My tribute R.K Laxman, creator of the orginal aam admi ...!

Long live the Common Man

• Obituary

He was India’s best-known cartoonist, though his creation was more popular than he was. With his deft lines and witty humor, this prolific genius touched many lives day after day, year after year
By Ashim Choudhury

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It was July 1990. Calcutta was agog. RK Laxman was coming to town for his exhibition, “City Life”, chronicling the life and times of the city through his sketches. I was with the air force then, but nurturing dreams of making it as a writer and a cartoonist. And before me, at the exhibition, mobbed by admiring fans was the legend himself. I instantly made up my mind to interview him. He wasn’t very obliging, as I neither had a prior appointment nor was I on the staff of The Statesman or even the fledgling Telegraph. But, not one to be put off by insolence, I pursued him doggedly, forcing him or, more often, his wife to answer my questions. “City Life” was a roaring success as his sketches had transformed Calcutta’s garbage dumps, potholes, and traffic jams – all those mundane, frustrating aspects – into hilarious images.
Since he did not live in the city, I was prompted to ask how he managed to draw those vivid sketches. “He has a photographic mind,” Kamala, his wife offered. “He has a remarkable ability to remember places pictorially.” The sketches were products of an earlier visit to the city as he remembered it. It was this pictorial aspect of his cartoons that made them so appealing. Very often, they did not say a word, and yet the reader got the message with a gentle nudge on his funny bone. Laxman’s humor was rarely acerbic, tickling rather than poking the ribs. Between the common man and the establishment, he clearly sided with the underdog. “Is the cartoonist a natural enemy of the establishment?” I had asked. He fumbled for words finally saying: “Not exactly…but a cartoonist naturally goes against the grain.”
FAMILY MAN
Laxman’s cockiness, which came from knowing that he was the best, was mistaken by many for vanity and arrogance. It wasn’t so. The man who many thought was aloof (he had a soundproof room to himself at The Times of India office in Mumbai) was actually the family’s “handy man” as his wife put it. He loved unwinding, doing the odd job at home, repairing a leaking tap, replacing a broken windowpane or adjusting the TV antennae. When he was around at home, the plumber or the mechanic had no business there. At home he did no cartooning, except the odd freelance work. Remember Gattu, the Asian Paint boy? His daily cartoons were the result of a strict regime from 9 am to 5 pm in the office, where the first half of the day went in reading various newspaper stories and headlines. In the second half, he crystallized his thoughts and put them to paper with the deft strokes of his brush. Even editors did not always have the temerity to knock or enter his room when he was working.
Though in the nineties cartoons had still not been banished from the front pages, I had asked him what he thought of “cartooning as a dying art”. His face betrayed anger at the impertinence of the question. Put to the doyen of Indian cartooning, it did sound irreverent. But soon the livid expression melted into a smile that revealed his buckteeth. And he guffawed: “…not as long as I’m alive”. But to young people, like me, he did not recommend cartooning as a profession. “Don’t!” he had said. It was Kamala who explained: “He thinks it’s a thankless job.” Raising a laugh was no laughing matter; I had tried it briefly too. How Laxman managed to regale people with his deft lines and witty humor day after day, year after year, will remain an enigma. True, towards the end of his career he had begun to lose that punch. But then, the sheer volume of his work was monumental. There are no parallels to his prolific genius.
Rarely has a man’s creation been more popular than the man himself, in this case, the Common Man – the ageing bespectacled man in his checked jacket. “Why does he look so helpless…Why doesn’t your Common Man get angry?” I had asked. For a moment, the master of punning looked helpless searching for a retort, then his expression turned angry and he blurted: “…With the Chautalas and Devi Lals around, what can he do?” (Those days, the National Front government was gripped by a crisis when Chautala was re-elected the chief minister of Haryana). He was clear; he blamed politicians for the sad plight of the common man. Then, calling back through the throng of autograph seekers he said: “You can quote me on that.” There was something impish and child-like about Laxman. Deep down, he strongly empathized with the common man. It was this empathy that had millions of readers looking at his cartoons the first thing before moving on to the day’s headlines.
A COMMON LIFE
Laxman’s inspiration was David Low, the famous British cartoonist. “He was the only cartoonist I was exposed to in my early childhood,” Laxman admitted. Low later visited him in Bombay. There were many, kings, queens and heads of states who sought him out.
But this nation’s conscience-keeper once learnt the hard way the perils of being a common man. His car had broken down on Marine Drive in Mumbai on his way back from office. For over an hour, he stood on the road with his thumbs up, pleading for a ride. Not a single car stopped. It was little consolation that the next day, all the newspapers in the city carried this story on their
front pages.
It is ironical that this celebrated cartoonist was at one time denied entry into the JJ School of Art for not having the “right” talent. That denial hurt him deeply. To young aspiring artists his advice was: “Don’t go to any art school; it kills your creativity.” He also encouraged them not to copy but develop their own style.
With his passing away an epoch has ended. The man who worked with The Times of India since 1948 for over five decades, leaves behind a humungous body of work that should be treated as a national heritage. The best tribute to this genius would be to bring back cartoons to our front pages. Rasipuram Krishnaswami Laxman is dead, long live the Common Man!
Ashim Choudhury is the author of “The Sergeant’s Son”

