ISRAEL DIARY

A long time in planning

Israel is a place I’ve always wanted to visit. My reasons were many. From admiration for a country holding on its own in a very hostile neighbourhood to stories of the Israelis having made the desert bloom to a desire to see so many historical places crammed into a single country, there was no shortage of reasons to visit Israel.

Support for Israel

I have always believed that the UN resolution 181 which created Israel was absolutely fair. 33 countries had voted in favour, including the USA and the USSR. 10 countries including India opposed it. 10 including the UK and China abstained. The Jews have a claim on Palestine. Not an exclusive claim, but a claim nevertheless. If the Arabs and Jews could not live together, then splitting Palestine into two was the only option available.

I have always believed that the continuing Arab-Israeli conflict is more the result of Arab intransigence than anything else. The Arabs were unwilling to live alongside the state of Israel, as created by the UN. After the 1948 war, Jordan took over East Jerusalem and the West Bank whilst Egypt took over the Gaza strip, areas which ought to have been an independent Arab Palestinian state. This annexation was not opposed by other Arab states. In other words, the existing Arab nation states did not give the Palestinian state a fighting chance to survive.

Israel has in the past relinquished captured territory. In 1979, it gave up the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt which had been captured in 1967. The Israel-Egypt peace treaty of 1979 has survived Anwar Sadat’s assassination and other tests of time. It remains to be seen if it will survive Hosni Mubarak who is almost 80 years old now.

I do believe that Israel ought to relinquish the West Bank, the Gaza Strip and the Golan Heights (which it captured from Syria in 1967), but I do understand Israel’s need to use these territories to obtain a guarantee that its existence will not be threatened.

Visa on a separate sheet of paper

I had heard so many stories of how an Israeli visa on my passport could prevent me from travelling to various Arab countries. Since I need to travel to Dubai for my work once in a while, I decided to play it safe and requested the Israeli embassy in London for our visas on separate pieces of paper. The very attractive woman who accepted my application threw up her hands in the air and asked, ‘if you don’t want an Israeli stamp, why travel to Israel at all?’ I could understand her irritation. It must be galling to receive so many requests for a visa on a separate piece of paper rather than on the passport, as if Israel was a pariah one was ashamed to visit. In any event, my request was granted. I got our visas on separate pieces of paper. Later I found out that the UAE does not have a problem with an Israeli stamp endorsement. But countries like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait etc. still do.

BA and not El Al

We (my wife, 15 month old daughter and I) flew British Airways and not El Al, mainly because BA’s timing is very convenient. We left London Heathrow on a Saturday night at 22:30 hrs and landed at Ben-Gurion Airport at 05:30 hrs the next day morning. Also, El Al does not fly during the Shabbath while BA doesn’t have such problems. I’m told that service on El Al used to be very shoddy, but apparently El Al has now cleaned up its act.

Security checks

When flying from Heathrow, we did not face any additional security checks or any extra hassles. We checked in three hours before the flight departure and everything was exactly the same as for a flight to any other destination. On landing in Israel, we were psyched up for a long wait and a detailed interrogation. I’d heard horror stories of how people were kept waiting for five or even ten hours and questioned in relay by teams of security men. I was disappointed. Clearing immigration at Tel Aviv didn’t take any longer than what it usually takes me at London or Mumbai.

We had a similar experience when flying back at the end of our eight day trip, the only difference being that the Israeli security people who asked us if someone else had packed our luggage or if we were carrying stuff for others took a personal interest in our answers. Also, we had to first take our check-in luggage to a scanner and then proceed to BA’s check-in counter.

Ben Gurion International Airport

Ben Gurion is situated in between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. It’s 20 kilometres from Tel Aviv and 50 kilometres from Jerusalem (just as in India, distances are expressed only in kilometres in Israel). A state-of-the-art airport, it is not only very clean, but also smacks of all around efficiency.

An expensive country, especially Taxis

Israel is an expensive place to live in, almost as expensive as the United Kingdom. We learned this as soon as we landed there. We took a taxi from the airport to our hotel in Jerusalem and it cost us 250 Shekels (1 Shekel = 13 Indian Rupees; GBP 1 = 6.2 Shekels, and USD 1 = 3.55 Shekels). I don’t think we were cheated since I had checked with an Israeli friend and had been told what to expect.

All taxis have metres and we were told to make sure that we always paid by the metre. In most cases, our request to turn on the metre was acted upon. However, there were at least three instances where we told by the taxi driver that the metre was “not working”. Even when it was, taxi drivers liked to negotiate a fixed rate. Since the negotiations usually started after the taxi started moving, we ended up agreeing on a fixed rate, rather than go to the trouble of getting out of the taxi and finding another.

One evening, we had to travel from Jerusalem’s central bus station to our hotel and we couldn’t get a taxi to take us at the metre rate. Finally we agreed on a fixed rate of 40 Shekels. The next day morning we took a taxi to the central bus station from our hotel. The driver readily switched on the metre when we asked him to. We ended up paying the driver 53 Shekels.

The taxi driver who drove us to Bethlehem from Jerusalem told us that all taxis must pay the government a licence fee of 3,000 Shekels every two months. Petrol costs 6 Shekels a litre and diesel 7 Shekels, we were told.

It’s not only the taxis that are expensive. Food is expensive as well. On our first day in Israel, a Sunday, our simple lunch of pita bread, hommus, falafel and kebabs from a small way side eatery came close to 100 Shekels.

Jerusalem

We were based in Jerusalem for the greater part of our trip. Jerusalem is a reasonably clean city drenched in sunshine. It is located on the Judean mountains and is therefore quite hilly, especially the eastern bit where the Old City is located. The buildings, both old and new, are made out of sandstone. It was interesting to see modern flats built using materials that gave them an antique look, despite the presence of dish antennae on their tops. In any event, the timeless look has been preserved very well in Jerusalem.

Yad VaShem

The first place we visited in Jerusalem was the holocaust museum, a memorial to the six million odd Jews who perished under the Nazi regime. The main museum consists of photographs, newsreels and personal memorabilia of the victims. There is a separate memorial for the 1.5 million children who also fell to the Nazis. The Children’s memorial is located in a dark cave lit up with candles. A sombre voice reads out the name, age and country of origin of each of the victims.

Old City

The Old City in the east of Jerusalem has almost all the religious sites. It is split into four quarters, the Jewish, Christian, Moslem and Armenian. Mark Twain in his Innocents Abroad (an account of his 6 month trip in a luxury liner to Europe and Palestine) describes Jerusalem as a small walled city around whose walls a man can walk in an hour’s time. Until the 1860s when Mark Twain visited Jerusalem, the Old City formed the whole of Jerusalem.

The Muslim quarter is the largest and I think the Armenian quarter is the smallest. The Via Dolorosa, the path believed to have been walked by Jesus Christ on his way to his crucifixion, starts in the Muslim quarter. The Muslim quarter has very narrow streets with cobbled stones flanked by shops run by Arabs selling curios, souvenirs, carpets etc. This could be place anywhere in the East, say old Delhi or Damascus. However, the narrow roads are reasonably clean, much, much cleaner than Old Delhi.

The Christian Quarter houses the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of Christianity’s holiest sites, where Jesus is believed to have been crucified and buried (before his resurrection).

I didn’t meet many beggars in the Old City, except for an old Arab woman in an all-enveloping burka (whom I ignored).

Temple Mount/ Dome of the Rock/ Al Aqsa Mosque/ Western Wall

The most important site in Jerusalem, for Jews, Christians and Muslims is undoubtedly the Temple Mount, referred to as al-Haram ash-Sharif by the Muslims. Jews believe this to be the place where God created Adam out of dust. Two Jewish temples have existed on this site, the first one destroyed by the Babylonians and the second by the Romans. For Christians and Jews, it is the place where Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. For Muslims, this is the place to which Prophet Mohammad was transported by Angel Gabriel and from where he ascended to heaven, had a conversation with Allah, Moses and other prophets and returned to Mecca. It is the third holiest site for Muslims after Mecca and Medina.

Naturally, each community would like to have access to this site. However, thanks to the fact that in the last 1000 years, Jerusalem has been mainly under the control of the Muslims, the two main buildings on the Temple Mount are Islamic, namely the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. The Western Wall (also called the Wailing Wall) is the only remaining portion of the second Jewish temple destroyed by the Romans and the Jews congregate there to pray and even wail. Prayers are written on small pieces of paper and stuck into crevices on the Wall. There are separate sections for men and women.

We could not go inside the Al-Aqsa Mosque or the Dome of the Rock since it was the period of Ramadan and entry was restricted to two hours in the morning. However, we did go to the Western Wall. Men are expected to cover their heads and woman must be modestly dressed. It is also possible to tour the tunnels built under the Wall, but one needs to book in advance.

A large plastic urn held a number of cardboard caps for men (like me) who did not have the foresight to bring along a head covering. In the case of women, a couple of female guards stand around with long scarves. Any woman who gets close to the wall in a sleeveless blouse or shorts or an uncovered head is given a scarf or scarves to make herself ‘modest’ before getting close to the Wall. It was not only Western tourists who turned up without the right attire. I saw an Israeli Jewish woman in shorts and a sleeveless blouse being asked to cover herself up.

A large number of Israeli soldiers were present at the Wall. Many of them appeared to be freshly inducted draftees performing their military service. More about the Israeli army later.

As I approached the men’s section to have a chat with God, I was approached by a young Haredi (an orthodox Jew), wearing their traditional black suit, black hat and sporting ringlets. Have I a committed a faux pas already, I wondered as I clutched my paper cap to my head. I need not have worried. The Haredi was only begging and he indicated the small wad of notes in his hand and asked me to contribute my mite. Considering the enormous amount of experience I’ve had in India in ignoring beggars, I easily gave him a firm shake of my head and walked on to the Wall.

Conversation at the Western Wall

After spending some time at the Wall, we sat on a small parapet some distance from the Wall under a shady tree. Soon we were joined by a man who appeared to be in his eighties. ‘Where are you from,’ he asked us?

‘India.’

‘Oh, India. I love India.’ This was a conversation we would have many times during our stay.

The old man wanted to know which part of India we were from, what we did for a living, how old our daughter was etc. After a while, I turned the tables on him and asked, ‘Have you lived in Israel all your life?’ It was obvious from his American accent that he hadn’t. I was right. He told us that he had been a builder in New York and had come to live in Israel after his retirement 22 years ago.

‘Israel is such a lovely place,’ he told us. ‘It’s warm. I have my family here, my children, my grand-children…. Each day I wake up and see the sunshine and thank God for giving me a new day to live.’

‘So you never go back to the US?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I do. Every year. During winter. I go to Florida. Israel is far too cold during winter.’

‘Do you come here often?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. Once every week. Our holiest site.’

‘I know.’

‘Our holiest site and the Muslims had to build their mosque here.’

I wanted to reply, but the old man was looking into the distance rather than at me. So, I kept quiet.

‘Our holiest site and we captured this during the six day war and we gave it all up to the Muslims. Madness I say.’

Maybe that was not such a bad thing to have done, I wanted to tell him. Maybe it resulted in peace. But I didn’t say all that. Instead, I asked, ‘Isn’t this place holy for the Muslims as well?’

‘It is. But this is not their holiest place. They have Mecca. They have Medina. Why can’t they give this to us?’

I was silent.

‘Are you Hindus?’ he suddenly asked us, as if worried that we might be Muslims.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘We are not Hindus.’ The old man’s brow furrowed.

‘We are Christians,’ I said. He appeared to be relieved.

‘There are 22 Arab countries in the world. And only one Jewish state! Why can’t they leave us alone?’

I was tempted to say something rude. Something like - The Arab Palestinians are as much entitled to a state of their own as the Jews are. But I kept quiet.

‘We have the strongest army in the middle-east. We could level all the houses in Ramallah if we wanted. But we don’t. We ought to. That’s the only language the Arabs will understand.’

I was bored. The old man could be a fundamentalist anywhere in the world. We said our goodbyes and left.

‘I might as well keep the cap on. It might be needed at the next place we visit,’ I told my wife.

‘I’m not too sure,’ she told me. ‘In a church, you don’t put on a cap to show respect. You take it off.’


Evangelical Christians in Israel

The next day our hotel’s reception desk sported a large banner which read, ‘Welcome to Benny Hinn’s Ministry on its Israel Tour.’ For those who haven’t heard of Benny Hinn, Mr. Hinn is an evangelical preacher with a very large following in the US and various other parts of the world. There were many from Benny Hinn’s group at the buffet breakfast tables that morning. They were cheerful people with a do-gooder expression on their faces. We had our breakfast quietly and left. In the court yard of our hotel were parked four or five large coaches meant to transport Benny Hinn’s group on their Israel tour.

Later when we were in Nazareth, we saw a Seventh Day Adventist Health Centre.

The Evangelical Christians have a love-hate relationship with Israel. They believe that God gave the Palestinian land to the Jews and they are entitled to all of it. Until the Jews get the whole of Palestine and rebuild their temple, Jesus will not make his second coming. When Jesus arrives for the second time, he will convert all Jews to Christianity. The ones who don’t convert will be killed.

During the 2006 war between Israel and the Hizbollah, thousands of evangelicals Christians had converged in Washington to lobby on behalf of Israel and prevent the US government from forcing Israel to a ceasefire. They wanted Israel to fight and destroy the Hizbollah. Unfortunately for the evangelicals, Hizbollah fought the Israeli army to a standstill and the Israelis withdrew from Lebanon without being forced by the US government.

I feel sorry for the Israelis who are forced to rely on support from evangelical Christians who ultimately hope to convert or kill them.

Caveat: I do know that Benny Hinn is an evangelical Christian. However, I am not aware on his exact stand on Jesus’s second coming and the conversion of the Jews. The evangelical beliefs outlined above are commonly held by most evangelical Christians.

Maccabee beer

I tried out the Maccabee beer which I was told is Israel’s most popular beer. It’s a blond beer /pale lager, not unlike lagers such as Becks or Amstel. I liked it, though there is nothing exceptional about it.

The West Bank Barrier

We saw the barrier as we drove from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, which is in the West Bank. It is at least 15 feet high, with a slanting top. Our Arab taxi driver muttered a series of curses as we drove past. Built entirely on land acquired from residents in the West Bank, the barrier has separated many farmers from their land. The highway runs alongside the barrier. Apparently, the barrier has increased the distance from Jerusalem to Bethlehem by 10 kilometers. We were told that it has also made travel much more difficult for the Arabs since one can only cross from Jerusalem to the West Bank through a check point.

We did not have any trouble at the check points. In fact the guards did not even look at our passports which we had at the ready.

‘Where are you from?’ we were asked.

‘India.’

‘Drive on,’ we were told.

A days later at the Dead Sea, we met a couple of tourists from the EU who told us they saw an Arab family being harassed by Israeli guards.

Conversation with Arab driver

The Arab driver who drove us to Bethlehem was a friendly sort. Initially we thought that we would have to take a taxi or a Sherut (a shared taxi which can take around 10 people) to the checkpoint and switch to an Arab taxi to enter Bethlehem. But no, this driver offered to take us to Bethlehem, show us around and bring us back.

‘How much?’ we asked him.

