Mathrubhoomi is quaint. A full page for the dead, tombing the dead quite regularly; a full page obit; deaths are arranged district-wise; today entire page 9, Charamam; Rama and me scan it regularly for deaths in Allapuzha and Kollam where village Kottarakara is. Do not think any other newspaper marks a page for death; am not sure; English newspapers have no space for the common dead. No near and dear ones in Kottarakara and Allapuzha. Was born there in a tiled house opposite Lord Ganesh temple; seemingly it started as a Shiva temple and then passed on power to son; all in the family more as the Gandhi family and Congress. Today, Mathrubhoomi has a death of 89 year old Sumathi Kuttti Amma, with pix, in Kottarakara: me family has no deaths in Kottarakara; me elders died in Kolkata and Mumbai. Years away from Kottarakara; never, never was a village citizen; yet, a mention of the village and there is a blood rush; a desire to be there for a day; Rama wants to go to Allapuzha for a few days; for son Ganesh, Mumbai and Yogi Nagar is all; do not know whether Vidya in Chennai misses Mumbai; for Dakhi it is Amchi Mumbai. Have not been able to explain this desire for logging the dead. In Calcutta times, The Statesman had a Personal column on the edit page writing down deaths; read it regularly. Do not know if Mathrubhoomi charges; Rama thinks it is for free. Death is life missing and me loves Life; for me it is not Maya of the Vedantist or the Buddhist; no holy books, gurus, meditations; have desires; lots of it; am not shamed of them; at 70 it does not cost any to desire writing a Sahitya Academy poem or directing an art film with Kottarakara as locale for a Filmfare critics award; or best of all to be an ordinary journalist chatting up ordinary women, men and children on the streets; in next janma, if there is one, me would like to be a journalist in a Childrens newspaper with a child as Editor. Yes, that would be enormous fun. Fun is distinctly absent in Who Moved My Interest Rates by Duvvuri Subbarao; wonder whether RBI governors and bankers laugh; or corporates. The book is deadly serious and bankers could like it. Long ago friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup bought me a less than palm-size book: The Beautiful Years: The Joys of Being Older; A Helen Exley Giftbook; long afternoons me quips its tiny pages; a Native American saying goes: Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Mumbai has sunrises and sunsets. Enough.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Let me walk in beauty
Mathrubhoomi is quaint. A full page for the dead, tombing the dead quite regularly; a full page obit; deaths are arranged district-wise; today entire page 9, Charamam; Rama and me scan it regularly for deaths in Allapuzha and Kollam where village Kottarakara is. Do not think any other newspaper marks a page for death; am not sure; English newspapers have no space for the common dead. No near and dear ones in Kottarakara and Allapuzha. Was born there in a tiled house opposite Lord Ganesh temple; seemingly it started as a Shiva temple and then passed on power to son; all in the family more as the Gandhi family and Congress. Today, Mathrubhoomi has a death of 89 year old Sumathi Kuttti Amma, with pix, in Kottarakara: me family has no deaths in Kottarakara; me elders died in Kolkata and Mumbai. Years away from Kottarakara; never, never was a village citizen; yet, a mention of the village and there is a blood rush; a desire to be there for a day; Rama wants to go to Allapuzha for a few days; for son Ganesh, Mumbai and Yogi Nagar is all; do not know whether Vidya in Chennai misses Mumbai; for Dakhi it is Amchi Mumbai. Have not been able to explain this desire for logging the dead. In Calcutta times, The Statesman had a Personal column on the edit page writing down deaths; read it regularly. Do not know if Mathrubhoomi charges; Rama thinks it is for free. Death is life missing and me loves Life; for me it is not Maya of the Vedantist or the Buddhist; no holy books, gurus, meditations; have desires; lots of it; am not shamed of them; at 70 it does not cost any to desire writing a Sahitya Academy poem or directing an art film with Kottarakara as locale for a Filmfare critics award; or best of all to be an ordinary journalist chatting up ordinary women, men and children on the streets; in next janma, if there is one, me would like to be a journalist in a Childrens newspaper with a child as Editor. Yes, that would be enormous fun. Fun is distinctly absent in Who Moved My Interest Rates by Duvvuri Subbarao; wonder whether RBI governors and bankers laugh; or corporates. The book is deadly serious and bankers could like it. Long ago friend Narayana Karunakara Kurup bought me a less than palm-size book: The Beautiful Years: The Joys of Being Older; A Helen Exley Giftbook; long afternoons me quips its tiny pages; a Native American saying goes: Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset. Mumbai has sunrises and sunsets. Enough.
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