A Bond of Friendship

I first met Raman at the Elamakkara Dattatreya Temple during a Rama Navami concert for which I accompanied on the violin. Mercy, one of Raman's disciples, sang with him. The music was pure and unadulterated. After the concert, we exchanged phone numbers.

After returning from Muscat, I got a job as a music teacher at the Isha Home School in Coimbatore. We needed another music teacher, and Raman was the first person who came to mind. I called him, and he agreed to come for an interview. He joined the school as a music teacher.

We had plenty of free time after teaching. Our friendship blossomed in Isha. We would practice music together, go to the nearby tea shop, and take long walks in the forest and fields.

Once, I had booked a train ticket to go home for the summer holidays. In a hurry, I forgot to take it and had already set off on my bike to Coimbatore railway station. I realized my mistake halfway and turned back, but there wasn't enough time. I called Jayashree and asked her to give the ticket to Raman. I thought it would save some time if he could hand it over halfway. However, I later learned that no one was allowed leave outside of the gate of Isha at that time. Apparently, a leopard had been spotted nearby, and the security gate was closed. Everyone was scared and stayed indoors. Raman, disregarding the danger and his own safety, took my train ticket on his bike. Despite being stopped and warned by the security, Raman insisted on delivering the ticket. That was an unforgettable act of friendship.

Friendship is a bond of love, a divine love that knows no gender. It's a connection between two souls, a selfless brotherhood that is priceless. A true friend is the one who accepts and loves you as you are.

Childhood Memories in Ramapuram

I was so excited when I heard we were going to Ramapuram for the school holidays. I snuck a small pocket knife and sunglasses into my shorts, planning to scare my grandmother. I imagined myself jumping out and scaring her like a robber.

There was only one bus from Ernakulam to Ramapuram each day, the KMS bus that went to Mundakkayam. My father knew the bald-headed driver and the tall, thin conductor very well. I loved sitting in the front seat, enjoying the view and watching the driver. But the driver spotted the knife and sunglasses in my pocket and told my mother. My plan was ruined.

The bus left from under the Ernakulam South overpass. The journey took about two and a half hours. The driver drove fast, and there were very few stops. The bus stop in Ramapuram was near a large banyan tree in front of the Sree Rama temple. My father would often buy something from the tea shop nearby. Then we would walk about two kilometers to Kondad. My father would carry a big bag with vegetables and other groceries. He started working when he was eighteen, as a clerk in the railway office. Every month, he would give a portion of his salary to my grandmother, who handled the finances.

When I woke up in the morning, my grandmother would give me a piece of ripe mango leaf to brush my teeth. Then, I would split a twig and use it to clean my tongue. We would go to the open field behind the house to wash. I had to fetch water from the well. I didn't like going, so my grandfather dug a pit, placed two logs across it, and covered it with woven palm leaves. Flies would buzz around while I sat there for toilet. Since there was no roof, I had to carry an umbrella when it rained. I would bathe in a pond near Kokkarini kavu. Sometimes, my aunt Sumachithay would come to bathe me. I loved when she bathed me. She would roll small balls of rice for me to eat. She was studying for her post-graduation in chemistry at Maharaja's College. She was very intelligent and could dance and sing old Malayalam film songs.

After my bath, my grandmother would milk the cow, Nandini, and give me fresh milk. She would also keep some butter for me. My grandmother would offer daily prayers to Sree Durga in the southern temple. She believed that the goddess Annapurna resided in the heart of the paddy. She told me a story about a woman who was cursed and died after vomiting blood on the tenth day of entering the temple premises during her menstrual cycle. My grandmother also had many stories about Afan, a man who gets possessed by the goddess. She said that the goddess would speak through him and once promised to give the family a gold coin every day. But they forgot to take it once, and after that, they never received it again. However, the goddess assured them that her blessings would always be with the family.

My grandmother's name was Nangaiyya. She knew Sanskrit and astrology. My grandfather was a priest in a Sastha temple nearby. During the rainy season, we would collect rainwater in a large pot and a copper vessel. It was pleasant to sit inside the house and watch the rain. I would listen to the sound of rain on the palm leaves, the croaking of frogs, and the calls of the osprey. Initially, I was scared of the osprey's cry, but my aunt told me it was just a bird. When my aunt was having her periods, she would sit on a mat and I shouldn't touch her. If I did, she would say I had to go back to the pond and bathe.

