A Potpourri to end 2021

The 'Venkatta Thevar' Siva temple is at Kottakkal in Malapuram district. It has some fame for its Kerala-style murals said to date back to mid-19th century.

Let me quote historian M G Sasibhooshan a bit (without full comprehension): "One can make out two distinct styles here - one features lines that dissolve into colors and the other emphasizes colors that merge with lines. The more accomplished murals here seem representative of the first style. It is to the credit of the Kizhakke Kovilakam residents that they have preserved these works of art for posterity"

Photography is strictly prohibited. The temple office people said: "you can see them on Google, right?".

So, I only list some of the murals that caught my eye, relying only on memory. Pictures shall have to wait for a future visit and post. I have not checked how much of it is on google. At any rate, I urge the more intrepid among my readers to actually visit Kottakkal.

1. Kirata and Arjuna
2. Siva embraces Parvati seated on a white lotus (an atypical throne that) and accompanied by attendant figures.
3. An unusually amorous Visnu-Laxmi couple sitting on the 'serpent throne'
4. An equestrian Parvati - she has only 2 arms and holds a whip in one (can't associate a whip with a horse rider)
5. An Elephant-riding durga
6. An 8-armed composite deity with attributes of both Krishna and Kama (maybe we can call this guy 'Madanagopala'). Arguably this is the most unusual mural here. With 2 of his hands, the figure plays a flute and with another 2 holds a sugar-cane bow and lotus arrow ('weapons' of Kama). Two hands bear the conch and discus, Vishnu's attributes and the last pair of hands hold a goad and rope, usually seen with Ganesha and indicating self-control!
7. An 8-armed krisna with gopis pouring potfuls of what look like 'manjadi' seeds or better, 'cadbury gems' on his head.
8. A Kali with an unusually grotesque face.
9. Rama and Laxmana accompanied by a veena-playing female figure.
10.Rama concludes a pact with a towering Sugriva.
11. (probably) Rati, Kama's consort - she holds a sugarcane bow.
12. Rama, Sita and Laxmana rest under a tree with Hanuman in attendance (a situation I can't connect with any Ramayana episode).
13. A rather diminutive amorous couple of Krishna and a girl (probably Radha)
14. A Nataraja - Vishnu plays the 'mizhavu' drum with two of his hands raised in salutation to Siva, who is very much the boss here.
15. Some of the wooden struts supporting the roof of the sanctum are very interesting - one featured a couple and another an obscure figure wrapped by the coils of a hooded cobra.

The only thing here that one can confidently photograph is perhaps the (exterior of the) Kizhakke Kovilakam building - inside is a shrine said to be dedicated to Vettekkaran (Kirata or his son). The red laterite glowing in the morning sunshine makes for an interesting spectacle.

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An extract (edited) from Padmarajan's short story 'Alapuzha'.

A city littered with debris, criss-crossed by canals that resemble lengthy, puss-oozing sores. And these stinking waterways are lined by factories - mostly derelict and a few belching out labored and dying puffs of smoke;flags of labor unions, discolored by explosure to the elements, hang like limp festoons in front. Along the banks are vast public shit-yards. And there are those creaking bridges bearing names indicating death and damnation and, rising from the grass-bundle laden boats working their way under the bridges, the obscene odor of women....

Once upon a time, this city used to be the Venice of the East. Forest produce and spices from the eastern hills and divers coir and coconut products from the coastal belt piled up in its markets. Trade and commerce flourished...

And then came the rot.

Big cargo-boats laden with bales of coir stopped calling. Trucks began to simply run through the city towards the new port and trade centers of Cochin without so much as a halt. Spice traders weren't to be seen anymore. Gujarati tradesmen who had settled here and made their fortune, shifted to Cochin.

By the time electricity first lit up the streets, there were few people about. Political wheeler-dealers sneaked into the mills, thrust their baleful flags into the workers' fists, got them to strike, got them thrashed and left them to die among pools of blood. Their womenfolk, unable to find anything to eat, started to camp out where the shadows of the factory buildings were the darkest.

A ruined port, as lifeless as a childless widow. A city like a run-down, syphilis-afflicted prostitute. A city ruined by politcians, a city condemned to curse itself over belied promises of prosperity, a sin-defiled land...

