Under the Gulmohur Tree ( Revised )

                      UNDER THE GULMOHUR TREE

The morning sun glanced shyly through the arched Gothic windows flooding the freshly lime washed class room with its bright effulgence before disappearing once again behind a thick wad of  rain-laden clouds. The large high roofed class room with its rafted ceiling had an air of mustiness about it and the cold bench on which I sat in the Prep class of Atkinson Anglo-Indian school made me feel diminutive and lost that particular morning. ' Oh  my Joseph, Joseph, dear Joseph please turn this side, look at me please. Don't keep staring through the window please. You can meet your mom soon during the recess !' a sweet but insistent voice floated towards me. I knew the familiar gentle voice with a marked English accent had come from my class Miss, a young Irish nun in her immaculate peach colored religious habit. Her white veil barely revealed  a few strands of blonde hair on the fringes of her broad forehead and her angelic face was a flawless ivory white.Her delicate complexion with a tinge of pink around her cheeks and her red  lips slightly parted in a ever gentle smile that reached to her bluish green eyes reminded me of beautiful fairies and lovely angels who filled the bedtime stories every night my mother used to whisper in my ears before I nodded of to sleep. Rev.Sr. Angelica ambled slowly next to me,patting my head lovingly, and hugged me closely to herself. I felt an immense surge of warmth and love all over me as I gazed up into her

understanding eyes.

         

I had been peering through the window and my eyes restlessly searched  the far corners of the school compound.There she would sit every school day under the huge flaming Gulmohur tree, a frail young figure her eyes straining  to catch an occasional glimpse of her beloved son's face framed in one of the colonial sized school windows of my Prep class room. This memory has since then been firmly etched in the deep recesses of my memory. Thank God those were the days when TV's were not heard of and kids were the the only source of joy for their doting mothers. Now a days  mothers and elders battle it out with their kids over the T.V. remote !

I used to steal glances often through the window and watch my mom propped up against the compound wall at the far end of the school with  the Gulmohur tree offering not only a vantage view but also cool shade against the hot sun. With every gentle breeze the Gulmohur tree would sway and carpet the ground beneath with a blaze of crimson flowers  and there bent over with  a pencil in hand my mom seemed to be deeply engrossed in something. She would be preparing herself for my next days school lessons. Other times she would be engaged in knitting woolen sweaters or threading some crochet work. Surrounded in a haze of flowery fragrance with yellow beaked mynas merrily chirping away around her, she appeared to be lost in a world of her own. My mom was of a slender build and fair complexioned with sharp attractive features. Her face had a certain freshness about it and together with her generous dimpled smile made her stand out in the crowd. She was a warmth person but not gullible. She could be bold and also coy when the occasion required. She had a lively faith in God and prayed fervently for long hours. Her presence was a pillar of strength and confidence and her diligence made a lasting impression on my young mind. Even my children in their infancy grew up nestled in her patient care and love. I wish I had been to my kids or grand kids half of what my mother was to me at that stage of my life. My grandchildren now sorely miss their great grand mother ! As  the great William Wordsworth in one of his poems had said ' The world is too much with us ' for various reasons.

During the short recess my mom would lovingly hug me to herself, and wipe my sweaty face with her mundhani while inquiring about the way the morning went for me. Then she would  feed me with cookies and hot horlicks from a flask. It was only at the long recess we used to sit cross-legged comfortably on the lovely aromatic spread of red cushiony Gulmohur flowers and munch away into delicious bites of lunch with my mother filling my ears with those heroic tales from the Bible. She always prepared beautiful  warm meal packs wrapped in colorful napkins  with a set of gleaming spoons and a fork. There used to be a fruit and a piece of delicious sweetmeat and juice for dessert.

After school hours I played for a while and  at the end my mom placed me on her hip, and got me into the cycle rickshaw  and off we went on  a 12 km bumpy ride to my home. My mom among other things was very loving, very caring and also very strict. Her strictness at times seemed to be harsh but on hindsight I believe it did me more good than harm. A mom at heart  knows what is best for her child. Maternal love more than anything else compensates for a few errors of judgement.

I used to reminisce sometimes and share those happy moments with her and she would smile and be secretly amused. At the same time I used to feel sad and guilty for the times when I was impatient and irritated because of her growing senility in the winter of her life. A mother's debt can never be repaid.

There is no substitute for a mother’s love.

I remember a snatch of conversation with her after supper when I  lay on her lap, my head cradled in the crook of her elbow. ‘Mom’ I said, ‘You love me so much, will you give me anything I ask of you? ’ She looked into my eyes and spoke with great emotion ‘ Bakiam, only God can love you unconditionally and he will give you anything you ask  him in faith. I am a mere human like anyone else, now here today and gone tomorrow, like a wisp of smoke. Trust in God alone and cling to him always. God knew you even before you were formed in my stomach. Learn to become aware of his constant presence within you. Even if you run away from him, he will follow you faithfully...like a dog. Love him above all else ‘ so saying she sang  to me softly the beautiful song  “The Hound of Heaven “ and put me to sleep.

Now she rests in a sleepless slumber with a Gulmohur tree as an epitaph beside her grave whereas her blithe spirit is in the beloved hands of her immortal Maker whom she loved much and trusted to the very end unwaveringly.

I miss you  dear Mom on your 90th Birth Anniversary .....  Hope to be there with you someday and before long  we can once again open up the meal pack like the good old days of yore under a golden tree with beautiful angels for company !

Till then may your soul rest in peace !

Meanwhile the Gulmohur  tree continues to bloom and shower its rich blessings of hope, joy and love not in some remote school compound but in the hearts of every loving mother and child !

