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

The ‘Dates’

There is a particular scene in the hit 2012- Malayalam movie, Ustad Hotel, by Anjali Menon, where the protagonist – played by the very likeable Dulquer Salman is taken directly from the Airport to the home of a potential future Mrs. – an equally likeable Nitya Menon for penn kaanal – the equivalent of a first date in the arranged marriage setup. In the meeting, both are made to sit in the inner verandah of the huge tharavad, while family and relatives peep in from all corners to eavesdrop on their “first date”.

Why have I gone into detail about this just one scene from one of my favourite Malayalam movies? Well, that was almost how I met Wafa for the first time. Just that I didn’t come directly from the airport for the first date. But the rest of the scene is almost accurate. We were made to sit in one of the many rooms in the sprawling Edavalath tharavad, while a head popped up every now and then through the windows and open doors on the side to eavesdrop. By evening, the two families had agreed as both me and Wafa had given the nod.

The ‘second date’ was even more eventful. Wanting to meet Wafa before heading back to Dubai, I asked if we could catch up at some place. And that 'second date' location, seemed to be the perfect spot for the entire family to spy on. Along with my band of misfits, I left Calicut for the Mahe Boat House, which was a mini marina/park/one of the many prides of Mahe-iites. Meanwhile, Wafa with her band of family and friends, made it to the location in two cars (or was it three?). Once at the location, my friends were spooked out by the amount of people (around 20-ish? Or am I exaggerating?) who accompanied Wafa, and ditched me to go and pick another friend of ours from the railway station.

So there we were – myself and Wafa – on a rainy evening, swatting mosquitoes in the not so romantic location, while family and friends peered from different vantage points. You would have expected disguises and subtlety while spying, but this wasn’t your next-door spies. After spending time together for barely half an hour, we decided to head back, but not before Wafa’s entire family hounded about what we had spoken, gentle threats about if you don't take care of her, how she is the lil’ sweetheart of everyone and so on and so forth. Thank God for my band of misfits, who quickly whisked me away.

We had plenty of ‘dates’ to catch up with each other on after that, mainly via the technological marvels of the Jan Koums, Brian Actions and Mark Zuckerbergs.

Then on this day, the 9th of October, three years back, we got married in front of the same friends and family, and some more. It was just not about marrying each other, we had taken the mantle of each other’s family as well. And I would say that we have been grateful to have them along with us through this journey, no matter how spy-terrific they are.

While this is usually the part where I go harping about blessings, support, future and the ups and downs, I shall refrain from doing so. Going away from the mainstream this year.

Happy anniversary love! (…and we are back!)

How We Were Taught Part 4 (surpassing Part 3)

The school that provided a cacophony o f memories

A week back, after being constantly hounded by friends, I decided to make a Whatsapp group for our batchmates from MES Raja Residential School, Pavangad, where I spent the last five years of my school life. The chitter-chatter that ensued on the group encouraged me to continue the series, which has seen the longest lag on this blog. It is this institution and the atmosphere it presented me and the friends that it gifted me, that has influenced me the most. 

My entry into the school was not something I really cherish. After getting out of Hilltop and then after just a year in Muscat, I came to MES unwillingly. I was into the third month of my schooling in the ninth grade at ISWK, when I had to come back to India, after Dad met with an accident. After reaching Calicut, no school agreed to take me in. The main reason being that they had already registered for something in the CBSE (the national syllabus board) exams. MES agreed to take me in, provided I was a genius. Which I so was not. They made me take an exam in each and every subject in the eighth grade. I flunked in all, except one – English. And then they made a proposition – I could sit in eighth grade again, or not take a seat at all. Without another choice, I joined. 

I was apparently a giant when I got into VIII-B. And my fashion didn't help me sullen down my gigantism - over-sized shirt with baggy pants (almost like a hobo). I seemed so out of place, even without wanting to. 

