The Gulf boom and the Kerala shock

 Worlds Apart

By Bala Menon

It was the dream of an entire population. A few coconut palms and a small house in the middle of some mango and jackfruit trees. Very simple. Like a child's drawing, in fact. 

Composite pic: Courtesy - Mohamed Humaid and Louise Day from Pixabay.

Euphoria

And in the 1970s, almost overnight, as if thousands of apsaras (celestial beings from Indian mythologies) had descended from the heavens, beautiful and low-slung houses began dotting the Kerala countryside. In Chavakkad, near Trichur (today's Thrissur), in central Kerala, also known as Kochu Dubai or Little Dubai, not a single adult male remained. And the money the men sent helped build the dwellings, including one in the shape of a Boeing 707 - wings, tail and all. More cars were sold in Kerala during the 1970s than anywhere else in the country.

Kairali (the poetic name for Kerala) was rich. Euphoria bubbled and spilled over. The shrill voice of left-wing extremism the 1960s was to soon become a whimper.

There is, however, another world. Of Chupran, the pulayan (mostly bonded farm labourers) who awakes with the sun to rush to work in his thamburan's (landlord or lord) fields. And of the calluses on his palms and feet that grow seasonally like paddy plants.

Howling

When the sun sets, he plods homewards along the dusty, winding lanes between the fences of thorn and bamboo that set him apart form the lushness of the land.

He does not hear the wind howling through the thousands of coconut trees, as it has been doing for thousands of years. He neither hears the full-throated songs of thousands of Marxist street volunteers nor the blasts of bombs and swish of swords and daggers as right and left clash in Tellicherry and other towns, He is also impervious to the sound of conch shells of thousands of the same rightists and leftists who climb the Sabarimala hills together to throng at the temple of Lord Ayyappan. And he does not hear the drip, drip of oil money from the Gulf.

Dreaming

The meaning of his life he discovers when he reaches his thatched home, uncorks his bottle of arrack and eats perhaps a little fish and rice. Then he falls asleep, dreaming of the sage Parasurama, who stood on the Gokarna Hills and threw his silver axe and made Kerala rise from the oceans.

Or of the asura (power-seeking beings) King Mahabali who comes visiting the Malayalis every year on Onam (Kerala's beloved festival) day from the nether world to which he was banished by Lord Vishnu for his arrogance (and blessed for his devotion). Nothing in the world can change this.

© Bala Menon. This piece was published as a 'middle' in the Op-Ed pages of the Times of India on Thursday, April 10, 1980. 

(Kerala has changed since the 1970s. Social justice programs have lifted people like Chupran from poverty and the days of big landowners are long gone. Today, Kerala is considered a prosperous state and labourers in Kerala are mostly from the states of Bihar and Bengal.)

Tiddley Trail Stories

Anything is possible in the Realm of the Impossible

Review of my book 'Tiddley Trail Stories' by Norman Morra

There’s death, and there are things worse than death. In his Tiddley Trail Stories, Bala Menon boldly depicts the impact of our unconscious grabbing us and turning the real into the unreal and back into reality. Isn’t this the basis of most horror movies, such as Psycho or The Shining, where an everyday predictable existence turns ludicrous and unbearably frightening? In the realm of the impossible, anything is possible. In a way, these stories are equally 

cinematic and literary.

Menon creates a sequence of eighteen stories that carry the reader through twists and turns that make it impossible to predict their outcome. Is there any coherent plot unifying these outrageous scenarios? On the surface, no, but undercurrents run through these episodic flights of fantasy. This format baffles the reader because we prefer continuity or a common thread to guide us through a sustained narrative—and that doesn’t exist. But this  disparate array of tales or revelations keeps readers anticipating that surprising or unexpected ending. You take one bite of the cheesecake and want more; no two bites taste the same. One story prods us into reading the next, and another with no end to the horrific escapades. These are not mysteries because Menon does not drop clues to let us imagine who or what causes the suspense or who will face the consequences. The endings are like a magician deftly yanking the tablecloth sharply while the dishes and cutlery stay put. 

