A name and the damage done

If I were born in the seamier side of Fort Cochin with a name like Selwyn Da Costa, I would have pursued a career as a rock guitarist. (read elegy to False Alarm, in this blog) But with a name like Surendran Pandarathil, I was destined to the dustbin of irrelevance in later life. So blame it on your parents. My father was an NRI for many years and wasn’t clued in on fashionable names of the time in India. Back in the sixties distorted names like Riteeeysh were not much the rage since numerologists and other woozy con artists were yet to arrive at the scene. So my name was recorded as Surandran; an apparent spelling mistake committed by the Chinese / Malay clerk in records- no surname, or father’s name as appendage. No one bothered to correct it also.
When we came to India in the early seventies, my maternal grand uncle took me to the school near my village and corrected what he saw was an abomination of a spelling mistake in my name and rather cruelly added my family name for good measure in the school records. He belonged to a generation that wore family names like a badge of honour. He couldn't have imagined difficulties filling up various visa forms and other application forms. My family name sounded very close to an object of disgust in Malayalam. I would be teased endlessly about it. In school and college I was given nicknames by friends and adversaries that sounded variously like ‘beanpole’ and ‘chickenlegs’- not a very flattering reference to my thin emaciated looks that resulted in a permanently tarred and rather unsuccessful track record with the opposite sex.
The other issue was that my name without expansion of initials gave rather hazy clues on my ancestry. Although it was embarrassing initially, I rather started to enjoy being classified by many of the kerala subcastes as one of their own. I swear I could have run for elections disguised as belonging to any of the leading castes of the constituency and achieved a modicum of success in competitive caste politics. This had some interesting outcomes as one grew beyond marriageable age and one would hear leading questions as to one’s ancestry so as to hook you up with a similarly placed spinster. I loved to keep them guessing without giving any clue. One could masquerade as a goldsmith, toddy tapper, tiller, carpenter, harijan or whatever the occasion demanded. Growing up in Kerala in the 70s’ and 80s’ we were more influenced by Karl Marx than Groucho Marx and it was clearly amusing to watch others trying to slot you into the complex social hierarchy of our land.
I finally met up with Robin Jeffrey, the Canadian academic who wrote a book on the decline of Nayar dominance in Travancore, in Canberra, a fortnight ago. He brazenly asked me my ancestry. I candidly admitted that I am a Palghat Nair. I made an allowance for the white man who asked me the question; for if it was any one from Kerala, I would have kept them guessing. Robin said good for you that Shashi is contesting elections-Shashi being Shashi Tharoor, another Palghat Nair. I said I didn’t see how it is good for me for I have never even met him. Two Palghat Nairs only have to try a little hard to become close relatives. Try a little harder and you can make matches between unmarried souls or start a chit fund with family names attached to it. The family names invariably have an unromantic, rather longish, strange sounding ring to it- Tharoor being a nicer sounding one. The rules are simple. One carries only the mother’s family name. And when you marry, your wife doesn’t carry your family name. (Brinda Karat is breaking a major rule here). Your children don’t carry your name or your family name but their mother’s family name. My senior Punjabi civil servant friend once quizzed me on my full name and my son’s full name and asked me rather bluntly, ’Beta tera hi hai ?’ (Is your son really yours ?) And one is never addressed by the family name which is also a surname. I try to explain this to Australians who call me Mr Pandarathil, but they don’t seem to get it. I get calls and letters from credit card companies, cab services, tax office, library, immigration department and others addressing me as Pandarathil and I can’t do a damn thing about it. Here I am stuck with a name I can’t disown.
So it was that I read Sidin Vadukut’s blog on single south Indian males. It is really a hilarious piece. And I knew exactly how it feels.
http://www.whatay.com/2004/05/17/the-travails-of-single-south-indian-men-of-conser/#disqus_thread
I sent this link to all the female friends I have had the privilege of knowing in my rather unspectacular life. One college friend promptly wrote back. She said don’t blame your name for your failures with women. Look within and you shall know that the reasons run deeper than that. It did wonders to my self esteem….
I don’t believe in after life. If there be one I‘d rather be born Anglo Indian in Fort Cochin with a name that sounds somewhat like a Portugese marauder. Then maybe I‘ll pursue the true calling of my life, ie music. Maybe …..(a remote outside chance here) achieve success with women too…..

