Art That Changes You from Within (A Journey Through the 6th Kochi-Muziris Biennale)

 

Photos: Curator Nikhil Chopra; the theme of the Biennale; Assamese artist Dhiraj Rabha with his work; Kerala artist KB Shajith's 'WipingOut'; ‘The Parliament of Ghosts’ by Ibrahim Mahama of Ghana

By Shevlin Sebastian

On a recent sunny Monday morning, you would expect a sparse crowd at the 6th edition of the Kochi Muziris Biennale, since it was a working day. Instead, a sizeable number of people – young, middle-aged and elderly – were milling around.

Near the entrance, on the left, against the wall, was the curator’s note by Nikhil Chopra.

Here’s an excerpt:

‘In an era where we are increasingly detached from our physical selves, we invite you to think with your bodies and feel with your minds. This is an invitation to engage in a radical sensory transposition: to smell with your eyes, touch with your ears, and taste with your fingertips.’

The theme is ‘For the Time Being’.

As you enter the nearest hall, the work of Assamese artist, Dhiraj Rabha, catches one’s attention. In a darkened space, petals and stems seem to be lit up by neon lights.

But a closer examination reveals historical materials and videos with former United Liberation Front of Assam members which detail the history of insurgency in Assam. You can also hear news broadcasts from the 1990s that seem to emanate from the flowers.

Another work that catches the eye is the massive 50-foot painting, ‘Wiping Out’ by Kerala artist RB Shajith. Shajith has focused on the forests of the Malabar region.

He has used oil, watercolour and acrylic and painted over wooden boards as well as canvas. He attached the brush to a long stick. This comes as no surprise because of the height of the work. But this also results in rough exteriors.

Shajith's message: these beautiful landscapes of ‘God’s Own Country’ are being wiped out in the name of development.

A silver-black-haired lady is looking at the works with a rare intensity. She is Nandita Jaishankar, who works with the Serendipity Arts Festival in Goa.

“The works are impressive,” she said. “This edition has focused on the body and the practices around movement, while putting artist-led initiatives at the forefront. It's an interesting concept that Nikhil [Chopra] and HH Arts Spaces are working with. I know their work well since they are based in Goa.”

She added, “I'm familiar with some of these artists' works because we've overlapped in our festival over the years” She was impressed by the works of the Panjeri Artists' Collective Union of Bengal, a collective of 14 artists, across the visual arts, music, cinema literature, and music.

The main installation is a work about the elders of Habra, West Bengal. All of them are over the age of 75.

“Because of migration, in their lifetimes, they have sung four different versions of the national anthem,” she said.

These include: British India (God Save the King); East Pakistan (Qaumi Taranah); Bangladesh (Amar Shonar Bangla) and today’s India (Jana Gana Mana).

Nandita also liked Dhiraj’s work. "It is a striking examination of power dynamics between state and community," she said.

Nandita has – no surprises here – come for all the six editions of the Biennale.

A true art aficionado.

Another visitor is Nico Kaden, a German, who lives in Paris and works in technology. He is a frequent visitor to art exhibitions in Paris. On a holiday in South India, he heard about the Biennale. So, he flew to Kochi to have a look. “I’m glad I did. This is the first time I am seeing the works of so many South Asian artists at one location,” he said. “They are very impressive.”

Nico visits art exhibitions to enrich his soul. “Tech is soulless,” he said with a smile.

The ground area of this year’s Aspinwall House is a little more than one-third of what it was in previous editions. There is a demarcating wall. The remaining portion is owned by the realtor DLF.

“The acquisition of that section is under consideration by the Kerala state government,” said Dr Venu V, Chairman of the Kochi Biennale Foundation.

If it happens, the government will then convert Aspinwall House into a permanent cultural venue. Nevertheless, it retains its familiar charm.

The cafe is on one side facing the backwaters. The sea breeze blows constantly. People have a far-away look as they gaze at the waters.

It’s illuminating art on the water’s edge.

At the nearby Pepper House, one is immediately taken aback by the blue installation, ‘Yantra/Bloom 32°N’ by New-York based Assamese artist Utsa Hazarika. It is placed on the lawn and reimagines New Delhi’s Jantar Mantar, which is an area of protest and solidarity.

There is a sundial which is at an angle of 32°N; this is oriented toward Palestine. The structure has been made using steel and mirrors.

In an inner hall, there are audio recordings of journalist Ravish Kumar speaking about the Shaheen Bagh protests in 2020, and student activists like the jailed Umar Khalid.

There is an audio in Oriya where people from indigenous communities talk about how they are being displaced because of bauxite mining. You can hear them speaking by wearing headphones.

Here is an excerpt:

“When they came to the village, they said we should leave this village.

This isn’t your village, this isn’t your forest, this isn’t your land. This isn’t your Niyamgiri.

This is the government's Niyamgiri. The government’s forest. The government’s land. The government’s village.

They beat us with a gun, and said they will detonate a bomb. They beat everyone from our village.

He told them, “Why should I leave? I am not going to leave. This is our village; we have our rights here. We have rights to our forest. We have rights to our hills. Why should we leave? We have not done something wrong or unjust. Why are you telling us to leave?”

