Seminarians assist Traffic Police

By Shevlin Sebastian

Those who pass through Aluva on certain days will see young men in white T-shirts (with an orange logo, 'Road Safety'), black trousers and blue caps directing the traffic. Most will assume they are traffic wardens. But these youngsters are students of the St. Joseph's Pontifical Seminary at Mangalapuzha. 

And twenty of them have been assisting the policemen during peak hours twice a week for the past several days: between 8 to 11 a.m. on Thursdays, and from 4 to 8 p.m. on Saturdays. They stand at the Paravur, Pulinchode, and Bypass junctions, apart from busy spots in Aluva town.

The idea occurred to Fr. Joyce Kaithakkottil more than a year ago when he had gone, along with the Janamaithri police, to give classes on alcohol and drugs in schools. Fr. Joyce felt that it would be an enriching experience if the seminary students mingled with the public.

But thereafter Fr. Joyce was transferred to the Pune Papal Seminary and it was Fr. Martin Kallungal who approached the Circle Inspector of Aluva Shiva Kumar. “Shiva Kumar Sir was very welcoming,” says Fr. Martin. “He said that he was happy to know that there are people who are willing to help the police.”

Later, Sub-Inspector CL Davis went to the seminary, and gave the selected students an orientation course on traffic behavior, rules and the functioning of the traffic lights.

One of the students on duty is Joyce Varghese. “My job is to assist the policemen at the junctions,” he says. “When there is a long line, the vehicles which are behind the lorries cannot see the signal. So I go closer and indicate to them that the signal has turned green and it is time to move on.”

Joyce has no doubts about the reasons behind the logjam at Aluva. “The bridge over the Periyar River has only two lanes,” he says. “Plus, there are a lot of potholes. This slows down the vehicular movement. We need a bigger bridge.”

Interestingly, Joyce says, the most rash drivers are youngsters on bikes. “I always advise them to be careful,” he says.

Not surprisingly, during the course of his work, Joyce has received sarcastic comments from drivers. 'Repair the roads, before telling us how to drive,” is the most common comment. “But many motorists also smile at us.”

Davis is also smiling. “These boys are doing a good job,” he says. “When they stand in front of schools, they help the children to cross the road safely.”

Now and then, the SI will take a few of them to a nearby shop and give them a cup of tea.​

(Published in The New Indian Express, Kerala edition) 

A Cross-Cultural Love

COLUMN: Spouse's Turn

Pony Verma talks about life with the actor Prakash Raj

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Telugu film director Puri Jagannadh gave a CD of his film, ‘Amma Nanna O Tamila Ammayi’, to Bollywood choreographer Pony Verma, so that she could have an idea of the films he had directed before. While watching it, Pony was much taken up by the acting of a 70-year-old man.  

When Pony asked Puri, who was having a chat with superstar Nagarjuna, about the old man, both of them started laughing.

Then Puri said, “He is not that old, but he plays old characters. He is the Shaan of South India. His name is Prakash Raj.”

Sometime later, for the Tamil film, 'Ponniyin Selvam', Pony was asked to do a song with Prakash. The producer told Pony that with great difficulty he had got the dates from Prakash, and that too for one night only.

But Pony did not take an entire night. Instead, she took only four hours and told Prakash, “Sir, it is pack-up time.”

Prakash said, “Are you sure?”

Pony said, “Yes, I have finished all your work.”

Prakash was obviously impressed because when the legendary director K. Balachander was looking for a new choreographer for his Tamil film, ‘Poi’, in which Prakash was the producer, he recommended Pony’s name.

Pony flew to Kandy in Sri Lanka to shoot the song's sequence with Uday Kiran the hero, and that was where Prakash and she grew close. They remained in touch after the shoot was over. “After a while the friendship turned to love,” says Pony.

During this time Prakash was going through his divorce from his wife Lalitha.

Soon, Prakash proposed to Pony. Thereafter, he flew to Mumbai and met Pony’s parents. “He said, ‘I have two daughters [Pooja, 18, and Meghana, 8] and can never leave them. They are my priority’,” says Pony. “My family liked his honesty. They knew our friendship had been going on for a while.”

The wedding, according to Arya Samaj rites, took place on August 24, 2010, at Mumbai. While Prakash is a Kannadiga from Bangalore, Pony is a Punjabi Hindu. At the reception in Mumbai, Pony’s high point was when Bollywood actress Sreedevi walked in with her husband, Boney Kapoor.

“I am a big fan of Sreedevi,” says Pony. “So I was star-struck at my own wedding. I could never imagine that a star like Sreedevi would come. She shook my hand and said, ‘Congrats, and have a happy life’.”

Indeed, Pony has had a happy life. When asked about Prakash’s plus points, she says, “The most beautiful thing about Prakash is that he is a family man. When my father was admitted to the hospital, in Chennai, he made sure he was present, even though he is an extremely busy man.”