And the PM spoke Mandarin...

First a disclosure- Nothing that I am about to write has anything to do with my not-so-intimate knowledge of the goings on in Government as a lowly Indian Defence Ministry bureaucrat. No, nothing here is a result of my attending Secret meetings or reading classified documents. Y’know it helps to pretend that you are a very knowledgeable insider, especially when you are a highly placed official just freshly transplanted from the water supply department to Defence and know nothing about Defence. You can give these knowledgeable nods, bored and disapproving looks and talk about the time you were in Washington DC with a Finance Ministry delegation on Shrimp exports which had f-kall to do with Defence. If there is one thing I have learnt after spending 19 odd years in Defence Ministry and its’ related organizations, it is that I know very little about it. So there is no competition from me to the water supply guy with pretentious airs. I have spent an entire wasted life in Defence and read a lot of useless stuff on the subject- Which is how I stumbled upon the Cox report, a declassified version of a top secret US House of Representatives select committee report of 1998 on US security concerns with the Peoples Republic of China. You can read it at http://www.house.gov/coxreport/

It is not polite behaviour to write about the politics of the host country. Especially a country so welcoming and which has been good to me so far. And Mandarin is not an easy language to learn. The Chinese characters can take a whole range of different meanings depending on the intonation, rise, and crescendo of every sound emanating from one’s lips. If I were in China, I would have given up on learning Chinese. Maybe I’d just try one liners or amusing conversation like… where is the nearest sex toy shop? Where can I get Chairman Mao memorabilia?....

Kevin Rudd, the Australian PM, has been a diplomat. He learnt Mandarin from the same University where I study ie the Australian National University. He must have painstakingly learnt a tough language to rise in the diplomatic service or to rise in the labor Party with its’ leftist leanings. His intimate knowledge of China and its main language is seen as a major advantage in dealing with a rising power; one that is inextricably linked to the future of the Australian nation. Before going to the G20 he had a hush-hush meeting with a top Chinese Official who apparently influenced him well enough that the PM made a pitch for increased role of China in IMF. Only problem was- the meeting was kept out of the Aussie media while the Chinese papers (maybe the singular; yeah the only main one….) went to town with it.

The Chinese connection doesn’t end there. The newspapers are replete with stories of the Australian Defence Minister’s China links. Fitzgibbon, the young Defence Minister apparently went on a sponsored trip to China (much before he became Defence Minister) and forgot to declare it. He also accepted gifts from his landlady in Canberra who is an Australian National of Chinese origin (the same friend who sponsored his trips to China)- who is also suspected of connections to the Chinese communist party and the PLA. China also relies heavily on Australian coal. They have been making efforts to buy up mines in the country to ensure a steady supply of coal to fuel rapid Chinese growth. The number of Chinese students and tourists to Australia are growing exponentially. Ultimately Australia is a first world country with a third world economy of primary products ie minerals, metals and agricultural products. The contrast with India is unmistakable- India is a third world country with a booming first world service-sector- based economy. For Australia, the Chinese connection is a life line and it means a lot.

There are murmurs of Chinese attempts to access/ tap the Australian PM’s laptop/phone while he was on a trip to China. There are also reports in the media that Australian Intelligence organization is vertically split on the China subject. A part of the setup sees the relationship as a hedging one and a tool to better things; while some see it as a surrender of Australian interests. The china relationship is so keenly watched that the Australian media reports that for the official dinners following G-20 the PM’s staff advised that the PM shouldn’t be seated next to Chinese. Much like one wouldn’t like to be seen in public with someone else that could set tongues wagging- like one’s mistress.

Now the task gets tougher. I shan’t write about China’s military prowess, which is growing enormously- for fear that I may be out of my job if I do that. But we endlessly get to hear about how the Chinese got things right on the growth story while the Indians are bumbling along. How the Chinese are faster at making decisions (it helps to have a single party rule I suppose) and how they have done better to insulate themselves from financial shocks. Australian newspapers had recently splashed pictures of Manmohan Singh and Montek Singh in blue turbans at the G-20 summit with the caption that Indians are happy that slumdog millionaire was doing well despite the recession. What is unsaid is that these two worthies collectively can outclass the best global leadership on matters economic. So we are not in the public eye as far as the Aussie media is concerned. While the Chinese are much so.

