(A series on childhood memories)
Meeting a famous Muslim politician and killing a duck were some of the unforgettable memories of painter C.N. Karunakaran
By Shevlin Sebastian
“In our house, at Brahmakulam, we were vegetarians, but for visitors we would provide chicken or duck,” says painter C.N. Karunakaran, 68. One day, when some guests came, all the workers near the house had gone out for work, so there was nobody to cut the duck. “My mother asked my brother, Bhaskaran Menon, and I to do the job,” he says.
So, the duo took the duck to the back of the house and placed it on a stone. “I held down the duck, while my brother cut the neck,” says Karunakaran. “The head landed in my hands, while the duck slipped to the ground.”
The headless duck jumped about all over the backyard, spilling blood, and flapping its wings in a terrified frenzy. In the end, the duck died a painful death. “Ever since that incident, I have always avoided non-vegetarian food,” says Karunakaran.
One night, another brother of Karunakaran’s, Janardhan, took him to see a film at the Sree Krishna theatre at Guruvayoor. When they were returning home, his brother took a different route. “We walked beside a pond, and, suddenly, in front of a house, we saw a man reading the newspaper.”
Janaradhan, who was a member of the Communist Party, had a long chat with the man. “Then he came along with us and started talking to me,” says Karunakaran. “He said he knew that my teacher was Krishnankutty master, and the teacher had told him I was a good student. We spoke for a long time. Near our house, the man went off in a different direction.”
Later, Karunakaran came to know that the man was none other than famed Muslim politician, E.K. Imbichibava, who, years later, became the Transport Minister in the EMS Namboodiripad ministry in 1967. “He was in hiding, since the Communist Party had been outlawed,” he says. “My brother had been assigned the job of protecting him.”
One day, Karunakaran’s mother complained that rice, vegetables, and pickle were missing from the kitchen. Nobody could figure out who was the thief. Finally, the truth came out. “Just near our house, lived a poor family,” says Karunakaran. “Imbichibava had taken shelter there and Janardhan was taking the food items to him.”
At this point, Karunakaran smiles, as he sits on a sofa at his just-renovated one-room studio at his house at Mamangalam, Kochi. He slaps away a mosquito and the tales about the past continues.
When Karunakaran was in Class five, he was laid low by typhoid. “I was bed-ridden for days,” he says. “When the fever left me, my right leg lost its movement.”
For the next several months, he had to undergo Ayurvedic treatment. “The massage was done in the early mornings and I would be free by 10 a.m.,” he says. “After that, I would pass the time doing numerous drawings in my notebook. When I returned home, I told my father I wanted to be a painter.”
His father, T.P. Sekhara Menon, who had a keen interest in the arts, allowed Karunakaran to join the Government School of Arts and Crafts, Chennai, at the tender age of 12.
“My father was a officer in the panchayat,” he says. “Often, he would come home late from work.” Next to their house lived a bachelor, Padmanabhan Nair, who would tell Karunakaran that the reason his father was late was because a frog had eaten him.
“I would start crying and asked what would happen now,” he says. “Padmanabhan told me not to worry. People from the village had already set out to cut open the frog’s stomach, so that my father could come out.”
His father, whom he idolised, loved dogs. “We had a dog called Tiger,” he says. Apparently, one day, the rope which was used to tie Tiger, had come loose. The dog jumped on Jaanu, a neighbouring girl, who had come to collect milk. She ran screaming around the courtyard, the dog on her back. “Finally, my mother pulled Tiger away,” says Karunakaran.
In the evening, when his father was told the news, he took a stick and beat the dog. However, the next morning, the dog undid the rope, and ran around barking ferociously. Then it bit Janardhan and Kunjumaalu, a woman who had come to sweep the courtyard.
Finally, a neighbour took a huge stone and smashed it over the dog’s head, killing it instantly. “Ever since that time, I have been afraid of dogs,” he says. Meanwhile, his brother and the maid had to take 14 anti-rabies injections over a fortnight.
But Karunakaran has some happy memories. When he was in Class three, he had drawn a picture of the Ashoka Chakra on a large piece of paper. “With apprehension, I showed it to Bhargavi Teacher,” he says. “She liked it so much she put it up on the wall of the class. This had a tremendous impact on me and I became deeply interested in drawing.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Das Kapital
Even though she does not speak the language, singer Vasundhara Das is acting in her third Malayalam film
By Shevlin Sebastian
A few years ago, Vasundhara Das flew to Kochi for the first time to act in Renjith’s ‘Ravana Prabhu’, opposite Mohan Lal.
“Ranjit told me that for my first scene -- the picturisation of the song, ‘Pottukuthedy’ -- I had to run, because I was escaping from somebody who had kidnapped me,” she says.
For five days, she ran and ran in places near Kochi. “It was such a beautiful experience,” she says. “I was looking at so much greenery, running in paddy fields. From a person who grew up in Bangalore, seeing so much of natural beauty was such an intoxicating feeling.”
‘Ravana Prabhu’ turned out to be a hit. And, for Vasundhara, the highlight of the movie was acting opposite legend Mohanlal. “His acting was so effortless, you did not see a different person off camera,” she says. “That is something very few people are capable of.”
She also enjoyed the fact that Mohan Lal did not take himself too seriously, despite his achievements. “It is so easy for someone in that position to go on an egoistic trip,” she says. “He also has a keen sense of humour and seems to make the most of every experience.”
Following ‘Ravana Prabhu’, she acted in ‘Vajram’ with Mammooty and now she is in Kochi to act in director Nizar’s ‘Boss’, which stars Suresh Gopi. In a sprawling bungalow at Vazhakala, Kochi, she notes down in Hindi the dialogues that an assistant director is explaining to her from a Malayalam script.
In this particular scene, in which she is wearing a white top and blue jeans, she sits on a chair, while Gopi’s friends in the film – Salim Kumar, Harishree Ashokan and Manuraj -- come to the house in search of her. Vasundhara does not have to do much. She has to pretend she is talking on the mobile phone, while the three friends rush into the room and she has to get up. It needs just three takes for the director to okay the shot.
Vasundhara says she chose the film because she liked the script. The story, penned by upcoming writers, Suresh Menon and Santosh K. Sivan, is about a heroine who is a star of Tamil and Telugu films, and comes to Fort Kochi for a shoot.
Director Nizar says he chose Vasundhara, because if he had selected a heroine from the Malayalam industry, to act as a Tamil star, it would have lacked authenticity. “So, I felt Vasundhara would be a good choice,” he says.
Even though Vasundhara does not know how to speak Malayalam, Nizar is all praise for her. “She is very cooperative and creates no problems at all,” he says. “She is focused on giving a proper performance.”
Vasundhara also has good words to say about her Malayali colleagues. “The most striking feature about the Malayalam film industry is that the units are very efficient. In all the different films I have worked, when they say the shooting will last for 25 days, it rarely overshoots the schedule.”
But communication is a problem, at times. She says she finds it difficult to speak with the spot boys and some of the technicians. “One reason is that they don’t know Hindi,” she says.
But she has no problem of communicating with the Malayali audience through her films. “Wherever I go, in the world, I always find someone from Kerala, who will come up to me and say, ‘Are you Vasundhara Das? I am a Malayali,’” she says, with a smile. “I have been adopted by God’s Own Country.”
The striking feature about God’s Own Girl is her luminous green eyes. And she says this is nothing to be surprised about. “All Hebbar Iyengar Brahmins, from Tamil Nadu, have light eyes and skin, and are beautiful and brainy,” says this Maths and Economics graduate from Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, with her tongue somewhere near her cheek.
Her initial dream was to be a singer. To fulfill it, Vasundhara received classical training from noted Hindustani vocalist Pandit Parmeshwar Hegde. But her turning point came when, at the age of 12, she went on a holiday to Phoenix, USA, and heard Elvis Presley singing Jailhouse Rock on TV.
“I had no idea who Elvis Presley was at that time,” she says. “And I was thinking to myself, ‘This is what I want to do.’” Thanks to her parents, who gave her full encouragement, she began concentrating on her singing.
She got her first break when she sang for music director A.R. Rahman for the Tamil film ‘Mudhalvan.’ Later, her acting career took off when actor Kamala Hasan gave her a role in ‘Hey Ram.’
Today, she continues to act and sing and is now basking in the appreciation of her two songs in ‘Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na’: ‘Pappu can’t dance saala!’ and ‘Kahi Tho Hogi Ho,’ a slow ballad with Rashid Ali, with music by Rehman.
More than movies, it is music that is her passion. “Very few people get to do what they truly love and earn a living from it,” she says. “So, I consider myself very lucky.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Chennai)
By Shevlin Sebastian
A few years ago, Vasundhara Das flew to Kochi for the first time to act in Renjith’s ‘Ravana Prabhu’, opposite Mohan Lal.
“Ranjit told me that for my first scene -- the picturisation of the song, ‘Pottukuthedy’ -- I had to run, because I was escaping from somebody who had kidnapped me,” she says.
For five days, she ran and ran in places near Kochi. “It was such a beautiful experience,” she says. “I was looking at so much greenery, running in paddy fields. From a person who grew up in Bangalore, seeing so much of natural beauty was such an intoxicating feeling.”
‘Ravana Prabhu’ turned out to be a hit. And, for Vasundhara, the highlight of the movie was acting opposite legend Mohanlal. “His acting was so effortless, you did not see a different person off camera,” she says. “That is something very few people are capable of.”
She also enjoyed the fact that Mohan Lal did not take himself too seriously, despite his achievements. “It is so easy for someone in that position to go on an egoistic trip,” she says. “He also has a keen sense of humour and seems to make the most of every experience.”
Following ‘Ravana Prabhu’, she acted in ‘Vajram’ with Mammooty and now she is in Kochi to act in director Nizar’s ‘Boss’, which stars Suresh Gopi. In a sprawling bungalow at Vazhakala, Kochi, she notes down in Hindi the dialogues that an assistant director is explaining to her from a Malayalam script.
In this particular scene, in which she is wearing a white top and blue jeans, she sits on a chair, while Gopi’s friends in the film – Salim Kumar, Harishree Ashokan and Manuraj -- come to the house in search of her. Vasundhara does not have to do much. She has to pretend she is talking on the mobile phone, while the three friends rush into the room and she has to get up. It needs just three takes for the director to okay the shot.
Vasundhara says she chose the film because she liked the script. The story, penned by upcoming writers, Suresh Menon and Santosh K. Sivan, is about a heroine who is a star of Tamil and Telugu films, and comes to Fort Kochi for a shoot.
Director Nizar says he chose Vasundhara, because if he had selected a heroine from the Malayalam industry, to act as a Tamil star, it would have lacked authenticity. “So, I felt Vasundhara would be a good choice,” he says.
Even though Vasundhara does not know how to speak Malayalam, Nizar is all praise for her. “She is very cooperative and creates no problems at all,” he says. “She is focused on giving a proper performance.”
Vasundhara also has good words to say about her Malayali colleagues. “The most striking feature about the Malayalam film industry is that the units are very efficient. In all the different films I have worked, when they say the shooting will last for 25 days, it rarely overshoots the schedule.”
But communication is a problem, at times. She says she finds it difficult to speak with the spot boys and some of the technicians. “One reason is that they don’t know Hindi,” she says.
But she has no problem of communicating with the Malayali audience through her films. “Wherever I go, in the world, I always find someone from Kerala, who will come up to me and say, ‘Are you Vasundhara Das? I am a Malayali,’” she says, with a smile. “I have been adopted by God’s Own Country.”
The striking feature about God’s Own Girl is her luminous green eyes. And she says this is nothing to be surprised about. “All Hebbar Iyengar Brahmins, from Tamil Nadu, have light eyes and skin, and are beautiful and brainy,” says this Maths and Economics graduate from Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, with her tongue somewhere near her cheek.
Her initial dream was to be a singer. To fulfill it, Vasundhara received classical training from noted Hindustani vocalist Pandit Parmeshwar Hegde. But her turning point came when, at the age of 12, she went on a holiday to Phoenix, USA, and heard Elvis Presley singing Jailhouse Rock on TV.
“I had no idea who Elvis Presley was at that time,” she says. “And I was thinking to myself, ‘This is what I want to do.’” Thanks to her parents, who gave her full encouragement, she began concentrating on her singing.