I still remember to this day, my first friend in the school – Deepak Das (whom incidentally, I got to get in touch with again, last month, at a men’s fashion store in my hometown, where he was the store manager). Deepak helped me to get into the groove of the life that I was to spend at MES then. Our class teacher, Sharmila miss, taught Malayalam (which was third language for me; the second being Hindi). On her insistence, one of the more all-round student (and also the class leader then) was asked to help me. And that’s how I got to meet Nunna (today a mother of three and a medical student - respect!). 

Both Nunna and Deepak helped me through the initial days. Even when Shameem, one of the ‘cool kids’, very playfully gave me a fresher’s welcome – grilling me with some of the most ridiculous questions, answer to which were quiet embarrassing. The initiation ceremony was concluded by him quizzing about a local soft pornstar’s latest film (which i very diligently answered). It was all taken in the stride, and before I knew it, I got into the act of school life in Calicut for a lengthier term. A crush developed, I religiously failed in a number of math exams and so on and so forth. But it wasn’t the favourite term of my school life. 

Ninth grade takes the cake, for being the best year of my life (after 2012, maybe). It was the 2002-03' academic year that changed my life. It was also the year I met Anusha, my best friend from school (this year marks a decade of our friendship). It is also in the ninth grade, I ‘found’ Vivek, Faris, Shamnad (the now famous back-benchers), Ashwin (aka Assman), Izhak, Akhtar, Nahana, Adithi and so many more friends that I will cherish forever. 

After breaking the two division pattern that was followed in eighth grade, ninth had three divisions – A,B,C. And we were the A divisioners. Our class teachers also varied throughout the year. We started off with Archana ma’am, a lazy eyed Geography teacher, who had to leave half way through. Then came Farzana miss, an English miss who understood youngsters as youngsters should be (and also reminded Vivek of a girl called Manasi he met in Bhopal on one of the National Science Drama competition traveling days. I can still hear him go on and on and on about that girl! God!) – thereby making her a class favourite for the best teacher ever.

But it was Subhan Babu, our Islamic studies teacher - a tiny man with a praying mantis like stance - who takes the 'most-interesting' teacher award for the ninth grade. He was not exactly a terror, but he got everyone's attention. It was he who remarked to a boy in our class, (when the boy wore really tight pants), that he would not be able to have kids in the future if he wore the pants any tighter. I think that kid is today the HR manager of an IT company , but has not been able to prove the theory of Subhan Babu to this day (not that i know of). And then there is the incident involving Shinaan, during our class tour, which i had earlier written in a post on this very blog five years back. Hate him or like him, you couldn't ignore the enterprise that was Subhan Babu. (last i heard, he was teaching somewhere in Sharjah).

There were poems written by groups, yes, you heard that right – a single poem written by a group of three-four people. There were who-could-be-the-funniest competitions (although it was more of who could torture you the most with their PJ's competition), there were fights between the different divisions (especially between A & C), there were literary competitions, there were silly pranks played on the least suspecting friends (the girls in front of the last benchers were usually the guinea pigs. Yes - Anusha, Adithi, Nahana - you are exactly who we are talking about). Ninth was a cacophony of memories aplenty.

The next year was back to normalcy, since we had the 'earth-shattering', 'mind-numbing', 'life-altering' (exact words used by our teachers) board exams coming up. But the exams were just 'meh', and school life all the more fun. 

The divisions were again conjoined this time to form just two - A & B. Our class teacher, Jalaja miss, a sweet doeful lady, taught us english, and took more than a willing role in getting to know more about our personal stories rather than the fiction in the text books. But all said and done, she was a wonderful teacher. 

Then there was Sindhu miss - who taught us geography like nobody else ever did. Her funda was - learn what she gives you, then she'd test you on the same matter, and if you passed that, then you could sit in class. Every recess, you could see a line of us (usually the boys) lining up in front of the staff room, to get the mountains, rainfall and the rajma chaaval statistics of the country right. Once again, it was more of a learning experience rather than punishment. All of us were eager to learn for her class, and i think she got the result, as many of us got marks in social studies in the excess of 90 percent during the finals.

