Last month, one of my friends asked me “Tell me what is the meaning of life”.

I first wrote a Mohan Lal dialogue

“ഉത്തരം ഇല്ല തമ്പുരാന്‍. ബുദ്ധനും ശങ്കരനും തേടിയത് ഇതേ ചോദ്യത്തിനുള്ള ഉത്തരം ആണ്. ആ ചോദ്യത്തിനുത്തരം കാണാനുള്ള നിയോഗം ആണ് തമ്പുരാന്‍ ഓരോ മനുഷ്യ ജന്മവും…

But then I said, why not ?, may be I am past half my lifetime (probably even more) and there must be some part of the answer which I know already ?. So I sat down to write it down. Well here it is. I had articulated part of these in separate articles before, but for first time, in one location, Muralee’s take on meaning of life…

I perceive everything in the universe (both living and non living, real or virtual) as an entity with an identity. And every such “thing” (including me) is attached physically, legally, morally, emotionally, etc., to a few other “things”. And where each of these “things” stays is determined by how they are linked to the other “things”. I consider myself as one of these things, suspended in space, supported by enormous invisible attachments to other things (this includes my children, my parents, my friends, my colleagues, my job, my properties, and my Swiss bank account !!). At a given time, I am in an equilibrium supported by all these tentacles. Some of these links are stronger than others (I am more attached to my mother than to, say, my Facebook friends) and some of these relations are more unilateral than bilateral (I may be more attached to my friend than he is attached to me). The initial position where I stand, when I start to cognize my existence is a given (not my choice), but from that point I have the option to change that position. I can be attached to my parents (or not), I can be more attached to my friends more than my wife (or the other way round). I can be more attached to my job than my family. I can be more attached to my property than to my relatives. These are choices I make and that repositions me in the space with respect to others who are attached to me.
I could say I am a victim of circumstances, etc., but I think as a human being in democratic India I am free enough to make that choice for me and therefore I am fully responsible for where I find myself in this Universe.

These attachments, even though they are invisible and numerous, are very important, and as much as I control them, they control me too. This is why I go crazy when my investment in a stock becomes useless. This is why I become emotionally disturbed when my father dies or my dear one is taken away from me. However, I believe that how stable you will remain in your space or how easily you will re-accommodate to a new space is determined by how many linkages you have and how strong those linkages are. If you have cut off most of your strong attachments with your parents as you got married, a disturbance in your family will totally throw you off the tangent. If you neglected your family too much for the sake of work and then something goes wrong in your career, you are devastated. If you had maintained robust links and balanced relationships, you could have stayed stronger and moved onto new equilibriums without too many vibrations.

I am cognizant that while I am at the center of the Universe, as far as my networks and linkages are concerned, there is no center of the Universe. Barack Obama may feel that he is the center of the Universe due to all the power and influence he has on people and resources around him. But in my world view , Barack Obama’s driver is not a satellite of Obama revolving around BO. In the driver’s universe, he is at the center. He is attached to Obama, but also to his wife, to his children, his bicycle, his dog, his mother, and so on.

And, to me, this is the meaning and purpose of my life. If I were to look at the 6 billion people around me, the world doesn’t need me. The world will be fine with or without me. Much of the world doesn’t know I exist and won’t care if I cease to. But then there is a limited part of this Universe, which could be 10 to 1000 people, for whom my existence helps them stabilize their position in the Universe. My exit will upset them, and, in some cases, deeply so. Sure, they will get back on to another equilibrium, sometimes sooner than I fear they would, sometimes better than how I think they would. But in my thoughts, from where I stand, looking at where they stand, I feel that my continued existence is useful to them. That is the purpose of my life. If I were to be sent to space with all physical means of survival but emotionally cut off from everybody, then there would have been no meaning to my life. Then there would be no purpose of my existence.

To me, this theory is comprehensible and comprehensive enough to continue with my existence. For me, it works even if there was no God. I have often wondered whether God has a role to play in it. And yes, s/he has. We could take him/her as one of the (or the biggest) single influencing “thing” in our life. We can have an attachment to him which is stronger than what we have with our job, our property, and even our families. We can invest in that relationship and start to feel that the relationship is a two-way street that we derive energy from.. So when I am in trouble, with my family, with my job, wealth, health or property, I can still stay where I am because I have this big stabilizing factor in my life, that is GOD. In this scheme of things, the actual existence of God does not matter; just my belief that God is there and is offering me stability in times of turbulence is enough. I know this will work because while I do not believe in God, I get this type of solace and comfort from my father, who is dead and gone, who I know can offer me no practical assistance or advice. But the mere fact that I have known him, that I belong to him, that he loved me, and he is proud of me, all motivate me to live my life to the fullest and not throw it away into drinks (or other vices) when I am thrown off the tangent by a disturbance in my life.

Now, I know that this may not be the real meaning of life. I have this interesting analogy of a rat which fell into a sewer. Those of you who watched Ratatouille may recall a scene of our falling into a sewer and being carried by the sewage to the underground of Paris. Paris, like all big cities, has a complete network of sewers where there is an entire Universe and ecosystem. There may be animals (say rats) which once fell into it but never managed to get out. Within these tunnels, they may reproduce and a few generations later, there could be a set of rats who never have seen world above it and only knew darkness, the stink, the flow of sewage, etc. If one of those rats were to be intelligent, it can create a worldview which is self contained within that network of sewers. Such a worldview will be both comprehensible and self contained. It will have no role for sunlight, it will not include any reference to the life above it, there will be no trees, no human beings, no Eiffel Tower, nothing. Such a theory will be enough for the rat to get on with its life. That does not mean that there is no life outside the sewer or Eiffel Tower is not a reality. Not sure if some of you are still following me here. What I am saying is that the fact that I have a worldview and it allows me to get on with my life, does not mean that is THE view of the world. There are many possible, self contained, logical worldviews that are available.

Now, to be honest as long as I am thinking, I cannot be happy with my worldview, till the time I know that is THE world view. But this I don’t know yet. But I know that there is no other better worldview I have come across. I have studied the major religions, which offer alternative worldviews that satisfy the curiosity of billions of people, giving them guidance and peace of mind. But to my logical mind, none of those worldviews survive my scrutiny, not even in the first reading. To use the rat in the sewer analogy again, while I am in dark surrounded by you know what, I find pretty much others being in the same condition. What I really want is somebody who can either push the manhole cover (manhole = big entry point into the sewer from the ground) from inside OR somebody from outside who will open the manhole cover. Once that is done, light comes in and I know for sure there is a world outside. If I am lucky, I may even be able to get out and experience another world. However, I am not seeing either of this happening.

