Hardscrabble days in the desert

‘Goat Days’, a best-selling novel by Benyamin, highlights the life of a Malayali worker in Saudi Arabia. An English translation has just been published by Penguin Books 

By Shevlin Sebastian

One morning, Malayalam author Benyamin received a phone call. It was from an acquaintance of his, Saji Markose. He was calling from the duty-free bookshop at Frankfurt’s international airport.

“Saji informed me that in the entire bookshop there was only one book in Malayalam,” says Benyamin. “That was ‘Goat Days’.”

Sometime ago, the Bahrain-based Benyamin had gone to Dubai. There he met a woman who told him that her 19-year-old son had died in a bike accident in Kerala. “But it was only after reading ‘Goat Days’ that I could get over the sorrow,” she told Benyamin. “It was a catharsis for me.” Another 70-year-old man from the USA wrote and told Benyamin that he wanted to touch the hand that wrote the book and have coffee with the author.

In the small world of Malayalam publishing, ‘Goat Days’ has sold a boggling 40,000 copies, and has won the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award. It is also a prescribed text in schools and colleges. Recently, Penguin brought out an English translation by Dr. Joseph Koyippally, an associate professor of the Central University of Kerala.      

The spark for the novel was an accidental meeting by Benyamin with a man called Najib Mohammed. “Najib was working in a farm located in a desert in Saudi Arabia,” says Benyamin. “The owner treated him brutally, and hardly gave him food and water to drink. He was like a slave and Najib began to relate to the goats he was looking after.”

Here is an extract: 'Without any mercy, the arbab dragged Nabeel [name of goat] out and commanded me to raise his hind legs. Then, in the blink of an eye my Nabeel’s manhood also fell on the ground, soaked in blood like that of many other goats… the day Nabeel lost his manliness, I too lost mine. I haven’t yet figured out that mystery — of how my virility vanished with that of a goat’s.'

After speaking at length with Najib, Benyamin immersed himself in the character that he had invented in his mind. “I tried to imagine the thought process of a person who lives all alone and has no contact with other human beings,” says Benyamin. “There is a danger of losing one’s language.”

Benyamin says that the majority of Malayalis working in the Middle East have bad experiences. “In the labour camps, located near construction sites, they are treated inhumanly,” he says. “But nobody will speak it aloud.” So Benyamin decided to write about Nabeel’s experience.

After his job as a coordinator in an electro-mechanical company in Manama, Bahrain, would end at 6 p.m., he would go home and work from 7 to 11 p.m. Then, if his wife, Asha, a nurse, was on the night shift, he would have to look after the children, Rohan, 8, and Kezia, 5. But he plugged on steadily and finished the novel in two years.
   
When it was released Benyamin was worried about the reaction. “I had a fear that people would say that the book is an exaggeration,” he says. “But in the end the novel was embraced whole-heartedly by readers in large numbers.”

Asked for the reason behind its success, translator Koyippally says, “It is a simple and honest narrative. ‘Goat Days’ offers a fresh perspective of the Malayalis working in the Middle East. This issue has never been addressed before in such depth. The few earlier books were sob stories. But Benyamin reveals the true grit of the Malayali worker.”  

Adds Benyamin: “Anybody living anywhere will be able to empathise with Najeeb. He is able to escape from the farm after nearly four years and ends up triumphant. In the end, it is a novel of hope.”

(The New Indian Express, Sunday Magazine, South India and New Delhi) 

A classy act all the way

Meherzad Patel's play, 'The Class Act', provides rollicking laughter and subtle lessons. The director, a twenty-something Mumbaikar, is witty and talented

By Shevlin Sebastian

Photo by Manu R. Mavelil

'The Class Act', is set in a classroom, with a blackboard at one side, posters on the wall, one of which has 'Black Comedy' written in large letters, a table and chairs. And it is Mr. William's acting class for a bunch of crazy people: a loud-mouthed Parsi by the name of Mehernosh Siganporia, a young Muslim, Mohammed Abdul Khader Sheikh, the tall, kurta-clad Mahesh Kadam, Dolly Gandhi, a TV actor, and a Goan hotelier, Victor Rodrigues. And it is this motley bunch that is trying to learn acting.

The actors introduce themselves, and Victor says, “The first time I sang in the church choir, 200 Christians changed their religion.”

When Victor is asked to fall over backwards from the top of a box, and develop the trust that Dolly will hold her, he says, “I can't do that. My family jewels will get stuck in my throat.”

He also gives an apt definition of divorce: “To rip out a man's genitals through his wallet.”

The man who has written all these catchy lines is a twenty-something Parsi called Meherzad Patel, who acts as Mr. Williams in the play held recently at the JT Performing Arts Centre at Kochi. Apart from 'The Class Act' he has written a farce on teenage angst called 'Like Dat Only', another one about a Parsi, Rustam Screwwala, called, 'Rusty Screws', a third drama called, 'Four Square', and shows in Gujarati and Hindi.

Meherzad got his impetus when in Class 10 at St. Mary's school, Mumbai, during an inter-house competition he directed a play called 'Snow White and six-and-a-half dwarfs'. “It was a parody,” he says. “So Snow White was a huge, dark, and broad-shouldered boy who towers over the rest. The dwarfs play different characters who were in the news at that time, like Sourav Ganguly and David Beckham.”

The play bagged the first prize and some of the student actors, like Sajeel Parakh and Dhanesh Irani, are in ‘The Class Act’ also. Later, in St. Xavier's College, Meherzad did not get much of an opportunity, but things opened up when he joined the Government Law College. “There was far more free time,” he says.

