"Neither a borrower nor a lender be" was the advice of the Bard. "Go, tell it to the bees," says today's youngster, for he believes in making his rupee go a little farther. Like the double-income family that had often found to their consternation "there was much of the month ahead at the end of their salary".
Asokan is a relieved man after he got himself a credit card. "My daughter's birthday gifts in the past were all bought out of borrowed money, because she was born in the last week of July," he says, explaining his predicament. "Meeting urgent expenses at the month-end is no problem now. And to top it, the credit on the purchases comes free if you pay the bills promptly," says Meena.
Mohan carries a clutch of credit cards in his wallet -- Citibank, HSBC, TimesCard, BOBCard... When he makes a purchase, he does not pull out a card at random. Some deliberation goes on before he selects the card. If it is the first week of the month, he uses the SBI card because it will get billed only in the first week of the next month and the amount will be due only in the last week of that month. In effect, Mohan gets a credit period of 50 days at zero interest. The same logic prompts him to choose the HSBC card for he may pay only in the second week. He takes advantage of the fact that the billing cycles of the cards are different.
But then there are others who have been bitten by the credit card bug and have a different tale to tell.
Shaji, a medical representative, pays his Diners' Club Card bill using his BOBCard in the first week of the month and his American Express Card bill using his SBI Card in the last week of the month. And the cycle goes on. Not quite smoothly, though, because cash draw against credit cards comes with a hefty price tag. The result is that each time this recycling takes place, the amount due under the bill snowballs fast and the cardholder falls, inexorably and irretrievably, into a debt-trap.
The anonymity that the credit card provides is a feature that attracts many of the users. They find that one's self-esteem does not become a casualty in the act of borrowing from an amorphous corporate lender. "It is embarrassing to be a debtor to someone I know. Why should I let her know how much or how frequently I have to resort to borrowing, or how long I take to pay it up?" asks Jayshree, who works with an insurance company.
The `cash-on-tap' feature -- the ready availability of money -- is what others are enamoured of. "If I do not have a card and need some money, I have to go round scouting for a friend who should not only be willing, but also have the cash in liquid form to spare. The credit card is ever ready to come to your rescue," gushes Rajan, who finds this a great charm. Is he not bothered about the cost? Rajan is quick to respond, "Yes, but this is the price I have to pay for the ready cash. I do not mind the cost. There is nothing called a free lunch."
Ashraf, who travels extensively within the country and abroad on business, finds his international credit card a great convenience, for he can avoid the hassles of carrying wads of notes and visits to the bank for foreign exchange. He settles all hotel bills, pays for entertainment and most purchases using his credit card, which is honoured across the globe.
"The notion that plastic money is widely accepted is a myth," says Raveendran Nair. The Railway timetable and the website say that reservation of tickets can be done at select counters (including Thiruvananthapuram) against credit cards. The young woman at the counter who drew his attention to a notice that said, `Only Cancards were accepted', turned him away. The complaint, which Nair had posted on the website of the Railways in early April, is yet to be acknowledged.
The credit card issuers use all the tricks in their bag to sell their wares.
`No joining fee' is a common bait. Some waive the annual fee for the first year or offer add-on cards at concessionary rates for your spouse or child. Whether you request for it or not (for a fee, of course, which gets billed), cards are renewed automatically. If they find that you use the card regularly and are not a defaulter, the cards are upgraded, higher credit or cash draw limits are offered. You can accumulate reward points that can be exchanged for goodies such as cosmetics, CDs, casual wear, travel goods, and other lifestyle products or services such as stay in hotels.
Co-branded cards are relatively new, but they have caught on. Leading the pack is Citibank cards that have tie-ups with the Jet Airways, Welcome Group of Hotels and even unlikely candidates such as The Times of India. Some petroleum retailers have tied up with credit card issuers. Apparel manufacturers, upmarket jewellers, restaurants, department stores... they are all queuing up to take advantage of the synergy by tying up with card issuers.
It is not as if you can get a credit card at will. Many do not entertain requests from those who are on the wrong side of 60, though existing cards are renewed even beyond this age.
The power of networking among the card companies and banks seems strong. Seven requests submitted by Ramesh for credit cards have been declined, apparently for the reason that the loan obtained by a firm in which he was a partner had turned sticky.
A defaulter gets hot-listed and might not know about it. If the girl at the counter returns your card to you after referring to the thick booklet, you might have to fork out currency notes with a sheepish grin and an apology.
This, though, is not foolproof, as Vijay Menon found out to his chagrin. No amount was due, but when the travel agent swiped his card, the control centre declined to authorise the transaction. Luckily, he had another card with which paid for the ticket. When he confronted the credit card company, they were apologetic, but the damage to his image could not be repaired.
Sundararaman, a disciplined user of credit cards says, "It is a boon if only you know how to use it. If you splurge just because you have a card, you'll end up paying for it dearly. On the contrary, you can stretch your money just that wee bit if you use it judiciously."
Saturday, August 09, 2008
MLM
"YESTERDAY, I ran into a disciple of Charles Ponzi," announced the economics professor in the staff room. "Charles who?" asked Alice, professor of zoology. "I'm sure you've seen many of them," Professor Kumar answered, "though you might not have recognised one."
Ponzi could be an adult of any age, but the typical member of this ilk is on the wrong side of 30. As the grey hairs, if not the balding pate, lend his words an amount of credibility, an older person fits the bill eminently. You know him casually. He is an affable, respectable person.
You run into him at a wedding reception or a public meeting where he renews the contact. A few days later, you receive an unexpected telephone call from him. In stray cases, it could be a surprise visit to your home. The initial move has been made. The conversation follows a predictable pattern: exchange of pleasantries followed by comparison of notes about loneliness in old age or the need for an active life that naturally leads to the topic of interaction with the other members of society. He would strike the unsuspecting prey at this moment.
"I have just what the doctor ordered," he will tell you. "You can meet respectable people on equal terms, you can lead an active life, you can keep fit and earn some money in the bargain," he tempts you. Who would complain if, in exchange of some effort, you get good health, active life and respect in society, with small change as the icing on the cake? Lets face it, if someone flashes money in your face, you're bound to take it. It is thus that you get into the wonderland of multilevel marketing (MLM), also called network marketing or pyramid marketing.
It is all very simple, he assures you. There are some world-class companies making top quality products that are not sold through the conventional route of distributors and retailers. In fact, these are not available in the market at all. These products are sold only through direct marketing (DM). As the quality is excellent and the products are frequently advertised in the media through catchy advertisements, you do not have to walk around selling your wares like a salesman. All you have to do is to buy and stock goods worth a few thousands of rupees and sell it to people you know.
You are invited to a small gathering where you are introduced to a few successful entrepreneurs who have made a neat pile doing this.
The rewards are not all monetary. There are other bonuses for performers. Usha shows off the umbrella gifted by the company and the other gifts such as perfumes she has been plied with as incentive for her sales. You are told that Albert, the star performer, could not come because he is in Naples -- the aggressive sales pitch and the figures he clocked fetched him a free family holiday. A housewife buttonholes you and tells you that the price tag of the items is apparently heavy, but you can make do with less quantity, and in the ultimate analysis, it works out to be less expensive.
To `see the quality of the product for yourself', you are given a sample sachet of car shampoo or detergent. Though the product is on the pricey side, the results are satisfying, you find. Be it wax polish, protein supplement, toothpaste or car wash, each of the products is excellent. The modern buzz word, VFM (value for money), sums it up. You might face difficulty in selling shoddy stuff, but vending quality products is no big deal. You can do it.
So you decide to join the network. You will distribute sample sachets, sell the goods among friends and relatives, buy more goods and continue the trade. You will experience, like the celebrated carpenter who built the better mousetrap, that those who have used it once will beat a path to your door. Your mind goes into overdrive; you get visions of Lindt chocolates, Tanishq jewellery and Pattaya Beach. You will get a handsome commission. Not just that, when you induct a new person into the system, you grow in the hierarchy and are entitled to an over-riding commission on the sales he canvasses. And on the sales of the persons he inducts. And so on. Every fortnight, you will get a hefty cheque and a computerised statement indicating how the amount has been worked out. You'll laugh all the way to the bank. Reads like a dream, doesn't it?
The tragedy is that it is destined to remain a dream because of the way MLM works (read `does not work'). The paradox is that it is very easy to understand how a Ponzi scheme (see `House of Cards' on MP-3) should work; it all seems so simple and so obvious. It is, unfortunately, somewhat more difficult to understand why this kind of scheme does not work. The truth is, this scheme does not work, except for those who get in at the first few levels. The vast majority of participants in such a scheme will only lose their original investment, and make no profit at all.
Why is this so? Simple arithmetic and common sense: there aren't so many people who would be willing to participate and the potential market for these goods is given. Most will not be able to get any buyers and therefore will make no money at all. "I ended up using all the toothpaste and had to give it away free to friends," confesses Aswathy.
All legitimate business activities, in some way, create wealth, or contribute to the creation of wealth. When you create a product that is worth more than what it cost to produce, you've created wealth. When you perform a service that is worth more than it cost to provide, you've created wealth. If you spend Rs. 50 for some tea leaves, sugar, water and kerosene, and then use these to make sufficient tea that can be sold to 30 people for Rs. 3 a cup, you've created wealth. You've taken ingredients worth Rs. 50 and used them to create a product worth Rs. 90. You've created new wealth worth Rs. 40.
Pyramid schemes produce goods of no significance, and they provide no service. In MLM, as in Ponzi schemes, no new wealth is created, the only wealth gained by any participant is the wealth lost by other participants. All they do is move existing wealth.
MLM or network marketing does exactly this.
There are, however, scores of loyalists who swear by network marketing.
They have made oodles of money, received expensive gifts and been treated to paid holidays by the company they work for.
Talk of the offensive mounted against MLM, and they are quick to dismiss it as the ranting of peeved retailers. The reason, they say, is not far to seek: having been kept out, they lose out on their profit and are, understandably, cheesed off. This is their truth!
Ponzi could be an adult of any age, but the typical member of this ilk is on the wrong side of 30. As the grey hairs, if not the balding pate, lend his words an amount of credibility, an older person fits the bill eminently. You know him casually. He is an affable, respectable person.
You run into him at a wedding reception or a public meeting where he renews the contact. A few days later, you receive an unexpected telephone call from him. In stray cases, it could be a surprise visit to your home. The initial move has been made. The conversation follows a predictable pattern: exchange of pleasantries followed by comparison of notes about loneliness in old age or the need for an active life that naturally leads to the topic of interaction with the other members of society. He would strike the unsuspecting prey at this moment.
"I have just what the doctor ordered," he will tell you. "You can meet respectable people on equal terms, you can lead an active life, you can keep fit and earn some money in the bargain," he tempts you. Who would complain if, in exchange of some effort, you get good health, active life and respect in society, with small change as the icing on the cake? Lets face it, if someone flashes money in your face, you're bound to take it. It is thus that you get into the wonderland of multilevel marketing (MLM), also called network marketing or pyramid marketing.
It is all very simple, he assures you. There are some world-class companies making top quality products that are not sold through the conventional route of distributors and retailers. In fact, these are not available in the market at all. These products are sold only through direct marketing (DM). As the quality is excellent and the products are frequently advertised in the media through catchy advertisements, you do not have to walk around selling your wares like a salesman. All you have to do is to buy and stock goods worth a few thousands of rupees and sell it to people you know.
You are invited to a small gathering where you are introduced to a few successful entrepreneurs who have made a neat pile doing this.
The rewards are not all monetary. There are other bonuses for performers. Usha shows off the umbrella gifted by the company and the other gifts such as perfumes she has been plied with as incentive for her sales. You are told that Albert, the star performer, could not come because he is in Naples -- the aggressive sales pitch and the figures he clocked fetched him a free family holiday. A housewife buttonholes you and tells you that the price tag of the items is apparently heavy, but you can make do with less quantity, and in the ultimate analysis, it works out to be less expensive.
To `see the quality of the product for yourself', you are given a sample sachet of car shampoo or detergent. Though the product is on the pricey side, the results are satisfying, you find. Be it wax polish, protein supplement, toothpaste or car wash, each of the products is excellent. The modern buzz word, VFM (value for money), sums it up. You might face difficulty in selling shoddy stuff, but vending quality products is no big deal. You can do it.
So you decide to join the network. You will distribute sample sachets, sell the goods among friends and relatives, buy more goods and continue the trade. You will experience, like the celebrated carpenter who built the better mousetrap, that those who have used it once will beat a path to your door. Your mind goes into overdrive; you get visions of Lindt chocolates, Tanishq jewellery and Pattaya Beach. You will get a handsome commission. Not just that, when you induct a new person into the system, you grow in the hierarchy and are entitled to an over-riding commission on the sales he canvasses. And on the sales of the persons he inducts. And so on. Every fortnight, you will get a hefty cheque and a computerised statement indicating how the amount has been worked out. You'll laugh all the way to the bank. Reads like a dream, doesn't it?
The tragedy is that it is destined to remain a dream because of the way MLM works (read `does not work'). The paradox is that it is very easy to understand how a Ponzi scheme (see `House of Cards' on MP-3) should work; it all seems so simple and so obvious. It is, unfortunately, somewhat more difficult to understand why this kind of scheme does not work. The truth is, this scheme does not work, except for those who get in at the first few levels. The vast majority of participants in such a scheme will only lose their original investment, and make no profit at all.
Why is this so? Simple arithmetic and common sense: there aren't so many people who would be willing to participate and the potential market for these goods is given. Most will not be able to get any buyers and therefore will make no money at all. "I ended up using all the toothpaste and had to give it away free to friends," confesses Aswathy.
All legitimate business activities, in some way, create wealth, or contribute to the creation of wealth. When you create a product that is worth more than what it cost to produce, you've created wealth. When you perform a service that is worth more than it cost to provide, you've created wealth. If you spend Rs. 50 for some tea leaves, sugar, water and kerosene, and then use these to make sufficient tea that can be sold to 30 people for Rs. 3 a cup, you've created wealth. You've taken ingredients worth Rs. 50 and used them to create a product worth Rs. 90. You've created new wealth worth Rs. 40.
Pyramid schemes produce goods of no significance, and they provide no service. In MLM, as in Ponzi schemes, no new wealth is created, the only wealth gained by any participant is the wealth lost by other participants. All they do is move existing wealth.
MLM or network marketing does exactly this.
There are, however, scores of loyalists who swear by network marketing.
They have made oodles of money, received expensive gifts and been treated to paid holidays by the company they work for.
Talk of the offensive mounted against MLM, and they are quick to dismiss it as the ranting of peeved retailers. The reason, they say, is not far to seek: having been kept out, they lose out on their profit and are, understandably, cheesed off. This is their truth!
COMING OF AGE
Literature, regardless of time and clime, is replete with stories of people resisting the stranglehold of age on them.
Take for instance, `The Picture of Dorian Gray', by Oscar Wilde or our own Yayati, whose son Pururavas had to grow old on behalf of his father. What do those who have not been bestowed with such arrangements for ageing through a proxy do?
The filthy rich get their facial skin pulled, in a bid to improve their looks. Others meekly submit to the process rather than valiantly battle on. Though they staunchly believe in Baruch's Rule for Determining Old Age: `Old age is always 15 years older than I am', some of them, however, try to use anti-wrinkle creams and hair dyes. It is only the truly brave who do not seek recourse to these cosmetic aids.
For every person who tries to look younger than s/he actually is, by using herbal creams and other cosmetics, there are some people, who resort to no such methods.
Look at the shock of white hair of Amjad Ali Khan or Leela Naidu. Or Sunil K. Alagh of Britannia Industries or Azim Premji of Wipro. Then we have Medha Patkar, Naseeruddin Shah, Salman Khurshid and many others.
There might be merit in looking natural, but there is a hidden danger in this, for most people seem to believe that like accidents and death, ageing is something that happens only to others. As Anamma found out last Thursday.
Annamma had not yet entered her mid-fifties, but her teeth started troubling her. One of the upper molars had developed a cavity. She was worried because genetically speaking; she was prone to severe toothache. She did not want to go through the misery her father had undergone.
The problem required immediate attention, she decided. Her husband's secretary fixed up an appointment with Dr. P. S. Menon, a dentist of repute, for 4:30 p.m. on Thursday.
On the appointed day, she reached the clinic by quarter past four. The doctor was attending to another client, the receptionist told Annamma, but it would not take long, please be seated. She scanned the newspaper headlines and leafed though the magazines on the rack. She looked at the diagrams showing the set of teeth, the cross-section of a tooth, a poster with diagrams on root canal treatment etc.
Then her eyes fell on the doctor's professional certificate laminated and hung on the wall. It was about 35 years old. It bore his full name: Panasseri Sukumara Menon. Suddenly, she remembered that a tall, handsome boy with the same name had been in her high school class some 45 years ago.
Quite soon, the patient emerged through the half-opened door. She caught a glimpse of the man in the white coat in profile, Annamma, however, quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, grey-haired and pot-bellied man with double chin and furrowed forehead was too old to have been her classmate. It must be a namesake.
After he had examined her teeth, Annamma asked him if he had done his SSLC from the Kunnamkulam High School.
"Yes," he replied.
"Which batch do you belong to?" she asked.
"1962."
"Why, you were in my class!" she exclaimed.
Dr. Menon looked at Annamma closely, and then asked, "Madam, what subject did you teach us?"
Take for instance, `The Picture of Dorian Gray', by Oscar Wilde or our own Yayati, whose son Pururavas had to grow old on behalf of his father. What do those who have not been bestowed with such arrangements for ageing through a proxy do?
The filthy rich get their facial skin pulled, in a bid to improve their looks. Others meekly submit to the process rather than valiantly battle on. Though they staunchly believe in Baruch's Rule for Determining Old Age: `Old age is always 15 years older than I am', some of them, however, try to use anti-wrinkle creams and hair dyes. It is only the truly brave who do not seek recourse to these cosmetic aids.
For every person who tries to look younger than s/he actually is, by using herbal creams and other cosmetics, there are some people, who resort to no such methods.
Look at the shock of white hair of Amjad Ali Khan or Leela Naidu. Or Sunil K. Alagh of Britannia Industries or Azim Premji of Wipro. Then we have Medha Patkar, Naseeruddin Shah, Salman Khurshid and many others.
There might be merit in looking natural, but there is a hidden danger in this, for most people seem to believe that like accidents and death, ageing is something that happens only to others. As Anamma found out last Thursday.
