A picnic to remember. A page from the past

What is this life if full of care?  We don’t have time to stand and stare.

 In my indubitable days of teaching in STC, I desperately to accompany my students when they went out of Kerala on week long excursions. But my dreams never materialised due to circumstances beyond my control.

 And then one day my dream came true when Sr Marie Cecile asked Vilasini and me to accompany the final years to a destination they had chosen, Goa

 The adage that when the cat is away the mice will play literally worked for me, for the man around whom my existence was a rather luxurious one, had gone on a month’s construction project to Tuticorin, and my decision to make hay while the sun shone precipitated my desire though I did miss him.

 My mother in law bless her heart was happy to have her grandchildren to Molly coddle and she waved the green signal. So, I set out like a female Ulysses looking for Ithaca.

 My companion was Vilasini well renowned as a guide for college excursions and me a novice. We were told that arrangements made by one of the girls, for our stay overnight in Mangalore and later in Goa, was made by her cousin

 And we set out with a bus full of budding rosebuds waiting to bloom, full of the joie de vivre. With prayers and laughter we drove off to green pastures.

 Miles and miles away and all their singing and cheering, lunchtime meant a break. Somewhere on the highway we saw a gushing stream and they pleaded for a break. Bikers on their way stopped to gaze at the buxom girls and had to be threatened by the driver and Kili.

 Night shadows had us in Mangalore to bed for the night in a school room on school benches. The only source of water was a tap in the garden. So bathing was by candlelight and moon light. There definitely was a broken misunderstanding as Jeeves would say.

 We hurriedly saw the college Sr Therese Marie studied in and a magnificent St. Alosius college and church.  We drove next day over hill, plain rocky roads and farmlands and landed in Panaji old Capitol of Goa. Our girls screamed in delight. What I noticed was the sloping verandas in home stead’s brimming with verdant growth, and ancient well-preserved churches at every turn of the road.

 Then again evidently there was miscommunication or some kind of voodoo for our bus took us to a seaside hillock called Dona Paula. It was a small town where we saw young men lolling mindlessly probably sipping feni in the cool sunshine. Our destination was a small school on a hillock cheek by jowl with a Govt fisheries project on the side.

Amid grumbles and tears a comedown from hopes of decent beds and bathrooms we settled the girls, soothing damaged egos and personality blips. Miraculously food packets from a hostel nearby arrived. We finally settled on benches to rest our tired bones. All was quiet till about the time witches usually fly. there came a thunder bolt so deafening as it rolled from hill to sea in atomic blasts wave after wave.

 Vilasini and I found ourselves clutched by the shivering hands and curdling cries of our wards. The sun rose the next morning as tho the apocalypse of the night had never happened.

 Some wanted to go back to Kochi but good sense prevailed when we were told that it was a common occurrence and many Goan’s believed the thunder was commentating the suicide of a beautiful maiden called Dona Paula

 But the sunlight of the day and hours of roaming the streets of the town without much supervision was a boon for our young wards. Bike taxis a new concept for us, bike riders could be hired to take a passenger or shopper to one’s destination

 They went wading in the placid sea waters supervised by us who didn’t know the ABC of swimming. Shopping for strange Goan artifacts, like soap on a rope, and religious icons were on the agenda. So was a visit to the cathedral to view the casket which had once contained the remains of the patron saint wasabi experience especially when we walked on the terracotta flooring where thousands had walked. It seemed to be a hallowed floor too.

 There was a celebratory dinner and then it was time to head back home after buying bottles of wine in beautiful glass containers as mementos but we were warned that the excise officials would-be lying-in wait to arrest us for contraband liquor for we had no license. But we were happily advised to layer top layer of our suitcases with lingerie and the bottles of wine to lie dormant at the bottom of ladies’ things.

