Horoscope Turned into Horrid-scope

A Match made to the Horoscope....?

Though belated, Sukanya has now got the resolve.

     Over twenty-odd years she has been going through consuming angst that welled up in profoundly bitter tears which trickled down into oblivion – the tears that once held out an eloquent testimony of a girl’s fate rewritten! A combination of fear and loathing provoked a blind rage in her, eventually drying up every drop of those tears. Emotional feelings being materially parched, a schism opened up between her sentiments and obligations to the familial root. Perhaps cursing her own imbrued fate that was predestined by the crass bigotry of her conceited custodians ultimately she decided to stomp off the fold.

Humanly suppressing all the innate cravings of a full-fledged youth she has been all the while asking for only one favour, justice to the rule of nature- virtual beggary to the social fairness. Time and again she desperately pleaded to lift the heavily hanging mantle coerced upon her having been deprived of a matrimonial companionship. Any endeavour for emancipation was inexorably precluded by the hide-bound society virtually stalling a thriving youth in the rigid confines of conventional fetters for she happened to be born amidst a bunch of fundamentalists.

No less than four well-regarded marriage proposals she had received with sated consent, the latest one being from an Adonis. He too was ruthlessly discarded from the wed lock proposition by her fanatic father.

You ask: Why, anything wrong with the boy?

Not at all! He is a beau ideal with an immaculate background overall, has a Doctorate in Psychology, practises in Ireland having established his own clinic.

You wouldn’t wait for the next query: Did he like the girl?

Indeed, he did.

What then is the fuss all about, you wonder!

The answer is simple: Horoscope!

You must be kidding, you retort.

Not, at all.

Well, then please unravel the conundrum, you shout.

After a long pause you are told: Apparently he has ‘Chovva dosham’

So what?

Stigma!

The proposed girl became the victim again. Her fanatic parents blatantly rejected the proposal. Her mother couldn’t be blamed since she had no educational background nor had much exposure to the outside world. But her father was well versed in academia. He had been a Dean of faculty of Sociology, in Ottawa University. The paradox of the whole myth is that his eldest son, chip off the old block, a prodigy of Harvard University, had been engaged in wedlock with a girl of a perfect horoscope. The young wife, an embodiment of her passionate husband, died of brain cancer. His second wife, another discovery with a perfect match of horoscope won after a relentless search, abandoned him after little more than a year leaving behind a mentally retarded progeny. The child was born in immaculate astrological conditions claimed to have ideally belonged to a perfect star.

Having gone through a series of nightmarish events of her adulthood she grew weary and often licked her wilted lips. Her lips trembled when she recollected those lines she once read somewhere:

‘Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday... If you spend your life hopelessly waiting for the blue bird of happiness to fly over you....’

And she was now starting to think she had had enough. She was determined to venture out of the murky corridors of her past. Summoning all courage she took a daunting decision to pick her pen, and started writing on her father’s letter pad with tremulous hands... As she finished the last sentence, the tears she had been struggling to hold back suddenly trickled, wetting the page....

Leaving the written letter-pad open under the lamp-shade, with tears in the eye and solo bidding wordless goodbye at the gate as ears shut against the yelping dog’s unanswerable plea behind the corroded iron bars of the squeaky gate, she strode briskly from a colossal pulpit of dogma devoid of sanctity....

Dear Mum and Dad,

Kill me, I am beckoning you... Here I am, still lamenting at the inevitable intersection on the road of life not knowing which way to turn, after a bloody long, perturbed, wait. I am drained out with life. I need to seek some stimulus to my tired soul, brain and the body. Whimsical tales of days gone by with lot of teeth-gnashing and hand-wriggling will now remain just as worthless memories to me.

At last, I reckon, I have found my way... I know I have to break away the unwieldy shackles once and for all before I continue my journey. I know I have to hurt your feelings by doing just that, but forgive me. Nonetheless I need your blessings all the way through my pursuit of self-effacingly simple but a meaningful life that I yearn to capture...

Before I write anything further, let me ask those who took the spiteful decisions to reject all those marriage proposals brought forth by many a fond lover in the light of Horoscope match, the enigmatic practice of foretelling future events by looking at the stars and planets. Given that the practice well agrees with the logic of all related science, be it of Yesterday or Today, being a victim who carries a mutilated soul I dissent with might and main:

Who has prepared this diagram of the heavens? And what accuracy can one claim and expect from the person or persons who originally drew this?

To draw this supposedly most complex diagram and related charts, what were the basics of extremely complex calculations and conditional criteria that are directly applied in those predictable (may it be probable) outcomes in real life? How was it possible to contrive such precise benchmarks in order to predict all the future events in one’s life, presumably due to the influence of the particular star’s position to the planet and their interactions at the time of one’s birth? Is there, by any chance, an involvement of divine power?