‘Schools and teachers are responsible for low self-esteem in kids’

Ashim Choudhury

2015-01-17 , Issue 3 Volume 12

Illustration: Mayanglambam Dinesh

I feel peeved every time a proud parent announces on Facebook, “My son/daughter scored 98 percent, thanks for your blessings.” Hell! If I had blessings, wouldn’t I shower them on my own children? Unlike my proud Facebook friends, my own children are not “bright”. Since early childhood, they have been struggling with their exams. Now, in Class VI, their exams appear like an insurmountable peak. I am as overwhelmed as they are by their Himalayan textbooks and homework. It’s not completely their fault. The twins were preterm babies, born in the seventh month. I have tried to drill that important piece of information into their teachers’ heads, but in vain. Every time we are summoned for PTMs (parent-teacher meetings), my wife goes weak in the knees.
“Your child is not keeping abreast of the class,” the teachers solemnly tell us. They are incredulous when I reply, “It’s fine, I’m not preparing them for any rat race.” After one such PTM, we had to sign an undertaking that said, “We will do our best to improve the child’s performance.” All this has been very taxing for us. But I feel bad for the children. The school and teachers, unwittingly, are responsible for children’s low self-esteem. At home, the kids are bubbling with life and have a great time with their friends. They feel like equals. In school, they are quiet and withdrawn. I am no psychoanalyst, but it appears that the school atmosphere depresses the children. Their confidence ebbs the moment they reach school.
There are times when I despair and vent my anger at them. I have even thought of myself as an unlucky parent. Why? Just because my darlings are not good at studies, does it mean they will not grow up to be responsible citizens and lead happy lives? Judging them by their marks, I am doing exactly what the teachers in school have been guilty of: killing their confidence. Lately, I have asked the teachers to concentrate on their strengths. It has boosted their confidence. The best part, the children have suddenly started looking forward to school.
A new teacher has also worked wonders for them. Unlike other teachers who constantly put the children down, Gayathri Parthasarathi pats them on the back for little tasks completed. She has befriended the kids and they admire her.
That brings me back to the basic issue. We should encourage children, pat them on the back once in a while. It works wonders. Looking back at my own childhood, I too recall being diffident. Maths made me lose confidence. But, when I consistently got good marks at essay writing, I always thought it was by fluke. Even my classmates thought so. One day, giving away corrected essay copies, the teacher announced, “Ashim Choudhury, six marks!” And she added in a caustic tone, “Where did you copy that essay from?” I was speechless. “No ma’am,” I stammered, “I… I didn’t copy!” She still gave me a dirty look. I was upset for a long time until a voice inside me said, ‘Buddy, you write well. That’s why the teacher thinks you have copied the essay!’ It was the first left-handed compliment I had received for my writing skills. I began to believe in myself.
Left to the teachers alone, perhaps, I would never have become a journalist or a writer (though still struggling to make a name). So, if you have children who are ‘below average’, please do not let their school or teachers put them down. Look for their strengths instead. Children need to enjoy their lives. A Facebook message doing the rounds comes to mind: I was dying to finish school and enter college… then dying to finish college and start working… then dying to marry and have children… then dying for them to grow up… then dying to retire… And now when I’m dying… I suddenly realise I never lived! At least, let the children live!

