Toddyshop

The Arranged Economics

2009-05-05T13:03:00.003+05:30

Frederic Engels definitely is not a name that surface up when we think about marriage. For enlightened ones Osho comes up easily when they think about sex (pun not intended). I was knocked down to contemplation when I read one of the rhetoric of Osho that Marriage is not a spiritual or social institution but an economic institution. Articulation was never an issue with Osho but originality was. A brilliant recycler that he was, when I read Engels’ view on Marriage I smiled. Indeed Osho took a hitchhike with Engels.

Why all of a sudden I am musing over a communist and spiritual rogue? It’s because she told me that her marriage is delayed because of the real estate prices have been crashed in Kerala. Her parents were hoping for a fatter price for the property so that they would get her married to a fatter money bag and rest of her life she would eat rich food, travel in swanky cars and gain the diseases of rich. And ha, she would also deliver some fat babies who will go to international schools and would speak accented English and scoff at their mother tongue. And the parents? They would brag about the alliance in the church, during the holy mass, to the bystander. In the whole process the only ignored factor will be ‘she and her life.’

And he, finally going to see a girl tomorrow after his parents rejected innumerable proposals, mostly based on the balance sheet of the girls’ family. Now do you understand why I remembered Engels after a long interval? In fact I have forgotten him ever since I started working in posh air-conditioned comforts of neo economy companies.

When economics (fat pay, family wealth, abroad jobs, government job where getting big bribe is a possibility etc…etc..) is the primary concern and the girl’s or boy’s feeling is the most neglected aspect in our arranged marriage then Engels has a point, right? The dowry calculation formula in Kerala and Andhra Pradesh etc. is based on some complex analysis of the economy of the family of the groom. It’s a miniature economy where the GDP, inflation, deflation, trade deficits etc. gets analyzed and then agreed on an amount. Chances of an economic recession in the family is also predicted by the brilliant economist parents. I heard that IT Professionals are available at throw away prices in the current marriage market because of the collapse of the world economy.

Alliances of nations also show the same behavior traces. Look how hard the mighty USA is trying to date with China. China’s new found affluence and stronger economic fundamentals are the prime reason for the affinity and not because USA has learned to love off late. Profiting from a relation is the fundamental capitalist whim anyway.

Move over Engels, now all I wanted to do is pray sincerely for the real estate prices to go up in Kerala so that many girls may get arranged to a good economy.

A Jumbo Theology

2009-03-23T07:46:00.002+05:30

Brahmadathan. He has a very Brahminical name but despite his purist name he may soon be barred from entering temples in Kerala. His kingdom does not know the malice of religions and yet now it is imposed on him. He is one of the many domesticated elephants in Kerala. `The spectacular visual treats of the temple festivals here is incomplete without caparisoned elephants. To understand what elephants mean to Malayalis go to Orkut Communities and search for Guruvayoor Padmanabhan or Pambadi Rajan. They simply command more fan following than many celebrities. The call sheet of a pageant quality tusker is heavily booked during the season. They bring serious money for the owner. Couple of years back Guruvayoor Padmanabhan was auctioned for more than 2.5 lakhs a day. I know, you are feeling pity about your salary.

The reason for Brahmadathan’s possible ban is anachronistic though. His owner is a Christian so technically he is a Christian elephant. It is rumored that a Hindu fanatic political group had sent a warning to temple authorities to stay away from non Hindu elephants. A vast majority of these elephants are owned by Christian businessmen. The primary religion of businessmen is money so they have no pang in naming these elephants with the choicest of traditional Hindu names. That’s the motive behind giving a chaste Brahmin name for Brahmadathan; not because he is a vegetarian or because his owner is an ardent secularist. Elephants that are given non Hindu names will lose out heaps of cash that they fetch for their owners from these festivals during the season. Hence don’t find it funny if you hear about Akbar. He is a Muslim elephant but camouflages that name during the festival season and gets a traditional Hindu name.

The Hindu fundamentalists’ point of view is very clear. Non Hindus shall not enter the temple, be it people or elephants. May be they are also suspecting that the sudden spurt in elephant menace and killings in the temples is a part of the unholy ploy of the other religions. How can a Hindu organization tolerate the murder of Hindus by Christian or Muslim elephants? Yes, these elephants are anti Hindu or may even be religious terrorists.

God; there is no hope for you. Religions are not going to release you from their holy prisons soon. Pollutant and perverted are their theology. It already irrevocably poisoned the human existence and now they would blot the innocence of the animals too.

Love for a Day

2009-02-15T20:27:00.002+05:30

The day of valentine. It did not exist when our generation fell in love. Or it existed but we never knew that there was a day that the merchants invented to sneak into your love and told that if you do not buy her diamonds, red rose, and took her to a star pub you are a moron lover. Now love is expensive and often credit card or personal loan assisted. Thank Almighty; love was economical and very personal in our time. Once in a while a banana fry and tea from college canteen (and the girls paid most of the time) did the trick.

Commercializing relationships is a big business and the mushy ones are soft target. But love always had its antagonists and Hindi cinema always knew that. They kept asking pyar kiya to darna kya etc. etc. But I suppose the new generation boys grew up without watching many Hindi movies. Otherwise why did they run when the Sena attacked? The battle struck boyfriends abandoned their girlfriends and ran for life. (Birbal’s theory “Khud ki jaan subse pyari” got proved once more). TV cameras followed and Channels’ TRP ratings went up. Pubs’ loss is TV Channels’ gain. Love makes good business sense either way.

Sena exhorted victory over the meek boyfriends who fled the scene. The Indian culture wins. It’s the culture that glorified love (lust, love, carnal instinct, or whatever crap you may call for that Estrogen flow in the brain) and told the world that one can love in many gymnastics positions. Poor westerner knew only missionary love or some weak improvisation of that and now he has to bear the blame for ‘degeneration’ of our culture. It’s high time Senas bomb Khajuraho and many other temples and burn Kama sutra. Also they may take a good reading of all Puranas and Ithihasas of India and understand our ‘original’ cultural stand on all these.

Now the lovesick are adapting Gandhigri to fight against Senas. They are planning to send Pink Lingerie to Sena offices. Additional expense for lovers! I am sure Senas will sell those pieces in whole sale and beef up their fund. Interestingly both the Bombay Sena and Bangalore/Mangalore Sena are named after two Lords who are married. Senas are magnanimous enough to say that ‘married love’ is permitted. Obviously there is no Sena in the name of Krishna; the Lord of love. Why not the battle fled boyfriends start a Srikrishna Sena?

Staled Toddy

2008-12-26T22:34:00.005+05:30

Elevators are slow and if some fellow traveler has body odor it becomes unbearably slow. A familiar face smiled. “You are not writing anything now a days?” I grinned at her still holding my breath. She was referring to my blog which was lying unattended for many weeks. Some people were happy about it and some where sad about it, pretentiously though.

What to write? “No more undressing and masseurs please.” Shanti’s plea was difficult to ignore. Should I write about those concrete statues in Technopark? But most of them don’t have dress either. I never understood sculptors’ obsession with nakedness. From temples to technopark statues, none of them have dresses. May be tailoring is a more difficult art than sculpting.

Or should I write about social injustices? But the problem is that unlike many other bloggers my blood does not boil when I see or hear about social injustices. If you have been a Hindu for 38 years you really start believing in “Sambhavami Yuge Yuge. ’ Detachment, man. The last time my blood boiled was when the banks slashed the housing loan interest rates only for the new lending and did not reduce the rate for old customers. My housing loan’s floating rate was bloating day by day. I was in a rage about this injustice and spoke vehemently about it to Kuldeep Singh, over a cup of coffee at Coffee Beans. He told me to write to the Chief Justice of India and send it as a registered post. I did not do it but fearing a follow up I lied that I did. “Registered, no?” “Yes, registered.”

When I had a small accident while driving down to my village for Christmas vacation I was glad and thought I will write about it. (Though I incessantly blamed Shanti for not being vigilant enough to warn me about the bus came from the left side. “Useless navigator,” I told her. Pat came the reply, “Pathetic driver”.) My ecstasy was heightened after reaching home when my nephew took the car out and jumped it into a canal. It looks like a concept car now. But still it’s not a long enough story to write.

What about nature? I am sitting and watching the beautiful paddy field just in front of my house. Actually, I don’t deserve to sit and watch it. Why? Because there was an intense campaign to protect this paddy field from brick manufacturers some months ago and I did not participate in that. And here I am sipping a beer glass full of tea and gazing at its expanse. Lucifer. And you wanna write about it? Traitor.

The last idea was to write about the search words that visitors have used to reach, intentionally or otherwise, my blog. One searched for “How to find a Mallu boy to marry” and landed in my blog. I never new desperation has such heights. Another one actively searched for Nayanthara’s body parts and that divine incarnation had also landed in my blog. Some other souls wanted to know about the ‘Ghosts in Technopark’ and for some days I thought my blog is being haunted. Toddy shops in Kuttanadu, naked masseurs, Nayanthara’s _____, ghosts in Technopark, penis enlargement, brandy and babes, the list was long. When I showed all these noble search words to Shanti, she yelped, and also made some strange noises in her effort to control laughter. “Look at the wicked nature of your blog. Close down your toddy shop man.” Hmmm…I am thinking seriously about it.

