Sloshed!

Image Courtesy: http://1ms.net

A couple of weeks back, I was in conversation with a group and the topic was memories of getting drunk. It’s ironic how I contribute during such conversations, owing to the fact that I have never tasted alcohol till date. Thanks to my creative brain and fantastic college crowd, I've heard and seen such amusing incidents, that I never had to taste it to know what it is to get high.

Rewinding to the 1995-2000 era - many a conversations around those cups of coffee, or beneath trees revealed so many funny stories…

S: Yesterday night we went outdoors with a few bottles. We went over these rocky hills and had a blast. It was fun.
I: Don’t you always have fun over drinks? What's the difference whether you have it indoors or outdoors?
S: The experience is much better outdoors. It's sheer bliss - fresh air, drinks and voices of nature!
I (slightly sarcastic): Umm… the fresh air and the rotten alcohol – nice combo!
S: You won’t understand
I: Umm... I’m sure. So, what happened yesterday?
S (chuckling): On our way back, D slipped and fell.
I (startled): Goodness!
S: Nothing to worry lady. We were drunk. It's normal and magical. It doesn't pain at that time.

My eyes were wide now, trying to understand.

I: The magic wears off the next day, I suppose?
S: Yea, all magic is time-bound, isn't it? You must know what it is to get drunk someday…
I: To experience magic when you don't even realize it and then suffer all that pain? No thanks!
S: Listen to the rest. We were trying to get back to our room. Absolutely no worries or concerns about when a bus would come that way. We were singing old movie songs at the bus stand. Bindaas!

I was giggling thinking what a sight a set of three boys would have made, singing songs as loud as they could (I was sure), some time close to dawn.

S: And then a bus stopped in front of us. When we were boarding the bus, I noticed D carrying a banana plant.
I: A BANANA PLANT? You mean a bunch of bananas?
S (laughing out loud): No da, an entire banana plant! I am not sure from where he uprooted it. To top it, he insisted the conductor to barter a ticket for a banana – one ticket for one banana.
Me (laughing out loud): Atrocious!
S (guffawing):  What's more hilarious is that we didn't find anything wrong with his demand, at that point in time.
Me (laughing out loud): Why am I not surprised!
S: Finally when we had settled down in the bus, I was baffled that my bike's tire, for some reason, was lying in that bus!?! I even told X about it. As soon as he heard it, he gave the conductor a dirty look for stealing my spare tire and began trying to lift it up for me.”
Me: Gosh S! You mean the stepney wheel of the bus?!?
S: Hahaha! Yes.

That was an anecdote stored in my brain by virtue of my ears. Next, I’d like to tell you a few other instances – those that were stored by my eyes.

First let’s go for the long sight.

To give you a little geographical background, there was a little road that lay behind the ladies’ hostel, which led to the boys’ hostel. And so, it was a common sight for our drunken guy pals to dedicate songs to many a pretty ladies residing in the girls’ hostel, on their way back to the boys’ hostel. It’s not just that our room faced that road; it was neither too low nor too high. Which meant, spectators from within the hostel wouldn't have just a hostel wall to see, neither was it a sight where they couldn't make out who the guys in the crowd were! Needless to say, the spectator rush in our room was pretty huge to witness these drunken dedications. On one such occasion, our drunken pals decided to take a head count. They were amazed that there were too many heads at the windows of our room. Comments from across the wall…

The handsome he: Look at that! So many heads… Are we drunk or has their room size increased?
The spectacled he: Let’s take an attendance and check.
The discoverer he: Halt guys! Look. There’s a guy in the girls’ hostel.
All the hes: Where? Where? Where?
The discoverer he (pointing carefully): There. Look - a Sardarji!

Our tipsy pal sounded so convinced, that we girls ourselves looked around wondering whom he was referring to. That’s when all of them, from down there, cried in unison – “Oh yes! It’s true”, and they helped each other spot the so-called Sardarji.

The pimple-faced he (courteously): Excuse me Sardarji. What is your name?

There were others who got protective of their fair friends that they yelled out, “You there, Sardarji! What are you doing in there at this time? (Like it was ok for a guy to be in a girls' hostel at other times of the day) Get down and get out of that room immediately or else!”

And suddenly it dawned on me whom they were referring to. It was me – I had done up my hair into a bun and set it on top of my head. My silhouette would have probably made up for a perfect Sardar. We burst out laughing and dispersed from near the windows.

The comments from across the wall continued…

Now for some visuals in close up – the one that I have always termed ‘my favorite’!

Gliteratti! (I hope I remember the name right) The season when colleges were at their cultural best! 1999 – the year when our college was hosting the show. As the days neared, the classes, the audi (college slang; short for auditorium), even the ground was a happening place – day and night! However, our focus doesn't lie in any of those places. Follow me as I enter the gates of the ladies’ hostel in the dead of the night, post practice sessions. Come in through the entrance grill, up the staircase, and through the narrow passage way lined with gray and blue walls. I am surprised at the locked door. Were the rest of my roomies already in? Did they lock me out? That’s strange - it can't be. I keep knocking. A sixth sense says that the lights are switched off but nobody’s asleep yet. And then, as a justification to my clairvoyance, I hear hushed whispers. Slowly the door slightly opens, just enough for a head to pop out. It’s A.

A (grins): Shh...! B, there’s a secret in here. If you are not comfortable, can you sleep in the other room tonight, please?
I: What is the secret? I gently push the door open.

At first I only notice silhouettes of buckets and a lot many inmates from neighboring rooms in there. There’s just a small dingy bulb that’s switched on.

I: Why you all so silent? Why are these buckets in the middle of the room?