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(Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 12 Issue 3, Dated 17 January 2015)

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Was at a recent exhibition in Delhi..

A father-son’s passion for art

Ashim Choudhury

November 27, 2014

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The recent exhibition of paintings and photographs by the father-son duo of Aloke Lal and his son Maanas was a curious experience. It was heart-warming to see how the artist father and photographer son complemented each other. When I said I was a landscape painter the father insisted I see the paintings first, “His photos are mostly landscapes, you’ll appreciate them.” It was young Maanas Lal who showed me around the gallery first. The first stop was a panoramic view of the Munnar lake and the sloping tea gardens. The black and white picture was indeed awe inspiring. To my comment that the photograph was more like a painting Maanas remarked, “There couldn’t be a better compliment.” There were quite a few such landscapes in Maanas’s repertoire, photographs that looked like paintings.
One that stood out was another BW painting of the sea front in Mumbai, a string of electric poles in the fading Arabian sea. Yet another majestic picture, also BW, was of a mountainscape from Chakrata in Uttarakhand the home state of the two. There were many such remarkable pictures. Some of the pictures were in colour, capturing light and shade with such elegance the word “classic” escapes your lips unintentionally. Another colour picture that this writer mistook for a painting was that of falling snow against a façade with windows. When told it looked like a painting, Maanas was pleased with the compliment. Another picture that calls for mention was a clock tower in Prague. The golden hue to the picture, taken around midnight, was amazing. “I had to expose the lens for as long as 15 seconds!” Maanas explained.

Maanas, a software engineer by profession who once worked for Infosys, says photography is his passion and that he intends to branch out into painting like his father. In fact when his father Aloke showed me his paintings it was Maanas who added those bits of information about the texture and grain of the canvas. When there were questions of price the father always turned to his son, “Manas, how much is this?” The son had most of the answers ready. But if you thought that the son was pursuing a future in photography and painting, you are wrong, the young man is currently preparing for a career in civil services. “Given a choice, I would love to be a photographer any day but…. It’s not easy making a niche for one self,” he trails off. If this talented photographer is lost to babudom it will be a sad day.
For father Aloke too painting is not a full time vocation though he has been painting since his childhood and has held exhibitions before. A former IPS, he took to painting with greater vigour after his retirement in 2012. Currently an Advisor to the governor of Uttarakhand, Aloke’s paintings, mostly acrylic on canvas, betray a deep concern for nature and our vanishing greenery. In more than one painting the theme is urbanization and the resultant loss of nature. “Environment,” he says, “is one of my favourite themes. My paintings bring out the devastation humanity is creating for itself.”

One his paintings also powerfully depict the devastation caused by the recent floods in Kedarnath and Uttarakhand. While Lord Ganesh occurs frequently in his work the colour orange is also used with flourish. One such large painting in orange, that of a cycle resting against a large wall, was the centre of attraction for many. Aloke is intrigued by the attention this particular painting has drawn saying, “The centre of attraction in the piece is actually the window.” Somehow, the tiny black cycle stands out against the massive orange wall. Though he works on various mediums acrylic remains Aloke’s favourite. And how would he describe himself, a modernist, a cubist? “I’m not a trained painter,” he says self-deprecatingly. “I do whatever appeals to me, it could be landscapes, portraits…anything”.
Looking at one of his etching, study of a horse’s head, I remark, “Hussain!” And pat, he leads me to a collage-like painting of little Hussain-like figures of horses and humans. “I did this soon after Hussain died; this is my tribute to one of India’s greatest artists,” he says. Aloke’s four large charcoal and pencil portraits of Mahatma Gandhi are his tribute to the father of the nation. The four moods of Gandhiji somehow dominated the exhibition walls. Aloke’s Gandhi, imprints of the original, are also keeping his cash registers ringing. Two of his “signature” Gandhis have already made it to the Raj Bhavans in Lucknow and Jaipur and another one is destined for their hometown in Dehradun, Uttarakhand. Gandhi has ignited a passion for portraits and Aloke may well give more attention to sketching portraits.
Ashim Choudhury is the author of The Sergeant’s Son

Check the prices ....

