Spectator Speaks....

2011

2012-01-01T20:06:00.000+05:30

How stuff works

2011-09-22T19:26:00.000+05:30

Tips to a rookie reporter by a veteran:

Something good happens + stock market goes up = Easy job

Something bad happens + stock market goes down = Equally easy job

Something good happens + stock market goes down = Difficult, but manageable

Something bad happens + stock market goes up = You are screwed!

Wedding bells, beeps, texts...

2011-08-17T14:59:00.007+05:30

(For new readers: All characters involved are my friends, so no introduction. Check the links for more details)

“6 Missed Calls,” flashed my phone when I came back from the terrace with a bundle of clothes. I picked it up, it rang again, and Tony started scolding: “Where the hell were you?”

He had called up to invite for his wedding. In the Netherlands for an on-site project, he could not go for the traditional, wedding-card way of inviting. Mobile phone came handy. A detailed mail followed, with a map of the marriage venue.

Jayadevan, engaged last month, also plans to dial. Getting married in October, he hasn’t printed the cards yet. “Illeda, I’ll call them up,” he said. “That’s easy. All my friends are on my call list. Moreover, my relatives are spread across north Kerala. Where’s the time to go door-to-door?”

Two years ago, for Aby’s marriage, we had scanned an entire street of stationary stores at Sultanpet, Bangalore to find that right card, a month before his marriage. For Mithun, his parents took care of the card business. Our Bangalore Family was the local organising committee for both the functions.

Even Visy, who is getting married to Dev next week, got the card printed from Kerala. She had it scanned, albeit tilted, and mailed to her list of friends and acquaintances. “But I have to go and personally call many in Bangalore,” she said, a week before the card was printed.

A simple update in Facebook also had good results, but limited to your circle of online friends (For health reasons, my buddies tend to keep their family away from their Facebook profile!). Visy updated her status as ‘Engaged’, a good 20 days after the July 13 function. Comments poured in, from “Congratulations” to “Mutants and more mutants!”

Megha was more prompt in updating about her engagement to Vatsa. All her friends commented and got the date of marriage as reply. Sajin did it even better. He put up an event in Facebook on his marriage, giving complete details, tagging all his friends. So did Prem, for his sister’s marriage.

Call, Facebook or SMS, all of them cared to send e-mails – some with “in-house” graphics, some in plain text – most had scans of the invitation card. Back in Kerala, Sreeraj hasn't even started planning for his marriage in October!

With four friends tying the knot till date and many more to follow, 2011 is the “Wedding Year” in my buddy list. Tony and Visy are leaving for Kerala today, both getting married in Thrissur within a gap of four days. Wish you happy days ahead, guys. And the rest of the gang who are getting married soon (attention Jayadevan, Devina, Megha, Vatsa), you are free to call!

Packing time

2011-05-31T23:20:00.003+05:30

These cups belong to my family in Bangalore – the original family. These were picked up first when we went shopping for our house; one for each. Those were the days when we used to make tea regularly in the morning. After more than three years, the cups would be off the shelf permanently. We are leaving what was our home in Bangalore; what Thomman called “the base camp of our gang”.

Ours was the best-maintained bachelor pad among our friends and acquaintances, and this is certified by our elder relatives who dropped by. A well-run kitchen, cleaner rooms and, last but not least, properly maintained accounts.

Compared to many of our Bangalore friends, we had a comfy setting. We didn’t have much furniture, but definitely had all the gadgets to make our life comfortable – from TV to washing machine. Being a proper two-bedroom apartment, our house was the nest for all our visiting friends.

The past four years was, in many ways, crucial in our life. The best and the common experience was art of surviving outside your hometown. Managing time and money, learning household chores and – oh yes – cooking! When we moved into the house, the first request Aby made was to keep instant noodles and bread-butter combo away. We stuck to it, and learned to cook. Before coming to Bangalore, all I knew was to make omlette and tea. Now I can cook edible stuff.

New Year eves were the best days at our home. Friends from Kerala would visit us, taking the membership up to even 18 at times. Once, five of us had to take a walk because there was no place to sleep. They came back and slept when the early-morning-shift guys got up and left.

We planned everything – from weekend outings to crucial thing like marriages – sitting in our big hall. Aby was the first to have a debate with us before going home and declaring his marriage plans to his parents. His marriage was a major occasion for us.

Mithun’s marriage followed. He straightened up his decade-long knotty affair two weeks back. A week before, Aby celebrated his second wedding anniversary. Tony’s also getting engaged shortly, he left for an on-site project in the Netherlands a day before Mithun’s marriage. Returning, he’ll land in the red carpet that will take him to the aisle. With that, the party comes to an end. Today is our last day in the house. Sheer coincidence – it’s Jeeson’s birthday.

Mithun and Aby joined us for the party. We’ll hand over the keys tomorrow. The shelf is empty now. It’s packing time.

Hum Dono

2011-02-14T23:59:00.005+05:30

I was the only youngster in the theatre, as expected. The rest was a small crowd of elders. The objective was common — to see vintage Dev Anand in colour.

The movie started with a small epilogue from the evergreen star, about the movie and the restoration process. He recited the famous song: “Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya..”, and the small crowd completed it, “har fikr ko dhuwe mein udata chala gaya!”.

The digitalised title card of Navketan Films was frozen on the screen, unlike the shivering one from the traditional projector peppered with black vertical lines, denoted the restoration. The background music during the rest of the titles were that of newly added — that was easy to detect.

Anand (Dev Anand) and Meeta (Sadhana) came on screen. For a good five minutes, they emoted with their eyes and gestures -- no words at all. Then, when Meeta was about to leave, Anand requested her to stay, breaking into a song. Mohammad Rafi’s divine voice flowed: “Abhi na jaao chod kar, ke dil abhi bharaa nahin..”. And I sat there, with my eyes moist.

Hum Dono. Wakai rangeen!

Tweeters

2010-11-29T23:25:00.003+05:30

“Beep beep!” It was her reply.

“Come on, hurry up. It’s already late!” Mom was on the point of losing her cool. He was sending SMSes.

“These roads are pretty bad, aren’t they?” Dad was complaining on the way, as he struggled to drive. He was sending SMSes.

“Welcome! Welcome!” His prospective father-in-law was overjoyed. He was still sending SMSes.

She came, everyone was in smiles.

“Let them talk for some time,” said her uncle.

They left the couple alone.

They stared at each other. There was nothing left to talk.

Goodbye, our Superman!

2010-11-28T23:11:00.004+05:30

The rituals were over this morning. With this ends a story of a self-made man. My uncle. Our Superman!

Right from my childhood, I’ve been hearing tales of his heroism — climbing the super-tall coconut palms during childhood; riding his bicycle with six more persons on it as a teenager; fighting with our grandpa and leaving the house to live on his own; writing and topping exams as child’s play; single-handedly rescuing the local cricket club in Gujarat from a shameful defeat... the list goes on!

He was never the Santa-Claus uncle who showered gifts and sweets whenever he visited us. He was the one to be admired, from a safe distance! After all, he was the one who tamed the wild Bombay Poocha (cat) and tied it up in the corner room, which we called Poocha muri! (The Bombay Poocha story was made up by our granny, to keep me away from my injured mother, who was being nursed in that room. And Bombay Poocha became another tale in the legacy of Mr CS Bhamakrishnan, our Mani Vallyachan).

A rebel by birth, he was second son, as well as the biggest nemesis, of our extra-strict, hyper-tempered, disciplinarian grandpa. He was beaten up countless times. Finally, Vallyachan broke the chain, ran away, went as far as Bombay and then to Gujarat, and built a life of his own, on his own.

He lead a free, but disciplined, lifestyle. As always, he stood bluntly adamant on his stances. Elders sure envied his freedom. Once, after a heated debate with his wife, a younger uncle said, looking and our Vallyachan sleeping peacefully, “Look at this man. Anything bothering him? Nah!”

“You are basically wrong,” once his brother-in-law told him. “Even my father used to say that,” Vallyachan retorted calmly.

He played the status of a rocking bachelor to the hilt. By the gallons he used to drink, he could be classified as the biggest alcoholic of the family. But, in all these years, we have never seen him lose his temper or cool under the influence of liquor. Another feat, possible only by our Superman.

His cousin made him say his life story in one of those ‘spirited’ evenings. As a parting question, she asked: “Mani Anna, do you regret anything when you look back?”
“Never!” came the answer.

I visited his lair last for his retirement party. He had completed a meritorious service spanning close to three decades without joining any employee union. Nobody could pursue him to do so.

I was planning to visit him this April. There were many questions to be asked, may thing to be told. And I woke up last Wednesday, hearing the worst, the unbelievable.

My mind was already troubled, but became numb once I reached Kollam. They brought him home in a coffin. I thought I would stay strong, but broke down as we held him — my arms supported his frozen head.

An atheist to the core, he neither believed nor attended in any of the rituals. We cremated him with complete rituals. But we spared him from one thing — the sandalwood paste on his forehead. It was the mark of a Malayalee Hindu, which he scoffed all his life.

Back in Bangalore, troubled by his memories and the realities here, I was restless. I typed out a mail to him, listing the many things I thought about him, asking all the questions unasked, telling all the things unsaid...

Goodbye, our Superman!

Aakashavaani

2010-10-31T19:18:00.007+05:30

Necessity is the mother of invention, they say. For me, a necessity lead to a discovery. The discovery was that the old radio was still working, but the need was far more than just entertainment.

Chicken pox had put me under a 21-day quarantine. The first day seemed all right — I was at my home, my condition was OK. By evening, the viruses started showing their might. I was feeling the itch and the temperature, ending up with a sleepless night. The next day was the worst.

All alone in my room, I was desperate to speak to somebody, to see TV, to hear songs. The horrendous onset and irritating advance of the disease, and the discomfort of boils on my face and torso had left me desperately wishing for sleep and relief.

Call from friends were my only solace, but solitary confinement made hours in between extra long. It touched the nadir on the second evening. In a fit of rage and desperation, I dragged my ailing physique up the table and started searching the storage cabinets. There I made a prized discovery — an old radio! A boon in the shape of a red Panasonic two-in-one!

I was so excited that I didn’t wait even to dust the unused equipment. Iplugged it, switched it on, and there it beeped — All India Radio a.k.a. Aakashavaani!

All the effort and the excitement had left me exhausted. I set the tun-ing right and went to sleep. Next morning, at 5.50, my cellphone woke me up. I switched on the radio, and heard ‘Vande mataram’ and ‘subhashitam’ from the Thiruvananthapuram AIR station — for the first time in a decade.

Nothing had changed. The signature tune, the background scores for the programmes, even Baldevanand Sagar who read the Sanskrit news! I can say for sure the most common Sanskrit sentences in Kerala are “Samprati vaartaaha shruyantam. Pravaachakaha Baladeva-nanda Sagaraha.” (You are listening to the news. Read by Baldeva-nand Sagar)

Long back, our days started listening to that. Grandma was very par-ticular about that, and she regularly woke me up to switch on the radio for her. Doordarshan was hardly a competition for AIR, but cable television was. TV channels were evolving by the day, but AIR never bothered to change.

Thank God it didn’t, for I wasn’t just hearing the radio. Familiar tunes, familiar voices, even songs! I was reliving those moments, of home food, before we were spoiled by the fast food served in satellite dishes.

Bahujana hitaya, bahujana sukhaya...

It's over, isn't it?

2010-09-30T21:14:00.005+05:30

Finally, the verdict is out. The fine print is yet to be out, and it will take some time for the radicals to interpret. But, the embers won’t be burning, at least till then.

I was in my first standard when the incident happened. Three images — some people over the mosque, Lal Krishna Advani, and ruffians with saffron headbands — are still vivid in my mind. The mosque picture was on the paper on December 7, 1991. The rest was in the India Today issue that came next week.

I always craved for a holiday, but I somehow sensed that the strike on December 7 — anyway a Saturday — was not for good. Back in school on Monday, my classmates were animatedly talking about the incidents, giving out their own versions, with no much idea of the actual event. I asked my class teacher and mentor why they did so, and she replied: “People are out of their mind.”

There were riots, and bomb blasts followed. Talks among elders back home, and their reactions on the event and the incidents that followed, galvanised the fact in my mind that radicals are to be kept away from your company, and radical thoughts away from your mind. I still stick to it.

Years went by, and December 6 went past without any trouble. But the skies were turning dark lately. A compartment was burnt, then Mahatma Gandhi’s land burned. But I considered myself lucky, being I Kerala, the heartland of the Leftist-secularist thoughts. I got a rude awakening recently.

A professor’s hand was hacked for using the name Mohammed. The skies have indeed turned dark. Radicals are everywhere.

History proves that their thirst for evil is never quenched. The verdict turns to be an interim relief. At least until the radicals come up with another reason for bloodshed.

Hey Ram...

Onam, me, and certain thoughts

2010-08-23T12:02:00.004+05:30

It was 1.45 am when Aral took me to the bus stand. The next bus to Chennai was at 2, which didn’t turn up. The next bus was at 4.30 am. A two-and-a-half-hour wait at the deserted bus stand, with biting cold and mosquitoes testing my fever-hit physique. I can endure things worse than this, but can’t afford the prospects of staying back in Bangalore during Onam…

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I longed for Onam like never before after I started living on my own. Lonely life in Chennai had made me terribly homesick, and I looked forward for the day. To make it appear nearer, a dear friend advised me to count just Sundays! There was another reason also — it had been a year since grandma died, and I had to be there to do the rituals. I couldn’t sleep in the train. Then I heard the sweetest voice I heard that year — that of a railway announcer: “Palakkad Junction welcomes you.” I rolled on, to sleep with a smile…

Four Ms and an O — Mammootty, Mohanlal, Mundu, Moustache and Onam — define a Malayalee, say my colleagues. For a person like me who has spent his first 22 years of his life in Malluland, Onam comes integrated within. It was a part of my life, always.

As a child, anticipation for the festivities would begin in August. Independence Day was a precursor. Then, like the big hurdle before the finishing point, would come the first quarter series of examinations — what we would call Onam exams.

The relief of the exams getting over makes the 10-day Onam holiday sweeter. Each Onam left me with a bounty of bittersweet memories — dressing up to play the leopard and the hunter; toy guns with rolls of fire rounds we call ‘pottaz’; a set of imported sketch pens; an envelope full of stamps; my childhood sweetheart; lonely nights at my grandma’s place; her death; my first homecoming after I moved out… And there was grandpa ready to put the mandatory swing on the big mango tree.

He left us last December. As per matriarchal tradition, my family should abstain from festivities for a year. I still don’t know what got into my head — maybe the growing up part had robbed the fervor for the festivity — but I decided that I won’t go home this time.

Life has taken us, the ‘kids’ of the family, to various places. We were too busy to bother about pleasures of the yore.

It didn’t take long to realise that I was wrong. I was turning restless. Then, my aunt called — an invitation to spend the eve of Onam at her place, in Vellore, six hours away from Bangalore. She was in no position to take a leave for Onam on Monday. My cousin in Chennai too was coming down. So I took the early-morning trip, braving the fever and the cold.

We had a good Onam feast. Onam songs playing from the computer and the special programmes in Malayalam channels did provide an ambience. Then, a call came from Malluland.

“We’re off to the temple. It’s only the two of us here,” said my cousin sister.

I should have been there, but here I am, miles away from what Onam means to me — my village, my home, my dear and near. I painfully realise that I am still a nostalgic, emotional fool. I still crave for my Onam.

Commonwealth or Conman's wealth?

2010-08-06T22:26:00.006+05:30

What would you do when your interests are at stake? You will desperately appeal to all those involved, so that you don’t lose anything. The picture is such an appeal, written by some crafty public relations executive and signed by Subrata Roy of the Sahara group, set to come out in papers of tomorrow, August 7.

“All our countrymen are feeling, talking, reacting so negatively to-wards the forthcoming Commonwealth Games at such time when they should be participating in, contributing to and celebrating it as the Grand Festival of India.”

I think either Mr Subrata Roy hasn’t properly read the draft, or he is out of his mind. Loot in the name of sports has been going on for quite some time; and we have superstars like IPL’s Modi; but this is something different.

Those involved in the commonwealth games were looting our money, which includes the four-digit tax I paid last week. India, half of whose population is struggling to meet even their daily ends, spending astronomical sums on such events is itself a crime — yes, I stick to the word. And it’s official that the government has diverted funds meant for the development of the backward classes towards this sham game.

“I am asking in all humility and cordiality whether for the wrongs of maybe a hundred people should the hopes & aspirations of 1.2 billion people be crushed,” goes the advertisement. Whose aspirations? Of the soldier in Siachen, who is fighting the biting cold and death in chilling terrain? Of the farmer in Kerala, who is crying over his flooded lands because our government had no funds to build stormwater canals? Or of the urban youth, who are hooked to their cellphones and gadgets, blissfully unaware of what is happening in the rest of the country?

The advertisement agrees that the media is doing its job, but goes on to say that the “media has already overdone it, causing a very big damage and maligning the image of the country”. My foot! When somebody starts looting your home when there is a function going on, what would you do Mr Subrata Roy? Stop the burglar or enjoy the function? Don’t you feel ashamed to put the blame on the media while the fact is that the ‘babu’s behind the scam are the ones who were “maligning the image of the country”?

We all know that public memory is short. And it is really sorry to see our nation’s image getting a dent, but I sincerely believe that this is the perfect time to bring up the issue. You strike the iron when it is hot. Once the games are over, media will stray to other hot topics, and this too will be sidelined — like Satyam’s Raju displaced by Lalit Modi; and Modi himself by Kalmadi.

As for the proper conduct of the event, those who are really interested in the development of sports and games will relentlessly work towards it, and they will have the support of the citizens. But sponsors are there not for the victory of sports, but for their share in the accounts and newspapers.

“The immediate need is to create an exceedingly positive environment for the present organizers,” goes on the release. I am sorry to say, but my biased mind understood it as “shut up and let the games continue, so that organisers like us can get what we want”. Let the loot go on!

Fight or flight

2010-07-21T22:07:00.002+05:30

Here is a story about a complex situation of feeling desperation, pain and anxiety together. Ever been in such a scene? My friend did. Yesterday, mid-air!

She was on her flight to Delhi, when a co-passenger war transforming from indecent to bully to groper to sociopath. It started slowly as encroaching her seating space. Then gradually he made the two seats next to her as his personal reclining space. Then his hands began to have certain ‘innocuous’ movements.

Panicked, she stood up and asked the not-so-gentle man to behave properly. He did not. She pushed the ‘panic button’ and air-hostesses came running. Seeing their short skirts, our bully turned even aggressive. He started manhandling them; even tore the shirt of one; and turned to my hapless friend.

His arms were at her throat, when — here enter the villains of the story — she begged for help to a duo sitting in front of her. One was as old as her father and the other of her elder brother’s age. She pleaded in Malayalam, English and Hindi, but the too-gentle men did not move a finger.

Then my friend decided to take the matter in her own hands — literally. With all the power she had, she punched the sociopath on his face. That was more than enough to push him out of the way. She moved out of the place, and demanded to see the captain of the flight. Then she saw another girl, sobbing.

The girl was apparently our bully’s first victim. She silently suffered. Then the groper confidently turned to my friend, but she was definitely not willing to be a prey.

The entire cabin crew came there and warned the guy that they have the power to take the flight back and dump him at the boarding point. They asked the passengers if they have any objection. Only two passengers had problem — you guessed it right — the oldie-youth duo!

She moved to the executive class, but the bully followed her there too. Then the cabin crew intervened, dragged him back and made sure that he will not create any more trouble.

The flight landed safely, but my friend was far from safe. Our bully had turned vindictive now, and started following her. She hid in a cloth store. By that time, the flight operator had him booked.

Now please check these characters.

1. My friend: She valued her esteem and modesty, and decided to speak and act for her. A lesson for all females and a threat for all the unmentionables in the garb of males. I feel proud to be her friend.

2. The sociopath: Hidden among most men, the sex-starved bullies come out when a woman is conveniently close. The ones in costly attire start with lecherous talk, the crude ones believe in action. Products of improper guidance, deserve asylums.

3. The sobbing girl: Specimen of the silently-suffering femininity. Such behaviour often provides the undesirable confidence to the sex-starved bullies to continue their filthy ways.

4. The oldie-laddie duo: They qualify to be the real villains of the story. The greatest deterrent for any bully from misbehaving is the chance of good thrashing from real men. It’s bad enough that these two didn’t care to help a helpless girl, but they were also against diverting the flight to the starting point. They were not only cowardly, but selfish also. A shame for the clan of true men.

Now that you have read the post, please take the pain of typing down your observation on the aforementioned four characters. Now, for all those male chauvinists who would instantly conclude the woman in the picture ‘would have wore provocative clothes’, my friend was in a full-sleeve kurta, pyjama and had a shawl. Now don’t ask her to be tucked up from tip to toe, please.

Akshaya Tritiya, Ads and the stupid YOU

2010-05-15T19:10:00.002+05:30

Finally, the season for the biggest farce of the year is here — Akshaya Tritiya. Grab hold of at least 10 persons who turned immensely wealthy because of the so-called lucky occasion, and I bet all 10 would be gold traders. They became rich because they did not buy gold, but they sold it. That is the power of advertisement.

Nobody knew the ‘auspicious’ occasion before 2000. Some wise guy dug up a hidden link of good luck, linked it with gold, and presto! All jewellers were lapping up the bogus. Their greatest weapon — advertisement.

"The process starts with the manufacturer or his agent coming to me with their product for a catchy advertisement. I then look at the product, assess the stupidity of the viewer on a mental scale, and create an ad with a measure more," said Joy (name changed), owner of a major advertising firm. "I make the ads, so know I should keep away from the products that I don’t need."

Going by the ethics, media should refuse to take ads that mislead the public. The saddest point is that it will not happen. Newspapers and channels survive on advertisement money, and they will neglect anything to retain it.

As an intern in a Bangalore newspaper in April 2005, I had filed a report based on a personal survey on Akshaya Tritiya, busting its tall claims of super-luck. The bureau chief of the newspaper took the copy, and it vanished into thin air. "Sorry son, but the editor did not clear it," was the explanation I got from him. The reason was apparent — it was the ad season.

To know how silly advertisements can be, just check any of the ‘male deodorant’ ads. Sadly, most of the men fall for the impossible claim of attracting all women with just a whiff of some chemicals. Yes, there were some painful realisations, LIKE THIS. Even though this is a genuine case of tricking the consumers, the press or the channels will not report this, for they will lose the crumbs fed by the multinational company in the form of ads.

Think. Did that fairness cream make you fair enough? Was that gold pendant lucky enough? Did the fruit drink energise you enough? Did you finally get to see the Bollywood beauty/hunk? NO. But you still buy those products. Advertisements are powerful enough to fool you because you allow them to do so.

Kerala Cafe's home!

2010-02-28T21:29:00.008+05:30

Finally, I got the Kerala Cafe DVD yesterday. Every week during my elongated stay back home, I never missed a chance to peek into the local video store. Fresh titles, mostly 6-7-month-old films, were al-ready having their video releases, not Kerala Cafe.

