Isthiri Poorniya, a Reality?

 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!!!

Prevent Pellattisation and Secure Your Success

Successful? You stand a good chance being ‘Pellattised ’

Not making much headway despite your best efforts? Are you being Pellattised?

“Pellattised? There is no such English word. Did you mean, palletized?”

“No. I said, Pellattised.”

It is not yet in the English dictionary. I coined the word. There is a true story behind it. It happened in Ontario, Canada many years ago. 

But, let me first tell you what led me to the word.

My wife, her brother Issac, and I had gone on a vacation to Toronto. We stayed with Colonel Reji and his gracious wife for a few days. Reji, a fellow veteran and friend with a huge heart, was more than kind. Reji was incharge and he drew up our itinerary. The Welland Canal, an interesting feat of engineering, was our first destination. Through a well choreographed and remotely controlled process, the authorities let water flow in or out of portions of the canal called locks, to lift or lower ships. At lock number three, we witnessed a ship being lifted ten meters in a matter of ten minutes. It was an exhilarating experience. From the Welland Canal we went to Niagara falls. After spending time enjoying the beauty of the falls we went to see the Niagara electricity generation station before returning home. Colonel Reji is well informed. At every place we stopped, he had some interesting details to share. The facts, figures, dates and anecdotes he shared made the visit interesting and meaningful. That is how I heard of Major General Sir Henry Pellatt. 

Niagara is a great source of hydro-electric power to both the USA and Canada. Though transmission of power from Niagara started first in 1896 with sending electricity to the City of Buffalo in New York, Sir Henry Pellatt came to the scene in 1903 as president of the Company that won rights to distribute power to Ontario. Time was on his side and business was good. Sir Henry Pellatt made a fortune supplying electricity to Ontario. It was also the time when the debate on private versus public holding of the natural resource was at its peak. The movement led by Legislator Adam Beck calling to make hydro-electric power produced by Niagara ‘as free as air’ became loud and politically compelling. Henry Pellatt's company was soon expropriated. There is no clarity about how much compensation he received. If at all he received something it was far below what he had invested.

Such takeovers are said to be dictated by socio- political compulsions and done allegedly for the good of the people in general, while the real reasons and players behind the scene are seldom known. Once Hydro Electric Power Commission of Ontario, a Government entity, wrested control from Toronto Electric Light Company owned by Henry Pellatt, the tariffs came down because it was subsidised. Records however, do not show that citizens ever received free power from Niagara Falls, as promised. Political promises are like that. The good is promised and the promise never made good. It was so then and it is so now; the public at large, always the cannon fodder, gullible and lured by freebies they were led to bleed themselves.

The next day Colonel Reji took us to visit Casa Loma, a mansion and a prominent tourist attraction of Toronto. Incidentally, it was once owned by Sir Henry Pellatt. With Toronto Electric Light Company, his cash cow, expropriated, Sir Pellatt could not complete the construction of the grand mansion he had ambitiously envisioned. A series of reverses followed. The world war made things worse. His real estate and other investments tanked. Cascading losses turned the rich man into a pauper. The government of the day was not kind either. The astronomical increase in annual property taxes from $600 to $12000, they imposed, broke the man. Pellatt, once a man with the Midas touch, was forced to move into his chauffeur's home to spend his last days and breathe his last. The grand burial ceremony with full military honours meant nothing to the man in shrouds, locked in the coffin, and with no chance of ever staging a comeback. 

As we walked through the passages in the mansion, the halloween theme playing out had a different feel. For the better part of the day, I felt sad for the man. I felt that the system had been more than unfair to him. It looked as if he was broken by intent. “Was it a conspiracy?” 

A few days later a second thought occurred. “Was he fair to himself?” How could a man capable of investing and reaping dividends in a vast range of economic activities be so oblivious to adversaries and adversities? That is when I coined the term ‘Pellattised.’ 

When an individual becomes exceedingly successful, people around tend to go out of the way to make things easy for him or her. The political system often becomes subservient if not subordinate to such people. With everything on their side they tend to roughshod people and subvert procedures. The “winner taking it all,” both the individual and society turn blind eye to illegalities. By no means, I am suggesting that Sir Pellatt ever did something irregular or illegal.

However, lost in the din of success and assumed sense of infallibility, the successful tend to become unaware of the undercurrents and storm building up over the horizon. Amidst the many, singing praises and bending backwards to make things happen, are people, bitten, bitter, bruised, and looking for ways to get even. Drunk with success, the person normally becomes arrogant and blind to loud and visible symptoms of erosion and signs of corrosion. They consider adversaries insignificant and fail to recognise signs of them forming coalitions. I do not know what afflicted Sir Pellatt. But, he certainly did not see or realize the potential of the current against him. Whatever countermeasures he might have taken were too little and too late. 

