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....

Snoopy alias Tintumon

 People have been asking me if we really had a pup called Snoopy, after reading the post and that has prompted me to post this pic.......... Yes, he is for real and we still miss him.

   [An attempt to address a social issue satirically in the form of a letter]
                                                     Annie Cyriac

 Dear Mr. Chief Minister Oommen Chandy,

I am a 13 year old boy, from your own hometown, Kottayam. I know that adults don’t usually listen to kids but please take time to read my letter. It’s because I want to bring to your notice a matter that vexes me a lot. Let me explain.

I love animals especially dogs. After pestering my parents for a puppy I finally got one – a cute little dachshund. I was thrilled and overjoyed. But there was one hitch. My elder sister is scared of dogs. Very, very scared!  So much so, that she would lock herself up whenever ‘Snoopy’ was let into the house. I couldn’t enjoy Snoopy’s company fully without my sister. So I decided to give it away. I did it for my sis.

But each day on her way to college, as she walks to the bus stop, she is followed by stray dogs. She finds dogs on the street and at the bus stations. And there is nothing I can do about it. At the college she attends, there is a stray dog, familiar to all, called ‘Esthapann’. She often steers clear of it but recently Esthapann has started acting violent and chasing students. They intend to tell their college principal who, I hope will find a solution. I wonder what all the others out there will do who have to encounter stray dogs and fend them off.

I was appalled to see horrid pictures in the newspapers of children and adults who have been attacked by stray dogs (and these poor guys will have to bear the pain of anti-rabies vaccinations as well). I have also read in the papers that Mr. Kochouseph Chittilapally has gone on hunger strikes for this cause. I really admire him. (You see, I cannot bear to miss a single meal!)

Dad says it’s a crime to kill dogs in India. But I have heard that in Nagaland people eat dog meat. Isn’t Nagaland a part of India?

So my request to you, Mr. Chief Minister is that you make a law for our state that allows to put down dogs if they become a threat to man. Just as in Maharastra, their chief minister recently made a law for his own state against the killing of cows.

Isn’t it against the law for a man to attack another? Then why can’t dogs that attack man be punished?

The other day, Rajappen our house help, killed a poisonous snake that had slithered down the logs in our backyard. Is that okay?  But people do it anyway. And, what about killing rats and cockroaches?  My sis and I searched the internet and found that animals with a value above 10 rupees cannot be killed. Who determines the value of animals? It’s very confusing. I think the government should make a list of all the creatures that can be killed and those that can’t be, just to create awareness.

I gave up Snoopy because I loved my sister more. Do you care for stray dogs more than your citizens, the common man? Don’t we deserve a safer place to live? At least make a dog pound in each village and city.

Hope you will do what is best for us, without delay.

Sammy

     DO YOU BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS?

                       Annie Cyriac.           

Sure, we believed in Santa. Way back in the latter half of the 1970s, that is. It was Christmastime and at the Sunday school we attended, we were all mighty excited. Santa was coming with gifts for all. But not on his ‘one horse open sleigh’, we knew, for there was no snow there. Our teacher had already made a list of the things we wanted as gifts. She would pass it on to Santa.   

  I was passing through a phase when seven year old little girls are obsessed with dolls. A doll, I had seen at the local store, had caught my fancy. She looked smashing in her pretty pink laces and frills and a bonnet tied at her chin with tiny pink satin ribbons. I longed to brush her long golden curls. I dreamed of her when awake and when asleep. She was what I wanted on our list to Santa. And of course I did put the name of the store and the street too, just in case Santa lost his way.

 On Christmas Eve, we did our Sunday school teachers proud, by singing all the carols in sync. In a way, we did it for Santa too. We meant to impress him. Afterwards, we proceeded to the giant glittering Christmas tree that was all decked up with sparkly lights and bells. [Have no doubts, we kids had helped to trim it too!] Suddenly we heard cheers and laughter and thunderous claps, as we saw a silhouette in the dark, descending from the sky above. "Look, its Santa, coming down from heaven!”