One of the most astonishing works is ‘The Parliament of Ghosts’ by Ibrahim Mahama installed at the Anand Warehouse. The huge walls are covered with stitched jute bags. Sourced locally, it has the marks of bearing spices and grains.

Then there were numerous chairs, many of them which had been discarded earlier. Mahama said that these jute bags and chairs make us confront the colonial labour that built today’s economy.

Incidentally, these bags have a link to his country, Ghana.

They are the leading producer of cocoa, and jute sacks were used to transport cocoa from plantations to ports. During the Biennale talks and performances have taken place in this setting, living up to its name of being a parliament.

Finally, the Island Warehouse on Willingdon Island is a must-see. You can take an air-conditioned Water Metro from Mattancherry Island and the first stop is Willingdon. The 20,00 sq. ft. warehouse has several extraordinary works.

At one end, there is Serbian artist Marina Abramović's ‘Waterfall’. It is a multi-channel installation featuring the faces of 108 Tibetan Buddhist monks and nuns chanting non-stop. The effect is that of a spiritual waterfall.

This is a most impressive Biennale exerting a powerful emotional pull on viewers. It needs a minimum of three days to do justice to this event. And for those who have not seen it, this is a beautiful and immersive experience that will change you as a person.

Don’t miss it.

(Published in O Heraldo, Goa)

Many thanks to South First for their coverage of the Thajudheen case

 

https://thesouthfirst.com/.../congress-bets-on-aisha.../

A stolen necklace, a wrongful arrest, and Kerala’s landmark public law remedy. The real accused, a habitual offender was arrested only later, after his own wife revealed the truth to a police officer she trusted.

Sreelakshmi Soman

Synopsis: VK Thajudheen’s wrongful arrest in Kerala led to 77 days of imprisonment, torture, and public humiliation before the real culprit was found. The High Court awarded Thajudheen ₹14 lakh compensation, affirming violations of Article 21 and stressing constitutional accountability. His ordeal, documented in the book ‘The Stolen Necklace’, highlights systemic police failures and the enduring need for public law remedies.

"The first day in jail, I couldn’t even stand. I just went and sat in a corner.”

VK Thajudheen pauses before finishing the sentence. Celebration is still happening around him, after all, the Kerala High Court has finally acknowledged what he and his family lived through for years. But memory does not wait for verdicts.

For a man who had never stepped inside a police station, never seen the inside of a courtroom, and came home from Qatar only to conduct his daughter’s wedding, the journey from a white scooter on CCTV footage to a High Court judgment was brutal, humiliating, and irreversible in parts.

Recently, the Kerala HC awarded ₹14 lakh in compensation to Thajudheen and his family for a wrongful arrest, custodial torture, public humiliation, and prolonged incarceration — not merely as damages, but as a constitutional remedy under public law.

The court also left it open for the State to recover the amount from the erring police officers. It was not just a judgment. It was a warning.

When suspicion replaced probe

On a July night in 2018, Thajudheen’s car was stopped near his home in Kadirur. What began as a routine interaction quickly turned ominous. Police officers insisted he step out, photographed him in the dead of night, and openly declared to his family, ”He is a thief.”

Within hours, Thajudheen was accused of a chain-snatching incident that had occurred six days earlier, kilometres away from where he lived. The police showed CCTV visuals of a bearded man on a white scooter and demanded a confession.

There was no recovery of gold, neither the scooter or verification of tower location data, nor serious attempt to rule out mistaken identity.

Instead, Thajudheen was stripped, tortured, and paraded through public roads, jewellery shops, and relatives homes- a public trial before any court could speak. His family watched as neighbours stared, whispered, and judged.

Except for his close family, everyone murmured, ”There’s no smoke without fire.”

He spent 54 days in judicial custody in Kerala. When he finally returned to Qatar, overstaying due to the case, he was jailed for another 23 days and lost his job.

77 days of imprisonment for a crime he never committed.

The real accused, a habitual offender was arrested only later, after his own wife revealed the truth to a police officer she trusted.

Courtroom that spoke the language of Constitution

The writ petition – WP(C) No. 9494 of 2019 – was not just about money, but about dignity. Justice PM Manoj, in a detailed judgment held that the case involved a clear violation of Article 21, the right to life and personal liberty.

Drawing from landmark Supreme Court rulings such as Nilabati Behera, Rudul Sah, and Nambi Narayanan, the court reaffirmed a critical constitutional principle-

“When the State violates fundamental rights, compensation is not charity — it is a public law remedy.”

The bench made it clear that sovereign immunity has no place when police excesses trample constitutional guarantees. This compensation was awarded not as civil damages claim, but as constitutional accountability, leaving the door open for further civil and criminal proceedings.

Importantly, the court also stated that the government may recover the compensation from the officers involved — a quiet but powerful message to the police establishment.

‘Not an ordinary arrest’

Senior journalist Shevlin Sebastian, whose book The Stolen Necklace played a key role in bringing national attention to the case, says the judgment validates something that numbers can never capture.

”People don’t understand the psychological toll” he told South First.

”His youngest child was humiliated in school. His career collapsed. His family was shattered. You cannot quantify that pain.”

The Stolen Necklace documented the human cost behind procedural abuse. The book was even submitted before the Court to underline that this was not a routine error — it was a systemic failure with human consequences.

