“Dad….., this ‘Kodimaram’ and ‘Kolaveri’ the same?”

M.T.Vasudevan Nair, the renowned story teller in Malayalam literature needs no introduction. His evergreen short stories and other literary works has earned him the much coveted ‘Gyanpeeth Award’ in the year 1995. On all occasions, especially when I read his old generation short stories, I got truly amazed by the genuine life experiences he gained as a youngster.  But that, I realize, is a phenomenon not frequented so often. In this new generation of social networking and third generation iPods, human values and ethics doesn’t matter much and thus, the genuine life experiences are in much scarcity. Writings of such temperament needs an environment, not only that of a calm and composed interiors but also of green and elegant surroundings.  I can easily go for any repetitions reading his old Malayalam short stories, for the more you read, the more you get the pleasure from.  Yesterday in my camp office in the evening, when I got terribly nostalgic about my home town, I read one of his old short stories ‘Padakkam’ written a few decades ago. The story revolves around a remorseful protagonist, a child, who made a thievery of twenty five paisa from a temple to buy fire crackers to celebrate ‘Vishu’ (a prominent harvest festival of Kerala). What needs to be seen here is, how valuable was a twenty five paisa coin, which is now faded away into history as the reserve bank of India bid farewell to it recently, had played an important role in the  society at a time when a stupendous meal would costs you two naya paisa. The child in his sling trousers had been forced to steal a meager twenty five paisa for what? - to celebrate a festival!
In an era where news of Rs.1.76 lakh crore scams are read and forgotten the other day, this boy who made up his mind to celebrate a -festival -even at the cost of an unpardonable theft, illustrates the evils of generation gap. Festivals are now being celebrated in our Lap Tops. An e-card send to your ‘intimate friend’ with copy to all, is what you can do the maximum while getting up from the bed near mid noon after a cocktail bash the previous night for celebrating a deal came as a surprise, when the other competitor got killed in an accident. An off-day came in the name of that silly festival in the midst of all the work is what needs to be celebrated… Right?

Whenever I’am on leave, happily away from the conundrums of mid night special operations and other hectic office works, I never let go an opportunity to attend a temple festival celebrated anywhere near my home town.  Even though the intensity with which those festivals were celebrated a few decades ago has been considerably diminished now, it gives me an extreme sense of satisfaction to see that, almost every temple in Trivandrum city still has their own festivals being celebrated as per their unique customs and rites on distinct months. Many a time these festivals coincides with my much sought after leave taken for some other domestic purposes. But it is for me to believe that, such coincidences are true blessings of god and nothing else. Jokes apart, policemen are considered to be the most god fearing creatures in this universe.

Marappalam Devi temple is one such temple, just a five minute stroll from my house, celebrated its traditional fete this year in the month of January when I was on leave. This time, I got this rare opportunity of enjoying the festival with my family amidst all my relatives. This time in a different place, I felt an umpteen flock of joy emanates from my heart by seeing me free from all responsibility and that too in the ambience of my loved ones.   

 Devotional songs from loud speakers, spectacularly illuminated road side trees and structures, huge cut outs of the goddess at the traffic intersections and a sudden hullabaloo in the bylines announced the commencement of the festival.

This time also, as usual, the festival has started off with a jubilant procession (Ezhunnalathu). Time and again my elder son was jogging my memory, telling me about the estimated time the procession would cross my house on the D-day as he could not resist his curiosity. I told him to be unwearied as we could easily catch it from the sound of drums, trumpeting the arrival of the procession.  And finally when it was heard from a distance, my kids and I were running, literally running very fast to the road head.

My small house, built in a meager three cents of land due to space constrictions, is almost fifty meters away from the road head.  Built in COSTFORD model, an architectural innovation by the legendary Laurie Baker, who was renowned for his initiatives in cost- effective, energy- efficient house building, my house is nothing but a personal delight for me.  The thoroughfare leading to my house is not wide enough to accommodate my car up to the car porch made on the basement of my house, thanks to the mindless partition made by great ancestors in the family, few decades ago. Still I won’t blame them. It is all part and parcel of our society where such practices are common! Now that, the reason why I built the car porch, instead of making one more room in its place- the reason is simple. In a house where there is no courtyard for my children to play, this car shed is an off the cuff cricket stadium for them.  Oh..Sorry! I have deviated from the subject.

