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Poor Pedestrians! Kerala during the rainy season is a tribute to nature. Even so, nature is not something that hangs out as poignant as a pedestrian’s predicament here. The economic boom comes at a cost. Indeed the cost the pedestrians pay for it is dear. They seem to have lost their right to walk! With the roads getting congested and pending litigations preventing widening of roads, the pedestrians’ track has become more redundant than ever. Wherever widening is done it is at the cost of foot path which disappear altogether. Also, perpetual coagulation on roads forces the motorists to use every lane to reach the destination a couple of minutes earlier. Lack of maintenance and unabated torrential rains have reduced the road space by half. This too puts a pressure on the pedestrian’s path. While these are unavoidable there are others that could be avoided. Automobile drivers use roads as some kind of racing track. Particularly the red town buses rocket down the lane or what is left of t

My Little Granny   She was small and myopic, but a great lady. In my family the women folk had guts of steel. And my granny had tons of it! She lost her husband early and her only son, our silver tongued ‘Humko Mama’, died of a horrible accident in the prime of his youth leaving behind a young widow and two bonny children!  Those did falter her steps, but she didn’t indulge in the misery, instead she immersed herself in work and more work. I remember her as a cherubic, buxom and witty lady always ready with a smile and chirpy laugh. She would tell us crazy stories and help us in our studies with equal passion. Mind you, she was a professor at the reputed Banares Hindu University! Yet she was so down to earth and such a jolly good person that all of us loved her. She was the one who named me ‘Samudra Guptan’ after an illustrious warrior king who invaded dozens of kingdoms and brought them under his rule.  Don’t be under the impression that I was a warrior of any sort. Far from it, I w

RAIN  It rains and rains and rains In the valleys and the plains  On the road it spills o’er drains  And snakes up the tarred lanes  It makes puddles of strong tea,  which grows into a big sea!  The frogs gather for the party  There they orgy in abandoned frenzy  Its little droplets march up to wind  Like smart regiments soldiers they sprint  In crazy gale they wrap nature in chintz  They tickle and play on the tamarinds  Cloudy by day and starless at night  The sky mourns draped in dark hide  Of her dear darling- the short-lived spring  All in its glory smiling and giving   Nonetheless, drizzles come tingling  Cloudbursts then come gushing  Sometimes hail go clamoring  Uninvited, the storms descend menacing  It sprouts the seeds and plants go all green  On farmers’ beaten face a smile is seen  Once or twice it turns a violent sheen  It stays for a while and leaves the scene  Sulking rain stays up as dark brooding clouds  When happy it just drizzles diamonds around  And jovial hails l

In the Twilight   She didn’t say a word!  But all of it he heard. In the dark their eyes flamed!  All alone in a crowd.  Her hair, he did brush with,  His hand all gnarled and veined;  She did heave a sigh of anguish,  As if she had lost the skill to wish.   They sat huddled in the twilight,  Huddled in the dusk of their life!  A pair of wizened mortals living,  The fleeting images of the past.  Gone were the days of their blossoming,  Gone were the excitements of living,  Gone was the confidence from winning, Their spirited wars and coveted glories.  They started young toiling with soil and tears, A hut they had and it grew with passing years.  Amina, Rafeeq and little Abu were born,  And came the harvests rich and strong.  Happy were those days of honest sweat,  In a Hindu neighborhood they got respect!  Nature’s bounty, with all they did share, and got cheerful welcome and lots of care.  The Khan siblings grew up frugal in comfort,  Yet they did have sumptuous meals in concert.  Raf

Fait Acompli   He was good looking, suave and bad and was the most important link in the Sri Lankan Felix syndicate, which ran several clean front organizations. But money came for the syndicate from several other unclean hidden agencies. One of them dealt with girl trade. JS was the lynch man for that operation which spread its tentacle to a good dozen countries. JS traveled extensively. His passport identified him as a Sri Lankan male, 28 years old 6 ft 2 inches tall and 60 kilos heavy. Neat! That part was true, but the rest of the information in his passports (he had several) were fictitious.  Angela was in late teens studying in Stella Maris, a reputed all women’s college in Chennai, when she met JS in a lending library. Then such libraries were popular. She fell flat for him. He was charming, talked with a sexy accent and had those dreamy blue eyes that ensnared girls in his trap with such succession that it even surprised him.  He was the bastard of a Swedish diplomat stationed i