I felt bad for Sir Henry Pellatt. The government could have been more considerate. It is possible that it had caused or accelerated his call. His success might have been an eyesore for his adversaries. They would have colluded with those in power to chart his fall and stamp out any chance of revival. We do not know. Though we claim to be evolved beings, we cannot forget that we still live in a dog eat dog world. When competition is to garner money and power anything is possible, any means is good means and there is no end going to any end.

“Pellattisation” denotes one's failure through a series of commissions and omissions to read the ominous. Compassion history cedes while judging may not help because you may be history yourself. 

So, if you feel you are successful, secure your success by preventing pellattisation. If you are finding things hard, check for signs of pellattisation.

THE OTHER SIDE OF LOOKING THE OTHER WAY

 

Look the other way, is an idiom unlike any other. It does not catch much attention but easily hurts. Looking the other way allows immoral or illegal acts but its benign version, which could mean many more things like, avoid, ignore, desert, abandon, let down etc, could be immensely painful to those looked away from. The literal meaning of looking the other way is straightforward as the words suggest; looking in the opposite direction. Our roads play host to both literal and literary versions of it. 

Pedestrians across the world have the right of way. In many countries, pedestrians can cross the road, only at the zebra lines. If the light is not in their favour they wait or push the pedestrian button to allow them to cross. If pedestrians push the pedestrian button, they get the green to cross and the light goes red for motorists. People crossing like that wave at the motorists signalling gratitude.

Pedestrians at home are more empowered. They cross roads and motorways at will. They do not have to signal gratitude because they can remotely apply the brakes in our cars with their palms. Some jump over the railing erected to prevent random crossings. The more steel-willed and philanthropic ones go a few steps beyond. They alter or manipulate the railings or barriers to allow unhindered rights for everyone to cross. If you notice pedestrians crossing the roads here, you will find many crossing the road looking the other way. Having outsourced their safety to the goodness of the unknown motorists, they deliberately do not make eye contact. They just look the other way. Risks of tail bang notwithstanding, a few drivers screech to stop while most continue because they are skilled enough to evade the moving two-legged obstacle or too lazy to apply the brakes. The unmindful hero gets to live another day to look the other way because the drivers chose not to look the other way. 

Looking the other way is rarely that detached and removed. There is a painful side to it, especially if it happens in relationships. All of us would have experienced it sometime in life. Irrespective of the pain inflicted, the incident often leaves us baffled with the question, “How could he?” or “How could she?” One only needs to recall the incident to realise how it felt then. At times even time cannot lessen the trauma and its aftermath. There would be nobody in this world who would not have experienced this feeling. 

There is a flip side too. If you feel, you have been at the receiving end of this traumatic experience from someone else, there would be people around you who would have received similar treatment from you. It is so common and sometimes so subtle we may not even realise we have inflicted injuries worse than the worst we suffered.

There is good news. The damage in such cases is self-inflicted and therefore treatable. Cannot believe it? That is because you are not looking at the other side of their looking the other way.  Such experiences arise when people do not react or perform the way we expect them to. The more one expects, the higher the chance of shortfall and the more bitter our experience. This discussion of expectation and response is not related to setting work-related targets and their delivery but to human behaviour in social and interpersonal transactions.

It may do us good if we truthfully ponder over the latest heartbreak we experienced. In most cases, we likely assumed that the person would deliver what we expected, without telling the person what we expected. What about those instances when we tell people what we expect from them? We often expect without consideration of their competencies, compulsions, or circumstances. The converse is also equally true.   

We may be at a loss to explain why someone suddenly felt offended by us. Check!  We would not have known what they expected from us and in the absence of such knowledge, we might not have lived up to their expectations. In most cases, they would not have even demanded something from us but merely expected us to respond as they desired. The intensity of the let-down is immense when the relationship is intimate because we take it for granted the other person knows us well enough to rise and respond.

Sometimes, poor, inadequate and even adverse response is deliberate and malafide. Such numbers, unfortunately, are on the rise. One should be wise enough to differentiate between the intentional and the inadvertent. When people take our goodness in relationships for granted, we should sever and cut losses. A heartache for a short while is far better than feeling used and abused in toxic relationships. It may be kindness, to ask them for reasons. The heinous of the lot will deny even the existence of such an act. It is better to keep them at the farthest possible distance. Sometimes, we need to keep them around regardless of their response. After all, roses don't come without thorns.  

Now that we know, there is another side to someone looking the other way, it could open new avenues to renewing our relationships. 

Let me add a caveat. Tread with caution!