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PERSONAL HISTORIES

‘There are Munnabhais waiting for the kill everywhere’

Ashim Choudhury, 56, is the author of The Sergeant’s Son

Ashim Choudhury

2014-11-15 , Issue 46 Volume 11

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Illustration: Mayanglambam Dinesh

How often do you check the price before ordering food? Not often, particularly when you are travelling on a holiday and stop by at a modest-looking place. But I’ve learned the hard way that checking prices before ordering is better than feeling cheated later, with a bad taste in the mouth.

To me, the ambience matters more than the food. I like the fast-disappearing old-world dhabas along the highways, the ones that had charpoys laid out. But some of them can be deceptively simple. Behind those humble counters can be men ready to rip you off.
So, while on a highway trip with a friend, I stopped by at one such dhaba. “What’s for breakfast?” I asked and the dhaba boy reeled out a string of culinary names. Cutting him short, I asked how much a breakfast costs. “50,” he said and I, duly impressed with the low price, ordered two breakfasts. The platter was impressive. It had two subjis, four puris, curd, pickle and even a gulab jamun. As we ate, my friend remarked, “Are you sure this costs only Rs 50?”
The same thought was on my mind as well, yet we went on to order two teas. And this time, I didn’t ask the price. How much would it be, maximum Rs 5? In those days, tea at a wayside shop cost just Rs 3.
After the heavy repast, we stretched ourselves on the charpoy, took in the sky and asked, “How much?” The boy disappeared, brought another thali with saunf, misri, toothpick and the bill. One look at the amount and my temper went up the hill. The breakfast had cost us 390! The thali was for Rs 170 and the humble chai was for Rs 25! “What’s this?” we exclaimed, “You said Rs 50 for a breakfast, didn’t you?” That, the boy clarified, was the cost of an ordinary thali. He had given us a special thali. “We didn’t ask for a special thali?” I protested. And the chai, we were told, was also “special”.
I was ready for a fight even though the stocky sardar behind the counter looked rather formidable. “Paaji, what’s this? Is this how you loot people?” I remarked. The man, engrossed in cooking, pretended not to hear me. He was adamant that he would take Rs 390 and not a paisa less. That’s when my friend decided to roll up his sleeves and take matters in his own hands. He slapped Rs 200 on the table with a threat, “Take it if you want to, else *******.” The swearing worked and we left in a huff, hurling more abuses at the sardar.
There was another occasion when I was taken for a ride. I had taken my family, including my in-laws, on a drive to Lansdowne in our new car. Failing to find a hotel accommodation in the tiny market town, we ended up in a tiny, scenic village called Jehrikhal. Here, the only hotel had no rooms to spare. Looking for an alternative, we chanced upon an idler called Munna. A resourceful sort, he promised to organise a home stay for us. I was overjoyed at the prospect of living in a home instead of a hotel. They were cheaper and better. Soon we were taken to a simple house overlooking a valley of pine forests. It was a wonderful stay and our hosts were ever so attentive to our requests for tea, coffee and food. Munna was our grocer, cook, guide and Man Friday, and made our stay a memorable one.
But, on our way out, I nearly had a heart attack on seeing the bill he gave us. Every time we had brought up the subject of money, he had waved his hand saying, “Arrey, yeh to ghar ki baat hai (Don’t worry, it’s all in the family).” But the price he charged us was fit for a palace! So, the next time around, don’t be coy about asking how much a cup of tea costs. There are Munnabhais waiting for the kill.

(Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 11 Issue 46, Dated 15 November 2014)

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Tags: Ashim Choudhury, Personal Histories, Volume 11 Issue 46

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A Confession, I'm......

Let the Bees be…

A confession, I’m superstitious.

‘Do lizards speak?’

In Bengal they do. I have quite a few lizards in my apartment in Delhi but I’ve never heard them say, ‘tik tik tik…’ The lizards, or house geckos to be more precise, here are mute. In Bengal whenever someone is narrating a tale the lizard, mostly invisible, is very likely to punctuate the story with a ‘tik…tik…tik…’.

The storyteller then is likely to light up and say, ‘You see, I told you … “thik…thik…thik…” I’m telling you the truth.’