 D. J. BAKIANATHAN

Travel Travails

                                               TRAVEL TRAVAILS                                                   12.10.13                                                            

The Qatar Airways Flight QR 277 flying over 35,000 ft banked left parted the thick grey clouds and gently began it’s final descent. In the faint light of the early dawn I could just make out the rough outlines of the emerging landscape below criss-crossed by snaky roads and rivulets with shiny button-sized pools of lakes scattered here and there on a carpet of dull green fields dotted by match box like human habitations.Tiny mounds of hills and hillocks appeared randomly and before long in the growing light the familiar lush green canopied Tirusulam hills loomed into view and suddenly my spirits were lifted when the plane with a slight thud touched down, spot-on scheduled time and raced towards the Chennai Meenambakkam International Terminal even though its takeoff was delayed by 30 minutes because of an incident I am about to narrate. My mood changed swiftly to one of great relief and joy as I planted my feet on Chennai soil and the ‘Mann Vasannai’ of my dear motherland warmly engulfed me.Gone were those extremely unpleasant thoughts of anger and humiliation and those  mounting feelings of anxiety and tension that I had experienced at the Doha International airport the previous evening.

My son dropped me inside the Doha airport and left after my baggage check-in. I was travelling single since my wife wished to spend some more days at my son’s place. While waiting in the immigration ‘Q’  I was looking forward to picking up some items in the the duty free shop. There were a bank of immigration counters all managed by the local Arab men and women in their native attire. Men had those flowing milk white robes with  a matching red and white chequered head scarf encircled by a black band while the women hid behind their black burqas  with only slits for the eyes. The men wore serious deadpan expressions like police detectives as their eyes darted from the submitted travel papers to the computer screen and then to the person standing a few feet away in front of them, whereas the women peered through their eye-slits and nothing could be known about their facial expressions. There  was a separate ‘Q’ for the locals and for the Whites and the rest had to stand in several long queues. Doha was not only an important transit destination in the middle-east but it has a substantial immigrant population considerably outnumbering the locals. Therefore the airport had a mixed crowd but the most impressive of them all were the Arabs in their impressive costumes and their confident bearing owing to no small measure to their inheriting vast mineral resources.

• As mentioned earlier I was thinking that I would have an hour or so of leisure to do the airport shopping. But to my increasing impatience my ‘Q’ was moving at a snail’s pace. Perhaps I surmised that the official at my counter was one of those extra cautious persons and a stickler for rules. I was  fast losing my cool and I was almost impatiently nudging the person standing before me in the line. Finally my turn came and I rushed to the counter and handed over my papers and in my anxiety I stood too close to the counter.The man behind the counter shot an annoyed look at me and shouted something in the usual guttural accent of middle-easterners before looking into my papers. I did not understand and stood there confused.He again glanced at me and became visibly angry and shouted loudly in a shriller  voice gesturing at me furiously with his left hand. My confusion was made worse and I stood transfixed asking him weakly in english what he wanted of me. By now people in my line were getting impatient and everybody else in the other ‘Q;s ‘ also began to stare at me making me feel uneasy and highly embarrassed.But a kind soul in my line held me by my shoulder and gently pulled me back. Then I realised my mistake  that I had crossed the spatial boundary and not kept my distance before the counter. Meanwhile the man was repeatedly peering into my papers, and at the computer screen and then at my face with anger and suspicion like a policeman who had caught a thief red-handed. This was going on for sometime. Again he uttered something incomprehensible to me in his guttural voice and motioned for a security guard behind him to remove me from the ‘Q’. I was plucked out of the line rudely and made to stand separately to the immense relief of the rest of the passengers and the line now moved on without me, after being held up for more than 20 minutes.Meanwhile my papers including the passport was handed over to another official who disappeared with them behind a thick screen some distance away.To the person at the counter it appeared as though I ceased to exist. I could not dare to venture near the counter to enquire about my status nor did I have the audacity to shout at him.I simply stood helplessly transfixed my body wreathed in cold sweat. I now seemed to have lost my passport, visa , tickets. I did not make a note of my son’s phone numbers ( I had left the Doha Sim with him ) nor did I remember the exact address of his residence. Moreover I had no local currency in my pocket.To make matters worse I was under a virtual spot arrest without any support in an alien land and without any means to contact my family and friends. In short I was stranded. I stood there for nearly an hour silently mumbling a prayer and with my eyes fixed in the direction of the screen behind which the man had disappeared with my travel documents and papers.There was only 15 minutes left to board the flight. I lost all hopes of boarding the flight or retrieving my baggage which must have been already uploaded on to the plane. The final call for security check-in was already over and a pair of  airlines staff were motioning at me to be quick. I pointed out at the counter and made signs for them to help me. After a while they also left. The scheduled departure time for my flight had come and I slowly began to sink into despair. Over the airport noises I imagined  my flight with its roaring engines taking to the skies. Now somehow I wanted to reach my son’s place, but it appeared to me that I was being detained by the immigration officials for further questioning. A silent shiver began to take hold of me and my only source of sustenance was prayer. At that moment the man who disappeared with my travel documents suddenly emerged along with the two airlines staff and politely called me inside and with profuse apologies explained to me that due to a computer glitch my data was mixed up with someone else’s and hence the confusion. My head was in a daze and I half heard what he said. Then the airlines staff escorted me directly to the plane beyond the security barrier and led me to my seat past the other passengers who seem to have mistook me for some important dignitary ! It was all like a dream to me and the international flight QR 277 to  Chennai took off after a delay of nearly 30 minutes. I kept thanking God for the miracle and tears welled up my eyes even though the incident kept rankling my mind till it was instantly dispelled by the sweet aroma of my motherland as soon as my feet once again touched Chennai soil ! O what a great feeling ! But it is all in the game !   ……BAKIANATHAN.D.J