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)

 

It’s all about going green

 

Former banker Ajay Gopinath runs Grow Greens, a firm that sells multigreens. Ajay says that they are the one-stop answer for all vitamins

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, in 2006, Ajay Gopinath went to a restaurant in Bengaluru for lunch. He ordered a paneer dish. When the waiter brought it, Ajay noticed that there were leaves sprinkled on it in the shape of a triangle.

Ajay had seen curry and coriander leaves used as garnish. He knew their taste. But he noticed these leaves looked different. When Ajay tasted it, he felt it was unique. He asked the chef about it and was told that these were mustard microgreens. The chef said somebody was delivering them to the restaurant. But he did not have any more information.

Ajay headed the credit cards and personal loans division at Citi Bank in Bengaluru. He had been a staffer for 14 years. Ajay loved his work, but there was one problem. It was a 24/7 job. He found he could devote very little time to the family.

One day, in 2007, he quit. “It was an impulsive decision,” he said, at his home in Kochi. “I also wanted to get out of my comfort zone.”

He returned to Kochi, where his family lived. He has two children, a boy and a girl. His wife is a lawyer. For the next five years, Ajay enjoyed his free time. He roamed around, met friends and went on holidays. Then in 2012, he began working for a dental implants firm and helped them in marketing the products. Ajay worked till 2016.

One morning, in 2017, when he awoke, an idea popped into his mind. What about doing a business involving microgreens? He met many chefs in Kochi. They told him they were getting their supplies from Bengaluru. But it was not available in the shops or in supermarkets.

In the beginning, Ajay grew microgreens for the use of his family. The tray is 2 ft. by 1 ft. Each tray produces 500 grams. His family could not consume it all. Since it is a perishable product, Ajay began distributing it to his friends, relatives and neighbours. “The taste was different but everybody, including my family, liked it,” said Ajay. Soon, his friends said that instead of giving free samples, he should start selling them.

It was only in December, 2020 that he started his company, Grow Greens. He increased the number of trays.

Ajay’s method of growing is to use the cocopeat. This is a natural, growing medium made from coconut husks. The cocopeat is used as a base. He places the seeds on it. Then the trays are closed for three days because you need darkness for the germination to take place. Then it is exposed to 20-watt white LED tube lights hanging above the trays, for 10-12 hours. You have to pour water once or twice a day. The temperature should be below 25 degrees centigrade while the humidity is below 60 percent.

Today, he has 60 trays in an 80 sq. ft. room. Ajay grows radish, mustard, yellow American, bok choy (Chinese), sunflower, kohlrabi and many others.

Ajay imports seeds from the United Kingdom, the US, Australia, Italy and Israel. “The prices range from Rs 600 per kg to Rs 1 lakh,” said Ajay. The seeds have a shelf life of between six and eight months. But Ajay uses them within three months. He uses around 25 varieties.

To get the right seeds within India, Ajay travelled to Delhi, Ranikhet, and Nainital. He also went to G. B. Pant University of Agriculture and Technology, Uttarakhand. There they nurture organic seeds. In these places, they do not use inorganic seeds, fertilisers or pesticides.

On the plus points of consuming microgreens, Ajay said, “It is good for the eyes and skin. There are health sites which state that it prevents Alzheimer’s disease and cancer. It restores the calcium deficiencies in the body and solves knee pain. There is an increased protein intake. Most people have low levels of sodium. This helps to reach the right levels. Microgreens have protein and magnesium. There are macro and micronutrients. What else do we need?”

Ajay tells a story.

Raghu Nair (name changed), was getting chemotherapy at the Aster Medicity Hospital in Kochi. The doctor told Raghu’s son Mahesh that his father needed to have a lot of protein. “It is better to have microgreens,” the doctor said.

So Mahesh came to Ajay Gopinath’s house. Ajay gave him sprouted green gram.

When Mahesh said the doctor told him to buy 100 grams of each variety, Ajay said that over 25 grams a day is not good. “You must be careful that your father’s body can absorb these proteins,” Ajay told Mahesh. “You can consume beetroot, bok choy and sunflower. Then it will be a complete protein food.”

Raghu consumed the greens for three months. Ajay felt vindicated that when the doctor checked the protein levels, it was off the charts. The doctor immediately told Mahesh not to buy any more microgreens for the next month. This was the only way to bring down the protein level.

“It was a confirmation of the tremendous benefits of microgreens,” said Ajay. The good news was that Raghu went into remission, so the doctors stopped his chemotherapy.

