The Early Bird Gets the Worm!

I remember having had the ‘punctuality gene’ from the early days of my life. My paternal grandparents had a diurnal timetable that they worked on till it spun perfectly. Rising with the lark, [which is such a British expression that I have no idea why we still use it!], they would pray aloud for four hours, have breakfast, manage their household affairs, take classes, meet visitors... all in perfect timing, without missing a beat. An appointment delayed was an appointment missed, and no one dared to barge in or sneak in incognito. 

My father was in the Army, and his keywords were honour, diligence and, of course, punctuality! Many a time my mother would struggle to keep pace with him as they got ready to go somewhere, one eye on the clock, the other on her earrings, lipstick, bindi, comb, deodorant, safety pins, all of which would go into her tiny handbag, so that they would go on her person in the vehicle. Something in the genes, I guess, as I followed suit in exactly the same manner, after I got married to an Army man! 

 When Mom settled down in Thrissur and metamorphosed into Principal material, the punctuality gene crept into her system and took total possession of her. The school ran like clockwork, and so did her family. For functions we were always there thirty minutes before the specified time, chewing our nails till we had none left. The specified time would come and go, and the VIP would arrive just as almost everyone in the audience had fallen asleep. Most of the time, the speeches alone would be enough to evoke sonorous snores. By then, we would have spent almost half a day at the venue, crabby enough to set the whole place on fire! And yet, the same thing would happen the next time as well. Mom never did learn! 

Catching a train was never difficult. At times we would be so early that we could almost climb on to the earlier train! The reasons for moving out early were, of course, all valid! Traffic, rains, rallies, riots, car breakdowns, earthquakes...! Most of the time, we would land up hours early, and then begin chewing what was left of our nails. How much could we browse around, look at the people milling around, buy magazines for the journey along with a bottle of water, and check our weight at the decrepit machine that blinked red and refused to deliver? 

So finally, as everyone says, the early bird gets the worm; the question is, with all those wonderful options floating around the wide world, why would anyone actually want the worm? Any suggestions, anyone? 

A Ray of Sunshine

The first thing that I notice about Anna Smita Thomas Eapen is her smile that flashes like a ray of sunshine, making me feel as though I have known her forever. Her liveliness stems from the fact that she has travelled a lot, both within India and without. Her father initially worked at BHEL, Hyderabad from where he shifted to Delhi, where Anna attended the Jesus and Mary Convent from the fifth to the twelfth standard.
Twenty years ago, her father turned to her and said, “Annamma, you must write!” Considering that she had travelled to places as varied as Thailand, England, America and even the Ivory Coast, [where she recalled watching the French troops marching in all their glory], Anna had wonderful memories and much she could have written about. It was in Thailand that her father-in-law took her aside and repeated the advice, “Smita, you must write!”
This was to form a kind of refrain in her life, as years later, when she joined a prayer group, her pastor’s mother, a feisty lady who was suffering from bone cancer, spent a restless night, tossing and turning as sleep eluded her. Suddenly Anna’s face came into her mind, and she sent a message to her that she wanted her help to write her biography in English for her. The original would be in Tamil. As Anna put it, “I believe in the will of God. I did not want to jump into anything, especially as I had never written anything before!” Finally it was Mrs. Nalini Chandran, Founder Principal of Hari Sri School, where Anna’s son, Aaron was studying, who told her, “Anna, you should write!” This definitely had to be the will of God!
For Anna is no ordinary person. She brings joy to all around her with her love of life, even though she has a visual disability, one that has been robbing her of her sight over the years. As a child, she could read without glasses, but found it tough to read from the blackboard. At the age of seven she went through the whole gamut of viral infections - measles, German measles and a particularly nasty bout of chicken pox, which left patches on her retina. By the time she reached college, she needed thick glasses and realised that she had to live with the problem. Her mother would read her lessons aloud to her.
When she was young, she was enthralled by Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew and Hardy boys, and graduated to the romantic novels of Barbara Cartland, Georgette Heyer and Mills and Boons. Years later in America, she had access to a good library, where she would spend hours together, listening to unabridged books on tape.
Once when she was in Thrissur, she had a virulent viral fever, during which her eyes clouded over as if covered by a mist. A doctor in Cochin prescribed Cortisone drops to bring down the inflammation, and even though the intense haze cleared, whatever clarity she had in her eyes earlier was lost. “Before this, I loved writing letters and sending Christmas cards to my friends and family.” Today she uses a thick felt pen to write with.
Despite the obstacles she has had to face in life, Anna believes in smiling through them all. She states, “There are only two clear cut options before me. One, I can grumble and be unhappy at my lot. Two, I can be bright and cheerful, a much happier option!” And that is what makes her a ray of sunshine – her cheery smile and her diehard optimism, as she digs out her felt pen to write down my phone number, even as she regales me with a story about how the family loves dogs. “My husband wanted to get a Rhodesian Ridgeback, but my son took one look at its picture and found it too ugly!” she laughs.
Her Dad has been her inspiration in life. He admires him for being a true gentleman, chivalrous to the core. Her parents were this ideal combination. “Dad was an idealist while Mom was the practical one”, says Anna. Her dad was a symbol of absolute self control and restraint, and she doesn’t recall hearing him lose his temper even once, or saying a bad word about anyone. His advice is what she follows today, “Don’t react to actions!”
And as she lives her life in the beautiful house which was built by her father in law, and supervised by her efficient mother in law, in the warm bosom of her immediate family – her mum in law, her husband, Ajit and her bright little son, Aaron, it is this cheerful equanimity that makes her such a delightful package, truly exemplifying the saying by James A Garfield:
“If wrinkles must be written on our brows, let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should never grow old.”
Graphics:http://www.free-clipart-pictures.net/sun_clipart.html