I was hooked by the movie the day I saw that. Malayalam movies are usually late releases in Bangalore. So the first feed on any film would be the online reviews and my movie-buff journalist friend back in Pathanamthitta. All were going gung-ho over the movie. We finally saw it in a multiplex, a month after its release back home.

I wished my non-Malayalee friends could enjoy it, and badly wanted the DVD to have good subtitles. I messaged Shankar Ramakrishnan, one of the 10 directors in the project, enquiring about the subtitles. He said the festival version of the movie was subtitled and asked if it’s good. I hadn’t seen it, but I assured him I would at the very first chance.

A month passed, I was in Kerala. My cousins and relatives who missed the film were keenly awaiting the video release. My regular visits to the video stores didn’t yield any result. After 50 days, I came back to Bangalore, into the routine of bylines and deadlines. Before starting the shift that Saturday, I took a walk to a video store in Brigade Road. I was just browsing through the Malayalam titles as always, and there it was: both in DVD and VCD!

Back home by 1am, I hit the buttons of our DVD player. Sleep could wait. Sadly, the subtitles inserted by the DVD-makers were a bit disappointing. Maybe because of the beautiful impression cast by the movie on me, but I seriously think even I would have done a better job.

However, even the average subtitles couldn’t let me stop enjoying the movie. A good work. I love it.

Fifty days of solitude

2010-02-21T17:22:00.005+05:30

I was packing my stuff yesterday, when Sandip called. After a 50-day forced vacation, I was going back to my three-year-old routine. “Hmm, so your 50 days of solitude is over, eh,” he asked. “Aliya,” I said. “You just gave me the perfect headline for a long-pending desire to write something on my stay.”

Except for my cousin’s marriage and the associated short trips, everything was pretty much the same: liquid diet, TV and visitors. And the toughest part was the third. When they come to see me, my mother promptly inform them that I am not in a position to either speak properly or eat any solid food. Even then, they wouldn’t avoid the mandatory question, “How did this happen?” Everybody wants to know from my mouth, which I couldn’t open at all. I would try to mutter something, accompanied by my gestures, and they would promptly reply in sign language to keep quiet! Funny, they ask me to speak, and when I start, they gesture to stop instead of saying!

Brushing my teeth was another problem. I could manage to clean the outer portion of my teeth. For the inside, I had to use a mouthwash that tasted horrible. Food, strictly liquid, was once in two hours: mostly milk, juice or rice porridge.

Speaking problem had limited my movements outside home. After four long weeks, my parents allowed me two days out. It was my cousin's marriage. There also, I had to go frequently to get my cup of juice. Of course, all my relatives there came and asked about my condition. My parents and the doctor wanted me to be quiet, but I ended up describing my fall to every other person. The worst part was when they finished the feast and asked me "Did you have lunch?" and the quick "Oh, sorry!"

Meanwhile, I also managed to find a few hours to brush up my driving skills. Yes, it was tough convincing my parents, especially my father, who wouldn’t give even his bicycle to me. They were also worried over the deaths and mishaps that continued to occur in our social circle. After a few days, came the Utsavam.

For the past seven years, my Utsavam started with a slow walk with my ailing grandfather to the temple ground, where he would happily see all the festivities. I would escort him back home and roam around till midnight, till ‘Aaraattu’. This time, I did not feel like even stepping out of my house. I lay lazily that evening, flipping the channels. By nine, I had a change of mind. I loaded my camera and went out. I could not miss the ‘Aaraattu’. But my closed mouth kept away the most important part of the festival from me: sugarcane!

All these days, I had a wish to go and see the famous lighthouse in Kollam, but could not. Something or the other used to come up everyday to alter my plan. But I finally managed to go there, on the eve of my departure. A bird’s-eye view of my town, the sea and the new port was simply superb.

My grandfather was my granny’s only company during daytime. Indu would be at the college and my parents would be at their respective workplaces. After his death, I was there, bound to my house due to the injury. Not anymore. I was leaving, after 50 days with her. I was feeling kind of uneasy. Then, Sreeraj came. We had a chat, and he suddenly came up with the idea of a last-minute game of business, the Indian version of Monopoly. We were re-living our school days, and it lifted my mood greatly. I could happily board the bus.

There was still fog when the bus stopped at Madiwala this morning. But Tony warned me that the days are hot, hotter than even the ever-sweating Chennai. Took some time to tidy up my cabin and settle down. Here I am, in my office, still waiting for that proper bite. Back to boring Bangalore days, back to my boring routine. One thing is for sure. Unless there is an emergency, I’ll have to wait much longer for my next trip back home.

A (girl) student's suicide: Live

2010-01-10T16:47:00.006+05:30

The news was more than enough to make a dreary evening lively. Channels were hotly telecasting the shocking news that plus-two student Shweta Krishnan has committed suicide, or she was about to...

With a fervour you feel when you get a prize catch, the star newsreader of our times adjusted his spectacles and made his usual high-pitch talk on the matter. "The incident happened just a few minutes ago. Shweta Krishnan, student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, bunked her classes to go to a movie with two others. In the evening, when she returned to get her books, her class-teacher caught her red-handed and scolded her in a VERY VERY (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used) harsh manner," he continued with dramatic pauses.

"She was sent to the hostel after that. Now the question is did she commit suicide or not. We are restraining ourselves form giving out the name of this school at First Cross, Ragaramapura, Vishwa Samaj Road, Karol Bagh, Delhi -110005, because we value privacy and uphold journalistic ethics higher than other news channels. Our associate to the deputy assistant chief news editor Charkha Butt is on line with more details and exclusive visuals of... er.. a possible suicide," he continued.

"Charkha.... Charkha, what are the latest updates? Is the student dead? Has she committed suicide?"

"Yes, Aplomb. I'm here, right at the gate of the girl's hostel. They have RESTRICTED (capital letters to emphasise the tone that she used) us from entering the compound. The gate is still closed, but we can see the gathering of girls at the respective balconies of the respective floors. They seem to be waving at me... (chuckles, but changes tone suddenly) but actually they are crying for media help. According to the very few text messages from some of the girls inside who have mobile phones, Shweta had bolted the door of her room. As of now, her death is not confirmed, Aplomb."

"OK Charkha, let's leave the matter of her death for a moment. What was the subject she bunked? Was she scoring low in that subject? Was there a potential harassment from the particular teacher? Which theater did she go to after bunking the class? Which was the film? Who all were there with her?"

"(uff!) Aplomb, four hours is too long for any subject, so I don't think that matter is relevant. As for the theaters, sources are giving different names. Anyway, our cameramen are there in all these theatres to catch girl students in uniform, so that we don't miss any other potential suicides. Most of our sources are sticking to English films."

"(English, eh?) OK Charkha... These two persons who were with Shweta... were they men? Were they seated together? Our viewers are anxious to know more details about it!"

"One was a man and the other was a lady, both clad in jeans and T-shirt... that's what our sources say. They left the from the school in a car. After the school, they went to a restaurant and had food. No more details are available now, Aplomb."

"Thank you, Charkha. Our correspondent Manjith Mental is on the phone. He's inside the hostel now with more details. Let me remind our viewers that we are restraining ourselves form giving out the name of this school at First Cross, Ragaramapura, Vishwa Samaj Road, Karol Bagh, Delhi -110005, because we value privacy and uphold journalistic ethics higher than other news channels. Now, Manjith is with us..."

Screen changes, Shweta beams on the left side, Manjith on the right.

"Manjith, what are the updates on her death... er.. attempt to suicide? Manjith? Manjith.... Manjith (you) Mental... Looks liker there is a technical difficulty."

"Keepp.. beep.. bopp..blurrrrrrrrrrrlrl.. Aplomb."

"Manjith.. Manjith, did you manage to get inside the girls hostel?"

"Yes Aplomb, I'm inside. Shweta's room is still closed. Hostel warden and other students are standing outside."

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room flashed on the screen alternatively.

"OK Manjith. Who is this warden? How old is she? How does she look like?"

"APLOMB (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used), she's a lady of close to forty years... Mrs Bakshi... good-looking modern lady. Girls call her aunty."

"Ok, what does aunty say about Shweta's attempt to suicide?

"As of now, I could not talk to her, Aplomb. She's talking over two cellphones at the same time now. Girls are beating at the door of the room shrieking Shweta, Shweta, Shwe.."

"Thank you Manjith. Now tell us whether this girl Shweta had any affair. Now we can safely assume that she went to the movie with a boy, and they were roaming around the city for quite some time before they went to a rest.. er... hotel. Did they take a room in that hotel? How long did they spend there? What was the room number? Which hotel?"

"Aplomb, there is a possibility of an affair, Shweta being a plus-two student. But no details are available right now, I'll get back to you as soon as I get any information."

"Thank you Manjith. We'll take a short break, but don't go away dear viewers. We'll be right back with more details and exclusive visuals of the suicide... issue of seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city. Stay tuned."

Three ads: A car screeched in one, Aplomb screeched in the other two.

Ads over. "Welcome back to the details of the most sensational suicide issue of our times, which has the entire country at her toes," Aplomb started in a higher pitch, but halted. Screen was flashing 'TIMELY IMPACT' (capital letters because they actually used that).

"In a fresh development, youth wing of a major opposition party staged a protest march in front of the hostel demanding the resignation of the Union Education Minister, claiming that the education ministry was responsible for the increasing number of suicides of girl students in the country. They, they, they... the reports say the march turned violent. The protesters destroyed the gates of both the school and the hostel, and the youth wing of the ruling party came to counter them. Police did a lathi-charge. Twenty persons, mostly onlookers, are admitted in various hospitals." Aplomb was really charged up.

"Now, in the very first reaction on this issue from the officials, EXCLUSIVE on our channel, the Chief Minister has revealed EXCLUSIVELY on our channel that she will declare a judicial enquiry on the issue. She has exclusively informed us that the Union Education Minister will visit the school and the hostel as part of a preliminary enquiry," Aplomb finished in one breath, proudly. (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used)

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room kept coming on screen every 3-4 minutes.

"Charkha Butt is with us with more details on Shweta's death. Tell us Charkha... Charkha?"

"Yes, Aplomb."

"Charkha, what is happening there? Did seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, finally commit suicide?"

"Aplomb, we still haven't got any conformation of her death. The room is still closed."

"Now, there is absolutely no chance of opening the door if Shweta has actually committed suicide. Ok Charkha. Depending on the situation there, can you elaborate on the possible methods of a suicide? Is there a chance of writing a suicide note?"

"Aplomb, there is no chance of jumping down from the building of the ladies hostel, because Shweta has locked the room from inside. There is no chance for poisoning also, because the move was a result of a sudden impulse caused by the terrible rebuke allegedly made by her teacher..."

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room kept coming on screen every 3-4 minutes, now with a blood-stained knife on the background. Music matches that of a horror movie.

"OK Charkha. So, that leaves the possibility of a hanging or, or, or cutting her veins using a blade...."

"But think of it, Aplomb. If that suicide really happens, won't the class-teacher be blamed? Isn't it time for these disciplinarians to mind their words? Will they realise how much a student is hurt when they abuses them verbally?" Charkha was fuming."Why are these so-called moralists against teenage love..."

"Excuse us Charkha, Manjith is on the phone with exclusive details."

Beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students. Blood stains thicker, background music louder.

"Tell us, Manjith. Who was Shweta's lover? How many hours did they spend in the hotel room?"

"Aplomb, the Principal of the school is with us..."

"Yes, Manjith. Dear viewers, the Principal of the school is with us, EXCLUSIVELY on this channel (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used). Tell us Manjith. Is it confirmed that seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, was out with her boyfriend? Dear viewers, our conclusion that the teacher's abuse as resulted in this situation is slowly turning right."

"Aplomb, what the Principal says is..." Line cut.

"Manjith... Manjith Mental...."

"Aplomb." Manjith on the phone, voice noticeably toned down. "The Principal says Shweta's brother and sister were the ones who took her. They had come from Mumbai and had the permission of the principal. They went out for a shopping, movie and had food in a restaurant. The class-teacher had scolded her without knowing all these."

"Thank you Manjith. Charkha is with us with more details from the hostel. Tell us, Charkha. Did seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, commit suicide?"

"Aplomb, Shweta was just taking her bath in the bathroom after latching the door from inside. She has come out now, and she's moving to the dining hall with her roommates."

"Thank you Charkha. Dear viewers, we could not include any other news till now. We'll get back to you with more news in the next bulletin at 10. Stay tuned."

(English adaptation of the short story "Oru Plus-Two Vidyarthiniyude Aatmahatya" by Ashwati Shashikumar, published in Kalakaumudi weekly, dated November 8, 2009. Found the story interesting. Under house-arrest, I had all the time to do the work)

Happy New Year

2010-01-02T13:33:00.006+05:30

Where were you on the last days of 2009? Holidaying? At home? Office? I was experiencing my first stay in a hospital, and my maiden venture to an operation theatre! All because of a simple accident. Bike? Car? Nah, just a bicycle!

As always, I was waiting for February to come. For the past three years, my visits to home was either in a February or a September. But grandpa passed away unexpectedly. After a tiring journey, I was in Kollam on the day before Christmas, to see the frozen remains of the man who took care of my childhood. All the relatives were there, and the bosses were kind enough to grant me leave. I was supposed to be back in Bangalore after six days, but had a fall on the last day of my stay.

Early morning on the sixth day, the date of my return trip, we were heading towards the cremation ground to collect ashes for the post-burial rituals. Hartal had limited our entourage to five two-wheelers, all occupied, which left me with a bicycle. I was speeding, there was a bump on the road, the cycle skidded, I was hurled forward. That split-second wasn't enough for me to bring my arms forward. I landed on my chin.

"Keee..." blew a low whistle inside my ears. I managed to get up, but couldn't hear anything. Somebody came running towards me, caught hold of my shaking physique and made me sit on a concrete slab. By then, it was complete blackout. After a minute, I started hearing voices. Eyesight slowly returned. Maman was there, he gave me some water. My body was still trembling. I could sense something wrong with my lower jaw. The bite was just not right. Relatives took me to the hospital. There, an x-ray report confirmed my fears - a broken lower jaw!

Till then, I was praying that there shouldn't be any fracture. Now, the only thing that I didn't want was a surgery. Thankfully, the doc gave an alternative - metal braces for six weeks. OK, cool, I thought. They'll stick hinges on my teeth, tie it up, and silence! I got a rude awakening that evening, inside the operation theatre. They were going to sew the braces to my gums, and I realised it only after they injected anesthesia on my gums.

By the time they finished the embroidery work with metal wires on my upper gum, the drug's effect on the lower gum ran dry. They poked the needle, I screamed, and they injected the drug again...

After three days in the hospital and loads of injections (as I couldn't eat the pills), I landed back home. The picture is clear now. For the next six weeks, no eating, no speaking. Just drinking and, of course, typing!

Sangeetha Theatre

2009-12-11T22:45:00.002+05:30

It was drizzling when we hurriedly entered the premises of Manoranjan Theatre. A moment ago, we were racing the maddening traffic. Inside, the atmosphere was totally different from any Bangalore theatre, but very familiar.

It was not like any of the single-screens in Bangalore. The big compound, stone-tiled walls, the silence, the long range of hard chairs inside the small hall and the glass slides projecting local advertisements were vastly different, but strikingly familiar. I felt I was inside Sangeetha Theatre.

There were three movie theatres in our village. Sangeetha was the closest to my home; hardly ten-minutes by foot. My early movie memories are bonded with Sangeetha; a perfect specimen of old-world talkies. Tatched roof, bamboo walls and a large white cloth tied up in the end of the hall.

The earliest movies I can recall is Balachandra Menon’s Njangalude Kochu Doctor and Adoor’s renowned film Mathilukal. A screeching table bell announced the start of the show. Screenings usually started with ad slides and then a Film’s Division documentary.

Going to films then was a family outing. The entire assembly would definitely count more than ten. Even as a child, I never slept during the second shows. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and peanuts was the trademark. I liked it more than the AC perfume of Capithan’s, Sangeetha’s biggest competition in the locality.

Going to the town for a movie was more of an annual privilege, which came mostly during the summer vacations. It would be either my father, who came once in two years, or one of my uncles who took us to the movies.

Folks back home cleverly waited for a superhit movie to come in either of the local theatres, so that they can avoid the pain of taking the platoon all the way up to the town. Going to the movie hall with friends was strictly forbidden. (I had to wait till my plus-two classes to get a sanction.)

College was anarchy, total waywardness. Frequent strikes, frequent flow of money and all the time in the world left me a regular theatre guy. Even then, I had to be careful, because I always had a chance of bumping into an acquaintance. News would reach home in no time, as the town was very small, my family was big, and all the elders maintained their contacts well.

But that didn’t deter me from enjoying my new-found freedom. Grand, Prince, Pranavam, Archana, Aradhana, Dhanya, all became my current Sangeethas.
On such a day in 2002, blessed with college strike, I went to Kumar, the oldest A-class theatre in the town. The owners had painstakingly maintained the old appearance of the theatre. I suddenly remembered that the last time I stepped in was during the summer vacation of 1996, with my parents.

It took a toll on my studies. I mellowed down during the second year, and was a pucca decent boy during the third year. By then, the newfound fascination of moviegoing had faded a bit.

By then, Sangeetha was shut down due to losses. Cable TV and video piracy had made the run-down theatre an unattractive option for the families nearby. The commemoration shields of hit films in the 80’s, which decorated its office, were sold off as scrap. The theatre was pulled down. By then, my graduation classes were also over and I moved out of Kollam in 2005.

The very first day of our journalism classes in Kottayam, we made a plan to go for a second show. New Sangeethas were waiting for me in the town. But the strict schedule had forced us to be choosy on films. My Chennaiwala classmate, an ardent movie buff, never missed any of the Tamil films, even flops, that came to town. I used to tease him, but ended up in the same situation within a few months.

June 2006, Chennai. First job. First attempt to live outside Kerala. Terribly homesick, I used to look out for Malayalam releases. Sangam Cinemas was my Sangeetha there. They used to screen Malayalam movies regularly. I was alone most of the time, as my roomie-cum-colleague had stopped going to theatres long back. Even then, I used to locate company whenever possible.

Next June, I moved to Bangalore. Here, I found Sangeeth, which regularly screened Malayalam movies. But it was like any other city theatre — bang in the middle of the crowd. And, by chance, we found ourselves in Manoranjan.

The big compound, stone-tiled walls, the silence, the long range of hard chairs inside the small hall and the glass slides projecting local advertisements were vastly different from the regular screens, but strikingly familiar. After long, I was reliving the old days. I was inside Sangeetha Theatre.

Remember, remember, 26th of November

2009-11-25T23:35:00.005+05:30

It’s been a year, and I still remember every single detail as if it was yesterday. November 26, 2008, was the day I realised the thrill of being in a newsroom.

My journalism teacher once said: "Bad news is good news for us." Inhuman, you would say. But that is a fact. The otherwise sloppy office of the business paper for which I work turned literally abuzz with real updates of copies during the evening of that fateful Wednesday, and the three days that followed. All spoke of only the death toll of soldiers, terrorists and civilians.

The first visual I saw was the TV grab showing the shooting at Leopold Cafe. Then, news agency tickers began to stream in. 10 dead, VT station attacked; 20 dead, Oberoi under siege; 30 dead, attackers enter Taj... My paper, which always winds up before midnight, was active till 3 in the morning.

The report was re-written umpteen times before finalising the death toll at 70. Picture of the terrorist who was shooting at VT station was ditched because we had no confirmation about it. Next day, almost all newspapers had that face, which became later the face of terrorism: Kasab.

We went to sleep thinking that the operation would be over by next morning. It didn’t happen. India stood still for the next three days.

Fierce incidents have happened before in our country, but this was the biggest that had happened after visual media was infested by private players. Print and internet were far behind in competition. Journalists, including me, was literally celebrating the event, while general public, including my family, was mourning; praying.

Sad, but true. November 26, 2008, was the day I realised the thrill of being in a newsroom.

Goodbye, dear writer...

2009-06-28T18:32:00.002+05:30

Ambazhathil Karunakaran Lohithadas

Born: May 10, 1955
Died: June 28, 2009

Bloopers in print

2009-05-18T23:16:00.003+05:30

Scene 1
Place: Room No. 42, Airlines Hotel, Bangalore
Characters: R, U, M, K and me
Time: 12.30 am
(three on the bed, M on a chair. U is leaning on the wall, R reclining, K and me sitting cross-legged. Scene opens in the discussion)

U: (lights a cigarette) Mistakes happen everywhere yaar. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

R: (sits up on the bed, smiling) Listen, jab mein Express mein tha, tab I was put on sports pages once. Two days I did fine. On the third day, there was this shooting match in Hyderabad. There was this guy Rathore, there was Narang... and Narang scored a second. I made the page, and was stuck with the headline. I typed ‘Rathore roars, Narang loses.’ White space phir bhi baaki tha, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints.’ Even then there was white space, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints again’ and increased the font size. The next day, my news editor called up. (changes the tone, says animatedly)
"Ram, Narang had scored yesterday. And you say disappoints?"
"No sir!"
"He had won national and international tournaments before, and you say disappoints again?!!"
"No sir!!"
"Will you do this? Again?"
"No sir!!!"
(whole group laughs)

U: (smiling) Ek baar na maine ek photo pe gapla kiya tha. In DC. Ram Reddy had bought 5 two-seater jets. So we published this photo of a firang and Reddy standing in front of an aircraft. Maine page kiya, showed it to the seniors, and send it for printing. I was in an auto on my way back ke Olga ne phone kiya, "arre, you’ve put the caption wrong. Ram Reddy is the right wala guy, but you’ve put it left!" Man! I asked the autowala "turn kar turn kar" and rushed to the office.

R: Tu ne K ka Sania story sunaa hai? (turning to K, smiling) Bol na.

K: Bataa, tu bataa.

R: There was this one-day match in Hyderabad, theek hai? And our K went to cover it. Now, there were sports reporters to cover the match, toh he had to pick the side-stories. Toh he decided to go for the celebrities who came to the match. Nagarjuna tha, Venkatesh tha, yeh tha, woh tha.. (a small pause) Sania Mirza thi. Copy file kiya, print nikla. The very next day, there was another statement from Sania Mirza, from Delhi! She was playing a match there!

K: What happened is that I saw a spectacled girl in the VIP section, who looked like Sania. I checked with a Telugu newspaper guy and he confirmed it: "Ya, ya, Sania was there." Phir maine socha ki will check the photos in the office and confirm. I was back in the office and was busy with some another stuff."

U: (interfering )And it went unnoticed.

K: Nahi, everybody knew it. They knew it. But nobody made it an issue. They were short of staff, so they didn’t want me out. Koi aur hota toh he would’ve been screwed.