Sebastian believes the judgment sends a message the police cannot ignore anymore-

”You cannot arrest on suspicion. You must be 110 percent sure before putting handcuffs on someone.” he said.

Public law remedy; Real legacy of case

Advocate T Asaf Ali, Thajudheen’s counsel and former Director General of Prosecutions, calls it one of the rarest of rare cases in Kerala jurisprudence, not because of the facts alone, but because of what the court chose to emphasise.

Speaking to South First he told that ”Most people, even police officers are unaware of public law remedies. This case has a larger perspective. It teaches that police misconduct does not end with suspension. There are constitutional consequences.”

Public law remedies, rooted in Articles 32 and 226 of the Constitution, allow courts to directly intervene when the State violates fundamental rights — through writs, declarations, injunctions, and crucially, compensation.

”This judgment should be a benchmark. It must be popularised. People must know that they have this right.” Ali says.

He also speaks of the pressure faced during the case – attempts at mediation, influence, even offers to settle.

”I did not bend. This judgment will be cited again and again.”

‘This is only an interval’

For Thajudheen, the verdict brought relief, not closure. ”They even offered lakhs to withdraw the case” he says quietly. ”But this was never about money. It was about the insult and injustice.”

Inside jail, he survived using the only skill he had — communication.

”There is a custom. New inmates get punished. I was terrified. I spoke to everyone, built rapport. That saved me.” he told South First.

Now, he plans to move civil court for further action. ”This is not the end. It’s only an interval.”

Ironically, his home is now visited by filmmakers, producers, storytellers — all wanting to adapt his ordeal for the screen. A cinema lover himself, Thajudheen says he is waiting, cautiously for the right creators. Because some stories are not meant for spectacle. They are meant for accountability.

In a system where wrongful arrests often dissolve into silence, this case speaks loudly-

A necklace can be stolen.

Dignity cannot be.

And when the State forgets, Constitution remembers.

(Edited by Amit Vasudev)

A book, 'The Stolen Necklace', that played a role in a landmark court judgement

 

Caption: V. K Thajudheen (left) and Shevlin Sebastian 

On Thursday, January 8, 2026, Asaf Ali, former Director General of Prosecution and counsel for VK. Thajudheen sent me a court judgement.

These are some of the conclusions:

The court ordered the State Government to pay a total of ₹14 lakh in compensation.

• ₹10 lakh for V.K. Thajudheen for his illegal arrest, loss of job, and mental agony.
• ₹1 lakh each for his wife and three children (total ₹4 lakh) for the defamation and harassment they endured.

The court explicitly stated that the state is free to recover this compensation amount from the specific police officers responsible (SI P. Biju and ASIs Yogesh and T. Unnikrishnan).

The court noted that this award does not prevent Thajudheen from pursuing further civil lawsuits against the officers for larger damages.

On May 2023, my book, in collaboration with Thajudheen, called ‘The Stolen Necklace’ was published by HarperCollins detailing the trauma that he and his family went through.  

Asaf Ali told me recently that he had submitted the book to the judge among many other materials.

He feels the book played a role in this judgement. So, I am happy I was able to play a role.

Here’s what chief sub editor and senior reporter Ronnie Kuriakose wrote in The New Indian Express:

A 2023 book, The Stolen Necklace by former TNIE staffer Shevlin Sebastian, depicting the travails of Thajudheen, played its part in the case. “The book was submitted in court to make the point that the incident was no ordinary arrest, but one that gained national media attention.

It presented the telltale circumstances of the incident. And from my understanding, the court did appreciate what it conveyed,” Asaf Ali said.

On this, Thajudheen said, "I’m glad that the book, which tells my story, has helped." He also recalled sitting down with Shevlin to write. “We met every day for six months. He used to come with a flask of hot tea, and we’d sit for hours poring over the notes in discussions. Recalling some memories even brought tears to my eyes,” Thajudheen said.

Later, in 2022, the book was pitched to publishers and received positive responses. “It did well, but I did not imagine it would make its way to my defence in court as well,” he added.

The book, in addition to narrating the incident, also charts Thajudheen life, his aspirations, and how it was all derailed because of a single day. “It’s my life story. My past, present, and a robbed future,” Thajudheen concluded.

Speaking to TNIE on the development, the writer Shevlin said, “I’m so happy. Thajudheen’s whole life had come to a juddering halt because of the incident. This verdict is the first ray of light in his life after so long. I also think it will be a deterrent to police offices and put a stop to their excesses. I’m happy the book played a small role.”

May thanks to the Kerala media for extensive coverage of this ruling in print, online, radio and TV.

 

From the Centre to the Margins (Life in an Upscale Retirement Home)

By Shevlin Sebastian

“She’s only 60 but she slipped into dementia,” said a woman, as she pointed at a closed door.

“60 is so young,” said the shocked visitor.

“Yes, but she couldn't handle her husband’s sudden death.”

At the upscale retirement home I visited recently, in Kochi, each door represents a life story. Some never expected to be here. Others opted for it. But with monthly rents of five and six figures, they are all well-to-do.

Many had lived abroad and had been successful doctors, engineers, architects, professors, and entrepreneurs. For long they had been in the centre of their universe. But everybody had to succumb to tempus fugit (‘time flies’ in Latin).

