Tiny Shoes, Big Steps: School Beginnings and Brave Goodbyes

by Sangeetha Vallat | Sep 17, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

A few weeks ago, I chatted with 2 of my cousins whose young children had just started their school life. Memories unspooled of my own school beginnings, and I typed this immediately.  Yesterday, a cousin from the UK shared details about the education system and the curriculum, which were quite illuminating. His daughter has graduated from Kindergarten and is now in primary school. Another write-up on that is sure to follow this.

Tiny Shoes, Big Steps: School Beginnings and Brave Goodbyes

It’s back-to-school season, and for many little ones, it’s the very first step into the world beyond their homes. Across the country, tiny shoes are being polished, new uniforms worn with pride, and water bottles and snack boxes packed with love. For many fledglings, it’s their first brush with the outside world. The start of school life is both tender and transformative, leaving behind the familiarity of home and stepping into a room full of strangers, while slowly discovering a new rhythm of the day.

Think about it. For these young children, everything is new. The faces of classmates, the teacher, the school attendant, and even the bus driver. They are asked to do big things: make friends, manage without their parents, follow routines, share toys and indulgence from elders. So many new tasks. So many emotions. So many adventures, just beginning.

Two of my nieces joined kindergarten this year. One of them in Kochi, Kerala, has her older sister studying in the same school. The other is a single child living in Bangalore, Karnataka. Both begin a significant chapter, both stepping into school life with vastly different reactions.

Teju, the Kochi Kutty, had her first day meticulously documented. She posed gleefully for photos, legs tilted, index finger resting on her chin, her lengthy tresses folded into two tidy pigtails. Dressed in a red checkered pinafore, she waved goodbye, then hesitantly stepped into her classroom, eyes constantly darting back to her mother, who stood behind the group of parents, anxious yet hopeful.

Chikku, the Bangalore Baby, on the other hand, didn’t pause for pictures. Clad in a bright CSK-yellow T-shirt and blue pants, her sparse hair tied up into spirited tufts, she confidently let go of her mother’s hand, clasped the attendant’s, and bounced up the school steps, eyes sparkling and grin wide. One quick wave and off she went.

Teju’s school journey started with a few hiccups, leaving her favourite umbrella behind on Day 1 and coming home in someone else’s (smaller!) shoes on Day 2. Each morning still comes with reluctance and negotiation.

Chikku, who already knew most rhymes and stories before starting school, is utterly fascinated by her new environment. She’s enthralled by the sights and sounds of her classroom. Chikku insists on going to school even on Sundays and bursts into tears when it’s time to leave school.

Then there’s another little story from a school run by a friend of mine. She noticed one of her new students crying in class and gently took him outside to the garden, hoping to calm him. She pointed at the teensy-weensy fruits scattered under the trees and suggested they collect them for the birds. “The birds will eat them and say thank you,” she said.

Little Luttu Singh, his long hair tied back in a single ponytail, looked at her, hands on his hips, and replied with piercing logic, “Birds don’t know how to talk. If they can’t speak, how will they say thank you?” Without missing a beat, he added, “You have two phones. Call my mom now and tell her to come pick me up.” In his mind, the school didn’t stand a chance; he was clearly smarter than everyone there!

Hearing these stories stirred up memories of my own first days at school, tales my mother has lovingly repeated so often that I can play them like a movie in my head and vividly picture my younger self. I was a pampered only child and a terribly fussy eater. My poor amma would spend over an hour coaxing me to finish a single idli or biscuit with milk. She would dress me in my pristine white uniform shirt and skirt and braid my hair. She then walked me to school. But the moment the school bell rang, like clockwork, I would promptly project that solitary idly or biscuit back onto my uniform. Amma, always prepared, would rush in, scoop me up to the washroom, clean me up, change my clothes, powder me, tuck a fresh biscuit in my palm, and send me back in. Meanwhile, the ever-gracious attendant would mop up the mess.

This wasn’t a one-time drama. I repeated this routine not for one day, not ten, but for an entire month. Every single year, until I grew comfortable with my new teacher and classmates. In fact, this pattern continued until I reached Class 3!

