Bestselling author Anand Neelakantan tells the story of the Ramayana in its many versions

 

Captions: The book cover; author Anand Neelakantan; author Valmiki

One of India’s epic poems decoded

By Shevlin Sebastian

In the foreword of ‘Many Ramayanas, Many Lessons’, author Anand Neelakantan states the impact of the Ramayanas on South-East Asia has been the most profound. No other text has come close in the past 3000 years. And majorly in rural India, the Ramayana remains ‘a holy book for spiritual practice, a guide for value education, as well as an ever-popular source of entertainment.’

Anand also offers a disclaimer. He said this was not a research book, ‘but a mere collection of thoughts, tales and lores of a humble writer.’

One conclusion Anand said the reader might come to after reading the epic was that life is a mixture of chance and karma.

The book begins with how the thief Ratnakara meets Sage Narada and plans to rob his veena. Saga Narada gets into a conversation with Ratnakara and asks him whether what he is doing is right.

Thereafter, they meet the family of Ratnakara, who say they don’t support his way of earning a living. A shocked Ratnakara goes into a meditative silence, murmuring Rama Rama, as instructed by Sage Narada, by the banks of the River Tamasa, the river of darkness.

Years later, he is changed and becomes a saint. Sage Narada named him Valmiki and asked him to spread the knowledge he had gained.

When asked how, Saga Narada said, ‘Write about Rama.’ And then he vanishes.

And Valmiki is tormented by what and how he should write.

One day inside the forest, he sees two birds making love. But in the moment of ecstasy, the hunter kills the male bird with an arrow. Valmiki felt anguish. And the first lines of the epic poem bursts out of him:

‘Maa nishada pratisthana tvamagamahsavati samaa yat kraunchamithaunamdekam vadhi kamamohitam’ (Don’t brute! You will never have peace, for you have killed one of the two birds while they were in the act of love).

Anand said that there were three major versions of the Valmiki Ramayana. There is one which is popular in South India, another in East India, while the third is the North-Western version.

After each story, Anand offers insightful commentary on the tale’s meanings, quoting the Ramayana’s sages and saints.

Here is the opinion on love put forth by Rishyasringa, a hermit living in a jungle in the Himalayas. ‘Love is the greatest spirituality,’ he said. ‘In fact, spirituality is nothing but finding love. One can love another person, or the whole world or God. One of the four great aims of life, according to the Hindu scriptures, is kama, or passion. Without passion, there is no salvation.’

Once Sage Vishwamitra asked King Dasaratha if Rama could come to his forest hermitage and protect it from Rakshasas. Dasaratha said no. He added that Rama was too young.

Vishwamitra said, ‘Dasaratha, once the children grow up, parents must set them free. They have to chart their own destiny.’

Added Anand: ‘Dasaratha’s behaviour is thus typical of most fathers. The only thing that has changed from the times of the Ramayana is that open discrimination against girls has somewhat reduced.’

There are profound truths sprinkled in many parts of the narrative.

Here is King Janaka of Mithila telling a yogi who visited his kingdom: ‘Who isn’t going to die? Life is a game from which no one comes out alive, yet we all live as if we will live for eternity. The difference between you and me is that I know this truth. I can die at any moment. There is no guarantee of the future, yet I act by living completely in the moment. I do not worry about my past; I don’t think about the future. I choose to live and act in the moment without worrying about the consequences…. I want you to reflect on the fact that why the next day, one can die at the next moment. Yet a wise man will live the moment. The only truth is now. The past is fiction, the future a dream. The truth is now.’

In January 2025, Oprah Winfrey selected the book, ‘The Power of Now’, the multi-million copy bestseller by German spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle, on the 20th anniversary of its publication, for her book club. This was the second time she did so because the book had changed her life.

‘The Power of Now’ says the same thing King Janaka has said. This proves the most profound wisdom is found in the Ramayana. It provides answers to all the moral dilemmas we face.

Once somebody asked Mahatma Gandhi, ‘Who is your Rama? What proof do you have that Rama lived and ruled over Ayodhya?’

Gandhi replied, ‘Rama is the name of the light inside my consciousness. It is what is lighting my mind. It can be called Allah, it can be called Jesus, it can be called Shunya, it can be called anything. Names don’t matter.’