Published in City Journal, Thrissur

The Bewitched Hour of Twilight!

He was a bachelor, bespectacled, with a round face that gave him the semblance of a little owl. He devoured the newspaper to compensate for the loneliness that had engulfed him after his retirement. He enjoyed the robberies and the murders, but the rape cases disgusted his near-Victorian sensibilities. The obituaries prompted him to piece together a gruesome patchwork of dead persons. Thus, many an hour went by!

It was the bewitched hour of twilight. Dark shadows lurked as dogs howled. He checked his doors and windows. "No point in being sorry after the event!" he mused, as the trees whispered softly and a branch scratched on his window.

Rap, rap! That was no branch! The rapping came again. It was a knock on his front door, followed by a frantic pounding. He made his way to the door and peered through the keyhole.

A young girl stood outside, clothes in disarray, large doe eyes filled with panic. "Let me in, please...!" Her voice reached him faintly. "They are after me...they will kill me!" He opened the door and the distraught girl nearly fell into his arms. She was a slight lass, forehead beaded with perspiration. Never ever had he seen such large eyes, with such fear in them!

He shut the door in one swift moment, and fetched a glass of water. She drank it thirstily, thanking him. In his state of solitude, she appeared like a dishevelled Helen of Troy to his unlikely Paris.

"Who is after you?"

"I was walking on the street when this van stopped by me." Her voice quavered. "Four men got out and came towards me. They looked dangerous." She should not have been walking on her own. These days girls were not safe..."tried to grab me, but I broke away and ran as fast as my legs could carry me!" He saw the rip on her sleeve. "They were right behind me, pounding the pavements. I managed to dodge them by ducking into your garden."

A loud knock sounded on the door. She cowered in desperation as he put an arm around her. "No one can take you away by force!"

"But there are four of them. They will beat you up!"

"Only if I let them know you are here," he smiled slyly at her. The knock came again. Her terror woke a deep emotion within him, as he pressed a brick on the wall of his dining room. Part of it opened up, and he shepherded her in, showing her the tiny lever that would open it. He walked to the door, mussing his hair.

The four men strode in, ugly and menacing. "Did a young girl come in here?"

"I would hardly have been asleep in that case!"

After a thorough search they looked at him. "Listen, she is a lunatic on the run, and has murdered three people - her parents and her brother." I bet she has, he smirked inwardly, as he replied, "I'll let the authorities know if she comes here."