From the centre they have been gently pushed to the margins. Because of old age, and mostly, physical frailty. A plaque for long years of service. Handshakes and hugs. Cakes and wine. Loud laughter. And then silence. Which stretches into decades.

You can see some being pushed on wheelchairs. Others lean on walking sticks. An attender held the hand of a stiff-backed person taking tentative steps.

One couple is from California. “I wouldn’t say my husband is happy, but it’s better than being there. We had nobody to talk to. The problem in America is isolation.”

To combat loneliness, numerous activities are planned during the day. Card games. Knitting. Yoga. Music. Brain Gym. Physical gym. Swimming pool. Men and women gather. They talk with each other. They smile. But there are a few who remain isolated.

Deaths create havoc steadily. The husband might die; the wife now lives alone. Or the wife might die. “It’s very difficult for a man to live alone,” said a resident.

And when visitors visit the seriously elderly, in their nineties, the question is the same: do you know who I am?

The bedridden man or woman will stare at the visitor.

Sometimes, he blurts out the right name. There is wonder all around. How great was that?

One woman said, “My husband cannot tolerate any medicines.”

“You can put it in the food,” said a resident.

“I tried, but the moment he senses a change in the taste he spits the food out.”

People are left wondering about a possible solution.

I move around.

Another woman said, “Before I left for the US, I was docile and submissive. But when I went there, I was able to develop my talents. I became confident and outgoing. My husband just could not accept the new me.”

These are people of an older generation. Divorce was not an option. So, they chugged on. It probably makes sense.

One resident said, “When we are young, we feel we can live without our spouse. Divorce seems easy then. But at this stage, we cling to each other. There is nobody else.”

Another woman said, “Mothers today should teach their sons to cook, clean, and respect boundaries. Otherwise, there will be too many divorces. Young women are so evolved now.”

The women easily exchange notes about their life with each other. They get mental and psychological relief. But the men remain silent.

One resident worries about her daughter who is going to give birth in a few weeks. “Oh, how I wish I could be there. But I cannot leave my husband alone.” She said she had asked her daughter-in-law whether she could be there for a few days after the birth. But she has got a promotion and is finding it difficult to get leave.

Another woman remarked, “I saw her photo on Instagram. She’s got a big stomach.”

“Yes,” the mother said, with a glowing smile.

One resident said, “I take part in a group prayer on Zoom. Once a week, I have to give a commentary. I prepare but the speech I give is an inspired one. A spirit enters me and I speak. It’s magical.”

Her eyes are suffused with wonder.

The listener thinks, “This could be divine energy, or the unconscious mind.”

Several live in the past – dwelling on achievements, career highs, their busyness. In all this, the children are missing. Many are abroad, busy building careers the way their parents did. They have children, a mortgage, and career ambitions. The arc will remain the same. One day, they will also reach the retirement home and their children will carry on the cycle of life.

It’s an immaculate place. The floors are swept often. The washrooms are scented. The lawns are mowed. The tiled pathways have been cleared of falling leaves. There are large trees all around. The sky is blue. The leaves rustle in an afternoon breeze. The food is tasty. The staff move with a smile on their faces.

But most residents have a look in their eyes which states, “Too many years have passed. We are closer to the exit.”

For younger visitors, it’s an unsettling preview of what lies ahead. But to live like this, it may be better to have a chest full of currency. Preferably dollars or euros. Otherwise, it’s going to be an agonising time.

Meet Zeenath PA, the Kochi Social Worker Whose Handmade Wigs Are Helping Cancer Survivors Reclaim Their Identity

 

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Reshma Nair (name changed) woke up one morning and felt a lump in her breast. When the doctor examined her, he confirmed her worst fears. She had breast cancer. She embarked on a course of chemotherapy. Finally, it was decided to remove her breasts. When her husband came to know, he split up with her and moved on to another woman. The couple had two small children. 

Reshma recovered, but when her hair grew back, it turned out to be grey. At 29 years of age, this came as a shock. When Reshma returned to the hospital where she worked as a nurse, her superior said, “We like our nurses to be beautiful young women.” 

A shocked Reshma resigned and fell into a deep depression. She did not know what to do. At her lowest point, Reshma heard about Zeenath PA, a social worker who provided wigs for women who went bald because of chemotherapy. 

When Zeenath came to Reshma’s house, with her wigs, she realised she needed to shave off all the grey hair. After using a trimmer, when the wig was placed on Reshma’s head, she looked beautiful. “A big smile broke out on Reshma’s face when she looked at herself in the mirror,” said Zeenath. 

She looked at Zeenath and said, “Now I am back to normal.” 

Within a few weeks, Reshma got a job at another hospital and the household was humming again, despite the absence of her husband. 

The idea of providing wigs came to Zeenath by accident. She would counsel patients at the cancer ward at the Government General Hospital in Kochi. The women told her that they didn’t have a problem with having cancer, but because of chemotherapy they had lost all their hair. 

One woman said, “When we go home, our neighbours and our family members look at us with a little bit of fear. Many of them don't know how to react to us, especially the grandchildren who are very scared to come close to us. Husbands also feel disappointed that we have lost all our hair.” 