Keyboard Commandos

2008-11-30T16:27:00.004+05:30

Mahendra Pardesi called me on the eve of our MA examination and told “Dost, I will not be able to complete the course this year’. “What happened? I know your preparations were intact” I could not figure out the reason. “Prime Minister Narasimha Rao’s niece is writing the same examination and I have to guard her”. Mahendra was a commando posted in Pune and was pursuing his studies as well. I vividly remember Mahendra, wielding an automatic gun with a dead stern face, standing beside the girl like an impenetrable shield. He did not even smile at me or any other classmates. His eyes were scanning each and every movement in the classroom. I could not see any consternation in his eyes for not being able to write the exam. I saluted him when we met that evening at the café. Even after 16 years, my memory of that visual is not smudged. Not even a bit.

Fast forward. This Sunday morning, here I am, sitting and reading the comments from readers about the commando operation in Mumbai in a news website. “The helicopter should have dropped the commandos through the chimney of the hotel”. “We should have brought Mossad from Israel and they would have finished it in 3 hours; useless Indian commandos”. Some of the comments were funny. Comical rather. They were providing expert advice to the commandos. Suddenly there was a comment and it was like a gunshot. “You all are keyboard commandos and keyboard commandos can do anything”. The comment pierced through the idiocy of armchair commentary that some of the readers were engaging in. A tight slap on the face. I liked it.

Decades of popcorn munching, sitting in front of the TV watching cricket, and ruminating over Sachin’s square cuts and swing of Lee’s balls have given us that ludicrous habit. We think that we are all living legends and the commandos who were caught in the labyrinth were fools. Human folly has no limits.

Yesterday, when the Commandos were emerging from the building after the final assault, a reporter asked whether they caught anyone alive. The commando said, “That’s not our policy; leaving the enemy alive is not our policy”. And he told this without any heroic fuss. The simplicity and unpretentiousness gave me goose bumps. The relaxed answers to the news reporters did not have a trace of haughtiness of achievement. “Mushkil tha ye mission?” asked one reporter. “Nahi, nahi, zyada kuch mushkil nahin tha,” was the simple answer.

When the entire commotion was over, they sat in a bus, chatted and laughed as if they were going back home after the office hours. They were not sleepy, not tired, but alert and agile even after the marathon meeting with death.

Because these men were the real commandos, not the keyboard ones.

Saludo brave men.

The Mark of a Woman

2008-11-10T06:45:00.006+05:30

It’s pouring outside. A soggy smell lingered in the air as dampness crept into the badly lit room. The creamy colored walls further dimmed the yellow light. Shanti is lying north side of me reading a South American’s work. I am lying south side of Shanti reading a North American’s work. The rain, moist, yellow light and smell that encircled us sneaked into the pages. Shanti suddenly got up as if responding to an intuition. She kept a bookmark neatly in ‘Strange Pilgrims’. A second later I heard Shiva crying in the other room. Mothers’ intuition is matchless.

Men are earthy. Hence their intuitions are also earthy. I remembered that I wanted to pass urine an hour before but got engrossed in the book. While getting out of the bed I wanted to keep the bookmark in ‘The Sound and Fury’. Could not find one. I pulled out the bookmark that Shanti kept in her book.

While listening to the sound of one water meeting the other water I thought, why did I pull her book mark? It was a murky act. Wasn’t? “This was not the first time you are doing it Santosh.” I consoled myself. But my mind was in a mood of becoming a gracious husband. It started agitating. “What the hell you take her for granted, always.” “Peace.” I said. “I will keep it back.” And I kept that back.

After a while she came back. Turned the leaves of her book and asked me “why did you keep the mark in a wrong page?”

The Bearable Heaviness of Being

2008-10-25T17:18:00.006+05:30

Sita was not in her usual self. The gloom in her eyes and her sluggish movements suggested that. On the way up through the narrow stairs that smelled disinfectants, we tried talking about her father. My heart was sunk deeply in to an unpleasant mood. I was going to meet a man who was diagnosed with cancer in one of the kidneys. Sita’s father. How would his eyes look like? Will I see the terror of death in that or a shallow gaze fixed at distance? Will I be able to strike any sort of conversation with him? Sita was talking but my mind was already in the room with her father.

“This way sir.” Her polite tone makes me uncomfortable sometimes but hardly I ever objected. The exposure to the room was sudden as there was no visitor space in between. There he was lying in the bed that was slightly raised towards the head. He was reading a comic. He smiled. There was no fear in his eyes neither any distress. I talked to him for an hour.

Sita’s father was receding in my memory, but as if like a sequel the other day Tinu called me and told that her young aunt was diagnosed with cancer on nerves, from nose to brain. I get a chill in my spinal column every time I hear the term cancer. I even wonder how Cancerians carry that ominous zodiac sign with them for a lifetime. “How’s she?” I had nothing else to ask. “She seems to be facing it bravely”. Came the reply. Tinu continued “She told us that she does not differentiate happiness and sorrow at this moment”. What would you call this revelation? Calling it ‘profound’ would belittle her wisdom of the moment. No saint she is, but an ordinary woman. The wise ones say that the ecstasy of life begins when there is no fear of death in mind. Here is a woman who started living for the reason that she dropped the fear of death.

I thought of miracles. There is miracle in every pore of life though we fail to notice that. Miracle is not a mysterious cure, but the unwavering strength that life gives to the human existence when they go through the unthinkable. Think of that perturbed moment of sliding into a MRI machine. Think of those harrowing moments of waiting for the diagnostic report and think about that moment when someone whispers in your ears that something fatal is lurking inside. And you want to die. But nature has to comfort her divine children. She hugs them to bosom and softly tells “child, this too shall pass”. I am dumbfounded looking at the alarming speed with which the nature acclimatizes people with the most unbearable and alter it into bearable or may even to pleasurable. I could never stop wondering oh Mother.

Which Way? Can I take both?

2008-10-22T07:16:00.001+05:30

The American economy is whooping and spitting blood like a man who indulged too much in his amorous pursuits. CEOs are busy washing their bloodstained hands after axing countless jobs. Like an old joke goes when your neighbor loses his job, it is called an economic slowdown. When you lose your job, it is a recession. The situation is there for you to interpret depends on the situation you are in.

The American dirt is slowly seeping to the rest of the world. The stink in India is still mild as we are at the extreme end of the sewage pipe. The terminations of employees by IT and other private companies are triggering a debate on the fragility of employment security in private sector. What in this world made people to believe that employment in private sector is secure? It’s like believing that a government job offers steep salary.

But more than the economic slowdown I am intrigued about one of the tragedies of being human. We are forever the victims of this intolerable feeling of wanting to be in two extremes at a time. We wish the glamour and fat pay of the private sector employment and the security of government jobs. We wish the thrill of being out in the mid sea and the safety of being anchored in the harbor. More prevalently, we wish the peace and solidity of family life and delightfully fantasize about the pleasure of melting with innumerable bodies. It’s like a metal’s wish to be in a solid and liquid state at the same time. No, I am not talking about the middle path here but that hapless wish of living in two extremes at the same time.

But life unfailingly forces people to take one path. It compels us to cross the territory of security if we are looking for excitement and glitter. It’s the same edict at work if you are looking for security or peace of mind. Eternally the humankind (especially men) chased this illusionary possibility of converging these disjointed paths but burnt out miserably. The struggle is on. The thought of best of both worlds is a comforting belief but like most of the beliefs it’s too just a mirage.

The Boar and the Beautiful

2008-10-12T14:47:00.008+05:30

“How was the wedding?” I asked Rajesh while shifting to the fifth gear. “It was hot, humid and there was a suffocating big crowd.” He said. It was a sleepy Sunday summer late evening in Pune. I was riding the bike with Rajesh as pillion through the Range Hills area, directionless. I fired the cylinder vigorously to shrug off the residual of afternoon siesta. Rajesh had just returned from Kerala after attending a wedding at Thiruvalla. He continued, “The only solace for me was the younger sister of the groom”. “Why? What’s special?” My hangover of the midday sleep started melting. “Gosh! She is quite a damsel and if she wasn’t there I would have quit the wedding scene even before it started”. I could feel the gush in his otherwise insipid voice. Now my curiosity was riding faster than the bike. “What’s her name?” “Diana”. Before he completed the name the entire ‘H’ Type area where we were passing by drowned into darkness and the bike banged on something hard like rock. A scary scream followed the shatter. Things were so sudden and beyond comprehension. We both were tossed in the air and landed with a thud. When the sense prevailed someone from the crowd told us that it was a power failure and the bike went and hit a huge black pig that crossed the road. My gleaming new Suzuki Shaolin was badly damaged.

Diana. After the mishap that name always evoked the memory of darkness, pig and scream. The dented gas tank of my bike chanted that name till I sold it. Every pig in the garbage pit mocked me with that name and whenever the power went off I could hear a dark whisper; Diana. Every time I passed Range Hills ‘H’ Type area I remembered the name and then that scream of the beast, like a mnemonic memory.

Someone’s misery is somebody else’s entertainment. It is something very similar to holding a tandoori chicken leg in one hand and scotch in the other and watching a war on the TV and commenting on it. It’s a spectacle for us but not for the one who is going through it. Our crush with Diana and the crash with the pig became a staple joke in all booze parties among the Mallu bachelors in Range Hills. They said I lost control of the bike after hearing Rajesh’s description of Diana. Rajesh and I flashed pale smiles in response. But in my heart of heart I wanted to see this Diana once in life; at least to wipe off that piggy image that comes to my mind.

