A K Antony stood tall, his silver hair catching the golden rays. Beside him, his son, Anil Antony, clad in saffron, exuded confidence, while Nandakumar with his insidious airs played his part exquisitely.
K Raveendran
It is an infinitely open question as to whether one’s body language is more expressive than the verbal language. While each plays a vital role in human communication, body language remains a powerful tool of communication: facial expressions, eye gaze, gestures and body movements conveying emotions, intentions and information beyond ordinary words. While body language provides rich layers of meaning, verbal language articulates explicit messages. Together, they weave the intricate fabric of human communication.
It was all the way body language to the fore, overshadowing all other languages the other day when the shadowy middle man T G Nandakumar aired the allegation that A K Antony’s son Anil Antony, who is the BJP candidate in Pathanamthitta — much to the discomfiture of the Congress veteran — had accepted a bribe of Rs 25 lakh for the appointment of a friend as the CBI’s standing counsel in the Kerala High Court in 2013. Nandakumar has further alleged that Anil was selling ‘secrets’ of the defence ministry when his dad was the minister.
What unfolded was a veritable soap opera. As the sun hung low over the verdant hills of Pathanamthitta, each of the dramatis personae presented a classic exposition of the body language. A K Antony stood tall, his silver hair catching the golden rays. Beside him, his son, Anil Antony, clad in saffron, exuded confidence, while Nandakumar with his insidious airs played his part exquisitely. Providing the climax was P J Kurian, with the professor’s professed innocence smacking of deep-rooted malaise.
Antony’s body language was that of a seasoned warrior—a stoic sentinel guarding the Congress bastion. His eyes, deep-set and unwavering, Antony’s shoulders squared—the weight of decades in public service, the ghosts of scandals past. His hands, clasped behind his back, revealed no tremor. He had weathered storms—the Bofors scandal, the AgustaWestland saga. Now, Nandakumar’s venomous words—bribery, secrets, defence leaks—threatened to unravel his legacy.
But Antony’s spine remained erect—a granite pillar against the tempest. His lips, thin and unyielding, formed a line—a silent vow to defend honour, truth, and integrity. Antony’s body language was a blend of resolve and weariness, duty and defiance: his credentials needed no testimony.
Beside his father, Anil Antony cut a different figure—a Stanford-educated maverick, straddling two worlds. His body language was fluid as he sought to dissect Nandakumar’s allegations—the bribe, the lawyer appointment, the murky connections. Anil’s hands, expressive, gestured in a flourish as he put up a lawyer’s defence. He had Stanford’s pedigree—the hallowed halls, the Silicon Valley dreams. But now, in Kerala’s political arena, he faced a different calculus—accusations, insinuations, a tarnished reputation. His shoulders, less burdened than his father’s, squared nonetheless. Anil’s lips curved—a half-smile, a hint of irony. His body language whispered—a Stanford degree didn’t immunize against Kerala’s intrigues, nor did it shield from political vendettas.
And then there was Nandakumar—the puppet master, the broker, the shadowy figure. His body language was elusive—a chameleon shifting hues. He had danced with politicians across the aisle—Congress, BJP, Left. His eyes, hooded and calculating, held secrets—the money trail, the clandestine meetings, the favours exchanged.
Nandakumar’s hands, hidden in pockets, clutched evidence—a dagger poised to strike. His lips, curved in a smirk, revelled in chaos—the corruption circus, the power play, the electoral drama. He had levelled serious charges, ignited the arena. But his body language betrayed—a pawn in a larger game, a marionette pulled by invisible strings. As the sun dipped below the Western Ghats, there emerged die-hard loyalist P J Kurian, who provided an unexpected climax t the whole story. His eyes, behind spectacles, held secrets—the clandestine meetings, the whispered exchanges, the murky corridors of power. Kurian’s shoulders, slightly hunched, bore the weight of his role—the bridge between Nandakumar and Anil Antony. He had admitted to mediating. But what lay beneath? Was it duty, friendship, or a deeper game? Kurian had backstabbed leaders before—Karunakaran, A K Antony, Oommen Chandy. Now, he stood accused of orchestrating a plot against Anil Antony.
Kurian’s gaze shifted as questions began to be asked: Had he pulled strings, cut deals, settled scores? His body language betrayed everything his other languages were seeking to establish.
The body language of all the actors wove a tapestry—a saga of power, ambition, and betrayal even as Kerala, the land of myths, legends, and hyper political theatre, watched with bated breath.