That was how Zeenath got the idea to provide wigs. When she did a few inquiries, she came to know that there was a wig-making unit at the Amala Institute of Medical Sciences (AIMS) in Thrissur. She met with the Joint Director, Fr. Jaison Mundanmani, who agreed to provide wigs. On her own accord, she decided to collect hair to help in the cause.  

So, Zeenath embarked on a campaign. She spoke at schools, colleges, and places of worship. She said, “See, you are taking your hair for granted, but if you can share a part of it, somebody's life will be completely changed.”

And over time, people began to respond. 

To her surprise, most of the contributors were young men. Many of them had long hair, because during COVID-19, there were no barbers around. They allowed their hair to grow long. 

Once she met Arjun, a 22-year-old who lived in Fort Kochi. “When I saw that he had long hair, I said, ‘Don't go to the barber and get the hair cut and just throw it away’. Instead, you can give it to me. I can make good use of it.”

Arjun immediately said, “Chechi, I will give it to you.”

So Zeenath herself cut the hair, took a photo and used it as her WhatsApp status. “This had a lot of impact,” she said. 

Another reason was that many contributors had someone in their family who had been afflicted with cancer. “So they know the pain of losing one’s hair,” said Zeenath. One physically challenged man told Zeenath, “I cannot give my eyes, lungs or heart or money since I am poor. But it costs nothing to give my hair. I know it will grow again.”  

Zeenath needs a minimum of 30 cm of length. Three batches of hair are needed to make one wig. “Not everybody has thick hair,” she said. Zeenath is looking for natural black hair. The problem with coloured hair is that when it is washed, it turns white. And no woman wants a wig with white hair. 

Every night, Zeenath washes the hair with shampoo and hangs it out in the courtyard to dry. A couple of weeks ago, Zeenath held a camp in Cheranalloor, where twenty men volunteered to donate their hair.

As Zeenath has become better known, she gets calls from Thiruvananthapuram, Kannur, Kollam and Kottayam districts informing her that they would want to contribute. A day before I met her, a lady dentist from Aluva donated a portion of her hair.

But women are not easy contributors. “Those who are unmarried are reluctant to give because they are still in the marriage market and want to look beautiful with lustrous long hair,” said Zeenath. “Those who give are usually married women with children. But sometimes, they need the permission of their husbands. Many of their husbands like their wives to have long hair. So they are unwilling to give their hair unless the husband gives his consent.”

Sometimes, a donation can backfire on the contributor. Priya, 35, had very long hair. Her husband admired it. Tragically, he died of late-stage cancer. A dejected Priya lost the incentive to keep her hair long. She donated it to Zeenath. But in the conservative neighbourhood that she lived in, people began gossiping. They said, “It seems she was waiting for her husband to die before she could cut her hair and style herself like a model.” 

That was very painful for Priya to hear.

Like Priya, Zeenath has also experienced painful moments. She has provided wigs for terminal patients. “Many of them wore wigs for a few months before they passed away,” she said. “But they told me they were happy that for a while, they could pretend their lives had returned to normal.” 

But there were many joyful moments, too. She said her thrill was to see the look of ecstasy on the face of the woman when she placed the wig on her head for the first time. Until then, many of the women would not go out at all. They would become recluses. 

Zeenath remembered the case of Saraswati. Her husband was run over by a truck and died instantly. For the next twenty years, Saraswati struggled so that she could provide an education for her daughter, Annapurna. When Annapurna grew up and was about to get married, Saraswati got cancer. She was cured but she ended up becoming bald. Saraswati told Annapurna she would not be able to attend the marriage. 

Annapurna was shocked. 

“What are you saying Amma?”

Saraswati said, “I cannot show my bald head in public.”

“You are the most important person to me,” said Annapurna.  

Despite the daughter’s entreaties, Saraswati was adamant. 

But through a close friend, Annapurna heard about Zeenath. 

Zeenath came to the house and fitted the wig. A proud Saraswati took part in all the celebrations. Zeenath was also invited and at the reception Saraswati held her hands and told Zeenath, “I will never forget what you have done for me.” 

Meanwhile, Zeenath has been taken aback by the varied reactions to cancer. Some accept it as the will of God, while others react angrily. 

One woman told Zeenath, “If there was a God, He would not have made me go through so much pain and suffering. God is very cold. I have prayed so many times to God, but He has not even cared for or looked after me.” 

Another woman said, “Is there somebody called God? In my experience, there is no God.”

Sometimes, the neighbours of the afflicted woman tell Zeenath, “She deserves it. She has behaved very badly with us so God has punished her.” 

Zeenath would say, “Please don't talk like this. Nobody knows why you get ill. Sometimes it is because of genes. The mother might have the cancer gene and the children are likely to get it too.” 

Thus far, Zeenath has received hair from about 6000 people. The wigs that are made are given free of cost. She bears the cost of cleaning them, and is helped sometimes by her two sons and a daughter-in-law. For her work, she has received numerous awards from charitable trusts, including the Aluva-based Sahrudaya Sangeetha Karunya Vedi and AIMS. 

No matter her ups and downs, Zeenath says, “I know the work I do is going to transform lives. Every time I see a woman smile when she looks at herself in the mirror, I feel a surge of energy inside me. It makes me feel good.”

