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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
A few months later Mom began teaching Math at a local school. One evening she told us that Bysshe* had been admitted to the hospital for a procedure.
Bysshe was the eight-year-old son of – you guessed right – a couple of English teachers who worked with Mom and were avid admirers of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Of course no one quite knew the right way to pronounce the name, so he answered to “Bishi”, “Bissi” as well as “Bizzi”! Jay and I had met him and his parents, the Kamadevans (who were from South India, like us) when we had dropped by the school once. We found him to be endearing – scrawny and bespectacled with a ready, engaging grin.
We noticed that Mom had been trying to suppress a smile when she had told us. What was so funny about the Kamadevans’ son undergoing surgery? She told us.
Mrs Kamadevan had been busy in the kitchen the previous evening when blood-curdling screams rang out from the direction of their loo. She had dropped what she had been doing and run – only to be confronted by a hysterical, blubbering Bysshe, shivering in fear.
“What is it?” she had cried.
In reply, Bysshe could only point downwards with a trembling finger.
There, on the end of his pecker, was the head of a maggot, its body unmistakeably embedded, trying to crawl out of his skin.
Bysshe, it seemed, had hidden the fact that he had had a maddeningly itchy sore on an unmentionable place for several weeks. He was rushed to hospital where the creature was duly freed from his member.
It turned out that this was a common problem new expatriates faced in sub-Saharan Africa. The Tumbu fly (aka the Putzi, the mango or the skin maggot fly) has the habit of laying its eggs pretty much where it pleases, laundry on a line being a favorite. If you wore your clothes sun warmed off the clothesline you ran the risk of the eggs hatching and burrowing under your skin, only to crawl out later as a maggot – a horrifying, nightmarish experience as you can imagine…
The areas commonly affected are the arms, waist, back or bottom. Bysshe had been unlucky enough to have an unnameable appendage targeted.
The only way, short of drying your clothes indoors, was to iron both sides of all your garments.
Omari, it seemed, knew exactly what he was doing when he was ironing those undies…
© Sosha Srinivasan
NB: The Kamadevans eventually moved further south on the African continent where Bysshe later studied medicine. He now lives and works in the UK.
*All names have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals.
“Bled!” said our new cook and houseboy (a misnomer here since he looked to be in his late 30s at least).
Mom, my brother and I looked at him blankly. Our Kiswahili was sketchy at best since we had arrived in Tanzania only a month prior – in January 1977. The cook’s English seemed equally minimal.
“Maybe he’s cut himself,” said Jay, reaching out tentatively and turning over both the cook’s hands. But there was no sign of injury.
My mind, as it often does, shifted into reverse. I dug into a kitchen drawer and wordlessly handed him a knife.
“Bled…” the man shook his head insistently. “Bled!”
Then Mom opened the pantry door and handed him… a loaf of bread.
The cook nodded, his face wreathed in smiles. “Ah! Bled!”
Jay and I slapped our foreheads in unison. We should have guessed sooner! The previous day, his first day at work, we’d asked him his name.
“O’Malley!” he’d replied with a slow grin, “O’Malley, O’Malley!”
My eyes had shot to his face in amazement. A name that called to mind shamrock and St Patrick, Eire and County Cork – how on earth had he landed a true blue Irish name like that?
My mind drifted back to one of my favorite periods in 20th century world history - WW II. I’d devour Commando comics by the dozen, and one of my all time favorite works of non-fiction was The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan…
The South African Irish battalion had fought in East Africa during the Second World War. Perhaps one of its soldiers had seen action of a – ahem – different kind…? O’Malley was certainly the right age to be the result of such an – er – adventure… But I frowned as I noticed he didn’t seem to have any physical trace of European ancestry. His face looked as if it were carved from mahogany and his hair was a tight cap of black curls.
Mom burst out laughing when she heard my far fetched theory.
“His name…” she educated me, “…is Omari Omari.”
Omari, it seemed, couldn’t get his tongue around the letter “r”.
The following Sunday afternoon I was curled up on the sofa with a delightful new discovery I’d made at the school library - Gerald Durrell’s My Family and other Animals. Dad had done his weekend vanishing act (only to reappear at the Gymkhana Club, I was sure). Mom was taking a siesta and my mechanical minded sibling was messing about in the garage. Omari, directly in my line of sight, at the center of the wide L-shaped passage to the bedrooms, was busy with a pile of laundry fresh from the line.
I suddenly let out a loud whoop of laughter in the middle of the chapter The Great Magenpie Caper. Who wouldn’t reading this?
