Krishnan Chettan

My brother owns a property in the middle of nowhere. It is basically a rice field with a small portion of it raised, where other stuff is planted. Coconut trees, some vegetables and often, tapioca. These are places where land value is relatively cheaper in my state because it is hard to get to these places. He also owns a plot of rice field in another area.

He doesn’t have experience in farming. So, he has someone to advice him. This is Krishnan Chettan. K is a friend of my dad too. They are all communists. My brother and K are commis, my dad always voted the commis. I like K not because he is a communist. K has a good sense of humor and it is fun talking to him.

K is a small man, with a calm dreamy look about him. He usually has his shirt pocket filled with something or the other. He can talk with the seriousness of a man in his late 60s when he is talking to his peers. Or he can chat with all the eagerness of a child when he talks to a child. He can do both in the same breath. He says he is diabetic but likes a toddy occasionally. He likes to refer to my bro as Muthalali and refers to himself as Thozhilali as if we are all still in the feudal age. (Those terms refers to the Capitalist and the Proletariat roughly, respectively).

One day while working in the field, K got bitten by a snake. He was working and supervising others. He claims it was only a common water snake and not poisonous. But he comes anyway with my dad to the nearest clinic. There they dress the wound and advise K to go to the main hospital. K  nods his assent but once outside the clinic, he says he is not going anywhere. That he doesn’t need to go to the main hospital and be put under 24 hours observation because he is sure the snake was not poisonous. So my dad and K come to our house. They still debate whether to go or not. We advise K that he go and get it looked by the other hospital. K still doesn’t want to go but he looks tired. This could be because of the work and may be he is a bit worried because of everyone nagging him about the hospital. So I decide to take him to the hospital anyway. And off we start on my bike. On the way, I keep talking to him to make sure he is still conscious. We joke about things and make time.

I hear an ssssss sound behind me. I have heard that people that got rabies from mad dogs could make sounds like that of a dog. Could a man bitten by a snake make a sound like the hissing of a snake? I know this is absurd. And I know there can’t be any snakes behind me on a bike going well on the main road. I hear this hissing sound again near my ear. A chill goes down my spine and I ask him sharply not to scare people. He says he is not hissing like a snake to impress me. It is just that the pepper he is chewing is rather too hot to ignore. He should have known better before chewing them, I say. He explains that this is a test to see if the snake was poisonous. If he can still feel the burning in his mouth because of the pepper, he should be okay. Or so goes his theory.

We get to the hospital. He keep reminding me that he doesn’t want to stay in there for a day. Now that we have come this far, I don’t mind him getting stuck in there for a day if needed. We go to the emergency and he is put on a nice reclining chair. There is a huge crowd. Some doctor comes to take his initial checks. No table near by to keep her pressure gauge and she ask me to hold it at level. I am more at ease now, as we are in a hospital and K seems to be doing well so far. I take the gauge, bend in style and hold it with both my hands, like a statue. The doctor keeps a straight face, take K’s readings. K keeps trying to make conversation with the doc politely, saying it’s all good now and could he go home today, please? I now hiss at him “Shhhhhh!” K being the invalid here, doc and me ignore his pleadings. Doc takes her readings and tells me that another doc will soon come to take his blood. K squirms. I like the set up and grin at K. He looks sullen and tries to tell me that we need to talk to the docs and get the checks done and be out soon. I say I have already called for my reliever, if that is any comfort for him.

Other doc comes, take K’s blood and goes to test it. So we wait. I try to brighten him up with jokes when I am not taking in the scenery of beautiful lady doctors and nurses going about their duties. First doc comes back again and tells me that I need to see yet another doc. I see him, and is told that K will have to stay for 24 hours observation. I go to get the paperwork done and by this time, my bro comes. I hand over the case to him, goes to K to tell him the good news that I am going home to have my lunch and the bad news that, his lunch/dinner and next day’s meals he will be enjoying in the hospital. I shoot off when K start reasoning with my bro.

I get home, take a shower and get my lunch. I then call my bro to ask what happened. He says K got discharged already. It’s not very surprising but the details are vague as to how he got away from there. And he reports for duty next morning as if nothing happened.

Sporting Memories

I used to play football (Soccer) when I was younger. Those distant memories stirred within while I was watching an Olympic football match the other day.