There was an excited bustle as Santa was hustled on to the stage. Soon he started calling our names and each one was given a gift. I waited anxiously for my turn as I spied other kids as they gleefully oohed and aahed. All around was the rustle of glossy gilt wrappers being unwrapped- ‘baby dolls, that toddle and coo, aeroplanes, boats and kiddie cars too!’

I could hardly breathe with excitement when I heard my name being called. I ran as fast as I could and clambered up the stage and came face to face with Santa. He had the longest silky white beard, I had ever seen and soft brown kind eyes that twinkled. For a second I thought I knew him. He bowed down to shake my little hand. He patted my back and handed me a parcel. I came back to my seat, beaming and enchanted.

Boy oh boy, was I in a hurry to tear open my present! But I chose to be patient and relish the time, picking at it with care. At last, when the box was opened, there lay the prettiest, loveliest, fluffiest................ cardigan, I ever got!   Oh no! Santa must have made a mistake. Did he read me wrong? Hadn’t I tried hard to make my clumsy handwriting as neat as possible? My vision blurred. Out popped huge tears of disappointment. I sought my parents from the crowd behind. They were busy wishing friends ‘Merry Christmas and ‘meeting smile after smile’. But for me, the whole world seemed merry!

As we returned home that night, noticing my eerie silence, mom asked if I were sleepy. But sleep was light years away!                                  

“How do you like your new sweater?’ asked mom.

 Dumbfounded, I looked up at her and asked “But ma, how do you know that Santa gave me a sweater?”

 My two year old sister chose exactly that moment to holler and my words were drowned in a sea of wails. And so was mom’s attention.

 All of a sudden, it dawned on me that Santa, with his kind brown eyes, was none other than our pleasingly plump choir master.

 And that’s when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. My ever practical, utilitarian mom had conspired with our Sunday school teacher to overrule my demand and gifted me a much needed, useful thing.

On that Christmas Eve, I left behind a bit of my childhood along with my faith in Santa and tooth fairies.
 [Later, Wendy, our senior at school, patronizingly told us that our music sir, dressed as Santa, was dropped down by a crane that was hidden in the darkness behind the stage.Oh!]  
These days, seven year-olds are not so naive. But Christmas isn’t Christmassy without Santa Claus. And it’s reassuring to just know that someone, somewhere, still believes that Santa Claus is coming to town as tis Christmas season. And isn’t that a jolly good reason to be merry?         

 

11.12.2015

ATM- All That Matters

Annie Cyriac

Ever since the rains began in Chennai, we have been receiving news of the floods, the heartache, misery and the tragedy. So many of our friends and relatives have been affected!

 My cousin called the other day from Chennai. They were not as hard hit as other less fortunate families, who had to be evacuated. Water had not entered their locality. But of course the floods had an impact on them. They had to go on for days without electricity. Days sans electricity, sans TV, sans IPod, sans internet! Unthinkable! But they survived.  So did the kids.  And commendably so.... The ladies of the colony shared parcels of food made from whatever vegetables and pulses were available in each kitchen and the men pooled in money to buy essentials as the ATMs didn’t work. Later they had to stand in long queues but even then, money was rationed.

They had no means of knowing what was happening elsewhere in the world around them. They were marooned. In desperation, they strained to get news from the radio sets in their cars. But round the clock, the 'Chennai Live' only aired contact numbers of relief workers.

The kids who were used to being catered to their personal preferences for breakfast lunch and dinner, now had to make do with leftovers that were heated up.

They lived out the art of conserving energy by using their inverter frugally, to make it last long. It was also a live demo of the topic they learnt at school: water scarcity and water conservation. They learnt to put the needs of others before their own. They learnt to share and care. The sparkle of crystal clear drinking water was no match for the glitter of gold or silver. Water was all that mattered. The guy, who brought them water, from fifteen kilometers away, could not be thanked enough.

With no school or tuitions to attend, the children of the neighbourhood got together to play scrabble, chess, hopscotch, hide and seek and all the other charming games that they never had time for. They caught tiny frogs, and at night, admired the fireflies that lit up the sky. They got to taste the simple joys of life. They tasted Nature.