“Piles of typing paper lay scattered about on the floor, most of them with an attractive pattern of holes punched in them. Larry’s typewriter looked like a disembowelled horse in a bullring, its ribbon coiling out of its interior, its keys bespattered with droppings… The table, a manuscript, the bed and the pillows were decorated with an artistic chain of footprints in green and red ink, apparently their favorite colors, since a bottle of blue ink was ignored.”
“Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!”
I almost fell off the couch at the sound of the deep, loud guffaw. I looked up startled. Omari had turned around with a huge grin on his face. He said something incomprehensible in Swahili and then turned back to the ironing board. He shook his head and chiuckled and again, obviously amused by my display of hilarity…
My jaw dropped when I noticed he had a pair of Jay’s underpants on the board and was actually ironing them! It was my turn to shake my head. The things people do to keep busy I thought as I dipped my head back into the book.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Dad had played billiards during his short service stint in the Navy and so it was only inevitable that he got hooked on snooker when we landed in Dar-es-Salaam. He’d disappear almost every evening to the Gymkhana Club. We sometimes accompanied him on weekends; we’d wander around the club, flipping through past issues of the now defunct Punch in the colonial-style reading room or watch squash or tennis matches in progress after a leisurely chicken curry and rice lunch. On Saturday nights the club showed movies on the terrace, but none of the celluloid offerings, not even Jaws or Bo Derek in 10, could drag Dad away from the green baize tables. As cues were not available in Dar-es-Salaam’s shops, Dad borrowed a spare one from a friend.
And so, a year later, during our vacation in India, Dad lost no time buying a wooden cue from Bombay. As we left for the airport to catch our flight back to Tanzania, Dad handed his precious cue to my brother, Jay, with instructions to be careful not to damage it in transit.
Our troubles began at Bombay Immigration & Customs. The officials stiffened when they saw the tapering wooden rod that was taller than a man. After eyeing us suspiciously and listening to Dad’s explanation, they examined it carefully and finally let us go after running it through a battery of metal detector and x-ray tests.
As we entered the aircraft, Jay had to perform a few acrobatic manoeuvers while trying to get the cue in safely. He succeeded – but in the process jabbed a hapless purser who tried to help most painfully in the stomach. The poor fellow let out an agonized “Oooof!” and had to be helped away. He spent most of the flight massaging his solar plexus.
Jay navigated the aisle safely, a duffel bag slung over his left shoulder and the cue in his right hand, but at his seat had to execute further contortions and almost gouged out the eye of the passenger seated behind him. The chap leapt up with a roar of rage and had to be placated by a couple of crew members. Meanwhile a passing air hostess got a sharp rap across the side of her head. She was quite nice about it and helped Jay lean it in a corner where it stayed harmlessly for the remainder of the flight. But the man behind Jay continued to mutter darkly under his breath and glared balefully every time he caught Jay’s eye. Dad, seated across the aisle, was quite oblivious to the drama, or rather pretended to be.
When the time came for disembarkation, three of the cabin crew rushed up to prevent any more bodily harm and frayed tempers. They took charge of the offending item and offloaded it safely, though I thought I saw one of them nursing his ribs.
At the Dar-es-Salaam International Airport, it was almost a replay of the scene at Bombay. One of the officials tried to unscrew the bottom and another examined it for microscopic joints. They eventually let us – and it – go after putting it through a metal detector.
Jay was understandably furious with Dad.
“Next time,” he said bitterly,”carry your own luggage!”
I sometimes wonder whether Geet Sethi and Pankaj Advani face similar problems when they travel by air.
© Sosha Srinivasan
… 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
Conceived in Kashmir in the far north, born in Kerala in the deep south, raised in Bombay (Mumbai) on the west coast and further west (Dar). Will I give up the ghost if, by some unfortunate chance, I happen to visit Calcutta (Kolkata) in the east? I haven’t visited that fair city yet… but I now live in Chennai, so I guess I’m inching closer…? Sounds like something out of a corny fantasy novel, don’t it?
Dad was a short-service commissioned officer with the Indian Navy “on loan” to the Army in Ladakh, supervising the convoys between Leh (definitely) and Pahalgam (I think). Mom joined him at Srinagar and thus began the story of my life.
Dad left the armed forces in 1966 to do an MBA at IIM-Ahmedabad. After a brief spell in N. Delhi, we settled in Bombay for the next decade, first living in Santa Cruz, then Bandra, at Nirmala Colony at the foot of Mount Mary and finally at Khushnuma Apartments on Cumballa Hill (off Peddar Road).
All in all an irregular Bharat darshan… I’ve heard of Americans making it a point to visit, in their lifetimes, every one of the 50 states in their country. I wonder how many Indians are trying to do the same in their motherland – 28 states and 7 union territories. I’ve passed on this idea to my son and he’s pretty enthusiastic since he has hardly traveled around except to Kerala and Andhra Pradesh.
© 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
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