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Those lines were written in 1972. Now, half a century later, the canals remain overgrown and stagnant although the filth is much less obvious; names of at least some of the bridges and localities remain as baleful as they were ('Savakkotta Paalam', 'Valiya Chudukaadu'...). But tourism has revitalized the city. At least some of the locked out factories have started functioning - and the rest are turning into art galleries and concept cafes. A grand art expo named 'Lokame Tharavadu', held at many venues across the town is drawing to a close.

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The segment 'What the Thunder said' of the famous TS Eliot poem 'Wasteland' alludes to a parable from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad: The celestial Devas, the earthbound Manavas (men) and the Asuras(demons) all felt dissatisfied with Existence and approached Prajapati, the Father of all Creation, seeking a clue to happiness. And then (as illustrated in Amar Chitra Katha)....

The Devas figure out that 'da' means 'damyata' (=self-control), the Manavas find 'datta' (charity) and the Asuras, 'dayadhwam' (Compassion) and all get happy.

In hindsight, what Prajapati actually said seems to have been "DUH!" (as per Collins dictionary, "an ironic response to a question or statement, implying that the speaker is stupid or that the reply is obvious how did you get in here? – through the door, duh"). So, the whole 'lesson' therein might well have been one big 'DUHLUSION' (or 'DALUSION', either would do)!
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Just take a look at tis list of multiple Olympic medal winners.
The highest number of Olympic silver medals won over a career by any individual is 6 - three athletes did it. The highest number of bronzes is again 6 and again, only 3 athletes won that many. But what about golds? No less than a whopping 38(!!) athletes have won 6 or more golds in his/her career, the all-time high being the unbelievable 23 gold medals won by Michael Phelps! What could one possibly infer from all this??

In any given Olympics, the number of nations that won at least one gold tends to be lower than the number of countries that won at least one silver which in turn tends to be less than the number of countries that won at least one bronze. This indicates that the bronze and silver medals tend to get distributed more widely.... but I doubt if that is reason enough for gold medals tending to cluster among winners much more strongly than other medals.
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I wind up 2021 with a double image: an ancient Persian seal showing Darius and a memorial plaque at a Calcutta hospital. The way a mosquito and Ormuzd hover over the respective images....

'Chapter One'

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1946. Srinagar. Morning - a very yellow sun rises from a sea of fog.

A sluggish canal flows out of the limpid Dal lake into the deep blue Jhelum river. On its banks stands an immense chenar tree. Tethered under its vast shade, gently rocked by the canal waters, one sees a dunga (cargo boat). A cool morning breeze from the lake gently caresses the foliage above. On the nearby mudcaked waterfront, a host of white waterbirds spread their wings and put on a vigorous show of dance. And at the bow of the dunga, hunched over a little earthen hukkah, sits Old Zainuddin.

The smouldering tobacco in the hukkah emits a strong odor that defiles from time to time the gentle fragrance of the many bundles of deodar twings stacked on the dunga.

"Kashmir Chhodo!" - shouts are suddenly heard in the distance.

Holding the hukkah close, Zainuddin screws up his eyes and looks intensely across the waters at the opposite bank. A crowd has formed there; it moves along the path that wound among birch trees.

"Kashmir Chhodo!" the shouts are more audible, closer, now.

"Quit Kashmir!"- Zainuddin muses, puzzled, bewildered. "Who are they asking to leave Kashmir? The tourists? If so, we are finished! If the visitors go, what do we do but starve?!"

He shakes his head in vexed disapproval.

"Kashmir Chhodo!" - they are now quite close - a crowd about two hundred strong. Famished-looking men in tattered and filthy clothes. They are being led by a fellow who holds aloft a crude flag - a black crescent against a red background.

"The porters!" Zainuddin mutters. "You, see what is going on!" he calls out to his wife who he knows would be in the boathouse.

Amina's head appears thru a hole in the roof. What she sees leaves her shaken: "Don't look that way. Rioters!" she warns.

"Shut up, will you! They aren't rioters or looters! It's old Qasim who leads them. Him, a rioter? Nonsense!" Zainuddin says. Then, he adds, to himself "But, who the hell are they telling to clear out?". He takes a thoughtful puff or two and stands up, watching the crowd.