We then had a football ground, committed players and time. In those good old days, no one had ever heard of cricket and none of us ever seen a TV either. The playground belonged to the local Upper Primary School. When school was off on weekends and holidays, it was our territory. No one else was crazy to play under a hot noon sun during daytime. We had the field for ourselves, except may be for an occasional cow grazing peacefully on the field. This we didn't mind. Live and let live but try not to step in that cow dung! 

'We' were 4 or 5 kids. Average age being 7 years or so. We make teams of 2 each or sometimes 2 on one side and 3 on the other. It was not wise to make anyone feel left out. Especially when it was the younger brother of my classmate. The brat will then go and complain to his parents and if my classmate is called home to explain, we can't very well play with the rest, see?

We used to play in the 4-3-3 formation mostly. We invented the concept of 'timely goalie'. When the ball is near a goal area, which eventually happens even on that vast field with 5 kids and a rubber ball the size of a tennis ball, the guy closer for the concerned team assumed the role of goal keeper and played goalie.

 We wore skin colored uniforms. No boots were required. None of us wore any footwear for that matter. We were shirtless and our tan was visible to the astute observer who could look through the burn we got playing under the sun all the time. Properly dressed guys in this group had functioning buttons on their (Half) trousers. Not so properly dressed ones wore their trousers like a dhoti. That is to pull the right half side with the left hand and the left side with the right hand while pulling in the stomach to tie a knot. It was not uncommon to see your star striker stopping in the middle of a run to hitch up his trousers and fix it again before resuming the attack.

We played some. Argued and fought more. Other times we spent time searching for the ball when it went out of play. Old pros like us didn't have the conveniences of today's players. Nobody brought us drinks on field. We went to the nearest well for the drinks.


In the evenings, local grownups played soccer in the same field.  They played with a regular football, big one with air in it and having those black and white spots design on it. We played in the 'out'field when the grownups played. When their ball went out of play, we would eagerly retrieve it and send it soaring back in to the field, sometimes even 10 whole feet, to the impatiently waiting players. How else you can hope to play one of those real balls?

They sometimes gave us the old discarded balls but ultimately it will lose air and the bladder will be out soon. We didn't have any means to put air in it then. Somebody would be wearing it for a cap in the end.

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During rainy seasons, this playground used to get flooded. There were rice fields towards one side of it. Water will come up and we sometimes played a game which would later go on to become popularly known as water polo. We didn't grudge the floods. We accepted it calmly and fished when we couldn't play ball. Or we just made waves.

Story of a Boss

I once worked in a place where everybody seemed to have a great sense of humor. Our department head was another 'Vashalan'. There is this story about him.

Often, we get visitors to our plant from the corporate head office or other plants. And the old timers like my Boss knew other old timers in every other plants.

Story begins when one such dignitary visit our plant. After 2 days of his visit, he is supposed to catch the evening train. So Boss offers to take him to the railway station. Off they go. As they have lots of time to catch the train, Boss suggests why don't they drop in at his house for a quick tea? His friend agrees.

While at Boss' house, the visitor has to sit alone for a minute while Boss goes inside to talk to his wife. The visitor can see Boss whispering something to his wife, and the wife looking at the visitor and Boss whispering more. Visitor sees the wife going inside, coming back and putting something in the pocket of our Boss surreptitiously.

While they are out again and driving towards the railway station, Boss stops the car for a minute, goes out and comes back with a packet. They move again. So at the station, they have more time and the visitor can't hold his curiosity anymore. He suspect he is playing some part in a drama but he has no clue what this is all about. So the visitor ask the Boss what's up.

Boss explains that he was telling his wife that his friend from Chennai was a bit tight for cash. After wasting what money he brought, now the friend was broke and Boss was thinking about loaning him some money. The friend won't ask for a loan being very proud but Boss knows he needs money. Would she give him some money? She readily brought some money and put it in Boss' pocket.

The friend remember the packet Boss brought from a shop and remembers it was a liquor shop. The friend is envious about the quick thinking of our Boss. Knowing the character of our Boss, the friend doesn't mind his own name being used in pulling off this stunt.

But he has a genuine question to ask. With some satisfaction not well hidden, the friend asks our Boss what he is going to do when the missus ask him for the money back. After all, it was supposed to be a loan.