Taking the opportunity, Meherzad worked as an assistant director in the musical, 'The Wizard Of Oz'. And it was a learning experience for him. “I understood that things that can go wrong at any time,” he says. “A backdrop can fall on you suddenly. You have to ensure that the mikes and lights are working properly. Make-up should be done early, and not at the last minute.”

Meherzad, who set up Silly Point Productions in 2008, has a different approach to acting. “I give my actors a simple instruction,” he says. “There is no joke at all in our plays. We are performing for the sake of acting, not for the sake of getting a laugh. The humour lies in your character.”

And to fine-tune the satire, Meherzad keeps changing the lines. “We tailor it according to the audience,” he says. “If is a younger group, we will use more four-letter words. For the older crowd, they would prefer a smarter and well-scripted joke.”

One reason why the plays are popular is that Meherzad works a lot on the script. 'The Class Act' took six months to write, while 'Rusty Screws' took two years.

“If you rush through you will not get the content you are looking for,” he says. “Mumbai is the big inspiration for me. In this city, you get all types of people – from angry bus drivers to laid-back college students. It is put out in a daily buffet right in front of you. The jokes people tell you are not just that. It is their real-life experiences. When you put this on stage, it makes the play more realistic.”

And despite being the son of chartered accountants, his realistic parents have given him the leeway to do what he wants. “They are a little scared of me,” he says, tongue in cheek. “Seriously, they come to watch all my plays and enjoy them thoroughly.”

But Meherzad admits that being a full-time playwright is an uphill task. “I can probably earn much more as a lawyer,” he says. “But this is a passion for me and the creative satisfaction that I get is probably something money cannot buy.” 

(The New Indian Express, South India and Delhi) 

 

The he(art) of the matter

The internationally reputed Atul Dodiya, talks about his passion for art and how the hatred between communities is a disturbing trend in India now

Photos: Atul Dodiya; painting of Mahatma Gandhi on a steel shutter

By Shevlin Sebastian

Atul Dodiya is a busy man. Before he came to spend two days in Kerala, to view the sites of the Kochi-Muziris Biennale, the Mumbai-based artist had just returned from a ten-day trip to Copenhagen where he took part in a group show. One day after he returned from Kochi, he flew to Paris where he was holding a solo show of his works at the Galerie Daniel Templon.

Atul has been one of India’s leading artists for more than twenty years. And his desire to be an artist crystallised when he was only 11 years old. Expectedly, there was opposition that the son of a civil contractor wanted to be an artist, but when he failed twice in his Class 10 examinations, the family realised that Atul was different from other boys. In 1982, he joined the JJ School of Art, and passed out as a gold medalist.    

As he says simply, “You don't become an artist. Either you are an artist or not. And there is no substitute to hard work.” So Atul spends more than ten hours a day painting and the rest of the time he is thinking about his work. “It is a 24 hour obsession,” he says. “Even after so many years, the passion burns brightly inside me. If you don't have passion it is difficult to achieve anything in art.

Atul is well-known for his realistic paintings. So he has drawn images of his father, sister and friends, as well as a series on Mahatma Gandhi called, ‘An artist of non-violence’. “It is a bit hypocritical that when you have an image of Gandhi on the Indian rupee note, every third road is called MG [Mahatma Gandhi] Road, and every government office has his photo, his philosophy of non-violence has been abandoned,” says Atul. “There is so much of tension between the communities. We see so much of violence due to communal riots and terrorism. The 1993 serial bomb blasts in Mumbai and the 2002 communal riots in Gujarat : How do people become so evil? Gandhi had always fought for love and dignity for fellow human beings, but that is no longer there now. Art should reflect that.”    

Atul’s turning point as an artist took place in 1991 when he went abroad, to France, for the first time on a French government scholarship. “I wanted to see the original works of great masters,” he says. “I saw great paintings by Picasso and Matisse and many modern masters.”

Today, he is an avid fan of Picasso. “He was fearless,” says Atul. “I went to the large Picasso Museum at Barcelona, and saw how this man at the age of 14 did a huge realistic painting and later, as he matured, he created the unique art form of Cubism. There is 80 years of work and you can clearly see how Picasso has evolved as an artist.”

And Atul also learned some lifelong lessons. “After seeing the paintings I realised that the great artists were not afraid of taking risks,” says Atul. “I told myself, ‘Never succumb to market forces, to your friends’ ideas, to the critics and their likes and dislikes, and the need to cater to current trends and fashions. Just keep everything outside the studio and paint the way you feel. That is why people often say I don’t have a style. Each show of mine is different, in terms of medium, subject matter, and material.”  

So, expectedly, he is going to do something unique for the Kochi-Muziris Biennale. “It will be an installation art with photographs,” he says. “The sites are amazing and fantastic. When I am showing my work in Germany, France, Japan, or the Moscow Biennale, these spaces are ultimately in a foreign land. But here, for the first time I will be showing a work in my own country. The walls, the floors, the smells, the lights, it is all so familiar and I am excited by it.”  

