Rani's Story - in Tamil

Rani's Story

By: Roma Tearne

Translated with permission: Senthilan

அந்த முகவரியை இலகுவாக கண்டுபிடிக்க முடிய வில்லை. நான் தாமதமாக வந்திருந்தேன். மன்னிப்புக் கேட்டுக்கொண்டேன்.

பிறகு, ஒரு தற்சமைய முடிவில் வாங்கிய மலர்கொத்தைக் அவர் கையில் தந்தேன்.

அது ஒரு விபரணம் இல்லாத பெப்ருவரி நாள்.  சூரிய வெளிச்சத்தை காணவில்லை.  ஈரமான காற்று மழைவருமென பயமுறுத்தியது. இந்தப் பேட்டிக்காக லண்டன்வரை பயணித்துவிட்டு, ரயில் நிலையக் கடையில் அந்தப் பதுமராக மலர்கொத்தை வேண்டியிருந்தேன்.

நான் பேட்டிகாணபவிருப்பர் ராணி. இருபத்தியாறு வயது. எனது புர்வீகம் கூட இலங்கையாக இருப்பதால் இந்த பேட்டியில் அதிக கவனம் வந்திருந்தது. ஆனாலும் இந்தப் பேட்டியை மேற்கொள்வதில் நிறைய யோசித்திருந்தேன்.

நான் ஒரு பத்திரிகையாளனல்ல. ஒரு ஆலோசகனோ, சட்டத்தரணியோ, வைத்தியனோ கூட அல்ல. இப்படியான ஒரு நபரைச் சந்திப்பதில் எந்தவிதமான அனுபவமும் எனக்கில்லை.

ஆகவே ஒரு நிச்சயமற்ற பரிசுப்பொருளாக, மதிப்பளிக்கும் நிலைப்பாட்டாக மலர்கொத்தை வாங்கியிருந்தேன்; வானத்தின் நீல நிறத்துடன், சிறுமைகளைத் தொலைத்துவிட்ட காற்றின் நறுமணத்துடன்.

இந்த மலர்க்கொத்தை நீட்டியபோது ஒரு பாழடைந்த சோகம் மட்டும் அவர் முகத்தில் குடியிருந்தது. சுற்றுப்புறங்களிலின் செல்வாக்கினின்று அவர் மிகவே விடுபட்டிருந்தார்.

அவரைச் சந்தித்த அறை மிகச்சிறியதாக இருந்தது. ஒரு பதிவான படுக்கை, வெறுமை யான மேசை, ஓடாத கணணி, தாவரங்களின்றி, சுவர்களில் படங்களின்றி, தனதென்று சொல்லிக்கொள்ள எதுவுமற்ற வெறுமை.

Roma Tearne

சுவரில் பதித்திருந்த ரேடியேட்டரில் இரண்டு சாம்பல் நிறக் காலுறைகள் காயந்து கொண்டிருந்தன. சற்று மெலிதான ஊதுபத்தி வாசைன காலையில் பிரார்த்தனைகள் நடந்ததை வெளிக்காட்டின. கதவுத் திரையின் மறைவுகளில் எங்கள் சம்பாசனையை ஒட்டுக்கேட்கக் காத்திருப்பவர்களின் சிலும்பல்கள் போலும்.

“சொல்லுங்கள்” - நான் வினவினேன். மற்ற எண்ணங்களை முற்றாக மறைத்துவிட்டு, நான் எங்கே இருக்கிறேன் என்பதையும் மறந்துவிட்டு.

“முதலிலிருந்து சொல்லுங்கள்”

ஆனால் அவரால் முடியவில்லை. அவரது நினைவுகள் துண்டு துண்டாகத்தான் வருவது போலும். வரவிரும்பாத நினைவலைகளை வெளியே சொல்லும்போது மட்டும் திரும்பத் திரும்ப வாழ்வதுபோல.

“அவர்களைக் கொன்றுவிட்டார்கள்”
- நான் ராணியின் விளக்கத்திற்காக காத்திருந்தேன்.

முதலில் ஆறுபேராக இருந்த குடும்பம். தற்போது ராணி மட்டும்தான். தனியாக.

“ஒன்பதாவது நாள், ஏழாம் மாதம், கடந்த வருடம்” - ராணி சொல்கிறார், கண்களை மூடியபடி, கரங்களை குறுக்கே கட்டி தனது தனிமையைப் பாதுகாத்தபடி.

“எனது சின்னம்மாதான் தொலைபேசி மூலம் அறிவித்தார். எமது வீட்டை கொளுத்தி விட்டார்கள் என்றார். எனது அம்மாவையும் தங்கச்சியையும் வீட்டுக்குள்ளே வைத்து உயிரோடு எரித்து விட்டார்கள். நான் போய்ப் பார்த்தபோது எலும்புக்கூடுகள் மட்டும் தான் எஞ்சியிருந்தன.”

ராணியின் வார்த்தைகள் எம்மிடையே ஒரு அதிர்வான அமைதிபோல பரவியிருந்தது. அவரது மனதில் உறுத்திக்கொண்டிருந்த முதல் நினைவு இதுதான் போலும்.

வெளியே லண்டன் தெருக்களில் ஒரு போலீஸ் வண்டி ஊளையிட்டுச் சென்று கொண்டிருந்து பின்னர் அச்சத்தம் மறைந்து விட்டது.

ராணியின் கதை 2004ம் ஆண்டு தொடங்குகிறது. அவருக்குப் பதினேழு வயதில். ஒரு சாதாரண குடும்பத்தில் பிறந்துள்ள ராணி எதிர்காலத்தில் ஒரு ஆசிரியராக வந்து தமிழ் குழந்தைகளை அறிவாற்றலை வளர்க்க விரும்புகிறார். நான்கு பிள்ளைகள் கொண்ட குடும்பத்தின் மூத்தவர்தான் ராணி.

குடும்பத்தின் அனைவரும் சிறிலங்கா ராணுவத்தின் அடக்குமுறை விசாரணைகளுக்கு உட்படுத்தப்பட்டவர்கள். கிராமங்களை வளைத்துப் பிடித்து கிராமத்தவர்களை விசாரித்து கொடுமைபடுத்தும் இராணுவம் அழைத்துச்சென்று மீண்டும் திரும்பாத அனேக நண்பர்களை ராணிக்குத் தெரியும்.

ஆனால் 2004ம் ஆண்டு மற்றச் சிறுவர், சிறுமிகளைப்போல நிரம்பி வழியும் எதிர்காலக் கனவுகளுடன் வாழ்ந்தவர்தான் ராணி.

ஒருநாள் இயக்த்திற்கென ஆட் சேர்க்கும் ஒருவர் வீட்டுக்கு வந்து கதைத்துக் கொண்டிருந்த வேளையில், ஏதோ ஒரு உத்வேகத்தில் தானும் உதவி செய்ய போவதாக ராணி தெரிவிக்க அன்றுடன் வாழ்க்கை திசை திரும்பியது.

இயக்கத்திற்கென உளவு பார்க்கும் பணியில் ராணி நியமிக்கப்பட்டார். ஆனால் அது என்னவென்றே ராணிக்கு விளங்கியிருக்கவில்லை. ஒரு அரசுசாரா நிறுவனத்தில் தான் அவருக்கு நாளாந்த வேலை. கிராமம் கிராமமாகச் சென்று சுகாதார மேம்பாட்டுப் பணிகளில் இயக்க வைத்தியர்களுடன் சேர்ந்து வேலை செய்த அதே வேளை ராணி ஏ-லெவல் பரீட்சையிலும் தேர்வானார்.

2007 ஆண்டு போர்க்காலம் கடினமாகியது. வீட்டிற்கொரு வீரரென இயக்கம் ஆட்சேர்த்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது; சிறுவர்கள் உட்பட.

“உங்களது தம்பிகளும் இயகத்தில் சேர்க்கப்பட்டார்கள் என எப்போது தெரிந்தது?”
- நான் கேட்டேன்.