In Bengal it’s not uncommon for house geckos to endorse your credibility. If you are saying something and the lizard buts in with a, ‘Tik…tik…tik..’ you can always claim to be telling the truth.

Are Indians, particularly Bengalis, more superstitious than others?

I cannot say for sure. I was in West Africa, where I saw some strange beliefs, some of them so macabre I cannot mention them here. So I’ll confine myself to my clansmen, the Bongs.

We Bongs have a whole long list of dos and don’ts.

We don’t eat saag, spinach or other leafy vegetables at night.

‘Why?’

‘It brings you sorrow,’ believers will tell you.

Similarly, you cannot eat Bengal’s best known vegetarian dish, sukto, at night. Why? Because it has karela or bitter gourd and eating karela at night also brings you sorrow. There are many such foods to be avoided at night. But I am not aware of foods that are to be avoided in the daytime.

Talking of foods….Banana might be a favourite with Bongs but they will never carry bananas to someone’s home. Banana, an auspicious fruit, used in pujas and other religious rituals, becomes inauspicious during travel. A Bengali will never carry bananas during travel. It’s considered, ‘a’jatra’ – loosely translated, an ill omen during travel. By the way, I can vouch for the banana being ‘a’jatra’. 

I was on a travel-reporting assignment along with a photographer from Mumbai. We had nearly finished our five day assignment and were returning to Patna for our flight back home. When we began our return journey from this remote village in Samastipur, I suddenly saw a bunch of bananas in the car. It was bought by the photographer friend. I laughingly told him about how we Bong’s considered kela to be inauspicious during travel.

Saying so, I peeled a few and ate them. Being in the field all day, we had even missed lunch. Starting our journey, soon we found our car stuck at a railway crossing. It wasn’t a red signal we realized after half an hour.  It took another hour before the broken railway crossing-gate could be put back into service and we could cross the tracks. However, when I tried to tell the photographer, ‘You remember I told you…!’ he yelled back at me, ‘Please don’t spread superstitions!’

I was shocked into silence by his unexpected, violent outburst. Here was a half-educated Mumbaikar teaching me lessons on how to conduct myself! For the rest of the journey I exchanged very few words with the man. By evening when we reached Patna, our jolly, young car driver, was on the phone. Moments later he was sobbing. His wife had been expecting a baby anytime soon. He was sobbing because she had suffered a miscarriage. We immediately made arrangements for him to get back to his wife. That’s when the photographer said, ‘Maybe you were right about the bananas.’ Chastised once, I did not respond to him.

It’s not just bananas that are considered inauspicious during travel. Bongs don’t carry - or even look at eggs - when undertaking travel. Even carrying pickles is considered ‘a’jatra’. If my granny, who passed away several decades ago, was alive she could add a lot more items to this inauspicious list.

For all inauspicious symbols there are auspicious ones too. Before starting out of the house for an examination or an interview my mom never forgot to feed me a spoon of dahi. It was said to help you. Most South Indians will never forget their ash mark on the forehead before leaving home.

Across most cultures, if seeing one common myna (Bongs call them shalik) is inauspicious seeing a pair is considered lucky. Spotting a white barn owl – Lokhir pencha, the ride of Goddess laxmi – is said to bring wealth and for Bongs (Among Mallus from Kerala the screeching of an owl means the ominous call of death). Most Hindus consider a cow or bull walking into their homes a sign of good luck. Among the Chinese, who are nearly as superstitious as we Indians, the presence of a swallow’s nest in their homes signifies a harbinger of good times, just as the arrival of sarus cranes in their locality also does.

In the middle of so many confusing omens when a swarm of honeybees settled in my balcony garden one fine day, I was pleasantly surprised. It was ironical, just a few weeks before I had written a story on the vanishing bees and how it could affect our survival in the context of agriculture. Their sudden arrival, of all places in my balcony, also confused me.

‘Did it signify anything?’

Like for all my doubts, I went to Google. Like for everything it had an answer.

‘A honeycomb in your house means honey which signifies wealth and happiness,’ Google said.

I was thrilled. Both items, wealth and happiness, would be coming to my place after a long absence. 