 

Mortui Vivos Docent. - The Dead Teach the Living

 

We left our hotel in the morning and drove to the museum in Haroldswick. It was a long drive that included two ferry rides, one from Toft to Ulsta and one from Gutcher to Belmont to reach cold and windy Muness to see the remnants of a castle. There was hardly anyone around and when we came across someone, an occasional car, or a small group of cycling enthusiasts, we waved at each other earnestly. My wife and I were with Dr Abe and Dr Elizabeth vacationing in the Shetland Islands, an archipelago in Scotland, the northernmost region of the UK.

It was cold, windy, and wet. I love visiting museums and old buildings. Museums, for many, are like cemeteries, resting places for relics, reminders of tragedies and some made-up stories. Museums, to me, are roads to the past and windows to the future.  I call it, ‘Mortui Vivos Docent.’ or 'The dead teach the living', a phrase I picked up from a book I read recently. In Latin, ‘mortui’ means ‘dead,’ ‘vivo’ means alive, and ‘docent’ means ‘guide or teach.’ Pathologists of the yore thus justified cadaver dissection. When I leave a museum, at times after spending the whole day, I feel very enriched and connected.

Every piece in the museum is a cadaver of sorts. For those inclined to listen, each exhibit is an unsaid story. For those who can visualise, exhibits can become the means to a journey in time to the generations before us and witness their struggles, trials, and tribulations and their triumphs or failures. Each boat, fishing tool, and other items on display that day had an individual story to narrate. Collectively it was a moving story of grit, grime, sweat, blood, and triumph. I could visualise the noisy landings of the herring-laden boats, the splashing sounds of countless feminine hands and the unkind words of their masters. I could hear them haggling about their wages and smell their smoky cabins. I could see some beautiful eyes sparkling through weatherbeaten faces and sense romance even amid hardships. I was there experiencing the poverty and misery of a people and their undying hopes kept alive by indomitable will.  The sunset well after 10 at night helped us with a day far longer than I had ever seen. The next day we spent time in Lerwick museum. In the three days we stayed on the Island, I travelled back in time, two centuries. I was amazed at the way the museum had been curated. some of the places I visited were run mostly by volunteers. It was a treat to the eyes. I recalled my trips to museums back home and the difference in how we maintain and curate relics.

We set sails, out of Lerwick in the evening and berthed at Aberdeen as the day broke. The next day we pulled into the car park of an inn at Bradon Mill, Hexham, to commence our walk to The Hadrian Wall. Running over 73 miles, it was built on the lines of the Great Wall of China, on the orders of Emperor Hadrian way back in AD122, to demarcate and guard his borders. It was built during the ascend of the great Roman Empire, known for its strong legal and administrative systems. Over time the state acquired unquestioned authority over the people. Corruption became rampant. Unable to cope with it, people looked for alternative socio-political and religious systems, setting in motion the fall of the Roman Empire. One thing led to another and the great Empire bit the dust. The Hadrian Wall, the largest Roman archaeological feature in England, remains a testimony to the rise and fall of the Empire.

Standing next to the wall, or its remnants, I was transported 1900 years back to witness the mighty Emperor's perception of threat and how he planned to secure his kingdom. An audacious construction for those times, rudimentary and primitive for contemporary defence, the wall hit me hard with the realisation of the transient nature of our authority and how irrelevant our wealth of material possessions becomes with time. The memory of a powerful emperor, once the world under his feet, now rests on a lifeless piece of primitive stonework. The beauty of the area around me captivated me so much that I forgot about the wall, standing next to it. That much for the ancient authority!

On our climb down the hill, I realised that our assets or authority neither make us immortal nor guarantee eternity. Men of intellect like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle with hardly a material belonging, are revered far beyond all rulers of the past combined. This is one reason why despots attempt to manipulate history while they reign, little realising the futility of trying to make or alter history. 

“Memento mori, quare ne obliviscaris vivere,” a Latin phrase translated literally: “Remember you must die, therefore do not forget to live,”  is the lesson I learnt.

 

Ms Louise and Map of The Shetland Islands

“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. This is your captain.  In a short while, we will be docking at Lerwick. We hope you enjoyed the night sailing with us.  We wish you a good time in The Shetland Islands,” streamed in the skipper's announcement.

Our vacation to Scotland and beyond was a gift from Doctor Abe and Elizabeth, our exceptionally big-hearted relatives, retired doctors, and hosts. We were accompanying them on the trip to The Shetland Islands.  Abe rented a car for the journey. We drove out from Birmingham and headed to Penrith for the night. Enroute we stopped by Lake Windermere and Dove Cottage, in Grasmere. It was one of the most picturesque journeys my wife and I had ever undertaken. Surrounded by so much natural beauty, Wordsworth could not have been anything but a nature poet. At Penrith, we were invited, by my wife’s cousin, Anna and her husband, a doctor, to dinner in a countryside pub. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and everyone acknowledged each other's presence. We left for Edinburg the next day. Edinburg did not heed the weatherman’s warning of strong winds and rain. We spent a bright day walking there. When we reached Aberdeen the next day to catch the ferry to the Shetland Islands, rain and wind caught up with us but could not impede our plans. Cocooned in the comforts of the ferry, we did not feel the biting cold, strong winds from the North Sea. After a night-long sail, smooth barring the occasional rough sea, we docked right on time at the Pier in Lerwick. 

