Home is where your heart is, part 1

This was the theme of the latest online playback theater performance by the talented artist of First drop* which I had the pleasure of attending this sunday. The first question that was posed to the audience was how many of us were still living in our place of birth. A lion’s share of us responded in the negative. A few from the audience volunteered and shared their feelings on the topic subsequent to which the actors enacted them for us. My friend Srijith was on fire during the show. In response to a story of a childhood spent in mango trees, out of nowhere he came up with a branch of a mango tree to the screen. Similarly Thulasi came up with a mortar and pestle in response to another instance. Being a doubting Thomas I thought that  this was scripted but my friend clarified that it was indeed impromptu which made it all the more impressive. I had no reason to doubt him any further because this in a way explained as to why the leaves were wet when he was holding them as a prop since it was raining at that time in Kochi. The show made me reminiscent of the homes that I have lived in my lifetime and pangs of nostalgia hit me hard that I decided to pen down one by one the houses that I have lived in.

*First drop

Photo credits: First drop theatre

Photo credits: First Drop theatre

My first memory of a house is that of the SP*’s bungalow in Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh. The huge house comprised of a Garden with a variety of flowers, fields adjacent to the house were used to grow wheat and vegetables for our personal use, the sentry outpost at the entrance was always manned by armed policemen, the workers quarters at the back side, everything is a vague memory now. I learnt to cycle in my quaint little red Hero Hansa on the tarred roads that ran through the length and breadth of the property. It so happened that there was a concrete tank in which we stored water for the crops. Once I had gotten inside it to splash around since there was only water till my knees but alas I lost my footing and fell down. I hadn’t factored the moss that had accumulated at its bottom. Post that episode I remember getting berated for my recklessness by my father. Because of the vegetation around it was also a haunt for a variety of snakes. The moment a snake is spotted in the vicinity the shake charmer is summoned who would play his instrument and attract it to his basket. Another sight I will never forget is the dance of the peacock bang in the middle of the garden. The memories are quite vivid because I spent a considerable amount of time over there.

*SP-Superintendent of Police

My grandmother's palatial house named after her in a sleepy little coastal hamlet in Trivandrum was another place where I spent the rest of my childhood until my adolescence. For starters it was a mighty two storey house with huge ceilings with a kind of red sandstone used for its flooring. If you go to the terrace or the first floor you could see the sea a bit ahead of you. As a matter of fact, of all the houses that I have lived, this is the only place which has a dedicated prayer room, I mean a proper room reserved only for prayer. There was also a clock inside it which used to chime in different tunes for every quarter of an hour. The outdoors were equally majestic, there was a gooseberry tree and a  guava tree where you could climb up to pluck the fruit and consume to your heart’s delight. But for me the fond memory would be our game of cricket which we played among our cousins with great intensity for hours at end. Right in the front of the house you had ample space to play the gentleman's game. If you could not keep your shots down the ball would land at either the neighbour’s house or on the road outside which has got its set of travails when it comes to fetching the ball.

Then comes our very own house named after my father where I spent my teenage and early adult years right in the heart of the city of Trivandrum. We didn’t have much place to play so we ended up playing cricket on the terrace. This was too much of a hassle since quite often the ball would end up at the neighbour’s house. Ambrose jumping to the adjacent compound to fetch the ball started  becoming a routine affair and we used to get into a lot of trouble for it. Gradually we stopped playing cricket at our house altogether and it was played only when we visited our grandmother’s house during the summer holidays. I guess this was also the time that marked the end of my outdoor life. Slowly I started spending more time inside the house primarily because my father’s book collection was now unveiled. It was no longer stored in some iron trunk but was out in the open. That was the time when the world of reading opened itself to me with limitless possibility.Boy I was a prolific reader back then(another post:Reading). This was also roughly the time when I picked up writing as well. I used to write on full scap paper sheets and file it.Recently I came across the file with layers of dust accumulated over it with the passage of time. Guess what now when I read it I am deeply embarrassed by what I had written then. Come to think of it this was where I had my first crush this was where I had my first heartbreak. This was where I topped on my tenth boards, this was where I popped a sprite bottle in place of a champagne to announce that I had cleared my Engineering(we had a tough time cleaning the stains in the ceiling my brother’s 6 feet 4 inch frame came quite handy at that time). I hope you noticed how subtly I had mentioned about my fall from grace from being a topper in school to a first class holder in my Engineering college. Damn there are too many memories in that house. This was the place where I spent the most years of my life, Period.