அந்தக் கேள்வியில் ராணி உடைந்து போனார். தலையைப் திடீரென பின்படுக்கையில் சரித்துக்கொண்டு விம்மி வெடித்தார். அது அழுகையென்று கூறமுடியாது. எனது நாடிகளை ஊடறுத்துச்சென்ற ஒரு வெறித் தனமான உணர்வு வெளிப்பாடு. அந்தப் பேரழுகை தொடர்ந்து கொண்டே போனது.

ஒன்றும் இயலாதவளாக நான் காத்திருந்தேன், புயல் ஓய்வதற்காக.

தன்னை ஆசுவாசப்படுத்திக்கொண்டு ராணி தொடர்ந்தார்.

ஆதரவுக்காக கைகளைப் கோர்த்துக்கொண்டு இயக்கத்தை நோக்கிச்சென்ற ராணியின் இரண்டு தம்பிகளுக்கும் இன்றுவரை என்ன நடந்ததென்று யாருக்கும் தெரியாது.

2008ம் ஆண்டுப் போர் வடகிழக்கு இலங்கையை விட்டு தூரச் சென்றுவிட ராணியின் இயக்கதிற்கான தொடர்பும் துண்டிக்கப்பட்டது. குடும்பத்தை காப்பாற்றவென ராணி தையல் வேலை மற்றும் கேக் செய்தல் தொழில்களை கற்றுக்கொண்டார்.

ஆனாலும் இராணுவத்தின் கிராம வளைப்புகள், விசாரணைக் கொடுமைகள் தொடர்ந்தன. ராணியின் இயக்கத் தொடர்புகள் வெளியே தெரியவந்து விடுமோவென பயந்த அவரது பெற்றோர்கள் அவரை இன்னமொரு தொலைதூர கிராமத்துக்கு சொந்தங்களுடன் இருக்கவென அனுப்பி வைத்தனர்.

நாட்கள் கடந்து போரும் முடிவுக்கு வர, பெற்றோரை பிரிந்திருந்த ராணி ஏப்ரல் 2011ம் ஆண்டு பிறந்த ஊருக்குத் திரும்பினார். ஆனால் திரும்பிய சில நாட்களிலேயே சிறிலங்கா உளவுத்துறையால் ராணி கைது செய்யப்பட்டார்.  10 நாட்கள் சிறைவாசம்.

“என்னை அந்த பத்து நாட்களில் ரொம்பத்தான் கொடுமைப்படுத்தினார்கள்” - ராணி ரகசியம் பேசுவது போல் கூறுகின்றார். அவருக்கென கொண்டுவரப்பட்ட கோப்பி தொடுவாரின்றி ஆறிக்கிடக்கின்றது.

நான் கேள்வி கேட்பதை மறந்து மௌனமாகி யிருக்கின்றேன், வரப்போகின்ற பதில்களை எதிர்கொள்ளப் பயந்து.

ராணியை சிறிலங்கா உளவுத் துறையினர்  தொடர்ந்து அடித்துத் துன்புறுத்தினார்கள். அவர் கற்பழிக்கபட்டார், பல தடவைகள். அவரது கால் பெருவிரல் வெட்டப்பட்டது.

“எனது மனதை கொடுமைப்படுத்தி விட்டார்கள்”
-ராணி தன் உடலை குறுகிப்படுத்திக்கொண்டு அழுகிறார்.

ஒரு பாராளுமன்ற உறுபபினரின் உதவியுடன் ராணி விடுதலை செய்யப்பட்டு வைத்திய சாலையில் அனுமதிக்கப்படுகிறார்.

ஒரு மாதகாலமாக, குழந்தையைப் போல் தாயாரின் மடியின் பாதுகாப்பில் படுத்திருந்தது மட்டும் ராணிக்கு இன்னும் நினை விருக்கின்றது. இதை நினைவுறுத்தும்போது ராணியும் ஒரு தாலாட்டுப்போல கண்களை மூடிக்கொண்டு முன்னும் பின்னும் அசைகிறார். நான் வெளியே பார்க்கின்றேன். பெப்ருவரி மாத வெளிச்சம் கொஞ்சமாகத்தான் உள்ளே வருகின்றது. வார்த்தைகள் என்னை தோற்கடிக்கின்றன.

கடைசியாக ஒரு உடைந்த மனிதையாக ராணி வைத்தியசாலையை விட்டு வெளியேறுகிறார்.

மற்றவர்களால் உடல் ரீதியாக சித்திரவதை செய்யப்பட்டவர்கள் உலகை விட்டு நீங்கிய வர்களாகவே வாழ்கிறார்கள். ராணிக்கும் அப்படித் தான்.  சாப்பாடு, தூக்கம் எல்லாவற்றையும் வெறுத்து வாழ்ந்தார்.

எல்லோரும் பழசை மறந்துவிடு என்கிறார்கள். அது சுலபம், சொல்பவர்களுக்கு மட்டும்.

தனக்கு இழைக்கப்பட்ட பாலியல் கொடுமைகள் தினம் தினம் மனத்திரையில் ஓடும்போது அதை அழிப்பதென்பது இயலாமல்  போய்விடுகிறது.

வைத்தியசாலையிலிருந்து விடுபட்ட ராணிக்கு வாரா வாரம் பொலிஸ் நிலையத்துக்கு வந்து கையொப்பம் இடுமாறு உத்தரவு வருகின்றது. ஆனால் அந்தத் தினங்கள் கொடுமையின் உச்சங்கள்.

பொலிஸ் நிலையத்தில் வைத்து பாலியல் சித்திரவதைகள் தொடர்ந்தன. தலை முடியைப் பிடித்து இழுப்பார்கள், உடல் அங்கங்களை தொட்டழுத்துவார்கள். இதைத் தவிர்க்க ஒரு வழியுமில்லை. இயலாமல் தனது தகப்பனாரிடம் முறையிட, ஒன்றும் செய்யமுடியாத அவர் ராணியை பொலிஸ் நிலையம் செல்லாமல் நிறுத்தினார்.

தொடர்ந்து ராணியை கண்காணித்து வந்த இராணுவமும் பொலிசாரும் இதனால் கோபம் கொண்டு ஒரு நவம்பர் மாதம் ராணியின் தகப்பனரை கடத்திக் கொண்டு சென்றனர்.

அவரது ரத்தம் தோய்ந்த உடல் அதே நாள் கடற்கரையருகே கண்டுபிடிக்கப்பட்டது.

“எல்லாம் என்னால்தான் நடந்தது” – ராணி மீண்டும் அழுகிறார்.

“என்னால்தான் அவர் கொல்லப்பட்டார். அதன்பிறகு சாவதாக முடிவெடுத்து விஷம் சாப்பிட்டேன். ஆனால் சாவதற்குக்கூட கொடுத்துவைக்கவில்லை. நான் செத்திருந்தால் இப்போது எனது அம்மாவும் தங்கச்சியும் உயிருடன் இருந்திருப்பார்கள்.”

தகப்பனாரின் இறப்பைத் தொடர்ந்து ராணி மீண்டும் பொலிஸ் நிலையம் செல்லத் தொடங்கினார். ஆனால் அங்கே நடந்த பாலியற் கொடுமைகளை அவரால் தாங்க முடியவில்லை.

மே 2012ம் ஆண்டு தாயாரின் உதவியுடன் ராணி ஒரு ரகசிய இடத்தில் தங்கத் தொடங்கினார். மூன்று மாதங்களாக அவர் திருகோணமலையிலிருந்த அந்த ரகசிய வீட்டைவிட்டு வெளியே வரவேயில்லை.

ஆனால் இராணுவம் விட்டுவைக்கவில்லை. ராணியின் இருப்பிடத்தை தெரிவிக்காவிடில் தாயாராக் கொன்றுவிடுவதாக பயமுறுத்திவந்தனர்.

