A Letter To My Daughter

Dear Anam

You were born on a rainy morning on the 31st of July 2018. The first time I held you in my arms, you wailed (we have video evidence of it), and a very red you looked at your grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was 'the' moment that took my breath away.

But long before that defining moment, your Umma carried you inside her for nine months in the desert heat of Abu Dhabi and Dubai, the rain and humidity of Kannur and Calicut and the pleasantness of Bengaluru. During those days, we sang to you (especially your Papa in his trademark discordant voice), had secret story telling sessions (ones that even Umma could not eavesdrop on) and laughed often. Your doctor in Abu Dhabi - an ex-military personnel - was sad that you were going to India to make your grand arrival, but a red carpet had already been laid out for you back home.

As is with any expat to-be-Dad/new-Dad, it was hard staying away from you the last three months before you made your entry and the following three months waiting for you to join me in Abu Dhabi. But those days are long behind. Today, I have you in my arms the very second I come back from work. We wake up in the morning and do a bit of sunbathing for some much needed vitamin D. You do occasionally scare your Umma with an earth-shattering cry in the middle of the night, but no matter what, you brighten up our lives every single day.

The purpose of me writing this open letter to you is not to go on a rant about how the world is today or how it will turn out to be. But, it is rather to tell you that this world is good. The people are good. And there is goodness all around us. There can be detractors that might make you feel otherwise, but even for the briefest moment do not be disparaged. You go out there, conquer what you set your eyes on and be the woman you want to be. While at it, be good and do good.

I do not know what trajectory our lives will take over the coming years, but let me tell you this - we will always have your back. You are beautiful, fierce and a whole lot of amazing! Be happy and always spread happiness, because the life we have is a very short one, and it needn't be wasted otherwise. We love you with all our hearts and no matter what, you will always have us by your side.

Love,

Your Papa

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

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?

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.

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 1

Over the past few days, I have been privileged to read some of the most amazing anecdotes by students of their most incredible times in school or their fondness for one teacher or the other. Some in blogs, some picked up by media, some shared and some just stumbled upon. When I look back, I see that it is not just these few people who’ve had some unforgettable times in school. I believe each and everyone of us have a story or the other. I know what you must be thinking right now—uh oh! He is going to take us on his nostalgic trip once again. Well you don’t go wrong there—as I am going to do exactly that!

School for me were three beautiful establishments—the first being ISWK in Muscat, where I began, then HTTPS, Puthiyara in Calicut and finally MESRRS, Pavangad again in Calicut. I still remember vividly when my mom told me that I had to go to school, but before which I had to give an exam. My mom being herself had us gotten started at an early age, teaching us (my brother and me) alphabets and basic counting and giving the best teachers’ experience even before school began in reality for us. It needn’t be anything major, but you give her a book with question and answers and she would sit and hear you out after she asked a question, pointing out mistakes as we went on. And for her part she loved teaching us. She had sat down with each one of us three brothers’ education almost unto eighth grade. But it didn’t stop there; it is through her motivation that the three of us are into as diverse a field as we are in right now.

So coming back to kindergarten, I still remember heading to Muttrah (that was where our school was located, before moving it to the better building-ed Wadi Kabir location), sitting in a classroom full of little kids, each of them finishing up their own tests. After a couple of days I got my results and it turned out that I had done immensely well. But then my mom saw my paper, and she came up to me and showed me where I had gone wrong. There was a math counting exercise in the paper, where I had to write the number of objects that was in a row. Me trying to be a smartass, went on to count the box also in which I had to write the answer. Thereby, losing marks, but jumping to KGII instead of KGI. The first few years I have not much memory of. It seems to me now as if it was all too blurry and way too quick.

