The Return of Sándor Kocsis!

Sándor Kocsis made an unexpected return to memory on a cold Friday evening this past fortnight; dragging it back by a couple of decades- to the eventful school days, to be precise. The name may not ring a bell even in the minds of diehard soccer aficionados of the day. Yet for one full fortnight 22 years ago, it had remained the most sought after for a gang of restless, information hungry school boys. Diego Maradona and the God were taking Mexico by storm. The reverberations of the Mexican wave they had triggered crossed the oceans and continents reaching even the remotest corners of the world. No wonder then that it had taken in the gang of star struck, soccer crazy kids just stepping into their teens.

They rarely got to watch a movie in a theater, never went to see soccer in the stadium nor did they get to see the live cricket action on TV. Yet they churned out screenplays by the dozen, of the movies they had never seen, gave ball by ball account of the cricket matches they had not been to, or eulogized the heroes in the wars they hadn’t witnessed; almost as if they were right at the hot seat seeing all the action by themselves. They impeccably recreated, through words and gestures, the sublime poetry of a “Rolls Royce” on his long rhythmic run to the wicket, or the supreme artistry in the execution of a Vishy square cut, or the meandering runs of a “Little Bird”, full of feints and shimmies leaving the best defenders infuriated or the “filthy” one-handed backhand from the magic wand of that “rebel with a cause” and of course his tantrums, each of which introduced the awe-struck audience to the art of genius in the field of action. As their imagination took wings, weaving the fascinating web of facts, fiction and fairy tales, the stars from different eras crossed swords, years before computer simulation actually allowed some of it, without people even noticing it. They were not liars, but great imaginers, adept at the art of weaving the web of tales, master story tellers and unfailing performers never short of an apt word or a suitable gesture at capturing the real thrill of the moment.

They had invented games too, to kill time at free hours. It was during one such game that Sándor Kocsis first descended in their midst. The word game they used to play around that WC season in ’86 required the contestants to give the name of a sportsperson starting with the first letter in the second name of the previously named star. When some one spelt out Slobodan Zivojinovic, a hush prevailed for a brief while. And then one of the contestants came up with the name Zandor Koksis. “Liar, liar” up went the alert crowd, very much aware of the gang’s ability to pluck names out of thin air. “There never was a sports man by that name”; the protests were vociferous and the pleas that there was a Hungarian soccer star by that name fell on deaf ears and was shouted down, al beit with a demand for evidence and a bet without the bookies.

Internet was not heard of, Google was not even an idea, yet they took it as a challenge and spent a whole day in the public library scrolling through the dusty back volumes of Sport Star and came up with the issue containing the mention of soccer star Sándor Kocsis. They had to give up their claim and lost a couple of sharpeners, yet they were greatly pleased to discover that he was no ordinary soccer player but a legend who had won the golden boot in ’54, scoring 11 goals, and the first player to score two hat tricks in a World Cup. He was the lesser known of the potent duo that formed the lethal striking force of the Mighty Magyars, arguably the most brilliant international team in soccer history.

Gradually he faded from memory, not figuring in any further stories, due part in the lack of awareness among the audience and part in the difficulty in pronouncing the name. He never came back, even in the innumerable quizzes or the discussions on greatness around soccer seasons, dominated by Pele, Pushkas, di Stefano, or Maradona. Nor did the name come up during the poignant moments of describing tragic heroes dominated by the Busby babes and Duncan Edwards¹, Garrincha² or George Best³. He was never praised alongside the prolific scorers like Pele, Mueller, Fontaine and Rolando. He was missing among the stars of yesteryears being felicitated at the subsequent editions of the world cup. He had vanished altogether from our soccer discussions which used to peak around WCs or the Euros.