When we drove our SUV out of the ferry after breakfast, it was only 7:30 AM. We knew we were early for everything else but sightseeing. So we decided to drive around. “The outside temperature is six degrees,” said Abe. “It is comfortable inside,” I said. When we stepped out into the parking area near the Lerwick Town Hall, we realised what six degrees with the cold winds from the Atlantic felt like. It wasn't much different from the cold howling winds I had befriended amidst the mighty mountains of Ladakh. “Let us get to the tourist information centre,” said Abe when we were done seeing the beautiful stained glass windows in the town hall. “Let us go,” I replied. I did not realise, I was about to meet someone I will never forget. 

There were other tourists already when we reached the Information Centre. We waited. “Hi, Can I help you?” the beautiful young lady with one of the most disarming smiles I have ever seen, asked Abe.  I craned my neck to read her name tag. “Louise,” I read. 

“Hi. We are here for three days. Can you please tell us what we should see around?” Abe asked. 

“You, driving, walking, or looking for public transport?’ she asked. 

“Driving.”

“That sounds good. Where are you put up?”

“In Brae.”

“That makes it easy. You are in the middle of the Island. Lemme give you a map,” she said and tore out a sheet from the bunch of printed maps on the counter. 

“That's it. She will give the map and say, you can find your way now,” I thought. You can’t blame me for my insane thought. The traveller I am, I have been to tourist information centres closer home. More often than not, I regretted wasting my time going to such centres and coming across disinterested, insincere, and ignorant people who were more eager to connect me with some operator lurking in the shadows than answering my queries. I recalled how, at one place, the man was busy playing on his mobile and even refused to acknowledge our presence. I made him realise that we were alive and around him. “Read the display boards. I don't have anything more than what is written there,”  he muttered, pointing to the shoddy stuff on the wall. It might have been display boards when the centre was inaugurated. He promptly went back to his absorbing video game. 

Lerwick was different. She picked up a pen and started marking the map with a running commentary of what we could expect to see or must-see. It took her ten minutes to explain to us. She was calm and deliberate. Each syllable of what she said was clear. I watched her expressions as she spoke to Abe. I saw commitment in her glowing eyes. She was making sure we saw everything possible in three days. Then I noticed that she was writing things on the map, but upside down. I craned my neck to see what she was writing. “Oh sorry. I know it's upside down for you but it's faster this way. Hope you won't mind,” she said. “Not as long as we don't have to walk upside down,” I replied. She smiled. I don't know if she got my joke. 

“Where can we see the Orcas,” asked my wife.

“Oh, they keep moving. They are wild animals. There is a social media page, Orcas of Shetland, run by some enthusiasts. They keep track of the sightings. Sign into it, and maybe you will get the latest information. Hope you get to see them,” she said. It looked like she wanted us to see the orcas. “Reach Sumburgh Nature Reserve early morning or late evening, you can see puffin chicks when papa-mama comes calling with food.” 

“Thank you very much,” Abe said.

“In case you need help in between, call on this number,” she said and wrote it down on the map. “Have a great time,” she said as we left. 

“Hi,” I heard her eager voice again. She must be attending to the next tourist, I knew.

“I am impressed. This is called commitment,” I said as we walked out of the information centre.  I had not seen anyone so patient and descriptive in any information centres I have been to. It was not that we were the only ones asking for information there was a queue waiting to be attended to. 

During the next three days, we travelled all over the Shetland Islands, as she had instructed. We drove onto the ferry at Toft and drove out at Ulsta. We drove onto another ferry at Gutcher to drive out in Bellmont. We went to the castle in Muness, the Boat Haven in Harroldswick and the Hermanness National Nature Reserve. Since the sunset was only at 10:20 at night, we had time to retrace our ferry trips and drive to Sumburgh head, the southern tip of the Island to see the nesting Puffins. 

“Hold on,” I said, as we were driving to catch the ferry to the mainland. “We must thank that lady for facilitating our trip.”

“Yes. So much information in one sheet and so well briefed. Three days and not a minute wasted,” replied Abe taking the next exit to turn the car towards the information centre. “Thank you very much, Louise. You made our visit beautiful,” I said when we reached the centre.

“Awaa, you are so kind,” she replied and smiled. Her face lit up. “Did you see the Orcas?” 

“No,” I said. “We didn't cross paths. Maybe sometime later. 

“The Puffins?” 

