Pranav was lost in the world of colours.
It never mattered to him that the light that shone through the windows landed on his bed in a hospital.
He wasn’t at home or in school where he should have been but for Pranav life was just a journey, and he made the best out of it.
With his soulful smile bright face and gummy teeth he made people fall for him. Literally
He was the darling of the ward and everyone loved him
They had to when they looked at his paintings
His deft brush brought alive his creations,
The brilliant kathakali face which gazed at one benevolently with intricate details in the crown and a sagely beard.
The idol of Vadakkunnathan temple of Thrissur deified in fine detail,
The joyous Santa Claus,
The mischievous Mickey mouse,
The languid scenery,
Or our national flag in all its glory.
Pranav was like Midas and whatever he touched was like Gold
His art was full of life
Every creation of his was as full of cheer as he was.
He kept churning them as fast as he could
He had been doing this as a toddler at two years when the first picture he coloured a potatoes was picture perfect with not a bit of colour outside the border,
He could write all alphabets and numbers unto twenty by then with ease .
He was great in studies too, a bright student of Paramekkavu Vidya Mandir in Thrissur .his paintings have been regularly exhibited in school
He was the darling of his friends and family as he was a pleasing and likeable boy smiling all the time.
His ideas come from everything he observed with his bright eyes.
His dreams were full of creativity
His passion of painting made him forget the pain of long treatments and hospital beds
His talent delighted all.
The doctors and nurses crowded around him everyday to see his latest production.
He would chat and laugh and smile with them
Pranav is not only a bright boy, and a prodigious painter but he is also a wonderful teacher
With the way he lives his life and faces the odds he teaches us all a lot.
Good luck to you dear Pranav.

holy cow ...book review

Holy Cow by Sarah Macdonald :

This is the latest book I read .
This also my first book review ,
As I read books of all kinds I felt reviews would be the next genre to attempt ,so bear with me and read on .
Sarah an Australian vows that she would never return to India after her first backpacker visit to the land of beggars and heat .
Exasperated with her Indian adventure the last words of a beggar cum astrologer in front of the airport in Mumbai who tells her that she would return to know the country truly rankles .
Strangely it becomes true as she does so with her partner and later husband who works for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation .
This time she goes through the rollercoster ride of the country and emerges enlightened .
This description forms the novella .
Racy and raunchy the book is addictive and exposes the underbelly of our beloved nation while slowly India casts its spell by its diversity ,dichotomies ,and daredevildry .
As journalist husband abandons her for long period of loneliness during his mad rush to gather news from remote corners of Afganghistan and Nepal Sarah saunters to taste the spiritual supermarket of India .
From Sikhism to Judaism ,Parsis and their tower of death ,Sufi saints , Amirthananda mayi ,Satya Sai baba and vellangani beckon her attention .
Imbibing this soup of spirituality she skips and skims their surfaces never delving into their depths ,just being a chronicler deeply interested in all .
The rancid waters of body bloated Ganga in Varanasi ,the icy tumble down Risikesh ,the nude naga sadhus of the Kumbh Mela ,the sweating father of hot and crowded velangani ,cotton wisp bearded sufi saints and mullahs of old mosques, and the benign smiling Dalai Lama in Dharamsala she leaves nothing behind .
Bollywood brings her to the big B ,Aamir khans bedroom eyes stare at her while she converses with a cigarette smoking Priety zienta .
She signs off with a sad departure back to her empty and neat Australia with the blue skies and pure air but the whiff of India makes her comment
“ India is the land of the profane and the profound ,the land where spirituality and sanctimoniousness sit miles apart .”
A baby conceived during her last week in India she says would remind her always of the land she lived in and what it gave and what it took .
A worthy read indeed .

The Song of Emilys soul

It was a cold December evening in the year 1984 .
It was the night Emily died .
In the General hospital in Shimla lay a eleven year old Emily .
She knew she was going to die .
She was happy about it ,finally she could see her father again .
She could finally leave this cruel earth brimming with selfish greedy people .
But when she saw her mother ,sitting on the hospital bed beside her ,eyes closed ,praying ,her little heart squirmed .
What would her mother do without her ?
Emily was all she had ….the only ray of hope in her life .
That cold December evening as Emily lay waiting for death to wrap its cold arms around her she remembered the past eleven years of her life .
When Emily was born ,her huge bungalow was filled with dozens of aunts and uncles who squeezed her cheeks and showered gifts upon the gooing gurgling baby ,but five years later when Emily’s fathers business broke and they were plunged into bitter poverty not one of them were anywhere to be found .
One by one they began to lose everything they had ,and were left to beg in the streets .
Emily,s father not able to bear the disgrace ,committed suicide ,never thinking of the two lonely people he was leaving behind ,his wife Daisy and daughter Emily .
They survived as Daisy began to work as a housemaid and with money earned sent Emily to school .
Emily with her bright eyes and innocent smile became everyones angel .
She taught her mother how to live through their hardship with a smile .
She used to find something to be glad about everything that happened .

But in her tenth year when doctors diagnosed her with blood cancer poor Emily couldn’t find anything to be glad about .
What followed were days filled with tears ,excruciating pain,and dying hope .
Day by day she grew weaker and weaker .
Her mother borrowed huge sums of money to pay for her treatment ,not thinking of how she was going to repay them ever.
All she cared about was her daughter .
If Emily died Daisy knew she did not want to live for a moment more .
Emily knew that too .
So on that cold December evening Emily called her mother to her and gasping for air said “ mama …promise me that if I die you wont commit suicide like dada did ,don’t worry …you wont be alone I will be
there ..there..” and using all her energy she slowly raised her hand and pointed to her mothers heart .
“I promise I wont dear “ said Daisy and watched as Emily took a long breath ,sighed and then breathed no more .
Daisy did not cry ,she slowly placed her hand over her chest and listened carefully .

