Guilt

In Mumbai's grip, from '98 to '02 I roamed,

A bachelor's realm, town streets my home.

Trains were a rarity, once a month to Borivli's gate,

Visiting kin, no daily commute's harsh fate.

 

Returned in '11, the city transformed, alive,

Teased by friends for lacking car and drive.

Yet I chose rails, not from car-hate's spite,

But for speed's edge, in the morning light.

 

Crowds crushed like sardines in metal tombs,

Sweat-soaked bodies, a chaotic doom.

Elbows jabbed, feet trampled in the fray,

Yet I endured, saving time and pay.

 

Flyovers sprouted like vines on concrete walls,

Cars surged ahead, answering speed's calls.

No more the wait in endless, choking queues,

Door-to-door bliss, in air-conditioned hues.

 

Eastern Freeway sliced through the urban sprawl,

To Chembur and beyond, no time lost at all.

BKC connector bridged the eastern divide,

Smooth as silk, with the city as my guide.

 

Then Delisle bridge crumbled in a thunderous crash,

Back to locals I dashed, in a frantic dash.

Bodies piled high, like waves in a storm-tossed sea,

Gasping for air, in humanity's misery.

 

Months passed, I hired a driver, woes erased,

Parking puzzles solved, in luxury encased.

Coastal Road opened, waves whispering below,

Bandra to Nariman Point, thirty minutes' flow.

 

Aqua line metro gleams in underground grace,

Airport runs easy, no traffic's embrace.

Evening flights beckon, without dread or delay,

While I sip comfort, in my privileged way.

 

But guilt gnaws deep, like thorns in my chest,

As thousands cram trains, denied any rest.

Limbs entangled, faces etched with despair,

Dreams crushed daily in that sweltering lair.

 

I glimpse from my car, their eyes hollow, resigned,

Bodies battered, spirits broken, confined.

While I glide serene on roads built for the few,

Their suffering haunts, in shadows anew.

 

Once on the metro, sparse crowds caught my eye,

No workers in sight, fares too high to try.

I pondered briefly, then turned away fast,

Too wrapped in ease, letting questions pass.

 

If my path smooths, surely all share the gain?

Yet truth whispers no, in the poor's endless pain.

Guilt swells like monsoon floods, drowning my cheer,

For their daily hell, while I shift to high gear.

By Vinod Joseph

Book Review: A Teashop In Kamalapura & Other Classic Kannada Stories

Series Edited by Mini Krishnan

Translated by Susheela Punitha

Human values have evolved over time, and this change became so very evident when I read Harper Colins’s “A Teashop In Kamalapura & Other Classic Kannada Stories”, a compilation of short stories in Kannada written many decades ago, some over a century ago. The change in values is especially true with respect to how women were viewed and the social expectations placed on their shoulders. There are 18 stories in this collection and the oldest story in this collection was published in 1900. Most were published before India’s independence and the penultimate one, Shankar Mokashi Punekar’s ‘Bilas Khan’, though first published in 1985, is set during the reign of Emperor Akbar. From the brief bios of the authors of these stories provided at the end of this wonderful book, I gather that none of the authors are alive today.

The various nuances of the relationship between a husband and wife forms the core of many stories. Patriarchy, and the submissiveness of the wife, is not only taken for granted, but is also celebrated in many stories. When Srinivasa Kulkarni tells us in ‘A New Tongue’, which was written in 1933 that ‘most men are strict with their wives; fearing that they may lose their hold on them if they were indulged,’ it does not seem to be out of place in that era. Predictably, at the end of the story, the husband and wife resolve their differences, and the wife runs into her husband’s arms and declares that he is her God. I could sense the author (Srinivasa Kulkarni) looking on with approval as the wife did so. In Kadengodlu Shankarabhatta’s ‘My Alarm Clock’, the wife Venkamma has a sharp tongue, blindly believes in and rigidly follows rituals of purity and refuses to take any allopathic medicine. When the Venkamma falls ill, the husband makes a lame attempt to get her to take proper medication and fails. I could not make up my mind if the author also disapproved of the wife’s attitude or if he was just a fly on the wall, observing and reporting as the events unfolded. ‘My Alarm Clock’ was published in 1934.