Microgreens cost between Rs 150 and Rs 250 per 100 grams. You should consume the greens within seven days. The best way is to eat it raw. Or you can add it to a salad.

However, those who are consuming blood thinning medicines should consult with a doctor before consuming microgreens. “When people are on blood thinners, their Vitamin K levels are regulated,” Ajay explained. “When you consume microgreens, it increases the Vitamin K.”

Patients can consume microgreens which have a paltry amount of Vitamin K, like beetroot.

Grow Greens deliver to individuals, shops, hotels, gyms, hospitals, supermarkets and schools. Ajay delivers 5-8 kgs a day.

And since the nurturing is inside the house, Ajay does not have to suffer the vagaries of climate change. “I can grow 365 days a year,” said Ajay.

Asked about the difference between being an entrepreneur and working for a bank, Ajay said, “The salary which I was getting I am paying its equivalent to my five-member staff.”

But for Ajay, it is not about profit and loss only. “When I started, it was a passion for me to see how the seeds were growing,” he said. “I also think that these are natural plants, and hence good for human beings. We can solve the malnutrition issue. So, there is a social commitment.”

Ajay says that when he observes the leaves, he gets a message from them. “If the water is less, or it needs more light, the leaves might droop,” he said. “And if we forget to switch off the light, the next morning the leaves will look tired. It is through experience I can spot this. It is a living organism and has emotions. When we play music, the leaves look happy.”

Ajay said that in many Malayalam movies and families over the centuries, the grandmother would talk to the Tulsi plant. To allay one’s scepticism, he suggested the book, ‘The Secret Life of Plants’ by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird. According to Wikipedia, the authors talk about the ability of plants to communicate with other creatures, including humans.

(Published in Good Food Movement website)

After the darkness comes the light

Psychotherapist Sonali Gupta’s book, ‘You Will Be All Right - A Guide to Navigating Grief,’ will help you understand what death does to you when a loved one passes away. It provides ways to cope with it.

By Shevlin Sebastian

Psychotherapist Sonali Gupta’s book, ‘You Will Be All Right — A Guide to Navigating Grief,’ begins with a quote by Elizabeth Gilbert, the bestselling author of ‘Eat, Pray Love,’: ‘It’s an honour to be in grief. It’s an honour to feel that much, to have loved that much.’

In the introduction, Sonali spoke about the intergenerational silence about death that exists in Indian families. And she gave an example.

Mayuri, 43, told Sonali, ‘This is the first time in years that I am crying while thinking about my mother’s death. I was six when my mother died in an accident. No one asked me how I felt or even tried to talk to me about what I was feeling. At home, there was sadness; yet my dad made it feel like life had to go on. I was not allowed to go to the funeral.’

Sonali begins the main section by clearing up some myths. For example, the belief that we only experience grief when we lose a loved one to death.

This was a fallacy. If you are not conceiving, you experience grief. The same is the case when a person is going through a separation or divorce, a break-up with a close friend, a miscarriage, infidelity, bankruptcy, and a loss of autonomy.

Here’s another myth that we all believe in: we will recover from grief and get over it as time passes.

But the author said that this is not true. ‘Unlike other emotions, which come and go, grief stays with us,’ she wrote. ‘It’s not a phase we get done with or move on from. David Kessler, an author and expert on grief, says that grief is not the flu, which we can recover from…. we learn to live with it.’

Grief causes many feelings to arise in you. A primary emotion is fear. How will life be now that the beloved has gone away?

Then there is anxiety. A patient Sujoy, who lost a brother, said, ‘I find myself worrying about everybody’s health. I’m constantly overthinking about my wife’s health. I’m anxious about my mum, who is fit and fine.’

Other feelings include anger, loneliness, isolation, emptiness, hopelessness and a longing for the loved one. But there is also relief, especially if the loved one is suffering from a long-standing illness or having mental issues like dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

Alisha, a 35-year-old whose mother had dementia for four years, said, “We didn’t know how she was feeling. When she died, we all felt relief as she was in too much pain and there was nothing more we could have done. I love her and still think of her and miss her.”

Sonali wrote, ‘It is important to remember that relief and deep sorrow can co-exist.’

In most societies, there are rituals which help people to cope with death.

Mary Frances O’Connor, author of ‘The Grieving Brain: The Surprising Science of How We Love and Learn from Loss’, states that mourning rituals can offer constancy and comfort when everything can feel uncertain. ‘By connecting us to rituals that have existed for hundreds of years, we are reminded that those who came before us have experienced grief and uncertainty and they have carried on and restored meaningful lives.’

