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A STORY FROM VINOD MEHTA OF "OUTLOOK" MAGAZINE

Posted on 2007.06.23 at 22:19
This article by Vinod Mehta is from his column "Delhi Diary" in "Outlook Weekly". 
I am reproducing the article here.

A Friend Goes
He had no name, no address, no home, no relatives, no religion, no job, no belongings. He was destitute in a very basic sense. For the past three years, this handsome, dignified, quiet man (probably in his 50s), who lived on the pavement outside the Outlook office in Safdarjung Enclave, had become my friend. Every evening I used to give him 30 rupees which he accepted without too much fuss. Sometimes when he was absent, doing petty chores for some kind soul in our market, I used to wait for him so that I could give him his allotted sum. Last winter, I bought him a new blanket and just three months ago, I give him two of my old shirts. He asked for trousers which I promised I would deliver.

Our relationship deepened because he used to look after a couple of stray dogs. I increased his daily allowance slightly, getting him to swear he would feed the dogs daily. The sight of him playing and patting the strays with genuine affection always put me in a good mood. I regret the only conversation I used to have with him was, "I hope you are feeding the dogs." He always replied: "They have no one except you and me." Then the heat wave came. Because he lived out in the open, he got sick. Last week, when I found him missing, I went looking for him. He had just come back from the doctor. I gave him a 100 rupees for medicine. "This is more than enough," he said. He got rapidly worse. Again, I gave him some money.

The following morning his dead body was lying clumsily bundled outside the office. Cheap incense was burning by his side. The dogs he fed were sitting beside the corpse silently. When I came out for lunch, he had already been cremated by some people in the market. Shining India had lost an unshining Indian.

This story is from this week's "Outlook" weekly magazine. It touched me in two different ways:
First of all, Mr Mehta, the writer, took time to know a pavement dweller and help him stay without the pavement dweller's constant, nagging companion: hunger.

Secondly, the guilt in Mr Mehta's tone shows that he is well- meaning. He is not writing this story to proclaim his little acts of "service", but to recount how the poor man's existence juxtaposed with the life of Mr Mehta himself.

We need more journalists like him in India. 


LIVING LANGUAGE

Posted on 2007.05.14 at 20:38

Despite having been away from home for the best part of the last three decades, i have not become a complete NRI. i do not wear bermudas, i do not speak with accents, i am at ease only when i change into my "dhoti" (mundu) and kurta at home. The revolutionary adaptation i have recently (since 1999) made is that i have come to accept T shirt as a (poor) substitute for kurta. All these might be unreasonable fixations to today's hair-dye-donned, pedicured, manicured and facial-make-up-wearing "new" Malayali middle class,  but i cannot help it. And through our early years in a true *nowhereland, i struggled to ensure that my daughter learnt to read and write Malayalam, my first language. Even today, after having lost touch with her actual motherland since the age of fourteen, my daughter still speaks good Malayalam. i am sure that she has not forgotten how to write also. She is very multilingual. She knows enough French to get around in Francophone nations, she is more than an accomplished writer in English and she can speak at least two other languages. 

i think it is important for us to be aware of ourselves. And there is no better way to the heart of a culture, tradition than through the language. i have lived in various countries, and tried my best to be able to communicate in the local tongues. How well it is appreciated stands  testimony to the fact that language bridges communication gaps. 

i have taught English for a living for all these "best part of three decades" but in my heart, i am very much aware of my limitations in English. True, we in colonial countries tend to pick up some of the nuances of the old "Master's" tongue, but it is in transforming that "Master's tongue" to a new idiom that one succeeds, especially as a writer, not really as a teacher. As a teacher, i can manoevure in a very limited area. First of all, i do not teach, rather i have never taught, students whose first language is English or Malayalam. Such a situation throws up unexpected obstacles. for instance, in one of the countries i taught, the first language of my students had a common word for the Third Person Singular masculine and feminine genders. This caused problems for me initially because i never knew about this limitation of their language. In another country, 'bring' and 'take' had one common word. 

And so it goes. How do i overcome this? It is practically very difficult. But i have always been blessed with enthusiastic and scholarly local colleagues whom i consult when i come across errors in the same pattern. 

That is why i have never been frustrated about teaching in this continent.  

        
____________________________________________________________________________________________
* nowhereland: without mentioning the country, let me tell you this. This is a place where my companion decided to write a weekly "newsletter" to her parents so that eventually, she started receiveng letters from home every week while i silently marvelled at her ability to continuously write about every little thing (excluding how drunk i was each day) home! It took 12 days for a letter to make its way to that town. Before entering the post office to check the post box, you had to stop at the entrance where two stern-faced soldiers would frisk you. Women soldiers frisked females.


M.T VASUDEVAN NAIR: AN IDOL FOR EVER!

Posted on 2007.05.11 at 22:24
Current Music: 'Tharakam irulil maayukayo' Abdul Khader
M.T 
Maadaththu Thekkeppaattu
That is a 'clan name'. In Kerala we say it is the 'family name'. After coming to the continent of light, i learnt that that could have a more logical expression as a 'clan'. 

