The Land that Still Speaks - Dr AM Sreedharan and Dr Sruthy Chandrasekhar

It's a collection of Tulu modern poems, translated by Dr AM Sreedharan, Director of the Centre of Excellence in Indian Knowledge Systems, Alliance University, Bangalore and Dr Sruthy Chandrasekhar, Founder and Head of the School of Performing, Visual and Creative Arts. Both are highly qualified and accomplished in their fields - Dr Sreedharan has translated novels, folk songs, short stories, poetry from Tulu, Kannada and has received several awards including the Kerala Sahitya Akademi Award for translation and Dr Sruthy is a performing artist, playback singer, researcher with a Doctorate in Carnatic Music, and is an exponent of Mohinyattam, Kathakali, Sopana Sangeetham, Abhinaya Sangeetham. 

The Land that Still Speaks is about how certain landscapes continue to articulate histories, identities in an age of tech change. It recounts Paddanas, the oral epics that narrate the origins of spirits, communities and moral worlds. Bhoota Kola and other such traditional forms of the old and the tension that exists between the old and the new. The book is dedicated to Sri Venkata Raja Puncchittaya (1936-2012), noted poet, playwright, actor and researcher. The first three poems are by him while the other 100 poems are written by 42 poets.

The themes explored in the book are about the land, life in Tulu Nadu, of the rural and urban life, school children, changes in attitudes, the beauty of the language, festivals, rituals such as making new rice, the family and tradition, devotional songs, fragrances of the land, even political subjects such as gender, bias and so on.

I met Dr Sreedharan when I visited the School of Performing, Visual and Creative Arts and he told me he had over 40 published books. He gifted me this book for which I am very grateful.          

N.R. Swami - The Doyen of Odisha Journalism - N. Jagannath Das

This book is a work of love from a loving son to an accomplished father, compiled by the well-known and much-loved sports journalist from Hyderabad, N. Jagannath Das who worked with The Indian Express for most of his career hails from a family of journalists. His father (and the subject of this book) N.R. Swami was a highly respected journalist in Odisha who wrote for PTI, The Statesman and The Hindu mainly, over five decades (he knew or met Presidents, Prime Ministers, Chief Ministers and so on on a personal basis) Das, the youngest of nine, five brothers (N.V.R.Swami, N. Pattabhi, N. Venkat Subbiah, Late N. Ramdas and Das - four of whom became journalists), and five sisters (Kasturi, Sita, Sarada and Ratnamala), has taken it upon himself to put together the story of his accomplished father N.R. Swami and preserve his memory for posterity.

N.R. Swami (1909-1981), was the son of a policeman who migrated from Guntur to Odisha. Thanks to some invaluable audio recordings done by one of his sons-in-law, some precious, early memories of N.R. Swami aka Swami Babu were captured. A peek into those early days of N. R. Swami reveal an energetic, intelligent and mischievous child who quickly learned to swim, ride a bicycle and even ride a horse (policemen used to ride horses then). He was also a stubborn child having run away twice from his house over some scolding. He also tells of how he was planning to buy a train and with half an anna - his strategy was to acquire the half anna, walk into the railway station and ask if he could buy a train! After schooling he was sent to Madras where he learned shorthand and typing and joined work at Rs 18 as a clerk at the Munsif court. He returned from Madras after finding the work rather unchallenging, and hoped to head off to Burma for better prospects. 

However he developed an interest in journalism after being inspired by the Satyagraha movement. He wrote an article and sent it off to PTI - and that  article earned him an entry into journalism. His entry to The Statesman was even more dramatic. He applied for a job at The Statesman in Calcutta, which was mainly run by Britishers, and was called for an interview. He reached Calcutta by train and called them throughout the day but found no answer. At the end of the day he decided to return home to Odisha and made one last call from Howrah station. This time he was called for the interview and given the job. The bosses were, it appears, testing if he had the patience and persistence required of a good journalist. NR Swami displayed both in ample measure. (There's a story of how he went to cover the floods in the dark and was on the railway track with his friend when he fortuitously heard the oncoming train and stepped back just in the nick of the time. All to cover the news and bring it to the public.)