In the rhythm of her hearts beat Daisy could hear
the song of her daughters soul …

Sruthi menon
Class 10

vellore

Vasur at 6 Am was desolate but for the cool November morning breeze there was not a soul and all that the golden quadrilateral between Bangalore and Chennai had were speeding vehicles and one risked getting maimed or killed if one dared to ask for directions.
Sneha Deepam was where my accommodation was arranged in Vellore and it was at Vasur just 7Km from the town.
There was a small temple and out of it came an old lady hobbling her way slowly, vocal ministrations on my part were successful in getting an answer from her.
I trudged the few yards along the service road dragging my suitcase like a morning walker with his dog on tow.
Sneha Deepam was a quaint wooded place with a just constructed building and an older one ahead.
I spotted a bearded Tagore look alike in priests garb that greeted me with a warm handshake and arranged for my room in a jiffy.
Vellore CMC hospital was to be my focus for one week as I had come here for a course and Sneha deepam was to be my home for this time.
My room was spartan ad neat and faced a courtyard full of raucous turkeys and cocks .At night they made a ruckus with one particular cock waking me up every day at midnight, in deep sleep I would curse the bird of a future where it becomes my deep fried dinner.
Next day morning Iam off to The Christian Medical College hospital.
This should be one of the most crowded places on this side of the earth.
I jostled my way through the milling crowds.
The atmosphere was filled with Hindi and Bengali talk and I felt I landed somewhere between Bihar and West Bengal. (Most of the patients in the hospital hail from these two states)
. A search for the department where I was meant to be made me circumbulate the complex like a satellite in its orbit before I zeroed in on it.
I was immersed into my work happy to meet new people and learn new things.
The day ended quickly and I disgorged myself into the streets around the hospital.
Coming out in the evening Bangla food, pure halwas, meeti paans, and such other signs greeted me so did hundreds in pajama kurtas and tucked dhotis, I felt I was inside a hindi film and looked around for the compulsory villain, I shook myself from the revelry by taking a hot chai and the tamil magazines on the stand of a small shop oriented me back to dear old Vellore.
A dry hinterland just 140 km from its famous neighbouring Chennai this overgrown village of a town has most of its fame thanks to the CMCH.
It is said its two main buses make a pradhaksina of it .
Of course history rumbled beneath the city and all one had to do was to look for it which was what I did when I stepped into the Vellore Fort .
Crossing the wide moat twenty feet deep, which was said to have had ten thousand gluttonous vile crocodiles sloshing in the sludge waiting for their dinner.
I imagined hooves of helmeted soldiers and clangs of their black murderous swords as they galloped into the fort for orgies of bloodshed.
Names of Tipu Sultan ,Hyder Ali ,the Vijayanagar kings ,booted British and flamboyant French crowded my vision
It was the seat of Pallava, chola, Nayak, Maratha, Arcot nawabs, Bijapur sultans.
Built probably during the reign of Chinna bommi Nayak in 1526 Ad to 1596 AD the Fort is a fine example of military architecture.
I imagined the poor sodden tourists who crowded the fort like sheep as these worthies.
I stepped into a deserted Tourist information centre for my quota of information and met a sorry looking clerk who was about to lock the place and saunter home for a much needed bath when bad luck in the form of an eager tourist yours truly landed on his poor self .He quickly did the vanishing trick filling my hands with copies of two brochures.
The neighboring archeology office was faithful to its specialty in almost being a heritage site with rusted bicycles parked inside and yellowed files fluttering from an overhead fan ,a surprised attender discouraged me from enquiries by pointing me to the direction of the temple .
I had to find solace in God after this indeed and so I walked barefoot by the cool flagstones into a magnificent courtyard.
The sculptures of the jalakandeshwarar temple built by the Vijayanagar rajas were scintillating and an example of the artist’s brilliance. Huge motifs described scriptures vividly.the temple was spacious and breezy; I sat on the he stone slabs, which were warm after the day’s sun.
The temple had an inner and outer prakara and a kalyanamandapam
I got up slovenly and trudged back home munching on some hot peanuts ruminating on those days
As dusk gathered I returned back to vasur and its turkeys.

DOCTOR ON THE TRAIN

DOCTOR ON THE TRAIN:

