Shevlin Sebastian's Blog, page 15

Out of 398 entries, happy to be in the longlist of 16 for the Himalayan Writing Retreat flash fiction contest, in association with The Story Cabinet.

Painting by Andrew Ostrovsky

The following story was also published in The Story Cabinet.

https://readstory.page.link/MXCqoTkboC3CUnpT6

Darkness 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Lata Bhonsle was striding down a deserted street in Bandra, Mumbai. She could hear her heels making a ‘click clack’ sound. Wearing black sunshades, she was heading towards a taxi stand. It was a humid day. She could feel a hint of perspiration on her forehead.

She glanced at her watch. It was 9.45 a.m. She was late for work.

She did not notice a white Maruti van which glided up. The side door slid open. The next thing she realised, through the corner of her eyes, were three men who jumped at her. One man clamped a palm over her mouth, while the other men grabbed her shoulders and legs. Her first reaction was to hold on to her Hidesign leather bag even as her sunshades fell to the ground. They pushed her inside the van. She could sense her frock ride up. Two men were burly, while the third was a slim man. They all wore cloth masks, with slits.

“Band karo,” said a burly man.

The slim man shut the door with a bang. Lata saw them look around through the windows to see if anybody had seen them. She felt a stab of pain as the man pressed harder on her mouth. She heard the driver shift gears. It seemed as if somebody cracked a knuckle. The van jerked forward. The slim man pulled out the cork of a small glass bottle. He sprinkled chloroform onto a piece of cotton. A sweet odour spread in slow motion inside the van. Then the man placed the cotton under Lata’s nose. Lata tried to stop breathing. But in less than five seconds, she gave up.

Soon, she closed her eyes and drifted off.

Forty-five minutes later, the van reached the compound of an abandoned cotton textile mill in Lower Parel. They parked in front of a large and empty shed. Grass was growing against the walls of the shed. The paint had peeled off to reveal the red bricks underneath. A rat skittled away into the undergrowth. They carried Lata inside and placed her on a dirty mattress…

When Lata awakened, two hours had passed. She looked up and saw the iron girders below the sloping roof. There was brown rust on them. She looked down at her body and saw her thin maroon panty. The men had pushed it to one side before entering her. She saw the frock lying on the ground. She sat up. The veins at the side of her forehead throbbed. She rubbed her forehead in a circular motion with her fingers for a few moments.

Dimly, she had been aware that men had climbed on top of her. She had heard grunts and moans. Lata touched the edges of her vagina with her finger and felt a soft and recurring pain. Her body gave off an odour of perspiration mixed with her Versace Bright Crystal perfume. It made her want to retch, but she controlled herself.

They had not taken off her heels, making it hard for her to stand up. So, unhooked her heels before standing up. Then she put on her dress. She looked around and saw her handbag lying against a mound of raised mud. She picked up the bag and smacked her handkerchief against it to remove the dust.

She pulled open the zipper. Incredibly, the rapists had taken nothing. Her leather purse was there. Her debit and credit cards were intact, along with a plastic comb, house keys, a lipstick holder, a packet of tissue paper, and a mobile phone. Inside a white envelope, there was Rs 8000 in Rs 500 notes.

Lata pulled out a face mirror. The lipstick had run out of her lips, towards her nose, creating a red mark that looked like a scar. It looked like the men had tried to kiss her. Lata cleaned it off with a tissue paper. She used another tissue paper to wipe her face.

Lata stepped forward. On one side she could see old wooden looms, all dusty and silent. On some there were large cobwebs. They seemed to have remained undisturbed for a long time.

It was difficult to walk on the grassy uneven ground on her heels. But she gritted her teeth and moved forward, hobbling now and then. Lata walked for ten minutes.

She exhaled when she saw the rusted gate in the distance.

Her breathing slowed down as she made her way to the main road. She flagged a cab and asked the driver to take her to Bandra.

It was an ordinary day. Sunlight reflected off the windows of buildings. There was the blaring of horns. People rushed past each other on the sidewalk. But for Lata, there was nothing ordinary about this day.

The rapists had puzzled her because they had stolen nothing. So, were the men only interested in the rape and nothing else? What type of men were they? Those who usually indulged in these activities were career criminals. They would have definitely emptied her handbag. She kept tapping her lower lip with her fingertip. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind.

Was this a planned rape, or did the men pick her up in a random selection? Sexy woman + deserted road = grab her? Lata thought the latter explanation seemed more likely. She did not have any enemies. Nobody who knew her would harbour so much anger that they would arrange for men to rape her. Lata knew she did not have a personality that ruffled people.

She messaged the office, saying she would be late.

Lata reached her fourth-floor flat at Bandra.

She undressed and turned on the shower. She remained under it for a while, wanting the pinpricks of water to clean her soul as well. Tears gathered in her eyelids and then rolled down her face, mixing with the water. Finally, she took a soap and lathered her body.

It took her an hour before Lata sat down on the edge of her bed clad in a pink bathing robe. She wondered what to do.

She called her company CEO, Rekha Mehdirata.

Rekha, with striking doe-shaped eyes, had risen through sheer drive, talent, and ambition.

Lata, who was senior vice president of marketing, told Rekha about what had happened in a low voice.

At the conclusion of the narrative, Rekha said, “I don’t know what to say, Lata. Mumbai has always been a safe place for women, even late at night. And to think this happened in broad daylight.”

Lata remained silent. Yes, these were the thoughts she had, too. Mumbai has always been safe for women.

Finally, Rekha said, “Lata, what do you want to do?”

Lata stared at her bare feet placed on the brown-tiled floor. The maroon nail polish on her narrow toes made her feet look sexy.

She processed the pros and cons of any sort of action. Finally, she said, “I should file a FIR against unknown persons. There are CCTV cameras in Bandra, although I am not sure there were any on the road on which they captured me. The police could find the van’s registration number on other cameras.”

Lata could hear Rekha’s breathing through the phone. It seemed to be a stutter. A rush of breath followed by a complete halt.

“It’s a risky business,” said Rekha. “These people can be dangerous. But if we don’t fight back, they will attack other women with impunity.”

“I am scared,” said Lata. “But I don’t want them to get away with this assault.”

“Take leave for a few days,” she said. “File the FIR. You might have to go to the hospital so that the doctors can examine you and give a certificate of penetration. If they can locate semen, that would help your case.”

Lata nodded, even though Rekha could not see it.

Both of them were discussing this matter-of-factly. But Lata knew somewhere deep inside her she was in a state of shock, as well as denial. Did all this happen to her? Was it a dream? And why did it happen? What did they do exactly?

She lay down for a nap.

Two hours later, when she woke up, her brain felt foggy. The sleep had made it worse. Whom should she turn to for emotional support? How to tell people about this? If she told one woman friend, the news would spread. Soon, all her friends would give her sympathetic looks.

If she filed an FIR, it might come out in the media. The police would leak it because reporters are always looking for juicy news. And what would happen anyway? The police will do a desultory investigation and use delaying tactics.

Lata would have to hire a lawyer and launch a crusade to get the police to react. While she would do this, she would have to contend with the pressures of her career. And will the bosses and the owners like this negative publicity? On top of all that, she would have to battle it all alone emotionally.

She was in a cul-de-sac.

It would devastate her parents in Bhopal. Her grey-haired mother, Sumati, will immediately say, “Beti, get married. Don’t live alone. Have children. They will bring meaning to your life. Family is more important than a career. At the end of your life, when your career is long over, only the family will be there for you.”

‘What sort of family,’ thought the 36-year-old.

Lata had seen so many marriages implode because of infidelity. Which child today is going to look after their parents in their old age?

The joint family had collapsed. India was going the Western way of individualism. Everybody was thinking of themselves only.

She could hear growling sounds from her stomach. She looked at the wall clock. It was 4.30 p.m.

Lata had eaten nothing since her breakfast.

She took out her mobile phone from her bag and ordered American chop suey on Zomato.

Later, as she ate with a fork on a low side table, she watched a Netflix movie. But she could hardly follow the story. Her mind remained blank.

As night fell outside, she switched on YouTube on her mobile phone. Lata listened to the Tibetan Buddhist chant, ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’. She listened to this every day. It brought her tranquillity, to hear the word ‘Om’. She had read somewhere that ‘Om’ was the most powerful word in the universe.

A horrible event had taken place.

She would have to deal with it.

She felt she needed to sleep over it before she decided. Let her unconscious mind think about the best actions to take.

So, she went to sleep, but not before adjusting the air conditioner to mild.

The next morning, when she awoke, she could feel her mind had become clear, like it always was. And which had enabled her to be so successful.

Lata came to some conclusions, as she made an omelette on the kitchen range.

She would consult a top psychologist. Lata was hoping to work her way through the damage to her psyche.

She would not file an FIR. It was too much of a headache. If the news became public, these criminals might kill her.

She would be very careful when she moved about. It would always be in a cab or auto-rickshaw. No walking anywhere, unless she was in a group.

And she would request Rekha to keep this a secret.

Lata was not in a relationship. She had not been for a few years. So, she knew her career would provide the distraction that she needed.

‘These are the decisions for today,’ she thought.

She slid the omelette onto a plate using a wooden ladle. Then she put pieces of bread inside the toaster and pressed the lever downwards...

From where to where -- a short story

Illusutration is for representational purposes only 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Shampa Banerjee wore a shimmering red chiffon saree. Her smooth, long black hair fell like a waterfall down her back. She had loaded up the jewellery: a gold nose ring, a gold necklace and gold earrings. She wanted her husband to be proud of her. They mingled with other guests in the hall of a five-star hotel in Bhubaneswar.