As they moved out, one of them spoke. "She has this habit of twisting her hair around a finger as a prelude to violence!" He was incensed. How could they dare to frame an innocent girl! He banged the door behind them aggressively.

"Come out, my dear! Now it is just you and I!" The sly smile was back on his face.

The wall slid back, she stood there poised gracefully, and then stepped out. There was a strange silence about her, a faint smile on her face as she twisted her hair around a finger!

Won first prize in the Pipeno Launch Contest

Why place a hooch victim above a martyr?

Who can forget the precious lives snatched away in the heinous 26/11 Mumbai attacks? Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan, the army commando who died, saving many lives, etched his name in the annals of history. The terrorists were killed, all except Kasab, who made the mistake of being caught alive. Today in jail, he lives in celebrity comfort, with much money being spent to keep him alive. The pampering has made him arrogant, as he spurns questions in court, behaving like a brat. He couldn’t be safer elsewhere in the world, as attempts continue to keep him alive till he is sentenced to death!


Mark Antony remarked, “The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with the bones!” Sandeep Unnikrishnan became a national hero after martyrdom. The sight of the bereaved mother leaning against her son’s body, weeping pitifully, still plays on people’s minds. His father came across as a strong man, stoically keeping his composure in public. A war of words with a public figure created headlines, but the nation sympathised with him. The compensation awarded by the state to the bereaved parents on the death of their son was `3 lakh — a sum which it thought adequate to wipe their tears.

The agony of the victims succumbing to spurious liquor mixed with battery acid and other unmentionables has often been highlighted. The recent Mallapuram tragedy, in Kerala, was the latest case in line. The culprit was methyl alcohol in the toddy, and killed 22 persons. The hooch capital had proved its prowess once again. The blame game saw the government point fingers at officials concerned, and the Opposition trashing the excise minister for supposedly sporting a Nelson’s eye towards illicit liquor trade.

A strongly worded message flashed via e-mail and gathered momentum, snowballing into a public outcry. The aforementioned government had awarded Rs 5 lakh as compensation to the liquor tragedy victims, a laudable gesture indeed. However, the message being sent to the youth of the country underlined that it was foolish to join the Indian Army and sacrifice their life for their country. In fact, it was more honourable and profitable to consume illicit liquor and die.

Death can come in many ways, but is there any doubt that a man in the defence services deserves to be honoured, as he spends a lifetime, standing guard over the mountains, valleys, hills and seas, ensuring his country is not attacked? Living in uninhabitable conditions, he faces danger from within and without, standing indomitably to safeguard the nation’s future by risking his present. Martyrdom stands a shoulder’s length away, there is a bullet with his name somewhere, yet he does not flinch. The respect he commands is tremendous, as the nation salutes him for his courage and patriotism.

Sadly, this does not translate into monetary gains! He ends up with less compensation than a man who ambles into a bar, consumes illicit liquor and falls by the wayside. What has the latter done for the greater good of the nation? He might have been the best son, husband and father. But when one thinks of a young war hero, the only son of his parents, who ends up in a coffin draped with the tricolour, surely there is a strange mismatch of sentiments shown to him by the state’s lawmakers.

The adage, ‘The crying child gets milk’ seems to be all too true. Soldiers do not cry aloud, and nor do their loved ones. That, maybe, is their only mistake, but a costly one at that!

Published in the New Indian Express - November 12th, 2010

Muthassan - a Grand Old soul!

