Introduction to The Last Will and Testament

INTRODUCTION

(LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT)

My name is Sushil Jacob Matthan. I was born in Bangalore in 1943. I am the third child in my family. I have been an Indian Citizen all my life. 

I have several aliases. 

To my immediate family, and close family friends, I am known as Sushil, a name, however, not recorded in my Indian Passport.

There are various variations of my name that have been used to call me over the years. I also have several nicknames.

My family elders call me Sushilmon, translated as the little child Sushil. The younger relatives, who want to show respect, call me Sushilchayan. Other Malayalees call me Sushilachayan or just Achayan.

The word "sushil" in Sanskrit means "well-disposed, decent. One of my uncles used to call me in jest as "dursheelan", which means the opposite of "sushil".

My Cathedral and John Connon School, Bombay, India  and St. Stephen's College, Delhi, India classmates and other alumni friends call me either as Jake or as Dead Chicken.

Cathedral School in 1896

(Picture courtesy late H. S. Uberoi)

The latter is a nickname I attained because of a drowning incident that I went through in 1955. This was at the small River Bhatsa near Mumbai at a location known as Vasind, a 60 kilometers from Bombay.

Others refer to me in several ways - the Finns as Yakob, the French as Jacques, many Indian IT engineers and Indian students who have lived in Oulu, Helsinki, Espoo and Tampere, as "Uncle Jacob".

My enemies, of which I must have several, probably in much more derogatory language, which fortunately I have not been told to date.

The name by which I am called is unimportant. The character behind that name has stayed the same from the age of 12 (1955), after I was rescued by Mr. Arthur Morecroft from what was the jaws of death. 

Mr. Arthur J. Morecroft

Arthur was our Physical Training (PT) Master at the Cathedral and John Connon School in Fort, Bombay (Mumbai).

To recount the details of this incident takes me back to a Saturday in 1955 when we had chosen to go for a class picnic to a secluded spot outside Bombay. I got up early and donned my swimming costume under my shorts, ready to go swimming immediately on arrival at Vasind.

My mother had got up early so as to give me some breakfast and a glass of milk before the journey and to pack my travel bag with some tasty sandwiches, juice and a thermos of tea. As she handed the milk to me in a glass, it slipped from between our hands and crashed to the floor.

My mother was greatly upset, not at losing a little milk, but because of the superstition of breaking a glass which is supposed to herald the oncoming of bad news.

She got me another glass of milk and gave me a big hug and asked me to be extra careful during the day.

My cook took me to the Victoria Terminus Railway Station (Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus )  in a taxi and handed me over to the two teachers who would be in charge of us that day.

Vasind Railway Station

We all boarded a suburban train and off we went on a day to be filled with school camaraderie. On the way some others joined us.

The Vasind railway station was just above the river bank. We jumped out of the train and ran down the steep embankment to the sandy beach of the river.

I stripped to my swimming costume in seconds, rushed across the beach, to become the first one to jump into the icy cold morning water of the flowing river.

I was knee deep water, when suddenly I was taken by cramp in both legs. I folded down and was soon under water. As I went down for the first time, I realised that I would need help immediately.

Swimming towards me was Vikram Singh. As my head came out of the water, gasping for breath, I saw him and tried to grab on to Vikram. Thinking I was joking, Vikram kicked me away. My mouth just took in more water as I went down for the second time.

The pain in my legs was such that I was rolled up like a ball.

I came up to the surface for the second time, splashing furiously. In my panic, all I did was just take in more water through my nose and mouth. I went down for the second time.

At that moment, I realised that there would be no help coming and I was going to die.

As I came up for the third time, again, swallowing more water, I was prepared for the inevitable outcome. My mind was totally at peace when I went for the third time. Thoughts of my mother came to me as I saw her face looking both sad and happy.

I thanked her, in my mind. for being the wonderful mother she had been.

As I went down for the final time, the major events of my short life flashed across my brain in slow motion, in colour and with sound. Every single incident stored in my memory cells could be seen in vivid colour.

There was no pain. I realised that I was drifting slowly to another world. I seemed to be looking down on myself as I viewed my life story, and then I went to another unknown place.

It so happened that one of the teachers had seen my distress. He waded into the water and he fished me out of the water to carry me to the shore.

I learnt how frail life was. You are here one moment and not the next. I also learnt that going to one's death was not as frightening or terrifying experience that is normally it is made out to be. Neither were the last moments of life painful.  In fact, it was downright soothing and beautiful.

At the age of 12, my life's experiences were not many. I had been brought up on our family values. As I approached death's door, I surrendered myself completely to the hands of God.

The thoughts that flashed through my mind were first and foremost to thank my dear mother for having looked after me so well. 

In a fraction of a second I saw an amazing video in multicolour, with sound, of all the major highlights of my short life, in absolute slow motion. Then I was gone!

Einstein's theory of relativity stood totally and completely proven, although at that age I neither knew the theory or who was Einstein.

As water was being pumped out of my lungs, being snatched back, from my surrendering to the inevitable, was a painful experience. Aa I vomited the water from my lungs, I remember the moment, as I opened my eyes and saw my class friends standing above me with anxious faces. They were  watching me being furiously pummeled on my chest by our PT instructor, Mr. Arthur J. Morecroft, aided by our Seventh Standard class teacher, Mr. W. H. Thompson, both of them kneeling by me, one on my side and the other at my head holding up my hands above my head.

