Kailash Satyarthi and his children

On the first day of 2016, 7-year old Chiyu on the swings chatted of her school and sports. When she comes home, she goes for the swings with Aji and Ajoba put on leash; and Aji and Ajoba do not mind. In the last month of 2015, she won three bronze at relays held in Kandivili and University stadium near Churchgate. She likes to run, she runs but has not won any individual medal; her friend has won many medals, says Chiyu. Aji and Ajoba do not care if Chiyu wins medals; they want her around, chirping her life. At school the teachers do not hurt Shreya and Chiyu unlike Lady Trunchbull of Roald Dahl in Matilda. Aji is quite upset with Lady Trunchbull when she remarks: ' I have never been able to understand why small children are so disgusting. They are the bane of my life. They are like insects. They should be got rid of as early as possible. ... My idea of a perfect school...is one that has no children in it at all. One of these days I shall start up a school like that. I think it will be very successful.' Is India not today in most ways Lady Trunchbull..., wondered reading the Mint essay, From Child Slavery to Freedom by Kailash Satyarthi. 'Before being rescued by my organisation, Bachpan Bachao Andolan, 8-year old Arpita was forced to work for 16 to 18 hours a day in the home of her uncle as a domestic 'help'. When we rescued her, we had to break down the door. It was the dead of winter, and she was barely clothed and severely malnourished, covered in wounds, and cowering under a rag on her uncle's balcony,' Kailash says. New Delhi is sufficiently brutish to think up amendments to the Child Labour Act to allow children under the age of 14 to help their families in "non-hazardous" family enterprises or the entertainment industry. A worried Kailash Satyarthi adds: ' This may sound innocuous, but it fails to acknowledge a stark and undisputable reality: Work for 'family enterprises"can be as brutal as any other kind. And the list of  "hazardous" occupations is far from complete.' Will the Modi government forget the amendments to fill in the cruel agenda of development? Will it be less of Lady Trunchbull? New Delhi suffers an NGO aversion with the Home Ministry striving to shut them down. Maybe they cant do that to Kailash Satyarthi, Nobel Peace Prize laureate. When Dakhi asks Chiyu to do some work at home, Aji is stirred into a protest. Aji and Ajoba thank the luck of Shreya and Chiyu. They are growing up and 2016 will spend more time with friends than Aji and Ajoba. Aji and Ajoba will be the soft sofas in the drawing room, ready for their use. Will 2016 be less cruel to children? Will we have schools without children and family enterprises with children? 

2015 a Bhakt year

Woke up after a walk in his Gah village in Pakistan with parents. Long time since Dr. Manmohan Singh strolled Gah as a kid, smelling the green air and water. In the morning quiet, listened to muted notes of the Gurubani, a habit for long; being the last day of 2015, he dropped the walk, into Gurubani when wife, Gursharan Kaur, came with tea and Marie; they sat, sipped and smiled; Gurubani is like that; these mornings, none bothers him; he has been forgotten by all and Dr. Singh is not slighted by the forgetting. Its been so when he was Prime Minister. Fresh morning newspapers do not mention him and that suits him; he randomly opened The Indian Express and dropped into Mehdi Hasan's piece Head to head with hate: Hell has no fury like a Hindu nationalist scorned -- as I found out after my Ram Madhav interview. Hasan works for Al Jazeera, a TV channel more satisfying than BBC and CNN.  Hasan writes: ...' I have been denounced and defamed as a "closet Islamist", a "funder of ISIS", and -- perhaps the most damning appellation of all in The Bumper Book of Bhakt Political Insults - a "Pakistani." Hasan, born and brought up in UK of Indian parents, is a Pakistani for bhakts; 'wonder what bhakts think of me, born in Pakistan, living in India, mused Dr. Singh, a bit scared. Of course, he did not rush the Internet or mailed any response; as usual thought quietly. When Dr. Singh thinks quietly, none knows what he thinks. Perhaps, hurt over an India gobbled by bhakts; under the lead of Narendra Modi; since Modi is in power, bhakts have taken over, dissenters abused and sometimes shot and killed; hate is a reasoned emotion of pros and cons unlike compassion. Modi as Gujarat Chief Minister turned Gujarat into an adda of  bhakts; none else can live in Gujarat with its 20-laned skyways without trees, bullet trains, electricity for the bhakts....as Prime Minister Modi, India has turned monotone, the bhakt-tone; the country has been knifed into pieces; the Prime Minister has not a minute for farmers, Dalits, Adivasis, the poor... dissenters working for the stranded of society have no say ....development will pull them in, is the thought process and development will be by corporates, funded by public funds, the funders of bhakts. A 20 lane highway is preferred to many Ramayanas; there will be one Ramayana of the bhakts. Karthika Nair in Until the Lions, Echoes from the Mahabharata, verses: 'Listen. Listen: hate rises, hate blazes, hate bellows from battlefields. Hate arrives -- searing rivers, shrivelling plains, reaping deserts on its path ...' On the last day of 2015, yes, the streets are strewn with hatred and fear veining the much old land ...there will be more of it in 2016... Dr. Manmohan Singh, alone is not scared as Sardars are reputed to be brave ....yes, a concern lingers for the country he mostly loves. In his times, dissent did not applaud vengeful bhakts... The old man neatly folded the paper, placed it on the table to wonder over 2016 ...he has lived long for a beautiful country, to make a beautiful country ....Happy 2016, he mumbled to no one. 

Media could be 'better'

'Media could be better,' remarked son Ganesh reading The Indian Express. That's what Rama says; she switches off Asianet News with a rare fervour; has moved on from earlier pride days of her husband being a patradhipan (journalist) in Bombay. And there is a nephew studying journalism, wanting to become more a Barkha Dutta than a newspaper woman. Sometimes chat with Janardhan, the newspaper vendor on Link Road, selling newspapers; old men and women, on their walks, pick up their copies of Times, Maharashtra Times, Gujarat Samachar ... young men and women snap open ipads for news sites. Janardhan is happy newspapers are selling. This term 'better' rumbles the mind; media --, social media, newspapers, TV channels -- was most disliked in 2015, fronted of course by our honourable Prime Minister Narendra Modi. He dislikes the gang and in 2015 what Modi dislikes, India dislikes; what he likes, India likes. But then it has been so always, is it not? From Indira Gandhi to Dr. Singh, they have been in Modi clothes, bright or off bright....Sachin Tendulkar to Amitabh to Virat Kohli.... they prefer not journalists ... in the 80s, there were the Left and Right; in the 90s, business writers were pro or anti Ambani; today, it is for Modi or not for Modi; yet the media in 2015 has been socked most. Jawaharlal Nehru was a change; he quietly walked New Delhi roads to spend time with Shankar the cartoonist at his home without expecting any gains. No kind words for this absurd set of men and women in 2015....Okay we should be 'better.' No news consumer has come up with a common measure of 'better': if you praise Modi, you are pro-development; if you say hullo to Dr. Singh, you are a chamcha; so where goes better? A cricket writer is not sufficiently patriotic if he doubts a cricket pitch in Nagpur. An Arun Jaitley, after serenading the media, is getting it on Delhi District Cricket Administration. Pray, is the media then bought. In the 70s and 80s, media went weak with a pardonable sin: desiring year-ends, diaries and calendars from corporates and public sector outfits; the calendars went to office boys and diaries to wives for toting up dhobi expenses. Today, the sins may not be any pardonable; the world knows it; the media words it; confesses. Yet, newspapers in the morning go well with tea and coffee; TV is in our bones and blood; social media is interesting, looked anyway; perhaps, the best thing about media is it can be set aside, switched off, deleted, forgotten unlike orders from the PMO or managing directors; and also go back to the magic of words. Perhaps, none keeps media aside. Magic is magic. Like all of us hate T20s and watch every game. In one manner, media 2015 is better than media 70s, 80s, 90s....It is most human; a wrong worms its way to prominence, despite editorial likes or dislikes; a hurt to the poor gets pasted on the front page; a Nirbhaya could be Nirbhaya because of the media. A many-way cracked society can only afford or deserves an all-way cracked mirror. In 2015, media keeps the liberal faith without gods and priests in between. Enjoying T.M. Krishna: Moving on in Chennai in The Indian Express today.... 2015 has been a soft clap show. Yes, son Ganesh, the media could be 'better....'