We were gasping. Not even a single event could afford to be missed. Ranging from Colorful flouts, small children dressed as lions and tigers, beautiful young dancers performing to the classical music, rock band and plenty of other entertainments would be there to see. No, Iam not forgetting the Elephants. Elephants have always fascinated me even during my childhood, be it as a part of a procession or walking leisurely on the road, I always stopped my vehicle and watch them for a while.  Notwithstanding several deaths are being reported every year in Kerala due to elephant rage, a festival or a celebration without a bull elephant in the forefront is still an undesirable phenomenon to the public. The sheer strength and confidence with which an elephant walks with its head held high resembles to me an undisputed world heavyweight boxing champion walking down the street in an imposing manner. These highly intelligent and sensitive animals have become an indispensable part of the culture and tradition of Kerala since time immemorial.

Now that, I could see at a distance in all its majesty, the caparisoned elephant walking majestically with several mesmerized eyes glued on him, my joy went sky-high. I took my mind off for a while to a place, where every now and then a festival procession would be taken out with much zeal and gusto. Hyderabad or in that matter the whole Andhra Pradesh is one such place where festivals are being celebrated commencing with a grand procession taken out with huge flouts and loud speakers through its streets. Somewhere there on the route, I would be standing in blue uniform with a “T-Baton” firmly clasped in one hand, heading a one hundred strong   riot control unit of the Rapid Action Force in their riot drill equipment - Just in case anything goes wrong. Known for its high sensitivity towards communal overtones, particularly during festivals, my main concern would always be the obscure presence of a wrong element at a wrong place at a wrong time to topple the whole deal in a matter of seconds. Eyes wandering in search of such mischievous crooks, RAF personnel or in that matter any police personnel on duty, abstain from all sorts of enjoyment offered by the fete. Though the security arrangements during such festivals are purely a state subject and as such the central police forces have no distinct role in it, it has now become a necessity to deploy the central forces, particularly in those disturbed areas where mixed population resides.  (I will blog on this subject some other day)

Our hearts were thumping in unison with the drums as the procession came closer and closer.  My elder son, caught up in the frenzy, started dancing to the sound of those percussion instruments.  I too could not resist tapping my foot. Now came the first plot, an improvised three wheeler, marvelously decorated with nine incarnations of  goddess ‘Durga’ embedded on the walls of a temple replica with an idol placed inside which made me lower my head and wish with folded hands for her graciousness she bestowed on me. Somebody offered  ‘Vibhuti’ the holy ash believed to have spiritual healing remedy, which drives away negative energy and makes you more visible to angelic beings. As the idol pass by, there came the elephant and all its paraphernalia. I was spellbound. As expected the view was a definite feast for my eyes. Now that, iam looking for the entertainment part of the whole episode, the floats, the dancers, the music and all those small kids in fancy dress coming in as an entertainment for my kids, my neck stretched around.  My inquisitiveness had no state line. But to my sheer astonishment, all I could see was a posse of young locals dancing and shouting to the tune of drums led by few local youth leaders waving their hands towards the onlookers, a gesture, universally accepted in India during election time. But what astounded me was the music with which they were dancing. It was none other than the super duper hit of the Indian music world….”why this Kolaveri… Kolaveri ….Kolaveri …Diii…. !!! But that didn’t last long. Thank God, the rapidity of the song helped them sped away from me as fast as possible.  I just couldn’t understand the need of dance and that too rock dance in our traditional temple festivals. Iam sure the God won’t be enjoying it either.  Now, just behind them I found my breed, a police jeep rolling down slowly giving an obvious impression that the procession had now been all but over. The whole affair took not more than ten minutes to conclude.  When the street was almost deserted after the procession passed by Marappalam road and turned towards Kurunganoor junction, an air of dejection hung like a frozen sentiment over me.