The single room adjacent to the terrace at Adayar was the first place I lived after I left home. The effervescent Srijith, the very same guy I mentioned in the first paragraph, was my roommate then. The room just had a double bed and an attached bathroom. You did not require an aftershave and could save the money because your face would automatically sanitise when you sprinkle some tap water which incidentally was very salty. Srijith who cared very much for his vanity would go down to the hand pump in the road and carry a bucket of water 3 storeys up to wash his hair. I was too lazy to even do that and the results are there for you to see. Srijith still sports a full crown of hair while my head looks like a 5th day pitch of a test match in India. Irrespective of the frugal surroundings the company of each other made it all the more special. Come to think of it I poured Srijith his first ever drink in that very room. We celebrated wildly when our first ever salary was credited. For us it was nothing short of a penthouse. The single room that I mentioned was only our living room. The terrace was multipurpose it was there Srijith Ponnappan staged his one man shows back then, it is there I did my push ups, it is there Srijith did his Yoga, it is where we did our laundry minus the washing machine, it is there both of us used to hang out after a hard day's work and discuss our respective crushes under the stars, it is there that we used chill in case any of our friends visited. 

 

                                           (to be continued……….)

Click here for Part 2

In case you liked this post check out a similar post of mine Roomie

Memories #18 An ode to the daily journal

I was 10 when I came across for the very first time in my life small brown diaries among the multitude of books  at home which were the remnants from my early childhood in Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh. At that point of time I was quite overwhelmed when I realized that this was the daily journal maintained by the 16 year old self of my father who had passed away a couple of years ago. For me it was like Dadda was talking to me from beyond this world. My father’s premature demise quite early in my childhood had created a certain kind of halo around him. I was much in awe of his imposing personality when elders at that time would recount with great pride his academic brilliance and prowess in sports.

After overcoming the initial emotional turmoil I slowly started to get a drift of it. What struck me most was that he was like any other boy his age. The same travails, the same vulnerabilities, the same self doubts, the concerns of the future that every adolescent goes through at that age all along trying to navigate through everyday life. I also got a sneak peak into his upbringing. Understandably I had no recollection of my grandfather because he had passed away a few years before my birth. I began to see in a new light the times that I had spent with  my paternal grandmother in Jose Dale because where the journal was set on. My grandparents were like any other guardians of 4 brothers living in a house. This offered glimpses of my uncles as kids, their camaraderie, their sibling rivalry , their extended family meet ups and what not. There was a gap in these journals when at the age of 19 he travelled to Europe as part of the YMCA(Young Men's Christian Association). It was quite a let down that the journals explained in quite detail the run up to the trip and then went blank. Subsequently, it restarted from the time when he returned. 

I was very much moved by many of these incidents. A memorable one would be where my father was very rash when it came to riding his bicycle. One fine day he had a close call with a bus when he escaped by a whisker. Unfortunately one of our relatives was in that very bus and this information got relayed to my grandfather who berated him for his recklessness. Looking back this is exactly what Ambrose(my younger brother) was at that age; the apple indeed doesn’t fall far from the tree. These anecdotes were quite reassuring to me to say the least because I had been an average joe until then. Many a times I was skeptical if I could live up to the high benchmark set by my father. Case in point cracking the UPSC civil services exam at 21 is no small feat. These instances definitely steeled my resolve. Being an average student until my tenth board exams and topping the class was testimony to the fact that  I was indeed inspired by these journals.

All this prompted me to start writing a daily journal. My first journal entry was on my 11th birthday. The fact of the irony is that I am recounting my first journal entry two and a half decades post on that very same day. I wrote a bit in the first year but gradually fizzled out as I approached my pressure cooker years(grades 10 to 12) when I totally forgot about this activity. At that point of time it is a no brainer to note that I lacked discipline and focus. I had been a sporadic writer until I was in college. I restarted this habit and with a bit of earnestness followed it up until a couple of years after college; then the thread was broken.

There had been a paradigm shift after every break in the thread of journal writing. When I started off in school  it was on a day to day basis and emphasis was on chronology. In college it was about chronology on a week on week basis. In addition I used to reflect a bit about life in general giving insights into my thought process at that point of time. After college for the first couple of years it evolved to month on month before finally metamorphosing to year on year. Somewhere along the line chronology went for a toss and contemplation took prominence. There were a couple of exercises that I undertook to spruce it up for instance from 1996 till date every leap year there is an entry for Feb 29 just to get a feel as to how life has changed in the 4 years. Additionally most of the years towards the end I try to recap the entire year gone by on a month on month basis.