Jungle, jungle baat chali hai ......

'Jungle, jungle baat chali hai, pata chala hai.. Modi-Sharif charcha chala hai...'  India-Pakistan relations are something like Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book; an initial fear of humans and peace ... Modi-Sharif want to get rid of .... Maybe in 2016, Kabir, the weaver, sitting at Marine Drive on Arabian Sea will weave a gold and green chadar for a nostalgic future .... follows Ram Madhav with warm hugs for India, Pakistan and Bangladesh ....surprising, a Dr.Manmohan Singh or a Sitaram Yechury could not think up this thought...however one looks, appreciates this lone, grace act of Modi, Sharif and Ram Madhav... maybe in 2016, Prime Minister Modi will take along Dr. Singh to Pakistan; drop Dr. Singh at his village, Gah in Pakistan to chat his ancestors. In Business Standard, had an old friend Kishen Lal Bham, a refugee from Pindi, as he said, never Rawalpindi; Darbari Seth, the boss of Tata Chemicals was also from Pindi; they were good friends and when they met at Bombay House they unwound Pindi. Or Dwijendranath Ghosh, a Bangal not a Bengali, from Dacca, a refugee; he desired to make it to Dacca; Bham and Ghosh did not make it. Will Modi and Sharif will it differently. Some shehani notes of romance in Modi calling up Nawaz Sharif  on his birthday and not whatsapping; at home for the marriage of Sharif's grand-daughter; a one hour chat over seviyan and rosogollas; wondering how to unsmoke, smoking guns; get rid of the grid, okaying Test matches between India and Pakistan in the traditional manner: three days of play, one day of rest, two days of play; at Brabourne, Eden Gardens and Chepauk with the crowd being treated to free lunch boxes of biryani and dhokla; followed by games in Karachi and Lahore; many are unhappy over industrialists in the Modi troupe; business is a sure, if not the best way, to make peace as profits are hurt by strife; let business, music, books, paintings cross borders and on to Bangla Desh; if Ram Madhav is to go by. Politics and guns will come last if bureaucrats are denied space at the talking table; Modi should take the help of Dr. Singh; officials prefer, want war; certain, they would have advised Modi against a birthday call. In 2016, Nawaz Sharif and family should call Vajpayee at the gentleman's New Delhi home; after all that 90-year old had the guts to knock nine pins at bowling. Its not that hard as is made out; there are no Jinnahs, Gandhis, Nehrus and Patels with carry-over dislikes; it is a Modi moment; Modi and Sharif have fresh legs and hands and minds at the adda. Perhaps a kind word for Sushma Swaraj is also in order as in some ways she uncorked the goodwill. Years ago, an RBI governor, still around, stray remarked: India will not have a fiscal deficit if Kashmir is at peace; if Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka clasp hands, and why not in 2016, China will be a 12 th man in the world economy. Have a friend in gentleman, Liaqat Ali, based in Lahore. An FB friend, posting clicks of Lahore; maybe we could become live friends in 2016. Going to Lahore!

Hullo Carols

In 2015 we knew each other. Never said Hullos. Something like that was running in the mind of the Old Lady as she walked Karuna Road with an air conditioned breeze blowing. Yes, the morning seemed air conditioned at around 20 degrees. She liked it. A grin on her face. When she spotted a rubber ball, rolling the breeze, on the road. None around. No kids in schools or at homes. Where have they gone? the Old Lady wondered. She picked up the rubber ball; it was a coloured ball and in good health; she tapped the ball on the road like when she was also a little girl like Shreya and Chiyu; and when she had friends, boys and girls; and she had a school; had parents who said Hullo to all. Her old friend an Old Man stuttered along Karuna Road, in his walk. Their names they did not know; but they said Hullo; they got into a game of catch the ball; the bats resting upside down on rain trees, stood downside up. Magpie robins sat still. They had not seen for a long time an Old  Lady and an Old Man play ball, and bats should know, flying hard and high every night. Their legs felt rubbery; the two, the Old Lady and the Old Man, rested on the footpath; the Lady kept the ball in her purse and both walked to Bhagwan and his tea shop, for tea and fresh pav; they said Hullo to Bhagwan and the two poor families near the shop; they bought pavs while Bhagwan served free tea to them; they did mostly, not always. In a fun-burst, the two stood up, held hands, went round and round in a merry dance with the bare children of the two families at the centre; they danced till they became flat tyres; none played with the poor children except the Old Lady and the Old Man; the Old Lady took out the coloured ball from her purse and started a second game of road cricket; from somewhere popped an old bat with a handle and no blade; no selfies, no mobiles; the Old Lady and the Old Man did not own mobiles or ipads; no idea of there being an Idea; 'Pagal buddi and budda,' guffaed a few morning walkers. That made the Old Lady and the Old Man belly laugh more; and this morning, a few young out of Christmas Mass at the Church joined the game and dance; Bhagwan enjoyed the funspot; from them he picked up Hullos to share with his customers without asking their names; you dont hate when you say Hullo, he thought; you smile, when you say Hullo; his tea shop had not gone live for years; that day he did not charge anyone any; Hullos softed the air. Then ballooned, a traffic jam of cars, buses, two wheelers...they watched, tapped their feet, clapped their hands, joined the merry Old Lady and Old Man; they did not know each other; they exchanged Hullo Carols as 2015 turned the corner to let in 2016:

Up and above we may be,
Let's say Hullo;
Down and out we may be,
Let's say Hullo;
No need to bellow,
Sufficient, a soft Hullo. 

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Two days have kept aside newspapers, TV and internet to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl. Today, after a coldly pleasant morning walk, had filter kapi with Rama, took Chocolate Factory to bed; perhaps Rama is reading her first English book sent by Vidya, a reference point at home on children books. A weird mind, something near to a madness, is a sure condition for writing and reading children books though me doubts whether children read them; mostly adults, and that too a few, are in a state to flip pages of  a gooey Chocolate Factory; you have to turn innocent for an hour at the least; one read, two reads and then musing over the sequence of events, missing turns and twists. Me never read a book (an Enid Blyton for instance) till 20; roamed the streets playing ball games; Shreya and Chiyu play and watch TV with their favourite programme being Tarak Mehta ka Ulta Chashma; Madhavi and her son watch the show and replays; like the kid Mike Teavee in the Television-Chocolate Room in Chocolate Factory. Apparently, TV is something Roald Dahl does not favour going by his poetic croon;

'The most important thing we've learned
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, Never, Never let
Them near your television set --
or better still, just dont install
the idiotic thing at all....
It rots the senses in the head! .....