Then suddenly, one day this past fortnight, he made a dramatic comeback through an article on the web, reviving fond memories of those old school day discussions. I turned curious and clicked away on the information, now available at my finger tips and discovered nearly 23 years from the game session during that unengaged Social Science period at school that Sándor Kocsis was indeed no ordinary soccer player, but a legend, in fact, statistically speaking, the most prolific striker the world has ever seen in the international game. He had scored 75 goals in 68 matches for Hungary at a phenomenal 1.103 goal/game, ahead of Gerd Mueller, the only other player with a goal a game average among players with a long international career. His partner and Captain Ferenc Puskás had kicked in 3^rd in the list with 84 goals in 85 matches. He was also the most successful match winner among the international game’s greatest goal scorers, with an astounding 84.5% of his goals coming in winning causes, more than 4% clear off Pushkas, Pele, Ronaldo and Mueller. His record 2.2 goal/game in a single World Cup finals competition is still standing. Kocsis was also one of the earliest defectors from the communist block to the Western Europe when he moved to Spain where he represented FC Barcelona and he also finds mention in a poll ranking the greatest Barca players in history along side Cryuff, Ronaldinho, Maradona and Messi, in spite of having played for them way back in the 60’s. On his retirement as a player in 1966, he continued with the club as its coach. But his return to memory was through one list that we had missed out. The article was found on the sidelines on the report on a galaxy of German stars looking on as the coffin of colleague Robert Enke was being lowered to be near his two year old daughter’s. Those dusty back volumes in the Public Library didn’t tell us more than 2 decades ago that Sándor Kocsis also headed the list of soccer stars who had taken their own lives. His life and career had come to a standstill when he was diagnosed with leukemia and even as he was undergoing treatment, he was found to suffer from stomach cancer. And it was through the fourth floor window of the hospital in Barcelona where he was undergoing treatment that the Magnificent Magyar had disappeared on July 22 1979, aged 49.

Soccer, unlike Cricket, is not a statistician’s game. Sándor Kocsis, it is said, was a magnificent finisher, very strong, great at positioning and most of all brilliant in battles on air. Even as another WC season triggers debates, discussions and speculations; there is, it appears, no current soccer player who is anywhere near the Golden Head’s Bradmanesque strike rate. And on those terms, Sándor Peter Kocsis will continue to remain the greatest striker in the international game’s history for a long time to come.

1. “What time is the kick off against Wolves, Jimmy? I mustn't miss that match”

2. “who lived in the woods had bent legs who was totally unmarkable and who could dribble like the devil”

3. “Don't die like me”

The Singing Girl

I was roaming around the stalls of machines and tools at yet another of those Industrial Expos in Korea, when suddenly I came across her.

Ms. Gorgeous

We got introduced to each other, and she even sang a song for me!!

Uploading some videos of my encounter with the singing girl J

Language proved to be a stumbling block, but she had surely made up for that with her smartness J

Her "Vital Stats"

Her Godfathers with her tiny cousins

The Tharoor Effect

The lobbyists who lost the game left fuming after Shashi Tharoor torpedoed their plans to hijack another deserving central government aid to Trivandrum. See how Calicut's national news paper reports the same here.

http://www.mathrubhumi.com/php/newFrm.php?news_id=1259390&n_type=NE&category_id=3&Farc=T

If the above link doesn't work....

For them the people of Trivandrum doesn't belong to Kerala, it seems!

This is politics mates, sometimes you win, but not always. Learn to take it in your stride. Even Barack Obama himself couldn't take the Olympics to Chicago. Hope the Minister of Health 'for Calicut' won't show a step motherly attitude to Trivandrum now!

Flash News: There was no attempt at any 'hijacking', I was wrong, my apologies....

The Princess on the Wall

The Smiles From My Shelf [6]

“.....our friends were invariably proletarian and poor.... you recognized them by their clothes......But even in the way they wore their clothes, there was a fantasy, a frankness .....(the) young women of working-class families;.....they were more authentic and spontaneous.”

Michelangelo Antonioni

The family had pulled in with two shopping carts full of food, beverages and other household items. By all means they appeared a working class family of moderate means. She was wearing ordinary clothes and led her parents into the winter wear shop, walking as if there were springs on her legs and smiling beautifully. Her Father appeared uninterested and just stood holding the carts while her Mother was trying on the colorful neck scarves. She had put on a brown leather jacket and stood in front of the mirror, turning left and right, smiling all the while. Having assured herself, that it was made for her, she walked towards her Dad, strolling majestically as if she were a princess. Dad whispered something under his breath and looked the other way, sending her in her Mother’s direction. But the Mother was too busy with the collection of scarves and didn’t even look up. A couple of tear drops appeared to find their way onto the leather jacket as she was carefully hanging it back on the display railing. She quickly regained her composure and began eyeing other items. Those somehow failed to engage her attention for long and she found her way back to her Father again. This time he was more forthcoming as he pulled out his wallet and revealed his helplessness. She smiled again having convinced herself that there wasn’t the slightest dip in her Father’s love for her. She sauntered again, majestically, on the springs, towards the clothing on which she had left her mark unintentionally. Having put it on one last time, she smiled at the princess who smiled back at her from within the mirror on the walls of that winter wear shop.

