We are all programmed?

Aruvi (அருவி, Tamil; 2017)

Let's face it. People are expected to live within preset rules. The society sets what is acceptable, what is happiness, what is beauty, what should our aim in life be and it decides our desires and aspirations.

We are enrolled in schools to be educated in a rote manner, taught to act in a predetermined manner, told what are good virtues to fit into society. At the society level, we are all like lambs to the slaughter. We work for the big corporations who sell us things that we do not need. The media sets values that are favourable in modern living. They pluck the strings of our heart to crave for things that the big corporations are willing to sell at a cost of an arm and a leg. We think we will be happy with the purchase but surprisingly, happiness is but an elusive dream.

The world emphatically asserts that all man are equal. In reality, it is just hogwash. People are arranged in a pecking order, with the wealthier ones perched on the peak of the pyramid controlling the poor ones at the wide-based structure. The female gender is given second-class status. Human values and humanity take a back seat whilst advancement in career and accumulation of material wealth take precedence. The weak and the sick in the community deserve their statuses.

'Aruvi' deviates from the usual formula of Tamil movies. Gone are the typical love melodramas and Romeo-Juliet sort of unrequited love. The first half the show keeps us wondering what is going on. There are some arrests and there is talk of a terrorist link. Slowly, through the interrogations, the real world unveils. Even then, we are kept in suspense why Aruvi is ostracised by her family after growing up in such a loving environment. 

After living with her girlfriend, Jessy, and later with her transgender friend, Emily, she turns up at a local TV station. The station is famous for a talk-show which exposes social ills. The rest of the story explains the purpose of Aruvi's visit and the surprising turn of events that follows.

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We did it our way - Malaysian Tsunami!

Probably the most iconic picture of the times. 
The hands that were to protect the people 
are used to prevent the rights of the member 
of the public to exercise his democratic rights. 
Dr Streram Sinnasamy being prevented from 
submitting his nomination papers for failing to 
display the commission's identity tag (which 
was not given to him in the first place). 
This image and many like this must have 
evoked emotions so compelling to move 61 
years of a single rule party. 

Credit: Free Malaysia

A commonly uttered colloquial Tamil proverb goes, "you cannot hide a whole wax gourd under your serving of rice!" Once you start eating your rice, your deliciously spiced gourd will undoubtedly reveal itself. A lie cannot be hidden from public knowledge forever. Eventually, the truth will tell itself, sooner or later.

When the whole world was hurling abuses and accusation against the leaders of the country, the people stayed quiet. When nations ridiculed us, they kept mum. When day to day living became difficult, they persevered. When new taxes stared their ugly head under the pretext of saving the nation, they sacrificed. When the taxmen came knocking and demanding, they relented. When the stories were spun again and again to make them look like fools, they must have wised up. But they had a funny of showing it or rather hiding it.

Or maybe, the party which claims to have received the Decree of Independence on a silver platter are using their colonial master's tactic of 'divide and rule'. Instigating hatred and fear amongst each other, everyone is left to their own devices in their safe cocoons. 

The heat and the long wait are just moments in time.
The results, the future of generation next, are history
in the making. © FG

When the standard response in any part of the world where public opinion meant something would be the widespread demonstrations of displeasure and violence, they did not go along that line. The ghost of racial riots in their infancy of independence remained vivid in their minds. They knew unrest did not augur well for businesses and they knew money moved mountains.

On the outside, the general public appeared aloof. A few incidents here and there showed the might of the ruling power. Perhaps, they were afraid. Maybe they did not care. Hyenas surviving on kills of the guardians of the lion's share came out on a prowl. The whole might of the executive, judiciary and legislative forces were mobilised to protect these vermins.

They also say 'still water runs deep' or 'don't expect the calm waters not to have crocodiles' and 'the potato grows in spite of the silence'. Beneath the surface, in homes, in cyberspace, despite the propaganda that the powers that be spruced, resentment actually ran deep. Social media lit with visuals of the tyranny of injustice and volumes of literature of wrongdoings.