Off late I have felt the need to write about things that occurred in the near past rather than the present which has been quite invigorating. Last year my journal writing received a shot in the arm during my sojourn in Germany as part of an official assignment thanks to Minducrv. Suddenly after work(feierabend in German) I would have more ‘me time’. Rather than remain shut in the studio apartment I would visit the library within the complex and pen a few lines on a daily basis reminiscent of the time I started writing. In fact I had written more in these months than in the last 5 years. Incidentally it was 3 years back when I was on another official assignment to Hong Kong that I had restarted journal writing after a while. Believe me it is quite an exhilarating feeling to pen your thoughts overlooking the majestic Hong Kong harbour. I recollect that one of the cold Sundays I was closeted in that very room writing my journal for the entire day because of the inclement weather in the winter of 2015 .It was a strange coincidence that the diary that I started in Hong Kong was finished in Germany. I have no clue as to when or where the new diary that I had started in Germany will end. But it is quite a thrilling prospect just to think of the myriad possibilites.

view from my writing table in HK

I am a prolific writer whenever I am alone and in a reflective mood. You will be quite amused to know the kind of places where I feel like writing. It could range from the coffee shop in the Mumbai international airport or the airport hotel in Abudhabi. It has sort of become a routine now that I would pen something when I am waiting to board a flight be it in Dusseldorf, Hong Kong, Mumbai, Delhi, Trivandrum or Cochin. The key is to find a place where there is less crowd meaning less noise so that you can focus and let your thoughts rip. What is even more interesting is that I have penned lines even in moving trains during my solitary 30 hour trips between Mumbai and Trivandrum.

Just last week I was quite thrilled to lay my hands on the elusive journal of my dad from his time in Europe. I wish I had come across this earlier in life probably when I was in college which would have made it much more relatable. All said and done I have got a must visit place next time when I am in Europe. If only I had known a year back I could have got this off my bucket list already. Close to bedtime as I was engrossed on the experiences of my father in Taize, France my toddler walks in asking what I am reading. I pick him up in my arms and tell him that these lines were penned by his grandfather who he shares his name with.

Do you think that a circle has just been completed?

Well I definitely think so.

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Memories #1

A suitable boy

Back in 2018 when I finally had time to catch up on reading after a 2 year hiatus due to my MBA the first book that I lay my hands on was the magnum opus by Vikram Seth. A recommendation by a dear friend Shilpa was the bulkiest book that I had read till date. For a month with an iron resolve I read through the 1500 odd pages; at the end I felt it was totally worth it. Being in Bombay I had this habit of procuring books from second hand book sellers and returning it back to them, they would refund a fraction of your money that you paid. This would prevent you from piling up your stuff which would be a huge hassle when you move houses in the maximum city every once in two years or so. A couple of weeks later my brother who was visiting chanced upon my description of the book which got him intrigued. It was to be his companion in the 30 hour train journey back to Trivandrum. Eventually, the book we paid for twice ended up in our personal library at home.

Picture courtesy:amazon.com

Fast forward 2020; BBC announced a mini series based on the book directed by the well acclaimed Mira Nair to be aired on Netflix. It was indeed a great feeling for us to watch together one of the books that we truly relished and invested a lot of our time on. The plot of the book revolves around the protagonist Lata, a pensive college student and her mother Rupa Mehra who wants to get her married to ‘a suitable boy’. Maan Kapoor, another protagonist, takes us through the travails of being a romantic young man. This is juxtaposed with the Land reforms bill presented by Ram Kapoor the revenue minister of a fictitious state set in Brahmpur. You can find unrequited love,an extra marital relationship, politics in the academia, a critique to the ever prevalent caste system, religious conflict, riots name it and you got it.The novel with numerous characters and multitudes of subplots is all interwoven together into a masterpiece by the ace storyteller,Vikram Seth.Every character in the book has a story associated with him or her. There are a number of threads involving different families Mehras(Lata’s family),Kapoors(Maan’s family),Chaterjees(Lata’s sister in law’s family), Baitar family,Rasheed’s family to name a few.