Prakash also likes to take holidays with the entire family. On July, 2013, he took his mother, daughters, Pony’s dad, brother, wife and two children, apart from Pony, to Pattaya in Thailand. There he hired an entire ship and the family went to the middle of the ocean. “The journey was so peaceful, with the family, listening to music, having good food and enjoying the scenery,” says Pony. “We were speechless by the wonder of it.”

Sometimes, Prakash will give holidays to his friends, also. “He will say, ‘Oh, you have not been to Bangkok, then you must go,’ and will pay for the ticket and accommodation,” says Pony.

He is also a romantic at heart. Once during the Valentine season, he whisked Pony off to Agatti, in the Lakshadweep Islands. “We did underwater snorkeling, and enjoyed going for cycle rides,” says Pony. “The beaches are beautiful. It was [actor] Prithviraj who had suggested the place.”

At home, like most artists, Prakash is moody by nature. “He has a short temper,” says Pony. “If he is with somebody with whom he is not comfortable, he will make it obvious and would want that person to leave. This straightforwardness can be a drawback.”

But Pony has adjusted quickly. “Since I am in the same profession, I understand the pressures he is going through,” she says. “So when he returns from a shoot, I always give him the time and the space to be alone, so that he can unwind. And when I feel that he has become relaxed, only then will I start a conversation with him.” 

Sometimes, to unwind, they will go for long drives. In fact, when Pooja was studying at the Kodaikanal International School, Prakash and Pony would drive from Hyderabad or Chennai to meet her. It was a smooth and enjoyable ride because Prakash has an Audi. 

Asked whether the 12 year age-gap is a hindrance, Pony says, “In every relationship, whether there is an age gap or not, there are positives as well as negatives. You cannot escape it. So even if I had married a man of my age, I am sure there would have been minor issues. But you learn to compromise. Love is the emotion that will bind a marriage. Nothing else matters.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram) 

And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Malayalam writer KR Meera's best-seller, 'Aarachaar', about an executioner's family in Kolkata, has been brought out in an English translation, 'Hang Woman' (Everyone loves a good hanging)

Photo by Mithun Vinod 

By Shevlin Sebastian 

'A clicking sound will be all that you will hear when the noose tightens. That's the sound of the bones in the neck breaking. With this, the nerves that connect the body to the brain are cut, and the hanged man loses consciousness. If ever there is even a tiny flaw, for that single moment, his nails will grow longer. They will tear at the flesh. He will pass urine and stools'.

This is an excerpt from KR Meera's absorbing novel, 'Hang Woman' (Everyone loves a Good Hanging). Originally published in Malayalam as 'Aarachaar' in 2011, it has remained a best-seller ever since. Now Hamish Hamilton has brought out an English version, which has been ably translated by J. Devika.

It tells the story of the Grddha Mullick family of West Bengal who have been executioners for several generations. The present executioner, Phanibhushan, who has done more than 400 hangings, has become old. He successfully petitions the government to give the job to his daughter Chetna, 22. Now she is tasked to do an upcoming hanging.

What is remarkable about the novel is that it is set in Kolkata, a place the Kottayam-based Meeradoes not know at all, except through the translated works of Rabindranath Tagore, Tara Shankar Bandopadhyay and Bimal Mitra.

Asked why she decided to take the bold step of setting her novel in an alien environment, Meerasays, “I had always wanted to write a book on women empowerment in India, but I was not sure where to place my characters. It was at this time that I came to know about the hanging of Dhananjay Chatterjee [a killer of a teenage girl], at Kolkata, on August 14, 2004. So, I thought it may be a good idea to set the story there.”

Meera did research through books, newspapers, as well as the Internet and collected materials on the people, police, streets, prostitutes, local culture, as well as the last executioner of Bengal, Nata Mallick (1921-2009). Thereafter, she started to write and took one-and-a-half years to complete the novel.

And now the English version is getting good reviews. Meera smiles happily at the news, during a book promotion tour at Kochi. She comes across as a soft-spoken person with an understated intensity. Her arresting feature is her unblinking kohl-lined black eyes.

Today, Meera is regarded as a star among the younger writers working in Malayalam literature. A prominent and award-winning journalist for many years, she quit, in 2005, to be a full-time writer. She initially made her mark by publishing collections of short stories like 'Ormayude Njarambu', 'Moha Manja', and 'Ave Maria'. In fact, 'Ave Maria' won the prestigious Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award in 2009.

Meera is also a columnist as well as script writer. Incidentally, the script for 'Ore Kadal' (which won the National Award for Best Music Direction), which Meera co-wrote, has a Bengali connection. It is based on a novel, 'Hirak Deepthi', written by one of Bengal's premier writers, the late Sunil Gangopadhyay.

