Mathan Chettan. A man for all seasons

 

She looked up from where she was cutting some firewood and saw a small ten-year-old boy in a grubby pair of shorts and a towel on his shoulder. He looked famished. Her first reaction as a widow and mother of seven children was that he must be fed.

It was my grandmother’s dictum that a full stomach would drive away most ills. He wolfed down a bowl of rice, went to the well, cleaned himself, and smiled broadly at her.

Question and answer followed. He called himself Mathan and said he had run away from home far North, cos he was beaten by his step father on a daily basis. He wouldn’t go back and offered to stay as her servant. She was horrified and said he could wait in the homestead till she decided to make some inquiries. His talk revealed that he belonged to a well to do background.

A friendly policeman neighbour dealt gently with the boy. The cane marks on his back were sufficient evidence that he had been abused. There were no legal or semi legal forums to deal with such situations then, and so a status quo was made. He would stay with my grandmother till someone came looking for him.

He categorically refused to be enrolled in the Govt school near by which the sons of the family attended. He said he had passed the 4th class

Now happy as a lark, he drew buckets of water from the well, swept the garden of recalcitrant leaves, cut firewood, swept the floors, He played with the boys and catered to every wish of the chechis. But he was always around worshiping his saviour my grandmother.

He grew tall and strong, and saw the girls of the family married off one by one. Then the house was empty but Mathan was on call as he had called himself to help whichever daughter of the house needed a hand. He refused any cajoling to get married.

My grandmother now ageing went to be with her sons.

Mathan Chettan now his nomenclature answered any call for help and in any contingency where ever it was Trivandrum or Kollam, or Thiruvalla, or Kottayam. He never asked for any favours or comforts. He had no bank balance. The only cash he had was what was gifted by those he helped just enough for bus fare, I guess. His main outfit was a white mundu and a towel on his shoulder.

He charmed the little ones and even gave them elephant rides on his back, made playthings of coconut ola or rocked colicky babies to sleep

He was now growing old but he never let a call for help go unanswered be it for festive arrangements, manning the kitchen for ceremonial feasts or even organising funeral wakes.

And then one day my mother woke up crying her heart out. Broken hearted, she said thro her tears, ’Mathan Chettan came to see me and say goodbye dressed all in white’ He came to say his last goodbye in the home of a family member far away.

A peep into the past of St Teresa’s from the 1950s

Each breath of the past is fragrant with their scent, so delicate and sweet. I walk the root strewn path with care, with flowers at my feet. How difficult it is to go and leave the scene behind. Like Wordsworth with his daffodils, I see them in my mind

St Teresa’s today is a showpiece of an educational institution where we taught and survived, ere the sun rose on the NAAC and UGC largesse

My mind travels back in time when I entered its gates as acolyte for the intermediate course. Admission was easy as apple pie for all that my guardian had to say to Sister Digna was this girl wants to study here, she is from Sri Lanka. All done. Name entered, in register, class-room pointed out and I was in.

 There were two massive buildings supported by bulwarks. The centre building encapsulated a small room for the tiny principal, and a spacious office. Upstairs were the science labs. Classes were held on the ground floor of the hostel just built while the staff quarters overlooked the park avenue road at the back of these massive buildings.

 We could hear from our classes, the thathis beating the laundry by the side of the big water tanks and saw soap bubbles floating and winking in the sunlight. This was where we now have the old and plush auditoriums.

 We intermediates were ordered to carry bricks to build the old existing auditorium a testament to our grumbles

In my youth the auditorium was in the long hall of what may now be the language staff rooms. Plays were acted on the stage then, us girls made to look like men thanks to Miss Alwyn and Sister Hyacinth. Dancers too rollicked there. There were a group of Jewish girls who performed their traditional dances. There was no air conditioning only a few sad fans but plenty of spectators who had to stand on tiptoe to watch the performances.

The library was on the ground floor. Miss Alwyns eagle eye kept the tomes slick and shiny. We thought then that the park belonged to St Teresa’s and so on those fair evenings we were allowed to get a breath of fresh air of course watched by crowds of young men salivating at such a galaxy of young girls. We even had our sports day in the park.

