high pedigree

The other day I traveled by bus from Thrissur town to the medical college, a distance of 10 km. The bus was smaller than usual, and I noticed a curious thing: every seat on the left side of the bus was reserved for some category or the other. The seats right in the front were of course for "ladies"; the seats just by the front door were for “mothers with babes in arms” (a relatively new category); next were the seats for "senior citizens-women"; then a set of seats for "the blind" (this the first time I've seen this); then the seats for “senior citizens” (presumably only male ones); and last, just over the rear tires, the traditional seats for the “handicapped” (gender not specified). These seats, I have noticed, are invariably cramped for space, the thoughtful providers assuming, no doubt, that those handicapped by missing body parts would need that much less space. Of course, none of the seats were occupied by those they were reserved for; elderly men and women stood, while college boys lounged in the seats. Oh, I couldn't complain; a few months short of my 60th birthday and with no visible handicaps, I knew I had to make do as best I could. So I stood in the aisle, jostled by the bulging backpacks of school students as they excitedly compared their mobile phones. Next year, I consoled myself, I would be eligible for one of the senior citizen seats.
Just before the bus started off an elderly lady boarded it. Gray-haired and with ill-fitting dentures, she wore a starched cotton sari. Not a regular bus commuter, I decided. She had the look of a retired school teacher (principal of a government school perhaps) who was making her monthly visit to town to collect her pension. Anyway, she looked around, all the seats were taken. The seats for senior citizen (ladies) were occupied by two college students, both immersed in their books. Too short to reach the overhead bar, she stood clutching a seat. I could see the stringy sinews of her forearm tighten with each swing of the bus. None of the young women occupying the seats near her got up to offer a seat, and she was too proud to ask. But I was apparently not the only one to notice her. A forty-something man--a Tamil speaking man--sitting with a friend towards the rear of the bus got up, went forward and tapped her on the shoulder, and invited her to come and take his seat. She gratefully accepted the offer. The man, stood in the aisle, and continued his conversation with his friend.
I have been thinking of this on and off since then. Do we really need to label the seats in these town buses (or any bus, for that matter)? Do we really need to read the label to get up and offer a seat to a young mother carrying a baby? Or a blind man? Or an old lady struggling to stand in a moving bus? Even for these short journeys, where we are traveling for 30-40 minutes at the most, why are we so reluctant to extend these little courtesies? Oh, I'm not blaming anyone; I know I have done the same in my time. But the Tamil gentleman in the bus that day shamed me. He did not just get up to offer a seat to someone standing by his side, he took the trouble to get up and go halfway down the bus to invite the lady to come and occupy his seat. I know that I would not have done the same, had I had a seat in the bus. I wish I had this ability to perform such little--instinctive and unselfconscious--acts of kindness.
I was born in Thrissur, the cultural capital of Kerala, the state with the highest literacy level in India, the oldest civilization in the world.
More is expected of me!

dhabha diary

You are in Pondicherry. Turn north at Pattanikadai junction and you are on West Boulevard. Maybe 50 meters down the road, on the left side of the street, there used to be a movie theater called Navina (I think). Close to it was this little hotel. Don't remember the name. Small frontage, but deep. Remember the hotels of small town Tamil Nadu in the 70s and 80s? Green neon light at the entrance. Also, the large tava upon which the master (the cook) would make podi mash (scrambled eggs), expertly beating out a ringing tattoo with two metal spatulas.Like Pavlov's dog, your digestive juices should be flowing now.

This hotel made the best parotta/mutton kurma that I have tasted. The parottas were small, only a little bigger than iddlis. Soft and redolent with ghee, they would melt in the mouth. The kurma was thick and spicy, with perfectly cooked soft chunks mutton.

for heaven's sake

Some years back I had occasion to trek through Ponmudi as part of a team conducting a survey among tribals. The jeep left us at the edge of the forest, where the tarred road came to an end, and we set out in search of tribal hamlets. The ‘road’ narrowed progressively and then began to climb, and soon we were pushing our way, single file, through shoulder-high grass. After an hour or so of this, we stopped to rest. Everyone was too out of breath to speak and it was then that we became conscious of the stillness. So accustomed were we to the sounds of city life that it came almost as a shock to us – this absence of noise. And yet I recognized it; it reminded me of something, I’m not sure what. Of time spent in the womb, perhaps. Or my childhood days in small-town Oddissa; a time when cell phones had not yet been invented, when 24-hour music and news channels were just fanciful thoughts, when the few cars on the road did not make irritating PIP-PIP-PIP sounds in reverse gear, and when the neighbor’s teenage son did not have a 5000-Watt music system to fool around with on a hot Sunday afternoon.