Atul is also excited by Malayali artists. “Some of my finest contemporaries are Malayalis,” he says. They include Surendran Nair, Alex Mathew, Riyas Komu, Jitesh Kallat, Justin Ponmani, Jyoti Basu, Ratheesh, and Bose Krishnamachari. “They are dear friends and I respect them as artists,” says Atul. “Through them, I have learnt something about a different region in our country. There is a peculiar voice that one sees in their work. They talk about the life, nature, and a certain mythology. They, along with other international artists, will ensure that the Kochi Biennale will be a great show and will establish India on the international art scene.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram) 

Having the right chips

Alex Thomas read an article in a magazine and became inspired to make a banana and cassava chip-making factory 

Photos: Entrepreneur Alex Thomas; Banano and Kappo packets 

By Shevlin Sebastian

In May, 2009, Alex Thomas read a small news item in the 'Dhanam' business magazine about opportunities of starting a snack food industry for banana and cassava (kappa) chips. In the write-up, the name of the equipment supplier, 'Heat and Control Australia' was mentioned. “I searched their web site and got in touch with them,” says Alex. “They are the pioneers in food processing machinery.”

It was a learning curve for Alex, since he was in the Ready Mix concrete industry. One day, a friend mentioned that there was a one-week course in snack foods at Ohio State University, USA. It cost $5,000. Alex went in September, 2009. 

“The most important thing that I learnt was that people buy snacks not for health reasons, but for the taste,” he says. Alex was able to see a potato chips factory in operation, as well as the manufacturing facility of 'Heat and Control'. “Participants included people from different parts of the world and I could get an idea of the snack food culture in those countries,” he says.

From Ohio, Alex went to Colombia to see a banana chips factory. The South American country has the largest number of banana plantations in the world. “In Colombia, workers handled the banana bunches (vazhakula) the way they would hold a new-born baby,” says Alex. “They ensured that it did not touch the ground during transportation.”

This was in marked contrast to what happens in the markets in Kerala. Workers just throw the banana bunches to the ground from the lorry. “That is when the raw material gets damaged,” says Alex.

After he returned, Alex prepared a detailed business plan, with the help of a consultant. “I explained all the activities that were needed to launch and market the product in a transparent manner,” he says. As a result, Alex secured a loan of Rs 6.6 crore from the Kerala State Industrial Development Corporation. Thereafter, Alex approached well-known businessmen like C.J. George of Geojit and Kochuouseph Chittilappilly of V-Guard Industries, and they came on board as investors, apart from a few others. Eventually, based on an investment of Rs 15 crore, he set up a 20,000 sq. ft. factory at the Food Park at Adoor under the company name of Tierra Food India Pvt Ltd in May, 2012.

Inside the factory, the bananas and cassavas are peeled, then washed, and put through a slicing machine. Then it is taken to the frier and dipped in 1200 litres of triple refined palmolein oil. The chips are fried in two minutes and then passed through an ambient air cooler which cools it and gets rid of excess oil. “Thereafter, it will go through an inspection conveyor belt where over and under-fried chips are removed manually,” says Alex. “The chips later pass through a rotating drum which sprinkles flavours onto the products.” Around 55 workers are involved in this procedure.

There are two products: Kappo (cassava) and Banano (banana chips). Banano is available in two flavours: chilly garlic and salt and pepper. Cassava chips have three flavours: salt and pepper, tomato, and cream and onion. The prices are very competitive: Banano is available in 30gm packets at Rs 10. Cassava is available in 15 grams (Rs 5) and 32 grams (Rs 10).

And things have been moving along smoothly. In August, the company notched up sales of Rs 50 lakh. “We hope to reach Rs 1 crore in September,” says Alex. The branded chip market is worth Rs 100 crore in Kerala. “People are more conscious of hygiene and health these days, so they look for top-quality products,” says Alex.

The entrepreneur is expecting the company to break even in one-and-a-half years. “We never expected our product to be accepted in the market so fast,” he says. Alex's immediate priority is to supply 20,000 outlets in Kerala, which store branded chip products. “At the moment, we have only reached 12,000,” he says. “But the future looks very bright.”

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)

Highs and lows

COLUMN: Spouse's Turn 

Yamini talks about her life with actor-politician K.B. Ganesh Kumar

By Shevlin Sebastian

In January, 1994, Yamini Ramachandran was waiting to meet K.B. Ganesh Kumar, the son of politician R. Balakrishna Pillai, at the house of her neighbour at PTP Nagar, Thiruvananthapuram. This was the first meeting between boy and girl.

Ganesh, however, was an hour late. He had been held up at the shooting of the film, ‘Commissioner’, in which he was playing a young police officer. They met and spoke. “In fact it was Ganesh who did all the talking and I just listened,” says Yamini. “I found him refreshingly frank as he spoke about his film career and asked me about my studies.”

At that time, Yamini was doing her second-year MBBS at the Trivandrum Medical College. “I was not very keen to get married, because I wanted to finish my studies first, but I met Ganesh because my parents had received a proposal from the Pillais,” she says.

At that meeting Yamini was nervous. But what amused her was that Ganesh was even more tense than her and was perspiring a lot. “I never clarified later from Ganesh whether it was out of nervousness or because of the heat,” she says.

Anyway, it was the frankness that attracted Yamini and she said yes to the marriage. The couple tied the knot on May 20, 1994. And in 18 years of marriage Yamini admires her husband’s sincerity when it comes to his work, as an actor and currently as a minister of forests and environment, sports and cinema in the Oommen Chandy government. “Ganesh always gives more than 100 per cent,” says Yamini. She remembers that there are times when as the MLA of Pathanapuram, he has awoken at night saying that a particular bridge in the constituency was not ready.

“It seems, in his dreams, he is thinking about the construction of bridges and roads,” says Yamini, with a smile.

But Ganesh cares about human beings also. “For example, if a friend or somebody from the film industry has a problem, he will go out of his way to help,” says Yamini. But what she finds most attractive is that whether he is talking to a minister or a gardener, he will adopt the same behaviour. “There is a nice down-to-earth quality about him,” says Yamini. 