 College day was when all of us in our Sunday best sat down in the quadrangle to meet our teacher. Prize distribution for academic success was announced vocally on a makeshift platform, accompanied by loud cheers. No teacher was alien to us

 A vortex of memories flood thro my mind. Sr. Digna, Sr. Concepta, Sr. Seraphia, Sr. Marie Therese, Sr Therese Marie, Miss Muree, Miss Cherian, Miss Ammu, Sr. Hyacinth, Sr. Theodora, Miss Mani, cosmetologist Miss Pillai and the youngest Sr. Anne Felice. They did not shirk from teaching us ,They were the stalwarts who moulded our minds and actions

 You may know some of them of the seniors league

 

 

Keep your Temper

 You’re not a cynic person simply because you blow your top. You will end in a bad landing if you fly into a rage.

 Actually, it is said that nothing will cook your chicken faster than a boiling hot temper. To keep a cool-head keep out of hot water. Poise is the act of raising your eyebrows instead of raising the roof.

 You can’t get rid of your temper by losing it. That’s the funny thing about it. The emptier the pot, the quicker the boil watch your temper. He or she who loses their temper usually loses

 A person without self-control I as defenceless as a city with broken down walls. Haven’t you realised that today’s temper tantrum is tomorrows anti-establishment demonstration so guard your teens temper outbreaks.

 If you lose your temper you should not look for it. Let it be lost permanently in the lost department. Those who are short tempered do foolish things.

 The world needs more warm hearts and fewer hot heads

 

Full Many a Gem

I think Pearls can be in the gem stone category. Pearls are warm and beautiful and that’s probably why my we decided to gift our daughter with a beautiful ensemble of pearls. Not for us the hoi-poi pearls found among our Kochi jewellers

By a streak of good business returns we zeroed in in buying pearls from Chennai as a friendly helpful cousin finally took us to the famous jewellers in Chennai-Bapalals.

She was right. As we stepped into the cool air-conditioned comfort of the fashionable showroom, with showcases of glittering jewellery like a mirage in the palace of Midas I stood agape, as was mindful of the Tamil maami’s resplendent in colourful Kancheepuram’s with diamond nose rings, and sparkling earrings. I felt like a country Cinderella.

I was all for scooting out but a pleasant salesman seated us and listened to our request. He assured us in true salesman spirit that Bapalals would satisfy our every demand.

 Now row upon row and clusters of pearls lay in pristine, glorious, magnificence lay in front of us. Humming and hawing we chanced upon three strings of pearls glistening like sunlit clouds, with intervals of golden and coral clasps. This was my dream materialising right in front of me. The one we saw was only a sample but the in-house designer drew our ideas into fruition. An elaborate pendant of pearl and corals, with earrings to match completed the set.

 The deal was struck. The cash bill for Forty thousand, not peanuts then was paid. Visa cards had not yet seen the light of day. They assured us that the order would be executed within two months and would be sent to us in Kochi. One didn’t have to doubt the credentials of Bapalals, as vouched by my cousin a long-time resident of Chennai

I now dreamt of the gift for daughter in time for a marriage do in the family. I even had ready a gorgeous Kancheepuram as I had seen on the maami’s

 The two months hiatus was over. We rang up Bapalals, only to be told that they had posted it two days prior to our call. Courier service was still in the womb of time. Busy at work we sent our maid with authorisation letters to the college post office. But day after day she returned empty handed and sightless of our pearls like a female Columbus seeking for lost land

My brave man strode the floor and I shivered with anxiety. He fumed in smoke and he thundered like Churchill over the phone to Bapalals. Stress was not in my dictionary then and so I met the Head Postmaster. He gave me a tongue lashing as he said any ‘urupidi’ meaning jewellery worth more than ten thousand had to be insured and were we ignorant of the rule?

Calls to Bapalals was no help, not insured and posted by a peon who found out due to our insistence that he had posted it. And then like the dove that brought Noah a leaf as the flooding receded my tears evaporated when the parcel was found after two weeks

Our pearls, our treasure was sheathed in an eight by eight inches cardboard box. The address was struck on a paper that had seen better days. Sealing wax seals were absent.

