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Thoughts after attending a funeral

By Shevlin Sebastian 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was what I heard: 

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

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

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

“Yes,” said another woman. 

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

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

His mouth opened in an ‘O’. 

“How did you know?” he said. 

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

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

The wife twisted her lips to one side. 

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

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

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

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

Appachan had a dazed look on his face. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

A joyful moment for them!

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

People I don’t know

By Shevlin Sebastian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yes, one woman knows and explains.

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

There have been other deaths in our lane.

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

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

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

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

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

What a paradox!

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

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

And I am grateful to be alive.

(Published in rediff.com)

The India of Today and Yesterday

 

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

By Shevlin Sebastian  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

There are 33 chapters of a few minutes each.

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

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

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