She got her first break when she sang for music director A.R. Rahman for the Tamil film ‘Mudhalvan.’ Later, her acting career took off when actor Kamala Hasan gave her a role in ‘Hey Ram.’
Today, she continues to act and sing and is now basking in the appreciation of her two songs in ‘Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na’: ‘Pappu can’t dance saala!’ and ‘Kahi Tho Hogi Ho,’ a slow ballad with Rashid Ali, with music by Rehman.
More than movies, it is music that is her passion. “Very few people get to do what they truly love and earn a living from it,” she says. “So, I consider myself very lucky.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Chennai)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Musical Mama’s Many Memories
(A series on childhood memories)
Taking loads of change as pocket money and singing for actor Dilip Kumar were some of the highlights of the childhood of singer Usha Uthup
By Shevlin Sebastian
“Whenever I would ask Appa for money, he would always say yes,” says singer Usha Uthup. “His weakest moment was when he was getting ready to go for work.”
Vaidyanathan Sami would do his shaving, while sitting in front of the dressing table. “The left-hand drawer would be full of change: four annas and one annas,” says Usha. “I used to say, ‘Appa Appa,’ and he would reply, ‘How much?’ I would say, ‘Four annas!’ And he would say, ‘Take it!’”
Vaidyanathan would open the drawer, and Usha would take a pile of coins, much more than the four annas she had asked for. When she would walk to the St. Agnes school at Byculla, in Mumbai, she would keep telling herself, “God, I am sorry, I will never do it again.”
After a week, Usha would do the same thing. “I just could not resist taking the money,” she says. “My father never made me feel I was doing something wrong.”
For years, Usha was wracked by a sense of guilt. One day, when she was 32, and Usha was staying at her parents’ house in the Mumbai suburb of Worli, she broke down, and said, “Appa, I am so sorry. There were so many times I stole from your drawer.”
Vaidyanathan laughed, and said, “Usha, did you think that I did not know? Whatever I earned, it was all yours.”
Usha grew up in Byculla, where her father was a senior officer in the Crime Branch. Eventually, he retired as deputy commissioner of police, crime branch. She was one of six children.
Her elder sisters, Indra and Uma, were more than ten years older than her, then there was Shyamu, Thyagaraj (Babu), who was just two years older than Usha, and Maya, who was six years younger. Usha was closest to Babu.
The Samis lived in a large bungalow and there were numerous banana trees at the back. “Babu would always tell me that at night the banana trees would come up to you, if you harmed them during the day,” she says. “I told him, ‘They don’t have legs.’ And he said, ‘When you cut it, it does not bleed, but it gets hurt. So, when it walks, you cannot see.’ Ever since, I have always had this fear that the banana trees can walk up to you at night.”
On the other side of the garden there was another bungalow where the Pathans lived. S.M.A. Pathan was also a senior police officer. Usha would go often to their house to play with their daughter, Jamila.
One year, when Id was coming up, Usha went to a Muslim card shop near her house and bought a card, which was written in Urdu and gave it to Mr. Pathan. He read it and laughed. “Soon, he called the family and they read it and laughed and laughed,” says Usha.
Jamila told her what had happened: On the top of the card, it was written in Urdu: ‘Mere Mehboob, Id Mubarak.’ “It was then I realised it was a lover’s card which I had gifted to Pathan saab,” she says, with a laugh.
It was also at the Pathans’ house that Usha saw film stars like Dilip Kumar, Madhubhala and Meena Kumari. “Both Madhubala and Meena Kumari looked far more beautiful in real life than in reel life,” she says.
Years later, when she met Dilip Kumar, she prodded his memory and he remembered her. “You were the one who sang a lot,” he said.
“Dilip Kumar!!” she says, and shakes her head in amazement. “I have had a great life.” At the Bubble Café at the Taj Residency, at Kochi, waiters hover around her, as she orders coffee and toast. “I enjoy the attention,” she says. “I enjoy being in the limelight. All artists crave to be appreciated. And these people have been so good to me.”
She sips her cup of coffee and continues: “One of my most unforgettable memories was when my father went to arrest the robber, Anokhi Lal.”
On May 13, 1950, four men, led by Anokhi Lal, entered the Flora Fountain branch of the Lloyd’s Bank of London and decamped with Rs 12 lakh. Vaidyanathan solved the case. “One day, my father just drove down to Pune, met Anokhi Lal, and told him, ‘We know you are the thief. There is no escape. It is better you come with me.’”
Anokhi Lal allowed himself to be arrested and spent several years in prison. “The day he was released, he met my father and had a cup of coffee,” says Usha. “Appa called us children and said, ‘Do you know who this is?’ We shook our heads. ‘This is Anokhi Lal,’” he said. “Later, when my father passed away, Anokhi Lal came with a 6’ long garland, the same height as my father, and placed it on Appa.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
‘I am okay’
HIV positive children, when told about their status, tend to ignore it and lead normal lives
By Shevlin Sebastian
Lata Nambiar, 30, became HIV positive when her late husband, Suresh, received infected blood following an accident. Sadly, her son also tested positive.
Today, the prognosis is not good for Lata. “I am taking antiretroviral (ART) drugs, but my CD4 count has been below 200 for the past three years,” she says.
Her 12-year-old son has a CD4 count of 408 and is in good health. (Normal CD4 counts in adults range from 500 to 1,500 cells per cubic millimetre of blood. The CD4 count goes down as the HIV disease progresses).
“I told Mani about the virus two years ago,” she says. “He felt he was suffering from something when he overheard my conversations with Aids workers. So, I felt it was better to tell him.”
Initially, Mani refused to believe it. “But now he has accepted it, but does not think about it much,” she says.
Asked about the future, Lata says, “My only fear is that if I die soon, who will look after my son? An institution cannot show as much love and affection as a mother.”
Sitting next to her is Meenakshi, who realised only three years ago that she was HIV positive, along with her daughter, Anita. Her husband, who died 10 years ago, had died of Aids.
“Through all these years, we had the usual coughs, colds and illnesses,” she says. Around three months ago, she told Anita, 14, she was also HIV+. “My daughter did not take it seriously,” says Meenakshi. “She does not know how dangerous the disease is.” Thankfully, Anita’s CD4 count is above 200 and hence she is not taking ART drugs.
Lata and Meenakshi were among 2000 people who were present at the Snehasangamam meet held at St. Teresa’s College, Kochi, a few days ago.
This meet, for HIV affected people, was organised by the Council of People Living with HIV/AIDS in Kerala (CPK+), in association with Unicef, and the Kerala State AIDS Control Society.
“By organising this meet, we wanted to tell these people they are not alone,” says Joseph Mathew, secretary of CPK+. “At this gathering, they will realise there are many others like them, and we are hoping it will give them the courage and confidence to face life.”
However, Radhika, 28, is nervous about the future. She got the virus from her late husband -- a truck driver at Nasik – and was devastated when she realised she has passed the disease to her seven-year-old son.
“When a parent realises the child is positive, they go through a period of intense sorrow,” says Devashish Dutta of Unicef. “How they cope and come out of it depends a lot on counselling and the support given by networks. The message, ‘You are not alone’ helps them to get over the trauma.”
Most of the children are facing life without being aware they are HIV positive. “Only 34 per cent know about their status,” says M.P. Antoni, Project Director of Rajagiri College-Community Aid and Sponsorship Project, which did a study on children affected by AIDS/HIV in Kerala, in association with CPK+ and Unicef.
However, he says, when children come to the Snehasangamam meetings, they come to know indirectly they are HIV positive.
“After a certain age, the child is going to ask, ‘why am I falling ill like this?’” says Dutta. “Then, you have to explain HIV and Aids to them. When the ART treatments begin, you have to make the child understand that it is not his or her fault, especially if they are old enough to understand it.”
Nevertheless, the future is not at all rosy for these children. Says Dutta: “Out of 100 children, around half will die by the age of five, if they are not treated early enough.” However, if the treatment starts on time, and ART drugs are given, the children could live well into adulthood, he says.
When asked about the psychological state of HIV positive children, Dutta says that if a child is kept isolated, because of irrational fears and misconceptions, he or she could end up in a fragile emotional state.
“The nice way is treat the child like any other normal child,” he says. “However, the best solution is to keep the parents alive as long as possible.”
Dutta also has a message for the parents of normal children: “I do not know of a single instance of a child infecting another child by living, playing or eating together.”
Meanwhile, on this Saturday afternoon, the children were running around in the college campus, shouting, laughing and playing the little games only they know how to play so well.
A few of them take part in the cultural competitions: singing, dancing and doing mimicry acts. For a brief while, they have forgotten the problems of their life and become what they should be: happy, carefree children having the time of their lives.
(Some names have been changed)
Fast facts
More than 2 million children worldwide are living with the HIV virus. The majority were infected even before they were born
Some 2,90,000 children worldwide, under the age of 15, died of AIDS last year
In Kerala:
18% of families were forced to move from their homes when their status was revealed.
Only 34% of parents have told children about their HIV+ status
Denial of education was the most common problem faced by HIV+ children
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
Lata Nambiar, 30, became HIV positive when her late husband, Suresh, received infected blood following an accident. Sadly, her son also tested positive.
Today, the prognosis is not good for Lata. “I am taking antiretroviral (ART) drugs, but my CD4 count has been below 200 for the past three years,” she says.
Her 12-year-old son has a CD4 count of 408 and is in good health. (Normal CD4 counts in adults range from 500 to 1,500 cells per cubic millimetre of blood. The CD4 count goes down as the HIV disease progresses).
“I told Mani about the virus two years ago,” she says. “He felt he was suffering from something when he overheard my conversations with Aids workers. So, I felt it was better to tell him.”
Initially, Mani refused to believe it. “But now he has accepted it, but does not think about it much,” she says.
Asked about the future, Lata says, “My only fear is that if I die soon, who will look after my son? An institution cannot show as much love and affection as a mother.”
Sitting next to her is Meenakshi, who realised only three years ago that she was HIV positive, along with her daughter, Anita. Her husband, who died 10 years ago, had died of Aids.
“Through all these years, we had the usual coughs, colds and illnesses,” she says. Around three months ago, she told Anita, 14, she was also HIV+. “My daughter did not take it seriously,” says Meenakshi. “She does not know how dangerous the disease is.” Thankfully, Anita’s CD4 count is above 200 and hence she is not taking ART drugs.
Lata and Meenakshi were among 2000 people who were present at the Snehasangamam meet held at St. Teresa’s College, Kochi, a few days ago.
This meet, for HIV affected people, was organised by the Council of People Living with HIV/AIDS in Kerala (CPK+), in association with Unicef, and the Kerala State AIDS Control Society.
“By organising this meet, we wanted to tell these people they are not alone,” says Joseph Mathew, secretary of CPK+. “At this gathering, they will realise there are many others like them, and we are hoping it will give them the courage and confidence to face life.”
However, Radhika, 28, is nervous about the future. She got the virus from her late husband -- a truck driver at Nasik – and was devastated when she realised she has passed the disease to her seven-year-old son.
“When a parent realises the child is positive, they go through a period of intense sorrow,” says Devashish Dutta of Unicef. “How they cope and come out of it depends a lot on counselling and the support given by networks. The message, ‘You are not alone’ helps them to get over the trauma.”
Most of the children are facing life without being aware they are HIV positive. “Only 34 per cent know about their status,” says M.P. Antoni, Project Director of Rajagiri College-Community Aid and Sponsorship Project, which did a study on children affected by AIDS/HIV in Kerala, in association with CPK+ and Unicef.
However, he says, when children come to the Snehasangamam meetings, they come to know indirectly they are HIV positive.
“After a certain age, the child is going to ask, ‘why am I falling ill like this?’” says Dutta. “Then, you have to explain HIV and Aids to them. When the ART treatments begin, you have to make the child understand that it is not his or her fault, especially if they are old enough to understand it.”
Nevertheless, the future is not at all rosy for these children. Says Dutta: “Out of 100 children, around half will die by the age of five, if they are not treated early enough.” However, if the treatment starts on time, and ART drugs are given, the children could live well into adulthood, he says.