But as a father of Aadithya, 15, and Devaraman, 5, she will only award Ganesh 3 marks out of ten. “Ganesh is not there for them because he is too busy,” says Yamini. “He does not find time for the family at all. The elder one feels this strongly. But, lately, Ganesh has been trying to rectify this since I told him that Aadithya will be at home for another two years and then he will leave for further studies.” 

Another drawback is his lack of punctuality. “If he says he will come at 9.30 a.m. for a family outing, he will usually arrive at 1.30 p.m.,” says Yamini “I cannot blame him because he is so busy, but it is also in his nature to be late. So now I start getting dressed only when he calls to say that he is on his way.”

For a while the couple went their separate ways in 2001 when the marriage hit a rocky patch. But eventually, they got back together. “In the end it was pure honesty towards each other which saved the marriage,” says Yamini. “Ganesh bared his heart out. He realised his mistakes and I also understood that I had gone wrong at certain times. We had a lot of conversations before we reconciled.”

And the over-riding reason why they got back together was because, as Yamini says, “Whatever differences we had between us, our son Aadithya [Devaraman was not born then] should always have his mother and father with him.”

But it is not all sad and gloom. There have been happy times. “At home Ganesh can be jovial and fun-loving, especially with friends,” says Yamini. “He cracks a lot of jokes.”

And so life goes on. While Ganesh is busy in his ministerial job, Yamini works as a senior research fellow at the Achutha Menon Centre for Health Science Studies. “I am doing my Phd on adolescent health,” she says.

Asked what advice she will give to a newly-married couple, Yamini says, “Whatever is going on in your mind, speak it out. Don’t keep it bottled inside and let it fester, and add further resentments and then have a big explosion. People make the mistake that the spouse will understand what you are thinking. That never happens. Also, you need a lot of patience to resolve problems.”

Finally, the tamping of the ego is very important. “There should be no ‘you’ and ‘me’,” says Yamini. “Instead, it should always be ‘we’.”  

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)

Steeped in the classics

B.V. Ramachandran Nair's shop, Viji Musics, at Kochi, is a treasure trove of classical music. He pioneered music fairs in Kerala

By Shevlin Sebastian

At 11 a.m. on a Thursday, customer N. Gopakumar enters the Viji Musics store on Press Club Road, Kochi, with a friend. He tells the owner B. V. Ramachandran Nair he wants Carnatic singer Kudamaloor Janardanan's latest CD. Ramachandran gives that and a couple of other cassettes. Inside the shop, there are large posters of the legends of Hindustani and Carnatic music. They include Bhimsen Joshi, Pandit Jasraj, Rashid Khan, Gangobhai, Swati Thirunal, Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar, MS Subbulakshmi and Balamuralikrishna.

The shop, which began operations in 2000, sells only CDs of Hindustani and Carnatic music, bhajans, ghazals, qawwalis and sufi songs. Astonishingly, the songs of Rabindranath Tagore are also popular. Ramachandran shows a CD, 'The Golden Boat'. It contains songs that the Nobel Laureate had composed on the banks of the River Padma. “Even if people don't know Bengali, they enjoy listening to Rabindra Sangeet,” says Ramachandran.

There are about 30,000 CDs in the shop, presented under different headings, and placed neatly on wooden racks. And in Hindustani classical, it is Bhimsen Joshi and Pandit Jasraj who are the most popular. In Carnatic, it is Balamuralikrishna and Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar.

Ramachandran has pioneered the concept of music fairs. In Kochi, during the 9-day Navaratri festival, he holds a fair at the Women's Association Hall. Every year, he stages week-long or 20 day fairs in Thiruvananthapuram, Thrissur, Palakkad, Kozhikode, Mallapuram, Kannur, Kasargod and Kanhangad.

And he has noticed an unusual pattern in the sales. If a singer belongs to a particular area, the sales are the highest for him. “In Palakkad, if I go with a thousand CDs of KV Narayanaswamy, they will be sold out because he hails from there,” says Ramachandran. “In Kozhikode, the CDs of MS Baburaj are best-sellers because he is a local. In Kasargod and Kannur, the albums of Jayashree Rajeev fly off the shelves.”

And sometimes misconceptions have been laid to rest. Recently, when Ramachandran went to do an exhibition in Mallapuram for the first time, music company executives told him to take a lot of stuff by local Muslim singers. “But I discovered that the people are more interested in Hindustani classical, ghazals, qawwalis and sufi songs,” says Ramachandran. “They did not care for the local stuff.”

To go for these fairs, Ramachandran has to hire a lorry. More than 150 boxes of CDs have to be loaded. He himself travels on the vehicle accompanied by four helpers. In the fair, he ends up selling 10,000 CDs. “There are people who wait for me every year,” says Ramachandran. One of them is APM Koya, a retired manager of the State Bank of India, who lives in Kozhikode. “He has the maximum number of CDs that I know of,” says Ramachandran. “Whatever song you ask for, he has a copy. He will come to the fair about ten times, looking for rare copies of songs.”

In this era of rampant digital downloads, Ramachandran is still going strong, because most of his customers are 50 plus and are not at all digital-savvy. “But companies like 'Music Today' and 'Saregama' are also taking precautions,” says Ramachandran. “They avoid selling too much of classical music on the Internet.”