There must be only a few havens like Ponmudi left in this jangling world. That is why I was so pained to see G. Madhavan Nair insist upon—and get—Ponmudi as the site for the prestigious IIST. Another bit of paradise gone! Imagine if, instead, he had asked the government to give him the worst, most useless, piece of land in Kerala and if he had then proceeded to use all the cutting-edge technology at his command to convert the wasteland into something that would rival Ponmudi. That would have been an achievement to be proud of. Much better than sending a rocket to the moon half a century after the Russians and Americans had done so.

voices in the wind

Summer is drawing to a close. There is a slow breeze blowing in from the west. This is the breeze that will soon bring the monsoon to Kerala. This must be the breeze that billowed the sails of Vasco da Gama's ships as he sailed into Kappad on May 27,1498.

On this hot afternoon, I sit in the shade of the mango tree and feel the light breeze on my back. If I listen carefully I can hear the excited calls of the Portuguese sailors as they approach land after almost a month on the sweltering seas.

Did they walk through the streets, gaping at the bare-breasted Malabarese women carrying baskets full of mambazham to the weekly market? One of the sailors must have picked up a yellow fruit from a bamboo basket and bitten into it and felt the warm juice soak into his scurvious gums. 



              According to Merriam-Websters dictionary the origin of the word mango:

              Portuguese manga, probably from Malayalam māṅṅa

              First Known Use: 1582

Sachin Tendulkar: 99 is enough

Why is everyone so afraid to say that Sachin Tendulkar must go? I have just been watching a Karan Thapar interview of Bishen Singh Bedi. Even the otherwise outspoken Bedi just wouldn't come out and say it. Instead, he says: Sachin must be allowed to decide. If he does not make the decision, the Board must decide (to drop him?). When cornered by Karan, Bedi takes recourse to statements like "we are just pygmies compared to Sachin" or "imagine what he has done for the country."

Exactly what has he done for the country? Did he make some great sacrifice? Did he risk life and limb in the service of the country? Did he sincerely grind away at some boring government job so that he could take home a few thousand rupees?

All he did was to continue doing what he enjoyed most--playing cricket. And, what is more, he got paid for it. He earned not a government employee's salary but unmentionable sums.

Ask not what he has done for his country, but what his country has done for him. May be it's time for him to retire and coach youngsters. To give something back to the country that gave him everything.

I am not Anna

I have a representative in parliament – a less than perfect person perhaps, but I chose him, and only he will speak for me. If he does not speak up for me, at least I can remove him from office 5 years from now. But I will not be ruled by street-corner protesters.

If the elected government (with the mandate of a disillusioned people) is trying to ram their version of the Lokpal Bill down my throat, Team Anna (with the mandate of a few thousand holiday picnickers) is trying to do the same with their version. Where is the difference in attitude? Is it true that we slowly come to adopt the traits of the person/thing we hate.

" I don't believe in astrology; I'm a Sagittarius and we're skeptical." -- Arthur C. Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke was wrong. He was not a Sagittarius; born on 16 December, he was actually an Ophiuchus, the newly revealed thirteenth sign of the Zodiac. Among the characteristics of Ophiuchus are mentioned "interpreter of dreams" and "one who reaches for the stars;" apt for Arthur C Clarke, wouldn't you say?

Someone (a French philosopher/scientist, I think) once said something along the lines of: "tell me the position of every atom in the universe and I can predict exactly what is going to happen in the future"? This was when the laws of classical physics - and forces such as electromagnetism, gravity, and the strong and weak nuclear forces - were beginning to be understood. Scientists of the day must have really felt that they were close to "understanding the mind of God."

