Emden and Pillai

While I was writing this, I wondered for long – How would Hitler have addressed Champakaraman Pillai? Well, he obviously did as he gave Pillai an apology of sorts for his demeaning comments about Indians in Mein Kempf (they are people incapable of governing themselves, he said). Food for thought, I guess – Herr Schampak maybe?

And the following lines that Ganesan (he learnt it in his kid days) once used, repeatedly spun around in my mind "Emden vitta gundu, adhil erindha tank rendu.."

All this started as I was musing about my days in Madras in the early 80’s, the walk to Marina beach up the Pycroft’s road and the Presidency College on the shore. And then I remembered the shell on the High court wall and Emden, the German ship. I thought I would research a bit more of that story and it was thus that this amazing tale came to light, I had not the slightest clue until then, no history book or patriotism class had taken me there, but first a bit about the ship…

Even today people in North Kerala call dark stout guys ‘Yumunden’ without knowing that the origin of the name was the hulking WW1 German frigate SMS Emden. SMS Emden’s story is well covered on Wikipedia. But we will focus on the day it steamed into Madras Harbour.

Late at night on September 22, 1914, Emden quietly approached the city of Madras on the east side of the Indian peninsula. Once in range Emden opened fire on many large Burmah Shell fuel oil tanks that the British kept near the city. After firing 130 shells the oil tanks were burning and the city was in a panic. Although the raid did little damage, it was a severe blow to British morale and thousands of people fled Madras, thinking that Emden might be planning another attack. Emden then sailed southwards down the east coast of Ceylon (Sri Lanka), causing panic among the British .Sri Lankan mothers frightened their children with the Emden bogeyman, and to this day a particularly obnoxious person is referred to as an Emden. Emden supplied new words to many South Indian Languages. Malayalam word Emandan meaning 'a big and powerful thing' or 'as big as Emden' derived from Emden following its successful attack on Madras Port.

Emden’s story is a classic war adventure, there are many a book written on it. In the end seventy-eight (some say 60) British ships were required to run her down. The adventures of the ship are chronicled in the book Last Corsair.

I thought the story ended there, but it did not….

Incredible as it may seem, the Emden had a very strong Malayali/Tamil connection. I was amazed when I stumbled upon this, well, to sum it up in a simple line; this anti imperialist attack was apparently directed by the Ship’s engineer Champakaraman Pillai, assisting the captain Helmut Von Mueller. (But I have add after some research, this was quite a bit of fiction, Pillai was not involved)

S Muthaiah states - Fanciful legends abound of his (Pillai) being Mueller's second-in-command, of his directing the firing on specific targets in and around Madras Harbour, and of his rowing ashore at Cochin to greet his family and admirers! Authentic records of the voyage of the Emden do not corroborate any of this, but they do speak of his work aboard the cruiser and his post-War attempts to gather in Germany an anti-British group of Indians, a forerunner to the Indian National Army. His volunteer force, another legend has it, was the inspiration for Netaji Subash Chandra Bose's Indian National Army.

Pillai was among those who first gave the slogan of "Jai Hind" to the people of India and to the many Indians abroad who were struggling for the cause of Indian Independence. He had the privilege of being the Prime Minister of the Provisional Government of India set up in Afghanistan in December 1915, with Raja Mahendra Pratap Singh of Kabul as President. However, the defeat of the Germans in the war shattered the hopes of the revolutionaries

Dr. Chembakaraman Pillai died in Germany in 1934 (poisoned or tortured to death by Nazi’s) and, after his death, his wife Lakshmibai, a Manipuri, who is said to have suffered at the hands of the Nazis herself, returned to India and lived in Bombay till her death in 1972. The most intriguing part of the Chembakaraman story is the mystery of his missing papers. J. V. Swamy, a nephew of the doctor, claims that shortly before Lakshmibai's death, the Bombay Police visited her flat and took away 17 boxes containing her husband's papers…

The story does not end here too. After many a success, Emden had to be destroyed, the ships crew were well aware that their time was up, they were finally chased & cornered by as many as 60-80 Allied ships --------The ship was finally sunk (Von mueller’s report is interesting reading).

But Von Müller’s landing party at the Cocos Islands managed to steal the 97-ton copra schooner ‘Ayesha’ and sailed to Penang. From here they made their way to Istanbul, which I believe, is another fascinating story. They survived numerous threats to make it to the Arabian Peninsula, where they travel by camel caravan and survive an attack by Bedouin tribesman before reaching safe haven in Istanbul.

So much behind that Emden attack on Madras, a luminary called Chebakaraman Pillai, Hitler, Imperialism, the ship SMS Emden and the British…What a story!!

Note: regretfully, the connections between Pillai and Emden and Jai Hind seem to be the result of fertile imagination. More research is required to uncover Pillai's eventful life.

A note On pillai’s last days

RKN has written a short story ‘Emden’ in his collection of short stories ‘Old & New’

S Muthiah’s articles - Remembering the Emden's surgeon , When the postman knocked

In lighter vein, there’s a movie called Emden mahan (re-titled Em mahan)in Tamil

A couple of stories about the ship and the voyage

Courtesy – Hyperlinks above, for the pictures

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Tsunami - the boy who found his home

Keshavan Nair belonged to the Perumpana Tharavad. I used to wonder why and how that family got such a name, but then strange were the ways of our elders in the times when time was aplenty and when all people did was wait for gods good grace to be bestowed on them or for great monsoons to arrive. Probably Nair’s house had a huge palm tree, who knows?

For that matter, the palm trees in hilly parts of Palakkad are quite massive, towering into the sky – and climbing them was no mean task even for the one who succeeded!! And of course, what the palm tree gave as fruits of labor, in return, be it toddy or the silky jelly-ish palm fruit (panam-nongu) tasted heavenly…

Musings later, but let us see what K Nair is upto today, well; I can see him walking up and down the stretch of cleared land in front of his house, situated in the Vadakke thara of Pallavur. He is waiting for the boy to get back from school, I guess, in order to start off for his evening walk towards Koorma malai.

Not many know of our village though, so let me add some words to the uninitiated, Pallavur did have its brief fling with fame when the great brothers ruled the Chenda and percussion music world – the marar brothers Manian, Appu and Kunjukuttan. It became famous when the Pallavur temple elephant (frankly, I forgot his name) ruled at the Guruvayur and Trichur pooram ulsavams. And it was in the limelight when the movie Pallavur Devanarayanan was released, a lousy movie loosely (purportedly) spun around Appu marar’s life..

But today, Pallavur is quite popular due to the Chinmaya School, teeming with young children wearing the distinctive brown and cream uniforms. A school which I understand, has created many a successful alumni. We are all proud of it; we donated the land for the school and helped supervise the building and setting up of the school in the mid 80’s.

Pallavur is still an undistinguished village situated on one side of the road that goes from Kunissery to Pallasena. The North side of the road is all paddy fields stretching to the hills, the most prominent hill being the Swami Mala that had a small temple atop it, a hill that people climbed when they wanted the god to bestow a special favor for them or when young lovers wanted peace and solitude. Sometimes the bolder teenagers who wanted to have a leisurely drink away from the eyes of prying elders took the walk up the black granite hill, with a surface smooth from eons of massage by heat, rain and wind…The families who lived here were mainly farming families, though only the older people remained in the village, the children and grandchildren making their wealth and fame in the great Indian cities far away. During the Navaratri festival, they all came down in droves, hiring taxis and vans for a fortnight from Olavakkot or the airports at Cochin or Calicut…

The biggest building in Pallavur is the Trippalavurappan temple, a Siva temple with its satellite temple the Krishnan Kovil just outside the 10ft high walls. Around the temple were the two agrahara - thekke gramam and the vadakke gramam. Years ago, here lived the Brahmin class that worked in the temple, as priests, cooks, assistants and so on…in those years & times when the temple and the village were affluent. Today those Iyers have moved on to Mumbai and Chennai, a few to Bangalore even… few sold off their houses though, preferring instead to rent them out to teachers or parents connected to the local Chinmaya school. Some that got sold were promptly demolished and gaudy modern houses took their place, now bright eye sores amidst old moss encrusted houses that blend with the scenery.

