Saturday, December 31, 2011

PEACOCK FEATHERS IN A TERMITE-EATEN TEXT BOOK - Part 5

Jitish Kallat-"Universal Recipient"




The Road to El Dorado

Only very few people from our village ventured outside to make a living. The fortunate among them joined the army as sepoys and the less lucky became construction workers at the border. The third category went to the cities and worked as mazdoors. Those who had passed high school and acquired typing skills aimed for white-collar jobs. Nobody went on their own. A friend or relative offered the helping hand normally after   soft persuasion. The non-resident villagers were called Pathankot by the residents which in real life was a place in Punjab where many of them worked as labourers under tough living conditions. They earned their copper through hard work and often by taking risks to come home like a winner once in two years.  The army men, however, had plenty of leave and visited the village every year like migratory birds. All of them popped bottles of rum, offered Passing Show cigarettes to all and hosted parties by the waterfront. They gave a facelift to their ramshackle houses and married off their sisters. It was their turn next. The bridegroom’s party set out in huge cargo boats (which were ancestors of  modern-day house-boats)  hired for transporting people. Loudspeakers were mounted on top and film songs were played continuously while the crowd inside talked about dowry or bride's family connections.


Jitish Kallat - "Death of Distance"


One of my uncles was a typist in Bombay. He dabbled in fancy clothes whenever he came home and his mother was particularly pleased. She made chapattis and exotic dishes to go with it, taking considerable effort. It was a common practice in our village to attach all hopes and expectations to the son who worked outside. One day the mother got a letter which nearly made her faint. The son was in love with a “Bombay girl” and they were going to get married soon. She was shattered. The crude shock prompted her to believe that the unseen hands of fate were at work; for she was a widow and married a family man shortly after her first husband’s death. She was young and beautiful and already had two children. Three decades after, a dark, diminutive girl of the city developed a crush for her fair, handsome son and they fell in love. The newly married couple visited the mother to seek her blessings and the bahu waited outside. Nobody turned up with the lighted oil lamp to welcome her. The daughter-in-law was to be ushered in by the mother-in-law after pouring water at her feet. The custom demanded it. Years later, there was a second coming. The couple visited us with their newborn baby. The entire village was in for a shock as they watched the lady in sleeveless blouse and hi-heeled stilettos,  surging ahead happily with her husband. The ways of the city was unknown to us. Hardly anyone turned up for seeing them off. Normally the entire village would have gathered and a taxi hired. The well-dressed couple from the city preferred to wait for the bus all alone. Their son was waving his tiny hands continuously in the air.


Jitish Kallat - "Suffix Herbaceous"


Untouched by Ground

The bicycle-performers descended on our village during festival season falling between January to April. People were  comparatively better off after the harvest and the weather would be fine. Acrobats, clowns and a couple of dancing girls completed the group. The main performer was to carry out a unique feat, yajna, of spending at least seven days exclusively on a bicycle without touching the ground. He would be encircling the arena in a rickety bicycle while his companions entertained the village folk. The show started by the evening when people flocked to the market and certainly didn’t mind spending a few minutes by the ring. One of the performers would be luring people at the top of his voice. The courage and perseverance of the guy on the bicycle was the USP. The result showed. There was a sizable audience waiting to get carried away. The acrobat and the clown would now move to the center-stage relegating guy on yajna to the background.

Saranam Sri Guruvayurappa…

That was an invocation. The acrobat was to break a tube light by smashing it against his head. After a silent prayer with folded hands, he lifted the tube light dramatically once, twice but never really broke it. After keeping the audience on tenterhooks sufficient enough to voluntarily loosen their purse strings, he finally did it. The act was accompanied by a deafening sound. The drama was even higher the following day. He spread himself over a bed of glass splinters and a heavy grinding stone was put on his chest. Anybody could come forward and make a chutney-mix with the grinding stone placed on a human-being. The village folk turned a soft, oily mass in seconds and  an empty biscuit tin was circulated with a perfect sense of timing. Needless to say, no one would come forward to make chutney while the biscuit tin was making rounds. Now, to pep up everyone’s spirit, there would be record dance for a change. Wearing faded skirts with a matching blouse, rose powder all over the face and lipstick laden, the dancing girls shaked their breasts in tune with the fast music. The clowns gave them company. The final day of the yajna kept the villagers on razor’s edge. The acrobat was lying three feet under, literally, in a pit dug especially for the purpose. The pit was covered with wooden planks and camouflaged with sand. In other words, he was “buried alive”! Before the clock struck twelve, he would be dug out to the world outside with his life intact, as zestful as ever. The cash registers, in the meantime, would be ringing merrily. Those who couldn’t contribute in cash offered farm produce such as plantain, jackfruits etc. which were to be auctioned later. Some others invited the entourage to their homes for food. Afterall, the villagers were kept on cloud nine for five hours every evening.
            
Once, a performer named Das stayed back after the yajna. He was an acrobat. He had fallen in love with a girl from our village and hovered around her hut even after his colleagues left. One morning we saw him tied to a coconut tree in front of the girl’s place, badly bruised and almost unconscious. He was groaning with pain. Somebody released him but he didn’t make any effort to go. He was a nowhereman. The girl, however, was married to a villager bridegroom shortly afterwards.

            Years went by and we grew into our teens. We graduated into wearing dhotis and had wrist watches to flaunt. The yajna performers had fallen on hard times. The audience grew thin. People got vary of the same set of feats and jokes. Blood oozed out to drench the glass splinters but the biscuit tins returned empty. One of the last groups did put up a yajna at our temple ground. The dancing girls were conspicuous by their absence,  they were probably expensive but a good-looking eunuch was in place as substitute. ‘She’ dressed, talked and of course danced like a woman. I was a regular at the grounds but ‘she’ never showed any interest. In fact, she had ignored me. One of those nights, I was standing beneath a huge mango tree watching the show from a distance. The yajna was nearing its end and the crowd was pathetically thin. ‘She’ appeared right in front of me, as if from nowhere and asked,
“You are a rake, aren’t you?”
‘She’ came closer. ‘Her’ hands crept in gently pushing through my dhoti.
 “Oh.. kochu kallan” she cooed.

I never really heard what she said next.