When asked about the psychological state of HIV positive children, Dutta says that if a child is kept isolated, because of irrational fears and misconceptions, he or she could end up in a fragile emotional state.
“The nice way is treat the child like any other normal child,” he says. “However, the best solution is to keep the parents alive as long as possible.”
Dutta also has a message for the parents of normal children: “I do not know of a single instance of a child infecting another child by living, playing or eating together.”
Meanwhile, on this Saturday afternoon, the children were running around in the college campus, shouting, laughing and playing the little games only they know how to play so well.
A few of them take part in the cultural competitions: singing, dancing and doing mimicry acts. For a brief while, they have forgotten the problems of their life and become what they should be: happy, carefree children having the time of their lives.
(Some names have been changed)
Fast facts
More than 2 million children worldwide are living with the HIV virus. The majority were infected even before they were born
Some 2,90,000 children worldwide, under the age of 15, died of AIDS last year
In Kerala:
18% of families were forced to move from their homes when their status was revealed.
Only 34% of parents have told children about their HIV+ status
Denial of education was the most common problem faced by HIV+ children
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A befitting tribute
Singer Usha Uthup and actress Kalpana rock to a pulsating song, which is a reply to Vineeth Sreenivasan’s ‘Palavattam’ from the ‘Coffee at MG Road’ album
By Shevlin Sebastian
At the Asianet studio on Convent Road, it is difficult to recognise singer Usha Uthup. She is wearing a wig of frazzled brown curls and a body-length black gown and a dazzling golden necklace.
Standing next to her, in black top and jeans and boots, topped by a black wig, is actress Kalpana.
“Since Usha is always wearing kanjeevaram sarees, we wanted to give her a different image,” says director Diana Sylvester. “Hence, we opted for western style dresses.”
(Incidentally, all the costumes were brought by Usha on a recent visit to Kolkata).
Usha and Kalpana shake their bodies, move their hands and their faces from side to side, in rhythm to a pulsating song by the singer being played over the speaker system.
There is an easy camaraderie between Kalpana and Usha. When Kalpana does some quick, jazzy moves on the dance floor, Usha, who is watching from the sidelines, shouts, “You are a rock star!”
When Usha says in mock protest, “I don’t want to dance next to Kalpana, she makes me look old,” the actress crooks her finger and says, “Come here, little girl.”
In the make-up room, Kalpana says this is the first time she is acting for an album song. “The biggest plus is the dynamic voice of Usha Didi,” she says. “And to act with her is a second big plus. Lastly, the director is a lady. So, this song is a collaboration of three women.”
Hands-on director Diana keeps coming onto the set from the control room and says, “Kalpana, your lip movements are not synchronising with the lyrics,” or “the expression is not precise.” Kalpana always takes it in a sporting spirit and is ready to do, take after take, to get it right.
As for the song, it has a thumping beat and soaring above it, is the rich velvety voice of Usha. Who can resist swaying to the song? But music fans will recognise the tune at once: it is by Shafi Rahman and the song is ‘Palavattam’ from Vineeth Srinivasan’s ‘Coffee at MG Road’ album.
“I loved the original song by Vineeth,” says Usha. “He is a brilliant singer. I have always believed that non-filmic songs don’t get the right kind of exposure. This song was so beautiful I just wanted to do a reply.”
So, she asked lyricist, Chittoor Gopi, who has written all her songs in Malayalam, to compose a witty reply and he wrote it in one hour a fortnight ago.
“Since the man is a Romeo in the original song, I wanted the girl in my song to reject the boy,” he says, with a smile. “And look how wonderfully Usha has sung it.”
Diana says this is the first time in Kerala that this concept of responding to a song is taking place. “The music is the same, only the lyrics are different,” she says.
Usha says this happens in international music all the time. She says ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon and ‘Blowing in The Wind’ by Bob Dylan have been sung countless times by other singers. “People don’t follow this concept in India,” she says. “If a song is beautiful and requires recognition, the best way is to sing it yourself.”
As she talks, in walks Anjali, Usha’s Kochi-based daughter.
“How do I look?” Usha says.
“You look great,” says Anjali.
“Are you sure?” says Usha.
“Of course, Amma,” says a smiling Anjali. Later, she says, “I am so used to seeing my mother wearing all kinds of wigs and costumes. She is the comic element in our family. I am never surprised by my mother. There are no limits to her.”
Meanwhile, Usha takes a break and sips a cup of tea. In a couple of days, she is off to Dubai for a programme, then to Singapore, then back to Thiruvananthapuram for the shooting of Idea Star Singer.
This rocking number, ‘Palavattam Kandathanu’, will be telecast on Asianet during Onam.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
At the Asianet studio on Convent Road, it is difficult to recognise singer Usha Uthup. She is wearing a wig of frazzled brown curls and a body-length black gown and a dazzling golden necklace.
Standing next to her, in black top and jeans and boots, topped by a black wig, is actress Kalpana.
“Since Usha is always wearing kanjeevaram sarees, we wanted to give her a different image,” says director Diana Sylvester. “Hence, we opted for western style dresses.”
(Incidentally, all the costumes were brought by Usha on a recent visit to Kolkata).
Usha and Kalpana shake their bodies, move their hands and their faces from side to side, in rhythm to a pulsating song by the singer being played over the speaker system.
There is an easy camaraderie between Kalpana and Usha. When Kalpana does some quick, jazzy moves on the dance floor, Usha, who is watching from the sidelines, shouts, “You are a rock star!”
When Usha says in mock protest, “I don’t want to dance next to Kalpana, she makes me look old,” the actress crooks her finger and says, “Come here, little girl.”
In the make-up room, Kalpana says this is the first time she is acting for an album song. “The biggest plus is the dynamic voice of Usha Didi,” she says. “And to act with her is a second big plus. Lastly, the director is a lady. So, this song is a collaboration of three women.”
Hands-on director Diana keeps coming onto the set from the control room and says, “Kalpana, your lip movements are not synchronising with the lyrics,” or “the expression is not precise.” Kalpana always takes it in a sporting spirit and is ready to do, take after take, to get it right.
As for the song, it has a thumping beat and soaring above it, is the rich velvety voice of Usha. Who can resist swaying to the song? But music fans will recognise the tune at once: it is by Shafi Rahman and the song is ‘Palavattam’ from Vineeth Srinivasan’s ‘Coffee at MG Road’ album.
“I loved the original song by Vineeth,” says Usha. “He is a brilliant singer. I have always believed that non-filmic songs don’t get the right kind of exposure. This song was so beautiful I just wanted to do a reply.”
So, she asked lyricist, Chittoor Gopi, who has written all her songs in Malayalam, to compose a witty reply and he wrote it in one hour a fortnight ago.
“Since the man is a Romeo in the original song, I wanted the girl in my song to reject the boy,” he says, with a smile. “And look how wonderfully Usha has sung it.”
Diana says this is the first time in Kerala that this concept of responding to a song is taking place. “The music is the same, only the lyrics are different,” she says.
Usha says this happens in international music all the time. She says ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon and ‘Blowing in The Wind’ by Bob Dylan have been sung countless times by other singers. “People don’t follow this concept in India,” she says. “If a song is beautiful and requires recognition, the best way is to sing it yourself.”
As she talks, in walks Anjali, Usha’s Kochi-based daughter.
“How do I look?” Usha says.
“You look great,” says Anjali.
“Are you sure?” says Usha.
“Of course, Amma,” says a smiling Anjali. Later, she says, “I am so used to seeing my mother wearing all kinds of wigs and costumes. She is the comic element in our family. I am never surprised by my mother. There are no limits to her.”
Meanwhile, Usha takes a break and sips a cup of tea. In a couple of days, she is off to Dubai for a programme, then to Singapore, then back to Thiruvananthapuram for the shooting of Idea Star Singer.
This rocking number, ‘Palavattam Kandathanu’, will be telecast on Asianet during Onam.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Dum Maro Dum
(A series on childhood memories)
Caring for his grandfather and dancing like Zeenat Amam were some of the unforgettable experiences of actor Suresh Gopi
By Shevlin Sebastian
Suresh Gopi’s grandfather was suffering from a hernia problem. “Once in six months, he would suffer from a blockage,” says Gopi. “This meant that the stool would pass out only after a gap of seven days.”
But before this happened, Gopi, who was in Class seven at that time, was given the task of rubbing coconut oil around the rectum, to enable the faeces to come out easily. “Since my fingers were small, it was easier for me to do it, than my parents,” he says.
On Vrichigam 1, in 1973, Gopi’s father woke him up. “I thought I had been awakened to go to the temple,” he says. But instead, he was told to apply the coconut oil. “I did it and started soothing the rectum,” he says.
However, at that moment, the fecal waste of the past seven days came out in a furious rush. “It hit my hands and the right side of my body was drenched in it,” he says. “It smelled so bad.”
As expected, Gopi started crying and was taken to the backyard by his father who used a garden hose to clean him up. “I remember I kept saying, ‘Today is the first day of Vrichigam,’” says Gopi. “My father told me, ‘That’s okay. You have to do these things for your parents and grandparents, because God appreciates it a lot.’”
Gopi stops talking, and in his make-up van parked on a street at Mattanchery, where the shooting for the film, ‘Boss’ is going on, the only sound is the slight rumble of the air-conditioner.
Dressed in a black shirt and trousers, the 6’ 1” actor leans back in his chair and says, “Do you know why I am telling this story? Because I want to tell the present generation that they should look after their parents and grandparents, instead of abandoning them.”
Eventually, his grandfather died, and Gopi remembers the cremation vividly. “I was standing some distance away because I was afraid of the process,” he says.
For the two days before the cremation, his father had behaved normally. “However, suddenly, he broke down and cried like a baby,” he says. “That image remained in my mind for several years.”
Astonishingly, when his own father died on April 13, 2000, Gopi also collapsed at the crematorium. “I was repeating the same episode I had seen as a child,” he says. “I became very violent and was just not in a position to leave my father to the fire.”
Ultimately, director, Shaji Kailas, and producer, Suresh Kumar, had to forcibly pull him away and Gopi was admitted to hospital suffering from high BP.
At the Infant Jesus Anglo Indian school at Tangasseri, Kollam, he also experienced suffering. There was a teacher called Ivy Miss who would hit the children with a ruler on the knuckles.
“It was a painful experience,” says Gopi. “But I believe this sort of disciplining is good. A student should know what pain is, and why he is being punished. Then you will learn to draw a line between right and wrong.”
On every Friday, between 3.30 and 4 p.m., there would be literary and debating activities. “You had to face the classroom and perform,” he says. No marks were awarded, while the teacher sat in the audience.
“With my classmates, I acted in small skits from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Macbeth and the Merchant of Venice,” he says. “I got my basic training from Zita Miss and Shiela Miss.”
But the highlight of his school performances was during the dance competition in the annual Arts Festival. “I decided to dance to the song ‘Dum Maro Dum’ from the film, ‘Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,’” he says. So, he was dressed as actress Zeenat Aman and put two sponges to resemble the breasts.
But, when Gopi started dancing, the audience went berserk: clapping and dancing themselves. “I became over-excited and began dancing wildly,” he says. As he did so, the two sponges began to roll down slowly from his chest to the stomach.
At that moment, he noticed that the Chemistry teacher, Indrani Miss, who was the most feared teacher in the school, had thrown her head back and was laughing uproariously. “This was the first time the students had seen her laugh,” says Gopi.
By this time, the breasts had reached the waist, and Gopi had no option but to run off from the stage. “It was a hilarious situation,” he says.
In 1989, when Gopi was invited as the chief guest for the arts festival at Vimala College in Thrissur, the superstar recounted the incident.
“The girls started shouting and laughing, and got very excited,” he says. “But when I looked at the front row, there was this group of unsmiling nuns, with question marks on their faces.”
Gopi pauses, smiles, and says, “Thereafter, it was decided the college would not invite cinema artistes for inaugurations.”
But Gopi seems to have irresistible charm. In 2001, he was once again invited to the college as a chief guest.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Caring for his grandfather and dancing like Zeenat Amam were some of the unforgettable experiences of actor Suresh Gopi
By Shevlin Sebastian
Suresh Gopi’s grandfather was suffering from a hernia problem. “Once in six months, he would suffer from a blockage,” says Gopi. “This meant that the stool would pass out only after a gap of seven days.”