Well may Dahl tear his head; children love TV and mobile games; yes, they want them more than ma,dad, aji, ajoba; for lack of space, a book has to be squeezed in somewhere. But Dahl does not preach, he is no priest of any god and religion. Characters have zany names, the Chocolate Factory is bizarre, get into it and the reader goes zonky. Five kids: Charlie Bucket, Augustus Gloop, Veruca Salt, Violet Beauregarde, Mr.Wily Wonka, Mike Teavee and the Oompa-Loompas. Fine company to spend hours. Dahl is quoted for (an internet search): A little nonsense now and then, is cherished by the wisest men; Nowadays you can go anywhere in the world in a few hours, and nothing is fabulous any more; I am only 8 years old, I told myself. No little boy of 8 has ever murdered anyone. Its not possible. They make up Dahl and his writing for children; probably explains why we do not have a Dahl; our wise men and women do not laugh nor nonsense. Cavity-filling caramels - no more dentists; stickjaw for talkative parents; invisible chocolate bars for eating in class...thinking them up makes Dahl a good friend to be with....to share a laugh in 2015. If nothing else, waddle in line drawings of Quentin Blake. Now am starting on Matilda. 

The Lady on a stick

Friend of the frocked Lady on a stick; do not know her name, nor she me; that's okay by us; irregularly, we raise palms to each other at the Xavier's School ground, exchange good mornings, walk our paths; for a time; she watches gemsize kids play football; cheers them; sometimes whistles her favourites; she backs all teams, thrilling their noise. In recent days, adults have taken over; podgy elders, playing cricket or as she, smiling, says 'shouting cricket'; she can least bear the hooting members of the Laughter Club; 'what are they doing?' she asks me every time and gets no answers. She has suspended her walks at the ground.  Well, me is not in favour of adults tearing up mornings. Children can break all rules, Shreya and Chiyu are lawless. That's the way the Lady and me like the world to be. The Lady is sweet; fluent in Hindi and English; now stumbles on tarred up and down roads, past noisy cars. A week ago, she was talking peace to two quarreling house-sparrows near Karuna Hospital; 'was inquiring of their blood pressure and whether they needed a check up,' the Lady told me; perhaps, the only Lady comfortable with me; 'you know they have a tongue, hands to scribble their thoughts, though they prefer not to read and write,' the Lady went on handing out Parle biscuits to strays, dogs; when in cash, she buys packets of Amul Taza, slits the plastic packets, pours the contents in stainless steel saucers, for the strays to relish good licks; me sometimes goes along with the Lady. She reminds me a bit of Lyla Bavadam in Kasturi Building dreaming to build a home for strays, dogs, cats.... If we meet on Sunday mornings, we sit on benches at a tea shop near the IC Church, sipping tea, smoking, talking. If we miss a Sunday, Bhagwan, the tea shop owner, makes inquiries. The Lady lives alone in a terrace flat, 3-room plus hall and kitchen large, in the Immaculate Church (IC) Colony, perhaps,the civilised spot in Borivili (W). It is a fact as the Lady said so. She has let out her three rooms to birds and pets, free; of course, she shares the hall ,with a window to the skies, with them; the balcony is green and bright flowered; a bed and some children books, read many times over. She treats them when sick or leads them to a lady vet, as imbalanced as the Lady. When she has nothing to do and that is rare, she paints her friends --- house sparrows, mynas, crows, Large Indian parakeets, drongos, magpie robins. Being a terrace flat, her friends have easy access;  with tasty food thrown in, they deem themselves lucky. Food cooked by the Lady. Me has not gone to her home; she has not yet invited me; a visitor to her place is stuck by a condition: when the visitor returns home, he or she has to keep an open house for birds and plants. That's an impossible condition, she admits to me. If the condition is not stuck to she fears an end to her friends and her home. They will go. 'It is a blessing I carry, like my stick. I believe it. My father blessed me; gave me his walking stick. And, most importantly, I do not want to be alone,' she adds. Me will never step into her home. None has. Me is happy with the Lady on the roads. 

Where is the Left?

In recent days Mint is into a five-part series 'that documents the changing aspirations of young Indians, the risks they are taking and the many dreams they are chasing.' Full page reports with pix of a Muslim trying to be an IAS officer, a Dalit becoming a Rs.1 crore turnover corporate and today Ashwaq Masoodi writes of a a 15-year old New Delhi slum girl braving to be literate with the help of an NGO, Protsahan headed by Sonal Kapoor. Masoodi ends: 'Despite being burdened with a combination of domestic chores before and after school, Anju is happy that at least she can continue going to school. She doesn't want to become a doctor or an engineer or an officer, but a teacher for the children on the streets, whose dreams, she says, need to be given wings.' When me graduated, me wanted a job, any job. In The Indian Express, Dipankar Ghose puts down the story: An 87 year old shapes a sports revolution in Bastar's Naxal backyard.' Dharampal Saini, a Vinobha Bhavite, helps girls to run, jump and throw. A young India is in a total disconnect with the concerns of an aged and corrupt ruling political and corporate class; their dreams are nightmares for the ruling few; rulers are upset over their living, raze slums in New Delhi on cold nights; will not give them quarter of a chance; none in this class would have cared to read these pieces and get to know the young; worse, none in the young has been helped by the Left. Possibly, the Left is worse than the Right. Terms and conditions in India today are primed for the Left to flourish. But is there any Left? My friend Ashok Reddy asks: Is Sitaram Yechuri Left? Sure the Left will violently object like the Right. They love bullets as much as the Right. Was there a Left movement in India: they did not go with the Independence movement; scorned Datta Samant when he convinced textile millworkers in Bombay to strike; the Left did not support the millworkers; where was the Left when socialist George Fernandes headed the Great Railway strike: or the JP movement; and the Left was absent when Medha Patkar fronted the Narmada Bachao Andolan? Possibly, the lone exception is the Naxal movement which today is into killing government forces with the poor roasted by both. In a few months, Kerala and West Bengal will go into elections? Will the Left come back? Activists heading NGOs today seem to have filled the wide blanks left by the Left; they may not be Marxists; but familiar they are with Marx and Engels; they have also earned the confidence of the poor and hatred of the political and business class. Environment, education, health, child abuse ... activists are proving to be a genuine nuisance, asking questions and most importantly leading an alert poor. It is the job of the Leftists, Leftists have not even attempted. The Supreme Court has disqualified people without toilets and education from holding panchayat posts. Should not Sitaram Yechuri move a bigger bench of the Supreme Court challenging its earlier diktat? Where is the Left? Is there a Left?