And this is my primary complaint about God, if one exists. Hindu religion teaches as “Aham Brahmasmy” (that I am part of the same God). And this is my main complaint about God. It is so hard for me to get to him but is so easy for him to get to me. My situation is like that of Mammooty in “Katha Parayumbol”. He suspects that Balan exists somewhere out there, but among the multitudes of humanity, there is no way one could be searched out. But for Balan, it was easy, he knew the Superstar existed and would have sought him out.

I was in Haiti and was having this very enjoyable discussion with Claudia, who is also an environmental expert, currently in the US, but originally from South America. As you know, people in South America are also spiritual and religious like us in India. But Claudia also, like me, had moved away from religion. She said, ever since 15 she hadn’t prayed to God and no longer acknowledged his existence. A couple of years back, she was caught out, while surfing, in the sea beyond the surf line. The weather was bad and she could not get back. Nor could her colleagues help her. She was on the waters, with her surfing board, and one big wave, she was finished. At that time she thought “Shall I pray to God now?” and decided “may be that is not fair, after leaving him for 30 years, now I can’t go back to him when I am in a mess”.

I told her that if I was in such a situation, I would have no hesitation in praying. Firstly, as a materialist, I have nothing to lose from it. Holding onto my ideological dogma gives me nothing in the final moments of my life. But more importantly, my conception of God is lot more holistic. I do not see God as a mean person who, if he hears me praying from near the mouth of death, or from the other side of the surf line, he will look into his little account book and say “that guy Muralee has ignored me for last 40 years, now is my time to square up”. My image of God is much bigger than that. To me, God is that person, who will use exactly that moment to come to my rescue and say “Muralee, I have been missing you all this long and thank God you have found me now”.

So, as much as I use my brain to comprehend the world around me and meaning of my life, for the time being I take no cognizance of God in any shape or form. If I am indeed “brahmam”, I leave it to the bigger brahman (parabrahmam) who has better resources under his control, to seek me out.

I got admission to IIT Kanpur in 1986. So did Jimmy, George, Salim, and Gopalakrishnan..

IIT Kanpur then, and now, is the most prestigious technological institution in India (If I am polite or objective, I should use “one of the most”, but then coming to our alma matter, we are both rude and non-objective). And we had all done well in the GATE exam. I had scored close to 99 percentile and others must have done equally well. We got admission to futuristic courses like environmental engineering, aeronautical, and nuclear Engineering. Students who passed out from IIT, then as well as now, always had a job waiting for them. Our future was made. There were no bounds to our happiness. Worse, we are the future of the country, we thought. Our ego was inflated.

So on 18th July, 1986, we were on the train to Kanpur. There was just one train per day, the Kochin-Gorakhpur express, which started from Ernakulam junction around 9 am. Jimmy and few others were from Trivandrum; they had to come the night before and stay over in Ernakulam.

The compartment was comparatively empty. Nobody wanted to go to North India in summer and no sane person would take the Kochin-Gorakhpur express unless they had to (this I would come to know only later).

After getting admission for our programme, we had got in touch with each other. So I knew Jimmy, Jimmy knew George and Salim, Salim knew Gopalakrishnan. We had booked our seats together on the same day, same compartment. In fact we were all in the same coupe.

In addition to the bubbling future IITians there was one more diminutive guy in the coupe. He didn’t seem to talk much but, on asking, introduced himself as Abraham.

“Ningalokke engottu povva ?”, Abraham asked.

“We are all going to IIT Kanpur”, we said in unison

“IIT Kanpur, athentha?”, Abraham asked.

Oh my, are there people in India who didn’t know what IIT Kanpur was all about? We pitied him. Of course, we took it upon ourselves to educate him about IIT Kanpur.

“After independence, Jawaharlal Nehru decided to set up 5 national institutions of excellence. The first was in Kharagpur in 1951 and the last was in Delhi in 1961”, I start off.

“Nehru asked help from developed economies to assist with setting up the institutions. So IIT Madras was supported by Germany, IIT Bombay by Russians, IIT Delhi by UK and the best of all IIT Kanpur by Americans.”, Jimmy said.

“These countries did not just give money. They sent equipment, they sent professors, they created the academic system around their own country’s academic systems. They offered scholarships to the passing out students to come and do higher studies in their countries”, George said.

“So more than half of the IIT Kanpur graduates go to America for higher education”, Gopalakrishnan said.

Salim said nothing.

“You know, the computer center in IIT Kanpur is supported by USA and is the best in the country”, I started off the next round of boasting. I did not know if this was true. My experience with computers till then was just about peering through what is called a computer from the glassed window of the computer center at MA College of engineering. But when you have an ignoramus in front of you, anything goes really well.

“Eee computer ellam koodi enthu cheyyum ?”, Abraham asks.

Oh my my, we had just pardoned him for not knowing about IIT Kanpur and had spent last 15 minutes educating him on it. Now he was shooting for a new bottom of ignorance.

We spent next hour minutes on explaining about super computers, personal computers, mainframes, and how it all made work easy, how it would do the equivalent work of hundreds of people.

“Appol ee computer aalukal cheyyunna enthum cheyyo?” there was Abraham again.

“Of course, they will do it better”, I tell him.

“Computer thenga ido?”, I give up on this idiot.

But there were others in my group who were more patient. They explained to him that while computers actually don’t climb a coconut tree, there were computer controlled systems called robots which could do it one day.

Every time we thought we had brought up his general knowledge by one notch, he would come back with an even more ridiculous silly question.

“IIT Kanpur has its own airport, the only IIT to have one”, said Gopalakrishanan, who had got admission to the aeronautical engineering.

“Appo ningal ellam veemanam parappikkan padikkan povva, allyo”, asked Abraham.

Gopal then spendt two hours explaining aeronautical engineering is not about piloting a plane.

As we crossed into Tamil Nadu, Andhra, Maharashtra, etc., Abraham continued to marvel at the new sights, seemed impressed by our knowledge of science, history, and geography. We helped to buy him food, bargain for him with the vendors on the train, and helped translate his words to the TTE.

By the time we were in Kanpur, we were feeling better of having had an opportunity to help an innocent (almost idiotic) Malayalaee on his maiden trip outside Kerala. “What would he have done without us?” I thought.

As we got out at Kanpur, Abraham also got down. Though all of us had been to IIT for the interview, we are not sure whether to go to platform number 1 or 9 to get out to the civil lines side to take a tempo to IIT.

“Bhaisaab, eh civil lines side konsa side meih hein, hoon, ha…” I started.

“Piller ende koode vaa” Abraham said, picked up his backpack, and started walking.

Later in that day we would come to know that for the past two days we had been talking to Abraham P Punnen, a doctoral student of IIT Kanpur. Punnen has been in IIT for past five years and was just waiting to have his degree awarded. He was really taking all of us for a ride all those 48 hours.

All characters mentioned in this story are real but I am not sure if they will be glad to have it publicly recounted. I, however, have confirmation from Punnen that he is happy to have this story told in public. Punnen is a professor in Canada and is one of the best known names in Combinatorial Optimization.

