tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21024514310330416632024-03-19T16:36:41.157+05:30Tomichan Matheikal's blogCerebrate and CelebrateTomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.comBlogger2433125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-30601440703615625722024-03-19T10:24:00.003+05:302024-03-19T10:24:28.432+05:30Sacred Sins<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0eg9Elpc62twXzhNX8C7XMde3mQtr9v7CZ28NXdqW8dBeFs1UyuDb4Is-VvaUrFhK-iOHeNvz006Iajf5QvZpN2kfacuFG5arGSVsmFOqwNnd2x9kDWc0q33ie_i-pA6tQYBH2th-ihNDZg_limZhlhK_zldRXFAnAeFuysJrg5buxzfMXHVhqT4PU0/s2758/20240319_090611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="2758" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0eg9Elpc62twXzhNX8C7XMde3mQtr9v7CZ28NXdqW8dBeFs1UyuDb4Is-VvaUrFhK-iOHeNvz006Iajf5QvZpN2kfacuFG5arGSVsmFOqwNnd2x9kDWc0q33ie_i-pA6tQYBH2th-ihNDZg_limZhlhK_zldRXFAnAeFuysJrg5buxzfMXHVhqT4PU0/w400-h355/20240319_090611.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Book</span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Title: <i>Sacred Sins: Devadasis in Contemporary India</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Author: Arun Ezhuthachan<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Translator: Meera Gopinath<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Publisher: Hatchette India, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pages: 239<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">India has never been magnanimous to women. Ancient
India was quite brutal in the treatment of women with such practices as sati
and devadasi. If a woman was unfortunate to outlive her husband, she had to
immolate herself on her man’s funeral pyre. The men who made that rule made
sure that the rule, like many others of the kind, had divine sanction. The
husband’s death when the wife is still alive indicates the sine of the woman’s
vagina. The punishment decreed by the gods is the woman’s death. After her
death, she will be made a goddess! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Adolescent girls were dedicated to
temples in the name of devadasis, maids of gods. These girls were expected to
live their life worshipping goddess Durga in her various avatars though it
could be any other deity as well. In reality, however, these girls were
exploited sexually by upper caste men. The girls came from impoverished low
caste families that couldn’t afford to care for girls whose marriages would be
expensive affairs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The inhuman practice of sati was abolished
in 1829 by the British government in India. The Devadasi system was abolished in
independent India. Many other evil practices such as the caste system were also
abolished, but quite many of them continue to be in practice. Even the devadasi
system didn’t end altogether with the abolition.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Supreme Court of India passed an
order on 12 Feb 2016 asking the Karnataka government to ensure that not a single
girl was made a devadasi on the full moon night of the month of Magha, as it
used to be done hitherto. The order was motivated by a feature that had been
published in the Sunday magazine of the <i>Malayala Manorama</i> newspaper on 2
Feb 2014. That feature, titled <i>What have we done to be made devadasis?</i>,
was written by Arun Ezhuthachan, a <i>Manorama</i> reporter. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Ezhuthachan’s interest in Mangaluru’s
dance bars, particularly the girls who danced there, was aroused by the
abolition of dance bars there in 2008. What did these female dancers do once
the bars were shut down? They turned to prostitution, as Ezhuthachan discovered
soon. What struck him more is the fact that Divya, the sex worker he made an
appointment with, had started her ‘career’ as a devadasi. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Are there devadasis still in India?
Ezhuthachan’s investigations threw up many surprises. The pilgrimage town of
Uchangi in Karnataka initiated adolescent girls as devadasis every year on the
full moon in the month of Magha. It was illegal since Karnataka had banned the
devadasi system in 1982. “Bans exist only on paper,” as a local man instructs
Ezhuthachan. “Can the government prohibit divine customs?” </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD1t1hpgWwsWtkgzzMXPWWdFCQw2nGsRTOVPEgpmXQM4LQ_ksTzfd3hBAbRPJYoKUnGaXjZR5bR-eklesWrVEVBLeYW5ZXc1vMgQXA_OLxlb_PjxRHLN86A5SVB3ejNvBYt9TG7T2dv4KeHt7VsmgQRC2DZmhMer9NFZiZlrTByp2wrJmYWTgvmklYJA/s750/Screenshot%202024-03-19%20102211.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="238" data-original-width="750" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiD1t1hpgWwsWtkgzzMXPWWdFCQw2nGsRTOVPEgpmXQM4LQ_ksTzfd3hBAbRPJYoKUnGaXjZR5bR-eklesWrVEVBLeYW5ZXc1vMgQXA_OLxlb_PjxRHLN86A5SVB3ejNvBYt9TG7T2dv4KeHt7VsmgQRC2DZmhMer9NFZiZlrTByp2wrJmYWTgvmklYJA/w400-h127/Screenshot%202024-03-19%20102211.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Powerful men decide which custom is
divine and which diabolic, according to their choice and convenience. The
devadasi system served the purpose of these upper caste men whose lust required
satiation all too frequently. The devadasi system, in other words, was prostitution
with divine sanction. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Ezhuthachan continued his
investigations. This book being reviewed here is a product of his enquiries.
Originally written in Malayalam, this book won the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award
in 2019. It was translated into English in 2023 by Meera Gopinath. Both
Ezhuthachan and his translator have done a remarkable job. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The devadasi system is not practised
anymore in most parts of India. But Ezhuthachan’s researches take him to the
notorious red-light areas of India such as Sonagachi in Kolkata and Kamathipura
in Mumbai. The very size of Sonagachi’s sex market will astound us: 12,118 sex
workers offer their services in 1083 buildings! Most of these women were
abandoned by their families either as children dedicated to temple service or
as young widows. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There are also other places such as
Vrindavan in Mathura (Uttar Pradesh) and Puri in Odisha where the women have
better fates. They are not sexually exploited, not apparently at least. This
book takes us also to a few other places where sex and spirituality and sheer commerce
mingle seamlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Poverty is the main cause of such
evils. The caste system ensures that the low caste people remain inescapably poor.
The entire system is made in such a way that the upper caste men [<i>men</i>, I
repeat] are the ultimate beneficiaries. Even little girls who haven’t attained
puberty are at the mercy of these powerful men who pretend to have divine
authority to do whatever they wish. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">India claims to be doing a lot for
the empowerment of women. In spite of all the hullaballoo and deafening
slogans, child marriages are taking place in many states where the present ruling
party has much influence. If they can’t be made devadasis, they will be made
child-brides. One way or the other, the girl has to be got rid of as early as
possible. Empowerment remains in catchy jingles and beautiful billboards. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A lot of human suffering, especially
female suffering, remains unseen and untold, as the book concludes. India has a
long way to go in spite of all the noise she has been making in the last ten
years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-3827213741382804392024-03-17T09:37:00.007+05:302024-03-17T16:48:48.852+05:30 Romancing the Past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXlleJxw9948_7b8bTeR_m0pzcoj5nigw_wGhDjn6-XslZOlYouAjb2XAatrjYdtaRw0SIC9GwkzSf-2EVIZsnH06d68WYa6hyGofLFKiI2ecUMAOjy-B3ZqxZSkVlbmzaWsXIE5D6-m71XdUoRcbHtWDQCPS-0hn3JtUCKSGR6aX9RYub2gu290epnI/s800/Shurpnakha_Mask_used_in_Ramayan_play.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzXlleJxw9948_7b8bTeR_m0pzcoj5nigw_wGhDjn6-XslZOlYouAjb2XAatrjYdtaRw0SIC9GwkzSf-2EVIZsnH06d68WYa6hyGofLFKiI2ecUMAOjy-B3ZqxZSkVlbmzaWsXIE5D6-m71XdUoRcbHtWDQCPS-0hn3JtUCKSGR6aX9RYub2gu290epnI/s320/Shurpnakha_Mask_used_in_Ramayan_play.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">A few years back, when I was teaching Jack Finney’s
story <i>The Third Level</i> in a section of grade 12, I put a question to the
entire class: “If you get a chance to live in another time, which would you
choose – past or future?” Ann [not her real name] put up her hand first. “Future,”
she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">In Finney’s story, Charley chooses to
go back to Galesburg of 1894. He loves those big old frame houses, huge lawns,
and tremendous trees with branches roofing the streets. It’s a ‘cool’ place
whose evenings were “twice as long.” Life was a relaxed affair. People had time
to sit out in the evenings, sipping tea and playing music on their guitars.
There would be fireflies all around. Peaceful world. Charley wanted that world.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">My question to the class was in
relation to that description of an old world. “My father speaks about the
horrors of his childhood,” Ann said. “There was poverty. Not enough food to
eat, no proper clothes to wear, no vehicles to carry you… Who wants to go back
there?” Ann threw the ball back to my court? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Dear Ann, my childhood belonged to
the late 1960s and early 1970s, perhaps ten or more years before your father’s
childhood,” I answered Ann. I walked four-and-a-half kilometres every morning
to school and another walk of the same distance back home in the evening.
Barefoot. On metalled road. Our feet would hurt. Toes were often bruised. One
of nature’s laws seemed to be that if you have a bruised toe, that same toe
will hit against a stone the next day too, and the next day too. Nature loves
to keep bruises alive. Painfully. We walked on, however, because we had no
other choice. There were no schoolbags in those days. Maybe, our parents couldn’t
afford them. We tied all our books into a bundle, placed the lunchbox on top of
that, and carried the entire load on our shoulder. The lunchboxes would be
placed near the wall on the floor of the classroom since our desks were too
narrow even for keeping our books. Most of the time, ants would enter the
lunchbox by lunchtime. We would throw away the lunch and endure the hunger.
Some of us would blow away the ants and eat what we could. We even coined a motivational
credo that eating ants improved eyesight. When we walked back home in the
evening, we would pluck mangoes or guavas or rose apples from any farm on the way.
Nobody would chase us away. Children were entitled! Yes, Ann, the world was a
good place in those days in spite of all the pain and misery. People were good
at heart, by and large. Children could walk freely on the roads. Nobody would
kidnap them, boys or girls. If something did go wrong, the adults nearby would
make sure that the child was taken care of and reached home safely. There was
goodness…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“So would you go back to those days?”
Ann asked. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“No,” I answered emphatically and
with a warm smile. “I love the luxuries I have now. Why would I choose misery?
I was only trying to tell you that luxuries don’t make the world a better
place. Because it’s not luxuries that make the difference; it is people.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Why are Indians so eager to glorify
the past? Someone asked me the other day. Is it because, say, Hanuman’s
devotion is still the ideal? Sita’s fire-tested chastity has no parallels
today? Even a rakshasa like Mandodari was naïve enough to be tricked by an Aryan
ape? </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1mgFJdBxZKbvMdSCs4Z2abQ7Zh57QhPLqX6chjOhDe7Jilo2-IdkUvd1U0hrTznYjmWZWosrcDiHj26JvNhLDy2U-k9Xei5jVhlP_4ueLCuK_roZArusy8vDd40VMD-VIcA3LKXwzD3o_qUe1a3uoOm2YGBhXH5ksDuDYvGrmmPhZ3m07R7ar2AOTnQ/s574/Screenshot%202024-03-17%20093557.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="574" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1mgFJdBxZKbvMdSCs4Z2abQ7Zh57QhPLqX6chjOhDe7Jilo2-IdkUvd1U0hrTznYjmWZWosrcDiHj26JvNhLDy2U-k9Xei5jVhlP_4ueLCuK_roZArusy8vDd40VMD-VIcA3LKXwzD3o_qUe1a3uoOm2YGBhXH5ksDuDYvGrmmPhZ3m07R7ar2AOTnQ/w400-h244/Screenshot%202024-03-17%20093557.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">There’s a huge difference between
romancing the past and weaponizing it. I answered my friend curtly. Sometimes
explanations are not productive. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Today in some churches in Kerala, a
pastoral letter [letter from the bishop] was read out about the increasing
attacks on Christians in India in the last ten years. Ten years ago, when I
warned repeatedly against the Modi government, these same church leaders
accused me of being biased against Modi. Now I turn out to have been prophetic.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Eating ants don’t open your eyes more
though you make such myths for the sake of dealing with hunger. Hunger is a
painful reality; myth is a soothing illusion. And some hungers are political.
These latter hungers are like Shurpanakha’s love for Rama. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-26455092358564326682024-03-14T12:40:00.002+05:302024-03-14T12:40:21.086+05:30 Kashmir and Politics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqB68n0fL-zO4W0lNPKDQ5wtriD2LYdTZwMQQrt_QzVDFKM6hsIIN0uW7eBG19Pf90hS2UGI7bSvLwFtuIGxRpYgmPWxjj0jeATHAgbTzzim5y5EnjKibnS4W4JciYUeadRpfqwqC1OTeML4TMUqUikKXZrhwXJ72uh4PF_E0hOyM6CulM1HYWxnW4z0/s1000/farooq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="779" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqB68n0fL-zO4W0lNPKDQ5wtriD2LYdTZwMQQrt_QzVDFKM6hsIIN0uW7eBG19Pf90hS2UGI7bSvLwFtuIGxRpYgmPWxjj0jeATHAgbTzzim5y5EnjKibnS4W4JciYUeadRpfqwqC1OTeML4TMUqUikKXZrhwXJ72uh4PF_E0hOyM6CulM1HYWxnW4z0/w311-h400/farooq.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><p><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Book</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt;">Title: <i>Farooq of Kashmir</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt;">Authors: Ashwini Bhatnagar &
R C Ganjoo<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt;">Publisher: Fingerprint, New
Delhi, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pages: 330<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This book is much more than a biography of Farooq
Abdullah. It is a short history of the trouble-torn Kashmir. Though Farooq
remains at the centre of the history, his father Sheikh Abdullah is given ample
space in the first few chapters. Towards the end of the book, Farooq’s son Omar
gets due attention too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kashmir went through a lot of pain
and misery ever since India became independent. Its political leaders as well
as their religious counterparts were mostly responsible for all that pain and
misery. Add to that the nefarious role played by the neighbouring country of
Pakistan. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Pakistan has been a thorn in the very
heart of Kashmir right from Independence. The political leaders and religious
terrorists of that country have left no stone unturned to make Kashmir their
own. Understanding Kashmir’s unique condition, independent India had given the
state certain constitutional rights and privileges. Unfortunately, the rulers
of that state didn’t make proper use of those rights and privileges. Like most
politicians anywhere, especially in India, Kashmir’s leaders failed to ensure
the welfare of the ordinary people and disgruntlement crept in sooner than
later. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When religion gets involved with
politics, things become uncontrollable. Kashmir, the erstwhile paradise on
earth, now became sheer hell. Farooq Abdullah was the dominant political leader
of the state in those hellish years. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">With secular education, a degree in
medicine and some practice as a physician in London where he married Mollie, a
woman of a different nationality and religion, Farooq could have redefined
politics in Kashmir. He wanted to. But he failed. This book tells us that he
did bring a different sort of energy into politics. He was a “fresh-faced,
sprightly leader (whose) physical energy was in sharp contrast to that of other
politicians in the Valley…. He was informal; he had no patience with protocol
and officious ways….”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book informs us also that Farooq
wanted to ban communal and secessionist parties like the Rashtriya Swayamsewak
Sangh (RSS), the Mahazi Azadi, the J&K Liberation Front and the Muslim
League in the state. The RSS was frantically active in Jammu and nearby areas.
Its main demand was the abrogation of Article 370. The Muslim organizations, on
the other hand, challenged the validity and legality of Kashmir’s accession to
India. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“A mouse is challenging an elephant,”
BJP vice president Ram Jethmalani scoffed at Farooq when he tried to level a
gun at the belligerent Hindu outfit. The Muslim leaders didn’t like Farooq’s
secularism either. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sanity has hardly any place in
politics, especially in a country like India the roots of whose civilisation
are being rediscovered in prehistoric times. Farooq failed. Naturally. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This is not to say that Farooq was a
saint or something of the sort. Not at all. He had his own personal limitations
and drawbacks. Plenty of them too. Who doesn’t? That’s not the point. We can
belittle anyone by highlighting their personal imperfections. As the present
dispensation has been doing to Jawaharlal Nehru. The point here is that sane
intentions and efforts are likely to fail in Indian politics because vast
majority of people are insane, driven by primeval scriptures which they have
never read in the first place. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book ends with the <b><i>violent enforcement
of peace</i></b> on the state by Amit Shah and Narendra Modi. Maybe, what they
did was a genius act. Only history will prove that. As of now, it looks like
there is indeed peace in that part of India. A lot of people died in the
process of bringing about that peace. Many are in prisons. Many are transformed
beyond recognition. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">On the last pages of the book, we
meet Omar Abullah on his way from Hari Niwas sub-jail to his family home. It is
24 Mar 2020. He was in jail for 232 days. Part of the process of bringing peace
to Kashmir. “232 days after my detention,” the book quotes Omar, “today I
finally left Hari Niwas. It’s a very different world today to the one that
existed on 5 August 2019.” Kashmir is peaceful. But people there are confined
to their houses. They are fighting life and death. It’s a peaceful Kashmir,
but. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“The person who went into detention
centre on 5 Aug 2019 [the day on which Article 370 was scrapped and Kashmir was
cut up into union territories] is not the person who came out,” Omar said in an
interview later. Earlier he did what he thought was right and good. But now, he
says, he’s not sure where he is. He finds a people around him who don’t trust
their government anymore. Who don’t expect anything from their government. But
there is peace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-31331206645391628242024-03-11T12:20:00.003+05:302024-03-11T20:42:24.019+05:30 Some Political Games<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Politics is a game like chess. The pawns are
sacrificed first. The King remains in the end on the board. The whole game is
meant for keeping the king there till the end. Everybody else is dispensable. That’s
what the system makes us believe. We all keep playing the game because we have
no other choice if we wish to survive at all. That’s how the system is made to
be. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The book I’m reading now is <b><i>Farooq
of Kashmir</i></b> by Ashwini Bhatnagar and R C Ganjoo. There’s a lot of
amusing info on the Abdullah family of Kashmir in this book. You know those facts
perhaps. But there’s no harm in being reminded once again and to draw some parallels
with our present ruler. I mean, it doesn’t matter whether you are an Abdullah
or a Modi as long as you are a politician. The behavioural pattern is the same. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqxQMFeqU4t2K_Bc-efW_HlixiKg574MbZ89ZhpNnJpCaVeJaIuvAIAmqblcP5ZujIUL9Ov1e4cHkewUmjM1iqumS_qvU2_OIchSrhFWE7E6rrWUu9v0lBuwKUqHvdC66kdse0YDE2o_H_EgWAUxDoDyTVMtx_uwIVkqQJuBiFrN3Yv54kI9CA3nMZMY/s539/Screenshot%202024-03-11%20120433.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="229" data-original-width="539" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilqxQMFeqU4t2K_Bc-efW_HlixiKg574MbZ89ZhpNnJpCaVeJaIuvAIAmqblcP5ZujIUL9Ov1e4cHkewUmjM1iqumS_qvU2_OIchSrhFWE7E6rrWUu9v0lBuwKUqHvdC66kdse0YDE2o_H_EgWAUxDoDyTVMtx_uwIVkqQJuBiFrN3Yv54kI9CA3nMZMY/w400-h170/Screenshot%202024-03-11%20120433.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Politics is a religion by itself. The
ordinary people are the foolish devotees and the rulers are the gods. The
angels are the crony capitalists who provide the funds, stolen from the
ordinary folk through many devious ways such as nonrefundable bank loans. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m still reading <b><i>Farooq of
Kashmir.</i></b> Just wanted to share with you something that made me stop
reading and start thinking. Start writing, rather. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Farooq Abdullah, his father Sheikh
Abdullah, and his son Omar Abdullah have ruled Jammu & Kashmir for a long
time. Just as Modi and Parivar will be doing in India for many more years. History
is useless unless we get the parallel lessons right.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Sheikh
Abdullah’s great-grandfather was a Hindu Brahmin</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"> who converted to Islam after meeting
a Sufi preacher. <span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">His wife
was the daughter of Michael Harry Nedou, a European Christian</span> who had
converted to Islam for marrying a Muslim girl he loved. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Where do we draw the line between
religions? There was so much miscegenation in this country that there is sure
to be some Muslim blood in every Hindu and vice versa. Buddhist blood too.