Annamma had not yet entered her mid-fifties, but her teeth started troubling her. One of the upper molars had developed a cavity. She was worried because genetically speaking; she was prone to severe toothache. She did not want to go through the misery her father had undergone.
The problem required immediate attention, she decided. Her husband's secretary fixed up an appointment with Dr. P. S. Menon, a dentist of repute, for 4:30 p.m. on Thursday.
On the appointed day, she reached the clinic by quarter past four. The doctor was attending to another client, the receptionist told Annamma, but it would not take long, please be seated. She scanned the newspaper headlines and leafed though the magazines on the rack. She looked at the diagrams showing the set of teeth, the cross-section of a tooth, a poster with diagrams on root canal treatment etc.
Then her eyes fell on the doctor's professional certificate laminated and hung on the wall. It was about 35 years old. It bore his full name: Panasseri Sukumara Menon. Suddenly, she remembered that a tall, handsome boy with the same name had been in her high school class some 45 years ago.
Quite soon, the patient emerged through the half-opened door. She caught a glimpse of the man in the white coat in profile, Annamma, however, quickly discarded any such thought. This balding, grey-haired and pot-bellied man with double chin and furrowed forehead was too old to have been her classmate. It must be a namesake.
After he had examined her teeth, Annamma asked him if he had done his SSLC from the Kunnamkulam High School.
"Yes," he replied.
"Which batch do you belong to?" she asked.
"1962."
"Why, you were in my class!" she exclaimed.
Dr. Menon looked at Annamma closely, and then asked, "Madam, what subject did you teach us?"
ADVANTAGE MUKUNDAN
In his early thirties, Mukundan is broad-shouldered and big-built. He is a peon in one of the non-descript departments in our large office, which employs over a thousand pen pushers at different levels. Even a stray visitor to the office complex cannot miss his towering presence (for, most of the time he is seen outside the office building lost in thought, puffing at a cigarette or talking to someone).
Not many, even in those working in the complex, know which department he works in. According to the gags doing the rounds in the office, when God made him, His inventory level of grey cells was running rather low. Jokes apart, his actions have demonstrated over and over again that his brain is not proportionate to his brawn: he is slow on the uptake and definitely dim-witted. So many are the stories in circulation about Mukundan that a new genre like Sidhu-ism seems to have become popular, at least in the close circle.
I have personal experience of only two Mukundan-isms. One was when a couple of thousand envelopes had to be sent by registered post. This was before the postal department had started dreaming about the image makeover as Indiapost. The nearby post office put an unofficial ceiling of 50 envelopes a day. So did the others in the neighbouring localities. Yet others refused to accept any beyond their limit. The General Post Office, being a larger outfit, was prepared to accept 200 envelopes a day. The despatch took a whole week. Friend Mukundan walked up to the boss and offered a simple solution for the coming year when the exercise would have to be repeated: "We'll get the envelopes registered well in time, say in the previous month, put the contents and mail them the same day!"
The locality he lived in had a shortage of running water. There was no supply during the day. During the night, water would trickle down drop by drop from the only tap in his house. It would take hours to collect a decent quantity of water. To solve the problem, Mukundan called a plumber and had three more taps installed at different points in his house!
Not for nothing that Mukundan is the butt of all the jokes in the office. Many of the blonde jokes and the sardarji jokes circulating on the Internet get slapped on to Mukundan: the net-savvy and creative colleagues borrow the core idea from the cyberspace and attribute these to the poor soul! Those who are gracious enough not make fun of this giant with his `upper storey to let', ignore him.
But come Onam season, and Mukundan is in great demand. The Staff Club Secretary would be placating and humouring him. Mukundan is an integral part of the Onam celebrations, for he dons the role of Mahabali. Nobody else can fit into that role as well as he can. He is the Man of the Day and it is his say. He can poke fun at anyone and get away with it for it is all in fun.
Mukundan shaves off his stubble and grooms his flourishing moustache. A dhoti with a rich golden brocade drapes his torso and below in the conventional style. Gold necklaces would be adorned, and there would be rings on practically all the fingers. Complete with silver anklets, gold wristbands and bracelets, ornate bangles gripping his well-developed biceps and a crown perched on his head, the ample persona of Mukundan would look every cubic inch a Mahabali.
As the members of the office choir sing the Onam songs, as the girls who are usually seen in the ubiquitous salwaar-kameez, now in the traditional set-mundu, sway to the strains of Kaikottikali songs, in would stride Mahabali, nay, Mukundan, colourful and sequinned umbrella protecting him from the smiting sun.
Sitting on the throne, he would survey the assembly, bless the boss, exchange patronising pleasantries with the senior executives and crack some jokes with those who poke fun at him on the other days of the year.
And he is entitled to it, for Onam is Mukundan's day! Tomorrow, as with other days, he will again be at the receiving end, till the next Onam.
Not many, even in those working in the complex, know which department he works in. According to the gags doing the rounds in the office, when God made him, His inventory level of grey cells was running rather low. Jokes apart, his actions have demonstrated over and over again that his brain is not proportionate to his brawn: he is slow on the uptake and definitely dim-witted. So many are the stories in circulation about Mukundan that a new genre like Sidhu-ism seems to have become popular, at least in the close circle.
I have personal experience of only two Mukundan-isms. One was when a couple of thousand envelopes had to be sent by registered post. This was before the postal department had started dreaming about the image makeover as Indiapost. The nearby post office put an unofficial ceiling of 50 envelopes a day. So did the others in the neighbouring localities. Yet others refused to accept any beyond their limit. The General Post Office, being a larger outfit, was prepared to accept 200 envelopes a day. The despatch took a whole week. Friend Mukundan walked up to the boss and offered a simple solution for the coming year when the exercise would have to be repeated: "We'll get the envelopes registered well in time, say in the previous month, put the contents and mail them the same day!"
The locality he lived in had a shortage of running water. There was no supply during the day. During the night, water would trickle down drop by drop from the only tap in his house. It would take hours to collect a decent quantity of water. To solve the problem, Mukundan called a plumber and had three more taps installed at different points in his house!
Not for nothing that Mukundan is the butt of all the jokes in the office. Many of the blonde jokes and the sardarji jokes circulating on the Internet get slapped on to Mukundan: the net-savvy and creative colleagues borrow the core idea from the cyberspace and attribute these to the poor soul! Those who are gracious enough not make fun of this giant with his `upper storey to let', ignore him.
But come Onam season, and Mukundan is in great demand. The Staff Club Secretary would be placating and humouring him. Mukundan is an integral part of the Onam celebrations, for he dons the role of Mahabali. Nobody else can fit into that role as well as he can. He is the Man of the Day and it is his say. He can poke fun at anyone and get away with it for it is all in fun.
Mukundan shaves off his stubble and grooms his flourishing moustache. A dhoti with a rich golden brocade drapes his torso and below in the conventional style. Gold necklaces would be adorned, and there would be rings on practically all the fingers. Complete with silver anklets, gold wristbands and bracelets, ornate bangles gripping his well-developed biceps and a crown perched on his head, the ample persona of Mukundan would look every cubic inch a Mahabali.
As the members of the office choir sing the Onam songs, as the girls who are usually seen in the ubiquitous salwaar-kameez, now in the traditional set-mundu, sway to the strains of Kaikottikali songs, in would stride Mahabali, nay, Mukundan, colourful and sequinned umbrella protecting him from the smiting sun.
Sitting on the throne, he would survey the assembly, bless the boss, exchange patronising pleasantries with the senior executives and crack some jokes with those who poke fun at him on the other days of the year.
And he is entitled to it, for Onam is Mukundan's day! Tomorrow, as with other days, he will again be at the receiving end, till the next Onam.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
MNEMONICS
A quick quiz for those intimidated by Mathematics. What is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter? Pi, you may say. Numerically, it is 22/7, most may agree. But, it is an irrational number, math whiz kids will protest. For those decimally oriented, the value of Pi translates into 3.14. But that too is an approximation, the sticklers will object. It is a non-recurring decimal. The value of Pi correct to 10 decimal places is 3.1415926536.
Ten-year old Aditya can remember the value of Pi correct to 20 decimal places. Not a great feat, incidentally, considering that the value has been calculated correct to several thousand decimal places. But how does Aditya do this? He just remembers the doggerel:
Sir, I know a rhyme excelling
In sacred truth and rigid spelling
Numerical sprites elucidate
For me the accurate-most amount.
That is an example of a mnemonic: a device, such as a formula or rhyme, used as an aid to remember facts. The classic mnemonic, of course, is the one that goes "30 days hath September, April, June, and November."
Trigonometry is a bugbear for beginners. We all know that Sine, Cosine and Tangent are ratios of two sides of a right-angled triangle, but which is which? Help is at hand: just remember: "The Old Arab Carried A Heavy Sack Of Hay." The initial letters in groups of three represent "Tangent = Opposite / Adjacent; Cosine = Adjacent / Hypotenuse; and Sine = Opposite / Hypotenuse." Can anyone make it simpler than that?
The greatest use of a mnemonic is for remembering the order of things like the planets and the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ. For those who find it hard to remember the BODMAS rule, it is easy if you memorise "Buzz Off, Daisy, Mary And Sarah" and you have "Brackets, Of, Division, Multiplication, Addition, Subtraction" in the right order!
It is not as if mnemonics are used only in mathematics. The initial letters of the sentence "My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets" helps you recall the names of the nine planets in the increasing order of their distance from the Sun — Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto.*
In Biology, the animal kingdom (and the plant kingdom) is divided and subdivided. The hierarchy is not easy to remember, but the sentence "Kids Prefer Cheese Over Fried Green Spinach" comes to our rescue. The initial letters represent the classification: Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species. A variation is "King Philip Came Over For Good Sleep." Talking of royalty, `King Henry Died Gently Drinking Chocolate Milk' signifies Kilo, Hecta, Deca, Grams (or meters, litres, hertz, watts, bytes or whatever) Deci, Centi and Milli.
The six wives of Henry VIII were Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard and Kathryn Parr and they all met with different ends. History does not record if he faced any difficulty remembering their names but we have a rhyme to remember their end: 'Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived'!
This rhyme is to remember the names of the twelve disciples of Jesus: "This is the way the disciples run:
Peter, Andrew, James and John,
Phillip and Bartholomew,
Thomas next and Matthew, too.
James the less and Judas the greater;
Simon the zealot and Judas the traitor."
Some mnemonics are quite interesting. The credit-card sized slot found mostly on portable computers for cards such as modems and network interface devices had an incredibly long acronym PCMCIA, which stands for Personal Computer Memory Card International Association. A mouthful, isn't it?
Most of us cannot memorise the acronym, leave alone its expanded version. "People Can't Memorise Computer Industry Acronyms" is as good as mnemonics can get!
Orthopaedic doctors might find it useful to remember "Some Lunatics Try Professions That They Can't Handle" for the order of the bones in the wrist: Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetral, Pisciform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capitate, Hamate. Whew! One needs to take a big breath to say all that!
Some people scoff at the attempt people make to remember some `inane-sounding sentence' just to remember something else you already know; but then do they realise the fun they are missing out on?
___
*Obviously, this was well before August 2006 when Pluto was demoted.
Monday, August 04, 2008
NYMPHA PUDICA ...
The class was in progress. Professor Shantaram Rao had given an assignment to the students. Everybody was busy writing. I could not proceed beyond a few sentences because my fountain pen (Yes, this was in the 1960’s when ball-point pens had not found their way into the colleges) dried up. I had no spare pen or pencils (Remember, those were the days of shortages). Nor did my neighbours on the bench. The only option before me was to stop writing.
The Professor noticed me in my inactive state and asked me, ‘Hey there, you in the blue shirt, why aren’t you writing?’
I knew I was caught and expected to be sent out of the class. Standing up, I stammered, ‘I… I… My … My…’, unable to complete the sentence. I could not converse easily or fluently in English. How do I tell him (in English) that my pen had dried up? I was at a loss for words. Finally I managed my best and said, ‘Sir, My pen is on strike.’
The whole class broke into a loud guffaw as these words tumbled out of my mouth. The Professor too laughed, benignly, I thought, and remarked, ‘That is a rather cute way of putting it.’
And went on to liken me to a student who, when asked to write a poem in Latin on the Miracle of Cana in Galilee where Christ turned water into wine, wrote just two lines: Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit. (The modest water saw its God, and blushed.)
Decades have passed by after that episode Professor Shantaram Rao may not recall today, but I cannot forget.
I remember my first day in college. One was overawed by the change in the ambience. Instead of the humble thatched school building in the village, it was the imposing decades-old two-storeyed city landmark in the sprawling campus abutting the waterfront.
The college was a melting pot where students from different types of schools – municipal, government, aided, private, convents – converged. Most of my classmates had studied in English medium schools. They were from affluent homes, wore trendy clothes and had a cushy lifestyle. I came from a rural school where the medium of instruction was Malayalam.
My exposure to the city was limited and the awe for the new environs was perhaps writ large on my face. That I wore a low profile befitting my ‘status’ would be an understatement. I was diffidence personified.
The veteran teacher had quickly comprehended the plight of the likes of me. He was not one to accept that we were any less equal than the cityslickers. He had realised that the self-esteem of these youngsters needed to be resurrected, or else, for the whole year if not the entire college life, they would be the butt of jokes and harassment. On the first day, he had encouraged us the country bumpkins to speak up, if only to demonstrate that we were as good as, if not better than, the city counterparts.
Prof Rao’s compliment regarding the ‘cuteness’ of my excuse when I was expecting a (figurative) rap on my knuckles was one of the greatest morale-boosters in my life.
The Professor noticed me in my inactive state and asked me, ‘Hey there, you in the blue shirt, why aren’t you writing?’
I knew I was caught and expected to be sent out of the class. Standing up, I stammered, ‘I… I… My … My…’, unable to complete the sentence. I could not converse easily or fluently in English. How do I tell him (in English) that my pen had dried up? I was at a loss for words. Finally I managed my best and said, ‘Sir, My pen is on strike.’
The whole class broke into a loud guffaw as these words tumbled out of my mouth. The Professor too laughed, benignly, I thought, and remarked, ‘That is a rather cute way of putting it.’
And went on to liken me to a student who, when asked to write a poem in Latin on the Miracle of Cana in Galilee where Christ turned water into wine, wrote just two lines: Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit. (The modest water saw its God, and blushed.)
Decades have passed by after that episode Professor Shantaram Rao may not recall today, but I cannot forget.
I remember my first day in college. One was overawed by the change in the ambience. Instead of the humble thatched school building in the village, it was the imposing decades-old two-storeyed city landmark in the sprawling campus abutting the waterfront.
The college was a melting pot where students from different types of schools – municipal, government, aided, private, convents – converged. Most of my classmates had studied in English medium schools. They were from affluent homes, wore trendy clothes and had a cushy lifestyle. I came from a rural school where the medium of instruction was Malayalam.
My exposure to the city was limited and the awe for the new environs was perhaps writ large on my face. That I wore a low profile befitting my ‘status’ would be an understatement. I was diffidence personified.
The veteran teacher had quickly comprehended the plight of the likes of me. He was not one to accept that we were any less equal than the cityslickers. He had realised that the self-esteem of these youngsters needed to be resurrected, or else, for the whole year if not the entire college life, they would be the butt of jokes and harassment. On the first day, he had encouraged us the country bumpkins to speak up, if only to demonstrate that we were as good as, if not better than, the city counterparts.
Prof Rao’s compliment regarding the ‘cuteness’ of my excuse when I was expecting a (figurative) rap on my knuckles was one of the greatest morale-boosters in my life.
THE PRAYER'S PRAYER
Prof Madhukar Rao was one of a kind. He free-wheeled in his classroom sessions, unfettered by the rigour the syllabus imposed. Only the discerning students knew that he was indeed broadly guided by the syllabus. By the end of the academic year, all the students would have learnt what needed to be learnt – and much more!
Lean, tall and very fair (His cheeks were pink, I recall), Prof Rao was always immaculately attired. His gait, demeanour and clipped accent set him apart. He stood and walked erect, surveying the surroundings rather closely. Snatching the initiative to wish those he met a cordial ‘good morning’, he would move ahead towards the teachers’ room in the English Department.
My first brush with Prof Madhukar Rao was in the year I joined the college. He used to teach us what went by the nomenclature ‘General English’. This paper was supposed to familiarize the students with the nuances of grammar and composition. That there was no specific textbook prescribed for the paper gave him greater leeway. He believed that parsing and scansion would ‘come’ naturally to students.
He was extremely creative when it came to teaching. We were not yet one week into the college. In the first interaction he had with our class, he picked one of the girls at random, gave her a piece of chalk and asked her to write the words he dictated. The words were simple enough – college, chalk, money. Then he called one of the boys and asked him to write the same words – in Malayalam this time. Prof Rao turned to us and asked, ‘Do you all agree?’ The chorus of ‘Yes’ met with a ‘But Madhukar Rao doesn’t.’
Drawing himself to his full height, Prof Rao said, ‘The fact is that none of these words can be written in Malayalam.’ That was the first lesson that he taught us – no English word can be written in Malayalam, or for that matter, in any Indian language. The point was driven home. This was just one of the innovative methods in his repertoire to send messages loud and clear.
We would learn the subtle nuances of grammar and style through stories and jokes in the Professor’s collection. His favorite story was the one about the wife who told her husband she was ‘surprised’ to find him in bed with the maid, prompting the husband, a stickler for correct words, to reply, ‘No, my dear. I am the one who is surprised. You are astonished.’
It was not very difficult to learn the difference between the pronunciation of the words ‘pray’ and ‘prey’ when he pointed it out. But I have not, for the life of me, been able to catch the distinction between ‘prayer’ and ‘prayer’. The way you pronounced the word, he told us, would determine its meaning – the act of praying or the person praying!
Had there been a few more of his tribe, the several ‘Spoken English’ shops that have sprouted in the State would have been out of business. And there would have been fewer phonetic jokes like ‘Why was the Mallu bissi? Zimbly because his ungle in the Gelff had come on leave’!
Lean, tall and very fair (His cheeks were pink, I recall), Prof Rao was always immaculately attired. His gait, demeanour and clipped accent set him apart. He stood and walked erect, surveying the surroundings rather closely. Snatching the initiative to wish those he met a cordial ‘good morning’, he would move ahead towards the teachers’ room in the English Department.
My first brush with Prof Madhukar Rao was in the year I joined the college. He used to teach us what went by the nomenclature ‘General English’. This paper was supposed to familiarize the students with the nuances of grammar and composition. That there was no specific textbook prescribed for the paper gave him greater leeway. He believed that parsing and scansion would ‘come’ naturally to students.
