It was the early sixties. While the western world was swinging to the hippie culture and the effects of it were being felt in India too, two little girls in Kolkata were engaged in the study of Sri Ramakrishna at the Sunday school.
Dressed in their colourful pavadais with two oily plaited hair neatly tied with a red ribbon on their head, the two, both sisters from a Tamil Brahmin family, went to their school hand in hand, to listen to the young and very beautiful Mata ji, deliver her Sunday stories to little kids.
“Today, I will tell you the story of Madhav”.
The little girls sat on the mat on the floor and stared at her waiting.
“ Once upon a time, there was a little boy who had to pass through the deep forest to go to school. He was very scared. So he told his mother, “ Ma, I do not want to go to school. I am very scared to cross the forest.”
But his mother drew him close to her and stroking his hair over his forehead, she said, “ Whenever you are scared, call for your big brother, Madhav and he will come and take you across the forest”
Next day, when the little boy was scared, he called “ Madhav dada, come here. I am scared”. But no one came. He called again, but no one came.
“ Ma, I called today, but no one came. I will not go to school. I am scared to cross the forest…..”
By now our little girls sitting in the first row just at the feet of their teacher, with a slate and chalk, were wonder struck. Their pupils dilated with anticipated awe…
“ You must try today too”, the little boy’s mother said. “ He will come. Close your eyes and call for him, Madhav, come to me”.
The little boy tried again. And yes, a handsome young man with a flute came and held his hand and crossed him through the forest. And since then, every time, the little boy called out, his elder brother, Madhav came and took him across the forest. Madhav, of the little boy, was Lord Krishna Himself.
A lesson learnt in early life, the little girls never forgot. One of those little girls became my partner. Therefore, when, we took this journey to Almora, we passed through the beautiful forests on either side of the road, but the call to Madhav was never forgotten, for today on those paths, there are bigger animals to cope with, the human one, impatient and the road rage is still the same.
“He who has brought us here, will take us to His House. Just call his name.” said my partner.
“ Rama” I said, “Hey Krishna! Oh! Ramakrishna!”
On our recent visit to Sri Ramakrishna Kutir, Almora, the road was fraught with dangers. Rains had poured down for three days at a stretch, causing the temperature to fall by 7-8 degrees and also landslides along the way. Cars and buses zoomed along, despite this, until they came to Naini pool, a small Culvert, where the landslide, stopped the traffic from moving forward to Almora, or back from Almora to Kathgodam. 12 km shy of Almora, serpentile queues waited for their turn to maneuver themselves to the other side.
People got off their cars/buses and strode to the other end of the landslide, and then arranged other vehicles to take them to Almora or onwards. The taxis had not had a better day. They made holes in all our pockets. And humans and other mammals stood and watched the great circus on the road.
Dhabas made hay while the sun played hide and seek. Attached pay-and-pee toilets became cash-cows. Without paying your Rs 3/5 before, no, you were not allowed, no matter under whichpressure you were!
But, it was all worth it. What a peace and what silence to be in after the great struggle, the acts of faith that arose in me knowing He who had brought us here, would take us to His House. Away from the hustle bustle of city life, the chaotic passengers and the unending electronic voice announcements at Kathgodam station, once we reached Almora, the experience was absolutely the opposite – absolute Silence, everywhere!
Ah this! Rama! Hey Krishna! Oh! Ramakrishna!
No Pain; No Gain.
After a tedious journey, arriving at Sri Ramakrishna Kutir at 11.30am was a great relief. View of the Entry To Sri Ramakrishna Kutir, AlmoraThe immediate view that surrounded us, took the exhaustion off in a jiffy. Ah this! The river Kosi winding its way through the hills to meet river Sorata and together moving on…. It reminded me of life itself. So many twists and turns we make to ultimately meet our final destination – the larger sea of Supreme Consciousness.
The spiritual journey begins well before we actually become aware of it. It is that one incident or a series of incidents that finally turn us inward, to the rasa of that which lies within. This movement inward is unending, it is a journey with a clear destination to reach, yet the Path is beyond our control. The hands that guide us and lead us on are ever careful to see that not a step more is taken than is enough for that moment. Therefore, the journey is a long one, where we walk the Path, then rest sometime and take on the journey again.
I have had a date with Silence for a long time. The haunting presence of Silence is only a moment away from me at any point. Yet, many times, my mind becomes the chaos around me, battling to reach that Centre, that spot where all is still. It is like going back in the womb. So it was at Almora.
Sri Ramakrishna Kutir, a rather small ashram at Bright End Corner, came into being on May 22, 1916 under the auspices of Swami Turiyananda, giving fulfillment to the dream long held by Swami Vivekananda’s dream to have an ashram where all of nature comes to the aid of a true meditator, where dhyana, is no more an effort to make but a natural consequence of being in such a place.
“We want to lead mankind to the place where there is neither the Vedas, nor
The Bible, nor the Koran; yet this has to be done by harmonizing the Vedas, the Bible and the Koran
Mankind ought to be taught that religions are but the varied expressions of The Religion, which is One-ness. So that each may choose the path that suits him best - Swami Vivekananda
Swami Turiyananda (1863-1922) was born in Kolkata and his pre-monastic name was Harinath Chattopadhyay. From childhood he lived an austere life. He met Sri Ramakrishna in his early teens. In 1887 he joined the Ramakrishna Ashram, and traveled across India, and abroad to teach Vedanta. In 1899 he went abroad and established the Shanti Ashram in Northern California. In 1902, he returned to India, and on 22 May, 1916 he established the Sri Ramakrishna Kutir in Almora
A brief history shows that on April 8, 1915 after staying in Dehra Dun, Rishkesh, Varanasi and Kankhal in Haridwar, Swami Turiyananda, left for Almora. His health condition was very bad at that time and doctors advised that he move on to a cool place in the Himalayas. Vivekananda had expressed his wish to have a retreat centre in Almora. Here with Swami Sivananda, Turiyananada fulfilled that wish and the Ramakrishna Cottage, later called Sri Ramakrishna Kutir, came into existence. From the present location, it is possible to see the hill where Swami Vivekananda had meditated for three days and nights and also the Kosi river winding its way through the hills.
Unfortunately, Swami Turiyananda’s health got worse and on 5 December 1916, only after seven to eight months he left for Belur Math, off Kolkatta, via Lucknow and Varanasi. On 4 February, 1922 Sw Turyananda left his body.
Although he spent only a short time in Almora, Sri Ramakrishna Kutir at Bright End Corner continues to be a place for natural meditation to happen. Nature comes to ones aid and helps the meditator, to go inwards -antarmukhi as we Indians would say.
Presently, at the Ashram, as we saw it, there are two sannyasins, Sw Chinmayananda at the head and another Swami to assist him, four other brahmacharis, three helper boys and a dog (PIX ) stay there. The Shrine is in the room that Sw Turiyananda had occupied. Sw Turiyananda’s bed and belongings are well preserved in this room. There is another house, called Sivananda Kutir which now has been converted to the guest house for visitors like us. However, it is open to visitors only in April – June and September-November. Visitors come during these months from all over the country both for meditation as well as tie in the sight seeing as well.
Except for a few houses and the new library that is being built, the space is otherwise covered by trees and more trees, the pine with its shining needles and of course the all pervading silence in the air, only occasionally broken by the loud talk and laughter from insensitive visitors. Otherwise, what silence!
But for the above, human noises and the far away sound of a passing vehicle, it is even difficult to keep one’s eyes open, for nature compels us to shut our eyes. There is much to see outside, but only if we can keep our eyes from looking within.
It is said that Swami Vivekananda made three trips to Almora. After the passing away of Sri Ramakrishna, Swamiji, felt the need to travel across the country and the world to preach the words of Thakur and the Vedanta. In 1890, he walked from Nainital to Almora by foot with Sw Akahananda. Both were often ill with fever. He spent time in the Sehapahar (visible from the present lacation of the ashram) for meditation. Then crossed the Kosi river and climbed up to the Almora hill. Three kilometers short of Almora, in a place called Karbala, Swamiji fell on the ground, almost dying of exhaustion. His feet were blistered and he could not move any longer. Swami Akhandananda ran hither and thither, looking for someone, to help. At the far end, he spotted near a graveyard, a Muslim fakir. He pleaded with him to give some food to Swamiji. But The Fakir was hesitant as his religion was different. Swami Vivekananda said “ We are all brothers” The only food available with the fakir was a cucumber, which revived Swamiji. Life returned and they continued on their journey to reach Almora.
Today, where Swamiji fell, there is Vivekanada Rest House. It is an open platform where any one can come and stay and rest. The keys to this are with the grave keepers. Surrounding it is the expanse of a graveyard, with primordial silence. There is a Shrine that has been made over the grave of the fakir close by.
The space provided by Vivekananda Rest House is used as a school in the mornings. About twenty children come from the neibourhood to attend the school holding their plates in hand for the free midday meal.
“ It is very difficult to teach these children”, says their soft spoken teacher, “ there is no follow up. Whatever they learn in these three hours is all that they learn. At home, their parents do not encourage them to study further, they do not pay attention to studies…”
We held her hand and congratulated her on this gigantic work she is doing. We were enthralled by the fact that, here in the middle of a kabarstan in the midst of nature, there runs a school….the mountains surrounding it, the peaks of Trishul, Nanada Devi, Nanada kund, standing tall, all visible from here; a place frequently visited by so many birds, of different colours and voices. It is absorbing, this primordial silence of the dead, interjected by the shrill voices of little children, learning their first “R’s”.
The primodial silence at the kabarsthanIt is not known for how long Swamiji stayed in Almora on his first visit. But during this visit he received the hospitality of Lala Badri Shah, who was a rich moneylender and treasurer from Gujrat who had settled here for over 300 years. Swamiji also visited the ancient Kasar Devi temple about 12 kilometers from Almora and meditated in a cave cose to the temple.
On his return from the cave Swamiji left Almora, and began his world journey to Chicago and rest of the European world, finally landing in Colombo. He re-visited Almora in 1897 and gave his lecture there on the platform right in the middle of the market place. Three thousand people had come to welcome him. Among them was also our fakir who had saved his life, seven years ago. On spotting him in the crowd, Swamiji called him to the stage and introduced him to the people as his lifesaver.
Swamiji returned to Almora again 1898, this time with Sister Nivedita and other western followers. While he had accepted the hospitality of Capt Godwin and his wife, Sister Nevedita and her western companions lived in Lala Badri Shah house. Every morning Swamiji would speak on the Vedanta sitting in the verandah
Present day Deodhar Holiday InnBut the most interesting thing that happened in this house, was, Margaret Elizabeth Noble, was given Swami Vivekananda’s blessings and her new name by which the world knows her better - Sister Nivedita . Right under the deodhar tree, which still stands in the house, a great soul was born again! A soul who had come all the way from England, to make India her home. It is here in the lap of the Himalayas that her destiny met the heights of the spiritual Master, she gave up her entire life for, just to be with him and his teachings, her Guru, Swami Vivekananda.
Fast Facts
When to go All year round
Tourist offices
KMVN Holiday Home, Mall Road, AlmoraTel: 05962-230250KMVN 103, Indraprakash Building21, Barakhamba Road Tel: 011-23712246, 41519366Email: kmvnnewdelhi@yahoo.comWebsite: www kmvn.orgSTD code 05962
Getting There
Air Nearest airport: Pantnagar (125 km/ 4 hrs), linked to Delhi by Jagson Airlines on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. A taxi to Almora costs Rs 1,600, one-way
Rail Nearest railhead: Kathgodam (87 km/ 3.5 hrs. A taxi to Almora costs Rs 1,000-1,200, one-wayRoad From Delhi, follow the route till Kathgodam via NH24 and NH87 Five kilometres ahead of Kathgodam at Ranibagh, turn right (at the sign for the HMT factory) and follow the road to Bhimtal. At Bhimtal, skirt the lake, cross the bridge and at the junction, turn left towards Bhowali. At Bhowali, catch the highway leading north to Khairna from Bhowali Market. At Khairna, take the right fork across the Kosi River to Almora via Sualbari. Buses leave for Almora from Delhi’s ISBT Vivekananda at Anand Vihar every hour between 4.30 and 9 pm
WHERE TO STAY
Ramakrishna Kutir, Almora Ramakrishna Kutir Bright End Corner Almora, Uttaranchal 263 601 Phone: (05962) 25-24417 Fax: Tele (05962) 25-24417 Email mailto:rkutir@gmail.com, rkutir@rediffmail.com
Stay is free with meals though leaving a generous donation is always advisable.
Deodar Holiday Inn, Mall Road, Almora
Contact Tel number 05962-231295 Mobile 09412092531. Room rents here range from Rs 550 to 1,000. Meal are made to order and charged separately.
Others
Kalmatia Sangam’s (Tel: 05962-233625; Tariff: Package Rs 13,800-19,800) tastefully designed cottages at Kalimat Estate offer the best stay in Almora. The resort organises safaris, guides, hiking and trekking, and wellness treatments.
Snow View Resort (Tel: 233650; Tariff: Rs 2,500-3,200) on the Kasar Devi Road has 12 rooms, and a restaurant offering Gujarati, Bengali, Marwari, Mughlai and Continental food. Deodar Resort (Tel: 233025) is located in the middle of a forest in Paparsalle. Special facilities include yoga classes.
Decent mid-range options include Hotel Himsagar (Tel: 230711; Tariff: Rs 600-2,000) near the bus stand; Hotel Shikhar (Tel: 230253; Tariff: Rs 250-1,500) near the State Bank of India ATM on the Mall and Hotel Bhagwati Palace (Tel: 230222; Tariff: Rs 1,200-1,850), near the taxi stand on Thapalia Road.
The best budget options are KMVN’s Gollu Devta TRH (Tel: 230250; Tariff: Rs 450-900) and New TRH Danya (Tariff: Rs 200-300) on the Main Road.
WHERE TO EAT
Most hotels offer standard fare. Shikhar Restaurant (Tel: 230395) has a decent chicken curry and rice. There are a number of small dhabas on the Mall, where you can expect to find the usual chowmein, aloo tikki,puri-bhaji and the like. And, yes, there is the ubiquitous Madras Café, located just off the Mall for South Indian tiffin. Don’t miss a taste of khoya singhori and Kumaon’s speciality bal mithai at Almora’s many halwais.
Shopping
The old bazaar and the new The Mall. You’ll also find a lot of Almora’s famous copperware along the way — from little diyas and bangles to pots and pans to carved images of the gods. Gold and silversmiths jostle for attention with woollen garment sellers. Also Khadi Village Industries outlet. There were shawls in lovely pastels, kurtas, dress material, woollen jackets in Mughal blues and lots more.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Amma Vanthal (Tamil)
T Janakiraman’s Amma Vanthal, first published in 1966, is a story of the clashes of the old and new, the ancient and the modern. Set in a Brahmanical family situation, Thi Jaa, in this novel explores the juxtaposition of the above theme, in a manner that makes it a must read novel. For those with a spiritual inclination, an absolute must.
Appu, a Brahmin youth, blossoms as a Vedic scholar, studying and training in Cittankulam, an idealic village on the banks of river Cauveri. After sixteen years of training, he is about to join his parents in Chennai. He is wary of returning. Bhavani Ammal who runs the school has become a symbol of maternal affection to him and her niece, Indu, has proclaimed love for him, and wishes he stays on. But Appu, is anxious to be with his mother and also cannot conceive of amorous love for Indu, whom he sees as his sister. As a last resort to win him over, Indu, discloses to Appu that his mother is having an illicit relationship. Appu is shocked to hear this and annoyed that Indu, should even try to blemish the pure image he has in his mind of his mother. But alas, the fact stated is true. On his return to Chennai, he is shaken to find that his mother is in fact having an illicit relationship with a rich land owner called Sivasu and all under the very nose of his father and rest of the family. The stoic silence on this matter, in the family is disturbing to him. Even his father admits to the fact that he has known from the very beginning that his wife is in this relationship. His mother too confesses that she sent him for Vedic studies, for the atonement of her sins. Appu returns to the padasallai. Indu has won. Bhavani Ammal bequeaths the padasallai to Appu and Indu, with a promise to carry the tradition of Vedic teaching forward. And what must be the Guru dakshina? Only the promise to carry the tradition forward - The holy words must reach only ten more boys.
The strongest characters in the novel are, of course women. Three women - Bhavani Ammal, Indu and Appu’s mother, Alankaram.
The last is what I will deal with first.
Appu’s mother, Alankaram, who has been involved in the sexual act for years with Sivasu, can be still looked at with a little tolerance. After all, she does not run away with him. Nor does she break the family. She continues to remain in the family although she entertains another man of her fancy. She is aware that her children do not like it, but are silent. But she continues. She has given herself permission to explore her own reality, even in a Brahminical set up. Ordinarily, she would have just been of use to the family, by way of kitchen-management, child bearing and rearing and finally of course, pati palan posan. She has chosen to explore her sexuality with another man, although she is in wedlock and has starved her own husband of sexual and sensual pleasures for more than twenty years. He could have demanded for it. He did not and she gave not.
But, she is human. She feels guilty for her actions and she wishes to make atonement. “These three – Gopu, Vembu and Kaveri – all three of them dislike me. The snake that entwines itself around my legs keeps coming back to trouble me. Whenever it comes, the last two die of torment. They hide themselves, go into the room on the other side and obliterate what they have seen in the dark. Manni does not come out of the kitchen. Maybe she prays that she herself should be cooked to extinction like the rice, who knows?....What can I do, da?”
Finally when she knows that Appu is not going to return to Chennai, she chooses to go away to Kasi, to wash her sins. But, we must never forget, she has had her place under her own sun. And she may say that it is Sivasu who came and tormented her “twining his legs around her”, the fact remains, she has allowed it. So, she accepts agency, without saying it in words, and that makes her strong.
