EGGS FROM THE COOP

In the past three decades, poultry keeping has become not only a popular avocation in states like Tamilnadu but also a profitable business. We gobble up eggs like mad and at the slightest excuse, order for kilos of broiler meat. At times, we hear animal lovers’ deep sighs over the cruelties involved in raising and slaughtering the fowl in millions.

 As I am a ‘chicken lover’ and not an animal lover, such talks produce only a mild guilt in me. But I don’t fail to poetically compare the olden days when my grandmother raised several broods of chicken in her huge back yard in her village house. When we went there for vacation, it used to be a great fun watching these broods in flamboyant colours and shapes. They walked all around the garden with their ‘cluckclucks’ and scratched and clawed the earth in every nook and corner to find insects and little creatures which they ate with relish. Unnoticed, they often invaded the dining hall or bed room to peck and taste some delicacies that came in their way. As a mark of invasion, they also left their sticky and smelly droppings that you trampled upon when careless.

 Then there was the egg hunt. The layers often chose the coziest places in their opinion, to lay their eggs- in the corner of a shed, inside the cow’s manger, in a grain trough, behind the paddy sacs in the storehouse and even on the roof top. Grandmother knew the behavior of most of the layers. Some still cheated her, and she had to go on a search. We used to merrily join her on such treasure hunts. Grandmother showed extraordinary affection to the good chicks and scolded the bad ones as she shooed them away. They said, “Cluck cluck.”

The greatest turmoil for the brood befell when a guest arrived unannounced. Grandmother would immediately think of Khozhikuzhambu. This means killing a rooster or a delinquent hen. Some birds as if they had super-sense to detect grandmother’s death warrant, would fly and sit on the roof top or on an inaccessible tree branch. The farm hand then would be assigned to execute the death warrant. Smart ones defied and escaped the day to wait for another arrival of a guest and a fresh warrant. When my grandmother killed a fowl for lunch or dinner, she always lamented at least for two days regretting the killing and calling the dead one by some strange pet name.

When I nostalgically look back, I realize that the domestic fowl those days enjoyed considerable freedom, joy and human affection as they lived and sacrificed their life contributing to our wellbeing. Then came our aggressive consumption, matched by poultry science. The poultry keepers said, the birds cannot behave the way they used to. They could no more live in a garden or farmhouse but inside a pen or coop where they cannot even move; get exposed to light only if they are layers and not broilers; get fed only what the poultry keepers thought is right; not allowed to go with the rooster but artificially inseminated; and finally sent to the hell holes called broiler shops to be slaughtered, skinned and sold. Notwithstanding this, I am happy about my khebhabs and tandoori chickens.    

  

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When I was brooding over the country chicken this way, my wife reading the Times of India of July 4^th edition, drew my attention to the news that some of the schools in north western districts of Tamilnadu- Erode, Namakkal and Krishnagiri excelled in obtaining the most number of state ranks in +2Exams. Jokingly, I dismissed her and said, “These districts excel only in poultry keeping and not in education.” Then she gave me an elaborate lecture on how these institutions used ‘poultry keeping method’ as educational and pedagogical methods. I said, “John Dewy and Paulo Freire will wriggle in their graves.”

These schools she said, are resident schools with highly standardized lodging facilities. It seems that children are fed appropriate food in appropriate time. But life for children compares to a regimented and calibrated life of a chicken coop. One school by name Bharatha Vidya Bavan, make children observe study hours between 4.00 AM to 9.00 AM and then from 6.00 P.M to 11.00 PM, beyond attending the regular classes. This means 15 hours of thoughtless drudgery. Worst, even the bathroom walls it seems display one-word answers which the students are expected to rote-learn. They seem to eat, sleep, work and bathe in examination. The assurance is, like the poultry chicks children would acquire capabilities of laying plenty of marks- anything between 1150 to 1199 out of the maximum possible 2000 in the final reckoning. Who knows? One day a well bred child from the best among these poultries may lay the record 2000 eggs of the season. Even this will not satisfy the greedy parents who promote these schools paying in lakhs of rupees.