Traveling by train always leads to talking, the Indian railways being conducive to the national ethos of idle conversations, what else do you do with all the time and with nothing, in particular, to pass the time
suddenly your neighbor whom you wouldn’t have cared to look at elsewhere looks positively interesting and you ache to know all about him . He becomes a celebrity in those closed quarters.
Being a doctor passenger often has its good and bad , the moment you say you are a doctor faces around light up as their minds work overtime on how to badger a free consultation
“ohh a doctor is it a homeopath or an allopath? which specialization? which hospital? my nephew is a doctor you know in the states a cardiologist, Americans have given their heart to him !! haha
After this innocent introduction, the knives have sharpened the kill
“You know .” pipes one bald corner seat walla “actually my back is the problem lumbago, it all happened when I slipped a disc or two years back and it is been hurting me ever since, I used to touch the ground with my forehead all the time before that
( no wonder the hair bade him farewell ) all those medicines I have swallowed have only made my doctors buy new cars and left my pain with myself .”
This would give rise to faint chuckles by the crowd always delighted to expose clay feet it is a good pastime that a doctor is being tickled, after all they live on our sicknesses and make one pay fat bills to live in style.
Every man there becomes an instant remix of Lenin and Stalin as they berate the doctor as a symbol of bouergaiese excess
The lower berth pot belly would then start describing the noxious emanations vaporizing from his posterior and confess how he always needed a toilet around. He goes on to lengthy explanations punctuated by grunts and groans to elaborate his bowel movements in remarkable details as to him they were earth-shaking events.
“ My aunt has cancer you know, why can't you doctors find a cure for that ? and yes AIDS what about AIDS , forget all that, the common cold is there a cure for it ?
accuses the bright young thing peeking from her Readers Digest.
To her Doctors should have answers for everything or else they were not worth their salt.
A somber-looking middle-aged man who has hypochondriac written on his forehead dictates the whole pharmacopeia as the drugs he is on and finally with a forlorn look asks me what do you suggest doctor? for which I almost say all you need my dear man is the right kick in the right arse but turn down the temptation for the next time.
There are dangerous maniacs who hate modern medicine with a venom lurking in all crowds, especially trains who seek their victims in unaccompanied doctors.
They always berate doctors of charging exorbitantly and letting loose tons of dangerous drugs on the unsuspecting innocent sick of the country, this variety is always aided by timid companions with their own versions of torture by doctors, spreading the word that all doctors are born murderers and pirates so much so that the whole train hates you by the next junction.
The internet has made it more difficult with net savvy smart alecs fresh from their browsing quizzing on the latest to foggy old doctors like me whose knowledge starts and ends with the kind pamphlet the medical reps deliver with panache
one yearns to get away from all this probably with a friendly puff near the door, but nuisance follows like Marys's lamb “ what doctors smoking, what a bad example? “
So now this time I traveled in the train I was wise and when the inevitable question came I called myself a sanitary inspector with a sneer thinking that will put you, morons, in your place but then the man next to me said oh a sanitary plumber is it tell me which is the best potty for a man with third-degree piles !!!
Karma lands me in hemorrhoids again !!.

ekalavya the royal gaurd

" Ekalavya the Royal Guard ." is the title of the latest magnum opus of Vidhu Vinodh Chopra ,who is said to have presented the big B the hero of the film with a Rolls Royce phantom as a gift for acting in the movie !!
Amitabh Bhachan and several others with their healthy ripe beards and colourful turbans look good in profile in the stills of the movie .
The film starts in low key with whispered dialogues and dark interiors of a Rajput palace ,one looks forward to the mystery of the desert which is strengthened by the strangling of the bed ridden rani ( sharmila Tagore ) by the old Rana ( Bomman Irani ) for uttering the name of the royal guard Amitabh as the father of her twins the heinous act is watched by the mentally challenged twin sister of Saif ali Khan
( prince Harshavardan ) the heir .
She promptly paints the scene and keeps it a secret till her brother discovers it to plan his revenge ,after much bloodshedding and half the characters of the film eliminated the remaining victors become king and Pitamaha ..
Photography is excellent with the desert palace shimmering in its magnificience and the royal guard shows his skills by slicing off a ghungroo tied on to a flying pigeon claw and catching it , all done blindfolded as requested by Sanjay Dutt ( pannalal ) the low caste DYSP !
Poor Sanjay is wasted with a presence so short and insignificant ,probably he was added because he looked good in the profile .He did a good job even then .
So are dear Jackie Shroff the villainous brother of the Rana .( Vidhu could have saved a few crores by taking lesser actors without much difference and a couple of Malayalam films could have been made in the bargain )
All royal intrigues and backstabbing are shown with finesse and desert sequences with running camels and chugging trains executed with élan .
The only song in the film is melodious and worth listening .
Amitabhs baritone is the redeeming feuture ,he thunders in the silence ,even his low key whispers are husky and appealing .
Good movie surprisingly for a hindi one , but something seemed missing
Probabaly it was the too earnest effort to make it different .
Watchable .

AMCHI MUMBAI

The milling crowds were what that stood out in Mumbai on my recent visit ,they were vibrant , palpable and everywhere .
The city was alive and transmitted its cheer to all .
On a Sunday evening traffic came to a standstill as people waited for the big B to emerge out of his Juhu villa for the weekly darshan given when the great man drove to his old house in the next street from his new one ,once he passed away the crowd melted into thin air and life was back to its normal frenetic pace .
Very typical of the city which could spring back to life with renewed energy after any event like Jackie chan in his fights .
Railway stations were excellent for people watching if one could manage to find a niche to do so ,the overbridges were mini shopping malls laden with goods and haggling vendors .They had their own custom and so did the up station malls with their expensive wares.
Eating in the streets seems to be the national pastime for the Mumbaite whose culinary list began with patata vadas and ended with masala dosas sugarcane juices ,kababs ,and what not .
People ran ,ate ,spat ,smirked ,caught trains ,snoozed ,played cards ,jostled gawked and grumbled with equal intensity day and night .
Some finesse was required to alight on a suburban trains at peak hours ,the best way was to be alternatively passive and aggressive ,to be pushed by the crowd into the train and to resist with all force not to be pushed by the same crowd through the other doorway ,if one could manage this the art of traveling in Mumbai came easy and was even a pleasure .
The buses were less crowded but more slower as they grinded through the leaden traffic .
Towering skyscrapers dwarfed crowded slums of international repute like Dharavi where enterprise was as big as in Nariman point and where many a mafia don polished his skills .
Bollywood was always in the background as grinning Sharukh Khan billboards stared at you from railway platforms . .
youngsters dressed like their heroes ,women of different hues and colours and sizes ,topi clad dhabbawallas doing their world renowned balancing acts armless beggars and overdressed eunuchs were part of the collage and confusion .
The border between night and day were inconspicuous as people moved like ants late into the night under the brilliance of focused lights .
Marine drive resembled a diamond necklace adorning the blue neck of the Arabian sea ,pigeons fluttered a welcome in the gateway of India which echoed the resonant beats of many bands from the past .Distant ships winked their lights sad on leaving dame Mumbai and its pleasures .