Sunday, November 27, 2011

PEACOCK FEATHERS IN A TERMITE-EATEN TEXT BOOK - Part 4



Boy-Oil on Canvas by Riyas Komu- 2007
                                                                      
The Lottery Man

            The government started selling lottery tickets. Huge ads were given in dailies with the picture of an Ambassador car. The first prize also carried a cash component of Rs.50,000 which was quite a big amount in those days for many to imagine. Gopi, the mike operator, while testing the sound system from the shop at the market-place, tried to make things simpler to his countrymen.

“You’ll get enough notes and if you’re placing them side by side, you would probably be reaching Mavelikkara”, he said. The place under mention was twenty kilometers away. Thambi Annan, the lottery agent was having a windfall. Women who sold their produce in the evening market started buying lottery tickets. However, Lady Luck always looked the other way. She favored a man who made a living by climbing coconut trees. The fellow won the first prize. Overnight he switched over to polyester dhotis with golden embroidery and wore a gold chain round his neck. He was promptly rechristened as “half a lakh”. Whenever he watched cinema at the local theatre sitting first class, heads turned back. He would then smoke cigarettes to keep nervousness at bay. Slowly people and even political parties started vying with each other to befriend him. One day,the house of a party leader was attacked by the rival opposition party which had included the lottery man to their fold. Spears and iron rods were freely used. And there was a country bomb which failed to explode. The aggressors wanted to kill the man of the house but luckily he was sleeping elsewhere.  His henchmen clashed with the assailants with the same kind of weapons. For the attackers, it was quite unexpected and they fled, leaving one -the lottery man -behind. Obviously he was a novice as he was too naïve to see through the scheming of political parties. He was badly bruised in the fight.

            I dashed to the scene immediately after reaching school. Afterall, the house which was attacked belonged to my class-teacher. Her husband didn’t have a proper job and was engaging himself in politics. They were living in an unassuming house with thatched roof. I saw the whole place ransacked and it looked more like a battlefield. The sobs of my teacher filled the air. Just outside the house, the lottery man was lying on the ground. His expensive dhoti was drenched in blood. A diffused country bomb gave him company. I thought he was dead. Meanwhile, Chakklan my senior schoolmate brought tea and slowly poured it into his mouth. Chakklan was one of the henchmen who fought against the intruders and now he was feeding his enemy. Probably Chakkalan knew that he would also meet with a similar fate one day.

The Fish Hunt

The rains were very heavy during monsoon. The village women didn’t have anything to do except cursing the incessant rains for their joblessness. They sat on the cow dung plastered floor of their huts and managed with tapioca and baked jackfruit seeds. The men were sitting idle too. The roar of the angry sea was audible even at a distance of three kilometers. The ponds and rivulets started overflowing but the rains showed no signs of a lull.  A sheet of water engulfed everything- ponds, thoroughfares and courtyards. The borders literally   withered away. Small boats were brought to the doorsteps for transportation and the water level was still on the rise.

God, let the pozhi be broke open now

A collective prayer wet up the air. If only Pozhi, the sand bank accumulated between the sea and the river face was busted, the water level would recede. The district magistrate alone had the authority and if he was busy with some other work, the only option left for the villagers was to move to the school verandah. A make-shift refugee camp, full of squabbles and mayhem. Free ration was unheard of. During nights when the rain had a recess, people armed with knives and choottu (torch made out of dried coconut leaves) moved out en mass for fish-hunting. Young and old joined the hunt. Two crestfallen boys watched the entire bustle standing at the entrance of their small house. They were not allowed to dare.

Emmanuel - Oil on Canvas by Riyas Komu-2007

Paper Cigarettes

Mother’s younger cousin Satyadevan used to drop in during the evenings. He was in his late teens and was loitering around doing nothing.  Uncle Satyan always kept beedis on his girdle. Taking out a beedi, he would order,

Get the fire from the kitchen

We obliged. Uncle Satyan would clutch the lean end of the beedi between his teeth and press the other end against the burning log. He was sucking fire into the beedi. Making smoke rings was his forte and he would showcase his talent for us. In case he forgot, we would plead,

Uncle Satyan, the smoke rings, please

We were sufficiently delighted . One day we decided to make smoke rings ourselves. Rolling paper we made two cigarettes, one for me and the other for my brother. We went into the kitchen, lit the kerosene lamp and squatted on the floor facing each other. The paper cigarette was lighted and we took it between our lips. Even before the first drag, both of us had plunged into a terrible bout of cough. The mouth, throat and eyes were all burning. Suddenly the back door was opened. It was our unsuspecting mother.

The End-Point

My father took me to Gurukula during one of his annual pilgrimages to Sivagiri. Sreenarayana Guru, the saint who was also at the helm of the renaissance movement, had his samadhi atop a serene hill. The adjoining hill had the Gurukula where the late Guru’s desciple, Nataraja was available for darshan for the entire pilgrimage season. My father and I walked up the hill with difficulty. The ambience of the ashram was tranquil and meditative. A pleasant looking Swami whom we met among the trees called me near. He wanted to make friendship with me but I was too nervous to answer his questions. Just to regain composure, I started reading a poster on the wall many times over.

“Oh… you know English too! Smart boy”.

I swayed my head in agreement. I was already on a pedestal. Swami’s honeyed words had a magical effect on me but I had to move on. We were running behind time. Once the darshan time was over, Nataraja Guru would retreat to the interiors. The guru was staying in a naturally lighted hut. He was lying on a couch with his feet resting on leopard skin. People had thronged around him in a wide circle. The guru was talking to a dignified woman about the importance of thoughts. I stood next to the lady fancying myself worthy of the Guru’s immediate attention. However, he didn’t take any notice of me. I was sad and angry. A young man prostrated before him, then he stood up slowly and raised his dhoti, to reveal a dreaded skin disease.

Swamiji, have mercy on me…please..

The Guru was unruffled. He said in an impassionate tone,

Don’t worry. Everything is happening for the good.

I was puzzled by those words. It took me decades, to figure out the meaning. Obviously, I was a slow learner.

