To see my maiden attempt at intellectual honesty, read this piece that I wrote for the alumni magazine. I am grateful to the editorial team for giving me the platform. Even as I wrote that piece I knew that many lines I wrote there would stay with me for a long time.
Here is the link... The article is on pages 20-23.
http://www.iimbaa.org/IIMBAA/Magazine/IIMB%20Alumni%20Magzin%20Final_16-05-2011.pdf
Nanni. Namaskaaram.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Sunday, 29 May 2011
A week when two great men visited the campus
This week was important because of two great people who visited the campus - Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and Shri Anna Hazare. It is difficult to explain why these are great people. There are so many dimensions to their greatness that it is not easy to capture all of that in a brief narrative.
But here is something that is striking. There is a certain magnetism that you sense when you are in the presence of these men that makes you feel that they are extra ordinary. And I say that as a hardened and unapologetic cynic.
Personally I am grateful to Sri Sri for a reason that many may consider trivial - his schools that my sons attend. These schools are a sharp contrast to the average Indian school which resemble miserable hellholes. Unlike in the average school, the teachers in Sri Sri's schools live a motto that I saw on the front wall of the school, the first day that we went there looking for admission. It goes somewhat like this: Teaching is a vocation of love. If you are incapable of loving you should not be a teacher.
That motto touched me. I wish I could live by that motto as much as the teachers at Sri Sri's schools do.
Interestingly, in his interaction at IIMB Sri Sri touched upon an important secular issue too: Corruption. His closing line was a call to the youth of the country: Spiritualise politics, socialise business and secularise religion. I do not know if anyone else has said that before. No matter whether it is Sri Sri's impromptu line or not, it is a line that every young Indian ought to tattoo on his forehead, to borrow an expression from a popular finance text book.
That brings me to that other great man to visit the campus this week: Anna Hazare. I am intrigued by Annaji's ability to pull in such a massive support to his most recent struggle. And here is an interesting problem for hair splitting academics: What explains that crowd at Jantar Mantar and the spontaneous chorus of support? Is it the appeal of the cause? Or Annaji's charisma? Quite possibly, it is a bit of both.
At the end of the day it does not matter. What I hope and pray for is that Annaji and his crusaders win this fight. Sitting in that hall and reflecting on the events of the weeks and months leading to Annaji's fast one was reminded of all that one had read about India's freedom struggle.
The curse of corruption is perhaps no less disgusting and debilitating than foreign rule. It is perhaps even more so because it so reminiscent of the battle of Kurukshetra - an internecine fight that symbolises the struggle between Dharma and Adharma. A struggle for justice from an aggrandising horde made up of one's own. A struggle that has been necessitated by a compulsion where the aggrandisers refuse to share the equivalent of even five villages with the rest of the country due to their limitless greed. If left unchecked it would appear that the masses would not even get the equivalent of the and to stick a needle into, putting the entire gang of Hosni Mubarak, Muammar Gadhafi and every other plundering dictator known to history look like a band of angels!
Presentations made, questions raised, solidarity expressed, the aloo bonda and tea savoured, as I walked back to my home the cynical side of me reared its irrepressible head. All movements take place within the context of history. Gandhi's victory against the Brits was a product of history. The forces of history that powered the Mahatma's fragile sloop to the shores of independence are missing today.
Most important to my mind is the difference in the context that obtained in early and mid twentieth century and the social aspirations of the nation at large today. Central to those aspirations is the craving to achieve a great amount of wealth quickly. That craving pervades all walks of life - industry, all the professions, public service and even the portals of the Divine. Physical proximity to the Lord and the speed with which you can get there depend upon the value of the currency wad you can brandish in front of His doorkeepers. Very soon, I am sure, darsan spots of the various popular temples will be auctioned on eBay - the modern Mecca of pricing efficiency. (If that is a novel idea is there some way I can claim a small fee in return for the efficiency gains?)
Money enjoys an important place in our social life. It does not matter how you got it - as long as you have enough of it to launder away the dirt that you accumulate with the money.
Do not get me wrong. I am not against wealth in our society. I feel happy when I see the confidence of our youth, in sharp contrast to the cringing deference of my generation and that of my forefathers. That is a result of economic security that I could not even dream of at their age. I feel happy when I see international brands compete for a share of the ever growing wallet of the Indian consumer. I am glad to see the the swelling crowds at the new epicentres of Indian consumerism - the numerous malls - and young Indians splurging with no care for the rainy day that seemed to weigh down people of my generation.
But in all of this I wish money was not so important that it did not come in the way of rule of law, if not in the way of human values. I wish policemen would not let off sedans violating every driving and parking rule while harassing the helpless autodriver or two wheeler commuter. I wish streetvendors who earn less than minimum wages are not routinely harassed by the police while big businesses flout many a rule with impunity with secure feeling that their wealth could buy them off of any punishment, however egregious their crime.