My Favourite White Shirt and My Father’s Zatopekian Gesture

Today is Achan’s birthday. How young he is? I do not know for sure. On my birthday last month, I had gifted myself a plain white cotton shirt to replace the one which was found missing from my wardrobe on the last trip home. I have had a penchant for the white cotton shirts for a long time. I remember having a favourite white cotton shirt when I was at college. Those were the days of wide eyes and long curly hair, when the women of all ages couldn’t resist a passing glance at the handsome figure ;-)

The temptation to dress well and have simple yet great new clothes was hard to suppress. It can not be blamed, on someone hogging the limelight all the while J But often the demand was turned down at home by the Parents who conveniently followed the doctrine that whatever he wore, their son was the most handsome guy in the world. A few days after one of those bitter battles at home I found a new white shirt with a small red star logo on the left pocket on my Parents’ Godrej Storewell and readily took a fancy for it. I had inherited my Father’s liking for cotton shirts and did not hide my craving for the new one I had found among his collection. The demand was met with stoic silence and I had no option other than giving up my desire.

Emil Zatopek was one of the most popular members of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, a national hero whose statue stood at a prominent location in the capital, Prague and whose birthday was a national holiday. In 1968 he was one of the most prominent supporters of the then President Alexander Dubcek’s reform program known as the Prague Spring, the first of its kind in the communist bloc in Eastern Europe. He signed the “2000 Word Manifesto” which called for a break from the Soviet Union. But after the party hardliners ousted Dubcek and took power with the help of invading Russian troops, the Czech Army Colonel was stripped off his Army rank, and expelled from the Communist Party and was asked to work as a garbage collector in the streets of Prague. Alarmed by the crowds of people who turned up to help their national hero at work, the authorities later sent him to work in a uranium mine in a remote village where he worked in virtual isolation till his retirement in 1982. His national honours were restored after the Velvet Revolution of 1989 and he could travel and talk freely again and enjoy the affection and respect of the athletics fans the world over. But during those interviews he refused to blame his former comrades for the hardships they had imposed on him.

Had he been alive, Zatopek would have celebrated his birthday and wedding anniversary last Saturday along with his wife Dana, who incidentally was born on the same day a few hours later and to this day they remain the only husband and wife to have won the Olympic Gold medals on the same day.

“His enthusiasm, his friendliness, his love of life, shone through every movement. There is not and never was a greater man than Emil Zatopek.” So said Ron Clarke; the Mayor of Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia.

As a promising 19-year-old, Ron Clarke was chosen to light the Olympic Flame during the opening ceremonies of the Melbourne Olympics in 1956, coincidently the last and the least successful one for Zatopek. But in spite of setting 17 world records in long distance running, he failed to win an Olympic Gold medal, the ultimate dream of any athlete. In 1968 at Mexico, during a last ditch effort, he collapsed and nearly died from altitude sickness sustained during the gruelling 10,000 m race final, an event for which he held the world record from 1963 to 1972. Disappointed, he decided to call on Zatopek in Prague on his way back to Australia. On the point of his leaving Prague airport after the visit, Clarke was walked through the customs by Zatopek. Shaking hands in a final farewell, Zatopek quietly slipped into his hands a small package and said; “Look after this; you deserve it.” Worried that he was carrying some smuggled information from Zatopek, who was on a secret service watch list at the time for his support to the Prague Spring, Clarke took it unopened onto his flight. He hesitantly opened his package only after the flight was well outside Czechoslovakian airspace.

Inside it was Zatopek's 10,000 metres gold medal from Helsinki, with an inscription for Clarke!!

