Contrasts in God's Own Land

When I go to Kerala I live in two different worlds. One is the rather
basic, ancient home of my in-laws and the other is the modern house of
my brother-in-law. The contrasts couldn't be more pronounced.

The first is a rather basic farming home. Its toilet is outside the
house, the bathroom is accessed near to the family well, with a tin
for a door and a concrete tank for a water storage. There may be
rubber sheets laid to dry which gives off a pungent smell. There is an
abundance of wood and wooden construction. Over the years I have got
used to the smell. If you feel like going in the night, there's no
alternative but to hold on. Or, else, use very innovative methods for
your communion, er, with nature. The facilities are a bit antiquated.
But the house is beautifully situated and looks out to verdant green
fields, expanses of wide rice fields, trees and plants. The courtyard
is shaded by an evergreen jackfruit tree which makes it cool to rest
there even during the hot tropical days.

The other house, one belonging to my brother-in law has attached
bathrooms, modern plumbings, has glazed tiles, is a wonder of modern
construction. It has a courtyard strewn with sand and the show plants
and, flowering trees and conifer trees lend it an exotic air. I feel
most relaxed in this peaceful haven, which I termed as a sort of
heaven. It is situated near a town and all modern accessories of
modern life are available close by. Its recent addition is an
automated teller machine which makes it easy to withdraw money and
spend it. Spendthrift that I am.

Which one do I prefer? Do I like one better.

Both houses are studies in contrasts. One is the old traditional
"Tharavad". The other is the modern home, which is slowly grabbing the
landscape. I don't know which one I prefer. I love both homes. The old
is giving way to the new, the old order is changing, slowly, with the
demise of the old "achayans" and "karanavars" of Kerala.

K'Naan's Account of Returning to Somalia

This is K'Naan's account of what he finds in Somalia, to which he returned after 20 years. If you don't know who he is, here's the lowdown: K'Naan is the singer and poet who sang the theme song "Waving Flag" at the soccer world cup in South Africa.

Excerpt:

"The final and most devastating stop for me was Banadir Hospital, where I was born. The doctors are like hostages of hopelessness, surrounded and outnumbered. Mothers hum lullabies holding the skeletal heads of their children. It seems eyes are the only ornament left of their beautiful faces; eyes like lanterns holding out a glimmer of faint hope. Volunteers are doing jobs they aren't qualified for. The wards are over-crowded, mixing gun wound, malnutrition and cholera patients.

"Death is in every corner of this place. It's lying on the mattresses holding the tiny wrists of half-sleeping children. It's near the exposed breasts of girls turned mothers too soon. It folds in the cots, all-knowing and silent; its mournful wind swells the black sheets. Here, each life ends sadly, too suddenly and casually to be memorialized."

I (this blogger) had a few Somalian friends in Saudi Arabia. One was Moosa who had left behind his family and migrated permanently to Saudi. He was a jolly chap ever-willing to crack a joke. The other was the driver Ahmed whose favourite word was "Atillo," the meaning of which I couldn't figure out. Whenever I would ask him what "Atillo" mean, he would sidetrack the issue or offer some vague explanation.

Indeed sad what's happening in that country. What? Indeed, it's sad what's happening in all developing countries. In today's papers I read that Manmohan Singh said in the UN that the world - which opened its arms to globalisation not long ago - is trying to come to terms with its aftermath. The aftermath isn't very good or congenial since it has wiped out whole socio-economic systems and replaced it with the system of greed. Today world is suffering from multiple maladies which have no known solution. We are hurtling... hurtling... don't know where (that's all I can say). 

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

United States Against Sweatshops

United States Against Sweatshops (USAS) is a student body in the US which acts against organisations outsourcing work to developing nations to cut costs. Its motive is to discourage such organisations that outsource to companies that exploit employees by making them work overtime without pay, and, in general, offer unhygenic and egregious working conditions.

I think when we started off with this outsourcing thing it was a sweet frisky little monkey that obediently complied with norms. Sweatshop (such as the ones I worked in) had good cafeteria, free food, game rooms, etc. But gradually as the monkey developed into a gorilla these were withdrawn. "We no longer are a monkey but a gorilla," was the refrain. The dirty word was - profits at whatever costs. No longer are there cafeterias, free food, games, etc. It's work, work, work, all the time and forget even free tea. Hm. An outsourcer with whom I worked used to charge us for the tea we drank.

