Cycling is Green - and Great!

The voice at the other end of the phone was a familiar one - a former colleague from the bank - over the crackle of the background noises he asked me - ' So, how are things? What you doing these days? How do you spend time?' 

Ever since I took VRS more than three months back, 90 per cent of the calls I received was the same kind - asking me how I am spending my time. By now, I have stopped getting irritated and reply: ' Answering the same questions that you asked!'

But let me tell you what I did today. Got up at 0530 hrs and cycled about 3kms to Vellayambalam and joined the gathering there, for the monthly cycle rally. Of the 60 plus riders, the majority were from the LNCPE (Laxmi Bai National Centre for Physical Education), the sports centre; competitive cyclists. The rest were like me; older, retired men who had nothing else to do on a Saturday morning! There were a two or three women (other than the sport cyclists). 

We cycled through the City, for about 15 kms, through Vazhuthacaud, Thycaud, Killippalam, East Fort, Statue, Cantonment, Pattom, Kuravankonam, Kowdiar and back to where we started.  When I learned about the route, I had decided to break off mid-way, before the gradient between Overbridge junction and GPO. But once I took off, I thought what the hell let me try, and  if it is too much, I will push the bicycle. But I huffed and puffed up through it and then the incline at Pattom and Kuravankonam, never stepping off the bicycle. 

Two police vehicles escorted us, stopping other traffic at the junctions while the four-wheelers and two- wheelers gazed at us, amused. Kings of the streets, we were. For once, none tried to push us to the footpaths. As I laboured up the inclines, I took a peek at the slowly passing buses. The passengers, it seemed to me, looked at us with respect.

Some time in the mid-Seventies, my friend Rahul and I hired a couple of bicycles and rode it all the way to Kanyakumari, 85 kms from Trivandrum. We had promised ourselves that we will not get down at even one gradient. We didn't. Sore-assed, We did the full circuit in two consecutive days. How great was that feeling! Pressing down the pedals, throwing all our weight on to it, we would sway and swing as our knees crackled.

Long long ago. I and my friend, Sreekumar went to Amarnath in the Himalayas. This was in the late Eighties, before  terrorism struck Kashmir. As we struggled up the winding steep path, those who rode horses looked at us with respect and I hoped, envy. Long ago, again with Sreekumar, I walked up the Kailas parikrama, gasping for breath, stopping every 10 steps. There were Yak riders then. Again, I remember the gleam of respect in their eyes.

It is not the achievements in life that is important; what counts is the measure of effort that one is willing to put in.  The respect I noticed in others is actually my self-respect. With every step forward, I strive to redeem myself.

***************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 13.07.2013

Those who would like to learn more about the cycling scene in Trivandrum, visit http://induscyclingembassy.org/

Poetry Chain

The weather had changed; maybe briefly

Rains had paused, sun shone in bright blue sky.

The poets were gathered in the hall

Where hundred of books had lined up long ago

Where you and I had browsed, eager – we were so young!

In the proffered seat I sat down shyly

For I were in the presence of the august

Who were poets.

They sat, holding sheaf of papers

That throbbed with words, the writers’ hopes

Dreams, sorrows and angst.

Young and old, men and women

Holding on to their creations in words.

Looking at them, at myself, I wondered

What brought us together here in this evening.

What am I doing, this collection of my poems in my hand

What do I want to tell them – ‘Look, I am a poet, listen to my words, please?’

I look down at the book

And remember those evenings and late nights

Those days in winter and autumn and spring too

Those places far away and the quiet corner of my house

When thoughts would rush in and I would splutter

Words crowding, impatient to be freed

When images would  grow larger, in black & white and in colour

When in pain, in joy, in unutterable sorrow I would

Write or tap out these words tainted with my blood.

The poets recite – the words, some are lost, some jab

My heart with their arrowheads.

The poets paint – images in words

On love, on anger, on reflections of life.

I await my turn – I grip my book

Wishing the words would  draw up into me

Wondering if I could ever rewrite my life 

Wondering if  I would ever be heard

My lone voice in the multitude of this world. 

************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 02.07.2013

Poetry Chain ( poetrychain.webs.com), is the coming together of writers of English poems.

The Key

Pondering over the cold leftover iddlies

And the bland chutney refusing to soak them

It comes to me in a flash as I bite into a red chilly

That the key to success is

Knowing what one is good at, in life.

Beleaguered are the ignorant 

Blessed,  those who know. 

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 16.06.2013

Untitled

1.