For lunch, we sometimes had kanji (rice porridge) and steamed tapioca. After eating, I had to wash my hands, or my grandmother would scold me. My great-grandmother, Nangeli, was over ninety years old. I was fascinated by her shriveled breasts. She always chanted mantras while counting her rudraksha beads. She lived to be ninety-eight years old. She would always complain to my father about her eyesight and hearing. But my grandmother said that she could hear everything, even when she was chanting.

Once, during my tenth-grade vacation, I stayed at the ancestral home. Lekha and Mallika, our neighbors, would come to keep my grandparents company. They were both studying for their pre-degree. I loved going to the temple with them in the evenings. Katri and Yohannan, who were older, would come to help with the work in the fields. My father would give them money when he left.

Later, our ancestral property was sold, and the house was demolished. My great-grandmother, grandmother, grandfather, father, and Afan are all gone now. Only memories remain. And in those memories, they live on.

An accident survival

I was returning on a motorbike from a relative's family function in Paravoor with my mother when the accident happened. It was a Sunday, and the road was relatively empty. I was driving a bit fast. As we approached Varappuzha, an elderly woman and her three granddaughters suddenly crossed the road. I couldn't slow down in time and hit them. My bike skidded, and we all fell. My mother hit her head on the ground. A passing auto-rickshaw man took her to Amrita Hospital. I returned to the accident site to retrieve my bike, and by then, the locals had taken the old lady who crossed the road causing the accident to Lourdes Hospital.

Their family filed a police case against me. Unfortunately, my bike insurance had lapsed, and I was about to leave for a job interview in Muscat. In the meantime, the hospital informed us that my mother had a blood clot in her brain and would need surgery. I prayed fervently for her recovery and begged the universe to help her overcome this crisis.

My father, a railway employee who also practiced homeopathy, decided against surgery and opted for homeopathic treatment. He brought my mother home under his care. With his treatment, my mother gradually recovered. For a few months, she experienced occasional dizziness, but eventually, she made a full recovery.

A lawyer friend of mine, Karjet, from Kottayam, settled the case out of court in Paravoor by admitting guilt and paying a fine. Afterward, I joined my job in Muscat. 

A Canada experience

It was July 2017. A Sri Lankan community in Canada had invited me to teach music for a month. It was an opportunity that came through Krishnan sir. I made all the necessary preparations and flew off. While on the plane, I received news from a friend about the death of my friend, Waris. Waris was Pakistani, deeply rooted in Indian culture and spirituality. He often claimed to communicate with spirits. I prayed to the Almighty for the peace of Waris's soul.

Before exiting the airport, an officer asked me why I was visiting. I had planned to say I was just touring, so I replied accordingly. When asked if I had met the friend I was visiting before, I honestly said no. When I checked my phone for the address, they seemed suspicious and took it from me to check my emails and other messages. They concluded that I was going there for work. I faced the possibility of being detained in both countries and might even be deported. I was very anxious and prayed fervently. I meditated on the divine, pleading for protection. I also mentally requested Waris to help me out of this predicament. I took deep breaths to calm myself and looked into the officer's eyes, hoping he would show mercy. It was late at night, and the officer said that his superior was not there and asked me to come back the next day. He gave me a written note.

The Sri Lankan family who had invited me took me to their home. We spent the night discussing how to resolve this situation. The next morning, they took me back to the airport and spoke to the officer. The officer told them that this was unacceptable and decided to send me back. As I was leaving, the officer told me, "I don't know why, but something about this situation made me uneasy. I'm letting you go unconditionally. Don't do this again." I apologized and assured him I wouldn't. I thanked all the gods from the bottom of my heart. As I turned to leave, I felt like I saw Waris' mischievous smile in the officer's eyes.

On the flight back, I was filled with fear. Would the authorities here know? Would they question me again? Would I be deported? I was overwhelmed with thoughts. I don't know if it was divine intervention or a miracle, but I was able to leave without any issues. 