Christian too. And perhaps some others too. Do you have the guts to go back
really into history instead of playing with delusional myths?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">How far will you go into the past
re-creating history to cleanse your blood racially? One simple DNA test is
enough to burst your myths that you call history.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">But what really bothers me is not the
DNA. It’s the politics of convenience. What provoked me to write this is the
compromise that Yogi Dhirendra Brahmachari (DB) made with Farooq Abdulla for
the sake of politics. DB was Indira Gandhi’s guru. Though he was a yogi, a
humble and austere ascetic, he had more wealth than today’s Ambani or Adani.
Political connections make you rich even if you don’t want to become rich. The
simple, humble, austere yogi was catapulted to a Peacock Throne by politicians.
Eventually he was the owner of a whole empire that included sprawling ashrams, the
Shiva Gun Factory in Kashmir, two aircrafts which were always busy carrying
politicians around, and a pure white length of linen that covered the nakedness of
the humble, simple, ascetic yogi DB. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Farooq Abdullah must have gauged
Dhirendra Brahmachari at first sight. Love at first sight, let’s say. Farooq
demanded a night of pleasure at the yogi’s splendorous ashram. Farooq had a
great time with a beautiful girl and many handsome boys at the ashram. Politics.
With a little religion as spice. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">That’s how it is. Politics and
religion. An understanding among people who matter. An understanding that makes
enemies of people in the streets while the leaders will have all the fun in resorts.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">These people who matter also know how
to keep the ordinary people out of the whole game. The pawns. They are to be
sacrificed. They will play the game on the streets. They will die. The real
game is won in splendid palaces by people wearing costumes of convenient hues. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Let’s come back to the present from Indira
Gandhi and her Brahmachari. Just to know that nothing has changed in India.
Except, may be, the way it’s all publicised. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwDWWg5XWsbe8acN0Mwy9yMm3u2VhcoPA9ld4YXvRzmHsrIo92E94pYZe46fYuoHUtD7syqYSHlBAi9aEoj1yIRTEiOfcA41Zn1CmskGJQjb4-vlqCrFDGsj4TubUpbBNXhv8vc5sHmTIQWCP5G370kSthOf4QQMtTuYhrv2i71hedvrLH5FcybV_sN0/s686/Screenshot%202024-03-11%20110555.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="686" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwDWWg5XWsbe8acN0Mwy9yMm3u2VhcoPA9ld4YXvRzmHsrIo92E94pYZe46fYuoHUtD7syqYSHlBAi9aEoj1yIRTEiOfcA41Zn1CmskGJQjb4-vlqCrFDGsj4TubUpbBNXhv8vc5sHmTIQWCP5G370kSthOf4QQMtTuYhrv2i71hedvrLH5FcybV_sN0/w400-h270/Screenshot%202024-03-11%20110555.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Oct 2021. India’s Prime Minister,
Yogi, Priest, Vishwa Guru and many other things rolled into one, come on, give
him a big hand, none other than His Highness (HH) Narendraji Modiji himself, visited
the Pope in the Vatican. At that time, the <a href="https://thewire.in/communalism/data-rise-in-attacks-on-christians-in-india-up-four-times-in-11-years-2012-2022">Christian
churches in Uttar Pradesh, a state governed by a yogi no lesser than Modiji, were
being pulled down by Modiji’s partymen</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Eventually HH Narendraji Modiji met
many other Christian leaders in many places including a star hotel in Kochi
recently and they had splendid dinner parties. Ordinary fellows still fight on the
streets in the name of these religions which actually bring their leaders
together at splendid resorts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Let me return to the Farooq book. I
shall be here with more interesting stuff tomorrow. Trust me, I may be better
entertainment than these leaders who are enjoying themselves in fabulous places
at our cost. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrW3UkYQt5FXsqkPdUbbNRlfWI7lS3IufvnWYKedSdeuIIpSLRNZOOWSaNPlTyCpuaAvi1YqVqC7AGhTRop419J-wy8xhscB-lNYr4SsoJ6VHLnmaofJqnTLwCPFE32lTLnstIyco5n1bhS8J7iuleZWfJzQtWNZEl2b32KW6EEUa1yG3qtg-Pn1IOBfs/s1200/modi%20sh%20cathedral%20delhi%20easter.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrW3UkYQt5FXsqkPdUbbNRlfWI7lS3IufvnWYKedSdeuIIpSLRNZOOWSaNPlTyCpuaAvi1YqVqC7AGhTRop419J-wy8xhscB-lNYr4SsoJ6VHLnmaofJqnTLwCPFE32lTLnstIyco5n1bhS8J7iuleZWfJzQtWNZEl2b32KW6EEUa1yG3qtg-Pn1IOBfs/w400-h225/modi%20sh%20cathedral%20delhi%20easter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sacred Heart Cathedral, Delhi</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-_2PDMbFnOVk75t-bqdUE4EbHUEZdgG-ywcgC_UajGpRN6xgzi3SVw6ruCca_yuzp_4oxjw9zgd8-54j2zo2U3NbEcQpixLy-ISC06HgNcBUoK3RU-t61pILH6jONCwbdB-zH5wi8QlU1FooaMdXmFarlwN-prCGMt0Kx4BThqbwfQaYCTRLWw0YVPs/s1024/modi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="1024" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-_2PDMbFnOVk75t-bqdUE4EbHUEZdgG-ywcgC_UajGpRN6xgzi3SVw6ruCca_yuzp_4oxjw9zgd8-54j2zo2U3NbEcQpixLy-ISC06HgNcBUoK3RU-t61pILH6jONCwbdB-zH5wi8QlU1FooaMdXmFarlwN-prCGMt0Kx4BThqbwfQaYCTRLWw0YVPs/w400-h355/modi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The latest costume, at Kashi Vishwanath temple</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">X</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-64880292707302691972024-03-10T11:59:00.005+05:302024-03-10T11:59:43.040+05:30 A Friend for the Depressed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX4Q1kVpGZd2wzPjsQlSBhtG779Gqg2GRwrAXAaHm2NqXUmHwSKgLnAyd8A0Ou_qFCVQa1KPdyiYIvh3IaKcznvOgSeCaNPhB9_EsZAOfjB6I0LtCkkzMkISKN0CcASGmz7Ye6vsXRTV8ah2fJ8wu0wkCsVtEZsWML81sggNTFvPi_WhMmJ3F2V_J0mEc/s3264/20240309_121701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX4Q1kVpGZd2wzPjsQlSBhtG779Gqg2GRwrAXAaHm2NqXUmHwSKgLnAyd8A0Ou_qFCVQa1KPdyiYIvh3IaKcznvOgSeCaNPhB9_EsZAOfjB6I0LtCkkzMkISKN0CcASGmz7Ye6vsXRTV8ah2fJ8wu0wkCsVtEZsWML81sggNTFvPi_WhMmJ3F2V_J0mEc/w400-h300/20240309_121701.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Book</span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #002060; font-size: 12.0pt;">Title: <i>Why do I feel so
sad?</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #002060; font-size: 12.0pt;">Author: Dr Shefali Batra<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #002060; font-size: 12.0pt;">Publisher: Jaico, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #002060; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pages: 305<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Having gone through extreme depression two times, I
know how painful the state is. You feel you are the most damned fool on the
earth, utterly useless. You curse the day you were born. You long for death.
Worst of all, you don’t trust anyone, not even those who intend to help you
sincerely. I trusted books, however. Weren’t they my friends forever, the only
friends who didn’t ditch me at any time? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dr Shefali Batra’s book, <i><span style="color: #002060;">Why do I feel so sad? Your pathway to healing depression</span></i>,
is an eminently companionable text that I will recommend to anyone who is going
through depression. The book is divided into five parts. You will get to know
the theoretical and scientific aspects of depression in the first part. The
title of the second part is self-explanatory: ‘<u>Thoughts rule you, but when twisted,
they could fool you</u><i>.</i>’ The subsequent parts take you on a self-re-creating
journey. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dr Batra’s approach is firmly founded
on Cognitive Psychology which looks at our beliefs, attitudes, intentions and
other mental processes which determine our behaviour. “<u>We all respond to
events or situations in accordance with what we think and feel about it</u>,”
as the book puts it. Miracle is a change of attitude, as I used to repeat ad
infinitum in my classes. I got that concept from Cognitive Psychology. By the
way, I did a postgraduate course in psychology from Indira Gandhi National Open
University. Cognitive psychology caught my attention the most. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Dr Batra’s book can be an ideal
companion for anyone going through depression. She is a practising psychiatrist
with much experience. Each chapter of her book presents the theoretical
framework illustrating it with examples from her experience before going on to
suggest certain exercises. This is not a book that is to be read; this is to be
practised. Put the exercises into practice if you have depressive moods or
tendencies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We live in a difficult world in which
approximately 703,000 people opt for death every year. That is, one person
commits suicide every 45 seconds. Dr Batra informs us that the number of people
who attempt suicide is 20 times this number. What may shock us further is the
fact that “suicide ranks as one of the top four causes of death among 15- to
29-year-olds worldwide.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All these people actually do not want
to die. They want to put an end to their suffering. They wish to put an end to
their feelings of defeat, entrapment, burden, isolation, disconnection… When
the number of people choosing death is so large, the problem is indeed very
acute and deserves close attention. Books like this one are immensely handy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Sometimes it’s the smallest
decisions that can change your life forever,” as Keri Russell said. I got that
and a lot more inspiring quotes from Dr Batra’s book. This book can help anyone
to make certain decisions, even if they are not suffering from depression. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIq8JC2bNsTL6rY0HHsupUrW3V2cXmeOarhsSxUa5BzsIvFoc3uqOYdkbbzgpP1TZwVB43nPl0YXEaq-c-VLBQkDL05-myILfanLqxOKMXNZ7Uh6CtE6E3oftNN_MQC0KBnfLkwl3Ii4zgqIfVY9lQyZGiv6Sfc_hZaVCcBYSYL7U75FMW6QdF6nx5nVY/s1964/1000035547-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1490" data-original-width="1964" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIq8JC2bNsTL6rY0HHsupUrW3V2cXmeOarhsSxUa5BzsIvFoc3uqOYdkbbzgpP1TZwVB43nPl0YXEaq-c-VLBQkDL05-myILfanLqxOKMXNZ7Uh6CtE6E3oftNN_MQC0KBnfLkwl3Ii4zgqIfVY9lQyZGiv6Sfc_hZaVCcBYSYL7U75FMW6QdF6nx5nVY/w640-h486/1000035547-01.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><br /></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-29790207475235639072024-03-08T21:24:00.001+05:302024-03-08T21:51:36.860+05:30Happy Women's Day<p><span style="font-size: large;">I have had more female colleagues than males in my entire teaching career. Probably why I survived so long in the job. Let me celebrate this Women's Day with them. I haven't been able to get hold of the pics all of them and I express my immense grief on leaving out quite many. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpqaW8Xt7Yq_XQPRjYtctvSuDmQ8AQMpwSCp5SR_sUT4ASjbHuFW0Bur3H43l92izC8_iQPO3BeZQmrKtqYMSDox2fsBCDBg-fssFK-HanezGI2Gq3wtkr7l2K_qpNKSFGRaXGg7JmSYyDgIe1KIbXUNG-d1xLrSOR2Z1SItPEFpnf_tNC4v7e9jQjf4/s1248/StJoe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="827" data-original-width="1248" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpqaW8Xt7Yq_XQPRjYtctvSuDmQ8AQMpwSCp5SR_sUT4ASjbHuFW0Bur3H43l92izC8_iQPO3BeZQmrKtqYMSDox2fsBCDBg-fssFK-HanezGI2Gq3wtkr7l2K_qpNKSFGRaXGg7JmSYyDgIe1KIbXUNG-d1xLrSOR2Z1SItPEFpnf_tNC4v7e9jQjf4/w640-h424/StJoe.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">That's my first school where I was a math teacher. You may not recognise me. I'm the second one from left in the last row. This was St Joseph's School, Shillong. I learnt the art of teaching in that school. It was a convent school with only girl students. I still remember a lot of them, my first students. I know I wasn't very kind to them. Math teachers can't be kind - that was what I thought in those days. My own teachers had created that impression in my consciousness and the subconscious as well. All those girls are now mothers and some of them may be grandmothers. Let me tell them that I never meant any harm. I was happy in those days to see them learning math well. Hi, dear ladies. Happy Women's Day to each one of you. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">To each of those colleagues in the pic too. I would love to meet them if possible in person and wish them a lot of happiness. They were all so good. I know that a few of them are no more. I know that many others are too old to read this. But they are all young in my heart. They were the most wonderful colleagues I ever had. The simplicity of heart that they possessed is unforgettable. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">St Edmund's College of Shillong where I worked after I left St Joseph's had no female friends. There were female lecturers. But they were more male than the males there. So let me move on to Delhi.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sawan Public School, Delhi... </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiLkzTZqcWqAuZExHVPYYZY6tJEY0EbfOHOTUgY6046rqgUU5Di5VCyE3ldf9Iv2jSAafyWR1_5kgvQO2oyPnMZ_rROmd7c1ywEpqzlx7BhRoX214jI-C5N1S2AQO4wj_recQviGFUyYgQ1rrxv4LAP7wF-MsTaKxuuYP_KtL2ar-g_LRVYgaUg6Li1w/s960/mag4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuiLkzTZqcWqAuZExHVPYYZY6tJEY0EbfOHOTUgY6046rqgUU5Di5VCyE3ldf9Iv2jSAafyWR1_5kgvQO2oyPnMZ_rROmd7c1ywEpqzlx7BhRoX214jI-C5N1S2AQO4wj_recQviGFUyYgQ1rrxv4LAP7wF-MsTaKxuuYP_KtL2ar-g_LRVYgaUg6Li1w/w640-h480/mag4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Sawan was magic and the ladies there were wizards. Until some ladies belonging to an organisation called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] entered that campus. How wizards become witches - RSSB taught me. I learnt to be wary of women at Sawan. Sawan taught me a lot of lessons, in fact, not only about women but also about men. Sawan was my Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Women's Day, dear ladies of Sawan. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I can tell you infinite stories about Sawan. Delhi is a magical place of witches and wizards. I couldn't survive there from the moment RSSB entered the campus. Two women worked the magic. There was a godman behind them. Sawan's last days proved that behind some successful women there is a godman. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nobody survived in Sawan eventually. It was woman-power. Pranita-power, I should say. One woman and one godman. Happy Woman's Day, Dr Pranita though I'm not sure whether you're a woman. Not even Hitler had the brutality that you posssessed. Happy Woman's Day to you too. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dr Pranita killed Sawan. For a godman who was an utter fake. That was in 2015. Modi had completed one year in Delhi as PM. Pranita is the most fascinating woman I have ever come across. Even the bulldozers she brought into the campus for demolishing it didn't have her prowess. Happy Women's Day, dear Dr Pranita. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I wouldn't have left Delhi hadn't it been Dr Pranita's monstrous entry into my life. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I found myself in my hometown in Kerala where again 99% of my colleagues were women. Intelligent and caring women. My past made it difficult for me to find a place among about hundred female colleagues of Carmel Public School where I found a job when I reached Kerala as a man broken by a woman and her godman-club. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My colleagues at Carmel, most of whom were ladies, resurrected my faith in women. They have a uniquely sensitive way of accepting male colleagues as part of the entourage. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75T8RhHnm27sWrFTyAmfEtv4F87S6vE7yG-GtoIARIRf-1qD8jcFaW7kOiBb1ig1ut6qyzZpq8Q_EM_C6UKn9UhvjQsIjCWv8LmanVpWiBXfc3M6ES32BxkYZ5m8d5wZ3gAHiZSJm4h8U-QuZRCYizXhbxRDVm_Tv_hsxta5PsP4mNubsj6gwqKAl0K4/s1152/IMG-20240308-WA0003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="1152" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg75T8RhHnm27sWrFTyAmfEtv4F87S6vE7yG-GtoIARIRf-1qD8jcFaW7kOiBb1ig1ut6qyzZpq8Q_EM_C6UKn9UhvjQsIjCWv8LmanVpWiBXfc3M6ES32BxkYZ5m8d5wZ3gAHiZSJm4h8U-QuZRCYizXhbxRDVm_Tv_hsxta5PsP4mNubsj6gwqKAl0K4/w400-h300/IMG-20240308-WA0003.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They have given me the spirit to say</span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">HAPPY WOMEN'S DAY</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">to all the women in the world. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-12523730613089752292024-03-07T14:45:00.007+05:302024-03-07T15:20:30.733+05:30 Art and Lust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGoXn_y3VvXkZlZf4QT4LM49b3dBq4kwRceQ_tZHuxN_wo6OSXw5FgfoPUsRtwqQMCsn_29ZzhnimOrAM6U-gc9X3uRZbgD5f1Q2Qu_plGPz_yGE5dxSQzEZkjraiZdXUbVV6jAM2pMCA0qUjteXDiyGox92Ap0WXYttUGl2HEeCQ5Ma8pf-eT3k_aSc/s4000/20240307_143018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGoXn_y3VvXkZlZf4QT4LM49b3dBq4kwRceQ_tZHuxN_wo6OSXw5FgfoPUsRtwqQMCsn_29ZzhnimOrAM6U-gc9X3uRZbgD5f1Q2Qu_plGPz_yGE5dxSQzEZkjraiZdXUbVV6jAM2pMCA0qUjteXDiyGox92Ap0WXYttUGl2HEeCQ5Ma8pf-eT3k_aSc/w400-h300/20240307_143018.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Book Review</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt;">Title: <i>Amrita & Victor</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt;">Author: Ashwini Bhatnagar<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt;">Publisher: Fingerprint, New
Delhi, 2023<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: blue; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Pages: 216 </span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Artists see reality differently. The colours and contours
of objects catch their attention first. Most of us who are not so artistic perceive
objects conceptually. Non-artists turn images into concepts, in other words.