He was extremely creative when it came to teaching. We were not yet one week into the college. In the first interaction he had with our class, he picked one of the girls at random, gave her a piece of chalk and asked her to write the words he dictated. The words were simple enough – college, chalk, money. Then he called one of the boys and asked him to write the same words – in Malayalam this time. Prof Rao turned to us and asked, ‘Do you all agree?’ The chorus of ‘Yes’ met with a ‘But Madhukar Rao doesn’t.’
Drawing himself to his full height, Prof Rao said, ‘The fact is that none of these words can be written in Malayalam.’ That was the first lesson that he taught us – no English word can be written in Malayalam, or for that matter, in any Indian language. The point was driven home. This was just one of the innovative methods in his repertoire to send messages loud and clear.
We would learn the subtle nuances of grammar and style through stories and jokes in the Professor’s collection. His favorite story was the one about the wife who told her husband she was ‘surprised’ to find him in bed with the maid, prompting the husband, a stickler for correct words, to reply, ‘No, my dear. I am the one who is surprised. You are astonished.’
It was not very difficult to learn the difference between the pronunciation of the words ‘pray’ and ‘prey’ when he pointed it out. But I have not, for the life of me, been able to catch the distinction between ‘prayer’ and ‘prayer’. The way you pronounced the word, he told us, would determine its meaning – the act of praying or the person praying!
Had there been a few more of his tribe, the several ‘Spoken English’ shops that have sprouted in the State would have been out of business. And there would have been fewer phonetic jokes like ‘Why was the Mallu bissi? Zimbly because his ungle in the Gelff had come on leave’!
RHYME TIME
'Hickory, dickory dock
A mouse ran up the clock.'
My neighbour's grand-daughter is practising her nursery rhyme, in a sing-song style.
My mind takes me back to a wintry Sunday afternoon seventeen years back in Patiala. It is our first winter. We are sunning ourselves in the lawn in front of our house in Punjabi Bagh. We are all busy in our own pursuits: Hari and Gautam are at play and my mother is tending the plants; Bhawani is giving the finishing touches to the navy blue cardigan and I am trying my hand at the crossword puzzle.
A sudden and hearty 'Hullo!' makes us all stop on our tracks and look up. Beyond the high wall, we can see only the golf cap, grey eyebrows and beady eyes of the owner of the gruff voice with a thick Punjabi accent. We return the salutation and stand up.
The sprightly old gentleman, in a sports jacket, black trousers and sneakers opens the gate and strides in, his wife in tow. The couple presents a study in contrast. Tall, swarthy and well-built, he is every inch the rugged Jat. Petite, frail and fair, she is exquisitely beautiful, though a bit sickly.
'I am Prem Bhasin. And this is my wife, Ava. Moved in recently?' the gruff voice again.
I nod and introduce myself. And then my family.
'We live on the next road.'
'We've been here in Patiala for three months, but haven't seen you so far.'
'Been away in Bangalore with our son for the last three months.' Ava's accent was impeccable and her sweet voice stood in stark contrast against that of Mr Bhasin. Her diction reflected her cultured upbringing.
After spending half an hour with us, they get up to leave. 'Drop in some time, the house number is 153.'
'We will, Mr Bhasin.'
'See you later, then. By the way, call us Prem and Ava.'
I found it odd to address these octogenarians by their first names, but they insisted.
We found Prem and Ava great company. We would meet every week, mostly on Saturday evenings: either the Bhasins would drop in or we would go over. All those evenings were greatly entertaining. Nursing a stiff shot of whisky, Prem would regale me with stories about his young days in what is now Pakistan. Ava would take us to her childhood. She was an instant hit with the kids.
She was the only daughter of an ICS Officer, an Englishman who had married an Indian. Her mother had inherited the family business of supplying coal to the Indian Railways. Born into such an affluent family, Ava had nannies to look after her, charged with the responsibility of grooming her.
The nannies who were in charge of the children had learnt the nursery rhymes from the British women they had worked for. They had their own versions of the nursery rhymes. Some of them were Indianised. Ava would recite them:
Hamti-Damti chadh gaya chhat,
Hamti-Damti gir gaya phat.
Raja, paltan, Rani ke ghodey
Hamti-Damti kabi na jode.
If that was Humpty-Dumpty, see the transformation that Little Miss Muffet undergoes:
Mafiti Mai
Dal main malai
Ghaas mein baithke khai.
Jab bada sa makra
Uski sari ko pakda
Bhagi Mafiti Mai.
Well, I almost forgot the 'Hickory Dickory Dock' one which triggered this piece. It was rendered as:
Dekho-re, dekho-re, dekh
Ghadi pe chadh gaya chooha.
Jab ghanta hua
Ghadi bajayi ek.
To kood pada chooha.
Dekho-re, dekho-re, dekh.
A mouse ran up the clock.'
My neighbour's grand-daughter is practising her nursery rhyme, in a sing-song style.
My mind takes me back to a wintry Sunday afternoon seventeen years back in Patiala. It is our first winter. We are sunning ourselves in the lawn in front of our house in Punjabi Bagh. We are all busy in our own pursuits: Hari and Gautam are at play and my mother is tending the plants; Bhawani is giving the finishing touches to the navy blue cardigan and I am trying my hand at the crossword puzzle.
A sudden and hearty 'Hullo!' makes us all stop on our tracks and look up. Beyond the high wall, we can see only the golf cap, grey eyebrows and beady eyes of the owner of the gruff voice with a thick Punjabi accent. We return the salutation and stand up.
The sprightly old gentleman, in a sports jacket, black trousers and sneakers opens the gate and strides in, his wife in tow. The couple presents a study in contrast. Tall, swarthy and well-built, he is every inch the rugged Jat. Petite, frail and fair, she is exquisitely beautiful, though a bit sickly.
'I am Prem Bhasin. And this is my wife, Ava. Moved in recently?' the gruff voice again.
I nod and introduce myself. And then my family.
'We live on the next road.'
'We've been here in Patiala for three months, but haven't seen you so far.'
'Been away in Bangalore with our son for the last three months.' Ava's accent was impeccable and her sweet voice stood in stark contrast against that of Mr Bhasin. Her diction reflected her cultured upbringing.
After spending half an hour with us, they get up to leave. 'Drop in some time, the house number is 153.'
'We will, Mr Bhasin.'
'See you later, then. By the way, call us Prem and Ava.'
I found it odd to address these octogenarians by their first names, but they insisted.
We found Prem and Ava great company. We would meet every week, mostly on Saturday evenings: either the Bhasins would drop in or we would go over. All those evenings were greatly entertaining. Nursing a stiff shot of whisky, Prem would regale me with stories about his young days in what is now Pakistan. Ava would take us to her childhood. She was an instant hit with the kids.
She was the only daughter of an ICS Officer, an Englishman who had married an Indian. Her mother had inherited the family business of supplying coal to the Indian Railways. Born into such an affluent family, Ava had nannies to look after her, charged with the responsibility of grooming her.
The nannies who were in charge of the children had learnt the nursery rhymes from the British women they had worked for. They had their own versions of the nursery rhymes. Some of them were Indianised. Ava would recite them:
Hamti-Damti chadh gaya chhat,
Hamti-Damti gir gaya phat.
Raja, paltan, Rani ke ghodey
Hamti-Damti kabi na jode.
If that was Humpty-Dumpty, see the transformation that Little Miss Muffet undergoes:
Mafiti Mai
Dal main malai
Ghaas mein baithke khai.
Jab bada sa makra
Uski sari ko pakda
Bhagi Mafiti Mai.
Well, I almost forgot the 'Hickory Dickory Dock' one which triggered this piece. It was rendered as:
Dekho-re, dekho-re, dekh
Ghadi pe chadh gaya chooha.
Jab ghanta hua
Ghadi bajayi ek.
To kood pada chooha.
Dekho-re, dekho-re, dekh.
MANIETTAN
Maniettan died last night.
He was my cousin, several times removed. I knew we were cousins only because elders told me. We must have been precariously perched somewhere on the family tree. More than cousins, we were friends. Maniettan was a good fifteen years older than me. He taught biology in our village high school. That was for a living. His interests lay elsewhere – in literature, music, puzzles, riddles.
My memories of him date back to primary school days. My uncle and he went to the same college and spent weekends together, ostensibly for 'combined study'. On such occasions, Maniettan used to spend a lot of time with me. He would ask me to 'recite' our class attendance register. I would oblige: Abbas, Aravindan, Bharati, Bhaskaran, Chandran, Damodaran, Ebrahim, Geeta, Govindan, … till Yashoda, Zubair and Zuhara.
Then he would ask me to list them in the order we sat in the class, which was: Parthan, Mohamed, Chandran, Hari and so on. Much later, when I had grown up, I realized that it had been his home-grown method to sharpen my memory.
Maniettan would make me recite the multiplication tables. When I nearly reached the end, he would pretend I had made a mistake and challenge me: 'Thirteen sevens make …?' And I would have to recite the whole table all over again – his method of making sure that I had the tables pit-pat.
When I grew up, I learnt that Maniettan used to pen poems and short stories. He read a lot – from Nietzsche to Bhasa. He sketched and painted too. His rendition of 'Suhana safar aur yeh mausam haseen' on the mouth organ had enlivened many a night I had spent with him. He would also sing the Saigal numbers in his deep baritone.
Teaching was Maniettan's passion. He was a great organizer too. He would take his students for treks in the nearby hills and forests where they would see for themselves live specimens of aerial roots, alternate leaf arrangement, multiple fruits, chameleons, warblers, weaverbirds, camouflages, …
The school biology lab was always in his thoughts. Immediately report instances of any snake having been killed, he had told his students. Come hell or high water, he would rush to the site with a glass jar and formaldehyde and return with the prized catch.
A few months after joining the school as a teacher, this natural leader mobilized the senior students and exhumed the skeleton of the temple tusker which had been buried a couple of years earlier. The bones were then joined together with thick copper wires. Koodali High School lab must be the only one with the massive skeleton of a pachyderm occupying a place of pride in the lab.
He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. When elders said he was a bad influence on the young, he brushed it off with a 'They had said that about Socrates too.' It was he who lit my first cigarette. It was he who poured me my first drink. It was also he who stoked my interests, showed me the world beyond academics and made me what I am.
Maniettan was my professor at The University of Life.
He was my cousin, several times removed. I knew we were cousins only because elders told me. We must have been precariously perched somewhere on the family tree. More than cousins, we were friends. Maniettan was a good fifteen years older than me. He taught biology in our village high school. That was for a living. His interests lay elsewhere – in literature, music, puzzles, riddles.
My memories of him date back to primary school days. My uncle and he went to the same college and spent weekends together, ostensibly for 'combined study'. On such occasions, Maniettan used to spend a lot of time with me. He would ask me to 'recite' our class attendance register. I would oblige: Abbas, Aravindan, Bharati, Bhaskaran, Chandran, Damodaran, Ebrahim, Geeta, Govindan, … till Yashoda, Zubair and Zuhara.
Then he would ask me to list them in the order we sat in the class, which was: Parthan, Mohamed, Chandran, Hari and so on. Much later, when I had grown up, I realized that it had been his home-grown method to sharpen my memory.
Maniettan would make me recite the multiplication tables. When I nearly reached the end, he would pretend I had made a mistake and challenge me: 'Thirteen sevens make …?' And I would have to recite the whole table all over again – his method of making sure that I had the tables pit-pat.
When I grew up, I learnt that Maniettan used to pen poems and short stories. He read a lot – from Nietzsche to Bhasa. He sketched and painted too. His rendition of 'Suhana safar aur yeh mausam haseen' on the mouth organ had enlivened many a night I had spent with him. He would also sing the Saigal numbers in his deep baritone.
Teaching was Maniettan's passion. He was a great organizer too. He would take his students for treks in the nearby hills and forests where they would see for themselves live specimens of aerial roots, alternate leaf arrangement, multiple fruits, chameleons, warblers, weaverbirds, camouflages, …
The school biology lab was always in his thoughts. Immediately report instances of any snake having been killed, he had told his students. Come hell or high water, he would rush to the site with a glass jar and formaldehyde and return with the prized catch.
A few months after joining the school as a teacher, this natural leader mobilized the senior students and exhumed the skeleton of the temple tusker which had been buried a couple of years earlier. The bones were then joined together with thick copper wires. Koodali High School lab must be the only one with the massive skeleton of a pachyderm occupying a place of pride in the lab.
He smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish. When elders said he was a bad influence on the young, he brushed it off with a 'They had said that about Socrates too.' It was he who lit my first cigarette. It was he who poured me my first drink. It was also he who stoked my interests, showed me the world beyond academics and made me what I am.
Maniettan was my professor at The University of Life.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
OF NICKNAMES
Anyone who has been to a college or a school will testify that at least a handful of his classmates and teachers had nicknames. It is no secret that it is the teaching fraternity that falls victim to the ‘name-game’ oftener than the taught. In fact, a few of the victims, whether teachers or students, would be known better by the monickers assigned to them than what the fond parents had christened the cherubs as!
To differentiate me from the lanky ‘Bamboo Rajan’, everyone in school referred to me as ‘Unda (Rotund) Rajan’, a tribute to the short and stocky figure that I was in my schooldays. Though I have shed a lot of my puppy fat and stand a good 5’ 10” tall, I am still ‘Unda Rajan’ to my classmates, teachers and villagers!
One of my classmates was Govindankutty who later rose to become a senior bureaucrat authorised to speak from the South Block on behalf of one ministry or another. Known in official circles as Mr Nair, he had three initials before the surname and three appended to indicate his cadre. Govindankutty, the only child of a Colonel, had been named after the grandfather, a famous ayurvedic physician in Malabar.
When Govindankutty joined us in Class VII in the school in Calicut, we were already two weeks into the academic year. Most of us had been classmates from earlier years and a few were seniors who had failed. All of us classmates knew each other by name.
Govindankutty was the ‘new kid on the block’. Very much unlike us who came from middleclass homes, in wrinkled shirts, fraying knickers and carrying a schoolbag made of the old canvas of the grandpa’s easychair. He had a duckback waterproof schoolbag and was turned out in smart starched white shirt and navy blue trousers. At first sight, we did develop a secret jealousy for him which we nursed.
He had already studied in several schools from Chennai to Meerut to Chandimandir to Mhow. It was the last lap of his father’s career and he had opted for a posting in the NCC so that the family which had moved with him due to frequent transfers could finally settle down.
Exposure to varied environs had had their impact on young Govindankutty. He was more comfortable in English and Hindi and spoke Malayalam haltingly. He was perhaps not too happy about his conventional name amid scores of ‘modern’ ones like Ashok, Sunil, Vinod, Suresh and Manoj. (This was before the advent of the post-modern era with names like Baiju, Siji, Linto, Prijesh and Shinu.)
As the newcomer, Govindankutty had to introduce himself. He did so, with an affable, “Hi! I am Govindankutty. Drop the Kutty, you can call me Govind!”
And sure as death, the nickname ‘Drop the Kutty’ stuck! He might be ‘Dash Dash Dash Nair IAS’ to others, but to us, he is still ‘Drop the Kutty’.
To differentiate me from the lanky ‘Bamboo Rajan’, everyone in school referred to me as ‘Unda (Rotund) Rajan’, a tribute to the short and stocky figure that I was in my schooldays. Though I have shed a lot of my puppy fat and stand a good 5’ 10” tall, I am still ‘Unda Rajan’ to my classmates, teachers and villagers!
One of my classmates was Govindankutty who later rose to become a senior bureaucrat authorised to speak from the South Block on behalf of one ministry or another. Known in official circles as Mr Nair, he had three initials before the surname and three appended to indicate his cadre. Govindankutty, the only child of a Colonel, had been named after the grandfather, a famous ayurvedic physician in Malabar.
When Govindankutty joined us in Class VII in the school in Calicut, we were already two weeks into the academic year. Most of us had been classmates from earlier years and a few were seniors who had failed. All of us classmates knew each other by name.
Govindankutty was the ‘new kid on the block’. Very much unlike us who came from middleclass homes, in wrinkled shirts, fraying knickers and carrying a schoolbag made of the old canvas of the grandpa’s easychair. He had a duckback waterproof schoolbag and was turned out in smart starched white shirt and navy blue trousers. At first sight, we did develop a secret jealousy for him which we nursed.
He had already studied in several schools from Chennai to Meerut to Chandimandir to Mhow. It was the last lap of his father’s career and he had opted for a posting in the NCC so that the family which had moved with him due to frequent transfers could finally settle down.
Exposure to varied environs had had their impact on young Govindankutty. He was more comfortable in English and Hindi and spoke Malayalam haltingly. He was perhaps not too happy about his conventional name amid scores of ‘modern’ ones like Ashok, Sunil, Vinod, Suresh and Manoj. (This was before the advent of the post-modern era with names like Baiju, Siji, Linto, Prijesh and Shinu.)
As the newcomer, Govindankutty had to introduce himself. He did so, with an affable, “Hi! I am Govindankutty. Drop the Kutty, you can call me Govind!”
And sure as death, the nickname ‘Drop the Kutty’ stuck! He might be ‘Dash Dash Dash Nair IAS’ to others, but to us, he is still ‘Drop the Kutty’.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Chaudvin ka Chaand
This story is set in the late 1950's in the Malabar region. Hindi, touted by Mahatma Gandhi as the token of nationalism and promoted by the centre as the national language, was an emotive issue, as its 'imposition' was resisted by a majority of the Tamil-speaking public.
Pursuant to the national policy, it was prescribed to be studied as the third language in schools. However, in deference to the sentiments of the detractors, no pass mark had been prescribed: irrespective of the marks you scored in Hindi, you passed. It had no role in determining whether you passed with distinction, or in the 'class' you were placed in or the rank you secured. Small surprise that Hindi, like the teachers of the language, commanded lower esteem than, say, Mathematics, Science or English.
I still remember the frail frame of Ramachandra Menon Master in his white full-sleeved khadi shirt. He used to like me a lot, I think, because I used to give equal prominence to the subject he used to teach. (Little did he know that it was out of fear for my father who taught us that what is worth doing is worth doing well!)
In the half-yearly examination in Standard X, I secured 78% in Hindi. What surprised me was the marks scored by the back-benchers Jabbar, Devassy and Rajappan. Being members of the school football team, they had to miss the Hindi classes which were mostly in the afternoons from Monday to Thursday when they had to go for the practice matches. On Fridays, there would be a new movie in the matinee show at the nearby Star Theatre. The trio could just not miss the 'first day first show'. It was not a secret that they barely knew the Devanagari script. And still they scored 'high' marks!
