Musings

2025-09-20T15:30:00.001+05:30

Kerala’s Cauldron of Lunacy: A Political and Social Critique

A century ago, Swami Vivekananda labeled Kerala a "lunatic asylum", a critique that still echoes in the state’s complex socio-political landscape. Swami Vivekananda and Sree Narayana Guru were contemporaries and the latter especially an influential figure in Kerala’s spiritual and social reform movements. Despite claims by self-proclaimed "international guru," no evidence—direct or indirect—substantiates a meeting between Vivekananda and Sree Narayana Guru, though their legacies converged through shared reformist ideals. Vivekananda’s 1892 Kerala visit inspired figures like Chattambi Swamikal and Dr. P. Palpu, indirectly supporting Narayana Guru’s anti-caste movement, which culminated in the founding of the Sree Narayana Dharma Paripalana Yogam (SNDP Yogam) in 1903. Today, the SNDP Yogam has been hijacked by charlatans and big money, while Kerala’s political arena remains a volatile mix of opportunism, ideological posturing, and a deceptive calm concealing simmering communal and caste tensions

Swami Vivekanada’s observation holds good even today amidst the chest thumping by the left and center vying for Guru’s legacy. I mentioned this to remind that Kerala is still a cauldron of lunatics and waiting to boil over – the Sangh and the BJP are doing whatever they could to accelerate that.

The Left, the Center, and the Sangh: A Brewing Storm

The state’s social fabric, strained by caste, religion, and economic distress, teeters on the edge- a stage to implement the “Gujarat or the Manipur’ models!

Amidst this, Kerala’s Chief minister (‘Respected’) Pinarayi Vijayan’s silence on Rahul Gandhi’s 2025 "Vote Adhikar Yatra," which alleges voter list fraud by the Election Commission to upend opposition politically , should raise eyebrows .He remains mum on Gandhi’s campaign, which enjoys robust support from the INDIA alliance opposition and leaders like Tamil Nadu’s MK Stalin. Is this a hint of a subtle understanding with the BJP, or merely hubris?

Ayyappa Sangamam: A Communist’s Religious Gambit

Enter the Ayyappa Sangamam, a conclave of Lord Ayyappa’s devotees, whose celibacy is fiercely guarded by fervent ‘bakths’- devotees! In an unprecedented move for a Marxist government, ("Respected") Pinarayi Vijayan, the helmsman of the Left Democratic Front (LDF), has championed this religious event, with his comrades (aka) bakths cheering him on. This spectacle, reminiscent of the Maramon Convention on the banks of the Pampa River, is a thinly veiled political manoeuver to bolster the LDF’s image ahead of the November 2025 local body elections and the 2026 Kerala Assembly election. In a recent video clip, ("Respected") Pinarayi Vijayan claimed the conclave was not born overnight but is the product of years of meticulous planning. Planning, perhaps, sparked in the wake of the LDF’s disastrous drubbing in the 2019 and 2024 general elections? For a Communist leader to orchestrate a religious gathering is not just opportunistic—it’s a master class in ideological acrobatics, driven by political survival rather than democratic principles- utter hypocrisy. The trampling of democratic processes by a constitutional body, allegedly with political connivance, seems a trivial matter in comparison.

A Chequered Past and a Convenient Amnesia

(‘Respected’) "Pinarayi’s newfound veneration for Ayyappa devotees contrasts sharply with his actions after the 2018 Supreme Court verdict allowing women’s entry into Sabarimala.

Back then, his government unleashed police action against protesting devotees and facilitated the covert entry of women activists into the temple at night, despite a pending review petition. Many Hindus viewed this as an affront, a hubristic slap to their sentiments. Yet, (‘Respected’) Pinarayi’s survival as Chief Minister, weathering this and arrogance leading to the Silver Line fiasco, reflects the CPI(M)’s unwavering loyalty—or is it the cadre’s blind bakthi, akin to the Sanghi devotion to their Vishwa-Guru? The Ayyappa Sangamam seems a calculated bid to erase these memories, papering over past offenses to Hindu sentiments.

Kerala’s Real Crises Take a Backseat

While(‘Respected’) Pinarayi Vijayan fixates on appeasing Ayyappa’s bakths , Kerala grapples with existential crises: a crippling debt burden, financial crunch exacerbated by the Union government’s unconstitutional and criminal intransigence, mounting social, ecological, and environmental distress. For the (‘Respected’) Chief Minister, these state-level challenges seem secondary to personal political consolidation. Critics might argue his governance veers toward Stalinist despotism, cloaked in the garb of Indian democracy, where power trumps principle. This man would have gone rampaging if Kerala was like UP said one comment. One could not blame such opinion. Could we?

Conclusion

Even one hundred years after Swami Vivekanandan’s assessment Kerala remains a lunatic asylum, not just for its historical caste rigidities but for its contemporary political absurdities – enlightenment and reformation on paper! (‘Respected’) Pinarayi Vijayan’s Ayyappa Sangamam, far from a spiritual endeavour, is a cynical ploy to woo voters, the CPM lost to the Sabarimala fiasco. His silence on electoral fraud allegations, coupled with his past confrontations with Ayyappa devotees, paints a picture of a leader more concerned with power than democratic integrity. As the Sangh and BJP stir the pot, and the Left and Congress bicker over Narayana Guru’s legacy, Ayyapa Sangamam, and sexual escapades of politicians, Kerala’s cauldron of woes and perils simmers, waiting to boil over.

In this context one must take note that Kerala has not yet enacted a comprehensive law specifically targeting superstition, black magic, sorcery, or related inhuman practices, despite recommendations, draft bills, and court interventions. We have had a leftist government for almost ten years uninterrupted! One wonders if the "Respected" Pinarayi’s bakthi for Ayyappa will save him—or if it’s just another act in this theater of lunacy.

WORDS

2024-09-26T16:24:00.001+05:30

WORDS

In college, we used to spend our lunch recess playing Lexicon cards. An uncle of mine thoughtfully introduced me to the game, and I daresay it was the wisest thing he could have done. It sparked a curiosity for words in me. One day, I brought the Lexicon cards to college and introduced them to some friends in class, and lo and behold, they were utterly captivated.

We dived deeply into the game. To an onlooker, we might have appeared to be indulging in a game of rummy, something associated with bootlegging gangs peddling moonshine—utterly unacceptable within the college, bordering on sacrilegious and audacious. Our professor seized the cards, wielding them as a convenient whip, especially since he had a few scores to settle with us. The faculty was affronted, and the audacity of a few boys and girls playing cards in the classroom was deemed worthy of severe punishment, akin to being burnt at the stake.

The matter was escalated to the principal, and we were reportedly branded an incorrigible lot. I cannot recall precisely what followed, but our indulgence in the game persisted. This was perhaps encouraged by the principal’s understanding of what the game entailed, which, understandably, further alienated the faculty. Compounding all our infractions into a veritable book of crimes, the faculty could do little more than boycott us en masse.

These words of Pablo Neruda have now reminded me of "L'Affaire Lexicon" from some forty years ago.

"You can say anything you want, yes, sir, but it’s the words that sing; they soar and descend. I bow to them. I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down. I love words so much. The unexpected ones. The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop. Vowels I love. They glitter like coloured stones; they leap like silver fish; they are foam, thread, metal, dew. I run after certain words. They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem. I catch them in mid-flight, and as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, and set myself before the dish. To me, they have a crystalline texture: vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives. And I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, and I let them go. I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves. Everything exists in the word."

OLD Town BY THE SEA

2021-09-03T09:40:00.004+05:30

Those days, I lived with my husband’s parents in their ancestral home in a tiny hamlet tucked a couple of kilometers from the sea—as the crow flies—dotted with coconut palms, jackfruit, cashew, and mango trees. It was an old town, a serene place by the sea. A 17th-century Portuguese church and a nearby Devi temple stood as symbols of social harmony. I often wondered why my husband’s parents chose to settle in a village with only half a dozen Muslim families. My father-in-law, a successful tradesman and highly respected man, was simply known as Kochukunju Musaliar to the villagers. No one cared that he always wore a skullcap and a well-groomed goatee or that he faithfully attended the ancient masjid for five daily namaz. Back then, people didn’t identify others by faith or attire—those were personal, inconspicuous matters. There were no muezzins blaring through loudspeakers; the six families took turns announcing the call to prayer.

The Gulf Boom brought migration and wealth, and today, neo-rich Muslims who bought land in the village flaunt their petro-dollar prosperity. With it came a new mosque, its gaudy ornamentation a stark contrast to the spartan, nondescript ancient masjid—an enduring symbol like the temple or the Gothic church. My father-in-law’s objection to using loudspeakers for the azan was ignored. He argued that loudspeakers were an anachronism in the Prophet’s time and, if purists insisted on strict adherence to the Quran and Hadith, electronic gadgets should be anathema. But Gulf money spoke louder, funding the new mosque.

That serves as an introduction to the old town by the sea.

As a dutiful daughter-in-law, I stayed with my husband’s parents while he worked in a city a hundred kilometers away, returning home on weekends. The village’s laid-back life captivated me: the perennially flowing river gleaming like silver in the midday sun, dragonflies and exquisite butterflies, colorful birds with musical notes, the oriole perched on the guava tree, street dogs wagging their tails and following me, the dense sacred grove near the temple—awesome to me, eerie to some—the gentle ringing of temple bells at dusk announcing deeparadhana, and the spirit of Christ I felt in the ancient church. All were too dear to abandon for city life. My love for my husband was no less than my love for this old town, though some found my choice peculiar. He was happy I cared for his parents, and I eagerly awaited his weekend visits, though we missed each other during the week.

I had a habit of walking at sunrise, a practice from my schooldays at the Jesuit school in Ooty. The gentle nip in the morning air was pleasant. I didn’t notice the man until he caught up with me, slightly out of breath, perhaps trying to match my brisk pace. I’d often seen him at the gate of a house near the post office, its façade reeking of Gulf wealth.

“Haa, young woman, I haven’t seen you around. Are you a visitor?” he asked.

I smiled as I would at an elderly acquaintance. “No, I live here.”

His avuncular expression was noticeable. “Oh, pardon this old man; I don’t recall seeing you. Which household, dear?”

“I’m Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, I see. Pardon me, dear. I was living in my ancestral home in Ranni, but after the partition, my nephews threw me out—ungrateful scoundrels. They said, ‘Ouseph Velliappa, get out; you have no place here.’ Luckily, Clara, my son’s wife, is in Kuwait. She’s a nurse and bought fifteen cents of land to build this house for me and Josutty. We moved in a few years ago…. your husband didn’t join you this morning? I guess he’s lazing in bed, tired from last night’s acrobatics.” He chuckled and winked, halting my walk.

“My husband works in the city and comes home on weekends,” I said, feeling uneasy.

“Oh, goodness, Holy Mary, mother of God!” He looked skyward. “How unkind of him to leave a young woman alone!”

“I’m not alone. I live with my parents-in-law and take care of them.”

“No, dear, that’s unfair. A young woman has fantasies… goodness, goodness me! You can enjoy nuptial bliss only on weekends? How do you manage, dear?” He winked and chuckled again.

I grew guarded. “What?”

“You know what I mean. The acrobatics in bed happen only on weekends. That’s a pity, dear.”

I was incensed. Ignoring him, I walked faster, but he kept pace beside me.

“Dear, how do you tolerate this unkindness? If the female body is neglected for too long, it tightens up naturally.” He winked and chuckled.

I stopped, meeting his gaze. “Look, Ammava, I don’t know you, nor do I want to. What’s your problem to you? My life is my own. You shouldn’t concern yourself with it, let alone approach me with such outrageous questions and suggestions.”

“Dear, did I offend you? See it as the avuncular concern of this old man, Ouseph. I’m advising you out of my experience and care for you. Think how bored you must be, managing alone. A man has responsibilities to his wife.”

I was livid. “Do you know this is harassment? If I report you, you’ll face consequences. Stay away. I don’t need your attention.”

I strode off, furious. How dare he strike up such a conversation? Ouseph, he said! I passed the church, where worshippers were leaving after Mass. Glancing back; I turned toward the police station next to the government primary school. Panting with rage, I stepped inside.

The policeman at the entrance said the SI wasn’t in. Ignoring him, I entered. A constable, about fifty-two, was munching a vada and sipping tea. Another, with sleepy eyes, scribbled on paper. The older constable swallowed a bite, eyeing my sweat-drenched T-shirt curiously.

“I’m here to file a complaint. A man was harassing me. He lives near the post office,” I said in one breath.

The constable set his tea aside, took another bite, and stared as if I were an alien. The sleepy constable glanced up briefly before resuming his scribbling.

“Look, girl, such cases aren’t our priority today. Everyone’s at the panchayat office for the minister’s visit to open the new building.”

“But you can file my complaint. I can identify the man.”

“The SI must handle this. Besides… women your age and looks should ignore such comments. He didn’t touch you, did he? No? Then…”

“Sir, are you waiting for him to assault someone? If he can make such sick remarks to me, he might molest others.”

“Ayyo, dear, we’re still on night duty since yesterday evening. Come back tonight; the SI will handle it.”

Speechless, I glared in disgust and stormed out.

A cold shower did little to calm my nerves. I barely ate an idli before heading out again, ignoring my mother-in-law’s concerned glance. I marched to the church and interrupted a small parish meeting.