‘Vani’s Confusion’ by Kodagina Gowrama has a mélange à trois, involving two women and a man. Indu is a single woman, who is good at housekeeping and domestic chores. Vani, married to Ratan, is not. The effect of Vani’s sloppiness on Ratan’s life, is devastating. When Ratan, a successful doctor, comes home for his lunch, his midday meal isn’t usually ready. Why don’t you hire a maid, I wanted to scream, but author Kodagina Gowrama is definitely not on Vani’s side. Indu gets close to Ratan, but she is a good woman and draws back a bit. Or does she? Please do read this very interesting story to find out how it ends and also to get an idea of how society viewed woman in 1939, the year this story was published.

Panje Mangesharaya’s ‘At a Teashop in Kamalapura’, the first story in the collection and one of the three best stories in this collection, reminded me of RK Narayan’s writing. Poornaswami Iyengar, aka Ponswami, is street smart and colourful character who is good at his business of running a teashop. Ponswami’s teashop in Kamalapura could be straight out of Malgudi, though Kamalapura is by the sea. Ponswami’s yarns make his customers spent more than they would have otherwise. Then one day, the genuineness of his stories is questioned and Ponswami has to find a solution, else his business will suffer, and so Ponswami brings in Gundacharya, leading to more trouble and fun. Please do read this story to find out for yourself how the story ends. ‘At a Teashop in Kamalapura’ was first published in 1900. 

Malleshi from Kerura Vasudevacharya’s ‘Malleshi’s Sweethearts’, first published in 1912, reminded me of the hero of at least three movies (Tamil and Hindi) I have seen in the late 80s and early 90s. Healthy, goodlooking, hardworking, innocent, guileless and loyal, women make fun of him, and Malleshi takes it good-naturedly. Finally, there is a happy ending, as befits a feel-good story of this sort, where everyone is good at heart and means well. S. G. Sastry’s ‘A Gift for the Festival’, first published in 1941, reminded me of movies from the 60s and 70s where good and evil are so clearly demarcated and some human being are the personification of purity and sacrifice.  

At least one story is so adorably simplistic, it reminded me of the parables and anecdotes that my primary school teachers used to educate us and make us better human beings. I am referring to ‘The Child, A Teacher’ by Nanajangudu Thirumalamba, first published in 1914/1915.

‘The Battered Heart’ by Saraswathibai Rajawade is actually a murder mystery, but at the end of the story, after all the dead bodies have been buried and created, after all the dead bodies have been buried and created, the author gives her readers a philosophical ending, which philosophical ending, which I found to be fascinating. ‘The Battered Heart’, first published in 1938, is one of the three best stories in this collection.

‘Who’s the Thief?’ by Mundkur Narasimha Kamath (M.N. Kamath) is a crime story and the detective is the district Collector who resolves the theft and punishes the guilty with ease. M.N. Kamath is full of praise for the Collector and the British system of justice, though the collector levies taxes on farmer. Till the end of the story, I wasn’t sure if the Collector was a Briton. On one hand, since this story was published before India’s independence (in 1941), I thought that the Collector was unlikely to be an Indian. On the other hand, the reader is told that the Collector was familiar with Tulu, Konkani and Kannada. M. N. Kamath doesn’t reveal the answer till the end. Do please read ‘Who’s the Thief?’ to find out more about the Collector and how he delivered justice.

