Sunrise 2011: A Brave New World
Oh yeah, yet another year draws to a close. The death of the latest 365-day stint on the face of the earth doesn’t call for mourning, though. As 2011 grew from infancy to teenage and then from midlife to old age and then to the grave, I too grew up I guess. May be not, in the strictest sense of the term! On retrospect, I realize I grew younger than ever with an adorable bunch of youngsters giving me company. Active, extremely competent go-getters all, they have managed to pull down my age by a few years.
Year 2011 has seen me stare at it with utmost scare in the beginning. Later on, I made friends with 2011 - rather, the year made friends with me. Lauding, scolding and making me believe in all things positive, the year has been the best of buddies. Even as entrepreneurial dreams were held aloft, I managed to do what I believed in – writing, and editing news. And, the focused efforts at writing news on technology and environment had a young brigade (who incidentally, were alien to the jaded, flawed copy book called journalism when they tried it out for the first time) backing me with ideas, words and crazy thoughts.
We – I and them – wrote, edited, packaged and rolled out a brave new world of content for the serious reader who read, dissected, praised the good work, mauled the bad ones, and also pointed out the genuine flaws to make us do things better.
Year 2011 opened before me one major career truth. To be in journalism, one doesn’t need to have a formal journalism degree. All it needs is sense, sensibility and the courage to present facts in the most readable manner. Sense prevails when factual errors turn minimum, and sensibility rules when one realizes what to write and how.
As 2011 bids goodbye, I tend to smile for leading a pack of maverick multi-taskers who write the way things need to be written. Flaws are many, but then everything is a learning process and every one around me learns from every mistake he or she has made, without being scolded or ridiculed. Instead, we ate, drank and made merry, we made each other laugh, we gave shape to crazy plans, we made things happen. And, see, we are smiling together as the sun sets on a fruitful year.
Good writers have come and gone, and the process might continue. But then, that’s how careers are made. People move from good to better to best organizations. What we do together may not be ‘The Best’ at present, but ask me and my boys and girls, and we will tell you for sure that the tag is just waiting to come unto us, and is waiting round the bend. We, together, will make it happen. 2012, come on in, buddy!

Goodbye to the story teller extraordinaire



Night after night, when my little six-year-old cuddles up to me in anticipation of a new hero’s tale from the Mahabharata, Uncle Pai has always been there to help me remember how an Abhimanyu pierces the Chakravyuha or how Babruvahana makes it to the Kurukshetra to his father’s rescue. Blood and gore apart, the tales he had once upon a time told me still reverberate in me thoughts of the victory of good over evil. And, that makes me pass it on to my enthusiastic kid who loves to sleep thinking of these heroes and the heroines of the mythical yore.

This afternoon, as every website I visit tells me the news of the passing away of Uncle Pai, I get transported to my school days when my father made it a point to buy me and my sister at least two copies of the Amar Chitra Katha every month. This happened without fail till we – me and my sister - thought we had grown up beyond that so-called childish chitra katha regime.

Uncle Pai is no more. But then, tears fail to roll down my cheeks even as I confirm the death of the man who told me tales of even the most inconsequential asura or a rare weak meek soldier in the Kaurava ranks. Mahabharata, Ramayana and even modern age personalities and saints who did the universe proud by their inventions and thoughts were whispered into my inner ear by this man, who for me, had been the master story teller of granny tales. For me, in fact, Uncle Pai never dies. He never can.

Reading aloud every new copy of the latest Amar Chitra Katha volume had spurred in me the reader I am today. May be, the varied volumes have even influenced the way I write too. It isn’t just me, though. Hundreds of thousands of kids still continue to learn the subtly told narratives of the mythical and historical realms by way of those enticingly illustrated pages churned out in quick succession month after month from the Amar Chitra Katha presses.

