THE START OF THE BOARD EXAMS

 
Vedantu

The ISC board examinations have begun. Today was English Language and as our children trooped in, we sensed a hint of trepidation within them even as they tried to mask it. We could not blame them. Even Valentine’s Day had moved away into the recesses of their minds. After all, this was the culmination of two years of hard work, in many cases, and a dogged belief in luck and destiny for a few others.

Even though we had terminal  and model examinations for them, this was a different scenario altogether, with external supervisors and invigilators who are not their present teachers. As we had a prayer before we started outside the exam hall, and a few mandatory instructions, we could see the tension in their eyes, the anxiety about the three hours ahead when they would get one chance to crack the paper. As they walked in, we wished them from deep within our hearts, our little ones going into their first major challenge in life.

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Filling in their details on the answer paper must also have been nerve-wracking. Once they were all in, the doors shut after them, and the next three hours stretched out before us. Till last year, the concerned subject teachers were given a glimpse of the question paper after half an hour or so, but this time it looked as though we would have to wait till they finished writing.

There are CCTV cameras in the Principal’s office and the Administrator’s from where we could watch the children sitting, bent over their desks, writing animatedly and straightening their backs, now and then. One boy gave us the jitters as he stopped writing and took his own sweet time to begin again. For a while, he made doodles, or so it seemed, on the edge of his sheet, then scratched his head and stared at his pen, and then took to doodling again. Since the Language paper is one where there is no scope for textbook study, and based mostly on creativity, maybe he was trying to kick-start his ideas before he put them down on paper. After about ten minutes, he began to write, much to our relief.

At around 5.30 pm, we managed to get the question paper from an online Whatsapp group. Much to our delight, it seemed straightforward enough, given the intensive training our teachers had given the children. When the teacher remarked about the first student, a girl coming out of the hall, hopping and skipping with a big smile, that set the mood for us to heave a sigh of relief and uncross our crossed fingers. 

Well begun is half done, as the saying goes, and as the months of February and March go by, more and more prayers will go up, like wisps of smoke towards the heavens, as blessings surround our children like fragrant incense.

 As I write this post, my good wishes go out to children across the country who are writing their Board examinations. As Tiny Tim remarked in A Christmas Carol,

“God bless us every one!”

Charles Dickens info

520 words

THE LURE OF THE MOTHER TONGUE

 
Amazon.in

There are so many advantages in being an Army brat, but the one main disadvantage is that, if one is from the Southern states, one does not get a chance to learn one’s mother tongue. That is exactly what happened to me, because my father who was in the Madras Sappers, was posted in the north most of the time. Places like Jammu, Delhi, Panagarh and of course, two tenures in Bangalore.

While my sisters and I lived in a house filled with books from the very start, most of them were in English. While reading became an intrinsic part of our routine, it was only when we came to Kerala for our annual break, that we got a chance to hear and speak Malayalam. Of course, we had our wonderful Parvathy Amma, who was not only the most efficient homemaker that I have ever seen, but the one person who managed to keep us talking in Malayalam. Of course, she would, occasionally, amusingly drift into her version of English. She would call a refrigerator a ‘bridge’ and lapse into a cocktail of Malayalam and Hindi when talking to the vendors and the Army batmen. Despite her tiny frame, she would browbeat them all, and get the freshest vegetables and the juiciest chickens.

Her cooking was par excellence. Many were the guests who would go away after having savoured her delicious ‘sambar’ and crisp paper dosas. Years after, when we would meet them, the first thing they would ask was about Parvathy Amma.

                                                                                                 Shutterstock

When I was in Class eight, my father got posted in Panagarh which was a small little town with not many schools at that time. My parents spoke to me about sending me to Kerala to my paternal grandparents to complete my ninth and tenth. I was reluctant because my grandfather was a stickler for timing, having founded a Boys High School in a place called Shoranur. He was known as a holy terror. However, being his eldest granddaughter, he had a soft corner for me, as did my grandmother. I remember him allowing me to sleep in in the morning because my father requested him to let me do so.