If we believe that the entire universe is made up of particles that are all subject to the forces of nature then we have to accept that at any instant these particles can move in only one particular way. Which means that the arrangement of the particles on any date can be predicted, provided we have the information and the computing power. Isn't this what astrology, somewhat ambitiously, attempts to do?

You are a mass of matter being subjected to the pulls and pushes of every other bit of matter in the universe. It would be possible to accurately predict your course through space and time if it were possible to know the position of every atom in the universe at the moment of your birth. This of course is not possible. So astrologists make a crude (very crude) compromise. They ignore the influence of distant galaxies. These influences, in any case, come evenly from all around us and conceivably cancel one another out. The bodies in our solar system, on the other hand, are close by and their push and pull cannot be ignored. This can be roughly computed. The method of course cannot be accurate, but it has the potential to indicate a general trend.

An astrologer once told me that only about 60% of what he predicted would be correct. "60%" is no doubt an optimistic estimate but can you doubt that the sun and the moon, Saturn and Jupiter, and Venus and Mars hold you in their invisible arms and lead you through this cosmic dance.

The Earth on a long lease

We have 3 billion base pairs in our genome. With so much raw material, we should have had some 3 million genes. Instead we have a paltry 30000 genes, which uses up just 10% of our genome. So what is the rest doing? It has been called “nonsense” DNA, and Francis Crick—no less—dismissed it as “little better than junk.” Strangely, it seems to abide by Sturgeon's Law, which says that “ninety percent of everything is crap.” Just think: Issac Newton, Mother Teresa, Sachin Tendulkar, and Adolf Hitler had only 10% of their genome driving them. Imagine what they might have achieved if the remaining 90%—the “crap”—had kicked in!

But surely frugal nature would not pointlessly load us with so much junk. There has to be a reason for its presence. I am fascinated by the explanation that this junk - these meaningless sequences in our DNA - are the “fossils” of genes past. As the evolutionary biologist Susumu Ohno put it, “The Earth is strewn with the fossil remains of extinct species; is it any wonder that our genome too is filled with the remains of extinct genes?” We have after all evolved from simple molecules that learned to make copies of themselves, through humble single-celled creatures, to our present complex form. Surely we did not start out with the three billion base pairs, or the 30000 genes, that we have now. Bits and pieces must have been added on (and shed) over the eons.

Imagine the early Earth: teeming with exuberant life forms, each desperately trying to establish a foothold on the evolutionary ladder. No price was too high to pay for survival. Our first unicellular ancestors must have had fierce drawn-out battles with innumerable bacteria and viruses. Countless numbers on both sides must have perished before some truces were arrived at. Free-living bacteria were permitted to live within our cells disguised as mitochondria if they would agree to generate energy for our daily use. Deadly retroviruses agreed to lay down arms if they could insinuate themselves into our genome and function as genes and thus be spared harassment by the cell’s deadly arsenal. Even as new genes were added, other functional genes—having served their purpose —must have mutated away into “junk.” In this junk, therefore, is the story of our evolutionary past. And what a story that must be!  For in this corrupt code is the story of our survival; in it are the traces of our wings and scales, of our horns and tails.

But why is this junk DNA being preserved? Some 40 million base pairs are believed to have been discarded since our ancestors migrated out of Africa. But so much excess baggage is still being retained. There must be a purpose. Perhaps it is because in it lies not just our past, but also our future. As the genetic clock ticks on, random mutations will continue to take place in the nonsense sequences and, every now and then, a new meaningful sequence—a new gene—will appear in the meaningless jumble to take us a step further in our evolutionary journey. We have traveled only a small fraction of our journey. Most of the road lies ahead.

But the onion, I understand, has 12 times as much DNA as a human. The salamander has 40 times as much! Does that portend a greater destiny for these “lower” life forms? Why not? Who knows which species will inherit the Earth next? Some 65 million years ago the dinosaurs ruled the Earth, with no one to challenge their dominance. Our furry forebears probably spent most of their time scurrying about in the undergrowth trying to avoid being caught for snack by a foraging dinosaur. And then a bolt from the blue: a shooting star crashed into the world and turned it upside down! Today, we visit the KFC outlet and gnaw on pieces of the closest surviving relatives of the dinosaurs!
The dinosaurs were around for 200 million years, and where are they now?  We have been around for just 5 million years, and already we strut about like we own the Earth. Tread softly Homo sapiens, you only have the Earth on lease. Tomorrow it may be the turn of the onion!

kanji - food for all seasons

'Kanji' - that's how malayalees were referred to in my college days. The correct term, these days, is 'mallu,' I'm told.

