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)

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)

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)

‘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)

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)

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)

Forsaking felony

Like in other parts of India, criminal gangs thrive in Kerala. However, a priest, through counseling sessions, tries to persuade them to give up crime.

By Shevlin Sebastian

Fr. Bosco Njaliath, of the Carmelite order, had befriended a gangster, Raghu, whose younger brother, Sajan, had been killed in an intra-gang rivalry. He held long counselling sessions with Raghu, and dissuaded him from taking revenge.

Meanwhile, the gang members, who killed Sajan, were afraid that Raghu would retaliate. So, one evening, four men attacked Raghu, sliced off his legs and stabbed him 28 times. “I was devastated by Raghu’s death,” says Fr. Njaliath. “I decided to do something for these misguided young men.”

He began visiting the houses of these gang members in and around Angamaly, 40 kms from Kochi, and befriended them. He took the help of the local police, including the then SI, Bijo Alexander.

After ten months of persuasion, he was able to get 50 men, belonging to various gangs, to take part in a seven-day counselling course at the Carmel Bhavan at Karukutty, near Angamaly.

The theme of the course: ‘The emptiness of the criminal life.’ “We asked the gangsters, whether they had profited by indulging in these criminal activities? Were they happy?” says Fr. Njaliath. “We wanted them to analyse their lives. We tried to show them that there were no gains, only losses. We told them that, whether they are Hindus, Muslims or Christians, they are all God’s children.”

In counselling, the priest observed that most of them suffered from the pinpricks of conscience. “One day, a young man, who had killed three men, confessed that he was unable to go to sleep without the help of alcohol,” says Fr. Njaliath. “The moment he awoke, he saw nightmarish images of the crimes he had done.”

It has not been easy for the priest to rehabilitate them. “I know of many boys who came for counseling, stayed for a few days, then could not resist returning to the gangs and ended up dead,” says the priest. “If they remain in the gangs, they are usually dead by 40.”

But Fr. Njaliath has success stories too. “Quite a few gangsters have started a new life by working in small jobs or starting businesses of their own,” says police officer Bijo Alexander.

The priest has encouraged the gangsters to stay at Carmel Bhawan for as long as they want. They attend regular counseling sessions, say prayers, play volleyball or football and work in a brick-making unit that Fr. Njaliath has started nearby. “The longer they stay away from their companions, the better are the chances to lead a straight life,” he says.

For most of these criminals, an unhappy childhood has been the root cause of all their troubles. “My father, who was an alcoholic, beat me and my brothers often and was always quarreling with my mother,” says Pratap, a gang member. “The atmosphere at home was oppressive, so, I spent all my time on the streets and finally ended up joining a gang.”

But what is worrying Fr. Njaliath is how the present-day youth are attracted to people like Pratap. “They see these boys drinking, smoking and spending money lavishly on entertainment,” says the priest. “The gang members wear designer clothes, carry the latest mobile phones and move around in flashy cars like Scorpios.”

Many girls are attracted to them and end up having affairs with these gangsters. “Some come from good families,” he says.

What is not helping matters is the moral breakdown in society. “The basic virtues, like honesty, sincerity and the necessity for hard work have vanished,” says Fr. Njaliath. “In films, these gangsters are glorified. There is a feeling in society that if you do not have money, you are nobody. So, people want to make money quickly and are willing to break the law.”

Apart from the amoral environment, gangs will continue to thrive, says Mani, a gang member, because of the close link with politicians. They use the gangs for protection, to intimidate opponents, and to protect illegal wealth.

“If a gang member is arrested, the politician will immediately call the police station and order the boy to be released,” he says. “If he is not, the police officer is transferred.”

Of course, there are good police officers, but most of the time they are hamstrung by the pervasive corruption among the law-enforcers and the Damocles sword of ‘punishment transfers’ hanging over their heads.

“After some time, even the good officers realise that inaction is better than action,” says Mani, with a smile.

Says police officer Alexander: “In a democracy, there are pressures from all sections of society, including politicians. But we have learnt to overcome them and get the work done.”

However, most gangsters say they continue to thrive despite the ‘ever-vigilant’ policemen.
(Some names have been changed.)