I don't know when i started hating maths, but it seems to be exactly when i started failing the subject, the first instance being in my eighth grade. Along with not liking the subject came not liking the teacher too. But that was not the case with our teacher in the tenth grade -  Hema miss. She instilled the confidence, that i could at least pass maths. But i did not just pass it, i came close to getting around the whereabouts of 80 percent for my finals. For that, but more importantly, just for being an awesome teacher, i respect her. 

Then there was Asha miss, who seemed older than the institution we were under. She had that experience - and she'd been teaching hindi for close to three decades by the time she taught us. As Nahana reminded me while discussing on the same subject on chat - Hindi period meant free period. Asha miss would get over with our lessons with timed precision. All we had to do was listen to her as she went from story after story, poem after poem and grammar classes after grammar classes. Before you knew it, there would be no more to learn, and thus we would sit ducks, which is not entirely true, because we would be upto our mischievous best, even though there were only six or eight of us in the class. Once, Vivek took the opportunity of the freeness in the class and started crooning 'thadap thadap ke' from the movie 'Hum dil de chuke sanam'. Faris, not to be outdone, started translating the song as Vivek sang on. For the line - 'aisa kya guna kiya, ki lutt gayi' - came the hilarious translation - anganatthe enthu gunann njan cheythath - from Faris (apologies to the non Malayalee readers, but the joke's relevant only in Malayalam). But coming back to Asha miss, to reiterate her influence on me, (even though my Hindi speaking abilities are still mediocre), you need just go back to my previous blog post, wherein i have tried my level best to translate my favourite Hindi poem by Harivanshrai Bachchan. I first fell in love with it, during one of Asha miss's meticulous classes. Hindi has since then been part of my life, in one way or the other - be it seriously or humourously, it sure is Asha miss's Hindi that i carry forth.

Then there was Sheeja miss - the only terror apart from the principal. For lack of a better word, i reiterate terror, due to the fact that everyone was punctual, up-to-date and in tip-top shape in front of her. She took history and civics for us. There is this one instance, in which she punished us boys, just because we went to play at a ground at the ground near the next bus stop in our school uniforms after school got over! Ok, even today the last line reads - ridiculous. Just imagine - 20-or-so-odd boys standing on the ground, under the hot sun, not knowing what they have done wrong. But punishing so many people out of a class - not a good idea, and before we knew it, we were back in class. (But as i come to think of it now, i think the reason given for punishing us was - we went to play when we had to actually prepare for an exam the coming week, but when did a game of cricket ever hurt anybody or for the teachers sake, lower the score of a kid in an exam?)

Other than these colourful yet wonderful teachers, we also had Anitha miss for chemistry, Beena miss for biology, Rajeev sir for PE and so many more. All played their roles to perfection.

But the title memory of tenth grade would be when a handful of us boys went to Vaseem Kannankandy's house for a sleepover on the eve of our exam results. The excitement of us kids huddled in front of the computer screens, early next morning, eagerly awaiting our results is something that can never be forgotten. All did good. All passed. 

-

It was only in the winter of last year, after six long years, the same boys (along with the addition of a few new ones) got back under the same roof, and crowded around a laptop; albeit this time, watching comedy videos on Youtube.

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(I never knew i would be able to write so much just about my time in MES, so i've decided to leave the rest for another time, another post, same blog. I'd also promised that this post would be about my second stint at ISWK, but that had to wait, after all the nostalgia talking to the 34 odd people on Whatsapp - it's like we never even left school)

P.S.: Other than Sindhu miss and Asha miss, i don't think anybody else teaches at the same school currently.