These moments, however messy or tearful, are such precious markers of growing up. Each child handles school beginnings in their own beautiful way, some with tears, some with twinkling eyes, some with logic sharp enough to question bird conversations!

So, here’s to new beginnings. To the juniors taking their first brave steps into school life. To the parents, sending them off with kisses and silent prayers. And to the teachers, caretakers, and staff who welcome these young souls with warmth and open arms.

Wishing everyone, students, parents, and educators, a joyful and fulfilling school year ahead!

Picture Courtesy: Unsplash- Note Thanum.

AN IRREPLACEABLE LOSS

by Sangeetha Vallat | Aug 28, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

THE VISA GAMES: PASSPORT, PLEASE…

by Sangeetha Vallat | Aug 15, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

I began typing this blog post in my head while I waited inside the US Consulate for the Visa interview on Jun 17. Of course, the actual typing happened much later.

THE VISA GAMES: PASSPORT, PLEASE…

A year ago, on a Saturday, Sujith announced that we would apply for a US and UK visa today. I raised an eyebrow and continued to surf channels. He carried the laptop to the table, plugged it in, and retrieved his spectacles from beneath a book, “The Psychology of Money.” Yes, he juggles between this book and a massive tome, How Prime Ministers Decide – he has been at it for many months.  After some 20 minutes on the laptop, I heard his frustration.

“This bloody thing is asking more questions than you!”

Aha, Sujith hated questions. He usually gave me a single yes or no to a string of questions I texted him. The next thing I heard was the sound of his chair scratching against the floor. Off he went to the balcony, dissipating smoke rings in the muggy air.

“Would you come and help me fill these forms? I am not going to travel alone, am I?”

I switched off the TV, swapped my reading glasses, and pulled up a chair beside him. After 2 hours, we submitted the UK visa application.  We took the rest of the day off and opened the US visa application on Sunday.

***

The UK visa interview happened within three months, and we received the visa in 21 days. We even took a holiday trip to London and Scotland.  A year has passed since we submitted the US visa application, and today was the D-day. We could have checked the availability of an earlier date by logging in regularly, but since we weren’t in any hurry, we left it untouched. 9.15 was our appointment time. 45 km away was the Consulate, a 40-minute drive. I proposed to go by 7:30 am, but at 7:10, I chewed my nails while Sujith clipped his. Sujith invariably clipped his nails, especially on the days he had something important and an appointment to be at. I think it’s his kind of coping mechanism, a relaxation technique that worked for him but frayed my nerves.  I mumbled in a very low voice, lest he delay a few minutes in arguments. 7.59, we started our vehicle. By 8.30, when we hit traffic, I began to squirm in my seat, partly due to my overactive bladder. (I seriously should get it checked, absolutely annoying. Oh, how I encountered wild animals in Kenya, due to this, erm, check out my ‘passport pages’ on my website.) The US website clearly stated that parking wasn’t allowed at the Consulate. We argued about where to park and take a cab. I pointed at spots, but he drove on. Then he finally parked on a street near the Consulate. The Etisalat telephone network played truant, and he couldn’t pay the parking fees. I found a payment meter and hailed a taxi while he battled the meter. Taxis didn’t heed me.

“Aren’t you keeping the mobile in the car? You said we couldn’t carry them inside.” I mumbled in exasperation.

He sauntered to our car to stow the mobile, while I shouted ‘Taxi, taxi’ and ran around like a headless chicken. Sujith ambled casually toward me, a cigarette in his hand, and my face revealed my inner thoughts. He asked a Juice shop guy for directions. The Consulate was just around the corner. 500 metres away. We rushed, or rather I rushed, Sujith puffing on his cigarette, sauntering at a steady pace behind me. I saw the signage, United States of America.  I felt as if I had landed in the US of A. Already. A security guard asked us to turn right a little ahead. There we met an African American who smiled and said, “Hello, Good morning.”

I panted. He said, “Are you walking from far?”