Expectedly, Anand tackles the concept of Maya (illusion). He writes, ‘What you are seeing as stars may not exist at all because they are many light years away and the light reaching you now started millions of years ago. The star may have died, but you see it, so for you, it exists. Is that not an illusion, maya? You see what does not exist, what has already died.’

As a surprise, the folk version of the Ramayana deals with transgenders, too.

When Rama was about to go into exile with Sita and Lakshmana, he turned to the people waiting on the banks of the Sarayu River and said, ‘Men and women of Ayodhya, please go back. I will return after 14 years.’

When Rama returns, he sees the transgenders living on the bank, outside the city. When he asked them why, they said, ‘You said, “men and women”, but you, whom we consider our God, failed to mention us. We are perhaps the unfortunate people whom even God forgets.’

An apologetic Rama said, ‘You will always have a special place in my heart and society. Your blessing will be equal to my blessing.’

That is how transgenders come to bless a newborn child or, on other important occasions. There is a widespread belief that the blessing of transgenders is the blessing of Ram himself.

As Anand writes, ‘This is how folk tradition has woven marginalised people into the social fabric, compelling those who would otherwise have shunned them to show them respect.’

The tale of the Ramayana continues with its well-known twists and turns, like Ravana’s abduction of Sita, the bird Jatayu attacking Ravana to save Sita, and the story of Hanuman’s trip to Lanka. Then Lord Rama comes to Lanka, kills Ravana and rescues Sita.

Best-selling author Anand’s writing is simple, straight-forward and accessible. This is a book that reminds us of universal truths that have been there since the dawn of civilisation.

(A shorter version was published in The Sunday Magazine, The New Indian Express, South India and New Delhi)

Where the old is still gold

 

Sujit G Ponoth has a vinyl record space in his home at Kochi. He has a collection of over 6000 records

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, a 21-year-old boy named Rahul Nair (name changed) came to JD’s Jukebox record store in Kochi. “This is the first time I am seeing physical records,” Rahul told the owner, Sujit G Ponoth. “I don’t have a record player.”

Rahul wandered around the store and looked at all the different styles of music. Then he reached the rap section. Sujit, 47, observed that Rahul’s eyes lit up. Then Rahul picked up Eminem’s record, ‘Recovery’, released in 2010.

Sujit saw from a distance that Rahul did not know how to look at an album. He was attempting to pull out the album from the sleeve, while also trying to check out the artwork. He came and sat in an armchair. Rahul closed his eyes. Then he hugged the album to his chest.

Sujit went into another room. After a while, he heard a loud noise. When Sujit came out, he saw Rahul crying his lungs out while still holding the album. Tears were flowing non-stop. His cheeks and face had turned red. Initially, Sujit thought maybe Rahul had got a call stating that somebody had died.

“What happened?” Sujit said.

“I am fine, I am fine,” Rahul said. Then the youngster went to the washroom. When he came out, he held Sujit’s hand and said, “In my life, I have only seen Eminem on the phone. This is the first time I have seen something physically connected to Eminem. I want to hug him.”

Rahul said bye to Sujit and vanished. He never came to the store again.

Sujit explains what he understood to a visitor. “Rahul had an emotional and tangible connection to the record, which he had never experienced online,” he said. “The physical artwork, the pictures, the lyrics. He could touch it. And he became emotionally overwhelmed.”

Sujit has over 6000 vinyl records. They are mainly at a speed of 33.5 revolutions per minute (rpm), while there are a few at 45 rpm.

The collection includes the Who’s Who of music in the past 50 years. Names like Elton John, Carpenters, Abba, Boney M, Paul Anka, Elvis Presley, Queen, Police, Engelbert Humperdinck, Pink Floyd, Rod Stewart and many others. He also has an extensive Hindi and Tamil section.

And he has many styles like jazz, rock, punk, rap, new wave, pop, fusion and electronic.

The prices range from Rs 800 to Rs 8000 per record. George Michael’s ‘Faith’ picture disc (1988) sells for the maximum price. Internationally, this record sells from $200 onwards. A picture disc shows a printed image on the playing record instead of the black vinyl colour.

Asked about the high prices, Sujit said, “It’s a question of supply and demand. Companies make these types of records but at higher prices.”

He has rare Hindi records like ‘Ghar’ (1978) and ‘Arth’ (1982), which was directed by Mahesh Bhatt with music by Jagjit and Chitra Singh.

“I have Hindi records from the 1940s onwards,” said Sujit.

The customers range from all walks of life. From a 15-year-old to an 80-plus music lover.