The book also delineates the physical reaction to grief. These include aches and pains, nausea, headaches, loss of libido, lack of appetite, weight gain or loss, insomnia or sleeping too much. There is also a psychosomatic reaction. A person has headaches, constipation, chest, back, body, or joint pains, breathing difficulties, or feeling feverish.

But what is a fact is that you will never recover from the death of a loved one. Dr. Elisabeth Kubler Ross, a Swiss American psychiatrist who wrote the bestselling book, ‘On Death and Dying’, said, ‘You will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.’

Elisabeth spoke about the five stages of loss: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

There is another type of grief that everybody experiences, but nobody talks about it. This is called anticipatory grief. We imagine what will happen to us when a loved one, or a parent, dies even though the people are healthy at the moment.

It brings guilt to the people who experience it, so they keep quiet about it. But people experience this all the time. And there is nothing to be ashamed about. It comes about from a fear that there is limited time. And one day, inevitably, death will come calling.

Then there is disenfranchised grief. This is the grief that one experiences when a maid, watchman, a former teacher, or a pet dies. And the people around them cannot understand why their wife, father or friend is having this intense reaction to the death of an acquaintance.

It is a grief that is not publicly mourned or socially accepted. This grief can be socially isolating. Sonali went through something similar when a former client died. She did not know how to process the grief. A supervisor told her, “It’s okay if you haven't met the person for years, the bond remains. Allow yourself to grieve. Find a way to express what you are feeling.” So Sonali took to writing a journal and felt better after a few days.

Members of the LGBTQ community, who have not come out, have to suffer grief in private and in isolation when a partner dies. This also happens when you lose a pet. Except for pet lovers, the rest of society does not understand your grief. “Why feel sad? It’s just a dog. You can get another pet,” is the common refrain.

Other events which cause disenfranchised grief include celebrity deaths. When Hollywood star Robin Williams died of suicide, Sonali started crying. ‘He was my favourite actor, and I associated some of my fondest memories with his movies,’ she wrote.

Then people may experience delayed grief. This happens when a person dies by suicide, or drug or alcohol overdose. The spouse may be in shock for months. He or she cannot talk openly about what has happened. They may go through panic, anxiety, or fear attacks. It is only after a long period that they permit themselves to grieve about what has happened.

In the last section, the author wrote movingly about the culture of silence that surrounds people when a close relative has died. Once, Ravi, a 50-year-old whose wife died of cancer, entered his office canteen. He saw that all his teammates who were laughing suddenly became silent.

“I don’t know if they felt uncomfortable being happy around me because of what happened, or they felt pity for me,” he said. “But I had reached a place where I wanted to leave the organisation, as I was tired of these silences.”

Author Katherine May succinctly describes this feeling in her book, ‘Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times’: ‘Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you are cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider. Perhaps it results from an illness; perhaps from a life event such as bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from humiliation or failure.’ But all of us have to struggle through the darkness till we see the light again.

This is a book everyone should read, especially if you have encountered the death of a near one. You will understand with clarity the tumultuous emotions you are going through. And if you see somebody who is struggling to cope because of the death of a close relative, this is a good book to present to them. It will make them less lonely and realise what they are going through is what humanity has gone through for millennia and will continue to do so.

Whether we like it or not, accept it or not, death is an inescapable fact of life. We are born, we live, then we die. This happens to everybody and to all the people we love. There is no escape from this finality. But books like this are a soothing balm to apply to our pain and provide us with the motivation to live life again.

Or to paraphrase Sonali: ‘We have to learn to carry love and loss together.’

Published in kitaab.org

When a community dies

 

Photos: Queenie Hallegua at her home in Fort Kochi; David Hallegua with his mother; David and his sister Flory with Queenie; David with his wife Cici and daughter Eliana 

On August 11, Queenie Hallegua passed away at 89. She was almost the last of the Sephardi (White Jews) in Fort Kochi after a 500-year presence. Her son David Hallegua reflected on his mother’s death and of his life growing up in Kerala

By Shevlin Sebastian 

At 5.45 p.m. in Los Angeles on August 10, Eliana, 22, called her father David Hallegua and said, “Dad, I am in a panic. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” 

About 14,900 kms away, in Fort Kochi, at 6.15 am on August 11, David was feeling groggy. He was suffering from jetlag after arriving from Los Angeles. At 3 am, he went to sleep in his parents’ house on Synagogue Lane. Even so, he told Eliana, “You have not had enough water to drink.” Eliana did that. Then she lay down and felt better.    