In “Stranger On The Lawn,” a father complains that his teenage son, Mike, has the irritating habit of divulging “the climax of a suspense novel,” and he just can’t help being a spoilsport. Our narrator, the Dad, finds this habit disconcerting. One warm Spring day, the man is cultivating the garden of his remote ravine home when a stranger wearing a heavy coat and smoking a pipe approaches and informs him that this land, this garden, and this house belong to him and his forefathers. Our hero is an outright usurper. What a way to disrupt a pleasant day of gardening.

Incredulous, yes, but the stranger bolts toward the empty home, and the man pursues in a frenzy. The stranger then vanishes, leaving the narrator with nothing but an insane story to tell his family and friends. But here is where Menon’s literary craft shines; he contrasts the elegantly diverse flowering garden, started four years ago, with the following: “I still don’t know whose mangled body it was, with its shattered skull, that I buried under the elm sapling.” This juxtaposition between the beautiful and the abhorrent hits the reader’s senses and psyche. 

The tale ends with the hero (or antihero) outlining how he managed to dispense with the incriminating clues that would lead investigators back to him. He succeeds in his crime but lives with the memory of his horrid deed, yet confession is good for the soul. However, the book's strength is its ability to contrast beauty and peace with chaos and violence, which happens throughout the stories. Balancing the normal with the paranormal binds the narrative inside each tale and the book itself, making it more of a montage than a collection. And more coherent than one thinks.

The writing style is conversational, meaning the author is never distant from the reader, who senses someone guiding them through the maze of trickery and deceit. Menon does this by placing ordinary, identifiable characters front and centre in his stories. These characters are easily recognizable: brothers, sisters, wives, children, grannies, the police, rideshare drivers, bank managers, criminals and co-workers—all familiar yet unpredictable. If the characters are recognizable, so are their motives, which involve money and greed—but not always. The language and tone are authentic, direct, and understandable. Conversational writing is difficult because, unlike a novel, Menon must replicate his balancing technique in each of the eighteen stories. Regardless, we must adapt to Menon's format without one main narrator, as in a book, which can be challenging.

Yet the culprits don't always escape, and their scheming backfires, as in the  opening story, “It Was Only A Mug Of Coffee.” The main character states, “I am a connoisseur of coffee…” Now, bragging about your prowess is suspect for several reasons, which shows that this man is untrustworthy without any redeeming quality. However, he knows what a good cup of Java tastes like, and it happens that his family plantation in Sumatra has concocted possibly the best brew ever. “The new coffee will neither age nor lose its aroma or flavour.” But the recipe or formula for this coffee rests securely in the central computer of the family’s company. The scoundrel breaks into the computer, steals the formula, and erases it from the database, leaving his family in a quandary.  He has betrayed his flesh and blood.

Bala Menon with Mary Ellen Koroscil, Chair
of the Courtneypark Writers' Group

He absconds to Canada and drives from Toronto to Calgary, where he will sell his stolen formula to the “Coffee Board of Canada.” His scheme appears airtight until he meets a group of thugs in Saskatchewan who beat him mercilessly. Upon awakening at the Saskatoon General Hospital, the doctor informs him that he will remain an invalid for the rest of his days. Even worse, he will have little sense of smell or taste—the same senses that he used to savour the aroma and flavour of his beloved specialty coffee. Unlike the previous tale with the stranger, the hero endures physical suffering worse than death. A suffering that robs him of sensuality and places him at the mercy of others until he expires. So, the first story lays the moral groundwork for the remaining ones; there’s no real escape from our immoral acts. If we avoid punishment or physical harm, we experience inescapable guilt and misery that penetrates our souls. Nothing can erase the memory of our malfeasance. 

Throughout, Menon shatters stereotypes, as in “Little Old Ladies.” Indeed, we deteriorate mentally and physically, but we can, regardless of age, improvise and adapt with the help of others because where there’s a will, well, there's a way. And revenge knows no age bracket. A group of older women meet at Sandra’s cottage on picturesque  Matamagasi Lake not for tea and scones but to plot an attack on a degenerate who assaults, robs, and rapes vulnerable senior women. The man has escaped justice, but the women “have long memories and don’t forget” and apply their brand of justice, albeit vigilantism. 