Energetic, diligent, persuasive, N. R. Swami had an eye for a good story, was first on the scene, backed his stories with meticulous research, facts and statistics, and maintained true an uncompromising attitude in his search for the truth. He covered elections, wrote on government policy, covered calamities like drought and floods, cyclones, the lives of adivasis, wildlife, and even sports. President VV Giri was a personal friend and would always meet him when he visited Orissa - once even invited NR Swami and his spouse Sita along with the family to the Rashtrapati Bhavan in Delhi. (I think I saw Das's picture as a young boy at the Rashtrapati Bhavan.) He met Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru, was a good friend of Biju Patnaik and several others. He was once offered the Rajya Sabha seat which he declined saying he was a journalist and not a politician. Guided by his values and ethics, a loving heart and a zest of life, Swami loved his cars (Minx, Morris Minor, Ford Prefect, Standard Herald), his dogs (had a dalmatian), his cigarettes which he rolled himself and of course his work. No wonder he carved a name for himself in journalism in Odisha.

They say - 'if you have not made enemies, you have not stood up for anything. N.R. Swami's upright stance and reporting things without bias, as he saw them, cost him. The Congress Government in Orissa then headed by Dr Mahatab were unhappy with his reports and in what we now see as not an unusual plot, wrote to PTI, The Statesman and The Hindu, that Swami seemed to be on the payroll of a foreign embassy to oust the Congress  and should be removed from his job. PTI transferred him while the other two did not heed the letter. The Hindu on the other hand, sent Swami a copy of the letter they received from the government. Armed with the letter, Swami filed a defamation case against the government - a case which he won and was awarded Rs. 28000 for loss of reputation! It was a landmark case as the courts then had the guts to stand up to the ruling government and noted that the CM's evidence was not credible. However the court proceedings took a long time (finally cleared in 1970). In the meanwhile he left PTI, shifted to a small two room house with his large family, a house so small that most of the belongings were left out in the garden and he would sleep in his car. Things improved and he shifted into a bigger house later.

His meetings with Mahatma Gandhi did not go well but mostly because of Gandhi's likes and dislikes - once because of the smell of tobacco (Swami was a smoker) and once because he was wearing western clothes (he was a natty dresser).The ones with Nehru seemed to have gone better after a stuttering start - once when Nehru and Lady Mountbatten came to Orissa and went missing he followed them down to the guest house under the pretext of delivering a newspaper and managed to meet him and in another by getting into the same compartment as the train was moving and staying on for an interview.  There are articles about the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi being hit by a stone in 1967 when she came for a rally (a student threw it), about Hirakud dam where he covered the aspects of development and tribal displacement and Nehru's vision of 'temples of tomorrow', of the National Games of 1958 which was dominated by Milkha Singh and Gulzara Singh, about a judge being unhappy with a poorly drafted document, about the Nandankanan zoo and its white tigress Khairi (which actually was tame and was brought to their house by the Conservator). He received a citation from the Indian Institute for National integration in 1976 in recognition of his lifelong work. 

The book is a fascinating peek into his life and like I said, a work of love, which will serve the family, young writers and journalists, and students of life well. There is much to learn from his work ethic and values and discipline. The gentleness that is ascribed to him shows in the words he uses - for example he would not write that a record was 'broken' but used 'lowered' which is a gentler perspective. Another interesting story on how his reports have been archived systematically is that an American couple who lived next door to them in Cuttack, Richard Tubb and his wife, took it upon themselves to organise the thousands of newspaper cuttings in a folder which became the source material for this book. 

The 112 page book has a nice size, wonderful pictures of family, writing tools such as the typewriters, camera, scanned copies of some reports and essays written by his sons, daughter. daughter in law, one granddaughter. The foreword is written by PV Rajagopal, IPS (Retd) and a preface by Brojendra Patnaik (former Principal of BJB College). It is a well captured snapshot of a life well-lived and an effort I feel that should be emulated by every family to record the stories of their elders which can be lost to their children, grandchildren and so on. Future generations will know them as real people with real stories and not just as an ancestor, a few pictures and a fading memory. For this I commend Das in taking up this initiative and bringing the story of his father to a wider audience. 