 Sure enough we escaped as bootleggers no doubt but it was all in the game. We drove into STC at midnight in pouring rain

Requiem for an Island

 I’d like to remember those halcyon days of the emerald isle where one never had to read catastrophic headlines which screamed “Sri Lanka is burning”; “Curfew imposed”; “Death toll rises”

 The Sri Lanka of my memory was genuine, sun-filled land of rolling hills and meandering roads, of white-washed stupas and incense-filled air; of temples, temple flowers and lanterns swaying through the balmy air. The haunting throb of the drums at Perahera fills my ears even now, Kandy! Colombo! Gampola! stalks the land.

 Gampola! Nestling amidst hills- a tranquil, little hill town like many others of its ilk- of steep, sleepy roads ad old houses. The pains of growing up tempered by the untroubled air, among the non-militant Goonewardene’s, Fernando’s, Alwises, and Pelpola’s and still more no aggressive Kumaraswamy, Selvanayagam’s and Muthunayagams.

 Days of togetherness! Of treks along hillsides, resting near miniature waterfalls and like all children everywhere, sharing the joys of fruity loot or jointly shivering and quaking in fear at the scary walk to school by the side of the cemetery. Could it be that the tranquillity of my childhood days has really been desecrated? Could it be that Tamil, Singhalese and Malayalee children will no longer play hop step and jump on the long flight of steps that once led to a mythical King’s treasury upon Hill Street? Will they no longer be able to peep in fearful anticipation of seeing the ghosts of the Dutch descendants of the Jantzes or Stockman’s through the lace curtained windows overlooking manicured lawns and prim hedges?

 When “I summon up remembrances of things past”. I cannot recollect a more exciting event in our world than perhaps the great flood, where Barton’s Dam gave away. The homes were left wide open to swirling waters, remained intact except for the damage done by swirling waters, timely help was extended. We stayed, 45 families, in a sprawling mansion of a Sinhalese friend, and were fed by a Muslim merchant who opened his godown and poured out a cornucopia of good things. Mothers chipped in to help, and it was hey day for us children. But it seems those dear days are dead and gone.

 “The woods are lovely dark and deep” but no longer safe for a stroll when season is spring

 It was a good time for both grown-ups and children, Christmas, Wesak, Ramzan, and Pongal were exciting days for us. Hovering in my memory are those delicious trays of sweetmeats, covered in snowy white pillows, lace-edged tray covers, that were sent as gifts from house to house. Oh! That delicious feeling of anticipation! No racial overtones there!

 Holidays saw our home filled to the seams with friends of all groups, many of them staying on for lunch to taste Kerala food. Many was the time we raided the meat safe to assuage those in between meal time pangs with bibinque. Kokis or kallu dodohl. It was a rampage with a big difference.

 Peradeniya gardens! So, exciting a botanical wonderland for school children and picnickers. I wonder whether I would ever again be fortunate to see the giant Wanda in full bloom in Orchard house-with no fear of being attacked. The typical relaxation was to wander in the well-laid out gardens or to browse with a book ‘neath the shade of some exotic tree or to stand amazed in awe at the ancient travellers palm with the names form a century ago carved on its fronds. The spirit of those days is gone forever’.

 Nuwera Eliya, Mount Laviniya, Trincomalee.. names that conjure up a thousand many splendored images. Images that now lay shattered. Mythical sirens will no longer sing hauntingly on the coral strands off the shores of Sri Lanka, for the mood of the serendip has been lost forever among the gunfire and blazing human hearts.

Mathan Chettan. A man for all seasons

 

She looked up from where she was cutting some firewood and saw a small ten-year-old boy in a grubby pair of shorts and a towel on his shoulder. He looked famished. Her first reaction as a widow and mother of seven children was that he must be fed.

It was my grandmother’s dictum that a full stomach would drive away most ills. He wolfed down a bowl of rice, went to the well, cleaned himself, and smiled broadly at her.

Question and answer followed. He called himself Mathan and said he had run away from home far North, cos he was beaten by his step father on a daily basis. He wouldn’t go back and offered to stay as her servant. She was horrified and said he could wait in the homestead till she decided to make some inquiries. His talk revealed that he belonged to a well to do background.

