Out Of Order.


'Ma, where's my pencil?
I can't find it!' yelled Raju.

'It's there on the dining table where you left it last night.
Aren't you ready yet? The rickshaw walla will be here soon.
Hurry up, Raju beta.
There...he's honking already!'
 shouted Mira in a single breath, as she finished dressing for work.
Raju scooted out, backpack, specs and all.
'Don't forget the house key.'
Raju rushed back for it and ran out again.
"I'll try to come back early today and help you with Math' cried out Mira, as Raju sped off.
She went in, to lock the back door and double check if the gas stove was switched off.
 'Obsessive compulsive disorder' her husband, Ramesh, would have remarked.
He was away on a business tour, now.
Throwing her bag onto her shoulder, she locked the front door.Then she remembered that she had left her mobile phone for charging, by the bedside.
Shaking her head desperately , she unlocked the door, to get it.
Once outside, she began to lock the door again.
'Didi, don't lock the door, I'm here.'
Mira turned to bump into her maid.
This was the best thing to happen to her this morning.
'I thought you had taken the day off', she exclaimed, heaving a sigh of relief.
Showering  instructions and glaring at her watch, she  dashed out into the street, hastily.
She hoped to catch the local train at 8:30, to V .T. Central.
The peak hours in a Mumbai local train were a nightmare, even to a regular, like Mira.
One managed to get inside a compartment, being pushed inside along with the sea of passengers, all focused upon getting in, amidst digs with elbows, nudges, tugs and gasps.
Finding a seat was always a distant dream.
And the process repeated itself when one had  to alight. Phew!

At the office, Mira was kept busy the whole day, as two of her colleagues were on leave.
Just as she mustered up the courage to ask her boss for permission to leave early, he told her to attend to an important mail.
And when she finally rose to leave, it was already past seven.
She felt guilty about not being there to help
Raju prepare for his Math exam, the next day.
She vowed to call him enroute.
Reaching the station, she ran up the foot overbridge,  that was under repairs, almost every day. Once again she felt one with the sea of moving bodies.
She tripped as a toddler came in her way.He was being led by his mother who was struggling with her heavy luggage.
Just then, she felt her phone vibrate in her bag
and  she picked it up .
Gosh! Five missed calls!
She called Raju back,as she pressed forward, only to hear him whining 'Why can't you pick the phone up Ma, I can't find my white pyjamas.'
'It's  there on the clothes line, Raj...' 
 Suddenly, Mira felt the ground under her feet crumbling. And before she knew it, she was going  downwards ...down... down.... And then a terrifying, painful thud...
She lay engulfed in dust and rubble. There were shouts and screams of terror all around.
She was lying on a heap,  facing up, only to see a crowd of stupefied faces looking down at her from above, as they stood at the edge of the bridge that was now
partly demolished.
 It seemed like a hazy dream.
People crowded around trying to pull bodies out of the debris.
She saw a toppled banana cart with bananas strewn around. In her haste she had almost collided with the vendor before running up the stairs.
Some one pulled her up and asked if she were okay.
She was...except for the shooting pain in her wrist and a dizzy head.
Her handbag and phone had jerked out of her hand, as the bridge crashed.
Somebody lifted her on to a stretcher and as it moved forward she lifted her throbbing head to witness the grim spectacle-
A body was being covered by a white sheet. The injured were being  shifted on to stretchers .
The young mother with minor injuries,now devoid of her luggage, was frantically searching for her toddler amongst the dusty remains.
Mira had had enough.
For a moment,she thought of Raju's Math exam.
 Where was Ramesh?He should be here at her side  now...Her  thoughts were   slowly becoming blurry as she slowly drifted into oblivion.

ABLED DIFFERENTLY

(Annie Cyriac)

He was taller,stronger but not  a bit sharper than the rest. His elephantine figure was quite intimidating but when one got to know him better you'd realise that within that huge frame was a tender, affectionate, little boy with a heart that craved for acceptance.

 And when he smiled,  you felt as though the dawn had   broken through the darkness of the night -his pearly white teeth glowing against his shiny dark chocolatey skin. Shawn was 15 and in his last school year when I got him in my class. I had never taught him before but within a week or two we became quite at ease with one another.

