Snoopy

The cartoon strip I love best is 'Peanuts'. Time and again I have used Charlie Brown or Snoopy the Beagle in my posts to highlight certain qualities I uphold - or wish to uphold. 'Peanuts' is not really a cartoon strip for children - or rather it is for children who can think like adults. But one can enjoy Peanuts at any age, though the philosophical implications might escape the notice of many.

One of strips that I find unforgettable and that I go back to from time to time is given below. Sometime in the Eighties it had appeared in a Weekly - I had cut it out and kept it in my treasure chest. When K came from Bangalore last week, as usual he presented me with a secondhand copy of Peanuts book bought from Blossoms. To my great delight, I found the strip in it. I would like to share it with you.

Balachandran V, Trivandrum,, 27.10.2012

Blue Rock Pigeons

Dear reader, if perchance you happen upon here now,

Move on, with a casual click to somewhere else -

I have nothing to offer, other than a word, 

On a pair of dead pigeons.

Move on then, but with a briefest thought

Of the beauty of life that linger even in death

Of the parting of ways that you and I will, one day

Remind yourself that this is how it all ends,

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

Pigeons that you fed

Pigeons that cooed, cozy beneath your roof,

Pigeons that rose with a flutter

To the sky as blue as their wings.

That's all, my dear reader, move on, as I did -

But before you do, step aside as I did

Gently picking the memories up and laying them

By the side of the road...

************** Balachandran V, Alleppey 04.0.2012

Daughters

Today there appeared this huge hoarding right in front of the YMCA. She has one of the loveliest faces I have ever seen. Even in this soft morning when only a few pass by on these streets, it would be odd for an old man like me to gawk at a pretty girl's picture. The line - 'Daughters are totally worth it' , struck a painful note somewhere inside. Long ago I used to fantasize being the father of a pretty, intelligent, artistic daughter, but fate had it otherwise.

As one grows older, one is aware of the increasing number of attractive women all around. I am interested in beautiful, intelligent and sexually attractive women like any other man, but in recent years, I have noticed that by and large, I look at young girls in the age group of say 17- 23 with a queer mixture of love and affection, not lustily, but quite aware of the sexuality of the young women in full bloom.

And young ladies of the said group abound. They flutter around me like butterflies. They swoop down from the skies at me, pass me swiftly, leaving the fragrance of their beauty and youth. They are like young does, jumping and hopping and kicking up dust. I see them, on their way to schools and colleges or offices, in buses and trains, in the streets and beaches. Their gaiety is infectious. Beauty is all around me and I am enchanted by it.

I am typing this sitting in a train to Trivandrum, my weekly commuting to home. Facing me sit two of the above kind. I watch them openly and I can sense this kindly smile on my face as I observe every little thing they do - munching Lays, talking over the mobile, excited gestures and giggles, the way their eyes dart. I also notice the soft hair on their forearms, glinting in the sunlight. I admire the gentle swell of the breasts, the pale skin and the beautifully shaped neck. Their earlobes are soft and pink, their fingers long and graceful, with a life of their own, a language of their own. The girls share the songs of a single mobile phone, plugging one earphone to each. I eavesdrop but can't make much sense of their conversation.

Until recently, there were four young girls in my office. All of them in their early 20s, fresh graduates/ PGs, excited at their first jobs and thrilled to be independent. Joined the bank in the space of last one year, they offered a hilarious contradiction with us, 4 middle-aged, gray- haired men. To us, they were like our daughters. We loved to teach them the rudiments of banking practice, teased them, shared their concerns, hopes and happiness, reassured them if they were in a flutter. 3 of them stayed at a local working women's hostel, one commuted from Cherthala, about 20 kms from Alleppey. One Monday, back from home I gave them a bottle of P's tomato pickle and how they loved it!

But within the span of last couple of weeks two of them were transferred to their home towns. Waving goodbye, I knew it was unlikely that I would ever meet them again. They were likely to settle down and get married, go for promotion and lead their lives. Who were I, this man who had passed through their lives for a brief one year? I remember those old officers and peons in Chidambaram, way back in 1980. Very likely they are dead and gone and what had been them, to me? Except figures, faint in my private memories? So too, I shall pass.

We don't know much about each other - other than about the immediate family, where we live, etc. In spite of the fact that we spend every day together, from morning to evening, we hardly know anything about our personal problems, other than a very occasional mention of something.