However, despite the success of 'Hang Woman', Meera's heart remains with the short story. “Every short story is a challenge,” says Meera. “The writing should be poetic and crisp. It requires a lot of editing and the careful selection of words. In a novel, things can be a bit loose, at times.” 

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

A mix of Strawberry and Theyyam

Mollywood music composer Sharreth has brought out an album of folk songs called 'StrawberryTheyyam', which celebrates the life of the tribals of Kerala

By Shevlin Sebastian

A few months ago, Mollywood music composer Sharreth woke up one morning feeling guilty. He remembered that lyricist Sasikala Menon had sent him the words of a few folk songs several weeks earlier. And he had not done anything about it.

So Sharreth went to his harmonium, and from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., he sat and wrote the tunes for all the nine songs. “I was in an inspired state,” he says. “Sasikala had written them well. Four songs have western accompaniments. I wanted to make it attractive to the modern generation.”

But when Sharreth came across one particular lyric, ‘Kannu karuthu mukham veluthu' (Black eyes and fair face), he decided to do it in the 'a capella' style. Which means that there is no music. The singers use their hands to clap and stamp their feet to make sounds. This has become a popular video on You Tube.

For this song, Sharreth called on a group of youngsters who had been contestants in a music programme on TV, as well as Amrutha Suresh, a bright young Mollywood talent.

“Usually when I sing with Sharreth Sir, there is some kind of music accompaniment,” says Amrutha. “But for this song, I noticed that there was nothing. I could not understand what he was doing. To sing without any music is challenging. And after I had finished, he did not let me hear it. It was a puzzle.”

In fact, Amrutha never knew that it was an 'a capella' song. Later, when Sharreth sent Amrutha the song, she was shocked. “I never imagined the song would turn out like this,” she says. “It was an unique experience.”

The name of the CD, brought out by East Coast Audios, is also unique. It is called 'StrawberryTheyyam'. “This was suggested by the actor Anoop Menon,” says Sasikala. “It is a nice mix of the East and the West.”

The lyrics are unusual. It is about the life of the tribals of Kerala. “I had only written devotional songs,” says Sasikala. “So I wanted to move into a new direction. I did a lot of research about the tribals and then wrote the lyrics. One song is a Ganapati hymn of the Adivasis. Another is of children as they watch their mother harvesting the paddy while lightning strikes the sky. Some are about love.”

In fact, Sasikala had purposely sent it to Sharreth as she felt that he was the one who could do justice to it. “He has an unique style,” says Sasikala. “I knew he would do it in a different way than any other composer.”

Incidentally, for the other songs, Sharreth used established singers like Afzal, Vidhu Pratap, Jyotsna, Nisha, Pradeep Palluruthy and the actress, Remya Nambeesan. 

Meanwhile, when asked about his experience, Sharreth says, “The charm of doing an album is that you have creative freedom. When I work for a film, I have to listen to the story and do the song according to the mood. I also have to obey the director who is the captain. But in an album, you don't have to listen to anybody. You can try some experimentation, and nobody is there to object to it.”

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

Life in the East and West

Joseph M Cheruvelil's autobiography, 'A Passage to America – Notes of an Adopted Son', details his life in Kerala, as well as America

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, in 1963, Joseph M Cheruvelil entered a restaurant in Mississippi, along with a white man, David Smith (name changed). They waited for several minutes, but were not served. Finally, David went to the cash counter and said, “Are you blind? Can't you see us? We need food.”

The man did not say anything. However, a few minutes later, his boss came out and said, looking at Joseph, “We cannot serve this 'boy'.” (In the Mississippi of those times, anyone who was coloured was called a boy, whether he was 10 or 50 years old).

David said, “Why not?”

The owner said, “This is Mississippi. Get the hell out.”

David went out and got a hunting gun from his car. Then he walked back in and said, “Give us food or else.....”

It was then that Joseph began to feel nervous. “I realised that if he did something drastic, the police would come,” he says, while on a brief visit to Kochi. “We would have been labelled as 'Communists' or 'trouble makers'. So I ran out.”

David followed, cursed Joseph, and said, “Are you a coward? You don't want to change society?”

Joseph said, “I could have got killed just trying to have some food. I was a young person, and had a life ahead of me. I had to think about my siblings and parents back home in Kerala. I have no regrets about the decision I made.”

This anecdote has been recounted in Joseph's beautifully-written but large (764 pages) autobiography, 'A Passage to America – notes of an adopted son'.

The books deals with Joseph's childhood at Kannadi village in Kuttanad, his graduate years at University College in Thiruvananthapuram, his stints of teaching at Christ College, Irinjalakuda, and St. Xavier's College in Tirunelveli. 