“Yes, in the hot sun.” It was 47 degrees. He guided us to the walkway to the right, where we spotted a queue of 10 people. We joined them. No separate line for the locals, men garbed in white and women in black, stood with us. Another family from Kerala was ahead of us in the line. I asked Sujith the time- he said 9.10. I said, Nonsense. Show me the watch. It was 9.11. I expelled a whoosh of relief. By 9:25, we were ushered inside for a walk-through of a scanner, and we deposited our car keys. Sujith had to remove his wallet and belt and hoped he would not be asked to remove his shoes. The security asked me, “Your belt, watch?”  I said, “Nope. I don’t have a belt, a watch, or a mobile.”  He smiled and waved us inside.  We sat in an enclosure with others. As the people seated in the front rows were taken inside, we moved forward to the front rows and waited.

“Where was the Komando resort?” I wondered why Sujith asked me this now.

“Maldives.” We had travelled there a few years ago for my birthday.

“What is the capital?”

I was perplexed. “Male. Do you think they are going to ask me GK?”

“I don’t know. What if they ask? What if they reject our visa if you can’t answer such a question?”

This increased my unease. I quizzed Sujith on some countries and their capitals, as well as some international news.

A Lebanese couple (we saw their passport held in their hands), both beautiful with cute little children aged 8 and 6 approximately, were seated in a row ahead. The daughter, 8, was pulling her father’s cheeks, talking, and playing. The boy was clinging to his mom, and they played a game of rock, paper, scissors.

The girl was bored and asked her father, “Papa, where was I before I was born?”

Papa said, “In your mama’s tummy.”

The wife blushed as she chuckled at her husband.

“Mama, was I inside your tummy?”

“Yes, baby.”

“So where was I after I was born?”

“In the hospital.”

“Then?”

The little brother pealed, “At home!”

The sister wasn’t done yet. “Then?”

“In the nursery, then school, now at the US consulate….” Mama continued until the security guard, who had a torch, a walkie-talkie, and a stick clipped to his trousers, guided us inside.

By 9.45, we entered the central area.

I ran to the washroom while Sujith waited in a queue for biometrics.  I am like the animals that mark their territory – wherever I go, I have to use the washroom.  At counter 9, the lady took our passports and photos, scanned everything, and directed us to counter 13. There, another lady picked up the passports, typed something on her system, and asked us to record our fingerprints. Left four fingers, right four fingers, and both thumbs. While waiting my turn, I watched the large TVs outside the counters, which played a video on a loop. If your fingers aren’t dry, we cannot take your fingerprints. Use the tissues near the counter to dry them. I kept rubbing my hands vigorously on my jeans. We were then asked to sit in the waiting area for the interview. After 10 minutes, we were directed to counter 4.

All the while, at regular intervals since we left home, Sujith has been harping, “I don’t care if they reject the application. We are just trying. It’s ok, not that I am dying for a US visa.” I caught on early that all these were for me, to prepare me for an adverse outcome, because when our Australia visa was rejected in 2016, it cleaved me. I had planned the trip, watched travel videos, booked flights and hotels, and everything was ruined with the rejection letter. So, I nodded to Sujith and said, “You need not be so pessimistic, and I can handle a rejection.” The US was not on top of my travel bucket list, unlike Australia. I had diligently watched every episode of MasterChef Australia and was also more intrigued by the book “Down Under” by Bill Bryson.

The Lebanese family was at counter four before us, and we overheard the kids answering questions. I noticed now that they were in school uniform; perhaps the parents were dropping them off at school after this. The children responded to the questions asked, including their school’s name and the capital of the UAE. The lady inside collected their passports and bid them farewell. Mama said, “Say thank you to her.” The girl said, Thank you. The boy said, Thank you for coming home. The otherwise tense atmosphere in the waiting room lessened a bit as a few of us let out nervous laughter, hearing his remark. All around, every face reflected stress, so many hopes and dreams stiffened their visage. I watched as the faces lit up and people jaunted out joyfully when their passports were collected. Those who had their passports returned trudged, fighting tears.

