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
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Oil on canvas....painted in 1993

     

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