ஜூலை 8ம் திகதிதான் ராணியின் தாயார் அவருடன் கடைசியாக செல்பேசி மூலம் கதைத்தது. “வீட்டிற்கு வராதே” – என தாயார் வேண்டிக்கொண்டார்.

அதன் பின்னர் வந்த செல்பேசி அழைப்பு அவரது சின்னம்மாவிடமிருந்து.

வீட்டைக்கொழுத்தி விட்டார்கள். தாயும் தங்கச்சியும் உயிரோடு உள்ளே.

“நான் திரும்பிப் போனேன்” - ராணி சொல்கிறார். அவரது குரலில் ஒரு உணர்வுமில்லை.

அயலவர்கள் எரிந்த வீட்டைச் சுற்றி நின்றார்கள், மௌனமாக. ஒரு வெப்பம் கூடிய நாள். தீர்ந்த பெற்றோல் மணம் வீட்டைச்சுற்றி. யாரோவொருவர் ராணியை எரிந்து சாம்பலான வீட்டினுள்ளே கூட்டிச்சென்றார். இரண்டு எலும்புக் கூடுகள் சாம்பலுக்கு நடுவே. தனக்கு பரிச்சயமான ஒரு உடையின் ஒரு பாகம் எரிந்தும் எரியாமலும் தங்கச்சியின் அருகில். அவ்வளவு தான் ராணியின் நினைவில். ஆனால் அவ்வளவும் நிலையான நினைவாக.

இப்போது ஒளிந்திருப்பதற்கு ஒரு காரணமும் இருக்கவில்லை. எல்லாவற்றையும் இழந்தாயிற்று. தாய், தகப்பன், தம்பிகள், தங்கச்சி.

அயலாரும், கிராமத்தவர்களும் அவரை தப்பித்துச் செல்லுமாறு வலியுறுத்தினார்கள். ஆனால் ராணியின் மனம் மரத்துவிட்டது. அடுத்து வரும் கஷ்டம் இதுவரை பட்டதைவிட கொடுமையாக இருக்க முடியாதென ராணி நினைத்திருந்தார்.

அதுதான் அவர்விட்ட மிகப்பெரிய தவறு.

சிறிலங்கா இராணுவத்தின் பிடியில் சென்ற நவம்பர் மாதம் தொடக்கம் 47 நாட்கள் ராணி சேதலிக்கப்பட்டார். கூட்டம் கூட்டமாக சிங்கள இராணுவத்தால் தினமும் கற்பழிக்கப்பட்டார். சிகரட்டுகளால் அவரது உடல் முழுக்க சுடப்பட்டது. துடுப்பற்ற படகுபோல், திசையின்றி, திக்கின்றி ராணியின் உடலும் உள்ளமும் உடைந்து நொறுங்கியது. மனிதாபிமானம் கொண்ட ஒரு மனிதனைக்கூட அந்த 47 நாட்களில் ராணி எதிர்கொள்ளவில்லை என்பது மனித குலமே அவமானப்படக்கூடிய விடயம்.

ஒரு கடிகாரத்தின் முள்ளொலி மட்டும் கேட்டுக்கொண்டிருக்கும் இந்த சின்ன  அரையிருண்ட அறையில் அடுத்து என்ன நடந்தி ருக்கும் என நான் யோசித்துப் பார்க்கிறேன். அழுதழுத வேதனையிலும் களைப்பிலும் ராணியின் வார்த்தைகள் கோர்வைகளின்றி வந்து தடுமாறி விழுந்து மீண்டும் அவரது உடைந்து போன மனக்குவளைகளில் தேங்கிவிடுகின்றன.

ஒரு உறவினரால் கொடுக்கப்பட்ட லஞ்சப் பணம் ராணியை அரக்கரர்களின் பிடியிலிருந்து விடுவிக்கின்றது. மன்னார் மூலமாக படகில் ராணி அரக்கத்தனங்களிலிருந்து விடுபட்டுச் செல்கிறார். ஆனால் அந்த அரக்கர்களால் கொடுக்கப்பட்ட வடுக்கள் அவரது உடலை விட்டு விடுபட மறுக்கின்றன.

“என்னை லண்டனிலிருந்து திருப்பியனுப்பினால் நான் செத்துவிடுவேன்” -  உடலாலும் உள்ளத்தாலும் ஏமாற்றப்பட்ட ராணி சொல்கிறார்.

உற்சாகமற்ற பெப்ருவரி மாதத்தின் பனிமூடிய பகல்வெளிகள் ராணியை சமாதானப்படுத்த ஒரு வழியுமின்றி ஏங்கி நிற்கின்றன. பதுமராக மலர்க்கொத்தின் நீல நறுமணம் மட்டும் அறை யில் தங்கி நிற்கின்றது.

நோபல் பரிசு வென்ற அமெரிக்க எழுத்தாளர் எல்லி வீசல் பின்வருமாறு சொல்லியிருந்தார்.

“நான் எனது நினைவுகளை உயிருடன் வைத்திருக்க விரும்புகிறேன். நினைவுகளை மறப்பவர்கள் குற்றவாளிகள். அவர்கள் இழைக்கப்பட்ட குற்றங்களுக்கு உடன் போனவர்கள்.”

இதைத்தான் நானும் செய்யவேண்டும்.

“மலர்களை மறக்கவேண்டாம்” - நான் சொல்லிவிட்டு மலர்க்கொத்தை எடுத்து ராணியிடம் அளிக்கிறேன். அதை அவர் மேலே தூக்கி நறுமணத்தை முகர எத்தனிக்கிறார்.

மலர்ந்து கொண்டிருக்கும் மொட்டுக்களின் நடுவே நான் ராணியின் கண்களைக் காண் கிறேன். அவை இப்போதும் அகன்று, இளமை யுடன், இலங்கையில் எம் இரண்டு பேருக்குமே பரிச்சயமான நீல நிற இறக்கைகள் கொண்ட இலைப்பறவைபோல தெரிகின்றன.

Get out to vote Toronto: Please spread the word

This is a grass root video campaign and public service announcement - targeting Tamil Canadians - to encourage participation in the upcoming Toronto Municipal elections. Please send a link to all of your GTA friends and family and ask them to empower their right to vote.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9w5trfGO1Xo

ps: The video does not endorse candidates nor funded by their campaign.


For information, please contact:
Kumar Ratnam
M: 416-294-7770

Forty Gallons of Milk

According to United Nations Development Program's 2008 poverty index, Sri Lanka ranks at 99 and India at 128 out of 177 participative countries. 17.8% percent of Sri Lankan and 31.3% percent of Indian nationals are statistically determined to be under the poverty line. Even if you're not a math whiz like me, the writer, it's easy to presume that Sri Lanka and India fits at the bottom half of this index.

According to a UNICEF report about 148 million children in the developing world are malnourished or under weight and half of these children live in South Asia.

Although these statistics paint a raw and painful picture, the real situation may be worst in most cases due to complex demography, remoteness of this population and challenges in gathering real information.

Now, let's switch gear and relocate to Longitude 44N and Latitude 77W to a divine place in Rochester, New York.

The Rajarajeswari Temple is located in the Rochester suburb of Rush on 23 acres of rolling verdant ground. This Hindu temple with an approach to allow non-Brahmins and even women to conduct pooja ceremonies is famous for equal opportunity and oceans away from traditional temples' hierarchical methods of priesthood. The temple follows the Sri Vidya tradition of teaching Sanatana Dharma rituals to all, regardless of cast or creed. The expansion of the temple is visible and impressive. Every year the temple conducts youth camps to enlighten westernized children with Hindu culture and philosophy.

The equal opportunity status also extends the visitors and devotees, regardless of differences, to perform Abishekam on godly idols. An Abishekam, for non-Hindus, is similar to bathing a religious idol with liquefied items (milk, yoghurt, honey, sandalwood, crushed bananas, etc.) however, is only a ceremony of ablutions and symbolic offerings, according to the Hindu Temple of Rochester (no relation to Rajarajeswari temple).