As soon as David hung up, the housekeeper, Flory, came to his room and said, “I want you to check up on Mom.” 

David immediately went to his mother’s bed, and even though her body was warm, Queenie, 89, was no longer breathing. David realised that at the moment Eliana felt anxiety and discomfort, her grandmother had passed away. 

Queenie was almost the last of the Sephardi (White Jews) in Fort Kochi. Only her nephew Keith Hallegua, 65, a bachelor, remains. She was the wife of Samuel, a community leader and a prominent proprietor, who passed away in 2009. 

Queenie’s funeral took place at the Gan Shalom Jewish cemetery. This is near the Paradesi Synagogue. David’s sister Fiona had flown down from New York. 

“It was the end of that chapter of my life with her,” she said. “I felt relieved my mother was not in pain anymore.” 

Asked about his mother’s last words, David said it happened on his previous visit in July. He had come home when Queenie had taken ill with congestive heart problems. As David was returning to the USA, he told his mother he was leaving. “She looked at me and smiled,” said David. 

Then Flory told her, “Give your son a blessing.” 

Queenie placed her palm on David’s head and said, “May you get everything that you desire in life. May God bless you!”

David feels sad that the community has died out. In the 1950s, there were about 2000 Jews in Fort Kochi and Mattancherry. But many emigrated to Israel when the country came into being in 1948. “A lot of Jewish customs and practices have disappeared,” he said. 

David’s early life

David did his schooling at St. John De Britto’s Anglo-Indian High School at Fort Kochi. His best friend was Elvis D’Cruz. They sat on the same bench. 

When David and Elvis were in Class 8, they realised that both their fathers were students of the same school. They studied in the same class.

After 30 years, Elvis and David met again in Kochi in 2023. Elvis lived in Dubai for many years and had moved to Fort Kochi. “It was so good to catch up with Elvis after so many years,” said David. “Elvis again came to see me when my mother passed away.” 

After his Class 10, David did his pre-degree from Sacred Heart College in Thevara. Thereafter, he went to Trivandrum Medical College because he wanted to be a doctor. After completing his course, in 1988, he went to the USA for further medical studies. Today, David is a practising rheumatologist (the management of arthritis). His wife Cici is a chartered accountant while Eliana works at the Capitol Records music company.  

Asked whether because he was a Jew, he felt different while growing up in Fort Kochi, David said, “My original identity was that of a South Indian. I speak Malayalam fluently. It was my first language. But in my daily life, I am Jewish.” 

So David would not eat meat in a restaurant that was not kosher. But his friends, Christians, Hindus and Muslims understood and accepted it. In medical school, his friends would say, “We can’t go to that restaurant because there is nothing that David could eat there.” 

David said that all his friends would come over during the Jewish festivals, like Rosh Hashanah and the Shabbat. He also had a joyous celebration for his bar mitzvah. This is a coming-of-age ceremony when a boy turns 13 and marks his transition to becoming an adult. 

David celebrated the Onam festival in the house of his Hindu friends. He also enjoyed Christmas with his Christian friends and Id with the Muslims. Not to forget the Gujarati and Parsi festivals. 

Asked how Fort Kochi has changed, over the decades, David said, “It has become a commercialised tourist hub.”

David lived on the lane that led to the Jewish synagogue. “By 10 am, nowadays, the lane is very crowded,” said David. “Thousands of tourists come every day.” 

David remembered it as a quiet lane. “My sister and I would have impromptu games with other boys and girls,” said David. “It was boisterous and full of joy. The elders would get together and have a drink. Some drank liquor or soda, while others had soft drinks.”  

The Jews would have guests like Hamsa, a Muslim lawyer, Babu Seth, a Gujarati lawyer, a Parsi gentleman named Sorabjee, and a Hindu by the name of Sundaram. “It was a melting pot in one person’s living room,” said David

On tables and chairs placed outside, the women, including Queenie, played a South American game called Canasta (a type of rummy). “It was very competitive,” said David with a smile.  

When asked whether syncretism, after hundreds of years, is alive and thriving in Fort Kochi, David said, “Yes, everybody lives in harmony. They depend economically on each other. Nobody wants any trouble that will disturb the peace.”