“To our heart's content.” I was impressed. She remembered what we had asked despite the number of people she met to answer day in and day out. When I walked out of the centre, I was awash in gratitude and admiration for Louise.

“One doesn't have to be a doctor to be clinical. One doesn't have to be a missionary to have a missionary zeal. One doesn't have to be the owner to have a deep sense of ownership. One doesn't have to hold a high office to be responsible. Any job can be glorious and rewarding. One just needs to be like Louise,” I thought walking back to the car. People like her make organisations come alive. People like Louise make the world a beautiful place.

“You are silent,” said Abe.

“I was thinking if I have thanked Louise enough,” I replied. “I hope we find more people like Louise.” 

PS: You can see most of what we saw on the trip on my social media pages.

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A Bridge to Nowhere

 

Colonel Kochu Koshy Panicker, my colleague in the army, hero of many an action, and rightfully a gallantry award winner, organised the day-long contributory cruise in the Ashtamudi Lake.  ‘KK’ is an excellent organiser. Once he takes on something, expect nothing less than the perfect. As his boss, I fearlessly delegated tasks to him and sat back without worries. I attribute my rise in ranks to teammates like him.  KK is special. He smiles even when under severe work pressure. Dr Santy, his wife, an academic, is his strength. With them around, possibilities are endless.  

On the 4th of May, I drove 95 KM one way from my home with my wife and two of my grandchildren and stayed the night with the Panickers. The next morning, my wife, grandchildren, and Dr Santy travelled with me another 21 KM to join the cruise, KK and his team had organised. KK had left early to tie up things. There are a lot of houseboats in Kumarakom, that offer similar daylong cruises. This cruise, I knew would be special. 

I wanted my grandchildren to see, feel and learn first-hand, the camaraderie and oneness amongst us, the veterans. KK, Colonel CRM Nair, Colonel Madhu, and Major Rajendran did a great job organising it. Some people who promised to be on the boat did not join. It put a bit of additional monetary pressure on those who landed up but nobody complained. The juniors enjoyed every bit of the day and have not stopped talking about it ever since. They learned to conduct themselves, offer a helping hand to the elders, and be good community members. I came back with more than a cruise. 

“Look at that bridge,” someone called out aloud. There was a bridge, jutting out a long way from the land into the water but it had no signs of landing anywhere. “Must be under construction,” I said. “No,” someone replied. “It is the “bridge to nowhere.” Some of my fellow veterans, chipped in. Most of them settled in and around knew better. “A bridge that led nobody nowhere,” I thought. I took a close look and even clicked some photographs. “Appacha[1], why doesn't that bridge go anywhere?” asked my grandson. I told him that there must have been some constraints. 

I was curious to find out. I scoured the web for other brave engineers and authorities who made similar bridges to nowhere. I came across an Arch Bridge built in 1936. It spans the East Fork of the Gabriel River and was meant to be part of the road connecting the San Gabriel Valley with Wrightwood, California. The project was abandoned due to a flood.  Trekkers enjoy using the bridge even now. There was also the mention of an old Bridge in Kentucky. When the bridge was made, it connected two pieces of land and people used it. It is now in disuse.  There was yet another Bridge. It was proposed to connect the town of Ketchikan in Alaska with Gravina Island which had an International Airport and housed 50 residents. The proposal was also called the ‘bridge to nowhere. Initially expected to cost the exchequer $398 million, it was finally cancelled in 2015 on allegations of ‘pork barrelling[2]. Not even one brick was laid for this bridge. I also came across a movie with the same name. The 1986 New Zealand horror thriller is about a group of teenagers who fight for survival after encountering a mysterious hermit.  

The ‘Bridge to Nowhere’, near Thevally, Kollam is class apart and without parallel. I am not competent to discuss how this engineering marvel came into existence, the political reasons behind its creation, and the allegations surrounding its existence. What saddens me to no end, is that despite my search, I could not come across any proposal to mitigate this problem or to bring it into use at least for tourism purposes. Three things are clear. Firstly, it is a colossal, thoughtless, and criminal waste of public money. Secondly, it showcases the impotence and inability of the public to hold their representatives to account. Thirdly, it shows the rot and deterioration that has infected contemporary society with the “Why should I? Let someone else do it” attitude[3].  Till they demolish it or find ways to use it, ‘The Thevally Bridge to Nowhere’ shall remain a monument to the unquestioned lack of accountability authorities enjoy due to the public’s attitude to gross irresponsibility. 

It is just one of the very few visible ‘bridges to nowhere’, while we live amidst countless invisible bridges to nowhere. ‘Bridges to Nowhere’ amongst us? 

We would have come across people, who despite our best efforts and intentions neither connect nor reciprocate. Intentionally or unintentionally, even we might have refused to connect. Denial would be our first response. Just try and recall instances when someone waved at you or greeted you and you knowingly did not respond! You did not allow their bridge to land on your shores! It could have been driven by some compulsions or ego. That cannot be called afflictions. Such acts seldom go unrewarded. 