Fright of Rabbits

My mother had a bad temper. Anger had its spell on her too often. Her nose used to swell and the rattling sound made by her teeth when she pressed them against each other was audible to people around. Curses flew across. On the contrary, my father was a man of tolerance. On the rare occasions when he blew up, he was careful enough not to raise the volume.

            Theirs was a love marriage. My father had dumped his studies in school as he thought he was cut out for social work. The peer pressure also contributed since it was considered progressive if one chucked one’s studies for the sake of a mainstream movement for change. It was the pre-independence days. As a matter of fact, neither my father nor his peers were very good at studies. Clean-shaven and hair well kempt, they donned khadi clothes. Long juba and dhoti were ubiquitous and the more educated among them wore a shawl over their shoulders. Interestingly, all of these volunteers were married, had big families including parents to look after. Domestic worries and financial troubles haunted them like shadows. That didn’t stop them from contributing their bit anyway. In fact wives and children were relegated to innocuous corner of their lives. The children’s education and growth were severely affected but people had ceased to care.  The women of the village never complained. The wives dutifully gave birth to brand new children every year.

            My parents had to move out shortly after marriage to a makeshift shed which they later developed into a tiny house. The going was certainly not smooth. My mother hoped to get her husband’s attention exclusively for the household but that did not happen. He was the secretary of the local SNDP branch, office-bearer of the farmers’ co-operative society and more importantly, a fund-raiser for public causes. Father was a handsome man, tall and fair-skinned. He was plain and hardworking with clean habits. In fact nobody in khadi smoked or touched alcohol in those days.

“Your father is a spoiler”, my mother said to me when I was no more a child. As usual, I failed to get the meaning. She was hinting at his two-timing habit. Mother cursed him. Listening to the flak for long would put my father on the defensive. He would accuse her for making his life dull. The battle was scaling new heights. We, my brother and I, watched the scene scared and speechless. The parental fights fell into our lives like mountain slides. Fear. Anxiety. And Disquiet.


Untitled - mixed media on paper by Riyas Komu 

Friday, October 28, 2011

PEACOCK FEATHERS IN A TERMITE EATEN TEXT-BOOK Part - 3


Bitter Lessons - T.V.Santhosh, Oil on Canvas
                                                             Travels to Town


Catching a bus was too much of a bother for us. We had to cross canals and innumerable bridges spanned only by tree-trunks to reach the nearest bus stop. On the other hand, getting into a motorized boat was relatively easy. There was a boat jetty by the bend in the river, not very far from our house. The boat service which always ran behind time by several hours connected the two towns, Kollam and Alappuzha, hundred kilometres apart. The sound of the engine through the quiet of the village in the night was a lullaby in itself. It was the time when I was slipping into slumber after the prayers, studies and food. The reverberation reassured me like my mother’s lap.

We travelled to the nearest town Alappuzha whenever a villager was admitted to the district hospital. Or on summons from the relatives settled there. I spent a couple of days in the town with my rich cousins during the summer vacation. I felt entrapped as there was a ban in force which prevented us from playing outside. Several children were already playing in the open making boats out of empty cigarette cases and floating it on rainwater. I went on to make a tiny road on the verandah of the house and plied firewood log as bus.

Athoo…” the lady of the house called out for me in her voice resembling a tuned harmonium. She reprimanded me softly. Afterall, I was not supposed to make her house dirty. Still, I enjoyed the high points of the stay like taking bath under the shower and sipping cool-drink with a straw. The extremely repulsive experience was of using the latrine. I was already given detailed instructions. But the stench was unbearable. A container was kept beneath to collect the human waste. There did arrive a man to collect the night soil and nobody talked to him. The servant collected a bucketful of water from the well and poured it over those despised hands.

During weekend, a family visited us. They came in a huge, black car beaming with joy and intermittently breaking into laughter. The feelings were reciprocated in equal measures. It appeared to me as a strange kind of behaviour. I was not introduced to the visitors and I watched them awestruck.

For All We Know

I was in the fifth standard and my friend Shaji brought a bunch of photographs to class. He flashed it under the Rajamally tree located at a stone-throw from the school building which was one of our favorite haunts. A stark naked woman armed only with a pillow posing in various ways. She was a foreigner. We weren’t taken aback. We were not at an age to get titillated. Still we got baffled considerably, thinking of the smart guy who intruded into the lady’s privacy and took the snaps without her knowledge. We couldn’t think of anybody willingly undressing before the camera. It must have been a con job, we were pretty sure. Finally, the expert opinion was given by Subhash. When the Madamma was traveling in a hired motorboat somebody clicked her on the sly while she was changing.

We couldn’t agree more.



Hundred Sq. Ft. of Curses - T.V.Santhosh - Oil on Canvas
                                                              
Moving Pictures

We had a movie house located in the next village. I saw my first film, “Bhakta Kuchela” there with my parents. Lord Krishna was harassing a blind man with his tricky ways and the poor fellow was still begging for his mercy. The Lord was getting on my nerves. At last everything ended well and Bhagwan went up skywards with his impoverished bhakta in tow. Movies in those days revolved around gods and mythical heroes who conversed mainly through songs. Celestial dancing girls showing off their navels made special appearances. Later on, socials took the centre-stage ebbing out the mythical icons. Movies were so packed with events that one lost track of the plot halfway through. In one of them, the hero shot his angelic wife after a lengthy dialogue. I was dead scared to watch the killing scene. A few minutes before pressing the trigger, the husband and wife were singing a duet while the children cheered them. The family was taking a boat ride through the river.

See, you have got to be like those kids”, my mother advised me. I felt jealous. Children of my age holidaying with their parents with good clothes and songs. I felt bogged down.

Several years later, “Chemmeen”, a blockbuster on the lives of fishermen was running to packed houses and we decided to go. The Cinema-Kottaka was situated several villages away and we hired a covered boat with its man for transportation purpose. The setting of the movie was familiar to us. The sea was within our earshot. We set out with all accessories, food, lantern, mats, pillows et al. We were a big group comprising of several children, parents, uncles and aunties. The young women were particular that they changed into better clothes before getting out of the boat. The boat was parked by the bank where the thick growth of bamboo trees provided adequate cover for the girls.

The movie had literally bowled me over. I made a few sketches in my copybook. My father thought I was scrawling nonsense and twisted my earlobes.