On our way back home from school one evening, Rajappan confided to me that he had written the answers to the questions in Malayalam. One could not fault Ramachandra Menon Master on his generosity: Rajappan could read Hindi and needed to be rewarded.
My investigation revealed that Devassy had copied the question paper in Devanagari script. Obviously, Ramachandra Menon Master was fair: Devassy had established that he knew how to write the script, and he did deserve more marks than Rajappan.
But that Jabbar who knew no Hindi scored 35 baffled me. One morning, in exchange of allowing him to copy my homework, he let me into the dark secret: in his answer sheet, he had just written down the words of the lyric of the title song of the 'Chaudvin ka Chand', the Waheeda Rehman-Guru Dutt starrer box-office hit.
Why do I recall this story today?
Kerala SSLC results are due tomorrow. A recent press report based on the information gathered from the Education Department says that the pass percentage this year is 92%. I believe the pass percentage just five years back was 60-65%. This quantum leap was made possible, thanks to the grace marks and the moderation system.
Will our Education Department confirm or deny the suspicion lurking in my mind that my respected Ramachandra Menon Master is one of their advisors?
Pursuant to the national policy, it was prescribed to be studied as the third language in schools. However, in deference to the sentiments of the detractors, no pass mark had been prescribed: irrespective of the marks you scored in Hindi, you passed. It had no role in determining whether you passed with distinction, or in the 'class' you were placed in or the rank you secured. Small surprise that Hindi, like the teachers of the language, commanded lower esteem than, say, Mathematics, Science or English.
I still remember the frail frame of Ramachandra Menon Master in his white full-sleeved khadi shirt. He used to like me a lot, I think, because I used to give equal prominence to the subject he used to teach. (Little did he know that it was out of fear for my father who taught us that what is worth doing is worth doing well!)
In the half-yearly examination in Standard X, I secured 78% in Hindi. What surprised me was the marks scored by the back-benchers Jabbar, Devassy and Rajappan. Being members of the school football team, they had to miss the Hindi classes which were mostly in the afternoons from Monday to Thursday when they had to go for the practice matches. On Fridays, there would be a new movie in the matinee show at the nearby Star Theatre. The trio could just not miss the 'first day first show'. It was not a secret that they barely knew the Devanagari script. And still they scored 'high' marks!
On our way back home from school one evening, Rajappan confided to me that he had written the answers to the questions in Malayalam. One could not fault Ramachandra Menon Master on his generosity: Rajappan could read Hindi and needed to be rewarded.
My investigation revealed that Devassy had copied the question paper in Devanagari script. Obviously, Ramachandra Menon Master was fair: Devassy had established that he knew how to write the script, and he did deserve more marks than Rajappan.
But that Jabbar who knew no Hindi scored 35 baffled me. One morning, in exchange of allowing him to copy my homework, he let me into the dark secret: in his answer sheet, he had just written down the words of the lyric of the title song of the 'Chaudvin ka Chand', the Waheeda Rehman-Guru Dutt starrer box-office hit.
Why do I recall this story today?
Kerala SSLC results are due tomorrow. A recent press report based on the information gathered from the Education Department says that the pass percentage this year is 92%. I believe the pass percentage just five years back was 60-65%. This quantum leap was made possible, thanks to the grace marks and the moderation system.
Will our Education Department confirm or deny the suspicion lurking in my mind that my respected Ramachandra Menon Master is one of their advisors?
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
STAR ATTRACTION
Though we were from a rural background, my father’s frequent transfers took us to cities. My father was keen that in the process, the children should not become urbanised. Don’t forget the tradition and the culture we come from, he’d say.
Towards this end, during long summer holidays, he would send us to our grandparents. We too looked forward to these breaks when we could free ourselves from the tyranny of textbooks, homework and a Martinet of a father. Unadulterated merrymaking: goodies to eat, games to play; cart-wheeling, cavorting and swimming in the pond in our village home.
Though we were on a holiday, dad had dictated a regimen for us: a bath in the morning, a visit to the temple, a few pages of the Sidhharoopa, Amarakosha and Subhaashitaani (so that we could brush up on our Sanskrit) and a few pages of Wren and Martin’s English Grammar. Selected parts of Kerala Paanineeyam by Raja Raja Varma on Vrittas and Alankaaras were also mandatory. We could go out to play only after these tasks had been completed.
In the evening, we had to turn in by half past five and have a bath. After the prayers, we had to recite multiplication tables, mathematical formulae, days of the week and months of the year (three versions; Malayalam, Gregorian and Saka) and an assortment of other things we were supposed to remember. Grandpa was asked to ensure that we stuck to this regimen.
Our cousins, unfettered by such shackles, would be ready for fun and frolic soon after breakfast until after sundown. Not us. It was not until 11 am before we finished the chores even if we skipped a few pages and rushed through the job. And 5.30 was our deadline.
Naturally, our native cousins, not bound by such restrictions, were objects of our envy. (It is a different matter that in our later life, this regimen gave us a great advantage over our rivals in competitive examinations.)
My father had also asked grandpa to take us to the performances of art in the village, of which there were plenty. These were mostly folk arts, temple festivals etc which took place at night. We would spend a couple of hours at the venue and return, having gained a glimpse into the rural legacy.
A couple of times in a year, there would be a performance of Kathakali, Ottan thullal or Krishnaattam in the large courtyard in the house of the local janmi (landlord). All this was a part of the economy and social welfare, Grandpa would explain: the working class was provided with a night of entertainment; the artistes with some remuneration, grains and new clothes; housewives a change from the routine (And the chieftain got an ego-trip!)
Grandpa himself was well-versed in the nuances of these art forms as well as mythology. Before the performance, he would narrate the story to be staged. During the performance, he would ‘introduce’ the characters to us and patiently explain the meanings of the verses and the significance of the mudras.
It was one such occasion. The Kathakali performance scheduled for the day was Duryodhana Vadham. In the afternoon, we were told the outline of the story. That evening, dad came lugging his suitcase. His visit marked the beginning of the end of the holidays.
The performance began after dinner and would go on till early morning. The tall brass lamps were lit, the euphony of the musical instruments and the scent of incenses filled the air. The entire village thronged the place, their eyes shining with expectation. The black, red and green curtain came down, with the scene where Dharmaputra and Duryodhana play dice.
The sagely former did not impress my young mind as much as the wily Duryodhana did: his colourful make-up and his gear complete with the mace as opposed to the plain Dharmaputra must have done the trick. Duryodhana was at his vicious best when he screamed, “I’ll not give you even an inch of land.” After that, the decibel level declined, as it was life in the forest for the Pandavas and Draupadi that was featured.
I felt sleepy. I must have nodded off momentarily, but woke up with a start when I thought of my father: he would take me to task if I were caught napping. I tried to keep my eyes open, but tired as I was from the day-long frolicking with my cousins, I nodded again. My grandpa understood my plight and asked me to go to sleep.
I was more than willing to obey. I made some space for myself and lay down on the mat, my head on his lap, trying to sleep. Two things stood in the way. I was scared that my dad would find out that I was sleeping when I should be ‘getting my education on tradition and culture’. And I was keen to see Duryodhana in full cry.
I requested my grandfather: “Please wake me up when my dad or Duryodhana comes.”
The elders sitting around us broke out into a loud guffaw. I could not understand why.
Towards this end, during long summer holidays, he would send us to our grandparents. We too looked forward to these breaks when we could free ourselves from the tyranny of textbooks, homework and a Martinet of a father. Unadulterated merrymaking: goodies to eat, games to play; cart-wheeling, cavorting and swimming in the pond in our village home.
Though we were on a holiday, dad had dictated a regimen for us: a bath in the morning, a visit to the temple, a few pages of the Sidhharoopa, Amarakosha and Subhaashitaani (so that we could brush up on our Sanskrit) and a few pages of Wren and Martin’s English Grammar. Selected parts of Kerala Paanineeyam by Raja Raja Varma on Vrittas and Alankaaras were also mandatory. We could go out to play only after these tasks had been completed.
In the evening, we had to turn in by half past five and have a bath. After the prayers, we had to recite multiplication tables, mathematical formulae, days of the week and months of the year (three versions; Malayalam, Gregorian and Saka) and an assortment of other things we were supposed to remember. Grandpa was asked to ensure that we stuck to this regimen.
Our cousins, unfettered by such shackles, would be ready for fun and frolic soon after breakfast until after sundown. Not us. It was not until 11 am before we finished the chores even if we skipped a few pages and rushed through the job. And 5.30 was our deadline.
Naturally, our native cousins, not bound by such restrictions, were objects of our envy. (It is a different matter that in our later life, this regimen gave us a great advantage over our rivals in competitive examinations.)
My father had also asked grandpa to take us to the performances of art in the village, of which there were plenty. These were mostly folk arts, temple festivals etc which took place at night. We would spend a couple of hours at the venue and return, having gained a glimpse into the rural legacy.
A couple of times in a year, there would be a performance of Kathakali, Ottan thullal or Krishnaattam in the large courtyard in the house of the local janmi (landlord). All this was a part of the economy and social welfare, Grandpa would explain: the working class was provided with a night of entertainment; the artistes with some remuneration, grains and new clothes; housewives a change from the routine (And the chieftain got an ego-trip!)
Grandpa himself was well-versed in the nuances of these art forms as well as mythology. Before the performance, he would narrate the story to be staged. During the performance, he would ‘introduce’ the characters to us and patiently explain the meanings of the verses and the significance of the mudras.
It was one such occasion. The Kathakali performance scheduled for the day was Duryodhana Vadham. In the afternoon, we were told the outline of the story. That evening, dad came lugging his suitcase. His visit marked the beginning of the end of the holidays.
The performance began after dinner and would go on till early morning. The tall brass lamps were lit, the euphony of the musical instruments and the scent of incenses filled the air. The entire village thronged the place, their eyes shining with expectation. The black, red and green curtain came down, with the scene where Dharmaputra and Duryodhana play dice.
The sagely former did not impress my young mind as much as the wily Duryodhana did: his colourful make-up and his gear complete with the mace as opposed to the plain Dharmaputra must have done the trick. Duryodhana was at his vicious best when he screamed, “I’ll not give you even an inch of land.” After that, the decibel level declined, as it was life in the forest for the Pandavas and Draupadi that was featured.
I felt sleepy. I must have nodded off momentarily, but woke up with a start when I thought of my father: he would take me to task if I were caught napping. I tried to keep my eyes open, but tired as I was from the day-long frolicking with my cousins, I nodded again. My grandpa understood my plight and asked me to go to sleep.
I was more than willing to obey. I made some space for myself and lay down on the mat, my head on his lap, trying to sleep. Two things stood in the way. I was scared that my dad would find out that I was sleeping when I should be ‘getting my education on tradition and culture’. And I was keen to see Duryodhana in full cry.
I requested my grandfather: “Please wake me up when my dad or Duryodhana comes.”
The elders sitting around us broke out into a loud guffaw. I could not understand why.
Monday, March 31, 2008
THE RAZOR'S EDGE
For my first shave, like that of practically every man who was born, I used my father’s razor. ‘Stealthily’, I must add, to set the records straight. Actually, were I not mortified by its looks, my grandfather’s razor would have been my tool. The business end of the thing looked menacing, but it was the most basic of implements: three inch-long gleaming steel with a dark grey-and-tan handle made of buffalo’s horn. He would sharpen it by rubbing it against a small grey slab of slate, a drop of water smoothening the movement.
My father, having been exposed to the city, used a safety razor. Unlike my grandfather’s lethal weapon which daunted me, this one inspired courage because its cutting edges were both nearly masked. The all-metal, double-edged blade needed to be changed once a week. But, in my father’s view, the blade was meant to last for e-v-e-r. When it lost its edge, he would sharpen it by rubbing it along the inner face of a glass tumbler, lubricated by a drop of water.
One of my first purchases from my salary was a safety razor made of gleaming metal and a clean sharp blade. It had doors on the top and the handle had a knob that needed to be rotated gently to open the doors on the top. It was one of the most advanced contraptions that I had handled till then. The replacement cost of the blade was nominal, probably much less than a rupee.
Then Wiltech ushered in a revolution of sorts: it came forth with a model with just one cutting edge. The apparatus was light and you had to buy a cassette containing five blades. When the handle was slid into the cassette, a blade would get engaged to it – and, hey presto, it was at your service. The cassette cost a fiver, I guess.
Gillette entered my life with its spring-loaded blades that claimed to retract if the blade came into contact with the facial skin rather than the hair. This was a quantum jump in comfort as well as price. I think the blades cost Rs 10 each. I used to feel so guilty at this extravagance.A few years passed and, sure enough, Gillette introduced the Sensor Excel, which had two blades. More comfort, more money, more guilt. Possibly Rs 25 apiece. I bought this hi-tech product, was extremely satisfied with it, and thought that I had found my life partner. Once you used a Sensor Excel, there was no going back to cheaper stuff. You stayed wedded for life.
I had to eat my hat soon, as Gillette, the serpent, dangled the apple in the garden again. In the form of Mach 3 that exploded on the scene. It was the first 3-blade razor and was the ultimate in shaving comfort. It required fewer strokes as it gently caressed the face. I tried to resist the temptation to buy one, but succumbed to the marketing blitzkrieg of Gillette.
I found the trade-off, between a Rs 100 note and mornings of pure delight, to my advantage. I have squirmed in remorse everytime I bought them. But, not once in the last 4 years, have I been disloyal to Mach 3.
Famous last words they turned out to be. The new Gillette Fusion has – has hold your breath - 5 blades. Gillette says that “the combination of adding more blades and narrowing the inter-blade span creates a ‘Shaving Surface’ that distributes the shaving force across the blades, resulting in significantly less irritation and more comfort”. A friend tells me they even have a battery-powered model which has a vibrating head that will make the hair stand up and be slaughtered. And the price, a whopping Rs 300/- for a blade.I have been eyeing this beauty at Spencers’ for quite some time. I know that sooner or later I am going to buckle under the strain and buy one, I can see it standing there, staring at me, egging me to give it a try, daring me to move on … …
In a few years, I am afraid, Gillette will introduce the ultimate version of the shaving razor. A model with thousands of micromotion blades that will be guided by laser. Each micro-blade will seek out individual facial hair and destroy it without a trace. It will have a micro-chip loaded with a thousand mp3 files and can sense the mood of the face’s owner and play the appropriate music. It will sprinkle after-shave lotion on its reverse stroke.
And, all these features will come at a price of Rs 10,000 a blade. I will spend 10 minutes every day shaving my face with this masterpiece of a razor and the remaining 23 hours 50 minutes, slogging my butt out to earn the money to pay for the blades, in a deadly vicious spiral that will last for eternity … …
My management-educated son says there is something called the ‘razor and blade business model’ where the marketers sell an initial ‘master’ product or the hardware (the razor-handle in this case) at a subsidised price (even at a loss) and make their profit on the high margin consumables (blades in this case) without which the master is useless. Am I going to succumb to the strategy? I can’t tell.
My father, having been exposed to the city, used a safety razor. Unlike my grandfather’s lethal weapon which daunted me, this one inspired courage because its cutting edges were both nearly masked. The all-metal, double-edged blade needed to be changed once a week. But, in my father’s view, the blade was meant to last for e-v-e-r. When it lost its edge, he would sharpen it by rubbing it along the inner face of a glass tumbler, lubricated by a drop of water.
One of my first purchases from my salary was a safety razor made of gleaming metal and a clean sharp blade. It had doors on the top and the handle had a knob that needed to be rotated gently to open the doors on the top. It was one of the most advanced contraptions that I had handled till then. The replacement cost of the blade was nominal, probably much less than a rupee.
Then Wiltech ushered in a revolution of sorts: it came forth with a model with just one cutting edge. The apparatus was light and you had to buy a cassette containing five blades. When the handle was slid into the cassette, a blade would get engaged to it – and, hey presto, it was at your service. The cassette cost a fiver, I guess.
Gillette entered my life with its spring-loaded blades that claimed to retract if the blade came into contact with the facial skin rather than the hair. This was a quantum jump in comfort as well as price. I think the blades cost Rs 10 each. I used to feel so guilty at this extravagance.A few years passed and, sure enough, Gillette introduced the Sensor Excel, which had two blades. More comfort, more money, more guilt. Possibly Rs 25 apiece. I bought this hi-tech product, was extremely satisfied with it, and thought that I had found my life partner. Once you used a Sensor Excel, there was no going back to cheaper stuff. You stayed wedded for life.
I had to eat my hat soon, as Gillette, the serpent, dangled the apple in the garden again. In the form of Mach 3 that exploded on the scene. It was the first 3-blade razor and was the ultimate in shaving comfort. It required fewer strokes as it gently caressed the face. I tried to resist the temptation to buy one, but succumbed to the marketing blitzkrieg of Gillette.
I found the trade-off, between a Rs 100 note and mornings of pure delight, to my advantage. I have squirmed in remorse everytime I bought them. But, not once in the last 4 years, have I been disloyal to Mach 3.
Famous last words they turned out to be. The new Gillette Fusion has – has hold your breath - 5 blades. Gillette says that “the combination of adding more blades and narrowing the inter-blade span creates a ‘Shaving Surface’ that distributes the shaving force across the blades, resulting in significantly less irritation and more comfort”. A friend tells me they even have a battery-powered model which has a vibrating head that will make the hair stand up and be slaughtered. And the price, a whopping Rs 300/- for a blade.I have been eyeing this beauty at Spencers’ for quite some time. I know that sooner or later I am going to buckle under the strain and buy one, I can see it standing there, staring at me, egging me to give it a try, daring me to move on … …
In a few years, I am afraid, Gillette will introduce the ultimate version of the shaving razor. A model with thousands of micromotion blades that will be guided by laser. Each micro-blade will seek out individual facial hair and destroy it without a trace. It will have a micro-chip loaded with a thousand mp3 files and can sense the mood of the face’s owner and play the appropriate music. It will sprinkle after-shave lotion on its reverse stroke.
And, all these features will come at a price of Rs 10,000 a blade. I will spend 10 minutes every day shaving my face with this masterpiece of a razor and the remaining 23 hours 50 minutes, slogging my butt out to earn the money to pay for the blades, in a deadly vicious spiral that will last for eternity … …
My management-educated son says there is something called the ‘razor and blade business model’ where the marketers sell an initial ‘master’ product or the hardware (the razor-handle in this case) at a subsidised price (even at a loss) and make their profit on the high margin consumables (blades in this case) without which the master is useless. Am I going to succumb to the strategy? I can’t tell.