Me: Even I also had made such a thing. When I had joined DC as a trainee. What they made me to do was international pages. (looking at U) You know how that is, right? (U nodds). Delhi se aata hai, you just have to change the masthead from AA to DC and the placeline. The page came, I changed it, showed it to seniors and sent it to print. Next day was my off. I came the day after, they showed me the page. Top story, eight-column banner headline "Iraq prepares for attack." It was supposed to be Israel, not Iraq!
(laugh)

Me: And a week after, a new girl came for a test and interview. After the test, she came, sat near my desk and picked up the very same paper from the pile. "Iraq prepares for attack? Can’t be. This is a mistake," she told me. "Ya, there is a sub here. Stupid. It’s his handiwork."
(laugh)

M: There are bigger goof-ups in these stringer copies. Once, when I was in Kochi, I got this copy of an elephant creating ruckus. The story went like this "The elephant went into fields, did this.. that.." and last sentence was like this: "...and the elephant went back to sleep!"
(gathering is roaring with laughter)

Me: Two weeks ago even I edited something like this. It was about somebody committing suicide over the LTTE issue. The line was "the deceased person was arrested earlier for committing suicide on the same issue!"

R: (giggling): Really?

U: See (lights a cigarette) I told you na. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

Clichéd

2009-05-13T23:37:00.006+05:30

His story is bloody clichéd.

He loves her, she loves somebody else. But that guy loves some other girl and they broke up recently because their parents intervened. The couple is still in the trauma, which bothers the girl and the end result is that our guy is left broken hearted...

Confused? Even I am!

I bet this is the umpteenth time you're hearing this kind of love story. Persons change, the subject goes on and on and on, but is never beaten to death...

(That's why all Karan Johar movies look alike!)

Back to inch 14

2009-05-06T19:03:00.006+05:30

Finally, the last piece, the 29-inch TV, was packed this morning. We had an instant replacement: our 14-inch grainy, tiny Khind. But there was a huge gap in the TV cabinet. And after six-month-long big-screen TV watching, our tiny Khind seemed even tinier. Size does matter.

Interestingly, both the TVs were bought by Aby. Khind was our solitary source of entertainment when we moved into our present home. We were happy with the grainy pictures within the 14-inch frame. Then Aby and Mithun went for a mega electronics shopping. With marriage due, Aby chose a good offer of a TV-DVD player-home theatre system combo for 15K. And that changed everything.

The tiny Khind was dumped next to the newspaper stack, and we never bothered to dust it even once. Music, movies, even TV programmes were booming in good-quality sound. Then Aby’s marriage was confirmed. DVD player and home theatre system was packed on Tuesday. We saw programmes big-screen for one last time on Wednesday morning.

We always knew that the set would go to Aby’s new home, but actually seeing Khind taking over the TV cabinet was a little hard to digest. Looked like a squirrel in a bulldog’s kennel. Why do I feel like turning philosophical?

Empty rack

2009-05-04T22:34:00.006+05:30

There are six racks in our TV-stand cabinet, three each on each side. The topmost one on the left was emptied the day before. Seeing it empty, I felt uneasy. It was Aby’s rack.

Departures from our original family is nothing new to us. Vinod, a.k.a Thomman, left first. After passing some months in a call centre, he got a job in Baroda, and was later transferred to Mumbai. Then Raku left for Doha, to be under the shelter of his family.

But then, we never felt the void. Lal and Jeeson replaced the first two vacancies. And there lies the problem. Replacement may come for Aby, but our home would never be the same. (And with him, leaves our big-screen TV-home theatre system-DVD player trio, our present source of entertainment!)

Me, Mithun and Aby met at MASCOM, when we had absolutely not idea of what’s waiting for us in the future. He moved to Madurai, Mithun to Kochi and me to Chennai. The only thing that he knew then was that his girlfriend would be his wife, come what may.

Then, by coincidence, our career lead us to the same organisation. Mithun landed in Bangalore first, he next, followed by me. And we moved to this house. What makes him different is his uncanny ability to irritate. No matter how calm and composed you are, you are sure to blow your fuse, once he starts enjoying irritating you. That had a major role in making our den ever-lively.

He’ll lose his 'bachelority' this weekend. Another phase in his life, we are part of his run to make that phase easy, or rather less tough. Seeing this, the only thing that comes to our mind is the unknown pack of cards waiting for us. And like photographer said once, the cards choose us.

Summer showers

2009-05-02T18:42:00.006+05:30

Mid-summer showers...

Branches bowing with the weight of mangoes...

A hand playfully moving between the serial drops...

Droplets streaming down the eyebrows, cheeks...

All these are pulling my mind miles away...

Marriage: A reality check

2009-04-17T17:27:00.004+05:30

What’s the first thing you should secure after your marriage is fixed? I’d say a ready source of fund above Rs 80,000. That’s the minimum amount you have to pay in advance for a rented house. This is not for the lucky few who’s well settled in their hometowns with a properly arranged marriage and attached ‘gifts’ from in-laws. This is for guys like us who make a living far away from their hometown. And if yours is a love marriage, the situation turns tougher.

We are facing such a situation. Aby’s getting married this May to his sweetheart for six years. She has secured a job as a teacher in Bangalore. For the last few days, the mission was to find a decent house that’s big enough and affordable.

Priorities were many. It has to be sufficiently close to the girl’s workplace, monthly rent has to be below Rs 7,000, it has to be big enough to accommodate the frequenting relatives and the area should be safe and decent.

It seemed houseowners in Bangalore still have no clue about how big the recession is. They were ready to give the usual concession for families, nothing more than that. A one bedroom-house-kitchen still commanded rates as high as Rs 15,000 even in the not-so-posh areas. And sub-5,000 places were shabby like hell.

But he managed to find a decent den, big enough and affordable. And the landlady was ready to cut the advance amount also. He’s finally setting up his home this May.
After all the mad rush, he heaved and said: “Better go for a properly arranged set-up, and make sure that the girl gets good salary!”

Aby was always sure that she would be his life partner. Luckily, the risks associated with love marriage were mitigated in their case. With no plans like that, my cards look blank. Whatever the likes of Karan Johar and Yash Chopra say, ‘shaadi’ is still a matter of money as long as you care how you live.

You must vote

2009-04-16T20:32:00.002+05:30

To vote or not. My blogger friend was in a dilemma. I seriously don’t think that’s a dilemma at all. Even if you are totally in dark of the smallest political news in circulation, you should go and vote, unless all the candidates share an equally shady history.

I believe you are not eligible to crib about the state of the nation unless you exercise your franchise. Sadly, I missed my chance this time. With the weekend exams going on and the office running on skeletal staff, taking a two-day off to go and cast your vote was a strict no-no.

Elections had always fascinated me. In childhood, the colourful campaigns and posters generated interest. Later, it was the political equations and personal leanings. The old-fashioned bullock-cart-and-drums appeal were still there during my kindergarten days. I still remember S Krishnakumar waving from his car that went past our house after being elected as Kollam MP for the third time in 1991. He was in Congress then.

My first chance to vote came in the Lok Sabha elections of 2004. CPI(M)’s P Rajendran got my vote. I stood faithful to my family’s Left leaning. And PR was truly worthy for my vote.

Next chance came in the Assembly elections 2006. I cast my vote and came home, only to face my Chittappan and his wife disappointed. Staunch Left supporters, both were not in the voters’ list.

Had I been home now, this would have been my third vote. Hope I won’t miss it next time.

Texting thoughts, taxing thoughts

2009-04-15T23:49:00.005+05:30

Festivals and greetings. Inseparable. Every special occasion brings a bevy of e-greetings and SMSes. This Vishu, I was a bit worried. Every greeting message was testing the memory limits of my 1100. What’s the big deal, delete old stuff, you’d say. There lies the problem. I love treasuring messages.

I got my phone as my father’s gift, close to Vishu three years ago. I was packing to go Bangalore for my internship. As I was leaving home on my own for the first time, my concerned parents deemed mobilephone as an unavoidable accessory to keep in touch and to boost my job-hunting.

Greetings for that year’s Vishu flowed in as my number went around the circle of family and friends. Handling a cellphone for the first time, I never bothered to delete any message. By the time I finished my three-week internship, my inbox was full. Then I decided to retain only greetings.

Three years and innumerable messages later, my mobilephone has been flashing ‘No space for new messages’ text increasingly these days. For the past one year, I had retained enough capacity for just one more fairly large message. And when the inflow goes past the limit, I start editing.

Usual ‘hi-hello’ and ad messages were deleted on the spot. Then there were some messages with no names. The senders had changed their numbers and I had deleted the old contact details, making the messages unrecognisable and easy prey for my deleting exercise.

Now, that chance is also becoming slim, but incoming messages are not. This Vishu, I had no choice but to cut ‘repeat texts’ sent by more than one contacts. Time to change the phone? Nah! My model was the simplest and the most user-friendly model available. This model has the habit of making its owners fall in love with it. I remember a colleague grieving online about replacing her 1100. Other than the limited memory for contacts and SMSes, my phone was as good as new. Sturdy and simple, it has braved many big falls from my hand.

It currently has 72 SMSes in its inbox, an insignificantly small number when compared to the high-end phones available at cheaper rates. The oldest one came three years back from Mathew during my internship days, warning about the ruckus in Bangalore after the death of Rajkumar.

That was two days before Vishu. Will I be still treasuring my 1101 next Vishu? Let’s see.

Vishu

2009-04-14T17:07:00.008+05:30

I woke up, sprang up from my bed and stared at the phone. It was 4 am. Phew, I made it! I was not late. I had to prepare Vishukkani.

This is my fourth Vishu in a row when I miss home. Vishu was one of the many pleasures robbed by career from many youngsters of my generation. Though not as big as Onam, Vishu had the added attraction that it came during the summer vacation.

I used to voluntarily wake up early during the vacation days then. But on the Vishu day, ammoomma would beat us all, however hard you try. There was a good reason: she had to prepare the Vishukkani. The very first sight of the auspicious Vishukkani, the silver coins from elders, the early morning bath and the walk to temple and then to my ancestral house, and the fun we shared with our cousins...

By the time we are back, we would’ve collected a huge (by the standards of a school kid) amount. There would be enormous plans about how to use it, but all the collection would promptly end in amma’s purse. This routine went on for many years. The only break I had was in 1997, when I was in Gujarat, at my uncle’s place.

Then came the Vishu of 2002. Awaiting the plus-two results, I spent the Vishu eve at my ancestral home. My aunt, who was taking care of my grandmother, was out of station. I was put in charge of the house, her son and that year’s Vishukkani. I was turning 18 that June, I was experiencing the transition from a teenager to an adult.
Then the three years in college, and by the Vishu of 2005, I had decided to take up journalism.

I was out of home on my own during my internship in 2006. My first Vishu without a Vishukkani. By the next Vishu, I was a sub-editor in a Chennai daily. I never thought twice before catching the bus to Vellore on that Vishu eve. My aunt had moved to Vellore. They were in their new home. I reached there around 5 in the morning, and the very first sight I saw inside the house was a beautifully arranged Vishukkani.

I moved to Bangalore after two months. Then came last year’s Vishu. That time, I was hell-bent on setting up a Vishukkani. I managed it somehow, with Raku’s (remember?) chain in place of gold and a candle substituting the mandatory lamp. But I missed the most important component: the bunch of kanikkonna flower.

I played the granny, waking up each one, leading them with their eyes covered, and making sure that what they saw first that day was the Vishukkani. It wasn’t a total surprise; Raku knew it. Guys were very happy, and I was happy seeing them happy.

This year, I decided to keep every hint of Vishukkani under wraps. Mithun and Aby were out, with me left alone for precious three hours before lunch. As soon as they were out, I tiptoed to our regular vegetable stall, and there awaited my bonus of the year: A bunch of kanikkonna flowers.

I was planning to set up everything after everyone was asleep, and I dozed off. But I managed to set it up well before the first one was awake. Lal was about to spring up from the bed; it was time for him to reach the call centre. I covered his eyes just in time, and he became the first one to see the Vishukkani.

I was happy that our gang was feeling at home, but the phone calls from Kerala and the TV shows were more than enough to make me feel homesick. I know it’s pointless being nostalgic. But I still wonder where will my next Vishu be.

Hampi

2009-03-29T23:35:00.003+05:30

I was shaken awake by Mithun.
“Da, get up. We are past Bellary.”
I got down from the berth. Tony and Aby was awake, sitting at the lower birth.
“Want tea?” Aby asked.
Just then the boy walked in with the flask. Four steaming plastic cups were handed over.
“This tea tastes special,” commented Tony.
“Kaafee,” bleated the teenager as he took up the flask to move.
We stared for a split-second, and began laughing.

We were on our trip to Hampi, the ancient city, capital of the Vijayanagara empire. It’s been almost two years since the six of us landed in Bangalore. We planned for an outing many times. Something or the other came up to spoil the plan each time. But this time, we were hell-bent. And we had a very good reason: Aby was getting married. The quorum won’t be complete after that. And we boarded the Hampi Express from Bangalore on Ugadi eve.

The place was noting short of a ghost city. Ransacked temples, empty streets of ancient times, broken sculptures scattered all the way, monuments on both sides of the road, minutes after Hospet town till Hampi bus stop.

The huge empty sanctum sanctorum of the Vishnu temple on the way, the huge platform called ‘Mahanavami Dibba,’ the mosque and the octagonal tower in between the ruins, boating down the Tungabhadra river to reach the rocks across, and the majestic Vittala temple... It was like taking a walk through history.

Hampi: One unforgettable journey after a long time...

Gulaal

2009-03-11T23:20:00.002+05:30

I was on phone when Mithun called me. “Work calls,” said my mind. I walked in, saw the colour-splattered faces of my colleagues and realised that I was the next target! Bang, came Mr A and Ms S with a load of ‘gulaal,’ and I was left like a technicolour hoarding, like an aghori saadhu. The only difference was that aghoris smear vermilion, and I was all in colours.

Holi for me was a totally alien festival. Back in Kerala, you never see anybody celebrating Holi other than the small community of north-Indian families. For 22 years, Holi was what we saw in Hindi films and news snippets.

Last year, my first in Bangalore, I was on my way to meet a friend on the Holi day. I managed to reach the place without getting drenched. We were meeting for the first time, though acquainted through long online chats and many phone calls. That was the first time I saw public celebrating Holi. That was very small in scale when compared with the heavy-dose celebration up North.

This morning also, I was a little scared of the colours down the street. The day passed without any surprise. Maybe that was kept for the evening. I was surprised, irritated and finally, very happy.I would’ve been angry had it been the water-splashing vandalism that I feared. But this was me, my friends in office, and colours just enough to make us happy, not dirty. Another day to cherish, and such days come rarely these days... Happy Holi.

Latest letter

2009-02-23T02:12:00.007+05:30

It was a pleasant surprise. During my five-day trip to home, I had least expected to find out that notepad, lost years ago, and it surfaced from nowhere. Inside it was some small scribbling and, surprisingly, his address. A long-lost friend, I had recently wished if I could trace out his address.

I lost no time in getting an envelope out of my collection and sitting, but took some time and corrections to actually complete a letter – written to a friend after four long years.

I still remember the very first line I wrote in a letter. It was ‘enikku oru football vedichu tharanam’ (buy me a football), written as the last line in an envelope. My maaman (maternal uncle) was writing his monthly letter for my kochachan (paternal uncle). Close friends, they used to write letters to each other regularly. And in one of them, went my first line. I was hardly seven then.

Then it became the last page of the airmail my mother bought. Achan was very particular that his son should write to him, at least twice a month. He never broke the chain, but I did, often. At that time, telephone wasn’t commonplace in our area. We used to wait for the once-in-a-month ISD call made by my dad, at our neighbour’s place.

We got our phone in 1996. The flow of letters continued for three-four years more, and then it dwindled to scribbling in the greeting cards. Picking up the phone and dialing was far more convenient than buying, writing and posting and envelope. Telegraph suddenly turned an ancient method to convey emergency messages.
Writing to friends continued till I took up the job in 2006.

Then, a few weeks ago, I felt like writing a letter to my dad. Envelope was ready inside my folders, so writing was no problem at all. After four days, he called up, asking “What’s this man? Where’s your phone?”

I have completed yet another letter, and I’ve asked him to reply. I plan to give my cell phone number only in my reply to his letter. He’ll be surprised, that’s for sure. It’s been eight years since we had our written correspondence. Life, after so many twists, has made me a journalist.

How will he be? Will he be still there at the old address? No clue. Anyway, I am posting it. Hope the letter reaches him. Hope he writes back.

Recession is in the paper!

2009-01-26T23:56:00.002+05:30

Firing, lay-off, termination... For us, journalists, all these were terms related to the IT sector. Slowdown was directly hitting them. We, at the most, had expected a reduction in the number of pages and full-page advertisements. Pages were cut, advertisements continued. And we had a party.

Our veteran boss was retiring after his decades-long stint with our company. The top-brass of the company descended from Mumbai and Delhi to our office. Speeches, drinks and food... and the very next day, news of sacking.

Marketing, which they call ‘response,’ team was reduced by 10, advertisements by 8... rumours, unconfirmed numbers flew like hell. And finally, a casualty from the editorial: Our friend, a capable, talented young man. And performance was clearly not the yardstick, for there were underperformers who were favoured by their immediate bosses.

This is what happens when a media organisation has other interests. When a unit is hit, you compensate it by trimming the ‘lesser important’ ones. Recession is really turning big, at least that’s what my bosses say.

'Slumdog Millionaire' hurts

2009-01-25T23:38:00.002+05:30

I am desperately searching for a person who can point out one single positive character in the hyped-in-unheard-degree movie ‘Slumdog Millionaire.’

I just loved the way the story is executed, effectively portraying the struggle of an underdog to claim his love though a TV show, fame being the bonus point. The basic thread of the story is really unique. A boy, in search of his lady love, ends up in a live quiz show. And he knew all the answers because of many disturbing events he had to go through. But somehow I felt that in the process of turning Vikas Swarup’s ‘Q&A’ into ‘Slumdog..,’ the scriptwriters have just painted an entire nation bad.

Children are either small-time crooks or made to beg. Growing up, the boys end up becoming bigger crooks or call-centre workers and the girls turn either prostitutes or concubines.

India is portrayed as a nation were a child would jump into a pool of excreta to escape a closed lavatory, just to see his matinee idol in close range. Well-dressed elders are either crooks or are heavily selfish upper-middle-class snobs. Foreign tourists are tricked to the maximum by cunning teenagers.

Finally, the quiz master, an underdog-turned-topdog himself, so vile that he can’t stand a kid winning the money and the laurels. He tries to deceive him. And when that doesn’t work out, he hands the teenager to police. About the characterisation of Mumbai police, the lesser said the better.

Agreed that there are heavy shades of grey everywhere, and that stares at your face in a huge city like Mumbai. But that doesn’t mean that you can portray an entire nation bad.

And finally, the Rahman score. It’s fate that ‘Roja’ or ‘Dil Se’ wasn’t born in Hollywood. The 'Slumdog..' music in the media because SOME ‘gora saahibs’ found the tunes hummable. For us, it’s not even the shadow of the genius.

I admired the way the storyline went, but what was shown as the entire country was really just a part of it’s dark alleys. What a pity!

Yeh hai Mumbai meri jaan

2008-11-28T00:58:00.003+05:30

Out of all bonds

2008-11-10T12:09:00.009+05:30

It was the very first James Bond movie that I saw in theatre; in the entire series of 22 films. All others were through video cassettes or satellite channels. And I have a DVD of the first Daniel Craig outing, Casino Royale. Unlike the first 21 films, there was just Bond, and his brawn.

Every Bond movie till Die Another Day more or less followed a predictable line: Suave and sexy Bond armed with gadgets and hi-tech car supplied by 'Q'; a mission; an anti-US, all-powerful villain; beautiful girls on each side; steamy scenes; final conflict climaxing in the demolition of the villain and his empire. The producers stuck to this formula from the days of Sean Connery. On-screen Bonds changed five times, from Sean Connery to Pierce Brosnan, but the formula never faced transition. Casino Royale was one hell of a transformation. And Quantum of Solace, though not as sleek as its predecessor, carries the new look.

A direct sequel to Casino Royale, the film shows Bond taking things personal. He wants to avenge the death of his girlfriend in the prequel. No out-of-the-world gadgets, no supercar. The villain is no terrorist or USSR/North Korean stooge, but an ambitious chairman of a multinational corporation. His object of desire: Water and the millions he aims from selling it from an undiscovered riverbed!

Bond doesn't walk away in style, exercising his licence to kill. He is made answerable to the murders he makes. The villain looks like any regular Hollywood extra, effectively symbolising the vices men have, even with their ordinary looks. And the most important thing: The British secret agent never ever uses the iconic catchphrase "The name's Bond. James Bond." That was the very last dialogue in Casino Royale. In Quantum, the famous bond theme music also comes at the ending, just like in Casino Royale.

Out of all bonds of stylebook, this Bond is down to earth. This Bond is believable.

Height of crisis!!

2008-11-09T18:52:00.000+05:30

Why do they take drugs?

2008-02-27T00:13:00.005+05:30

me: Busy now?

10:28 PM

Berny : hey..!! no... what about u?

me: Work over

Berny : What’s this ‘lost one?’

me: One died

10:29 PM

Berny : who??

me: Not an intimate

But of our age

Berny : hmm who’s that?

me: Mithun's friend

He was weeping all evening

Berny : how??

10:30 PM

me: Found his body in the bathroom

Berny : god...

me: they say drug abuse

Berny : ohhh

today??

me: this afternoon

10:31 PM

Berny : hmm

Mithun came to office today?

me: Ya

Berny : so sad...

me: someone called him up

he called me, we went out,

Berny : OK

10:32 PM

me: he wept, called our boss and he left

Berny : so he came to know after he came to the office

me: ya

I saw this guy once

Berny : hmm...

really sad

me: Our age

They say he's the only child

10:33 PM

Berny : god...

me: His parents will come tomorrow, I think

Berny : he is in Bangalore, right?

malayali??

me: Ya, he is

10:36 PM

Berny : OK

me: staying here with his friends

Berny : what was he was doing ??

me: Was working, I think

Berny : OK

me: I don't know, Berny

Feeling a bit uneasy

what do they get from dope?

Berny : that's OK man....

it happens...

me: He had called up Mithun a week before

He had told him he stopped everything

then

all of a sudden

10:38 PM

Berny : after some days ...it goes from our mind....

but the real loss is for his parents..

me: don't know how his roommates will face them

10:39 PM

Berny : all that we can do is to pray for them to have the courage to face...

hmm.. I know...

haven’t they informed about his habits to his parents??

10:40 PM

me: I don’t think so

Berny : OK...

me: Uneasiness increases thinking about his parents

their hopes...

all gone

Berny : you shouldn't get upset...

give courage to Mithun ...

10:41 PM

me: WHY DO THEY DO THIS?

Berny : hmm.. it happens....

don’t keep on thinking about it...

just pray... that's what you can do right now...

(Was planning to write something to relieve my frustrated mind. Then she came online. Read the chat after she went offline, and suddenly it seemed a better was to convey the feeling. Even the slightest dose is a key to hell. Life is too precious to play with. Stay away.)

Bloggers Beware!

2008-01-25T00:16:00.003+05:30

When was the last time your fingers ached to type out a blog post with no-holds-barred criticism? Did you feel an urge to lace your post with abusive language because the incident shook you up so badly, you almost lost your temper? Whatever be the issue, make sure you have sufficient backing of data for your view, be it a technical report or even media clippings, or else your post might invitate a legal notice.

As a medium of unbridled expression of ideas and criticism, blogs were heralded as the ultimate venue to express individual and group ideas. The seemingly independent comments are not that free — blog posts are subject to libel.