And Googles prophesy soon started to fructify. I got my first royalty cheque of 25,000. Yes rupees, not dollars. And, yes 25,000 is considered a fortune for B grade authors who are not Chetan Bhagat or Amish Triparthi. A travel book contract, with an advance, also became a distinct possibility. Another major writing contract was nearly there. And surprise, surprise, someone was offering me a job. ‘Will you be interested?’ they asked. Life had never looked so good.

I began to visit my balcony regularly to keep a watch on the bees, hoping they would not fly away. They remained put, working copiously. But soon the job offer flew away. In a way I was happy because with so much work in hand I would hardly be able to do justice to it. But then, after putting in a lot of effort, I realized that the travel book too was going nowhere. I had not anticipated this at all. This was a big-ticket project where I would not only be writing the travelogue but also illustrating the book. But anyway I still had hopes of the report writing project in Africa. That would give take care of bills for a year. But soon the frequency of emails from my contact in Sudan became scarce. Then one final mail drove the nail in my coffin.

‘There’s been a budget cut,’ the lady informed me, ‘let’s talk next year.’

So here am, left high and dry by my bees. Yes, once in a while I do poke a stick into the comb and lick the sweet honey. But life is nowhere sweet as Google had promised. The hope that they might still bring me good luck has restrained me from chasing away the bees. But my patience is wearing thin. One fine day I might just smoke them out.

But then, as I write, my palm has been itching. It is said to be a good sign.

‘Money will come,’ it implies.

Yesterday the milk in the kitchen also boiled over. Instead of crying over the spilled milk, I smiled. Boiling over of milk is also another good sign of lokhi (laxmi) or wealth.

Maybe, after all, I’ll let the bees be!

      

From a journey long ago....

http://www.tehelka.com/the-man-i-hated-for-his-decrepit-appearance-became-my-friend/

‘The man I hated for his decrepit appearance became my friend’

Ashim Choudhury, 56, is the author of The Sergeant’s Son. He is based in New Delhi

Ashim Choudhury

2014-09-06 , Issue 36 Volume 11

Illustration: Mayanglambam Dinesh

My boss once rebuked me, “Ashim, it’s not enough to work! You have to appear to be working.” It had nothing to do with unmet deadlines or the quality of my work. She was complaining about my laidback attitude. It gave the impression I was not working hard enough. It was amusing, putting up an appearance even at the workplace.
We have all been guilty sometimes of judging people by their appearance. I was no exception until I met Bhairon in the cold, remote surrounding of Shruting Valley in Kinnaur. Whipped by icy winds, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and cut across by a shimmering river, the only human habitation here was a small ITBP outpost where four of us had halted for the night after a 21-km trek from Thangi.
While my friends planned to go further to Charang, and then to Chitkul through the treacherous Charang La pass, I had decided to return, realising I could not undertake the arduous journey.
How would I find a porter for my solitary return in that desolate land? Fortunately, someone discovered a porter who had taken refuge at the ITBP barrack the night before. Lachhi, our porter, said, “Saab, this fellow will take you with him tomorrow.” I was horrified with what I saw. The nondescript fellow looked like a bundle of rags. Thin and bony, his hair unkempt, he had a dazed and unclean look about him. “I would rather stay put in Shruting than go with this fellow,” I thought.
I checked with my friends if they would exchange Lachhi for this guy. They refused. More than the fellow’s bedraggled appearance, what bothered me was that he seemed absent-minded. So next morning, when my friends waved goodbye going uphill, I retraced my steps towards Thangi pretending I had no company. For a good half an hour, I didn’t even speak to the porter following me, my bag on his thin shoulders. But soon after my initial burst of energy, I slowed down and fell behind. Every now and then, Bhairon had to wait for me to catch up.
He would follow me during steep climbs so that if I tumbled, he could stop me from falling. Then he would wait for me to get my breath back. During treacherous descents, he preceded me, just in case I lost my balance and hurtled down. When the cowherds or sheep came from the opposite direction, he tucked me into the rocks so I did not fall off the narrow path. “Babu ji, you must be careful when crossing a gorge. That’s where the rocks mostly hurtle down,” he warned. By the time we reached Lumbar, midway, the man I hated for his decrepit appearance, had indeed become a friend, philosopher and guide.
Bhairon was a worldly sort, who had once worked in Delhi as a Blueline bus driver. He planned to visit his family in Nepal, who he hadn’t met in more than a year, as soon as he had made enough money. Three kilometres short of Thangi, we stopped by the only tea shop above which Bhairon lived in a shared plastic tent. He would not let me pay for the tea, saying it was his privilege.
Then we came across a particularly treacherous stretch where the narrow ledge on which we were walking had literally disappeared. I froze. One missed step and I would hurtle into the gorge a kilometre below. But Bhairon was there for me. I held his hand to cross that risky stretch. I felt as though I was born again. If it was not for that “bundle of rags”, I wouldn’t be alive.
He found me a hotel and I was sad when he waved a final goodbye. “Never again will I judge a man by his looks,” I thought. To Bhairon, I owe my life. And to hell with putting up appearances at the workplace!