Not the middle finger © FG

The sleeping giant of the silent public finally awoke from its seeming slumber of impassivity. In drones, they swarmed, from near and far, to their polling stations on that historic day 9th of May 2018. 

Malaysians finally spoke. They reject injustice. In a bittersweet moment, it seems that public has forgiven the 'dictator' who could be blamed for mending the rules to start the rot and elect their 93-year-young ex-PM as their new premier. The 93-year-young had earlier made his peace with his enemies and the people whom he had witch hunted during his tenure, and vice-versa the victims, for the common cause of saving a nation. 

Back in 2015 during an international marathon meet in Chiengmai, an Indonesian participant asked my friend, upon discovering that he is a Malaysian. "What is wrong with you people? Putting up with a kleptocratic authoritarian. In Indonesia, we would have just shot him!"

Now, I know the answer. We in Malaysia know the supreme power of the people. We believe in the democratic system. We did it our way, no bloodshed, no anarchy, no storming into palaces or the use of vigilantes. We used the ballot box. We are not apathetic to our surroundings after all. We are Malaysians. 

Credit: Lat

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Everything has a price; body, soul and land.

Begum Jaan (2017)

It seems that fire has a purifying quality. Rather than facing the wrath of the society and being their burden, death by immolation seems dignified. The flame has the innate essence of martyring someone. We saw in the tale of Padmavati, and we see it in the fictitious character named Begum Jaan.  

Radcliffe's line did not only cause misery to the little people of both nations. It apparently went right through the palace owned by a self-made brothel madam, Begum Jaan. She thought she had everything under control when she rescued a few women out of misery, train them into the flesh trade to give them a footing in life. The local powers were kept happy by servicing their officials, and she got the protection of a soon to defunct royalty. 

All that changed with the Partition. Overzealous in carrying out their civic duty, two of officials from both sides of the divide, Pakistan and India go to great lengths beyond their call of duty to evict the Madam from her little palace.

Widowed young at the banks from the Ganges and ostracised by society for her widowhood, Begum found her way to the courtesan courts. With the blessing and wealth from her vocation, she built her own trade. She believes that she owes nothing to society. Likewise, to her, people are all the same. They say one thing when there are in the company of their own kind, but the lights go off, race, religion and caste goes out of the window. Lust takes over, and nothing really matters after that.

The film is filled with much crude dialogue and disturbing scenes. One wrong message that the film seems to convey is that as if the rapist would be turned off if a young girl or a postmenopausal lady disrobes herself. Rape is about control and power. Lust is secondary. All the occupants of the brothel in the film seem to be loggerheads at each other and an axe to grind amongst themselves. With this background, I wonder what actually keep them together. Whatever happened to the code 'honour among thieves'?

The movie tries to tackle too many issues. Partition, feminism, the cruelty of the society to members of the female species, the blind obedience to orders from above and attachment to their home is all too much to cover in two hours.

Quote: Everything has a price; body, soul and land.

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Dreamy soul-searching in Dharamsala

Fig. 1: Are we going there? ©FG 

“What have I got myself into?” I asked myself as I gazed out the hotel lobby in McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, admiring the snow-capped mountain which seems so high almost reaching the heavens. I convinced myself, “Of course, we would not be going there. It looks too high for comfort.” Sheepishly, I approached the guide to ask, “Just how high are we going?”


“You see that snow," pointing at the same peak that I had seen earlier.
"We will try to scale the snow line and see how far we can go after that,” he replied.

I felt a lump at the back of my throat. Not wanting to be a spoilsport or an attention seeker, I just kept my trepidations to myself.

Come to think of it, in hindsight, all the fears and uncertainties proved unfounded. All our faithful weekend boot camp pieces of training under the auspices of our masochistic slavedriver leader dubbed
‘Commando’ apparently did not go to waste.

Maybe it was slightly more strenuous than a walk in the park, but we did experience some harrowing times scaling the slippery thin-iced slopes. It is not as if that we were dragging our sorry legs through the snow, but instead, we stopped to smell the roses (just that they were none,) be awed by the breathtaking picture-perfect views of Mother Nature and had time to take lots of pictures and selfies.