(Published in rediff.com)

https://www.rediff.com/news/special/kochis-jews-pass-into-history/20241121.htm 

Some thoughts after my uncle passed away

 

Photos: Joseph Vadakel with his wife Rani, daughter Reena, son-in-law Monis and grandchildren Joseph and Rosina; the house in Muvattupuzha where my my mother and uncle grew up; interstellar space 

By Shevlin Sebastian 

When my mother was a child, she and her younger brother Joseph (Babu) would go for morning mass at the Holy Magi church in Muvattupuzha. On the walk back home, a distance of about 800 metres, at some point, they would start sprinting. Each wanted to reach home before the other so they could read the newspaper first. 

This was one of my mother’s most enduring memories. She would keep repeating this story over the decades, but she never told us who won, and we, self-absorbed children, forgot to ask. For my mother, the thrill was in the race. 

My uncle Babu Vadakel was an advocate. He practised for decades in the Kerala High Court. Babu Uncle was known among his family members for having a sharp brain, a quick wit, and a charming smile. His eyes gave this message: ‘I know what you are up to. You cannot fool me.’

My cousin Joseph said, “During our younger days, we would be in awe of Babu Chettan. He had smart looks and a stylish dress sense. Babu Uncle had an exemplary skill of blowing the smoke out in circular rings one after the other.”  

My conversations with Babu Uncle were interesting. I gained many insights.  

Life went on. However, in the latter stages of his life, his health broke down. 

On November 20, Babu Uncle passed away, aged 83, at his home in Kochi. He leaves behind his wife Rani, daughter Reena, son-in-law Monis, and grandchildren, Joseph and Rosina. 

Of nine brothers and sisters, only my mother, now 87, and her youngest sibling, Anthony, 76, remain. 

When cousins of my generation viewed Babu Uncle’s body, many had a shocked look on their faces. Some had a realisation that death was going to come to all of us. My uncle himself may have attended hundreds of funerals in his lifetime. Now it was his turn, just like it will be for us.  

Each time a close relative dies, there is a blow to the heart, followed by heaviness. And sometimes a thought arises: what is the meaning of our lives? Where do we go in the universe? 

Stereoscopic 3D filmmaker AK Saiber, my neighbour, has made a scintillating 90-minute 3D film for school students. It is about the solar system and the universe. The distances are all in lakhs of kilometres. The temperatures on some planets, like Neptune, are hundreds of degrees below freezing point. On Jupiter, there is a continuous storm every day and night of the year. It has been going on for centuries.

Saiber takes the viewer out of the solar system into interstellar space. Then the camera reverses and a voiceover states the Earth is too tiny to be seen from the outer limits of space. 

And then you wonder where in this vast universe the souls go. Where is their resting place? Considering the long history of the earth, could there be millions of souls? Where is Babu Uncle now? Has he met his parents, siblings, friends, and acquaintances who were on the other side? Can he see us even though he is not in physical form? Is there divine energy? Can Babu Uncle see God finally? Many people who had suffered a temporary clinical death spoke about sensing other people and silently communicating with them.    

When my uncle was in the last month of his life, he kept saying that he could see his parents and siblings. This happened to my father when he was nearing his death.

Hussain, 35, was the home nurse who looked after my father. He told me that in all the 24 deaths that he had overseen, in every instance, the parents and relatives had come in the final stages. It seemed they provided reassurance and to tell their loved ones not to be afraid. But none of Babu Uncle’s family members saw anything. 

So, does this happen? Science has dismissed them as hallucinations.  

There are many questions. However, we will not get any answers till we die and go to the other side.   

All these thoughts swirled through my mind as I stared at my uncle lying in peace in the coffin.

Serving the most backward people

 

Silpa P, branch postmaster of Chindakki Post Office, and Ajith K, assistant branch postmaster, speak about their experiences serving the members of the backward Irula, Muduga and Kurumba tribes. They live deep inside the Silent Valley Project Park in the Nilgiris

By Shevlin Sebastian 

At noon on August 7, Ajith K, 25, an assistant branch postmaster was returning on his bike after visiting a tribal colony in Anavayi. This village is 600 metres above sea level, inside the Silent Valley Project Park in the Nilgiris. It is about 10 kms from the Chindakki post office where he works. Sitting behind him was Hari, 30, a teacher who had hitched a ride from the hamlet (Malayalam name: ooru). 

The duo went down the sloping road. It was made of interlocking tiles, but covered at some sections by green moss. All of a sudden the bike skidded. The next thing Ajith knew he had fallen off the bike, with Hari holding on to him. Ajith landed on his knees. When he rolled up his trousers, he saw that the skin had scraped off from the knees. Blood trickled down. Ajith felt a throbbing pain in his legs. Somehow, they made the bike upright, and rode back to Chindakki.   