The senior music buff was only interested in Hindi film music from the 1940s to the 60s. He is a fan of KL Saigal, Ravindra Jain, Mukesh, Manna Dey, and SD Burman.

Some don’t have record players at their home, but they buy a record as a souvenir. There are foreign tourists and ardent collectors who drop in.

The records that sell the most are by the local Kerala band ‘Avial’ (Active: 2003 to present). Surprisingly, it is not Malayalis who are buying the records, but outsiders.

“‘Avial’ was one of the first regional rock bands that came out with an album in Malayalam,” said Sujit. At present, all of Sujit’s AR Rahman records have sold out.

Asked to explain the difference between analogue and digital music, Sujit said, “Analogue music is natural. It will sound the way you and I are talking now. The sound frequencies are analogue. Childbirth, a baby crying, the noises made by birds and animals, people talking. As soon as we record these sounds, they become digital. But by recording it, the music loses its frequencies. It will not sound natural.”

People like analogue music because it is as close to listening to the music live. “So when a band is playing, we listen to analogue music,” said Sujit. “We might hear bird sounds while we are listening. But the moment you record it becomes digital music. The recording process eliminates all extraneous sounds. Digital music is artificially doctored to sound perfect.”

Sujit said that he amassed his collection during the past 12 years. He has spent lakhs of rupees to do so. And even though he wanted to insure the collection, insurance companies did not know how to put a value on the collection.

“The retail price on an album, if it was released in the 1960s, can be as low as Rs 9,” said Sujit.

He bought the records by travelling to countries like Sri Lanka, the UK, the USA, Cambodia, Thailand, Malaysia, the United Arab Emirates and cities like Kolkata, Delhi and Mumbai.

“Mumbai is the place from where I got the most records,” he said.

After listening to almost every record, he has graded it according to the level of clarity. It goes from ‘Mint — As Good as New’ to ‘Poor — Best Avoidable’. Other categories include ‘Near Mint’, ‘Very Good’, ‘Good Plus’, ‘Good’, and ‘Fair’.

Regarding maintenance, Sujit said the best way to start is to use paraben-free soap and distilled water. “Both have the least amount of impurities,” he said.

You spray on the record. Then you wipe it dry. Nowadays, you can put it in a wet/dry vacuum machine. Each side takes about two minutes.

Asked if there is a future for analogue music, Sujit said, “It will remain a niche till the end of time, just like physical books.”

(An edited version was published in The Sunday Magazine, The New Indian Express, South India and Delhi)

Many thanks to see this on on the infiniteknowledgeofbooks Instagram site

 

Thoughts after attending a funeral

By Shevlin Sebastian 

As the mourners descended the steps of the St. Augustine’s Forane Church in Ramapuram (60 kms from Kochi), they veered to the right. On a cart, there were steel canisters of tea and coffee, as well as paper cups and a basket which contained pieces of fried vada. These were refreshments for those who had attended the burial ceremony of Rosamma Joseph, the 86-year-old matriarch of one branch of the Cholikkara family. 

Even though it was 4 p.m., the slanting sunlight hit my face and arms with piercing force. So, I took a vada, wrapped in a paper napkin and a cup of tea, climbed over a low wall, and stood under a tree.   

That was when I saw the crows. They seemed to stand almost in a parallel line, near the snacks distribution counter, as they watched the people eat the vada and drink the tea. What struck me was that a few of the crows had their beaks permanently open. Was this a sign of starvation, I thought. 

The vada was large. Not everybody ate the entire vada. They threw some on the grassy ground. A couple of crows picked them up neatly with their beaks and lower jaws and flew away. 

One crow picked up a paper napkin lying on the floor with both its feet. It carried it to the top of an angular roof nearby. When it poked the napkin, it realised there was nothing there. The crow pushed away the paper in disgust. At that moment, a breeze blew. The paper rose, and in an up-and-down fashion, it floated to the ground. There was not much food to be had. People seem to consume the entire vada. 

But the crows did not feel frustrated or lose patience. They silently watched the proceedings. Feeling pity, I placed a part of the vada under a nearby tree. But the crows seemed not to have seen my action. The piece remained there for a while. Then a flying crow noticed it from a height. It flew down, scooped it up, and flew away. 

On the ground, the people present did not notice the crows at all. They were engrossed in their conversations, snacks, and drinks. Those who had finished eating had begun looking at their mobile phones. 