#Day 1

The first league of the journey was from the sleepy Buddhist town of McLeod Ganj (see Fig. 3 below). Housing many exiled Buddhist Tibetans, this small hill town houses many monasteries, Hindu temples and even a gothic-styled Anglican church.

Fig 2: All gung-ho before the kill; 5 trekkers and 2 eye candies. ©FG

Fig. 3: Peak time McLeod Ganj Times Square. ©FG This is essentially the heart of the town. The confluence of three narrow streets is usually packed with the patient, uncomplaining restrained drivers who are courteous enough to allow the fellow motorists to pass through, even though the other is not following traffic rules, without raising a ruckus or the middle finger.

Fig. 3: Peak time McLeod Ganj Times Square. ©FG
This is essentially the heart of the town. The confluence of three narrow streets is usually packed with the patient, uncomplaining restrained drivers who are courteous enough to allow the fellow motorists to pass through, even though the other is not following traffic rules, without raising a ruckus or the middle finger.

The first part of the trail involved a 3-hour walk to Baal Village. Dressed to the occasion, anticipating cool temperatures, we were stuffed with long-sleeved vests and double-layered clothing, we left what remained as the last semblance of civilisation. Equipped with Mr Manu, our guide, his helper, a cook and four faithful ponies, the mission began. This stretch started with a steep one-hour hike. The path was paved by cuboidal granite slabs which acted like steep stairs. As we kept climbing, we started peeling off our clothes one by one. The air was getting thinner, but the sun was out with a vengeance. We could feel the thinness of the air as we ascended rapidly. The route was, however, was not a lonely one. Along the way passed high-spirited fellow tourists and even Buddhist monk who meditated in monasteries up in the mountains who were free with their cursory greetings and also posed for a shot or two.

Fig. 4: It ain't heavy, it is just my karma. ©FG

All through our journey, at the back of our minds, we were ambivalent on our decision to agree to employ the services of timid ever accommodating services of these ponies. Of course, it is inhumane to put these obliging creatures to carry our worldly burdens. But at the same time, we justified by telling ourselves that it is a win-win situation. The ponies broke their sweat for the employers who would have the finances to put nutritious feeds on their plates as well as the owners’ families. The ponies can walk with their heads held high knowing well that they work for their existence and not live on handouts.

Our stopover at Baal Village was an idyllic double-storey chalet by a slow-moving stream. It was situated strategically at the junction where mountain tribal people traverse. It was here we had the honour of witnessing a traditional wedding complete with full regalia.

Fig. 5: By the streams of Baal Village, where we sat down. ©FG 

 

Fig. 6: A big day in a small place. 

In what seems like a place where nothing happens, a wedding brings out the colour and the smiles in everyone. Is it not cruel to revel in the plunge of others? Music, food, wine ruled! ©FG

Fig 7: The Guardian of the Mountains.©FG

Sprinkled along the path of the hills are many small structures, stone monuments and deities to pay dues to the spirit of the mountains. On special occasions, scores of worshippers throng these powerful places to show respect. At least devotion here is democratic - there are no individual preferences. The young, old and the weak have to endure the hike to reach their destinations; no special pass, no express lane. Devotees have to go to the mountains, the mountains will not come to them!

#Day 2

Fig. 8: Survived the first night, off to conquer the rest. ©FG.

After a not so good nights' rest in an unfamiliar wrap of the sleeping bag, despite the comforts of the chalet in Baal Village, it was time to hit the trails. Towards the end of Day 1, we almost had a scare. One of our hikers had pulled his thigh adductors muscles (of all places). Only then did we realise that with all the backup that we had, we found ourselves handicapped to treat something as simple as a cramp. After multiple trials, errors and manoeuvres as well considering sending him back on a pony, he miraculous recovered at the mention of the word whiskey! That was the excitement of Day 1. 