Rajesh had completed his LL. B. and returned to Kerala and lost touch with me. After seeing many more flood and draught in Mula River I too relocated to Kerala. On a relaxed Sunday evening my daydreams were disrupted by a call from a strange number. A familiar voice on the other end, sounded as if it was coming from a decade far. It was Rajesh after many years. A long conversation about lost friends, Pune, Angamaly, temples, churches, festivals, betrayals, successes, disasters, cars, films, women, marriage, boredom, kids and more followed. While concluding the conversations he suddenly asked “do you remember that once I told you about a Thiruvalla wedding and the sister of the groom?" I shuddered as I could hear that scream of a boar from afar. “Yes I remember”, I said. “She is a film actress now!”. He said enthusiastically. There is no Diana from Kerala whom I know in the Indian film scene. “Is she Diana Hayden?” I asked him. “No. She changed the name." He said. “What’s her cinematic name?" I asked curiously. “Nayanthara; that’s the name”. The room was lit up suddenly and I could hear the sound of an explosion in my ventricles and all the pigs in this universe were charred to death forever.

The Fragrance of Light

2008-10-04T17:36:00.004+05:30

Ever thought about it? All relationships have an outer sheath and an inner light. Body and soul. Outer sheath is the title; father, mother, son, wife, friend etc. Some titles are unchanged for a lifetime. That’s why father of a son remains the father forever or the son of a father remains the son forever. The spirit of their relationship may swing from amiable to animosity but still the title remains the same. It’s a funny situation where the body is eternal but the soul goes through a metamorphosis. There is no death here because the body remains and death essentially means burial of outer sheath. This phenomenon pervades in all relationships of lineage where labels are static and the light has the scope to flutter. But in lineage the gross aspect of relationship is more important than the subtle aspects of it because legal language has serious limitation of expressing whatever beyond the obvious.

There is a second type, an opposite of sort. The outer sheath or the title of the relationships is shed somewhere in the journey but the soul continues to radiate; brighter sometime. Ever noticed? The paths once crossed will have to diverge at one point or other. The title ‘fellow traveler’ gets dropped at the point of diversion but the warmth may linger for a lifetime. It’s a death of outer sheath but the soul is reincarnated and takes a different shape. There is a wooliness around those diversions and that is comparable with the white fume that surrounds death but beyond that phase there is a tunnel of sunlight. Bliss.

And when she backpacked and waved hand I could see the white fume first and then that placid radiance of sunlight. The outer sheath is dropped but the soul is not just intact but elevated to a celestial plain. Those conversations during the journey will transcend time and space. When I waved my hand, like what happened in Macondo at the death of Jose Arcadio Buendia, I saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They fell on the town all through the night in a silent storm, and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and smothered the animals who slept outdoors. So many flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets were carpeted with a compact cushion. (From Gabriel Marquez). But unlike in Macondo I did not clear them with shovels but instead I walked on them barefoot. So carefully that they are not crushed.

Dressed for the Occasion

2008-09-28T20:31:00.002+05:30

If drunken driving is illegal then why do bars have a parking lot? I thought desperately. But I know it’s not healthy to argue with the Kerala Police. Every fugitive has a day and Santosh you are caught today, I thought. Sweat rolled down on forehead. The checking is done by an army of policemen and I sat frozen waiting for my turn haplessly. I was 6th in the queue. At the subtle level, the survival instinct was searching for a window to escape from this coup. I reached out for my purse. Settling a big bar bill and a tip to show that how generous that I am, left the purse slim. For a moment, I wish I were in Pune where the paltry sum left in my purse would have been sufficient to escape unscathed. In Kerala, you cannot bribe the Police without worrying about how you would feed your children for the rest of the month. It was drizzling and I watched the Policemen’s face through the wet windscreen. Through the droplets of water, their face appeared deformed like ghosts in those Hollywood horror movies. A huge billboard on the opposite side had Mohanlal asking me “vaikeettenda paripaadi?” (What’s the program for the evening?) ‘Wait and watch sir’. I told him.

The officer who was checking the Skoda Superb in front of mine got a victim. The fella was pleading that he only had one beer. The reply was rude. The cop said everybody who was caught said that they had just one beer. Through the wet screen I could see the deformed face of the victim. He was cringing and pleading and I am sure the first thing he told the cop could be the bribe. I assumed that it was not working. My hope is crushed. The rich man followed the policeman like a tramp. He was guided to a shabby van. What a plummet! I remembered Poonthanam and Jnanappana.

I rolled up the window as the rain picked up. It was just two days before one of my friends was caught for drunken driving. He was caught at 6.30 pm and asked to sit in a van. He had to sit there till 11.30 pm till the van was filled with a bunch of souls who sought for a little pleasure in that evening. Then like a parade they were taken to a filthy government hospital nearby. The old and coarse nurses of the hospital behaved as if these men were accused for rape cases. They had to sit in a nauseatingly stinking veranda, near that the medical wastes are dumped, for hours. At around 2.00 am the testing and certification were over. The parade went to the Police Station and sat there till the next morning. Police stations are mosquito infested and mosquitoes in Cochin are bigger than an Apache helicopter. Those poor men could not run for cover. I had a hearty laugh after hearing about his amorous night out with the old nurses and cops. But I never imagined that the noose was this closer and I would soon be meeting those coarse ladies.

Thinking about noose, suddenly I remembered the neckties that I dumped in the back seat. I hate that piece of cloth but it is compulsory in the office to wear the misery. As a last resort I took the tie and wore it on. As an additional piece I wore the Identity Card of my company too. I saw a policeman walking up to my car. With pounding heart I rolled down the window. He got confused a bit. A person with the look of a bar bouncer but dressed in an executive attire sitting in the car. Are you coming from office sir? Polite query. I suppressed the wicked smile and nodded. “We are checking for drunken driving cases. You may go sir”.

Tail Piece: Folks I do not encourage drunken driving. Please be clean while driving or appoint a chauffeur who does not drink. If nothing can be done atleast carry a tie.

The Holy Queue

2008-09-06T10:24:00.000+05:30

Alas! Those innumerable rivers, wells, backwaters and seas that bedeck our God’s own state do nothing to quench our thirst. Water, water everywhere but to drink a drop we need to stand in queue. But not the way those mortals in other states stand in front of water taps. Here we get our malted holy water from Beverages Corporation. We the men from the land of Adi Shankara and Mata Amritanandamayi are born ‘spiritual’. Why do you think St. Thomas came here first? Because the world knows that we love to get intoxicated with the spiritual bliss. And we are willing to stand in a queue for nothing but for that divine bliss. You can see those long queues in temples like Guruvayoor and Sabarimala. But when we need instant nirvana, we prefer the holy shrine of Beverages Corp. Ridicule us not as undisciplined brats; our discipline in this queue will put even Buddhist monks into shame. Rich or poor, elite or browbeaten, Hindu or Ahindu, proletariat or capitalist; all coexist harmoniously in this queue. Some of the finest friends in our life we got acquainted while standing in this queue. Some of us are married to the sisters or daughters of our spiritual queue mates. We name our kids ‘Bejoys, Jack, Daniel’ etc. and we name our houses ‘Mansion House’. ‘Celebration’ is our nature and we think (fallaciously) that we are ‘No.1’. Our spiritual guru is an 'Old Monk'. To move the queue quickly we took an oath that we will not order some obscure spirit but limit our order to Brandy and Rum. We make sure that those weak hearts, who order feminine drinks like wine, are expelled from this Holy Communion forever. Standing we discuss international politics, crude oil prices, next hartal or Nayanthara’s latest wardrobes (or nonexistence of it). On the eves of Onam and Christmas we have special rites and communion in front of the Beverages Corporation. In those occasions the length of the queues often attracts TV channels from across the nation. No missionary worth his salt can convert us from our spiritual pursuit. Fanatic blocks, you may lament us.

Humor, Recreation and Despair

2008-08-27T18:53:00.001+05:30

“Santosh, you need to make your Induction Program more effective”. An early morning suggestion from our Facilities Manager aroused a little annoyance. “Why do you think so buddy?” Me, suppressing my irritation. “Employees are using the European style commodes like Indian ones”. Came the reply. I gave him a stinking look. It was just another morning in the day of an HR Professional. 14 years in this trapeze and still I can’t predict how my day would start and where it would end. The cacophony of roles you need to don in a particular day may even surprise Kamal Haasan. The day may start as a glorified business partner and then slide into a marriage counselor because some software engineer’s marriage life is full of bugs. As the day goes the situation may plummet into dealing with cybercrime cases and in extreme unfortunate situations end up as a caretaker of the dead body of an employee in some mortuary. The gut wrenching feeling of helplessness while informing the father or mother about the death of their young son/daughter, lingers in the mind even long after the incident.

This profession is one of the most talked about, sometime glorified and most of the time rebuked one in the corporate world. Once, a concubine of top management, the HR function now said to have elevated to an official (sleeping) partner of top management! While wading through a maze of comedies and tragedies, the brighter part is that it’s never boring; not even a single day. You have enough variety every day. Once, a gentleman came to meet me for negotiating the annual pay raise on behalf of his wife who is working with us. Some other occasions, the father in law of one of the employees called and gave me the choicest abusive words because his son n law who is working with our company had an affair with somebody in the company. “How can the HR department permit this?” No, don’t laugh buddy. Help me with an answer. Still worse the wife appeared when the husband was sitting with the ‘other’ woman in the pantry (later I came to know somebody tipped off). That is the first time I donned the role of a referee in the boxing ring. My left jaw still pains as one of the punches from the wife missed its target and landed on my face.