Blogs came to the limelight as it helped readers express their comments. Often, comments on the incidents were from the person directly involved or those who witnessed a procedure. Unlike traditional media, the comments were not edited and got feedback from the readers directly. When a blogger, often biased or with lack of right information, publicly offends the interests of a person or firm by churning out posts, he becomes susceptible to defamation charges. Abusive language adds fire to the fury.

Wikipedia has an entire section to list defamation cases against bloggers. "Several cases against bloggers have been brought before the national courts concerning issues of defamation. The courts have returned with mixed verdicts," the page states. According to Blog Herald, there are 1.2 million registered bloggers in India. A study posted in WATBlog.com says 14% of the registered bloggers actively update their blogs with regular posts. Of the 21.4 million net users in India, a staggering 85% (about 18 million people) regularly check blogs, says data compiled by online research solutions consultancy JuxtConsult. Though lesser in number in the global scenario, India has instances where bloggers had to face legal notice for defamatory posts.

Recently, there were reports on an IBM employee Gaurav Sabnis resigning his job, allegedly for a blog post questioning the validity of MBAs offered by IIPM, who was a major user of IBM laptops. The incident had created a flutter among bloggers then, leading to online debates. Reportedly, one of the protesters Varna Sriraman also had to face a warning from the B-school.

Defamation is a baseless statement that is harmful to one’s reputation, and published due to negligence or malice. Libel is a written defamation. A publication to one other than the person defamed or a baseless argument concerning the complainant tending to harm his/her reputation must be there to establish a defamation charge.

There are no specific clauses in our law for blogs, but the Information Technology Act-2000 (ITA-2000) recognises electronic documents as equivalent to written ones for the purpose of law. The Indian Evidence Act has also been suitably amended by the ITA-2000 to provide for presentation of evidence of electronic documents or as certified print-outs. Blog posts, being electronic documents regularly posted by the owner of the blog, comes under this ambit.

Cylawcom.org, which lists the legal issues in blogging, says that whether the material published is inappropriate is a matter of interpretation and it has to be seen in the context of the persons who are likely to access the page.

"If the blog is accessible publicly, then we can say that any person including a minor, who is more likely to be depraved or corrupted, may visit the blog and view the same," the website says. "If the blog is accessible only for a group, such as sociologists or criminologists who are studying the impact of Internet on the society, then there is a possibility to argue that the post is for academic discussion among persons who are unlikely to be corrupted."

Truth is a major defence to defamation claims, but truth may be difficult and expensive to prove in the case of bloggers.

Comments in the opinion section of websites or those made in chat rooms might be exempted as opinions. But blogs lack that alibi. Here also, the context matters. You cannot say, "It is my opinion that they made the software after stealing my idea."
Pseudonyms do not help avoid defamation charges, as there are ways to trace the origin of the posts. In the case of Gaurav Sabnis, the complainants were successful in tracking his details although he had hidden his identity.

Another blogger Pradyuman Maheshwari had to shut down his blog Mediaah! after a legal notice, for open criticism against The Times Of India. The complainant was miffed over posts in his blog that criticised the top brass of the firm and its activities, without evidence. This instance also had its share of online discussions, and was featured in many websites advocating freedom for journalism and expression of ideas.

"In a blog, the owner takes on the responsibilities of both the writer and the publisher. To the extent he allows readers to add comments on his blog space, he is like an ‘editor’ of a publication." says Na Vijayashankar, a Bangalore-based e-business consultant and cyber law expert. "He is therefore responsible for defamation both for his own writings and the comments published in his blog space."

The debate on whether bloggers should keep their posts clean of criticism has evoked both moderate and extremist views. Though all agree that a ban on expression is completely undesirable, a majority still advocate for unbridled language. Tim O’Reilly, internet pioneer widely credited with coining the term Web 2.0, had recently come up with a bloggers’ code of conduct, only to face an avalanche of protest from bloggers.

"Many people have written to say that they have no compunctions about deleting unpleasant comments. But I believe that there is a strong undercurrent on the internet that says that anything goes, and any restriction on speech is unacceptable. A lot of people feel intimidated by those who attack them as against free speech if they try to limit unpleasantness," says Tim O’Reilly in his website radar.oreilly.com. "It’s ridiculous to accept on a blog or in a forum speech that would be seen as hooliganism or delinquency if practised in a public space," he adds.

"I don’t think that a universal or national code of conduct is practical. It’s tough to police blogs," says Amit Agarwal, author of Digital Inspirations blog, and wildely regarded in the internet as India’s first professional blogger. "Posts written by an Indian commenting on an incident in Japan in a blog hosted in the US is tough to be nailed under a law. At most, the affected person can demand an apology from the writer, if traced, or ask the service provider to block the blog," he says. "We all agree that speaking ill of others is bad, but framing a strict code of conduct is like tying the hands of the blogger," he adds.

Mr Vijayashankar disagrees with the view. "Freedom of speech does not guarantee freedom to defame anybody. The remedy for this should be to educate the bloggers and make them more responsible."

The blog-ban put by the government after the recent bomb blasts in Mumbai highlights the need of a regulatory framework, ideally an association of bloggers. Though the ban was criticised by many, the purpose of checking hate messages and rumours also had many takers.

"Neither a blanket censor nor laissez-faire blogging is desirable. The regulation should ideally be through a ‘self regulatory process,’ where blog owners decide to follow a certain ethics," says Mr Vijayashankar.

The solution lies in the hands of a blogger who bothers to think before he types. Though comments are free, facts are always sacred for every media, even blogs.

Adieu Benazir

2007-12-27T23:56:00.000+05:30

She was the second woman politician I recognised, the first one being Indira Gandhi. She had just become the Pakistani Prime Minister, in 1988. The pages of India Today familiarised her face to me. As a four-year-old boy then, she was the one among the three faces I could recollect. (The other two were Phoolan Devi and Madhuri Dixit!)

What made me remember was her surname. It appeared pretty for me then. As the calendars changed, the name became more familiar.

The next big thing about her was the large black & white photo in Mathrubhoomi. It was her second term as the Prime Minister. I was in third standard then.

By the time I joined my high school classes, I had garnered considerable knowledge on this lady. Her foreign education, how her father was killed, the number of her supporters in a male-dominated Muslim country... all were more-than-interesting facts.

But then, she also acquired another status in my mind: Corrupt.

It was 1999, Nawaz Sharif was in power. Corruption cases against her featured regularly in the international pages of local dailies. The Vajpayee-Sharif peace movement had increased my esteem for the Pakistani premier. Benazir and her husband had fled Pakistan to avoid prosecution. Soon, Musharraf came and stole the headlines. I had left high school by then.

She was almost pushed into the corners of my memory.

She gained back the prime slot, only after seven long years. I was no more a student, but a man on his own. She was trying to forge an alliance with the deported Sharif to combat the General. Opportunistic politician, my mind muttered.

However, that plan never took off. Then she chose the General as her ally.
After eight years of exile life, she dared to return to Pakistan last October, only to be welcomed by the blood of her 139 supporters.

Still, she couldn’t regain the charisma she once had in my mind. And today, a sudden panic in the news desk gave away the news.

She was assassinated!

I went up to see the television, it showed her death as breaking news. I was walking back when I saw a computer screen with the Reuters update saying that she was hurt badly, not dead.

In my computer, a Bloomberg copy updated 25 minutes ago was showing that she had escaped unhurt.

That ignited a hope in my mind: What if she escaped?

But she had indeed gone. Another memory. Adieu Benazir.

Job: Through different eyes

2007-12-24T23:44:00.001+05:30

Brigadier (remember?) got his first job last week. And Thomman filed his second resignation the week before. He will join his new firm next month. Everyone in our ‘Editors-n-Engineers’ house, except Brigu, is now one-resignation old. Even Raku, who has completed only five months in the city, has filed a resignation. He is on his second job now.

Just 18 months into profession, and this is my second job. For Thomman, it’s third.
Last May, I had made a trip to Gujarat to attend my vallyachan’s (uncle, paternal, elder) 60th birthday. It was also his retirement day. A central government employee, he had spent his entire career in Western Railways. A career spanning almost four decades! He ate, drank and slept as per the railway timetable.

And there was a great gathering in his house. His friends in the railways, and a good number of north-settled Malayalee families; all of them who left home to make a life, just like the several thousand youth of their time, and mine.

He had left home during the 60’s. At his youth, he had achieved what every person of his age craved for: A respectable government job. His was all the more great because he was a Central government employee, and he earned it on his own. Other than my father and my younger aunt, all members of the clan were government employees.

By the time I was in the kindergarten, they were all employed. I still remember the day Unni maman (uncle, maternal, younger) got his first salary. Everyone back home was happy. Being a clerk in a state government department, the day he counted that few thousands was his happiest in many years.

Revolutionary ideals harboured in his head during the restless 70’s and 80’s. But now, he had achieved what scores of middle-class Indians crave for: A government job. A job in a public-sector bank commanded the next grade of respect.

Business, in our small locality, meant shops. Those who made big were the cashew exporter families. You have to born big to make it big. Rare exceptions were the NRI elite, the ones among the hundreds of ‘gulfees’ who made the extra buck with that stroke of luck pushed by the right deeds at the right time.

Persian Gulf, even after the Iraq attack on Kuwait, was a tempting job hub. Conversion offered a never-before-seen advantage. Saving a dinner worth 10 dirhams or 5 dinars and sending it home as Rs 120 was the routine of the blue-collar Malayalees there. Manage to get a white-collar job, and your finance is secured! My father had joined the fray in mid-80’s, even Unni maman took a long leave and left for Dubai.

But government jobs still commanded the highest grade of social respect and financial security. Even the privatisation boom in the 90’s could not harm its reputation much.

Then came the Y2K, followed by the IT boom. IT jobs came had an attractive wrapper of swanky offices, hefty pay packages and a reputation that was far more attractive for the cable-TV-fed net-savvy generation in comparison with the seemingly mundane government job. Demand for engineering courses multiplied by the minute, so did the number of self-financing engineering colleges.

The personality, pace and pay of work underwent drastic changes. Stipulated work hours gave way to ‘leave-when-you-finish-the-project’ schedule. Permanence gave way to contracts. HR guys became trained authorities specialising in veiled lies. All this had a deep impact in the human resource policies of the private corporate sector.

I got my first job in June 2006. By next May, I was planning to quit. It was then that I took the train to attend vallyachan’s birthday-cum-retirement party. Two of his counterparts were also retiring. The send-off party held at the railway conference hall near Mumbai Central Railway station was a gathering of many who were virtually wedded to the department, and maybe the post they held.

Why do I feel that they are the last of their kind?

Bachelors in Bangaluru

2007-10-29T23:44:00.000+05:30

“Hello?” An elderly voice growled.
“Hello, we saw your advertisement regarding a house for rent.”
“Yes?” The voice replied.
“See, we are a group of bachelors..”
-Kdap- The receiver was banged down on the cradle.
“Aliya, avan phone vechu” (He cut the phone)

For the last three weeks, we — six bachelor Malayalees — had a uniform routine: Get up, take the bike and head to cover different corners of Bangalore. Mission: Locate a fabulous house at a cheaper rent. Phone calls seldom worked, as most of the numbers in the ads for houses were either not answered or went to a broker. Well, we never had any problem with the brokers in Bangalore, but they demanded a month’s rent as commission for getting us a house, which we did not want to pay. So, after enough browsing through the net and ad mags, we decided to hit the road.

It all started with one not-so-fine evening, when the kith and kin of our landlord marched into our house. Construction was going on at the terrace. They were building three storeys above the two-storey structure, flouting almost all the corporation laws regarding the construction of a residential building. We thought it was a regular inspection, but they were actually counting heads. We roommates were eight at that time, but they “expected” only Mithun, my classmate and colleague, and “one or two of his friends” at the house.

Eight! Their eyes gleamed. The son-in-law of our landlord, who was the self-proclaimed caretaker of the property, demanded to hike our rent from Rs 6500 to Rs 10,000.

When the house was rented to Mithun, it was told that his brother and family would be coming to Bangalore soon and occupy the house. But that never happened. It was a simple lie to reduce the rent. It’s a well-known fact that bachelors are pariah to landlords nationwide, but Bangalore had an exception. With the IT boom resulting in heavy purses of indulgent youngsters, bachelor techies migrated to Bangalore were a sure high-payers for the local house owners. Apparently, the heavily-paid youngsters never bothered to bargain. So they expected the same from any youngster. And the press card, which came handy especially when night-patrolling policemen stopped us for verification and bribes, never helped here.

With the construction above our present den at full swing, the condition of the house was deteriorating. We tried to bargain, with the promise of cutting the number of occupants to five, but they wanted money, and they were adamant. So we chose to quit. But it was not that easy

We were pretty pampered by our stay in Thavarekere, not because of our house (in fact the place sucks!!) But due to the convenience of having Malayalee restaurants nearby, stop for buses from Kerala at Madiwala, easy connectivity to Majestic bus stand as well as MG road and, last but not least, Forum mall. So we had to find a place where we had most of these conveniences. The first source? Ad mags. The very next day, they were there on our bed, and we began frantically marking desirable ads. Then came the big problem: Bachelors? Pay high!

Houses that had Rs 8,000 rent in the ad suddenly zoomed to 10,000-plus level as soon as we said that we’re a group of six bachelors. Some flatly refused to allow bachelors. We were ready to pay even 10,000, but the “norm” is that you have to pay 10 months rent as advance. So 10K rent means Rs 100,000 as advance! Now that was definitely beyond our means. Four of us were working, and we couldn’t go back to Kerala and ask that big an amount from our parents. The focus of our search became the rent to pay.

We fixed a cap of Rs 8,000 for the search. It widened from Madiwala to Arikkere-BTM layout to Kaggadasapura to HSR Layout, and a variety of houseowners! From an extra-decent Sultan at Kaggadasapura to a hyper-tempered old man at Thavarekere, we met a variety of human beings. Many were asking veiled questions to check our religion!

The ‘architectural wonders’ in the guise of houses we had to see was equally varied. ‘Brigadier’ gave a description of a house that was constructed east-facing, but the road was on the west. All you see is the back of the house! Houses literally crammed into the space available, caring little about the safety and construction rules, were innumerable. Muti-coloured interiors with fancy lights, bedrooms that can be used better as dark rooms were among the rarer sights. But one thing was common in all places — atrocious rent for not-that-good dens. Why doesn’t the government form a body for rent regulation? Is the land Mafia in Bangalore that strong to prevent it? Less-rented houses were still farther. That caused another problem: Proximity.

After all the house-hunting with MG Road as the center of our search radar, we formed an equation. Farther the house, greater the facilities, lesser the rent. Nearer the house, lesser the facilities, greater the rent. Mithun, Aby and me had our offices in MG Road, so a farther location was not desirable for us either. 'Brigu' had problem commuting from his sister's place in another corner of the city. Apart from this, Mithun and Rakesh had another problem. Their girlfriends were in Bangalore, and farther locations affected their regular meetings!

Finally, we came upon a 2 bedroom-hall-kitchen house near Christ College, sufficiently close to the main roads, Madiwala and Forum. The rent was definitely higher than our cap, but the landlord decided to cut the advance amount. The search is over, we are moving into a swanky place (not that swanky when the rent is considered) next week. Mr son-in-law of our present landlord, hell with you and your illegal construction of an apartment!

Reserved

2007-09-02T17:43:00.000+05:30

There was a small subject in mind when I came back from home this August. I had reserved this date for that. Then lethargy took over. Almost two months with the blank post, and three comments!

Attribution said: For?

Sanity in a world of Insanity is insane~The Insane said: Yeah, Reserved for?????

Attribution said: C'mon. Update it. Do something. Write something.Well i have decided on something.Check mine for updates.

The last time I had three comments was in February. Regular articles these days hardly gather one. The second, if any, would be Attribution’s call for update.
Anyway, I am not planning to leave the page khaali. I’ll introduce six not-so-gentle men; my housemates.

Aby. Sports reporter in a Bangalore daily. Classmate in Mascom. A permanent teasing machine, with whom you can’t get angry. Seniormost in our gang, though carefree like the rest.

Mithun alias Thadiyan alias bourgeois. My classmate-cum-housemate-cum-colleague. In competition with Aby in teasing. We go to office togather, his bike is my official Bengaluru gaadi. Jolly good fellow.

Rakesh alias Raku: Recently christened Rakula (remember Dracula), Raku is a call centre employee. Simple guy who has only two ambitions at present: Meet his girlfriend daily and deal with the humongous number of his arrear subjects in engineering.

Nidhin Tony, or simply, Tony: Nicknamed Brigadier (Brigu for short) for his relentless pursuit of army entrance exams and the rejection in the final stage because of his colour blindness, Tony is the ‘visiting member’ of our gang. His married sister lives in Bangalore, and half the time he is with them. still in search of a job.

Vinod alias Thomman. He works in a high-profile call centre, but hates to describe his branch even as BPO. "It’s India Delivery Centre," he’d say! engineering graduate, settled as an outsourcing executive.

Loud arguments, occasional outings, simple pranks, and heavy-dosed teasing, which we call aparaadham, make our lives merry.

Happy Onam

2007-08-27T00:10:00.000+05:30

Death is painful

2007-07-31T23:45:00.000+05:30

Death is painful, even more so when someone close to you departs.

Gradma’s death was the recent one, but then it was a relief for her bed-ridden sense-faded self.

But often, death plays foul. This time, it played real foul.

Miss you, Vijayan Kochacha...

Broken Crown

2007-07-31T23:41:00.001+05:30

I was a bit sceptic when I came to know about the Tamil remake of Kireedam. It was definitely not a typical Ajith storyline, or a regular Tamil movie storyline for that matter. The story was a tragedy. It was all about the dreams of a youth being shattered by circumstances.

The film had many luminaries of contemporary Malayalam cinema. Lohitadas penned the story, Sibi Malayil directed it, Venu cranked the camera, capturing brilliant performances from Mohanlal, Thilakan and Mohan Raj as Keerikkadan Jose, an extremely-hated on-screen baddie in Malayalam cinema.

I had seen the butchering of Manichithrathazhu in the hands of P. Vasu in Chandramukhi. It was done entirely to boost the role of Rajnikanth. In the original script, Mohanlal’s character appear just before the interval. And the story was heroine-oriented. The performance by Shobhana is a benchmark in acting. Same was the case for Kireedam. Mohanlal won his first national award for his role in the movie. And the story was a tragedy.

Tragedies or realistic performances are a strict no-no for the mainstram lead actors in Tamil, although I agree that youngsters like Amir would come up with a Paruthiveeran occasionally. But in that instance, the hero was a newcommer and the crew had the guts to go on with the script. You can’t even imagine going to get the date of a star like Vijay for such a subject.

Kireedam, which means crown, had a similar theme. It starts with the disciplinarian police constable dreaming about his becoming a police officer. The youth, all prepared to take up the tests. But fate plays foul. His fight with the dreaded goon was an accident. He beats him down, and the village crowns him as the official rowdy of the locality.

Unable to face his father and always chased by the goons of the beaten dada, the hero sees his dreams shattering I front of him. He looses his career, dignity, and his love. The villain’s thugs aim the hero’s family. Then he takes the big decision: To end this once and for all, either by dying or killing. In the climax, he murders the villain. The transformation from a police-aspirant to a goon is complete, as he surrenders before his weeping father.

This storyline would be a perfect misfit for the Tamil mainstream cinema. Here, the hero doesn't run for his life. He single-handedly battles 100 goons, all armed with sickles. He kills the villain, but never surrenders to police. He gives a heavy- worded, high pitch speech in the climax and walks off with the heroine. And a fan-driven star like Ajith, who has not gone for variety in his choice of roles for years (even Godfather/Varalaru was a disappointment), was not expected to okay the climax.

But the reviews were encouraging. The story was changed to suit the Tamil Nadu milieu. The role of the heartbroken father was safe in the hands of Raj Kiran. Ajith did a decent job in the role of Shaktivel. And the climax was not changed. I was really happy to see Ajith taking such a decision. Rediff.com slammed the movie but said, "Ajith has to be commended for his courage in essaying a loser's role, not done by stars of his stature." Indiaglitz.com lauded the movie as "a sensible and sincere attempt at realistic entertainment."

But this is the hero-worshipping Tamil movie industry. Nothing can happen to our hero, even if he goes on killing the goons. Sify.com reported a day before: "Ajit’s Kireedam climax has been changed on the request of audiences and fans of the actor. Now the climax has been re-edited, with a "positive ending," and will be screened in all theatres across Tamil Nadu from Sunday (July 29) evening. In the new climax, hero Sakthivel (Ajit) after killing the notorious criminal wanted by the police, a voice-over with the Madras High Court in the background says that Sakthi is pardoned. Later he gets a medal from the President of India and the film ends with a shot of Ajit coming in police uniform and saluting his dad."

Positive ending! Pathetic! The whole beauty of the movie was the climax. The original cimax was a five-minute emotinal time bomb. The hero’s cry was not dramatic in any point. The pleading made by the father character (Thilakan) was chillingly authentic. Everything was so realistic, and I sincerely wished that to happen in Tamil. Had it happened, it would have been a bold move by Ajith.

But popularity weighs more than performance in Kodambakkam. Unless you have a gutsy hero or producer to back up, the directors will continue to be marketers and the "stars" will never turn real actors.

2007-07-10T22:49:00.001+05:30

Needed a tag from attribution to write a post, one after a long sabbatical. And there are certain rules for the tag.

* Each player starts with eight random facts or habits about themselves.
* People who are tagged need to write posts in their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

Well, here goes...

1. I am a man for my friends and a kid for the entire Makkattu clan and the Vallikkezhu locality.

2. I love to write and procrastination is my weakness.

3. I am so sentimental that my cupboard is filled with seemingly useless things that I could not trash. Each one is associated with at least one memory that makes me nostalgic.

4. I love my village, and the pace in which it is being urbanised pains me

5. I am a die hard music lover and movie buff.

6. I collect stamps, coins, currencies, audio cassettes, CDs, books............even bus tickets!

7. I give missed calls to 21 persons every night

8. I always make it a point to break silly rules, so I will not tag anyone!!

Hope you got the picture. If not, try reading the past posts.

Armless driver with one leg leads chase

2007-05-13T16:12:00.000+05:30

This brief was among the items that was taken off the News Plus page to accommodate a huge advertisement.

New Port Richey (Florida), May 11: Authorities were led on a high-speed vehicle chase by an armless, one-legged man, and they said this wasn’t the first time he eluded the police.
Michael Francis Wiley taught himself to drive after losing both arms and a leg in an electrical accident when he was 13. He led police on a 120 mph chase in 1998. (AP)

So much was there in the page received from Delhi. Only this much part would have seen the light of the next day, had there were no ad in the page. This is the fate of almost all agency copies. Agencies like AP, AFP and our own PTI and IANS have some very good writers who endure several hardships to get one brilliant copy, and most of them get buried in the pages of newspapers. It is not fate; it is not anybody’s fault. It is how the system works. I thought I’d make a small change. So here’s the rest of the copy, that was buried in the original page.