And it is not as if the centrality of wealth is the result of Dr. Manmohan Singh embracing free market wisdom. There are Sanskrit lines going much farther back in time that tell us how important wealth was. A quartet that I learned in school concludes pithily: Sarve gunaah kanchanam aasrayanti - all good qualities come from wealth.
So at the end of that long ramble here is my worry: In a world where money plays such a large part in our daily lives will Annaji win this crusade? Will we all rush to fill jails as he exhorts us, leaving aside our chase of quick and ever-growing wealth? Is history on Annaji's side as it was on the Mahatma's? Or, will he be left with a Pyrrhic victory, if he has one, trudging up the hills all alone like Yudhishthira after the war, deserted even by his canine escort?
I pray that once more the Lord lives up to His promise: Yada yada hi...abhyutthaanam adharmasya, tadaamanam srujaamyaham - whenever non righteousness rises I will manifest Myself.
What form, if any, will the Lord take this time I wonder! Whatever the form I pray He descends on time, well before we are transformed into Robert Mugabe's Zimbabwe!
But here is something that is striking. There is a certain magnetism that you sense when you are in the presence of these men that makes you feel that they are extra ordinary. And I say that as a hardened and unapologetic cynic.
Personally I am grateful to Sri Sri for a reason that many may consider trivial - his schools that my sons attend. These schools are a sharp contrast to the average Indian school which resemble miserable hellholes. Unlike in the average school, the teachers in Sri Sri's schools live a motto that I saw on the front wall of the school, the first day that we went there looking for admission. It goes somewhat like this: Teaching is a vocation of love. If you are incapable of loving you should not be a teacher.
That motto touched me. I wish I could live by that motto as much as the teachers at Sri Sri's schools do.
Interestingly, in his interaction at IIMB Sri Sri touched upon an important secular issue too: Corruption. His closing line was a call to the youth of the country: Spiritualise politics, socialise business and secularise religion. I do not know if anyone else has said that before. No matter whether it is Sri Sri's impromptu line or not, it is a line that every young Indian ought to tattoo on his forehead, to borrow an expression from a popular finance text book.
That brings me to that other great man to visit the campus this week: Anna Hazare. I am intrigued by Annaji's ability to pull in such a massive support to his most recent struggle. And here is an interesting problem for hair splitting academics: What explains that crowd at Jantar Mantar and the spontaneous chorus of support? Is it the appeal of the cause? Or Annaji's charisma? Quite possibly, it is a bit of both.
At the end of the day it does not matter. What I hope and pray for is that Annaji and his crusaders win this fight. Sitting in that hall and reflecting on the events of the weeks and months leading to Annaji's fast one was reminded of all that one had read about India's freedom struggle.
The curse of corruption is perhaps no less disgusting and debilitating than foreign rule. It is perhaps even more so because it so reminiscent of the battle of Kurukshetra - an internecine fight that symbolises the struggle between Dharma and Adharma. A struggle for justice from an aggrandising horde made up of one's own. A struggle that has been necessitated by a compulsion where the aggrandisers refuse to share the equivalent of even five villages with the rest of the country due to their limitless greed. If left unchecked it would appear that the masses would not even get the equivalent of the and to stick a needle into, putting the entire gang of Hosni Mubarak, Muammar Gadhafi and every other plundering dictator known to history look like a band of angels!
Presentations made, questions raised, solidarity expressed, the aloo bonda and tea savoured, as I walked back to my home the cynical side of me reared its irrepressible head. All movements take place within the context of history. Gandhi's victory against the Brits was a product of history. The forces of history that powered the Mahatma's fragile sloop to the shores of independence are missing today.
Most important to my mind is the difference in the context that obtained in early and mid twentieth century and the social aspirations of the nation at large today. Central to those aspirations is the craving to achieve a great amount of wealth quickly. That craving pervades all walks of life - industry, all the professions, public service and even the portals of the Divine. Physical proximity to the Lord and the speed with which you can get there depend upon the value of the currency wad you can brandish in front of His doorkeepers. Very soon, I am sure, darsan spots of the various popular temples will be auctioned on eBay - the modern Mecca of pricing efficiency. (If that is a novel idea is there some way I can claim a small fee in return for the efficiency gains?)
Money enjoys an important place in our social life. It does not matter how you got it - as long as you have enough of it to launder away the dirt that you accumulate with the money.
Do not get me wrong. I am not against wealth in our society. I feel happy when I see the confidence of our youth, in sharp contrast to the cringing deference of my generation and that of my forefathers. That is a result of economic security that I could not even dream of at their age. I feel happy when I see international brands compete for a share of the ever growing wallet of the Indian consumer. I am glad to see the the swelling crowds at the new epicentres of Indian consumerism - the numerous malls - and young Indians splurging with no care for the rainy day that seemed to weigh down people of my generation.