Shampa had married a top executive working at a mining company.

It was a love marriage. While she is a Bengali Brahmin, her husband is a Malayali Christian. They met at the company office, where she worked as a secretary. She knew it was an instant karmic connection. She was on the plump side, while he was slim and tall, with a goatee and a bald head. He was coming off a divorce from an Anglo-Indian woman, whom he had met in Kolkata. There were no children.

Shampa’s family opposed the alliance. For one, Francis Xavier was already in his forties. Second, they belonged to different religions. But she did not pay heed. Francis had an excellent education. He had a sterling reputation in the company and was moving upwards in his career.

They had a registered marriage. To avoid office gossip, Shampa quit her job and joined another company as a secretary. Both of them did not want children. They wanted to be with each other without distractions. Their sexual chemistry was intense and passionate.

They took time out for holidays whenever they had the chance. They saw movies and attended parties. It was a beautiful time. Shampa could not have been happier. In bed, his musky body odour intoxicated her. It seemed to activate her pheromones. She loved to wake up next to him in the morning, one leg placed across his body.

During the office party, Francis was mingling with the other guests. The company was celebrating superb annual profits. Shampa was conversing with the other wives. All of them wore expensive jewellery and sarees, she realised. That is one thing she liked about the company. Salaries were quite high. They also looked after the staff.

Francis sat on a sofa with his colleague, Anirban Datta. They talked about a recent film called ‘Silver Linings Playbook’. Francis had seen it on Netflix. “It’s a romantic comedy with superb acting by Jennifer Lawrence,” said Francis. “She won an Oscar for Best Actress for it.”

Shampa observed Francis from afar. She felt glad to see him happy.

A few moments later, Francis fell silent. Anirban saw his head lolling on his chest. He held Francis by his shoulders and lowered him to the sofa. When another colleague, who saw this, came up, Anirban said, “Call an ambulance.” The company had numbers for ambulances.

People crowded around the sofa. It seemed clear to Shampa that Francis had lost consciousness. ‘How could this happen?’ thought Shampa. ‘Francis was in good health. Low blood pressure must have contributed to the fainting.’

The attendants carried Francis into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. The ambulance set out, its siren blaring, for Apollo Hospital on Sainik School Road.

Anirban and Shampa followed in his car.

Both of them saw nurses wheel Francis into the intensive care unit. They sat outside in plastic chairs placed against the wall.

“Must have fainted,” said Shampa.

Anirban nodded.

Unfortunately, that was not true. The doctor, in his white overcoat, came out quickly and shattered Shampa’s life.

Francis had a massive heart attack and died in the ambulance.

Shampa stared at the doctor with her mouth open. She could feel her vision becoming hazy. The blood seemed to race through her head like a tsunami. Shampa grabbed the top of the chair and steadied herself. Anirban immediately put a protective arm around her.

“Unbelievable,” he heard Anirban whisper under his breath.

The next few days slipped by in a blur for Shampa. She had to make funeral arrangements. Francis’s two brothers insisted on a church service and burial. There was no will. The brothers disputed who would be the heir. Shampa said as the wife she should get the provident fund and other arrears. It became a court case.

Shampa realised it would take a few years before the court settled the case. Her lawyer guaranteed her it would be in her favour. She could not blame Francis for not writing a will because he could not have imagined he would die so soon. Such a short but sweet life. How she loved the man. Nine years went past in such a beautiful way.

She had to leave the office bungalow and take lodgings in a cheaper part of town. Her friends in the company drifted away. Shampa could no longer afford the lifestyle they had. She had no option but to opt out. She knew living on her salary would be tough. Shampa had been so used to a high-flying life. She felt she had to move to a city where there were more opportunities. And also, to avoid social humiliation. If she met those wives again, at some mall or the other, they might ignore her. That would be a painful experience.

Shampa had a few college friends who had settled in Delhi. She called them up and asked whether there would be any job opportunities. One of them, Rathi Das, suggested public relations. Shampa felt that would work for her. With her gorgeous looks, she was confident she could charm any man.

Six months after Francis passed away, Shampa moved to Delhi. She took a flat on a terrace for rent in Mayur Vihar. In Delhi parlance, she came to know they call it a barsati. It did not matter, as she did not have to maintain appearances.

Rathi gave Shampa a PR contact. Shampa called him up. He was also a Banerjee like her, called Prasun. He agreed to meet her at a cafe in Connaught Place after work.

Shampa wore a white kurta, blue jeans and Kolhapuri slippers. She had removed all her gold jewellery. She had heard Delhi was unsafe for women. In her Bhubaneswar days, she travelled in an air-conditioned car. But now it was auto-rickshaws, buses and the metro. ‘That’s life,’ she thought. ‘Nobody can avoid hardships forever.’

At night, she missed Francis very much. Previously, she would sleep pressed against him. Now, she only had a pillow to hug. But she knew crying and moaning over a past that no longer existed was a waste of time. She had to survive, somehow. Since she had angered her family with her marriage, she did not want to turn to them for help. Shampa was sure they would have had an ‘I told you so’ look on their faces.

‘F..k them,’ she thought.

She tied her hair up in a topknot. Shampa had kept her hair long because Francis liked it so much. She briefly pondered cutting her hair to shoulder length. That would make it so easy to handle. But she remembered what Francis had told her once, “A woman looks so sensual with her long hair.” So, she kept it in memory of Francis.

Shampa took the Blue Line metro to Connaught Place.

Prasun greeted her with a smile. Shampa immediately liked him like a brother. He had a small goatee, a receding hairline, and kind eyes behind black spectacles.

They ordered a burger each. And a coffee.

When they began conversing, Shampa realised Prasun was a copywriter.

“Rathi heard it wrong,” said Prasun.

Shampa smiled as she bit into the burger. She wondered whether she was wasting her time. And she hoped she did not have to pay the bill.

Prasun was direct and honest. “I assume you are in your late-thirties,” he said. “At your age and with your lack of experience, it will be difficult to get an opening. Do you think you have a talent for copywriting?”

Shampa was silent. ‘Do I have a talent for copywriting?’ she thought. ‘I don’t know. Do I have a talent for anything?’

“Did you study English in college?” asked Prasun.

“Yes, from Lady Brabourne College in Kolkata,” said Shampa.

She could see a look of disappointment in Prasun’s eyes, who had also grown up in Kolkata. Shampa knew her college was not in the Top Three.

“Listen Shampa, I will be honest with you,” he said, leaning forward. “I can only offer you freelance opportunities. If you do good work, only then can I try to convince my boss to take you on.”

‘Freelance,’ she thought. ‘This means very little money. How will I survive? And even if I am capable, how long would I have to wait till I impress Prasun?’

She said, “Prasun, I can do it on the side, but I need a regular job.”

He said, “I understand.”

“Can you suggest anything?” she asked.

Prasun looked into the distance.

“PR could be ideal for you,” he said. “I’ll check with some of my friends. In the meantime, I will send you some work on WhatsApp.”

“Okay,” she said.

Graciously, he paid the bill.

They got up and shook hands. Shampa realised Prasun had soft hands, unlike many men who grip your hand as if they want to crush it.

When she reached her flat, she undressed and slipped into a cotton nightgown. She remembered the see-through thigh-high black nighties and lacy lingerie that she wore. The aim was to get Francis excited. Now she wore cotton nighties with the hem a few centimetres above her ankles.

Shampa lay down on the mattress placed on the floor, the back of her head resting on her palms, and stared at the ceiling. It was an unsightly sight. She could see brown patches on the white surface. ‘What were they?’ she wondered. ‘Nobody has painted this place for a long time. Landlords don’t want to spend money on upkeep at all. Greedy guys.’

The noise of the road below seeped in. She could hear horns blowing and people shouting. ‘Everybody is busy except me,’ she thought. Much later, she would realise it was not busyness, but a harsh, exhausting struggle to make ends meet. And to keep their families afloat.

Shampa had been a feminist. Which is why she resisted marriage. But she wasn’t very career-minded either. So, she was in a nowhere situation now. Shampa had married Francis because she had fallen in love. All her feminism flew out of the window at that point. ‘It had been the right decision,’ she thought. ‘Now God had taken Francis away. What can I do?’

She remembered the famous quote by American film director Woody Allen, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.’

‘How true,’ she thought.

The days slipped past. Prasun gave her some contact numbers. She met a few people. They asked for resumes. Shampa sent them through Gmail. But the resume was too thin. Nobody called her back. They did not want to take a risk with an unknown person.

Prasun sent her an image and asked her to write some copy. She did so. He did not respond immediately. When she prodded him on WhatsApp, he said it was okay. Prasun went out of touch. If you have no talent, she realised, they were not interested. She wondered whether she should sleep with somebody to get a job. But Shampa dismissed the idea immediately. It was unethical and it would damage her morally.

All her friends were busy with their children, husbands and careers and trying to balance it all. They had no time for her.

Shampa spent many evenings staring at the ceiling. This was to give a rest to her eyes after she had stared at the mobile screen for a long while. She ordered food from Swiggy and ate absentmindedly.

She was feeling the first signs of desperation. There was not much money left. After that, what? Shampa might have to swallow her ego and make peace with her family. Her parents lived in a two-storey house in New Town in Kolkata. They would reconcile because Francis was dead. So, it would be fine.

