Seventh Born: From A Donkey... To A Writer And Linguist

 Chapter One

Chennai: 1969–1986

When I was born, my eldest brother, Jake, apparently held me in his arms and named me Cecilia, as she was the patron saint of musicians. It was not strange since we hailed from Goa and almost every member of the family was a musician. But unfortunately, not me. My brother was my godfather, or rather, I’d say, my father, as the age difference between us was twenty years, which meant my dad was sixty when I came into the world. “Naughty and completely irresponsible,” remarked my brother.

As a seventh-born child, not much was expected of me for several reasons – Dad retired from Connemara hotel, where he was chef cuisine. Mom voluntarily resigned; she was an excellent telephone operator at Indian Express. We were six kids, minus the one who died three days after his birth. Our folks didn’t have a penny to their name.

Mom used to tell me that we were actually wealthy; our relatives from my dad and grandmother’s side had misappropriated our property. So, every trip Mom made to Goa to settle the duel cost the earth, and since we didn’t have money, she’d return without her gold ornaments.

I know how much Mom loved glittery ornaments, yet I’d see her mortgaging her jewels and not have the money to take them out. She’d cry and tell me how foolish they had been to spend their retirement money on relatives who had now taken away even the roof over their heads.

I have no memories of Goa and don’t remember ever visiting it when young, but my brothers and sister said it was beautiful and they enjoyed staying there better than in Chennai. However, things turned bitter after the feud, and all those trips remained a dream.

Since my folks were low on money, it was inevitable that my brothers took on the load of becoming breadwinners for the family. Thus, they gave up school life after grade X even though they were brilliant. Instead, they mastered the violin and joined the cine field, playing in the famous orchestras of the renowned music director, Illayaraja, and other Kollywood, Tollywood, Mollywood, and Bollywood music directors.

My sister, Mary, was the queen bee; she was beautiful and buxom; however, she was a complete tomboy. Instead of playing with dolls, she played with hockey sticks and always came home bruised. Often, I’d hear my father asking her in Konkani, “Mary, what did you break today?” On one occasion, I remember, she showed us her broken stiletto with a grin and recounted how she had insisted that the person who had caused the accident look for the missing heel instead of taking her to the hospital.

Mary was a cyclist and won the All-India Cycle Race in the ’70s, and to date, the family never fails to say how she missed an opportunity to win a cycle because she didn’t know the brand name of the bicycle she was riding. So, she got a silver beaker instead. Anything except studies, and she would happily participate, which meant she topped sports. So, it came as no surprise when she wanted to drop out of school.

To be allowed to study in itself was a great reward as we did not have money to do it on our own. My brothers worked very hard to maintain a family of six, plus our parents and grandparents. It was no simple task, even in those days. So, my mother went to seek help from our principal’s wife, Mrs. Sundari. We had a grant, which was eligible only for the minority community. But Mrs. Sundari decided that we should be sponsored even though we did not belong to that community. I never ceased to be grateful to that beautiful heart that understood our needs.

I was a miserable failure, really embarrassing to say, but I did well in English. I guess, even then, I was meant to be a writer. Amen. I cannot tell you how many times my teachers gave up on me. They tried everything, from whipping to snarling to insults and scorn. Apart from wounding me deeply, it did not do any good. However, when it came to song, dance, and sports, I’d shine on the stage like a star. Especially song and dance. How I loved to participate!

I thought I was terribly talented until my next-door neighbor, Jane, sang ‘Chiquitita’. God, I wanted to cry. She sounded divine. What a strong, rich voice she had. How could I compete with her? So I told myself she could not dance like me – and dance I did, until I realized that my cousin, Mable, was the next Jennifer Beals in town. Totally depressed, I wondered what I was going to do. I was not the best in the art I loved, and even if I was passable, there was no question of pursuing those ‘wasteful’ activities, as they were referred to. The only option was academics, which I hated with all my heart.

I continued my downslide but was faithfully promoted class after class. The headmaster felt sorry for me; he was a lovely gentleman. Anyway, when it was time for the public exams, I could not escape anymore. The results were announced, and I came out a loser, not in one subject but two. I still remember the day. It marked my life.

I was spending my vacations at Mable’s place. My gentle uncle scanned the newspaper upside down and inside out, searching for my number. I could have told him that it wouldn’t be there, but pride didn’t permit that. Anyway, he was kind and said with conviction that it might be a printing error. When I think of it now, I smile, but what hope those words offered me at that time.

Examining my failure, my negative side agreed with the teachers: I had no head for studies. One teacher bluntly told me, “You are a donkey and will remain a donkey. Your great-grandchildren will meet up with you in class.” These days, teachers might be imprisoned for such rash conclusions. Those days, we took it with a smile. In fact, we took everything with humble acceptance. The slaps and raps on the face, the twisting of the ears, the caning on the butt, and everywhere else – the pinching on the arms, the flinging of our notebooks, etc.

That teacher would have been right had I permitted all of this to scar my life. Fortunately, I didn’t. Something happened to me. For the first time, I felt humiliated.