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The ‘cluck’ ‘cluck’ of the chicks of my grandmother’s garden I think, would make more sense than the chant of the children of the coop. It is better we raise our own brood of chicks even if they leave their droppings in our bed rooms, lay fewer eggs and sit on the roof in defiance.

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 CHINNARAJ JOSEPH

A TRIBUTE TO RABINDRADOSS

(Revised transcript of the speech made in the Good Samaritan Church, Pallikaranai, Chennai, in the memorial service on 06.07.2016.)

Punitha Rabindradoss the beloved wife of the departed soul Rabindradoss who is present here, is my younger sister. Rabindradoss was of my age as he died at 63. I stand before you here in blood and flesh. This very fact increases my pain, and I helplessly curse death. My grief is too close and I am finding it difficult to gather myself and speak reminiscing and recollecting things relevant to this occasion.

 I see a big gathering of at least four generations of known and unknown faces- the immediate family of Rabindradoss, his wife Punitha, son Thambu, daughter Preethi, son-in-law Penil, grandchildren, Rabinndadoss’ brother Samson and his wife Sheila, sister Kasthuri and her husband Prince, the younger sister Adeline, all of Punitha’s brothers and sisters and their spouses, many nephews and nieces, cousins of both Rabindradoss and Punitha, their spouses and children, Aunt Getzi representing my  parental generation, childhood friends, former colleagues and friends and members of the congregation of Good Samaritan Church. Some of you have travelled from abroad. This large and composite gathering readily testifies to the love and affection Doss enjoyed in many hearts.

My relationship with Doss stretches to 36 years. I want to begin where we left this morning in the funeral service. We were told that Rabindradoss was one of those who were instrumental in building the Good Samaritan Church and his life after retirement was very much centered on the church. The presbyter was all in praise for that. But I would say that it is not after retirement, but it was from the beginning, his life was centered on the church. In a way, even he earned his wife through the church. I remember my father desperately searching for a groom for my sister Punitha and my uncle who lived in Chennai at that time brought the proposal of a boy who was in the Banking Service. My civil servant father became a little hesitant. But my uncle insisted, “It is not the banking job…  it is the  leadership qualities of this boy that has inspired me. This young boy along with his friends completely routed us in the church election.” The old guards, if memory serves me right, ironically included his father also. My father then said ‘yes’ for the proposal.

My first encounter with Rabindradoss’ family was through his mother when she came home to see the girl. After seeing the girl and spending some time, she wanted to retire to a separate room to discuss with other family members. My room upstairs was promptly given to them. After some time she sent word for me and everyone felt that she was going to say something not very helpful. When I met her, she curtly asked me, “why you call my son ‘Ravi’…  he is not Ravi.” Then she drew my attention to a wall hanging in my room. It was a portrait of Rabindranath Tagore with Stanza 35 beginning ‘Where the mind is without fear…’ transcribed alongside of Tagore’s face. “Whose choice was this” she asked. “Mine” I said. “Good, I am an admirer of Rabindranath… that is why I named my son Rabindradoss… even if you call him Ravi in Tamil, you shouldn’t lose the significance of his name…” I came downstairs and told everyone that the marriage was going to happen.

This might give you an idea about the kind of parental environment in which Ravi grew up. I think it is appropriate to recall in this occasion with reverence, the memories of Ravi’s parents whom I came to address as Uncle Selvaraj and Aunt Kamala. If the intellectual make up for Ravi came from the mother who was a teacher, his love for the Church and ‘Christian way of life’ came from the father. Uncle Selvaraj was a fine human being who was very gracious and lovable.

From the beginning I and Ravi, saw each other as friends and refused to be drawn into the fold of any formal relationship. This helped me not only to enjoy his company but also to gain rare insights into his personality.