The story of a gangster

On a Wednesday evening, a couple of years ago, Mahesh is walking down a road in Thrissur. Suresh hides in a side street. As soon as Mahesh comes abreast, Suresh jumps out and stabs Mahesh twice in the chest and runs away. There is a stunned silence on the road for several seconds before pedestrians rush towards the fallen man, while panicky shopkeepers pull down the shutters.

By the time the police arrive and take Mahesh to the hospital, it is too late. “I have no regrets,” says Suresh. “I don’t have any bad dreams or nightmares about the murder. Mahesh deserved to die.”

Suresh belonged to a gang, whose members held a friendly football match with another gang. During the course of the match, Mahesh had an altercation with Anil, a member of Suresh’s gang. Later, Mahesh’s gang decided to teach Anil a lesson. So they waylaid Anil and beat him to a pulp. As they were leaving, Mahesh said, “Let me give a parting shot.”

He ran back, twisted Anil’s neck and hit his head with an iron rod. It was a fatal blow. Anil died a day later in hospital. When Suresh heard about this, he had vowed to take revenge. Now Mahesh was dead. And Suresh was on the run for several months. Finally, he was arrested and now he is out on bail.

A stocky, muscular man, with a week’s stubble on his face, he says, “The only thing I am worried about is being convicted by the court. I might get life imprisonment.”

Suresh has a valid reason to be scared. One of his former colleagues, Ravi, who had committed a murder, had been convicted recently to life imprisonment by a fast-track court.

Suresh had become a gang member by accident. One day, when he was 18 years old, he was playing cards with a neighbour, Ranjit. There was an altercation, and Suresh slapped Ranjit.

Ranjit, a senior member of the CPI(M), returned with a group of friends and beat Suresh up. Later, Suresh was arrested and taken to the sub-jail at Aluva.

“When people go to jail for the first time, they have one of two reactions,” he says. “They vow to themselves that they will never go to jail again, and so, they avoid wrongdoing. The second group thinks that this is all there is to it, so there is nothing to fear.”

Suresh belonged to the second group.

“I thirsted for revenge,” he says. “I felt that violence was a part and parcel of life.” When he was released from prison, Suresh joined a gang and spent the next 14 years indulging in murder, robbery, confiscating vehicles of loan defaulters, arranging compromises between rival businessmen for a fee, apart from indulging in intra-gang fights, punctuated by short spells in jail.

Finally, Suresh had two turning points in his life. Once, when he was hard up for money, he had started selling drugs. For an investment of Rs 5,000, he made a profit of Rs 25,000.

One day when he returned home, his mother told him there was a letter from his sister who was a social worker at Kolkata.

“She wrote that she was working to rehabilitate drug addicts,” says Suresh. “The first thought that came to my mind after reading the letter was that while my sister was trying to save drug addicts, here I was, trying to destroy them through drug addiction. So, I decided to get out of the drug business.”

The second turning point occurred when he met Fr. Bosco Njaliath of the Carmelite Order who was holding a counseling session for gangsters.

After the session, Suresh experienced a peace of mind for the first time in years. He decided to get out of the gang, but it was not easy. “My enemies were keen to wipe me off,” he says. “But I knew that if I remained I would be scared for the rest of my life. Hence, I decided to take the risk and leave.”

In the first year, he faced a lot of harassment. “I had to move around with three to four boys, as protection,” he says. “I realised that the only way to survive was to stay out of sight of my enemies, avoid getting into fights, or losing my temper. Whenever I saw a fight take place somewhere, I moved in the opposite direction.”

Today, he has a small business, selling toys, but he is not sure whether he will be able to stay free of the gangs. He got married a year ago and has a baby son.

“My wife knows everything about my life,” he says. It was a love marriage and they had known each other from school. “There was no way I could have had an arranged marriage, because of all that has happened,” he says. “I have a bad reputation.”

Asked on the advice he would give an eighteen-year-old who might want to join a gang, Suresh says, “He should never join. He will gain nothing from it. On the other hand, there is a strong possibility that he will die. In all my years with these gangs, I don’t know of a single person who has come good after all this violence and robbery.”

(Some names have been changed)


The modus operandi of the gangs

If there is a loan default on a car loan, banks allegedly hire these gangs to recover the vehicle. The banks have one key to the vehicle. “This is given to the gang who takes the vehicle away, if it is parked somewhere,” says John, a gang member. “Otherwise, the defaulter is stopped on the road and his vehicle is forcibly taken away.”