A friendly policeman neighbour dealt gently with the boy. The cane marks on his back were sufficient evidence that he had been abused. There were no legal or semi legal forums to deal with such situations then, and so a status quo was made. He would stay with my grandmother till someone came looking for him.

He categorically refused to be enrolled in the Govt school near by which the sons of the family attended. He said he had passed the 4th class

Now happy as a lark, he drew buckets of water from the well, swept the garden of recalcitrant leaves, cut firewood, swept the floors, He played with the boys and catered to every wish of the chechis. But he was always around worshiping his saviour my grandmother.

He grew tall and strong, and saw the girls of the family married off one by one. Then the house was empty but Mathan was on call as he had called himself to help whichever daughter of the house needed a hand. He refused any cajoling to get married.

My grandmother now ageing went to be with her sons.

Mathan Chettan now his nomenclature answered any call for help and in any contingency where ever it was Trivandrum or Kollam, or Thiruvalla, or Kottayam. He never asked for any favours or comforts. He had no bank balance. The only cash he had was what was gifted by those he helped just enough for bus fare, I guess. His main outfit was a white mundu and a towel on his shoulder.

He charmed the little ones and even gave them elephant rides on his back, made playthings of coconut ola or rocked colicky babies to sleep

He was now growing old but he never let a call for help go unanswered be it for festive arrangements, manning the kitchen for ceremonial feasts or even organising funeral wakes.

And then one day my mother woke up crying her heart out. Broken hearted, she said thro her tears, ’Mathan Chettan came to see me and say goodbye dressed all in white’ He came to say his last goodbye in the home of a family member far away.

A peep into the past of St Teresa’s from the 1950s

Each breath of the past is fragrant with their scent, so delicate and sweet. I walk the root strewn path with care, with flowers at my feet. How difficult it is to go and leave the scene behind. Like Wordsworth with his daffodils, I see them in my mind

St Teresa’s today is a showpiece of an educational institution where we taught and survived, ere the sun rose on the NAAC and UGC largesse

My mind travels back in time when I entered its gates as acolyte for the intermediate course. Admission was easy as apple pie for all that my guardian had to say to Sister Digna was this girl wants to study here, she is from Sri Lanka. All done. Name entered, in register, class-room pointed out and I was in.

 There were two massive buildings supported by bulwarks. The centre building encapsulated a small room for the tiny principal, and a spacious office. Upstairs were the science labs. Classes were held on the ground floor of the hostel just built while the staff quarters overlooked the park avenue road at the back of these massive buildings.

 We could hear from our classes, the thathis beating the laundry by the side of the big water tanks and saw soap bubbles floating and winking in the sunlight. This was where we now have the old and plush auditoriums.

 We intermediates were ordered to carry bricks to build the old existing auditorium a testament to our grumbles

In my youth the auditorium was in the long hall of what may now be the language staff rooms. Plays were acted on the stage then, us girls made to look like men thanks to Miss Alwyn and Sister Hyacinth. Dancers too rollicked there. There were a group of Jewish girls who performed their traditional dances. There was no air conditioning only a few sad fans but plenty of spectators who had to stand on tiptoe to watch the performances.

The library was on the ground floor. Miss Alwyns eagle eye kept the tomes slick and shiny. We thought then that the park belonged to St Teresa’s and so on those fair evenings we were allowed to get a breath of fresh air of course watched by crowds of young men salivating at such a galaxy of young girls. We even had our sports day in the park.

