my own boswell

Seeking Truth…

He was a seeker of truth, for he believed in the scripture, `Seek, and ye shall find’. He was tormented by the denials and the disappointments that marked his life. Equally torturous were the failures and the failings that characterized his existence. He believed he was an honest man, a man of integrity, strong in character and unwavering in his commitments. Then, why was it that he was wary of being tested every day? Why did tantalizing temptations make him withdraw further into his own cocoon, rather than take the plunge and savour the untold pleasures? Was it the betrayals and the deceptions that made him fear the face of reality? But then he always wanted to know the truth; he was convinced that once he crossed that bridge of uncertainty, he would be at peace with himself, however intense might be the hurt…

Later, after he passionately sought and eventually found the truth, he realized he were happier in his ignorance. Was it the punishment for seeking truth, he could never fathom…

The Mask
 
She lived, the mask in place. At times, when she felt the weight of it as too burdensome, she wondered, why not discard it and be a free being, her real self; but she knew the perilous consequences of such a drastic, if not dramatic, action. What will family, friends, relatives, colleagues, nay society at large, think of her without the omnipresent mask in place? After all, she had worn one all through. She had put on the smile when she was breaking down within; she had laughed, struggling hard to suppress the cry that suffocated her. Alone, in the crowd that surrounded her, she waded her way through, likely the lonely mariner at high sea, drifting with the wind, no compass to guide her, no shore to shelter her tired body and tormented soul. Yet, she was sure she would feel naked in the absence of the mask; moreover, it was second skin to her, which would cause much agony if she tried to peel it off. Why bring tears, recriminations, accusations of betrayal from the few who claimed to be close and the many who were comfortably distant? What purpose would it serve to disturb the fragile peace? Better burn within, than spark a fire whose flames would reduce to ashes the hopes and joys of others around. Many might say, she compromised, but she had done it all her life: it was easy to take the risk of rocking the boat, but difficult to steer the course, against the high tide and heightened turbulence. She knew from her own experience that to live a life where she had to compromise every day was the most torturous  challenge, in every possible way: but she didn’t have an option - or is it that she didn’t want to exercise any option?

She chose to wear the mask…

The Candle

The candle burns,
bright and beautiful,
lighting up the night,
for others…

But, it burns,
shedding silent tears,
of anguish,
of angst…

It burns,
shedding forlorn tears,
of anger and anxiety,
even love…

One brilliant flicker,
the last drop falls,
and it drowns, then,
in its own tears…

Of Dreams, Undreamt…

If every dream remains just that,

then, what is life?

If every dream is fulfilled,

why dream at all?

If there are no dreams to dream,

then, what is life?

If dreams keep us just awake,

why dream at all?

If all hopes are realized

all urges met,

all aspirations fulfilled,

all desires satiated,

all fears conquered,

what is the challenge in life?

If all peaks are climbed,

all destinations visited,

all seas sailed,

what is there, left for tomorrow?

If there is no tomorrow,

what is left of today???

Adieu to you

Maqbool Fida Hussain breathed his last

In distant London, far far away from his homeland.

I bow my head in his memory…

And at the same time

I hang my head in shame.

Hussain, all of 95 years, was an Indian.

His paintings portrayed the life and times of India,

Its history too, in its myriad colours.

He lived an Indian, every bit of it.

But,

He couldn’t die an Indian…

We didn’t let him die an Indian…

We didn’t want him in his own country

And die here, this nonagenarian.

Obituaries will flow out in hundreds

From VIPs and VVIPs,

Discussions will abound in TV studios,

Editorials and lead articles will be aplenty

All extolling his brilliance, his creativity, his originality.

All will condole the demise of a celebrated artist

All crocodiles will crowd the media rooms today

As though Hussain was never let down.

But then

Why did no one want him in India?

Why did the media keep quiet?

Why did the Civil Society put the ostrich to shame?

Where did the political voices disappear?

Where did the secularists vanish?

Whatever happened to the Preamble and the Fundamental Rights in the Constitution

Which proclaimed a Secular Republic

Which stressed the right to freedom of speech and expression?

Why did the Courts of Law not take suo motu notice of the threat to the life of this 95-year-old man?

What did the government do to secure for Hussain his right to freedom of expression and right to life?

We will never get any answers from anyone, bar the meaningless eulogies.

Pray, tell me,

With what face will the Members of Parliament

Pay homage to Hussain, a member of their tribe,

Who couldn’t set his bare feet on his mother earth?

