The Theory of Impermanence

(This post was written months ago- I let it lie on the Desktop till now…)

‘Death. My favourite topic. Been wondering about death ever since my hormones started jangling. Why? When? Where? There was a time when I used cower with fear thinking about my final moment. Now, after a few brushes with the event, I find myself pretty calm about it. Maybe that’s the only real progress I have made in life. I am beginning to grasp the theory of impermanence. The holy detachment to everything, including one’s life.’

P G Tenzing – Don’t Ask Any Old Bloke for Directions - Penguin Books, India 2009

I have never owned a car. My father had one long ago. It was a Studebaker Champion, circa early 1950s model. I was a little kid then, in my primary classes. I remember that huge black car; I had to walk, to reach from one end to the other of its rear seat! The longest trip we went in the Studebaker was to Mysore to watch the Dussera, in 1964 or 1965. As an adult, I could have bought one, but somehow I didn’t. One of the reasons was that my ancestral home in the heart of the city where I have lived on and off for the last thirty-three years didn’t have car access. And the boy in me always preferred a two-wheeler.

Ask any bike aficionado. The exhilaration that a bike ride offers is far more than a ride inside the cocoon of a car. Exposed to elements, the intimacy with the surroundings is something hard to get in a car. There is something raw about riding a bike. As Pirsig would have said, there is oneness with the rest of the world. So I have gone around in scooters and motorcycles. Given a choice between a Mercedes and a Harley-Davidson, I would opt for the Harley, any day.

I had never met Mr. Tenzing, though both of us have spent considerable number of years in the same place, Trivandrum. I, as its native and Mr. Tenzing, a native of Sikkim, as an IAS officer in Kerala cadre. I don’t particularly remember seeing his name for the nearly 20 years he was in Kerala; probably because there are so many IAS people around and that too from other states. The first time I noticed his name and read with interest about him was when he resigned from the coveted position of the head of a Government department in 2006, straddled a Royal Enfield Thunderbird motorcycle and rode all over India for a period of 9 months, clocking 25320 kilometers. Mr. Tenzing was a fellow biker. That is something I would do, if I had the guts and the money. He published a travelogue of his ride across the country.

Mr. Tenzing is no more. He passed away on 26^th July 2010, at the young age of 46. He had terminal cancer of the blood. I read eulogies about him, how good an officer he was, how charming, friendly and absolutely in love with Kerala, about his long ride.

Reading the book is like riding the pillion behind Mr. Tenzing as he speeds his bike fast and furious across India. Everything passes in a blur, except the sketches of people whom he meets en route; former friends and new friends that he made on his whirlwind tour. If you are looking for detailed description of the places he went through or its history or for introspective reflection on the philosophical and spiritual aspects of traveling, you have come to the wrong book. The book accelerates at a high speed, with short breaks allowed for peeing. Mr. Tenzing took only 16 hours at a single stretch to go from Leh to Manali, which I did in three days. Not that I cannot, but my idea of biking is more of the cruising kind, relaxed, laidback riding. Perhaps Mr. Tenzing knew that he didn’t have much time left.

But there is a great pleasure in living life on an impulse, which is something that ordinary mortals can only fantasize; something only a few like Mr. Tenzing could do. You sigh, as you read the last line of the page because you realize that this is something you will never dare to do.

There are certain images that you retain in spite of the racy ride. Mr. Tenzing’s great love for Kerala where he spent most of his adult life, his amusing irreverence for politicians and officialdom, his courage in chucking the most prestigious job in India, his deep feeling for Sikkim, the caricatures of people whom he introduces to you and the darkness of India as he passes through Bihar, Jharkand and UP. His language is fluent and modern. There is rapidness in his words like the revving of a bike. Yet Mr. Tenzing exposes himself at an unaware moment or two; like when he mulls over the death of a cousin and his own death.

Mr.Tenzing - can I call you PG, like your friends did? – PG doesn’t mince words when it comes to criticizing the baboos and politicians and the Great North Indian Attitude. His verbal slaps are, for the reader, a cause for huge merriment. PG is sitting in a hotel somewhere in Himachal being served by a fellow from Andhra Pradesh in south India- waiting for a rainout. Listen to him: ‘The locals said that the rainfall was too heavy and the summer too hot. Same old climate-change gripe. We’ve fucked up nature big time and now we must pay the price. I cannot understand the reluctance of the big business lobby – especially in the United States – to acknowledge the problem and to take steps in concert with the rest of the world. Those guys are going to get rid of the human species one way or the other. By climate change or nuclear holocaust’.