Bala Menon with Elizabeth Banfalvi, President of the
Mississauga Writers' Group

Demure Liz, the leader, flashes a wad of hundred dollar bills and acts as the decoy, luring the man to a remote area where he expects to rob her easily. Unafraid, Liz tosses her purse in the air, and when he stretches upward to grab it, she thrusts her metallic sharp-edged umbrella into his chest. The other ladies and a hefty male accomplice emerge from the bushes to perform atrocities on the man. They gave him a penectomy (penis removal) and poured sulfuric acid into one eye. The man survives and tells the police this unbelievable story about getting attacked by a group of senior women. The police have heard every story, but this one takes the cake. The last vestige of human kindness is Liz saying, “All the equipment we used was sterilized. Poor rascal shouldn’t get any post-surgery infections.” But did he get his comeuppance to the max, or is it karma? It doesn’t matter because Liz teasingly confesses at the end that this story never happened as the ladies revert to a sedate cafe to tell “raunchy stories and risque jokes about old boyfriends.” So much for quaint old biddies. 

Violence permeates the stories, and we have to ask why. Is it necessary? Do the most loving, docile and mellow among us have this innate urge to inflict pain on others? Sometimes, the meekest have a violent episode buried inside their unconscious—either real or imagined. This idea appears in “‘Right’ Side Of The Road,” where a timid rideshare husband witnesses several gangland executions but agrees to stay quiet. He does precisely what the mob tells him to do, and they reward him to the extreme. That reward for silence is becoming a millionaire because, in Menon’s world, Faustian bargains can pay off.  And what we started this review with—the real turning unreal and then real again—binds all the stories. So, there is a structure if there’s no integrating plot. But does life have a plot, a prescribed path we must follow; do we have a blueprint or template for our future?

'Tiddle Trail Stories' on display at the Brampton
Authors' Showcase in June, 2025

Finally, in “Is That You Rebecca?” paramedics routinely pick up an 85-year-old man, Johnny, who wanders away from his seniors’ residence. In the ambulance, he reminisces about women he courted years ago in his prime and calls out their names. Johnny makes the paramedics chuckle. Still, as an oldster, he retains his manly looks. Routinely, the paramedics find him and return him to the home. He is harmless, but his hormones remain intact.  On this particular day, in the back of an ambulance, he relives his love for Rebecca. “We waddled into the Agawa River and saw otters making love, twisting and turning, and you wanted to do the same.”

Back at the seniors' home, he gropes the female aides but is charming, and they dismiss his antics as boyish playfulness. Old John breaks up the monotony of their rigorous jobs, and unlike the other residents, he is fun-loving. The staff forgive his misdemeanours. There’s no one woman he searches for; he just loves women. Granted, men of any age should not grab women, but at eighty-five, Johnny doesn’t give a damn. Nor should the old still yearn for youth since they’ve had their day, or should they? Then, the grim reality hits us. Upon reaching the home in the ambulance, Johnny asks his imaginary Rebecca, “But didn’t I  strangle you and drown you in Ramsey Lake when the mist rose around us?” Is it factual or fictitious, or a mix of both? Again, Menon balances the aesthetic with the grotesque. 

These stories usually have no happy endings for the perpetrators, victims,  survivors, or the righteous. Revenge is sweet but doesn't last. However, we are in denial if we expect our lives to grow and flourish without regret, pain, or injustice. And to think that we can manage our choices and avoid exigencies, think again. Undeniably, a random universe exists, and we experience unsuspecting diversions (good and bad) that shape us.  That’s the message in Tiddley Trail Stories: expect the unexpected because we are not always the arbiters of our fates, and things are not how they appear. 

The unconscious and the conscious are in turmoil twenty-four-seven; our memories shadow us, and we play the perpetrator, victim, and survivor to the best of our ability. Guilt and longing for retribution stay deep within our psyche, and Menon forces them to the surface, which is challenging for many writers. Do we dictate our thoughts and passion, or do they emerge from a deep and hidden place? Freud, Alfred Hitchcock, and Stephen King would relish these tales in a heartbeat. 