Getting back into my house, the sweet reminiscence of temple festivals celebrated with much passion and exuberance during my childhood days struck me as a cool breeze. I had all the reason in the world to be disturbed mentally. Festivals were celebrated in its true letter and spirit those days. Notices were served much before by responsible populace of the area, who arrives at each house to collect donations. Such house to house visits by the prominent members of the society, often acted as interactive sessions where grievances would be shared and redressal found. A journey down the old childhood memories reminds me of vast area of empty paddy fields after the rice was harvested which would accommodate huge crowd from several places in the city. Those days, temple festivals were considered as an opportunity for family reunions. Few beautifully decorated podiums on which cultural programme were conducted in the evening would provide an adorned look to the otherwise barren paddy fields. The festival begins with ‘Kodiyettu’ the hoisting of flag which was and still is a big event for the local people. Erecting a ‘Kodimaram’ – the flag post -involves a lot of rituals. A tall areca nut tree, identified early or in some cases donated by a devotee as an offering, would be cut with utmost care to not to allow even a leaf of the tree to  touch the ground. It would then be taken to the temple premises on people’s shoulders in a procession. I remember, as a kid in half knickers, I had, once got an opportunity to run across the street touching the tree with my lean hand as I was not tall enough to connect my shoulder to it. How, as a human being, could I forget that?
Few more rituals by the main priest and the flag post would be erected which also mark the official beginning of the festival. I still treasure that lone opportunity I got to participate and carry a tree to the temple among others on that day. One more opportunity, this time for my kids, to possess that unique feeling, is what Iam searching for now a days when almost all temples have their own permanent flag posts.    

 ‘Thottam Pattu’ chorus, who sings sacred Devi rhymes, the story of Kannaki in Chilapathikaram text throughout seven days of the festival is an extremely impressive art form. They describe the origin of the deity, its beauty, grandeur, power and boldness through these rhymes. These songs, though their authorship remains unknown, are being transmitted orally from generation to generation. Sitting in front of that thatched hut where they perform, I spend several hours with my mother listening to those songs on holidays. For new generation, this might be news hard to believe. Evenings carried a carnival look with the whole area well   illuminated with bright lights, enriched with various cultural programmes including Ballets, Dances and concerts. Children arguing with their parents for few coins to make their entry into those stalls where they can compete with ping pong balls and bangle throws were a common sight.   For adults, lost in the crowd, wandering without any particular aim and peeping inside a stall in search of bangles or plastic ornaments for their women folk, is a feeling across all comparison. Inside the temple, priests would remain busy the whole day and night performing various ‘poojas’ and occasional ‘ezhunnallathu (the grand procession) when the idol mounted on an elephant back took out of the temple premises as a ritual. Festival ends with Aarattu (holy bath) and a magnificent display of fireworks at midnight.

Iam sure, I can go any extent explaining the exuberance and enthusiasm with which festivals were celebrated during those days. But I have to stop somewhere. So here it is.

At a time when ‘Marconi’ tube radio and transistors played a prominent role and computers were not even heard of, life was not as fast as it is now. With the emergence of nuclear family culture, family members prefer to confine in the air-conditioned potholes in their house and glued to the television screens or updating face book. Taking time out for an occasional visit to a temple and participate in other social activities have become a daunting task.  

 My dear youngsters, Iam sure, you are missing a lot. Don’t you? Yes I know, you are far advanced and much faster than those old generation lot so called plebian, but are you sure that you worth it? Are you sure that your face in the recently taken photograph got more glee than what you see on the picture dangled proudly on your southern wall, that of your great grandfather? If yes, better give your views. I may like to have a read.

Now that, temple festivals are becoming more and more commercial where old folk arts are gradually disappearing or reduced considerably, the days are not far away when your child will ask at your face..”Dad is this ‘Kodimaram’ and ‘Kolaveri’ the same?” God save them.

AN APPEAL TO THE MADDING WORLD.