Varad Giri

Paul Noronha woke me up from a noon snooze to say 'your friend' Varad Giri has got the Wildlife Service Award from Sanctuary Asia. A pride moment. Certainly happy. Know the gentleman working on caecilians (a group of limbless, serpentine amphibians), geckos, frogs. He belongs to an Indian wildlife tradition, a lineage, trying to keep the Indian part of the Earth green and being always failed by governments and corporates. 'Jo bacha kucha hai, usko bachane ka kaam hai, saab,' he remarked, the Kolhapur boy, working at the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS). He has taken me on tours to Western Ghats, not anything technical, just for a feel of the Ghats; and the Konkan coast in search of Oliver Riddley turtles; that blessedness remains. Wish he writes of himself, caecilians, frogs, geckos, snakes; assured of one reader, me; but he is a reluctant writer. With his bino, black eyes, he spots a gecko on a rock where none can. His friends are ordinary; a gecko has no profile; a caecilian none cares. Somewhat like Zafar Futehally with Shanti Chandola and Ashish Chandola in The Song of the Magpie Robin. A Magpie Robin, who is that?  'One bird which was always seen in our garden was the Magpie Robin, and I began to keep regular notes about its activities -- its food, nesting, response to other creatures and above all, its calls and song. After months of silence in the non-breeding season, it attempted to sing amateurishly in early February. Slowly and steadily its initial twitterings coalesced into a powerful melodius song, which was also its weapon to keep away intruders who tried to share the resources of its domain. By mid-April, the song of this maestro consisted of almost 19 notes. Delivered early morning from the topmost branch of a casuarina tree in our compound; this was certainly the delight of the season,' writes Zafar. In the 1950s, someone wrote 'rubbish' about Magpie Robin in The Times of India. Salim Ali protested to editor J.N. Nanporia, recommended Zafar....'That is how I started to write 'Birdwatcher's Dairy' and continued doing so for close to 30 years, second only to M.Krishnan's Country Notebook in The Statesman (Calcutta),' Zafar informs. 9In recent times, The Indian Express runs a Sunday column,Down in Jungleland, by Ranjit Lal. At LIC Colony one has sighted Magpie Robins by their cheeps but not the Zafar manner; they are a delight. Zafar was born on March 19, 1920 at Andheri (Bombay), when his father took a horse carriage to Andheri railway station and then the local to Churchgate in 45 minutes. His house, Gulshun, stood in a two and a half acre garden, purchased by father from the Homi Mody family in 1918 for Rs.18,000. Perhaps, Zafar saw the first Magpie Robin at Gulshun. Not crying over change; rather over the quality of change; can Mumbai not have less noise and less cars, more green and more birds in its Smart City morph; Zafar Futehally was perhaps the longest serving Honorary Secretary of the Bombay Natural History Society from 1961 to 1973. In these years, the Society sat in its permanent offices at Hornbill House, named after William, the Great Pied Hornbill, who lived at the Society and was its mascot, reminds the Introduction. Will BNHS have a remit with the Bihar government ordering culling of nilgais? Nitishji please do not be so heartless. Reserve some space for Varad Giri and his cecilians. Smart Cities need Varad Giris most. For Smart City Mumbai and Navi Mumbai, Varad Giris could be best.  

Dasettan, Lalettan...

Mumbai mornings are less hot, no not winter, just air conditioned shades of May. Rama and me settle into arm chairs with cups of filter coffee and house sparrows busy over Britannia Marie biscuits. Dada and didi house sparrows start up quarrels; more of that than breakfasting; at one instance, counted seven of them in a queaky debate. Keep aside morning Indian Express, Mint and Mathrubhoomi for a gossip hour; and there is lot to tongue on; today, Rama mused over her heroes of years: Dasettan (Yesudas) and Lalettan (Mohanlal); in college, Rama swooned over Dasettan film notes; 'he is ever handsome,' Rama ooms, asserts not with any violence; Vyalar to write songs, Dasettan (Yesudas) to throat them, she adds. For long she wanted to see live her heroes. It came along when good old Krishna Kumar of The Week, gave her a free pass for the 60 th birthday celebrations of Dasettan at Shanmukhananda Hall in Matunga; with Kurups and Kumars she glimpsed from the first few rows Dasettan in white mundu and jibba, son Vijay and wife Prabha. The Malayalee crowd was treated to cakes bearing Dasettan stickers. A few years ago, Malayala Manorama invited Lalettan (Mohanlal) to Mumbai and Krishna Kumar came with the passes; me also went; Mohanlal did some short act pieces; Rama and the Malayali crowd stood up (they never sat) in honour of The Complete Actor as Lalettan styles himself, these days. Kiridam, Bramaram, Chengol, Drishyam, Thanmathra, Vanaprastham....well every film of Lalettan...Rama has seen many times...Malayalam channels (Kiran TV, in particular) run them every day...she watches them every noon....duo of Lalettan and Srinivasan ...Lalettan has a firm believer in Rama. The Lady reads his blogs in Malayalam....Her heroes are unchanged; no heroines in particular. Perhaps, all of us have our heroes and heroines.....do they change over time or remain firm? And why? Interesting public and private faces. These times, there are no exciting secrets to our heroes and heroines; the media unglitzes all leaving nothing to filmi magic; there are no Surf clean heroes and heroines; every one has a smudge; and it is mostly film actors, actresses and sports people; no other. There seem to be no answers. For Kenenisa Bekele, it is The Emperor Haile Gebrselassie, going by his talk with Mint.  Me heroes and heroines have come and gone .... today left with none, a vitamin deficiency making life uninteresting....an unappetising, nay depressing cynicism...  In school, admired Shubham Dutta the fast bowler with an easy leap at the bowling crease and bastsman Aniruddha Majumdar with his straight drives at the Maidan; left them at college for Pataudi and Abbas Ali Baig; their moneyed ease on the cricket pitch; Pataudi breathed the Nawabi air without ever pushing the spectator. Would like to tap son Ganesh, Kartik Iyer, Vidya ..... Still wonder Rama holding on to Dasettan and Lalettan; that keeps her sane; the 21 st century has no heroes and heroines; seemingly, belongs to counsellors faith healers, counselling. 

Marine Drive

At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea
Mr. Mumbaikar lay on the wall
between the sea and sky
desiring,
a space on the Way;
money and love,
twined, packed,
stacked in frigs,
to last a while.
Mr. Mumbaikar lives alive,
a human, not saint.
near or away,
Marine Drive,
a fulsome,
measure,
anciently modern.
Marine Drive may not be his,
on share, lease or ownership;
Hopeful, for sure,
resting on the wall.
Dream intact.

In an article The Making of Marine Drive written by Sidharth Bhatia, and FBed by Khushboo Narayan, the author asks: 'Do youngsters dream of making enough money to move into a Marine Drive flat one day? Well, Mr. Bhatia, for 40 years have dreamt (still dream), only to move home from Dombvili to Borivili and never beyond. But desiring like Mr, Mumbaikar, me has stretched out on the wall, walked down the Grand Curve, mostly every day; always left it in ecstasy. Marine Drive on Arabian Sea became a sure, benchmate from around 1979 when offices of Business Standard shifted to Atlanta, 14 th floor, Nariman Point (offices of Times of India were far). Since then till 2007, has been around Marine Drive most of waking hours; has seen the Marine Drive wet; bright; watched the sun and moon traffic lighting the three km stretch; a touch tipsy with Narayana Karunakara Kurup and swaying. The sexy arc of the Drive, a woman in repose. When friends in the 1980s left for Gulf newspapers, me waited for chats across the Arabian Sea. Marine Drive on Arabian Sea suggests Infinity; Mumbai is Infinity. That's what a sea does to a city.... a mountain cannot. It was, it is, it will be. Miss the train to office on Marine Drive one day; be ahead of time the next. There could be bad days as if Marine Drive on Arabian Sea does not want; good times when she wants. Neglect never. Mumbai is spun in yarns the Sea brings in and takes out, daily. Marine Drive on Arabian Sea is an evocative story teller; a Nargis; Mumbaikar a romancer; a Raj Kapoor. 

