Tea: A Day in the Life of my Bellippa

Bellippa with his grandkids circa 2006

The earliest memory of my maternal Bellippa (Granddad) goes all the way back to the 1990s. Our family used to come down to Calicut from Muscat for our annual vacation. Uncles, aunts, cousins – all of us huddled up at our ancestral home just off the main road in East Nadakkavu. Those were the days when nuclear families and homes were almost unheard of. I loved the fact that almost 20-30 of us stayed under one roof at any given time.

My Bellippa would be up at the crack of the morning azan, starting up his Kinetic Honda on his way to Fajr prayers at the old West Nadakkavu mosque. If the middle schooler me was up, I would ride pillion or would stand in the space between the handle and the seat of the scooter. We would finish prayers, and he would go to the nearest tea/milk parlour and get a couple of packets of milk. He would return home and make tea, which would be poured into a flask and then boil the milk in another container and keep aside. The tea and milk would be placed on the dining table at the front, along with glasses for anybody who would like to begin their day with a fresh cup of tea. Incidentally, the tea dust used to be brought from my Bellippa's shop in Valiyangadi.

He would then proceed with household chores – from clearing weeds out of the garden, watering the plants, adding manure to the coconut trees, clearing open sewers at the back, getting dried coconut leaves or wood for the kitchen fire, peeling coconuts, among others. Sometimes, us kids would reluctantly join him, more so often to get to play in the dirt than to help him. I used to be a particularly naughty one who would try to sneak in the dirt all over the place, only to have my Bellippa hose me down when watering the plants. The three or four-year-old me had a field day when he used to be out in the courtyard.

After his daily chores, my Bellippa would get cleaned up and wear the whitest mundu and light coloured shirt over the white vest before clipping on his Seiko watch. He would then have his breakfast, before starting up his Kinetic Honda for the second time in the day, to head to work. Work to him was his tea dust business in the single store opposite the Town Police Station - Mahe Tea Mart - that he had begun after migrating from Mahe to Calicut in the 1960s.

Teenage me, who had moved back to Calicut, accompanied him quite many times on his trip to Mahe Tea Mart. The market would be just waking up, and the clickity clang of the shutter would reverberate around us as we opened for business. It was from here that I first learned the ABC of trade – buy and sell. I would help him pack tea for those who came looking for it. People came from the mountains of Wayanad to the islands of Lakshwadeep and even next-door neighbours or Calicut natives, to buy their favourite Monica, Suryanelli, or myriad other brands of tea dust. Sometimes, when he had to attend to some urgent matter, he would leave the cash register with me, and I would sit fixated on arranging all the notes in perfect order in the single drawer table. Once in a while, a customer would come in, and I would have to hand them the right amount of change, while the helper packed the tea for them.

He would make it a point to come later, and by evening, the chaiwala from the nearby Rangoli hotel would come. He would get us tea and ask us if we wanted any snacks. The Rangoli chaiwala would open his aluminum tin and show us the specialty snack of the day, and Bellippa would buy it for us. We would sit there, eating and drinking, while he got to tallying the accounts for the day.

At dusk, he would switch on the lights inside the shop but never stayed for long. Before the call of the Maghrib prayer, he would shut shop and make his way to the nearest mosque. While making his way back he would get fruits or his favorite murk (rice crispies) or bakery items for himself and his grandkids.

At night, my Bellippa would be back busy doing chores at home or sitting in the veranda with a cup of suleimani, up until he had to go to bed. The three-year-old me would be sitting quietly on the sofa adjacent to his room in anticipation of something, and he would give me a lovable laugh on his way to bed and ask me – “What happened, boy? Didn’t get your Boost?”. I wouldn't budge until I got my whole bottle of chocolate milk energy drink.

At times, my Bellippa would call some of his grandkids and ask them to give him a head massage or press his legs for him. He loved being playful with his grandkids, and a lot many of us would giggle away (and later get annoyed) when we were tickled by him lovingly.

Years passed, and Bellippa's mode of transport changed from the Kinetic Honda to a couple of Suzuki’s. Later on, the Suzuki too ceased and he made peace with being driven around by his kids and grandkids. While the kid me met him at least once a year, courtesy of annual vacations, the adult me had a harder time being next to him, with work barely allowing a handful of days for me to be in town.

Earlier this month, I met my Bellippa again. At first glance, he thought I was my dad, but I think he recognized me when I mentioned my name. A few days later, he asked me to sit by his side and hold his hand. That is all he asked. And I did, one last time, sans the scooter rides, playing in the dirt, helping out at the shop, the tickles that made us giggle and tea.

