days in his bungalow in Dimapur as his guest in 2018 December. It was rather awkward and embarrassing to us when the sentries at his gate saluted us each time we went out for a stroll, or whenever they saw us lounge outside on the lawn. As ordinary civilians that were too heavy for us to bear. But looking back, we felt proud to be his friends and guest. It was that unique status that mattered. The many times we spent with him in Wellington, Conoor while he was a Major and a student at the Staff College, and later as Lt. Colonel and Colonel there, are unforgettable.
If I were to suggest a marquis to aspiring young folks, I would suggest Lt. General Gopal R (Retired). For his uncompromising ambition, the earnest efforts put in to achieve his goal, the dedication, sincerity, and honesty with which he accomplished his role.
Welcome mate into the world of civilians and that of social media you had to avoid all along. And the honour of continuing to be “Pattalam” for many of us is solely yours.
It’s with a lot of pride, mate,that I end.
(I just called Raji his wife, and she told me she was at home waiting for him and he is in his office in South Block ).


Saturday, May 23, 2020

By the Power of Emoticons


 I have noticed distinct characteristics in men and women here on Facebook. Some men who brook no criticism, disagreement or even a suggestion take the easiest recourse–abuse and slander! These days seem endemic to Sanghis and unrefined Marxists. Even fans of the Snake wrangler Vava Suresh abused me with such astounding expletives that will pale the toxin of the most venomous of snakes. While women true to themselves walkout and block you when you disagree. Both are intellectually bankrupt lot. What do you think?

Recently three ladies slammed the door in my face on Facebook. One came back rather tame a few months later and said as if she never was the termagant ‘B’ who went away with a snort.” Hi, can you tell me what you think of this?”
I side-wheeler, why are you back here asking me? Why must I engage  with a person overflowing with cussedness?”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
So there she was, but in less than a month she walked out again when I did not agree with her conspiracy theories on matters ranging from moon-landing climate change to the necessity of a vaccine for Covid-19. She boasted that she had never vaccinated her daughter or her pet dogs and never will.
I asked, “not even for polio?”                                                                                                                    She was imperious and said  “Yes and never.”
“Oh, lady, your daughter is 25 and tremendously lucky, and you were stupid.” She unfriended me on FB and blocked my phone too.

Another one with strong detestation for Narendra Modi caught up on Facebook. She seemed knowledgeable and concerned about matters around us and was not uneasy about expressing strongly. But, I was soon to realise that the detestation of Moditva is no guarantee of social relationships.
She wrote on her page that no one is to share her opinions or what she posts without her permission. I wondered if what we write or post on social media attracts copyright law to demand that others should not copy. I also mentioned that the share button is an allowance for copying and if not acknowledging the source or tagging the source would suffice, perhaps! And I suggested rather check with an expert on copyright laws. That peeved her. She went off on a different tangent. She accused me of insensitivity and disregard for another person’s misfortune. That I expressed amusement through a laughing emoji when she wrote in a brief review of the movie “Thappad” , that she thanked her stars she chose to be single.

Gosh, for once the power of emoticons struck me. I  amused now and truly!

I told her, yes it amused me because these days, we often hear the young say so and I have a few amusing cases that I knew where such extreme views for frivolous reasons were raised. Besides, I did not watch the film to critique on it, and my expression was not either disapproving or approving the premise of the story.
The fact was, she followed up and wrote that she walked out on her spouse who was abusive and no man may hit her or have a say over her body, and I was being a true misogynistic sod. By the time, I wrote to her I was sorry for the misunderstanding and there was no way I knew her past, and now I feel awed by her courage and hope she understood my expression through an emoji was not meant to be offensive, she blocked me and vanished.
What a fascinating and convoluted place in this virtual world of social media and the world of emojis!

Saturday, April 11, 2020

Do I Hate Modi? A citizen's Posit


The usual refrain is, “you ignorant Modi haters, your dislike for the man is blinding you, and you do not want to accept the good he has done. You sickular, urban-naxal, antinational commies”. Now, this comment has become so hackneyed, that it has begun to show out glaringly who is ignorant if not blinded and biased.
Am I biased in my opinion about Narendra Damodardas Modi the prime minister of India? Do I hate the man so much so, that my assumptions and opinions are prejudiced against him and his almost 6 years as the country’s prime minister? Often I sat back and thought, after all, could these folks be right, that I was biased? Are my opinions and comments (though constitutional given right), determined by my hatred for the man? Do I hate him?