They all just stare at me and then at a table placed next to the door. I follow that stare. Bottles and a plastic measuring glass! As my eyes get adjusted to the dingy light I see the buckets filled with ice.

I figured what’s going on.

A, P, and all others: B, you wanna go next door?
My mind, brain and soul shouted out to me in unison: You kidding me? Leave a party that’ll help photograph a lot of cute memories within the shutter of my eyes and sleep next door? No way!
I (maintaining calm): No, I’m fine.

It took a couple of minutes more for even the booze to convince them that I was truly okay.

In a few seconds I realized that R was kinda sloshed already. She kept pouring vodka into the plastic measuring glass, which was already overflowing with the intoxicating liquid; all the while wondering where all the markings had disappeared!

Don’t worry about any lost vodka. There was an angel on her knees, right beside R, channelizing all that ‘precious’ water into herself via her cupped palms.

Some wanted to dance and pump up the volume of the music playing the background; another was busy keeping caution every once in a while that everyone should be quiet. There were a couple of them who pretended to be mature in the act, but could hardly sit up straight.

Then there was our cutie pie Q seated on the bed, away from all this humdrum, talking to the walls, “And under the stars, on the road, we - me and he - will walk and drive away, away and away…” This poetry was going on and on, in a loop.

I am grateful for the company of one among that lot, P, who was in reality, not drunk. The coffee mug (yes drinks were served in coffee mugs that night) in her hand remained at the same level when I first walked in.

“Are you not drinking?”, I asked
“Not really; just a few sips. What’s going on in here is too much fun to miss.”

I couldn't agree more as we laughed into pillows lying nearby.

Somewhere in between, there was a knock on the door. Those firm knocks were an instant disclaimer that it was our warden.
The two of us - one with hardly any and the other with nil alcohol intake - looked at each other, not knowing what to do.

R, who was totally sloshed by then, was lying on the ground screaming, “Let her…”

We don’t know what she intended to say because surprisingly the rest of the sloshed gals tried pushing a dirty slipper into her mouth to hush her. I was amazed at this act of unity and display of drunken sensibility to keep the room as quiet as possible. One of them had even placed a hand over the lips of the tipsy poet.

Within a few alarming seconds, our warden, probably dismissed any questions she may have had because we sensed that she had left. I slowly opened the door just to make sure she left and there goes a tipsy A like a rocket on her toes ahead of me. Thankfully, I didn't have to do a lot of work to get her back in. Back in the room, I was surprised at all the sloshed shes reprimanding the super sloshed R for being so ‘senseless’.

The night wrapped with R puking out a lot of the so-called ‘precious’ liquid. Thanks to P, my hardly drunken amie, we were successful in pushing her under the shower. It was hilarious to see R as she frowned under the shower, remarking that that water was totally tasteless!

Owing to a lot of booze theory bestowed upon me through movies, I suggested that I would get some buttermilk from the kitchen, while P helped R into bed. Our hostel kitchen was left open with the leftovers from dinner, if any, at the counter for anyone who needed to snack at them in the middle of the night. And so, I sneaked down into our mess hall to get a glass of buttermilk.

The best expression of the day was when I asked our super sloshed gal to drink the buttermilk. She sniffed at the fresh curd garnished with ginger and coriander. Her face then twisted into a frown and she remarked, “Whew! That smells really bad and rotten.”

College! The age, the ambiance and even the winds give you a certain freedom. Irrespective of gender, you get so comfortable with the folks around that you get ample space to clear so many things in your head.

Those who have tasted it, I know, would bet that the participant’s experience would far exceed the one of a spectator. But fun is fun, nevertheless.

Thank you, all of you, for all these memories of bottled poetry!

Also Read:

Moments I Wish I'd Photographed

A Death Visual

Maundy Thursday

Back to School: The Arabic Classes

Courtesy: news.nick.com

Of all the teachers in school, the ones we maintained a lot of distance from were probably the Arabic teachers. Today, I understand that this was vice versa too, mainly because of the language barrier. Probably because of the same reason, Arabic teachers were looked up to with fear and reverence. Besides these emotions, memories around them were also fashion oriented. Among students, they were considered as teachers of class when it came to dressing up. The pearl studded abhayas, the tops, the skirts, the heels, the long and slim figures, and the flawless complexion, the light make up – they carried themselves amazingly well.

I personally loved my Arabic classes. The lessons were not more than a page or a page and a half and the grammar was easy. Above all, everything about the language was different. I am of the opinion that the Arabic alphabets are beautiful and artistic in nature and it felt unique writing something from right to left, rather than the other way round. When all the other classes demanded 200 page notebooks, Arabic classes demanded two notebooks, one a 400 page one for class work and homework and a 200 page one for dictations. I loved Arabic examinations too. The papers were quite a replica of your notebook. Sometimes the questions even came in the same order as it was in our notebook. Since I am also a fan of people who do things differently, I loved it when once; an Arabic teacher taught us how to sing ‘Sanahal wa yadami’ (forgive me if this is mondegreen) instead ‘Happy Birthday to you’. So, from that day on, all the birthday girls got two musical wishes! In fact, I was wishful that my birthday falls on a day when we had Arabic classes.

