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.

Never Hesitate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 Things That Make Me Happy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!)

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. :)

How We Were Taught Part 4 (surpassing Part 3)

The school that provided a cacophony o f memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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.

The Nomad That Is Me - Part 5 [Final?] (The Story Of My Homes)

This shall be the last of my post on The Story Of My Homes. A lot of people think that this is the one statement i have been waiting to make. But that is not how a series finale should end. It should be happy. It should end on a positive note. So I will try to hold onto my better senses and not try to take it out on anyone, thereby making a statement in this series finale. So here goes:

I had to come to Delhi quite a few times, before I made sure that this is where I would be spending my post graduation days. First for the exam, then the interview and then for the actual settling down. And it all began in the summer of 2009. Trust me on this, Delhi in the summer is not a place you would like to be. I really didn’t like Delhi the first time I came here, basically because I had no friends here and I had to build my base from scratch out here. The first time I came to Delhi was when I had to write the entrance exam for the much sought after Mass Communication and Convergent Journalism courses at AJKMCRC in Jamia Millia Islamia. I stayed over at the International Youth Hostel in Chanakyapuri. Now that is one hell of a locality. Since it was smack in the middle of the diplomatic enclave, the streets were clean, the lawns were manicured, the roads were wide – it was like living in a foreign locale altogether. But then that wasn’t home. I stayed there once again, when I had to come down for the interview for my admission for Convergent Journalism (yes, I didn’t get through Mass Comm.) So it was decided a week later that I would be one of the lucky 20 odd people who would be part of the 2009 batch of Convergent Journalism kids at AJKMCRC. So now I was sure I would be spending the next two years of my life in Delhi. And that is when I started seeing Delhi, in reality. The first two trips were just glimpses of Delhi.

My mom always gets paranoid when sending her sons away anywhere. Even after me telling her that I would not require anyone’s help to go to Delhi or get me admitted to the institution, she called up my cousin who had come down from Dubai to accompany me till Delhi. And accompany me he did. We started off from Kochi, took an accommodation at the Pondicherry (now Puducherry) house, on the recommendation of a local politician, who was also a relative (one time, when politics does come to good use.) We went and did the formalities at the institute. And within three days had traversed wherever the Delhi metro could take us to. The first impression you have of Delhi is – it is a mega city! I mean the expanse of the city is so much, that it is difficult for a small town boy like me to actually fathom living here. It is scary. But I survived, and here I am writing the city’s story from the city itself. On the fourth day of my stay at Pondicherry house, an army jeep came for me from the 5 Signal Corp at Dhaula Kuan. My first home was to be in an army cantonment, due to a kind friend of my Uncle, Lieutenant Colonel Vinod. The Signal 5 Corp is the communication backbone of the Indian army and Lt. Cl. Vinod was an engineer there. It was a brilliant stay. There were small villa sort of things inside the gigantic gate that led us into the camp. And Mr. Vinod had a large room due to the post he had. There were trees all around the camp, small cobblestone paths that lead to different centres, canteens and houses. It was quite boring living there, since I had nothing to do out there, except read, was my clothes, have food served to you thrice a day. Mr. Vinod had personal assistants who would cater to his every need, right from polishing his shoes to serving him beer at night. It was the laziest I ever felt, while staying there. I didn’t have to do anything at all. So for almost a month I was holed up in there. But then I realized it was time to move out. The first couple of days I headed to college which was at Jamia Nagar from Dhaula Kuan, which i considered quite a distance to cover (it was barely 10 kms) (little did I know that it was not that great considering people travel hundreds of kilometers everyday to work and study in Delhi.) But then I made friends in my new classroom. I still remember, the first friend or human soul I introduced myself to in MCRC was Akanksha. Both of us had come in late, and we were frantically searching for our classrooms. But then it was in the auditorium that the inauguration was taking place in. So we headed out. And the convergent journalism part of my life began, starting that day.