The first quality I admired in him was that he was a man who never forgot his roots. On several occasions I have seen him moved to tears recollecting the sacrifices his father and mother made to bring him up. It was a rare sense of gratitude in him.

Graduating from Madras Christian College, Ravi entered the Banking Service very early and retired as a very Senior Manager. His friend and colleague just a while ago testified to his excellent professional ability as a banker. His intelligence, ability for hard work and professional commitment gave him the mettle to excel. He was impeccably honest. That gave him the fortitude. His banker friend rightly said that he fought the powers that be for a right cause, accommodated colleagues and showed extreme compassion to those who were in the lower rungs. He is the kind of a person who would take the bull by horn if he chooses and risk life. I would like to recall one incident. As a senior manager, once he made an advance of a few crore rupees to a liquor-baron-client based on a collateral inspection done by a jurisdictional branch where the factory was located. Subsequent Income-tax raid not only unearthed a lot of cash in the liquor baron’s house but also found diversion of funds to public election. The over enthusiastic Department of Revenue Intelligence suspected Ravi of collusion and hauled him up for an enquiry. The liquor baron wanted him to support him on the wrong side of law and in lieu, promised him money that would be several times the quantum of his terminal benefits. He was also offered a job. Ravi not only did refuse but drove to the liquor baron’s office and challenged him. He called him a ‘cheat’ at his face. I was supporting him through the process of the enquiry through a lawyer friend from Madurai. When Ravi called me and told me the incident I was upset and asked him why did he compromise his and his family’s safety, he remained cool and said, “A cheat should be called a cheat at his face and he should know there are a few who are honest and courageous and would not take things lying low.” That was the spirit of the man. I was inspired.

In spite of the fact that Ravi was of short stature and slender build, he commanded a powerful presence. He looked serious and unapproachable; many mistook it for arrogance. Ironically, he was very kind hearted, compassionate and went that extra mile to help others. Ravi loved life. His public commitments never allowed him to ignore his family. He nurtured it so well that his children stand a testimony. He was equanimous in extending love that helped break borders in our families. He extended the frontiers and made the circle very cosmopolitan.

He cherished friendship. It was heart rendering to see his childhood friends breaking down. These were boys whom I had seen as merrymaking groom’s party when they first came to my town. Ravi, in my opinion, indeed has left behind an undying charm and mystery.

Any death at any age and in whatever way it visits, underlines the human limitation. All of us have seen in our own families and outside, deaths which are so untimely and cruel. Young people have died of incurable diseases. Unlucky ones have died of accidents.  Innocent ones have been killed for gain and for political reasons. It is of some consolation that Ravi had a near-full life, living for him and fulfilling his familial and public responsibilities. But still it is not an age to die. And the loss for his wife and children are very personal and one cannot fathom their personal grief.

Death often forces us to revisit and reflect on the fundamentals of our faith. Informing my 87 year old ailing mother of the unfortunate event, became a challenge that fateful morning. I told her first that Ravi was seriously ill in order to mentally prepare her in stages, before I eventually told the truth. My mother said that she would pray and God would be merciful and save Ravi. But it took me an hour or more to go to her again and tell her that God did not answer the prayers this time.

God does not always answer our prayers. The very fundamental premise of Christian faith in my opinion draws from this issue of unanswered prayers. This is where we see the contradiction between human desire and God’s will; between our purpose and God’s purpose; between our helplessness and His power. We all know Gethsemane was a defeat even for Christ in worldly terms.

Christian victory is transcendentally seen only on the cross after Christ was crucified much against his will. Behind every death, there will be the will of God. We cannot lament why death happens in a particular time in a particular way. But every death leaves us a message to make newer meanings and continue our life.

This is where we have to start afresh, after every departure of near and dear ones. Ravi’s unexpected death has particularly left his wife and children too very shocked. Amidst gloom, they need that ‘one step’ to move forward. Ask for that to God. Then the whole new purpose in each one’s life would emerge and life would continue meaningfully.