Tags: fun, iit

Cochin-Gorakhpur Express used to be a once-in-a-week train stating around 9 AM from Kochi. It then stopped virtually in every station that it could. While Kerala express would by-pass Coimbatore and Chennai thus saving time in the journey, the Gorakhpur express was in no such hurry. It would by-pass no station. In fact, it would actually go and spend a refreshing hour or so in Madras Central around midnight. Thus getting a reservation in Cochin-Gorakhpur express was always easy; nobody ever going to Madras chose this train as it took much longer and arrived there at the worst possible time of the night.

So getting into all bylanes and cul-de-sacs, the Cochin-Gorakhpur express used to arrive around 12 noon on Sundays in Kanpur Central. It would be another 9 hours before it reached Gorakhpur, my friends said. I never checked or verified.

But that was true when it was on time. The fact was, it was never on time. I had been on this train for up to 12 hours when it was running late. In fact, I have stayed on this train for three hours at a crossing in Panki, which is about 7 minutes from Kanpur. Due to the security situation in Kanpur, none of us dared to get out in Panki and take a rickhaw to Kanpur. In the hot summer of Kanpur, three hours in a train that has stopped dead on its tracks, with no access to water, is the closest I have come to experiencing hell.

I don’t know if the Cochin-Gorakhpur express had an air conditioned compartment. For students on concession, that was out of reach anyway.

But I knew for sure that the Cochin-Gorakhpur train had no pantry car. This was what turned this miserable train into a ‘gastronomic express’ for somebody who is totally experimental about food. I think, with almost all trains having modern pantry cars and efficient catering services, we have totally destroyed this experience of culinary diversity of train journeys in the Indian railways.

For those who don’t know the good old days, let me recollect it for you. For those who did travel this or other long distance trains without pantry car, this would have been a nostalgic return trip.

Let me start my gastronomic journey from the Kanpur Central station itself. I used to spend many hours sitting on my blue suitcase (there was nothing else to sit on) waiting for the Gorakhpur-Kochi express on the platform. I have waited during day time, I have waited during nights. I have waited overnight.

That is when I got friendly with Guptaji who makes nothing but samosas (samoosa is what they call it in Kanpur) on platform number 3 in Kanpur Central.

Looking from outside, especially on the cantonment side, Kanpur Central is a majestic train station. However,  close up, it is a total mess.

Platform number 3 is no different. It is crowded 24/7, it is dirty with everything you can think of both decorating both the platform and the rails.

In the midst of this crowd, mess, and smell, Guptaji prepares samoosas day in and day out. He has an unending supply of boiled potatoes, dough, and oil. As the mix finishes, he remakes it, as the oil levesl go down, he pours more oil from a bottle. As trains come and go day and night, day after day, week after week, there is no stopping of the shop. May be Guptaji is replaced by an assistant or a brother, but the fire is never extinguished and the oil never stops boiling. During the many hours I was there watching him, chatting with him, or eating his samoosas, I never saw him decant the oil or clean the frying pan.

“My father and Grandfather used to do the same job here” Guptaji used to say.

“Was his grandfather serving samoosas when Gandhiji went around during Bharat Darshan”, I wondered.

In Homeopathy, they say, water has memory so that even after a chemical is diluted into sub-molecule levels, the water still remembers that it was once in contact with the molecule and retains therapeutic powers.

If water has memory will the oil have such memory ?, That is, if the oil has never been changed in Guptajis frying pan and was always topped up, would the memory of the oil which served samoosas during Gandhiji’s period still be with the oil that is currently served?”, I wondered. I was inspired by this possible link to Gandhiji via Guptaji as I ordered another samoosa. He used to serve samoosas with imli chutney. When you have not had anything to eat for 4 hours, it sure tasted delicious.

But two hours on train from Kanpur at Unnao, you get something that melts in your mouth. The gulab jamoons of Unnao are actually the much bigger than jamoons and are sized like oranges. They are delicious. If our train stops on a different  platform we had to jump across the rails to another platform to buy the stuff. The taste was so good that we used to do that all the time. The safety expert in me today would not have approved of my behavior then.

In Jhansi, we were invariably sold “Agra petta”, which I was told is some sort of processed pumpkin. Very tasty and very cheap. My father used to wait for the pettas when I came back from Kanpur.

In Bhopal we used to get batturas in a plate made of leaves. Two batturas, some chana, and one chilly.  Filling breakfast, lunch, or dinner, I wouldn’t comment on the taste though.

In Andhra, from Vijayawada to Warangal, we always got idlis with hot chutney. There was always a shortage of water in this sector, but the food was great.

The distance between stations in Andhra was large, and if our train did not come on time, there was no food left at the platforms. This was bad news. If you did not arrive in Vijayawada by 8 pm, you were doomed. Our express made it a point never to arrive on time though.

The good thing about those old days was that since there was no pantry car and people knew getting food on the platform is hit or miss, families often looked out for bachelors like us and offered us food. I have eaten food offered by friends and strangers. Many strangers became friends through this food sharing. You really understood what those daily oath-taking in school meant—all Indians are my brothers and sisters— when an unknown lady who did not speak your language offered a roti from her meal to you. We were not worried about people trying to drug us those days.

Once you arrived in Tamil Nadu, food was plenty and variety was not a problem. From thairu saadam to masala dosa, from breakfast items to late night dinner, Tamil Nadu was a gastronome’s delight.

After 48 hours on the train, as we crossed into Kerala, we really did not need any food. Yet the biriyani in Shornur station was always a temptation. I just took care not to touch anything made from curd. I think there once was a special factory making curd for railway platforms. The factory was closed many years back but what is made is still in store and being retailed to this day.

What is my most memorable gastronomic experience on Indian railways?

One morning, we were in Wardha around 9 am. Wardha you get two things. Parippu vada (which unlike kerala is made as spheres) or dosas. Our train was on an upset schedule overnight in Andhra and we had not had a decent meal the night before. We were starving.

The train does not stop too long in Wardha and we had to get our food fast. I was queing up in front of a dosa shop. He put two dosas, some chutney made of peanuts on a leaf plate and collected his money.

As I stand in line, I see a lean dog on the platform. From the look on its face, I could make out that it hadn’t any dinner the previous night..

I managed to push my way to get the attention of the dosawala. I paid 10 rupees and got two dosas. I moved apart and started to eat the dosa

Perhaps I had made eye contact with the dog, so the do has also followed me in expectation.

I took a bite at the dosa and it tasted like thermocol, and also smelt like  themrocol that had just been taken out from a waste bin in Ernakulam. I must have been so hungry that my senses were numb for a brief while. But once my survival ration reached my stomach, I realized the stench.

I couldn’t eat it anymore, so let me do a good deed I thought, “I will give to the dog, who still had not given up on me.”