(Published in Tehelka Magazine, Volume 11 Issue 36, Dated 6 September 2014)

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On the feni trail in Goa...

Feni’s tipsy-turvy fortunes

The number of feni lovers is fast shrinking in Goa. But aficionados continue to swear by the poor man’s drink, writes Ashim Choudhury

Remember the good old times when you were going to Goa for a holiday and would be burdened by pleas, “Can you bring some feni for me please?” Now, a trip to Goa no longer elicits that kind of response. Now, if you tell a friend, “I’m going to Goa… Should I bring some feni for you?” the answer very likely will be, “Nahi yaar… rehne de.” What they don’t tell you openly is that they can’t stand the whiff of feni. Meanwhile, feni has acquired a unique status after it was given GI or Geographical Indicator in 2009. GI makes Feni unique to Goa much on the lines of Tequila of Mexico, Scotch from Scotland or Champagne of France. Yet cashew feni still remains the poor man’s drink despite desperate promotional efforts by Goa’s fashionable set to keep the shrinking flock of feni drinkers.
Feni production after GI has not climbed. It is made from ripe cashew apples, fallen on the ground, but cashew apples are rotting at the farms in Goa and its surroundings, without any takers. When asked why he did not sell his cashew apples dumped on the ground, a cashew farmer on the border with Karnataka remarked, “Who will buy?”
So why has feni lost its fizz? The fact is that in the past four decades, feni production has been steadily falling, from 1,089,000 litres in 1971 to 875,000 litres in 2004. In the same period, production of distilled spirits climbed from 202,000 litres to 18.99 million litres.
One of the reasons for Goa’s current low turnover is that feni continues to be labelled ‘country liquor’, preventing its sale outside the state. Moreover, feni production still largely remains a cottage industry. Not uncommonly, it is also distilled in individual homes sans a licence. Why, even Goan priests, particularly from the south still like to brew their own feni. “They still distill it in earthen pots the traditional lavani way,” says an old Goan who knows his feni.
A major problem with feni production is that there is no uniform method of distilling it, nor is there any quality control. Not surprisingly, much of the feni sold in Goa is spurious or adulterated. A lot of it is produced by small, unlicensed producers. No wonder then, no Goan will easily take you to a ‘fenifactory’ without permission from the owner. This writer’s wait was so long he decided to go out on his own.
From Anjuna village, we set out northwards and moved along to Mapusa, finally coming upon the Goa- Mumbai highway. That’s where we met one Chengappa who told us to go further on the highway till we cross a river, and move up further. “Once you are near the bhattis, you’ll know by the smell in the air,” he tells us.
Indeed, half an hour later, after crossing the scenic river below us, our nostrils are invaded by the strong whiff of feni. This is Dhargal, some 22 km north of Panjim. Driving on the gravel road, we are soon at the feni distillery that looks somewhat like a cowshed and smells like rotting garbage. The workers at the bhatti show us around readily. What I mistake to be a drain of sewage is actually the juice of cashew apples that are being squeezed in a basket. This juice finally finds its way through gutters into large copper pots that are being constantly heated, distilled to form urak. The Kalogis have 20 matkas or stills in all. Pulp and sludge from the Kalogi distillery also flowed out untreated into the neighbouring farm, turning it into a ditch.
We found Francis, another distiller, as we were heading for the Arambol beach region when there was a sudden clearing in the forest that revealed a blue river below. In this desolate place, except for a beached boat along the serene river, there was not a soul in sight. Out of sheer curiosity, I stepped into the palm shed from where some voices emerged and lo and behold, this was a feni factory! Francis, his hands muddy from repairing a still, showed us around. He took us through the rows of urak and feni being distilled. There were several stills here, in this place taken on rent by Francis.