The payment to the gang is fixed: Rs 1500 for a bike, Rs 3000 for an autorickshaw, Rs 5000 for a car and Rs 15,000 for bigger vehicles.

The second job is to enforce compromises. If somebody owes a lot of money, the creditor hires the gang to extract the money. “We will use the threat of violence to get the money back and we are given a commission for it,” says Rajesh, a gang member. “This can be a good amount.”

Then they steal black money which is transported up and down the national highways. These belong to politicians and businessmen. They get a tip-off that a car is carrying this money and they attack it and steal the cash. After the robbery, a commission is given to the person who gives the tip. “Recently, one gang cleaned up Rs 5 crore during such an attack,” says Rajesh. Later, the gang leader was shot dead, in retaliation.

These gangsters use the money to fuel their alcoholic and drug addictions. “Quite a few of them are sex addicts and spend a lot of money on their girlfriends,” says John.

According to Rajesh, there are about 3500 women, between the ages of 15 and 35 who are in the flesh trade in Kochi. “They take apartments for rent and arrange for brokers to bring in the men,” he says. “Sometimes, like the police, we raid these flats to get money and have sex with the girls.” Incidentally, he says, whenever there is an advertisement in the newspapers for a massage parlour, “be sure that it is just a front for a sex racket.”
SS

Copyright: The New Indian Express, Chennai)

The long and the short of it

(A series on childhood memories)

Thanks to his father’s encouragement, T.C. Yohannan, the former Asian Games long jump gold medallist, devoted his life to sports

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, T.C. Yohannan was going to school with a few friends at Irumpanagad in Kollam district. Near the entrance, there was a narrow canal. A friend asked the eleven-year-old Yohannan whether he would be able to jump across it. The prize: a glass of lime juice.

Yohannan took up the challenge, walked some distance away, turned round and sprinted. At the last moment, he jumped, but it was not good enough. He landed in the water, much to the amusement of his friends. His uniform all wet, Yohannan had to return home.

“When my father asked me what had happened, I told him the truth,” says Yohannan, the 1974 Asian Games long jump gold medallist. “He put his hands on my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t worry.’”

Then his father took Yohannan to the same spot, one kilometre from home, and asked him to try again. Yohannan jumped and fell into the water again. “It was only on the fourth attempt that I was able to cross the canal,” he says. “It was an inspirational moment for me! I have never forgotten my father’s show of support.”

Thereafter, Yohannan took part in numerous sporting events in school and came first many times. “A notice would be sent to all the classes listing the achievements of the students in various categories and I would feel happy when my name would be called out,” says Yohannan. “It was also an incentive to carry on doing well.”

He also had teachers who encouraged him. “Mathaikutty Sir, who taught physical education, helped us a lot,” says Yohannan. “To prepare for the annual school sports meet, we would have daily training in the evenings at school and Sir would provide refreshments.” The headmaster, Varghese Sir, also encouraged the students to excel in sports.

Yohannan was the son of a farmer. But times were difficult, since the family was large: there were seven sons in total. “I was aware that there was not much money in the house,” he says. “So, I would never ask anything from my parents.”

Instead, whenever he needed money to spend, like, during the temple festival, he would borrow it from his friends. “I would buy sweets, balloons and cashew nuts,” he says.

By the time he was twelve years old, his dream had crystallised: he wanted to excel in sports. But he needed a pair of running shoes and did not know how to get it.

However, one day, when nobody was at home, Yohannan wandered about and saw that there were several large brass pots, which were used to keep grain, in a storage room. He took an empty one and sold it in the village. “I got Rs 15 for it,” he says. “With that money, I was able to buy the running shoes.”

Yohannan would go, every morning, for practice at a long jump pit, near a clump of coconut trees. “As soon as the elders of the village saw me, they would pass comments like, ‘See how he is wasting his time’, ‘he should try to concentrate on his studies, instead he is jumping,’” says Yohannan.

“I would pretend that I had not heard the comments. At that time, in the 1960s, people felt that sports were a waste of time.”

From childhood, Yohannan was brave and focused about his sporting career, but he would get nervous whenever his family went out in the late evenings, and he was the only one at home.