M.T

These two letters are music to me. 
They are the initials of the writer i have adored throughout my life, since i was nine years old; when i first read 
" Nalukettu", his first novel.  After that each of M.T's footsteps was closely followed by this wide eyed youngster. His "Manju" was read, re-read and automatically memorised. Getting a collection of M.T short stories from the Mahila Samajam library in my maternal village would be a day of festival for me. When NBS brought out his first "Selected Stories" collection and i was able to get hold of itwhile at my mother's 'tharavad' for a midsummer holiday, i ran back that one mile from library to my home and finished reading that in two days! 

My early attempts  in writing was in short story genre. i was an unabashed M.T acolyte. i read and reread his "Kaathikante Panippura" (A Short Story Writer's Workshop) and for a teenager, it was an unbelievable experience. Until i left India, i had followed each of M.T's venture. When he made his first film "Nirmmaallyam" (based on "Pallivaalum Kaalchilambum", a short story) my friends and i watched it many times merely to support him. We knew M.T had registered the film company called "Novel Films (Kerala)" and that the film itself was made on a shoestring budget. And what a film it turned out to be! During my singing days (years!) i sang the song "Thenthinnathaano" (from that film) with my group and won many prizes. i met M.T only once in person. That was when i worked for a newspaper in the ancient port city. i was sent to cover a function in which M.T was the main speaker. i went earlier than everyone, waited for him to arrive, drank in every word that he said. i was too awed to go and try and speak to him. i felt he needed his aloneness or loneliness, as he himself put it. He had written once that loneliness was his mistress.

i have been reading a eulogical biography of M.T in 'Desabhimani Weekly'. 
It is as engrossing as M.T's writing. 


And M.T, you will always be my idol.

O.P NAYYAR: HEARD MELODIES, UNHEARD TALES!

Posted on 2007.03.29 at 22:52
i did not know O.P Nayyar or his music in my childhood. But there were songs that always made you whistle or hum the tunes: as a child i ran around humming incorrectly "Aankhon, yeh aankhon, ishaara ho gayaa", "pukaar taa chalaa hoon mein..", "Hoton pe gulaab hain, aankhon mein sharaab hein, zanam haseena jawaa..." and the sad numbers like" Tukde hein mere dil ke, o yaar teri aansoo.." , "jaayiye aap kahaan jaaooongaa.."



i took serious note of O.P Nayyar when i read an article by a music critic R.S Asari in which he said he found parallels between Nayyar and our owb Devarajan Master. That was enough for me to turn my attention to this Hindi film music maverick. But imagine a little boy in a village in Kerala trying to find  songs of O.P Nayyar from wherever he can in the 1960s. He had no access to internet or sms. No television. Film news were given importance only on Sundays even in the most popular newspapers. The difference with me was that i met cousins from the North during summer holidays in my maternal village. They were city boys who sang and whistled Hindi songs.

O.P Nayyar's music is easily recognisable. It is effortless. He might habe been a keen listener of the Rock 'n roll era songs of Cliff Richard, Elvis Presley, et al because one could not help tapping omne's feet to O.P Nayyar songs
. They were so reminiscent of the rock'n roll. There was an ethereal joy he conveyed through his songs. i never liked his sad tunes. i do not think he could be effectively sad! There is this song in "Mere Sanam": "Tukde hain mere dil ke" sung by Rafi saab. Only because Rafi Saab was so versatile and literally weep while he sang a sad song, i could tolerate that one.

i am no expert of Hindustani or Hindi music, but i know that O.P Nayyar was not like any other music composer in Hindi. He got only 'B' grade films with minor actors like the horrible Joy Mukherji and Biswajeet. He had his idiosyncracies. He opted not to have Lata Mangeshkar sing any of his songs. Instead he linked with Asha Bhonsle to form an enduring relationship in music and in life. Although they never got married, it was public knowledge that Asha was O.P's!

He was in a way subversive. It is believed he cut Mohammed Rafi off all his songs for two years because Rafi Saab arrived late for one of his recording sessions! During that period he took Mahendra Kapoor under his wing. Mahendra Kapoor, if you remember, was a "poor man's Rafi".

What pained me was to read that he was almost on the street at the time of his death. He lived in Dharavi. A far cry from Juhu or Malabar Hill! He knew Homeopathy. He was known as a Homeopath in his neighbourhood. It is believed that most of the neighbours never knew that this was the man who made the whole of music loving India to tap their feet to his tunes for a long time.

Life is cruel, isn't it?