Call it a miracle or what you may call it. The jewellery brought with sweat and tears rose from the depths of a Monte Cristobal style postal cavern

 

The Boomerang Effect

This is not our story, though with the benefit of hindsight and a little emotional quotient we might look back and see things we thought were about our actions than about Shantana Bose. The incident of meeting with Bose was one of those happenings we call "suddenly business,” We won't know when this comes but it does bring a tear to our eye and a leap to our heartstrings.

 On a very hot summer afternoon, driving along the highway, punctuated by occasional vehicles our eyes upon a lone, lanky, dust covered young man, trying to thumb a ride. Other vehicles sped by but we thought of one of our sons , if in some orb of the future, happened to be in the same predicament  what might befall him, and so we stopped.

The young man took long strides and his answer was that he was hoping to somehow go back to his home in Kolkata. His search for a temporary job had been fruitless. He said he wouldn't have minded a sweeper’s job, anything to earn enough, for a rail fare.

 "Sir could you give me a lift to a point where I could look to find some work? We threw caution to the winds and asked him to hop in. It didn't pass thru our minds that he could be a would be attacker. Question and answer time in broken communicating language gave us his profile. He was 23 years old and qualified as a welder cum plumber. He had come on a contract. But one fine day the company decamped with the machinery and his due salary for a month. He had to leave on his own and hoped to find a workshop which would employ him .But no one it seemed would employ him without a reference from his immediate former employers

 The look of desperation in his eyes, yet the surety that he would be able to survive if he got home to Kolkata was patent in every word he spoke. His hopeless attitude when he said that he didn't wish to travel ticketless and his dignity made us aware that he was the stuff that made the young person’s into men of caliber.

 We drove him home and offered him our hospitality, esp. with a bath in our outhouse and a clean tee shirt...Our small daughter, unasked, made him a big cup of tea and a pile of jam sandwiches which he wolfed down having been on a diet of water for four days.

 We couldn't get him a job, but as an alternative thought of giving him the price or a railway ticket to go home. Payday was two days away and we scrounged thro the kitty to tills, in stray hiding places for emergency cash and promised the children ice creams if  they helped us garner from their pocket money, enough to pay for his ticket, a couple of meals and tea till he reached home

 As we handed him the money wishing him God speed, he opened his knapsack and brought out a stack of all his original certificates. "Keep these with you Sir, till I repay you as soon as I can. Let this be my assurance and guarantee." Stranger words never hit us before but we were no Shylocks. At his insistence we gave him my uncle's address n Ballygunge and said he could repay it when he could when the fates smiled on him. Today the rail fare we gave him would be a pittance but then it was a prize sum for a man making his way in the world.

 Typical of his culture he touched our feet, blessed my daughter for the food and left with a spring to his feet.

 An incident long forgotten for six months surfaced when the uncle in Ballygunge rang to ask why a perfect Bengali  called Santanu Bose brought him some money as a repayment for a rail ticket. Santanu Bose had narrated the story .We had always believed that no one ever gave anybody anything free but our faith in human niceties was renewed. Bose gifted my uncle with a box of the most delicious Bengali sweets as sweet remembrance

 A year later uncle rang to say that on puja day Bose now running his own welding shop had gifted a box of choice sweets. He had said that he couldn't forget the kindness done to him in Kerala. We were flabbergasted at Bose's gesture? He wouldn't take no for an answer.

 For the next six years Bose gifted my uncle with Bengali sweets of quality during the puja celebrations, till the latter left Ballygunge...

 Much water flowed on and the on Sunday afternoon young Bose well dressed and confident knocked on our door. Recognition was instant. We exchanged pleasantries

Like long lost friends still in broken communicative mode.

 Bose was married to Suchitra who was soon to be a mother. He was on his way to a job in the gulf.

 Ere he got up to leave he called out to my soon to be teenaged daughter and gifted her with a pair of exquisite gold jumukas. It's for my young behen who gave my tea and jam sandwiches, when I was almost dying.