Indu –Widow who does not think she is one. In fact, according to her she has never been married at all.
"I don't think that way. When I was an innocent young thing, Attai sent me off with no thoughts about my inclinations; I let them tie the thali round my neck and went and stayed there. Then he died, and everyone said I'll have to always live there…..I kept my mouth shut and showed how obstinate I could be. Who can really tie you down anyway? When I could not stand it a minute longer, I finally came back. Not for Atthai. People thought I came back because I couldn't bear to be constantly remined of the memories of those two years, but that wasn't it either. I came here so that I could keep seeing you."
Isssh! Such purity of love! It fulfills itself, just by seeing the object of love. Yes, this is Indu, Bhavani Ammal’s niece who loves Appu and declares her love to him before he leaves for Chennai. She is not coy. In fact, she is that bold woman you long for – the woman, who living in a Vedic padasalai, under her attai, and looking after the boys, is still, passionate about her emotional needs, and demanding from the other. A beautiful setup had been created by Thi Jaa, when, Indu is about to reveal her love to Appu. Like a wild panther, chasing her morsel of love, a woman about to captivate her prey, encircling it, never letting it go from her eyes, following it, with words, actions, cornering it, at once touching it, caressing it and then, letting it go….the game of love, so boldly played, until, the words leave her lips and strike the cords of his heart, “I came here so that I could keep seeing you."
No, Indu by no means is married to anyone else. She cannot be.
"It's only if you are married that you can be widowed, isen't it? I am not even married yet. They all got together, brought someone along and asked him to take my hand. They asked him to tie a yellow thread around my neck. ….This body of mine went a few years later and stayed there for three years. Can I become a wife just because someone rules over my body? I never was married; only my body was. "
Isssh! What a woman! One longs for such a one. But, she is of Appu’s soul, her body belongs to him.
But, Appu is afraid. Even finds it an act of blasphemy to think that having studied the Vedas, one can make love to a woman. He thinks of her with brotherly love. Yet, when he returns from Chennai after the disheartening encounter with the reality of his mother’s life, he is unable to keep himself from the enchantment of a woman, who is this material world and the body of desire….
In its own special way, the Vedas come to mind….
The goddess of night has come
She casts her eyes around
She has adorned herself with every ornament
She has filled up the breath and infinity of the sky, the chasms and the elevations
She has banished the dark with her light. She has taken over from Ushai, the Goddess of dawn, the task of guaring us. The darkness flees, afraid. …..
Ah! The embrace of this goddess, this goddess of night….. This Indu. Aaah!
But tarry, readers all, the best is yet to come. For she could have been a mottai, dressed in cloth worn too often, she could have been that cursed woman, who took away her husband’s life too soon, bore him no child, a barren woman, a curse….She could have been your orthodox Brahmin widow, without a ray of light. But no, as a widow she is in fact free from the shackles of a married woman living in an orthodox Brahmin family. She becomes the beacon that lights the lives of young boys by bringing the holy words to their tongues. This woman, who did not succumb to orthodox Brahminical rules of widowhood, showed the way to becoming the Master of her own destiny. It is she who opened the padasallai for teaching the Vedas.
She is that holy beacon, who lights up young lives through Vedic studies. She is Bhavani Ammal.
“ Bhavani Ammal’s fortune had not at such a low ebb to start with. She had been married into a prosperous household. However, at the age of thirty, she was stricken down like a barren tree. Life became unbearablely lonely and empty, and the very next month after her husband’s death, she wrote off thirty two kaani of land and ventured to start this padasalai. She kept the house and five kaani for herself, bought the neighbouring house and converted it into a school. She asked her younger brother, Rajaratnam, a clerk in Madurai Court, to assist her. He gave up his job and brought him over to stay with her and manage the school and its property….”
It is she who is that light you call – Amma Vanthal. She is that Mother, she is the Vedas. She is the one who embodies these words - "Your mother longs to see you. She sends her heartfelt blessings".
She is the Mother who gives Appu and the rest of the boys at the padasallai that all important second birth -their spiritual birth, without which they would be only breathing creatures. She is the Mother who longs to give a spiritual birth to all a second time. She will come, again and again. Always.
That is why Amma Vanthal means Amma came.
The End
T. Janakiraman (1921-1982) one of the most popular Tamil writers of the 20th century was born in the village of Devangudi in Thanjavur district. Thi Jaa, as he was fondly known, was a leading light of the "Manikodi" school of writers in Tamil, the author of acclaimed novels such as Mohamul, Chembaruthi, Uyirthen, and Marappasu, short stories, travelogues and plays. His lyrical prose, arresting characters and unusual themes enthralled his audience. His writings portrayed the intricacies of the workings of the human mind. The smell of the soil, the taste of its food, the music of the dialect and its peculiar cultural elitism – all are attractively displayed in his writings. His published works include eight novels, two novelettes, six collections of short stories, three full-length plays and three travelogues.
Malati Mathur translates from Hindi and Tamil to English and has been the receipient of the Katha-British Council Award for Translation. She has a doctoral degree in Autrian literature and is presently a senior lecturer of English in the Government Arts College, Alwar.
Publishers of the English Version:
KATHA, A3 Sarvodaya Enclave, Sri Aurobindo Marg, New Delhi 110 017
Tel: 91-11-26524350, 26524511
Email: kathavilasam@katha.org
Website: http://www.katha.org/
Name of Book: Amma Beckons
Author: T Janakiraman
ISBN 81-87649-31-3
Pages 156
Price: INR 200
Tamil Version available at:
Name of The Book: Amma VanthalAinthinai Pathippagam, 279, Pycrofts RoadTriplicane, Chennai – 600 005Tel 91-44-28549410
Price: INR 80
Appu, a Brahmin youth, blossoms as a Vedic scholar, studying and training in Cittankulam, an idealic village on the banks of river Cauveri. After sixteen years of training, he is about to join his parents in Chennai. He is wary of returning. Bhavani Ammal who runs the school has become a symbol of maternal affection to him and her niece, Indu, has proclaimed love for him, and wishes he stays on. But Appu, is anxious to be with his mother and also cannot conceive of amorous love for Indu, whom he sees as his sister. As a last resort to win him over, Indu, discloses to Appu that his mother is having an illicit relationship. Appu is shocked to hear this and annoyed that Indu, should even try to blemish the pure image he has in his mind of his mother. But alas, the fact stated is true. On his return to Chennai, he is shaken to find that his mother is in fact having an illicit relationship with a rich land owner called Sivasu and all under the very nose of his father and rest of the family. The stoic silence on this matter, in the family is disturbing to him. Even his father admits to the fact that he has known from the very beginning that his wife is in this relationship. His mother too confesses that she sent him for Vedic studies, for the atonement of her sins. Appu returns to the padasallai. Indu has won. Bhavani Ammal bequeaths the padasallai to Appu and Indu, with a promise to carry the tradition of Vedic teaching forward. And what must be the Guru dakshina? Only the promise to carry the tradition forward - The holy words must reach only ten more boys.
The strongest characters in the novel are, of course women. Three women - Bhavani Ammal, Indu and Appu’s mother, Alankaram.
The last is what I will deal with first.
Appu’s mother, Alankaram, who has been involved in the sexual act for years with Sivasu, can be still looked at with a little tolerance. After all, she does not run away with him. Nor does she break the family. She continues to remain in the family although she entertains another man of her fancy. She is aware that her children do not like it, but are silent. But she continues. She has given herself permission to explore her own reality, even in a Brahminical set up. Ordinarily, she would have just been of use to the family, by way of kitchen-management, child bearing and rearing and finally of course, pati palan posan. She has chosen to explore her sexuality with another man, although she is in wedlock and has starved her own husband of sexual and sensual pleasures for more than twenty years. He could have demanded for it. He did not and she gave not.
But, she is human. She feels guilty for her actions and she wishes to make atonement. “These three – Gopu, Vembu and Kaveri – all three of them dislike me. The snake that entwines itself around my legs keeps coming back to trouble me. Whenever it comes, the last two die of torment. They hide themselves, go into the room on the other side and obliterate what they have seen in the dark. Manni does not come out of the kitchen. Maybe she prays that she herself should be cooked to extinction like the rice, who knows?....What can I do, da?”
Finally when she knows that Appu is not going to return to Chennai, she chooses to go away to Kasi, to wash her sins. But, we must never forget, she has had her place under her own sun. And she may say that it is Sivasu who came and tormented her “twining his legs around her”, the fact remains, she has allowed it. So, she accepts agency, without saying it in words, and that makes her strong.
Indu –Widow who does not think she is one. In fact, according to her she has never been married at all.
"I don't think that way. When I was an innocent young thing, Attai sent me off with no thoughts about my inclinations; I let them tie the thali round my neck and went and stayed there. Then he died, and everyone said I'll have to always live there…..I kept my mouth shut and showed how obstinate I could be. Who can really tie you down anyway? When I could not stand it a minute longer, I finally came back. Not for Atthai. People thought I came back because I couldn't bear to be constantly remined of the memories of those two years, but that wasn't it either. I came here so that I could keep seeing you."
Isssh! Such purity of love! It fulfills itself, just by seeing the object of love. Yes, this is Indu, Bhavani Ammal’s niece who loves Appu and declares her love to him before he leaves for Chennai. She is not coy. In fact, she is that bold woman you long for – the woman, who living in a Vedic padasalai, under her attai, and looking after the boys, is still, passionate about her emotional needs, and demanding from the other. A beautiful setup had been created by Thi Jaa, when, Indu is about to reveal her love to Appu. Like a wild panther, chasing her morsel of love, a woman about to captivate her prey, encircling it, never letting it go from her eyes, following it, with words, actions, cornering it, at once touching it, caressing it and then, letting it go….the game of love, so boldly played, until, the words leave her lips and strike the cords of his heart, “I came here so that I could keep seeing you."
No, Indu by no means is married to anyone else. She cannot be.
"It's only if you are married that you can be widowed, isen't it? I am not even married yet. They all got together, brought someone along and asked him to take my hand. They asked him to tie a yellow thread around my neck. ….This body of mine went a few years later and stayed there for three years. Can I become a wife just because someone rules over my body? I never was married; only my body was. "
Isssh! What a woman! One longs for such a one. But, she is of Appu’s soul, her body belongs to him.
But, Appu is afraid. Even finds it an act of blasphemy to think that having studied the Vedas, one can make love to a woman. He thinks of her with brotherly love. Yet, when he returns from Chennai after the disheartening encounter with the reality of his mother’s life, he is unable to keep himself from the enchantment of a woman, who is this material world and the body of desire….
In its own special way, the Vedas come to mind….
The goddess of night has come
She casts her eyes around
She has adorned herself with every ornament
She has filled up the breath and infinity of the sky, the chasms and the elevations
She has banished the dark with her light. She has taken over from Ushai, the Goddess of dawn, the task of guaring us. The darkness flees, afraid. …..
Ah! The embrace of this goddess, this goddess of night….. This Indu. Aaah!
But tarry, readers all, the best is yet to come. For she could have been a mottai, dressed in cloth worn too often, she could have been that cursed woman, who took away her husband’s life too soon, bore him no child, a barren woman, a curse….She could have been your orthodox Brahmin widow, without a ray of light. But no, as a widow she is in fact free from the shackles of a married woman living in an orthodox Brahmin family. She becomes the beacon that lights the lives of young boys by bringing the holy words to their tongues. This woman, who did not succumb to orthodox Brahminical rules of widowhood, showed the way to becoming the Master of her own destiny. It is she who opened the padasallai for teaching the Vedas.
She is that holy beacon, who lights up young lives through Vedic studies. She is Bhavani Ammal.
“ Bhavani Ammal’s fortune had not at such a low ebb to start with. She had been married into a prosperous household. However, at the age of thirty, she was stricken down like a barren tree. Life became unbearablely lonely and empty, and the very next month after her husband’s death, she wrote off thirty two kaani of land and ventured to start this padasalai. She kept the house and five kaani for herself, bought the neighbouring house and converted it into a school. She asked her younger brother, Rajaratnam, a clerk in Madurai Court, to assist her. He gave up his job and brought him over to stay with her and manage the school and its property….”
It is she who is that light you call – Amma Vanthal. She is that Mother, she is the Vedas. She is the one who embodies these words - "Your mother longs to see you. She sends her heartfelt blessings".
She is the Mother who gives Appu and the rest of the boys at the padasallai that all important second birth -their spiritual birth, without which they would be only breathing creatures. She is the Mother who longs to give a spiritual birth to all a second time. She will come, again and again. Always.
That is why Amma Vanthal means Amma came.
The End
T. Janakiraman (1921-1982) one of the most popular Tamil writers of the 20th century was born in the village of Devangudi in Thanjavur district. Thi Jaa, as he was fondly known, was a leading light of the "Manikodi" school of writers in Tamil, the author of acclaimed novels such as Mohamul, Chembaruthi, Uyirthen, and Marappasu, short stories, travelogues and plays. His lyrical prose, arresting characters and unusual themes enthralled his audience. His writings portrayed the intricacies of the workings of the human mind. The smell of the soil, the taste of its food, the music of the dialect and its peculiar cultural elitism – all are attractively displayed in his writings. His published works include eight novels, two novelettes, six collections of short stories, three full-length plays and three travelogues.
Malati Mathur translates from Hindi and Tamil to English and has been the receipient of the Katha-British Council Award for Translation. She has a doctoral degree in Autrian literature and is presently a senior lecturer of English in the Government Arts College, Alwar.
Publishers of the English Version:
KATHA, A3 Sarvodaya Enclave, Sri Aurobindo Marg, New Delhi 110 017
Tel: 91-11-26524350, 26524511
Email: kathavilasam@katha.org
Website: http://www.katha.org/
Name of Book: Amma Beckons
Author: T Janakiraman
ISBN 81-87649-31-3
Pages 156
Price: INR 200
Tamil Version available at:
Name of The Book: Amma VanthalAinthinai Pathippagam, 279, Pycrofts RoadTriplicane, Chennai – 600 005Tel 91-44-28549410
Price: INR 80
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
T Janakiraman - Mohamul (Tamil)
“Whatever sins you have committed elsewhere, gets purified if you go to Banaras and whatever sins you have committed in Banaras, gets purified, if you go to Kumbakonam”.
T Janakiraman is passionate about the Cauvery river passing by Kumbakonam. He is also passionate about creating characters in his books who challenge the norms laid down by society. He passionately creates women who are bold, perhaps too bold for their times. Thus, some characters in his stories remain with you forever, whether you identify with them or you are torn by your anxiety to see them in a different light.
In the highly acclaimed romance between Babu and Yamuna, in his immortal book “Mohamul”, you will encounter two characters who are enmeshed in a “romance, with a difference.
Yamuna, many years older than the protagonist Babu, is much beyond her marital years. She has known Babu from his childhood days. The book is set at a time when Babu is a grown up man and has come to Kumbakonam to study, where Yamuna too lives with her mother. Proposals coming her way have all failed because she is the child of the second wife of a wealthy landlord in Tanjavur. Yamuna’s mother, who is of Maharashtrian origin, is anxious to see her daughter married. But alas! No willing suitors for Ms Yamuna.
In the meantime, Babu, the central character in the book finds himself infatuated with Yamuna and although, he is much younger than her, wishes to marry her. Yamuna at this point, neither loves Babu erotically or romantically. She refuses his proposal, until she meets him in Chennai, many years later, where she has come to stay having had differences with her mother. Knowing that Babu too lives in Chennai, after three months of struggle there, she goes to meet him at his office. Babu finds her a hostel to live in and helps her sustain herself in Chennai. On weekends, Yamuna begins to visit him at his house. Here, she gives in to Babu’s erotic advances, although she denies that she has any such feelings for him. In fact, she is indebted to him and feels she must fulfill his desires, even though, she herself in her words feels no such erotic love towards him.
This, indeed is the peculiar double standard, which makes me rebellious. How can such women exist? My anger surges towards Babu as well, who has let go of an opportunity. While he was still in Kumbakonam, the woman next door, who was married to an old man, became hungry for Babu. In the dead of night, she made a bold entry into his room and press her body against his. Burning with erotic excitement she pleaded for his amorous attention. Babu failed to rise to the occasion causing her to commit suicide the very next day. Was he not a fool to refuse such erotic advances, with the promise of long nights of sexual dance, for a reluctant Yamuna, who neither gave him the romantic response, nor the juices of a wild erotic exchange of sexual bondage?
But!
Is this not what psychologists have been saying all along? You will always desire what you cannot get. The mind thrives more in absence, than in presence, because it is given to its own devices. And the whole analysis of the book rests on this one truth, proven again and again, in life and in books - as long as the object of desire is not our own, we will continue to chase it. The day it is ours, the process of weaning begins. And one day, it is all over! We climb the ladder of fulfillment, as we struggle against the battle of unfulfilled aspirations within us. We must; We will! Let us see how.
As the story goes, Babu, who has come to Kumbakonam to study, finds himself in Yamuna’s house where she stays with her mother. The next day a man, twice a widower, a Postmaster by profession, is to come to visit Yamuna for marriage. Babu picks him up from the station. It seems that the engagement is on, but Babu spoils it by telling the would-be groom that Yamuna is the child of the second wife of the wealthy landlord in Tanjavur. The marriage is off! Even a twice married man will not wed the daughter of the second wife. Was it not Babu’s responsibility not to tell the truth and spoil the alliance? But he had to! For, he had already created the moha, the illusion for her. He knew subconsciously that she was going to be the mul, the thorn which will push him further and further in his quest for his first love, music. How else do we explain that even on the night before the groom had come, Babu lay on a hot and restless bed, his mind full of Yamuna, so much so that as soon as day break came, he rushed to Cauvery River to drench himself in her waters, in order to cool his body and his mind. Then, he went to the temple and there instead of seeing the Goddess, he saw Yamuna as the Goddess, continuously? He had fallen in love. Or rather, shall we say, he had psyched himself to fall in love with Yamuna. She did not even know of his feelings. Nor, did she have any such feelings for him. It was all his illusion, self created and therefore, called Moha .
