During my time in Sportsworld, I would take a news item and convert it into a satire or humorous take

News Item: Zico’s frustration apparently got the better of him 36 minutes into the second half of the game between his team, Kashima Antlers and Kawasaki Verdy in the J-league in Tokyo. This was when the referee awarded the latter team a penalty. As Verdy star Kazuyoshi Miura prepared to take the kick, Zico walked up and spat on the ball.

I AM Zico’s spit. I hit the headlines recently. During a league match, my boss sent me flying through the air. I thought that, as usual, I would land on the green turf. Imagine my surprise when I landed on my friend, Cosco the football.

He looked at me in a daze as I fell with a thud on his face.

“This is really bad manners,” Cosco said.

“I am very sorry, Cosco,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

“You had the whole field in front of you and yet, you had to fall on me,” Cosco said in that hurt tone. “And that too, at such an important moment as a penalty. You know that I have to concentrate very hard, so that I can swerve, depending on which way the boot hits me.”

“My boss is going a little crazy in the head. I can’t imagine how he could have done this to you. After all, it is only through you that Zico has earned a decent livelihood for over 20 years. You have served him well. Both of you have developed such a wonderful rapport. And from being a boy in a poverty-stricken family, he is now a millionaire. I could not believe it when he sent me flying at you. It's shocking, to say the least.”

“Times change,” Cosco said in a philosophical manner. “People change. Zico has changed. He is no longer the soccer player he used to be. I remember what dazzling skills he displayed in the 1980s, especially during the ’82 World Cup. Now, as he reaches his forties, his skills are deserting him. He seems to be injured most of the time.”

“Yes,” I replied. “The other day when my boss got injured yet again, I had a talk with the shins and the knees. And they said that they could no longer stand the pressure of top class football. They told me that they had been doing the job for about twenty-five years now. They just can’t take it any more. After every match, they are bone-tired. They want to stop playing altogether. But Zico insists on pushing himself. I guess, like most people, he is doing it for the money.”

“The craving for more money creates so many problems in life,” Cosco the football said. “In my career, I have seen so many top-class football careers ruined by money. When money comes in, luxury comes in. Women come in. Drugs come in. And then the player loses his hunger and passion for the game. As time goes on, he thinks less about his game and more about how to make greater amounts of money. He is willing to sell himself to the highest bidder. 

“The rule is: never play for money. Instead, one should play for excellence. Excellence should be the aim in life. And if money comes in, as payment for excellence, it should be accepted with grace. But the moment money becomes an end in itself, the player's game gets corrupted. And your boss Zico seems to be going the same way.”

I suddenly felt sad about what Cosco was saying. He had been a top class football for twenty years and had seen a lot of life. So what he said was the deep, unvarnished truth: I was struck into silence.

“Watch him get mad,” Cosco said, as the referee showed Zico the red card. My boss’ eyes became red, like the card and then he shouted at the referee, “You are a cheat. You want Kawasaki Verdy to win, by hook or by crook. I shall complain about you.”

I rolled down Cosco’s face and moved some distance away.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” Cosco said.

“The penalty is about to be taken,” I shouted, over the din of the spectators in the stadium. “Kazuyoshi Miura has gone to the top of his eight-step run. Cosco, it’s time to get back to work.”

Cosco immediately closed his eyes and frowned in deep concentration. The Japanese player came up and struck Cosco cleanly. The football rose up in the air and when it seemed that it was about to sail over the bar, it suddenly dipped and went into the net. Goal! The game was played for another five minutes and then the referee blew the final whistle.

I slowly began to walk away from the turf. It was the end of another day. But as I reached the players’ tunnel, Cosco, who was sitting on the referee’s arm, shouted at me, “Hey Zico’s spit, despite everything, I forgive your boss. Give my regards to him. After all, both he and I go back a long way.”

(Published in Sportsworld, February 9, 1994)

Shevlin Sebastian's journey through journalism and storytelling

 

Photo by Ratheesh Sundaram. In a Bangalore bookstore 

Many thanks to the creativebrandsmag for this write-up:

https://creativebrandsmag.com/from-kolkata-to-global-recognition-shevlin-sebastians-journey-through-journalism-and-storytelling/

Intro: Veteran journalist and author Shevlin Sebastian, with over three decades of experience and 4,500 published articles, has become a finalist in the UK-based Global Soup international short story competition. His career spans leading Indian publications, acclaimed investigative scoops, children’s novels, and crime writing, marking him as a versatile storyteller.  

Shevlin Sebastian’s name has long been familiar in Indian journalism, but his recent recognition as a finalist in the UK-based Global Soup international short story competition has brought his literary talent into sharper focus. For a man who has spent more than three decades chronicling the lives, struggles, and triumphs of others, this accolade is a reminder that his own story is equally compelling.

Born and raised in Kolkata, Sebastian’s early years were steeped in the cultural vibrancy of the city. His professional journey began with Sportsworld, part of the Ananda Bazar Patrika Group, where he honed his skills in sports journalism.