MUDSLINGING
The pre-Independence era. ‘British Malabar’ was part of Madras Presidency. A Legislative Council was formed by the government representing different segments of the ‘subjects’. My uncle K was elected by the landed gentry to represent them and protect their interests. He was on the right side of 40 then.
K’s life had an interesting twist. He was studying medicine at Madras Medical College. When he was his 2nd year, his uncle who was looking after the affairs of the affluent matriarchal family died of snakebite. This put an abrupt end to his education because there was no other male member to control the vast estate and huge assets. He was all of 21 when he ascended to the position of ‘Karanavar’.
Having been exposed to urban life unlike his predecessors who had lived all along in villages, K thought differently. He joined the Indian National Congress and involved himself in the independence movement. He constructed a small building close to the market to house a reading room and library. A dispensary was opened with a compounder in attendance who could handle minor indispositions; a doctor would attend the clinic twice a week.
He took pains to upgrade the primary school set up by his ancestors to upper primary and then high school levels. All this was achieved through efficient management of the estate and assets of the family and by deploying the surplus wisely. He toned up the collection of arrears of rent and other receivables and this alone was enough to meet these expenses.
He was benevolent and humane. He would walk distances rather than be carried in palanquins. He had to walk to the nearest railway station in Cannanore to catch the trains to places like Kozhikode, Payyannur and Palghat to meet leaders like K P Kesava Menon, K Madhavanar, Kunhikanna Poduval, et al and to attend meetings. The number of such trips increased when he became an MLC.
As he found the long walk of twelve miles in the hot sun or in the rainy season taxing, he bought a car. In those days, that was one of the few dozen cars in the whole of North Malabar. The bus operator who plied the only bus in Cannanore-Tellicherry route lost his driver Kannan when K poached him offering handsome incentives.
Though it was his private car, K would not hesitate offer lift to passers by. Only, they were not allowed inside the car: they were to stand on the footboard of the 1942 Chevy. Though exposed to the elements, they did not at least have to trudge the distance and saved considerable time.
It was the month of July. Monsoon had unleashed its fury and for two days, there had been no let-up in the rain. The car was on its way back from Cannanore after picking up K who had arrived from Madras after a session of the Legislative Council. The country road was slushy and it was pouring.
On the way, they saw a figure walking in the rain. A basket covered by banana leaves to protect the contents from the rain rested on his head. As they neared him, they identified him as Kumaran, soaked to the skin, obviously on his way back from the town.
Kannan, aware of the boss’ habit of offering lift to pedestrians, enquired, “That is Kumaran on his way home. Shall I offer him a lift?”
“Well, Kumaran? he hasn’t kept his promise of clearing the arrears before this monsoon,” observed K.
“In that case, shall I splash some mud on him?” was the instant response of Kannan. It won’t ever be said that he does not have presence of mind.
K’s life had an interesting twist. He was studying medicine at Madras Medical College. When he was his 2nd year, his uncle who was looking after the affairs of the affluent matriarchal family died of snakebite. This put an abrupt end to his education because there was no other male member to control the vast estate and huge assets. He was all of 21 when he ascended to the position of ‘Karanavar’.
Having been exposed to urban life unlike his predecessors who had lived all along in villages, K thought differently. He joined the Indian National Congress and involved himself in the independence movement. He constructed a small building close to the market to house a reading room and library. A dispensary was opened with a compounder in attendance who could handle minor indispositions; a doctor would attend the clinic twice a week.
He took pains to upgrade the primary school set up by his ancestors to upper primary and then high school levels. All this was achieved through efficient management of the estate and assets of the family and by deploying the surplus wisely. He toned up the collection of arrears of rent and other receivables and this alone was enough to meet these expenses.
He was benevolent and humane. He would walk distances rather than be carried in palanquins. He had to walk to the nearest railway station in Cannanore to catch the trains to places like Kozhikode, Payyannur and Palghat to meet leaders like K P Kesava Menon, K Madhavanar, Kunhikanna Poduval, et al and to attend meetings. The number of such trips increased when he became an MLC.
As he found the long walk of twelve miles in the hot sun or in the rainy season taxing, he bought a car. In those days, that was one of the few dozen cars in the whole of North Malabar. The bus operator who plied the only bus in Cannanore-Tellicherry route lost his driver Kannan when K poached him offering handsome incentives.
Though it was his private car, K would not hesitate offer lift to passers by. Only, they were not allowed inside the car: they were to stand on the footboard of the 1942 Chevy. Though exposed to the elements, they did not at least have to trudge the distance and saved considerable time.
It was the month of July. Monsoon had unleashed its fury and for two days, there had been no let-up in the rain. The car was on its way back from Cannanore after picking up K who had arrived from Madras after a session of the Legislative Council. The country road was slushy and it was pouring.
On the way, they saw a figure walking in the rain. A basket covered by banana leaves to protect the contents from the rain rested on his head. As they neared him, they identified him as Kumaran, soaked to the skin, obviously on his way back from the town.
Kannan, aware of the boss’ habit of offering lift to pedestrians, enquired, “That is Kumaran on his way home. Shall I offer him a lift?”
“Well, Kumaran? he hasn’t kept his promise of clearing the arrears before this monsoon,” observed K.
“In that case, shall I splash some mud on him?” was the instant response of Kannan. It won’t ever be said that he does not have presence of mind.
Oranges, Anyone?
As was the custom those days, my grandfather moved into his bride’s matriarchal household near Cannanore when they got married. He was used to hard work, physical labour and a tough life. By contrast, the men in her family, traditionally the landed gentry, were not used to physical work; they only supervised the farm-related activities.
For the young man newly inducted into the affluent joint family, this was traumatic. He had time on his hands, a lot of it, and nothing to do. Control of the farm labour was the portfolio of the men of the family, and the sons-in-law were not to be burdened with such responsibilities.
The forenoon’s schedule began with an early morning bath and a visit to the temple followed by a hearty breakfast. After that, there was precious little to be done. He had to be generally busy, doing nothing during the daytime. Couples were allowed each other’s company only after dinner.
Grandpa was not alone in this predicament. There were other such young men married into the family. They would engage themselves in pastimes like jokes, gossip, aksharashlokam (a precursor of the present day Antakshari), siesta and such other harmless activities.
But how long can you put an enterprising young man down, tying him down to an epicurean life? He was raring to go. And he did. He bought himself a second hand truck (A Buick, a Chevrolet or a Leyland, I do not recall) and learnt how to drive it.
Grandpa would buy coconuts from the village and sell them in Mysore, a couple of hundred kilometres east. Early mornings on Fridays, he would set off on his truck, with Kittan, his Jeeves, for company. After the sale, he would buy oranges from the wholesale market the next day, bring them to coastal Cannanore and sell them there. It made sound economic sense.
This went on for long. During one of those trips in an October, the orange-laden truck developed some trouble. He tried to move ahead. It went on for a couple of kilometres but the engine stalled.
It was nearing noon. There were no workshops nearby. Did I say this was in the early 1930’s? Someone told grandpa help would be available only at Virajpet in the west or Nanjangud in the east. The former, another informed, was ill-equipped and it may be better to engage the Nanjangud mechanic. As there were no telephones, the only way was to go and fetch him. So Kittan was assigned the task of fetching the repairman with his equipments.
Kittan hopped on to a truck going Mysore-wards. After six long hours, he returned in another, alone. When he reached Nanjangud, the only mechanic was winding up for the day. He was leaving for his village, and would return only on Monday when he had some pending work to attend to.
It was the Dussehra season. On Monday evening, the tools would be kept away for worship, for that was the Aayudha Pooja day and he would not touch the tools till Vijaya Dashami on Wednesday morning.
That was bad news. Kittan and he would have to keep watch over the oranges for three days. And exposed to the elements for three days, the ripe and succulent oranges in the hold of the truck would be useless.
Several trucks sped past the disabled and stationary counterpart. Drivers of some trucks were more compassionate: they would slow down and stop to enquire, say a few words of commiseration and move ahead. Grandpa toyed with the idea of persuading a driver to carry the oranges to Cannanore for sale, but that would mean abandoning the truck.
Sensing that grandpa had no choice except a distress sale of the oranges, some enterprising truck drivers offered to buy the oranges at prices about ten percent of the cost. Incurring a ninety percent loss was not grandpa’s idea of doing business.
Villagers were going back to their homes after work, with bags and baskets containing the purchase of rice and provisions made by them from the local market and shops. He had a bright idea. He announced to the passers by: they could pick up as many oranges as they wanted and carry them home for their kids.
Rather than incur a 90% loss, he would be a Santa Clause for the kids. Would you call that ‘making a virtue of a necessity?’
For the young man newly inducted into the affluent joint family, this was traumatic. He had time on his hands, a lot of it, and nothing to do. Control of the farm labour was the portfolio of the men of the family, and the sons-in-law were not to be burdened with such responsibilities.
The forenoon’s schedule began with an early morning bath and a visit to the temple followed by a hearty breakfast. After that, there was precious little to be done. He had to be generally busy, doing nothing during the daytime. Couples were allowed each other’s company only after dinner.
Grandpa was not alone in this predicament. There were other such young men married into the family. They would engage themselves in pastimes like jokes, gossip, aksharashlokam (a precursor of the present day Antakshari), siesta and such other harmless activities.
But how long can you put an enterprising young man down, tying him down to an epicurean life? He was raring to go. And he did. He bought himself a second hand truck (A Buick, a Chevrolet or a Leyland, I do not recall) and learnt how to drive it.
Grandpa would buy coconuts from the village and sell them in Mysore, a couple of hundred kilometres east. Early mornings on Fridays, he would set off on his truck, with Kittan, his Jeeves, for company. After the sale, he would buy oranges from the wholesale market the next day, bring them to coastal Cannanore and sell them there. It made sound economic sense.
This went on for long. During one of those trips in an October, the orange-laden truck developed some trouble. He tried to move ahead. It went on for a couple of kilometres but the engine stalled.
It was nearing noon. There were no workshops nearby. Did I say this was in the early 1930’s? Someone told grandpa help would be available only at Virajpet in the west or Nanjangud in the east. The former, another informed, was ill-equipped and it may be better to engage the Nanjangud mechanic. As there were no telephones, the only way was to go and fetch him. So Kittan was assigned the task of fetching the repairman with his equipments.
Kittan hopped on to a truck going Mysore-wards. After six long hours, he returned in another, alone. When he reached Nanjangud, the only mechanic was winding up for the day. He was leaving for his village, and would return only on Monday when he had some pending work to attend to.
It was the Dussehra season. On Monday evening, the tools would be kept away for worship, for that was the Aayudha Pooja day and he would not touch the tools till Vijaya Dashami on Wednesday morning.
That was bad news. Kittan and he would have to keep watch over the oranges for three days. And exposed to the elements for three days, the ripe and succulent oranges in the hold of the truck would be useless.
Several trucks sped past the disabled and stationary counterpart. Drivers of some trucks were more compassionate: they would slow down and stop to enquire, say a few words of commiseration and move ahead. Grandpa toyed with the idea of persuading a driver to carry the oranges to Cannanore for sale, but that would mean abandoning the truck.
Sensing that grandpa had no choice except a distress sale of the oranges, some enterprising truck drivers offered to buy the oranges at prices about ten percent of the cost. Incurring a ninety percent loss was not grandpa’s idea of doing business.
Villagers were going back to their homes after work, with bags and baskets containing the purchase of rice and provisions made by them from the local market and shops. He had a bright idea. He announced to the passers by: they could pick up as many oranges as they wanted and carry them home for their kids.
Rather than incur a 90% loss, he would be a Santa Clause for the kids. Would you call that ‘making a virtue of a necessity?’
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Theyyam
By and by, the din from afar, till now a diffused hum, gets more distinct. It is no more a vague noise, you can recognize the resounding tribal rhythm of the drumbeat. The first sign that our destination is near. The primaeval pulsation rises above the cacophony of the milling crowd. Unable to contain the anticipation, my little son canters, me in tow. The rustle of the dry leaves as they get crushed under our feet on the cart track. The village path is lit only by a few stars. I look up: the monsoon having receded, the azure sky is bereft of dark clouds.
My thoughts go back to my schooldays.
* * *
I wrote ‘THEYYAM’ in bold letters at the head of the page and underlined it. It was our English Composition period in Class VII. Easow Master had given us thirty minutes to write an essay on ‘When I Grow Up, I Want to Be A …..’.
I pondered: why do I want to be a Theyyam? They were indeed powerful: they heard the complaints and prayers of the hoi polloi and conveyed them to the Gods ‘recommending favourable consideration’. Gods spoke to ordinary men and women through the Theyyams. One shared one’s anxieties with him. You thanked God for His mercies by dropping offerings into the open palms of the Theyyam. The only persons the Kaaranavar, presiding head of the family, bowed to in respect were Kunhappa and Ramunni when they donned the garb of the Theyyam. The Kaaranavar who only knew how to order people about listened to them. Was any more evidence needed for the Theyyam being all-powerful?
* * *
That was a lad on the threshold of his early teens. I look back in retrospect to ferret out a convincing explanation for my longing.
* * *
‘There, I can see the light,’ shrieks my son as he turns right along the curving road. Enthusiastic and eager to reach there a minute earlier if he can could, he is trotting a few steps ahead of me, impatient that I am not keeping pace. When I catch up, I too can see the halo of lights in the otherwise dark sky in the general direction of the location of my Tarawad. Theyyam would be performed in the courtyard of the complex.
The headquarters of the Tarawad comprises three blocks of buildings constructed in different periods of time: one is the traditional single-storeyed ettukettu, the two-storeyed main building seems to have been influenced by Dutch architecture and the third, called the Banglaav (Bungalow) is more like a club-house.
* * *
Why did I want to be a Theyyam when I grew up? Perhaps I was enamoured by the mumbo-jumbo that he uttered, eyes heavenwards and hands outstretched. Perhaps because his prophecies, unintelligible though they were because of the quaint expressions used and the quiver in his high-pitched voice, were awaited eagerly by the devout dowagers. Perhaps I was fascinated by the fact that he ‘communicated’ to and on behalf of the Almighty. He seemed to be closer to God than my grandmother who fasted on Mondays, Ekadasi days, new moon days, full moon days and several other days of the month. He could bring solace to women worried about the waywardness of their husbands or illness of their offspring.
* * *
We are presently in the courtyard in front of the Banglaav where traditionally the Kaaranavar would entertain visitors and spend his evenings with his friends, often imbibing the tipple. Going ahead, you can see the performers in different stages of preparation in the raised ground near the Kalari. Some have had their make-up done and all their gear on, nearly ready to make their appearance. Those whose turn is scheduled for the latter part of the night are yet to don the accoutrements.
* * *
The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Theyyam is not the colourful show that unfolds before you or the sounds that accompany it, but the smell of Theyyam. The smell of the coconut oil as it is consumed by the flares, the mildly acrid smell of turmeric, the smell of arrack and beedis, the smell of the plantain leaf getting ‘cooked’ as piping hot rice is dropped on it, the smell of the wooden logs as they turn into embers and then to ashes as the fire into which Ucchitta Bhagavati plunged herself dies down.
* * *
There is a nip in the air, for it is the month of Makaram (End-January). Small groups of people are huddled together and watching the goings-on. Members of the family walk about with an affected demeanour: it-is-in-my-Tarawad-that-this-event-is-taking-place kind of air of authority.
* * *
What is the origin of the pantheon of pagan gods that streak in and out according to a rigidly drawn up schedule? Old-timers believe that they all reside in the Kalari. Unhappy with the misdoings of the earthlings in the past year, they walk out of the Kalari. If they are allowed to do their bidding, they might wreak havoc, epidemics and natural calamities. To avert the disaster, the human beings placate the gods by giving offerings in the ensuing during the next two days. After Wworshipping and appeasing the deities, they coax them back into their residence for one more year.
* * *
Theyyam used to be the only time womenfolk in the village who never ventured out could get their stock of adornments and cosmetics – bangles, trinkets, kaajal, chaanthupottu, cheap perfume and talcum, safety pins, hair clips, false hair, and a host of other things. Kids would cadge money out of uncles and fathers and exchange them for balloons, whistles, balls or wooden toys. They come in all colours, shapes and sizes, and any amount of money that you have is too little.
I stop before a vendor and look at his ware. I spot the tiny tin boat which comes alive if you keep a small lighted wick inside it. My eyes widen in imagination as they conjure up the vision of the boat chugging along in a trough of water. I fulfil a boyhood dream as I exchange a fiver for the boat.
* * *
Theyyam is not just cacophony and smells. It is also a mélange of spectacles and sights. The headgears of Kantaakarnan and Thai Paradevatha are tall and heavy: the performers have to strain themselves to maintain their balance. Gulikan reclines on a tree and Kuttichaatthan’s pranks entertain. The colourfully bedecked Bhairavan, Vayanattu Kulavan and Muchilott Bhagavathi are a treat to the eyes. Only natural resources like tender fronds of palms, leaves of mango trees, a blend of turmeric and lime, etc that are used in the decoration and make-up.
* * *
Logs of dried wood neatly stacked in a pile in the courtyard in front of the Kalari are being set fire to for the grand spectacle of the night – Thee Chamundi’s fire dance. The Kaaranavar is seated on a low wooden stool watching the proceedings, detachment writ in his manner. Till he signals to the performer, Thee Chamundi would keep walking in and out of the burning embers.
* * *
Most of the Theyyams are grossly exaggerated legends or stories that reflect the fear of the man, defenceless when confronted by nature’s fury, epidemics or wild beasts. Take Vasoorimala or Pulikkarinkaali or Acchiyum Kuttiyum (Mother and child), for instance. In the days when man had not reined in diseases and nature, all that he could do was to pray that they do not assail him!
* * *
At the end of the half an hour, when Easow Master announced ‘Time is up’, I turned in a sheet of paper, blank except for the word ‘THEYYAM’ written atop.
My thoughts go back to my schooldays.
* * *
I wrote ‘THEYYAM’ in bold letters at the head of the page and underlined it. It was our English Composition period in Class VII. Easow Master had given us thirty minutes to write an essay on ‘When I Grow Up, I Want to Be A …..’.