Why did, Babu create this for himself? Was it because he was overcome by sorrow for the girl, well past her marriageable age, yet unable to find a match? Or was it because, he was away from home and his mother and needed a mother-figure in his life? Or was it the author, Thi Jaa’s exercise to show the reader that love, is only an illusion? lf created and fueled by the self alone. It is in fact, an activity, arising in ones own mind and may be reciprocated. But if it is not, then, the one who has created the illusion is damned forever! They will never go beyond that love, although, this love has nothing to give in return.
But tarry! The subconscious is not a fool. It is pitched to achieve something much greater. And that can only happen from unrequited love.
Again and again, the book reminds us of the great psychology of unmet aspirations and desires. It is what takes us up the ladder to Higher Ends.
The deepest need we have as human beings is to fulfill ourselves. The angst for self- actualization is deepened by failures to meet our desired goals. Therefore, dear reader, we must guard ourselves from unfulfilled desires. Unless of course, we wish them to become the fuel for our self actualization, whether as poet or musician, or whatever we see ourselves as? Hence, in the same light, will not Babu’s self created illusion of love for Yamuna, which is constantly met with rejection, not make him seek respite in his first passion, his music? Will not his failed love, drive him to find his mate in music? Then, why pretend? After all, Babu’s love is not to have Yamuna; it thrives on her rejection of him, as a lover or a husband. In fact, if it found acceptance, he would perhaps reject it himself. He needs fuel for his real love – music. Yamuna is his muse. In his subconscious, even before he is given to his moha for her, he already knows she is going to reject him. In fact that is what he wants. And that is what he gets!
What a master strategist our subconscious is! What games it plays! Not even the player knows what is going on behind his mind.
To my understanding, T Janakiraman, is one of the finest writers because he has such a deep understanding of the human mind. He is also a writer who brings out very bold women in his writings, women, who are outrageously open about breaking societal norms. Sometimes they stand out in the open and break the rules and sometimes they do so behind the purdah. But they do it. His women are bold, demanding and daring.
Yet, Yamuna falls dreadfully short of any of the above. She is that normal girl, who is sweet and kind and follows the norms laid out by society. She of course cannot marry a man younger than her by many years. Yet, when she is alone with him in Chennai, she gives in to his erotic desires! Does she really do this because she feels indebted to Babu for being of help to her always or does she do it, in order to explore regions within herself, in a safe, foreign place, like Chennai. It is not after all, Kumbakonam or Tanjavur. Although she professes to give in to his desire as a pay off for his help, I believe that Thi Jaa has another message of the mind to deliver here - In the safety of non-identity, it is possible to explore any hidden side of ourselves, those, terrible hounds which eat at our souls but we are unable to release them, because we are tied by societal norms and chains. But, given a place where we cannot be recognized, we may and will in fact, let lose the wild passions, without a care. Only of course, we must keep the façade on. We cannot admit, we wanted it that way, can we?
Therefore, again my angst to see a forthright woman makes me rebellious. How can such women exist? With double standards? But alas, they do exist and indeed, they are real and you can see them around the corner everyday. In fact, here is a little more disappointment for all of us – In the last chapter, Yamuna finally tells Babu, she is ready to marry him as well! But not until, he is leaving Chennai for Pune to follow his passion, music. She of course will not go with him. In fact now, the tables have changed – In Kumbakonam, when she refused marriage to Babu, he promised to wait for her; now it seems that although Babu will be gone for many years to pursue his passion, music, she is willing to wait for him! What a complex bag of emotions to handle, indeed.
However, we can’t wait. Let us bid good bye to the two protagonists and repeat for them –
“Whatever sins you have committed elsewhere, gets purified if you go to Banaras…..”.
On second thought, let us not be judgmental so soon. After all, it was only human. Babu’s need to meet self actualization through music, and for Yamuna to give in to her desires, if not publicly, then in the safe enclosures of her mind, in the safety of another geographical territory not her hometown. And also to keep the façade or make belief on, that she is doing it to satisfy his desire.
The genius of Thi Jaa only shines through as you come to the end of the book. You have laid the book down but find the characters do not leave your mind. They hound you like they were your own ghosts. For indeed they are! And there are no prizes for guessing who these two main characters are.
Through the pen of a master Psychologist at work, we discover, both Babu and Yamuna are our own realities. As humans we must realize our highest potential, be it music, dance or poetry, and to do that many times we take recourse in turning the possible into an impossible in order that we may achieve our dream, the impossible dream. And as humans we do have our desires, even if we must expose them only in hiding, only privately to our own selves, even veil them with detachment. The Babu and the Yamuna are both our realities which Thi Jaa has so beautifully brought out in his book Mohamul. The complex mind of human desires. The eternal dance of the opposites. Such a fine text, with a rainbow of emotions, it has to be Tamil Literature’s most valuable writing on Psychology of the human mind.
Mohamul is a veritable classic. Don’t turn your face away from yourself.
T Janakiraman is passionate about the Cauvery river passing by Kumbakonam. He is also passionate about creating characters in his books who challenge the norms laid down by society. He passionately creates women who are bold, perhaps too bold for their times. Thus, some characters in his stories remain with you forever, whether you identify with them or you are torn by your anxiety to see them in a different light.
In the highly acclaimed romance between Babu and Yamuna, in his immortal book “Mohamul”, you will encounter two characters who are enmeshed in a “romance, with a difference.
Yamuna, many years older than the protagonist Babu, is much beyond her marital years. She has known Babu from his childhood days. The book is set at a time when Babu is a grown up man and has come to Kumbakonam to study, where Yamuna too lives with her mother. Proposals coming her way have all failed because she is the child of the second wife of a wealthy landlord in Tanjavur. Yamuna’s mother, who is of Maharashtrian origin, is anxious to see her daughter married. But alas! No willing suitors for Ms Yamuna.
In the meantime, Babu, the central character in the book finds himself infatuated with Yamuna and although, he is much younger than her, wishes to marry her. Yamuna at this point, neither loves Babu erotically or romantically. She refuses his proposal, until she meets him in Chennai, many years later, where she has come to stay having had differences with her mother. Knowing that Babu too lives in Chennai, after three months of struggle there, she goes to meet him at his office. Babu finds her a hostel to live in and helps her sustain herself in Chennai. On weekends, Yamuna begins to visit him at his house. Here, she gives in to Babu’s erotic advances, although she denies that she has any such feelings for him. In fact, she is indebted to him and feels she must fulfill his desires, even though, she herself in her words feels no such erotic love towards him.
This, indeed is the peculiar double standard, which makes me rebellious. How can such women exist? My anger surges towards Babu as well, who has let go of an opportunity. While he was still in Kumbakonam, the woman next door, who was married to an old man, became hungry for Babu. In the dead of night, she made a bold entry into his room and press her body against his. Burning with erotic excitement she pleaded for his amorous attention. Babu failed to rise to the occasion causing her to commit suicide the very next day. Was he not a fool to refuse such erotic advances, with the promise of long nights of sexual dance, for a reluctant Yamuna, who neither gave him the romantic response, nor the juices of a wild erotic exchange of sexual bondage?
But!
Is this not what psychologists have been saying all along? You will always desire what you cannot get. The mind thrives more in absence, than in presence, because it is given to its own devices. And the whole analysis of the book rests on this one truth, proven again and again, in life and in books - as long as the object of desire is not our own, we will continue to chase it. The day it is ours, the process of weaning begins. And one day, it is all over! We climb the ladder of fulfillment, as we struggle against the battle of unfulfilled aspirations within us. We must; We will! Let us see how.
As the story goes, Babu, who has come to Kumbakonam to study, finds himself in Yamuna’s house where she stays with her mother. The next day a man, twice a widower, a Postmaster by profession, is to come to visit Yamuna for marriage. Babu picks him up from the station. It seems that the engagement is on, but Babu spoils it by telling the would-be groom that Yamuna is the child of the second wife of the wealthy landlord in Tanjavur. The marriage is off! Even a twice married man will not wed the daughter of the second wife. Was it not Babu’s responsibility not to tell the truth and spoil the alliance? But he had to! For, he had already created the moha, the illusion for her. He knew subconsciously that she was going to be the mul, the thorn which will push him further and further in his quest for his first love, music. How else do we explain that even on the night before the groom had come, Babu lay on a hot and restless bed, his mind full of Yamuna, so much so that as soon as day break came, he rushed to Cauvery River to drench himself in her waters, in order to cool his body and his mind. Then, he went to the temple and there instead of seeing the Goddess, he saw Yamuna as the Goddess, continuously? He had fallen in love. Or rather, shall we say, he had psyched himself to fall in love with Yamuna. She did not even know of his feelings. Nor, did she have any such feelings for him. It was all his illusion, self created and therefore, called Moha .
Why did, Babu create this for himself? Was it because he was overcome by sorrow for the girl, well past her marriageable age, yet unable to find a match? Or was it because, he was away from home and his mother and needed a mother-figure in his life? Or was it the author, Thi Jaa’s exercise to show the reader that love, is only an illusion? lf created and fueled by the self alone. It is in fact, an activity, arising in ones own mind and may be reciprocated. But if it is not, then, the one who has created the illusion is damned forever! They will never go beyond that love, although, this love has nothing to give in return.
But tarry! The subconscious is not a fool. It is pitched to achieve something much greater. And that can only happen from unrequited love.
Again and again, the book reminds us of the great psychology of unmet aspirations and desires. It is what takes us up the ladder to Higher Ends.
The deepest need we have as human beings is to fulfill ourselves. The angst for self- actualization is deepened by failures to meet our desired goals. Therefore, dear reader, we must guard ourselves from unfulfilled desires. Unless of course, we wish them to become the fuel for our self actualization, whether as poet or musician, or whatever we see ourselves as? Hence, in the same light, will not Babu’s self created illusion of love for Yamuna, which is constantly met with rejection, not make him seek respite in his first passion, his music? Will not his failed love, drive him to find his mate in music? Then, why pretend? After all, Babu’s love is not to have Yamuna; it thrives on her rejection of him, as a lover or a husband. In fact, if it found acceptance, he would perhaps reject it himself. He needs fuel for his real love – music. Yamuna is his muse. In his subconscious, even before he is given to his moha for her, he already knows she is going to reject him. In fact that is what he wants. And that is what he gets!
What a master strategist our subconscious is! What games it plays! Not even the player knows what is going on behind his mind.
To my understanding, T Janakiraman, is one of the finest writers because he has such a deep understanding of the human mind. He is also a writer who brings out very bold women in his writings, women, who are outrageously open about breaking societal norms. Sometimes they stand out in the open and break the rules and sometimes they do so behind the purdah. But they do it. His women are bold, demanding and daring.
Yet, Yamuna falls dreadfully short of any of the above. She is that normal girl, who is sweet and kind and follows the norms laid out by society. She of course cannot marry a man younger than her by many years. Yet, when she is alone with him in Chennai, she gives in to his erotic desires! Does she really do this because she feels indebted to Babu for being of help to her always or does she do it, in order to explore regions within herself, in a safe, foreign place, like Chennai. It is not after all, Kumbakonam or Tanjavur. Although she professes to give in to his desire as a pay off for his help, I believe that Thi Jaa has another message of the mind to deliver here - In the safety of non-identity, it is possible to explore any hidden side of ourselves, those, terrible hounds which eat at our souls but we are unable to release them, because we are tied by societal norms and chains. But, given a place where we cannot be recognized, we may and will in fact, let lose the wild passions, without a care. Only of course, we must keep the façade on. We cannot admit, we wanted it that way, can we?
Therefore, again my angst to see a forthright woman makes me rebellious. How can such women exist? With double standards? But alas, they do exist and indeed, they are real and you can see them around the corner everyday. In fact, here is a little more disappointment for all of us – In the last chapter, Yamuna finally tells Babu, she is ready to marry him as well! But not until, he is leaving Chennai for Pune to follow his passion, music. She of course will not go with him. In fact now, the tables have changed – In Kumbakonam, when she refused marriage to Babu, he promised to wait for her; now it seems that although Babu will be gone for many years to pursue his passion, music, she is willing to wait for him! What a complex bag of emotions to handle, indeed.
However, we can’t wait. Let us bid good bye to the two protagonists and repeat for them –
“Whatever sins you have committed elsewhere, gets purified if you go to Banaras…..”.
On second thought, let us not be judgmental so soon. After all, it was only human. Babu’s need to meet self actualization through music, and for Yamuna to give in to her desires, if not publicly, then in the safe enclosures of her mind, in the safety of another geographical territory not her hometown. And also to keep the façade or make belief on, that she is doing it to satisfy his desire.
The genius of Thi Jaa only shines through as you come to the end of the book. You have laid the book down but find the characters do not leave your mind. They hound you like they were your own ghosts. For indeed they are! And there are no prizes for guessing who these two main characters are.
Through the pen of a master Psychologist at work, we discover, both Babu and Yamuna are our own realities. As humans we must realize our highest potential, be it music, dance or poetry, and to do that many times we take recourse in turning the possible into an impossible in order that we may achieve our dream, the impossible dream. And as humans we do have our desires, even if we must expose them only in hiding, only privately to our own selves, even veil them with detachment. The Babu and the Yamuna are both our realities which Thi Jaa has so beautifully brought out in his book Mohamul. The complex mind of human desires. The eternal dance of the opposites. Such a fine text, with a rainbow of emotions, it has to be Tamil Literature’s most valuable writing on Psychology of the human mind.
Mohamul is a veritable classic. Don’t turn your face away from yourself.
The End
T. Janakiraman (1921-1982) one of the most popular Tamil writers of the 20th century was born in the village of Devangudi in Thanjavur district. Thi Jaa, as he was fondly known, was a leading light of the "Manikodi" school of writers in Tamil, the author of acclaimed novels such as Mohamul, Chembaruthi, Uyirthen, and Marappasu, short stories, travelogues and plays. His lyrical prose, arresting characters and unusual themes enthralled his audience. His writings portrayed the intricacies of the workings of the human mind. The smell of the soil, the taste of its food, the music of the dialect and its peculiar cultural elitism – all are attractively displayed in his writings. His published works include eight novels, two novelettes, six collections of short stories, three full-length plays and three travelogues.
Author’s Note: I wish to thank our sister, Mrs Saroja Bhanushekar for translating the text, Mohamul to me in its true Tamil flavour adding her wonderful soft and fluffy idlis as a side dish.
Publisher: Kuzha Kathiresam
Ainthinai Pathippagam, 279, Pycrofts Road
Triplicane, Chennai – 600 005
Tel 91-044-28549410
Name of the book: Mohamul
Author: T Janakiraman
Pages: 688
Size of the book: Demy 1/8
Weight: 700gms
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Post Card
“ Dhanji!” Mrs Khambata shrieked “ Su thaiyo? Bolni, su thaiyo?” – Speak! Dhanji, what has happened to you?
Dhanji, the sixty year old man, had been a man-servant in the Khambata household for over 35 years. This morning he had woken up at his usual time, 5am and was at the kitchen, preparing bed tea for Mrs Khambata. A loud thud brought Mrs Khambata and her daughter, Piloo to the kitchen. They were both aghast to see Dhanji on the floor. He had fainted. A quick spray of water on his face revived him. Dhanji sat up with his head on his hands. It ached. Piloo offered him a glass of water and helped him up on a chair. Dhanji, whispered, “ Baby”, as he addressed Piloo lovingly, “Can I have a post card? I wish to write a letter to my family”.
It came as a surprise to both mother and daughter, for in the last forty five years, Dhanji had never mentioned his family. Whenever asked, he looked blankly at them.
Mrs Khambata was thirty five years younger when one day on her way up her second floor flat in old Connaught Place in New Delhi, she came across a young boy in his twenties, loitering aimlessly on the streets. She stopped to look at him. Something in her heart told her that he was an educated man. She beckoned him to her and asked him if he was looking for someone. When she failed to receive any answer from him, she went on to ask, where he had come from? The Connaught Place of those times, was free of crowds even at midday. The man answered nothing. Mrs Khambata decided to take him up to her flat to meet her husband. It turned out that, the man could neither say what his name was, nor where he came from, neither, whom was he looking for in CP. The old Parsi generosity burst forth and Dhanji, never ever left the house. He continued to remain there for all these years, weathering the events in the household, as if it were his own. It is Mr Khambata who gave Dhanji his name. Dhan meant wealth. Dhanji had become adjusted to the family, quite soon. A man who knew not his own, could make any home his own. To be a useful contributor to the family, slowly, he learnt to work at the kitchen with the other helpers.
The Khambatas, however, never doubted that he was in some way educated, because he read the Newspapers, everyday. Even, trying to find out about his school, had failed to get any responses. Time passed and many a question from everyone faded into the past as well. He was Dhanji, Dhanji, who belonged to the Khambata family living in Connaught Place, New Delhi.
Until, of course just now. A post card was not something Piloo stored in the house, especially in the days of email. As soon as the Post Office opened, however, she got ten for Dhanji and gave them to him. The next day, she saw him write a letter on one of the postcard. He then handed it over to her to read. Dhanji had written in Hindi, a letter, complete with date and facts. It read like a big story, concise in a very neat handwriting.
