Hartals are a bit like death, which some have compared to a clown with no sense of timing. Like death, these turn up on the stage when they are least expected, spoiling the fun of someone's party by turning up unannounced or adding an unwanted comic twist to a serious scene. And like clowns, they are totally avoidable when you consider the rest of the plot. But then in Kerala, they are like a state festival. Unlike Onam, which is the officially announced state festival, these are not limited by dates in the Malayalam month or any other astrological logic. They can be declared at the drop of a 'mundu', no moon sighting or star combination needed. Like Onam, they are celebrated by all religions and communities. No party has any exclusivity when it comes to a hartal. Everyone calls for one every ten days or so, provided they are the opposition and the motive trivial. [related-post] It is usually the evening paper that announces the advent of the latest hartal, more often than not to be observed from the next daybreak. Preparations are swift and methodical. Lines become longer in front of state-run liquor shops, after all there is a double quota that needs to be purchased for the day long stay-at-home festival. Similar, but smaller queues, are formed in front of chicken, fish and beef (yes, the blasphemous meat is still not banned here) stalls. There is no way the Malayali is going to celebrate any festival without pleasing the belly gods. Traditionally, essential services like milk, newspapers and medical shops are not subjected to the rituals of this festival. So stone throwing is limited to people trying to get home for an emergency or those trying to married at a prearranged day. Those who try to dampen spirits of the festival by trying to keep dates in hospitals, courts or government offices are strongly discouraged. The day is used to paint zebra crossings on empty roads across the state. Locations where revellers are celebrating with burnt tyres and granite boulders are diligently avoided. There are many theories about how the first shutdown, then called bandh, originated. But over the years, political parties in Kerala have perfected it as their answer for all of the states' ills, at times even national and international problems like the US-led invasion of Iraq. It might not provide an answer or solution, but can be used effectively when an effective answer eludes those in question. Just call a hartal, that is how Kerala likes it. (The writer is on a one-day trip to his hometown of Kozhikode in Kerala, where he has been forced to celebrate a hartal.)