It is good to learn that such a man lived among us. A man who dared; and cared.

I am leaving it here, PG. If people want to read you, let them. Who knows, some youngster might be inspired by you; and another, yet another…

Palden Gyatso Tenzing 1963-2010

Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 24-11-2010

Venus in India

The post is not about the famous sculpture, Venus de Milo; nor is it about the book by Charles Devereaux. It is about Venus Pencils, which was suddenly brought back from the past while reading another blog.

This post is for 'NRI Girl'. I was inspired to do a ride back in time because of her post, ‘Pencil Memories’ - http://hephzibahisrael.blogspot.com/2010/11/pencil-memories.html

Two of my three sisters who were elder to me by 13 and 4 years, studied Zoology at their graduate level; one of them to the PG level. Now when I look back, I realize that they didn’t have any interest in the subject of Zoology per se. On the other hand, when I wanted to take up 2^nd group for my Pre-degree (no ambition for ‘medicine’ – I was intrigued by Zoology), they vehemently opposed and derided me saying ‘you cannot draw a single record!’ They said it so triumphantly and finally that I wilted - so did my dreams of becoming a wildlife biologist. I felt they were saying the truth. Looking through their ‘Phylum – Chordata’ I would shiver- I could never draw like them. Though under strict orders NEVER TOUCH MY RECORD BOOK!, I used to peep into their record sheets, marveling at the intricate, delicate drawings of strange creatures and beautiful plants with romantic but unpronounceable names.

It is so easy to kill children, isn’t it? More so, in our younger days when the words of the elders were final. Like, when I wanted to study English Literature for my graduate class, they scoffed – ‘What? English? What you going to be? School teacher? Ha!’

The drawings, delicate. On their tables was this special box of pencils that they guarded fiercely. The metal box said, ‘Venus Pencils Made in England’. Young readers cannot imagine the kind of awe we had in the 1960s for things foreign. Though I used to pour for hours over ‘LIFE’ and ‘National Geographic’, I secretly believed that such places and people never existed – it was kind of a Maya, an illusion, I had thought.

But the Venus pencils. That green, crackled design on the skin! Some would come topped with erasers. Some had white plastic caps. As a small boy, I played with the empty metal pencil boxes – they were my buses. I was never ever to TOUCH the pencils, they are soooo expensive! When no one else was around, I used to gaze fixedly at the partly nude Venus de Milo. Probably I had a fixation on mammary glands…

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After leaving a comment at NRI Girl’s blog, I google Venus Pencils.

Those who would like read a brief history of Venus Pencils – go on.

