Once Upon a Rainy Day

I was standing in the balcony watching the rain. It was a steady downpour. Puddles had already formed and were running in mini rivulets and falling into the drain on the roadside. There was no one on the road and it seemed to be a lazy afternoon. That was when I saw them. There were seven of them. They seemed to be in their early twenties and were drenched to the bone. They were looking around about them as though searching for some address.

They stopped at the security booth near the apartment gates. While one of them went to talk to the security the others stood near the gate looking inside. They didn’t bother to find shelter, as though they did not mind the rain.

My mind wandered back to my school years. It was during one such rainy day, a similar group of boys had stopped in front of our gate. I had opened the door when the bell had rung and was shocked to find a group of boys who tried to get in as soon as I opened the door. I blocked the doorway without letting them in calling out to my father.

Dad who was immersed in Walden came out of his room, irritation written on his face at having been disturbed. Seeing the group of boys waiting to enter he asked them what they wanted.

“Sir, we are coming from Trichy. We have given our final year exams,” said the boy in front and who seemed to be the spokesperson for the group.

My father looked as though he understood why they had come visiting.

“I don’t have your papers, you may leave,” he said.

But the boys weren’t prepared to leave. “We are willing to pay you sir, a voice from the back added.”

My father was livid with rage. “Whose money are you planning to give me? Your parents’ hard earned money? Do they even know you are here to pay me for grading pass marks for you? Don’t waste my time, get out!” He had shouted at them and pulled me inside and locked the door shut.

As if on cue the rain began. It was a heavy downpour. The boys were unperturbed. They went outside the gates and were loitering outside the house oblivious to the rain and discussing among themselves. I could only hear snatches of conversation as the rest were drowned in the sound of the rain and the thunder accompanying it.

It seemed that three of the boys needed the marks and four of their friends had accompanied them on this mission. They had bribed the clerk at the university to get the number and address of the professor who was grading their papers. Did they think that if they arrived in a group the professor would be bullied into giving them pass marks? I wondered.

The boys were in the rain for nearly an hour and left only when my father told them he would call the police.

Of course, later on, my father gave us his usual sermon on how studies were important and that he would not pay a penny or grovel at someone’s feet to get us admission into college.

My father was known to be a very strict teacher. While many respected him, he was also ridiculed for not cashing in on the situation, especially with two daughters. He never heeded such remarks and was glad when he didn’t have to pay through his nose for college admissions of his daughters.

The rains never fail to evoke memories. Whenever I read in the newspapers about malpractices in colleges, I remember that rainy day.

Just One Peppermint

My grandmother’s brother was a cute old man. Balu Mama as he was known was full of life and wit and used to visit us at least twice a week. He loved his sister and made it a point to visit her whenever he was in the area. He never came home empty-handed. He always had a packet of peppermints or orange candy for us.

As he entered he would ask my mother where we were and call out our names. He would then fish out the peppermints from his bright yellow bag and give us just one peppermint each. He would then give the rest to my mother and ask her to give it to us later on. On the days he didn’t bring the said candy, he would ask my mother’s permission to take me to the small petty shop at the end of the road, run by an old man we called ‘Mittai Thatha’. He would then ask me to choose either peppermint or orange candy.

Mittai Thatha and Balu Mama would make small talk while I picked my candy and we would head home. This continued till the day we lived in that area. We moved to our own house a few kilometers away and Balu Mama’s visits became few and far between. Having peppermints never felt the same. We missed Balu Mama’s visits.

Some days we used to get peppermints from the local grocery store, just thinking of the old man.

The next year my grandma left to stay with our uncle in Chennai and Mama’s visits stopped altogether. We visited his son’s house once in a while and enjoyed our visits there. Even during this time, he never forgot to give us peppermints. He would ask his wife, son or daughter-in-law to get the peppermints, which he would then dole out to us.

Old age crept up on him. He became too weak to travel out all by himself. He visited once or twice with his son and slowly the visits stopped. I was in the final year of school when he died. We had seen him a couple of months earlier, but did not anticipate his death.

Whenever someone brings chocolates or biscuits for the kids my mind wanders to those days when the old man doled out peppermint. I feel so much has changed in the way we gifted. We get the gift but mechanically give it to the kids, who, equally uninterested (as they know it is going to be chocolate), get the package put it in the fridge and go on their way. There is no small talk of any kind. If we object, the visiting friend or relative shushes us by saying ‘Kids will be kids, let them be.’

This is when I become wistful and think of Balu Mama. I do not remember having long conversations with him. I wonder how just one peppermint could cheer us so much when entire bars of chocolates do not cheer these kids now and can only bring out a hurried ‘thank you’, said with much discomfiture. I even know of some kids in their teens who just sit and fiddle with their phones and give a disinterested answer when the visitor tries to make small talk.

Long after the visitors are gone, the chocolate gets devoured without knowing who has given it to them. The old man is long gone, but he did leave us something precious to behold. In his own way he had taught us the act of giving with a smile. This was one human being who won our hearts with just a few kind words, a smile and a single peppermint. 