Heads of States often occupy chairs that are unenviable and as the cliché goes, to quote the Shakespearian lament, “………and in the calmest and stillest night,
with all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

I thought and I thought, I even excised the Godhra, and the Gujarat programme from my mind and then juxtaposed next to Narendra Modi, King Henry bemoaning his position as King that he, unlike even the most penurious could not have a moment peace and repose. I drew void! For Modi in his exalted avatar as the master of all, he surveys in the past 6 years as the country’s prime minister failed himself, the people and the country. One must be an incorrigibly blind or a twat to think different.

Before I ventured here to explain my opinion, I had asked his fans to highlight a few of his achievements that changed the country for good, and then, perhaps I could alter my opinion. But since the few times I have done so I invited only invectives and even termination of a longstanding friendship I hasten here to explain my point as a citizen who exercised his vote in the preceding two general elections. So this opinion here of Narendra Modi is that of an ordinary voter, and I hold no political affiliation.

True I had serious reservations against Narendra Modi coming to power. More so if he would retain power in the previous elections. That aside, when he rode into New Delhi in his previous tenure, I wished fervently that I was wrong. His truly symbolic gesture genuflecting at the doors of the country’s parliament made me hope that I could be wrong in understanding the man. I could recall that his more famous predecessor Indira Gandhi virtually held the very Parliament as a juggler would the juggling pins. And she made the cabinet and the house servile and mute, while she mauled the constitution, superseded Judges with pliable ones,
deracinated institutions of democracy and even suspended fundamental rights for 18 long months! Now here we have a lesser-known person, controversial but a commoner, go down on his knees and then prostrate at the doorstep of democracy as he himself put it. Indeed a matter to hope and have trust!
I thought, perhaps the thumping election win had chastened him and he would call upon his countrymen to unite, to leave behind parochial, communal and religious intolerances and differences, exhort camaraderie and universal brotherhood. I told to myself he will halt the limbo of the second UPA, tackle corruption that was killing the country, instill confidence in the economy, lend succor to the multitude of the needy, the underprivileged and the marginalised. Shun the divisive, hate-filled saffron- hindutva ideology that he exercised in Gujarat and as the Prime Minister enedavour to build an inclusive and rainbow nation (to paraphrase Bishop Desmond Tutu). Uplift the underprivileged and the marginalised, give meaning to Dalit life by going hard on caste and untouchability both still scourge and abomination in many parts of the country, and ensure tribals are not dispossessed and are treated like human beings and citizens of this country. He will heed scientific data and advise and strive to arrest climate change-related issues and ensure the environment is protected and not raped barren and left scorched in the name of development. That he would address the confidence reposed in him by the youth of the country who swayed by his “sab ke sath saka vikas” and “achedin” slogans flocked behind him. He would like a sorcerer pull out the rabbit that would halt the disastrous slide in Kashmir and deal with Pakistan and China as Statesman. He will recast the often shot-funded health and education, strive to persist with a scientific temper that Jawaharlal Nehru exhorted and is laid out in the Directive Principles of the constitution.