 It didn't take me long to discover that he had a learning dysfunction. He could write his name in English but he had got the capitals and small letters mixed up in his mind. He fidgeted all the while and it was a herculean task to keep his formidable figure put in his place. He would interrupt me now and then while I explained the lessons, not with doubts but with reasons as silly as -"Miss, Ron has stolen my pen!"or "That guy is making faces at me!" I would often chide the wrongdoers but in a rush to finish my lesson I sometimes threatened to send Shawn out of the class. He'd immediately apologize,  wiggle in his seat and cover his mouth with his huge palm. He seldom brought his text book to school and after 3 months of coaxing,I gave up on this endeavour. He couldn't catch up with the others when I dictated notes and I often told  him to copy it from one of his peers. I knew in my heart that it didn't matter if he completed his notes or not but it would definitely boost his ego to get my signature in his notebook.

Kids with IQ scores that fall between 90 and 109 are of average and normal intelligence.Those with an IQ score less than 70 are termed mentally retarded and the ones with an I Q score between 70 and 79 are classified as having boderline deficency in intelligence.  While the Mentally retarded  kids get scribes and the ones with learning dysfunctions with an IQ score between 70 and 79 get interpreters  in their board exams, the kids like Shawn with an IQ score between 80 and 89 have to struggle on their own.

 It's an oft asked question why these kids are not sent to special schools. While one can hardly expect them to get raptures while dealing with the nuances of Pablo Neruda's 'Poetry', get involved in long prosy talks or solve complex mathematical problems, experts urge inclusive education for differently abled children just to enhance their way of life. Attending an ordinary school gives them equal opportunities and helps remove the social stigma . Moreover these kids get a chance to look up to positive role models here. Students with average and normal intelligence, benefit too. They learn to care , share and be tolerant .

 Shawn 's peculiar sense of humour surfaced just when I had managed to get the class engrossed in a story.The class would break out in loud laughter at his inappropriate remarks.The boys loved to see him get agitated and he was often the butt of their pranks.But when he got a glare from me he'd wiggle his head with his curly mop of hair  and give me a sheepish  smile that would somehow melt my heart. I'd still pretend to be angry just to keep the class going.

He would often wait for me at the door, if I was late for the class  and ask me authoritatively  where I had been.

He would  call out my name and wave at me with an endearing smile, whenever he spotted me in  the campus. He made it a point to  peek into the staff room everyday to see if I were present.

On days when Shawn seemed exceptionally quiet in class ,I  knew he was in mood to doodle and I  left him alone. Sometimes I hold up his art work for the other kids to see.He was  adept at drawing perfect designs with his  pen, which we greatly admired.

 On December 3rd the International Day of persons with disabilities there was a special assembly in school to salute the spirit of the differently abled .With the help of the special education teacher, these kids who form four percent of the school population put up a show of their humble skills by singing songs and giving faltering speeches.

 And at prize giving time, when the mike boomed Shawn's name for winning a prize in the drawing competition,I watched with a glow of pride, a diffident figure sauntering over to receive the prize from the principal.  He went back to his place in the Assembly line with the prize in one hand and a smug look on his face that said it was no big deal.

 But what was overwhelming was the response of the rest of the students in the assembly. No one jeered or stifled giggles. The applause was thunderous. While the differently abled kids brought a bit of sunshine into our lives that day, the so-called able ones displayed a rare flash of humaneness by standing up and cheering stoically for their differently  abled mates.

 They did us proud and we got a glimpse of what these kids might become in future- not a bunch of selfish adults, but dignified people who cared for their fellow beings ,which ultimately is the essence of education. And that to me, is all so reassuring!

PODA PATTI

Talking of name-calling and new gen expletives, a friend of mine remarked how baffled she was by the word “douche bag” that her screenagers hauled at each other.

The savvy kids of the sophisticated world have enough and more cuss words that are in vogue today. But when it comes to name calling at home,I have a penchant for the old fashioned expletive, patti (dog). But woe is me; my own screenagers have picked it up too.