Then it was our turn.

Sujith dropped the passports into the counter groove. The lady keyed in something and asked, “What’s your purpose of travel?”

The microphone speakers were next to me. Sujith leaned forward, “Come again.”

“Tourism.” I chipped in. Sujith turned towards me, and I touched his arm. I had told him earlier that he should answer all the questions; I would stay mum, because I tend to give a one-page answer to a 2-mark question.

“Do you have friends or relatives in the US?”

“Friends.” Again, I answered.

Sujith guessed the question, “Friends, my schoolmates are there.”

“Where?”

“They are all over the US.”

“Are you going to New Jersey?”

Both of us were puzzled. We answered in unison, “New York.” Sujith had wanted to land at Heathrow in the UK on his first trip, which we did, and JFK, New York, in the US at first.

Sujith continued, “We haven’t planned anything as such. Want to spend New Year’s in New York and maybe visit Florida.” (We overheard a lady answering earlier, Las Vegas.)

I realised I was sucking my cheeks, Florida?! Where did this come from? Oh yeah, his friend had just been to Florida for his son’s graduation, that must have prompted this answer.

Sujith answered where he worked and about his position/compensation. Then, to the question, since when have you been in the UAE? We provided a detailed explanation of our initial entry into this country and our subsequent multiple stays for employment purposes.

“Do you work?” She looked at me.

“No, I am a homemaker. I worked in the Railways in India. Took VRS. I am also an author; my debut book was published a couple of months ago.” We were warming up, and all that I had heard about answering only to the questions asked, not giving extra unasked information, was forgotten. I stopped short of selling her my book, Platform Ticket. In fact, a friend had suggested that I carry a copy and give it to the interviewer.

“That’s nice. Congratulations.”

I flashed a smile.

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

“You will be travelling with friends or just the 2 of you?”

“Just us.”

“Which other countries have you travelled to?”

Ah, we had this under control.

Sujith started, “Srilanka…”

I clenched my jaw. Really? We are starting with the small stuff. How about the bigger countries we have visited? Then it hit me: Sujith was trying to name the places we had visited year by year….Srilanka was our first international holiday destination, but the UAE was our first international trip.

I jutted in, “UK, Kenya…”

“Tanzania.”

“Maldives.”

“Georgia.”

“Thailand.”

She smiled; she liked our united front!

She pushed a green paper and said, “Collect your passports when you receive the email.

Sujith looked at me quizzically. I gushed Thank you, thank you and pulled him away.

“What?”

“Arrey, if they collect the passports, it means the visa is approved.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. I observed the people. I read in a book, too. Chuckle Merry Spin by Khyrunnisa, in the book, she mentions her getting the US visa and her maiden travel to the States.”

“Good, the book proved a lucky read. I will also read it.”

“Yes, it’s a fun read. Perhaps we will reread Bryson before we travel.”

“Anyways, let’s see the passport with the visa to confirm it.”

I exuberantly thanked the security folks and skipped out, collecting our car keys.

“Wait, I will call a taxi. It’s too hot.”

“Nah! Let’s walk. We are happy. We are going to the US of A!!”

“Hahaha, but why did she mention New Jersey?”

We shrieked together, “Because we had filled in your New Jersey friends’ address while applying.”

Holding hands, in the scorching desert sun, we hopped towards our car.

We collected the passports after a day, and yes, we have a 10-year US visa.

Yayy. Uncle Sam, hope to meet you soon.

Photo Courtesy Unsplash Greg Rosenke

HOW I WENT FROM RAPUNZEL TO MOWGLI

by Sangeetha Vallat | Aug 4, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

  I wrote this blog post in August 2018 under the title Bad Hair Day(s). My haircut saga continues, and in 2021, I published a version of this in The Short Humour Site (UK), retitled as My Imperfect Look.  Quite recently, I had another visit to the salon, and my hairdresser announced that she had previously worked at the Royal Household, snipping royal hair. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!                                         

                                  How I Went from Rapunzel to Mowgli

“What happened to your hair?”

