SUICIDE  OF A SECULAR TREE
Death has got several faces. The most gruesome being the death of innocent children. Such faces make you ashamed of being human. Another horrific experience in my line of duty, narrated in the language of a tree.

SUICIDE  OF A SECULAR TREE

The keyed up talk of one of the speaker, excited with the close proximity he had with Mahatma Gandhi, while, with much difficulty he could jump over a high wall near the prayer hall, got the longest clap. It was the only memorable speech for it's vivid narration of the adventure he took to met ‘the saint of ahimsa’ at the massive prayer hall In Delhi. All others who spoke on that day, some in Telugu and some in Hindi were not impressive. There were, of course, differences between the adherents of each religions on how vigorously should the call of ‘Do or Die” by Mahatma Gandhiji to his countrymen for achievement of the freedom while asking the British to “Quit India” after the failure of the Cripps Mission proposals in 1942 should be implemented. They, the Muslims and the Hindus had in their hands the tri color flags which they at times waved in some frenzy emotions unknown to me that time. But their slogans were in unison” Bharath Mata ki jai”. I did not remember, any one from the Muslim community discussing anything out of the Lahore session held a few months ago in which they had adopted the Pakistan resolution. I found them all in white Khadi clothes, chanting rhymes of freedom struggle and ahimsa.

Now that, iam sure you might be thinking, how could I, without eyes and ears listen to all the vocalizations and weighed up it as a jury? Ok wait! Let me tell you my children, we too can laugh and cry with all the abandon and innocence of a child. We also talk, so do we hear but remember, we share our language only to those who love us. And yet, there is one action which we are always envious about you is the speed at which you walk and run. We can move but we can’t travel. Our legs are deep buried inside the mother earth. There is no other way could we stand.

Today, as I recall that 65 –year-old function held in front of the Panjesha mosque, my mind is flooding with several such exciting incidents happened in my Bainsa village.  Several political meetings were organized in an open area just behind the mosque, where members of all religion equally participated and discussed the plight of freedom fighters dying in “Cellular jail” in Kala Pani and how those hapless prisoners ended up being caught by a cruel jailor,  while trying to escape by jumping into the ocean to participate in the struggle again.

Then came, the 15^th August 1947, the most joyful day in my life. Oh..How can I explain to you my dear children, the ecstasy I lived those moments? It still gives me Goosebumps on my fragile body. The whole village was decorated with tri-color. Small children danced in front of me, in my shade, in tunes of ‘Vande Matharam’ with their tiny hands swung in unison. Many of them had their fathers away in Delhi to attend the historical ‘declaration of freedom’ by the Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru.

Will those days bliss me again? Those days, I remember, together we danced with many of my friends. Most of them perished at the cost of development.  We gave them our lives, space and body to make their life. My good old friends used to say at times, “God created us in a flash of his divine brush dipped in green”.  .  Lost in the bliss of his graceful design, the almighty forget to give us what he gave to his other creations; hands, legs, eyes and ears. We knew that we are not the lesser children of him. God made us to give, only give and taught us to not to take anything in return. So we give and thus, in mythology, we are often treated as God. Isn’t?.  

Those years, I asked all those who pass by, “Do you know who had baptized me? How can I be a Hindu and a Muslim at the same time? Am I an orphan?” Nobody answered. They cannot be blamed for that. They could not hear me either.  Some noble hearts, in those early years, nurtured me by giving water and protected me from stray cattle.  Or may be in other words, no evil hearts noticed me growing till I started giving them shade in those hot sunny afternoons.  It was in a “No Man’s land” where I was born and brought up. Recurrent   Governments labeled it as disputed land. “Common to all but not to anyone”. On either side of me stood a temple and a mosque, which I used to tell my friends with pride, till the early days of 1957, that I have been guarded by a Hindu and a Muslim god. It was on that year, I was terrified for the first time by a bloody riot in my village. Many children who had grown up in my lap died in that riot. I cried silently thereby joining several mothers in their grief.

Iam already old and my body and mind have now become too feeble to bear the pain and sufferings which iam being tormented into all these days without reason. My children have become intolerant and fanatical. They talk languages strange to me during my adolescence years.