My 'Colorful Heroine'

A conversation with my daughter while teaching her Hindi, sparked this tribute to my teacher. She was finding it very hard to memorize a Hindi poem for the next day’s test. As is her wont, she will learn once and try repeating without looking at the book and cry her heart out if she missed a word or a line. That was when I was reminded of my Hindi teacher Ranganayaki.

Her name literally translated would mean ‘Colorful Heroine’. The ‘colorful heroine’ tag suits her as her classes were full of mirth and intrigue. She would tell joyful tales, and sometimes would keep a story in suspense until the next class. Not one class ended without a story. Some days just the mention of a word or phrase could lead to a great story which we would listen to in open-mouthed wonder.

Two teachers contributed to my interest in the arts. One was my father, a teacher by profession, who instilled in me the love for books, the other was my Hindi teacher Ranganayaki, who instilled in me the love for poetry. I took to reading poetry in English, Tamil and Hindi and enjoyed it immensely. As I developed an interest in the language, I enrolled for after school Hindi classes and even got a certificate equivalent to a degree in Hindi even before I graduated.

I guess the way she taught poetry was the sole reason I began to enjoy the language. The way she would explain a Rahim Doha (Couplet) can transport us to Akbar’s court where he was one of the nine gems. She would delve a bit into the history of that era and pick a story to tell. Even after all these years, the doha remains fresh in memory.

My teacher and me bonded very well. Her daughter was in the Tamil medium in my school and that didn’t deter us from doing combined studies or playing together. After I graduated, I went to meet her and she said that she was planning to get her daughter married. A few months after my meeting her, her husband, who was working in another city passed away. She soon fixed the wedding of her daughter. But on the day her daughter married, my teacher was hospitalized and she passed away. I wasn’t in town when this happened and I couldn’t meet my friend who had left with her husband. It took me a long time to come to terms with her death. Whenever I read a poem by someone, my thoughts would go out to her, wondering what story she would tell if she read the poem.

  

I have never given much thought about Teacher’s Day. Tributes pour in for teachers in millions over the social media. I read those that catch my eye while browsing Facebook, it never occurred to me to write about any teacher or wish any teacher in all these years. This year I decided to put my gratitude in writing as a tribute to my wonderful teacher. As Kabir aptly put it:

Kal kare so aaj kar, aaj kare so ab,

Pal me pralay hoyegi, bahuri karega kab

Loosely translated, it means: What you plan to do tomorrow do it today, what u will do today, do it now. And this led me to type this down today instead of waiting for the next teacher’s day. Teachers like Ranganayaki would make learning a great pleasure, rather than just an aimless chore.

Pot of Marigold

The rain had just stopped and Asha stepped out into the garden. Her science teacher had told the class to prepare the soil in a pot, sow seeds or plant seedlings and bring it to school after it started giving out new leaves.

Asha was not so keen to sow seeds and watch the plant grow. She had seen her mother plant a bright green stem with a few leaves in a pot last week. So she made up her mind to take that plant when it was due to be taken to school.

Pot luck

As she skipped her way through the pots lined in neat rows in one corner of the garden, Asha stumbled on a stone, but she held on to a small shelving unit near the wall, which held garden supplies. Out fell a packet of seeds into a pot just below the supplies rack. Asha was a little scared. Her mother was an avid gardener and she knew what to plant and when. She organised her packet of seeds well so that she could plant them in the right season.

Aghast at what she had done, she looked into the pot to find that some seeds had spilled into it. She was scared her mother would scold her when she found that some seeds were missing from the packet. Crouching down near the pot, she thought about what she should do. It had been raining on and off for the past few days and the soil in the pot was wet. So she could not get the seeds out of the wet soil. The only thing she could do was to cover it with more soil and she left the place quickly.

A few days later she was helping her grandmother pick guavas from the garden. As she passed the supplies rack, she remembered the fallen seeds. She quickly knelt beside the pot and to her surprise found that there were little green shoots peeping out of the soil. She was so excited that she got up to run and tell her mother. However, she decided against it, wondering how her mother would react when she hears about the missing seeds.

Now that she had witnessed the growth of the new plants, Asha could not contain her excitement. She was scared to pour water on the plants lest they die, so she sprinkled water carefully on the shoots and waited with bated breath on how the full-grown plant would look. She also began taking interest in the other plants her mother had planted.

There was a designated place for every kind of plant. There was small corner where different coloured roses bloomed. There was a corner for Hibiscus, cacti and flowerbeds, which were planted according to the season. The far corners of the garden had a vegetable patch and some fruit trees like guavas and sapota. While surveying the garden she was proud that her parents took time to tend such a lovely garden. She made up her mind to help her mother in her gardening chores.

One day while she was sprinkling water, her mother came by and looked at what she was doing kneeling in front of the pot.

She saw the plants, which were now growing in a cluster and told Asha, that they were Marigolds. She also said that she had some seeds in a packet and she could plant them in another pot if she wanted.

So Asha now told her the truth that she had spilled the seeds on to the pot and that she was watering it regularly and watching them grow. Her mother was happy that she was sensible enough to take care of it by watering regularly.

The next week when it was time for her to take a plant to school, Asha proudly took her pot of Marigold to school and told her teacher how she had planted them.

Published in The Hindu Young World Nov5, 2013

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