At the railway station today afternoon, N, one of the four, came up to me and asked - 'Sir, is there any truth in astrology?' N confided in me that she wanted to marry someone but her family was against it. She was miserable and then went to an astrologer who said there was some Dosham and according to the stars, the proposed marriage would not succeed. She looked all twisted and about to break down. 'Pappa and Amma are against it, so is my sister I hate her now she used to support me'. So I tell her gently to have confidence in herself, discuss the matter with her fiancé, listen to the objections of her parents and convince them. I tell her, no astrology is not true or anything don't BELIEVE in it, but sometimes it is a salve for wounds, sometime it offers hope when nothing else can, sometimes it works sometimes it doesn't, but the main thing is to have conviction in oneself - it sounds so hollow even to me. If one knew oneself, one wouldn't need the crutches.

Perhaps it is the 'paternal instinct', perhaps it is the diminishing libido, perhaps it is the onset of 'andropause' - I am feeling so fatherly to all young girls. Or is it because of the realization that I would be interesting to girls of that age only as a father figure?

As the train slows down at Trivandrum, standing near the exit, I glance at the mirror above the wash basin. I am amused. I nearly burst out laughing because what I see is the profile of a man who could be in his mid-60s. But, no Sir, no ridicule. I am happy being what I am. I am proud that I don't pretend to be what I am not. whatyouseeiswhatyouget. I think that is quite an attractive feature.

**************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 22-10-2012

This is a poem I wrote a few years ago.

  Sunlight Slants

Sometimes, in the corner of my eye,

I see a shadow flitting by.

A little girl in ponytail,

A pinafore hangs in the sun to dry.

Raindrops on petals, roses so pink,

A pair of hands cover my eyes.

A drop of water drips from the still wet hair,

My daughter asks me to tell her name.

The tinkle of your anklets,

The tingle of your laughter,

The scent of love in your touch,

My fingers grope for your little face.

Who are you, my unborn child, my unsung song,

You with the soft curls that tickle my ears?

Why did you chose to remain in my heart,

Tease me not with your hide& seek.

Sunlight slants- evening is here

Doors are open, I wait for thee.

Come, let the brilliance of light

Glow your hair and warm my heart. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

A Temple Tank

I have been getting up rather early these days; it follows early to bed. The dreariness of my job wears me out and unlike the old days when I could sit up late night, I now go to sleep by 2100 hrs, wakes up at around 0300 hrs, try to sleep again and doze off after half an hour or so. Mind in turmoil, wringing the thought of taking VRS, the pros and cons, the foolishness or brilliance of the decision to change the course of my life. At 0600, I straddle my bicycle and with the camera in the basket, I roam the town, pedaling slowly and then come to this temple tank near the Tirumala temple.

It is quiet here. A heron, stalking in the shrubs, skulks away. A Little Cormorant, sedately swimming is annoyed and streaks across the water and flies away. A few feet from where I stand, a Mongoose scuttle across and at a safe distance, pauses and looks back at me before diving into the bushes. A smart dog runs up, smells me curiously in a friendly way, thinks twice before marking my bicycle with his pee and trot away as if to attend to some urgent business. I click. In the warmth that breaks sweat from my body, I sit quietly. Far away, I can hear the traffic on the highway. Two pretty teenagers, so lovably conscious of their beauty, pass by, probably for a morning private tuition.

I could live like this, in a daze, till I die - or take my future into my hands and chart a course into unknown territories. Some might say I am too old to launch new adventures, but in howmuchsoever life is left for me, I would like to wake up every morning, not dreading the dreariness of predictable, dull routine, but to days, each different and fresh, finally loving every moment of my life, everything I do.

******* Balachandran V. Alleppey, 18.10.2012

A Passing Scenery

 Courtesy: whotalking.com

While in a train from north to south,

Past the paddy, the groves, the lagoons,

Past where pearls glitter in sun,

Someone I love passed me by.

In a train from south to north,

Past the streams, the ponds, the lakes

On the tracks west to where I sat,

In that train fleeing past,

My son, my uttermost love, passed me by.

In that train that flew past me,

In the blur of faces that swept past me,

One was my son, my uttermost love.

I, in a train running north to south,

My heart in a train running south to north.