From there, his career took him across India, with stints at The Week in Kochi, Hindustan Times in Mumbai, and The New Indian Express in Kochi. He also briefly worked with DC Books in Kottayam, gaining exposure to the publishing industry.

Each stop added layers to his understanding of storytelling, sharpening his ability to capture both the immediacy of news and the timelessness of human experience.

Over the years, Sebastian has published an astonishing 4,500 articles, covering a spectrum of subjects that defy easy categorisation. His writing has explored films, crime, humour, art, psychology, literature, politics, sports, and human interest stories. This breadth reflects not only his versatility but also his curiosity about the world.

His blog, Shevlin’s World, has become a repository of his work, attracting over 24 lakh hits—a testament to the resonance of his voice with readers across geographies.

Sebastian’s career has not been confined to the newsroom. He has ventured into fiction, publishing four novels for children, and his short stories have found homes in diverse literary platforms.

Singapore-based journals like Kitaab and Borderless Journal, Toronto’s Scarlet Review, Pune’s Active Muse, Guwahati’s Twist and Twain, and India’s juggernaut.in have all carried his work.

These publications reveal a writer unafraid to cross borders, both literal and literary, in pursuit of narrative expression.

His recognition in the Global Soup competition is particularly significant. It situates him within an international community of writers, affirming that his storytelling transcends cultural and national boundaries.

For Sebastian, whose journalism has often been rooted in Indian contexts, this achievement underscores the universality of his themes and the adaptability of his craft.

Yet, to view Sebastian solely through the lens of literary accomplishment would be to overlook his formidable impact as a journalist. Among his many stories, one stands out as a landmark in Indian sports journalism.

In 1992, he reported swimmer Loraine Varghese’s allegations of sexual harassment by coaches in national camps. This was the first time such claims had been publicly made in post-Independence India, and the report reverberated through the corridors of power, prompting questions in Parliament.

It was a scoop that not only demonstrated Sebastian’s investigative acumen but also his courage in amplifying voices that challenged entrenched systems.

His career has also taken him to the frontlines of global sporting events. From the Asian Games in Beijing to the Cricket World Cup in Johannesburg and the Olympic Games in Athens, Sebastian has witnessed and reported on moments of athletic triumph and heartbreak.

These experiences enriched his perspective, allowing him to weave narratives that combined the thrill of competition with the human stories behind the medals.

In recent years, Sebastian has turned his attention to long-form crime writing. His first true-crime book, 'The Stolen Necklace', published by HarperCollins in 2023, delved into a crime in North Kerala, blending journalistic rigour with narrative flair.

The book marked his entry into a genre that demands both meticulous research and compelling storytelling. He is currently working on his second crime book, further cementing his reputation as a writer capable of navigating the complexities of human behaviour and societal structures.

What makes Sebastian’s journey remarkable is not just the diversity of his output but the consistency of his commitment to storytelling. Whether through a newspaper article, a blog post, a children’s novel, or a crime book, he has sought to illuminate aspects of life that might otherwise remain in shadow. His work reflects a belief in the power of words to inform, challenge, and inspire.

The recognition from Global Soup is, in many ways, a culmination of this lifelong dedication. It acknowledges not only his skill as a writer but also his ability to connect with readers across cultures.

For Sebastian, who has spent much of his career documenting the achievements of others, the spotlight is now on him. It is a moment of validation, but also an invitation to continue exploring the possibilities of narrative.

As he completes his second crime book and continues to publish stories in international journals, Sebastian’s trajectory suggests that his best work may still lie ahead.

His career is a reminder that journalism and literature are not mutually exclusive but can enrich each other.

The precision of reporting can sharpen the imagination of fiction, while the empathy of storytelling can deepen the impact of journalism.

In an era where the lines between media, literature, and digital platforms are increasingly blurred, Sebastian embodies the adaptability required of contemporary writers.

His blog, with its millions of hits, demonstrates his ability to engage with digital audiences, while his print publications affirm his relevance in traditional formats.

His international recognition signals that his voice resonates beyond national boundaries, offering insights into the human condition that are universally relatable.

For readers, Sebastian’s journey offers inspiration. It shows that persistence, curiosity, and a willingness to explore diverse forms of writing can lead to both professional success and personal fulfilment.

For aspiring journalists and writers, his career is a case study in how to balance breadth with depth, versatility with focus.

Ultimately, Shevlin Sebastian’s story is one of dedication to craft. From the bustling newsrooms of Kolkata and Mumbai to the literary journals of Singapore and Toronto, from the stadiums of Beijing and Athens to the crime scenes of Kerala, he has pursued narratives with passion and precision.

His recognition as a finalist in the Global Soup competition is not just a personal milestone but a celebration of a career that has consistently sought to illuminate the world through words.

And as he continues to write—whether about crime, sport, or the intricacies of human relationships—one thing is certain: Shevlin Sebastian’s world will remain a place where stories matter, and where the act of storytelling is both a profession and a calling.

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)