“I want to speak to the priest—Father,” I said breathlessly.

I hadn’t noticed I was addressing Ouseph himself. The dozen parishioners looked at me curiously. I repeated firmly, “Where is Father? I need to speak to him.”

“Oh, dear, what brings Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law to our church?” a parishioner asked.

“I want to see the priest,” I insisted.

“Dear girl, Father has retired to his chambers after morning Mass. If we can help, tell us,” another said.

“Then call him back.” I sank into a vacant chair.

The more I thought of Ouseph’s morning smirk, the angrier I grew. A warm hand on my shoulder startled me. Mariamma Chettathi looked into my eyes, concerned.

“What is it, my girl? Fathima’s daughter-in-law is mine too. What troubles you?”

“But how can that be? She’s not a parishioner, and from another community. Her presence here is inappropriate,” said Sebastian Muthalali, who owned the village department store, recently returned from Qatar.

“Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law need not be a parishioner. This church has benefited from his generosity for years,” an elderly man retorted, silencing Sebastian.

“Tell us, dear, what happened?” Mariamma Chettathi asked gently.

I recounted the morning’s events. By then, Ouseph had slipped away.

“I want Father here. I’ll wait, or I’ll go to the police.”

“Victor, fetch Atchan. Tell him to come now,” Mariamma Chettathi called to a scrawny lad by the priest’s chamber door.

Victor returned, shouting, “Atchan’s gone to town. He won’t be back till late.”

A scooter roared outside and sped away.

“That’s him, the priest. He must have slipped out after hearing this. When has Father ever faced an issue? It’s his creed to avoid them,” Mariamma Chettathi said candidly.

“Koche, don’t you know men often make lighthearted comments? If you take every word seriously, you’ll have no time for important matters,” someone in the group remarked.

“Mariamma Chettathi, will you come with me to that man’s house?” I asked.

After her persuasion, a small group reluctantly agreed to join me. Sebastian Muthalali excused himself, citing his store. “Girl, think twice before escalating this. It won’t do your family’s honour any good. It could become a communal issue, and you’ll bear the brunt.”

“Girls shouldn’t be so stubborn. This is arrogance. Let it pass,” another man said, avoiding my gaze.

The motley group hurried toward Ouseph’s house. Along the way, the muezzin, who calls for prayer at the mosque, inquired about our hasty march. One member of our group called out, “Mullakka, come join us! This concerns one of your people.” Slightly perplexed, Mullakka joined us, but not before casting a derisive glance my way, scrutinising me from head to toe—clearly disapproving of my T-shirt and jeans.

We walked to Ouseph’s house. He was reclining on the verandah, reading a newspaper. A man of about forty-five emerged, smiling. “Welcome! Is the parish committee collecting funds early today?”

“No, it’s about Appachan, your father,” Mariamma Chettathi said.

I stepped on to the verandah. “Ammava, please come out for a moment.”

Ouseph averted his eyes, muttering, “What, dear girl? What can I do for you?”

“Ammava, why don’t you tell these people what you said to me this morning?”

“I’m as old as your grandfather,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Yes, Ammava. That’s what stopped me from slapping you—your age.”

“Hey, what’s this woman ranting about? She can’t barge in and insult my father!” the son said angrily.

“Ouseph, is it true? You know why we’re here. What you said was gross. You should’ve considered the holy sacrament before being so offensive to a girl young enough to be your grandchild. Shameful!” Mariamma Chettathi said sharply.

“Yes, Appachan makes sleazy comments to me daily. I told my husband, but he says to ignore it,” a woman of about forty five said, glancing at her husband and teenage daughter watching from the neighbouring house.

“That’s what emboldens men like Appachan. Your husband should be ashamed. Don’t you have a growing daughter? Would he say the same if someone targeted her?” I said. The man’s head dipped, and his daughter’s face remained expressionless.

“Ouseph, answer yes or no. Is what she says true?” the group’s senior asked.

Ouseph sat silently, palms supporting his head, eyes downcast, unable to meet ours. His pitiful state softened my anger; I felt a pang of pity for this cornered old man. I turned to his son. “Chetta, who else lives with your Appachan besides you?”

“What’s that got to do with this drama?”

“Old age and loneliness, Chetta. You have friends and entertainment, but what about the elderly? No one to talk to, to share feelings or have fun with.”

“Koche, are you saying I don’t care for my father?”

“Did I say that, Chetta?”

“Clara sends a bank draft every month in his name—she doesn’t trust me with money, that foolish woman. He gets sumptuous meals three or four times a day—mutton, beef, fish. He has brandy twice a month, television, cable, air conditioning, Yardley soap, perfume. What more should I provide? Judge for yourselves—I care well for my father. Don’t expect me to massage his feet all day. Now, off with you.”

“Chetta, your Appachan’s silence speaks for itself—what he said this morning, how he spends his days. Chechi has a story too. Who knows how many others do? He’s your parent. It’s kindness to understand their loneliness and insecurity, which food and brandy can’t cure. I’ve said enough.” I turned and walked away.

He shouted after me, “Koche, men crack jokes. Women should laugh it off.”

“Wonderful, son!” Mariamma Chettathi hollered in anguish.

He continued, “You’re slandering my father. When some mad woman spins a false tale, the parish follows. You forgot Appachan’s donations. How do you know she didn’t make passes at him? Her kind of woman could enchant even an old grandfather lying in his grave.” Another voice raised from the group—it was Mullakka, his tone dripping with sanctimonious judgment. “You are right, my boy,” he said. “Dressing contrary to what is prescribed, and with the intent to lure men. Satan’s work! A woman should not dare to be like this. Look at her clothes.”

I stopped and turned, meeting Mullakka’s gaze before dismissing him with a look. Then I approached Joseutty, glaring at him. “Call me a slut—it’s the easiest defense, isn’t it? The police warned me that pursuing this could tarnish my reputation and hurt my family. So be it. Chetta, your wife works in the Gulf, sending money for this bungalow and your carefree life. Did your Appachan ever tell you that if she doesn’t have regular sex, her vagina might sew itself .

I walked away, leaving a stunned son and a thrilled Mariamma Chettathi, as her expression told. The group likely stood staring at my receding figure.

House of Dark Shadows

2021-09-01T13:49:00.008+05:30

Every child growing up is fed eerie tales of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So it was with me. I remember a few elderly relatives and a gaggle of cousins, during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha, regaling me with blood-curdling tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

Walking the narrow, deserted pathways at night was utterly horrifying, even with adults for company. The pale glow of incandescent bulbs atop streetlight poles seemed to cast more shadow than light. Passing by the sacred groves at night, a chilling sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often, we would sprint, muttering holy names. Dark, lonely rooms in the house were another domain where one might encounter the ghost of an old grand-uncle or a hunchbacked great-aunt. Chairs and beds by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. In those village days, toilets were either outside the house, or one had to relieve oneself in the open under a moonlit sky—or, often, a starless, pitch-black one. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins familiar with the place to escort me to the mango tree—a thankless task, as they merely curled deeper under their sheets—or holding a full, almost bursting bladder, counting the minutes of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, and lying terrified until streaks of daylight filtered through the mullioned windows. My elder cousins, relishing the vicarious pleasure of my utter consternation, scared me, a city-born lad, with their eerie tales. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or the fanciful dance of shadows would set my heart pounding so loudly that even a lurking ghost might hear it. Urine would lose direction and force, wetting my undergarments, and in my haste to return to the comparative safety of indoors, drops would trickle down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the departed grand-uncle, watching with amber-like eyes from the sacred grove? Or perhaps the spirit of the woman from the neighbourhood who died of a snakebite? The occasional shrieks and gibberish yells from the lunatic Namboothiri in the nearby illam, where he lived with his octogenarian mother, wafted through the still night, offering no comfort.

Growing up, I recall a late evening walking home after watching the film House of Dark Shadows. Every few steps, I turned to glance behind me. Later, reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula one Sunday afternoon, I sat frozen in my chair, devouring sentence after sentence, page after page, often forgetting to breathe. I hadn’t noticed it had grown dark. This was in our apartment in Kochi, where my housemates were away for the weekend, leaving me alone with Count Dracula for company. I was too scared to move from the chair to switch on the light, preferring to strain my eyes in the fading light rather than stir a limb. Soon, it was pitch dark, save for streaks of light from the streetlamp at the gate. Then, at seven o’clock, the streetlight went out—load-shedding for thirty minutes. In that moment, my resolve to be an atheist offered little solace!

The fear of the dead was profound. Old stories claimed that the dead lingered as ghosts, often seeking vengeance. They carried their animosities into the afterlife, taking neither disobedience nor past rudeness lightly. This dire narrative was instilled in me from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one would die at home or among friends and relatives, for the dead, even without reason, could become our nemesis. Even recently, the tragic death of a friend’s son disturbed me deeply. He was close to me and fond of me. In the nights following his passing, I wondered if he lingered near my bed. Dark rooms at night remained places where the dead might pounce, the grim warnings of my cousins echoing in my ears.

When Amma died, and I spent nearly a year alone in the house after her passing, that fear strangely dissipated. At times, I wished she would appear, so I could address things left undone and unspoken. The confidence that she, even as a ghost, could not and would not harm me was oddly comforting. I could yell at, argue with, or even shout at a mother’s spirit—why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand-uncles or hunchbacked great-aunts. This confidence was both amusing and reassuring.

I still hope that some of those dear to us might visit on a dark, lonely night for a chat, perhaps to resolve things left undone and unspoken. It’s an amusing thought, and I can only laugh at myself.

Burning the Soul

2021-08-08T11:47:00.002+05:30

He was a timid, shaped by forces beyond his control. How could he be otherwise, dwarfed by self-absorbed adults who scripted his every step? Their judgments loomed, dictating who he should become, what was expected of him. Was he not lucky to escape darker fates—to avoid losing himself entirely or rebelling in ways that might have broken him? He came close. What a fractured, fleeting childhood.

Even now, decades later, the scent of books from the British Council Library lingers. Rainy evenings, with their ceaseless downpours, offered a perfect excuse to delay returning home. Often the library was his refuge. James Leasor, Maurice Proctor, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and James Herriot spun tales that carried him far from his reality. Books on cricket, brimming with timeless photographs, whisked him to the pitches of Old Blighty, Australia, and the Caribbean. Later, he found solace in the Brontës and Dickens. Then came Bertrand Russell –the irresistible, perhaps fortuitously at the most opportune time – late adolescence- and mid-teen. The junior subscription cost just five rupees, yet the tyrants at home argued fiercely over whether he should have such liberty. What if he fell in with the wrong sort? They already suspected he had.

In fifth or sixth standard, Enid Blyton’s stories opened a new world. Her English and enchanting tales sparked reading, an urge for knowledge, and curiosity. The Secret Seven and The Famous Five captivated young readers, while older girls drifted toward Mallory Towers or the romantic allure of Barbara Cartland and Mills & Boon. Blyton’s books, though, were rarely on the library shelves—always borrowed. This scarcity fueled a desire not just to read them but to possess them, a fixation that consumed him.

Each day, Bhaskara Books, the shop on his school route, beckoned. Enid Blyton’s titles glowed from the shelves. Asking the despots at home for money was out of the question—why invite their disdain? A book at Rs 1.50 was a luxury, a frivolity. He should stick to schoolbooks—social studies—or his abysmal mathematics. Yet The Famous Five and The Secret Seven were irresistible. In the early 1970s, whispers of Naxalite ideas—taking from the haves what the have-nots needed—offered a perilous solution. So, he filched. From one of the despots, he pinched Rs 1.50 and, with a mix of pride and thrill, bought his first Famous Five. Like an addiction, Blyton’s world enveloped him. Again and again, each Rs 1.50 fueled another purchase. Soon, all 21 Famous Five and nine Secret Seven books were hidden in a secret corner of the house. He devoured them, pressing his face into their pages, inhaling the scent of fresh paper, lost in their magic.

But the fear of discovery gnawed at him that was a dire possibility. Each day, he opened the wooden box where they were concealed, touching the covers, smelling the pages, escaping to Blyton’s vivid English countryside. He yearned to belong there, far from his cold, oppressive world—a place more suffocating than a garrote.

Ill-gotten treasures, though, rarely endure. The books were discovered, their pristine pages betraying their newness. Questions mounted. How had he acquired such a collection? His excuses and alibis crumbled, and the despots demanded answers. The Great Dictator’s return loomed, promising an inquisition.

In desperation, he acted. One afternoon, he crept to the terrace, books in hand, doused them with kerosene, and struck a match. Tears burned his eyes—not from the billowing smoke—as the pages curled and blackened. Each character seemed to sprout wings, escaping from the stifling place -soaring in the dry afternoon breeze. Soon, only a handful of ash remained. No funeral pyre could have wounded more deeply.

I'm a Farmer

2021-01-12T14:51:00.005+05:30

From a commoner's perspective, one can see that perhaps the Supreme Court did not delve into the constitutional validity of the farm laws because, prima facie, they may not have identified anything ultra vires of the Constitution and could not strike down the farm laws, hence opted to stay them till further orders.

But at the same time, on what grounds did the Court stay the farm laws? And if they did so to facilitate the committee they proposed, which would examine the issue, why not then ask the government to repeal them instead? Staying the implementation of the laws in itself reflects the Court’s acknowledgement of their obnoxious and egregious nature.

