I was moved. From the height of pride to the bottom of vulnerability. The grime of misfortune stank my senses and spoiled the mood. I cried aloud in mind.

It’s all about a mother. A mother with HIV. A mother of 3 kids. I was watching a TV news program called Kannadi and this plight of a mother stuck me in.

She was gifted with AIDS by her husband, who died a year before: leaving her to fight for life, oh no, not just for her life alone, but also for her 3 blossomed kids. Later, she went to her native village in Kerala with her kids.

Surprise! Nobody discarded them! They were allowed to stay there. Aids means help too, the good men of that village stood by the word!

But one condition; the kids shouldn’t be staying with the mother. The villagers feared that the non-HIV kids too would get affected if they stayed with her. So they split them and put them up in a childcare home, like how we pluck flowers one after the other and throw them all into a basket.

She stood there with a smile that conquered the world watching her. It was a smile of having nothing to hope for. Her smile drilled into the world, which addressed her as a mother! Hey World, you have succeeded in splitting the motherhood and the childhood, but could you ever cut the umbilical cord of love that flooded around you?? You can’t.

It’s not about AIDS. It’s not about a widow’s woeful life. It’s all about the partition. It’s only about the wall built in between a mother and her wingless children. Whatever she is, there is no better justice than letting her stay with her kids!

Moral: Dying is inevitable. Dying of AIDS is just not.

Philip Kotler is a well-known marketing guru. After him, I would prefer Mathiyas, Mani and Naseer Bhai. Standing together, they had developed a well-planned marketing technique that spun wonders. Rather than a marketing mantra, this wonderful idea should be addressed as a drama, perfectly enacted to attract attention and create action, and its success could stand atop of all those written and recited Marketing theories to play buffoon of them.

Their world was not as big as you might have believed by chance. Instead, they operated in the premise of a petite bus stand situated in the heart of Pathanamthitta, a small town in Kerala. What they sold was nothing but Idlis. Fresh and homemade.

Pathanamthitta needs an introduction.

It has been the slowest town I have ever been to. In my memories, the town lies like a long snail forgot to move on. In a better contrast, it is like a precious chronograph kept slow, consciously by God. Letting people to stay longer and laud.

Garlanded by mountain buds and silhouetted by trees, the town could impress its strongest seal in anyone’s mind. Hidden behind the posters announcing jewelry inaugurations and futile party congresses, trees and electric posts on roadsides would throw you a smile; like a baby, who felt shy for being found naked. Spotted with people walking, like affected by the nothingness of constant hartals ritually announced, the roads would lead you to eternal jubilation. In fact, they would pilot you like a tourist guide. Protruded into the walkways and public roads, with tempting bust-boards, jewelry shops and silk sari showrooms would invite you, like harlots flying winks to take you in. You would wink back and keep walking. Private buses, named affectionately after their owners' wives and kids, would slap you with wind blown like cyclones, as their silly drivers keep on overtaking each other as though they are in Formula One.

You would be stolen. From you.

Standing some years apart, grating the memories the town gave when I was a young, supple boy, a student of Catholicate College, I have no stop for words. Like a beehive, memory-bees twirl around me, buzzing notes of fun and honeyed hilarity.

The Three Marketeers is half imaginary and half true. A sphinx story. Half-human half-animal type. Hah, a story, which has actually a half story in it!

It was said that initially, three were doing individual idli selling at various points in Pathanamthitta. What united them was severe competition from new idli market entrants, and so they stood together, like old dogs unite to fight the new ones. Like senior players fight the juniors. It was essential.

The marketing gimmick was simple. With the handheld packets of Idlis, Mani would enter a bus, which was parked in the bus stand to start off in a while. For a time, he would look at the passengers with a smile, which would return him some curious frowns back. In a clear-cut, sweet-tongued language he would depict the qualities of the idli he was carrying. ‘Fresh and home made’. ‘Salted and non-sticky’ ‘Chutney made of fried coconut grates’ ‘Only five Rupees per serve’ ‘If don’t like don’t pay’ etc etc.

Nobody would even seem to be interested. All his audience would turn their heads and look for something interesting outside the windows. Except one person; Mathiyas.

Dressed in a glowing jubba (A gents wear like kurta, rich middle aged men use to wear in Kerala) Mathiyas would look like a rich Malayali entrepreneur owning Rubber estates in Kottayam. The Golden (gold-like) ornaments on his body would substantiate that he belonged to one of those ‘achayans’ cult.

In loud, imposing voice he would call Mani; “Dey Ivde Vaa”

Looking at the Idli packets and its seller, Mathiyas would then ask for one sample Idli…; “Orennam kodu nokkatte”. Before jabbing the idli into his wide open mouth, he would sweetly remind that he wouldn’t pay if it was not tasty.