How We Were Taught Part 2

It might look like a nice outdoorsy summer retreat, but if you have sat in Mrs. Bharathi's class, you wouldn't think so

Leaving your old friends is never a good thing. I remember the first time I went to the Hill Top Public School, Puthiyara in Calicut. The year was 1998, and it was with my granddad, on his old Kinetic Honda scooter, going up the winding red-bricked road, around the tile factory with the long chimney towers on a rainy Monday morning. It was a modest school with a few building here and there, but more like a holiday home or farmhouse—well that is what the entrance atleast looked like (above) (it today houses more pucca buildings at least two-three stories high). I was not happy at all that i had moved in there. Firstly, I had to sit in a tempo van and then come to a place (whereas i used to walk to school back in Muscat, secondly, I knew nobody there, thirdly, i had to learn the Malayalam language, and finally, did I mention, not having friends? It is always difficult shifting schools, and so it was for me too. But the view from the top of the hill – priceless.

The two years I spent there, seemed to just whizz by, and not many long lasting friendships arose out of it. I am still in touch with a few of them, though. The teachers too, I can vaguely remember. But there was one teacher that who I would say was a reincarnation of one of those clichéd boarding-school-warden-english-teacher types. Her name was Mrs. Bharathi. Although the whole class would be at their mischievous best in other classes, her one session, commanded the attention of every student in the room. And surprisingly, it was in malluland, and the influence of this teacher that got me attracted to the English language. She was never the type that would unequivocally pour out marks for you during your quarterly, half yearly, final year or even the most trivial class tests. There was a standard she demanded. And if one could cope with that, you'd pass the subject. I think my understanding of the language increased by leaps and bounds, after learning from her. But back then, we were just plain scared of her. We would make sure we did her homework, even if it meant neglecting other subjects. She also used to be my elder brother’s class teacher. So any bad behaviour or not learning, it would reach my Mom's ears, via my brother. That was more than a decade back. When I met her almost 6-7 years later after her retirement, somewhere around 2005-06, she didn’t seem as intimidating like she did then, even remembering me (although it was my brother she knew better). We talked and reminisced and joked of her 'terror' days, and we laughed over it, telling us 'it was all for your own good'. But she was surprised that I had taken up a degree in functional English, of all the subjects out there—yes, I  never topped the subject of English, the two years I was there (nor any other subject). But proud of us all, she is today.

Other than Ms. Bharathi, I think I remember Mrs. Saira, who used to teach us Hindi, Mini miss, who used to be out PT teacher (we just had one basketball court and no other playing ground), and I sucked at it. It was also here that I got onto the religious side of affairs, as we would go for our dhuhr (afternoon) prayers in the makeshift mosque inside the school (well this was again new for me, because our school in Muscat began at 7 in the morning and ended by 1.30 p.m. Here, it began at 9.30 in the morning and ended close to around 4 in the evening, which was not to my liking at all). I don’t exactly remember the teacher who taught us, but he encouraged me to take part in an azan (calling of prayer) competition. And for the first time, after my second grade sports triumph, I actually won something in a school competition. That was my only moment of glory there. My grades dropped dramatically after moving here, but that had more to do with me, than the teachers. But thankfully, the nightmare lasted only two grades for me—fifth and sixth, because Dad brought us all back to our favourite city—Muscat—in the millennium year.

It was like being resurrected. And it was also about bringing back together a division, that has been close to my heart—F. And with the intermittent memory of Hill Top, I was on my way back to old friends, familiar grounds and the scorching heat of the Middle East.

On that note, I shall leave you lingering for my second stint at ISWK.

The Nomad That Is Me - Part 4.5 (The Story Of My Homes)

I really want to put an end to these disastrous sequels, but if Spielberg could come back after 20 years to make a sequel to Indiana Jones, then so can I. (p.s. – The fourth sequel finally made it to the top ten list, albeit with fewer readers that is) And while at it, make something radically different like inserting a .5 between four and five. So here I am to talk of homes, that were home to me more than home itself.