Most Arabic teachers were known for their punishments and prizes. While punishments were not unique to them, prizes definitely were! Many of our Arabic teachers declared surprise prizes for girls who scored the highest marks in the language in the final exams. I also remember once, when there were 5 of us who scored a full fifty on fifty and the teacher had just one story book to give out. Since she had already declared the gift, she couldn't alter that. So she took out four other items and kept them on the table, there were two fancy rulers and two timetable cards that looked awfully cute. She pulled out chits to give away the prizes. I do not know about the rest, but I kept my fingers crossed for either the ruler or the timetable card because a standard IV student would have read Hansel Gretel at least a few hundred times already. Destiny got me one of the timetable cards – a cartoon-studded one, which I preserved like a treasure for a very long time…

I have never got punished; at least not by Arabic teachers. This was definitely not because I was the perfect student; let’s say I was good at self help. Dictation tests used to keep happening once in two weeks or so. There was no set frequency for these. It was the teacher’s choice – at least that’s how we understood it. They used to let us know a day or two in advance and we came prepared. Prepared I always was, but there was something more that we needed to keep in mind when it came to Arabic dictation tests. Unlike other subjects, there was a dedicated book for dictation tests. I was, as most of you know, forgetful. As a result, the dictation book rarely made it to my school bag. When the teacher called out for students who had forgotten their dictation book, I used to keep rummaging my school bag wondering what to do. My self help pranks almost always won over Gandhian doctrines. The voice in my head whispered, “Any book would do since Arabic is written the other way round.” So, I used to give in to me inner call and turn around another 200 page notebook for the dictation test.

It was always a 10 on 10, but rarely on the right book. Yes, I used to religiously cut-paste these pages once I got back home…

There's another incident that I will never forget as long as I am in my right senses. This one’s more of a confession…

There was this teacher who had extraordinarily huge eyes. Today, I know that that was the effect of extremely thick glasses that she required. Back then, she held quite a scary reputation among students. "She's good but she can scold badly", was the general rumor. She wasn't our regular teacher. But that year (if I am not wrong, I believe this was in standard VIII), our gang decided to take up Arabic tuition, which was for one hour after school hours. Today, I don’t remember why we decided to go for tuition, but we did. Classes were good and as time passed I realized that for some reason unknown to me, she had taken a liking towards me. My peers considered me lucky. But, only I knew the truth. I definitely loved her too, however, that didn't stop me from being any less scared of her. My love for her reflected in my Arabic tuition book - they were extremely well kept.

But one day, forgetful that I was, I forgot to carry my Arabic tuition book. I was already scared what I would do, when she walked in and declared that she was ill and couldn't take class because of which she would correct our notebooks. We had to go to her in person one by one to get our notes corrected. (Gulp!) I felt like a rat in a trap, desperately trying to free itself. The envy of the peers, the extra liking she had for me, everything seemed to weigh far too much. I realized that I had no other choice but to go and confess. But the devil dressed up in self help reminded me of something my friend, N, who was one of her regular students, once told me. "You know what? Our Arabic teacher, that teacher who has those big eyes… she can’t see. She has big eyes because of big spectacles, but she can’t see." I believed those words superficially only because she was one of my closest friends. To this day, I can’t believe that I decided to take the risk pinning my hopes on her words.

I took another book, turned it around and scribbled all over the pages, making it look similar to Arabic. None of it was Arabic, it was no language; it was plain scribbles. I scribbled up until it was my turn. I decided that I would confess if she caught me. Till the time, I placed the book open in front of her, the voices in me debated. The devil won. I went with the lie. If the phrase, eyes popped out, can be literally true, mine should have popped out at that moment. She ticked off each page, continuously exclaiming what a good student I was!

Don’t ask me how she managed test papers or exam papers. May be the management knew and she was excused from such tasks. An array of maybes, oh my gods, thank gods slipped through my mind during those 5 minutes that I was standing next to her…

If you all do not believe this part of my post, I wouldn't be surprised. It took me a long time to gulp it myself. I remember having shared this incident only to N, because she knew that the teacher was low on vision. "I am sorry N, I didn't believe you completely when you told me. But it’s true – teacher can’t see”, I remember telling her. I have never bragged about this incident; never felt like it.

Dear Miss,

In my thoughts, I have always pictured coming to you in privacy to confess that I forgot my book that day. I am ashamed that I tricked you. My action was the outcome of a combination of cowardice and fears – fear of punishment; fear that I’d be a laughing stock, fear that I may lose the fondness you had for me.

My love for you grew into admiration after I realized that you are low on vision. Despite the handicap, you carried yourself so well. I still remember when you once walked in dressed up in all violet. What a beautiful skirt and top that was! Everything about you was beautiful except your eyes.

As an adult, I realize what a beautiful and powerful individual you were to carry on with life so boldly with those pair of eyes. They made you even more wonderful.

Thank you for the silent lesson I learnt from you and do forgive me.”

Missed any of the old posts of this series?
Read them now:

Back to School - the Biscuit, the Dance and the Sketches

Back to School – the Kindergartner, the Careless Child, the Morning Jogs and the Dear ol’ Bus

Back to School – the Early Morning Chorus, the Mighty Rains, the Creaky Cabins, and the Game of Hide and Seek

Back to School – the Early Morning Chorus, the Mighty Rains, the Creaky Cabins, and the Game of Hide and Seek

Courtesy: quotesinpaper.us

Like I promised, let's continue our journey back to those innocent days. Since we had stopped with the school bus yesterday, I thought I'll start with the early morning assembly, today. Have fun!

THE ASSEMBLY:

My mind's camera pictures multiple rows of us students, standing at one-arm distance on the concrete ground, facing our Principal, the teachers and two randomly-picked senior students - one, bestowed with the huge responsibility of leading the Morning Prayer (to guard our school, country of residence and country of origin) and School Pledge (a reminder of where we were and why we were there) and another to read out news highlights.

To think of it now, I am not sure why we had to repeat the Morning Prayer and the Pledge after anybody; everybody, including the dignitaries, knew them by heart. A rhythm-inducing technique, perhaps. I considered 8 a.m news reading a complete waste of time and energy. As far as I can remember, everything other than, ‘Honorary principal, Respected teachers and my dear friends. Today’s news!’ evaporated into thin air. 