Lincoln

'Things which are equal to the same things are equal to each other. A Euclid's common notion one read; once learnt, it stayed learnt.' Abraham (Abe) Lincoln is chatting two teleprinter operators even as the Civil War is surely losing less blood on the fields. There is another moment in the 2012 film by Steven Spielberg; his son is sleeping on the floor of the White House; Lincoln, done in style with the Lincoln stoop by Daniel Day-Lewis, lies down with him.  President Abraham Lincoln in January 1865 is keen on the 13 th Amendment freeing blacks (now Afro-Americans); he does everything a politician does to get the requisite Democrat votes to okay the 13 th Amendment. He manages the votes though the haggling is not pretty. Son Ganesh posted the film on the computer; seen it twice for the camera telling of a famous moment in American life. In the 1960s, Fr. Turmes in St. Xavier's College passed on a book to read: Lincoln the Unknown by Dale Carnegie. Triggered regular trips to USIS (United States Informatio Service) library, free, in Chowringhee and nearly read most of Linclon books they had. The Gettysburg address: ' Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that 'all men are equal....'; still stirs being ever relevant to humanity. Particularly in 2015 India. Lincoln finished the speech before cameramen could put up their equipment, goes the story. Choice of critical moments by Steven Spielberg keeps the film tight; no waste of film rolls. Contrast is Gandhi by Richard Attenborough; the film goes on and on; Ben Kingsley is no Gandhi when Day-Lewis is Lincoln; there are no particulary standout shots; the Indian Independence history is not well told; the Pietermaritzburg moment in Gandhi's life is sloppily shot. As son Ganesh remarked, an Indian actor should have been chosen for Gandhi --- a Naseeruddin Shah or Om Puri or Soumitra Chatterjee. Switched to The Iron Lady and thought Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher did better than Lady Thatcher in life. Many dislike Margaret Thatcher, the longest serving Prime Minister of UK in the 20 th century; not me favourite; but the economic fact is UK economy revived under her. Lincoln and The Iron Lady are competently edited; an aged Iron Lady towards the end, drooping to a political non-acceptance, the quitting... are done well by director Phyllida Lloyd. From Kramer vs Kramer to The Iron Lady, Meryl Streep is Meryl Streep; she does not need to act; she is the character and the film star; she morphs easily. Have for long been keeping away from western films as the dialogues are hard to grasp; with English sub titles, the watching is fun again. Films are back on the menu.    

3 books of poetry

Dont know whether a 70 year old arm chair can be a friend of a 18 year old hot bun going by Kartik Iyer in 2015. A cautious reply: maybe. Confess: Surely enjoy a chat with the fellow. Have not asked Kartik. Await his Grandmother, Aji, Diaries and poetry bits. Trying to be a poet has been a flop desire; you cant be a poet; you are one or you are not. That's me view and all views never deeply thought out. After quitting being a daily journalist in 2007, scribbled something near to poetry beside the shadows of Arun Kolatkar. Have most, if not all, his English writings, bought at Strand Book Stall. Tried to be moody as poets they say are; alphabets came in driblets; collected them in an unlined, white notebook. One day posted them to an international publisher: We have stopped taking poetry came a reply when the publisher is still into poetry. Then, relayed them to Prof. P. Lal of Writers' Workshop based in Kolkata. On an evening walk at LIC Colony, the mobile tinkled; the professor was on the line, 'Cant you send me a clean copy for publishing,' he queried, trifle fiery. 'Yes Sir,' me bumbled. He was my English professor at St. Xavier's College, 30, Park Street, Calcutta in the 1960s; taught us English poetry; in white pyjamas, knee-length jibbas and chappals, he would stroll and teach. ' In my class I alone speak; those who dont like the lectures are free to walk out; they will get their attendance,' he said firmly. A fair, open offer. Me did not; lapped up Keats, Shelley and Yeats with Prof. Lal; they are still with me. Of course, did not remind Lal of a past. In about a month's time, the proofs came without any editing; me paid the cost; the first volume, Some Poems 2009 arrived a Monday; me had a couple of rums alone as there was none around; followed  two more volumes: Living in Borivili and Walking the Road; no takers or readers; P.Lal was not when the third volume came off the presses. Writers Workshop sent many free copies; for years they lived their lives unpoetically in the loft. A few months ago, a hardup Madhavi sold them as raddi; turned to blogging verse; not even a faint sign of a reader; blogging prose, not any takers. There sure is an Error somewhere; not sure where. But cant strain ties with alphabets; they are me sure friends; they are something of a must like blood pressure pills to keep me unblown and morning walks. Blather is over. Maybe its time to go back to Kolatkar. The other day, Kartik said he read two pages of Jejuri every day, spent the rest of the hours pondering;  poetry and good writing do that to me; a fresh bath without soap and towels; or as Kolatkar writes ..' with the result, that/the more you clean Bombay/the more Bombay there is to clean.' 

Kinder Joy

4 p.m. Aji waits for school bus No.1 carrying Chiyu from Rustomjees. The helper in the school bus unloads Chiyu into the tugging arms of Aji; the school bag is passed on; Chiyu rushes to Nagarik Stores for her Rs. 5 pouch of Gems or Rs.10 plastic ball of Gems. Every evening, every day; more trips by Shreya and Chiyu on vacations. Nagarik Stores, Shreya and Chiyu are forever; anytime payments; Aji, like all Ajis, protests; her protests have no flags and bytes; mostly harmless squeaks; sometimes diabetic Aji dips into a pouch of Gems. Gems in balls hold some toys; Shreya and Chiyu do not much care. With the rising sun, came one day, Kinder Joy riding a coloured, fresh lorry on the TV screen; Shreya and Chiyu bellowed Kinder Joy; Aji, being Aji, didn't quite get it; maybe something Rs. 5 a packet; she agreed; Nagarik Stores was waiting; two Kinder Joy, Rs. 70; Aji shocked, let out a NO to be heard at the company's Baramati factory; Shreya and Chiyu thought Aji had hurt herself; made inquiries; with Aji unhurt, they signed and sealed the Joy deal. Till date, Aji cannot get over chocolates costing Rs. 35 per piece, gone up to Rs. 40, with boy and girl versions. With chocos come well designed toys (without sharp edges) and over time Ajoba has built a sizable collection, to set up a toy shop; Shreya and Chiyu played or woman-handled the new toys till the next purchase of Kinder Joy; the old toys would be dumped with Ajoba. Add now 3-year old Shruti, an unabashed sabhashi of Kinder Joy, one a day, a must; Shruti glows imagining Kinder Joy; Kinder Joy is her national anthem. Next or perhaps on par is Maggi noodles of Nestle; all like Maggi; Krishna went into a depression when Maggi went off the shelves; she was the first in the queue when they came back. These days Shreya cooks Maggi alone with dear old Aji standing by; she does it well, claims Aji with pride and me tells you reader, Aji cannot do without her Shreya and Chiyu. When Shreya, Chiyu and Shruti become women, they will surely dwell on Kinder Joy and Maggi noodles times with Aji. Am not sure what makes them hits, but hits they are. All the marketing men and women and all the psychologists cannot explain. Children drool. Children joy. Their nirvana moments. Sachin Tendulkar has a lesser following. Manufactured by Ferrero India, a subsidiary of Ferrero International, S.A. at Sharad Pawar's Baramati, enjoys a mega project status; its other products are Tic Tac and Nutella, a favourite of son Ganesh. Tic Tac does not tictac children. Aji recalls the evening when Chiyu and Shreya got Aji, with Rs.15 in the purse,to buy Kinder Joys on loan; or when Kannan searched Chennai at 11 in the night for a Kinder Joy to mollify a wailing Shruti. And today, in the morning watched a friend, a woman beyond age, unwrap a Kinder Joy, lick the choco; the toy she pursed; it happened on Link Road. When she saw me, she put down her aged head, like Chiyu caught in the act. Kinder Joy is a kind joy. Thanks be. 

