To you, Trichy

It is starting to sink in. The last weekend spent at home before I leave for Russia. When you’re on the road at night with your windows open, the cold, harsh breeze slaps on your face. It is stopped briefly if another, larger vehicle overtakes you. I have often seen Trichy as the larger vehicle shielding me briefly while I recovered. A place where I could stop spinning like a wind vane in a storm and get my bearings right. A place where Time stopped briefly, so I could catch my breath and continue running. This break, however, seems like the calm before I start running a marathon. I do not know when the next break is.

It is time I counted my blessings. This is not the post of a soon-to-be NRI looking back at his years of idyllic bliss. This is not an attempt at melodrama. This is not even to tell people how happy an upbringing I have had or how better my city is than yours. No. None of that. This is for me to go back to in moments of need. This is the emotional equivalent of saving for a rainy day. In moments of loneliness, in moments of desolation, when the ground I stand on seems no longer interested in bearing the burden of my existence, I intend to go back to this and tell myself how blessed I have been. It is, in all respects, a personal diary. It is a record of the bad days I don’t want to forget and the good ones that I do want to remember. Having spent all my childhood in one town and most of it in one locality, the memories are linear and fresh. Random, lingering images throw me back to a memory in which the image was the backdrop. The signboard rooted firmly and manured regularly by goat droppings reminds me of the days I waited for the school bus. It still stands right opposite the bus stop. 

The white curtain with an image of Lord Ganesha shielded the east facing Xerox shop from the morning sun. Yellowed, and patched at places, Ganesha continues to protect the students making photocopies inside. It reminds me of the day I first met a teacher outside the school premises and was so excited that I yelled “Good Evening, Sir”, much to the amusement of the Xerox shop guy. Outside the shop, Ganesha watched as my teacher told me sternly that I was not required to wish him outside school premises and definitely not in that loud tone. As I stand across the road, Ganesha asks me if I still get the urge to wish my teachers if I come across them. I smile. I wonder if Ganesha will still be around the next time I come.

The lane I used to walk on to go to my school in 5^th Standard is now a paved road. The newest house and the only one to have a switch on the compound wall for its calling bell is now faded. Its mint coat resembles a palette of Copper Chloride. The calling bell switch has been disabled after a torrent of rain shortcircuited the wiring. I can no longer ring the bell and run away before the occupants come. I wonder what kids walking on the road do to keep themselves entertained. Have they also bought into the newer means of entertainment that keeps your head bowed and down? I don’t know. I partially relive the joy by pressing the now disabled switch, knowing that nothing would happen. The old man who is walking in the balcony of the house next door points me to the “To Let” board hanging from the porch and asks me if I’m interested. I shake my head and walk on.

Further down the lane is another house. We used to call it “Azhugachi Veedu”. A literal translation would be “House of Tears”. In a comic book fuelled alliterative binge, we renamed the house to “Crying Castle”. The family that lived there had an autistic child. Autism is a common household word today, thanks to the many movies on developmental disorders. But back then, we, including the elders, said the kid in the house was mad. “Mentally retarded”, the more posh among us said. Every day, as we walked to school, the kid would be in the verandah, bawling at us as we passed by. Not that he had anything against us. He was just bawling and we happened to pass by. I can no longer see or hear him.

I look back to see if the old man is still around. I see him getting out of his house and locking the gate. He now wears a white shirt over his vest. I walk towards him, and point to the house.

“For Sale, too”, he tells me.

“Do you happen to know the boy who used to live here?”

 He puts a finger to his temple and makes a circular motion, a universal sign for someone who has lost their mind. I nod my head.

 “Didn’t you know? He died. It’s been 9 years. The family moved to the US. The house has been on sale ever since.”

He sees the shock on my face. He reads the expression right and the reason wrong.

 “Yes, I know. Shocking, right? That a house in this locality doesn’t find buyers? Now, that one was put on sale 2 weeks ago. It has 5 parties interested. The seller is holding out for a better price. But this one, people seem to think this one is cursed. Nobody wants to buy this. I am the local broker, you know. If you’re interested in buying a property, fresh or built, you can call me.”

He hands me his card. Another man who has found a way to make money out of freely available information. I take the card and walk towards the main road.