Ramachandran suddenly says, “I am not doing this solely for profit. It is because of my love of music that I am in this business.” He stumbled on to the trade by accident. After 15 years of doing business in Saudi Arabia, he returned and, thanks to a suggestion from a friend, started a music shop at the GCDA Complex on Marine Drive, before he moved to the present location. Incidentally, Viji Musics is named after his wife.

Asked about his favourite singers, Ramachandran mentions the young duo of Sankaran Namboodiri and Jayashree Rajeev. “In my own way, I have tried to promote them a lot,” he says.

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram) 

A Grand Old Man

A.K. Hangal, one of Bollywood’s enduring character actors, who died recently, had an interesting life and career 

By Shevlin Sebastian  

In May 2006, while working in Mumbai I had the opportunity to meet the veteran actor A.K. Hangal. He lived in a small apartment in the suburb of Santa Cruz. The most striking aspect was that he looked and spoke exactly like the characters in his films. At that time he was 89 but Hangal was mentally sharp and smiled all the time. A legendary character actor in Bollywood, Hangal, who acted in over 200 films, died on Sunday in Mumbai.

Hangal was in the news then because he had just been awarded the Padma Bhushan. But he found it difficult to believe that he had won it. “Unlike most people, I had not lobbied for the award,” he said. “In fact, I never expected to get it. What made me really happy was when I heard that it was a unanimous decision of the jury.”

Hangal was born in Peshawar, spent time in Karachi, where he was a freedom fighter, and moved to Mumbai after the 1947 Partition riots with only Rs 20 in his pocket. Years of struggle ensued. A Leftist, he was a member of the Indian People’s Theatre Association, and did stage plays for several years. But in 1966, Hangal became an actor in Bollywood and embarked on a 46-year career in the industry.

Asked the secret of good acting, Hangal said, “If you want to be an excellent actor, you have to be a person with good qualities. I also worked hard to look natural on screen. I did an in-depth analysis of the character I was portraying. I studied the person's background, economic position, and the community to which he belonged. Another way to have a deeper understanding of human beings is to move around in society.”

Not surprisingly, he was disappointed about the direction Bollywood was taking. “Society changes, and that is reflected in the films,” he said. “Now, there is a different kind of acting.”

And he elaborated on this. “When I acted, I talked from the soul of the character,” said Hangal. “Today, many actors speak with their muscles (he breaks out into laughter). It is more about physique than heart. Society has become superficial. People only want money. It is the world of consumerism. Very few people read or discuss philosophy or ponder about the deeper aspects of life.”

During the period of the interview, the media was focusing on Amitabh Bachchan who had been hospitalised due to an intestinal surgery at Lilavati Hospital. A stream of prominent Bollywood personalities came to meet the acting icon. However, at the same time, the legendary music director O.P. Nayyar was being treated in the same hospital, but nobody went to see him.

Asked why this happened, Hangal said, “Nayyar has become irrelevant. So nobody is interested. It happens in every profession, so why single out the film industry? This is human nature.”

Unfortunately, Hangal suffered the same fate as Nayyar, because no well-known Bollywood personality attended his funeral.

Hangal led an eventful life, but encountered painful obstacles. He fell foul of the Shiv Sena when he attended the Independence day celebrations of Pakistan in Mumbai in 1993. “Bal Thackeray [Shiv Sena supremo] gave the order to boycott my films,” said Hangal. “He said that I should not be given any assignments and the theatres where my films were shown came under attack by the Sena goons. At midnight, I would get threatening calls on the phone. I remained jobless for two years. My wife died, my son’s wife died. I was in hospital. I was having financial problems and went through a difficult time. Thackeray forgot that I once worked alongside his father in Samyuktha Maharashtra Samiti [an organisation that demanded a separate Marathi-speaking state in the 1950s]. I was a freedom fighter before he was born. I am not against anybody. So, why should he be against me?”

And, typically, Bollywood refused to come out in Hangal’s defence.  But the veteran did not get upset about it. “People were afraid of Thackeray,” said Hangal. “That's life.”

The thespian broke out into a broad grin when asked about the meaning of the word, 'Hangal'. “Hangal means stag (a deer),” he said. “I belong to a Kashmiri Pandit family.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi)  

A school romance

COLUMN: Spouse's Turn

Anoop and Anila Jacob fell in love when they were students. Anila talks about her life with the Food & Civil Supplies Minister

Photo by Kaviyoor Santhosh 

By Shevlin Sebastian

At Nanthancode, in Thiruvananthapuram, in the 1990s, Anoop and Anila Jacob would go to school together with their friends. While he studied in Christ Nagar, she was in Nirmala Bhavan. She remembers the uniform he wore. “It was a white shirt, navy blue pants, maroon tie, and black shoes,” she says. One day, when they were in Class 9, Anoop took Anila aside and told her that he loved her. “I also liked him, but I kept quiet,” she says.

They were family friends. While Anila's father was a superintendent engineer in the irrigation department, Anoop's father, T.M. Jacob, was the irrigation and water supply minister. “There was a close relationship between the two families,” says Anila. “Soon, our parents came to know that we had feelings for each other, but there was no negative signal. One reason could be that we belonged to the same church.”

Because of his father's position, Anoop and Anila could not go out for dates. “But we met often at family functions,” she says. Like all ‘in love’ couples, they exchanged gifts often. “In the beginning it was cards,” says Anila. “But during the pre-degree course, Anoop gave me a Titan gold watch on my birthday. It was a precious gift for me.”