The temple is on the banks of a big pond - Ambalakulam, which always echoes with playful noises of kids swimming & fooling around. On one side of it was the enclosed bath house and on the other the kadavu were womenfolk bathed. As always there were the older teens peeping and prying near the kulam waiting to see a flash of the female body – a thigh or if very lucky a falling towel exposing a mammary, eager eyes, peering with their hormones on an overdrive, as with teens anywhere…

Keshavan Nair was 80 something, still lithe and trim, walking ramrod stiff, a handlebar moustache and hair slicked back. The ex army man had a lot of clout in the village and when he walked by, he demanded respect. He would even walk by and look frankly at the womenfolk bathing. Known for his candor, Nair would look down at a comely girl and say, ‘edi Nani, nee angu valarnallo, brassiere okke ittu thudangi alle’ raising good natured laughter from the others at the kadavu and a crimson colored blush from Nani. Some were terrified of Nair, it was said that he was still a virile chap, very active at nights. Rumor has it that he was caught red handed, sampling a new field worker, only the other day.

But Nair was after all, an important guy and his presence was needed to settle many a quarrel and fight in the village. Nair the army man was the one who would regale evenings at the local toddy shop or on month beginnings at his own house when his ration rum arrived. Nair led the festival singing and he did have a loud, overbearing and sometimes sonorous voice. His wife Dakshayani Amma had him and the home, mostly in control but then, his son Raman Kutty left the house at first given chance to escape his overbearing father – He was working in Bombay as a welder or something, from what I last heard, never coming home for vacations or holidays. Nair, naturally was devastated by this.

Once Dakshayani Amma had invited us home for a lime juice while we kids were passing by, I still recall running around the house trying to spot the rifle that Nair was supposed to have at home. I never saw one!!

Now, this story is set before the Balan death episode, so K Nair was the guy who was still in control, the well respected ex-serviceman, who had ‘apparently’ killed many a Pakistani and Chinese enemy, though not awarded any major medals or ‘Chakras’ (I was still of the opinion that he was a cook, though, and I say this since I have heard Nair barking expert commands to ‘Ambi’ cooks who came to cook for Sadya’s and other occasions at our house. Only a guy who really knew cooking could give such expert commands – but well who listened to this gangly kid - then or now?)

Winters in Pallavur were not very nice, though cool, the days were frequented by the Padinjare kattu, a biting cold breeze that chafed lips and dried up one’s skin. People remained indoors in the evenings, gone was the summer camaraderie when people sat on canal varambu’s or on the warm tar roads & conducting impromptu meetings - discussing the ailing world and the Indian community in perspective.

It was on one such evening that the boy appeared at the temple. He had a nice enough face, and was the quiet kind. How he strayed into this village, nobody knows, but he sat there mute at the door of the sanctum sanctorum, and looked on with a sad face. The poojari tried asking him questions, no answers. Others who passed by tried various languages (you really think they knew more than a few words of those languages? Most definitely not, but it was a chance for them to ‘shine’), but of no avail. As was his custom, K Nair finished his evening wash at the temple pond, passed snide comments at some of the girls bathing and walked into the temple, with his booming question to the Poojari if the Naivedya Payasam was ready. His eyes then chanced on the boy and sensing the disquiet around, took charge. You know how it is, Nair had to make his mark, he walked up to the cowering little ruffian and with his trademark scowl, bellowed, who are you? Whose son are you? and the such. The boy was petrified and close to tears. Nair just lifted him up by his ears and took him out of the temple to continue with his objectionable line of questioning. A group formed around them. Not getting any answers was not a situation Nair usually faced, but here it was the case. Eventually Nair gave the boy a few tight slaps hoping to get something out, and well, it did.. the boy howled his head off and cried out in some terribly accented Tamil (fisher folk Tamil I thought)that he was from Chennai, he had lost everybody of his family in the Tsunami and had found his way to our village after a couple of months of wandering about & ticket less travel on the southbound trains.

Nair’s features immediately softened, and he was quickly contrite. He asked him in Tamil (as an army man, Nair had full command over at least 5-6 languages including English) if he had eaten anything, yes, he had - the boy had got a plantain from the Kizhekettara tea shop some hours ago.

That was how Tsunami (as everybody called him since that fateful day) met Keshavan Nair. I think his real name was Velu or something like that, but he was always Tsunami. From that day he moved into Nair’s house, one must agree, whatever bad qualities this man had, he had a softer side too. He took good care of Tsunami. Tsunami became Nair’s chief assistant. He would be seen doing odd jobs around Nair’s house, milking the cow and taking the milk early mornings to the milk society, buying provisions for villagers when he was sent to the Kunissery market and all kinds of errands. He soon became a popular fixture of the village, mastering our own special Malayalam dialect. His voice perked up, his body filled up and soon, his confidence grew, Nair style, he started passing comments on events & occasions…The boy grew up and became a member of the Nair household, Dakshayani Amma was also very happy with the whole arrangement. I am sure that in time; this boy will follow Nair’s footsteps and become a splitting image of Nair.

Nair became quite attached to the boy, his own son had absconded from home, and now he finally found company. Soon Tsunami was admitted to the local school and Nair was heard saying that once he reached a higher class, Nair would ensure that he studied in Chinmaya. Many even found parallels with the movie that Mammooty had got an award for, the boy from Lattur – Kazcha. But Tsunami knew his family was all lost and dead, unlike the movie, he had no desire to get back to that cruel world near the ocean. He settled down in our village.

Tsunami had many chances to repay Nair for his kindness, he did repay Nair and each of them is well known to the people of the village. Once Nair had a fall on the road, I think he blacked out, and Tsunami was the one who ran all the way to the post office in record time, found somebody and taxied Nair to Palakkad General Hospital. Once at the Chittur Kongan pada, a ruffian pick pocketed Nair and Tsunami spotted it in time to raise alarm. You should have seen how Nair skinned that thief; he flayed the thief’s buttocks raw with his leather belt till it was all ripped and bloody.

And this is how Tsunami came to Pallavur.

You can still see them on some evenings, Nair and Tsunami, coming back after a long walk to the Kurmamala.. Nair with bag in hand, probably some provisions, Tsunami with his thin arms swinging, enjoying the placid & contended life after the disaster, both singing some folk song, tonelessly and with gay abandon… It makes you remember Mowgli and Baloo the Bear in ‘Jungle book’ singing ‘bear necessities…’

Strange, how people’s lives intertwine in the funniest of ways, creating the tightest of knots. Look at the relationship between Chevudan Balan and Nair; look at the one between Tsunami and Nair…both crafted by life’s cruelty.
Pallavur – Thrippallavurappan temple – extract from Wikipedia. The giant walls of this temple are at least 1 1/2 times taller than an elephant, built of stones unbelievable in size…….. These stones are laid one on top of another without any sealing in between. They have been standing like that for centuries just on gravity.

Here is a satellite image of the temple and the Ambala Kulam and the rest of Pallavur for those interested. I can even see the top of our house in this image!!

P.S - The place is real, the characters are not...

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The Brit and his curry

No I am not talking about the electronics superstore in UK called Curry’s or the popular English surname Curry, but about the curry that you have with rice, Naan… Curry is that one 'food family' which has taken this whole nation hostage

Defined by David Smith as follows in his website -

"A dish made with dried and fresh spices cooked in oil with a sauce made from pureed onions, garlic and ginger. The variety of spices used can be extensive but the commonest are chilli, cumin, coriander and turmeric. Other common ingredients are yoghurt, cream and ground nuts."

It has displaced Fish and chips as the UK national dish. Having lived in the UK, I can attest to the following fact, without a curry ‘take out’ every week, the average Brit is lost. So much so that we were in a Chinese restaurant the other day at Jacksonville USA and my Brit boss (he left England 20 years ago and lives in Canada) was asking the waiter if he knew what lemon pickle was, since he wanted to add some to his food for taste. When the American waiter expressed total surprise, he went on to explain how a proper hamburger should be eaten, take out the ‘rubbish’ lettuce and tomato, leave the onion there, add a dollop of good Pathak’s or Rajah ‘extra hot’ lime (not lemon) pickle. Munch into the burger and you will be transported to heaven- My man….… well was I taken aback! I know, my Pattar friends used to spread pickle over the bland ‘pizza hut pizza’ for taste, but this was another dimension.