But before this happened, Gopi, who was in Class seven at that time, was given the task of rubbing coconut oil around the rectum, to enable the faeces to come out easily. “Since my fingers were small, it was easier for me to do it, than my parents,” he says.
On Vrichigam 1, in 1973, Gopi’s father woke him up. “I thought I had been awakened to go to the temple,” he says. But instead, he was told to apply the coconut oil. “I did it and started soothing the rectum,” he says.
However, at that moment, the fecal waste of the past seven days came out in a furious rush. “It hit my hands and the right side of my body was drenched in it,” he says. “It smelled so bad.”
As expected, Gopi started crying and was taken to the backyard by his father who used a garden hose to clean him up. “I remember I kept saying, ‘Today is the first day of Vrichigam,’” says Gopi. “My father told me, ‘That’s okay. You have to do these things for your parents and grandparents, because God appreciates it a lot.’”
Gopi stops talking, and in his make-up van parked on a street at Mattanchery, where the shooting for the film, ‘Boss’ is going on, the only sound is the slight rumble of the air-conditioner.
Dressed in a black shirt and trousers, the 6’ 1” actor leans back in his chair and says, “Do you know why I am telling this story? Because I want to tell the present generation that they should look after their parents and grandparents, instead of abandoning them.”
Eventually, his grandfather died, and Gopi remembers the cremation vividly. “I was standing some distance away because I was afraid of the process,” he says.
For the two days before the cremation, his father had behaved normally. “However, suddenly, he broke down and cried like a baby,” he says. “That image remained in my mind for several years.”
Astonishingly, when his own father died on April 13, 2000, Gopi also collapsed at the crematorium. “I was repeating the same episode I had seen as a child,” he says. “I became very violent and was just not in a position to leave my father to the fire.”
Ultimately, director, Shaji Kailas, and producer, Suresh Kumar, had to forcibly pull him away and Gopi was admitted to hospital suffering from high BP.
At the Infant Jesus Anglo Indian school at Tangasseri, Kollam, he also experienced suffering. There was a teacher called Ivy Miss who would hit the children with a ruler on the knuckles.
“It was a painful experience,” says Gopi. “But I believe this sort of disciplining is good. A student should know what pain is, and why he is being punished. Then you will learn to draw a line between right and wrong.”
On every Friday, between 3.30 and 4 p.m., there would be literary and debating activities. “You had to face the classroom and perform,” he says. No marks were awarded, while the teacher sat in the audience.
“With my classmates, I acted in small skits from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Macbeth and the Merchant of Venice,” he says. “I got my basic training from Zita Miss and Shiela Miss.”
But the highlight of his school performances was during the dance competition in the annual Arts Festival. “I decided to dance to the song ‘Dum Maro Dum’ from the film, ‘Hare Rama, Hare Krishna,’” he says. So, he was dressed as actress Zeenat Aman and put two sponges to resemble the breasts.
But, when Gopi started dancing, the audience went berserk: clapping and dancing themselves. “I became over-excited and began dancing wildly,” he says. As he did so, the two sponges began to roll down slowly from his chest to the stomach.
At that moment, he noticed that the Chemistry teacher, Indrani Miss, who was the most feared teacher in the school, had thrown her head back and was laughing uproariously. “This was the first time the students had seen her laugh,” says Gopi.
By this time, the breasts had reached the waist, and Gopi had no option but to run off from the stage. “It was a hilarious situation,” he says.
In 1989, when Gopi was invited as the chief guest for the arts festival at Vimala College in Thrissur, the superstar recounted the incident.
“The girls started shouting and laughing, and got very excited,” he says. “But when I looked at the front row, there was this group of unsmiling nuns, with question marks on their faces.”
Gopi pauses, smiles, and says, “Thereafter, it was decided the college would not invite cinema artistes for inaugurations.”
But Gopi seems to have irresistible charm. In 2001, he was once again invited to the college as a chief guest.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
The sound of silence
Shashi Menon, a HIV positive patient, finds it prudent not to tell anybody about his disease
By Shevlin Sebastian
It was when Shashi Menon's pregnant wife, Preeti, was admitted to hospital in 2000 at Kozhikode that it was discovered she was HIV positive. For the next ten hours, the doctors and nurses passed cruel comments about her sex life till she gave birth.
Shashi then tested himself and came up with the same result. He knew how he had transmitted the disease to his wife: he had an affair with a widow who was infected.
Shashi decided he would not tell a soul about the disease "I felt that if educated people like doctors and nurses could be so biased, what hope was there that ordinary people would behave differently?" he says.
Terrified that people would come to know he was infected, he left Kerala and wandered around Tamil Nadu and Karnataka with his wife and baby girl. "I worked in a bakery shop, as a shoe salesman, and as a food supplier to hotels," he says.
Three years later, his health declined dramatically and he was close to death. He tried to get himself treated by general physicians, but they refused to help him when he told them he was HIV positive.
Evenually, he returned to Kerala and managed to locate a centre – the Jeevodaya Rehabilitation Centre for Aids patients – at Melechovva, Kannur. "My CD4 count had gone down to 55," he says. (Normal CD4 counts in adults range from 500 to 1,500 cells per cubic millimetre of blood.)
He sent Preeti and child to her parents' place, told his own family that he had a highly contagious strain of tuberculosis, and enrolled at the centre. "It was the turning point in my life," he says. "I saw other HIV patients for the first time, and realised I was not alone in the world."
He was given Antiretroviral (ART) drugs, and gained 8 kgs in 10 days. His CD count soared. Today, he weighs 63 kgs and is reasonably healthy. He has relocated to Thrissur and has a foodgrains business, but continues to keep his HIV+ status secret.
"I do a lot of social service, and dabble in politics," says Shashi. "If people come to know I am ill, they will shun me. Attitudes have changed a lot among a small section of people, but the majority has a bias."
He gives an example. "I have a close friendship with a retired high school principal," he says. "One day, when I was taking a stroll with him, he pointed at a barber shop and said, 'That barber has Aids. Please make sure you don't cut your hair from him.'"
Shashi pauses and says, "I have had meals with this man. You can imagine how quickly he will avoid me, if I tell him the truth."
But this secret life does take a toll. Whenever he has to go to the hospital, to buy the ART drugs, he has to tell neighbours and friends he is going to do some purchases for the family. At the hospital, if he comes across an acquaintance, he will say he has come to see a patient or to consult a general physician.
"I tell lies all the time," he says. "I am fearful that one day, the truth will come out. How will people treat my family and me? I am sure we will be asked to leave the locality."
This does not seem to be an overreaction on the part of Shashi. Recently, Preeti, 27, went to consult with a gynaecologist and the moment she said she is HIV positive, the doctor told her to wait. "The doctor treated my wife at the end, after she had sent away all the other patients," says Shashi, 38.
He says he has one aim in life. "I just want to make enough money, so that my family will be able to survive after I am gone," he says.
However, Preeti is not out of danger. Recently, her CD count went down to 190, while Sashi has managed a high of only 330. But the good news is that their daughter has tested negative.
(Names and locations have been changed)
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
It was when Shashi Menon's pregnant wife, Preeti, was admitted to hospital in 2000 at Kozhikode that it was discovered she was HIV positive. For the next ten hours, the doctors and nurses passed cruel comments about her sex life till she gave birth.
Shashi then tested himself and came up with the same result. He knew how he had transmitted the disease to his wife: he had an affair with a widow who was infected.
Shashi decided he would not tell a soul about the disease "I felt that if educated people like doctors and nurses could be so biased, what hope was there that ordinary people would behave differently?" he says.
Terrified that people would come to know he was infected, he left Kerala and wandered around Tamil Nadu and Karnataka with his wife and baby girl. "I worked in a bakery shop, as a shoe salesman, and as a food supplier to hotels," he says.
Three years later, his health declined dramatically and he was close to death. He tried to get himself treated by general physicians, but they refused to help him when he told them he was HIV positive.
Evenually, he returned to Kerala and managed to locate a centre – the Jeevodaya Rehabilitation Centre for Aids patients – at Melechovva, Kannur. "My CD4 count had gone down to 55," he says. (Normal CD4 counts in adults range from 500 to 1,500 cells per cubic millimetre of blood.)
He sent Preeti and child to her parents' place, told his own family that he had a highly contagious strain of tuberculosis, and enrolled at the centre. "It was the turning point in my life," he says. "I saw other HIV patients for the first time, and realised I was not alone in the world."
He was given Antiretroviral (ART) drugs, and gained 8 kgs in 10 days. His CD count soared. Today, he weighs 63 kgs and is reasonably healthy. He has relocated to Thrissur and has a foodgrains business, but continues to keep his HIV+ status secret.
"I do a lot of social service, and dabble in politics," says Shashi. "If people come to know I am ill, they will shun me. Attitudes have changed a lot among a small section of people, but the majority has a bias."
He gives an example. "I have a close friendship with a retired high school principal," he says. "One day, when I was taking a stroll with him, he pointed at a barber shop and said, 'That barber has Aids. Please make sure you don't cut your hair from him.'"
Shashi pauses and says, "I have had meals with this man. You can imagine how quickly he will avoid me, if I tell him the truth."
But this secret life does take a toll. Whenever he has to go to the hospital, to buy the ART drugs, he has to tell neighbours and friends he is going to do some purchases for the family. At the hospital, if he comes across an acquaintance, he will say he has come to see a patient or to consult a general physician.
"I tell lies all the time," he says. "I am fearful that one day, the truth will come out. How will people treat my family and me? I am sure we will be asked to leave the locality."
This does not seem to be an overreaction on the part of Shashi. Recently, Preeti, 27, went to consult with a gynaecologist and the moment she said she is HIV positive, the doctor told her to wait. "The doctor treated my wife at the end, after she had sent away all the other patients," says Shashi, 38.
He says he has one aim in life. "I just want to make enough money, so that my family will be able to survive after I am gone," he says.
However, Preeti is not out of danger. Recently, her CD count went down to 190, while Sashi has managed a high of only 330. But the good news is that their daughter has tested negative.
(Names and locations have been changed)
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A fatal journey
Callous bus driving leads to the death of a young student, Fasini. A month later, the family is struggling to come to terms with the tragedy
By Shevlin Sebastian
For three days, following July 4 -- the day T.M. Fasini, 16, died -- her pet cat, Anshu, went missing. Then, Fasini's mother, Nabeesa, discovered it in an alcove, under the staircase.
"It was starving," she says. "When I gave rice, Anshu refused to eat it. Finally, when my son, Fasil, gave a saucer of milk with Horlicks, it had it." The cat walked around the house, with downcast head, for a few days. However, on the 18th day, after Fasini's demise, Anshu was run over by a car in front of the house. "We buried it beside the road," says Fasini's father Muhammad Kutty.
It was clear that Anshu was unable to get over the death of her mistress, Fasini, 16, who, on the morning of July 4, was about to get down from bus, Shabna, near the Town Hall, when driver, Rajesh, 25, suddenly pressed the accelerator.
"She was thrown off and her head hit the edge of a stone slab with great force," says her elder brother Manaf. Fasini died within minutes after she was admitted to Specialists' Hospital. It was only her third day at the Darul Uloom Vocational school at Pullepady, where she was studying to be a medical laboratory technician. "Eventually, she wanted to be a nurse," says Manaf.
A month later, the Kutty household at Palluruthy is enveloped in sadness. "I have been unable to sleep during this past month," says Nabeesa. "The moment I close my eyes, I see an image of Fasini." The doctor has prescribed sleeping pills, but to no avail: the sorrow has eaten up the sleep. "The only thought in my mind is this: my daughter has been snatched away from me. It has been a terrible shock. I can't believe I have only three children now, instead of four."
Muhammad Kutty misses Fasini's exuberance. "There was a sense of liveliness when she was around," he says. "She was a special girl." For twin Fasil, who was on the same bus, and had alighted safely a few seconds earlier, he sees her often in his dreams. "She is always talking to me," he says. "I feel she is alive."
Nabeesa says Fasini was a fun-loving and sweet-natured girl. "Whenever I used to scold her, she would have a smile on her face. So, it was difficult to remain angry with her for long."