“I would go outside, climb a tree in the courtyard, talk to myself, and wait till the family returned,” he says, with a sheepish smile.

So, who was the one who influenced him the most: his father or mother? “It was my father,” he says. “He was a simple man, who, once when he made a decision, would stick to it. He was also hard-working, focused, sincere, and dedicated. I inherited these traits from him.”

His mother, on the other hand, was loving and kind. “I have these qualities, too,” he says.

He remembers a conversation he once had with her. “When I got married, I told my mother that I would be having only two children,” says Yohannan, the youngest among the seven children. “She laughed and said, ‘If your father and I had thought that way, how would you have won an Asian Games gold medal?’"

Nevertheless, Yohannan, 61, who is married to Annie, has only two children: sons, Tisvy, who lives in Australia, and the Chennai-based Tinu, the first Keralite to play Test cricket for India.

(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)

It’s a contagious feeling!

The Christian band, Kontagious, touched hearts during their recent concert at Kochi

By Shevlin Sebastian

The Guide whose blessings will/ destroy all that is evil/The father, mother and teacher/Who is the Incarnation of the Word/The Lord Jesus Christ.

These lines, from the Tamil poem, ‘Deva Lakshanam’, can be heard at the start of the album, ‘Know Your Name’, by the Kontagious band. It was written by a Christian, Vedanayagam Sastriar, a poet at the court of the Muslim King Serfoji of Thanjavur in the 17th century.

“The reason why Serfoji appointed Sastriar as a poet was because they were classmates in school,” says Kontagious bandleader Saroop Oomen.

Another hymn is ‘Ente Sampath, Ennu Choluvan’, one of the famous works of the 19th century Malayali Christian preacher, Mutampakkal Kochoonju Upadesi. Out of the 12 songs on the album, there are 6 worship songs, three hymns, and three songs in Tamil, Malayalam and Hindi.

The Hindi song happened accidentally. The Dehra-Dun based pop and religious singer, Bhupender Nath, while on a honeymoon in Chennai, met up with the band members and said he had a half-finished poem, ‘Mahima’.

Bhupender’s voice was recorded first and the arrangements added later. The result is a pulsating, serene song in praise of God. “When we sent the final version to Bhupender, he was in tears,” says Saroop.

The classic hymn, ‘How Great You Are’, has a beautiful rendition of a Carnatic alaap by Sindhu K. Das, who also sings the Sastriar hymn at the beginning of the album.

What adds lustre to the music is the frequent use of the flute, tabla, ghatam, and mridangam, apart from the electric guitar, bass, and the keyboard.

‘Know your name,’ the band’s second album, was released some time ago. “The title song was the last among the 15 songs I had written,” says Saroop. “I played all my favourite songs in front of a group of people, but everybody loved ‘Know your name’, which was my reject song.”

For Saroop it was an eye-opener. “I understood that people like simplicity in songs,” he says. “Everybody remembers, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. The best way to communicate is to be clear and unpretentious.”

Kontagious performed in Kochi recently in a ‘Women’s Dayout’ programme organised by Livejam. “The music we play does not sound like traditional church songs,” says Saroop. “We play rock, pop, a cappella, blues, and Carnatic hymns.”

Says guitarist Bruce Lee: “The youth of today want different styles of music. And they want to see a band which is enjoying itself and believing in what they are doing.”

Rohan Philip Mathew, 24, who attended the Kochi concert, says, “I enjoyed the original tracks, and the meaningful lyrics.”

Maya Mathew, 26, who was listening to Kontagious for the first time, says, “The song, ‘Mahima’, was really good. A couple of my friends also liked Mahima the best. I could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit.”

Kontagious was formed in 1998 with the aim of spreading the positive message of the Bible. So far, the band has played in Hyderabad, Bangalore, Delhi, Mumbai, Kochi, Kottayam and Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya.

The band received one of its most enthusiastic receptions in the north-eastern state. “It was an open-air concert at the Fire Brigade grounds and more than 10,000 people were in attendance,” says Saroop.

In 2004, the group did an extensive tour of the United Arab Emirates, doing 17 concerts in 20 days. Audience reaction varied from place to place, but Saroop says they got the strongest emotional response when they played in a Filipino church at Dubai.

