Vishu at The Devidas's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protagonists with their vishu sadya

Failure is Alright

Me, back in 11th grade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inspire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Triangle Angled

It wasn’t just another day at school. She came up to me and told me that she wanted to be together with my best friend. I obliged and decided to pass on the message to my friend. But I was stopped midway by another gang of girls. They told me that one of their friends also liked my best friend. Now that is one big triangle.

An emergency meeting was called upon. I sat down with two other girls and decided on what should be the next course of action. The girls gave their defence – our friend has been in love with him since forever, but has not been able to tell him,  so I think it is fair by all means, that our friend gets to ask him out. But my friend is also in love with him, although not since forever. What do I go and tell her? The two girls had this view that my friend was just looking to pass time and not be serious about a relationship. I contemplated. I decided.

My best friend had by known that two girls have been waiting to ask him out. He wanted me to just get done with the suspense and tell him already. But I was being asked to delay the inevitable by the gang of girls.

The class got over. I asked my best friend to wait at the back bench. After what seemed like an eternity, she came and sat opposite him. Both very visibly shy.  (We watched all this through the grills of the window of our classroom from a distance). My best friend was waiting for her to say something, and she did. Hurriedly. And then she came running towards her gang of girls. I go in to assess the situation. My best friend tells me – I did not understand a word of what she said. I go out, get her back in and ask her to relax and have a conversation the other will be able to understand. She did. And then there were smiles all around.

Another couple, another happy beginning.

But here I had to break the bad news to somebody. So I went to my friend, and told her – But he is in love with somebody else.

While it was not true then, it is now.
And everyone has found who they were looking for.
Almost.

cry

Sax: Do you cry?
Me: Yes I do.

But why?

There are a number of things I miss.

I miss the smell of fresh earth after a brief spell of rain. All I can smell now are the asphalt road, cemented gullies and overflowing drains. And I cry.

I miss the late night coffee mom makes after dinner. Now I drink water – mineralized and chlorinated, I think I hear the walls of my wall erode. And I cry.

I miss the cold wind on my face as I drive through NH17. Here, I move at the speed of snail, unaware of the man pushing men to meet ends needs. And I cry.

I miss the warmth of friends, embracing each emotion as being their own. At present, I wait every night, hoping for a virtual hug over optical cable and satellite signals. Not warm. But someone cares. And I cry.

I miss the solitude of the blue room. I miss the redwood bed. I miss the green gdrej. I miss the antique computer. I miss the world map covered table.
I miss home. I miss love. I cry.