All these are great memories; but the part that I enjoyed most during assembly-time was the part where we sang the National Anthems - the Jana Gana Mana (India's National Anthem) and the Aishibiladi (U.A.E's National Anthem) followed by the class disperse clap!

These were done with so much synchronization with no rehearsals or anybody in the lead – it was then, still is and will always be music to my ears.

THE CLASSROOMS:

The blackboard, the chalks, the duster, the notice board, the wooden chairs and tables with steel legs, the teachers, the lessons and all that mindless chatter – I loved my classroom.

P:
A:
T: 36

Everyday after she takes attendance, that’s the first thing each class teacher writes out on the blackboard - precisely speaking, on the top right corner of the board. P stood for no. of students present; A, for the no. of students absent and T was for total number of students. As a matter of practice, that was considered the non-erasable section of the blackboard. Every teacher entering the classroom instantly knew the strength of the class for the day.

There were two things that were great surprises – an absent teacher or a lot of absent students. An absent teacher was a boon that was granted once in a blue moon. It was an invited break, if there was no one available to do a proxy.

Lots of absent students was bumper lottery! And our gang would never miss any of them. Back then, the Dubai drains were not one bit ready for the rains. And weren't we glad about that! The roads and the school grounds got flooded. School buses would ply but parents would worry about children falling ill.

The P on the blackboard would definitely score only a 10 or less. Now that I know the funda behind taking leaves and salaries, I understand why teachers ended up coming to work on those days. Words cannot describe the triumph we felt when each of our teachers opened the door, got startled at the number of students, looked at the blackboard to cross-check and apologetically left the classroom.

Thanks to those worried parents and the helpless ones such as ours’, these seasonal joys lasted for a couple of days sometimes even a week. I do not know why but we preferred sitting up on the tables and chatting, rather than on the chairs, on such occasions…

THE CABINS:

It would be right to say that our school grew along with us. Each time a new building was set to get constructed, we would believe it was for us to be seated in. There were constructions happening all around the place. Owing to space constraints, once, there were temporary cabins-on-stilts set up in lieu of classrooms for some of us privileged souls. Those classrooms, which we believed, were the cutest, was so much fun. We could hear each of our footsteps when we walked over those floors. It felt as if we were one of those superwomen whose very footstep could get the earth trembling underneath. The creak of the door and the tiny flight of steps, the temporary walls that resembled Styrofoam, everything seemed to amaze us.

THE AFTERNOON SHIFT:

Back in school, a notice, announcing important events were titled as The Circular. One of the strangest Circulars that took the rounds announced that we, girls of class III, would have afternoon shift for a year, due to lack of classrooms.

For the benefit of those of you who may not know how it is out there in the gulf, schools worked in shifts. Girls attended classes in the morning and boys in the afternoon.  So this particular Circular was received with different kinds of emotions.

“But why?”, asked an anxious bunch. “Gosh! Will we reach home in time for the cartoons?”, wondered the confused bunch. “Psst… we’ll have to come with the boys now, IN THE SAME BUS.”, whispered a scandalous bunch in horror. Thankfully, the bunch I used to hang out took this news at perfect ease. We were extremely pleased because we figured that we won’t have to wake up early.

I distinctly remember an incident at our bus stop, during this phase. We were playing hide and seek, while waiting for our bus. I came out triumphantly – the denner had not found me. I came out and felt strange. Something was amiss. Nobody seemed to be around. Did I come out too soon? Was everybody still in their hiding? That's when I saw my next-door neighbor friend, B. He also looked lost. We then noticed that nobody else’s bags were there except for ours.

 “Uh oh!” we realized it with a sigh - we MISSED THE BUS. Seeing a petrified me, B took my hand and got all protective.

B: “Don’t worry Bis...”

Me: “Oh no! What do we do? Why didn't anybody call us? How can everybody be so selfish, B?”

B (confused): “It’s ok Bis, I’m there.”

Me (tensed and worried): “You can’t drive, B.”

B: “Let’s go up to your house and tell your dad. He’ll drop us, won't he?”

Me: “No, he’ll scold me.”

B: “I’ll tell him.”

Me: “Still. He’ll scold me.”

B: “Let’s go up and tell my dad.”

I thought about that option for a while and shook my head…

Me: “Your dad will tell my dad and then, he’ll scold me.”

B gave up and left my hand.

And then, in the horizon, there came, what I believed was an angel - another Indian High School Bus. Oh my! Decades later, even today, when I write about this incident, I can feel it – as if God just rushed down taking the form of a school bus.

Me (confused again): “But, will it stop for us. This is not a stop allotted for them right?”

B (waving out his hand at the bus): “Let’s find out.”

The bus stopped and so did my racing heart.

B (to the assistant on the bus, whom we all generally called ‘chacha’): “Missed our bus, chacha... can we come in?”

Thank God for uniforms, we got permitted in. All the children on that bus stared at us like we landed from another planet. We quietly walked and sat on a seat, thankful to God for saving us from all that yelling in the luxury of a car.

That's all for today! I'll get back with more school memories tomorrow...

Also Read:
Back to School – the Kindergartener, the Careless Child, the Morning Jogs and the Dear ol’ Bus
Rewinding to April 18, 1984
My Magic Beans

Back to School – the Kindergartner, the Careless Child, the Morning Jogs and the Dear ol’ Bus

Courtesy: clipartbest.com

Nowadays, with a son aged two, there are lots of discussions on schools. Quite naturally for me, it’s easy to drift back and think of the good ol’ days. Let’s all go back to school…

K.G. K:

I don’t remember a lot of my kindergarten days except us kids gathered around the teacher’s table, running out, playing in the sand and a classmate who once came up to me, advising me to discard my soiled handkerchief. She said that’s what her mother did after blowing her nose. “But you throw away tissue papers not hankies”, I countered. “Even that’s white just like this. I’m sure it’s the same. It should be thrown”, she stuck to her resolve.