I really enjoyed reading it. It's a nice easy read, with fascinating details and information. It is well-produced and has just the right balance - not too much, and not too little. Good job Das and here's wishing the book all success. And looking forward to more of your books. Like your father would say 'Keep Writing'!            

Hyderabad by Walk - Yusuf Tekri Food Walk

Deccan Archives has a very busy couple of weeks with a bunch of programs. I liked the food walks part - one at Yusuf Tekri which I have never been to, and another at Mallepally, which I have been to last year. (I would have gone again if it wasn't the next day.)

Yusuf Tekri

I called Vasu, my partner in these walks, , and he was game. He also got his childhood friend Anand who was at All Saints High School with us and then went to Little Flower Junior College and further on to CBIT with Vasu. Though we were in adjacent classrooms in All Saints and had many common friends, Anand and I didn't recognise one another one bit. We probably operated in different orbits. But that didn't matter as caught up now and tried to get a few common points like friends, teachers etc.

Here's the Shehr walks schedule. 

Anyway the three  of us went to Yusuf Tekri, an old imposing mansion at Toli Chowki, apparently owned at one time by a Subedar from Gulbarga who served with the sixth Nizam. Right now it's not inhabited, except for a few youngsters who were busy doing something on the steps. Not long after, we were joined by a young couple, a journalist and a professor of public policy who teaches in Gitam. I remember meeting them on the Rashtrapati Nilayam walk and they recognised me as well. Since we recognised one another we didn't reaquaint ourselves with names. So I ended up not knowing their names but knowing another young man, Bismay, from Bhubaneshwar, who I met for the first time. Such is life. Wahaj came with Dheeraj and we got off to the food walk in the right earnest. This is just a food walk said Wahaj which sounded interesting. 

Toli Chowki as I remember in the 90s was full of farm houses and rather desolate. It was then the beginning of the Old Mumbai Highway once you passed Mehdipatnam and wound it's way along fields I guess until one hit the Central University campus which was equally desolate. Now Toli Chowki a crowded, glitzy place with all kinds of Middle Eastern and Mediterranean food, brought home by Hyderabadis who lived abroad and have made their way back home. The farm houses have gone and so have the trees and its just crazy buildings all over. 

4 Seasons - the big daddy

We walked to the famous food court where 4Seasons is located, opposite Shah Ghouse restaurant, and a hundred other food outlets, a few minutes from where we met. Wahaj guided us in his unhurried, courteous and controlled manner. He has this way about him where he makes everyone comfortable, says just enough, is approachable, has a sense of humor, is knowledgeable...all wonderful qualities...most of all he just handles everything so smoothly that you can just relax and have a good time. 

Vasu in a pensive mood after the Ice and Spice experience

We first walked into this place called Ice and Spice which is a few shops away in the same row as 4Seasons. Here he ordered small portions of Qubbus (a fluffy roti) and falafel. We stuffed the Qubbus with falafel (like a vada pav) and added the other ingredients with it. Delicious. There were some dips to go with it. 

Mutabbaq

Post Qubbus and falafel he ordered Mutabbaq which was like a sandwich - chicken with some fine fillings between bread. Again, delicious stuff and I had a quarter, very conscious of the fact that we have other joints to visit. The conversations were fun with Anand sharing a lot of information about his life in Wisconsin, his DJ son who had this fascinating career, Vasu with his jokes, the rest of us doing our bit and Dheeraj and Wahaj chipping in. As we stepped out we picked up a hibiscus drink. Quite nice. 

Raising a toast to Mutabbaq

A few shops down we walked into Siddique Kebab Centre, and went upstairs to sit. It's a bit crowded and a bit messy but quite popular by the crowds. We found places luckily because after we sat a  lot of people came and simply stood waiting for a long time. 

Siddique Kebab Centre - pretty popular

Awaiting the kebabs

Wahaj ordered a fish kebab (a whole fish) followed by chicken kebab. Quite filling and I was suggesting we walk around a bit before our next stop. We circled the food court and moved on.

