Isthiri Poorniya?
Date - 05 Nov 2024.
Time: 06:20 AM. It's cold and still dark outside.
Place: Boylston, MA, USA.
Mission - Catch the seven o'clock Logan Express from Framingham Bus Station so that we could reach the airport by eight o'clock. The journey from home to the Bus station typically takes about thirty minutes. Getting out of the car, getting the luggage and getting in would consume five minutes. By all calculations we had five minutes to spare. The bus typically takes about 40 to 45 minutes to reach the airport. That would allow us to be in time for checking ourselves in.
The roads towards the airport get packed early in the morning with the Boston bound traffic. We had been caught in the traffic once earlier and caught the flight only because the flight had been delayed. The next bus would leave the station only at 7:30 AM. That would reach the airport only by 8:15, the earliest. I wanted to avoid the gut wrenching adrenaline. Everything, so far, was going fine.
Issac, my brother-in-law, was at the wheel. As we were entering the main road he stopped at the line. I could see a pair of lights of a vehicle slowly approaching from the right side. It was not very far away but not close enough to warrant a stop and wait. We could have driven comfortably ahead of it. Issac waited. “You can easily go ahead,” I wanted to say. I desisted because I knew he would say, “yeah, but he has the right of way.” Anyway, we had a five minute cushion. It took about a minute for the vehicle to cross us. It was a slow moving trailer truck. There were three cars patiently driving behind it. With no other alternative, we joined the queue. The road to the left was empty and all the cars could have easily overtaken the trailer truck. The continuous yellow line was the only barrier that prevented the four drivers from overtaking the slow truck. Nobody honked. Given the manner in which we were making progress, I knew I was in for another adrenaline wrench. After a little while when the yellow line turned dotted the truck driver pulled to the side and waited for the cars to overtake him.
“Nice, seeing people obeying rules with nobody watching over them,"I remarked, relieved at the thought that we might just about catch the bus.
“Yeah,” Isaac replied. We reached just in time to board the bus which left the station exactly at seven.
It was not the first time I had seen common people adhering to rules without supervision, giving others a chance to go ahead, greeting total strangers, giving a helping hand to somebody in need, or waving to acknowledge a pass given.
My wife and I landed in Raleigh before time. It was bright, sunny and warm. Within minutes, Joseph Samuel, my wife's cousin, came to take us home in the Searstone retirement community. Joe had come to the USA for his education in the sixties. After that he joined a MNC in Canada which took him all over the world. In the meanwhile, he also migrated to the USA. He did exceptionally well in his career, invested smartly, made enough to retire, live comfortably and settle down in a palatial retirement home.
Joe is a benevolent, loving and caring elder brother to my wife. We had briefly met a couple of times before but never had the chance to speak with them at leisure. Our jobs and schedules prevented our calendars from converging. I retired from service and was home when they last visited Kerala. He and Valsa, his gracious wife, visited us, had a meal with us and invited us over to their place. He followed it up, insisted, and that is how we landed up in Raleigh.
Joe was always a man of very few words. His conversations over the phone were always short and to the point. When we met and talked on earlier occasions, he spoke less and listened more. That was my impression when we sat down to the first of our seven post-dinner talks. When nostalgia takes over, even the most reserved of people can open up.
“Have you heard of Isthiri Poornya?” he asked. I don't recall the exact context of how that came about but we were talking about our childhood days. He is about a decade older than me.
“Isthiri Poornya? No,” I replied.
“My grandfather used to say, so and so is from Isthiri Poornya,” he said.
“What does that mean ?” I asked.
“I think he meant those people belonged to some fantasy or idealistic land. Maybe he associated it with people who acted differently or unlike others. I do not know what he meant. I checked but could find nothing meaningful. I think it must have been some fictional place,” he replied.
Technology has made life far easier than before. I Googled the word but even Google could not come up with anything meaningful. I searched the Google map. It asked me if I wanted to add a new place. I was not the one to give up so easily. I tried the Chat GPT. It kept throwing up new things, each time I asked. None of it fitted the context in which the old man would have uttered those words. The closest I came to something worthwhile, after repeated trials and modified prompts, was that it could be something in Malayalam or Tamil related to “Sthree” meaning lady and “poornya” implying, complete. Anyway, Isthiri Poornya could have meant something that was exceptional, good, unbelievable or impossible.
I have this habit of carrying my thoughts to bed. “Can there be such a place where everything is good and everybody is law-abiding, honest, kind, and selfless?”
Well the answer was pretty easy and clear. “No. It is not possible.”
“Is it possible that each one of us has the innate quality of being immaculate?”I asked myself.
“Maybe,” my mind replied.
Suddenly the morning drive to Logan flashed. If only everyone was like those drivers, then ‘Isthiri Poornya’ could be real sometime, somewhere. It was a beautiful thought to sleep with.
The next day the four of us were invited to dinner by a couple, residents of the same retirement community and longtime friends of Joe and Valsa. When the waiter presented the bill after dinner, the host noticed that the two glasses of margarita ordered for the ladies had not been billed. He called the waiter, insisted the items be included and charged. I was impressed; insignificant amount, significant act of honesty.
Two days later we were hosted to dinner by another couple, Joe’s neighbours. The wine, food, and banter made our last dinner at the community memorable. Then the waiter brought the bill. I saw our host’s face change. He called the waiter and said, “we are not the people you billed. Please correct it.” The waiter had inadvertently billed the dinner to another person with the same surname staying in another Villa. The waiter looked confused. After a while he realised the mistake and brought the new bill and apologised.
We often wish everybody adheres to rules and be truthful. Most of us sit in judgment even on small transgressions of others conveniently forgetting even the big ones we inadvertently or consciously make. It is easy for many of us to look into the mirror and pardon the person in the mirror with no remorse. Some of us even call it smartness and take pride in being smart. Many of us propagate the concept of such smartness in work which essentially means shortcuts and circumventing rules. We preach Isthiri Poornya, at the same time striking hard at its very roots.
Citizenship of Isthiri Poornya is voluntary and doesn't cost much but does not come easy. It will require us to ask hard questions and answer them truthfully. The easiest of them all would be, “am I smart or am I morally correct?”
The choice could be hard when it's not mutually exclusive. Even if a few of us could do it, Isthiri Poornya could become a reality. It only calls for continuous insignificant acts of honesty, compassion and respect for law. But it could be tough too.
Now can you please help me define the term Isthiri Poornya.
Share your thoughts in the comments section.
That will be the first step of kindness you would do after reading!!!