To my mother’s relief I didn't take that advice seriously.

THE PENCILS AND THE WATER BOTTLE:

My pencil box and my water bottle were two challenges that I couldn't tackle throughout my schooling period. My pencil box, the one commanded to return as is, was almost always destined to return half empty – I had adventurous pencils that never returned to the box. Thankfully, my eraser, sharpener and scale lacked the enthusiasm of their skinny counterpart. On the contrary, my water bottle, the one that was supposed to be empty by the end of the day, got back just the way it left home. I never seemed to get that right.

I believe my father invested quite a sum of money into pencils. Gladly, the pens I owned found their way back into my pouch everyday. Some lessons take time, I guess...

THE BUS STOP:

I lived 15 minutes away from where my school was located. Ours was the first pick-up point and we had, probably, five others before we reached our destination. We had pick-up points that were a stone’s throw away from each other. Talk about convenience!

If any of my friends are of the opinion that I am a late Kate – it’s true and it’s been there from time immemorial. It was a usual sight for my bus mates to see me jogging behind the 7:30 a.m. bus to catch it at least at the next pick-up point. There were times when I have wondered if I would make it to the Guinness Book of World Records if I ran behind it till school.

I am grateful that my non-athletic nature shunned looking into this possibility on a serious note.

THE BUS

In the beginning bus rides were all about reciting rhymes over and over again, jumping in the bus when it goes over humps; laughing at things I just can’t seem to remember, etc. 

In high school, bus rides were still fun but on a different note. There were four of us who were the oldest on the bus. It was an unwritten rule that the right hand side of the longest seat at the back of the bus; and the one in front of it was ours. That was our gossip-cum movie replay zone.

Friday being a holiday, it was customary for a new movie to be out on cassettes every Thursday evening. It was also customary for Channel 33 – the then local TV Channel of Dubai to play a Hindi movie on Thursday nights. The four of us used to enact these movies that we would have watched over the weekend. I don’t know how we did them after viewing the movie just once, but we did it with a lot of vigor and zeal. It was as if we had a screen test coming up soon. Nothing was rehearsed for this act. If all four of us hadn't watched the same movie, there wouldn't be any acting sessions, just motivations with highlights to watch the movie. It was sheer fun!

Talking about fun, there comes to my mind another incident which was pure fun when we were at it, but not quite after a while. This one was with my gang in class – six of us. It was one of those boring high school days. I don’t have a speck of memory with regards to why we didn't have class and what we were doing loitering in the campus. At that age, the thought of bunking classes was not even an idea at its genesis. Whatever the reason be, the point is that we had nothing to do. Roaming around the campus on that hot day, we stopped by for some shade at the parking lot allotted for the school buses. We noticed that there was nobody around – just open buses. What did we fancy about a parked bus? I don’t know - I'm not 11 anymore. It’s human to have aching legs the moment you see empty seats. So we hopped into one of the buses. At first it was the echo of our footsteps in a still and empty bus that intrigued us. I don’t know when the devil got the better of us; because before we knew, we were cheering and racing each other - two at a time. If that wasn't bad enough, we decided to run over the seats, along the aisle with one foot each on adjacent seats. I wish I could tell you that you should try that some time because it was super fun. Once we were drained from this activity, we realized that all the seats were soiled with our footprints on them. By the time, sense put a reign on us and we decided to wipe them away with our handkerchiefs, one of us spotted a man, dressed in a bus driver’s uniform, walking towards the bus. Out we jumped and ran away for the fear of being caught! All those moral studies of being apologetic and owning up one’s faults went down the drain. I swear I saw myself getting scolded at in the Principal’s office, my dad’s angry face and an eventuality which I didn't know how to imagine – all this in the split of a second.

Never once later had any one of us suggested doing such a thing on a boring day which is verdict in itself that we all swore inwardly never to repeat such a thing ever again.

I think I'll stop for today. Hope you had a fun ride so far. This is not all. I’ll be back with more school memories tomorrow. Stay tuned!

Also Read:

Back to School – the Early Morning Chorus, the Mighty Rains, the Creaky Cabins, and the Game of Hide and Seek
Back to School - the Biscuit, the Dance and the Sketches

Rewinding to April 18, 1984

Courtesy: youtube.com

A short story written by a friend, set me smiling, taking me back to those days of childhood bliss. April 18! The very name set me on a pleasant walk down memory lane...

It was a weekday afternoon in Dubai. I was probably 6 or 7 years of age, back then. The lad, clad in the tight shirt and bell bottom pants whom we children called cassette uncle, was at the doorstep handing out a cassette with great confidence.

"Chechy, it is Balendran Menon's", he advertised to mummy.

The look on his face told me instantly that mummy would surely rent out that one. I still remember mummy's face brighten up on reading the title written out bold across the white sticker on the tape.

"Oh! It's April 18. Heard of this one. Is it good?", asked Amma maintaining her poise.

"It's a hit!", he exclaimed.

Money out. Cassette in. Business done. Cassette uncle gone. Door shut.

Our VCR was still new and playing cassettes at home was a novel idea. An excited me asked, "Shall we watch it Amma?"

The request was declined. My mother retired for her afternoon nap after having declared that we would watch it during dinner. That verdict meant that the movie should be a good one. The movies tagged as good ones would be previewed only with the whole family in sitting. The ones that weren't a sure shot had chances of going through a preview of sorts. The pretext that flew in the air at such instances were that, the brief screening was to understand the cast and crew, etc.