So, if you know any employer that exploits its workers, you know who to get in touch with.

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

Meet Once Lover Who Are Ditched by Each Other

This came via Amit Varma of Indiauncut.com, via Joy Bhattacharjya.

Meet Once Lover Who Are Ditched by Each Other.

Atal Behari Vajpayee made fun of such advertisements which exhorted, "Why don't we me once at least?" written on the walls of Delhi. There's such naked desperation in the ads. It's like the hacks in slums of Bombay whose signboards read "Dr. Satra, Physician and Surgeon." He neither knows what a physicians or surgeon is, and calls himself a doctor. Hm. Grr.

I am giving below some of my own interpretations:

• Meet me, the fake doctor, all ye who have been ditched.
• Come to me and I will let you meet the lover who has ditched you.
• When lovers ditch each other, it's by mutual consent. Good. So, come to me, I will give you my blessings.
• Meet the lover you ditched once. I will call him/her and make him/her come to you.
• Some expletive deleted, expletive deleted, expletive deleted.
  
• Some other interpretation which is open to you dear reader. In which case, write me a comment.
  

Our country is not lacking in quacks, of all kinds.

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

A Visit to the Bungalow of Rudyard Kipling's Birth in Bombay

The gate to J.J.School of Art was open. So what if I trespassed a bit, broke the law for a literary indulgence. The campus before me is full of trees: banyan, coconut, palm, mango, etc. Nothing seems to be maintained. There are unswept leaves on the pathways. There are wild growth of plants and vines. There are only stray individuals here and there in the campus. So I walk with authority not bothering to look like a stranger to these parts.

This must be the place where he fantasised about There's a fire by a fungus-infested small shed. Some youngsters, possibly students, hang around nearby. There aren't any security men around, so I can just walk in without asking for permission. (I know if I seek their permission I probably might never get it.) It's from these trees that the to-be writer must have gathered his first inspiration. It's these paths he trod for the first time in his life, reminiscing about his trips to Crawford Market nearby. He is the man who made India famous in his tales of the Jungle. He was Rudyard Kipling, author of Jungle Book, and other works of the British Raj days. His father John Lockwood Kipling, a sculptor and potter, was the Principal and Professor of Architectural Sculpture at the newly founded Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy School of Art and Industry, Bombay. I walk along the narrow path, ask a couple where the bungalow where Kipling was born is and the man indicates the space behind a rather run down shed. I look around at the aged trees in the compound littered with dead leaves and the moisture of rain. It's these trees he must have swung on as a mischievous child who terrorised his aunt. Then I see the somewhat majestic looking wooden structure painted green. There are vines, ancient balconies, outhouses for servants, all harking back to an age long gone. Truly, that was a different age.

Yes, terrorised his aunt, it is recorded. In a biography I read somewhere his aunt would cry out when young Rudyard would pound down the stairs, "Ruddy is coming, Ruddy is coming." He only lived in the bungalow for five years before he was shifted to England under the care of Capt. and Mrs. Holloway. (According to historians the actual bungalow has been pulled down for the present one, which seems entirely made of wood.) About the couple he wrote, "If you cross-examine a child of seven or eight on his day's doings (specially when he wants to go to sleep) he will contradict himself very satisfactorily. If each contradiction be set down as a lie and retailed at breakfast, life is not easy. I have known a certain amount of bullying, but this was calculated torture — religious as well as scientific. Yet it made me give attention to the lies I soon found it necessary to tell: and this, I presume, is the foundation of literary effort".

About Bombay he once wrote:

Mother of Cities to me,
For I was born in her gate,
Between the palms and the sea,
Where the world-end steamers wait.

Though he was an imperialist his writing remains one of the best in the annals of literature on India. So I saluted his bust which I found placed in the narrow verandah beside a chair, which should have been occupied by a security guard, who, alas, is not to be seen.