Ravi never confused ‘this worldly’ commitments with his faith. He knew the difference between his religious discipline and religious fetish. He also knew the difference between ‘building the church’ and ‘raising a congregation’. My understanding is that he only did the latter. Otherwise in his nearly four decades of association with the church, he could have been lost in the labyrinth of power tempted by the powerful positions the Church offered.

If Ravi leaves a message for the congregation, it is fellowship transcending material power, division, acrimony and creed that alienates. He certainly affirmed this world and showed us how you cannot neglect this worldly responsibilities escaping into religion.

In him, I lost a personal friend.

May his soul rest in peace.

Chinnaraj Joseph

Faceboook and a  Heartbook

This I specifically address to all those who greeted me and wrote nice quips saying how nicely I look in the facebook profile picture. For a person trained to ‘get appropriately embarrassed as a sign of politeness when openly praised’, to be honest, the two hundred plus ‘likes’ and nice comments in a few hours secretly delighted me. The way how some memories have been recollected and ‘lost connections’ reestablished, has really touched my heart. I could see my own students, good old friends, acquaintances, old colleagues (a few of them), cousins, nephews, nieces, and ‘facebook connects’ (whom I have not personally known) ‘liking’ me. Thank you.

For a person who belongs to a generation that believed in ‘personal relationships’ and ‘direct contacts’, this is a bit difficult to understand. It is my young (24 year) old techie friend who in the first place inspired me to change my ‘profile’ picture. So, I was careful to take a few pictures as soon as I returned from the hair dresser. (These days my barber takes Rs. 700/- to do a reasonable job on my head with the hair dye). When I said this to my techie friend, he said, “Why boast of your barber, I can make you look much better if I ‘process you’ on my photoshop.” I certainly allowed myself to be processed before I showed my face on your pages. And you all seem to like it. When you all said, you like it, I went back to see myself again and again… and again and again. My photo slowly started gathering some light and hue and I looked more handsome in it. Every time I went back, I looked more handsome and more handsome. I started liking myself very much. I too did not fail to check how rapidly the ‘like’ count went up. I was quiet pleased with the going.

As I was looking at my own image, my old memory popped up, something which I had not recalled for years. Once upon a time when I was a teen ager I had a Canadian female ‘pen friend’ by name Amy Logan. Oh! I must tell the younger ones who a pen friend is. A pen friend is one whom you have not met but become friendly only through exchange of letters. He or she normally lived in a foreign country. My mother encouraged me to have pen friends for the purpose of improving my written communication and acquiring a cosmopolitan outlook. Watch the word cosmopolitan. But ironically, she hated all my local பெண் friends and drove me mad. Amy was of my age, 16 or 17 at that time and I really longed to see her at least by looking at one of her photos. Though she wrote very sweet letters, she never sent me one. Though I was a little disappointed I, I went about pleasurably casting her in several images my creativity permitted. The exchange did not last long.

 As these thoughts were gaining strength, my brain whispered in a measured tone, “Hi… Chinnaraj… like you, Amy must be on Facebook… why can’t you search for her?” Listening to this voice, I searched…and re-searched. I know Amy Logan could have become Amy something else now… Maybe, foolishly I thought Google can ‘mine’ the ‘unminable’. Several Amy faces, young and old, pretty looking and not very pretty looking came up on the screen. I narrowed down to faces older and then much older. Then I gave up.

After that I conjured up the old memories hidden deep in my heart. But the image of Amy I created long long ago was too fragmented to develop into a recognizable form in my mind’s sensors. But this sudden popping up of an old memory brought me a strange sense of mystery and a fleeting joy. Few minutes had passed and I anxiously went back to see how the ‘like’ counts improved. I took another look at my profile picture. This time, I didn’t look that handsome in that picture. More I looked, more it deformed itself into some ugliness. I went back to my ‘heartbook’ trying to turn a few more of its crumbled pages.

Then my wife’s shrill voice rudely shook me up, “It’s enough you played with your I-pad…your dinner is ready.”