Who hasn’t osed one time or another? Sometimes it is forced by the circumstances, as I would argue, happened with me. Other times, it is intentional. For some, it leads to guilt, shed only with a reciprocal osal. For others it is a habit, a compulsion, a secret victory, crassly enjoyed at each instance.
Now, osal is a neat little Malayalam word for freeloading or mooching: taking things from other people without offering anything in return. The osed item is of relatively low value and there is no quid pro quo. Osal happens willingly, although not always, and certainly not always with pleasure. Who in Kerala hasn’t witnessed or heard about policemen who take free rides on buses and autos, or help themselves to refreshments from thattukadas (roadside stalls serving snacks, beverages, and poor hygiene) and walk out without paying? Politicians the world over get stuff “free” all the time but that is a different and consequential game altogether, and the word for that is kozha (bribe).
 |
| Seinfeld (blue shirt) Declines Kramer's Request (Credit: dailyseinfeld.com) |
By every indication, osal is a universal phenomenon, permeating all societies. In the best TV series of all time, Seinfeld, a main character—the inimitable Cosmo Kramer—was a consummate moocher. When he was not raiding Jerry’s fridge, he was borrowing Jerry’s tools, utensils, and clothes, even the swimsuit, which Jerry declined, saying “I don’t want your boys down there.”
I am unsure how widespread the practice is now in Kerala. Osal appears to be move inversely with income and people are generally better-off now, or pretend to be so with borrowed “blade” money. Osal, however, was rampant while I was growing up in less affluent times. Look no further than movies from that era. Professional osers were a mainstay of any storyline, typified by the hangers-on that gathered around the hero when he returned to his village after a lengthy absence with a lot of money and fighting skills.These hangers-on then proceeded to sing the hero’s praise, all the while freeloading on his food and drinks, preferably foreign scotch. The hero wasn’t gullible; he’s was just afflicted with excessive self-regard. Thus deluded, he succumbed to the suck-up and let the osal go on unchallenged. The actors who played these roles suffer from the same affliction, so it isn’t clear whether they were acting or playing out their real-life fondness for surrounding themselves with a cadre of mooching minions.
Quarter for a Pomelo
I was exposed early to the subtle pleasures of osal, right from the second grade. Pocket money was as alien a concept; I was never able to convince my mother to hand out weekly doles as a way to teach me money management as today’s kids do with their parents. As a result, I was largely a window shopper during school breaks, staring at the multi-colored treats displayed in large glass bottles (à la jelly beans) at the cash register at the Umbavoo’s general store in downtown Varandarappilly. My saving grace appeared in the form of a friend, Sriram. Though from a poorer family, he was always flush with pocket money, which he spent without a hint of selfishness. Or, put another way, I osed from Sriram fairly regularly, until I was able to repay him one occasion, as I wrote in Wives Beware!!
Sriram was as adventurous as he was generous. During one school break, he asked:
“Babloos naranga thinnittundo?” (Have you eaten pomelo fruit?)
“Illya,” I said. (No.)
“Engi nammakku poova.” (Then let us go.)
We trekked down a narrow dirt road bound on either side by stone walls (mattam) overgrown with moss and succulent weeds. Passing through a bamboo gate, we reached the front yard of a thatched house with a surrounding porch enclosed by low mud walls. A lady sat on the steps to the porch winnowing grains using a large bamboo tray (muram). She looked up at the intrepid visitors.
“Entha kuttiyole vende?” (What do you want kids?)
“Babloos naranga parikkatte?” Sriram asked. (Shall I pluck a pomelo fruit?)
“Kaal ana,” the lady said. (A quarter.)
 |
| Pomelo Fruit (Credit: eol.org) |
Sriram took out a 25 paisa coin from his pocket and handed it to the lady. We walked to the back of the house and stepped into the compound overgrown with tall coconut palms, mango, tamarind, and jackfruit trees, and an undergrowth of banana plants and yams with enormous dark green leaves. Among them, a large pomelo tree with fruits of different sizes and colors from green to yellow. Sriram lept up the trunk, pulled himself up over the branches and was up near the top in no time. He aimed for a large ripe fruit and pulled it down with an ease that showed he had been through the routine before. We split open the fruit with our bare hands and ate the juicy pinkish sweet and sour flesh right there under the tree. As far as osal experiences go, Sriram’s treat that day would remain my favorite for adventure, originality, and generosity.