Shoranur was a whole new kettle of fish. I remember going to the Convent school with my shirt tucked in, and shoes and socks. A whole class of girls giggled when they saw me, looking outlandishly different from all the others. They chattered away in Malayalam, and luckily, I could understand all of it. There was this girl who took a full circle around me, pointing to my skirt, and shoes, and laughing uproariously. Though the first few days were tough, I learnt to blend in, and the very same girls who laughed initially turned into my best friends.

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Since I had joined school only in Class nine, I was given an exemption from doing Malayalam. Instead, I had Special English and Additional English. I will never forget those days in Shoranur, when I picked up how to chatter in Malayalam, crack jokes and generally have fun with my friends. Malayalam was all around me, be it in school or at home, where my grandparents ran a Boys’ Hostel. Every evening, the hostel boys would troop upstairs to the prayer room, that was populated with idols of all the deities possible. They would sit in neat rows and sing bhajans. Of course, I was never part of the scenery, being a girl, and I would sit, hidden away, while I sang along in my room.

It was when I got to college in Thrissur that I began to sit down and pick up Malayalam on my own. I felt a sudden urge to be able to read, and write in my mother tongue. I persevered, and even though it was painstaking to read, I managed. I would read all the names on milestones, the posters around town and short story books as well. That is how I came across a children’s writer named Sri. P. Narendranath. My mother and I had gone to meet him, and when he heard that I loved to write, he offered me four of his books.

“Will you be able to translate them into English?” he asked me.

I nodded hesitantly, secretly excited about the project. When I reached home, I delved into the first book which was titled ‘Mandan Kunju’, which translated to ‘Foolish Kunju’. It was a story about a naughty young boy who lived with his grandfather, and from the start I was entranced. Though it took me a while to read the book, and decipher it, I did translate it as best as I could. Unfortunately, before I could hand over the manuscript to the author, he passed away. I lost touch with his wife and the three other books are still at the bottom of a trunk. I sometimes look at my manuscript, which has now turned yellow with age, and I think of redoing it so that I can get it published sometime in the future.

CHMK Library Stack

The best way to learn a language, apart from reading, is watching movies in the language. When we were children, my mother, uncle and aunt would take us all for a Malayalam movie on Fridays. Three adults and five children… we loved those outings, though sometimes we ended up watching some dreadfully gory movies. I remember a movie called ‘Lorry’ which dealt with a protagonist who maimed and blinded children to turn them into beggars.

However, most of the time, we watched hilarious movies which left us holding our stomachs in mirth.

                                                                                                 Alamy

Today, of course, everything is available on OTT. We watch Malayalam movies sitting at home, but there is no doubt that watching a movie on the silver screen does have its moments. As a family, we have our own ‘Mallu’ jokes, which we use whenever we are all together. My better half, who was born and brought up in Delhi right through and knew hardly any Malayalam earlier, now speaks fluently enough and meets umpteen friends on his morning walks, each of whom addresses him in pure Malayalam.

Knowing your mother tongue is a definite advantage. It brings you closer to people, and gives you that special insight which otherwise, you would miss out on. Living in a town like Thrissur which is called the cultural capital of Kerala would be very different if we did not speak the lingo. For there is no doubt that we, in Kerala, have what we call “a humour sense” which is different from that of others.

Think about it! Why, on earth, would we want to miss out on all that fun?

This post is a part of 'Embrace the Native Blog Hop' hosted by Sukaina Majeed and Manali Desai  - #EveryConversationMatters

1140 words

THE SOLITARY SLEEPER

Dreamstimes.com

(With due apologies to William Wordsworth)

Behold her, lying in the cot

Yon solitary loveable lass

Turning and dreaming in her sleep;

Stop here or gently pass!

 

Alone she sleeps as serene as can be

And thinks of naught as yet

Waking, with peals of laughter

The mischief for the day is set.

 

No nightingale did ever chaunt

More chirpy trills to her ecstatic folk;

No chubby feet did tread the floor

Amidst gurgles, rhymes and chokes.

 

                                                                                                 Freepik

Will no one tell us what she sings?

Perhaps the wordless mumbles flow

For a world so fresh and wonderful

For her to live and grow!

