Friday, August 17, 2012

The tale of a broken heart

There was a time she could recognise his smell, hear his footsteps and predict his mind. All those time she thought he is the only man who could make her mad, happy and sexy. The days scrolled fast than ever and one day she sensed something is going wrong. She stood up sternly to untangle the shackles, only to realise it is a gone story. 

The days bought another face to her life, where she felt comfortable with. But her mind had a naughty propensity to compare the latter with the former. Again things went off the beam because she made the smallest mistakes of the latter big and protruded them to huge fights. The time lapsed and her mind got the power to wake up from the past. She began a new life with all the love and prosperity the latter gave her.

The hidden cruelty of mind still sustained. This time it was not the problem of her mind. It was that of the latter’s. The hurts her fights gave him were not healed in his mind. They made him a brutal monster and he began reacting senseless. Demands were the prime tool, many times, perhaps all the time she failed to fulfil them. Things worsened as he warned her that she would lose him. 

However, her mind thought the latter totally as hers and she felt there is no need to act. And, there she was becoming a fool being herself thinking his love weighed equally as that of hers. She kept weaving dreams about ‘their’ beautiful life and that hope was the only factor that helped her to sustain. 

One day, she ran to him seeking protection from something unhappy. He reacted politely, yet sternly “Everything is over between us”. Amid the busy world she stood alone, begging him to come back to their happy days. He was firm and looked as if he forgot the past. He could only count her negatives and said she never made him happy. His sweet words-I am so lucky to get you, I will never leave you, all those reflected in her mind. They still sounded sweet, but as lies. 

Midst of the vast ocean, there she swims directionless. No hopes, no dreams. Her face reflects an unsaid strength - The determination of not getting cheated again. 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

My memories at coffee plantation

It is another rainy day here. The sight of rain drops falling on the leaves reminds me the dew drops in Wayanad. Situated in north Kerala, Wayanad is one of the exotic destinations for travellers.  My relationship with this tourist spot is not that of a traveller. It is the place where I spent my childhood. The long 15 years, perhaps the most vital time in any person’s life span. 

Coffee plantation
My memories at Wayanad begin at my Dad's coffee plantation. Midst of coffee plants and pepper strings, the little me ran and played. I often got surprised with the varieties of plants and insects existed there. Several migrant birds visited the place and they rested on the Shatavari herbs (Asparagus) that my mother grew on the pillars of our house.

The surroundings always bore a heavy silence. The only time I found the place noisy was during the coffee season, from December to March. 

During this period, the labourers from Karnataka come to our place in abundance. Each estate has their own labourers to come every year and they have a master accompanying them. He decides the wages for them and brings more people if the owners demand. 

Paadi houses for labourers
The labourers are usually accompanied with their families. They have a fixed accommodation arranged within the estates itself, which is popularly called as ‘paadi’. This is nothing, but the labourer cottages.

The work time begins at 8am and extends up to 5pm. There is a person who is addressed as ‘Wrighter’ (hope the word emerged from the word Wright) or Mastery. He leads the work. Mostly, he is an appointed elderly person who lives within the estate throughout the year, irrespective of the seasons. 

Food habits of labourers
Ragi balls (Ragi mudde)
The food habit of the labourers is something I found fascinating. The main food was always Ragi (Finger millet), which they brought from their home town. The ragi is boiled in water and is made it into heavy balls. A curry of dal and onions is made as side dish. For spice, the people bite small green chillies grown in the estates. As a child who grew up by eating rice, this was anew to me. 

In addition, they fried ground nuts which were also from their native. The ground nuts were given as gifts to the owners, whom they addressed as ‘Sowkaar’.

The work
The first work in the estate is cutting of grass. This begins early so that the ground is cleaned before the coffee ripens. This is the only time in the year I could walk through the estate without the kisses of grass on the legs. Once cleaned, the place becomes a kingdom of mosquitoes. I can still feel the depth of the itch their bite gives. Perhaps, it is the toughest one I had ever experienced. 

Coffee Harvesting
The harvest of coffee is a memory by itself. The process is completed in three sections that begins in December. The first pluck is careful, in which the ripened beans alone are plucked. By January, all beans get fully ripened and it is plucked at one stretch. The workers strip the beans from the branches. The third pluck is a clean up. Women undertake this job. The fallen beans are picked from the mud. Those from the mud are found without the outer skin. The reason for this is the bats. Bats eat the red skin of the coffee beans and spit the inside kernels. 