P.A. Nadiya, 16, her former classmate at the Shree Dharma Paripalana Yogam school at Palluruthy says Fasini was quiet in class. "She would speak little and smile a lot," she says.
Her Class 10 teacher K.S. Bindu confirms that Fasini was a shy, but peaceful girl. "She was very good in field work and projects," she says. A.T. Tintu, 16, another former classmate, says, "She was a friendly person. I was shocked at her sudden death."
The family remembers the morning of July 4 with an aching intensity. Elder sister Thasini says that as Fasini was going out, she told her to put some talc on her face. "Fasini ran to the bedroom, put it, smiled at me and left," she says. "I cannot forget that smile."
The bus, Shabna, started at 8 a.m. from near the house. Fasini got a window seat. Manaf and Nabeesa were at the door when the bus went past. "I waved," says Manaf. Since Nabeesa was standing behind Manaf, Fasini leaned out, caught her mother's eye, waved, and smiled. That was the last the family saw her alive. Forty-five minutes later, she was dead.
Fasini had a close shave with death earlier. Nabeesa had a Caesaran delivery, but Fasini was not breathing. "Oxygen had to be administered," she says. "She was barely alive and the doctors said she would probably die." However, thanks to the ceaseless efforts of Dr. Mary, at the Port Trust Hospital, she survived.
So, does Nabeesa feel angry with God about what has happened? "Why should I be angry with God?" she says. "He is not at fault. The fault lies with the driver."
Nabeesa says severe punishment should be meted out to the driver. "Only then will the other drivers become scared and be careful when they are driving," she says. "But these tragedies continue to take place. I cannot read about it any more in the newspapers. I feel traumatised."
What has really angered the family is that despite the statement by the authorities that the permit has been revoked, the bus is back on the streets, with a new name: Sahla. "I travelled on it recently," says Fasil. He gives the number: KL-7/BC 7114.
Manaf says that no matter what happens, bus owners will ensure their business is not hampered. "Because of the extensive media coverage, the bus did not ply for two weeks," he says. "Otherwise, it would have been on the streets the next day."
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Flying high
Watching English films with his father and working briefly in a pottery factory were some of the childhood experiences of Vice Admiral Sunil Damle
By Shevlin Sebastian
“I had a classmate, Vijay Ramteki, who belonged to a poor family,” says Vice Admiral Sunil Damle, Flag Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Southern Command. “Once I had gone to his house to play and felt thirsty.” Damle asked for a glass of water. Ramteki told his mother. But, despite waiting for a while, no water was given to him. Damle saw the pitcher in the kitchen and, pointing at it, said, “Please give me water.” Ramteki’s father said, “Can you drink our water?”
Damle said, “Why not?”
The father replied, “Our caste is different. You are a Brahmin, you cannot drink our water.” Eventually, he was given water to drink. Later, Damle was told the reason for the delay: Ramteki’s brother had gone to the house of a higher caste neighbour to get the water. When Damle returned home, he told his mother about what had happened. “She said the next time I went, I should insist on drinking water from their house,” says Damle. “I have never forgotten the incident.”
Damle grew up near a pottery factory in Nagpur, where his father was the Works Manager. In the colony, near the factory, the officers’ and the workers’ families lived together. “From an early age, I learned to mix with all types of people,” he says.
Once, there was a strike by the potters and it was led by A.B. Bardhan, now the general secretary of the Communist Party of India. “I remember his face very well,” he says. The management decided the factory would be run without the potters, and to express solidarity, the families of the employees lent a helping hand. “We children were told to carry coal,” he says. This was deposited near the railway trolley line and the children would carry the coal, on flat trays, to the kiln, a distance of 50m.
“In the evenings, my body would start aching,” says Damle. Earlier, at school, when Damle would look out through the window and see the labourers, he would think they were having a good time, while he was burdened with examinations and homework. “I realised their job was not as simple as it looked,” he says.
Damle was a good student, except in chemistry. “At that time, chemistry was taught in Marathi,” he says. “So, nitric acid was called nathramla, while oxygen was pranavayu.”
This is where the confusion began for Damle. “We were calling oxygen, pranavayu, but writing it as O2,” he says. “This seemed illogical to me.”
Despite his problems with chemistry, Damle says life had its moments of joy. His father was an English movie buff, and would take Damle for shows at the Central Talkies theatre. “I remember seeing ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’, in which Errol Flynn played the hero, while Olivia de Havilland played Maid Miriam,” says Damle.
In the film, there was a long kissing scene between Flynn and De Havilland. “When we were returning home, I asked my father about it and he warded off the question,” he says. “At home, when I asked my mother, she said, ‘You should not talk about it.’ Then she shooed me away. This increased my curiosity.”
Later, he overheard his mother telling his father that their son should no longer be taken for English films. “My father replied, ‘Robin Hood is a story meant for children. How could I know that there would be such a passionate scene?’”
Damle laughs at this recollection. “Times have changed so much,” he says. “Children see so much on television these days.” Incidentally, the couple’s own children have grown up and live abroad: Shishir, 33, is in Australia, while Varsha, 30, stays in the US.
In the well-maintained Navy House, on Willingdon Island, Damle, 59, wearing a red T-shirt, and his wife, Alka, look relaxed, on a Saturday morning, as breakfast is served in the dining room: Uppamavu is followed by the Marathi delicacy, appe, dipped in sambhar, followed by date and walnut pancakes.
Later, he journeys into the past yet again. At the factory, visitors would come from Mumbai and Delhi. Damle would accompany his father when they had to be dropped off at Nagpur airport. ““I used to get excited by the noise of the propellers, the pilots sitting in the cockpit and the lights blinking in the night,” he says. “I would think, ‘If I could be in their shoes, how nice it would be!’ I felt that only special people could become pilots.”
Well, Damle is a special person because, years later, he did become an outstanding pilot of the Indian Navy and flew many types of aircraft, including the Sea Harrier jet fighter.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Flying high
(A series on childhood memories)
Watching English films with his father and working briefly in a pottery factory were some of the childhood experiences of Vice Admiral Sunil Damle
By Shevlin Sebastian
“I had a classmate, Vijay Ramteki, who belonged to a poor family,” says Vice Admiral Sunil Damle, Flag Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Southern Command. “Once I had gone to his house to play and felt thirsty.” Damle asked for a glass of water. Ramteki told his mother. But, despite waiting for a while, no water was given to him.
Damle saw the pitcher in the kitchen and, pointing at it, said, “Please give me water.” Ramteki’s father said, “Can you drink our water?”
Damle said, “Why not?”
The father replied, “Our caste is different. You are a Brahmin, you cannot drink our water.” Eventually, he was given water to drink. Later, Damle was told the reason for the delay: Ramteki’s brother had gone to the house of a higher caste neighbour to get the water.
When Damle returned home, he told his mother about what had happened. “She said the next time I went, I should insist on drinking water from their house,” says Damle. “I have never forgotten the incident.”
Damle grew up near a pottery factory in Nagpur, where his father was the Works Manager. In the colony, near the factory, the officers’ and the workers’ families lived together. “From an early age, I learned to mix with all types of people,” he says.
Once, there was a strike by the potters and it was led by A.B. Bardhan, now the general secretary of the Communist Party of India. “I remember his face very well,” he says. The management decided the factory would be run without the potters, and to express solidarity, the families of the employees lent a helping hand.
“We children were told to carry coal,” he says. This was deposited near the railway trolley line and the children would carry the coal, on flat trays, to the kiln, a distance of 50m.
“In the evenings, my body would start aching,” says Damle. Earlier, at school, when Damle would look out through the window and see the labourers, he would think they were having a good time, while he was burdened with examinations and homework. “I realised their job was not as simple as it looked,” he says.
Damle was a good student, except in chemistry. “At that time, chemistry was taught in Marathi,” he says. “So, nitric acid was called nathramla, while oxygen was pranavayu.”
This is where the confusion began for Damle. “We were calling oxygen, pranavayu, but writing it as O2,” he says. “This seemed illogical to me.”
Despite his problems with chemistry, Damle says life had its moments of joy. His father was an English movie buff, and would take Damle for shows at the Central Talkies theatre. “I remember seeing ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’, in which Errol Flynn played the hero, while Olivia de Havilland played Maid Miriam,” says Damle.
In the film, there was a long kissing scene between Flynn and De Havilland. “When we were returning home, I asked my father about it and he warded off the question,” he says. “At home, when I asked my mother, she said, ‘You should not talk about it.’ Then she shooed me away. This increased my curiosity.”
Later, he overheard his mother telling his father that their son should no longer be taken for English films. “My father replied, ‘Robin Hood is a story meant for children. How could I know that there would be such a passionate scene?’”
Damle laughs at this recollection. “Times have changed so much,” he says. “Children see so much on television these days.”
Incidentally, the couple’s own children have grown up and live abroad: Shishir, 33, is in Australia, while Varsha, 30, stays in the US.
In the well-maintained Navy House, on Willingdon Island, Damle, 59, wearing a red T-shirt, and his wife, Alka, look relaxed, on a Saturday morning, as breakfast is served in the dining room: Uppamavu is followed by the Marathi delicacy, appe, dipped in sambhar, followed by date and walnut pancakes, sprinkled with sweet syrup.
Later, he journeys into the past yet again. At the factory, visitors would come from Mumbai and Delhi. Damle would accompany his father when they had to be dropped off at Nagpur airport.
“I used to get excited by the noise of the propellers, the pilots sitting in the cockpit and the lights blinking in the night,” he says. “I would think, ‘If I could be in their shoes, how nice it would be!’ I felt that only special people could become pilots.”
Well, Damle is a special person because, years later, he did become an outstanding pilot of the Indian Navy.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Watching English films with his father and working briefly in a pottery factory were some of the childhood experiences of Vice Admiral Sunil Damle
By Shevlin Sebastian
“I had a classmate, Vijay Ramteki, who belonged to a poor family,” says Vice Admiral Sunil Damle, Flag Officer Commanding-in-Chief, Southern Command. “Once I had gone to his house to play and felt thirsty.” Damle asked for a glass of water. Ramteki told his mother. But, despite waiting for a while, no water was given to him.
Damle saw the pitcher in the kitchen and, pointing at it, said, “Please give me water.” Ramteki’s father said, “Can you drink our water?”
Damle said, “Why not?”
The father replied, “Our caste is different. You are a Brahmin, you cannot drink our water.” Eventually, he was given water to drink. Later, Damle was told the reason for the delay: Ramteki’s brother had gone to the house of a higher caste neighbour to get the water.
When Damle returned home, he told his mother about what had happened. “She said the next time I went, I should insist on drinking water from their house,” says Damle. “I have never forgotten the incident.”
Damle grew up near a pottery factory in Nagpur, where his father was the Works Manager. In the colony, near the factory, the officers’ and the workers’ families lived together. “From an early age, I learned to mix with all types of people,” he says.
Once, there was a strike by the potters and it was led by A.B. Bardhan, now the general secretary of the Communist Party of India. “I remember his face very well,” he says. The management decided the factory would be run without the potters, and to express solidarity, the families of the employees lent a helping hand.
“We children were told to carry coal,” he says. This was deposited near the railway trolley line and the children would carry the coal, on flat trays, to the kiln, a distance of 50m.
“In the evenings, my body would start aching,” says Damle. Earlier, at school, when Damle would look out through the window and see the labourers, he would think they were having a good time, while he was burdened with examinations and homework. “I realised their job was not as simple as it looked,” he says.
Damle was a good student, except in chemistry. “At that time, chemistry was taught in Marathi,” he says. “So, nitric acid was called nathramla, while oxygen was pranavayu.”
This is where the confusion began for Damle. “We were calling oxygen, pranavayu, but writing it as O2,” he says. “This seemed illogical to me.”
Despite his problems with chemistry, Damle says life had its moments of joy. His father was an English movie buff, and would take Damle for shows at the Central Talkies theatre. “I remember seeing ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’, in which Errol Flynn played the hero, while Olivia de Havilland played Maid Miriam,” says Damle.
In the film, there was a long kissing scene between Flynn and De Havilland. “When we were returning home, I asked my father about it and he warded off the question,” he says. “At home, when I asked my mother, she said, ‘You should not talk about it.’ Then she shooed me away. This increased my curiosity.”