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

K was home for two days; that was his surprise birthday present to P. I couldn’t be with him today, I had to be at work. Then, in the afternoon, I rode this train from Alleppey to Trivandrum; and K in a train from Trivandrum to Bangalore.  Somewhere near the bewitchingly beautiful lake at Paravoor, our trains crossed, going in opposite directions. I strained to look the fast moving train, hoping to catch a glimpse of K’s face. How silly! I know, but I was awed; I wanted to tell the guys who sat near me, ‘Look, look, my son is in that train!’  Then as we crossed the Paravoor Kayal, the water was silvery and pearly and the sun was so radiant and the breeze was so cool and my eyes were wet and I  got a glimpse of the vast sea beyond.

************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 22.09.2012

The Key Factors of Life

Life is a bitch; take it from me, I've had 55 years of it. Well, I'd agree, maybe in general. Or maybe not. But - sitting in a bus that took me oh-so-slowly from Kollam to Trivandrum, squeezed between two gentlemen of considerable girth ( that makes it three gentlemen), the sweat of one's armpit drawing bizarre patterns on my left shoulder and the right serving as a pillow for the other man who seems not to have slept for the last one week - it struck me - zen comes in the most unpredictable moments - that one's life has mainly two set of factors - those that can be controlled and those that cannot be. So? So, when you can't bloody well anything about the uncontrollable factors, what the f*** are we doing about those that can be controlled by ourselves?

Say, take my smoking. I can easily stop it anytime. Like Mark Twain said, ' Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in life; I know, because I have done it several times'. My smoking could be the cause of many of my discomforts; sore throat, cough, palpitation, giddiness - and whatever my ECG says I have. All I have to do is to chuck the horrible habit. Long ago, just after marriage, I quit smoking for two years! I kept on reminding myself that with every cigarette, I lost 5 minutes of my life. Life that could be spent with P and K and walking in the mountains.

Yeah, my Mr Hyde would then say, 'Listen pal, just think about the moments of great pleasure that Gold Flake King Size has given you. Just think of the poems you wrote, drifting in and out of the smoke. Think of the moment when you paused at the top of the hill and lit one'.

Or - shall we talk about the 32 goddamn years I've spent working in a bank? Oh, yeah, I had all sorts of weird dreams about doing this and doing that and - Ok, I've realized a few but many many are left unattended. Actually, I could do something about them - like going to Tierra del fuego or Scotland or wandering in the Himalayas - but that horrible interruption called 'priorities' intervene and my dreams are left in the lurch.

What are the things that really makes you feel that life is a bitch? Laziness. Procastination. Cowardice. Dullheadedness. Indifference. If one starts analyzing the whole rigmarole that makes up one's life, one can straightaway come to the conclusion that the Controllable factors are more than its opposite. Climate Change? Corruption? Accidents? Deaths? Pollution? Deforestation? Ageing?

The question that we should pose to ourselves is - What the F*** have you done about it?

Excuse me, folks, while I light a cigarette....

****** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 23.08.2012

P S . Just wanted to share a poem I wrote long ago:

Gone up in Smoke

Crackling cellophane

As the packet opens-

Aroma of tobacco.

Fingers a- trembling, brain a- tickling.

The glowing butt, curling smoke

As the tip touches one’s lips-

Tingle! Deep intake of smoke

Seeps in settling, satiating one’s blood.

Rings dancing in the air

Wafting away into nothingness

Only a fragrance remains-

Then that too, like you, is gone forever.

************************ 31.08.2004

All India Bank Strike!

Two-day strike, but I reached home only in the evening of the first day. Wasn't sure if the Strike would be held, so has been the history of bankers in strike; left Alleppey in the morning, attended a marriage at Kollam at noon. Today, on the second day of the strike, I am short of cash and go to five ATMs, of different banks, including mine. They all say, 'REGRET'; probably cash in the ATMs must be fully exhausted. As I leave the fifth, a man standing outside asks me- ' Got money?' I shake my head and he clucks sympathetically and adds - "Those ---------ers! Striking for two days in this Onam season! ----ers should be thrown out!" I nod - whether it was in concurrence or not, I hope he could not recognize....!

******************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 23.08.2012

Har Har Mahadev! Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim! Independance Day musings

Satnam Singh

Walking along M G Road, Trivandrum in the morning, wondering at the daily changes that happens to it as the old tiled two-storyed buildings give way to multi-storyed shopping malls and regretting that I did not photo-document the old City of the 70s and 80s, I am shaken out of my reverie by the sound of blaring horns and revving motorcycles and racuous cries. A procession of a dozen or more motorbikes piloted and followed by four-wheelers, blinking lights and waving the flag pass, blocking the regular traffic. The drivers of the cars have their doors kept open; boys sit on the window frames. The bikers have no helmets; some boys stand up on the pillion seat. They ignore the traffic lights. They pass Police vehicles - security is beefed up today - and the police just look at them.

