Those days

I often think about the days when I was in school. Flashes of brilliantly clear images sometimes over power my mind, and then I am lost to the world for a while, thinking about days gone by.

My earliest memory of school is me sitting somewhere in the corner of a class room in lower kindergarten listening to the teacher call out names from her register. For some inexplicable reason, she used to ask a girl called Preeti to sign somewhere. I used to then fervently hope and pray that my turn never came, because, I hadn't the faintest idea how to wield a pen, least of all, affix my signature at a desired location on paper. It was many days later that I found out that the girl's name was Sai Preeti, which my nasal sounding teacher had pronounced 'sign'.

I remember frantically announcing at home once, that I needed money for a 'Tinders Match Box'. Although I did not know what it was, I had been convinced by my teacher that failure to cough up at school would have disastrous consequences, such as being made to kneel down the whole day. No amount of questioning or coercing by my exasperated parents could decipher what that cryptic phrase meant. It was later discovered that I was to take part in the School Sports Day's 'Toddlers March Past' and the matter was successfully resolved.

I was also the owner of a fiery temper, which albeit slow to rise, was explosive in nature. In the fifth standard, during morning assembly, a fellow classmate called Aravind, rather unwisely tried to insert his little finger into my right ear. I dont know why, but at that moment I was blinded by rage and remember lunging wildly at his face, restrained by several classmates. He clapped his hand to his mouth,spat out a bloodied front tooth and staggered off somewhere. I then found myself standing in front of the class teacher. Staring at me with barely concealed amazement, she tried her best to put her thoughts into words with an extremely inadequate "Why did you break Aravind's tooth?" I just stood there without answering, beacuse I realized that whatever I did say at that point, would almost certainly, be the wrong answer.

There were teachers who loved me and teachers who loathed the very sight of me. One particular English teacher unashamedly favoured me over every other student, solely because I was a fellow Malayalee. In her eyes, I could do no wrong, and this notion was extended to grading in tests, selection of the class leader and the greatest schoolteacher-extended honour, being the chosen one to carry the class work books to the staff room. At about the same time, there was a Hindi teacher who used every opportunity she had to beat me to within an inch of my life. I once forgot to bring my Hindi Workbook to school three days in a row. I still have nightmares about those three days.

There were many strange creatures who inhabited my world at that time. There was a boy who at the tender age of seven assured me that if i didn't believe in Jesus Christ I would go straight to hell. A classmate whose pastime of choice was to 'crack' the knuckles of other people's fingers. A fellow who refused to eat with me whenever I brought non vegetarian food in my luch box. A chap who insisted that the only other country in the world was France and every other country was a part of that (apparently) great nation. There were science teachers who refused to teach sex and evolution because it went against their religious principles. There was a history teacher ( I am not joking) who said the Prophet Muhammad's flight,'Hijra' was the name of the airline he flew in. A physics teacher who in eleventh standard warned me against talking to girls as it was a bad habit. A mathematics teacher who exclaimed when I was contemplating joining the commerce group 'Commerce! I thought you were good in studies!'


I do miss school very much. I miss the carefree innocence of our youth. I miss the fact that the worst thing which could happen in class was being made to go out. I miss the long corridors, the western classical music played at morning assembly, the tree tops outside the windows, the much awaited games periods, the excitement of new school bags and contents of lunch boxes, the science and history text books, winning prizes, field trips and friendly teachers. School was fun.

Somewhere I belong

This is a post about me. About something that has been rankling for sometime. Apologies to my readers (both of you), if the mood of this essay is not conformant with my previous pieces(both of them).

I belong to a Malayalee family, which, like millions of other families left Kerala in search of a new life elsewhere. My parents came to Chennai in the eighties,found their respective jobs and have remained in the city ever since. As a result, my sister and me have been brought up in a cross-cultural environment encompassing two states and four languages. I speak a combination of English and Malayalam at home. I spoke a combination of English and Tamil at school. I answered Hindi(my second language at school) answer papers in a combination of all three languages(which is probably why my Hindi teachers were not at their most polite best while in conversation with me).

The outcome of this has been that I cannot, in all honesty, confidently say that I feel completely accepted by any of the above mentioned groups. My Tamil classmates although extremely friendly, know that somewhere, deep down I am a 'Mallu'. Any true-blue Malayalees who I chance upon, regard me suspiciously because of my fluent Tamil. In college, I have been called 'Peter' ( a slightly derogatory Chennai term used to describe an English speaking person).When a Malayalee introduces me to another Malayalee he always does so with a disclaimer - "This is Ashwat, he is a Malayalee, but has lived in Chennai all his life." The other Malayalee immediately starts talking to me in English, assuming that there is no way in hell a person who has lived in Chennai all his life can ever speak passable Malayalam.

Another disturbing aspect is the pride of position given to the colour of your skin. Disregarding the fact that all Indians are coloured varying shades of brown, we have a tendency to slot people into 'black', 'white' and for some obscure reason 'wheatish'. I, and some friends, have been called 'Vellakara'(white man) owing to a combination of our English skills and fair skin. When a friend of mine retaliated by calling the person who had given him this sobriquet a 'Karuppukaara'(black man), he was accused of being derogatory and insulting.
Funnily, several North Indians labour under the delusion that anybody who is fair skinned is from the North. Many of them come and address me in Hindi confident that I would reply in their language.

It is therefore no surprise that most of my closest friends are people who primariy speak English as well. This is often percieved as being elitist or snobbish. I beg to differ; although I speak good English, I belong to this country and perhaps have a greater understanding of its diversity than the people who stick to their vernacular.

So am I a true global citizen or do I belong nowhere? I prefer to believe the former.