Tuesday, March 24, 2009
LDF is offering election victory to the UDF on a platter. But UDF seems reluctant to accept it. The candidates selection of Congress has turned a win-win situation into a sure defeat. Giving tickets to three sitting MLAs is a slap on the face of the people. Why are these people so greedy? Are they not satisfied with a seat in the state legislature? And the exchequor has to pay for their greed. If any of them wins(which is a remote possibility), there will be election again for their assembly seats. Ernakulam is a sure seat for congress this time. But they have spoiled their chances by imposing the most unpopular candidate. K.V.Thomas is no match to the young and dynamic Sindhu Joy. Hybi Eden would have easily wrested the seat for congress. But congress seems to be on a suicidal mission. What other logic is there for giving ticket to M.I.Shanavaz, who holds the world record in loosing all the electoral battles fought. The congress candidates list is a big disappointment.
Monday, March 16, 2009
criminals in parliament.
One third of the members of the present parliament are criminals. Their prime objective in entering parliament is to make money, by using muscle and political power. They don't care for the country or the countrymen. The election laws should be amended to bar the entry of criminals into parliament.
ADAM AYUB
Friday, February 15, 2008
Fallen leaves-chapter-1
FALLEN LEAVES
By
Adam Ayub
Chapter-1
While I was gradually taking shape and form in my mother’s womb, God was writing my destiny. He gave me some talents, but did not assign me any significant role to play in this world. Then, you may wonder, why I am writing this autobiography. Well, to know that, you will have to read patiently till the end.
I came into this world at 3.45 am on Wednesday, the 8th of March 1950 at Mattancherry, Kochi, Kerala, India, as the eldest of the six children of Mr.Ayub Adam Sait B.A.B.L. and Mrs.Mariam Bai Ayub. I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Though my parents were not rich, my foster grandmother and grandfather were fairly well off. In fact grandpa was a wealthy and influential business man, whose wealth had begun to decline at the time of my birth. So I spent the first few years of my life in the luxurious care of my foster grandmother, Haju bai, and wife of Abbamia raja of Kochangadi. It was a big joint family. The house was a sprawling mansion. My grand father commanded a big business in spices. But at the time of my birth, Grandfather was too old to attend to his business. There were many children in that huge family. Most of them were girls. I think I was the only boy at that time. So I was much pampered. I was my grandmother’s pet. I used to boss over the girls due to my proximity to grandmother. Many acres of land around the mansion belonged to my grandfather. Apart from rice and coconuts, mangoes, jackfruits and many other fruits and vegetables also used to come
From grandfather’s vast cultivated lands. During one such harvest season, there was a pile of jackfruits stacked in a corner. All the little children assembled around gaping in wonder at the number of jackfruits. As I was the undisputed prince above all those silly girls, naturally I laid claim to the biggest jackfruit saying “That is mine”. One little voice said “No that is mine” I looked around in surprise to see who dared to challenge me. It was my little cousin Zakira. She was only three years old. I was one year older than her. I could not bear the challenge to my authority. I grabbed her hand and sank my teeth into her tender wrist. She screamed in pain. There was big commotion. No doubt the quarrel among little children could be a cause for heartburning among the elders in a joint family. So my mother caught hold of me. She took a green chilly from the kitchen, broke it and rubbed it in my mouth. I screamed in agony. My mother was shouting “You must never do this again”. My grand mother came to my rescue. She released me from my mother’s clutches. My lips were burning red! She washed my mouth and applied honey. Then she took me to her bedroom, and put me to sleep by fanning me with her hand fan. She was whispering into my ears. “My prince, you must never bite others, you must never hurt others. A man must protect the women, not hurt them”. She was saying this in a rhythmic way, it sounded like a lullaby and I gradually slipped into sleep.
Soon my grandmother died. Scramble for the properties started. Grandfather also did not live long after that. We had to leave that palatial palace and seek a humble dwelling. The next six to seven years were the most miserable part of my childhood. These years were spent in utter poverty. We had no house, no proper clothes and no food. We were living at the kindness of another aunt of my mother, whom we used to call nanima. My parents and we six children, along with our chacha, Khalid, were all crammed in a single room of nanima’s house. Though my father, whom we used to call Raja, was an advocate by profession, he had no work. For some time, he had a fairly big office in mattancherry. My only memory associated with that office is that, once I had meals there with father. He had ordered meals from a nearby hotel. In fact that was the first time I tasted hotel food. I remember there was very tasty fish fry. But he did not have much work in the office. He had to close down the office, as he did not have income even to pay for the office rent. Thereafter he was at home most of the time, lying on the bed during day and night.