So I moved away to a less crowded area and put the leaf with a dosa in front of the dog.

The dog rushed to the food. But unlike me, he was a bit more civilized. It took a sniff and then  had a look at me as if “ivan onnum nalla bhakshanam kandittille” and walked off.

After 25 years, everytime I go somewhere and eat something which I dont like against my will, I salute the will power of the Dog in Wardha!.

I was in Port Harcourt, meeting a few Nigerian friends. We were sitting outside a restaurant one afternoon in the delta which was hot and humid. The waitress comes around to take orders.

“What will you have sir?”, she asked.

“I will have a sprite”, I said.

“I will have a chapman”, my friend Immanual said.

“Chapman?”, I thought. I must have heard wrongly.

“I will have a chapman too”, said Victor;

so it was not about my hearing then! What is Chapman?,

How can a drink be called chapman? Will we have a drink called Poulose in Kerala?

“I will have a chapman as well”, Yusuf said.

So I am the only stupid guy didn’t understand chapman and certainly I did not want to miss out. “I cancel my tea and I would like to have a chapman too”, I said. Once she left, I asked my friends,

“ Hey! What is a chapman?”

“So you ordered it without knowing what it is,” they asked.

“If it is good enough for the three of you, it should be ok for me too”, I said.

Chapman is made by mixing sprite with grenadine; a slice of lemon is put in it. Of course, it is a cold drink, so is full of ice. A slice of cucumber is placed on the edge of the glass. It looks like coco cola and is very relaxing.

Among my friends, I have reputation for being most experimental with food. I have eaten everything that was ever served to me. In fact, I proactively look for diversity in food wherever I am. I get most angry with people who travel and for meal after meal look for the food that they are used to. Of course, I can understand them craving for their home food after a week. Of course, I can understand them not wanting to experiment every meal, But to travel to Japan and return without ever having tasted Japanese food is equivalent to a criminal offence.

People whom I get even more annoyed with are those who consider the food habits of others “revolting”.

“Do they really eat dogs in Philippines?”, some of them ask.

“You mean in France they still eat snails?”, others ask.

Food habits of people evolved in different parts of the world based on their nature around them. Of course, desperate times makes people to eat stuff they would not eat otherwise!! This is not about morality or civilization.

So it is only natural that you get kangaroo burger in Perth and grilled camel meat in Salalah. It is equally natural that you eat oysters in Brussels and octopus in Tokyo.

In Kenya, where the forest is still full of wild animals and rivers full of crocodiles, the Carnivore restaurant serves a selection of exotic meat.—ostrich, elands, crocodiles, zebras. All legally harvested from private farms.

In Bangkok streets, you can buy fried grass hopper for about one dollar for a small packet. As you walk down the supersize malls in Bangkok, you can munch these bugs, exactly like how you will do peanuts on the “Shankumukham” beach.

China, naturally, is termed the capital of exotic food. Frankly speaking, my experience with exotic animals in China has not been too elaborate.

However, China did give me a humbling lesson about diversity of food. In discussions in Europe, India always get high marks for food diversity. You have so many varieties of food in India, the Europeans say. Compared to many European countries where the food diversity is very limited, it is true. From appam, to masala dosa to chappathi to nan, India has an astonishing variety in food. I thought that since our diversity in languages and sub-cultures is richer than that of China, our food diversity index must be higher.

Well, that was true till I went to Mingyang. We were invited for a dinner by the local Mayor and he said “today we will only have dishes based on mushrooms”. And guess what, over the next three hours, 24 separate preparations all based on 24 different type of mushrooms came around out tables!!. Beat that if you can.

There are funny combinations of food too. In Kanpur, they serve Jilebi with curd for breakfast. Appetizing?

In Haiti, they serve you pazhampori with sliced onion and chilly for the evening snack. “Ethappazham and pothirachi is a better combination”, Ananthan used to say.

But then that exactly is what people in West Africa eat. In Ivory Coast, they eat fried banana like the way we eat rice. Fried banana with chicken stew. Friend banana with fish stew. Friend banana with, well you guessed it, beef stew…

What is the most exotic stuff I have eaten?

Snails in butter in a French restaurant.

Believe me, it was delicious!!

What exactly is the oldest profession in the world ?. Conventional wisdom is that it is prostitution. I think it is theft. My reasoning is that if economics is the reason for prostitution (as most often is the case), they would have contemplated theft as an alternative as in most societies theft is a lesser crime (morally and legally) than prostitution. So, the chances are that people tried their hand in theft before moving on.

You come across them all over the world in various sizes, shape, and form. They could be like the brutal robbers in South Africa who recently murdered the wife in the honeymooning couple even after her husband offered to him everything including their wedding ring, purse, credit card, and mobile phones. They could be like the ordinary pickpockets in our KSRTC buses. Unarmed, harmless, just trying to make a quick buck.

Vengola’s aasthana kallan was kallan paulose. I don’t know what he stole or when. When I saw him, he was a very hardworking family man. In villages, if you get a brand, that is for life.

The first real kallan I came across, I did not see. I was sitting with my friend Babu in the terrace of my ammayee’s house. When Babu and I meet after few months, we used to chat for hours. And it must have been about 3 AM at night that he returned to his house which was next door.

Babu’s father declares curfew at home at 10 PM at night. The front door will be closed. So he had to go by the stairs at the back to enter his house. Naturally, he had no torch with him.

Two minutes after he left, I heard him shouting, “Eda kallan”, and I rushed to his place. We could hear somebody was rushing out through the fields. Babu’s father got up, put on the light, and shone a torch. We couldn’t see very far and his mother didn’t want us to go after him.

Next morning we found that at least 15 vaazhas in the field had been cut with a “vaakkathi”. A good idea that we did not chase him.

So probably this is what happened that night. The thief came and wanted to commit robbery either at Babu’s place or mine. But because the light was on and we were out in the terrace, he decided to wait.

He probably didn’t know us, else he would have known Babu would be returning to the house. Instead he thought, “ee nashangal eppozhenkilum urangumallo”, and waited.

And much to his annoyance, Babu kalamadan walked right into him 3 AM at night. Kallante oru divasam veruthe aayi.

Nirasha paranjariyikkan pattumo. So angadiyil thottathinu ammayodu. Aa vishamam aanu vaazhayodu theerthathu.

When you start to travel you have to be extremely careful about the possibility of being the victim of a robbery and since traveling is part of my job, I have been specially trained in dealing with them. Some of what I say may sound strange to you, but follow those instructions which you think are ok.

The first thing to remember at all times is that your life is more valuable than your money. “Manushya nee ninte atmavu nashtappeduthiyittu kallane pidichittu enthu karyam.” (Muralyude suvishesham, 12:1) So never chase a thief at night or in an unknown place.

