Stories about experiences growing up in Kerala viewed from the backdrop of living in America.
“The first day was awkward. KPR began reviewing Maslaw’s hierarchy of needs and I began falling asleep. At the end of the class, we struck a bargain.”
“If you are a Keralite, you are sure to have been “associated” with the communists one way or another. Perhaps you are a card carrying member, continuing your lifelong struggle against … computerization. Remember no? Or you are a covert sympathizer who regularly votes for the party symbol while packing off your children to America to feast on the capitalist bounty.”
“I never understood how the scheme was hatched and executed but some elaborate planning in beedi smoke-filled rooms certainly seems in order to pull off something of this nature. The next thing you know, the University abolished the horticultural degree in one fell swoop.”
“But sambhar and other similarly compromised vegetable dishes were gastronomic delights compared to the venerable uppumavu. To call what Catering served under that label a vegetarian dish would be a gross mischaracterization, if not plain injustice to the maggots that suddenly found their life cycle curtailed.”
“Growing up by the river conferred much more than survival skills, skin rashes, and Brahmanical curse. You could pull simple tricks on unsuspecting visitors. A common prank was the drowning act. It proved very effective on my father.”
“We can all learn a thing or two from Vasu. I admire the man for his honesty. When caught red handed, he didn’t evade or lie. He owned up—“It’s me!” he said. If only our politicians and Wall Street barons were so forthright.”
“Although in the beginning it seemed I was the lead character and another student played the supporting role, he ended up winning the best actor award. I was given the 2nd best actor.'You know, there is no such thing as a 2nd best actor. There is the best actor, and the rest,' a friend helpfully pointed out.”
"As a child ambling behind my mother to board the bus to my ancestral home near Varandarappilly, I remember eyeing vendors selling ready-made sambharam from large aluminum vessels—10 naya paisa a pop.”
“While changing one’s birth name remains anathema to many Malayalees, things have begun to ease. Businessmen dreaming of riches running call centers quickly realized that having Balasubramanian answer the phone call from Chattahoochee, TN is a guaranteed road to quick bankruptcy.”
“First class seating cost a princely 50 naya paisa. It got you wooden chairs at the very back of the cinema house with bed lice as companions. At one-fifth of that, the least cost option was the thara (a mud platform or floor).”
“And so, on a glorious summer day in 1974, with the house newly wired to welcome the current, and three agonizing hours of wait after the appointed time, electric lights flickered on in our house for the first time!”
“She saw through his drunken antics for the simple-hearted person he was. “Don’t show up before me drunk,” was her strict order. Yet, he came, showing up at our yard, his madakkikuthu respectfully unknotted and the head wrap untied and held in a bundle in front of his chest.”
“With the aanavandi it’s a love-hate relationship. There are plenty of reasons for the hate, built on a lifetime of missed appointments, sordid bus stands, and unionized staff down to the imperious peon behind the customer service counter. The source of love is nebulous.”
“KK’s face turned glum. He turned to me. 'Your name isn’t on the list. And this is the last bus. Our best bet is to stay near the bus and hope two people don’t show up.'”
“You’d return on your vacation with a handful of the almighty dollar, convert to wads of rupees, and stride into the newest emporium hoping to unleash your pent up shopping energy. Or at least that’s what you had led your wife to believe during your e-courtship.”
