Life in kerala - Circa 19th Century

My favourite postprandial reading is not DH Lawrence, Dostoevsky, Antonio Gransci or a piece of elegant Victorian Erotica called Pearl. (Read Pearl.. you will learn more verbal titillation that a million playboy stories cannot teach you). It is not the time to read the legal thrillers passing off the assembly line of John Grisham, with quality declining with every new product.
I read a thick bound volume in Malayalam called Kerala in the 19th century by P. Bhaskaranunni. A writer, the brief introduction reveals, who lived a most unspectacular life. He dropped out of college, worked as a clerk, as a schoolteacher, married rather late in life, and died in 1994. This work is a very painstaking effort to re create life, as it existed in the 19th century in Kerala. It is a study of customs, practices and history of Kerala, written in elegant prose, without losing the essence of language as it was in use in the 19th century. Normally not available in bookshops, one might order it from Kerala Sahitya Academy in Thrissur. One critic has argued that this writer ought to be given multiple Phds for each chapter in this book.
Nothing can match the pleasure of a couple of drinks and an easy posture in bed to curl up with this bulky book on a winter evening in Delhi. One gets transported to a magical world. You could see a procession of Kings with their armies, riding on caparisoned elephants. You could see Noblemen, with hairy, bare chests, wearing white Mundus, earring (much before it became the cool thing) and hair tied up in double knots on either side of the head. You could also see Princesses in dazzling gold jewellery, shapely women heavy around the deriere in everyday clothes, flaunting breasts, Mohiniyattam dancers in off white sari with gold borders, with eyelashes painted long and black. It was a world, where women had no compunction to show skin (but with a rider….only before equals and upper castes). Visions of noisy armies with horse hoofs pounding the ground, war cries filling the air, marching to subjugate distant kingdoms, greedy merchants, with loads of spices & silks sailing to unknown lands pass before your eyes in a procession. The evenings bring entertainment, before lighted lamps, accompaniment of percussion beats and dancers with painted faces contorted in complex kathakali mudras. The audience shaking their heads in deep appreciation, their jaws steadily chewing beetle leaves. There is the obsequiousness of the rulers of Princely states to the Europeans. There are extravagant displays of wealth, grinding poverty. There is black magic, the transportation of imaginary souls and prayers to please a variety of gods and goddesses. You could also see deceit, victory, grief, joy and unconsummated passion in these pages. You can’t miss the cry of anguish of the slave, artisan and sharecropper silently filling the melancholy air of the period- the untold story of every society. You would also be convinced that the original liberated society existed right here before Soho in New York became famous for the bohemian life. You would also be convinced that Kerala could also lay claim to the most iniquitous social order.
My practice is to read from in between. Not in any particular order. This book has given me a better insight into class relations than any Marxist treatise. It gave me a better understanding of caste, aristocracy and the sheer injustice of it all than any other book. It gives a view of Kerala society from the tinted glasses of conquerors from alien lands. Swami Vivekananda’s damning indictment of caste practices in Malabar is described in great detail. Tippu Sultan’s Kuttippuram declaration was made in February 1788, 12 years before the 19th century. He arrived at Kuttippuram with 30000 soldiers from Thamarassery. The proclamation carries the arrogance of the victorious towards the vanquished, with the looming threat of conversion to Islam, if restraint is not shown in the 18th century Malayali women’s penchant for multiple sexual partners. (What about the guys, heh? heh?). I must have read it at least ten times. Roughly translated like this-
“ For the last twenty four years, from the time of our conquest of the land of Malayalam, you are seen as disobedient and stubborn. During the skirmishes in monsoon, many of our soldiers have been made to drink the nectar of death. Let bygones be bygones. Changes are required to your way of life. Live in peace and pay your taxes regularly. It is seen that women among you, have conjugal relations with 10 men. Many among you allow your mothers and sisters to lead such a life without any restraints. Hence you are all born bastards, and in the realm of male- female relations, you are more shameless than cattle that graze the fields. I command you to discontinue such sinful practices and live like ordinary human beings. If this command is not obeyed, you will all be made to join the Holy religion of Islam and the noblemen among you will be dispatched to death…”. . I learnt that the country roads in my village were basically “tank Roads’ made by Tipu for access to the countryside, an instrument of domination. He was a compassionate king. He could tolerate multiple wives to a single male that was consistent with the moral and social code of a 6th century desert kingdom- but not the female-dominant version. Tippu had inter alia put an end to an ongoing sexual revolution and taken Kerala to Puritanism and the nuclear family code.