However, as days, weeks, months and years went by, Modi’s intentions became less curioser and less curioser. As Arun Shourie famously put it Modi rule is UPA plus the cow!
1- It became clearer and clearer that here we have saddled a man who is a thespian nonpareil, who thrives on theatrics and spectacles, gimmicks and foolery, who is a sophist and pedals falsehood at every turn, that even his academic qualification has become an apparent lie and joke, like the fantastic stories invented about his childhood.
2- A man who is so egoistic that his only intent is to enhance his image, whose knowledge of economics is penurious and yet his conceit and hubris prevents him from owning up his mistake or keeping talent and scholarship around him.
3- He is indebted to his crony capitalist friends for putting him in the prime minister's chair and quid pro quo became blatant.
4- And he instead of tackling corruption, in a way legalised it through an egregious instrument called “electoral bonds”.
5- He unleashed sectarianism and gave carte blanche authority to the Sangh parivar to inflict its hindutva goons on the society and began targeting Muslim, minorities, Dalits, and tribals, paving way for lynching in the name of the cow, the Hindu god Ram and the religion. The gentle beast, the cow became a predatory animal and the law enforcers’ facilitators of the crimes committed by saffron goons.
6- Bigotry soon was made the official religion and daily doses of outlandish, bizarre, idiocy BJP ministers and parliamentarians began to zealously mouth became an utter embarrassment to commonsense and to the country itself.
7- The extent of fear and emasculation that was to come among the intelligentsia was noticed even as back as 2014 when physicians sat mutely through a speech of Modi wherein he claimed, cosmetic surgery and reproductive genetics were used thousands of years ago in ancient India. He referred to the birth of mythical Karna and the figure of the elephant-headed god Ganesha as examples. Stupidity seemed to be seamless in Modi rule.
8- Then the most ridiculous, quixotic and heartless of all his decisions- demonetisation was inflicted on the country.
9- And one of the most novel of tax regimes- GST mooted by the former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and which Modi as the chief-minister opposed tooth and nail was rolled out hastily, without a proper plan or thought and literally botched it up. Modi’s yearning for theatrics and a position with the founding fathers of the country was so irresistible that he made the parliament convene at midnight to announce the new tax regime, without planning or forethought, throwing commerce and tax generation into a tailspin.
10- For the first time in the history of Independent India the world’s financial institutions began to sceptically eye statistical figures dished out by Modi government. It was pathetic, the country’s own Department of Statistics distanced from the government’s data and figures.
11- Lies and falsehood became the rule and norm. Cyber cells were set up to spread innuendos, falsehood, and canard.
12- The mammoth defence deal with France was arrogated by the man himself and his government stonewalled and refused to answer legitimate queries about the deal.
13- Procedures were steamrolled through in parliament with scant regard for conventions and propriety.
14- Constitution was defenestrated when Article 370 was abrogated.
15- Important legislations were blatantly piloted without debate and scrutiny in the lower house as money-bills, circumventing the possibility of discussion and bottlenecks in the opposition-controlled Rajyasabha.
16- An egregious law to use religious profiling like in the Third Reich to identify and sequester Muslims was passed in parliament, throwing the country into turmoil and Modi made the infamous and unstatesmanlike comment that protesting people can be identified by the dress they wear.
17- Institutions were systematically encroached and packed with ideologues, textbooks were refurbished with hindutva narratives and mumbo jumbo.
18- The Courts and the media were bought or bludgeoned to submission, institutions of higher learning were targeted, canards were spread about them and the students there and criminals escorted by police were given a free hand to enter campuses and attack faculty and students.
.
19- Police were used to aid rioters and let the capital of the country burn for three days, targeting Muslims.
20- Sufficient international reports and the WHO missive on the possibility of COVID-19 turning into a pandemic were ignored for one full month and more. Ostensibly Narendra Modi had more pressing issues to handle- the toppling of the government in the State of Madhya Pradesh and then the international thamsha of Donald Trump’s visit. By then the damage was done and proactive recourse were nonstarters.
21- Intolerance towards criticism and different opinions became so abusive that paled Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.
22- Contempt for scholarship, intellect, and science. Central funding for research tweaked to .8 percent of the GDP and funds for education and health slashed.
23- Like he claims if he is a democrat what prevented him from facing the media? Not one candid press meet in his tenure so far. That itself proves his weak guts when facing the truth.
24- As a person living in Kerala, I cannot forget how malevolently Narendra Modi finessed all sources of aid and assistance from friendly Arab countries that were promised to the State to stand up to the devastating flood two years ago.

The man’s penchant for theatrics and symbolic gestures which befool Indians have always been plenty during the past 6 years. His wailing to burn him at the stake if demonetisation was a failure moved people to such extent that they stood by him. But forgot to heed his offer when demonetisaion became a monumental blunder, fraud, and crime on Indians. The dramatics over the coffin of 40 soldiers blasted to oblivion in a bomb blast at a high-security zone in Pulwama and the outrage still remains a mystery like the Godhra, but moved people to a great emotional extent that they rallied behind the man. The adventures across the border on a cloudy night, evading Pakistani Radars to hunt terrorists amassed near the international border was enough reason to anoint Modi as Napoleon Bonaparte – the fearless, and like Lancelot the daring knight in shining armour that India was searching for 70 years! These two incidents propelled him back with a thumping majority, but over the dead bodies of thousands of farmers who ended their lives, plowed down by farm distress, 40-year high unemployment, economic tail-spin to an alarming extent, atrocities on dalits and refusal to hear their agony, marginalisation and insecurity among Muslims and minorities, hounding and dispossession of tribals and prevalent mutual suspicion in the society which reached a never seen proportion.