My Wedding - a Funny Affair  My wedding was a funny affair. It happened in a crowded hall. My bride and I sat on the raised stage under a lovely flower canopy. It was a short ceremony. Rings were put by the betrothed on each other’s right hand. A gold chain was hooked around my bride neck and a pair of thick Jasmine-Chrysanthemum garland was exchanged amid much fanfare and shouting and flash bulbs.  It was while having the prodigious feast that I started scratching my neck. By the time I had reached the middle of the feast, I had to discontinue the eating business and get on earnestly with the scratching business. My bride sitting beside me was bemused by my new- found passion. Couple of well-decked good looking teenagers sitting in the opposite row had started giggling.  Now I was scratching away quite unashamedly! It’s allergy! My uncle, who was a medical practitioner, seemed to understand the reason behind my not so acceptable behaviour. He quickly got me to a private room adjacent

Kerala is a Fever Country!  They call, it the "God’s own country"!  One hundred percent literacy!  Yet, they make our land so filthy,  They pinch us and become wealthy! We are the victims of democracy!  Fever! Fever burning bright!  Chikun!  Dengue!  What a blight! ‘Course it’s all a terrible sight!  Fever! Fever burning bright!  Take our kids and give us fright!  Browning’s Tiger, don’t burn bright  They have lost their kin and might  Few is left to their sorry plight,  Sulking in what’s left of the jungle.  Project Tiger- isn’t it a bungle?  Press is screaming yellow jello  “Yellow, yellow dirty fellow”  The paper’s leaders bellow  “Don’t be too good, dirty fellow”  Mob won’t eat your marshmallow!  Did you hear of the Paper Bond Story,  Of the Patriot taking smelly bribery,  They swear: it’s a bond; we’re so sorry  They swear: return the booty, but it’s so silly  Where’s the crook that runs the lottery?  Or about the nun in query,  Her murder is a damn mystery  They say: T

Ya, Back again. Just was lolzing in the rainrich god's own country gone to dogs! Bugs and mosquitos are malicious, so are the politicians, kids, students, teachers and every chaprasi. what's come to the most literate, most liberal kerala? Frankly, it doesn't bother me as much as those righteous guys nostalgic about the old times. As if world will stand still. Priorities change. Money is the most important thing. So try and make the best of it if you can. hordes of money grab as much and horde it. i don't know for what. i believe great intelligentia around are contemplating big doom for our planet in a century at the most. So what happens to the money you have the property you own. I wonder! But then you cant just contemplate and fall to inaction. may be we should horde money after all. I remember the Abba song Money, money, money..... Nostalgic! So what?

Being back in rainy Kerala, I feel nostalgic about Amma's cooking. She would make here concoctions out of a confusion of raw and ripe fruits, an assortment of vegetables, and garam garam Indian spice along with all season coconut gratings, which would find its way into all sorts of Kerala cooking, either as such or ground into a paste with a wide variety of taste makers. She would serve us with hot hot idlies ( fashionably pronounced Italies), steamed rice cakes sprinkled with inevitable coconut gratings with equally steaming black gram curry, puri-potato etc for breakfast; a sumptuous and spicy lunch with inescapable rice and pappads; a high tea with as much tasty spread as you can think of; and a mouth watering dinner to boot. No wonder all of grew fat on her love!

I remember her soft and all caring. I remember her feeding us rice. She would mash all the ingredients together, kneed it, work on it with such frenzy until it became a juicy paste, which we used to slurp up. Something in her hand made it all the more tastier. Her perseverance knew no bounds. Although bronchial asthma made her bent, it couldn't bend her spirits. She doggedly refused to be intimidated by the nasty disease instead confronted the difficult chores with a smiling countenance. She lived to make feasty meals and serve to a large crowd. She had such good hands. Even if she made a swift meal it would taste like a gourmet's delight! Alas, fate stole her away from us. It was abrupt and merciless. I feel a vacuum, which I can never really fill. Words become futile to convey my longing for mom. I love my mom.