“Well… I had a haircut!”

“But why?”

“Oh… I was bored. So, I just chopped it off.”

“But who in their right mind cuts such long, healthy hair?”

Me. I do. And I did.

Honestly, I was just tired of people staring at my long locks, especially when a few grey strands made a grand appearance mid-conversation. I wasn’t going for any particular “look,” just less judgment and more comfort.

When I told the salon lady I wanted to go really short, she looked horrified – as if I’d asked her to commit a crime. I actually had to convince her to snip it off. Can you believe that?

See, I’ve never liked visiting salons. Those perfectly made-up women, gliding around recommending one beauty product after another, sizing you up with their sharp assessments of your skin type, hair texture, and eyebrow shape… I just went in for eyebrow ‘threading’ and recently for haircuts. If I let them, they’d probably critique my toes too!

I know I’m no goddess of flawlessness. But somehow, I’ve survived just fine with all my imperfections, and have had my fair share of admirers, thank you very much. So please, keep your opinions and just remove that extra hair that makes my eyebrows look like sunrays that belong on a political party logo.

Once, I dared to try a facial before my wedding, and another time, when a friend dragged me in for a free “Aqua Skin Treatment” trial. After an hour of mysterious massaging and spraying my face with water, I looked like a strawberry. I was told to avoid the sun. In Chennai? Seriously? I wrapped my face in a shawl like an undercover agent, reached home. The next morning, my face was a peeling, red disaster. Meanwhile, my friend was still in the “pink” phase. I ended up taking sick leave and hiding away from humanity. From Jekyll, I had transformed into Hyde.

And don’t get me started on nail spas, eyelash extensions, or makeup products. I once sat with a bunch of fashion-forward women raving about nail polish shades, eyeshadows, and the 14 lipsticks they rotate between. Overwhelmed, I finally bought my first-ever brand-new lipstick. Until then, I’d only used hand-me-downs from cousins and aunts.

Even my school friends, just as novice as I, gasped at the price of BB creams and compacts. We’d buy them anyway, only to let them rot in a corner. Once a year, I declutter my beauty shelf, discovering expired bottles, half-used creams, and mystery products whose purpose I can’t even recall. Some smell like sour milk, some are stuck tighter than dried clay.  I’m too scared to ask what “body yoghurt” is even supposed to do.

Anyway, back to the haircut.

I stepped into the salon after what felt like a decade, pictures of celebrities with stylish short haircuts on my mobile. The hairstylist, still sceptical, finally began. Snip after snip, layer after layer, years of oiling, shampooing, and combing fell to the floor. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sound of liberation. When I finally looked in the mirror, I saw a neat, short-haired version of myself. I liked it. I even had her run the clipper at the back of my neck. Perfect for Chennai’s brutal summer.

The first few days were bliss. Easy wash, no combing needed. My hair grew back quickly. Too quickly, in fact. Soon, I looked like Medusa (minus the snakes). No pin, band, or product could tame it. I resembled Mowgli from The Jungle Book. Why is it that haircuts only look good the day we get them? It’s like Cinderella’s magic. It vanishes at midnight.

Now I’m at a crossroads. Should I grow it out again, at least enough to tie a knot? Should I color it like everyone else? (Too lazy for regular touch-ups.) Should I chop it again? (Haircut every 20 days? Too expensive. We had moved to the UAE.) Maybe I’ll just embrace the wild look. Unkempt chic, anyone?

Oh dear, my imperfections are multiplying!

Some say this is karmic payback for chopping off my glorious hair. Maybe. But at least I did it my way.

Cut to a year later

So, I was sitting in the salon in Dubai waiting for the Russian model to work on my tresses. This time, I wasn’t too adventurous and opted for a layer cut that retained the lengthy mane. As I was reading Russian literature and engrossed in Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, I sprang into conversation while Nadia snipped my hair. I learnt a lot about her life in Russia, her son, whom she had to leave with her mother, and how she yearned to meet her family. At the end of our session, there was hardly any change in my appearance.