Superheroes need not always be men with amazing strength and the power to take on an army of enemies and come out victorious. Sometimes there are ordinary men who have qualities of greatness in them, which make them heroes in the eyes of their loved ones. This article is dedicated to one such wonderful man whom I have known and admired, not for his longevity, but for the sheer zest for living that made him a colourful actor on the stage of life!
My maternal grandfather, my Muthassan, was a tall good looking gentleman who got better and better with age. Age did not dare wither him, and he could have posed for the portrait of Moses or any such venerable figure in his seventies. Muthassan had a prodigious collection of books, most of which could be found verbatim within his prodigious mind. What I found fascinating in all his well-thumbed volumes was that almost every page found comments written in his crabbed but legible hand, comments that could make me pause, ponder, understand, and many a time, burst into giggles! For he had an impish streak that made him rise above the author’s mind and add on his own pithy humour. When I was eight I knew poems like Tennyson’s ‘Lady Clare’ and Longfellow’s ‘Psalm of Life’ by heart, and maybe it was his sonorous rendering of the lines that made me opt for Literature, much to the dismay of my professors. Muthassan was not a pedantic scholar... he made use of Literature to illustrate mundane examples. He could quote profusely from the Bhagwad Gita, the Bible, the classics, and what was amazing was that he was actually a metallurgist by profession!
As Muthassan got on in years, he became more and more lovable. With his erect bearing and his silver mop of hair, he would stride along the streets, walking stick in hand, smiling genially at passers-by, till he reached the Thrissur Round. There he would make a beeline to Johnsons, his favourite store, and buy a bottle of ink, a ream of paper or envelopes... that was not important. Then he would unfailingly ask for toffees “for my grandchildren, you know!” The next moment he would walk off, having forgotten to pay for the lot. The shopkeeper would ring up my frantic grandmother and inform her that all was well, and the driver would promptly be sent with the money. By which time Muthassan would have reached home, beaming all over his face, holding out the toffees, the only item that had not escaped his mind!
Often, at the stroke of midnight, when the whole world was asleep, we would awake to the sound of all the clocks chiming, even those that had been in hibernation so far, and we would hurry downstairs, only to find a lungi-clad figure, repairing “all these clocks that refuse to work”. On other occasions, the pounding of a typewriter would resound in the silence of the night, and Muthassan would be huddled over his ancient typewriter, trying to put down “that brilliant idea!” that had just struck him. Funnily all the brilliant ideas had a habit of coming to him just when the rest of the family was trying to get some sleep.
Another pastime of his was lugging stones. He would lift the heaviest stones and carry them to the other end of the garden. Once he had positioned them all, he would carry them back to their original spot. But what took the cake was the sight of him standing under a gigantic tree, sawing off a branch right over his head. It took our combined pleas to make him lay off “that disgusting branch”. My poor grandmother was always on her toes, wondering what he would be up to next.
Once in a blue moon, the green eyed monster would take a tiny nibble at Muthassan, mainly when another eighty year ‘young’ gentleman would come a-visiting! Muthassan was never thrilled about the attention that the family would lavish on this gentleman, and would content himself with making sly digs that luckily went over the latter’s head. But these were never malicious for Muthassan didn’t have a single mean bone in his body.
Unfortunately it was a clock that was finally his undoing. One day he was atop a stool, winding one of his beloved clocks when he overbalanced and toppled down. He never fully recovered from the fall, and was bedridden for quite a while. It was heartrending to see him lying down, but he seemed reconciled to the idea for he was the most tractable patient possible. When the end came, it was like the passing of an era for each one of us, for not only had we lost a loved one, but a friend as well! The void was never filled as no one could ever take his place!