August 15, 2006
My dearest brother, Salim,
I have just come out of a slumber that lasted many years. The last thing I remember is taking the money Abbujaan owed to the man in Guwahati and boarding the train at Howrah. After that, I do not know what happened. I am not sure how I arrived in Delhi. Who brought me here. For the last so many years, I have been living with some very kind family here. Just this morning, my head went whirling and I fell on the ground unconscious. When I came to, my head ached and suddenly the memory of the past came back. I cannot remember anything in between - what happened to the money, whether I went to Guwahati at all…nothing! I remember, Abbujaan, Ammi, our sister, Ameena. I remember also, Reshma, your bhabi, my wife and our son, Kharim. He was an infant then.
You perhaps thought I had run away with the money, deserting my family. Leaving Abbujaan to take care of my wife and family. Just today I have remembered the past, slightly. I am writing, hoping that the address, which I now remember is the same. My address in Delhi is: C/O Mrs S Khambata, N-19, Connaught Place, New Delhi 110 001
I have been released from a jail, the prison of loss of memory. Today, 15 August, 2006, I am at last a free man. The song we learnt in school at Bara Bazaar, is on my lips today - Vande Mataram!
Noor Ali Khan
Alias Dhanji
The letter was posted. In a month from then, Mrs Khambata opened the door to a man in his early thirties.
“Dhanji, come quickly. Your son has come to take you home!”
Authors note: Based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect their identities and Dhanji, after visiting his home for a few days, returned to the Khambatas and continues to live with them. Indeed, the Khambata home has become his own.
**************************************************************************
B ankim Chandra composed the song Vande Mataram in an inspired moment. Rabindranath Tagore sang it by setting a glorious tune to it and it was left to the genius of Shri Aurobindo to interpret the deeper meaning of the song out of which India received the philosophy of new Nationalism. He did this in English.
An hour before Jawarhar Nehru made his famous speech “ Tryst with destiny…” on the night of 14-15 August, 1947, Vande Mataram had been sung by Smt Sucheta Kripalani at 11pm at The Constituent Assembly to whom power was to be transferred. This was followed by Pandit Nehru's “ Tryst with destiny…” at the stroke of the midnight hour.
India was now free.
The original Bengali version of Vande Mataram
Vande maataraM
sujalaaM suphalaaM malayaja
shiitalaaM SasyashyaamalaaM maataram
Shubhrajyotsnaa pulakitayaaminiiM
pullakusumita drumadala shobhiniiM
suhaasiniiM sumadhura bhaashhiNiiM
sukhadaaM varadaaM maataraM
Koti koti kantha kalakalaninaada karaale
koti koti bhujai.rdhR^itakharakaravaale
abalaa keno maa eto bale
bahubaladhaariNiiM namaami taariNiiM
ripudalavaariNiiM maataraM
Tumi vidyaa tumi dharma tumi
hR^idi tumi marma tvaM hi
praaNaaH shariire
Baahute tumi maa shakti
hR^idaye tumi maa bhakti
tomaara i pratimaa gaDi mandire mandire
TvaM hi durgaa dashapraharaNadhaariNii
kamalaa kamaladala vihaariNii
vaaNii vidyaadaayinii namaami tvaaM
Namaami kamalaaM amalaaM
atulaaM SujalaaM suphalaaM maataraM
ShyaamalaaM saralaaM susmitaaM
bhuushhitaaM DharaNiiM bharaNiiM maataraM "
And the English translation by Shree Aurobindo
Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
bright with orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving Mother of might,
Mother free.
Glory of moonlight dreams,
Over thy branches and lordly streams,
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease Laughing low and sweet!
Mother I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.
Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands
When the sword flesh out in the seventy million hands
And seventy million voices roar
Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee I call Mother and Lord!
Though who savest, arise and save!
To her I cry who ever her foeman drove
Back from plain and Sea
And shook herself free.
Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou art heart, our soul, our breath
Though art love divine, the awe
In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nervs the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine In our temples is but thine.
Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
And the Muse a hundred-toned,
Pure and perfect without peer,
Mother lend thine ear,
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleems,
Dark of hue O candid-fair
In thy soul, with jewelled hair
And thy glorious smile divine,
Lovilest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free!
Dhanji, the sixty year old man, had been a man-servant in the Khambata household for over 35 years. This morning he had woken up at his usual time, 5am and was at the kitchen, preparing bed tea for Mrs Khambata. A loud thud brought Mrs Khambata and her daughter, Piloo to the kitchen. They were both aghast to see Dhanji on the floor. He had fainted. A quick spray of water on his face revived him. Dhanji sat up with his head on his hands. It ached. Piloo offered him a glass of water and helped him up on a chair. Dhanji, whispered, “ Baby”, as he addressed Piloo lovingly, “Can I have a post card? I wish to write a letter to my family”.
It came as a surprise to both mother and daughter, for in the last forty five years, Dhanji had never mentioned his family. Whenever asked, he looked blankly at them.
Mrs Khambata was thirty five years younger when one day on her way up her second floor flat in old Connaught Place in New Delhi, she came across a young boy in his twenties, loitering aimlessly on the streets. She stopped to look at him. Something in her heart told her that he was an educated man. She beckoned him to her and asked him if he was looking for someone. When she failed to receive any answer from him, she went on to ask, where he had come from? The Connaught Place of those times, was free of crowds even at midday. The man answered nothing. Mrs Khambata decided to take him up to her flat to meet her husband. It turned out that, the man could neither say what his name was, nor where he came from, neither, whom was he looking for in CP. The old Parsi generosity burst forth and Dhanji, never ever left the house. He continued to remain there for all these years, weathering the events in the household, as if it were his own. It is Mr Khambata who gave Dhanji his name. Dhan meant wealth. Dhanji had become adjusted to the family, quite soon. A man who knew not his own, could make any home his own. To be a useful contributor to the family, slowly, he learnt to work at the kitchen with the other helpers.
The Khambatas, however, never doubted that he was in some way educated, because he read the Newspapers, everyday. Even, trying to find out about his school, had failed to get any responses. Time passed and many a question from everyone faded into the past as well. He was Dhanji, Dhanji, who belonged to the Khambata family living in Connaught Place, New Delhi.
Until, of course just now. A post card was not something Piloo stored in the house, especially in the days of email. As soon as the Post Office opened, however, she got ten for Dhanji and gave them to him. The next day, she saw him write a letter on one of the postcard. He then handed it over to her to read. Dhanji had written in Hindi, a letter, complete with date and facts. It read like a big story, concise in a very neat handwriting.
August 15, 2006
My dearest brother, Salim,
I have just come out of a slumber that lasted many years. The last thing I remember is taking the money Abbujaan owed to the man in Guwahati and boarding the train at Howrah. After that, I do not know what happened. I am not sure how I arrived in Delhi. Who brought me here. For the last so many years, I have been living with some very kind family here. Just this morning, my head went whirling and I fell on the ground unconscious. When I came to, my head ached and suddenly the memory of the past came back. I cannot remember anything in between - what happened to the money, whether I went to Guwahati at all…nothing! I remember, Abbujaan, Ammi, our sister, Ameena. I remember also, Reshma, your bhabi, my wife and our son, Kharim. He was an infant then.
You perhaps thought I had run away with the money, deserting my family. Leaving Abbujaan to take care of my wife and family. Just today I have remembered the past, slightly. I am writing, hoping that the address, which I now remember is the same. My address in Delhi is: C/O Mrs S Khambata, N-19, Connaught Place, New Delhi 110 001
I have been released from a jail, the prison of loss of memory. Today, 15 August, 2006, I am at last a free man. The song we learnt in school at Bara Bazaar, is on my lips today - Vande Mataram!
Noor Ali Khan
Alias Dhanji
The letter was posted. In a month from then, Mrs Khambata opened the door to a man in his early thirties.
“Dhanji, come quickly. Your son has come to take you home!”
Authors note: Based on a true story. Names have been changed to protect their identities and Dhanji, after visiting his home for a few days, returned to the Khambatas and continues to live with them. Indeed, the Khambata home has become his own.
**************************************************************************
B ankim Chandra composed the song Vande Mataram in an inspired moment. Rabindranath Tagore sang it by setting a glorious tune to it and it was left to the genius of Shri Aurobindo to interpret the deeper meaning of the song out of which India received the philosophy of new Nationalism. He did this in English.
An hour before Jawarhar Nehru made his famous speech “ Tryst with destiny…” on the night of 14-15 August, 1947, Vande Mataram had been sung by Smt Sucheta Kripalani at 11pm at The Constituent Assembly to whom power was to be transferred. This was followed by Pandit Nehru's “ Tryst with destiny…” at the stroke of the midnight hour.
India was now free.
The original Bengali version of Vande Mataram
Vande maataraM
sujalaaM suphalaaM malayaja
shiitalaaM SasyashyaamalaaM maataram
Shubhrajyotsnaa pulakitayaaminiiM
pullakusumita drumadala shobhiniiM
suhaasiniiM sumadhura bhaashhiNiiM
sukhadaaM varadaaM maataraM
Koti koti kantha kalakalaninaada karaale
koti koti bhujai.rdhR^itakharakaravaale
abalaa keno maa eto bale
bahubaladhaariNiiM namaami taariNiiM
ripudalavaariNiiM maataraM
Tumi vidyaa tumi dharma tumi
hR^idi tumi marma tvaM hi
praaNaaH shariire
Baahute tumi maa shakti
hR^idaye tumi maa bhakti
tomaara i pratimaa gaDi mandire mandire
TvaM hi durgaa dashapraharaNadhaariNii
kamalaa kamaladala vihaariNii
vaaNii vidyaadaayinii namaami tvaaM
Namaami kamalaaM amalaaM
atulaaM SujalaaM suphalaaM maataraM
ShyaamalaaM saralaaM susmitaaM
bhuushhitaaM DharaNiiM bharaNiiM maataraM "
And the English translation by Shree Aurobindo
Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
bright with orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving Mother of might,
Mother free.
Glory of moonlight dreams,
Over thy branches and lordly streams,
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease Laughing low and sweet!
Mother I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.
Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands
When the sword flesh out in the seventy million hands
And seventy million voices roar
Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee I call Mother and Lord!
Though who savest, arise and save!
To her I cry who ever her foeman drove
Back from plain and Sea
And shook herself free.
Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou art heart, our soul, our breath
Though art love divine, the awe
In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nervs the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine In our temples is but thine.
Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
And the Muse a hundred-toned,
Pure and perfect without peer,
Mother lend thine ear,
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleems,
Dark of hue O candid-fair
In thy soul, with jewelled hair
And thy glorious smile divine,
Lovilest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Whoever You Are...
“ She is an equal-opportunity icon. Red-blooded men lust after the Princess; so do lesbians; and so do straight women. But that’s just lust. If you are talking feminism, She is a splendid businesswoman who broke through the glass ceiling of the crime world; she chooses and discards her partners but likes lengthy, intense relationships just as much as one-night stands; she has survived rape and attempted murder; can wear pearls with elegance, cook passably or break a man’s neck with equal ease. And, she has someone else to do her housework for her – beat that, Supergirl!” - Nilanjana S Roy, Outlook Delhi City Limits, July 2007 issue, pg.40
So who is this Supergirl? Femme fatale? That intelligent warrior woman with gravity-defying breasts? That woman who from her humble rough beginnings became an expert in the martial arts, yoga and crime, running a highly successful, if upright, criminal organization called The Network, her favourite weapon being the kongo which doubled up as the handle of her handbag? Mayawati? Hardly! In fact, if she had been through western education, she would have perhaps used her as a role model! (Hers is the Phoola Devi role model.)
If you have not guessed it yet, let me let the real Cat out of the bag – Modesty Blaise of course! Who Modesty Blaise? If that is the question on your mind, then spare yourself the rest of this blog – you were not one of those fortunate massive mass of minds affected by what ruled men and women alike in the sixties. And still does.
What makes her tick? Feminist icon, Modesty Blaise was created by Peter O’Donnell in the sixties. Not from nothing. In fact it was in 1942, as a sergeant in the army, he had come across a young girl, about 12, one of the many refugees moving through the Caucasus Mountains at that time. She was hungry, carried a nail on a piece of wood around her neck as a weapon, but she walked like a Princess. O’Donnell never forgot her and she became the inspiration for him to create Modesty Blaise. Modesty Blaise became the obsession of the sixties and knowingly or unknowingly many of the feminists of the sixties and seventies, imbibed her attitude. What clicked was that Modesty Blaise was that perfect mix – the lady who could fence, shoot and kill with equal ease as she could lisp and coo “ Oh, Sanjeev……” feeling weak in her knees and willing to fall into the strong arms of her man, without feeling divided in political philosophy.
However, although feminist struggled to be that, in the real life of the feminist, the circumstances were not the same. It was not possible to be both although one tried to imitate to perfection. Resulting, you have those who finally had men chaperone around strong women like poodles on a leash, or you have those who finally gave in to the supposedly stronger sex but continued to lie to the world and themselves that they were on top of the men in their lives. And, there were those who dropped out of both to form their own road maps. The point of my discussion is not Mayawati, Sushma Swaraj, Sheila Dikshit or any other failed mission, but that between imagination and reality there is a huge gap and you can imagine anything, but to live it out to the last word is perhaps as impossible as is living with a mask on forever.
We all wear faces/mask, the face for the outside world and the face for the inside world. We also have one more face – the face we aspire to be. Identity is a social issue. It is a mix of what society wants us to be along with some traits, which will distinguish us from the rest of the world. However, in private we may be quite a different person. We do not need our outside social face in our inner rooms, where we are among our near and dear ones. Yet, in spite of this, we are never at ease. We still aspire to be someone else. It is an ongoing process through life, where we imbibe values from around us, or meet individuals who affect us deeply and in some way we aspire to be them. The process of self-actualization is never-ending in that way.
Let me give you an example: As business manager Arti maybe a very outgoing person, always ready to be at service to her customers, but the same Arti may be highly demanding at home and expect to be always heard to and followed without any argument. Yet, at the same time she may feel the need to chill out a bit on herself and take on a hobby or a Yoga regime, dancercise, whatever that makes her see herself as a different person, a person she aspires to be.
So in a way, many of us have this constant feeling that “ We are in the wrong place”. Wrong place, just like a doctor who wanted to be a writer, a businessperson who just wanted an easy life, a woman who wanted to simply be a homemaker, but is a Public Relations Officer. This mainly happens because of clash of what we must be and what we really are. Few are fortunate to have made it to a place where who they really are and what they do are all the same. The struggle to keep face is not the concern of such a person.
In fact, our original face is none of these, neither, Modesty Blaise, nor a doctor, a writer or anything at all. It is clean and clear. Spotless and Self-reflective.
But to see that face, whoever we are, we have to peal the layers off the onion, one by one. And in so doing, we realize that to be naked of all faces, we must first be clothed in them.
So who is this Supergirl? Femme fatale? That intelligent warrior woman with gravity-defying breasts? That woman who from her humble rough beginnings became an expert in the martial arts, yoga and crime, running a highly successful, if upright, criminal organization called The Network, her favourite weapon being the kongo which doubled up as the handle of her handbag? Mayawati? Hardly! In fact, if she had been through western education, she would have perhaps used her as a role model! (Hers is the Phoola Devi role model.)
If you have not guessed it yet, let me let the real Cat out of the bag – Modesty Blaise of course! Who Modesty Blaise? If that is the question on your mind, then spare yourself the rest of this blog – you were not one of those fortunate massive mass of minds affected by what ruled men and women alike in the sixties. And still does.
What makes her tick? Feminist icon, Modesty Blaise was created by Peter O’Donnell in the sixties. Not from nothing. In fact it was in 1942, as a sergeant in the army, he had come across a young girl, about 12, one of the many refugees moving through the Caucasus Mountains at that time. She was hungry, carried a nail on a piece of wood around her neck as a weapon, but she walked like a Princess. O’Donnell never forgot her and she became the inspiration for him to create Modesty Blaise. Modesty Blaise became the obsession of the sixties and knowingly or unknowingly many of the feminists of the sixties and seventies, imbibed her attitude. What clicked was that Modesty Blaise was that perfect mix – the lady who could fence, shoot and kill with equal ease as she could lisp and coo “ Oh, Sanjeev……” feeling weak in her knees and willing to fall into the strong arms of her man, without feeling divided in political philosophy.
However, although feminist struggled to be that, in the real life of the feminist, the circumstances were not the same. It was not possible to be both although one tried to imitate to perfection. Resulting, you have those who finally had men chaperone around strong women like poodles on a leash, or you have those who finally gave in to the supposedly stronger sex but continued to lie to the world and themselves that they were on top of the men in their lives. And, there were those who dropped out of both to form their own road maps. The point of my discussion is not Mayawati, Sushma Swaraj, Sheila Dikshit or any other failed mission, but that between imagination and reality there is a huge gap and you can imagine anything, but to live it out to the last word is perhaps as impossible as is living with a mask on forever.
We all wear faces/mask, the face for the outside world and the face for the inside world. We also have one more face – the face we aspire to be. Identity is a social issue. It is a mix of what society wants us to be along with some traits, which will distinguish us from the rest of the world. However, in private we may be quite a different person. We do not need our outside social face in our inner rooms, where we are among our near and dear ones. Yet, in spite of this, we are never at ease. We still aspire to be someone else. It is an ongoing process through life, where we imbibe values from around us, or meet individuals who affect us deeply and in some way we aspire to be them. The process of self-actualization is never-ending in that way.
Let me give you an example: As business manager Arti maybe a very outgoing person, always ready to be at service to her customers, but the same Arti may be highly demanding at home and expect to be always heard to and followed without any argument. Yet, at the same time she may feel the need to chill out a bit on herself and take on a hobby or a Yoga regime, dancercise, whatever that makes her see herself as a different person, a person she aspires to be.