During my second stint at Calicut, i made my first genuine friend, who still remains to me one of my closest buddies - Ajmal (or in short Aju.) Aju’s family considered and still considers me as one of their own. This was proven by the fact, that this year when I called to wish them for Eid, Aju’s mom very nostalgically reminded me that, every Eid I would be the first person to wish Aju at his place. I was touched. So yeah, during the time of my adjustment to the new life of Calicut, my new school mates, my new teacher, my new friends, Aju and his family really made me feel at home. I still remember, before I returned back to Calicut, the last movie I had seen in a theatre was Titanic with my family in Muscat. Its true, I had not seen a movie in the movie theatre after the 1997 blockbuster. And then in 2002, I remember Aju getting all excited calling me over to his place. We were going for a movie with his Dad. He used to be the asst. commissioner of sales tax in Calicut at that time. I still remember sitting in that red Indica, visibly excited to go for my first movie theatre experience in Calicut. The movie – I Spy. Yeah, I know it was a crappy movie to go for. But I still have the movie tickets with me, in one of my personal diaries back home. And I shall keep it.

Aju’s family was pretty much like ours – 3 brothers and his parents. In addition to that, there is his grandmother, who is like the most jovial Grandma i ever know. Once, Aju had invited me and our friends over for dinner, and it was his grandmother who was there on the front to greet us. As soon as we entered the gates, his Grandmom bellowed – “Come in, come in. Your comrades are awaiting you.” We were literally blown away. Here was an old lady speaking us to in English (you should understand that we were in Calicut, and none of our Grandmas knew English.) It turns out; she was once the headmistress of a school. Nowadays with old age, her energy is not what it used to be. But she still recognizes me, although I have to tell her who I am when I come into the house. And then there is Kadistha and her two sons, one of who is deaf and dumb. Very nice people, the whole lot. Miss all of them.

It is also from Aju’s place that I got into watching U.S. TV sitcoms, starting with Friends, Scrubs and more over the years (literally picking up on one show after the other.) I have only one person to thank for introducing me to the joy that is pop culture – Suhail Rehman. Today this very man is marrying a close friend of mine – Mizaj Mammu. But that again is another story, for another blog (and hopefully not a sequel post.) On top of that, Aju and Suhail introduced me to hardcore gaming, allowing me to watch and play (some) of the dozens of games that was popular in the 2000’s. That is how I got hooked onto one of my favourite games – Mafia. And then there were the racing games, which was pretty much the only game I could beat Aju in.

Aju’s home is the place where I would run to everytime I used to get a chance. Lunch, dinner, sleepovers, movies, celebrations – Aju’s home was, is and will always be a part of the homes I can never forget.

After Aju left for Thrissur, I got to visit his place, only when he came down for holidays and vacations. That was when I got close to my own place, I guess. And then came graduation. Along with graduation came friends, new ones, good ones. And one home that stays out during this time, and still does is – Mekha. Mekha is the name of the house I spent most of my graduation days, and is also the name of one of my closest friend, Mukta’s Mom’s name. It is basically where I grew threw my troubled phases. The amount of fights, celebrations, happiness and sadness I went through at Mekha’s is like infinite. I remember the first time I had gone over to Mekha’s. I had taken my then new bike, Passion Plus, and gone to drop off Mukta, since we had gotten out of college late. I met with her Mom, her uncle and his wife. I still remember the drawing room was dimly lit with a light bulb (its changed today, with a CFL bulb doing the job now.) But from that day on, Mekha was as much a home to me as it was to Mukta, her bro Mritul or even her parents. It was also home to my favourite Grandmom - Chandra. Sadly it was also where she breathed her last. Sad, but never forgotten she is the soul of our heart.

I also remember Mekha for the time I had there with Nawab, another of my best friend, from Afghanistan, when we used to get together to study. Mekha aunty (I never called her by that name, even today. Although I do try) used to make us dosas in the morning, and all of us would sit around the kitchen waiting for our turn. Even today, when I go back, that is one thing I don’t miss on my itinerary. Sitting on the doorstep, eating dosa with chutney and sambhar and chit-chat with Mekha aunty – priceless.