After a hearty breakfast fit for the King, prepared by the friendly chef, he headed towards the dizzying heights of Triund. Thanks to our local outdoor activities' shop in Subang Jaya, we were dressed to the nines to meet the challenge that Triund had for us. Again, we soon discovered ourselves to be overdressed for the occasion. As the body got heated with the walking and the rising sun, one by one, we started stripping our tunics. We ended up just with short-sleeved T-shirts and multi-purpose long pants.

Many locals seem to treat this stretch of the hike as a literal 'walk-in-the-park'. College students with too much time on their hands were seen making last-minute decisions whether to make a day trip up to Triund. And some were still in their party clothes and stilettos from the night before, I reckoned. Surprisingly, they all eventually made it, in about 2 to 3 hours. I suppose they had the luxury of youth and home ground to their advantage.

The landscape as we approached Triund is one of a surprise after another. Just as we thought we had the best postcard shot, right in front of our eyes would another and another. The best was yet to come. At the peak, flashed in our faces were 360o of panoramic flaunting of Mother Nature in her full glory - mountains, ridges, troughs, ravines, greenery, snow and rocks.

Fig. 9: A kaleidoscopic play of colours by Nature. 
Snowy white on the top, frosty white in the bottom, interlaced by shades of brown and black of the hardy granite terrain and bark of a tree with a spread of leafy green and mustard yellow flowers dancing to the tunes of the quiet stream and cooling zephyr.©FG

Fig. 10: The view as we peel open the leave of sheet from the inside of our tents in Triund. 
Do not need to go to the Alps for this view. The camping ground in Triund is a flat plateau overlooking some of the best breathtaking mountain range in the world. Snow-capped tips on one side with ravines and valleys as far as the eyes can see is a sight not for the faint-hearted.©FG

Fig. 11: The sun subtly announces the end of another day in paradise. Sunset in Triund. The horizon appears blue as if it were the ocean. In reality, it is just land and more land. The ground that stood still to the antics of Man over the millennia. ©FG

The picturesque view of the Indian sunset belied the trouble that was awaiting us as darkness fell. "It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us," said Mandela. On the contrary, the temperature plummeted our anxiety of the cold raised. In the war between Man versus Nature, Mother Nature must have bowled him over many times. When looking up at the emptiness of the sky and counting stars became a seriously numbing business, we had to curl up to the comforts of the tent which housed the kitchen. With the warmth provided by the burning stove, the steamy soups, bread, accompaniments and the inhibitory input from the Devil's brew, we were in high spirits!

Fig. 12: It is the heat and the cold at extremes we despair ©FG.  The ability of humans to live through exceptional temperatures must be the reason we have become the most dominant species on Earth surpassing more prominent and stronger animals.

Fig. 12: It is the heat and the cold at extremes we despair ©FG. 
The ability of humans to live through exceptional temperatures must be the reason we have become the most dominant species on Earth surpassing more prominent and stronger animals.

#Day 3

The experience of the night before humbled us. We thought that with our state of the art sleeping bags which could withstand temperatures down to +5º C, thick thermals and the tired bodies of the activities of the day, we would be sleeping like babies. Little did we realise it was a lesson in thermodynamics. Cold winds have the nasty habit of sneaking through tiny cracks and crannies to play games with our cold receptors! We came to realise the temperature on the night before must have dipped to subzeroº C levels as the ground, the following was distinctly frosty.

This must be the most anticipated day of our tour. That was the day that we were to make a beeline to the snow line. Anxiety was high. The route had frequently been closed when the weather did not permit. Our leader could not make it, even to Triund, the previous year due to thick snow. After all the preparations and all, we thought it would be like icing on the cake if it could end our trip with a memorable happy ending. The thrill of scaling the thick snow and the natural landscape of the Himalaya made us forget that we could have lost more than 3000kCal that day alone.

Fig. 13: Skilfully scaling the slippery slope to avert slip-sliding away. ©FG.

Fig. 13: Skilfully scaling the slippery slope to avert slip-sliding away. ©FG.

Fig. 14: Picture perfect shots any direction you point your viewfinder ©FG.

