Saturday, December 25, 2010

THE MALI CONNECTION OF JETHRO TULL



Naming a progressive-rock group after a British agriculturist of 18th  century, penning the songs, giving the lead by vocals, flute and acoustic guitar, selling 60 million albums worldwide, becoming a legend in a career spanning five decades…thats Ian Anderson for all of us. He took a sabbatical at the pinnacle of success, moved to a farm in the countryside and remained a bucolic since then. The man stands on one foot resting the other foot on his knee (see pic) while performing on stage. 




This may not be a gimmick but it goes contradictory to the portrait of an original artist. I had a meditating Ian Anderson in mind.  I listened to Jethro Tull first in 1979, while I was in college. Songs from the Wood was passed on to me by a junior, two years after its release. More than Ian Andersons steely voice and sharp fluting, I liked the effect the group produced which was similar to that of the ethereal sarpampattu at the sacred grove of  my village every year. 


I have a feeling that our likes or dislikes have a direct link to the imageries/scents/figures embedded in our subconscious. As a child, I watched the sarpampattu with awe, it turned out to be the primordial magician for me. Pulluvans a tribe who made a living by singing songs eulogizing serpents were brought in to perform just for the occasion. They came in a three-member group, husband, wife and grandmother with their simple string instruments. The one for providing bass was assembled on the spot with an earthen pot at one end. The grandmother would handle it while the main artist, the husband sang and simultaneously played a violin-like instrument. The place, a small devi-temple by the sacred grove would be heavily decorated with plantain stems and tender coconut leaves with lighted diyas all over.




Songs from the Wood made a tremendous impact on me, one song in particular, a track titled Velvet Green. It had a familiar setting of Carnatic music, especially in the percussion part but I was just a novice to speak out my mind. The lyrics were ungraspable but a friend helped.

Walking on velvet green, distant cows lowing
Never a care: with your legs in the air, loving
Walking on velvet green
Tell your mother that you walked all night on velvet green
And the long grass blows in the evening cool
Where the scent of wild roses turns the milk to cream
But think not of that, my love,
I’m tight against the seam
And I’m growing up to meet you down on velvet green
Now I may tell you that its love and not just lust
We’ll dream as lovers under the stars
Of civilizations raging afar
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars
As you walk home cold and alone upon velvet green.

(edited version)

Getting Jethro Tull albums was difficult as they were not released in India. Later, during my bachelor days in Mumbai, die-hard fans used to arrange local groups playing Tull songs. They were sell-out concerts (in spite of the high-priced entry ticket) with so many of us waiting outside Patkar Hall, desperate. Then the band would burst into “Too old to rock n’ roll”and the crowd gate-crash their way. The song summed up their predicament, at least mine in a sense.

Too old to Rock’n’Roll but too young to die

The song is about an “old Rocker who wore his hair too long” and remained “unfashionable till the end”. While “all of his mates are doing fine: married with three kids up by the Ring Road” the old Rocker was a loner, depressed and ridiculed. He never knew that his peers “sold their souls straight down the line”.

Thankfully, the last line of the song turns everything for the good.

No, you’re never too old to Rock’n’Roll if you’re too young to die.

The line acted as a tranquilliser.

Towards the end of my Mumbai days, a friend who had roots in England told me that Ian Anderson learnt his fluting techniques from our own T.R.Mahalingam (Mali). Quite possible as Mali was married to a British lady and was staying abroad for a while. I researched a little bit on the subject but couldn’t find any material substantiating the claim.

As always, the truth is covered with a golden casket.





"Agaist the Wind" by Shibu Natesan



Sunday, November 28, 2010

MARGINAL MEN


 
Reaching the place was not easy. One had to ascent the narrow mountain pass for two hours to reach a barren region, spread in more than seven hundred square kilometers. The place was a thick forest half a century back and had been denuded thoroughly by encroachers. The whole area looked like a huge wound inflicted on the body of Mother Earth. A government agency was implementing an eco-restoration and tribal development project there with external aid. The interviewees, eight of us in total, reached the office before the appointed time of 9.30 a.m. but the process started only at 3.30 p.m. in the afternoon. The IAS officials including the District Collector took time to reach the place. Nobody even offered an apology. The Chairman was an unassuming man in spite of wielding considerable power in the government. The interview lasted for less than half an hour and I got the job.

Thankfully, the office environment was different. The heavy and repulsive setting of a government office was absent. The buildings were located at the top of a hill and the river Siruvani was flowing through the valley. Coconut trees and plantain farms made a picturesque sight. I started staying in a bungalow by the hilltop and a colleague also joined. Basheer and I would set out for early morning walk, barefooted, crossing the hills and valleys to reach a tiny waterfall where we took our daily bath. The sun would be rising. On our way back we had our breakfast from a roadside teashop which was actually the extension of a house. The front two rooms and the foyer had been turned into a small eatery. One was treated like a family member there and food would be prepared as per your whims and fancies. We used to order for puttu and a plateful of coconut gratings with home grown plantains and milk.