Later, he overheard his mother telling his father that their son should no longer be taken for English films. “My father replied, ‘Robin Hood is a story meant for children. How could I know that there would be such a passionate scene?’”
Damle laughs at this recollection. “Times have changed so much,” he says. “Children see so much on television these days.”
Incidentally, the couple’s own children have grown up and live abroad: Shishir, 33, is in Australia, while Varsha, 30, stays in the US.
In the well-maintained Navy House, on Willingdon Island, Damle, 59, wearing a red T-shirt, and his wife, Alka, look relaxed, on a Saturday morning, as breakfast is served in the dining room: Uppamavu is followed by the Marathi delicacy, appe, dipped in sambhar, followed by date and walnut pancakes, sprinkled with sweet syrup.
Later, he journeys into the past yet again. At the factory, visitors would come from Mumbai and Delhi. Damle would accompany his father when they had to be dropped off at Nagpur airport.
“I used to get excited by the noise of the propellers, the pilots sitting in the cockpit and the lights blinking in the night,” he says. “I would think, ‘If I could be in their shoes, how nice it would be!’ I felt that only special people could become pilots.”
Well, Damle is a special person because, years later, he did become an outstanding pilot of the Indian Navy.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Saturday, August 09, 2008
On the cutting edge
For more than 30 years, P. Sasidharan has been the barber of the Chief Justices and judges of the Kerala high court
By Shevlin Sebastian
Inside barber P. Sasidharan’s shop on Market Road, the following notice is pasted prominently: ‘P. Sasi has done a decent job, so far as cutting my hair is concerned. I have very few, and yet, he could find and give them shape. He is a good and dedicated worker. I wish him well.’ This commendation was written by Jawahar Lal Gupta, former chief justice of the Kerala High Court.
Just below it is another accolade from V. Bhaskaran Nambiar, a former judge: ‘Sasi has been my barber for several years. He is efficient, smart and courteous, and knows his job very well.’
For many regulars, Sasidharan, fondly known as Sasi, has been an institution. He has been cutting hair for the past 38 years at the Premier Saloon, and, among his clients, is the current chief justice of the Kerala high court, H.L. Dattu, several judges, numerous lawyers, senior policemen, Navy personnel, businessmen, and people who live in the area.
On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, he is cutting the hair of Shince C. Peter, 19. Since Shince has asked for the hair to be cut short, Sasi is going ‘snip-snip’ at top speed. He gives the impression he can do this blindly. Shince has been coming to the saloon ever since he was a child.
“My father has been a regular, even before I was born,” he says. Shince’s father, C. Peter, 50, says, “There are two reasons why I go to Sasi. His saloon is near my house and, secondly, he is good at his job.”
Because of his good work and behaviour, some customers do not want to leave him, even if they have left Kochi. Like contractor N.S. Unnikrishnan, who lives in Guruvayoor.
“I have been cutting my hair at Sasi’s shop from the time I was in Class 5,” says the 51-year old. “Over the years Sasi has become like a family friend. And, don’t forget, he is a very good barber!”
So, when Unnikrishnan left Kochi, a few years ago, he could not imagine getting his hair cut by anybody else. So, once every two months, Sasi goes to Guruvayoor to cut Unnikrishnan’s hair.
Sometimes, because of the mutual affection between barber and client, the latter goes out of his way to help him. So, when Sasi was going through a financial crunch, because of a daughter’s marriage, regular client, George, who has a shop on Broadway, lent him money.
Sasi has faced financial emergencies before. When he was eight years old, his father died, and the family, which was based in Thiruvananthapuram, went through difficult times. He studied only till Class three, because he had no aptitude for education.
“I worked for a while making beedis and later, in a cycle shop,” he says. Just next to the shop, the barber, Manian, was plying his trade. Sometime later, he took on Sasi as an apprentice.
“It took me six months to learn the trade,” he says. “The only way to become skilful is by cutting hair. You have to be unafraid to make mistakes.”
In the beginning, his hands trembled, and Manian used to hit him whenever he cut the hair in the wrong way. Then, he slowly built up his skills.
In 1968, after eight years with Manian, Sasi, who was 20 at that time, moved to Ernakulam for better economic opportunities. He worked in a couple of barber shops, but in 1970, he came across the Premier saloon.
With a loan of Rs 2000 from a watchman, who worked in the high court, Sasi paid off the barber and took over the shop. “I repaid the loan by paying Rs 10 every day to the watchman,” he says.
And, today, he is a barber with a high reputation. So, what do customers want?
“The persistent demand is to keep the hair short, because of the hot climate,” he says. Those who need a short haircut include the police officers and the Navy personnel, who tend to wear caps, while on duty.
Meanwhile, of his three married daughters, one son-in-law works as a barber near Thiruvananthapuram. Asked whether his son-in-law would, one day, work with him, Sasi smiles, and says, “It would never work. I would like to carry on, on my own, as long as my health permits.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
Inside barber P. Sasidharan’s shop on Market Road, the following notice is pasted prominently: ‘P. Sasi has done a decent job, so far as cutting my hair is concerned. I have very few, and yet, he could find and give them shape. He is a good and dedicated worker. I wish him well.’ This commendation was written by Jawahar Lal Gupta, former chief justice of the Kerala High Court.
Just below it is another accolade from V. Bhaskaran Nambiar, a former judge: ‘Sasi has been my barber for several years. He is efficient, smart and courteous, and knows his job very well.’
For many regulars, Sasidharan, fondly known as Sasi, has been an institution. He has been cutting hair for the past 38 years at the Premier Saloon, and, among his clients, is the current chief justice of the Kerala high court, H.L. Dattu, several judges, numerous lawyers, senior policemen, Navy personnel, businessmen, and people who live in the area.
On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, he is cutting the hair of Shince C. Peter, 19. Since Shince has asked for the hair to be cut short, Sasi is going ‘snip-snip’ at top speed. He gives the impression he can do this blindly. Shince has been coming to the saloon ever since he was a child.
“My father has been a regular, even before I was born,” he says. Shince’s father, C. Peter, 50, says, “There are two reasons why I go to Sasi. His saloon is near my house and, secondly, he is good at his job.”
Because of his good work and behaviour, some customers do not want to leave him, even if they have left Kochi. Like contractor N.S. Unnikrishnan, who lives in Guruvayoor.
“I have been cutting my hair at Sasi’s shop from the time I was in Class 5,” says the 51-year old. “Over the years Sasi has become like a family friend. And, don’t forget, he is a very good barber!”
So, when Unnikrishnan left Kochi, a few years ago, he could not imagine getting his hair cut by anybody else. So, once every two months, Sasi goes to Guruvayoor to cut Unnikrishnan’s hair.
Sometimes, because of the mutual affection between barber and client, the latter goes out of his way to help him. So, when Sasi was going through a financial crunch, because of a daughter’s marriage, regular client, George, who has a shop on Broadway, lent him money.
Sasi has faced financial emergencies before. When he was eight years old, his father died, and the family, which was based in Thiruvananthapuram, went through difficult times. He studied only till Class three, because he had no aptitude for education.
“I worked for a while making beedis and later, in a cycle shop,” he says. Just next to the shop, the barber, Manian, was plying his trade. Sometime later, he took on Sasi as an apprentice.
“It took me six months to learn the trade,” he says. “The only way to become skilful is by cutting hair. You have to be unafraid to make mistakes.”
In the beginning, his hands trembled, and Manian used to hit him whenever he cut the hair in the wrong way. Then, he slowly built up his skills.
In 1968, after eight years with Manian, Sasi, who was 20 at that time, moved to Ernakulam for better economic opportunities. He worked in a couple of barber shops, but in 1970, he came across the Premier saloon.
With a loan of Rs 2000 from a watchman, who worked in the high court, Sasi paid off the barber and took over the shop. “I repaid the loan by paying Rs 10 every day to the watchman,” he says.
And, today, he is a barber with a high reputation. So, what do customers want?
“The persistent demand is to keep the hair short, because of the hot climate,” he says. Those who need a short haircut include the police officers and the Navy personnel, who tend to wear caps, while on duty.
Meanwhile, of his three married daughters, one son-in-law works as a barber near Thiruvananthapuram. Asked whether his son-in-law would, one day, work with him, Sasi smiles, and says, “It would never work. I would like to carry on, on my own, as long as my health permits.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Thursday, August 07, 2008
On a roll
On weekends, several youngsters take part in roller skating sessions near the Nehru stadium at Kaloor
By Shevlin Sebastian
At 5 p.m., on a tarred patch, next to the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium, a group of skaters and parents have congregated. The children are in the 4-10 year age group and are dressed in leotards, helmets, knee and elbow pads and, of course, roller skates. It is a cloudy day, and a breeze is blowing.
Coach S. Rajesh, of the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium Roller Skating Club, says, “Go!” and the skaters set off rapidly, keeping close to the red, green and yellow plastic pointers. Leading the pack is ten-year-old Mithun. Behind him are Ashish, Aditya, Ashwin, Prithvi and the bespectacled Vishnu.
Vishnu’s parents, S. Venu and Renuka, are watching the proceedings intently. “Vishnu took to skating accidentally,” says Venu. One day, the family was driving past the stadium when Vishnu saw the skaters and expressed an interest. “That’s how we came here,” says Venu. “He has been doing it for more than a year.”
Vishnu, 8, has graduated to speed skates, but his drawback is that there is no space at home to practice during the week. “But skating has been good for him,” says Venu. “It has given him happiness and friendship. He has developed the fighting spirit because of the races that take place at the end of the session.”
For Renuka, the tangible benefit has been that her son has developed a healthy appetite and a good night’s sleep.
“I have realised that physical exercise is a must for children,” she says. Vishnu says he likes the excitement of going on wheels. “Initially, when I was learning, I had fallen many times,” he says.
This is what is happening to four-and-a-half-year old Shradha, dressed in white leotards. “Shradha has got new speed skates, hence she has to get used to it,” says her mother, Twincy Manoj, who is offering words of encouragement to her daughter.
Twincy and husband Manoj brought the child for skating lessons, so that she can participate in some sport, instead of sitting in front of the TV. “Skating will improve her physical strength, without losing her femininity,” says Manoj.
Meanwhile, Mithun continues to be in the lead, pushing hard with his legs, to go faster and faster. He practices every day on the terrace of his house. “I do about 20rounds,” he says. “I enjoy skating because of the speed. I like it more than cricket or football.”
Mithun’s five-year-old sister, Uma, is also a skater. “I like skating because it is like dancing,” she says.
There are 25 boys and girls who are skating on this Saturday evening. “There were more than 50 during the summer vacation,” says Rajesh. “Now, schools have begun, and the rainy season is a dampener.”
Rajesh holds his two-hour long classes on Saturday and Sunday evenings. The initial expenses are around Rs 500 for a pair of skates, Rs 175 for knee and elbow pads, and Rs 75 for the headgear, apart from the monthly fees.
By now, the skaters have done about 50 rounds and nobody looks tired. In the middle of the rink, there is a group of boys and girls who are taking steps gingerly. Rajesh is encouraging them with soft words. Some fall on their buttocks regularly.
So, how risky is the sport? “It is just like learning to walk when we were babies,” says T.K. Prathapan, committee member of the skating club. “We walk, fall down, walk and fall down again. That is what also happens in skating.”
So far, only one boy, Akhil, a good skater, had suffered an injury. “He fell directly on his elbow,” says Rajesh. Akhil was about to graduate to speed skates when this happened.
“He was very disappointed,” says the coach. “I went to see him in the hospital. His father said that Akhil would be back the moment his arm has healed.”
But not all children will carry on. By the time they reach twelve years of age, when the pressure of studies grows, parents begin to withdraw the children. “The children are not bored with skating, but parents are worried about their academic performance,” he says. “In Kerala, parents give so much emphasis on studies.”
But, despite the withdrawals, the young coach carries on.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
At 5 p.m., on a tarred patch, next to the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium, a group of skaters and parents have congregated. The children are in the 4-10 year age group and are dressed in leotards, helmets, knee and elbow pads and, of course, roller skates. It is a cloudy day, and a breeze is blowing.