But in all of this I wish money was not so important that it did not come in the way of rule of law, if not in the way of human values. I wish policemen would not let off sedans violating every driving and parking rule while harassing the helpless autodriver or two wheeler commuter. I wish streetvendors who earn less than minimum wages are not routinely harassed by the police while big businesses flout many a rule with impunity with secure feeling that their wealth could buy them off of any punishment, however egregious their crime.
And it is not as if the centrality of wealth is the result of Dr. Manmohan Singh embracing free market wisdom. There are Sanskrit lines going much farther back in time that tell us how important wealth was. A quartet that I learned in school concludes pithily: Sarve gunaah kanchanam aasrayanti - all good qualities come from wealth.
So at the end of that long ramble here is my worry: In a world where money plays such a large part in our daily lives will Annaji win this crusade? Will we all rush to fill jails as he exhorts us, leaving aside our chase of quick and ever-growing wealth? Is history on Annaji's side as it was on the Mahatma's? Or, will he be left with a Pyrrhic victory, if he has one, trudging up the hills all alone like Yudhishthira after the war, deserted even by his canine escort?
I pray that once more the Lord lives up to His promise: Yada yada hi...abhyutthaanam adharmasya, tadaamanam srujaamyaham - whenever non righteousness rises I will manifest Myself.
What form, if any, will the Lord take this time I wonder! Whatever the form I pray He descends on time, well before we are transformed into Robert Mugabe's Zimbabwe!
Thursday, 14 April 2011
From "God's Own Country"......1
We landed at Trivandrum this morning, my favourite corner of Planet Earth. We were greeted by the festivities of electioneering, the peaking of Kerala's daily political life.
Trivandrum is where I was born and raised for many years, in different spells. Other than the temple of Lord Padmanabha I am not sure if Trivandrum is famous for anything else. That does not matter to me though. It still is, and will always be, my favourite place.
Whatever one might say about Trivandrum, or one might not, it is hard to imagine any other place as the political capital of the state of Kerala. I cannot tell you quite why, but there is something about it that makes you feel it is the location for the capital of God's Own Country. There is that smell about it, when you walk by the Secretariat or its relaxed looking rain washed streets, that you do not sense in Kottayam, Kollam or Kozhikode. You certainly do not get that sense in that upstart commercial capital of the state called Kochi. More about Kochi in another post, till my keypad screams for mercy!
Interestingly, not much of what happens in Trivandrum politically gets decided there. It all happens in two or three major epicentres of Kerala. There is Central Kerala where the Christians rule the roost. Then there is the North, popularly known as Malabar, where the Thangal and his Muslim League hold darbar, unchallenged. Woe betide anyone who tries to challenge their political writ. And there is the rest, which is mainly the rag-tag geography of Kerala, formerly known as Travancore.
Nearly all of that happens in Kerala is the result of the dynamic jostling that takes place between the powerlords of the North and Central Kerala.
Yet, neither of those regions has been able to establish that the road to Trivandrum passes through their own heartland. Unlike the folks in UP who seem to have successfully persuaded the rest of the nation that the road to Delhi passes through Lucknow. In that sense democracy in Kerala is far more real than democracy in India as a whole.
How could it be any other way in a state where every man, woman and child would like to lead and not follow? No part or region of the state would be allowed the kind of political hegemony that the states of UP and Bihar have usurped from the rest of the India.
We were greeted by the sounds of electioneering as the train sped through Kerala in the early hours of Monday morning. More electioneering and more window pane shattering noise followed, with stacks of loudspeakers mounted on the ubiquitous white Ambassador, as we reached our home. It was the last day of electioneering before the state went to the polls.
The day we landed was significant for another reason: On that day the incumbent political patriarch of Kerala labelled a prominent leader of the opposition an "Amul baby". When it comes to biliousness you got to hand it to the Mallus. Anyone other than a Mallu may have chosen any other expression that is more strident or less hard hitting, but definitely nowhere as memorable.
The Amul baby metaphor is more than just a political repartee. To put it in Marxian dialect, an Amul baby is is symbolic of a social class that is distinct and cut off from, if not inimical to, the toiling proletariat. Amul milk is what the wealthy mothers of Kerala have brought up her children on. The toiling mother's child suckles at its mother's breast, if it does not go hungry.
The use of the metaphor is yet another instance of how Marxism is alive and kicking in Kerala, whatever may its bill of political health look like elsewhere in the world. Well, Marxian rhetoric surely is, even if one were to be a little skeptical about the health of Marxian thought or philosophy, given the schism within the party cadres.
So, on this momentous day, when my sons asked me their first questions about elections and politics I could not help start the 101. I could not think of a more auspicious place or time. In Hindu tradition place and time make all the difference between failure and success.
With prayer on my lips that I might be sowing the seeds of political awakening in their tender minds and that they might keep alive the Mallu legacy of being politically aware, if not active, I started on how elections work and finally give some people the right to rule over the others; in other words just tell them what to do - the essence of political power struggle.
Hopefully, I said to myself, before long my sons will realise the interchangeability of money and political power in India, well before they learn about the interconvertibility of mass and energy.