Now, in the world of name calling, patti  is but a crude and uncouth word and douche bag a svelte and not so familiar one, outscores it. But fuming in a fine fit of fury, when my kids get on my nerves, I feel a surge of adrenaline and before I realize it, the abominable word is out of my mouth.

On a mission to deliver our household of this coarse word and fearing that my kids would be considered passé, I have banned it and declared a fine of ten rupees for each utterance of the word. I even suggested scanning the Wimpy kid series for better and more polished alternatives.

Arguments arose in defence “But ma... a dog is man’s faithful friend and calling a person a dog is equal to calling him a faithful friend. No big deal!”

“Arunthathi Roy, won the Booker Prize in spite of using ‘poda patti’ in her book, but when we mere mortals use it, its gross! Not fair!”

Refusing to budge I stuck to my resolution and the rule was there to stay. I know the ban has worked for when I checked the piggy bank a month later, there were just three ten rupee notes........

And regrettably all of them were dropped by me!!

Miso'jean'ist....

Miso‘jean’ist

 By Annie Cyriac

The deep -rooted misogyny  in the male psyche evident in a catholic priest’s speech has caused a stir in the social media, recently.

The Deuteronomy in the Old Testament of the Bible gives rules that the Lord commanded through Moses to the people of Israel. The verse taken up by the priest is Deut 22:5, that says “A woman shall not wear a man’s garment.....”The misguided priest, accuses a girl for wearing ‘Jeans’, which is according to him a man’s garb. Where in the Bible is it mentioned that Jeans or pants are  men’s garments? In Kerala men wear ‘Mundu’.The women folk too wore’’ Mundus ‘and ‘Chattas’ before the sari gained popularity. Why then didn’t any priest accuse them for wearing men’s garments?

Another verse, Deut 24:5 says “When a man shall marry, he shall not be liable for any other public duty. He shall be free at home to be happy with his wife.”  I doubt if this same priest who has upheld the previous verse, would obey this command by letting his male employee go free for a year, soon after his marriage.

With the advent of the churidar, the long skirts and blouses that were worn by the teenagers of Kerala in the 70s, took a backseat.  The tight fitting blouses and long skirts were considered by the society then as meek and demure, while the churidar worn without a shawl, which is less offensive, is now frowned upon. Double standards?

The sari, the most accepted attire of the Indian “nari”.... the Indian woman, is in no way less vulgar than the Jeans. In fact it can be more alluring and invite the lurid male gaze to the curves just ‘half hidden from the eye’! But of course when worn properly both the sari and the jeans can make a person look respectable.

Are our men and boys such weaklings as the priest says that they should lose all self control when they encounter a girl in jeans at a place of worship? Shouldn’t we be shifting our focus to “men empowerment” then?

It is blatant misinterpretation, when the priest says that when a man sins, a woman is responsible and should be punished. In Mathew 18:28, Jesus says “ Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a millstone around his neck and drowned in the sea.” Jesus was talking of little children, mind you, not adults.    In Mathew5; 28, it is said that “Anyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out..... “For out of the heart comes evil thoughts, murder, adultery.......... It is obvious that the unrepentant sinner is to be punished not the cause of the sin!

It is sheer absurdity to blame the women for the waywardness of men. The misogynist priest should be held accountable for voicing his thoughts on impulse. It is like saying that the one who sold the gun should be held responsible for the murder, not the one who pulled the trigger to commit the crime.

In a nationwide survey, it was noted that the burden of morality and social order lay with women. It’s high time we taught our boys to respect all women, young or old and forge healthy relationships.  Gender sensitisation should be introduced in schools.

 Women are not mere objects; there’s a mind in that body and both command respect. Modernity is not just a lifestyle, it’s an outlook. Often men consider independent women who dress in western style as women of low moral character. This mindset should change if we want our daughters to dream big and fly. How can the daughters of India become Tennis stars and Swimming champs, if we hold them back for their apparel?

Of course at educational institutions, work place and places of worship, one should dress by the norm. To my daughters and female counterparts, I’d just say...... wear those tights if you want to show off your slim legs. Avoid it, if it makes you look fat and ugly. And if you are not sure? Ask!