The same bare feet which walked the corridors of Parliament

After having been nominated by the President of India

For his countless contributions to national life…

Conferred Padma Shri, Padma Bhushan and Padma Vibhushan

And

What did the very same State

Do

To let him walk his beloved earth?

No, no one did anything,

For,

Hussain was politically inconvenient for everyone

And

Collectively,

They let him die in a foreign land.

Today,

They will issue the mandatory messages

 And heave a sigh of relief.

 I bow my head to Maqbool Fida Hussain.

 And

 I hang my head in shame

 For

 I too didn’t raise my voice for his cause…

Miscellany

Amma tells us this story, laughing even today, though the incident took place so many decades ago. Those days, it was like open house: anyone could walk into the kitchen side of our compound for a meal. So, one day, Amma found this small kid at lunch time outside the kitchen door, and he got a hearty meal. As he was leaving, Amma, who had not seen the boy before in our house, asked him who he was. In all his innocence, he said: “I am the son of Chellappan Pillai who has four wives!”

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Son feels that Lord Krishna was not very fair towards the Kauravas. I ask him why. He is of the considered opinion that the Lord turned a blind eye towards the `trickery’ of the Pandavas and even abetted some of them; moreover, he is of the view that the Lord certainly acted in an `adharmic’ way when he not so very discretely hinted to Bhima how to finish off Duryodhana at lake Dwaipayana. “That is not cricket,” is his assessment. I assure him that the gentleman’s game of cricket was hardly in action at Kurukshetra and that Krishna did what he did only to uphold the reign of truth and justice. Son complains, “Accha, I thought you always sided with the underdog, and here you are, siding with God, only to be on His right side!”

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The cell phone rings, soon after Sunday lunch is over and I am getting ready for a siesta. It is a young thing from a foreign bank offering a loan that she promises I can put to good use to buy all those things which I need in the house! Son’s mom is keen to know how the bank girl knows that we don’t have those very things at home. While pleading ignorance and innocence both to this loaded and highly inflammatory question, I tell the caller I don’t need a loan at the moment. I thought that `at the moment’ will bring some reprieve, but she is not amused: she wants to be briefed as to why I don’t need a loan at the moment, as if I must be mortgaged to her bank, a foreign one at that! My patriotic cells are tickled, but son’s mom has second thoughts and feels it is a wonderful idea to buy all those things which are apparently missing in the house, even if no one missed them till the bank call came. And son suggests helpfully: “Don’t put her off like that – you might need to take an educational loan for my sake very soon”. I say, I agree: “Even to pay your quarterly tuition fees in school, I have to beg and borrow”!

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It is the latest Zen Estilo ad, “Proposal ke baad”, featuring a male and female robot. As the Estilo trips a can of paint, red spreads, the girl smiles and the guy is smitten forever. The car comes to a stop, and the tyre is bloody red. I wince, and think aloud: ”Who the bloody hell conceived this ad! Is it about paint or car or tyre?” Son asks, “What’s the problem?” “It is horrible to show red on the road, more so on the car tyre. It is morbid, to say the least”, I clarify. Son winks, “Accha, red is the colour of love, even if it is on a car tyre”. His mom rubs salt into the wound, “True, but he wouldn’t understand!”

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I have seen this small girl at the traffic light every time I cross the junction. She will be selling a range of products which varies from week to week. She wears bright clothes and has a brighter smile and sparkling eyes. Whenever I reach the intersection, I look out for her, and she will be somewhere around, running from car to car with her engaging smile, beseeching the occupants to buy a book or a rose or a hand towel, as the case may be. After a few months, last week, I happened to stop at the junction when the red light came on. She was there, as usual: the sparkle was still there, but the innocence had gone missing…

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Winter is here and I take out the woolens from the bed box. Since there are quite a few old clothes which are no more in use, I decide to give them away. When I stop the car at the red light, I see this small boy selling balloons and call him over. I give the kid, all of seven years may be, a bag full of old clothes. The light changes to green, and I shift gears. The little one runs after my car with a big smile and gives me a balloon: “Uncleji, yeh leh lo”! My day is made!

Home they brought their warrior dead…

A few days ago, I read about how the body of a soldier was found in Walong in Arunachal Pradesh, 48 years after he died in action during the India-China war of 1962. Two days back, his mortal remains were cremated with full military honors in his village in Himachal Pradesh.