Market meltdown for idiots

In the beginning there was man.. Oops, I am off to a start that smacks of a style reminiscent of a loony religious sect. Ok, in the beginning there were companies and markets. Companies were distinct entities from humans who sweated behind them. When companies made profits, everyone partied. There are profits to be shared by shareholders, increased growth & demand in the economy, salary hikes for executives & workers, assured spreads for banks who lent money who in turn made more credit available to fledgling companies. Companies went bankrupt periodically due to changes in demand, inability of company to survive and grow in competition etc. Banks went broke when a disproportionately high number of creditors go belly up. Till now things are understandable to Sharmaji next door.
Things get complex from now on. The guys from fancy business schools with affected accents, gelled hair and Hugo Boss suits take over. They introduced financial derivatives. The closest analogy to the entry of financial derivatives is the introduction of the forbidden fruit of temptation into the garden of Adam & Eve where originally, there was only nice lounge music, uninhibited sex and minimalist/ avant-garde clothing. Now these snooty nosed guys said financial markets are much more complex than what Sharmaji-next-door can comprehend. They said it is possible to leverage your assets to produce more resources, fancy salaries and exuberant markets. So we have arbitrages, futures, options etc. The assets underlying instruments were considered strong enough to keep the party going. Then the fund manager stepped in. He said Sharmaji ought to entrust his hard earned rupees to finance professionals in shiny suits who study the markets, invest and optimize returns. Then these guys got greedier and greedier. They started lending to Joe jobless whose repayment abilities were suspect due to a drinking problem and alimony issues. These suspect assets were in turn converted into bonds and sold to unsuspecting buyers who believed that the party could never end. Many speculated in the futures market. As derivatives grew more complex and innovative, they grew more and more distant from the underlying fundamentals and realities of the market.
When the party ended, it affected almost everybody. Coupled with volatility in crude and food prices, things couldn’t get any worse. Inflation shot up, interest rates went up, liquidity shrunk, business sentiments grew bleak and loans turned bad as Joe jobless shifted to inferior liquor and defaulted on alimony payments. As investment banking collapsed, the shiny suits spiffed up their CVs for opportunities in the job market. Big investment Banks are being bailed out by Western Governments. These Governments who were beacons of liberty, equality, justice and a strong faith in the invisible hand of profit motive now stand discredited for privatizing profits as long as the party lasted and nationalizing losses when investment banks went kaput. Writing off debts of these institutions sound like banditry compared to writing off debts of suicidally inclined farmers in India’s hinterland. At least the Indian farmers didn’t play with derivatives. They did straightforward business. They borrowed money from banks & village money lenders, bought seeds & planted, applied fertilizers & insecticides and either lost their crops due to bad monsoons and/or faced with lower market prices for crops, could not repay the loan. They deserve every bit of our sympathy as compared to the investment bankers in Hugo Boss suits. We ought not grudge our tax money being spent on them.
I read the Economist for a conservative viewpoint. It is a magazine that has been espousing the cause of limited Government and sound public finances for ages. When The Economist strongly condemned the Nuclear Deal due to the unintended benefits it conferred on India, I naturally believed that it must be good for India. (Suspicions confirmed when our northern neighbour acted funny in NSG- No comments about Indian politicians who opposed it). When Economist blames Western Governments for bailing out Investment Bankers, one is glad to be Indian and bailing out only poor farmers.
The bonfire of vanities by Tom Wolfe contains a very interesting conversation between an Investment Banker and his child. I quote from memory. Something about the child saying that a friend’s father is an engineer/ architect and builds bridges/buildings. Sherman McCoy, the Investment Banker tries to explain to his child that investment banking is something close to that, funding infrastructure projects. Soon he realizes that his convoluted analogy fails to convince his child. Moral of the story : If you came out of a fancy business school, try doing something honourable…like selling idlis!!
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Favourite TV shows: The Week that wasn’t, Cyrus Broacha & Kunal Vijaykar in CNN IBN at 1030 hrs Sunday. Had been watching tech2.com, a gadget show in TV18 that has been discontinued. I don’t have the patience to watch stock market shows where Fund managers use clichés like “let’s watch how the India story plays out” and “let’s watch how the oil story pans out”….etc. The language and gestures look increasingly the same as the suits look shinier and anchors look prettier in studio lights.
Liked ‘Highway on my plate’ in NDTV Good Times. This is about two large guys (one in a pony tail) trekking the country, eating in Dhabas and off beat eateries. It is great fun. The shows end with a flourish: a nonsensical rhyming verse mostly. Saw something similar in Discovery Travel & Living. If the Indian Show is an imitation, all I can say is that the forgery has outdone the original.