JADUGUDA’S SORROWS

Posted on 2007.03.13 at 21:10
A friendly warning to anyone who continues reading this from here on: if you are looking for a lighthearted, chatty piece of fictional or real experience from the past garnished with self- deprecating humour, you wil be disappointed. This post is about the serious consequences of the mindless pursuit of technological and scientific first world fantasies of the third world. What you read here is absolutely true. If  you do not believe me or suspect me of being a "traitor" (a name freely used by the Hindu fundamentalist groups against anyone who questions the wisdom of the euphoria surrounding India's newfound "nuclear" status or someone who says something like, "Wow! The Pakistanis gave us a real thrashing in the last match, didn't they?" ) you may contact Shriprakash, the Ranchi based journalist who has been working tirelessly to get the authorities do something about the Jaduguda question: 

kritikashri@yahoo.com

Had anyone enquired about Jaduguda three years ago and posed questions like its geographical location and its contemporary significance, this writer would have had to confess to his total ignorance. By the time I completed my journey of discovery into Jaduguda’s blood, sweat, tears and her maimed children, I was at a loss for words. Even now, I am stupefied, numbed and ashamed when the graphic details of Jaduguda unravel themselves. I cannot ever claim to have seen, understood or experienced the soul- wrenching events through which this little village has stumbled and tottered her way. As we keep on boasting about our (colonial) education, information and knowledge, new and rude enlightenment falls on us like thunderbolts and humbles us. The harsh realisation that Jaduguda bestowed on me makes me shudder; it has made me humbler and more compassionate than I have ever been.
 
It was the enquiry about a documentary film titled "Buddha Weeps in Jaduguda" that led me into the middle of the inferno called Jaduguda. It does not matter how much we write our writings or how long we speak our speeches, to understand the sorrows of Jaduguda during the past two and a half decades is not easy. Jaduguda's journey into the twenty-first century has been dotted with pitfalls.
 
Jaduguda is in the newly formed Jharkhand State. In 1967, U.C.I.L (Uranium Corporation of India Limited) established a Uranium mine in Jaduguda. The population of Jaduguda comprises Dalits belonging to the Santahl, Ho tribes - people whom we, the urbanites call 'Adivasis', (with condescension, of course). This is the one and only Uranium processing plant in the whole of our mother India. (I mention this especially for the attention of educated Malayali parents who are keen about their children's general knowledge)! Irrespective of political affiliations and leanings, this institution serves as the cornerstone of the Government of India's ambitious nuclear programme. This one plant processes uranium required for all the Pressurised Heavy Water Reactors. There are three Uranium mines in this plant and three Copper mines nearby. These mines are the solid foundation (!) of India's nuclear programme. There is heavy military security and visible police presence adding to the aura of secrecy surrounding this complex.
 
The village of Jaduguda is in the Singhbhum district where mining has gone on since the days of the British Raj. Twenty- six minerals including Iron ore, copper, uranium, bauxite and manganese are mined here. Jaduguda is a fertile valley. It is the catchment area of the Subarnarekha River that flows through Bihar, Orissa and Bengal into the Indian Ocean. Jamshedpur, the steel city is only twenty kilometres away. According to environmental surveys conducted in Jamshedpur, there are high levels of Radon (a highly radioactive gas produced by mining) in the atmosphere of Jamshedpur.
 
TRUTHS OF JADUGUDA MINE
 
The mining takes place 1600-2000 feet underground. The majority of the workforce (read labourforce) in these mines is the actual landlords of the Jaduguda lands; the Dalits. These workers do not have any protective clothing. They wear cotton overalls and leather gloves. Ore is transported to the mill in Jaduguda in trucks. Tarpaulin, torn and worn out in many places, is used to cover the ore on the open truck. Atop this, workers are seen enjoying a free ride.
 
In the mill, the ore is ground to a fine powder. Then, through an acid leach process, it is chemically processed. The rock pieces from which uranium has been removed (99.94%) are thrown away as waste. Jaduguda produces 200 tons of uranium as U308. The plant is capable of processing 1000 tons of ore. In short, the staggering fact is that Gandhiji's pacifist India mines 3, 30000 - 3, 60000 tons of rock, powders it and 'throws away' waste through the mighty organisation called U.C.I.L.
 
This tailings, or waste in common man's tongue, is processed in lime to render the acid content in it harmless. After that, it is separated as coarse and fine. The fine part is dissolved (?) in water and is pumped through overhead pipes above Jaduguda and sent into the Tailings Dam, its final Resting-Place.
 
Uranium is not the only radioactive element in the ore.   There is about a dozen other elements known as uranium decay products. Apart from that, poisonous elements like zinc, manganese, cadmium, arsenic etc., are not removed in processing. The most mobile element in the tailings is Radon222. In wind of 10km p/h, Radon travels a distance of up to 1000 km. Inhaling and ingesting Radon (it dissolves in water) are extremely hazardous.
 
There are three Tailings Dams in Jaduguda, all of which are uncovered. Although they may absorb solid materials, the gaseous emissions as well as microscopic particles from these dams creep into the life-breath of the villagers silently. In summer, when the water dries up in the dams, wind carries the waste products all over the village. During the monsoon rains the dams overflow into the river. The villagers have traditionally used these grounds for grazing and playing football. As the dams are constructed in the middle of the shortcut to the forest, the villagers use it as a thoroughfare in summer. The U.C.I.L complex has extended its talons to the farmlands of the Dalits. It has not reached their homesteads. Consequently, the villagers live as close as 30 metres to the Tailings Dam.
 