A bus ride in the Western Ghats

Rain in the Western Ghats

By Bala Menon

By the time we reached Kasara, a light drizzle had started. We were afraid this would happen and when the sky darkened and the thunder sounded as if somebody was dynamiting the ghats, a devilish thrill began crawling up our necks.

Hissing Stoves

It was seven in the morning and in that massive wood and asbestos shed, looking a little like a mountaineering base camp, some ten burly Sikh truck-drivers sat eating plates of yogurt and steaming potato mash. Five huge kerosene stove hissed powerfully, driving away the cold. The rain drummed on the roof. We drank our coffee and set off by our bus to Panchavati. A Sikh shouted, “Take care. A hill might fall on you.” Our driver hurled some choice abuses - the language of the country’ highways.

Composite picture: From Pixabay

The bus climbed at about 10 km per hour and in the blinding rain, we could see at least six trucks smashed against the mountainside and abandoned along the route.  Rocks lay strewn all over. Above us, some heads of cattle were up the slippery-looking boulders like seasoned rock-climbers. There was not a human being in sight. We felt as if the wind would pluck us from the road any moment and hurl us into the valley. The headlights were ineffective.

 

Ethereal Light

At the highest point, very near the Bhatsai, the rain suddenly disappeared. The light was ethereal with a gold-and-greenish tinge. Down below, we could see big black clouds assaulting smaller peaks. It looked like a sharp pencil sketch. Far away, a bigger hill stood like a lonely sentinel, its ears cocked to the echos rumbling on the plain.

Now a zig and a zag and we were out in the rain again for two hours until the bus slid down to Igatpuri on the other side of the ghats. Then the clouds chased us all the way to Nasik.

Massive Statue

It was also raining in the brown hills of Trimbakeshwar, 28 km from Nasik, where the Godavari bursts into this world and pitter-patters provocatively into Panchavati. 

Panchavati, where the waters of the Godavari are trapped in concrete tanks called Ram Kunds, where priests are thicker that flies at a sweetmeat shop and where half-naked pilgrims abound, was bright and colourful - with a massive red statue of Hanuman benignly supervising the ritual bathing and immersions. 

This article was published earlier as a 'middle' in the Op-Ed pages of the Times of India, Mumbai, in the late 1970s.

Is there a population problem?

 Anti-View

The Population Bogey - A Malthusian Myth

By Bala Menon

A pot-bellied, prosperous businessman points an accusing finger at the swollen stomach of an emaciated, pregnant woman. And thus a myth is created, publicized and accepted. That her swollen stomach is the cause of all the known ills in the country. This myth must be shattered.

In fact, in a large country such as ours (India), there is not even a remote threat that the population will assume an uncontrollable dimension, even in the distant future. We have just about 210 persons per square mile. Compare this to the population densities of the affluent nations. The Netherlands has 990 persons, the United Kingdom 589 and Japan and Belgium about 500 per square mile. 

Where then is the population problem in India? In the minds of pot-bellied businessmen and their gargantuan representatives. So make a hullaballoo, raise a bogey and point accusing fingers. It is very convincing, especially to a gullible populace. 

Current literature on economics in underdeveloped nations is replete with theorizing on population. All the economists and the eminent acedemicians from our musty universities will reel off statistics, production and distribution figures of economic goods and then make the ridiculous statements. The pregnant woman is the criminal. Mr. Malthus must be thrilled.

There is a trick which these musty professors usually follow. Population is taken as an exogenous or autonomous variable - ie one which affects the economic system without being affected by the system. They conspire among themselves and decide that nothing should be said about the size of the population in relation to the natural resources of the country. Because that would mean the shattering of their own myths. How can they then chuckle their learned chuckles?

Our iron and coal resources are the seventh largest in the world. The problem is just that our industry works at 50 percent of its capacity. Our agricultural yield (of rice) is just 1,800 kilograms per hectare as against 5,600 of Japan or 5,000 of North Vietnam. In short, there is an underutilization of resources. And this is not because of the swollen stomach of a pregnant woman.

