My trip to Jammu & Kashmir

Ever since I started learning about the Himalayas and about Jammu and Kashmir and after seeing pictures of snow clad mountains, of wonderful gardens and beautiful people I wanted to visit Kashmir very badly. My husband always discouraged me saying that there was terrorism and our lives were at risk. Once we had planned to go there and at the last minute my husband backed out. I was thoroughly disappointed. I was sharing my sorrow with a friend of mine. She came up with the idea, “Hey Xina, why not we go there the next summer vacation????”

I readily agreed to it and actually I forgot about it until January. In January my friend, Jenny asked, “Shouldn’t we book our tickets for the journey????”

“Journey????? Which journey?????”

“Did you forget?????? Our Kashmir trip….”

“Oh yessss…” replied I

I told my husband about it and he did not object to my going to Kashmir with Jenny. Jenny is older to me by eight years and it was just three years since I got to know her well. She is my co-worker. I got close to her as we were of the same wave length and she knew good English. (Teachers who know how to speak good and correct English are a rare breed in our management).

Jenny and I made elaborate arrangements for the trip. We went to a travel agency and decided to arrange our trip with them. The trip was to start from New Delhi. It would take two days by bus from Delhi to Kashmir. They said that they would halt at Katra the first night which was close to Jammu. We decided to join the group from Katra. We booked our tickets for the Rajadhani Express up to Delhi. From there we had to catch the evening train, again the Rajadhani Express. According to the tour operator we had to carry heavy woolen clothing, shoes, socks, umbrella and so on for the journey. We went together for shopping. We were highly excited about it. We did raise many eyebrows when people heard we were going alone to Kashmir.

The D-Day had come and in the evening we boarded the Rajadhani Express bound to Nizamuddin. There were just two other men in our compartment. The first night we kept aloof from the other two co-passengers. It was only the next day that we started talking to them. One was an Air Force personnel and the other a journalist working in CNN. The journey in the train was okay. There were mainly two problems I faced – one, the catering staff knew only Hindi and I could not manage with them with my broken Hindi, and two, I am a coffee addict and they were not willing to serve coffee often in spite of offering them extra money. I was waiting for the journey to end as I wanted to breathe some fresh air.

After the 42 hrs journey I felt happy to get out. Once I was out of the train I wanted to get back into it as it was very warm and the air was not one bit fresh. It was a mixed smell of sweat, dirt and human excreta. I told Jenny that we should leave Nizamuddin as soon as possible if not, we could fall sick. We came out of the Nizamuddin station and there were cycle rickshaws. I never knew that it still existed!!! We took an auto rickshaw to the Delhi station. We passed across the India Gate and through many big roads and finally we reached the railway station. We were all ready to relax cosily in the air conditioned waiting room until evening.

The upper class waiting room was overflowing with people. The air conditioner was not powerful enough to cool the hundreds of people inside the room. There were people all over the place. There were no vacant chairs. Leave alone the chairs; there was not even space to walk. People were all over the floor squatting, sitting with their legs stretched out; while there were others sleeping on the floor with their heads rested on suitcases or bags. Jenny and I had to wait for an hour or two before we got a place to rest our bottoms. I am the type of person, who loves watching people. In the waiting room I was sick of looking at people. I could not enjoy that sort of a crowd with people from various backgrounds touching you every now and then when they walked past you. I cannot tolerate when people touch me especially outsiders. There was the smell of fruits, pan parag and all those intoxicating stuff. I wanted to get out from there. Over that, being in Delhi means one has to be extremely careful about other people and watch out for unidentified luggage. One can never know when a bomb could blast.

The most disturbing sight at the railway station was the beggars. I had gone to the railway canteen to buy lunch. After lunch as I was leaving my plate at the counter some wet hand pushed me and grabbed my plate. He was a filthy, sweaty man who gobbled down the left over from the plate. Though my immediate reaction was a big “tchee’, I saw the real face of poverty. I took a tissue to wipe off his sweat, straight went to the wash to clean my hands. Even when India boasts of great economic development, there were still many who were living on the left over of others.

The seven hours wait at the railway station were like seven years. Our next train reached platform no 1 and we boarded the Rajadhani Express to Jammu. Dinner was served immediately. Again my Hindi became a problem. I wanted salt and I kept asking the attendant that I wanted “namkeen”. He gave me the queerest look and walked off. Again I called for him and asked him for “namkeen” and he told me something in strange Hindi which I did not understand. Finally a co-passenger told me in English, “It is not namkeen, it is namak.” He told the attendant to bring a sachet of salt for me. Soon after dinner, I went off to sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, we were already in the Jammu & Kashmir state. The state looked very dry with no much vegetation.