THE 'PROLETARIATE' IN JADUGUDA
 
There are Seven Thousand workers in the Jaduguda mine. Ninety per cent of these are  
Dalits. As mentioned earlier, they work wearing cotton clothes and handle the highly radioactive material using ordinary leather gloves. These unfortunate workers are prone to radiation more than any other personnel in the nuclear 'industry' are. In line with the true secular tradition and constitution of our mother India, the U.C.I.L will swear by Bhagavat Gita, Holy Koran and Holy Bible that there never has been an iota of radiation seen or observed or reported among the labour force. However, the death toll among the workers from 1994 to 1998 shows another chilling picture:
 
YEAR
1994
1995
1996
1997
DEATHS
17
14
19
21
(Courtesy: J.O.A.R)
 
The workers are aware of the anti- nuclear and anti- radiation campaign being conducted by J.O.A.R and other like- minded organisations. Consequently, there is widespread discontent and restlessness among the workforce. The reaction of U.C.I.L to the discontentment and restlessness of the workers is typical of any capitalist monopoly! They have ignored and refused to accept that there are very bad practices at work in the Jaduguda establishment. In order to "teach" the workers a lesson, the U.C.I.L has resorted to hiring workers through private labour providers. (Do you hear the echoes of John Gunther's 'Inside Asia'? Remember that Gunther wrote that book in the 1930’s! How much have things changed since then?)
 
Those who are permanently employed by U.C.I.L, if they fall ill, are admitted to the hospital in the complex. Their medical records, including history of ailment, diagnosis, treatment, etc., are a closely guarded secret. Following immense public pressure, the Bihar State Health Department conducted a study regarding the general conditions in Jaduguda. In its report after that study, the health department had to admit that there were several unhealthy practices going on about waste dumping, especially. It said that the Tailings Dam in Jaduguda was being used as waste disposal structure for all other nuclear plants in India. (I understand that this has been stopped. Is that right, Shri?) The report also mentioned that the river was being polluted and was highly hazardous as uranium was flowing into it from the Tailings Dam. Various extraneous factors forced the health department to stop there. They dared not question the presence of the mighty nuclear juggernaut in Jaduguda!
 
 
JADUGUDA'S CHILDREN
 
The number of genetically deformed children is on the increase in Jaduguda. One- eyed children, children with partially formed skulls, missing toes, deformed palms and so on and so forth. One look at the pictures of some of these unfortunate "Children of God" will make one hang one's head in shame knowing that this is a stark reality with which the people of Jaduguda have to live. Genetic deformities are the consequences of low-level radiation.
 
For your children, who sing "Johnny, Johnny Yes Papa" on their riotuous and joyous way to play-school in tie and jacket, carrying their tiffin boxes, Jaduguda may remain a question and an answer in a general knowledge lesson. They are unaware of the curse of Jaduguda and its long-term impacts. God bless them. They are the embodiments of (y)our hopes; in some cases, (y)our unfulfilled ambitions, (y)our in-satiated avarice. But remember that they are going to grow up into adults in an India where they will fear to breathe free because of the terrors the laws of our lands hold out to them. And remember this too: they are the children of the twenty first century. They grow up in a world where the mantra has changed from Gandhiji's "GramaSwaraj" to "GlobalSwaraj".      

When the Dalits allowed U.C.I.L to acquire their lands for peanuts, they too probably had great hopes - jobs at the plant or in the mines, good schools and education for their children, modern amenities in their impoverished homes. Those were some of the fruits of temptation extended to them by our "progressive-minded" planners, weren't they? The responsibility for making such hollow offers and ultimately leading them to the valleys of death lie squarely upon the shoulders of those unlettered politicians and their henchmen, the so- called "scientists". 
 
But, as we huddle around in the obscene comfort of our living rooms and go ecstatic watching a Tendulkar ton, Jaduguda is an aching truth, an open sore we strive to forget, or pretend as if it does not exist. It will be something more calamitous and apocalyptic than the 'successful detonation of peaceful nuclear devices' of 1974 and 1998 that will wake us up from this criminal silence, collective amnesia and neglect. Will you be there to "celebrate" such an event, distribute sweets and set off firecrackers as if India beat Australia in a World Cricket Cup final?
 
Who could be there?  

Even Buddha appears to have fled.

 



FROM ANOTHER BLOG

Posted on 2007.03.07 at 23:21
Current Music: SUN MERE BANDHOORE: S.D BURMAN

Life is always full of surprises. i was browsing for a photograph of Dr Ayyappa Panikker to add to a commemorative article (i am a NRI living in not-so-hightech environments) i want to publish in a souvenir (as we call it in India) celebrating the so-called "diamond jubilee" of Indian independance. i landed in a blog about Panikker Sir, and i found it interesting. That led me to reading other entries in the blog and discovered that this was a real perceptive woman. i do not subscribe to some of her views, especially the deification of M.K Gandhi, supposedly the Father of our Nation. 