After their graduation, they tied the knot on May 23, 2002 at the St. Peter's Orthodox Jacobite church. And after ten years of marriage, Anila likes her husband's simple and loving nature. “There is no show but I know that Anoop cares for me,” she says. “He has also given me a lot of freedom.”

Anoop is also very religious. “Every night before he goes to sleep he will say his prayers, and read the Bible,” says Anila. “He will never miss this, even if he is travelling. He places a lot of importance on this. I am not so devout, as compared to him.”

As for his drawbacks, Anoop was an introvert for many years. “He used to have a small circle of friends,” says Anila. But all this changed when T.M. Jacob died of liver failure on October 30, 2011, at the age of 61. “Anoop had to take the plunge immediately and step into his father's shoes,” says Anila. “He had to learn to be outgoing and friendly with all types of people. It was during the campaigning for the Piravom seat [which was held by his father] that he began to change.” Incidentally, Anoop (UDF) won the March 2012 election by defeating M.J. Jacob of the LDF.

But Anoop has paid a price, following this win. “He told me that he has been so busy, he has not been able to grieve over his father's death,” says Anila. Today, apart from being the MLA from Piravom, Anoop is also the Food & Civil Supplies Minister.

As a result of the twin responsibilities, Anoop is hardly ever at home. “He will leave at 8.30 a.m. and return only by 11 p.m.,” says Anila “There is no time for the family now. I have adjusted to this because I have seen how busy my father-in-law was. But I worry about the impact on our children, T.M. Jacob, 5 ½, and Lyrah, 3 ½. I always tell him that whenever he is travelling, he should try and talk to the kids on the phone. They are seeing him very rarely now. On the weekends, he has to go to the constituency at Piravom.” As a result, Anoop and Anila rarely have any time together.

But, recently, on Ramzan, when Anoop had some free time, they went and saw a film, ‘Ustad Hotel’. “Can you believe that we saw a film after six months?” she says. “We no longer have a normal life.”

In fact, she says, the first seven years were the most wonderful when Anoop was practicing in the High Court and they lived in Vytilla, Kochi, far away from the glare of the public spotlight.

Anila has found it difficult to adjust to the limelight. “Whenever we go out, people stare at us and I do feel uncomfortable,” she says. But when times are tough, Anila remembers some of the good moments of their marriage.

On their second wedding anniversary, the couple flew to Mauritius. “We went para-gliding,” says Anila. “We were up in the sky, floating like a bird, and holding hands. It was a moment of togetherness that I will always cherish.”

Asked what is needed to make a marriage successful, Anila says, “Adjustment is very important. But I also feel that we should take advice from our parents. My father-in-law was deeply involved in our lives and it had a positive impact on us. I would urge newly-married couples to see the help of their parents whenever they face any problems.”    

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)  

All in the right 'Spirit'

Director Ranjith reflects on the success of his movie on alcoholism, ‘Spirit’, and why all his recent films have done well at the box office

Photo: Director Ranjith (sitting) with actor Tiny Tom 

By Shevlin Sebastian

When Joseph Mathew, a cine fan, watched the scene in the film, ‘Spirit’, when Mani, the drunken plumber, was beating his wife, with violent thumps to the head, he shielded his face and looked downwards. “The scene was far too intense and powerful,” he says. “I could not bear to look.”

A few days after the movie was released, another ‘Spirit’ viewer called Ranjith. “He vowed that he would never beat his wife again,” says the director. A woman said that if the film had been made five years ago, her husband, who died of alcoholism, would have been alive. One young man called to say that just like Mani suspected that his eldest son was the product of an extramarital relationship of his wife, he was also in the same boat. It was no surprise to Ranjith when he was told that the boy’s father was a drunkard. “You cannot think straight when you are an alcoholic,” says Ranjith.

'Spirit' is about a former bank employee, Raghunandan (played by Mohanlal), who becomes a famous TV anchor. He is an alcoholic who is divorced by his wife, because of his addiction. And as he slowly becomes entrapped in the disease, Mani's case brings about a transformation in Raghunandan. Not surprisingly, in Kerala, which has one of the highest per capita consumption of liquor in India, the film struck a chord among the audience. “The movie showcases the dangers of drinking too much,” says Joseph.

This is Ranjith's third film in a row which has become a hit. The earlier two were 'Pranchiyettan & the Saint' and 'Indian Rupee'. While 'Indian Rupee' was about a real estate agent trying to make a fast buck, in 'Pranchiyettan', a merchant displays a golden heart and has lengthy one-sided conversations about life with a saint.

Asked why the movies did well Ranjith says, “I have addressed social issues, which have been troubling society for a while. Apart from that, I have been honest. In all the three films, there were no ingredients to make it a hit; like colourful songs, action sequences, fights, and peppy cinematography. The content is what made them do well. In short, the script is king. Without a good script, no matter what technical skills you possess, the film can never do well.”

But Ranjith takes a while to find a subject. “I always ask myself, ‘why am I doing this theme?’” he says. “If there is a convincing answer within me, then everything will shape up beautifully.”

Even though he writes the basic script, within weeks, he keeps changing the dialogues till the last minute. “As the shooting unfolds, I might get new ideas,” he says. “There is a constant creative work going on in my mind. There should be an answer to questions like, 'What is the reason for this particular scene?', 'Should I film it?'”

Of course, it helped that superstar Mohanlal came up with a superlative performance in ‘Spirit’. “He is the best actor in the Malayalam film industry,” says Ranjith. “Writers and directors have not been able to use the full range of his talent. In short, he is not being challenged.”

But in 'Spirit' Mohanlal rose to the challenge. All thanks to Ranjith who is in a creative bloom in the second-half of his career.