Ajith is now recuperating at a lodge. This is one of the hazards that Ajith faces when delivering letters to the members of the backward Irula, Muduga and Kurumba tribes. They live in Thadikundu, Murugala, Kadukumanna, Kinattukara, Chindakki, Veerannur, Thudukki and Galasi. In most of the places, there are no roads. So, Ajith has to walk to deliver the mail. 

While on his treks through the dense forests, there are always the dangers of animals. Elephants roam around apart from wild bison, tigers, bears, leopards and snakes. “A huge bear was sighted recently at Edavani,” said Ajith. “The photo appeared in the newspapers.”  

In the Bhavani river, near the Chindakki post office, when elephants come to drink water, forest officers burst crackers to make them move away from human habitation. 

“Nowadays, elephants attack human beings,” said Ajith. Last year, when a Jeep was travelling at night, an elephant attacked it and the vehicle toppled over. A few passengers were injured. Luckily, a few moments later, another vehicle was coming from the other side. They flashed their headlights, shouted and clapped their hands. The elephant, taken aback, trundled away before doing further damage. 

On a bund on a river near the post office, one day, people saw a dead tiger. It seemed to have hit a rock under the water and died of natural causes. At the back of the office, forest officers have regularly caught snakes like cobra, rat snakes and vipers. The locals keep dogs as pets so that they can bark and warn the people of the presence of snakes.

Ajith begins his day by collecting the mail bag from Mukkali, four kilometres away, and then he comes to the Chindakki post office to sort out the mail. Then he sets out by 11.30 a.m. By the time he finishes all his deliveries, about 35-50 letters, on an average, it is about 4.30 p.m. But he is physically tired. Then he goes to his lodge, on his bike to nearby Kaikundi.

The Chindakki post office has only two employees. Apart from Ajith, there is Silpa P, 26, the branch postmaster. Like Ajith, she is vibrant and energetic. 

Silpa’s working hours are from 8.30 to 12.30 p.m. She deals with money orders, registered and ordinary letters. Mostly, there are letters from the bank which consist of ATM cards. Then the Centre sends Aadhar cards, but they come in bulk. There are bank notices for those who have lapsed in their payments of loans as well as job interview calls and letters from colleges regarding admission. 

“The main problem is that even though the letters are less, as compared to other post offices, the delivery is a big problem,” said Silpa. “Usually, we could have called them on their mobile phones. But in the higher ranges, there is no mobile connectivity. There is no range, even 500 metres from our post office.” 

Apart from that, the seniors speak in the tribal language, which is similar to Tamil rather than Malayalam. So Silpa has a problem communicating with them. 

Most of the tribals come to the post office in a jeep which has other passengers. So Silpa will call one or two passengers who can understand the tribal language and know how to speak in Malayalam too. “That is how I have been able to communicate with them,” said Silpa.  

As for the elders, many of them do not know how to read or write. But now, the younger generation has had access to education. Quite a few have government jobs. “There are three government schools in the area,” said Ajith. “Most of the children of tribals attend the classes apart from outsiders, too. Their lives are improving.”

The tribals are mostly farmers. They grow millets, pepper, coffee and cardamom. At other times, they go to the forests to collect honey. Nearly all of them live in brick houses. These have been constructed by the government. “The houses in Anavayi are very clean,” said Ajith. “But in some places, it is not so well-maintained.”  

Asked about their diet, Ajith says that it consists of rice, roots, tubers, greens, herbs, and fish, which they get from the nearby Bhavani river. “Fish is a major component in their diet, along with seasonal fruits,” said Silpa. 

Mukkali is the place where the tribals go to buy provisions.  

On most days, anywhere between 10-12 people come to the post office to collect their wages or draw money from their savings account in the Indian Post Payment Bank. 

Even though Silpa is supposed to close the post office at 12.30 pm, many tribals, because they come from far distances, land up at 12.15 pm. “Since they come from far away, I cannot close the office,” she said. “It would be cruel.” 

For some it is difficult to make the trek. Those who live in the Galasi colony, which is way up in the mountains, have to travel 19 kms. First, they have to walk nine kilometres through the forest. Then only they can get a jeep to travel the rest of the distance. 

Asked about the weather, Silpa said that most of the time it is cold. “On most mornings, there is mist,” said Silpa. “When it rains it becomes cold. I wear pullovers most of the time. In December, I wear socks all the time. At night, I use blankets.”

On days when the road is blocked because of a fallen tree, Silpa walks the distance.  