 The floods have taught us lessons too. That life is not meant to be drowned in the floods of our bickering and pettiness. Nor is it meant to be a rat race to hoard money.   Those ATMs may not work in times of need. And that ALL THAT MATTERS is the peace and happiness we derive from helping our co passengers in the journey of life.

ALL IN A DAYS RIDE 
by Annie Cyriac

It’s been a tiring day. I hope against hope to get a seat on the bus as I head back home. It was impossible to get on to the last two buses that were packed and ready to spill out. Somehow my travelling companion and I are pushed into the third bus by the milling crowd. 
Gasping for breath, I find a gap and position myself. My bag is planted onto somebody’s lap. The bus conductor stands rooted in the middle of the bus leaning onto a passenger as he issues tickets and collects money that we passengers magnanimously pass to and fro. 
An old lady who has managed to get in with her basket and cloth bags asks for a ticket to “Karadikuzhi” which translates as “bear hole”. Hearing the strange name, my companion who has a penchant for giggling, cannot contain herself. Trying to keep a straight face, I try to reason that there are many places in Kerala that begin with names of animals. Pashupara (cow rock), Aanamudi(elephant hair), Erumapetti (Buffalo box), Kaalachanda(Ox market), Pampady(Snake shook) and even Maanvettom(Deer light) I cite. “Maanvettom??! ‘’ shouts my friend above the din. A few faces turn around to gawk at her. The annoyed bus conductor retorts that she is on the wrong bus. Other passengers intervene and the misunderstanding is soon cleared. Meanwhile more passengers get in and nobody seems to get down. The fragile old lady to “bear hole” gets squished in between. My companion deftly pulls her and helps her find a seat. Soon she is perched on the edge of a seat between three sturdy guys. 
In Kerala, there are seats in buses reserved for ladies but often they are occupied by men who pretend to be asleep. The women would rather be mashed to pulp than beg these men to vacate the seats. Eve teasing in a subtle form goes on as the men edge in and out of the bus rubbing themselves on the hapless ladies.
At the next stop, more passengers get in and a few get down. There is a scuff as some vie for the lone seat. There’s a delay while people push in and out. Other buses hoot past. By now the driver is in frenzy. He has to reach his destination in time, no matter what. The speed increases and the passengers are frantic. It is a roller coaster ride minus the thrill and excitement. To the driver, it’s a race against time. To us, it’s a matter of life and death as we dangle for dear life like monkeys on a crossbar.

  What follows is pure pandemonium. Scooters, cars, bikes and auto rickshaws go pell-mell as they move out of the narrow road to give way to our bus that honks incessantly while whizzing past.  The bus tilts and swivels at curves and inside, there arises a collective gasp while I say a silent prayer. As my bus stop draws nearer, I pull out my bag from under a heap that has by now formed on the unlucky lap. The conductor bellows the name of the next place and it’s a signal for us to push nearer to the door awaiting our turn to alight. We try to squish through the wall of human bodies getting our toes trampled on the way. The bus screeches to a halt. Within seconds, I find myself in a daze, pushed down the foot-board and onto the road. My hair is in disarray, and a slipper has come off. My toe twitches in pain, my arms ache and my legs wobble. But I thank my lucky stars that I have made it through another bus ride. 
The next morning, over a cup of coffee, as I skim the newspaper a cold chill runs down my spine and my blood curdles as I see lurid pictures of a bus accident. But this is not a novelty in Kerala. For bus goers like me and so many others, each day is a gamble. And when we reach home safe, it’s a narrow escape
.

Oil on canvas....painted in 1993

     

Acrylic on paper....copied from a photograph......

 

Signs of Love?

I’m a Libra and he’s a Leo. Leos can be extremely demanding and bossy while Libra can argue like hell, says Linda Goodman in her ‘Love Signs’. How true!

I’m a die hard romantic and he, a man of science. Weren’t people in love supposed to sit gazing into each other’s eyes for hours on end and bask in lavish praises? Or so I thought. As time flew, our negative traits surfaced more often as the conflicts and demands of life made us increasingly crappy and irritable. Meanwhile we zoomed ahead with our careers and before we knew it our kids had outgrown nappies and nannies. Out went all the lovey dovey notions of love that I had conjured up as a newlywed.