The mahalaxmi temple shone resplendent in the morning sunshine as waters lapped just behind it ,the crowds were huge with people jostling in a sea of colours ,nearby haji ali durgah was a short walk up a causeway which would get filled up with tide ,huge cauldrons were being washed in the sea water for the days biriyani preparation and fishing baots kissed the causeway .

after the long dreary trudge back we gulped down the cold mango slice offered in a famous fruit shop at abominable prices
Wayside Gods went to sleep after the priests left them alone ,the solitary chime of a deserted church bade goodnight ,
Amchi mumbai is best remembered by these sounds ,sights , and tastes .
The curtain came down with the clacking sounds of a disappearing train stored in the subconscious for the sake of nostalgia .

Harimohan

Sun and Sand

Dawn in the desert was cold and the two shivered wrapping their regulation blankets tightly around .
Soon the sun would be up gobbling the earth with its red tongue , the sands would burn and the heat would blaze .
Life in this frontier outpost of kutch border wasn’t a joke for these air force men .
They were left alone for days but loneliness after some time was depraving .
It was their job to climb up the huge tower and steer the sights to the target built miles away so that they could asses the angle at which the fighter pilot had made a hit on them ,with two other towers at equi distances from the target giving their calculations all that the officers had to do was to collate the data to find out the markmanship of their ace pilots .
In the early seventies this was the way things were done .
Pillai and Varun Pandey would have been unmatched anywhere but in the Airforce they have been chums for many years so much so that pillai often spoke chaste Bihari and Pandey talked mallu lingo .
They had been posted in this Godforsaken tower with their meager stores for a week now and were hoping that the supply truck would come to give them a reprive .
Their dream came true as the truck laboured down the sand and they were given a twelve hour off and dropped in the nearest town .
They were expected to be ready by dawn the next morning waiting for the truck at the appointed place .
Time flew fast for the soldiers ,the local bar and other colourful entertainment made up for their days of penance .
The drunk men sang raucously as they got out of the thatched cinema hall and retired to their hotel room to sleep soundly .
Morning came and went and so did their truck as the men slept on .
At ten am Pillai woke up with a start and shook Pandey .
They were in dire trouble and could be court martialled for this mistake .
They ran to the nearby bus stand and made enquiries of any transportation to their destination ,a turbaned man told them to rush to the railway station and catch the passenger train which would take them some eight kilometers away from the border ,this was the only option ,if the train reached by late noon they could run the distance and be in their tower by dusk .
They caught the train ,and soon were on their way in a crowded compartment filled with the colors of Rajasthan .
When they reached their destination it was hot and dry .
The station was a single room in the wilderness and the old stationmaster cum porter cum signal man cum guide told them that they had a long hot walk ahead of them before disappearing into thin air .
They jogged ahead the goat path into the wild sands ,made good progress initially ,slowly becoming slower as the sun dipped into the west .
Sunset in a desert was a magnificent sight to behold but the two were hardly in the mood to enjoy the finer aspects on nature ,their throats were parched and their meager water reserve had ran out .
It became dark and cold and like a changing set of an opera show the star studded sky replaced the resplendent sunset .
No tower was in sight as the men trudged wearily ,their doubts of losing their way had become a certainty now .
It was their tough military physique that stood them in this hour of crisis .
They decided to rest for the night and try to find their way in the morning .
They lay down in the sand and went into an exhausted sleep .
At midnight they woke up with a start chattering their teeth in the cold .The cutting wind was icy and knawed into their bones .They put all the dresses they had and tried to build a small fire an impossible task in the open with a blowing wind ,they could hear a werewolf howling nearby .
Pillai could stand the cold no more and started shoveling the sand on himself ,he found this sand tunnel gave him some warmth ,soon both of them had only their heads above the sand and slept with their eyes open for the dreaded wolf .

Morning came at last ,they emerged from their coccon and dusted themselves ,slovenly they trudged ahead as the sun became bigger .
After some time they came across a rustic goat herd and the boy told them in sign language they had come miles away from their tower to another abandoned one near the border ,he also gave them some water .
Reaching the tower they clambered ahead and broke open its shuttered doors ,inside there were two flares as they expected .
They fired one and waited ,there was silence and nothing else ,they fired the second and last one and their final hope of rescue ,as now even the goat herd was nowhere to be seen
The flare brightened the sky in its glow ,still nothing ,they lay down in the dirty tower dejected and worn out .
All that they wanted now was to live ,damn getting court martialled .
Suddenly they saw a return flare in the distance and their hearts leaped with joy .
It was a couple of hours more before their rescue truck came and took them home .

( A true story recounted by Mr. Pillai to me recently ,
names changed of course )

Harimohan

bose krishnamachari

Fort Cochin Parade ground by evening is filled with people enjoying their football
,I walked by its fringes along princess street and its Italio Dutch homestays ,reaching kashi coffe house .
I asked for the kashi gallery as I wanted to see the exposition of contemptory creativity by Bose Krishnamachari
His “Lava (laboratory of visual arts ) .” was a collection of excellent books many of them coffee table and rare ones along with five flat Sony TV screens and countless DVDs to feed uponVISUAL READING?
Tks to Source online web page
Is it a library? Is it a movie theatre? Is it a laboratory? When Bose Krishnamachari presented LaVa (Laboratory of Visual Arts), what he calls a 'contemporary-temporary library for the visual reader' drew curious crowds. An archival project, his collection of visual art practices drawn from museums, institutions, galleries, shops and streets in major art capitals is a site-specific installation founded on his avid interest in architecture, design, furniture and art. Bose's desire to share the knowledge available from across the globe shaped the library of books, DVDs and CDs covering subjects like cinema, architecture, design, fashion, cultural studies and philosophy.
"What I was missing during my student life, I am trying to share that now within my limitations. A room within an institution, an art project within a museum, a library - that has been my never-ending passion," discloses the artist