The Company was founded in Hoboken, New Jersey in the United States in 1861 by Edward Weissenborn who had learned the art of pencil making in Switzerland and realised that t was a great future in the U.S.A. for quality pencils, many of which had hitherto been imported from Germany.
In 1865 the Company became the American Lead Pencil Co. and was the first firm in the U.S.A. to manufacture a complete range of graded lead pencils. Edward Weissenborn designed and built all of his own machinery and took out over 28 Patents for pencil making machinery.
The Reckford family acquired the Company in 1885, Reckford's previously having pioneered the importation of German pencils.
In 1905 the Venus de Milo statue in the Louvre was adopted as the Company's Trade mark. This required a certain amount of behind the scenes manoeuvring as the French Government had always forbidden the photographing and commercial use of Michelangelo's work of art. About this time the distinctive crackle finish was adopted. This unique design came about quite by accident but has remained a feature immediately recognised the world over and is undoubtedly the envy of other pencil makers who have searched incessantly for some similar distinctive feature.
By 1895 Venus Brand pencils were already being used in Great Britain and in 1906 a London Sales Office was opened in Farringdon Road, with a view to selling more Goods within the British Empire, direct sales from the U.S.A. being restricted due to Tariff Barriers.
Manufacture of Venus pencils in the U.K. started in 1910 at the newly acquired factory in Lower Clapton Road in East London, the London Sales Office also being relocated to that site. From 1915 to 1918 the plant and workforce were employed on the production of munitions and pencil production recommenced at the end of the First World War. In this same year the British Company was incorporated as Alpco Pencil Company and so remained until 1933, when the name was wisely changed to Venus Pencil Co. to ensure that Overseas buyers were aware that the goods being sold to them were entirely British made.
1946 saw Venus commence to produce the newly invented Ball Point Pens.
The British Company continued to expand and, up to 1958, it remained in the ownership of the Reckford family. However the male adult family members had all deceased in the late 1950's leaving their shares in trust to their widows and children and this led to the sale of the entire Company Worldwide to a cosmetic corporation - Charles of the Ritz. This was an unsuccessful ownership and in *9Venus was acquired by Laird & Co. of New York.
Negotiations with the Greater London Council and the King's Lynn Borough Council in 1966 led to the move from London in June 1967 to a greenfield site and a purpose built factory on the Hardwick Industrial estate.
Production of Fibre Tips and Markers were transferred from Birmingham in the Summer of 1971. The takeover by Eagle Pencils at that time saw the move of pencil production to Tottenham early in 1972 to free space for the move of the Injection Moulding equipment from Birmingham.
The move of the Margros Art and Craft materials production equipment from Woking to King's Lynn in 1973 meant that work space again became very limited and an extension to the original building was opened in early 1974 becoming the Finishe...

(source: http://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/venus-pencil-co-england-the-golfer-pencilholder )

In 1956, the American Lead Pencil Company officially changed their name to the Venus Pen and Pencil Corporation, thus turning their fifty-one-year-old product into the company name. After some acquirements the company name was changed to Venus-Esterbrook in 1967. In 1973, the company was bought out by Faber-Castell and their name was changed for the last time to the Faber-Castell Corporation. This ended use of the Venus name and trademark.

(Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_Pencils)

****************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 21-11-2010

Walking with Parvati

As we grow older, we gradually move into the unfamiliar realm of aches and pains.

The two of us had been vigorous outdoor people when we were younger and thought nothing of trekking in the mountains or biking long distance. But now, we hear the creaks and groans from different parts of our body. Joint pain, arthritis, rheumatism, sciatica, sprains, palpitation, muscular aches, diminishing eye sight, forgetfulness – the list is gradually but steadily building up. We are getting old.

Last Wednesday was a holiday. The two of us biked into the hills. Our destination was about 50 kms from where we live – the tribal area which is like a second home to us. Years of study and interaction with the indigenous community there have made us part of their family – they accept us because of our respect and love to them. We have learned a lot from the Kani; more than we could ever give back.

I was slightly concerned whether Parvati could take the rough ride on my Bullet. She gets migraine now if exposed to direct sunlight for more than 10 minutes. Strapping on our helmets, we said goodbye to Sancho, who looked tense and about to have a nervous breakdown any moment. The road was not as bad as in the city; we had a good ride. And typical of Kerala, we had a good drench in an unexpected heavy shower. While riding, Parvati was quiet for some time. I asked her if she had fallen asleep. She touched my neck and said – ‘No, I was remembering our rides long ago, with K strapped on to my chest’. Been riding together for 20 years now. Back home, Parvati looked radiant. She agrees with me; nothing like bike ride; car is too tame.

Today we went for a morning walk. Reason? I read somewhere that regular walking helps improve one’s memory. I am not so bothered about my absent-mindedness or memory lapses; but P surely is. So, she woke me up at 0530 and we did our 40 minutes bit.

Walking with Parvati has its benefits. One can learn a lot of Botany. She would point to each tree or plant, reel off its botanical, common and Malayalam names, show how to identify each, its medicinal value etc etc. Like the one I learned today – Bauhinia purpurea – Purple Orchid tree – Mandaram in Malayalam. She showed me its leaf, shaped like a profile of buttock cheeks. She said she always gets a laugh from the students when she relates like that; and it would be retained in their memories better.

In the quiet lanes that we walk, wild plants and creepers abound. They climb over walls and hoardings, over lampposts and fallen logs. After the night showers, they look so fresh and beautiful in different shades of green. Among them tiny flowers peek out and look at us curiously, like children. I remember this one – Clitoria ternatea.

