ICE CANDY

ICE CANDY

By


CHANDINI SANTOSH


So then
Let us retract those words:
I mean those steps
Serpentine steps,
Thirteen in all
Sunken from umpteen footsteps

Words are tricky things
Those left unsaid
Are like the remains of an ice candy
Licked off all its sweetness
And spat on the grass
Words

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NADEEM ASLAM's MAPS FOR LOST LOVERS

CHANDINI SANTOSH

Reviews

NADEEM ASLAM's


MAPS FOR LOST LOVERS



Nadeem Aslam became famous after the publication of ‘Maps for Lost Lovers’ in 2004. He had published ‘The Season of the Rainbirds’ in 19993. Born in Pakistan, Aslam now lives in England.

The story is about an honor killing that takes place in an unnamed English town. Jugnu and his lover Chanda have disappeared. Rumors abound in the close knit Pakistani community, and then on a snow covered morning Chanda’s brothers are arrested for their murder. The book tells the story that unfolds in the next twelve months.

‘Maps for Lost lovers’ opens the heart of a family at the crossroads of culture, community, nationality and religion, while expressing their personal pain in a language that is almost always poetic.

Honor killing is nothing new to sub continental readers, it keeps happening most of the time.
‘In this book, filled with stories of cruelty, injustice, bigotry and ignorance, love never steps out of the picture. It gleams on the edges of even the deepest wounds…A remarkable achievement.’ Kamila Shamsie, Guardian.

It needs great courage to turn one’s back on one’s culture and religion, as some of us would certainly understand. Some of us have gone through all this and perhaps more. As against people who show the courage to seek and find truth, there are those who dare not step out of the circle of religious and cultural bias, but live with their convictions, however tormenting life might be. It is this irony that is captured well in the ‘tender and vivid portrait of the strict Islamic mother, isolated by her unassailable belief.’ Alan Hollinghurst, Guardian.

‘It depicts an extraordinary panorama of life within a Muslim community…Thoughtful, revealing, lushly written and painful, this timely book deserves the widest audience.’ David Mitchell, Mail on Sunday.

Critics go breathless revealing the intricacies of this book. The telling commentary of expatriates in the UK is as disturbing as it is revealing. It is not coincidental that the story also depicts the clash of religion.

The story is exotic and is written in a nuanced language full of lyrical images. In fact, so thick are the interwoven imagery that the violence seems out of place and context. But as I completed reading the Map, I realized that if not for the lilting imagery, the brutalities pictured here might have been too much to digest. Though Aslam’s poetic language jars at times, I come to the conclusion that it was necessary, not because neither is violence restricted to the subcontinent nor to any community or religion throughout the history of humanity. As I look at it. History is the retelling of unimaginable cruelty practiced in the name of religion and ethnicity. As is evidenced from another book I am reading at present: FROM THE HOLY MOUNTAIN by WILLIAM DARYMPLE.

No religion is exempt from violence and bigotry.

…………………….



P. S : As I completed reading Aslam’s ‘Maps for Lost Lovers’, there were reports that an honor killing had shook a village in Haryana, which is fast developing district in the northern region of India. Haryana was formerly a part of the Punjab Province, but later broke away as most people belonging to that area spoke Hindi rather than Punjabi. Punjab is the prosperous district on the Indo – Pakistan border, which had achieved self reliance in food decades ago. Their agricultural poweress are well documented. Their love for the good life, their good looks, their millions, and their zest for life also are well known. In matters regarding health too Punjab has come up brilliantly. Punjab is richest state in The Republic of India.

But this does not naturally mean that the state of Punjab is the best state of the Union. You might wonder why. Let me explain. Kerala has the highest literacy in the whole of India. Population growth stands at zero. Health indices are of world standards. Cleanliness is a way of life. But all this is wiped out when you realize that superstition and religious intolerance have slowly crept into the fabric of our society. Joblessness is rampant, as most of the IT related educated youths come from this rather small state, thus the ensuing high density of population. Kerala is a major tourist attraction, as its beaches and greenery are both exotic as well as industrious. Yet, the locals always stare at foreign tourists, worse, they harass them too. We may be tolerant towards other religions, but not to ethnic minorities. We are willing to practice only white collar jobs, but the moment the working class arrive from our neighboring states of Tamil Nadu, or Karnataka, we raise a hue and cry. It is very funny, as what the proletariat demands is the reverse of what you may imagine. They say why the Tamils should work for the less wages instead of the grossly upward swinging labor wages that we practice over here. Sikhs are hooted for their turbans, without understanding that they are practicing what their religion demands of them. The whole of South India is as different from the North as chalk and cheese. The country is so diverse that one cannot keep up with the several languages and cultures. There are twenty six official languages at the last count.

Being a secular and thriving democracy has its benefits. In fact, I firmly believe that it is this democratic and secular set up that has foisted India on to the world stage.