I finished my vada and tea. I placed the napkin in a nearby waste box and moved to the steps of the church where a group of people, mostly relatives, were milling around after finishing their refreshments. 

This was what I heard: 

“Rosamma Ammachi had a heart of gold,” one woman said. 

“Yes, she was a gracious person,” said another. 

“The daughter-in-law looked after her so well in the final stages,” said another. 

“Yes,” said another woman. 

One man in an aside told his wife, “I saw a woman.” 

Before he could finish, she said, “In a blue saree?” 

His mouth opened in an ‘O’. 

“How did you know?” he said. 

“I know your taste,” she said. “I have been married to you for over 30 years.” 

“She looked like the sister of a daughter-in-law,” he said lamely. 

The wife twisted her lips to one side. 

Another man said, “Rosamma was always smiling. And she was so welcoming whenever we went to the house. Very generous host.” 

In the house before the burial, I noticed a black-and-white photo on the mantelpiece. It was of Rosamma and her husband, Joseph (Appachan), standing next to each other in front of the Taj Mahal. “They went there on their honeymoon,” said Joseph, the youngest child. No wonder the couple had a radiant smile on their faces. But this event happened over 60 years ago. 

Little did they realise how much of life lay ahead of them. The ups and downs, the trials and tribulations. 

They had six children: two boys and four girls. They had to bring them all up, provide them with education, arrange marriages for them and watch as they become mature adults and responsible parents. As time passed, their children grew up, got married, and had children of their own. Now those grandchildren had grown up and got married and had children. So, now Appachan and Ammachi became great-great-grandparents. The members of this large extended family had come from places like Dubai, America, and all over Kerala to attend the funeral. Many wept openly at the bier where the body lay. Indeed, Rosamma was a beloved person. 

Appachan had a dazed look on his face. 

When two people marry, little could they imagine then that decades later, one of them would look at the dead body of the other.

Two days before she passed away, along with my wife, I went to meet Rosamma, as the news had come she was sinking. Indeed, one look at her and I knew she was going. My wife held her hand on her own. There was a profound sadness in her smile. From a bed in Ramapuram, she would journey into a life of eternity in the universe without her body or family. Just spirit. And all alone. 

You come alone. You go alone. Nobody can accompany you on these journeys. That is our fate. So Rosamma travelled alone…  

But on the ground, the crows remained in a small group.  

They were more aware of the human beings, because they could get some food from them. But human beings, engrossed by their thoughts and chatter, and their constant interaction with technology, had no contact with nature. None of them knew or were aware there was a batch of crows hopping about and waiting patiently nearby to get pieces of the vada they nonchalantly threw away. 

As I was about to leave, I saw a crow with a large piece of vada in its beak streak across the large courtyard at high speed, probably going to feed its family with this sudden bonanza. 

A joyful moment for them!

Soon, the crows would settle into their existence and we into ours.

People I don’t know

By Shevlin Sebastian

On Sunday morning, I set out on a jog in a lane behind my house in Kochi. The lane is usually deserted. There are trees on either side. There are many houses with gardens in front. A large building is also there.

It is quiet enough that I can hear the cawing of crows and the chirping of sparrows. Of course, to listen to these sounds, I have to quieten the crashing sound of colliding thoughts in my head — happy moments, sad recollections, angry exclamations, revengeful desires, and nostalgic situations.

I often saw a thin man clad in a banian and a dhoti. He had grey hair and large eyes. He lived in a house in that lane. Sometimes, I smiled. He waved. Or he would say, “Good morning.” I would squeeze out some sound because I was breathing hard through my mouth. But we had no conversations at all. Neither did I know his name, nor did he know mine. It was a ‘Hi and bye’ acquaintance.

Then a couple of months ago, I realised he no longer came for his morning walk. What happened? Had he become ill? Has he been struck by a stroke and is bedridden? Is he suffering from dementia? Or has he passed away? Or a more comfortable thought: he might have gone for a long vacation.

Whatever the reason, I could knock on the door of his house and find out. But somehow, I haven’t. I am afraid to know the answer. And I prefer to remember him as I had seen him, with a pleasant smile and a gentle wave of the hand.

For many years, I would see a middle-aged man and woman go for a morning walk. He was tall and bespectacled. She reached his shoulders. But she always spoke animatedly, always moving her hands. And he listened with an occasional nod of his head. Then one day, he began walking alone…

One morning, someone put up a flex board on a pole announcing a death. A lady has passed away. She was 63. A group of women stand near it. One of them said, “Do you know who she is?”