The dichotomy during high school days

It was Muhammed Sunil who taught me how to ogle girls when we were in the tenth grade. We would take the same bus home after school, both of us sitting at the back. As the bus passed St. Teresa's Women's College, he would look at the girls walking on the side of the road and make comments, which I soon started imitating. This habit continued when I joined St. Albert's College for my pre-degree. We would often go to Maharaja's College just to look at girls.

Sachidananda Pai was another good friend of mine during the school days. He played the mridangam. He accompanied me on the mridangam for my violin debut. We often practiced music together and participated in musical events. Sachi's younger brother, Shivananda Pai, was later chosen as the head of their community and was known as Raghavendra Tirtha. Sachi and I studied together for a while at St. Albert's College in Ernakulam, an all-boys school. It was Sachi who introduced me to good cinema, films by Padmarajan, Adoor Gopalakrishnan, Aravindan, KG George, MT Vasudevan Nair, and Bharathan. We spent many days watching these films. 

I had a strong spiritual side as well. I lived a dual life, balancing both desires. It was Sachi who introduced me to Advocate Govind Bharathan. We all called him Bharathan ji. Every Sunday evening, he held a Bhagavad Gita class at his residence, Chitravathi. I learned yoga and meditation from him for the first time. Bharathan ji was a devotee of Sathya Sai Baba and a follower of Sri Vidya. On Monday evenings, there would be Sai bhajan at his house. He would sing beautiful bhajans while playing the harmonium, and we would join in. Bharathan ji once took a group of us from Chinmaya Yuva Kendra to Amritanandamayi's ashram at Vallikavu, who was known as 'Amma'. We also had many opportunities to listen to Chinmayananda Swami's discourses on the Gita. I also eagerly read books by Vivekananda and Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, which I found in my father's bookshelf.

Some school day memories...

"I studied in a Christian missionary school, Seventh-Day Adventist, in Kaloor, Ernakulam, during my early years. When I think back to that school, the first thing that comes to mind is Fridays. We had a long lunch break at 3 PM. After lunch, we would play games like kabaddi and tag. The other times, we would practice for cultural programs. I still remember Manoj, who had a beautiful singing voice. His hair was a bit long, just like Yesudas'. He used to sing songs like 'Maadapraave va oru koodu kootaan va', 'Pranayasarovaratheeram', and many more. We all admired him. The beautiful Preetha J. Eapen, the chubby Maya, and the slightly dark-skinned Sandhya from our class would always applaud him.

Shashy was our class comedian. He would do mono acts and mimicry. When he ran out of material, we would create our own comedy skits. My closest friends were Biju Philip and Ubaid. Our friendship was seen as a symbol of religious harmony.

On Saturdays, we had moral studies class with Mr. Sebastian. Once, I shared with my mother what I had learned in class. I told her that all Hindu gods were just imaginary and that Jesus Christ was the only real savior. That's when she stopped me from attending that school. My mother enrolled me in a different school.

At St. Augustine's Boys High School, I was a top student, but Gopukumar always ranked first and I was second. Once, I told my mother that if Gopukumar wasn't there, I would have been first in class. The next day at school, I heard the news of Gopukumar's death. He had drowned in a pond. When I saw Gopukumar lying still, covered in a white cloth, with cotton in his nose, and a lamp lit at his head, I felt dizzy. I fainted. Mr. Mathew, our social studies teacher, splashed water on my face and got me some soda.

When I was in high school, I loved participating in protests. Whether it was the SFI or the KSU, I was always eager to be the first to shout slogans and march out of the class. Often, we didn't even know the reason for the protest. As the teacher's son, all the teachers were quite strict with me. Mr. Mathew was nicknamed 'Vishuvadi' (poisoned stick). He always carried a cane. The sound of students being caned in his class could be heard in the neighboring classrooms. Vinayak Prem had a habit of pinching other students. No one would complain because they were afraid of him. Once, he pinched me. I complained to Mr. Mathew, and Vinayak was severely punished. After that, he stopped his bad habit."

My first Encounter with Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati

It must have been around 1993-95. I used to go to Swami Bodhi Tirtha at the Edappally Gurukulam to learn Sanskrit, along with my friends Rajeev, Rajesh, and Umesh. Once, Swami said, 'Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati' is coming. Manu, you should come with your violin.' I was thrilled. I was finally going to meet the Guru I had only read about in books!