Before coming to the recent theatrics of clanging and banging vessels and then the lighting of candles and lamps, remember a delayed response and the decision to enforce a nationwide lock-down was implemented with a notice of 4 hours. We saw the exodus and frenetic scramble by lakhs of migrant labourers , total disruption and defeating the very purpose of lockdown. Modi's penchant for drama sans idea, planning and thought, in brief lack of commonsense and empathy reflected here. And again both spectacles proved clownish and disastrous from the very need to distance physically. Only time can tell what is in store. His call for clang- bang would have been welcome if Mister Modi had shown an iota of honesty and sincerity in dealing with sectarianism communal hatred his party and the Sangh fanned out. I would not have hesitated to be part of these exercises symbolically though if the man had uttered one effective sentence addressed to his bakths and Sanghi storm-troopers that unity and oneness should mean inclusiveness of all people irrespective of religion, caste and creed and that symbolisms must be translated into realism. I would have volunteered had he not infamously profiled dissenters based on what they wear. That was an outrageous utterance from the prime minister of the country. Let him first target bigotry, be it of whatever religious hue, if he sincerely wants unity among all Indians. A symbolic drama will be an irritating comedy and utter dishonesty when he, Narendra Modi has not to date shown one act of carrying all Indians with him.

Now it is not just hating it is the detestation of what he stands for and am offended that the prime minister of the country is a person who has created more division than the Brits could in their infamous imperial history. Mister Modi, there is still time and opportunity to make amends and leave a legacy that will make posterity dismiss your fallibilities and see you as a Statesman.

I see that the country has been changed forever and even if Modi is voted out in the next general elections in 2024 or even the one after (should there be one), it will be years before the social fabric of the country can be repaired and people would begin to trust their neighbours; where ethnicity, religion, and caste become insignificant and harmony, food, shelter, security and clean environment become existential matters

Sunday, April 5, 2020

The Wizard King


Once upon a time there lived in a faraway land, a man who boasted a broad chest and he ruled over a kingdom where its people even surprised him for their lack of intelligence. And he rightly observed them so to his coterie. But they, his subjects, in their blinkered life had not seen a donkey and so could not compare themselves with the twat, dumb-looking timid beast. They believed their King was smart and they clever as their King.
The King was canny as a fox, but he also thought he was smart and had a high IQ. Kings from other kingdoms would always want to remind him politely he was an idiot like his subjects, but alas he always hastened to hug and charm them as soon as he saw them, that they preferred not to be candid and risk being rude in the bargain.
The fact remained as stark as that, that the King would go on national television as he often did and announced mad decrees he claimed were for the greater common good and demanded compliances which his donkey subjects, the twats gleefully obliged, eagerly looking up to him for more.
He was a sorcerer if he could hypnotise his donkey subjects and they joyfully followed him like even the pied piper of Hamelin would have no alternative but envy the King. He would proclaim his decrees at night and the next day, he would wail, beat his chest that they should burn him at the stake if he was wrong, and they forgave him, they could not bear tears in his eyes. They knew not that his eyes were of marble and could not generate tears. Often he would send out a decoy, a look-alike (though many say for real)- his old mamma to run the same errand he asked his donkey subjects to do and they would go gaga and dance singing eulogies of the King and his old mamma. The King would not even spare his old mamma! How noble! The King would laugh his guts out, rocking in his chair in his castle. And the donkeys in unionism would bray, “Oh, great leader, you are the shining star, the burning sun, son of Gods you could never be wrong. You are infallible, you are the light and deliverance.”
One day a little before midnight the King went on Television dressed in his splendid silk attire appliqued tapestry that at a closer look told was his name embroidered in the thread of gold, his snow-white mane immaculately groomed and waxed with ancient Indian herbs, its aroma stifling even through the television screens but as aromatic incense to his hallucinated subjects in their dreamy indolence. He then decreed that from midnight that night he was suspending the earth’s gravity so that his subjects could spread their wings, tethered until then by evil forces and fly with abandon. Midnight came by and his donkey subjects flocked and jostled to jump out of their apartment windows and float like fairies in the state of zero gravity. Many living in hutments scampered up coconut palms, so they could jump and fly. Such was his prehensile purchase and sway over them they gleefully jumped and flew; then they fell flat on their skulls and on their faces, on to the ground below like hailstones. Their craniums, ribs, and bones breaking like twigs, and still, they thought they felt they were flying, the strong cold wind in the sky blow in their faces. They were in awe that they could fly. And the wizard King with ease held them in his spell, that their broken skulls, dying hearts, and aching bodies refused to believe they did not fly. They bled and bled!