The second thing to remember is that the thief is lot more agitated than you are. You are annoyed that you have lost something or about to lose something. But your loss is generally economical and often finite. But if he is caught, the implication could be severe for him. For young thieves, their reputation is gone forever, for an older thief it may mean some time in jail, and for thieves caught by public in India, it is often the fear of publish thrashing which is their biggest fear. In some countries, like Kenya, a thief publicly caught could actually be given a necklace (i.e., a burning tyre on their neck).

So their incentive to get away is much bigger than your incentive to catch him. So he will do whatever it takes to get away, like pushing you downstairs if at home or in front of a car if you are on the road. If they are armed, they might harm you disproportionately in panic.

Thirdly, he is prepared but not you. The thief, mostly, know that they are going to do something criminal while you have no idea that you will be a target. So they choose the time and place and often the tools. You have none of these. The element of surprise is also with him. So you are literally unprepared for the event.

There are three kinds of thieves, generally. One, opportunistic. Two professional, but intending to do no physical harm. Three, professional for whom harming as part of robbery is normal.

Opportunistic thieves are people who steal your valuables because you are careless about them. If you leave your office room open, any passerby will be tempted to nick your mobile. They generally are very careful and do no physical harm to you. The defence against them is to be just being more careful.

The professional small-scale thieves are different. They track you and trap you. Pickpockets, thieves who enter your house at night, and those who give you drugs on train are of this variety. While doing you harm is not their intention, they may end up harming you by excess force in snatching your chain or excess drugs in your biscuits. You really cannot fully defend against such thieves but by being extra vigilant while travelling and having extra safety gadgets (such as motion detection seonsors and burglar alarms) at home, all are helpful. Such thieves don’t waste too much time with people whom they know are careful.

Finally we have the professional and hardcore thieves. They do not mind using violence as part of their crime. In fact, they may proactively intimidate you with violence. Dealing with these people needs professional support. You are no match for them.

If you are going to a city where you know such criminals exists, then you have to take extra care about your travel and accommodation.

In many countries where there is a severe problem with professional robbers, houses have both security alarms as well as a safe room. A safe room is a room, like a locker, in your house. If you are aware that an attempt on your house is imminent, you enter this safe room, lock yourself in, and call security through a secure line (telephones most probably would have been cut by then). Do not open till the the robbers have left or security forces have chased them away. They may steal all your stuff, but remember that your life is the most precious thing.

I have small indication to verify if a city has serious problem with theft. When I arrive at a town and if the height of the compound wall is more than 6 feet high or the apartment blocks have security grills about 2nd floor, this is a place to be extra careful about. I always have a dummy purse with outdated credit cards and a 100 USD note in it. This is what I will have when I move around in such towns (I have been told that professional muggers will slap you if you do not have at least 100 USD, “chumma njangalude samayam kalayan nokkunno”).

The worst offence is carjacking. People who stop your car and try to steal it are generally very professional and well armed. The best course of action is to first try to get public attention if you have already noticed them tracking you (you can do this by causing a minor accident at the traffic junction, just hit the back of the car in front of you, making the angry person in the front car to come out. Car-jackers don’t want to take you on in public and this commotion will ensure that they leave you and look for another target).

But if you are unfortunate enough to be faced by a car-jacker, just give your car to him. Don’t even look at their faces. Thieves apparently get concerned that the victim will remember their faces and identify by them later and to prevent it they may kill you. But so long as you hand the key, get out of the car, and allow them to move on quickly, you could be safe. Naturally, you should report to police, etc., later, but never argue or even talk with car-jackers.

If you are not convinced, remember Muralee’s suvishesham again…

Watching people is one of my favorite hobbies during my travels. I also end up listening to stories about a lot of people. I rarely speak, unless spoken to, when I am on the move. Speaking from experience, there is great market for such people who are more willing to listen than speak.

Every individual in the plane is a story. Be it the American truck driver who is coming on his rest and recreation break to Kerala from his difficult posting in Iraq or the Malayalam film star returning from a shooting session in Kuala Lumpur. They all have different pretentions and body languages. But once you get past the façade, all humans, Malayalees or not, black or white, young or old, men or women, are all the same. They all have stories to tell and, to somebody like me, they are all stories themselves.

So it is during one of these journeys that I met Jogi. Jogi joined me from Rome and was, like many people who come home after a long time very excited about the trip.

“Chettan malayalee aano?” Jogi asked me while at the airport itself.

He was already my friend. When you cross 40 years, you start to hate people who call you ‘uncle’. Women specialize in this area. Sometimes I meet women who are with two teenage children and will start by telling “Uncle evide aanu work cheyynunnathu?” I generally reply by saying I am a plumber in the Gulf and that generally seals the conversation.

But then Jogi has already scored a point with me.

“Appo Jogi enthu cheyyunnu ?”, I asked him.

“Njan oru velakkarana chetta”, Jogi told me.

That is not a word which people often refer to themselves, especially if they work in Europe. The politically correct word is house worker or house help but many such house-helps actually refer to themselves as “house keepers”. Makes them feel better I suppose.

But this guy was different. He scores a second point with me.

“How long have you been in Italy?” I ask him.

“Four years now”, he tells me.

“Where were you before?”, I am expecting to hear the name of some Middle Eastern country. That is where many malayalees work as drivers, cooks, and do other house jobs. Every summer you see hundreds of such malayalees coming to Europe with their host families. They then abscond and then work there on odd jobs.

“Athonnum parayanda chetta, athoru kathayanu, vaasthavathil njan oru engineer aanu”, he says.

“Oh my”, I told myself; “my companion is a novel, not a story.”

As luck would have it, our seats were adjacent. I think when you buy the cheapest possible ticket you are given the worst possible seat on a plane, such as 36 E.

While on the plane, Jogi took out an album and showed me the picture of a beautiful apartment and Jogi himself with an international crowd of boys and girls

“This was my dormitory when I was doing my Masters in Sweden”, he said.

“So you have a masters in engineering”, I am even more impressed.

“Athu njan complete cheythilla.”

“Why?”

“Because I had no money.”

So over the next one hour I was to hear the sad story of a young computer graduate in Kerala being sold, by an educational consultant, the opportunity for a scholarship in a Scandinavian country.

“You don’t have to pay any tuition fee, you just have to look after your living expenses”, the agent told him.

The agent did not tell him what the living expenses would be.

Jogis parents were school teachers, and naturally were very happy to have their son go abroad for higher studies. So they gave him about 5 laks and sent him abroad.

“When I landed in the Stockholm airport, I had a sweater with me, but the temperature was about -20 degrees. I did not speak the language and did not know what to do. One old lady took pity on me, gave her coat to me and drove me to my hotel, I would have died otherwise. Next day I went and bought the required winter gear, thermal underwears, jackets, wind cheaters, gloves, caps, eye glasses. That itself cost me close to a lakh of rupees.”