We need wilderness around us. Not much; just a little. Just a little unkempt, disorderly, untidy patch. To remind us of nature and its spontaneity. A little wilderness in our hearts too; to remind us - of our natural selves.

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 21-11-2010

Accolades for a Poet

Today evening as I opened my gmail box, I found this e mail:

Sir,
I am Vighnesh , a student of model school, thycaud, tvm.I just read your poem named "GOOD EVENING"in Executive Knowledge Lines.It is a very nice poem.I selected it for my resiting competition.hope your blesses will be with me. faith fully, VIGHNESH

I am humbled and touched beyond words.

‘Good Evening’ is one of my favourites. Do read it, if you like. My travels, My life: Good Evening

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 18-11-2010

A Lamp for Thee, My Love!

It is amusing to read the comments of the younger friends on my posts on decades-old music. Like, ‘It is something my mom loved’ or Dad still listens to it’, etc. Songs that my generation held close to our hearts are ‘ancient’ to the younger set.

Like the way I thought of K L Saigal, Pankaj Mullick, C H Atma, Noorjahan or Lataji singing in her young voice - songs like Hawaa mein udtha jayae mere lal dupatta malmal (Lata M), Aaawaz de kahan hein duniya meri jawaan hein( Noorjahan with Surendra), Yeh raatane yeh mausam ye hasna hasaana( Pankaj Mullick)

We had a special, tall table stand for the Radio, beneath which was the HMV Star Turntable. The lower racks stacked full of LP records. After his evening bath, my father would come, smelling pleasantly. He would stand in front of the BIG Phillips radio, and tune it to Binaca Geethmala or Radio Ceylon. A Panama curling smoke in his left hand, and occasionally a glass of Brandy resting near the Radio, he would listen intently to the radio, fine tuning the stations. He would be humming a Saigal or a Mukesh, songs from the 1940s. I am talking about 1965-70. I used to get impatient with my dad and would think, ooph, what a drag, when he would break out – Sojaaa rajkumareee…!

Only in my early adulthood and in solitude that I started listening to the Hindi film songs of 1940s. As I understood more and more Hindi/Urdu, I could appreciate the songs better.

One of the unforgettable songs from that period is – ‘Diya to jala sub raat re baalam, par tum laute na aaye’ by C H Atma. Atma hasn’t sung as many songs as he should have; he tried his hand at acting but that didn’t do well. I googled Atma, but there is scant information on his life. This song, hauntingly beautiful, may not be familiar to all. But – do listen to it. If you want a taste, go to www.hamaracd.com .

Diya to jala – A lamp burned for you all the night my love! But never did you come back. In his deep bass, C H Atma sings so soulfully.

All you need is a cool, dim-lit room and a cold drink in your hand. Stretch your legs, lean back and look at the ceiling. Let the old movie roll…

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum 18-11-2010

Fire in the Heart, Tempest in the Eyes…

(Suresh Wadkar)

The Seventies was the decade when dinosaurs started falling dead. Like Romantisaurus rex, Environmentosaurus rex, Idealosaurus rex. As global markets opened up, the frenzy let out swarms of locusts that devoured traditions. They haven’t finished yet.

The Seventies was the decade I lived my adolescence and came of age, in mind and body. The Seventies was a beautiful bubble that burst – like a true bubble, it revealed Nothing, but the ‘pop!’ woke me into the harsh realities of the world.

Every time I listen to Seene’ mein jalan, aankhon mein toofan by Suresh Wadkar, I am transported 3 decades back. Gaman was released in 1978 or1979. Farookh Shaiekh and Jalal Aga were like us, youth who had dreams – dreams were all they had. Life and opportunities swished past them swiftly, leaving them by the dusty road under the scorching sun.

To me, the song evokes images of my innocent, dishevelled youth, driven aimlessly like a grain of sand in a storm and then in the end, tamely succumbing, submitting to the vagaries of life .

Yet – sometimes I sense this warmth in my heart, like glowing coals in a Kangir; sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror, I see the fleeting shadow of a tempest that died long ago…

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 16-11-2010

Moving on

It has been a long time

Since I wrote of you.

It could be that I think less of you.

It could be that I am now free –

Or freed you - from memories.