'The Story of Jogi Anjappa’s Hen' also involves a crime, but Jogi Anjappa is such a colourful character that this story by Dr. Masti Venkatesha Iyengar has shades of Panje Mangesharaya’s ‘At a Teashop in Kamalapura’. Also, I ended up liking Jogi Anjappa much more than I liked Poornaswami Iyengar, especially on account of the injustice he is dished out and which he accepts with stoicism. There is also a twist at the end of this interesting story and so I would rate this too as one of the three best stories in this collection. 'The Story of Jogi Anjappa’s Hen' was first published between 1945-1955. 

A few of the short stories raise cudgels against injustices in society. For example, Ajampura Sitaram’s ‘The Girl I Killed’ revolves around Chennamma, a devadasi who has been dedicated to God. The reader cannot help but feel sorry for Chennamma and the tragic position she has been placed in. ‘The Girl I Killed’ was first published in 1931.

‘The Master’s Satyanarayana’ by Koradkal Srinivasarao is a heartbreakingly sad story of a daily-wage labourer’s children being cruelly deprived of tasty Rasabaale bananas from a banana tree that the entire family had lovingly tended for many months. Srinivasarao pretends to be a mere narrator, but the pain and anguish in his narration make it clear what his thoughts are when the Landlord demands that his labourer hand over all the bananas in lieu of an unpaid debt. On a different note, I clearly remember my mother narrating to me, over four decades ago, a story with a very similar plot, but one set in Kerala. I am not sure if Srinivasarao borrowed his plot from a tale common in South India or if Srinivasarao’s tale became popular in other South Indian states. ‘The Master’s Satyanarayana’ was first published in 1938.

The plot for Sara Aboobacker’s ‘Between Rules and Regulations’ revolve around the shariah rules for issuing talaq and later nullifying it. Caught in this web are divorcee Zohra, her hungry children and her widowed mother. One can’t help but feel sorry for Zohra and angry towards those who abide by such rules. In this story which is the last one in this collection, Aboobacker does an excellent job of showing the angst and pain of humans who are caught in the web of such rules, even as she shows that the victims are to some extent culpable since they play along. ‘Between Rules and Regulations’ was first published between 1985 - 1995. 

‘The Idol That Chennappa Destroyed’, first published in 1953, is the touching story of the conflict between a man’s compulsion to earn a livelihood and his faith and values. Author Yarmunja Ramachandra tries to stay neutral, but it is clear which side he is on. ‘The Idol That Chennappa Destroyed’’s style of narration is similar to that of ‘The Master’s Satyanarayana’, but the underlying belief systems are very different.

In many stories, the author does not form judgements, though it would have been easy to do so. In Shyamaladevi Belagaonkar’s “The Scion of a Family or a Secret Gift”, Keshava, the scion of a rich family is unable to procreate, but his mother Gangabai, the matriarch of the family, is desperate for an heir. The solution that is proposed and implemented, over the objections of the scion’s wife Ramabai, would not be palatable to anyone in this day and age, but is actually quite practical. Shyamaladevi Belagaonkar does not sit on a high horse and put out a moral commentary, but just gets on with this very interesting tale. “The Scion of a Family or a Secret Gift” was first  published in 1939.

Like other Indians, Kannadigas too migrate and work overseas. For some, the departure is permanent and the motherland becomes a distant dream. For many others, the life overseas is a short stint and this is the case with Maadhu, who is in England for ‘further training’. The story by H. V. Savithramma, which was first published in 1965, is aptly named ‘An Episode’ since it is only an episode in Maadhu and Grace’s life. Grace is a single woman and gracefully offers companionship to Maadhu during his stint in England, knowing that Maadhu has a wife in India who is waiting for his to return. When the time comes for Maadhu’s departure, she refuses to accompany him to Dover (not Heathrow, mind you) and returns to her single life with sadness and grace. Maadhu goes back to his unsuspecting wife, but with sadness in his heart, missing Grace a lot. Then at the end, there is a sudden twist in the tale, which takes away much of the sadness from poor Maadhu. This was the only story in this collection which I did not like, though it is well written and reflects the values of a different era.