The Nineties . . . .  Then, the chauvinistic men looked down upon the chatty women deep in conversation. Many jokes have piled up one top of the other belittling this ‘women enterprise’ as if for men such trivial activities are demeaning and of course gross!  Yet, wherever I go, at least among the Malayalis, the men talk as much if not more than their female counterparts, including myself; and louder too. The topics they indulge in – as bad if not worse than the women. If you consider one unit of air going out in speech per syllable, at least a million units of air are expelled from a male’s mouth a day! That itself is enough to trigger a global warming!  Some love to talk loudly, or may be softly or in some other unique way exclusive to them. I listen sometime to conversation among men gab, gab, gab on and on. Sometimes they are so monotonous that it serves as a lullaby and I have caught myself nodding off to sleep. Some argue among themselves and it sounds so much like a fight. I hav

I was recently at the ancestral home for the puja, which is an annual affair without a break continuing for the past fifty odd years. Although it was started for pleasing the deities, in the contemporary time of insular fragmented family units, it also serves as the platform for social interaction. So, the relatives gather for the event with enthusiasm and expectations. For several of us it is the time to indulge in nostalgia of our school days, youth and the good and the bad times unique to us. A kaleidoscope of events and a cascade of characters twinkle and disappear in our memories. For some it means sharing crass gossip, exchange juicy information of the black sheep among the family and have tempestuous orgy of criticizing everyone and everything. The over-sensitive teens suddenly plucked away from their high-tech gadgets and skyscrapers and catapulted into the quiet rural setting would sit alone weary of the elders and scoffing at their village-bum cousins. They in their lack of

Where are you? Where are you?  O please tell me  I’m all alone a timid child of forty.  You’re a part that  I took would be there I can’t go on,  my legs falter, I’m unaware.  How high up are you in your heavenly flight?  I sit up wondering many a sleepless night.  I dream of you hovering up in the sky  All in benign grace, blessing us by.  I heard you talk to me, “O, don’t worry son,”  I’ve heard your warm chuckle soothing and fun.  I wish you would chide me into fair action  I really oughtn’t sulk around moping in the sun.  Alas, the big armchair sits ‘ere empty and bare  It’ll rock no more in abandoned care!  I picture you rocking in your abode  Telling gleeful tales to the young from your horde!  In walk my pretty daughter in the pretty park.  She asks dismay in eyes, “Where’s Grandpa?”  What do I tell her? I silently ask,  Life will teach; perhaps not her Pa!

My dad used to be a wonderful story teller among many other things. He used to enthrall the children around him with his animated sessions in which the demons and gods from the Indian epics would come alive. He would act out so well miming the characters that the episode he was narrating would come alive in our mind, like a movie! Even the adults used to be drawn into the hypnotic performance. The more he said the more the kids adored him.  One day the brinjal fry made for the lunch was unanimously rejected by us kids, which made my mom mad. No amount of tempting, cajoling, bribing and chiding would make us eat the stuff. If the leader rejected all the disciples would not dare eat it! Finally mom came to her wits end and turned to dad. Then he embarked on a story which went like this: There was once a Brahmin who abandoned his righteous deity and resorted to baser life. His only qualification was his culinary expertise, which made him sufficiently rich to indulge in nefarious activitie

In my Dad's days, names of people used to be typical. Kalyani, Karthyayini, Ammukkutty, Parukkutty and so on would be usual among girls/women. The male names would sound more masculine: Karunakaran, Krishnan, Radhakrishnan, Balakrishnan, Ravindran and so on. People never used to give so much relevance to the variety, but insisted on grandpa's or illustrious uncle's name for males; so would the females inherit their grandma's or aunt's name. These names used to be functional and meaningful, yet not very individualistic. Naturally, if you call out for a Radha especially in a crowded occasion like a marriage, several Radhas would answer the call, in this particular case, even males ( Radhakrishnan's short form is 'Radha'). I hailing from God's own Country, my treatise on names is insular to Kerala. My dad used to tell a popular anecdote in which he narrates about a poet laureate of his youth and father of half dozen children. Those days it was conventio