Boss replies he knows what he is going to do about it. When the missus ask Boss for the money, he is just going tell her that his friend, the rascal from Chennai, swindled him.

A Case for Fitness

I was going through local news and came across an interesting piece. There was a raid in a local lodge for 'immoral activities' and among those caught, was a man aged 78.

That should be a lesson for those middle aged guys that let themselves go all soft once they are in their 40s. The above news  underlines the fact that fitness is the key, yet again.

The young ones managed to outrun the police.

Making A Name For Yourself

I have often wondered what a person has to achieve in life in order for future generations to remember him. Everyone cannot be a Gandhi, or an Einstein or a Genghis Khan. Even if you were prepared to settle for something less, what is to be done? There were those statesmen and bureaucrats who made waves or even minor earthquakes while they were in power. But nobody seems to hear about them anymore once they retire. And not everyone can hope to be even one of those. You tone down a little more and think what you have to achieve so that people of your tiny village will remember you after you are long gone.

I have stayed out of my place for extended periods but it is as if I lived there all my life. I remember the junction where the bus stop was, 35 years back. That time there was a tea shop and another shop that sold rat traps and such knickknacks and toys on one side of the road and a pan shop on the other side. This junction was a place they placed cinema posters of movies playing in local theaters. Walls of those establishments usually had posters and other graffiti on them. But what I am trying to remember is the people. Do I remember the famous people that lived in my village in the past?

When there is a death in the village, I become philosophical and think if those people are going to be remembered a few years down the road. Would their grandchildren remember them? Do I know anything about my Granpa's dad? Very little. And no idea about of my ancestors before that at all. And it will be the same more or less for most people. If you forget the 'progress' part out of human life, they lived just like us. They played, got drunk, partied, fought and  had kids etc. They thought they were important just like we all think we are important and look where they are now. Not even their great grandchildren remember them.

I try to think and remember people that lived in my village in my time and that are dead now. Mind you, I am not trying to remember the name of some people that are dead. There is a difference. And I don't seem to be able to remember any of those 'pillars of society' when I try. The first names that come up to my mind are Raghavan and Pavithran. I try to analyze why these, of all people.

Raghavan had a knife wound he was proud of. He was a rowdy when he was younger but once he retired, he turned his focus to booze and smoking weed. He was found dead in front of a shop one morning. As to Pavithran, he was known to have a career relieving people of their possessions when they were not looking. He worked nights. He took his own life one day.

I have a theory forming in my mind by now. To be remembered, to be part of the colorful history of your village, you need to have a 'reputation'. But then, by this time I remember another couple of guys. One is Keshavan and the other is Madhavan. They didn't have this kind of 'reputation' I touched upon earlier. I think.

Keshavan was known because I remembered him only as Viruddhan Keshavan (Keshavan the Rebel). A name given to him by the village affectionately long before I came on the scene. And Madhavan was always known as Thoppi Madhavan. (Thoppi= A Cap) Madhavan once entered in to a bet with somebody and lost it. So he was required to wear a cap for a period of time. Just that he never stopped wearing his red cap ever after. It became a fixture on him forever after. Hence the name.

So, what is the common thread here that joins all these guys I remember as part of the history of my village? Raghavan was always known with his caste name prefixed to Raghavan. (He was a goldsmith by caste) Pavithran had his career label prefixed to his name too. So I adjust my theory a little and conclude that it is a name that you earn in your life that makes you a legend later. You might be an upstanding citizen of your time, a pillar of society and all that, but it all come to naught a few years after you are gone. You are just forgotten.

I sit back, satisfied with my analytical skills. Just the same, I think again to make sure there aren't any loopholes in my theory. It would be a nasty shock to bump in to any old pillars of society when I am parading my theory to others later. And at this stage itself in my fantasy I bump in to a solid one. This guy hailed from a respected and wealthy family. He never was known to booze or smoke weed. If he had a knife wound, he hid it well. I always remembered him dressed in a white mundu and white Khadi shirt. No red cap. For that matter, no cap at all. He didn't fit in with any of the characters I mentioned earlier. I know my theory can't be that off the mark. I think hard and then I get it.

He was known as 'Nehru' in the village because of his dress and the fact that he looked somewhat like our first PM minus the cap and the rose in the buttonhole :D


------------------------------------------------------------Some of the names have been changed in this story