And, every page that taught me and the kids of my ilk during our formative years still continues to educate us, every time we revisit those days. Duryodhana, Krishna, Bhima, Ghatotkacha, Pururavas, Uloopi, Gandhari, Mandodari and Urmila still talk to me, spurring me to run down memory lane where good always triumphed over evil. At an age when the Sanskrit slokas failed to dwell in my tongue and heart, Uncle Pai had been there for me as the quintessential tutor, story teller and guide to the mythical and historical texts.

Even as I narrate to the sanctum sanctorum of the mind a fresh tale from the Mahabharata that will be the sweetest lullaby for my daughter tonight, Uncle Pai seems to be bidding goodbye. May be, he has already stuffed his pockets with innumerable stories he can narrate from now on to the beings of the other world, up above.

Five school children and a staff member of Little Hearts School, Pettah , near to where I live, were killed in an accident today. A school van carrying nine nursery children fell into the Parvathy Puthanar canal. My heart goes out to the parents and teachers of the tiny kids, who never realized they were having their last ride. The caretaker Bindhu also passed away. The reason for the mishap is said to be high speed of the vehicle.


Adieu, Tiny Souls

Morning blues,
Time for school,
Irked parents,
Hesitant tots

Pushed, punished
And tagged,
A smile forced,
Along with the breakfast snack

School van rolls in
Devil at the wheel
Little did they realize
Farewell art so painful

Smiling kids, waving on
In the company of friends,
They bid goodbye,
The van gains speed

Blazing tarmac,
Satanic speed,
Kids inside,
No one to care!

Carelessness at the wheel
Deep below, hell beckons
Five kids, they go down smiling
Human error, unpardonable

To err is human,
But no pardon here,
Divinity unwarranted
Lynch the devil

Smiling kids,
In deep slumber
Adieu tiny souls
Rest in peace!

It is that time of the year yet again, and I’m forced to travel down blog-memory lane and look at what I had written a year ago. This particular post tells me nothing has changed – and nothing will. I have this urge to write again on this, but I guess it would be better to bring back the same post of February 2010 so that you will also realize nothing has changed. So here goes!)


Faith, Anyone?



What spurs faith? Decibel-spewing loudspeakers? Or sweat stinking bodies in a traffic-jam-inducing crowd? Sad, temple festivals are fast taking out the little faith I seem to have in the gods.

Year after year in the place where I live when the crowds arrive, I experience a chill down my spine. Anywhere is offering space for the faithful, it seems. Bus stations overlooking drains, railway tracks stinking of human waste – offerings are made to the goddess anywhere. And, we take pride in proclaiming to the world the greatness of a women’s congregation.

I woke up early today after my deep slumber got snipped by the roaring loudspeakers. I’m pretty sure the gods they sing in praise with those high decibel sounds have long gone. Not even the gods, leave alone lowly humans like me, would stay on after being subject to such torture. The legal system has long back abhorred of such loudspeaker torture, but who cares?

The festival day is more than 24 hours away, and I just venture out on to the roads only to be confronted by heaps of bricks that would transform themselves into makeshift ovens to cook the boiling effervescent offering to the goddess in a matter of a few hours. Don’t I have my right of way, when festivals unfurl. Population explosion is a fact, I tend to believe when I see the whole of Kerala descend on to a single spot in the name of faith and the goddess. Can anyone tell me where faith resides in these men and women who strut around restless armed with a mini-kitchen under their arms. They are unmindful of whoever comes their way or even a slight sense of civic behavior. You call it faith? I beg to disagree.

Blocking traffic in the name of God is not faith, I call it criminal. Shouting chartbusters into my eardrum and wrecking my physical and mental balance is not faith, I call it irresponsible behavior. Burning hundreds of fluorescent lamps in the name of festivals all through the night in the name of God is not faith, I call it arrogance. Mind you, we are a State where electric power is rare commodity.