However, a recent visit to the Rajarajeswari temple gave me a jolt on one of their rituals.

During this visit, while the Yaga being conducted at a big hall with huge exhausts, the devotees were asked move on to an altar to perform Abishekam on the main idol, Sri Rajarajeswari Amman. People lined up in colorful saris, veshtis, children hanging to the tail ends of their parents. As they reached the altar, there they witnessed a line up of milk cans, about forty of them, each with four liters of fresh milk. A young man constantly poured milk into a metal container and handed over to devotees who in return poured the milk over the main idol. All forty gallons of them!

I too stood in line, watched the events then asked someone if the poured milk is collected at the drain-end and reused. This person didn’t know the answer but looked at me in amazement of my question. When I got close to the altar, with a feeling of guilt spiking through my backbone, shouting that ‘this is wrong’ when 140 million children go hungry every night, I backed off.

For the record, I am a born Hindu, brought up a Hindu and have practiced Hinduism extensively during my early years. I believe and trust that Godly things are to be delivered through human beings and that it’s human responsibility to spread and spend God given wealth to the most needed. And mainly when it comes to food, wastage is crime when millions are malnourished with no hope of revival.

I do not think that God asked us to pour forty gallons of milk on his visuals. I don’t think the God will become angry if we give him or her a symbolic offering and donate the rest to the needy and vulnerable of our society. I don’t think the God, which is sometime a statue carved out of stone; sometime a framed picture and sometime just a thought in our frame of mind will punish us for doing humane things.

Instead of following rituals of abundance and flaunting our wealth based on how many gallons of milk we pour on an intricately sculptured statue made out of black stone, the temples of modern society must guide their membership in righteous thinking; just like how the same Rajarajeswari temple dissolved cast, creed and sex discrimination to learn and perform pooja ceremonies.

An email sent on August 3, 2009 to get the Temple's side of view remain unanswered at press time.

Meeting the "killer of a child" - Part II

Chinnaiah (pronounced chin-na-ya) is a colorful personality. A man fond of life's amenities he is known to enjoy God's givings with plenty however, within means of his family and surroundings.

Chinnaiah was taught to drink and smoke by my father, so I've been told, when they were in their early teens, behind their house, hidden in Palmyra forests and near railway tracks, sitting in between parked railcars that carried provisions to Jaffna from the South. They both got immersed in many non-curricular activities together, again - I've been told, that their parents almost gave up in controlling and disciplining and that both were let to live and learn from their life experiences alone. The schools they were enrolled would have seen only a less than acceptable attendance. The girls they befriended would have had their hearts broken many times over. The pranks they played may have wrecked havoc in many lives. Yet, they remained committed friends for a long time.

Years moved on. Teens became adults. My father became a journalist and Chinnaiah formed himself as a pharmacist, working for Doctors, clinics and hospitals.

Chinnaiah also had a son, amongst other children, who was a Major with the Tamil Tigers during the mid to late eighties. Major Naren - the nom de guerre given to him by the Tiger leadership - if lived, would have been my age by now, with a family and possibly wife and abundance of children. During the Indian Army's involvement in the Sri Lankan affairs in late eighties and during a conflict in the North West Mannar region, Major Naren took his life by swallowing cyanide capsule to ensure not to be captured alive, a non-written pronouncement of committed Tiger cadre.

A devastated Chinnaiah and his wife moved to India and then onto Toronto, to live with their other children and extended families. Few more years moved on with monsoons, draughts, snow storms, riots and peace times. Then one fine day in late summer Toronto, I got married to Chinnaiah's older brother's daughter - not by arrangement for the record - thus becoming a relative-by-marriage to him.

Chinnaiah, a fan of Scotch, when under little influence would tell us stories about his past endeavors and experiences of meeting people and places. We would sit around him, during family gatherings, BBQs and wintery evenings to indulge in these past that we never saw, of the dusty streets of Jaffna peninsula, of the beaten path of railway tracks and palmyrah forests.

Chinnaiah is also known to have faced the LTTE supremo one evening, at their house in Navalar Road, during the times when Mr. Prabhakaran was free enough to roam the lanes of Jaffna, without much security and pomp. During this intersection, knowing Chinnaiah's "state of affairs", Mr. Prabhakaran apparently had made a comment stating that "Chinnaiah would continue to drink whether the Tigers are alive or dead". Then Mr. Prabhakaran laughed heartedly and patted Chinnaiah's back to go off and have dinner with Major Naren at their kitchen table.

Few days ago - let's let go of the past for a while and move to present day - I read a blog written by a former Indian Military Intelligence Chief named Col. Hariharan. This gentleman had served and spent three years in Northern Sri Lanka during the IPKF time, from 1987 to 1989, I think. While reading the blog, something struck me as if I have already knew the story that Col. Hariharan tried to describe and detail in his writings.

Immediately I called up Chinnaiah in Toronto and asked him to recall few incidents that were in Col. Hariharan's blog. Now, what you need to know is that Chinnaiah has already transformed himself into a teetotaler. No scotch, no Gold-Leaf, and no beetle chewing. And as such and unfortunately his memory isn't as crispy as before. So, he noted down what I said however didn't say much in return. Disappointed, I emailed one of my cousins to print and deliver the article to him to jog his 'sober' memory.

Then the next day, while I was sitting at the lounge of Renaissance hotel of Atyrau, in Kazakhstan, looking out at the frozen streets, sipping an Efes, I got a call from Chinnaiah. He was in rather anxious mood with a broken voice. I noted emotions through the receiver that was abnormal to Chinnaiah's usual calm and cheery manner.

He apparently had met the "killer of his son" - a second time over, in black and white, in precise print and in writing. However, this time the presumed "killer" himself seems to have come to terms with war and tragedy and that with emotions of reminiscence he's trying to heal, reconcile and reach out.

I expressed to Chinnaiah that we must eventually reconcile our past and move on. He paused for a while then said, "Look Thambi, Col. Hariharan was a friend of my son before he passed away tragically. So, as long as I have fond memories of my son, I too will have fond memories of the Colonel. I wish him well with all my heart".

[Please read Col. Hariharan's blog to dot and connect the lines]

Pongal: A Reminder

Time is tense; past and the present

Not a bright day to celebrate

The night is still on, dark and gloomy

With no sight of dawn..

 

When bombs fall around our loved ones

With no roof to cover their dignity

Hunger and thirst goes unnoticed

By the wrath of God or someone related to our almighty..

 

But we can still thank for

What we have until this morning

What we hope for tomorrow, near and the distant future

So, what we gather next become treasures

To cherish, preserve and for many more Happy Pongals to come..

Blowing in a Police Car

The early-eighties New York was a den of crime and corruption. While mugging and murders seemed out of control the corruption jumped out from an unexpected source. Then District Attorney Robert Giuliani, who last year contested to become the Republican Presidential nominee, fought hardly, and in the media limelight, to bring corruption to a halt and corrupters to justice. But the people he tried to put away were the same group of people whom were expected to implement raids and arrest warrants.

They were the men in blue; the mighty police force of the Big Apple. Disproportional percentage of these fine men and women in blue were charged with drug trafficking, running prostitution rings, shakedowns, neglect of duty and Blowing in a Police Car.

The raw meaning of "Blowing in a Police Car" is self explanatory and no one in the right mind would want to experience such an inhumane scenario. But it happened to me at the end of 2nd day of this new-year, about thousand kilo-meters away from New York City, on a road covered with snow and sleet.

We were on highway 401, an expressway that runs east-west through the city of Toronto. Returning from a family visit and dinner, one of my little occupants wanted some mid-night treat so we exited at Markham Road, picked up McChickens then re-entered back onto 401.

Upon entering I saw flashing blue and red lights ahead of me, on both sides of the on ramp to the highway. A man in black uniform put his hand in front of the car. I slowed down, stopped near him and rolled down the window. Before I got to react with a customary question of “What’s wrong, Officer?” he put his head literally inside the driver side window and asked: "Sir, have you been drinking today?”