Rest in peace Bellippa.

Vishu at The Devidas's

From Wikipedia: Vishu (Malayalam: വിഷു, "Bisu" in Tulu Language),"Bisu sankramana" in Arebhashe dialect is the astronomical new year Hindu festival celebrated in the Indian state of Kerala, Tulunadu region and Kodagu in Karnataka and their diaspora communities. But it is not the new year for Keralites as the Malayalam New Year falls on Chingam 1st in the month of August. The festival follows the solar cycle of the lunisolar as the first day of the month called Medam. It therefore always falls in the middle of April in the Gregorian calendar on or about 14 April every year.

My memory of Vishu is marked in that night when I last celebrated it. It was 10 years back. Our friend from Nuristan in Afghanistan - Nawab, Aju, and I joined Vaisakh and Vaishnav at their home in Athanikkal the previous night.

After dinner, we got ourselves to light some firecrackers, and usher in the astronomical new year. While on a general note, Vishu is notable for its solemnity and the general lack of pomp, our videos from that night prove that it was anything but that. We still crack up watching those videos, as glee generally took us all over as we lit sparklers, chakras, fountains - some lighting up the courtyard, while others deafened our ears.

The festival is also marked by the uniqueness of having to witness something auspicious the first thing in the morning on Vishu day, known as vishukanni. After our merriment for the night, we got into bed quite late, only to be woken up in the wee hours of the morning, as we were ushered in with our eyes covered to witness the vishukkani. As the hands uncovered from our eyes, we slowly opened and adjusted to the view in front of us - a beautiful arrangement of the deity Krishna, the golden Indian laburnum clusters, assortment of vegetables and fruits, vishukkaineetam, traditional clothes, and some silver, gold or brass items - all illuminated by the light emanating from the nilavilakku (traditional lamp). Three Muslim kids, along with the Devidas's, witnessing vishukanni - a beautiful moment embodying the spirit of God's Own Country.

A while later, we heard cacophony of firecrackers from all over the neighbourhood. We left for our homes to freshen up only to return in the afternoon for the very special vishu sadya, the traditional vegetarian feast that is served on special occasions. We sat together with the family, almost elbow to elbow, as we consumed the delicious feast, which culminated with the serving of the payasam dessert. A sweet end to a cherished memory. 

Home away from home, here in the Middle East, Vishu lives. UAE supermarkets and hypermarkets are replete with Vishu branding and record quantities of konna (Indian laburnum) flowers, fruits and vegetables making it to the shelves a week prior to the festival. Restaurants are ready with packed sadya packets, which sell like hotcakes on Vishu day. Families take the day off from work to witness vishukanni along with their loved ones, offer prayers, present vishukaineetam and enjoy their sadyas.

Vishu is where love is, and love is where Vishu is. For me, it is Vishu at the Devidas's.

The protagonists with their vishu sadya

Failure is Alright

Me, back in 11th grade

It was the month of September in the year 2001. I had just moved to Calicut from Muscat, after completing nearly 2 months into my 9th grade. It was a rather gloomy evening. I particularly remember the month and year, because, on that particular day, the world had changed forever. America was under attack, and that is all you could find on the television channels. Even the rather bland national television channel Doordarshan was blaring the news into the drawing-room at my grandparents' home through the old yet reliable Aiwa TV.

As the world changed, so did my life. Earlier in the day, I was handed the news that I could not continue in 9th grade, and would have to repeat 8th grade. It was pretty shitty news to digest, considering that it is ingrained into the psyche of a typical Indian kid that failure is never an option. It took me one whole year to comprehend the fact that failure is nothing but a detour to bigger, better things.  

The reason I decided to write on this topic (I have discussed this with a lot of people but have never disclosed in writing) is because of all the hullabaloo behind the CBSE question paper leak (https://bit.ly/2WlbjXC). After the news of the leak broke out, the very next day, newspapers carried out full-length copies of how the students were mentally unprepared and how stressed out they were thinking about having to write the exams again. To the poor souls out there, I would like to ask you to relax. Examinations are never the end of the world. Let me tell you a small anecdote.

A little backstory: My two brothers and I had been born and brought up in Muscat, Oman. Due to circumstances, except my dad, all of us moved back to our hometown of Calicut, India, in 1997. After completing my 6th and 7th grades, my mom, younger brother, and I moved back to Muscat in 2000 to be with Dad.