However, that afternoon I decided to take a chance. Having sneaked into the bedroom to make sure my mother was asleep, I loaded the VCR with the cassette. For the benefit of the new gen, cassettes had to be re-winded so that you could watch a flick from the beginning. But since childhood adventures had time constraints, I simply opted to play it. I saw a vertical white sari and a guy (I presumed he would be the hero) sitting on the floor tugging at it, saying, "Ninte oru samayam". Since he didn't look familiar, my adventurous spirit fizzed out. The cassette went back into its cover and I probably opted for the afternoon nap.

Over tea, mummy shot out the good news about the movie we got lucky with. I still don't know how she did it with such calm. "Oh then we'll say our prayers earlier than the usual time and watch it during dinner.", declared daddy. Now it got exciting again. Something to watch during dinner time - something other than the boring 10 'o' clock news.

Prayer time - The cassette was set to rewind while we prayed. I could hardly pray. My ears were tuned, waiting for the feeble 'tak' sound that the machine would give out indicating that the cassette was done rewinding. And in my opinion, there was an ocean of prayers yet to be chanted. And then, daddy had to shower - such a long way to go...

Finally, after what seemed to me like an eternity, it happened! The play button was given command...

Daddy and mummy giggled and laughed. They commented. They agreed. They disagreed. And me? I mimicked them - I didn't understand much whatever it was that was happening on screen. I liked a dance though and swore I'd perform that on stage once, with the same costume. The movie should have been a good one because mummy and daddy seemed to like it. A few hours later, an uncle and aunty hugged on screen and something got written across their face. The movie had ended - thank God I understood that much! "Very nice movie.", said mummy; and daddy nodded in agreement. I also agreed, completely in awe of my parents - God! They know everything. They know a good movie from a bad one. Now that they said it, I was sure that the one we just saw was a good one.

I don't remember what happened of cassette uncle and I don't know how this cassette got stranded at home. But, I do know that I got habitual of seeing this movie time and again. Gradually, I realized that it was indeed a feel good movie. I learned that it wasn't Balendran Menon's movie, but Balachandran Menon's movie. I learned the dance and the song. I knew all the dialogues by heart - scene by scene. I even wished I was playing the role of Shobana. Never saw the movie after I left Dubai in 1993.

Watched the movie on YouTube again this week. Here I was watching this flick 30 years later, giving out each and every one of those dialogues - scene by scene - as and when they appeared on screen. The diction, to my surprise, was strikingly in sync with that of the actors. Loved the experience!

Today, I understand that the movie is indeed a good one. Simple story line and neat performances.

April 18 narrates the tale of Sub Inspector Ravikumar Pillai, played by Balachandran Menon himself. The film balances out the personal and professional life of this policeman. It's all simple and realistic in this one - no strain.

This movie debuted a 13 and half year old girl to play the role of the SI's wife - Shobana. And what an impressive performance it was for a 13 year old! Another actor worth mentioning is Unni Mary as Rajamma. I admit that I haven't seen all of the movies she's acted in, but, from the few that I have seen I think this was a solid performance - a typical Christian house wife of the times. Like I said before, each and every actor has done justice to their role. Whether it was Adoor Bhasi, Venu Nagavalli, Bharath Gopi, Adoor Bhavani, Sukumari or even the junior artists - I wouldn't imagine anybody else in the roles they played.

By now, I am hoping you would have understood that the movie is a personal favorite for no phenomenal reason. But as I write this post, my mind does ponder on whether I want to mark any part of the movie as a favorite scene...

As a child I didn't understand anything more than an uncle addressing his wife as kutta... kutto... and I really liked the feel of it.

As a teenager, I thought I understood all of it. The term navamukulangal, often came to my mind like a flash card and set me giggling whenever I attempted writing out a speech, back in those days. I refused to believe that it was Unni Mary who played Rajamma because I didn't like Unni Mary but I liked Rajamma. I completely agreed when she tells her husband, "Penungalkkum oru vela vendayo?" I loved the scenes where Ravikumar teases his wife, reprimands a child at the police station and felt wow when he resigns from his duties. Whenever the air conditioner was switched on, I even tried sniffing the air to see if it does have a stink.

As an adult, I understand that I hardly understood anything in my teens. The final court scene stole my heart. When Ravikumar says, "Separate us.", I felt touched, because I knew what he meant and the explanation he gives didn't just justify my thoughts but was extremely heartfelt.

The beauty of April 18 is that it doesn't show a flawless marriage at any point and yet we vouch for them as a couple. 


Priyappetta Shri. Balachandran Menon-nu Oru Thuranna Kathu - one of the short stories by Mr.Mahesh Ravi in his recent collection Ethir Disha was what set all these memories rolling. Thank you Mahesh Ravi for bringing in so much of nostalgia...

Also Read:

Movies That Touched My Heart: Namukku Paarkkan Munthiri Thoppukal

Ammukutty – A Character Study

Movies that Touched My Heart: the Pursuit of Happyness

Movies That Touched My Heart: Namukku Paarkkan Munthiri Thoppukal

Courtesy: youtube.com

I was 10 when I first watched this movie - I hated Mohanlal, Shari, Thilakan and the lady who played the role of Thilakan's wife. I thought Mohanlal was a man with filthy thoughts. I didn't understand how Shari could ever like this man with dirty thoughts. I was scared of Thilakan and didn't like the looks of the lady who played his wife.

I remember this thought was so strong that I never ever wanted to see the movie again. However, as fate would have it, at some point in my teens I was forced to watch this movie again as I had nothing else to do. At that age, I was confused why I was taking a liking towards the movie. I had hated it once and ideally I should be hating it again.