Being a good citizen I answered, "Yes, one Scotch, Officer", hiding the second drink under my tongue, with a clear, ‘I’m smarter’ look and hope that the episode would finish soon with happy endings.

"Hmm.. I see.. But smell strongly of alcohol on your breath, sir. Would you mind taking a breathalyzer test and proving that you're okay to drive?"

Now, by this time the occupants of the car are getting uneasy. "I told you that I'd drive" - my wife yelled softly into my ears, in Tamil. There's sibling rivalry ensuing between two brothers and a sister about the unwanted visit to the McDonald's.

I obediently got out of the car and was led to a police vehicle that sat idling on the right side of the shoulder. The officer opened the rear door and commanded me to get in.

"Sir, not to worry, you are not under arrest but we have to conduct the test inside a police car".

I'm not sure how many of you have been in a police car. But for me, this was the first time. And to talk about the state of modern police cars, if you're not a front seat passenger, this is probably the cramped rear compartment ever been assembled at a Ford plant (no wonder they are losing out to Toyotas!). I practically had to squeeze my legs in between the bullet proofed front panel and the floor. The rear seat was made of thick rubber (easy to clean of blood stains and vomit, I guessed), a tiny video camera stared at me from rubber covered hood and there was stuff lying around on the right side of the seat with no intention of providing comfort to a suspect.

Two officers got in through the front doors of the car. One of them opened a little slider off bullet proofed glass panel that separated front and rear. He had an off-white gadget in his hand.

"Sir, this is the alcohol breathalyzer. And I'll explain how to use it. However, beforehand, I need to read some of your rights and options" - Then he went on to read a paragraph of my right to refuse, options and the ramifications of test results.

I practically had no options. If you refuse a breathalyzer test, you spend the night at a police station and wait for your lawyer to show up in the morning. If you take a test, the ramifications are as follows:

0.45 Or less alcohol level - you go home
0.45 Or greater - you go home with an immediate six months suspension of driving privilege. Your car gets towed away to a police yard if you don't have another driver
1.00 Or greater - you get arrested for drunk driving, lose your license for one year, if a first offender, and a charge with potential fine and imprisonment will commence

I opted to the test and as such conformed to the term "Blowing in a Police Car". The blowing took six seconds into a little plastic knob that was attached to the breathalyzer. Then it took long, life threatening, game changing two more seconds for the results to pop up on the digital meter.

God knows what helped me; I wondered. Was it the six-Dosa dinner with Sambar and chutney, was it the caramel pudding my wife made with love, was it the late night smell of McChicken that somehow got mixed into my Scotch filled lounges?

While I was led out of the police car (yes, you can't open the rear door from inside) by the man-in-black, while I walked up-chested for beating the system however, feeling low for drinking and driving, towards the fogged out windows of my car with panicky and worried four pair of loving eyes, I heard another policeman pondering in a sad voice:

"How come tonight is so slow..?"

Unplugged: A New Year Resolution

It's tough being a forty four year old.

There are so many expectations. You are expected to be in the peak of your career, with no regards to bank failures, bailouts, stock market plunge, recession and economic Katrinas. You have to play tutor to kids, sports coach, behavioral consultant, fashion commenter to the wife - only the 'you look marvelous Billy Crystal's kind' -, home theatre installer, perfect gardener, lawn mover, snow plower and many thanks to my un-cuisine abilities, the kitchen at least is off-limits.

To top it all up, I recently paid a visit to my doctor for a routine check-up. This lady of pristine white coat is a tough woman, who regularly eyeballs firmly through the top of her glasses with a 'are you following my recommendations' look. She usually checks the pressure, weight, height - which ceased to change two decades ago, and the beat of my heart with a cold stethoscope. All this would take few minutes then she'd return to her desk to check the records of a thick file of over twenty years. And, that's where the bad news started. The recent blood results didn't turn up satisfactory. There are moderate traces of cholesterol, nothing of a worrying kind however, against my doctor's previous preventive recommendations.

So, the questions began about my physical and dietary habits and I comfortably lied to all of them against the universal principle of not lying to your doctor. The difficult part of her challenge has been that I work out at least one hour per day to reduce cholesterol build-up and to prevent an eventuality of heart attack that is common across middle aged South Asian men living in Canada.

Most of you know that I travel extensively for the job, stay at hotels, and eat non-customary food prepared by unknown cooks, with unknown ingredients and lots of meat. Although the hotels I stay have excellent gymnasiums and work out facilities, I seldom stop the elevator on these floors. One of the reason being that we usually have an off-site meeting, after work, which end up with few pints in the tummy and it's not fair to expect a gym facilitator to entertain tipsy-turvy clients on a treadmill or trying to lift forty pounds in each hand. So, against my will, the work-out sessions never materialized and the elevators kept going, missing those floors of men of six-packs and women of perfect bodies.



Along came another new year, the dawn of 2009 and the media is filled of people making new resolutions that they know for sure to break within few weeks. I too paused and thought, as in other new-years, then declared these resolutions as a memento-breaker that prevents us from partying and indulging in 'usual' human behavior. A human behavior according to my dictionary is to live life fully, in moderation, with no greed or excess that goes beyond your abilities. I believe that such methodology of life is an implementable approach to most of us.

Then, at three a.m. on New Year eve's night, I woke up thirsty. The room, mouth and throat felt very dry. It's dark around the bed. I reached out to the left for a tumbler of water and found it empty. I got up, worked my way around to the bathroom and turned the switch on. The light didn't come up. I twist opened the faucet. There's no water. The floor felt icy cold. Looking through the window, the trees in the forest, past my backyard, stayed still; snow that was there before I went to bed is now gone. I returned to the bed and found the right side of it flat. I hastily removed the covers and found no one underneath. I ran through each bedroom of the house. All of them stood empty. Everything seems strange. How is that all of a sudden I've become alone?

I woke up again; this time for real, from this strange nightmare. I made sure the wife and kids are sound asleep. I went down to the basement and found the elliptical machine sitting idle and covered in dust. A weight resistance machine sat next to it in similar neglect. And suddenly it occurred that beyond dusting, these machines needed someone to work on them, to maintain a healthy metabolism, to burn off those unnecessary calories, to get rid of the occasional visits to my spectacled lady physician.

Most importantly, to not to be left alone, on a cold floor, waterless tap, lightless room, snowless winter and breathless trees so that there will be someone to yearn for under the sheets, children to coach, guide, to see their children, the fruits of our generation.

I have unplugged a new-year resolution that is going to live and make me live longer and healthier.

-----------------------
"The wit makes fun of other persons; the satirist makes fun of the world; the humorist makes fun of himself, but in so doing, he identifies himself with people - that is, people everywhere, not for the purpose of taking them apart, but simply revealing their true nature." - James Thurber

Ladies Left at the Door

Kannadi Mama passed away in Toronto, few days back.

I always called him Kannadi Mama (Spectacle Uncle) because I’ve never seen him without the spectacles and it rhymed well and easily for a toddler, from which age his family is friends with ours. The best memory I have of him is that he usually stops by our house on his Raleigh bicycle, with a woven basket attached to the front bar, parking the two wheeler by leaving one of the pedals down to hold on to the paved sidewalk. Although a ten second event, I can replay it anytime with no lapse in details.

The funeral ceremonies of Kannadi Mama were held at a parlor in Scarborough, another multicultural melting pot of Greater Toronto. These parlors - large buildings with facilities to conduct many funerals simultaneously - once privately owned, are now part of a major U.S. chain of funeral arrangers. Having improved since the cooperate takeover, just like a wedding planner, the professionals at these establishments cater to multi-ethnic, multi-religious communities with their unique needs of last rites, ceremonies and procedures. Death being an event that received no impact from economical trends or recessions, theses parlors also churns out steady business, thanks to aging population of Canada.