But I do remember my class teachers. There was one Mrs. Neethu ma’am who was our teacher in the first or third grade. Again, as I told earlier, too blurry, too quick. But I clearly remember our second grade teacher, Ms. Loraine Pinto. I have for one have been trying to locate her the past few years. But it’s a difficult situation for a teacher to recognize you after like 18 years—either you had to be freakishly talented or annoyingly mischievous. I was an in between student. But yes, Loraine ma’am if you are reading this, I hope this will be a memory refresher. She was a tall teacher, who used to come in these red and grey suits, had long nails which were always painted red, and used to be super fond of all her kids, me more so. I still remember one science exhibition day, she gave me a new red Pilot pen and asks me to finish off the ink in it. I just scribbled the hell out of that pen, and finished off the ink in it and gave it to ma’am. She looked at the pen and then looked at me, I knew I had done something wrong—in my frenzy I had gone on to break the nib of the pen. She had a good laugh and gave me another pen to finish off. She taught us everything—math, English, science, social studies, assignments where you had to stick pictures, colouring within the borders, and to me, my most fantastic sporting achievement ever in school life—winning the inter class sports competition, after losing out to the A division in every practise run. It was the annual sports day, and we had to take part in a team event, where eight of us would line up behind a race line, and one after the other would run to a distance and go and build and rebuild a pyramid made out of soda cans, placed at a table at a distance. Our class, the F division, which would become synonymous to becoming the average class with extraordinary people, was kind of pathetic at it—that is what one would say, when we went on to come in last in almost all the practice runs. The A division even received prizes during these unofficial races. But when it came to the real deal, we surprised even ourselves. We left our best and fastest runner, Aemon, for the last. Each of us, did our best, making and destroying the can-pyramids one after the other. When Aemon ran back after making the pyramid for one last time, we couldn’t believe our eyes- we had won! I clearly remember the excitement that ran through us, when we finished the race—still gives me goosebumps. Yes, primary school was that exciting for us, especially with teachers like Ms. Loraine Pinto.

Where memories began

Then in the fourth grade, I encountered the teacher I will not forget for the rest of my life—Ms. Charmaine Bell. She is to me, the best teacher there ever will be. I still remember her coming into the class, with her curly frizzy hair and big smile, while we rose in chorus - Good morning ma’am! It was she who inculcated in me the will to be capable of anything, the ability to excel and the importance of being a team player. In that one year in fourth grade, I learned so much, that I believe will remain in memory forever and hopefully will be passed on to my own kids. I remember one instance, when we had to do the class play. There was Warren Vaz (who is right now a chemical engineer, if I am not mistaken) and me who were vying for the role of the Prince in the fairy tale, Cinderella. And then there was the wordy role of the narrator. I really wanted the Prince’s role, but Charmaine ma’am was so sweet, that she convinced me to be the narrator, which had more importance and stage presence than any one else. And I had like pages and pages to learn before I could actually go on stage. With the help of my mom, I actually did learn all those lines, by heart. On the day of the play, everything went absolute smooth, and after I had said my last line, I walked backstage, and Charmaine ma’am, comes and grabs me and tells me I had been just plain wonderful, and plants a kiss on my cheek. I hastily rubbed off the lipstick mark on my cheek (as you would see any young boy do), but the pride I felt in me, when she told me what a wonderful job I had done, I don’t think any other instance with any other teacher could equate with that. The very lady moulded us even more going into the fifth standard. (I met up with her in 2010, along with Jonathan, and she is still the sweet frizzy haired lady with a smile that can make anyone's day)

And then in the fifth grade, there was the arrival of another teacher that greatly influenced me in the art of story telling. When he had come, he was a French teacher, and did teach French to the higher classes. But to us, or rather me, he will always remain our temporary-math-teacher-turned-permanent-math-teacher in fifth grade. We were struggling with a replacement for our math teacher. While Mr. Keerthi Kumar, the man forever in the white shirt, pants, shoes and even hair and beard was up for teaching us in a few years, fifth grade required someone less intimidating. So as we waited one fine day for out math teacher to show up, a thin, lanky young spectacled man walks into our classroom. We were like – aha another substitute, another free period, we are gonna have some free fun time. But then how Mr. Sivakumar got us hooked on for the next half hour is beyond comprehension. He started off by asking us to close the curtains in the classroom in the first place. After which he goes on to tell us one of the most genuinely scary stories of all times. The atmosphere created by him was absolutely electric. There was the chill in the air, there was the simplistic manner in which he actually transported us to the location – it was just pure magic. That was it, the next time Mr. Sivakumar came to our class, he was teaching us math, and from time to time, the brilliant scary stories. I have told that story now to an entire battalion of cousins over various trips to a number of places around the Middle East and back home in India, and even so do too to this day. His popularity was so immense that he was even invited over for birthday parties, where again he weaved his magical story telling ability. From being a substitute, to being a part time math teacher, to a full time favourite – you sir, are indeed an inspiration to this day. (Mr. Sivakumar went on to teach French to my other friends over the next few years).

But then it is not like other teachers didn't exist. There were others without whom we could not have made it through those young years, and I betcha my classmates who are reading this will remember, and hopefully one day all us kids and teachers can meet so that we can tell you from the bottom of our hearts, a big thank you!