In “Two Ways of Living”, Anusuya Shankar (who used the penname Triveni) narrates her tale through a horse that pulls a Tonga. The horse has feelings, including romantic feelings as well as a strong sense of justice and fairplay. ‘There is no creature as heartless as Man; everyone else has to grow weary satisfying his self-interests …’ the horse feels, even as its master Usman feeds it just enough dry hay to do the day’s work and whips it mercilessly to pull the Tonga at his behest. Amidst such continuing torture, the horse is still able to observe Usman’s customer rich man Chandu show extreme callousness in his dealings with his spouse. The horse metes out a suitable punishment for Chandu, but suffers much more in the process. Please read this fascinating book to find out what exactly forced the horse to take such an extreme step and its consequences for the horse. “Two Ways of Living” was first published between 1955 - 1965.

Shankar Mokashi Punekar’s ‘Bilas Khan’, is the penultimate story of this collection and also the longest one. It runs to around 30 pages and is set on a relatively grand scale during the reign of Emperor Akbar. At the beginning of the story, Tansen (one of Akbar’s navratnas) moves to Delhi, leaving behind his first wife and their son Bilas Khan. In Delhi, Tansen impresses the Emperor with his musical abilities and does well in general, acquiring more wives, children and wealth. Bilas Khan is almost forgotten by Tansen, but not vice versa. Let me not divulge more here, but leave it to you to read this story and find out what happens to Bilas Khan and his famous father.

Translator Susheela Punitha has done an amazing job in capturing the sounds, smells, ethos and values of the bygone eras in which these stories were written, as well the linguistic nuances of Kannada prose. I was not surprised to learn (from the About the Transaction section at the end of this wonderful book) that Susheela Punitha received the first Translation Award for English in 2015 for her translation of UR Ananthamurty’s Bharathipura.

Mini Krishnan, the Series Editor, has once again done an outstanding job with this collection. A few months ago, I had reviewed a similar Series on Classic Malayalam Short Stories, which was also edited by Mini Krishnan.

A Teashop In Kamalapura & Other Classic Kannada Stories is available on amazon. 

Celebrating W.B. Yeats in Mumbai

I was fortunate enough to be invited to a special event at organised by the Irish Consulate in Mumbai to celebrate the 160th birth anniversary of the famous Irish poet, W.B. Yeats. The event was held on June 10, 2025 at the NCPA. Eminent actor Denzil Smith read some of Yeats’s poems in his deep baritone, accompanied by Jay Parte’s piano. It was a cozy, happy and snug gathering, with some excellent canapes and drinks to make the event even more enjoyable. A bunch of photographs of Gandhiji and Tagore, lent for the occasion by Mr. Jagdish Agarwal, Dinodia Picture library, transported us back in time.

William Butler Yeats (1865–1939), an Irish poet, playwright, and mystic, is widely regarded as one of the greatest literary figures of the 20th century. Born in Dublin, Yeats spent much of his life oscillating between Ireland and England, drawing inspiration from Irish folklore, mythology, and the political upheavals of his time. His early work, such as The Wanderings of Oisin (1889), was steeped in romanticism and Celtic mysticism, while his later poetry, including masterpieces like The Second Coming and Sailing to Byzantium, evolved into a more modernist, introspective style, reflecting his fascination with spirituality, aging, and the cyclical nature of history. A key figure in the Irish Literary Revival, Yeats co-founded the Abbey Theatre, fostering Irish drama and national identity. His involvement in politics, including his brief tenure as a senator in the Irish Free State, intertwined with his art, which often explored themes of love, loss, and cultural rebirth. Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923, Yeats’s legacy endures through his profound, lyrical explorations of human experience and Irish heritage.