After a few days, lot of us became friends, and it was Saiam, who offered to share his room with me. If it wasn’t for Saiam I would never have headed out from the Army Cantt. So one fine morning I left with all my baggage (which was quite a lot) to Batla House in the army jeep. Now to explain Batla House, you don’t need much. Just imagine a 2000 sq. foot place. Now imagine a million people in it. That is Batla House for you. Placed on the banks of the river Yamuna, Batla House is a predominantly Muslim locality and has the feeling of the rush that you get in a Purani Dilli (Old Delhi) or any old city for that matter. The first room I shared, was a very modest one, with a shared bathroom, at Nafees Road, with water to bath and make ablutions on a constant threat of being depleted by the hundreds of others living in the same building. I still don’t know how I survived there, but I had begun to live. The best thing about living in Batla House was that you could get some awesome food, straight from the chicken achari to kebabs to biriyani to rabri faluda and what not. So food was not a major problem here. But I barely stayed with Saiam for a month. I then shifted in with Neyaz, another classmate of mine, who surprisingly has been staying in Delhi for the past 10 years. He has his own place. A modest building in between a lane of like a thousands of them. His place is the only place that has does not go beyond the ground floor. The rest of the building around him have built floors after floors, making his house feel like a David among Goliaths. His place was filthy dirty the time I got there, but over time, I started shifting stuff out, made some changes here and there, the dim fluorescent bulb shone brighter and the place breathed a bit more. And it was nice and cozy, since we had always somebody over. And in between, Furquan, another friend of ours also moved in. So there, we were, three bachelors in a 'Delhi Belly'-ish set up. And that was what it was for almost around the end of December 2009. And Delhi winters – woah! I tell you this is a city of extremes.

At the same time, Furquan and me were contemplating moving out of Neyaz’s place, because we wanted to give Neyaz his privacy and we were paying like very little for the stay he offered us. So then, we teamed up with two other friends – Samir, the eccentric and Alex, the Frenchman and went in search of apartments. And it was Samir who found us one - in Sarai Jullena, which was close to New Friends Colony. And it was to the east of Batla House (the further, the better.) That three-bedroom apartment would be the starting point of my life in Delhi. We had proper rooms to ourselves, a huge kitchen, good washroom, separate toilet – it was beautiful. Furquan and me shared a room, while Samir and Alex had a room of their own. Samir took the balcony room, while we had the corner right one. We very sparingly furnished our place, with two cots and carpet, which we bought from Batla house. It was in this very apartment, where i would say i found my first home in Delhi. And it was brilliant. It was in this very apartment, from where we received a weird bird as a house warming present (that actually dissappeared mysteriously after a couple of days), relationships began, good food was cooked, parties held, wi-fi's shared, where the fan worked only in our room, and so much more. This first floor apartment will forever remain a fond memory of my time in Delhi. But alas, all good things must come to an end. Our first year of college was coming to an end, and Alexandre was heading back to Paris. We could no longer afford the apartment. Since it was the vacations we didn't need a place to stay for almost two months, but we still had our stuff. Before Alex left, he gave away whatever stuff he had with him. Me and Furquan got the sofa, the toaster and a few things here and there.

So me and Furquan started roaming the length and breadth of Jamia Nagar looking for a decent room to keep our stuff in. After almost a week's search we found a relatively nice room in a not so relatively clean locality of Batla House. It was the topmost room, alongside ample tiled terrace. The only thing that was bothersome was the water and the paan stained toilet (thankfully we didn't have to sit on them, it was the Indian-squat type.) And it was on the fourth floor. So we somehow mustered up all the muscles that were not visible at first to take up all our stuff to the penthouse (yeah, it was a penthouse) and left Delhi for our respective homes for the summer vacations.

It was only after we came back in July, that we realized that the home that we took, was not quite the ideal home. It turned filthy dirty by the time we got back. We could not also keep it clean for an entire day, coz the dust settled quite easily and quickly inside the room every time we opened the window. So it was back to house searching once again. The only plus of living in Batla House as i said earlier, is the availability of some real good non veg food (especially the ones from Munis Kada and the small dhaba sort of shops that sold kebaabs.) But we could not stay there for long. While on our quest once again, through the gullies of Sarai Jullena, we ran into our old landlord. We were kinda scared asking him for a room, because we thought we had left the last place in not such a great state, what with all the bottles in the kitchen and stuff. But somehow i mustered up the courage and asked him - "Remember us?". His reply was quite friendly - "How can i not?". But not in the sarcastic tone. So by the time we finished talking with him, our newest home was found. 

It was a single room in a newly built floor of an old building. It was picture perfect. It had large windows, nice ventilation, ample light, built in kitchenette, built in cupboard and enough for space for two people as tall as myself and Fruquan to adjust in. And it was quite cheap too. We didn't think twice. We got the room -- on the fourth floor, and this time it was worth it. The tough task of getting all our stuff from the fourth floor of one building to the fourth floor of another was the only tough task that we had. We bought ourselves a carpet to go in the centre of the room, while i bought a bed and a table. It was all nice. One of the nicest homes i've lived in. And i take this opportunity to tell you that Furquan is the best roommate that i have ever lived with. There was an unsaid dealing that both of us could get, for as long as we stayed at room no 708 in building no. 58. I used to cut the veggies, while he used to cook. I used to have the net connected to my computer, while he used the wi-fi. There was equality, there was fun, there was brotherhood, there was a looking out for one another. Room no. 708 will forever remain my favorite home in Delhi.