When the Court observed that the government did not hold consultations on the bills with all stakeholders before ramming them through Parliament, does it not indicate that the bills are bad in law? Why then is the decision to stay them and not to order their repeal?

Is it beginning to suggest that something is "rotten in the State of Denmark"?

The Chief Justice timidly observed yesterday that the farmers may not trust them, but they are the Supreme Court. If the Court finds itself in such an unenviable position, where the trust deficit in the Court is at its nadir, there is no one to blame but the Court itself and the men in robes who occupy the hallowed seats.

The Chief Justice's suggestion that the elderly and women participating in the protest must go back may be, as some say, a ruse to prepare the ground for the government to flex its muscles on the protesting farmers.

Never, in post-independent India, and not even during Indira's reign leading up to the Emergency infamy, have we looked at the courts with such sceptical eyes as we now do. Court decisions and subterfuges over the past three to four years do not inspire any trust in the judiciary either. A sad state indeed!

What is astonishing is the Court's insistence that the farmers' unions should participate in the deliberations of the committee. The farmers rightly fear that they would be led up the garden path by a Supreme Court-nominated expert committee, and once they commit to it, they may have no recourse when some alibi is used to vacate the stay on the farm bills, albeit with some cosmetic changes.

I think we are in for a long haul, which may either end unpleasantly and sound the knell for the Modi government, or result in the complete bludgeoning of the farmers by the government, where we may see the Supreme Court, like Pontius Pilate, washing its hands of the blood of India’s food givers.

If this sounds cynical, I cannot help it, but I earnestly wish I am wrong.

Hanuman Pandaram

2020-08-26T10:37:00.003+05:30

As a child, I was fed tales of a bogeyman. Recalcitrant, noisy, and demanding children were warned of a certain "Hanuman Pandaram," who would appear from nowhere, perform bizarre dance moves, then snatch you away and vanish forever. The fear was palpable when we were told that the distant sound of a gong heralded his arrival. Eventually, he did appear one day—and many times thereafter—revealing himself to be a harmless, hunched mendicant who performed a monkey dance, wearing a grotesque mask resembling the primate god Hanuman. He would quietly retreat after collecting alms.

Reflecting on those days, I can still feel the fright that the story of Hanuman Pandaram aroused in us. Yet, it must have been a boon for parents, helping them to rein in and control their children.

I liken that childhood fear of Hanuman Pandaram to the scaremongering of the Modi-led narrative about Muslims and minorities. Just as those tales once served to subdue children, today, populations and societies have been effectively divided, with suspicions writ large. The Hindutva agenda has been smoothly accomplished.

Now, more than halfway through my life, I cannot recall a single instance where I was hounded or discriminated against solely for being born Hindu. It amuses me to hear people parrot the notion that Hindus are under threat in their own country. I challenge anyone of my age, or even younger, to come forward and specify what tangible threat they have faced.

As a child, I visited temples, vying to be at the forefront of jostling devotees, eager to ring the temple bells when the priests opened the doors of the sanctum sanctorum. I would also wander into the school chapel, observing nuns kneeling piously in prayer, gazing with pity at the crucified Christ and marvelling at the saints and frescoes adorning the walls. No one forced me to attend catechism classes. In my teens, out of my own volition, I began to question the futility of supplicating to gods and eventually ceased visiting temples as a devotee. To grow up exercising free will, thought, and decision-making—albeit as something of a rebel—was a unique experience that required a touch of resolve. Fortunately, I had that in abundance. I saw no need to question or worry about my church-going friends or Abdul Harris, a schoolmate who, to our amusement and wonder, once showed us his circumcised penis. That did not make us see him as different. We eagerly awaited the Christmas cake from a friend of my grandfather, which arrived unfailingly every Christmas Eve.

Where was the threat to me? Later, there was none for my children, who spent their entire schooling as boarders at St. George’s Homes in Ooty. It was our decision to inform the school principal that we had no objection to our children attending Holy Mass on Sundays at the school chapel. Mercifully, notions of “love jihad” or “holy crusades” had not yet reached Kerala when I broke ranks and married a Catholic—32 years ago to this day, 23 August.

My Hindu identity, whatever that may be, has neither worn out nor diminished. By not fretting over its definition or feeling the need to safeguard that mirage, I have found immense peace that no gods or places of worship could ever provide.

Twice in my life, both times in my early teens, I was approached and cajoled to convert. First, by the local RSS shakha leaders, whose advances I found strangely abhorrent even then. Later, by a neighbourhood senior, accompanied by the then-SFI leader, who appeared at my gate to recruit me as an active SFI member—an offer that failed to inspire.

Lieutenant General .R.Gopal

2020-06-13T10:41:00.002+05:30

It has been a long journey for many of us in the decades since college—a rollercoaster for me personally. Yet, what brings immense pleasure is watching close friends climb steadily, and seemingly effortlessly, up the ladder of success. The joy and satisfaction of seeing friends scale the heights of their careers are so profound that you must experience it to truly understand.

One such friend, Lieutenant General Gopal R, UYSM, AVSM, SM, of the 8 Gorkha Rifles, retires from the Indian Army today. Another mate, K.T. Ajith, the quintessential Kannur leftist-liberal bibliophile (if I may say so), who forsook a promising career as a Chartered Accountant to join the State Bank of India mid-career, will retire tomorrow as Chief General Manager.

Lieutenant General Gopal R (Retired) stands out. He held the reins of the prestigious Spear Corps, one of the largest and most operationally active corps of the Indian Army, headquartered in Dimapur, Nagaland. An alumnus of the Indian Military Academy, Higher Command Courses, and the National Defence College, Gopal has had an illustrious career encompassing command, staff, and instructional appointments. These include commanding an infantry battalion on the Siachen Glacier, a mountain brigade, and an Assam Rifles Range in South Assam. He was also among the first members of the team that established the Defence Command and Staff College in Botswana.

Gopal is unique for his unwavering commitment to a single goal: a career as a commissioned officer in the Army, pursued with enviable success. His love for the Army, his ambition, his dedication, and his uncompromising devotion to this goal set him apart. Unlike many of us, including myself, who harboured varied aspirations, Gopal’s sole obsession was to be a soldier—a choice he lived with unparalleled passion. What makes his retirement so remarkable, as no diamond could be, is his fulfilling and proud 40-year career in the infantry, a path he chose with singular focus.

I first encountered him at Model High School, Thiruvananthapuram, though we barely interacted then, as I was a different sort, with friends and priorities far removed from lessons or the NCC. Later, while at Mahatma Gandhi College, I would see him pass by every afternoon at precisely 3:40 p.m., speeding home from Mar Ivanios College on his bicycle. We greeted him daily with howls and catcalls, to which he responded with a shy smile before whizzing past, sometimes in his NCC uniform. We would yell “pattalam” (soldier). Now, I can proudly say that I am among the two or three who still dare to call him “pattalam” to this day.

Two years later, we were classmates at Mar Ivanios College, where I came to know him closely as a paradigm of dedication and honesty. His fascinations and indulgences were limited, unlike most of us. His primary passion seemed to be gathering knowledge—sometimes, one felt he was trying to know too much! A teetotaller, he likely left his share of spirits for me. I cannot forget an incident years ago in Tiruppur, when mobile phones were still the stuff of science fiction. Gopal sent me a letter informing me that his Gorkha would pass through Tiruppur (with the train number and time specified) and asked if I would collect a crate of beer. Did I need persuading? Though the train arrived eight hours late, I found a diminutive Nepali Gorkha standing on the platform, holding a crate of beer and a placard bearing my name.

The chaos that preceded his 1980 train journey to New Delhi for the Indian Military Academy interview and selection process remains vivid. An inebriated ticket examiner who tried to obstruct his travel nearly met a furious Gopal’s wrath, for the man was threatening his sole dream. Would he, for the love of God, let anyone shatter it? Fortunately, the situation was defused, and Gopal travelled without further hindrance.

Gopal has a unique trait: he seeks out old classmates, wherever they may be, visiting them during his vacations in Thiruvananthapuram. I have seldom seen such loyalty in anyone else. I, Christy, and Aravind will never forget the regal treatment we received as his guests in his Dimapur bungalow in December 2018. It was awkward and embarrassing when sentries at his gate saluted us each time we stepped out for a stroll or lounged on the lawn. As ordinary civilians, such deference was overwhelming, but looking back, we felt proud to be his friends and guests. That unique status mattered. The times we spent with him in Wellington, Coonoor—first as a Major and student at the Staff College, and later as a Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel—are unforgettable.

If I were to propose a role model for aspiring young people, it would be Lieutenant General Gopal R (Retired). His uncompromising ambition, earnest efforts, dedication, sincerity, and honesty in achieving his goals are exemplary.

Welcome, mate, to the world of civilians and the social media you long avoided. The honour of remaining our “pattalam” is yours alone. With immense pride, I conclude. (I just spoke to Raji, his wife, who said she’s at home waiting for him while he’s at his office in South Block.)

By the Power of Emoticons

2020-05-23T10:34:00.004+05:30

I have noticed distinct characteristics in men and women on Facebook. Some men, who tolerate no criticism, disagreement, or even a suggestion, resort to the easiest course—abuse and slander! This behaviour seems endemic among Sanghis and unrefined Marxists. Even fans of the snake wrangler Vava Suresh hurled such astounding expletives at me that they would outdo the venom of the most poisonous snakes. Meanwhile, women, true to themselves, often walk out and block you when you disagree. Both groups seem intellectually bankrupt. What do you think?

Recently, three women slammed the virtual door in my face on Facebook. One returned a few months later, rather subdued, as if she were never the termagant who stormed off with a snort. “Hi, can you tell me what you think of this?” she asked. I sidestepped, replying, “Why are you back here asking me? Why should I engage with someone overflowing with cussedness?” “Oh, sorry about that,” she said. But in less than a month, she walked out again when I disagreed with her conspiracy theories on matters ranging from the moon landing and climate change to the necessity of a Covid-19 vaccine. She boasted that she had never vaccinated her daughter or her pet dogs and never would. I asked, “Not even for polio?” She was imperious, declaring, “Yes, and never.” I responded, “Oh, lady, your daughter is 25 and tremendously lucky, and you were reckless.” She unfriended me on Facebook and blocked my phone too.

Another woman, with a strong detestation for Narendra Modi, caught my attention on Facebook. She seemed knowledgeable and concerned about matters around us, unafraid to express herself strongly. But I soon realised that disdain for Moditva is no guarantee of amicable social relationships. She wrote on her page that no one was to share her opinions or posts without her permission. I wondered if what we write or post on social media attracts copyright law to demand that others not copy. I suggested that the share button implies an allowance for copying, and acknowledging or tagging the source might suffice. I also recommended consulting an expert on copyright laws. That peeved her. She veered off on a tangent, accusing me of insensitivity and disregard for another person’s misfortune. She claimed I expressed amusement through a laughing emoji when she wrote in a brief review of the film Thappad that she thanked her stars she chose to be single.

Gosh, the power of emoticons struck me. I was truly amused now!

I explained that her comment amused me because these days, we often hear young people say such things, and I knew of a few amusing cases where extreme views were raised for frivolous reasons. Besides, I hadn’t watched the film to critique it, and my expression was neither disapproving nor approving of the story’s premise. She later wrote that she had walked out on an abusive spouse, asserting that no man may hit her or have a say over her body, and accused me of being a true misogynistic sod. By the time I wrote to apologise for the misunderstanding, clarifying that I had no knowledge of her past, that I admired her courage, and that my emoji was not meant to offend, she had blocked me and vanished.

What a fascinating and convoluted place this virtual world of social media and emojis is!

Do I Hate Modi? A citizen's Posit

2020-04-11T17:04:00.003+05:30

The usual refrain is, “You ignorant Modi haters, your dislike for the man blinds you, and you refuse to acknowledge the good he has done. You sickular, urban-Naxal, anti-national commies.” This comment has become so hackneyed that it glaringly reveals who is truly ignorant, if not blinded and biased.

Am I biased in my opinion of Narendra Damodardas Modi, the Prime Minister of India? Do I hate the man so much that my assumptions and opinions are prejudiced against him and his nearly six years as the country’s leader? Often, I have paused to reflect: could these critics be right? Are my opinions and comments—though a constitutionally guaranteed right—driven by hatred for the man? Do I hate him?

Heads of state often occupy unenviable positions, and as the Shakespearean lament goes, “…and in the calmest and stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king? Then happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

I pondered deeply, even setting aside Godhra and the Gujarat pogrom, and juxtaposed Narendra Modi with King Henry bemoaning his crown’s burdens, unable to find peace unlike even the poorest. I drew a blank. In his exalted role as the master of all he surveys, Modi, over the past six years as Prime Minister, has failed himself, the people, and the nation. One must be incorrigibly blind or utterly foolish to think otherwise.

Before explaining my stance, I asked his supporters to highlight a few of his achievements that transformed the country for the better, hoping they might sway my view. But each time, I received only invectives and even lost a long-standing friendship. Thus, I hasten to clarify my perspective as an ordinary voter who exercised his right in the past two general elections, unaffiliated with any political party.