 

Whatever the theme, the baby cooed

As if her song could have no ending;

We saw her chirping, loud and clear

And o’er the windowsill bending.

 

                                                                                                  Charatoon

We listened, motionless and still

Without a sound did we tiptoe,

The music in our heart we bore

Long after it was heard no more.

                                                                                           LovePik

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GEISHA IN THE GOTA PATTI BY CHETNA KEER – BOOK REVIEW

 
Amazon.in

The fascinating Chetna Keer has done it again. Her third book in the Gulmohar series is another gem that is every bit as intriguing as its title sounds. Once again, Lollita, aka Laasyanga Mansingh, finds herself amid a mystery surrounding teacups and teapots. The narrative starts with the following quote:

“There is a great deal of Poetry and fine sentiment in a Chest of Tea.” 

                                                   Ralph Waldo Emerson

The cover is like a delicate Japanese miniature with its vibrant Geisha painted on a teacup, a cover that gives a tantalising hint of what lies within the book.

From a satirist to a suspense writer, Chetna Keer has had an interesting journey. In her third book in the series, tea is the thread that ties up the whole narrative. The book is divided into five parts, each starting with a memorable quote to do with tea. One entire chapter is devoted to a tea party where all her interesting guests are likened to varieties of the beverage. As they sip delicately at their cuppa, they come out with the most entertaining tea anecdotes and superstitions which keep the reader enthralled.

As in her earlier books, the author keeps her characterisation as descriptive as ever. Right from the stylish Lollita to the matriarch Bade Beeji, Buddhua and Behraa, and the family members and diplomats, all her characters come alive through the pages. For example, the Japaani Bahu blossoms with the exquisite description:

“Floral aromas flowing from a fragile teacup. As bony as breathtaking bone china. As fluid as fragrant floral tea.”

Her husband, Nawii Mama, comes across as “sturdy and swank as a tall teapot. A teapot with a sharp linear snout with a bit of a pout.”

Alliteration appears across the whole narrative, adorning it with admirable brilliance. There are examples galore of the author’s craft behind the creativity.

“Time warp tiptoed out for a tryst with Time ticking on.”

“Lollita’s voice floated forth over the hanging heartbeats of heirloom wishlists.”

Another example that I cannot but mention:

“Teatimes had left their tell marks. Tales etched on its teak skin, a testimony to times when partaking of tea was not a hurried slurp on the sands of time but a ritual to be savoured sip by sip.”

Bone china also runs through like a motif through the book, as do the beautiful Japanese traditions like the ritual of paper cranes, the minimalistic Ikebana, the references to prized porcelain and Hanami, the globally famous ceremony of celebrating the Cherry Blossoms.

As the reader continues to peruse through the narrative, the author’s painstaking research comes to the surface. There is a blend of history, fact, fiction and art all woven together to tell a riveting tale. The 1971 Indo-Pak war, the 1984 riots, the era of Kashmiri militancy and the rites of diplomacy all play their roles to perfection even as the suspense winds its way to the very end.

As in Chetna Keer’s earlier books, her penchant for satire and humour spring out, bringing a smile on the reader’s face.

Bhopa Singh, the guide and waiter, sports a “trademark mountain mutton chop that acted as a natural filter for speech.”

She writes with affection and humour about Behraa, the ancient gardener. “When a 50-ish belly has feasted on butter chicken legs, downed with a couple of pegs, it’s not easy to bolt out of snoring.”

There is so much more to this wondrous novel, but I do need to leave some things for the readers to savour. However, it would be amiss of me if I did not mention the use of personification in this book, another instance of Chetna Keer’s craft. She has brought alive the Gulmohar with its awe-struck gaze and wrinkled skin, the telescopic table with veins and arteries with “the scratchings and scrapings of Time etched on its once blemish-free skin”, and of course, the roshandaan, with its clouded vision and sleepless vigil.

What makes this book even more relevant in today’s world are the references to global warming and climate change which affect both the Gulmohar and the Cherry Blossom. The author asks whether they are noveau relatives of a common calamity, a collective threat? “Was Winter the new Summer of global warming?" harking back to the earlier books which also designate Lollita as a climate warrior.