When I moved back, I really wanted to get back with my division 'F' classmates in ISWK, whom I had last met in '97 (5th grade). But as luck would have it, that very year, the 'F' division of the 8th grade was split up into the remaining divisions. After much lobbying, we got back our 'F' division and spent one more year together in the same class. But the honeymoon was short-lived. Come 9th grade, we were all split again. But it was a fresh start, with Mr. Dragwidge, our English and class teacher creating an atmosphere unlike any I had been in before. All was going well until I was broken the news that we would be moving back to India again. I was heartbroken. Just as I was getting ready to settle in, we were back on the move.

After packing our bags, nearly a year after we moved back, we were on our way to Calicut again. Then, it was a marathon to get me admitted to a possible school in the 9th grade. Naturally, our first stop was the school from where I had left a year back - Hill Top Public School. I do not remember the reason why, but I was not able to secure a seat there. We went to a few other schools. But everywhere we went, we were met with some excuse or the other - some financial, others genuine, some academic and yet others - random ridiculousness.

Finally, we went to MES Raja Residential School in Pavangad. I was asked to write exams in all subjects if I had to secure a seat in the 9th grade. I wasn't a particularly bright student, nor were my marks from my previous year warranting immediate admittance. I thought it was fair for them to test my aptitude in the subjects I would be taking up. And boy, did I show them? I failed in all, except English. I even scored a zero in Hindi and Maths. I still remember sitting in the Vice-Principal's office, with my mom and grandfather pleading to admit me into the 9th grade. But, the Vice-Principal was adamant that I be admitted to the 8th grade instead of ninth, because of my 'brilliant' test results. Well, something was better than nothing. And the deal was done - I would be enrolled in 8th grade. Again.

I do not think I cried that evening, but I was definitely disappointed. But more than that, I was sad to have let down my parents. They had done everything for me, and I could not pass a simple all-subject test. While I did sulk a bit, thinking of having to repeat an entire year, and remained moody through the rest of the year, I took it in my stride and marched on.

I always had a feeling that 9th grade would make something out of me. It was Mr. Dragwidge's effect, I reckon. It was in 9th grade that I engrossed myself in extracurricular activities. It was also the year that I actually started writing. Having forged new friendships, I was able to balance academics and extracurricular with relative ease - something I had rarely done before.

My final five years of high school were spent in that very school. And let me set the record straight - I was still the typical student with average results in all tests, except in the languages where I scored well. While studies put me in the ordinary bracket, I had an excellent rapport with the teachers, be it on their Bruce Banner or Hulk side.

My moment of redemption for the disappointment and humiliation I faced in 2001, came on a sunny morning 3 years later. After our 10th grade CBSE exams, I decided to continue in the same school on account of really close friendships and the familiar routine. Around June or July, after our 11th grade had begun, I was summoned to the Vice-Principal's office. I seldom got into trouble, and it was somewhat surprising to learn that I was being asked for, and that too to the Vice-Principal's office. I went along with our docile English and class teacher Ms. Jalaja, who kept insisting that I wasn't in trouble. We made it to the lair of the Vice-Principal. The room was filled with the class teachers of 11th grade, the headmistress, and a couple of other teachers, if I remember right. The atmosphere in the room almost always felt drab and gloomy to me. And then the Vice-Principal spoke: "So I've spoken to the teachers, and they have recommended your name for the School Captain. Are you up for it?" (Our school didn't have student elections, and our teachers recommended names for a captain and vice-captain. And, generally, they would be selected from the 11th and 9th grade, respectively.)

The general disdain for me was visible when those words came out of her mouth, but boy, was I up for it? Before you know, the boy who was almost denied admission three years back had become the captain of the very same school. The boy who failed every subject except English had somehow rooted himself and spread his wings. That was redemption. That was satisfaction.

But, being the school captain never stopped me from flunking my annual chemistry exam that year or retaking some other paper. I did somehow scrape past my 11th grade and eventually 12th grade as well, but failure never stopped me.

To all the boys and girls out there, I want to tell you - do not be afraid to fail. Failure is not the end of the journey, but it is the beginning of a whole new story. You never know the course of your life, and hindrances are just a part of it. What matters is not what has happened in the past, but what you make of yourself in the future.

Inspire

Writing is no fluke. You do not suddenly wake up one day, take a pen and paper and become a writer overnight. Well, there might be instances or coincidences that might create the aforementioned situation, but for a layman like me, writing was developed through myriad inspirations and a lot of trial and error.

