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.

I am glad I had this year

Just a month to go before the end of the year and I still can’t believe that I haven’t written a single word on this blog. Like a lot lost this year, I think this labour of love too has gone to waste. 

I think it has a lot to do with the year. Have you ever had a year when you simply hated and loved it for some reason? 2014 was that year for me. It has been the topsiest-turviest time of my life ever, yet.

Again I emphasize the use of the word ‘yet’, because just when you think life couldn’t get any sweeter or worse, something to its extreme happens.  But all through this, you are subject to a lot of life lessons. I have learned mine. I am glad I had this year.

Thanksgiving just passed by. Although an American tradition, I believe each of us should have a thanksgiving ever year. We do not take the time to appreciate the itty-bitty details of life. I have given thanks in silence and else to them those who matter. I am glad I had this year.

We have been blinded by our own privileges. Until tragedy strikes or the untoward happens we stick to the pattern, accepting everything in a devil-may-care attitude. At my worst self, I had the support I never felt before, reassuring all is never lost. I am glad I had this year.

It was a good year to cut out on those souls who you made it a point to stay in touch but didn’t bother about anything else but them. I’ve learnt to give and receive nothing. I am glad I had this year.

Families come in all shapes and sizes. The year which began with the small world of ours has grown bigger, warmer and brighter. It has just reaffirmed my belief in love, faith and trust. I am glad I had this year.

I am not a person anymore. I am a ‘we’. Life hasn’t altered, planets haven’t misaligned and the world is as wonderful as ever. I am glad I had this year.

No matter the good or the bad, you know you have moved on. You have had your experiences, frustrations, exultations – but none of that matters until you thank your stars and say I am glad I had this year.

The Message

He woke to the hum of the three tonne truck outside his home, unloading or loading bricks or wood or whatever the landlord is crazy enough to get at nine in the morning everyday. It was nothing new. Ever since he'd moved to this side of town, or rather this side of the village, this is how his daily routine had been. He couldn't remember exactly when he had gone to sleep, but could remember that he had had a good night's sleep. He had come in late last night. It was his job, basically. It was all Roger Federer's fault. If he had not dragged on a match he was already losing into a tiebreak every set, all of them could have gone home earlier. But it was not to be. (click to continue reading...)

(This story has been chosen for the New Asian Writing's 2013 Short Story Anthology, so i am obligated to give you the link to the story on their website, to prevent duplication of content on the web)

But all said and done, i am definitely chuffed to have a short story published for the second time. :)

From Then to Now

Three years to this day, I walked out of Terminal 1D with a large red and a small green bag, heading to the Puducherry house in Chanakyapuri. Who would have known it would be so long, so far, so good. From the green of the army cantonment to the dust and keechad of Batla House to the French window Malluland to the nomadish life to the settling in with the Christian family – it has been quite the search for the perfect home. From corresponding via ‘I just donno whaay’ to almost getting killed on Diwali to the crazy French parties to the stolen kisses in the corridors to the innumerable recording and shootings to the setting sun’s golden paint falling on the day to the travails of a writer across the country to the intense moments in foreign Indian locales – the friends and the lovers and the frenemies and the loathed and the everyone in between – the experience has been nothing short of unforgettable.

Year four. It won’t be long. Time for Frank Sinatra to take over:

“I can't stop lovin' you

So I've made up my mind

To live in memory

Of old lonesome times

I can't stop wantin' you

It's useless to say

So I'll just live my life

In dreams of yesterday

Those happy hours

That we once knew

Though long ago

Yeah they make me feel blue

They say that time

Heals a broken heart

But time has stood still

Since we've been apart

I can't stop lovin' you

Yes so I've made up my mind

To live in memory

Of old lonesome times

I can't stop wantin' you

It's so useless to say

So I'll just live my life

Live my life in dreams

Of yesterday.”

The Marine Drive Emergency

I had asked her out not once, not twice, but three times. All rejections. Reasons were as diverse as it will be weird at work, you are such a good friend, what we have is forever and even I don’t want to spoil what we already have.

I was head over heels for her. She kept disturbing my dreams. I barely slept. Once I awoke from what seemed like a nightmare – she was with somebody else. I told somebody about the dreams. But the only I response I got from that person – forget it, it ain’t gonna happen. But I didn’t.

It is true maybe that when a person isn’t in front of you is the time when you miss them the most.

Is it just plain stupid to keep wanting somebody, although they clearly do not want to pursue the relationship? I do not think so.

I landed in Mumbai. I gave her a call. She didn’t pick up. I got a message a while later from her. She was at Marine Drive. Alone. I was staying at my friends place at Marine Lines, which runs parallel to Marine Drive.