As the show started we were in awe by the amount of detailing that went in the art department. Mind you this movie was based on the 1950’s and the sets were majestic. Our first thoughts at seeing the protagonist Lata played by Tanya Maniktala was that she was too beautiful. For some odd reason in our minds we had conjured up an image of a plain jane. But then we realised that a good visual appeal is required to make it believable for the audience. She was after all a woman who was being wooed by 3 different suitors. Nonetheless, in the course of the show she grew into the skin of the character and convinced us that the titular role indeed belonged to her. Mahira Kakkar who played Lata’s mother was a perfect choice given the fact that she fit into the role and looked the part right from scene one. Arun Mehra played by Vivek Gomber  the snobbish big brother of Lata was spot on and his wife Meenakshi Chaterjee played by Shahana Goswami with a lot of oomph definitely fit the bill perfectly.      

(Photo: Tanya Maniktala/Instagram)

To be frank Ishaan Khatter as Maan Kapoor came as a rude shock to us because we were expecting a guy a little more older than him with some sort of machismo and vulnerability in equal measure. The vulnerability part was spot on but the machismo was very much missing . Ram Kapoor,who played Maan’s father was a natural actor who felt initially out of place as we were expecting someone much older.Saeeda Bai a courtesan played by Tabu was a masterstroke because no one else could have done justice to the iconic role. The timeless beauty yet again delivered another enchanting role to her credit.Even the first posters of the series featuring Tabu being wooed by Ishaan Khatter was quite a sight.Haresh played by Namit Das was beautifully portrayed and my initial reservations on the choice of the actor vanished after some screen time. Another character I really looked forward to on the screen was Waaris played by Ranvir Shoorey who is the estate manager of the Baitar estate.The series was an abridged version of the book so there were a lot of subplots missing. If you were to make a series of the entire book it could easily run for 3 seasons comfortably.

(Photo: ishaankhatter/Instagram)

For me there were a few scenes from the book that actually caught my attention in the series as well. The one where Arun brags to Haresh on the landmarks of London as if it is his backyard, but the irony of the fact is that he had never visited the place. He was trying to belittle Haresh who had studied in England. The cat was out of the bag when Haresh quite innocently asked him as to when was the last time he visited London. Another breathtaking scene that did justice to the book was Kabir taking Lata on a boat ride at dawn through the Ganges. The sequence in an ambassador car after Lata’s family met Hareesh for dinner at a big shot calcutta club where Savita(Lata’s sister) gives a dressing down to her elder brother Arun came out quite well. The friendship between Maan and Firoz after some initial hiccups was presented true to its nature towards the end. 

I was equally disappointed by a scene which had a considerable build up in the book of the 3 suitors of Lata meeting by a strange coincidence in course of a cricket match in Calcutta. Similarly the mishap that happens in the midst of the Kumbh Mela was narrated in graphical detail in the book was only an episode ending sequence in the series came up quite short. The village life of Mann again was a rushed affair in the series which was quite extensively covered in the book. The grandeur of the Baitar estate was also lost in translation. The phase where Amit(Meenakshi’s brother) was trying to woo Lata was also shown barely as a passing reference but was quite intense in the book.

If you set aside the book and watch the series it is a decent watch. The moment you start co relating to the book everything goes downhill. If you have read the book you can’t help to think about it because even though the characters are numerous in number Seth has ensured that they leave an indelible mark in the minds of the reader. Even Though I had read the book a good 2 years back after watching the series I can clearly state a few of the sub plots from the top of my head which is testimony to the genius of the writer. These include the story of Bhaskar(nephew of Mann), struggles of Pran(Mann’s brother) at the University,  the entire story of the Chaterjee household, the story of Agarwal(home minister and arch nemesis of Mahesh Kapoor),story of the tabla artist in Saeeda bai’s entourage are some among the many missing subplots, the colourful story of Kishan Seth(Lata’s grandfather).I can go on and on the list is endless.

The book starts with the wedding of Savita Mehra where Lata’s mother tells her “You will marry the boy I choose”. The book ends with Lata’s wedding where her mother tells the same thing to her brother Varun, of course the other way round. He was portrayed as the Bhojpuri loving slacker of a guy in the entire novel until his fortunes turn towards the end of the book when he cracks the Indian Civil service exam and is all set to become an IAS officer. Naturally this sets off a speculation that this book will have a sequel. My natural instinct was to google  ‘A suitable girl’ the moment I finished reading the book. It is true that there will be a sequel to the book which was scheduled to be published around 2016 but that never happened. Seth says that the sequel would not be the one where a bride is found for Varun but rather the story will take a jump start from 1950 to the present day and deal with the same characters. I hope my wife is reading this,it so happened that I was waiting for Arundhati Roy’s second book with great anticipation after being much in awe of ‘God of small things’. She gifted me the book by pre ordering the book on Amazon even before its publication. That way I was among the first few hundreds in the country to read the book as soon as it was released. This was a far cry from its predecessor which I had read almost 2 decades after it was published. I have indeed found the ‘suitable girl’; period...   