‘One hundred and fifty Shekels. It is a very good price for you,’ he said in reasonably good English.

We agreed with alacrity and did not ask him to turn on the metre.

After we had gone some distance, he turned around and said, ‘so you want to return today?’

‘Yes, of course. We are coming back today. We just want two hours in Bethlehem.’

‘I can bring you back,’ he agreed.

‘Yes, you said you would.’

‘So that’s three hundred Shekels.’

With a baby in our lap and the car speeding at hundred kilometres an hour along a deserted highway, we did not argue any further.

‘How come you are able to drive into the West Bank?’ we asked him. ‘We though Israeli drivers are not allowed to.’

‘I can because I am not an Israeli. I am from east Jersalem and I am not a citizen of any state. I have an Israeli ID card and that’s it. So I can drive to any town in the West Bank.’

‘Because you are an Arab?’

‘No, because I am not Israeli. Arabs who are Israeli citizens cannot drive to the West Bank.’

‘Has your family always lived in East Jerusalem?’

‘Yes, they have.’

‘How was it when East Jerusalem was under the Jordanians?’ I asked.

‘How does it matter? We are ordinary people. How does it matter?’

‘Do you speak Hebrew?’

‘A little bit. A little bit Hebrew.’

‘Do you have a large family?’

‘Six children,’ he told me. I was shocked. He was not much older than me.

‘So, your family lived through the six day war?’

‘What six day war? How can a war get over in six days? Those six days were only the beginning of the war,’ he told us. ‘It’s not over yet,’ he added darkly.

I decided to change the topic. ‘Your children go to school?’ I asked.

‘Yes, they do.’

‘A good school?’

‘Okay school.’

‘Do they learn Hebrew at school?’

‘No, they don’t.’

‘They don’t?’ I asked incredulously. ‘They go to a school in Jerusalem and don’t learn Hebrew?’

‘School run by the Palestinian Authority. The Palestinian Authority allowed to run schools for Arabs in East Jerusalem. My children go to that school.’

I wondered if they would get good jobs on graduation if they could only manage a smattering of Hebrew. I don’t think the Palestinian Authority is worried about that.

Bethlehem

Bethlehem is not more than a thirty minute drive from Jerusalem, provided you don’t have any trouble at the check points. It is not much different from Jerusalem. The buildings are of the same sandstone. The main difference is that this town of 45,000 people doesn’t show much signs of activity. Whilst Jerusalem and the rest of Israel pulsates with energy, Bethlehem is dead. We saw a few workshops making souvenirs (crosses etc.) for pilgrims out of olive wood. And that was it.

I was given to understand by our taxi driver that things are much worse in the rest of the West Bank. Apparently Nablus, Ramallah and Hebron have a few areas that are particularly bad.

The cost of living in Bethlehem is naturally a lot lower than in Jerusalem. A flat which costs 4000 Shekels to rent in Jerusalem can be had in the West Bank for 500 Shekels.

We were told by our Arab Christian guide in Bethlehem that 75% of Bethlehem is Arab Christian. And the rest are Muslims. After he showed us around the Church believed to be built over the manger where Jesus was born, he took us to a few souvenir shops where we bought some stuff for family and friends back home. We saw lots of shops which were closed. Or guide blamed the West Bank Barrier. Thanks to the barrier, he said that tourists were down sharply. Things were much better before the barrier was built, he said ruefully. These deserted roads were apparently as busy as the alleys in Jerusalem’s Old City.

‘We feel betrayed by the Western countries,’ he told us. They don’t really care about Arab Christians.’

‘Tell me, what would you prefer? Being under Israeli rule or under Palestinian rule? How was it when the Jordanians controlled the West Bank?’

He hesitated for a moment and said, ‘things are better under the Israelis.’


The Dead Sea

It’s true. You can float on the Dead Sea. I actually saw a couple of chaps smeared from head to toe with Dead Sea mud sitting on plastic chairs which they had plonked down on the sea.

There are no big waves, thanks to the heavy concentration of salt water. If a tiny bit of water enters your mouth, you don’t have a choice, but to run back to the shore and gargle. A bit of sea water in your eyes can cause them to itch terribly, the only remedy being to run out and rinse your face with fresh water.

Overhead: Tourist Wife telling her Husband as they both sat on beach chairs after a dip in the Dead Sea

‘It itches a lot.’

‘Where?’

‘Below.’

‘Must be your piles. The salt water must have got there.’

‘Must be.’

Kalia (Qualya) Beach which we went to is a private beach and we had to pay an admission fee of 35 Shekels per adult. It is also the closest beach to Jerusalem. The Kebabs I ate at the small restaurant on the beach were very, very, good.

Ethiopians in Israel

Apparently there are over 70,000 Ethiopians in Israel. One sees them everywhere doing menial jobs, sweeping the streets and shopping malls and the like. However, I did see a few Ethiopians doing white collar jobs. One of the receptionists at one of the hotels we stayed was Ethiopian. Once in Jerusalem, I had trouble setting the password in the hotel safe and a very smart female Ethiopian employee came over to help. I’m sure that the confidence she exuded could have come only from her time in the Israeli army.


Politically incorrect

I am worried I am giving the impression that I went around Israel asking people their religion and race. No, I did not. What usually happened was that we would be asked where we were from.

‘India,’ we would say. Sometimes, if we were not too tired, we would say, ‘We are Indians but we have lived in the UK for over 6 years now.’

After this we would usually be asked our religion.

Once we divulged the details of our personal beliefs, we would usually ask the interrogator if he/she had lived in Israel all his/her life. This usually resulted in a detailed explanation as to whether they were Arab Christian or Arab Muslim or Jewish.

Also in Nazareth, every taxi displayed the name and licence number of the taxi driver in English.

Sudanese community in Israel

One of the taxi drivers who took us around in Jerusalem turned out to be a Sudanese Muslim. I had wrongly assumed he was an Ethiopian. But no, he was a Sudanese. His father had migrated to Israel around 40 years ago.

‘Is there a big Sudanese community in Israel?’ I asked him.

He replied in the affirmative. I do know that of late many refugees from Sudan have entered Israel. However, I had no idea that there was a Sudanese community before that.

‘How many languages do you speak?’ I asked him.

‘Arabic, Hebrew and English.’

Arabic and Hebrew

Hebrew sounds remarkably similar to Arabic when it is spoken. I quizzed the Sudanese driver on how similar they are.

‘They are very similar,’ he told me. For example, you say Ras in Arabic for Head. In Hebrew you say Rosh.

Caught in between

After having heard from the Arab Christian guide in Bethlehem that he would prefer to be with Israel, I kept wondering if Arab Christians from Jerusalem felt the same. I posed this question to a taxi driver in Jerusalem after he confessed to being an Arab Christian. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he told us. ‘We are caught in between. We are too small, too insignificant. The Muslims don’t like us and neither do the Jews.’

‘But what’s better? Israeli control or living under a Palestinian state?’

I got a shrug for an answer.

Public Transport


We were told that public transport in Israel is pretty good, but it took us a couple of days to find the courage to switch from taxis to buses. The main drawback in using public transport is that all signs on buses are in Hebrew and Arabic. There is nothing written in English, except for an occasional English sign at bus stations. We did not find many people who could speak fluent English on public buses, though there were lots of people willing to help.

We took a bus to Kalia beach on the Dead Sea and back to Jerusalem. A return ticket cost only 41 Shekels. The next day, a Thursday, we checked out of our hotel and took a bus to Afula, which was a short distance from Nazareth, our ultimate destination. There were no direct buses to Nazareth from Jerusalem. The buses are very similar to the ones in the UK with a large hold underneath where we could keep our luggage. We had been warned that Israeli bus drivers could be rude, but on the whole we found them to be polite and helpful (though their English was very rudimentary).

We reached Afula and enquired at the information counter for a bus to Nazareth.

‘Stand no 2’ we were told.

At stand no. 2, I asked a helpful looking teenage soldier, ‘do buses go to Nazareth from here?’

‘What?’

Nazareth,’ I said very slowly.

‘I don’t know.’ It sounded as if I was making up the name of a place.

‘Nazareth,’ I repeated.

Oh! Nazruth? Nazruth? Go there. Last stand.’ He pointed to a stand at the other end of the bus station.

We hesitated. The soldier gave us a look which said, ‘why did you ask me then?’

We looked at a middle-aged man standing nearby for help. He was only too willing.

‘Where are you from?’

‘India.’

‘Oh India. I love India.’

‘Have you been to India?’

‘No, but I want to visit.’

‘Can we get a bus to Nazareth from here?’

‘Not too sure. Let me see.’ He went to the information counter and came back and said, ‘yes, there is a bus to Nazareth from here at 13:15.’

‘That’s what we were told,’ I agreed happily.

‘He is also right.’ The man pointed to the soldier. ‘There’s another bus to Nazareth from that stand which goes to …’

‘We’ll stay here.’

When it was 13:20 and there was no sign of the bus, the middle-aged man suggested, ‘you could take a Sherut (a shared taxi which can take around 10 people) to Nazareth.’

We hesitated.

‘There’s a Sherut stand just outside. Only five minutes walking from here.’

We decided to give the Sherut a try.

As we walked out the station with our luggage and the baby in a pram, we asked for directions to the Sherut stand. A smart young man who spoke very good English told us, ‘it’s too far for you. With a baby and that suitcase, you should not…. Why don’t you take a bus?’

‘We waited so long for the Nazareth bus?’

‘But there’s another one. At 13:30 hours. You must go back. It’ll start from the last stand.’

We hesitated, but went back to the bus station. The middle-aged man was standing where we had left him. I rehearsed an explanation for having returned, but I need not have worried.

‘There’s a bus now. From the last stand. Go, go, go.’

We caught the bus just in time.

‘Where do you want to get off? Nazareth or Nazareth Illit?’ the bus driver asked us.

We told the driver the name of our hotel. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘What’s the difference between Nazareth and Nazareth Illit?’

Another shrug of the sholders.

We reached Nazareth in around 15 minutes., but did not get off. We finally got off at Illit and hailed a cab.

‘Twenty Five Shekels to ______ Hotel.’

We agreed. It turned out that our Hotel was in Nazareth itself. If only we had taken a taxi from Afula to Nazareth, we could have saved so much time and not spent much more than what we had spent on the bus and taxi fare.

Soldiers everywhere

The Israeli weekend is on Friday and Saturday on account of the Jewish Sabbath. When we travelled by bus from Jerusalem to Afula on a Thursday, the bus station was full of soldiers going home for the weekend. I suspect most of the solders were draftees performing their compulsory military service. They all appeared to be wonderfully young, the women looking radiant with all the right makeup and even designer glasses. The Uzi rifles did nothing to spoil their looks, though I saw a few uniforms crumbled on account of the appendage. Many of the men had kippas (thin, slightly-rounded skullcap traditionally worn by Orthodox Jewish men, stuck to the hair with a pin or slide), but I doubt if many of them are fanatic Jews since the usually extreme right wing Haredim don’t have to serve in the army.

A soldier sat in front of me on the bus, his rifle on his lap. After a while when I stretched my legs, my shoe hit something hard. I bent down to take a look at the obstruction. It was the soldier’s rifle which he had put under the seat.

I thought of requesting the soldier to move his rifle, but then decided against it. How often do I get the chance to rest my feet against the muzzle of an Uzi rifle?

I’m told that all men must serve 3 years in the Israeli Defence Forces after school and the women serve two years.

At the Afula bus station, a young and well dressed Haredi walked around asking for money – a posh way of begging I guess. I soldiers gave him short shift and ignored him completely.

One thing that stuck me about the soldiers was their easy camaraderie. This extended even to the officers. Earlier, outside the Western Wall in Jerusalem, I saw an officer speaking to a group of young soldiers in a manner not unlike that of a summer camp guide. I’m pretty sure that the Israeli army does not follow the horrid practice of making soldiers work for officers as batmen.

Nazareth and Nazareth Illit

Nazareth’s Arab and Jewish Quarters are divided by a road. The Jewish quarter is called Nazareth Illit. Nazareth Illit is a lot more prosperous and obviously a lot more public money has been spent on it.

Nazareth is an Arab town with a mixed population of Christians and Muslims. In 1948 when Israeli forces repulsed the joint offensive by various Arab states, they did their best to chase away or scare off Arabs living in Israel. However, the Arabs in the predominantly Arab Christian town of Nazareth were not hassled too much, mainly out of fear of Western criticism.

Nazareth is a beautiful town, as hilly as Jerusalem. It also has a historical and timeless look, especially because all the buildings are sandstone coloured. The main attraction is the Basilica of Annunciation built over the place where Virgin Mary is believed to have lived and where Angel Gabriel is said to have appeared to convey the news of Jesus’s birth. There is another church built on the place where Joseph is believed to have lived and worked as a carpenter. We also visited the Synagogue Church built over the Synagogue believed to have been visited by Jesus as a child and where Jesus is believed to have given his first sermon.

The Greek Orthodox Church believes that Angel Gabriel did not appear to Mary at her home. Instead, it was when Mary was beside a well that the news of Jesus’s birth was conveyed to her by Angel Gabriel. A Greek Orthodox Church stands at the spot where the well is believed to have existed.

We didn’t see a single beggar in Nazareth.

Different garbs of Virgin Mary

The Basilica of Annunciation has on its perimeter walls paintings and mosaics of Virgin Mary as portrayed in various countries. There wasn’t one from India, but the ones from Korea, Vietnam, Thailand etc. were very interesting since they showed Mary and Infant Jesus with Chinese/Mongoloid features and oriental attire.

Street Safety

One feels safe in Israel. I’m told that street crime is practically zero. There is no barrier between a taxi driver and his passengers. Bus drivers handle cash openly. At bus stations, luggage has to be put through an airport type scanner. One finds security guards and security checks everywhere. Before entering a shopping mall, handbags and backpacks are opened and scrutinised. One of the larger malls we visited in Jerusalem had a scanner. What I really liked was that every security guard was very well trained and seemed to know his or her job.

Chicken isn’t meat

After checking into our hotel in Nazareth, I went out to buy some food since my wife declared that she was too exhausted to move. I found a small restaurant not far from my hotel. I believe it was run by an Arab Christian since a portrait of the Virgin Mary figured prominently on the wall. I asked for a box of hommus, three pita breads, some falafels and pointing to some pieces of meat being fried on a pan, I asked for a few kebabs.

‘That’s not kebab,’ the cook told me.

‘Is it Shawarma? In any event, I’ll have that meat.’

‘That’s not meat,’ I was told.

‘What’s that then?’ That a die-hard carnivore like me could mistake meat for something else!

‘That’s chicken. Not meat.’

I didn’t understand. ‘I’ll have the chicken then,’ I said.

The whole stuff cost me 40 Shekels, half of what it would have cost in Jerusalem. The fried chicken was excellent. Later, an Israeli friend I met in Tel Aviv clarified that in Israel only lamb or beef is counted as meat. Chicken is just chicken.

Touring the Galilee

The next day we had to spend a couple of hours at the Hapoalim Bank since for some reason we were unable to withdraw money from cash machines using our debit or credit cards. A very smart Arab Muslim (I assume from his name tag) made a few phone calls and sorted our problem for us).

