Aemon & Ira: The Beginning

(This was written nearly six years back, in the heyday of my writing, job and life in general. I always envisioned it to have a beginning, middle and end but abandoned it soon after owing to some sour experiences that transformed my life in umpteen number of ways. But I believe I cannot leave this halfway, and thus have put it up now, and hope that the middle and end too come up soon)

After nearly seven years, the three of them had gotten together. Raul lit up the last cigarette in the packet and sat next to the window overlooking the coconut grove. Vinay was already down to the bare minimum, tucked into the thin linen blanket. Aemon was frantically clicking file after file on his laptop. He had to get both seasons on a DVD before morning. He didn't want to take a risk, so he'd bought extra blank DVDs, just to be sure.

It was their best friend's wedding. All had come down from different corners of the planet. But for Aemon, this trip meant something more. Sometime you look forward to something so much and want it to be so perfect, you tend to overdo it - that's what Aemon was doing at that moment.

He finally got the last of the DVD burned. The two seasons of the shows were ready. The chocolates were ready. All bundled up into a neat little packet.

Almost perfect, he thought.

But that's when another pressing matter stumped him - all he had was a 100cc scooter as transportation. It was all about being comfortable. And there were chances it could rain.

Then, as a godsend, Vinay spoke, his voice almost barely audible in the highly snooze induced atmosphere, "Hey Aemon, can you take the car from my home tomorrow morning? We can keep it to ourselves after picking and dropping my parents back and forth from the wedding."

Aemon's eyes lit up. He wanted to kiss Vinay. But he didn't want to reveal his over enthusiasm. In a calm and composed tone, Ameon said, "Yeah. Sure."

And then as an after thought, he added, "Can I have the car to myself for an hour in the afternoon?"

Vinay gave a quizzical look, but murmured, "Yeah, you can," before dozing off.

***

The morning after was hurried. Everyone was trying to get somewhere or the other. The wedding had a star-aligned timing or muhurtam. Everyone needed to be at the temple before that precise moment.

For Aemon and Vinay, it was chauffeuring duty.

Just when they they though dropping off Vinay's parents off at the temple would free them, news came in that some of the groom's friends were stranded at the hotel. After what seemed like an eternity, and umpteen trips back and forth the kalyana mandapam, the two arrived, before the stars aligned and the seven revolutions began.

Aemon kept looking at his watch and then on to the stage, where the bride and groom preformed ritual after ritual.

It's just 12, Aemon started calculating. There should be plenty of time for me to get out. The lunch should be done by 1. I could drop off Vinay's parents and anybody else by 1.30. And then finally the car's mine.

A smug look ensued on Aemon's face.

The flow of people towards the neatly laid out row of benches and desks, where they were serving lunch followed as soon as the marriage had been solemnised. The banana leaves spread, people rushed to have their sadya.

Aemon looked at his watch again. Nearly 1. He quickly had his lunch. It's going according to clockwork. Vinay's parents waited for him outside. He rushed to get them in the car and drop them back home. That is when he received a message:

"Bad traffic. Been stuck for the past half an hour not moving an inch."

That's good, more time to see off people and no need to rush.

But he replied, "Damn it! Wrong day to take the bus!". A call and a minute later, assurances were given as to when they could possibly meet.

The chauffeuring business continued. Back and forth the temple and other destinations.

The hall started to recede of people. The bride and groom were beginning to leave for home. Pictures were being clicked all around. Aemon looked at his watch. Again. The dial was closing in on 2. The last of the cars left the temple compound. Aemon got Vinay and a couple of others and headed to the groom's place.

Before leaving Aemon dialled his phone. Still and hour away, he sighed out loud after hanging up.

***

The festivities continued back at the groom's. Familiar camera bulbs flashed all around. Family and friends started pouring in, waiting to see the newlyweds. Aemon had parked the car in the adjacent home. He came over to his friend's place and got into the greeting, head nods and socialising.

But soon after, he got a message. Almost here. That took nearly three and a half hours for a two-hour trip.