Colours and contours have much to do with emotions and passions. No wonder
Irving Stone’s biographical novel on Vincent Van Gogh is titled <i>Lust for
Life</i>. Art is a kind of lust, or result of lust. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Amrita & Victor</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"> is the biography of a
very gifted painter who died at the young age of 28 years, having achieved
considerable fame. Her full name was Amrita Dalma Antonia Sher-Gil. Her mother
Marie Antoinette was from Hungary and she got the child baptised as a
Christian. The father, Umrao Sher-Gil, was a Sikh from India who didn’t care
much for religion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Amrita got professional training in
art right from her childhood. Everyone who came into contact with her and had
some idea about art and painting realised how talented the child was. Florence
and then Paris cultivated the artist in the young girl. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Amrita had very strong personal
notions about art and hence she didn’t blindly follow any particular school.
She developed her own style which was recognised as great by many artists and
art critics. Even Jawaharlal Nehru took note of her and visited her art
exhibition. Nehru maintained steady communication with her so much so that her
mother thought of arranging her marriage with Nehru. Kamala had died of
tuberculosis and Nehru was a charming man with a little daughter to take care
of. His acute sense of perception and sharp intellect had drawn Amrita’s
attention too. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UNNbnxhEw6PAkM0ZIvYCeZocl47JtwdeeaFGs4kssl3KEfCtPigG18Pcv8fiQFFDECfgFXpwYH-g2aJBUgb7b1nw_mgGwEwwGb_Y3eIa-t4OffP1G7BAaG2gtnjEXxdF0-2O-Nu5ZLGfIM_mQx7PKz-9WDCF7in4iZGfbB3g_MIRgWZok4P1478TZ7g/s554/AMRITA_SHER-GIL.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="554" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-UNNbnxhEw6PAkM0ZIvYCeZocl47JtwdeeaFGs4kssl3KEfCtPigG18Pcv8fiQFFDECfgFXpwYH-g2aJBUgb7b1nw_mgGwEwwGb_Y3eIa-t4OffP1G7BAaG2gtnjEXxdF0-2O-Nu5ZLGfIM_mQx7PKz-9WDCF7in4iZGfbB3g_MIRgWZok4P1478TZ7g/w400-h400/AMRITA_SHER-GIL.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Amrita</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">It is not the age gap of 24 years
that prompted Amrita to say an emphatic ‘no’ to her mother’s proposal. Amrita
was in love with Victor, her first cousin, who was studying medicine in
Hungary. Amrita’s father was worried about a marriage between first cousins.
Her mother was concerned about Victor’s intellectual mediocrity and apparent
laziness. Amrita was stubborn, however. She had a very domineering personality
as most artists seem to have. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">It takes many years for Victor and
Amrita to unite in marriage. In the meanwhile, both of them have their own
affairs. Amrita sleeps with countless men and one woman too. Sex is a way for
her to subdue the passions that boil in her veins. Sex is a kind of emotional
release, letting out steam. If there is no man available, she will masturbate.
One day while she is masturbating, a stranger sees her through the window of
her room and asks whether he could join her. Her answer is an immediate and eager
‘yes’.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">She speaks openly to Victor about her
passionate relationships with men. Victor is able to understand and accept all
those eccentricities. Even some eminent personalities like Malcolm Muggeridge
were enamoured of her. Muggeridge was working as an assistant editor with <i>The
Statesman</i> of Calcutta at that time. His duty was in Simla where he met
Amrita. It was a kind of love at first sight. Amrita had this ability to make
men turn their faces. The affair didn’t last, however. “The best thing about
her is her gaiety and sincerity,” Muggeridge wrote in his diary. “She’s a demon…
I love her. This is the truth.” But the demon in Amrita was seldom serious when
it came to relationships. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Muggeridge soon saw “something
squalid in her” and “a sort of genius that I love.” Soon he realised how “utterly
egocentric, coarse, and petulantly spoilt” the young Amrita was. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Amrita’s egotism came from her clear
perceptions of reality. Her observations were penetrating. Her remarks about
people were caustic because they were too true. She was never ready to tell
half-truths for the sake of making reality look pleasant. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Once she ran away from her home in
the middle of the night just because her sister made certain (biased)
allegations against her. And she climbed up a mountain, walking through the
forest in the middle of the night, not caring for the wild animals that roamed
there in the woods, to reach the house of a friend ten miles away. When she was
questioned what if some criminal had raped her on the way, her answer was: “It
would have been an experience!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Life was a buoyant experience for
Amrita. Life was a kind of lust for her. Art and sex, both, played a big role
in it. Even her eventual marriage with Victor, against the wishes of her
parents, didn’t help her to refine the intensity of her physical lust. That
lust led to tragedy. She died at the age of 28. She had already become a
celebrated artist in the country and even abroad. She could have achieved a lot
more. But being an authentic artist is never easy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">This biography is well-written and keeps
us engrossed. I would have certainly loved it all the more had the author taken
a little more trouble to analyse the intricacies of the artist’s mind in
greater depth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-52567117371608949992024-03-06T20:06:00.000+05:302024-03-06T20:06:27.930+05:30A Warm Winter Day<p><b><span style="color: #990000;"> Guest Post </span></b></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Susan Stephen is a former student of mine who found a mention in my </span><a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2024/03/teachers-students-and-humanities.html" style="font-size: large;" target="_blank">previous post </a><span style="font-size: medium;">without her name. She's studying Developmental Social Work in Canada. She sent me a short story of hers this morning and I think it deserves a wider readership. It's the story of a young Indian student in Canada, like the author herself. The pain of homesickness, occasional instances of racism, and the usual hardships of an overseas student are all poignantly portrayed in the story without ever losing touch with the essential tenderness of human relationships. There's touch of professionalism in the story. May Susan mature into a prominent writer of good literature. </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: large; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISBhu2qUFEk9KBFmyNF5vGCAWu6FIMO4Mbi23NYAjRGgbXHPYg359kwX6VcLgb_N9_7qMI9w6me5faM4FooNtFnCwIMVkhDhJc_fCPF67vZ70zwkrWX5fIvC7RpFaawVagU2be_1O3QrDDiLabfutkucswbh__1GNa7D36IeBuSKBywZuacvvFfy3oBc/s2048/susan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1150" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISBhu2qUFEk9KBFmyNF5vGCAWu6FIMO4Mbi23NYAjRGgbXHPYg359kwX6VcLgb_N9_7qMI9w6me5faM4FooNtFnCwIMVkhDhJc_fCPF67vZ70zwkrWX5fIvC7RpFaawVagU2be_1O3QrDDiLabfutkucswbh__1GNa7D36IeBuSKBywZuacvvFfy3oBc/w225-h400/susan.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Susan Stephen</span></td></tr></tbody></table></i></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><b>A Warm Winter Day</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">t
was a warm January morning, the warmest, she thought. January mornings back
home in India were warmer than this, yet she found today a nice day. She took a
hot bath and had a sandwich for breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While getting ready for college, she thought maybe she should pack
something for lunch as she was going straight to work after college. But her
laziness took over; she didn’t pack anything for lunch; in fact, she worked
empty stomach that day. Most days, she couldn’t find time to cook after college
and work, so working on an empty stomach wasn’t anything new to her. She works
as a cashier at a local convenience store. She loved working there; the usual customers
were nice and friendly to her, and she often enjoyed having a conversation with
them. There were a few who were rude and some racist, but she was good at
dealing with them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
took the bus to the college, and on the way, she FaceTimed her mother; for her,
her mother is nothing short of a best friend. They always shared everything,
but she always made sure that she never told her mom that she missed her
cooking; after all, she used to make fun of them. She always thought of her
mom’s cooking and how delicious it really was; even today, she thought of her
mom’s appam and stew which were her favourite breakfast. It has only been a few
months since she left India for higher studies in Canada, and homesickness is
challenging to take over as her BFF. But she stood strong. Whenever she got
time, she cooked; she adores cooking, but she sucks at time management, and she
never fails to point to the Canadian bus timing as the culprit for her lacking.
As much as she enjoyed talking to her mom, she hated it that much; it reminded
her of the good times she spent as a teenager at home, the nutmeg trees, her
pets, her friends, everything. How easy her life was, not worrying about money,
work, and taxes, being a true teenager. After coming to Canada, she had to say
bye to all of it at the age of 18. The bus reached the last stop, the college;
she said bye to her mom and got off the bus.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While
walking to her class, she thought, “Does every international student struggle
the same?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Probably
yes. “<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Why
do we pay 4 to 5 times that of a domestic student for the same services? Okay,
I get it; I am an international student, but isn't four times a little too much?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With
all these questions, she walked to her class, where the other international and
domestic students were waiting for the professors to read from the PPT.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Today,
she had only one class, and after that, she took the bus to work; she always
made sure she was at least 15 minutes early so she could take her sweet time
changing her clothes and boots to work clothes. It's only been two months since
she started working there, so work friends were too far from her dreams. After
changing into her work clothes, she walked to the cash to punch in. The shift
was going all good, but something started to feel off; she wondered why. Today
is not that bad, so why? Homesick? She ignored her feelings and continued to
smile at every customer who came to her cash and asked how their day was; some
complained, and some were enthusiastic to share their good day. She always
appreciated those who took their time to talk to her; she had learned many
things and facts about Canada from her customers. They probably liked talking
to her too; she was a noncomplainer, always liked to listen to their stories,
and was expressive. But she has always noticed that no one was interested in
knowing her story; they ask her how her day was out of courtesy, and she always
replies with ‘good.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
always worked 4 hours, well that’s the hours the manager always gave her. The
first two hours of the shift felt longer than usual. Her co-worker came to take
her off for her fifteen-minute break. She gladly gave her cash to her co-worker
and walked towards the punch clock. Today, she was the closing cashier.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So,
she decided to buy some chicken during her break because there wouldn't be
anyone to cash her out at the end of her shift. The chicken the store sold was
of good quality; she often bought meat from the store. Moreover, she had ten
percent employee discounts, too. “Maybe I'll cook chicken curry like grandma’s
and her ghee rice; my roommates do like ghee rice, a little treat for them,”
she thought. She lived in a shared home with four other girls from India,
China, Nigeria, and the Philippines respectively. They were the sweetest,
kindest girls out there. They looked after each other and cared like siblings,
excluding the physical fights. Their favourite time in the house is when they
cook together; mostly, they cook for themselves, but once every month, one of
the girls cooks for everyone, a little tradition of theirs, and it was her turn
this month.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
switched on her mobile data while walking toward the meat aisle; she kept it
off at work because it was a waste of data and a distraction. As soon as she
switched on her data, she received a voice call from her sister, “Hmm... Chechi,
calling at this hour?” She picked up the call, “What do you want? I’m working.
Actually, you called at the right time; I'm on my break.” She heard nothing
from the other side of her phone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hello?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Achu,”
her sister called.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ammamma
is no more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her
eyes filled with tears. She stood there for a second, and she looked around.
There were customers everywhere. She took a long breath and said, “Ah, when was
it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“A
few moments back.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What
about the funeral?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Haven’t
decided.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Ah,
did you call Kichu chechi?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,
are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah,
I’m okay, I’m at work, there’s only five more minutes left for my break, call
everyone and inform, text me the details, tell Appa I won't be able to make it,
of course, he knows that but still tell him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Okay,
bye.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She
looked around; there was no one that she knew—someone to tell that her grandma
passed away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For
her, grandma was someone special, someone who always supported her crazy
dreams, someone who was always there even in the absence of her BFF mom. She
looked at the chicken, “Aaah, ammamma’s chicken curry.” She thought. She missed
home more than ever. She felt lonely, lonelier than before. She wanted to cry,
but she couldn’t. She felt like it would be a waste to cry. Waste of what? If
you were to ask, she didn't know, time? Tears? Good mascara? Maybe she wasn’t
processing the news. What is there to process? She knew she was seeing her
grandma for the last time when she was saying bye to her before the ride to the
airport. She knew it was the last warm hug and wet kiss on the cheeks, but deep
inside, she wished for it not to be the last, and as always, her wish didn’t
come true; her grandmother was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
walked past the aisle thinking about all the good times she had with her
grandma, like when they mocked her mom’s cooking, when they hid from Appa after
stealing his phone, and when they walked home from church, when she told her
bedtime stories. When she fell, her grandma would put some ointment and say
magic spells, and they would laugh together. All memories were coming back. Her
throat started drying; she took a sip from her bottle and punched back in. She went
and took off her co-worker.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now
her cash was empty for some reason; she looked around; the store was empty now.
Where is everyone? Every other cashier started cleaning their cash, and one
already punched out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She saw a customer
walk towards her cash, and she smiled. As soon as she started to ask how his
day was, he said, “Fucking Indian, I need someone else to put me through; you
guys are everywhere; I chose this store because it's all white; you guys have
got into this store too.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was true that the store only had Canadian people working for them;
surprisingly, she was the only one who was foreign or someone who was not
Canadian. She always wondered why. After some convincing, he did come through
her cash, but he was rude. She didn't utter any word throughout the order; she
didn’t even wish him good night. She always wished good night even to the
rudest customer. But she smiled all through the order.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
few more customers came through her cash after he left. She smiled and talked
to them. Later at night, she closed her cash, cleaned it, and punched out. “A
slow night,” she murmured to herself. She walked to the locker room and changed
back into normal clothes. She looked at the mirror, smiled, made a funny face,
and laughed at herself. She lived right across the street, only a 15-minute
walk to her apartment. It was very dark, but it didn’t scare her; she put on
her headset and played her favourite songs. The night was warm for a January
night in Canada, “the warmest,” she thought. She started walking to her
apartment. Halfway through, her eyes started to get filled with tears, she
cried. She cried till the tip of her beautiful brown nose turned red on the
warm January night.<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><p></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-41570498704589726632024-03-05T10:15:00.008+05:302024-03-05T10:18:27.535+05:30 Teachers, Students and Humanities<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKCa8rWBMdrpT33mJN2e-ZqKsBlQ6OJAX3UCI645SGauc3fromT_85SipT9aoDWCoW27Hb67pUJsSLFNI32y9ewm2Em5wVVTOEEmmVI66MC5PyfkgAM7KepBV-7wNO6Cipc92NzziIi_ToUtJLWlr5JPh6FGcG6RTIEcTbq2xgBIZQPYyDG1ZLHEEQSc/s3267/20220902_155529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2146" data-original-width="3267" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKCa8rWBMdrpT33mJN2e-ZqKsBlQ6OJAX3UCI645SGauc3fromT_85SipT9aoDWCoW27Hb67pUJsSLFNI32y9ewm2Em5wVVTOEEmmVI66MC5PyfkgAM7KepBV-7wNO6Cipc92NzziIi_ToUtJLWlr5JPh6FGcG6RTIEcTbq2xgBIZQPYyDG1ZLHEEQSc/w400-h263/20220902_155529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">With some former students</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the happiest things in a teacher’s life is former
students contacting after many years to show their affection. It so happened
that two of my former students texted me on WhatsApp yesterday. One of them was
a poet while at school. I once featured her in this same space with one of her
poems, <i><a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2020/08/where-do-old-birds-go-to-die.html">Where
do old birds go to die?</a></i> Yesterday, she texted me to say, “I wrote
something after ages… Hope you’ll read and let me know what you think.” She is
a student of literature now in a prominent college of Kerala. She has learned
professors of literature as her present teachers. But when she sought the
opinion of her schoolteacher, I had reason to feel proud of myself. And her
story is excellent. Let me give you the link: <i><a href="https://paperboatsinthedrain.blogspot.com/2024/03/wounds.html">Wounds</a></i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">As I read the last line of the story,
the first question that sprang to my mind was: <i>O my god! Why don’t we have
this sort of students anymore?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">I quit teaching precisely because I couldn’t
find the classroom rewarding in any way. Until two years ago, the students were
very different. They liked to listen to what I had to tell them. They participated
in discussions. They voiced their opinions. They had their own views. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Now students don’t seem to have any of
these. They just want to pass the exams and get on with higher studies
preferably somewhere abroad where they will have far better prospects than in
India. A good life, that’s all what they want. Without doing much work. Without
even having to think for themselves. There’s no poetry in their hearts. Even
their brains are in a state of inertia. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">A couple of months back, I read in
the <i><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/02/opinion/education-humanities-college-value.html?campaign_id=190&emc=edit_ufn_20240229&instance_id=116379&nl=from-the-times&regi_id=62719427&segment_id=159472&te=1&user_id=478151549b4680f3ba9a9b8ce5950a8c">New
York Times</a></i> that the students in America were losing interest in
humanities and hence “universities and colleges are increasingly putting
humanities departments on the chopping block.” Studying humanities is of no
use, a lot of students think now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">It is quite a curious matter that the
students of my last batch were not interested in any subject whatever. Their
math and science teachers made the same complaint as mine. Maybe, this is a
temporary problem caused by the fallout of the Covid pandemic and the students’
romance with their mobile phones during those days. The romance is still
continuing. Maybe, the batches coming up will be different though my wife who
teaches grade nine doesn’t seem quite optimistic about that. Maybe, a lot of
things in the school curriculum have to be consigned to the chopping block. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: red; font-size: 22pt; line-height: 150%;">I</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">t so happened that another former
student of mine who is now pursuing her studies in Developmental Social Work in
Canada texted me also yesterday. She also works at a school as an Educational
Assistant. One of the old teachers in Canada told this former student of mine that
the present Indian students lack the standards the earlier one had. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Something is going wrong somewhere,
seriously. I wondered aloud with this Canadian student whether it was because
our present leaders lack any depth: intellectual, moral and emotional.