As I tap this out sitting in my room, P and her student are at the PC in the drawing room; the boy has come for his thesis correction. Harish was to come yesterday evening; P had postponed other things to do. Not only he didn't turn up but did not call P till late evening. I had heard her 'giving him nice' ( this is a convent school phrase, I believe).

P came to me a few minutes ago. Hush hush she told me about the boy. He is doing his MSc Botany Final year. His father was an autorickshaw driver. The only sister was married off along with the 10 cents of family property. Harish lives in a thatched house in the rural suburb of Trivandrum. Father's secondhand auto was bought a few years ago; the loan is still outstanding. One fine day, the father climbed a coconut palm ( the going labour charge in Trivandrum is Rs.60/- plus one nut per palm) so that he could save the labour charge and promptly fell down, breaking his back and arm. Bedridden, he is now.

Come rains, the thatched roof gave away. Harish borrowed Rs.25,000/- to put tin sheets. His sister who lives elsewhere gave her gold bangle to him to pledge. The old auto is due for renewal of registration and the patch up and repair would cost more than Rs.20,000/-.

Harish, in between his studies at the College, makes about Rs.1,000/- taking private tuition for school children. In between he also goes around in a bicycle distributing home-made snacks and fries to bakeries and petty shops. In between Harish drives the auto ( expired registration). Mom is sick. Dad in bed. Sole breadwinner is our Harish. Yesterday evening he was going around in the auto; got a good fare, it seems and hence couldn't come for thesis correction. P bought books for Rs.1500/- for him last year. Psst, P asked, do we have any good shirt that belongs to K which I can give to Harish? ( K, my son, btw has had a lateral widening in the last few months). And Parvati says Harish is her best student.

2. P has been going around without a watch since some time. The drawers of her table carry substantial number of irreparable, irredeemable chronometers. Yesterday we went watch-shopping. Had done a prior survey in watchkart and flipkart. In the showroom, we look at the glittering, garish watches. I hate the colour of yellow metal and recommend steel or leather strapped simple elegant watches. P looks at me and says I don't wear a gold bangle or studs. Let me at least have a gold look alike watch, an ornament. I like one that costs around Rs.5,000/-. P says nothing more than Rs.2,000/-. We return home without buying one. Maybe we will go again one of these days. While in the Mall, P suggests that I get a new pair of floaters. Mine is well past expiry date. The Mall has all branded stuff - from Adidas to Woodlands, costing a minimum of R.1800/- I tell P that I will buy a hand made footwear that will set me back by Rs 350/- . Not that I am stingy, but I feel it is a crime to spend 2000 bucks on a pair of sandals.

3. I read in today's newspaper that Prithviraj, the actor had paid Rs.3.5 lakhs for a fancy number for his Porche'. Got another fancy number for another car quite cheap at 25000/ or 50000/ , I don't remember. Nothing wrong in riding in a Porche'. Nothing wrong in paying 3,50,000/- rupees for a registration number 7777. Nothing bloody wrong. But I wish Prithviraj would go around in a random numbered car and donate that 3,50,000/- to some needy people? Kids in Attappady are dying, Prithvi, of malnutrition. People are dying, like flies, with fever.

************ Balachandran 12.06.2013, Trivandrum

Kozhikode - the City of Small Goodnesses

Having lived a lifetime in different parts of Kerala, I have like a true Malayalee come to love my native state, though I dislike most of my fellow people - for one reason. Their indifference and callousness to nature. The insensitivity of most, the lack of kindness in them.

It is well known among Malayalees ( it could be a myth too) that further the north of Kerala you go, more good the people are. For eg., the autorickshaw drivers of Kozhikode are famous for their politeness and the just fare they ask you. I have visited Kozhikode several times and every time I was impressed by their behaviour. They never charge you extra, they don't take you for a roundabout, they are polite to a point. But this quality extends to people of other walks too. Hoteliers, shopkeepers, passers-by.

Last month I was in Kozhikode for two days. Since the person I was to meet could not keep the appointment, I had a whole day to myself. In the morning I took off from the Rly retiring rooms ( dormitory, very clean, only Rs.200/- per bed) to the Zoological Survey of India office where my old friend Jafar was working. He was away in the field so I sauntered through the exhibition hall all by myself. It has quite a good collection of exhibits and photographs displayed there. Having nothing else to do, I walk back to the private bus station and then catch a bus to the S K Pottekad Memorial ( S K Pottekkad was a Jnanapith award winner, a great storyteller and travel writer in Malayalam). On the way to the bus station, I happened to walk alongside a man to whom I asked directions. He not only gave it but offered to come with me part of the way. He was a shopkeeper on his way to open his shop. While walking, he proudly narrated the history of that part of Kozhikode, showing me the landmarks and how it were when he was young. It was a wonderful morning. As we parted our ways ten minutes later, I felt regret like leaving a friend.