(Published in rediff.com)

PARADISE LOST!

 

COLUMN: Tunnel of Time

Former three-time national TT champion and international player, V. Chandrasekhar, 36, went into Apollo Hospital for a simple knee surgery. He returned from the hospital blind and paralysed. Thus began a life of struggle and despair; a fierce fight to regain the use of his faculties through physiotherapy and an 8 1⁄2-year lawsuit with Apollo Hospital for compensation. An update on all that has happened so far…

By Shevlin Sebastian, Madras

The first sight of Chandrasekhar’s drawing room through the semi-open door was astonishing. There were clothes strewn all over the floor – full-sleeved shirts, trousers, and T-shirts. Another bunch of clothes was placed across the back of a chair. Some books and papers lay on the floor. And near the entrance, on a stool, was the Arjuna Award, placed in a glass casing. There was a patina of dust on it.

I rang the bell.

V. Chandrasekhar (Chandra) suddenly poked his head from a nearby sofa, whose back was towards the door. His face looked truly stunning. It was a face of enormous sadness, bitterness, despair, and longing. It was a face that had seen a lot of suffering. The straggly growth of beard seemed to heighten the sadness.

Chandra got up slowly and came to the door. He shook my hand and immediately said, “I’m sorry for the mess that the house is in. My mother had a heart attack and is recovering in the hospital. My father is there with her. We have no servants. And so, everything is in a mess.”

We sat down in the drawing room. He was on a chair and I on a small stool. His voice was husky and thick. It seemed like the voice of a man who had smoked hundreds of cigarettes over several years.

“I have a severe cold,” he said. “I hope you can understand what I am saying.” I assured him that I could understand him clearly as I pressed the record button of the dictaphone.

He smiled suddenly, a soft, sweet, child-like smile. It took years away from his face. For a brief moment, he looked young and vivacious. Then his face once again assumed that deep, melancholy gravity. And I guessed you could begin to understand why he had such a sad face when you listened to the story of his life. So here he went:

ON WHAT HAPPENED IN APOLLO HOSPITAL

“On September 14, 1984, I went into the hospital for a minor knee surgery. Dr. H. Ranganathan, who was doing the operation said that I would be able to play much better after this. He said that I would be discharged within a week. But what happened was that I went into a 36-day coma.

After that, I spent another three weeks in a half-comatose state. When I came back to my senses, I realised that I had become blind. I couldn't see at all. I couldn’t move. I didn’t have any sense of balance.

At that time, I didn’t know the seriousness of it. The doctors kept assuring me that everything would become all right. But after six months of secondary physiotherapy, there was no improvement at all.

I finally realised that they were taking me for a long ride. I knew that nothing was going to happen. Ultimately, the MD of Apollo Hospital, Dr. Pratap Reddy, and the other doctors said, “It’s just bad luck. There’s nothing else that we can do now.”

Think of the situation. I had gone into the hospital a fit, young man and I came out with 90 percent blindness and an inability to move my limbs at all. It was the most horrific time of my life.

I sank into a deep depression because I felt so hopeless. I wanted to commit suicide because I felt that there was no point in living any more.

I thought to myself: now I am 27. If I live to a normal age of 70, then I would have to live another 43 years in this vegetable-like state. This possibility was difficult to digest. But, by the grace of God, the thought of suicide was never really translated into action.

In those months of despair, there also arose within me the first signs of a determination to fight back. I felt that I had to come back, so to speak, from the grave.

In this, I was urged on by a large group of friends, relatives, players, other doctors, and my parents.

They all suggested therapy of some sort or the other. They said that come what may, I must make an attempt at recovery.”

Chandra took the first step when he applied to get the case history from Apollo Hospital. And immediately, he hit a snag. The hospital was reluctant to part with it. It was only after some top-level pressure was applied that the case history was given to Chandra.

After that, he went for treatment to the Institute of Naturopathy and Yogic Sciences, near Bangalore. And it was here that he met one associate of Dr. Paul Cutler, who was one of the leading doctors of Toronto. The associate told Chandra that Dr. Cutler would be of help.

So Chandra started corresponding with Dr. Cutler, and the latter agreed to take up the case. But the total cost of the treatment was calculated at a whopping Rs. 10 lakhs. This included the airfare for a nurse and Chandra. Since he was still partially blind, it was not possible for him to travel alone. Now, the quest for the money began.

Chandra approached newspapers and they published his appeal free of cost. It had the desired effect. Within days, the money started to come in.

“I was very lucky,” Chandra said. “I got the money fairly easily.”

From whom did the money actually come from?

If I give certain names, then I will be leaving out other names. That will be unfair. But I can generalise by saying: many Hindi and Tamil film stars; sportsmen; industrialists and well-wishers. Within three months, I collected a sum of Rs. 10 lakhs. I left for Toronto in February 1986.

How was the treatment in Toronto?

Initially, I improved a lot. They gave me medicines that were not available in India. The process of regaining my faculties was quicker. My eyesight improved a lot. The doctor explained to me that it was not my eyesight which had been damaged, but my brain. So once the brain began to improve, then all the other faculties would come back automatically.

Of course, you can never fully recover since the central nervous system has been damaged. But you can get some faculties back, depending on luck, your physical condition, and hard work. For this specific type of treatment, after the course is over, there has to be a break.