Since we had lost two hours, we gave up our plans to travel by bus and looked for a taxi. We found a driver who offered to take us around the Galilee for 500 Shekels – Kafr Kana, Tiberias, Mount Tabor, Tagba, Capernaum – there were so many places we had to see in a single day.

Kafr Kana or Cana is the place where Jesus is supposed to have converted water into wine – at a wedding when they ran out of wine. Capernaum is a small settlement on the shores of the Sea of Galilee where many of Jesus’s disciples lived. There are churches at all these places, each of which is an architectural beauty. At all these churches, just as in Jerusalem, there were masses of tourists, mainly from the USA, France, Italy and Spain


The driver took us to a restaurant overlooking the Sea of Galilee where my wife and I had a large St. Peter’s fish each. Though the fish was not as tasty as the Karimeen (Pearl Spot) one gets in Kerala, we had a spectacular sea view.

It is easy to forget what a small country Israel is. We covered the entire Galilee region in a day by the taxi we had hired and reached our hotel by 6 p.m.

Overheard from an American tourist sipping a small timble of exquisite Arabic coffee after her St. Peter’s fish: The first thing I’m gonna do when I get home is to make myself a large pot of kawffee.

Diana

One of the best meals we had in Israel was at this old Arab restaurant in Nazareth called Diana. Thought a bit expensive, the lamb kebabs cooked with pine nuts were out of the world. The simple entrees we had - cauliflower cooked in sesame seeds and a salad of finely chopped vegetables – were also very good.

Mount Tabor

Mount Tabor is the place where Jesus is supposed to have radiated light and had a conversation with two long-begone Prophets, Elijah and Moses, an event described as the Transfiguration of Christ. As was to be expected, a church stands at the spot on top of the hill where this event is supposed to have happened.

As the three of us entered the church, I thought I had be transported to some church in South India. Usually churches are empty except when a mass or service is being held. But in this church were thirty odd Indians, with the women mostly dressed in sarees and churidhars. Two of the men wore a double mundu. I sat next to one of them and asked where they were from. Kerala. Apparently they were part of a group being taken to the Holy Land by a tour company in Kochi. Each of them had shelled out INR 59,000 for the trip.

Everyone likes India

We did not meet a single Israeli, neither Arab nor Jew, who did not like India. We got many namastes, especially from youngsters who had holidayed in India after their military service.

Tourist left holding the bell

We were at a beautiful Greek Orthodox Church in Kafr Kana. Outside the beautiful church was an even more beautiful bell. As we stood near the bell, a couple of tourists walked up to it and rang it. We followed suit. I rang the bell once, my wife once again and then we handed the rope to my daughter who had been observing the proceedings very keenly. She tugged the rope once, looked delighted at the peal it produced, tugged it yet again and again. By the time she let go of the rope, the bell had been rung half a dozen times.

A middle-aged man, most probably yet another tourist, standing behind us decided to follow our example. With the air of a child being given a treat, he gripped the robe and was about to ring the bell when out came a priest. This priest yelled a string of obscenities (in what sounded like Arabic) at the middle-aged man who looked wonderstruck. He then managed to say, ‘I don’t understand what you are saying.’

‘You ring the bell so many times. Why? Why? Why?’

We did not wait to hear the explanation being offered. We left.

Potable water

We had been told that tap water in Israel is potable, but for the first two days in Jerusalem, we drank only bottled water. However, paying 5 Shekels for half a litre of water is not much fun and soon we started filling the empty bottles with tap water from the hotel and carrying them around. We did continue to give our baby daughter bottled water – there’s no point in pushing your luck too much. I’m happy to say that my wife and I did not suffer any ill effects as a result of this.

Mistrust and lack of communication

At Nazareth, my wife wanted to get a few of her dresses laundered and pressed. I called up the reception and asked them how much it would cost.

‘Bring the clothes to the reception,’ I was told in inimitable Israeli style. I surrendered and did what I was told.

‘When will I get them back?’

‘Tomorrow evening.’

‘Will they be dropped off in our room?’

‘You collect them from the reception.’

‘How much will this cost?’

‘You will know tomorrow when you collect.’

Since we didn’t have a choice, we left the clothes at the reception. The next day when we collected the clothes, we were told that the bill came to 22 Shekels, a measly amount by any standards.

Later in our room, my wife sighed and said, ‘they are not bad people. Just very badly organised.


Israeli waiters

Maybe it is the result of the mandatory military service performed by all Israelis, the Israeli waiter is the most unique creature in the hospitality industry worldwide. We stayed in three hotels in Israel during our stay and each of them provided us with a free buffet breakfast in the morning. The Head Waiters in the hotels at Jerusalem and Nazareth had a very standoffish air, not unlike that of a parent who is waiting for his kid to breach dinning etiquette so that he can reprimand him. I guess it is too much to expect men and women who have worn a uniform (and may be even had combat experience) to adopt a servile air when serving customers. But one gets used to certain things and it took a while to accustom ourselves to waiters who serve you as if they are doing you a big favour.

The only time we were asked for ‘Baksheesh’ was by an Arab waiter in an Arab run restaurant on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.

Tel Aviv, however, was different. The waiters there were like waiters anywhere else in the world.

Haifa

We only spent half a day in Haifa on our way to Tel Aviv from Nazareth. Haifa is a port city which reminded me of Bombay. There are modern buildings and shopping malls. There are also many crumbling buildings. The Baha’i gardens on Mount Carmel – eighteen immaculately landscaped terraces – form the biggest landmark in Haifa. You need to book in advance to be allowed in and you are taken around in groups.

Haifa is a mixed city of Arabs and Jews. It is also apparently very tolerant. Recently there has been a spurt of hi-tech industries in Haifa and those office buildings reminded me of the Bandra Kurla Complex.

Shabbath

Egged, the main bus Company in Israel does not run its buses during the Shabbath. El Al does the same. Also there are no trains from 6 p.m. on Friday till 6 p.m. on Saturday.

We were in Nazareth on Friday evening and since it is predominantly Arab, all the shops were open. That evening, the prayers and sermons marking the month of Ramzan could be heard through loud speakers. Fire crackers were burst. On Saturday we travelled to Haifa on a bus run by an Arab bus company. A couple of Arab Christians got on the same bus, beer cans in hand. No one seemed to care.

From Haifa, we took a Sherut to Tel Aviv. In order to reach the Sherut Station at a place called Hadar, we had to find a cab. It took us 30 minutes to find a taxi. The taxi driver who took us to Hadar told us that though he was Jewish, he did not observe the Shabbath.

My advice to anyone (other than an observant Jew) travelling to Israel is to avoid being in Jerusalem during Shabbath. The best place to spend Shabbath is an Arab town like Nazareth. If possible avoid travel (other than by a pre-booked taxi).

Tel Aviv

Tel Aviv is as different from Jerusalem as chalk is from cheese. Whereas Jerusalem exudes sobriety and religion, Tel Aviv exudes fun and happiness. Unlike Jerusalem where most Jewish people seemed to be Haredim, we did not see more than a few Haredim in Tel Aviv. Even Kippas were not too much in evidence. The beach front at Tel Aviv could have been anywhere in the Mediterranean. It is filled with umbrellas and sun bathers and bronzed young men playing beach volleyball. The blocks of flats and offices on the beach front are as modern and posh as anywhere in the developed world.

But once you get past the beach front, Tel Aviv is as dirty as any other city in the world. There are buildings with crumbling facades which reminded me of buildings in and around Charni Road and Grant Road in Mumbai. We saw homeless drug addicts and alcoholics begging and living on the footpaths. There is also a vibrant air of industry and commerce and adventure, not unlike in Mumbai.

There is a profusion of all sorts of restaurants. Unlike in Jerusalem and Nazareth where most restaurants served traditional Hommus, Falafel, Shwarama and Kebabs, Tel Aviv has Italian, French, Chinese and Japanese and everything else one could think of.

I wouldn’t say that Tel Aviv is cosmopolitan in the way London or New York is. It has masses of tourists, but I don’t there are many non-Jewish people from other countries living and working in Tel Aviv.

On our last night in Israel, we met up at a beach side restaurant with a couple of Israeli friends who had studied with me at London University.

Meeting with a Gujarati Jew

We were travelling within Tel Aviv in a Sherut when we saw a man who looked definitely Indian.

‘Are you from India?’ he asked us first.

‘Yes we are. And you?’

It turned out that he was a Gujarati Jew who had migrated to Israel sixteen years ago when he was twenty one. Having served in the army, he was now married to an Israeli born woman whose father had once been the rabbi at the Synagogue in Kochi. We were told that that the Jewish Indian community was over 30,000 strong.

He spoke to us in halting English that was definitely Indian accented. However, when there was a small argument with the driver who was collecting 5.50 Shekels from each passenger, our friend broke into rapid fire Hebrew that sounded 100% kosher.

Shopping in Tel Aviv

Sheinkin street which runs off Allenby Street is the most posh street in Tel Aviv. It is a good place to shop if you are willing to pay top dollar or top Shekel for boutique designer brands. Also, just like the M.G Road in Bangalore, one gets to see smartly and fashionably dressed people. However, if you want cheap bargains, this is not the place to be. Every thing we saw on Shenkin street was expensive. There were boutique shops where the average price of a dress was 1000 Shekels.

On the other hand, Carmel market is a long and narrow alleyway where vendors sell fruits, vegetables, breads, leather goods, scarves, and the like. There was even a handicapped man begging for alms, the one and only case of justifiable begging I saw in Israel during my entire 8 day visit. I found that leather goods such as belts and wallets were of good quality and relatively cheap.

In all shapes, sizes and colours

Jews come in all shapes, sizes and colours. You have black Jews from Ethiopia, blond ones from Russia and sabras (named after a prickly pear native to Palestine) or native born Jews who are not much different from the Arabs. This flies in the face of the belief that Jews are a single race dispersed across various continents over time.

Uri Avnery, a famous left-wing Israeli journalist, has an explanation for this. In one of his articles titled the Lion and the Gazelle, Uri puts forth a simple thesis. Jews used to be a proselytising race and they converted people where ever they went. Which is why you have Ethiopian Jews who look very much black African and Russian Jews who look very much Russian. You can read this very interesting article here.

If Uri Avnery’s theory is accepted, it will be political dynamite since Israel has always allowed, encouraged and even assisted the migration of Jews to Israel. Arabs, even those who fled Israel after it was created, cannot do the same. If Jews scattered all over the world are only descendants of converts with little or no Semitic inheritance or genes, this ‘right of return’ will be hard to justify.

Should the desert be made to bloom?

Israel is a desert, but the landscape is dotted with olive trees and date palms. On the road from Haifa to Tel Aviv, I even saw large chunks of land with banana trees growing on them, covered in some form of netting. I believe the cost of all this is that there is now an acute shortage of water in Israel. According to this article in the Economist, agriculture consumes some 60% of the country's total of 2 billion cubic metres of water a year, but contributes less than 2% of GDP. Indeed, in this globalised economy, it sounds incredibly daft to grow bananas in Israel or even dates or figs when Israel is not a natural oasis. Wouldn’t it be better to focus on Israel’s core competence and import that fruits and vegetables it needs?

And what is Israel’s core competence? Hi-tech industries. One of my Israeli friends I met up with was telling about Better Place, an Israeli company founded by Shai Agassi that is in the process of setting up the infrastructure for a complete car system which will allow customers to drive electric cars within a national grid. This New York Times article by Thomas Friedman has all the details.

However, it must be admitted that the olive trees and date palms do give Israel a pleasant green look.


Hot, but not so hot

When we were in Israel, the temperature was in the mid-thirties. There is a total lack of humidity and one gets dehydrated very fast. We were told that one had to drink at least eight litres of water a day. Having said that, if one is used to the heat in Delhi or central India during summer, the heat in Israel is not too much to bear. In fact, a young shop assistant in Tel Aviv told me that when she was in Delhi on holiday (after her military service), she found it difficult to breathe on account of the heat.

Daylight Saving

Israel has daylight saving and as a result it is almost always only two hours ahead of the UK. I did wonder why a country on a latitude not so much different from northern India needed daylight saving. But then Jordan, Syria and Iran have daylight saving as well. I guess it is a regional thing.

A Final Conversation

The best conversation we had with an Israeli was the one with the taxi driver who drove us from Sheinkin Street to our Tel Aviv Hotel where we picked up our luggage and went on to the Airport. We negotiated a rate of 150 Shekels for the whole thing. Once the acrimonious negotiation was done, the driver became friendly. What’s more, he started singing a Hindi song once he had ascertained that we were Indians.

‘Dil dekhe dekho, dil dekhe dekho, dil dekhe dekhojee …..’

After a few minutes spent complimenting the driver on his Hindi, I asked him, ‘do you like Hindi films a lot.’

‘Of course. They show it in our theatres. We also have channel for Hindi movies. It’s called Bombay.’ Later a google search told me that there are two channels in Israel for Indian movies, namely ‘Hot Bombay’ and ‘Yes India’

‘Which actor do you like the most?’

‘That tall one. His name is …..’

The driver was delighted when we supplied the name.

‘Do you like him as well?’

‘Of course we do. All Indians like Amitabh Bhachchan’.

The conversation then turned to him. He had been a taxi driver for 32 years now. Before that he had served in the army. He had two daughters and four grandchildren.

‘Were you in the army during the Yom Kippur war?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, I was. I drove a truck which supplied ammunition to tanks.’

‘It was a tough war wasn’t it? It didn’t go very well for Israel in the beginning, did it?’ I asked. Egypt and Syria has launched a surprise attack on Israel in 1973 during the Yom Kippur holiday and Israel had been taken unawares. It was with a great deal of difficulty that Israel managed to regain the territory lost in the initial Arab onslaught.

The driver misunderstood my question. ‘All wars are bad. Even if we win, it is still bad. All fights are bad. If I fight you and I win, is it a good thing?’

‘So you think Israel should make a settlement with the Palestinians?’ I asked him.

‘Of course, we should.’

‘Even give up land in exchange for peace?’

‘Why not?’

We found ourselves warming up to this man. I hoped that there were a lot of Israelis like him.

‘Do you drive to the West Bank?’ I asked him. I wanted him to say that as an Israeli he could not do so, but that he would like to. But his reply caught me unawares.

‘No, I never take on Arabs. It is very dangerous.’

‘You never take Arabs in your cab?’

‘No never. Sometimes they take out a knife and attack the taxi driver. Sometimes they take you to a place where one of their friends will attack you and take your taxi.’

‘How do you know if a man is an Arab or a Jew?’

‘Of course I know.’ He laughed.

‘So you have never driven to the West Bank?’ I still liked the driver and wanted him to say that once there was peace, he would be able to do so.

‘I have. But only with Jews.’ It then dawned on me that Israeli drivers would be able to drive to Jewish settlements in the West Bank.

Despite the way this conversation ended, I still liked this driver.

Ancient Rivalry

The rivalry between Arabs and Jews dates back to the times of the first Jewish King Saul who battled the Philistines (Palestinians) repeatedly and finally committed suicide on the battlefield rather than be captured. His son-in-law David had slain the Philistines’ champion fighter Goliath. When David became the second King of the Kingdom of Israel, he had a better track record that Saul and Israel expanded. David’s son Solomon, King Solomon the Wise, made Israel or Zion even bigger and stronger. Solomon, referred to as Suleiman in Arabic, built the first Jewish temple on Temple Mount in the 10th Century BC. Solomon’s heirs could not fill his shoes and the Kingdom of Israel fell on bad times. The final blow came from Nebuchadnezzar, the great Babylonian king who destroyed the first temple and enslaved the Jews.