And yes, one woman knows and explains.

When I look at the photo, I realise I don’t know her. Neither do I remember having ever seen her. Yet, she stayed nearby. This is city life. People live in their bubbles.

There have been other deaths in our lane.

A 60-year-old man, who had spent decades in the United Arab Emirates, returned. He was all set to spend the rest of his years with his wife and family.

But one morning he collapsed in the bathroom following a heart attack and passed away. As her husband lay on a mat on the floor, the devastated wife placed her head on the lap of her daughter. The son shed tears. Neighbours came and offered their condolences. Many who lived in the lane did not know them personally. But at this moment of tragedy, they felt the need to offer solace.

In a quiet lane, life-shattering events were taking place.

There is also silent suffering. A widow lives all alone. Children are away. Visitors are rare. Only the maid comes to cook and clean the floors. Her company is a TV set, and walls and windows.

Sometimes I run past a house where the owner has died. The children are abroad. The doors and windows are closed. That is the case with thousands of homes across Kerala. The Malayalis want to leave because of dismal job opportunities. And the people from other states, especially labour, want to come here because of good daily wages.

What a paradox!

On a recent morning, it is cloudy. A gentle breeze blew. I inhale deeply. I had reasons to be grateful for this fresh air. In Delhi, during Diwali, the Air Quality Index was 330, while in Kochi it was 60.

By this time, the dopamine has been released in my brain. My mood becomes lighter. I feel calmer.

And I am grateful to be alive.

(Published in rediff.com)

The India of Today and Yesterday

 

Author Pradeep Damodaran travelled to many cities and towns associated with the freedom movement. He wanted to get a feel of whether the history still resonates. He also focused on the daily life of the people. 

By Shevlin Sebastian  

In February 2022, author Pradeep Damodaran visited the Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad. Expectedly, there were plenty of visitors, ranging from the young to the old. Pradeep checked out Hriday Kunj, the home of Mahatma Gandhi and Kasturba, between 1918 and 1930. He also walked through the museums and photo galleries. 

When Pradeep perused the visitor’s book, he got a surprise. 

One visitor wrote that Gandhi would rot in hell for what he did to all Indians. ‘Even after 75 years of Independence, still we are crying, dying because of you, Mr. Gandhi. I realised why BABASAHEB B.R. AMBEDKAR did not call you Mahatma. Because of you, more than one crore people died during partition. Only soldiers dead in Kashmir as of today’s count is 90,000!’ Pradeep added in brackets: ‘No idea how he arrived at this figure.’  

When he pointed this out to Atul Pandya, director of the Sabarmati Ashram Preservation and Memorial Trust, he said that this freedom to criticise Gandhi was exactly what the man had fought for. ‘Let them try to openly criticise today’s leaders and see if they can get away with that,’ said Atul 

Pradeep went to Juhapura, the Muslim ghetto in Ahmedabad and the Gulbarg Society in Chamanpura.

This is how he described what he saw at the Gulbarg Society where 69 people, including women and children, were hacked to death by rioters in 2002: ‘An eerie silence engulfed us. The entire gated community was desolate and lifeless… At the entrance, to my right, were sprawling two-storey homes with spacious balconies, porticos with round pillars and tiled flooring completely blanketed by dust, soot and scars of burnt human flesh and blood. Doors and windows had been ripped off, probably stolen by anti-socials. Fans and furniture in areas not destroyed by the fire were also missing. Spacious living rooms and bedrooms were bereft of furniture; burnt clothes and glass pieces lay scattered upon piles of other debris, mostly burnt wood.’      

He met Rafiq Qasim Mansoori, who was wearing sunglasses. Asked whether he had been present during the massacre, Rafiq took off his sunglasses. His right eye looked completely smashed. ‘A stone hit me in the eye,’ he said, by way of explanation about what happened to him during the attack. ‘I lost nineteen family members that day and that included my wife and infant son.’ 

In Godhra, Pradeep dwells on the long history of communalism in the town, which was a revelation. Muslims in Godhra belonged to the Ghanchis branch. They were mostly poor and uneducated. 

During Partition, many Sindhis, belonging to the Bhaiband sect, migrated from Karachi and settled near Godhra. They had experienced horrendous suffering at the hands of the Muslims in 1947. That memory remained strong. The Hindu communalists took advantage of this resentment. 