We Indians hated the curry in England though, they had no variety, go to any curry place, you will have vegetables, chicken, mutton or fish added to four to five standard pastes that they buy in bulk (from one or two main suppliers in UK) the Tikka masala paste, the Korma paste, the vindaloo masala paste, jalfrezi/Pasanda or the madras curry masala pastes. It was never made fresh off the ingredients. Well of course they had Indian lager in those places, typically Kingfisher….but ask a Brit, this is the right curry wherever he goes, even if he were in New Delhi, he would prefer curry from back home in the Blighty made by the Bangladeshi cooks (?) who have taken over the whole curry scene in UK.

Imagine going to the average British pub, look into the menu or be at the bar – you see IPA the main draft off the tap…Indian pale ale…look into the food menu, you will see curries and stuff like that. The best sandwiches that vanish off the shelves of a Marks & Spencers? Chicken tikka sandwich!!!(those are good, man, I can attest to them)

Looking at the

history of curry, you can see that the word comes from Tamil. The first taster who re corded it in a travelogue is a Dutch guy who came to India in 1598, calling it Kariel. The British always had a problem with the R, so they termed it Khadi, in the 1600’s….Now talking of the English staple, it is the CTM or Chicken tikka masala. How that came about is interesting. M&S sell 18 tones a week, can you believe that? There are books written about Curry and the UK, but well, you can’t beat the fact that the CTM is now being exported from UK to India….

Chicken Tikka Masala was most certainly invented in Britain, probably by a Bangaldeshi chef, and is so popular it is even being served in some hotel restaurants in India and Bangladesh. Another Brit specialty is the Balti dish – quite local to Birmingham.

‘Curry’ has not looked back since and was recently named the British National dish after a major opinion poll by Gallup. It is interesting to note that the Portuguese, Dutch and even the French were in India long before or concurrently with the English and yet it was Britain that readily adopted curry, not the others..

“Ninety nine per cent of Indians do not have a tandoor and so neither Tandoori Chicken nor Naan are part of India’s middle class cuisine. This is even so in the Punjab, although some villages have communal tandoors where rotis can be baked. Ninety five per cent of Indians don’t know what a vindaloo, jhal farezi or, for that matter, a Madras curry is”.

And the English make it a point to visit the various ‘curry miles’ as they call it in the UK. There are the curry miles in Birmingham, Eastham London, Manchester Rusholme, and of course many a mile in the Bradford area. They even have curry courses to revive the original art.

Like I said, the Brits love their curry. Some get it airlifted while on vacation in Portugal, some airlift it all the way across the Atlantic to the USA, prepared of course in the UK, not India, each spending a few thousand pounds for a meal. Or there is the guy who blamed the curry for his 105 mph drive down the motorway, which the judge did not take kindly to..But nothing to beat this Brit who wanted UK Curry while at New Delhi and had it flown in!!!

This one link will tell you how much the Brit loves his curry, he even wants his toothpaste (not just chips& biscuits) with Curry flavor, well well!! I guess it will only become more popular now that the Chilli, Cumin & Turmeric are supposed to help one live longer and help avoid colon & many other cancers.

7th of November is the ‘National curry day’ in UK…A reporter states - The cold chill of autumn is now upon us and the nights are drawing in, but take heart, a yearly event to warm us all up is just around the corner. Tuesday 7th November is Kingfisher National Curry Day, when Brits across the land have a great excuse to eat Vindaloos, Tikas and Jalfrezis to their hearts content, as well as raising vital money for charity…

And, you know you've been in UK too long when... After a big night out you find yourself looking for a Curry house, not a 24 hour McDonalds or you keep your red curry paste recipe under lock and key...but have no clue how to roast a chicken.

The best name for a take out joint, I have come across – Curry in a Hurry

Long live the Curry…..The Queen recently knighted the Curry King, Ghulam Noon for his efforts.

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Balan - A small story from Pallavur

Chevudan balan chatte, chevudan balan chaatte (deaf balan is dead) …so we gleaned from the high pitched voice from afar, and looking out (we cousins were sitting on the raised verandah and gossiping) we saw the running boy, barefoot, speeding through the raised field embankment or varambu…he was wearing a pair of faded shorts, suspended with straps and showing his bony frame…no shirt due to the heat, I guess. Well, in summer, the heat radiated off the swamimala was quite fierce with hardly a breeze to cool one off, so it did make sense to let the kids run around bare bodied…the boy was screaming at the top of his voice. I don’t know who instructed him to run through the village to announce the news, but he did this with great responsibility and alacrity. Within an hour the village knew that Balan was dead, not that people were bothered by the news. Even womenfolk hardly batted eyelids.

Until then few knew Balan, though many had seen him walk hunched and fearful by the edge of the road, at odd hours, with eyes that were normally unfocussed, talking to no one, though mumbling to himself, lost in his private, silent world. Not did anybody care. Everybody had bigger problems of their own. In the old days, people would have stopped him and joked about his forlorn countenance, but nowadays, he was left alone…the brooding walker braving the busy, noisy roads. Years ago, Pallavur had one bus, but now there were many, then there were the Pandi vaykol (Tamilian trucks that procured the local hay and took then to diary farms in Pollachi or Salem or wherever) lorries that sped by with precariously overloaded hay bales. During school hours, there were the autos that loaded kids from the Chinmaya school, a few taxis that took patients to doctors & hospitals located at the distant Palakkad town, or brought the richer traveler (usually visiting his old parents) from Olavakkot station or transporting boisterous wedding parties to Guruvayur…An odd motorbike sped by shattering the afternoon peace, sometimes it was the Japanese Kawasaki that squealed its way through, with a dull echo from the nearby hill ‘swami mala’, in its wake, breaking the afternoon stillness…or the never obsolete Enfield bullet owned by ‘company Babu’ that chugged by…I describe the peace and the roads to set a normal scene, because it was on such a placid road that Balan fell victim to a sad hit and run accident. Rumor has it that it was some vaykol lorry, but that was just a guess, since the local policy was - when in doubt blame a pandi..

My cousin and others who were interested (most people in Pallavur had little else to do) rushed to the scene. I heard the rest from him when he returned in the evening. He got back after attending the hastily arranged funeral and the mandatory post funeral bath at the pond, to provide us with a surprising account.

The accident had occurred near the Kizhekkethara, the only quad junction in the village. Here the Pallasena-Alathur road and the Koduvayoor –Kudalur road meet, and is the home to the main bus stop for the village and location for the lone provision shop and tea kada. Youngsters usually teemed there in the evenings when the school girls walked back, to ogle and make snide comments. It was also the place where the bored oldies met towards dusk for a long chat on the ills that irk the world these days…

Today, the villagers were crowded around the body, somebody mentioned that KP (Kerala police) constable 909 Ramankutty had been informed. There was a buzz in the air; people were excited, and murmuring between themselves. Most were muttering on whatever little they knew about Balan. Some seemed to know a lot, some provided exaggerated background bios…none seemed to match or make sense, until Keshavan Nair turned up.

Keshavan Nair is a retired army officer (rumor has it that he was not really any officer but a cook, but I always thought he retired as a Havaldaar or a Subedar – an NCO or a non commissioned officer) and even at the age of 70 carried himself ramrod stiff, his body healthy, though a bit wizened, leathery and gnarled by age. His countenance was graced by a full moustache, dyed rarely, but usually brown as the dye wore off. The moustache was coiled up ‘rajapat rangadurai’ style (I don’t know who this duari is, it is a usage at home –as usual implicating a Pandi king). KN had the loudest voice in the village. He was the lead folk singer for the local festivals. People listened to him, because it had always been like that, when he talked, others listened. In the old days the army man was the strong one, much traveled and respected. He usually regaled the village with his stories of brave encounters with the enemy…usually tales which were much embellished fiction based on very small figments of truth. Sometimes choice friends and listeners were rewarded with a little peg of (army ration) rum, which he always shared. Anyway KN arrived, pushed the crowd aside and looked. He did not utter a word. He spent over five minutes staring at the dead body, before he spoke his first words, not in his usual booming voice, but in the voice of a broken old man. He said ‘You may not know, but here lies a brave man’. With that comment he walked off from the crowd and sat under the nearby tree, head on knees drawn to his chest and hands drawn over them. Surprised people remarked that this was the first time that KN looked forlorn and showing his advanced age.