I was deeply moved by the story of Sepoy Karam Chand Katoch, and wrote a piece on him; but I was not too sure if I were fair to his memory: the dead deserve dignity, is something I have always held.

I wrote a mail to dear friend Col. Kanchan Bhattacharya, seeking his advice if I should post it or not.

I have since heard from KB: he penned a few words himself on the “warrior dead”.

Needless to say, when KB writes, we all take a bow.

KB’s words come first – naturally…

______________________________

“Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee–
Like summer tempest came her tears–
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’ “

                (Alfred Lord Tennyson)

This was a tempest-it defined how the Services in India would continue their sacrifices, and be denied, of weapons and implements, of rations and fuels, of pride and salaries, as they go on in the interests of democracy.  

It is not just enough to remember- “Ai mere watan ke logon”- rise and learn!

“It took me but forty eight years to come home…

Some will never return, but remain in the snow clad eons

In pristine sleep,

While their mothers weep

Young village boys dying again and again

Some just in their teens, not quite bearded men

All lions felled, by ceaseless waves of weapons alien

In greed for land, in greed appeased, a nation failed

By the titans, a nascent country hailed

The “freedom” people and their clan

A nation led by statesmen blind,

To the last man in their coterie bland

So the soldiers fought to the last round, the last man, resigned

When the dawn came, we paid the price

In verbose text, the men buried in ice

Friends and people of Assam

I have lost the country, how sorry I am!

But my breed shall still rule you

I shall fleece and bleed you too!

In two years we have a half century of memories, a million shows

By the “industry” the film stars, the singers, the journos

In television, in son et lumiere by long disused guns asleep

With mock tears shall the pretty young ladies weep

While the  soldier dies

Just the mother cries

Widows just pine and burn

With a new born son

There go another million days

When the merry nation plays

Secure, prosperous, stealing and killing

But for the dead soldier, never willing”

KB

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Home they brought their warrior dead…

I am home, finally, and forever…

When I left my village Agochar in Himachal, I was a little over 21 years. How would I have known that it will be 48 years before I return to the land of my forefathers and “the temples of my Gods”? My beautiful valley has been beckoning me all these summers and winters, springs and autumns, but I was far, far away, in distant Walong, in Ajnaw, Arunachal Pradesh, on the west bank of river Lohit, a branch of the mighty Brahmaputra. The Chinese border is just 20 kms. away…

I lay deep in sleep protected by the glaciers, as the icy waters of the Lohit gently flowed by. The blizzards came and went, year after year. I was cocooned in my own snowy abode, away from my near and dear ones, unknown to the world. Did I say I was alone? No, far from it: I was surrounded by my friends, and enemies too, their memories keeping me warm.
I am Sepoy Karam Chand Katoch (Number 3950976) of 4 Dogra Regiment. It has been a long time here at Walong for me: looking back, I feel I had come to consider this as my home, for I have been resting here for nearly half a century. But I always wanted to go back to my own valley where my father Kashmir Singh Katoch and my mother Gaytri Devi still kept the door open, waiting for me, or so I believed.

Like I said, way back in 1962, when I was with 4 Dogra, I was just about 22, with all the arrogance and adventure of the youth. I had joined the Regiment when I was 19 years young! We knew a war with the Chinese was round the corner, what with their betrayal of the collective trust of our nation. Soon, the call of duty brought us to Walong. The 4 Dogras joined the 4 Sikhs, 3/3 Gorkhas and 6 Kumaonis as the last sentinel against the advancing Chinese, till then held at bay by an Assam Rifles post.

Between 26 October and 16 November, Walong was theatre of one of the fiercest battles of 1962, with us Dogras, Sikhs, Gorkhas and Kumaonis putting up a heroic resistance to the marauding Chinese brigade. We knew our resources were limited, that we were badly outnumbered, and that we had an overwhelmingly well equipped enemy to confront.

But nothing deterred us from taking the fight to the Chinese and soldier on, shoulder to shoulder, to the bitter end. It was recorded later that the Chinese casualties were almost five times more than ours, despite their numerical strength, coupled with the advantage of the sophisticated weaponry which they had but we lacked. I understand that soon after the war was over, the American magazine, Time, wrote:” At Walong, troops lacked everything but guts”. I, for one, can vouch for the tremendous guts displayed by my friends, the Gorkhas, the Sikhs, the Dogras and the Kumaonis…

As the battle ended on 16 November, Walong became the eternal resting place for many of them who came together from different parts of the country.