Typical of Indians that the boys should celebrate Independence Day by flouting the law of the land. Freedom, to Indians, is to be free of law. Otherwise, how do one explain the political murders, where people who defy the Party are hacked to death or the death of a mentally deranged youth at the hands of the devotees of the 'Amma' or the Police or the mental hospital staff?

Satnam Singh was found dead inside the lavatory of the Govt Mental Hospital at Trivandrum. Satnam had crawled through the corridors of the hospital and licked up the water on the floor of the lavatory before collapsing to death. Satnam was 23, from Bihar. He had been missing from home since last May. Satnam reportedly suffered from Bipolar disorder. Before the incident at the Matha Amritanandamayi Math, Satnam was at the ashram of Muni Narayanaprasad at Varkala for 20 days. According to Muni Narayanaprasad, the one prayer at the All Religion prayers offered at the Ashram that Satnam was fond of repeating was 'Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim' , In the name of Allah, Most gracious, most merciful'.

On the fateful day, Satnam rushed at Matha Amrithanandamayi, shouting 'Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim'. The security guards and devotees detained him and later handed over Satnam to the police. According to a newspaper report - "The math office-bearers detained Singh and handed him over to the police. The police subjected him to a medical exmaniation before they produced him before a magistrate and got him remanded in judicial custody. The police said the doctor had reported serious injury on Satnam at the time they assumed his custody".

The video footage at the Math showed Satnam being manhandled by the people there. Later, Satnam might have been subjected to further physical torture at the hands of the Police and at the government run mental hospital.

Enquiries have begun; at the same speed they are being hushed up. Attendants at the hospital are in custody. Doctors who gave false certificates could not be indicted; the Medical Council threatened strike.

Perhaps one cannot expect more from the law or health institutions in this country. But what is more painful is that Matha Amrithanandaymayi - Amma to the millions of her devotees - she could have saved Satnam's young life. One word from her would have given a young son back to his parents. She could have been a bit 'graceful, a bit 'merciful'.

One cannot really help being cynical about the icons that we carry in our hearts - be it the nation or living Gods. Happy Independance Day, fellow Indians!

                 Satnam's father

************* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 15.08.2012

Close encounters of the Exciting Kind

I was in a poorly lit hall in Alleppey where a book exhibition was going on.  I had passed her a couple of times before; maybe it is the dim light or my failing eyesight, I did not notice her at first. Then, on the third time, I stopped by - and. as I always do, began  fondling her. Suddenly, I froze - one has that instinctive feel, that arousal, that pounding of the heart, that innate knowledge that one has found it - folks, I am talking about the exicting discovery of yet another book, poems that have captured my heart.

The poet lives in my home town, is already well known in the literary circles - I had heard her name, but I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't read her. Reading Anitha Thampi and her second collection of poems, 'Azhakillaatthava-yellaam ( All that are bereft of beauty) is like watching a storm outside as you sit dry and warm and alone, inside. After reading her poems over and over, I google her. Translations never do justice to the original, but you can read a few here.

What struck me most is the lean crispness of the words. Emotions pour forth, not uncontrolled, but with a startling nakedness, bereft of pretensions. There is such precision, such clarity and overwhelming directness that left the reader trembling. The language bear no laundry bags from the past. The thoughts hits you direct and straight, puncturing your heart like a rapier. Those of you know Malayalam would find Anitha Thampi very close to you - very close. Non-Malayalees will have to be content with the translations.

There is enough information about the poet and her poetry in the web. My words are inadequate. 

കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് 

കഞ്ഞിപിഴിഞ്ഞു വിരിച്ച ഉടുപ്പ്

വെയിലെട്ടുനിവരുന്നതിനിടെ 

പൊടുന്നന്നെ 

ആര് കൊണ്ടുപോയി?

എന്റെ അളവിനെ 

മണത്തെ

അനക്കങ്ങളെ 

എന്റെ മാത്രം അഴുക്കുകളെ 

അത് കൂടെകൊണ്ടു പോയി

കണ്ണ് നിറഞ്ഞാല്‍ തുടചിരുനു

വാക്ക് തടഞ്ഞാല്‍ തെരുപ്പിടിച്ചിരുന്നു

എന്റെ തണുപ്പും പൊള്ളലും എത്ര കാലം പൊതിഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. 

