Flood 2
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The Chain of Memories
My memories of Kerala begin with a (train) journey to Goa from Ernakulam. I was hardly three, and you know how much geography mattered to one in that age. What I still remember is a huge ring of yellow light with its rays scattered over the silvery rails coming towards me in the darkness. We (my dad, who was with the Indian Navy, and mom) got into the train. The days in Goa were memorable. I sensed a spectacular setting around me: The sea, abandoned aircrafts, stray dogs, cattle, prawns and ice creams with the colour of the setting sun. But the days didn’t last, we had to return to Kerala after a year. Though Goa evoked in me a sense of feeling about the place I live in, Kerala taught me the basic principles of life. Memories are always interconnected. So do my Goa and Kerala. I was born and raised in Attingal, a sleepy town 33 km from Thiruvananthapuram. As a child, I liked the place. But once I grew up, I began searching for bigger canvases. I joined University College, one of the mo
Pen and keyboard
Sorry, I couldn't update my blog for seven months. I was regularly writing, especially for the last two months. But somehow blogging didn't take place. All these months, I barely used my keyboard for writing, instead I used my fountain pens. I always loved writing with pens filled with different colours of inks. Violet, Turkish blue, black etc. I will be posting from tomorrow onwards.... cheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeers
One-man army
It was an April evening in the early 1990s. We — a group of ‘‘aspiring’’ young poets — were discussing Kafka and Sartre at the India Coffee House near University College, Thiruvananthapuram. An old man with long grey hair growing around a bald patch, wearing a white mundu and shirt, walked into the hall. He sat on a chair in the middle, and placed a lighter and a packet of India Kings on the table. We became quiet and nervous. If he overheard anything ‘‘funny’’, it could very well become the subject of the next Sahityavarabhalam, his controversial literary column in the Kalakaumudi, a popular Malayalam weekly. Krishnan Nair, the veteran Malayalam columnist who passed away last week at 84, could be the embodiment of love and affection. But he was disliked by most in literary circles. At the time of our seeing him in the coffee house, he was having a war of words with a Malayalam poet, a professor at University College. The poet claimed that Krishnan Nair had insulted him. Newspapers and
Time and tide
From the verandah of the Bungalow on the Beach in Tranquebar, I alternately focus my eyes on the partly-destroyed Masillamani Nathar temple and the remains of the fort wall, where waves from the Bay of Bengal hit. As I turn my head, I see the 17th-century Dansborg Fort; further away, there is the ruins of the Governor’s Bungalow and the post office building built by the Danes. Wherever I look, I see ruins. Built by the British in 1845, this erstwhile collector’s bungalow has recently been restored by the Neemrana Group, the Delhi-based heritage hotel experts. Because of its proximity to the sea, it has been renamed Bungalow on the Beach. To restore an ancient building and turn it into a living monument, one has to take a passionate journey into the soul of the place, which Neemrana has successfully done here. You see the same pillars and wooden ceilings that existed hundreds of years ago. Barring a couple of electronic items (sorry, no TV), everything in your room is antique. When you
Tracking Dolphins in Chilika
Satapada... Satapada… Satapada…’’ Tourist officer Bijaya Kumar Jena passes wireless messages to the boatmen onboard cruising on Chilika Lake. Sitting in his office at Yatri Nivas in Satapada, he instructs a particular boatman to reach the jetty immediately. “Sir, another half an hour, please bear with us,” Bijaya tells me, turning off the wireless set. I wait at his desk, glancing through some brochures and maps of Chilika, the largest brackish water lagoon on the East coast of India. A gentleman walks in and hands over another brochure, this one with a dolphin’s picture on the front page. “What would you like to have for lunch, sir?” a man in uniform asks me. It’s hardly 11, and I’m not hungry. I look at Bijaya. “You have to place your order in advance. The cruise will take three hours. Once you come back, you will be hungry,” Bijaya explains. What should I order? “Try our crab and prawn. Everything we get here is fresh,” says the man in uniform. We walk to the jetty; on the way, I se