Krishnan Rebounds
Luckily for me, by the time Sriram moved away, my friend Krishnan became richer. Krishan was a mild-mannered neighborhood kid I grew up with. He was a namboodiri (brahmin), but, somewhat uncharacteristically, uninterested in academics. For a few years while in elementary school, he had to grow his hair in preparation for his upanayanam (the sacred thread ceremony for brahmin boys). He was teased mercilessly for this. Kids from the other side of the village, clueless about namboodiri rites, taunted him, calling him a girl and pulling on his pony tail. Adding to his woes, Krishnan had greenish-yellow eyes, which earned him the nickname poocha kannan (cat-eyed). He never completed high school.
 |
| A View of The Kurumali from Krishnan's Yard |
The revival in Krishnan’s fortunes couldn’t have come at a better time for me, as it was around this time that Krishnan, my cousin Haridas, and I began experimenting with cigarettes. We also started venturing out in the evenings to hang out at the angadi (market), dine out at the Moolekkadan’s (a ramshackle restaurant), and take in an occasional Jayan (a popular tough guy actor in the mold of Charles Bronson) movie.
Haridas possessed an utterly engaging gift of gab; he could sell you the Brooklyn Bridge by the fourth sentence. A crowd of dental surgeons, bird watchers, or Marxist hoodlums would fall under his spell and nod their head in agreement with his views on their subjects before they realized they have been talking to a banker. With this preternatural gift, Haridas convinced his austere father, my great uncle, to allot him pocket money.
That left me as the odd man out. While I wanted in on the fun, I lacked the funds to pay for it. The only way out was to lean on Krishnan’s new found wealth. He cooperated up to a point, tolerating my osal of cigarettes—it was always the cheapest brand either Panama or the astringent Charminar—or sharing a portion of the delicious jack fruit fries at the Moolekkadan’s.
Yin and Yang
Soon though, my pocket money situation began to improve. It was not so much due to my mother’s benevolence as an increased daring on my part to bend the rules. Keeping a part of the change after a trip to the ration shop or picking up stray coins left on cupboard shelves were natural first steps. A step up from osal, this behavior is isngal—taking things of relatively low value from other people without their consent, although they may be tacitly aware of the activity. This is a dangerous road to tread because if you cross a blurry line, isngal morphs into adichu mattal (lifting; stealing; or plagiarism) or outright moshanam (theft).
Being first-born has its advantage,like isnging from your younger siblings with impunity. My youngest brother, then in 4th grade, had amassed a fair amount of cash from various gifts he had received from relatives. I found out about the stash and, in a moment of poor judgement, isgned it from him to cover a deficit. By this time, I was an undergraduate and my mother was allotting me lunch money. Even after some creative budgeting however, that allotment wasn’t enough to cover a new-found necessity: smoking “filter” cigarettes. Not to avoid carcinogens, but to impress girls, which my wife now tells me was a boneheaded idea.
 |
| The Shed where Ashari Worked |
“Vallyettan Pramunde paisa isnginu kettu.” (Heard you snitched Pramod’s money.)
Caught aback, I couldn’t think of anything better than,
“Athinu avan naalaam classilalle? Avanenthina cashinte aavashyam?” (Isn’t he in fourth grade? Why does he need money?)
But if Ashari thought he had nailed me, he miscalculated. For at that moment, achamma (paternal grandmother) intervened.
“Edo Ashari, than varthamaanam parayande pani edukkedo,” she said curtly, shutting him up. (Ashari, you stop talking and get back to work.)
Achamma (more about her here and here) was annoyed by his talkativeness. Come to think of it, she was annoyed at anyone talking much—except her. She was an ardent radio listener and newspaper reader, and could hold forth on any geopolitical topic under the sun from the stupidity of Marxist dogma (on which she was right) to the virtues of Indira Gandhi’s rule (on which she was wrong). All was fine if you listened to her and nodded in agreement. But if you disagreed and tried to say so, she’d cut you off with her patented put down:
“Onnu vala vala valaa nnu parayandirikkunnudo. Asanom vayem nischalliya.” (Stop jabbering blah, blah, blah. Don’t know ass from mouth.)
