Deep Ties

I remember having had the ‘punctuality gene’ from the early days of my life. My paternal grandparents had a diurnal timetable that they worked on till it spun perfectly. Rising with the lark, [which is such a British expression that I have no idea why we still use it!], they would pray aloud for four hours, have breakfast, manage their household affairs, take classes, meet visitors... all in perfect timing, without missing a beat. An appointment delayed was an appointment missed, and no one dared to barge in or sneak in incognito.  My father was in the Army, and his keywords were honour, diligence and, of course, punctuality! Many a time my mother would struggle to keep pace with him as they got ready to go somewhere, one eye on the clock, the other on her earrings, lipstick, bindi, comb, deodorant, safety pins, all of which would go into her tiny handbag, so that they would go on her person in the vehicle. Something in the genes, I guess, as I followed suit in exactly the same manne

The first thing that I notice about Anna Smita Thomas Eapen is her smile that flashes like a ray of sunshine, making me feel as though I have known her forever. Her liveliness stems from the fact that she has travelled a lot, both within India and without. Her father initially worked at BHEL, Hyderabad from where he shifted to Delhi, where Anna attended the Jesus and Mary Convent from the fifth to the twelfth standard. Twenty years ago, her father turned to her and said, “Annamma, you must write!” Considering that she had travelled to places as varied as Thailand, England, America and even the Ivory Coast, [where she recalled watching the French troops marching in all their glory], Anna had wonderful memories and much she could have written about. It was in Thailand that her father-in-law took her aside and repeated the advice, “Smita, you must write!” This was to form a kind of refrain in her life, as years later, when she joined a prayer group, her pastor’s mother, a feisty lady who

He was a bachelor, bespectacled, with a round face that gave him the semblance of a little owl. He devoured the newspaper to compensate for the loneliness that had engulfed him after his retirement. He enjoyed the robberies and the murders, but the rape cases disgusted his near-Victorian sensibilities. The obituaries prompted him to piece together a gruesome patchwork of dead persons. Thus, many an hour went by! It was the bewitched hour of twilight. Dark shadows lurked as dogs howled. He checked his doors and windows. "No point in being sorry after the event!" he mused, as the trees whispered softly and a branch scratched on his window. Rap, rap! That was no branch! The rapping came again. It was a knock on his front door, followed by a frantic pounding. He made his way to the door and peered through the keyhole. A young girl stood outside, clothes in disarray, large doe eyes filled with panic. "Let me in, please...!" Her voice reached him faintly. "They are a

Who can forget the precious lives snatched away in the heinous 26/11 Mumbai attacks? Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan, the army commando who died, saving many lives, etched his name in the annals of history. The terrorists were killed, all except Kasab, who made the mistake of being caught alive. Today in jail, he lives in celebrity comfort, with much money being spent to keep him alive. The pampering has made him arrogant, as he spurns questions in court, behaving like a brat. He couldn’t be safer elsewhere in the world, as attempts continue to keep him alive till he is sentenced to death! Mark Antony remarked, “The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with the bones!” Sandeep Unnikrishnan became a national hero after martyrdom. The sight of the bereaved mother leaning against her son’s body, weeping pitifully, still plays on people’s minds. His father came across as a strong man, stoically keeping his composure in public. A war of words with a public figure created h

Superheroes need not always be men with amazing strength and the power to take on an army of enemies and come out victorious. Sometimes there are ordinary men who have qualities of greatness in them, which make them heroes in the eyes of their loved ones. This article is dedicated to one such wonderful man whom I have known and admired, not for his longevity, but for the sheer zest for living that made him a colourful actor on the stage of life! My maternal grandfather, my Muthassan, was a tall good looking gentleman who got better and better with age. Age did not dare wither him, and he could have posed for the portrait of Moses or any such venerable figure in his seventies. Muthassan had a prodigious collection of books, most of which could be found verbatim within his prodigious mind. What I found fascinating in all his well-thumbed volumes was that almost every page found comments written in his crabbed but legible hand, comments that could make me pause, ponder, understand, and ma

"Cats sleep anywhere, any table any chair!" T.S. Eliot had probably never met a cat like Rusty - one who prowls about all night, making weird mewing sounds that run up and down the scale, from a shrill soprano to a sinister bass. It is even more weird when he pounces on inert sleeping bodies, and scares them out of their skins. When my daughter moved to Dubai and into a flat of her own, her ever concerned friends landed up on her doorstep with this adorable honey and white colored kitten, with the most beautiful eyes possible. They also presented her with a little cage and a litter box, which Rusty as he was christened, took to with surprising ease. Today Rusty is monarch of all he surveys, as he clambers up the kichen slab, tears up bits of paper or, most irritating of all, opens out his mistress' wardrobe and pulls her carefully folded clothes down onto the floor. He pounces at anything that moves, be it a billowing piece of cloth or a pair of quick mov

