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!!

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....

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......

 

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]