Yesterday, 15^th February was World Pediatric Cancer Day. I just finished eating my breakfast and was getting ready to leave for my office when I saw a special programme dedicated to small children suffering from cancer by Asianet- Idea Star Singer team. Kalabhavan Mani, the renowned Malayalam actor was performing with a lot of variety. An artist with a genuine ‘Village touch’ and has got a unique god gifted talent of singing to the heart, was there singing, dancing, mono-acting, and all he could do to make those few tiny touts sitting in front of him, smile. I stood there watching the programme till the end. A frail cover of dull and melancholic haze engulfed me and for a moment, Iam weak and my heart is heavy with many an emotion. There I could see many of them, too small to even spell the word Cancer, dancing and singing and moving around the stage with sheer exuberance. There were infants. Parents of those tiny birds, many of them looked like from poor back ground, were securely holding them in their chest as if to give a feeble motherly protection. Their weary face shows it all. Fiscally and mentally drained and shattered, they all had one thing common hoarded on their face- the unrelenting determination to move ahead and save their new born dream from the fangs of death. Many of them were amused, not by what Kalabhavan Mani performing there on the dais, but by the joyness of their children and their laughter. Children with face mask to cover a tumor scar or a gentian violet surgical marking on their soft cheeks were laughing with their eyes. Watching those scenes, my mind leapt over a couple of decades back when I was regularly taking my father to the Regional Cancer Center Trivandrum, for a post surgical radio therapy treatment once a highly malignant brain tumor was surgically removed from him. I was doing my graduation then. Those brutal days we lived in numb disbelief will not be forgotten easily. That dark corridor leading to the therapy centre, always stinking of vomit, cancer wounds and medicine, made my father dreaded the sessions. My father had problems of personality disorders and was at times behaving like a child after the brain surgery. He often ran across the corridor to avoid therapy, a treatment, which took a heavy toll on his pride. It's heartbreaking for me to see him like this. His hair completely falls out. Watching the agony of him, vomiting the whole day after every session of radio therapy, was enough to make me weep.  He looked tired and dejected. I took all efforts to keep it between me and my father as desired by him, which according to him was a plight he would like to bear all alone. While bringing him back from the far end of the corridor, I used to pacify him by showing the small children sitting patiently in their mother’s lap waiting for their turn to have those Gamma Rays piercing the evil cells. Those were the days I gave, the 'parental' care which he gave me when I was a tout, back to him as a son with tears in eyes. I was his father and he was my son.  Despite of all those awful treatment, sufferings and distress he was gone in a place where he was free from pain at the age of forty nine. It took several months for me to return from the agony and desperation I suffered during those days.

And today their faces had the same appearance as those I had seen at the dark end of the corridor, gently wiping the tears from their mother’s cheek and murmur with their swollen cancerous mouth….”Don’t cry..Amma…Iam here” as if they are normal as any other child.  Many of these parents do not want to put their sweet little ones in such a trauma. But by giving the best treatment available, along with their love and affection, they know their tiny seraphs will flash their wings one day.
Perilous operations in dense forests or midnight ambushes against dreaded militants never moved my heart, but a child in agony has always done.

“Regional Cancer Center” is a temple. The doctors there are next to Gods. At least we should say like that. But in a new world where the cost of treatment is not even remotely affordable to even middle class citizens, I always wonder why the government can’t take measures to make the treatment of cancer free of cost. A percentage of money spends on stage decorations and other party paraphernalia is enough to treat several such patients. Do we need our elected representatives to move in Luxury cars and stay in palatial bungalows which owes several crores of rupees from the government exchequer for its annual renovation when a poor boy or a girl die in the hospital due to lack of money? My poor numerical ability desist me from calculating how many poor patients would have been benefited by the 1.76 lakh crore that was spend haphazardly in 2G spectrum.

And to those industrialists who are sitting in their serene farm houses in Switzerland and breathing fresh air, it is a humble request to them. Please don’t leave chemicals in our rivers. Don’t give off toxic smoke to our skies. Don’t mix artificial ingredients in our food. We cannot afford to live in farm houses and produce bio foods to eat. We cannot go to New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Centre to treat our kith and kin. So please show mercy on us.

To my dear doctors.. One day I'am sure you will find a medicine which will act as permanent cure for cancer. Go ahead. Our best wishes are always with you.