How would you be able to connect children with a burning pyre? Wouldn’t it be akin to trying to juxtapose life with death? This is exactly what Rajesh S. Jala, film maker par excellence and winner of myriad awards does through his thought-provoking and heart-wrenching documentary ‘Children of the Pyre’. In stark contrast was his other documentary titled ‘Floating Lamp of the Shadow Valley’, a film as picturesque as its name, as Arif, a nine year old Kashmiri boy traces his life, its hardships and his work as a boat boy on the Dal Lake. The two documentaries were screened in the Savera Hotel under the auspices of the Bill Roth Hospitals and the Dr. Jeganathan Foundation. Dr. Rajesh Jeganathan, Managing Director and Dr. Manoj Beno, Medical Director of Bill Roth Hospitals, both spoke about how several public outreach programmes were being offered by them, like free medical treatment and research and development. However, an important initiative was to create awareness about cancer through

When other children ran ahead, he stumbled often and fell, but got up each time, determination brightening his face. “Why can’t I be like other children, Ma?” When the query banished the happiness from his mother’s beautiful face, he stopped asking. Instead he overcame his physical frailties by allowing his mind to encompass the world with one click of his computer. As his body became frailer, his mind travelled across continents. Through Facebook, he created virtual albums, segregating spaces to family and friends, and browsing to build up his already prodigious knowledge. In his every action was the urge to experience life in all its hues, as if there were no tomorrow! His doting parents took him everywhere in his wheelchair; his grandfather would discuss interesting topics with him, his father physically carried him around. His cousins spent time with him; each person wanted a little space inside his large heart. At the age of 23, he invited a large gathering of family and friends t

Priyanka’s comments... Reasons Why I Miss Home: Ma: • •Her ‘pun’ny (sometimes awful) jokes, leaving Pa and me to look at each other and think, “What is wrong with her? Sigh!” But we still love her…” • •Walking into the house screaming, “What’s for dinner todayyyy?” • •Mama’s lecture on how I should learn to eat everything after I scrunch up my face hearing it’s either Bhindi Sabji or Korma curry! • •During dinner, the first sentence is always, “How’s the chicken?” resulting in Papa and I rolling with laughter. We would both in unison say, “Excellent, excellent!!” • •Telling her to stop being such a Face book addict and stop adding strangers to her profile. But according to her, the world is too good and human beings can do no harm! • •Her late evening jaunts to the super market when she suddenly realizes there’s no bread or eggs or chillies in the house! • •Her random cleaning sprees, which usually do not affect me. However, the words, “CLEAN YOUR ROOM!” usually made me see red! • •All

Oh no, I groaned as I flew out of the house. “What a way to start the day!” My wife stood at the door, brandishing a frying pan, a non stick one at that, which she maintained in its immaculate condition. However, there were times when she did forget about taking care of it, as now, a moment ago, when it descended on my head more than once. “I’ll fry you, you worm!” she screeched at a glass shattering pitch that would have done an opera singer proud. The worm squirmed. I cocked a wary eye behind me, and thankfully saw her retrace her steps. She would never come out on the street minus her lipstick. The storm had abated for the present. I was so occupied in sneaking a peek behind me, that I failed to notice the paper boy sailing along merrily on his shining paragon of a bicycle. He saw me too late and we came together with a resounding clash. I picked myself up gloomily and dusted my poor rear which had come off the worst in the encounter. Maybe I should acquire a suit of armour

The waves lap around the parent vessel As it cuts its way Through the azure carpet; The little life boats tied to its sides Are guided through the stormy waters In a snug cocoon of protection Against the swells that threaten To engulf them! The gentle mantle placed on them Creates a halo in the ripples around, Cushions their falls, every little bump Makes them stronger! The day arrives, When each little life boat is cut adrift, Sent on its way, to meet new challenges – New dangers, in the world of chaos outside! Each traces its own path Through a sea of change, yet below the surface, The lifelines stretch out, Leaving room enough to move on, But they remain tethered, The invisible bonds under the surface, And the age old links continue, unbroken. Picture courtesy: Gopi Menon

“Get me an autograph of Dhoni’s!” my sister ordered. “And one for me too!” chimed my daughter, as I nodded like the cat that had got the cream! Hadn’t I just been invited to the IPL party after the home team had won magnificently? ‘No problemo!” I said, brimming with confidence. That would make it three autographs in all; one for yours truly as well! And so I left, armed with a notebook, a pen, and oodles of confidence, all set to meet the Chennai Super Kings in my Sunday best. A misnomer, as I stood out like a sore thumb, in what seemed to be a spiralling out-of-control collection of PYTs in micro minis, healthy cleavages, and flurries of giggles! But more on that later! Security guards seemed to be the norm, as I got to the counter at the venue, and a pretty lady asked me to wait, as I had got there much too early. A terrible habit that was a relic of having been part of the Indian Army! It was 9.30 pm, and I crawled into a safe corner, pretending to be part of the ornamental potted