Terminating employees is another ‘strategic’ thing we do. HR professionals call it as counseling out the non-value adding members. Once during such a counseling session one employee suddenly got up and ran outside yelling that he would jump from the top of the building. My pleading skills were tested to the maximum on that day. One of the organizations I worked had an established yet innovative way of termination. If they wanted an employee to go, they send unmistakable signals. His phone will go dead first. One needs extreme sensitivity to catch this signal. Second one is a little more explicit. The chair will disappear. Generally any sensible fellow will resign. If not, one day the table will disappear.

But off all, here goes the killer one for the climax. Once hearing a huge shout and scream from the administration manager’s cabin I walked in. A software engineer, who just got married, was shouting incessantly at the Administration Manager. “Calm down pal, what’s the issue?” I asked as if I had a solution for everything. The guy was trembling with rage and could not speak properly. “Santhosh, I have ordered some medicine from the US and the box is delivered here and these scoundrels who handle mails have misplaced it”. He growled. “What medicine is it?” I asked. “It’s a life saving medicine for a relative”. He muttered without looking into my eyes. I looked at the admin head and he in turn looked at his assistant. “Buddy, let me assure you that we will order the medicine again and the company will pay for it since we goofed it up.” I assured him. He insisted that he would only order it and the company could reimburse the amount. The issue was resolved at that. After a month later he presented the bill to me. It was about $250. Surprisingly at many places it was stricken off with ink but I did not give any serious notice. Hurriedly I signed it as a ‘special’ approval and put forward for the COO’s approval. In the afternoon the COO came to my cabin. “So…Santosh your department is getting sexy”. A mischievous tingle in his eyes gave me the hint that there was something lurking. “What happened?” I asked nonchalantly. Come; let us go to the balcony. Confused yet I followed. He grabbed a cup of coffee. Sipping coffee he kept the bill against the sunlight and asked me to look through wherever it is stricken off. I struggled but at last I could read. “Penis Enlargement Pills”. I wanted to jump out off the balcony.

Marriage of Bonsais

2008-08-18T19:06:00.000+05:30

Today is his wedding. He should marry because he is one of the most eligible bachelor boys I have seen in this company. Handsome, healthy and most importantly clean hearted unlike most of his fellow generation. He spends most of his time in muscle building and beautifying his Royal Enfield. When the time came his father pointed out a girl and he is going to marry her. There were enough eligible spinsters in the company but he never dared as his mind did not have as much muscles as his body to break the cobwebs of parental disapproval, sects and customs.

Leave him alone as he is busy getting ready for marriage and my prayers are with him. The other day I was talking to this girl assessing her for a position in the team. “Do you hang out with friends”? I asked. “No, my parents don’t like that” came the nonchalant reply. She may not have noticed the consternation in my eyes. “What about marriage plans?” Me again to break the ice. “Whenever my parents ask me to do”. Same nonchalance.

Intrusion in the name of parenting clouds every aspect of life. Parents would tell them whom to love, how much to love and when to love. They would say which course to study and which career to pursue and which company to work with. Which political belief they should subscribe to and let alone the religion. One of the most sensible girls I know told me that she picked her groom in 10 minutes flat. “Did you like the boy?” I asked. “What to like or dislike in 10 minutes Santosh?” That dispassion and ascetic expression scared me to no limit.

Parents keenly prune the minds of these youngsters with the same meticulousness and patience of a bonsai gardener by systematically cutting the roots of independent thoughts and mashing the flowers of romance in their tender hearts. Their pride peaks when these pigmy minds stoically surrender to their marriage proposals that count more on meaningless vanities than the warmth of relationship.

Oh divine parents, go ahead and continue to do this to your kids. A well pruned bonsai is indeed a piece of art. Worth showcasing. I am no way saying all these marriages will go kaput. After all marriages happen in heaven; even if it is between bonsais.

Two Ghost Stories

2008-08-08T19:37:00.000+05:30

Ghost! Yes you read it right. A ghost is floating around the Technopark campus and the adjacent Kerala University campus in Trivandrum. Its feet are not touched on the ground. This ghost has been featured in Malayala Manorama recently. They have traced its origin too. Obviously someone has to die before she gets to walk without her feet touching the ground. As the folklores would have it most of the ghosts were passionate lovers once upon a time; often one rich and the other one poor. The story is no different here too. The poor lover was murdered by the girl’s mighty family and the girl, Hymawati was her name, ended her life in a well. This is said to be the genesis of this ghost. Not many people have spotted this ghost though. The psychology department of Kerala University says that one needs to be compatible with the ghost, only then will be blessed with a sight. Software engineers are the best candidates for spotting ghosts because they have long lost their touch with the real world and they can see anything which is virtual and argue that it is real. No, I am not trying to deny the existence of ghosts because they are part of our entertainment system. Without them or their stories our life wouldn’t have been the same.

This ghost has been spotted by a Technopark employee. This noble soul was going home after work late evening. It was pitch dark because of the power cut. Lo! He spotted something dark, unusually tall and fat figure covered with a blanket floating along the road; yes its feet were not touching the ground!!! The same ghost has been spotted during another power cut night by three university students. Since this ghost peeps out only during the power cut many people have a strong doubt that this is the ghost of KSEB (Kerala State Electricity Board).

Some people say it is actually not a traditional ghost but a software bug which could not be cracked by the developers even after several months of toil and finally the company CEO called an exorcist to expel it from the application. The wandering soul is in search of another application.

In the labyrinth of Ghost stories, my favorite one I am going to narrate here. This was the experience of a gentleman, a hardcore nomad, who drove around India innumerable times. During one of his escapades in UP he lost his way and could not stick to his plan of reaching a hotel before sunset. It was well past 1.00 am in the night. An expert driver which he was and a rally tuned car under his command, he was smoking the rubber in his eagerness to reach somewhere and hit the sack. He reached a hilly terrain area which was notorious for freak accidents and deaths. Fast driving in the night means assured death but he did not slow down as he had already lost lots of time. He let the car dart through the road which was narrow as a parapet. A small miss and the car would plunge into the valley. It was thick dark and the mountain peaks looked like tombs in an abandoned cemetery. He rolled up the window as a whistling chilly wind broke out from nowhere. He felt an unbearable eerie aura surrounded that place. He switched on the stereo to light up the mood but in vain. All of a sudden a slow moving red light in front forced him to slow down. It was a truck. He could not drive faster anymore and kept on honking but the truck wouldn’t give way. On a straight long patch where the road was a little wide he tried to overtake the truck. He slammed the pedal but the truck also increased the speed. After a while he accidently looked at the Speedo. The needle was indicating 130 plus kmph. A chill passed through his spine. No truck can be driven at that speed, he thought. The truck slowed down again after the straight patch ended. After several kilometers the ghat section ended. As he took the last turn, to his utter amazement the truck was not in the front. He had no trace where it disappeared. Petrified he continued to drive.

Soon after the ghat he saw a dhaba and pulled in for a tea. There was no one in the dhaba except the shop owner. “Where are you going in this late night” the Sardar asked. My friend told the destination. “I got completely caught up in the ghat by a truck and lost lots of time”. He could see the otherwise impassive eyes of the Sardar lighting up. “Did the truck appear in front when you tried to drive fast”? He was surprised by the question but nodded. “It never allowed you to overtake; right?” He experienced the same chill in his spinal column. “What are you trying to tell me?” “Hmn…again he came” Sardar sighed. “Who”? Asked our friend. “Beta..It’s an unusual story. Some years ago a truck driver died in an accident after couple of days of his marriage. He wanted to reach home fast as his newlywed wife was alone at home. After that incident whoever tried to drive fast in the ghat his truck appears and safely holds them till they cross the ghat”. He was dumbfound and could not even thank the ghost.

And folks, I did not ask him whether the tyres of the truck were touching the ground. He may not have noticed it either.

Buffalo Puranam

2008-07-27T20:56:00.000+05:30

A Maharashtrian friend of mine once told me that he was sure that Yamraj (Kaalan; the demigod of death) cannot be a Mallu though he has a big moustache and tummy. It’s a simple logic according to my friend. If Yamraj was a Mallu by this time he would have butchered his buffalo and made some beef fry. I knew that the vegetarian fanatic was taunting me for Malayali’s infamous lust for beef. During his short visit to Kerala he claims to have found that Keralites have beef fry for break fast, beef ulathiyathu for lunch and beef curry for dinner. My arguments sighting myself as a beef antagonistic did not bear much fruit. However I found his logic amusing.

Once upon a time this big fat black babe (Buffalo I mean) was just the part of Christian fantasy in Kerala. But after hearing too many stories about their ecstatic experience with her flesh the Hindu’s started devouring it. Often converts are more fanatic than the original. This Hindu invasion of beef shops created a food scarcity of sort in Pala and Kanjirappally. They are hoping that Kerala Government may soon start a Buffalo Corporation along with The Beverages Corporation (the Government body that controls liquor distribution in Kerala) and regulate the supply through that. That would be the day we are waiting for. Bottle and beef from a single window!!

Malayali men’s hostile attitude towards bone or anything that is looking boney is quite evident. From buffalo to Shakeela we like it plump and boneless. The four Purusharthas (the four purposes of life as per Indian scriptures namely Dharma, Artha, Kama and Moksha) are not applicable to Mallu men. Our scriptures have only three; beef, brandy and babes. Buffalo is a catalyst of social transformation too. It beefed up the communal harmony in Kerala. The critical gulf between certain strata of Hindus and other religions has been the buffalo. Inter caste and inter religion marriages tumbled on buffalo as one partner would want to eat beef and the other one don’t want because it’s a taboo. That chasm is closed now with thick buffalo fat.