Achamma was not just annoyed by Ashari’s talkativeness. She had a well-founded suspicion that Ashari, who was on a daily wage, was shirking work to inflate his paycheck; the longer he worked, the more he took home. Achamma, ever vigilant on budgetary matters, was having none of that subterfuge.
So, my brother never got justice for my isngal of his money, a matter he reminds me with great relish now that my financial position is yin to his yang.
Purloined Pen
 |
| A Japanese Tie and Sheaffer Pen the Author Kept |
But this librarian, newly appointed, displayed a shady side from the beginning and I should have known better. He was notorious for ogling beautiful coeds and from the get go gained reputation as a pancharakuttan (habitual flirter). The students weren’t concerned that he was married or that his habits disqualified him for the job. What they objected to was him encroaching their territory, which was crowded to begin with. And they resented that his job gave him an inside advantage: books and girls, and you are the interlocutor? Come on.
In any case, I had to borrow books too ;-), and on one such occasion he asked me to fill out some form. I took out my Scheaffer and started writing. Half-way through, a friend called from the back and I turned to talk to him, leaving the pen on the counter. When I turned back and reached for the pen, it was gone.
“Hey, where’s my pen?” I asked, looking around.
The librarian had his back to me and was going through a file drawer. “I haven’t seen it,” he said turning around clutching a sheaf of papers.
I shuffled my books and the form searching for the missing Sheaffer. “I had it right here and now I can’t find it,” I said.
“Well, how do I know?” he said, peering over his eyeglasses, which had slipped to the edge of his nose.
Then I saw it—the pen. It was tucked neatly in the left pocket of his shirt. “Hey, wait a minute, that’s my pen right there,” I said pointing at it.
“No, no, no, this is my pen and I have had it for a while. A friend from the Gulf gave it to me,” he said, taking the pen out with a flourish and jotting something down on the paper in front of him.
A friend from the Gulf! Whaddaya know?
I was too aghast at this brazen display of stealing in plain sight that I didn’t know how to respond immediately. But later, in today’s lingo, “Njan ayaalkkittoru pani koduth.” (I did a number on him.) That’s a story for another day.
Waning Glory, Restored
In the closed college environment where news spread fast, serial osers got tagged as such rather quickly, as I suspect I was at one time. I was a commuter student (a day scholar, as it was known) and on some occasions, stayed over with friends at the on-campus housing (hostel). On these occasions, there was no alternative for sustenance other than osing the dinner from accommodating friends willing to add my meal to their expense account. Most of them, weary of an impending osal, disappeared at dinner time. Only a few were willing to indulge, and after repeated osals, my ledger balance with them grew uncomfortably large. Fortunately, a neat solution presented itself later in life and I was able to reciprocate the generosity of these friends, admittedly on a smaller scale. The solution was (in) the kuppi (bottle).
You see, I venture that the only remaining advantage of being in the U.S (as opposed to being in Kerala), is the kuppi. All other advantages have vanished, gone kaput.
It didn’t use to be that way. When I first came to the U.S. as a graduate student and returned home on visits, a vast chasm separated me from those that I left behind. People surrounded me to see the U.S. dollar—Dollarenna mahan (the great dollar), as my father used to say; gasped admiringly when I slipped up and said skej-ool, not shed-yool for schedule; and swooned in wonder as I took out the bulky camcorder for the endless video session.
And now? Nothing—except derision.
When I proudly show them a picture of my wood splitting hobby, the next thing I hear is, “Ketto, aa Variyarde makante joli poyinna thonnane. Ayaalkiipo verakuvettanathre pani.” (Heard Mr. Variyar’s son lost his job. Looks like he is a woodcutter now.)
When we visited a government office, a bank, or a hospital, my father used to declare proudly, “He is in America.” Now I shudder the prospect. I asked him to never mention that. When he slips, we automatically end up at the end of the line: “Ayalde oru America.” (Hard to translate. It’s all in the intonation. Sort of like getting the middle finger.)
This stunning turnaround can be traced to the Wall Street collapse of 2008, an event that delivered every aging Kerala socialist a lifetime of happiness that they were unable to cobble together during years of their own self-rule. (The younger ones are pining for a visa). There’s this guy who sits all day on a large boulder in the street corner in front of the vayanashala (library) near my home in Kerala. He spends his time reading the newspaper and commenting on world affairs from a proletarian viewpoint. He asked me with evident satisfaction, unaware of the irony, “Amerikkel ippo ellarem pirichiu viduvannu kettallo.” (Heard people are now being laid off in droves in America.)