“The people were crying, laughing and shouting,” says Saroop. “It was amazing.”

Saroop admits the target audience is the youth. So, what is going on in the minds of young people these days? “The trend now is to say no to everything,” says Bruce. “If somebody tells them, ‘Don’t do drugs’, they will say, ‘I want to do drugs.’”

Kontagious is trying, in its own small way, to guide the youth along the right path. Says Saroop: “You cannot advise them. They have to first connect with you and then they might listen.” Adds Bruce: “We are hoping, through our songs, to provide some answers to the youth’s quest for the meaning of life.”

Only time will tell whether Kontagious has had a contagious effect on the youth.

(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)

Destiny's child

(A series on childhood memories)

A son of a washerman, Justice V.K. Mohanan says that, despite the financial hardships, he had a happy childhood

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, lawyer Ghulam Muhammed gave a speech at a primary school in Muvattupuzha, where V.K. Mohanan was a student. Ghulam said, “One morning, when I was going for a walk, I saw a policeman arrest a man.”

Curious, the lawyer made enquiries and was told that the man had been caught for doing a circus act without a valid license. “But what had actually happened was that the man had been walking past a hotel,” said Ghulam. “A customer ate a banana and threw the skin onto the road. The man slipped on it and ended up doing a circus act without a valid license.”

At this point in the retelling of the speech, Justice Mohanan, of the Kerala high court, breaks out into prolonged laughter. “This was the type of funny anecdote that Ghulam was famous for,” he says.

Mohanan laughs easily, but he has had a tough life. The son of a washerman (dhobi), one of his enduring memories was of awakening every morning and seeing his father, already at work, pressing clothes with a heavy iron. His mother would assist him and both would go to the nearby Muvattupuzha river to wash the clothes.

Mohanan would help them every evening after school by delivering clothes. He would also collect the money. At that time, it was about 25 paise to wash and iron a piece of cloth.

However, whenever he went on his rounds, he sensed, from the people’s reaction, that this job was of a lower status than others. “When I grew older, I understood that their attitude towards me reflected the hierarchical structure of society,” he says.

Mohanan was also keenly aware that the family was in financial difficulties. He would be given a pair of shorts and told that he would have to wear it for the rest of the year. “After a few months, it would tear, but I would carry on wearing it,” says Mohanan.

During Independence Day celebrations, the teacher would ask the students to make flags and bring it to school. “Even though I knew there was no money in the house to buy the coloured paper, I would still ask my father,” he says. “Somehow, he would always find some money to give me.”

But his childhood was not a grim one. There was a large field near his house, where he would play football with his friends. “But the ball was different from the ones being used now,” he says. “It was called a nipple football.”

This was a bladder, with the tube jutting out, like a nipple. “With an air pump, we would fill it up, tie the end, and then insert it into a leather covering,” says Mohanan.

During the rainy season, the river would overflow the bank and the field would become flooded. “We used to take the boat from the nearby houses and go fishing,” he says. “Sometimes, we would lose our balance, and tumble from the boat. At other times, we would go swimming. It was a happy time.”

Apart from these activities, he would see a lot of films at the Lakshmi theatre. He earned the money for the 25 paise ticket by doing errands for his neighbours. “MGR was my favourite hero,” says Mohanan, “I saw the MGR film, Kudiyirundha Kovil, 14 times because there were a lot of stunts and he was playing a double role.”

To his parents, Mohanan was a hero, along with his elder brother Vijayan, simply, by being alive. “My mother gave birth to ten children, and eight died,” he says. “Some died in the womb, some died at child birth, while others died in early childhood. So, my brother and I were precious to my parents. They showered a lot of love on us.”

His neighbour, Leela Cherian, was also very affectionate. When his parents would go out for work, it was Leela who looked after Mohanan. She played a decisive role in his life when she insisted to his parents that he must go to school. “At that time, my parents did not understand the importance of education,” says Mohanan. “I am eternally grateful to her.”

He showed his appreciation by inviting Leela as a special guest for his swearing-in as a high court judge. If Mohanan has any regrets it is that his parents, both of whom died a decade ago, could not see his elevation to the post of judge.