My cousin sold insurance policies, so he knew almost all of the few hundred who lived in Pallavur. He sat next to KN and asked what the matter was. It took a while for KN to open out, he waited till all had left and they were alone, the two of them, KN said his voice very much that of a broken soul ‘did you know that Balan was also an army man? We were in the same regiment; He became deaf during the Indo-China war. That was a miserable war; we lost so much in that war, pride and personnel. We had each of us just 50 rounds of ammunition for the 303 rifle we carried plus the bayonet when we were sent to the front lines, nobody in the high command expected the Chinese to come on and well, Balan managed to survive the onslaught, killing a few of the enemy in the bargain, saving just one round for an eventuality. If he had got cornered, he had planned to kill himself. You see, we were friends back then. During the action, I retreated, as ordered by our CO, as soon as we spotted the Chinan’s, knowing that we had no chance, but Balan did not think that way. We both survived the war, an exploding mortar made Balan deaf, and I got back to the lines and lied that we had returned after a vigorous fire fight, taking credit for many kills. Balan knew I was lying, but he did not utter a word. In the course of time, I got promoted to Subedar, but Balan got waylaid, eventually retiring as he was when he started, a foot soldier-a Sepoy. He added that Balan actually belonged to another village, some 10 miles away, but had married years back and settled down here.

KN continued, ‘our relationship had long since soured, were never talked to each other after that. I have never slept in peace nor did I try to make peace for fear that my horrible secret will get out. I have always known that some words from me to the HC (high command) could have got Balan a promotion and a pension from the army. Seeing this dead body now, I wonder what ill waits for me in future’?

Subedar KN then pulled himself to his feet and hobbled off home. No family around to notify, no friends around to help. The villagers waited for KN to lead. KN would not. KN stated emphatically that Balan was living alone and that they should hold his funeral ASAP, before the hot and humid weather turned the body putrid. PC 909 Ramankutty confirmed that a funeral could be carried out, since they had no idea if or how the hit and run lorry could be traced. Balan would never have known what hit him, deaf in both ears, he would probably have felt the lorry bearing down, too late, but would never have heard it…The pyre was lit in the presence of a few on the Malampuzha water canal varambu, and with that the last traces of Balan left for a heavenly abode.

My cousin being the inquisitive type tried to find more answers. So after narrating the tale as you read it, he went again to KN’s house, knowing that KN was the only source for more information. He remembered that Balan was married to somebody in the village, what happened to the family? KN had tracked Balan’s life for a while out of fear and saw the misery that followed Balan wherever he went, doing nothing to help though. Yes, he agreed, once in the past, Balan had married, but his wife left him soon after and was rumored to have moved to Madras, marrying a Pandi hotel udamai. That was all he knew. A search in Balan’s hut provided nothing, but for a trunk with a service uniform, and some meager belongings… there was no other pointer to his sad days..

There is not much more to add to this sad tale, but the words from the ‘Queen’ song ---Another one bites the dust…

The villagers did not see much of KN after that event, It is believed that he is bedridden, searching for answers in darkness, waiting for the final summons from up above. ..A work of fiction – hardly any truth- mostly imagination - but for the location…

I mulled a long time before I posted this. Years ago I used to write many more stories of this type, i.e. stories rather than the shorter blog format, anyway I decided to put this up, mainly for a change and to see how it goes.. Some of the events, e.g. the China war story was told to me by Subedar Ram Singh, who fought in that war and who presently cooks at the Niti's restaurant at Temecula.

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Apro bawaji Zubin …

I remembered him when I saw his felicitation on US national TV, a few weeks ago. The picture is interesting, Zubin (and the great Andrew L Weber) does not honor the pledge with his hand over his heart…..I don’t blame him, after all he is the guy who whips out a packet of crushed dried chillies (grown in his own LA backyard) from the small silver box out of his pocket and adds them to bland western dishes doled out to him during ceremonial dinners. (Like my friend Alka who carries a bit of crushed ginger for her tea, wherever she goes….) On further checking I read that Zubin still carries an Indian passport!!!

Zubin Mehta, the maestro who has spent his adult life in the U.S., Canada and Europe, writes in his autobiography, “I have never really left India, you know. It is still today the only place where my dreams take me to. Of course in my dreams there are my wife, my children, my friends, but always they are in Bombay. Every morning of my life I wake up in Bombay.”

To a certain extent Zubin’s spicy palate surprises me; he must be a rare breed of Parsi to like spicy food. Normally Parsi’s and Gujarati’s like medium spicy food with coconut in it and fish. I remember Parsi food - ate it for 3 years as I used to get food daily from a Parsi caterer in Tardeo while at Bombay and I recall the various trips to Bawaji tea shops in Colaba…nice homely tea kada’s with fine wooden chairs and round tables to sit on. The tastiest omelets & buttered ‘pav’ bread were served there!

I liked this guy for so many reasons, but mainly for his Indian’ness even at this western summit he is on…and I admire him for his hatred for Indian bureaucracy found in our various embassies, something that I myself have been through…"Whenever I return to India, I know that I belong there," the lively 70-year-old conductor says. Since his 18th birthday, Mehta has visited the land of his birth only every couple of years, usually to put on concerts with an orchestra. Like every Indian, he follows Cricket ‘like crazy’ you know, and buys the UK paper ‘Times’ wherever he goes, just to follow the cricket scores

We have heard about the Tata’s, we have heard about other great Parsi’s who did and still do so much for India like Homi Baba, Farook Engineer, Polly Umrigar, Nari Contractor, D Naroji, Nusli Wadia, Godrej’s, Persis Khambatta, Freddie Mercury.…but today there exist only a 100,000 Parsi’s…most of them who only gave to India and who sweetened it, never taking anything away – as the raja had stipulated many years ago when he granted asylum to the group who came from Persia.

Located between Mumbai and Surat, Sanjan is a legendary place in the history of the Parsi community. When the Parsi’s first landed on the port of Sanjan, it was the kingdom of Jadi Rana. The King, apprehensive of tall, fair and warrior like foreigners sent a bowl full of milk, implying that there was no place for the Parsis in his kingdom. The leader and High Priest of Parsi community, Dastoor Neryosang Dhaval added sugar to the milk and sent the bowl back to the king. This action implied that just as sugar mixed with milk added taste and flavor to it, Parsi’s will mix with the local people and be an asset to the kingdom – Some say he dropped his Gold ring in the milk instead of sugar signifying that they will only add to the wealth of the kingdom, and never take them away..

Warning: Do not try this at the US border post - Try dropping sugar or your ring in the milk of the US immigration officers coffee (Also, I have never seen one drinking milk) and see what happens, he or she will bawl ‘security’ and you will be counting bars and answering FBI, CIA, DHS etc before being bundled in the next flight back…

Zubin Mehta was another such Parsi – our own Zubin bawa - Apra bawaji Zubin in Gujarati, from Colaba Bombay. The genius went on to conduct orchestras and charm millions in Austria, Germany, USA and Israel, not to mention the scores of other major cities he conducted at… Zubin Mehta, a chap who should have ended up a doctor in Mumbai if he had completed his studies in India. Instead he studied music in Vienna and blossomed rapidly to go on and conduct the Vienna Philharmonic orchestra when he was 23. He left India in the 60’s. Born on the day the Bombay orchestra, India’s first orchestra completed its first anniversary in 1936, an orchestra founded by Zubin’s father Mehli Mehta. An amazing, energetic, flamboyant conductor whose biography first got written at the age of 30!!! But he can be quirky too, it is rumored that he once walked out of his concert because someone coughed!! And that he and his group walked out of Ashok hotel N Delhi after seeing a cockroach! There is so much more written about his musical exploits, but Google will provide you all of that with a click..