On Tuesday, Wiley sped off in a Ford Explorer when the police approached him at a convenience store, New Port Richey police Capt. Darryl Garman said. Officers pursued, but called off the chase after eight minutes because they did not want to put others in danger, Garman said.

Wiley was arrested the next day on charges of fleeing from police and habitually driving without a license. He also is awaiting trial on separate drug charges and traffic violations. He faces up to five years in prison if convicted.

Defense attorney John Hooker said his client has paid off previous traffic fines that got his license suspended and tried to get a new driver’s license, but he was rebuffed by state officials. Wiley’s license has been revoked so many times it is now a felony to drive.

“What makes him do it?” Hooker said when asked why Wiley keeps getting behind the wheel. “I think it’s an urge he has that makes him feel as important and as good as anyone. It gives him a sense of self-esteem.”

Hooker said he had not had a chance to talk to Wiley about the most recent charges.

Even before Wednesday’s arrest, prosecutors were seeking to send Wiley to prison for at least five years for felony drug and traffic charges.

“He has a hideous record,” Assistant State Attorney Mike Halkitis said after an August 2006 arrest. “It’s just got to end.”
Wiley was being held in the Pasco County jail on $500,000 bond.

Shame on me!!

2007-05-05T16:08:00.000+05:30

Ernakulam-Barauni Express, Katpadi railway station.
6.05 am
A few days back

He woke up when I got in.
“Katpadi thaana?” (Is it Katpadi?) He asked in Tamil, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes.” I answered, as I pushed my luggage under the berth.
“This train was supposed to be here at 3,” he said in Malayalam.
“Late aayathu kondu enikku ee train kitti!” (I got this train because it was late!) I replied in Malayalam.

“Aaha! Naattil evideya?” (Where’s your place?)
“Kollam”
“Working in Chennai?”
“Yes.”
“I am also working in Chennai.”
“You are from?”
“I am from Kannur.”

And we started a chat on the nostalgic trips to home. For him, it was twice-a-year affair. For me, thanks to the compensation off facility in my office, it has become almost once in two months.

“I have to get down at Shornur and then catch a bus to Kannur. Trains to Kannur is not that frequent,” he said.
“Isn’t bus trip tiring?” I asked.
“Ya, buddy. But this is more convenient than waiting for the train. And it is faster too, unless there is some problem like break down or strike,” he explained.
“Ya, strike. Who would know better than one from Kannur?” I said, remembering the news reports of the bloodshed between the hindutva cadre and the leftists, which had been an annual affair once.

“Kannur town is relatively peaceful, buddy. It is the interiors that are troublesome. Areas such as Nadapuram and Panoor… I am from Panoor. You know the area, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Panoor was notorious for local-made bombs, and many blasts too.
“The rift between the political parties has affected even family ties. A Marxist won’t go to the house of a BJP man for any function, not even for the last rites of a family member,” he said.
“Really?”
Back in my place, social ties were not affected to this extend by politics. Ours was a family of Left supporters, and my father’s uncle was a noted Kerala Congress leader!

“Even areas are segregated as Marxist and BJP dominions. Marriages in between a Marxist family and a BJP one is quite unthinkable,” he continued.
“How would you know which area are you in?” I asked.
“That’s simple. If the flag at the next junction is red, you are in Marxist area. If it is saffron, you are in BJP area.”
“How would they treat outsiders?” I asked.
“You have to change according to the area you are in. There is an unwritten rule in the BJP area that there should be lamps in front of very houses on the Janmashtami day. Once there was a newly transferred postmaster who went out of town on the day. There was not even a bulb burning in his house that day. The house was ransacked the next day and he was beaten to pulp. He promptly secured a transfer the very next week.”

“Which side are you in?” I asked him.
“Buddy, I had a tough time staying away from politics. Luckily I found a job and got out. There are many who have lost their family, career and sometimes lives,” he finished with a deep breath.

This was nothing short of a shock to me. I had heard about the social segregation in North India. Weekly reports come to my office about the social discrimination faced by the panchayat presidents in Madurai because they were Dalits. But in Kerala?I was always proud to be a Malayalee. Maybe he exaggerated. Maybe he was biased. But if it is true, then shame on me!

Give me a pen to write

2007-03-27T18:18:00.000+05:30

It was a usual day. After the off-day sumptuous meal, I was lying down. Santosh was typing in his laptop the lengthy report meant to go on print the next day. The playlist of MP3 files he made in his laptop were all my favourites. It always was. Whenever he opens the song files, his choices would obviously be my favourites.

All the songs were very nostalgic.

Suddenly I felt like scribbling. I searched out my diary from under the pile of clothes in the suitcase. I started writing, and after a few words I noted that the speed is lost. My handwriting was terrible. Suddenly I realised that it’s been almost a year since I wrote Malayalam. Gosh! Time does fly.

My handwriting was not that great in school, but I could maintain a legible fare at least in my answer sheets. The realisation that my handwriting was bad came upon me when I was in class IX. I had read somewhere that handwriting indicates the personality of the person, and a steady handwriting, with no right or left slant showed an upright, smart personality.

All of a sudden, the alphabets I scribbled in my notebooks seemed to be in an inebriated condition! They were so slanted towards right. I began using a fountain pen from then, with a visible improvement in my handwriting. I used that till my plus two days.

I never maintained my notes clearly in school. As a result, writing was limited, except for the language classes and math. And during the exams, my hands would hurt after finishing two papers. We had two hours for a paper, and there were two papers a day.
During the plus two classes, I chose Malayalam as my second language. There was much writing involved, though not as much as in the high school classes.

Then came college, and I ditched Malayalam. The additional language I chose was Hindi, so no more Malayalam writing. But in the second year, I began writing Malayalam with a newfound vigour. Reason? Letters!

Berny, one of my intimate friends, left for Coimbatore and started her graduation anew. I had made sure that she’ll write to me the very first week, and she did. Sot it was only courtesy that I had to give a prompt reply. And she wrote back the very next week. The communication continued, with at least two letters a month, till I joined journalism classes.

That was her last year of graduation. Both of us were bombarded with assignments, and the number of letters dwindled to one in two months. Guys back in Kollam and abroad were ever reluctant to write, even though two of them were in a pucca nostalgic set up in Dubai. (After all, distance is the mandatory ingredient for writing letters, even love letters to the girl next door!!) By then, our professor declared a pen-down for us. He said he was fed up with or handwriting and wanted our assignments in print.

The next big writing was the first placement test, which was held in our institute. Then the one in my newspaper. After that, there was absolutely no writing, not even a weekly scribbling, only typing. I could type out pretty quick now. But I can’t write quickly, neatly. It’s high time I start scribbling. I don’t want someone to look at my handwritten copy and say, “What is this Chandu?”

To Sir, with love

2007-03-10T18:05:00.000+05:30

This is an article about the man who was instrumental in making me what I am. I have hated this man as much as I loved him. He is K. Thomas Oommen, Director, Manorama School of Communication. It appeared in Mint, the business paper of the Hindustan Times. This is for his students across the globe and all those who are his acquaintances.

In a sea of red ink, a lonely crusader

Chitra Narayan

It’s hard to imagine that an innocuous red ink pen can inspire so much dread. But in the hands of journalism teacher Kollemvarieth Thomas Oommen, the red ink pen is a deadly weapon.

On a pleasant winter morning in sleepy Kottayam, where a journalism class is in progress at the Malayala Manorama Group-run Mascom Institute, the full force of this pen can be seen. A pile of corrected assignments in hand, KTO, as Oommen is better known, is reading his red-inked comments out loud. Informally seated on the table, the grandfatherly figure with the mild tone doesn’t resemble the dragon he has been painted to be by some of his former students.

In a soft voice, he asks one student who covered recent municipal elections how 47% can constitute a majority. He continues to pick holes in the copy in a manner so caustic and witty that the whole class, except the unfortunate student reporter, begins tittering. He moves quickly through the pile, asking one young man who took particular linguistic licence with grammar, “did you learn your English in Kazakhstan?"

Meet “Prof. Oommen”, as the nearly 600 Indian journalists who have suffered, hated and loved the man, tend to call him. One of India’s best-kept secrets, this journalism educator has spent 26 years taking in young, impressionable—and often terrible writers and editors—and instilling in them a love for journalism and a sense of right and wrong, at least when it comes to the English language. Today, there are hardly any Indian newspapers where former Oommen students are not playing key roles (including at this paper).

For a country with one of the most vibrant and free media in the world, India has surprisingly few quality journalism teachers or schools. And amid a widely acknowledged shift toward entertainment and blending of news and paid content, it is even more remarkable that Oommen has maintained his commitment to teaching the kind of journalistic rigour that is fast disappearing from newsrooms.

Chuck Jackson, a copy editor at the International Herald Tribune, who taught at Mascom a year ago, says that an Oommen-trained journalist stands out from the crowd: “Thomas pushes his students so hard that it turns into a habit for them when they become professionals. They know how to get the job done and do it. And they are tough-minded, too.”

Oommen was a reluctant teacher despite hailing from a family of school teachers. He first worked for the now defunct Free Press Journal soon after his MA from St Stephen’s College for a monthly salary of Rs120. “When I was going home after writing a humorous story on an insurance sector strike, I sat next to a guy who was reading the paper,” he recalls. “Suddenly, he started chuckling and I noticed he was reading my piece. I knew then that I was right in choosing journalism as a profession.”

Three years later, he heard about an interesting job in Ethiopia. Soon he was winging his way to Addis Ababa as an advisor at the ministry of information and broadcasting, where, among other duties, he also had to help produce the Ethiopian Herald. The only caveat about this job was to make sure the first page carried reports of the Emperor and his family with prominent photographs. “No name could go above the Emperor’s name,” grins Oommen.

That experience and many others from his journalism career, including a second stint in Africa in Swaziland during the 1990s, now form part of an ethics course he has introduced at Mascom—one of the many innovations that Oommen brings to his job as teacher. “Of course, it’s hard to teach values and ethics, but I would like my students to be equipped for all eventualities and situations at the workplace—be it sexual harassment or discrimination or prejudices,” he says.

Like most young men of a certain era, Oommen pursued studies in the United States. He enrolled in the Master’s programme in journalism at the University of Iowa in 1963. It proved to be an exciting time for him and the world press as a whole: President John F. Kennedy was assassinated three weeks after he arrived in the US.
A couple of jobs at small papers led to the night city editor job at Associated Press in Los Angeles. Apart from reporting and handling copy at breakneck speed, Oommen also picked up useful computer skills as the wire service was transitioning to a computerized service. Along the way he met his wife, Sandra—a meeting engineered by the local public librarian, who knew both of them had worked in Africa.
Despite a promising career in the US, India was still beckoning Oommen. “My motive in coming back to India was that our children should grow up here,” he explains. The children were six, four and two-and-a-half years old and the Oommens felt that if they had to straddle both cultures comfortably, they needed to be brought up in India.

Once back, however, none of the journalism offers excited him—most of the papers wanted him to handle the international pages. “I would have been relegated to writing edits on foreign affairs,” says the man who thrives on the excitement of daily news. On balance, the offer by H.Y. Sharda Prasad, who was setting up a news agency journalism course at the Indian Institute of Mass Communication (IIMC) in Delhi, looked more exciting. Although, he says, at a salary of Rs1,800 a month, it was equivalent to what he earned in three days at AP.

The IIMC job was challenging, but in ways that Oommen could not have imagined. The students—all from non-aligned countries—could barely speak English. There was no hostel facility and, often, both Oommens would be frantically trying to find accommodation for the students in a Delhi that appeared reluctant to house black-skinned Africans.

As a teacher, Oommen believes his golden years were undoubtedly the five years when he headed the Times Centre for Media Studies. Says Indiavarta.com head Sunil Saxena, who taught along with him at Times: “As an administrator, he was very meticulous, and looked at the smallest points. As a teacher, he was beyond comparison. I saw him take classes for two to three hours at a stretch, and the students would sit spellbound.”

Certainly the classes were interesting, if not combative. Armed with a devastating sense of humour and gift of repartee, Oommen used a combination of wit, sarcasm, anger and passion to goad his students. Several students found his methods objectionable and some staged walk-outs, others fought bitter battles with him but, today, those very students are united in his praise.

Prosenjit Datta, executive editor of Businessworld magazine, was hauled over the coals many a time at the Times school and even failed several assignments. But he acknowledges Oommen’s training for his rise, especially in rewriting and sub-editing, and is forever quoting Oommenisms to his desk hands.

Says former student Nidhi Raj Kapoor: “He was very good at reducing students to size and breaking their confidence.” But Kapoor, who is no longer a journalist, says that for all the humiliation Oommen used to subject his students to, he was always fair. Once he pulled her up over the way she had spelled a popular brand name. But the next morning he found out he was wrong and apologized in front of the class. “For all of his tough exterior, he was soft inside,” she says.

To an extent, Oommen’s toughness was tempered by wife Sandra—a motherly influence for many of the students, who were away from home for the first time. Oommen’s relationship with his students was never a cut-and-dried professional one—rather the students just became part of his family. Many visited his home and former students still dash down to Kottayam to meet him. Watch him during the lunch hour at Mascom, where he eats at the same canteen as the students and you realize that the gruff manner is reserved for the classroom.

Ask KTO himself why he drives his students so hard and he is unapologetic: “I explain to my students on the very first day of their class that it is the first day of their professional life and not the last year of college life.”

Indeed, Oommen has not shared the same relationship with the newspaper barons who run the institutes. His no-nonsense attitude and blunt talk often does not go down well. He quit the Times school after falling out with the management. Similarly, at science and environment magazine Down To Earth, he walked out when he could not see eye-to-eye with the promoters.

But Sunita Narain, who heads the Centre for Science and Environment, which brings out the magazine, acknowledges his contribution: “Anybody in publishing will tell you how hard it is to find good desk hands. Oommen’s contribution was in the way he trained the desk in handling science copy and the rewriting skills he brought.”
Oommen then took off for a five-year stint at the department of journalism at the University of Swaziland. When he returned in 1999, he slipped into the role of dean at The Hindu Group’s Asian College of Journalism in Chennai. Says Sashi Kumar, chairman, Media Development Foundation , which has promoted ACJ: “In the field of journalism teaching in India, it’s hard to find such a thorough professional, with hands-on experience especially in copy editing, who in addition is a disciplinarian, and meticulous to boot.”

Although ACJ was loath to let him go, Oommen’s dream of settling down in his native Kottayam was too strong and when to his hometown the Malayala Manorama Group came calling, he moved, helping launch Mascom.

Today, life has come full circle for Oommen. He is teaching at an institute that is just a few minutes away from the CNS school where his grandfather taught. He and his wife are ensconced in his mother’s ancestral home, 12km away.

Even at 70, Oommen remains as much of a workaholic as ever, heavily prone to moments of angst about where journalism is heading or the calibre of the students who enrol every year, and the falling standards of spoken and written English in the country.

“Print journalism in English is going to be a hodgepodge of words put together indelicately, with no thought to grammar and less to meaning, and whose sole purpose is to fill up space on the page between advertisements,” he concedes. “Vernacular journalism has more promise for the future.”
What about journalism education? “This shortage will be remedied only when good journalists acknowledge they owe a debt to their profession and become good journalism teachers,” he says.

Is a second retirement around the corner? “There’s just too much work,” Oommen may grumble, but he’s the first to admit that he will only give up teaching the day he finds his students are bored. “When that happens, I shall go for long walks, catch the fish that have been swimming fearlessly in the Kodoor river and read all the books that I deliberately put off reading till later ... and later,” he says.

Sixty in Sixty is a special series of profiles that we plan to run throughout 2007, the 60th anniversary of India’s independence. We will introduce you to Sixty Indians—both here and aboard--who are not rich or famous or important. These will be people who are making quiet but important contributions, without seeking headlines, to help make India and in some cases, the world, a better place. Please send your suggestions by email to interview@livemint.com

Aaraattu

2007-02-08T16:25:00.003+05:30

“Now what?” asked our Resident Editor, visibly frowned.
“Ma’am, my leave application,” I said.
“This is not the way, Chandu. You took a leave last December. You can’t go on taking a leave every other month,” she said, without looking into the form to see that I had worked for four weeks without a break for this four-day leave.
“Ma’am, I need this break. I must be there in my town on Tuesday,” I replied.
“When will you be back?”
“Thursday, Ma’am.”
“OK.”
I walked out of her cabin, relieved that I will not miss the aarattu this time. I had never missed it during the past twenty years.

The Sakthikulangara temple is the biggest and the most prominent one in our locality. The eight-day annual festival held in the temple was a combined effort of all the locality members and authorities of the local temples. And festival concludes with the aaraattu celebrations, a big day for our erstwhile panchayat, the grandest day of the year for many, including me.

The earliest memories about the aaraattu are that of balloons and sugarcanes. I remember listening to the song “Janaki jaane..” from the movie Dhwani, holding to the rails of my window. That was the Pallivetta day, the penultimate day of the festival. I was barely four then; a kindergarten student.

Attendance was the lowest on the aaraattu day in our convent classes. And we had classes only till afternoon on that day, as the road would be blocked for the processions that would flow in from various temples around the panchayat. Back home, a sumptuous lunch would be waiting for me. After that, the battalion of my cousins would come home to watch the set of processions that would pass my roadside home on their way to Sakthikulangara temple 2 km away from home. Several such batches of processions would join at the Sakthikulangara temple grounds.

Then, lead by the elephant carrying the replica of Lord Ayyappa, the deity there, they would all come to the Vallikeezhu temple by dusk. From there, the row of elephants with the one carrying the idol leading, would go to the aaraattu kulam, the pond in which the deity will take a bath. On the journey back, the devotees would set up the para, their offerings ranging from rice to jaggery and bananas ready in front of their homes.

Receiving everything, the deity would ride back to Vallikeezhu temple at around midnight to greet the towering eduppu kuthiras. After a halt there, the procession would move to Sakthikulangara temple and reach there by dawn.

The 1 km walk along with the procession to Sakthikulangara Temple, the heavy dose of sugarcanes, aching gums, midnight games with my cousins to keep us awake till Aarattu, and last but not least, the eduppu kutira. Every year, we try to photograph the humongous 30 metre structures, but lighting in the temple grounds is too low to capture the juggernauts in our point-and-shoot cameras. There will be four such kuthiras, each an initiative of the four cheri (region). The frame will be of wood, and it decorated with clothes and other accessories. Each weigh about a tonne and they are taken from Vallikeezhu to Sakthikulangara and back on the shoulders of the volunteers from the respective cheri. I still wonder how they manage to do that.

The day was more or less the similar every year during my convent days. A change came the year I joined my high school. That year, aaraattu was the third final of the Dhaka Independence Cup. The match was one of the exciting ones seen by me. We all were glued to the TV the day. The target was a tough 314, with Saeed Anwar and Ijaz Ahmed scoring centuries. We were a bit apprehensive about our victory. Then, Ganguly came out with a brilliant 124 and Robin Singh hit 88. Pressure mounted as the last over neared. India needed 9 runs from six balls. Then Kanitkar hit a four at the last over, finishing our score at 316. That was one brilliant victory.

By then, I was allowed to move around on my own. I was no more a kid, but a teenager. Enjoying the festival with friends was more interesting than with the canopy of an elder with you. We, the third generation of the Makkattu family, were developing our personal spaces in the family. Guys preferred to roam around the temple grounds instead of the midnight games, and girls were contented with their chitchat. Grandma, who was always particular about the way the offerings are made every year, was bedridden by then. And with the members setting up their individual homes, the family house was given for rent.

But that didn’t anyway reduce our fervour for the festival. We were particular in setting up the para in front of the Makkatttu house. And during the second year of my college, I took part in my debut concert, my arangettam, at the fourth day of the festival. And grandma would be there, sitting in a chair and praying teary-eyed when the elephant carrying the idol comes. After college, I joined the journalism institute last year, and she departed on the eve of Onam that year. That was the first festival without her, and that was the one when I missed the aarattu.

I am not sure about next year, so I did not want to miss it this year. This time, the day was all the more different. I was employed; I was living on my own (although I still feel uneasy if I don’t get a call from home for two days). I had a present for my newly married distant-cousin-close-friend, tucked in the baggage. He had just migrated to the rank of a family man. There were guests from his in-laws in his home when I walked in. And, for the first time, I waited for him in the hall. Before, I never hesitated to dash into his room, mercilessly breaching his privacy. He is family, but he has a family now. Times change real fast.

I was alone during the walk to Sakthikulangara this time. Elders in my family and the group of relatives were treating me like a man, although I still crave to be the little boy once again. I met several of my classmates in school and college. Employed, studying, business, and some still looking for jobs… I somehow felt that becoming big is becoming alone. And that didn’t deter me from chewing out whole sugarcane, a thing that I never misses during the festival.

Will I make it next year? Hope so.

Black Friday to see the day

2007-01-24T16:34:00.000+05:30

“Aliya, do you know who is the unluckiest director in Bollywood?”
I remember Mithun asking me, back in last November.
“No,” I replied.
“Anurag Kashyap,” he said. “He made Paanch and invited trouble with the Censors. Now his Black Friday is also denied release.”

Black Friday is finally making it to the screens. And the report in the Movie Plus page of our paper also began in a similar tone.
“Mumbai: Anurag Kashyap, the jinxed director of “completed, but awaiting release” movies such as Paanch and Black Friday is a relaxed person now. After all, the court has given a go-ahead to his much controversial, four-year-old movie Black Friday and come February, the movie will finally be released across the country.”

Interesting guy, he is. He is probably Bollywood’s only director to gain a fan following even without a single release. He has written some impressive screenplays, including the RGV movie Satya (1998), but attempts on his own had to face tough times. Paanch was canned for six years, Black Friday for four, and two attempts Gulaal and Alvin Kalicharan are somewhat like aborted foetuses.

“My first film, Paanch, had run into trouble with the Censor Board in 2000. They felt it wasn’t “healthy entertainment” because it dealt unapologetically with sex, drugs and misguided, alienated youth. It was constructed around the famous Joshi Abhyankar murder in Pune, but I had fed a lot of my own life and angst into it — my anger, my escape into drugs and alcohol. Jakkal, the murderer, was a brilliant university topper, but he was led into crime. I saw myself in him; I saw what I could have so easily become if I had not channelised my rage into writing. I saw that violence often has no justification. Not everything stems from emotional desire, or motivations like revenge. It is just irrational, impulsive, irreverent. And, for being that, more brutal. But our cinema is not allowed to reflect our realities. Once Paanch was cleared by the censors, it couldn’t find a distributor: no songs, no stars, no foreign locales,” recalls Anurag in an interview given to Tehalka.com last October.

Writer director Abbas Tyrewala, in his blog, accounts the face-off Anurag had with the Censors.
“Anurag screened Paanch for this Jurassic wonder. At the end of the screening, a man who I believe is a primary school teacher called Anurag in and asked him what cinema meant to him. Anurag asked in turn what it meant to him and the man replied, without blinking an eyelid, that it meant “healthy entertainment”. Healthy entertainment, according to Masterji, was absent in Paanch. He asked why there were no “positive characters” in the film. Obviously it would have been a complete waste of time to explain the concept of a noir film to the gentleman; Anurag explained instead that all the characters were to him positive to some degree.

