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My name – Sosha – was the bane of my life while growing up. Because it was so uncommon, no one seemed to get either the pronounciation or the spelling right. One of our neighbours at Khushnuma Apts in Bombay (Mumbai) insisted on calling me “Saucer” – she genuinely believed that was right! And i was too young and afraid to correct her, though I did try once… The other kids would tease and torment – making up a sing-song rhyme “Sosha, dosa, samosa…” until I invariably burst into tears and fled to our 9th floor apartment, railing at my parents for giving me such a name!
When we moved to Dar-es Salaam, however, mine was just one of many exotic names from around the world at school – IST – Venla from Finland, Yuko from Japan, Gunther from Germany, Carmen from Peru… Morten from Norway… and it didn’t matter at all.
Later at college and at work, I stood out as the girl with the unusual name!
My name is rare even in my own community, the Syrian Christians. We usually come across a few very elderly women with the name – so far I have met just one girl close to my age, at Cathedral & John Connon, with the same name. When I pressed my mom for its origin, she told me it was the Malayalam form of the name Susan.
Neither she – nor I – realized how wrong that theory was!
A few months ago I idly googled it – clicked on a result and was staggered to read on BabyNameFacts.com that it had a Hebrew origin…
Why did it come as such a shock? Because it only serves to bolster the theory that we Syrian Christians actually have our origins in in Middle East and have a Jewish connection from the time of Christ, 2000 years ago… and I had believed the St Thomas story was mere legend.
The fact is my name has survived unchanged these two millennia in a land very different from its origin, which is amazing. Take the Indian campaign of Alexander the Great – his name survives to this day in the North of India as Sikandar. A possible reason my name remains intact could be that it is short – only two syllables long – and did not lend itself to variations… then why did so many people get it wrong while I was growing up?!
Of course, I did browse some other sites and Jewish language groups to document that my name is truly of Hebrew origin. It is – and I probably am.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Carrying my wet swimming gear and towel in a plastic bag, I trooped out of the girls’ changing room behind the sole Filipina in our class, Luisa Ligot*. Riitta and Valma followed me, chattering nineteen to the dozen – in Finnish. It was my first month at the International School of Tanganyika in Dar-es-Salaam and it still sounded like the Tower of Babel to me.
The boys had got a head start on us as usual and were already on the steps leading up to our eighth grade homeroom overlooking the tennis courts. I ruefully remembered my failure, the previous Saturday afternoon, to keep up a sustained volley across that large expanse. I did not have the requisite stamina, physique – or the inclination for that matter – to slam a furry yellow ball over the net in what I considered a form of needlessly hot and sweaty exercise. But I had thought the neighboring pool a great alternative to cool off and burn up those calories simultaneously.
As we caught up with the boys, I suddenly noticed that there was something strange about one of the Germans, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Then I forgot about it as we reached the homeroom doors. Tom Sly, our rotund, sandy-haired Integrated Science teacher was already at the board. A Texan, his accent was as broad as his midriff. We settled down, a tad restless after that invigorating hour at the pool, to listen to him expounding on Newton’s Laws of Gravity.
Tom Sly was hardly three minutes into his lecture when he stopped abruptly in mid sentence. His plump double chin had dropped and his round blue eyes had grown even rounder. He was staring at one of the boys with an expression of amazement tinged with amusement.
“Gunther?” he asked when he had finally recovered his voice. “Why is your hair pink?”
All of us turned in unison and goggled. It was only then I realized what had looked so odd earlier on as Gunther had run up the sunlit stairs. His normally blond locks had turned a pale but distinct shade of pink.
“He’s become a punk!” commented his pal, Boris. “A Pink Punker!”
“Meester Sly, I think he’s got some strange new disease. Can we do some experiments on him, pleez?” pleaded our irrepressible French wit, Antoine, waving about a sheathed dissection scalpel.
We roared with laughter.
“No! No!” protested Gunther frantically, eyeing surgical instrument with horror. “My new towel – the one I used after swimming – the color ran…”
“Oh, I see!” grinned Mr Sly.
“I will wash my hair when I get home,” promised Gunther earnestly.
“Yeah, do that… Okay now, settle down…” said Mr Sly, returning to his notes.
It was back to gravity after a light dose of laughter.
© Sosha Srinivasan
* All names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals.
… was the salutation with which Anna replied with a loooong mail!
By a coincidence (or ESP?!), she had been searching for me on the Net a few weeks ago.
Another coincidence – we had both done courses in Hotel Management and Catering Technology in the mid ’80s!
And finally, we had major career shifts and both of us now work in the health services field!
How’s that for parallel minds/ parallel lives?
I remember Anna as bubbly, feisty and fun, with a ready smile and a quick wit bordering, at times, on the irreverent. She made me laugh, and how! Yes, I did go though the giggly teen phase, however unlikely that may seem now.
Anna is also very brave. She fell seriously ill after she went back to England and has come through with great strength and fortitude.
Her family are doing well except her dad passed away in 2000.
What strikes me most when I read her mails is how close and supportive her family members are of each other. I’m not really surprised because I remember them as warm, friendly and inclusive – I practically lived at their home – a twenty minute walk from ours – especially over the hols.