Muslims and Jews bury their dead within twenty four hours. Hindus in other hand doesn’t have such restrictions. And due to globalization of families, it’ll be very hard and impractical to arrange and conduct funerals in such short notice and time. While researching on this subject, I found a good book, “Saiva Funeral Rites with Explanations” written in Tamil with a one page summary in English, by Mr. N. Mahesan, an expatriate based in Australia.

While Kannadi Mama slept peacefully in his Mahogony box, in his trade mark spectacles, in traditional Tamil costume and garlanded by colorful flowers, while an unofficial funeral crier recited and chanted Hindu hymns, while a priest conducted poojas, while the only son of Kannadi Mama carried the 'kollikudam' - a clay pot - and splashed holy water around his soul-departed body, while he was symbolically lit by fire at the feet (the real pyre will be at a crematorium at another location), while all sobbed, cried and wailed, while the world came to a temporary halt, while the pall bearers assembled around, closed shut the coffin, then slowly rolled him away to the hearse, the ladies were stopped and left at the door of the funeral parlor.

According to Hindu custom, the ladies aren't allowed at the crematorium. Google doesn't help on this subject. Does anyone know why?

Krishna! - my Barber

National Post, one of Canada's semi-national dailies recently published an exclusive interview most people thought unattainable. While the article had nothing to do with Iraq, President Bush, President elect Barack Hussein Obama or recently infamous Illinois governor Blagojevich, it certainly created a little buzz amongst the Tamil Diaspora of Canada and around the world.

For my readers whom aren't Tamil, Sri Lankan, Canadian or any hyphenated versions of the latter or not necessarily care about dragging old bags along, here's a little history of the so called Tamil Diaspora and on "old-bags" they carry along:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tamil_diaspora
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sri_Lankan_Tamil_diaspora

The Post's interview was with the elder sister of Mr. Velupillai Prabhakaran, who is the supreme commander of Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), the most revered and disciplined freedom fighting organization in the world and the group which invented suicide missions - according to defense and security pundits. While Mr. Stewart Bell's - the Post's reporter - interview dived into the early days of Prabhakaran and made an attempt to extract information of his transformation to be guerrilla leader, the interesting part was of the link it made to Bagavat Geeta and Mahabharata, the Hindu mythological epic, being told and written over many versions over many thousands of years.

The Post however, erroneously notes that Lord Krishna told Arjuna, that he must fight in the war because he, the God, is saying so. The written scenario of the Geeta, in fact interprets differently that, Krishna, the God of Protection advises Arjuna of the evils of war and why sometime it is necessary to wage war against your relatives - for the greater good of the masses. Arjuna, a world class marksman during his era, who invented cluster archery – predecessor to cluster bombing, was having second thoughts while sitting on his chariot, well armed and ready to attack but looking for reasons and detachment. In simple terms, Lord Krishna's advice is like making sure you take the paint cans away if your brother happens to be the graffiti villain of neighborhood fences.

Recently, I visited my Barber, whose name also happens to be Krishna, for a number three bladed trim. Now, this Krishna is not a Lord of Protection or an advisor of any kind and in fact just a destroyer of evil, unruly hair and dandruff. He is also a very charming young man, who broke traditions with South Indian caste system, in which becoming a Baber is an hereditary profession that is usually shunned by non-Amabattan casted population (see: http://www.tamilnation.org/caste/caste_and_observances.htm). Having gone to hair styling college in Toronto, Krishna, against the wishes of his high-caste family, now cuts hair at twelve dollars per head and an additional two if you need art work on the back of your skull.

However, similar to Lord Krishna, the barber-ic version also advises me to fight the evils of grey hair that crops without fertilization, despite the high protein shampoo that I buy at four dollars a piece. He says that having thick full of hair is one thing, but having black thick full of hair should be the ultimate goal. Although grey spells wisdom, knowledge and in some instances loads of stress, the black hair showcases young, distinguished looks and during economic downturns and recessions helps to land jobs that would have been normally be allotted for young chaps, with real youth and obvious blackness.

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So, like Arjuna, I'm also okay to fight my relatives, the grey colored little strands that peeks through my 'blackened' head, after the second week of sessions with 'Hair Color for Men', that I had with Krishna - my barber!

Looking After Dad..

I meet Kevin, in Kalookan, on the rooftop of his abode, nearby sits a wood stove with slow cooking meat; the aroma spreading over hurriedly built many roof tops of this semi-slum suburbia of Manila.

The alley-ways are five feet wide, stinking sewer, covered by concrete slabs, running in the middle, mothers sitting at their doorsteps, talking and children playing, staring at the new comer, clothes dry on extended poles that poke out of windows with iron grills, making a colorful 'pandal' overhead, while we walk towards Kevin's house.

The house is narrow and three stories tall and twenty feet deep with no windows on the sides, giving privacy to another two and rows and rows of houses. We climb steep stair cases that takes late afternoon breeze from the narrow alley, through an always-open door, upwards, towards the rooftop, where chickens and ducks and pigeons live in corrosive steel cages filled with aged bird drops, along a lonely rooster, tied at the foot with brown twine to the two feet tall railing, emitting coo-coo sounds and trying very hard to make acquaintance with a colorful female.

In an adjoined room with open and airy windows, a loud TV with wavy pictures, a blue step stool and a backless chair, lay a shirtless tall man with twisted face, in large diapers covered with over sized shorts, in an old hospital bed. Stink of old urine arrives and depart. A two inch thick rope hangs in front of him, for him to use his usable right hand to pick on, get up and sit, unassisted. The man is paralyzed. The whole of his left side. He's Kevin's dad.

It's been like that for the past five years, of which the man has seen the outside world only during the first year, during visits to many doctors, specialists and hospitals, when Kevin try to revive him form a near-deadly stroke. Nothing worked; no medicine, therapy or the continuous prayers Kevin placed at the San Roque Cathedral in Kalookan. After those 'trying' time, his father gave up treatment and had been bed ridden ever since, with the flickering TV, sounds of chickens, pigeons and occasional visits from his other children, living on the second floor and around town.

Kevin, 31, a fair skinned, little plump man, was working in Tokyo, as a driver for a Pakistani importer, who imported Halal food from Islamabad. His dream at that time had been to save some money, wear fashionable clothes, find his dream girl and settle down somewhere overseas with no aim of ever returning home. However, his father's sudden illness brought him back home, gave him some sort of a wake-up call or realization and since then Kevin leaves the rooftop abode only to his job, to buy medicine or groceries.

When asked for reasons, Kevin, now a serious church going man, smiled and looked away and then at his glass of Red Horse beer, that we bought on the way to the rooftop, a dark brown substance, hidden in a white bottle.

"All I did was to picture myself forty years from now, on this rackety bed and step stool, with no wife, children or people to take care of, with no way to move, eat or even to clean myself of my own natural waste."

I expected a biblical reason from the heavy lifting church go-er but he came out very practical.

Kevin remains single, unattached, with a job at a call center so to give him more time to tend to his dad, with a devotion, dedication and passion.

"Although I always prey for his well being everyday, I also know that he'll be gone one day, permanently. But my aim is to keep his integrity, so that he'll never get into a situation where a stranger has to wipe his bottom, to have him feel lost of his bond to people, the seeds he sow in this earth and to lose his self esteem that he's holding since young, able, rich and with plenty to throw away."

I didn't know how to respond to such a statement that my glass of Red Horse empties pretty fast.

As a traveling consultant, I work with teams of people who converge from different countries, different cultural and social background to do a project. These lonely home away trips would bring us together to chat about each others dreams, after long days, over beer at café's in language unknown strange countries. Then suddenly, one day, a phone call would come to one of us about their parents demise, a serious illness or death from a far away land to suck away the cheer, laughter and to bury our heads in sadness and shame. I have witnessed, in several occasions, when these professional and mature people, break, cry and lose all their hope in that moment of hopelessness, their inability and failure to protect the very people who provided every stones to build their career and success.