The afflicted are those who closet themselves and do not allow any bridge to reach them however hard others may try. Incidentally, it could be an early sign of depression. On the other hand, there are many bridging experts around us. They thrive on retractable bridges.  They put out a bridge when they need something from others or allow other bridges to land only when they see some use of the other bank in the near future. They are crafty, manipulative, selfish, and mean. They will somehow find ways to land their bridge whenever they want. We would be familiar with at least a few in our neighbourhood. 

Bridges connect two distant banks of a gap that otherwise would have remained separated and isolated. Multi-span bridges stand testimony to the difficulty and complexity of connecting distant banks; the further the banks, the more challenging the efforts. Even in life, it is the same; the more emotionally distant someone is, the more difficult to connect with them. One may need a few steps forward, to connect, the first few could elicit no response. 

The importance of the banks on both sides of the gap that will take the landings cannot be left unsaid. If the banks are not strong enough to take the landing, the entry and exit load, especially that of heavy vehicles, will soon render the bridge unusable. In life also, it is like that.  Individuals, the banks, need to be strong enough to take on the demands of the other end of interpersonal relationships. Expectations can ruin the bridge. Keeping account of give and take is akin to injecting toxins. Many a marriage flounder because the landings on either side are not strong enough to take the expectation loads. 

The day before I had an incidental discussion on the subject with a quick-witted former colleague of mine, now commanding a unit. “Sir, technically isn't, nowhere also somewhere?” she asked. It made me think. Yes. Nowhere is also somewhere. When ‘nowhere’ becomes the ‘somewhere to be’ for someone everywhere and always, that person might already be a recluse or one fast in the making. It is a deliberate choice of cutting oneself off from others. Do not mistake it for ‘personal space’. Yes, ‘nowhere’ can be a chosen destination for solitude. Most people mistake loneliness for solitude. When nowhere becomes the destination, people deliberately retract all the bridges and destroy the home-bank landing. On the other hand, there are people, who long for bridges to land on their shores but do not know how to initiate the works. Their hand wave may not look enthusiastic, their smile may be incomplete, or their body language may not be welcoming enough. It is there we must put our spans forward manifold and reach out. Who knows, there may be a gold mine, a heart of gold, waiting to be won. 

Modern means of communication have shrunk the world, into, what people call, a global village. But sadly, while geographical distances are being bridged either physically or remotely, more and more people are retracting their bridges and withdrawing deep into their own shores in the guise of finding personal spaces. Our efforts to span relational gaps can prevent bridgeable gaps from turning into chasms. 

Beyond the memories of chilled beer, good food and great company the “Thevally Bridge to Nowhere” gave me a few lessons for life.  I shall wave and smile as always but my eyes will be quicker to spot the bridge looking to land.

Even you can…

 

PS. 

1.       Over the last two days, I have been going to the local swimming pool with my grandchildren for their swimming classes. I know smiles are the first step to launching the bridge of friendship. I have already made  new friends. Among them, a doctor, an IT engineer and a business man, all there to teach their children swimming.

2. If you like the article, do subscribe to it. It costs you nothing but means a lot to me. You could reciprocate my attempts to bridge with you through my written works. 

3. Consider expressing your views in the comments section. I assure you of a response. if you have personal queries please address it to my mailbox jacobtharakanchacko@gmail.com

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[1] Appacha’ - That is how my grandchildren address me.

[2] ‘Pork barreling’. It refers to the act of a legislator taking away a lot of money to service just his constituency. It also denotes spending too much for too little in return.

[3] I will be flagging this to the local authorities and also asking people whom I know in the locality about my idea of finding alternative uses if it can’t proceed further.

The Regulation Holdall and a Lesson for Life

 

In the initial years of my army service, I travelled by train like all other army officers. When I travelled on duty, the regulation ‘holdall’ was my companion. It was a masterpiece of utility. It held my things together throughout the journey. It took on a small mattress, my military boots that could never find space elsewhere, and all the other unwieldy stuff required to be carried along. There was a way to pack it.

I first spread the mattress, put a blanket and two sheets folded to size, spread the mosquito net, flipped the covers over, and tied the laces through the three eyeholes provided. Unwieldy things were then shoved into the compartments at the two ends. The holdall was now ready for the makeover.  I rolled the holdall tight, into a cylindrical entity and tied it with the attached leather belt that went through a big leather handle. It was the strongest thing in leather I have ever seen other than the saddle. My orderly was a great help. Over time I learnt to reduce what I carried along and we became experts in compressing the holdall into a sleek cylindrical piece of luggage. It did not matter whether it was dragged, carried, or even dumped anywhere. Thieves did not want it because it was unwieldy to run away with and it was not worth being sold in a flea market.  It became my bed in railway waiting rooms and my sofa on the platform when I waited for the train that promised to arrive in ‘some time.’  Occasionally, I deposited my holdall in the railway cloakroom giving me time and freedom to explore places around the railway station.  Times have changed.  I retired from service. I do not know if the holdall is still a regulation supply item. I hardly see anyone with it.  