P.S: In case you like what you read please check out another book review of mine.

Men and Dreams in the Dhauladhar

Memories #17-English lessons

My 10 A classmates were up in arms saying that I never write about them; most of my posts involve stories from the adjacent class of which I had also been a part of. In my defense it is not intentional as to what I choose to write about. How can I not write about the fond memories of my very own class which I once topped.Firstly a brief about this motley bunch of 43 students who were notorious in our school for all the wrong reasons. Our class teacher, a veteran of sorts used to lament on the fact that this was one of the worst batches she had ever seen in her chequered teaching career. Our Principal had a dedicated corner in his room where you could always find one of my classmates being pulled up for indiscipline. 

Into this mix comes Mr P to teach English. He was a peculiar character who used to exaggerate the words a bit when he spoke the queens language. For instance he threw you out by saying ‘out you go’ in a loud and booming voice instead of a simple “get out”. You were in ‘jeopardy’ of being thrown out of class if you didn’t get your act straight because of his strictness. One fine day Mr P was in a rotten mood ‘chucked’ out M on the least of provocations. At that opportune moment our Principal was in the midst of his routine rounds. Seeing him at the end of the corridor like clockwork M sneaks back into the class at the very instant when Mr P’s back turns towards the black board and stealthily closes the door. This enables him to stay out of sight of the Principal for the time being by hiding behind the door.It is a matter of time before Mr P finds the door shut much to his chagrin. He asks M to leave the door ‘ajar’. In response to this J points to a dozing D with his mouth open thoroughly tired after a game of intense cricket during the lunch break. J exclaims “ Sir, his mouth is ‘ajar’. Mr P exclaims ‘silly boy’ his mouth his ‘agape’ not ‘ajar’ and goes on to shake D from his stupor with an earful. This left the entire class in splits which led to a ‘pandemonium’;  D and J join M for company at the door. 

One fine day Mr P was checking on the homework in class and there were a good number of us who did not complete it. Mr P was trying to understand as to why so many of us didn’t finish their homework. A general trend was that we forgot about it all and would do it the next day. To which Mr P gave a word of caution ‘Procrastination is the thief of time’. As this unfolded  R from somewhere back in the class was tapping on the bench purely out of boredom trying to connect with the innate tabla artist within him. A quip from Mr P “Who is the carpenter’s son here?” silenced him for the rest of the academic year.

Another day the same story repeats and Mr P in a candid moment tells the class that ‘Old habits die hard’ so you guys better mend your ways or else you will get into trouble sooner or later in life.He rounded off the lecture by saying ‘let bygones be bygones’ and ‘let sleeping dogs lie’. He was ready to move on and implored us to start afresh . But we never changed I and for him we always remained ‘incorrigible.’ 

Another fine day our Maths teacher was on leave. Being in the midst of the first board exam of our lives we were always under a lot of pressure. In turn we never ‘let slip’ an opportunity to just go play to our hearts delight. Our class leader B was dispatched promptly to the Principal’s office to capitalise on this juicy opportunity to squeeze in a games period. The tension was palpable as we were all in anticipation of a much needed break. We were in for a shock when Mr P walks into the class and a pall gloom descends through the entire room. At that very instant every soul in the class was cursing B. What a useless guy he was, who couldn’t get this simple task done and why the hell did he go call Mr P when he was supposed to get us a goddamn games period. 

Meanwhile, B was on cloud nine when he managed to negotiate a games period with the Principal. In his excitement he took a detour to the games room manned by the ‘effervescent’ Jose uncle to get the required sports 'paraphernalia’. With a huge smile written on his face he rushed into the class to announce his successful conquest oblivious to the fact that Mr P was in full flow. He froze in terror when he realised that Mr P was glaring at him who went on to ‘chide’ him for his recklessness. A crestfallen B walked back to his seat dejected; he should have noticed something was amiss when he walked into the unusually quiet classroom, in his moment of ecstasy he chose to ignore this fact as he walked in.A collective sigh escaped the room as it came to light that we had cursed this hapless soul needlessly a  moment ago.The ‘omnipotent’ Mr P had pulled a fast one on us; the moment he saw a window of an opportunity to cover some unfinished portions he just grabbed it.On second thoughts B felt that the Principal on his part might have been in a ‘dilemma’ given the fact that he was deliberating  with his deputy as B walked in with his request.