True, I had serious reservations about Narendra Modi coming to power, and even more about him retaining it in the previous election. That aside, when he rode into New Delhi in his first term, I fervently hoped I was wrong. His symbolic gesture of genuflecting at the doors of Parliament sparked hope that I had misjudged him. I recalled how his predecessor, Indira Gandhi, treated Parliament like a juggler’s pins, rendering the cabinet and house servile, mauling the Constitution, superseding judges with pliable ones, deracinating democratic institutions, and suspending fundamental rights for 18 long months. Here was a lesser-known, controversial figure—a commoner—prostrating at the doorstep of democracy, as he put it. It was a moment to inspire hope and trust.

I thought his resounding election victory might have chastened him, prompting a call for unity, urging the nation to set aside parochial, communal, and religious intolerances, fostering camaraderie and universal brotherhood. I hoped he would end the inertia of the second UPA government, tackle corruption strangling the nation, restore confidence in the economy, and provide succour to the needy, underprivileged, and marginalised. I expected him to shun the divisive, hate-filled saffron-Hindutva ideology he wielded in Gujarat and strive to build an inclusive, rainbow nation, to paraphrase Bishop Desmond Tutu. I hoped he would uplift the underprivileged, give meaning to Dalit lives by cracking down on casteism and untouchability—still a scourge in many parts of the country—ensure tribals were treated as humans and citizens, not dispossessed, and heed scientific advice to address climate change, protecting the environment rather than ravaging it in the name of development. I believed he would honour the confidence of the youth swayed by his “sab ka sath, sab ka vikas” and “acche din” slogans, halt the disastrous slide in Kashmir, deal with Pakistan and China as a statesman, bolster underfunded health and education sectors, and uphold the scientific temper exhorted by Jawaharlal Nehru and enshrined in the Constitution’s Directive Principles.

Yet, as days, weeks, months, and years passed, Modi’s intentions became less and less curious, to borrow from Alice. As Arun Shourie famously put it, Modi’s rule is “UPA plus the cow.”

It became clear we were saddled with a thespian nonpareil, thriving on theatrics, spectacles, gimmicks, and foolery—a sophist peddling falsehoods at every turn. Even his academic qualifications have become an apparent lie and a joke, much like the fantastical tales of his childhood.
His ego is so immense that his sole intent is to burnish his image. His knowledge of economics is woefully inadequate, yet his conceit and hubris prevent him from admitting mistakes or surrounding himself with talent and scholarship.
Indebted to crony capitalist friends who placed him in the Prime Minister’s chair, he made quid pro quo blatant.
Instead of tackling corruption, he effectively legalised it through the egregious instrument of “electoral bonds.”
He unleashed sectarianism, granting the Sangh Parivar carte blanche to unleash Hindutva goons on society, targeting Muslims, minorities, Dalits, and tribals, paving the way for lynchings in the name of the cow, Lord Ram, and religion. The gentle cow became a predatory symbol, with law enforcers facilitating crimes by saffron goons.
Bigotry became the official religion, and daily doses of outlandish, bizarre idiocy from BJP ministers and parliamentarians became an embarrassment to common sense and the nation.
The extent of fear and emasculation among the intelligentsia was evident as early as 2014, when physicians sat mutely through Modi’s speech claiming cosmetic surgery and reproductive genetics existed in ancient India, citing the mythical Karna and the elephant-headed Ganesha. Stupidity seemed seamless under his rule.
The most ridiculous, quixotic, and heartless decision—demonetisation—was inflicted on the nation.
The GST, a novel tax regime mooted by former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and opposed by Modi as Gujarat’s Chief Minister, was rolled out hastily without proper planning, botching commerce and tax generation. His yearning for theatrics and a place among the nation’s founders led to a midnight Parliament session to announce it, throwing the economy into a tailspin.
For the first time in independent India, global financial institutions began sceptically eyeing the statistical figures dished out by the Modi government. The country’s own Department of Statistics distanced itself from the government’s data.
Lies and falsehoods became the norm, with cyber cells set up to spread innuendos and canards.
The massive defence deal with France was arrogated by Modi himself, with his government stonewalling legitimate queries.
Parliamentary procedures were steamrolled with scant regard for conventions and propriety.
The Constitution was defenestrated with the abrogation of Article 370.
Important legislation was passed as money bills to circumvent debate in the opposition-controlled Rajya Sabha.
An egregious law enabling religious profiling, reminiscent of the Third Reich, was passed to identify and sequester Muslims, throwing the nation into turmoil. Modi’s unstatesmanlike remark that protesters could be identified by their dress was infamous.
Institutions were systematically encroached upon and packed with ideologues; textbooks were rewritten with Hindutva narratives and mumbo jumbo.
Courts and media were bought or bludgeoned into submission, and institutions of higher learning were targeted with canards. Criminals escorted by police were given free rein to attack faculty and students on campuses.
Police aided rioters, allowing the capital to burn for three days while targeting Muslims.
International reports and WHO warnings about Covid-19’s pandemic potential were ignored for over a month, as Modi prioritised toppling the Madhya Pradesh government and hosting Donald Trump’s visit. By then, the damage was done, and proactive measures were non-starters.
Intolerance towards criticism and dissent outdid Indira Gandhi’s Emergency.
Contempt for scholarship, intellect, and science was evident, with central funding for research slashed to 0.8% of GDP and funds for education and health cut.
If he claims to be a democrat, why has he not faced the media? Not one candid press conference in his tenure proves his reluctance to face the truth.
As a Keralite, I cannot forget how malevolently Modi finessed aid from friendly Arab nations promised to the state after the devastating floods two years ago.

Modi’s penchant for theatrics and symbolic gestures has consistently beguiled Indians over the past six years. His plea to “burn him at the stake” if demonetisation failed moved people, but they forgot his offer when it proved a monumental blunder, fraud, and crime against Indians. The drama over the Pulwama attack, where 40 soldiers perished in a high-security zone, remains a mystery like Godhra but stirred such emotion that people rallied behind him. The supposed surgical strikes across the border, evading Pakistani radars to hunt terrorists, anointed him as India’s fearless Napoleon or Lancelot. These incidents propelled him to a thumping majority, but over the bodies of thousands of farmers who ended their lives amid farm distress, 40-year-high unemployment, an economic tailspin, atrocities on Dalits, marginalisation of Muslims and minorities, dispossession of tribals, and unprecedented mutual suspicion in society.

Before the recent theatrics of clanging vessels and lighting lamps, the nationwide lockdown, announced with just four hours’ notice, led to an exodus of lakhs of migrant labourers, defeating its purpose. Modi’s penchant for drama without planning or empathy was evident. These spectacles proved clownish and disastrous, undermining physical distancing. His call for clanging and banging would have been welcome had he shown an iota of sincerity in tackling the communal hatred fanned by his party and the Sangh. I would have joined these symbolic gestures if he had uttered one effective sentence to his bhakts and Sanghi stormtroopers, stressing that unity means inclusiveness across religion, caste, and creed, and that symbolism must translate into reality. I would have volunteered had he not infamously profiled dissenters by their attire—an outrageous remark from a Prime Minister. Let him first target bigotry, regardless of religious hue, if he sincerely seeks unity. Symbolic drama is an irritating comedy and utter dishonesty when Modi has not shown one act of carrying all Indians with him.

It is not just hatred; it is detestation of what he stands for. I am offended that the Prime Minister has created more division than the British did in their imperial history. Mr Modi, there is still time to make amends and leave a legacy that allows posterity to overlook your fallibilities and see you as a statesman.

The nation has been changed forever. Even if Modi is voted out in 2024 or beyond—if elections occur—it will take years to repair the social fabric, for people to trust their neighbours, and for ethnicity, religion, and caste to become insignificant, with harmony, food, shelter, security, and a clean environment becoming existential priorities.

The Wizard King

2020-04-05T12:05:00.002+05:30

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a man with a broad chest who ruled over a kingdom where the people’s lack of intelligence astonished even him. He rightly observed this to his coterie. But his subjects, blinkered in their lives, had never seen a donkey and thus could not compare themselves to the timid, foolish beast. They believed their King was clever, and they were as clever as he.

The King was as canny as a fox, though he also fancied himself smart with a high IQ. Kings from other kingdoms longed to politely remind him he was an idiot, like his subjects, but he hastened to hug and charm them upon meeting, so they refrained from candour to avoid rudeness.

The truth was stark: the King frequently appeared on national television, issuing mad decrees he claimed were for the greater common good, demanding compliance that his donkey-like subjects, the fools, gleefully obliged, eagerly awaiting more. He was a sorcerer, hypnotising his subjects, who followed him with a fervour that would make the Pied Piper of Hamelin envious. He proclaimed decrees at night, and the next day, he would wail, beating his chest, urging them to burn him at the stake if he was wrong. They forgave him, unable to bear the sight of tears in his eyes, unaware that his marble-like eyes could not produce tears. Often, he sent a decoy—some say his real old mother—to perform the same tasks he asked of his subjects, and they went wild, dancing and singing eulogies to the King and his old mother. The King spared not even his mother! How noble! In his castle, the King laughed heartily, rocking in his chair, while his donkey subjects brayed in unison, “Oh, great leader, you are the shining star, the burning sun, son of gods; you could never be wrong. You are infallible, the light, and our deliverance.”

One day, shortly before midnight, the King appeared on television, dressed in splendid silk attire with an appliquéd tapestry that, upon closer inspection, bore his name embroidered in gold thread. His snow-white mane was immaculately groomed and waxed with ancient Indian herbs, its aroma stifling even through television screens, yet perceived as fragrant incense by his hallucinating subjects in their dreamy indolence. He decreed that from midnight, he would suspend the earth’s gravity so his subjects could spread their wings, hitherto tethered by evil forces, and fly with abandon. As midnight struck, his donkey subjects flocked and jostled to leap from apartment windows, expecting to float like fairies in zero gravity. Those in hutments scampered up coconut palms to jump and fly. Such was his commanding sway over them that they gleefully leapt and flew—only to fall flat on their skulls and faces, crashing to the ground like hailstones. Their craniums, ribs, and bones snapped like twigs, yet they believed they were flying, feeling the cold wind against their faces. They were in awe, convinced they soared. The wizard King effortlessly held them under his spell, and their broken skulls, dying hearts, and aching bodies refused to accept they had not flown. They bled and bled.

The Circus after the Hanging

2020-03-22T10:03:00.003+05:30

Early yesterday morning, after switching on the television, I began to wonder if Covid-19 had vanished from the country overnight. Not a word about the contagion was mentioned; instead, all channels were dominated by the news of the execution of four rapists in the early hours at Tihar Jail. It seemed like a carnival at the gates of Tihar. Placards proclaiming “We trust the judiciary” signalled a newfound faith in the system. Bizarre slogans, which I now struggle to recall, filled the air. Men and women alike were jubilant. It resembled a medieval circus where public executions drew crowds baying for blood. After seven years of waiting, the Indian judicial system, moving at a tortoise’s pace, had finally closed a sordid chapter of gang rape, brutality, and murder that would shame even the wildest of barbarians, including the Vikings.

Seven years ago, on a wintry night, a young Delhi girl was stalked by six savage men. After thrashing her companion to near incapacity, the brutes gang-raped her in the most heinous and dreadful manner imaginable. That night, India as a nation and we as a society failed her miserably. We failed because we allowed six depraved individuals to violate her physically—she was mauled and torn apart. The brutality was beyond what even wild beasts would inflict. We failed again when we outrageously christened her “Nirbhaya,” meaning fearless. How dare we? How dare we presume she wasn’t gripped by mortal fear when six hellish, debauched men pounced on her, ignoring her pleas, cries, and entreaties, ripping her apart like ravenous wild dogs? How dare we bestow upon her grandiose names, ostensibly to elevate her to a pedestal of courage and bravery, thereby assuaging our collective guilt? She, a frail teenager, could surely do little to resist when six cannibals pinned her down and set upon her in a manner words fail to describe. Yet we call her “fearless”! It sickens me and makes me retch when I hear her referred to as “Nirbhaya.” We should hang our heads in shame. She ought to be known by her given name; her memory must not endure under a pseudonym granted by a hypocritical society. That is the least justice we can offer her.

One can empathise with her parents, who pleaded for the execution of their daughter’s rapists. Their anguished minds could not see beyond retribution, nor grapple with the moral and ethical nuances of jurisprudence. When the mother expressed relief, saying her late daughter had finally received justice, we could understand her feelings. What else could a mother feel? But it makes me wonder when the public declares, “Justice served for ‘Nirbhaya.’” What justice can a dead person possibly receive? Someone claimed her writhing soul would now be at peace. Semantics and fanciful phrases aside, the soul is a mirage we humans invented to appease our longing for immortality—a satisfaction derived from believing a part of us persists after death.

What justice can we give a girl now dead, when we, as a society, collectively failed to protect her while she lived? What justice awaits the teenage Unnao girl, brutally raped and later murdered? What justice can we offer Asifa, the seven-year-old raped repeatedly for days and murdered in a temple in Kathua, Kashmir? How many more individual acts of justice must we pursue for the daily rapes and murders of women and girls in this country? It is offensive to think we can find satisfaction or clear our consciences by invoking the phrase “justice served.” Nonsense!