PRAY FOR THEM

PRAY FOR THEM

I can't really tell you how much of a joy I experience when I reach my house at Trivandrum, especially relieved from the mechanical life in armed force where laughing in front of subordinates is considered a taboo.  Here, you are the ultimate boss and the subordinate. No answers to be given to anyone.
 Many may differ and think otherwise. Their prerogative...!
Amused to see the life can be lived like this too, the only think I hate to keep in mind is the date I booked my ticket for my return journey. Waking by to the old melodic Ayyappa songs from a nearby Devi temple, morning walk up to Museum, lazy news reading by sipping a glass full of green tea in the cool balcony amidst fragrance of fresh jasmine flowers, Oh God! Is this the feeling all my colleagues irrespective of their badges in the shoulder have, when they are on their earned leave?

Waiting for my son’s school bus at Pattom junction gives me much fascination. Not because it provides me any reminiscence of my 'nothing much to boast' school days, but that’s the time, at 7 ‘O’ clock, I could see how life starts afresh in my native place.  Morning flocks of birds, news paper boys rocketing upon the by-lanes in cycles, old folk with incantations on their lips, rushing to the temple before the ‘deeparadhana’ starts, cool morning breeze free of carbon monoxide; No doubt, it’s always been spectacular to walk down few yards to the bus point holding the tender hand of my son and answering his curious little questions.  “Can a ‘Monster truck’ jump across a coconut tree?”,  “What if a rocket and a Kerala road transport corporation bus collides?” He genuinely knew to which question he has to demand an answer and which not. A sharp look at him with a smile and a smile in return from him acts as a memorandum of understanding between us.  But for a serious question, he expects a clear and specific answer which sometimes I put on pending, to be given later when he return back from school. Google search engine or an encyclopedia helps me out in this. It is now rather a practice for me, giving relief to his mother and grandfather from their routine duty, whenever Iam on leave to take my son to his bus point. The hidden agenda is to spend maximum time as possible with him before my leave comes to an end. An Indian armed force member spends only few more than two months with his family in a year, the plight they willfully entered by signing the oath.

We normally get almost ten minutes at the bus point and sometimes even more depends on how quick he took his breakfast. His questions, many times revolve around the popular kiddo characters for which my answers will always be the smile and that sharp look. ‘Do you think Chotta Bheem can take an Ostrich egg in one go? , ’What if the 'Transformers' got angry with the 'Skyline Apartment?’.  He knew and expects not much from his police father in these topics.

Today something different happened at the bus point. It was me who had started the session. I found two stray dogs hastily crisscrossing the Pattom-Plamoodu road which is one such straight road, a rarity in my city, where vehicles run at higher speeds.  The dogs indeed gave me few tense moments till they settle down the other side of the road as I genuinely feared a speeding motorcyclist coming from Palace junction met with a terrible collision with one among these stupid dogs, right in front of me.  I thought my gesticulations in shooing away the dogs might have been proven effective in sending them to the other side of the road, but got it wrong when I found the real reason for them crossing the road was something different. They had found some eatables there. As mangos are not to be included in the list of their favorite food, they left disappointed. Probably been thrown out by a crazy child through the window of a night plying bus or car when he found it ammonia ripe, the mango rests there waiting for an herbivorous animal to consume it. Both dogs did what they could do to their best to make it clean. They licked it thoroughly and left.

‘Can an insane man really recognize his mother?’  Question from my son bought me back from the dogs and the mango. I was sure that he might have seen an insane somewhere. It didn’t take much time for me to spot a lunatic on the other side of the road wearing a shirt too big for his lean body, shabby and long haired, acting in sub human manner, muttering something, much to resemble a primate.

What happened next was indeed shocking for me. He jumped out of the foot path and ran down the street to pick up the leftover mango and started eating it as if he was too weak from hunger. He was feasting on it. Shaking his head in gratitude and laughing incessantly, he finished the mango in no time by sitting on the foot path.