There was a time I breathed you

In every sigh.

In every blink of my eyes

Images of you lingered

Unwilling to fade.

It could be that I have accepted -

As all have to

The final d-e-l-i-n-k-i-n-g –

- - - - - - -

What lies next?

***** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 14-11-2010

photo courtesy: http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://wisewomencoffeechat.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/shattered-glass.jpg

Gold!

‘Bought 150 sovereigns gold jewellery from X jewelers; of course there is the rest I have bought over the years’. She said it oh-so-casually but the sense of pride was quite obvious in her voice. The mother is a former colleague of mine and she had come to the Bank for taking in/out the said gold.

My Sunday chores had to take a break so that I could attend the marriage today. The daughter, whom I have known since her birth stood on the stage, all bedecked in heavy gold jewelry and silk sari.

The price of gold is skyrocketing, giving sleepless nights to parents of marriageable daughters. P says, ‘Ooph, thank God we don’t have a girl! What would’ve we done?’ I retort sharply, ‘We would never do this, that’s what. If we had money saved up, we would give it to her, that’s all.’

Looking at the closed circuit TV which was showing the final moments of the marriage (the hall was so crowded and the photographers had closed around the couple like vultures denying us any possible view of the ceremony), I muse on gold.

Gold – just a worthless metal- you can’t boil a glass of water in a gold kettle (or can I? I haven’t tried!) and the whole bloody world is obsessed with it. The newspapers break out with headlines on the soaring price – it is Rs.15,000/- plus for a sovereign of gold; i.e., 8 gms.! Go to any small town in Kerala; the largest number of shops will be the jewellery shops. In the cities, massive showrooms come up every day – exclusively gold jewellery shops – of course, there are the alternatives of Platinum and Diamonds for the really rich. And how much of the 15000/- is for the gold? Most of it is swallowed by the shop wallahs who wouldn’t even give a proper bill for the purchases.

Who can really afford to buy gold? Only the filthily rich – and the middle class aspiring to be filthily rich and would go to any extent of corruption and greed to achieve that! The poor – they drown in their filth…

Why don’t we all say NO! to gold? I am sure that will bring down the prices of everything else too. I bought big onions today –Rs.40/- per k.g! I can afford to, but think of the millions who eat dinners of Roti and pyaaj?

Say NO! to gold –and say it loud.

************

Balachandran V,. Trivandrum, 14-11-2010

Morsel in the Mouth

(This is for Insignia!)

You can feel it with your tongue-

The more you feel it

The deeper it delves

Into the crevasses of your teeth

Entrenched, stuck

It becomes part

Of your molars or wisdom.

The surreptitious search

for a toothpick -

even a matchstick to ease

the discomfort -

to poke

to probe

to dig

to dislodge

to divest, finally

that fine morsel of meat

that little bit of cashew -

or ground - haven't you gone -

nuts -

with the sheer ecstasy

the purest bliss

of toying the last of the morsel

with your tongue -

and then

hiding behind your palm

relishing it -

Love, I believe, is sometimes

Like a morsel of memory in your mind!

******** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 14-11-2010

Music in the Morning

I am not a morning person. Don’t talk to me in the morning, at least for an hour after I have woken up, unless you want to lose an ear. Barring the blue moon days I go for a walk, you will find me sitting on the steps to the verandah, a cup of tea on one side, morning newspapers, English and Malayalam, all strewn around. A grumpy old man, frowning from behind a pair of ridiculously small reading glasses perched so comically over his bulbous nose. Don’t come within 10 feet; only Sancho is permitted within this perimeter. In fact, Sancho is the only personnel authorized to lift my morning grouch. He would nuzzle my ear affectionately; pull my arm with his paw for a chest scratch. Sancho has some cat blood in him; he would rub the entire length of his body across my legs or toes, to and fro, to and fro.

My old music system had gone kaput for nearly a year. It was a good one and I could not afford to buy another. And I kept on postponing lugging the heavy system all the way to the service guys. Music was limited to the tinny noise coming out of the tiny PC speakers. Terrible. Hence the morning blues.

So? So last week, I got it fixed. Paid a whopping Rs.3,000/- but now sound floods my room from the big speakers. So? So, instead of reading the horrid tabloids, I flip open my mind to music – and get flipped high.