Shampa was sure they would make another attempt to get her into an arranged marriage, despite her age. There were so many widowers around. For the first time, Shampa did not reject the idea. She felt it would be better to get into a relationship rather than remain in the solitary existence she was living now.

But, for immediate cash, Shampa would have to ask her elder brother Dipankar for help. He was the CEO of a top-notch tech company in Hyderabad. He could send Rs 50,000 a month for a while. But it could not be forever. Dipankar had a wife and two children. It would be unfair to him.

One Sunday evening, to get out of the claustrophobia of staying cooped up in her flat, Shampa stepped out for a walk. Since it was a holiday, there were not too many pedestrians around. She looked up at the sky. It was a clear blue even though it was the winter month of December. A chilly breeze blew. Shampa had covered herself with a shawl.

From the opposite direction, she saw a tall foreigner. He had a shining bald head and sparkling saffron robes. It struck Shampa how calm he looked. She realised he offered the sense of security that every woman craved.

When he came abreast, Shampa said, “Excuse me, you belong to which order?”

The Swami paused and smiled. Nice, even white teeth. Shampa immediately noticed how blue his eyes were. Right in the middle, there was a black iris. It seemed as if it was a whirlpool and Shampa was drowning in it.

The monk said, “I belong to the Shanti Ashram. Have you read the book, ‘My Spiritual Journey?’”

Shampa shook her head and pressed her lips together.

“Our founder, Bhola Nath, wrote it,” he said.

“Where are you from?” asked Shampa, craning her neck to look at his face.

“Oh, I am from Texas,” he said. “Why don’t you come to the ashram to get a better idea?”

“Where is it?” said Shampa.

“In Noida,” said Swami. “We have satsangs, kirtans, spiritual counselling, and meditation retreats.”

Shampa nodded and said, “Can I have your mobile number?”

“Sure,” he said and rattled off his number. Shampa saved it on her mobile phone with the name Swami Dayananda.

“Hope to meet you,” said Swami Dayananda, and smiled at her.

Shampa smiled back.

She felt elated as she carried on walking. ‘Maybe, God had set up this accidental meeting,’ she thought. ‘Who knows?’

Back in her room, she googled and got an idea about the activities of the ashram. She read the Wikipedia entry on Bhola Nath. She realised the monk had settled in Pittsburgh, USA, in 1940 and spent three decades of his life in America. This explained to Shampa the presence of foreigners in their ashram.

As a child growing up in Kolkata, she had missed hearing about Bhola Nath, even though he was a Bengali and had grown up in Howrah. She had been aware of Ramakrishna Paramahansa and his disciple, Swami Vivekananda. Her parents were not overtly religious.

Shampa stared at Bhola Nath’s photo. The late spiritual leader had piercing eyes. She also watched a few YouTube videos.

One week later, she went for a visit.

One of the first things Shampa noted was the silence and the sense of peace that pervaded the place. Everything was so clean. The garden had mowed lawns and trimmed leaves. She called Swami Dayananda on his mobile phone. He came out and took her around. Walking next to him, with his 6’ 2” height, she felt like a pygmy.

He took her to a temple inside the premises, the library, counselling rooms, the kitchen, and the dining area. Swami also led her to the female retreat block and showed her the single rooms. He showed her a block where nuns or sanyasinis lived.

“You should take part in a retreat,” Swami Dayananda said, in his gravelly voice. “There are three-to-five-day courses.”

Shampa nodded and said, “I will.”

Shampa felt herself calming down. After seeing the filth and garbage in the city, she appreciated the cleanliness of the ashram.

Within a fortnight, Shampa attended her first retreat. And she enjoyed it to the fullest. She felt a sense of completeness that she had not encountered with Francis, despite all the bliss she experienced from their relentless love-making. She wondered if the ashram was her destiny. A path to spirituality and bliss.

One day, Shampa spoke to Swami Dayananda about being a nun. He listened quietly and said succinctly, “Being a nun is very challenging. A lot of sacrifice is necessary. So, think hard about it.”

Sometimes, when she lay on the mattress at her home, she imagined kissing Swami Dayananda. To see those blue eyes, just centimetres away. Wow, that would be a great experience. She also imagined the Swami kissing her throat and nibbling her ears. It sent her heart racing.

But soon, she blinked her eyes rapidly, shook her head from side and side, and shut out the images. She knew it was not right to think that way. Shampa was sure that the Swami had no such thoughts. But she had to admit to herself that the monk attracted her.

Six months elapsed. Shampa was a regular attendee. Soon, she volunteered to work as a nun.

There was an interview process. Six monks grilled her. Asked her several questions about her life. She told them about her lack of encumbrances.

In the end, the ashram accepted Shampa. A week after she joined, she woke up one morning with a phrase resounding in her head, ‘From where to where’.

Indeed, she could never have imagined her life would take such an almighty turn. And this happened based on an accidental meeting of a monk on a Delhi street. But as she knew, many great spiritual leaders had asserted there were no coincidences. Everything happened for a reason. But Shampa was honest enough to admit to herself it was her physical attraction to Swami Dayananda that compelled her to go down this road.

She and Swami Dayananda spoke often, but he always kept the conversation at a formal level. Shampa knew the monk was aware of her attraction to him and he wanted to keep her at bay.

Shampa continued to work hard. She felt that, with time and patience, she could lodge herself in the heart of Swami Dayananda.

It was going to be a stern test for the monk.

Few men can withstand the fearsome determination of a woman.

PJ Sebastian: commemorating a life and career

Photos: Article in Malayalam newspaper, Deepika; PJ Sebastian in his mid-thirties; the book cover; relatives and well-wishes pay respects at the grave; my great-grandfather

Today, November 25, is my grandfather PJ Sebastian’s 50th death anniversary.

Articles commemorating his life and achievements have appeared in a few Malayalam newspapers.

In the following article, published on March 13, 2007, in The Hindu there is a look at his life.

Democratic struggles

By R Madhavan Nair

An English translation of the memoirs of P.J. Sebastian, who was a frontline activist in social and political struggles in 1930s, has been brought out by C.T. Mathew, the former Director of Government Dental College in Kozhikode.

Sebastian shot into the political limelight as the chairman of Changanasserry municipal council when he was only 29. He was also a leader of the Catholic community and widely appreciated for his skills as an orator. His memoirs published posthumously under the title, `My Life,' would be of interest to all those interested in politics and the growth of the Catholic community.

The memoirs published under the title `My Life,' documents an eventful period in history when democratic struggles were staged to demand a more representational character for legislature and a more equitable share for various communities in Government jobs, which were at that time dominated by Nairs, Brahmins and other "forward communities."

"It is a sad fact that the new generation of Keralites who are now settled in foreign countries are unable to understand books in Malayalam, which contain interesting details about their past. That is why I decided to translate it into English," explains Dr. Mathew, on why he chose to translate into English Sebastian's memoirs.

Sebastian's memoirs were printed and published only after his demise in 1972. The income from the sale of the book was to be donated to the Society of St. Vincent de Paul Central Council, Changanasserry. He had travelled across the State to promote the Society of Vincent de Paul.

Sebastian was born at Changanasserry in 1898. He established a reputation as a powerful speaker and a leader of the Catholic community. Sebastian emerged as a prominent figure in what has come to be known as the "abstention movement" for more representation for various communities in the legislature.

`My Life' also throws light on the last phase of the rule of Diwan Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Iyer and the rule of the first Communist Ministry. Sebastian was in jail when the Diwan left after an assault on his life. Subsequently after self-rule was declared by the Maharaja of Travancore, he continued to remain in jail where he struck a friendship with Mannath Padmanabhan, even though the two had conflicts during the abstention movement. After getting self-rule, he took up prestigious jobs of Public Service Commissioner and later became the Panchayat director. After retirement, Sebastian served as the president of Primary School Teachers Association.

In 1954, he was elected to State Assembly from Kurichi constituency. He led the `vimochana samaram' (liberation struggle) that culminated in the dismissal of the E.M.S. Ministry by the Congress-led government at the Centre.

Dr. Mathew has added a short general history of the period when Sebastian was active in politics and public life. "This would lead to better understanding, especially for those who are not well-acquainted with Kerala history.

(Courtesy: The Hindu)

http://hindu.com/2007/03/13/stories/2007031301910200.htm

Buzz off!

 

(A story about bees)

By Shevlin Sebastian 

One day, my Kochi-based friend and former colleague, Anna Mathews, called me up. She said that the tenants’ association in her building had broken up a hive and there was plenty of honey to be had. She asked whether I was interested. 

To entice me, she said, “It’s superb. I have tasted it.” 

Since I have the habit of having one teaspoon of honey every day, I did not need too much persuasion.  

When I got to her home, Anna poured a bit of honey into a saucer, which had a bit of water. Then she stirred the saucer in a clockwise manner. The honey formed a hexagonal pattern.  

“See,” she said, looking up with her expressive eyes. “Genuine stuff.” 

Later, at home when I tasted it, the honey was thicker and had a different sweetness, as compared to processed sugar. I was glad I took the bottle. 

One month later, I took the last spoon. 

And this is the message I sent Anna on WhatsApp: 

“Dear Respected Madam, this is to inform you that the last teaspoon of honey is now coursing through my small and large intestines. Please give my congratulations to the lovely bees at JM Manor. 

“Sorry to hear they have migrated to Canada under the ‘Essential Workers Category’ to better their economic prospects. The brain drain, I mean, the bee drain of the country, is alarming.” 

Anna sent a smiling emoji and said, “So cute.” 

The matter would have ended there… but it didn’t.