മൊരിയും വിയര്‍പ്പും ഒപ്പി

ഉള്മരങ്ങളുടെ പൂമനങ്ങളെ ചോര്‍ന്നു പോകാതെ കാത്തു

കാറ്റുകള്‍ക്ക്‌ പായ്മരമായി

ഉത്സവങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കൊടികൂറയായി

പല കറകളെ പേറി 

പുഴുക്കങ്ങളെ പൊറുത്തു

പാതിവാടിയ ഇലകളുടെ നിറമായിരുന്നു

ആര് കൊണ്ടുപോയി? 

എന്റെതല്ലാത്ത ഒരു അളവില്‍ 

അതിന്റെ ഇറുക്കങ്ങളില്‍ 

അയവുകളില്‍,

സുഖമുണ്ടാവുമോ? 

ഒരു നീലകുപ്പായതോട്  ചേര്‍ന്ന്  നിന്നതിന്റെ 

ഒര്മയുണ്ടാവുമോ?

ഇനിയുഒരു കുപ്പായതോട് ആ വിധം ചേര്‍ന്ന് നില്‍ക്കാനാവുമോ?

ഒരിക്കല്‍ 

ഏതെങ്കിലും തിരക്കില്‍ 

എന്നെകടന്നു പോയാല്‍ 

തിരിച്ചറിയുമോ 

എന്റെ കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ്? 

-- 
കടലിന്റെ അടിത്തട്ടില്‍ നിന്ന്

നിന്നോട് സംസാരിച്ചു കൊണ്ട് 

ഞാന്‍ കടലിനു മീതെ നടക്കുകയായിരുന്നു.

തിരകള്‍

എന്റെ കാലടികളെ ഇക്കിളിയാക്കി.

കാറ്റ് ഉടലിനെ പായ്മരമാക്കി 

വിശ്വസിക്കൂ എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞു 

ഞാന്‍ തിരിഞ്ഞുനോക്കുമ്പോള്‍ 

നീയില്ല.

കണ്നെതുന്ന്ടതെങ്ങും കരയില്ല,

കര തേടുന്ന കടല്ക്കാക്കകള്‍മില്ല.

അങ്ങിനെയാണ് 

ഇത്രമേല്‍ ആഴത്തില്‍ 

ഞാന്‍

ഒറ്റയ്ക്കായത്. 

___________

From the depths of the sea

I was walking over the sea

talking to you. 

Waves

Tickled my feet

Wind turned my body into a mast. 

Trust me, I said

And turned around -

You were not there. 

No land wherever I looked

No seagulls searching for land either. 

That's how 

I am now all alone

in the great depths

of the sea. 

*****  ( My poor translation) 

-- 

പ്രിയ അനിതയ്ക്ക്. 

പേര് പരിചിതമായിരുന്നു എങ്കിലും, വായിച്ചിരുന്നില്ല. ആലപ്പുഴയിലെ പുസ്തക പ്രദര്‍ശന ശാലയില്‍, 'അഴകില്ലത്തവയെല്ലാം' വെറുതെ ഒന്ന് മറിച്ചു നോക്കിയപ്പോള്‍ ഹൃദയത്തിന്റെ മിടിപ്പ് പെട്ടെന്ന് വര്‍ധിച്ചു. മലയാളം വായന പരിമിതം - ഭാഷാജ്ഞാനം കുറവ് - ഭാവന ശുഷ്കം - എങ്കിലും കൈകള്‍ വിറച്ചു. ഹൃദയത്തില്‍ എവിടെയൊക്കെയോ ഒരു കത്തി കൊണ്ടുള്ള കോറല്‍. 

ആലപ്പുഴയില്‍നിന്നും തിരുവനന്തപുരതെകുള്ള തീവണ്ടിയില്‍ ഇരുന്നു പലവുരു വായിച്ചു; എന്റെ മുഖം അടുത്തിരുന്നവര്‍ ഇടക്കിടെ ശ്രദ്ധിക്കുന്നുണ്ടായിരുന്നു.  വീട്ടില്‍ വന്നു ഭാര്യയെ ചിലത് വായിച്ചു കേള്‍പ്പിച്ചു. കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് - എന്റെ മനസ്സിലെ വിഹുഅലതകള്‍ ഞാന്‍ എങ്ങിനെ പറഞ്ഞറിയിക്കാന്‍? മനസ്സ് വിതുമ്പുന്നു. കുട്ടനാടിന്റെ പച്ച!  ചാഞ്ഞും ചരിഞ്ഞും ആകാശത്തിലേക്ക് നീണ്ടു മേഘങ്ങളില്‍ മറഞ്ഞും പടര്‍ന്നു പന്തലിച്ചും, ഭലവും തണലും സ്നേഹവും വാരി വിതറി മരങ്ങള്‍! ഓരോ ചെറു തിരമാലയിലും മാടി മാടി വിളിക്കുന്ന കടല്‍! 