This ancient rivalry continues even now. There is so must distrust and hatred between the two communities that it doesn’t make any sense to expect them to start loving each other anytime in the near future. It was this pragmatic view point which made the UN vote for the creation of Israel. However, things can’t go on as they are. Many Jews who migrated to Israel are leaving for greener pastures. Arabs currently form around 20% of Israel’s population. Soon they will outnumber the Jews in Israel, despite heroic efforts by the Haredim in matching them in child production.

The British were able to make a civilised exit from India due to the presence of the Indian National Congress. The Palestinians too had relatively secular outfits, the PLO and its political wing, the Fatah Movement, even though these were not particularly peaceful. Having undermined these organisations, the Israelis now have to deal with the likes of Hamas (Sunni) and the Hizbollah (Shi’ite). I don’t think it is possible to set the clock back and strengthen the Fatah which is unbelievably corrupt. Various Arab countries have done their best to ensure that there is no peaceful resolution to this conflict. For example, Jordan has made sure that the Palestinian refugees in Jordan remain in refugee camps rather than integrate them into Jordanian society. It would be too much to expect the Arab states to pitch in for peace.

Maybe the Israelis could focus on increasing economic activity among ordinary Israeli Arabs and making the West Bank and the Gaza Strip prosperous. An increase in wealth and economic activity will discourage the creation of martyrs. In the long run, the West Bank and the Gaza Strip could turn out to be prosperous autonomous zones under Israel’s security umbrella

Shalom (Peace be with you), Toh-dah (thanks), Le׳hitra׳ot (Good-bye) and B'hatzlacha Good Luck)

Short Story: A SUITABLE FATHER

It was a quiet Sunday morning in Mumbai and the silence inside the flat was broken only by the chortling noises which the baby made. Jaimon and Lincy were supposed to be celebrating their third wedding anniversary. But they had quarrelled violently the previous night when Jaimon got home from work and there was little likelihood of them making up in the next few days. It was not really his fault, Jaimon told himself. He had done his best to avoid working on the day of their anniversary. However, one of the biggest clients of the agency whose account he handled, was planning a blitzkrieg of TV and newspaper advertisements to herald the launch of a new car. All the three Account Executives who were assigned to that client were working overtime. Some of the best creative people at the agency were assigned to work on the launch. In a few hours time, Jaimon had to go to the Marine Drive where a sixty second commercial was being shot by one of the most brilliant (though painful and irritating) directors Jaimon ever had the pleasure of working with. Why on earth did Lincy have to be so much high-maintenance? Jaimon asked himself. Especially since he had told her so very clearly before their wedding that he had long and disorganised working hours.

‘Do you want some toast?’ Jaimon asked Lincy. Lincy did not reply and continued to sulk. Jaimon went to the kitchen and popped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. He then opened the fridge and took out the jam and cheese spread. It was actually quite unfair to go to work on a Sunday which also happened to be his wedding anniversary. After finishing his toast, Jaimon dumped the plate in the sink and got dressed. He decided to give Lincy another chance. After all, it was their wedding anniversary. He went up to her as she sat with the baby on her lap. ‘Lincy, as soon as this launch gets over, we’ll go out and have a ball.’

‘After your precious launch gets over, you can go have a ball yourself,’ Lincy retorted. At least she broke her silence, Jaimon thought as he tried to find his watch. Why couldn’t Lincy understand that he was an Accounts Executive and he worked for one of the biggest advertising agencies in India?

‘Have you seen my watch?’ he asked Lincy.

‘Why can’t you keep your watch in the same place every night? What makes you think your wife is your servant?’

‘Come on, are you telling me that I treat you like a servant?’

‘MCPishness runs in your blood,’ Lincy declared.

‘Come on, come on. I am not an MCP,’ Jaimon said with a laugh. ‘In fact none of the men in my family are MCPs. Daddy was not an MCP.’

‘In that case, why can’t you get your mother to marry again? Why should she be a widow all her life?’

It took a few seconds for Lincy’s question to sink in. ‘Mind your business,’ Jaimon told her as he controlled the anger in his voice. ‘What makes you think Mummy wants to get married again?’ Nobody had ever suggested that his mother ought to remarry.

‘How do you know she doesn’t? Just because she is silent …’

‘Mind your business, just mind your business,’ Jaimon screamed without raising his voice too much. He slammed the door behind him and walked off to the station. Since it was a Sunday, he had the first class compartment all to himself. Once the train started moving, Jaimon called Julie from his mobile. Julie answered the phone promptly. Jaimon could hear his nephew and niece arguing about something in the background.

‘I just thought of something,’ Jaimon told Julie after the initial exchange of pleasantries.

‘Does a man who has to work on a Sunday have time to think?’

‘Listen, do you think Mummy would ever want to remarry? I mean, we’ve never asked her. Do you think we should ask her?’

There was stunned silence for a few seconds and then Julie said, ‘of course not. Never. Mummy would never want to remarry.’

Jaimon was relieved to note that Julie found the idea as unappealing as he did. There was no question of finding a replacement for Daddy. Which was not very surprising since Julie was his twin sister and they thought alike in so many respects.

‘Why did you think of something as ridiculous as this?’ Julie demanded heatedly after the initial shock and surprise.

Jaimon considered explaining that it was Lincy who had raised the point, but changed his mind. A man was not supposed to find fault with his wife in public, even if she was actually at fault.

‘It just occurred to me,’ Jaimon said lamely.

‘You’re lying. Did Lincy ask you this question?’ Julie had never vibed with Lincy who came from a totally different background. Lincy’s father was a colonel in the army and she had spent her entire childhood and youth in various parts of India. In the initial year of her marriage to Jaimon, she found it difficult to form a relationship with any of Jaimon’s relatives, especially with Julie who had lived in Kerala all her life. Lincy had issues even with Jaimon, despite the fact that he had done his undergraduate studies in Bangalore and his masters from MICA.

‘How does it matter? I’m glad you agree with me.’ Jaimon was quite relieved that he had found common cause with Julie.

‘Shall I ask mother?’ Julie wanted to know. Jaimon mulled it over for a few seconds and said, ‘it might upset her.’

‘May be it won’t.’

‘No, don’t ask her,’ he told Julie.

‘I won’t,’ Julie agreed and Jaimon knew that she was planning to ask their mother. He wondered how long Julie would take to go to Simhapara and ask their mother if she wanted to remarry. She wouldn’t do it over the phone. She would want to see the expression on their mother’s face when she asked something like this. Most probably Julie would catch a bus to Simhapara tomorrow after sending the kids off to school and her husband to his office.

Jaimon's instincts turned out to be right. Julie called him up Monday evening while he was in a cab, on his way back to office after attending a meeting.

‘Do you know what I did?’ Julie asked him.

‘Did you visit Mummy?’

‘I did. I just got back home.’

‘And you asked her?’

‘I did.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She didn’t say No!’

Jaimon was shocked. He had been sure that their mother would be revolted by the very idea of marrying someone else. Their father might be dead, but their mother was still his father’s wife.

‘What did she say?’ he asked Julie.

‘She said she didn’t particularly want to get married once again, but she was worried she would have to live on her own and maybe become a burden to me and to you and..’

‘And what?’

‘She said maybe it was not such a bad idea.’

‘So, she didn’t say No.’

‘On the contrary, I got the feeling she was waiting to be asked.’

‘Don’t do anything, okay? Let’s think about it. Okay? Don’t panic.’

‘You’re the one panicking.’

‘I’m not.’ The cab passed under a bridge and the call was cut off. Jaimon plunked the mobile into his pocket and sank back into his seat.

Jaimon’s father had died five years ago after a sudden heart attack. Both he and Julie were devastated, though not to the extent their mother was. Two years before his father died, Julie had been married off to a journalist who worked for a newspaper in Kottayam. Jaimon had passed out of MICA a year earlier and started working in Mumbai. As a junior executive, Jaimon was expected to put in the hours and it was almost impossible for him to take any time off to visit his mother who was now on her own. It was left to Julie to visit their mother as often as possible and give her some company. Their extended family did their best to make things easy for their mother. Their mother’s elder sister, a nun, whom Jaimon and Julie called Sister Aunty, visited their mother as often as she could. Other than Sister Aunty and a brother who lived in the US, their mother did not have any other close relatives. His father’s younger brother and wife lived close by and they invited their mother to move into their house. Their mother had declined the offer. The house they lived in had too many memories for her. It took their mother a couple of years to pull herself together and get on with life. They owned almost twenty acres of land in and around Simhapara. The largest piece, which adjoined their house, was six acres. The rest of it was scattered in various places in Kottayam and Iddukki districts. Their mother soon got used to a lonely life. Taking care of the property took up all her time. Widow remarriage was not very common among Syrian Catholics and Jaimon and Julie and the rest of their relatives took it for granted that Achamma did not want to remarry. Not even their mother’s family mentioned it as a possibility.

Jaimon and Julie did not speak to each other till the next weekend came up.

‘Listen, if Mummy wants to get married, then we need to find someone for her to marry,’ Julie told Jaimon. It seemed as if Julie found the idea of a step father more palatable than Jaimon did.

‘Give me some time okay? I am busy with a launch and …’

‘You’ll always be busy with something. Once a decision has been taken, it’s just a question of implementing it.’

‘We haven’t decided anything,’ Jaimon objected.

‘Who are we to decide? Mummy has told us what she feels. It’s her life. Her decision.’

That night Jaimon told Lincy what had happened. ‘I knew it all along,’ she told him.

‘How did you know?’ Jaimon wanted to know.

‘I just knew.’ She wouldn’t say anything more. Most probably Lincy found it easy to look at their mother more objectively than they did, Jaimon thought.

Monday afternoon, Jaimon received an email from Julie. Does this sound right? The email asked him and there was an html link below that. Jaimon clicked on the link which took him to a matrimonial site where Julie had created an advert on behalf of their mother. Widow aged fifty three, looks younger, two adult children, looks for a suitable partner. The partner specifications were quite brief. Any one who was a Syrian Catholic and spoke Malayalam could apply. He could be of any height. Could be a vegetarian or a non-vegetarian. A drinker or a teetotaller. Of any age. Their mother’s potential partner could be a widower or a divorcee or might have never married.

Has this been activated? Jaimon emailed back.

Yes, but I can always modify it, Julie replied.

I think we don’t want a divorcee or someone shorter than Mummy.

Why not? Julie emailed back.

Listen, I have a lot of work to do. I will call you on my way home, Jaimon replied.

Jaimon changed his mind and decided not to call Julie while going home on the train. What they had to talk about was not something he wanted anyone else to overhear. Granted that they always talked in Malayalam, it was still possible that a fellow Malayalee sitting close by would have some fun at his expense. Or rather at his mother’s expense. It was almost ten by the time Jaimon got home. His dinner was on the table. Lincy had gone to bed with the baby. Jaimon dialled Julie’s home number and his brother-in-law picked up the phone.

‘How are things with you?’ Jaimon asked politely.

‘I’ll call Julie,’ his brother-in-law said before adding, ‘yeah, I’m fine. We’re all fine.’ Which meant Julie had discussed the issue with her husband.

As soon as Julie was on the phone, Jaimon asked her, ‘did you consult Mummy before posting that this online?’

‘No, but I am going to visit her tomorrow. I’ll explain to her what I’m doing.’

‘Do you know what sort of person we should be looking for?’

‘Someone who will take care of Mummy?’

‘Agreed. But what sort of person? Someone who has children from a previous marriage?’

‘Why not?’ Julie said slowly. The idea that they could end up with step-brothers or step-sisters was quite a novel one.

‘I still think we should rule out divorcees,’ Jaimon said. ‘Can you change that ad’s settings so that divorcees are ruled out?’

‘What if it is good divorcee? I mean, someone who got divorced for a valid reason?’

‘Even if it is good divorcee, I don’t think Mummy would want to live with someone who has a living ex-wife. Imagine, Mummy and our step-father run into our step-father’s ex-wife at the movie theatre!’

‘You have a point. But what’s the harm in receiving a response from a divorcee? We can always ignore any response we get from divorcees.

‘Have you got any response so far?’

‘None!’

‘Listen, speak to Mummy tomorrow and find out what exactly she has in mind. The little thief! Just to think that she wants to remarry!’

Jaimon ate his dinner quickly and slipped into bed beside Lincy. Lincy woke up and told him, ‘Were you on the phone? Did you speak to Julie?’

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep now,’ he told her. His reply angered Lincy who turned over to the other side. Jaimon could not bring himself to forgive Lincy for having suspected that his mother might want to remarry.

The next day evening, Jaimon called up Julie on his way home. He was sandwiched between two corpulent men, neither of whom was a Malayalee. ‘Did you speak to mother?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She doesn’t mind the internet ad.’

‘I mean, what sort of guy does she want?’ It felt ridiculous to ask such a question. Jaimon could remember his father asking Julie something similar when they were trying to find her a groom.

‘She says she doesn’t have any particular preferences. She doesn’t want a divorcee though.’

‘See, I told you.’

‘She says we ought to consult with all the elders in the family before doing anything more.’

The normally quiet first class compartment was filled with a loud noise as the train stopped at a station. Jaimon disconnected and then called Julie once more after the train left the noisy station behind.

‘She says we ought to consult with all the elders in the family before we do anything’ Julie repeated. It was a valid point and Jaimon had thought of it.

‘I’ll have to come there and talk to everyone.’

‘Yes, you should. Time you took a break from work as well.’ The launch was scheduled to take place in a week’s time. Once that was done, he was due some leave.
‘I can come there by the end of this month.’

‘Can you come for a fortnight?’

‘I doubt it. In any event, I won’t need a week to talk to everyone. And if there is a wedding or something, I will have to take more leave.’ The word ‘wedding’ did not slip of his tongue easily.

‘And you may have to be around to meet potential grooms.’

‘Yeah, we’ll have to vet them, won’t we? We know what’s best for Mummy!’ Julie giggled at Jaimon’s joke.

The man sitting opposite Jaimon showed some signs of amusement. Was he listening to what Jaimon was saying? The man wore a safari suit and looked like a government employee from Mantralaya. He was unlikely to be a Malayalee, but one never knew. ‘I’ll call you later. Okay.’ Jaimon hung up. The man opposite him continued to look amused, even after Jaimon put his phone away.

When he got home, he told Lincy, ‘We are going home by the end of this month. For a week.’ Lincy did not reply immediately, but he could sense that she was not so angry with him. Later that night, he made up with Lincy. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been so grumpy of late,’ he told her.

‘I understand. You are under so much pressure.’

‘I’ll book the tickets sometime tomorrow.’

‘It will be raining when we get there.’ Which was true. The rains always set in, in the first week of June.

‘I don’t mind the rains, you know.’

‘I just hope the trains run properly.’ The rains were always welcome, but it was common for tracks to get flooded during the monsoon.