She said the rainy season is the most difficult to tackle. Because of bad roads, once she fell from the Scooty on her way to work. Thankfully, a Jeep came after a few minutes. The driver got down and helped Silpa to put the Scooty back on its wheels. And she has to tackle a few hairpin bends also in driving rain. The best season is between December and January. “There are so many flowers,” said Silpa. “It looks so beautiful. It is like being in Paradise.”   

Silpa shares a flat with a postwoman Midula who works in Kalkandi, a couple of kilometres from Mukkali. They do the cooking together.  

She has completed over a year at the post office. 

“I have enjoyed my stint so far,” said Silpa, who had worked in a post office in the town of Kalluvazhi in Palakkad district. 

Asked the difference between townsfolk and the tribals, Silpa said that in the cities, people are shrewd, cunning and cynical. But the tribals are initially fearful of strangers. “But once you gain their trust they will open their hearts to you,” she said. “They will trust you implicitly. And they will accept and join all the government schemes that I tell them about.” 

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

Smile and win the race of life

 

Former Maharashtra Chief Minister Sushilkumar Shinde, a Dalit, with the help of journalist Rasheed Kidwai, recounts his extraordinary life

By Shevlin Sebastian

Sushilkumar Shinde belonged to the Dhor caste. This is one of India’s lowest castes. Their traditional work was to cure the skin of dead cattle. This was used to make leather goods. His ancestors lived in the Osmanabad district of Marathwada. But his grandfather migrated to Solapur to better his economic prospects. He made leather bags and became affluent following the setting up of a business.

Shinde’s father, Sambhajirao, continued with the business and also did well. Interestingly, Sambhajirao married three times in his desire to have a son. Finally, the third wife, Krishnabai, asked Sambhajirao to marry her younger sister Sakhubai. The first three children died in early birth. But on September 4, 1941, Sushilkumar was born.

But tragedy struck the family when Sushilkumar’s father died on July 15, 1947.

This is how Shinde described what happened. ‘My father died, leaving behind a family unused to the ways of the world. Friends vanished, the business collapsed, and a day came when there was no one to support my mother and stepmother. Used to affluence and material comforts, my family turned poor overnight. Relatives and acquaintances offered their sympathies, but no one offered a helping hand.”

As for Shinde, his life took another direction. He became a thief. With a group of friends, they stole stuff from pavement dwellers. ‘Eating sweets and watching movies with the ill-gotten money was our favourite pastime,’ wrote Shinde.

Of course, one day he got caught. His mother urged him to give up this life, albeit with a slap. And Shinde did. He did odd jobs, like being a roadside vendor, working in a toffee factory, a printing press, and at the Wadia Hospital in Solapur.

All this is recounted in the book, ‘Sushilkumar Shinde – Five Decades in Politics’, as told to journalist Rasheed Kidwai.

As Shinde grew older, as a Dalit, he experienced caste discrimination. Once when he asked for water from a man, the latter asked about his caste. ‘His demeanour shifted upon hearing my answer,’ wrote Shinde. ‘He offered me water in an aluminium utensil, tilting it towards me from an angle so my lips wouldn’t touch the container.’ That night, Shinde wept and wondered how people could allow pets to wander everywhere in their houses, but not human beings.

On another occasion, he visited his cousin in Dhotri, ten miles from Solapur. Because it was so hot, he took a dip in the local pond. After he reached the house, people came and protested that a Dalit had defiled the pond. After heated arguments, a priest was called to purify it. ‘I emerged physically unscathed, but the experience left a permanent scar on my psyche about the obnoxious caste system,’ wrote Shinde.

It was only at the age of 20 that Shinde passed his Class 10 exams. Eventually, he got an arts degree (honours) from Dayanand College, Solapur, and an LLB from ILS Law College and New Law College, of the University of Bombay.

A friend, Subhash Vilekar, submitted an application form on behalf of Shinde for the job of a sub-inspector in the Mumbai Police. And to Shinde’s surprise, he got the job. Later, while doing police work, Shinde met a young and rising politician Sharad Pawar who persuaded him to join politics. So Shinde resigned from the police and went into active politics. Thereafter, Shinde tells the story of how step-by-step, through hard work, and having a pleasant personality, he ascended to top positions in the government.

Near the top of the heap

Sushilkumar Shinde regarded July 31, 2012, as a red-letter day. That was the day when Sonia Gandhi, chairperson of the United Progressive Alliance, told him, “You have to take charge of the home ministry.”