I, Sepoy Karam Chand Katoch, was listed as `missing’, along with many others. I now hear from my nephew Jaswant Singh, that the Army had accordingly informed my parents who were naturally devastated. However, since my name didn’t appear in the PoWs’ list, I gather that they kept waiting for me, as any parent would do. The vigil ended for my father in 1985 and for my mother in 1990.

But I had to wait much, much, longer to be back at the land of their sweat and tears. It was on 1^st of July that a Border Roads task Force, while clearing a landslide, stumbled upon two identity discs which got them working. And they found me after four days through my dog tag: keeping me company were my silver ring, my soldier’s pay book, albeit a bit weather-beaten, and my dear old fountain pen.

There were a few other possessions as well: my .303 rifle and 47 rows of ammunition!
And thus started my journey back home, after 48 years…

At the `Hut of Remembrance’ at Walong, the CO of the Sikh Regiment Battalion handed me over to 4 Dogra with full military honors. My Regimental Officers then brought me to my village in Himachal where my nephew Jaswant Singh – and the entire village – was at hand to put me to my final resting. I was indeed glad to see that many senior Army officers and many Ex-Service officers who served with 4 Dogras had turned up to pay their respects to a fallen fellow Dogra. When the flames eventually enveloped me, after all the routine military honors, I knew I had finally come home after two score and eight years…

In distant Lohit, which was my home from the winter of 1962 to the summer of 2010, there is an epitaph for my friends, the heroes of Walong:

The sentinel hills that round us stand,
Bear witness that we loved our land,
Amidst shattered rocks and flaming pines,
We fought and died on the Namti Plains.

O Lohit gently by us glide,
Pale stars above softly shine,
As we sleep here in sun and rain.

My sleep in the sun and the rain at Lohit is over, at last. I am now back, resting forever, in the valley where I was born, one with “the temples of my Gods and the ashes of my forebears”…

My Avian Friends

I am no ornithologist, not even a plebian bird watcher, but it seems birds like me, for whatever reasons. Now, now, please don’t get ideas or arrive at hasty conclusions! I have in mind only the avians, the winged creatures which, much to our chagrin and jealousy, can fly around, soar high in the sky, to their liking, without any qualms. Alas, we humans, homo sapiens variety sapiens, in spite of all brawn about our brains, can never aspire to be as free as a bird, floating as and when they like, to their hearts’ content, visit towns and cities, even countries, like the famed Siberian cranes which land in Chilkha and Bharatpur. They don’t need any passport or visa, customs and immigration clearance, least of all, and most importantly, police verification. They come from afar, but they also go back, thanks to their homing instinct, unlike us who look only for greener pastures – and green cards. And as Biblical wisdom enlightens us, they never sow nor reap, nor measure in metric tons, forget hoarding. All these are chores left to us, mere mortals, bird-brains.

Once upon a time, I was a student of Zoology that gave me some understanding of the lives and times of my avian friends – of birds and bird behavior. But that was decades ago; yes, let me share with you that I am an old bird that is still hovering around. After my graduation, birds ceased to exist for me, at least in theory and in text books. The enchanting greens of Kerala villages were, and are, home to myriad species of birds. You see them everywhere in a million hues and you hear them all the time, day and night, in a hundred different call tunes. Birds were part and parcel of our everyday lives. Such familiarity was taken for granted and, no wonder, the children in us never realized how they touched our lives in their own simple ways.

The birds remained in my village but it was I who migrated to the far away Capital. It was more the case of a migratory man than a migratory bird. I didn’t really miss them, birds, much, because the university campus was a haven for many of them, which I was seeing for the first time. One thing I did notice, however, was that unlike back home, where they were ubiquitous, crows were far and few in Delhi! But, lo and behold, peacocks were everywhere in some of the last remnants of the Aravalli hills. They danced around, pranced about, and raised such cacophony, especially towards sunset. Needless to say, the North Indian species were quite different from the ones we were used to seeing in the verdant landscape off the Arabian Sea coast. Of course, there were pan-Indian ones too. It was then that I realized how lucky we are to have such an abundant variety of birds.