Yesterday morning, tribal instincts came alive outside Tihar, and television channels, barring a few like Asianet News and NDTV, revelled in the news of the hanging of the four men while simultaneously questioning the foundation of capital punishment in countries like India, which we call civilised. The “rarest of rare” benchmark is a flawed premise. Protesting capital punishment in today’s India would be deemed as seditious and anti-national as criticising Hindutva. The humane Kiran Bedi, the fiery cop who, as the first female Inspector General of Prisons, introduced reforms aligned with a civilised society, was upbraided for attempting to reform the incorrigible and advocating for prisoners’ human rights. It is a primitive tribal notion that prisoners forfeit their rights as humans. One might even hear the hackneyed cliché: “If what happened to the Delhi girl happened to your kin, you’d think differently.”

There is a sine qua non for calling ourselves civilised. We must first eradicate patriarchal mindsets and misogyny from society and teach children from a young age to respect women. If an accused person is found guilty and punished as per the law, that law must either facilitate their transformation during incarceration or acknowledge that retributive justice is not justice but vendetta, as offensive as the crime itself. Look at those baying for the blood of the accused or guilty—it’s a trait of primitive tribal societies. It doesn’t take much to realise that the men vociferous outside Tihar yesterday might readily stalk, violate, molest, grope, or harass a woman if they believed they could escape apprehension or punishment. That is the duality of people: they hunt the victim and later cry for her.

A few months ago, much of the country applauded when the Hyderabad police staged an encounter and killed three alleged rapist-murderers. Like fools, we eagerly accepted their alibi that the men attacked the police before attempting to flee. We were content to believe extrajudicial killings delivered swift “justice.” We failed to question whether a diligent trial confirmed their guilt or if they were decoys planted by the real culprits. Did we consider the anarchy such extrajudicial, instant retribution could wreak on society’s fabric and its legal system? Not a word was spoken thereafter; we moved on—or rather, backward.

When we passionately claim retributive justice for the Delhi girl, believing she has finally received justice, we are lying to ourselves and, dare I say, mocking her soul, if you will. There is no evidence that retributive justice or capital punishment—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—serves as a deterrent. Only uncivilised, barbaric societies, citing antediluvian practices and bizarre texts, justify chopping off hands for theft, stoning for adultery, or decapitation for murder. When societies worldwide have abolished capital punishment, I see no reason why this medieval, retributive punishment should remain on the statute books of a country like India, which claims to be civilised. Lifelong incarceration, with or without the possibility of parole, would torment the criminal, potentially leading to reform or psychological decay.

To quote Henry Ford, “Capital punishment is as fundamentally wrong as a cure for crime as charity is wrong as a cure for poverty.”

The Little Whore House

2019-11-08T09:13:00.003+05:30

The little whorehouse stood next to a well-known and respected family home on Ambujavilasom Road in the heart of Thiruvananthapuram, about five minutes’ walk from the main thoroughfare and the State Secretariat. It was an unassuming place with a tiled roof and a single door opening directly onto the street. The occasional drama and minor melee we witnessed as we passed by each morning and evening were all we were privy to—nothing more.

It was roughly 200 metres from where I lived, and my friend and I walked past the little whorehouse each morning to school and on our way back in the evening. I was in the fifth standard when I was told about this strange, and to me then, fascinating place in our neighbourhood. My friend, two years my senior, introduced me to its intrigues. Being eight or nine and fresh from the sheltered environment of a convent education, many things were inexplicable yet curious and amusing. The amusement was particularly strong when, on our way to or from school, we witnessed police raids at the whorehouse. A ramshackle police van would park by the door, and potbellied, fearsome-looking policemen—along with a few scrawny ones sporting only handlebar moustaches to evoke trepidation—would bundle a few women inmates and their plebeian clientele into the van. Looking back, those policemen now seem clownish, attired in odd short trousers with ample ventilation around their hairy thighs, allowing fresh air to waft up to their groins. I recall the day after a raid, when we passed by, the old woman who ran the place—a hag, perhaps in her early seventies, always with sandalwood paste and a few flower petals in her grey hair—sat at the door, forlorn and sad, having lost her clientele, women, and business to the police action.

She lived there with her daughter, a single woman, and her teenage son. I noticed no disenchantment in the daughter or son, who seemed to allow the old woman to run her cottage industry.

There were occasional arguments at the door between petulant patrons and the inmates. One day, I saw a man forcibly ejected by a few women inmates. He was agitated, quite inebriated, and shouting expletives—an unhappy and dissatisfied customer, perhaps! “Caveat Emptor,” I would now suggest to him.

Looking back, there was no evident discomfort, annoyance, or moralistic angst from the people living nearby—an impossibility in today’s phoney, voyeuristic Malayali society. The place seemed to survive on its own, ignored by the elite residents of the neighbourhood. Whether the local men frequented the whorehouse under the cover of night, I can only guess with some amusement.

The story ended abruptly with the death of the old woman. Rumours abounded that someone had poisoned her, but no one could say for certain. Her passing marked the end, perhaps, of the saga of “the little whorehouse.” The daughter and son vanished soon after, and now a multistorey office building stands on the five cents of land where, perhaps, much of Vatsyayana’s exhortations were religiously indulged, albeit at a price.

The Shooting Star

2019-07-14T11:16:00.002+05:30

I haven’t met her, nor spoken to her; our communication was solely through text messages. She was reticent, perhaps shy and unassuming, preferring to remain unnoticed. She distanced herself from the garishness and chaos of modern life, staying far from its edges. Though a trained Mohiniyattam danseuse, immersed in the art since the age of six and having performed at temples and other venues, she downplayed her talent. Her outgoing peers had little sway over her choice to stand apart. In an era of social media, where attention-seekers vie for visibility, this captivating maiden, for reasons of her own, chose to remain unobtrusive, almost hidden.

She was virtually faceless on social media, yet maintained a quiet presence. Her pages revealed no clear image of her, but with a discerning eye, one might glimpse her among the faces in the rare group photographs she shared. Even then, it would be mere conjecture. Yet, I felt certain: the vivacious, mesmerising eyes and the grace of a danseuse shone unmistakably in one figure among those pictures. The allure of her eyes was arresting. Still, without confirmation, even the most confident guesses remain just that—guesses.

When asked why she chose this path, she replied simply that she loved it. A recluse? Certainly not. At 23 or 24, her eyes beckoned alluringly from her pages, but her perspective on life was equally striking. At such a young age, few ponder deeply about existence, yet she mused about infusing meaning into life’s inherent frivolity: “We are born without purpose, but we can create one, can’t we?” she once texted. That was some time ago, and now no trace of her remains; she simply vanished, perhaps deliberately leaving no footprints.

Her final message lingers, stirring an eerie unease, though she may have faded like a shooting star, whose wanderlust she admired. She first reached out after reading my blog post, “My Gods of Small Things,” shared on my social media, inspired by Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. The content differed, reflecting on individuals from my life, now gone, whose small acts were profoundly meaningful.

Through our extensive exchanges—spanning religion, love, morality, humanity, life’s apparent triviality, idleness, and even vintage Malayalam and Hindi film songs—I found her to be a keen listener and reader with a sharp, reasoned perspective on nearly every topic. Why, then, was she training to be a chartered accountant, a profession often marked by dullness? The answer was straightforward: her father’s wish.

Her mother, a dancer herself, had instilled in her a love for Mohiniyattam but had sacrificed her own passion under her husband’s domineering will, ensuring her daughter faced no such constraints. She occasionally spoke of her younger sister, about ten years her junior, who followed her like a devoted shadow.

“Sir,” she always addressed me, “what do you make of this clichéd notion of ‘settling down’? Why should it mean conforming to society’s or even family’s expectations? Can you tell me?”

“Indeed, why can’t settling down be about finding meaning in life’s frivolity?”

“Exactly! That’s why I believe being attractive isn’t about a chiseled body, an arrogant swagger, Rhett Butler whiskers, or high cheekbones.” (She added a smiley emoji.) “It’s about how one thinks—the mind shines through the face. You can’t fake it with bravado. Men are terribly mistaken, don’t you agree?”

“Ha, indeed!”

“Thank you for agreeing. Remember that girl you mentioned, who abandoned a lucrative job in the Far East, slung a backpack, and travelled the world? Was she my age?”

“Hmm.”

“Sir, I quote from her book: ‘Four years ago, I gave up my home, sold most of my possessions, and embraced a nomadic life. This journey has taken me as far within as with my feet.’” A pause followed, then: “I hate him, the bastard!”

“What?” I asked, confused. I had recommended the book, and those words weren’t from the passage she cited, nor related to her text about the author she cherished. If spoken, I might have dismissed them as misheard, but they were typed.

Ignoring my question, she continued: “…how travelling changed my perspective on marriage and not wanting children. ‘Sir, I felt sick after that.’ I wrote this post for dreamers, adventurers, and rebels who feel stifled by a lack of choice.”

“What?” I pressed again. After a prolonged pause, when I asked about her abrupt remark, she explained.

“I needed to get this off my chest. It’s him.”

“Who?”

“My father.”

“What about him?”

“He hugged and kissed me today.”

“What’s wrong with a father hugging his daughter? I do. Hasn’t he before?”

“No, it’s not that. He has, but this was different. I felt it when he touched me—nauseating, terrifying.”

“What are you saying?”

“Exactly that. I feel sick and scared. He kissed me, biting my cheeks, nearly my lips, and I felt… his thing pressing against me through his lungi. It was deliberate, all in seconds.”

Speechless, I asked, “Are you sure?”

“Please, Sir, I’m not a child. This never happened before, but I felt it, saw it in his eyes. I was frozen, unable to pull away. Lately, I’ve felt uneasy around him, a vague discomfort… but now…!”

“Have you told your mother?”

“No, I can’t. It would worsen things. They’re not getting along, and it might affect my sister too.”

“Is he your stepfather?”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I just needed to unburden this.”

“If anything untoward happens, tell someone. Call me if you need to.”

“Hmm, yes. Instead of longing for the next holiday, perhaps build a life you don’t need to escape.”

Was that a quote? I’m unsure. It was her last message before the line went dead. Months have passed, and she’s vanished without a trace. Perhaps her footprints linger in the sands of time—across deserts, mountains, South American river basins, or the forests she dreamt of. Maybe she found the courage to flee, to live without needing escape. I pray she didn’t yield and become trapped.

Narendra Modi & Alladin's Magic Lantern

2019-04-25T18:15:00.004+05:30

A Sanghi enthusiast is touting what he claims is an excerpt from Narendra Modi’s scripted interview with Akshay Kumar, a less accomplished actor. He asserts that Modi’s response left everyone in awe.

According to this enthusiast, Akshay Kumar asked Modi what he would do if he found Aladdin’s fabled magic lamp. Modi reportedly replied that he would urge academicians to stop narrating such fables to children, as they promote a culture of idleness and lotus-eating, alien to India’s ethos. He then allegedly critiqued Indian education for belittling the country’s past and instilling foreign values in children. Does this thespian realise that One Thousand and One Nights is a collection of Middle Eastern fables?

Even a cursory glance at this claim reveals the absurdity of Modi’s purported stance, likely a scripted answer. We’ve seen what happens when his responses aren’t rehearsed—he fantasises about an elephant’s head grafted onto a human child and calls it plastic surgery! 😁😂

What’s startling is that Modi seems unaware of Arabian Nights and the myriad fables that enchanted our childhoods. Can anyone point to contemporaries who became lotus-eaters, languishing in dreamy indolence, awaiting lady luck? He overlooks how fables, Indian and foreign alike, shaped our formative years. Unlike Modi, we drew values from Aladdin’s fortunes, wary of the scheming uncle; from Sinbad’s voyages, which introduced us to distant lands and cultures; from Ali Baba and the forty thieves; from the cunning “Fisherman and the Jinni,” the “Tale of the Vizier and the Sage Duban,” or “The Fox and the Crow.” The list is endless. Does he know many of these tales carry Indian and Persian influences?

Venturing further west, are we to believe that Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, Cinderella, or The Pied Piper of Hamelin are corrosive to young Indian minds, as Modi might suggest?

If we entertain Modi’s convoluted (nay, devious) logic, we’d miss the richness of Anton Chekhov’s The Bet or Leo Tolstoy’s God Sees the Truth, But Waits—a tale prescient of Modi’s era! He likely hasn’t heard of O. Henry’s The Trembling Leaf, conveniently alien as it’s American. Nor, perhaps, of Kerala’s Aythihiya Mala, a collection akin to Arabian fables, which he might dismiss as foreign to his sensibilities, despite its uniquely Malayali essence. Herein lies the contradiction in his bizarre understanding of culture, fables, and literature, however commonplace.

Does he know that W. Somerset Maugham’s Appointment in Samarra draws from the Katha Upanishad and an ancient Mesopotamian fable?

What distinguishes ordinary mortals like us from Sanghis is our exposure to a kaleidoscope of inspiring tales from diverse cultures. These stories enrich our lives with values of moral courage, ethics, and goodness, regardless of their origin. It’s a pity we have a Prime Minister who rejects inclusivity and the universal appeal of such narratives. Perhaps Modi had little time for fables, reportedly spending his childhood meditating in dense jungles or on the icy peaks of the Himalayas. What a sacrifice he made—and now we bear the brunt! Poor us!

tête-à-tête - but we were 4

2019-04-14T11:24:00.003+05:30

Yesterday, after dusk, I had three visitors: the local ward representative and two other respectable-looking men I hadn’t seen before. One was introduced as a scientist or some such figure, but since they announced themselves as BJP representatives soliciting my views and vote, I gave little credence to the science tag. I recalled how Indian scientists sat silently when the Prime Minister spoke of ancient plastic surgery involving an elephant’s head on a human torso.