M.K. Gandhi

A 24 year old Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi stepped on South African soil in 1893; quit 1914. Historian Ramachandra Guha in his Gandhi book quotes a Cape Town friend: 'You gave us a lawyer, we gave you a Mahatma.' Ashwin Desai and Goolam Vahed in The South African Gandhi are not sure; they have burst the Mahatma myth; am no historian; have read the two renderings with Desai and Goolam better; not in style but facts. There is the official telling, to be largely dismissed, as it is proper and prim. President Nelso Mandela wrote in Time in 1999: 'India is Gandhi's country of birth; South Africa his country of adoption.' South African President Thabo Mbeki said on the release of Gandhi film: ' ....We now know that the greatness of his soul was not limited only to people of Indian descent who called him 'Mahatma',  but to the human race as a whole.' The recent South Africa-India cricket series was dubbed Gandhi-Mandela. Gandhi kept Africans away, did not mingle with them, did not fight their cause; kafirs, he put them out. For Gandhi, Indians, pitched in the dust by a white South African regime, stand apart from kafirs. Gandhi had written as early as 1903 that Indians 'believe as much in the purity of race as we think they (the whites) do' and had conceded that the white race of South Africa should be the predominating race. It is therefore difficult to represent Gandhi as one of South Africa's anti-apartheid fighters.' Much evidence of Gandhian illiberality is stacked up by Desai and Vahed. They can also be biased as all historians are; impartiality cannot have space in human kind. They are in agreement with Patrick French: ..the point is not that someone born in the 19th century should be expected to have 21st century racial attitudes; it is that, even by the reformist standards of his own time, he was regressive. Gandhi's blanking of Africans is the black hole at the heart of his saintly mythology.' And with indentured Indians, Gandhi sometimes preferred the merchant class. What hurts most is Gandhi objecting to his son Manilal marrying a Muslim girl Fatima. Gandhi wrote: 'Faith is not a thing like a garment which can be changed to suit your convenience' and if both retained their beliefs, 'it will be like putting two swords into one sheath.' Gandhi was concerned 'that the marriage will have a powerful impact on the Hindu-Muslim question. Intercommunal marriages are not solution to the problem...It will be impossible, for you, I think, after this to come and settle in India.' Preached non-violence, supported British war effort in South Africa and India. Believed in caste categories. And Indian Independence, with million slaughtered, was non-violent by no evidence. At the top were Gandhi, Nehru and Sardar Patel. Years ago trying to understand Gandhi willingly went with the telling of Mahatma; today, the Mahatma has fallen off.  Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, yes. 

Oru Cheru Punchiri

Oru Cheru Punchiri. Sitting on the thinnai of his tiled, gardened home Krishna Kurup (Oduvil Unnikrishnan), mid 70, retired, combs the pensioned tresses of wife Ammalukutty (Nirmala Srinivasan); a kid spots them, smiles; alerts the neighbours; laughter tickles coconut tops. After years, Govindettan visits Kurup for old friends sake; 'its such a pleasure to see old friends,' says Govindettan; they chat over liquor and smoke; Krishna Kurup drums a note on a steel vessel. Tale of a couple in a village, deep in a quietness, beside a river; no mobiles, no Dubai speed vehicles, no Mohanlal wrestling matches; Krishna Kurup enjoys reading letters from son and daughter; Rama settling down with me in Dombivili in 1976, wrote five to six pages of detailed letters to her mother; inserted it in a stamped over; licked it shut; me dropped it at GPO near VT station; stayed calm for a week before turning restive for the postman; her mother and the postman never disappointed; assured a seven pages reply with every detail of Sreevatsam. Rama and me were watching the film written and directed by M.T. Vasudevan Nair for the fourth time and more; the film is based on Telugu writer Sriramana's short story Mithunam. Sriramana and MT should have been at their near-fine moments, writing and directing the film. Wonder how MT is spending hours at his Kozhikode home. Krishna Kurup and wife prefer their home, shot along the banks of Periyar, to sharing a living with a Kuwait son and a city daughter. There are no family quarrels to thorn the flow of the narrative. They own each other; Krishna Kurup, Ammalukutty and his green padam (garden) are friends, know each other. When a giddiness spins Ammalukutty, Krishna Kutty is beside her with ayurvedic potions dismissing the doctor and tablets; he hot packs her. These moments stick in the mind; hard to unpeel. And one  morning, after a kalyana saddi, Krishna Kurup lies down to rest; is 'off' as the Mumbaikar says; Ammalukutty decides to live alone at the same home. A 90 minute film with Oduvil Unnikrishnan at his normal best. No exaggerations; just like any cheery karanavar in a Kerala veedu located in a Kerala gramam, not abandoned. Left Rama and me with punjiris (smiles); some two years ago we were for a week at the Kurumpala home of  retired, 35 year old friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup on invitation. Absent is a river; compensation a well; and the spread out padams where we strolled. His elder sister stays in a tiled home, on the edges of the padams jammed with trees. She is around 85 and content. Guruvayurappa is always there. There is much to argue for a retired life beside river Periyar or a green. That sure is not for Rama and me.  