 College day was when all of us in our Sunday best sat down in the quadrangle to meet our teacher. Prize distribution for academic success was announced vocally on a makeshift platform, accompanied by loud cheers. No teacher was alien to us

 A vortex of memories flood thro my mind. Sr. Digna, Sr. Concepta, Sr. Seraphia, Sr. Marie Therese, Sr Therese Marie, Miss Muree, Miss Cherian, Miss Ammu, Sr. Hyacinth, Sr. Theodora, Miss Mani, cosmetologist Miss Pillai and the youngest Sr. Anne Felice. They did not shirk from teaching us ,They were the stalwarts who moulded our minds and actions

 You may know some of them of the seniors league

 

 

Keep your Temper

 You’re not a cynic person simply because you blow your top. You will end in a bad landing if you fly into a rage.

 Actually, it is said that nothing will cook your chicken faster than a boiling hot temper. To keep a cool-head keep out of hot water. Poise is the act of raising your eyebrows instead of raising the roof.

 You can’t get rid of your temper by losing it. That’s the funny thing about it. The emptier the pot, the quicker the boil watch your temper. He or she who loses their temper usually loses

 A person without self-control I as defenceless as a city with broken down walls. Haven’t you realised that today’s temper tantrum is tomorrows anti-establishment demonstration so guard your teens temper outbreaks.

 If you lose your temper you should not look for it. Let it be lost permanently in the lost department. Those who are short tempered do foolish things.

 The world needs more warm hearts and fewer hot heads

 

Full Many a Gem

I think Pearls can be in the gem stone category. Pearls are warm and beautiful and that’s probably why my we decided to gift our daughter with a beautiful ensemble of pearls. Not for us the hoi-poi pearls found among our Kochi jewellers

By a streak of good business returns we zeroed in in buying pearls from Chennai as a friendly helpful cousin finally took us to the famous jewellers in Chennai-Bapalals.

She was right. As we stepped into the cool air-conditioned comfort of the fashionable showroom, with showcases of glittering jewellery like a mirage in the palace of Midas I stood agape, as was mindful of the Tamil maami’s resplendent in colourful Kancheepuram’s with diamond nose rings, and sparkling earrings. I felt like a country Cinderella.

I was all for scooting out but a pleasant salesman seated us and listened to our request. He assured us in true salesman spirit that Bapalals would satisfy our every demand.

 Now row upon row and clusters of pearls lay in pristine, glorious, magnificence lay in front of us. Humming and hawing we chanced upon three strings of pearls glistening like sunlit clouds, with intervals of golden and coral clasps. This was my dream materialising right in front of me. The one we saw was only a sample but the in-house designer drew our ideas into fruition. An elaborate pendant of pearl and corals, with earrings to match completed the set.

 The deal was struck. The cash bill for Forty thousand, not peanuts then was paid. Visa cards had not yet seen the light of day. They assured us that the order would be executed within two months and would be sent to us in Kochi. One didn’t have to doubt the credentials of Bapalals, as vouched by my cousin a long-time resident of Chennai

I now dreamt of the gift for daughter in time for a marriage do in the family. I even had ready a gorgeous Kancheepuram as I had seen on the maami’s

 The two months hiatus was over. We rang up Bapalals, only to be told that they had posted it two days prior to our call. Courier service was still in the womb of time. Busy at work we sent our maid with authorisation letters to the college post office. But day after day she returned empty handed and sightless of our pearls like a female Columbus seeking for lost land

My brave man strode the floor and I shivered with anxiety. He fumed in smoke and he thundered like Churchill over the phone to Bapalals. Stress was not in my dictionary then and so I met the Head Postmaster. He gave me a tongue lashing as he said any ‘urupidi’ meaning jewellery worth more than ten thousand had to be insured and were we ignorant of the rule?

Calls to Bapalals was no help, not insured and posted by a peon who found out due to our insistence that he had posted it. And then like the dove that brought Noah a leaf as the flooding receded my tears evaporated when the parcel was found after two weeks

Our pearls, our treasure was sheathed in an eight by eight inches cardboard box. The address was struck on a paper that had seen better days. Sealing wax seals were absent.