Times of trouble

On Saturday night, the 13th of September 2008, I was mobbed by calls from old friends to see whether I am alive. Delhi has come under attack once again. Five explosions spread across the city. The mobile lines were jammed and the landline kept ringing. While mechanically affirming that I am hale and hearty, I wondered where the motherland is headed and how long is this mayhem going to continue. I know that our time will also come. If it is death by terrorist attack, I can only hope that it results in instant death; not in prolonged battle for life. Even walking close to garbage dump can pose a hazard to life
Islam is perhaps going through the midlife crisis that Christianity went through in the Middle Ages. Read about the Spanish inquisition, proselytization, dark arts etc practiced through the ages. Christianity has evolved into a compassionate religion after a violent past. Islam being the newest Semitic religion, which draws a lot from the same theory of Genesis in the Bible, is perhaps in that stage which Christianity was in the Middle Ages. All religions carry a lot of absurdity in their holy books and scriptures. Hence we have misguided youth believing in life hereafter where, seven virgin houris await to entertain and titillate their senses for services rendered to further the cause of jihad on earth. Eastern religions, while beiong equally absurd are less structured and freer in terms of choices. I wish every religion would leave that space for the non-believer and tolerate them in their midst. I also wish religion would become less important in our public discourse. Increasingly society is being segmented into compartments with very little interaction at any level. With increased westernization and globalisation, it is surprising that these identities are not being submerged.
It is sad that public places are bombed in the name of a compassionate God. If nothing else, it would only result in Ghettoisation of the minorities. A community that is backward is now being viewed with mistrust. One of my friends with whom I enjoy these debates on God/ religion and spirituality says that at least 30 % of Hindus trapped in the cruelty of caste system lead a much more brutalized life. Discrimination in jobs, social norms, means of survival etc make the dices loaded heavily against them. Nevertheless they suffer in silence. They aren’t bombing public places in the name of Caste or justice. I tell him that what worries me more is the feelings of the ordinary liberal Muslim who is under the scanner of suspicion for no reason other than belonging to the faith or just born to parents of belief. Let us not view our fellow human beings with suspicion for the dark deeds of some. We can only hope that this scourge is limited to a few misguided youth and will be wiped out soon.
Witness the US Department of Homeland Security in action. One is bound to feel discriminated due to the colour of brown skin while traveling in the US. But these guys don’t take chances. The public employees don’t bend rules. You can’t possibly say “Jaante Ho Main Kaun Hoon ?” (Do you know who I am) when flagged down by the Traffic Police for a minor violation. It is worrying to see the Indian security and intelligence agencies coming for most flak. They have the toughest task to perform. And they work in a hostile environment. Hope these incidents would result in a long-term revamp of the security architecture. In our time, we might yet see an end to constables doing domestic chores in the homes of VIPs. We might also see biometric cards issued to all citizens- something, which even third world countries have succeeded in doing. Suppose fingerprints are collected from a blast site. Is there a national database for verification? I earnestly hope things change….