The gentleman then suggested that the film was too violent.

I have seen Paanch. Its wizardry lies in creating a sense of violence without its explicit depiction. The film gets under your skin, creates the kind of dirty residue that normally remains in the aftermath of a street fight. Instead, Teacher Rex felt that this film glorifies violence. Anurag asked for specific scenes that had bothered the Board, which he was willing to defend and delete if necessary. No instances were forthcoming; the man was too busy objecting to the language now.

Then came the piece de resistance. The man said that the film was too long for a thriller. He arbitrarily asked Anurag to trim it by forty minutes! Too long for a thriller. Oh Anurag, I wish I had been there to see your face. The joy it would have given my aching heart to see your initial lack of comprehension, then the rage and then the helplessness; the intense desire to ask this gentleman where he kept his cane so you could put it where it belonged. Too long for a thriller. Marvelous!

Maybe Once Upon A Time In America should have been cut down from four and a half to two hours. Oh wait a minute, they did. And reduced a classic to a schizophrenic collection of visuals. Isn't Bertolucci's 1900 too long for an epic? Well, it does encompass the story of a century, so I guess it can stretch to five hours. And thank God cricket matches last an entire day, or else Lagaan would have had to be trimmed by an hour or so.

But a thriller! What in a thriller justifies two hours and forty-five minutes? Your story? Your development of characters? Your plot? Your choice?”

Finally, Paanch was cleared, but left with absolutely no takers. Anurag recalls in the interview: “We had more than 200 private trial-screenings of Paanch — the audience response was fantastic. But no distributor would risk it. Bollywood is controlled by families that have grown up in trial rooms. They have no knowledge of the real world.”

A single Googling on Paanch gave me a list of Bollywood technocrats endorsing the movie.

Govind Nihalani, Director: There is no justification for the censor board to refuse a certificate to Paanch. It is an extremely well made film. It belongs to a genre not seen before in India. The censor board has no right to decide what subject a director should choose while making a film, or what the treatment ought to be. It's the director's prerogative to decide on his approach. As long as the film's content does not violate the censor board's guidelines, the board has no justification to ban a film. It is not for them to verify whether a film is full of hope or despair. It is up to the writer and director to decide whether their film needs to generate hope amongst its audience or shock and depress them. The censor board has no right to force filmmakers to make positive films. People should be given a chance to see Paanch. The very fact that other filmmakers who have seen the film are openly supporting it, and are willing to associate their names with it, means the film is not deserving of a ban.

Saurabh Shukla, Actor: I saw a rough cut of Paanch long time ago. The film wasn't complete then and I'd seen the unfinished version on video. I have no idea about the ideology of the entire film or what the end conveys. But whatever little I saw, I didn't think the scenes had abusive language or violence that was without context. Everything that a particular character says or does in a film is part of the film's journey. And it has to be seen in that context. One cannot just take it out in isolation and talk about it. I thought the film's language went with its characters. I have worked with Anurag in Satya and know that he's a good scriptwriter. But then, this is a personal opinion. Just like what one person thinks about a film, may not be what others think.

Farhan Akhtar, Director: I saw the film and found it very contemporary and extraordinarily intelligent. I think the film should be viewed by all sections of the adult Indian population. From what I have heard, Paanch has been refused certification by the censor board because, among other things, it has no social message. But then, most films that are made today do not have any message. And I feel films need not necessarily have social messages. The film has been criticised for its unjustified violence. I can name a 100 films now which have more violence. And there's no such thing as justified or unjustified violence. Isn't all form of violence unjustified? How can the censor board decide whether the film is suitable for adult viewing or not? What do one mean by the term 'adult'? Isn't it supposed to mean someone who can take his own decision? In that case, we are as capable of making the decision as board officials are. It is time we reviewed this system of five people sitting inside a room and making decisions about what is good for the rest of the Indian population. I totally support Paanch and think that it is a very good film.

Saeed Mirza, Director: I have not got a chance to see the film yet. But from whatever I know of this young man (Anurag Kashyap), he is a responsible man. He understands the sensibilities of filmmaking. People who know Anurag closely, filmmakers who have worked with him, also feel the same. Many of my close friends, all filmmakers whose opinions I have high regards for, have seen the film and all of them have liked it. They support the film whole-heartedly and I respect their views. I'm sure the film is worth a release. I don't think the censor board needs to make such an issue about Paanch and keep it away from the public. If the board feels the film is too violent, it can clear it with adults or whatever other certificates it has. It need not ban the film. It's the director's first film and he deserves to be given a chance. He has a right to take his film to the public and one should not deny him that. Let the public decide for themselves.

Paanch was accused of having all dark characters. But we can’t expect a Kuch Kuch Hota Hai from a man who had undergone dark times right from his childhood, can we? Molested in childhood, grew up as an insecure, confused youth, he found solace in writing. He found passion in Cinema. As put in by Anurag in the interview,

“I grew up in Benares, part of a larger community of relatives and neighbours. My father was an officer in the state electricity board; my mother was a housewife. We often ate at a cousin and neighbour’s home. I was five when an elder cousin and a neighbour began to abuse me sexually. It was more than molestation; it violated everything. I couldn’t understand. I couldn’t speak of it. I was always a very detached child. I went into a deeper shell; my behaviour became erratic. When I was eight, my father sent me to Scindia School in Gwalior. It was more than he could afford and I will always be grateful for that. But Scindia was hell for me. The sexual abuse continued there for years. I hated myself. I couldn’t understand why it was happening to me. I was often picked out, beaten, then taken to the toilets. To save myself from the beatings, I’d give in to the abuse. Once I saw a senior abuse another junior. I spoke up about it. The repercussion was terrible. When I was in Class VII, I felt suicidal. That’s when I began to write.

I wrote a story, I still remember, called Apekshit. I was the youngest in my class, the prodigal, but always very good at my work. But when my teacher read the story, he said, this can’t be genuine. I looked up the word in the dictionary — the Hindi-speaking gunk in an elite English school — and that became my burden for life. I was thwarted at every turn. I excelled anyway. But every achievement became a joke.

My turning point came in 1993. I had joined the Jan Natya Manch while in college. Those years were a haze of beer and pot and anger. Then Moloyshree Hashmi and Joy Sengupta urged me to catch a de Sica retrospective. That changed my life. Cinema became my cocoon. Two months later, I left for Bombay. It was raining. I had Rs 6,000 in my pocket. I spent eight months on the street, sleeping on beaches, hanging around outside Prithvi Theatre for work and a night out of the rain. My most permanent shelter those days was the space below the water tank in the Four Bungalows complex in Andheri. Then, I wrote a play and people began noticing me. People like Makarand Deshpande, Mahendra Joshi, Shivam Nair, Sudhir Mishra, Ram Gopal Varma and Amol Gupte infused hope and faith into my life. They were my mentors; my proof of generosity.”

After the Paanch sabbatical, came the idea of Black Friday. Heavily based on Hussain Zaidi’s book of the same name, the attempt was to make a TV series. It was very convenient to make it a TV series indeed, as there were so many strands and so many characters in the work that that they just would not fall into place. Then it was decided to start the film at a point three days before the blasts — when one of the accused allegedly informed the police about the attempt but no one believed him — and worked backwards to the Babri Masjid demolition.

“All this while,” says Kashyap, “People kept telling me that it’s going to be damn controversial.”

And the worst fears came true when some of the accused succeded to obtain a hold on the release of the movie. The movie was made on a shoestring budget of Rs 4.5 crores, and with the release being put off for years and the accumulating interest on the debt taken by the producer, the total expense shot off by about Rs 3 crores.

In a turn of events, and I would call it the divine reward for the pain Anurag underwent, Anil Ambani’s Adlabs Films was prompted to offer a deal, following the hypre generated after the movie ban and the posibility of a stellar opening in the multiplexes. Adlabs, on the other hand, seems to be quite charged up about the fate of the movie. The film releases on February 9, 2007.

A simple search in the annals of Bollywood, and you will find many like Anurag, with brilliant ideas and burning passion, but no corporate backing to launch their dreams. Because in Bollywood, the dream merchants have literally taken the wholesale rights to launch the dreams also. As Anurag says, it took John Abraham to make a risky choice to act in Kabir Khan’s dream project Kabul Express, to attract Yash Raj films to launch the movie. It took the success of Lagaan for SRK to take up Swades.

Courtesy: DNA, Tehelka.com, Sulekha.com, Rediff.com

It's Pongal, It's Jallikattu!!

2007-01-18T01:01:00.000+05:30

7:15 pm.
I walked in with the south page dummy to the cabin of the chief of news bureau of our paper. He had two slots to fill, both on Jayalalithaa, with a total of 630 words. And below the two slots and the picture was a meagre 210-word slot, supposed to carry the Madurai copy on Alanganallur Jallikattu.

He glanced at the A3 sheet.
“Why this small slot for Jallikattu?”
“Sir, Ma’am said that we have had carried several Jallikattu copies for the last few days.”
There was a copy the day before on the Palamedu Jallikattu, a smaller one, held as a prelude to the Alanganallur Jallikattu, and some more on the preparations and protests, including the petition in the Madras High Court.
“Boy, where are you from?”
“Kerala, Sir.”
“OK, understand this. For the entire southern Tamil Nadu, the Alanganallur Jallikattu is the..the,..” he paused
“The event,” I cut in.
“Yes, it is The Event. The one held yesterday in Palamedu was just a prelude. This is the big event, and one of the biggest cultural events in Tamil Nadu.”
He picked up the phone and asked the RE to give prominence to the story.
Dummy changes, and the story gets a 300 word slot, with a picture inside.

Here are the pictures from the world famous Alanganallur Jallikattu. The pictures and the text is borrowed from the copy filed by our Madurai correspondent.

The jallikattu held in the Alanganallur village near Madurai on Wednesday, was a “regulated” sport this year with lesser number of bulls and more men participating in this event. Safety measures taken to segregate the crowds resulted in lesser number of injuries. As many as 120 foreign tourists also witnessed in the event.

The sleepy hamlet of Alanganallur, 22 km from Madurai city, wore a festive look with coloured flags, banners and cutouts decorating every nook and corner. People began filing into the galleries, as early as 6 am, to get a vantage seat and the animals were made to stand in long queues outside the arena.

A team of veterinary surgeons conducted the eyeball test, heartbeat and breathe analyser tests for each of the animals before allowing them to enter the queue. Though 587 bulls had registered for this year’s event, only 345 animals turned up on Wednesday, of which seven were rejected because they did not pass the tests.Similar tests were conducted for the 527 men who entered the arena, wearing T-shirts given by the organisers after they passed the test.

At 11 am the special pooja was performed at the Alanganallur Muniyandi temple and the temple bull was first released into the arena after which the others followed. The animals were brightly coloured and garlanded with flowers.

Most of the prizes included gold coins, dhotis, shirts, beds and furniture. But, this time the owners of the bulls that successfully evaded the chasers bagged more prizes. Jayapandi of Kalavasal in Madurai bagged ten prizes the highest by a fighter in this game.

“More bulls bagging prizes is the result of the ban on the alcohol consumption by both the bull and man” said Marimuthu, a teacher, who has been following the event for more than 10 years. “Under the influence of alcohol, the men would try to have a brave show, increasing the risk of injuries and death. This year most of them preferred to take
the side stand when the ferocious animals were released” he said.

Due to the elaborate arrangements made at the venue, none of the spectators were injured. This was the first time that a double barricade system had been constructed at the venue. Sixty-six persons were injured, out of which six were referred to the Government Rajaji Hospital and the rest were given first aid at the venue. Over 25 doctors were kept ready to deal with any casualty.

The precautions taken by the district administration had also paid off with lesser number of persons being injured compared to previous years. The superintendent of Police T.S. Anbu made the final checks and took care of the security. Around 1000 police personnel were pressed into duty for the games. Kent, a foreign tourist who had come to see the event, said that he felt it was an “unruly” game and that more care should be taken to prevent injuries to men in the arena. Some of them said they enjoyed the whole game.

Silent night, holy night.....

2006-12-24T22:23:00.001+05:30

Christmas is here. And Chennai, who looks out for every excuse for a celebration, seems to be out of steam. It seems that the hotels, malls and gift showrooms are the ones that are celebrating. Or maybe that’s what I feel because of the warm memories of the cool Christmases I had back home. The dry air, cold mornings and the wind blowing away the fallen leaves…. Another reason to say I missed Kerala.

Christmas became important to me just about two decades ago, after I became a kindergarten student in the convent school near my home. That was my first Christmas celebration. There was a beautifully decorated crib in the corner of the hall where we had our classes. That day, our class teacher announced that we’d have a week-long holiday.

Afternoon, a priest from the nearby church came and he told (read preached) the story of Jesus Christ. Then, a small packet of goodies was handed to us. It had a piece of cake, some toffees, a comb and a plastic whistle. From the next year onwards, students used to stage the Holy Birth. The fair-skinned girls from all classes were chosen to play angels, and the tallest of them would be Gabriel. Then there would be the three wise men, kings who came following the star. The pack of goodies shrivelled to some toffees in the coming years, but the show continued.

I got the chance to be one of the three kings when I was in standard IV. And during the annual day drama next year, I played Jesus Christ. But what made Christmas celebrations more joyous was the relief after the quarterly exams and the coming weeklong holiday.

Back home, I always tried to make a crib like the one I saw in school. But mine would always me a smaller, crude version. Walls of the stable would be made of book binds and the idols were cutouts from greeting cards. For us, making a crib was more interesting than making an athappoo during Onam.

My Christmas lost its sheen once I left the convent. In the boys’ high school, Christmas was just a huge chunk of holidays, when we got a relief from the impending cane of our class teacher. I had decided to make a crib every year, but failed in the second year there.

Then came the Christmas of 1999, the one I celebrated in a train! I was on my way to attend the National Children’s Congress in Goa that year. Our train was on December 25 from Eranakulam. I was roaming around in Kollam railway station with a newfound friend at Christmas Eve. That was the best winter in my life till date, I think.

I never regained the enthusiasm to celebrate Christmas after that, though I would assist my little cousin, student of the same convent, to make his crib. But every year, I used to wait for Christmas. The cold mornings and the dry December wind would bring fond memories to my mind. And during my plus two days, December 21 became more important than Christmas to me. That vacation was our study leave before the model exams.

All these sentiments completely drained away when I joined college. There, days were boringly routine. There too, the dry wind that shook the Cyprus trees, filling the playground with dead leaves, kindled the Christmas spirit. Once, when the wind blew up some dead leaves into the tuition class, my kindergarten buddy and collage-mate exclaimed, "Chritmasile kaattu!"(The Christmas wind!)

I will be leaving for home tonight. My Christmas this year will be spent in train, the second one "celebrated" out of my home. Before typing this post, I googled "Christmas spirit". Result showed a lot of ways to spend this vacation, offers waiting to make the Christmas shopping a wonderful experience, but didn’t show anything that says about what an infant born in a stable in Jerusalem 2000 years ago taught us through his birth, life and death.

Maybe, we should take a walk in a chilly morning, with the dry wind blowing away the dead leaves around us…

Stallone is back

2006-12-24T14:50:00.000+05:30

One of my favourite Hollywood heroes is coming back to screen after a long time. Sylvester Stallone might not be a great actor for many film pundits, but I just love him, his movies. Rose to fame with Rocky and Rambo series, Sylvester Stallone was finally seen in his elements in Assassins (1995). Most of his later ventures were either guest appearances or rehashes of his earlier characters. I was happy to see a report on his comeback slotted in the movie page, and was equally disappointed when ads ate away the space meant for the story. I have just copied down the AFP reportby Rob Woolward, for me to treasure. Even if his new venture is a rehash of the earlier movies in the franchise, he has an assured viewer in me.

Los Angeles: Thirty years after clambering through the ropes for a fairytale heavyweight title shot, cinema’s most famous boxer is getting into the ring once more. But can Rocky Balboa be a box-office knockout?

The first instalment of Sylvester Stallone’s Rocky series was a monster hit in 1976, winning best picture and director Oscar honours and establishing a franchise that would go on to gross nearly $450 million.

But four sequels and 14 years later, Rocky was on a one-way ticket to cinematic palookaville, with 1990s Rocky V earning only $41 million and signalling the end of the road for the punch-drunk Philadelphia pugilist.

Now, though, the 60-year-old Stallone is back, pulling on the gloves once more for Rocky Balboa, which has the boxer coming out of retirement to fight the reigning heavyweight champion in a one-off exhibition bout.

Movie industry experts question however whether the ageing actor’s ring return is stretching credibility too far, even by Hollywood — and boxing’s — elastic standards. “No matter what they do with the story, will audiences buy it?” UCLA film department professor Howard Suber said.
“Stallone can still take off his shirt without shame, he’s buff. But it goes so far beyond credibility that there might be a problem.”

Stallone, however, has not attempted to sidestep the issue of his advanced years during publicity for the film, which opens in US theatres on Wednesday. In fact, he says, the movie is a bruising statement against ‘ageism’. “Just because people get older doesn’t mean they abandon their dream or their ability to want to do something, so Rocky is symbolic of still wanting to participate,” Stallone told reporters in Los Angeles. “Rocky says the last thing to age is the heart, so I wanted to do a film that shows our generation is not on the outside looking in; it’s still vital and wants to be part of the parade, not watching the parade.

“I want to show that life is not over at 50. People say, ‘Come on, grow old gracefully.’ No, why? I’m not ready. I know people will think Rocky is my story, but it’s also my generation’s story.
“I am a has-been, no question,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t still contribute.”

Getting back in trim for his cinematic return to the ring proved challenging however, even though Stallone stays in shape with regular visits to the gym. “I can identify with the Tin Man before he gets the oilcan — a little creaky,” he quipped.

Joe Roth, of Revolution Studios which financed the film, said there were strong parallels between Stallone, whose star has been on the wane over the last decade after a string of flops, and the character of Rocky. “The script was a perfect metaphor for Stallone’s life — at 60, he becomes an underdog again,” Roth said in an interview with Entertainment Weekly.
“This character is an expression of his own heart. Rather than fight it, he’s using it to tell us how he feels.”

Whether Rocky Balboa can deliver a box-office success hinges on its ability to appeal to a wide audience, says Suber, something it may struggle to do because of the boxing genre’s traditional failure to attract female audience members. “I think this is basically one of those films that appeals to a 14-year-old male mentality. This makes it quite a challenging sell because most of its primary audience weren’t even born when the last Rocky came out, let alone the first one,” Suber said.

“It’s going to have an awful lot to overcome. There’s age of the character, which affects the credibility, and there’s Sylvester Stallone. Sylvester Stallone is not an actor who has any particular following in the early years of the 21st century,” he added. (AFP)

Bollywood in town

2006-12-07T18:54:00.000+05:30

The copy in the local website last week was something interesting.
“Dhoom-2 created box-office history in Kerala. In its opening weekend (Nov 24-26) the film has netted an amazing Rs 40.40 lakhs from 19 screens in Kerala! In Kochi at Sridhar and Padma it has netted a record, Rs 6.08 lakhs. At Kottayam Abhilash- a new record has been set for a Hindi film with Rs 2.43 lakhs net in three days! Even in small stations like Attingal Gowri and Kanjangad Vinayak the three-day net is more than Rs 1.20 lakhs! The youth of Kerala are simply loving the movie and enjoying it.”

I saw the pirated version of the movie; the gimmicks are worth watching in big screen. I remember my childhood, when viewing Hindi movies was limited to the weekly shows in Doordarshan. The usual dose of technicolour flicks, with award winning movies on Sundays and an occasional Anil Kapoor/Sanjay Dutt/Jackie Shroff starrer.

Theaters were not better options either. Not just because I was a kid, but Hindi movies came to theatres very late. With a few, and at times no takers at all, those were used as fillers in between two Malayalam movies. The screen life ranged from three to five days and, for some very popular prints, one week.

The only theatrical release of a Hindi movie that aroused some attention among the then youth was the 1993 release Dhartiputra; that too because the movie was a Mammootty starrer. And we had to be satisfied with a badly subtitled version, titled Jailor, a late release late in Kerala.

Before that, I think Sholay was the only Hindi film that aroused some interest in the youth. I remember Unni maman (maternal uncle) proudly saying, “I saw it on 70mm screen,” when we were watching it on TV. The 1975 release was the nation’s first 70mm movie. The print came to Kollam five years later, and was shown in the only 70mm screen in the town. That was a time when the old brigade of Malayalam heroes headed by Prem Nazir was turning unpalatable for the younger crop of moviegoers.

However, we used to get a regular dose of new Hindi songs through Chitrhaar every Wednesday. I still remember the II standard days when we used to rock the classroom, singing the chartbuster “Chumma Chumma De De…” (Hum, 1991) in our broken Hindi. “Tu cheezh badi hai mast mast..” (Mohra, 1994) was a hit in Kollam too, but the movie came to town the day after our cable network showed the video – original!

The gap between the Mumbai premier and the regional shows decreased with the coming years. Even then, the two three Kerala prints went to the local metros Kozhikode, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram. Hindi movies were fillers still.

During a strike called by the movie exhibitors’ association in town back in 1995, they refused to release new movies. The running movies were making profit, except in one theater. They had no other choice but to bring in a filler to attract the youth. Thus Hum Aapke Hain Koun…! came to town, after it’s golden jubilee run in the North Indian circuit.

The coming years saw the advent of cable TV. Hindi channels popularised new releases in almost all towns. Increase in the sales of audiocassettes was the first sign. Rangeela (1995), Raja Hindustani (1996), Gupt (1997) etc charted noteworthy sales figures in the state. And with A.R. Rahman music conquering Bollywood and the younger generation being regularly fed by the music channels, takers for Hindi films increased. Dil Se (1998) and Taal (1999) had tremendous audio sales. But premier shows still eluded my town.

The first premier show in Kollam came in 2000, when Fiza made it's way to Pranavam Theatre; and that too because the scheduled Onam release couldn’t make it that month. Fiza had a comparatively neat run of two weeks, an effect of the hype created after the phenomenal success of Kaho Naa… Pyar Hai. Even Kaho Naa… came weeks late, though it had a better collection than Fiza.

That year’s Diwali releases Mission Kashmir and Mohabbatein had three first-day prints in Kerala. Pirated CDs, to an extent, also contributed to the popularity of Hindi movies. Though movies such as Devdas (2002), Murder and Munnabhaai MBBS (2003) etc. didn’t make big in the Kerala screens, they had good video circulation. The Ramgopal Varma masterpiece Company(2002), even with the towering prescence of Mohanlal, could manage only 20 days in Kollam, but the pirate CDs were well circulated.

I saw a Hindi movie in theatre for the first time in June 30, 2003. Bhoot, the Ram Gopal Varma movie came to Kollam exactly a month after its national premier. Till then, Hindi movies targeted mainly college students, resulting in limited collections. Even Rang De Basanti (2005) couldn’t make more than 30 days in a youth-centric circuit like Kochi.