There is another group of prophets known as demographers. Their job is to terrify. They conjure up visions of masses of people, swarming about the world, frantically scrounging for food and clothing. This group is perhaps the most imaginative They even say that we will some day ‘hang out of windows like the day’s washing.’

Take food. Even if we follow these Neo-Malthusians into their science fiction adventure in the year 2000 A.D, (they call it a projection into the future) we find their stories incongruous. Dr. C. Taeuber, head of the statistics Branch of the Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO), asserts:  “It is feasible to bring into production some one billion hectares of land in the tropics alone and 300 million acres outside it.” Then, there are the vast oceans to be tapped.

People are an asset to any country. The larger the working population, the larger the productive forces that can be unleashed. This is indisputable. One just has to turn to modern China. This country has harnessed its population - 800 million strong - and transformed an ancient nation into a modern industrial power.

 

There is no population problem in the world today. It is just a myth we believe in. “Already in many countries of Northern Europe, … the air is so still without the sound of young voices … no laughter of children in beautiful gardens … only grown-up men and women in top-coats, sombre, unsmiling, desperately trying to fill the void of  children with their new psychedelic clothes.” Could somebody please tell me which is better?

We have already spent Rs. 318.8 million in India to kill our unborn babies. 

This article was published earlier in the Sunday Magazine, Times of India , February  29, 1976. Pictures from Pixabay.

Onaping Falls in Northern Ontario

The High Falls of Onaping

By Bala Menon

Onaping Falls in Northern Ontario was until 1977 outside the ambit of municipal administration and was a company town, owned and operated by mining giant Inco. 

Today, it is an amalgamation of three local communities - Dowling, Onaping and Levack. Dowling is about 11 km from Onaping along Highway 144, while Levack is north of the highway along Municipal Road 8. The smaller subdivisions of Levack Station and Phelans are also located along Highway 144 between Dowling and Onaping.

Clear Lake at the entrance to Onaping Valley. At one time, it was 
a water source for Onaping. Now it is used for swimming and recreational boating.

On January 1, 2001, the town and the Regional Municipality were dissolved and amalgamated into the city of Greater Sudbury.

The Onaping Falls area is known for its scenic beauty and its abundance of recreational faciilities; fishing, hunting, snowmobiling, cross-country and downhill skiing.

Onaping is particularly known for its High Falls, where the Onaping River drops 46 metres in a single plunge, sending mist and froth for several meters. The town is at the point where the Canadian Shield meets the Sudbury Nickel Irruptive, caused by a meteorite strike two billion years ago. There is a magnificent lookout off Highway 144 called the A. Y. Jackson Lookout, for the famous Group of Seven artist who immortalized the view on his canvas with his 1953 painting "Spring on the Onaping River". There is a local government information centre near the lookout.

A wonderful trail can take you quite close and over the Onaping Falls. 

Onaping Falls from the A.Y. Jackson Lookout

The scenery is majestic and the area contains a treasure of natural resources for the traveler and outdoor sports enthusiast. The city itself is very small - home to only about 4,000 people and is part of the City of Greater Sudbury. 

There are fine recreational facilities available - a double rink, a curling club, downhill skiing and cross-country skiing. Ski trails are located off Highway 144 near the Windy Lake Motel. For updates on ski conditions call 855-0145

Currently, there is a proposal to build a zip line to carry tourists down and across High Falls on steel cables stretched from a tower near the present foot bridge to a landing midway where they can walk across a rope bridge. Here, visitors can walk up the path or if stage one is a success and the second part of the zip line is constructed they can take their chances on the big run down the main falls to a landing near A.Y. Jackson Center. A 3 rope walkway would be stretched across the river in the middle of the rapids area above the main falls. 