A couple of days after giving up my hopes on having the new white shirt for myself, I found it hanging inside my wardrobe J

And for me; there is not a greater man than my Father

Footnote: My missing white shirt was later traced to my Father’s wardrobe ;-)

My Take on the Proust Questionnaire

There can be no better time to come out of hibernation and blog down my answers to the Proust Questionnaire, today being just another day in life. Marcel Proust was the French writer famous for the monumental In Search of Lost Time a.k.a. Remembrance of Things Past. He did not invent this set of questions; he had simply the most extraordinary mind among all the persons who responded to these questions. He had enthusiastically answered the Questionnaire several times in his life, the most prominent being his entry at age 13, in An Album to Record Thoughts, Feelings etc. belonging to his friend Antoinette, the daughter of (later French President) Felix Faure. I have borrowed from this and another set of questions Proust had answered at 20 to assemble my questionnaire. It is very difficult to stay clear of the influence of the replies of a genius, yet I have strived hard to keep it to a minimum. J

What’s your most marked characteristic?

What’s in my mind is on my face.

What’s your favorite virtue?

The virtue of recognizing the virtue in others.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

The realization that one day my Parents will leave me forever.

Where would you like to live?

A country where every child born has equal opportunity in building its own life and where the justice system is fair to all and the citizens have equal respect.

What is your idea of earthly happiness?

To live a life surrounded by those who love me, among the abundance of the beauties of nature, with plenty of books and music.

To what faults do you feel most indulgent?

It depends.

The qualities that you admire most in a man?

Compassion, Fearlessness, and Humility

The qualities that you admire most in a woman?

Dignity, Intelligence, Warmth and frankness in friendship.

Who are your favorite characters in history?

M K Gandhi, with all his faults included.

Who are your favorite heroines in history?

Rani Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi, I wonder if she can be restricted to favorite heroines, though!

Who are your favorite heroes in real life?

Don’t have to go far when I have my Father with me.

Who are your favorite heroines in real life?

Amma; having watched from close quarters, her relentless efforts at keeping her children on the right track in life.

Who are your favorite writers?

Albert Camus and Charles Dickens.

Who are your favorite poets?

Neruda.

Who are your favorite heroes of fiction?

Ones whom I came to know during the early phases of my life in reading continue to remain the lasting favorites. Karna, the legendary warrior from Mahabharata, for fighting the misfortunes throughout his life, never giving up and all the while keeping his generosity and valor intact. Hugo’s Jean Val jean for his twenty year-long struggle with the law for stealing bread during a time of economic and social depression and coming out clean in the end at a ‘higher court’ and dying a happy man and a real hero, and Dickens’ David Copperfield for his optimism, diligence and perseverance in the face of heavy odds staked against him, remain the most favorites, mainly due to the fact that they came into my mind at a very impressionable age.

Who are your favorite heroines in fiction?

Jane Eyre, Anne Dubreuilh.

Your favorite painter?

Although plenty of paintings and books on paintings were available at home, my Father being a gifted artist, unfortunately I didn’t pick up a keen interest. Still I shall mention Leonardo Da Vinci as my favorite for creating the greatest smile on canvas.

Your favorite musician?

I like the music of all kinds. I would like to mention Malayalam composers Raghavan master for his originality and Ravindran master for his versatility.

Your favorite occupation?

Watching little children and capturing them on the cam.

Who would you have liked to be?

I would have liked to be myself, shedding the inherent irritants in character.

What do you most value in your friends?

The willingness to accept me as I am, and tolerate my defects.

What is your principal defect?

The extremities and irritating unpredictability of my emotional swings.

What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes?

Not to have been the son of my Parents.

What would you like to be?

A teacher, much improved and more informed.

What natural gift would you most like to possess?

The ability to sing my favorite melodies.

What’s your favorite color?

The different shades of nature; the soul soothing greenery of the thick forests, the spectacular splash of colours during the sunset and sunrise, the varied shades of the infinite blue of sky and the seas, the sparkling silver of the stars in the darkness of night and so on.

What’s your favorite flower?

Proust had mentioned merely hers, and I know that it’s the lily.

What’s your favorite bird?

The little sparrow, the tiny bundle of energy.

What are your favorite names?