Having enjoyed a couple of sundowners, I was relaxed and in no mood to discuss politics, especially with strangers. I feared provocation might weaken my resolve—and it did, despite my repeated assurances that there was nothing to discuss and that I respected their request for my vote. They persisted, asking why I wouldn’t support the BJP. I politely explained that their ideology was antithetical to my values, and that bigotry, divisiveness, hate, and falsehood rarely build a nation. I was keen to remain sensitive and restrained, though the Old Monk was stirring some mischief within.

“Oh, look at initiatives like Startup India and GST—see how things are changing!” they countered.

I reminded them that Startup India was stillborn, and GST wasn’t a BJP idea; they had opposed the Manmohan Singh government’s efforts to introduce it. With five or six tax slabs, its hasty and chaotic implementation caused havoc—credit for that mess goes to Modi!

“But it takes time to change the system!” they argued.

“What system are you changing? The BJP seems intent on destroying systems. Do you have credible statistics on GDP, jobs, agricultural output, or farmer suicides? Everything seems concocted, doesn’t it?”

“No, look at Nirav Modi and others who profited with Congress’s help.”

“I don’t know if they profited with anyone’s help, but they fled while the Modi government looked the other way. What did your government do with Raghuram Rajan’s report on NPAs and defaulters?”

“Oh, we’re trying to save Hinduism and Sabarimala! The census shows Hindus are declining in numbers.”

“What’s there to save? Hinduism has survived for over 3,000 years; if left untouched by internal termites, it will endure another millennium. The census tells a different story—Muslim population growth is slowing, yet you stoke fear. As for Sabarimala, the BJP tried to turn it into another Ayodhya.”

“No, we’re protecting the sanctity and holiness of the place.”

“That sanctity was eroded by the Sangh. What were you doing for five months in the name of that shrine? You have a reckless state party president creating chaos. His loose tongue spewed idiocy. You even made a martyr of an alcoholic who doused himself in kerosene and set himself alight. It reminded me of an old Malayalam film where parties vie to claim a corpse. How can we forget the infamy of abusing women in the name of Sabarimala? Didn’t we see a Sanghi poised to smash a coconut on a woman’s head?”

“That was a Marxist man,” came a feeble retort.

“You claim there’s a sinister plot between Christian evangelists and people like Amartya Sen.” I scoffed, unable to help myself, as I would have even fresh from bed.

“Gentlemen, name one significant issue your BJP highlighted in the past six months besides Sabarimala. Did you address the farmer suicides in Wayanad? The havoc caused by the floods and the state’s rebuilding efforts? The alleged lapses in post-flood assistance? Environmental degradation? Any existential issue facing the state? Sabarimala won’t provide anyone a square meal. There are pressing matters begging for introspection and action. You saw Sabarimala as an axe to grind, like Ayodhya.”

“No, the state government was against devotees.”

“The state government opposed troublemakers and Sanghis causing bedlam. The police were unusually restrained. How can you blame the state for following the constitutional court’s ruling? Why didn’t the BJP introduce legislation to resolve the issue? Weren’t the petitioners supporting women’s entry BJP and Sangh functionaries? Come on, you may gain votes through Sabarimala, but not mine nor my family’s. We each have strong convictions about the life we cherish.”

In hindsight, I told them I hadn’t wanted this discussion and hoped there was no rancour. They graciously replied it was their privilege to engage.

“If you vote for our candidate, you won’t regret it; he’s a good choice, you’ll see when he’s an MP.”

I smiled. One gentleman added, “You must also consider the candidate’s moral character.”

“Who are we to judge another’s morality? What is your morality? You’re soliciting my vote—do you know mine?” I forgot to ask what morality justifies abandoning a wife to languish.

Sensing enough was enough, they stood to leave, and I politely saw them off at the gate. By then, my daughter had sneakily photographed us and sent WhatsApp messages joking that I might be kidnapped!

2019-03-02T10:09:00.005+05:30

I was introduced to The Hindu when I was about eight. My father was adamant that I read the editorial daily, regardless of whether I understood it. Such was his despotism! Among his many quirks, this particular insistence proved beneficial over time. I must admit, in those days, my reading of the newspaper began with the sports page. As time passed, I came to agree with my father that The Hindu’s editorial was a uniquely well-written piece, distinguished by its language and content. It was akin to the resonant voice of Melville de Mellow, the Indian broadcaster whose English news bulletins on All India Radio were more impeccably English than the English themselves could muster.

Melville de Mellow’s poignant commentary in 1948, articulating the nation’s grief during Mahatma Gandhi’s funeral procession to Raj Ghat—non-stop for seven hours—remains one of the finest moments in radio broadcasting, in India and globally. His command of language, articulate delivery, and sensitivity to the occasion are qualities sorely lacking in the shrieking reporters seen on Indian TV news channels this past week. For these clamorous individuals, a tragedy, a poignant moment, or a solemn occasion rarely shapes their reportage. Their insensitivity and vexing behaviour over a mutilated corpse are utterly deplorable!

As for the media, particularly The Hindu (which remains one of the few sober print dailies), its coverage of the Pulwama attack and Modi’s electoral gambit involving the Indian Air Force’s strike in Pakistan was so poorly reported that no international news agency deemed it even conditionally quotable. To claim that 300 terrorists or JeM militants in training camps in Balakot (PoK) were killed in the IAF raid, when not even a single dead donkey was found in the targeted area, reveals the pathetic state of Indian media and their shameless complicity in peddling the government’s flagitious falsehoods and malarkey.

N. Ram, you owe an explanation—not because of who you are, but because The Hindu is an icon, an institution, a symbol of conscientious journalism to many. The trumped-up jingoistic fervour on various Indian news channels since yesterday morning has been pure rodomontade, evoking revulsion. These outlets may now compete to put Wing Commander Abhinandan under the spotlight, vying to outdo each other for an exclusive on the pilot. This isn’t journalism; it’s voyeurism. When you lend undue credence to a snooty, grandstanding Prime Minister who thrives on falsehood, misrepresentation, and cunning, you rival Faust in a Faustian bargain.

Wing Commander Abhinandan deserves accolades for his resolute conduct in enemy captivity. His return is a profound relief for every Indian. Undoubtedly, we have many such Abhinandans in our military—but so does Pakistan! Our enemy is another country’s hero, and vice versa; valour knows no boundaries. Humans, my friends—flesh and blood, pain and contentment—cannot be reduced to grandiloquent narratives by jingoism, nationalism, or unethical journalism, whether about Indians or Pakistanis.

The Urban Naxal called Vivek Agnihotri

2018-12-03T11:20:00.000+05:30

Vivek Agnihotri has a few credits to his name. Foremost he is a staunch defender of Hindutva and a conscience keeper for the BJP. He spares no critic of the ruling saffron party. Secondly he is the copy right holder for the term ‘urban naxal’!

Here in his Article “Why the SC verdict on Sabarimala is flawed”, he mocks at the majority judgment (4 to 1) of the Constitution bench of the Supreme Court in the Sabarimala women’s right to entry case. While conceding his right to opinion, one cannot help not terming his stand idiotic, myopic, misogynic and lacking in commonsense, let alone wisdom. Noodle-headed and those who cannot see beyond saffron hue jump on to his bandwagon and endorsed his article on social media.

He begins by saying that Sabarimala has nothing to do with gender equality and it is about tradition and rituals. He tells us at the beginning itself, he cannot see beyond his damn nose. He has no idea about the changes that came across in both traditions and rituals in Sabarimala. Did he know that the flag mast at the temple is a recent installation; the ‘Chithira attam’ ritual opening, a very recent innovation; coconuts used to be thrown on the footsteps (18 steps) by devotees while they climbed the holy stairway until some years ago, convenience and matters of necessity put stop to that practice; the ritual of rolling around, (prostrate) the main shrine- a vow of penance by devotees has been done away with; the holy furnace at the footsteps of the temple into which coconuts filled with ghee was poured and kept live through the pilgrimage season is now out; the ‘padipooja’ is a recent addition; devotees used to go by foot all the way from their homes, bare foot and with meager provisions but now journey is by air-conditioned luxury coach and cars; the customary 41 days of penance is a selective matter now? Very soon a cable car would be added purportedly to aid and facilitate pilgrims! What has become of the traditional rights of the hill-tribes who conducted their rituals at the temple? Brahmanism which Agnihotri zealously absolves of all wrong doings evicted the tribesmen and usurped the temple. This will soon be another interesting saga of litigation in the Supreme Court. The fraud called ‘Makar Jyoythi’ , or the holy beacon during Makarsankranthi that used to flare up in the forest yonder , which the temple authorities sold the gullible pilgrims as celestial beacon from the heavens has now been acknowledged as man-made. Worst Agnihotri may not be aware that the presiding deity has been rechristened as ‘Ayyappa’ from the earlier avatar called “Dharma Shastha” (ostensibly a Buddhist name).

Vivek Agnihotri, you must check how traditions and rituals evolve, how one custom is superseded by newer rituals and customs. Wonder if any Sanghi has elementary knowledge of those facts. Then his amusing but dangerous take that as long as traditions and rituals do not hurt others they must continue. Well mister it does hurt, it does hurt women because many silently bear the brunt of patriarchal overbearingness which morons throw on them in the name of traditions and customs – whether they are family members, colleagues or subordinates. The ban Hindutva is trying to enforce on fecund, menstrual age women going to that shrine is nothing but a branding iron used to defile womanhood, mark her as servile to men. You may now say, “Oh women who go there are hussies flocking to the shrine to honey-trap the celibate God”! What a cruel joke Vivek Agnihotri! Your spouse and kids, they must hang their head in shame!

You simply have no idea about the past, the history of Sabarimal when you use the borrowed word “Naisthika Bramachari” and invoke a fable. Can you quote one Thantric tome that can tell the so called celibate nature of Ayappa or the deity there? This was also looked into threadbare by the Supreme Court. I’m curious who told you that puberty arrives and menstrual age ends with clockwork precision at 10 years of age and then at 5o? Mister are you aware that women were going to that shrine until the Kerala High Court took cognizance of a writ and banned them from the shrine in 1991? Are you aware that women of all ages were going to Sabarimal until recently, a fact as vivid as day light? Are you aware that since 2006 the Supreme Court had sieved through every shred of evidence put forth by all the parties concerned? Which should also remind you that the God there has not been celibate, now for very long! For goodness don’t be unjust to the God of Sabarimala and insist he be consigned to eternal celibacy when many of you - the offended faithful l(sic) indulge and revel in epicurean life, orgy and fornication. Oh come on! We all know what kind of vow are borne by these men who go there. Not even 1 percent abides by the dictates of custom and tradition.

You claim our Justice System and Constitution is based on Western binary system. Goodness what the heck is that? The binary? Mister Agnihotri, one doesn’t have to be erudite, an academician or a scholar to know some basic facts. The worst self-infliction - the label of a buffoon is asserting something of which your knowledge is thin, nil or incorrect. Indian Constitution and Jurisprudence do have influence of the English, the French, the Roman and the US Constitution and laws. Above all our Constitution was not framed overnight, copy pasting from the West, but also imbibing various objective lessons of life down the centuries and the unique ideas thrown up by various reform movements.

Article 14 which dwells on the Right to Equality was influenced by the ideals thrown up by the French Revolution – ‘Liberty’! Liberty, was freedom from oppression; equality also underpinned the French Revolution, not to forget fraternity. Article 14 of the Indian Constitution which you trivalised as the copycat of the Western binary, states, “The State shall not deny to any person equality before the law or the equal protection of the laws within The Territory of India.” Article 15 (1) & (2) prohibits the State from discriminating any citizen on ground of any religion, race, Caste, sex, or place of birth or any of them. Now you and the saffron brigade would invoke Article 25 which guarantees religious rights and freedom, but what you men do not realise is, if the rights mentioned in the Article 25 violates the ones in Article 14 and 15, the later would prevail. This is the corner stone of Indian democracy and this tome you rubbish as Western and unfit for the complexity that is India, is what dictates all men are born equal and the right to equality is paramount and inviolable. In fact the power that you derive to criticise and speak your mind is derived from this basic structure of the constitution. Hence your stand is asinine, idiotic and nonsensical. The Supreme Court clearly defines the spirit of Indian Constitution, that when the beliefs of a group, of a collective threatens the right of an individual the right of an individual will and must prevail. The purloining notion folks like you proclaim, in this era of neo-liberalism, “collective common good” is dumped in the ocean here.

You seem to allude and I guess it is more a form of subtle and intelligent innuendo that the Supreme Court is insisting on women going there. You even asperse that the bench was dominated by men in a matter concerning women. Well what you ignore is the matter is more than women rights it concerns male hegemony and patriarchal hideousness. To put matters in the right perspective four of the five women petitioners went to the SC and filed the petition to allow women of all ages to enter Sabarimala were all with the RSS affiliation. It is no secret that the RSS was foremost in supporting women entering the shrine and said unfair traditions should be jettisoned. Why the volte face now is quite a simple matter known even to a child. The Supreme Court verdict clearly states that it is violation of Article 14 to prohibit women from the shrine and ruled that those who wish to go to the shrine must be free to go. You emphasise much ado on “devotion” and “devotees”. Pray do you have a yard stick to determine devotion and who is a devotee?