Call it a miracle or what you may call it. The jewellery brought with sweat and tears rose from the depths of a Monte Cristobal style postal cavern

 

The Boomerang Effect

This is not our story, though with the benefit of hindsight and a little emotional quotient we might look back and see things we thought were about our actions than about Shantana Bose. The incident of meeting with Bose was one of those happenings we call "suddenly business,” We won't know when this comes but it does bring a tear to our eye and a leap to our heartstrings.

 On a very hot summer afternoon, driving along the highway, punctuated by occasional vehicles our eyes upon a lone, lanky, dust covered young man, trying to thumb a ride. Other vehicles sped by but we thought of one of our sons , if in some orb of the future, happened to be in the same predicament  what might befall him, and so we stopped.

The young man took long strides and his answer was that he was hoping to somehow go back to his home in Kolkata. His search for a temporary job had been fruitless. He said he wouldn't have minded a sweeper’s job, anything to earn enough, for a rail fare.

 "Sir could you give me a lift to a point where I could look to find some work? We threw caution to the winds and asked him to hop in. It didn't pass thru our minds that he could be a would be attacker. Question and answer time in broken communicating language gave us his profile. He was 23 years old and qualified as a welder cum plumber. He had come on a contract. But one fine day the company decamped with the machinery and his due salary for a month. He had to leave on his own and hoped to find a workshop which would employ him .But no one it seemed would employ him without a reference from his immediate former employers

 The look of desperation in his eyes, yet the surety that he would be able to survive if he got home to Kolkata was patent in every word he spoke. His hopeless attitude when he said that he didn't wish to travel ticketless and his dignity made us aware that he was the stuff that made the young person’s into men of caliber.

 We drove him home and offered him our hospitality, esp. with a bath in our outhouse and a clean tee shirt...Our small daughter, unasked, made him a big cup of tea and a pile of jam sandwiches which he wolfed down having been on a diet of water for four days.

 We couldn't get him a job, but as an alternative thought of giving him the price or a railway ticket to go home. Payday was two days away and we scrounged thro the kitty to tills, in stray hiding places for emergency cash and promised the children ice creams if  they helped us garner from their pocket money, enough to pay for his ticket, a couple of meals and tea till he reached home

 As we handed him the money wishing him God speed, he opened his knapsack and brought out a stack of all his original certificates. "Keep these with you Sir, till I repay you as soon as I can. Let this be my assurance and guarantee." Stranger words never hit us before but we were no Shylocks. At his insistence we gave him my uncle's address n Ballygunge and said he could repay it when he could when the fates smiled on him. Today the rail fare we gave him would be a pittance but then it was a prize sum for a man making his way in the world.

 Typical of his culture he touched our feet, blessed my daughter for the food and left with a spring to his feet.

 An incident long forgotten for six months surfaced when the uncle in Ballygunge rang to ask why a perfect Bengali  called Santanu Bose brought him some money as a repayment for a rail ticket. Santanu Bose had narrated the story .We had always believed that no one ever gave anybody anything free but our faith in human niceties was renewed. Bose gifted my uncle with a box of the most delicious Bengali sweets as sweet remembrance

 A year later uncle rang to say that on puja day Bose now running his own welding shop had gifted a box of choice sweets. He had said that he couldn't forget the kindness done to him in Kerala. We were flabbergasted at Bose's gesture? He wouldn't take no for an answer.

 For the next six years Bose gifted my uncle with Bengali sweets of quality during the puja celebrations, till the latter left Ballygunge...

 Much water flowed on and the on Sunday afternoon young Bose well dressed and confident knocked on our door. Recognition was instant. We exchanged pleasantries

Like long lost friends still in broken communicative mode.

 Bose was married to Suchitra who was soon to be a mother. He was on his way to a job in the gulf.

 Ere he got up to leave he called out to my soon to be teenaged daughter and gifted her with a pair of exquisite gold jumukas. It's for my young behen who gave my tea and jam sandwiches, when I was almost dying.

 He touched our feet and left for better shores having been refined in the fire of an ordeal which made him a better man.