. I tried calling home and it was in vain. One of the passengers told me that pre-paid connections were not allowed in Jammu & Kashmir. It was a big blow. I had taken my two phones….one with BSNL connection and the other with an IDEA connection. It meant for 10days it would be difficult to keep in touch with my family. I felt handicapped without a phone. I started getting restless. Jenny consoled me saying that I could se her phone as she a post-paid connection.

At the station, Jenny’s friend, a nun waited for us. She was the Principal of a school in Jammu. I saw policemen and soldiers all over the station. For a minute my mind went blank. Fear seized me. Did we make a mistake traveling with no male escort????? Then I thought in the positive….We had come from the southern tip to the northern most state and we should fulfill our dreams of seeing Kashmir. If worst comes to worst we could be killed in some blast or shoot out at some encounter. I didn’t mind dying but I did not want to be alive with my flesh ripped off from parts of my body to expose my bones. My thoughts kept wandering wild until the driver started the car. The people were different. They were good looking people – both men and women. The women were colourful. They wore many bangles and chains of various hues. There were flowers in front of every house, be it a bungalow or a hut and on the sides of the road.

The convent were we stayed was situated in a village. It was an hour journey from the railway station. As the car entered the convent gate, around six sisters came to greet us. They were warm people. One sister served us tea and asked us to freshen up before breakfast was served.



There is a community health centre and a school attached to this convent.

There were patients in the hospital. They gaped at us as though we were the aliens from outer space. I tried talking to them with my broken Hindi and they did not understand. The nun there told me that they understood only Dogri. So my communication with them was limited to smiles and gestures.


The sister took us to her school. The children were so cute. Sister introduced us as “two teachers who came from the southern most state to see and learn about the northern most state”. The children were very friendly. They spoke to us freely. They were so sweet that they even invited us to share their lunch with them. They had a number of genuine questions to ask us. They wanted to know which language we spoke, what we ate, how were the students in Kerala, did we teach the students in Hindi or in our mother tongue and so on. When they heard we were going to Katra that evening, they wanted to know if we were gong to Vaishneo Devi Temple. One girl spoke eloquently on her the trip to the temple and she added, “Aunty, you have to go there. It is a beautiful place.” We also met their teachers and spoke to them.

That evening, Sr. Principal took us to Katra.

On our way to Katra she took us to the Bishop’s Home in Jammu. There was a nice church in the Bishop’s House. As Jenny is a very religious person, we spent some time in the church. I was busy photographing the nice interiors of the church. We met a few priests there and had tea with them.


On the way we stopped at another convent as there were malayalee nuns there and they invited us over for dinner. The sisters there took us to the Talwar falls which is supposed to be a tourist spot. There was hardly any waterfall other than a small trickle.

After dinner we thanked the sisters at the convent and left for Katra.
( To be contd…..)

Someone please help

I CANNOT SEE MY FOLLOWERS HERE IN THIS BLOG. WHAT SHOULD I DO????? HELP ME PLZZZZZZZZZ

Who will bell those cats?????

My alma mater, a college near the Trivandrum airport was a different place in the 80’s. It was a hip college where latest trends in fashion were displayed. The teachers were sincere and the knowledge I derived from them is unforgettable. The Principal then was a nun and she had a strong personality which students respected. She always had a cheerful disposition and I loved it. The memories of my dear college were fondly cherished until last year.

In May 2010, I went there and the atmosphere was completely different. The college office looked the same but the surroundings looked different. The attitude of the nuns was very disappointing. They were extremely sweet to well-dressed people whereas they were rude to the lower strata of the society. The Principal was a layperson. She was very different from the Principal of my times. She was not at all a pleasing personality. In fact she was a multi-faced person who could be very sweet at one moment and a devil in disguise in another moment. She can sugar-coat her words and try to mislead people. If you pointed out a mistake she can tell you very innocently that she did not know how to do things. I strongly feel that she is a misfit for that chair. (Wonder how she was appointed to that post!!!!!!). After all sisters want a puppet to dance to their tunes and she is indeed a puppet

I never remember the college authorities extracting money during our times. But these days the authorities are after money. They have different ways to extract money.