I started interacting with the adivasis. They used to come to my office regularly for attending workshops or training sessions. The Moopans came with their sidekicks. Experts were brought from cities to teach them language and basic accounting. Modern agricultural practice was another thrust area. The participants were given lunch and Rs.25 per head as attendance bonus. The "students" were most innocent looking and they watched the goings on as an object of wonder. It was an interesting sight to watch them, the Moopans with their faded cotton clothes and headgears, his assistants wearing shirts and mundu, women with colourful lungis wrapped around their thin torso and almost all of them chewed pan. The lips were slightly disfigured on that count. Undernourishment had made them small. 


Their involvement in Participatory Rural Appraisal programs was in fact dismal. Did they trust us? I didn’t have any idea. The top-heavy officers still got their reverence. 

The officers had several brainstorming sessions to find out a strategy.

"These people" do not take us into confidence, it seems.
Take a chest of betel, areca nut and lime alongwith when you enter an ooru. The adivasis believe only in people who chew pan.

 
This strategy had many takers in the high-level meeting.

The junior officers were different. They had the inclination but there was no space. I tried to fill in. We set out to Chavadiyur in our four-wheel drives. Parking our vehicles at the end of the motor-able stretch, we walked further. It drizzled suddenly. The plantain leaves doubled as umbrellas. The ooru took time to come alive. Again, this was not a mark of disrespect, as the natural pace of adivasis was much different from that of ours. A small adivasi ensemble with the main musician playing the wind instrument Kuzhal and others using various percussion instruments Thappu, Mani etc. emerged to welcome us. Slowly a circle was formed with dancers and we had to compulsorily join. The adivasis expected everyone around to join when they dance and eat. It would be taken as act of disregard otherwise. I did not know the simple steps of their dance, still I joined. I danced like a garba dancer (of sorts) creating a space between me and the group. I had the eye contact of each of them since I moved anti clock-wise. It was an exhilarating moment. When I got tired, I changed roles and handled the cymbals. I snatched away the instrument but nobody protested. In fact, the musicians encouraged me to keep on playing. It was revealed to me that life is a thing to be celebrated. Towards the end, an old adivasi woman became my dance partner. She kept on asking me to buy her booze. The dancing lasted late into the night and then we sat together in a circle, by the field, under the moon and the stars and ate boiled raggi, tapioca and papaya.

The oorus were flooded with illicit liquor. The bootleggers who came from outside had a field day. The outsiders hooked the innocent tribes in hooch and snatched away their possessions. Land and women changed hands.

Two young women from the Swarnagaddha ooru reached my office in the morning and wanted to invite our attention to the spread of liquor. They waited till noon before someone took note of their presence. They were in their late teens and were already married. The whole men folk of the ooru had fallen for illicit liquor which was being served like tea in kettles . The men were not spared even at their work place. The kettle was taking the rounds at the work sites as well. Those who protested were beaten mercilessly. The young women wanted their husbands back. We started off in a jeep and reached Swarnagaddha by the evening. The ooru looked deserted. As usual, they took time to gather, coming out slowly from their huts one by one and assembling at the common space to listen to us. We asked them to open out. One incident was particularly touching.

One man sets out to call Dr.Prabhudas of Government Primary Health Centre as his wife is writhing in labour pains. The hospital is quite far off and the ooru is inaccessible for vehicles. It is almost impossible to carry the patient by hand. Better option is to inform the doctor and he will always be willing to come. The man makes a beeline for the kind doctor but meets the liquor dispenser on the way. As a result, he reaches at Dr.Prabhudas quarters only on the third day. Sure enough, the inevitable happens in between.

We addressed the wives.

You are the strength of your men; you are the power. Tell them to straighten their backbones and take up challenges. Slam the door at their face if they come home drunk. Don’t serve them food. Bear in mind that they will be searching their mothers in you the next morning.
Are you getting the point?


In fact they got the swing of things better than we did. Illiteracy had nothing to do with understanding. We took time to grasp this aspect. Even the adivasis children were way ahead! Once we were on a routine visit to Moolaganga, an adivasis ooru situated at the Tamil Nadu border. Electricity couldn’t have reached there by normal means and we had installed solar lanterns. We stopped at an ooru named Vellamari on our way which boasted of a single-teacher-school run by the government. It had a circular floor made of cement with wall made of bamboo poles and rattan above which a cone shaped palmyra leaf roof sat squarely like a hat. A clean, airy and well-lighted classroom. The teacher had abstained for the day but the twelve students didn’t go back home. They were busy playing around. Our driver Bijoy had a degree in teaching and he took an impromptu session for the kids while we were paying a courtesy call to the Moopan. Bijoy gave them ten questions in general knowledge and the student who got the answers right would be awarded with a pen. To his surprise, four of them emerged as winners and there was an obvious shortage of promised pens. Bejoy quietly ate his words and left his own pen at the classroom. We resumed our journey to Moolaganga. The maintenance of solar lanterns took longer time as we taught the adivasis how to troubleshoot the device on their own. On our way back, we were surprised to find a small bunch of kids eagerly waiting for us by the hill-track, waving at us vigorously to halt. All twelve of them, the students of Vellimary had been waiting for two and a half hours under the sun just to return Bijoy’s pen. As our jeep stopped, they rushed towards us through the thick cloud of dust like a swarm of bees. They were under the impression that the pen had been left behind by oversight.