Coach S. Rajesh, of the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium Roller Skating Club, says, “Go!” and the skaters set off rapidly, keeping close to the red, green and yellow plastic pointers. Leading the pack is ten-year-old Mithun. Behind him are Ashish, Aditya, Ashwin, Prithvi and the bespectacled Vishnu.
Vishnu’s parents, S. Venu and Renuka, are watching the proceedings intently. “Vishnu took to skating accidentally,” says Venu. One day, the family was driving past the stadium when Vishnu saw the skaters and expressed an interest. “That’s how we came here,” says Venu. “He has been doing it for more than a year.”
Vishnu, 8, has graduated to speed skates, but his drawback is that there is no space at home to practice during the week. “But skating has been good for him,” says Venu. “It has given him happiness and friendship. He has developed the fighting spirit because of the races that take place at the end of the session.”
For Renuka, the tangible benefit has been that her son has developed a healthy appetite and a good night’s sleep.
“I have realised that physical exercise is a must for children,” she says. Vishnu says he likes the excitement of going on wheels. “Initially, when I was learning, I had fallen many times,” he says.
This is what is happening to four-and-a-half-year old Shradha, dressed in white leotards. “Shradha has got new speed skates, hence she has to get used to it,” says her mother, Twincy Manoj, who is offering words of encouragement to her daughter.
Twincy and husband Manoj brought the child for skating lessons, so that she can participate in some sport, instead of sitting in front of the TV. “Skating will improve her physical strength, without losing her femininity,” says Manoj.
Meanwhile, Mithun continues to be in the lead, pushing hard with his legs, to go faster and faster. He practices every day on the terrace of his house. “I do about 20rounds,” he says. “I enjoy skating because of the speed. I like it more than cricket or football.”
Mithun’s five-year-old sister, Uma, is also a skater. “I like skating because it is like dancing,” she says.
There are 25 boys and girls who are skating on this Saturday evening. “There were more than 50 during the summer vacation,” says Rajesh. “Now, schools have begun, and the rainy season is a dampener.”
Rajesh holds his two-hour long classes on Saturday and Sunday evenings. The initial expenses are around Rs 500 for a pair of skates, Rs 175 for knee and elbow pads, and Rs 75 for the headgear, apart from the monthly fees.
By now, the skaters have done about 50 rounds and nobody looks tired. In the middle of the rink, there is a group of boys and girls who are taking steps gingerly. Rajesh is encouraging them with soft words. Some fall on their buttocks regularly.
So, how risky is the sport? “It is just like learning to walk when we were babies,” says T.K. Prathapan, committee member of the skating club. “We walk, fall down, walk and fall down again. That is what also happens in skating.”
So far, only one boy, Akhil, a good skater, had suffered an injury. “He fell directly on his elbow,” says Rajesh. Akhil was about to graduate to speed skates when this happened.
“He was very disappointed,” says the coach. “I went to see him in the hospital. His father said that Akhil would be back the moment his arm has healed.”
But not all children will carry on. By the time they reach twelve years of age, when the pressure of studies grows, parents begin to withdraw the children. “The children are not bored with skating, but parents are worried about their academic performance,” he says. “In Kerala, parents give so much emphasis on studies.”
But, despite the withdrawals, the young coach carries on.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Monday, August 04, 2008
‘There is deep resentment against the Chinese’
In Tibet, the people struggle under the yoke of foreign control
By Vijay Crishna
In August, last year, I was in Nakchu, 500 kms north of Lhasa, to witness the Horse Festival, which is the most important folk festival in Tibet. To my horror I discovered that the horse festival, which is about Tibetan horsemen displaying their prowess in archery, horsemanship and racing, turned out to be a run-up to the Olympic Games.
So, in this huge field, the Chinese army did a march past and there were some folk dances, similar to the ones in our Republic Day Parade.
Suddenly, near the end of the parade, some monks from a nearby monastery were brought in, and they were carrying the Chinese flag. The crowd became silent at this insult to Tibet. Later, I was told the local Chinese cadres of the Communist Party had decided to celebrate the festival in their own way and used this crude method of imposing China’s domination by forcing the monks to carry the flag.
What I have noticed in my visits to Tibet was the deep resentment against the Chinese. You could feel it everywhere. People are scared to show it, because the Chinese security is all over the place. They are all in plainclothes and have infiltrated the monasteries.
Most of the monasteries have a Chinese person in charge. Among the monks, there are some Chinese. That was why it was so amazing the riots took place in March. The unrest spread rapidly, thanks to the use of mobile phones.
When I was in Tibet last year, I had been amused at the way the monks were carrying two or three mobile phones. But now I realise these mobile phones were used as a potent tool to marshal the protests.
I am amazed at the Tibetan people. They have no weapons and yet they continue to protest. It is like hurling bodies against bullets.
The current situation in Tibet is a stalemate. As far as the Chinese are concerned, it is an internal matter of their country. There are 6 million Chinese who have been re-settled in Tibet. Very soon, there will be no Tibetan way of life.
Tibet is an extraordinarily beautiful place. The air is so clear and you rarely see such natural beauty amid the vast expanses, the mountain ranges, the lakes, and the skies.
However, the people are very poor. There is nothing more disconcerting than to suddenly come across children wearing ragged clothing, and families living in pathetic conditions.
In the past 50 years, out of a population of 6 million people, more than a million Tibetans have been killed. It is akin to the Holocaust, but nobody knows about it.
The Tibetans also endured a massacre similar to the Jalianwala Bagh killings. This was in 1904 when Sir Francis Younghusband led an army into Tibet. At a place called Guru, the British asked the Tibetans to lay down their muskets, but the latter resisted. The British opened fire with their powerful Maxim machine guns. Around 700 people were shot dead in 20 minutes. The problem is that the Tibetans do not have anybody to highlight their history and, sadly, there is no monument to commemorate this horrific tragedy.
The question I am asked often is whether Tibetans should resort to violence, since the Dalai Lama’s way of non-violence has not worked. It is a complicated situation and there are no easy answers. One has to say that the Dalai Lama, an incredible man, whom I have met, has been steadfast, at what must be at huge personal cost, to the concept of non-violence. Even when the riots were taking place, he has stuck to what he believes. China should now talk with him about the future of Tibet.
But, at this moment, the future looks bleak. However, there are game changers along the way. There are huge forces building up in China, born out of frustration at the terrible degradation of the environment and the quality of life. So, people are angry and might revolt. Who knows, democracy might eventually come to China. Then, there may be a sea change in the attitude of the rulers towards Tibet.
(Vijay Crishna, the managing director of Lawkim Limited, of the Godrej group, who has been to Tibet several times, gave an audio-visual presentation, 'Tibet Of Our Minds: A Journey's End?', organised by Friends of Tibet, at Kochi recently.)
(As told to Shevlin Sebastian)
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Chennai)
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Lal Salaam!
A fancy dress competition which went wrong and the sight of a suicide victim were some of the memorable childhood experiences of actor cum film director Lal
By Shevlin Sebastian
When film director Lal was in Class eight, a fancy dress competition was announced during an exhibition held at the Ambedkar stadium. However, there was one condition: two people had to participate at the same time. “My friend, Antony and I wondered what we could wear,” says Lal. “At that time, we had read about Siamese Twins in the newspaper.”
So, they borrowed a large shirt and trousers of a very plump uncle of Antony’s. Somehow, with the help of friends, both of them managed to get into the trousers and the shirt and took part. Expectedly, they received a resounding applause from the audience.
As they walked backstage, their legs got entangled, and, because of a gap between the planks, they fell from a height of eight feet to the ground. Since it was dark, nobody had seen them fall.
“We felt a tremendous pain when we landed,” says Lal. “We lay there stuck together, unable to free ourselves. We would try for a while, then get tired, then try again.”
Meanwhile, the other events continued, on the stage, and, finally, the prize-winners for the fancy dress competition were announced. Lal and Antony had come second. “We heard a first, second, and even a third call for us to collect the prize,” he says.
An hour passed and, finally, after making another attempt, they were able to tear the shirt away and free themselves. “When we climbed back onto the stage, there was nobody around,” says Lal. “We could not find our shirts and trousers.”
A desperate Lal looked around and saw a white curtain hanging behind the stage. He tore it into two, and both of them used it as a mundu and went home. Later, their friends told Lal they had collected the prize and taken the clothes home. Ironically, a bottle of Dettol was part of the prize.
“We applied it on our cuts and bruises,” says a laughing Lal, who sits on a low sofa in his tastefully decorated bungalow at Padamugal where he stays with his wife, Nancy, son, Jean, 20, daughter, Monica, 16, and mother Philomena. Sipping a cup of tea, Lal launches into another memory.
One night, his friend Sennen and he went to see a night show at Lakshman theatre near South Railway station. Since they lived at Pullepady, they walked along the railway track. “After the show got over, the journey back at midnight was frightening,” he says. “It was pitch-black all around.”
Anyway, they returned home safely. However, the next morning, they heard that a man had committed suicide on the tracks. Sennen and Lal rushed to the spot. “There was a large crowd present,” says Lal. One onlooker said that, sometimes, people who are murdered were brought to the tracks, to make it look like a suicide.
“The crowd then concluded that this particular man had been murdered, because they could see footprints on the blood,” says Lal.
At this juncture, the railway gateman said that the man had been killed by the 11.30 p.m. train. “Suddenly, I felt cold, because we had passed that area a few minutes later,” he says. Instinctively, Lal glanced down and, with a sense of shock, he saw that Sennen’s feet was caked with dried blood.
“It was clear now that Sennen had accidentally stepped on the blood, when we were returning at night,” says Lal. “We were terrified that we would be branded as the murderers. I pulled him away and we ran off at top speed. Because we were youngsters, we had not washed our feet before going to bed. Even now, when I think about our close escape, I get goose pimples.”
Lal is the son of the late A.M. Paul, a professional musician, who was an ardent follower of the Communist Party. “When I was born, my father named me Lal, after the Lal Salaam salute of the party,” says the acclaimed director.
However, instead of developing a love for the Communist Party, Lal became enamoured of films when he was ten years old. “I just wanted to be associated with films for the rest of my life,” he says. He tried desperately to get a job as an usher at Shenoy’s theatre, so that he could watch films three times a day, but failed.
Meanwhile, his father encouraged him to go into the creative line. “My father was a young man at heart,” says Lal. “My friends were his friends.”
When Lal would invite comedians, Harishree Ashokan and Salim Kumar for dinner, they would barely spend ten minutes with him, before they rushed into his father’s room.
“To a large extent, I have the same youthful attitude,” says Lal, 49. “My children’s friends are my friends and I enjoy spending time with them.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
When film director Lal was in Class eight, a fancy dress competition was announced during an exhibition held at the Ambedkar stadium. However, there was one condition: two people had to participate at the same time. “My friend, Antony and I wondered what we could wear,” says Lal. “At that time, we had read about Siamese Twins in the newspaper.”
So, they borrowed a large shirt and trousers of a very plump uncle of Antony’s. Somehow, with the help of friends, both of them managed to get into the trousers and the shirt and took part. Expectedly, they received a resounding applause from the audience.
As they walked backstage, their legs got entangled, and, because of a gap between the planks, they fell from a height of eight feet to the ground. Since it was dark, nobody had seen them fall.
“We felt a tremendous pain when we landed,” says Lal. “We lay there stuck together, unable to free ourselves. We would try for a while, then get tired, then try again.”
Meanwhile, the other events continued, on the stage, and, finally, the prize-winners for the fancy dress competition were announced. Lal and Antony had come second. “We heard a first, second, and even a third call for us to collect the prize,” he says.
An hour passed and, finally, after making another attempt, they were able to tear the shirt away and free themselves. “When we climbed back onto the stage, there was nobody around,” says Lal. “We could not find our shirts and trousers.”
A desperate Lal looked around and saw a white curtain hanging behind the stage. He tore it into two, and both of them used it as a mundu and went home. Later, their friends told Lal they had collected the prize and taken the clothes home. Ironically, a bottle of Dettol was part of the prize.
“We applied it on our cuts and bruises,” says a laughing Lal, who sits on a low sofa in his tastefully decorated bungalow at Padamugal where he stays with his wife, Nancy, son, Jean, 20, daughter, Monica, 16, and mother Philomena. Sipping a cup of tea, Lal launches into another memory.