Yeats had a significant, though indirect, relationship with India through his deep interest in Indian philosophy, mysticism, and literature, particularly through his admiration for Rabindranath Tagore. Yeats was introduced to Tagore’s work in 1912 when he encountered the manuscript of Gitanjali, a collection of spiritual poems. Profoundly moved, Yeats wrote an enthusiastic introduction for the English translation, praising Tagore’s lyrical depth and spiritual insight, describing the poems as “a world I have dreamed of all my life long.” This introduction helped propel Tagore to international fame, culminating in his 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature. Yeats was drawn to Tagore’s work due to his own fascination with mysticism, influenced by his studies of Theosophy and Indian spiritual texts like the Upanishads, which he explored with figures like Shri Purohit Swami. He also collaborated with Purohit Swami to translate The Ten Principal Upanishads (1937), reflecting his lifelong engagement with Indian thought. While Yeats and Tagore met only briefly in London, their mutual respect was evident, though their direct interactions were limited. Yeats’s interest in India extended beyond Tagore, as he incorporated Indian philosophical themes into his poetry, such as in Anashuya and Vijaya, and maintained a broader cultural curiosity about India’s spiritual traditions, which resonated with his own esoteric and symbolic inclinations.

When the event came to a close, each of us was encouraged to carry away a book collection of Yeats’s poetry. I quickly picked a small, but thick green book and left. On the whole, I am more of a ‘prose’ person, but as I dug into Yeats’s poetry, I wished I had discovered Yeats earlier.

A few lines on some of the poems that are going to stay with me for a long time:

The Second Coming – its imagery is apocalyptic with historical cycles and cultural collapse post the First World War.

Sailing to Byzantium – A meditation on aging, art, and immortality, Yeats evidently wishes to transcend mortality through the eternal beauty of Byzantine art.

Easter, 1916 – Yeats’s tribute to the Irish rebels of the Easter Rising, this poem grapples with sacrifice, transformation, and the refrain “A terrible beauty is born,” capturing Ireland’s political awakening. Let’s not forget that Yeats was an Irish protestant.

When You Are Old – A tender, romantic poem inspired by Yeats’s lover Maud Gonne, it reflects on love, aging, and regret.

Among School Children – A philosophical exploration of youth, aging, and the unity of being, set against Yeats’s observations during a school visit, culminating in the question, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?”

Book Review: The Second Marriage of Kunju Namboodiri & Other Classic Malayalam Stories

Book Review: The Second Marriage of Kunju Namboodiri & Other Classic Malayalam Stories

Edited by Mini Krishnan | Translated by Venugopal Menon

Publisher ‏ : ‎ Harper Perennial (18 March 2025)

I must begin with a confession: the vast majority of fiction I’ve read over the years has been penned by native English speakers. This long-standing habit has, somewhat inevitably, made me rather exacting when it comes to Indian authors writing in English—only the very best truly stand out. However, reading translated works from Indian languages is an altogether different experience. They remind me, time and again, of the immense literary talent that lies scattered across India, often inaccessible to large swathes of the population simply because these writers express themselves in languages unfamiliar to most Indians.

Malayalam is my mother tongue, and though I speak it with reasonable fluency, my reading skills scarcely extend beyond billboards or headlines. Having never lived in Kerala, I’ve missed the chance to internalize the finer nuances of literary Malayalam. Thankfully, Venugopal Menon’s translation of these classic Malayalam short stories (written between 1891 and 1924) captures the spirit and cadence of that bygone era so deftly that I felt transported—immersed in a time when the Indian freedom struggle was still finding its feet.

What stands out most in this collection is the strength of the storytelling. Every narrative has a well-formed plot, and while readers of the original Malayalam versions may have additionally delighted in the richness of the language, it’s clear that the primary goal of these authors was to tell a compelling story—and that they most certainly do. I won’t spoil any of the plots here; discovering them is part of the joy. I urge readers to experience the collection firsthand.