I pondered: why do I want to be a Theyyam? They were indeed powerful: they heard the complaints and prayers of the hoi polloi and conveyed them to the Gods ‘recommending favourable consideration’. Gods spoke to ordinary men and women through the Theyyams. One shared one’s anxieties with him. You thanked God for His mercies by dropping offerings into the open palms of the Theyyam. The only persons the Kaaranavar, presiding head of the family, bowed to in respect were Kunhappa and Ramunni when they donned the garb of the Theyyam. The Kaaranavar who only knew how to order people about listened to them. Was any more evidence needed for the Theyyam being all-powerful?
* * *
That was a lad on the threshold of his early teens. I look back in retrospect to ferret out a convincing explanation for my longing.
* * *
‘There, I can see the light,’ shrieks my son as he turns right along the curving road. Enthusiastic and eager to reach there a minute earlier if he can could, he is trotting a few steps ahead of me, impatient that I am not keeping pace. When I catch up, I too can see the halo of lights in the otherwise dark sky in the general direction of the location of my Tarawad. Theyyam would be performed in the courtyard of the complex.
The headquarters of the Tarawad comprises three blocks of buildings constructed in different periods of time: one is the traditional single-storeyed ettukettu, the two-storeyed main building seems to have been influenced by Dutch architecture and the third, called the Banglaav (Bungalow) is more like a club-house.
* * *
Why did I want to be a Theyyam when I grew up? Perhaps I was enamoured by the mumbo-jumbo that he uttered, eyes heavenwards and hands outstretched. Perhaps because his prophecies, unintelligible though they were because of the quaint expressions used and the quiver in his high-pitched voice, were awaited eagerly by the devout dowagers. Perhaps I was fascinated by the fact that he ‘communicated’ to and on behalf of the Almighty. He seemed to be closer to God than my grandmother who fasted on Mondays, Ekadasi days, new moon days, full moon days and several other days of the month. He could bring solace to women worried about the waywardness of their husbands or illness of their offspring.
* * *
We are presently in the courtyard in front of the Banglaav where traditionally the Kaaranavar would entertain visitors and spend his evenings with his friends, often imbibing the tipple. Going ahead, you can see the performers in different stages of preparation in the raised ground near the Kalari. Some have had their make-up done and all their gear on, nearly ready to make their appearance. Those whose turn is scheduled for the latter part of the night are yet to don the accoutrements.
* * *
The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of Theyyam is not the colourful show that unfolds before you or the sounds that accompany it, but the smell of Theyyam. The smell of the coconut oil as it is consumed by the flares, the mildly acrid smell of turmeric, the smell of arrack and beedis, the smell of the plantain leaf getting ‘cooked’ as piping hot rice is dropped on it, the smell of the wooden logs as they turn into embers and then to ashes as the fire into which Ucchitta Bhagavati plunged herself dies down.
* * *
There is a nip in the air, for it is the month of Makaram (End-January). Small groups of people are huddled together and watching the goings-on. Members of the family walk about with an affected demeanour: it-is-in-my-Tarawad-that-this-event-is-taking-place kind of air of authority.
* * *
What is the origin of the pantheon of pagan gods that streak in and out according to a rigidly drawn up schedule? Old-timers believe that they all reside in the Kalari. Unhappy with the misdoings of the earthlings in the past year, they walk out of the Kalari. If they are allowed to do their bidding, they might wreak havoc, epidemics and natural calamities. To avert the disaster, the human beings placate the gods by giving offerings in the ensuing during the next two days. After Wworshipping and appeasing the deities, they coax them back into their residence for one more year.
* * *
Theyyam used to be the only time womenfolk in the village who never ventured out could get their stock of adornments and cosmetics – bangles, trinkets, kaajal, chaanthupottu, cheap perfume and talcum, safety pins, hair clips, false hair, and a host of other things. Kids would cadge money out of uncles and fathers and exchange them for balloons, whistles, balls or wooden toys. They come in all colours, shapes and sizes, and any amount of money that you have is too little.
I stop before a vendor and look at his ware. I spot the tiny tin boat which comes alive if you keep a small lighted wick inside it. My eyes widen in imagination as they conjure up the vision of the boat chugging along in a trough of water. I fulfil a boyhood dream as I exchange a fiver for the boat.
* * *
Theyyam is not just cacophony and smells. It is also a mélange of spectacles and sights. The headgears of Kantaakarnan and Thai Paradevatha are tall and heavy: the performers have to strain themselves to maintain their balance. Gulikan reclines on a tree and Kuttichaatthan’s pranks entertain. The colourfully bedecked Bhairavan, Vayanattu Kulavan and Muchilott Bhagavathi are a treat to the eyes. Only natural resources like tender fronds of palms, leaves of mango trees, a blend of turmeric and lime, etc that are used in the decoration and make-up.
* * *
Logs of dried wood neatly stacked in a pile in the courtyard in front of the Kalari are being set fire to for the grand spectacle of the night – Thee Chamundi’s fire dance. The Kaaranavar is seated on a low wooden stool watching the proceedings, detachment writ in his manner. Till he signals to the performer, Thee Chamundi would keep walking in and out of the burning embers.
* * *
Most of the Theyyams are grossly exaggerated legends or stories that reflect the fear of the man, defenceless when confronted by nature’s fury, epidemics or wild beasts. Take Vasoorimala or Pulikkarinkaali or Acchiyum Kuttiyum (Mother and child), for instance. In the days when man had not reined in diseases and nature, all that he could do was to pray that they do not assail him!
* * *
At the end of the half an hour, when Easow Master announced ‘Time is up’, I turned in a sheet of paper, blank except for the word ‘THEYYAM’ written atop.
Shatranj ke Khilaadi
Come Friday evening, me in tow, grandpa would amble towards the banana trees grown as intercrop in the coconut grove. With a pen-knife, he would snip a couple of fully grown leaves of the plantain tree. He would then carefully segregate the spines of the leaves for me to carry home for the weekly ritual.
Grandpa would splice and cut the spine into specified shapes to fashion two sets of pieces for playing Chaturangam. The thick end would become the king, the slender pieces would make the pawns. The minister, the chariot, the horse and elephant (not queen, rook, knight or bishop as in the modern version) were made from the remaining portion.
That was part of the preparation for the weekly visit of M, the headmaster of the local school who would play Chaturangam with him. M was not just a sparring partner of grandpa: he was also grandma’s cousin.
Even since their common passions – astrology, poetry, literature and Chaturangam brought them together, grandpa and M would spend the weekends in each other’s company pursuing these interests. This was a routine practised for decades.
The two would exchange pleasantries sipping the hot tea which grandma would make as soon as M came in trudging the stone-paved path flanked by crotons and hibiscus. After the cuppa, a mandatory walk in the sylvan paddy-fields discussing a poem that had appeared in the recent issue of the Mathrubhoomi weekly or a story in Mangalodayam. This would be followed by a wash in the pond in the compound.
The two would then walk back to their favourite spot, the wooden platform in the sit-out, and place themselves a few feet apart, each leaning against a pillar. Grandpa would use charcoal to reinforce the fading lines of the 8x8 square drawn on the wooden platform.
They would soon move on to more serious business. They could be seen discussing the post-partition trauma. It could as well be a debate about the influence of an aspect of asterism in astrology. At times, they would try their hand at a paperless translation of a verse from Kalidasa’s Shakuntala into Malayalam.
After dinner, they would shift gears and move over to a series of games of Chaturangam. Not many words would be spoken after that. You could only hear grunts and ‘hum’s which had specific meanings – a doubt, a question, an exclamation, a challenge, a compliment – anything, depending on the variations in the pitch, length and intonation of the ‘hum’.
And the game, aided by a hurricane lamp, would go well past midnight. The spells of silence between two moves would be interrupted only when they decided to break for a session of pan-chewing.
Me, a six-year old lad, was like Snowy in the Tintin comics, their constant companion (but without his entertainment value) but nor much of a nuisance either. I would look forward to Friday evenings and the rendezvous between the two.
That Friday evening looked no different. The usual routine ensued: pleasantries, tea, a long walk, some nuances of poetry and astrology, a wash and dinner, followed by chathurangam. When the discussions died down and the two settled down to a game, they entered the zone of silence broken by grunts and ‘hum’s. I felt sleepy. Head on grandpa’s lap, I lay on the mat and dozed off.
It must have been a little – or a long – later. Lifting my head off his lap as gently as he could, grandpa said, “Let me fetch some water.” The words that broke the silence and the movement disturbed my slumber. Grandpa walked towards the kitchen.
From the corner of my eye, I watched uncle’s left hand moving towards the square. In a swift, but stealthy movement, he snatched a piece of his opponent and flung it into the darkness of the courtyard.
When grandpa returned, it was uncle’s turn to take a break. Using the opportunity, I sneaked to grandpa about uncle’s unethical action. Unmoved by the revelation, he admonished me in soft tones, “Shh… later.” Grandpa lost that game.
Later, I asked grandpa about uncle’s impropriety and his (lack of) response to it. He said, “The game was in a stage where unless he did that, he would lose.”
I could not digest that one. “But why should you let him win?” I queried.
“You have to let others win too,” he explained, “if you want to continue playing.” As that sank into my young mind, he added, “At such critical stages, I always go to fetch water or get a replenishment of betel leaf and accompaniments.”
Grandpa would splice and cut the spine into specified shapes to fashion two sets of pieces for playing Chaturangam. The thick end would become the king, the slender pieces would make the pawns. The minister, the chariot, the horse and elephant (not queen, rook, knight or bishop as in the modern version) were made from the remaining portion.
That was part of the preparation for the weekly visit of M, the headmaster of the local school who would play Chaturangam with him. M was not just a sparring partner of grandpa: he was also grandma’s cousin.
Even since their common passions – astrology, poetry, literature and Chaturangam brought them together, grandpa and M would spend the weekends in each other’s company pursuing these interests. This was a routine practised for decades.
The two would exchange pleasantries sipping the hot tea which grandma would make as soon as M came in trudging the stone-paved path flanked by crotons and hibiscus. After the cuppa, a mandatory walk in the sylvan paddy-fields discussing a poem that had appeared in the recent issue of the Mathrubhoomi weekly or a story in Mangalodayam. This would be followed by a wash in the pond in the compound.
The two would then walk back to their favourite spot, the wooden platform in the sit-out, and place themselves a few feet apart, each leaning against a pillar. Grandpa would use charcoal to reinforce the fading lines of the 8x8 square drawn on the wooden platform.
They would soon move on to more serious business. They could be seen discussing the post-partition trauma. It could as well be a debate about the influence of an aspect of asterism in astrology. At times, they would try their hand at a paperless translation of a verse from Kalidasa’s Shakuntala into Malayalam.
After dinner, they would shift gears and move over to a series of games of Chaturangam. Not many words would be spoken after that. You could only hear grunts and ‘hum’s which had specific meanings – a doubt, a question, an exclamation, a challenge, a compliment – anything, depending on the variations in the pitch, length and intonation of the ‘hum’.
And the game, aided by a hurricane lamp, would go well past midnight. The spells of silence between two moves would be interrupted only when they decided to break for a session of pan-chewing.
Me, a six-year old lad, was like Snowy in the Tintin comics, their constant companion (but without his entertainment value) but nor much of a nuisance either. I would look forward to Friday evenings and the rendezvous between the two.
That Friday evening looked no different. The usual routine ensued: pleasantries, tea, a long walk, some nuances of poetry and astrology, a wash and dinner, followed by chathurangam. When the discussions died down and the two settled down to a game, they entered the zone of silence broken by grunts and ‘hum’s. I felt sleepy. Head on grandpa’s lap, I lay on the mat and dozed off.
It must have been a little – or a long – later. Lifting my head off his lap as gently as he could, grandpa said, “Let me fetch some water.” The words that broke the silence and the movement disturbed my slumber. Grandpa walked towards the kitchen.
From the corner of my eye, I watched uncle’s left hand moving towards the square. In a swift, but stealthy movement, he snatched a piece of his opponent and flung it into the darkness of the courtyard.
When grandpa returned, it was uncle’s turn to take a break. Using the opportunity, I sneaked to grandpa about uncle’s unethical action. Unmoved by the revelation, he admonished me in soft tones, “Shh… later.” Grandpa lost that game.
Later, I asked grandpa about uncle’s impropriety and his (lack of) response to it. He said, “The game was in a stage where unless he did that, he would lose.”
I could not digest that one. “But why should you let him win?” I queried.
“You have to let others win too,” he explained, “if you want to continue playing.” As that sank into my young mind, he added, “At such critical stages, I always go to fetch water or get a replenishment of betel leaf and accompaniments.”
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Presence of Mind
North Malabar in the dawn of the 20th century. Koodali and Kallyad were two small villages about twelve miles apart. There was no transport those days and you had to walk from one village to the other. To add to the woes, there was a gang of thugs which frequented the route. They were particularly active in late evenings and early mornings. Small groups were particularly vulnerable. Solitary passengers never passed that way between dusk and dawn. The thugs would pounce upon the unwary passenger and rob him of whatever gold he wore or money he had.
Damu and Kelu, about the same age, were cousins from Koodali. They got married within the space of six months of each other. The similarity did not end there: their wives too were related to each other. They were: second cousins hailing from Kallyad.
Damu was a school teacher by profession. Contrary to custom, even after his marriage, Damu continued to stay in his own home, as Koodali was closer than Kallyad to Damu’s school. He would spend the weekends in his wife’s house. Kelu was in business. He would buy cash crops like coconut, arecanut, pepper and cashew and sell then in the nearest town. He would offer an advance, and make a token payment, to have a lien on a year’s crop in a coconut grove or on all the areca in a plot. Or he would acquire the right to a season’s cashew by making an advance payment.
It was the practice of every such businessman not to pay the contracted amount in full. Payment would be made in bits and pieces and at the end of the year, some excuse would be offered for not making the full payment. Typical excuses were: the quality of the crop was poor, the quantity was less than expected, the season was short because the rains came too soon, the summer was severe and tender coconuts dropped, causing great financial loss. He would normally get away by paying no more than eighty percent of the amount originally agreed to.
Damu, the school master, had inherited some land and the savings from his salary helped him acquire more. In a particular year, Kelu offered an advance to Damu in exchange of the right for the crop of coconut in the ensuing year. A firm believer in the dictum that doing business with a friend will terminate the friendship, Damu promptly refused. He said, “If the full amount is not paid, I can quarrel with Mammu Haji. Can I do that with you?”
Kelu was insistent. When some senior relatives intervened, Damu had to relent. Finally, they arrived at a satisfactory solution acceptable to both. The full amount would be paid in advance. Soon, word spread in the village that Kelu had contracted for Damu’s crops for Rs 500 (which was a lot of money in the 1920’s).
But then when the day of reckoning came, Kelu was short of funds: He had only Rs 450 with him. Kelu assured Damu that the shortfall of Rs 50 would be made good before Onam when the sale proceeds of the first plucking of the year would flow in. That sounded reasonable and Damu agreed.
It was a Friday evening. Damu was on his way to his wife’s village. There was a lurking fear in his mind: the thugs. Still he mustered courage and quickened his pace, determined to cross the den of the thugs before they took charge. A couple miles on, he saw a figure ahead of him. If he could catch up with him, he thought, the two would be more formidable than his lone self. So he walked faster. Soon he realised that his pace-setter was none other than Kelu. He called out. Kelu was also on his way to Kallyad to his wife’s house. He was returning from the market after selling some goods.
They walked together, exchanging news and comparing notes, each secretly hoping that they would not encounter the thugs. They did not give vent to that hope because they were afraid the fear might be contagious.
As luck would have it, three hefty men, moustachioed and menacing, loomed large before them. Now there was no escape, the two friends realised.
“Remove your rings!” one of the thugs ordered, while the other two grabbed the victims to ensure that they would not run away.
Damu and Kelu rid their fingers of their wedding rings.
“Out with the money!” was the next command.
While the poor school teacher fished in his bag for the small notes and loose change, Kelu took a couple of notes from the folds of his dhoti around his waist and thrust it into Damu’s hand: “Here is the 50 I owe you!”
Damu and Kelu, about the same age, were cousins from Koodali. They got married within the space of six months of each other. The similarity did not end there: their wives too were related to each other. They were: second cousins hailing from Kallyad.
Damu was a school teacher by profession. Contrary to custom, even after his marriage, Damu continued to stay in his own home, as Koodali was closer than Kallyad to Damu’s school. He would spend the weekends in his wife’s house. Kelu was in business. He would buy cash crops like coconut, arecanut, pepper and cashew and sell then in the nearest town. He would offer an advance, and make a token payment, to have a lien on a year’s crop in a coconut grove or on all the areca in a plot. Or he would acquire the right to a season’s cashew by making an advance payment.
It was the practice of every such businessman not to pay the contracted amount in full. Payment would be made in bits and pieces and at the end of the year, some excuse would be offered for not making the full payment. Typical excuses were: the quality of the crop was poor, the quantity was less than expected, the season was short because the rains came too soon, the summer was severe and tender coconuts dropped, causing great financial loss. He would normally get away by paying no more than eighty percent of the amount originally agreed to.
Damu, the school master, had inherited some land and the savings from his salary helped him acquire more. In a particular year, Kelu offered an advance to Damu in exchange of the right for the crop of coconut in the ensuing year. A firm believer in the dictum that doing business with a friend will terminate the friendship, Damu promptly refused. He said, “If the full amount is not paid, I can quarrel with Mammu Haji. Can I do that with you?”
Kelu was insistent. When some senior relatives intervened, Damu had to relent. Finally, they arrived at a satisfactory solution acceptable to both. The full amount would be paid in advance. Soon, word spread in the village that Kelu had contracted for Damu’s crops for Rs 500 (which was a lot of money in the 1920’s).
But then when the day of reckoning came, Kelu was short of funds: He had only Rs 450 with him. Kelu assured Damu that the shortfall of Rs 50 would be made good before Onam when the sale proceeds of the first plucking of the year would flow in. That sounded reasonable and Damu agreed.
It was a Friday evening. Damu was on his way to his wife’s village. There was a lurking fear in his mind: the thugs. Still he mustered courage and quickened his pace, determined to cross the den of the thugs before they took charge. A couple miles on, he saw a figure ahead of him. If he could catch up with him, he thought, the two would be more formidable than his lone self. So he walked faster. Soon he realised that his pace-setter was none other than Kelu. He called out. Kelu was also on his way to Kallyad to his wife’s house. He was returning from the market after selling some goods.
They walked together, exchanging news and comparing notes, each secretly hoping that they would not encounter the thugs. They did not give vent to that hope because they were afraid the fear might be contagious.