‘What does Mummy have to say?’ Lincy asked Jaimon. Jaimon recounted all that had happened so far. ‘I just find it difficult to believe that Mummy wanted to remarry and none of us guessed it.’

‘It is very difficult to explain. I think she has reached a stage where she feels she needs someone to look after her.’

‘Maybe if we lived with her, she wouldn’t have felt so.’

‘Yeah, you could join a leading advertising agency in Simhapara and take care of Mummy as well.’ Jaimon laughed at Lincy’s joke. Maybe he ought to have brought his mother to live with them at Mumbai. It was too late for that now.

‘If I were to die, would you remarry?’ Jaimon asked Lincy.

‘I don’t think so. I wouldn’t trust another man to look after my daughter.’

‘Come on, how can you say that?’

‘But it’s true.’

‘So by the same logic, if you were to die, I shouldn’t remarry either.’

‘No, you should. You will have to find some one you like, who is also willing to take care of our baby.’

‘So you won’t find someone who will take care of the baby, but I will?’

‘I won’t take the risk. Generally men are bad at taking care of somebody else’s children.’

‘So you would never remarry?’

‘I might, after our girl grows up.’

As Jaimon went to sleep, he thought that he would never understand women.

Two days later, he got an email from Julie saying, ‘not a single response so far.’

Jaimon was bemused. He called up Julie immediately. ‘Any idea why?’ he asked her.

‘I’ve looked at other profiles on that website. They’ve all put up photographs, written long descriptions and ..’

‘Do you think we should put up Mummy’s photo on the internet?’

‘Of course not.’ The idea was abhorrent to them both.

‘Some of the profiles on that site, the younger ones especially, have put up an album of photographs, in various poses and dresses.’ Jaimon was silent. He remembered being shown Lincy’s photographs by the broker who had arranged his marriage. There was one in which Lincy wore a saree, another in which she wore a pair of jeans and a third one in a churidhar. Had they done the same for Julie? No, but Julie’s wedding had been many years before his wedding and the practice of having a set of photographs had not yet evolved. However, they had spent a lot of effort in getting a very good photograph taken.

‘Shall I remove Mummy’s profile from that site? Julie asked him.

‘Yes. That’s the best thing to do for the moment. After I come there, we can make some other plans.’

As planned, Jaimon, Lincy and the baby went to Simhapara in the beginning of June. The rains had set in a few days earlier. The red earth of Simhapara took on a darker hue. The millions of rivulets that formed all over Simhapara poured into the river which was now a raging torrent. People carried their umbrellas everywhere. Men usually had black umbrellas while woman and children had umbrellas of various colours. Despite the fact that Jaimon could smell the wet red earth, he was not comfortable. Home wasn’t really a haven anymore. Soon, someone else would take his father’s place. Would he still want to visit Simhapara once that happened?

Jaimon thought his mother looked shy when she received them. He pretended to be happy with her decision. ‘You’re looking like a young bride,’ he told her. His mother must have felt that Jaimon wasn’t too happy with her decision. She accepted his compliment with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Julie was there to receive them when they arrived, though she left for Kottayam that very evening. The house was split into two camps. Jaimon and Julie formed a team, while their mother was on the other side. Lincy found a bond with her mother-in-law that hadn’t existed before. Very few words were exchanged between them, but they both knew that they were a team. Amidst all the chitchat and small talk, Jaimon found himself critically assessing his mother. She was still good looking. She was quite plump, having put on a fair amount of weight in the last few years. Half her hair was grey. Maybe she could dye it black, as she used to when their father was alive, Jaimon thought. Oh shut up! he told himself.

His father’s younger brother came straight to the point as soon as Jaimon told him everything. ‘Just make sure that you and Julie don’t lose the land.’

‘The land?’

‘Your twenty acres. You and Julie ought to inherit it. If your mother marries someone, there is a good chance that you may not get your land.’

‘Why do you say that Uncle?’

‘Imagine, if your mother were to marry a widower with a couple of sons and they all live in Kerala, then …’

‘Then what, Uncle?’

‘Then you and Julie can kiss your land goodbye. Listen, I am not saying that Achamma chechy should not remarry. There’s nothing wrong in that. But we need to make sure that her husband does not steal your land.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘We need to make sure that the man she marries is not someone who covets your land.’ Which still did not answer his question, but Jaimon didn’t pursue it any further.

None of their relatives had any serious objection to the idea being floated. Achamma’s relatives were quite happy that she was to remarry. By the time it was time for Jaimon and Lincy to leave, it was agreed that all the elders would look out for a groom, through word of mouth.

‘And if that doesn’t work, we’ll place an ad in the Deepika,’ Achamma’s elder sister told Jaimon. Rashtra Deepika is a Malayalam daily run by the Catholic Church in Kerala and most Catholic households in Kerala subscribe to it.

The day before their departure, Jaimon, Lincy and the baby went to Julie’s house at Kottayam and spent the night there. Julie’s husband was a silent and reserved man who made it a point to pretend to be busier than he actually was. After dinner he claimed that he had an hour’s work to do and disappeared into his study. But he was otherwise quite pleasant to Jaimon.

The next day morning after breakfast, Jaimon and his brother-in-law were in the drawing room by themselves for a brief while. ‘It’s a wise decision you are making. It’s best to get your mother married off while she is young. I mean, after she is older, when she needs someone to take care of her, if you try to find a groom for her at that stage …’ Jaimon wanted to punch his brother-in-law in his face. His brother-in-law realised that he was on the wrong track and coughed to cover his embarrassment. Jaimon maintained his smile while his brother-in-law searched for and found a cigarette, which he lit up.

‘I don’t know when I will be able to come back. But if there is an emergency, I will some how return,’ Jaimon told Julie when they were leaving.

A month later the first serious proposal came through. The proposed groom was a man who worked in Dubai. He was a single man who had never married. It was a marriage broker who brought forward the proposal. The groom-to-be was scheduled to visit Kerala in a month’s time. He was fifty seven years old. He was an accountant and worked for an auction house in Dubai. He had lived in Dubai for over thirty years and he was planning to come back to Kerala for good, get married and settle down with his wife.

‘I’ll somehow have to get leave,’ Jaimon told Lincy. But he ran into trouble at his office. He had just taken a week off just a month ago and his boss was unwilling to let him take another week off. ‘Unless you really think you need to take leave,’ his boss added. Since the next round of promotions and pay hikes was only a month away, Jaimon did not press his case and decided to catch a flight for a weekend trip. If only he could explain why he wanted to go home, things would be easier. But Jaimon had decided that none of his friends should know of his mother’s wedding plans.

‘Please make sure he turns up on a Saturday evening,’ Jaimon begged Julie.

On the appointed day, Jaimon left for Santacruz to catch an early morning flight to Kochi. The flight was delayed by a couple of hours and the taxi ride from Nedumbassery airport to Simhapara took much longer than the usual three hours due to a few bad traffic jams on the way. Jaimon finally reached Simhapara at four thirty in the evening. The groom-to-be was scheduled to arrive at five. His mother was dressed in a simple aqua blue chiffon saree and looked very elegant. There was very little trace of a grieving widow, Jaimon thought. Or maybe he was being too harsh on his mother. She was definitely looking unsettled and apprehensive, without any of the happy anticipation of a young bride. Julie and Sister Aunty had made a tactical decision to not to dye her hair.

Jaimon hugged his mother without saying a word. Was it just his imagination or did his mother hug him for an extra second? Julie’s husband was also there with their children and Julie looked quite apprehensive. In fact, she looked a lot more nervous than their mother. Sister Aunty was also around. His father’s brother was notable by his absence.

‘Do you want to shower and change?’ Julie asked Jaimon.

‘No, I don’t have the time. It’s four thirty already.’

All of them except Julie’s husband were nervous as if they were waiting for the results of a school exam. Even Julie’s children sat in their seats quietly without making their usual racket.

‘How are things in Bombay?’ Julie’s husband asked Jaimon. It was a question meant to kill time and Jaimon merely grunted. Julie got up and switched on the TV. Her husband picked up the remote control and started to flip through the channels. He did it at a steady rate, a new channel every five seconds or so.

‘Have you decided on things?’ Sister Aunty asked Jaimon.

‘What things?’

‘Property.’ Despite being a nun, she was quite wise to the ways of the world. ‘Does you mother get any property?’

‘She is entitled to a third of what Daddy left behind,’ Jaimon told his aunt.

‘We should make it clear that the land will only be in her name. It is not a dowry to be transferred to the groom.’ Julie’s husband added. It slowly sunk into Jaimon that there could be men wanting to marry his mother solely for her dowry. How did he behave when he got married? No, they had not negotiated hard for a dowry. In fact, they had accepted what Lincy’s family offered them. He had got ten lakhs, which was more or less the market rate for a Syrian Catholic groom in his position. In addition, Lincy had been given gold ornaments worth three lakhs. Julie too had been married off without much acrimony over dowry. She had been paid – how much was it – six lakhs or so and gold ornaments worth another two lakhs? That was seven years ago. Would his mother’s wedding be the first instance of a dowry dispute in his family?

‘If ever we get the impression that they are greedy for money, we will call it off,’ Jaimon declared.

‘Relax Aliya,’ his brother-in-law patted him on the back. ‘It’ll all work out.’ Jaimon grunted once more.

‘I’ve been praying everyday ever since we all decided that Achamma should remarry. It’ll all work out fine,’ Sister Aunty said soothingly.

The groom-to-be arrived promptly at five accompanied by the marriage broker. Jaimon was quite relieved to note that though he was not very tall and was balding, he looked quite respectable. The sort of man whom he could introduce to his friends as his step-father. Jaimon found himself liking the chap.

‘I’m called Sonny at home. But my real name is Jacob George.’ They introduced themselves to Sonny. Jaimon wasn’t sure how to address Sonny. His brother-in-law seemed to read his thoughts. ‘We’ll call you Uncle. It’s a bit too early to call you Daddy,’ Jaimon’s brother-in-law told Sonny on behalf of them all.

‘What should they call me?’ Sonny demanded looking at Julie’s children.

‘They will call you veliya-uncle. And if things work out, they can switch to veliya-appachan.’

Sonny did not have the arrogance which many Gulfies did, despite the fact that he had been there for over thirty years. ‘I didn’t want to get married and wasn’t planning to. But my parents have been pestering me for too long to get married and I’ve also realised that …. that being single is not such a great idea.’

‘What are your hobbies?’ Sonny asked Achamma shyly. Achamma blushed. Jaimon felt irritated for a few seconds and then relaxed. ‘……..cooking, watching TV............’

‘So you can knit, can you? I’ve never known anybody who could do that. I thought only people in western countries knitted.’

What other hobbies did his mother list out while he was feeling irritated? So his mother would soon be cooking for this man or someone else like him. Jaimon found that he did not find the idea unbearable. Why not? He was going to be struck in Mumbai for a while. Julie was married off to a good man. Why shouldn’t their mother find some companionship?

Sonny had a thick silver moustache which sort of compensated for the lack of hair on his head. The sun glistened off his bald plate as he explained the sort of work he did at the auction house in Dubai.

‘Jaimon’s father left behind twenty acres of land. Achamma will be getting one-third of that.’ Sister Aunty informed Sonny.

‘That’s okay Sister,’ Sonny very politely told Sister Aunty. 'Property is not an issue for me. I have made enough money in Dubai.’ They all breathed a sigh of relief. It was not unheard of for filthy rich people to demand a lot of dowry.

After that things went wrong. ‘So, how do you like the idea of living in Dubai?’ Sonny asked Achamma to their consternation.

‘But Uncle, we thought you’re coming back to Kerala for good?’ Jaimon said.

‘Oh no! Did they say that? Is that what you’ve told them? Sonny turned to the broker.

‘That’s what your folks told me initially,’ the broker told Sonny. He then turned to Jaimon and said, ‘it was only today morning on our way here that I got to know of Sonny-chayan’s new plans.’

‘But these are not new plans! I’ve always said I want to work in Dubai till my retirement. At my firm, the retirement age is sixty two. That’s another five years away. I mean, my mother does want me to come back for good immediately, but that’s not something I’ve ever agreed to.’

‘What does it matter?’ the broker turned to them. ‘Dubai is not like Saudi Arabia. Women can live there with a reasonabe degree of freedom. Sonny-chayan is willing to take his wife with him. So, there’s no problem at all.’

‘We’ll have to think about it,’ Julie spoke solemnly. ‘I am not sure Mummy can live overseas. She has never travelled outside Kerala in her whole life.’

‘Think it over by all means,’ Sonny told them. ‘Dubai is a very decent place to live in.’

‘Why don’t we adjourn to the dining room for some tea,’ Jaimon’s aunt declared and changed the topic.

That night after they had had dinner, Jaimon’s uncle and aunt arrived. ‘How did it go?’ he asked them

‘The boy is okay. A decent chap. But he wants to work in Dubai for another five years before he comes back and settles down.’

‘And will he visit his wife once a year? Why should our Achamma chechy at her age marry a man whom she will see once a year?’

‘No, he wants to take her to Dubai, with him.’

‘Oh my God! Was that man serious? How can Achamma chechy go and live in Dubai?’

‘And what about property? Did you spell it all out?’

‘I did Uncle. I told them that Mummy is entitled to one third of what Daddy has left behind.’

‘And did you tell them that the property will have to revert to you and Julie after your Mummy’s demise?’

‘No, I did not tell them that.’

‘You ought to have done that. What if your step-father survives your mother? The property will pass to him. After that he can will it to whomever he wants. You ought to think of all these things. Didn’t we discuss all this?’

‘I don’t think we discussed the second bit. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t see this working out. I can’t even imagine Mummy going off to live in Dubai with a stranger.’

Both sides struck to their guns and the proposal came to nothing. Jaimon and Julie were adamant that their mother would not be packed off to Dubai, while Sonny was definite that he would not pack up from Dubai for another five years.

Jaimon’s aunt was so incensed by what she termed Sonny’s double speak that she immediately placed an advert in the Rashtra Deepika. Within a week of the advert appearing, they got three responses. One of them was clearly unsuitable for Achamma – the groom-to-be had had an accident a few years ago which killed his wife and crippled him for life. He was now looking for a wife with whom he could swap a few jokes and who would take care of him for the rest of his life. ‘We didn’t even bother to reply suggesting they hire a nurse,’ Julie told Jaimon over the phone in suppressed anger. ‘To think that Mummy would marry someone like that.’ The other two were possibilities. One came from a wealthy landlord who lived nearby at a place called Changanacherry. His wife had died many years ago and he had three children, the youngest of whom was only twelve. The other was from a man who owned a restaurant in Kochi. Both the candidates were to ‘see’ Achamma in two weeks’ time. Jaimon managed to get a week’s leave and booked his ticket to Kottayam. While Jaimon was away, Lincy and the baby were to travel to Pune where Lincy’s parents lived.

Disaster struck Jaimon a week before he was scheduled to go on leave. The car manufacturer, one of the most important clients of his agency, threatened to move to another agency. The launch of the new car had not apparently gone off too well. A damage control exercise was launched and Jaimon’s leave was cancelled.

‘But I do need to go,’ Jaimon pleaded with his boss.