So in a way, many of us have this constant feeling that “ We are in the wrong place”. Wrong place, just like a doctor who wanted to be a writer, a businessperson who just wanted an easy life, a woman who wanted to simply be a homemaker, but is a Public Relations Officer. This mainly happens because of clash of what we must be and what we really are. Few are fortunate to have made it to a place where who they really are and what they do are all the same. The struggle to keep face is not the concern of such a person.
In fact, our original face is none of these, neither, Modesty Blaise, nor a doctor, a writer or anything at all. It is clean and clear. Spotless and Self-reflective.
But to see that face, whoever we are, we have to peal the layers off the onion, one by one. And in so doing, we realize that to be naked of all faces, we must first be clothed in them.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Euthanasia: The Right To Die
Year before last, our good Dutch friend Carla, finally asked her doctors in Amsterdam to allow her to die gracefully and with dignity. The Netherlands being one of the world’s most “enlightened” countries allows euthanasia. Our dear friend, who visited us in Delhi many times and always hosted my partner at her home in Amsterdam, for a few days, whenever my partner was on a teaching assignment in The Netherlands, had been suffering from cancer for long years. Year before last, she decided to move on. Two days after her funeral we received a card posted by her well before her passing away, saying how much she had treasured our friendship and how much she loved us. We both wept. Yet, for both of us, Carla was and will always be a symbol of what it means to be brave.
Love of life is intrinsic to us. Even in our worst moments, if we happen to say I wish I were dead and if in that moment, really death were to stare us in the face, we would not walk with death. Not willingly. So when a person/s willingly and in perfect mental health and balance, asks for death, what are the implications?
(a) It is a well thought out decision
(b) They saw it as the best possible option at that moment
(c) They do not want to prolong the illness, terminal or otherwise any further.
(d) They believe that they have had a good share of life; now the body has become a burden to live with
(e) It is decided by the medical fraternity, that the illness is fatal and sooner or later death will come
(f) They do not wish to wait for that 1% miracle that may or may not happen which will turn the table over and suddenly they will survive
(g) They may not have given up on life, but they certainly have given up on the body
(h) They do not want to see themselves in a state where their dignity as a human being is at stake
(i) They believe that life is forever; death of the body does not mean that there is no life in a new body
(j) They loved themselves enough to be compassionate to themselves
Of course, all these above factors stand for someone who can decide to call the shots still. But, what about those who can’t. Those who are lying in a vegetative state, for days/months/years, what would their take be? Here, the family takes the decision. It takes extreme love of your beloved ones to take a decision to stop their suffering by taking them off life suppose systems or many tubes and allow them to pass. All the reasons in my mind which I have listed above, would stand the same ground, only this time it is the family’s decision.
For those of you who were fortunate enough to see Barkha Dutt anchor one of the most fascinating topics in “ We The People” on 1st July, 2007, will have seen the sensitive way in which she handled the subject and the research she did on the subject, which brought across many who had in fact, allowed their loved ones to be taken off Respirators and numerous tubes and pipes, in order that they may pass on peacefully, will agree that the positive note on which the show ended, indicated that many on the show and many viewers, at least me, would welcome Euthanasia in India as well. The Supreme Court is reviewing the matter and judgment is awaited.
For me life has had one big meaning and that is that in this life as a human being I have had a chance to be born with a higher consciousness which I am aware of. I am grateful for the choices I made in my life to walk the unbeaten track and for my mother, who single handedly with the support of her very intellectually active family brought me up in such a way that I will always value the gift of life that she gave me (she could have decided not to have me, you know!) and her brave, uncompromising way of life. She gave me a Map of Life I would have to draw on my own, but she showed me how. As a philosopher, I do not believe that this is, was or will be my only life. Each life is an opportunity to refine and in that way create the next. And so it has been. But, for those who believe that there is only one life to live, the choice of euthanasia may become difficult. Here in India, in the midst of ages of philosophy and ancient religion, we know that we are not our body or our mind. So if we decide to give up this tired machine called body, can we really say, we have committed suicide or the doctor has committed homicide? At least in our country, we must prove that we have a more profound knowledge of life that encompasses the right to euthanasia, if a situation arises when the body must be given its right to rest forever.
Life will go on. To the next.
Love of life is intrinsic to us. Even in our worst moments, if we happen to say I wish I were dead and if in that moment, really death were to stare us in the face, we would not walk with death. Not willingly. So when a person/s willingly and in perfect mental health and balance, asks for death, what are the implications?
(a) It is a well thought out decision
(b) They saw it as the best possible option at that moment
(c) They do not want to prolong the illness, terminal or otherwise any further.
(d) They believe that they have had a good share of life; now the body has become a burden to live with
(e) It is decided by the medical fraternity, that the illness is fatal and sooner or later death will come
(f) They do not wish to wait for that 1% miracle that may or may not happen which will turn the table over and suddenly they will survive
(g) They may not have given up on life, but they certainly have given up on the body
(h) They do not want to see themselves in a state where their dignity as a human being is at stake
(i) They believe that life is forever; death of the body does not mean that there is no life in a new body
(j) They loved themselves enough to be compassionate to themselves
Of course, all these above factors stand for someone who can decide to call the shots still. But, what about those who can’t. Those who are lying in a vegetative state, for days/months/years, what would their take be? Here, the family takes the decision. It takes extreme love of your beloved ones to take a decision to stop their suffering by taking them off life suppose systems or many tubes and allow them to pass. All the reasons in my mind which I have listed above, would stand the same ground, only this time it is the family’s decision.
For those of you who were fortunate enough to see Barkha Dutt anchor one of the most fascinating topics in “ We The People” on 1st July, 2007, will have seen the sensitive way in which she handled the subject and the research she did on the subject, which brought across many who had in fact, allowed their loved ones to be taken off Respirators and numerous tubes and pipes, in order that they may pass on peacefully, will agree that the positive note on which the show ended, indicated that many on the show and many viewers, at least me, would welcome Euthanasia in India as well. The Supreme Court is reviewing the matter and judgment is awaited.
For me life has had one big meaning and that is that in this life as a human being I have had a chance to be born with a higher consciousness which I am aware of. I am grateful for the choices I made in my life to walk the unbeaten track and for my mother, who single handedly with the support of her very intellectually active family brought me up in such a way that I will always value the gift of life that she gave me (she could have decided not to have me, you know!) and her brave, uncompromising way of life. She gave me a Map of Life I would have to draw on my own, but she showed me how. As a philosopher, I do not believe that this is, was or will be my only life. Each life is an opportunity to refine and in that way create the next. And so it has been. But, for those who believe that there is only one life to live, the choice of euthanasia may become difficult. Here in India, in the midst of ages of philosophy and ancient religion, we know that we are not our body or our mind. So if we decide to give up this tired machine called body, can we really say, we have committed suicide or the doctor has committed homicide? At least in our country, we must prove that we have a more profound knowledge of life that encompasses the right to euthanasia, if a situation arises when the body must be given its right to rest forever.
Life will go on. To the next.
Friday, May 25, 2007
I Can't Forget
My cousin and I would get it nicely (as in Bombay, they say) from our elders for playing around with Dadoo. Young children as we were, shy of even ten years of age, we would both take tremendous joy in standing on morahs and apply lipstick, kajal and rouge on Dadoo. He would bear it without a whimper and laugh his toothless laugh with us, not knowing we were laughing at him. His hair was white and carefully combed and he always sat in the verandah wearing thick glasses. As soon as anyone passed by him, he would say - Ke? Ke gelo re?" Who? Who is it who just passed by? He would do this several times, as many times as you passed by. Therefore, my cousin and I would also whisk past several times, to and fro, and everytime, Dadoo would say - "Ke? Ke gelo re?" We always laughed and giggled about it. But we loved him too. Both of us would hang around his weak neck and ask – " Dadoobhai, bolo aami ke?" And when he mixed us up, we would laugh again – " Na! Aami Tultul; O, Julu" we would say to confuse him further. Dadoobhai, would laugh with us innocently. Poor Dadoobhai, how was he to know one from the other? Or for that matter, how was he to know that he was in Tullygunj and not in Dulali, his native home in Bangladesh? He could not recognize his wife from his mother, his nephew from the family physician, he did not know when sitting among a room full of people, he would pass urine, he did not know that the lady who was constantly by his side, changing his lungi several times a day, bathing him, clothing him, was none other than his wife. When without telling anyone, he would suddenly hail a rickshaw and ask them to take him to Dulali, which was in fact in Bangladesh, the poor rickshaw-puller would finally realize that "Dadoo" was not really well and carefully bring him back to where he had taken his so called hired service. He would then go from door to door inquiring where this old gentleman was from. My grandaunt, Didimoni, would rise from her tears and rush to fetch him in, drying her tears with the edge of her sari. Was she never tired? What must have gone through her heart and mind, we never knew. She never complained. In fact, she was ever joyous at his little ziddi talks when as she bowed down to complete her morning puja he would pester her " Ma, prasad dao na. Dao na, Ma."
Dadoobhai was my mothers’ mama, her mother’s brother. My grandmother had only one sibling in him because, while they were very young, her parents died. The two children were adopted by their Mashi. My grandmother was married early. I am not sure when her brother was. But, way after my grandmother’s passing away, I was born and I stayed at my mother’s family house in Shillong and came to Calcutta once in a while. On these Calcutta holidays, my cousin sister and I would visit Dadoo at his home in Tullygunj, where he lived with his nephew. My Dadoo and Didimoni did not have any children between them. But for my Didimoni, I guess the need for a child was fulfilled by her husband itself – he had turned to such a baby. I am not sure when Dadoobhai passed away, but I know that Didimoni never left the bed after his passing away and it was not many months before she breathed her last.
The story was tucked away in my mind for many years. Until I received this invitation. It all came back but this time, I was flooded not with laughter but with tears – for my Dadoobhai and more so for my Didimoni. Such patience, such dedication, such magnanimity, such joy. I can only remember her in her white sari with a red border, smiling and showering us with love and care. I ask myself, did she ever cry like I am just thinking about her? My mind says, maybe. But who was there to see it? And even if my Dadoobhai saw it, would he have ever understood her pain and in any case, she would have pulled the edge of her sari and quickly wiped those drops of tears away.
How many mothers allow their children to see their pain and their tears?
~ The End ~
In response to the Invitation to Attend The Opening Ceremony of Dignity Dementia Care Centre at D 160,Gate 4, Freedom Fighters Enclave, Neb Sarai, IGNOU Road, New Delhi 110 068 on May 30, 2007, by Dignity Foundation, lead by the very dynamic Founder President, Dr Sheila Sreenivasan (www.dignityfoundation.com)
Caring for people whose brain disorders disturb and damage cognitive functions, affecting memory, one’s very personality, judgement, mood and social functioning.
Dadoobhai was my mothers’ mama, her mother’s brother. My grandmother had only one sibling in him because, while they were very young, her parents died. The two children were adopted by their Mashi. My grandmother was married early. I am not sure when her brother was. But, way after my grandmother’s passing away, I was born and I stayed at my mother’s family house in Shillong and came to Calcutta once in a while. On these Calcutta holidays, my cousin sister and I would visit Dadoo at his home in Tullygunj, where he lived with his nephew. My Dadoo and Didimoni did not have any children between them. But for my Didimoni, I guess the need for a child was fulfilled by her husband itself – he had turned to such a baby. I am not sure when Dadoobhai passed away, but I know that Didimoni never left the bed after his passing away and it was not many months before she breathed her last.
The story was tucked away in my mind for many years. Until I received this invitation. It all came back but this time, I was flooded not with laughter but with tears – for my Dadoobhai and more so for my Didimoni. Such patience, such dedication, such magnanimity, such joy. I can only remember her in her white sari with a red border, smiling and showering us with love and care. I ask myself, did she ever cry like I am just thinking about her? My mind says, maybe. But who was there to see it? And even if my Dadoobhai saw it, would he have ever understood her pain and in any case, she would have pulled the edge of her sari and quickly wiped those drops of tears away.
How many mothers allow their children to see their pain and their tears?
~ The End ~
In response to the Invitation to Attend The Opening Ceremony of Dignity Dementia Care Centre at D 160,Gate 4, Freedom Fighters Enclave, Neb Sarai, IGNOU Road, New Delhi 110 068 on May 30, 2007, by Dignity Foundation, lead by the very dynamic Founder President, Dr Sheila Sreenivasan (www.dignityfoundation.com)
Caring for people whose brain disorders disturb and damage cognitive functions, affecting memory, one’s very personality, judgement, mood and social functioning.
What is dementia?
Dementia is a progressive brain dysfunction (in Latin 'dementia' means irrationality), which results in a restriction of daily activities and in most cases leads in the long term to the need for care. Many diseases can result in dementia, the most common one being Alzheimer's disease.
To know more about Dementia and Alzheimer’s Disease: http://www.dementia.com/
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Environment: A Look At On Road Diesel Danger
On November 14, 2006, Centre For Science and Environment (CSE), New Delhi, lead by none other than Sunita Narain, gave out a press release: The Leapfrog Factor: Cleaning the air in Asian cities. In the release CSE gave some figures on the mounting vehicle registration in the city of Delhi itself as "in the last 10 years, the total number of personal vehicles has risen to a staggering 105%. In the same period, cars alone have increased by 157%. It is shocking to note that diesel cars during the same period have increased by 425%. The share of diesel cars, which was a mere 4% in the total car registration in 1999, has climbed to 20% in 2006 maintaining a growth of 16.6% per annum. This can be devastating in a city desperate for solutions to smoke particles and NOx* " (Nitrogen Oxide: See hyperlink below)
The recent feature in Outlook Business Magazine, May 20, 2007 edition, further added " The passenger car market which grew 22.7% to 1,076, 408 units during FY07 from 8,82,208 units in FY06 will see much more action in the diesel car this year." said Arvind Mathew, Ford India President, in the same issue " Currently, diesel vehicles account for about 30% of the market. By 2012, it could account for about 42% of the market."
Delhi (and I mean the politicians as well) has always been myopic, hypocritical and maliciously double standard – phasing out 12,000 diesel buses to escape from the lethal effect of diesel particles, but having, nor willing to have any control of " a conservative estimate of the 118,631 diesel cars on the city roads which is equivalent to adding particulate emission from nearly 30,000 diesel busses", is a rude shock to realize, once you are out of the pink-cloud effect of all is going to be well.
Meanwhile, after making a hash of world climate, America is in a hurry to find alternative fuel. Quoting from Down to Earth May 15, 2007 issue, Sunita Narian says in her editorial " US President George Bush has this year called on his country to produce 132 billion litres of biofeul by 2017, to cut dependency on foreign fuel. The US’s favourite fuel ethanol, is produced from corn starch and in Brazil, which is the world’s largest ethanol producer, mostly from sugarcane source."
Countries who have contributed majorly to global warming will have to pay a karmic price. It is now estimated that in this century, the temperature will rise between 2 – 4.5 degrees centigrade. In fact, the alarm has sounded in our Parliament as well with the news that in the next two years there is the probability of a rise in 2 degrees Celsius in temperature. This is already evident as ice is melting all over – in Greenland, The Antartica and in our own Himalayas, causing the seas to swell up. It’s almost time to plan for the second phase of Noah’s Ark.
But industry does not think so. Profits are all that is the concern and no matter what any corporate mouths, the bottom line is the same – profits. Car manufacturers have read the writing on the wall and are going for the kill. Almost every car manufacturer in India except Honda, perhaps, is racing against each other for the diesel car variation. Says Abdul Majeed of PricewaterCoopers India; " Diesel-driven vehicles are gaining popularity because of the ability to produce advance technology that is cleaner, quieter and more efficient than the technology of the past. Moreover, with the subsidies, diesel fuel is approximately 42% cheaper than petrol as the government attempts to grow the urban and the rural economies by selling the fuel below cost".
Does the dreaded Indian Environment Scientist, Sunita Narian think so? No! Quoting from The Leapfrog Factor ( See hyperlink below) " Diesel cars and SUVs not only emit several times more particulate, but also ….emit three times more NOx compared to a petrol car. ….deadly facts about diesel toxicity and evidence of acute cancer-causing potential of diesel pollutants are pouring in from around the world. Diesel fumes have been found to bear a lot more particles and NOx than petrol exhaust and are several times more toxic. Clean diesel solutions are still not available in India".
Outlook Business says " A convergence of factors in the Global Markets are causing automakers, consumers and the US government to look beyond the petrol status quo towards alternative power-train technologies. These factors include the need for energy security, a mounting environmental lobby and a growing socio-economic conscience. Of the alternatives, diesel fuel offers the greatest potential".
So it is no surprise, then, that US government has sanctioned $ 2.34 million more to research to find alternative fuel. What alternative fuel you ask? Alternative fuel from plastic! Scientists across the globe we are told by Outlook Businesses are struggling to make motor fuel from waste. But Richard Gross, professor of chemistry at Polytechnic University, in Brooklyn, New York, is turning plant oils, of the kind already used to make biodeisel, into "bioplastic".
"It’s all chemistry, " he says – " Fatty acids are separated from plant oil and altered chemically to form polymer. Polymer is heated and shaped into useful plastic shapes. After its use as a plastic container, it is chemically broken down into diesel fuel."**
So easy? Why did we not think of it before? Environmental Scientists warn " (If) We want to explore something on renewable source of energy as we understood the non renewable sources are getting scarce, we need to trade off between air or water. We can not have the cake and eat it too".
We hope that this time US will keep it’s own waste in it’s own backyard and not dump it in ours’. India is in the habit of courting rich men with large and lucrative price tags and a social conscience that awakes only after the damage is done. Then instead of cleaning up their own act, they begin to bully others to clean theirs.
Poor thinking. Rich man’s rubbish. Extreme consumerism.
Are we to leave behind a legacy of the stinking heap? And air we cannot breathe?