Mustafa, the grant old man and the priest of the Panjesha mosque, who died recently, was my mentor. He used to come to me almost every day with his children and later, his grandchildren and explained to them that it was in the year of 1937, I was born in this village. Scratching his soft white beard, he made them listen, “My sweet children, do you know, during those days there were no Hindus and Muslims. The whole nation in the name of one religion, “Indians”, paraded behind a great man “Mahatma Gandhi” in search of freedom from the hands of British”.  After paying few more accolades to those great freedom fighters he would leave quietly with his head down.

Mustafa was my close friend too. He used to share all his worries with me. The rising abhorrence between Hindus and Muslims in his village was his main concern. Till his last days when he got really sick and bed ridden, he used to take his daily afternoon nap under my shade. I took it as my privilege to endow him with a cool breeze whenever he came by.

After the death of Mustafa, his children and grand children left the village and migrated to Mumbai where they settled down to become rich merchants.  But the memoirs of Mustafa are still afresh in my mind so does the memoirs of the riot in 1957. Several died before me. I tasted blood for the first time.  Daggers and swords were flaunted on religious premises, to be circulated to hands of blood. My children turned ghosts of death.  Head count executions and counter executions were demonstrated in streets without reason.  I remember that day; one of my children was running for his life. Few were behind him. He climbed on me. I tried a helping hand to him. He was screaming as he knew that he is going to die. He could see the face of death. He could not climb as he was tired. They pulled him down and cut his throat in a single swing of a sword. He died on my lap. It had, however, been seriously frantic for a month over a dispute between Hindus and Muslims, just for issues silly enough to make a toddler’s head bow.

It took several days for my village to come back to normal. Scars of the wounds, the riot left on my village, never healed thereafter. Meetings were held under my shade several times. Sometimes Muslims, sometimes Hindus. They never said anything about harmony; instead they were talking about strategy. To revenge, to save themselves, to secure their property and to spread hatred. Hit lists were finalized and amended frequently. Mustafa always stood against all this. But no one ever gave an ear to him. I always had a respect towards him for his attitude. Young men had the final say those days. Many of them were seen first time in my village. History repeated eleven times as my children clashed in front of me. Worst of them was in 1996. I overheard from someone that such riots happened in other parts of the nation as well.

Twelve long years passed by without any turbulence. Peaceful days were again returning to my homeland. New developments entered my village. Some schools were opened and new teachers joined.  Religious meetings under my shade became a rarity. Instead, meetings of the village development committee were organized and new resolutions were taken.  Evenings were blissful and active. Many small children came to me and played under my shade. They belonged to both communities. They never discussed religion.  Yes, happy days were back again. The colorful dress of these small children gave immense pleasure to my otherwise aged eyes.  I offered them maximum gust to make them play under me as long as possible. I dislike them being taken away by their parents. They were too reluctant to go. Their cries bought tears in my eyes. But I spend every night with new hope that they will come back again the next day evening. I knew I have become old and have nothing more to hope for. Now a day I have no fear. My children and grand children are living here with harmony.

Arshalam, Numan and Thaba had recently came to my village. First time when they came to play under me, they sat on my lap and watched the other children playing. I heard Arshalam the eldest of the three who was six years old telling  others that they came to spend vacation with their grandparents who lives in my village. Mehabub khan was not alien to me. His meat shop offered fresh mutton to the villagers who are otherwise half-vegetarians. Numan and Thaba, his grand children, were too small to play with others. Numan was three years old and Thaba was two. They laughed as they watch others play. Their innocent smile and cute faces provide me much enchantment. They came to me almost every day and danced around me, wearing colorful dresses which their grandparents presented them for coming to their house during vacation.

But all this ecstasy came to an abrupt end as communal clashes erupted again in my village during a Hindu festival recently. Many shops and houses were devastated. Rioters pelted stones and started stabbing each other and when things went out of control, police opened fire, resulted in death of my three young children. Curfew was imposed as an uneasy calm prevailed in my village. My small grand children could not come to me. I thought and was sure, they might be crying in their houses for not been able to come and play.  It was mind piercing for me to miss my tiny children and their foundlings’.  But after all, everybody has to suffer for a wrong act of a few people.

An anxious smell of violence always hovered over my place. A strange sense of something horrible going to happen was disturbing my soul. I could not sleep for the last couple of days. Suddenly, I started to think that I have become old. I never cursed, for this cruel joke that they made on me, my Hindu or Muslim god till yesterday when my world came to an abrupt end.