 Wear what you love to wear only if you are sure it suits you. If not, be prepared to bear more misogynist comments. Make wise choices when it comes to your personal attire. After all, it’s a mad bad world out there where a man can get away with rape after blaming a female’s clothes.

 No matter if you are thirty, thirteen or just three.

BARODA DAYS

                                 A memoir, by Annie Cyriac      .                                                                    

The other day, excited by the sight of the overflowing brook that runs through our backyard in Kerala, I called out to my 11 year old son to go out and enjoy the view. Giving a disinterested peek out the window he resumed his play on the computer.       

This set me thinking of how footloose and fancy-free our childhood days were and how we enjoyed the outdoors, especially the days we spent in Baroda.                                             

We were put up with my uncle's family as my father had to go abroad.           The cottage was a quaint one in the IPCL Township in Baroda. It was on the last row of houses on the last street. A few furlongs from the garden fence began the woods. A huge wall marked the boundary where it began. We’d go as far as the wall to collect all sorts of fallen feathers of birds-brown, black ones speckled with white, green ones and most of all peacock feathers. There was a gigantic mango tree that stood out from the rest of the trees. Often in the twilight, we could see the silhouette of pea fowls and their long plumes as they perched on its boughs and hear their eerie shrill cries. We always welcomed the rains in Baroda. Green was the predominant colour. We loved to splash about in the grassy green puddles. My little cousins took great pleasure in squishing leaping green frogs with mud baked bricks. I was always in the vicinity keeping count but I could never bring myself to join them in this garish act. Once we noticed a squirrel popping in and out of a fuse box outside, on one side of the house. Sunil who was barely six then, climbed up the pole and informed us that there were baby squirrels inside. Each of us took turns to climb up and we managed to smuggle a baby out. Then the mother squirrel darted up and down the pole miserably, not knowing what to do. For days on end, its frantic cries resounded in my ears. I still have a hazy memory of walking around with a guilt laden heart. As winter slowly drifted in, the rains left behind grass so tall that we had to separate them with our arms to walk through to our sandy patch, where we played along with all the kids in the neighbourhood.                                        We would trap butterflies with clumps of tall weeds that we pulled out and allow them to crawl all over the net inside our window. We delighted in marveling at the splash of colours moving about and argued about who had caught the most. Baroda was home to a tiny red velvety bug called 'gai mata' that was rare to find and we literally worshiped it, when one was discovered. Further on the other side of the left boundary wall lived foreigners in their posh villas and well maintained gardens. We'd sit on the wall and watch them from afar, mouths agape, fascinated by their mannerisms, so unlike ours. Once we even clamoured down the wall to get a closer look only to be chased back by a well-bred dog.

 Today, I find it hard to reconcile to the fact that our kids prefer the colours and glare of the T.V and computer, to the vibrant hues of nature. They enjoy the blare and beep of vehicles and mobiles and do not care for the gargle of a brook or the hoot of an owl. They do not mind the closed spaces, for they do not miss running across the meadows. But then, I cannot fathom how decades ago my mother had to walk 10 kilometers to reach school and perhaps my son would think it ridiculous that his mother had once been chasing butterflies for a sport.                                                     

I've never visited the IPCL Township after I moved on to join my father. The people who lived there are all settled in different parts of the globe. The township, that was as big as a village is deserted now, I heard, from my cousins  who visited the place recently. The garden that I remember was a riot of colours with its mix of zinnias, dahlias and fragrant jasmines. My uncle, who is now no more, had allotted each of us a space beyond the garden where we grew our own vegetables. How we rejoiced at the sight of the first cob of corn that sprouted! The rows of cottages and the gardens are now overgrown with thick foliage. We hear that a multinational company has taken over and that the school building and everything else will be demolished. Concrete jungles may come up soon and the place may teem with people. Children may perhaps run around the place once again. But sadly this time around, they'll never breathe the air of freedom that we as kids once enjoyed.

HEADING FOR A WEDDING

 by Annie Cyriac

[ An attempt at holding a mirror up to the society of which I am very much a part. ]

It was her cousin Ramesh’s daughter’s wedding in Kerala and Pia had taken a week off to attend the much awaited function.