Given the optimum accuracy of the position and the calculations of the Star and the Planet measured at the ancient time and the resultant conclusions being derived at that clime and condition of the aeon, how one can so positively place full faith at the present context? More so when we find ourselves in a new era that has lost the continuity of close and constant trace of movements of stars and the planets extant up there in the orbital paths of almost infinitely boundless galaxies?

Does it not necessitate that we now trace precisely where the current position of that particular star is in the constellation to reassess the absolute causes imparted on the life of the one who is said to have been subjected to bear this impact by the sheer timing of his/her birth?

The light emitted from a star, as it is scientifically established, takes millions of light-years to reach the earth where we are born and survive, not to mention the impossibility of defining the length of that time within the tolerance of even 100 years. This being the globally accepted absolute reality how on earth, by any logic, can one relate the period of one’s birth within a matter of hours to the star to be able to construe the effects that are induced to one’s life so convincingly by that particular star, hence precisely corroborate the person’s destiny?

Then again taking everything that astrology claims for granted, what guarantee do you have that the one who wrote the horoscope was authoritative and truthful, and what he/she wrote was alright in the first place? Why are his/her analyses or the interpretations and the subsequent conclusions not questionable?

What if there happened to be a blunder in the originally written horoscope that was found to be impossible to trace back? Doesn’t this mean due to the bungle the subject person is forbidden from getting married to a girl of his choice - an act devoid of pragmatic consolation that can inevitably mount to be a disgraceful act against God’s wish?

I am not agnostic nor a nihilist. I don’t dare to totally denounce the mythical follies of ancient customs and the ardent followings of the millions. But I do attempt to analyse the pros and cons of that ancient social system and its relevance in this contemporary social infrastructure. While I try to hold the whole story in a positive light, keeping all the objectives firmly in mind I fail utterly to find an answer. When I look at the outcome everything seems to be placed in a total imbroglio.

I don’t want to proselytise you at all by unfolding my perceptions and the views I hold in relation to our religious beliefs and practice. I am only trying to highlight the potentially harmful elements of our otherwise theologically enriched religion. Whatever may be the case, the effects of your beliefs were implosive. They have irreparably devastated my life....

And, I do ask standing upright on this mother-earth for a convincing answer to my earnest queries from someone in society who is capable to honestly do so.

Bereavement

That was a day featuring another typical onslaught of ruthless winter!
Gusty wind blew across the Shire carrying the biting chill from Snowy Mountains, plucking down a cluster of leaves, flowers and branches in its savage fury. A flock of wild cockatoos suddenly started fleeting round the distant paddock, crowing under a spell of delirium. Never before, I noticed such an emotional outcry from those birds.

In this leafy suburb of Sydney, it has never been unusual to sight a plethora of colourful birds wandering from place to place amid the lush thickets with their occasional cooing, chirpings and crowing. On the contrary, it was quite unusual, on that occasion, to hear such an eerie, emotional crowing from an incredibly large number of sulphur-crested cockatoos.

Obnoxiously amplified version of cacophony, unnaturally changing tone of those wild birds’ desperate cry had something in it to stir my curiosity and I pulled open the front door of my tiny abode unfolding a vista of nature’s abundance. Nearby, under the fading shadow of a huge gum tree there lay a carcass of a sulphur crusted cockatoo. Suddenly I discovered the source of the screeching noise. Perched restlessly on the branches of the tree, looking downwards to that defunct parrot there I found a multitude of its live counterparts crying loudly;
-reminiscent of a rustic village funeral, back in Kerala, in which the corpse being kept at rest, surrounded by a number of wailing mourners…

- I could hardly banish the phenomenal response of those wild birds, merely treating it as an outcry of senseless creatures. Wasn’t it rather a sentimental outburst for a lost soul?

Call it anything. One thing though I perceived unmistakably out of that quirky episode was of an intense response to an eruption of emotions, a melt-down of acute grief in those wild birds. Very much akin to mankind, the behaviour patterns of other living creatures in response to the sudden turn of events seem to have the same common thread of attachment and compassion…
Deciding not to plumb deep into the depths of the mystiques of life, shoving off all the ponderings of the obscure philosophy enshrouded in a priceless bird’s ultimate journey that ended nose diving into a patch of earth’s filthy soil, having to abandon its rotten remains ultimately for the spiders, maggots and bull-ants, I went back to my study. My laptop beeped reminding there was an unread fresh message that just came through. Hurriedly I opened the message.
Coincidentally, it was a message of another death!
- A death of a human being.
The deceased was my friend’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Thara Shetty, a middle aged lady, a long time widow who had recently been staying with her son in Sydney.
Returning to Poona where she had been living, a few weeks later, she collapsed after a short but enduring bout with renal failure. The news of her sudden end was indeed beyond my comprehension…
I still vividly remember the waving of her hand, greying hair, the radiance behind the innocent and intimate smile and those glistening wet eyes…