1) For attesting certificates a sum of money is taken. I think it is Rs.10. Why do they need this money??????? Are they charging for the ink??????
2)If students have to get their hall tickets again the students have to pay Rs.10…this is for the print out.
3) A common breakage fine of Rs.70 is charged from each and every student. No receipts are given for this. So it is a clear indication of black money or unaccounted money.
4) A certain sum of money was collected for the Youth Festival.
5) Catholic students have to pay a fine of Rs.125 for not attending 2 days of retreat. The sum is higher if the student did not attend for three days!!!!

A retreat was conducted for the Catholic students sometime in October or November 2010. It happened that particular morning the collector had declared holidays for students of all educational institutions due to incessant rains. Many students did not attend the retreat. The person who had come for conducting the retreat asked the students how many of them had come without any compulsion and only two students raised their hands. In that case….why is these nuns conducting retreats??????? Do they think that these young women over 18years will turn to a new leaf???????

Religion shouldn’t be forced into children. If Catholics are turning away from the religion it is mainly because the attitude of the nuns and priests. Aren’t we hearing about the stories of lust, murder and greed of many nuns and priests??????? If students turn away, I will blame it on the college authorities itself. They themselves are a very bad example to the students. They treat students like dirt. They seem to be above all rules of man and God…… Money is needed for the day to day expenses, but their avarice is sickening!!!!!! Nothing should be forced into the young minds. I strongly believe in that.
If they don’t conduct retreats, how can they collect excess money, right???????

A common fine for all students is charged every year. Isn’t that very unfair??????? Not a single soul will dare to retaliate and the authorities know that. If not, how are those parents giving money to children every time these people ask for money?????? No receipts are issued for all these collections!!!!! I think the Income Tax Department should conduct raids on all their institutions and then they will know the amount of unaccounted money in many religious institutions.


There are many illiterate people who still hold these nuns in a high pedestal and they think that they will be punished (by God) if they dare to protest against any injustice. The politicians will not dare to protest because they survive on religious votes. Taking advantage of this situation the authorities act like dictators. This dictatorship has to end. The question is who will bell those cats??????

Higher Secondary Examination March 2011

As I entered the examination hall
A class of blue and white checks
Stood in revered silence,
Not knowing if to wish or to sit,
Responded positively to my greeting;
The eerie silence was broken
With the rumbling of foot steps
to keep their precious bags out of the hall.

Answer scripts were distributed;
Along with it, a string of dos and don’ts,
Made the boys and girls confused
With trembling hands wrote some
“hIGhir soConDary ExamINaTiOn macH 2011”
Which was an eye opener
Of their ignorance to the teacher and that was I..
Confidently wrote they, their register numbers,“Sex” for six,
“For” for four, “Therr” and “thiri” for three: And “faif” for five.

My frustration grew leaps and bounds,
Standing there I cursed the authorities,
For allowing the standard of education to deteriorate;
Yet they falsely claim of cent percent literacy
In ‘God’s own country’
With ‘Devil’s own People’,
who makes the lives of students a game
In their hunt for political gains.

The reminiscence of my guts

Last night I hurt my thigh. It was a slightly big wound and while dressing it up I saw that mark on my leg. The same old mark – the reminder of my Dad’s first and last whack (I guess :)) I gently caressed that mark and took me back to my school days.

It was the time we had come to settle in India. Since Hindi was new, tuition were arranged for us.

The teacher arrived. She was a slim (I would say thin) fair lady with protruding teeth. If it were not for her teeth she should have been beautiful. She had curly hair, oiled and neatly combed with a red rose. She was a teacher from a very poor family. Her father lived with another woman and being the eldest she had to take care of their family. This teacher went from house to house to teach children. She charged a meager fee for each child. She would borrow money quite frequently and most of the times she never repaid it. Her economic condition was pathetic that most of the times it would be waived by parents.

This teacher had a particular interest in us. She felt that my brother and I were fast learners. She told me that my Hindi was good and that I was good enough to take up the Pradhamik examination. So she was training me for it. We had weekly dictations and most of the time I got full marks. For the pradhamik examination training I had to go to her house. Once it happened that I made a mistake with “बिल्ली ” meaning cat. I was asked to write it 10 times.

I made a mistake. I was unhappy. I did not get full marks. Anyway I wrote it 10 times, five on one side of the book and the next five on the other side of the page. I was being ‘economical’. After completing it I went to the teacher. The teacher took my book, had a glance at it and pinched me hard, that too under my arm. The normally tall I became taller and I realized that I was standing on my toes writhing in pain.