Anna forwarded it to her cousin Divya who then accidentally forwarded it to the WhatsApp number of the Queen Bee, the leader of the bees. Her antennae quivered, and she flapped her wings ferociously. 

The Queen Bee had been angry for some time. She knew many bees were migrating to Canada. Many left without asking her permission. They all said they could not handle the heat, dust and pollution of Kochi. They wanted to settle in a cool climate where the air was pure and the people were pleasant. 

So, she called an emergency meeting of all the bee colonies in Kochi. 

They all gathered together at the top of a tree at the Mangalavanam Bird Sanctuary near the High Court.   

The Queen Bee stared silently at the mass of bees in front of her. Then she leaned into the microphone on the lectern and said, “For some time I have been worried about the bees’ migration to Canada. Indian bees are what we are. We should be proud of our country. We should contribute our honey to the national effort.” 

“Madam,” male bee Konda Ranu, a migrant bee from Jharkhand, said, “The way migration is taking place, Canada will become an Indian country. So, we will continue to give honey to our fellow Indians.” 

“Hear, hear!” some bees shouted. 

The Queen Bee realised there was a lot of support for migration. Like humans, bees were worried about global warming. It was already announced in the ‘Bee Times’ Kochi would go under water including the trees. The general feeling was, ‘Without trees, where would we hang our hives? Buildings are too unsafe.’  

Konda continued, “I am told London is run over by Indian bees. Soon, our bees will be all over the world.” 

He paused and said, “Madam, don’t get uptight. You should float like a butterfly and not sting like a bee.”  

All the bees laughed. 

The Queen Bee waited for the laughter to die down and said, “How will our countrymen get honey if we flee? You know my slogan: ‘A self-reliant country is a powerful country.’ You know our tourist tagline: ‘Make a beeline… to God’s own country’. Then how can we flee?” 

Konda said, “People should be free to make their decisions.” 

Again, several bees flapped their wings in agreement. 

The Queen Bee was getting irritated by these constant interruptions by Konda. She knew she would have to get rid of him. Like all leaders, she did not like criticism of any sort. And although, in her bee head, she felt migrants smelt, and kept their hives dirty, and threw garbage all over the place, she would seduce Konda and sleep with him. Of course, if she did that, Konda would drop dead. That’s what happens to all male bees who copulate with the Queen Bee. 

To ensure she could entice Konda, the Queen Bee decided that after the meeting, she would go to the Ullu Mall and buy a black bra, thongs, and stiletto heels. ‘That should nail the idiot,’ she thought. ‘Goddamn migrants.’ 

The Queen Bee knew she did not have the guts and crass outspokenness of American Queen Bee Donna Drump, who openly called for all migrant bees to return to the ‘shithole’ countries they came from. “America is not for black, blue, green, yellow and brown bees,” she said. “We don’t need rainbows here. We only like the colour white.” 

Many white bees clapped when she said that. The Queen Bee realised that, deep down, most bees were racist. Even in Kochi, she knew they hated the migrants from the other states. But the Queen Bee did not want to go the Drump way and polarise the bees. 

Meanwhile, up in the tree, there was no solution to the migrant question. Should she ban it or not? Maybe, declare an emergency, like she did in 1975, and tell the Bee Police to keep a strict vigil on those trying to escape the country. But again, she was no longer not that type of Queen Bee. She liked her bees to feel free and move around and speak their minds. But not in the insolent way Konda did. 

Anyway, the Queen Bee ended the meeting and flew off to the mall. 

That night, she invited Konda for dinner. 

Konda accepted.

When he saw the Queen Bee in her stockings and thongs and high heels, he could not help but exclaim, “So cute.” 

Those were the last words he spoke as he copulated with the Queen Bee. 

As she saw the dead bee lying on the ground, the Queen Bee could not help but exclaim, “That’s one bee out of my bonnet.” 

Getting a gift of an article 30 years later

By Shevlin Sebastian

Long-time freelance journalist and my friend, Rudolph Vance, stepped into a musty book shop on College Street, in Kolkata a few days ago. He came across an old issue of Sportsworld. He had been a contributor to the magazine, too.

As he flipped through the pages of the July 1, 1992 edition, he came across an article by me. He sent it to me via speed post.

I worked at Sportsworld for nine years. Those were fun-filled years. We played cricket inside the office after the deadline was over. We put up posters of beautiful sportswomen on the walls. In prime position was a poster of former tennis star Steffi Graf under a poolside shower.

What a body!

Unfortunately, I may be the only former Sportsworld staffer to keep this habit. I always had a poster of a beautiful woman on the wall, and increasingly, as my default desktop image.

Some people don’t grow up.

When I looked at the pages of the magazine that Rudolph had sent, I marvelled that even after 30 years the pages had not completely deteriorated. There were some brown patches on the edges here and there.

When I read the article, it reminded me of a method I used during my time in Sportsworld. The essence would be a question-and-answer format. Interspersed in between, I would put in some mood, and bits of conversation with the subject, so that readers could get a feel for the person I was interviewing.

The Pesi article begins with my arrival in Bombay and my call to the Shroff household to learn that he had gone to the airport to fly to Bangalore. But fate was in my favour. I gave the answer later.

In Sportsworld, if I remember right, since we had so many pages to fill, we would write anywhere between 1500 and 2000 words for a story. A typical feature story would run from four to eight pages. Today, journalists would consider 400 words a lengthy story. Of course, for a single newspaper page, 1200 would be fine.

I also read up on Pesi.

In his career, he had ridden 5614 races. He won 1,751 of them, including 106 classic races and 29 Derbys (source: Wikipedia).

His career as a jockey ended in 2004 because of injuries. Thereafter, to my shock and delight, he had embarked on an equally stellar career as a horse trainer and won many races.

It’s uplifting to know that the 57-year-old is still going strong.

And Then There Were None -- a short story

By Shevlin Sebastian

Ahiga, the Red Indian of the Cherokee tribe, with a shaved head, stood on a flat outcrop of rock. He was a lean man with bulging biceps. He wore a beaded necklace with the claw of a bison at one end. Ahiga picked up a small piece of rock and threw it in a long arc. He watched it fall to the ground far below and roll for a while, like a squirrel doing a series of somersaults.

When the 25-year-old looked to the left, he could see a range of hills made of rocks and boulders. Between Ahiga and the hills, there was an enormous expanse of red mud. In some places, the land was flat and in other areas, the terrain was undulating. If Ahiga squinted his eyes, he could see the ruts made by the wheels of wagons belonging to the cowboys. On Ahiga’s right, there was another outcropping rising a few thousand feet high.

Behind Ahiga, a fire raged. Six red Indians sat on their haunches and stared at the fire. Above it, a skinned pig was being cooked. On the right, there were many conical-shaped tepees. One Indian, the middle-aged Inola, poked the fire with a long stick. Strips of fire flared up.

The flap of the large tepee opened.

Wohali, the chief, in his feathered headgear, came out and strolled towards the group. He sat on his haunches and rubbed his palms together near the fire. It was getting cold as darkness settled on the horizon in this section of Texas. The year is 1790.

Ahiga also strode up and joined the group. They sat in silence as they experienced the stillness all around. Small, glittering stars appeared in the sky.

Onacona, a tribal elder, said, “The cowboys have set up their homes several kilometres from here. They have guns and revolvers. We only have bows and arrows and are vulnerable on this flat surface, Chief. We need to move.”

Wohali nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “We will move up to the mountains on the other side, but we will need to find a place where there is water. This was an ideal place.”

Indeed, right behind them was a clear stream, which had many pebbles and small rocks. You could see fish swimming at the bottom. There were large trees on the other side. The Indians got their fruits, honey, and figs from there. They lived on the edge of a vast expanse of mud and hills.

But the group had moved to this location only a few days ago. They had to do this, as the cowboys and their families seemed to move all over the place. It seemed to the Indians that the whites wanted to exterminate them. Instead of a peace dialogue, the cowboys let their bullets do the talking. The schism between the two communities was as wide as the Red Sea. 

“I understand,” Onacona said in a respectful voice. “But if we stay here, we will all die.”

It was a stark warning. Wohali understood it. He knew Onacona would not say this unless the situation was dangerous. Onacona was an experienced warrior. He had seen many moons. He also had high intuition. The others remained silent and stared at the fire. The pig turned a deep brown. An aroma like roasted beef arose in the air. Ahiga’s nose twitched in anticipation of the meal. They were now sitting in darkness.

Wohali had always relied on Onacona’s experience.

He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. It seemed as if his body was telling him to move fast.

Wohali looked at the group, one by one.

They stared back. Everybody felt pressure within themselves. It had become a matter of life and death. 

“Okay,” said Wohali. “We will move tomorrow, come what may.”

The others smiled and nodded. This meant they had all agreed with Onacona about the urgent need to move.

Inola took the pig down. Using a knife, he cut up the animal into small pieces. He placed them inside the leaves. The Indians took them back to their tepees to eat with boiled beans and corn. They told their family members about their impending dislocation.

Onacona’s wife Behita said, “We just arrived here. How many times will we have to move? This is a pleasant place, with plenty of water.”

“I know, but the white people are all over the place,” said Onacona in a patient tone. “Ahiga spotted a group some distance away. They might come this way.”

Behita pressed her lips together.

“How long can we run?” she asked.

It was a question that hung in the air inside their tepee and also in the other tepees. Indeed, how long could they run before the cowboys killed them?