………………………………

Dr.SANTOSH

SANTOSH

BY


CHANDINI SANTOSH


I sketched Santosh with charcoal and a dash of oil pastel. I believe I have captured him rather well, though his smile and his essence have been lost.

Today is his first death anniversary.


What can I say about someone who died much before his time? Except that he was husband to me and life giver to many.

STRANGERS

STRANGERS

By

CHANDINI SANTOSH



We were total strangers on the day of our wedding. Strangers in the morning, husband and wife by mid - morning, friends by afternoon, lovers by night and companions for life. But it was not as rosy as it sounds. No way.

Well, you cannot ask for the moon, right?

While on the way back to his house after the wedding, he removed his large sunglasses and asked me to identify whether they were power glasses or not. Out of sheer ignorance regarding glasses, I said, yes, they were power glasses. He laughed and said no - they were a masquerade to keep his patients from straying. Some patients took one look at him and flew from the clinic, thinking, my good god, such a young guy cannot be entrusted with my life! But ALL of them came back, regardless of his youth and inexperience. He was a doctor par excellence, and the most famous one in the history of that thickly populated village for about three decades.

Remove it, I told him. You look so much better without them. He did not wear them again.

At night, he said, I want to test your English, you are a postgraduate in English, right? Go on, I am best at spell checks, I told him. He said I will write it somewhere, and then you have to read the same. Easy, I said. He hugged me and drew some figures on my bare back. I said, do that again please, I mean write that again. He wrote it a couple of times before I could read what he had cored with his nails. Just three words, mind you. I could read it even before he had written it.

He has never said those three words to me all his life, never spelt it out, but I seem to know that he loved me more than anybody else.

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MUSHROOMS

MUSHROOMS

By

CHANDINI SANTOSH



Last week
I chugged past
My ancestral house
Perhaps I should clarify:
The place where my long ago house stood

A tall and hasty building
Rose at the site
A large mushroom
From the rains

I sit at these cold slabs of stone
Without knowing
That houses are built
On old desires
And their ruins


...................


The drawing you see above is done with oil pastels and my niece's glitter pens.

UNDERWATER GRAVEYARD

UNDERWATER GRAVEYARD




July of 1974, recorded the highest rainfall in Kerala in more than a decade. The elders had dubbed it as the kind of rain when even crows would not be able to keep their eyes open. It was that kind of a monsoon that came down from the skies.
Three brothers came down to Tellicherry from the nearby town of Mangalore to attend their cousin’s wedding. The youngest was seventeen, already six footer, a student of electronic engineering. The middle one, a year older, shy and diffident, interested in Kalaripayattu and body building, was studying for a Commerce degree. The eldest, twenty three at the time, had graduated in Medicine and eagerly awaited one year of Internship that would give him an MBBS degree.

The boys returned to their brother-in-law’s place as soon as the wedding ceremony got over. They had a good look at the swimming pool behind the house, invitingly brimming with water.

The younger ones called out to the eldest, Etta, come, we will bathe at the pool. The eldest one cringed and replied, I will take my usual hot water bath. The youngest stripped to his briefs. The middle one sat on the topmost step which lay submerged in water.

The youngest, not much of a swimmer, dived into the pool and the next minute, the others were greeted by hoarse cries of his drowning. The middle one sitting on the steps jumped in without a second thought, still dressed to the hilt. Within the next split second, their cries rose to a crescendo. The eldest one who stood lazily in the bathroom ran out towards the pool. Dozens of hands held him as he tried to escape those arms and dive into the pool from which the last cries of the twosome could be heard over the bubbling water. He had no clue as to the dynamics of swimming. The two brothers went down the pool, in a tight embrace.

News reached the venue of the wedding. The mother of the three boys was brought back in a taxi. Alighting from it, she frantically screamed – which one – tell me please – which one of my boys – please tell me. The crowd stood around in silence. They could not have told her.

On the verandah, two bodies were laid out. The eldest one sat next to them. He could not cry. Within a year he became Dr. Santosh.

Twenty five kilometers away, I stood at the steps of my ancestral house listening to the horrendous tragedy from every manner of people passing by. On 11th July 1974, people had nothing else to talk about for days on end. At the time I did not know Santosh, but their family was well known. We had only recently from Delhi, where we had our schooling.

Santosh told me years later, after we got married, that no tears would come from his eyes. I said, I know what you must have felt. I too could not cry when my brother’s plane crashed right in front of my eyes. His mother gave up non vegetarian food, new clothes, and her very attractive smile, never wore silk saris again, was on anti depressants till the time she died of Alzheimer ’s disease. Santosh never got to enjoy those carefree days internship, the only time a medico could enjoy. His father became a mere shadow of his former self. The parents smothered him with possessive live all their lives. Santosh, already shy and introverted, became more so. He would stare at the clock for long and wonder why time dragged. When the gong sounded, he would rush to give a shot of tranquilizer to his mother, keeping vigil even at night.