My holdall was neither classy nor good looking but it took on everything a bachelor possessed. Most modern suitcases would shudder to consider the stuff my holdall could accommodate. It handled the favourable and weathered the inclement equally well. It gathered a lot of scars but was still as useful as ever. It became more accommodative and flexible as it aged. Finally, it looked big or small depending on how well I rolled and bound it. The coolie, I hired at the station to carry my holdall, often complained that it weighed much more than it looked. Once I landed at a station at an unearthly hour and found no one to help me with my luggage.  I was not kind to my holdall, lifting, dropping, and dragging it.  I had a delicate suitcase to take care of. My holdall picked up a few tears but delivered my stuff safe and sound. My holdall carried a beautiful lesson. I recognise it only now. Wisdom comes with age! The wise say, “Better late than never.”  

The first bag I owned was an airbag. It carried my stuff, mostly snacks from home to the school hostel. The snacks did not last more than a day amidst growing boys. The bag found space in the dormitory cloakroom. It came out again only when I went home on vacation. I lugged a few textbooks that I did not read anyway. I wanted to show my father I was serious with my studies, though my report card said otherwise. Years later I became the proud owner of a classy wheeled moulded suitcase, the one I bought from the Army canteen with my first pay. I have vivid memories of both these pieces.  

They were both beautiful to look at but had limitations to what they could take in and carry. One day the zip of the airbag gave way. Those days we could repair bags. After repair, it looked good enough. Soon both the zip and the handle gave up. I think it gave up because it could not bear to carry meaningless loads anymore. I do not remember what happened to it.

The suitcase was a bit different. The wheels of my proud possession could not take the rough of the railway platform and gave up one day. It limped through the journey back to the unit. There I knocked the wheels off and continued to use it for a few more journeys. I could always find a Coolie at the station. Sleeker and better-looking suitcases were already in the market. One day the hinges gave way when I tried to push in things I thought, the suitcase could hold. I put it away in the attic of my quarters for some time. I do not recall where it vanished. 

Life is like that. We can choose to be a holdall, an airbag, or a suitcase! Our looks, connections, wealth, and social mobility do not matter. Some good-looking, stylish people you see around may not be as happy as they seem.  Many of those laughing in public necessarily may not be happy. They may be putting on that face, out of compulsions while breaking up within. Looks can be deceptive. They may be like bags with broken zippers or missing handles, or suitcases with broken wheels or cracking hinges or locks. We may not know. 

Life is a journey that throws up the unexpected and at the most inappropriate time the unwanted. It will always be so. What matters is our ability to take in what life gives, organise it and pack those such that we are not held back in our journey.  The trick lies in separating the ones that we need, the ones that we are forced to carry, and the ones we can discard. When held within limits, time heals even the most terrible things. What we cannot discard has to find compartments so that they do not divest us of the freedom of movement.  The job becomes far easier if we can detach ourselves from what we do not want and discard those at the first instance. Often it is not as easy as it sounds.   

Some memories, especially of losses, heartbreaks, unmatched expectations, unkept promises, and treachery are so hard to forget, that we compulsively carry them even though the stench of the putrefied experience is unbearable. We forget that the putrid attracts maggots. It consumes us from within. Redemption lies in finding the strength to throw out garbage. In many cases, the requirement may be just a stitch or two. At times, it may be difficult to detach and discard on one's own. We can always find someone who can give a patient ear and suggest ways without being judgemental. Together, we can spread our holdall, and prepare for the journey ahead.  

Yes. The scars could be deep, but it is still better than being consumed by one’s sorrows.  

This article was spurred by a friend's response to my reel titled “Creating Memories.”  This is my answer.

My gratitude to one of my brothers in arm who posted this photo on the social media group.

 

MAYDAY, MAYDAY - ENTITLEMENT AND OBLIGATION

“Workers of the world Unite! You have nothing to lose, but your chains!” The call remains the most reverberating takeaway from the communist manifesto of 1848. It inspired and continues to inspire millions across the world, in far more different ways than it was first intended to. “May Day” presents the best opportunity to evaluate where the slogan has taken us.  

