The 1993 Grand Slam…

the grand slam...only, it wasnt a racquet in hand, and my dad wasnt in white shorts 😀

…was served by my dad — and received first, by me somewhere on the back of my right thigh, and after approximately 3 seconds, by my brother at more or less the same spot on his 😀 !

It was some time in April 1993, during our summer holidays! We used to live in this awesome house set in the midst of 1.5 acres of white sand and lush greens…in the then little town of Guruvayur! I was 8 then (my brother, 11) — a naughty, impish girl who used to create havoc within the house all the time, and when thrown out, amidst my brother’s friends! 😀 .

We considered ourselves the luckiest among my cousins (who all lived either in crammed apartments in huge cities or in little rooms put together in 2 cents of land and called a ‘house’!) 😛 and I used to walk around singing praise of this beautiful house and the space around it.

All sorts of pranks, mischiefs and tomfoolery were allowed for by dad and mom. “Ee praayathil nalla akramam venam pillerkk”, they used to say (It’s the age when kids should be naughty). 😉 We used to dress up the poor cow in its own dung; we used to hide behind bushes and throw huge, but dead, Eveready batteries at poor Raman Nair, the old-man-with-bracket-legs, who used to look after the trees and the soil spread over 1.5 acres; we used to steal mom’s starched sarees from her cupboards and make tents with it (we thought she never knew!); we used to pack pepper leaves in small packets and throw it on the road, catching some poor betel chewer unawares! We used to go to the temple every morning just to get the yummy prasadam; we used to make mud-pies (i actually tasted one!) and serve our friends; we used to play lagorie/seven-stones (i used to get badly hit by the guys!); we used to catch thumbis and then guilt-ridden, let them go; we used to build tents and make dad inaugurate them, urge him to step in (every time, it would be too low for his height, too fragile and would collapse over his head) and blame him for the destruction; we used to frolic all the time in the wide, deep pond without the slightest fear — until I drowned once! But that was never an issue. I decided never to drown again…and we continued our swimming adventures 😀

Didn't quite have the time to notice dad's expression...but am damn sure it was something like this -- an evil grin mixed with surprise, anger and that just-up-from-sleep blankness!

The only thing NOT allowed: we were warned never to scream while dad was asleep. And that’s just what I did that day in April 1993. 😀

We were playing police and thief. When it was my turn to be thief, the ‘police’ came chasing and I ran for my life (and loot)! Went rushing into the kitchen from where mom shooed us out. The only place left for me to run into was my parent’s bedroom…and, forgetting the fact that dad was enjoying his after-lunch nap, I let out a blood-curdling scream and ran into his room. By the time I’d half-circled across his bed and reached the other side, he was up! The first thing he got in his hand was my grandfather’s walking stick.

I ran, he swung. The timings clicked. That aristocratic-looking smooth, 1-inch diametre stick kissed me — violently on the backside of my right thigh.

Silent. Breathless. Motionless.

Too late to realise, my brother pushed me ahead. Dad swung it high again. My brother found himself in exactly the same spot I had been approximately 3 seconds ago. The timings clicked again. Apparently, the stick was highly confused in matters of sexual interests! It kissed him too! 😀

Silent. Breathless. Motionless.

We both strode across the huge hall, entered our room, locked the door, went to our respective beds, pressed our face down into our pillows — and screamed in pain!

Some slam it was! Oh my god! I felt like I was a sheet of crumpled paper that had been floating around and suddenly settled down in a fire, flames licking at me with their rough tongues!

My dad never hit us ever again. In return for that favour, we never screamed while he slept. 😀

Now, tell me this — do you have a ‘hit’ story that can beat this one (no pun intended) ?

P.S.: In 1993, the Grand Slam was Steffi Graf’s too! The US Open, Wimbledon and French Open 😀

Every morning, fresh and smart…

RJ strikes again!! This time, I’ve been tagged to write a love poem. But, this one can’t be just any love poem…there’s a catch (thank god! 😀 ): You get transformed to this 4th grade version of you; make the poem ultra cute and super sweet, filled with innocence and write about Love!

Well, a lil’ intro to the poem: love-life started early in life for me 😀 —and that too, when I was in 4th grade (which makes this tag even more apt 😀 )Really!

I had this crush (though I, then, shyly called it ‘love’ 😀 ) on a school mate…his name was Vimal (still is, am sure 😀 ). Oh…the way he used to sing…the voice…wow…even at that age, I used to dream about singing a duet with him some day!! So, I dedicate this 4th grader’s poem to my 4th-grade crush 😀 (Anyone else who expected this dedication—I’m extremely sorry; so happened that I met Vinay first 😀 )

Every morning, fresh and smart
With my brother, to school I walk
Every morning, fresh and smart
I see him and I gawk.

I find him among the crowd
I see him walk in by the gate
Oh, he looks smart and proud
All for a glance from him, I wait.

Every morning, fresh and smart
I prepare myself to speak to him
Every morning, though fresh and smart
I feel weak and shy to even look at him!

Until one day, I finally see him
Strolling alone by the park…and oh my!
I pray for some courage and walk up to him
And I almost tell him, “Vinay…”

I almost tell him, “Vinay…”
His voice, the song he sang…is all in my mind…
And I almost tell him, “Vinay…”
“Vinay…”, I almost tell him.

Well, I never got to talk to him. 😀