There were charts made, movies and TV shows watched, there were fights, there was watching the Oscars, the IPL, football and what not. I was also in awe of the number of plants in the courtyard, that i actually took a few of them and went and planted them at my place. they are growing just fine. So i could say i have a little bit of Mekha in Falaq. Mekha shall forever remain etched in my life as being my home away from home.

Sadly I do not have neither home’s picture. But I believe I do not need one. Its painted in my mind for eternity.

Until next time for the final piece on my nomadic life, ciao.

The Nomad That Is Me - Part 4 (The Story Of My Homes)

'Al Fajer' in the 90's

After coming back to India in 2001, we stayed over at the ancestral place – Al Fajer (which translates to dawn in Arabic) for almost 2 years, before finding our own place – “Falaq” (which roughly translates to ‘daybreak’ in Arabic.) Life began for me here (or rather I had my ‘break’ right here at this humble abode.)

The green one storey building is the home I always head back to whenever I feel homesick, when I feel like visiting my loved ones, when I feel like getting the warmth of my own bed, the green godrej cupboard and table – it’s a feeling I cannot put into words. Just a few minutes away from where we used to stay earlier, ‘Falaq’ is not the average palatial houses that gulf returnees are expected to build. It’s a modest 4 bedroom home built on just around 4.5 cents of land (that’s close to around just 2000 sq. ft.) It was bought close to late 2002 (yes, we bought a house, instead of building it from scratch.) We had sparingly any furniture, household items, not even a TV. But we at least had a roof over our heads. And we were blessed in that way.

And the transformation was magical. I was in my ninth grade, when we moved into the house. And I had joined MESRRS, Pavangad, my final school in my journey of school life a year back. But it was in ninth grade that I actually hit paydirt. I got to the other side of me – the writing guy. And did I not roll or what? I started getting into competitions – essay writing, versification, extempore, Quran recitation – what not. Moreover, I participated in even Hindi competitions (although most of my current bunch of friends find my Hindi weird and very South-Indian-ish. I tell them, hellew – what do you expect? I am from South India, Kerala to be precise.) So yeah getting back to the prime of my school days, I started making some awesome friends during my time at Falaq. One of the closest has to be Ajmal, who was like an extended family to me. I used to be more at his place than mine. Mainly because he had some awesome games and really cool cousins. I remember the time when he came over to my ancestral place and was stuck there for the night due to thunderstorms. Ajmal and me remain brothers till this day. Then, there is Vaisakh - my partner in crime and vice versa, the vice versa more so. We've had between us more than with any other friend i ever had. From his TVS Victor riding days to the Pulsar 200 days. And then there are countless others, if i were to begin here, it wouldn't end. But if it weren't for all of them, i'd not be the person i am today.

'Falaq' in the 2000's (wish i had a more fuller pic)

I remember the time when it was the tenth boards, and I had all the important charts from biology, physics, chemistry and even maths adorning the two walls of my rooms (the other two had windows on them.) I used to get up every morning, and the images of cytoplasm and mathematical equations got imprinted in my head. That was the reason why I guess, I did good for my tenth boards. I remember Mom insisting on getting a showcase in the hall in front of the dining table, because we always had a showcase when we were in Muscat. And it was built. But there wasn’t much to display. I am proud to say that, today the showcase is filled with trophies, medals and more showpieces than Mom ever imagined. Each of us in our family take pride on each and every piece in that showcase today.