Recently my neice was struck with a bout of Amoebiasis, which affected her liver and nearly stole her life, but by God's grace she recovered rapidly. At that time of frayed tempers and constant prayers, a lady came in distress asking for some sandal paste which she had exhausted. When science fails, people often turn to devine blessing in desperation. In such an emergency the lady who came to my mother-in-law was also hoping for her husband's recovery from a hopeless condition. My mother-in-law, who is known for her generosity, gave away what was left of the sandal paste with kind words of encouragement. Only then did she realise her folly. She in her exessive urge of kinddness had given away the Prasaad, which was in short supply. It would take more than a day's of travel and consierable irritation for all concerned to get the devine sandal paste, but it had to be done. Turning to her alarmed daughter-in-law she confided in her the blunder she had made. She opened the bot

A long shot of a girl in a verdant hilly landscape. She emerges as a teenager, topless. She turns her head and looks up at the sky. Camera would greedily have sucked her rural untouched beauty if it had been a tele-film . It would further have siphoned out her perky breasts, exotic wheatish skin, shapely lips and upturned nose - a silhouette perhaps! This is not a tele-film, that I narate about, it was a scene from a tale that pertains to the genesis of a family that would have prematurely vanished into oblivion had it not been for the devine intervention. A Brahmin -Nair couple of considerable wealth and fame lived in a the rural outskirts of Valluvanad. It was customary for the Veluttha Paaraappatty Mana Thirumeni (Devine body) to be betrothed to a Nair lady, but it was unusual for him to stay married to her for longer than, say, a couple of years. It was part of a farsighted custom of the Nairs to get hybrids of progeny through conception by Higher caste males two centuries ago. In

"Saro, I'm going to search for an 8 Ana coin," would be my Dad's way of saying that he was on his way to the toilet. This was one of the many strange codes they sometimes used to communicate in public without letting others know of their intention. Many sexists would find the need to convey the whereabouts of the spouse within the house quite restrictive and repulsive, but for my parents such a thing as 'individual space' was non-existent, nor would either consider it primordial for survival of marriage. Full sharing and complete unconditional surrender between them made their marriage absolutely harmonious contrary to the popular belief of the western shrinks. How apt that name is for the psychiatrists/ psychoanalysts/ practicing psychologists. They never broaden their vision, instead they prefer to typify and restrict. Sorry I digress! Let's get back to the story. Hearing the cheerful utterance of my dad, one of the senior members, who couldn't beli

Hello Once when my cousin, Jayan, and I went to see “Exorcist”, we were confronted by a huge queue waiting impatiently before the box-office to open. We too joined the line not really expecting to get a ticket. Those were days before television brought multitudes of channels at home. In due course, after verbal tirade with those at the back trying to generate a stampede, we got to the box and bought the tickets to our surprise. It was conventional to take a packet of pop corn and a bottle of Thumps Up (then Pepsi and Coke were banned) into the auditorium, so armed with them we marched in. We got seats with two loonies in the rear. Being Tamilians, they were talking loud discussing the scary parts of the movies. We scowled at them, stared at them and frowned at them to make them shut up, but it was useless. The duo went on and on until the movie started. The part where the girl makes all those contortions, Jayan suddenly realised how silent the guys at the back were. We found them bent

The college hostel where I was admitted turned out to be a virtual prison, with a priest warden to control and constrain.  Father Stephen, a tall lean hungry looking man, was a tyrant and ruled his dominion with an iron hand. At least that’s what he thought, until some of us showed up!  Prakash and Anthony were terrors; George and Gopalan were the wicked ones; we were no saints either. Anyway, to cut the long story short, we started a farting spree as a way of getting at the warden, who felt the numerous tubers planted in the hostel campus should be used in our diet. The farting Satyagraha rocked the foundation of the hostel.  Scouts would spy for the warden’s arrival. The moment he climbed the steps from the porch, the collective farting would start. There would be different types of farts, the silent and deadly ones to the rumbling and thundery ones. Some creative boys managed to make the sing song ones while the amateurs got a variety of gassing going - longish ones, several short