A few of my classmates currently reside in or are in the vicinity of Ohio in the US of A but not many of them recollect that for the first time in our lives it was Mr P who taught us the correct pronunciation, it is Oh "io” instead of Oh"ei"o which we were using until then.

My post today though a light hearted take on my 10th standard English lessons is actually quite the contrary . All the ‘words’ in the post that are in single quotes are directly taken from the vocabulary that I was introduced by Mr P in that very classroom. If I am still able to recollect these words after close to two decades it is testimony to the greatness of Mr P as a teacher. As a writer I will be forever indebted to Mr P for introducing me to a totally new set of words quite early in life thereby bringing in some diversity to my existing vocabulary. It has also to be mentioned that I have only used first letters to denote the names of my characters in this post. That is due to the fact that I don’t recollect the names of the guys who were in these hilarious situations. For the record these blokes include globe trotting academicians, business men, doctors, software engineers,management professionals,HR executives,marketing leaders,civil servants among many others.     

With Inputs from Arun R,Nidhin Thomas,Jithin Thomas,Sudarsan,Sreekumar,Rahul Ravind, Bijo Thomas

In case you liked my post please check out  similar posts Mitochondria, An inspiring teacher, We are the underdogs, English lessons

Memories #16-The Lunch break

This blog originally posted on 18.08.2020 was published in the Loyola School, Trivandrum Diamond Jubilee Souvenir almost a year later

In case you want to read the article as a digital copy in the diamond jubilee souvenir please scroll down

The lunch recess in school was divided into two parts: the first, lasting anywhere between 3 and 10 minutes serving its actual purpose, and the second, for making a run to the football ground. Undoubtedly, this period of time was the most anticipated part of any day in school. It was a no-brainer that lunch was the last thing on our minds. 

This practice of having lunch in under five minutes has come in quite handy later in life—when we squeeze in breakfast before our mad rush to the office or a quick lunch on a busy afternoon plagued with meetings. On the other hand, my heart goes out to all those mothers/guardians who diligently prepared our daily lunch by putting in their lives and souls on something that their wards would just breeze through. Only when we started to cook on our own did it dawn upon us the pain that our parents undertook to pack our daily lunches.

Now, let us take a step back and observe the different kinds of students you would come across during a typical lunch break. Couch potatoes like me preferred to sit and eat in class before making a beeline to wash our tiffin boxes, and subsequently, make our way to the ground. This lot went on to become academicians and researchers. 

Then, there were others who rushed to the ground, balancing their tiffin boxes to eat while sprinting. This category went on to become Project Managers and Software Engineers who can get any job done on the run. 

Another group of guys would line up at the doorstep of the Games Room manned by the ever-smiling Jose Uncle. This was to procure cricket bats/basketballs/footballs, which were to be used during the recess. This bunch consumed their lunches standing by the door of the Games room. This set of guys went on to occupy the leadership positions of their companies or got into supply-chain management.

There were only a limited number of trees in the periphery of the ground. These also doubled up as wickets for the game of cricket and were allotted on a first-come-first-serve basis. Some of the designated daves were earmarked to make a run for these trees and reserve them for their team. They would hold the fort so that no one else would come and lay claims on the tree. In the meantime, their lunch was in the company of birds under the cool shade of the trees. These blokes went on to become officers of the armed forces.

Quite often, disagreements would crop up between two parties when this reservation system went awry. In such cases, there would be some guy who would play the arbitrator or bulldoze his way through to suit his group’s interests; these guys went on to become hot-shot lawyers.

Finally, there was another group of guys who were meant to get things ready before the games paraphernalia arrives on the ground, which would include selecting teams, ensuring the toss is done in cricket, choosing sides for the goal, selecting a team, and so on and so forth. Needless to say, these guys ended up becoming HR professionals and management professionals in their respective organisations—no points for guessing where the toppers of the class would be all this while.

