Little Artist, big imagination

 

I have loved drawing ever since I was a little child. One of my earliest and most repeated drawings, starting from when I was just three years old, was a simple landscape—a cozy house, a tree on one side, a big flower, mountains in the background, and the sun peeking from one corner of the sky, surrounded by fluffy clouds.

The second picture I often drew was of an airplane. It was a simple sketch with a door, lots of windows, two wings, and a little compartment at the back. Every time my parents or family friends saw it, they would ask me what that back part was. I would sweetly say, “That’s the bathroom!” They would laugh and smile at how innocently serious I was.

I had this funny little habit—wherever we went, whether it was the airport, a shopping mall, or someone’s house—I always wanted to use the bathroom. When I was around six or seven, I shared a little dream with my mom, “I wish there was a suitcase bathroom. We could carry it with us, and whenever we needed it, it would turn into a bathroom. Then, after using it, we could fold it back into a suitcase.”

Looking back, it’s such a silly idea—but so full of childhood imagination and innocence.

 

The Day English found me…

I was sent to preschool when I was about 3 and half, without knowing a word of English. I don’t remember everything clearly, but some moments still stay with me. 

That morning, my mom woke me up early, dressed me, and gently forced me to drink milk before sending me off in a school bus that stopped right in front of our apartment building. Everything felt so new and unfamiliar.

As the bus drove through a few turns and a roundabout, I felt sick and ended up throwing up. I was so embarrassed and didn’t know what to do. When I reached school, the teachers asked me something in English—but I couldn’t understand a word. I tried to explain in Malayalam, but they didn’t understand either. I remember they were North Indian teachers.

They were kind, though. They cleaned me up and sprayed a floral scent on me. Preschool hours were short—just four hours—and soon I was back home, telling my mom everything that had happened. That night, I remember her sharing the story with my dad, and together they taught me a few simple English words I would need every day.

I wasn’t even four, but that day stayed with me. It’s been almost 37 years, and I still remember it so clearly.

Creatures of Kerala: a childhood fear

“We are going to India this vacation,” said Dad, and the 5-year-old me couldn’t contain the excitement! Back then, traveling from the Middle East to India was a huge deal. From the moment we arrived, my family treated me like royalty. The greenery, the smell of the soil, the rain and the flowers brought so much joy and nostalgia, things we missed in the Middle East. But what I dreaded were the bugs, spiders, moths, millipedes, centipedes, dragonflies, grasshoppers, and every other creepy-crawly creature that seemed to be everywhere! 

The big, scary spiders and their webs, especially in the bathrooms of Kerala, terrified me. I would think, “Oh no!” and admit that I’m still afraid of them. There were times I even avoided the toilet because of my fear of spiders.

When someone asked if I liked Kerala, I would say, “Yes, but not the creatures there!” The adults would laugh at my silly answer. Some of my cousins would ask curiously, “Are there no creatures in Dubai?”

I would respond, “No. There are just big cockroaches in some apartments, but not in our house. My mom has killed them all with a magical sugary ball she makes.”

They would stare at me, as if I were an alien from another planet.

These creatures were my worst nightmare.

I never liked going to the zoo or having pets. When asked if I wanted a pet, my answer was always a firm “No,” and I would say, “I would rather have a soft, fluffy teddy bear!”

As the years passed, my fear only grew stronger.

Chappathi, fish curry & Laughter

 Selena Aunty was another amazing cook I know. Her signature dishes were chapathi and fish curry, and my all-time favorite - her special chicken biryani. The aroma of that biryani, which she made every year for Eid, still makes my mouth water. With all the spices, pineapple pieces, and its delectable look, it’s unforgettable.

But there’s a story behind the chapathi and fish curry. Every time I went to her house, Aunty would prepare her special fish curry and chapathi for me. I was a very slow eater, and I would sit in front of the food for hours, which showed how patient my poor mom had to be.

One evening, I was at Selena Aunty’s house in GhusaisSheikh Colony. As usual, I was tearing my chapathi into tiny pieces and dipping it into the fish curry. The apartment door was open because Hijas was playing with some Arabic boys outside. They were running around the house and the corridors. Suddenly, one of the boys ran past me, snatched the chapathi from my hand, tore it in half, and stuffed it into his mouth. I was shocked and frozen. The whole thing happened in less than a minute. Selena Aunty, Moosa Uncle, and Harischettan saw it all and burst out laughing at my reaction. I started crying—not just because my chapathi was gone, but because I was embarrassed and upset that they were laughing at me. Aunty came over to console me and offered me another chapathi.

It’s been 37 years now, and none of us have forgotten that incident.