I made an urgent call to her son living in an outer suburb of Sydney, but it was of no avail.
- A few hours too late…
He had already left his home and was on his way to Poona. Undying memories surrounding his beloved mother’s joyful moments had hardly vanished from his loving, caring mind. After expressing my sincere concern to his wife, I immediately rang my friend’s wife Mallika Shetty, the younger sister of the deceased. Little did I think I would be able to deliver the balm to quell her rising grief, but I knew for sure I could deliver a condolence message in a few words. Certainly, it helped. I could help hold her sobbing for a short while at the least…

Next day, on Wednesday, after I came back from work I wanted to pay a visit to the bereaved. As usual my wife also insisted that my son who had just decided to call it a quit from his university course and was therefore free from his studies join us on our proposed visit.

When we suggested the idea of the planned visit of the day, our son has grinned and coyly said: “Well, I am afraid I can’t make it. I have planned to go for a birthday party of Satheesh Shetty organised by him, at a restaurant in the city.”
Thunderstruck, I retorted: “What…?” I couldn’t hold my composure. In disbelief, I suddenly became vitriolic in my tone: “Did Sathish know his auntie’s dead body is still at rest waiting for tomorrow’s burial at her hometown in India?”

“That’s exactly the concern I raised too, but Satheesh wasn’t very serious about that. He reckons the atmosphere is not that bad at his home.” I couldn’t pick any hint of resentment in my son’s voice as he continued, “All his friends have already been invited much in advance, and he doesn’t want to make them unhappy now.”

I did not want to put up an argument with my son against Satheesh’s objectionable deed. However, I felt as if somebody delivered a punch to awake me from a nightmare in which I found myself trampled by a bolted Trojan horse that had lost its control and ran amuck. Satheesh has been coltish indeed in charging himself away out of a territory that now becomes alien to his raw emotions and intangible, existentialist behaviour.

Should it be laconically stated as just the frivolity of a reckless youth rather than the exploits and excessiveness of today’s indulgent, wayward youth?
It doesn’t really matter. But, somewhere along the line, something is amiss!
I vainly attempted to identify the cause of this fatal ideological confrontation that crops up with this untameable free will of the young generation, the remarkable mismatch of those links that were supposed to be welded seamlessly aligned with the familial bonds of the Orient.

Satheesh who fitted himself to a tee into a permissive social outfit, as a thriving young man perhaps had succumbed to the fascinating exotics of the outside world.
- Result of an opprobrious, blatant refusal to accept wisdom in the face of a rich tradition that has been built up by his sagacious forebears. Embracing the basic principles of morality and cultural values his predecessors with open arms beckoned him fondly to draw closer to share and feel the warmth of their unwavering love and affection. But alas, the little Devil that gleefully lurked in his conscience urged him to scoff away the absolute sanity that was on offer.
In a sense, another woeful demise - Premature demise of a glorious culture!

Who is there to bemoan…?
Having got the choice between sharing the grief of his aunt’s death with his nearest kin and enjoying his pleasure-filled birthday celebration along with his companions in the luminous atmosphere of a restaurant, he opted for the latter without much ado. Against all odds, he accepted a dare to hang out with those rapaciously awaiting pals in his own arranged birthday party, leaving behind the melancholic atmosphere of his village-home…

By such an oppugning enactment perhaps he simply lifted the elements of radicals beyond the conventional confines which most of the youngsters in our society would have emulated, being exposed to the blindingly grotesque environment out there.

After a long drive, having reached our destination, I along with my wife was struggling to find a convenient parking spot. A long way along the street on both sides there were too many parked-cars.

We didn’t have to ring the door bell. The door was left open. There were many mourners, more than that we anticipated, all of them the family friends. I could hear voices in various tones, all filled with the conversation of the same theme:
Death!
The scene, though without presence of the dead body revealed a vacuum created by the sudden departure of a soul elsewhere and imparted a vague, tearful reminder of mortality instantly rewinding my fresh memories to those bemoaning parrots I noticed outside my home the previous day…

I did not know whether the bereaved lady of the house knew where her son had been at that particular moment…
But, I knew.
And, I really wish she didn’t…

The Omnipresent

The Omnipresent

V. P. Gangadharan

He never bothered to turn back and catch a glimpse of his dauntless journey nor did attempt to reprieve the exquisitely ornate, delusive world of his past. He lived for the moment, perceivably conquering everyone and winning everything through his academic genius and an uncanny ability to adeptly amass fortune. The fortune was but rapidly vanishing through his finger tips, clinging on to the lengthy digits that he wrote loosely on cheque leaves in the course of his luridly perverted indulgence - not once did he question the absurdity of his material extravagance! Bragging with the insolent tone of his voice he ripped into tatters the cloaks of moral compliance and benevolence to be bestowed into the hungry hands of mankind. Enthralled in the glowing fire of excitement, he plunged into a fascinating existentialism. Immersed engrossingly into its alluring warmth, beneath the snowy-white froth, outer layers of his physical body were wilting away while the inner vanity melted like wax. With all the actions filled with filthy secrets he could only become infamous as an insidious scourge in his frenetic quest for an undeserved fame. 