Finally, to end with two passages of evocative prose: “… marmalade sunshine – a marmalade goldenness that comes from peaches, apricots and oranges bringing their complexion to the sun’s forking fingers.”

“Twining tendrils of mist traipsed like pearl wool strands wishing to be threaded into the tapestry.”

Thus, while ‘Geisha in the Gota Patti’ is a suspense novel, there is so much more to entertain and instruct the reader, both in the intriguing theme and in the style of writing. Definitely a book to savour and to treasure!

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                                                                                           Hindustan Times

Geisha in the Gota Patti

Publisher: Readomania

Paperback: Rs. 355

Buying Link: https://www.amazon.in/Geisha-Gota-Patti-Chetna-Keer-ebook/dp/B0DLVB4ZF7

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ALLEY OF DECEPTION BY JIYYAD SHAHUL - A BOOK REVIEW

 
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‘Alley of Deception’, Jiyyad Shahul’s maiden book, starts with a scene that shocks the reader with its suggestion of betrayal. It is a tale of four friends who have been together since childhood – Charlie, Prasad, Simon and Shoukath, the narrator. All of them are “unemployed engineers” who had graduated from Oxford Engineering College, Calicut, and who travel from Thrissur  to the city of Bensham in search of greener pastures. Shoukath, the protagonist,   had failed to secure a job. He had no option for higher studies as his family could not afford to send him for MBA or MTech, unlike Cousin Iqbal, a topper, who had top companies lining up to recruit him.

Through Shabeena, Shoukath’s optimistic sister, the author’s philosophy is revealed. “Happiness is a state of mind.” She advises her brother, saying, “…if you opt for a course just to get a job, you may not get anywhere, let alone scale great heights. Life should be a platform to do things that you love, cherish, and something that you are talented in.”

The four boys live life to the hilt, despite their straitened circumstances, attending ‘nikkahs’ and wedding receptions mainly for the free food. Shoukath’s cousin, Luqman, gets him a job interview at Basselos with its headquarters at the business city of Bensham. Charlie, the one with the roving eye, also attends the interview. Both are selected. The bond of their friendship is so strong that all four go to Bensham to begin a set of golden years together. Despite a few disagreements, their bond is unbreakable.

Just as they get into the skin of their new jobs, the US market crash occurs, inflation strikes, rents go up and their lives take a nosedive, resulting in their losing their jobs. The desperation of losing his house over a loan brings Shoukath and his friends to Vishni Gowda, the mafia don, the power behind the government of Jalpradesh. On the other side is Mr. Jayachandran Menon, IPS, the Commissioner of Bensham.

The novel takes an intriguing turn as the four boys take up new challenges that test their endurance and turn their lives around. What are the young men expected to do to be accepted by Gowda? How do they sail through a crisis that seems unsurmountable? These and many questions remain in the mind of the reader till the moment of truth, Jiyyad Shahul shows promise in his first book, which is fast paced enough to keep the reader at the edge of his seat. His language is easy and uncomplicated, his narrative compelling enough to be seen as a coming-of-age story in which friendship is one of the main tropes, along with ambition and survival.

The author has obviously thought about a sequel to this book for it ends with the promise - “To be continued in the second part….” A promise which will be looked forward to by readers who have enjoyed his ‘Alley of Deception’.

520 words

MAGZTER

Number of pages: 190

Published by BFC Publishers

Paperback cost: Rs. 238; Kindle cost: Rs. 96

Buying Link:

https://www.amazon.in/Alley-Deception-Jiyyad-Shahul-ebook/dp/B0DJL45QH6

Space Exploration - and How!

 
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At home, my better half and I have one common topic that we argue over – space! Before you stop reading this post, thinking that it is about space exploration, let me stop you right there. I mean ‘inner space’ as in ‘lack of space at home’. We have very diverse opinions about what takes up space.

As I always say, “Home is meant to be a comfortable living space made up of the things you treasure most – mementoes that remind you of your past, gifts from loved ones and anything sentimental.”

Quick comes the rejoinder! “Yes, old letters, mouldy plaques, ancestral brass items, dusty photo frames and clothes that you will never wear!”