He had laid this feast for anybody who would walk in so as to give what he missed in his youth to all .
I was directed to the gallery a good four km away in Mattancherry and I decided to walk the distance instead of driving .
Passing the Chinese nets bending low into the sea for their catch and the foreign tourists relishing their instantly cooked sea delights I reached the fort cochin boat jetty just in time for a whale like jinghar emptying its motor contents into the crowded street .
I walked along the old port ,the old courtyard ,and the segull that dotted the road ,moved on to the jumbled heap of houses along the sluggish canal opening into the blue sea at Calvetthy bridge
Every house was filled with life and people were busy with their activities ,some were squatting on the compound walls of the old buildings puffing their bidis which glowed in the waning light of dusk , quickenkng my steps I passed the State bank of India and entered into Mattancherry .
Buisness was generally down these days but one could imagine the confusion and clamour of the place in the past ,huge lorries laden with goods passed me in the narrow street lined by wholesale rice merchants ,
pure basmati rice said one sign and a pajama clad Gujrathi strode out to call for his assistant in chaste Malayalam ,Tea shops with pregnant bananas and rice cakes in their glass showcases beckoned in gastronomic temptation .
One particular building had a film shooting gong on and one could see so many vans with cinematic sidekicks loitering around .
My legs were aching with kashi gallery nowhere in sight ,I met an aqquaintance who was wondering what I was doing in those parts ,he informed me I had another half a kilometer to cover ,the rice shops gave way to potato onion and later paper shops with small galleries sprinkled in between .
Finally I walked into the cool courtyard of kashi art gallery and was transported into my favourite world of books and films .
I left writitng the comment in the book provided
Dear bose congrats for creating infinite space constrained only by the rigours of time HARIMOHAN
STRETCHED BODIES BY BOSE KRISHNAMACHARI

cmch palliative care

posting this from vellore as i attend my contact class
been a great time ,excellent teachers wonderful human beings ,great place to stay and novel experience
will write more
bye
hari

the mirror by sruthi menon

The Mirror



I meditate on my throne the speckled wall
None of you can resist my tempting call
To gaze upon me for hours together
And admire your new coat made of leather
I do not show anything but the truth
On my surface, clear and smooth My judgment might often seem very rude
But unto changing my mind I can never be lured
I bet you wish you could mould me

To look at yourself, the way you want to be Keep such thoughts out of your mind
As a more stable and fixed one than me, you'd never find
I have always remained a big necessity for you Over the itsy-bitsy mark on your nose you love to mew ",


I do not show anything but the truth
On my surface, clear and smooth
My judgment might often seem very rude
But unto changing my mind I can never be lured


I watch you struggle to keep up with the latest fashion
To become the world's greatest supermodel is your secret passion I really want to tell you ,
if I could speakn Into your true self to take a tiny peek
I wish you would stop worrying over a small mole
To become a better person should be your ultimate goal

By Sruthi Menon

my kerala

MY KERALA

Born and brought up in Madras (todays Chennai ) in the sixties ,Kerala in my young days was the place one visited for holidays , every summer found our family trooping into the cavernous central station to board the Mangalore mail to visit my native village of Parappanangadi .
The steam engine ride were magic to .
The sleeper compartments were neater and more roomy , my face would dry up in the whipping wind and eyes smartfrom the coal dust carried from the engine .
Still I used to crane my neck to watch the curving train specially as it reached Kuttipuram where I could see its full length .
The IRR served delicious dinner at Katpadi in plantain leaves and we would go to sleep .
Morning would see us chugging into Olavakkode junction and we knew it was our beloved Kerala by the greenery that replaced the dull brown of Tamilnadu .
After alighting at Parappanagadi and walking along the train and its engine which had a huge star in its front I used to smile fondly at those men of magic sweating over the coals .
Crossing the rock strewn track snaking its way into the village we passed cool green fields with dew sprinkled on the paddy balancing ourselves in the varambu .
locals greeted us with the inevitable Eppa vannu ,Eppala ponnu ?
Piping hot tea with banana chips from a loving grandma and my cousins would welcome us in Thekkepat kovilakkam .
what a great way to start a joy filled holiday of two months when we played from dawn to dusk ,splashed about in the green pond till our eyes were red ,ate green mangoes till our teeth tingled , ogling pretty girls in skirts glowing in the lit lamps of the local temple ,watching cinema at the local talkies in which a staid Prem Nazir ran in circles around an obese Sheela all this made our day .
Going with my granddad and the kariyasthan to those distant plantations for coconut felling where I was treated as a kuttithampuran and bestowed with cool elanner made me forget my mundane hot Madhras days .
The preparations started early before we planned to leave , cashew nuts scalded in the coal embers were cracked open ,plump jackfruits split by equally plumper cooks to stew with sarkarra for an aroma filled chakkavarrattiyadu ,green bananas fried to perfection for our Tamilian friends , sacks of coconuts and ripe mangoes packed .
The day finally would came when we hugged our grandparents and walked to the station and then to Calicut where we lunched in our uncles house and later bought sticky aluvas in Mithai street
.Reaching the station we would clamber abroad a parked compartment which would get attached to the Mangalore mail as it steamed into the station and thus ended our annual romance with Kerala ,
Those days were better than staying here for past twenty years always .