By then, the Mumbai bosses seem to have noted South as an untapped market. Aggravated marketing followed, resulting in the bumper opening Krrish (2006) had in Kollam. Kids were the target this time. My five-year-old cousin was so happy when he got a Krrish cape with the biscuit packet. Report was like this: “The Hrithik Roshan starrer has taken Kerala by storm. The film has netted an amazing Rs 16.55 lakhs from 10 prints in its opening weekend (June 23-25) the highest ever for a Hindi film in the state! It is the ladies and kids who seem to be enjoying this movie. The trade is also happy that the film could survive the football frenzy, which has ruined even superstar Malayalam films. Krrish has collected in Ernakulam Padma for three days Rs 2,51,175 and in Thiruvananthapuram Athulya Rs 2, 47,258 a new city record. At Savitha in Peruthalmana in Malappuram district it could net Rs 65,992 in three days.”

The Karan Johar juggernaut Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna (2006) followed the suit with 12 prints in the state, giving tough competition to Mohanlal’s Keerthichakra (2006) released a week before. It was the first Hindi film to open in two screens in Kochi (Sridhar & Padma). From 2-3 prints arriving months and even years later to 19 premier shows, Hindi movies have come up a long way pretty fast. Really, is my small town turning big? Or is the nation becoming small?

Nightshift: Soren's resignation

2006-11-29T01:51:00.001+05:30

Tuesday, November 28. 11.17 pm.
Pages were almost finished.
Editor: "OK, Whoever is on night…"
Me: "Me ma’am"
Editor: "OK, This Shibu Soren might file his resignation tonight…. Do you know the issue?"
Me: "Ya Ma’am. He’s convicted in a murder case."
Editor: "OK. So we have to expect a resignation. Keep a watch on the tickers and the TV."
Me: "Yes Ma’am"

11.50 pm.
I was before the TV, watching Boman Irani recalling his days with Sanjay Dutt during the shooting of the Munnabai series, comfortably seated in the visitor’s sofa.
Chief sub-editor: “Hey man, what’s going on?”
Me: “Waiting for Shibu Soren’s resignation.”
And we began a long chat on his former paper, our office and life.

12.11 am.
Got the first print. Headline read “Soren convicted in murder case” I dialed the Editor’s number.
Editor: "Hello."
Me: "Ma’am Chandu here. Got the first print, the pages seem OK. No sign of Soren’s resignation yet."
Editor: "OK, keep watching the tickers."

12.30 am.
No luck with the tickers. Googled “Shibu Soren Resigns” and found out an astonishing 13 full stories, including a front page one in The Hindu! Gone, I thought. We haven’t received even one copy.
Suddenly I noticed the dateline. 2004. That was when the #()$^@% resigned earlier, I heaved a sigh of relief.

1.14 am.
Our sports correspondent, my roommate, screamed, “Dai, Breaking news da! Soren resigns.”
I frantically began searching tickers and news websites. Finally grabbed the detailed PTI ticker.

1.32 am.
Editor: "Hello"
Me: "Ma’am, Shibu Soren resigned."
Editor: "OK, what does the PTI copy read?"
And the page changing began. After five minutes, the headline read “Soren held guilty of murder, resigns”

Chennai rains

2006-11-03T16:40:00.000+05:30

The night sky in Chennai was clear on Tuesday: Half moon, stars, and not even a single wisp of clouds. And I almost thought that the cyclone that moved to the Vizag cost swept away the monsoon from Chennai. It took just a day for the rain-god to come back. And I walked in to my office, drenched.

Situation was not better back home, either. During my three-day escapade to my Kollam, I felt one of the strongest doses of Northeast monsoon in many years. At first, I was a little reluctant to get wet. Change of ways, maybe. Chennai rain is something that you would like to enjoy within the safety of your shelter.

But on the second day, rain left me and my bicycle with no choice but to enjoy the shower. Cycled from Chinnakkada Junction to my home, with the rain chasing me during the 5km stretch. I was so drenched that the water from the well back home seemed warm to me. Our crime reporter, a malayalee, remarked later: “Allengilum naattile mazha nanayaamallo.” (You can safely get drenched in the rain bak home) But many residents of my place didn’t enjoy the rain at all. Low-lying areas were flooded. Water reached even the sanctum sanctorum of the Thirumullavaram Vishnu temple, which was considerably high from the sea level.

There was a village pond in the now busy junction next to my home. The geography of the area was such that all the rainwater would flow down from the surrounding areas to the pond. Later, the panchayat decided to fill a part of the pond to set up a market place. Gradually, the pond was filled completely except for a piece of what you will see as a mud-hole. Now, every year, the place becomes flooded due to the blocked natural rainwater channels.

Same was the case in the areas that were rice fields once. An entire strech of about 10 hectares of rice fields, shared by many, is now transformed to a residential area, flooded every year during the monsoon.

Back in Chennai, the situation was different except for the cause of flood. The drainage in city is set up to dump the rainwater and the sewage to the two rivers, Adayar and Cooum, and they would eventually dump the entire lot in the Bay of Bengal. But the amount of solid waste, especially polythene, was so huge that the drainage system was blocked in several places, causing the roads to flood whenever the rains show their might. The low-lying areas were the automatic victims of the downpour.

How I wish to be back in my home when it rains…………

(By the way, it's been a year since I started blogging. Srini was the one who introduced me to blogging. Irregular posts, random thoughts, and 365 days.. Happy anniversary to my space in the internet!)

Sorry, was a bit busy, u no.....

2006-10-15T17:30:00.001+05:30

It’s been long, very long since I gave some feed to my page. Actually, I had nothing much to write about, or I had lost my nose for news!! So I thought I’ll scribble something on the daily Chennai, because that’s the only thing new.
(Sorry Chennaiites, my jottings about your city and the familiar sights might not be interesting to you. These are what kicked up curiosity in this lonely mallu, who’s out of his home for the first time!)

Let's begin with plagiarism. This is a forward I got just now.

The following is an excerpt from a blog (written by an Indian in America) Wednesday, September 28, 2005

EN PER PEDUM PAADU!!!

My full name is Kalaivani, but I call myself Kalai. This is not for scene, ...like how Madhavan does in Anbe Sivam (Anbarasu --> Ars).it has a looooong and pathetic history... I started hearing different versions of my name after coming to this country, and the painful fact is all the possible permutations and combinations of vowels in my name give meaningful words in tamil!!!

When I first joined the university, my professor wrote to me.. Dear KALAvani (meaning: thief; context: kalavani paya..) ... ... ... Sari adhuvachum typo nu free ya vittudalam.. Then after a year, I joined a company for internship.those people called me before I joined, to inform me about some test which I had to take.. "Hello is this Ms. Kizhavaani?" (meaning: old; context : kizha bolt..etc.) "No..this is KALAIvaani" "Ohh..am sorry KALAvaani" (Marupadiyum...)

Then I decided. Periya pera irukkinala thane ivlo confusion?!! So, I started calling myself 'Kalai'... but the story continued..

I joined my full-time position in another company recently. On my first day, we had a meeting.. "Let's all welcome our new associate.Ms. Kulai" (meaning: bunch; context: kulai kulaiyai vazhaipazham kaaithadhu) CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! Followed by smiles. (Dei. ennangada... ellarum serndhu comedy panreengala???) Anniku arambichadhu...

Once my boss and I were talking about a project... after finishing the meeting... "Ok, Kali. Nice to have you here!" (meaning: last yuga; context: kali muthi pochu.) "That's KALAI" (Enakku idhu thevaya?!) "Ohh kAALi?" (meaning: goddess; context: badrakaali..)
"Hee hee .very close" (Podaannnggg...!!)
So, I stopped correcting my name after that..!

One fine morning, I was working. "Hey kiLai (meaning: branch; context: marakiLai) .howz it going?" "Yea good" (Sollitu thirumbitten. Nammaluku edhuku indha per thiruthura business nu...) "Is that how you say your name?"
(Aaahaa arambichutanya...!!!)
"Uhhh. It's KALAI" "Kolaai?" (meaning:pump; context: kozhai adi sandai.)
(Venaaammm...) "Kolai?" (meaning: murder; context: kolai panniduven..)
(Venaam!) "kaLai?" (meaning: weed; context: kaLai pudunguradhu.)
(Valikkudhu... azhudhuduven...)
"May be I'll get your name with practice. Haha." (Idhellam remba over da dei... Tamil la paatha rende rendu ezhuthu thaan da!!!)
Ennada, Chandramukhi la thalaivar 'durga' perai nakkaladikkira maathiri... namma per ayiduche nu nenaikkum podhu... my friend came up with a brilliant idea! Adhavadhu... to compare my name with a word.so I started using this word 'kaleidoscope'; which has the same pronunciation as 'kalai'! So, I started telling everyone. 'Kalai as in kaleidoscope'!. Ippo kooda romba ellam ozhunga solradhulla. They are saying 'kalaai' (kalaaikiradhu)..

"Hey Kalaai!!" "Yea?" "Just trying to say your name. Ha ha ha" "Ohhh ..how sweet!" (thooo thEri..) Yedho vaandhi edukkira effect la per irundhalum... my life was in peace... until few days back... My net connection was down, so I called up the customer service (En kiragam. Madras call center ku pochu!) Enakku andha vishayame theriyala. So I started in complete American accent... "Your name ma'am?" "Kalaai" "What? Can you repeat ma'am?" " Kalaai as in kaleidoscope" "I didn't get that ma'am. Can I have your number? I can check the records" (Sigh!... and gave the number) "Ohh, Kalaivani, right?" (in a sarcastic tone.) (Ada paavi makka... nee nammooora??!!! All American accents stopped. Back to Indian accent.) I could clearly see what he was thinking... per paatha 'urs pammingly' nu podra category maathiri irukku... scene podradhu mattum princess Diana range kaa...

“Anna... naan sathyama andha maathiri illeeenganna!!!"

Too homesick?

2006-07-04T18:21:00.000+05:30

His call yesterday was a real surprise. Was having the usual wrestling with pages when he called. Someone who knew my past; someone from Kollam. He was in Chennai for the past 8 weeks and I didn’t know!

Boarded the busy local train from Guindy this morning. He was waiting for me at the Nungambakkam railway station. Seeing him was like reading the Manorama, hearing a Malayalam song! Gosh, I am too homesick!

I was seeing him after a year and two months, to be precise, and there was a lot to talk. How's that guy, did u know this happened and such….

His bike took me to a place where I made the discovery of the week: A restaurant named Kumarakom near Royapettah!

Kerala style boiled rice, Kappa, fish curry, and even Jeera water after the meals!
Malayalam songs being played! Felt like home, truly.

Am I becoming too homesick? Maybe all these will end, once I get used to the Chennai way, although I sincerely hope not to happen that way!

Chennaikkaran, Chennaiwala, Chennaiite?

2006-06-21T15:23:00.000+05:30

Employed, finally.

Now Chandu is a sub-editor in a new Chennai daily.

Found a place at the border of the city.

Every morning my first sight is a big sign “Corporation of Chennai welcomes you.”

Nanna Bengalooru

2006-04-15T08:50:00.001+05:30

Finally, after a wait of five "vetty" days, I started the work in VT. The story goes on like this:

Sunday April 9
Landed at 7:30 in the morning at Madivala bus stop. Carried the heavy baggage to a nearby phone booth and called Sandy. He’s out of range. Tried after half an hour. He replied that he’s still in Dharmapuri, coz the bus had some problem.

9:30am. Sandy landed. As we began chatting, his friend and our local guardian Bibin came. Together in an auto, we headed toward our three-week shelter. Six jolly good fellows greeted us there.

1:45pm. The entire gang in the flat walk out towards the bus stop. Destination: National market, B’lore. Mission: To track the place where ipod is available at the cheapest price.

3:30pm. We were at the famous Forum Mall. Went inside the Apple showroom there, listened to a 30GB beauty worth around 26K. Attached it to a flying-saucer-like speaker and heard the unexpectedly loud sound. Both together would cost around 35K.

We walked out of the showroom of B’lore’s elite best.

Monday, April 10.
8:00am. Sandy n me were ready to join the papers. He went to DH office, which is on MG road and I, towards VT office in Chamarajapet.

9:15 am, VT office. I was waiting for the chief to come. Came to know on enquiring that he’ll come only by 2. Got the instruction to give my contact no. to the chief and he’ll inform me later. Called my friend Mathew, he promised to help to obtain a mobile connection.

Tuesday, April 11.
8:30am. Called the chief, gave Sandy’s no. Got the assurance that I can join by
Wednesday. I called Mathew, he asked me to come to City Market. Boarded a bus from near Neetha’s college.

1pm. I was at the city market. Near the market there is a huge Masjid, the biggest I ever saw. Went around with Mathew through the crowded galis in search of a sim-card vendor. Finally, a shopkeeper pointed us to a corner, we went there to meet a guy with a shop in the bottom of a staircase. He was catering us as well as chatting with people in his mobile and land line. Mathew asked in Hindi, in which he replied, spit tamil into his cellphone and Kannada into the landphone. I was pretty jealous!!
After a few minutes, I owned a binaami mobile connection.

Wednesday, April 12.
8:30am. Called Chief to give my number. Joining was still unconfirmed, as there was some “technical difficulties.” He assured to take me to office at Thursday. Promised to meet Sandy at his office at 5pm.

2:40pm. Message from Sandy: “Rajkumar expired.”

4:25pm. I venture out towards Forum. Purpose: To walk through it, reach the road on the other side, board a bus to MG Road and Meet Sandy n Sreeni.
I saw the main entrance closed, so I enter the complex through sideways. Inside, a Kannada announcement is going on and the only word I could make out is Rajkumar.
Saw police on the other side, they all looked worried. Bus came and I boarded it.

5:15pm. After a 15-minute effort, I located Deccan Herald office and when I was about to call Neetha, Sandy n Sreeni came out. By that time, the almost all stores were closed. We had tea from a wayside vendor, walked around to see the deserted street, and I ledt the place.
I walked around a little, then Mathew called me. He was in Shivaji Nagar, a place nearby. By the time I reached Sivaji Nagar Bus stand, he left. I waited for my bus for half-an-hour. Then Mathew’s message came: “Rajkumarz dead n crowds r creating prblm everywhr n u r out. Reach home safely”

Got in the first bus, realised midway that I am in the wrong bus, jumped down and began walking. By the time I reached our shelter in Thavarekere, I had covered 9 km. All the shops were closed.

Thursday, April 13
BANDH
It took till 9am for us to realize that we have to find a way to secure us breakfast, lunch n dinner. Just then, chief gave a missed call. I called back only to confirm that I won’t join office that day. Entire Bangalore had come to a standstill.

Friday, April 14
Vishu
Got the first greetings from my dad’s eldest brother, saw the details of Thursday’s violence in the newspaper.
3:15pm. I entered VT office. A 45-minute wait for the man in charge.
4:00pm. Man in charge asked me to come at around 5:30 because te chief reporter is out of station. I walked out to begin a one-and-a-half hour roaming around. Covered the Palace of Tipu Sultan, Bangalore fort and Sultanpet market.

5:30pm. I was sitting before the chief reporter. He gave me a copy of today’s paper and asked to go through the layout and briefs. I went through it twice before one of the staff borrowed it. Sat idly there for another 30 minutes. Then he asked me to come at 2pm on Saturday.

Came to the shelter to receive a treat of a huge watermelon bought by my apartment-mates. Kal se aslee kaam chaaloo………………..

Leaving MASCOM

2006-03-28T00:35:00.000+05:30

Recieved diploma, time to leave.
A phase ends, for another to begin...
Nishad has the pics (mirrorofnakedeye.blogspot.com),

Sreeni wrote the details..... (srinivasjam.blogspot.com)
I am left gathering memories....

One-day magic again!

2006-03-13T10:04:00.000+05:30

Saw the most sizzling ODI in many years. A world-record reply from South Africa for a world-record challenge from Australia.

6:00 pm. I entered the TV room and Prasanth said, "See the score of Australia." I stared with wonder at the seemingly magical figure of 434-4. "Man, a world record!" I exclaimed.

7:30 pm. Sreeni and Shyamala were ready to go out for dinner, but as we neared the TV room to see the score, heard ecstatic applause from Aby . Herschelle Gibbs was mercilessly punishing the Aussie bowlers. We were literally glued to the screen with occasional ear-piercing cries and applause. He was 175. Just then, he was caught out. Disappointed, we went to the canteen.

9:00 pm. We returned to the TV room, SA was 48 to win from 59 balls. Height of tension.

9:25 pm. Hall was out, Lee’s delivery. Ntini came as the last man. Two runs to win. Ntini hit, and I was screaming "Run you bastard!" One run from two balls. Boucher struck a four, and history!

Our TV room was virtually shaking. We were all jumping out of joy. That was The match! I was reliving the excitement I had long back during the final of the 1998 Dhaka Independence Cup, when India beat Pakistan, chasing the 304 challenge. The match fixing scam had drained out the excitement. The old vigour is back!

Headlines in many online editions of newspapers are as follows

South Africa shock Aus, create one-day history - Hindustan Times

Cricket 'Dhamaka': SA makes history, smash ODI record - Times of India

Unbelievable! - DNA

ODI history: Australia 434/4, S Africa 438/9 - Indian Express

Avishwasaneeyam! (Unbelievable!) - Mathrubhoomi

Ithaanu kali! (This is The match!) - Malayala Manorama

Name game!

2006-01-31T08:46:00.000+05:30

"What is your name?" Asked the official.

"Chandu," I replied humbly.

"Really?" He was amused.

He was the umpteenth person asking me whether Chandu was really my official name. For some reason, it is given the status of a pet name.

Actually, I have met not more than ten "Chandu"s in my life. As I said, most don’t prefer Chandu as their children’s name as it is considered a pet name.

This naming game began when I was hardly two. My mother’s name is Shyamala and father’s name is Gopalakrishnan. So they opted for the combi "Shyam Krishnan." But my Unni Mamam (maternal uncle) and Thambi Kochachan (paternal uncle), close friends, stood for the name Chandu.

The reason they said was that they want their nephew’s identity to be something different. And they chose a real oddity to highlight my identity. They were very dear to my parents, and thus they became my Godfathers!

Alas! There was a villian in a famous Malabari ballad with the name Chandu and, without any doubt, he is the most (in)famous Chandu in Kerala, popularly known as Chathiyan Chandu (Chandu the cheat).

Then came the Hariharan movie Oru vdakkan veeragadha, written by MT Vasudevan Nair, in which Mammootty played the role of Chandu. The movie was an adaptation of the old ballad, but the story was how the good hearted Chandu was termed a cheat. He won his first national award for that.

I still remember my mother calling me to go for the movie. I said "NO," because Mammootty is playing Chandu as a Chathiyan (cheat).

From my first week in school till last week here, many asked me Chathiyan Chandu aano? (Chandu the cheat, are you?)when I tell them my name.

My friends from the North may not understand this situation, as names such as Bunty, Chintu, Babli, Munna and such are equally popular there as high sounding names like Prithviraj or Javed Khan.

But then, this is Kerala. Here the name, as an official one, is odd for sure. This oddity is my identity!

Too bitter to swallow, too sweet to spit!

2006-01-25T13:46:00.000+05:30

It’s been 20 days since I gave my blog some feed. Good ideas came and faded away. I always put the work off to the next day, leaving my blog untouched for nearly three weeks. The one thing that has become a habit for me is practicing procrastination (read laziness).

I am sure there would be no one who, at some point of time, have not put off their work for a future point of time. For a few, the situation is once in a blue moon; for the majority it is a daily affair; for some, it is a habit. The third case is not appreciated by most, as those people are termed lazy. I don’t go for the heavy-sounding word called procrastination. Some time I am lazy; run ahead of schedule at times and strictly follow the timetable at very rare occasions!

My mother, a teacher, often reprimands me for my "putting-the-work-off" habit. I don’t know who said so, but it’s one of my mom’s favourite quotes. "Laziness is sweet; it’s aftereffects, bitter."

But I have a different opinion. Can't we put off a work that we know we can do sometime else? Do we have to strictly adhere to a timeframe, unless the interests of several others are vested in our work?

Obituary

2006-01-05T20:33:00.000+05:30

Kathakali singer Kalamandalam Hyder Ali
(1946-2006)

Celebrations? What for?

2006-01-01T23:34:00.000+05:30

Slept at 2 last night. Fire crackers, Parathas, Paneer Tikka and three bottles of Vodka added glamour to our New Year Party in the lodge. "Working class" in other rooms and us plus three guests were there for the celebrations.

Joby was a bit gloomy, a shade that was quite unlikely of his nature. He didn’t have the mood to celebrate when his father had to cycle some 10km every morning to give newspapers. That made me think.

What purpose do these celebrations serve? Just an excuse for a change from the routine, to try to have fun by a change in the way you spend your day and money. This was the first New Year Party I attended. The reason for the party? A change in the calendar.

I still remember the night of Dec 31, 1999. When the clock struck 12 and kicked off the millennium celebrations, I was lying on the floor of a railway station in Goa. There were people outside and inside the railway station who had another year of poverty and misery ahead of them.

They had no means and reasons to celebrate. They might also be wishing for a change from routine, and that too more intensely than us.

Amounts being shelled out on New Year celebrations, or any occasion for that matter, are becoming more and more exorbitant. The gap between haves and have-nots is becoming wider.

Thanmatra

2005-12-22T07:32:00.000+05:30

Thanmatra, the Blessy movie is all about forgetfulness. In his directorial debut Kazhcha, we saw Pavan (Yash Malavya) deprived from his parents. Here, Ramesan (Mohanlal) is deprived of his memories.

He is a Government employee, happily married, father of two children and the holder of the dreams of any middle-class family man. His father (Nedumudi Venu) wanted him to join IAS, but he couldn’t. So he wants to fulfill his dream through his son.

Everything goes on fine until Ramesan becomes increasingly forgetful. He finds his office file in his refrigerator and forgets the way to his office. Painfully we realise that he has Alzheimer’s disease, a disorder in which one loses his memories, "from latest to first," as the protagonist puts in.

Though a bit dramatic, the attempt to portray Alzheimer’s, and that too using Mohanlal, is praiseworthy. It was good to see his talents being tested to a considerable extend. Other important characters are Ramesan’s wife (Meera Vasudev), son Manu (Arjun Lal) and colleague Joseph (Jagathy Sreekumar).

If a good movie is one that leaves you brooding, puts you in a kind of hangover that you like, Thanmatra definitely fits the bill.

Songs are composed by Mohan Sithara, Kaithapuram has written the lyrics. Cinematography by newcomers Sethu Sreeram is impressive. It is for the first time that 535- B camera with Moviecam lens- an advanced camera is being used to shoot a Malayalam film.

An impressive movie, good work by the cast and crew. Director Blessy surely lived up to the anticipation generated after Kazhcha.

Long long journey...

2005-12-19T08:34:00.000+05:30

Today, the spectator tried a variety of modes of transport. He boarded a motor boat, then a KSRTC and a private bus, a ferry, train and last but not least, a walk of nearly 10km!

Motor boat

It’s fun to be a spectator. This time, the view was the mighty Vembanad lake. I was on a boat to Alappey from Kottayam.

Last night, Sreeni suddenly came up with the idea of visiting the tsunami-struck coastline of Alappuzha. We woke up at 6 today (the earliest since we came here!), got ready and went.

The guys were on bikes, Sreeni and I walked towards the Kodimatha boat jetty.