To escape the tedium, he must have given himself a strong shot of morphine.

……………………..

COINCIDENCES

COINCIDENCES

By


CHANDINI SANTOSH

I recently read a feel good book written by Robin Sharma who said that nothing in life is a coincidence. From then though my eyes would scan the pages, nothing would register in my mind.

Can you believe dear readers, that everything in life is destined to be? Well I cannot. If that was the case, life would not be this invigorating. Believe me, life is full of coincidences. That I am born to my parents is just a coincidence. That I am alive is another coincidence. That I came to marry Dr. Santosh is also a coincidence. Of course, marriages should never be a coincidence, but in our society, where arranged marriages are still the norm, marriages will remain a coincidence. Let me elucidate.

During my days as a post graduate student at the University Center at Tellicherry, I traveled by bus from S.N.College, which was at a walking distance from my house and alighted in front of the District Courts at Tellicherry. We walked to Mount Pleasant where a colonial building housed the University Center.

Shashikala Surendran, who was my classmate and friend during our undergraduate days, would board the bus from farther place in Kannur and I would board it in between. At times, she would manage to make space for one buttock to be squeezed in. The traffic would be at its peak, what with school students, collegians and office goers wying for a seat in the bus.

Many were the times we passed the sharp curve before reaching Dharmadam when we would be confronted with a house right on the roadside, overflowing with people. We would wonder what these people were doing their in long queues. It was then we realized that the house belonged to a young doctor named Dr. Santosh. His car porch had a blue Fiat car, which to our curious consternation, turned into a white Mercedes Benz.

‘This b****** must be making a hell of a lot of money. He has already changed his car twice.’ Shashikala would remark. I would listen only in half measures as I am wont to. I have absolutely no interest in the private or public lives of people, though I studied their mannerisms and the way they spoke. Perhaps for future references.

We passed out and went our different ways. We have not met since then: Me and Shashikala. She had married her Norwegian pen friend. I later learnt that her marriage had crumbled.

I joined the main University Campus at Calicut to do a PG course in Journalism and Mass communication. I was biding my time. My friend was frantically searching for jobs. When we met I was just out of my frocks. I was sixteen. We had decided to marry as soon as he got a decent job. The search took him all of seven years. Time poured down on us from the skies.

On a weekend when I had come down to my house, my elder sister had come down from Delhi. My younger sister had married a year back. My elder brother also had married at around the same time. My parents had a frantic air about them. I was short, fat, fair and ugly. I was twenty two going on twenty three.

In hindsight, that weekend changed everything. It toppled my applecart. Dr. Santosh and his family came over to my house. He later told his parents that he did not find any redeemable feature about me, though he pleasantly said ‘Ciao’ before he left.

Six months later, when no other girl’s horoscope matched Santosh’s, his father sent his emissary to my house after seeing me in town shopping for pastries. I smiled warmly at him and he told his aide, that he could not imagine why his son had rejected me. He also said how attractive I looked and how well mannered I was and how well I spoke English.

The next day, his aide landed up at our house and a lot of bad blood flowed between him and my mild mannered father. My father said, how dare you come after six forgotten months and ask brazenly for my daughter’s hands in marriage? He, a divorcee at that!

I giggled as was my wont. I said, father, give him the horoscope, after all who is afraid of a horoscope? I said this in jest and left for my hostel the next morning without waiting for the result of the horoscope matching.

In my absence, our horoscopes matched to a T and that was all my father-in-law wanted. The betrothal and marriage was fixed without consulting either the groom or the bride. We met each other at Guruvayoor Temple on the day of our wedding. The rest is history – sorry, our story.

I would share the joke about Shashikala and we would laugh. He believed in god but not in destiny, while I believed in none of this rigmarole.

…………………………..


It is late at night. Tears stream my face. Perhaps that is why this piece reads as though it is written by a six year old. I wish I were six so that I would not have to choose and betray.

A STREAM FROM THE HIILLOCKS

My ancestral house was built on a hillock. It had many rooms but none had any privacy. A thin stream flowed skirting the vast acres. At one point, the stream fell off a cliff and formed a 6X6 feet hole and that is where we learnt to swim.


In the pix above, my youngest brother is clicked beside the stream. He looks like Jesus Christ in Christian Dior Briefs.

GURUVAYOOR TEMPLE

Guruvayoor Temple is one of the most famous of the south Indian Temples. I got married there. Never been much of a temple goer throughout my life. Last month I visited Guruvayoor along with my family and friends, a maverick gang. Half of us refused to go in, we are atheists. The other half are muslims and also atheists. Finally one athiest escorted my sis-in-law and sister and did whatever they had to do.

I am told that the insides of the temple have a grandiose look, what with the dome being plated with gold leaf and all that. I do not believe that god keeps tabs on these things.

But the sculpts of goddesses look enticing all the same. Here we are clicked in front of them on the most important day of our lives.

We got married at Guruvayoor.