Everything about them is hollow or fraudulent. Is it affecting the moral fabric
of the nation? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">I’m not sure about that. But I’m sure
that when meaningless trumpets are blown day in and day out, the citizens can’t
but go crazy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">PS. The student of
literature mentioned in this post was a science student when I taught her. She
opted for humanities after school. Quite a few of my students migrated from
science and commerce to literature and a sizable number of them told me that I
was the inspiration. I’m proud, of course. But the point I wish to make is that
humanities isn’t marching gloriously to the grave as the </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #0070c0; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">New York
Times<i> essayists laments. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-30174358282806369662024-03-03T10:39:00.002+05:302024-03-03T10:39:16.672+05:30 A Train Journey Half a Century Ago<p> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The railway station from where I embarked my first
train is now defunct. Cochin (today Kochi) Harbour Terminus. It was 21 June
1975, just four days prior to the declaration of Emergency in India by Indira
Gandhi. I was 15 years old and had just completed my schooling. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I was part of a large contingent of
equally young boys who were being taken to Don Bosco’s school and seminary at a
place called Tirupattur in Tamil Nadu. We were all aspirants of priesthood. There
was a year-long process of initiation at Tirupattur after which we would return
to Kerala to continue our normal secular education. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Since the group was pretty large and
none of us had reservation on the train, we were all asked to reach the
Terminus from where the Madras (today Chennai) Express would start. Since the
Terminus was the starting station, all seats in the general compartment would
be empty and we were supposed to find seats in that compartment. Hardly any
passenger would take the trouble of travelling to the Terminus for catching
their train. Willington Island on which the Terminus was situated wasn’t easily
accessible in those days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Willington Island was a vast manmade
island of 775 acres. Sir Robert Bristow, engineer, created the island using the
soil and other material dredged from the sea while the harbour was being
modernised. The island was named after Lord Willington, Viceroy of India at that
time. Today the island is a hub of activity and well-connected with all other
parts of Kochi. That was not the case in 1975. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">You can see some wonderful pictures
of the terminus on the <a href="https://www.irfca.org/gallery/Stations/CHTS/">website
of IRFCA</a>. Let me bring here just two of them to give you an idea of the
railway station from where I started my train journeys which became countless
eventually. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCL-O79zzJ0nTJ6Y0Hu25sm1Bv-vr6Z1J69-WBO9f1xfM0cfJq0VHzPMrTY6anYnjmNwojMuR0eGkdO88g_QHOZEMSTFIwtIWrvWcyQD44i5HnbFBfHI3qsNK6qzUmp9tTtTXtormCfdxQPDfz-OzL1ePkh8nF168MgK-k93Lm2tzmCEG9MWa8QL2kcMI/s640/terminus1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCL-O79zzJ0nTJ6Y0Hu25sm1Bv-vr6Z1J69-WBO9f1xfM0cfJq0VHzPMrTY6anYnjmNwojMuR0eGkdO88g_QHOZEMSTFIwtIWrvWcyQD44i5HnbFBfHI3qsNK6qzUmp9tTtTXtormCfdxQPDfz-OzL1ePkh8nF168MgK-k93Lm2tzmCEG9MWa8QL2kcMI/w400-h301/terminus1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harbour Terminus in 2003</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOw8ZtZbmd2lBFIaYkqU_9-_zPkrv3CZfrvdgLa7dxiCzPdqmsJrdoEEz4pTC2pOimM-FAnsddp9tg8vJt_cqdLLtGp0bVmBLLSd8mS4PFz1ww12N9b4lk228njJqFfLgjnkUmiQz8YkA0wUoQJkopzsRRO2mjNQ4_7ePKnSfMxeClrvb9N60Mc-DNR0/s640/terminus2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOw8ZtZbmd2lBFIaYkqU_9-_zPkrv3CZfrvdgLa7dxiCzPdqmsJrdoEEz4pTC2pOimM-FAnsddp9tg8vJt_cqdLLtGp0bVmBLLSd8mS4PFz1ww12N9b4lk228njJqFfLgjnkUmiQz8YkA0wUoQJkopzsRRO2mjNQ4_7ePKnSfMxeClrvb9N60Mc-DNR0/w400-h301/terminus2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today weeds and shrubs cover the area </td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">About 40 of us, including two adults
who were to take care of us, got into a compartment that was empty at Harbour
Terminus but became unbreathably overcrowded as the train moved to the next
couple of stations. We were young and belonged to very ordinary families from
Kerala’s villages. Hardships were our birthright. We would even stand and sleep
on the train if that was required. We got a few inches of space to place our
little bottoms and sleep with one boy lying on the back of another. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Indian economy was in a terrible state
in those days. Agricultural production had declined by 8% in 1972-73.
Foodgrains were scarce. Industries were performing miserably for the first time
since Independence. A severe inflation took the wholesale prices up by 22.7%.
Most families had more children than they could feed. Children were born not
because parents wanted them but because Indira Gandhi’s family planning schemes
were yet to reach the masses. Moreover, the Catholic Church, a dominant
religion in Kerala, was opposed to family planning as it believed that every
act of copulation should contribute to population. No wonder, the trains were overpopulated. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vncnZCgjM7vjIJq_ymsjJ5Z7Bz1dz3As4f-_wknZEH-2GN_S5WXqDeRC-n2-9bfTnQJvHr_wlSOU0b6J3xDUFa9Fehe6mTaWN-PrL3LRd1sOd1-z_yPYaRtXxTlokLL5wzxhRCz3NzEJyravJ3YMhQdb4KLeI9RSyqufhEnOQ-bxVOhyYkpaoGUj-j0/s842/Screenshot%202024-03-03%20103301.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="842" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vncnZCgjM7vjIJq_ymsjJ5Z7Bz1dz3As4f-_wknZEH-2GN_S5WXqDeRC-n2-9bfTnQJvHr_wlSOU0b6J3xDUFa9Fehe6mTaWN-PrL3LRd1sOd1-z_yPYaRtXxTlokLL5wzxhRCz3NzEJyravJ3YMhQdb4KLeI9RSyqufhEnOQ-bxVOhyYkpaoGUj-j0/w640-h256/Screenshot%202024-03-03%20103301.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Our train reached Jolarpettai railway
station in the small hours of the next day. We had been woken up long before
the train arrived at our destination. We were told to be ready to get down
quickly since the halt wasn’t long at that place. We all dragged our trunks and
beddings as close to the train-door as possible and waited for the heavy sound
of the rushing train to subdue. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That was my first train journey. I
didn’t know then that I was destined to make a lot, lot more train journeys in
my life particularly because the first job I landed was in a place more than
3000 km away from my home. I travelled so much by train that I began to hate
trains. In the last years of our job in Delhi, Maggie and I started flying whenever
we visited our village in Kerala. Our school in Delhi was generous enough to
fund the flights substantially. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I have not travelled by train in the
last many years. I want to. Maggie and I are planning a train journey as soon
as the scorching summer relents. Painful memories beckon us again with a
diabolic charm. Sweet memories lack that charm. Nostalgia is an itch to scratch
some old scars. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-18384968087781439952024-03-01T10:48:00.004+05:302024-03-01T10:48:42.084+05:30 Taxes and good citizens<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The only difference between death and taxes is that
death doesn’t get worse every time the finance minister presents the annual
budget. A good part of your earning is extracted by your government as taxes:
income tax, GST, land tax, house tax, luxury tax, poverty tax… That is an
endless list. Even when you buy your medicines, the government will pickpocket a
share at the rate of 12%. The last time I renewed my medical insurance, my
government took about Rs6000 as GST [Goods & Services Tax]. In all
progressive countries, the government spends money on welfare schemes for
senior citizens. In Vishwaguru Modi’s country, the senior citizen’s blood is
extracted while he tries to take care of himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What makes me write all this today?
Two staff from my Panchayat came yesterday to collect plastic waste as they do
every month. They charge Rs50 for that each time they come. There is a charge
for everything in this country from your birth [birth certificate and
registration] to your death [registration and certificate, though you won’t be paying
for it]. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">These women who came from the
Panchayat gave me a “notice” which states that the tax on my house has been
raised. They raise the tax every year, of course, and hence there’s nothing new
in this ‘notice’. But what drew my attention is that the tax on my house is determined
on the basis of certain parameters one of which is whether the house has used
luxury items such as Italian marble and/or granite tiles on the floor and teak
for woodwork. The ‘notice’ mentions that I have used 100% of these things while
my house actually has zero percent of these. I have used very ordinary floor
tiles for the floor and planks from jackfruit tree for woodwork. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25E5UmuOI_QozwEenUrhZvIv3-0hX66EnEK-dXWfbxfG4FGLoykEiGzLB6hnAiOmMrd5FzmBSu0Xe_d9zPvLinuvFppq0x8IT4b4eidbR8rzXRha91sJ9zv6HCTOQinIxQBP3X7S-Oo0TVttepYQY2-4Y-E3jEle7JE1jLWshe7ap4zaAMZbxrX-aaRA/s825/Screenshot%202024-03-01%20104732.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="825" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25E5UmuOI_QozwEenUrhZvIv3-0hX66EnEK-dXWfbxfG4FGLoykEiGzLB6hnAiOmMrd5FzmBSu0Xe_d9zPvLinuvFppq0x8IT4b4eidbR8rzXRha91sJ9zv6HCTOQinIxQBP3X7S-Oo0TVttepYQY2-4Y-E3jEle7JE1jLWshe7ap4zaAMZbxrX-aaRA/w640-h130/Screenshot%202024-03-01%20104732.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I asked a friend who knows about
these things whether I should inform the Panchayat about this anomaly so that
they might reduce the tax on my house. My friend laughed raucously. Don’t you
know how the government systems work? That’s the meaning of the laughter. “If
you go with a complaint, they’ll find out some way to increase the tax on your
house,” he said. “They will send a team to reassess your house and find ways to
raise the tax. Just be quiet and pay the tax, and be a good citizen.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The government is the biggest thug in
any country, my friend says. And I laugh though not raucously. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">There was a time in Kerala, my state,
where a king taxed women for their breasts. If you’re interested, <a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2013/11/nangeli.html">here’s a (hi)story</a>
on that. Now, the present kings don’t tax the breasts. They tax beauty instead.
Even a haircut extracts 18% GST. Why bother myself with taxes on granite
flooring and Italian marbles that I could never afford though I can afford the
taxes on them? I shall be a good citizen and be quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-58490135372392863512024-02-29T13:23:00.002+05:302024-02-29T13:23:40.648+05:30Jnana in Gita<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">Knowledge</span></b>, or wisdom rather, is a means of reaching the divine, according to the Gita. It is called Jnana Yoga. The previous two posts of this blog discussed <a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2024/02/karma-in-gita.html" target="_blank">Karma Yoga</a> and <a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2024/02/bhakti-in-gita.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Bhakti Yoga.</a></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The wisdom that the Gita advocates is of the spiritual kind. It is essentially the realisation of the oneness of all reality and hence the divinity of all reality. You are divine. So is the guy next to you. So too are the flowers in your garden, the bees that come to the flowers, the water that sustains your plants, the insects, the stones... What greater religion can there be than the one which bathes you in an ocean of divinity, the same ocean in which all other creatures and everything else stand bathed?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Most humans don't reach such a stage of spirituality, however. We are driven by three gunas (attributes), Krishna tells Arjuna. These gunas control our actions.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Tamas or delusion is a predominant guna. It is a kind of delusion. It's a kind of darkness that veils the reality preventing you from seeing clearly. Your perception lacks logic and understanding. Laziness, fear, and such factors may play a certain role too in the production of that dark veil. A lot of common people live behind this veil of Tamas. They don't want to see any better too. They are happy to follow the herd, to swim with the current. Give them a slogan and they will shout it gladly for you as long as you can keep giving them some lollipops. They will rally around the leader without ever bothering to find out whether the leader is a pied piper. Give them lollipops and take their souls in return. The souls aren't worth much, and you know it. That doesn't matter, what will you do with souls? You need votes only.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Rajas is the second guna. Passion, that's what rajas is. The worldly successful people are all driven by rajas. Your pied piper and his corporate cronies are all driven by rajas which is characterised by ambition, greed, lust, arrogance, power, vanity, anger...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">People driven by the guna of rajas may pretend to be spiritual and install the idol of their god in a palatial temple but their heart will continue to cling to the sceptre they have ensconced in their own palace. Such people don't hesitate even to kill fellow beings in the name of their god.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Passions don't carry you to god, however. Divinity is a different affair altogether.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Satva, the third guna, will take you to the divine milieu. Satva is harmony, balance. It is characterised by integrity. Satviks create harmony wherever they are, not division. The only real spirituality belongs to them. Jnana Yoga is their prerogative.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Jnana (gyan, as some dialects have it) or wisdom is the opening of an inner eye. You see a different reality once that eye opens. There is more light, a different kind of light. It's cool, that light is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Let me end my personal reflections on the Gita with a quote from the divine song itself, 18.52-53, as translated and explained by Vishwanath Iyer.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvO9Qu68MgA5XL08kFNTAFpAjcXtmXFAgQz9AgsS_TfZ3F8PywUhomKkeVEkLXKkvagfXEG39bhKbP6QM3bvjGxRjavW3eDw7rl1jmTco695iu_dNamV56Hx50Cxi6kkkVPiiNHS77x8cMRJ1PwXLPVm_7kHKQ6W6T7arDFbXW9Mfw5cKcws2T-nEwMWM/s3483/20240229_132025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2496" data-original-width="3483" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvO9Qu68MgA5XL08kFNTAFpAjcXtmXFAgQz9AgsS_TfZ3F8PywUhomKkeVEkLXKkvagfXEG39bhKbP6QM3bvjGxRjavW3eDw7rl1jmTco695iu_dNamV56Hx50Cxi6kkkVPiiNHS77x8cMRJ1PwXLPVm_7kHKQ6W6T7arDFbXW9Mfw5cKcws2T-nEwMWM/w640-h458/20240229_132025.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-25562436308753207602024-02-28T11:15:00.004+05:302024-02-29T10:05:31.056+05:30 Bhakti in Gita<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkho9DmO4t3oFnHCu2HiwnR1ZtNBmrNi0PE55e_tO0V0sucJ7RKlhOE5J-Gq1w1M3dsE6i_LcYWNss9YePwqiOgRvmGePI1NF_w7kepe1664aG-QgcEGezMibkqve0snr2fl61NdZ3Rlz7YjJmNs-X0izqUkBkkZrAzh7nvOU_KnqUocNy-2EumWduYs/s894/krishna.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="894" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXkho9DmO4t3oFnHCu2HiwnR1ZtNBmrNi0PE55e_tO0V0sucJ7RKlhOE5J-Gq1w1M3dsE6i_LcYWNss9YePwqiOgRvmGePI1NF_w7kepe1664aG-QgcEGezMibkqve0snr2fl61NdZ3Rlz7YjJmNs-X0izqUkBkkZrAzh7nvOU_KnqUocNy-2EumWduYs/w400-h311/krishna.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The ultimate purpose of the Bhagavad Gita is to teach
egolessness to humans. There are three ways of achieving the state of
egolessness, according to the Gita. The first is Karma Yoga, which was
discussed in the <a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2024/02/karma-in-gita.html">previous post</a>.
Today we are going to look at the second way, Bhakti Yoga, the yoga of
devotion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Chapter 12 of the Gita discusses
bhakti in particular though chapters 7 to 12 are more or less about bhakti and
I’m going to look at that section today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Bhakti or devotion is another name
for love. Bhakti yoga is the process of discovering the divine through love.
The love is so intense that the devotee surrenders himself totally to the
divine. As a result, the devotee begins to see the divine in everything, in
every creature. All that exists is now holy for the devotee. No real devotee
can distinguish between people on the basis of caste, creed, language, etc.
There is no place for such divisions since everything, everyone, is an
extension of the divine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The Gita speaks about different types
of devotion. Not everyone will be capable of the absolute renunciation which is
the ideal. Lesser devotees also can attain the divine through prayer and
meditation, doing everything with the divine in mind (by performing all actions
and functions for Me – 12.10), by being good to others (non-envious, merciful
to others, free from egoism, forgiving – 12.13)… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">As I was reading chapter 12 of the
Gita, it struck me that the teachings are no different from what most other
religions are saying. Why can’t then all these religions come together and
agree on their core values and principles so that there will be peace and
harmony in the world? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The similarities are not confined to
chapter 12. The god of this entire section – chapters 7 to 12 – of the Gita is
quite similar to the god of the semitic religions too. This God who demands
egoless devotion from the faithful is an entity full of ego and conceit, no different
from Yahweh of Judaism and Christianity or Allah of Islam. How different is the
God of the Gita who says “I am the beginning, and the middle, and the also the
end of all beings” [10.20] from the Biblical God who says “I am the Alpha and
the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End” (Revelations
22.13)? The same kind of bombastic claims made by the semitic god are also made
by the god of the Gita. Sample this: <i>Of the Adityas, I am Vishnu; of the luminaries,
the dazzling sun; I am Marichi of the Maruts; of the stars I am the Moon… Of
the senses I am the mind and I am the consciousness in beings. Of the rudras I
am Shankara and Kubera of the yakshas and the rakshas; of the Vasus I am the
Fire and I am Meru among mountain-peaks…</i>” That goes on and on. Not quite a
humble God, right? No different from the Semitic God, that’s right too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">And the devotee is supposed to be
egoless as well as aspiring to merge into the Great Ego!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Well, I know that logic has no place
in bhakti. But that is one of my chief concerns about building theocracies like
Ram Rajya. In today’s <i>Telegraph</i> newspaper, some scientists raise <a href="https://www.telegraphindia.com/india/india-facing-a-systematic-threat-to-its-scientific-and-educational-foundations-scientists/cid/2003179">this
same concern</a>. In the name of culture, India is promoting pseudoscience in
the country, particularly in its schools. The Gita is proposed to be taught in
the schools of the country as a guide for ethical and spiritual behaviour.