Yesterday I cried a lot. Right through the night I cursed the so called god for not giving me a mouth and a pair of hands and legs.  Yes, I have neither of them. Otherwise I could have made an attempt to save Arshalam, Numan and Thaba from the hands of those butchers who mercilessly burned them alive after pouring kerosene oil on them. They were my grand children, my friends, my beloved ones. Oh my god, I could not even shed few drops of tears as homage to those little ones. God was never kind to me. Never.

I was awake with my inner eyes wide open to saw them coming. They were nine.  They crept around the village at just about midnight with knifes and kerosene bottles in their hands. It was too dark for me to identify them.  In their movements I could see death. In their sweat, I smelt revenge; in their eyes I felt terror. I saw them prowling towards the thatched house of Mehabub khan.  I could not make out, initially, what they were doing at these odd hours. Suddenly, to my sheer astonishment, I saw them encircling the house and pouring kerosene oil on it. One of them had bolted the house from outside.  “My god, what the hell are they doing.” With all my strength I pep inside the room and found Mehabub khan and his wife Saffiya were fast asleep. His three grand children were near him.  They were still having that cuteness in their face with no hatred to anything. They might be dreaming about playing under me with other children the next day. I could see them all. They had their small hands clasped each other as if they do not want them to be separated by any force in the universe.  The youngest of them, the two year old girl Thaba, was smiling in her sleep as if she was having a dream about getting a sweet toffee from her father who could not come to her grandfather’s house due to curfew. “OH GOD……! OH my mother earth please liberates my legs. Release me from you. My innocent children are going to die. Please ..please…!

I prayed my heart to god to give me mouth to scream, as I found one among them, put the house on fire.  Trembling vehemently, I made yet another attempt to release my legs but universal law turned up victorious again. Trees are not there to be shifted alive.  The almighty never heard me. When the flames finally started getting inside the room, the first to wake up was Mehabub Khan. He started screaming frantically and wakes up his grandchildren. His heart piercing wail shattered the serene atmosphere. Saffiya was next to get up and she fell unconscious after seeing the fire. Mehabub khan ran towards the door and found it locked from outside. His screams for help were liquefied in the air before reaching his neighbor’s house which was too far away. Only I could hear him. Small children were crying and running around the room as the fire slowly lurched towards them. They all stood at the corner of the room. Mehabub khan dragged Saffiya to the corner. The loud screams of Thaba and Numan were intolerable for me. I made a final attempt to scream. At least to scream.  But I could not. I tried my best to move forward but that too went on vain. I was drained. When the fire callously caught the new blue shirt, his father bought to Arshalam before his journey to the grandparent’s house, Mehabub khan madly tried to put it off. Small Thaba and Numan also came to help Mehabub khan as they could not see their brother Arshalam in flames. Arshalam was screaming in pain. But it was too late. They had no place to escape. The whole room was in flames by now. In an effort to save Arshalam, the clothes of Mehabub khan caught fire. The cries of Thaba and Numan gradually faded as they fell unconscious. Arshalam was already dead. Mehabub khan continued his effort till his last breath to save his grand children. Slowly the fire ate Numan and Thaba. For once, little Numan tried to get up but fell again and dead. Thaba died in her small pink fork her mother carefully stitched by her hands last week. Saffiya died while unconscious. All bodies were charred in few minutes. Their killers were hiding near a tube well and were drinking liquor. It was all over in no time. Five innocent lives lost. Among them were three tiny tots. An aura of death hovered over the sky of Bainsa. Even the nature was weeping. Birds did not get out of their cage. Stray dogs wail as if they saw the god of death.

I lost my sense since then. I don’t want to live. I took a pledge the way I could.  I will starve myself to death. I wish the villagers, after my death,  would take my aged body and make a monument near the entrance of the town in memory of those small children and inscribe in it “Here lays the soul of three small children who never said, “Hindu” “Muslim” “Sikh” or “Christian” “May their souls rest in peace. ….

ULTIMATE MEDICINE

It was a moment frozen in time by agony and pain. Caught in between a government duty and an all important personal need, I decided, though with agony, to finish the task assigned to me for which I took oath on it. In the world of cancelled family functions, missed birthday parties of children and many more, it has to be understood that the police men are not there to complain but to obey what he has been told to do.

 It is indeed a fact that, nothing more could I have done with my presence where several senior doctors and medical staff striving hard to save the life of my tiny niece struggling for her life in the intensive care unit for past few days, but, in the society where relations are rated as more precious than anything, my presence would be more of a solace to my bereaving sister and mother.