The elder of my twins tried to relate it to his world of cars and races and asked me: So that is like a race and someone wins, right? The younger one had a glimmer in his eye. He asked me with his signature shy smile: So if I win an election I can ask you and Amma and Vinayakan to do whatever I want?
I was happy to see the making of a 21st century Indian political leader. Amen.
Nanni. Namaskaaram
Trivandrum is where I was born and raised for many years, in different spells. Other than the temple of Lord Padmanabha I am not sure if Trivandrum is famous for anything else. That does not matter to me though. It still is, and will always be, my favourite place.
Whatever one might say about Trivandrum, or one might not, it is hard to imagine any other place as the political capital of the state of Kerala. I cannot tell you quite why, but there is something about it that makes you feel it is the location for the capital of God's Own Country. There is that smell about it, when you walk by the Secretariat or its relaxed looking rain washed streets, that you do not sense in Kottayam, Kollam or Kozhikode. You certainly do not get that sense in that upstart commercial capital of the state called Kochi. More about Kochi in another post, till my keypad screams for mercy!
Interestingly, not much of what happens in Trivandrum politically gets decided there. It all happens in two or three major epicentres of Kerala. There is Central Kerala where the Christians rule the roost. Then there is the North, popularly known as Malabar, where the Thangal and his Muslim League hold darbar, unchallenged. Woe betide anyone who tries to challenge their political writ. And there is the rest, which is mainly the rag-tag geography of Kerala, formerly known as Travancore.
Nearly all of that happens in Kerala is the result of the dynamic jostling that takes place between the powerlords of the North and Central Kerala.
Yet, neither of those regions has been able to establish that the road to Trivandrum passes through their own heartland. Unlike the folks in UP who seem to have successfully persuaded the rest of the nation that the road to Delhi passes through Lucknow. In that sense democracy in Kerala is far more real than democracy in India as a whole.
How could it be any other way in a state where every man, woman and child would like to lead and not follow? No part or region of the state would be allowed the kind of political hegemony that the states of UP and Bihar have usurped from the rest of the India.
We were greeted by the sounds of electioneering as the train sped through Kerala in the early hours of Monday morning. More electioneering and more window pane shattering noise followed, with stacks of loudspeakers mounted on the ubiquitous white Ambassador, as we reached our home. It was the last day of electioneering before the state went to the polls.
The day we landed was significant for another reason: On that day the incumbent political patriarch of Kerala labelled a prominent leader of the opposition an "Amul baby". When it comes to biliousness you got to hand it to the Mallus. Anyone other than a Mallu may have chosen any other expression that is more strident or less hard hitting, but definitely nowhere as memorable.
The Amul baby metaphor is more than just a political repartee. To put it in Marxian dialect, an Amul baby is is symbolic of a social class that is distinct and cut off from, if not inimical to, the toiling proletariat. Amul milk is what the wealthy mothers of Kerala have brought up her children on. The toiling mother's child suckles at its mother's breast, if it does not go hungry.
The use of the metaphor is yet another instance of how Marxism is alive and kicking in Kerala, whatever may its bill of political health look like elsewhere in the world. Well, Marxian rhetoric surely is, even if one were to be a little skeptical about the health of Marxian thought or philosophy, given the schism within the party cadres.
So, on this momentous day, when my sons asked me their first questions about elections and politics I could not help start the 101. I could not think of a more auspicious place or time. In Hindu tradition place and time make all the difference between failure and success.
With prayer on my lips that I might be sowing the seeds of political awakening in their tender minds and that they might keep alive the Mallu legacy of being politically aware, if not active, I started on how elections work and finally give some people the right to rule over the others; in other words just tell them what to do - the essence of political power struggle.
Hopefully, I said to myself, before long my sons will realise the interchangeability of money and political power in India, well before they learn about the interconvertibility of mass and energy.
The elder of my twins tried to relate it to his world of cars and races and asked me: So that is like a race and someone wins, right? The younger one had a glimmer in his eye. He asked me with his signature shy smile: So if I win an election I can ask you and Amma and Vinayakan to do whatever I want?
I was happy to see the making of a 21st century Indian political leader. Amen.
Nanni. Namaskaaram
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Interview blues
One of the highlights of life at IIMB is interviewing students for our various programmes. I do not miss that opportunity if I can. I would be surprised to be if anyone can think that it is a chore s/he can do without!
Interviews give me a peep into the new generation's thinking. Their worldview. Their upbringing. Their attitude to life.
It is true that they impose an enormous sense of responsibility on you. You have to do your best to ensure that the programme gets the people best suited and the ones that deserve most to be in on it. A task that is more easy to describe than to execute. And all the while you have to make sure that your prejudices do not come in the way. And God help you there if you have an observer ego as dominant as the one I am blessed with.
But then to get something in life you have to give something, right? Well at least when I was brought up they had not started auctioning air waves. So I do not have the benefit of learnings from spectrum auctions. You know what I mean.