The first large-scale communal riot took place in 1948 between the Sindhis and the Ghanchis. The Sindhis burned down over 3500 properties belonging to the Ghanchis. They had to flee. The Sindhis took over the lands. ‘Even at that time, arson was the top choice for rioters in this region,’ wrote Pradeep. The riots between the two communities have continued intermittently over the decades. 

At one time, Pradeep went to interview Maulana Iqbal Hussain Bokda, the principal of the Polan Bazar Urdu School. When the Maulana spoke about the social isolation and economic backwardness of Muslims, Pradeep asked whether the Maulana had regretted not emigrating to Pakistan. 

A disturbed Bokda led Pradeep down a corridor and pointed, through a window, at the tricolour flying high outside. ‘You see that tiranga? Since 2005, the flag has been hoisted every day at 7 a.m. and is brought down at 5 p.m.,’ said Bokda. ‘You tell me if you can find this anywhere in India. The tiranga is hoisted every single day! If one person cannot do it, someone else does. You know why? It is because we are Indians and we believe in this country.’ 

All these stories are recounted in the book, ‘In Pursuit of Freedom — Travels Across Patriotic Lands’. Pradeep would go to a particular place, which had some link with the freedom movement. There, he would describe his encounters with the local people. Then he would delve into the history of the place, as connected to the freedom movement. 

So, in Bardoli, he talked about the Bardoli Satyagraha against the British by farmers against high land taxes in 1928. Its success resonated across India. The concept of nonviolent resistance became an idea that nobody could resist. And it led to the independence of India, although it took another two decades.  

In the first section, Pradeep goes to different places in Gujarat. In Part 2, he goes to Uttar Pradesh. His first stop is Jhansi. Pradeep wanted to find out whether the residents still remembered Rani Lakshmibhai. 

And yes, she is very much alive through hoardings, government flex boards and names of colleges and other institutions. He visited the Jhansi Fort and marvelled at its construction. 

While in Jhansi, Pradeep had an unusual experience. People would often ask him which religion he belonged to. They would feel unnerved when Pradeep said he was an atheist.

He noted that those who asked this question had ‘never moved out of their native towns and villages for generations. They had been fed stories about the grandeur and courage associated with their religion. Merely seventy-five years of imposed secularism are, perhaps, hardly sufficient to erase over 1000 years of religious devotion, as I could see first-hand,’ writes Pradeep.   

In Pala Pahadi village, Pradeep heard a familiar nationwide lament echoed by a villager: ‘What is there to say? Can’t you see for yourself? Everything is rotting here; nothing has changed in the past seventy-five years. We have no roads, no drinking water, nor any form of sanitation. Where are the free toilets? Where are the schemes the government has announced? We have got nothing.’

In Nandulan Khera, the people had converted over 90 percent of the Swachh Bharat toilets into storerooms for storing hay and other non-essential stuff. The problem with the toilets was that the government had not installed a septic tank. And for the few who built septic tanks, once it got full, no lorries could come to their village to get it emptied because of a lack of proper roads. So the people stopped using the toilets and went back to the fields for their ablutions.  

In Unnao, Pradeep went to the village of Mankhi, 17 kms away. He wanted to meet the girl, whom ex-BJP MLA Kuldeep Singh Sengar raped on June 4, 2017, to national outrage. Later, her father died in police custody. Pradeep discovered that because of the danger to their lives, the family no longer lived in the village. They had moved to Unnao. 

Back in Unnao, Pradeep met the girl’s mother, Asha Singh, a Congress candidate for the UP Assembly elections. She detailed the sequence of events that took place. Asha bemoaned the fact that men continued to rape women, especially of the lower castes, with impunity. All the publicity associated with her daughter’s case had changed nothing. The caste system remained powerfully rooted in people’s minds. 

Standing next to Asha was a young woman who looked confident and sophisticated. It was much later that Pradeep came to know she was the victim. ‘She was definitely smart; perhaps in a decade or so, she would be ready for the polls and Unnao might then have a serious contender from the fairer sex,’ said Pradeep.   

Some of the other places Pradeep visited included Chauri Chaura, Champaran, and Motihari. 