Consumption of everything without producing it is one of several features of Kerala. Buffalos can’t be an exception. Buffalos are almost disappeared from Kerala long back. Now they are supplied by our good neighbor Tamil Nadu. Hence the modern Malayali kids do not know what a buffalo look like and often think that buffalos are reared in cold storages because that’s where papa brings beef from.

You should have a little insight about the road behavior of buffalos while driving in India because in India we often coexist on the road. Ignorance of that means meeting them eye to eye and some bad dents on your car. Buffalo is the epitome of determination. Once a buffalo decides to cross the road, come what may, it will. In Kerala you do not have to worry about buffalo menace on the road but the people tend to behave like one after a lunch with beef fry. Hence if somebody decides to cross the road, let him. He will anyway.

My animosity with this animal goes back to my childhood. Brought up in an agrarian family, we had some ‘Buffs’ in our house. Whenever there were not enough farm workers my mother used to assign a lot of buffalo grooming works to me. I hated it. Secondly, when I was in 10th standard one Mammootty fan told me that my favorite star Mohanlal’s body looks like a buffalo. I hated this animal even more. With that bitter vengeance I tried eating beef couple of times but I was so heavily conditioned against this animal that I puked. For that forever I had to face that spiteful look from my friends and forever, I become an outcaste in Malludom.

Mountain Mist

2008-07-20T19:23:00.000+05:30

Mist, mountains, valley, tea garden and 22 hairpins; Ponmudi is quite a plot for a pulp fiction. Two souls lost in love, staring at each other to kiss, smothered in the thin water threads from the heavens, warming each other to keep the chill away, they floated in the mist. The world was locked out of their world. They did not know all these are going to end abruptly as they soon walk into a group of drunken rogues. They both can jump down into the steep valley and disappear in the eternity or she may get raped and so on and so forth. Anyway those things I want to leave to your imagination. What I don’t want to leave is Ponmudi.

In cyber albums, patches of Ponmudi always looked good. I wanted to go there ever since I landed in Trivandrum two years ago. But whoever I asked about this place, gave me an impassive look and that dowsed my enthusiasm. I never knew that Malayali’s quintessential contempt towards everything was behind that opinion. I even made a half hearted attempt to go there before and crossed the 19th hairpin but found that I do not have enough fuel in store to come back. This time I was determined.

The place is just 55 kilometers away from Kowdiar. If you are the one who loves curves (pun not intended), you can gorge the road. On the ascent from Kallar through the woods you may feel lonely on the road and may think that this will not reach anywhere. Sparingly inhabited topography with clove and tea estates on both sides of the road may kindle an eerie and affable feeling at the same time. As you take tight turns on every hairpin curve the mega emerald canvas unfurls in front of you through the windshield.

The beginning of monsoon brings the most unusual collage of natural elements in Ponmudi. The sight of sun peeping through the clouds and the mist passing through this tunnel of light with the mountain peaks in the dim background is a treat to your senses. The flora and fauna around give a perfect bass note to this symphony of nature.

Weekends can be a disappointing experience though. The sex starved men, smelling of cheap brandy, can be quite a rickety herd. If you are with the family, stay away. If you are alone watch them from a distance and ponder over a topic; ‘social conditioning and its effect on personality’.

Ponmudi does not have many accommodation options. The KTDC resort looks very good from afar but does not look good from near. I am sure it will deteriorate further if you go inside. Nevertheless Ponmudi has many other compelling reasons for one to go there.

Do not hurry around in Ponmudi. Park your vehicle and take a stroll. Talk to locals. Stop by the places that offer panoramic views. There are enough of them. Fill your lungs with the air that smells of clove and tea. The place is bedecked with a rich variety of plants and flowers. When you come back to your mundane life, you will feel how high you have been when you were in Ponmudi.

God's Own Roads

2008-07-13T18:40:00.000+05:30

The tremble was unbearable. Something like a piece of rock hit my forehead. Waking up from the dream I felt descending from the sky. After a short midair cruise the vehicle landed with a thud. The sight of an extraterrestrial saucer zipping towards me was scary. I jammed the brake and the car screeched to a halt. It was well past midnight. The extraterrestrial element was just a tourist bus with multicolor lights flashing all over it and the rock that hit my forehead was the detached head of the audio system. Where is Lloyd? It took couple of moments for me to get my coherence back and to decipher the situation. I was driving down from Trivandrum to Angamaly via M C Road along with my colleague Lloyd George. He got down at Muvattupuzha sometime back. The fatigue and loneliness metamorphosed into a momentary nap on the wheel. The car hit a triple ducker bump while doing 100 kmph and flew. That’s all what happened. I smiled and thought Shanti missed another vivid moment on the road.

The National Highways of Kerala are very similar to langotis (konakam. I really do not know the parallel in English so forgive me); as wide, as twisty and as worn out. May be they are a little wider, but definitely twister and more worn out. Its mighty long time since Malayali men stopped using this piece of cloth. Don’t get me wrong. They do not roam around without one. What I mean is that they too adapted to the modern versions of it though it did not suit their sultry climate. But Keralites could not shrug of the reminiscence of those comfortable days. Hence they kept their highways similar to that. If you drive to work everyday, it may be a great idea to get your Jathakam (janampatri) thoroughly checked by an astrologer and ensure that your death is not anywhere near. You may do the same before crossing the road on the Aluva – Ernakulum route. You never know whether you will reach the other side or get hit by those red colored scuds. High density of population means people all over the road. Instead of getting out of the road they twist their body parts to give you way and many times I drove through the tiny space that they created by twisting their hips or curling their stomach. The only day you can drive in Kerala without a suicide bomber’s attitude is on a hartal day.

It’s quite a fun to be on Kerala roads on a hartal, if you dare to. People proclaims their objective of travel by pasting banners like ‘going for wedding’, ‘hospital case’, ‘pregnant lady inside’, ‘Marriage; bride inside’ etc to avoid any trouble from hartal supporters. Majority of these pregnant ladies, brides and grooms are not genuine but office goers in disguise. Getting a heart attack in Kerala is a vicious situation. On a hartal day you will reach the hospital fast but there won’t be doctors. On a non hartal day the doctors will be there but you will not reach in time.

While driving from Trivandrum to my village in Thrissur, it’s a perennial dilemma which road to hit and which one to miss. One is the narrow, straight NH 47 that goes via Aleppy and the other one is the narrow, twisty M C Road which winds through the lush green hilly terrains of eastern districts of Kerala. For a spirited driver the M C road could have been good but the surface is bad in many places. Still I like this route (as much as Shanti hates it) because you could assume that you are an F1 driver and you are at the wheel of a Ferrari.

On MC Road the first town you will cross is Kottarakkara. The place is famous for two personalities. Kottarakkara Lord Ganapathy; the one who removes obstacles and the politician Balakrishna Pillai; the one who creates obstacles. Then comes Adoor; the birthplace of many Malayalam movie personalities. Adoor is like an award movie. Disconnected and dark. One needs to use imagination and intelligence to figure out one’s way. Thiruvalla is another significant town on the way. The entire population of this place is converted to a new religion called ‘Nursing’ and enroute on an exodus to their promissory lands; America and Gulf. It houses more NRI banks than grocery stores. In Thiruvalla highly educated person means somebody with a B.Sc. Nursing. Thiruvalla’s big brother Kottayam is the home of mushy Malayalam literature. The city smells smoked rubber, VSOP Brandy, and beef ulathiyathu. My friends from Kottayam say the only man who does not booze in Kottayam after 6.00 pm is the statue of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. I wish to extend that list by including Lord Siva of Thirunakkara temple, and the saints of innumerable churches in Kottayam.

Driving through NH 47 you cross two beautiful places. Aleppy and Kochi. Aleppey, the Venice of the east, has beautiful backwaters and also breeds the dreadful Chickungunya. Kochi is like a beautiful, glamorous girl. The only issue is that the place stinks. You know the condition when a beautiful girl has unbearable body odor. You can’t go near but can’t ignore her too. The red buses in Kochi are driven by maniacs and in their previous incarnation they were part of the Nair army (Chaver Pada) that tried to kill King Samoothiri in the annual mega event Mamankam. Their killing instinct is still intact. From Kochi to Aluva it’s recommended to drive with a kamikaze attitude. Aluva is charming. The Periyar river is more charming. From Aluva to Angamaly it’s a fast drive but Angamaly to Thrissur it’s a torturing 20 kmph chugging.

Don’t go numb if you see a gigantic tusker crossing the road while you are in Thrissur city. It’s a common sight and these tuskers often command a bigger fan following in Thrissur than Mohanlal. Men in Thrissur get a heavy dose of testosterone when they see tusker with 18/18 features. The circular design of the city around the Vadakkumnathan temple always fascinates me. For me, that design exemplifies a great truth. Life revolves around the cosmic intelligence and essentially every journey will take you where you have started.

My friends always suggest me to take the train for travelling in Kerala but I am so much addicted to roads. Addicts, whatever may the addiction be, have deaf ears. But you know addicts are the best advisors because they know the sufferings and helplessness. Hence folks my advice is to avoid roads in Kerala. There is nothing Godly about it.