So it is with interviews. Over about six to eight hours everyday you meet the most talented among the young men and women from among the top 1500 out of some 250,000 contenders. All of them acutely competitive. All of them realise that those twenty or thirty minutes could make an important difference to their lives. So their powerful engines are firing on all thirty two cylinders. And you have to make sure that all the eight cylinders in the old heap that your mind is are firing away too. It is exhausting in a way, to say the least. But invigorating too, in many ways.
So when the admissions office approached me this year I happily said yes to as many days as I could afford to.
The sense of deja vu at the end of the interviews this year was not new. And here is what is striking. It is a binary experience.
At one end of the spectrum you meet some truly extraordinary young men and women. People who have attended schools with such formidable reputation that folks in the technology and commercial capitals in the world are in awe the power of their intellect. People who can hold forth on how and why a cricket ball swings to what they think needs to be done to the agricultural sector in India. Men and women who do amazing things in a day's work such as design chips that will help patients deal better with chronic diseases. People who have played highly competitive sports and won commendable laurels.
At the other end you meet people whose CVs make you feel your whole life was a waste compared to their marks in school and the ranks they scored one entrance exam after another. All of this on top of excelled in some art or sport. Yet they flake up on the simplest of questions. They have trouble spelling "convenience" and "occasion".
Which makes you wonder what is wrong with our educational system. Or if it is the parenting that has to blame. Personally I think it is a bit of both. I think today's schooling and education are to blame in large part. Today's schools in India are miserable hell-holes. I will write more about that in another post.
But I do believe equally it is the social pressure and life styles that are to blame. The disproportionate amount of emphasis on success over substance . The obsession with achievement as opposed to character.
As I reflect on those long hours of interviewss I think about the two young men back in my own home. I begin to wonder what kind of a world they will inherit when they attain the age of these interviewees. I let off a long sigh and say to myself Allahu Akbar, as I always do when I do not have answers.
Nanni. Namaskaaram
Interviews give me a peep into the new generation's thinking. Their worldview. Their upbringing. Their attitude to life.
It is true that they impose an enormous sense of responsibility on you. You have to do your best to ensure that the programme gets the people best suited and the ones that deserve most to be in on it. A task that is more easy to describe than to execute. And all the while you have to make sure that your prejudices do not come in the way. And God help you there if you have an observer ego as dominant as the one I am blessed with.
But then to get something in life you have to give something, right? Well at least when I was brought up they had not started auctioning air waves. So I do not have the benefit of learnings from spectrum auctions. You know what I mean.
So it is with interviews. Over about six to eight hours everyday you meet the most talented among the young men and women from among the top 1500 out of some 250,000 contenders. All of them acutely competitive. All of them realise that those twenty or thirty minutes could make an important difference to their lives. So their powerful engines are firing on all thirty two cylinders. And you have to make sure that all the eight cylinders in the old heap that your mind is are firing away too. It is exhausting in a way, to say the least. But invigorating too, in many ways.
So when the admissions office approached me this year I happily said yes to as many days as I could afford to.
The sense of deja vu at the end of the interviews this year was not new. And here is what is striking. It is a binary experience.
At one end of the spectrum you meet some truly extraordinary young men and women. People who have attended schools with such formidable reputation that folks in the technology and commercial capitals in the world are in awe the power of their intellect. People who can hold forth on how and why a cricket ball swings to what they think needs to be done to the agricultural sector in India. Men and women who do amazing things in a day's work such as design chips that will help patients deal better with chronic diseases. People who have played highly competitive sports and won commendable laurels.
At the other end you meet people whose CVs make you feel your whole life was a waste compared to their marks in school and the ranks they scored one entrance exam after another. All of this on top of excelled in some art or sport. Yet they flake up on the simplest of questions. They have trouble spelling "convenience" and "occasion".
Which makes you wonder what is wrong with our educational system. Or if it is the parenting that has to blame. Personally I think it is a bit of both. I think today's schooling and education are to blame in large part. Today's schools in India are miserable hell-holes. I will write more about that in another post.
But I do believe equally it is the social pressure and life styles that are to blame. The disproportionate amount of emphasis on success over substance . The obsession with achievement as opposed to character.
As I reflect on those long hours of interviewss I think about the two young men back in my own home. I begin to wonder what kind of a world they will inherit when they attain the age of these interviewees. I let off a long sigh and say to myself Allahu Akbar, as I always do when I do not have answers.
Nanni. Namaskaaram
People in my lives
Hello there...
I returned this afternoon to my cyber-corner after a brief absence. I plan to write a about some people who made me what I am. Dont get me wrong. I do not suffer from any delusions of grandeur. In fact I am going to say that these are wonderful people whose attention and care I did not put to good use. People whose expectations I let down.
First in that list is my late mother, G Lakshmy. No prizes for guessing that one. Which man or woman would be what he/ she is without the mother's love and care. My mother showered more than just love and care. She believed that there was nearly nothing that I could not accomplish if I set my heart to it.