J I have two, one given by my Mother and the other by my Father.

What is it that you most dislike?

My own laziness and the fascination for idleness.

What historical figures do you most despise?

Auragazeb, the brutality he had shown to his own family is sufficient.

What event in military history do you most admire?

The friendship between late Capt. Vijayant Thapar and the 5 year old orphan girl Rukhsana in Kargil.

How would you like to die?

Loving and being loved.

What is your present state of mind?

Worried and embarrassed that I don’t have an answer to the next question.

What is your motto?

Still Searching….

Thank you J

Independence Day Reading

As the images of fluttering tricolors and the colorful balloons going up in the sky in celebration of yet another Independence Day kept coming in, I was reminded of someone about whom I had read sometime back by an online news paper article today. At 12, in 1942 she had given her gold ear ring to Aruna Asaf Ali who was speaking in Thrissur seeking to raise funds for the Quit India Movement. She received severe beating from her step mother as a reward for the gesture. She left home after matriculation to take part in the freedom struggle and traversed the length and breadth of the country spreading the message against the British rule.

After independence, she served and studied at the Kasturba Centre at Indore and joined Acharya Vinoba Bhave’s Bhoodan Movement. She was awarded the Kasturba Trust Prize for her services to the Gandhian causes in 1975. Later she founded the Shanthikudeerom in Tirur for spreading Gandhian values.

In old age she applied for pensions given to freedom fighters and Khadi promoters. She was not found eligible as she had no documents to be produced in support of her activities from 1950. It is said that she was asked if she had proof to show that she was a Gandhian. So finally on 10^th of February, 2007 Gandhian Sarojiniji ended her life, hanging by a khadi dress she had spun and woven by herself.

(source: Kerala Kaumudi Online)

Happy Independence Day, have a blast.

Note: If you are Indian, don't forget to keep documentary evidence for all your good deeds. Might come in handy in old age.

An Evening in a Korean Police Station

In the previous post I had written about the accident I had happened to witness. The people who had taken the accident victim away had collected my phone number just in case they had some trouble in settling the case. They called late in the same night and told me that my number had been handed over to the police. I was requested to tell the truth about what I had seen that night. I replied in the affirmative and waited for the call from the police.

The call came at half past midnight. Someone said “Hello, do you speak Korean?” in fluent English, which in fact surprised me, and I said I didn’t. The man at the other end laughed aloud, again in fluent English, and hung up the phone! I waited for some more time and then dozed off. I had almost forgotten about the whole incident when two days later I received a call from a lady introducing herself as an interpreter. She described the accident and asked me if I had time to come over to the police station to testify as a witness. I said “of course I do, but now I am busy with work” then she asked me where I was working and my residential address. I gave her the details and agreed to go to the Dalseo-gu Police Station on the next day.

I had already heard about and seen by myself some of the methods and manners of the Korean police, like chasing down someone getting away in a car and bowing to him in salutation before taking him into custody, politely requesting, through the loudspeaker, those who had illegally parked their vehicles by the roadside to move them to a proper parking lot, turning up at the scenes of minor skirmishes among students just to capture the events on camera and leave quietly without interfering and taking those caught for drunken driving to a video show in the station to enlighten them about the adverse consequences of their act. So I was in the least nervous at the prospect of a visit to the police station. I was excited rather, at the opportunity.

Next evening, I left office early, at 7 pm. I received the call from the interpreter again on my way to the station. She received me at the station gate along with the officer in charge of the investigation. The policeman bore no resemblance whatsoever to the image of the typical policemen back home. As we proceeded to his seat the interpreter tried to reassure me that I wouldn’t be facing any difficulty on account of recording my witness statement. I smiled, nodding my appreciation. The station resembled a hi-tech office of some company with the state of the art electronic systems and PCs. Another person was giving some testimony at the adjacent table.