© Sosha Srinivasan
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am an avid reader. I am especially enamored of books that are hard bound. Take off that dust cover and you get a glowing jewel – ruby or perhaps jade green or deep blue with indented letters in gilt. It feels heavy and solid and somehow rooted in your hands. The best thing is tha pages don’t break away from the spine as they do in paperbacks.
In January 2006, I read in a local paper that there were used hardcover books to be had for I Rs 50 only (USD 1.10) outside the premises where the Chennai Book Fair was being held. I rushed over. I was over the moon when I realized ot was true! I snapped up about 50 of which 40 were Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. Of course I remembered to ask for the chappie’s business card and I made sure I visited his shop atleast every 2 months since. My collection has since burgeoned to 100… The list is on my Books Read pages. I read more than half of them in 2006. 
Then I was struck by a doubt – perhaps this was just the tip of the used book market I’d unearthed – was I losing out on choice by restricting myself to one dealer… So I googled – second hand books Chennai – and up popped a kindred spirit – Mrs Fife, who seems to wander quite far south in search of those beautiful tomes. Though I don’t share her primary obsessions of crocheting or knitting (cross stitch, a bit of tapestry and macrame with a couple of soft toys thrown in is as adventurous as I have got so far in that department), I was hooked (!) by her humorous turn of phrase… here’s to more of her kind.
Talking of humor, James Thurber is absolutely one of my faves – I’ve re-read The Secret Life of Walter Mitty several times and it never fails to raise a laugh. Ditto for The Catbird Seat.
Like Mrs Fife I enjoy British more than American authors – Daphne du Maurier, Mary Stewart, Gervase Phinn (Up and Down in the Dales is a hilarious must read), Marcia Willett, … Then why is it that two of my all time fave books are by Americans – Jack Schaefer’s Shane and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird? Does it have something to do with the fact that I read them in my early to mid teens and they made a terrific dent in my impressionable teen psyche? Still trying to figure that one out!
So what the progress on the pals from IST I was trying to get back in touch with? Morten and I mail each other quite regularly, once or twice a week – he called Dar-es Salaam “paradise”. My son says we should visit Tanzania – but I know it won’t be the same – Places, like people change, often to be unrecognizable – and after almost three decades? No, I think I’ll stay with the memories so beautifully blurred at the edges. Now don’t misunderstand – it wasn’t all that hunky dory when you push away the nostalgia – there were plenty of miserable moments too. Racism, for instance, was quite rampant among several students cliques and perhaps a few teachers. We just kept away from them and made friends with those who were not.
I managed to trace one of the best teachers I’ve had the good fortune to know. Mr Wolpert took Math – not one of my favorite subjects, but just his sheer enthusiasm and verve made me work hard. His approach to teaching was fun – he was and still is an inspiration to me. I used some of the concepts he used when I taught. He’s still teaching - now in Pennsylvania.
I mailed Anna at her office – no reply yet becaiuse she is “out of office” till the 16th. I called DuBois – and couldn’t get through – probably will have to resort to snail mail.
Finally I traced another classmate, John. He is a physician now living in Texas and he mailed me back – catching up. This reconnect was especially poignant since our families knew each other very well – Syrian Christians from Kerala.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.”
- Kevin Arnold.
When I first read about blogs/blogging – I thought what could be less interesting about reading about someone’s life? Fiction, to me, had always seemed more interesting than life. (Confessions of a “bookmad” individual – to quote my son.) I have since come across the pits – dull as ditchwater meandering treatises, but also, happily blogs of the prolific, well traveled Mark Moxon (though www.moxon.net is not, technically speaking, a blog) and India’s very own Mrs. Fife – wonderfully humorous turn of phrase (jeete raho beti!)
I also decided my schooldays were interesting enough fodder for a blog… memories from my years at Cathedral & John Connon, Bombay (sorry Mumbai – old habits die hard) – Std 2 to Std 6 (1972-1976) – any CATs reading this? – and then at the International School of Tanganyika (IST) – Grade 7 to Grade 11 (1977-1981). Both schools have been catalysts - I owe a great deal of what I am – my personality, outlook, philosophy, call it what you may – to the influence of teachers there, as well as friends I made at both schools. Unfortunately it has been over a quarter of a century since I’ve been in touch with them….
I’d been trawling the Net for familiar names and a month or so ago I got lucky. I had tried a Norwegian study buddy’s name, Morten (from IST), got several matches but none that I could be certain of. Then in a, if I may say so, brilliant piece of detective work (though jealous critics may call me devious) I keyed in his kid sister’s name, and bingo! there she was, larger than life with photo ID to boot. She forwarded my mail and …
The truth is, I sat on it for a month. Why? I wasn’t sure of the reception I’d receive after 26 years – and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep up a regular correspondence… but I finally did, mostly on impulse.
I have tracked down a couple of other close friends from IST, one in the UK and one in the US of A – Anna, you are not going to believe what hit you! DuBois will have to make do with a phone call since I could only trace a telephone number with the means at my disposal…
The suspense builds up – will I get the cold shoulder – have I got the right number… ? Don’t go away, I’ll be right back with the most recent update of the breaking news…
While you wait, here’s a lovely poem called ‘Sometimes’ to think about – and remember …
Across the fields of yesterday
He sometimes comes to me,
A little lad just back from play—
The lad I used to be.
And yet he smiles so wistfully
Once he has crept within,
I wonder if he hopes to see
The man I might have been.
- Thomas S. Jones, Jr.
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