The officers of the government failed to see this mindset. The adivasis were reduced to a set of numbers in their laptops. “These people” were not going to improve on account of their inherent sluggishness, the officers believed. The adivasis should consider themselves lucky to be at the receiving end of the government’s mercy. The officers acted as if they were giving tip to waiters in a restaurant. The Chairman however was different. He rose from humble beginnings through sheer hardwork and perseverance. He often told us that he was born in a hut.

 I was accompanying him in a jeep through the forest track, listening to the dangers of alienating adivasis from their own roots. We found a lorry blocking our way and were forced to stop by the side. The lorry belonged to an underworld don, Angamali Thomas whose henchmen had been felling trees whenever they felt like. The giant timber logs were being loaded. Chairman didn’t utter a word though he had the power to stop the act. The lorry was packed to full and got moving.

I chanced to see Raghu during my early morning walks. Sitting in front of the roadside teashop, he would be smoking beedis. Raghu was short and thinly built. He joined me without an invitation, perhaps on the assumption that I would not mind. Raghu had dropped out from high school and worked for Fr.Mani for some time. The Father was running a NGO and Raghu gave his best as a support staff, traveling far and wide. His adivasi credentials, innocent face and looks combined with the unusual gift of articulating skills made him a valuable property, an object for showcasing. Fr.Mani was working in the education sector. He had array of well-managed institutions in the area imparting primary education to specialized skills in information technology. Raghu, however, was not exactly happy with the excellent image of the NGO. According to him, it was only a cover to snatch away land. Raghu slowly moved away from his benefactor but not without asking the crucial question when he left,

Father, you are working head over heels for the betterment of adivasis. How many of them are employed in your establishments?

Raghu was tossed back to the pristine poverty of his ooru.

One day he came rushing to meet me at the office. His elder brother suffered a stroke and had to be hospitalized immediately. My organization owned ten four-wheelers and one of it could be pressed into service as an ambulance. Raghu was even willing to foot the bill. He was a member of our User Association which was doing the developmental work through community contracting. The money could be recouped from his wages. He was broke and couldn’t think of any other arrangement.

Raghu was not allowed a vehicle. The Project Director was worried about making a precedent. Barely a week had passed after the PD made a visit to Bangalore with his wife in his air-conditioned official vehicle under the guise of a training program. On another occasion while misusing his official vehicle, the police had to register a case for creating an accident. Luckily he and his family escaped unhurt.

I don’t have any idea till this date whether the elder brother of Raghu reached the hospital in time.

After a few days, the Chairman paid an unscheduled visit and I was summoned.
He gave me more than just a memo.
I was accused of undermining the interests of the establishment and abetting others to do the same.

I didn’t accept it.

************


"Marginal Men " - a term coined by John Kenneth Galbraith,    US Ambassador to India during the Kennedy era, denoting "people who can't see beyond their compound walls".


Moopan - Chief (of tribal people in a hamlet)
Ooru      - a cluster of tribal hutments which forms a hamlet

Sunday, October 24, 2010

ON FREEDOM






P.Radhakrishnan, the first Indian Scientist who was selected by NASA to conduct independent experiments on remote sensing, lightning and biomedicine in space has added a rejoinder to the last post Where Feminists Go Wrong. He is writing about the hypocrisy involved in lamenting about encroachment in personal freedom. Leering at women in public spaces is a familiar phenomenon in our country.  “Some people go to the extent  of saying women move about, dressed like this, freely in the west. But we should not forget that a woman is raped every 20 seconds in the US. Here, things mostly stop with whistles and comments. The best is to dress discreetly compatible with culture and climate. If one is susceptible  to attack, why invite it ? So, freedom has to be checked within pragmatic limits.”

The main issue here is Freedom, the extent to which one is entitled for. I am not talking about the ultimate freedom which I guess, is a purely personal experience. It is a feeling which cannot be expressed in any language. Freedom of any other kind has got a common domain to be shared with others. This is the domain for interaction. In other words, Freedom cannot exist in vacuum. You are entitled for your freedom so long as you allow others to honour. Even artists and revolutionaries should not be exempted. Agreed that they are a gifted lot who get unusual insights about the Truth but that should not give them a pedestal to place themselves above the rest. Why should we designate an artist far above, say, a carpenter? For arguments sake, I can say that a carpenter too can express his self through his work.

We always fail to discover the driving force behind man-woman relationship which makes it most beautiful and unique. Love and Selflessness. The issue of commoditization occurs due to our failure to put it into practice. In Love, you always give and least worried about what you get (in return).  The man or woman always tries his/her level-best for the complete satisfaction of his/her partner and that itself becomes a satisfaction for himself/herself. In other words, sexual emancipation should gear up towards Love. Recently, one of the most respected Gandhians of Kerala, Dr.M.Gangadharan has remarked that young people should familiarize with each other before marriage so that they will come to know whether they are compatible. According to him, they can have sex too to gain first hand knowledge whether the couple can love each other. I believe Dr.Gangadharan is absolutely right. Because sex is all love and no lust. (Interview in Mathrubhoomi Weekly 2010 October 2).