In the third section, Pradeep goes to Punjab, where he focuses on the Ghadar movement. These were expatriate Indians, mostly Punjabis, who fought to overturn British rule in India. He also visited Don Parewa (Nainital), Tamluk (Bengal), Tentuligumma (Odisha), Panchalankurichi and Idinthakarai (Tamil Nadu)

This is an eye-opening book. It is a history lesson and a picture of modern-day India. This history, told as truthfully as possible, is important especially when there is a lot of rewriting and erasure taking place these days. For example, the National Council of Educational Research and Training has removed all chapters on the history of the Mughals and of Gandhi’s opposition to Hindu nationalism. 

The book shows that while progress has been made, in many areas, things have stayed the same just as they were one hundred years ago. But the people fight on. There is a deep sense of frustration and anger at the government because of the lack of jobs for the young and for its failure to provide basic services. In the end, this book is an insightful addition to help us better understand the India of today and yesterday.

(A shorter version was published in the Sunday Magazine, The Hindustan Times)

Hindi audio version of 'The Stolen Necklace' can be heard on Kuku FM

 

Happy to state that the Hindi audio version of 'The Stolen Necklace' titled 'Do Chehre Ek Ilzaam' can now be heard on Kuku FM.

There are 33 chapters of a few minutes each.

So far, over 14,000 people have tuned in.

This is the link: https://kukufm.com/show/do-chehre-ek-ilzaam/episodes

Many thanks to Kuku FM radio channel, HarperCollins Publishers and Anish Chandy, Founder of the Labyrinth Literary Agency

The Burnt House

By Shevlin Sebastian 

At 7 am, the day after the burial of his wife and two daughters, Nasir Khan stood outside his house. The tiled roof had caved in, while the walls had dark stains on them. The floor inside was a mess of ash, burnt wooden planks, sarees, and children’s clothing. There were several collapsed bricks in the middle of the dining room. An acrid smell permeated the house. He walked from room to room. Nasir saw the half-burnt bed on which he and his wife Ruksana slept.

It had taken so many years to build his dream house. Now it had taken a group of young men less than an hour to reduce the house to a shell and destroy his family. When the house caught fire, they became trapped inside. 

When he stepped out, he noticed his cycle had also been burnt. The tyres had melted into a gooey mass on the ground. 

An image came to his mind. Of his two daughters running up to him when he returned with packets of sweets. The sweet smiles and the affection in their eyes. Then Nasir blinked, as tears welled up and the image vanished. He continued to stare at the house. Other houses nearby were also in the same burnt condition. But he was told the people had left much earlier. He was not sure why Ruksana did not go away. Maybe she had been waiting for him. Or maybe she did not feel it would be dangerous.  

Nasir Khan is 60 years old. The silver-haired man is a labour contractor. He had been in Azamgarh on business the day when his life turned into darkness. Nasir knew it had all to do with the coming assembly elections. Polarisation was the best way to get the votes of the majority community. Riots acted like a vacuum cleaner, to mop up the votes. 

Some altercation had taken place outside the mosque. Soon, armed men raided their mohalla. They carried knives, country-made revolvers and cans of kerosene. Nasir’s house was near the mosque. It suffered the most damage. 

Nasir saw from the corner of his eyes that a young man was watching him. He had a beard and wore jeans and sneakers. ‘English fellow,’ thought Nasir. The youth approached Nasir. 

He bowed his head and said in a low voice, “I am sorry for your loss.” 

Nasir’s lips curled in one corner. He was not sure whether the commiseration was genuine. ‘Who is this man?’ he thought. ‘Where does he come from?’ 

“Sir, I am a journalist from Lucknow,” the man said. “I write for an English newspaper.”  

When Nasir remained silent, the man said, “I am Abbas.” 

‘A Muslim journalist,’ thought Nasir. ‘Okay.’ 

Nasir nodded. 

“Sir, what happened?” Abbas said. 

Nasir explained what had happened. Or rather, he recounted what he had heard. Abbas took down notes on a small notepad using a ballpoint pen. 

As Nasir spoke, he could feel the constriction in his heart easing up. His throat seemed to open up. He spoke a bit more easily. 

Abbas asked a steady stream of questions calmly. Nasir answered them as best as he could. For years, he held a resentment against these privileged, well-educated city boys. Many of them were cocky. Sometimes, he felt like giving them a slap when he saw them misbehave on the streets. But he knew if he did something like that, their parents, with their influential contacts, would ensure he would land up in jail. Then how would he feed his family? ‘Opt for safety,’ he thought. But now Abbas was changing his perceptions. There were good youngsters too. Well-behaved and polite. 