Climactically, he had to pull himself out of all baleful addictions although part of him yearned for a final drag before it’s all over. Amid the stinking breath and pitted skin, however, there remained many awful memories that would instantly turn to be monstrous. A small minded person with full of ego, fear, anger and mistrust would thus appear to be the reminder of a ruptured fairy tale.

Eventually, stooped with the burden of sins he acutely felt his mundane existence suddenly becoming utterly distressful. Under the clutches of unresolved guilt and with a looming uncertainty of his eroding physical frame, he started peering apprehensively into the emptiness of his own mind, for fear of something ghastly lying in wait somewhere round the corner. 

All of a sudden he had now come to grips with the reality and felt as though he wanted to be enlightened of the perennial happiness that he was void of. The quest for spiritual happiness had thus emerged.

Attending regular lectures on Vedas conducted by a religious sect had essentially become part of his daily routine, which indeed had paved the way into an insightful journey solo through the rhetoric of karma and dharma ideals.

And he began a frantic effort compulsively for restitution by seeking extensive pilgrimage. Garbed in saffron, he had an irrepressible desire to start and continue a journey by foot from one temple to another...

Enticed with a sense of devotional fervour he filed past many a soliciting image that spelt physical afflictions and poverty. In his zest to reach the altar to get to the deity he impulsively ignored their desperate calls for a few coins...

Outside the front entrance to the temple a leper lay, prostrated flat on his pallid face, eroded arms being outstretched towards the devotees passing-by. The dark torso, naked, and drenched in perspiration was glistening under the scorching sun. Not a word came out of the corrugated lips though the slit between them widened under the strain of hunger. 

A tear drop that appeared in the tip of the eye of a diseased beggar didn’t mean anything to this sagacious pilgrim even though it may verily be a woeful reminiscence of human misery.

‘One cannot escape the eternal cycle of suffering if destined in the course of rebirth. The current plight is determined apropos of the deeds in one’s previous life...’

Unmoved, while on this unfinished pilgrimage he was trying to find his reason for the wretched plight and the gruelling physical condition of that leper.

Notwithstanding, he longed for catching the eye of the skilfully sculptured statuettes of Gods as he passed along the walkway to the shrine much to the belief that it would heal the self-inflicted scars of transgression in his heart.

The inner compound of the temple was much smaller than he expected. In the centre was a dark shrine where all the pilgrims and devotees were waiting in a long queue impatiently in front of the closed door that was to be opened soon.

Being the contributor of a handsome amount for the upkeep of the temple, he could manage to queue-jump and be positioned right in front, just an arm’s length afar of the closed door of the shrine. Having a penchant for a devotional touch to the deity with his finger tips he fervidly leaned forward to catch an unobstructed view of the Almighty.

The priest came rushing as he was behind the scheduled time to appear, and the closed door was hastily opened for the eagerly waiting devotees.

Suddenly the bubbles of silence burst.

Brass cymbals were clashed.

Conch shells were blown, louder and louder...

The Brahmin priest chanted Sanskrit invocations which one could hardly decipher...

Even as the oil lamps were all lit, strangely, the darkness engulfed him…

Pitch dark!

What’s happening?

Where’s his God?

Had the God disappeared from this holy shrine?

Was he becoming blind?

Had he once again lost all his senses?

Adding to the mystery, he was drawn tempestuously out of the crowd and was pulled across by an invisible power straight out, to the front-gate of the temple!

Lo! The poor leper was still there, crawling forward with a wallet in his lofted stumpy arm. In disbelief he searched for his wallet and found it missing!

In a flash the handicapped, shapeless leper, being transfigured into Narasimha, rose from the ground and in a gigantic leap lunged towards him with a thunderous roar, vigorously hurling the wallet in the air! The wads of currency notes flew in the hot air like burst cotton wool...

Burning in the glowing hell-fire and damnation, with a fractured will, his head bowed.

And he shuddered in the thunderous, rumbling roar: “Go to hell…hell…hell…!”

Drawing from the last leftovers of dried emotions in his mind, he pleaded loudly in response with a yelp: “Oh no...!”

    

When he woke up, in front of him there stood his wife, his life’s anchor, with a cup of bed coffee.