Perhaps the essence of freedom (of any count) is given by  Sree Narayana Guru (1855 - 1928) already

Avanavanatmasukhathinnacharikkunnava
Aparannususukhathainnay Varenam.

Anything sought for private enjoyment should ultimately lead to enjoyment for others.

It should be a win-win situation always. In pure materialistic terms, for example, your buying a car is justified only when you voluntarily give lift to the waiting folks at the bus-stop with  a contented heart .


********

Monday, September 20, 2010

WHERE FEMINISTS GO WRONG


A lady named Krithiga Balsubramanian wrote about an awful experience she had undergone in the Hindu dated 29.08.10 (Open Page). She was in a hurry to reach home as it was around 8.00 PM and a guy passed vulgar comments on her dress. She was wearing a decent attire by any standards - a salwar kameez complete with a dupatta - and naturally felt offended. She wanted to take the him to task but was too tired after a hard days work. She then narrates another incident when a girl was playing in sea-water by the beach in a three-fourth and Krithiga’s friend was staring. He was blaming the girl for the dressing style “rather than accepting the fact that it was wrong to look at a woman that way.” 

Should we always drape ourselves in a saree to gain respect? Can’t women have their space in society? She asks.

The response she got for her write-up was equally stimulating. A reader says she has heard vulgar comments on women wearing saree too. Youngsters making passes at women old enough to be their mothers. “Why are dress-codes, decency standards, culture etc. applicable to women alone? I haven’t seen a single woman passing remarks on a man - no matter how he is dressed.”  “Have we ever heard anyone saying men should be dressed decently? Why do men, who get “provoked” by clothes, hardly get “provoked” by domestic violence, female foeticide or honour killings?”

Valid questions, indeed.

Instead of seeking direct answers, I shall narrate two stories from the Kerala folklore Vadakkan Pattukal. One gets an idea how the women of yore handled such cases. More importantly, how they partnered a near-perfect relationship with their spouses. In other words, what’s this yin-yang relationship all about. The folklore starts with the tales of Aromal Chekavar and Unniyarcha of Puthooram Veedu. The brother and sister duo come from a family of mercenaries, Chekavars who make a living by sword-fights, always staking their lives for anybody who pays. In those days, boys and girls both get their training in martial arts in special-purpose schools called kalaris under the tutelage of a senior Chekavar. Aromal and Unniyarcha came out in flying colors from the kalari and while the brother went on to become a full-fledged chekavar, the sister became a house-wife. Oddly enough, she was married to a weak, less-than-ordinary man named Kunjiraman who never harbored an opinion of his own. Unniyarcha got bored at her husband’s Aattumanammel Veedu doing the cleaning-cooking-washing continuum and wanted to go for the festival at Allimalar kave. She sought permission from the lord of the house first, as is customary but Kunjiraman’s father refused it on the ground that if his son accompanies Unniyarcha it is equivalent to loosing one days income. She gets humiliated and retorts that she has made up her mind to go….. come what may, hell or high water. The karanavar changes his strategy and plays the safety card. He says Allimalarkave and its vicinity are ruled by an underworld mafia called Jonakas and their Don, the Moopan has got a weakness for beautiful women. If any good-looking lady is seen moving around unescorted by men, the side-kicks of the Don are sure to pound on her, to take away the jewellery and to get her undressed . She will subsequently follow a straight line path to the Moopan’s bed. Unniyarcha is still unmoved and reiterates her stand to make it with or without permission. Finally for complying protocol, she asks Kunjiraman and as expected he denies permission. He also threatens his wife of dire consequences and hints beating her up. Unniyarcha gives a damn. She sets out taking her urumi (sword).  By the time she reaches Nagapurathangadi, the Jonakas encircle her and the determined lady is all set to have a go. She is combat-ready in a moments notice. The Jonakas never expected such a repulse and they are quite unnerved by her courage. They rush to their Master while Unniyarcha is raging to settle the issue once and for all. Meanwhile Kunjiraman arrives at the scene in search of his wife and promptly falls unconscious. The Moopan is apprised of the situation and he understands its graveness. The attack is two-pronged and imminent. He sends his wife with sackful of gold-coins to Unniyarcha as a conciliatory measure. She cares a hoot. Nagappan Chetty, the foreigner who acts as a financier to the powerful is urged to mediate. The mission nose-dives. As a last resort, the Moopan approaches the Naduvazhi (local ruler) and he sends his wife to Unniyarcha with a cartload of presents.  No change in fate. Finally Aromal makes an appearance and he summons the Moopan who not only falls at Unniyarcha’s feet but vows never to hurt a woman again. The chapter thus ends happily with the womenfolk in and around Allimalar Kave throwing their fears and anxieties to the winds.

The very next chapter is unique in the sense that it explains the yin-yang concept. As we all know, the yin-yang represent the ideal male-female relationship as detailed in the oriental philosophy. The yin and yang are complementary to each other and inclusive in nature. Actually they are inseparable. There are parts of yin in yang and vice versa. (anima and animus). The function of yin is to fortify the element of compassion and kindness in yang. And that of yang is to strengthen the factor of courage and leadership in yin. In essence, the yin purifies the yang and vice versa.
( Asha Menon has written a beautiful piece Savithri on the purification carried out by yin  in his book Herbarium but he excludes the part played by yang). 