The officer started asking me questions about the accident through the interpreter. I was asked where I was staying, where I was working, where I was going that day at that time, what was my regular working time, and so on. He also asked me to mark my location at the time of the accident as well as the locations of the car and the victim. He had made detailed sketches of the accident site and had photographs from different angles. The same questions were repeated many times at intervals, might be a way of checking if I was contradicting myself. All the while he was typing his report in consultation with the interpreter. The procedure lasted about two hours, and I was feeling sleepy when finally he applied ink on my finger and obtained my thumb impression on certain documents. When he had almost finished he asked me to wait a little longer before wiping the ink. The interpreter asked me if I had kept a bank account. I said I did, but I couldn’t recall the account number. The officer then stood up and took out some money and gave it to me! He then made me sign the final document which was the receipt for the money I had been given.

"It is a minor token of appreciation from the Korean police for making use of your invaluable time." the interpreter told me as we prepared to leave!!

The Girl Who Went Up in the Air and Came Down to Smile

The Smiles from My Shelf [5]

The rains arrived unannounced as I had swiped out of another roller-coaster ride the other day. But unlike the previous night it was calm and composed, and whispered a slow melody as if to egg me on to tap my feet. It was not to be for my last act of the day was paying tributes to someone whose body was found on the railway tracks under tragic circumstances. Rains had given up on me sensing that I had company to discuss life and death during the long walk home on the half moon night.

Albert was explaining why the suicide was the only important philosophical question just as I had stepped on to the pedestrian crossing as the signal flashed green for us. Out of nowhere appeared the mini tipper which almost brushed my outstretched nose and sped away.

“They tell us that suicide is the greatest act of cowardice and that it is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in this world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person.” Arthur argued walking by my left even as I shook my head in total disapproval; of the tipper’s right to play with my life.

“It is the ultimate and absolute evil, the refusal to take an interest in existence. A person who kills himself destroys the entire world.” Gilbert was adamant and unforgiving on the ‘murder of self’.

“Suicide is the rejection of freedom. Instead of fleeing the meaninglessness of life, we should embrace life passionately. In spite of its inherent absurdity, we can somehow find happiness in life.” Albert was so clear with his thoughts on life.

“Live on without relinquishing any of the certainty, without a future, without hope, without illusions and without resignation either. Stare at death with passionate attention and this fascination will liberate you”; Jean-Paul stepped in to support Albert. I looked up at the sky and the moon too was nodding in approval.

Two girls were coming towards me as I approached the last pedestrian crossing near the apartment complex. One of them glanced at me starry eyed, half in awe and half in admiration, so typical of the girls of her age. The other girl was getting into a taxi as I reached the zebra lines. She waved her friend away and turned to look at me one more time and smiled half halfheartedly which I was in no mood to return after those exhausting discourses on the meaning of life. A taxi cab stopped for her as she leisurely crossed the road may be thinking of someone and playing with her hand phone and I too followed as the cab driver had waved me on. Then I turned to look at the other side to see the speeding sedans and slowed down and looked ahead to see to my horror that she wasn’t doing the same right in front of me. There was the braking, there was the noise and everything happened at lightening speed and I saw her going up in the air by about two to three feet and falling back on the bonnet of the car and being thrown away a couple of meters in front, all in a flash.

She got up on her feet on her own, confused and frightened yet she smiled again an embarrassed smile.

"Hang on to your life with all your might, for this life is precious and we may not get another," I told myself even as I thanked my companions and waved them away for a peaceful night.

The few people who gathered had by now led the girl to a nearby car and I flashed the thumbs up for her as she sat on the rear seat and bowed to me smiling a pain filled smile.

A Note of 50,000!

Yesterday was just another Sunday, working late hours, acting locally and assembling globally the equations of the finite elements. Getting up was difficult though on the Monday morning with the heavy rains on the previous night providing a welcome relief from the soaring mercury levels. The notice for the meeting arrived at the breakfast table, setting off a panicky run for the work diaries and project reports. The crowd headed straight for the conference room grabbing whatever was available on tables. As usual there was the scramble for the seats conveniently away from the Boss. The project manager sat next whispering the roll call of pending works to himself, transferring the uneasiness around. The Boss arrived without much delay, seated himself and began his address. People around him sat looking down on their reports, some scribbling something, some others listening in rapt attention. He finished his address in no time and began calling out names. Back on his seat the smiling manager explained that the Government had brought out the new 50,000 KRW notes. It will be the first Korean banknote that features the portrait of a woman, and the Boss wanted to mark the occasion by presenting each of us with a note of KW 50000!!