Many of us never had or will have Kevin's determination and courage to give up our dreams and be with a sick and dying parent so that he or she could sleep, un-awaken, with peace, love and integrity.

When my father passed away, I too was living in Toronto - secured in a dream refuge with dollars and a fancy car. When the news came with an ultra-early morning ring, I was only able to fly to his bedside, on the day of death with a firm time of departure. It'll be exactly nineteen years on January 20th, when Barack Obama becomes the first African American president, when my current project expected to go-live and when I became torn, low, small and hurt with shame at wards of the Cooperative hospital in Colombo.

In my situation, it was also strange and spiritual as to how a parent, who was left alone, without his children by his side during his dying years, could even help me to find a future wife.

I found my future wife at my father's funeral ceremonies and three years later our first son was born on my father's birthday! Only a parent can have that sort of built-in forgiveness, to give, give and give without any returns or expectations.

Here I quote, with a grand salute to Kevin - not his real name by the way, from the Nobel Laureate Mr. V.S. Naipaul:

"Most people are not really free. They are confined by the niche in the world that they carve out for themselves. They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision."

The Jackson Heights Video Club

The white lettered 7 on-a-purple-dot was the cause for the whole thing.
This little long thing never stopped running until two in the morning, rattling from Flushing to Time Square, through the drug infested borough of Queens, Puerto Rican Junction Blvd., Indian Broadway, Irish Woodside, Greek Astoria and crossing into Manhattan under the Queensboro bridge, rattling, rattling and carrying early morning commuters, mid-afternoon nurses, college kids and late night drunks.
It covered a mere twenty two stations, the shortest subway route in New York's mass transit system, like a baby snake in the farm of Anacondas. I don't know who selected the purple color for this line of non-air-conditioned subway cars, in 1980's by the way, but the color certainly emitted a queer look, an object of mixture and diversity

In late August, some brave affluent patrons from Manhattan would ride this subway line to get to Arthur Ashe Stadium at Flushing Meadows, the host of the U.S. Open tennis tournament, where history was made by men, women and at least one out-of-closet lesbian, with corn dogs to munch during sets that lasted many hours into the night. When Mets won their only World Cup in 1986, the subway line became an instant carnival on tracks, dancing to the tune of emerging baseball fans from the Shea Stadium, yet allowing some somber crowd to get to the Grand Central Station, catch a train to Boston and bury their sobbing head in Red Sox' sagged bosoms.

I lived in a derelict apartment block, four floors high. Built with dark brown stones, the building sucked in cold air like a hungry infant, during the winter, in a neighborhood called Jackson Heights. Queens Boulevard to the south and Northern Boulevard to the north sandwiched J.H. into a BLT with Cheese from a New York deli. There was nothing in J.H. to write home about, except that during summer, you could witness some liberal Puerto Rican beauties in their revealing attire, accompanied by admirers, large Chevy Impalas and salsa beat.

A United Nations of people lived in these apartment blocks, not cordially always, but with an understanding to not to mess with each other. From time to time, there would be skirmishes outside the Laundromats on 37th Avenue, between pouring the detergent into the washer, between folding dried clothes and between youngsters from different communities, mostly over the subject of girls, after few Ballantines ale that sold at dollar a liter.

Kavi did not come from these derelict communities. She rode the number 7 from Flushing, where middle class people stayed, close to temples, synagogues and the Queens College that proudly delivered Nobel Laureates every few years or so, with easy access to JFK and the parkway that took you to Jones Beach in Long Island, when summers become too hot to bear.

During our mostly silent relationship, I met Kavi only once a day, during the return trip from Grand Central to Jackson Heights, at night, after an exhausting day working at the Ham Haven on Warren Street, making ham sandwiches on wheat-bread to lawyers, stock-brokers and Wall Street alike, near the City Hall where Ed Koch ruled the City like a smiling king, earning five dollars an hour to save for college that would start around four in the afternoon to go on till ten at night. These exhausting days and long evening of books and lectures would bring instant nap on the A train from 23rd Street to 42nd; then during transfers I'd see Kavi, in her warm colored clothing and pleasant smile with dimple filled cheeks.

The ride on Number 7 at night is usually a non-event. Most passengers would be dozing, reading or listening to Walkmans with cassettes. An occasional transit police man would wander into train cars, stay near the door that said "do not stay near the door" for few minutes to wander away into the next one. A tired child would cry in her mother's arms; a drunken lost lover would be weeping at his loss; an over-dramatic teen-ager would be swinging to an unheard tune, such that it brought an entertaining variety of people who called New York as their home away from home, into this twisting tube.

After cruising through the tunnel for about eight minutes, the Number 7 would emerge onto outside overhead tracks near the Vernon Boulevard station. From that point onwards the subway would thunder over the Roosevelt Avenue, cracking every window that's close to the tracks, waking lovers embraced in passion and homeless drifters sleeping under cardboard boxes, neatly stacked near the entrances of Dunkin Donuts, with remaining aroma of honey-dew filling the cold night's air.

One dull evening, an old pal of mine, half drunk, made a grand entrance into the subway car I was riding, at the Queensboro Plaza station, near the double decker-ed grand bridge that would take you into Manhattan if you are brave enough to maneuver the traffic and yellow cab drivers, whom according to Hollywood movies, all wore turbans.

This 'grandly' entered friend started blurting to me in Tamil and that's what made the little connection between Kavi and I, who until that time only had a smiling acquaintance.

The next night, as I was getting out of the subway car at the Jackson Heights station, Kavi, who was seated near the door, slipped a note to me. The note, simply said:

"I think you're a Tamil person. Is there a store in Queens where I can rent some Tamil movies?"

As the train moved towards Flushing, with the light flickering inside, due to malfunctioning electric current that ran through the tracks, I saw a blushing little woman, with a look to hold your breath, to whistle your favorite tune, to open your jacket and walk through the wintery blocks, feeling warm in my good old and beautiful Jackson Heights.

Following Saturday, I walked twenty three blocks to North Corona, via 90th Street and Elmhurst Ave, past many brown stone buildings, past fenced out basketball courts and past a Hospital where my tooth was extracted, painfully, to Chettiyar shop, the only place during the early eighties-Queens that rented Tamil VHS movies.

And, in days and months following, many cassettes were delivered and returned and re-delivered, on the rattling, white lettered number 7 on-a-purple-dot that twirled through the borough of Queens, like half hour episodes of a mega serial. But, that first episode of romance, the glittering eye contact, the warmth on a wintery road never blossomed to any great length.

Kavi couldn't talk, even if she wanted to.

References:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson_Heights,_Queens

http://www.mta.info/nyct/maps/submap.htm

To Amma

She turned seventy yesterday, an important milestone carved in a garden of rocks, colorful flowers, endless memories, relentless courage and limitless pure love. There's nothing I can elaborate nor to write to relive the past seventy years of her life - a life mixed with struggle and successes. All I can do is wish her seventy more so she can outlive and put me to bed when I reach the last juncture of my journey. Happy seventy Amma! 

Shattered windows of the St. Sebastian Library

It only displayed one long book shelf, about twelve feet in length, eight high, and five stacks of books in three languages. There were two desks with six chairs each around them. Most days it stayed empty with an L shaped reception and a sole librarian, looking bored, reading a Sinhala weekly that contained cartoon serials. The windows of the library rooms were shattered from constant cricket balls that came through an impromptu field, adjoined to the building. During monsoon and rain showers the window side of the library hall would be drenched and unusable however, no one seems bothered, since the bored librarian ran up to cover the bookshelf with rubber sheets.

If you climb the stairs that's to the outer-side of the library building, you'd come across a hall where youth played carrom and table tennis; one of them went to become a world champion, in carrom that is. And there were grown men who'd be immersed in news papers scattered across many small tables. Pass these people and through another glass-broken door, thanks to impromptu cricket, move into the small balcony filled with pigeon droppings, there, you could view the St. Sebastian church and it's front yard.