ആര് പെണ്ണെ നീ? ഓ, വരില്ലത്, തെരണ്ടിരിപ്പാണ്, എന്ന് വായിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ പാര്‍വതിയുടെ മുഖത്ത് എന്തോ മിന്നിമറഞ്ഞു. 'തുലാത്തില്‍' വായിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ മാവേലിക്കരയിലെ, എഴുപതുകളിലെ എന്റെ കൌമാരം ഓര്മ വന്നു. കൈലി മടക്കികുത്തി കുനിഞ്ഞു നിന്നുകൊയ്യുന്ന   പെണ്ണുങ്ങളെ കൊച്ചംബ്രാന്‍ ആയി വരമ്പത്ത് നിന്ന്,  കൊതിയോടെ നോക്കി നിന്ന എന്റെ ചെറു ജന്മിത്വം.  കടല്ക്കരയില്‍നിന്നും പിന്നോക്കം നടന്നു പോയത് ഞാന്‍ ആണ്. ഒറ്റക്കാക്കി, ഒറ്റയായി ...

ഓരോ കവിതയിലും ഞാന്‍ മനസുടക്കി മറിഞ്ഞുവീണ് , വീണ്ടും എണീറ്റ്‌ - കാറ്റിലൂടെ, മഴചാറ്റിലൂടെ, നിശബ്ദനായി ...

ഞാന്‍ വീണ്ടും വീണ്ടും - വീണ്ടും കളഞ്ഞു പോയ ഉടുപ്പ് വായിക്കുകയാണ്. 

ഭാഷയുടെ ശക്തി - ലാളിത്യത്തിന്റെ പ്രഭ - അത് സത്യതിന്റെതും പരിശുദ്ധിയുടെതും  കൂടിയാണ് - നന്ദി. 

************ Balachandran V, Trivandrum 10.08.2012

The Flight of the Seagull

Last week when I went to Eranakulam, I dived into my favourite joint there - the secondhand bookshop that has been my solace in the last one year. Digging, burrowing, overturning hundreds of books, I delve deep into the mass of printed pages bound. Just being there, among the works of hundreds of writers, on books varying from Abstract Art to Zoology, gives me immense pleasure and peace. Most of them are fiction, romance and thrillers, books for children, on cuisine, on computers, on gardening or on religion. I bury myself among the books on nature. I am still in the search for books on Himalayas- which I had written about sometime back.

Among the books piled up, I occasionally come across books that I already have at home. It is like meeting old friends. I smile fondly at them and wonder whether I should buy them, perhaps to give as a gift to someone. What better gift there can be to your loved ones, than a book you love? And then, hard bound with a plastic jacket, labelled Rs.30/- lay Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

In one of the glass-cased bookshelves at home, on the top row among my most favorites rests J L Seagull. The frontispiece carry my sprawling, long signature with a date - 28/Jan/78. I bought it at Trivandrum for Rs.10/-. Richard Bach's JLS is one of the books that has profoundly influenced me all my life. I might never become another Jonathan, but I will wish to be, till I die.

1978. I had completed my graduation, joined for PG and was going through a crisis; in fact, several crises in different fronts. Looking back, I realize I am not much different from the person I was then, a boy of 21; about the age K is now.

Jonathan is a Seagull who wants to fly, for the sake of flying. "Why, Jon, why?", asked his mother. "Why is it so hard to be like the rest of the flock?" "Don't you know that the reason you fly is to eat?", asked his father. Jonathan is banished from his flock for his irresponsible behaviour. Jonathan beseeches to his elders - " How much more there is now to living! Instead of our drab slogging forth and back to the fishing boats, there’s reason to life! We can lift ourselves out of ignorance, we can find ourselves as creatures of excellence and intelligence and skill. We can be free! We can learn to fly! Who is more responsible that a gull who finds and follows a meaning, a higher purpose for life? For a thousand years we have scrabbled after fish heads, but now we have reason to live - to learn, to discover, to be free! Give me a chance, let me show you what I have found!" The outcast is alone, flying, flying all the time, perfecting his skill.