After that, the treatment has to start all over again. In all, I must have gone back about four times, with gaps of six months or a year between trips. The last trip was made in September 1988.

What therapy do you do nowadays?

I do physiotherapy, yoga and speech therapy. (It was difficult to listen to Chandra later on the tape. His voice slurred time and time again. The voice seemed to suggest enormous tiredness and fatigue.)

What was wrong?

The breathing space between speaking is not all right. I still have to learn to control my tone – the loudness, the softness. There are also other disabilities. I still cannot board a moving train. It’s embarrassing but I can’t ride a scooter. My night vision is bad. I still do not have peripheral vision.

If I look at the opposite wall, it’s difficult for me to see the floor at the same time. I doubt whether I will regain my peripheral vision.
—-
It was while we were talking intently that the doorbell rang. Chandra got up and went to the door. I switched off the dictaphone. Chandra returned with a packet. He opened it and saw that it contained a video cassette of Newstrack. And there was a letter in it for him.

It was written by correspondent Minnie Vaid, who had done an extensive interview with him for the Eyewitness programme. She had written to apologise: she said that for ‘technical reasons’, they could not air the interview.

Minnie wrote by hand, and you could sense that beneath her sentences was her disappointment at what had happened. She said that the matter was in the hands ‘of my bosses.’

Chandra looked disappointed. “They took me all over the place. Shooting here and there. You know, TV has maximum impact. It could have helped my case if they had aired it.”

“What could be the reason for them not airing it?” I asked.

“Pressure,” he replied succinctly. “Or alleged pressure by interested parties. I can’t say anything more because I can be sued. Or it could be a genuine technical reason.”

He looked to the floor, his entwined fingers placed on his lap, and was lost in thought. After a while, he looked up and said with a grin, “I hope Sportsworld does not have any technical problems.”

He had a sense of humour. When I asked him casually during the interview whether it was risky for him to cross the road on his own, he replied, “Well, I can tell you, it’s not as risky as going to Apollo Hospital.”

ON WHEN HE DECIDED TO LAUNCH HIS FIGHT AGAINST APOLLO HOSPITAL

I don’t want to term it as a fight.

Okay, the idea that justice has to be done?

Yeah. Once the damage had been done and I could not function as a normal human being, I felt that I had to be compensated. After all, my life had been shattered. I was convinced that all this had happened due to the doctor’s negligence. Although I knew that they had not done it deliberately, a wrong-doer has to pay a price. And the price? To enable me to live a decent life. That’s what I think Apollo Hospital should have done a long time back.

When did you file the suit?

Around 1985, when I left to go abroad. The court fees were very high, about Rs. 50,000. Because of this, I had to limit the amount of damages to be claimed, since I had a limited amount of money. My initial idea was to seek a compensation of Rs. 75 lakhs. I had to bring down the amount to about Rs. 20 lakhs. We filed the suit in September 1985. The judgement came out on May 25, 1993.

Facts: it took about 8½ years of constant fighting, relentless adjournments, the coming and going of six judges in the Madras High Court, before Justice S. Pratap Singh awarded a hefty compensation of Rs. 17 lakhs (Rs. 10 lakhs as compensation and Rs. 7 lakhs for reimbursement of treatment expenses incurred both in India and abroad).

Justice Pratap Singh stated that the doctor, H. Ranganathan, and the anaesthetist, Monica De, were responsible for the acute disability suffered by Chandra. Apollo Hospital was also held responsible since the doctors were employed there.

The judge said that the evidence showed that there had not been a proper supply of oxygen to the patient during surgery. All this demonstrated negligence on the part of the doctor and the anaesthetist. They had failed in the discharge of their duties, which resulted in severe complications.

He said that it was the duty of the doctor who performed the surgery to explain what had happened. But he had not given any convincing explanation so far. Justice Singh concluded: “I hold that the defendants were negligent in the treatment given to the plaintiff.”

If I remember right, a Division Bench of the Madras High Court stayed the payment of Rs. 17 lakhs.

Yes. But a two-member Division Bench of the Supreme Court announced that I should be given relief of Rs. 7 lakhs.

So what next? Hasn’t Apollo Hospital gone on appeal against the judgement?

Yes. The appeal will be heard by a Division Bench of the Madras High Court. Because an appeal to the Supreme Court is not a fundamental right. You have to get permission from the Madras High Court in the form of a special leave.

So, if the Bench says no, then the case should be over?

Yes. Then legally, the case is finished. And I hope it is, since my parents and I have already spent Rs. 2 lakh from our personal savings on the legal expenses.

What do you feel now, after this landmark judgment?

I feel a great sense of pride. Justice and fair play have prevailed in the end. It’s a boost for the system and the society we have here in India where the poor and the downtrodden have no chance against powerful institutions.

Think what would have happened if such a thing had occurred to an average clerk in a bank or an office. He will simply lie down and blame destiny and fate. Then somebody will read out some verses from the Bhagwad Gita, and he will be very happy.

I was lucky simply because I was famous and the media highlighted my case.

What else had you learnt during the course of this case?

The essential goodness of the people of India. They had come forward to help me. Not only during the medical crisis, but even later, the kind of support that I received, the kind of phone calls that came, made me feel good.