It was not so much about failing. It was more about what people said to you at that point. How they looked at you. How they spoke about you. How they poked fun at you. As if that was not sufficient, family members grouped together to give me a piece of their minds. Mine gave me several pieces throughout my life; some make me laugh aloud now. They repeated, “You are only fit to dance.” However, they didn’t say that when any visitor came home, I was appointed dancer for the evening. And my brother, Eric (three years my senior), was made to play the violin whether he liked it or not.

A year before my public disgrace, I lost my dad in an accident. Mom became a young widow and couldn’t take the loss. By this time, my two elder brothers were married and had moved out. The third one took the load of supporting the family as the fourth one was still studying. My sister was immersed in her job as a primary school teacher, and though she earned peanuts, she was happy. But then, slowly, she began to get depressed. She was engaged to be married and discovered the man already had a family! A few years later, she got into another relationship, and he was as handsome as Jackie Shroff; however, he was very unfaithful. My fourth brother, having entered the cine field too young, began to have emotional upheavals.

The culmination of events affected my growth and dragged me into a cesspool of failure.

My mother was the sweetest person in the world but was not strict enough. I still remember the ‘leave letters’ she wrote to the headmaster for Eric and me. From stomachache to headache, from vomiting to diarrhea, she exhausted every sickness in the book to the extent that the poor headmaster called us to his room. “You’ll seem to be very sickly children,” he said worriedly. Though I love my mother very much, I think parents must be strict with their children, as the proverb 23:13 goes: Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you beat him with a rod, he will not die. It was better to get spanked at home than get spanked in life!

Having flunked two subjects, my eldest sister-in-law, Maggie, offered to teach me science, and my sister’s friend, Vidya, Tamil. There was no choice in the matter. Now that I had failed, my mother was blamed for being too lenient. I had to pack up and stay at Jake’s house. I cried, wailed, and begged my mother to take me back. She couldn’t do anything, and I’m glad it happened that way.

Maggie was a qualified teacher with all the time in hand. As science was her major, she went tooth and nail to get it into my head. Maggie explained for hours with diagrams and sketches and made it so enjoyable that I, who hated the subject, actually began to understand it very well. She woke me at 5:00 am and drilled me until midnight. I’d have healthy meals and attend my Tamil classes in between breaks.

My Tamil teacher, Vidya, was another great individual. I would go to her house during breaks. She taught me so well that I began to recite the Thirukural like a parrot. I enjoyed her class, during which the aromas of Indian cuisine would waft into the room. She’d serve me a meal of rice, sambar, and salty chips at seven in the morning!

After three months of toil, waking with the birds and being drilled in both subjects until dusk, results began to show. Great results. No one was more surprised than I! For the first time, the donkey was starting to feel slightly intelligent. I got through the arrears with such high marks that my science master, Santiago, nearly fainted, and my Tamil teacher, Anju, was shocked. As for the one who called me a donkey, Ms. Sheryl, she had passed on and probably rolled in her grave.

Something struck me quite forcefully at that moment. I wasn’t dumb; I just hadn’t worked hard enough. Song and dance took too much of my time. So did television and gameplay. I wasn’t disciplined or compelled to study. These results proved that if I wanted, I could do well in any subject, even hateful ones.

I moved to Church Park for the eleventh and twelfth – an all-girls’ school. Though I hated that it was run by nuns, I was relieved that no one would know my failure background. Further, Maggie and Jake sent me to a private college to master two of the five subjects I was about to attempt in school. Hence, it was no surprise that I topped the class and felt terribly proud of myself.

I made lots of friends and became very popular, not just in song, dance, and sports, like in the previous school, but in ACADEMICS! Hip girls would come to me with doubts, and I would offer to do their homework. I loved the feeling of being wanted and respected.

Chapter Two

The Taste of Victory: 1987–89

The first commerce test was approaching. Unfortunately, it was a new subject for me, not a part of the course I’d undergone. So, when I went home that evening, I was in a dilemma. Old habits die hard. I was about to put the book aside and watch television, but something stopped me. An inner voice seemed to tell me: Not this time; you are not going in that direction again.

I picked up the textbook and read the lesson. I panicked. It was all new. I could not understand. My mind was blocked with fear. Should I go and ask someone to explain? Where was the time? The test was the next day. I said a desperate prayer and reread it. I had to understand. Imagine if I failed in that subject, my friends who thought I was intelligent might shun me. So, I tried again. By the fifth reading, I felt better.

The following day, when my friends asked if I had studied, I said no. Strange, isn’t it? It was not because I wanted to lie. It was more out of fear of whether I would get it right. After all, this was the first subject I was attempting without being tutored. When the result came, my jaw sagged. It was a clean 24 ½ on 25.

I wanted to jump with joy. I wanted to study and change what my family thought of me. I wasn’t going to accept any negative opinions. I was going to be someone, and that was a promise. On the side, I’d taken a fancy to Mills & Boon. I’d invent dreams of the perfect man – a westerner, who’d be rich, drop-dead gorgeous, and fall in love with me. Where in my miserable life I was going to find him was not even a thought. Such was my confidence.