Behita gazed at the animal rugs on the floor, the clothes hanging on a nail, and the hides nailed to the wall. ‘All will have to be loaded again,’ she thought. She blew out the small fire in the middle with a blast of air from her mouth. She lay down beside her husband on a mat on the ground opposite the entrance.

Outside, Ahiga kept guard with another young Red Indian, Dakota.

It was 1 a.m. They kept the fire burning by throwing in twigs and leaves. Dakota’s head nodded as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. But Ahiga stood on one side, staring at the starry sky, as the cries of the cicadas interrupted the silence.

Two cowboys, Austin Smith and Brock Mathews, crept up behind Ahiga. The blue-eyed Austin stood up, placing his palm around Ahiga’s mouth, to prevent him from shouting. As Ahiga tried to turn, Austin slit his neck cleanly from the back, as the blood gurgled out in soft squirts, and laid him down.

Austin wiped the blood off his knife on Ahiga’s leather tunic. Dakota was now fast asleep. Brock pressed his palm against Dakota’s mouth while slicing his throat. Austin and Brock gestured with their hands.

Thirty other cowboys came up. They had tied their horses some distance away around a few tree trunks. The men walked the rest of the distance, coming in from the other side of the stream. They had known about this Red Indian camp. Brock had spotted the group from a distance when he went for a reconnaissance ride. He found the access to water most convenient. For their community, they needed this location.

A few of the cowboys lit sticks of tinder, using the fire that Ahiga had kept burning. They walked on tiptoes and stuck them to the tepees.

The tepees caught fire.

As the flames grew in intensity, the shouts of the Indian inmates rose in a crescendo, like a church choir practising the high notes.

Thick plumes of black smoke rose into the sky. There was an acrid smell.

As the Red Indians and their families came rushing out, the cowboys aimed their revolvers at them. There were yells and groans of agony as the bullets hit the defenceless targets. Blood spurted out. A woman was sobbing while holding a dead child in her arms. A Red Indian placed an arrow on his bow. But before he could draw the string, a bullet pierced his forehead with a cracking sound. None of them had expected this attack, including Onacona, who had a gift for predicting the future. But this time he failed.

People fell and landed spread-eagled on the ground. Some lay face down in the mud, arms extended. Others lay on their sides. Blood flowed from wounds on the head, face, chest, stomach, and legs. Some had open mouths, while others looked to be in deep slumber. There was the odour of blood, like that of iron. Out of sheer fear, a few men had soiled their pants.

As the tepees burned, it resembled an arc of fire framed against a dark horizon.

Soon, the cowboys had determined that all forty of them were dead. Thereafter, a group brought back the shovels they had kept in bags slung around their horses’ necks.

They moved a few feet away and dug into the ground. The men let out grunts and exhaled.

The minutes passed. A small mound of mud formed at the edges. Everybody inhaled the wet smell of the mud.

Once the pit was ready, one man held the hands and another the feet and they threw the bodies into the pit. For the children, one man could do the job, holding their legs with one hand. They flung them like dolls. The bodies lay piled up, one on top of the other. Finally, they threw in Ahiga and Dakota, both young men, in their prime.

The men stared at the pit. A few men wiped their faces with a kerchief. They knew it was a necessary deed. It was a matter of survival — kill or be killed. A few of them sat on their haunches, trying to get their breath back.

In the eerie silence, a coyote let out a bark followed by a howl. A couple of men noticed the hairs on their arms stood up.

The men began shovelling the mud back into the pit. Soon, they had covered the pit. The cowboys used the back of the shovels to tap down the mud and make it a smooth surface. 

Meanwhile, the fire was dying out among the tepees.

It was an exhausted group that trudged towards the horses. They returned home and washed their faces, legs, and hands. But when they closed their eyes, they saw images of the destruction they had wrought.

The next day, they came again. The cowboys bent and poked the ashes with wooden sticks to look for valuables. Some found gold rings and necklaces.

Within a few days, the white settlers took over the land. They formed a circle with their wagons to ward off attacks in the future. In the daytime, the boys ran to the bank of the stream. They took off their shirts and jumped into the water, letting out squeals of delight. They were not aware that other children of their age were rotting in a nearby pit, killed by their fathers. Sometimes, the women took the clothes and scrubbed them by the side of the stream. They felt calm and peaceful beside the serene stream.

There was no sign anymore that there had indeed been a Red Indian camp anywhere.

The white conquest was complete.

Many Indian tribes suffered the same fate

Later, some historians described it as a genocide. 

The pernicious effects of war

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Leaders throughout history have always stressed the need for their countrymen to march to war, to defend the nation against the ‘enemy’, to uphold values and to preserve society. War is glorified and praised. Soldiers are honoured and cherished. But what is the experience of a soldier at war? 

Here is a longish extract from ‘Goodbye Darkness’, American historian William Manchester’s memoir of the Pacific War in World War 11, where he describes his killing of a Japanese soldier:

‘My first shot had missed him, embedding itself in the straw wall, but the second caught him dead-on in the femoral artery. 

‘A wave of blood gushed from the wound; then another boiled out, sheeting across his legs, pooling on the earthen floor. Mutely, he looked down at it. He dipped a hand in it and listlessly smeared his cheek red. His shoulders gave a little spasmodic jerk, as though someone had whacked him on the back; then he emitted a tremendous, raspy fart, slumped down, and died. I kept firing, wasting government property. 

‘Almost immediately, a fly landed on his left eyeball. Another joined it. I don’t know how long I stood there staring. I knew from previous combat what lay ahead for the corpse. It would swell, then bloat, bursting out of the uniform. Then the face would turn from yellow to red, to purple, to green, to black. 

‘A feeling of disgust and self-hatred clotted darkly in my throat, gagging me.  

‘Then I began to tremble and next, to shake all over. I sobbed, in a voice, still grainy with fear: “I’m sorry.” Then I threw up all over myself. I recognised the half-digested C-ration beans dribbling down my front, smelled the vomit above the cordite. At the same time, I noticed another odour; I had urinated in my skivvies. I pondered fleetingly why our excretions become so loathsome the instant they leave the body.’   

This extract has been reproduced in the book, ‘War is a force that gives us meaning’ by Chris Hedges, a foreign correspondent for 15 years with the New York Times. He covered conflicts in Central America, the Middle East, Africa and the Balkans.

His book can change your attitude toward war. It shows what really happens at ground level. Chris’s first-hand description of the war in Bosnia is unforgettable. The unbelievable cruelty and depravity that soldiers displayed was difficult to digest. 

Here is a quote by Chris: “Once we sign on for war’s crusade, once we see ourselves on the side of the angels, once we embrace a theological or ideological belief system that defines itself as the embodiment of goodness and light, it is only a matter of how we will carry out murder.”

One thing that became clear from reading this book is how powerful are the forces of evil that live quietly within each one of us. And when these forces awaken, they thrust you into the heart of darkness. 

The book, published in 2002, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for Non-Fiction. And is a must-read as the world heads for a possible nuclear apocalypse because of the Ukraine War. 

Here are some quotes from the book: 

Civil war, brutality, ideological intolerance, conspiracy and murderous repression are part of the human condition. 

Soldiers who kill innocent people pay a tremendous, personal, emotional, and spiritual price. 

The cost of killing is all the more bitter because of the deep disillusionment the war usually brings. 

Killing unleashes within us dark undercurrents that see us desecrate and whip ourselves into greater orgies of destruction. 

The ecstatic high of violence and the debilitating mental and physical destruction that comes with prolonged exposure to war’s addiction. 

We dismantle our moral universe to serve the cause of war. 

In the rise to power, we become smaller, power absorbs us, and once power is attained, we are often its pawns. 

Killing is a sordid affair. Those who are killed die messy, disturbing deaths that often plague the killers. And the bodies of the newly slain retain a disquieting power. 

The eyes of the dead are windows into a world we fear. 

Modern war is directed against civilians. 

Force easily snuffs out gentle people, the compassionate and the decent. 

States at war silence their authentic and humane culture. By destroying authentic culture — that which allows us to question and examine ourselves and our society — the state erodes its moral fibre. A warped sense of reality replaces it. 

Cliches, coined by the state, become the only acceptable vocabulary. Everyone knows what to say and how to respond. It is scripted. Vocabulary shrinks so that the tyranny of nationalistic rhetoric leaves people sputtering state-sanctioned slogans. 

The nationalist myth often implodes with startling ferocity. It does so after the lies and absurdities become too hard to sustain. They collapse under their own weight.

Contradictions and the refusal to acknowledge the obvious become too much for a society to bear. 

 Nationalist cant always end up sounding absurd.

The magical world of books

 Photos: The American Centre library in Calcutta; the National Library  

 

By Shevlin Sebastian 

The other day, I received a few cartoons regarding the foreignness of physical books for children on WhatsApp. In one, it showed a boy sitting at a table, with a book in front of him. His mother tells him, “Just open and read it. You don’t need a password.” 

As I forwarded it to a family group, I realised I may be the only person in our family to read physical books and to go to libraries. 

I began visiting libraries in my teens and fell in love with them. On hot summer days, on my weekly holidays, I headed to the American library, first on SN Banerjee Road and later on Chowringhee in Calcutta.

The air-conditioning was superb. The library was so spacious, with carpeted floors and large glass windows. This calm environment helped keep away the manic energy of the streets, the heat, the dust and the pollution for a while. 

As for the books, what a treasure it was. 

American publishers designed their hardcover books so well that one could only stare at them with wonder. And then to be allowed to take four books home on a library card. Wow, what a treat. It was, to quote a title of one of American literary great John Cheever’s books: ‘Oh what a paradise it seems’. 