Chapter 2 of Vadakkan Pattu opens with Aromal brooding over his skill-set which is otherwise complete with 18 portfolios with the unusual exception of pakida (game of dice). His own uncle is an expert in the game and Aromal, after consulting his parents decides to meet his uncle who stays several hours away. He takes a long time dressing up which makes his wife, Kunjunnooli restless. She senses something fishy. The uncle has got a beautiful daughter, Thumbolarcha, at her prime and unmarried, on whom Aromal has a crush. In no time, he sets out for Mikavil Mikacherry Veedu after brushing aside Kunjunnooli’s light hearted but pointed comment about his dress. Aromal reaches his uncle’s place late in the evening. His uncle accepts him and starts imparting the gaming techniques. After a heavy dinner Aromal sleeps off only to be waken up by an unknown hand after midnight. He casually glances at the night-sky and is surprised to see an extremely rare formation of planets which is ideally suited for making love. The resultant off-spring is sure to have the world at this feet. Aromal wants to make the best use of the celestial event, though his wife is far away. There is a time constraint as well, the duration of the event is limited. He chooses the only other option and knocks at Thumbolarcha’s door. He tells her frankly that even though he is married to Kunjunnooli and loves her, he adores Thumbolarcha too. Real love is not to be mistaken as attachment to a single person. It cannot be.

Aromal promises to stand by her.

They “possessed the Universe together”. Aromal had to rush back as the early morning pooja at the kalari is never to be stopped and by the time he reaches Puthooram Veedu, he is welcomed by none other than his wife. Kunjunnooli had guessed everything right and what’s more, she gently admonishes Aromal for not taking Thumbolarcha along. How can you jump into conclusions (that I would be against)? She asks.

Meanwhile, Thumbolarcha gets pregnant and is being treated as an outcast. She is housed in the firewood store with no comforts , not even the mandatory ones she is entitled as an expectant mother. She gives birth to a baby boy but Aromal is still elusive. The boy has to be named on the 28th day in presence of blood relations and Thumbolarcha sends an SOS through a special messenger. Aromal arrives with his parents and sister with cartloads of gifts in tow. The naming ceremony is over.  Aromal and his entourage return to Puthooram Veedu. There at the Padippura (main gate), Kunjunnooli waits to welcome the honored guests. Seeing none, she seeks Aromal’s permission and makes a bee-line to Mikavil Mikacherry veedu with headloads of gold ornaments for Kannanunni. Seeing her rushing in, Thumbolarcha goes into hiding. The great lady holds her hand along with that of the infant and takes them  to their rightful place.

Then she asks this question to her beloved husband.

“Why did you behave like a eunuch?”

He gets purified on the spot. All his negativities are washed away. Aromal’s response is soft but firm.

I’m proud of you, baby.

*******
"Are you real?"
digital painting by ISE



Saturday, August 28, 2010

ON RESTRAINT

"The Heart" - Bindis on fiber glass by Bharti Kher 


Sreevalsan J. Menon, one of the most promising Carnatic Vocalists and an innovator in his own right, wrote to me after reading my last post “One Day with the Terminally Ill”. He felt that I was going overboard by criticizing a well-run NGO and I should have applied some restraint. “Restraint, no matter what, is a virtue”. Though I don’t negate this view, I have a difference of opinion on the application of restraint. My worries are centered on the timing. When should one apply the breaks? Is it a natural process based on inputs provided by the sensory organs or does it involve a bit of logical thinking? What is the dividing line between restraint and cowardice? Is there an eligibility criteria for the person who responds?

I shall cite an incident from my life which happened more than a decade back.

One of my relatives was admitted to hospital. He was running a carpentry workshop in town and two fingers of his left hand got injured while mending the machines. He was taken to a famous private hospital and got admitted. When I visited the patient, he was seen packing up his bags. The hospital bills had already been paid. In fact, he was staging a walkout. My relative was visibly unhappy. The doctors were not giving proper attention, he said. He was required to cough up additional money to please them. "Upasana" was a private hospital and the professionals were being paid for the services. Bribing a doctor didn’t make sense to me. But it was a fact. The orthopedic surgeon had to be kept in gladness by separately visiting him at home. My relative didn’t do the greasing and as a result the minor operation was performed late in the night which should have been done early in the morning. He was subjected all kinds of tests which only helped in raising the hospital bills. He had been at the receiving end of ill treatment for a week before he finally made up his mind to leave. Now, an additional hassle blocked his exit. The doctor was not willing to hand over the discharge summary to my relative without which the treatment couldn’t be effectively continued elsewhere. Every patient is entitled to get the history of treatment. I decided to meet the erring doctor. As expected, Dr.George was not the type to give in so easily. He kept me waiting for four hours before his OP and finally cancelled the appointment. His colleagues told me that he was in the operation theatre. I scurried to the operation theatre which was situated on the third floor. I pushed open the main door. A couple of doctors came rushing. Dr.George was busy performing an operation inside and it wouldn’t be possible to meet him, they said. Even after the operation, the chance of getting an appointment was next to nothing, they added.