Getting down from the bus I asked my way. The Museum is near the Kuthiravattom Mental Hospital. The shopkeeper to whom I asked for directions took so much pain in detailing the route. Not that he wasn't busy. But he could see that I needed help and took at least seven minutes off his time to ensure that I did not get lost.

Near the hospital, I notice this old tree. A plaque was in front of it. An organisation has recognised its antiquity and put it up so that people would revere it. The plaque said - 'This is a holy tree. Along with contributing for environmental protection, this tree has given shade to countless passers-by and a resting place for the birds of air. We name it as the holy tree of 2010 and offer our respects.' A tree. Just a roadside tree.

It is noon. In the sweltering heat, I walk the streets around Mananchira Maidan, unwilling to go back to the Retiring Rooms. I wonder what I am doing there, having quit my job in the Bank and totally clueless about the foreboding future. Then, by the side of the road, beneath a shady tree, I notice this old Willy's in immaculate condition. I drool. I walk around the Willy's like a prospective buyer of a horse, taking in the winch and the ammo box and spade and metal can. It is so handsome that I have the itch to dive in and drive it away. A young man comes over, leans into the vehicle and takes out two packets in aluminum foil, one big and one small, and hand it over to some one. The recipient is obviously a labourer or a tramp. As I watch, an old lady walks up, gives a namaste to the young man; and again he dips into the Willy's, takes out another two packets and gives it to her. I notice a banner behind the Willy's. I read, 'Pothi-choru' ( Packed Lunch). The young man notices me and smiles. I ask him what is going on. He is one of a small group of friends who come here every noon with lunch packets - 30 or 40 - cooked at home. He says it is rice and fish curry. Did you have your lunch, Sir, he asks. I will give you one. I decline, suppressing a burp which carries the fragrance of Fish Biriyani from Saagara.

The youngster points at another two men chatting nearby. They come over and ask if I am from the media. We want no publicity, he says. We are professionals in various fields, but we take time off from our lunch break and distribute the lunch packs. Its free and first-come-first-served. My wife cooks it, he says. We are here every day at noon, it takes only about half-an-hour to give out the packs, yeah, mostly poor labourers or beggars, but sometimes others too partake. He gives the url of his website - www.avigna.org. I assure him I am not a journalist, but I might write about you in my blog. If you inspire somebody else to emulate your gesture, that will be good, wouldn't it ? 

In the mid-day heat, I feel a cool breeze enwrapping me. Kozhikode is a city of good people.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 01.06.2013

Kindness

'Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle' - Philo of Alexandria

Today evening I was at my friend's when the help came running, shouting 'Snake, Snake in the house, it is a 'Raja Vembala' (King Cobra).' We went investigating and true, it was a Cobra, if not the King. Juvenile Indian Cobra ( naja naja), about 12 cms long, how beautiful was its hood! It lay coiled, partly hidden beneath a crack in the wall head down and we could see the characteristic spectacled band. My friend poked it with a long stick and it drew up its head, sprang, hissed and bit the stick twice in quick succession. I looked at it hypnotized, awed at the sound of its hissing. Both of us were nature lovers and would not harm any creature, but here the situation was a bit different. The womenfolk of the house were near-screaming, blubbering about the snake's mother being around, about the nearby temple with the sacred grove from where the snake presumably came- we had to kill it. My friend jabbed a stick at the snake's neck, pinning him to the wall and I struck on its head with another stick. While taking aim and striking it, I said sorry sorry sorry. I wished I were a snake whisperer or something, Romulus Whitaker or a famous snake-catcher like Vava Suresh. We pondered briefly whether to call this snake-catcher, but it was getting late in the evening and rain clouds hung around. Taking the dead snake and burying it in a small pit, I kept on mumbling my apologies. We are criminals, I thought, falling foul of the Indian Wildlife Protection Act, and you call yourselves a nature conservationist! This is the second snake I had to kill in my life- the first one was a huge Pit Viper which wanted to share rooms with me in our hut in Attappadi hills. I wish I needn't had to kill the little cobra. It was not the lack of kindness for the creature that made me kill it, but the sheer necessity of survival.

Perhaps, I mused sipping a cuppa, perhaps, all the violence in the world could be justified in the same way.

