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.