I studied in the Haji Essa Haji Moossa Memorial high School of Mattancherry.It was just half a kilometer from where we lived. My brother, Akber was one class junior to me. Most of the days we did not go home for lunch, as there was nothing to eat at home. Some times, mother used to buy groundnut for half anna from the“kappalandi”wala on credit and give us when we go home for lunch. Some nights nanima used to give one chappathi to us, which we used to eat in turns. One child got the chappathi one night. The others slept with empty stomachs. Each one of us got a chappathi once in six days. The elders never had anything to eat. Tapioca was the staple diet those days. Even if mother could borrow some money from somewhere, it was not enough to buy rice to feed nine mouths. So boiled tapioca often blessed our shrunken stomachs as a luxury food, after prolonged periods of starvation. My youngest sister, Nazneen was born into these hardest of times. She never had the luxury of milk and fruits or even rice. Boiled tapioca was the food her tiny tongue first tasted and continued to taste for a long time to come. Mother used to send me to relatives’ houses to borrow money. I used to melt with shame when their sympathetic and sometimes contemptuous eyes fell on my frail body and shabby clothes. I was always reluctant to go; but my mother used to plead with me promising boiled tapioca for me and my starving siblings if I get the money. My sister Nafia, fifth in the line, used to wear my shirts at home. It used to reach her knee. As little children we never had the luxury of good food, chocolates, Toys or good clothes. Milk was also alien to our little palettes. We had never tasted ice-cream in our childhood.
One day I and my brother Akbar were returning home after school. We saw a small crowd on the roadside. We were walking in the opposite side of the road. When we drew near we saw that the crowd had collected around two foreigners. The foreigners seemed to be enjoying the scene. Suddenly their attention fell on us. They beckoned us. We were scared. But the crowd urged us to come near. We looked at each other. The crowd kept on calling us. “Don’t worry, they won’t harm you. We are here. Come over” they urged. We crossed the road and went to them. Immediately one of them put his hands into his pockets, pulled out a handful of coins and put it into my hands. The other also followed suit. He gave the money to Akbar. We stood there gaping at them, not knowing what to do. One man from the crowd said, “They are drunk, that’s why they are distributing money recklessly. Take the money and go home.” When the man said they were drunk, we were scared. We did want to invite their wrath. So we left the place immediately. But we were facing another dilemma. How will my mother react, when she comes to know that we had accepted money from strangers, that too foreigners? We were sure that we will get punishment. We reached home with the coins in our pockets. We started narrating the story fearfully, with Akbar trying to put the blame on me and me trying to put it on him. We gave the coins to mother. She counted it. I had got six annas and Akbar got five annas. The foreigners had not counted the coins; neither did we. But they seemed to have done justice in the matter of seniority and I was secretly happy. But then I suddenly wondered whether I will get six thrashing and Akbar five. But to our surprise mother said, “Alright, go and buy some rice and provisions with this money. We can eat something tonight”. We jumped with joy. Then mother said “But hereafter don’t accept money from strangers. I think God has sent us this money, as my children have not eaten anything for the last two days.”
Akbar had the habit of chewing his thumb from early childhood. My parents tried to discourage him. But the habit persisted. They tried all ways to get rid of this habit. They applied some bitter tasting herbal paste to his thumb, when he was asleep. But to no avail. He will have the thumb in his mouth and the forefinger in his nose. His thumb had become very thin due to constant chewing. Then they decided to apply psychological pressure. They said they have made a vow to cut his thumb and donate it to the Nagoor mosque, a dargah in Tamilnadu.
Two people, with green turbans around their heads, used to go around the houses singing and beating drums, seeking alms. I do not know whether they were from Nagoor. Later I came to know that my parents did not believe in dargahs. We were taught that it is a sin to worship anybody other than Allah. So I think the Nagoor vow was just a ploy invented by somebody else to scare Akbar. Anyway it had a tremendous psychological impact on him. He was so addicted to the habit that he could not keep his thumb away from his mouth, in spite of the fear of Nagoor. Whenever the drums of the Nagoor monks were heard from a distance, Akbar used to tremble with fear. He used to hide under the cot, behind the door or wherever he felt safe. Elders used to laugh, seeing him panic. But I feel it was a great mistake on their part. Such traumatic experiences leave a deep impact on the minds of little children. As I was also not old enough to understand the pain he was feeling, I also joined the chorus in mentally torturing him. His terror stricken little face is still fresh in my memory. Later I realized that this kind of torture can do irreparable damage to a child’s psyche.