One night, his friend Sennen and he went to see a night show at Lakshman theatre near South Railway station. Since they lived at Pullepady, they walked along the railway track. “After the show got over, the journey back at midnight was frightening,” he says. “It was pitch-black all around.”
Anyway, they returned home safely. However, the next morning, they heard that a man had committed suicide on the tracks. Sennen and Lal rushed to the spot. “There was a large crowd present,” says Lal. One onlooker said that, sometimes, people who are murdered were brought to the tracks, to make it look like a suicide.
“The crowd then concluded that this particular man had been murdered, because they could see footprints on the blood,” says Lal.
At this juncture, the railway gateman said that the man had been killed by the 11.30 p.m. train. “Suddenly, I felt cold, because we had passed that area a few minutes later,” he says. Instinctively, Lal glanced down and, with a sense of shock, he saw that Sennen’s feet was caked with dried blood.
“It was clear now that Sennen had accidentally stepped on the blood, when we were returning at night,” says Lal. “We were terrified that we would be branded as the murderers. I pulled him away and we ran off at top speed. Because we were youngsters, we had not washed our feet before going to bed. Even now, when I think about our close escape, I get goose pimples.”
Lal is the son of the late A.M. Paul, a professional musician, who was an ardent follower of the Communist Party. “When I was born, my father named me Lal, after the Lal Salaam salute of the party,” says the acclaimed director.
However, instead of developing a love for the Communist Party, Lal became enamoured of films when he was ten years old. “I just wanted to be associated with films for the rest of my life,” he says. He tried desperately to get a job as an usher at Shenoy’s theatre, so that he could watch films three times a day, but failed.
Meanwhile, his father encouraged him to go into the creative line. “My father was a young man at heart,” says Lal. “My friends were his friends.”
When Lal would invite comedians, Harishree Ashokan and Salim Kumar for dinner, they would barely spend ten minutes with him, before they rushed into his father’s room.
“To a large extent, I have the same youthful attitude,” says Lal, 49. “My children’s friends are my friends and I enjoy spending time with them.”
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
Friday, August 01, 2008
Keeping their eyes and ears open
The six-member bomb squad, with the latest equipment, is trying to keep Kochi safe
By Shevlin Sebastian
At 8 a.m. on a Tuesday, E.M. Madanan, SI of the Bomb Detection and Disposal Squad, arrives at Ernakulam North station. The broad-shouldered officer is wearing a blue-T shirt and jeans. He heads to the Technical Unit van, which is placed near the entrance.
His colleagues, K.R. Prashanth and driver A.T. Raju, are already there. Inside the van, as a voice from the walkie-talkie, placed on a seat, drones on, Madanan shows the equipment. “This is the Deep Search Metal Detector,” he says, pointing at a long black rod. “This enables us to search for explosives placed under the ground.”
The other equipment includes the ‘under vehicle inspection cameras,’ a portable x-ray machine, mine detectors, as well as a high explosives detection equipment. “This particular apparatus has been imported from Russia at a cost of Rs 13 lakh,” says head constable Prashanth. Madanan says the total value of the equipment in the van is Rs. 1 crore.
It has been a busy time for the six-member squad, ever since the blasts at Bangalore and Ahmedabad rocked the nation. “We had to check out a series of hoax calls,” he says. “We have been taught to treat each call as genuine, till it proves to be a hoax.”
This was instilled in them during their 45-day training stint at the Tamil Nadu Commando School at Chennai and the National Security Guard at Haryana.
“We know the public look oddly at the seriousness with which we attend to these calls,” says Madanan. “But there may come a day when we will get a genuine call.”
However, there is a worrying factor about these calls. “These hoax calls may be test runs for terrorists,” says head constable B. Radhakrishnan. “They may want to observe our response, and look for loopholes in the security.”
According to the rules, the squad is supposed to reach any area, within the city, where the bomb is located, within 20 minutes. “However, the traffic being what it is, we tend to get delayed,” says Head Constable P.R. Sabu.
Amazingly, the van does not have a siren. “Instead, we blow the horn and switch on the headlights,” says Madanan. “Also, the traffic policeman is able to identify us easily and tries to make space for us.”
So how risky is the job? “You could die if you make a mistake,” says Prashanth. “That is why only one technician, clad in a bomb suit, is sent to defuse a bomb.”
All the members had opted for the job. “I was looking for variety and challenges,” says Prashanth. “There is a risk in any job. You can be a traffic policeman and a bus can hit you and you could die.”
For the families, there is widespread anxiety. Says Latha Madanan, mother of two children: “I have been worried for the past few days.” Last Sunday, when there was a hoax call that a bomb would explode at 7 p.m., Madanan left halfway through his lunch at home. “I was in constant touch on the mobile,” says Latha. “My husband returned at midnight and left at 4 a.m.”
Despite being on their toes, to detect a bomb these days is turning out to be a Herculean task for the squad. “That is because of the use of Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) by terrorists,” says Sabu. “Now, they can hide a bomb in a doll, a toy or a flower bouquet.”
But, if by luck or dogged investigation, a bomb is discovered, then the squad follows standard procedures. “The first thing we do is not to disturb it,” says Prashanth. The squad then secures the area by ensuring that the public is moved away. Then they will use the X-ray machine to see what is inside the bomb.
“Nowadays, thanks to innovations by terrorists, if you just touch the bomb, or make a noise, it might explode,” says Madanan. “We have to check whether it has a timer device placed on an electronic board.”
After identifying the type of bomb, a squad member, in order to defuse it, dons a bomb suit. “It has a bullet proof vest,” says Madanan. “Anti-ballistic material is embedded all over. So, a man can withstand a bomb blast containing up to half a kilo of RDX.”
Incidentally, this suit costs Rs 15 lakh and has been imported from South Africa. In Kerala, there are five suits in the four police ranges of Thiruvananthapuram, Ernakulam, Thrissur and Kozhikode.
A few weeks ago, the squad located a pipe bomb at Info Park, Kakkanad. A man had thrown it at another man, who was traveling in a car. “However, when we analysed it, we discovered that it was an IED, containing gelatine, with a nine-second time-delay mechanism,” says Madanan. “It would have been dangerous if it had exploded.”
It seems the man who threw it did not know how to activate it. “It was a close shave,” says Madanan, shaking his head.
So, what are the possibilities of a terrorist attack occurring in Kochi? “The chances are high,” says Madanan. “There are intelligence reports which confirm that several terrorists have taken refuge in Kerala.”
Despite this, the public has an irritated attitude towards the security measures set up at the entrance to the North station: several plastic barricades and a metal detector.
“What is the point of only securing the entrance?” says Thomas Scaria, 40. “The station is accessible from so many other points.” His friend, Mohana Chandran, says, “Why should a terrorist use the entrance to gain access to the station?”
A police officer, unconnected with the bomb squad, says, “What they are saying is right. We are doing this to raise public confidence. Otherwise, the people will stay at home.”
Meanwhile, Madanan and Prashant have set out on an inspection of the station. With an explosive detector and an electronic stethoscope, they check the various rooms, the luggage of passengers, and the goods, of varying sizes, that have been deposited on the platforms. Nothing dangerous has been detected so far. And so, Kochi can breathe a sigh of relief. But for how long, nobody knows.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
By Shevlin Sebastian
At 8 a.m. on a Tuesday, E.M. Madanan, SI of the Bomb Detection and Disposal Squad, arrives at Ernakulam North station. The broad-shouldered officer is wearing a blue-T shirt and jeans. He heads to the Technical Unit van, which is placed near the entrance.
His colleagues, K.R. Prashanth and driver A.T. Raju, are already there. Inside the van, as a voice from the walkie-talkie, placed on a seat, drones on, Madanan shows the equipment. “This is the Deep Search Metal Detector,” he says, pointing at a long black rod. “This enables us to search for explosives placed under the ground.”
The other equipment includes the ‘under vehicle inspection cameras,’ a portable x-ray machine, mine detectors, as well as a high explosives detection equipment. “This particular apparatus has been imported from Russia at a cost of Rs 13 lakh,” says head constable Prashanth. Madanan says the total value of the equipment in the van is Rs. 1 crore.
It has been a busy time for the six-member squad, ever since the blasts at Bangalore and Ahmedabad rocked the nation. “We had to check out a series of hoax calls,” he says. “We have been taught to treat each call as genuine, till it proves to be a hoax.”
This was instilled in them during their 45-day training stint at the Tamil Nadu Commando School at Chennai and the National Security Guard at Haryana.
“We know the public look oddly at the seriousness with which we attend to these calls,” says Madanan. “But there may come a day when we will get a genuine call.”
However, there is a worrying factor about these calls. “These hoax calls may be test runs for terrorists,” says head constable B. Radhakrishnan. “They may want to observe our response, and look for loopholes in the security.”
According to the rules, the squad is supposed to reach any area, within the city, where the bomb is located, within 20 minutes. “However, the traffic being what it is, we tend to get delayed,” says Head Constable P.R. Sabu.
Amazingly, the van does not have a siren. “Instead, we blow the horn and switch on the headlights,” says Madanan. “Also, the traffic policeman is able to identify us easily and tries to make space for us.”
So how risky is the job? “You could die if you make a mistake,” says Prashanth. “That is why only one technician, clad in a bomb suit, is sent to defuse a bomb.”
All the members had opted for the job. “I was looking for variety and challenges,” says Prashanth. “There is a risk in any job. You can be a traffic policeman and a bus can hit you and you could die.”
For the families, there is widespread anxiety. Says Latha Madanan, mother of two children: “I have been worried for the past few days.” Last Sunday, when there was a hoax call that a bomb would explode at 7 p.m., Madanan left halfway through his lunch at home. “I was in constant touch on the mobile,” says Latha. “My husband returned at midnight and left at 4 a.m.”
Despite being on their toes, to detect a bomb these days is turning out to be a Herculean task for the squad. “That is because of the use of Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) by terrorists,” says Sabu. “Now, they can hide a bomb in a doll, a toy or a flower bouquet.”
But, if by luck or dogged investigation, a bomb is discovered, then the squad follows standard procedures. “The first thing we do is not to disturb it,” says Prashanth. The squad then secures the area by ensuring that the public is moved away. Then they will use the X-ray machine to see what is inside the bomb.
“Nowadays, thanks to innovations by terrorists, if you just touch the bomb, or make a noise, it might explode,” says Madanan. “We have to check whether it has a timer device placed on an electronic board.”
After identifying the type of bomb, a squad member, in order to defuse it, dons a bomb suit. “It has a bullet proof vest,” says Madanan. “Anti-ballistic material is embedded all over. So, a man can withstand a bomb blast containing up to half a kilo of RDX.”
Incidentally, this suit costs Rs 15 lakh and has been imported from South Africa. In Kerala, there are five suits in the four police ranges of Thiruvananthapuram, Ernakulam, Thrissur and Kozhikode.
A few weeks ago, the squad located a pipe bomb at Info Park, Kakkanad. A man had thrown it at another man, who was traveling in a car. “However, when we analysed it, we discovered that it was an IED, containing gelatine, with a nine-second time-delay mechanism,” says Madanan. “It would have been dangerous if it had exploded.”
It seems the man who threw it did not know how to activate it. “It was a close shave,” says Madanan, shaking his head.
So, what are the possibilities of a terrorist attack occurring in Kochi? “The chances are high,” says Madanan. “There are intelligence reports which confirm that several terrorists have taken refuge in Kerala.”
Despite this, the public has an irritated attitude towards the security measures set up at the entrance to the North station: several plastic barricades and a metal detector.
“What is the point of only securing the entrance?” says Thomas Scaria, 40. “The station is accessible from so many other points.” His friend, Mohana Chandran, says, “Why should a terrorist use the entrance to gain access to the station?”
A police officer, unconnected with the bomb squad, says, “What they are saying is right. We are doing this to raise public confidence. Otherwise, the people will stay at home.”
Meanwhile, Madanan and Prashant have set out on an inspection of the station. With an explosive detector and an electronic stethoscope, they check the various rooms, the luggage of passengers, and the goods, of varying sizes, that have been deposited on the platforms. Nothing dangerous has been detected so far. And so, Kochi can breathe a sigh of relief. But for how long, nobody knows.
(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)
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