Evenings are the time to count the filled sacks. The view of the labourers bearing the sacks and strolling up to the flat lands is captivating. One sack is approximated to sixty kilograms. That is a standard measurement defined. The sacks are weighed on machines only towards the sale. 

Coffee beans at Kalam
These plucked beans are laid on the flat lands called ‘Kalam’ and are allowed to dry. The red colour gives a stunning view and I used to skate on them. Every night people sit at the corners of the land with lighted camp fires. They sing songs throughout the night. These are the only nights in Wayanad which are fearless. 

Flowered coffee plant
Once the beans are plucked, the coffee plants get ready for flowering. The white flowers spread a fragrance in the aura. 

The coffee making
Dried coffee beans
A peculiar way is followed to test the dryness of the beans. The beans are taken in bunch and are shaken. The crispy sound indicates dryness. When dried, the colourfulness of the coffee beans vanishes and they turn dark brown. These dried brown beans are crushed and the white inner kernels are separated from them. The white kernels are fried later and grinded into coffee powder. 

White coffee kernels
The estates mostly sell the dark brown beans. The white kernels are expensive, yet only a few go for kernel sale. Perhaps it could be the difficulty existed in the conversion process that ceased them. 

The labourers stay till the sale period, which is often at the end of March. Their salaries were given weekly and their celebration were limited to a Sunday movie. The owners offer the labourers clothes and food as a sign of gratitude on their departure day. It marks sadness not only to the people, but also to the place. I always felt the darkness gulp the place faster on such days and the scary sounds fill the environment. 

Friday, August 10, 2012

Anna Hazare Movement: A film that failed to impress

“The politicians are murderers, rapists, looters, liars, corrupt, cheaters, butchers... They are the worst creatures on earth...
Against them, I form a POLITICAL PARTY!!! Join me and fight for the cause...”

How naive this sounds?

After shouting everything possible against politicians, Anna wants to be one of them. Whose senses had lost? Frankly, nobody gives a damn about Anna’s party. Nobody wants it. Every politician confronting with his own party is coming up with another. Citizens are fed up!

We sensed a political entry when Anna first spoke in support of Narendra Modi. However, he corrected himself in a speech delivered at Gujarat later. Through strategically planned political gimmicks, Team Anna tried to gain a secular, anti-political visage. The support for Sanjay Bhatt, voices against ministers, constant speeches and interviews- all usual ploys were attempted. Yet, the collaboration with Baba Ramdev, the guy clad in saffron with strong Hindutva connections remained as a notable scar on their face.

Bluntly, Anna is just a face upfront and the brain behind is different. Hope it is that of Arvind Kejriwal’s. There could be multiple faces yet to be revealed. Whoever it is, let me tell you-The journey so far is fine. You raised a mass consciousness against corruption. Let us stop this here before heading into another cheap step of political option.

Overall, the Anna Hazare movement was like a film that failed to live up to the expectations of the audience. It was a beautifully shot flick, enriched with the colours of media support (the contrasts of the colors were heavy, actually it harmed the movie). But the climax was pathetic and Anna became a mass hero who betrayed his fans.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

The scene I wish I never had

The train journey from Coimbatore to Kerala always enchants me. It is a dawdling shift from dry land to the pleasant green grounds. The accompanying cool wind offers a pleasantry feel even to the dreariest man on earth. In addition, Kerala is the place on earth I get to eat plenty of fishes. As a foodie, this factor makes me thrilled. 

It was one such journey. The compartment was filled and there was a military uncle with his big family sitting beside me. I guessed he is a military professional because of his posture. He had thick protruding moustache with the ends curled. He was wearing a full sleeve ironed shirt and was sitting straight.  There was no smile on his face and his expression sometimes made me feel that I am someone invaded into his territory. 

Somehow I stereotyped the wives of military heads as gorgeous and proud. That was true in this case as well. The uncle had a beautiful wife, draped in golden yellow saree. However, his two daughters were not so good looking as their mother. They seemed to have got their father’s features and had pretty sharp pairs of eyes. There was a son for him and the boy was a clear representation of the father’s strictness. The boy’s eyes looked scared all the time and he was too lean for his age. 