We slowly started improving on the insides of our home, bit by bit, time by time. We got ourselves a TV after my tenth boards. Then we made the staircase railing wooden, we put up nice clay tiles in front of the house, Mom and me planted plants, trees, shrubs, we closed the old well and dug a new one, we built a bookshelf, we put tiles on the roof and we even bought a bigger water tank (which I still do clean when I am there. It is fun, you should try cleaning your tank at times) and I also remember the time when we got down the furniture from Muscat in a huge two piece container that my Dad sent through cargo. I remember, Dad and me going till the Kochi port to get the stuff. It was a pain in the ass to get clearance from authorities, but surprisingly, all matters were cleared by the evening, and we got ourselves a mini lorry and drove all the way up to Calicut from Kochi. We had an amazing time, going through the different districts, with Dad intermittently telling me stories about when he was young and how he actually got to Muscat. It was the second best Father-Son time I’ve ever had with Dad (the best happened very recently.) We reached home by late night, got down all the stuff, and put it in. Subsequently we got two single beds, we got the sofa set and loads more. The home that was, and the home after furnishing was fuller than ever before. It actually felt warmer.

After my plus two, in 2006, I had gone to Dubai for vacations with my Uncles and their families. To tell you the truth, it was the worst vacation of my life. Nothing can be as worse as those two months in Dubai. Maybe because I had to live with people, with whom I never before lived more than a couple of days together before. Or maybe because my Grandmother was getting on my nerves. Whatever it was, it happened, and one can’t do anything about it. There was one good thing to come out of that trip. My Mom’s brothers got me a computer, or basically all the parts of the computer when I left from Dubai. And Falaq was the place I bought it all to. It was very exciting for me, because this was actually my first real modern day computer. The last computer I owned ran only Windows 3.1 and Basic. So this was a big deal for me. And the best thing was, I called upon my chums, Vivek and Vaisakh to get it all together. We actually built the PC from motherboard to the last screw on the CPU. If you think that is easy, just try assembling a PC for yourself. We did a pretty good job at that. That computer survived for more than six years, until it was replaced with a better model just last year. I was a tad disappointed at first, coz it was just an average machine. Nothing powerful or anything. But something is better than nothing, right? So I remained loyal to my PC, and loved it like anything.

The legend

College was a whole new level of experience for me. Although I followed in the footstep of my brother, I believed to set an example of mine. Whether I did or not, I do not mind. But if I am still known as Danish’s brother, that is what matters to me. And till date, they know me as Danish’s brother, although they do know my name as well. If my brother went to college, they would ask him about me. If I went to college, they would ask me about him. That is the bond me and my brother share. There all the time, for one another. Even though I was the hot headed and black sheep of the family, my brother stood by me through thick and thin. I think this home did play a good part in that. College bought along new friends, new memories, fights, laughs, victories, embarrassments, and one of the best loves of my life – the Hero Honda Passion Plus. Alas the beauty stayed with me for just around four years. But in those four years, boy did we have fun – road trips: planned and unplanned, taxi service, late night pick-ups and so many more fun memories. That was the first vehicle of ours that stood on the tiled front porch of our home. You shall forever be missed - KL 11 Y 4658.

My relegated new room at 'Falaq'

In 2009, I moved to Delhi to pursue my Masters. It was difficult saying goodbye to Mom, to Brothers, to Friends, to Passion, to Home. But it was time. I had stayed in the nest for too long. And when I was away, Mom redecorated the room I used for more than half a decade, for my brother and his bride. I was more than happy. I was ecstatic. My stuff was moved into the small room on the side, with the ever expanding library. My bed, the godrej table and the shelf left no room at all to walk around. But I liked it. More so because it was just perfect to leave my room, as I last left it, waiting for me to get back to it. I lived in more houses than one in Delhi (which should most probably be my finale in this series. For now.), but nothing could ever make up for what ‘Falaq’ meant to me. This is the home where my friends came down to. This is the home where Ismail pulled down my pants. This is the home where a reunion meant orange food fight. This is the home where we got holed up in the worst New Year’s Eve ever. This is the home from where i sneaked out umpteen number of times. This is the home where countless parties took place. This is the home where we fell sick. This is the home where we all laughed. This is the home where my brother bought his new wife to. This is the home, that shall remain etched in my mind, as my home of homes.