Then one fine day, disaster struck like a thunderbolt and it struck me! The culprit? Brain tumour!!

After ten days of unconsciousness and a sixteen hour long surgery, I woke up to a new me –a half shaven head, a partially paralyzed limb, innumerable stitches, bandages and all. Suddenly it seemed that our fast paced life had flip- flopped into slow motion. My hitherto busy husband stood stoically by my side, all throughout. He complimented me on my tousled look; he held me gently and boosted my confidence. He helped me walk, one step at a time, along the hospital corridor. He let the sunshine in. And we rediscovered love. 

It’s been two years now and I’m up and about. But we’ve slowed down our paces now. We go for long rides together, savour our ice creams, splash in the pool, appreciate our kids, and stop to talk to our neighbours and to admire the sunset. We dream more.

He’s still bossy and I still argue but we know that our bond will last forever; in sickness and in health, for better or for worse. 

              

 [written in August 2015]

"CLASS"WORK

                                                            “Class”Work!

I first heard of ‘Malee’ as it is popularly known in Kerala, in the 1990’s from a friend who had found a job in one of the islands. I was fascinated to hear that the inhabitants drank rainwater collected from the roof tops and that the only vegetable they got on the island was ‘drumstick leaves’. Fish was supplied here for free by the friendly islanders, I heard. Potatoes and onions made their guest appearance once in a while when the boat arrived.  Little did I know then, that a decade and a half later, I  too would be at the receiving end !

2003 found me at Male’ the capital city of Maldives which is a miniature replica of a Gulf country with its concrete jungles, blaring traffic and the works.

I taught for a year in a prestigious institution, ‘Aminiya’ the only girls’ school in the land. But having had enough of the city life and hoping to taste the peace and quiet of the countryside, I came to Fuvahmulah, one of the most picturesque and peaceful islands in the south of the Maldives.

This spoon shaped island literally situated on the equator, enjoys tropical climate and the skyscapes here are often brilliant. It’s a sheer joy to watch the sun go down on the palm fringed sky, leaving traces of orange, pink and gold.

The white sandy beaches and the coral reefs were in stark contrast to the verdant lakes that studded the island. Alive with bloom and bird song, this place is blessed with sprawling farms and huge mango trees that bear fruit all the year round. To me, the distinct hues all around were a welcome change to the monotonous greys of the cityscape.

I soon discovered new dimensions to my teaching capabilities when I joined AEC ,the local school. Enthralled by the immaculate white uniforms of the students that were reminiscent of the pristine white beaches all around, I entered the class room. But the peace I had come in search of, was not what awaited me here. To my dismay, I found that even making the students stand up was an ordeal in itself. Mischief-making in the class was something at which Maldivian children outshine themselves.

Hooting, howling, littering and filling desks and walls with graffiti are second nature to them and distributing and chewing ‘supari’ or gum was a common feature that progressed with the day.

I who have never experienced nausea while crossing the rough seas or even during my pregnancies, felt my stomach churning at the stench of rotten eggs thrown into my classroom, one day. Face burning with shame, I’ve had to march a bunch of kids in uproar, to another vacant room. Sympathetic glances were bestowed on me by fellow teachers in adjacent classrooms and glares I got from the supervisors. The 'Supervisors' were the discipline keeping force ,in charge of trouble shooting, who patrol around the school at frequent intervals.

Together we had confiscated mobile phones, lighters, packets of supari, knives, nude pictures and raw mangoes galore.

A week of paper-ball-throwing was then followed by another pass time- shooting paper pellets with rubber bands. Paper rockets came next. They then turn to subtler games like applying glue all over the chairs and desks and then roar with laughter if a hapless victim sits on it.They staple anything in their vicinity, even their nails, ears and hair. Teachers can count themselves lucky if they miss being hit by tomatoes and lemons thrown at the white-board at frequent intervals.