The building of a smaller school in the neighborhood has given way to a pharmacy chain. There goes the backdrop of the day I stood for an hour in the sun waiting for the school bus to take me to my 8^th Standard Zoology Practical examination. The school bus that never came. Typical of a schoolboy, my trouser pocket had a Rs.5 coin, for a crisis. I ran all the way back home, got money from my mother and took an auto to school. It did not occur to me that had I waited at the bus stop, a public bus would have dropped me 300 meters from school for Rs.3. I managed to reach on time. The practical examination had me examine the head of a cockroach and identify its mouth parts, maxilla, mandibles etc. and then make a diagrammatic representation (if cockroaches had courts, I’d be sued for misrepresentation).

How much of a town depends on its constituents? The roads, the buildings, the traffic intersections, the oddly clashing early morning bell sounds of the temple and the cycles of the milkman and newspaper guy, the inhabitants who bring life to the town in festival and flood.

How much does a town lose when each of this changes or disappears? Are towns Ships of Theseus with newer parts constantly replacing the older ones of their bodies? If so, how much does the town have to lose for it to no longer be even remotely related to what it started out as and be identified as a new one? Would my departure be another short-lived blimp in the town’s lifetime or the proverbial last straw that takes away from my town its identity?

Vanity dictates I settle for the latter. After all, it is a small town. How unimportant could I be? That’s the best part about small towns. Everyone is important. Everybody knows everybody else. The families, the fights, the dreams, the disappointments, right down to the kind of rheumatoid arthritis the uncle in the third lane is suffering from. Everything is known, everything is discussed threadbare. Stories are woven, like peacock feathers hidden in textbooks, with the expectation of newer plot elements in each time the book is opened.

The other good part about small towns is that they’re, well, small. If you were to attempt an “Around the Town before lunchtime” voyage, you would very well be home before lunchtime. Phineas Fogg, the London bred adventurer, never understood the concept of small towns and went around the world. But we digress. You may be delayed by the appearance of a vaguely familiar uncle who you last remember running away from because your sixer went straight through his window. But fret not. In a small town,  the uncle would not only take you home for lunch, his wife would also try to add to her collection of gossip by showering you with questions faster than the idlis can stop you from answering them.

Trichy is a special kind of small town. Like most towns along the Kaveri river, it’s also a temple town. The Rockfort temple, Thiruvanaikovil temple and the peerless Srirangam temple ring its periphery. What this means for the small town Phineas Fogg is that there is abundant supply of food. You simply hop from temple to temple. From the delicious Sakkara Pongal that can bless you with diabetes and cholesterol with just one helping, to the creamy Thayir Sadham, this town gives you all. Pardon the gastronomic indulgence. But that comprises most of my childhood in this town.

I grew up in this town. When people refer to the townsfolk, oddly called Trichyites, they refer to me as well. At least, that’s how I want to feel. But I’ve not been a part of this town for a few years now. In and out, in ever widening circles of spiraling distance. A few years in Chennai and then a few in Delhi. Now, the spiral is widening again. I’m leaving the country. The town is gradually loosening its soil around my feet. May be I’m a liability now. Very unwanted. The truth is I’ve known it for a while. I’ve felt it more than known it.

In the time between two visits, your hometown, like a child, grows and changes face. You enter it, like a parent who has missed out on the child's upbringing and tries hard to catch up. The child has changed and so have you. Neither can recognize the other. And yet you try to connect, to embrace. But the city does not. It knows. You will now merely come and go like an occasional bout of flu. And like the flu, you are tolerated, not welcome.

Every time I return, the town has shown me a changed face. Well, maybe not at the first glance, but to those who have grown with it, even the slightest differences are a stark contrast. We tried discussing these changes, Trichy and I, but the discussion went nowhere. I know my place now. I no longer have a rightful claim. I merely plead, for the town to hold my spot, and not have me replaced in its ship. I do not know if it will.

I bend down to kiss the soil one last time before my feathers are spread. Dear Trichy, if I pass your skies, I ask only this much of you. Offer me a smile, a smile of recognition. When I show you off to my friends, do not be aloof. Do not pretend to not know me, nothing would devastate me more.