Fig. 15: Such a feeling coming over me, I see wonder in almost everything I see. ©FG.

Fig. 15: Such a feeling coming over me, I see wonder in almost everything I see. ©FG.

Fig. 16: Can you imagine manning a cafe to service that occasional hiker that passes your way? 
We saw such many of such establishments - stalls with the bare minimum to quench the thirst and caffeine (or tea) fix. Perhaps the owners are there not to make money, as the prices are just marginally higher, but to fulfil specific karmic duties. Maybe they had been enlightened to realise that it is their dharma to serve their speciality tea, ginger-lemon-honey tea, to mountaineers. ©BobSingh

Even though we were cursing through our trail with full confidence placed in the reliable hands of our capable guide, the journey may have harrowing for the unprepared. In some places, melting snow made it very slippery, especially when manoeuvring through steep paths. Once or twice, we accidentally stepped full-length into hollow spaces when we had accidentally misjudged the depth of the snow. We soon learnt that a pole preceding our step was life-saving.

Of all the things one could encounter, one of our members, for the first time in his adult life, despite having scaled many tropical hills before, discovered that he has acrophobia (irrational fear of heights)! Somehow, he managed to scale down back to our tents at the end of the day. His greatest concern, however, was how he was going to descend the next day as we had planned to take a steeper way back.

In our previous home ground training, the thick vegetations must have had concealed the extent our climbs. In the open space of the Snow Line, the inner demons must have unleashed.

 Fig. 17: The extent of our expedition at 3,850 m ©EsKay

In the background is the path leading to Moon Peak. Our guide advised stopping at this level as walking conditions became harsh. As we were resting and enjoying the fruit of our expedition, four Russian punks in the summer T-shirts and basketball shoes were rushing off to the Peak with no guide, food or supplies. Despite our guide’s advice of the danger of their foolhardy, they pursued without any inhibitions. Many recalcitrant travellers have lost in these mountains, and some do not even make it to the statistics. They are never found, or their trip is never recorded. 

#Day 4

It was time to leave, bringing home memories and the rejuvenated unwound bodies to face the challenges of the modern world. For the mountains, it is just another day with another set of tourists. It must have been her experience that all her visitors returned awed by the splendour of Nature. It is indeed a humbling experience. We realise the minuscule of our existence and that we do not really matter to the grander scheme of things. It is only our delusional point of reference that wants to destroy the environment that we scarcely understand to satisfy our bottomless needs.

Fig. 18: Mission accomplished. ©FG.

                                Fig. 18: Mission accomplished. ©FG.                         

Word of appreciation goes to Mr Manu Hiyunri of Manu Adventure, Bhagsu Nag, Dharamsala for his meticulous planning and extreme care for our safety and comfort.
We are grateful to the chef Mr Subhash and his helper, Mr Suresh and the pony man, Mr. Nandu. Kudos to our slave-driver fitness coach Mr Bhupinder Singh without whom we would be just another couch potato. Thanks to our spouses for the support and trust that our time is spent in a worthwhile manner.

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Nothing has really changed?

Rang De Basanthi (Colour me with colours of spring, Colours of Sacrifice, Hindi; 2006)

The story is the same, irrespective of the times. It is always the own people going after their kind. The people in the lowest of the pecking order are still the victims. The leaders cajole the general public to agree on something. It then becomes a decree. Failing to conform to the law is classified as high treason and death become a justified form of punishment to the lawbreakers. The modus operandi is always the same. Only the setting differs.

This movie is said to be a milestone in stirring the nationalistic spirit commonly found in modern-day India. The culture of speaking out in the open against the powers that be, candle vigils and on the spot media coverage of 'breaking news'seems to have permeated into modern day living so seamlessly.

Creatively, this film tries to portray how the general public just ends up being slaves. If we look at a time before Independence, the people are taken for a ride by the colonial masters, depriving them of their rights and dignity. 