“I am now in a comfortable position in life, but I can never forget the hardships of my childhood,” says Mohanan, who is married to Geetha, a government servant, and has a 16-year-old daughter, Chandni.

(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)

The power of the spoken word

Zakir Naik, famed speaker, talks about Islam and other religions

By Shevlin Sebastian

"If there is no God, there is no salvation," says Zakir Naik, an Islamic speaker who had come to Kochi a few weeks ago. "But if you know God, then you will know salvation."

There is an appreciative murmur from the audience on Naik's clever word play. His tone is reassuring, but he makes some interesting distinctions: "The Hindu says everything is God, but the Muslim says everything is God's." There are more nods. Throughout his one-hour talk, he is able to quote, verbatim, from verse and chapter from the Bhagwad Gita, the Upanishads, the Bible and the Quran.

The audience listens with rapt silence. Because of the segregation of the sexes, the women sit at the back, most of them dressed in black chadors, while the men throng the front rows. Behind Naik, on the stage, sit several local dignitaries.

At the conclusion of the talk, he asks for questions from the audience. A young man asks, "Why are there no women on the stage?" Naik categorically states that Islam does not allow the intermingling between the sexes.

Another man reads out a verse from St. John in the Bible and says that Naik had got it wrong in his speech. Naik defends himself admirably, quotes verses before and after and wins the point, to sustained applause.

"Naik has done an enormous amount of study over the last 15 years to master the different scriptures," says his close associate Dr Syed Mohammed Shuaib. "Most of the non-Muslims are convinced by his replies because he usually quotes from the scriptures of the religion of the person asking the question." Clearly, apart from his knowledge, Naik has the talented speaker's ability to grip an audience.

A day later, Naik explains his oratorical brilliance: "When a person stands on a stage, what he speaks carries only 7 per cent weightage. The others skills -- eye-to-eye contact, proper pronunciation, modulation and gestures -- make up the rest."

Asked about his subject matter, he says, "I usually talk about the similarities between the various religions. Most people who follow any religion have hardly read the scriptures. They blindly follow what the priest, the pandit or the maulana says. I tell them to read the scriptures and if it is tallying with what the preacher is saying, then accept it. Otherwise, don't."

He admits there are some elements within the Muslim community who are against him. "They are afraid of losing their flock," he says, with a smile. He says he gets the maximum support from educated Muslims, Christians and Hindus.

Naik, of Konkan origin, was born in Mumbai, and qualified as a doctor of medicine, but changed his mind when he met the great South African speaker Sheik Ahmed Husain Deedat, who was best known for his witty inter-religious debates.

"I met him in December, 1987, and felt inspired," says Naik. So, even while he was studying for medicine, Naik got involved in Da'wah (inviting people towards Islam). "So, from being a doctor of bodies, I became a doctor of souls," he says.

Today, Naik is a rising star among speakers of Islam and has already given more than 1,200 talks worldwide. So what are the questions that audiences ask him all the time?

He replies rapidly: "What is the meaning of jihad? Why does Islam allow a man to have four wives? Why does Islam subjugate women by keeping her behind the veil? Why are there Muslims terrorists?"

Regarding Muslim terrorists, he says, "Before India got freedom in 1947, many Indians were fighting for the freedom of the country. These people were called terrorists by the British government, but we regard them as freedom fighters. The same people, the same activity, but there are two different labels. It is a matter of perception. So, today, whoever is in power, whatever label he gives to a person, it sticks to him."

Naik has been fighting these misrepresentations through his talks, his books and CDs and the Peace TV channel, which is owned by the Islamic Research Foundation, of which he is the founder-president.

Asked about the current state of Hindu-Muslim relations, he says, "Relations between educated Hindus and Muslims are good, but there will always be elements on both sides who will try to create mischief."

(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)

Dance your way to God

At the Osho Glimpse Centre, people come in search of the divine

By Shevlin Sebastian

At precisely 6.30 p.m. on a Saturday evening, Subin Das puts on the CD which will provide the music for the Kundalini Meditation at the Osho Glimpse Centre at Panampilly Nagar. Among those present, there is Sasidharan Parameshwaran, 45, Lekha Nambiar, 38, the pony-tailed, V.P. Kalam, 38, and Subin, 22.

For the first stage, which is of 15 minutes duration, the participants shake their bodies. And straightaway, Subin catches the eyes with his vibrant movements. The others are more subdued.