Police officers are taught and constantly being told that they cannot get emotionally involved while dealing with pain and sufferings. Criticisms from the relatives of a police officer as they are self-centered, whiny and irritable, for not attending a family function are often taken by them as a fate with no way out. Job related and personal problems in a police officer’s life are interwoven and contribute to each other. In a society where police officers are socially isolated and viewed as enemies to be feared, their excuses are barely being heard.

This story which I wrote few days after her death and was published in one of the police journal, provide an account on how the relations barely matters in a police man’s life. 

ULTIMATE MEDICINE

That was a foggy Sunday morning in Bhubaneswar on 1^st February 2009. My cell rang when I was getting ready to leave for the barrack where my Company was accommodated. A few more preparations were all to be made before leaving for Hyderabad by road the next day after about three months of hectic policing in different parts of trouble stricken Orissa.

That was my mother calling from Trivandrum. “Ammu is admitted in hospital,” she told sobbing. “She is serious, and on ventilator. Come as soon as you can.” I felt bereft.

As the disturbances escalated, several companies of central Paramilitary Forces were deployed at length in a backward district in Orissa, to restore peace and tranquility. One RAF Company under my command was kept as striking reserve in Bhubaneswar for any eventuality in other districts as well. I reckoned it was exactly one month after my company came to Bhubaneswar, from Phulbani as the situation in Kandhamal and Phulbani gradually returned to normal. An order regarding withdrawal of RAF from Orissa was issued by the Home Ministry in the mean time.

Far away from the Battalion headquarters, I felt beleaguered.

My mother, unable to control her grief, asked me again, “Can you come?”

After the premature demise of my father, it has been a lonely and exhausted life for my mother.  Two years after my father’s death, my mother too was in the clutches of a deadly cancer which she triumphed over with courage, which she never thought herself capable of. But at the age of sixty five, scars of her early days of pain and anguish started creeping in her mind and otherwise fragile body.

Before disconnecting the phone my mother said in a pale voice “Your sister is inconsolable. I cannot see her crying over her tiny daughter gasping for breath on a ventilator. Please come if you can.”

Ammu, my 7- month-old tiny niece was admitted in a hospital for acute meningitis. She was struggling for her life in the intensive care unit of the Medical College Hospital, Trivandrum. She was such lovely and playful when I met her last time during my short leave, a couple of months ago. Beautiful as an angel she was, as if a new light to her mother as well as grandmother.

My mind leapt to Kerala. I sat dumbstruck in my bed. I know, my presence there would be of a great help to them at this time of crisis.  I had always been there with them whenever small crises came about in my family. And now, at this instant, when my presence was expected most, I am engaged in a serious business far away where alternatives are scarce. I had to conduct the movement of the company as no alternate options were possible in this eleventh hour.  As the minutes passed, I came to learn from some of my close relatives that, the condition of my niece remained critical.

“Survival chances are bleak” was what my relatives heard from doctors attending her. Right through the day, my phone remained busy with calls from and to my relatives.

It took three full days for my company to accomplish the journey from Orissa to Hyderabad by road. On my arrival at headquarters, and after completion of the usual official formalities, I left for Kerala.

When I entered the intensive care unit of the Medical College Hospital, I was horrified by the condition of my niece. She was on a ventilator, her eyes half closed; her body was connected to several lifesaving equipments.   In that big iron cot, her tiny body covered in white cloth was barely noticeable from the distance. I stood there, watching my niece struggling for breath.  Her skin was stretched and yellowish. Her otherwise curly hair lost sheen and hung around. Her body was shuddering vehemently as ventilator pumps oxygen.

My sister sat up at her bedside, shattered, firmly clasping her daughter’s slender hand as if to thwart any attempt by the “god of death” to take her away.

“Call her … Call her by name” Tears rolling down her eyes, my sister asked me.

I knew, it was yet another attempt of a desperate mother, searching for a miracle to bring back life to her otherwise half dead child.

“Ammu…!” My voice chocked inside my throat when I made yet another attempt. “Ammu…Your uncle is here,” my sister said in her ear after stopping for a moment her weeping

One last ray of her hope vanished in the air.

I could not stand there for long, watching the agony of my niece. It was painfully clear that she was going to pass away soon. But still, I tried to convince myself about the miracle of god. Cold sea breeze from south, blowing across the quiet corridor of the hospital at midnight failed to quench the fire in my soul. I parked myself on a garden bench nearby. It was darkness all around…. only darkness and nothing else.