If you had seen me in those days, you’d wonder how I could dare weave such hopes. I was skinny as a beanpole. No curves absolutely, and I was very affectionately called ‘Blackboard’. As if that wasn’t enough, I was prone to acne. My hair was as coarse as coir. But when I went out, I ensured my skinny frame was camouflaged with full-sleeve tops and, preferably, loose clothing. My acne was concealed with Caladryl lotion, and my hair was neatly brushed, and if necessary, I’d dab a little oil on it. My non-existent bust was boosted. I carried myself like the Queen of Sheba.

I made two terrific friends, Britanny and Wilma. Britanny was loyal, and Wilma mischievous and entertaining. From them, I learnt how one could study as well as enjoy life. How one could be hip and sweet simultaneously. How one could be down to earth and savvy. We called ourselves ‘The Cool Riders’. I remember writing a poem about us, which went something like this:

I’d like to tell you friends about the famous three

They were none other than Britanny, Wilma, and me

We were best friends in the sight of outsiders

So we called ourselves the ‘Famous Cool Riders’.

It was just two years of schooling we had together

But I’m sure we three would correspond with each other

Let me tell you friends about the other two

Girls like them in the world are few

One, in particular, loved to sing

She was down to earth, honest, and never had a casual fling

The other was funny, beautiful, and neat

The only problem was her height, which was a little over five feet

The three of us are waiting for our finals to go by

You’ll then see us each with a tall sexy guy

Once we’re out of Church Park gates

We’ll be with our heavy dates

There’s nothing more to say, so I’ll have to end this

Britanny and Wilma, you are going to be missed.

The most beautiful of us three was Wilma. Britanny and I never liked walking along with her as she stole the limelight. She was perfectly sculpted, with a hot buxom figure, wavy mane, and features of the ever-youthful pop star, Madonna. Guys went crazy when she glided past them. They panted after her and pleaded to be noticed. Despite it all, she hung out with us and shared her popularity.

I wondered what a girl like Wilma was doing with us as I thought she didn’t need us. But I was wrong. She did need us. Every relationship of hers ended in sorrow. So, at the age of seventeen, I was learning about boyfriend trouble and just how hard-hearted guys could be. What amazed Britanny and me was that she was gorgeous and charming yet allowed herself to be mistreated. The guys she craved were the opposite of her – even Britanny and I wouldn’t give them a second glance, yet she was crying her heart out.

There was one of her boyfriends whom we called ‘Wuthering Heights’. He was tall, thin, and dark – honestly, no match for Wilma. It was like Beauty and the Beast, and that, unfortunately, was the truth. He was a beast, not just in looks but in character. I still remember Britanny and me standing by the bus stop and watching him calling off the relationship. The pain and anguish on Wilma’s face and the way she cried. It was pitiful. Here was a girl who could get anyone she wanted at the click of her fingers, but the ones she wanted, unfortunately, took her for a ride.

Britanny and I tried a different route: pen pals. In those days, we didn’t have internet let alone chat facilities. We would look through Friends magazine. I still remember one guy, Rohit, who kept us romantically inclined for a year without sending his snap. We would imagine just how handsome he was and build hopes of a Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt. Finally, we did get to see him, and that was the last he received news from us.

What a disappointment!

Then came another pen pal from Assam, Brandon, who was pretty hip and affluent. I thought that maybe he was the Mills & Boon guy I was looking for. Wrong. When he finally came to Chennai and we met him, we discovered that he was not tall and successful, nor was he drop-dead gorgeous, but he fell in love with me. Though I liked him, it was definitely not love. I only felt great that he took Britanny and me to five-star restaurants. He was wealthy and kept going for plastic surgeries from nose to throat. Anyway, I had my first view of Apollo Hospital in its entire splendour thanks to him.

Britanny and I decided we would not fight over him. But unfortunately, that was easier said than done. The day he confessed his love for me, Britanny and I had our first misunderstanding. Wilma saved my skin. She told Britanny that we cannot force people to love us and hence she should back out since he fell in love with me. Somehow, the pleasure in the relationship was not there. I felt mean and selfish. So, I broke it off with him and was back with Britanny, laughing and chirping like birds.

Innocent as we were, we’d get excited over small things, like one pen pal who decided to visit us. We agreed we would not fight over him but do the right thing and share the friendship. So we went to see him, dressed in our Sunday best, bubbly with anticipation about what a ‘looker’ he would be. We reasoned that if his voice turned us to jelly, imagine his appearance? So we went into that state of euphoria.

Fortunately, my back was towards the entrance of the restaurant where we had decided to meet him, and there was a vast wall-sized mirror in front of me. Britanny wasn’t that lucky. I saw an elderly man making his way towards her, holding his hand out for a feeble handshake. She was calling out to me desperately, and I pretended not to hear her as I was laughing uncontrollably. I saw her bending her head and acting like she’d dropped something and laughing just as heartily as I. Finally, I came over to him with a sheer iron will and spoke politely. We dined together and left hastily, never to take the pen pal route again.

We completed our twelfth grade with flying colors, and I walked out with two distinctions!

To be continued…