Luckily for her, she is not around to see the rout! More about her in another post.
Nanni. Namaskaaram.
I returned this afternoon to my cyber-corner after a brief absence. I plan to write a about some people who made me what I am. Dont get me wrong. I do not suffer from any delusions of grandeur. In fact I am going to say that these are wonderful people whose attention and care I did not put to good use. People whose expectations I let down.
First in that list is my late mother, G Lakshmy. No prizes for guessing that one. Which man or woman would be what he/ she is without the mother's love and care. My mother showered more than just love and care. She believed that there was nearly nothing that I could not accomplish if I set my heart to it.
Luckily for her, she is not around to see the rout! More about her in another post.
Nanni. Namaskaaram.
Rama Aiyer Sir
RamaAiyerSir
RamaAiyer Sir was my maternal grandfather. I grew up with him or spent many long holidays with him, as school children. We remember him for giving us those memorably happy days of childhood. There are other equally good reasons that I remember midlife confronts me. The values that he made me imbibe are the most significant of these: Industry, honesty, morality, the value of learning and reading and a strict abstinence from gossip, especially the malicious variety.
But those are not the reasons I write this piece. Rama Aiyer Sir led a life of many hues, many parts. Each of these touched the lives of the many people who came into contact with him, some directly and some through his innumerable writings. Rama Aiyer’s achievements were commendable in their own right. Viewed in the light of his humble beginnings and the sheer industry that helped him realize these achievements they appear even more impressive.
K. Rama Aiyer, popularly known as RamaAiyerSir, and better known in the publishing circles of Kerala in his later years as “Guide RamaAiyer”, was a primary school teacher. School teachers, I am told, were lot more respectable in the days of RamaAiyer Sir in the forties and fifties. And they in turn conducted conducted themselves in a manner that befitted the respect. RamaAiyerSir was the quintessential school teacher.
But It is the many other remarkable things that he achieved that he never advertised that make him stand out. RamaAiyerSir was a naturally great communicator. He was so passionate about the English language that he must have read a significant number of the books and magazines in the British Library. Bertrand Russell, George Bernard Shaw, Aldous Huxley, AJ Cronin, Sir Winston Churchill and Benjamin Disraeli were some of his favourites that he introduced me to. If anyone had kept a record of all the books that the members of the library had borrowed, RamaAiyer Sir’s name would lead all the rest.
He was a great believer in the value of sport in rounding off a man’s personality. He was a good footballer, tennis player and swimmer. When he was too old to play he became a commentator for the local newspaper and the nascent radio broadcasting stations.
RamaAiyerSir lived in a time of social and political transition. The caste system was under attack at that time. The Brahmin community was especially the target of much ire and criticism. None of it seemed to affect RamaAiyerSir. He empathized with many of the liberal ideas; yet he never swerved from the Brahmanical way of life, centred around religion as a path to spiritualism. In a world where a lot seems to be going topsy turvy around us, where in the name of modernism many of the lofty values of our society seem to be under attack at the altar of modernism and westernization, we his grandchildren manage to hold on to our traditions, partly because somewhere deep within us RamaAiyerSir’s way of life has moulded our values and beliefs.
May RamaAiyerSir’s tribe increase!
Monday, 14 March 2011
Why I am a Mallu - And shall Always remain one
Technically, I am a "Palakkaadan." That is what my Tamilian friends refer to me as. It means a Tamilian (most commonly a Brahmin) from Kerala. If you know even some rudimentary Tamil you will realise that this smacks of raw and undisguised contempt. A feeling that is as bilious as Anti Semitism.
We Tamil Brahmins from Kerala are bound to carry this baggage of being the oppressed minority all our lives. It explains our somewhat difficult to understand world view on most matters. But that will the subject for another post.
What I wish to assert here is that no matter what the Tamilians or the Mallus say I will always be a Mallu in thought word and deed. I do not wish to split hair to say that I am not from Palghat and that I am from Trivandrum and we consider ourselves to be a different breed, if possible of even different ethnicity.
The Mallu here is a metaphor. An expression to describe a people that are unique and different in many ways. And I do not care if that is worthy of approval by anyone at all.
The Mallu is first of all a sensitive soul. His sense of dignity is stronger than that of any average person, to the point of being almost impractical. Which is why he does not like being spoken to. He does not like to receive favours. He does not like to sponge off. Which is why many a Mallu behaves like Tagore's Babus of NayanJore, even if he has never been landed gentry.
The Mallu's sense of dignity also arises from his sense of equality. Mallus are leftists ethnically, if ever one can visualise an anthropological construct of that sort. Take the most successful Mallu businessman that you know of. Beneath that self aggrandising businessman you will find lurking a leftist heart.
That is also the reason why Mallus make for poor subordinates and even poorer followers. Anyone familiar with Kerala politics will appreciate this readily. Kerala perhaps has the largest number of political parties per capita. It also has the largest number of party restructuring events. The market (sic) for party restructuring in Kerala is more active than the market for corporate control in India.