My Kerala is fifty years young

Fifty year old baby on nov 1st my kerala

Kerala the land that rose from the flung axe of Parasuram from the deep sea is a meld of history ,legend ,and folklore , a green canopy with backwaters ,rivers and lakes ,bordered by hills forests .
Nature has bestowed favours in abundance and its langurous beauty is unsurpassable .
The formidable geographic barriers western Ghats and the Arabian sea insulated it from rest of the country making it unique and different
it reached to foreign nations across the seas for trade and thus the impressions from interaction were left deep in its psyche .
Christianity came in the time of Christ ,so did Islam from its early days ,Jews came for refuge and melted into its conscience .
the acceptance and assimilation of thoughts from all parts of the world made it an original melting pan .
The land of Adisankara and his Adwaita degenerated over time to fissures of caste consciousness as to be mocked by Swami Vivekananda as a lunatic asylum .
Great rulers sat over its destiny patronizing arts ,architecture and music .
The likes of Swathi thirunal ,Raja Ravi Varma ,contributed their talents to its fine arts .
Kathakali ,Mohiniattam ,Chakkiar Koothu and Ottam thulal flourished in its temples rich in aesthetics
Ayurveda the ancient medical science of vedic times flourished here and has now become world reknowned,
Modern medicine has given health demographies to the state envied by developed countries
Martial arts like Kalari spread to the far east and metamorphosed as Karate and kungfu
Sanskrit and the influence of Aryan culture through the Namboothiri clans and thier vedic mantras and tantras gave that singularity to Kerala temples
Its language Malayalam was a mix of Tamil and Sanskrit .
Women held a place of esteem in Kerala always ,
Marumakkathayam the practice giving importance to female offsprings was something unique, they touched heights of education.
New Political thoughts flourished flowering into novel experiments .Marx and Engels and social equality found a fertile bed in a feudal land with discriminations
ushering the worlds first democratically elected communist Government which degenerated gradually into equality by poverty by its militant labour .
The NRI s of Kerala contrary to this proved a hardworking force and excelled in the ability to absorb and merge in newer atmospheres..
Their remittances proved a boost to the economy shattered by political beliefs ,its rich plantations and tourist potentials filled its coffers .
Today Kerala though handicapped over the years with monotonous and lackluster political leadership has reached its potentials by the dint of its private enterprise and its hardy adventurers who have surmounted obstacles to achieve their goals
The peoples movement for literacy ,kudumbashree ,etc for reached to roots with public participaton in progress .
Smart cities and IT era if successful would herald a new beginning to this great state unlike older revolutions
This fifty year old baby is a part of my soul
Iam confident of its youth to take it where it belongs

Sliiping through the fingers My Mother

Pain knaws your heart strings when loved ones slip through your fingers
past unfolds its contents to the minds eye and only memories linger
Old or young to a mother a child and to a child a mother
is there a greater love for either ?

Five days of stiff and still existence in a coma
Where tears well down from sad and vacant eyes in trauma
filling our chest with sorrow
and wrath and dread for the marrow

Sacrifices ,sufferings ,selflessness and dedications,
Stark facts stare at with consternation
and when the time came and she slipped through my helpless fingers now
I let go as it was all I could do to repay for her unstinted love ....

Hari ( written immediately after my mother passed away after five days in coma )

kodajhadri

Kodajadhri

It was zero gravity time ,the jeep was literally vertical and our backs pressed to the seats like astronauts jettisoning into the orbit .
We clenched our fists hard as the driver swerved in the muddy road ,the tyres failed to get a hold and we slowly slithered down ,his face frowning with concentration doing a quick symbol of prayer with his hands he brought it down slow and steady as we watched with terror ,the edges were steep and we could gaze down the cliff .in minutes what seemed like hours we halted and the driver took a deep breath ,while we white faced were too famished even for that .
The morning when we left Mookambika and the flowing Sowparnika to go up Gudajhadri we never expected anything of this sort !
The place was known as spot where Adi Sankaracharya saw the Goddess Saraswathi and requested her to come to his native place and be enshrined in a temple .legend goes that the goddess agreed on one condition that he should never turn back and look and if he did she would stop there ,he did exactly that once he came down the hills at Mookambika and the devi stayed out there and so the origin of the temple .
We had decide to go see the place where it happened and the trip had just started ,the driver revved up the engine and this time he was sure and confident ,he skirted the mudbank expertly and sassyed up in style .
After more than an hour of jostling and jangling when our bones rattled with our teeth over rock strewn obstacle courses called “the road “ we reached all in one piece onto a small temple with a flowing waterfall
.the fresh and cool water refreshed us and we sauntered up the bridle path on our hardy climb .
It was tough and made us breathless with exertion ,the children ran up with vigor and enthusiasm while the obese among ours like yours truly reached the half way exhausted and with the feel of a Tenzing norgay on the summit .
The bushes hid fat leeches which promptly bled you ,but the view was breathtaking
The Ganpathy guha was a quaint little cave tucked into an alcove in the mountain and with dribbling water from its canopy .
A priest sat on his haunches mumbling prayers ,after our customary obstinacies we moved up a narrow steep path full of rocks and bushes ,it was a hard climb and sweat was pouring out of me and I wondered when I would ever reach the top .
I kept asking people coming down wheezingly how much more I would have to go and the replies weren’t very encouraging as it was quite a way up .
Suddenly when I had almost decided to turn back I burst into a wonderful grass carpeted plateau and a small temple the very place where the great saint who introduced Adwaitha to the world sat in meditation .
It was exuberance coupled with bliss to be in such a holy place and the cool wind that caressed our face made up for all the troubles we had gone to reach there
.down below very steep was another important place which we did not dare venture as it was slippery from the rain and very risky .
We turned back and climbed down .
This was more difficult than climbing up as we needed to watch every step or we would reach below in a hurry in many pieces .
Down and down we came and after quite along time was back near the jeep and sipped a refreshing tea.Gudajadhri was a treat indeed .