 He touched our feet and left for better shores having been refined in the fire of an ordeal which made him a better man.

Change the way you think

 We have our own unique spin on different things because we are individuals.

 Just consider an accident scene we come across. Ten people could all witness the same accident and each of them would have a unique perception of what had taken place. One or two or more of us would spin the story one way focusing one the people inside the vehicle. Someone else would spin another focusing on the damage to the cars. Another witness would focus on the bad state of the road which may have been the first cause of the accident.

 Now come the police in their screeching vehicles intent on settling who was at fault. The insurance agent would have his own spin questions too. It’s possible the last guy would make up the story so that his company wouldn’t have to pay more than what is necessary.

 Perceptions are different and unique. They can be tricky too. Sometimes we over-spin things making mountains out of molehills. I once made a mountain out of the muck of a molehill and wallowed in self-pity but had the good sense to argue myself out of it and see reason. Perceptions can make us discouraged even when there’s no need for discouragement.

 On the other hand, good perceptions can lift our spirits up even though we see things as hopeless. In these pandemic times a medical problem might seem to be the end of the road to someone but a chance to trust God, for another.

 Perhaps many of us have a ‘woe is me attitude problem. Shouldn’t we think in a hopeful way yet anticipating only the best. Today we can ask God to give us joy to meet the right people who have a great disposition. Right attitudes produce right thoughts

 A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor can any human being be cleansed without a right attitude

 Let’s march onward in our lives with right perceptions

A night spent stranded on NH disabuses A woman about a ‘Dog-eat-dog’ society

 I never gauged human behaviour without taking into account that a good percentage of people are uncaring. I first learnt of it when my pen ran out of ink when I was appearing for my Class VII exam, and asked a friend for a spare one. She pretended not to hear me and I lost 20 minutes till the teacher came to my rescue.

Each day I read about people taken for a ride just because they were ingenious, and I can write volumes on our dog-eat-dog world, the dog-in-the-manger attitude or the folks passing by like ships in the night.

But I have undergone a sea change. The world at large has not changed and the dog still eats the dog, but my experience gave me hope that all is not lost. My husband, our three kids and I had gone on a one-week holiday to Bengaluru.

The children were packed into the old faithful Ambassador. They sang and looked forward to shopping and having a view of the life different from what it was in Kochi, a sleepy backwater town then.

We shopped to our hearts content, especially the children who found “cool” clothes which they were eager to show their friends back home. We dined like kings on exotic foods in restaurants with interiors tastefully designed and beautiful menu statements, something that Kochi did not have then.

Then it was time to drive home. The boot of the car was filled with baskets of big tomatoes, fruits and vegetables we rarely saw back home. A so with a full tank of petrol we left.

Our Ambassador suddenly sank into a muddy hole on the Hosur road. Inspection revealed that one of the tyres had decided to give up the ghost. As luck would have it, there was a good stepney, which two or three local mechanics fixed, and we were off.

Three hours on National highway 47 at a place called Perundurai, the stepney decided not to cooperate. The nearest city was Coimbatore, almost 50 kms away. More nerve wracking was the fact that between my husband and myself, we had money just enough to buy a bunch of bananas.

So, with a prayer on is lips and umpteen instructions like “sit in the car, and don’t talk to strangers” he hitchhiked on a lorry, hoping to be back before the night fell.

Then the children had seen a small rivulet nearby and clamoured to be let out. My motherly instincts told me it was well nigh impossible to rein them in as my words were blown away on the “whys and wherefores” of arguments

It wasn’t difficult to mind them as they played in the clear water, but my heart was thumping as the sun began to dip in the west. We returned to the car. Then came striding along an ebony, tall well-built man clad in pristine white, accompanied by similarly built companions. They peered at us and the children shushed. And then he spoke, his voice oozing politeness

Mixing Malayalam and Tamil I told him out story. After listening attentively, he said he was the village headman and assured us that we would be safe. All we had to do was to honk twice or thrice if we needed help, the man told me, his assuring smile worth a thousand full moons. One of his men would keep watch till my husband returned.