I have always wondered the meaning of those sharp flicks of the cane with the wrist performed by both orchestra conductors as well as band conductors. While a band conductor’s actions are I guess, mostly for show on a parade ground, the conductor’s baton dictates the scores of an orchestra. Then I wondered, have the orchestra not practiced precisely what to do and when? Why should it be conducted? Because a major orchestra like this has over 80-100 members who have to work in total unison!! I decided to check up – Here is what Wikipedia has to say and anybody who wants to follow Zubin’s footsteps can perhaps start here.

Conducting is a means of communicating real-time information to performers. There are no absolute rules on how to conduct correctly, and a wide variety of different conducting styles exist. The primary responsibilities of the conductor are to set the tempo, execute clear preparations and beats, and to listen and shape the sound of the ensemble

He lives not far from us in Temecula, somewhere in Irvine or Aliso Viejo…in close by Orange County. Maybe I will run into him someday…and we will talk about Cricket and food and Bombay and Embassies and NRI’s….


Snippets

Did you know that LP Laksmikant Pyaralal’s Pyarelal used to train with Mehli Mehta in the Bombay chamber orchestra??

Zubin made a movie – ‘On the wings of fire’ about Parsi’s in the late 80’s

A lovely article on Parsi’s

A majority of the people, who left the shores of Persia, were from the province of Fars, or Pars, hence the name Parsi.

We have a fire temple in Calicut, next to the Bata on SM Street!!! I have always wanted to see it, but it remains locked. Once home for 300 families, only one Parsi family, the Marshall’s live in Calicut today.

Zubin due to his awe for her, was reluctant to take the stage after an MS Subalakshmi concert in Moscow!

He loved his visit to Kerala, but 5 days together with his wife was strenuous – A very nice interview….

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The Talkative Woman

There is no dearth of restaurants in Carlsbad (they claim it to be the golf capital of the world) where our office is located. There is Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Italian, Irish; all the usual fast food places like Mac, Jack in the box…….but no Indian food. On some days, when the mood suits it, I drop into the French Bakery and order a nice bowl of soup. They make some really good cream of Broccoli soup, something I discovered by chance, as I have always stayed well clear of that vegetable these years. This place always made it fresh and served it with thinly sliced French baguette and butter…

Carlsbad itself has nothing much to do with its namesake in Czech Republic. It became popular for similar reasons though, as Karlsbad CZ is a health spa. At the end of this note is a small bit of history for those interested.

So here I am at the French Bakery off Carlsbad village road, sitting and waiting for my soup to be delivered. It is a non descript place, but does remind you of France, and movies like Casablanca… with piped French music from the 60’s, the walls have French scenery…The people who frequent this place are not the ones who walk in on a whim, mostly regulars. The girl at the counter, a very pleasant Spanish girl, knew many of them by name and knew what they regularly ordered or ate. So it was indeed homely and I enjoy sitting there, watching people who walked by, mostly into the nearby liquor store or the Albertsons…A few came in dusty overalls to pick up home remodeling equipment from the hardware shop on the strip…most others were washed out characters, typical of those who frequent beach towns in California.

Today was different. The hotel was undergoing remodeling post New Year. There was a guy putting a new hardboard panel in place, step by step. I was enjoying his meticulous handiwork when the lady from the next table asked…

‘Not many offices around here is it not so?’ I was startled, normally people out here don’t talk to strangers, and this one just did. I said ‘yah, you are right…this is a beach town, very few offices’. Well, I guess she was just waiting for the opening. She continued on, about the fact that she had been living in San Diego County for all her life and had only seen San Francisco and LA other than San Diego. I was surprised and took a good long look at this character. Decent sort, looked neat and a bit on the plump side, tired eyes though, and she has no smile on her face. Quite well dressed, must be 30-35 I guessed.

She was remarking about how this place compared to some others in Diego and I had to tell her that I was pretty new in California. When I said I had just moved in from UK, she seemed amazed, but then her face sagged. She said, ‘look I have always wanted to go see places, but nobody in my family, I have so many relatives all over USA, invites me over, you know that?’

I was starting to wonder what direction this conversation was taking and when my soup was going to turn up. The tummy started rumbling and I had tons to do after getting back to office.

I said ‘travel is interesting’ you can go on your own to Las Vegas or some place, she said ‘you see I get depressed and others also told me to have a change and go some place, but I cant get the courage to board a train or a plane. Once I purchased a ticket to Spain, but then on the last day I cancelled because I could not find money for hotel in Spain and mainly because I did not have the courage to leave here’. Initially I was surprised, but then I figured it out, She was like so many Americans, caught up in their little world making hardly an effort to do something different. Eventually it becomes too late.

I was observing the panel fitter as well, but his job was nearly done and dusted so I had to turn my full focus to the talkative woman..

She went on, to talk about her sister Laura and her little son (forgot his name) and all their family problems. Obviously there was no husband in the picture. I did listen patiently, but in my mind, I was wondering what next. She was wondering how I venture about so far away from home and to strange lands, how I manage languages and things like that. She must have felt that I was some strange guy in comparison…like I define myself, a modern day Nomad…

The soup came, the conversation (more a monologue) continued. The broccoli tasted awesome. I noticed that the lady just had a coffee for lunch. She probably came to the place for some talking company, I assumed. Neither of us introduced ourselves or asked direct questions. Americans are strange, they have no problems about opening out there personal lives in public…A little strange to people like us, but it is so in the West. If you want to meet up with people, go to a bar in Europe, in the US it is any place bar, hotel, bus, plane. You meet, you talk, then you go your way ….As the world becomes modern, there is less and lesser time for deep friendships, all you have at the end of the day is many acquaintances, but very few good friends…

In between all this I remembered RK Narayanan’s ‘Talkative man’…This surely was one talkative woman, but I hoped she did feel happy having found somebody to talk to. I have to admit that I listened patiently during those 30-40 minutes. It was time for me to get back, so I excused myself and wished her the best. She did seem sad that I had to leave but thanked me for taking time & listening…The talkative woman here had plenty to say , but well, this listener had to leave…

I hope she finds courage to accept changes and see places. I hope she gets rid of her bouts of depression and I hope she finds happiness in life..
Talkative man – RKN said "I had planned ‘Talkative Man’ as a full-length novel, and grandly title it, 'Novel No. 14'. While it progressed satisfactorily enough, it would not grow beyond 116 typewritten sheets, where it just came to a halt, like a motor car run out of petrol. Talkative Man, the narrator, had nothing more to say."

Carlsbad owes much of its early renown to a sea captain, John A. Frazier, who came to the area in 1883 and settled on a government homestead. Frazier drilled two wells by his home and struck water at just over four hundred feet. Frazier soon decided his well water had remarkable curative powers over his chronic rheumatism. As a small village called Frazier's Station grew around the railroad depot for the California Southern Railroad (later Santa Fe), Frazier offered his water to railroad passengers traveling between Los Angeles and San Diego. A huge water barrel near the depot boasted a sign inviting travelers to "alight, drink and be happy. But as the "elegant, commodious" Carlsbad Hotel opened in late 1887, the real estate bubble was bursting. The special excursion trains brought by real estate agents to Carlsbad ended. Land prices slid throughout San Diego County. The Carlsbad Hotel continued to draw tourists and "health seekers," attracted by the fine beaches, easy railroad transportation, and, of course, the water. But in 1896, the hotel burned, some thought by arson. The community survived, well-served by its mild climate and magnificent setting. And the popularity of Carlsbad water continued for decades as bottled mineral water was shipped throughout the West. Today, the site of John Frazier's original well is preserved beneath Alt Karlsbad, a replica of a German Hanseatic house, on Carlsbad Boulevard

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Those were the days – Train rides - Part 1

I was riding on the airport link between Portland airport and Lloyd’s centre in downtown Portland, today. The train was one of those light rail transit services serving the city much akin to the Frisco Bart, though a considerably smaller network. It had no character, there were just three jokers in my compartment including me, all looking equally bored. And I remembered days traveling on our Indian railway system. How eventful they were!