Inspiration can take different forms through your life and they play a part in what you translate on to a blank canvas at the end of the day. I remember once in art class, when I was a kid, we were given an assignment to design a visiting card. I wanted to be what my Dad was then – a sales executive. So, when my project came to fruition, the visiting card proudly stated – Nishath Nizar, Sales Executive – with a funkier logo and design for the company my Dad worked for. I know what my Dad must have been thinking when I proudly showed it to him – Of all the things you could have become in the world, you chose to become a sales executive? (with no offence intended at the profession i.e.). Well, you couldn’t blame me, my Dad was and is my hero, and I wanted to be anything he was. For the 8 or 9 year old me, the biggest takeaway from the exercise was that I was able to make a funky logo out of the blue in place of the drab current one.

All through childhood, the school library was one of the places I loved to frequent. Going through Enid Blytons, RL Stines, Greek, Roman and Scandinavian mythology collections, I tried to ensure that even if I didn’t write anything (which I didn’t, until late into my teens), I had the vocabulary to be a nerd. It was only after I shifted countries and schools (for good), that the writing became my essential companion. While I began writing to compensate loneliness arising out of new location, new people and new circumstances, just a year later I was in it for the sheer joy and collaborations it brought me. Inspiration from childhood is almost always based on your experiences at school, and I had countless anecdotes and crazy collaborators who helped raise a poet first and writer later. Then there were the heartbreaks, the fights and teenage angst that was great fodder for writing. Along side all of this, I had some wonderful friends, who stood by me at every step of the way and encouraged me to write no matter how crappy it turned out.

Moving to high school and college, it was time for refinement, and the creation of style that has stood by me since the creation of this blog. It was also the time when I got into the habit of writing long letters to anyone who was willing to lend an ear. I still have the whole bunch of correspondence I had with some wonderful women, who have influenced me in a lot of ways. While words barely escaped my lips, I was able to put everything into words on paper at the get go.

I first started writing letters, after my best friend moved to Pattambi in tenth grade. Conversing with Anusha over letters marked the beginning of this ritual, which in today’s day and age is almost non-existent. We would just blab on for pages about every other detail that went on in our lives. Even with the advent of instant messaging, letters continued. Aditi was another close friend, who through her words and letters brought about a lot of calm to some tumultuous times, and allowed me to vent out things I could not have otherwise said out loud. Then there was the savvy Mizaj, who was incidentally my first pen pal and was my personal psychologist before she even started pursuing it in real life. Even this blog had a major influence from Mukta, with whom I would compete to put up the most number of posts. (She won, putting up 36 posts in 2008, while I was able to muster just 21).

Time and again, I have found such people, who have allowed me the freedom and creativity of melding my methodologies into mustering up what I am able to today. And I am thankful to each one of them. At my first (technically second) job in a sports magazine, I always looked up to Kadambari and Anand as my mentors, not just because they were my seniors but fantastic writers themselves. Their influence on me at my first job gave me one of the most perfect platforms to not just improve my writing, but also taught me leadership worth emulating.

I will be a bad person if I conclude this post without mentioning the guiding influence of Jane, who according to me is my biggest inspiration. Through her writings, advice and pep talks, I found great clarity when I was at crossroads. Even today, the greatest critique I respect is that of Jane’s, because that is the pedestal I will always place her on. Her stories transport you to the place and time she wants you to be in while at the same time making you so emotionally connected to the character, that you will in turn feel compelled to be as crisp and moving as her. So Jaaney (as I like to call her) keep doing what you do, inspire a million others and keep writing ever so beautifully forever!

But no inspiration is complete without the backbone support of your family. Back home, my greatest fan and critic is my Dad. The only other person other than myself to be stoked about me getting back to writing was him. He has been lamenting at me ever since I got into a corporate job, about how I have almost given up on writing. But hey Dad, here is you in a post! So, seems like I haven’t given up on it after all. When you have family like these do you want anything more?

Its fuːd, not fud

Pet peeves - doesn't the word sound just silly? The uncertain origin of it also points in the same direction. The term is possibly modelled on Latin perversus "reversed, perverse," or "capricious, silly". While it may sound silly or capricious for that matter, it is a natural part of any human behaviour. We all have those pet peeves that we wish we didn't have to live with, but clench our teeth and smile through it.