Mr. W. H. Thompson

Sadly, both of them are no more for me to thank them yet again, publicly, for giving me back my life, a wonderful life, full of adventure.

As soon as they knew I was safe, Mr. Thompson said he would take me back home on the next train. I opposed this furiously as I wanted to be part of the picnic. My throat was raw and my chest felt as if a road roller had run over it. My speech was hoarse.

They made a comfortable spot under the shade of a tree at the edge of the sandy beach. From there I could watch all the fun and games. So as not to leave me out, all my classmates took turns to come over to where I lay and talk to me and ensure that I was well.

The bond that was created between my classmates and me on that day exists to this very day.

After a day of great fun, which I happily viewed as a spectator, we boarded the evening train back to Bombay. Mr. Thompson took me home in a taxi. As we arrived at our home, I could see my mother watching the road for me to return. She broke into a relieved smile when she saw me get out of the taxi.

Mr. Thompson told my mother what had happened, but I saw my mother was saying her prayers of thanks to the Lord for bringing me back safely to her.

In all our life, thereafter, she never mentioned this incident ever again. But I knew that every single day she had thanked God for bringing me back safely that day.

Viney Sethi

As I was brought out of the water, held up dangling by my feet, my close friend, Viney Sethi, remembering that historic moment, named me, with a sense of relief, as the "Dead Chicken". This name is one that I am very proud of as it has reminded me day-in and day out of my situation in this life, especially when I felt troubled by anyone or anything.

Also I learnt one important lesson that day - Never worry about anything. Worry will never solve a problem. You have to be prepared for all eventualities, just as my school masters, Mr. Morecroft and Mr. Thompson! Because of their preparedness, I survived to live another day.

I knew how lucky I have been to live, since then on borrowed time. I knew that whenever death would come to me, it will be a thing I will not fight. I will go to it with all the physical grace I can muster.

Why am I harping so much about this incident at this early stage in a book?

Is it because I have made a will to give my worldly possessions to my successors? Is my final doom impending?

Rather, it is to tell the world that I have no material possessions that I treasure.

I want to draw the attention to those who have destroyed the family values that I believed in, in their effort to seek power and wealth for themselves by destroying the concept of the last wills and testaments uttered by my father on his death bed and my mother in her last days.

Is that so important so as to devote a book to it?

In my opinion, it is, not because it relates to me, but as it shows the hypocrisy to which many in once great families, have lost their God-fearingness inwardly while they profess it from the rooftops daily.  One word describes this - HYPOCRISY!

Many of these family members have lost these family values in hypocrisy as a consequence of the greed for power and material possessions that has overtaken some of them. 

And it is not just two ordinary families that I am talking about. They are the descendants of two of the most respected families in Southern India.

On my father's side, it is the Mysore Matthan family, the descendants of the Late Raja Mantra Pravina, Dewan Bahadur Kuriyan Matthan, who had been the First Member (Prime Minister) in the Government of the Mysore Maharaja, pre-independence.

The Matthan Connect to the Bishop Cotton Schools in Bangalore

On my mother's side, it is the K. C. Mammen Mappillai (KCMM) family, the purveyors of truth through India's largest circulating newspaper, the 130 year old newspaper and Publishing House, Malayala Manorama, and the family that controls the fortunes of many leading industries in India, including the 70 year old largest Indian tyre company, known as MRF Ltd.

From just two publications in 1950, the Malayala Manorama now publishes 42 publications. The growth has been exponential.

The late K. C. Mammen Mappillai has been described as the doyen of Kerala. His life is a shining example of dedication and service to humanity.

The  people I will write about here are those who are greatly respected for their public actions and hold positions of enormous power and have great wealth at their disposal.

Five descendent members of the K. C. Mammen Mappillai family have been awarded the highest awards of the Government of India as the Padma Bushan and the Padma Shri.

But what about their private lives? 

What about their Christian, or rather, Syrian Christian values? What about their family values? Can they be held up as shining examples to the rest of their own community?

I do not intend to make a judgement in the pages that follow. I ask the reader to come to his or her own conclusions. I am the recorder of facts, and only facts that concern me personally. 

There are two thind that I have inherited from my grandfathers. 

From my paternal grandfather I inherited the ability to see right from wrong, something that made him a great and truly loved administrator.

From my maternal grandfather I inherited the ability to write coherently. At the tender age of 10 he made me write my first article, and he published it in the daily newspaper. It was a report on a Ashes Cricket Test Match between England and Australia in the summer of 1953, to which I had been listening on my grandfather's short wave radio! Using the broadcasts and the teleprinter news that arrived in the newspaper office, I was able to compose the match report.

Cricket was not a popular sport in Travancore at that time, but he insisted on publishing my report of the match, which he took upon himself to translate to Malayalam.

For these inherited characteristics that I now own, I have been ever grateful.

I have been the maverick in the family. Undoubtedly, I was likely to be the target of any and many controversies. But the facts as I see them and as I present them here are undeniable.

In short, a few of those from these families have no values which respect the sanctity of marriage vows of the Christian church and its culture, especially in actions in life. Many, however, do! Exceptions prove the rule!!

But now, I am skipping too far ahead. It is important to put into perspective, exactly whom I am and the historical basis of the issues so as to see how wide is the spread - from the shores of India to the portals of top researchers and scientists in major institutions the UK and the near Arctic in Finland, the latter where I have lived for over the last four decades.

Read on, dear reader....