I grew up hearing the musical version of the slogan, penned by the famous poet and lyricist Vaylar Rama Varma for the Malayalam hit film, Thulabharam. “Nashta peduvan vilangukal, kittanullathu puthiyoru lokam” (Nothing but the chains to lose, and to gain, a new world). The song played a significant role in irrevocably changing Kerala's socio-economic and political landscape. Almost all political meetings and processions, especially the left-leaning ones, played this song. There was a sense of romanticism attached to the movement. Many educated and influential people adopted communism and it took deep roots in Kerala. Overnight, tenants became owners without having moved even a little finger and many a landowner found their assets seized by the government and given to those who tilled the land till the day before. Social reengineering was quick at work! Those at the bottom rungs of the socio-economic ladder assumed a sense of entitlement. Anybody with land and property became the class enemy. It seemed they all had become rich at the cost of the poor. The society suddenly appeared to turn benign and undo wrongs committed over centuries. It benefitted many and for those who lost, nobody cared.  

My cousins and I grew up in a well-off household. Empathising with the underdog was romantic. Naive, insensitive, and ignorant of the significant loss of land suffered by the family, we walked around the house playing “jatha” (procession) holding banana leaves in place of flags, shouting slogans and singing Vaylar’s song. Looking back, I admire the generosity and tolerance of those who let us be, despite their painful losses.  

Things soon started to change. Collective bargaining, a tool that ensured just wages and prevented exploitation became a potent weapon for reverse coercion and exploitation. Employers found themselves at the mercy of employees. Employees organised themselves into trade unions and sought entitlements, often unbelievably impractical and sure to kill the establishment. Trade unions vied with each other to milk the last possible penny from the ‘class’ enemy. Investors and employers were no match to the might of the collective with mindless demands. Cashew and coir once the biggest employment avenues of the state withered. Industrial production dwindled. Fields that once reverberated with folk songs fell silent. Agriculture became unprofitable and unsustainable. It just withered. My father sold all his paddy fields and coconut farms. He continued cultivating tapioca but that too, he stopped because he got fed up with suffering losses. I grew up and happened to read George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” once again. This time I had a different understanding of the book and my society.  

Soon, jobs dwindled, domestic opportunities dried up and people started migrating for work. Luck favoured Keralites. Successive governments had focussed on education. Keralites had become literate. Nowadays, literacy is not even distantly related to rationality or education. When job opportunities were drying up at home, the Gulf boomed. It was a trickle in the beginning, then it became a torrent. The educated, the semi-educated, the literate and illiterate, skilled and unskilled, alike found jobs in the Gulf. People migrated for work in thousands. Remittance initially in drops, soon became a torrent.  

The lack of job opportunities did not initially worry people. There was money to make in the Gulf. Any job there was acceptable. Although remunerations started depleting people did not mind it because when it reached home, money multiplied as the rupee depreciated. The landscape soon changed. Construction boomed, and consumerism driven by inflows flourished.  The state now depends heavily on the neighbouring states for food and the East and Nort-East for labour. Unions still have their ways of making a killing. Gawking fees remain the norm despite denials. Kerala is now a confirmed consumer society. 

Now, jobs are hard to come by and youngsters are leaving the state for good. Every junction in the state has huge advertisements by various agencies promising different ways to get out of the state and country for good. Most of them, take loans mortgaging the only property to get out hoping to strike it rich. Many with good jobs and steady incomes also leave the country. Most end up at the bottom of society in an unfamiliar destination, all by choice. Sadly, ego does not allow them to return. Even if they want to, there is nothing worthwhile to return. 

In evolved societies, the public at large is aware of individual entitlements. It helps them demand their dues from the government and service providers. The public holds legislators to account. Back home, free ration, unemployment wages, and free medical care have made laziness lucrative. Everyone is vying to get what they feel they are entitled to.

Obligation is the other side of entitlement. When the sense of entitlement is not accompanied by a matching sense of obligation, problems will creep up. It applies to organised societies, organisations big or small, families and even interpersonal relationships. Look around. We can find fault lines within organisations, families and relationships. 

Most organisational problems can be pinned to imbalances between entitlements and obligations. Some people are seen to enjoy entitlements without matching obligations while some are more obligated than entitled. Trade unions and vested interests find space to exploit the afflicted and the organisational hierarchy. It is the same in relationships. In the initial phase, the partner who feels less entitled and more obligated may overlook the disparity and even suffer silently for some time. In the long run, it is bound to create strains that can seriously and adversely affect the quality of the relationship. The silence of the afflicted party worsens the fault line and leads first to dysfunctional and eventually broken relations.

Entitlement-obligation imbalances, over time, become exploitative. Respect for established societal norms vanishes, first behind the curtains and then openly. Might, individual or collective, reigns. Law and order problems increase, and so do corruption and coercion. In interpersonal relations, unmatched entitlement -obligations lead to diminishing respect, slowly leading to emotional and physical abuse. When entitlement without obligation is the norm, society will experience anarchy, organisations will be short-lived and interpersonal relationships doomed. 

Mayday, Mayday!