The son of a close friend of mine wants to take a break. He has good openings for a career in a field he likes, the movies. His father has good contacts and all he needs to say is yes. Yet he asked for a year - to experiment in theatre. He says if he fails, he will come back. We advise him how foolish it is to lose one year at this stage of life. Build your career now, forget theatre, it is not going to fetch you money. Yet he is determined to go. I admire his courage. I admire his conviction. I admire the quiet confidence that he has, to take risks. To listen and to act to the call of your soul is not something meant for ordinary mortals.

In 1978, I had contemplated on joining a mission in the northeast. I had visions only I could see. I had lost out - in studies, in career, in love life. I applied to the Vivekananda Kendra asking them to take me in as a social worker in Arunachal Pradesh. They gracefully replied to me, asking me to make sure that this is the life I want. They said - do not join us if you are unhappy with your present life, but only if you love the work we do. This is not an escape, but a reality with all the harshness of the life of a monk. Join us when you have no regrets about your present and only happiness about your future.

How could a boy of 21 know his mind? There are the fortunate who could, but I wasn't one among them. I still am not. I was, I am, too stuck in the mud, too afraid to break out of the comforts of the present into the unknown of the future. Maybe I am just one of the gulls sitting in a corner of that windswept beach, neither among the flock nor with Jonathan flying high, high in the sky. I look up at the blue sky and I see Jonathan flying with his silvery wings, above the clouds, above the winds and storms.

I bought the copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull - it is a discard from a school library somewhere in the UK. I couriered it to K in Bangalore. K is flapping his wings too, testing the air.

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 29.07.2012

The Lotus-eater

courtesy: http://tsukasachronicles.blogspot.in/

    P and I were casually talking about some of her relatives; this couple who are quite close to us and are absolutely great people to be with - both in their late fifties, their daughters, professionals, happily married and settled. The one word that comes to my mind to describe them is - elegant. The couple has this aura of gentle charm of true-blue aristocrats, has easy-going manners. They put you at ease straight away - that is one real quality of goodness in people. Right from the time of our marriage 22 years ago, I had liked this couple very much; though never keen on socializing, I was always happy to spend time with them. Both were professional bankers; both took VRS ( Voluntary retirement) when they found the stress of their jobs too much to handle and now lived quietly, content, spending time among their place in Kochi, and the daughters' in the US and elsewhere.

   Contemplating on VRS myself, I said - ' Look at Chettan - he is happily spending his life, reading and travelling and just being himself'. P replied - ' Oh yeah, he was always a 'Sukhimaan'. I would translate the word Sukhimaan to Lotus-eater. My Malayalee readers might help me with a better word.

   It reminded me of the old joke about the 'Development/ progress' - obsessed American meeting the Indian farmer, relaxing beneath a tree, playing a flute and enjoying the breeze. Don't you want development, the American asks, we will give you money to buy cows. Interested, the Indian farmer asked - Good, what then? 'You can make more money and then you will be able to have your own farm'. Wow, this is great! What then? 'You can make more money and buy cars and build big houses'. Awesome, says the farmer, sitting up, tell me more. 'And then', said the American, 'you will have so much money that you can relax and live happily ever after'. The Indian farmer leant back and took up the flute. He smied and said - Thats exactly what I am doing now.

   There is a short story by Maugham, 'The Lotus Eater'.  The protagonist in the story is a banker!  Maugham, like Hemingway and Shute, shaped my interest in English literature. 

   But more than the word Sukhimaan, P's intonation was loaded with meaning - it was an accusation. That stung me. I asked her what is wrong with being a sukhimaan. We are not talking about laziness, of indolence, but of someone in his mid-fifties deciding to take it easy. He opted out of the rat race, of the stress that was affecting his physical and mental health - he just retired. He might be making less money, he may not have a 'status' now, no authority, no influence, no domination, no pomp and postion. But he is happy. Is it a crime not having to struggle, not to suffer, not to take up huge responsibilities, not to be stressed? What is the purpose, the ultimate goal of our lives, the very meaning of existence, if it is not the pursuit of happiness? Why do we envy those who have stopped pursuing happiness and have realised that happiness is not a goal at the farthest end of horizon but is right here, at this moment?