We shall now take a small interval, since after the fifth grade, I too left ISWK for a couple of years, moving back to India. But that as we all know, folks, is for another post, another day and another time.

(Yes, I have restarted my shameless to-be-continued series of posts)
(But pliss be the kind and bear with me J)

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.

The Nomad That Is Me - Part 3 (The Story Of My Homes)

The summer sun in Muscat is quite stupendous. As soon as you get out of the creaky Indian Airlines flight, you feel the heat hit on you like a fresh waft of plain sunny-ness. In the summer of 2000 I returned to Muscat. Dad was running his own business, albeit a small one. I remember two years back dad had a huge Volvo sedan (I think it was the 850 or 900 model.) But things change and Dad had shifted to a more modest car – the Nissan Primera. We were heading back to dear old Al-Fayha complex. The same fourth floor. The same second last door on the left. But not for long. It was just a temporary stopover for us.

Ruwi at night, the Sultan Qaboos Mosque in view (Photo courtsey: Sudheer S)

We were moved towards an apartment in the more crowded-industrialized area of Baladiyah street, close to Ruwi. It was a fresh start, and there were loads of things to do. For starters, me and dad took up charge of cleaning the whole place up from scratch. We began with the kitchen, since Mom needed it ASAP. And it was quite difficult cleaning the place up. It was filthy dirty the first time we saw it. A lot of pest faeces, darkened corners, and dusty cupboards – all washed clean and disinfected. And then there was the carpeting, starting with the drawing room. There were two bedrooms. The master bedroom had a huge bathroom (which my Mom didn’t like at all – because it is difficult to clean such a large space – she cursed that bathroom for as long as we stayed there.) I kinda liked the enormousness of the bathroom (kinda made me feel like a king.) Then there was the laying of the tiles for the corridor, that Dad got from his new wood workshop. And it was totally my masterpiece; I laid all the tiles across the 15 foot by 4 foot corridor. Still very proud of it.

The neighbourhood was not that great. There were too many metal workshops and what not out there. It was not the ideal residential place. And maybe one of the reasons that I didn’t even have any pictures of the place. After long, we resumed going to school by bus, which was again quite boring. I don’t exactly remember who used to stay next to me there (I think it was Clayton or somebody.) But there are some beautiful memories of the time when I was staying there, although outside of our home. I used to go to the Al Safoor plaza (was it?)(it was on the Bayt Al Falaj street, that’s for sure), where Nikhil used to stay. He was a big fan of basketball, and me new to the sport. But I guess I did try my best to gather what I could do about the sports and used to play it along with him out there. Then there were the carom board sessions with the masters of the flick and fingers – some of the most awesome-st carom moves I have ever seen – and they were the local factory workers and the watchmen who used to amaze me with their skills. Nikhil too was really good at it. But I really did have good times out there.

But then it was another trip that I enjoyed quite much. Jonathan and I used to head out to Qurum with his Dad in the evenings on weekends. And we used to roam about the handful of malls that dotted the Qurum commercial centre. John’s Dad used to be at the SABCO centre, while ma Dad at the Wadi Commercial Centre. Our hang out place usually used to be at the electronics store on the ground floor. The Playstation (yes the first series) had just come out, and we had a chance to play it. But it came with a catch. We had to play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (yes the PS game), and get to at least the fifth question to play one of the any games available with them. Since John liked quizzes, he got to play that, while I got to play the games part. It was a win-win situation. The weekends were real fun, and I also remember heading to John’s place to work on our computer project for the exhibition. John’s a genius I tell you. While in our eighth grade, he bought a Bible of sorts on the software Flash, and read the entire manuscript, and made his own animation for the start of our crude quizzing game (made on Microsoft Powerpoint!) So there I was working on the computer, even though the latest I had till the end of 2001 was a Window 3.1. Whatever I know about computers, is all thanks to Jonathan Prakash Kotker. Great guy. Great time. Great memories.

Tragedy struck us toward the end of August. Dad got involved in one of the worst car crashes. If you saw the sight of the Ssangyong Musso he was travelling in, you would be amazed to know that all three travelling in it survived. Dad was the most affected. We had to take him back home for rehabilitation. He was very badly injured and there were just too many stitches all around. So back to Kerala we headed. It was a sad end to a new start.

The usual lush greenery of Kerala greeted us once again. Dad spent a lot of time with the Ayurvedic doctors, and he made good progress. And we were staying at our Grandparents place. Again. But there was an eminent move on the way. But that is for another blog post. Another day.