All right. I am not going to move out from this place unless I meet him.

We shall call the security guards and kick you out.

Go ahead.

They pushed me out of the room. A scene was created. People began to gather outside the theatre. The formidable Administration Manager turned up in no time. His strategy was different.

Please give us a complaint in writing. Let us see what can be done.

He took me to his ground floor office. I jotted down a complaint to the Managing Director. But there was a hitch. The MD was not immediately available. He visited the hospital once a while and I was supposed to deposit my long drawn complaint in the box provided. I didn’t have to worry because the key was with the MD himself.

I felt defeated. Reaching back home, I consulted a lawyer. From the legal point of view I didn’t stand any chance to win the case, the lawyer said. The court needed proof and I didn’t have any. Moreover, the doctor could allege that his patient walked out contrary to his instructions.

So what is to be done? I asked Sanjay, the advocate.

He raised his right hand and showed a gesture. 
One good blow is enough.

I tried a less proactive method, wrote a letter to the Editor, “Hindu” lamenting over the fast disappearing ethics in medical profession.
The letter never saw the light of the day.

Looking back after a time-gap, I should be able to answer the questions on the application of restraint. Do others rate my action as immensely dismissible? Am I a very immature person disrupting a senior doctor in discharging his duties? What is my locus-standi in this case?

Frankly, I don’t think I have over-reacted. The whole act was primarily based on the first impulse in my mind. Others didn’t matter at that point of time. Things like prestige, physical abuse, long-term repercussions etc. were secondary. In my opinion each one of us gets this flash in times of urgency but we never bother to listen. We are normally pre-occupied with the “after-effects”. We start fore-seeing several moves in time like a chess player and let the moment go by. I don’t say this is wrong. Wisdom should always prevail. But let us not mistake it for cowardice. There is a thick dividing line between the two.

Now, if you ask me how would I react if I have to face the same incident tomorrow, my answer draws a blank. I really don’t know. One lives and learns and it may be true that I have turned wiser. I know fully well that the establishment cannot be changed easily. From martial-arts masters to modern-day revolutionaries, the oft-repeated advise is “Never under-estimate your opponent”. In fact your adversary is much more strong and clever. He is empowered with vast resources . A solution by physical means can deliver results only in movies. So, the chance is that I may not directly confront the likes of Dr.George if I am to face a similar situation tomorrow. Still, I can’t say for sure. The inner impulse decides.



Monday, July 26, 2010

ONE DAY WITH THE TERMINALLY ILL




Contribute whatever you can, Money, Manpower or Moral Support.

The opening line of the brochure on Pain and Palliative Care Society was tempting. I already had an inclination to work with a genuine NGO and the search zeroed in on Dr.Suresh.  He was the prime mover of the well-managed palliative clinic associated with the Medical College Hospital. The unit had been selected as a demonstration project by the WHO. Terminally ill cancer patients were taken care of  by them. The Pain Clinic as it was popularly known had satellite units all over Kerala. The mother unit trained doctors, paramedical staff and volunteers almost free of charge. Certificate courses with written exams, practicals and viva-voce were also available. Dr.Suresh was an intense looking man who exuded a sense of security.

Come from tomorrow, the doctor said, but come for two weeks continuously.

I agreed. The first assignment given was to observe the case-taking process. The family background of the patient was softly dug out. Things like immediately family, dependents etc. and a family tree was drawn. Then on, straight questions followed.

What are your complaints?

One query, however, was different.

Are you scared to die?

The turnout of Cancer patients was quite high ranging from five-year-old kids to old people above seventy. Newly married young men and middle-aged breadwinners were most common.  Many had only begun to settle with life when the dreaded disease suddenly struck, devastating everything. They held their spouse and children close and watched the impending death, trembling. A few of them couldnt hold back any longer and they cried, feeling like a live bait on fishing hook. After case taking and medication they slept quietly like a river. By the evening they left for home, relieved. Sadly enough I was to see the same faces again after a couple of days.  People who went home with considerable repose came back perturbed and crestfallen. Everything was back to square one. Something had obviously gone wrong. I approached Dr.Suresh again.

Doctor, if you dont mind, youve got to give a little more attention to the return of patients.

He obviously didnt feel the dire need for a change in strategy.

Please complete your training first. Get a feel of the place and then well see

He talked sense. I should better restrain myself from jumping into conclusions. 

The Pain clinic had a mobile unit and I joined the three-member crew, Doctor Anil, nurse Sreeja and driver Sudheer to visit the bedridden patients at their homes. The jeep crisscrossed through the country roads. Our target group was in advanced stages of Cancer and was not in a position to move out of their homes. We were supposed to visit six households spread in three different villages at the outskirts of the city. In less than thirty minutes we reached Parambilkadave and stopped by the side of a paddy field.   Twenty-two year old Sakeena was awaiting death in a small house nearby. In a sparsely lighted and ill-ventilated room, Sakeena laid in coma. Her eyelids were open and the apples were quivering. The face had a blank look as if she was facing death in person. The Death which remained invisible to the rest of us. Her right breast had turned into an overgrown tragedy and Sakeena reeled under its weight. She couldnt be operated due to subsequent complications and virtually got riveted to bed.  Luckily Sakeena was quite unawares of her condition. She was in an altogether different world which was perhaps icy and dark.