As luck would have it, three hefty men, moustachioed and menacing, loomed large before them. Now there was no escape, the two friends realised.
“Remove your rings!” one of the thugs ordered, while the other two grabbed the victims to ensure that they would not run away.
Damu and Kelu rid their fingers of their wedding rings.
“Out with the money!” was the next command.
While the poor school teacher fished in his bag for the small notes and loose change, Kelu took a couple of notes from the folds of his dhoti around his waist and thrust it into Damu’s hand: “Here is the 50 I owe you!”
Friday, August 10, 2007
True Blue Brit
‘God does not make them anymore,’ said my wife, desperate that the obvious errors our son had made in his exercise book had escaped the attention of the teacher who had checked the homework, ‘I mean English teachers of yesteryears’. With those words, she lapsed into a reverie that took her back to her schooldays in St Thomas’ Girls High School, Calcutta where the glaring eyes of Mrs Turner could burn a hole on the paper which had the mistake.
I too was transported to my college days in Alleppey when we had our share of meticulous professors. Professor Baliga who taught us English was one such. Despite his area of specialisation being the language of the Empire where the sun never sets, he was not enamoured of the western attire. Out and out a nationalist and a Gandhian, the venerable Professor always wore starched khadi – a Gandhi cap, an ochre kurta, white pyjamas and a long shawl neatly folded and draped around his neck, much like a dupatta. Complete with that flowing salt-and-pepper beard and the grey umbrella which he carried wherever he went, the unshod teacher looked every inch a caricature. In short, he was an antithesis to the archetypal English professor. Every morning and evening he would walk the two miles that separated his austere home from the college.
For him, English was a passion and he had a phenomenal memory from which he could quote extensively from Verity’s commentary on the Bard. And the way synonymous words would flow from his tongue had to be seen to be believed. Much to the delight of those who shared his passion, he would kneel on the platform and taking on the mantle of Iago, he would say, ‘I request thee, Desdemona,’ and add, ‘I entreat thee, I beseech thee, I implore thee, I beg thee, I supplicate to thee, I appeal to thee, I plead to thee’. He would go on and on.
Expatiating on the theme that the course of true love never runs smooth, he would cite the case of the Montagues and the Capulets who did not allow the romance of young Romeo and Juliet to come to fruition because of ‘the feud, the enmity, the acrimony, the hatred, the ill-will, the vendetta, the hostility, the antagonism, the hate, the bad blood, the quarrel, the row, the rancour, the bad feeling, ….’ which the two families had harboured for each other.
Professor Baliga would get highly involved with the theme being dealt with. According to the college folklore which is replete with interesting episodes featuring him, when teaching ‘Alice in Wonderland’, he would ‘become’ the Queen and shriek, ‘Off with his head!’ accompanied by an action which saw his umbrella flying out of the window. Classrooms would be packed on the days the assassination scene in Julius Caesar was being taken up, for, legend has it that countless are the fountain pen nibs had met with untimely demise when he played the role of Brutus and stabbed the blackboard (Caesar to the learned Professor).
He loved his students so much that he would ignore the tittering in the backbenches which would have triggered off any other self-respecting teacher into throwing them out of the classroom. Not so Professor Baliga. The only lapse that he, deeply in love with the language, just could not tolerate was bad English. One incorrect usage by any student in the classroom and he HAD it!
Our mathematics lecturer, not too strong on his grammar, was teaching the students how to find out the locus of the centroid of a triangle formed by the intersection of a plane at a constant distance from the origin with the three axes. He began, ‘If suppose let ‘d’ is equal to the distance of the plane from the origin…..’ Story goes that Professor Baliga who was passing through the corridor and had heard him, barged into the classroom and corrected him ‘Let ‘d’ be the distance’ and left as fast as he had come in, allowing the mathematics teacher to proceed with the lesson.
One inclement morning, on his way to the college, he offered shelter to an undergraduate who was waiting for the drizzle to subside. They got talking and things progressed well till the lad apparently said something like ‘The members of the football team of our college does not have the stamina …’ The Professor could not stomach this solescism on the part of his student, and shouted, ‘Get out of my umbrella!’
I too was transported to my college days in Alleppey when we had our share of meticulous professors. Professor Baliga who taught us English was one such. Despite his area of specialisation being the language of the Empire where the sun never sets, he was not enamoured of the western attire. Out and out a nationalist and a Gandhian, the venerable Professor always wore starched khadi – a Gandhi cap, an ochre kurta, white pyjamas and a long shawl neatly folded and draped around his neck, much like a dupatta. Complete with that flowing salt-and-pepper beard and the grey umbrella which he carried wherever he went, the unshod teacher looked every inch a caricature. In short, he was an antithesis to the archetypal English professor. Every morning and evening he would walk the two miles that separated his austere home from the college.
For him, English was a passion and he had a phenomenal memory from which he could quote extensively from Verity’s commentary on the Bard. And the way synonymous words would flow from his tongue had to be seen to be believed. Much to the delight of those who shared his passion, he would kneel on the platform and taking on the mantle of Iago, he would say, ‘I request thee, Desdemona,’ and add, ‘I entreat thee, I beseech thee, I implore thee, I beg thee, I supplicate to thee, I appeal to thee, I plead to thee’. He would go on and on.
Expatiating on the theme that the course of true love never runs smooth, he would cite the case of the Montagues and the Capulets who did not allow the romance of young Romeo and Juliet to come to fruition because of ‘the feud, the enmity, the acrimony, the hatred, the ill-will, the vendetta, the hostility, the antagonism, the hate, the bad blood, the quarrel, the row, the rancour, the bad feeling, ….’ which the two families had harboured for each other.
Professor Baliga would get highly involved with the theme being dealt with. According to the college folklore which is replete with interesting episodes featuring him, when teaching ‘Alice in Wonderland’, he would ‘become’ the Queen and shriek, ‘Off with his head!’ accompanied by an action which saw his umbrella flying out of the window. Classrooms would be packed on the days the assassination scene in Julius Caesar was being taken up, for, legend has it that countless are the fountain pen nibs had met with untimely demise when he played the role of Brutus and stabbed the blackboard (Caesar to the learned Professor).
He loved his students so much that he would ignore the tittering in the backbenches which would have triggered off any other self-respecting teacher into throwing them out of the classroom. Not so Professor Baliga. The only lapse that he, deeply in love with the language, just could not tolerate was bad English. One incorrect usage by any student in the classroom and he HAD it!
Our mathematics lecturer, not too strong on his grammar, was teaching the students how to find out the locus of the centroid of a triangle formed by the intersection of a plane at a constant distance from the origin with the three axes. He began, ‘If suppose let ‘d’ is equal to the distance of the plane from the origin…..’ Story goes that Professor Baliga who was passing through the corridor and had heard him, barged into the classroom and corrected him ‘Let ‘d’ be the distance’ and left as fast as he had come in, allowing the mathematics teacher to proceed with the lesson.
One inclement morning, on his way to the college, he offered shelter to an undergraduate who was waiting for the drizzle to subside. They got talking and things progressed well till the lad apparently said something like ‘The members of the football team of our college does not have the stamina …’ The Professor could not stomach this solescism on the part of his student, and shouted, ‘Get out of my umbrella!’
A Brand New Year
December is the month when we take stock of what we went through the year that just slipped by and draw up the final balance-sheet. This is the time for New Year Resolutions.
Many of us see the new year as the time to make course-corrections in case there have been deviations from the straight and the narrow. Small wonder, then, that resolutions, more often than not, have something do with giving up a bad habit, though some do resolve to pick up some new skill.
Anil Koshy who used to finish two packs of 20’s a day vowed to himself six years back to give up smoking and has stuck to the decision. The divorce from Lady Nicotine, once decided, was final. Never again could she seduce him. Many are not lion-hearted like Anil. Though used to just a cigarette after a meal and not more than five a day, Hariharan found that he could not stick to his new year resolution beyond the 4th January. Quoting a humorist, he says: my prayer is “Oh Lord, lead me not into temptations, for I have a low threshold.” He appears to be a little more strong-willed than Oscar Wilde who confessed his absolute helplessness when he admitted, “I can resist everything except temptation.”
There is an interesting story behind the new year resolution that a few colleagues in a government office made in 1991. This group got together one evening for ‘the last drink of their lives’, because they had decided to kick the habit. So, there they were, at the usual joint on the usual day at the usual time to raise the glass in toast for the last time ‘for old times’ sake’. Bharathan never drank but he was an integral part of the gathering because he would treat them to the soulful Kundal Lal Saigal numbers complete with the feeling and the nasal accent.
As they uncorked the bottle, they exchanged the latest filmi gossip and shared what they had heard on the office grapevine. Over the bubbly, they dissected Salvador Dali and deconstruction, Rashomon and Derrida as any self-respecting Malayalee is wont to. As the animated discussion on post-modernism heated up, Bharathan, who had never had a drink in the past, poured a drink for himself ‘for company’s sake’.
And he has not looked back. He has to have his two drinks every evening!
Opinions are divided on whether it was the case of a non-resolution or a resolution in the reverse gear.
Eight-year old Ashwin says his new year resolultion is to ‘put away the third chocolate for tomorrow’. Little does he know that his mother has upped the ante on him by resolving not to give in to the tantrums he may throw in support of his demand ‘for the second chocolate’!
Paraphrasing Descartes who said, ‘Cogito, ergo sum’ (I think, therefore I am) Arun, who is eagerly a waiting the results of the CAT for gaining entry into the portals of the hallowed B-school, is given to saying, ‘I think, therefore IIM.’ He is not one to waste the six months between the test and the admission. Till then, he says, “I’ve decided to learn a foreign language. And French it will be.”
His sister is, however, not very optimistic. Malini predicts that if the spelling and the pronunciation do not get him, the gender will. Well, she knows how her brother struggled with his Hindi where it is ‘meri kitaab’ but ‘uska pustak’. For the life of him, Arun could not understand why. Malini knows that though, to the eyes of the unsuspecting learner, soup has no masculine or feminine features, in French, it is masculine if called potage and feminine if called soupe.
The other day students of a local college were seen playing a game in the India Coffee House. They were running a contest on the best new year resolution for 2003. A rugged-looking bearded chap in a shaggy T-shirt and cargo trousers, obviously a backbencher, said, “I will sit in the front bench and embarrass the Malayalam lecturer who will send me out of the class.” He’ll have the best of both worlds: not lose out on the attendance, but get the freedom he yearns for. A baby-faced boy said, “I am not going to play hookey with the hostel fee and spend it in movie halls.” We do not yet know if he was making a pledge he would not be able to keep.
The game evolved, as time slipped by. You could pretend to be someone else and come up with novel ideas. One with a crew cut imitated the mannerism of a well-known political leader and said, “Wait for a fortnight: I’ll announce my new year resolution on the 12th January. Till then I will not speak a word about it.” One of the two girls in the group assumed the demeanour of a social activist and announced, “I’ll include authors among the endangered species and give them protection.” In an obvious reference to the Indianisation brigade, the other girl said, “New year resolutuions, like Valentine cards and MTV, are a western concept. I will have a Nav Varsh ka Dridh Sankalp”. With a twinkle in her eye, she adds, “But I’ll wager ten to one that you’ll have to wait for three more months - for the advent of Chaitra maas - for the Nav Varsh of the Saka era.’
If we are not true to ourselves, these resolutions can become farcical, points out octogenarian Appunni Kurup. Today’s youngsters, he says, may not have heard of the practice among those aging pursuing their path to salvation of giving up something after a pilgrimage as a token renunciation. After trudging all the way to Kashi, his uncle Ravunni Kurup resolved never again to touch bitter gourd. It is not known to many that he would prefer hemlock to this vegetable. On days bitter gourd found its way to the dining table, Ammalu Ammayi was fated to be the victim of a bitter tongue-lashing.
There are novel resolutions that people come up with. Sarada Menon believes that finally, wisdom has dawned on her husband Sadananda Menon. He turned sixty this year and his new year resolution is not to have any new year resolution at all. A resolution not to make any resolutions might remind the historically inclined amongst us of the clichéd expression ‘the war to end all wars’. Coming as it does from someone who has made at least forty new year resolutions only to break them as soon as they were made, she says it is indeed a wise decision. One only hopes that Menon does not break this resolution!
So, what is your new year resolution?
Many of us see the new year as the time to make course-corrections in case there have been deviations from the straight and the narrow. Small wonder, then, that resolutions, more often than not, have something do with giving up a bad habit, though some do resolve to pick up some new skill.
Anil Koshy who used to finish two packs of 20’s a day vowed to himself six years back to give up smoking and has stuck to the decision. The divorce from Lady Nicotine, once decided, was final. Never again could she seduce him. Many are not lion-hearted like Anil. Though used to just a cigarette after a meal and not more than five a day, Hariharan found that he could not stick to his new year resolution beyond the 4th January. Quoting a humorist, he says: my prayer is “Oh Lord, lead me not into temptations, for I have a low threshold.” He appears to be a little more strong-willed than Oscar Wilde who confessed his absolute helplessness when he admitted, “I can resist everything except temptation.”
There is an interesting story behind the new year resolution that a few colleagues in a government office made in 1991. This group got together one evening for ‘the last drink of their lives’, because they had decided to kick the habit. So, there they were, at the usual joint on the usual day at the usual time to raise the glass in toast for the last time ‘for old times’ sake’. Bharathan never drank but he was an integral part of the gathering because he would treat them to the soulful Kundal Lal Saigal numbers complete with the feeling and the nasal accent.
As they uncorked the bottle, they exchanged the latest filmi gossip and shared what they had heard on the office grapevine. Over the bubbly, they dissected Salvador Dali and deconstruction, Rashomon and Derrida as any self-respecting Malayalee is wont to. As the animated discussion on post-modernism heated up, Bharathan, who had never had a drink in the past, poured a drink for himself ‘for company’s sake’.
And he has not looked back. He has to have his two drinks every evening!
Opinions are divided on whether it was the case of a non-resolution or a resolution in the reverse gear.
Eight-year old Ashwin says his new year resolultion is to ‘put away the third chocolate for tomorrow’. Little does he know that his mother has upped the ante on him by resolving not to give in to the tantrums he may throw in support of his demand ‘for the second chocolate’!
Paraphrasing Descartes who said, ‘Cogito, ergo sum’ (I think, therefore I am) Arun, who is eagerly a waiting the results of the CAT for gaining entry into the portals of the hallowed B-school, is given to saying, ‘I think, therefore IIM.’ He is not one to waste the six months between the test and the admission. Till then, he says, “I’ve decided to learn a foreign language. And French it will be.”
His sister is, however, not very optimistic. Malini predicts that if the spelling and the pronunciation do not get him, the gender will. Well, she knows how her brother struggled with his Hindi where it is ‘meri kitaab’ but ‘uska pustak’. For the life of him, Arun could not understand why. Malini knows that though, to the eyes of the unsuspecting learner, soup has no masculine or feminine features, in French, it is masculine if called potage and feminine if called soupe.
The other day students of a local college were seen playing a game in the India Coffee House. They were running a contest on the best new year resolution for 2003. A rugged-looking bearded chap in a shaggy T-shirt and cargo trousers, obviously a backbencher, said, “I will sit in the front bench and embarrass the Malayalam lecturer who will send me out of the class.” He’ll have the best of both worlds: not lose out on the attendance, but get the freedom he yearns for. A baby-faced boy said, “I am not going to play hookey with the hostel fee and spend it in movie halls.” We do not yet know if he was making a pledge he would not be able to keep.
The game evolved, as time slipped by. You could pretend to be someone else and come up with novel ideas. One with a crew cut imitated the mannerism of a well-known political leader and said, “Wait for a fortnight: I’ll announce my new year resolution on the 12th January. Till then I will not speak a word about it.” One of the two girls in the group assumed the demeanour of a social activist and announced, “I’ll include authors among the endangered species and give them protection.” In an obvious reference to the Indianisation brigade, the other girl said, “New year resolutuions, like Valentine cards and MTV, are a western concept. I will have a Nav Varsh ka Dridh Sankalp”. With a twinkle in her eye, she adds, “But I’ll wager ten to one that you’ll have to wait for three more months - for the advent of Chaitra maas - for the Nav Varsh of the Saka era.’
If we are not true to ourselves, these resolutions can become farcical, points out octogenarian Appunni Kurup. Today’s youngsters, he says, may not have heard of the practice among those aging pursuing their path to salvation of giving up something after a pilgrimage as a token renunciation. After trudging all the way to Kashi, his uncle Ravunni Kurup resolved never again to touch bitter gourd. It is not known to many that he would prefer hemlock to this vegetable. On days bitter gourd found its way to the dining table, Ammalu Ammayi was fated to be the victim of a bitter tongue-lashing.
There are novel resolutions that people come up with. Sarada Menon believes that finally, wisdom has dawned on her husband Sadananda Menon. He turned sixty this year and his new year resolution is not to have any new year resolution at all. A resolution not to make any resolutions might remind the historically inclined amongst us of the clichéd expression ‘the war to end all wars’. Coming as it does from someone who has made at least forty new year resolutions only to break them as soon as they were made, she says it is indeed a wise decision. One only hopes that Menon does not break this resolution!
So, what is your new year resolution?
Proverbs V.2.0
Our heritage is indeed rich: there is an adage to suit every situation, happy or sad, every person, cautious or reckless. But times gave changed. As with the times, so with the sayings.
These days, several of the old sayings have got modified (Or, should we say morphed, in keeping with the technology-enabled times?), some a wee bit, some a lot, to convey contemporarily relevant messages. There was a time when the proverb ‘Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ was a cautionary advice to the vulnerable lot. Today, the last two words get excised to yield a modern day proverb ‘Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t.’ Period. A sad commentary on the times when even the unwary and the innocent are exposed to dangers. Witness the passengers who travel on a bandh, sorry, hartal day and get pelted with stones.
‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ Of course. The untrammelled growth of population made someone shorten it to a straightforward ‘Familiarity breeds.’
It is not as if deletion is the only way in which proverbs are retold. Extolling the virtues of being ‘Early to bed, early to rise…’ we were told ‘The early bird catches the worm’ but the insolent has a repartee, ‘Serves the wretched worm right; why did he get up early?’ Talking of birds, ‘Eagles soar’, our masters told us. They cited the example of the big bird to urge us to strive, perform and reach greater heights. Do they have an answer to ‘Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines’?