The big-busted Katie Mirza was raving beauty when I was in my teens. She caused the young men to ogle at her massive melons. However hidden the pair of them were, they would still be seen. Men used to dribble at her anatomic anomaly; even the old bandicoots would get a hard on just looking at her.  I am not talking about Katie Mirza described above; the one I am talking about is a stunning Pomeranian bitch. We acquired her as a pet when the Mathews decided to migrate to Australia. Katie was what they called her, but we added an apt family name as an after thought because of her sexy look.  One day we had got back home after a long stint at the college hostel, when she bounced on us in ecstatic welcome! We were too surprised to speak for a few minutes, but became immediately apprehensive when she started jumping at us again.  For my sister without any female siblings to turn to, Katy was a welcome respite. The two of them would go on for hours grooming and looking good. It went on to su

Great Job There was a time when we used to stay in another rural area where my dad had built a house. It was surrounded by fertile land in which trees, palms and a luscious garden grew. We, as kids, used to play all sorts of games and get a lot of thrill and sometimes chidings from the elders. Once when my grandpa came from Madras for a longish stay, he felt obliged to plant a bed of peas or two. The rains came to give a respite from the summer heat and the peas grew into creepers. Soon grandpa got the farm hand to fix support for them. The series of interlocking sticks tied up supported the foliage. To our childish imagination it looked like a make shift shelter, quite convenient to go as our home in one of our games. As weeks passed, we were delighted to spy the pea flowers which were rather bright and attractive! One day we got carried away and plucked all the flowers. Then we had a bright idea. Why not take it to our grandpa. It would surely please him. So, off we went with our p

Innooli  Exposed dangling breasts, weather beaten wizened face, liquid eyes, a mouthful of irregular stained teeth make up the five minus feet tall apparition called Innooli. Her grating voice and cackling laugh remains fresh.  Our dear Innooli came into our lives more by destiny than purpose. Innooli came with the ancestral abode, where my parents decided to spend our life after Dad’s retirement.  She was the compound sweeper there. In her younger days she was a raving beauty, who stole Koran the farmhand’s heart, soul and peace. She was one of those rural women who had great character, pioneering spirit untouched by erudition and so called sophistication. Down to earth, she raised her family almost single-handedly. Her husband bid adieu much too early for her comfort. When destiny shattered her life, she stood resolutely braving the storm of loneliness of destitution.  What I remember of Innoli is her excessive passion to keep the courtyard and the walkway in the front of the house

Life is Like That! Two Kuwaitis took time off from studies to visit the US and learn the “juicier aspects of life”. Having consulted one of their cronies and found a reference (Charley), they left. On arrival at Kuwait the duo caught up with their cronies and over lunch they were asked how their short stay in the west was. It was fun except for Charley, said one of them. Charley was a freak because he had two ass holes instead of one! “Every time we went to the bar or place of excitement, the guys there kept saying: ‘There comes Charley with two ass holes!’” he laughed. “That’s how we found out about his ‘little secret,” confided the other beaming.   ********  My dad was a great person. He was brought up in a large household with 12 other siblings and a horde of uncles, aunts and cousins. They lived in a sprawling rural ranch. The hot and humid climate and abundance of leftovers was ideal for the cockroaches, which proliferated and permeated into the household like family members. It

I found an old lady carrying two large bags of grocery. It was obvious that she was experiencing difficulty. So many young men idling there seemed to ignore her plight. I was in two minds; whether to help her or not. If I volunteered will it be construed that I was being a show off? If I didn't I would feel bad about my behavior. In the end I decided to help her. By then, a young lady came to the old lady's rescue. With a pleasant smile, she coaxed the senior citizen to part with her burden. I felt bad for two reasons; I was denied of the opportunity to help, the girl overtook me too. This really opened my eyes! Take an opportunity when it presents itself. If you dilly dally, someone else will take it.

The TEST! “Do not talk while you are doing the test,”  announced the mean bearded pest.  Now SHSHOW it, no one lookin’ this way Quick!  What’s the answer for 1a?  My chum is all glum and pale “Pss-st!”  I whisper down the aisle  Joey is mumblin’ the response in caution,  Alas!  I detect a footfall in motion!  My – my. .  it’s too damn late!  He has sealed his fate!   A pair of brawny hands grabs my pal  And hauls him up paper and all!  He’s going to blurt; I fear a demotion!  The beast is squeezin’ a confession  No beans spilt no cats let out,  but Poor sobbing Joey got a rosy butt  The ugly teacher contorted and yelled  “I told you do not talk while doing the test!