parappanangadi

Even in Gods own country very few would have heard of parappanangadi
, a tiny hamlet tucked away on the malabar coast around 30 km from Kozhikode the capital of the Zamorin king who ruled those parts long back when Vasco Da Gama made his famed landing .
the one platform railway station had always been the centre of activity in this dusty village but returns from Dubai the Eldorado of these lands have transformed them as if by a magic wand
.The hard stones on the railway track was a path which rose up and came down seductively , winding like a long snake lying in slumber , a great spot for interaction and introspection. Elegant nair tharavadus or family homes lined the track on both sides
Chudala paraambu gave the jitters specially when twilight struck for that was where the locals were buried or burnt and had its own myths and mystique sticking to it ,while the stark sunlight made fear melt as lungi clad boys played soccer.
gentle breeze would waft in from the west where the arabian sea crashed on the rockface while fishermen returned after their exertions ,
The Ayappankavu temple would be lighted and shining bright resplendent for the evening deeparadhana and aristocratic ladies in white mundus circumbulate in dignity ,.the huge banyan tree letting peeping stars shine through its foliage with chirping birds giving an encore.,come december and the place would reverbrate with saranam ayappos
Parappanangadi has very litle history to speak of but for its fiery Mopiilla rebellion in 1921 when Gurka soldiers of the British packed hundreds of rioters in railway carriages like sardines and sent them on a one way trip.many of the older
Avukarkutty naha a minister in an earlier cabinet of kerala was one of the rememberd local celebrity who saw to it that many express trains which had earlier winked at the village stopped and paid obsequainse.
It would be a long time before the famous astrologer paniker make parapp famous globally
Thee Anjapurra market which once had only anjupurras or five houses is the happening place of Parappanangadi, the other being the railway station but with Gulf sojourns of the natives changing the face of the village Anjaapura transformed itself beyond recognition .
Hotel Malaya just behind the railway station greeted you as you entered into town stood the ravages of time and served the gourmets and gluttons with no favouritism ,the days when we used to frequent the place for hot biriyani Malappuram istyle and the heady concotion of a red coloured chai with our hard earned cashewnut collected booty is fresh in our memories.
Jayakerala talkies was the excuse for a nightlife in parappanangadi where one could watch Premnazir swinging around trees with scarcely clad damsels or sing moony songs on riverbanks.every ten minutes as the reels were changed catcalls would hit the roof making the sweating projector man do it in a jiffy.
The vayanasala or library was the haunt of youngsters and its shady corners were a good hideway for a game of rummy
Chemmadu a little away enroute to Calicut was the duty free market of the area where foreign goods were available at throwaway prices
Green fields lined by swaying coconut trees and cherooty river winding its way into the distant hills were crossed to reach the famous bhagavathy temple Amanjerikavu where once in a year wooden horses were carried on mens heads beating to the rhythm of drums in a ritual called kuthirakettukali.
Our own family diety Sarikkil Bhagavthy had her quite little temple with huge umbrella like banyan trees giving shade and breeze ,the evening drums drifted in the dusk like a clarion call to the faithful.The temple tank where the clear water invited us for frolicking with abandon was cleaned once in a year by the locals ,it was a great event going well into the night with hot kattankappis( coffee without milk) and steaming kappas( tapioca) fortified the mud covered diggers while cries of joy rose when big braals( fish ) were caught by their fins ,the booty taken promptly to the nearby fields to be barbecued.
On Navaratri nights when the annual festival took place sleepy eyes watched ottanthulal,chakiarkuthu and kathakali perfomances by great artistes from Kalamandalam
The rest of the days Night fell early and people went to bed fast to wake up at dawn and to another day in this quaint little place.

grandad of all generals

Grandad of all generals :
The great general of pakistan musharraf
Is going to treat terrorists rough and tough.
And as osama hides in his cave and jinnah in his grave
Militant Mullahs gather their Guns to save

But has the general taken us for a ride ?
we have to wait for time and tide .
Has he carried off another coup?
none of us have a tiny clue

Take his words with a ton of salt
For he is known to lie without a fault
He is a great showman
And America will always be his greatest fan

Remember the architect of kargil
will never have his fill
till the day he gets kashmir
with all its lake, pine and fir

China gives him missiles
and the saudis money in piles
And as long there is Uncle Sam
Our general is never in a jam

He hosts Dawoods and Memons
And several other such demons
His hobby is to play with terrorism
which today seems has replaced all isms

India might be the land of his birth
but he dismisses it as all a myth
His hennaed hair blew like that of a mare
As he strode the Taj like he was the Raj

Taliban was his darling
But he stabbed them on Americas calling
The general is a practical man
For he doesn’t want to be an also ran

Bharart he loves to hate
Have no doubt on this mate
He caresses his nuclear toys
And to blast india would be his greatest joy

So beware of that cunning smile
For he is known to be utterly vile
Be on your tip of your toes
for nowhere are there greater foes