They thought Independence would change all that; that Indians would be their own master, free to do things as they wished. They thought life would be different. Surprise, surprise. Sixty years (then) into independence things remain the same. If before, it used to be that public had to resist the tyranny of the foreign invaders, now it is the powerplay of political leaders, religious zealots and unscrupulous businessmen. The struggle is the same, the issues are the same but only the time is different. Earlier it was the Indian Imperial Police playing running dog for the British to maintain law and order, now it is the Indian Police Service doing the same for the rulers of the day. In the eyes of the public, both leaders seem to be doing the same thing - robbing the nation in broad daylight and using rhetorics, jargons and media to whitewash their actions.

Maybe it is a wakeup call to the dwellers of this nation too. People cannot depend on our leaders to change our destiny. Only we, the people can improve our lifeline and headline with changing our leaders like diapers regularly. Eventually, they would all be soiled and stink to high heaven.

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We are here!

Gowri (2016)
Author: V G Kumar Das


As our leaders frantically try their level best to rewrite history as they seem fit, to satisfy their personal agendas, there is no better time than now for books like this one to come out. In fact, books of this kind are long overdue. 

Family narrations of this nature must surely be a regular feature in most Malaysian Indian family circles. In fact, it is the story of economic immigrants the world over. The push factor drives a brave group of fortune seekers to go beyond their shores to explore greener pastures. Accommodating to the demands of their new found lands, with the trust in God Almighty, these new sojourners persevere. 

Losing everything and gaining nothing by becoming sluggards, they know that hard work is the only way to unshackle themselves from the clutches of poverty. Inadvertently, their labour pays back in their and their offspring's standard of living. The incidental beneficiary of all these is the development of the nation-state.

'Gowri' is a dedication of love from a doting son to his mother. The author had to grow overnight to adulthood to be the de facto 'head' of the family after the demise of his father when he was mere seventeen. He, in great details, tries to trace his immediate relatives and puts the records straight for the descendants of Madam Gowri Panicker to know where they came from, the labour of the family in establishing themselves and exerting themselves vigorously as lawful citizens of this country. 

Treading through thick and thin, from 1939, along with the history of the country, through World War 2, the communist insurgency and the dizzying era after Malayan Independence, the family, can proudly say, "they were there!"; from the inception of Malaysia to its current state.

Another recurring theme in most Malaysian Indian family's success story is education. Its importance cannot be overemphasised here too. Gowri, who had the misfortune of being deprived of higher level education because of some family issues, understood its importance. She ensured that her children had the opportunities for what she had missed. She herself was a role model for her kids as she self-taught English and Tamil and was a voracious reader.

It is enlightening to see how siblings of the bygone era sacrificed for the wellbeing of their siblings. In this fast-changing world of self-centeredness, I wonder if this virtue would still hold in time to come.

The generation before us was definitely a resilient lot. They encountered adversities headlong with calculated risk and with the trust in God. It is incredible how the belief in the divine forces can make one stronger beyond their own expectations. Rather than thinking and overthinking, sometimes putting the responsibility on the celestial bodies and entering combat wholeheartedly allays uncertainties in life. If you win, you thank God; if you fail, you accept that it was not meant to be.

Life is an unpredictable journey. There are no distinct paths to follow. The road least followed could open new frontiers, but conversely, it could be your coup de grâce! Accepting that the Gods are silent, Man looks for other telltale signs. Astrology and signs of Nature are taken as guides; chirping of lizards, fluttering of eyes, sneezing and chiming of clocks all denote hidden messages for us to consider!

The story of Gowri is the story of her new Motherland. Just like how Gowri and her family grew their roots deep into Malaysia, Malaysia also prospered in tandem. Like her children who spread their wings to the four corners of the world, the pride of the country flew majestically over the globe via the hard work of the immigrant population like Gowri who decided to call this country home and of their descendants who were willing to toil, sweat and bleed for this nation.

Running through this biography, one gets the feeling as though the ultimate question about our existence may be answered. The dilemma whether our presence here on Earth is to savour the fruit of our previous favourable karmas or to be a testbed for future births. The answer is neither; it is to propel our kith and kins forward, one notch higher than the generation before them. Period. 

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