I have met a lot of people who have influenced me deeply. One of them is my girl. I find in her an unusual strength of character. She could bring in some changes in my life and outlook, which even my parents couldn’t. I respect her a lot. We do have some differences, but I admire her sense of optimism, courage to face the world (almost on the verge of recklessness for choosing me as a life partner) and abundance of happiness. She celebrates every moment of her life cheering herself and those around. Negativity has no place in our household! Yet, she is realistic and not an escapist. She is ready to confront issues and redress them pragmatically. She can judge characters readily – too readily. Despite her positive qualities she is not vain. That’s the best part in her. And she doesn’t use emotion as a weapon against me. We do shout and yell at each other sometimes, but everything is forgotten and forgiven after the outburst. We don’t accrue negative feeling and horde animosity. She has

Hey hey. . . Its me again! Life is dull. I am reminded of the industrious ants. By the way, who qualified them as ‘industrious’? We humans did so, because the actually dumb six-legged creatures displayed similar mad behavior as ourselves. Like those industrious chums, we too go in a line to collect things with a wild obsession matching those wild creatures, who spend three fourths of their miserable life in grain gathering and logistics. In the end, when it is time to retire and enjoy the booty accrued over the years, we are too sick or too dead! Yet we never stop this mad goose chase. Our creator must have designed toys like us for his pleasure – to enjoy our misery. The instant we reach success mostly by the Creator’s intervention, we gloat about our greatness and glorify ourselves soon to fall in a deep chasm and lose it all! Take time to enjoy the golden sea at dusk, the flutter of the dragon flies near the dandelions, the gleeful mirth of the tiny tots. There is God in those! Th

Occupation   They moved into a new flat  The father arranged all in tact  And the Mother rearranged it all in fact  To end the war, they declared a pact.  The father put a dining table  With chairs all around, not so stable  Then came the books, litter and the cable  The mother chided: “The room is a stable!”  The children played around, made a mess  Of the new carpet and their dress  “They are like their father, can they do less?”  Says the lady to a neighbor, who couldn’t guess.  The computer brings more worries!  The fridge not working, the fruits turn puree!  While their bellies burn with spicy curries,  Off to school each member hurries.  The father is a teacher in Math  A wild and fiery temper he has  The mother takes for the seniors, humanity,  And drives them surely to insanity!  Their brats, a troublesome pair,  break things while pretending to repair!  “What to do?” the teachers lament in despair  Their parents sigh and moan but don’t really care.  Both are in 8C sitting in f

Hey its me again. I just got to remember my childhood when I used to be a rural un-sophisticated giggly boy with dribbly nose and scruffy hair. I used to be bullied by Nasser and gang. I was no match for their gross physique and cruel behavior. I used to cry silently at home when lights went out and Mom gave a good night kiss. I used to cling to her hand. She would gently cajole me to sleep. I never felt like telling her the truth and despair her already turbulent mind. I kept it to myself and suffered humiliation day after day. In due course of time, it just turned out to be a weary ritual. Eventually the bullying ended when the gang got kicked out for harming an influential boy. Why am I telling this anecdote? It is to tell all those out there: if you let it pass and be patient you can survive without much creativity. Don't get carried away by situations; instead handle them with patience. Soon you will acquire the finesse to handle difficult situations. If I can survive anyone c

Moments  . . . The tear of a petal,  The mirth on a church bell,  The smile of my daughter,  So pure ‘n’ natural.  She’s so precious,  Her manners so gracious,  As Hindus do in ritual.  I name her Harmonious!     Every moment she teaches,  Of trust and love she preaches  by her glee-rich smile; Like sanguine beaches.  Yet, in a moment of anger  Alas! I did beat her in rancor  How frail I’m,  I curse and cry Ah!  She hugs me in sweet slumber.  I now see her in the garden,  Talking to hibiscus in passion,  They nod their heads so crimson,  In blatant amusement.   I bid adios at the wretched gate  I now regret the recalcitrant state  Clueless of the deceit, ‘bubbye’ she says  Her eyes linger as I seal my fate.  That’s the picture I remember  In my forlorn days of separation  Of the terrible, terrible treachery  Of a father to a child, so fair.  The moment, I would strain  Within the four walls of pain  As I’d twist for tears of shame  But they never came.  The mornings were merciful  But