In 1960, he secured a scholarship, went to the United States, and studied for five years in two universities: Loyola University in Chicago, and the University of Mississippi. Thereafter, he became a teacher of English at St. John's University, New York, for 39 years.

The idea to write the book was a seed within him for many years. “Whenever I read a good book, I would say to myself, 'Gee, I should try to write something like this',” he says. “But my teaching took all of my energy and attention. So when I retired, in 2005, I thought I should write something.”

Joseph took three-and-a-half years to write the book. And he has covered an array of subjects: education, family, children, living within one's needs, personal finances, politics, leadership, and government spending. “I also wrote about people who feel lost during cultural and economic revolutions, as well as the underdogs, the helpless, and handicapped,” he says.

Joseph has aimed the book for a specific audience. “In America, this is for the second-generation immigrants, who do not have a clear picture of India,” he says. “In India, I wanted to give the college-going generation an idea of life in the United States, its history, culture, society, and technology.”

When asked whether the Twitter generation will have the patience to read such a big book, Joseph says, “I don't expect anybody to read the entire book. They can read parts of it. But I was keen to document the changes which have taken place in the past 100 years.”

However, there have not been many changes in the education system in India. “In fact, the system is rigid,” says Joseph. “If you studied four years and missed the final examination you will have to wait for a while for your next chance. In the American system, for a BA degree, you have to complete 36 courses. You can finish it in 36 years or 4 years. Usually, it is 9 courses each year. But some students take courses in summer only, so they finish it in three years.”

Interestingly, 25 per cent of American students work full-time during the day. So, they go to evening school, from 6 to 9 pm. Because of this, some may take between five to seven years to complete a degree. Now, many older people are going to college, especially when they are closer to retirement. Others go back to college to advance their careers. “If a policeman in New York gets a BA degree, he is entitled to a promotion,” says Joseph. “So he will take evening courses. This flexibility is a good incentive for a lot of people to get an education. In India, education is boxed in.”

 Joseph is also disconcerted by the concept of donations in Kerala schools and colleges. “There is no school or college in the United States which admits a student based on donations,” he says. “On the other hand, financial aid is given to the economically weak students. Sometimes, they will ask you to take a loan, at the lowest interest, from the government.”

Finally, when asked to self-describe himself, Joseph says, “I left as a loyal citizen of India. Then I became a citizen of the US. And recently I became an overseas citizen of India. I am eclectic in taste, a Catholic by religion, and a Hindu by culture.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram) 

Myriad Paths to the Same Universal Energy

By Shevlin Sebastian

When I worked for a newspaper group at Kolkata, several years ago, I came across a senior artist called Samir Biswas. He was well-known for doing pencil sketches of Kolkata which he would print up as cards. It had a steady sale.

Samirda, who died in his early fifties, a few years ago, was a soft-spoken and gentle person. He and I would have regular talks on art, literature, philosophy, politics, human relationships, and the meaning of life.

It was during one of our conversations that he told me about the philosophy of one of West Bengal's greatest spiritual figures, Sree Ramakrishna Paramahansa. Throughout his life, Sree Ramakrishna propounded the belief that there is an Universal Energy, and the path to it is through myriad ways. So, you could approach the Divine through Hinduism, Jainism, Buddhism, Christianity and Islam, among many other religions.

This concept was deeply satisfying. And I accepted it. I made trips to Dakshineswar and prayed at the Kali temple, where Sree Ramakrishna had been a priest. This was easy for me, because, at heart, I am a liberal. I believe and respect all religions.

Though a Christian, I listen to the Gayatri Mantra, Hinduism's holiest hymn, several times every day because that is the recorded song on the calling bell of my home. In times of crisis, I pray to Allah, Guru Nanak, Lord Buddha, Jesus Christ and Lord Krishna.

Once when my TV suddenly stopped functioning, I prayed to Lord Krishna, and after a while it started working again. My theory is simple: you get special blessings if you pray to Gods of religions other than the one you are born in. This may be true: at the St. Michael’s church in Mahim, Mumbai, the St. Antony’s church at Kochi, and the Khwaja Moinunddin Chisti shrine at Ajmer, there are numerous people from other faiths.  

But times are changing. Ever since the Babri Masjid demolition on December 6, 1992, there has been an entrenched religious fundamentalism in India. Soon after that cataclysmic event, a close friend, who was a liberal, railed against Christians and Muslims. That wound, unfortunately, has not healed. Today, when strangers introduce each other, you can see the labeling in the eyes: ‘Oh he is a Hindu, Muslim, Christian’.

Apart from people, cities are changing. A writer recently told me of how Mumbai is different now. “In the 1980s, Mumbai was a beautiful, laid-back, accepting, and liberating sort of place,” he says. “There was a sense of freedom in the air, but all that changed after December 6.”