As an adult I keep making opportunities to see this lovely movie over and over again. It's like a refreshing breath of fresh air. The background score of the movie is one of the most romantic notes I have ever heard. Simply love it. What a remarkable work from music director Johnson!

The characters are sketched so well that I fall short of words to describe the perfection. It is much beyond excellence. The movie is an adaptation of the K.K Sudhakaran's novel Namukku Gramangalil Chennu Raparkkam. I haven't read the book but the adaptation is extremely beautiful.

Romance lingers in each and every scene of this movie. I am sure everybody would agree that there is romance even in the title - Namukku Paarkkan Munthiri Thoppukal! (let us go dwell in the vineyards). The dialogues are awesome. The Song of Songs from the Bible has been used magnificiently - it's brilliant!

This cinema narrates the story of Solomon who falls in love with the girl next door - Sofia. This will be among those very few tales where viewers will neither seek an explanation on why Sofia gets noticed by Solomon from the very first time he sees her, nor would they simply dismiss it off as the unexplained phenomena of love at first sight.

Solomon is the ideal man a woman would fall in love with. But the beauty is that scene after scene he surprises you. Mohanlal has blown so much life into the character that you won't, for even a second, term Solomon to be someone you would only find in books. He is ideal and at the same time appears extremely realistic. I am not sure if all guys would want a lady like Sofia in their life. But I would definitely vouch that all women should be like her. No matter what circumstances you are in, I have always believed that women should be cautious, strong, bold and extremely courageous.

The story has such a natural flow. It gives you glimpses on how dramatic real life events can turn out when you have your mind set to achieve something. Each time you feel you've crossed a hurdle you realise you are next to a bigger one. And finally when you cross them all, there may still be loose ends which you can tie up after a period of time. But, you have peace in your eyes and soul that you have done the right thing. I am so glad that the climax is the way it is - no forced tragedy here - almost a trend that was followed in the 80s.

Namukku Paarkkan Munthiri Thoppukal is backed by a powerful cast. Each and everyone of them have done a good job. But it would be unfair without a few special mentions. Honestly, I have never quite preferred Mohanlal for a Christian character, but he is so perfect as Solomon that I wouldn't picture anybody else playing the role. Paul Pailokkaran (Sofia's stepfather) is a disgusting character. Somebody you would dread having even as an occasional visitor - leave alone family member. That's exactly what Thilakan makes you feel. When you see both of their performances you know exactly why they are held with so much of esteem. Sofia's role demands a lot of subtle expressions. I love the way Shari has played Sofia - she has done an excellent job! And oh yes! I did come to realise why the lady who played Thilakan's wife looked the way she did in the movie.

This movie from the 80s can make you smile, cry, giggle and leave you feeling totally awe even today - no matter which generation you belong to. Namukku Paarkkan Munthiri Thoppukal is a great example why P. Padmarajan is still alive in our memories even after 23 years of his demise; it explains why he is considered a master at his art. My salutations to this maestro of Malayalam cinema!

Ammukutty – A Character Study

Courtesy: www.youtube.com

Malayalam movies from the 80s have always found a special place in my heart. Those were the pictures that I grew up watching. Thanks to Asianet Movies and youtube.com, I get to see many of those movies yet again. Now, as an adult, I see them at a much better level of understanding than in the past. It was the other day that my fingers ceased taunting the remote control when my eyes recognized scenes from one of my old favorites – Aalkoottathil Taniye. 

As a child, my cherished memories of the movie were the song onnanam oonjal (that song was full of swings - I love swings) and Ammukutty - the character portrayed by Seema. Ammukutty was someone whom I had cherished for a very long time. With a smile I realized that she took a cozy corner of my heart owing to the allimalar kannil song sequence and a few scenes which she shared with the little boy named Babu.

As I watched the movie, I wondered why Ammukutty never made it to the tip of anybody's pen terming her as one of the powerful women characters that was portrayed in Malayalam cinema. I hear that the movie, in its time, was not a commercial success. Probably that was the reason. Or, probably it was because she is not the kind you would term as extraordinary. Whatever be the reason, I was truly inspired by Ammukutty. 

Ammukutty, an orphan and an elementary school teacher by profession, is portrayed as a free-spirited character within the social parameters. She is so full of life and absolutely content with what she has. I loved her wit and subtle sense of humor. She is the kind who can effortlessly and instantly make you smile on a day that has gone really bad for you.

While we watch the movie we can sense the unconditional love she has for her maternal cousin Rajan, the character potrayed by Mamootty. At the phase where she has to let go of her dreams of sharing a life with him, I couldn't help but think why Rajan never understood her underlying message. Yes, she vouched for him to embrace the great things that came his way. Yes, she gave in to his father’s viewpoints of why she should let go, offering not one word of defense for herself. The character is designed and played so well that I could clearly understand her thoughts. She had done her share for their life together and she was in no way going to hint or make him do his part. She completely left that to him. Whether it hurt him or not, he messed it up.

I loved the part where she looks Rajan in the eye and says that she had never cursed him and that she would, if she felt that his son wasn't cared for. Her sacrifice was for him to get a good life and if he couldn't do his share to keep it going, it would put her sacrifice to shame.

I could so relate to her when she loses her cool with Rajan's wife Nalini, who tried repaying the money she had spent on Rajan's post-graduation. Values and goodwill when weighed on the monetary scale alone, can act like spark on kerosene.