As Abbas paused in his questioning, Nasir said, “Why don’t we have a cup of chai?” 

“Sure, Nasir Bhai,” said Abbas. 

They walked towards the road, crossed it, walked a hundred metres and came to Ramu Yadav’s roadside shop. The one-room shack had benches placed outside. 

“Two chai,” said Nasir, as he and Abbas sat down beside each other on a bench. 

Nasir closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. 

“I am so sorry about what had happened,” said Ramu. 

Nasir nodded. 

“What are you going to do now?” Abbas said in a low voice. “Will the government provide compensation?” 

“They should, if they have any humanity,” he said, feeling a surge of anger whip through him. It seemed as if his breath had stopped.  

Nasir observed Abbas sideways. The journalist had blinked, taken aback by his sudden change in tone.  

“It is going to be difficult to move on,” said Nasir, in a softer voice. “For whom should I live now?” 

There was a silence between them. 

Ramu brought two earthen cups for them. 

A tuft of smoke arose from the cups. 

They sipped the tea in silence. 

The sun arose in the sky.

In a low voice, Nasir said, “Politicians will do anything to win votes.” 

Abbas placed the cup beside him on the bench and noted the sentence in his diary.   

Some labourers drifted to the shop to have tea, bread and bananas. 

Nasir and Abbas finished their tea. They threw the cups into a bin nearby. 

Abbas pulled out his purse from his hip pocket and paid the money. 

The duo stepped out onto the road. 

Abbas took a few mobile shots of Nasir. Then he shook Nasir’s hand and said, “I will send the report through WhatsApp when it gets published.”

Nasir gave a brief smile and said, “I cannot read English, but I will ask somebody to translate for me.” 

They again shook hands. Abbas stood at the bus stop. 

Nasir began to walk away, to his sister’s house two kilometres away. He was staying there temporarily. Nasir would repair the house. And then maybe sell it and move off somewhere else. Then he wouldn’t have to be reminded all the time about what had happened. Nasir was surprised to feel a sense of relief in him. Abbas had listened without interrupting him. Thus, in a way, Nasir could unburden himself. 

But he also knew life would never be the same. Overnight, he had become the sole surviving member of his family. Nasir looked down at the road and thought, ‘Allah, why did this happen? What wrong did I do? Or my wife and daughters? Why is it that nothing seemed to happen to the people who did this? Why does the innocent suffer all the time?’ 

As he continued to walk, a visual appeared in his head. It was of the Yateem orphanage, which was a few kilometres away. Every month, Nasir would donate some money.

Once, he had gone with his wife and children to meet the youngsters. Many people had abandoned these children because of pregnancy out of wedlock. Some became orphans because of riots. Someone had killed their parents. Nasir knew many of them had psychological scars. You could see it in the sadness of their eyes and their nervous gestures, like rubbing their face or touching the ears. His family was deeply affected by what they saw. “Consider how lucky you are,” he had told his daughters, and they nodded their heads solemnly. 

Now, they are dead. And a rage and anger coursed through Nasir’s body. He knew he had to do something. Otherwise, hate would consume him. And so, Nasir decided he would become a volunteer at the orphanage. He was sure interacting with the children would enable him to fill the void in his heart. And he could have a purpose in his life. He felt the children would heal him. In turn, he could also heal them.

And hopefully, one day, way off into the future, he would forgive the killers of his family. Misguided, silly youth with no independent thought processes. Just being exploited by callous politicians. These young men could end up in jail if the authorities didn’t defend them properly in court. 

‘Yes,’ he told himself. ‘Tomorrow I will go to the orphanage and see what I can do.’     

Abbas got a window seat on the bus. His thoughts also revolved around Nasir and the ruined houses he saw. ‘Nothing makes sense,’ he thought. But Abbas was glad that thanks to his job he could see what happened first hand. 

Abbas had experienced none of the tragedies which Nasir was facing now. He belonged to an upper-middle-class family in Lucknow. His father was a successful criminal lawyer. His mother was a principal of a private college. He had studied at La Martiniere school in Lucknow and St Stephen’s College in Delhi. Abbas gravitated towards journalism because he enjoyed writing. 

Two Muslims from two different worlds met, consoled each other and went off in different directions. Probably they would never meet again. 

(Published in Muse India)