Wondering she said: “Don’t say no, this will make your day…” 

My Own Conviction

Boring through the sleety midnight air, my vehicle swiftly took me to the emergency ward. Had I known that I was to be trundled into a squeaky hospital bed amidst the whining and murmuring,

I would have perhaps heeded my Doctor. Months ago, Doctor Morrison cautioned: “Your symptoms suggest you are down with a potentially debilitating physical condition.” He suggested a surgical procedure I should undergo, laconically attaching a hint of pain to it. “Sooner the better,” he urged.
Though I didn’t mean to, I ignored his professionally sagacious advice.

And here I am, subjected to share a room with three other squirming patients who lament over their forced transit to this murky corridor, nestled somewhere along the tedious journey towards their physical freedom. Here I am, being submitted to some biomedical appliances, forced to drink a glass of water every hour…

After having a dose of prescribed drug I thought I would be able to catch a wink. A burning feeling kept me constantly awake. After several vain attempts to alert the nurse by pressing the buzzer for help, my irascible mind gave me an irrevocable urge to reach for the emergency button. It worked.

I had three nurses, instead of one, rushing to the ward, where I lay restless.

I said, “I am in terrible pain. I need to have something to sleep.”

“Silly you! Why should you press the emergency button for that?”

“Because I tried the buzzer a number of times and I thought it was inactive. I am sorry,” I confessed.

“It has probably been turned off… Shortage of nurses you know.”

“Shortage of nurses alright. But I have just seen three of you dashing to the scene.”
“Shh…” Hushed the nurse, a Finnish looking tall blonde.

I was silly indeed. Why the bickering? What I heard just now when I sought temporary solace to my brimming physical distress were the resentments of my own conviction. In a sense, she was right. It was unrealistic of me to expect too much from a nurse. She may be offering only what she is paid for. My stupidity, rather my lofty expectations of a nurse, of her noble and compassionate services, prompted me to ask for help at this fag end of the day. May be I had noticed the services of a few caring diligent nurses and pictured every nurse in the same frame. Whatever may be the case, I should bow low with awesome respect to their beatific career.

Two Panadeine Forte tablets with a glass of cold water, and I dozed off…

Suddenly, someone woke me up. Shrill voice of a nurse.
“What you want, this time, Donna?” The nurse was too loud for that midnight silence of a hospital ward, which otherwise was only disturbed by the occasional snoring of the one who gulped a sleeping pill or two.

Donna too was desperate for help, seeking relief from the pangs of her wound. She was brought in last night after a Gallbladder operation.

“Alright, I can give you a jab.” The nurse walked away to come back with a needle.

Faintly listening to the noisy steps of that high-heeled nurse, prodding my feeble fingers into my shabby face, I slipped off to sleep…

I woke up again as though I was shaken up vigorously. In hospitals the wheels are never meant to stop. One patient walks away when another waits in agony to be trundled in. Squalling of an old man wriggling with excruciating pain shook us all up. I learned that he has been putting up with that endless pain for almost six weeks! As he has a history of very low blood pressure, anaesthetic medication was considered to be fatal. Neurologists and palliative specialists strained every nerve to abate his stabbing pain and restore to him some restful moments.

Holding my pain I tried to relax, looking around my hospital room which was kept immaculately with all the facilities one could ever ask for. I have no reason to squabble.

I found my eyes settling again on that pathetic sight, right at the opposite bed, a lamenting old man, lamely attempting to glance through a birthday greeting message received from his daughter residing in Canberra.

I don’t know whether that message means anything to him or if it will help to lift his ever sinking, palsied spirit. Looking at the profile of the victim crying for help, searching for something in his frail looking sullen face, I could find an indecipherable message. More and more I tried, more and more I failed to comprehend.

All that I could do was witness a tussle between hope and hopelessness…

A quotation I once read came clearly to my feeble mind: “I complained of not having shoes till I saw a man who did not have feet”.

Delusion of Grandeur

The eyes were green and penetrating. Hair glowed like polished copper. Reddish nose with tiny nostrils had semblance of parrot-beak. Fully ripened mandarin was the best match for those cheeks. Occasional smile exposed rather prematurely decayed irregular teeth, speckled badly with black pores like corroded metal.

- That was Paul, an Australian immigration officer in Singapore. He was sitting at the other end of a glass-slabbed table that displayed a colourful world map blown-up to an enormous size spreading over the upper surface.

In front of him leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table sat a swarthy Brahman youth from Kerala, a South Indian State.

Questions and answers....

Paul Stonnil asks...

Karthikeyan Bhattathirippadu replies...

K. Bhttathirippadu – The journey that began from the rustic beauties of Quailon as a schoolboy took him many eventful years to get settled down and eventually placed himself up in Singapore as a Computer Engineer. He has sought entry to Australia for living and as a result was up for his first encounter with an immigration officer.