Here i have copied and pasted a post on the negative contributions of the Bachchan clan that has been systematically used by the Mumbai film industry to mangle our aesthetic sense. She says that Amitabh ruined "Black", and that is true to the letter. If it were not for his wooden countenance, i would watch "Black" without missing a moment. As Smt Kochuthresiamma points out, had it been Naseeruddin Shah, Om Puri or Kamala Haasan, that character would have ben remembered for a long time. Amitabh Bachchan, like most Indian (Hindi) actors, does not know that an actor is only another instrument for a film maker. Amitabh is a star, and he can never ever come out of that "star personality" to do a film without inhibition. "Being John Malkovich" is a beautiful film that attempts the impossible; dissecting a star's brain by going inside it. Amitabh Bachchan or a whole generation of artificial "stars" in the Mumbai based Hindi film industry (i am deliberately not using that word. It is a disgrace.) will never understand what good film making is because they have never experienced it, they have never been enthusiastic about experiencing it. 

Thanks to Sreemathi Kochuthresiamma for the post below.


Deliver us from Bacchans, KANK and the media

What is God's name is happening to the electronic media? when the world is burning, chanel after chanel goes on and on and on about KANK. is that movie of some national importance? dont the channels realise that less than o% of the viewers care a ----- about it? granted , there might be some academic interest in how a movie targetting the global indian fares- but day after day, channel after channel--- it's really really too much, too much!!!! true, these are days of channel wars - but does that mean they should throw all sense of propriety to the winds?

And this obsessions with the Bacchans! Really, it's time someone told them to stay at home for sometime. it's a real assault on the eyes! movies, file shots, commercials, hoardings-please. we need a change.

But what surprises me is how a pedestrian stereotyed actor like the papa Bacchan can earn such superlative praises- guess that's the power of the media - it even managed to pull wool over the eyes of Sanjay Bhansali into casting him in that major role in BLack. If not for Bacchan's pathetic performance, am sure the movie would have gone places. Just imagine what it would be if Nasrudin Shah or some one of his ilk played that role!

Wish to God channels(IBM, NDTV, HEADLINES TODAY) would behave in a more level headed manner

posted by kochuthresiamma p .j at 6:26 PM


P.BHASKARAN: AN UNPARALLELLED PIONEER !

Posted on 2007.03.03 at 23:14

When we were watching the golden jubilee celebration of "Neelakkuyil" on Asianet in 2004, i said to my companion, , "Bhaskaran Master doesn't look as if he is 'in' it." 

She agreed without argument. Now, when i heard that he is no more, i remember Larry D'Souza's words, "One more wicket down, man! Seven to go!" He was referring to Mr Raval, our manager, when he died unexpectedly in 1988.

In Bhaskaran Master's case, we were all expecting it. But only One more wicket, mates! O.N.V sir is the only one remaining fromthe "triumvirate" of Malayalam lyrics! As a child, i sang songs from Neelakkuyil, Raarichchan Enna Powran, Bhagyajaatakam, Ninamaninja Kaalppaadukal and all those sixties films. i read Bhaskaran Master's poetry when i was a young boy. As i was reading "Ente Maattolikkavitakal" by Vayalar, and found his allusion to "Aavi Vandi" (Steam Engine) by Bhaskaran. i felt i had to find it. That is how i read Bhaskaran's poems first. From "AaviVandi" i graduated to "Vayalar Garjjikkunnu" (Vayalar Roars), "Orikkalkkoodi" (Encore) and "Orkkuka Vallappozhum" (Remember At Times: this is an embarrassingly weak translation).

Bhaskaran Master was the ultimate pioneer. He wrote the first "light songs" or what we should aptly call "pop songs" of Malayalam. He along with Ramu Kariat made the first notable Malayalam film "Neelakuyil". For that film they won a Silver Medal from the President of India. It was the first accolade for Malayalam cinema. Bhaskaran Master was deeply involved in the Communist movement, but he was also one of the first communist writers to move to fims. Unlike many others, Bahskaran Master never went around badmouthing the party. He merely changed his area of work. He kept a dignified silence about his antecedents as a "revolutionary".

His songs became benchmark for a young Vayalar and younger ONV to surpass which they did  with 
e lan. Despite the magical imagery of Vayalar and the lyrical compactness of ONV gaining more popularity,  Bhaskaran Master felt least threatened by them. He was a colossus. He was not only song writer; he was producer, screenplay writer, director and actor. He and M.S Baburaj formed one of the most fruitful musical associations in films. If i take ten top film songs from Malayalam, half of them would be of the famed Bahaskaran-Baburaj duo. 

He might not have done full justice to himself as a poet, but he did best what he thougt he should have done.

There will be no one to replace him. 

That i think, is the greatest tribute one can pay him; the fact that he is irreplaceable.