At home, my mother and my husband exchanged funny looks as I explained my imperceptible haircut.

Months passed; my luxuriant growth had begun to imitate Medusa. Again. The final straw was when I took my mother to a hospital where a nurse asked me if we were sisters! My mother had fewer grey strands than I did. Salt (more) and (less) pepper suits better with short hair.

I selected another hairstylist – A clean-shaven hulk named Ralph. His bald head shining, he chopped my long hair and gave me what I asked. A complete makeover.

Well, now I look like a ten-year-old strapped in a 45-year-old body.

PS. My haircut woes continue. Some days I have Princess D’s hairstyle. On other days, I am Indira Gandhi, sometimes Indra Nooyi…. most days I look like – a messy alien.

Photo by – Unsplash Farhad Ibrahimzade

TO TEACH OR NOT TO TEACH

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 20, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

This was a blog post I wrote in August 2019. Teacher’s Day was around the corner, and I was feeling nostalgic about the calling I had misread. Dedicated to all the outstanding educators.

TO TEACH OR NOT TO TEACH.

I, too, had a dream, an ambition during my growing-up years. To be a Teacher ….an English teacher. We all love our English teacher more than the other subject teachers, don’t we?! Although some of us might be strong in numbers or the world of experiments or analyzing our past, most of us would be decent enough in the languages (or so we thought, having hardly studied for it during the exams), especially the Language given to us by the British.

My favourite game in my growing-up years was the “teacher game”. In a make-believe sari and a stick in hand, I zealously recited rhymes and stories to my collection of dolls and my dad. Yes, Achan sat in line with my dolls with a pencil and a notebook. I had colourful chalk pieces to write on the wooden doors of my Air Force quarters. I dusted off the chalk marks after playtime, and I never sullied the walls. My Achan was the best student in my class. He put up with all of my idiosyncrasies throughout, always. I would beat him, give him spelling tests, and assign homework.

An English teacher is someone who is well-dressed and speaks politely, and never punishes (mainly); all in all, they are loved by every student. This has been my understanding since my school days. I recently read about an English Teacher in a Government school near Chennai who was so loved by his students that they, along with their parents, refused to let him go on transfer; social media was abuzz with it. As I aspired to be an impactful teacher, I decided to pursue my degree in English literature (the railway job was in my future, but still, one could dream), another impetus being the introduction to good literature. I enjoyed reading the books in the prescribed syllabus…Shakespeare, Dante, Bernard Shaw, Milton, Hemingway, and their ilk. Poetry was not my strong point; I fell in love with the Drama paper. Shakespeare’s “Comedy of Errors”, Arthur Miller’s “The Death of a Salesman”, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”, Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie”, so many movies have been inspired by these, and when I recognise the sequence in a film that mirrors these books I whistle joyfully!

Never had the good fortune of studying under an inspiring special teacher, but the ambition stayed on. I remember being mesmerised by my English Professor during my degree correspondence classes. (Pity that I couldn’t join a regular college as I was waiting for my railway posting orders). What diction and a baritone voice. He made even the dry subjects enjoyable. I was proud because he always picked me out from the crowd to read passages aloud to the class. I remember having difficulty pronouncing “ecclesiastical,” and he smiled (I melted!) and gently corrected me. I can understand why students fall in love with their professors, especially the English teachers who sweep you off your feet, mouthing Shakespeare and Wilde!! Hah…I digress.

With great fortitude, I took on the task of tutoring the neighborhood kids alongside a Kendriya Vidyalaya mathematics teacher (he was the Teacher, and I was his assistant). This teacher wanted an assistant to handle English and Social Sciences. I liked these subjects and accepted his offer. I put my heart and soul into imparting knowledge to young minds. After a month, my employer asked me to teach Sanskrit to the students.

I was aghast and told him, “But I never studied Sanskrit in school.”

“You know Hindi? Sanskrit is similar. Add a couple of dots to the script. You can do it, browse through their books, it’s easy, I have been taking classes like that only.”