Thank my stars, I chose to stop teaching. Otherwise my ego would clash with
that of Gita’s God in the classroom. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Interestingly, this section of the
Gita which demands egoless devotion from devotees shows the mightiest ego of
God in the form of his cosmic manifestation: Vishwarupam. That cosmic form is a
mirror image of the biblical god of the final judgment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;">M</span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">aybe, instead of teaching the Gita
in schools, the students can be asked to make a comparative study of the relevant
scriptures of all the major religions in the country. The students should also
be encouraged to examine these scriptures critically in the light of the
knowledge available to us today. Let the students devote themselves to
learning, to widening the horizon of their thinking, their imagination, their
hearts too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">The third and last part of the Gita
[chapters 13-18] discusses knowledge. I’ll come to that tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">I repeat what I mentioned in this
space yesterday: these are my personal reflections and opinions. As long as thinking
is still free (not chained yet) in this country, I hope I can let my mind go
beyond the horizons of sacred scriptures with total bhakti to pursuit of truth. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNXf0Oq_ZYFEw7-USYIHntBeVQHcEhKwBwtktjPfpZCKRGfNcb9ngPgilTqgYS_OpOMPogXZKUtgP7Zoa5lo6QF21aNKG6GZhHuHQ4wKXuvnAS2mZkA5fCh4L1Bid80Q8O9VSmXUu3x88KRGuy3agw-kA82H-IOaK-nZICc-5T_jAfbdxTHKn-weh4No/s2173/20240228_110927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1815" data-original-width="2173" height="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYNXf0Oq_ZYFEw7-USYIHntBeVQHcEhKwBwtktjPfpZCKRGfNcb9ngPgilTqgYS_OpOMPogXZKUtgP7Zoa5lo6QF21aNKG6GZhHuHQ4wKXuvnAS2mZkA5fCh4L1Bid80Q8O9VSmXUu3x88KRGuy3agw-kA82H-IOaK-nZICc-5T_jAfbdxTHKn-weh4No/w640-h534/20240228_110927.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<a href="https://www.theblogchatter.com/blogrolls/bhakti-in-gita" title="Bhakti in Gita"><img src="https://www.theblogchatter.com/public/top_bloggers.png" width="150" border="0" alt="Top post on Blogchatter" style="display: block;margin-left: auto;margin-right: auto;border:none;"></a>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-72653092955233218852024-02-27T12:44:00.001+05:302024-02-27T12:44:07.416+05:30 Karma in Gita<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlDnUQSpszJNY1BJqxA_CI9ze-Ytil01yjSY36OGgK0aFjKRR1WXTkMnkWv96ql71N0uAeOevSXJXv3SE5_vAC_GFjhXiiEIUxBtHw6QgNFF8nI_eyfDXFYxFfvy1Azh2wo2vcML8EGkV8pP1RI_D5McqNu43SdiSGepU2pWlNCw_J9uwvoekCOpBdUI/s3447/20240227_112224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3447" data-original-width="2657" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlDnUQSpszJNY1BJqxA_CI9ze-Ytil01yjSY36OGgK0aFjKRR1WXTkMnkWv96ql71N0uAeOevSXJXv3SE5_vAC_GFjhXiiEIUxBtHw6QgNFF8nI_eyfDXFYxFfvy1Azh2wo2vcML8EGkV8pP1RI_D5McqNu43SdiSGepU2pWlNCw_J9uwvoekCOpBdUI/w494-h640/20240227_112224.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I bought a copy of annotated Bhagavad Gita a few
months back with the intention of understanding the scripture better since I’m
living in a country that has become a Hindu theocracy in all but the
Constitution. After reading the first part [chapters 1 to 6] which is about
Karma, I gave up. Shelving a book [literally and metaphorically] is not
entirely strange to me. If a book fails to appeal to me after a reasonable
number of pages, I abandon it. The Gita failed to make sense to me just like
any other scripture. That’s not surprising since I’m not a religious kind of a
person. I go by reason. I accept poetry which is not quite rational. Art is meaningful
for me though I can’t detect any logic in it. Even mysticism is acceptable. But
the kind of stuff that Krishna was telling Arjuna didn’t make any sense at all.
To me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Just a sample. When Arjuna says he
doesn’t want to fight the war because he can’t kill his own kith and kin,
Krishna’s answer is: <i>Fight. If you are killed, you win heaven. If you conquer,
you win the earth. Rise and fight, man.</i> [2.37] <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The numbers in square brackets refer
to the chapter and verse of the Gita. The translation is my own. I went through
three different editions and found all the translations obsolete if not
obfuscating. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I proceed with Krishna any
further, let me tell you about my renewed interest in the Gita. Three different
versions of the sacred song landed in my house the other day as part of a
project I took up recently. I’m forced to read them, in other words. One of the
four you find in the photo was bought by me a few months back. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Now, back to Krishna and Karma.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">As a Kshatriya, Arjuna should have
accepted Krishna’s pragmatic counsel above. A few verses earlier, Krishna had
tried metaphysics. <i>The soul is immortal and you cannot kill it. You are only
killing the bodies of these people. You are releasing the eternal soul from the
mortal body. </i>[2.19-21] Such metaphysics had had no impact on Arjuna. That
is why, I guess, Krishna resorted to the ruthless pragmatism of the win-win
strategy cited above. Kill and you win the earth. Or be killed and you win
heaven. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Arjuna is not quite convinced. Is there
no better way than killing or dying for solving a problem? There are other
ways, of course. Bhakti yoga [chapters 7-12] and Jnana yoga [chapters 13-18].
But now we are on a battlefield. And you are a soldier. It is your duty to
fight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Action (karma) and duty (dharma) are
the two vital concepts of the first 6 chapters of the Gita, as far as I
understand. Let me warn you, dear reader, that what you’re reading is my
personal interpretation of Krishna’s divine song to Arjuna after I went through
three different interpretations. I’m a teacher of literature by profession. It’s
only natural that I read any book as a work of literature. Forgive me if your
religious sentiments are brittle. Take my writing as an opportunity for you to
exercise the most divine virtue of forgiveness. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Back to Karma, once again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: red; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%;">K</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">arma is action in simple words. We
cannot but act. Life is action. Krishna goes to the extent of saying that even
not acting is action as long as you are not free from impulses and passions. You
cannot escape from action; you can only escape from the passions that drive
them. What is evil is not action, but the motive. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Your motive will be right when you
know that you and your enemy out there and the entire cosmos is an extension of
the divine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: red; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%;">S</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">anatana dharma is nothing but the
presence of divinity, wherever it is. When that divinity is disturbed by inappropriate
human actions, there is disharmony, adharma. We have to bring back the harmony.
That bringing back of the harmony is now Arjuna’s duty. Arjuna’s karma. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Arjuna is still not convinced. I am
not either. A lot of questions arise. Where do I find the divine presence in
the first place? I look around. There is more religion today than in my youth.
But life was far more peaceful and joyful in those old days even though the
politicians were corrupt. Now I realise with dismay that corruption is better
than religion. There are more temples and idols now. There are more books being
sold on religion now. And yet there is hardly any divinity to be experienced. What
does dharma mean anymore? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I stand bewildered at the end of Part
One of the Gita. There are two more parts left for my study. I shall study them
too. I have the time now, having retired from teaching. I will return here
tomorrow with the next lesson I learn from the Gita – from part 2: chapters
7-12. But I repeat: my learning is personal. If only everyone’s <i>religious</i>
learning was personal, the world would have been a far, far better place!<o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-5857453685085309862024-02-26T10:16:00.003+05:302024-02-26T10:16:21.958+05:30 Raising Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLZWDKIzfC8sxCNGD2Uygw7BVoPQMCy56TU1mIlmrB2HbStdR65zpaC9PD_yTX1COg0Ta_y_yry_6T4hb6kA86Lk0RzIjEWgTBn7tj3a_5SlQi2ZyiMmoiJSSkxW8z3oFdDusSHj6KI_nIywF4ztyZQudBDh2_LH8sfI7_cZaIW8UfuILBEuxHd30NeY/s3783/20240226_100624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3783" data-original-width="3000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLZWDKIzfC8sxCNGD2Uygw7BVoPQMCy56TU1mIlmrB2HbStdR65zpaC9PD_yTX1COg0Ta_y_yry_6T4hb6kA86Lk0RzIjEWgTBn7tj3a_5SlQi2ZyiMmoiJSSkxW8z3oFdDusSHj6KI_nIywF4ztyZQudBDh2_LH8sfI7_cZaIW8UfuILBEuxHd30NeY/w508-h640/20240226_100624.jpg" width="508" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Bringing up children is both an art and a science. The
parents must have certain skills as well as qualities and value systems if the
children are to grow up into good human beings. How do the Bollywood stars
bring up their children? That is an interesting subject which probably no one
studied seriously until Rashmi Uchil did. The result of her study is the book
titled <b><i>Raising Stars: The challenges and joys of being a Bollywood parent</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book brings us the examples of no
less than 26 Bollywood personalities on how they brought up their children in
spite of their hectic schedules and other demands of the profession. In each
chapter, the author highlights one particular virtue or skill or quality from
each of these stars to teach us about the importance of that aspect in bringing
up children. Managing anger, for example, is the topic of the first chapter where
Mahima Chowdhary is our example. We move on to gender equality, confidence,
discipline, etc, and end with spirituality which is highlighted with the
example of Yukta Mookey’s Zen practices. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book is a practical guide to
parenting. Even if you are a very busy person, even if you have a lot of demanding
responsibilities, you need to pay serious attention to your children if they
are to be good human beings when they grow up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Each chapter is divided into two
sections: the first is an introduction to the theme and the second is a
narrative spoken by a famous Bollywood artiste. Chapter 4, for instance, is on
discipline. The introduction tells us that discipline is not the same as
punishment. Not at all. In fact, the two have little in common. A child
subjected to harsh disciplinary measures is only going to learn two lessons,
says Rashmi Uchil, the author, in her introduction to the chapter. One, how to
outsmart authority figures; and two, that they are bad children and are
undeserving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Uchil mentions an Adverse Childhood
Experiences Study conducted by some psychologists who researched the history of
17,000 patients of certain chronic illnesses such as asthma, diabetes and
depression. The result was that these individuals had abusive, punitive
parents. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This book may not be very profound
but is utterly practical. The author was a film journalist. The book does read
like a journalistic work. Hence it may appear shallow in places. Nevertheless,
it does inspire and extend practical guidelines to young parents on various aspects
of parenting. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In some places, the book acquires poignant
depths. One striking example is Javed Akhtar speaking about religious upbringing
of children. “Trust me, all those people who are good are good not because of
their religion but despite it,” he asserts. “Let me suggest an exercise. Take a
world map and mark all the countries and places where religion is dominant. Now
take another world map and mark those countries and places where human rights
are most violated, women are treated only a little better than animals and
where there is hardly any freedom of expression. You will find that on both
maps you have marked the same countries and the same places.” </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpXu4Z-l3QJXrZP_JW12pxdqKoBMrgdKhPs33QcdDkqmyLWRZ2HElyMqtjjFgrygTthWuGEdV57RBx3veQOpVI9wrpkwiyqBm7Ba6610G_rqIRzowQNViGRFYt0L2pTyM7F9DAHDAHssZUWA7QkW_QTDG2dMDSM5ugG_AvoyGz_5bIX5-rDfrK3Z0dvA/s886/Screenshot%202024-02-26%20100857.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="886" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpXu4Z-l3QJXrZP_JW12pxdqKoBMrgdKhPs33QcdDkqmyLWRZ2HElyMqtjjFgrygTthWuGEdV57RBx3veQOpVI9wrpkwiyqBm7Ba6610G_rqIRzowQNViGRFYt0L2pTyM7F9DAHDAHssZUWA7QkW_QTDG2dMDSM5ugG_AvoyGz_5bIX5-rDfrK3Z0dvA/w640-h258/Screenshot%202024-02-26%20100857.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It is not religion or moral science
class that moulds good human beings out of children. “Children don’t do what
you tell them to do,” Akhtar goes on. “They do what you do.” Your example is
the religion for children. You can be as religious as you a human being possibly
can, but if your deeds are foul your children are likely to go astray. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“When you are at peace, your child
senses it,” the author tells us towards the end of the book. “The child is at
peace too. When you operate from a space of love, the child blooms to their
full potential.” You, as a parent, is of immense value in your child’s life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This book may not be the best in the
genre but it merits attention from young parents. Especially because we are
living in highly troubled times when children are going through utterly
baffling realities which are not what they seem. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-61665733905560591142024-02-24T19:48:00.007+05:302024-02-25T08:46:18.369+05:30 An Aberration of Kali Yuga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_pfkIZmXiYzs57k3lEqKkXbJV7oX6Z5LHS7inZFqi2XdJ-TVVDXbnVzd-zHu2xF16WuBYTLN-xis8aAAhEehL9fzNq4xsKBP9SfyQ6P1qyR0dn5p5EEfU2T-2gHbPRDByK24WOslRGA9-P1rqiB-y7IRfDT6fHmK_h-8W-CkoxppL4IiqhxeBbCJRws/s650/bramayugam.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="650" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2_pfkIZmXiYzs57k3lEqKkXbJV7oX6Z5LHS7inZFqi2XdJ-TVVDXbnVzd-zHu2xF16WuBYTLN-xis8aAAhEehL9fzNq4xsKBP9SfyQ6P1qyR0dn5p5EEfU2T-2gHbPRDByK24WOslRGA9-P1rqiB-y7IRfDT6fHmK_h-8W-CkoxppL4IiqhxeBbCJRws/w640-h394/bramayugam.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Are we Indians now living in an aberrant period of
history? A period that is far worse than the puranic Kali Yuga? A period in which
gods decide to run away in fear of men?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">That’s a very provocative question,
isn’t it, especially in a time when people are being arrested for raising much
more innocuous questions than that? But I raise my hands in surrender because I’m
not raising this question; the Malayalam movie that Maggie and I watched is. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Before I go to the provocations of
the movie, I am compelled to clarify a spelling problem with the title of the
movie. The title is <b><i>Bhramayugam</i></b> </span><span lang="EN-GB">[</span><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif" lang="EN-GB">ഭ്രമയുഗം]</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> in Malayalam. But the movie’s records and ads
write it as Bramayugam </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">[</span><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif" lang="EN-GB">ബ്രമയുഗം</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">] which would mean the yuga of Brama. Since
Brama doesn’t mean anything in Malayalam, people like me will be tempted to understand
it as the yuga of <b>Brahma</b>. In fact, that is how I understood it until
Maggie corrected me before we set off to watch the movie by drawing my
attention to the Malayalam spelling of the title. Maggie has common sense and I
don’t. What follows is a <i>reading</i> of the movie by a person who lacks common
sense. Get ready to ride on the clouds, dear reader. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bhramam is a kind of delusion. I think that’s
what the director of this movie means the title to be too. The movie can be
interpreted in numerous ways. That’s one of its many positives. I interpret its
whole world as a delusion for the contemporary audience. It is as much a
delusion as India’s contemporary politics is. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do you believe that a centralised power like
what we now have in India is good? It sounds good because it gives you the
feeling that there is one particular power sitting on top of the apex of the
power structure controlling everything below. Like God. Like God, let me
repeat. We are on a cloud, remember. [</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If you don’t remember start reading
again, especially paragraph 4</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">.]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The plot we have to navigate is simple. Seventeenth
century Kerala, South India. A low caste guy named Devan is fleeing from Portuguese
slave traders. He sees a dilapidated mansion – a palatial building of an upper
caste exploiter of people in those days, no better than the colonial slave
traders – and runs into it because he is hungry. Potty, the Brahmin owner of
the mansion, receives him as a guest because guests are deities in the Hindu
scriptures. Potty quotes the scripture verse too. Not the cliched Aditi devo
bhava stuff. Something else which I can’t remember now because I heard it only
once, in this movie. But I’m sure it’s a real quote. All scriptural quotes in
this movie are real. Only the reality is fake. Like the political reality in
contemporary India. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We are led to believe that fake is real. That
is what makes this movie a tremendous success. We are caught in a trap just
like Devan. If Potty controls Devan, we are controlled by the movie’s impact on
us. We get involved in spite of ourselves. I tried to tell myself a hundred
times that this was a movie. But I went back to a world of delusion, the world
controlled by the lead character, the owner of the dilapidated mansion in the
middle of what looks like a jungle. Potty is the name of that master, played by
Mammootty as no one else can. The very name is symbolic. Or is it allegorical? Or
rhyming? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We are on a cloud, dear reader, don’t forget.
On a cloud where you will hear Potty as Modi or something. Such things happen
in life even on a cloud. Especially on a cloud. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Potty is Satanic. He controls the whole jungle
around his dilapidated mansion. All that jungle was his family’s property, now
laid waste because of the narcissism of Potty the Boss. Now the mansion is like
a Black Hole. Did I tell you that the entire movie is Black & White? It is.
And its impact is ghostly. We are in a ghostly world. And there are real ghosts
too!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">You really don’t know what reality is and what
fakery is. Potty can shift between reality and illusion like Satan. Chathan, in
Malayalam, as he turns out to be<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in the
end. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Well, I seem to be revealing too many things
which is not good for anyone who would like to watch this movie which is still running
houseful though most Malayalam movies don’t run houseful beyond a week. This
movie is a success in Kerala. I’m sure the Malayali audience got the
connections between the 17th century and the 21<sup>st</sup> century right. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“We’re in Bhramayugam,” says Potti to his
antagonist. “This is an aberration of Kali Yuga. The situation is so bad that
even gods run away from it.” Evil reigns supreme and we have no escape from it.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Potty and Modi. Bilabials and nasals. The
difference isn’t much. Hats off to Rahul Sadasivan, director and script-writer.
I loved the movie though I was highly disturbed by it. By the realism in its
delusions. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-87005034821508693662024-02-23T18:42:00.002+05:302024-02-23T18:42:15.888+05:30Kabir the Guru – 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07ox8uY4-WM8Mj2sLM5Ax_BcrHxVWXQ06zTaEEVMw_8Ulm9UMdZ9ZuVp6AYqY4-EREPfdmdVFvzkxQmHW7EpcJwehRUzas_jbF6kFqqBn_O0Dg45V80gvELY-0BIp0NiNDkFeWMLp7FQg3JoL_sXA4bd3CeZeNSXHcJFEMBFYN_z9jaSdbs0wbUae17E/s1170/kabir%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="761" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07ox8uY4-WM8Mj2sLM5Ax_BcrHxVWXQ06zTaEEVMw_8Ulm9UMdZ9ZuVp6AYqY4-EREPfdmdVFvzkxQmHW7EpcJwehRUzas_jbF6kFqqBn_O0Dg45V80gvELY-0BIp0NiNDkFeWMLp7FQg3JoL_sXA4bd3CeZeNSXHcJFEMBFYN_z9jaSdbs0wbUae17E/w260-h400/kabir%20cover.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #c00000; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Read Part 1 of thi</span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">s <a href="https://matheikal.blogspot.com/2024/02/kabir-guru-1.html">here</a></span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #385723; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 150%; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #385723; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent6; mso-themecolor: accent6; mso-themeshade: 128;">K</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">abir
lived in the 15<sup>th</sup> century. But his poems and songs are still valued.
Being illiterate, he didn’t write them. They were passed on orally until they
were collected by certain enthusiasts into books. Vipul Rikhi’s book, <b><i>Drunk
on Love: The Life, Vision and Songs of Kabir</i></b>, not only brings the songs
and poems together in one volume but also seeks to impart the very spirit of
Kabir to the reader. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabir is not just a name, the book
informs us somewhere in the beginning. Kabir is a tradition. He is a legend, a philosophy,
poetry and music. I would add that Kabir was a mystic. Most of his songs have
something to do with spirituality. They strive to convey the deep meaning of
reality. They also question the ordinary person’s practice of religion. They
criticise the religious leaders such as pandits and mullahs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Though a Muslim, Kabir was immensely
taken up by Ram, the Hindu god, for reasons known only to him perhaps. Most of the
songs are about the greatness of Rama. Kabir’s Rama is like Mahatma Gandhi’s
Rama: a metaphysical idea rather than the human Rama of Valmiki. Kabir’s Rama,
like Gandhi’s again, could be Rahim or any other god. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">“Mecca is Varanasi again / And Ram
has become Rahim.” Kabir sings. Devotees fail to see Rama within their own
hearts. That’s the problem. Unable to see Rama within their hearts, devotees go
seeking him outside – in temples or other places. This is the mistake. When you
see Rama within you, all reality becomes sacred. You will see Rama in all
reality. Incapable of such perception, “Hindus claim Ram is theirs / Muslims
lay claim to Rehman / They fight and kill each other / Neither knows the essence.”