"Know what? They want the Maharaja and his Dogra troops to leave. That's what they demand!" Amina says to Zainuddin, making sure there was no one else listening.

"As if the Maharaja and his men would simply run away!" He says mockingly, then starts to blow into the hukkah.

"Kashmir belongs to the Kashmiris. The Dogras have illegally taken over it. They have no business here and should quit!" Amina. She is actually repeating words heard from Ahmed, the porter.

"Bullshit! Do we people have guns and soldiers? The Maharaja has them. And are these Dogras some flock of sheep that we could simply them drive out?"

"If every Kashmiri, man and woman, rises as a soldier, these devils will have no choice but to run away!" says Amina, earnestly.

"Hey, who put all this nonsense into your stupid head?" asks the old man, spitting out clouds of smoke.

"Ahmed"

"Oh, that rascal! He should be driven out of here first! Did he give you the one and half rupee that he owes us?"

"No, not yet!"

"That swine should be repaying his debts before feeding you such shit! Thoo!" Zainuddin spits hideaously into the water, then closes his eyes tight and takes a long drag from the hukkah.

"Kashmir Chhodo, Kashmir Chhodo!" cries are now close. Their goat bleats as if echoing the slogan.

"Wonder who is behind all this!" Zainuddin says aloud to himself. As if in answer, a new slogan is heard, from right behind. "Sheik Abdullah Zindabad!" It is Gul Muhammad, the shikara-pilot. He paddles close. "Yes Grandpa, Sheik Abdullah leads this movement!"

"Sheik Abdulla.." Zainuddin stops in a bit of a surprise. "but Sheik is a good man. Very noble. You know Gul, last year I delivered a load of firewood at his place!"

The old man's face now showed some pride. But he still said: "But I don't understand at all what's going on now!"

"Know what Grandpa, we all have lost the power to understand. We have been so badly subjugated and exploited. Its our poor oppressed people - boatmen, porters, traders, peasants - they all now demand their rights, in one voice!"

"Rights? What rights, boy?" asks Zainuddin, stroking his beard.

"This land of Kashmir, its ours - yours and mine, we who were born and bred here. These Dogra encroachers don't belong here. They should leave. We have given them an ultimatum!"

Gul Muhammad takes the hukkah from the old man and has a strong drag, then says: "That's what. If they don't leave, we shall throw them out. The Sheik has raised our war cry: "Kashmir has risen, Oh ye robbers, get lost!"

"But the Maharaja and the Dogras, they have been ruling us for long. So, what's happened now that they have to be expelled? Somehow, I don't like all this rioting!" Zainuddin shakes his head.

"Rioting?! These poor men are no rioters! They are proud rebels. We have been like sheep for long but now have risen like raging wolves. We shall send these Dogras scurrying like jackals to their homes in Jammu!"

"I don't understand at all. In all my sixty years, I haven't seen anything like this!"

"True, Grandpa. The long suffering Kashmiri has risen. He was once asleep like dead winter snow. Now, his anger is an avalanche. Nothing can stop him!"

Suddenly there is a roaring sound. A military truck approaches, fast.

"Here come the jackals!" Gul Muhammad looks in intense anger at the opposite bank.

"Kashmir Chhodo!" slogans.

"Rat-tat-tat...." a rather different kind of sound is heard.

And then a "Dhup!" - a stray bullet has smashed into old Zainuddin's skull just above his ear. Like a log, he splashes headlong into the water. The white birds leave their dance and take off together into the empty sky.


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That was a translation from Malayalam of the story titled 'Aadyathe Adhyayam' ('Chapter One') by S K Pottekkat (1913-1982). He wrote it in 1947! Now, in its platinum year, the story, as old as our Nation, reads as ominous as ever - and nothing is as ominous as its title.

And Pottekkat wrote another story 'Aseesinte kuthira' (Aziz and his horse) where he refers to the wanton gunning down of some "Kashmir Chhodo!" shouting shepherd agitators by the Maharaja's Dogra troops and draws parallels between this incident and the then still fresh memories of the Jalianwala Bagh massacre. By way of intro to my non-Malayali readers, Pottekkat, as he appears in his writings, was a staunch Nationalist and left sympathiser.