‘Our necks are on the line. Both of us. Do you want to come back from your holiday and have to look for a job?’ his boss told him curtly. Since he had told everyone that his wife would be going to Pune while he visited his mother and sister, he could not even plead a family emergency.

‘You won’t believe it. I just can’t make it,’ he told Julie over the phone.

For once Julie was calm. ‘That’s okay,’ she told him. ‘Don’t worry too much. We’ll handle things at our end. You don’t have to be around every time someone comes to meet Mummy.’

Lincy decided to cancel her visit to Pune and go to Simhapara instead. Jaimon was quite grateful. ‘You’ll be my representative over there,’ he told Lincy as he pinched his daughter’s cheeks.

‘If this doesn’t work out, I think we should place an internet ad,’ Lincy told Jaimon.

‘Lincy, please try to understand. I may be an advertising executive, but I cannot market my mother. She isn’t a bloody car!’

‘What’s wrong in placing an advert with a few photographs?’

‘Lincy, you have never lived in Kerala. You just do not understand Simhapara. All it needs is for one person from Simhapara to notice those photographs on the internet. Within a few days, everyone will know about it. And once it becomes well-known, we’ll have people asking us about it.’

‘Okay. I’m just trying to understand this. Don’t people at Simhapara already know that we are looking for a husband for Mummy?’

‘Yes, everyone knows that.’

‘So, what’s the difference if people know that we have placed an advert on the internet, with a few photographs?’

‘It’s just not the same. It’s not the done thing.’

‘If Julie were getting married, would you mind placing an internet ad with photographs?’

‘No, I would not mind. But then, that’s different. Just drop it, will you?’

‘I was only trying to understand….’

‘Please drop it Lincy!’

Julie met Lincy and the baby at the Kottayam railway station and took them to Simhapara. Jaimon was on the phone to Lincy and Julie a couple of times a day during the run-up to the important week-end. One of the grooms-to-be was scheduled to arrive Saturday evening and the other one Sunday morning.

Saturday evening, the restaurant owner arrived to meet Achamma. He was almost an hour late when he arrived in a jeep, accompanied by his brother who drove the vehicle.

‘Chettan is a very nice man, the brother explained. However, after chechy died, he started drinking a bit. No, no, please don’t misunderstand. Chettan never used to drink before that. It’s only now that he has got into this habit. We know that once he is married to someone nice, he will not want to drink.’ After that explanation neither Lincy nor Julie felt the need to probe for more information about the groom. After around fifteen minutes of small talk, Sister Aunty politely terminated the meeting. ‘We’ll get back to you in a short while, she told them and sent them away.

‘What an excuse to start drinking!’ Sister Aunty said after the two men had left.

Jaimon’s brother-in-law put things in the right perspective by saying ‘we ought to be grateful to them for being frank and telling us that the man has a drinking problem. Some people might have kept quiet about it.’

Lincy called up Jaimon who was in a meeting. ‘Can’t talk. You talk,’ he muttered into the phone.

‘They arrived and left. The man has a drinking problem. His brother says it started only after his wife died. Sister Aunty sent them off saying we’ll get back to them.’

‘Will call later,’ Jaimon muttered and hung up.

That night Jaimon called up and had a long chat with both Julie and Lincy. There was not much to do, other than hope the next candidate would turn out to be better. Achamma took the incident quite calmly. After Julie and Lincy spoke to Jaimon, they handed over the phone to Achamma.

‘How are you Mummy?’ Jaimon asked her.

‘I’m fine. Julie and Lincy have told you everything. There’s nothing more for me to add.’

‘Don’t get upset. Okay?’

‘Why on earth should I be upset?’ Achamma responded. ‘Did you have dinner?’

‘Not yet Mummy. I just got home. I’m going to eat something now.’

‘Is there any food in the fridge?’

‘Yes, there is. There is some Sambhar left in the fridge. And I am making some rice.’

‘Why on earth did you have to work so hard? Will you be working tomorrow as well?’

‘Yes Mummy. A few meetings. Can you please give Julie the phone?’

‘Hello!’

‘Hello! All set for tomorrow morning?’

‘They are expected to reach here at 11:30.’

‘Will you be going to Church in the morning?’

‘No, we will be going in the evening. It’s too much to go in the morning, get back by ten thirty and then prepare to receive them. Wait!’ Sister Aunty was tugging at her arm. ‘Sister Aunty says she will be going to Church in the morning for the six thirty mass. And she is going to take Mummy with her.’

The new candidate arrived a few minutes early, unaccompanied by anyone. He parked his Maruti Esteem carefully and walked into the house without a hint of hesitation or shyness. He was quite tall, pleasant faced and carried his weight quite well. If it had not been for the fact that his hair was entirely grey, he could have passed for a forty year old. They all felt tongue-tied in front of him, even Sister Aunty. Since the groom-to-be was the oldest person around, he got down to the task at hand.

‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?’ he asked Achamma. Achamma was flustered by the question and did not respond quickly enough. Sister Aunty stepped in to answer the question.

‘Achamma’s husband died five years ago. She has two children, both of whom are well settled. That’s Julie, Achamma’s daughter. Her husband. And children. Jaimon is in Bombay. He couldn’t get leave. He works for … where does he work Lincy?’

Lincy supplied the necessary information and responded to the follow-up questions regarding Jaimon’s advertising agency. The meeting was not much different from the one with Sonny. The groom-to-be stayed for an hour and left. As soon as he drove off in his car, Jaimon’s uncle arrived.

‘Did you tell them about the property?’

‘Yes, we did. This time we even told them what you said last time. That after Achamma’s time, the property should revert to her children.’

‘We need to be careful with this man. He has got three children.’

‘They have a lot more land than we do. Why on earth would they want our land?’ Lincy was tempted to say that if Achamma was entitled to one-third of her husband’s property, then she ought to have the right to dispose of it whatever way she wanted. Please let my mother-in-law make her own choices, she wanted to tell everyone. But what was the point? Even if she stood up for Achamma, she would not win. Most probably even Achamma did not think she had the right to will her property to anyone she wanted.

Two days later, they got a phone call from the brother of the groom-to-be. Lincy and Achamma were alone in the house. Sister Aunty had gone back to her convent and Julie was at Kottayam. ‘I would like to speak to the Karnavar of your family,’ he told Lincy who answered the phone.

‘There is no Karnavar here.’ How stupid could the man be? Lincy thought. The Karnavar of this house is dead. Which is why we are looking for a groom, she wanted to tell the caller. ‘Can you please let me what you’ve decided?’

‘No, no. This is something I need to discuss with someone who understands these things.’ Lincy was forced to give Jaimon’s uncle’s phone number. Half an hour later, Jaimon’s uncle stormed into the house.

‘I thought you had explained everything to them,’ he told Lincy accusingly.

‘What’s the matter now?’

‘They want Achamma’s share of the property to be given as a dowry. They even suggested that the land be transferred to the groom at the time of the marriage.’

‘So what did you tell them?’

‘I spent some time trying to explain things, but finally I had to ask the man to get lost.’

‘But uncle are you being fair? If Mummy is entitled to six acres of land, shouldn’t that be given to her?’

‘We are giving it to her. But it must come back into the family after her lifetime.’

Why should we insist that the land should revert to us? Isn’t it our practice to give the woman’s share in the family property as a dowry at the time of her wedding? Can’t we tell them that the land will be in Mummy’s name and she can will it to whoever she wants?’

‘What if she likes her new husband’s children and wills some land to them?’

‘Isn’t that up to her?’

‘You don’t understand. You’ve never lived in Kerala.’

‘When I got married, my father gave my share in his property as a dowry to my husband. And didn’t Daddy do the same for Julie? Why can’t we do that for Mummy?’

‘We can’t give a dowry for Achamma chechy. If her family wants to give her a dowry, they can do so.’

‘Anyway, I’ve told them it’s off. We’ll have to look for another groom.

Jaimon’s uncle left in a huff saying, ‘if you don’t understand these things, please ask your elders for advice.’

Achamma had listened to the entire exchange in silence. After her brother-in-law had left, she burst into tears and told Lincy, ‘I was willing to go and live in Dubai!’

Six months later when Sonny came on leave, he and Achamma got married in a simple ceremony at Simhapara. Achamma wore a plain silk saree and Sonny looked resplendent in his three piece black suit, even though he was sweating profusely. As they followed the bride and the groom out of the church, Jaimon told Lincy, ‘Maybe I should also grow a moustache like my Daddy.’

Book Review: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

I should confess that I had never read any of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s works while he lived. The flurry of obituaries and articles that followed his death at the age of 89 motivated me to start with his first novel, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. A little less than 200 pages, this translated work is based on Solzhenitsyn’s own experiences in a Soviet gulag. One Day was originally published in November 1962 in the Soviet literary magazine Novy Mir after receiving approval from Khrushchev and the Communist Party Central Committee who felt that Stalinist excesses had to be exposed. Six years ago, Khrushchev had denounced Stalin as a brutal dictator.

The protagonist, Ivan Denisovich Shukov, is a soldier who had the misfortune to be captured by the Germans and the double misfortune to be able to escape from captivity. One would think an escaped PoW would be welcomed with open arms. At least, in Mikhail Sholokov’s The Fate of a Man, one of my all time favourite short stories, the hero escapes from German captivity and gets, well, …… a hero’s welcome. Shukov (as Solzhenitsyn’s hero is referred to throughout One Day) is not so lucky. He is suspected of being a German spy and is given a ten year sentence in the gulag. We are told that from 1949 onwards, the standard sentence was raised to twenty five years.

I read this book during the long train commute I have each day to get to my place of work. Nothing could have prepared me for One Day. Sure, like all of you, I too had heard of the horrors of the gulag. But there is something about Solzhenitsyn's matter of fact narration that takes you to the coal face, in a way that melodrama could never have done. As I read One Day, every ten minutes or so I would jerk up and look out of the train window at the green Surrey countryside rushing past in order to assure myself that all was well with my world.

Solzhenitsyn does not try to show the gulag as an unbearable or intolerable place. Rather, he explains how Shukov, a veteran of the place, who has already served eight of his ten years, gets through a typical day in a rather successful manner. Shukov's secret to survival is simple. He gives respect where it is due. He obeys his team leader Tiurin. He works hard, even if the work involves the building of a wall in minus twenty odd degrees using mortar that must be constantly heated to avoid freezing over. He steals when he thinks he will get away with it. He cheats in the mess room to get more food, without damaging the espirit de corps within his work team. However, there was one instance when he indulged in a high risk activity – the smuggling in of a hack saw blade into his camp. If he had been caught with the blade, he would have got 10 days solitary confinement in the cells where the lack of warm food, the dampness and the cold would have ruined his health forever and substantially reduced his chances of surviving his remaining sentence.

Solzhenitsyn digresses from Shukov's story to tell us bits of other stories. The inmates in the camp include writers, an ex-navy captain, a former Hero of the Soviet Union, a man who had served as a liaison officer on a British convoy etc. Just as in Shukov's case, most of them are in the camp for flimsy reasons. For example, the liaison officer received a gift from a British admiral, which gave rise to the very reasonable suspicion that he had betrayed his country.
However, Shukov is not a man who wants to survive at a cost to his family. Many inmates receive food parcels from their homes which help them get by. Shukov has specifically asked his family to not send him any, since his family is not very well off.

Solzhenitsyn shows us time and again how stupid, thoughtless and callous the gulag authorities are. For example, some of the prisoners are shown trying to dig holes in the permafrost using pickaxes, which only causes sparks to fly up. They don’t have the firewood needed to light a fire and thaw the ground. Every time there is a snowstorm, work is suspended and the prisoners are closeted indoors, not out of concern for the men, but to prevent them from escaping.

The camp has inmates from various parts of the USSR and Solzhenitsyn doesn't try very hard to be politically correct. I assume that in this, he reflects the values of his times, though I doubt if things have changed substantially in modern day Russia. There are a few Estonians and Shukov professes to like them. He has never met an Estonian he didn't like. Two of the characters are Letts (Latvians). Shukov likes one of them – Kilgas – a good worker who speaks very good Russian, a man with a good sense of humour who receives two food parcels every month. The other Lett is the one Shukov buys tobacco from. He is a mean one. The fiercest guard in the camp is a Tartar. A Moldavian is shown to be universally hated since he had spied for the Rumanians, a genuine spy, unlike Shukov and others who were falsely accused of spying. There are many Ukranians and Shukov considers them to be different. They speak Russian with an accent, but there is no serious animosity. One of them, Pavlov, is the deputy team leader.

Tsezar is a motley of nationalities (Greek, Gypsy & Jew), a Moscow intellectual who receives 2 food parcels a month. Tsezar is good at greasing palms and has managed to find himself a clerical job, which allows him to avoid doing physical work in the killing cold. Solzhenitsyn makes it clear that Shukov doesn't like him at all, though he is not above doing odd jobs for him in exchange for food or tobacco. What's more, Shukov gives Tsezar good advice once when an unexpected inspection of the camp at night would have caused Tsezar to lose a food parcel he had just received. It is not very clear why Shukov gave that advice. Maybe it was to preserve Shukov, a source of food and odd jobs for Shukov and score a few brownie points with him. Or maybe Shukov did it out of the goodness of his heart.

Short Story: THE FAMILY HEIRLOOM

After a couple of weeks with my parents at Kochi, I went to Simhapara licking my wounds. I had a rough time at Kochi. My parents and my elder brother were in a vengeful mood and I suffered a lot. Do you realise how difficult it was for us to marry Sharon off? my elder brother asked me more than once. I had two more weeks left before I could catch a flight and escape from the land where I had grown up, which I still called home. My mother had three brothers and two of them – Jose Uncle and Varghese Uncle - lived at Simhapara. Jose Uncle and his wife, who did not have any children, occupied the ancestral house where my maternal grandparents had lived until their deaths. Varghese Uncle did not like the piece of land he inherited, which did not give him access to the main road. And so he had sold it and bought another piece of land adjoining the KK Road. I found Simhapara to be a relief. For some reason, my maternal uncles didn’t rub it in, though I could not have defended myself against an attack if they had tried to prove a point. My last visit had been more than five years ago. A lot of water had flowed down the river which ran behind Jose Uncle’s house since my last visit. My divorce had come through just a few months earlier. If they had tried to tell me how stupid I had been, I would have smiled at them and agreed that I had been totally wrong. No, I didn’t regret having married Kate, but I was so drained and had so litte energy left that I would not have got into an argument with any of my uncles or aunts who took it up on themselves to tell me that I ought to have listened to them in the first place. Thankfully none of them did so at Simhapara. I think I got away with it because I had a defeated look in my eyes. If I had shown the slightest hint of defiance, they would have come at me with all their guns blazing. Do you realise how difficult it was for your parents to marry off your sister? they could have asked me. And they were quite right. It had been difficult to get Sharon married. Not many people wanted to marry a girl who had an American sister-in-law. It was as if I had dishonoured the family by marrying Kate, though everyone at Kochi and Simhapara who saw the wedding snaps said that Kate looked ever so sweet in her wedding dress.