“10 praashiyam ezhuthan alle paranje, ummmh???????” (“Didn’t I ask you to write it 10 times???????”) she looked at me and asked enquiringly.

“Njan 10 pravashayam ezhuthi. Dee avide….” (“I wrote it 10 times. There…..”) I said with tear filled eyes.

“Oh, kandilla,” (“I didn’t see,”) she said apologetically

I was cursing her. It was not my fault that she didn’t see what I wrote. I felt that she was very unfair in insulting me in front of other students. My ego had burst like a balloon. I wanted to teach her a lesson. I looked at my brother. He gave me a sympathetic look and showed me some pacifying gestures.

After tuitions both of us went home together. I showed my brother my arm. It was red with a tinge of blue. I cried shamelessly when I was alone with my brother. He consoled me and he told me we would find a way out.

This teacher lived behind a professional college. We would go exploring the college like the Enid Blyton’s Famous Five. I would pick up chalk pieces that were thrown out by the professors. I collected quite a lot of pieces. I decided to vent out my anger in words. All over the college I wrote
“ഹിന്ദി ടീച്ചര് കള്ളി
കള്ളി എന്നെ നുള്ളി"
(“Hindi teacher liar
The liar pinched me”)

and finally I wrote my name Xina.

I wrote it on the walls; I wrote on their pump house; I wrote it on the road until my anger was vent out. Scratch my skin and you’ll find a rebel in me.

Along with my brother I went for Hindi tuition the next day. I sat like victorious Caesar. What could she do to me again? I wasn’t bothered. I saw Hindi teacher’s sister coming and telling her something. The teacher called me and asked

“Xina ano avide muzhuvan enne kurichu ezhuthi irikunne?” (“Xina is it you have written about me all over there?”)

“Yes,” I replied not looking into her eyes.

“Xina ye njan entha cheythe?” (“What did I do to you?”)

I told her what happened the previous day. She had forgotten the incident. How could I forget it when my arm was still blue black.. She told us that she would tell when our next class was and she never did that again and that was the end of my Pradhamik coaching. I felt cheated. Fees were already paid for the exams. She never bothered to teach me again. No ordinary human being would dare to teach a rebel (a communist according to my grandmother) like me.

I was angry that I did not take up the examination. I was waiting for a day to strike back. On that fateful Sunday I was with my sister in the terrace and I saw her. I screamed out
“Kalli, Kalli, Kalli.” (“Liar, Liar, Liar”)

I kept on screaming until she disappeared from my sight. I was elated.

My happiness did not last long. I saw her walking into my house and I knew I was in deep trouble. She complained that I had called her a liar. Dad was here for his holidays. I saw his face go red. As soon as she left I was canned left and right. Mum was adding fuel to the fire by saying that I was an imp. I did not cry. That made dad even angrier. Finally he stopped hitting me. (Guess he became tired :)) I went to my room and wept uncontrollably. My leg was hurting me. I found my leg was ruptured with the canning. It was in fact bleeding. I did not utter a word that my leg was hurt. I dressed it up myself and was careful not to expose my thigh until the wound healed. I did succeed in that. Nobody knew about it.

Now when I think of it I feel I was much more than a rebel. I never thought about others feelings or emotions. I definitely humiliated that teacher. How could I go and write all over the walls of that college????? My daughter keeps telling my husband,
“Mummye kondu mudravakiyangal ezhuthan kollam achaa” (“Can make mummy write slogans, father”)

Exams come every year while World Cup comes only once in four years!!!!!!

I was watching the World Cup Cricket match this afternoon. The first match was between India and Bangladesh at Shere Bengala Stadium. I remembered that Model examination is going on and the students’ performance will be unsatisfactory as the matches were going on.

In 2003, there was a World Cup cricket match and many boys absented themselves from the model examination. I asked them why they were not coming for the examination. The answer was quite simple.

“World cup nadakuvelle, teachere.” (“World cup is going on teacher”)

“Etha important??? World cup o atho parikeeshayo?????? Entha jaikende???”( “Which is important??? World cup or exams????? Don’t you want to pass???”)

“Teacheree parikeesha ella varsham varum. World cup nallu varshathil orikale varuuu,” (“Teacher, the exams will come every year. World cup comes only once in four years”) pat came the reply from a footballer.