If this is faith, I can’t have it even if I need to. I wouldn’t want my gods to shower blessings on me only if I wake up people in the night with my blaring loudspeakers. I wouldn’t want my gods to smile on me for blocking traffic and causing a poor soul in a rushing ambulance to die. I wouldn’t want to be burning electricity 24x7 in the name of god and push my fellow beings to worrisome nights when global warming is already giving them sleepless nights. Faith isn’t what loudspeakers or traffic jams can bring to me. They never can.

Goodbye to a Year that Thrived on Mediocrity

Oh yeah, Year 2010 is on its way out. It’s been a while since I wrote my last post, and with the year end staring into my eyes, it’s time for a recap - as has been the practice year after year.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna do a newspaper or magazine or news channel-type recap of the year. In fact, nothing this year calls for a blog post. Every single incident has been an also-ran - be it Kalmadi, Abhishek Bachchan, Radia, Barkha or even the CWG for that matter.

Just also-rans all were, in a nation where mediocrity thrives. Okay, think again, and this being the so-called year-ender post, I guess I should scribble down something about why mediocre people and mediocre events turned big in the Indian landscape.

One question: Who the heck is Barkha? Partner-in-lobbying Vir Sanghvi had been a journalist all these years. Somehow, I adored him for his writings and way with words. May be, I still will love his words on print, notwithstanding the error in judgment he committed. That doesn’t mean he did us all proud.

And Barkha? The day I first saw her on television “reporting/ screaming aloud” from inside a bunker on a battlefield, I had told myself, this woman is fake. It took more than a decade, it seems, for the whole of India to realize that. Barkha, sadly, has corrupted many young minds who aspired (and are still aspiring) to get into television journalism. For, 24x7 journalism meant Barkha to many, Sad!

Sad things aside, what else made year 2010 worth talking about? Indian mainstream cinema had much to talk about. On one side there was Aisha and on the other 3 Idiots. While Aisha proved yet again that it needed more than clout, plastic-faced dolls and a dim-witted director to make a movie, 3 Idiots showed Bollywood why a committed approach was a must to make a movie that people would go watch again and again.

Talking Bollywood, I guess I need to say more. Instead of wasting precious web space writing paragraphs on undeserving stuff, permit me to list them down. Here’s what I understood watching Bollywood during 2010:

1. A Dabaang can’t be salvaged by a beefcake sporting a moustache or an almost-naked sis-in-law.
2. Greek god (sic) persona is fine, but flying Kites on a Juhu apartment terrace could be more rewarding than acting for some.
3. An unshaven visage, bulging eyes or arrogance don’t make one an actor. Ditto if he attempts to play the modern-day demon king.
4. Being married into cinema’s first family doesn’t make one an actress. You need to ACT, madam.

Malayalam mainstream cinema too saw mediocrity hit the jackpot. Chunky old men in military garb drew applause from lazy screen idol-worshippers. Army stories continued to be a rage, even when potbellied protagonists flew combat aircraft.

A whole lot of aged men were forced to dance, love and flirt and combat extra terrestrials in the name of horror-comedies and we, the mediocre audience, laughed out loud so that the producers laughed all the way to the bank. Comedy took the mediocre route, and so did mainstream Malayalam cinema.

Year 2010 saw news television plumb the depths. More so, in the land where I live! Chat shows turned funnier than ever before, while spot reporting exposed added mediocrity, time and again. The thriving traits of mediocre people behind the microphone continued to be applauded. And, on this side of the television set, we had a whole new bunch of mediocre audience. They too thrived, applauding mediocrity aired into their living rooms.

Year 2010 had been mediocre, to the core. We excelled as a mediocre audience. We made ourselves proud by letting mediocrity invade us. We loved being mediocre. We still watch Barkha, we still read Vir. We still let Dabaangs be super hits. We still wait for Hrithik Roshan’s next movie. We still wish to see Mohanlal as Agent 007. We would sit with eyes glued on to television when Abhishek and Aishwarya take the rapid fire questions on a lifeless KJo Show and look forward to see another celluloid trash starring the star couple.