The Masseur and Me

2008-06-16T11:32:00.000+05:30

"Remove your clothes". I was stunned! "Here?" I asked Thankappan Aashan. I was like a young aspiring actress who was caught in a casting couch. I looked around. Women in that house were freely walking around that dark but open attic. A beautiful lady in the Ravivarma painting, which was hanging on the wall, was looking at me coyly. Sorry lady, I came to this Kalari (a martial art learning center which also doubles up as an Ayurvedic center), for a massage for my back pain but I never thought Aashan (the chief trainer and masseur) will do it in front of everybody. ‘Fast’, he expressed his impatience. I closed my eyes and started removing the burdens of civilization one by one. I decided not to open my eyes, come what may. All the more I was worried about that lady in the Ravivarma picture.

The smell of Ayurvedic oil pierced through the respiratory tract. Aashan did something similar to what Lord Krishna did to that venomous demon Kaaliyan. I lie down haplessly under his feet. Again, I thought about the lady in the picture.

As soon as Aashan’s dance on my body was over, with great relief I grabbed my clothes but in vain. ‘Come out. Don’t wear clothes. Sit in the verandah. Let the oil dry’. I almost cried. The verandah was very close to the main road. No, it was almost on the road. Whoever passes by can see me sitting in my one piece, well oiled, through the big dusty window. The only consolation was that the Verandah was dark but that did not remain that way long. The lady of the house swiftly came over and switched the light on. I sat there, wide exposed to the world.

From the other end a girl appeared on the road. As she walked past the house she glanced me though the window. She could not hide the mocking smile. Cringed with shame I kept my arms crossed on my bare chest and closed my eyes tight. I felt the uselessness of two hands. This was just the beginning of the things to come. One after one, ladies started appearing on the road. All of them gave me a curious look. God, whatever happened to the modesty of Indian women. How could they look at me like that? More startling fact was I could not spot any men. Why only ladies on the road?

Without even a slightest concern of my predicament Aashan spoke about various types of Kalarippayattu (a form of martial arts in Kerala). He was trying to enlighten me about the difference between the Northern Kerala style and Southern Kerala style. I could not understand much and all I heard was the giggle of the ladies from the road. In between Aashan called his young daughter to get him some water. It was a shot from zero range.

Again, from nowhere the lady of the house appeared and switched on the TV. I casually looked at the screen. It was an interview with Parvathi Omanakkuttan, the Miss India, Universe. During the interview an interesting clip was flashed. The swim suit contest. Parvathi was confidently showing off in front of thousands of saliva gulping men. From the audience, a man with a French beard was smacking his lips like dog in front of a butcher shop. I thought, if she could do that in front of such a huge gathering what am I thinking? Armed with the new enlightenment, I removed my arms from the chest, sat straight, took a deep breath and told, ‘ladies on the road, here I am’. The road was empty.

Why do Men Travel?

2008-06-08T11:38:00.000+05:30

Epics and history are infested with men who travelled to conquer, to convert, to trade, to plunder, to reclaim their women or to quench their curiosity. Every mountain and ocean aroused his inquisitiveness to see beyond. Its incessant beckoning disrupted his sleep and reason but fuelled his fantasy. The infatuation for the unknown was an inseparable part of that fantasy. And men, as ever, live and die for their fantasies.

Discovery of new lands were celebrated and added to history books. Lands were named after either discoverers or invaders. And invasion was not just on the land but more lasting one was on the culture. Ways of life lost their ingenuity and have been synthesized. Religions and Gods were imported and they belittled each other to prove other’s God is not the God. Even after uncountable years, many communities still take pride in their foreign genesis; amusingly so. Some others travelled to their promissory land leaving their motherland behind.

Throughout the journey men had created realms and destroyed some. Some revolutionaries had inspired the browbeaten to march over 10000 kilometers to topple the oppressors. Still some became revolutionary after taking a ride across the human miseries in a continent. And still there are some others who crossed innumerable mountains and deserts just to plunder the temples.

The reason and motivation for men to travel have been vastly changed now. Invasions are through remote controls and strategic alliances and for the curiosity there is nothing left for imagination. Technology has shrunk and undressed the world. For trade, now it's not just men who travel but women too. Man at last put a euphemistic color on his exploitation of her. He stripped her off, pasted on every billboard and told her to celebrate this as a hallmark of women freedom. His trade flourished. Men always find glorious reasons to justify their sins.

Now, they say men travel when they get bored with their own land, job and circumstances. There could be many other reasons too. The reason whatever may be, it is a truth that every journey will detune and retune one’s inner self. A lot happens between embark and disembark. Some strings get tightened and some get loosened. Ernesto Guevara, set out as a twenty three years old medical student from Buenos Aires, and returned as Che Guevara, the revolutionary who inspired a whole generation of people across the world. Alexander the great started of as a power hungry young emperor and ended as a philosopher. Nobody returns from a journey.

Rig Veda says, ‘there is no happiness for him who does not travel. The fortune of him who is sitting sits, it rises when he rises, it sleeps when he sleeps, it moves when he moves’. Therefore, Wander!

Motorcycle Musings

2008-06-01T19:06:00.000+05:30

I could hear the growl nearing and I twisted my right wrist fiercely. As I shifted to the fourth gear and let the clutch go, I heard some crumbling noises from the box. I knew I got it wrong. The leather clad fellow pulled away easily, leaving me behind. Remember you are riding an Enfield not a Honda, Santosh. It is not designed for racing but for cruising. Designs are fundamental, pal. There is a design for everything and everyone. It cannot be changed. At best, it may be modified but no metamorphosis possible.

All of a sudden I remembered her. Her trembling lips could not utter anything when I asked why she is not a prime mover at work. There was helplessness in her eyes and a big lump moved up and down her throat as she tried hard to control tears. She could not understand what her fault was, because those were not faults but part of her design. All those lengthy counseling from me on how to ‘become’ was ‘unbecoming’ for her.

Every design has a distinct purpose. The tragedy happens when we use them for what they are not meant for. Design is the grace of Cosmic Intelligence but being insightful about one’s design and using it thus is a definite merit.

As the realization dawned my repugnance for her melted. She is like a Royal Enfield in a Moto GP racing circuit and all the way I have been telling her to become a Ducati. Poor she. What she needs is just a change of track.

War of Apes

2008-05-14T16:12:00.001+05:30

This gang war story did not make it to the celluloid though it was not of any lesser fierce. Ramgopal Varma may not have noticed this because it did not happen in the dark alleys of Mumbai but in the serene divine backdrop of Sasthamkotta. And the characters are not the customary, predictably rough looking guys with stubs but otherwise innocent monkeys, and that too hundreds of them. One gang belongs to where pretty much all gangs belong to. Bazaar. What is unusual is the headquarter of the second gang. They have a divine backing as their think-tank operates out of the famous Lord Ayyappan temple. You know that gangs are territorial and they are very intolerant about intruders. Things are not vey different here too. The temple gang tempted by their lower instincts strays into the souk. The need of prayer is indeed a need. Even for criminals. The bazaar gang hence visits the temple. And the commandment, thou shall not cross the territory, is broken. Let there be war, proclaims the chieftains. For a moment there is a silence and a sudden squeal. The populace of the town cringes and shivers as the war progress.

Like Mumbai gang war, here too the government interferes once in a while. The entire simian community recalls such an intrusion with terror. A bunch of encounter specialists, specially hired from Delhi, efficiently trapped hundreds of them couple of years ago. Their potent weapon, a machine that mimics the screech of a monkey who is in danger, was too much for the chimps. They were trapped in huge metal cages. The tendency to help those who are in trouble is an animal instinct. Fortunately Mother Nature did not pass this unproductive behavior to human beings. Lucky we.

The godfather of the temple gang however is not a monkey but a rich NRI. He has stashed heaps of money in the bank to feed this herd. The downtrodden bazaar folks rely on their skills to lift bananas or other edibles from the shops. They get sandwiched between the irked shopkeepers and the other gang. They take life as it comes.

I could not spend much time in Sasthamkotta as it was late in the day. I was not planning to reach here inthe first instance. But what I saw and felt was so very charming thatI want to go back. It’s a collage of stillness, verdant topography, incredibly clean freshwater lake and unpretentious people. Folks, I am love-struck.

Staircase to the Sky

2008-05-07T21:32:00.000+05:30

You know, if you are a keralite, you should not travel in Kerala to see new places. It’s pointless. Every nook and corner can beat the best tourist spots of many other parts of the country. Often the enroute is more beautiful than the destination. There are no deserts to drive through to reach an oasis. It’s oasis everywhere. It’s discouraging sometime. You tend to question the necessity of driving all the way to a destination when your backyard is as good as that. Hence on that sultry Sunday morning I decided to sit at home. I have pronounced this to Shanti who as usual was skeptical about me staying at home on a holiday but then she hastily reminded me that I had to leave Vismaya for her violin class.

Once a violin student myself, could not sustain the hard work it demands and conveniently delegated that task to my little daughter Vismaya. Anyway she is doing a better job at it.

“Bring vegetable when you come back or wait I will also come”. Shanti shouted from inside. Driving through the congested Peroorkada area I missed the turn that goes to the market. I had to drive a little ahead to take a U turn and comeback. Chugging along in the second gear, all of a sudden a big green board came to my attention. “Thenmala – Eco Tourism, 65 KMs ahead.” I looked at Shanti, she smiled. One more resolution to be a homebound was broken.

Couple of weeks back I took this route to Kutralam on a Royal Enfield. Looking at the world from a car and motorcycle is not so similar. One is virtual and the other is real. No prizes for guessing what is what.

Roughly two hours of drive from Trivandrum will take you to Thenmala. Its popularity is strikingly visible from the number of vehicles parked around the place. Tourists float around like pieces of clouds, chatting loudly in Tamil or Malayalam. Their digital cameras or camera phones were working overtime sucking up the splendor of the topography.