No qualms have they to use the F- letter-word or any other equivalent in their mother tongue. Then came the bomb blasts. An occasional explosion somewhere in the campus would send the supervisors running helter-skelter.

One fine morning I was perturbed by my unruly bunch of kids who seemed unusually preoccupied and secretive. None of them paid heed to what I was teaching but what I thought  unusual, was their secretive glances and eagerness to pass something under the desks.

Determined to find out what it was, I feigned innocence and stood by a fidgety boy. Just then he dropped a deodorant bottle which I grabbed instantly. The whole class pleaded and cajoled me to give it back. To me, the blue liquid inside the bottle seemed out of place. The girls assured  that it was a liquid cleaner brought to clean the desks.

“Keep it on the table, Miss” urged the students. “Never!” said I determinedly, proud at having grabbed their prized possession. I knew they would smuggle it from the table so I held it close to my heart and taught for two consecutive periods in peace after having made a pact with them that I’d return it if they paid attention to what was being taught.

The students were unnaturally silent and paid rapt attention after that and true to my word, I returned the’liquid-cleaner in a deodorant bottle’, to a seemingly meek girl, at the end of the class. I left the class, triumphant at last, for having gained 'class control' over these hyper active students.

Meanwhile the daily blasts continued. It was only two days later when the supervisor summoned me with the news, that my jaw dropped and I felt my knees go weak. The deodorant -bottle was a ‘crude-bomb.’ A metal piece was introduced into the strong liquid detergent which would react and eventually burst with a bang!

“You are lucky it didn’t burst in your hand.”

“Yes” I replied in a squeaky voice, stunned to silence.

Then there were the ‘Limited Curriculum Classes’, which most teachers dread. This lot of students, though academically weak, had their strong points too. Once,two boys seemed particularly interested in a desk lying in the corner of class, as I entered. Together they shifted a desk, oozing a liquid of some sort, to the center of the class. In a split second they had toppled a considerable amount of the detestable liquid on to the floor. What followed was pure pandemonium. ‘Oohs’, ‘ugh s’ and exaggerated sounds of retching arose. The females fanned themselves dramatically lest they faint. Others made attempts to rush out of the class. Bewildered, I tried to make them sit at their desks, nostrils flaring, trying to figure out what the funny smell was.

The whole class was later marched out and the rest of the day was spent under the shady green trees outside. I later learnt that the errant kids who had spilt ‘urine’ in the class were suspended. ‘Suspension’ was the only punishment frequently meted out to students behind such antics.

There had been hilarious moments too. In an attempt to curb throwing paper balls, I told a boy to hand over the one he had in his hand. He promptly held it out and just as I took it, out popped an oversized gecko. I jumped and shrieked, dropping the vile thing, paper ball and all. The girls giggled with glee and between peals of laughter, the boys thumped each others’ backs for having at last ruffled the feathers of their otherwise poised English teacher.

In spite of the many mishaps, I’ve enjoyed rewarding moments too, like the time when a grade 8 student presented me with her version of a rhyme after her brief brush with the study of geography. Here’s how it goes…..

“Twinkle Twinkle Little star

Now I know what you really are

You’re just a rock up in the sky

That seems a diamond to the eye.”

            With a record of the highest divorce rates in the world, most students in the Maldives, come from broken families. A little affection and a good measure of patience, can finally bring them around.

The other day, Shafeehu was sent out of the class for misbehaviour by an irate teacher. Being his class teacher, I spoke to him and found out that his mother had left him when he was just six months old. “I hate her” he said. “Who do you love then, Shafeehu?” I asked.

“My Grandmother”, he replied.

“Where is she?”

“She’s dead”, he said softly.

Tears pricked my eyes and I looked away.

Shafeehu was just one among the scores of Maldivian children who shared  a similar fate.

Suddenly everything fell in place as I realized that what these kids’ lives lacked was love and security.

Slowly I walked him back to his classroom, vowing to do my best and to be more patient with these students who sought attention and craved for love. In spite of being enveloped in a sense of helplessness, I could at last understand them. And I felt wiser for having gained an insight into the complexities of human nature.

                                                With my students at AEC

[written in 2009]