‘He who laughs, lasts’ is what we have heard all along. The currently popular version, taking a dig at those who are not too quick on the uptake is ‘He who laughs last, thinks slowest.’ Many of those who believe ‘Love is blind’ also agree that the addition ‘but marriage is a real eye-opener’ is perfectly acceptable.
If some proverbs get shortened and others get extensions, there are some which get transmogrified too. Like ‘Absence makes the heart wander’ to reflect the state of the philanderers. Giving a thorough twist to the expression ‘friend in need’, the popular saying gets changed to ‘A friend in need is no friend of mine.’
The wise men had told us ‘If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.’ We are so self-conscious that we do not want others to know about our having attempted and failed. Or loved and lost. Therefore we have the modern-day counterparts modify the advice to ‘If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.’ There is a variation which says, ‘If at first you don't succeed, then skydiving isn't for you.’ Macabre, of course, but reflecting the sense of humour we seem to enjoy.
If that is a reminder of the modern-day sports, here is one to tell you that today’s weapons are not the primitive ones our forefathers used: ‘Those who live by the sword get shot by those who don't.’
Even scientific laws have been re-invented. Sir Isaac Newton would nod in agreement with his third law look-alike ‘For every action there is an equal and opposite criticism.’ We all know that ‘Light travels faster than sound.’ How do you like the appendage ‘This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak’?
Here is a gem ‘Change is inevitable, except from an ATM’, something all of have experienced at one time or another. The first part of the proverb perhaps explains why proverbs too don new garb in different times!
These days, several of the old sayings have got modified (Or, should we say morphed, in keeping with the technology-enabled times?), some a wee bit, some a lot, to convey contemporarily relevant messages. There was a time when the proverb ‘Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ was a cautionary advice to the vulnerable lot. Today, the last two words get excised to yield a modern day proverb ‘Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t.’ Period. A sad commentary on the times when even the unwary and the innocent are exposed to dangers. Witness the passengers who travel on a bandh, sorry, hartal day and get pelted with stones.
‘Familiarity breeds contempt.’ Of course. The untrammelled growth of population made someone shorten it to a straightforward ‘Familiarity breeds.’
It is not as if deletion is the only way in which proverbs are retold. Extolling the virtues of being ‘Early to bed, early to rise…’ we were told ‘The early bird catches the worm’ but the insolent has a repartee, ‘Serves the wretched worm right; why did he get up early?’ Talking of birds, ‘Eagles soar’, our masters told us. They cited the example of the big bird to urge us to strive, perform and reach greater heights. Do they have an answer to ‘Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines’?
‘He who laughs, lasts’ is what we have heard all along. The currently popular version, taking a dig at those who are not too quick on the uptake is ‘He who laughs last, thinks slowest.’ Many of those who believe ‘Love is blind’ also agree that the addition ‘but marriage is a real eye-opener’ is perfectly acceptable.
If some proverbs get shortened and others get extensions, there are some which get transmogrified too. Like ‘Absence makes the heart wander’ to reflect the state of the philanderers. Giving a thorough twist to the expression ‘friend in need’, the popular saying gets changed to ‘A friend in need is no friend of mine.’
The wise men had told us ‘If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.’ We are so self-conscious that we do not want others to know about our having attempted and failed. Or loved and lost. Therefore we have the modern-day counterparts modify the advice to ‘If at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you tried.’ There is a variation which says, ‘If at first you don't succeed, then skydiving isn't for you.’ Macabre, of course, but reflecting the sense of humour we seem to enjoy.
If that is a reminder of the modern-day sports, here is one to tell you that today’s weapons are not the primitive ones our forefathers used: ‘Those who live by the sword get shot by those who don't.’
Even scientific laws have been re-invented. Sir Isaac Newton would nod in agreement with his third law look-alike ‘For every action there is an equal and opposite criticism.’ We all know that ‘Light travels faster than sound.’ How do you like the appendage ‘This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak’?
Here is a gem ‘Change is inevitable, except from an ATM’, something all of have experienced at one time or another. The first part of the proverb perhaps explains why proverbs too don new garb in different times!
Death of A School
It was with a tinge of sadness that I heard that a multi-storeyed air-conditioned commercial complex would come up where my alma mater stood. The proposed closure of ‘uneconomical’ schools in Kerala had nothing to do with the demise of the institution where I had the last two years of my schooling. It was no Sherwood or Doon, Mayo or Yercaud, it was HEHMMHS.
Located bang in the middle of the bustling market in Mattancherry, Hajee Essa Hajee Moosa Memorial High School, named after the benevolent founder, was far from being one of the top-of-the-shelf schools. One does not know the exact contributory factors, but even during my student days it was a poor cousin of the neighbouring schools - The Gujarati Vidyalaya and the Tirumala Devaswom High School, run by rich committees. Not so the HEHMMHS (To most, the expanded version was more than a mouthful) which was run by a trust to which not many contributed.
The upkeep of the imposing two-storeyed building was neither prompt nor frequent. The heirs of the founder either had different priorities or had fallen into bad times. It was perennially starved of resources. The students were left to fend for themselves during the periods earmarked for drawing, craft, sports and games, drill etc, because there was no men or material for these classes.
Teachers had to go great lengths in their efforts to teach the students without the help of teaching aids. Predictably, the school did not have a laboratory. Mr Subramanian who taught us Chemistry would hold up a piece of chalk and say, ‘Suppose this is a test tube’, point to the chalk powder and say, ‘Suppose this is potassium chlorate.’ Holding it above his mailed fist which would double as a spirit lamp, he would go on, ‘Heat the test tube and oxygen will escape.’
But the teachers there were a dedicated lot. Like Mrs Thressiamma whose love for Physics made her announce extra classes on Sundays, undeterred by the fact that the attendance even on regular days was poor. Though one could pass SSLC those days even without securing pass marks in Hindi, our teacher Mr Namboodiri would pour his lungs out. Pranksters, bored with classes and looking for diversion would request him to explain the meaning of Hindi film lyrics like ‘Dil-e-naadaan, tujhe hua kya hai…’ or ‘Zindagi pyaar ki do-chaar ghadi hoti hai…’ and he would oblige, ever so patiently.
The khadi-clad Mr Venceslaus who was a municipal councillor too and taught us English, the Mathematics teacher Mr Govindankutty who also ran the school’s bookstore, the stern Mr Joseph whose cane taught us more than his History classes, Mr Sadanandan, a rationalist and a brilliant speaker, who taught us Malayalam but he could handle any subject for any class, the ageless Arabic Munshi Mr Syed with his neatly trimmed grey beard (He looked upwards of 60, but claimed to be in his late forties), the reticent Headmaster Mr Mohamed Ali – it was a great team.
Though handicapped due to lack of funds, the school did very well in extra-curricular activities like the youth festivals, inter-school sports, etc. In fact, it posed an effective threat to all the ‘good’ schools in the district in the competitive events.
The physical demise of the school, I am told, was caused by lack of maintenance, but on a higher plane, it was because it failed to attract ‘business’ – students and parents shunned the school because it did not ‘produce results’: in the 70’s it had the dubious distinction of drawing a blank at the SSLC examination.
The alumni of well-known public schools might, in later life, become renowned in different walks of life and prove resounding successes in their calling. If anyone who has I have been moderately successful in life discloses the fact that I passed out of HEHMMHS to someone, you can be one to ten that he would be asked, in disbelief, ‘How did you reach this position, then? Don’t tell me you studied there!’
The spiffy commercial complex rising from the debris at the junction of New Road and Palace Road is verily a sign of the times – commerce taking precedence over education. Yet, to the likes of me, it would revive the nostalgia-tinted memories of our balmy days in HEHMMHS, despite its failings.
Located bang in the middle of the bustling market in Mattancherry, Hajee Essa Hajee Moosa Memorial High School, named after the benevolent founder, was far from being one of the top-of-the-shelf schools. One does not know the exact contributory factors, but even during my student days it was a poor cousin of the neighbouring schools - The Gujarati Vidyalaya and the Tirumala Devaswom High School, run by rich committees. Not so the HEHMMHS (To most, the expanded version was more than a mouthful) which was run by a trust to which not many contributed.
The upkeep of the imposing two-storeyed building was neither prompt nor frequent. The heirs of the founder either had different priorities or had fallen into bad times. It was perennially starved of resources. The students were left to fend for themselves during the periods earmarked for drawing, craft, sports and games, drill etc, because there was no men or material for these classes.
Teachers had to go great lengths in their efforts to teach the students without the help of teaching aids. Predictably, the school did not have a laboratory. Mr Subramanian who taught us Chemistry would hold up a piece of chalk and say, ‘Suppose this is a test tube’, point to the chalk powder and say, ‘Suppose this is potassium chlorate.’ Holding it above his mailed fist which would double as a spirit lamp, he would go on, ‘Heat the test tube and oxygen will escape.’
But the teachers there were a dedicated lot. Like Mrs Thressiamma whose love for Physics made her announce extra classes on Sundays, undeterred by the fact that the attendance even on regular days was poor. Though one could pass SSLC those days even without securing pass marks in Hindi, our teacher Mr Namboodiri would pour his lungs out. Pranksters, bored with classes and looking for diversion would request him to explain the meaning of Hindi film lyrics like ‘Dil-e-naadaan, tujhe hua kya hai…’ or ‘Zindagi pyaar ki do-chaar ghadi hoti hai…’ and he would oblige, ever so patiently.
The khadi-clad Mr Venceslaus who was a municipal councillor too and taught us English, the Mathematics teacher Mr Govindankutty who also ran the school’s bookstore, the stern Mr Joseph whose cane taught us more than his History classes, Mr Sadanandan, a rationalist and a brilliant speaker, who taught us Malayalam but he could handle any subject for any class, the ageless Arabic Munshi Mr Syed with his neatly trimmed grey beard (He looked upwards of 60, but claimed to be in his late forties), the reticent Headmaster Mr Mohamed Ali – it was a great team.
Though handicapped due to lack of funds, the school did very well in extra-curricular activities like the youth festivals, inter-school sports, etc. In fact, it posed an effective threat to all the ‘good’ schools in the district in the competitive events.
The physical demise of the school, I am told, was caused by lack of maintenance, but on a higher plane, it was because it failed to attract ‘business’ – students and parents shunned the school because it did not ‘produce results’: in the 70’s it had the dubious distinction of drawing a blank at the SSLC examination.
The alumni of well-known public schools might, in later life, become renowned in different walks of life and prove resounding successes in their calling. If anyone who has I have been moderately successful in life discloses the fact that I passed out of HEHMMHS to someone, you can be one to ten that he would be asked, in disbelief, ‘How did you reach this position, then? Don’t tell me you studied there!’
The spiffy commercial complex rising from the debris at the junction of New Road and Palace Road is verily a sign of the times – commerce taking precedence over education. Yet, to the likes of me, it would revive the nostalgia-tinted memories of our balmy days in HEHMMHS, despite its failings.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Educating Rajan
“It’s fo’lō, not fōl’o,” my well-meaning better half corrected me for what must be the nth time. It is not as if she takes great pleasure (or pride) in picking nits in my pronunciation; it is just that like any self-respecting wife, she prefers her husband’s diction to be nothing short of perfect.
The first time she corrected me, I must have blushed, if that were possible for a brown-skinned Indian. That was over thirty years back. I do not blush any more, because my children, schooled in English-medium institutions, too pick holes in the way I say ‘laugh’ or ‘easy’ or ‘is’. Instead of making me blush, it sets me thinking.
Blushed I must have because in my younger days I used to have the severe inferiority complex a small-town guy is apt to suffer from. My colleagues were all refined metro-citizens (This was much before the expression 'metrosexual' was coined by Mark Simpson) who knew how to eat, how to speak, how to dress. I must confess that their inputs as well as those of my wife have contributed to what I am today. How far they have succeeded, I do not know. And I shall never know, because not everybody is as well-meaning as my wife.
It is not at all difficult for me to visualise a situation where people I rub shoulders with may people comment: “Did you see how he was using his fingers to eat? How messy, na?” Or, worse still: “Didn’t he look as if he is just out of the zoo?” Or maybe this: “I was trying so hard to control my laughter every time he said ‘economist’. Weird!” They might not mention a thing to me about my flawed accent, but laugh they would within their sleeves and suppress a chuckle or exchange knowing smiles.
Ok, so I was saying how my wife’s comment set me thinking. The point is, we are all Indians, and irrespective of the state we belong to, we have certain things in common. We all use our hands to eat. And, traditionally, we are also used to eating sitting on the floor. We usually speak our mother tongue at home, which is not English. We all have our traditional outfits – the kurta-dhoti and the saree being common to most cultures.
The two-century old British rule, however, created a class of people that was socially British but culturally Indian. Their table manners, for example, were that of the Sahibs (the British); but the attire of their womenfolk was thoroughly Indian: could you imagine a respectable Indian woman wearing a frock? These people were called the Brown Sahibs. Example? The ICS-wallahs from India, who go for morning walks wearing white shorts and canvas shoes, a swagger-stick in hand, called the ‘Haw-haw-Sahebs’ by a cynical friend because their loud resounding laugh goes ‘Haw! Haw!!’
After the British left our shores, they became the rulers; and soon after a class was formed that aspired to be the Brown Sahib. That’s the class most of us belong to — the Dark Brown Sahib.
While the Brown Sahib was the prisoner of circumstance, the Dark Brown Sahib is the prisoner of attitude. While the Brown Sahib was loyal to the British, the Dark Brown Sahib has gone a step forward: he worships the white skin of any nationality. So when a Frenchman speaks English with a French accent, they find it cute. But when a Malayali or a Bihari speaks English with an accent, he is considered a bumpkin and becomes the butt of jokes.
If a British expat wears a Fab India kurta and a dhoti to work, you are likely to find him cool, but an Indian won’t wear a dhoti even when he is out shopping. When a German diplomat refers to the Father of the Nation as ‘Gaa-n-di’, you consider it a given. When a French girl misprounces the name of Amitabh Bachchan, we are willing to make allowances, we even find it cute; but if an Indian woman says ‘Albert Kam-us’ instead of ‘Albe’r Kamyoo’ or ‘Ver-sace’ instead of ‘Ver-satchi’, she forfeits her right to be admitted to high society!
And can you imagine an Italian girl admonishing her boyfriend for not having heard of the samosa and imli-ka-chutney or avalose-unda and kuzhalappam or dhokla or luchi-maangsho? But you can imagine the plight of an Indian man who loudly wonders what spaghetti is when he is taken to an Italian restaurant (in India) by his collaborator. Should the winds of globalisation blow only from the West?
At times I really think of joining English-speaking classes, apart from going to the Alliance Francais du Trivandrum to learn a bit of French or signing up for German classes. And maybe enroll in an etiquette class too. But… wait a minute: won’t I be killing many birds with one stone by going to a skin-grafting clinic instead, a la Michael Jackson?
The first time she corrected me, I must have blushed, if that were possible for a brown-skinned Indian. That was over thirty years back. I do not blush any more, because my children, schooled in English-medium institutions, too pick holes in the way I say ‘laugh’ or ‘easy’ or ‘is’. Instead of making me blush, it sets me thinking.
Blushed I must have because in my younger days I used to have the severe inferiority complex a small-town guy is apt to suffer from. My colleagues were all refined metro-citizens (This was much before the expression 'metrosexual' was coined by Mark Simpson) who knew how to eat, how to speak, how to dress. I must confess that their inputs as well as those of my wife have contributed to what I am today. How far they have succeeded, I do not know. And I shall never know, because not everybody is as well-meaning as my wife.
It is not at all difficult for me to visualise a situation where people I rub shoulders with may people comment: “Did you see how he was using his fingers to eat? How messy, na?” Or, worse still: “Didn’t he look as if he is just out of the zoo?” Or maybe this: “I was trying so hard to control my laughter every time he said ‘economist’. Weird!” They might not mention a thing to me about my flawed accent, but laugh they would within their sleeves and suppress a chuckle or exchange knowing smiles.
Ok, so I was saying how my wife’s comment set me thinking. The point is, we are all Indians, and irrespective of the state we belong to, we have certain things in common. We all use our hands to eat. And, traditionally, we are also used to eating sitting on the floor. We usually speak our mother tongue at home, which is not English. We all have our traditional outfits – the kurta-dhoti and the saree being common to most cultures.
The two-century old British rule, however, created a class of people that was socially British but culturally Indian. Their table manners, for example, were that of the Sahibs (the British); but the attire of their womenfolk was thoroughly Indian: could you imagine a respectable Indian woman wearing a frock? These people were called the Brown Sahibs. Example? The ICS-wallahs from India, who go for morning walks wearing white shorts and canvas shoes, a swagger-stick in hand, called the ‘Haw-haw-Sahebs’ by a cynical friend because their loud resounding laugh goes ‘Haw! Haw!!’
After the British left our shores, they became the rulers; and soon after a class was formed that aspired to be the Brown Sahib. That’s the class most of us belong to — the Dark Brown Sahib.
While the Brown Sahib was the prisoner of circumstance, the Dark Brown Sahib is the prisoner of attitude. While the Brown Sahib was loyal to the British, the Dark Brown Sahib has gone a step forward: he worships the white skin of any nationality. So when a Frenchman speaks English with a French accent, they find it cute. But when a Malayali or a Bihari speaks English with an accent, he is considered a bumpkin and becomes the butt of jokes.
If a British expat wears a Fab India kurta and a dhoti to work, you are likely to find him cool, but an Indian won’t wear a dhoti even when he is out shopping. When a German diplomat refers to the Father of the Nation as ‘Gaa-n-di’, you consider it a given. When a French girl misprounces the name of Amitabh Bachchan, we are willing to make allowances, we even find it cute; but if an Indian woman says ‘Albert Kam-us’ instead of ‘Albe’r Kamyoo’ or ‘Ver-sace’ instead of ‘Ver-satchi’, she forfeits her right to be admitted to high society!
And can you imagine an Italian girl admonishing her boyfriend for not having heard of the samosa and imli-ka-chutney or avalose-unda and kuzhalappam or dhokla or luchi-maangsho? But you can imagine the plight of an Indian man who loudly wonders what spaghetti is when he is taken to an Italian restaurant (in India) by his collaborator. Should the winds of globalisation blow only from the West?
At times I really think of joining English-speaking classes, apart from going to the Alliance Francais du Trivandrum to learn a bit of French or signing up for German classes. And maybe enroll in an etiquette class too. But… wait a minute: won’t I be killing many birds with one stone by going to a skin-grafting clinic instead, a la Michael Jackson?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)