A similar drill was witnessed towards the end of the lunch break as well. We would continue to play, even after the bell went off announcing the conclusion of the recess. Half hardheartedly, one by one, the students would trudge back to the class, drenched from head to toe in sweat. 

An enterprising few would still continue playing for some more time like a dying flame before rushing back to the class only to be chided by the teacher at the door. While this bloke is making his walk of shame to his seat, there will be one guy who would sneer at him and make a sarcastic comment in a “told you so” manner—he would eventually end up as a consultant. The guy who came in late would end up as an entrepreneur or a businessman.  

 

Graphic: Theatre Of Dreams by Aravind Senan (2013)

Quite recently, a painting of this very ground by a talented artist who happened to be our junior was shared in our class WhatsApp group. This scene from one of the most colourful epochs of our lives evoked a rush of nostalgia. What was even more, many of us, including the writer, had a dream of this very ground through the subsequent week. Mind you; this was almost a decade-and-a-half after our batch had left school.

Dreams, in Freud’s view as per Wikipedia, are formed as the result of two mental processes. The first process involves unconscious forces that construct a wish that is expressed by the dream, and the second is the process of censorship that forcibly distorts the expression of the wish. All dreams are forms of “wish fulfilment.” 

My classmates, in their early thirties, are spread all across the world; these dreams are manifestations of their inherent desire to come back one more time to their alma mater and play a game of football with their friends. After being overwhelmed by these accounts, we decided to host a virtual meetup to discuss more on this topic. Surprisingly there was a blockbuster attendance which was a testimony of its importance. 

During the call, we rued the fact that we didn’t have any photographs of us playing football on this very ground. It was an age before Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, Twitter or the like. As rightly put by Sreejith Unnikrishnan, “In fact, it was good that we didn’t have anything of that sort back in the day else we would have spent more time posing for pictures rather than actually playing.” This is exactly the reason why we don’t need physical proof of our time spent at the football ground; the times we spent in those hallowed grounds akin to the generations of our fellow Loyolites had left an indelible mark in our hearts.

With the passage of time, a two-dimensional photograph may disintegrate due to the elements, but the memories will forever linger in our hearts. 

“Cheer Loyola sons

Cheer till game is won...”

Note:

Aravind Senan, an artist at heart from the batch of 2013, is currently pursuing his Post Graduation in Animation Film Design from the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad.

Angelo Bevin, an avid blogger from the batch of 2001, is currently working as a Management Professional at Mindcurv, Cochin. He blogs at: randomthoughts

The Goa chronicles- Part 1

I still don’t get it as to why I was having a fixation on Goa right from the time of my maiden visit to the coastal state somewhere in my mid twenties. For starters I come from a state that has got some great beaches so that cannot be a reason. In my childhood I was extremely religious for my age and mind you I am an altar boy* with close to 6 years of experience,could it be churches; again a vehement no . Was it cheap alcohol? as I am not much of a tippler so that can be ruled out as well. Could it be food; but you do get great food in Bombay and Kerala; partly yes i would say. What impressed me most was the laid back vibes of the city akin to my personality. Time stood still when you were there; many a times you could witness that the people lived their lives at a leisurely pace, a far cry from the din and fury associated with Bombay.

The first birthday of either one of us after marriage coupled with the fact that both of us had just recovered from a bout of jaundice made us think that we need to do something special. I don’t recollect as to how exactly Goa came into the mix of things. I had only been to Goa a couple of times before;Jeslin had never been to Goa. She had been going ga ga about her trip to Kashmir for quite sometime now which she undertook a few months prior to our marriage. So the stakes were pretty high as far as I was concerned because I wanted to beat that.Driving down from Bombay to Goa a distance of about 600 kms would be a coup d'etat under the given circumstances. 

I was quite skeptical to be frank, for the uninitiated I was not much of a guy when it came to driving a car. I used to drive only if it was absolutely necessary. My brother was crazy about driving so I was more than happy to hand over the wheel to him whenever possible. This resulted in my driving being beginner level but he turned out to be an exceptional driver. Towards the end of my bachelorhood when K, an officer from the armed forces had got posted in Pune. Most of the weekends Jian, Arun, Soto,John and myself used to take off either to Lonavala or Pune with me at the driving seat of the White Swift. All of us were classmates in our alma mater Loyola School,Trivandrum so it was like a homecoming after so many years and very much anticipated. That was the longest distance that I had driven before the erstwhile Goa trip. The trip to Goa was at least 3 times more than that and had to be covered within a day.   