Steps we can take to preserve the air we breathe:
1. Initiate stringent on road checks on smoky vehicles
2. Intensify dedicated bus and rail services
3. Use car pool
4. Discourage Men’s Cloakroom Competition – " Mine-Is-Bigger-Than-Yours "– syndrome, by discouraging them from buying SUVs which is slowly becoming a trend.***
5. Maximize walking wherever possible.
6. Encourage bicycles wherever possible.
7. Increase awareness via media against harmful effects of diesel. Carry out Fear Campaigns
8. Include environment studies at home and in schools for children.
9. Learn from climate-savvy Europe.
NB: In this piece I have not dealt with pollution caused by Aviation boom.
News you can use:
Mobile phone wallpapers and ringtones of endangered animal and bird species are now available for free download on www.rareearthtones.org and are increasingly getting popular. Go join the movement to save biosphere.
* Nox: Nitrogen Oxide
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitrogen_oxide#Definition_of_NOx_and_NOy_in_atmospheric_chemistry
** Gas from Garbage: Professor Gross Develops Bioplastic that Breaks Down into Green Energy - 03-20-2007
http://www.poly.edu/news/articles/article103.php
*** Tank Travel by Manjul Bajaj
http://manjul-bajaj.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/02/tank-travel.htm
Recommended readings:
CSE Press Release: The Leapfrog Factor: Clearing The Air In Asian Cities
http://www.cseindia.org/campaign/apc/press_20061114.htm
Climate Change Affects Low-Lying Areas, Puts Poor At Risk
http://downtoearth.org.in/full6.asp?foldername=20070515&filename=news&sec_id=34&sid=37
MUST READ: The Great debate on this subject
http://xebecbooks.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/06/environment-a-look-at-on-road-diesel-danger/comments.htm
The recent feature in Outlook Business Magazine, May 20, 2007 edition, further added " The passenger car market which grew 22.7% to 1,076, 408 units during FY07 from 8,82,208 units in FY06 will see much more action in the diesel car this year." said Arvind Mathew, Ford India President, in the same issue " Currently, diesel vehicles account for about 30% of the market. By 2012, it could account for about 42% of the market."
Delhi (and I mean the politicians as well) has always been myopic, hypocritical and maliciously double standard – phasing out 12,000 diesel buses to escape from the lethal effect of diesel particles, but having, nor willing to have any control of " a conservative estimate of the 118,631 diesel cars on the city roads which is equivalent to adding particulate emission from nearly 30,000 diesel busses", is a rude shock to realize, once you are out of the pink-cloud effect of all is going to be well.
Meanwhile, after making a hash of world climate, America is in a hurry to find alternative fuel. Quoting from Down to Earth May 15, 2007 issue, Sunita Narian says in her editorial " US President George Bush has this year called on his country to produce 132 billion litres of biofeul by 2017, to cut dependency on foreign fuel. The US’s favourite fuel ethanol, is produced from corn starch and in Brazil, which is the world’s largest ethanol producer, mostly from sugarcane source."
Countries who have contributed majorly to global warming will have to pay a karmic price. It is now estimated that in this century, the temperature will rise between 2 – 4.5 degrees centigrade. In fact, the alarm has sounded in our Parliament as well with the news that in the next two years there is the probability of a rise in 2 degrees Celsius in temperature. This is already evident as ice is melting all over – in Greenland, The Antartica and in our own Himalayas, causing the seas to swell up. It’s almost time to plan for the second phase of Noah’s Ark.
But industry does not think so. Profits are all that is the concern and no matter what any corporate mouths, the bottom line is the same – profits. Car manufacturers have read the writing on the wall and are going for the kill. Almost every car manufacturer in India except Honda, perhaps, is racing against each other for the diesel car variation. Says Abdul Majeed of PricewaterCoopers India; " Diesel-driven vehicles are gaining popularity because of the ability to produce advance technology that is cleaner, quieter and more efficient than the technology of the past. Moreover, with the subsidies, diesel fuel is approximately 42% cheaper than petrol as the government attempts to grow the urban and the rural economies by selling the fuel below cost".
Does the dreaded Indian Environment Scientist, Sunita Narian think so? No! Quoting from The Leapfrog Factor ( See hyperlink below) " Diesel cars and SUVs not only emit several times more particulate, but also ….emit three times more NOx compared to a petrol car. ….deadly facts about diesel toxicity and evidence of acute cancer-causing potential of diesel pollutants are pouring in from around the world. Diesel fumes have been found to bear a lot more particles and NOx than petrol exhaust and are several times more toxic. Clean diesel solutions are still not available in India".
Outlook Business says " A convergence of factors in the Global Markets are causing automakers, consumers and the US government to look beyond the petrol status quo towards alternative power-train technologies. These factors include the need for energy security, a mounting environmental lobby and a growing socio-economic conscience. Of the alternatives, diesel fuel offers the greatest potential".
So it is no surprise, then, that US government has sanctioned $ 2.34 million more to research to find alternative fuel. What alternative fuel you ask? Alternative fuel from plastic! Scientists across the globe we are told by Outlook Businesses are struggling to make motor fuel from waste. But Richard Gross, professor of chemistry at Polytechnic University, in Brooklyn, New York, is turning plant oils, of the kind already used to make biodeisel, into "bioplastic".
"It’s all chemistry, " he says – " Fatty acids are separated from plant oil and altered chemically to form polymer. Polymer is heated and shaped into useful plastic shapes. After its use as a plastic container, it is chemically broken down into diesel fuel."**
So easy? Why did we not think of it before? Environmental Scientists warn " (If) We want to explore something on renewable source of energy as we understood the non renewable sources are getting scarce, we need to trade off between air or water. We can not have the cake and eat it too".
We hope that this time US will keep it’s own waste in it’s own backyard and not dump it in ours’. India is in the habit of courting rich men with large and lucrative price tags and a social conscience that awakes only after the damage is done. Then instead of cleaning up their own act, they begin to bully others to clean theirs.
Poor thinking. Rich man’s rubbish. Extreme consumerism.
Are we to leave behind a legacy of the stinking heap? And air we cannot breathe?
Steps we can take to preserve the air we breathe:
1. Initiate stringent on road checks on smoky vehicles
2. Intensify dedicated bus and rail services
3. Use car pool
4. Discourage Men’s Cloakroom Competition – " Mine-Is-Bigger-Than-Yours "– syndrome, by discouraging them from buying SUVs which is slowly becoming a trend.***
5. Maximize walking wherever possible.
6. Encourage bicycles wherever possible.
7. Increase awareness via media against harmful effects of diesel. Carry out Fear Campaigns
8. Include environment studies at home and in schools for children.
9. Learn from climate-savvy Europe.
NB: In this piece I have not dealt with pollution caused by Aviation boom.
News you can use:
Mobile phone wallpapers and ringtones of endangered animal and bird species are now available for free download on www.rareearthtones.org and are increasingly getting popular. Go join the movement to save biosphere.
* Nox: Nitrogen Oxide
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitrogen_oxide#Definition_of_NOx_and_NOy_in_atmospheric_chemistry
** Gas from Garbage: Professor Gross Develops Bioplastic that Breaks Down into Green Energy - 03-20-2007
http://www.poly.edu/news/articles/article103.php
*** Tank Travel by Manjul Bajaj
http://manjul-bajaj.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/02/tank-travel.htm
Recommended readings:
CSE Press Release: The Leapfrog Factor: Clearing The Air In Asian Cities
http://www.cseindia.org/campaign/apc/press_20061114.htm
Climate Change Affects Low-Lying Areas, Puts Poor At Risk
http://downtoearth.org.in/full6.asp?foldername=20070515&filename=news&sec_id=34&sid=37
MUST READ: The Great debate on this subject
http://xebecbooks.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/06/environment-a-look-at-on-road-diesel-danger/comments.htm
Thursday, May 03, 2007
A Page From Chitra's Diary
T Janakiraman and I have something in common. He is a great Tamil writer and I am a great lover of Tamilians. Not all Tamilians, but a certain Tamilian. Not all Tamilians of all genders, but one certain lady of Tamilian orgin. Besides, I believe, T Janakiraman, also loved one place I am so deeply connected to - Kumbakonam. And why not? It is her birth place. She shares this with Srinivasa Iyengar Ramanujan, the great Indian mathemacian. In fact she is a mathematician too. Alas! That perhaps is the reason why, one plus one did not make two. I am a poor writer and poet, whose poems are rejected by all publishers. I am a person who is homeless and lives under the covers of bookshops, browsing through pages, absorbed in only the written word. In fact, that is how I met her at the Midlands in Aurobindo Market…..browsing through books.
“ Do you have T Janakiraman’s books?” I had asked the shop owner. “ No” he had said plainly. But by then she had heard the name and came across.” Did you ask for T Janakiraman?” I saw her for the first time. She was slim and had a large forehead and eyes that danced around. I said yes. I am looking for his book called Moga Mul. She looked pleased. “ Oh That! But do you read Tamil?” I said no. “Then how are you going to read it? It is only in Tamil?” “Oh really? Still I am going to buy it nevertheless!”
This began our association. Gayathri taught Mathematics at JNU and I was a lotus-eater, for days junking on books and intellectual discussions, feeding my mind with more words. People called me a junky. I was. Obsessive about books.
We began to meet sometimes. Then we met more often. Ultimately, she became my tutor. No, not mathematics. She read T Janakiraman’s Moga Mul from the Tamil version and explained it to me in English. We would read about a page and then the discussion would last for two hours. This way a year passed, then a half. Moga Mul, in Tamil means, thorn in the delusion – Moga/Moha, we all know to mean, delusion, maya and mul in Tamil means thorn. The book became my reality. My heart created its own delusion. I fell in love with her. I am not sure what her inclinations were, perhaps she knew it, perhaps not, but the dream arising from my heart had begun to overshadow all areas of my life. At last, I had to tell her one day. That was the end of my readings with her. Her doors closed to me. Next day when I arrived at her door at the appointed time, I was told by her landlord that she had moved out. Her cell number had changed and when I enquired at the Department of Mathematics at JNU, I was told she had gone on long leave. I went back to her house several times. I could never meet her again.
Thus, I took the train to Thanjavur last week to visit her home in Kumbakolam, hoping that at least if I never saw her again, at least I will have seen her birth place and her home – from a distance.How can you say you love someone if you do not know their culture, the place they grew up in, the food they eat….and if you know all these, then, whether the person is with you or not,physically, you will always be enmeshed with the other. And vice versa.
In the train I had read up on Kombakolam. It is in Tamil Nadu, and the second bigger town in Thanjavur District. Known for its silks and called the Temple City , Kombakolam is 313 km from Chennai on the south, 90 km from Tiruchy on the east and 40 km from Thanjavur on the North East. I love train journeys. They give you the space to sleep, relax, sleep and read. If you want you can also chat up the people around you. As if you were on London Sqare chatting up with other Indians there, you’ve never met before. As soon as you arrive at your destination, anyway, you’ll say good bye and forget them.
Traveling with me was a Swami from Hare Rama Hare Krishna and with him was his companion. Both were foreigners. There was also, a couple in their seventies. The regal looks of the lady and her docile yet immaculately dressed husband gave me the feeling they were TamBrams.
“ Why is it Swamiji,” said the young foreigner to the Swamiji, “ why is it, that people with homosexual tendencies, tend to fall from one love to the other so rapidly”? The TamBram old man picked up his ears, I put my book down to listen but the Swamiji’s response was thrawted by the lady. She gave one little tug at her husband’s elbow and whispered in his ears in Tamil “ These foriegners, they have nothing in their minds except sex. Even if they go to a temple all they are thinking about is sex. Look at this one, has he no better question on his mind? Come here! She commanded, pulling her husband close to her, “ What and all we have to listen to in this janam!” And although, the Swami had not understood a word of it, he knew something was wrong. He smiled at the lady. She gave him such a sour look, I thought that it tasted like rancid butter milk. The topic was not spoken of again.
From Tanjavur station, I took a bus to Kumbakolam. I was there in an hour. I knew her address. So without wasting much time, I headed to the destination. Once, at the street where her house was I looked for the place I could seat myself and watch the goings on in the house, without anyone suspecting me. I had reasons to be here. These reasons lay in my heart. I had to know more about her and get to her roots without disturbing her or her family.
A public garden opposite her house provided the perfect cover. I sat with my little jhola full of books and one set of clothes for changing.
Kumbakonam ihas a large number of temples within the town and the nearby areas. The festival of Mahamaham is celebrated every twelve years at the Mahamaham tank in Kumbakonam. The town is also known for its intricately carved Panchaloha idols, exquisite brass wares, silks and betel leaves. Kumbakonam is picturesquely located amidst the two rivers, Cauvery and Arasalar. In the 7th Century it was the Capital of Chola Kings.
Mythology has it that Brahma, the Creator, to continue with his work of Creation wanted to have a Peetam. Lord Shiva asked him to make a pot of "Amirhtam" and sand. The pot had a Peetam in it, with the Vedas around it on four sides. A coconut was kept over the pot and garlands of Poonul (Sacred Thread ) and Tharpai were decorated and Brahma worshipped it.During a flood, the pot floated and moved towards south from Mount Kailash . Lord Shiva in the disguise of a hunter, broke the pot with an arrow and the Amirtham spilled as "Amirtha Theertham" mixing the Amirtham of the Kumbha with sand. Lord Shiva emerged as lingam. The sacred place where he gave darshan as "Kumbeswaran" is now called Kumbakonam.
Presently, I saw a gentleman emerging from the house. He was clean shaven and wore a angavastra with a white vetti tied around the waist. It was obvious from his attire that he was going to the temple. I knew he was her father. He looked like a retired Government Official. Behind him, a lady came wearing a bright yellow silk sari. She closed the gate behind him and then went behind the house. From where I sat I could see she was at her kitchen garden. I had heard from Gayathri that she had green fingers and Environmentalist needed to learn a lesson or two from her on how to recycle waste. She was an expect at maintaining a balance in nature. There was no wastage at all in her house. Whatever, she did not use in one way, she used in another. Thus, here was a lady with an enormous amount of knowledge on waste management, know-how we could use. In fact, all her neighbours were following her example. So you had one street in Kombakolam where there was no garbage at all. Can you imagine that in Delhi or anywhere else in India for that matter?
I saw the colourful walls of the house. It had been built quite sometime ago and yet these walls had a history to tell me – I could see little mathematical equations in my mind’s eye written all over the walls as all children do when they first learn their A,B,C or 1, 2, 3…. Gayathri too must have written on the walls.I saw little Gayathri, wearing two tight oily plaits and a pavadai scribbling numbers on the walls.
The afternoon sun was getting hotter. I had to move to a more shady place. But just then the Guard at the garden came and looked at me suspiciously.
“Aye, enna pandrai, po veliye. Hey what are you doing, go out!”
The gates of the garden were closed for the afternoon. I moved out. Not knowing where to go I decided to visit some of the temples.
Of the many temples in Kumbakonam, the most striking is the Lord Sarangapani Temple, a Vaishnavite temple. This twelve storied, 147 feet high temple was built by the Nayak Kings during 15th century. The Ramaswamy Temple which depicts the paintings of Ramayana is another important Vaishanavite temple in Kumbakonam. The greatness of Ramaswamy Temple is said to be the only temple where Lord Rama, Goddess Sita are in the same platform and Lord Hanuman is playing the veena instead of reading the Ramayana. The entire deity is said to be made from Saligrama monolith. The Temple is filled with intricate carvings in its pillars.
Kubakonam was special to T Janakiram. He loved the River Cauvery. And the town was bound by two rivers The Cauvery, on the north and Arasalar, on the south.The two rivers embraced the town like a loving mother, a caring friend, maybe even a passionate lover.
I thought of Gayatri’s arms around me. No, they were never to be. And all the dreams I had had housed in my head were like sandcastles in the air. They were not sturdy like her house I saw, nor long lasting. And like the book she was translating to me, they were just a delusion. She was the thorn. Our story Moga Mul – a thorn in the delusion. It had burst. I looked around me, I could not find anything. The sandcastles I had built had been washed away by the rivers embracing Kumbokolam.
The half-read story of T Janakiraman Moga Mul, remained unfinished.
“ Do you have T Janakiraman’s books?” I had asked the shop owner. “ No” he had said plainly. But by then she had heard the name and came across.” Did you ask for T Janakiraman?” I saw her for the first time. She was slim and had a large forehead and eyes that danced around. I said yes. I am looking for his book called Moga Mul. She looked pleased. “ Oh That! But do you read Tamil?” I said no. “Then how are you going to read it? It is only in Tamil?” “Oh really? Still I am going to buy it nevertheless!”
This began our association. Gayathri taught Mathematics at JNU and I was a lotus-eater, for days junking on books and intellectual discussions, feeding my mind with more words. People called me a junky. I was. Obsessive about books.
We began to meet sometimes. Then we met more often. Ultimately, she became my tutor. No, not mathematics. She read T Janakiraman’s Moga Mul from the Tamil version and explained it to me in English. We would read about a page and then the discussion would last for two hours. This way a year passed, then a half. Moga Mul, in Tamil means, thorn in the delusion – Moga/Moha, we all know to mean, delusion, maya and mul in Tamil means thorn. The book became my reality. My heart created its own delusion. I fell in love with her. I am not sure what her inclinations were, perhaps she knew it, perhaps not, but the dream arising from my heart had begun to overshadow all areas of my life. At last, I had to tell her one day. That was the end of my readings with her. Her doors closed to me. Next day when I arrived at her door at the appointed time, I was told by her landlord that she had moved out. Her cell number had changed and when I enquired at the Department of Mathematics at JNU, I was told she had gone on long leave. I went back to her house several times. I could never meet her again.