Another vivid memory I have is of a political agitation going on in our town. I was studying in class two. The agitation lasted several days. The agitators used to march on the road in front of our school, shouting slogans. Sometimes they used to enter the classrooms and the classes were dispersed. The students were always looking forward to their arrival. Their slogans were sung like a song in chorus.
Angamali kallarayil, Nammude sodararundengil
Aa Sodararane kattayam, pakaram njangal chodikkum.
(We vow to avenge the death of our brothers, who are lying in the cemeteries of Angamaly)
Later I came to know that, it was a state wide agitation. In fact I was witnessing the historic Liberation struggle to oust the first elected communist government of the world; the government led by communist veteran EMS Namboothirippad.
My father made desperate attempts to find a job; but in vain. Finally he got a visa and went to Kuwait. He soon landed a job there. This was in 1961 or so. I was studying in the sixth standard. Then my uncle D.A.Sait came from Bangalore. Since there was no body to look after us here, probably under my father’s instructions, he took us all to Bangalore. Thus the entire family shifted to Bangalore. We rented a house about a kilometer away from uncle’s house. We were all admitted to an Urdu medium school. Urdu was totally a new language to us. I was admitted to the 7th standard and Akbar to the 6th. They had separate sections for middle school and high school; Middle school means upper primary. High school had four years, 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th. I was put in the high school first year class. I was trying to pick up the thread of the new curriculum, when suddenly one day, the headmaster came to our class. He asked me to take my bag and accompany him. I was taken to the final year class of the middle school and admitted there. Similarly, Akbar was also taken to one class down. We were new to that place. We did not know the language. We did not know what was happening to us. We could not even protest.
Coming home, I narrated the incident to my mother with tears rolling down my eyes. She was also helpless. When the matter was brought to my uncle’s notice, he said there was some discrepancy in the number of school years in both the states and that there was nothing he could do. I resigned to my fate. I had to learn history, geography, science everything in Urdu. I did not even know the alphabets of Urdu. My uncle’s wife, Mettichachi, was a school teacher. She used to give us tuition. Many students used to come to her house for tuition. So we had to go to her house at night for tuition. It was terribly cold in Bangalore at that time. People used to go to bed early. By 9 pm the roads were almost deserted. It was at this time that I used to return home after tuition. Streets were all dark and deserted. There was a big bungalow on the way. There were two ferocious dogs in that house. They used to set the dogs free at night. It was a nightmare going past that house at that time. Many a times the dogs have chased me. I used to run screaming. Many a times I would wait on the road for some passerby, so that I can walk in his company. This was the reason I dreaded going to tuition. But I started from the alphabets and worked very hard to pass the annual exams with good marks. But all this turned out to be in vain. Because after one year mettichachi was transferred to Nanjangud, a far off town in Karanataka. So uncle’s family shifted to that place and we were left high and dry in a strange land with no relatives or friends. Mother faced a dilema.What to do here with six small children? Chacha always had his roots in Kochi, so he never stayed in Bangalore for long periods. Finally we decided to shift back to Kochi bag and baggage.
**********************
By
Adam Ayub
Chapter-1
While I was gradually taking shape and form in my mother’s womb, God was writing my destiny. He gave me some talents, but did not assign me any significant role to play in this world. Then, you may wonder, why I am writing this autobiography. Well, to know that, you will have to read patiently till the end.
I came into this world at 3.45 am on Wednesday, the 8th of March 1950 at Mattancherry, Kochi, Kerala, India, as the eldest of the six children of Mr.Ayub Adam Sait B.A.B.L. and Mrs.Mariam Bai Ayub. I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Though my parents were not rich, my foster grandmother and grandfather were fairly well off. In fact grandpa was a wealthy and influential business man, whose wealth had begun to decline at the time of my birth. So I spent the first few years of my life in the luxurious care of my foster grandmother, Haju bai, and wife of Abbamia raja of Kochangadi. It was a big joint family. The house was a sprawling mansion. My grand father commanded a big business in spices. But at the time of my birth, Grandfather was too old to attend to his business. There were many children in that huge family. Most of them were girls. I think I was the only boy at that time. So I was much pampered. I was my grandmother’s pet. I used to boss over the girls due to my proximity to grandmother. Many acres of land around the mansion belonged to my grandfather. Apart from rice and coconuts, mangoes, jackfruits and many other fruits and vegetables also used to come
From grandfather’s vast cultivated lands. During one such harvest season, there was a pile of jackfruits stacked in a corner. All the little children assembled around gaping in wonder at the number of jackfruits. As I was the undisputed prince above all those silly girls, naturally I laid claim to the biggest jackfruit saying “That is mine”. One little voice said “No that is mine” I looked around in surprise to see who dared to challenge me. It was my little cousin Zakira. She was only three years old. I was one year older than her. I could not bear the challenge to my authority. I grabbed her hand and sank my teeth into her tender wrist. She screamed in pain. There was big commotion. No doubt the quarrel among little children could be a cause for heartburning among the elders in a joint family. So my mother caught hold of me. She took a green chilly from the kitchen, broke it and rubbed it in my mouth. I screamed in agony. My mother was shouting “You must never do this again”. My grand mother came to my rescue. She released me from my mother’s clutches. My lips were burning red! She washed my mouth and applied honey. Then she took me to her bedroom, and put me to sleep by fanning me with her hand fan. She was whispering into my ears. “My prince, you must never bite others, you must never hurt others. A man must protect the women, not hurt them”. She was saying this in a rhythmic way, it sounded like a lullaby and I gradually slipped into sleep.