When it comes to statistics, IR stands tall, serving many a thousand mile, largest network, longest tracks, largest freight haulage…..least revenue collected, biggest loss maker…whatever. But for me, it all started way back in the early 60’s.

The first time we got introduced to them was the very first lesson in the first standard.

Koo koo kookoo theevandi, kooki ppayum theevandi
Kalkari thinnum thevandi, vellam monthum theevandi...

Every child dreamed of traveling on a steam locomotive mugging those lines and my first rail ride was not far away...sitting in the meter gauge passenger between Calicut and Shornur, enroute Olavakkot (now Palakkad Jn) ..in a choclate brown colored second class bogey with yellow wooden seats. I did not remember much of the train or the journey, but I can approximate it all now…

The first thing that hits you is the smell of the station and the sounds. Grime was everywhere and the floor was full of black dust from the coal. The Jutka (horse cart) dropped you at the entrance of Calicut station and as you would see today a red shirted (was he red shirted then? I don’t recall) coolie or porter comes rushing towards you. For a few annas he would hoist your suitcase (Long journey’s meant lugging another bit of baggage called holdalls where you packed your bed & pillow). The Calicut station has changed little from those days, it was quite the same, high ceilings, big British made ceiling fans turning slowly, hardly a wisp of air generated. People from better families traveled second (government officers and very rich Settu’s were the only first class travelers) and others traveled third. The coolie takes one look and then automatically directs you towards the second class waiting room. The children run out and along the platform, taking in the huddling passengers, the shops selling good books in English, newspapers, banana chips, red and green slabs of the famous Calicut halva waiting to be sliced and devoured or oil paper packed for presenting to relatives in distant locations (i.e. if you have forgotten to buy from Maharaj’s at SM street). The shops had Perry Mason, Tolstoy, Woodhouse, Conan Doyle….Days old Indian express or the Hindu and the daily Mathrubhumi and Manorama newspapers ( the Hindu was delivered from Madras by a Fokker airplane to the Tenhipalam airstrip much later!!). Then there were those trolleys that had fresh cooked food (the elders always asked us to stay well clear of them, unhygienic, adulterated, made by lesser classes…) that beckoned you to try them out – Bajjis, bondas, Vadas, Pazham pori….or if it were closer to lunch or dinner, curd rice, biryani….My mouth waters as I think of all this, and then the din created by the tea and coffee sellers with their chaaaaayeee, chaya chayyeeeee and kopi kooooopi kooppppi echoing all around.

Almost always there were a few military Jawans or officers with their steel trunks waiting to board and go somewhere. The policeman walked around majestically with his stiff starched shorts and patties and boots and peaked caps, swinging his bamboo lathi and maintaining a semblance of order. They fitted well into uniforms those days and were the hefty rough sort, not like the thin emancipated or potbellied lot that floated in the uniforms since then and made a mockery of the police force.

Then of course there was the trolley with the ice fruit and multi colored sodas..the soda bottle was opened with the vendors dirty thumb pressing down on a marble..or it was a small wooden opener and it would go “biiiiish’. How we kids wished we could got one. I must have tried a few on blue moon days probably; in any case I never got hooked on sodas or drank them since then. My dentist is still in awe looking at my teeth, the dental hygienist asked me, I heard you don’t drink soda’s how do you manage without one? No wonder you have good teeth…Have you ever tried one? Is it religious something? I had to smile hearing all that…

You could smell fish – they transported fish baskets in the goods compartment, Beggars were everywhere, singing beggars, guys without limbs all begging for a paisa or less (today they want many rupees – that is inflation for you). I darted to the edge of the platform and looked down, all kinds of rubbish on the tracks and a few rats bounding by…before I could observe further I was pulled back by my uncle. But by then I had found a bit of coal on the platform edge that I pocketed with gusto.

Pretty soon a rumble sounded, the floor vibrating to announce the arriving train. The train was past Feroke, people said. The first bell was sounded by the smartly attired station master (oh! We all wanted to become station masters or engine drivers after that first ride) which meant the train was due to arrive soon. Some time late he sounded the second one- a double bell which meant the train was imminent on the platform. He would in the meantime conduct a conversation (or morse in those days?) over the wind up phone to the next station. We saw the jet black smoke and the steam clouds before the giant lumbered in…The SM ran up to the beginning of the platform (in bigger stations an assistant did it) and as the train steamed in got the key bamboo yoke/ring from the engine driver and handed over the key to the next station (or whatever it was) all in one fluid motion.

The kids strained towards the train, the elders held them back with rough hands, the coolie (nowadays referred to only as porter) was the first to board and we trotted along with the train till it stooped. The porter had in the meantime located seats for us and we all clambered in…exited chatter, who wanted the window seat, who wanted to go see the toilet….arguments, much crying and cajoling took place for the window seat…

The engine, you should have seen it, it was awe inspring. Bellowing steam all around and making the characteristic noise, pistons pumping furiously – all working in unison and controlled by the great engine driver who had his hands on the throttle and commanding the shrieking whistle. All the while the boiler firemen kept shoveling coals into the furnace…if I recall there were three or four able bodied men in the engine. All of them looking as black as the coal that went in and glistening in sweat from all the tough work. But when the boss man looked out, head craning along the platform and pulled the whistle cord…boy o boy – that was it, I wanted to become an engine driver from the first day.

The train was a powerful machine, pulling bogey after bogey, crammed with people. It would take hours to traverse those hundreds of miles, sometimes days. The newer steam engines pulled express trains that got priority and traveled faster. They stopped often on the tracks with some problem or the other. Never have I reached any place on time those days. But I would not trade that travel to a faster bus or a car trip and I still travel by train when in India. Such was the power of that first experience.

Fifteen to thirty minutes later, the train pulled out from the platform. And I took in the compartment and the occupants. Two three seaters, and two single seaters separating the aisle. Two fans droned on the ceiling, the other two were stuck and required some guy’s comb to restart it. Above the seats were luggage racks. But many more than three sat on the three seaters during rush days. A mandatory visit to the toilet or lavatory as they call it revealed a hole on the floor showing the tracks speeding by. My uncle stood guard outside with the door open to ensure I was not terrified. Back to the seat, there was a Gujrati trader and his family on one side, soon they started to unpack one of the smaller bags to pull out a tiffin carrier containing pooris and masala and other dishes that I had no clue about. My mouth watered, I looked with pleading eyes at my Valiamma, and she sternly issued a warning with her eyes for me to look elsewhere. My drooling continued, the food smelt heavenly….A little further sat a Brahmin family, and they started consuming their pungent smelling curd rice & lime pickles. A Koya across dressed in his checkered Lungi, half sleeved baniyan and massive multi pocket money belt over his pot belly opened his Biryani packet, much to the Brahmin family’s disgust..(those days they did not have the train ‘meals’ service, but they stopped for more time at stations)

I was in tears, even though I had finished an early lunch at home before boarding the train, I felt terribly hungry, I wanted something even if it was a portion of the kaka’s biryani. I tried eyeing the Gujju’s wife, she seemed more pliable, yes, it worked, she offered me a poori with some rolled in masala. I greedily accepted it before my Valiamma even knew what was going on, and munched on. Valiamma looked down and was livid, I got a cuss over the ears and she apologized to the Settu family…he just ate lunch, you know…Ah! who cared, train hunger satiated, I was looking out of the window at the rushing fields, the kids sitting on the embankments, the houses on the track side, wishing I was living closer to the tracks as well, like them – I could then see trains every day. Now what, I am thirsty, Valiamma, I want something to drink, she took out her bottle and gave me a tumbler of bright red Chukkuvellam which I sipped. And then I slept, in her warm lap…waking up now and then, as we passed stations, mercifully without any signal stops or mechanical failure stops…My eyes smarted with coal dust that came in through the window, my hair was sticky and dirty with the grime..

Olavakkot, at last- I was tired groggy, moody and sleepy, We had finally reached our destination.