Kanji was a good term, for an appreciation of this simple food was something that malayalees - pauper or prince - had in common. (Perhaps this commonality had something to do with our acceptance of marxism.)

It's different now: most mallus these days sneer at kanji. A pity. I still find it such a wonderful food. So much more satisfying than, say, 'gobi manchurian' or chilly chicken! It's so much more suited to our climate. In the hot and humid summers, a bowl of kanji can rehydrate you like nothing else. During the monsoon months or in the crisp cold of December/January, a hot steaming bowl of kanji is an infusion of warmth before you snuggle down for a good night's sleep.

Of course, it must be cooked just right. The rice grains must be of the right softness, with the edges blurring into the opalescent water. In the steam that rises from the bowl, you must be able to smell the scent of the paddy fields and the sweat of the laborers who have toiled under the hot sun.

a vagrant gypsy life

This poem by John Masefield holds so much magic for me. I never tire of reading it. I first came across it in school (in class 7 or 9?) along with this same picture of a sailing ship under storm clouds.

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I cannot understand the almost visceral appeal that this rhyme holds for me.

I once took the ferry to cross a small strip of backwater in Kochi. That is the extent of my contact with the 'sea.' But, despite that, I can feel the wheel kick in my hands; I can hear the humming of the wind and feel the planks under my feet vibrate with the flapping of the canvas sail. I can feel the flung spray on my face and taste the salt on my lips. Was I perhaps a sailor in some past life?

Or is it because the poem is a celebration of unambitiousness? The poet's joy in the little things? Isn't that the way I would have liked to live? Is it not how I have scripted my own disastrous life story?

koi lauta de mujhe....

A program by the Rafi-Kishore foundation (Thrissur) on Diwali evening. That's the first I've heard of this organization. The hall was packed. Standing room only, with many people standing outside the hall, braving the light drizzle. How hungry people are for the melodies of yesteryear.

Local talent only - and some of the singers were obviously amateurs - but everyone sang with their hearts. The predominantly middle-aged crowd hummed along with the singers, reliving their youth.

the scent of the yakshi

Its November. The pala tree at the crossroads close to my home has bloomed. Bunches of little waxy yellow flowers crust the tree. Soon the ground below will be carpeted with fallen flowers. For now, the blooms perfume the whole village. Its that time of the year. The tula varsham has ended and the vrischika kaatu has not yet started to blow. The nights are cool and the air still. My house is more than 100 meters away from the crossroads, yet at nights the air around my house is heavy with the sickly sweet smell of the pala flower.

Its the smell you get when you awaken at 4 AM with a bad hangover after a night of debauchery. You see the crushed, browning, jasmine flowers on the pillow. By your side, the seductive young beauty of last night lies snoring through an open mouth, transmogrified into a terrible yakshi.

Elections

Its election time in small town Kerala. Jeeps have been criss-crossing the streets these past two days. Between the opposition bashing and the election promises they play little snippets of music. The Communists play their old anthem from 60s -Sakhakkale Munnottu..., (Forward, comrades...), while the Congress campaign vehicles blare out Shakira's Waka waka.."

the game of glorious uncertainties?

This was after seeing Kapil cry on live TV (when faced with allegations of match-fixing).

Kapil's Devils

Once, their dashing deeds, we thought,
Spoke of divine grace;
Their idols in our minds we wrought
For long we sang their praise.

In homage to these radiant beings,
We'd bend our knees to pray;
Till, upon the closer look,
We saw the feet of clay!

Today, we tear these idols down
And smash the spurious busts,
We batter them within our minds
We grind our gods to dust.

When our fury's spent, we'll see:
'Twas wrong to blame our idols so;
We were, perhaps, much more to blame:
For the halos 'round their human frames.

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(Why am I not able to get away from the clippetty-clop meter of "the woods are lovely, dark, and deep..."?)