It is to Delhiites’ fortune that there are still many trees around though we have been making a determined effort to pull them down with a vengeance. Besides the trees all along the streets, the Aravalli vegetation and the many parks provide space for a large variety of birds that have made the city their home. Honestly, I do not know the names of many of them, in Hindi or English, but birds are birds, whatever be their names. I live in a fairly wooded area which means I find them aplenty all round, round the year. My brother who visited me sometime back said that he was reminded of Kerala, except, once again, that there weren’t many crows!

The neem tree outside my house that I wrote about a couple of seasons ago is a retreat for many birds – sparrows, mynahs, bulbuls, parrots, hornbills, weaver birds and the like; the owls are back too. With the branches growing fast after the indiscriminate felling which disturbed my son no end sometime ago, the legitimate residents, the birds, have returned, much to our joy: in different sizes, shapes, beaks, feathers and colours, not to forget the crowns that some of them sport! I wake up listening to their morning ragas, enjoy their endless twitter (now, please don’t bring Shashi T. and Sunanda P. into the picture even though birds of their variety flock together), smile at their little fights and savour the sweetness of their bonhomie and camaraderie.

And they know I do…

That is why they enquire from time to time if I am fine. They will come to the windowsill, peep in, look hither and thither, and then make small talk. The friendlier ones will even come inside for a quick hello. Once they confirm that I am ok, they will chatter among themselves and after a time, look at me enquiringly once again, and fly away to more pressing personal work. I am happy; a little bird tells me that they are happy too.

During the day, my friends are busy doing many things far and wide. Only the owls keep watch, wisdom personified, not even a gentle sway of their wings. The occasional territorial disputes that occur in the vicinity do not seem to bother their meditation. It is as if they have already attained nirvana.

The doves and pigeons are fun; of course, they are having fun with much fanfare. I love the way they come to the windows, blink their colorful eyes, and move their neck elegantly the way the danseuse does! But son, despite his professed love for birds and bees, finds them a nuisance inside the house; so, occasionally, I see him engaged in a running battle with them in his efforts to shoo them away. But they know that I, their friend, am around; my windows are open, an opportunity for them…

Come evening, and there is feverish activity. The trees come alive even as the leaves droop. They return from all corners, share their joys and sorrows, feed their offspring, make love and retire for the day. The sun sets, the night falls, but the chatter goes on for some more time. The nocturnal ones, the owls and the bats, are out on their respective missions. But for others, it is time for rest and recuperation.

At times, in the middle of the night, I wake up hearing some of them twittering: may be telling a story to a little one which hasn’t slept yet, or comforting a chick that has woken up with a bad stomach. I snuggle in and go back to sleep, knowing that they will be up and about, come morning.

Outside my office room too, I have my friends waiting for me. A friend, not an avian, when told of this wanted to know in all earnest if I worked in the zoo! I have these large glass sheets for windows, so they come and sit outside, occasionally pecking at the sheets to draw my attention: no, not in large numbers, but a few of them. Again, I don’t know their names. What makes my day is when the peahen walks by, four chicks in row, as if on a march past. For a second, they will stop, look into my eyes, and then move away with a knowing turn of their head, as though they understood I have files to move before I sleep! My colleagues, if they do not see any bird outside, will ask, `where are your friends today, sir?’

But let me tell you, one day, I had a real scare when this big kite, furiously chasing its prey, barged into the glass sheet. One worried moment, I thought, I had it!

The only problem is, I can’t hear the birds from my office room, I can only see them! How I wish I could call after the bird that incessantly cries, and make it cry with more force, as we used to do when we were kids!

Think of birds, and many images come rushing to one’s mind: the flock at sunset in a harvested paddy field; the crane waiting patiently, yet intently, on the stalk of a water lily in the village pond; birds moving in a trail, soaring high against the monsoon clouds; the parrot descending in the backdrop of a rainbow; the sparrows flying beside the moving train as it crosses the Ashtamudi lake; the alert mynah attending to a cow’s nose or ear; the sole eagle taking rounds and rounds up in the sky; flocks of birds doing a Mexican wave; a weaver bird lost in an amaltas (konnappoo for malayalis) tree in full bloom…

And many more…

By the way, I happened to come across India’s most famous ornithologist several times. Dr Salim Ali always reminded me of an aging bird, a distinguished one at that. It is another thing that I was so overawed by this ancient bird that I couldn’t find words to introduce myself to the legend. But I rest content that I have seen Salim Ali, just as I too have made friends with several of his friends of the winged variety…

Graham Bell’s Book

It had been an integral part of my daily life for nearly two decades; and it had slowly but steadily replaced the previous one. When you have something like that with you for such a long time, you get used to it, even come to cherish it. But everything, each one of us included, has a shelf life: so was the case with my telephone book. I would rather say that I stretched it far beyond its ordinary working life – and it was showing. The binding had come off, and pages were loose: `T’ was often found between `J’ and `K’, and `Y’ and `Z’ had more or less disappeared (not that I had many friends whose names started with `Y’ or `Z’)! `N’, `R’, `S’, etc. that were thumbed more often than some others, were the worst victims of wear and tear. So, a few days ago, I decided that I had to shelf it now.