Snippets:

For an Indian, the train always evokes powerful memories, not necessarily those of Lallu.
Starting from the first trains that started to ply from various cities in India during the Raj, to the new locomotives, little has changed. The first train ran on 16th April 1853 between Bombay and Thane…Today 11000 trains run every day, 7000 of them being passenger trains over 108000 track kilometers. The department employs 1.54 million personnel and covers 6853 stations. 13 million passengers use it everyday! The Indian railway history is well documented and supported by rail enthusiasts at the IRFCA. Development of the IR after 1853 was pretty rapid and Calicut was connected before 1900 if I read it right.

There are some who still remember the train sounds from real life or later day mimicries. If you really want to hear a great recording, download & play this link (won't play by just clicking). It is not actually from an Indian train, but they sounded the same and so, thanks to the owner D Bailey…

The backbone of the railway was the Anglo Indian…remember Adoor bhasi in Chattakari? I remember staying at my engine driver uncle’s house at the Railway quarters it Mint – (Washermanpet) Madras, they had their share of Anglo’s and naturally for us adolescents, the girls were the cynosure of all eyes -pretty, bob cut haired, skirt clad girls you would never see anywhere else, English speaking boys who played the guitar and dreamt of going to Britain (my brother’s friend Joe did exactly that – he is an engine driver somewhere in the UK now).

But all of that and much more will follow in Part 2 detailing my experience of riding in a Diesel engine of the Madras Mail with my uncle.

The Kerala Express has the longest daily run time. The Kerala Express has daily service and covers 3054km in its run (in 42.5 hours). In second place is the Mangala Exp. covering 2750km in 52 hours

Calicut Railway station has a cyber café now!!

By the way readers, Wish you all a happy & prosperous new year!!!

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Two movies and four women…'How Far Would You Go To Save The One You Love’

One of the best movies I had seen in 2005 (or was it 2004) was without doubt Perumazhakalam directed by Kamal and written by TA Razak. A wonderful movie starring Meera Jasmine, Kavya Madhavan, Mamukoya and Dileep. I saw it a while ago, so I recall only the main parts of the movie and the impressions it left. The songs were memorably done by M Jayachandran, and visually it was raining all through the movie, an effect that added to the pathos the director conveyed so effectively.


Kamal (Kamaluddin) has always made great Malayalam movies. Kakkothikkavile Appooppan Thadikal, Orkkappurathu, Gramaphone,Nammal, Meghamalhar, , Mazayettum munpe, Ulladakkam, Niram, swapnakoodu, Manjupoloru penkutti, Gazhal..the list goes on.

PMK has four characters, two women and two men. The men have very brief roles, one of them Vineeth is ‘accidentally’ killed by Dileep in Saudi Arabia, where Shariya rules apply in these cases. Which simply put, states in this case …life for a life…You get to know the brief & intense relationships between the wives and the two husbands mainly as flashbacks…Well, Dileep has to die and his wife Razia-Meera Jasmine decides to try and get Vineeth’s wife Ganga - Kavya to formally forgive Dileep for the crime. With only such a document can the death sentence be stayed…A simple and poignant story covering so many aspects of life, the caste and religious climate, and of course the gulf worker and his place in Kerala. Meera Jasmine does wonders to the role and aptly the movie won awards. Mamukoya was, if you ask me, brilliant, topping the honors next to Meera J. So much for Perumazhakkalam, a ‘do not miss’ but ‘have your tissues ready’ movie. I wish every second Malayalam movie is as poignant as this one. It is reviewed by many on the web…

With all this in a distant corner of my mind, we set to watch “Dor’ by Nagesh Kuknoor. I had not read anything about it, but well it was Kuknoor and we had seem almost all his movies, truly enjoying Iqbal & Hyderbad blues. (I watched some others that have been quickly forgotten, but Rockford is still ‘view in progress’).

The scenes were breathtaking, the photography brilliant, and Gul Panag as Zeenat captivating. The two men from two corners of India Hp and Rajasthan boarded vehicles and bound for the flights to the middle east, a few days passed, the ill fated trunk call came to Zeenat and then it hit me, Shit, this is probably a remake of Perumazhakalam!!! Unfortunately the rest of the viewing was, I admit, critical and mentally comparing the movie with PMK…but well, in the end I must say the movie was good in its own way. A few bits could have been done better, for example the ending and here is where you see the difference between Kamal the master and Kuknoor the novice. The character played by Shreyas Talpade – Bhairoopia though refreshing could have been crafted better.

Gul as Zeenat does reasonably well in comparison to Meera J, but what you see from the beginning is that Dor is meant to be much lighter and for a wider audience. It moves well and true. Kuknoor does a wee bit in a couple of frames – the locales are so well captured on celluloid…but the music never finds a place in Dor unlike the MJC music in PMK. Ayesha Takia was passable…

The story is just about the same, a little less realistic towards the end, a mite faster than PMK - but nevertheless an enjoyable one… do watch it. Kuknoor had done two interviews (Int1, Int2) answering questions about the similarities between the two movies, but the key question – was one lifted from the other? Kuknoor says not, that both are based on the same real life story, though he paid Kamal for the rights to avoid hassles!

A slight twist here – Apparently PMK shares the theme with an Iranian movie ‘Dame Sobh’ as explained in this Hindu article… I have not seen the latter.

One scene I smiled at in Dor was the mobile phone rental service. How effective it was, the girl standing on a mound (to capture the signal) and talking for a minute – the owner checking his watch carefully for the seconds timing by…India is changing, gone are the visits to the post office to make an ISD call and scream at the top of your voice to get heard…I don’t think many of you would have seen the earlier wind up phones, I have seen them in the 60’s in my dad’s house in the estates…you have to crank them before and as you talk on…

Or how it was some decades ago in the Middle East, Since there were not so many phones in Kerala and since mobile phones were not even invented, people had to think of other ideas & methods to get their thoughts across to loved ones. They talked (some sang) into cassette tapes and posted or couriered them through others traveling back home (Filipinos also did it). This record of their thoughts & messages, resulting in a new wave called ‘Kathu pattu’ during the late 70’s.

BTW - For those interested – the Shariyyah law is based on

Intentional Murder = The Qur'an legislates the death penalty for murder, although forgiveness and compassion are strongly encouraged. The murder victim's family is given a choice to either insist on the death penalty, or to pardon the perpetrator and accept monetary compensation for their loss (2:178).


Tail note – Another movie you should watch is ‘Khosla ki Ghosla’ – Truly brilliant.

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Mammad kaka's coat

Driving down the I 15, I was starting to nod off a bit when I was surprised by MS Baburaj’s Kandam bechoru Kottane, mammadu kakkade kottane from the old hits CD playing in the car.After so many years, I was hearing that song all over again. On a dull winter day with teeming traffic crisscrossing the lanes and driving you mad, this one song has that ability to get you smiling. I listened to the words…What simple and nice lyrics, sung in the inimitable Calicut Koya dialect & tuned by the great Baburaj (the Cd cover states Baburaj- Mehaboob – Did Mehboob sing this or Baburaj? BTW this was the first Malayalam color film).

A song about an old and worn out coat, fit to be condemned, one that belonged to Fakir Mohammed Koya, and not a coat worn by blood sucking rich businessman or lawyers. The coat was always popular whilst on Koya, and ah! it is now mine ( who was this pictured on ? Adoor Bhasi or Bahadur? I tried picturing it and ended up with Bahadur since only Bahadur could have the size of a fakir- they are usually thin). Hey bed bug who lives in the coat, don’t bite me or I will quash you (actually stated as chop you to bits – Kashap akkum). There lives in the coat another parasite ‘kalan Paatta’ which eats away into the collar and sleeves, an entreaty to him – stop please, allow me to wear this coat for a while…
And it got me all pensive, taking me to my childhood days at Chalappuram – Calicut and the Ambalakkat house where I spent my primary school years. As the only child around, I had the large house all to myself with many trees, plants, sticks and stones for company. My Valiachan and Valiyamma who were taking care of me then (parents were living in the high range Estates – no schools in the estates, only Englishmen, Indian staff, tea plantations, tea pickers & wild animals lived there) and my bachelor uncle Balamama. Valiachan was a retired headmaster, and he was quite strict with me, the house was full of books and pictures, I recall one of those pictures on the wall, my dad’s brother (whom I never met – he died young) receiving some award from Chacha Nehru. Valiachan was always telling me about the great freedom fighters Nehru, Bose, Shastri (he never told me about VK Krishna Menon though)and making me write in copy books, using a fountain pen and old fashioned rulers (solid wooden cylinders that are rolled over paper, not today’s flat scales). Balamama my uncle worked at the Standard furniture factory in Kallai, he was always meticulously dressed in white, spending much time on an elaborate shave (first hot water, then the soap, then the Wilkinson razor with the 7’0 clock blades, then Mennen after shave), finally Brylcreem-ing his hair to perfection and finishing off by donning crisp and spotless white shirts & dhoti’s. I used to sit and watch all this before my own travel in a rickshaw to the school. Sometimes the 1-2 mile travel was by a hand drawn two wheeler; usually an old guy pulling it, sometimes it was a cycle rickshaw. Sometimes it was a ‘kuthira vandi’ – horse cart that took me clippety clop to nearby Ganapati School. Once or twice I went to school in an uncle’s Morris Minor. What an event that was!! As I got older though, I was allowed to walk the distance and I enjoyed that slow walk taking in the life around me.