You say triple talaq is a bad custom but calling women impure because of their physiological characteristics is not, amusing man! In the same tone one can also ask why dalits must be allowed into Hindu temples. Banning them is harmless. Untouchability is harmless, because if you have such marginalised people all menial works in the society can be entrusted to them! How would you differentiate between a harmless custom and the ones that hurt and offend? The Bombay High Court verdict on women entering Shani temple Sighnapur did not offend your tradition and customs?

Laws reflect the spirit of times. The Courts may have in their wisdom held a different view 70 years ago. The anachronistic colonial - Victorian puritanical hangover law, Article 377 which criminalised homosexuality and which the Supreme Court refused to strike down a few years ago stands shred away and thrown out today. Consenting adults having physical relationship is no more adultery. LGBT citizens are not anymore seen as pariahs, they get to lead a dignified life like any of us. Well your traditionalists must be peeved.

Your acumen makes one roll about laughing incessantly. You say that the Courts should only pronounce verdicts that are ‘implementable’! Well why then should we have Courts? Each one to himself and let us revel in anarchy, the powerful wins over the meek and the marginalised. Worst still is your comment on the Court verdict deciding the 500 meter distance of liquor vending shops from State and National highways. Do you know that , the Court could have refused to make suitable amendments to the verdict on alcohol vending shops, because right to consume alcohol is not a fundamental right but as the merit dictated when a verdict has to be reviewed it was done. As for loud speakers blaring from mosques and other religious places, is it not a collective contempt and dishonor of the Court ruling by one and all? If someone goes back with a petition contempt of Court will befall on quite a few. Well mister this disregard of a Court verdict is by no means an achievement to be proud of for a society that calls itself civilised.

“In case of Sabarimala, I believe, the interpretation of the Supreme Court is flawed and against the grain of Hindu faith and the religious freedom as defined by Dr. Amabaedkar the founder of the Indian Constitution.” Oh goodness Mister Vivek Agnihotri, you are blundering nonsense, idiocy and ignorance at every turn. In the first place there was no founder for the Indian Constitution. Mr.Ambaedkar was the Chairman of the Constitution drafting committee and independent India’s first law minister, not the founder. There were 7 prominent members in the committee and they were not nitwits or Hindumahasbha/RSS bigots. Now, the Courts decide matters on merit and at the touch stone of Constitutional provisions and there the fundamental rights predominate. Hence you saying that the Courts are to honour the grain of Hindu faith or for that matter any faith is outright rubbish and a vacuous statement. India is not a theocratic State!

Have you heard of the Vaikom Satygraham (1924-25) which was against the Brahmin custom that banned low caste, dalits and untouchables from thoroughfares around the Vaikom Siva temple? Have you heard about the Guruvayoor Temple Satygraham (1931-32) which was for the rights of untouchables to enter the temple? Have you heard about the “Villuvandi’ agitation spearheaded by the great social reformer Ayankali which was to assert rights of untouchables to walk the thoroughfare? Do you know that the Temple Entry proclamation by the erstwhile Travancore Maharaja offended the traditionalist Brahmins and the custodians of customs? Have you heard about the consecration of the deity of Siva at Aruvipuram , Kerala by the social reformer Sree Narayan Guru a low caste? That was grossly offensive and against all tradition and custom. Well one can lay out to you scores of such iconoclasm and rejection of age long customs & traditions. Kerala society evolved through rejections and imbibing, all societies do and longevity of customs is only as long as the spirit of time.

I think Mister Agnihotri, you need to also read a bit of Kerala history and the role reformation played in the social life. I encourage you to do that than sit in your damn ivory elitist tower and regurgitate utter nonsense and ill will.

You state, “Judiciary’s foremost duty is the protection of that faith….” Again you blare loud your ignorance and naiveté if not gross stupidity. Go back get the copy of the Indian Constitution and read it, carefully and see if you can soak up the core values enshrined in it. If it does, you too would, I promise become an ‘Urban Naxal’!

The Moment of Reckoning for Trivandrumites

2018-11-22T13:52:00.000+05:30

Shashi Tharoor’s charm and persona that enticed voters, certainly women, elite, middle class and the ones at the lower end of the economic ladder, have definitely taken a hit in recent months. Not so much because of his tardy stand on women entering the Sabarimala shrine, but by default because of the utter lack of sense and loss of direction of his party’s State unit. If his party the Congress is a concubine of the BJP well, why not treat concubine as one? Why prefer the concubine over the master- the BJP? Voters have a valid reasoning here! His image seldom was hit so badly as many say, not even during the immediate aftermath of the misfortune of his wife’s premature death and the orchestrated campaign of vilification by the BJP notwithstanding.

Of the 12, 42,901 registered voters in the Thiruvanthapuram Parliamentary constituency 51.9 percent are women. The communal equation (deciding Nadar community votes) in the constituency always favoured the Congress, and literally bailed out Mr.Tharoor in the 2014 Loksabha election. In 2014, at the same time, there was considerable distancing of Nair and Brahmin votes which went in favour of the BJP candidate the octogenarian O.Rajagopal. One may say that was the whiff of the Modi wave blowing across the Ghats! Whether there was such possibility or not, Nair & Brahmin votes did square up against Tharoor. Now Thiruvanthapuram district with 66.5 percent Hindu votes would prove to be the Waterloo for Tharoor who squeezed past the pole the previous time and by a whisker (obviously the Nadar/fisher folk votes came into play in his favour in the less than 15000 margin that saw him pull ahead at the finishing line. But this time around with the vile shenanigans of the BJP/Sangh, the utter lack of individuality of the Congress and a weak ‘intrinsic liberal’ statement of Shashi Tharoor himself , together with the strong decisive stand of the Pinaryi Govt regardless of the possibility of core Hindu votes deserting the LDF, the BJP may stand to gain.

The ensuing scenario, should that happen may be disastrous not just for the Congress , a shame for Shashi Tharoor but an utterly ominous moment for the State as a whole. A BJP win in Thriuvanthapram will be more so cataclysmic not because of the BJP winning, but the constituency losing out on Shashi Tharoor to represent it in parliament. Sieve incessantly, search the netherworld and their stables the BJP or the Sangh cannot prop up an able opposite number to Shashi Tharoor. Imagine a vacuous, naïve, scandal stained nitwit like Sreesanth or a matinee idol (whose only achievement outside the tinsel world is blogging through ghost writers singing paeans of Modi) representing Thiruvanathpuram constituency!

What Thiruvanthapuram would lose if it vote for candidate other than Tharoor be it for the BJP based on the current chaos they orchestrated vis a vis Sabarimala or a Left nominee (who ever that may be),is a suave man, persona of class, bipartisan and belonging to a rare breed of politicians seldom seen in politics in the country, a communicator and listener par excellence- two qualities that has to be sine qua non in a public figure especially a representative in the law making body , an articulate customer, a person of international repute and an able diplomat, an efficient parliamentarian, digitally inclined and tech savvy, thoughtful and visionary.

Shashi Tharoor moved the private bill against criminalisation of homosexuality, a move that resonated spirit of the time, a few years before the Supreme Court struck down section 377, after refusing to remove it off the statute earlier. But as the personalities of many of the parliamentarians tell us, twice the bills were voted out in parliament. No representative had the decent audacity to pilot such a bill which could usher in a much wanted civlised atmosphere in the society. He was the strongest voice in the opposition on the disaster called demonetisation, botched GST, the scams that are dime a dozen now, the Lok pal and the very many needs of Kerala .

This was what “The Telegraph” of Calcutta had to comment on Shashi Tharoor’s removal as the Congress spokesperson. “For an opposition MP to have and to exercise the freedom to appreciate a good thing done by the government and for a ruling party MP to speak and vote against the party line is not just legitimate parliamentary practice , it is the very essence of parliamentary democracy. Shashi Tharoor , from the Congress has tried to do that there is not one BJP MP who has matched him. Blind conformism is not loyalty, nor independent thinking, dissent.”

For a man who showed great courage, foresight and awareness in raising his stand against Sec 377 and the equally forthright stand on very many socio-cultural and economic issues , indeed the weakling was the miserable “intrinsic liberal” stand a few days ago on the Supreme Court Judgment on women entering Sabarimala. I’m sure he must have been at loss and pain to tell his own conscience the monumental sophism in that stand which he took, that the Courts must use the litmus test of societal acceptance when ruling on matters of faith, belief and customs. If Trivandrumites eventually succumb and be swayed by the political shenanigans thrown up on women entering Sabarimala, the false narrative of alleged planned destruction of the Sabarimal shrine, the orchestrated threat to Hindus, the bogey of minorities bludgeoning Hindus out of existence and the many other porkies, and innuendos it would be a sad day when the Gods themselves would wail inconsolably for Thiruvanthapuram.

Worse,Thriuvanthapuram would lose irretrievably if a parochial, mean, obscurantist, moronic, bigot dethrones Shashi Tharoor .

Trivandrumites will rue that day!

Vox Populi on Sabarimala

2018-11-20T09:11:00.005+05:30

( Sabarimala in the 1940's photographed by the prince of the erstwhile Travancore)

I watched an NDTV interview of about a dozen men pilgrims at the Sanidhanam , Sabarimala. What is glaring are some disheartening facts, though the flip side is, almost all of them were against violence and the boorishness shown towards women venturing to the temple following the Supreme Court verdict. Presumably there were no true (sic) devotees in that group!

None of them interviewed seem to have even basic knowledge of the Supreme Court verdict, the words used by the Court and the philosophy, the thought behind the Court’s judgment. Secondly the veiled misogyny was raising its hood in quite a few observations. While all of them were steadfast holding on to what they claim to be customs, sentiments and tradition that they believe have been in force for centuries, their utter lack of the knowledge and awareness of the history of Sabarimala and even the recent history and happenings ( of the past 50 years) sounded dampening .

One gentleman even went on to say there are a thousand Ayappa temples world over and why could not women go there and leave Sabarimala to the glory of traditions and customs. Yet another went on to express the ungodliness around menstruation. Another bloke wanted Pinarayi Vijayan to demand the Center to bring an ordinance nullifying the Supreme Court verdict. He even cited the Jallikattu . I felt ridiculous hearing his asinine talk and utter lack of knowledge about the matter. Dreadful it was one fellow even said that women should tend their home and look into other matters of social importance. The only sane voice sounded that, perhaps the Government ought to have bought more time from Courts.

Some even spoke about the glory of sentiments and customs over the Constitution and how popular sentiments must prevail over the Constitution.

I wished in the end I did not watch the damned interview. It was disheartening, very, very much. But then as it was after the Guruvayoor temple doors were thrown open to Dalits and untouchables in 1936 , it took 12 long years till 1948 for the first untouchable to enter that temple. Social change has been sparked off, the fuse is lit, but the time to the keg of powder that would bring down the wall of bigotry and obscurantism in smithereens will take a while.

Intolerance of Fascists

2018-11-18T09:28:00.003+05:30

സംഘ്പരിവാർ -ബിജെപി /മാർക്സിസ്റ്റ്‌ കൾക്കു തമ്മിലുള്ള വ്യത്യാസം ചർമത്തിന്റെ ആഴത്തിൽ മാത്രമേയുള്ളു .ഇരുവരും അഭിപ്രായങ്ങളെയും ,എതിർ ചിന്താഗതികളെയും ഭയപ്പെടുന്നു .അവരുടെ ചിന്താഗതിയാണ് സത്യം ,അതാണ് വെളിച്ചമെന്ന് കണ്ണടച്ചു വിശ്വസിക്കുന്നതിനാൽ വെളിച്ചമെന്താണെന്ന് ആ കൂട്ടർക്ക് ഇനിയും മനസിലായിട്ടില്ല .

സുനിൽ ഇളയിടാത്തതിന്റെ നേരെയുള്ള നീച പ്രവർത്തി അവരുടെ അധമ സംസ്കാരത്തെയാണ് വിളിച്ചോതുന്നത്.പ്രതിയോഗിയെ കിട്ടിയിലെങ്കിൽ നാക്കെടുക്കാപ്രാണികളെ വരെ ചുട്ടെരിക്കുന്ന സംസ്കാരമാണെല്ലോ നമ്മൾ കണ്ടിട്ടുള്ളത്. പാപ്പിനിശ്ശേരി പാമ്പു വളർത്തൽ സങ്കേതത്തിൽ മാർക്സിസ്റ്റുകാർ കാട്ടിയ നിഷ്‌ഠുരത ഇനിയും അതിന്റെ പൈശാചിക രൂപത്തിൽ നമ്മളുടെയൊക്കെ മനസുകളിൽ തങ്ങിനിൽകുന്നില്ലേ ഇപ്പോഴും ?

എന്താണ് ഈ കൂട്ടർ ഭയക്കുന്നത്? ആശയങ്ങളെ ആശയങ്ങൾ കൊണ്ട് നേരിടാനുള്ള കഴിവുകേട്, ഭയം , to put it in simple words 'impotency ', അല്ലാതെ വേറെ എന്താണ് ? ബഹുസ്വരത അവരെ വിറളിപിടിപ്പിക്കുന്നു.!