So the old glory has waned—except when it comes to the kuppi. You take out a bottle of Jack Daniels and place it on the table and magic happens. All the old glory is back. Even the aging socialists make a beeline, asking “Ithu phorina?” (Is it foreign?). It’s almost like Alavudheenum Albhutha Vilakkum. (Aladdin and the magic lamp.)
 |
| Magic Happens |
That’s when the politicians stepped in. In what can only be called an American NRI Respectability Restoration Act, the sagacious Government of Kerala banned alcohol sales in all but 5-star hotels. You don’t have to be an economist to compute what happened next. The magic of the bottle-bearing visitor was restored.
Leveraging this last bit of advantage, I was able to steadily chip away my osal balance with college friends.
It’s me!
Rising incomes in Kerala have taken the bite out of osal felt by the givers and lessened the break it gives to the takers. Social status and pride have been democratized and few want to be seen as overtly freeloading. Small-time isgalists and petty pilferers have put their past behind and moved into the respectable terrain of owning the latest smartphones, driving around in swanky cars, or claiming to be writing creative nonfiction.
Take Vasu, our next-door neighbor. On a recent visit, I saw him leisurely stretched out on the verandah of his two-story terrace villa, taking in the afternoon breeze. A small white hatchback was parked in the tight space in front. I inquired about his status and learned that he has been taking it easy for a while from his job as an auto driver. His son, it appears, is running a successful jewelry making business, earning enough to afford the car and Vasu his siesta.
Things were quite different for Vasu in his youth. In his youth, Vasu lived in a hut with mud walls and a thatched roof. People rarely saw him, perhaps because his activities were primarily nocturnal. His reputation preceded sightings of him: he was occupied with chillara moshanam (petty theft). Nothing major, never hurtful, just a bit annoying when you suddenly find some of your ottupathrangal (bronze utensils) missing.
Despite his weakness, things would have been okay for Vasu except he made one really bad call. He confronted achamma. Poor Vasu. Big mistake.
Achamma was usually asleep by 9:00 PM, the All India Radio blaring by her side. Her vintage swiss made timepiece hung above the door to the dining room with alarm set at 3:30 AM. It was six and a half hours of solid sleep, no matter what, except when a milch cow was expected to calve.
None of the cows in our cow shed were expecting that balmy October night. Achamma had a restful night ahead. At around 2:00 AM, she was awakened by something clanging in the dining room.
 |
| Bronze Utensils had Value (Credit: thehindu.com, R. Ravindran) |
Now, I am taking some liberties in calling it a dining room. We sat on the cement floor filled with patched up cracks that resembled some one’s idea of the world map and ate our meals alright. But the room served other purposes. Hanging from the ceiling were several clotheslines made out of slender bamboo poles. The nilavilakku (prayer lamp) placed to the left of the door to the main hall was lit at sundown and kids gathered in the room for naamam chollal (prayer recital). A rickety wooden cupboard under the threat of imminent collapse held condiments for cooking in the kitchen next door. And several bronze vessels were stored upside down off to one corner. Something must have rattled the vessels that woke up achamma.
She switched on the lights in the main hallway and opened the door to the dining room calling out, “Aarra avide?” (Who’s there?). Off to the corner, she saw a lungi-clad man hunched over the vessels. “Aarra athu?” she repeated (Who’s that?). Upon hearing her, the man dropped the things he was holding, got up, and turned around.
“Ithu njana!” (It’s me!) he said looking straight at her in the eyes. Achamma, fearless, reached for him, but he slithered out, opened the door to the porch, and ran away into the night.
It was Vasu.
The court proceedings were simple. Achamma, looking regal in her signature white mundum neriyathum (traditional attire) stood in the witness box. When the judge asked, she pointed to Vasu, who bowed his head remorsefully. He did his time but rebuilt his life.
We can all learn a thing or two from Vasu. I admire the man for his honesty. When caught red handed, he didn’t evade or lie. He owned up—“It’s me!” he said. If only our politicians and Wall Street barons were so forthright.