Nowadays, it is a tense place. “There is communalism in the hearts of the people,” he says. “A lot of the conversation that we used to have earlier you cannot have any more because you have to be aware of the religious community that the person belongs to. When there is censorship of conversation in society, it is the beginning of the end.”

Indeed, for liberals, it is a fraught time. We lack the ferocious will power that right-wingers have. We want to recover the old India that loved all communities, but don’t seem to have the numbers.

Sadly, for us, time is running out. 

('Middle' in The Indian Express, South India)  

A Drop of Water

This morning, I saw a drop of water hovering on the edge of the tap in the wash-basin without falling off.

Was it trying to impress the drops behind it, by balancing itself on the edge?

Or was it scared and unwilling to take the plunge, like most of us?

And who knows if it fell, and went down the pipe, it could have met the love of its life.

Or maybe it might have met a motivational drop who could have said, 'Why are you staying in this house? This journalist fellow has no money. Move on. Expand your horizons. Be a drop in the Niagara Falls." 

However, for the human, it was a wondrous sight on a cloudy day.

A Love Duet

 COLUMN: Spouse's Turn 

Deepthi talks about life with the singer Vidhu Prathap 

Photo by Kaviyoor Santhosh

By Shevlin Sebastian

One August morning, in 2008, Deepthi and Vidhu Prathap bought a map and entered the Singapore zoo. “When we walked in, we saw that all the people were walking in the opposite direction,” says Deepthi. “We wondered why. But we continued to walk ahead. After a while, we reached another gate, but that turned out to be the entrance. It was then that we realised that we had entered the park through the exit, which explained why all the people were going past us.”

Deepthi laughs as she recounts this. “You can't blame us, because this was the first time we were together in a foreign country,” she says. The couple had gone to Singapore for their honeymoon, following their marriage, on August 20, 2008, at Thiruvananthapuram. It was a day she will not forget easily, not only since it was their wedding day, but because there was an All-India bandh.

“People kept calling from the early morning to ask whether the wedding had been postponed,” says Deepthi. “But we did not do so. And by the grace of God, all the guests were able to come.”

But there were tense moments for Deepthi. The beautician backed off at the last moment, because of the bandh. “That was upsetting, even though I had assured her I would send a car along with a police escort,” she says. “In the end, I had to do my own make-up.”

Deepthi met Vidhu for the first time at the former's dance teacher Girija's school. “Vidhu had come to see Girija's brother,” she says. “I was introduced to Vidhu as the person who sang the 'Meesa Madhavan' song. Since he had just passed out of Mar Ivanios College, which is where I did my graduation, we had a few mutual friends.”

In 2003, some of the seniors were planning a music video. They asked Deepthi to do a dance sequence, while Vidhu did the singing. “That was when Vidhu and I worked together,” she says. “But there were no sparks between the two of us.”

However, following a marriage between Vidhu and Deepthi's cousins, a few relatives felt that they could be a good combination. So, they told Vidhu's father.

When Vidhu heard that his father was planning to send a proposal to Deepthi's parents, he told his family that since he knew Deepthi, he would ask her whether it was okay.

“I said it would be fine, as long as our horoscopes are okay,” says Deepthi. “Both our families observed the horoscopes very strictly.”

In the end, it all worked out fine.

Asked about her husband's plus points, Deepthi says, “When he goes for concerts he meets all types of people. Though most treat him well, there have been some bitter experiences. But Vidhu always remains cool, no matter what the provocation.”

He is also a family person. “Whereever he goes, for his shows, he prefers that either his father or I go along with him,” says Deepthi. “And even if the programmes finish late, he likes to come back home, because he enjoys home food.”

Not many people know that Vidhu is a die-hard foodie. “He loves all kinds of food,” says Deepthi. “Vidhu told me that if he had not been a singer he would have been a chef. In his spare time, he is always watching food shows on TV.”

When Vidhu had gone to Australia for an eight-city tour, at one place, he saw that they were selling crocodile meat. “Immediately, he stood in the queue to buy it,” says Deepthi. “I told him that he had to perform in shows. What will happen if he fell sick?”

Deepthi got an answer to that question in April. A day before he left for a programme in Dubai, Vidhu was playing cricket with a few boys near his house at Thiruvananthapuram. Suddenly, the ball hit Vidhu's eye. He felt that something was hindering his eyesight. So, he was taken to the hospital. After tests, the doctors put a large patch over his eye and told him to take rest for two days.

Meanwhile, the family advised Vidhu to cancel the programme. But Vidhu was determined to go. And his logic was simple. “Vidhu said the brochure was ready and all the tickets had been sold,” says Deepthi. “It would not be right to cancel the programme and cause a loss to the organisers.”