The level three heritage building creaked under my heavy steps. I was running. I got a shout out from my friend on the second floor – Best of luck. Did I need it? Majorly.

Chira Bazaar was still abuzz. I made it through the bustle of trucks being loaded and unloaded, as the winding roads took me towards the Marine Lines bridge. It barely had a footpath. But I ran towards where the Arabian Sea was beating the artificial rocks along the bay walk.

There she was sitting opposite to one of those Gymkhana grounds. I could notice her from this far across. She looked beautiful in her sweatshirt, track pants and sporty shoes, just looking at the setting sun. But she was sad. I ran.

I walked the last few steps. I didn’t say a word and sat next to her. She was surprised. But she smiled. Dusk had almost settled in. We didn’t say a word.

I let my fingers slide into hers. And she put her head on my shoulders.

The Arabian Sea splashed waves. The setting sun bought in darkness. But we sat together. Comfortable. We didn’t say a word.

Sudoku

It was five in the evening. She hadn’t come to work that day. But I wanted to see her. I got down at the bus stop closest to her home. The long path was worth the walk. Carrying a box of cookies and the day’s newspaper supplementary, I made it towards H-42 in Highland Hills. I had to call to make sure she was there. She was. A lot of thoughts ran through my mind. Would I be able to tell her finally or would I again muster?

I climbed the flight of stairs to her home. A ring of the bell and there she stood in sporting shorts and a white tee. With a paintbrush in hand, she welcomed me in. She was painting. The canvas lay on the floor. She sat back on the cushion and asked me to get comfortable. I just sat there looking longingly at her. 

She painted layer by layer, while striking a conversation with me. The usual questions did the rounds – what happened at work, how is work and so on and so forth. I tell her I have something for her, and give her the cookie box. She is overjoyed. She loves my mom’s cookies. She stops painting and has a cookie immediately. I smile.

She notices the supplementary in my hand. She enquires as to why I am carrying it. I tell her that it is my new obsession to complete the Sudoku in the supplement on my way home in the metro. She thinks that’s nice. She has the widest of smiles. I look at her, hoping she doesn’t notice that I am secretly admiring her.

I go closer to inspect the artwork. But I know I am closer to her. She always smells good. I make some suggestions, which she thinks are good. We talk a bit more. She always has this fruity fragrance around her. I do not get too close to comfort. She might not like it. I keep my distance.

After a while, I decide to head out. I wanted to stay. But I tell her that I am leaving. She even asks me to stay back. But I falter. She herself gave me the excuse that my mom was home, and I should be getting back. I said yes to that. I must really be a fool.

She came to the door, but didn’t close it. She stood by the stair, and watched me walk out through the gate. Pleasantries were exchanged and promises made of meeting tomorrow. I wanted to tell her. But I kept walking.

I walked on the street, my hands free, my heart heavy. I knew I had missed my chance. I should have told her, while I had the chance. I could have walked back. But I didn’t. I realised something. I messaged her: I think I left something back at your place. She called me back to tell me that she could come and give me my Sudoku puzzle.

But who said it was the Sudoku?

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 Cellar

"There's someone out there,"

Says the child

In that dark,

Dirty, cramped place.

All’s over,

And you hear nothing.

For it’s all over.

Down in a cellar,

You remain as dust.

As if to be called,

To be cleaned up again.

I proceed forward,

Up the stairs,

We came down through.

And lifted the weight,

That shut as down.

Slowly,

It turns out,

Everything’s all right.

I cry out,

Even thought the voice,

Isn’t clear,

“Praise be to God,

We are in heaven!”

Mirrored Mirage

I’m a thief
By means all I say not
I’m unimagined
I’m the dark in the white
The black in the light
I’m the hole in the gap
If I was right
Then why am I wrong?
Is in me then,
The cause of worry?
Across, afar
I come see a mirror
A presentiment abides
In what I see
I am a thief
I shall not know why.

Why?

(Maybe she's gone through the same shit. A possible pardoxical expression of life for putting up with so much. My friend Mukz, at her best again...)

Why is it all about mistakes?
Will there ever be a world beyond?
Where love prevails and evil fails
Will there ever be a heaven on earth?

Will there be a man acknowledged
for being rich at heart and pure in soul?
With cures for heal and pity to feel
Will there ever be a heaven on earth?

Will there be a bird that flies
far in to the skies, far away from cries?
Without its wings folded, or clipped away
Will there ever be a heaven on earth?

by - Mukta Jayanth