The man I watched in awe
He didn’t have anything to do with me, personally. But the news that he is no more, came to me as a shock. I still feel someone sobbing inside me. Except for the occasional meeting that didn’t last for more than 15 minutes, he had nothing to do with me. He wasn’t friend, philosopher or guide to me. He wasn’t role model either. He couldn’t be role model to any, because no one could ever emulate him. A man who more often than not took the path never taken. Nawab Rajendran, to me, was rebellion personified. I used to see the name Nawab in awe as he never resembled one. He was the ultimate pauper in old worn-out clothes and unusually thick-rimmed pair of glasses. When he spoke, I felt he had difficulty in opening his mouth. Later on, I learnt that this was because the Kerala state police under K Karunakaran had plucked out his teeth ruthlessly while torturing him for crusading against the ‘Leader’s’ misdeeds. He walked the hot, tarred roads of Kochi in worn-out Hawai chappals, and sometimes even bare foot. He would smile at all he had met earlier at least once, and exchange wishes with them. He would walk into any liquor den at any time of the day for his daily intake of energy. Kochi is sure to miss this man. He used to be there at the Kochi Press Club every morning. The newspaper room was his favourite haunt in the mornings. He would devour all the news from all papers that were dumped every morning in the room. While journos, big and small, were engaged in making political predictions for the day, I found joy in watching this frail man completely absorbed in the happenings of the day before, on the pages of different newspapers. By the time he was done with all the news of the previous day, he would emerge out of the room, head straight down the stairs to the Press Club Road below. Journalists after their bouts of boring press meets, flocked around him for gems from this man. He was indeed a 'source' of relief for the scribes there. Some gathered around him for fun, many others to know more about his unending crusade against the anti-people leaders. He then would get on to one of those innumerable two-wheelers to get dropped somewhere on the way. My humble vehicle too had transported him to his destination many a time. He never sat astride on mobikes. Perching himself with both the legs on one side was his way of sitting on a bike. When onlookers at the Shanmughom Road and Kaloor glanced with derision at the way this man sat on the bike, I felt proud that I was travelling with the real Nawab on my pillion. The man had found a place in my mind and heart ever since I began reading about his cases. He disliked anything anti-people, and unlike others who just preached, he fought for justice. The Kerala High Court verandhas will always have golden memories about him. I learnt that he had a very unique mailing address. Anyone who wrote a letter to him at the address, Nawab Rajendran, High Court Verandha, Kochi, was sure that his letter would reach him. The postal department seemed to have accepted this address without throwing up any tantrums. His gesture of donating almost the entire prize money once awarded to him (which ran to about Rs 2 lakhs) to build a state-of-the-art mortuary at the District General Hospital in Kochi, doubled my respect toward him. He kept for himself just Rs 1000 from the award money. The mortuary project never took off even after a trust had been formed to execute it more than three years ago. The Nawab is dead. There are many in Kerala’s political circles, who would heave a sigh of relief. But for the common man, Nawab was indeed an apostle. The journalists will miss him. The judiciary will miss him. Kochi will miss him, Kerala will miss him, so will the nation. For me, a hero has walked off stage, never to return. Nawab Rajendran is history.
He didn’t have anything to do with me, personally. But the news that he is no more, came to me as a shock. I still feel someone sobbing inside me. Except for the occasional meeting that didn’t last for more than 15 minutes, he had nothing to do with me. He wasn’t friend, philosopher or guide to me. He wasn’t role model either. He couldn’t be role model to any, because no one could ever emulate him. A man who more often than not took the path never taken. Nawab Rajendran, to me, was rebellion personified. I used to see the name Nawab in awe as he never resembled one. He was the ultimate pauper in old worn-out clothes and unusually thick-rimmed pair of glasses. When he spoke, I felt he had difficulty in opening his mouth. Later on, I learnt that this was because the Kerala state police under K Karunakaran had plucked out his teeth ruthlessly while torturing him for crusading against the ‘Leader’s’ misdeeds. He walked the hot, tarred roads of Kochi in worn-out Hawai chappals, and sometimes even bare foot. He would smile at all he had met earlier at least once, and exchange wishes with them. He would walk into any liquor den at any time of the day for his daily intake of energy. Kochi is sure to miss this man. He used to be there at the Kochi Press Club every morning. The newspaper room was his favourite haunt in the mornings. He would devour all the news from all papers that were dumped every morning in the room. While journos, big and small, were engaged in making political predictions for the day, I found joy in watching this frail man completely absorbed in the happenings of the day before, on the pages of different newspapers. By the time he was done with all the news of the previous day, he would emerge out of the room, head straight down the stairs to the Press Club Road below. Journalists after their bouts of boring press meets, flocked around him for gems from this man. He was indeed a 'source' of relief for the scribes there. Some gathered around him for fun, many others to know more about his unending crusade against the anti-people leaders. He then would get on to one of those innumerable two-wheelers to get dropped somewhere on the way. My humble vehicle too had transported him to his destination many a time. He never sat astride on mobikes. Perching himself with both the legs on one side was his way of sitting on a bike. When onlookers at the Shanmughom Road and Kaloor glanced with derision at the way this man sat on the bike, I felt proud that I was travelling with the real Nawab on my pillion. The man had found a place in my mind and heart ever since I began reading about his cases. He disliked anything anti-people, and unlike others who just preached, he fought for justice. The Kerala High Court verandhas will always have golden memories about him. I learnt that he had a very unique mailing address. Anyone who wrote a letter to him at the address, Nawab Rajendran, High Court Verandha, Kochi, was sure that his letter would reach him. The postal department seemed to have accepted this address without throwing up any tantrums. His gesture of donating almost the entire prize money once awarded to him (which ran to about Rs 2 lakhs) to build a state-of-the-art mortuary at the District General Hospital in Kochi, doubled my respect toward him. He kept for himself just Rs 1000 from the award money. The mortuary project never took off even after a trust had been formed to execute it more than three years ago. The Nawab is dead. There are many in Kerala’s political circles, who would heave a sigh of relief. But for the common man, Nawab was indeed an apostle. The journalists will miss him. The judiciary will miss him. Kochi will miss him, Kerala will miss him, so will the nation. For me, a hero has walked off stage, never to return. Nawab Rajendran is history.
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