Today I had been to a meeting of the 'Thai Kula Sanghom' , a women's movement among the indigenous communities of Attappadi. In the wake of more than 40 deaths of newborn and young babies due to malnutrition and starvation, Attappadi is currently in the news these days. As I left the meeting I had to extricate my scooter which was between an autorickshaw and a car. As I turned it around, the rear of the scooter gently bumped on the side of the autorickshaw. Boy, the kind of filth that the driver spewed at me! I was rather taken aback at his reaction - I didn't even hear the sound of the bumping. As he ranted furiously, I smiled at him and said I am sorry. But that wasn't enough for him. I asked him why you getting so worked up about a non-incident. There is not a scratch nor a dent on the auto, I said relax man, take a look at yourselves in the mirror. As I moved away, I could still hear his cursing. I was smiling as I went my way. He must be having a terrible day and I could have been a bit useful here to vent his frustration.

In the recent past, one of the things that had upset me most was the remarks made by a close friend. It is irrelevant whether his remarks about me were true or not; what hurt me was not the venomous spite but the lack of kindness in his words, in the detailed enumeration of my faults, my weaknesses. my handicaps - in his harsh criticism of what I am, I could not find even a trace of forgiveness or acceptance of a person who has been his close friend for so long. I am like the rest of humanity, an ordinary individual. Like most, I too aspire for great things, achievements, recognition of some sort, a sense of purpose in life; and like most, I have fallen short of all that. Perhaps the fundamental fault within me is that I lack the gritty aggression, the tenacity and perseverance of the 'successful' minority amongst us. Within each of us, we are constant fight with ourselves, to improve our circumstances, whether financial or social or emotional - a single word for that would be - to survive. We tread the water in order not to sink. Some swim along with the stream, some against the current. Some succeed, some succumb.

Kindness - is a virtue that outshine others. Whether it is kindness to oneself, to fellow beings or to our planet as a whole. Lack of kindness is equally a characteristic that overcasts our lives. War, genocide, destruction of the environment, squashing others underfoot.

Back home, I gaze at the White Board kept on my table. ( This is a new addition - I write up things to do, things to shop for etc on it) I have scrawled thus on the board - 'Be kind; for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle', I am at peace, with myself, with my friend, with the world...

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 24.05.2013

Thus spake Balachandrananda

Thickness is the measure

Of  inter-dependence of  links.

The thinner the links, the easier the chain to break.

Said Balachandrananda –

So be it for us humans too

Dependence is the measure of our bondage

To each other.

*********** Balachandran V , Trivandrum, 15.05.2013

Tree Walk in Trivandrum

It is 0700hrs on a Sunday. In the Museum/Zoo complex and the nearby Kanakakunnu Palace grounds, the fitness conscious citizens have their morning jog, walk and yoga. At one of the entrances to the zoo,    a few individuals gather, for the Tree Walk. 

We have been doing it for some years now. Twice or thrice a month the group meet at some part of Trivandrum where it is shady with  trees. We stroll down the road, looking at the trees on either sides, identifying them. We make small talk. Serious tree watchers take copious notes. In a gentle, relaxed way, we recognize and pay respect to the trees that cool our city. Many of them have gone forever, victims to the road widening and beautification. 

In the sun, it is a blazing 37 degree Celsius. Under the shade, it is less than 32. Trivandrum, like the rest of the country is reeling under the heat wave and drought, the extent of which is unprecedented. When, When will people realize the mercy of the green trees? They stand beneath the shade of the trees as they cut them down. Recently near the Court, a large no of trees were cut for road widening. Yes, for those who sleep in air-conditioned houses, who step  into air-conditioned cars and work in air-conditioned offices, it does not matter. The writing is on the wall, yet we turn a blind eye, hoping that technology will always have an answer. 

An old poem on trees... written three or four years back...

Song of the tree

You who stand beneath me,

Look up at me for a while -

While you smell, breath in deep

The fragrance of my little flowers.

Did it hurt when the flower fell

On your head, my humble gift,

Here, I bend a branch of mine,

Hold, pluck the succulent fruit

For your child, a present from me.

Lean on to me, though my skin is rough,

But feel my heart that throbs for you

My veins full of the blood of love.

Here, I fan you with my leaves,

Lest you feel tired in the heat.

Did it hurt when you cut

Chopped off the branches

And sawed off the trunk

Did it pain when in vain

Pulling at my roots with so much strain?

I miss them, Sir,

The birds who nested in my hole,

The songs they sang for my soul.

The squirrels who ran, tickling my heart

Your child who played beneath my shade.

Forgive me Sir, I am just a tree

Fated to die, faithful to men.

When in the night, freezing cold,

As to embers my body burns,

They glow in love, for you alone

And your child, warm, asleep -

Think of me – lest your heart turn to stone.

*********

Balachandran V, 29.04.13