Being a student of the English language, and being engaged in the field of media and communication, almost all my pet peeves has to do with the use of the English language.

But speaking about specificities, I think one of the biggest pet peeves that I have is when people say fud for food when it should actually be pronounced fuːd. Coming from the south Indian state of Kerala, we do have our own version of Indian English which no matter how hard we try to cover up, will pop up in our conversation giving our identity away. And one of the easiest way to catch our Malayaliness is if you hear us say food. At the workplace, I have been going around correcting people with the right pronunciation that now when they say the word food, they immediately rectify it to the proper pronunciation if I am around (and only when I am around). While I might have this pet peeve, my friends and better half are quick to point out that I am no worse than others while pronouncing shirt and burger (I apparently assert them as ʃ(r)t and b(r)ɡə(r)). Seems like I am a pureblood Malayali after all. 

There is another language-related pet peeve that gets on my nerve every single time - SMS lingo. Y u do dis? How much time will you waste if you type in the whole word? Almost every single phone these days has word input/autocorrect/dictionary, so why don't you type the entire word and create a decipherable sentence? The sad part is that this shortened lingo has even entered our daily lives, moving away from the glares of the mobile/computer screens. Sometimes I have to google up stuff when kids converse with me these days. 

I promise you this is the last pet peeve for the day - yet another language-related one. I really do not get it when people use too many punctuation marks in their communication. Oh, you are excited? How about you put in three exclamation points? Oh, you are still excited? How about I put in an ellipsis after those exclamation marks? I really wonder at times if it is genuinely done or they are ignorant about the usage of punctuations. I took the liberty to take a class at my workplace just to talk about this absolutely avoidable incorrect usage. But the very next moment I received an email: "Dear all, Greetings!!!!". Sigh. 

All said and done, it is these pet peeves that make us human. And while I hope I get over these pet peeves one day (or the world turns itself around), for the moment, I am glad to learn that some live through such instances every single day of their lives.

Never Hesitate

Day 2 of #30DaysWritingChallenge: The best advice someone gave you.
This was a doozy, coz I could not for the life of me pinpoint to that one advice that takes the mantle of being the best. I've had hours of chats with some of my closest friends, acquaintances, teachers, family, and each one of them had droned advice after advice - sometimes for good, some for the worse.

Sometimes the best advice comes when you least expect it, and from people, you would least expect it from. The one advice that has stood me in good stead over the past few years has been - never hesitate. How did it come to be? Read on.

It was the start of a new magazine cycle, and the monthly team meet was on to decide who would do what stories. Me, being my lazy self, was able to chip in with my usual fluff pieces when my boss asked if I would like to do a story on the Ranji Trophy final. Sensing the mammoth task that lay before me, I hesitated. I said no, while my photographer friend took up the assignment to shoot it. Big mistake. It was the chance of a lifetime. Those working in newspapers are given such tasks after 8-10 years of beat coverage. And here I was, barely a year into my job and given such a remarkable story to do, and I said no.

After the rest of the stories had been assigned to the respective journalists, two wonderful colleagues came up to me and asked me why I hesitated. I told them that I did not know if I would be able to take up such a mammoth task. They asked me to take back that no. After a bit more push from my photographer friend, I took the courage to go up to my boss, and ask again for the very assignment I had put down.

Best. Decision. Ever. Although I was a rookie and had my apprehensions, I found that once I overcame the hesitation, it was a cakewalk (almost of sorts).  I say virtually of sorts because I had never in my life covered a cricket match before, let alone the final of a major Test tournament. I was completely lost after the first day since I didn't even know where to go and sit. Back at the hotel, I called my mentor and told him that I was all over the place. The first thing he asked me to do was to calm down, and then from there on, it was his pointers that guided me. And the rest, as they say, is history. Rajasthan won their second consecutive Ranji trophy, I got my story, and all was good with the world.

That story to this day, I feel is something I am awfully proud about. And it was also the first of my work, that didn't have to go through massive edits. The most awesome feeling was when I asked my boss if it needed any cuts after sending her the first draft, and she replied - "Nicely done". I was over the moon! A lovely fairytale ending to a tale that could never have been.

But all said and done, it was the advice to never hesitate to take that big or small step that stands in good stead for me to this day.

(P.S.: You know who you all are that I have mentioned in this write-up. Thank you for believing in me!)