A Girl, a Mother and Geopolitics

“Jack! Here, hold Sophie.”

The distinct accent of the young couple with the baby told flight attendant Victoria Yu that they were Australian. She knew from experience that Australians were regulars on this flight. They were mostly affluent tourists returning home after a holiday in Europe.

She checked the flight manifest. Over two-thirds of the passengers in the flight were from the Netherlands. This was natural considering that MH 71 was a scheduled flight from Amsterdam to Kuala Lampur. She also made a mental note that there were three infants on board, one of them in her section.

This was important. Passengers traveling with infants needed to be seated such that the other passengers did not complain. Tired travelers were not expected to be tolerant of babies.

Victoria would be attending to the passengers in Business Class. She was one of the senior attendants on board and was in fact among the most experienced attendants in Malaysia Airlines. She had joined as a young flight attendant ten years ago and had slowly grown up the ranks. She was also three months pregnant and was about to go on parental leave next week.

Victoria adjusted the upper part of her uniform, her kebaya on top of her stomach. Her lithe frame ensured that her baby bump did not protrude too much.

She inspected the business class section. The Australian couple was occupying the first row of seats on her left hand side. The baby was now back with her mother who had finally settled down.

 “What an adorable girl! She must be 2 years old”, Victoria thought. The afternoon sun was shining through the windows and bouncing off the girl’s golden hair. “Sophie”, her father said when Victoria asked the girl for her name. Victoria asked the couple if they wanted something. They did not. They were busy trying to put Sophie to sleep.

Victoria returned to the entrance. There was a rush of passengers entering the aircraft and the attendants at the front were having a hard time distributing enough smiles. Based on the manifest, her section would accommodate a Dutch Senator and a handful of old doctors. It was going to be an interesting flight.

Victoria walked back to her station. She had made the mandatory checks. Seatbelts fastened, tray tables and seats upright. She also performed the flight safety demo to the passengers and suppressed a smile when she got to the part where she mentioned that a passenger should secure his own oxygen mask before trying to assist someone.

As she finished her demo, she looked at the rows of eyes looking at her. Some bored, some without an alternative and some, not looking at her but lost in their displays. Sophie was drifting in and out of sleep and her mother was throwing cautious glances around the cabin. Victoria looked at Sophie. She looked angelic. Victoria’s right hand instinctively ran over her stomach. She quickly adjusted her kebaya and sat down at her station and fastened her seatbelt.

The Captain was on the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard Flight MH 71 from Amsterdam to Kuala Lampur. We are currently third in line for take-off and are expected to be in the air in approximately seven minutes time. We ask that you please fasten your seatbelts at this time and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartments. We also ask that your seats and table trays are in the upright position for take-off. Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and cell phones. Smoking is prohibited for the duration of the flight. Thank you for choosing Malaysia Airlines. Enjoy your flight.”

Victoria heaved a sigh. These would be the last few minutes of relaxation she would get this afternoon. She had duties to perform as soon as the flight went up in the air and the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign was turned off.  To serve food and beverages, to help aged passengers with their seatbelts and to sell airline merchandise to uninterested passengers. The aircraft was now taxiing down the runway. It picked up speed and took off. In a few minutes, the Captain was back on the microphone.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman.This is your Captain speaking. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet at an airspeed of 400 miles per hour. We’re flying over Germany. The cabin crew will be coming around in about twenty minutes to offer you a light lunch and a drink, and the inflight movie will begin shortly after that. I'll talk to you again before we reach our destination. Until then, sit back, relax and enjoy the rest of the flight.”

Victoria drew the curtains of the Attendant’s section and powdered her face. She pulled out the meal trolley. Food that had been prepared almost half a day earlier and served with “Made Fresh!” stickers on it. Not that the passengers would know. Their sinuses were clogged and taste buds numbed due to the change in air pressure. She began serving vegetarian and non-vegetarian meals based on passenger request. Sophie was now asleep and her parents took a vegetarian meal each. She lodged the meal trolley in place and picked a handful of bottles to serve water to all those who had summoned her.