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Books : Read “One hundred years of Solitude” (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)once again during my father’s illness. This time didn’t go past 200 odd pages. Most of it through the night on a vigil outside the Intensive care unit in Jubilee Mission Medical college Hospital in Thrissur, Kerala.
Someone suggested that I read British author Peter Robinson knowing my passion for British crime fiction. I read “Dead Right”. It is an OK book. Not in the league of Colin Dexter or the various women writers I admire. Looking forward to more books on the DCI Banks mysteries.
Books piling up near the bedside and yet to be read are “Argumentative Indian”, by Amartya Sen, “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins and “Military Inc” by Ayesha Siddiqa- (bless my anonymous friend who donated this expensive book, knowing how eager I was to read of Pakistan’s Military Industries: I would never bring myself to shell out Rs 1700 on a slim volume).
The Missus is reading James Herriot’s biography. I never took a shine to Herriot- A Yorkshire veterinarian peddling his skills in the placid quiet of the English countryside- occasionally disturbed by bovine constipation or feline cataract.
Am now trying to finish “Sea of Poppies” by Amitav Ghosh- a book borrowed by the Missus from the Eloor lending library in South Extension, Delhi. This is one writer who has matured and grown with age like exquisite wine. I loved the Glass Palace and Hungry Tide. I read him savouring every word. We have been members of Eloor Lending Library for more than 19 years in various branches in Cochin (only I, before marriage), Chennai, Kolkata and Delhi at various stages of life. They ought to give the Missus and I Lifetime achievement awards. I read “The White Tiger” by Arvind Adiga also from Eloor. It is surprising to see Adiga and Ghosh short-listed for the same award. Being Time correspondent in Delhi helps I suppose.
Eating joints in Delhi: Can’t afford them anymore. Even my favourite Swagath at Defence Colony has hiked their prices beyond the Babu’s means. I am not a party type who would take up every invitation for dinner. In a job where many would love to wine and dine you, I would rather do that with old friends with similar tastes. Even if I have to pick up the tab!!! Did try China fare in Khan market, which makes a mean Prawns Mee Foon. It is fairly inexpensive. Longing to indulge in the seafood fare at Ponnuswamy Hotel or the Velu Military Hotel in Chennai. Cheap and Best Saar!!!! As the Chennai makkal are bound to say….
Favourite Blogs: Sidin Vadukut is the only one I read with regularity. Lest someone should accuse me of nepotism, I reduce five marks from him for being a Keralite. He has a great sense of humour of the self-deprecatory kind.
I also discovered Mayank Austen Soofi. The name initially conjured up visions of an a-historic, transgender breakthrough in genetic science. No, it is someone called Mayank Singh, a correspondent in Hindustan Times, a journalist who runs four blogs including one called Pakistan Paindabad. He has his heart in the right place- a strange affinity for Arundhati Roy notwithstanding.