Nevertheless, Vidhu has his drawbacks. “If I tell him about a wedding in the family it would seem he is listening, but, later, when the particular family members talk about it, he will have no recollection,” says Deepthi. “Then they will think I have not informed Vidhu.”

Sometimes, his tolerance can be a drawback. “I feel there should be times when Vidhu should make a stand,” says Deepthi. “But his reasoning is that he does not want to cause distress. But I tell him that if you are being ill-treated, there is no point in being nice.”

Asked for tips for a good marriage, Deepthi says, “You will enjoy your marriage if you have an understanding with your spouse. You should be transparent and have love for each other. If there is love, all the problems can be solved.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram) 

 

The Psyche of the Malayali

The pros and cons of the Keralite, both inside and outside the state

By Shevlin Sebastian

When SS Agarwal, a businessman, came to Kochi from Salem in 1985 to establish a flour mill, he was apprehensive. Every day when he would open the newspaper, he would see that one company or the other was on strike. At that time, there were eight flour mills in and around Kochi. “Out of that, four were always closed because of a perennial labour problem,” he says.

When he enquired, he discovered that the unions, instead of asking for Rs 10, would ask for Rs 100. The management, instead of giving Rs 10, would only want to give Rs 1. “There was no scope for compromise,” he says.

But Agarwal opted for a compromise. He met the union leaders and came to a mutually agreed amount to be paid to the labourers. Then the charade began. Meeting after meeting took place every night outside the factory where the leaders harangued the management.

“This was to show that the leaders were with the labourers,” says Agarwal. For the tenth meeting Agarwal was invited. Then the union leaders shouted at him, in front of the audience, and pretended to punch him. Finally, a settlement was reached.

“By this method, I did not lose a single day to a strike,” he says. “Today, however, things have changed because a lot of the labour come from outside the state. The problem with Malayalis is that, most of the time, they are not flexible.”

Agarwal was speaking at the discussion, ‘The Malayali psyche’ at the Wednesday Club, which is a Kochi-based forum to develop public speaking and leadership skills.

The noted writer and intellectual KL Mohana Varma, who had been an administrative and accounts chief of the Integrated Fisheries Project of the government of India, in 1976, had several interactions with unions at Kochi. 

“The union people were good workers, but they wanted promotions without qualifications,” he says. “I refused, so they threatened me with physical violence.”

But these workers could be adaptable. Once when a Telugu film crew arrived, they wanted to take some shots of people jumping into the water and doing swimming. They offered to pay Rs 50 per day. Varma asked the union leaders whether they were interested.

“In the end, all these people became film actors, and started jumping into the water,” he says. “That is a Malayali for you. He can adapt to anything.”

The retired senior technocrat Dr KPP Nambiar says that the Malayali does not know how to deal with equals. “Either you are below me or above me,” says Nambiar. “When he is abroad, like in the Middle East, and has to clean the toilet, he cannot treat everybody as if they are under him. But when this same Malayali comes home, and sees a Tamilian doing the same work, he will tend to look down on him.”

Businessman CM Daniel, who has spent more than four decades abroad, agrees. “In Kerala, the Malayalis want to put down the other person,” he says. “They fight over small issues. It happens all the time on the road whether the driver is right or wrong.”

One reason is because the DNA of the Malayali has a high concentration of sarcasm, says senior lawyer George Tharakan. “A Malayali will never accept, appreciate or admire another Malayali instinctively,” he says.

Researcher Pradeep Koshy highlighted the Malayali’s reluctance to do blue-collar jobs. “They feel it is beneath their dignity,” he says. “So we encourage people from other states to come here and do the physical labour which we are supposed to do.”

However, it is not all doom and gloom. Senior professional TB Venugopal says, “Malayalis are good workers, provided you know how to make them work. Things are changing. The IT Parks at Kochi and Thiruvanthapuram have been a success. In the service sector we are very good, because the people are educated. We should not ignore our plus points.”

Johny Abraham, a leading member of the travel industry, says, “We are so successful in tourism, we must be doing something right. You go anywhere in the world, and you will notice that the Malayalis are doing well.”

Others agreed on the Malayali’s dynamism outside. “They are street-smart, adventurous and enterprising,” says senior professional Patrick Xavier. “They are a great support when you are in distress.”

Brigadier NV Nair (Retd.), who spent many years in different parts of India, says that the Malayalis outside are industrious, sincere, ambitious, and hard-working. “We are an educated and cultured people and know how to behave with others,” he says. “As a result, Malayalis have been successful outside.”