One Among The Audience

I saw a minister for the first time when he came to our neighbouring village to switch on a newly acquired radio. The upper primary school located there had collected money from students, teachers and well-wishers to purchase a radio. None lesser than the minister of education was invited to switch on the enviable possession. Students from the neighbouring schools also participated in the ceremony.

The stage was decorated with flowers and garlands. The master of the ceremony - the radio - waited on a pedestal kept at the centre. The minister did arrive in style in an imported car sandwiched between police escort jeeps followed by a motorcade. Teenaged girls carrying lighted lamps in a plate containing flowers and rice welcomed the VIP. The minister was ushered through a specially built arch, heavily decorated with fructified plantains, tender coconuts and palm tree leaves. Fireworks added to the grandeur. A student named Bhadran was assigned to give the bouquet to the minister and to read out the report. Wearing a well-pressed full-sleeved shirt and knickers, Bhadran circulated all around. He had shoes on his feet, bigger in size, complete with white socks. I turned green with envy. The minister gave him a handshake too, which literally broke my heart.

Sure enough, I also had my day. The venue was the block headquarters where another minister was to give away prizes to students. I got one in an essay competition. The place was a bit far away and my father arranged an escort. Mother gave me a fifty paise coin as present and we set out late in the afternoon. The function was slated for the evening. A public meeting to be followed by a few entertainment programs. We reached sufficiently early and a sizable crowd had already gathered. Unfortunately the weather-gods were not all that pleased and it began to pour heavily as if the clouds above wanted to spoil the show. The whole stage was drenched in water. The little girls who were all made up for the dance recital came out of the green room and wept. The rains went away. There was still time for the minister’s arrival and the waiting had begun. After a seemingly endless wait, news spread that he cancelled the visit. The little children were still asked to perform. They were very tired and not exactly in a mood to make it to the stage. Haridasan the escort and I stood there on the wet ground. There were huge sheets of water spread unevenly on the earth. I was feeling hungry and Haridasan bought me snacks. On our return, I stayed at his place for the night. The next morning much before daybreak, I was on my feet again. The red-faced sun was going to cast its spell. Walking all alone through the long strip of land lined with coconut trees and enclosed by vast expanse of water on both sides, the sunrise was an absolutely riveting sight.

After reaching home, I searched my trouser pocket for the fifty paise coin. I wanted to return it to my mother intact. It was lost. This was the second time I was losing a present from mother. She had given me a ten paise coin on another occasion which too I wanted to return but couldn’t.

Whose War Is It - T.V.Santhosh - 2005- Oil on Canvas
                                                                   

Scenes From The Market

The village market was a happening place. The fish-sellers exhibited their wares at the far end in a row followed by vegetable vendors and fruit merchants. The market had its characteristic smell which always buoyed one up. Vegetables and fruits had its distinct aroma mixed with the stench of fish. We had a high tech store- Murali Sounds Service- with a couple of mikes and amplifiers, relentlessly testing their gadgets and adding to the frenzy. The most important area was the business zone where coir, the common produce of the village, was sold at a bargain. Coir was brought to market by women in neat bundles. They carried it over their heads, balancing the load with their left-hand. A hemispherical cane basket intended for shopping was kept at the right hand. A local Muthalali or his son would be presiding over the makeshift counter, a table usually, displaying notes and coins in neat bundles. A spring balance was hung from a tripod. The village women would submit their produce and wait anxiously for the declaration of weighment. If it’s a beautiful girl, obviously the readings would be lenient. And if the leniency recurs for a couple of times, the inference was that the Muthalali had a crush over the girl. She can either take it or leave it. If she takes, the Muthalali with his shining wrist-watch, specs and gold chain would be slipping into her hut in the dead of the night, unnoticed.

The market also had a space for traveling salesmen. Vagabonds and tramps sold their goods with the help of music, magic and dance. Peacock-fat or tiger nails were available at any given time. Miracle medicines always had buyers among the village folk. A drop of the wonder-drug was put into a glass of water turning it into a milky stuff. The rejuvenator was sold on the spot. Children were generally unwelcome in such a gathering but I stood there wonderstruck. An old woman who passed by flicked a large tapioca from my basket and vanished into the crowd. I saw her doing the act but couldn’t react.
Embarrassment had turned me into a silent victim.

                                
Confessions - T.V.Santhosh
                                                                  

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

PEACOCK FEATHERS IN A TERMITE-EATEN TEXT BOOK (part:2)


Fall Of Heroes

Mohanachandran was my first hero. He was a couple of years senior to me, tall dark and well built. We had  never talked before until one day he bumped against me in full speed. He was running with a toy-wheel, a stripped cycle rim steered with a stick while I was carrying rice from the ration-shop in my cane-basket. I fell down and the rice was strewn all over. Mohanachandran helped me salvage the rice. Then he asked me,

Would your mother mind?

 I shook my head in negation.
My hero left the place in no time. In fact I was scared. My mother would blow her top if she knew that the rice is irretrievably lost. Sure enough, she didn’t take it kindly. I was beaten up with her both hands.

The next encounter with my hero was during the temple festival. Ottanthullal  was being performed underneath a grand banyan tree. The audience consisted mainly of children and there was a beautiful girl sitting at a distance. Mohanachandran approached me with a specific request.

Have you seen that girl?

I nodded. She was in fact my school-leader.

Just throw a stone at her.

I found myself honoured, but I was a little hesitant too.

Come on, do it

 My hero persisted. The small pebble was on the target. The girl was furious and Mohanachandran got immensely interested.

Come on, one more…

The girl’s father accosted me the next evening at the same venue. He caught hold of my hand and dragged me to a corner.

Did you throw stones at my daughter?
Er….No…

I wanted to tell the truth but couldn’t. I was scared.


Going “Mental”

That year we had a new teacher, Susy Sir. (Everybody, male or female was addressed as ‘Sir’.) She was young, unmarried and always pleasant. We liked her. Suddenly she stopped coming to school. We missed her terribly. Then one day I overheard my mother’s conversation,

Susy Sir has gone mental

“What does that mean?” I enquired.