I was also an ardent fan of Pulitzer-Prize winner John Updike and would be awestruck at his productivity. Over 50 novels, short stories, art and literary reviews. His long-time publisher, Alfred A Knopf, produced some of the best designed books in world publishing. And still does. I may not be sure, but I think they used the Garamond typeface a lot. Which is a font that is pleasant to look at and soothing to read. Nowadays, whenever I write, I use Garamond at 14 points on Google Drive. 

Apart from the books, there were the magazines. I read ‘The New Yorker’, ‘Esquire’, ‘The Atlantic’, ‘Ebony’, ‘Time’, ‘Newsweek’, ‘Vanity Fair’, ‘People’, ‘National Geographic’, ‘Sports Illustrated’, and ‘The New York Times Magazine’. There were so many more, but these come to mind only. 

Some of the other libraries I visited included the British Council library on Shakespeare Sarani (another air-conditioned oasis), the Ramakrishna Mission library in Gol Park, and the National Library in Alipore. 

Undoubtedly, the most beautiful campus belonged to the National Library. It had spacious lawns and tree-lined avenues. You could sit on the lawns and enjoy the sunshine and the greenery with a couple of book lovers (of the fairer sex) during the depth of a Calcutta winter, which was usually in December and January. When it got too cold, we went off to the canteen to have hot cups of tea. And continue with the adda. 

Most people think that patrons of libraries are morose and dull. That they are all nerds. But under that placid exterior, some of them are daring, bold, and uninhibited. In a conservative era, before cell phones and the Internet, they did the unthinkable. Some were even more daring than the in-your-face shows-off in college. But nobody suspected it because they carried these books in their hands and had that studious look on their faces. 

Indeed, several fooled their parents, too. 

So, one parent would tell another, in front of their teenage daughter, “Oh, Moushumi is a quiet girl and very studious.” 

Moushumi would immediately smother the mischievous smile that was forming on her face and nod piously. 

Apart from these delightful encounters, books have given me immense pleasure over the decades. They have enabled me to interact with the minds of the greats of many professions, be it politics, literature, arts, spirituality, history, religion, film, sports, psychology, and philosophy. Even now, every night, I try to put in at least half an hour of book reading. 

In Kochi, where I live now, I am a regular visitor to the over 150-year-old Ernakulam Public Library. In terms of facilities, it’s no match compared to the libraries in Delhi and Calcutta. But they are doing a good job of getting the latest books. 

The last book I picked up a couple of weeks ago was ‘The Escape Artist’ by British journalist Jonathan Freedland. It tells the true story of how two Slovak Jews escaped from the Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland during the second world war. Their aim: they wanted to inform the world about the genocide taking place. It was a heart-breaker of a story.  

The other library in Kochi, which I am frequenting much less these days, is the EMS Cooperative Library in Kakkanad. It has a beautiful building with a park beside it. But the books are old and out-dated. The pages are yellowing. Rarely does the administration buy new books. And the park has fallen into disrepair because of a lack of maintenance. 

I also buy books online. Sure, Kindle is an easy alternative, but I never enjoyed electronic reading. Sometimes, when a prominent personality mentions a book that has influenced them, I check out that book. 

So when double Booker Prize winner Hilary Mantel passed away on September 22 at age 70, I began reading about her life and career. I came across a Guardian newspaper story which highlighted Hilary’s rules for writing, in point form. The second point said, “Read ‘Becoming a writer by Dorothea Brande”’. 

When I checked the book online, I noticed it was first published in 1934. That was a long time ago. What surprised and intrigued me was that it has remained in print since then. Since there were cheap editions, I ordered one on Amazon. 

I have read many books on writing, which focus on plot, character development, setting, theme, point of view and dialogue. But Dorothea’s book was the only one I have read so far which spoke about how a writer should work with the unconscious mind if he or she wants to produce memorable material.

No wonder Hilary recommended it. Because if you read her books, you realise how she has mined her unconscious mind. In the Wolf Hall trilogy, Thomas Cromwell, the Chief Minister of King Henry VIII came across as a living, throbbing human being. 

Another stalwart who uses the unconscious a lot is Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. Dorothea said that for literature, to be powerful, it has to emerge from the unconscious. Writing from the conscious mind lacks vitality and depth. I asked myself a question: could Leo Tolstoy have created the 500 characters in his magnum opus, ‘War and Peace’ using only his conscious mind? I felt that would be difficult. He would definitely need the unconscious for this. 

All this was nice to know. And also depressing. 

Because, how many people can access the unconscious? Sure, every night, the unconscious sends us numerous images in the form of dreams. But in the daylight, how many can access it? The unconscious remains remote and inaccessible. Only a handful of the gifted are able to enter easily. 

Wolfgang Mozart (1756-91), the Austrian piano prodigy, was one of them. The rest of us, including I, are plodding away, plucking small fruits from the lowest branches of the banyan tree of creation, not being given this sublime gift by the Gods.

Despite this lack, writing has provided solace. 

For many years, shyness and an introverted nature had crippled me. I remained tongue-tied in public and in private too, especially in front of relatives and strangers. Through all those years, I kept reading. So, thousands of sentences kept ricocheting through my brain, with no outlet at all. Finally, one day, I got a job in journalism and began dealing with sentences. The sentences from my head rushed out, and I used the tip of my fingers to lead them on to a page during the typewriter era and later onto computer screens. I fell in love with writing. And I found my voice. 

And I have to thank my parents. They let me be. They gave me space. They didn’t put pressure on me to change. Maybe, they instinctively realised each person has to listen to their drumbeat. For some, the beat is loud and crystal-clear very early in life. For others, the drum beats take a long time to start. 

To each his own. 

And my parents gave me the same love during my inarticulate and articulate phases. At the celebrity level, Robert Federer, father of one of the greatest tennis players of all time, said, “Roger is for us, Roggie. Our son and that is what he will stay, and that is what he is.”

Ideally, parents should avoid intervening and trying to speed up the developmental process in their child. It only results in havoc in the child’s mind. As a result, the journey towards finding one’s destiny becomes messy and agonising. And sometimes, it ends in failure. 

(Published in The Story Cabinet)

Atlas Ramachandran is no more. A look at his life and career

Renowned businessman and film producer Atlas Ramachandran died on October 2 at Dubai at the age of 80, following a heart attack. A high-flying entrepreneur his jewellery business came crashing down, when he was arrested in 2015 for non-payment of loans he had taken from banks to the tune of Rs 1000 crore.

He was sentenced to jail for three years. Thanks to friends who helped to meet his dues, Ramachandran was released two-and-a-half years later. When Dubai-based lawyer Arun Abraham visited him in hospital just before he passed away, he was optimistic about re-starting his business.

The following piece was published in 2012 when he had just opened an outlet in Kochi.

Trusted by millions

Dr M M Ramachandran, the founder-chairman of the Atlas Jewellery Group, talks about his memories of Mahatma Gandhi and other luminaries. He also speaks about his life as an entrepreneur, film producer, distributor, exhibitor, actor, and philanthropist

By Shevlin Sebastian

On the morning of January 31, 1948, Dr M M Ramachandran, the founder-chairman of the Atlas Jewellery Group, remembers his uncle Dr. Sethu Madhavan come running to the family tharavad in Thrissur, tears streaming down his face. “Bapuji (Mahatma Gandhi) has expired,” he said. And the entire family, comprising Ramachandran’s parents, uncles and aunts, cousins and relatives, burst into tears. Ramachandran was only six years old. “Our house is close to the railway line. On the trains, people were shouting and crying.” They had heard from passengers coming from the north that somebody had assassinated Bapuji the previous evening.

“No Indian should forget the ‘Father of the Nation,’” says Ramachandran. “As a child, my parents taught us about the ideals of Gandhi and read excerpts from his monumental work, ‘My Experiments with Truth.’ He was an idol for me.”

He also has memories of the late Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru. “The Prime Minister came to Thrissur a few times and gave speeches at the Thekkinkad Maidan. I would sit in the front row. Security was casual in those days. He spoke in English and was a gripping orator,” he says.

Ramachandran is also a fan of Nehru’s daughter, the late Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. “Her biggest achievement was the liberation of East Pakistan (Bangladesh) from West Pakistan in 1971,” says Ramachandran. Of course, Indira’s biggest mistake was the imposition of the Emergency on June 26, 1975. “That was when freedom was suppressed,” says Ramachandran. “I have lived through an eventful period of our history.”

Ramachandran, himself, has had an eventful life. He grew up in Thrissur, as the son of a poet, V Kamalakara Menon. Ramachandran’s grandfather was a contractor in Cochin State and was the first to introduce cement in construction work.

“He knew all the difficulties of doing business, and wanted my father to have a government job,” he says. His father got a state government job and worked for several years. Meanwhile, Ramachandran passed his B. Com from Sree Kerala Varma College. But jobs were scarce in Kerala. Unemployment was rampant. “My elder brother had a minor job in Delhi,” he says. “So, I went there in search of one.”

In the capital, Ramachandran saw ‘No Vacancy’ signs everywhere. Then the Canara Bank opened its first branch in Delhi, and they took Ramachandran in as an apprentice with a small stipend.

“In six months, they made me a clerk,” he says. And within two years, he became an assistant accountant because he had passed the Certified Associate examination of the Indian Institute of Bankers with distinction. But Ramachandran continued to sit for bank exams and got selected as a probationary officer by the State Bank of India and was posted to the State Bank of Travancore in Kerala in 1966.