This distillery is a cooperative of sorts. Six friends have got together under a licence owner, who gets a fee from them. Francis and two of his friends have two stills each. The remaining three have one each. They are small distillers who come together for the months of March and April when the cashew apple is abundantly available. The feni they produce is sold directly to Goa bars. And how much does Francis make in a season? “Nothing,” he says with a sense of resignation, “A jar (20 bottles) fetches just Rs 700-800.” Francis laments that people are not drinking feni the way they did earlier. Terekholkhari, the river on whose banks the distillery is camouflaged, also serves as a border between Maharashtra and Goa. If his distillery is on the Goa side, Francis’s home across the river is in Maharashtra.
From Khareban village, my feni trail took me to Captain Vijay Shankar, formerly of the Indian Navy, who lives in Porvorim near Panaji. Hailing from Kerala, the man has not only a Goan wife but has also adopted the state as his own. He loves his feni. Some describe him as a connoisseur. He scoffs, “I’m just a feni drinker, nothing more.” Captain Shankar goes great lengths to procure his pure stock of feni and urak. “Urak is the first line distilled from the juice of cashew or neera and has a fresh fruity flavour,” he avows. It is also smoother and has to be consumed within a month of being produced, unlike feni that can be stored away for more than a year. Urak, after two-three rounds of distillation, sometimes mixed with neera, becomes what is called feni. It is great alcohol, but for its strong whiff. According to Shankar, feni has an alcohol content of 50 to 60 percent. This is much higher than the conventional whiskey or rum. But even Shankar does not take feni regularly, because “my wife will kick me out of the house”. Drinking feni makes your sweat, and other excretions, stink like the alcohol. Feni also causes you to burp, inviting frowns from polite people.
No wonder the number of feni lovers even within Goa is shrinking. Krishna Sarmalatara, a young man in his thirties from Dhargal, wrinkles his nose. “Peene ko baas marta,” he says with disdain, “so we drink ‘English’ only.”
Captain Shankar, however, is happy that the GI tag has not really taken feni off its humble roots. “Thank God,” he says, “Else, it’ll disappear from the shelves… I can’t pay Rs 500, say, like for a shot of Tequila… I pay Rs 100 for a litre of feni. Leave it alone for the sake of the common Goan.” His fears of feni going beyond the reach of the ordinary Goan have so far proved wrong. Meanwhile, coconut feni, common to south Goa, is also suffering because the toddy tappers are no longer available. Many vouch for its better taste and less odour.
Meanwhile, moves are afoot to give cashew feni ‘heritage’ or Indian Manufactured Foreign Liquor (IMFL) status so that it can be exported. After GI certification, only liquor made from cashew apples sourced within Goa can be called ‘feni’. If marketed as a Goan holiday drink, feni has huge potential. Industry people admit that GI has not helped the cashew feni cause because of the ‘country-liquor’ tag. If classified as IMFL, then the market for feni will open up.
“The GI certificate is to protect cashew feni,” says Cashew Feni Distillers and Bottlers Association president Mac Vaz, who owns popular feni brands. He says the GI tag will prevent other states such as Maharashtra and Kerala, which also produce large quantities of cashew apples, from producing and selling ‘feni’. Vaz is hopeful of the government classifying cashew feni as ‘heritage liquor’ so that it can be exported easily.
Hansel Vaz, owner of the popular feni brand Cazulo, says, “GI has recognised the 400-year-old art of feni making. Now we need to reach out to people at the grassroots, the small distillers, and tell them the importance of sticking to best practices like using copper stills, picking up only fallen fruit, not storing feni in plastic jars, and other aspects of quality.” The association has also initiated measures to certify genuine cashew feni. There are fears that this, ultimately, might edge out the small distillers who own one or two stills, making feni an exclusive club of the big boys, leaving some 45,000 people without one of their main sources of income. With the government finally waking up to feni’s newfound GI status, feni’s fizz, it appears, cannot remain bottled for long.
Ashim Choudhury is the author of The Sergeant’s Son