It was thus that last week I purchased a new telephone book. The shop keeper smiled a wry one, as if no one bought telephone books any more. I couldn’t hold it against him, what with so many gadgets flooding the market which helped one store numbers in their hundreds and which had made the telephone diary effectively redundant!

Once the diary came home, it was the turn of son and his mom to drive home the point that no one needed a book like that to store numbers when the mobile would serve the purpose, in a more `user-friendly’ manner! But, let me, confess, when it comes to such things, I am still old fashioned: my weather beaten book would testify to that. Needlessly to say, the diary had travelled with me wherever I travelled to. The near and dear ones – and others too – were just an alphabet, and a number, away, as it were!

Any way, it now became my task to arrange all the numbers in the new acquisition. The clever me took the help of MS Word so that the sorting could be done alphabetically without any difficulty. The problem arose in the first place because of the regular addition of names and numbers in the earlier book which had sort of made a mockery of the alphabetic sequencing. As I started going through `A’ to `Z’, it dawned on me that the old diary was witness to the progress of the communication revolution that we have experienced in the last nearly twenty years, not to forget my own evolution in this material world!

I found that many numbers in my previous book had been revised several times over. I recalled wistfully the trying times in making a trunk call; with the arrival of STD and ISD, trunk calls had become virtually history. STD calls were no different initially in terms of testing your patience, but today almost every one has a phone with an STD connection. The STD codes too had changed in many cases from 6-7 digits to more or less 4 digits in the case of almost all cities and towns, even villages. On the contrary, the local numbers have more digits today: from 4-5 digits of earlier days, we now have graduated to eight, and the mobiles talk in terms of full ten digits.

In between, the government monopoly of telephones ended, and phones started coming with additional services, added features, new looks…

Naturally, the telephone book too has changed in size and shape. The small ones of yore have given way to big and bulky books! In place of just the name and one number, we now have a checklist which includes name, address, residence number, office number, fax number, mobile number and e-mail ID. And more often than not, there are multiple entries on each item. So, one has at least 2 residence numbers, 2 office numbers, 2 mobile numbers and a few e-mail IDs (thankfully, there is only one name per person, unless one has nicknames). An entry for one individual is more like a unique identity card which Nandan Nilekani is trying to work out at a reported cost of several thousand crores of rupees.

As I sat for several days transferring numbers, I realized how things have changed down the years. Between the address book and the mobile, we had the electronic phone book – it still is there – with calculator, conversion rates, etc. as add-ons. The mobile revolution probably put paid to any hopes that the electronic version had and the download generation has since taken to the cell with a vengeance. Whoever says we are not upwardly mobile!

Times too have changed and with time, the inevitable happens. I noticed several names that needn’t be entered in the new book, though I can’t delete the memories attached to them. Additions too are in order, as I recall with the earlier book too. With wife came new numbers and relatives, and in course of time son brought his friends. And they both had their own logic where to fit them in which, without doubt, meddled with my scheme of things. So, Ajita and Anita exchanged places as much as Padmini and Padmaja. Son had his own scheme where Aditya and Suraj were together, as though synonyms could be placed under one alphabet!

And then son and his mom had their own fun, naturally at my expense. Son once wanted to know if I had a friend by name Geyser! His mom added insult to injury, suggesting that my friends had exciting names like Barber, Carpenter, Plumber, Tailor, etc. Thankfully, Butcher’s name wasn’t taken. Well, pray, tell me, if I write Ramesh Kumar, and I want to call the carpenter for some work, how am I expected to remember that the wood pecker went by that name, in the first instance! But then such logic don’t work with some, I say!

As I go through the book, I find that some names don’t even register now: once upon a time, we used to add names of those whom we met in the train or at the bus station! And some names had changed due to marriage and /or divorce of the original allottees!