Early morning next day, as orange rays of sun seeped from the trees, I went home for a quick shower and later rushed to a nearby “Anjaneya temple” to pray for Ammu. Chief priest of the temple was kind in giving me an extra pinch of sandal paste as I stood there longer and prayed for her. I prayed my heart out.

“Applying the sacred sandal paste on her forehead will save her”. My mind felt optimistic. Time was not to waste there.   Running down the hospital steps with that ‘ultimate’ medicine guardedly kept in my right hand, I reached Intensive Care Unit in a flash.

“Ammu… is no more” tear-filled eyes of my brother-in-law received me at the door.

Our neighbors hastily plowed a small pit behind my ancestral house. It will be her new home where she will chat and play with angels without a care. She came from the skies blessed by gods; she blessed us with her company for seven months on earth, and quietly left forever.

I stood there– as a mute spectator, as a prisoner of emotion, watching the tiny body of my seven month old niece being buried. Tears rolled down my cheeks; I took out the “ultimate medicine”, ‘the sandal paste rolled in the betel leaf’, from my pocket and dropped the same along with the last bit of sand into that pit. I buried my face in my arms as I sat there for a while. Fragrance of flowers and rosewater filled the air. Cold breeze from the south took it away in a flash. Again the fragrance came up and the breeze took it away. The angles together played this game as if to make the tiny angel just came to their world, cheerful.

As everyone dispersed, I kneeled near the heap of mud and was lost in thoughts. Was she waiting for me, her uncle, to come and take care of her final journey in such a befitting manner, bearing all her misery?

Mahatma Gandhi said in his last prayer meeting at dusk on the ill-fated Thursday evening, “death is always worthy of our gratitude because it relieves us of all sorts of miseries once and for all”. Looking at the pit where her tiny body was just buried, I thought, what were her miseries for that matter?  She just came to this colorful world and went away like an angel. Even in death she resembles a beautiful tiny seraph. May her soul rest in peace!

• Why am into this....

• • A sound of huge thud much louder than a cracker that disturbed the serene curfew night at Kanpur, one of the most communally sensitive place in the state of Uttar Pradesh, was like a shocker for me. It was only a few days after the controversial Babari Masjid was demolished and I,  as a platoon commander of CRPF was sitting on a roadside verandah ensuring the night curfew has been carried out in its true letter and spirit. Suddenly there were chaos erupted in the area. An eerie, weird sound which resembles yelling of a thousand honey bees could be heard from those dark bylines.  No one was visible but all were awake behind those partially opened windows. Thanks to strictly imposed curfew, nobody had the courage to come out. With a browning pistol firmly gripped in my right hand, I tried to be brave.  I edged through the dark bylines without much personal safety to find one dead body of an ill-fated youth in a pool of blood in the upstairs of a shabby house. His face half vanished, fragments of spilled up brain stamped up in the roof as hot blood still gushing out from the gash. In one corner of the room sat few of his relatives crying loudly. Their screams and shouts were a matter of concern for me.  As a police officer I had to give orders to my men to make them shut up their mouth, though in dismay, to prevent several other parents face the similar fate that night. A sudden upheaval of communal violence was my immediate concern…
•     “Among the mutilated bodies” is one such narration I wrote a few years back describing how devastating a bomb blast would be on a busy railway platform or a market place. I was standing only a few yards away from where an extremely lethal suitcase bomb was placed by terrorist and detonated later on in one of the busiest railway station in the north eastern part of India. Several died in that incident; several got seriously injured. In a few minutes I found myself standing among the mutilated bodies, searching for my friends who were there at the same spot a few seconds before. They were to board the same train to Delhi….

• It was well past midnight in a remote village in Chhattisgarh, central India. Less than a couple of minutes earlier, just after dispersing the last patrolling party that came inside the makeshift camp, I was just into bed after a hectic day of combing and patrolling duties. My residence, an abandoned edifice in the threshold of an imminent crumple, quavered vehemently as a powerful RDX bomb went off few meters away. In ‘half-uniform’ I ran out of that building with an AK-47 in my hand to find a nearby transformer station was  put on flames by dreaded Maoists.  Devastated by a high explosive bomb planted by naxalites with an intention to attack my camp, it took the state electricity board almost one month to repair the transformer and restore power supply in that region....    That was a welcome gesture...
  