That is. …someone is going mad

I was thoroughly confused. None of us could imagine our teacher as mad. We had seen lunatics who crossed the village once in a while,..unkempt hair…long beard…dirty rags and desperately needing a shower. Children followed them wherever they went and sometimes even threw stones at them.

How can Susy Sir be one among them? Impossible.

One day as my mother was preparing lunch Susy Sir abruptly dropped in. She was all smiles like a lighted sparkler. She talked to my mother about her long absence from work, rejoining duty and of the imminent marriage. She talked non-stop in a voice that resembled the ringing of Jal Tarang.  She was very happy but my mother looked crestfallen and gloomy. I didn’t know why.

"No argument on this matter"-acrylic on canvas by Ramesh Chandra


The Bus With A Nose

It was Rajaram, the bus. It had a nose-like front portion resembling that of a lorry. Behind the nose there were two cabins, one for the driver and the other for the passengers. VIPs and first-among-equals were accommodated in the driver’s cabin. Whenever I traveled with my father, I was given a seat near to the bus-driver. After placing me comfortably, my father would disappear for circulating among the crowds. He was a social worker and had many friends.

“Achah……Achah... (Father…father)…” I would call out. Obviously I felt nervous.
One day the driver jumped in and started the engine without even giving me a glance. I was not quite used to his ways.
“Achah……Achah...” I yelled at my peak. Suddenly Pankajakshi Amma, the Head Mistress of my school appeared in front of me. I had a sigh of relief.

See, your father doesn’t have any love left, but don’t worry, I shall take care of you.

I hanged my head in shame. As the bus got moving, my father turned up as if from nowhere, sat beside me in a rush and never said sorry.

Mid-day Blues

Times were really bad. The recession was having its rounds like a fire-eating dragon. Even the essential items were in short supply. The ration shop run by my father downed its shutters. There was nothing under the Public Distribution System to distribute. We had an inkling of the hard times ahead when we changed to a predominantly wheat based diet. We could afford rice only once a day. I had the first taste of poverty during those days. The saddest part of it was my reluctant entry into the mid-day meal scheme in my school supported by CARE, a US sponsored project. I was under the impression that it was below my dignity to sit on the floor with my poor schoolmates and wait for two morsels of Upma and a glass of milk. We were using lotus leaves in place of plates. The food was certainly not bad. But the thought that I was being counted as a commoner, poor as anybody else hurt me.

The Annual Rings

Every year we used to celebrate our lives twice. Miseries and deprivations were relegated to our backyard. We had new clothes and good food during these occasions. Onam came first as it was a harvest festival by the beginning of the spring season. People would come together in their respective tharavadus  for the annual reunion. We had a rich relative who would invite all of us for food. Booze was also served which turned out to be a major draw among the males. The womenfolk were invariably busy in the kitchen. It was during one of those Onam days, they had the first glance at a pressure-cooker. The contraption failed to impress them. Nobody bothered to give it a second look.

                We enjoyed the Onam ambience. The air was crystalline and flowers in full bloom. The village women, young and old, danced under the moonlit sky in a circle. Those who didn’t participate produced a sharp, high-pitched sound by rolling their tongues against the cheeks. Children would put on masks and change into their grandparent’s persona. It was their privilege to make digs at the elders. All jibes were well received and rewarded with money. Local performers would take rounds during the day visiting households enacting a skit.  A couple of Chenda players provided the percussion support . The spoof was about an Englishman hunting down a tiger in the forest. The tiger would ‘lie in state’ until the troupe is paid adequately after the show. Afternoons were earmarked for the ubiquitous water sport- the Vallomkali. Specially made boats for the exclusive purpose of racing vied for honors while people gathered at the banks cheered their favourites. The more spirited among them jumped into the river and swarm across.

                Roughly separated by six months, the temple festival was the next high point in our lives. It lasted for five days. The festival would be declared open when the poojari hoisted a flag atop the trunk of an arcanut tree. The tree itself was  an offering to the deity and it would be brought to the temple in a procession accompanied by a percussion ensemble. All activities were dedicated to the Devi or Bhagavathi who was the never-ending source of strength for the villagers. The eternal yang. She was the primordial Mother who protected her siblings from all misfortunes. People unbundled their worries before her and sought her intervention in realizing a project. This could be employment, marriage, paying off debts, buying a cycle or whatever. They lit up oil lamps around the temple and in the sarpakkavu  adjacent to it. The trees and plants were respected and treated in a plane almost on par with Gods.

                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. As the festival progressed, the nights were so packed with programs that everybody brought home-made mattress to spread the children and the aged . A dance-drama based on Ramayana or Mahabharatha would be enacted on the stage. On some occasions it would be Kathaprasangam  with the main artist holding the audience together for three hours with mime, songs and oratory. The backing vocals and music were provided a small group of three. The story could be a familiar love affair in the midst of social constraints which always moved the villagers. The programs continued till the wee hours of the morning. In the meantime, the men could visit the umpteen stalls put up at every nook and corner and loose all money in gambling. There were any number of joints serving tea and snacks and alcohol was available on request.

                As I grew older, I mustered up enough courage and peeped through the thatched enclosure of the makeshift greenroom. The artists were changing inside. I couldn’t see a thing as I was nervous. What’s more, I was caught red handed by Gopi, the mike operator.

“You too have come of age, dear friend”, he said gleefully, “Now I shall ask your father to get you married.”
I was deflated.

As I grew further, I got a bit disinterested in the festivities. I preferred to watch the spectacle from a distance. I was standing at the boat-pier, away from the sights and sounds. The boat creaked, not very far. I waited. After some time, Malati emerged from it followed by a couple of her associates. She was a physically challenged person and unmarried. Always pleasant and friendly, she helped my mother in domestic chores once in a while.

M.Sasidharan - Untitled - acrylic on rice-paper
               
I hid into the shadows. Fireworks had begun at the temple to mark the end of celebrations.

Ballet songs were still reverberating in my mind.