Music: Still stuck in the same grove. I promise myself to try Black-eyed Peas and Cold play some time during the next year. My old Pioneer system has been sold for a song. I bought an amplifier and bookshelf speakers from Norge, a small time Bombay company specialized in making audiophile grade equipment. Mr. Bajaj, the owner is running his company / workshop from a dinghy building in Hammersmith Industrial Estate in Sitla Devi Temple road, Bombay. I met him twice before finally zeroing in on his audio system. The equipment is not exactly great in terms of finish. It is inexpensive, but produces good sound. I have thus done my bit in favour of small scale Indian Industry as against big companies like Bose, Onkyo, Marantz and Denon. I am yet to buy a dedicated CD player. For the past one year I have been connecting the ipod to the Norge system; which is a sub optimal solution. Let the pay hike take effect… We’ll think about a CD player.

Waiting for Godot

I was informed of my mother’s death on a cold winter dawn in Delhi. She had died in her sleep on 21st January 2006 late at night. I rushed out of my home into the dark, foggy and biting cold, tears streaming down my eyes, trying to hail a taxi/ auto rickshaw. I had an open ticket to Kochi- taken as a precaution; a premonition of impending bad news. The flight to Kochi had left. The Airline staff was kind enough to change it to Bangalore. I reached my home in Palghat by evening. For a son, a mother’s death marks an end of many things. As the saying goes, the richest guy is one whose mother is alive. (translated from a Pakistani saying… Duniya ke sab se bada Daulatwala woh hain, jiska Maa Zinda hai). I felt incredibly lost. I wished I could nurse her in her old age, talk about old times, and gain strength from her as she fades gently into the sunset.
I just lost my father too. Which explains the long absence from this blog. He had a fall resulting in a compression fracture in his vertebrae. He was in pain for two months: but was bed ridden for about 12 days. I was with him during the last six days of his life. He gave me the opportunities that my mother denied me. I experienced the vagaries and the sheer indignity of old age. Every time I felt reluctant to handle the unpleasant aspects of a bedridden old man, I tried to remember the times when he held me in his arms, when I was a small boy. I sensed self-loathing in his eyes. And those eyes never left me. Castigating me when I took him to the hospital, reproaching when I took him to various tests: He told me several times that he wanted to die. I whispered in his ear that he might have given up hope of living. But I can’t give up on him yet- Just as he wouldn’t give up on me during my worst times. He apologized many times for having inconvenienced me in the midst of my busy life. (Yeah, he thinks I am a big guy. I never tried to disabuse him of the notion. In Delhi’s bureaucratic caste system I fall somewhere between night soil carriers and gypsies. Some truths are better left unsaid; especially if they cause discomfort to a dying father). He told me that he was very proud of me when, as a child, I would read three books at a time and narrate the stories. I thought that was an overstatement. Yes I am in the habit of reading three books at once. I sort of reached my peak in reading at the age of 13. (It has been a downhill ride ever since). Nice to know that someone out there is proud of me: especially when I am low on self-esteem…
I sit in the sands on the banks of Nila river near my home - A beautiful river, denuded by the sand mafia. My three elder brothers who have come from abroad and my younger sister sit in wet clothes. The “Inangan” gets us going through the rituals of passage ( a strange Nair custom in which a member of the community carries out the rituals facilitating the departed soul’s ascension to the nether world.) It is daybreak. We had dipped ourselves several times in the river. My eldest brother who had come from England wore the white cloth that signifies the rights of the eldest son. We take water from a jar, splay it on the rice, coconut, weeds and other stuff. Prayers are chanted.
After 11 days, we got back to our respective lives, our parents only a memory. I have heard of Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot” which is about two strangers waiting for Godot; neither knows how he looks or why are they waiting for him. They indulge in a long conversation. Critics have called it an allusion to life. A meaningless dialogue while waiting for death without really knowing what it signifies.
My father was a serious guy. He belonged to a family in Palghat, (Methil House, which produced many artistes, teachers, corporate honchos, stenographers and writers) which took pride in their aristocracy. Being anti-caste, I paid no heed to such origins. They were light-skinned, soft-spoken and had sharp features. Our old family friends swear that none of us, his sons, have inherited his good looks when he was young. As we rapidly lose hair on our pates, some have affirmed that we have started to look like him. As a chief clerk in a plantation company in Malaysia, he afforded us the lifestyle (by honest means), which we can’t afford to our children today. In spite of his international exposure, he was a deeply conservative man. He ate little, spoke little, had a couple of drinks every night and generally maintained good health. He lived a good life- With wonderfully solicitous neighbours/relatives and a reasonably good state of physical & financial health.
I held many things against him, Settling in a village and closing our opportunities, leaving my mother with five children to fend for herself for six long years… very important growing up years for me. For many years we maintained a superficial acquaintance. I made up for all that in 6 short days. On the 27th night, the doctors told me that his chances of recovery are bleak. He might survive for a day or even for a year. The other option is to let him undergo a high-risk surgery, which may be a more compassionate way of bringing things to an end. I consulted my siblings and my sister (who was with me and nursed him in a way that all the money in this world cannot buy) and decided to take him, ready for the long haul: waiting for Godot. I rang up the Missus and said I am leaving Delhi, going back to my Dept, take two months leave to nurse him. I planned to get a posting in South India and be near him. I hung on for a day just to say goodbye to the Doctor who saw him first. He breathed his last the same night. An ominous end to all the inconveniences he had imagined he would cause me.

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