We crossed the busy road and walked over to Hassan Dairy where Wahaj ordered some nice khova malai bin and gulam jamun bun. Though it looked rather heavy it was not - was not very sweet, not very heavy. I ate a quarter and loved it.

Hassan Dairy 

Checking out the stuff

Onwards to Nice Juice Centre which was spread all over but which had this nice upstairs bit, where we had a choice of fruit salad or fresh fruit juice. Since chai was on offer next I decided to go with fruit salad and it was pretty good. I shared it with Anand, it was pretty huge. 

Nice Juice Centre

Anand, me and Wahaj toasting with Fruit Salad

And then we trudged along to the Kabul restaurant nearby which had a zafrani chai counter outside and i shared one with Vasu.

 And then pudina paan at the paan shop, small a very handleable. 

Pudina paan

I was feeling quite full by then which is one of the objectives of a food walk I guess. We bid good bye to the rest and headed off. Anand said we could do a walk around the complex he lives in and so we did walk for 10 minutes before we headed back. Fully worth the 1500 bucks. Thanks Deccan Archives, Safwan who pointed me in the direction, Wahaj for leading the walk and Dheeraj for helping.

Acts of Love - Parents and Children

Always the unconditional love. The complete faith a child places in the parent, and the unconditional love a parent has for the child. It shows in the way they walk, they stand, they hold - two lives as one. 

Beautiful.

Acts of Love - Moments of Peace

What more do you need? A quiet place, a bench, a lovely scene of the city and the sea, your loved one, sweet nothings, perhaps a future planned together. Who knows - could be the love story of the century. 

Don't see too many such quiet moments anymore. 

Felt I had to post this.

Another Anonymous Blog - All Saints Cricket Days

I entered All Saints High School in the second grade, having recently moved from North India to the vibrant bustle of Hyderabad. My father and uncle were devout cricket purists, and my dad eagerly encouraged me to track the daily scores through The Hindu. My baptism into the sport was the unforgettable India-England series where our batting lineup crumbled to a paltry 42.

The Early Days of Gully and Glory

Naturally, I gravitated toward gully cricket. In the fourth grade, our ragtag neighborhood team—proudly christened Basant Talkies—scheduled a match in Barkatpura. Somehow, I managed to organize the logistics, carrying the brief authority of a self-appointed captain.

The moment we arrived at the ground, however, that illusion vanished as the older boys unceremoniously stripped me of my command. We won the toss and, with textbook schoolboy optimism, chose to bat. I managed to weasel my way higher up the order, only to scratch out a miserable single before keeping my head down and quietly slipping away from the ground before our fielding innings began.

My hand-eye coordination was, and remains, an absolute tragedy. Incapable of timing a stroke, I was relegated to survivalist defense. Turning to bowling, I lacked the athleticism to generate pace or extract turn, relying entirely on a stubborn adherence to length and line. Blessed with hands that felt remarkably like rubber, catching a cricket ball was a hazardous gamble. It didn't take long to understand my pecking order in the playground. I was destined for a much safer role: a Cricket Dreamer.

The Crucible of All Saints

By fifth grade, Saturday afternoons held a sacred rhythm reserved for primary school cricket selections. Brother K. M. Joseph possessed an uncanny, almost divine eye for talent and a rare gift for motivation. As I stood on the sidelines with the other non-playing observers, Abdul Rub was named captain, and a sharp young kid from the Telugu section, D. Suresh, was picked first. I belonged to the Hindi section; friends like Michael and Farrukh, whom I considered genuine athletes, were chosen rungs lower down.

That team went on to sweep the Montfort tournament, even scaling the ultimate peak by defeating our fierce rivals, Hyderabad Public School (HPS). The breathless, wide-eyed stories my friends brought back fueled my imagination for days.