Reading Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha

I am reading Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha. Hermann Hesse and I have a family connection, however distant. His grandfather Hermann Gundert was a missionary who worked in Kerala when my great-great-great-uncle George Mathan was also an Anglican priest thereabouts. Both the priests wrote grammar books in Malayalam. Though Gundert's grammar book was published first (circa 1850s) Mathan's Malayalam grammar book was published later (circa 1860s).

(In picture alongside George Mathan is in the white priestly robe and Hermann Gundert is the one with the side whiskers.)

However (this is a position I will defend with my word of honour), Mathan's work was much more detailed and exhaustive and the government of Kerala chose the book over Gundert work as the authoritative volume of Malayalam grammar then. I don't know if the two contemporaries met, but there must have been a healthy rivalry between the two priestly gentlemen, I am sure. Gundert and Mathan both maintained that Malayalam was a distinct language in the proto-Tamil family of Dravidian languages, unlike what is prevalent in Kerala nowadays. Let me clarify. Nowadays Malayalam is heavily Sanskrit-ised as to be unrecognisable from the Malayalam of those days.

In those days writing was done mostly by priests and the kind of language they wrote, containing western ideas of grammar, punctuation, syntax is today known as "Padiri (Priestly) Malayalam." All things considered, these pioneering priests were the first to think about compiling a grammar book when none existed in the eighties. Their contribution must never be overlooked.

Hermann Gundert made significant contributions to Malayalam language. He also went on to write - after he retired to Germany - a dictionary in Malayalam.

There is another Indian connection. Hesse's Siddhartha was made into a movie starring Shashi Kapoor and Simi Grewal.

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

Is Good Manners a Western Thing?

Nothing much to write about. Nothing significant happened, that's why. But, yes there's something, now that I think about it. It happened as I was walking towards Victoria Terminus on the way back from work. I prefer to walk rather than catch a cab. I love to walk in the city, roads that are familiar, full of the sights of my youth.

A youth touched my hand while walking. I don't like to be touched in public. So I turned and glared at him. But he walked past as if nothing happened. I was appalled at the lack of manners. But what manners? Isn't manners a western invention? Is there manners here? A neighbour insulted me when I told him that we had to discuss a common problem. (Ah, forget I ever mentioned it here.) I think he didn't have the guts to apologise. In train, similarly, if you touch anyone, even in their private forbidden parts, no need to be embarrassed or say sorry. Just pretend nothing happened. It has happened many times. Many, many times. What's our words for excuse me, sorry?

Kshama chahata hoon. (such a long sentence).

Maaf karo (short but still unwieldy)

Dayavayi kshamikula (Malayalam for have patience, too long)

Ergo, people are excessively flattering or vilely abusive. Look at the internet and you can see the best educated and best behaved people talking filth. 

Yes, manners is a western invention. It isn't Indian at all. But querulousness is an Indian invention. So suppose this is the sceneario of what happens to us ordinary folks living in ordinary city in India when something untoward happens. Suppose I touch someone unknowingly and apologise. The following is what would happen. Instead of a smile and an acknowledgement, here's what I can expect:

Are you blind?

Have you no shame?

I will see you?

I will teach you a lesson?

Who are you to apologise? Big man? A westerner, a brown sahib? A firang?

You think you are someone big, eh? Wait till I show you.

All threats and insults. Yes, we are quite good at threats and insults. They come very easy to us. As if nothing matters except to smother the other person with insults, degrade him, make him bite the dust, let him never look up straight again. 

That brings me to this conclusion. Maybe it's a sweeping generalisation. Maybe I am biased. Yes, apparently, good manners is a western thing. Not in our culture. We are embarrassed when we have to apologise or say sorry.

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

Tenth Anniversary of September 11, It's Today

God! It's the tenth anniversary of the fall of the Twin Towers. Or, World Trade Centre. I keenly watched it's progress as it was being built in the sixties and seventies. Yes, the sixties and seventies. It was conceived in the forties but several hurdles delayed the actual construction and it was not until 1970 that the inauguration took place. I was in school at that time. I kept reading about it in the newspapers which showcased it as the happening piece of architecture coming up in the world. There was wonderment in the air, a sense of anticipation, as before a train arrives. 