The relatively smaller size of the business class meant that Victoria had fewer requests. In a little over an hour, she was back to her station for a brief break. Time passed. Victoria was resting. The flight was now flying over Poland and the dull drone of the engines was faintly audible. She knew that the pilots must have had their meals, the pilot and co-pilot eating different meals to minimize the risk of food poisoning.

Although she knew them both professionally, the pilot was a close friend. They had both started at Malaysia Airlines around the same time and had grown together. He had built a reputation for being a crisis handler. She felt safe traveling in his flight.

Victoria was jolted awake by the sound of crying. Yes, it was Sophie. She was up and for some reason, unhappy. Her parents were trying to pacify her with offers alternating between chocolate and her father’s hair. She preferred the latter at the moment and was channeling her frustration onto it. Her mother feared that if not pacified soon, Sophie was going to make her father bald.

Victoria strode to the seat. The mother looked at her apologetically. The other passengers were beginning to throw disturbed glances in her direction. Some pushed their earplugs deeper inside and tried to get back to sleep. The Senator was smiling cautiously. One of the doctors was looking at Sophie with admiration.

Victoria knew this had to be sorted out fast. She looked at the mother and then at the father. They were trying their best. She went to her cabin and returned with a trinket the airline was selling as a souvenir. She tried to distract Sophie by waving it in front of her face. Sophie took it from her, looked at it closely, and threw it on her father. Obviously, he was responsible for whatever was bothering her. She turned around on her father’s lap, jabbed at the seat in front and started a fresh spurt of crying.

Victoria saw what the problem was. Sophie was pointing to the display. One of the movies on the inflight entertainment was a movie about a baby. The baby on screen was climbing skyscrapers, playing with gorillas, and giving his kidnappers a hard time. And all poor Sophie could do was sit on her mother’s lap and look at it while clouds were speeding past her. No wonder she was agitated. The noise was bothering other passengers. Victoria did not know what to do. She felt the aircraft gently rise. She knew what was happening. The pilot was doing a “Step climb”. He was gaining altitude and flying to thinner airspace in order to save fuel. As the flight burnt more and more fuel and got lighter, it was more economical to fly higher to reduce air resistance. Not many of the passengers would notice or know the importance of it. The passengers here would notice it even less with all their attention now focused on a bawling Sophie.

It was not only the passengers who were ignorant. So was Victoria. She did not know that the flight could not have flown at a lesser altitude even if the pilots had wanted. The flight had entered Ukraine airspace at 32,000 feet and was slowly ascending to 35,000 feet. Since July 14, the airspace above this part of Ukraine was closed below 32,000 feet for all aircraft. The unrest on the ground that necessitated these restrictions made the turbulence of the skies look far less menacing.

Sophie continued to cry completely ignoring all the effort that was on to calm her down. The bright afternoon sun that was making the pilots wear their sunglasses was peeping in through the few open windows of business class. Sophie pointed outside through one of the open windows. Victoria’a attention was drawn to it.

It was then that they all felt it. The aircraft started shaking. The seatbelt sign was back on. Victoria instructed that the passengers return to their seats, and waited for the Captain’s announcement. It came a moment later.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now crossing a pocket of turbulence. Please return…”

He never completed that line. The aircraft started shaking more and more violently. It got hotter and hotter. And before any of the passengers could fish out a tissue to wipe their sweat, there was a blinding flash of light and it felt like the aircraft was speared through its abdomen and was being roasted on a coal pit. And all of this occurred within seconds.

The caged air was now rapidly escaping the pressurized cabin through the rear of the aircraft that had been ripped apart. The Captain pleaded for order while his seat struggled to break free. But his voice never left him. The forces of physics conspired with each other to rip and burn the aircraft at the same time. The seatbelts had firmly bound the passengers to their seats. So the air which they had breathed until now, sucked them out with the seats, into its realm.

As she clutched tight onto the row of seats she was standing next to, Victoria felt herself being pulled with it. Reflexively, she pushed her stomach away from the seat and tried to hold onto the walls of the aircraft. It gave her another five seconds. The Senator was long gone. The doctors also departed one after the other. Her hand grip was failing. The last thing Victoria saw was the smile on Sophie’s face as her seat was ripped off its harness. The last thought she had was Sophie would have loved the rollercoaster ride in Kuala Lampur.