Tender coconuts and banana chips were brought for us. Sreeja opened the suitcase and gave away medicines. Sakeenas father received them with both hands. The whole family alongwith neighbours came to see us off and they kept waving till our jeep was out of sight. We proceeded to Marad beach where we had two cases. Iyyathu and Narayanan. Iyyathus house was not accessible by a four-wheeler and we walked up the narrow footpath to a small two-room house. Iyyathu was kept in the front portion of the house, an open space earmarked for welcoming guests. Her sons occupied the rooms inside with their respective families. Iyyathu had aged gracefully and she was looking beautiful even at her deathbed. Iyyathu too was not conscious about anything though she was not in coma. She regained her senses for a short while the previous evening when she talked about attar. She gave instruction to her younger daughter to spread attar on her body and to line her eyes with suruma after death. The lady appeared to be sleeping peacefully without any worries over enhancing her beauty. Suddenly Dr.Anil said to me,

I have a strong feeling that she is going to die.

As we were walking back to the jeep, the son-in-law escorted us. He was waiting for the doctors assessment.

No use giving medicines now. You can inform the close relatives.

We proceeded to Narayanans house which was not very far. Sixty six year old Narayanan was a daily wager doing sundry jobs of the village. He was also kept in the open front area of the house. He slept on the floor under the benign gaze of the gods hung on the wall. Narayanans mouth was deformed and it was a scary sight. He complained that pus was oozing out from his eyes. He was looked after well  but that itself had become a source of worry. Narayanan was concerned about the inconvenience caused to others.  His daughter scurried to the neighbourhood to collect chairs for us. The family was quite worried about keeping us on our feet.

Please dont worry. We are quite comfortable.

Dr.Anil and I sat beside the patient, on the neatly folded blanket. Narayanan wanted to tell us a lot of things but he couldnt.  The pain was getting unbearable for him like the slow fire emanating from a heap of husk. He said he was not afraid of the disease. The pain was the bother. Everything was going smooth, he was hale and hearty until the day cancer felled him. He earned his bread by manual labour, one of the most honest ways of livelihood and I had the feeling that he didnt make life difficult for anyone. The cancer got him for no reason. I looked up slowly. The gods were still smiling from their glass frames. It was only the previous day I saw an angelic girl, a leukemia patient aged four or five years at the foyer of the pain clinic. The head nurse was carrying her. The pale little hands surrounded the nurses shoulders and she pointed towards the aquarium. In a weak voice she asked for the neon tetras. The nurse entrapped them in a jar with considerable difficulty. I looked up for the gods. The walls were empty.

The next one on our list was Khadeeja who was suffering from blood cancer. We drove to the adjacent village Beypore when it rained unexpectedly. The smell of the earth got us elated. The buoyancy didnt last for long. We reached in front of Khadeejas house very soon. She was accommodated in a clean and well-lighted room inside. Children were playing in the front yard. Khadeeja had acute constipation and the doctor was about to give enema. She still didnt make any complaints. She was not even interested to know about her disease. Afterall, Allah had given it to her and she would accept it in toto. She knew that the disease was incurable. That was enough. She was quite detached and didnt express any desire to lessen the acute pain. As Dr.Anil and Sreeja were easing out the blocked rectum, I slowly moved out. The children were still there admiring our jeep that had become a centre of attraction for them. A little girl, a preschooler for sure, approached me with small steps and asked me rather reluctantly,

Would you give me attar?

            The rains had completely stopped. Country roads turned into mud after the spell. Sixty two year old Moosa was staying in a remote place and I had to remove footwear to walk through the slippery terrain. There was no question of our jeep reaching anywhere near. In spite of the access constraints, the whole area was crowded with houses much like a slum. We walked into a neat home which had a verandah and two rooms. Moosa was put up in the main room so that he could have a vantage view of the happenings around. Moosa was tall and well built. He didnt have even a trace of grief anywhere on his face. I doubted for a second whether he was indeed the patient. Moosa too had worked for daily wages. Nevertheless he was much ahead of Narayanan in willpower. We expected him to talk about his complaints, at least of the shooting pain. He opened his mouth only to welcome us warmly and subsequently for inviting us to have tea and snacks.

            The days work was over. Six patients in total out of which one had died just the day before. We reached out to people at the most inaccessible places. We enquired about their well-being and nursed them. The conscious ones in our target group were not afraid of death. At least one among them had reached a plane where nothing really mattered. She had developed complete disinterestedness to the world. Another one was pleasantly waiting for death. The cancer caught all of them unawares. They were down, but not entirely out. The ghastly side of life was already familiar to those poor people, the harsh issues of livelihood and survival. Tragedies were nothing new. The attitude towards death might have helped them more than the medicines. Afterall, they were fisher folk and farmers working close to nature for their daily bread. Anxieties and fears ceased to exist as they waited for death in writhing pain.