(The New Indian Express, South India and Delhi)

Off the beaten track

The Delhi-based Ranbir Kaleka’s work is unusual, imaginative, and food for thought  

Photos: A collage of the haveli in which artist Ranbir Kaleka lived as a child; Ranbir Kaleka

By Shevlin Sebastian

The first sight of artist Ranbir Kaleka was a little disconcerting. He was wearing a hat, inside the Children's Park auditorium, apart from a coat. It was his signature dress throughout his Kochi visit.

Right next to him, on a large screen, there was a picture of a haveli in a village in Patiala. It was run-down, and of exposed red brick. At the background a tower could be seen. “I lived in this house for the first five years,” he says. “It was a very sheltered life. I did not know how people lived outside. I spent a lot of time alone. In fact, I did not know the passage of time. Because of the slowness, every little event was a moment of significance.”

So Ranbir would watch how the shadow moved from one end of the courtyard to the other. “Although I could not actually see it moving,” he says. “There were older parts of the house which were closed and shuttered off. My family moved away and I entered these rooms only when I was 12 or 13 during school vacations.”

Once, on one such visit, he used a ladder and went up to the attic and found a little box. “It looked very dirty,” he says. “But inside it was pristine and there was a red velvet background. There were little pockets and instruments for making cartridges. This led to a lifelong fascination with objects and shapes.”

Ranbir was giving a lecture at the 'Let's Talk' event set up by the organisers of the Kochi Muziris Biennale. The Delhi-based artist had come to check out the sites selected for the Biennale.

Meanwhile, his reminiscences continued. “I would draw with charcoal on the walls as a child,” he says. “Sometimes, my mother would say, it is time for lunch. I would tell her I have to finish the drawing. But once my uncle told me that the Italian masters would take years to finish a painting. That had a big impact on me. I slowed down tremendously. Later, in my career as an artist, I would sometimes take three years to finish a painting.”

Ranbir went on to show paintings from his college days. One called 'I am Homesick' is of a pushcart in a railway station. “There was a strong smell of pickle, which reminded me of home,” he says. “I painted this pushcart and put a pickle jar on top with a granny-like figure inside. On the right, there is a figure from the haveli. There were some dark rooms and I imagined all kind of beings existing there.” 

In a mixed media work, a nude man is on his knees and keenly observing a spinning top, while two women stand at the door and are looking outside. It seems extremely real and with its size, 73 x 55 inches, it is a very large painting. If one were to see it in actuality, it would have a stunning impact. 

In a work titled, ‘Lion and the milk bowl’, the animal stands near the door of a room, looking incongruous in that setting. A woman, with an exposed breast is holding a bowl of milk, while in the upper floor, there are several nude men wrestling. The image is so unusual and odd, that you tend to keep staring at it.

Most of Ranbir’s images look strange and unreal with unusual titles like, ‘Ochre Dust in a delusional paradise’ and ‘Man with beard or the itinerant librarian’s dilemma of choice and refusal’. How did he imagine some of the scenes? The art aficionados in the hall were “oohing” and “aahing’. But clearly he will not win any popularity contest with the philistines.  

At the end of the show, there was a video presentation which brought some of the paintings alive. In summing-up, Ranbir is an exceptional artist with a unique imagination and mind-set.  

(The New Indian Express, Kochi) 

“Do not hurt any living being”

Says preacher Narendra Ramji Nandu at the at the annual festival of Paryushan Parv at the Jain temple in Mattancherry

By Shevlin Sebastian

“If you treat somebody badly, you are treating God badly,” says Narendra Ramji Nandu during the annual festival of Paryushan Parv at the Jain temple in Mattancherry. “Suppose you have a friend, who is fair-skinned. If he were to go into a coal mine and then come out he will look black. But you know that he is white inside. Whatever a man looks on the outside, inside he is God. Remember that all human beings are white underneath. No doubt many do wrong actions, yet there is something good in everybody.”

The Mumbai-based Narendra is a preacher who, unlike a Jain monk, is married and has a son. For the past forty years, he has been traveling all over India preaching to people. But since 1998, he has been spending long stretches of time giving talks to Jains living in the USA and Europe.

In his talks, he enunciates on the principles of Jainism. “The most important concept is that of ahimsa or non-violence,” he says. “Do not hurt a living being, be it a man, animal or insect.”

He urges his fellow Jains to be truthful. “Be honest and do not steal from anybody,” says Narendra. “Lead a simple life. And do not forget the powerful impact of karma. Whatever incident takes place in your life, it is because of actions done in the previous life. If you do wrong in this life, you will suffer in your next life. If you do good things there will be positive results.” 

One of the most remarkable aspects about Narendra is that he eats one meal every second day. The rest of the time he survives on drinking warm water between sunrise and sunset. 13 months of this tapasya is called Varsithap. “For the past 16 years I am on Varsithap,” says Narendra. “As a result, I have no health problems whatsoever.”  

If you eat less food, paradoxically, you get more energy, especially if you learn to meditate at the same time. “When you meditate, the energy is conserved,” says Narendra. When asked about the right method, the preacher says, “Close your eyes and observe whatever thoughts come to the mind. Do not get attached to them. Just remain an observer. Over a period of time, you will notice that your mind has become silent. Another way is to concentrate on the breath going in and out. This will also help to silence the mind.”

It is clear that this combination of very little food and meditation has resulted in a tremendous energy radiating from Narendra. As businessman Malay R. Chandaria says, “At 9 p.m. after a long day of pujas and talks, he is as fresh as ever. In fact, Narendra Guru goes to sleep only at 2 a.m. and is awake at 5 a.m.”