“Well, I think I have finished with my questions, Mr. Bhattathirippadu...I suppose it’s your turn now.”

Those words reflected a note of compulsion.

“Have you got anything in particular to ask?”

Bhattathirippadu tensely watched the officer’s mixed expressions. He had a number of questions to ask. But, he did not really know where to begin.

He remained pensive for a while. And then suddenly was found making a frantic effort to smile. With that enforced smile still lingering on his face he asked: “is there any kind of discrimination still existing in Australia?”

- Discrimination...

The word ‘discrimination’ seemed reverberating in the cool, dense, air of that richly decorated room. Sonority of that sensational word seemingly struck to every surface of the room including the walls that tastefully displayed posters of primitive Aborigines, Asians and the white European settlers in conglomeration, depicting a Utopian society.

- A promise of equality...

“Well done, Mr. Bhattathiri...well done. Your question indeed suggests that you are rather obsessed with an egalitarian social concept.”

Paul tried to impose a wry smile that spelt nothing but pejorative sarcasm. After a relatively long pause he continued:

“Well, Mr. Bhattathiri, if I put it straight, I feel that you should not have asked this question. I suppose you are not entitled to raise such a question which is ineffable by its own merit.”

He said it sternly without emotion as if he was passing an impersonal verdict upon someone. He remained silent as though he was lost into a deep thought, struggling to find an objective definition of human value...

“You know what I mean?”

Stonnil’s voice suddenly became blunt and was found distinctly sardonic in tone.

“Let us go back to your own country’s cultural heritage and social set-up which was said to be built up solidly on altruistic and ideological base.

“You would perhaps agree that the Harijans occupy today as they did in the past the lowest rung of the social ladder in your country, particularly in your state. They were believed to have contaminated not only by their touch but also by their presence. They were denigrated to such an extent that the mere sight of them made the atmosphere ominous to those sanctimonious Brahmins.

“For the majority of people in this contemporary world this is the most heinous and oppressive form of inequality...Don’t you still maintain the distance among own civilians in your village, in your own neighbourhood? Even now they call their names by their respective casts and sub-casts- Nair, Menon, Pillai and what not...? Why should we go that far? Let’s take your own name: Bhattathirippadu. What does that denote? Please would you tell me what that means?”

“Nothing, but delusion of grandeur.” Karthikeyan whispered to himself.

He felt ashamed as if somebody had spat right in his face...On the basis of his own wretched background he could not utter a word of resentment. He felt quiet and empty. His feelings became numb and cold. His silent response was his confession. He thought that his long desperate cry of rebellion should have begun years ago, from his village against his own people, against his own father...

Balaraman Bhattathirippadu- a railway servant who sought an official transfer to Shornure to get away from the so called untouchable Harijan lads of Quailon, Kannan and Koran, who reared buffaloes and led them every hot day to the nearest lake of Mullattu to take the beasts for a cool dip or a muddy swim. When those inferiors passed their superiors on the road they did not step aside and make way, as they ought to. Those revolting lads were defiant instead. They often twitted the Brahmins about the unnatural way in which they kept others aloof by building

rigid walls around themselves. For the fear of being contaminated, Balaraman Bhattathiri- ppadu, his fanatic father wanted to turn away from them. And, strangely enough, at the same time with the same craze, due to the ideological differences, Karthikeyan wanted to run away from his father, a lunatic fringe.

Karthikeyan does not believe in nor does he wish to place himself on a hierarchy of status by virtue of being born to a Brahmin who tried to establish his superiority among others. He does not want to receive the accolades of any undeserved social status though he has to bear the stigma of all those odious deeds of his predecessors who made the other mankind subservient to their use and tried to destroy the others when they could not subdue.                                            

The Indelible Stigmas of a Nation

Like anyone else, I also had a loving father and a treasured mother. They

were the ones who had to place me in the market to be auctioned. They didn’t win anything. They lost everything instead in their bid- Mother’s wedding necklace and father’s whole life savings.
I had never read in any of my text books, nor was I taught at any time in my life that there was a thing for which you had to give money to the buyer. I had been a stupid girl to accept that, it was nothing but my ignorance. The deal was nonetheless made, with a lifelong warranty…

In the first night, as he slit open the most delicate membrane of my virginity, I tried to vanquish my pangs in a wriggle or two concealing the chagrin with a tearless sob of silence. In his excitement of winning me, perhaps, he couldn’t see my inner tears, let alone my purity. He responded to my strained, dry smile with his passionate kisses, seized my repugnant body by both of his invasive, masculine, arms; combed my curly hair with his burning fingers; rubbed my nose, my eyes and my whole body to feel my warmth, as if he was up for devouring me…