Each of these parties is made up of one or more leaders, a large number of political wannabes waiting for their moment to engineer a split and start a new party that they can lead, the rest being made up of some opportunistic hangers-on for whom being with a political party is a personal need of the moment to be able to swing a transfer (or avoid one), to get a government job or for some other sundry imperative. They are rarely there to follow a political ideology, even less to follow a leader.
The Mallu has a great sense of humour. It is dry humour, sometimes bordering on the wicked. That sense of humour is very important, but for which the average Mallu would be a victim of ennui - a fact that is borne by the relatively large number of suicides among Malayalis.
That brings me to the next reason - the Mallu's deep sense of futility about many things in life. This sense of futility is like opium. It drapes you in an envelope of langour. It is a common backdrop for many a work of literature in Malayalam. Like the grey that O Henry's works are set in.
It is a pity that people who do not understand this sense of futility often mistake it for indolence.
It is a pity because the Mallu often does not do anything not because he does not want or he is not capable of. You must realise that these finer attitudes require a fair degree of intelligence. That is the last of the reasons that I will always want me to be a Mallu. To be a Mallu means being intelligent. Not in a clever worldly wise way, but in a more refined reflective way.
I cannot look at myself as being anyone other than a Mallu. T N Seshan's notion of Palghat Brahmins being one of three Cs does not fascinate me. I do not fancy being a cook, civil servant or a crook. Nor do I fancy Seshan's humour or being a Palghat Brahmin. On the contrary, I want to vigorously distinguish myself from Palghat Brahmins.
Is the Mallu so special that only he could be the repository of these attributes? Surely no. But on average it is more likely that a Mallu is all of these than anyone else.
So, for all these reasons, high on the endless list of things that I ask of the Lord I also pray that some day after all this frenzy of Tennyson's getting and spending is over I will be delivered back to the land I come from so that I may lay my bones there.
And that should I ever be born again, may that be somewhere on the littoral strip of earth on the south west of India that we know as Kerala.
Nanni. Namaskaaram.
We Tamil Brahmins from Kerala are bound to carry this baggage of being the oppressed minority all our lives. It explains our somewhat difficult to understand world view on most matters. But that will the subject for another post.
What I wish to assert here is that no matter what the Tamilians or the Mallus say I will always be a Mallu in thought word and deed. I do not wish to split hair to say that I am not from Palghat and that I am from Trivandrum and we consider ourselves to be a different breed, if possible of even different ethnicity.
The Mallu here is a metaphor. An expression to describe a people that are unique and different in many ways. And I do not care if that is worthy of approval by anyone at all.
The Mallu is first of all a sensitive soul. His sense of dignity is stronger than that of any average person, to the point of being almost impractical. Which is why he does not like being spoken to. He does not like to receive favours. He does not like to sponge off. Which is why many a Mallu behaves like Tagore's Babus of NayanJore, even if he has never been landed gentry.
The Mallu's sense of dignity also arises from his sense of equality. Mallus are leftists ethnically, if ever one can visualise an anthropological construct of that sort. Take the most successful Mallu businessman that you know of. Beneath that self aggrandising businessman you will find lurking a leftist heart.
That is also the reason why Mallus make for poor subordinates and even poorer followers. Anyone familiar with Kerala politics will appreciate this readily. Kerala perhaps has the largest number of political parties per capita. It also has the largest number of party restructuring events. The market (sic) for party restructuring in Kerala is more active than the market for corporate control in India.
Each of these parties is made up of one or more leaders, a large number of political wannabes waiting for their moment to engineer a split and start a new party that they can lead, the rest being made up of some opportunistic hangers-on for whom being with a political party is a personal need of the moment to be able to swing a transfer (or avoid one), to get a government job or for some other sundry imperative. They are rarely there to follow a political ideology, even less to follow a leader.
The Mallu has a great sense of humour. It is dry humour, sometimes bordering on the wicked. That sense of humour is very important, but for which the average Mallu would be a victim of ennui - a fact that is borne by the relatively large number of suicides among Malayalis.
That brings me to the next reason - the Mallu's deep sense of futility about many things in life. This sense of futility is like opium. It drapes you in an envelope of langour. It is a common backdrop for many a work of literature in Malayalam. Like the grey that O Henry's works are set in.
It is a pity that people who do not understand this sense of futility often mistake it for indolence.
It is a pity because the Mallu often does not do anything not because he does not want or he is not capable of. You must realise that these finer attitudes require a fair degree of intelligence. That is the last of the reasons that I will always want me to be a Mallu. To be a Mallu means being intelligent. Not in a clever worldly wise way, but in a more refined reflective way.
I cannot look at myself as being anyone other than a Mallu. T N Seshan's notion of Palghat Brahmins being one of three Cs does not fascinate me. I do not fancy being a cook, civil servant or a crook. Nor do I fancy Seshan's humour or being a Palghat Brahmin. On the contrary, I want to vigorously distinguish myself from Palghat Brahmins.