*****

Monday, August 29, 2011

PEACOCK FEATHERS IN A TERMITE-EATEN TEXT BOOK


Koya NPK Muthu, Untitled, acrylic on canvas


 

  Two Weak Hands

The shop is run by my father. He is the only one there, and he alternates as the cashier and the weighing man. The shop is a retail outlet of public distribution system of the government which supplies rations – rice, wheat, sugar and kerosene to the rural folk. Father takes me, a three-year-old kid to his shop during the evenings. The place is illuminated by a sole kerosene lantern. The little fatso is placed strategically on top of a sack filled with rice. The village women bother him constantly by asking silly questions. Fatso is disinterested. He is too shy. Slowly he falls into a slumber.

Please take him home

The women urge the shopkeeper and he does that. The shop is closed in a hurry. He carries the little one in his folded arms with great effort. He is a tall and lean man with hands resembling the drumsticks. Darkness has now fallen everywhere and the little fellow lies like a dehydrated tuber leaf over the drumstick props.


Nandan P.V., Untitled, acrylic on canvas








  The House

Facing the north, there is a small verandah, two tiny rooms and a kitchenette. The verandah functions either as dining or office cum drawing area. There is a front yard where guava and drumstick trees are at their youthful best, jasmines and Nanthyarvattom (crape jasminein full bloom. Beyond that, the domain is that of water. The ribbon like stretch of land is covered by water on both sides. A latrine in water supported by coconut trunks completes the scene.

 Letters In Sand



The Asan initiated you to the world of letters. He took the child’s forefinger and wrote the alphabets on rice. He wrote the first set of nine alphabets on a dried palm leaf with his narayam (a pointed writing instrument made of hardened iron) and handed over the leaf to the new disciple. He or she was to learn them by writing repeatedly on sand.

My first Asan, Raghavan Vaidyan practiced Ayurvedic medicine as it was his vocation. He initiated kids on the Vijayadasami day, the day earmarked for learning alphabets and passed on the remaining formalities to lesser gurus. They were full-timers who made a living out of teaching alphabets. Kaimal Asan was one such. I went to his school which boasted of a thatched roof, bamboo curtains and plenty of clean dry sand. There was a Kooja (earthen pot) filled with drinking water with a few pebbles thrown in for cooling. Kaimal Asan was fair, bald headed and bespectacled. His most precious possession – a chronometer- always stayed with him, in his shirt pocket. We used to look forward to these moments when he took out the machine and nursed it like a newborn child.  We had plenty of time to do whatever we felt like. We studied in unison in rhythmic movements. Education was like singing in a chorus.

 The Medicine Man



My first guru Raghavan Vaidyan, apart from initiating children into learning mother-toungue, treated the village folk for all sorts of ailments. His specializations included psychiatric disorders too. When he treated any such special patients, news spread and everybody made a beeline to his place. Raghavan Vaidyan stayed in a ‘brick and mortar’ house, plush by village standards. The kitchen and eatery were separate blocks. People gathered at his premise watched with bated-breadth as he handled the patient. Once it was a girl in her early teens. She was in a belligerent mood and refused to obey the Vaidyan. She started abusing him and shed her clothes in a moment. Outraged, the Vaidyan took out his long cane and started beating her black and blue. She cried for help pathetically but nobody moved.





Deepthi P. Vasu, "A reminder for the Universe" gouache water colour


 

 Obscured By Light



The evening was over. The time was past sunset but darkness had already covered the village with its blanket. My mother ran short of cooking oil and she asked me to go and get some. There was a provision store at a stones throw but I wouldn’t venture out as I was scared of darkness. My protests were overruled. Mother armed me with a kerosene lamp and I edged ahead reluctantly, keeping the lamp very close to my face. It was blinding me. With the lighted kerosene lamp on one hand and the empty bottle on the other, I was moving towards the river. The geography of our village was such that long stretches of land were surrounded by water on all sides. Makeshift bridges made out of coconut trunks connected them. Like a somnambulist, I walked past the familiar grounds to an unknown destination. Suddenly someone caught hold of my hands. “Hey you”, he slapped me. Dharmadathan, my uncle was watching the movement of light. I was jolted back to my senses and was saved.

 Vayanayila (cinnamon leaf) In The Trousers’ Pocket


 I joined the government LP school near to my house. There was no such thing as a kindergarten or a nursery school those days. A huge Gulmohar tree stood like a pillar of strength in front of our school. There was a temple nearby devoted to Devi, the primordial mother. My villagers paid regular visits there with whatever offerings they could spare... money, coconut oil, fruits or flowers and prayed in loud whispers. We explored the small sacred grove behind the temple during the breaks and collected canes and vayanayila. The canes were presented to our teachers and the leaves were kept for us. Belief was that as long as vayanayila was intact, the teachers would never beat us. We played the game Police and Thief and criss-crossed the school ground many times a day. Occasionally the roles reversed with the thief chasing the police. The scientifically inclined among us mixed lime with water in a small bottle, covered it's mouth with a balloon and placed it under the sun. The balloon got larger and larger until it lifted the bottle off the ground. The experiment invariably ended up in crash-landing.

            Gopi, a classmate showed me a small bell, curious one indeed, which might have been fallen off from the anklet of a dancer. He said it was bestowed to him by none other than a “Saip” (foreigner) who was traveling aboard a helicopter. The white man was standing over the tail of the chopper and was delighted to see Gopi on the ground, he said. The bell was thrown down as a present.

            I believed Gopi in full.


Running Through The Rain

All of us moved to the third standard. A new girl, Sunandamma, had joined. The schools in Kerala always reopened in the rainy season. One day, it was pouring “like an elephant’s trunk” making it impossible to venture out. Sunandamma couldn’t hold up any longer and she urinated in the classroom. The school had a urinal, one without a roof, situated at a distance. Sunandamma couldn’t have made it even if she wanted to. The headmistress got furious and sent her out. Crying aloud Sunandamma ran to the toilet through the downpour. After a couple of minutes she came back completely drenched. Her anguish and humiliation were showing as tears rolled down. All of us felt like crying. The headmistress came forward and embraced her like a mother. She began to dry the girl’s hair with the loose end of her saree. Sunandamma was still crying while she encircled the teacher with her slender hands.

And it rained through day and night.