Unperturbed, however, my parents too didn’t execute an agreement to state that the exchanged article could not be returned unconditionally. Unaware of the fact, perhaps, he was hasting with his meticulous scrutiny in making sure the quality of the flesh he had acquired to keep was worthwhile. Accordingly, he tickled to see my giggle, pinched to arouse my feeling and pulled my rather chilled hands towards him to make me feel his warmth… He had all the while been simply ignoring my struggle to convince him that he was not my pick. I had been gently and secretly closing all the outer doors of my reclusive self, one after the other, recouping bit by bit everything that was passed on to him by my desperate parents in the shape of human flesh.
Time has mournfully elapsed as I kept losing everything I preserved, like anyone else, for the attainment of joie de vivre. Little did I succeed to gather the audacity that a contemporary female counterpart normally could be expected to. Remorseful of their convictions, my beloved parents finally succumbed to their afflictions.
And here I am, still lamenting, lurking in the graveyard of my irrecoverable past, in sheer despair.
Belated though, now I started gaining the courage that I should have had long ago. Grappling with the broken fetters of a nuptial bondage while I continue waiting vainly for someone to take me abode, my silver hair conjures a wisp of a lurid, lackadaisical fate which is hard to be unlearnt. Notwithstanding, I have now become a capable lady who can courageously look after herself…
Everyday I receive tens of e-mail messages in my inbox, all from my kith and kin. Among many messages, occasionally I come across some weird ones too. I receive one such with an attachment. The concise message contains two magic words: ‘Should work.’
‘Should work what?’ An immediate question springs up in my mind, and I open the attachment. All of a sudden, the blank monitor screen turns divine. I scroll through inquisitively… In bold text it is written: ‘MAHA MRUTHYUNJAYA MANTRA.’ Underneath the scripture, appears Lord Shiva’s picture with a serpent standing upright on the right shoulder. The word, ‘Ohm’ is inscribed in Sanskrit in His open palm that bestows blessings.
I scroll forward and read, ‘SUGANDHIM PUSHTI VARDHANAM.’ In leopard-skin apparel, Lord Shiva is seen in dancing posture. Having scrolled further it reads: ‘URUVA RUKAMIVA BHANDHANATH.’ Again, Lord Shiva, with smiling face, holds a conch shell in right hand. I continue to read: ‘MRUTHYOR MUKSHEEYA MAMRUTHAATH.’ This time Lord Shiva appears with Parvathi and Ganesh. Ganesh pours out milk from a conch shell onto Shiva Linga the base of which is embellished with colourful flowers, placed around in abundance.

Next comes up the enticing message: “This is a powerful prayer of Shiva.

· Send this to 7 people within the next 5 minutes, and your wish will come true, somewhere, somehow. Do not keep this message. The mantra must leave your hands within 96 hours. You will get very pleasant surprise.
This is true, even if you are not superstitious. Forward this mantra to at least 5 people and your life will improve.
* 0 – 4 people: your life will improve slightly.
* 5 – 9 people: you will have at least 5 surprises in the next three weeks.
* 15 people and above: your life will improve drastically, and everything you ever dreamed of will begin to take shape.”

I am certainly not superstitious, but I believe I have become a victim of a social carnage. I wouldn’t bother to figure out what those mantras meant to me, but sure I would want to forward this message to millions if I could rescue those miserable victims of the abominable social injustice which I have been subject to, and if that was the sort of boon this message was going to bring about. But as there is simply no faith left in me any more I delete the message outright.

Suicide of a highbrow

September 12, 1979.
Tucked in an envelope that indicated the urgency of its delivery was a dolorous message written on a pink paper
Sam expired!
- My brother.
It was the incredibility of the untoward that gave me the real shock rather than the revelation of a piece of paper. How on earth could I believe it?
Not even a month passed since I had his last letter which as usual carried all his sentiments of affection and concern. A letter that he used to ride roughshod over to the proposed engagement of our youngest brother John and his fiancée Rita, a professional model. Though Sam had spent last few years of his studies in the States his intellectual pursuit did not yield to recognise his brother’s engagement with a modelling girl. This relationship appeared to have been taken by Sam as, “The culmination of a brother’s delirious chase for owning a curvaceous product that has been whimsically displayed in commercial market places.”
Scrawled across the page in a few lines were a brother’s disgruntled, noiseless utterances which irrefutably projected the profile of a moral zealot. In his last letter he mentioned he was grossly engaged in the preparation of a thesis on Genes, specifically on ‘Dominant inheritance’, which he expected to complete by the end of September. This was his second major work since he obtained a Doctorate in Genealogy from Harvard University.

I did make a point to send a greeting telegram to John and Rita when they announced the wedding.