As long as Malayali remembers "Bhargaveenilayam", Bhaskaran Master will never be forgotten. As long as Malayali continues to be enchanted by the forlorn voice of a young S. Janaki with all those Bhaskaran Masrer "masterpieces", he will keep living. As long as Malayali keeps harking back to the past, to a young Yesudas singing in the pain of separation: "Thaamasamenthe varuvann praanasakhee...", and as we remain transfixed in the magic of that golden voice, Bhaskaran Master will be alive. 

From the tributes that have been poured out on the front pages of the Malayalam tabloid industry (i think that is the apt term to describe 'journalism' in Malayalam), the contributions of P. Bhaskaran the film director, the insightful film maker who discovered Sheela, the courageous helmsman who cast Prem Nazeer in an unglamorous role in "Iruttinte Aatmaavu" (The Soul Of Darkness) have been largely ignored. In the cliched idioms of the hacks, political windbags and hypocritical cinema world, P. Bhaskaran the pioneer of a fresh film culture in Malayalam has been totally forgotten. Perhaps they do not know it.

Well, one cannot expect anything else from the custodians of art and culture in the ".....'s Own Country".

Vayalar wrote a poem titled "Enikku Maranamilla" (I Never Die). 

We say to P. Bhaskaran: you will never die, sir.


AN ABYSSINIAN NOSTALGIA

Posted on 2007.03.03 at 22:35

"Why don't you write a book about all this?" My friend asked me yesterday, "You seem to have seen and experienced so much as a teacher!"

"I wish I had a publishing firm. Your experiences will make incredible reading."
Another friend's e-mail.

i think long and hard.

And now, i am here, in front of this keyboard, whose visage reveals ageing keys with letters faded on them. Most of the time i type from memory, than knowing what key to punch.

When i compare my experiences with those of many others, i feel no confidence to say that my experiences are incredibly unique or will be really relevant to be preserved for posterity. My travels across the continent has opened my eyes to realities i would never have known had i not ventured into Africa. If i keep writing about my daily experiences starting from 1982 as teacher in Africa, it would make three volumes! The sight of classrooms filled to the brim with students of all ages in Abyssinia's fourteenth  century capital city remains ever fresh in my mind. It was simply awesome. One hundred and eight men and women packed into a largish hall; uniformed in coarse white cloth, the whole room buzzing like a thousand beehives.

i had stood before audiences in my life, many times before. Not to teach. 

This was my first venture into unknown territory. When taking me to the class Ato Eshetu Tadesse, the Head of English Department at Fasiledes Comprehensive School in Gondar said to me:

"Chandra, be warned. Most of our students won't understand you. Not because of your accent, but simply because they do not know any English," with a mischevous smile he continued, "You may teach them only grammar. Basic grammar."

As i stood before this one hundred and eight faces, friendly faces, most of them; probing looks in many of them; suspicious look in many of them; distrust in some; i felt my throat going dry. 

"Progressive English Book 12" was a grammar text book. However, in front, on the third page, there was a poem by Bertolt Breccht. i had read that poem long ago, in India, but never imagined in my most outrageous fancies that i would see a textbook with it.

Suddenly, i saw a hand raising from the farthest row. i said, "Do you have a question?"
The hall fell silent when i started to speak.

"Yes Mister," the speaker stood up. He was on crutches.

"How is Gondar?" He said, and looked around, impressed with himself about that enquiry. The students roared with laughter.

This fellow may be a class clown, i thought.

"Well," i began,"Gondar looks very beautiful. i have read about Gondar even before i arrived in Ethiopia so that i know that this is a historically important city in the country. You are lucky to belong here," i said.

That seemed to work. i don't know how i managed so much, but i thanked my stars.

After the period,  the fellow on crutches came to me. He smiled. "My name is Tsahai," he said. He was about my age at that time, and still in Grade XII.  

He had a story. He was a member of the Tigre Liberatin Front. They fought for years in the jungle. Many of them were captured by Ethiopian soldiers a few months ago in an ambush. He lost his left leg in that encounter. They were brought from the forests and sent to school.

UNESCO was co- sponsoring a literacy campaign in Ethiopia at that time. How i became a part of that is another long story.

Tsahai was no longer liberation warrior. He was forced to be a student. There were many like him.

i thought i had begun well. There was more, not everything as happy- ending, to follow in that magical country of Ethiopia.

One day, an official truck from the Provincial Governer's office would come blazing down the hill and screech at attention at the school gate. Unsmiling officers  would rush out and march straight to the Director's (school principal/ headmaster was called director)office and mutter something in Amharic, the official language. He would in turn call his deputy and instruct him hastily and nervously in Amharic, measuring words as he spoke.

The deputy would go around classrooms and collect an assortment of Abyssinian belles.

Many of them never came back to school. We did not know why they were taken away in the military truck. We did not know what happened to them. We never asked. We were glorified slaves doing slave labour.