And, this is where lots my childhood was spent, in the dusty garden of God, though playing, not praying. The church, built during mid twentieth century had a tall, grand architecture, large front yard in thick red sand and sparkles of grass, adjoined by an elementary school and a convent for nuns. The perimeter wall on its left was the wall of a court prison where suspects were remanded to be brought in next day. Occasionally we've seen prisoners jumping off the ten feet tall wall into the church yard, unable to run off in their white baggy pants and only to be caught by Sub Inspector Jayawickrame who'd swoosh by in his Mahindra Jeep or an Enfield motorcycle.

We grew up in a neighborhood called Hultsdrop that later changed its name to Aluthkade (New Shop). A pre-dominantly Muslim neighborhood, surrounded my mosques that would call for prayers five times a day, some Hindus and Christians also lived amicably, in row houses and tiled roofs, emitting fragrance of multi-religious dishes. While our Muslim brothers went to under-staffed neighborhood schools, non-Muslims were bussed or van-ned to branded schools situated in affluent areas of Colombo.

In the afternoons, when religion, names of children, schools, clothing and culture became non-issue, we would gather inside the St. Sebastian's church's front yard to play cricket. Teams would be formed with youth of all ages, anywhere from six to eighteen, batting sides would be selected with a coin toss and we'll play the sport with home made bats and thick rubber balls. Evenly cut broom sticks will become the wickets. When there weren't enough children to form two teams, each person will get chance to bat base on a lottery method. Usually the unlucky last batter would go home crying because by the time he got his turn, it either be too dark to play or Sister Philomena would have unleashed the convent's little pomenerian to chase after the players.

I'm yet to know why Sister Philomena, a woman of faith, chose to unleash a little poodle on us however, on these dog-chasing occasions we'll go outside the church's yard and play in front of the library building, causing the windows to break that you read about earlier. I don't think any of the kids that I played with have ever stepped into the library, except may be to collect a wayward ball. The books of the library, neatly stacked on the single shelf, came on the Public Library System's truck that did its rounds fortnightly. Most times the driver of the truck would have nothing to exchange because the books seldom moved or circulated. It is not to say people weren't educated or interested in books. At that point of time, Sri Lanka maintained a 90% plus literacy rate, one of the highest in Asia, thanks for mandatory education act and British inherited methods.

Fortunately, the semi-haunted library, found me a refuge to collect these words, to run my imagination and to record my thoughts. The library became the Mecca for my thirst. The books I demanded became readily available, without waiting lists, undrenched, with a simple click of a date stamp off the hands of bored librarian who continued to read Sinhala cartoon serials. As a bonus, the electrical brown-outs implemented by the government to save energy didn't impact the library system. It always had electricity, until the closing time, to throw me out to the dark streets across the St. Sebastian church.

Over time, things changed. The cricket team and the carom youth and the news papers readers grew old. Sister Philomena became Mother Philomena and the poodle passed away peacefully at the feet of St. Sebastian. Another great library with historical collections was burned to ashes due to the civil war. Most of my Muslim friends didn't take up higher education and went into business as store owners, gem merchants and eventual millionaires. At least one of them got killed by a local mafia hit-man. Many left the country to build up their skills and talents offshore - including captaining the Canadian cricket team, build up families, children, and the Diaspora as we call it now.

The last time I returned to Aluthkade, four years ago, I walked pass the St. Sebastian library with shattered windows. The books have dissapeared. There was no bored librarian or the rubber sheet covered shelf. The building had been turned into a wedding hall.

I also noticed a padlock at the gates of St. Sebastian, I presume to keep young cricketers away and to give solace to escaping prisoners, inside the dusty garden of God.

Servants of nature and unseen bosses

After few days of unlimited flow, like a large keg of Efes - a Turkish beer that is in abundance in Kazakhstan, I'm hitting a slow moving writer's block. There's a half-full bottle of water on my desk staring at my half-emptiness. Surrounded by a TV, bed, couch and a dreary view through the windows of my hotel, the atmosphere refuses to bring color that is required to put letters on paper, or in this case, the keyboard.

People think travel is glamor and it brings curiosity like a child, adventure like a Dundee, freshness like a pretty girl and wisdom like an old man. All of them may be true, but if you travel for living, and live in a suitcase, the curiosity goes to sleep like an overplayed child, brushing teeth becomes an adventure, freshness is what I put on my lip to ward of the cold breeze off the streets of Atyrau, wisdom is silence that we keep at dinner tables, when subjects run out, like the BBC on a very dull day.

Mind is a funny thing, you may have noticed. It prepares itself before departing on a long trip. It ceases to miss your loved ones during the plane rides, because there's TV, rest or due to an annoying co-passenger. Then, as if it got pinched on the funny bone, it begins to miss the loved ones as soon as you checked into the hotel, by looking at the dreary view, worn couch, overslept bed and the TV that shows repeats of hard-talk. Then days pass by where you continue to miss and make attempts to reach-out and then all of a sudden that desire too cease to exist. You take up alternate methods to amuse yourself or entertain, Efes inclusive. You divide your mind between what happens at present with what could happen when you go back home, yearnings of physical kind inclusive. These divisions don't collide. They'll live in individual silos to ensure that your prestine-ness is kept for that return home, to greet your wife, husband, daughter, son, girl-friend, neighbor, dog and restart your regular life, for couple of weeks however, knowing that the bags have to be packed again.

This kind of mind-set builds only in a hard core travel man or woman. People I see at the airports with heavy hearts and tears seems very alien. They are from a different world and should depart from a different terminal, the one built specially with lots of Kleenex boxes. For us, please give us Wi-fi, Starbucks tall-cap and a place to sit and read a book. The delayed departure, missed connections, unruly babies don't really bother seasoned travelers. It's part of life of traveling, like dealing with traffic on a January winter on highway 401 (Toronto, that is). They become servants of nature with an unseen boss.

Talk about servants and bosses, I recently read two books - during plane rides, of course. One is "White Tigers" by debutant novelist Aravind Adiga, a Man-Booker Prize short listed candidate. The other is "Six Suspects" by Vikas Swarup, author of Q&A which has been translated into thirty five languages and made into a bolly-hollywood movie "Slum dog Millionaire".

Co-incidentally, both books addresses the servant class of India. The mentality, bound-ness, unquestionable loyalty, unable to break free and as such resulting cunning-ness and treason. Although both books may have been written at different times by authors who live in different part of India, or the World, their approach is identical and very authentic. If read back-to-back you'd think you're reading a book of the same author; yet the plots are different. While the "White Tiger" completely immerse in the servants' quarters, Six Suspects goes in-and-out to find the true killer amongst six unconnected people.

When I was growing up, I recall having two little girls as servants in our house however, both at various times. The girls, aged anywhere between ten and thirteen, were from the upcountry of Sri Lanka whose parents worked in the tea or rubber plantations. My parents weren't bossy type so these little girls were well taken care of and performed only menial things, like sweeping the floor, running to the nearby shop to buy sugar, milk, etc. I don't ever recall them cooking or serve us as normal servants are expected to do those days.

I strongly believe employing under-age children as wrong and punishable though in impoverished countries these are accepted practice because it brings food to their families whom otherwise would half-starve. The people who work in the plantations are the under-class of Sri Lanka. They are under-paid, thrown in poorly built shelters and exploited by companies and politicians. Yet, they work hard to generate most of Sri Lanka's GDP.

So, next time when you drink Lipton's tea with lemon and double sugar, just think for a second those hands that plucked the leaves from a cold plant on a cold morning at high-hills, shoeless. Next time when you wear a Bata shoe with rubber under sole, just think about a man who scrapes hundred rubber trees for mere two dollars a day. And also think about their children who should have been at school but potentially be serving tea to a parent-unseen boss. Then, after those few seconds, think about your children.

Aren't they fortunate?