“Now you are one…
In love
In laughter
In living
And everything in life
Is twice as beautiful…
- Felicitations!”

The message might hardly have reached my home town in Kerala, here comes a message of death with a gentle tap at my apartment door.

Solemnisation of marriage was to be held in Thiruvananthapuram, the death occurred in Mumbai, and I was in Singapore. Both the deceased and the bridegroom are my cousins. The relationship established among ourselves was more like siblings, since I was orphaned at the age of eight.

Proposing an elaborate celebration with carousal, I drove home with a variety of foreign liquor to boost the evening party on the day of marriage at my residence having invited a select band of friends and distant relatives. Buying a surprise gift for my daughter has been one of the priorities of the occasion. A flicker of astonishment rose and died in her eyes when she gleefully received my gift. With her usual giggle she said, “I wish there were many marriages to come in dad’s family.”

Up came the lunch call. At the lunch table mother and daughter were engrossed in their waggish discussions related to their new dresses that I bought for them the other day to signify the occasion.

My thought, however, took wing gliding merrily across the ocean, tiny rivulets, stretches of lush green pastures and coconut palms. In my ears chimed the church bell with its hymnic rhythms. Amidst the glow of countless candles, on a flourishingly decorated aisle stood my brother dressed like a prince of the province. Sporting a radiant smile he held his fiancée who stood beside him holding her head up gracefully reciprocating with her professional charm that was extravagantly supplemented with her jewellery.
My murky mind appeared to have found some sparkles of immeasurable joy. I have been fluttering in the lambency like a firefly that has no sparkle left on its own wings.

A quaint knock at the entrance door of my apartment gave me a jerk from my silvery dreams.
I grumbled: ‘May be a friend of my daughter, or that nosy Chinese couple in my distant neighbourhood.’
Irresistible to a thrust of ire I shouted at the door:
“Who the hell is that?”
The doors sprung open.
A grim-faced Chinese bloke in khaki uniform stood right in front, stretching a pink sheet of paper. Seemingly unperturbed, he said in his local Malay:
“Ma’afkan saya untuk manggangu tuan. Telegram untuk kamu. Salin di sini.”
(Sorry to disturb you, Sir, a telegram for you. Please, sign here.)

- “Sam expired.”
I felt a blow of a chilling wind, strong enough to extinguish the glow in my spirit. All my sweet dreams tumbled…
Suddenly I felt bewildered and lost as if the ground had been cut off from beneath my trembling feet. I stared out into the street until the outline of the messenger’s moving figure on a motorbike dissolved into the density of buzzing street of Singapore.
I sobbed like a child. My wife and daughter soon joined me wailing uncontrollably.
We quickly started for black cloths.
Certainly death follows birth.
But, should the pall of destiny befall upon this young man so soon? And, should it be on this auspicious occasion of his beloved brother’s nuptials?
Message was sent out to all my relatives and friends. Arena of a commemorative dinner party was slowly transforming into a place for the mourning of the bereaved.

A requiem mass was arranged in Queenstown Sacred Heart Church.

“Grant that we who are nourished by his body and blood,
May be filled with His Holy Spirit,
And become one body, one spirit in Christ.
Through him,
In him,
In the unity of the Holy Spirit,
All glory and honour are yours,
For ever, and ever….
Amen.”

Condolence message was published with an obituary in the late edition of a leading newspaper.

What might be the reason of his sudden demise?

The reason really did not matter.
- Sam is no more!

Through the silence of many days I thought always of Sam who once held all the hope which a gift of intelligence ever proffered, from whom all our family members expected such a magnificent future….
All at once everything is reduced to a few fistfuls of ash…
Ever since that staggering untoward, it has been as if everyone in my apartment has forgotten to talk. An eerie silence was creeping through every corner and holding back every pace….

It was a week later my daughter picked a letter for me from our letterbox. That was of our uncle. In his laconic way of writing he just summarised the whole events in a few lines.

“One cannot survive the stakes of God’s penultimate punishment, for we are to face the consequences of our own deeds. The marriage had to be postponed indefinitely due to the unexpected end of Sammy. Johnny and Martha, your sister, have taken the next available flight to Mumbai to collect the dead body.”

Another letter followed immediately. This time the consigner was the bridegroom.

Dear brother,
Believe me! Though the purpose of our flight to Mumbai was to pick up Sam’s body we were utterly astonished and boundlessly rejoiced to find him alive. This most weird episode had been a cliché Sam employed to have stopped my marriage…”

I read those lines again.

I could not name my sudden emotion and had no words to state its cause.
I saw the thin branches of a pine tree in a distant park being waved like jubilant arms. Surprisingly happy though, I felt hollowed in my mind.
Strangely I received an unexpected stab of agony….

Sam is alive, no doubt now.
But, he is dead….