I was happy that for a less popular game like table tennis, there had been such a response. Of course, had this happened to a cricketer, the situation would have been completely different. Parliament itself would have been in uproar.

“Wait a minute,” he said, as he got up from his chair and went to a table at one corner of the drawing room. He sat down on a chair and emptied a brown packet. Then he called me over and said, “It’s time to take my medicines. Could you just identify the tablets?” He had a doctor’s prescription in front of him and he called out, “Crocin.” I took out the tablet and gave it to him.

“I am sorry to bother you, but I have difficulty in reading small print,” he said softly.

Eight different tablets of different sizes and colours were collected. Then he got up, with the tablets held in his enclosed palm, and went to the dining room to get some water.

As I stood near the table, I saw Chandra’s horoscopes and, along with them, the bio-data meant to be sent in response to marriage proposals. Some were already, tragically, yellowing with age.

Chandra came back and sat down on the chair, and the interview began once again.

ON THE EFFECT OF ALL THIS ON HIS PARENTS

For them, it had been a very big blow. As an only son, I had been their only hope. Having risen to a position of eminence as a player… I had also been a brilliant student.

I was a gold medallist in law from Madras University, and then such a tragedy occurred to me. They had hoped that in their old age, I would look after them. But now, it was a complete reversal, although my parents were not keeping in good health at all. There had been too much stress. And all this controversy had been too much for the conservative South Indian society in which we lived.

You had not been able to marry because of that?

Physically, there was no problem. But when the parents of a girl came, it was difficult to convince them. How could we convince them? Should I have gone to a doctor and got a certificate stating that I was fit for marriage? Somehow, it was difficult for me.

ON HIS NORMAL DAY-TO-DAY LIFE

I get up very early. Then I go to the terrace and do exercises for developing my co-ordination. For example: picking up small objects from the floor, with my left leg forward, right leg backwards. Bend over and pick it up. Then bend sideways and pick the object up.

After I finish my exercises, I come back, have my bath and breakfast, and then I go by autorickshaw to the bank. I am an Administrative Officer in the Staff Training College of the State Bank of India in Mylapore.

In the evening, I go to the YMCA in Royapettah. I do coaching there for about three hours. I return home at 8.30 P.M.

What do you do in your spare time?

I like to watch horse racing. I don’t gamble, but I like to see horses run at high speed. I like to watch cricket on TV. I listen to Hindi classical music. Singers like Mohammad Rafi, Manna Dey, Hemant Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar.

What about Alka Yagnik?

Alka Yagnik? Who’s that?

She’s the latest singing sensation.

No, I have not heard of her at all. See, I don’t follow modern music at all.

At six o’clock in the evening, I went to the YMCA, Royapettah branch. Chandra had invited me there to see him coach his students.

The YMCA TT centre is in a shed-like building. Inside, there were two tables. A boy and a girl were playing. The boy was in shorts; the girl wore a blue t-shirt and trackpants.

It was hot inside the hall. There was no ventilation at all. The thought arose: how did they play in summer, especially in May when the heat was at its peak?

Chandra said, “Come on, let’s go outside. It’s so hot here.” So we went out and sat on chairs brought out of the hall by a young girl student.

Chandra was gasping a little now. This coaching can be a little tiring. But he said, “This is the off-season. The Nationals in Calcutta last month signified the end of the season. Now I am training boys and girls who aspire to reach the State level.”

Soon, photographer George Francis came on his black Kinetic Honda. He took his camera out and started taking pictures. The sun was beginning to set. We were silent now, and the only sound was the clicking of the shutter.

A white Tata Sierra came up and out popped one of Chandra’s students, Nikhil Nath. He was about 12, bespectacled, chubby, clad in a white T-shirt and shorts.

In sotto voce, George said, “Chandra’s student comes in a Tata Sierra, while poor Chandra does not have a vehicle at all. He has to be picked up by a student on a bike and dropped back home.”

Chandra smiled enigmatically and his head drooped on to his chest. He said, “I don’t feel good today. I’m having a severe cold.” Students came up and said something in Tamil. He replied; then they went away. George finished taking the photographs. There was really nothing more to talk about.

I got up and said, “Thanks very much for your co-operation.”

Chandra gave me a limp hand to shake. Then I walked away.

It was the last stages of twilight. And at a far distance, I turned around and looked back.

Chandra was still sitting in front of the YMCA building, as the darkness continued to grow around him. A solitary figure lost in melancholy thought.

But this tragedy-marred individual has waged a ceaseless battle against his own inner despair at what had happened and against the powerful and influential Apollo Hospital.

And in this battle, he seemed to have won on both fronts: the inner and the outer. Quite simply, in our world of puny individuals,

Chandra is a hero of our times.

(Published in Sportsworld, March 23, 1994)

More details

In 1995, the Apollo Hospital made a payment of Rs 17 lakh to Chandra.

Chandra’s autobiography was titled, ‘My Fightback from Death's Door’ (2006).

He died on 12 May 2021, at the age of 63, in Chennai, due to complications from COVID-19.

Chandra did get married to a bank employee named Mala. They had a son, Sanjay, who was about 20 years old and a final-year engineering student at the time of his father's death.