Aemon quickly excused himself, told the groom and Vinay that he would be back soon, and rushed with car to the town central bus station. The traffic was choc-a-bloc. He frantically started dialling the number. After a few minutes the call went through, and they decided to meet opposite the bus station.

Aemon scanned his eyes all around in the hustle and bustle. Finally he laid eyes on her - there she was in a white overall over a tee and jean, with a brown sling bag across. With a dimple across her cheeks and tall legs, she was tired, yet looked spritely and pretty. Aemon went just - wow! He quickly opened the door and she got in. Here she is, thought Aemon. After all those months of faceless chats and conversations, here she is sitting right next to you.

She got comfortable, sitting in her usual position - one leg tucked inside, sitting sideways. The usual conversations began - why was it late? Oh it was horrible. I'm never coming by bus ever again. 

Where should i take her? though Aemon. What do i do? I am freaking out. That's when he remembered the packet he had got for her in the glove compartment.

"Hey Ira, there's something for you in the glove compartment," he told her. Ira gave a bemused look and asked him, "You always do this, don't you? Get people stuff?" Aemon just smiled.

The smile on Ira's face was even wider when he found her favourite chocolates and two seasons of the show she was dying to watch. She thanked Aemon and immediately opened a bar of chocolate and started munching on it.

More than Ira, Aemon was pleased to see her smile. She offered him a bit off the chocolate. He accepted. Inside, he smiled more. Ok, I think i really like her.

Aemon took the longest route possible to the beach, which had the sun setting on the horizon. After parking the car at one end of the beach, opposite the century old hotel, both of them started walking. They walked with no particular topic or agenda in mind. Just a carefree conversation from anything from family and friends to likes and dislikes. They went from the interlocked beach walk onto the sands and then towards the park adjacent to the lighthouse. They hadn't had enough. They talked some more and went back the same route they came through.

***

The thatched roof of the old cafe lent the perfect setting to conclude this first meet. Aemon liked spending time with her. Ira too. But minutes apart, both of them got calls from their friends, asking them of their whereabouts. Both had to go back. Ira to her friend's wedding, Aemon to his friend's reception. They didn't even realise when the two hours had passed.

They got back into the car, and Aemon felt sad that the day was coming to an end. Ira had to head elsewhere after the wedding. Aemon offered to drop her. But she said she would find somebody to do it for her. Aemon left it at that.

They finally reached Ira's first destination. She gave Aemon a hug and thanked him for the good time. She got out of the car, but quickly popped her head back in to tell Aemon, smiling and yet almost shyly, "I'll give you a call, if there is nobody to drop me off at night". Aemon was chuffed, he gave a smile back and said, "Definitely".

While on his way back, Aemon realised - what an idiot am I? Why didn't I tell her I'd pick her up no matter what? He messaged her immediately - "Even if you have somebody to drop you off, chuck it! I am picking you up."

She said yes. Aemon smiled. Once again.

***

For the second time that day, Aemon went - wow - after picking up Ira again.

The night was quite. The journey was long. The playlist had their favourites. Conversations happened.

But, again, it seemed to end too soon as the car finally came to a stop.

But it was just the beginning. Aemon knew it. Ira knew it. Their smiles said it all.

***

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

Tea: A Day in the Life of my Bellippa

Bellippa with his grandkids circa 2006

The earliest memory of my maternal Bellippa (Granddad) goes all the way back to the 1990s. Our family used to come down to Calicut from Muscat for our annual vacation. Uncles, aunts, cousins – all of us huddled up at our ancestral home just off the main road in East Nadakkavu. Those were the days when nuclear families and homes were almost unheard of. I loved the fact that almost 20-30 of us stayed under one roof at any given time.