Interestingly, the majority of personnel help, secretarial or household, to most of the top political leaders in Delhi are Malayalis. “Even the private secretary of the late Phoolan Devi [former MP and dacoit], was a Malayali,” says Varma. “The cooks in Sonia Gandhi’s house are Malayalis. Who can outshine us?” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)

As the community dwindles, burials are few at Jewish cemetery

Photos: The Jewish flag; Josephhai Abraham

By Shevlin Sebastian

At 2.30 p.m. on a hot Monday, an ambulance entered the gates of the Jewish cemetery on the Kathrakadavu-Pullepady road at Kochi. Inside was a coffin which carried the body of Sippora Soniya, a spinster, who passed away at the age of 38. “She had been unwell for a long time,” says her younger brother, Mordokkayi Shafeer.

Her death is ringing the death knell for the community. Now there are only 29 Jews left, which includes a group of elderly people.

“In the past five years, there have been 10 deaths,” says Josephhai Abraham, of the Association of Kerala Jews, which consists of only six families. “As the community dwindles, the number of burials are becoming less.”

For a burial to take place, the Jews should have a quorum of ten male members, with a minimum age of 13, to conduct a Kaddish (hymns praising God). Soniya was lucky. A Jew from Vancouver and two from Israel had been in town to visit their in-laws. So they made up the ten for her quorum.

While prayers were also being read from the Torah, relatives placed bits of mud on the eyes and the lips of Soniya. “This is the mud from Jerusalem,” says Josephhai. “It is an act of symbolism to say that she has seen Jerusalem.”

The one-acre cemetery was given to the Jews, in 1946, by the British, through R.K. Shanmukham Chetty, the Diwan of the Kingdom of Kochi, for a token sum of Re 1. It is used by the Jews who belong to the Kaduvumbagam and Thekkumbagam synagogues of Ernakulam.

While there are graves, with nicely designed tombstones, there are also many unmarked ones, with thick grass and plants growing around them. “According to Jewish religious law, once a burial is made, the grave cannot be disturbed,” says Josephhai. “The section, near the road, as well as the west side, is full. So, the space is getting less.” 

(Page 1, Kerala edition, New Indian Express) 

A Long-Running Love Story

COLUMN: Spouse's Turn 

Sangeetha talks about life with the director Saji Surendran 

Photo by Kaviyoor Santhosh

By Shevlin Sebastian 

It was a fight for the window seat in a school bus that first made Sangeetha aware of Saji Surendran. They were students in the Lourdes Mount Higher Secondary school at Vattappara, Thiruvananthapuram. “The seniors felt that they had a right to a window seat,” says Sangeetha. At that time, Sangeetha was in Class 5, while Saji was in Class 7.

Thereafter, Saji kept staring at Sangeetha. At school, her class was at some distance away from his. But he would always come there during the lunch break so that he could see Sangeetha.

On the last day after the annual exams, the school van was taking the students home. When Sangeetha stepped off at Nedumangad, the van had to go forward, take a reverse, and then go back. “I was waiting in front of my house to say goodbye to my friends,” says Sangeetha. “Everybody said bye and looked away, except for Saji, who turned his head and kept on staring at me. That was when a spark of affection sprang in my heart.”

Meanwhile, Saji's mother Vijaylakshmi was looking for a house, nearer to her office, the Hindustan Latex Limited, in Peroorkada. Incidentally, Saji's father worked in Dubai. And, amazingly, they got a place bang opposite Sangeetha's house. “I took this as a sign from God,” she says.

Soon Sangeetha got friendly with Saji's sister Asha. “After a while, Asha told me in a humorous way that Saji had feelings for me,” says Sangeetha. “Then one day she gave me a note and said it was from Saji. When I opened it, it was written, 'I Love You.' I got scared and excited at the same time.”

After a few days, Asha said, “What is your reply?” So, Sangeetha wrote a similar note and gave it to Asha.

As for Saji he had no doubts about his feelings. Once when his mother was standing outside, he said, “Do you want to see your future daughter-in-law?”

The mother said, “Where?”

Saji said, “Look straight ahead.”

And when she did so, she saw Sangeetha standing in front of her house.

Later, when they grew up, and were studying at Mahatma Gandhi College, things finally came out in the open. When Saji heard that Sangeetha had received a marriage proposal, through a telephone call that she had made to him, he met her mother, Vijayakumari, and said, “I came to tell you something serious. I want to marry your daughter, but I need some time.”

For Vijayakumari, there was a caste issue. While Sangeetha is a Nair, Saji is an Ezhava. Anyway, after many hurdles, both families agreed to the marriage. It took place on March 16, 2005, at an auditorium in Thiruvananthapuram. It had been 15 years since Saji and Surendran had first met.

On their wedding day, the entire batch of students, teachers, and the principal from their school were present. “I will never forget the sight of seeing so many of our school mates,” says Sangeetha.

In fact, a few days before the wedding Saji and Sangeetha had gone to the school to invite all the teachers. “The welcome that we got was unforgettable,” says Sangeetha. “All of them knew about our affair. There was a cake in the staff room which had been bought for some reason. But they made me cut it and share it with Saji.”