Surendran P.Karthyayan, "Mookkuthi"

Sunday, July 31, 2011

RIDDLES AND AFTER


"Engineered Fruit" by Baiju Parthan


There is a story in Yogavaasishtam which can perhaps give us some fresh ideas on the illusory nature of Time. Likewise, the Gita says, other dimensions too are illusory.  On plebeian terms we can define Maya as the universal possibility for error.
Now, into the  Yogavasishtam story.

Lavanan, the king has a craze for horses. As the king gets the best of
everything, one of his subjects presents him with a thoroughbred and
the king goes out for hunting. Alas! He is lost in the forest and
perhaps for the first time in life, longs for food and water. At the
end of a desperate search, as luck would have it, a young girl appears
before him, carrying both. Relieved, King Lavanan immediately makes a
passionate request for the grub. However, the girl declines. She is
carrying the tiffin for her father who is awaiting it at home.

"Don't worry", said the King, "I shall come with you and get his
permission”. And he did. Interestingly, King Lavanan not only
gets his food but his wife too...the father gives away the daughter to
the stranger in marriage. They are Chandalas but the King has no other
option. The King resigns to his fate and settles in the forest as a
family man. Children are born. Its a normal life, equal in comfort-level
as a King as well as a Chandala. Not for long! Things are bound to
change anyway! The forest gets depleted and the hard times are in.
Food, of course, is in short supply. The starving children are crying
for meat. Lavanan creates a bonfire and jumps into it. He is offering
himself as food so that his children can be alive. .......

Now, the King wakes up from his dream. He has dozed-off in the
afternoon. It’s a dream, afterall. What a relief! He is upset, however.
Spurred by an unknown urge, he sets off to the forest. He follows the
dream and strangely enough, finds the exact location in the forest
where the bonfire is still burning! What's more, his wife and
children are there, crying! King Lavanan knows the reason why. He is
perplexed. How this can happen!!!!

"MilliJunction-1" Oil on canvas by Baiju Parthan (2009)

The story ends here. There is no moral as such.

The past as we call it may not have happened in the past! Future does
not belong to the future! Events are not based on 'cause & effect'.
Space & time are inextricably intertwined and hence space could be an illusion too!

In the simultaneously existent multiverses, events could very well be happening in accordance with a different set of physical laws!  In fact, we needn’t go that far. Take the case of the dream experience.
Dream psychologists tell us that actual dream duration (which rarely exceeds a few minutes), which can be monitored using EEG, bears no relation with the content duration of the dream.

 Which time is real…. The time on the physical plane or the time in the dream? Is there a correlation between the two? How does time exist in deep-sleep (sushupti)? We do not have an answer.  The space factor is simpler to explain. You make love to a woman in a dream and the proof is there to show! So, the dream is a “non-ordinary reality” which makes “the ordinary time & space” an illusion.  Extrapolating this, we may have to admit that our thoughts are based in the unreal. Hard-core vedantins insist that the first letter “അ” stands for “അയഥാര്‍ത്ഥ്യം”. Though not a die-hard vedantin, Poet Kunjunny Mash used to wonder “ആരുടെ തോന്നലാണ് ഞാന്‍ !” i.e., Whose  delusion is me, anyway !


There is a beautiful quote in Yogavasishtam. “The world exists at the mercy of fool”.
You and I are not inclined to accept this. We aren’t fools, are we?

Now, take this sloka from the Gita

Tatraikastham jagat krusnam pravibhaktamanekadha
Apasyaddevadevasya sareere pandavastada
                                                                (sloka 13, Chapter 11- Viswaroopadarsana Yogam)
At that time, Arjuna saw that the whole Universe, seen dividedly in various forms are already merged into One, that of the Lord.

Let me illustrate this with the example of an elephant and a house-fly.
The elephant experiences its massive body with its various organs such as trunk, tail etc. as a single and continuous whole. The fly is sitting at the bottom of the trunk, pretty comfortably. Other organs of the elephant, as far as the fly is concerned, are invisible and distant. Non-existent.
 What does it know about the elephant? Practically nothing.
(No prize for guessing who is the fly here !)

Now, let me wind up with a quote from Sir Arthur Charles Clarke (1917-2008), Science-fiction author , inventor and futurist..(from memory)

“The Universe is not just wonderful that we can imagine but more wonderful than we can ever imagine !"

Over to you, now.

Baiju Parthan


Acknowledgements
1.Prof.G.Balakrishnan Nair  whose book on Gita “Sivarandam Mahabhashyam” is the basis of my posts
2. Swamy Tapasyananda for explaining things that I couldn’t grasp
3. Scientist friend Radhakrishnan Sir for scanning my ideas from a Modern Physics view-point.


Sunday, June 26, 2011

THE LAST OF THE RIDDLES

                                              "At Kanyakumari", oil on canvas by Shibu Natesan (2006)

Dr.B.R.Ambedkar raises a valid objection on compartmentalisation. He as well as anybody else thinking on the right track will object to obligatory duties assigned by default to a group of people (caste). Here, in Gita according to Dr.Ambedkar, Krishna gives a warning too…that one is supposed to do swadharma (assigned duty) ONLY and any foray into paradharma is a despicable sin.  In his opinion, Gita exhorts that even bhakti is not enough. For Lord’s grace, swadharma is to be upheld and performed verbatim.  A shudra, even if he/she is a bhakta of the highest order, unless the assigned servantship to higher caste is done in full throttle, he/she is cursed forever, the coveted Mukti remains out of bounds!

Well, the controversial sloka is quoted below,

Shreyan swadharmo vigunah, paradharmat swanushtitat
Swadhrme nidhanam sreyah, paradharmo bhayavahah
                                                                Sloka 35, Chapter III, The Bhagavad Gita

It is better to do your duty as per your inherent qualities (swadharma based on your guna) than to adopt anybody else’ duty as your own.

Killing the enemy is fully justifiable in war. It brings laurels to the warrior because he performs the assigned duty (swadharma) in an efficient way. Aversion and craving while fighting it out is pardonable since it act as a propellant of sorts! Whereas, if the warrior Arjuna gets resigned to sanyasa out of dejection, he is committing a double error. He will remain an unresolved bundle of desires in shaven head and saffron clothing. The society too has to take the beating in this case. In short, the switch-over affects both the warrior and the society in a negative way.