There were a few others - a pompous aunt, a grey haired man who looked like that aunt’s husband, a man in his 20’s et cetera. I did not observe them much mainly because the military uncle was staring at me whenever I looked at the people around. He seemed to hate me-maybe he carried some kinds of premonition about the girls of my age. 

After half an hour of fighting with his staring eyes, I decided to stretch my head out and enjoy the change of scenes. The new boy cut I did kept my hairs intact even in that gushing wind. Few stations passed and the train was nearing Palakkad. The railway station at Palakkad is always busy, mainly because it is a major town station after Coimbatore. While many people climbed down there, the new ones joined us for the rest of the journey. The train stopped for fifteen minutes there. After the rush of people, the platform became a little calm and there were only the chai-walas roaming around. 

I simply looked at the military uncle sitting opposite to me. He was staring at something on the next track and a strange expression was drawn on his face. I peeped into the same direction. A girl, perhaps of the age 15 was sitting on the left most track. She was trying to get up from there and wanted to climb the platform next to it. Something prevented her from standing up. Her long skirt was unnaturally wet, especially behind. She kept one hand on the platform and tried to stand up again. Nobody on the platform noticed her. From the tiredness on her face, I felt she was hungry. Her shirt was torn on the right shoulder and the piece of cloth hung behind, revealing her bare back. I felt too uneasy and badly wanted help her. I knew I was helpless and looked at the military uncle, who too seemed to have the same feeling within him. 

The train began to move. I remembered there is a women’s helpline saved in my mobile phone. I got it from some hoarding kept at bus station. I chose that from the phone’s contact list and rang the number. Although the number was saved long back, that was the first time I was using it. I did not know what to tell them, but I knew I must try. The sight of the girl was moving away from me and the ring went on.

“The number you are trying to reach is not reachable. Please try again later,” the announcement banged at my ears. The train moved faster and I kept trying for a few more times. 

The military uncle was looking at me, but I knew this time his expression was not hatred. Rather it was that of a helpless father pronouncing the pain. The howls and chats in the compartment continued as usual. Neither the cold wind nor the greenery entertained me. We two souls were silent and kept bearing that tragic scene ever. 

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Aren’t we one?

When I came home for the vacation this time, things felt different. I saw a new road beside my house and it never used to be there earlier. Mother who came into my room saw me looking at the windows and she grasped my query unspoken. “That is the new road to temple. Your Dad gave it.”

Her words made me to look on to the concrete fence and yes, it was newly painted. I took my tea cup and opened the door to the right side to get a proper view of the road. It was barely three foot, yet people could walk through it seamlessly.

The long skirt girls with jasmines decorating their long hairs were coming through the way. They were carrying baskets weaved in bamboo filled with hibiscus flowers. Hibiscus is available aplenty and we hardly get to see a house without hibiscus in Kerala. The sight implied the time and it was almost 6pm.  Now more Kerala traditional sarees are appearing at the entrance and I could hear the temple music.

I have been to temple several times, but could not remember a time when I went with flower filled baskets, wearing ethnic attire. I have always wondered why my mother is not so curious about it. She too is not so traditional, but lights lamp at home and wears only sarees everywhere.

In fact, I never tried asking her about it. Mostly, the topics related to culture or tradition never arouse in our house and it was as if we must grasp it ourselves. This approach seemed to be true to certain extend because I learned it myself from society perceiving things. Till date, nobody called me uncultured or non traditional, which makes me believe what I perceived and learned myself is true.

Plenty of times I have faced the question “Which is your memorable Onam or Vishu?” which I am still trying to figure out. The Onam at my house is like any other day, a late affair, with my sister and me waking up from bed at 10 am. We finish our routines and then think of putting a flower carpet. By that time, delicious payasam smell emerges from kitchen, making us hungry. All festival days were the same for us and we celebrated it just with food.

Neither the routines, nor the personality implied my religion or culture, never there aroused a day to project it too. Yet, I believe in Al Mighty and pray in my heart during the routines. I do not feel a need to flaunt my culture.

The biggest asset of not being forced into things like this is that I learned to respect all religions and cultures as ours. I feel awkward when I read or hear people speak filthy about a particular religion or culture.

Truly, I wonder why people value a man with a social tag. Before being locked into any societal shackle, he or she is a human being like any one of us. He or she bears the same pain, same pleasure and carries same red blood. Where from the deep heart we learn to differentiate them and what is the purpose of doing so? The pursuit for the answer continues.