I am almost finished with my new telephone book. The old one may be withering away but it won’t be discarded or destroyed: it will ever remain a part of my growing up, rather growing old, process, telling me stories of my friends and relatives, colleagues and acquaintances.

I may add names, I may delete names, I may amend names, for various reasons. But some names will not be touched: just as my father’s name will find place in the new diary too, even if he is but a memory…

Edison’s bulb is on the way out, with CFLs forcing their way in. Graham Bell’s original invention may see many more changes in the years ahead, but I believe the telephone book will remain here for ever – at least at my table.

The Eranakulam Fast Passenger

It was time to leave. The all too brief vacation had come to an end all too soon. I brought the suitcase out. As usual, Amma tugged at my shirt sleeve and silently cried, and I hugged her. In between, she asked the question which she asks every time I leave: 'When will you come again?' 'June, positively', I assured her, and came out.

The NH is just 50 metres away. My nephew helped carry the bag to the bus stop. As I took the turn to the road, I instinctively looked back and waved at my mother. I said a silent prayer at the temple opposite ' the one which is an inseparable part of our daily life. It was about 245 pm and the clouds were gathering fast.

Suddenly, we saw the Super Fast Express coming. My nephew put out his hand, but the driver ignored us since we were about ten feet away from the designated bus halt!

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long; the Eranakulam Fast Passenger came soon after. Being a second Saturday of the month, the bus was nearly empty. It was after a very long time that I had boarded a KSRTC bus, that too an FP with the familiar yellow streak through the red.

Before I sat down, I looked once again to see the landmarks of my hometown fast vanishing. The conductor gave me a kind of electronic ticket from an automated vending machine, and not the good old multi-square, colored rectangular tickets of the past. And he told me in a typical brusque style to keep my suitcase right in front near the driver's seat. Fortunately for me, there was a seat vacant.

We had already crossed Edappallykotta in the meanwhile: I thought of the many times I had walked down to the tranquil environs of the Panmana Ashram where Chattampi Swamy (isn't it quite incongruous, I still wonder after all these years, how a Swamy can be a Chattampi at the same time!) attained his Samadhi. It was at this Ashram that my father had taken me for my vidyarambham, and years later I had taken my son for his vidyarambham to the same temple.

Fifteen minutes, and we were at Karunagappally. The conductor went out for his mandatory marking of attendance but he chose to return a good ten minutes later. The statue of Buddha had been removed from the junction, and I remembered my brother telling me that it had since been placed at the Museum in the Krishnapuram Palace. It was this statue which made me realize how Buddhism had rooted itself deep into south Kerala many many centuries ago.

Soon, we crossed Oachira, the temple and the mosque standing side by side. I thought of the Oachira `Panthrandaam Vilakku' which was a much awaited annual feature during the Vrischika maasam and the `padakali' at the Oachira padanilam.

The KPAC junction flashed by: which Malayali wouldn't know the ever green KPAC songs! The board was still out there, though I was not sure how active KPAC was these days.

Came Kayamkulam station: I looked out for the inchi-muttai guy. No, no one was selling the ginger toffee, and I decided to try my luck at Alappuzha. Think of Kayamkulam and the story of the native Robinhood Kochunni rushes to mind.

Haripad was the next port of call. Haripad always make me sing `Uttaraa Swayamvaram, Kathakali Kanuvaan'' where Haripad Ramakrishnan donned the role of Valalan. Having seen him and the `major set' play out `Uttaraa Swayamvaram' in our own temple every year on Sivaraatri, it was but natural for me to remember the song. The place is special for me for another reason; my school head master Warrier Sir who inculcated the reading habit in me belonged to this town. The last I met him a year or so before his death was outside Kayamkulam bus station where he ran the `Warrier's Book Depot'.

The Eranakulam FP was certainly fast by any standards, faster than the days when I was a college going kid eons ago. The driver forced his way forward scattering away men and animals who/which dared cross his path. I was left wondering what speed would the FP's cousins Super Fast and Super Express must be doing on the NH!

The next familiar sight came and left in a jiffy. Even now, I am not sure why Thottappally spillway is called the Thottappally `cheep'; some call it `pozhi'. Once we crossed Thottappally `cheep', it was real fast going.

And then the heavens opened up in real `thulaavarsham' style. Sitting right in front, I could see sheets of water falling, and the wipers had a tough job at hand. But the rains didn't make the FP slow down.