The Monday Morning Surprise :-)

Why do Koreans take Kimchi at every meal?

“Kimchee” !!

I heard her Amma calling out to her as I clicked my Canon for one of my earliest cutie pie captures in Korea. It wasn’t tough to guess that her intention was to make her little daughter say cheese in front of the camera in the Korean way.

Kimchi is an inseparable ingredient in the Korean life. It is a traditional Korean pickled dish made of vegetables with varied seasonings. Koreans relish Kimchi with breakfast, lunch, dinner and even at times of drinking as the side dish. The history of Kimchi can be traced back to ancient times. It is said that references to Kimchi can be found in documents from as early as 3000 years ago!

Kimchi is served in a variety of forms and types. The most common and popular manifestation of Kimchi is the spicy cabbage variety, baechu. Kimchi is also combined with other ingredients to make dishes such as kimchi jjigae (kimchi stew) and kimchi bokkeumpap (kimchi fried rice). It is so ubiquitous that the Korea Aerospace Research Institute developed space kimchi to accompany the first Korean astronaut to the Russian-manned space ship Soyuz.

Kimchi is very spicy and can also be exceptionally sweet. It is said to contain a high concentration of dietary fiber, while being low in calories. One serving also provides up to eighty percentage of the daily recommended amount of vitamin C and carotene. Most types of Kimchi contain onions, garlic, and peppers, all of which are salutary. The vegetables being made into Kimchi also contribute to the overall nutritional value. Kimchi is rich in vitamin A, thiamine (B1), riboflavin (B2), calcium, and iron, and contains a number of lactic acid bacteria. The magazine Health named Kimchi in its list of top five “World’s Healthiest Foods” for being rich in vitamins, aiding digestion, and even possibly reducing cancer growth!

In spite of the tall claims on its nutrient qualities and its multiple usages in my encounters with my cute little friends in Korea, I couldn’t convert myself into a great fan of Kimchi across the dining table. My lab mate Lee Jong-Sung is a straight forward no nonsense guy, a devout Presbyterian Christian who never forgets to say his prayers before every meal and who finds time to fit in a few passages of the Bible in between his readings of Liepmann and Roshko. Added to that he is a teetotaler, almost a rarity in this part of the world. One day I asked him, as he sat digging into his Bible; why was the Kimchi unavoidable for the Koreans at every meal?

He turned to me, his eyebrows raised and his eyes sparkling in earnestness, and replied….. “Because long ago our Korea was poor, and the people had no nutrient food, then they invented Kimchi, an affordable source of essential nutrients and we eat it today for good health and also to remind ourselves of those days when our forefathers had difficult times!!

I haven’t missed out on my slice of the Kimchi since then J

Why insist on the Slumdog?

The characters here may not be unreal

yet they need not give you nightmares

That rooftop restaurant was one place he used to frequent often with friends. But that day he was alone. Those were early hours and there was no one save the young man at the counter. The gigantic building stood across the window. Today it wasn’t blocking his view of the past. Several years ago a thatched roof hut stood on the same place in the middle of a field full of coconut trees. One of his best pals from school days stayed in that beautiful house with his mother. Some of the most colorful days of his life were played out around those trees. Every sport known were tried out on those fields. It was a luxury, away from the packed school grounds where the bowlers with an erring line and length used to hit the wickets on the neighboring pitch!

Bottle before him was half empty; he had exceeded his usual quota. He had one last look at the title of a short column on the news paper lying on the table. It was blurred, excessive drinking probably or was it his moistened eyes? It didn’t matter for he had no trouble reading it. --- man lynched. He had already read that hundreds of times that morning! He got up and walked 'steadily' towards the other corner. From there he could catch a glimpse of the majestic walls of his alma mater. Staring at those walls he felt as if two multi color vortices were forming in front his eyes. They grew in size gradually and led him into a day in the past. He could see a large number of students in black and white crowding on top of those walls and pelting stones on the passing buses. Zooming in a little closer he could see a tall boy running around trying to stop those showering the stones, grabbing someone by his collars here, pulling someone down there and even hitting those who refused to stop. Approaching police vehicles leaned the crowd. The few who remained gathered together; to shout slogans. He was right there in the forefront shouting provocative slogans, daring the police. The large posse of police men stormed into the campus and caught the demonstrators unawares. They ran helter-skelter but the few in the core where caught in the melee and fell down. Police brutally beat up anybody in sight. He had come in for special attention. The color of his skin, his tall frame, his full grown moustache or his worn-out clothes; something about him appeared to provide an extra incentive. Badly mauled, and bleeding from his nose he was dragged down the stairs to a Police vehicle.