Are you on the side of those who make India hang her head in shame or those who raise her head in pride?” asks Aamir Khan in an ‘Incredible India’ advertisement. I am as big a patriot as the next person, but sometimes, queries buzz about inside my head querulously. Is there any harm in talking about those aspects of our country that could be wished away! Do you need that big gob of spit that just misses your big toe on your way to an important appointment? Or that red-flecked liquid spewed out so casually in a traffic snarl? What could be worse than that giant phlegm-filled hawk that begins from deep inside a champion ‘spitter’, making you wince and shut your eyes and ears in anticipation of the actual event? And those artistic red squiggles on pristine walls, winding staircases, and ironically, below signs which scream “Please do not spit here!” What about male members of the human species with undoubtedly canine habits, when they sight a vacant wall, and proceed to let loose in pub

Don’t we sometimes wish we could remain children All our lives? Nestled under the wings of our parents? Isn’t it ironic how they nurture us till we are able To stand on our feet, then let us go, content; Is it really worth it, showering love on a child Who has to leave one day? Is it worth the pain, the tears, the smiles, the joys, The anguished hours of growing up The lessons of defeat and triumph That strike an echo in their hearts too? Or is it that the very threat of separation Gives sweet poignancy to the relationship, Making the ties as delicate as cobwebs, Yet, at the same time, strong enough To withstand the ravages of nature? Ties – unfathomably deep, the bonds of a lifetime!

Thousands of students have passed through her loving arms and gone on to create niches for themselves the world over. For them, Nalini Miss is the person who held their tiny hands and walked along with them through their school years, whispering words of hope, but chiding them when they slackened! She is the mentor who smiled encouragingly when they did well academically, but smiled even brighter when they did something good. She boosted their morale, and built up their self confidence through various co-curricular activities, which made them hold up their heads against a competitive world outside. For each of her students, she is Nalini Miss, the one teacher whom they treasured deep within their hearts, especially when they won laurels and collected bouquets, when they met friends and talked about the good old ‘Hari Sri’ days. She represented the mother, the guru, the mentor and above all, the friend who could create magic in their lives. Today there are students around the world, who

Whom the Gods love, die young... What can I say about my father, Lt. Col. K.R.E. Chandran, who, despite being an Army officer of exceptional calibre, was yet the gentlest man that I have ever known? The eldest of three sons, he was the favourite and the most loved one in his family. What one noticed first about him was his smiling eyes, punctuated by a jerky laugh that came straight from his heart. When he joined the Indian Army, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was the epitome of an ideal soldier – patriotic, straightforward and chivalrous to the hilt. His penchant for the written word, and the beauty of his calligraphy, made his letters unique, especially in a time when people tended to speak more and write less. Even today, when he is no more with us, it is these letters, much read and frayed, which truly capture his spirit on paper. The Army was an ideal backdrop as he set out to use his engineering skills and agile mind in various ways, both in peacetime and in war. His

This was written by a black gentleman in Texas and is so funny. What a great sense of humor and creativity!!! When U Black, U Black! When I was born, I was BLACK, When I grew up, I was BLACK, When I went in the sun, I stayed BLACK, When I got cold, I was BLACK, When I was scared, I was BLACK, When I was sick, I was BLACK, And when I die, I'll still be BLACK. Now, you 'white' folks.... When you’re born, you're PINK, When you grow-up, you’re WHITE, When you go in the sun, you get RED, When you're cold, you turn BLUE, When you're scared, you're YELLOW, When you get sick, you're GREEN, When you bruise, you turn PURPLE, And when you die, you look GRAY. So who y'all be callin' COLORED Folks? Picture courtesy: Rogue Design and Image's photostream

"When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her". Sacha Guitry Marriage is two hearts that beat as one and two souls that crave to be together... all very poetic and pleasing to the ear! Often this gives way to the seven year itch, when after the first stormy onrush of emotions, replete with Valentine's Day gifts and outpourings of love, signs of ennui seem to set in. The husband begins to stop pretending that his wife is Helen of Troy and begins looking around, albeit discreetly. The wife is likewise occupied, emptying her spouse's pocket to line her cupboard, buying expensive clothes, perfumes, accessories, in short, everything to stay attractive and ahead in the race. However, the first step is always the most difficult as there is the blasted conscience that has to be reckoned with. Once that is quashed, with the little red devil patting one on the back encouragin

There are moments in life when a quick wit and presence of mind work wonders.This incident was no different. The play practice was going on in full swing, the theme being the evergreen epic, the Ramayana. As all the participants were physically or mentally challenged, the roles had been chosen with much care to make sure they could be essayed with ease.The young hero, Rama, was a hearing impaired child, who guided his little spouse, Sita, tenderly across the stage as she was blind. In return, she paid heed to the music in the background and the ensuing dialogues, prompting him at opportune moments. Hanuman performed his antics wonderfully, despite being afflicted with cerebral palsy, and the audience rooted for him whole heartedly. The rehearsal was really going well, especially as all the little actors had memorized their lines and knew their cues perfectly. Suddenly a high pitched voice piped up. “Ma’am, ma’am!” The teacher looked down only to see Ravana, tugging at