“Thereafter, I worked all over the state,” he says. “Instead of going as a tourist, I went at the bank’s expense.” He worked for seven years with SBT.

In 1973, the economy was in free-fall. The petrol price jumped from 3.5 dollars per barrel to 10.6 dollars. “I had an official jeep, and my car,” he says. “Despite that, I used to travel by bus. By the 20th of the month, I would exhaust my salary. I would request my father to send me some money.” Ramachandran felt he needed another job.

He saw an advertisement in a newspaper by the Commercial Bank of Kuwait for a walk-in interview at the Connemara Hotel in Chennai. He went to Chennai by train. There were 2,000 people in front of the hotel gates, which were closed. “Somehow, I entered and became one of 200 persons who wrote the test.”

Thereafter, Ramachandran was one among five who were called for the interview. The interviewer asked, “Where is your passport, Mr Ramachandran?” It was then that he realised that there was something called a passport. “I began perspiring,” he says. “They told me not to worry. You are selected.” Thereafter, Ramachandran applied for a passport and departed for Kuwait in March 1974.

They sent him for six months of training to Athens and two months to Philadelphia. He took over as the credit manager for domestic branches and later as international division manager. In addition, the bank asked him to train other managers. And for this second job, Ramachandran received an additional salary. “In those days, I was the highest-paid Indian,” he says.

One day when Ramachandran was returning from the bank, he saw a sizeable crowd in front of some Indian jewellery shops. “I was young and curious,” he says. “I stopped the car and asked the reason for this. They said, ‘Don’t you know that the gold price has fallen? We are all queuing up to buy it.’ I was taken aback. There was such an enormous demand for gold. An urge arose in me to do some business rather than be an employee.”

In the bank, Ramachandran was handling the New York and London branches. “I had to recommend loans. The smallest of the loans was 5 million dollars. I was running a tremendous risk. If something went wrong, the management would hold me responsible. I thought that if I start a small business, even it is small, I could be my boss.”

But he had little savings. So, Ramachandran went to the chief general manager of the bank, H J Kwant, a Dutchman, and secured a loan of 20,000 dinars. This sufficed to pay the money for a shop in the brand-new Souk Al Watiya in Kuwait. “No Indian dared to take a shop in such a posh place,” he says. “I had money left over to buy only 2 kilos of ornaments but did not know the business. The only way to learn was from a goldsmith.”

Luckily, he befriended a Madhavan from Pallam, Kottayam. “He was not prepared to tell me the secrets,” says Ramachandran. “I told him I am a bank manager and he would lose nothing by passing me his knowledge. So, he told me the details.”

Ramachandran’s jewellery outfit was a success from the very beginning, thanks to a stroke of luck. His shop was next to the only church in Kuwait: Our Lady of Arabia.

“The Indian maids were in plenty, especially from Goa,” he says. “They told me, ‘Jesus will bless you! It is good you have opened your shop nearby. Now we can come to church, buy the gold, and have a lot of time left for chitchat. Otherwise, all the time will be wasted to go downtown. We will bring all our friends.’”

And they kept their promise. And all they wanted was a sovereign chain and a cross. “I made my money on these sales,” he says.

Today, Atlas Jewellery operates in seven countries: Qatar, Bahrain, Oman, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, India, and the United Arab Emirates. In the UAE, there are 24 shops, and the maximum sales are in Dubai.

“Our customers are mostly Malayalis,” he says. When asked for the reasons behind his success, he says, “Give them the best. They will come back to you. My products are authentic.”

What is 22 carat? It is 22 divided by 24 = 916.666. If pure gold in the ornament is 916, and the rest is alloys, it is called 22 carat. “Instead of 916, we keep 920 as our base,” he says. “In all the tests conducted by the government, it should pass. When conventional soldering is done, other elements might get added, as opposed to the cadmium soldering technology used by Atlas Jewellery.”

He says that the Malayalis in Dubai, before they leave for their annual vacation to Kerala, would buy jewellery from several shops. Back at home, they get it tested. “I am very happy to say that when they return to Dubai, they say, ‘Sir, only yours was 22 carats. We will bring all our friends and relatives to you.’ So, I made my name by word of mouth.”

Ramachandran also instinctively understood the power of advertisements. “Those days dealers would tell me that gold should never be advertised,” he says. “People should come and ask for it. I said, no, like any other product we have to advertise. I was the first to cooperate with the World Gold Council to advertise gold.”

He was also the first to distinguish between 22 and 24 carat gold. “I would have arguments with the dealers,” he says. “I would tell them, ‘Ornaments are only 22 carat, so why are you charging 24 carat?’ When I started Atlas in 1981, I gave separate prices for 22 and 24 carat gold.”

Incidentally, the word ‘Atlas’ came up by accident. When he went to get a licence from the Ministry of Commerce in Kuwait, he suggested many Malayali, Indian, and English names. The official said, “Myseer (which means ‘impossible’ in Arabic). This is an Arab country. Give me Arab names.” So, Ramachandran asked the official to give a name. The man said, “Khud Ya Atlas (Take the name Atlas).”

In Dubai, Ramachandran was much respected, because of his contribution to the annual Shopping Festival. In 1996, the government of Dubai - under the directive of HH Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, UAE Vice-President and ruler of Dubai - invited four people from the gold industry and asked for suggestions. 

Ramachandran, who later became the chairperson of the Festival Gold Promotion Committee, came up with the idea to give away one kg of gold on a raffle basis every day. “It was a runaway success,” says Ramachandran. “This concept attracted a lot of tourists during the festival and I secured an illustrious name in the government.” In the inaugural festival, 43 kgs of gold were given away.

Thereafter, over the years, Atlas has diversified into real estate, advertising, photography studios and healthcare. In 2010, the company opened a multi-speciality hospital in Ruwi, Oman. In 2010, Ramachandran was ranked 35 on the list of the 100 ‘Most Powerful Indians in the Gulf Co-operation Council countries.’

And, finally, on August 25, 2012, Atlas finally arrived in Kerala with a showroom at Edapally, Kochi. Asked why it took so long to come to Kerala, Ramachandran said, “The Bureau of Indian Standards (BIS) was only set up recently,” he says. “People were selling 18 carat gold marked as 22.”

Ramachandran made a television programme called ‘Swarna Nirangal’ (The Colours of Gold), in which the anchor shows an advertisement which states, ‘I will give you 916 gold.’ Then the anchor asks, “If this is a 100-year-old company, which claims to be giving 916 now, what were they giving earlier?”

Ramachandran was excited by the response to the Kochi enterprise. But despite this he is worried about the economic future of Kerala. “Where is the agricultural and manufacturing activity? Montek Singh Ahluwalia (deputy chairman of the Planning Commission) said that if Kerala does not cultivate rice, the heavens will not fall. I don’t agree. We must have agriculture. It is our culture and we must not forget that.”

Another worry is the rise of religious fanaticism all over the world. “Religion appears to play a very important part in the life of people and nations,” he says. “It is meant for the well-being of people. But people think that the way to salvation is through one particular religion. It has led to a lot of destruction.”

The opposite of destruction is creativity. Few people know Ramachandran is a creative person. In 1988, Ramachandran set up Chandrakanth Films for production and distribution. The first film, ‘Vaishali,’ became a box-office hit running for 111 days and is now regarded as a classic. Later, he produced ‘Dhanam’ and ‘Sukrutham,’ and directed ‘Holidays.’ He has also acted in ‘2 Harihar Nagar,’ ‘Arabikatha’ and ‘Anandabhairavi.’

Apart from that, he is also providing scholarships for deserving students in Kerala and the Gulf countries and makes regular donations for traditional arts and culture in Kerala. In fact, he has done a doctoral thesis on traditional arts and culture. “In my spare time, I am trying to promote akshara shlokam,” says Ramachandran, who is also a director of the India Vision television channel.

All in all, Ramachandran has lived like up to his company name: an Atlas who has lifted the globe, on his shoulders, and in his own individual style.

(Published in Express Ensembles, September 23, 2012)

Staying the course

Venu Kunnappilly made his debut as a producer with the hit, ‘Mamangam’, in 2019. He talks about his experiences in Mollywood

Photos: Mohanlal and Mammootty with Venu Kunnappilly and his family

By Shevlin Sebastian

From childhood Venu Kunnappilly loved watching movies. It remained his primary pastime during college and in his life in Dubai. One day, a thought arose in his mind: how can I enter Mollywood? Venu pondered over the options. He could be an actor, director, cinematographer, singer or scriptwriter. But he felt he did not have the talent for any of them. So, Venu felt the only way was to be a producer.

Through a friend in the industry, he sent out feelers he wanted to produce a film.

Vivek Ramadevan, one of Mollywood’s leading entertainment and marketing consultants, met Venu. He narrated the story of ‘Mamangam’ for over two hours.

Every 12 years, in the 18th century, the Mamangam festival would take place on the banks of the Nila river in the town of Thirunavaya in north Kerala. The Zamorin, the Hindu chiefs of Kozhikode, conducted the festival. Several years ago, they seized ownership of the festival from Valluvakkonathiri, who were the rulers of an independent kingdom in central Kerala.

Every year, the Valluvakkonathiri sent their best warriors to confront and kill the Zamorin, who would always appear at the festival with his family members.

Venu liked the script because he had always liked to watch historical themes on film. In his childhood, he liked ‘Unniyarcha’ (1961). This was based on Unniyarcha, a legendary warrior. She had been mentioned in ‘Vadakkan Pattukal’, a set of ballads.