A leader was born that day. None of the boys called him by his name thereafter. From that day onwards he was simply the leader.

They were not slum dwellers although they lived very close to some of the most 'notorious' colonies, the local slang for the slums. His mother did household works in different places to make the ends meet. Yet he was richer than most other city dwellers, in the sense that he lived in a house surrounded by a large field. In those fields they used to play every game as per the season. And no one ever went back hungry after those games. He wasn't an outstanding student, but he had made up for that with his keenness for knowledge. He used to score highly in the inter bench quizzes that they had during free hours, history and freedom struggle being his forte along with a bit of sports and games. There was a small library and reading room nearby the ‘colonies’. He went there whenever he had an off day from his part time jobs. He had trained himself as a 'mike set operator' which provided him close access to the speeches by some of the great leaders of the left movement whom he adored. He could quote them word by word or even imitate their actions to amuse his friends. He had never seen his father. He had no godfathers either. He was a self taught communist, so sure of himself, his convictions and his ideology.

Life had taken them through different paths and they drifted apart once the school days were behind them, finding new friends and new passions in life in their separate worlds, in the same city! Years passed before they met again, in an auto(rickshaw) as the hirer and the hired. The pace was deliberately slow, but the passenger was in no hurry. They spoke about those spectacular school days, stimulating debates, staging of dramas, fun with sports and games, their first crushes and of course the student agitations and the street battles with police. He was cut out to go a long way in the Party; his humble origins, simple tastes in life; wide reading and skillful oratory all appeared the stepping stones. But he was also drunk, on an overdose of idealism. A few years ago he was stripped off his party posts and dumped.

He had been in the enemy camp since then! That was difficult to digest!!

But why he was thrown out?!

"They no longer wanted me. They preferred people who obey silently even if what they practised contradicted what they preached! They were for giving representation to a wider section of people who had embraced the Party lately. It would backfire someday. Such people would be after positions of power and personal benefits. The moment they found their personal goals were not being met, they would ditch the Party. And the very people who gave their blood and sweat and built the Party brick by brick would find themselves sidelined, isolated within it."

He was struggling to hide the tinge of sadness in his tone.

Mother no longer worked. He did not allow her rather. They no longer lived in their old house and had moved inside the colony. They had to vacate the house when the Party was in power. "It was in the larger interests of the Party. We had no claim on the land; it's case by case you see, the rights of the tenants" he smiled, without a trace of sadness.

A high rise had come up in its place, in tune with those larger interests.

But how he ended up in the camp of the sworn enemy? That refused to sink in!!

"In the social strata that we lived such a support was essential, for the very day to day existence. It had nothing to do with ideological or political differences; it was a question of survival…… the rule of the jungle prevailed down there, the survival of the fittest." he laughed out loud. "It's not that they had succeeded in buying me over to their ideology. The backing from a strong organization would provide an essential deterrent for the friends turned foes from striking at me. And of course, the enemies were more than willing to forget the past as they also needed me. So the alliance was born out of a mutual necessity." He smiled again.

Trials and tribulations of life had worn its mark on his face. But his smile had somehow retained the charm, in spite of the years.

They had parted that day with a firm handshake and a warm hug, promising to meet up someday soon, across a cup of tea and share plenty of memories again. The promise was never kept and could never be kept in this life.

With one gulp he emptied another glass. As it burnt its way within him, he heard someone whispering in his ears: "Final battle would not be between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat; but between the comrade and the former comrade"

TV was playing the Jai Ho, as he got up to leave. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair as he gazed at the hutments across the windows by the stairs. Many a saintly soul might still be roaming around those shanty houses in those shallow slums.

But why insist on the Slumdog?

When with just as much effort one can call them the Slumgods!!