Knee-high streaks of black zoom by. Playful laughter and shrill screams of excitement reverberate of the walls, while deep and voluminous laughter comes from a corner of the room.
These sights and sounds immediately assault me on a weekly basis as I enter the basement of the St. John the Evangelist Catholic School. This chaotic atmosphere, while it may not seem ideal for an Indian cultural school, is the exact reason why I love it here. The blending of seemingly cacophonous sounds takes me back to my childhood in India, inundating me with memories of my home and friends back in Oonnukal.
As I guide my three children down the stairs, I ready myself for the momentary sensory overload I know is coming. I open the bright red doors and watch as my kids sprint to join their friends in all different sorts of activities. Looking down the rest of the corridor, I myself can see all the different games and activities these kids are engaged in. There are some familiar ones, like running races and hand games that I never really understood, but there are also some more inventive games too. For example, on the other end of the hall I spot two groups kids all crazily running around with their eyes all on the ground. Upon further inspection, I notice a bottle cap, similar to the ones on the two-liter soda bottles, moving at speeds, ricocheting off the wall-floor boundary. They called the game “Bottlecap”, a fusion of hockey and soccer, with all the same rules as the two sports (minus the physicality of hockey).
The chaotic and playful atmosphere of the hallway was extremely reminiscent of the atmosphere of both my town and home. Growing up as the youngest of nine, there was never a dull moment in my house. If I wasn’t busy being chased by older sisters, I was out playing with my older brothers and their friends. The “Bottlecap” game, especially, brought back memories of us playing cricket all the time, anywhere and everywhere. We would use old dried up coconut fronds as the stumps and these would be precariously leaned up against a medium-sized rock, such that even the lightest of touches would knock it over. As for the bat, we would use any long flat piece of wood we could find. Someone would always have ball in his or her pocket, and we would often end up playing till sunset.
The similarities did not stop there, as I entered the main room of the basement, a large open area that ran alongside the hallway, I say all the other fathers sitting, laughing, yelling, and playing cards. While a few tables away from them, their wives were all reading Malayalam magazines and chatting away. Sitting with them, a few seats down, was an old and tired ammachi, or grandmother.
This setup also causes my childhood memories to surface once again. I remember making last minute runs to the small, family owned and operated, convenience store located right across from the bus stop. Always sitting right outside, from the time work ended till dinnertime, were the uncles that played cards. They mostly played 28, an Indian card game similar to poker and blackjack. The aamachi that ran the store over there used to always ask me about school, family, and my own well-being, and she would always let me have one piece of candy for free.
Despite all the similarities with my own upbringing, there are still many differences. Surveying the rest of the room, I see groups of teenagers and kids all huddled around each other. The teenagers are all busy using their new iPhones, surfing the Internet and taking pictures. While the group of younger kids all seemed to be hurriedly talking to each other, while staring at a glowing screen. I recognized this a GameBoy SP, having only recently bought one for myself. This brought me to the unfortunate realization that despite all the similarities, my present life is still drastically different than my former life in India.
As I was mulling over my recent epiphany, I was violently brought back into reality by the shrill sound of a ringing bell. That loud, and irritating, sound meant it was time for all the classes to line up. I watched all the kids grab their hastily discarded book bags and jackets and line up according to their class. There was one class for each grade level, and the classmates you had in your first year tended to be your classmates until your final year. Once everybody was in line and had settled down, the lead class began the opening ceremony. The opening ceremony consisted of singing the school, American, and Indian anthems and then listening to the announcements from the principal. During the Indian national anthem, my son looked at me and smiled a large toothy grin. At that moment, I was brought back to my time as a student, standing in the dusty lot of Little Flower Primary and Secondary School in Oonnukal saying the same exact words my son was saying. It was then that I realized my previous epiphany was wrong; this new life of mine was not different from my old life. The values and beliefs instilled within me are the same as those instilled in my children, and that regardless of the place and lifestyle those same values would then be passed from my children to their children. What mattered was not so much where or how these lesson were taught, just that they were taught and that they were taught well.