My Bellippa would be up at the crack of the morning azan, starting up his Kinetic Honda on his way to Fajr prayers at the old West Nadakkavu mosque. If the middle schooler me was up, I would ride pillion or would stand in the space between the handle and the seat of the scooter. We would finish prayers, and he would go to the nearest tea/milk parlour and get a couple of packets of milk. He would return home and make tea, which would be poured into a flask and then boil the milk in another container and keep aside. The tea and milk would be placed on the dining table at the front, along with glasses for anybody who would like to begin their day with a fresh cup of tea. Incidentally, the tea dust used to be brought from my Bellippa's shop in Valiyangadi.

He would then proceed with household chores – from clearing weeds out of the garden, watering the plants, adding manure to the coconut trees, clearing open sewers at the back, getting dried coconut leaves or wood for the kitchen fire, peeling coconuts, among others. Sometimes, us kids would reluctantly join him, more so often to get to play in the dirt than to help him. I used to be a particularly naughty one who would try to sneak in the dirt all over the place, only to have my Bellippa hose me down when watering the plants. The three or four-year-old me had a field day when he used to be out in the courtyard.

After his daily chores, my Bellippa would get cleaned up and wear the whitest mundu and light coloured shirt over the white vest before clipping on his Seiko watch. He would then have his breakfast, before starting up his Kinetic Honda for the second time in the day, to head to work. Work to him was his tea dust business in the single store opposite the Town Police Station - Mahe Tea Mart - that he had begun after migrating from Mahe to Calicut in the 1960s.

Teenage me, who had moved back to Calicut, accompanied him quite many times on his trip to Mahe Tea Mart. The market would be just waking up, and the clickity clang of the shutter would reverberate around us as we opened for business. It was from here that I first learned the ABC of trade – buy and sell. I would help him pack tea for those who came looking for it. People came from the mountains of Wayanad to the islands of Lakshwadeep and even next-door neighbours or Calicut natives, to buy their favourite Monica, Suryanelli, or myriad other brands of tea dust. Sometimes, when he had to attend to some urgent matter, he would leave the cash register with me, and I would sit fixated on arranging all the notes in perfect order in the single drawer table. Once in a while, a customer would come in, and I would have to hand them the right amount of change, while the helper packed the tea for them.

He would make it a point to come later, and by evening, the chaiwala from the nearby Rangoli hotel would come. He would get us tea and ask us if we wanted any snacks. The Rangoli chaiwala would open his aluminum tin and show us the specialty snack of the day, and Bellippa would buy it for us. We would sit there, eating and drinking, while he got to tallying the accounts for the day.

At dusk, he would switch on the lights inside the shop but never stayed for long. Before the call of the Maghrib prayer, he would shut shop and make his way to the nearest mosque. While making his way back he would get fruits or his favorite murk (rice crispies) or bakery items for himself and his grandkids.

At night, my Bellippa would be back busy doing chores at home or sitting in the veranda with a cup of suleimani, up until he had to go to bed. The three-year-old me would be sitting quietly on the sofa adjacent to his room in anticipation of something, and he would give me a lovable laugh on his way to bed and ask me – “What happened, boy? Didn’t get your Boost?”. I wouldn't budge until I got my whole bottle of chocolate milk energy drink.

At times, my Bellippa would call some of his grandkids and ask them to give him a head massage or press his legs for him. He loved being playful with his grandkids, and a lot many of us would giggle away (and later get annoyed) when we were tickled by him lovingly.

Years passed, and Bellippa's mode of transport changed from the Kinetic Honda to a couple of Suzuki’s. Later on, the Suzuki too ceased and he made peace with being driven around by his kids and grandkids. While the kid me met him at least once a year, courtesy of annual vacations, the adult me had a harder time being next to him, with work barely allowing a handful of days for me to be in town.

Earlier this month, I met my Bellippa again. At first glance, he thought I was my dad, but I think he recognized me when I mentioned my name. A few days later, he asked me to sit by his side and hold his hand. That is all he asked. And I did, one last time, sans the scooter rides, playing in the dirt, helping out at the shop, the tickles that made us giggle and tea.

Rest in peace Bellippa.

Vishu at The Devidas's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The protagonists with their vishu sadya

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.