Elephants at Sultan Batheri

Four lady elephants with a baby. A FP lead, double column, colour pix in Mathrubhoomi today. Rama and me waited on the snap taken at Sultan Batheri in Kozhikode. For any newspaper reader, a Front Page human interest story in the morning, is a happy start. The day will go good. Of course, news editors cannot indulge this wish every day; but at least twice a week (Sunday must), helps. News editors of Mathrubhoomi and The Indian Express often delight in FP spreads; others, me is not sure. In 2014, Rama, Ganesh, Vidya and me sighted a lady in thought, in a dense bush; paused the vehicle to watch as forest officials told us to move on as the Lady could turn temperamental.With Krishnan Ananth me roamed Masinagudi some years ago, to be close to elephants in the wild including a tusker. With Kerala temples crowded with chained pachyderms, Malayalis hold elephant tales; elephants have God names; Lord Ganesh is sometimes titled Ayyappa; perhaps, the best stories can be had from mahouts. Me has not heard of any elephant book in Malayalam; maybe there is in the genre of The Elephant Whisperer, My Life with the Herd in the African Wild, by Lawrence Anthony with Graham Spence. Some two years ago had read the 368 pages book over more than a month, rather munching the story. In 1999, Lawrence was asked to accept a herd of troubled wild elephants at his Thula Thula Reserve in Zululand, South Africa. That's the story line. 'The adventure has been both physical and spiritual. Physical in the sense that it was action from the word go; spiritual because these giants of the planet took me deep into their world,...In our noisy cities we tend to forget the things our ancestors knew on a gut level; that the wilderness is alive, that its whispers are there for all to hear -- and to respond to, ' writes Lawrence in a prologue. Askaris, young elephants, aid father figure (old) elephants to strip bark, hand hold them to swamps where the grass is juicy. Better Lawrence takes over:' ...For elephants do not die gracefully of old age, they starve to death after they lose their sixth set of teeth. ....After he has gone they (askaris) will visit his bones for as long as they are there, paying respects to a fallen leader. The fact that almost all elephants which perish naturally do so in the soft-wood wetlands has led to the myth of secret graveyards and ivory troves where elephants instinctively migrate to die. The truth is they all usually die in the last areas where food is soft enough to ingress.' In the Last Rhinos, son Dylan talks of elephants visiting a dead Lawrence. They hung around for two days before leaving. Dylan muses: 'Cynics may say that the animals were merely wandering past. Maybe the grasses were rich in that area at the time; it was, after all, the summer rains. But we know better--dont we?' Okay we know everything. Will we do them away ahead of retirements into marshes?  

Provident Fund

Rites of December. Today, told the government me am a live pensioner. Government has agreed. With valid documentary proof, no passport sized photos. Till November 2016 will earn a monthly pension of Rs.1,025 per month credited to me ICICI account. Under the Employees' Pension Scheme, 1995. Do not know how it comes to Rs.1,025 per month. Filled up the briefest government form, a pension form; a page with name, bank account number, bank stamp, mobile; end. Pensions go with separate bank accounts. At ICICI Bank, the touchy lady clerk, signs and stamps the form; the Borivili branch of this bank tries to stampede its clients into stock buying and mutual funds; if turned down, as me did, they get nasty. Today, took a less populated Churchgate slow train from Borivili station at 9.50 am; after halts at and in between stations, exited at Bandra in about 35 minutes. A couple of railway policemen, jumped into the Luggage compartment, pulled out some four passengers; apparently, they had turned criminals travelling in the Luggage compartment; men and women with luggage alone can board the Luggage compartment; backpacks of some four passengers did not count as luggage; as they were being led to the chowkie, someone remarked, 'Hafta ka chukker hai (a bribe run)'. Currency notes will probably change hands. Peace will reign. Watched the ways of policemen, before making up a walkover, leading into Bandra (E); in single storey, tin homes pasted to the outside of the walkover, live poor Muslims, excluded by economic development; stranded; for years they have been there as the Bandra Kurla Complex flowered with banks and National Stock Exchange in cemented and glass plated wierdness. The two dont converse. Bandra the Queen of Suburbs is about Bandra (West). Picked up a cigarette, walked along the road (no pavements) to a band baja of two-wheelers, four wheelers, autos, BEST buses and humans; am developing a taste for noise; passed by Bandra Court and the marriage and divorce shops manned by lawyers; arose the gardened, off-yellow Provident Fund building. Government offices intimidate. A ghostly fear overtakes. Stepped into the ground floor, housing a few clerks. No queues. Went up to a behenji; she took the filled form, signed it; was passed on to a second counter for the signed form to be stamped. Five minutes. Am filed as a living pensioner. No forward, middle or back agent; no suggestions or demands for bribes; it has been like this (for me) for 8 years since becoming a pensioner in 2007; in that holy year, while being initiated into the styles of government files, me climbed the first floor to face babus and behens sitting behind tables reading Maharashtra Times and Loksatta; some were into novels; phones rang; stopped; they, humans and phones, did not like to be disturbed; me waited before the assigned clerk; having finished his reading, the clerk okayed me existence. Since 2012, no first floor visits; certifying me a live specimen has been a five minute clerical feat. In unclouded happiness had a second smoke. Now starts the problem of staying alive. 

Parattu Ravindran Sreejesh

Parattu Ravindran Sreejesh won India the hockey match against Holland; helped India win the bronze in the Hockey World League Finals at Raipur. His goal-keeping in the penalties was watchable. An injured Indian and a hockey goal-keeper on the world stage. Mihir Vasavda in The Indian Express reports of the injuries Sreejesh went with into the Holland match; the detailed telling made morning happy. Watched the match on Sunday evening and liked the way Sreejesh crowded out the Dutch players in the penalties; he took them away from the goal and shut the angles. Mihir Vasavda seems sure of game hockey. Holding the ball, tapping the ball, running with the ball like perhaps the Australians are not coming easily to Indians; but these days,our players last a match fit. India could be somewhere near the top four; Rio Olymics 2016 will settle the debate; there is the thought we may display the bronze medal on our necks. For that Sreejesh and Sardar Singh will have to do their best. Me is hoping for a detailed Vasavda piece on Sreejesh in this weekend The Indian Express. Confess to a dollop of Kerala huff, provinicial pride. Checked out sites for spare details on Parattu Ravindran Sreejesh, perhaps the lone Keralite playing international hockey (stand to be pulled up). Has more than 140 international caps and could go on. Australian Dwyer is reported to have 350 caps. Vasavda mentions a street in Kerala named Sreejesh. From Kizhakkambalam village, Ernakulam, he started on sprint, long jump, volleyball before being chosen for hockey at 12, joining G.V. Raja Sports School in Thiruananthapuram. Works at Indian Overseas Bank. Bare details dont tell the man but fated they are to playing hockey. There is Rani Rampal, a fine lady hockey player; Sarada Ugra wrote a column on her in Mint. Rani Rampal will pivot womens hockey at Rio Olympics 2016. If you are a habitual Doordarshan Sports watcher, may know about Rani Rampal, from Haryana and other Indian sports. Something is happening in sports other than cricket and going grossly unreported. Over the last three days, front pages and two sports pages in Mathrubhoomi have been marked for school athletics, Kerala Schools meet at Kozhikode. Reports, colour pixs. India-South Africa Test eclipsed, inside page, bottom. Six reporters: R. Krishnakumar; Anjana Sashi; Rajesh K. Krishnan; M.S. Rakesh Krishnan; Shihabuddin Thangal; Sunil Niruvambadi. Camera: K.K. Santosh; M.V. Sinoj; K.B. Satishkumar; G. Shivaprasad. School girl P.R. Aishwarya breaking records in Hammer Throw and Triple Jump, an odd combination. Ernakulam is heading the table with 20 golds, Alleppey last with one gold. Somewhere in the greens of God's Own Country is seeded an Olympic Gold.  