Is the Mallu so special that only he could be the repository of these attributes? Surely no. But on average it is more likely that a Mallu is all of these than anyone else.
So, for all these reasons, high on the endless list of things that I ask of the Lord I also pray that some day after all this frenzy of Tennyson's getting and spending is over I will be delivered back to the land I come from so that I may lay my bones there.
And that should I ever be born again, may that be somewhere on the littoral strip of earth on the south west of India that we know as Kerala.
Nanni. Namaskaaram.
The Day After...
So finally it did not turn out to be all that original. I was pleased with the thought that Randomly Yours would be one of its kind, at least in terms of the title. Why did I not recall that if I had thought of it nearly every one of those six billion and some people in this world who can read and write English would have thought of that title.
That was what a simple Google search made me realise. If that was not enough Google did not bring up my blog even on the first dozen pages. My fragile heart was too devastated to go beyond those dozen pages. I was afraid that if my blog did not show up at all even after I had run through all the hits I would be too heart broken to live down that disappointment.
I tried different key word combinations. No luck.
So here I am, notwithstanding all those kind words that friends who clicked on the link I sent said about my post, sitting with this realisation that my blogs are not going to fetch me that fifteen seconds of glory that American movies talk about. Certainly not any time soon.
My blogs shall remain what I expected them to be when I wrote the first post - an act of pure self indulgence.
Nanni. Namaskaram.
That was what a simple Google search made me realise. If that was not enough Google did not bring up my blog even on the first dozen pages. My fragile heart was too devastated to go beyond those dozen pages. I was afraid that if my blog did not show up at all even after I had run through all the hits I would be too heart broken to live down that disappointment.
I tried different key word combinations. No luck.
So here I am, notwithstanding all those kind words that friends who clicked on the link I sent said about my post, sitting with this realisation that my blogs are not going to fetch me that fifteen seconds of glory that American movies talk about. Certainly not any time soon.
My blogs shall remain what I expected them to be when I wrote the first post - an act of pure self indulgence.
Nanni. Namaskaram.
First Post
Sairam. Hello World.
This is my space. My little corner where I hope to indulge my passion. Give expression to my thoughts just as they are, unmindful of what such free speech means to me or to anyone else. Unaffected by considerations of sense and sensibility. Indifferent towards questions such as the relevance of what I have to say. Intellectual bohemianism of a kind, if you like. A way of asserting my personal freedom that just stops short of the next person's nose. Freedom that I thought would be mine when I left the incarceration of corporate employment but that has eluded me so far.
I hope to write about the ridiculous and the sublime in this space. About cabbages and kings. Of people, places and events around me that I consider worth writing about. That is what the title of my blog suggests. Even if it were to smack of egotism stopping just short of narcissistic. It is randomness that might appear to be even scatter brained.
I want to start by recording my thanks to the Lord for giving me this moment that allows me the opportunity to make this post. Even though I realise that this moment might be short lived. More about why that might be so in another post - if there be one.
Such an opening with a praise to the Lord is only appropriate, given the deeply religious agnostic that I am. That is a confusing oxymoron, isnt it? Well that is another hallmark of this blog. It is a place for me to offload all the numerous contradictions that people seem to see in me. A place for me to hang my psyche out for anyone and everyone to read about it.
Watch this little nook for all that and more. But do not get too excited. You might not find much to titillate your inquisitiveness. I am a Scorpio after all - as fiercely private as I am possessive.
Hasta manana...
This is my space. My little corner where I hope to indulge my passion. Give expression to my thoughts just as they are, unmindful of what such free speech means to me or to anyone else. Unaffected by considerations of sense and sensibility. Indifferent towards questions such as the relevance of what I have to say. Intellectual bohemianism of a kind, if you like. A way of asserting my personal freedom that just stops short of the next person's nose. Freedom that I thought would be mine when I left the incarceration of corporate employment but that has eluded me so far.
I hope to write about the ridiculous and the sublime in this space. About cabbages and kings. Of people, places and events around me that I consider worth writing about. That is what the title of my blog suggests. Even if it were to smack of egotism stopping just short of narcissistic. It is randomness that might appear to be even scatter brained.
I want to start by recording my thanks to the Lord for giving me this moment that allows me the opportunity to make this post. Even though I realise that this moment might be short lived. More about why that might be so in another post - if there be one.
Such an opening with a praise to the Lord is only appropriate, given the deeply religious agnostic that I am. That is a confusing oxymoron, isnt it? Well that is another hallmark of this blog. It is a place for me to offload all the numerous contradictions that people seem to see in me. A place for me to hang my psyche out for anyone and everyone to read about it.
Watch this little nook for all that and more. But do not get too excited. You might not find much to titillate your inquisitiveness. I am a Scorpio after all - as fiercely private as I am possessive.
Hasta manana...
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