It was while I was recuperating at Simhapara that I ran into Punnoose Chettan. A day after my arrival, I had slipped out of Jose Uncle’s house at around six thirty with the express intention of not returning till the evening prayers were done. Not that I was an atheist or even an agnostic. Actually I do believe in God and look to Him to bail me out whenever I get into trouble. But after having been away from Kerala for more than seventeen years, forty odd minutes of the rosary and other repetitive prayers was too much for me. I think I gave up regular prayers from the time I started medical school in Pondicherry at the age of eighteen.

‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ I told Jose Uncle, who had retired from his job at a government owned insurance company a few years ago. I got my timing right. If I had tried to leave too close to prayer time, Jose Uncle would have asked me to wait till the prayers were done. But by leaving at six thirty, I avoided all that especially since I expressed an honest intention to get back in time for prayers. I knocked on Varghese Uncle’s door and was welcomed inside. Varghese Uncle had two sons, both of whom were away at college. Varghese Uncle was a lecturer at St. Luke's college and believed he had the perfect solution to Kerala’s economic woes. What made it painful was that he insisted on explaining his solution to anyone who cared to listen. However, every cloud has a silver lining. Varghese Uncle’s wife Elsamma Aunty was a gem of a person. Not only did she not speak too much, but could also be relied on to produce sustenance of admirable quality at regular intervals. I had been at Varghese Uncle’s for around thirty minutes when Punnoose Chettan came in. Things were going rather well. Varghese Uncle had not spoken a word about my divorce. Better still, there were no hints being dropped regarding the need to get me hitched to a Syrian Catholic girl before I could make another silly mistake. A large plate of ethakka-bolees was in front of me. That was another good thing about Elsamma Aunty. Not only was she a good cook, but she also remembered what each person liked. I wished I could have a beer, but then that would be asking for too much. Varghese Uncle was not a teetotaller, but he disapproved of the younger generation drinking in the presence of their elders. Varghese Uncle was holding forth on the need to crush all labour unions. Unless the unions are destroyed, no one will invest in Kerala he kept saying. I didn’t disagree with him. But I was a doctor and wasn’t expected to have a clue about the economy or, even better, express a point of view. Which was fine with me. I allowed Varghese Uncle to carry on with his monologue. Elsamma Aunty entered and left the drawing room periodically on various chores. And so, when the door bell rang, Elsamma Aunty happened to be nearby and she opened the door. The visitor was evidently someone she recognised for she kept the door open and turned around to look at Varghese Uncle. ‘Punnoose Chettan,’ she announced, leaving it to Varghese Uncle to decide whether to invite him in or meet him at the door and send him away. Varghese Uncle was too lazy to get up and walk up to the door. And so he bellowed, ‘please come inside Punnoose chetta.

The man who came inside was in his late fifties. His face covered with grey stubble was good-natured and radiated goodwill. He did not look particularly intelligent, but he seemed to be the sort of guy who could share a laugh with anyone. I immediately had a feeling of kinship for him. ‘Ten,’ he told Varghese Uncle as he handed him a wad of notes.

‘Well, you’re almost there, aren’t you?’ Varghese Uncle asked him as he pocketed the money.

‘Yes, twenty thousand more.’

‘Don’t kill yourself,’ Varghese Uncle told him. ‘I can wait for a few more months.’

‘I will take me a few more months,’ Punnoose Chettan grimly admitted.

‘Varghese Uncle turned to me and introduced me to Punnoose Chettan. ‘This is my sister’s son Samson. He’s a doctor in America.’

‘Oh! Isn’t he the one who …………………’

‘Yes, I am the one.’ I admitted my guilt. I didn’t blame him for knowing my story. I am sure that every human being who lived in Simhapara and its vicinity was aware of it.

‘Which part of America are you in?’

‘At a place called Baltimore.’

‘Have you been there for long?’

‘Around seven years now.’

‘You ought to get him married soon,’ Punnoose Chettan told Varghese Uncle who smiled back at him. ‘If possible before he goes back,’ he added. He then turned to me and asked, ‘When are you going back?’

‘Another couple of weeks. Not enough time to get married,’ I added weakly.

Varghese Uncle asked him. Do you know of any nice girls who would marry a thirty five year divorcee?

‘I don’t know any nice girls myself. But I’m sure you’ll find one if you ask around. He’s a doctor after all.’ Punnoose Chettan was right. Doctors were very valuable in the marriage market. And doctors working in the US even more so. This was one reason why all my relatives got pissed off when I married Kate. They were all set to make a strategic alliance and sell me to the highest bidder. If I hadn't met Kate one snowy evening in Baltimore, I would have ended up as the son-in-law of an influential politician or businessman or bureaucrat.

Thankfully Varghese Uncle changed the subject. ‘Punnoose Chettan lives in that house.’ He pointed through the open window to a small house in the adjacent plot of land. There was an awkward silence for a while. Varghese Uncle obviously wanted him to leave. Then Punnoose Chettan said, ‘my son is also overseas.’

‘Where is he? Is he in the States as well?’ Was that why he had asked me which part of the US I lived in?

‘No, no. He is in Sharjah. He has been there for the past three years.’

All this while, Punnoose Chettan was standing. ‘Why don’t you sit down and have some tea?’ Varghese Uncle invited him. It was obvious that it was not a genuine invitation and Punnoose Chettan rightly turned it down.

‘Oh No! I need to be going. But before I go, I need to ask you something. You know, I have a computer at home. That’s the one Chandy Sir gave me, when he bought a new one for himself. When they gave me that computer, Chandy Sir's son Koshy had taught me to send emails to my son. And I did manage to send an email immediately after Koshy mon left. But when I tried to send an email a week later, I found that I had forgotten everything.’

‘That’s pretty sad. I’ve never learnt to send emails. I just call up my sons at their hostels.’ Varghese Uncle was quite apologetic.

‘But don’t you have a computer here? I thought you could give me a few tips. When Laiju called me the other day, he said he has sent me a few emails, but I haven’t managed to read any of them.’

‘We do have a computer here. The kids use it while they are here on vacation. But, I don’t have a clue how it works. Can’t you ask Chandy Sir’s son to teach you once more?’

‘I could, but I don’t know when Koshy mon will visit his parents next? Also, Koshy mon is now married,’ Punnoose Chettan added as an after thought.

‘What difference does it make if he is married?’ Elsamma Aunty asked.

‘Well, he may not want to visit me and give me another lesson,’ Punnoose Chettan said. 'Somebody else has got a better claim on his time.’

I surprised myself by saying, ‘I can show you how to send emails.’

I had expected to be showered with gratitude and was disappointed. ‘Aren’t you a doctor?‘ Punnoose Chettan asked me doubtfully.

‘I am. But you see, I have a computer at my home – at Baltimore – and I send emails to my friends. If you like, I can show you how to send emails.’ I left it at that. If Punnoose Chettan didn’t want my help, then he could find someone else to teach him how to email his son.’

‘I see. Well, in that case, why don’t you drop into my home when you have some free time and give me a lesson in sending emails?’

‘I have something planned for tomorrow. I’ll come there sometime in the evening, the day after tomorrow. Around six thirty.’ I could stretch out the lesson till eight and bunk evening prayers once more. I was really tempted to do it the next day, but that would be two days in a row and could get me into trouble with Jose Uncle. Kate would have burst into laughter if she could have seen me. I was thirty-five and still found it impossible to tell my uncle that I did not want to join the family at prayer in the evenings.

With that Punnoose Chettan took his leave. After he had left, Varghese Uncle turned to me and asked, ‘since when did you become so altruistic? Teaching an old man send emails to his son in Sharjah!’

‘So, doctor saar, do you know how to start a computer and even send emails?’ Elsamma Aunty shouted from the kitchen.

‘Well, I think I can just about manage.’

‘Why did you decide on the day after? Why not tomorrow?’ Varghese Uncle wanted to know.

I did not have a decent excuse. ‘He did not seem to have appreciated my offer all that much. I am trying to throw my weight around.’ I blustered.

‘Well, he is not a bad sort. He has some land – about four acres – at Kannimala. He does not have any other income. He tries to get friendly with me, but I keep him at arm's length. We don’t have much in common, you know.’

‘But you’ve lent him money,’ I pointed out.

‘Well yes. He borrowed fifty thousand rupees from me for his daughter’s wedding. That was almost a year ago. He is yet to finish repaying me.’

‘Doesn’t his son send him money?’

‘He does. But it is quite expensive to marry off a girl. And nowadays, workers in the Gulf do not get paid all that much. I doubt if Punnoose Chettan’s son manages to send him more than ten thousand rupees a month.

I looked at the clock. It was twenty past seven. Prayers would get over by seven forty. Jose Uncle was a stickler for doing things by the clock. If I left in another five minutes, I would get back to Jose Uncle’s place by seven thirty, which meant a mere ten minutes of prayers.

‘You ought to write a book, explaining your theory.’ I told Varghese Uncle. I would have to leave in five minutes. If I got delayed beyond that, it wouldn’t be easy to convince Jose Uncle that I had forgotten to keep track of the time.

Varghese Uncle looked at me suspiciously as if I might be pulling his leg. ‘You know, in the US, once you have a bestseller, you get invited to give lectures, go on book tours and all that.’

That convinced him. ‘I know. But India doesn’t have a market for such books. Our people stick to watching crap movies and reading film magazines! Especially in Kerala.’

‘How do you know unless you give it a shot? Someone has to do it for the first time.’

As Varghese Uncle mulled it over, I said, ‘I better get going now. I had told Jose Uncle that I would be back in half an hour.’

‘Why don’t you stay on and have dinner?’ Elsamma Aunty asked.

I was tempted. The food Varghese Uncle’s place was a lot better than at Jose Uncle’s. But I didn’t want to bug Jose Uncle who would expect me for dinner. ‘Oh No! I ought to get back. I promised Jose Uncle that I would get back in thirty minutes. Time flies when I am here.’

The day after, I went over to Punnoose Chettan’s house. I left Jose Uncle’s place at around six after making an express promise to return in an hour’s time. Jose Uncle was not particularly suspicious since I had diligently taken part in the evening prayers the previous day. Punnoose Chettan’s house was a small affair, quite old with a tiled roof and a verandah running around it. Despite the fact that it had received a recent coat of whitewash, it was obvious that the house must have been built more than sixty years ago. Now that Punnoose Chettan’s son was overseas and sending money home, would he want to tear it down and put up a concrete monstrosity in its place? The way Jose Uncle and most of my relatives in Kerala had done. The drawing room was tastefully done, without too much furniture cluttering up the room. What got my attention, however, was an unsheathed dagger that hung on the wall. It’s sheath hung next to it. Both the handle and the sheath were made of ivory with some intricate carvings in them. I tried not to stare at it for too long.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ Punnoose Chettan asked me. I ignored the very comfortable looking cane chair under the dagger and sat down on a less comfortable chair on the other side of the room - which allowed me to stare at the dagger.

‘Samson is a doctor in America,’ Punnoose Chettan informed his wife, who looked almost as old as he was.

‘You did tell me,’ she replied. I wondered what else Punnoose Chettan had told her. Having disobeyed his parents and learnt a lesson, he is now trying to be a good Malayalee boy?

Thankfully, there were no questions about my divorce. They didn’t even say anything about getting remarried. I was sure that most of the gossip about me reached their ears as well.

‘Why don’t you show me your computer?’ I asked them.

‘But you should have some tea first,’ his wife protested.

I agreed. I was planning to stretch out my visit for an hour and a half and bunk evening prayers all together. Tea, milky and quite sweet, was served in tall multi-purpose glasses which bore innumerable scratch marks. I drank slowly. Punnoose Chettan had a glass of tea as well. His wife served us both and then stood there with her back to the wall and watched us sip the hot tea.

‘What does your son do in Sharjah?’

‘He works in a super market. Apparently it is very close to the stadium where they hold those cricket matches.’

‘Where does your son send his emails from? Does he have a computer where he lives?’

‘No, he doesn’t. He told me he could go to a place within the supermarket and send emails.’

‘And does he call you often?’

‘Yes, once every two or three weeks.’

‘When’s his next visit home? When did he come here last’ I spoke in English for a change. I wasn’t sure how fluent Punnoose Chettan was in English. He didn’t seem to be the guy who read books or newspapers a lot.

I was surprised by the reply I got. ‘He came here six months ago. Hopefully, he’ll be able to visit us after another six months,’ Punnoose Chettan replied in fluent English. It was not the English one associated with missionary-run schools and metropolitan cities. Instead it was the English that any diligent student growing up in a place like Simhapara would speak. Punnoose Chettan spoke with an accent that was not much different from Jose Uncle’s. I no longer doubted Punnoose Chettan’s ability to string together an email in English.

‘A visit every year is not bad, is it? Some people manage to visit only every two years.’ I switched back to Malayalam.

My eyes darted to the dagger once more. It was indeed a piece of art. No wonder it occupied the pride of place on the wall. ‘That dagger, it looks very impressive,’ I told Punnoose Chettan.

Punnoose Chettan did not reply immediately. Instead he gave me an embarrassed smile, as if the dagger was something he did not deserve to have.

‘Can I have a look?’ I asked him.

‘Why not, he said and took the dagger and its sheath off the wall. It was curiously light. I inserted the dagger into its sheath. It was indeed beautiful. I held it in hands for a few minute and gave it back to him.

‘How did you get hold of this?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan.

‘We’ve had it for a long time,’ Punnoose Chettan told me as he exchanged a meaningful look with his wife.

‘A family heirloom?’

Punnoose Chettan nodded once more.

If I were at Baltimore, I would not have behaved thus, but I was not. I was at Simhapara and so I persisted without any consideration for privacy. ‘Did you inherit it from your father?’

‘Sort of. We’ve had it ever since I can remember, Punnoose Chettan said. An idea was forming in my mind. It was obvious that Punnoose Chettan was hard up for cash. And he had something that I liked a lot. There was no reason why a bargain should not be struck. However, I decided to bide my time for the moment. By that time, the glass in my hand was empty. Shall we try to send an email to your son? I asked Punnoose Chettan.

I was taken to the bedroom, where the PC occupied a corner. The room smelt of hair oil, but it was spanking clean. A double bed covered with a clean bed-sheet stood to one corner. A comb and some cosmetics were kept on the window ledge. The PC’s monitor and keyboard were kept on a rickety wooden table and the CPU was kept under the table. Punnoose Chettan grandiosely removed a piece of cloth which covered the CPU. It was a HP with an Intel 486. No wonder Chandy Sir decided to give his antique PC to Punnoose Chettan and get himself a better one.

‘Where’s your modem?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan.

‘I don’t have a clue. What is a modem?’

I did not reply. Instead I had a quick look around and found the modem hidden away behind the monitor. ‘That’s your modem,’ I told Punnoose Chettan. I abandoned my initial plan to run a check and see if all the necessary connections were in place. I was not a technician and I was not going to pretend to be one. Chandy Sir’s son who taught Punnoose Chettan to send emails was an IT professional. He was bound to have fixed everything right. Otherwise, Punnoose Chettan would not have been able to send his first email.

I switched the power on and pressed the CPU’s button. The monitor had not been switched off and came on as well. ‘Why don’t we sit down?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan. I didn’t want to sit on the flimsy chair which stood next to the table. It looked very uncomfortable and looked as if it was meant to give its occupant a backache. Punnoose Chettan went out and came back dragging a sturdy looking stool. ‘This is very convenient, I told him as I took the stool from him, placed the stool to the side of the chair and sat on it. Punnoose Chettan sat on the flimsy chair. His wife continued to stand. Since Punnoose Chettan had not bothered to get her a chair, I assumed that she was not keen on emails. By this time, Windows had loaded. I began my lesson.