Being born, brought up and settled in Mumbai, she had missed out on all the weddings in her mom’s family. And this would be a family reunion as well.

 She was received at the station, when she arrived, by her uncle and after an hour long journey by car, they reached her maternal home. As they drove along the mud lane, surrounded by acres of tall rubber trees, a wave of nostalgia engulfed her. In place of the tile roofed old house that most of her childhood memories were tangled with, stood a huge double storied mansion freshly painted for the occasion. Their old ancestral home had been demolished when Ramesh had returned from the Middle East, to settle in Kerala, a few years ago.  The newly built house, now, teamed and throbbed with relatives of the bride to be.With mixed feelings of remorse at the loss of the old house and the mounting excitement on seeing her dear ones, Pia stepped in.

The hunt for the groom had begun soon after Sona, the bride had completed her B.Tech. It was only a year and a half later, after parading before a dozen or so prospective guys that they had finally found the perfect match. Thanks to the online matrimonial bureau for which they had to pay Rs.3000 per month.

Shanthi, the bride’s mother told Pia that they had been saving for Sona’s marriage as soon as she was born. “And that’s why she can be married off into a wealthy family.” Arun, the prospective groom was a software engineer and according to his family, Sona had passed the ABCDEF test.

“What’s that?” asked a bewildered Pia.

“Oh, didn’t you know? ABCDEF stands for Age, Beauty, Character, Dowry, Education, and Family, which is the pre-requisite for an arranged marriage”, said Shanthi proudly.

Pia learnt that the bride’s family had done extensive research not only on the groom and his family but also on beauty salons, textile shops and jewellery shops. Even before the dates were announced, the bride’s aunts and cousins had begun planning their own outfits. Jolly Aunty said she had been hunting for a saree of that rare shade of green with a tinge of turquoise, a colour she lacked in her wardrobe. Somebody had suggested a theme colour for all. But the idea was soon dropped due to differences in preferences.

“And please don’t go for red!” It was an order. “The bride in red should stand out.”

And while she was at it, Jolly Aunty had bought those much needed kitchen towels and that lovely appliqué worked bedspread that she had coveted. After all weddings were the only times one was allowed to splurge. Cousin Lilly said she had scourged nine shops before she could get that intricate gold and white lace for her little Sue Ann’s purple velvet dress. “Yes, velvet was back in vogue.”

The guys of course had gone for branded shirts and jackets. “Naveen was growing taller by the minute and the jacket he had worn for the last wedding was just not reaching up.”

The bridesmaids, all eight of them had already collected their dresses from the dressmakers after repeated alterations. Baby Uncle was reminded to remind the tourist bus drivers to be at the doorstep at 9:30 sharp. The guests from the neighbourhood would be waiting.

Thank God for the event managers who’d take care of all other affairs right from the fresh flowers for the stage to the last detail. “No, no, plastic flowers won’t do. Even Ramu the coconut climber had fresh flowers for his daughter’s wedding.” It was another matter that he had to slog all his life to pay off his debts. He was happy he could do so much for his daughter. And he had died a satisfied man.

As the bride entered the church on the wedding day, she looked radiant, though weighed down with gold. The beautician, one of the best in town had meticulously arranged all her chains and necklaces one below the other using gold strings so that they wouldn’t overlap. “They had to be visible, no? Just think how exorbitant the making charges are!” The poor gold bangles that reached up to the elbows had no space to jingle. “It’s a matter of our prestige. Won’t the guests be appalled, if all the gold given to her isn’t displayed?” The price of the wedding sari gifted by the groom, she learnt, was directly proportional to the dowry given, in secret of course.

At least the 25000 bucks given to the beauty salon didn’t go waste. The beautician had done a spectacular job of transforming the bride from a plain Jane to a Bollywood star lookalike!

The photographer was a pro. “Phew! He had agreed to get the album ready for less than a hundred thousand rupees... Rs. 99,999 only...wasn’t that a deal?”

“He was the cameraman for the Malayalam movie ...........”  whispered Reena, Pia’s cousin. Pia didn’t get the name of the movie. Donkey pen??? Did she hear it right?