Thenmala has all the ingredients of a tourist place. It has greenery, water reservoirs, hanging bridges, boat cruise, adventure activities like rock climbing, musical fountain, and a KTDC restaurant that serves really repulsive food. But out of all I really found the staircase that winding through the woods was the most unique. Probably this is the one you should not give a miss. The climb is not very arduous and you feel that you are walking on the treetops along with monkeys, squirrels, birds and all those stay on top of the trees. When you look at the sky through the thick leaves it looks like a perforated blue cloth. The staircase ends at an unpaved trail which is, according to the information board placed, the old Shenkottai road. The path is abandoned now and is used by mountain bikers for practice. There is a wooden bench on this trail where you can spend hours listening to cuckoos. You can’t help but thinking why do people take the pain of owning farm houses for weekend leisure when one can own an entire forest for a 5 rupees entrance ticket.

KTDC has absolved itself from the responsibility of promoting eco tourism by placing some boards, here and there, which caution the use of plastic bags. And you bet there are plastics bags used by all retailers here. Now don’t tell me you are surprised.

Thenmala houses a deer rehabilitation center too. There are not many deer here though. Visit the place if you must. The grumpy young lady who was keeping the gate was a big turnoff and I found her more suitable for keeping a bear den. She was sitting in a small dark attic and her tiny eyes shined in the darkness like a wild cat. Turn left from the Thenmala junction to Punaloor road and drive two kilometers further you will reach the center. On the way you will cross some pleasant spots. It’s a good idea to stop and soak in those views. There is a concrete structure built to climb up to get an aerial view of the water flow. The view from this is more than good but the structure itself is filthy and quite an eyesore in this lovely place.

Overall, Thenmala is another touristy place in Kerala. It’s beautiful but so are every nooks of Kerala. Then should you give a miss to Thenmala? I advise you not. At least for that staircase.

Every Nomad has a Home

2008-04-28T22:14:00.000+05:30

Pakal Pooram is over. Goddesses of Thiruvambadi and Paramekkavu said good bye to each other and to Lord Vadakkumnathan. They promised to meet again on the same day, same place next year. The Goddesses returned home riding on the back of magnificently caparisoned Sivasundar and Padmanabhan. I stood there looking at Sivasundar without batting my eyelid. He is a superstar among the elephant lovers in Kerala, especially in Thrissur. The men standing near me were going ecstatic about the masculine grandiose of this pachyderm. Entha avanteyoru thalayeduppu (‘what a majestic stance he has). They were referring to ‘Mathangaleela’ the ancient scripture that details the features of an ideal tusker. Sivasundar has it all, well almost. People were looking at him with the shock and awe as if they have unexpectedly spotted Angelina Jolie in a two-piece costume.

I wandered aimlessly in the poorapparambu (festival yard). It was looking weary after entertaining a huge crowd, a night before. Yesterday it was decorated beautifully but today it is littered with papers, polythene bags and elephant droppings. Still I found it fascinating. Yes, irresistibly fascinating. The exhibition stalls were almost deserted. It was a different scene yesterday. Thousands of people had lost themselves in the fervent symphony of panchavadyam, breath taking kudamattam, the parade of thirty choicest caparisoned elephants and the sounds and colors of fireworks.

I continue to walk. I forgot the sweltering sun above. It was a home coming for me. The reminiscence of thousands visuals gushed through my mind. I have wandered many parts of India and I always considered myself as a nomad who doesn’t care a bit for his roots. For a moment I realized what a folly it was. I felt blessed with the realization that ‘every nomad has a home’.

The Backwater Bliss

2008-04-22T11:32:00.000+05:30

The earth was rotating. I know it rotates. I studied that in my primary school geography. The discoverer of this phenomenon must have got the first insight about it in a booze party. I thought. A heady mix of Kuttanadan toddy and Scottish spirits made me remember this old geography lesson in the wee hours of night. I looked out. It was water everywhere. I wanted to throw and I threw. Gradually the spin decelerated and the earth came to a standstill. I wanted to lie down somewhere. In the dark I groped for a place. I fell somewhere and slept.

The burble of water woke me up before the sunrise. I realized that I was sleeping in the deck of a boat. It was dark. The stars were still twinkling in the water. My head was feeling heavy. The haze around my senses slowly melted as the sun peeked out of the horizon. I was in a houseboat floating in the backwaters of Aleppy.

It was a motorcycling weekend again. I along with Nandu and Lloyd blasted the NH 47 on our long strokes. This time I did not ride Ren’s reluctant old lady but Lloyd’s willing young bitch. The more I ripped her the more she begged for. John and Hari drove in a car. Sarath gave his bike to Lloyd and drove along with John and Hari. Four hours of thumping saw us in the parking lot of Mr. Joseph our host in Aleppy.

Aleppy, also known as Venice of the east (I wonder whether Venice is called the Aleppy of the West), is around 60 Kilometers from Kochi and 160 Kilometers from Trivandrum. The place has a ‘most favorite’ status among the tourists and that’s not without any reason. The villages around Aleppy, better known as Kuttanadu, are picturesque. Its postcard views everywhere. Even the most amateurish photographer can walk away with delectable pictures here. It’s difficult to withhold adjectives while writing about Kuttanadu.

Cruising through the backwater canals is the best way to see the life in Kuttanadu. It’s the lifeline and the locals do pretty much everything in it; from brushing teeth to taking bath to washing everything. There are beautiful houses on the shores with their architectural uniqueness. There are also several small rundown houses. It indicates the jagged percolation of prosperity that tourism said to be bringing to this area.

The houseboat, which we hired, had all the creature comforts. It had air conditioned bedrooms, clean bathrooms and a nice leaving place. The cook offered us a good spread of food. There are hundreds of houseboats in and around Kuttanadu. Some houseboats are nothing short of floating mansions. The flourished business of houseboats is the biggest environmental threat to the backwaters of Kuttanadu though it gave a fillip to the tourism industry. Right now nobody seems to be bothered. Government is happy because tourists are coming. Locals are happy because tourists are coming. Boat owners are happy because tourists are coming. But an environmental havoc is snowballing amidst all these gala.

John had drowned his lent (which he claimed to be observing) in Brandy. Mother Mary’s picture in the deck painfully smiled at him. Lloyd was fighting hard to keep his conditional lent. Conditional because of the unique deal that he struck with the divine that he would continue to kill and eat creatures but would not touch pure distill of malts. Nandu’s activities were confined to three; drinking, taking photographs and throwing flying kisses to all females, human or otherwise, who passed by. Sarath and Hari were doing any of all those activities mentioned above.

Connoisseurs say it’s a sin to drink anything other than toddy when you are in Kuttanadu. We did not fanatically follow this but liberally raided many toddy shops on the banks. These little dilapidated huts are known for their fiery fish curries and Kappa combination. Adam Smith smiles at you when you sip spurious toddy here. The production of toddy is decreasing day by day and demand is heading northward forever. Tell me as a shop owner what will you do.

In the evening the boat was anchored near the paddy fields. Suddenly Lloyd removed his clothes and jumped to the water. Nandu followed. Grew up in the banks of a river, how could I not. However it was a forgettable experience. Polluted water, dangerously deep area and an intoxicated head; not a good combination for swimming.

In the dusk, I walked along with Lloyd through the paddy fields. The golden, harvest ready paddy fields are becoming a rare sight in Kerala. The loss making rice cultivation is fast disappearing from everywhere in Kerala. Another ecological mishap for the God’s own country. The misery of the rice farmers cannot be compensated with the sight it offers to the tourists.

It was warm in the night. I lied down listening to the cacophony of sounds resonating all around. Crickets and frogs were on a fervent mood it seems. Through the small window I could see the full moon and the stars bedecking the backwater with an intricate mix of light and colors. Small fishes, glittering in the moonlight, were wading through the maze of stars. It was like an aquarium set inside of a kaleidoscope. Slowly the Kaleidoscope exploded and the lights, colors, fishes started spinning around me.

The morning sun poured red in every crease of water. Slowly the Kuttanadan life came alive in front of our eyes and it swelled rapidly in the forms of innumerable boats in different sizes and shapes. From milkmen to school kids began to float around us. We spotted a coracle and a small family in it; one man, woman and kid. Coracles are not a usual sight in Kuttanadu. These are the fishermen folks from Karnataka, we were told. They use an unusually long fishing net. They set the net a day before and start the catch early in the morning, next day. The round shaped basket boat moved fast as the lady pulled the net with dexterity. The child and the man were silently watching her deft act.

Our voyage was coming to an end. I looked at the vast expanse of water again. Leave no trace is the mantra of eco-tourism but I could see the traces everywhere that are left by the hedonist herd like us. It seems Kuttanadu is begun to enjoy its hot saleable status like neophyte prostitute. She has a high profile customer portfolio too. Ex- Prime Minister A B Vajpayee, ex- Indian cricket coach Greg Chapel etc. are just few of them.

The sight of Bullets always enthuse me but not this time. I was too exhausted to ride back. I chose to drive with John and party. Sitting in the front seat I slept for a long time. In the sleep I saw that magnificent kaleidoscopic aquarium again. I saw that mix of colors and lights again. The earth was at a standstill.

