Those Orange Stains!!

 Those Orange Stains.

                     I happened to visit my convent school, recently where I started with those small steps towards knowledge and empowerment. Not to mention, a gush of emotions clamped me. Giving a sweet peeve to my hair, I perched on the cemented chair painted green gazing at those ages old trees lined so perfectly providing natural shade , the unanimity of white and blue tunics and double braids flanked by respective house colour ribbons (well now ..need to say it’s an all girls school) never seemed so luscious. The band in-charge sister Laurel was very strict she divided the school into three houses blue, green and red.

                    I was a blue house girl and my loyalty to blue continues till now (check my wardrobe???). Sister Joan Mary was my glorified grade one teacher. She loved knocking (softly as per her standards) on our knuckles with a wooden ruler, as she was so particular about English cursive writings. The first one she coiled out in bold curves on the black-board was- ANIMALS (did she mean us?????).My words were like ants carrying sugar in different directions, so withered away they looked. Poor me used to stand last in the queue dreading the hurricane waiting to originate in minutes. And it occurred in the form a flying saucer (my copy in air). Well like all happy endings, today I thank her for that insult ,as my mom pushed me for hours of writing cursive(pluck out the I and V) and here, I write so beautifully.

                                         The break time for twenty minutes was heavenly and much awaited, for as it’s during those times along with the small bites we caught up on the favourite shows, the heart throbbing heroes, about that cheeky -snooty girl on the back seat, and many many…more, as we grew into teenagers. But my parents were thoroughly impressed by the school management, the teachers and, oh-so appreciated fact was the fines levied on speaking Hindi.U converse in English only. Today finally I say thanks to all my teachers for being patient enough and teaching us systematically which any day will do good for me. All efforts worth it, as it at least helps me adapt with those elite ladies clubs.

                            Here to mention with great importance is the funny looking haggard guy, who sells ice candy’s outside the school gate. The glitter of one rupee instantaneously made his emaciated bony hands pull up candies in various colours from his big box. I loved that orange ones. And there was none in school who wanted to miss this yummies.Somehow a despairing school administration and  parents group  didn’t like his loitering anywhere  near the school premises. Whatever they tried this man was sure to stand near the gate exactly waiting for his connoisseurs to arrive. In one of those encounters with the candy man ,my younger sis persuaded (sorry for the blame) me to buy a candy showing me that coin which she managed to fish out from our own piggy bank. In that excitement to taste those I forgot my ethics of being a sensible elder sister. We promptly bought one and enjoyed the coloured chilled juice oozing down the throat. If these are known as the small pleasures of life ……...

                            The way back home we discussed the candy with great pride to our friends. They with mouth wide opened and gulping air in between, gaped desperately.

                                      My mom, a very friendly person now, was a disciplinarian during those days.While helping us change there came that quizzical look from mother, and a sudden “you people tried those candies?” .NNNNNOOOOO-trying to manage that sheepish grin I   answered. She took us before the mirror asked us to pull our tongue outside …they were so orange in colour…and there, the orangish stains in the white shirt spoke for itself .The inglorious act and to top it the big lie made both of us shame-full.Whereas my mother, gave a smile and said which still echoes –never be scared of the truth, be it anything .

  Thereafter those blissful orange candies came only in my dreams.

Aunty Greeta

                                                              Aunty Greeta is our cherished neighbour back in kerala.Everything about her amused me. Aunty Greeta was loud by all means.   A loud name to her credit, Agenus Greeta George, a family of two boys, a girl, a macho husband and mom n dad. Her children too were named loud-Julian Iraneous(god sounds like a person owning a fleet of planes) Millie Milred( are u tired) and finally said ok to tubectomy after Levin Sebastian. She had a high-pitched shrieky voice matching her tall almost six foot figure, she always wore frilly knee length frocks showing her well toned calf muscles.Miles away the fish seller could hear her screeching out, I need a kg of mackerels, as he trades on his bicycle making this melodious “koooiiii”…by this he is alarming prospective customers who can’t think of a fill without. When aunty greeta laughs (we no longer call it a laugh –a roar we meant) she added a sack of salt to the neighbour’s inquisitiveness. When she fought, she did it so indiscreetly with her macho man that she added oodles of fun to the same parties.

                                         Well she was  destiny’s child as she was adopted by this generous Anglo-Indian couple from an orphanage somewhere in Goa.They named her Greeta ,send her to school, thereafter she had a normal  upbringing. When she was fourteen years old her parents decided to tell her the truth and she rebelled on her identity (or existence???). She was defiant to find out her biological parents but she only hopped in darkness as nothing constructive happened. She started hating her adopted parents (this syndrome still is mysterious to me) for no reason of theirs.

                            Then came Mr.George Samuel Thottunkal who mesmerised her during her typewriting and shorthand coaching days in her institute. He happens to be the institute owner’s son’s friend’s friend(what a close relationship to mention).Eventually the bonding grew and resulted in the above mentioned beautiful household.The parents with their support system managed to send Mr George to Dubai dreaming of  a sophisticated lifestyle for their adorable daughter, who no longer even cared to acknowledge their presence around.

                                         Life became more of comfort for aunty Greeta as she was surrounded slowly by all luxuries.(parents still in neglection).She made  fun of them before her kids not knowing –what goes around definitely comes around. Wait don’t judge her so fast.