Soon my grandmother died. Scramble for the properties started. Grandfather also did not live long after that. We had to leave that palatial palace and seek a humble dwelling. The next six to seven years were the most miserable part of my childhood. These years were spent in utter poverty. We had no house, no proper clothes and no food. We were living at the kindness of another aunt of my mother, whom we used to call nanima. My parents and we six children, along with our chacha, Khalid, were all crammed in a single room of nanima’s house. Though my father, whom we used to call Raja, was an advocate by profession, he had no work. For some time, he had a fairly big office in mattancherry. My only memory associated with that office is that, once I had meals there with father. He had ordered meals from a nearby hotel. In fact that was the first time I tasted hotel food. I remember there was very tasty fish fry. But he did not have much work in the office. He had to close down the office, as he did not have income even to pay for the office rent. Thereafter he was at home most of the time, lying on the bed during day and night.
I studied in the Haji Essa Haji Moossa Memorial high School of Mattancherry.It was just half a kilometer from where we lived. My brother, Akber was one class junior to me. Most of the days we did not go home for lunch, as there was nothing to eat at home. Some times, mother used to buy groundnut for half anna from the“kappalandi”wala on credit and give us when we go home for lunch. Some nights nanima used to give one chappathi to us, which we used to eat in turns. One child got the chappathi one night. The others slept with empty stomachs. Each one of us got a chappathi once in six days. The elders never had anything to eat. Tapioca was the staple diet those days. Even if mother could borrow some money from somewhere, it was not enough to buy rice to feed nine mouths. So boiled tapioca often blessed our shrunken stomachs as a luxury food, after prolonged periods of starvation. My youngest sister, Nazneen was born into these hardest of times. She never had the luxury of milk and fruits or even rice. Boiled tapioca was the food her tiny tongue first tasted and continued to taste for a long time to come. Mother used to send me to relatives’ houses to borrow money. I used to melt with shame when their sympathetic and sometimes contemptuous eyes fell on my frail body and shabby clothes. I was always reluctant to go; but my mother used to plead with me promising boiled tapioca for me and my starving siblings if I get the money. My sister Nafia, fifth in the line, used to wear my shirts at home. It used to reach her knee. As little children we never had the luxury of good food, chocolates, Toys or good clothes. Milk was also alien to our little palettes. We had never tasted ice-cream in our childhood.
One day I and my brother Akbar were returning home after school. We saw a small crowd on the roadside. We were walking in the opposite side of the road. When we drew near we saw that the crowd had collected around two foreigners. The foreigners seemed to be enjoying the scene. Suddenly their attention fell on us. They beckoned us. We were scared. But the crowd urged us to come near. We looked at each other. The crowd kept on calling us. “Don’t worry, they won’t harm you. We are here. Come over” they urged. We crossed the road and went to them. Immediately one of them put his hands into his pockets, pulled out a handful of coins and put it into my hands. The other also followed suit. He gave the money to Akbar. We stood there gaping at them, not knowing what to do. One man from the crowd said, “They are drunk, that’s why they are distributing money recklessly. Take the money and go home.” When the man said they were drunk, we were scared. We did want to invite their wrath. So we left the place immediately. But we were facing another dilemma. How will my mother react, when she comes to know that we had accepted money from strangers, that too foreigners? We were sure that we will get punishment. We reached home with the coins in our pockets. We started narrating the story fearfully, with Akbar trying to put the blame on me and me trying to put it on him. We gave the coins to mother. She counted it. I had got six annas and Akbar got five annas. The foreigners had not counted the coins; neither did we. But they seemed to have done justice in the matter of seniority and I was secretly happy. But then I suddenly wondered whether I will get six thrashing and Akbar five. But to our surprise mother said, “Alright, go and buy some rice and provisions with this money. We can eat something tonight”. We jumped with joy. Then mother said “But hereafter don’t accept money from strangers. I think God has sent us this money, as my children have not eaten anything for the last two days.”