The Circular Fort - In Praise of a Defeated Dutch

2008-03-30T14:32:00.000+05:30

And happily they lived thereafter…..It’s not the end of a fairly tale but a war story. What I am trying to tell you is the story of Capt. De Lannoy the Dutch Captain of the ill-fated Navy who lost the war to the Travancore king, Marthanda Varma. The big hearted but the shrewd one, which Marthanda Varma was, had a different plan in mind. Not to kill Capt. De Lannoy but use his expertise in maritime strategies. He asked the Dutch to settle down in Kerala and create a seaside fort for him. Fast forward. Here I am with my mates, John, Nandu and Sarath standing on top of a piece of history which is more enchanting than the present. This is Circular Fort, which is created by Capt. De Lannoy for Marthanda Varma.

One can use all the possible adjectives and superlatives for this place. Fabulous, breath taking etc…etc. The much clichéd blue water kissing white sand beaches, you can experience it here. Endless stretch of coconut palms is the perfect backdrops for the fort. Once part of Kerala, the place now belongs to Tamilnadu. It is located around 7 kilometers away from Kanyakumary, the much famed southern tip of India. From the fort one can get an all-round view of the sea and the surrounding place.

The fort has massive walls jutting out in the sea. It’s an imposing architecture to say the least. The fact that it is intact even now shows the intent with which it was built. It has vast open fields inside. At the centre of the lower section of the fort there is a pond where the soldiers used to take bath. Their dorms are still there.

Another unusual site on the way to the fort is a wind farm where thousands of jumbo windmills rotating lazily in the same pace. Looks like the prayer wheels of the wind god. The force of the wind being more than ordinary, birds have a tough time flying around here. They aim for a destination and end up in a different place. Fly with the wind not against it, you fool. I gave the ancient Tao wisdom to the crows there.

The dark skinned people around, however not very concerned about the mesmerizing experience of a tourist. They seem to struggle to make a good living. The richness of the topography, with massive cultivation of banana, rice and coconut, is not reflected anywhere in the dilapidated huts around the place. They may not be the owners of the land and cultivation. Whatever little they may have had must have been washed away in Tsunami. I thought.

The fact that the Tamilnadu Government is not as aggressive as Kerala in promoting tourism had done some good thing to this place. It is still vastly unexplored. Popcorn munching tourist crowd hum around the popular destination just 7 kilometers away; Kanyakumari. Circular Fort is spared from the tourist attack for now. So be it forever. I wish.

Ren and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (or lack of it)

2008-03-30T13:24:00.000+05:30

Somewhere on the way the Royal Enfield which I was riding started talking to me about her sad story of living with a master who never took good care of her. Poor She. Old age and lack of care were apparent the way she was sounding. It was not the much acclaimed musical thump of a legendary British Single; but a grating coarse noise. The beautiful terrains of Sahydri Mountain helped me to keep my attention away from the old lady’s jarring notes. The road was too interesting. You do not get it straight more than 10 meters. The riding conditions were fast changing with every kilometer covered. Winding, well paved, broken, dusty, clear, mountain, valleys, paddy fields, streams; its all in that 120 KMs from Trivandrum to Kutralam.

The story goes like this. Four souls, without any pretentions of an adventure, set out for a pleasure ride. This noble one was one among them. Aficionados say Royal Enfields have soul too. In that case it was Seven. Three Machines and Four Men. For the initiated, it may sound stupid to ride with a pillion. For the uninitiated, generally riders don’t like pillions unless it is an irresistible looking, slim damsel. John is anything but that. At last John decided to hitch a ride with Nandu. How can a bird fly if you tie it on a heavy weight? That’s exactly why Nandu’s Thunderbird could not fly on that day. John had kept her closer to the ground realities.

Sarath is a junior folk who works with me and john. Together, we have initiated him to many things (pun not intended); motorcycling is just one of that. His bike is just one year elder to him. It’s a classical story of a young man falling in love with an old lady.

I was riding a borrowed bike. It was my friend Ren Abraham’s bike. Since I am a narcissist and turncoat, I decided to tell some bad things about my magnanimous friend, that too in the very beginning of this story.

John is genuinely an early riser. I am a pretended early riser. Sarath is genuinely a late riser. Nandu is what nobody knows. Now, there is nothing left to imagination at what time this ride story must have begun. The only early riser was left without a bike! Eh?

From city limits to wilderness, it does not take much time in Kerala. By the time you are in your fourth gear you are out in the woods. God was not in a colorful mood when He painted Kerala. Hence He painted this entire patch in one color. Green!! The only different color one can see is Red. I must add that Marxist too hates multi color.

Unlike in the other states of India, in Kerala, the countryside is not very stark contrast to the cities. There is lot of village in the city and there is a lot of city in Villages. The universal Thattukadas offer good food. Though the glitter of city life tapers off a bit as you enter the countryside, it is not as bad or drastic in any other states in the country. Statistics may pout the poverty figures in Kerala but one wonders about its visible non existence, at least at the periphery level.

The route is spotted with too many touristy kind of places but these places still retains the innocents of a virgin and does not throw seducing smiles at you under the make up of unfeeling commercialism. Thenmala and Palaruvi are worth a look on the way. Simians are everywhere in these places. They too have abandoned the treasures of the wild and addicted to the food wastes the tourists throw at them.

On the way to Shengotai, a meter gauge railway over-bridge along the sidelines of the road is an interesting sight. The architecture is distinctly British. And anything that is not Indian you start instantly admiring.

I feel sorry for the mortals who do not believe in miracles. Through the dense forest you drive and reach the peak of the mountain range and the topography suddenly changes as if you have turned a page of an album. Leave Kerala and get into the state of Tamilnadu. Everything changes drastically. Roads get better and straighter. Agriculture lands are cultivated, unlike Kerala where people are least interested in agriculture.

On the way we have taken breaks liberally; for breakfast, for pee stops, for taking snaps, for immersing in a beautiful view, and for giving some relief to the tortured butts. For a seasoned rider this may look silly but for us, we were more interested in the journey than the destination.

Popularity is never a measure of quality, I know that. In one Malayalam movie, there is even a song about the beauty of Kutralam. After visiting the place I doubt that the lyricist had some serious impairment somewhere.

Midway back, I gave the thunderbird some respite from John and lo she started flying. Nandu rode the old lady, again John as pillion. She must have cursed me for this. What to do; men are men, pleasure seeking creatures.

First ride of the season will leave you with a sore butt. One needs to experiment with a variety of riding positions to counter the pain. The last thirty kilometers ride from Palod to Kowdiar circle was an atonement for almost all the sins that we may have committed in the last seven incarnations.

While I was writing this story, Sarath came over for asking me about the details of riding in Himalayas. I smiled and thought. Open road-Enfield combination is best to be avoided. Because once bitten by that one would be smitten for a lifetime. The young man is smitten indeed.

2006-03-31T14:37:00.000+05:30

Seashore musings - Gokarna

2006-03-31T14:22:00.000+05:30

Crows, Man and the Sea-Gokarna

Gokarna – The God’s Own Country.

2006-03-31T12:04:00.000+05:30

However mighty one may be, there would always be a mightier force; the demon king Ravana got the first taste of this eternal truth at Gokarna. What a plight that was! He had plucked and juggled the mighty Himalaya but could not lift a small Shivalinga?!! Welcome to one of the most important abodes of Lord Shiva on the earth – Gokarna. Another legend says that Lord Parashuram had reclaimed this beautiful narrow stripe of land from Gokarna to Kanyakumari. A small town nestled along the coast of southern Karnataka; Gokarna is a place where both soul seekers and pleasure seekers throng in big numbers. The first genre comes here for the blessings of the Lord of Lords and the second kind for its beaches. Life in Gokarna lazes around the temple and the beaches.

The narrow roads are claustrophobic. Hoards of tattooed western vagabonds, dressed scantly, in all shapes and age, riding loud Royal Enfields, move through the narrow lines of Gokarna with the ease and familiarity of their own back yard. The white sand, blue water beaches could give a complex to the much-touted Goan or Kerala beaches but are littered with all kinds of trashes. In fact trashes are everywhere. Why beaches should be an exception? The odd mix of the scent of flowers, sandal paste, agarbattis and the odor of cow dung linger in the respiratory tracks even after one leaves Gokarna.

The sublime chanting of sree rudram that flows from the records of some of the countless shops that sell conch shells to copper vessels, tell the glory and the omnipresence of the supreme soul. Gokarna’s place in the Hindu mythology is very special. It’s believed that if the descendents do the posthumous rituals for their ancestors here, their soul would rest in peace forever.

For the beach side vendors, the white skin still rules. Swadesis like you and me may get an impassive look from them; you poor Indian. On the beach side, from tender coconut to bananas everything seems to be priced at the dollar value. Free economy –eh?!!

The legendary Lord Shiva temple, inside out, does not have the opulence of even a small temple but that’s the way Lord Shiva is. Inside the temple the atma linga that has its references in ancient scriptures like Shivapurana, rest in an extremely simple sacred sanctum. One can get in and worship the Lord in the sacred sanctum. Remember, this is something that one cannot do according to the south Indian temple traditions where a priest is a compulsory medium between the devotee and the God. In Gokarna too the priests are there, but you could worship directly while they chant the Vedic hymns. Hence Gokarna is special, though you may be put off by the priestly community’s hunger for money. Access to the God cannot be cheap!!

In spite of the trashes, crowd, noisy Enfields and the pleasure hunting naked tattoo brood, there is a thick silence surrounding the temple, mysteriously. Amidst all these chaos, the Lord of Lords is in deep meditation. The silence flows and touches your consciousness. I took a handful from that eternal flow. Gokarna is truly a God’s own country.