Ethiopia, especially Gondar, was mysterious. 
It was a small town, generally quiet; but it was an uneasy quietness. 


Gondar (sometimes spelt "Gonder") was the capital of Abyssinia between the 14th and the 17th centuries. Historical landmarks are many like the Fasiledes Castle, Mentwab Castle on the outskirts of the town, and the magnificent Debre Berhan Selassie church: it was the first time i saw a church in a circular building. The ceiling paintings of Debre Berhan Selassie church are incredible. The large compound is secured by a stone wall which houses thirteen egg shaped cubicles at thirteen strategic points. They are called "inkulaal beth" (egg houses). The thirteen egg houses are for Jesus and his twelve disciples. When we visited that place with an Ethiopian friend, Ato Zewge Mariam, the egg houses still were used by reclusive monks who read from parchments written in "Geez", the classical Ethiopian language.

Unforgettable journey.  


Coleridge sang about his Abyssinian maid in "Kubla Khan" and her song of Mount Abora. The mystery of that imagery sums up Ethiopia.

This is but only a fragment from my Abyssinian adventures. 
____________________________________
 * 'Ato' in Amharic means 'Mr'. The feminine gender is "Aanchi".


MADHAVIKKUTTY: WOMAN AS INDIVIDUAL

Posted on 2007.01.27 at 21:55
Current Music: K.L SAIGAL
Kamala Surayya is leaving Kerala for good.

Kamala Surayya aka Kamla Das aka Madhavikkutty, one of the writers i had idolised through my childhood (after reading "The Red Skirt" aka "Chuvanna Pavaada and other stories from Mathrubhumi weekly)and adulthood, and still think about with a special warmth for the pleasure she gave me as a writer.

By some quirk of fate, i ended up her translator for a few months. i translated her poem "from The Holiday Inn". i also translated her journalistic writings during that period. She was the contributing editor of a magazine (name withheld deliberately) for which i worked as an Assistant Editor. It was an incredible experience to see her come into our office and chat with us about things we could do to make interesting reading material. She even wrote a beauty tips column in the magazine under the pseudonym "Dr K.T Unnimaya". We used to receive admiring letters addressed to the "doctor" and have good laughs in the office about the doctor being our beloved "Madhavikkutty" whom we all addressed "Monuvinte Amma": "Monu" being Mr M.D Nalappat, now a renowned journalist in his own right.

i never visited her in their home at Poojappura. In some ways, we are relatives too. My mother hails from Punnayoorkkulam (her paternal home). In Kamala Surayya's Malayalam writings, there are many references to my grandfather's home.

i read her book "Neermaatalam Pooththa kaalam" recently. It is, as one can expect from Madhavikkutty, very sincerely written. There is a straightforwardness or directness in Madhavikkutty's Malayalam that makes her writing eminently sincere. And it is very difficult to say how much is fiction and how much is reality. The book resonates with two of the primary fears of "Madhavikkutty" : ageing and loneliness. She has written that book in a state of feeling increasingly lonely, old, cheated and helpless. The book does not lament, for that is not "Madhavikkutty's" style; is it? It is nostalgic without being sentimental. From the nostalgic trip, she also unravels the characters who influenced her life most: her father and mother.

Her father's aloofness, her mother's preoccupation with poetry, nationalist movement and complete ignorance of outer world (by outer world, i mean a world outside the idealist island-world of hers). i can very much empathise with "Madhavikkutty" in her childhood, because i grew up in a household where children grew up under the tutelage of maids, drivers and cooks.

My earliest memories of childhood are dominated by my memories of Valiamma, my mother's elder sister. She sang songs to us, she told us the first stories we heard. She smelled of sandalwood and sesame oil. After some time she was gone. After she went, we were rudderless for a while with my father and mother spending a lot of time away from home. Valiamma's stories were replaced by our maids' gossip stories and our cook's stories which were always about a man who had a "kudukka". i do not find an equivalent English word. Perhaps a "calabash". This calabash could provide a full meal for any numbrer of persons. You had to merely chant a mantra. In each version, he changed the location from Ottappalam to Shoranur to Palappuram to Chengannur and even Trivandrum. He also changed the name of his hero: ramankutty, Krishnan, Sankaran, etc. When he ran out of names he used names of Hindi film stars: Dilip Kumar, Dev Anand, Raj Kapoor, etc.

i don't know if "Neermaatalam Pooththakaalam" is a complete book. She had already courted more controversy than good criticism for that brilliant autobiography, "My Story", which she later went on to deny was an autobiography. When i met her during my magazine work, she once said to me, "There is no more Madhavikkutty. There is only Kamala Das. Madhavikkutty is no more." i was stunned to hear this from her. If someone had told me that she said those words, i would never have believed.

In that one moment, i winced; and she went down from my pedestal.
i felt she was disowning herself, in order to protect something. Or somebody.