Singara Chennai

Good old friend, Ashok Reddy and wife Girija, are in a lodge; home in Kotturpuram is under water, said Ashok when me got him on the mobile three days back. For a minute we talked. Today, tried again. 'Ground floor gutted; will take time to clear the sticky muck; the Telugu speaking Malayali family has shifted to a company guest house.' Ashok related facts. Ashok lives on the first floor but with no power and water, may have to stay at the lodge sometime more. 'It happened in 1985; rain water finished everything; it has happened again. We are better off than many, but we have been touched by rains,' he added. 'Life goes on,' chimed Girija. Knee deep water in the ground floor home of PRS at West Mambalam; maybe he has moved to the first floor. Me tried to contact him; out of mobile range, comes the reminder. Daughter Vidya and Madhu are okay at Valsarvakkam; there was no flooding in the area; ground floor homes, including that of Vidya, safe. Kannan (Shiva Kumar) and wife Krishna, in Mumbai, for Dubai Ganesh marriage, skipped train reservations to Chennai; will move on Sunday; their car in the parking lot at Chennai home has been under water for a few days and Kannan is not sure of insurance; seemingly, those not insured against Acts of God or Nature, may not get anything from insurance companies. 'That's a worry,' remarked Krishna and she should know, having worked as a company secretary. Rama and me have been regularly updating selves with Sun TV News. Perhaps, it would have helped if the TV beams were located, dated and timed; and reporting is tough standing in flooded spaces; hard, as reports have to be rushed. Yet, Sun News passed on the grim message. The first time heard of waters in Kotturpuram, thought of Ashok Reddy; mobiled into silence. A year ago, Ashok drove us to his place in Kotturpuram; dropped us back; a dash of green, poshness but dusty. He rolled names of top executives as near and distant neighbours; Ashok had no friends in them, being a loner. 'Prefer to be left alone,' he remarked over iced gins. Girija had prepared a dietic lunch; after afternoon gins, nothing matters. 'Every time it rains heavily, I am a bit worried. Worry for the ground floor tenant,' he told me that day. He is that man, Ashok is. Today, he admits to 'money being the least of worries'; it is trying to get into an old rhythm. Losses wont go that easily. Tattooed hurts will remains. Long months before Singara Chennai gets Singara on its brows.  

Ashramam village

Spelling out shlokas saved in his mobile, the chief priest inquired the gotra of Dubai Ganesh; Harida gotram, said Dubai Ganesh to push forward the chanting; then came the query on three generations: father Devarajan, grand-father Bhagavatheeswaran and great-grandfather, Devarajan. for me it is father Padmanabhan, grand-father Devarajan and great grand-father Thanukrishnan; grandmas were not invoked, sad. 'Ashramam viththukkal (Ashramam seeds)', said Rama. A memory story with a beginning perhaps in Ashramam village. Facts zilch. Did they make the long walk from Thanjavur to Ashramam in the 17 th and 18 th century? Dubai Ganesh, Krishnan, son Ganesh, me .... shoeless denizens of a village we know little about, offering the freedom to imagine a family tradition. We can stitch the cloth anyway, stitch into it wayward thoughts. Thanks be. Ashramam village is a bus stop on the road to Suchindram and Kanyakumari. Have been thrice to Ashramam; the agraharam is a five minute walk with a blue Lord Krishna temple at one end; tiled homes with thinnais (verandas), stuck together, dress the edges; today it may be on GPS. Have a black and white photograph of grandmother with grandfather in a white beard and shaved head; take it out when the desire to think a family tale moves me. One fact is certain: Faith flowed in them. They were in a drown. Grandfather Devarajan, something close to a temple priest, walked daily to Suchindram Shiva temple; offered prayers, earned a chakram, going by the telling of father. They were below or on the poverty line; father existed on Uttuparai chappadu, twice a day, at the Padmanabhaswami Temple in Thiruananthapuram before migrating to Calcutta with mother, Sita. An early version of a Food Security Act. Faith ran in them. They were also political. Grandfather admired Hitler; me father read Churchill and Lloyd George; they disliked, well hated, Gandhi and Nehru; admired Dewan Dr. C.P. Ramaswami Aiyer, having watched him from close. If God was an obsession, politics was a passion, quality food a strong emotion. Wild tempered, moody all. Father read The Statesman in detail. Am wondering how much of them runs in me? Lots of it. Kottarakara (maternal village), Calcutta and Mumbai am certain of. They have stuffed me in healthy scepticism and an arrogance. Where does Ashramam come into it; an Ashramam, signed in blue ink in every religious text: D.Padmanabha Aiyer, Ashramam. Me donated them all, unbandaging Calcutta from me being. Perhaps faith. Faith rests as sediment in me soul, after all the reading of Marx, Gandhi, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, Ramana Maharshi and the rest. Most often, it stays diluted; sometimes gets a bit thick urging me to light diyas to the tiny pack of gods and goddesses in the kitchen. Fluctuations are hard to explain in Ashramam terms but not the temper and moodiness. 

Dubai Ganesh

For days and nights, Rama and me tabled visions of a kalyana saddi at the marriage of Dubai Ganesh; son Ganesh was in a fever; in recent times the buffet has sadly displaced kalyana saddis and their famed cooks; a saddhi in a way has something to do with inequality; cooks ordered about and serving; buffet is egalitarian, freedom to choose from a wide spread of Chinese and Mughlai; me Thiruananthapuram uncle at Girija's wedding in Kottarakara; Manikantan of Alleppey at Rama-me tie up; Hariharan of Airoli at the espousal of Dubai Ganesh. Place, Gorakshadham Hall , Kulupwadi (was unaware of the corner), Borivili (E). In a spacious hall, we sat on wooden chairs as gentlemen spread green, double banana leaves on tables, sprinkled water, wiped them; placed plastic cups, one each to a a leaf, for ladles of payasams. Payasams always kick off the spree (diabeticians may protest); come first, a dip of it in the right hand bottom corner; the rest followed with banana chips, paruppu wadas and pappadoms making the last trip. Me tongue will not drop quickly the delight of pineapple pachchadi; churned it with fine rice, cracked two pappadoms on the mix, gloated on the delicacy with nibbles of paruppu wada. Gentlemen obliged every request, liberal with helpings like avial, pappadoms pounded down the hall.... a marriage is always recalled for posterity by the food served; for evening tiffin came a surprise: mixture to go with filter coffee; rare indeed; me took a three cups helping with Rama stalling the fourth. Walked up to Hariharan, with sweat holding the sacred thread in place; thanked the gentleman, from where else but Noorni, Palghat; with hands leading to the skies he hailed a 'Guruvayurappa.' Made a particular mention of crispy murukkus, they cracked the mouth; shared the mobile number of boss Vasai Ambi (09821150755) for murukku and mixture orders in the future. Hariharan's mobile beeps quite often as he spades the avial on a gas oven. After lunch, an old man folded paan and supari (there was no tobacco) for me and we leisurely munched for a time; watery Singara Chennai bugged all. They did mention it, tichtiched the fate of Singara Chennai; yes, everyone has someone (Vidya my daughter is safe with her office friends) in Singara Chennai hard to tap on air, rail or mobile. For the old man, there is The Hindu, Mumbai edition ; Mumbai is Singara Chennai; 'we will now get some reliable news in The Hindu' he said over his second round of paan and pakku. Reminded him of young times in Triplicane learning English, reading edits of The Hindu; US reports by K. Balaram. 'Saar, nalla paper. Public waited. Hindu enna chollarathu (What does The Hindu say),' he said tapping me. Nadaswaram by Sivakami Ammal was to the point; the wind instrument has been with her since she was 10; trained by many; today lives in Dharavi with husband tending flower business; we sure are becoming gujjus, if not Americans.  Most importantly, made a fine friend in Kannan (Sivakumar), husband of Krishna. A jolly good fellow. Miss him.