In the months to come, he was to find out that the cost of living in Scandinavian countries is very high. Everything is expensive, medical insurance, transport, accommodation, food, and even books. Within six months, I had finished the 5 lakhs.

“I wrote to my father that I would need some more money and he arranged for an educational loan of Rs 5 lakhs and sent it to me. But unfortunately even that got over soon.”

“I must say I also was a bit careless. After all I was young, for the first time outside India, with young students from around the world. We partied at the university, we partied at the dorm, we went out, and I travelled. What to say, before the year was finished, I had once again run out of money.”

“The course went on for a further 6 months and so I wrote to my dad again asking for some more money. However, this time he did not agree. My mom proposed selling some land but father asked me to return instead.”

“I did not want to go back having spend 10 lakhs rupees but without a degree. I tried to plead with my father, but he would not relent. I stopped talking to him, but that did not solve the problem though.”

“I had a cousin who was a nurse in Austria. I went and met her to see if she can arrange a job. She was very kind to me but said that in Austria, there was no chance for such jobs, but if I went to Italy, I could survive.”

As he was telling these stories, he was showing me the picture of winter and summer in Sweden; pictures of snowball matches and snowmans, pictures of frozen lakes, and beautiful spring. The last pictures in his album were that of his cousin and family in Austria.

“From then on, I kept no pictures”, he said, closing the album. “I don’t want to remember this part of my life.”

But he continued with the story anyway.

“That is how I arrived in Italy. I was introduced to a Malayalee chettan who arranged odd jobs for people like me who end up in Italy with no working permit. I worked selling mementoes around the tourist attractions in Italy and learnt a bit of Italian”.

“Can you look after two old people”, once this chettan asked me.

“What is the deal?”

“An Italian lady has come to me asking if I could find somebody who can look after her elderly parents. They are living alone and needed somebody to give them food and medicines everyday. In the evening they should be taken out for a walk. In return I would get free food, accommodation, and 1000 euros.”

“One thousand euro is 72,000 rupee at that time and I jumped at this offer. So I became a velakkaran in their house.”

“I looked after them very well, but I was illegal all this time, but after two years this Italian lady arranged to give me a permit, so I could take up any other job in Italy. I was also fluent in Italian by then.”

“I used to go once every week to a butcher’s shop to buy meat for the family. One day the butcher asked me if I wanted to join him as an assistant. He offered me 2000 euro salary. That was 150,000 rupees. That is more than what any of my engineering classmates earned.”

“I, however, did not want to leave the Italian lady who was very kind to me. She arranged all the papers, so I went back to her and gave her an option.”

“I will bring my mother from home and she can look after your parents. Actually, my mom would do a better job. You pay her the same amount as you pay me now. You could pay her something less if you allow me also to stay in the same house.”

“This she agreed to.”

“I called my mother and told about the deal. I don’t know if it was the desire to be with me, or to travel to Europe or the money involved, my mom also agreed. My father was not very happy though. But since he was not on talking terms with me, I did not care.”

“So now I am returning, after all these years, to see my parents. I have paid back all my loans so I can stand tall in front of my father. I also have visa for my mother so that when I return, she will be with me.”

The plane landed in Doha. I wished him good luck.

Later that night, on my brief flight from Doha to Cochin, I had a dream.

Two years on, I meet Jogi again on the plane. Now he is with his mother and they are going home for his wedding. In his bag there is a visa for his father.

“I have negotiated with the owner of my butchery and he has agreed that my father will do the butchery and I have got a job as an engineer”, Jogi tells me.

They say dreams you see early morning hours come true. Jogi, I am not superstitious, but have great affection and respect for you. And for your sake, I hope at least part of my dream comes true.

I am looking forward to meeting you with your new album again…

Tags: immigration

I left Kerala in 1986, at the age of 22. I have been a pravasi since. First 10 years within India and then abroad.

When I left, Kerala was considered a land of emigrants. For almost a century, Malayalees has been on the move outwards. There were big Malayalee communities in almost all major Indian cities and some minor ones too, such as Bhilai. Malayalees has been moving abroad too, starting in Sri Lanka, then Malaya, then US, then Gulf, and finally everywhere.

The pravasi culture impacted everything in Kerala, be its economy or literature. Land prices in Kerala fluctuate based on oil price in the Middle East. Movies in Kerala eye the non-resident markets as much as it does the local market in the state. Most TV channels ensure that they time their programmes to suit the convenience of the non-residents or arrange for re-telecast of key programmes. There are Malayalam radio stations in the Gulf. Our media is full of pravasi focused articles, we even have a pravasi manthri these days.

But on returning to Kerala in 2008, for a one-year stint, I noticed something else. Kerala is now a big land for the immigrants.

I first noticed this at home. We had Mr Bum Kumar, from Bihar, at home to help my mother. Bum used to work with my brother in a company and when my brother left the company Bum chose to follow him to support us at home with all sort of work.

Bum is not an exception. In Vengola, there are hundreds of plywood factories (people say Vengola may be the plywood capital of the universe) and there are thousands of people working there. Almost all of them are from outside Kerala.

Every morning, in all junctions in Perumbavoor you see hundreds of non-Malayalees standing, some with their work tools. People come on foot, bikes, car, or jeep looking for laborers. The rates are all standard and you can have as many as you want. While in economics one does speak about “labor market”, I am not sure if Adam Smith has actually seen one for real. I have.

If you analyse our electoral results in most part of the country, the votes are divided in three or four major segments and the winner almost always have less than 50 % of the polled votes.

Sundays in Perumbavoor, these days, has a festival atmosphere with tens of thousands of these non-Malayalees assembling in the town. The come to socialize, eat good food, buy provisions, make telephone calls, and watch movies. We, residents of the place, literally keep off on that day and leave the city to them. The best result of this is that even vegetable sellers in Perumbavoor now can speak Hindi. If you don’t speak Hindi, you can’t do your business on Sundays.

As an immigrant all through my adult life, I welcome this fact. It is a known fact that migrants brings in new culture and support renewal of the economy. Even as Western countries try all sorts of means to control and manage immigration, all academic studies support more immigration than less.

However, world over, there has been a resistance in the host community against immigrants. Starting from anti Semitism, to jokes on Polish Plumbers in UK, they are all part of it. America is building big walls along Mexican borders to keep a check on immigration from Mexico and other Central and South American countries. European countries spend billions of dollars to keep immigrants from African homes and prevent them from landing in Europe.

Of course with more than 40 lacs of Malayalees living outside Kerala, we understand the economic rationale behind immigration and our own brothers and sisters are subjected to mis-treatment that is due for immigrants in most parts of the world. So we would assume that as a society we have a more pro-immigration mindset.

But unfortunately we don’t. And I see it everyday in Perumbavoor—in the roads, in workplaces, in political speeches, and in the media.