We still watch news television knowing that what we hear and see are made up. We still wait to see Anil Kapoor’s daughters ruin our three hours of quality time again and yet again. We still look forward to a film maker who once used to make watchable movies, but was then enamored by a star couple later on, thereby scripting his own filmy doom. We would still let Raja, Kalmadi and Co re-assume offices in a few years’ time. We still wish to have Chief Ministers of the likes of VS Achuthanandan and Mayawati so that they could always be the leading lights on our path towards mediocrity.

We love mediocrity. We excel at letting mediocrity seep into our lives no end. We love to let messengers of mediocrity rule our lives. We still wait to see Barkha on TV. We still wait to watch Mani’s movies. We still watch news television. We will miss you 2010.

Give Me My Sunshine, Give Me My Green!



Maybe, I don’t understand visual grammar. Maybe I’m dumb. I live in Kerala, and have been thanking my senses for making me see every Kerala frame as a motion picture that moves me. The hills, the streams, the elephants, the white elephants, the crocodiles, flags – red, saffron and tricolored, the shutdowns, the potholes, the technology, the snobbery, the wannabes, the cultivated Page 3 that never exists, the laziness, and the painted faces that transport me to a world never seen before – all have been well crafted frames for me, of my Kerala.
I had been reporting tourism in Kerala for quite a while, though not as much as what I was expected to do. Those were my journalism days, let me add. I had always felt the need for a better marketing push for the land much explored. Kerala needed a marketer, with not an MBA degree but someone with a fair amount of built-in aesthetics.
The sun, the sand, the monsoons, the elephants and all had in fact been showcased across the envious globe by the brilliant men and women in government, the media and hospitality sector. Kerala indeed is the almighty’s own land, as had been coined by one of those brilliant minds sometime ago. Kerala excels in whatever the Gods do - be it gulping down the intoxicating liquids in admirable fashion, stalking women for a casual mating session, calling for a duel or a full-scaled battle in times of anger or slitting throats at the drop of a bottle. God’s own land, indeed. When it comes to marketing the state, Kerala has always banked on some selling push but finally ended up as just another commodity on sale. The aesthetics in marketing had always been found lacking.
The moment was indeed waiting – for some good marketing effort. The moment I heard a new campaign had been made, I couldn’t wait any longer to see it and applaud it. Thanks to the Facebook and YouTube props, the Moment is Waiting campaign has been playing on my PC ever since. I have been hitting the Replay button every time the clip grinds to a close, in the hope of finding Kerala inside. Sadly, Kerala and its tourism potential don’t occur in me even as I go for the re-runs. What I see in the clip is a Ram Gopal Verma horror clip in the even more frightening clutches of a Garnier commercial.
As I watch again, it brings to mind the stark and empty grey lives of artists staring at a bleak future. I even see tusker stooping so low as if in anticipation of going back to the wild than be in the midst of arc lights and the drums. I see vagabonds looking for the wild only to be terrified by masked faces. I don’t see green. I don’t see the positive energy that Kerala is ultimately all about. I don’t see what I want my visitors to see. Maybe my moment is still waiting to come.
Kerala tourism is manned by the best men in the industry, and I can testify that based on the interactions I have had with the few once upon a time when I used to write my humble stories on Kerala’s tourism potential and upcoming developments. But then, I fail to comprehend the melancholy splashed across the latest campaign. It doesn’t welcome my guests to my land of green and harmony. They could even begin dropping travel plans if they are exposed to the ‘Your Moment is Waiting’ campaign.
I wouldn’t want a stop-hairfall commercial to be the mascot of my Kerala to the outside world. I wouldn’t want horrifying faces and fear-stricken faces of kids to drive away Kerala travelers. I wouldn’t want my greenery wiped away by negativity laden grey.
For me, the simple face of Kerala itself is campaign material, when I try and walk around with a handheld camera snapping up shots. Kerala opens up in front of my eyes as well framed shots. The Kerala Tourism campaign should have been simple and welcoming rather than being so intimidating.
Well then, I hear the film has had all the best brains working together. I’m no film maker or even a critic. So, may be, I don’t understand the craft and grammar that has been injected into the campaign. May be I’m dumb – so dumb to stay quiet even as a ‘masterpiece’ art house production gets unspooled. But then, somebody give me back my green Kerala so that I can tell people I know that my state is still a lush paradise where birds twitter and the elephants trumpet.