As Osho says about this stage, “When your body starts a little trembling, help it. But if you force it, it will become a physical exercise. Then the shaking will be there, but it will be just on the surface and will not penetrate you.”

In the second stage, the music is much more spirited – the sounds of the sitar and the tabla can be heard -- and now is the time to dance. Again, it is Subin who impresses, as he turns on his heels, raises his arms, moves back and forth, seemingly in the thrall of some power within him.

In the third stage, the participants stand or sit in a comfortable position, with eyes closed, and have to watch what is happening in the mind and outside. In the fourth and final stage, they have to lie on the floor, eyes closed, hands spread out at the sides and be still.

The CD goes silent, but at the end of 15 minutes, there is a loud gong, like the tolling of a church bell, signifying the end of the one-hour meditation.

When asked about his mood after the meditation, Sasidharan says, “What I am feeling now cannot be explained. Nor can it be shared.”

Says Kalam: “When a man is drunk he cannot explain what he is going through to somebody who has never had a drink.”

As for Subin, he says, “If I try to explain my experience, the truth will slip away.”

All of them had been in search for truth and meaning. Sasidharan says he had visited Shri Mata Amritanandamayi’s ashram, did the advanced course in the Art of Living by Ravi Shankar and attended courses at the Chinmaya Mission.

“They are all good, but, for me, the search stops at Osho,” he says. “In Kundalini meditation, the effect is immediate. The mind becomes silent. You reach the source at once.”

Lekha Nambiar, an English teacher, says she always has a sense of well-being after doing the Kundalini meditation. “My energy levels increase,” she says. “I feel fulfilled. This is the end of my search. Osho is the ultimate.”

Standing to one side and listening to the people talk about their experiences is Swami Jeevan Vismay.

It was Jeevan who started Osho Glimpse in October, 2006. Originally a Muslim -- M.K. Aboobacker -- Jeevan grew up in Kozhikode, became a member of the CPI (ML), spent several years in fruitless agitations and went to jail.

Later, he went to Salalah in Oman and Dubai, earned well and spent lavishly on entertainment, and still experienced emptiness. He tried the various strands of Islam, but nothing worked. He returned to Kerala in 1991.

A few years later, a friend gave him a cassette, which contained a discourse on money by Osho and said, “Since you are going mad even after having so much money, why don’t you hear this?”

When Jeevan heard the cassette, he experienced a new perception about life. “Then I began to read a lot of Osho,” he says. “And in every book, he insisted that one should meditate.”

When Jeevan heard that there would be a three-day meditation camp at Kozhikode in 2001, he decided to take part. “It was the turning point in my life,” he says. “I finally realised I am not my body, my mind or my feelings. I am just a witness to pure consciousness.”

Today, Jeevan, who runs a thriving travel agency, is an ardent Osho devotee and meditates once a day.

At the Osho Glimpse centre, there are numerous books, CDs, posters and magazines for sale. Asked about the response, he says, “In our lending library, there are 500 members.” The books have also been doing well. “A representative of DC Books told us recently that Osho books have high sales,” says Jeevan.

To popularise the teachings, the centre recently organised a week-long film festival. “Quite a few people turned up,” says Jeevan. “Osho is not like the water from the Kochi Corporation. We cannot supply it to every house. Those who thirst for Osho will come in search of him.”

Some Osho sayings

One cannot be pure without being humble, because there is no greater impurity than ego.

Do whatsoever you are doing, but remain a witness to it, and immediately the quality of your doing is transformed.

Once you start thinking about the future and ambition and desire, you are missing this moment.

Authentic religiousness is a childlike innocence, playfulness and a whole-hearted capacity for laughter.

A man living out of fear is always trembling inside.

Thoughts are substitutes for awareness.

Do whatsoever you are doing, but remain a witness to it, and immediately the quality of your doing is transformed.

Don’t be afraid, this existence is not your enemy. This existence mothers you; this existence is ready to support you in every possible way.

In the journey of life, intuition is the only teacher.

Truth happens where there are no clouds of thoughts moving in your consciousness.

If you have lived this moment totally, intensely, your next moment is going to be still more golden.

(Copyright: The New Indian Express, Kochi)