The guests inside the church seemed to be two hundred or so in number. Hadn’t Pia heard Ramesh say there would be at least a thousand?

After the marriage Pia desperately wanted to witness the bride and groom being garlanded outside the church. But she got pushed behind as the camera crew took over. And before she could manage to get a glimpse, it was all over.

“Hey, what’s happening? Where were all those people running to?” Pia’s heart skipped a beat! Did something happen to old grandma? Not finding anyone to voice her doubts to, Pia ran after the milling crowd, lifting her heavy gold brocade bordered sari. She muttered a curse as she wobbled on her stilettos through the stony gravel paved churchyard.

The whole crowd came to a standstill at the entrance of the Parish hall where the wedding banquet was to be served. All the doors to the hall were closed and as more and more people closed in around her, Pia could barely breathe. After a wait that seemed endless, the huge wooden doors opened and she felt herself being pushed inside. She tripped on a stair and clutched at someone’s hip clumsily and steadied herself mumbling a ‘sorry’. As she entered the hall, she could see people running pell-mell. After much ado and a blink of an eye later, all were seated. Pia was one of the few who were left standing...... Survival of the fittest!

“Step aside, please”, said a waiter with a harried expression, balancing a huge bowl of fried rice in one and a spade shaped ladle in the other. Someone nudged Pia to a corner. She looked at the stage which was now occupied by the bride and groom. No, she couldn’t make out if the flowers were fresh. Jessy Auntie’s daughter, all decked up, made an announcement. But nobody was listening. The bride and groom began the journey of their lives by lighting a lamp and cutting the wedding cake. Of the nine hundred odd pairs of hands, only a few clapped while the rest of the hands were busy filling their mouths.

Outside, the sun was bright and hot. Fanning herself in the heat with the pallu of her saree, Pia looked around and realised that no one seemed to notice the bride’s ornaments or the colour of her saree. The magnificent ice carving of the swan in the centre of the hall had begun to melt and was fast evolving into a miserable wet duck. The bridesmaids’ roles were over in a jiffy. They too had spent quite a bit of time and money at the salon. The live band that played in the background could be barely heard above the din of clanging cutlery as waiters passed food and guests talked with their mouths full. Pia felt sorry for the lone magician who was showing his tricks to no one in particular. Someone waved at Pia and she waved back; not recognizing who it was. Among the folks wolfing down food at express speed, she spied Mathukuttychayan, her diabetic uncle, digging into his ice cream with gusto, his eyes darting around occasionally like a naughty child who feared being caught. 

Pia had come with a merry heart and hopes of meeting all her relatives and reliving old memories. She had hoped to enjoy every bit of the wedding. But it didn’t turn out to be a time to be cherished. There was a commotion near the wash area outside, that consisted of taps all lined in a row. Someone had wringed his hands spraying droplets of curry on somebody’s brand new Kanjeevaram sari.

 The guests were all in a hurry. Most of the relatives lived hundreds of kilometers apart. The sky was by now overcast and they had to reach home before dark.

Pia looked on, disillusioned. Here she found a cross section of the society that claimed to be civilized but had lost all their civility and decorum. These were the same respectable people who had voted for the Ministers and MP’s who had caused disquiet in the Assembly. The instinct of the mob was the same everywhere, be it in a local Mumbai train, the Parliament or at a sophisticated wedding, she mused.

Someone tugged at her sari. It was Jikku mon. He had been searching for her, for the family photo session with the newlyweds. Afar on the stage, she saw Shanthi, beckoning frantically. It was late and the bride had to enter the threshold of her new home before the inauspicious hour began.

There was another wedding coming up in May. Pia had planned to book tickets for her whole family in Mumbai. But.......... ? Shrugging off her thoughts, Pia hurried to the stage, plastering a dazzling smile on her face.

Speaking of Santa......

Speaking of Santas, there is a school that trains aspiring Saint Nicks.....Rio Santa Claus School!There are no fake beards or pillows stuffed down the shirtfront here.All of them look the part, bushy white beard and all!

The exhausted Santas ditch their beards after a hard season of work at malls and hospitals....