In other words, the sloka urges you to be on your own. Role-models are NOT for you! There is no need for “waiting for someone or something to show you the way”. One has to find it, on one’s own.

Dr.Ambedkar questions the Karma part also, especially the “anasakti yoga” involved therein; he terms it as “cancerous growths”.  Since this is already explained in one of the earlier posts, I am not going into details. However, a clarification can still be given in the  final post next month.

Now, for the ultimate riddle, Maya. The secret of Maya is the final riddle of existence.  Personally speaking, I am not bothered! One can lead a fairly meaningful life without cracking Maya. There are ever so many burning issues faced by us which require our immediate attention and intervention and hey presto, we are doing precious little!

Maya lies somewhere in the bottom of my priority list.

You are welcome to comment.

         Babu Xavier -Untitled- Mixed media on paper -(2006)



Sunday, May 29, 2011

The Riddle of Guna – Varna




Chaturvarnyam maya srustam Guna karma vibhagasa
Tasya kartaramapi mam vidhyakartaramavyayam
                 (The Bhagavad Gita Chapter IV Jnana Karma Sanyasa Yogam sloka 13)

"I have devised the scheme of Chaturvanya according to one’s natural guna and the resultant karma. Please understand that the variation in guna is its base. I can even restructure or demolish the entire scheme in accordance with the wish of the person concerned."
               
This means that ascend is possible from the level of sudra (sudratwa) to that of brahmana (brahmanatwa) or vice versa , even within one's life-span itself. It is also possible to transcend all these levels to become a stithaprajna(realised one) too. The deciding factor being the guna-combination and the karma arising out of it. In other words, we can zero-in the varna of a particular person analysing his/her guna and karma.
               
It does not matter where you are born, neither does it matter what you are doing to make a living, all that matters is just the gunas engrained in your deeper self which solely decide your varna. If you have the will to change the varna, well, you can become ‘upwardly mobile’ and cut across all varnas.  In fact, you are indirectly urged to do just that. Take for example, Vyadhan, the butcher (from Mahabharatha). He climbed the spiritual ladder to assume the highest office of the Perfect Master while attending his nine-to-five job all the way, knife in hand. No external straight-jackets can stand in the way of your quest for Truth and its experience, provided you have the longing.

                The three gunas – satwa, rajas and tamas – stem from the interaction of prakriti (energy)with purusha (Consciousness). The three gunas are distributive and not lumped in nature. Everybody has all the three gunas ingrained and as per the external stimuli, one of the gunas gets predominance over the other two.

                Each guna has its distinctive characteristic, satwa stands for light, rajas for action and tamas for desire.  Each one is a shacke by itself, satwa included, that being the shackle made of gold.  Ultimately you have to make free from all bondages, from all chains, whether they are made of lesser metal or gold.
         
  When you start feeling the lightness of being, through knowledge acquired by the senses, you can assume fairly right that you are driven by satwa guna. Coming to think of rajas, it has an element of doubt involved. The rajasik person harbours strong likes (and dislikes) and he/she strives his/her best to accomplish the never-ending wish-list.  Naturally, apprehensions arise whether/when/where the grand designs would come true. What- if, else and interestingly, no endifs !  Rajogunis seek pleasure which gives way to craving and they always need more!  At one stage the body, mind and intellect become too weak to assimilate any more pleasure but the cravings still remain.  A pathetic situation indeed! Whereas the satwik won’t fall into this trap as he/she is propelled by happiness (and not pleasure) generated from within. Even if his/her body gets affected, the pleasantness does not wither away!
               
The tamas is in direct contrast to satwa.  The intellect loses its discriminatory power and a total black-out follows. It is not an aberration, but a disorder! Tamas destroys viveka. Everything turns upside down; adharma is taken for dharma, Truth gets obscured and finally disappears.

                Satwa does have a cleansing effect on the mind. You get increasingly purified. Rajas results in sadness and tamas, in absolute darkness.  The satwik ascends steadily to Truth. Its a mixed fare for the rajasik and darkness awaits the tamasik.
               
One should play down tamas and rajas in the beginning to cultivate satwa first. This does not mean that rajas and tamas are completely undesirable. Employed wisely, all the three gunas are required for the betterment of life. Once the mind is balanced,  satwa also should be chucked out like ballast from a hot-air balloon!

The gunas are akin to waves of the ocean. Just a tiny part, nothing beyond. The Brahman, according to the Gita, transcends the gunas ...too! 

The varna system is a classification of sorts where each of the three gunas get predominance over the others one after the other. There are three varnas thus derived -  Brahmana, Kshatriya , Sudra – with satwa, rajas and tamas becoming the major player in each. The fourth combination is one where equal measures of rajas and tamas are added to denote Vaisya – one who is ideally suited for doing business. There is no hard and fast rule for mixing the various gunas. It can be equal or in any other measure. Four main psychological models are show-cased and you can select one according to your character traits. Karma can’t be evaded at any rate and hence how best to perform it is the fundamental question.

The trouble started when people, by virtue of their birth, were forced to take up certain models. The sudra siblings became sudras by default! The worst mishap ever happened to our great country, by any reckoning. We are still reeling under it and continue to remain so till equal opportunities are provided to all.  That’s a different issue altogether. I have a feeling that the Gita is not to be blamed  squarely for this.

Dr.B.R.Ambedkar, in his famous “Essays on Gita” has come out strongly against the guna-varna system.  He particularly finds fault with the ‘lowly language’ used to describe the sudras in the Gita. No soft corner shown  to them, he says! Frankly, I don’t know how far this allegation holds good because the chaturvarnya is not based on one’s birth/lineage. He further questions the “Gita theory” that Kshatriyas can kill without accumulating any sin since it is their dharma! In fact, no such theory exists! No licence is being given to kill (or for anything else).  The act of killing can be a purifier! Kindly read my last post on violence for details.

Yet another point of divergence is on the number of classifications. Dr.Ambedkar wonders how there can be more than three categories when the total number of gunas is limited to three! I have a feeling that he ignored the mix of gunas, perhaps.  These are all just simulations based on EQ, IQ and physical fitness of a person and we can have many combinations.

There are a couple of other issues too, raised by Dr.Ambedkar. Since they are not directly related to guna-varna,  we shall discuss it later.