Like forcibly sinking the sun into the sea, he would soak the idli neck-deep into the chutney and then take a bite. He would relish the idli in his mouth, as if he had found the best idli ever, and look around to spread the ‘good news’ among his fellow passengers. He would look at Mani and say, “Super! Adipoli Idli, I wouldn’t mind eating the whole what you have”

Wondered by the big man’s grand appreciation of the Idlis, people would look at Mani. If such a gentleman can eat in the bus like an ordinary man, why shouldn’t we, they would think. One by one, they would buy Idlis and eat.

Cut to Naseer Bhai. Wrapped in a Mulla’s attire, he would call Mani from outside. Like his favorite Idli seller in the town, he would talk to Mani. He would bring in the good qualities of the Idlis and declare how much his family liked the Idlis. At the end, he would ask for 2 packets for his family and leave the scene.

What would happen next should be called as a festival of idlis. People, who hesitated to buy the Idlis initially, turn the scene upside down. All of them would buy, some of them would eat there itself, some would take home, some would buy again, some would ask for more chutney and some would even request for a free home delivery. Mani would serve them all, like an obliged attendant.

In the evenings, the Three Marketeers would sit together in the crown of a nearby hill called Chuttippara and share the profit of the day, which would be more than 3 folds of their basic expenses.

Though for a short time, they did wonderful business. Later, it was said that they had gone to Gulf as part of extending their business.

Mr. Kotler, are you listening?

Kerala is a great place. But I must say that this greatness is only in its looks and not in its contemporary mores. As days grow, the people in Kerala are becoming more and more insane and insolent. They will just meddle into and screw your glitter of life. When people have no job except some smutty dissolute politics, you can’t expect any good instincts from them other than fraudulence and criminality. Luck or not, the world is yet more or less unknown about these dissolutions.

As a Keralite, I have inexplicable disappointment in this heavy truth. But truth is always bitter, I grasp.

One of my recent experiences had matched this gloomy fact and affirmed it without qualms.

I had gone to Kerala during last Easter. It was a nice time out as the stress of jobs and strain of ‘daily living’ had surrendered to a kind of enticing calmness. With my brother and two other friends I went to the nearest town, Punalur, for a movie. We were in bikes and had to park the bikes in a shed nearby the theatre. The shed was the part of a tourist bungalow lying close to it.

Once the movie got over we came back to the bikes but what we could find was awfully nasty that the bikes’ tyres were punctured, mirrors broken and fuel dripped out. Being furious, we had no other way but to question the guard in duty of the Bungalow. He was heavily drunk and was in a bad mood. When he denied answering we could estimate that none other than him did the crime. Being a Law Student and furthermore branded for being very instinctive, my brother had created a scene over there. He pointed out the nifty sections of the law like a priest reciting the preludes of verses!

Finally the man told us that the police had done those misdemeanors because it was non-parking area. He also claimed to have paid five hundred bucks to the police for the carelessness from his side.

My brother was at the end of his patience. He slapped the guard on the spot, as it was clear that he was lying.

By this time, somebody had called the police. ‘Drunkards attacking a guard’, police rushed in with necessary set up to offer all of us a night’s stay in the lockup.

Seeing police coming, the guard got charged up! Vengeful in mind, the over-smart guard took hold of my collar and tried to hit me with his knees. Caught on the spot for this misbehavior, the guard too was taken to the police custody.

From then till reaching the police station, it was a rain of all bad words in the language, a special talent that our policemen can boast of!

“Lock up! Oh my god, this is the first time I’m coming to a police station! That too, like a criminal! Beaten up and abused! My little brother, my friends, my pride, my self-respect , I am going to see all this agony?” I never wanted to argue with that foolish guard, I never wanted to question my bike’s damages, I never wanted to park my bike there, I never wanted to come for that movie... but no use now!

The policemen asked us to remove our shirts and shoes. My brother, who couldn’t digest what was really going on, opened his lawful mouth yet again, but to get beaten up again. My self-belief couldn’t prevent the brook of tears from flowing alongside the cheeks and falling down like a tap kept open. I cried in heart like a child.

From here, the things were not very awful as we expected. All of us were taken to the hospital for medical tests to find out whether drunk or not and this had saved us! It was found that we were normal but the guard, who too was taken for the tests, was drunk extremely.

Later we told the police that the guard had accused the police of doing the crime of damaging the bikes. Hearing this, the police rage has amplified against him and he got further charges.

See! Someone just intrudes into your life, makes it unhappiest and then gets himself in peril!

By this time, our poor dad had arrived there, with all his nerves arrested like frozen. He was neither angry nor sad. He had no emotions.

Because he wanted his sons to be conscientious and proactive always, though he never wanted to meet them in a police station in such a condition!

We lied to him that they didn’t beat us!