Published in the City Journal, Thrissur

Cat O'Nine Tales - Rusty

"Cats sleep anywhere, any table any chair!" T.S. Eliot had
probably never met a cat like Rusty - one who prowls about
all night, making weird mewing sounds that run up and down
the scale, from a shrill soprano to a sinister bass. It is
even more weird when he pounces on inert sleeping bodies,
and scares them out of their skins.
When my daughter moved to Dubai and into a flat of her own,
her ever concerned friends landed up on her doorstep with
this adorable honey and white colored kitten, with the most
beautiful eyes possible. They also presented her with a
little cage and a litter box, which Rusty as he was
christened, took to with surprising ease.
Today Rusty is monarch of all he surveys, as he clambers up
the kichen slab, tears up bits of paper or, most irritating
of all, opens out his mistress' wardrobe and pulls her
carefully folded clothes down onto the floor. He pounces at
anything that moves, be it a billowing piece of cloth or a
pair of quick moving ankles.
The day another kitten came a-visiting,Rusty was all over
it, sniffing at it and generally trying to boss over the
terrified creature. it was as though he was saying with a
twist of his whiskers,"This is my home and my space! Don't
intrude!"
One of his favourite pastimes is watching people eat. With
those unblinking green brown eyes, he stares at every morsel
of food as it travels from plate to mouth, even though he
has a special diet of cat food that he digs into with
relish. He also loves little snacks that he is offered on
occasions.
Rusty is known for the exasperating habit of curling up on
his favurite cushion and sleeping during the day, and
turning into an insomnniac at night. There are days when he
makes mewling sounds which sound eerie in the dark,
especially when accompanied by a pair of glowing yellow eyes
shining like headlamps on a moonless night!
The first time we took Rusty for a drive to my sister's
house, he was in his little cage, producing the most raucous
sounds possible, as he rattled around every time the car
braked. The moment we opened the cage door, all we saw was a
streak of greased lightning as Rusty ran out as though his
tail were on fire.
The day my daughter put up a bold orange and black poster
of Barack Obama, her hero, Rusty decided that he was a real
person and gazed at him, making conversation with him as he
mewed for all he was worth. There were occasions when he
would climb up the mantelpiece and stare intently at the
Ganesh idol on top, remaining surprisingly calm for that
length of time. Of course very soon he would be imitating
greased lightning again, pulling down stuffed toys, sinking
his sharp claws into them, and jumping up to pull open
curtain ropes.
Rusty has his own toys... a stuffed grey mouse, four balls
with bells in them and a little yellow rat. But as in the
case of babies, he prefers to poke his nose into areas that
are more exciting... the kitchen and the bathroom, for
instance. It is clear that the proverb 'Curiosity kills a
cat' must have originated after an encounter with a cat like
Rusty!
One very amusing sight is Rusty sparring with his own
reflection. He glares into the mirror, seeing a rival cat
within, and arches his back, even as he stands on the tips
of his claws and pounces furiously on his reflection. His
other achievement has been learning to open the bathroom
door by springing up at the knob and turning it, after which
he sidles in to explore the dark unfathomed caves inside.
Most times when I am sitting at the computer or lying down
reading, I suddenly find Rusty staring unblinkingly at me,
and it is then I realise how much I will miss him when I go
back home to India. And all his little idiosyncracies,
whether it is scraping his paws after using his litter box,
or the quivery quavery sounds he makes as he watches birds
flying outside his window, and especially the endearing
manner in which he curls up on my lap and dozes off. And to
cap it all, Rusty is an exception to the rule that cats are
basically selfish vain creatures, for in his own little way,
he gives us unconditional love, even though he does use his
claws on us while doing so!


Published in the City Journal, Thrissur
Photo Credits: Priyanka Menon

From the Burning Ghats to the Frozen Lake!