A head for a cheek and a Jaw for a tooth
Is his only gospel truth
Oh my Bharat dear Red riding hood
The wicked fox is never good Dr.Harimohan

nine nites

Navarathri days in Chennai ( Madhras in those days ) takes me a trip down the nostalgia lane .
The smell of jasmine wafts in the evening air as the cool breeze from the Marina beach caresses the rustling silk sarees of the women scurrying down the narrow streets of Mylapore in Chennai .
The nine nights are dedicated to the Godess of creativity in our country .
In Gujurat nubile teens dance to garba tunes the dandiya carrying the traditon of rasa leela and the antics of the blue God and his Gopis ,
In Bengal doe eyed idols of Durga gaze in resplendent splendour comfortable in their celebrity perches
while in conservative Chennai kollu or dolls hold the forte .
Every household dusts its collection of dolls for the annual event and buy the newest one in the market for the year ,it could be one from the epics or even one on Bush and his war on terrorism !
none was spared neither a bearded Osama nor a hansome Sanjay dutt ,they all stood in the same step as Rama or Ravana or Dasavathar set .
One never knew what would catch the fancy of the cognisentti that year !
The needed dab of paint or a langrous swipe with an old cloth would bring life to those toys woken from their year long hibernation on dusty shelves .
Rotund chettiars with bulbous shiny bellies ,delicate dolls with pixie faces animals of different hues ,an array of gods and goddesses on their respective perches ,wax fruits and vegetables ,buxom matrons carrying heavy pots in their heads in fine balance ,the varieties were plentiful ,
life was present on those shelves neatly arrayed in steps and one could feast on them for long hours .the dolls were mere reflecion of their surroundings .
To boys of my age those days it wasn’t those toys or the fine music espoused in the gatherings that were the star attraction luring us to the houses it was the delicacies on offer as prasads which were the
Chundal or steamed legumes with just the bit of spice ,a wisp of raw mangoe and bit of coconut was the ambrosia navaratri nights were known for ,wrapped in inelegant old newspaper their humid collectiveness often sat on the tongue spouting myriad tastes of multiple flavours and as one nipped into their soft flesh they broke into their nectar of pleasure .
Hot chundal could be consumed in tons .We proved it day after day or was it night after night ?
While kanchipuram silk clad matrons welcomed their fair guests with thamboola thattus younger women broke into mellifilous classical carnatic and devotional songs offering a feast fit for a king for the listeners .
The air was full of goodness the smells were divine and the sounds were soothing
Even to think of the kollu festival is pleasant today .

Dr Harimohan

return of the good samaritan ( superman returns !! )

wrong title of course but the one that came first into my mind when i saw my precious blog after a few weeks .
government of India seems to have its first try on cyber censoring when it blocked blogs of many sites ! and mine was a victim to it .
Whether people read it or not a blog is ones own baby and one doesnt like to be away from the baby even for a few days more so it it is done at the beck of someone else .The net is a barrrier less boundary breaking intellectual pursuit which appeals to minds that wish to soar and rhyme without restraints and like all free endeavours would be misused by some .
the government has a right to have a hold on it specially for the security of the nation and we have to face such irregularities once in a while but thanks to them it wasnt for long .
Even as they scrutinise the cyberspace the government should also start checking on its main actors the politicians .
No terrorist from abroad can fucntion without a support base ,there are many instances of our power mongering and vote catching politicians moving levers for the sake of these groups for communal or casteist favours ,this is the reason why they flourish even though we have a valiant defence in our borders and an intelligent internal security .
One should look at Israel and thier no nonsense attidue to terrorism though our leftist comrades cry hoarsely against them.
The security of the nation cannot be compromised on any count and it is the duty of every indian specially every politician to safegaurd it .and his selfish intrest should not come into it .
we hope blogs are never blocked again

Fr . mathew Shawls our memories

Tawang in Arunachal Pradesh was an unforgettable travel for us ( see article in this blog ) but what will linger for ever is our meeting father Mathew and finally remembering him forever as a memory !
On the long journey in our train to Guwahati we met a pleasant and amiable person in his late sixties ,he wasnt wearing the priests garb and he wasnt sitting near us at all but life springs some surprises and brings people closer to us with no plans or strategies .
Father gravitated to us and sat near me and enquired about us .He was pleased to hear we were travelling to distant Arunachal pradesh from his Kerala ,he told us all about him ,Hailing fromPala Father had been in Assam for more than forty years and he was like a local there loved by one and all .
He invited us to his convent at Mangaldeo on the way to tawang from Guwahati and we promised him we would do that .
As we reached Guwahati Father made us confirm that we would be having breakfast in his convent the next day morning and meticulously gave us directions .It was like we knew each other for years .
Guwahti and its Brahamaputra ,its rumbustious markets and its vibrant citizens made tha day flit pastand soon we were speeding in our Bolero on way to Tawang a trip which would last more than 36 hours on the raod with a stay over at a hill station .
Three hours after leaving Guwahati through roads that resembled Kerala and its houses we reached Mangaldeo way behind schedule ,poor father had decided we had forgotten him and the sister staying in the convent too thought those doctors did the vanishing trick on father who had lot to say to them about us .
Father was so happy to see us and we apologised for the delay ,he introduced us all around and we were welcomed by the sisters all from Kerala ,a sumptous mallu breakfast of kappa and pittu etc ,
after taking us around father told us he was to become the vicar general shortly of Tezpur and told us to come to Tezpur from tawang and promised us he would take us to Bhutan .
before we left we stood for snaps with dear father and then he covered both of us lovingly with two manipuri shawls colourful and bright ,its warmth was all along with us in the trip and it still does when we remember him .
Tawang and back to tezpur father kept his word he met us for dinner in the hotel where we stayed and we gifted him a huge chinese umbrella .
Next day we went with father and an Assamemse friend of his to a bordre town of BhutanSangrup Jorhan .
father was nice and detailed us all about the place .The whole day we spent with him .
we left father to Shillong and we made him promise that he would stay with us at cochin when he comes next .
Father had told us to llok up his niece working as a nurse in my hospital and i coveyed all news to her
We called father a couple of times after that .
One day the punch came out of the blue ,fathers niece called me and said father was murderd by a disgruntled assamese priest who sliced his neck in his bed because he would not give him the money he asked ofr .Father became a victim of his honesty
A person who was a s gentle as alamb was struck down by a monster after money .it was a great blow to us .
This piece is memory of Father Mahtew who came from somehere and met us and left behind lingering memories and two shawls .
Harimohan