There are enough comparisons of the India vs China growth story. Indian growth is driven bottoms up, by companies; Chinese growth is driven by a focused nationalistic Government. The Chinese don’t even like to be compared with India, for they consider themselves in a different league. But the Cox report shows how well the Chinese can penetrate the developed world. Being tickled pink with growth prospects of China and being part of it is one thing. There is an information asymmetry which the developed world needs to be cautious about. While the Chinese can get as much information as they want on the developed world, it isn’t always easy to do so with China. In the long run it is easier to do business with someone you know well and it is easier to know well.

In India, one could buy a postal order of Rs 10 (equivalent princely sum of 30 Aussie cents) and seek information on total Defence spending by the Government of India from the Office of the Defence Secretary or Finance Secretary (only if you are too lazy to glean this figure from Planning Commission and Finance Ministry documents on the cyberspace). You can expect a reply within the month (in spite of not-so-knowledgeable babus). Try to find out from the Chinese….

I rest my case

Pazham Pori Purana

Recipe
Few ripe or near ripe bananas peeled–
Not any banana- but Nendhrapazham, to be specific- a typical Kerala plantain, ceremonial fruit for Onam and Vishu, Kerala’s prominent festivals, king of plantains.
Cut lengthwise -I know that sounds stupid- can a banana be cut lengthwise? Isn’t it meant to be cut in to small round pieces and fried in oil and eaten as Kerala banana chips, famously sold in every nook and corner of the country? Now come on, I haven’t even begun my recipe, don’t interrupt.
Mix white flour with water, a bit of milk, and salt and make a paste, not too thick.
Now put the cut pieces of bananas into the paste.
Heat coconut oil-enough to sink the banana pieces one or two at a time- in a pan
Take the pieces and fry them
Wait until each piece turns golden brown
Drain oil and serve hot.
The above is a clumsily attempted recipe of Pazham Pori, thus called in North Kerala (where I belong) , also known as Vazhakka Appam in South.
The stuff made at home is good. But the stuff sold in Railway Stations is great. Don’t know how they get it right. It must be the unhygienic surroundings, the sweat dribbling down the bare shoulders of the cook, the dust that flies as trains pass by and the tiny insects that fall in the heated oil. They look bigger, thicker and they dribble in oil… (Just as the Golgappas aka Pani Puris sold at the roadside stall is infinitely tastier than the one made at home or sold in the sterilized surroundings of a star hotel)
Unfortunately, the pazham pori is nowadays rarely available in hotels and restaurants in Kerala. Unless you happen to visit an infra-dig village eating joint and partake in snacking with the rural class. It is also not so easy to find in Railway stations in Kerala nowadays. They are sold between say 7.00 AM and 8.30 AM in mornings and 3.30 PM to 4.30 PM evenings. The entire freshly-made stock is sold off before you get panting, huffing and puffing there.
I remember an old visit to my village in Kerala. I arrived at Shornur Junction near my home by train from Goa, with the Missus, Chathu and loads of luggage. It was around 7 AM in the morning. The station had come to life. Vendors selling tea, newspapers and breakfast were yelling loudly,announcing their wares as they walk along the platform. My friend Hari had promised to send his car with a driver. The driver called up to say that he will take another ten minutes to get there.
I told the Missus, wait here, I will get some newspaper and come. My village doesn’t get the daily supply of English newspapers; only Malayalam ones are sold. I rushed to the canteen, bought a parcel of 5 steaming hot pazham poris and went back. I forgot all about newspapers. Missus is fuming; the driver has already arrived. Porters and taxi touts are pestering them. Chathu gets impatient. He has been maintaining that look... Why did you drag me away from my multiple screens, the TV screen, the play station console and the computer screen? Why did you take me away from my football gang in my colony in Delhi…Why do I have to meet strange relatives and chat with them?; All in all, our man never passes up the opportunity to make me feel guilty.
We dump the entire luggage in the car and soon we are winding our way through country roads towards my village a few kilometers away. I open the parcel and start eating ravenously. I remembered that I haven’t brushed. Never mind. Anybody want a bite? No. Thank you. Conversation stops and I am busy eating. A mouth full of Pazham Poris can still make a man forget niceties and civil behaviour. It is hot, sweet, and tangy.
Ought to make it global cuisine. Wait for the day it is sold like pizzas, hamburgers, Danish Pastries and noodles in every corner of the globe.