Equally remarkable is the vivid glimpse these stories offer into life a century ago. In one tale, a pickpocket caught by the police is sentenced to twelve lashes and six months in jail. Imagine—a time when, under British rule in the Madras Presidency, corporal punishment was not only legal but formally executed by the police! Legal dramas pepper the collection too—carbon copies, forged handwriting, upright and corrupt lawyers alike, bribe-taking policemen—painting a nuanced picture of the colonial-era judicial set up. Yet, at the heart of most stories lies the deeply human terrain of love, arranged marriages, and family ties. And here, strikingly, we see how little human nature has changed. Many of these plots could unfold in our own time.

Another admirable thread running through these stories is their reformist spirit. Many of the authors use their narratives to champion women’s rights. One tale rails against child marriage, another satirizes ritualistic excesses, while yet another cleverly flips gender roles—casting a wife as wiser and sharper than her self-important husband. The titular story, The Second Marriage of Kunju Namboodiri, offers a rare window into the customs of the Namboodiris of Kerala, especially their relationships with Nair women and the often-stifling lives of Namboodiri women confined within the illam.

Tipu Sultan’s invasion of Malabar provides the historical backdrop for a pair of stories written by C. Kunhirama Menon (M.R.K.C).

At the end of the book, there are brief notes on each author and the note on M.R.K.C tells us that M.R.K.C. drew inspiration from historical settings but populated them with fictional characters, showing little concern for strict historical accuracy.  M.R.K.C lived from 1882 to 1939 and Tipu’s invasions of Malabar primarily occurred between 1789 and 1792, during the Third Anglo-Mysore War. Tipu had earlier accompanied his father, Hyder Ali, in a 1766 invasion of Malabar. 

The stories themselves are wonderfully digestible. Most span around ten pages, with the shortest being a mere three and the longest, twenty. Though all stories have been translated by Venugopal Menon, the tone and texture of the prose vary from story to story—reflecting the diversity of the original authors' voices.

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed this evocative collection of Malayalam classics. It is both a literary and cultural time capsule, and Venugopal Menon’s translation makes these stories accessible and enjoyable to readers unfamiliar with the original language. I highly recommend this anthology—it’s available on Amazon, and it’s well worth your time.

Book Review: “Learning to Make Tea for One – Reflections on Love, Loss and Healing”, by Andaleeb Wajid

 

People cope with the loss of loved ones in different ways. The follow-on healing is usually a lengthy process and, in some cases, is never completed. When a prolific and well-known fiction writer loses a loved one, how does the writer cope? Does the process of writing fiction play any role in the coping or the subsequent healing?  

Well-known writer Andaleeb Wajid was hit with multiple tragedies during the cruel summer of 2021, when India faced its second wave of the Covid-19 pandemic. Andaleeb, her husband and mother-in-law were hospitalised by Covid-19 and only Andaleeb made it back home.

Andaleeb is well known for her simple and elegant prose and she does not deviate from her tried and tested writing style, despite the extreme bereavement. Staying true to her style, Andaleeb tells her readers how her husband and mother-in-law died, the circumstances surrounding their death and how she found it very difficult to accept that her husband was no more. Having covered the fundamental bases, Andaleeb starts to tell us more, how she met her husband, how and why they got married, the sort of life she led as a married woman, the family she became a part of and how she has been reconciling herself to her changed circumstances.

Did Andaleeb have a love marriage or an arranged marriage? Did her lifestyle change drastically after she got married to Mansoor? How many kids did Andaleeb and Mansoor have, if she had any? Was Mansoor also into writing fiction or in of the other arts? Was Andaleeb happy after her marriage? It would be unfair if I gave away any of the answers in this review. Andaleeb is one of the best among the current crop of Indian writers and I do encourage each of you to buy “Learning to Make Tea for One – Reflections on Love, Loss and Healing” and find out answers to the questions above. You’d also end up reading a very fine piece of writing in the process.

An excellent and extremely sad and poignant read.

Almost exactly six years ago, I had reviewed one of Andaleeb’s books on Winnowed.