Thus, I took the train to Thanjavur last week to visit her home in Kumbakolam, hoping that at least if I never saw her again, at least I will have seen her birth place and her home – from a distance.How can you say you love someone if you do not know their culture, the place they grew up in, the food they eat….and if you know all these, then, whether the person is with you or not,physically, you will always be enmeshed with the other. And vice versa.
In the train I had read up on Kombakolam. It is in Tamil Nadu, and the second bigger town in Thanjavur District. Known for its silks and called the Temple City , Kombakolam is 313 km from Chennai on the south, 90 km from Tiruchy on the east and 40 km from Thanjavur on the North East. I love train journeys. They give you the space to sleep, relax, sleep and read. If you want you can also chat up the people around you. As if you were on London Sqare chatting up with other Indians there, you’ve never met before. As soon as you arrive at your destination, anyway, you’ll say good bye and forget them.
Traveling with me was a Swami from Hare Rama Hare Krishna and with him was his companion. Both were foreigners. There was also, a couple in their seventies. The regal looks of the lady and her docile yet immaculately dressed husband gave me the feeling they were TamBrams.
“ Why is it Swamiji,” said the young foreigner to the Swamiji, “ why is it, that people with homosexual tendencies, tend to fall from one love to the other so rapidly”? The TamBram old man picked up his ears, I put my book down to listen but the Swamiji’s response was thrawted by the lady. She gave one little tug at her husband’s elbow and whispered in his ears in Tamil “ These foriegners, they have nothing in their minds except sex. Even if they go to a temple all they are thinking about is sex. Look at this one, has he no better question on his mind? Come here! She commanded, pulling her husband close to her, “ What and all we have to listen to in this janam!” And although, the Swami had not understood a word of it, he knew something was wrong. He smiled at the lady. She gave him such a sour look, I thought that it tasted like rancid butter milk. The topic was not spoken of again.
From Tanjavur station, I took a bus to Kumbakolam. I was there in an hour. I knew her address. So without wasting much time, I headed to the destination. Once, at the street where her house was I looked for the place I could seat myself and watch the goings on in the house, without anyone suspecting me. I had reasons to be here. These reasons lay in my heart. I had to know more about her and get to her roots without disturbing her or her family.
A public garden opposite her house provided the perfect cover. I sat with my little jhola full of books and one set of clothes for changing.
Kumbakonam ihas a large number of temples within the town and the nearby areas. The festival of Mahamaham is celebrated every twelve years at the Mahamaham tank in Kumbakonam. The town is also known for its intricately carved Panchaloha idols, exquisite brass wares, silks and betel leaves. Kumbakonam is picturesquely located amidst the two rivers, Cauvery and Arasalar. In the 7th Century it was the Capital of Chola Kings.
Mythology has it that Brahma, the Creator, to continue with his work of Creation wanted to have a Peetam. Lord Shiva asked him to make a pot of "Amirhtam" and sand. The pot had a Peetam in it, with the Vedas around it on four sides. A coconut was kept over the pot and garlands of Poonul (Sacred Thread ) and Tharpai were decorated and Brahma worshipped it.During a flood, the pot floated and moved towards south from Mount Kailash . Lord Shiva in the disguise of a hunter, broke the pot with an arrow and the Amirtham spilled as "Amirtha Theertham" mixing the Amirtham of the Kumbha with sand. Lord Shiva emerged as lingam. The sacred place where he gave darshan as "Kumbeswaran" is now called Kumbakonam.
Presently, I saw a gentleman emerging from the house. He was clean shaven and wore a angavastra with a white vetti tied around the waist. It was obvious from his attire that he was going to the temple. I knew he was her father. He looked like a retired Government Official. Behind him, a lady came wearing a bright yellow silk sari. She closed the gate behind him and then went behind the house. From where I sat I could see she was at her kitchen garden. I had heard from Gayathri that she had green fingers and Environmentalist needed to learn a lesson or two from her on how to recycle waste. She was an expect at maintaining a balance in nature. There was no wastage at all in her house. Whatever, she did not use in one way, she used in another. Thus, here was a lady with an enormous amount of knowledge on waste management, know-how we could use. In fact, all her neighbours were following her example. So you had one street in Kombakolam where there was no garbage at all. Can you imagine that in Delhi or anywhere else in India for that matter?
I saw the colourful walls of the house. It had been built quite sometime ago and yet these walls had a history to tell me – I could see little mathematical equations in my mind’s eye written all over the walls as all children do when they first learn their A,B,C or 1, 2, 3…. Gayathri too must have written on the walls.I saw little Gayathri, wearing two tight oily plaits and a pavadai scribbling numbers on the walls.
The afternoon sun was getting hotter. I had to move to a more shady place. But just then the Guard at the garden came and looked at me suspiciously.
“Aye, enna pandrai, po veliye. Hey what are you doing, go out!”
The gates of the garden were closed for the afternoon. I moved out. Not knowing where to go I decided to visit some of the temples.
Of the many temples in Kumbakonam, the most striking is the Lord Sarangapani Temple, a Vaishnavite temple. This twelve storied, 147 feet high temple was built by the Nayak Kings during 15th century. The Ramaswamy Temple which depicts the paintings of Ramayana is another important Vaishanavite temple in Kumbakonam. The greatness of Ramaswamy Temple is said to be the only temple where Lord Rama, Goddess Sita are in the same platform and Lord Hanuman is playing the veena instead of reading the Ramayana. The entire deity is said to be made from Saligrama monolith. The Temple is filled with intricate carvings in its pillars.
Kubakonam was special to T Janakiram. He loved the River Cauvery. And the town was bound by two rivers The Cauvery, on the north and Arasalar, on the south.The two rivers embraced the town like a loving mother, a caring friend, maybe even a passionate lover.
I thought of Gayatri’s arms around me. No, they were never to be. And all the dreams I had had housed in my head were like sandcastles in the air. They were not sturdy like her house I saw, nor long lasting. And like the book she was translating to me, they were just a delusion. She was the thorn. Our story Moga Mul – a thorn in the delusion. It had burst. I looked around me, I could not find anything. The sandcastles I had built had been washed away by the rivers embracing Kumbokolam.
The half-read story of T Janakiraman Moga Mul, remained unfinished.
A Wild Horse Called Desire
" Are you trying to seduce me" Dev asked wickedly.
"Not at all! " I replied " I am only doing a reality check on you….."
" Hmmmmmm?"
" Yes, I said, letting my knee length T-shirt bought on the pavement outside the Sahakari Bhandar at Colaba, Bombay, slip down from over my right shoulder.
" Of course you are. Why else would you expose your shoulder to me!"
" Reality check, Dev, reality check. The whole night we have talked ourselves hoarse on the role of Howard Roark in Fountainhead, vis-à-vis Dominique Francon. You said it is Dominique who attracted Roark to her and I said no, it was their mutual desire for each other that brought them together."
Dev and I talked deep into the night and quite often we heard the tingling sound from the milkman as the milk bottles from Aarey Colony, shook and jingled making their own music, in the early hours of the morning. We would talk anywhere, forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowded street, a busy Irani Restaurant, night owls at the dingy dark chai shops in Fort or even the vada pau wala outside VT Station. Once a subject caught on, we would forget everything around us. Thus, I, on my first job as a Copywriter, was forever late at work. Having twisted and turned every subject, backwards and forwards, twenty times, we would finally turn in only in the wee hours of the night. In the morning, I would jump up and scream, " Late! I am late to work!" and dash out after a quick shower. Whenever, I spent the night with Dev, I always forgot to get my toothbrush with me and used his instead.
" Yak!" he would say. " You are biting into me!"
" You love it, don’t you.’ I would wink.
Admitted! I am not denying that I certainly wanted to bite into his flesh. At least subconsciously. But so did he. Why else did he insist on biting into my vada pau even though he had his own?
Desire . The whole world runs on desire. It is desire that creates the world and it is desire, which finally also takes us to our journey towards a life of no-desire.
There are different schools of thoughts on desire. The first which most of us identify with is the simplest. Desire is good. It is the path to "more". This is where the materialistic world lies. Life must be lived with more and more desire. The more you desire the more you acquire. The more you acquire, the more happiness it brings you. Therefore, desire! Accumulate! Desire more! Invent new things! Live life King Size!
Marketers have made good use of this theory and are raking in the bucks, while we pay to feed fuel to our ever-increasing desires. They are working overtime to educate us on how new things are indeed needed in our lives. We must have them, whether we want them or we don’t. We need them, nevertheless. If we are not the first to get them, then the Shuklas and the Jones will. How can we allow them to be one up on us? Matter of prestige and social face. As a by-product of desire, anything is possible to believe and marketers have been smart. In their astute hands, we have become their ‘cash cow’! But, whoever said that the best lessons of life don’t come for free?
This leads us to the other school of thought. Desire is the root cause behind our misery they say. And how can we say that they are wrong? We have seen that when we desire one thing, we desire it so much that all else is sidelined in order that we can acquire that one object of our desire. But, there seems to be a catch there. Once we have that object of our desire, we seem to lose interest in it over time. The same thing that blinded us at one time, gave us single-minded focus, is now not the focus anymore. Already, the mind is trying to find another object that can feed fuel to our new desire. So as victims of our own devices, we become pawns in the hands of smart marketers. Or we become victims of misery. We cannot find lasting joy in anything, because as soon as we have it, we lose the joy of having it. Or at it’s worst, we become disillusioned because we cannot have what we want.
In the meantime, there is a third category of individuals who are created. In fact, they are the worst hit. They are serious victims of desire because they are addicted to desire itself! Thus, these people only desire, but never get the object of their desire because, it is not the object they want, it is the experience of desire they love. It is like, being in love with the idea of falling in love that is more desirable, than actually experiencing and sharing that love with the other.
Very deep-rooted disease, this. We can at least work towards annihilation of the desire of the other within us, but how to rid ourselves of the love of desire itself?
Different religions show us different ways of handling this malady. I prescribe to the Buddhist school of thought which tells me that desires are caused by the constant layers of impressions that are created in my mind as I interact with the world outside me. These impressions are created by all my six senses – eyes, nose, ears, touch, taste and space. All impulses arising from these sensory perceptions result in impressions that go to make up my memory system around them. Thus, once I taste sugar, I will crave sweetness. And this school says that freedom from desire is the end of misery. We are in a state of Ananda (joy, happiness) already. Only when the thick cloud of desire is removed, we realize that the misery was like a smoke that covered the flame. So while ingrained and intrinsic to desire is also misery, once, the misery passes and we see the flame, we become aware that joy had never really left us. We are in the state of eternal Ananda. That is our swabhava, just as it is the swabhava of water to be cool.It is our Original face.
So was it all a hopeless exercise? Chasing that wild horse called desire? Must we go through this pain knowing that there is misery at the end of it? Why not avoid it, in the first place itself?
We are victims of our minds and our compulsions. To stand up straight, we must fall. Again and again. That is the learning curve.
When we have learnt enough on the same lesson, we will rise and not fall to the same temptations. That requires technique, the methodology to rise against the force of gravity.
For that we require many lives, many Masters.
P.S Straight from the hare’s mouth. Lessons learnt and experienced. And Witnessed later. Thanks to Dev and many others whom I am so grateful to for pushing me to my Self.
"Not at all! " I replied " I am only doing a reality check on you….."
" Hmmmmmm?"
" Yes, I said, letting my knee length T-shirt bought on the pavement outside the Sahakari Bhandar at Colaba, Bombay, slip down from over my right shoulder.
" Of course you are. Why else would you expose your shoulder to me!"
" Reality check, Dev, reality check. The whole night we have talked ourselves hoarse on the role of Howard Roark in Fountainhead, vis-à-vis Dominique Francon. You said it is Dominique who attracted Roark to her and I said no, it was their mutual desire for each other that brought them together."
Dev and I talked deep into the night and quite often we heard the tingling sound from the milkman as the milk bottles from Aarey Colony, shook and jingled making their own music, in the early hours of the morning. We would talk anywhere, forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowded street, a busy Irani Restaurant, night owls at the dingy dark chai shops in Fort or even the vada pau wala outside VT Station. Once a subject caught on, we would forget everything around us. Thus, I, on my first job as a Copywriter, was forever late at work. Having twisted and turned every subject, backwards and forwards, twenty times, we would finally turn in only in the wee hours of the night. In the morning, I would jump up and scream, " Late! I am late to work!" and dash out after a quick shower. Whenever, I spent the night with Dev, I always forgot to get my toothbrush with me and used his instead.
" Yak!" he would say. " You are biting into me!"
" You love it, don’t you.’ I would wink.
Admitted! I am not denying that I certainly wanted to bite into his flesh. At least subconsciously. But so did he. Why else did he insist on biting into my vada pau even though he had his own?
Desire . The whole world runs on desire. It is desire that creates the world and it is desire, which finally also takes us to our journey towards a life of no-desire.
There are different schools of thoughts on desire. The first which most of us identify with is the simplest. Desire is good. It is the path to "more". This is where the materialistic world lies. Life must be lived with more and more desire. The more you desire the more you acquire. The more you acquire, the more happiness it brings you. Therefore, desire! Accumulate! Desire more! Invent new things! Live life King Size!
Marketers have made good use of this theory and are raking in the bucks, while we pay to feed fuel to our ever-increasing desires. They are working overtime to educate us on how new things are indeed needed in our lives. We must have them, whether we want them or we don’t. We need them, nevertheless. If we are not the first to get them, then the Shuklas and the Jones will. How can we allow them to be one up on us? Matter of prestige and social face. As a by-product of desire, anything is possible to believe and marketers have been smart. In their astute hands, we have become their ‘cash cow’! But, whoever said that the best lessons of life don’t come for free?
This leads us to the other school of thought. Desire is the root cause behind our misery they say. And how can we say that they are wrong? We have seen that when we desire one thing, we desire it so much that all else is sidelined in order that we can acquire that one object of our desire. But, there seems to be a catch there. Once we have that object of our desire, we seem to lose interest in it over time. The same thing that blinded us at one time, gave us single-minded focus, is now not the focus anymore. Already, the mind is trying to find another object that can feed fuel to our new desire. So as victims of our own devices, we become pawns in the hands of smart marketers. Or we become victims of misery. We cannot find lasting joy in anything, because as soon as we have it, we lose the joy of having it. Or at it’s worst, we become disillusioned because we cannot have what we want.
In the meantime, there is a third category of individuals who are created. In fact, they are the worst hit. They are serious victims of desire because they are addicted to desire itself! Thus, these people only desire, but never get the object of their desire because, it is not the object they want, it is the experience of desire they love. It is like, being in love with the idea of falling in love that is more desirable, than actually experiencing and sharing that love with the other.
Very deep-rooted disease, this. We can at least work towards annihilation of the desire of the other within us, but how to rid ourselves of the love of desire itself?
Different religions show us different ways of handling this malady. I prescribe to the Buddhist school of thought which tells me that desires are caused by the constant layers of impressions that are created in my mind as I interact with the world outside me. These impressions are created by all my six senses – eyes, nose, ears, touch, taste and space. All impulses arising from these sensory perceptions result in impressions that go to make up my memory system around them. Thus, once I taste sugar, I will crave sweetness. And this school says that freedom from desire is the end of misery. We are in a state of Ananda (joy, happiness) already. Only when the thick cloud of desire is removed, we realize that the misery was like a smoke that covered the flame. So while ingrained and intrinsic to desire is also misery, once, the misery passes and we see the flame, we become aware that joy had never really left us. We are in the state of eternal Ananda. That is our swabhava, just as it is the swabhava of water to be cool.It is our Original face.
So was it all a hopeless exercise? Chasing that wild horse called desire? Must we go through this pain knowing that there is misery at the end of it? Why not avoid it, in the first place itself?
We are victims of our minds and our compulsions. To stand up straight, we must fall. Again and again. That is the learning curve.
When we have learnt enough on the same lesson, we will rise and not fall to the same temptations. That requires technique, the methodology to rise against the force of gravity.
For that we require many lives, many Masters.
P.S Straight from the hare’s mouth. Lessons learnt and experienced. And Witnessed later. Thanks to Dev and many others whom I am so grateful to for pushing me to my Self.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Aye Khuda
He is visiting me again.
In boarding school, He took my mother’s role
Tidied my cupboard, helped me make my bed
And during Ramazan
Made me feast on beef kebabs
His name was my friend, Sabina
Again in college He entered my House
This time changing His clothes
Appealing to my intellect,
He made my heart His home
Yet, I failed to recognize Him
He called himself, Pervez
At work He hounded me
Becoming someone I could not resist
Lubna. She sat before me asking me to write
Poetry for her lover!
" Tread softly, coz’ you tread on my dreams" I wrote
In return, she held my hand and made me write
the words I longed to speak -
"La Ilaha Illallah, Mohammedur Rasoolullah"
I searched for Him high and low
Omar Khayyam, Rumi, Khalil Gibran
Sufi Mysticism, dervish, Rabi’a
He evaded me -
Suddenly, He is visiting me again.
This time a little remote
Distant, cold, faraway
Yet still a friend I won’t forget.
In her, I know Him.
I live Him in my heart
Day and night, like a Silent Prayer at break of dawn
I search Him inside
And dance like a woman gone mad
Whirling –
I become the dance.
I pick each sonnet of Ghalib in my hand
My lips sing
His Divine Song of Love
Ecstacy!
In boarding school, He took my mother’s role
Tidied my cupboard, helped me make my bed
And during Ramazan
Made me feast on beef kebabs
His name was my friend, Sabina
Again in college He entered my House
This time changing His clothes
Appealing to my intellect,
He made my heart His home
Yet, I failed to recognize Him
He called himself, Pervez
At work He hounded me
Becoming someone I could not resist
Lubna. She sat before me asking me to write
Poetry for her lover!