എല്ലാത്തിനും ഒരു ഓമന പേരും, ന്യായവാദവും ഉണ്ടാവും - മനോവികാരത്തേ , വിശ്വാസത്തെ വ്രണപ്പെടുത്തി എന്ന് ! അയലത്തെ വീട്ടിലെ നായ് ഒന്ന് കുരച്ചാൽ തെറിച്ചു പോകുന്ന വിശ്വാസ പ്രമങ്ങളാണോ ഇവർ പേറി നടക്കുന്നത് ? ഹാ കഷ്ടം!

തൊടുപുഴ ന്യൂമാൻ കോളജിലെ അധ്യാപകന്റെ കൈത്തണ്ട ഛേദിച്ച പിശാശുക്കളും ഇവരും തമ്മിലുള്ള അകലം അവരുടെ പേരുകളിൽ , സംഘടനയുടെ പേരുകളിലുള്ള ലിപികളുടെ വ്യത്യാസം മാത്രമേയുള്ളു . ശ്രീ സുനിൽ ഇളയിടത്തിനു എല്ലാ വിധത്തിലുമുള്ള ധാർമികമായ ഐകമത്യം രേഖപ്പെടുത്തി കൊള്ളട്ടേ . അന്തരിച്ച ചിന്തകനും , പത്ര പ്രവർത്തകനുമായ Christopher Hitchens പറഞ്ഞപോലെ , “Never be a spectator of unfairness or stupidity. The grave will supply plenty of time for silence.”

2018-11-10T14:53:00.000+05:30

There is a welcome outcome from all this furore, madness and cacophony about women entering Sabarimala. The articles, the debates on TV channels, the arguments and suddenly the plethora of information on Sabarimala, its past, the Indian constitution and its haloed basic principles all have suddenly come out to the center stage. Indeed one may have noticed a few anti women-entry friends & acquaintances, some who unlike the Indo –Pak soldiers at the Wagha border gates and their energetic theatrics frown at you for real and murmur, “damn you anti Hindu –hindu”.

What the Sangh & the BJP along with other fascist fringe elements that constitute the Hindutva dynasty have inadvertently done through their sudden U-turn and opposition to the question of women entering Sabarimala, is in hindsight favourable to the society. It may facilitate the ushering in of an unstoppable debate, liveliness and paradigm change in the social psyche of Kerala. A 21 st century renaissance, if I may! Conservative opposition apart, in the form of “nama japa yatras”, I doubt if the rightwing can sustain their vile and opportunistic campaign of falsehood. For the incessant debates, the profusion of information that aids unbiased and dispassionate judgments have also allowed people to understand the flagitious agenda of the BJP-Sangh combine. The despicable and sinister game plan came out of the evil mule’s (K. Sredharan Pilla- the BJP State supremo) mouth itself in the form of braggadocio and hopefully the gullible who heeded to his call for Hindutva jihadh will take notice.

The so called Royals of Pandalam may rue the day they voiced their objection against the Supreme Court judgment. Thus opened up this social consciousness which is now threatening to dispossess them of their self-proclaimed rights and reverse their appropriation of the Sabarimala. Their locus –standi is as questionable as the writ of the 500 odd princess in the post Independent India.

The Tantri clan has walked themselves into a snare set up by themselves and is now like crooks trapped in an oubliette. A possible contempt of Court stare at them as much as the story of how they purloined the Malayarayans and their rights over the shrine.

The narrative that the State Govt ought to have bought sometime to educate the masses on the SC judgment on the facts about the shrine and the falsehood of the so called customs cannot be ignored. Well though one cannot rubbish them , yet the question remains was there any recourse to the Govt other than abide by the SC ruling on the question that touched the basic principles enshrined in the constitution?

The Monkey God

2018-04-15T16:54:00.001+05:30

Polemics are always frowned upon. But that is because you feel your contention and comfort zone is threatened. At the same time when you make fantastic claims it must be supported not by fantastic faith but verifiable evidence. “That which can be asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence.”

Yesterday on this holy and zealously individual place called “my wall” on ‘face book’ a post someone posted happened to reflect on my Timeline. It was fascinating news of Hanuman Jayanthi being celebrated. Naturally my temperament did not let me ignore it. I posted a comment which read, “Goodness me finally they found the birth date of the Monkey God!”

Now tell me was there any rudeness and disparaging tone in that remark? Absolutely not, I can tell and argue with reason. But the gentlemen who posted took umbrage at it and replied rather menacingly. “Desist...from making such an insulting words for the gods....and if you have any problem keep it with yourself ...If I start pointing the fingers ok on banana State of for yours ( Kerala)…. .” I really did not understand the last part, though. Moreover since the word 'jayanthi' is understood to mean birth date, it was also natural to wonder , how the heck they established that.

I politely asked him in my reply what was insulting in my observation. Wasn’t Hanuman member of the monkey clan? Folks considering him God don’t alter his race. Does it? But he would have none of it. He warned me to desist from trolling. Well, I rest matters there as Facebook seems to be held and guarded zealously by many people where they can tell whatever they want, but frowns upon any critical comments. That, one must not ever agree.

But the question remained, “Did they uncover the birth date of Hanuman, the Monkey God.?”

This morning different post from another gentleman reflected on my page. There was a picture of a clan of monkeys being fed (they were seated like at a table and partaking). The caption read “Vanara sena- Hanuman Jayanthi party.”
Now, interestingly the gentleman who posted this is a staunch Hindu and an ardent fan of the saffron brigade.

Now where did I err? In asking if they really uncovered Hanuman’s birth date? Or did I err in calling Hanuman- ‘Monkey God’? I began to wonder but soon understood there was nothing to be astonished about.

I repeat the quote I mentioned earlier. “What can be asserted without evidence, can be dismissed without evidence”

To use the social media to purvey and assert one’s fantasies, bias, and idiosyncrasies or bizarre claims supporting ones belief system or political affiliations cannot be done without inviting criticism and scrutiny. If you do, yes you may do it, but don’t act offended when someone ask you to prove your fantastic assertion. There is no mockery and trolling in it. It is sarcastic reply to your eccentric and assertion.
Take it or leave it. Its social media and it’s an open space.

The Malayalee

2018-02-25T13:19:00.000+05:30

Deluge of anguished posts, statements that seem to not cease, (but will only last for a few more days are flooding the social media sites)! This began the day the news broke out about a mentally unstable tribal youth being lynched in a tribal hamlet in Kerala for allegedly stealing rice. He was thrashed mercilessly by the mob of puritans (sic) and succumbed due to severe internal injuries. The killing was not done at the behest of the Cow brigade, not by the Commies , not by the Jihadists and not by the Congis. But by Keralites- ordinary Malayalees! Some of whom even boasted selfies like game hunters pose with their trophy of a kill.

Cherry picking by the Sangh fans , bringing back quotes from Narendra Modi's infamous speech while electioneering in Kerala that allegedly compared the State with the dystopian Somalia is being revived. "I told you so!"

There has been no hartals and bandhs sponsored by the political parties to protest the brutality. For a dispossessed mentally deranged tribesman cannot be in the voters list. The political henchmen and masters seem to be muted in response. Perhaps the scale of the act may have even numbed their senses.

Am I incensed, angusihed, sad? Oh no, not at all !
Such bestiality need not necessarily be the privilege of the Sanghis in the Sangh dominated lands of the cow-belt. We Keralites are indeed adept in perpetrating the most despicable, heinous of acts and a herd mentality can in fact bring out the best of barbarian in us. We need not be a Sanghi, a Commie or Islamist to assert that.

Yes we Malayalees zealously bathe every morning, wear pristine white dhoti and shirt, we unfailingly read a couple of newspapers and boast about our literacy and wisdom; we believe we have expertise within us to assert on any subject that is thrown at us ; we think slightly of people from other parts of the country and the world; we think deprecatingly of others for we indeed (claim) are yards ahead culturally and socially. We kvetch about expat youth from other States who fill-in for blue collared, lay jobs that the arrogance of our educated ( but unemployable) youth scorn.We are deeply religious and spiritual- flocking to churches on Sundays, observe lent and Eid with astounding piety, do not miss namaz and as decreed perform that ritual five times a day, make temple festivities a cultural statement. We are both outraged and indulgent in public display of affection. Well the lists that tells our primacy among societies are never ending.

But look aren't we just like any other depraved minds, we think exists elsewhere? The beast trapped in our human body manifests often in fashion similar- a hapless mentally compromised youth can be wretchedly assaulted and left to die, a pregnant woman is kicked in her stomach that the pregnancy is miscarried, a father has no qualms in sexually violating his girl child...., a Gulf returnee who dreamed of his own automobile workshop is forced into misery by communists and takes out his anguish for ever by hanging himself.......!

And yet we claim to be a civilisation and society apart, decked in intellectual glory and prideful.
Hypocrisy thy name is Malayalee!

2017-12-02T13:18:00.001+05:30

All said, be it Padmavati, Sexy Durga, Satanic Verses, MF Husain’s "Saraswati", Taslima Nasreen's, “Shame” , Nicholas Kazanzthika’s “The Last Temptation of Christ” or Meera Nair's "Fire", what has been pilloried and strangled is the right of expression and speech, to criticize, to creative freedom and use the creation to critique a system, thought belief or a person.

However dispassionate I get, I cannot totally forego the traces of mischief and may be a plot for possible commercial windfall in naming a painting or a movie provocatively. This is why I feel SunilKumar Sasidharan must cross his heart and confess to or refute the motive I allege him of.

MF Husain had a host of other names to caption his painting of a nude decorated woman and “Saraswati” was a silly choice. SanalKumar Sasidharan had a plethora of names from which to choose one for his movie. Neither did! That either ought to be stupid, specious or cunning.

The content of Sexy Durga as I can understand has nothing titillating or sexy about the protagonist. So a name that did not have that prefix would have fared uneventful. Just “Durga” would have avoided these controversies. Moreover when asked to change the name the producer over imposed “XXX” on the alphabets “exy” in the word SEXY. Wasn’t that trifle suggestive and mischievous?

Now what right does the puritanical (sic) brigade, be it the Hindutva forces, the Islamists, the Rajputs or any others have to proclaim fatwa and order violence upon an author, a film maker or a painter for her/his oeuvre?

The much fancied the then young Prime minister Rajeev Gandhi who we thought would be a harbinger of fresh young air, disappointed when he succumbed to Muslim vote banks and proscribed Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses and also circumvent the Supreme Court order in the Sha Bano case. Those of you who do not know the 10 years of turbulent and hounded life Salam Rushdie lived, after Ayatollah Khomeni ordered he be killed, must read his autobiographical work “Joseph Anton”. The whole civilized system and governments in multiple countries succumbed to the mad mullah in Tehran who ordered killing of Rushdie. That idiot may not even have read that work. Democratic societies world over being held to ransom by Islamist forces began with the “la affaire Salman Rushdie”.

Now when you say that the limits of expression and creativity are subservient to another person’s like and dislike, you are being a censor and an obscurantist. If you say that terrorists have a right to kill people who put up cartoons or paintings and even novelettes criticizing or lampooning their God or prophet, you are only endorsing the terrorists’ argument that rest of the World must acquiesce and follow their unitary beliefs and not be different or dissenting. What then is the society you are expecting to have? A homogeneous, vacuous, scrawny moronic world? What then about the colourful diversity of thought, belief system, culture, tradition, languages etc that adds vibrancy and interest to life? Plow them down under and cover us with black cloak like Grim Reapers?

In Kerala the ancient art form of “Chakiarkoothu” is a medium to taunt, lampoon, mock, criticize, rubbish, shame, rebuke and rebut a person or system. Kings and rulers were mercilessly critiqued and mocked by the artists; the current art of mimicry is precisely a variant of the old “Chakiarkoothu”.

As much as one has the right to be hurt and flaunt offended sentiments, a writer or an artist must have the right to offend and critique.

If religious sentiments and emotions were hurt by using a prefix to the name Durga or the movie ‘Padmavati”, well what must first be banned ought to be the mythological treatise such as Ramayana, Mahabharata or the Bible. Wherein there is surfeit of incest, misogyny, sadomasochism, rape, violence, sex, sleaze, bestiality, sodomy and whatever you can think of as offensive to the pristine sentiments. I’m told the 12^th century treatise of Jayadeva, “Geetha Govindam” which describes the fantastic relationship between Krishna and his maidens the Gopikas , has enough and more that would pale D.H.Lawrence’s , “Lady Chatterly’s Lover” and Charles Devereaux ‘s “Venus in India” . Should they be burnt or proscribed? Well should Khajuraho and Konark be pulled own and the many Hindu temples too? Should Naga sanyasis be rounded up and forcibly clothed or forced into the ocean with millstones around their necks?

It is utterly ridiculous and inane to be anguished over a movie, its name, a painting or a book. At least here in India where we have great tradition of dissent, heterogeneity and argumentation as well as tolerance. To argue that the Abrahamic world are far sinister and intolerant is a childish argument because the choice we have is, should we accompany them and stay like them in a barbaric archaic mental existence or use the greatness of Indian culture to look forward.