For Dilip D Khona, the secretary of the Sri Cochin Swetamber Jain Sangh (SCSJS), it is Narendra’s humility that impresses him the most. “Apart from that, he is a spell-binding speaker,” says Dilip.   

In his travels all over the world, Narendra has noticed that the Jains, like people of all faiths, suffer from two major problems. One is poor health, caused by the stresses of daily life. And the other is money. “The lack of money is a problem,” says Narendra. “But when a person has too much wealth, he has no peace of mind.”

For the rich, he advocates sharing of the wealth. “This will create an inner happiness and will enable them to lead a simple life,” he says.

And, of course, Narendra advocates the constant chanting of the Navkar Mantra, the most powerful hymn in the Jain religion. It goes like this:

Namō arihantānam: I bow to the people who have gone before us

Namō siddhānam: I bow to the fully liberated souls

Namō āyariyānam: I bow to the spiritual leaders

Namō uvajjhāyānam: I bow to the teachers

Namō lōē savva sāhūnam: I bow to the monks

Says Nitin J Javeri, the treasurer of the SCSJS: “When Narendra Guru chants the Navkar mantra, there is a special energy in the hall. All of us experience inner peace and tranquility.”

In a world of endless conflicts and bloodshed, Narendra’s emphasis on love and spirituality is a much needed balm. 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi) 

In love with a 24x7 politician

COLUMN: Spouse's Turn 

Anna Linda talks about her life with Hibi Eden, one of the youngest MLAs

By Shevlin Sebastian

The first time Anna Linda met the politician Hibi Eden, it was to interview him about his memories of Onam for a television channel in 2008. This was held at the Hill Palace in Tripunithara. There were other politicians present. “Hibi was in a hurry,” says Anna. “I asked a few questions. He was quiet and silent, as compared to the others.”

Six months later, Anna was walking through Kaloor, Kochi, with her brother, Aristo, when she came across Hibi at the bus stand. The Kochi-based politician was on his way to Chalakudy. “Hi Hibi,” said Anna. It took some time for Hibi to recognise her. At the taping of the interview, she was wearing a saree, but now she was in jeans and a T-shirt. They talked a bit. Later, Hibi invited her to be her friend on the Orkut web site. “Soon, we were checking each other's profile and having online chats,” says Anna.

Over a period of time, that graduated to telephone calls. “It would be mostly about politics,” says Anna. It was just before the April, 2009 Parliamentary elections and there was talk that Hibi would be nominated by the Congress for the Ernakulam seat. However, in the end, Prof. K.V. Thomas got the nod.

Meanwhile, it was difficult for both of them to go out on dates. “Hibi was a known figure and if we did that tongues would wag,” says Anna. “So our romance was conducted mostly on the phone.”

A few months later, Hibi proposed. Anna asked for some time to think over it. After a week, she said yes. “I knew he was the guy for me,” she says. Anna could tell her parents, but Hibi had nobody. “He lost his mother when he was young and his father died when he was in college,” says Anna. “Hibi is the one responsible for his family. At that time, his younger sister was not yet married.”

Anyway, on January 30, 2012, they got married at the St Francis Church at Kaloor, followed by a grand reception at a star hotel which was attended by more than a thousand people.

Regarding his qualities, Anna says, “He is a transparent person. Hibi tells me all about all his experiences during the day. If he meets any of my former colleagues he will text me immediately. And I will message them saying, 'You met Hibi!' And they will tell me they are amazed by how well we are communicating with each other.”

Asked whether Hibi is a different person at home, Anna says, “Of course he is. That is the case with anybody. Hibi, at home, is very relaxed and jovial. He is like a normal 29 -year-old. But, in my eyes, he is a phenomenal man.”

The big advantage for Anna is that they both have the same likes. “I love films and he is a movie buff,” she says. “Whenever we get any free time we rush off to see films, be it Malayalam, Hindi, or  English.”

Hibi is also a foodie, like Anna. “We eat out two to three times a week,” she says.

But there are drawbacks. Anna had to get used to the loss of privacy. “The house is always crowded from 6 a.m. till 9 p.m.,” she says. “In the first few months, it took me time to adjust to the constant presence of visitors. That is the politician's life. The people show the same love and affection to me which they extend to Hibi. I have now got used to it.”

And she has also got used to the fact that a politician's life is very busy. “If Hibi is having a fever and wants to take rest, he might not be able to do so if there is an important programme coming up,” says Anna. “He cannot take leave from this public job. It is 24 hours and seven days a week. The maximum number of functions takes place on Saturday and Sunday.”

Even their honeymoon to Dubai was also affected. “We went for seven days, but had to return earlier because there was an emergency in Kerala,” says Anna.

But there are moments which Anna will always cherish. Once she had fallen sick and went to spend time with her parents in Guruvayur. She missed Hibi very much but because it was the weekend, she knew he would not be able to come and see her. However, at midnight, there was a knock. When her mother opened the door, it was Hibi.

“I was touched,” says Anna. “He had come all the way from Kochi just to spend two hours with me. Then he returned because people would be waiting to meet him from 6 a.m. onwards. Hibi surprises me like this all the time.”

About Hibi Eden    

Hibi Eden is a member of the Indian National Congress. He was elected from Ernakulam district in 2011 as a member of the Legislative Assembly of Kerala. Since 2009, Hibi has been the president of the National Students Union of India.

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)