Mom’s kitchen, my memories…

 I always thought my mom was an amazing cook. I loved many of the dishes she made, especially her buttery chapathi, which was my all-time favorite. I still miss it. She also made a special chicken curry, which she called Chicken 65, and it was the best chicken I have ever had. I wonder how she made it. Losing her at 10 meant I never learned her secrets.

She also made a delicious vegetable curry with cauliflower, green peas, and potatoes, which she paired with her buttery chapathi. Sometimes, she made noodles with her own masala, long before magic masala packets existed. Those noodles were the best I have ever had, and nothing can replace them.

Her prawn fry and prawn thoran ( thoran is a dry kerala dish with grated coconut) were my favorite Friday dishes. I still remember her making spinach thoran, which my brother and I disliked. I laugh when I think of him stuffing spinach into a rice ball with pickle, just to swallow it without tasting it. But as we grow, tastes change, and today spinach thoran is one of my favorites.

Another memory is of kadala curry (black chickpea curry) and puttu (steamed cake), my all-time favorite combo. Mom used to remove the skin from each chickpea and give it to me. I have continued this habit ever since I was a toddler, and even though it takes time, I still do it. It reminds me of her and all her delicious food.

 

 

Three stitches, one big scare…

 The only family my parents were close to and trusted was Moosa Uncle and Selena Aunty’s family. That was the only house they would leave me at when they went for their nightly half-hour walk for exercise. When I was in LKG, their older son, Haris (whom I called "Haachan," a short form of HarisChetta, meaning elder brother with respect), was in 3rd grade, and their younger son was just a one-year-old baby.

I had a habit of needing to go to the toilet ( I used the word “ shu-shu” which means to urinate ) often, especially when someone else was inside the bathroom. At that time, we lived in a small one-bedroom apartment with a tiny bathroom and kitchen.

One day, after my parents left me at their house, I was playing with toys in the living room. Harish went to the bathroom, and since the baby was sleepy, Aunty and Uncle said they would put him to sleep and be back soon.

Suddenly, I felt like I needed to go to the toilet. As usual, I knocked on the bathroom door and yelled, "Haachan, will you be coming out soon? I need to go shu-shu!" He replied that he would be out soon. I quickly thought I could run and jump onto the soft couch, but instead of landing on the couch, I hit my head on the sharp corner of the coffee table.

Hearing the noise, Uncle and Aunty rushed out and asked, "What happened, sweetie?" I said through my tears, "Nothing happened," though it was both painful and frightening.

Soon, Haris came out and said, "Dolly, you wanted to go to the bathroom, right?" I said, "No," and started crying, pressing my head against the wall. The light floral wallpaper turned red with blood.

Uncle and Aunty were panicked, but before I could explain, they understood what happened. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and it was my parents. Mom was shocked and her blood pressure shot up when she saw what had happened. I wouldn’t let anyone touch my head because I was scared, but later I allowed Mom and Aunty to look at it. They immediately rushed me to the hospital, where I got three stitches in my head.

It felt as if I had undergone brain surgery, but my Mom felt relieved after speaking to the doctor. A mother can bear any pain, but the one thing she cannot bear is if something happens to her child. That’s a pain no mother can endure.

The red flower and the lesson learned

I was born in Dubai and lived in Al Ghusais Sheikh Colony until I completed 2nd grade. I attended Silver Indian Kindergarten School, which was a small school with only preschool, LKG, UKG, and 1st grade. I would leave early in the morning and return by 1 PM. The school bus would stop right in front of our building, so the kids didn’t have to walk far and were safe.

When I was in my LKG, an incident happened. One day, as I was heading into the apartment building, I found a little red flower-shaped plastic object on the floor. It was a bit dirty inside, but I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I walked to our apartment, which was the second one from the left, and went inside. Normally, I didn’t hide anything from my mom, but before I could show her what I had found, she told me she would be right back because she needed to dry the clothes outside. I watched her leave with a bucket of clothes.

I was excited about the tiny object I found, but the dirt inside it bothered me. Impulsively, I decided to try to clean it by scraping it with the edge of a black metallic slide. I scratched at it with all my force, but the dirt wouldn’t come off. Suddenly, there was a spark of fire for a millisecond. It didn’t burn me, but it scared me to death. When my mom returned, she immediately saw my face and asked if everything was okay. That question made me burst into tears, and she became worried, especially since she had just left me moments ago.

I showed her the red object, unable to stop crying. She explained that it was called a “pottas,” a small firecracker that makes a loud noise and sparks when used with a metal toy gun, something teenagers and tween boys used back then. She took it from my hand and threw it away. She told me this was a lesson: never pick up anything that doesn’t belong to you because you never know what it is. Now 36 years later, I still follow my mom’s advice and never take anything that isn’t mine.