I still recall the dreaded days when doctor mama came by for monthly check up’s – Dr Balakrishnanan Nair, our family doctor who owned and ran the Karunakara Nursing home across Malabar Christian College. He always ended up prescribed more tonics and asking tricky questions from school books which I had no answers for. And I remembered the many volumes of leather bound ‘book of knowledge’ that I pored over, reading about the Greeks and the Romans and many more. I can remember even today that particular musty book smell, and the wind up record player playing 78 rpm MS Subhalakshmi vinyl records.

The elders sold that house in the late 60’s to a wealthy Koya and moved to Palakkad where the rest of the family had settled down..

Balaama (shortened Balamama) used to call me Mammada…And that is where Mammad kaka’s coat took me today.

There are so many interesting words that have crept into the North Malabar Muslim dialect – words like Koyi – Which is as everybody knows Kozhi – Or Arabic words like Jannath (Heaven) or Mayyath (dead body ). ‘You’ is ‘JJJ’, now that is quite special & known only to Calicut’ians and ‘Oon’ is ‘He’. In those days we heard all these choice usages from the fish monger (almost always a Koya) who passed by or the guy who purchased old pots and pans…Today it is popularized by our comedian Mammu Koya. The z is silent in the koya dialect, koyi, puya etc are examples. Mohammad became Mammad. Kaka here does not mean crow, but means an elder. This word came from Gujarati & Hindi! Sometimes you see the learned Haji or fakir passing by, wearing the ‘Mammad’ kaka coat, small beard and mostly no moustache. Children feared the Haji, I won’t tell you though what the elder’s usual threat was…lest I create furor. Kabaristan (graveyard), Beebi (lady), Ithata(sister), Umma (mother), Odath (garden), suvar (pig) are a few of the many such special malayalified words that frequent the Calicut dialect.

Today the fish monger Koya has changed a lot, he checks with the catchers and fish retailers about the catch after whipping out his latest model mobile phone, calling to find out if a specific fish, mussels or prawns are available. I am sure we will have online fish ordering soon in Calicut..
Kandam bechoru kottanu, pande kittiya kottanu
mammad kakade kottanu ithu nattil muzhuman pattanu
Tozhilalikale kollayadikkana muthalalikalude kottalla
Kashtatha perukiya sadhu janangade kanneer oppana kottanu
Kottil irikkana van mootte, mootte nee ithu keettatte
Kadichu kollan vannal ninne kashap cheyyum mushette
Vakeel marude kottalla, ithu fakir aniyana kottanu
Rabbin kalpana kettu nadakkana kalbine moodiya kottanu
Varsham nalayi kottin akathoru kalan patta irikkunnu
Collarum thinnu keeshayum thinnu kottum koodi thinnalle....

Picture - Courtsey Hindu, HMV

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Californian musings

In the middle of settling down at our new house in Socal (South California), thanksgiving, black Friday, forest fires and the such…we did meander around South California…An insight

Temecula, the place where we live, is beyond the white specked cliffs as you drive north from San Diego to LA on the I 15 (see my previous blog….). The town that borders it on the North is Murietta and down South is just hills & desert. West of the Temecula town is the French Valley vineyards where prospectors and amateur wine hobbyists and wine pros (ala French kiss – what a great movie that was!!) vie to set up the winner farm and reap a good grape harvest to bottle it. We have never been there; it is a plan for a future weekend with nothing better to do, probably go ballooning as well. It was in Temecula that Erle Stanley Gardener decided to settle down some years ago when driving on the old 395 in 1937. Legend has it that his dog ‘Ripp’ started howling his head off and Gardener stopped to let it loose for a break. The dog would simply not step back in. Gardener looked around and said ‘well, dog you seem to have a point, this is a nice place to settle down’ or something to that effect. He purchased large tracks of land, many thousand acres and lived here for many many years…For those who don’t know this chap(you have missed a lot), he was the author of the great Perry mason – Paul drake books (82 of them - sold 350 million)!! Well, Temecula is a nice medium sized American town with all the usual shops and malls, decent schools, great weather (except summer where it rivals (?) any desert temperature).

As we are located virtually midway between San Diego and Los Angles, it takes a good 60-70 miles drive to reach either city. No real Desi crowd in Temecula, though we have a Sardar running a provision shop, son running an Indian restaurant and a second Indian restaurant Niti’s to rival. So week ends are spent driving to Mira Mesa at the outskirts of San Diego for provisions and some Desi Khana! Or to distant Artesia which is the real desi place.

Get off 91W to hit Artesia, the little India… Woodlands, Annapurna, Tirupathi Bhima, Shaan, Ambala sweets and so on and so forth line the Pioneer blvd. Here is where the LA Desis come on weekends to shop, eat (yes, Paan available) and see movies. As you would expect bars are hard to come by though you can get Kingfisher beer or other Indian beer on the tables. The latest desi movies are released here and a good number of us come by to cheer Shah Rukh and Hritik at their antics. After the movie you amble off to the Tirupathi Bhima to see a line waiting patiently to get in. It is easier at Udupi café…but then if you want a good biryani, try Shaan. Provision shops vie to get your attention, you see signs like 230V AC items available, we convert NTSC to PAL etc…to pander to those who want to take stuff home on their holidays as they are expected to..Saree shops, jewellery all line the streets, neons glowing at night…Little India Artesia is neater & better organized compared to its counterparts in Chicago or New Jersey. It was here that we found John and his Kerala store. Not a man of cheerful countenance, John was soon grumbling about the diversity & factionalism in Kerala about how the Malabarian will avoid Travancore food and so on, and the reasons why one should not start a Mallu hotel (one state 10 different food cultures). He has a point though!!

The people…you see a good number of Mexicans in this part of the world. I am really surprised, many of the Mehican (that is how Mexican is pronounced) girls look similar to Indians, wonder where & when the lineage converged. The men are a different matter though; they are swarthy and fierce looking, or glum depending on the situation. Driving in the LA area is daunting, neither traffic nor drivers are orderly or friendly, it takes a while to adjust to the multi track roads and multiple exits on these freeways. You do need a good big car or else the bigger one will try its best to intimidate you on the road. The Americans here seem to be of a better disposition compared to their brethren in the East of the country, taking life more easy.

Black Friday went by the way it should, Arun and I covered all the electronics stores by noon, Bestbuy, Circuit city, CompUSA, Radioshack, Walmart. That is the day when big sales & discounts are announced and Americans go crazy, lining up from the early hours of the morning. It is fun (my kind, I guess) though and you do get good bargains, not just on computer and electronic goods, but also clothes & home items.

Then there were the forest fires, a common occurrence in Socal. We had one close by where many acres were burnt down overnight – deliberate arson. The smoke was horrendous, while driving back from office; I could see the sky going hazy and the ash dropping on the cars, driven through the hills by a stiff wind. You could smell smoke in the car and outside for a couple of days.

Yes, it looks like we are settling down to Californian life fast, after a two year sojourn in the UK…

Pictures - Wikipedia

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