Akbar had the habit of chewing his thumb from early childhood. My parents tried to discourage him. But the habit persisted. They tried all ways to get rid of this habit. They applied some bitter tasting herbal paste to his thumb, when he was asleep. But to no avail. He will have the thumb in his mouth and the forefinger in his nose. His thumb had become very thin due to constant chewing. Then they decided to apply psychological pressure. They said they have made a vow to cut his thumb and donate it to the Nagoor mosque, a dargah in Tamilnadu.
Two people, with green turbans around their heads, used to go around the houses singing and beating drums, seeking alms. I do not know whether they were from Nagoor. Later I came to know that my parents did not believe in dargahs. We were taught that it is a sin to worship anybody other than Allah. So I think the Nagoor vow was just a ploy invented by somebody else to scare Akbar. Anyway it had a tremendous psychological impact on him. He was so addicted to the habit that he could not keep his thumb away from his mouth, in spite of the fear of Nagoor. Whenever the drums of the Nagoor monks were heard from a distance, Akbar used to tremble with fear. He used to hide under the cot, behind the door or wherever he felt safe. Elders used to laugh, seeing him panic. But I feel it was a great mistake on their part. Such traumatic experiences leave a deep impact on the minds of little children. As I was also not old enough to understand the pain he was feeling, I also joined the chorus in mentally torturing him. His terror stricken little face is still fresh in my memory. Later I realized that this kind of torture can do irreparable damage to a child’s psyche.
Another vivid memory I have is of a political agitation going on in our town. I was studying in class two. The agitation lasted several days. The agitators used to march on the road in front of our school, shouting slogans. Sometimes they used to enter the classrooms and the classes were dispersed. The students were always looking forward to their arrival. Their slogans were sung like a song in chorus.
Angamali kallarayil, Nammude sodararundengil
Aa Sodararane kattayam, pakaram njangal chodikkum.
(We vow to avenge the death of our brothers, who are lying in the cemeteries of Angamaly)
Later I came to know that, it was a state wide agitation. In fact I was witnessing the historic Liberation struggle to oust the first elected communist government of the world; the government led by communist veteran EMS Namboothirippad.
My father made desperate attempts to find a job; but in vain. Finally he got a visa and went to Kuwait. He soon landed a job there. This was in 1961 or so. I was studying in the sixth standard. Then my uncle D.A.Sait came from Bangalore. Since there was no body to look after us here, probably under my father’s instructions, he took us all to Bangalore. Thus the entire family shifted to Bangalore. We rented a house about a kilometer away from uncle’s house. We were all admitted to an Urdu medium school. Urdu was totally a new language to us. I was admitted to the 7th standard and Akbar to the 6th. They had separate sections for middle school and high school; Middle school means upper primary. High school had four years, 7th, 8th, 9th and 10th. I was put in the high school first year class. I was trying to pick up the thread of the new curriculum, when suddenly one day, the headmaster came to our class. He asked me to take my bag and accompany him. I was taken to the final year class of the middle school and admitted there. Similarly, Akbar was also taken to one class down. We were new to that place. We did not know the language. We did not know what was happening to us. We could not even protest.
Coming home, I narrated the incident to my mother with tears rolling down my eyes. She was also helpless. When the matter was brought to my uncle’s notice, he said there was some discrepancy in the number of school years in both the states and that there was nothing he could do. I resigned to my fate. I had to learn history, geography, science everything in Urdu. I did not even know the alphabets of Urdu. My uncle’s wife, Mettichachi, was a school teacher. She used to give us tuition. Many students used to come to her house for tuition. So we had to go to her house at night for tuition. It was terribly cold in Bangalore at that time. People used to go to bed early. By 9 pm the roads were almost deserted. It was at this time that I used to return home after tuition. Streets were all dark and deserted. There was a big bungalow on the way. There were two ferocious dogs in that house. They used to set the dogs free at night. It was a nightmare going past that house at that time. Many a times the dogs have chased me. I used to run screaming. Many a times I would wait on the road for some passerby, so that I can walk in his company. This was the reason I dreaded going to tuition. But I started from the alphabets and worked very hard to pass the annual exams with good marks. But all this turned out to be in vain. Because after one year mettichachi was transferred to Nanjangud, a far off town in Karanataka. So uncle’s family shifted to that place and we were left high and dry in a strange land with no relatives or friends. Mother faced a dilema.What to do here with six small children? Chacha always had his roots in Kochi, so he never stayed in Bangalore for long periods. Finally we decided to shift back to Kochi bag and baggage.
**********************
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