According to him, when we got married, it was understood that with his worldly goods he would me endow. However, he was horrified when he saw the worldly goods that I would him endow. He once quoted someone called Francine Jay.

“Your home is living space, not storage space.”

                                                                                             Simple Lionheart Life

That was when the arguments began.

While in the Army, we would add boxes to our luggage every year, picking up artefacts from every state that we were posted in – papier mâché bowls and trinkets from Kashmir, phulkari in Punjab, crockery and mirror work in Gujarat, ‘tankhas’ (silk hangings with the portrait of the Buddha) in Arunachal Pradesh – in short, a tiny slice from everywhere. For we were (are) nothing if not cosmopolitan.

The day my Army husband took premature retirement, we were left gazing at the mountain of luggage we had.  We needed to prune it down, because we knew that we would be going into a flat, wherever we decided to settle down. Without exaggeration, I can say that we disposed of fifty boxes to our thrilled maids and batmen, with household stuff including our curtains, electrical appliances, crockery and carpets. It was like a purging of our souls, though it was my heart that broke.

However, to give credit to my thoughtful better half, the first thing he did when we finally settled down in Kerala was to fix loads of storage space in our flat. “It’s all yours to fill up!” he said generously. He regretted his words soon after as he watched me do just that with all the gusto I am capable of.

Of all the worldly goods that I possess, it is my collection of books that take up a large part of my heart. As a writer, I do have a large group of writer friends whose books gravitate on to my shelves. I can never saunter out of a bookshop without buying at least one book. Besides, as a couple, our tastes in reading are diametrically different. Tom Clancy and Wilbur Smith jostle for space along with Daphne du Maurier, PG Wodehouse and Agatha Christie.

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To say that I am a magpie would, I agree, be a slight understatement. I have Kitchen Mate cook-and-serve bowls that are as old as our marriage. When I was a newly wed and knew nothing about cooking, I started writing simple recipes in a little brown diary, which is still going strong today. I have, along with my younger sister, inherited the hoarding gene from my 87-year-old mother who still has the diaries she wrote in when she was in her twenties. The sad part is that the writing within has faded just as memories do, slowly but steadily. My youngest sister is a tougher nut, and has absolutely no magpie tendencies. She throws out stuff every season, but her older sisters somehow manage to stretch out their hands and catch what she throws. So much for space control!

Shoes do have a way of taking a stroll in the middle of the night and turning up in the most unexpected places the day after. In order to curb their nomadic tendencies, I decided to place all my footwear in a low shelf. I sat on the floor, and by the time I had finished wiping every shoe, I felt like a mini-Imelda Marcos. I had discovered pairs that I had forgotten I possessed. A part of me felt downright sheepish, but the rest of me was elated. I had brand new shoes to wear without lifting a finger, or opening my wallet.

                                                                                        AI Generated - freepik.com

Our daughter has taken after her youngest aunt. With two energetic little ones who play with everything from playdough and puzzles to kitchen sets and ninepins, their room overflows with toys, all of which go into boxes at the end of the day. Once or twice a year, our daughter creates piles of everything and gives them away to people who need them. Every time she does so, my better half raises an eyebrow as though to tell me, “That’s how it is done!” Of course, we could not be prouder of her, but then, God broke the mould after he made her! Or am I talking about myself?

Nowadays, you hear hammering anytime you walk by our flat. If you walk in, you will see men hard at work, creating extra cupboards and shelves. My beleaguered better half has given in to my magpie tendencies and allowed me more space to hide the clutter and create yet more space at home.

                                                                                         QuoteFancy

Hopefully the arguments will now be ‘spaced’ out!

 886 words

EARLY MORNING BLUES

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I have never been a morning person. Neither are my two sisters morning persons. My daughter shuts the curtains shut so that she can stop the sun from rising too early. My nieces – let’s not even go there!

In a nutshell, we are all night owls. Even as a child, all my most productive schoolwork was done after dinner, when my lovely Parvathy Amma, the one who used to run our kitchen, and much of our lives, would feed us all to the gills. Those were the days when the fads of intermittent fasting and eating before the sun went down had not yet been invented.