• While handing over the wet and half frozen body of a sixteen year old boy, just retrieved from the depths of a wild pound by the brave men of my Rapid Action Force company, I looked at them, his yelling parents. The boy was drowned accidentally while bathing. His parents were inconsolable. Their scream in pain pierced my heart. But I had to obtain the signature from that hapless father as a token to have been received the body of his son as it was an obligation necessary in departmental system….. I was helpless....

• I ordered my men to form a human chain from roof to bottom of that three storied building in the outskirts of Hyderabad. Wreckage of one of the flying machine – a Surya Kiran aircraft-HJT-16 of the Sagar Pawan aerobatics team of Indian Navy which was just been crashed into that building has to be removed. We the RAF men were assisting the officers of the defense forces in  retrieving the remains of one young pilot of the ill fated plane who was still buried in the debris. When the charred remains of the pilot were recovered at last, it was just a mass of flesh and bones and nothing else….

• Several such incidents in my almost twenty years of police service made a lot of changes in me. At an age when many of my friends were discussing about the next course of higher education or the beautiful love letters they wrote to their dear ones, I was grappling with dreaded terrorists doing anti-terrorists operations with Special Task Force under the unified command in the turbulent valley of Kashmir. Terrorism was at its peak in Punjab and Jammu and Kashmir during early nineties and I as a member of the world's largest Para-Military force responsible for anti-terrorist operations in these two states, still remember the hard times I came through all those years. It was a process of transformation. It was a slow but hard process of a personality alteration from a twenty one year old soft civilian to a tough trooper at the cost of sweat, blood and tears. And twenty years later, after scaling many of those barbed terrains, Iam still proud to be called a Cop.     
•  Anywhere in the world, Para-Military officers are constantly engaged in dealing with unpleasant situations and thus get little opportunity to take few moments out to enjoy. Incessant duty hours, daily conflicts, incidents and most important, uncertainty in life makes them vulnerable to trauma and other stress related problems. Constant exposure to these problems may cause serious health and mental illness like anxiety. Few unlucky ones may lead to more severe type of anxiety called post traumatic stress disorder which may at times demands medical assistance. When the stress becomes too much, it may even lead to severe impact on their career and will definitely affect the family life as well. Most of them end up in substance abuse like excessive drinking or engaging in other problematic entertainments as a way to get rid of this.
•  Keep your head calm is one way to get rid of this problem. There are several ways to keep your head cool. To be in the world of letters is one such option which not only improves your wisdom but also makes you relax. Free writing is the one which I chose as a valve to release my tension. When I share my experiences with my friends, I feel much relaxed. Iam sure, with their comments and opinions, I may be able to create an environment of togetherness which I always cherish. 

Introduction

About me........

I have never been a person who pursued any high ambitions in my life. Born in a lower middle class family in Kerala, not to be called bourgeois, as an elder son of my parents who were government servants, I had a normal childhood life with nothing much to boast.  No ballads to be written about my schoolings. My father always told me about the poverty he had lived during his childhood and also his fragmentary education. He had at all times persuaded me to excel in my studies but his anecdotes never had any serious affects on me as I remained an average student right through my academic journey. He had numerous dreams about me.  He dreamt his son to become a high ranking official who flew across the continents and see the countries. ‘My son,’ he said often, ‘ I could not complete my education due to scarcity of money…, I want you to study as much as you can and make me proud so that I can look the world in the face and say…this is my son’.  

 Somewhere in the middle, at the age of forty-nine, his dreams were burnt to ashes in a public crematorium along with him and thus came the end of my education.

 A famous veteran astrologer wrote my horoscope when I was a year old. “This child will become a policeman”. My father used to tell me about the wisdom of this astrologer who, according to him, never forecasted anything for money. Some predictions he wrote in my horoscope came spot on during my childhood. Gradually I started believing in destiny and willfully empowered it to guide me in this world of uncertainty.  At the age of twenty one, with a first division degree in Physics, I became a police officer.  I've joined the police service not because of any burning desire in me to be a police officer, but because it –the opportunity- came unexpectedly on hard times, just after my father’s untimely demise and the family had to face sudden financial hardships.

My career offer me bountiful opportunity to travel through the length and breadth of my country as well as to several countries abroad. The wisdom I gained from these voyages are unparalleled. This blog is to put out my thoughts and discuss what ever I experienced in my tough police life. Not even sure how it will turn out.

 Thanking you for your time.

Best Regards. Ajan R. Nair.