Shinde immediately realised that her decision was a testament to the opportunities the country provides to people from humble backgrounds. ‘Having started my career as a police sub-inspector many years earlier, my appointment as the home minister of the country was a fitting tribute to our vibrant democracy,’ wrote Shinde.

He describes the various crises that he dealt with. These included the hanging of convicts Afzal Guru and Ajmal Kasab. And he was the first to articulate about ‘saffron terror’. He met Kashmiri leaders, as well as those agitating for Gorkhaland in Bengal, and talked to Maoists without preconditions.

Shinde quoted a statement by former Prime Minister Manmohan Singh because it summarised the role of a Home Minister perfectly. “India is unique and a land of contradictions,” said Singh. “These contradictions often interact and give rise to factors that contribute to internal security problems. What are these problems?”

Singh mentioned poverty, unemployment, inequitable growth, resource distribution, corruption, the nexus between criminals, police and politicians in organised crime, lack of development, prolonged judicial process, poor conviction rates, caste, communal discord and hostile neighbours. “The order is random and each of these issues can have an impact on the country,” said Singh.

Shinde said that the government had strengthened the Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Amendment Act in 2012. However, he added, “I feel sad to see how it has been misused to curb civil rights and legitimate political dissent. That was never our intention.”

Shinde spoke about another red letter day in his career. On January 18, 2003, he became Maharashtra’s first Dalit chief minister. The Congress was in an alliance with Sharad Pawar’s Nationalist Congress party.

Just before Shinde took his oath, he saw India’s first Dalit Head of State, KR Narayanan, sitting in the front row. ‘Words cannot describe what I felt,’ wrote Shinde.

And in his first Budget, Shinde came up with a novel idea: to provide financial help to bright students from socially and economically poor backgrounds so they could study abroad. In the first year, six boys and four girls went abroad.

Shinde also focused on how, when the Assembly elections in Maharashtra in 2004 resulted in a fractured mandate, the Congress Party decided to promote a Maratha leader to the post of chief minister. Thus, Vilasrao Deshmukh became the chief minister. As a result, Shinde lost his job. But Shinde mentioned that he and Deshmukh had been close friends for a long time. So, he did not get upset or humiliated.

Subsequently, Shinde became the governor of Andhra Pradesh. And he has made a telling observation about governors today. “I feel that the Office of the Governor should never be politicised,” he said. “Unfortunately, this is very much the trend now, and this is harmful to our polity. The only solution for this is that all governors should try to stick to what the Constitution says, and maintain their freedom from party influences as the Constitution expects them to.”

In a section called ‘Mentors and Leaders’, Shinde spoke about how Nationalist Congress Party founder Sharad Pawar played a decisive role in his career, especially in the early years. ‘I am indebted to him in more ways than I can ever acknowledge,’ wrote Shinde. He also wrote about his admiration for former Chief Minister YB Chavan. Other leading politicians Shinde wrote about briefly include Bal Thackeray, Vasantdada Patil, VP Naik, V N Gadgil and AR Antulay. And there is a brief chapter on his relations with former Congress Party President Sonia Gandhi.

There is a smooth flow in the narrative. It’s an easy read.

In the chapters of his government career, Shinde has skimmed over the details, probably, for reasons of national security. But the refreshing aspect is that Shinde does not indulge in scoring political points or attacking people. It is a book without malice towards anybody.

Asked about why he is inoffensive, Shinde wrote, ‘A leader must combine a soft tongue and be tough at the same time, without hurting anyone. That is an approach I have always taken, and it has seldom let me down.’

In the foreword, Sharad Pawar wrote, ‘Sushilkumar Shinde embodies Lord Krishna’s mantra on how to address a challenging circumstance: ‘He who responds to every situation with a smile and never reacts with anger is the one who wins.”’

Now and then, Shinde gives us points of philosophy that can hold us in good stead as we tackle the setbacks in our lives.

Shinde quoted the late English singer Amy Winehouse (1983-2011). “Life is short,” she said. “Anything could happen and it usually does, so there is no point in sitting around and thinking about all the ifs, and buts.”

Here is another one. ‘I decided not to bear grudges against anyone,’ Shinde wrote. ‘Rather than wasting time and energy on negative thinking, I felt that I should make the best use of the situation.’

After reading the book, you realise you can go from the bottom to the top, provided you have will, determination and a positive attitude. Of course, you should be lucky enough to meet the right people at the right time. But that happens in almost everybody’s life. The point is how many take advantage of these breaks. Shinde did. And as a result, his life is a success story.

(Published in scroll.in)