Interestingly, when the horoscopes were matched, the astrologer said that they had been husband and life in their previous life. “That is why we had such an attraction to each other from a young age,” says Sangeetha.

So, it is not surprising that after nine years of marriage, the attraction remains strong “Saji is a caring person,” she says. “If he is going anywhere, he will call me every two hours. My father often teases me about this. Saji is always buying me gifts like sarees, salwar kameezes, necklaces, rings and bangles. And even though we have tiffs, and ninety per cent of the time I am the cause, it is Saji who always makes up with me.”

However, there are persistent quibbles, like food. “I am a vegetarian, while Saji is non-veg,” says Sangeetha. “But I have learned to cook all non-vegetarian dishes. But when we go out we have fights on where to eat. I will be looking for a vegetarian restaurant, while Saji will be searching for non-veg.”

On the professional front, despite Saji's passion for Sangeetha, films are his first love. “Yes, I am wife no. 2,” she says. “Films are our bread and butter. So I don't have a problem that he spends so much time on his work.”

Saji’s filmography includes ‘Happy Husbands’, ‘Four Friends’, ‘Husbands in Goa’, and ‘Angry Babies in Love’.  

For Sangeetha, ‘Happy Husbands’ is her favourite film. “I liked the comedy in it,” she says. “And I was so happy that it ran for 175 days. But Saji reacts coolly to success. He knows that at the box office, success and failure are very close to each other.”

Finally, when asked to give tips for a successful marriage, Sangeetha says, “You should be open and honest with each other. All spouses have important likes. For a husband it may be his job or profession. I may have some important likes. So, if both spouses give equal importance for everything, there will not be any problem.” 

(The New Indian Express, Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram)

The Obsession with Chastity

Priya Thuvassery's striking documentary, 'The Sacred Glass Bowl', focuses on the unspoken necessity for girls in India to remain a virgin till their marriage

Photo by Manu R Mavelil 

By Shevlin Sebastian

One day, in 2010, when Priya Thuvassery was working as a junior assistant producer in a private television channel at New Delhi, she came across a news item. It was about virginity tests which were conducted by the Madhya Pradesh government before a mass marriage.

“A thought came to my mind,” she says. “What was going through the minds of the women who underwent this procedure?” Thereafter, she sent a proposal to the Public Service Broadcasting Trust, a semi-governmental organisation, about making a documentary on the obsession with virginity in India. This was accepted and Priya received a grant. After a four month-shoot, Priya has made a thought-provoking 26-minute film called 'The Sacred Glass Bowl'.

The documentary begins, with a poem, set against the backdrop of a girl moving on a swing in animation style:

'When I was a little girl

my mother took me aside

and spoke in a tone I had never heard her before.

She told me about My Sacred Glass Bowl

the fragile thing entrusted to me as a woman.

'She made it clear that girls from ‘good families’

would never allow a single crack to fall

on that treasured, valuable object

before the right time comes.'

Set in Jaipur and Delhi, the film explores the concept of virginity in different communities. So, there is an interview with the Jaipur-based Mimi, a middle-aged lady, wearing earrings, bangles, a nose ring as well as a necklace. She belongs to the Sansi tribe where girls are valued more than boys and receive dowry. However, on the morning after the first night, the womenfolk will closely inspect the bride's white petticoat to see whether there are blood marks.

When that happens it is a big moment for the girl's family. “However, if she is not a virgin, it is a big blow,” says Priya. “The girl's parents will have to pay a large compensation to the boy.”

Next in focus is a Muslim woman in New Delhi, Ruhksana Talat, who worries about the tension that she undergoes because she is a mother of three girls. “Virginity is a necessity in our society, but my daughters want to live freely,” she says.

Meanwhile, a gynaecologist, Dr. Neeti Ratti, confirmed that a lot of hymenoplasty operations are taking place. “Mothers come with daughters and say, 'She made a mistake. Please repair it',” says Dr. Neethi. “In India, girls want to ensure that they are virgins on their wedding night.”

Priya, of Kozhikode origin, does add a Malayali touch. She uses a song from the Mollywood classic film, 'Chemmeen' (1965), called 'Pennale'. “The lyrics, directly or indirectly say the same thing: the necessity to be a virgin,” says Priya. There is also a reading by noted writer Sara Joseph from her short story, 'The Masculine of Virgin'.

The film has been shown on Input TV in Helsinki, the Stuttgart film festival, Open Frames film festival, Jaipur International Film Festival, and, most recently, in July, at the International Documentary and Short Film Festival at Thiruvananthapuram.

Priya plans to make more documentaries. “Funding is difficult to get,” says Priya. “But I love the medium. It enables me to tell the truth, without having to think about commercial considerations.”

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