To start with, talk about giving place on rent. Non-Malayalee work force is not a preferred tenant. “They could be Maoist or fundamentalists”, people often say. It is not that there are no criminal elements among immigrants. Horrible things like the murder in Kottayam has been committed by immigrants. But then so do our own criminals. Statistically speaking, immigrants are not even proportionately represented in the crime list. In most cases, when crimes are committed, it is between immigrants and immigrants almost always. Committing crimes on the native population is not yet a serious issue in Kerala to warrant treating the immigrants as potential criminals or suspects.

The consequence of this is that immigrants tend to live in groups in those limited places where they can get accommodation. These are much like the Malayalee labor camps in the Middle East where the conditions are pathetic. Yet other than in situations when there is an epidemic of chicken pox of jaundice in these areas, they widely remain outside our health-care systems. I was also told that till the time the courts intervened, getting education for their children in our schools was itself was a problem as they could not produce the right type of certificates.

Malayalees often take pride is being able to integrate themselves with the host countries and communities. My friend Price, who has been living in Basel for more than 20 years now even speaks to me in German. However, when it comes to accommodating our visitors and integrating with our culture, we are far behind. Why?

The situation in workplaces is worse. Other than the fact that the immigrant labor is cheap and they work hard, the main reason why they are preferred is that they don’t belong to any unions. Their absence of collective bargaining is used against them in terms of extended hours of work, poor working conditions, and often physical violence. In the not so uncommon situation of a death of a migrant laborer at the workplace, they rarely get the level of compensation a Malayalee will receive in similar circumstances. Reminds me of the status of Malayalees who die in accidents in the Gulf. Since we are also victims of such discrimination elsewhere, shouldn’t we do better to lead by example? If we treat immigrants badly, what moral right we have to seek better treatment of our laborers outside?

I think it is time that we in Kerala have a minister for “immigrants” (what is the opposite of pravasi?). It is time that we start to recognize these immigrants as a positive force in our economy and started to treat them with respect and without suspicion. We should integrate them with out society, not seeing them just as cheap labor but also as potential entrepreneurs. We should remember that some of our most respected business leaders in the Gulf were all once such immigrants at the bottom of the social ladder and are now employing thousands of people including some from those countries itself. Time when we will have such bright sparks coming out of the poor immigrant community is not far and we should create situations so that it is even closer.

Tags: immigrants

“If you see a black cat crossing the road, one thing is sure”, my friend Suma wrote on her Facebook page the other day. “It is going somewhere.”

This is a very logical assumption, but people like Suma are rare to find in India. Most people who see a black cat crossing the road make other assumptions. It is considered a bad omen, and depending upon how gullible you are, you may decide not to proceed with the journey, return back to your home (if you are close to your house), and start the journey all together once again or on another occasion, some might even make an offering to Lord Ganesha (to prevent any vighnam), and others may make a prayer. Even those who don’t believe, they feel a bit uneasy about this. Why a black cat, of all things?

The funny thing about superstitions is that they are not universal. While a black cat crossing the road is a big deal in one country, others hardly take note. This is not because people in other areas are any less superstitious; it is that they just have their own superstitions. “Don’t worry if your ear has been heating up a bit of late” my friend Claudia wrote to me from Peru, “I have been thinking about writing to you.” Back home in India we would say if you had an itch in your nose, somebody is thinking about you.

Sitting with people from many countries the other night, I asked them what are the typical superstitions in their countries and here is a selection.

1. In UK, keeping a new shoe on the table is considered really bad luck
2. In much of Europe walking under a ladder is a “no go”, seems it brings bad luck
3. In Germany, if you suddenly feel a chill, they take it to mean that somebody has just crossed your (future) grave
4. In many western countries, a horse shoe, hung upwards, is said to bring good luck
5. And so on

While different countries and cultures have different superstitions, globalization is impacting them too. People are internalizing the superstitions from other cultures. In my younger days number 13 had no significance in our place. It was just like any other number. Not any more. Increasingly, people in India believe that 13 is a bad number and try actively to avoid it. If it is Friday the 13th, pinne parayanum illa.

When you grow up in a traditional family in a village in a third world country, you grow up with superstitions of all kinds. In fact, so many of them were integral to our life that you never could differentiate between a superstition and a normal belief. In stories such as Aitheehya Mala, which colors your childhood, the superstition is presented as a fact. These days you have TV serials providing that service.

There was a belief in our village that the first person to arrive in your house on the morning of the 1st of the month determined the luck of the family for that month. Some people were considered good and others were considered not good. I was, somehow, considered a good guy and my neighbors insisted that I go to their house on 1st of every month. My neighbor Kalyani used to give me a banana for this service.

My loss of banana and innocence came somewhat early. I once went to visit my father’s house (as belonging to a traditional nair family, I grew up in mothers house). One of my uncles (kochachan) had learnt “mashi nottam” recently and he was attracting clients. The sequence was as follows. A client would come to get some problem resolved from kochachan (often theft, questions of chastity, etc.). He had this unique black concoction which he would spread on a kavidi pinjanam. A young child would be asked to look into it intensely. Kochachan would then ask questions to him/her and, apparently, the child will be able to see in the mashi images of what kochachan was looking for.

I once went to visit this uncle and a client arrived there.(He had lost his cow.) He wanted kochachan’s help to find out more about the lost cow. Kochachan typically used my cousin Ananthan chettan (unfortunately not alive anymore) but on this day, he had not returned from school. So kochachan asked me to sit and look into the kavidi pinjanam.

“Do you see anything?”, he asked me.

“Nothing”, I said.

“Do you see a policeman there?”, he asked.

“No.”

“OK, look into it for some more time.” I was put in a somewhat shaded room and the question was repeated. Still no policeman appeared.

The client was getting restless and my uncle was very disappointed. He murmured, though I am young (must have been 6–7 then), I am not fully innocent.

Luckily for all, Ananthan chettan turned up. He sat promptly watching the plate.

In less than a minute, the policeman apparently appeared on the plate.

“OK ask him, where the cow is”, kochachan told him.

“The cow is grazing in the farm”, Ananthan chettan said.

“That is correct”, says the owner of the cow, “I had left it to graze after milking it around 3 PM.”

Kochachan was excited. “Ask him who took it”, he commanded.

“It is taken by a short fat guy, in a lunki”, Ananthan chettan says.

“OK, then that must be Sankaran”, the owner says. He was short and fat and passed through that area often.

“Ask him where the cow is now”, kochachan said.

There was no answer from Ananthan chettan.

“OK, ask the policeman to call the inspector”, says kochachan

Apparently, the inspector arrives.

The Question and Answer session goes on.

At the end of it all, the client was happy. Kochachan got his fee and Ananthan chettan got a banana. There were three happy people.

I was disappointed thrice. I did not get the banana. I was sad that I did not manage to see the policeman, and I was very sad to learn that I was, after all, not innocent.