How would you be able to connect children with a burning pyre? Wouldn’t it be akin to trying to juxtapose life with death? This is exactly what Rajesh S. Jala, film maker par excellence and winner of myriad awards does through his thought-provoking and heart-wrenching documentary ‘Children of the Pyre’. In stark contrast was his other documentary titled ‘Floating Lamp of the Shadow Valley’, a film as picturesque as its name, as Arif, a nine year old Kashmiri boy traces his life, its hardships and his work as a boat boy on the Dal Lake.
The two documentaries were screened in the Savera Hotel under the auspices of the Bill Roth Hospitals and the Dr. Jeganathan Foundation. Dr. Rajesh Jeganathan, Managing Director and Dr. Manoj Beno, Medical Director of Bill Roth Hospitals, both spoke about how several public outreach programmes were being offered by them, like free medical treatment and research and development. However, an important initiative was to create awareness about cancer through CANSWER, the brainchild of Dr Rajesh. They stressed that the key to cancer cure was early education, and a sustained one year programme was going on to educate people on how to combat stress and make the right lifestyle changes to stay healthy. Mr. Mithran Devanesen was the moving force behind the whole event, having brought these documentaries to the notice of the public, as well as being the Chief Advisor of the CANSWER Campaign.
A top priority was child welfare as children are the pillars of the nation. It was in this regard that the two documentaries which had children as their protagonists were screened.
Floating Lamp of the Shadow Valley:
The strains of Allahu Akbar and the flicker of a lantern reveal the paradoxes of Kashmir, a land of wondrous scenic beauty and the starkness of militancy. Across a frozen Dal lake, Arif, a nine year old boy labours to break the ice to ferry his passenger across, a metaphor that stands for his struggle for survival in real life. At the tender age of seven, he took up the oar to feed his family – an ailing mother and four siblings even as his abusive alcoholic father neglected them. With dreams of buying land, building a house, educating his siblings and marrying off his sister, Rosy in the future, he works diligently, making enough money for his family to celebrate festivals like ID, all the while taking care to repair his boat to keep it in mint condition.
The documentary also talks about the political scenario in the backdrop – the Hazratbal firing and the meteoric rise of terrorism, the detonation of nuclear devices by India and Pakistan, the Srinagar-Muzaffarnagar Bus initiative that was meant to be the perfect solution to the Kashmir problem, and the Kargil incursions. Arif hates his father who was once a terrorist and remarks candidly, “I will never be a militant. One bullet can kill you. Besides they kill people and killing is bad!” Simple but profound philosophy from this young lad with a mature head on his shoulders!
The cinematography is breathtaking, as the camera travels through beautiful vignettes of the frozen lake and sombre skies, the rich hues of autumn, the riotous burst of spring and raindrops of a green lily pad, ending with a joyous glimpse of the brothers gambolling around like playful puppies with the snowy downy flakes of a plant burst engulfing them, as hope reigns supreme!
Children of the Pyre:
Vivid images of fires burning fiercely are associated with Manikarnika, India’s most ancient, sacred and popular cremation ground. This documentary records the poignant tale of seven children who work through the day and night in the burning ghats of Varanasi, where burning bodies is a serious business. Each of these boys has been baptised by fire, having spent years in these grim surroundings, watching gruesome scenes of melting torsos, arms, legs and faces, but their main occupation is snatching the shrouds from the bodies, a harrowing task indeed. In turn, they face abuse and beatings, and when they do succeed they haggle to sell these pieces of cloth. At the onset, they went through stages of dread, unease, disgust and abhorrence, dreaming of ghosts and corpses. Today they do not flinch, inured to the stench, as they have to earn money to fill their bellies. They honour fire which is the mainstay of their existence, and this has even turned them into philosophers. As one boy puts it, “Happiness and sorrow make life. If there is only happiness, you’ll never thank God!”
The film documents all the horrors at the ghats with intermittent wisps of graveyard humour. For instance, one boy wonders what the corpse has eaten before it dies as it burns so brightly. Leaders come wrapped in the Tricolour, which too can be sold. But the boys know enough to salute the Flag, even if they are outspoken about leaders who fleece the poor and line their own pockets. Unclaimed bodies are given a mock cremation by the lads, as they mimic the actual rites, intoning the prayers in a macabre pantomime. The boys are aware they are the untouchables, as they handle the dead, but that does not prevent them from living life, day by day, and more so on occasions when dancing girls provide entertainment, even as bodies burn on an adjacent site. The boys dream of a comfortable future when they will own houses and cars, even be doctors, as the documentary ends in a haunting melody where Pt. Kumar Gandharva sings of the messengers of Death.
What was gratifying indeed was the Dr. V. Jeganathan Foundation handing over a cheque of Rs. 1 lakh to the PLAN – NGO to rehabilitate these seven boys who worked in the ghats. In a spontaneous gesture, the Foundation also announced that it would pay for Arif’s educational expenses for the coming year.
In order to catch the eye of the youth, the Foundation had also held two competitions for college students in and around Chennai – one on short films and the other on photography, both of which evinced an astounding response. An expert jury would evaluate these entries, around 200 in all, and attempt to use some of them in future campaigns. An enlightening interaction followed after the screening, in which such renowned names such as Balu Mahendra, Madhu Ambat, Sivasankari and Hariharan spoke their minds on film making and invited questions from the audience, which consisted of many young film makers and film buffs. However, the impact of the two movies still lingered in the minds of all, enveloped with a feeling of true happiness that something concrete had been done for these unfortunate children who had touched them briefly, but deeply!

Published in Eve's Times - May 2010