Then the final inauguration and I read about how the building sways a few feet in the strong winds of the Hudson. I read how the engineers had erected the towers, the shafts, restrooms, three stairwells, and other support spaces. All in all, a great structure - the tallest in the world - was coming up. And it was the World Trade Centre. Who wouldn't want to work in it? Point it out to people and say, "I work there." I thought I will see it at some point in my life. I didn't. I never went to the U.S. as I had expected. That dream eluded me, that country bypassed me.

But then what happened on September 11, ten years ago? I saw, on television, planes smashing into it, people running, dust as thick as a fog, fire-fighters rescuing, the television anchors in a dither over their shocked reportage, the world looking in shocked silence. Then it was newspapers, now it's the electronic media. News comes through wires and cables. Then it was newspapers and magazines. Then I read. Now I listen. There's a cacophony of voices. Was reading better than listening? I think it is. The whole paradigm changed. With visuals people now know the extent of their deprivation. People want to take revenge. Isolation crept into peoples' hearts. They are alienated. Acts of extremism has a basis in economic need. They aren't always religious in nature. 

God! Is it really 10 years? How long will this madness go on?  

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

Can Civil Society Draft Laws?

So, Aruna Roy says civil society can't make a law. I think she is right. Or, is she? I am of two minds about the whole l'affaire, the episode, the gruesome blackmail, well, whatever. I remember being numb with confusion. What are our lawmakers there for? They are a well paid lot, I hear. They have allowances, free travel, junkets to far lands of Thigh-land (no reference to the beautiful country), China (obviously to study the drainage system in Shanghai, but why Shanghai? Why not Paris?) and Timbuctoo, allowance to keep secretaries, fawning lackeys, mahila anuyayi (female followers) and it seems they have a huge laundry allowance, the way their dhotis and mundus are so well starched and ironed. (At least A.K.Antony is the best turned out of the lot, as is Vayalar Ravi. I don't know if they every tie their mundus as half-mast [above knees] as most of my states-men are fond of doing.) I am digressing. As a common, no-brainer, often reviled member of the citizenry I think I have a right to know.

That brings me to the question of what the honourable members of parliament are doing in the august body. Lalloo Yadav was caught napping by Meira Kumar. Here's proof on Youtube. As I understand law makers are there not to change names of states, re-name streets, create new states, and speak about their constituencies and states in glowing terms. They are there to see that secretaries draft laws and pass them. Isn't it so? 

How can a group of people (what's their locus standii?) draft a law and ask the government to rubber stamp it? It beats my ingenuous mind. I am not the vocal, vociferous type. Apart from singing in the bathroom I don't raise my voice unless I am too much provoked. Then I lose it really bad. 

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.

Coming Back to Bombay

I notice the lady with the child immediately. I note her because what I thought was a backpack worn in front is actually a baby and he/she is resting, head covered, only hands showing against the lady's bosom.

There's a bomb blast. In Delhi, this time. I thought Delhi was safe. No more. Nowhere is safe anymore. Our mofussils are bad lands of marauders and violent thieves.

There's a flash of beautiful sunlight. Sunlight is so rare on these monsoon days. A lot of my thoughts centre around death these days because the in-laws aren't well and the "what if" of it lingers in the mind. "You have to bear your pain," doesn't explain anything. Again "what if" comes to mind like a recurring nightmare. Coming back to Bombay was a new experience altogether: grey skies, dampness, water everywhere, the crowded trains, the walking in the slush and most important of all no dry clothes. Clothes take a long time to dry. A journey is most disrupting. And you wanted to be a travel writer? Ah!

What has been lost is not innocence but a lack of proper education and schooling. Yes, I mean schooling. There was hope for this world by means of some old fashioned education. We must start education all over again from schools. Children aren't reading books anymore. In our days we used to be punished for reading the wrong books. My friend gave me a sexy book to read. I read it on the sly and gave it back. Innocent stuff! His dad later found it on his bookshelf. He called me to advise me on propriety, and all that stuff. Actually my friend told him that I had given him the book to read. Oh, the embarrassment! These days there's no punishment for even seeing the most lewd and sexy innuendos on television. It's open fare. It's freedom. But the freedom can cost us a lot.

Enough ranting. Got to go back to where I came from.

I am @johnwriter on Twitter and John.Matthew on Facebook. I blog here.