Biking my way to office, I hum Kumar Gandharva or Subha Mudgal or Prahlad Tipanya or Unnikrishna Kurup. Hemant Da and Mukesh and Talat have absconded from the heavens and are hiding somewhere undisclosed. At traffic signals, you might notice this man waiting for the green, relaxed unlike others, his fingers tapping a strange tattoo on the handlebars; you wouldn’t know the beat – it could be the Chenda, Edakka, Mridangam, Dholak, Pakhwaj or Tabla. Do not mistake him for an autistic, from the irregular jerking and twisting and twitching of his helmet – he is singing some great song inside it. If you approach this person in his office for help, you may not get it as quickly as you would like to, though you are sure to get a blank but happy smile; you see, he is somewhere far away in a village in Malwa .Or in Himachal. Or in a dark temple in Kerala. Don’t bet upon it, he could be at many other places, except where he should be, physically.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 10-11-2010

Charlie Brown & Snoopy courtesy Late Charles M Schulz ( He is one among the 10 most lovable persons in the world - for me!)

Prahlad Tipanya sings Kabir

Listen to him, eyes closed, music system in full blast.

Mat kar maaya ko ahankaar

Mat kar kaaya ko abhiman

Kaaya gaar se kaachi, jaise oas raa moti

Jhonka pavan ka lag jaaye, jhapka pavan ka lag jaaye

Kaaya dhool ho jaasi…

Don’t be deluded by Maya,

Don’t take pride in the body.

It’s as fragile as clay, like a drop of dew.

A blast of wind, just a little gust,

And the body will turn to dust!

Listen to the thambura,

sway your head, sway it to and fro, back and forth

Listen to the manjira,

watch your fingers drumming

watch your shoulders jerking,

Listen to the Dholak,

spasms break out -

energy spews from your body-

it’s the Deliverance ! - dance, dance!

Yunhi man samjhave’, tu jhutti man samjhave’

Bina khoj kuchch bhed na pave’

Dharo viradha janam gamave’

Sun saayar gyani, tu kayi man samjhave’?

Here’s how you center your mind.

Search for the secret, don’t waste your life.

Listen, wise wanderer,

How will you steer your mind?

Jo paanihari paani chaale’, baedo bhari ne khar laave’

Hale' dole' baat banaave’, par surat bevada mein laave’

Sun saayar gyani, tu kayi man samjhave’.

The way a water-bearer walks to the well,

Fills her post and brings it home,

She swings along, chatting on her way,

Her awareness fixed on the pot.

Listen wanderer

Here’s how you center the mind.

Listening to Kabir, listening to Prahlad…

****** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 09-11-2010

Courtesy: Kabir in Malwa – Folk songs of Kabir by Prahald Tipanya & Kaluram Bamaniya

Thanks to Shabnam Virmani, Vidya Rao,

www.kabirproject.org. www.scholarswithoutborders.in

PLEASE also see http://mytravelsmylife.blogspot.com/2010/11/someone-is-listening.html

In Silence I Prostrate Before Thee

Prof. Purushotham Lal

(August 28, 1929 - November 3, 2010)

My fingers pause – hover over the keyboard –

What can I write – when my heart is frozen –

In sorrow!

In my ears reverberate your deep, gruff voice –

complimenting me -

I remember I couldn’t thank you –

How do this humble mortal thank

What words could express

This ultimate happiness!

What am I before you, Sir?

In my book your calligraphic writing -

You wrote my name!

You made me immortal!

Let me stop here.

I cannot stand the clicking of the keys

Anymore.

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 08-11-2010

Prof. P Lal, publisher of my collection of poems, ‘Signs of Love’ passed away on 3^rd November 2010. I came to know about it just now. Those who love English and Indian writing in English will never forget him; many are the writers who were nurtured by Prof. Lal; many of the greatest names. I can only thank whatever coincidences that made up my life for providing me with a chance of being noted by him, being one of his children.

*****************

http://www.merinews.com/article/p-lal-the-legendary-indian-poet-an-obituary/15834526.shtml

http://vidyanjali.blogspot.com/2006/01/meeting-professor-p-lal_23.html

http://www.thestatesman.net/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=347509&catid=73

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P._Lal