            One of those mornings I approached Dr.Suresh while he was checking his mail. I wanted to apprise him of my findings. He listened to me but disagreed in full.

Tell me, who knows about dying?
Who are we to propose a mode for dying?

Dr.Suresh cut me short.

Doctor, are you negating our right to die like the falling of a leaf?

No. That is dying up to the expectations. Im not for it.

Doctor, do you agree that there is an internal rhythm existing in all living beings and diseases occur when it is disturbed?

Homeostasis, you mean?

Exactly. The internal rhythm does have a direct relationship with the external climate. If you could set the external climate correctly, it would help in regaining the internal rhythm. Medicines can aid the process.

Dr.Suresh couldnt conceal his amusement. Laughing loudly, he asked

Hey, youve told me about one internal rhythm. Is there an external rhythm too?

He was trying to pull my leg.  

Yes, I said, it is the rhythm of the universe. You can connect to it through several ways. The easiest way is through a selfless act that cultivates love for everyone.

Dr.Suresh logged off from the net and got up. He left the room without uttering a word. I waited for him. I thought he would entrust me with some work like office administration or editing the house magazine. As a volunteer, I was prepared to do anything. I waited for two days. The next morning I telephoned him.

The call didnt get through.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

POWER AND MUSIC


Nese  Balasyeti Chareda Dharmam - perhaps the core of the epic Mahabharata is this observation on power. In simple terms, this is just a guideline for the utilisation power. If one is strong, one does not get a license by default to do whatever.  Conversely, if a person is weak, his/her actions do not get a blanket ratification.  Power should always  be judiciously used and it should show. In fact, power manifests itself in every action.  Resistance to accumulation of power itself is the best example. You stand up and get counted. It should be a display of courage propelled by wisdom (viveka) and not by anger or hate. The act of showing courage backed up by  viveka is a continuous process spanning one’s entire life. Guts used under discrimination should be held aloft. Even in fine arts and literature, the power element, more than anything else, strikes a chord with the audience.  Take for example, Pt.Bhimsen Joshi. 






His singing has got fire in it and if you are lucky enough to sit  in front, you can feel it, nay,  touch it. Watch his facial expressions, the upward slant of the head, the throwing up of hands…….you guessed it right. The singer is protesting against his captivity to his creator. It is not a meek submission. He is making a point, boldly.  He has had enough. 

I have listened to the most romantic stuff of his creations (according to critics, of course),  Raga Kalashree and Raga Lalit Bhatiar and I must admit that I was spellbound by the sheer power. I was not transported to a different world, not engulfed by subtle emotions and no nostalgias sprang up to invoke a feeling of loss in me.  On the contrary,  I felt like singing  

“Do not ask, my love for the love we had before:
The world knows sorrows other than those of love…..”*

Your experience may be different after listening to the same ragas. Perhaps if you could write to me, I might get some insights.



Pradeep




 * two lines from the famous poem “Do Not Ask, My  Love
   by the renowned Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Saturday, May 15, 2010

THE DECLINE AND FALL OF FLOWER CHILDREN



I thought of starting this post with a quote. There are any number of celebrities, dead or alive ranging from vedantins to anarchists, churning out observations about youth. Akabarally H.Jetha, a relatively unknown industrialist with a Malabar Hill address, compiled his own reflections on life, rather the ungraspable phantom called life and I got a copy from a heap of left-overs. He says Pleasure is a poor substitute for Happiness. Indeed it is. One has to discriminate between the two on a continuous basis. Happiness stems from a sense of fulfillment. It is a feeling which can be derived mostly from practicing selflessness and cultivating love. You could be a revolutionary trying to change the world or a sanyasin trying to find its meaning, ultimately the mental make-up of both is the same. One is tuned outwards whereas the other inwards. The seemingly strange pair constantly make an effort to denounce pleasure as they know by gnosis that it is a poor substitute.  They also know that it is a trap, worse than quicksand which will devour you however hard you try to escape. In fact you would never try to escape even, as pleasure seekers always ask for more. Indulgence can never be through. Is there a way-out for lesser mortals?  On a plebian level the way-out does not mean abstinence, but resisting indulgence.




The Flower Children of the Seventies had everything that could make them free. They had unbiased mind, the right attitude and fearlessness. Unfortunately they didn’t have the longing. One fails to keep a constant vigil on oneself in such cases. The revolutionary and the sanyasin always hook themselves on a spear, raise it to their eye-level and look straight into their own eyes. Obviously an unpleasant exercise but a prime requisite.  The Flower Children took the soft options and they avoided hard choices. One has to take pains and it may not be easy. The alertness and attentiveness required is equated to that of a person trapped in a closed room with a poisonous snake. The psychedelic drugs and philosophers who peddled anarchy provided an escape route to the seventies children and they took it, never to reach the end of the tunnel.  It led them to the darkness of an “insignificant death”. They could   have died a meaningful death, “as heavy as a mountain”.

                                                                
The flower is destined to fall anyway.


Bottom line:  If you have the rub, nurture it.

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                                 All paintings by Rias Komu