Another film he enjoyed watching was ‘Kayamkulam Kochunni’ (1966). Kochunni was an outlaw who stole from the rich and gave to the poor in present-day Travancore.

To get confirmation from Mammootty, Venu met him for the first time in a suite at the Grand Hyatt in Dubai in 2017. He was taken aback by the superstar’s genuine respect shown to him. Mammootty inquired whether Venu wanted to drink or eat something. Then he asked about Venu’s family and all other aspects of his life. “Mammootty was a straight-forward, and down-to-earth person,” said Venu.

The aspiring producer was keen for Mammootty to take the lead role. Because he knew the actor excelled in historical roles. He had admired Mammootty’s performance in ‘Pazhassi Raja’ (2009).

Mammootty had played Pazhassi (1753–1805), who was the de facto head of the kingdom of Kottayam, otherwise known as Cotiote, in Malabar.

Pazhassi fought against the exploitation of farmers, through steep taxation, by the British East India Company. There were constant battles between Pazhassi and his men against the British.

Eventually, the British killed Pazhassi, aged 52, on November 30, 1805, in a gun-fight at Mavila Thodu, on the border of present-day Kerala and Karnataka.

Mammootty confirmed again. So, Venu became a producer.

When the film came out, ‘Mamangam’ became a box office hit. It grossed Rs 100 crore at the box office.

Venu learnt some important lessons after his first film. “If you have a good relationship with a person, it might break down when you are working together on a film,” said Venu. “So, it is imperative to have clear-cut legal agreements with all the crew members.”

To avoid a financial loss, the producer must ensure he has lucrative deals with OTT platforms and buyers for satellite rights. “So, when the film hits the theatres, you have already recovered your costs,” said Venu. If the film becomes a hit, then all the theatre income is a profit for the producer.

Following ‘Mamangam’, Venu has ploughed ahead. He produced ‘Night Drive’, and ‘Drishyam-2’ in Kannada. ‘Eesho’ is coming out next month. Directed by Nadir Shah, it features Jayasurya and Namitha Pramod in the lead roles. The shoot of the film, ‘2018’, budgeted at Rs 25 crore, is in progress. It stars Kunchacko Boban, Tovino Thomas, Asif Ali, and Vineeth Sreenivasan. The shoot of two other films, ‘Chaver’ and ‘Malikappuram’ is also taking place now.

Venu also released a Hollywood film called ‘After Midnight’ on February 11, 2021. Jeremy Gardner and Christian Stella play the main roles. The meta score on imdb.com is 55 out of 100.

Reflections about Mammootty and Mohanlal

In April, 2019, Mammootty was shooting for ‘Mamangam’ during the month of Ramzan. He was fasting the entire day. A battle scene was being filmed on an 18-acre land, behind Lakeshore Hospital in Kundanoor, Kochi.

“After a whole day’s shoot, with no food, Mammootty had to continue shooting till 2 a.m.,” said Venu. “But he never complained at all. He was tireless on the set.”

In the film, Mammootty had to don the role of a woman. The actor was chatting with Venu and cracked a few jokes. Then the director said, “Action.” Right in front of Venu’s eyes, he saw Mammootty transforming himself into a woman. “It was amazing how effortlessly he slipped into the role,” said Venu.

The producer realised it was the passion for acting that drove Mammootty. “Whatever role he takes on, he plays it with the utmost dedication,” said Venu. Immense wealth and stardom have not satiated Mammootty’s burning drive to excel. “The youngsters of today make two or three films a year. The rest of the time they are enjoying themselves and going for vacations,” said Venu. “Mammootty’s primary focus and enjoyment is acting.”

Venu met Mohanlal three years ago. The actor expressed an interest in buying an apartment in ‘The Identity Twin Towers’ that Venu was building right next to the Crowne Plaza hotel in Kochi. Mohanlal bought two apartments on the 15th and 16th floor. This was converted into a duplex, with interior staircases, and has a floor area of 9500 sq. ft.

As for Venu, he stays on the 11th floor. The view from the veranda is breath-taking. Except for the Le Meridien hotel, which is on the opposite side, the vista is one of green vegetation, rivers and the wide arc of the sky above. A sharp breeze blows all the time.

“Mohanlal is able to get along with all sorts of people,” said Venu. “He has no airs at all. When he is talking to you, he is so down-to-earth that sometimes you forget that he is a superstar. He always asks about others life and what is happening in it.”

Both Mohanlal and Mammootty have an immense positive energy about them. “It could be because they are both doing work for which they have a great passion,” said Venu.

On how they have endured as stars for over 30 years, Venu said. “Both arrived at the right time and at the right place. They have played so many roles which have been ingrained in the Malayali psyche. We will always look at them with awe and reverence. But they have also maintained their image.”

Early life and career

Venu was born in Ayyampilly on the Vypeen islands. His father cultivated prawns and did pokkali farming (pokkali is a saline tolerant rice that is grown in the coastal regions). Venu did his early schooling in the Rama Varma Union High School in Cherai.

The school is over one hundred years old. The large building has a tiled roof, and British-style columns along the veranda of the ground floor. There is a sandy courtyard in front. Today, it has over 800 students on its rolls.

After completing his Class 10, Venu did his pre-degree at the Sree Narayana Mangalam College, Maliankara. In 1986, he joined the Noorul Islam Polytechnic College in Tamil Nadu to do a three-year diploma course in automobile engineering. Venu had a desire to become a vehicle inspector in the state motor vehicles department. That would assure him of a steady salary.

But after graduating with high marks, he got a job as a trainee in the Royal Enfield company. It makes the iconic Bullet motorcycles at their factory near Madurai. But he worked there for only four months before he got a chance to go to Saudi Arabia.

On May 17, 1990, he joined as the head of the automobile division at the Al Omarani company. The agency did the maintenance for all government vehicles. But Venu soon discovered that his lack of experience was creating a problem.

Venu had worked with the Tata, Ambassador Ashok Leyland and Maruti cars. But in Saudi Arabia, he was working with Mercedes Benz, BMW, the Range Rover and Jaguars. Venu was seeing their engines for the first time.

The workers, Malayalis, North Indians, Bengalis, Filipinos and Pakistanis, came to him asking for solutions. He found he did not have the necessary knowledge to help them.

But somehow, he learned quickly and worked in the company for three years. In the last year, the company became bankrupt. They paid no salary. Venu found it difficult to eat. Reluctant to come back, Venu did odd jobs here and there.

He worked in a vineyard at the hill station of Abha, which is 7200 ft. above sea level. The weather is mild throughout the year. People had to wear sweaters all the time. There is no air-conditioning but heaters are everywhere. There are kilometres and kilometres of vineyards.

Venu had to walk a few kilometres every day to reach these farms, which were in remote areas. He earned 20 riyals a day. “It was a difficult time,” he said. “Sometimes, we encountered snakes in the fields. We had to be careful.”

Unfortunately, even though the labour rate was agreed upon beforehand, at the end of the day, the supervisors would say the work was not perfect. They would give the workers only five riyals. “It was exploitation,” said Venu. “I would feel upset, but there was little I could do, since I was living in a foreign country.”

In August, 1993, Venu moved to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. He worked as a sales executive in a company which dealt in spare parts for the Range Rover. During this time, he learned everything about the business.

Finally, in 2000, Venu took the plunge. He opened a wholesale shop dealing in automobile spare parts in the Deira market. A lot of Africans would come there. Venu would import from India and China and export to several countries in Africa. The business did well from the beginning.

In 2001, he started a packing company with his roommates, with whom he stayed before his marriage in 1997. The company specialises in blister packing. This is a pre-formed packaging, made of plastic, used for consumer goods, foods, and medicines. This has become a large company. He also opened a spare parts shop in the Congo called Auto King. In 2004, he opened a factory making lubricant oil in Ajman.

Venu has made many visits to South Africa, Mozambique, Zambia, Malawi, Somalia, Djibouti, Tanzania, Kenya, Angola, Togo, Benin Republic, Niger, Burkina Faso, Guinea Bissau, Ghana, Mali and other countries.

Venu said the Africans differed from place to place. The people who lived under Portuguese rule, in countries like Angola, Congo, Guinea-Bissau and Mozambique, had suffered from centuries of slavery. So, they had low self-esteem and were deferential.

The people who lived under French rule, like in Togo, Burkina Faso, Ivory Coast, and Mali, were tough and bargained hard when they did business. But the smartest people were those who grew up under British rule in countries like South Africa, Zambia and Ghana.

“They had self-confidence because of the excellent education they received,” said Venu.

But across all countries, one common trait was that the Africans did not trust outsiders. That has been the impact of hundreds of years of slavery. They have a fear that they will be cheated and exploited. “Now, the Chinese are exploiting them,” said Venu. “Poverty is still widespread. Many people only get two meals a day.”

Venu continues his business in Dubai, building construction in Kerala and a shop in the UK. He also has a film production company in Los Angeles and a Greentech company in Sweden.

Venu as writer

In November, 2021, Venu published a collection of 15 short stories called ‘Victoria 18’. This was released at the Sharjah Book Fair last year. Venu wrote the stories in an autobiographical style, but it is all fiction.

Finally, when asked about his advice to young Malayalis, he said, “Please remember, life is very short. No other species has the freedom that we have. We can live and work anywhere. There are so many opportunities. Youngsters should go in search of them. They should avoid spending their time in negative thought processes and harassing people. You should have a dream. And follow it. You have only one life and it goes fast. Always remember that.”

(Published in Unique Times)