                                   Well all said and done she was a true Christian. She never missed her Sunday masses, whenever somebody was in need she will rush to the spot. A great entertainer for all children. She sang and danced passionately around them. Her big frame shook in mirth with any group she was around. She jostled in and out the crowds she came across with ease. That’s why I said wait to be judgemental.

             Aunty Greeta was a cleanliness freak too. She loved her house, her clothes, her children, her parents (for that matter yes)all expected to be neat and tidy. So came in paranoia of not depending on the washing machine she had …but to wash it all by herself….well there begins all my fun.

                                                                        She selected Sundays as her laundry day while Millie Milred cooked some fish and rice. Five to six buckets are lined in an array, then goes in some selective fabric freshener and detergent powder.Oh…ho… starting of that laborious process is accompanied with some beautiful songs all praising Jesus and Mother Mary .She takes a break to vociferate the oh so white shirts her sons were able to turn into oh so brown. Ranting ends (as no one gives a damn) singing continues…..oh Jesus your sea so big and my boat so small………will add more about her in the coming ones.

My sweet French connection.

Pondicherry is the wonderful place where I am married to. This beautiful coastal territory is sweetly called as pondy by its natives. The local language was a hindrance for my mixing with some of my relatives and to be friends here. I remember standing in the pavilion of my new abode observing the traders on bicycles yelling out their products (sounded too funny )like, mallipoove -jasmine ,  kolamavu-white rice powder used for making spiritual symbols everyday in front of the houses .meene-oh fish too comes so easy at your steps,kheere –kheereeee—all types of green leafys…vow this is amazing ..having a house in close proximity to NH-47 has got so many blessings.

             Well  my first trip to pondy town was marvelous. this was surely different from the rest of the places I had seen. Huge tall French colonial buildings ,those boulevards lined with trees, tidy (so unlikely) walking pavements with cemented resting chairs near the blue seamless beaches, needless to mention those tall well built raunchy guys and chic’s too are a treat for your eyes. they are mostly seen in bicycles ..i guess reason to that fab bod .

             U can see a riot of products on those ever-buzzing markets, right from leather goods (hi design‘s fresh designs of export quality bags u get here.)to ,paper bags -these paper is so unique in its quality ,form,texture and differently shaded are world class, real petals embossed candles ,for fashonistas a huge variety of garments right on those street ,the la-titled shops with rich semi-precious stones encrusted jewels, intricate designs of pottery ..the fragrant whiff of handmade incense and potpourris just incites your curiosity to find more. Important to mention if you are tired of shopping and sightseeing there is a chain of multicuisine restaurants which will cater for your desired appetites. 

                   Well all this set aside, to die for is the beach. Unlike other beaches you can’t walk on those sands and play with the water as they are guarded by humongous rocks ,the waves comes in that high motion splashes on the rocks and creates a mystical magic of white tiny pearls which is incessantly played for you. I loved those initial days of my marriage spending time on those beaches, spreading their blue bashes capable to engulf any worry and send you back gleefully and the historical buildings on lined along the boulevard.

                       No doubt pondy stands tall as the living example of a once flourished French colony. Its also called the France of India or the French Riviera of the east. anyway the contemporary and the pondicherrian cultural mix is one in its kind here .The rue’s here (as the roads are called here in French) has still signboards reading in French, the police men still wearing kepis(French caps),the broken tamil by the french accentuated by strong French accent (I like the ta  and the da…like in wat is dat or inspector cloussau in pink panther asking for a Dam burger) )and vice versa are fun to listen to. A trip to auroville where the famous matrimandir is located reminds you of Shakespeare's stopping by woods.Aurobindos’s ashram –this calm ,spiritual  place will surely take you a few notches high by spirits.

My husband easily got away with the hassles of taking me to a brand new location for honeymoon as he learnt that i was so engrossed ambling the streets and beaches every time afresh.

Till next, Au revoir(good bye)

Prenez soin de vous(take care)

Sindhu

state of wonderla!

ever wondered what will happen if squirrels lived in ponds and tortise chirping on trees, to my dismay something similar has happened as i have in an elated state of bliss decided to pendown..errr..type down(one word per minute)my memories..experiences(rich n varied) so faras a glowing adjective to womenhood.As my younger daughter olive too has started her schooling i get a solid of three hours of time in hand, awestruck,not knowing as what to do with the newly found treasure-time when came this sudden wisdom of blogging.got up at six did my pranayama,enjoyed the hot cup of gingery flavoured tea,leafed through the catchy headlines of the days newspaper( i mean salman miffed with katrina...bla bla..)when came the devine intervention in the form of my husband asking for the newspaper.why on earth its a female prerogative to oblige always.
well well cooked some yummy breakfast(the anti-party don't agree) for all get rolling with time as the school cab
will be honking and the driver straining his neck out will yell for a seconds delay as if he has allright to do so as he is taking these children  away for twent good years and bring them bach safe n sane gentleman and lady.
oh so lonely yet so content i feel about that momentary gain of a few hours and here i have typed down these much.happy to realize it and feel fresh and exuberant as the bouquet of flowers gifted by our friend (five days before)n good faith for the sumptuous dinner i cooked for them.hope they will return to me...and you too may as i will with more salt and pepper get back to you in a giffy.c ya soon.