That was almost thirty years ago. Today, i read in the newspaper that she was leaving Kerala for ever. i felt she should have left much earlier. And now i understand what she meant all those years ago when she ripped off that precious alter ego of hers from her:

She meant that she realised how barbaric Malayalis are in Kerala. As the person who wrote "My Story", she might definitely have experienced inquisitive males and females in social gatherings peering at her in that strange, "knowing" way.

Not that she has never been guilty of overreacting or being demonstrative in a naive manner. she distributed sweets to friends after the Pokharan blast in 1998 "celebrating" India's newfound self- promotion to the international "nuclear club". That was naive, to say the least. She sometimes took crucial decisions on the advice of people who had accosted her for personal gains, and such decisions led her to doing a lot of damage to her life, relationships, and even her writing. She liked popularity. She liked the limelight. Unfortunately, in her later years, the ways she was brought under the glare of limelight was not always in favourable conditions. For people who always loved her seeing her in such situations was heartbreaking.

Perhaps she is regretting all that now, and she wants to fade into the sunset in her privacy. In a life where Kamala Surayya resurrects as Kamala Das; the person she always has been. It is as Kamala Das that she shone more than she did as Madhavikkutty. This is a purely personal opinion.i do not discount anything that Madhavikkutty wrote for us, but it is Kamala Das the poet who is best remembered. In an obscure town in Africa, the English lecturer in the local university asked of me, "How is Kamala?"

The whole life of Kamala Das is summed up in the little poem she wrote, "Until I Met You". i cannot remember the poem, to quote.

However, it is sad that Kerala has virtually disowned her by eventually letting her go.

Kamala Das aka Surayya has bled all these years, wept in her privacy all these years for Madhavikkutty; the alter ego she so agonisingly ripped out of herself. Or thought she had ripped out of herself.

The loss is ours. We will realise it only after she dies a lonely death (no matter how comfortable she is going to be in her last days) in her son Jayasoorya's flat in the dusty Pune.

Good bye Kamala. Many of us are proud of you. You are not the loser.

It is Kerala and the Malayalam language that are the losers.

DARK STAR SAFARI: JOURNEY INTO THE HEART OF AFRICA

Posted on 2006.12.08 at 22:30
Current Mood: enthralled
Current Music: BOB DYLAN
"Dark Star Safari" by one of my favourite writers, Paul Theroux, is a very interesting travelogue. Theroux records the stories of his overland safari from Cairo to Cape Town. Of course, he does not touch all African countries in this ambitious trip. Even then, it is an unbelievable trail. The only time he used a plane was when getting to Sudan from Egypt.

Egypt, the Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, Tamzania, Malawi, Zimbabwe, Mozambique and South Africa. These are the countries he visits. Most of these "crossovers" are on rickety trains, buses, ancient ferries (across Lake Victoria) or rattling trucks.

For Teheroux, this journey is in a way, homecoming. He had worked as a peace corps teacher in Malawi in the Nineteen Sixties. He had also worked in Uganda after leaving Malawi.

What is most amazing about the account in this 495 page book is that it is a pleasantly readable book, almost as easy-to-read as a novel. There are parts where Theroux sounds awkward; like when he expresses his good wishes to all whom he had met during his exploratory travels. It could well have been worse of a "white man slumming in Africa" sterotype, but despite failings, Theroux writing rings honest. And there is no blowing his trupmet anywhere.

Some of Theroux's experiences are hilarious as well as incredible. i liked this one:

He is in a bus crossing the Ethiopian Moyale and entering the Kenyan Moyale. The bus is stopped by armed bandits known as "Shiftas". They are reckless killers, and they are armed with deadly AK 47s. Theroux now really fears for his life. He enquires of a co-traveller what was going to happen. The co-traveller shakes his head. "I do not want to die," says Theroux. The co-traveller, a soldier says, "They will not kill you. They only want your shoes."

Let me continue in Theroux's words,"Many times after that, in my meandering through Africa, I mumbled these words, an epitaph of underdevelopment, desperation in a single sentence. What use is your life to them? it is nothing. But your shoes - ah, they are a different matter, they are worth something, much more than your watch (they had the sun) or your pen (they were illiterate) or your bag (they had nothing to put in it). These were men who needed footwear, for they were forever walking." (P.163)

No better way to put the plight of the Shiftas into perspective!

That is why i liked the book. It has deep insights. There are exaggerations, difficult chapters and untenable arguments. There are sentimental passages about Nadine Gordimer and her husband. There is also a self-mocking hilarity in events such as Theroux losing his bags which he had entrusted with the strongroom in a Johannesburg hotel, and the staff of the hotel simply closing that chapter with "We are sorry." More hilarious is when he says that his stomach that had held up throughout the tortuous Odyssey "exploded" on his flight back to America. As if it were saying "Enough is enough, Paul."

The parts where he goes back to his Malawi school and finds the graves of his headmaster and his wife covered with weeds, and his futile attempt to clean that place up do not really touch you as a reader. At best, such references read as if they are obligatory.

For all such faults, "Dark Star Safari" is worth the money. It is more than worth the time you take to read it.

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