Misty morning, water lilies and rice fields; the scenery was impressive. Saw Kuttanad almost the completely. The last visit was ten years ago.

You shouldn’t go there alone, because you’ll surely be tempted to tell someone what you feel. You shouldn’t go there with a brigade of your friends, because chit-chat will take away the time to enjoy the scenery. The ideal company would be either your camera or the person you love!

Bus

Reached Alappuzha by 9:15 and caught a bus towards Harippad. On reaching there, we made a sudden change of plan. We decided to go to Karunagappally, towards Amritanandamayi’s ashram. There, we boarded a Karunagappally bus.

On foot

On the way, Sreeni pointed a board showing direction of Amritapuri. We alighted a stop after that, and had to walk all the way back and then another 5km towards Valikkavu, where the ashram is situated. I was walking in my district, my home was just 20km away…

Ferry

There, we had to catch a ferry. We could see the fifteen-storey building from Vallikkavu junction one kilometer away. The ashram was quite big. Sreeni was bowled over! "Macha, I thought this would be one dokku ashram with 10 or 15 sanyasis," he said. There were many foreigners, students, devotees, security and media personnel.

Then we ventured out to find the actual tsunami victims. We found many. I had to as one who knew the tsunami only from the TV. They narrated in simple words what they had gone through. By 3:30, we left Amritapuri, took the ferry and then a bus to Karunagappally.

Train

After reaching Karunagappally, we walked 2km towards the railway station. We reached there by 4:15, only to know that the train will come only at 6. Helpless, we slept in the platform bench.

I continued the session of sleep in the Kollam-Kottayam passenger, while Sreeni jotted down the story. The long, tiresome trip concluded with a 2km walk from the railway station to MASCOM.

From participant to spectator

2005-12-17T22:20:00.000+05:30

He was scribbling a dash here and a speck there. At the end there was a caricature on the board. I was jotting down those specks and dashes, and finally drawn a caricature for the first time in many years. We were at the Kerala Press Club, Kochi, attending a seminar on media and disability. The man was a cartoonist.

I was drawn back to my days at Madhava’s. I drew my first cartoon there; a caricature of Karunakaran.
My first drawing attempt was on the unpainted walls of my then home. I used to get the left-over chalks of the literacy mission campaign. (Unni maman was an active member of the "Saksharata mission."). I still remember Thambi kochachan scolding me for scribbling on the walls.

Then I got my first set of colour pencils. Note books became my canvas. I drew up many pictures, good and bad. But after beginning to use water colours, I started collecting and keeping the pictures. I recall I had more than 100. I used to display them in pride whenever a relative or a guest came.

I learned the actual techniques of drawing in Madhava’s. I tried my hand in cartoons, with good results.

As always, my father was a silent admirer of the pictures. He considered (and still considers) it inappropriate to appreciate his son directly. Instead, he became my patron. I got my first box of imported water colours.

I began participating in drawing competitions. The first prize was actually the first prize of that competition. I drew a peacock. I got fifty bucks. I became the star of my class in the convent.

Many competitions, many prizes. But somewhere I lost my interest to experiment and later, my drive to draw. That was when I joined St Aloysius’. I took part in my last competition there. Those three years turned the participant in me to the complete spectator that I am now.

I forgot the lessons I learnt. My skill lost the lustre of experience. But I still treasure that unused range of Chinese brushes and the made-in-Italy colour box. I still hope to give a try sometime; to brush up.

INS Venduruthy

2005-12-03T12:48:00.000+05:30

6:00am
I was in my room.

8:00am
I was in the Manorama van.

10:00am
I was in a war ship.

We were in INS Venduruthy, the home of the Southern Naval Command; the ship was INS Sujatha, a surveillance vessel.

We listened in rapt attention as Commander Nambiar explained about the machines, terms and jargons in the naval parlance. It was really an awesome experience. It was my first experience. I was interacting with persons guarding the deep-blue frontiers of our nation.

A visit to a ship is interesting; even more so when it is a war ship. One of the things that will catch your attention, even perplex you, will be the peculiar terms used in the ships.

"She performs the surveillance operations," said Commander Nambiar. No, "she" is not his colleague, but a ship. This is what we should call a ship; the reason is pretty philosophical.

The ship, in its hull, holds provision enough for the sailors to last for months. The vessel protects and feeds the "inmates" like a mother. That’s why she is addressed as "She." And every "she" has the initials INS. It means Indian Naval Ship.

The interesting terms do not end there. The front of the ship is called forecastle. So the back should be hind-castle, right? No, it is called quarter deck.

Cabin is a room in a ship, but the room from which the Captain controls the ship is not a Master Cabin. It is called Bridge. "It is the brain of the ship," said Lieutenant Viswanathan. A "bridge" in deep waters!

Speaking of waters, the speed of the ship is measured in "knots." A knot means nautical mile per hour. And the "log" tells the inclination of the ship as she "rolls." Don’t go by the word, log in the ship is quite like a pendulum and to roll means to turn.

When you feel hungry, you go to the kitchen. In the ship, there is a "galley." Don’t be puzzled if someone tells you the food is in "mess"; it also means kitchen. The regular meals for the officers will be served in the "wardroom," that is dining hall for us.

2005-11-26T11:19:00.000+05:30

Lal Lal Mohanlal!

Don’t say that I’m stupid. This is not me, but a die hard movie buff speaking, and he’s quite exhilarated. He just saw, heard and touched his matinee idol, Mohanlal.

Lalettan was attending a function marking the end of his one-year foray into theatre. He had completed eight shows of the solo drama, Kathayattam.

My eyes rarely strayed away from him right from when he entered the podium till he left. I can hardly remember what I blabbered to him. This was the first time I was seeing him in close quarters. This was the first time when I could speak to him.

I know that admiration to eccentric levels is stupidity, but that's what I am. I love, care and admire certain things, to the level of eccentricity. Movies top the list. I grew up seeing movies of Mohanlal, and certain ones, I hold close to my heart.

I’ve seen some of his movies repeatedly that I lost count. His movies (I’m tempted to say he) have a prominent place in my memories, because most are associated with several incidents: curious; happy; sad.

Anyway, all I know is that today I am happy; very very happy.

When names lack intimacy

2005-11-22T00:14:00.000+05:30

You know what socialism is, right? Have you heard of a socialist language? No, I am not speaking about the style of using the language, but a language that actually gives almost similar status to everybody. It is English.

I realised this as I typed out the previous post. I said Maman for my paternal uncle. In Malayalam, Maman or Ammavan is a common name for maternal uncle. I call my Appachi's (father’s sister) husband also Maman.

Uncle can also mean paternal one, right?. Here arises the problem. Father is Achan in Malayalm. I call my father’s elder brother (he has two) Vallyachan and younger brother (he has three) Kochachan and I affectionately call one among them, Chittappan, which means the same.

But when translation comes, only one term prevails for all; Uncle. Isn’t English a socialist language? This is applicable for the feminine gender also. My Vallyachan’s wife is Vallyammachi for me and Kochachan’s wife is Kunjamma. And my father’s sister is Appachi. My mother’s sister, had there been one, would be my Kunjamma. Here also, translation offers you the convenience of a single term; Aunty.

I have seen children, even youth, using the term Uncle to denote their father’s brother, their mother’s colleague and even their neighbour. Same is the case while feminine.

Moving to Hindi, only the terms differ. Each of the members in the family have names such as Chacha and Chachi; Taoo and Taayi; Mama and Maami; Kaka and Kaaki. Each pair can be replaced by Uncle and Aunty.

Even maternal and paternal grandparents have separate names; Dada and Dadi; Nana and Nani. English conveniently shortened them to Grandpa and Granny.

Socialism prevails while addressing people also. There is Aap to denote respect (mostly to elders), Tum to show camaraderie and Tu to address the younger ones. We have fine tuned to use You to address an individual.

Back here, I have friends who cannot differentiate between Vallyachan and Kochachan; even worse some don’t even know what they mean.

Unnikrishna Pillai is my Unni Maman, Vivekanandan MC is my Thambi Kochachan. I wouldn’t alienate them by donning them the boring uniformity of Uncle.

Soccer speaks...

2005-11-18T11:11:00.000+05:30

For the first time in my life, I was stepping in to the Kochi Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium. Quarterfinal match of the Santosh Trophy Football tournament between Kerala and Delhi was about to begin. The biggest in the state, the stadium hosted more than One Lakh spectators during the last cricket match, an ODI. Now, there were only about 5000.

I still remember the day when I went to see a football match for the first time. The venue, Lal Bahadoor Stadium Kollam, was a smaller one. I was with Unni maman (maternal uncle), the tournament was Scissors Cup. We were at the gallery. It was drizzling, but it did't affect the spirit of the crowd. By the time the game finished, the whole stadium was wet.

I knew nothing about the game then, other than that you have to score goals to win. When I was a child, my kochachan (paternal uncle) had dictated me two answers. He would ask me, "Jayichathaaraa?" (Who won?) for which I’ll say, "Germany." Then he’d ask "Goal adichathaaraa?" (Who hit the goal?) for which I’ll say "Maradona." And the whole family would laugh!

Everyone of my family, from my 78-year-old grandfather to my sister, are football fans, but I was no hard-core follower of the game. During the 98 soccer world cup, I prepared an album entirely relying on newspapers. I didn’t see even the finals, which was telecast at midnight. I had a very tough time acting in front of my friends that I really saw the match.

Scissors Cup died away, and so did Kerala’s own football club FC Cochin. Two years ago was the last time I went to see a match. Venue was Kollam. I was with my Dad. Then the number of spectators was far less.

Then a World Cup came. The final was on my 18th birthday. Brazil won their fifth cup. Ronaldo was the hero. It was the first televised match I completely saw.

What I expected in Kochi and what I saw there contrasted heavily. Imported variety of "cheer girls" were there, a thing which is alien to the Kerala football scenario. There used to be a time when Santosh Trophy was held in makeshift stadiums, and the entire structure swayed due to the spectators standing up to cheer the players.

These "cheer girls" in their meager clothing does not even serve the purpose of an "item number." Another result of commercialisation of the game. We no longer have the adrenalin for the game. Instead of providing cure, the concerned ones are giving hallucinogens.

For the first time...

2005-11-14T07:31:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I drank toddy; ate pork; tasted pan masala; attended a ghazal concert.

"Kumarakom"

When Nishin came up with the idea, I was pretty apprehensive. Already he was in a bad mood; the sky was murky; the destination was a toddy shop.

But Mithun, Prasanth and Srini were ready. So out we went to get the machines and Sanil. Minutes later, we were speeding towards Kumarakom, the backwater village and a popular tourist destination.

Rain had already started when we halted at the petrol bunk at Baker Junction. We went on, racing with the rain. We were sure that it will rain heavily. It was a logical decision to make our way as fast as we can.

It was drizzling though. The road was comparatively narrow. I was in "Watchie’s" (Sanil) Royal Enfield. The six-footer maneuvered the machine with ease.

Then we reached the road parallel to the lake. I have never seen a place where you have boats parallel to your machine. The roadside houses, specially ones in traditional style, were lovely.

We crossed the bridge and reached the rice fields. We could actually see rain coming from a distance. It was really an awesome sight.

In the race with the rain, we reached first. The toddy shop was by the side of the road that went through the paddy fields. Much like any local wayside restaurant.

They ordered pork, chicken, fish and four bottles of toddy as we entered the tatched place. Srini and I were strictly no-no to toddy. I remember Neetha asking me in wonder, "Nee kallu kudikumo?" (Do you drink toddy?).

However, I decided to give a try. Prasanth offered me the glass. I poured half-a-glass and sipped it. It was sour, but was not that awful.

Then came pork. It tasted good, though hot. I needed something hot because my throat was sour, and something spicy would be better, I thought.

Prasanth, as always, was late to finish. Mithun reminded us the belief that after eating, if you let your hands dry, your marriage will be delayed. Sreeni came up with another version that the repercussion will not be a late marriage, but a horrible looking wife!

Within an hour we were on the road, fully drenched in rain.

Back in the hostel, Prasanth offered a little from his pan masala packet. No special taste, though I could feel a particular kind of smell in my breath.

Then we went to listen "Umbayee."

"Umbayee"

"Fragrance of the flowers faded away, all my friends have gone. O! my beloved, when will you come?" I was also translating the lines as I listened in rapt attention to PA Ibrahim, popularly known to Malayalis as Umbayee.

Ghazal, for me, was confined to my tape recorder, television and the bathroom singing sessions. This was the first time I was attending a concert.

I read his biography in a magazine in our library. It was the very first article I read in the institute. I have seen Umbayee in TV, but came to know in detail only after reading the article. And here I was, listening to him.

He gave an introduction in Hindi, with a "madrasi" tinge, but his Urdu was excellent. He began with a song unfamiliar to me, and I began translating.

Ghulam Ali's popular ghazal "Chupke Chupke" was a real surprise. Then came a Malayalam number "Cheruppathil Nammal Randum.." by an unknown writer.

After the programme, when we had a chat with him, he told us that 12 people have contacted him claiming to be the writer of the song!

While coming back, Prasanth commented that liquor and ghazal forms a good combination!

Stamp story!

2005-11-09T13:29:00.000+05:30

This week's story is on stamps! I was to report on the fake postage stamps sold here and the way Philatelists chooses genuine ones from the counterfeit mass.

This was interesting, because I collect stamps. During reporting, I came to know of the various sources of stamps in town, and also met Mr Mathew, a veteran philatelist.

I still remember our class teacher in the third standard asking us to start collecting stamps after she took the Moral Science lesson on hobbies. I did not care much at first. By the end of the year, I also began to keep stamps that were attractive. By next June, I was hooked!

My first stamp album was a notebook. A crude way to store, I used to stick my stamps in the ruled pages.I exchanged whatever I could collect with my friends in the class.

Then on the Onam vacation that year came an envelope full of stamps from my Dad who was in Dubai at that time. That was my first jackpot, shall I say.

Then I was like a star among the collectors in my class. But one day, my stamp book was stolen. You cannot imagine the dismay I felt. That was one of the rare occasions in school when I cried without the teacher's beating.

Then, during the summer vacation that year, Dad came home. He gave me his collection that he left in one of his suitcases, what we called "Bombay Boxes."

Then I had a real stamp album. He gave me a brand new one also. It was made in China. From then on, his letters were accompanied by stamps.

My collection grew. I began understanding the various ways of collection. It takes a lot of patience to collect a stamp, separate it from the envelope, dry it and arrange according to the album space and classification.

There are stamps which when arranged in a particular order gives you a picture. Once I got two stamps of Pilippines, which formed part of a map. I sent it back to Dad and asked for him to lookout for the joining pieces. Then, after two years, he sent me the other two, completeing the picture of the map.

There were times when I totally avoided my collection, adding less than five stamps a year. But I didn't give up completely. My collection was in a dormant state then.

Now I have more than 1200 stamps in five albums. Most are used, some are mint (unsealed). But I am still not a philatelist, but a stamp collector. Philatelists are those who collect, classify and study stamps. I just collect and keep.

Most philatelists specialise in certain areas, such as wildlife stamps, space stamps or stamps of certain nations. I plan to specialise in what I call Joint-picture stamps!

Shoe story!

2005-11-05T07:00:00.000+05:30

While coming back from my home yesterday, I browsed through the filed issues of The New Yorker I took from the library. There was a story of a person greatly interested in shoes. He conducted several studies, designed shoes to fit various types of feet, and even those of pre-historic people.

Somewhere, the writer asks why we wear shoes. I remember someone saying, "It is great comfort to wear shoes. You feel it the most when you take it off."

I got my first pair of shoes when I was nine. It was a pair of multicoloured canvas shoes, my long- times wish come true. Wearing shoes was made compulsory in my school that year. I used to wear the same pair of socks for five days at that time!

That was December that year. Black shoes joined the list of our school uniform the next year. I had to wear it on all the days in the rainy June. It became smelly often. I began hating shoes.

Three years from then, I had to wear shoes. In between, I got my first pair of "Action" shoes, cool ones with light in the heels! I joined St. Aloysius’ for high school studies and there was no compulsion to wear shoes in my new school. I almost snapped ties with shoes.

Then I joined SN for plus two. There I had to restore the relationship. I got a pair of black shoes, the sixth pair I had. Then, after six months, dad bought me my first pair of leather shoes-which I still use. I wear it rarely, and they still have their shine, though it’s been five years since I got it.

During the three years in my college, I went wearing shoes only six times (exactly)! And here, two times till date.
Personally speaking, I do not favour wearing shoes. But once I tuck in my full sleeve shirt and wear a belt, shoes become something indispensable for me! Now, I am on a mission to use my leather shoes for three years more.

No, not the record for the longest use. My dad’s Italian shoes are 10-years-old now!

Diwali is here

2005-11-02T13:25:00.000+05:30

Diwali is here, but our schedule continued as usual. In the afternoon, we went to attend a debate in the nearby auditorium, hostd by DC publishers.

I had to wait to get the interview of the Publishing Manager to finish this week’s story and suddenly came upon the most famous person we ever met- Sudarshan, the Swayamsevak Sangh Supremo! I got a chance to speak to him in Hindi!

Returned to give away the news and saw candles being lighted in front of the insti! Got a "tilak" and "Balu sheri" (a North Indian sweet) from Khyati, lighted the candles and took photos.

Finished typing my story in record time (which means "screwing" guaranteed)!.
Anyway, I feel quite happy today.

Yesterday’s movies and today’s editorial conference

2005-10-31T23:35:00.000+05:30

Mondays are for Editorial Conferences. Yesterday, being the last day of the film festival, were for movies. A black comedy "Underground" began and ended with the same dialogue: "Once upon a time there was a Country!" The nation was Yugoslavia.

There were a few 10-minute documentaries. One, from the very beginning, had the camera floating freely. It was like gliding through the air. In the background was a description on different periods of time. Finally the camera went towards a light, then a flash, a fly dropped dead!

The day’s movie was Khamosh Paani from Pakistan. Kiron Kher as a Punjabi woman in Pakistan separated from her relatives during the partition had done a good job. After a day long spell of movies, I slept late and woke up at 7:15 today.

I finished bath in a hurry, gobbled up food fast and came to the class only to be thrown out along with six others for not reading the paper. Then came the editorial conference where my story idea was beaten to pulp by the Director, who is the Chief Editor of The Fourth Estate, our lab newspaper. After that was roaming time, hunting for story ideas on my own for sometime and along with "Ujju," my friend from Kolkata.

I saw Hitler!

2005-10-30T12:00:00.000+05:30

I was surprised to see Adolf Hitler on screen when we entered the hall today. It was the second day of the film festival and we entered late. On screen was the German movie "Downfall," picturing the last days of Hitler and the Second World War.

Then came the French movie "A very long engagement," based on First World War. The film was directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Audrey Tautou was in the lead. "Amelie," another movie by the same pair, is the first French film I saw and it is one of my favourites.

The movie of the day was "Gloomy Sunday," a German movie by Rolf Schubel. It was about a haunting music composition, which leads to a number of suicides including that of its composer.

I came back, ‘googled' Gloomy Sunday and found out that there is actually a Hungarian music piece which lead to suicides of more than 100 people! Surely "Gloomy Sunday" made Saturday sizzling!

Movie Marathon!

2005-10-29T12:25:00.000+05:30

Today we went to attend the MG Varsity Film festival, saw five movies in a row, including a German, Russian and Spanish film for the first time in my life.

Of the five films, I enjoyed the first three very much. The German film "The Miracle of Bern" was on their first victory in the soccer world cup. The story covered the lives of a boy, his father who was a German soldier during the Second World War, a national team member from their locality and a young Journalist and his wife who goes to cover the tournament in Switzerland.

The best "timepass" movie I have seen in recent times, it has a sequence where the father slaps his son and says, "Now don’t start crying. German boys don’t cry." And the last dialogue of the movie is by the boy who comforts his weeping father saying, "You know Dad, German boys can cry now and then."

"Motorcycle Diaries," based on the life of the Argentine revolutionary Earnesto "Che" Guevara was the Spanish movie. The story dealt how a 10,000km travel across Latin America transformed a jovial medical student into "Che". Impressive fair.

There are more in the offering, the fair will continue tomorrow and the day after it. And on Sunday, there is "Khamosh Paani," the Kiron Kher starrer Pakistani movie.

The worst thing is that we have to write a review on a movie, as an assignment! Anyway, I love movies and today it was a pucca movie marathon!

Workaholic? Nah!

2005-10-28T16:10:00.000+05:30

Phew! It is 3:30 in the morning and I am sitting before my stupid computer. I finished the third page of the fifth issue of the fourth volume of our lab newspaper, The Fourth Estate.

Every Thursday four of our gang (an editor and the three subs) has to stay awake, finishing our paper. The Malayalam stream students are a little fortunate. They have only one page to do, and the four of them finishes it in an hour or two.

Our Director reminded us today in our class that in the world of newspapers, the deadline is all that matters. Not only our work, but our food, rest and recreation depend on the deadlines.Now it's time to take a little nap.

Today, we are going for a film festival conducted by the MG Varsity here.

Creation of a thousand forests....

2005-10-27T07:10:00.000+05:30

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

This is the quote for today in my daily mail. Reading this, I remembered the labs of Kerala Forest Research Institute in Peechi, Thrissur. We went there during our field trip last week. There we saw the seeds of a mighty teak. The thing was as little as my thumbnail.. But what fascinates us was that the actual seeds were inside the tiny hard globe. The scientist split it open to show tiny water-droplet like things from which a teak sprouts.

I once read a fable where a Guru teaches his disciples how the mind can consist the whole universe, by showing the pore-like seeds of a banyan tree in it’s tiny red fruit.
The thoughts went on till I remembered that the animals, birds, stones, trees and we all were composed of molecules and atoms……………

This was an extract from a session of wandering thoughts today. This, certain eccentricities, and certain mannerisms. That is me for the guys here, for my family and for everybody.

Tonight is for manual cropping of the stories. Mostly I’ll try to start the computer layout also, though the deadline is tomorrow night. Now, get set and go………..

Sri Lanka and some thoughts

2005-10-26T11:30:00.000+05:30

Today our sir KTO narrated his trip to Sri Lanka. His focus was on the condition of Sri Lankan press, the plight of Journalists and the general conditions prevailing in third world countries. He narrated with examples how the aspiring journalists are forced to take up other jobs, due to poor pay. The training they receive in Journalism is not enough to make them competent, he said. Thus there is a vicious circle, where poor training begets poor pay and poor remuneration forces the aspirants to go for poor training.

He reminded many that they had glorified in the interview their "long cherished ambition" to become a journalist, to "change the face of India". He sadly reminded us that the quality of our Journalism does in no way match the standards of the West and we will be frustrated a lot if we consider remuneration as our prime objective.

As for me, i am still wondering. I came here with the aim of "cutting" a year, get a job, two year work experience, do my MBA and mint bucks. This 69 year old veteran have influenced my intentions, my language, my behaviour, even my thoughts.

By the way, I am sub-editor for this week's issue. Today I had absolutely no work, tomorrow and the day after will be hectic.

First post

2005-10-25T16:32:00.000+05:30

Whatever you can do, or believe you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

This is my first post...Thanks to Sreeni for teaching me how to blog.

Happy reading