10 Things That Make Me Happy

So today, a close friend of mine challenged me to take up a 30-day writing challenge, and I gladly accepted because a) I have become too lazy to flutter my creative wings and b) What better way to begin 2018 than through something so positive as this. So thank you Ti, for this impromptu intervention. This was long pending.

So our topic for today is 10 things that make me happy. While the topic might seem cliched, it really does force you to think about how positive our life actually is. Given the topic for today, I found that it is almost always easier to note down the sad than the happy. But nonetheless, if you really delve deep into yourself, you will find that it is those minutiae things that bring you utmost happiness. 

So here is my not-so-definitive list of things that make me happy:

1. Family and friends. I decided to go with the first and foremost of the done and dusted statement to get it out of the way. But really though, it is the amount of love that your close ones provide that gets you through the day. No matter how frustrating your day is, at the end of the day a phone call to your closest friend, a chat with your better half, a venting time with your dad/mom will make it all go away. Family and friends, you rock!

2. This. The joy of writing is what makes me happy. While at the current job, I have a lot of restrictions where my creative juices flow, it is the unabashed writing that I love. I want to do more of this to make me a more cheerful person.

3. Babies. One look at them and my heart goes all melty. So much innocence all bundled into one tiny self is so soothing for the heart and amazing to experience. With so much happening around you, and people plotting from all corners, babies do what they love doing - being adorable and making you realize maybe this world isn't that bad after all.

4. Food. There could never be a better love story than me and my affair with food. From South Indian delicacies to Mediterranean freshness to American junk food, I love each and every lil thing about food. Moreso, this love is even visible on my YouTube playlist, as it keeps recommending Food Ranger or Bizarre Foods or Mark Wiens or the umpteen number of food channels from all over the world.

5. Books. There is something about being in a room filled with books - the smell, the knowledge that there is a whole other world residing within it, the very magic with which each of it has been written - I could go on and on. While the better half keeps a tab on what I buy (secretly read as hoard), I do sneak in a book or two every now and then adding to my burgeoning collection at my home in Abu Dhabi. When we had bought our bookshelf/cupboard three years back, we barely had one shelf of books. Now every single one of them is filled to the brim and some can't even make it to the front. I've been mulling getting another stand alone shelf just for the books, but the mrs. has already tightened the purse strings.

6. Love. Cliche no. 2 on this list. I am not much of a PDA sort of guy, but I love it when people are in love. There is so much positivity around them, that it emanates onto others, spreading even more joy.

7. Cricket. Say what you may, but cricket does bring a lot of joy to me. While a large chunk of my generation have shifted to in-vogue sports, I am still a cricket lover at heart. I still remember getting tensed during the 1996 World Cup semi-final, between India and Sri Lanka, when the hosts were falling like a pack of cards, I went up to our home's hallway and started hitting the ball onto the door with my Four Square bat, hoping it would somehow translate to India scoring runs. And then there was the time when we moved back to India. Summer vacations meant I disappeared in the morning, pinch hitting balls onto unsuspecting windows of NRI homes, only to come back late in the evenings to hear an earful from mom. After school, playing cricket sort of disappeared, but following it was religious, especially after I got into sport journalism. It is only now that I have gotten back to playing the Gentleman's Game, and those Friday morning cricket matches and the friendly rivalry with Kallakali Shaheen reminds me why i fell in love with the sport in the first place.

8.  Music. Music can bring a smile to forlorn person, put a spring in your step and can do wonders to whatever mood you want to set. My tryst with music came quite late in life. During our childhood, my brother was more musically inclined, playing the keyboard and trying a hand at everything music, I was more interested in drawing and animation. It was only after moving to college, that music chanced upon me, and I was hooked. Classics still get me, and I am actually listening to Kisi Ki Muskurahaton Pe Ho Nisar from Anari as I write this piece. Can't get better than this.

9. Home. Home for me is a lot of places. From streets of Wadi Kabir to the lanes of Calicut and the gullies of Delhi and now the expanses of Abu Dhabi. Each city has molded me in various ways, and I am happy to be a part of the experiences, the memories that each have given me. I do not think a you feel fulfilled unless you are at peace with where you dwell.

10. A Challenge. I think it is the challenge to conquer the next Everest that has taken me through each step of my life, and it makes me engaged, which in turn makes me happy. While earlier i used to tense myself up pretty bad with every challenge that came my way, I have realized that if you sit with a cool head and understand that everything will be sorted out the end, then you will have a smooth run. Even with this exercise, which was given to me in the morning, I knew I could complete it only because I wanted it and took my own sweet time to complete.