I had heard about the Mumbai Pune expressway for the first time in my 7th standard about how the tires of the car would burst because of the heat caused due to friction as a result of the speed at which they would be traveling. Though not a pleasant fact for some odd reason it stuck to my memory. I was quite thrilled when I drove through it for the very first time because it is like revisiting something you studied in school in flesh and blood. Quite often you are transported back to the classroom where I was a brooding bespectacled teenager.It was quite a coincidence that my very own classmates at that time were my co-passengers in the current trip.  

Lonavala

We zeroed down on the resort that we needed to stay at and made the bookings promptly. My only criteria was that we needed to spend enough time for me to rest and recuperate before driving back. I switched on to my planning mode to finalise the route that we should be taking. Meanwhile,Jeslin went on mapping the must visit food joints that we should hit according to the distance from our place of stay along with other places of interest. Our individual objectives were pretty much mutually exclusive so that there was no room for a conflict. I was in charge of getting us to Goa and back while she had to ensure that we had a good time over there.The fact of the matter was that I enjoy planning a trip meticulously beforehand as much as the actual trip.It wasn’t much different this time around as well which was very similar to the than countless other times like our college trips.

Finally the D-day arrived, we woke up at 4:00 am in the morning and started our trip around 5:00 am. Jeslin remarked to me that she had not woken up so early in her life even for her board exams. The rains had let up a bit and we could leave Bombay without much hassle. Incidentally, this was also our first time that we used Google maps for navigation courtesy my birthday gift for Jeslin. 

All set

The Mumbai Pune expressway was a breeze; it was quite romantic to be driving through lush greenery with the monsoons painting a wet blanket over everything.After Pune the route was quite new to me, the last time I had travelled through here was exactly 2 years ago on one hell of a trip from Bombay to Trivandrum along with my mother and brother.In a bid to save time Jeslin had packed chapati rolls with a filling of chicken and a few boiled eggs. There was enough supply of water as well so that we didn't need to stop for food enroute. This was a masterstroke I would say because the few heavy spells of rain slowed us down considerably. But nothing prepared for what was to come next.

There was an all important detour at Nipani(refer map above) a little after Kolhapur where you get off the Pune Bangalore highway to make your way to Goa. Thanks to my attention to detail we took the right turn.Back in Bombay I had even checked out the real time google maps and memorised it a couple of times because of its importance. But on our way back we got a bit complacent and lost a turn in the stretch which caused us a fair amount of inconvenience to us and made us realise its importance.

The beast

Once I took the turn it took quite a bit of time to adjust because suddenly you are switching from 4 lane to 2 lane. Now you have to also factor in the vehicles coming in from the opposite side which was not the case earlier. We had covered a little over two thirds of the total distance by then. The progress was understandably slow and to compound matters there was a torrential downpour when we crossed Amboli Ghat. It was raining cats and dogs, our descent downhill had turned tricky with raindrops crashing into the windshield with unmatched ferocity that even the viper blades failed to keep up .With the visibility being reduced to a few metres we had to switch on our headlights and put on our blinkers as well. Till date this is one of the toughest and challenging stretches that I have ever driven through. I will be honest with you that my heart was in my mouth as I was driving at a snail’s pace. We could have parked the car by the side and waited for the rains to clear a bit. But living in Bombay for a few years now made us realise that this kind of rain could go on for hours. Moreover, we were also losing daylight quite fast, navigating such dangerous terrain bereft of street lights could be even more treacherous for driving. The calculated risk paid off because we reached the plains by the time the sun set, by then only around 80 kms separated us from our destination. 

Dark clouds over the horizon

But the rains were relentless and things were starting to get tough given the fact that we had a long day. The final stretch was excruciatingly frustrating more than what we had signed up for. There was no other option but to soldier on. The last nail in the coffin for my desperation to peak was when the so far reliable Google maps pulled out a fast one on you by taking you to the backside of the resort. I vented out my ire on my navigator even though it was no fault of hers. We finally checked in by 7:30 PM after being on the road for close to 15 hours. Due to which we decided to call it a day and grab dinner from the resort itself. We weren’t disappointed to say the least courtesy a live band was performing at the dining hall. They dedicated the popular goan song “maria pitache” to the tired couple in attendance making their evening all the more special. Our first goan trip together had indeed started with a bang.

Picture abhi bhi baaki hain mere dost….

                       

                                                                                                    {To be continued……}