‘Once you’ve switched every thing on – the power switch and this button here,’ I indicated the CPU, ‘you need to connect to the internet. For that, we need to click on…’ I searched for an appropriate icon on the desktop. ‘On this,’ I said as I located and clicked on one which said ‘VSNL dialup’ Soon there was a whirring sound and – to be honest, I felt relieved. The password was automatically entered. It wouldn’t have looked too good if I couldn’t connect to the internet.

‘How much did you pay for this connection?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan who looked blank for a few seconds.

‘I was told that I can use Chandy Sir’s account. Apparently they have paid for a thousand hours of internet time and don’t use most of it.’ It made sense. Chandy Sir’s son must have set the modem to dial up using the same user name and password as Chandy Sir did. Quite altruistic of them, I remember thinking.

‘I remember this much – till here,’ Punnoose Chettan said. ‘After this, what do I do? Punnoose Chettan turned around quickly to see if his wife was paying attention. ‘You too make sure you understand what Samson mon is saying. You should also be able to send emails when I am not around,’ Punnoose Chettan told his wife who moved a few feet forward so that she almost touched her husband.

‘Oh! Don’t bother with me. I’ll never remember all this,’ she said.

Punnoose Chettan gave his wife a look which conveyed a mixture of fondness and exasperation.

‘Once you are connected to the internet, you need to open the internet explorer. Google had been set as the default homepage. And once your webpage is open, you can go to your emails. ‘Do you remember your email address?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan.

‘I have it written down in ……’ ‘Rose-ammé, get me my diary,’ Punnoose Chettan ordered his wife who went out and came back with a diary. Punnoose Chettan flipped the pages and said ‘It’s Punnoose2006 at yahoo dot co dot in.’

‘So, it’s a yahoo ID. Great, you go to the yahoo website. Do you know how to do that?’

‘No.’

‘Just type www.yahoo.com’ and you’ll be in Yahoo,’ I told him. The internet connection was quite slow and it took a few minutes to open yahoo. ‘And once you are at yahoo, you need click on mail …. and now you can sign in.’

‘Aaah! Now I remember this. Okay.’

‘punnoose2006,’ that’s your yahoo sign-in name. Enter it here. I typed it in. ‘Your login name is not case sensitive, but your password is.’ Punnoose Chettan had a blank look on his face. ‘Didn’t Chandy Sir’s son tell you what password he set for you?’

‘Oh yes, he did. It is in the diary.’ Punnoose Chettan consulted this diary and said ‘its 123abc’

I was tempted to tell him that he ought to have a password which could not be easily broken. But, what did it matter? Who would want to break into Punnoose Chettan’s email account? I kept mum and clicked on login. Soon we were transported to punnoose2006’s mailbox.

There were two emails from Laiju Punnoose and a host of spam mail. ‘Why don’t you click on your son’s emails and read them?’ I told Punnoose Chettan. ‘You just have to click on them to open them.’

‘I remember this very clearly now,’ Punnoose Chettan told me. I left him to read his son’s emails and walked out of the bedroom. I went back to the dagger. It was indeed a fine piece of art. I was surprised that it was so light. I would have thought that an ancient dagger would be a heavy. I went back to the bedroom after a few minutes. Punnoose Chettan was still reading the second email. It was just a line long. Have you received my first email? Laiju.

‘Why don’t you send your son a reply?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan. ‘Do you know how to do that?’

Punnoose Chettan looked blank. ‘You can either open your son’s email and click on ‘reply’ – like this and yes, you click here, or you can ..’

‘No, please don’t teach me too many ways to send an email. I’ll get confused. I’ll stick with this. Can you please repeat what you just said?’

I reversed the procedure and started afresh, ‘once you’ve read your son’s email, you just go to the top of the email and click on reply.’

Punnoose Chettan stared at the screen for a while and then nodded his head. ‘Why don’t you now send your son an email?’ I suggested.

Punnoose Chettan started to type out an email. I won’t bore my readers with details of what he wrote, except to say that he took a long time to write it. His written English had a few grammatical mistakes and spelling errors, but on the whole it was just a long boring letter from a father to his son. Punnoose Chettan’s wife patiently stood nearby and watched the whole thing, though I doubt if she understood much. I felt sorry for the poor couple, desperately trying to send an email to their son.

It was eight thirty by the time it was all over. They insisted that I stay for dinner. I refused, but promised to come back in a couple of days time – to have dinner with them and to see if the emailing was going on smoothly. The next day was a Sunday and I went to church with Varghese Uncle and Elsamma Aunty. Jose Uncle and his wife preferred to attend the six am mass. As soon as mass was over, I tried to slip off and wait in the car which was parked outside the main gate. People stood around chatting and gossiping. I hoped that no one would recognise me to call me over and ask a few questions about my divorce. I thought I had made good my escape when Punnoose Chettan hailed me in a very loud voice. He was standing with a few men around him. I had no choice, but to walk over to him. Thankfully for me, he broke off from his group and walked towards me. I was relieved that I would not be introduced to his friends.

‘I have had a stroke of luck,’ he told me. ‘All thanks to you!’

‘What happened?’ I asked ‘What did I do?’

‘You got my email working and now I have received a fantastic offer from a man in Africa!’

I was about to tell him that I did not fix his emails when something clicked in my head. ‘What is this offer that you have received?’ I asked him.

‘I can’t tell you yet. I’ve been asked to maintain strict confidentiality. But I will get a million dollars in a few months’ time.’

‘Is it an email from Nigeria?’ I asked him.

‘Maybe. Maybe. I’ll tell you all about it when you come home next.’

‘Have you heard of Nigerian scams?’ I asked him in a pitying voice.

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ll get an email or a letter from someone in Nigeria saying that need your help to recover a few million dollars and if you help them, they’ll pay you a huge percentage of the money. Some people fall for it and agree to help. Some of them actually travel to Nigeria to meet their new business partners. They are met at the airport, taken somewhere, robbed and sent back. Or else, they are asked to pay some money upfront as a processing charge. In any event, it is a con job.

Punnoose Chettan’s face fell. It was obvious that he had set great store by the email he had received. ‘Have you replied to the email?’ I asked him.

‘‘No. Not yet. I was planning to send a reply this afternoon.’

‘Tell you what, don’t do anything. I’ll come there this afternoon, at around three o’clock. Let me have a look at it.’

I felt even more sorry for him. Not only did aged people living alone have to worry about their physical security, they also had to be protected against such attacks from cyber space.

That afternoon, I went to Punnoose Chettan’s house. I had only one objective. I wanted to buy that dagger which I coveted. I would pay for it. Punnoose Chettan dialled up and connected to the internet like a veteran and opened the email from Lagos. It was no different from the hundreds of such mail which clog most people’s inboxes. This time it was the legal heir of a deceased minister who had acquired vast wealth. Ever since the last coup in Nigeria, they were in hiding, in fear for their lives. The money was now in a Swiss bank account. If the recipient, who had been carefully selected, agreed to help, he would be suitably rewarded with thirty percent of the loot. Could the recipient quickly email across his full address, bank account details etc.?

‘How could you fall for something like this?’ I asked Punnoose Chettan. He was suitably contrite.

‘Now that you explain it, it makes sense,’ He said.

‘Do you know you can play them at their own game? You can reply to them as if you believe what they have told you and ….’

‘Oh no. I do not have the stomach for it. I have enough problems of my own. I’m sure you know that I have lots of debts. I am yet to repay your uncle. And I have many other creditors as well.’

‘Punnoose Chettaa, I need to ask you something,’ I began. It was not an auspicious start. It was exactly the way I had asked Kate to marry me. At that time, I did not think of it, but later on I did. ‘Would you like to sell me that dagger you have? The one on the wall?’

‘How can I do that?’ Punnoose Chettan exclaimed. ‘We’ve always had this in the house. I think my grandfather got it from somewhere. I can’t part with something like that.’

‘How much do you want for it, Punnoose Chettaa? I asked him once more. I could see his defences crumble. Clearly he was in need of money.

‘Why don’t you think it over and tell me tomorrow morning? I leave on Tuesday for Kochi.’

‘Fine. I will tell you tomorrow evening. But you must promise not to tell anyone here in Simhapara.

‘I won’t tell anyone here.’

‘Not even your uncles.’

‘Especially not my uncles. Tell you what, I will not tell anyone in India. Only my friends in Baltimore will get to know about it.’

I walked home with a thumping heart. I knew that what I was doing was morally wrong. I was depriving a man of his family heirloom. There was no doubt that Punnoose Chettan would not be selling that dagger if he were financially sound. But weren’t most art pieces bought from their owners in similar circumstances? I was not much different from a connoisseur who travelled far and wide looking for art pieces owned by people willing to part with them.

The next day morning, I told Jose Uncle that I wanted to buy some shaving blades from the market. Jose offered to give me a blade, but I told him that I would rather go and get some myself. I needed the exercise anyway. I reached KK Road and walked towards the main market for a brief while. Soon I reached the right turn which led me towards Punnoose Chettan’s house. To get there, I had to pass by in front of Varghese Uncle’s house. I hoped that Varghese Uncle would be busy getting ready to go to his college. I was lucky. I managed to reach Punnoose Chettan’s house without being spotted. It was actually no big deal. Even if I were spotted, I could have told them that Punnoose Chettan needed some more help with his email.


Punnoose Chettan greeted me with a smile.

‘Any more trouble with emails?’ I asked him.

‘None at all,’ he told me with a preoccupied look. It was obvious that his mind was elsewhere.

His wife served me some milky coffee in one of their tall multi-purpose glasses. Punnoose Chettan sat opposite me and waited for me to finish my coffee, his eyes quite melancholic and sad. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought his wife looked as if she were angry with me. Which meant Punnoose Chettan had decided to sell me their family heirloom despite his wife’s objections. I was right. When my coffee was over, he told me, ‘I’ve talked it over with my wife. And we’ve decided we need the money. If you can pay me ten thousand rupees, you can have the dagger.’

‘And the sheath,’ I added.

‘And the sheath. Of course.’

I took a deep breath. I had indeed won! I had the money with me. To be honest, I had been willing to pay up to fifteen thousand rupees for the dagger.

Punnoose Chettan brought out the dagger and gave it to me. I accepted it and laid it on the table. As I started to take out my wallet. Punnoose Chettan said ‘you can pay me later if you are not carrying cash on you right now.’

‘But I did bring the money,’ I told them. I counted twenty notes of five hundred rupees each and handed them to Punnoose Chettan. I picked up the dagger once more from the table. I am sure that my eyes had a look of triumph. Punnoose Chettan’s wife gave me a disgusted look.

‘And how did your grandfather come by this dagger? Did he get it from someone?’ I was just curious. Maybe a travelling prince from the Travancore royal family had given it to them as a token of appreciation for their hospitality.

‘We’ve always had it. I’m not sure of this – but I don’t want to say something I am not too sure of, but …..’ Punnoose Chettan hesitated.

‘Please go on. I know that you cannot have proof in these matters, but please do tell me what you remember.’ I was quite keen to know the pedigree of the dagger. Once I exhibited it in my Baltimore flat, my friends would be keen to not only know how I came across it, but also the origin of the dagger.

‘I remember my father telling me that his father – that’s my grandfather – used to gamble a lot. Apparently he won it in a game of dice.’

Now I could easily understand why Punnoose Chettan was embarrassed. I was sure that he never gambled. ‘Please don’t tell anyone here that I sold this to you.’ It was a reasonable request. I agreed to it quite happily. I was quite sure that neither Jose Uncle nor Varghese Uncle would approve of me spending ten grand to buy a dagger.

Punnoose Chettan’s wife continued to stay in the background, without saying a word. She looked embarrassed and – unhappy. I could understand her unhappiness. I told myself that, I was paying them a decent price for the dagger. Converted into dollars – it was not much – around two hundred dollars. But then, this was how the art market operated. I had no reason to feel ashamed.

‘I’ll send Laiju an email and tell him what we’ve done. He’ll understand,’ Punnoose Chettan told me.

I could understand if Laiju exploded in anger as he read his father’s email. I would have felt the same if my father sold a family heirloom. Hopefully I would never have to meet Laiju.

With mixed feelings, I bid farewell to the couple, tucked the dagger under my shirt and walked towards the market place where I managed to buy a packet of shaving blades before going back to Jose Uncle’s house.

I went for a swim in the river just before lunch. In the evening, I planned to go for a long walk up to the Lion-Head. Once while I was in college, my brother and I had climbed the top of the Lion-Head. But towards evening, Jose Uncle suggested that we go to Kottayam to watch a movie. And so, the evening walk didn’t materialise. Instead I watched a Malayalam movie which starred a few actors and actresses I’d never heard off, with both my uncles and my aunts. Just before going to bed, I took out the dagger from my suitcase and looked at it once more. I could feel the pain of my divorce ebbing away. Kate could go to hell. I went to sleep like a baby.

The next day morning I went over to Varghese Uncle’s house to say goodbye before he left for his college. Later in the day, Jose Uncle was to drive me to Kottayam from where I would catch a train to Kochi. To my astonishment, both Varghese Uncle and Elsamma Aunty launched into a litany of advice. I had to get married as soon as possible. I also had to seriously think of coming back to India for good. What was the point of staying in the US when my parents were in India? Look at us all. Living out our old age without our children around us, Varghese Uncle told me impassionedly. You are a doctor with so much experience. You could get a good job in any of the hospitals in Kerala. Money wasn’t everything. It was not as if I was like Laiju, Punnoose Chettan’s son who had no option but to work overseas.

‘Why should a different standard be applied to Punnoose Chettan’s son?’ I objected.

‘Because, if Laiju were to live in Kerala, he would have to work as a manual labourer. He is good for nothing else,’ Varghese Uncle spoke heatedly.

‘Don’t say that,’ Elsamma Aunty chided him gently.

‘Why not?’ Varghese Uncle retorted. ‘He was a good for nothing. He always got into trouble. Finally he went to Bombay where he used to sell fake antiques on the pavement.’

At that my ears perked up. ‘What did he sell?’ I asked Varghese Uncle.

‘Fake antiques. You know the sort of things tourists like to buy. Anything that looks antique. Apparently they churn out tens of thousands of such things in China. Antique looking idols, daggers etc.’

I don’t remember what else Varghese Uncle told me. I kept my promise to Punnoose Chettan and didn’t tell anyone at Simhapara that I had purchased an antique dagger from him. I took the dagger to my home in Baltimore, where I kept it on display. I tell my friends that while on vacation in Kerala, I taught an old man and his wife to send emails to their only son who lived far, far away from them. This old couple gave me the dagger as a token of their gratitude. I couldn’t insult them by asking too many questions. For all I know the dagger is quite old. I joke that one day I will take it to an antiques dealer to find out how valuable it is. Some of my friends are sure that it is indeed a valuable antique, while a few others, especially the ones who have travelled to places like India, Egypt and China where tourists are routinely cheated, conned and fleeced, give me a sceptical grin.