Walking into a dream

It came on  many nights like a scene from a Kafka novel. There was the vision of a cement grill above a doorway. It seemed to hold back a dark spirit. wanting to be liberated . IWas there a talisman there?  I dare not look there for who knows what lurked in the kitchen and beyond The dreamer always froze with fear and awoke. It was the ancestral home of my father in Edayar street, Coimbatore. 

The other desire was  latent but deeply embedded in the sub consciousness and made its presence felt during my waking moments I wanted to walk the street of the East Lokamanya Street in RS Puram , the home of my mother. The old walls,painted yellow the green windows with four doors were clearly visible. The musty smelling attic where coconuts were stored and a large hall with a valve radio, of the 1960s, playing Tamil film songs from  Radio Ceylon. The pink bougainvillea in the front compound and the Kolam drawn by my grandmother just outside the green gate called me home.

The Ideal Store at the entrance to the street was still remembered. So was the old man with a hunch back who walked the street every morning selling idllis. He could be heard a mile down the street. I would wait till he came around and grandma would be ready with the vessels and the money to collect the idllis and chutney. Also was remembered the evil mendicant who would spit into the house if unhappy with the donations. The street would  be empty and everyone would duck indoors, windows shut till she went away. And who can forget the State ice-cream man on his cycle, bells ringing? This was my home-away-from -home  during the summer vacations from my school and the Mumbai home . After a two night journey by steam engines, mom, brother and I would be collected by my uncle from the station, at around 3 or 4 in the morning, loaded up into a horse cart with the black trunk box and taken down the streets smelling of horse dung and night flowers to where our grandmother waited. I would wait for daybreak to run up to the attic where my mama would keep  his collection of story books just for me.  I needed to relive those moments if it was possible, And the impetus was the scene from the movie Lion where the Indian boy who was adopted by Australian parents returns to his roots after 30 years and finds his way home and to his biological mother. So I went to Coimbatore.

Kolams

The old landmarks were missing on  East Lokamanya street. But the fragrance and ambiance was unmistakable. The faint smell of the Parijat flowers were still lingering in the air after 50 years. We stopped  before a swanky new bungalow that stood where our old home was. The old bougainvillea was missing. There were new trees. A huge wall with a metal gate blocked our view but that did not matter. I felt healed and welcomed. I walked the street many times and spotted a few homes of that era still standing.

Another day we went to Edayar street. Dad led the way. He was looking for an old “Pullayar Kovil” that stood in the middle of the road. That was his place marker. He stopped a young boy to ask about the temple and the little lane called “Kurumbar Sandhu” . The boy directed us forward. Soon we stood outside the house of a goldsmith where our home once existed. He took us inside.


There it was- the cement grill over the door. It looked so docile and powerless. The subterranean water tank of those days was the only other thing that had survived. The land now housed multiple homes. The residents spilled out of their small homes to hear the story of an 87 year old recalling his childhood and narrating the story of his life.  It was a profound moment. No words can describe the emotional high we felt during our brief time in the precincts of the place that once belonged to our family.

Now it feels as if a life’s goal was reached. The coming of a full circle perhaps brings  the peace that we long for all our life.

End Scene

I taught these kids for two years: They were in the 7th grade when I began work at the Municipal School in Kanjur Marg, Mumbai. .It was the month of July, 2013. I was the Teach For India Fellow come to teach them.  Thus far they had seen only twenty-something Bhaiyyas and Didis. This one was a grey haired bozo of fifty five.

I did a grand corporate style presentation on Malala  on my first day in class. They lapped it up. I was proud of what I did. that day. The days that followed brought home the challenges. It was no easy task getting 42 kids to work with me . Many missteps and heart burns followed. And then I regained my foothold. I taught Social Studies and English Language Arts. I learnt too.

I remember that I was asked to take charge of a dark dungeon that was a "changing room " for the housekeeping staff. A clothesline was strung diagonally across with an assortment of trousers , shirts and towels hanging on it.  There were no benches. So the kids  squatted on the floor and I stood in front of the class all day doing my act. Sympathetic teachers from neighboring classrooms began donating spare benches and desks and soon we had a seat for everyone.  The one daily challenge remained: finding a chalk!

In 2014 a co-teacher, Vibhor,  joined me. He was allergic to chalk dust and we switched to white board and markers. Vibhor and I worked in tandem,  drew inspiration and energy from each other.
They were the two most glorious years  of my life. I raised funds for a career seminar on "Milaap", a crowd funding portal. My second project was awarding "after school coaching " to the top  11 kids at a local tuition classes. Milaap got me over three lakh rupees. The  kids got tutorial support  for  grades 9th and 10th.

I passed out of the Fellowship in 2015  but  continued to keep in touch with the kids, making visits  every few months to watch them learn and grow.

On  4 March I joined the grand party TFI teachers and the kids   had organised to  mark their last day in school. The room was festooned, a strobe light played on the colorful saris of the girls. They were dancing to frenzied beats  from a playlist of Bhojpuri remixes. Then followed a simple but delicious lunch of veg Manchrian , fried rice , veg kababd  and Gulab Jamuns.

It occurred to me that these kids will never know how much they will miss this day for the rest of their lives. I wanted to tell them to take a hard look at the benches and the desks and the walls and the faces of the teachers . I wanted to tell them that life will be a dizzy roller coaster ride from then on and when they pause to catch their breath it would be some thirty years gone. Then,  they will want to touch these benches and meet their old friends and teachers , just as I  did when I was 45.

As I walked out of the classroom and made my way down the tree -lined lanes of the Naval Colony  I  realized that this day was also the end scene of the movie in which I had played a supporting role. There will be no more visits to the school now. But wait. They will come to the school to collect their mark-sheets in June when the results of the exams are out. I plan to be there. I can meet those kids on last time.