If you thought such nonsense can happen only in a remote Indian village, then that is not true. Every week, I get the local newspaper GHI delivered to my mailbox. One full page of the paper is dedicated to what we call “mediums”. Mediums are people who have the ability to summon dead people and allow their living relatives to communicate with them. The funny thing is that you have mediums catering exclusively to Europeans, South Americans, Africans, and Asians. On a typical week there are about 50 advertisements and most of them advertise every week, meaning, they stay in business. Gullibility is not an exclusive right of Indians.

Travelling over the world, I have come across superstitions of all kinds. In fact, one of my friends once explained to me that the difference between belief and superstition is actually artificial. Belief, by definition, is blind and is not supported by evidence. If something is supported by evidence, then, of course, that is a fact and no more a belief. The question of what a belief is and what a superstition is just a question of the degree of gullibility.

In South East Asian countries, the tradition of “Bomo” is very prevalent. Bomos are the equivalents of our “manthravadis”. Their service is sought in a range of situations from curing illnesses to controlling weather events. Needless to say, “shathru samharam” is one of the more popular areas for deployment of the Bomo art.

In much of Central and West Africa and the Island Republic of Haiti, voodoo is still practiced to this date, most commonly for dealing with enemies. People often say that in Haiti 90% of people are “Catholic” and 100% are voodoo, indicating that voodoo survives even among people who practice other religions.

In the Middle East, North Africa, and even in central Asia, the belief and practice in Jinns continue to this day. There are good Jinns and bad Jinns. There are people who have access to and control of these Jinns and can make things happen. This is much like our “chathan seva”. Once again treatment of illnesses and shathru samharam seems to be their favorite terrain.

When I was in Brunei, there was a dark corner in the road in Panaga, outside the hospital, where people routinely reported the presence of a lady, dressed in white, asking for a lift. As people approached them, the aura around them blinded the authors and this in turn caused many accidents and some deaths. Naturally, the story is told by survivors and the dead people were assumed to have seen the same. Being outside the hospital, the lady was presumed to be somebody who died in labor and was going around as a “gathi kitta pretham”.

When the issue was discussed, there were two schools of thought. One group said, let us get some Bomo and do an “Uchadanam” while some of us said, let us do something more practical such as better lighting. (Incidentally this wont be the last time I will have Bomo vs logic debate while in Brunei).

As the pressure from the community to act on this grew, we put up better warning signs (indicating sharp turn, not that of a “yakshi”), put up reflectors on the curve, and put better lighting in the whole area. Needless to say, the yakshi was not seen there since.

This shouldn’t be surprising. Aitheehya Mala is full of stories about yakshis who took hold of travelling namboothiris on to the top of palm trees and eating them alive. We still have not run short of palm Trees in Kerala and namboothiris are also not extinct. But how many of them had been eaten by yakshis in the last 50 years? I will give credit to KSRTC and KSEB for this. People don’t walk as long as they used to and there is better lighting on the roads.

Tags: superstition

The word “tapau” in Malay means “take away”.

I heard this word from my secretary Rose Mary, who was Chinese. That is not actually her correct name. Her correct name is Tiu Bun Tee. But as is common with Christian Chinese, they have two names—one their Chinese name and the other their Christian name.

I had asked Tiu to arrange for lunch for our official visitors from the local government. Food is a big part of the culture in South East Asia as in India. Many of the deals are made over meals.

“You should get me a tapau”, she said.

“What is tapau”, I asked.

“Take away.”

“What do you want?” I asked her.

“I have told the hotel”, she said.

So we were at the hotel and had the usual elaborate Chinese meal. In good Chinese restaurants, not all dishes come at one go. You sit around a dining table which is always rounded and there is a revolving glass or wooden circle in the middle. Food is kept on this and it gets rotated. It is not uncommon in Kerala too.

“I want to make one of those”, I told my carpenter.

“Athu old fashioned aanu saare”, he told me. Of course, I have learnt by experience and watching Azhakiya Ravanan many times that in Kerala we should not argue with or go against the wishes of your carpenters or painters.

So dishes kept coming and the meal went on for 2 hours. In between 20–30 dishes would pass by the table.

When I am finished and about to leave, the waiter brings a big bag of packed food. I take it to office and hand over to Tiu.

Tiu shouts “tapau” in the corridor and everybody appeared.

And they start to eat the food.

“So what was it”, I asked Tiu once she finished her meal.

She looked at me strangely “You don’t know, that is what was left from your meal”. So in essence, they were having the “doggy bag”.

I asked my cousin, who is a secretary back in India, would she request or accept the leftover from the meal of their boss.

“I will throw it back on his face”, she said.

And that is true. I don’t think any boss in India will dare to bring leftover food to their secretary.

Now as you know Brunei is not a poor country. My secretary must have been earning anything around 1,00,000 rupees per month. Also food there is not expensive. You get a good meal for about 200 rupees.

So the incentive certainly is not economics.

Nor was it limited to secretaries.

I once arranged a meeting in the HQ of our company. As usual, there was a lot of food and lot of it was left. Once the meeting was over Tiu stood out in the corridor and shouted “makan” (food) and, from cubicles and cabins, people appeared.

Our deputy managing director, an aristocratic and wealthy Brunian, was walking down the corridor and without any hesitation Tiu told him makan. Without any hint of irritation he walked in, grabbed some food to eat, and picked some more in a plate and walked off.

In wedding ceremonies in Brunei, unlike in our case, food is not served. Nor is it like a buffet. People all sit around a central table and food would have already been kept with a polyethene cover. I will explain more about the ceremonies on my section about weddings. But after the ceremonial part is over, there will be a prayer. Once the prayer is over, somebody will shout makan.

Instantly everybody will jump up and grab the food. Once everybody finished eating the food, people will collect whatever is left in any sort of packaging you can think of. carry bags, newspaper, napkins. Then they all walk back into their BMWs, Mercedes, or Lexus (at least).

This of course is a very good habit worthy of emulation. We know how much food we waste in Kerala after functions. The richer the family, the more food you end up wasting. Close family memebers may carry some food, but imagine offering it to your respected guests?

We are often good at talking about the wrong habits of others, but when it comes to looking at their positives, we are not that good.

Oil exploration started in Brunei in 1929, 40 years before the oil boom in Middle East. We are looking at the third generation of prosperity there. So I was impressed by this unique attitude to food.

“In our place we waste lot of food”, I told Tiu. “Why is that in spite of you being so rich you have this good habit”, I asked her.

“My mother used to say that we also used to waste food”, she said. “Then in 1940s we were occupied by the Japanese during the Second World War and food really became a luxury. Our current attitude to food is a consequence of that difficult period.”

If there is one social attitude we should adopt from Brunei, it is the respect for food they have in spite of being so rich.

Tags: food, take away