I reluctantly took on the extra role, poring through textbooks trying to learn Sanskrit and then teach the students. Our education system was atrocious; teachers managed any subject and any grade.

I was punctual in the tuition, prepared notes, and was gentle with the students. They never took me seriously and played pranks on me, and the primary teacher also started taking tuition elsewhere, leaving these students under my capable tutelage. He would come much later, give them sums, summarise experiments, and rush to another home tuition centre. I was distressed to see the mark sheets at the end of my third month of teaching. Almost all of my students failed to secure ‘pass’ marks. I had even managed to get a LKG kid to fail in her examinations. Was that even possible? Can they detain a young child? This was a motherless girl, Kayalvizhi,  thin and dark but highly spirited. She sat on my lap during the tuition class.

Her dad oiled her hair, tied it into pigtails, powdered her face, and drew a black star on her forehead. Soon, he was to bring her a new mom, and I prayed that she wouldn’t come between the father-daughter love.

There was another adolescent Pandi, whose father worked in my Achan’s department. Pandi was the naughtiest and the lousiest in studies. But he was my favourite. He failed in all subjects. Before I joined, he had passed in at least a few subjects. Invariably, everyone failed in Sanskrit.

I told my employer that what he was doing was wrong. Either he should be present in this centre for the whole duration of classes, or hire a better assistant who knows how to handle the students. I resigned, and he left the students unattended. I watched the children playing in the park during classes.

Not ready to accept my failure (yet), I joined as a teacher in a nearby school. My Amma said that perhaps I would do better in a classroom or school situation. She reasoned that these tuition kids were beyond repair and not my fault (A mother’s logic). Actually, in those days, it was true that only children who needed extra assistance attended tuition, unlike nowadays, when even the brightest attend tuition. It’s become a matter of pride. My neighbour, who worked at a nearby school, took pity on me, as I was bored waiting for my posting letter from the Railways. I was instructed to come prepared with a “Rhyme” for kindergarten, as the principal wanted to test my teaching skills. Racking my brains, I selected a simple rhyme that would be easy to enact. Armed with dancing moves (Tu cheez badi hai mast was the top of the chart in those days!) and jumping tricks, I addressed my class of tiny tots, who were measuring me with eyes wide with bewilderment. I felt trapped like a zoo animal. They waited to see rabbits fly out of my bag.

As the cue for action came from the principal, I was on, guns blazing. Hickory Dickory Dock (I was doing the Akshay Kumar hand movements), and then mayhem ensued. I was perplexed at the cries and shrieks of “miss he is pushing me “, “miss she’s biting her”, “miss I want my mommy”.

Complete pandemonium, and I was sweating and swearing. With kids pulling my dress and climbing onto me, I looked at the principal with a silent cry for help, who concluded that tiny tots were a burden on me (I still am incapable of handling kids). Not wanting to discourage me, she decided to give me a chance with the older kids.

I was the class teacher for grade 2 students, who were better behaved. They showered me with so much love. I revelled in their adulation. I was famous and impactful within a day. The principal called me over and mildly chastised me for using “yeah” instead of “yes,” as the whole school was chanting “yeah” fervently (this was in 1995, when casual slang wasn’t acceptable in a formal setting). I grinned and answered “yeah” and left the room.

The third day dawned fresh, and I reached the school in a yellow organza sari. Young girls often admire and compliment their teachers on their clothes. I had started wearing saris to school because the principal said otherwise, I looked like a school kid myself. These saris were borrowed from my Amma and a cousin. School was a breeze till noon. My energy waned by the time the sun was overhead, with continuous classes and homework corrections, with not a free period. I was tasked with an additional responsibility to handle the grade 6 brats as their teacher had an emergency. The kids were so tall, I felt like a Lilliputian! My zeal and enthusiasm ebbed, exhaustion kicked in, and I was unable to cope with the Herculean task of standing on my feet, hollering at the kids. I, a frail woman (many eons ago), fainted in class, mid-sentence, and was sent home in a cycle rickshaw. What a bathetic conclusion!