I'd like to courteously bow down in front of M.T Vasudevan Sir for shaping up Ammukutty's character with so much of thought and care. I'd also like to congratulate Seema for playing the role so well. I loved Ammukutty for her strength, her resolve, her content way of life, her forgiveness and her broad mindedness. Ammukutty is a reminder that you don't have to do huge things to be powerful. Making a difference in one person's life and bridging differences to strengthen relationships; it's all an act of power - of strength. It is the kind of power that usually goes unnoticed and unrecognized. Think about it – Ammukutty can be your mother, your mother-in-law, your sister, your brother, your father, your friend; just about anybody. Recognize that power – that in itself is the greatest form of gratitude that you can give him or her.

Moments I Wish I'd Photographed

Courtesy: www.stephaniecorfee.com / www.tocofi.com

Last night before I crawled into bed, as is the usual practice, I peeked into my baby’s crib. He, as always, looked adorable. However, the position he was in made the sight all the more precious. He was all stretched out with his little wrist over his forehead and his tiny mouth half open. It looked as if he was resting after a long hard day at work. I ran out to get the camera. But, as luck would have it, he had changed positions before I got back.

Lying in bed, my mind scanned through those many occasions I wish I had clicked. Memories from my hostel life flooded in…

• I remember an evening when three of us roommates (me, she and the other she) declared that we were bored and didn't have anything to do. Smart students like us wouldn't dare feature studies in the to-do list months prior to the semester exams. One of the bored souls suggested applying make-up for each other. No, we didn't have any plans of going out. I remember we were so bored we walked up to the shelf where we kept our stuff, trying to get into the mood. Then, there was an improvised thought. There were two rules to the game. Funny how games suddenly take shape! So, the rules were:

1. Each one of us should apply makeup for one among us itself, simultaneously. To be more precise, it was not a one-on-one.
2. You couldn’t stop until you finished.

I can't really word how we looked that night once the game was over. Extended lips, multiple eyes - we looked horrendous, filthy and downright hilarious! Not one photograph to prove this sudden spark of creativity. If only mirrors stored images!

• It was a warm summer afternoon. I was in the corner of my bed deep into Alex Haley’s Roots. My roomy comes barging into the room; evidently furious. She was supposed to be out on a date with her boyfriend. She was undressing while I was contemplating whether to stay away from the fire or try putting it out. She turned around to face me.

She (to me): 45 mins Bis! I was waiting and waiting and waiting. He didn't turn up. I am humiliated, sad and hungry. The hostel food’s also over.

It went on and on. I sat listening giving my own inputs and suggesting that we go out. I empathized, which acts like sand on the fire. Suddenly we heard the familiar tok-tok sound from somewhere outside the window. That was their code for her to look out of the window. To give you a background, our window overlooked the road which led to the boys’ hostel. With all that fury rushing back, she went to  the window with crimson cheeks and in her stony calm and stern voice interrogated…

She (to him): What? Where were you? Blah blah blah

I kept signaling to her to get back in. But the fury had shut her ears not just to his justifications but to my signs of warning too.

She (to him): No, I am not coming today!

She turned back into the room and suddenly coming back to her senses, she looked down at herself.

She (to me - embarrassed): Bis was I at the window like this?

Me (to her): Well, I tried warning you but you were so busy giving him a piece of your mind.

She (thinking aloud): No wonder he was all stunned in the beginning!

Summer is the time when chemises spot the biggest trend within closed hostel rooms. The look on her face at the point of realization; her furious crimson cheeks slowly turning into a blush - it’s framed in my memory bank.

• That was an era of letters. The Internet was still finding its way to India. Unlike emails, letters took time to come into existence  You had to be in the mood, then you needed to get the right words, etc.. Basically it was looked upon as hard work! One pleasant evening after her bath, the other she (TOS) decided to write her friend a letter. TOS decided to do it in style. She pulled her chair out into the hostel backyard and began writing her letter. TOS had written almost 2-3 pages (I may be wrong, but it was definitely more than one) when she came in to attend a phone call (That era was alien to mobile phones too). After she was done talking over the phone, TOS went back all eager to complete her letter and oh my; the sight she sees! A grazing cow chewing away all those pages of hard work! We looked out of the window hearing some kind of reprimanding. How I wish I had clicked what I saw through the window. A small framed young lady with a few blank sheets of paper in hand yelling at a big fat cow; who simply chewed on with a bleak expressionless face.

• There was another room that I was part of. One of my roommates there, I remember, used to act on her dreams the moment she woke up. Let us call her dream catcher. This incident always succeeds in making me laugh. Miss Dream Catcher was taking a siesta, listening to the songs playing on my stereo. She had this habit of setting the stereo up on her bed and listening to soft music (pathos mostly). The rest of us had woken up and were sipping our cups of tea. Miss Dream Catcher wakes up, unplugs the stereo in a giffy, cradles it in her arm and almost strides out of the room. I stopped her at the door and asked her where she was heading to. She seemed in so much haste. She tried brushing me aside saying “Move. Let me keep this fish in the freezer before it begins to rot.” There she was catching her dreams again. Good thing I woke her up or else my stereo would be in the wash basin under the tap for all you know.
• I'll stop for now with this last one. I was quite an absent minded professor back in college. I admit that traces of that still exist. To top it I was elected treasurer to the Civil department in my final year. It was an honorary position. Knowing myself, I didn't think it was a good idea. Imagine an absent minded being and all that cash. Bligh me! One night as I was folding out my clothes, my friend (she) walked into the room and casually asked me for my purse.

A confused me (who was caught forgetting things so often): Oh did I forget my purse somewhere?

She: Not just any purse Bis! The one in which you keep the department’s cash and records. You left it by the phone. Why you so careless? What if…

I really don't know how my face looked then. Whenever I hear her telling this story, I feel she would have liked it if my expression was clicked and stored. The expression of being caught again and again and again.