Kabir laments. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">He sang that in the 15<sup>th</sup>
century. We haven’t come much farther from that, have we? Kabir would say we
are like the crowd in the market. They don’t understand that the stone lying in
the mud is diamond. They trample over it. Then comes a jeweller. He understands
the value of the stone and picks it up. He is enriched and the stone gets its
right place. God is like that stone. Trampled upon by ignorant crowds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabir’s God chides the devotee: “Where
are you searching for me, O man? / I’m here, right next to you. / Neither in
the holy place, nor in the idol / Nor am I in solitary habitation / Neither in
the temple nor in the mosque / Nor am I in Mecca or Mount Kailash.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabir can be blunt in his criticism
of the ascetics. “O yogi, you dyed your robe ochre / But did not transform your
mind / You went to the forest / You lit the holy fire / You smeared yourself
with ash / Now you look like an ass!” [Does anyone come to your mind?]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabir is much needed in our time,
especially in India. Vipul Rikhi has done a good job by presenting Kabir in
this book. All of Kabir’s best songs and couplets are available in this slim
volume of less than 300 pages. The last section gives the transliteration of
the original Hindi versions. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nyJLZRZ9iZp9sAkynrGBeIfo4bqgcB3X1BSpdM_D_IiaMf_OhKRYgANdukm0ohaLrTz5xVKxyW61L-o27gfWCuh8s-UqGXn5zTIAmvH14c0rxLVljXTlC4sA2j7KzUGybsOV-dDN6KGxYhKDn857KnE1sgK321RtXGkzMBnMFbHd-mAQGfQyNCA9usw/s3771/20240222_114838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3771" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nyJLZRZ9iZp9sAkynrGBeIfo4bqgcB3X1BSpdM_D_IiaMf_OhKRYgANdukm0ohaLrTz5xVKxyW61L-o27gfWCuh8s-UqGXn5zTIAmvH14c0rxLVljXTlC4sA2j7KzUGybsOV-dDN6KGxYhKDn857KnE1sgK321RtXGkzMBnMFbHd-mAQGfQyNCA9usw/w640-h510/20240222_114838.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A page from the book</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><br /></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-60809445141691705882024-02-22T21:52:00.000+05:302024-02-22T21:52:39.152+05:30 Kabir the Guru - 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZihH24lj-TBHCIdEzhFdUIV_LvN82Wm8mByb7phpPOYpTPKEyye-ZyasqKTJ7Zds_0gBJRg2NL_dFHruLGsRJPM3h2viqv7BNfIEAWpfo5pbEWhWIaIf-9hUHplxXZV3YCvGlZCkDYLmaRNdX_yXt0B9enaYY8dBRBFopXDbrWzMFSfvZx-lr7hFcBw/s1000/Kabirvad1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="1000" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZihH24lj-TBHCIdEzhFdUIV_LvN82Wm8mByb7phpPOYpTPKEyye-ZyasqKTJ7Zds_0gBJRg2NL_dFHruLGsRJPM3h2viqv7BNfIEAWpfo5pbEWhWIaIf-9hUHplxXZV3YCvGlZCkDYLmaRNdX_yXt0B9enaYY8dBRBFopXDbrWzMFSfvZx-lr7hFcBw/w400-h260/Kabirvad1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kabirvad</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabirvad is a banyan tree in Gujarat. It is named
after Kabir, the mystic poet and saint of the 15<sup>th</sup> century. There is
a legend behind the tree. Two brothers are in search of a guru. They have an
intuitive feeling that the guru will appear when they are ready for it. They
plant a dry banyan root at a central spot in their courtyard. Whenever a sadhu passes
by, they wash his feet at this particular spot. Their conviction is that the
root will sprout into a sapling when their guru appears. Years pass and there’s
no sign of any sapling. No less than four decades later, the sapling rises. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The man who had come the previous day
was a beggarly figure whom the brothers didn’t treat particularly well though
they gave him some water to drink out of courtesy. But the sapling rose, after 40
years! So the brothers went in search of that beggarly figure. Kabir, the great
15<sup>th</sup> century mystic poet, had been their guest. The legend says that
the brothers became Kabir’s disciples. The banyan tree is still found in
Gujarat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This may be one of the umpteen
legends that came up when Kabir became popular in Varanasi and around as a
poet, a mystic, a guru, and a teacher though he was just an illiterate weaver
by profession. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When I was teaching in a school in
Delhi, every now and then I would hear some <i>dohas</i> [couplets] of Kabir
recited in the morning assembly. I didn’t understand much of them because their
lingo was quite different from the modern Hindi. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What should be of interest to us
today is that Kabir chose to write in Hindi in a time when Persian and Sanskrit
were the dominant languages in North India. Moreover, Kabir was a Muslim. His
King was a Muslim. Why did he choose to sing in Hindi and that too expressing
devotion to Lord Ram?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sing</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">, I said. Yes, Kabir was an
illiterate weaver. He didn’t <i>write</i>. He <i>sang</i>. And in most of his
songs, Lord Ram of Hinduism stands out as the dominant god. Kabir loved Ram for
reasons we may be given in due course of time though that is not quite likely
since India’s present historians won’t be interested in a Muslim poet even if
he was a fervent devotee of Ram. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Vipul Rikhi’s book, <b><i><span style="background: yellow; mso-highlight: yellow;">Drunk on Love: The Life, Vision and
Songs of Kabir</span></i></b> renewed my interest in the mystic singer. I have
finished reading the book. My review will be up here tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kabir deserves a revisit today when
some Hindus have chosen to victimise a lot of people for worshipping gods that
are not Hindus. Now, do gods have religion? Are gods fighting up there in the cosmic
spaces for their own kingdoms like we do here on earth? For example, will Lord
Rama flex his muscles on seeing the palatial temple built for him by <b>THE</b>
Narendra Modi in Rama’s putative birthplace of Ayodhya? Will Rama go to Allah
and say something like, “You see how my beloved Modiji is honouring me with the
kind of humility that he doesn’t really have!” And imagine Allah telling him
that his [Allah’s] beloved people have constructed a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/BAPS_Hindu_Mandir_Abu_Dhabi">palatial
temple in Abu Dhabi</a> for a Hindu god. Will Allah be jealous? Will Rama be
arrogant? Will they start a star war? Will Jesus send Angel Gabriel to convert
Rama and Allah to Christianity? And then will some RSS guy crop up there on a
Treta Yug Pushpak Vimaan to shoot a couple of antediluvian arrows at Allah and
label <a href="https://x.com/matheikal/status/1758349543492706476?s=20">Jesus
as Rice Bag</a>? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Will Kabir sing there his 15<sup>th</sup>
century song?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If Allah lives in the mosque<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Who occupies the rest of the world?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">If Ram inhabits idols and temples<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Why did no one find him there? <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">We have so much religion today. So <i>much</i> – I’m using
the word <i>much</i>, not <i>many</i>, purposely. Too much religion. Kabir hated
it. And we will see that tomorrow. We will take a deeper look at Vipul Rikhi’s
book tomorrow. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-62281185351333289942024-02-20T19:33:00.003+05:302024-02-20T19:33:13.829+05:30 Keepers of Heaven’s Gateway<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL44Gy2jXQGkrLwxfRoBQpYhcqytUs4g59_F38OPr1Dl3lm9vcRigS7aVKWJ8B7H8V43Qae79ZGmLisARNRjedhxQdgz-fS3VwQErmdWV8jmjdke62NvvecEUY2VZwG6ndEzhAm55ZLxSqDXEEzGlIB-qsbBhykAWkOaczrbgW9DtFz8hgE-YqG58ymKE/s800/fire%20ganges.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="800" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL44Gy2jXQGkrLwxfRoBQpYhcqytUs4g59_F38OPr1Dl3lm9vcRigS7aVKWJ8B7H8V43Qae79ZGmLisARNRjedhxQdgz-fS3VwQErmdWV8jmjdke62NvvecEUY2VZwG6ndEzhAm55ZLxSqDXEEzGlIB-qsbBhykAWkOaczrbgW9DtFz8hgE-YqG58ymKE/w400-h224/fire%20ganges.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <i><a href="https://www.deccanchronicle.com/lifestyle/books-and-art/241223/flames-of-compassion-a-writer-chronicles-lives-of-indias-corpse-burn.html" target="_blank">Deccan Chronicle</a></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“<i>Doms are the keepers of a sacred flame –
supposedly burning for centuries – over which they have sole ownership.
Lighting each funeral pyre with the Doms’ fire is considered not only
auspicious but also crucial. Without it, it is alleged, a devout Hindu will not
receive moksha, liberation from the cycle of death and rebirth</i>.” [<b>Fire
on the Ganges</b>]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Doms are an untouchable caste of
people living on the banks of the Ganga in Varanasi, a place dear to Lord Shiva.
The Hindus believe that if they die in Varanasi, their souls will attain the
ultimate deliverance from the cycle of birth and death. If they cannot die
there, at least the corpse should be cremated there. Doms are the
corpse-burners in Varanasi. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Though these Dalits called Doms are
untouchable by caste, they are the gate-keepers of heaven. Radhika Iyengar’s
book, <b><i>Fire on the Ganges</i></b> [HarperCollins, 2023], tells us the
story of the Doms, a story of oppression and exploitation. Obliquely, this is
also a story of the inhuman caste system that is still practised in India in
spite of its prohibition after Independence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One of the striking ironies about the
Doms is that they cannot touch an upper caste person who is alive but they
should cremate the upper caste person when he is dead. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Socio-political systems which make
use of religion for their validation are usually tilted in favour of a few people.
India’s caste system is the best example. The system is a creation of the
ruling classes: the Brahmins and the Kshatriyas. The Brahmins control the gods
and the Kshatriyas control the humans. Every person in the kingdom is a slave
of these upper classes one way or another. These people have created the system
in such a way that all others will (have to) remain subservient to them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Today, their place is taken over by a
few politicians and their corporate cronies. The creation of such systems
entails extensive use of rhetoric. Gods are an integral part of that rhetoric.
New temples and pilgrimage centres are also integral to that system. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When the Kashi Vishwanath Corridor
was built in Varanasi, the Doms were afraid that they would lose their land
just as many other Dalits did. But they were lucky. Maybe, they are happier too
as they would probably get more ‘clients’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Radhika Iyengar presents a few
individuals from the Dom community in this book and thus makes the narrative
quite personal. It is not an academic discourse at all though extensive
research preceded the writing of this book. We meet certain individual Doms
whose stories touch our hearts. They are all victims of a highly exploitative
system. Their women are double victims as they are exploited and oppressed by
their own men too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">These Doms don’t have enough money to
educate their children. So the children too grow up and become corpse-burners. As
they grow up, they also learn to steal the shrouds which are removed from the
corpses just before the cremation. These shrouds are sold again. Children earn
their bread. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A few manage to get some education.
Very few go for higher studies. The one who looks after the electric crematorium
in Varanasi is a Dom who is a postgraduate. He wishes to become a lecturer in a
college. But when the author asked him if he was ready to hand over their caste
profession to members from other castes, he is scandalised. “This is my birth
right!” He asserted. “Only <i>I</i> and my community can burn corpses. We are
the Doms.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Caste is so deeply entrenched in the
very soul of people that they can’t think beyond it even if they are educated!
That is the efficacy of a system which is rooted in the divine milieu. Its creators
are geniuses. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But not everyone is like this
postgraduate. There are a few Doms who get out of Varanasi and find good jobs
elsewhere. There are even some of them who marry a woman from a higher caste. “Money
makes the difference,” one Dom who married a Yadav woman says. Theirs was a
love marriage. But the woman’s family accepted the Dom husband for their
daughter because he was economically well-off. The old caste system is giving
way to a new one: one based on wealth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book is a straightforward
narrative that intends to present a journalistic picture of the Doms to
ordinary readers. As I reached the last page, I was struck by one thought. Why
don’t our leaders reform the system so that every one in it can live with
greater dignity? Instead of giving us more temples and pilgrimage centres, why
don’t they give us more centres of higher learning, institutions that will
enlighten us and make us better human beings? And change certain rituals which
are so deadly for the environment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I know the answer. Nevertheless, the
question keeps coming up in my mind every now and then especially when I read
books like this. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-41450894601646858052024-02-18T12:01:00.005+05:302024-02-18T12:01:55.548+05:30 Writer in post-truth world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cIdVW8E33YK56VIkSnl-bHAxxDdXTZEh0Q1FglBWeYlCiNGHlEM9O2MCIskqCuxiYm3PlZ2D23vg9CmuT9ocXILofcOFj5d91O5JogrwwiaHCsTuJ0cZdyny6uIGC5NqsD2_uhBcMs18GcQIrOSjDc5t_h0vhqilNIyH0b6s47nXD1a_a70YAs7SYVA/s3877/20240218_115601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3877" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4cIdVW8E33YK56VIkSnl-bHAxxDdXTZEh0Q1FglBWeYlCiNGHlEM9O2MCIskqCuxiYm3PlZ2D23vg9CmuT9ocXILofcOFj5d91O5JogrwwiaHCsTuJ0cZdyny6uIGC5NqsD2_uhBcMs18GcQIrOSjDc5t_h0vhqilNIyH0b6s47nXD1a_a70YAs7SYVA/w310-h400/20240218_115601.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A few dozen books arrived home the other day through a
special arrangement, thanks to a good friend in Delhi. What a way to begin one’s
retirement! My job as teacher has another ten days to go. I chose this
retirement with due respect to an old saying in Malayalam, my mother tongue: ‘Quit
singing when your voice is still good.’ On the verge of completing four decades
of teaching, I didn’t want to leave the profession with any sour blood in the
heart. The classroom has undergone a sea change. Teaching has been a
relationship for me with my students, notwithstanding my inevitable flaws and
limitations as a teacher. Relationships have become rather tenuous now, quite
as professional as a one-night stand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I decided to devote all my time to
reading, blogging, some travels and a bit of gardening. It is then that the friend
from Delhi put up a very unexpected suggestion to which I said yes because I
was going to get a few dozen books free in the process whose details cannot be
divulged now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I opened one of the three cartons and
picked a book randomly. It happened to be <b><i>The Yellow Book: A Traveller’s
Diary</i></b> by Amitava Kumar, published by HarperCollins India (2024). I had
not heard of the author earlier. I found out that he is a writer, journalist,
professor as well as a painter. Born and brought up in India, Kumar is now
teaching in a college in New York. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Yellow Book</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> is a rather strange
volume. The narrative is interspersed rather liberally with the author’s
paintings which are related to the text. It is a bit difficult to say what the
book is really about. We are given suggestions on how to engage time
productively in the first chapter and how to write honestly, in the last. In
between we get a lot of extracts from the writer’s journals which deal with the
places he visited, writers he met and/or read, experiences with his students…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kumar doesn’t seem to have a high
opinion about present India. In the second chapter, we read: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">All the drawings I made in
response to the news from India </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">[during the Covid] <i>were driven by sorrow and rage.
The reports said that the metal in the crematoriums would sometimes melt from
the fires burning; that relatives were often unable to even participate in any
ritual of farewell; that the Ganga upstream from Patna was choked with bodies
and the poor, unable to afford cremations, were burying their dead on the
riverbank. I painted in order to feel less helpless. And hiding in this despair
was an even greater fear: that those in power, who had organized election
rallies and religious gatherings and helped spread the virus were, in the
future, going to spin this story of loss into a victory song. The chief
minister of Uttar Pradesh warned that those talking of shortages of oxygen
cylinders would be arrested. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This narrative is accompanied by one
of the author’s paintings of that time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">One night on TV the author hears a
historian say that authoritarian leaders in power lie all the time. These leaders
will also claim that it is their opponents and journalists who lie. People are
helpless. They don’t know what the truth is. Those who know the truth and are
brave enough to tell it publicly are sent to jails. “Democracy is dead.” So the
author decides to keep his sanity intact by writing and drawing. <b><i>The
Yellow Book</i></b> is a sort of record of what he wrote and painted. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The book ends with a chapter titled ‘Enemy
of the People.’ One of Kumar’s protagonists writes a novel titled <i>Enemies of
the People</i>. It is a political novel and we can guess who the enemies of the
people are. You will find their portraits all over: on billboards, at petrol
stations, on ration cards, even on your vaccination certificates – telling you
what to believe, which god to pray to, what to eat and wear and…</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15Bm1BSbFfkX8YXSCCoN1holYlt29G01PWLafMGBO94K1sNDYLgo2VWw9btZJsAYk-7I1pbXABMwDthOsu-lfHubRXfI7oXcvI73SuP302tfC0a0UVqCVmTbt-1VXIKES4UeWhOE9ns73t39yb1Br7J8GjmqP3Cpq3uOBL9xtLg629J7xkQnue76GcCI/s842/Screenshot%202024-02-18%20115944.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="842" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi15Bm1BSbFfkX8YXSCCoN1holYlt29G01PWLafMGBO94K1sNDYLgo2VWw9btZJsAYk-7I1pbXABMwDthOsu-lfHubRXfI7oXcvI73SuP302tfC0a0UVqCVmTbt-1VXIKES4UeWhOE9ns73t39yb1Br7J8GjmqP3Cpq3uOBL9xtLg629J7xkQnue76GcCI/w400-h363/Screenshot%202024-02-18%20115944.png" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kumar reminds us about Ibsen’s play <i>An
Enemy of the People</i> (1882) and Arthur Miller’s 1950 adaptation of it. Later,
in 1989, Satyajit Ray made the film <i>Ganashatru</i> with the same story. Who
is the enemy of the people? That is the question raised by all the three. The
one who speaks truth to power is the enemy of the people, according to those in
power. A doctor who tells the people that the springs which bring them water
are dangerously polluted is the enemy of the people in these works. The doctor
and his family are made outcasts by those in power. Truth is buried. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kumar ends this book with the
suggestion that an honest writer today cannot be apolitical. When most of your
leaders are lying, how apolitical can you be? If you choose to fight for truth,
you will be alone, no doubt, like Ibsen’s protagonist. At the end of Ibsen’s
play, the doctor declares that he has made a discovery: “it is this, let me
tell you – that the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Amitava Kumar has the courage to
stand alone. Kudos to him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-57611005651372784632024-02-17T10:36:00.004+05:302024-02-17T10:36:31.802+05:30 A better world is possible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3U3NCcS16gZgQTDDkHXJoP8avksJGK-_ziM0pt3XeCIEPzWGgRajYfPKOdvt-8iLosqq7oJGtG4Qhx6lead5HKmOx93VEt5cN_h-Hhw-Vff5hcotUDCU7E7-FS5S5fn_gRPLJ2JsgMuZaiK1jXbA6ZUQGTNlarDdEre7fiFdjE8LgOB_00Po5Zyp3HU/s522/platform%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="340" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo3U3NCcS16gZgQTDDkHXJoP8avksJGK-_ziM0pt3XeCIEPzWGgRajYfPKOdvt-8iLosqq7oJGtG4Qhx6lead5HKmOx93VEt5cN_h-Hhw-Vff5hcotUDCU7E7-FS5S5fn_gRPLJ2JsgMuZaiK1jXbA6ZUQGTNlarDdEre7fiFdjE8LgOB_00Po5Zyp3HU/w416-h640/platform%205.jpg" width="416" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">People are not as bad as they appear. They are worse,
Oscar Wilde would quip. They are better, much better, deep inside provided you
care to see, Clare Pooley would chide Wilde. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The People on Platform 5</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> is Clare Pooley’s novel
which is more inspiring than most inspirational literature and more motivating
than most motivational books. It belongs to a new genre. <span style="color: #7030a0;">Feel-good fiction </span>is a new genre, I guess. This
book belongs to that class and it deserves an eminent place there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This novel brings some strangers together
on a train from Hampton Court to London Waterloo and back. These people are all
regular commuters on that train as they go to work in the morning at the same
time and return home in the evening, at the same time again, every day. They
see each other regularly. But they don’t know each other, they don’t care to
know either. That’s how people in cities are. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But a medical emergency brings a few
of these people close to one another. And there begins the story of this novel
which shows us the beautiful personalities that lie hidden beneath the masks
that people wear. Each character in this novel is charming in his/her own way,
though initially and externally they would appear just like any ordinary
office-goer – banal. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">57-year-old Iona takes most of our
attention though every other character is equally enchanting. Iona is the one
who brings out the magic that lies in the hearts of the others. She is a
lesbian who lives with her partner Beatrice who is referred to as Bea. It is
only halfway through the novel that we will come to know that Bea is now in a
care home because she is a patient of acute Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t remember
even Iona though Iona is working to earn money for Bea’s care. Lulu, her
bulldog, is Iona’s constant companion on the train, in the office, wherever she
goes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Iona is a magazine advice columnist –
an agony aunt, though she hates that label. She answers readers’ queries about
life’s problems. But her answers aren’t particularly appealing to the new gen.