But once again, good things came to an end. And it came in the form of my well planned stupidity. I got myself a job in Bangalore. I said my goodbyes. I had friends over, we had a crazy last day together at room 708. I made up my mind. I was to leave Delhi. But its true that you only know what you miss, when you are no longer around them. But i had made up my mind. I decided to take a small, deserved break before heading home, and headed to Mumbai. It was from here, that i get to know that the job in Bangalore had a catch (through a phone call from the company), which i didn't like one bit. I didn't even go to Bangalore. After some soul searching (read - rummaging on the internet for like hours), i got a job in Chennai. In a newspaper's tabloid edition. But i didn't feel like the zing there. And plus, i had no clue about who's who in the Tamil celebrity list, which was an essential part of the job i was part and so I decided i had to head back. I had a lot of unfinished business in Delhi. I missed Delhi. (which could also be a metaphor for the life that I've lived for the past two years.)

So after a hiatus of around two months, i was back to Delhi, back to room no. 708, but little did i know i would have to get out of there before i could say -"Look who's back!" Turned out that Furquan had invited his old roommate to stay with him, considering the fact that i had said i was not gonna be back. I was a little late in letting him know. How late? A week. If i had told him a week earlier, i could have still stayed with him. But Furquan is a man with a heart. He allowed me to stay at his place. And it was in room 708, that i sat for almost two weeks, without a job, without hope and without a darn clue about my future. But it was also here, that i found my calling, my job and my life back once more - when i got a job with Sports Illustrated India. I tried to reason with Furquan regarding staying along with him, but then he had already promised his friend. I felt it better not to tamper with other people's promises. So a fruitful year and a half relationship with the best roommate i ever had came to an end, with me finding a new place, a new roommate (my junior from college - Ratnendra) and a new future.

Well, it was this very departure from the room that i loved so much, that prompted me to start off with this series about my homes in the first place.


The new room was more like a hotel room, and it used to be where our friend Samir used to live before he headed out for greener pasture. First thing you would notice in the new place, which to reach you had to go through a narrow gulley and then walk just two flights of stairs - there is no ventilation whatsoever! And my new roommate couldn't stand the heat. He wanted an AC. We got an AC on rent. The place was infested with cockroaches. Water would basically start to trickle after 10 in the night. I hated the new place. And after a fruitful roommate relationship, i was not able to warm upto the idea of a new roommate, because the old give-take relationship was not working out (I hope Ratnendra does not kill me, after reading this), but i am one who always likes to give it a shot. So it was a long three months that i stayed up at the non-ventilated room, while i was frantically searching around for a new place. My old roommate did fuck me up once during these three months, when he shifted to a new place, while i could have taken up his room. Unfortunately, he didn't inform me, and somebody else took the room. But he made it up to me. He informed me of the room his landlord's brother had, and that is now my home.

On 22nd of October, while all my friends were wishing me happy birthday through phone calls, facebook message, mails, e-cards and sms-es, i was getting my own place for the very first time -- on the fifth floor. I have a window in my room. Nice kitchen, nice bathroom (i always make it a point that the plumbing is good wherever i go, i don't want another paan stained toilet ever again my entire life) and to top it all i could breathe. Finally. And while i write this, i am settled down with my bed, table, sofa and fridge (courtsey Mizaj), my ever growing collection of books, magazines, my laptop, my net connection and an end to my nomadness (is that even a word?) at room no. 14. And there is a sense of feeling that i have finally found a home -- for now that is. I hope it will be long before i bore you. Peace.

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.

beginning

A small victory. An unending overwhelming heartiness. Celebrations all around. Ear deafening raptures. All this while, a position above the one below the top was mere nothingness to me. But to be there on the top is quite an exhilarating experience. Your blood rushes, your pace increases, hugs pass around like there’s no tomorrow. Yes, we won. A small victory. With wishes to do more, and hope to aspire much, we take it in as a fresh start to this year and believe that there are miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.

ma angels

Months and more
When a baby and less was I
She carried me around
Smiled at me
Took me in her arms
Woke up in the middle of the nights
Fed me
Made sure I burped
The songs she sang
The warmth of her touch
Mom I love you
Have
Am
Will
Always.

Days and nights,
Memories,
Laughs,
Frustrations,
Fights,
Secrets,
Hopes,
Wishes,
Anything & everything
The narrowness,
The thinness,
The path of what might be,
Wherever,
Whenever,
Anu – Mukz
I love u
Have
Am
Will
Always.

You all inspire me.
You move me.
You make me cry.
You make me laugh so hard it hurts.
You make me smile.
You make me know that you care.
You make me.