Once dinner was over, Parvathy Amma would walk in with a steaming cup of strong coffee with which I could burn the midnight oil. Even today, when I drink coffee in school, my teachers shudder at its colour. Strong, sweet and tolerably hot – that is what I need, especially on a day filled with visitors, meetings and brainstorming.

                                                                                         Thomas Park on Unsplash

Going back to my childhood, all three of us, my sisters and I would keep awake and study, and end up chatting till the wee hours, till my mother would lurch in with sleep-clouded eyes and say sternly, “Go to sleep immediately!” Guiltily, we would hide the by now empty chocolate wrappers, and try to sleep. Again, those were the days when we had no idea that the phrase ‘chocolate high’ existed.

                                                                                                  iStock photo

Thus, early mornings were torture. We would totter out of bed, bleary-eyed, and follow a mechanical routine of brushing, bathing, dressing and eating, one after the other till (in the case of my little sisters), the horn of the school bus would be heard. Anyone sitting in the drawing room would witness two streaks of lightning whizzing by, a comb in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other.

Since I was in college, I had a bit more time to myself in the morning. On my eighteenth birthday, our mother had bought me a moped which I used to ride to college. The college I studied in was an interesting institution, and I happened to be the first girl in recent history who was driving a moped. I have heard of another lady, in the hoary past, who used to ride a two-wheeler, but well, that was in the hoary past.

                                                                                                       Pinterest

Like I said, college was interesting with a history of political violence and a colourful past. On a different note, I had seen boys studiously bending over to remove the air from the tires of a professor’s scooter. Hence, I would park my moped in a young friend’s house and walk it to college. Better safe than sorry, as they put it!

When I got married to a dashing young Army officer, I was doing my post-graduation and burning the midnight oil. My sisters were still streaks of lightning whizzing by. On occasions, their brand-new brother-in-law (love) would drive them to school, where they would show him off to their friends.

As luck would have it, when I turned into an Army wife, I realised that the only profession I could take up was teaching, and luckily, I took to it like a duck takes to water. The only problem was that my early morning blues continued. My better half, on the other hand, is the earliest bird that catches every worm. He would be at his chirpiest best in the mornings, while I would look at him bleary-eyed, marvelling at how he managed it.

Forty years later, he still wakes up at the crack of dawn (a phrase that I have never fathomed even now) and goes for a walk religiously (pun intended!) He crosses all the main temples, and mind you, we live in a temple town. By the time he gets back, it is time for me to start my morning, and I work like clockwork till I get to school, where I am now the Executive Director where the clock continues to click.

         

                                                                                                      Pinterest 

Fate has a way of making you recall the past… all those the late nights and the painful early mornings! The wonderful feeling when you peer at the clock and realise that you have another hour of sleep before you push the covers away! The tiny chill that meanders in, making you twist yourself into a tiny arc! That heady thrill of knowing that it is a Sunday and that you can sleep in!

Then it begins – that tiny bark that gets compounded into a series of shrill barks as two canines next door compete to get shriller and shriller, almost like a medley. The reason could be just anything – a footstep that disturbs them, the rustle of an insect, the sight of other stray dogs walking in perfect freedom while these two are stuck in a tiny balcony. That can really ruffle their feelings, you know. 

Kerala has this uncanny habit. People get dogs to soothe their nerves and keep thieves away. Then they promptly shut them away in kennels or on balconies. I remember reading a book called ‘Flowers in the Attic’ when I was younger where four children were locked away in an attic by their parents and not allowed to see the world. I dub these two canines as flowers in the attic as well. Their barking starts with little yips and along with their excitement, turns into a cacophony of incessant noise. Unfortunately, they are most active early in the morning. I assume they sleep through the rest of the day and night just so that they can be at their noisiest best at dawn.

                                                                                                    Shutterstock

So there you have it – I am not a morning person, and the world still conspires to rob me of those precious hours that I cherish. Luckily, they do say that with age, people can do with fewer hours of sleep. Maybe I will get there one day! Till then, I say,

“Dear sleep, I’m sorry we broke up this morning. I want you back.”

                                                                                                   LoveThisPic

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