Now that I have to give an answer to my son, I sighed. No definite answers in my mind, I felt bemused. If there is anyone in the world, one could easily discern and recognizes instantaneously among millions would be their mother.  Here, right in front of me, a man who can no longer be treated as such since he could not recognize his mother or in that sense nobody exists for him in the world, sitting alone smiling, not conscious of him or others. He has no knowledge of what happened or happening to him. Living in hallucinations and delusions and would never be considered as a part of normal society. Are they be treated as evils? Are their wide opened eyes to be scared of? I always felt dejected whenever I see a mentally retarded person in misery.
I still remember an incident happened few years ago, somewhere in my city, during a ‘Harthal day’. Few police men were dispersing an illegally assembled crowd near legislative building by resorting to lathy charge. They cornered a man in his thirties who was  reluctant to flee from the spot. Only after several blows were taken with a smile in his face, could the policemen noticed something fishy with this poor man. He was an insane, accidently trapped in there. Badly injured, he was taken to the hospital with that smile still intact in his face.
 During my tenure in Rapid Action Force and also in CRPF, I always insisted upon my troops to not to hurt any mentally retarded person who accidently, got into the scuffle, but help them to a safe place free of trouble.

Being insane is one terrible state of affair, rejected from the main stream society and left aloof from even the closest relatives. But, as god willed, there are still alive few noble hearts taking care of them at various rehabilitation centers, by giving them the only two basic requirements they need. Food and Care. Let us support them.

SALUTE TO A DOG

SALUTE TO A DOG

When winter blessed the valley white

The barrack roofs had kissed the frost

And clad in ice, the airport road

Lay as made of crystal glass.

As the mighty gates were opened wide,

The valley airport woke and breathed.

Hordes of cars and roars of flights

And pack of tourists made it bright.

The valley like a stunning damsel

Was once a reticent girl in grief.

Splintered flesh and wounded veins

She gasped along the age in pain.

Salvage came from far off lands

Marching through the flame of loath.

Set her free from grief and pain,

And thence they guard her safe and fine. 

And for those who leave the valley

Carried along the bracing thoughts,

A tiny head that rummaged around

Had always made them feel so proud.

Amid the men in fur they saw 

A Canine worked in belted coat.

His fair large eyes and gifted nose

Snooping hard for veiled hazards.

There he worked day and night,

Neither growl nor bark he made.

Never pleaded for what to him was owed

Cared not the vagaries of wind and rain.

Aircrafts took off safe and sound,

Relied upon his gifted nose.

Cleared the luggage that came in hordes

Never his heart had fallen down.

 And when danger loomed on the floor

When someone spotted a bag unknown

 The wisest folk when ran to safety 

Forth he came and sniffed the stuff. 

 Together they stood in the aisle, so calm

Together they stood amid life and death.

Still did he work and still did he sniff

And worked his years through dreary strain.

Autumn came, so did monsoon,

Came the winter and sizzling summer

Gates were opened and closed at night,

Nothing changed but only age.

“Action”, the dog lived his time

Till a cancer gripped his spine.

Came in his place a younger dog,

Human life is above all.

On a day when silver snow

Gave way to the weeping sky

His sniffing nose and probing eyes

Closed for ever in a longer breath.

Laid to rest on a wooden plank,

His body looked cold and lank.

The godly nose that saved the souls

 Plugged up neat by cotton swab.

 Here, where the ‘honor guard’

                Set down impassive in ceremonial role

                My soul ached, ‘O brave,.. You were a valour dog!’

                My sense, as though lost in thoughts.

When the lone bugler in uniform,

Played the ‘Taps’ in an awful woe

Stood his master with trembling hands

Upon the last rites with lament eyes.

His body when sank into the womb of earth

His thoughts, a stream pierced the heart.

No more bombs and no more drugs, ‘O, Brave

Now sleep in peace in this silent grave.

Cannot express the plight of being there

Your memories will remain forever, I swear.

That gallant life, that soul of devotion,

What remains……………?

As the trumpet played the force funeral tune,

I saluted him with trembling hands

I prayed for the soul’s blissful eternity.

And whispered-Here rests a dog

Who lived the words -service and loyalty!

(“Service and loyalty” is the motto of CRPF)