No Goodbyes for You

Mohanan is no more. The quintessential errands boy has called it quits even before he could tell. He hadn’t mastered the art of bidding goodbye - he never had to. Omnipresence was his trait; no goodbye went well with his character. He was at my beck and call. Not just mine, he was Chempakassery’s own errands lad. The smiling kid of around 55 years, he preceded his arrival with a stink of arrack. He cycled into my heart with the cute childish smile half-hidden behind the whiskers on his unkempt visage. He, for me, had been Man Friday.

Mohanan is dead and gone. Not from my thoughts, though. Mohanan who, you tend to ask? He had been the Communist who never graduated from working class status. The hard drinking, beedi -puffing frail man, at least for me, was an ideal candidate to be the red bastion’s mascot. However, he had lost out in the race, not being able to shout slogans or hack opponents at will. He had been so neutral whenever he spoke on political affairs, even as held aloft his ideas sprinkled with fading red. He was all for Shashi Tharoor as Trivandrum’s MP for the single reason that Tharoor had relatives in a house he used to run errands for. Flag hues just did not matter.
Even as his kin, spurred by good education, rose from working class to be decision makers, Mohanan continued to pedal all the way from a city suburb around 13 kilometres away just to make sure my – and almost the whole locality’s – electricity and water bills are paid on time month after month. He came riding like a wake up call for forgetful hypocrites like me. The forgetfulness in me had always come owing to an aversion to stand in line to pay bills. With Mohanan around, why would I ever have to stand in a queue after all?

Not just the bills, Mohanan had been my SOS-target to any work that needed some effort. Be it cleaning the overhead water tank or getting a signature from the local councilor, Mohanan had to be summoned. I just realize how lazy I have been, just because a man who was ready to execute all my work with a smile just stood round the bend waiting for my call.

Mohanan is no more. He lived a happy man, enjoyed every bit of his life till his daughter started encountering marital discord. Fathering a girl child, grooming her and getting her married off to someone good is any man’s dream. Mohanan too had such a dream, and he executed all that was required of him to perfection. But then, months later, he must have realized that he erred in choosing the best husband for his child. That seems to have pained him no end. Adding to the misery, he was diagnosed with cancer. That came about as the proverbial nail waiting to be hammered into the waiting coffin. Mohanan had to give in.

The last time we met, he had his trademark smile on his face though pain was biting into him. I always believed this man would never give in. He was a fighter, armed with a smile. He had solutions to all problems. He was in the forefront to help me tide over any tricky situation. Running errands was not just what he did. He had been an answer to all queries. Mannenna (Kerosene) Mohanan had fire within in all the time. Alcohol added to his strength. The smile reflected his love for life. Life too loved him too well, it seems. And now, he has started pedaling off to an unknown land where life meets joy.

Death, now, has one more reason to be proud of. Death has just hijacked my errands man - my Man Friday. All that’s left of Mohanan is the rusting, rickety bicycle that till yesterday had ferried him to places and crowds where I dreaded going to.
Mohanan is no more. I know I’ll forget him soon. Whoever has left my side has been long forgotten. But, I don’t think Mohanan will go off from my thoughts. He never can. Every bill that gets delivered at my door step will have his signature and smile on it. Every time I need to visit the Corporation Office will make me long for Mohanan’s return. I wish he does.