Another half an hour later, two teenaged boys came with a brass tiffin carrier and banana leaves and served us a hot meal. When we were full, they left us with smiles. Among the distant trees I saw the red light of a beedi It was undoubtedly the villager keeping watch over us. My husband arrived with a new tyre before midnight.

Call it the hand of providence that brought us a new tyre. Searching for his friend in Coimbatore would have daunted even a searcher of the elixir of youth, but by a happy happenstance, the very friend he was searching crossed his path.

My husband walked the grassy path to the village to thank the headman, and soon we were off on our journey.

 

 

My Childhood days in peaceful Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka known as the pearl of the Indian Ocean. It has a uniquely serene ambience hardly found anywhere else.

For centuries before the start of the civil war, people of all religious persuasions lived harmoniously in the Island nation. In fact, the extent of camaraderie shared by the inhabitants of Lanka was an envy of the world. Needless to say, it was a wonderful place to grow up.

I spent my childhood days in Sri Lanka. There were the days before the ethnic cleansing and its ramification touched our lives. The town where I grew up had three churches, two temples, two mosques, and numerous Buddhist places of meditation noted by the whitewashed viharas

We lived cheek by jowl with the people of all faiths. We attended all religious celebrations. We shared our teenage hiccups, weeping or smiling together. Our culinary tastes were authored by the delicacies we shared. Non-vegetarian feast for Ramadan, Kiribath (rice pudding) and savouries for Vesak, and my mom’s cake for Christmas.

Today I feel heartbroken for the hundreds who were killed on Easter day in Negombo and other places.

Negombo was a peaceful coastal town. Fisher folk selling the days catch in the kiosks on the main road was sight one wouldn’t miss. So are that of vendors by the beaches selling home-grown fruits, vegetables as well as homes-spun curios and shells in woven cane baskets. I remember how as a child I ran to catch the frothy waves on the pristine beach. I recall the tolling of the Angelus bell, the conch call and the muezzins call summoning the faithful to prayer. It was never a place of religious fanaticism

People led simple lives, thanking the sea for the bounty. They would smile and happily welcome visitors from all corners of the earth to their midst. Another icon targeted was the Cinnamon Grand Hotel. Its large foyer catered to bridal celebrations; it was a hotel that knew no religious restrictions. One wonders what motivates hate-filled minds to commit crimes of such magnitude against innocent people, what satisfaction do they get?

The perpetrators of this massacre have not won. For those innocents who lost their lives in the attacks that day are martyrs.

 

What to do if you are a committee member

 

Besides traffic jams, nothing has held back our country as much as committees

Our women’s club, loosely held together by housewives with time on their hands decided to do our bit for the city. And so, committees were formed, after much bragging and ego clashes. Only later we realised that a committee is a group of men and women who individually can do nothing can be done. First on the agenda was a meeting time, place and a plan. Files, pens and paper were procured

 Then, problems arose when group division and allotment began. For example, putting together neighbours which didn’t speak to each other was unacceptable. A doctor’s wife didn’t want to sit with similar diamond studded dames and so on

 A biblical story tells that Moses had no committee to help him steer the Israelites out of Egypt. If he did have a committee they would have still been in Egypt. If Columbus had been an advisory board, he probably would have never been able to sail the Atlantic to discover a new land.

When political leaders can’t figure out a solution to a problem, they had it over to the committees, who in turn hand it over to sub-committees and ad-hoc committees

A committee meet is perhaps the only activity for which no preparation is made except by the chairperson. Committee meetings are definitely fun with tea and snacks thrown in. What more do members want?

The following are some gems of thought retrieved from the recesses of my mind. I would offer them to anyone on a committee

Never arrive on time. If you do so, you will be stamped as a beginner and be roped in to arrange the chairs and files. Don’t open you’re your mind or mouth until the meeting is held over or else some might term you as being too pushy. Be as vague as possible, thus avoiding irritating others. If and when you are in doubt, loudly suggest that a sub-committee or ad-hoc committee be appointed. This will make you popular, getting friends for an adjournment is what everyone was waiting for. By the way has anyone seen a street or monument after a committee?