I sent my resignation through the neighbour and was pleasantly surprised when the principal requested that I come as a part-time teacher at least, such was my impact! Realisation struck that I was not cut out for TEACHING and it was not my calling. And not wanting to risk the future generations, I called it Quits!! I should have realised this when I narrowly missed being born on Teacher’s Day!

Salute to the teachers who continue to inspire and mould young minds!!!

P.S. The unrequited dream still affects me, and I don the teacher’s robe at times with my spouse. He calls me “question paper”!!

Photo – Unsplash Haseeb Modi

Finding Strength in Solitude: Voice Notes and Balcony Views.

by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 11, 2025 | Musings, Today's Katha

11 July 2025.  My mom was my first friend. Growing up as a single child, I shared every thought, every detail of my life with my mom. The habit continues. As Oscar Wilde said, “Every woman becomes their mother…” Much to my delight and consternation, I can see that I am slowly transitioning into my mother. Hopefully, I will beget her strength and fortitude.

Finding Strength in Solitude:  Voice Notes and Balcony Views.

When my father passed away in 2018, the silence he left behind felt deafening. As I prepared to return to Dubai, I asked my mother to come with me, just for a few months, to heal. But she surprised me with a quiet strength I hadn’t anticipated.

“No,” she said gently. “I’ll come later. I need to get used to being alone. Dubai will only be a temporary escape. If I go now and return to an empty home, it will be unbearable.”

Her clarity stunned me. I understood her reasoning and chose not to let others influence me with their well-meaning but intrusive suggestions and chorus of opinions: “Don’t leave her alone!”, “Why not stay longer?”, “This is what happens when children live abroad…” I trusted her instinct. She knew what she needed, and I respected that. I had to return to Dubai, to Sujith, and our life. And life, inevitably, had to move on.

Today, my mother lives alone in Chennai. We visit each other as often as we can, alternating between her home and ours in Dubai. We’ve even enjoyed a couple of mother-daughter vacations, where the roles subtly reversed, she, the curious child, and I, the protective parent.

Her daily voice messages are a constant in my life. They arrive in waves, updates, thoughts, musings from her day. When I’m in the middle of writing or caught up with chores, the barrage of messages can feel intrusive. I’ll play her voice in the background while doing something else, only to hear her ask later, “Why haven’t you replied?” I’ve snapped, said things I shouldn’t have, and quickly regretted it. Thankfully, neither of us lets such moments fester. We vent, move on, and return to everyday conversation, never letting arguments grow into monsters.

One of her favorite pastimes is sitting on the balcony of her 14th-floor apartment, watching life unfold below. Five years ago, one doctor insisted she needed immediate cataract surgery. Another said she didn’t have cataracts at all. Either way, she seems to have better eyesight than I do!

Every day, she narrates what she sees, a running commentary of everything she sees: a toddler wobbling around under a grandmother’s watchful eye, a mother escorting her daughter to tennis class while balancing twin toddlers on her hips, the eldest child dragging a tennis racquet behind. The occasional police jeeps or ambulances in the complex. She clicks pictures of the monkeys hanging on the door grill or prancing on the terrace and recounts their antics, all the while laughing uncontrollably. The area was once a mango orchard, but the trees were felled to make way for the high-rise apartments. So, the monkeys were in their habitat and refused to move away.  Yesterday, she was particularly animated. The colleges have reopened, and our apartment complex, which sits beside a university, is buzzing again. Students are back, hanging around in groups, chatting, laughing, revving up their bikes. “The college kids are back!” she beamed. “It’s so lively! Remember that Prabhu Deva song about April and May! I feel exactly the same.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or admire her joy. This childlike enthusiasm, this ability to find delight in the everyday, is her superpower. Living alone at her age isn’t something most would recommend, but she does it with grace, strength, and a sense of wonder that keeps her going.
She has taught me that healing doesn’t always come from company or distraction. Sometimes, it comes from sitting still, looking out from a balcony, and learning to be okay with your own company.