" Tread softly, coz’ you tread on my dreams" I wrote
In return, she held my hand and made me write
the words I longed to speak -
"La Ilaha Illallah, Mohammedur Rasoolullah"
I searched for Him high and low
Omar Khayyam, Rumi, Khalil Gibran
Sufi Mysticism, dervish, Rabi’a
He evaded me -
Suddenly, He is visiting me again.
This time a little remote
Distant, cold, faraway
Yet still a friend I won’t forget.
In her, I know Him.
I live Him in my heart
Day and night, like a Silent Prayer at break of dawn
I search Him inside
And dance like a woman gone mad
Whirling –
I become the dance.
I pick each sonnet of Ghalib in my hand
My lips sing
His Divine Song of Love
Ecstacy!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Of Birds, Bees, Beasts and Other Animals
Recently I received an invitation to a special party. The invitation read:
"Dear friends of Julie and Aftab,
Our bachas have grown to be a year old. We wish to celebrate our joy over their fabulous presence in our lives this past year with a tea party. This will be on October 2 at 4.30pm, at Aftab and Julie's residence. Sensible presents for Aftab include Fabindia smallest shirt size and Levi's jeans size 32. If opting for Fabindia, two inches should be trimmed off the bottom. Julie's Bluffmaster cassette is dying from overuse and she has been looking for a replacement. And oh yeah, bones, liver, stuffed cats and suchlike. If you prefer to gift edibles you should know that my dogs are strictly non-vegetarian as per their religious beliefs. Those planning to dedicate October 2 purely to Gandhigiri should keep in mind that the menu includes ham, potato salad, over-the-top cakes and wine of many colours."
I decided to make it really special. I have two babies - my two cats, Tobee and Spottu and am a foster mother to the two dogs belonging to our neighbours called, Laila and Majnu. Tobee ordinarily is a gentleman and extremely well behaved. Spottu! Well! The less said the better! He is naughty, aggressive and these days Tobee and Spottu, both are at each other more often than not. They have both fallen in love with Honeymoon, that sweet little girl-kitten who is now a big girl. At one time she used to be sitting on my power chair in the living room as if she was Queen of Sheeba. In fact, it is apparent that she is the Queen of Sheeba. You should see the way she has got Tobee and Spottu dancing around her little paws, like devoted Romeos! Laila and Majnu are in stiff competition with Tobee and Spottu over the milk they receive every morning and evening. Tobee and Spottu have to literally slurp up the milk before Laila and Majnu decide to grab their share. In animal kingdom, as in human, there are no good manners when it comes to food and sex. Free for all! Rule of the jungle! And why not? We are all a bunch of evolved jungalees, aren’t we?
So to change the atmosphere of fights over women and food, I thought I would give them a whale of a time!
On the 2nd I piled into my car, my two cats and Laila and Majnu and arrived 30 minutes after the party had begun. (Ahem! One must get noticed by late appearance and all that!) I was stupid! No sooner had the door opened Aftab and Julie charged at my family and me. Tobee and Spottu were smart. They squeezed in through the door and ran into the attached garden and up the tree. Laila and Majnu growled and snarled at Aftab and Julie and a fight broke out between the dogs on the one hand and the owners on the other.
" Julia! Who asked you to get yours?"
" But!" I said defiantly " I thought you would be pleased at this move since….." I was being circled threateningly by all the dogs and suddenly one pushed me so hard that I fell…" afterall" I continued as I fell, " This is a party for the animals….right?"
" Which animal are you referring to? " my friend said as she came to pick me up.
" I mean all of us!"
The cats had now decided to run between her legs and in that minute instead of picking me up, she too fell like a pile of bricks on me screaming " Aaaaw"! Her sister dashed behind the dogs " Julie! Aftab! Stop it immediately!" And slipped on the ketchup on the floor which had tumbled down from the table. We were three on the floor by now, trying hard to get up and being pushed back by the speeding dog-catch-cat chase. The house was in a state! Who is to stop a bunch of cats and dogs and other animals? There was pandemonium all over – tables laden with food were on the floor, humans screeched, and squealed, cats flew from trees at humans and landed on their shoulders, dogs barked and howled….it was a mess! The caterers ran away.
In my opinion, the party turned out superb! So many people on the floor, wailing and screaming, the music going on and on without anyone listening to it. Househelp, locked inside the kitchen, having sumptuous helpings of food. Good for them! They had a feast, while we had the beasts on us. There was no end to the chasing and there was no end to Majnu’s howling….he was the one who sat and stared at the skies and howled and howled as if there was a moon in the sky. What nobody had seen is the umpteen numbers of birds on the tree that were also chirping loudly, adding to the pandemonium in the flat. Majnu’s partner, Laila, always swifter than most others, chased Aftab and Julie till they reached the owners bedroom and turned the bed into a battlefield.
At that moment, I had a brainwave! "Get some water." I screamed. And then the work began – mug full of water was thrown on the dogs and cats till they dispersed. So did the humans. I was left with Majnu and Laila, Tobee and Spottu. An angry friend, a bad back and a bellyful of laughter.
On our way back, Tobee, Spottu, Laila and Majnu, all of us laughed and laughed! Oh! What a party that was! Wish you were there!
Written for my partner, who is away and missing home. We love and miss you too!
"Dear friends of Julie and Aftab,
Our bachas have grown to be a year old. We wish to celebrate our joy over their fabulous presence in our lives this past year with a tea party. This will be on October 2 at 4.30pm, at Aftab and Julie's residence. Sensible presents for Aftab include Fabindia smallest shirt size and Levi's jeans size 32. If opting for Fabindia, two inches should be trimmed off the bottom. Julie's Bluffmaster cassette is dying from overuse and she has been looking for a replacement. And oh yeah, bones, liver, stuffed cats and suchlike. If you prefer to gift edibles you should know that my dogs are strictly non-vegetarian as per their religious beliefs. Those planning to dedicate October 2 purely to Gandhigiri should keep in mind that the menu includes ham, potato salad, over-the-top cakes and wine of many colours."
I decided to make it really special. I have two babies - my two cats, Tobee and Spottu and am a foster mother to the two dogs belonging to our neighbours called, Laila and Majnu. Tobee ordinarily is a gentleman and extremely well behaved. Spottu! Well! The less said the better! He is naughty, aggressive and these days Tobee and Spottu, both are at each other more often than not. They have both fallen in love with Honeymoon, that sweet little girl-kitten who is now a big girl. At one time she used to be sitting on my power chair in the living room as if she was Queen of Sheeba. In fact, it is apparent that she is the Queen of Sheeba. You should see the way she has got Tobee and Spottu dancing around her little paws, like devoted Romeos! Laila and Majnu are in stiff competition with Tobee and Spottu over the milk they receive every morning and evening. Tobee and Spottu have to literally slurp up the milk before Laila and Majnu decide to grab their share. In animal kingdom, as in human, there are no good manners when it comes to food and sex. Free for all! Rule of the jungle! And why not? We are all a bunch of evolved jungalees, aren’t we?
So to change the atmosphere of fights over women and food, I thought I would give them a whale of a time!
On the 2nd I piled into my car, my two cats and Laila and Majnu and arrived 30 minutes after the party had begun. (Ahem! One must get noticed by late appearance and all that!) I was stupid! No sooner had the door opened Aftab and Julie charged at my family and me. Tobee and Spottu were smart. They squeezed in through the door and ran into the attached garden and up the tree. Laila and Majnu growled and snarled at Aftab and Julie and a fight broke out between the dogs on the one hand and the owners on the other.
" Julia! Who asked you to get yours?"
" But!" I said defiantly " I thought you would be pleased at this move since….." I was being circled threateningly by all the dogs and suddenly one pushed me so hard that I fell…" afterall" I continued as I fell, " This is a party for the animals….right?"
" Which animal are you referring to? " my friend said as she came to pick me up.
" I mean all of us!"
The cats had now decided to run between her legs and in that minute instead of picking me up, she too fell like a pile of bricks on me screaming " Aaaaw"! Her sister dashed behind the dogs " Julie! Aftab! Stop it immediately!" And slipped on the ketchup on the floor which had tumbled down from the table. We were three on the floor by now, trying hard to get up and being pushed back by the speeding dog-catch-cat chase. The house was in a state! Who is to stop a bunch of cats and dogs and other animals? There was pandemonium all over – tables laden with food were on the floor, humans screeched, and squealed, cats flew from trees at humans and landed on their shoulders, dogs barked and howled….it was a mess! The caterers ran away.
In my opinion, the party turned out superb! So many people on the floor, wailing and screaming, the music going on and on without anyone listening to it. Househelp, locked inside the kitchen, having sumptuous helpings of food. Good for them! They had a feast, while we had the beasts on us. There was no end to the chasing and there was no end to Majnu’s howling….he was the one who sat and stared at the skies and howled and howled as if there was a moon in the sky. What nobody had seen is the umpteen numbers of birds on the tree that were also chirping loudly, adding to the pandemonium in the flat. Majnu’s partner, Laila, always swifter than most others, chased Aftab and Julie till they reached the owners bedroom and turned the bed into a battlefield.
At that moment, I had a brainwave! "Get some water." I screamed. And then the work began – mug full of water was thrown on the dogs and cats till they dispersed. So did the humans. I was left with Majnu and Laila, Tobee and Spottu. An angry friend, a bad back and a bellyful of laughter.
On our way back, Tobee, Spottu, Laila and Majnu, all of us laughed and laughed! Oh! What a party that was! Wish you were there!
Written for my partner, who is away and missing home. We love and miss you too!
Friday, September 22, 2006
Affirming Diversity; Resisting Decisiveness
The day I arrived in the world, my mother’s stomach had been opened wide to bring me out. She was still under the influence of the anesthesia when the doctor and nurse decided to bring me to her. Slightly awake from the anesthesia effect, she opened her eyes and looked at the doctor – " It’s a boy, Doctor" she pronounced even before he could say anything. She had pronounced my fate as well. No, I was not a sex: Male. I was sex: Female. But my whole life has been coloured "grey" – gender ambiguity. I enjoy the trousers and the short hair. I loved the feminine qualities in me and the masculine ones. I loved women who were not really Oh, so feminine and men who are not anxious to prove they are MAN.
I like men like my current boyfriend, Yogi. Happy to sleep in my night dress and happy not to have to prove that he has what it takes to make me happy. In fact, Yogi challenges my thought process all the time. Like he did in Bombay this time after our return from Kolkata where he, I and my new friend Anusri met for a small one-night-out at the beach.
" Resist! Resist! Resist!" Yogi said firmly
" Okay! Chill! " Anusri and I had reacted together
" Time to think things over, guys. We can’t take things lying down any more."
" Yogi, ever since you have returned from Kolkata, you seem to be transformed from a cool collected chap to a militant rebel" Anusri observed.
" Blame it on the Bengali babu!" He said with a wink, looking at me.
" Please! I am not a babu" I retorted.
" Are you sure?" Yogi asked doubtfully.
" No! No! Yogi", Anusri came to my rescue, "Think diversity; Think many. Think gender-bender".
"Yup!" I laughed, " Think Judith Butler and all that. What? It has taken us twenty years or more to rethink ourselves – who we are and say and confirm what Butler said years ago, gender is a social construct and it is a grey space you just cannot put forcefully into black or while zones."
Yogi, Anusri and I were on Gorai beach. Just for this one night. Gorai beach? That’s the one I visited all my childhood years in Bombay – a beach which was isolated and you could sit inside the shacks, or on the wall and get intoxicated by the roaring sound of the sea. Your hair would turn into a large mass of wired mesh. And although you were asked not to, you would risk your life and sit by the water being bathed by the tide rushing in on you. The sand caving in under you to fit your bottoms. Relax! And sip your beer straight from the bottle like as if you had what it took to take the world by storm.
Sadly, Gorai is not the same any more. However.
In the present context, Yogi was really surprised that despite talking of diversity, many-ness, the 7th National Conference of Autonomous Women's Movements in India was visibly glaring with the absence of males. So had they decided to beat it and get on with their lives? Or, was it that the feminist movement in India had expelled them from their womb? Even this, was it that the movement had contributed to the making men who were now different and therefore did not need to go out there and make a statement. Or worst of all – had the movement created a divide. That there were men who felt threatened and hence became more male, while others who now felt liberated enough, fell into the grey zone, not really man, neither woman, somewhere in between. To go with the theme of the Conference - Affirming Diversity; Resisting Decisiveness. So where were they?
" How can one definitely say that just because I am in a male body, I have nothing that qualifies me to be what women pride themselves to possess? I cannot be cast into the box saying " The underprivileged – Sex: Male ". I am not going to accept this state. I will resist!"
" Cool it boy! After all we are all shaped by the feminist movement in India and abroad and that gives you a special privilege, to be who you are. "
" Thank God for that. Or else I would have had to keep doing what my father, grand father and great grand father had been doing all their lives! Born male. Get education. Become a professional. Work. Marry. F**K. Produce kids. Contribute to bringing up the next generation of labour force. Or get your girl-child married so she can produce another generation of homo sapiens."
He took a breath and continued, "I like to be able to be in a relationship, without having to make a commitment to marriage. I can make love without having to worry about having kids. I don’t have to be the sole breadwinner. In fact I am not the breadwinner at most times…I can just relax and do my music and make enough money to look after my needs only. I am responsible only for myself. I can cook and wash. And I don’t need my girlfriend to select my clothing and underwear. What a ridiculous thing to do! I have the opportunity to liberate myself from the clinging claws of women – thank God my mother never had the time to be there and cast her overbearing self on me. I was forced to think for myself."
" Thanks to the woman’s movement? Anusri asked again.
" Sure! Thanks to them! Can’t you see, I am not your typical Indian male? I have broken the gender stereotype and therefore I am not your typical Indian "son" who is breastfed by their mothers till they reach their funeral pyres!"
Anusri and I were going to get him this time. We raised ourselves from the wet sands of Gorai beach and were about to hurl ourselves on him, but!
He was right! Damn! He really should have been there at the Conference.
I like men like my current boyfriend, Yogi. Happy to sleep in my night dress and happy not to have to prove that he has what it takes to make me happy. In fact, Yogi challenges my thought process all the time. Like he did in Bombay this time after our return from Kolkata where he, I and my new friend Anusri met for a small one-night-out at the beach.
" Resist! Resist! Resist!" Yogi said firmly
" Okay! Chill! " Anusri and I had reacted together
" Time to think things over, guys. We can’t take things lying down any more."
" Yogi, ever since you have returned from Kolkata, you seem to be transformed from a cool collected chap to a militant rebel" Anusri observed.
" Blame it on the Bengali babu!" He said with a wink, looking at me.
" Please! I am not a babu" I retorted.
" Are you sure?" Yogi asked doubtfully.
" No! No! Yogi", Anusri came to my rescue, "Think diversity; Think many. Think gender-bender".
"Yup!" I laughed, " Think Judith Butler and all that. What? It has taken us twenty years or more to rethink ourselves – who we are and say and confirm what Butler said years ago, gender is a social construct and it is a grey space you just cannot put forcefully into black or while zones."
Yogi, Anusri and I were on Gorai beach. Just for this one night. Gorai beach? That’s the one I visited all my childhood years in Bombay – a beach which was isolated and you could sit inside the shacks, or on the wall and get intoxicated by the roaring sound of the sea. Your hair would turn into a large mass of wired mesh. And although you were asked not to, you would risk your life and sit by the water being bathed by the tide rushing in on you. The sand caving in under you to fit your bottoms. Relax! And sip your beer straight from the bottle like as if you had what it took to take the world by storm.
Sadly, Gorai is not the same any more. However.
In the present context, Yogi was really surprised that despite talking of diversity, many-ness, the 7th National Conference of Autonomous Women's Movements in India was visibly glaring with the absence of males. So had they decided to beat it and get on with their lives? Or, was it that the feminist movement in India had expelled them from their womb? Even this, was it that the movement had contributed to the making men who were now different and therefore did not need to go out there and make a statement. Or worst of all – had the movement created a divide. That there were men who felt threatened and hence became more male, while others who now felt liberated enough, fell into the grey zone, not really man, neither woman, somewhere in between. To go with the theme of the Conference - Affirming Diversity; Resisting Decisiveness. So where were they?
" How can one definitely say that just because I am in a male body, I have nothing that qualifies me to be what women pride themselves to possess? I cannot be cast into the box saying " The underprivileged – Sex: Male ". I am not going to accept this state. I will resist!"
" Cool it boy! After all we are all shaped by the feminist movement in India and abroad and that gives you a special privilege, to be who you are. "
" Thank God for that. Or else I would have had to keep doing what my father, grand father and great grand father had been doing all their lives! Born male. Get education. Become a professional. Work. Marry. F**K. Produce kids. Contribute to bringing up the next generation of labour force. Or get your girl-child married so she can produce another generation of homo sapiens."
He took a breath and continued, "I like to be able to be in a relationship, without having to make a commitment to marriage. I can make love without having to worry about having kids. I don’t have to be the sole breadwinner. In fact I am not the breadwinner at most times…I can just relax and do my music and make enough money to look after my needs only. I am responsible only for myself. I can cook and wash. And I don’t need my girlfriend to select my clothing and underwear. What a ridiculous thing to do! I have the opportunity to liberate myself from the clinging claws of women – thank God my mother never had the time to be there and cast her overbearing self on me. I was forced to think for myself."
" Thanks to the woman’s movement? Anusri asked again.
" Sure! Thanks to them! Can’t you see, I am not your typical Indian male? I have broken the gender stereotype and therefore I am not your typical Indian "son" who is breastfed by their mothers till they reach their funeral pyres!"
Anusri and I were going to get him this time. We raised ourselves from the wet sands of Gorai beach and were about to hurl ourselves on him, but!
He was right! Damn! He really should have been there at the Conference.
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