In sixth grade, Deccan Chronicle deliveries became my window to the wider world of school cricket. Milton Balm captained the side as a ninth grader, with a quiet ninth-and-tenth-grade prodigy named Mohammed Azharuddin carving his own legend. Think about that: the future captain of the Indian national team wasn't even the captain of his own high school side. I vividly remember a match where Milton and Azhar both scored centuries—the prelude to Azhar stringing together consecutive hundreds in back-to-back games.

Spin, Swelter, and Spectatorship

When seventh grade arrived, All Saints instituted the House system: Red, Green, Blue, and Yellow. Assigned to Red House under Farrukh’s captaincy, I was surprisingly drafted as an off-spinner. We faced Green House in our opening fixture. Batting late in the order, I entered a defensive trance, padding away deliveries and desperately evading the umpire's finger before likely being run out.

After four overs, Farrukh tossed me the ball. I attempted a gentle, perspiring medium-pace run-up, somehow dragging my aching limbs through the crease to complete a legal over. Emboldened, Farrukh handed me the ball for a second spell, prompting a catastrophic pivot to spin. Abdul Rub took guard, immediately dispatching me to the boundaries on both sides of the wicket. In a fit of tactical delusion, I tried to flight the ball, delivering a fat, floating lollipop that was summarily deposited deep into the stands. It was an instant, public execution of my playing aspirations, cementing my permanent status as a Cricket Dreamer.

A Golden Era of Legends

My daily commute involved taking Bus No. 127 from Banjara Hills to Abids. By eighth grade, Mohd Rafiq—a commanding fast bowler and useful batsman—had taken the reins as All Saints captain. One afternoon, Brother Joseph swept into our classroom inquiring after Ehtesham, the vice-captain being quietly groomed for leadership who would later grace the Ranji Trophy.

We watched practice sessions from the cool security of the parapet wall. "Look at the next batsman die for practice," a friend murmured, pointing toward D. Suresh, yet another future Ranji stalwart who, alongside his legendary athletic brothers, helped secure more Montfort silverware and HPS scalps. I can still hear Brother Joseph muttering how our compact All Saints ground might handicap our players when transitioning to the expansive pastures of HPS.

By ninth grade, the walk from school past LB Stadium to catch the 127 bus from the Assembly stop was a daily ritual. I often crossed paths with Azhar, a solitary figure waiting patiently for public transport after rigorous net sessions at Nizam College.

 As my aptitude for mathematics and writing quietly developed, my cricket daydreams grew correspondingly grander.

The International Stage

Entering the tenth grade, the school machine hummed with rare synergy, featuring battle-tested veterans like Hari Mohan—a genuine fast bowler and handy hitter who would join Ehtesham and Suresh in the Ranji ranks. Contemporaries like Srinivas C., Masood, and Subodh dominated the under-19 circuit, forging an absolute powerhouse of a team.

By the time I reached junior college, former players like Rahi Prakash kept the old folklore alive. Then came the tectonic shift: Venkatapathy Raju was drafted from HPS into All Saints, a junior whose prodigious spin had my younger brother urging me to watch closely.

During my first year of engineering, the echo chambers of Hyderabad cricket erupted. Azhar stroked a magnificent double century against England in a tour warm-up, earned his Test cap, and proceeded to carve his name into immortality with three consecutive hundreds on debut. What a staggering arrival. In one breathtaking stroke, he placed All Saints squarely on the international cricket map.

Looking back across the nostalgia of those eight formative years, watching from the periphery as an observer and an eternal dreamer, All Saints wasn't just a school. Its legendary cricket culture served as the heartbeat and cornerstone of my youth.

Thought for the Day - Adaptability - the Greatest Virtue of a Leader

To roll with the punches, to sway with the breeze, to not be rigid and inflexible, is one of the greatest, if not the greatest of virtues as I see it.

Simply because it shows an open mind, a mind that's open to suggestions, possibilities and points of view that might have been missed, a mind that is open to listening, a mind that can absorb and not shut out, a mind that can infuse humour into an situation and a mind that can infuse the other with a sense of responsibility, ownership and being seen. 

How does it show? In listening, in showing an ability to modify or change plans, in considering options seriously and not striking them down, in smiling, in putting an arm around the others and say we're in this together.