She learns to answer the new gen’s questions better by consulting some of her
fellow passengers. But then she realises how “fake” she is. It’s not her own
answers that she now gives. But she needs the job. However, her magazine chucks
her soon. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the meanwhile, she had become a
favourite among her fellow passengers on the train. They come together to
convince her that she should start a YouTube channel which eventually becomes
so successful that the same magazine which threw her out now wants her back. She
tells them to get lost. They are still fake and Iona is not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The problem with most people is that
they are helpless in a tough world and hence put on masks which make them look
fake. The stylish dress that Piers wears, his Gucci shoes, Rolex watch, Hermes
tie and the smart business suit are all masks because he is now an unemployed
worthless man who pretends to be otherwise. He lost his job as a master-trader
with a trading firm but is unable to tell his wife, Candida, the truth. So he
travels in his business attire every day looking smart. Only looks. Fake. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But he begins to help Martha, a
student on the same train, with her math and eventually becomes a teacher in
Martha’s school. He is good at that, he finds out. His real self emerges soon.
He becomes happy though he has much less money now. It’s not money that keeps
you really happy. It’s authenticity. He loses Candida, however, as well as his
children. “I don’t want to live a teacher’s small life,” Candida tells him
bluntly. She knows another man already who is ready to give her and the children
an affluent life that a schoolteacher never can. Candida is a fake too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Martha was naïve enough to send a
photo of herself naked, legs apart, to her boyfriend who convinces her that he
has seen the vaginas of quite many girls and there is nothing strange in his
request. But Martha becomes the school’s joke as her unseemly photo spreads on
the social media like a farcical virus. Iona teaches her how to obliterate an
unpleasant past by creating a successful present. Pierse teaches her math which
was her biggest problem at school. Eventually Martha the blunderer-introvert
becomes a shining heroine. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Sanjay (of Indian roots) is a nurse
who is another passenger on the train. He falls in love with Emmie, another
passenger, without knowing that she has a live-in relationship with Toby. Toby turns
out to be a psycho with perfectionist obsessions which begin to put certain
straitjackets on Emmie. Emmie now has to wear the dress that Toby chooses, eat
what he decides is good for her, do the job that he selects for her… Toby is an
extreme form of fakery. Emmie liberates herself from that fake world of Toby’s
and… I shall not be a spoilsport. You read the novel, it’s worth it, I assure
you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This novel will teach you that people
are not what they seem. Are you ready to dig deep enough? If you are, you will
be rewarded with a world of magic. A world of beautiful people. Who, for
example, would ever have guessed that this man Piers, who is wearing a dress
that an ordinary guy’s entire month’s salary couldn’t afford, is carrying a
wretched hell inside him? That his father was an unemployed and worthless
person and that his mother was a pathetic alcoholic? That beneath the attire,
Piers is a tender person who longed for love? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Who but Iona with her tremendous
capacity for penetrating through people’s masks would have discovered the
heroine that lay hidden beneath the Martha’s mask of introversion and
diffidence? Who else could have taught Martha lessons like: <i>If you give up,
they win; They want us to be small, so we have to stand tall; They want us to
be silent, so we have to be heard; They want us to surrender; so we have to
fight…?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The world isn’t a kind place. Far
from it, the world is a harsh place which is determined to decimate us if we
don’t fight on. How to put up an authentic fight? This is the most fundamental
question that this novel seeks to answer. And it does answer eminently. Read
it. I recommend it with my whole heart. You will be rewarded, no doubt. And you
will smile a lot too as you read.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-28283477443199665562024-02-14T18:47:00.000+05:302024-02-14T18:47:14.507+05:30 Romance on a riverbank<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMq3pe1NMzFefpy3maMoUTHqPwiwIoRfluUPzRYGEaxHVt3A312uhi3bpJHDOZ6hSfJNE9CsXOtQEiE-zhR9XYU_W7yyv_uzqDGpvHIfz2w5tw0S7JCb1ZZDXTZTqVIeN22GzNL_bZBXvZmGuXF1ssuUh75HcE9gl3wSP_ZTMwk-EVYMp4qrsnWERj194/s687/Screenshot%202024-02-14%20183301.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="687" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMq3pe1NMzFefpy3maMoUTHqPwiwIoRfluUPzRYGEaxHVt3A312uhi3bpJHDOZ6hSfJNE9CsXOtQEiE-zhR9XYU_W7yyv_uzqDGpvHIfz2w5tw0S7JCb1ZZDXTZTqVIeN22GzNL_bZBXvZmGuXF1ssuUh75HcE9gl3wSP_ZTMwk-EVYMp4qrsnWERj194/w400-h270/Screenshot%202024-02-14%20183301.png" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was on the bank of the river which borders his farm
that James met Yulia. James was collecting nutmegs from his trees when he
noticed a woman sitting on the riverbank. Something didn’t look right. This was
a village and this foreigner had no reason to be here on the bank of a river by
the side of a private farm. Overcoming his initial hesitation, James walked
towards her. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hello, he said. She responded with
another hello. A lifeless hello. Her face looked pale like that of a corpse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">James knew enough English to manage a
simple conversation. So he learnt that her name was Yulia and that she was from
Ukraine. He had seen bombs falling on Ukraine day after day, month after month,
bringing down beautiful apartments, laying waste splendid landscapes, killing
people including cute little children who deserved to be fondled. Even the
bachelor heart of James wept for those innocent children. Why are we humans
like this? He asked himself a thousand times. Why are we so evil? All those
prayers he muttered every evening with his parents, all the mumbo-jumbo that
the parish priest uttered every Sunday during the Mass, all the hymns that the
church choir sang, it all turned to more and more absurd gibberish with each
bomb that fell – whether in Ukraine or in Gaza. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yulia had lost every member of her
family. They were all swallowed by bombs. She escaped because she was residing in
her workplace far away from home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">A few weeks after she reached India,
Prime Minister Modi was doing the Pran something in a palatial temple in
Ayodhya. Pran Pratishtha, James helped her. Yeah, she said. What a nice
country, she said to herself. A country whose prime minister is so spiritual,
so holy. Mr Modi looked like a saintly ascetic all through the ceremony, she
said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">James didn’t know whether to smile or
to snigger. Our country is not what it appears, Yulia, he said. Maya is what
reality is here. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Maya, Yulia said. Illusion? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh, you know it! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She knew a lot more. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">She had seen the reality of Ayodhya
and its illusions too. So many hundreds, if not thousands, of people who were
driven away from their homes in order to make the temple’s surroundings
beautiful. She had met them personally on her visit to Ayodhya. She was in
India much before the Pran whatever. She saw what was happening in Ayodhya. It
wasn’t much different from what Putin did to our country, she said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Illusions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Can you convince all those people who
lost their homes and lands that life is sheer maya? That reality is divine
lila? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">James was surprised that Yulia, a Ukrainian
young woman, knew more about Indian gods’ lilas than he knew. James had tried
to learn something about all that after Modiji became prime minister and India’s
history started undergoing mutations. But he lost interest sooner than he
expected. There was no connection between what he learnt and what was happening
in the country. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That was just what Yulia had learnt
too: no connection between word and deed. Maya is a good concept in scriptures.
Try convincing that little child in Ayodhya that food is an illusion. Try
telling that to the child in Ukraine. In Gaza, James added. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I was running away from the Maya of
theology, Yulia said. I want to die in this river, she said. This river has
been inviting me from the time I saw it from that bridge. She pointed at the
bridge across the river a hundred metres or so away from James’s land. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Shall I invite you to life? James
asked without any illusion. He had crossed thirty and hadn’t managed to find a
bride simply because all girls of Kerala were leaving the country to study and
then work abroad. And he was just a farmer. Nobody wanted to marry a farmer
even if he was educated enough, even if he had enough land and income to feed
half a dozen children though James didn’t want more than one or two because he was
not particularly interested in gifting his children to Canada or Australia or New
Zealand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Yulia looked into James’s eyes. She
saw another river there. Deep and serene. Clear like crystal. No Maya. And she
decided to drown herself in that river. Life’s ruddiness rushed to her cheeks
instantly. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #00b050; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">PS. I know this is a
silly story. But it was triggered by a friend’s request. My son is a BTech
engineer, my friend told me. But he loves farming more than anything else. The
problem, Tom, is that he can’t get a wife now. No girl in Kerala is willing to
marry a farmer boy. And then this Yulia from Ukraine came in my fantasy….<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-45246051607833018572024-02-13T22:01:00.007+05:302024-02-14T13:00:57.033+05:30 India’s Valentines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9gZo1CZ5KamNrQZ0Qc4NYC21rCBeE5q056a8PipFMyt5SbkMF27o1y0BRDMWvzwlKWyU8CXYu5uF6i7Dviu_vig43TSeTrG16r5fn7MkZQi4BnxrUBqp27Q6cYPZJaTlQLuogIhJrWMfFNbEGZggzSRx8i4_Zs0MNIfumnNMmn1oY2bHZaVESvg42KA/s1110/Screenshot%202024-02-13%20215920.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1110" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9gZo1CZ5KamNrQZ0Qc4NYC21rCBeE5q056a8PipFMyt5SbkMF27o1y0BRDMWvzwlKWyU8CXYu5uF6i7Dviu_vig43TSeTrG16r5fn7MkZQi4BnxrUBqp27Q6cYPZJaTlQLuogIhJrWMfFNbEGZggzSRx8i4_Zs0MNIfumnNMmn1oY2bHZaVESvg42KA/w400-h270/Screenshot%202024-02-13%20215920.png" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">India’s ruling party, Narendra Modi’s own party, wants
Indians to celebrate Valentine’s Day as <a href="https://indianexpress.com/article/cities/chandigarh/animal-welfare-board-india-couples-celebrate-feb-14-cow-hug-day-8432383/#:~:text=Therefore%2C%20all%20the%20cow%20lovers,and%20full%20of%20positive%20energy.">Cow
Hugging Day</a>. Valentine is a Western concept, they inform us. India has a
superior sexual morality. Like what you see in the classical temples of Khajuraho
in Madhya Pradesh, the Sun Temples of Odisha and Gujarat, Virupaksa of Hampi in
Karnataka, the Jain temples of Rajasthan, the Sathyamurthy Perumal Temple of Tamil
Nadu, and the Lingaraj Temple of Odisha. If I post pictures of the sculptures
from those temples, Google may block my post as obscene because Google is
Western and India is the West’s Guru now. But let me try anyway to put a
representative pic or two here, just to give you an idea of what ancient Indian
civilisation was offering to its temple devotees. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_ce6v5xI6zzSPgtKn_ISoF04qnMGL8d5ifEevIuHljKbWSmRXchMO6kzDVrIEAwdNO_jtniIZmKF7uNaz2Hdl01LkJs3PtLWMOyg2FRhjUOvZGACmCjJJxO-zI0-Jlo3vo2dpek9uEzQSDdwDyrBZl7PgIBK49tXzKhQPOULcND40_p7nh9QyoaBvYo/s679/kaju1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="679" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_ce6v5xI6zzSPgtKn_ISoF04qnMGL8d5ifEevIuHljKbWSmRXchMO6kzDVrIEAwdNO_jtniIZmKF7uNaz2Hdl01LkJs3PtLWMOyg2FRhjUOvZGACmCjJJxO-zI0-Jlo3vo2dpek9uEzQSDdwDyrBZl7PgIBK49tXzKhQPOULcND40_p7nh9QyoaBvYo/w400-h400/kaju1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Just Google for Indian temple erotica for a lot, lot more</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">India is a country that gave <i><a href="https://archive.org/details/kamasutraofvatsy00vatsuoft/kamasutraofvatsy00vatsuoft/page/n5/mode/2up">Kamasutra</a></i>
to the world. <i>Kamasutra</i> is not just a sex manual though any average man
and some women too will love it as that. It describes all the possible sexual positions
a couple can have in bed or out of it. Anywhere. How do you make sex a delight?
India’s own <i>Kamasutra</i> will teach you that. <i>Kamasutra</i> is a nuanced
exploration of love, desire, and interpersonal relationships, Google teaches
me. It is Google that tells me that Kamasutra is more than a sex manual. Kamasutra
is nothing like what people do in the West in the name of Valentine’s Day. In
the West, they kiss in public places. Here in Kamasutra, you go all out and out
and do <i>duma-dum</i>. Enjoy yourself to the hilt. In the temple premises, if
you prefer. The temple premisses are the safest places for those who had the
energy to try out all those positions in those Kama days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Anywhere, if you belonged to certain
castes or groups. Because the Tantric traditions of India teach us that sexuality
is a path to spiritual liberation. Just go and watch those tantric yogis in
Yogi’s UP even today. Their ancestors pulled whole vehicles with their penises.
The genital was a bulldozer in the land of Shiva in those old days of Hindutva’s
glory. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Hindu or Muslim, every king in India
was a potent shagger, says the classical book <b><i>Freedom at Midnight</i></b>.
Let me quote:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Whether he was Hindu or
Moslem, the harem was an integral part of a real ruler’s palace, the prince’s private
preserve kept regularly stocked with dancing girls and concubines. </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Being a ruler in the so-called
classical India meant being a shagger. Even today, we Indians are being screwed.
Not like what Bhupinder Singh did. Today it is taxes because our present king
is a brahmachari who rubbished his wife in childhood, discarding the diktats of
his religion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh no, I’m digressing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Let me quote <b><i>Freedom at
Midnight</i></b> once again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Bhupinder Singh, King of
Patiala, demonstrated a remarkably refined aptitude for … sex. As he came to
maturity his devotion to his harem eventually surpassed even his passions for
polo and hunting….<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">As a prince, he used to<i> station a
score of bare-breasted girls like nymphs at intervals at the rim of his swimming
pool… </i>The Maharaja came out of the pool from time to time to caress a
breast or sip a whiskey. <i>The walls and ceilings of Bhupinder Singh’s private
quarters were covered with representations of the erotic temple sculptures for
which India is justly famous, a catalogue of copulative possibilities to exhaust
the most inventive mind and athletic body. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">This King of Patiala used to appear
once a year before his subjects absolutely naked except for the diamond
breastplate he wore. His penis would be erect proving to his subjects that he was
a potent man. Sexual potency was of great importance in India. Bachelors with
no children were considered impotent and hence mere trash. The King of Patiala
walked around before his subjects with his penis in full erection once a year
and his subjects approved of his sexual and his manly potency. The King was
regarded as an incarnation of Lord Shiva who had great phallic powers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">India! My India gives me an erection.
Om Nama Shivaya! </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL8A3bViYx4RWNBk_2k9D-DAwgs9E969Y0oA56wwLZwNi3DUzUR6uUI-EMS9DbkDSftDsHWD7jNJIl5PyIAM94vpZR06SG2nONGyadei_m7SMC-IwU11CoHmuqxMQkCpuRK2r4yNgOVhh-3-l5AN-Wj2i0XjB34KusnZksdShftWXdbuhx_kMiFkEQtw/s958/Screenshot%202024-02-13%20215805.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="958" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTL8A3bViYx4RWNBk_2k9D-DAwgs9E969Y0oA56wwLZwNi3DUzUR6uUI-EMS9DbkDSftDsHWD7jNJIl5PyIAM94vpZR06SG2nONGyadei_m7SMC-IwU11CoHmuqxMQkCpuRK2r4yNgOVhh-3-l5AN-Wj2i0XjB34KusnZksdShftWXdbuhx_kMiFkEQtw/w640-h136/Screenshot%202024-02-13%20215805.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Today’s India, under Mr Narendra Modi’s
leadership, has about three million sex workers. That is the highest number of
prostitutes in the world for a country today, leaving aside the war-ridden
Russia of another narcissist. The International Union of Sex Workers gives that
figure on their website. Apart from all those millions of sex workers are the
youngsters who screw around with the help of what’s called dating apps. Twenty
million Indians used dating apps five years ago. Now 82.4 million Indians rely
on dating apps for satiating their ancient cultural sexual appetites. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0.2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 150%;">Should we shun the Valentine’s Day? I
don’t know. I would personally love to hug a human rather than a cow. <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-61567755965156541112024-02-12T19:45:00.002+05:302024-02-12T19:45:37.183+05:30 The Tenderness of Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_O2PIbGtGpnm9yifPA14AjXdnaCiSt2ohyLrlHSCeWjTe0uRRObgFmCgK7xsetiVx7Yi8SD0ExyuVpuLRMnUo_HAuyEnF0ZdyvKcTI_i8limZbZW9_v6S0vjHgcJTCWGGb7ltPCI82ACVu6sDF73QDxhDdpM-j8VNNIFKCwNwMs2ZGp82VjYm9T3LQv8/s522/book%20cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="335" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_O2PIbGtGpnm9yifPA14AjXdnaCiSt2ohyLrlHSCeWjTe0uRRObgFmCgK7xsetiVx7Yi8SD0ExyuVpuLRMnUo_HAuyEnF0ZdyvKcTI_i8limZbZW9_v6S0vjHgcJTCWGGb7ltPCI82ACVu6sDF73QDxhDdpM-j8VNNIFKCwNwMs2ZGp82VjYm9T3LQv8/s320/book%20cat.jpg" width="205" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="background: yellow; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-highlight: yellow;">Book Review</span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Title: <i>The Travelling Cat Chronicles</i><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Author: Hiro Arikawa<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Translated from the Japanese by Philip
Gabriel<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Publisher: Penguin Random House, 2019 <o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pages: 249</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This book will touch the most tender core of your heart.