Sunday, March 22, 2020

The Circus after the Hanging


For some time yesterday early morning after I switched on the TV, I began to wonder if Covid-19 vanished from the country overnight. There was not a word of the contagion, all that burst out on TV channels was the hanging of the four rapists in the wee hours in Tihar.
It seemed like a carnival at the gates of Tihar. Newfound trust in the judiciary as placards displayed “we trust Judiciary”. Then all kinds of bizarre slogans which I now fail to recollect. Men were jubilant, so were women. It all seemed like some medieval circus where public executions had taken place and the crowd braying for more blood. The 7 years of wait had finally come to close and the Indian judicial system that moves as fast as a tortoise has ground its way and brought to close a sordid chapter of gang rape, brutality, and murder that may pale the wildest of barbarians even the Vikings.
7 years ago on a wintry night, the unfortunate Delhi girl was stalked by six savage men and after thrashing her companion to an almost invalid state the brutes set upon her gang-raped her in the most flagitious and dreadful way only human beings can think of. That night India as a country and we as social beings failed the young girl miserably. We failed because we let six depraved societal beings physically violate her – she was mauled and torn apart. The brutality that even wild beasts would not do was heaped on her. We again failed when we most outrageously rechristened her “Nirbhaya”, or the fearless. How dare we? How dare we presume that the girl was not plowed down by mortal fear when six hellish, debauched men pounced on her and ignoring her pleas, cries, and entreaties ripped her apart like hungry savage wild dogs? How dare we call her fantastic names ostensibly to elevate her on a high pedestal of courage and bravery and thereby mollify our collective guilt? She, a frail teenager, I’m sure could do nothing to resist when six cannibals had her pinned her down and set upon her in the most gruesome fashion words fail to tell. And we try to believe she was “fearless”! It makes me sick and retch when I hear the girl being referred to as “nirbhaya”, it must put down our heads in shame. She ought to be known by her given maiden name, her memory must not live under a pseudonym the hypocrite society granted her. That is the least justice we can do for her.
One can empathise with her parents who were pleading for the execution of her daughter's rapists. Their anguish minds could not have seen beyond that and the moral, ethical side of jurisprudence. When the mother said with relief that at last, her late daughter got justice, we could hold out our feelings for her. What else can a mother feel? But it makes me wonder when the general public says that “Justice served for ‘Nirbhaya”. What justice could a dead person possibly get? One said her soul was writhing would now be at peace. Semantics and fantastic phrases apart, the soul is itself a mirage that we human beings invented to appease our longing for immortality. A satisfaction we get when we think a part of us live even after we are dead.
What justice is it that we could give the girl now she is dead that we as a society collectively failed to provide her while she was alive? What justice are we waiting to render to the teenaged Unnao girl who was brutally raped and later murdered? What justice can we now give Asifa the seven-year-old girl who was repeatedly raped for days and murdered in a temple in Kathau, Kashmir? How many more individual justice are we to ensure for rape and murder of women and little girls that happen every day in this country? It is offensive that we even think of finding satisfaction and expect to clear our conscience by invoking the end word in such cases- “justice served”. My foot!
We saw tribal instincts come alive in front of Tihar yesterday morning and the kill TV channels found in the news of the hanging of the quartet, baring a few channels like the Asianet News and NDTV who simultaneously dealt with the very foundation of the premises on which capital punishment continues to be on the statute in countries like India that we call civilised. The benchmark for “rarest of rare case”, is a flawed premise. A protest against capital punishment will in today’s India be as seditious and anti-national as criticising Hindutva. The old and humane avatar of Kiran Bedi the fiery cop, when she took charge as the first female Inspector General of the prison, carried prison reforms that were in tune with a society that claimed to be civilised. She was upbraided for trying to reform the incorrigible and calling for human rights in prisons. It is an old primitive tribal notion that believes prisoners do not have their rights as human beings. One can even ask the hackneyed cliché well if something that happened to the Delhi girl fell upon your kin you might then think differently.
There is a sine qua non for calling ourselves a civilised lot. That must first ensure the patriarchal mindset and misogyny are erased from the society; children from a young age are taught to respect women; if an accused when guilty of a crime is punished as per law and that very law must either address his or her transformation in incarceration or accept the fact that retributive justice is no justice but only vendetta as offensive as the crime itself. Look at people braying for blood of the accused or the guilty. We see that in primitive tribal societies. It doesn’t take much thought to understand that the men who were vociferous in front of Tihar, yesterday would perhaps readily stalk and violate a woman, molest, grope and harass if a given situation makes them believe that they can escape being apprehended or punished. That is the duality of people. You hunt the victim and later cry for her.
A few months ago much of the country applauded when the Hyderabad police stage-managed an encounter and bumped off three rapist murderers. We, like daft, were more than eager to accept their alibi that the men tried to attack the police posse before attempting to bolt. We even were content to think that extrajudicial killings were providing speedy ‘justice’. What we forgot to understand was we are going back into primitivity. Did we have a convincing trail that diligently tested the accusation those men were guilty of the crime? Or were they decoy planted by the real rapists – murderers? Did we realize the anarchy such extrajudicial, instant retribution can cause to the fabric of the society and its law and jurisprudence? Not a word thereafter, we moved on – in fact we have moved backward.
Now, when we stand up and be passionate about what we call retributive justice for the Delhi girl and thinking she finally got justice, we are lying unto ourselves and let me put it, mocking her soul if you may. There is no proof that retributive justice or capital punishment, and in primitive semantics an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth holds good as a deterrent. Only in uncivilised barbaric societies that still fall for that, quoting antediluvian practices and bizarre books can think of chopping one's hand for theft, stoning for adultery and decapitation for murder. When the world over societies has done away with capital punishment, I do not see why that medieval retributive punishment should not be removed from the statute of a country like India which claims to be civilised. Lifelong incarceration with or without a chance of parole is what would torment the criminal either leading to his or her reform or pathological decay.