Yes, what he said was true. I knew there was no use in telling these boys because their head was filled with cricket and exams were only secondary for them. They could talk about Matthew Hayden, Sehwag, Tendulkar, or any cricketer for hours together.
If you told them about Adam Smith, the father of Economics, they would say, “Ayyo Adam Smith alla teacher, Adam Gilchrist aa.” (“It is not Adam Smith teacher, it is Adam Gilchrist”).

The students were never interested in their studies and they took everything very lightly. Many boys failed that particular year. I was not sure if they completed the course..

A couple of months back a student came to invite me for his wedding. He was the same student who told me that exams would come every year. He told me that he was playing for a famous club in Bengal. I asked him if he completed his Plus two and he replied in the negative and he added,

“Athu anne complete cheyanamayirunu” (“I should have completed it then itself”).

“Ini paranjittu kariyam illelo” (“There is no use saying it now.”)

Anyway he did not complete his Higher Secondary and so did many. Even this year the same is going to happen. I know that many boys both in the first year and second year is not going to complete the course. After all World Cup comes only once in four years

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa

A week back my friend (co-worker) announced her daughter got married. She did not give a clear picture and she evaded our questions. All that she said was that her daughter had an affair and got married 10 days back. Everyone pacified her and then no one spoke about it. My friend Lekha sits next to me in the staff room.

A few days later I noticed she was looking very depressed and I asked her what had happened. She looked up and her eyes were filled with tears. I touched her shoulders and asked her what had happened. She burst out crying and she opened up. Her daughter was doing her Post Graduation in Engineering in Tamil Nadu. Lekha said her daughter got a missed call on her mobile phone and that led to an affair. It is hardly a year since she got to know this man. This man hails from an interior village in Calicut. His parents are very poor and this boy is not one bit appeasing. He is not very educated either.

I do not know what she found in that man. May be he has an attractive way of talking to girls. “Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder”, right???

Lekha was getting ready for her daughter’s marriage. She had disposed a property of hers and bought quite a lot of gold. She had already booked for a car. It was then that her daughter got married at a registry. She married him and she stayed in her house itself. Lekha nor her husband did know about their daughter’s marriage. Her daughter had lost her mobile phone and it happened that the guy rang on the landline that they came to know about the affair. Lekha was shocked when she knew that her daughter was already married.
Lekha was weeping bitterly when she told me this.

Suddenly it took me back to 21 years ago when I was a witness to a similar act. I was doing my final year PG and I had a friend – Girija. In fact Girija and I were friends from our school days itself. She hails from a reputed Nair family in Trivandrum. She fell in love with a Pentacost boy. The match was not at all suitable. According to Girija he looked like Ravi Shastri and that was his qualification. Since we were very good friends and we were there for everything together I never discouraged the affair. Love is blind and so were we.

Girija’s parents came to know about her affair. Her father used to escort her for tuition, to college and everywhere that Girija went. Her parents trusted me. They have come to my house and even I used to go to their house quite often. When things at her place became very strict I used to pass letters for them. Finally they decided to get married. They published it and after a month they were getting married. On that D-day Girija asked me if I would go with her. I agreed. Her fiancé came in a car and picked both of us up and went to the register office somewhere near Killipalam or Karamana. I am not sure. They got married and I signed as a witness from the girl’s side. I could feel my knees knocking together and my hands trembling while I was signing. I was betraying Girija’s parents but Girija was more important to me.

After the wedding we went to attend another classmate’s wedding. We had lunch from there and went back to our houses as though nothing had happened. That guilt was there in my mind. On the last day of the examination Girija eloped with her husband. Her father complained to the police that she was missing. Both of them produced their marriage certificate and her father declared, “Enikku ingane oru mol illa. Aval marichu”(“I don’t have a daughter like this. She died”) and turned and walked off.

Girija came home and said that she felt very sad when she saw her father turned and walked off. I felt very bad. I cheated the poor parents. They had so much trust in me. Her father died of heart attack in less than a year’s time.

When I saw my co-worker Lekha’s sadness I felt very guilty. Girija’s parents must have felt the same 21 years ago. They must have shed more tears because they had an elder girl to get married. If Girija had waited they would have agreed to it even after much opposition. I really don’t know if Girija’s mother is alive. I want to apologize to her. Now as a mother I know what it is like if my daughter were to do the same thing. I sincerely hope that I don’t get it back in the same coin. I don’t think I’ll ever withstand it.