The Annual Cardboard Toboggan race in the area in Feburary is an attraction at the former mer Levack Ski hill . Hot chocolate, a bon fire, great music, and tons of snowy fun are all part of the exciting event. More info at: Onaping Community Site

The Onaping Falls Curling Club is located at 10 Fraser St.Onaping, Ont. The 
club has 150 members. The club can be reached at.966-2323 

© Bala Menon. Pics on this page © Bala Menon 

The Magic of Quaint Bahla in Oman

 Magical Bahla - In the Heartland of Oman

by Bala Menon

A little more than 30km west of Nizwa, the district headquarters of the Interior Region or the Dhahira– deep in the lovely heartland of the Sultanate of Oman, lies the magical and ancient town of Bahla. It is a quaint, little settlement with lush surroundings and exudes a distinct flavour of the ancient Sultanate and one that has many a tale to tell the modern-day visitor. The Bahla valley is part of the central plateau that slopes southwards from the base of the Jebel Al Akhdhar or the Green Mountains.

Por Francisco Anzola - Flickr: Bahla Fort, CC BY 2.0, 

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26938919

A single carriageway breaches an almost 12km long mud and brick wall that surrounds the town and passes through verdant date plantations and settlements, with hospitable people. Vast tracts of well-watered gardens crowd within the town walls and a most of the original dilapidated township can be seen while on a walk round the old quarter.

Bahla was the capital of the country between the 12th and early 17th century and the town gets its name from the old Bahila tribe, which ruled the region. The Nabhan dynasty ruled it until the Yarubis took it over in 1650s and consolidated most of interior Oman. Across the road, on a site dominating the surrounding countryside rises the Great Fort of Bahla, with its attractive towers, including a windtower, known as Burj-al-Reh. The vintage of the fort has still not been dated mainly because successive rulers have added to or renovated or rebuilt parts of it down the centuries. You will have to get prior permission for entry into the fort. 

Because of its great importance in human civilization, the great fort and the wall was brought under the umbrella of the Unesco in 1988 and declared a World Heritage Site – meaning it should be treasured by mankind for all time.

Bahla town and the surrounding villages have always been considered a stronghold of Omani cottage industry and many of these crafts – with their fine workmanship – have been preserved and developed under special government programs of the Omani Ministry of National Heritage and Culture.

The visitor can see a metalworker on the job at his small furnace, a maker of beautiful goat-hair cloaks or an indigo dyer showing off his ware (with the dye coming from a plant similar to the staple fodder of cattle throughout the Persian Gulf region – the alfalfa). This indigo-dyed cloth is a popular piece of costume for people as we travel southwards and is now nationally familiar – with expatriates and visitors – because of its association with the Firqat Forces (the irregulars from the Dhofar Region in the Sultan of Oman’s Army).

On the Sultanate’s National Days and other festive occasions, hundreds of these fierce-looking, barechested men dance with the indigo-cloth tied like a sarong around their waists and waving their weapons as they shout their oath to Sultan Qaboos bin Said, who has now been ruling the country for more than 40 years.

However, the pride of place in Bahla town is occupied by the potter and his exceptional art. The potters of Bahla, they say throughout the country, have magic in their fingers and their creations adorn the best of homes. The clay comes from the dry river (wadi) bed and it is laboriously trampled upon to make it pliable and then worked upon on the wheel – as potters have done throughout history.

The clay is transformed as the potter’s hands seem to weave patterns in the air and you can see shapes and sizes emerge, along with spouts and rims as the fingers mould and curve. Like music that is unheard, the sight will root you to the spot.... The pots are then fired in a dome-shaped kiln, heated with fire-wood (palm fronds, of which there is a plentiful supply). Although the electric wheel has been introduced, you can still see the old kickwheel. And don’t forget to pick a pot or two. They are reasonably priced and will be great conversation piece in any drawing room. One of the popular ones is the elegant snake pot which is used to store dates.

At the entrance to the town is a modern pottery works, set up by the government, with the help of Chinese experts. Beijing has donated equipment and provided some modern technology. The Oman-China link in this sphere is an ancient one and colourful shards of Chinese celadon pottery have been found at many sites excavated by archaeologists in recent times in various areas of the Sultanate.

The souk is a delightful place, like most souks in the country and is built around the village square. Bahla is also a town full of legends and stories about genies (djinns) and ghosts that are said to live in trees ... and if you have an Omani friend or a long-term resident to guide you around, it will be a memorable, educational visit.

© Bala Menon. This article was first published in the 'Times of Oman'.