It is a love story with a difference: it is love between a man and his cat.
Right from page one to the last page, this novel gives the reader a feeling of
tenderness. Reading this novel is like sitting on the side of a beautiful mountain
brook and listening to the gurgling of water while feeling the gossamer caress
of the cool breeze on your body. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I bought this book precisely because
I have four pet cats who all have a special place each in my heart. If you love
cats, this book will keep you hooked. Even if you don’t have a soft corner for
those creatures, you will still love this book for the tenderness it makes you feel.
The author, Hiro Arikawa, is a cat-lover, obviously. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXvEpnZglTKN4ndG6Wy_OI1sg5rG1N1lAr19Xe4_tvYY2rnZRws1QQIld60kz0LMaUmtogTMgWNZqfg4RMUPKEqJcTPm6-n7xuEPPOJ8hPM_kOcBAv6Mrd1TtVCTzkuZfCM29eM_B1VHU8Q7C-4J61ti7NJxkVnZOnvFL5dgBp9uw3sZWbwo_5F0Ot0s/s821/HiroArikawa2-min-768x821.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXvEpnZglTKN4ndG6Wy_OI1sg5rG1N1lAr19Xe4_tvYY2rnZRws1QQIld60kz0LMaUmtogTMgWNZqfg4RMUPKEqJcTPm6-n7xuEPPOJ8hPM_kOcBAv6Mrd1TtVCTzkuZfCM29eM_B1VHU8Q7C-4J61ti7NJxkVnZOnvFL5dgBp9uw3sZWbwo_5F0Ot0s/w374-h400/HiroArikawa2-min-768x821.jpeg" width="374" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hiro Arikawa with her cat</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Satoru Miyawaki is a young man who
takes care of a wounded cat that he found on the roadside. He names the cat
Nana whom he takes to a vet and then looks after until it gets well. Satoru and
Nana become the best of friends. They understand each other well, they respect
each other, and a unique bond develops between the two. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But for a mysterious reason (which
will be revealed towards the end of the novel), Satoru decides to part with
Nana. He goes from place to place, meeting friends who are willing to adopt
Nana. But both Nana and Satoru will find some excuse in each place for not
leaving Nana there. So Nana travels with Satoru. We meet some of Satoru’s
friends who are also quite gentle people. There are no villains in this book.
There are no vicious characters. There is only goodness. And it is the kind of
goodness we see in some simple people whose very nature is like a soothing
music that plays itself on the strings of our heart’s guitar. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Satoru had lost his parents to a car
accident when he was a boy. His mother’s sister looked after him. Now, unable
to leave Nana with anyone else, Satoru goes to that same aunt who agrees to
accept Nana too. Satoru and Nana will live in the aunt’s house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But the climax of the novel has quite
a few twists which will turn the sweet melody into a melancholy song. The
strings of your heart’s guitar will experience painful tugs. It was hard to
suppress my tears as I read the final pages. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">This is the kind of a book that
mellows your heart even if you are not a cat-lover. This is a sweet melody of
tenderness. But remember: ‘Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
thought.'<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj816qS2e_mgs9Ag4Q8N6Qa15scrkI5N2U_WLq2Hw_NAMHtHciJ7-iNDvW6Yn5Hp4RQJpJ9zJ5I40Ee0_nFKM_JqDErsZsbAjzEgVROwNJzCwsj8CEqO8AbZEElgm7V0B8A5NqO4aPs1-3efDxlKEAxfpLe-kHN8v8sHR_aL4cih35TOv3C2RXG8QTUutI/s3264/20230908_061630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj816qS2e_mgs9Ag4Q8N6Qa15scrkI5N2U_WLq2Hw_NAMHtHciJ7-iNDvW6Yn5Hp4RQJpJ9zJ5I40Ee0_nFKM_JqDErsZsbAjzEgVROwNJzCwsj8CEqO8AbZEElgm7V0B8A5NqO4aPs1-3efDxlKEAxfpLe-kHN8v8sHR_aL4cih35TOv3C2RXG8QTUutI/w400-h300/20230908_061630.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZ5ebVczz1k95ajqaCgV75INwwE4bzd960ayBHgbQVidpnioXXCOs2gAXtOGDfi16O5bJk4n_TLhB2fibhvozqMel80m0MrqsKcQfPnn4BZO_xd3zT-v6ETTX9bWEM6WeCmLX9tFaKooHhdgozMIFgSUoGxe5HfZBzPi8Lht-uhwy3whyqYTfy_WUxZA/s3264/20210725_061155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZ5ebVczz1k95ajqaCgV75INwwE4bzd960ayBHgbQVidpnioXXCOs2gAXtOGDfi16O5bJk4n_TLhB2fibhvozqMel80m0MrqsKcQfPnn4BZO_xd3zT-v6ETTX9bWEM6WeCmLX9tFaKooHhdgozMIFgSUoGxe5HfZBzPi8Lht-uhwy3whyqYTfy_WUxZA/w400-h300/20210725_061155.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2102451431033041663.post-84997539749483269212024-02-11T12:48:00.007+05:302024-02-11T12:48:47.565+05:30 Every Ghost Has a History<p><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was the eeriness of the song that woke up Kavita.
She looked at the time on her mobile phone. 1.23 am. Ah, there’s something
musical about that number too. The song came from the hill behind her house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita and her husband Vijay had
shifted their residence to this village just a few days back. They worked in
the city but didn’t like to live in the city. They would agree with Shelley
that hell must be a city. The city is a roaring rage, Kavita said to Vijay many
a time. I want the sound of cicadas in the night coming from green all around
me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Vijay found her a lush green habitat.
Kavita was the music of his life. Her desire was a command for him. No wish of
hers would go unfulfilled as long as Vijay had the ability to fulfil it. You
want the saugandhika and I will go to Gandharvamadana to get it. That was
Vijay. Kavita’s own Vijay. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When he took this lovely house on
rent, Vijay was warned that the hill that towered behind the house was haunted.
A haunted hill? No, not the whole hill, the informer said. The crumbling house
on top. Oh, that’s ok, Vijay said. We won’t have anything to do with crumbling
old houses on top of a steep hill.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The song from the crumbling old house
in the middle of the night was a different matter, however. Vijay didn’t hear
it. Kavita did. When Kavita told Vijay about it the next morning, he didn’t
take it as seriously as he should have. He was a computer engineer with too
many projects on hand each of which had a deadline. Dead line. That is what the
life of a computer engineer is, Vijay thinks. But he has never pursued that
thought any further. Where does he get the time for thinking. Algorithms eat up
all his time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita was a teacher in a CBSE
school. She taught Shelley and Shakespeare to adolescent students who had lost the
poetry in their hearts. All her students wanted to become doctors or engineers.
And go to Australia or Canada. Most girls became nurses in the process and
migrated to some country like antinational traitors. Boys migrated soon after
school and became anything from automobile mechanics to babysitters and were
happy counting dollars at weekends and drinking whisky since brandy was not in
fashion there as in Kerala. Kavita continued to carry Keats and Shelly in her
heart and soul though she did not fall on the thorns of life and bleed. As long
as Vijay was there by her side, there was no question of any thorn pricking her
flesh. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But Vijay was not ready to take her
to the crumbling house on the hill. Leave ghosts alone, he said very
unromantically. Even if they sing. Dead lines held him in thrall. There is no
music in deadlines. Why ghosts sing is one of the many mysteries that computer
engineers fail to understand. The truth is that computer engineers have no
music in their souls. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0oLUcb1m5PgVLvLo9n0msH2s1FWWVWuJk9vMejxjc0XGbpQy1VqXDZfJGXTSX0SJGFRXJVuebImGCSK68fH1jE0fnOZkLxgSdBChXsZeW1j96z9pq8lk9S37YvQhi14Qg1ZJzza7DH7dcaWvZzt1UhyphenhyphenIFrJqdEuVW5LuxLxaPBopzDRaT6Ju4twO8sTM/s520/Screenshot%202024-02-11%20123018.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="520" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0oLUcb1m5PgVLvLo9n0msH2s1FWWVWuJk9vMejxjc0XGbpQy1VqXDZfJGXTSX0SJGFRXJVuebImGCSK68fH1jE0fnOZkLxgSdBChXsZeW1j96z9pq8lk9S37YvQhi14Qg1ZJzza7DH7dcaWvZzt1UhyphenhyphenIFrJqdEuVW5LuxLxaPBopzDRaT6Ju4twO8sTM/w640-h252/Screenshot%202024-02-11%20123018.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita had only music in her soul.
She had won many prizes in various music competitions in school and college.
Music is the language of angels, she knew. And now it appeared that music is
also the language of ghosts. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The song came in the dead of the
night from the hilltop again and again as if it was inviting Kavita to make a
visit. That is why she did make the visit. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It was 1.23 am when she looked at her
mobile phone that night too. Many nights had already passed after she heard the
eerie song from the hilltop the first time. The song haunted her night after
night. And then, one night, unable to bear the pain of sweetness any further,
Kavita decided to climb the mountain in the dead of the night. Spirituality is
an inescapable grip if it ever manages to get near you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Vijay was sleeping with a snore that
Kavita didn’t ever really mind. Where there is love, snoring is never a
problem. Let him snore away. Kavita wrapped a shawl around her and walked out
of home with a torch. She was in a kind of trance. But she was sensible enough
to carry a torch. The way to the hill wasn’t easy because there was no way.
Kavita had to make a way through the tall grasses, between the huge trees. The
music from the hilltop was her way, in fact.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hills look majestic and intimidating
from far. When you start climbing them, you’ll realise that they aren’t as
challenging as they look. A lot of things in life are like that. But people
don’t like to try, Kavita knew, having taught a few thousand youngsters. She
climbed the hill easily enough. Climbs are easy especially if there is some
eerie music beckoning you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hello,” Kavita said as she stepped
into the dilapidated house which did not even have a door. The door had
collapsed aeons ago. The walls carried marks of death and decay. The stench of
rot hit Kavita’s nostrils like a boxer’s punches which she hated on the TV
screen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The song had stopped a few moments
before Kavita entered the crumbling house on the hill which had anthills
inside. Who can live in this kind of a place? Kavita wondered. Even a ghost
must have better sense of hygiene if not aesthetics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Ghosts don’t need a place to live,
my dear.” Kavita heard a voice. She flashed her torch all around. “Ghosts don’t
have a body, don’t you know? We are spirits.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Oh, yes, Kavita recalled.
Spirituality has no body. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><a name="_Hlk158546991"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“But
how can I speak to a mere voice?” Kavita asked. She was a teacher and hence
used to speaking to bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></a></p>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _Hlk158546991;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Voila! And there appeared a body. A
beautiful body. A young woman with a heavenly figure. That is, an unearthly
charm. No wonder why spirituality is so charming. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Hi,” said the ghost, “I am Neeli. Welcome
to my world, Kavita.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“You know my name!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Hahaha… Neeli the ghost laughed. The
laughter wasn’t at all ridiculous like the ghost-laughter in Malayalam movies
and TV serials. It was a plain human laughter. Like that of any girl next door.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Aren’t I you?” Neeli ghost asked. “<i>Tatvam
Asi</i>, they called it in the old days when the Brahmins ruled the roost.”
Neeli laughed again. This time the laughter sounded slightly different. Was
there something ghostly about it? Maybe, Kavita was hallucinating. When you’re
standing in front of a ghost in a dilapidated building in the middle of a jungle
on a desolate hill, and that too at about 2 o’clock in the night, reality will
be quite different. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What is reality? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Come on, writer, this is
supposed to be a ghost story, not a metaphysical thesis. So, let’s return to
Kavita teacher and Neeli ghost. </span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Neeli was telling her history to
Kavita. Every ghost has a history, Neeli asserted. Male or female, every ghost
has a past. Neeli’s past belonged to the days of the Channar Revolt in Travancore.
First half of the 19<sup>th</sup> century. The low caste women of Kerala were
not allowed to cover their breasts. The higher caste men made all the rules in
those days. And they were all oglers. Oglers made the rules, the rituals, the
prayers, the gods, the taxes… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Today we don’t call them oglers,
Kavita wanted to say. We call them by sweet names like Pegasus. But Kavita’s
thought was overtaken by Neeli’s narrative. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Neeli was a young girl. A pubescent girl,
the ghost said. “I was quite fair, you know, by the standards of the low caste
people’s fairness in those days. But still they called me Neeli (Bluish)
because we the lower caste people were not allowed to take proper names like
Rama or Sita or Narendra. We had to be called Blackie or Silly or something.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Neeli could sing well. She sang
sitting in her hut which didn’t even have a proper roof. Most low caste people
didn’t even have a hut in those days. They slept under the trees or just
anywhere. Who cared anyway? Who could afford to care? Even the gods were
captives of the Brahmins and the Kshatriyas. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzL4CYhlfY8NnFqZA1jnP5pby344PlpVrUyWw5eo_ln9WvLAceryTIKEHDv8QXqbCZvaqKZ5T0q_yYngyrE7WrFVxFUk956NkfMhdYXG5vGNYvKOdGDGVGv9I26HYKqLB2YD2ErRS459gMe2V_rzZpf68w1Vu3uOsxQ11DRjeaL8lvqsU343W1VJFxK0/s887/Screenshot%202024-02-11%20123704.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="887" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglzL4CYhlfY8NnFqZA1jnP5pby344PlpVrUyWw5eo_ln9WvLAceryTIKEHDv8QXqbCZvaqKZ5T0q_yYngyrE7WrFVxFUk956NkfMhdYXG5vGNYvKOdGDGVGv9I26HYKqLB2YD2ErRS459gMe2V_rzZpf68w1Vu3uOsxQ11DRjeaL8lvqsU343W1VJFxK0/w640-h198/Screenshot%202024-02-11%20123704.png" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Music travels far, Neeli went on.
That’s the problem with music. It is that problem which brought you here too,
you see. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I love music,” Kavita said. “And you
were singing mostly in Hamsadhwani raga. Oh my god! How lovely is that raga!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I know nothing about Hamsa and raga,
Kavita. I am an illiterate untouchable girl who was treasured like a pearl by
her father and brother.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">What about mother? Kavita wanted to
ask. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Mother?” Neeli ghost read Kavita teacher’s
thought. “All women were mere slaves of men in those days. Their likes and
dislikes, thoughts and feelings, even their breasts were properties of the men.
Pegasus has more than wings, Kavita.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I too have a history,” Kavita said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“I know,” the ghost responded
promptly. Neeli sounded as if she wanted to tell a lot of things and there was
no time for all that. “I know, that’s why I charmed you to this place.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita belonged to what they call a
scheduled caste. The label ‘scheduled’ was meant to give some benefits to the
caste members. Those who benefited in the end are the upper caste people. Those
who know how to manipulate the present control the past and the imminent
future. “But the ghosts are spiritual creatures,” reminded Neeli. “We know
better because we see more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Neeli was summoned to this hill
palace by the Brahmin master of the palace which is now ruins. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Send your daughter to the <i>Illam</i>,”
the Namboothiri with a colossal butt ordered. Neeli’s father was the
Namboothiri’s <i>kudiyaan</i>, slave. “I want to listen to her songs.
Hamsadhwani.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">My father didn’t understand what
Hamsa-what-ever is. He had no choice anyway. What choice does a stray dog have?
It was not my song that the ruler of our village wanted. His massive butt
smothered me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">But you were an untouchable, Kavita exclaimed.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Untouchability was confined to the
daytime, my dear teacher. At night, untouchability is invisible. Even today.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">True, Kavia knew it too well. She was
a product of that invisibility. <a name="_Hlk158547382">Her mother was seduced
by an upper caste man who knew how to coin new slogans every time he met Kavita’s
mother. Slogans like <i>Empower Women</i> and so on. He empowered one woman.
Kavita was the product of that empowerment. </a>Vijay married her knowing that
she was what they called a bastard. Vijay is a handicap whom you euphemistically
call ‘physically challenged.’ His father had no sense to give him the Polio
vaccination because his father was an illiterate low caste too who struggled to
make both ends meet. One of his generous teachers helped Vijay to pursue BTech
and he became a computer engineer who will be developing the next version of
Pegasus for some big guy up there who will haunt his perceived antagonists. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Don’t use the word ‘haunt’, Neeli
ghost protested. Haunting is our job. We are not malicious like those big guys.
But… <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And then suddenly Neeli’s demeanour
changed. She seemed to become annoyed. “Butt…” she said. “I hate men even now.
I will shoot them in their butts if I get hold of them. No man dares to come
here…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And then Neeli breathed hard. Like
the ghosts seen in Malayalam movies and TV serials. Kavita wondered whether she
was supposed to feel frightened. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“What happened? Why are you upset? I
can help you. I love to help. I’m a teacher, you know, in a CBSE school.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Neeli ghost cooled down. Teachers
have a way even with ghosts. Teachers do it in class wherever they are. Particularly
CBSE teachers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Then Neeli laughed. “Your Vijay was
here just now.” Neeli pointed to the darkness behind Kavita and said, “there.
But he ran away when said I would kick the butts of men if I get hold of them. Hahaha.
Men are silly creatures, Kavita. But some of them are good too, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita realised that she wasn’t doing
something quite right. Like how does an Indian wife leave her husband’s bed in
the wrong hours of the night and make a rendezvous with a ghost. Vijay has a
right to run away. And question me later. Even burn me alive. But Vijay won’t go
that extent, of course. He loves me more than Neeli ghost can ever understand. Love
circumvents traditions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Kavita said a sweet goodbye to Neeli
who responded with a heavenly smile. Neeli’s Hamsadhwani song rose in the haunted
hill as Kavita descended.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">When Kavita reached home, Vijay had
just woken up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Where were you?” Vijay asked as if
he had just woken up from a bad dream. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">“Washroom,” Kavita said hesitantly. “My
stomach was upset.” It was very clear to her that Vijay hadn’t moved out of bed
at all that night. Like in any other night. He dreads darkness. He thinks
ghosts are real. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .2in;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The Hamsadhwani song in the hills was
still audible. But only Kavita heard it. Spirituality is not meant for
everyone. Even history is not, though many people fiddle with it unnecessarily.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #002060; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">PS. I hardly write
stories nowadays. I don’t know why this story arose in my fancy last night. I
can tell you one thing, however. I have written a few ghost stories and in
every one of them the ghosts are more benign than human beings. You can read
the best of them <b><a href="https://www.theblogchatter.com/download/humpty-dumptys-10-hats-by-tomichan-matheikal">here</a>,</b>
all at my expense. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>Tomichan Matheikalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05037872309096060126noreply@blogger.com12