  'Moreover', I told P - 'take that barb out of your mouth.'

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 22-07-2012

Phases of Life

Crow with phases of moon: Painting by Nancy Denommee

Sometimes I think that  our life is full of cliche'-s. Not only in our conversations, but the whole exercise of living is cliche' -ed. It is when we try to break out of the cliche'-s that we find pleasure and happiness in life. Otherwise our lives remain, as B said, fatuous, mundane and insignificant. Yet sometimes these cliche'-s when uttered in the right situations, reveal to us the doors to meaningful existence.

J called me yesterday night. He is in his early forties. J is a colleague of mine in the Bank. Years ago, he had stayed at our outhouse while working in Trivandrum. Though a Malayalee, he had lived most of his life in North India. J is an exemplary chap. He is a great friend, but since we worked in different branches and he moved away to other places on transfer, our friendship could not develop further intimacy. We kept in touch; in the occasional hello-s, the warmth and affection in our relationship was kept alive.

J is in Patiala now. We asked after each other's family, our rides (J had once done the Ladakh trip on a Scooter!) and our work. I told him that I was now in Alleppey and felt miserable being away from Parvati and Trivandrum. Sensing my dejection, J immediately said- ' No No No, don't worry, it'll pass, it is just a phase of life, it'll pass'.

While trekking in the mountains, one of the unforgettable memories is about water. After a tiring stretch, one would be panting and leaning on to the walking stick; legs would be wobbly; knees would be almost tearing apart. And then you suddenly see this small gush of water, falling from a height, running down through a little forest of green bushes and all you have to do is to press your face against it and the icy water would be cascading over your head, blurring your eyes and trickling down to the insides of your jacket. You fill your hat with the water and put it over your head. Bliss.

When J was at Trivandrum, he used to bring his wife and son occasionally from his native place - Tiruvalla. His wife had terminal cancer and had to undergo radiation therapy at the Regional Cancer Centre. I remember her, the pallu of her sari draped over head. She was so frail and weak. Yet I remember the way she smiled at me, while J held her close. I remember the love that shone in J's eyes. J's wife passed away soon. J would have been in his early thirties at that time, but he never remarried. His only son has now completed his Plus Two and wants to study architecture.

A phase of life. I was silent over the phone for a moment, remembering all that, and how J has lived through so much pain. I remembered all those who have borne much suffering and yet survived another day. I closed my eyes and felt the cool, soothing stream running down and was at peace. The journey was not yet over.

************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 15.07.2012

A Cup of Tea

Just  meters away from the entrance of Alleppey railway station stand a few shops; among them a little tea shop where I often have my tea. There is a tree beside the shop; it is a little one, offering cover more than shade. 

My cup of tea came and I grimaced at the taste; I don't take much sugar in it. As I took a sip, I saw someone standing behind the little tree. He was a tramp; could  not be more than 40 or so, filthily attired, his unkempt hair and beard matted with dirt.  I looked at him, our eyes met and he lowered his.  I took another sip and glanced at him. His eyes reminded me of the countless stray dogs - meek, wary and in the hierarchy of living beings, the lowest, the pariah.  Like a tentative wag of the tail, he managed to smile at me - and gestured - oru chaaya - a cup of tea.  

Call me heartless, but I am not the kind who give alms to beggars. Because most of them belong to beggar mafia; they are organised and controlled by goons. Every evening they have to give their collection to the leader. I know; I have talked to many of the beggars. But of course, occasionally I do part with a rupee or two, just because I could not turn my face away.  The beggars exploit this weakness, this guilty feeling we have. .

It had been drizzling. I looked at the tramp once again. In his eyes, the way he looked at me, sipping my hot tea, I could see that at  that moment nothing would be more pleasurable to him than a hot cup of tea. 

I ask the tea shop owner if he can give the tramp a cup of tea.  He hands over tea in a paper cup.  I hold the cup and look at the tramp; he doesn't move.  I keep it by the side of a ledge slightly away from where I stood. Again, the dog. Again I see the feeble wagging of the tail.  

Paying, I leave without a glance back at him. I didn't want to look at him because I did not want to own him for a mere cup of tea. I was not ashamed of my magnanimity, but I did not want to be his patron for a five rupee worth of tea. 

In the station, I go to the farthest end, where breeze from the sea blew gently and unhindered. It was dusk. I waited for the train to come. There was no hurry to get home. I was at peace. 

***************  Balachandran V, Trivandrum 08-07-2012