To quote Henry Ford, “Capital punishment is as fundamentally wrong as a cure for crime as charity is wrong as a cure for poverty”.

Friday, November 8, 2019

The Little Whore House



The little whore house stood next to a well-known and respected family home on Ambujavilasom road in the heart or Thiruvanathapuram. About 5 minutes by foot from the main thoroughfare and the State Secretariat. It was an unassuming place with tiled roof and a lone door opening right on to the street. Much of the drama and little melee we used to witness as we passed by each morning and evening was all that we were privy too. Nothing beyond that!

It was about 200 meters or so from where I lived and, I and my friend used to walk past the little whore house each morning to school and on our way back in the evening. I was in the 5th standard when I was told about this strange, and to me then, a fascinating place in our neighbourhood. It was my friend two years senior to me who introduced me to the intrigues of the place. Being about 8 or 9 years and fresh from the protected environment of a convent education, many things were inexplicable though curious and amusing. Amusing especially when on our way to school or back we witnessed the police raid at the whorehouse. A ramshackle police van parked by the door of the whorehouse and potbellied fearsome-looking policemen and a few scrawny ones with only handle mustache to evoke trepidation bundle few women inmates and their plebeian clientele into the police van. Looking back, the policemen would now evoke clownish feel, attired in their odd short trousers with ample ventilation around their hairy thighs for fresh air to blow up their groins. I recall the day after when we passed by, the old woman who ran the place (a hag perhaps in her early 70s) , always with sandalwood paste and a few shreds of flowers on her grey hair sitting at the door forlorn and sad, having lost her clientele, women and business to the police outrage.

She lived there with her daughter (a single woman) and her teenage son. I did not notice any disenchantment in the daughter nor her son who apparently let the old woman run her cottage industry.

There were occasional arguments at the door between petulant patrons and the inmates. I saw one day one man forced out of the place by a few women inmates. He was very agitated, quite inebriated too and was shouting expletives. An unhappy and a dissatisfied customer, perhaps! “Caveat emptor”, I now would suggest to him.

Looking back there was no clear discomfort, annoyance and moralistic angst from the people who lived around. An impossibility in today’s phoney, voyeuristic Mallu society. The place seemed to have survived all by itself and ignored by the elite folks who lived in the neighbourhood. Whether the clan men in the region frequented the whorehouse talking refuge in shadows of the night, I can only guess with some amusement nevertheless!


The story ended one day abruptly with the death of the old woman. It abounded rumour that someone poisoned her, but no one could tell. However, the passing of the old woman ended perhaps the saga of “the little whore house”. The daughter and son vanished soon after and now a multistoried office building stands on the 5 cents of land where perhaps much of Vatsyana’s exhortations were religiously indulged in, but all at a value.