As I waited, a black Ambassador car arrived, and the Guru and his disciples got out. He was a bulky looking grandfather figure, holding a pillow. After a short rest, Swami Bodhi introduced me to him. 'This is Manu. He plays the violin very well,' he said. Then Guru asked me to play. I played 'Bandu Reethi Kolu,' a Thyagaraja kriti in the Hamsanadam raga. Guru listened to it with his eyes closed, lost in meditation. I felt his meditative state transfer into my music. After I finished playing, he spoke about the spiritual aspects of music. It opened up a new dimension in music for me.

That evening, there was a discourse by Guru at the Usha-Prem Nath residence. Guru asked me to accompany. I was overjoyed. I got into the car with him. I was so engrossed in the magic of his gentle voice and the presence of his personality that I forgot everything.

When I got home, my mother asked me why I hadn't gone to Rajeev's concert. I had committed to play the violin for his concert at the Chendankulangara Temple. I had completely forgotten about it after I met Guru Nithya. I immediately took my bicycle and rushed to the temple. But the concert had been canceled due to the absence of the violin accompaniment, and everyone was returning. I felt so embarrassed.

Another incident happened in 2003, I think. There was a concert at the Idappally Gayatri Kalyana Mandapam. Sreevalsan J. Menon was singing. I had just gotten my violin bow back after getting it repaired. Everyone was seated on stage, and the audience had gathered. It was raining. It was time for the concert to start. When I opened my violin case, the bow was missing. I was stunned for a moment. I had once played a concert on a violin with broken strings because I didn't have a spare. But I couldn't play without a bow. I told everyone what had happened. Feeling embarrassed, I ran home in the rain and brought the bow. Everyone had been waiting.

A tale of friendship and rebellion

Muhammed Sunil was my close friend and protector during my high school days. Though Sunil was typically a backbencher, he started sitting with me in the front seat after being my friend. As the son of a school teacher, I was expected to excel in both studies and behavior. Despite this, I had a secret admiration for the backbenchers. Whenever there was a protest in the school, I would be the first one to leave the class. Then, it was all about fun and games. Bharathan and Vinayak, the other backbenchers, would often sneak out to smoke cigarettes. They also found pleasure in bullying weaker students. Sunil was always there to rescue me. Though small in stature, he was brave and quite strong.

Once, I visited Sunil’s house. His father owned a gym. One day, Sunil didn't come to school. Our class teacher told us he is absconding. He showed us a newspaper advertisement with a small photo of Sunil and a caption that read, ‘Son, wherever you are, please come back’, from his parents. At the teacher’s suggestion, we all stood up and prayed for his safe return. We continued this daily for a month. After a month, Sunil returned with tales of adventure. He had ran away to Madras. Thus he became a hero to everyone.

I had once planned to run away too. After my10th-grade exams, we had a three-months break. My father took me to Trichy to stay with my aunt Ramachithay. They hinted that I might join a college there. Afan, my aunt's husband, used to always chew betel nuts. He was thin but tall and very hardworking. He started as a peon and rose to become the manager of the company he worked for. Afan and my aunt had two sons and a daughter. That's where I got closer to my cousin, Jayasree. She was studying for her pre-degree. We would sleep next to each other. In the morning, we would brush our teeth together. She trained me in everything in her own ways, from brushing the teeth to other daily routines. We would go everywhere together. The house was always filled with music - devotional songs, Carnatic music, and Tamil film songs.

After three months, Jayasree visited me in my hometown. We even went on a trip together, which my mother didn't approve of. Mother sent Jayasree back to Trichy that very night. I cried a lot but no one listened. That night, wearing only my nightclothes, I left home. I had only fifty rupees with me at that time. I walked from Edappally to Ernakulam Railway Station in the night. I bought a ticket to Coimbatore. When I felt hungry in the morning, I bought idlis with the little money I had. Then I went to the bus stand and took a bus to Ooty. From there, I walked to Willington and reached my uncle's house in the military quarters. When my uncle saw me alone, he understood something was wrong. He didn't ask any questions. He made me a hot cup of tea. I cried for a long time and told him everything that happened. Meanwhile, a big search was on for me in Ernakulam. Eventually, with my consent, my uncle called my mother and informed her. I stayed there for a couple of days until my father came to take me back to Ernakulam. Then I joined St. Albert's College for my pre-degree...