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  I earned that diploma in legal studies, but it wasn’t the real thing. And yet, when you are young, you bounce back pretty quickly. I moved on, although once in a while, when things got rough, I would bring it up just to rile Amma.

  Then life happened, I got married, and my interest in movies grew. I accompanied Dhanush on shoots and watched different directors at work. I did not think of my early ambitions any more. Soon I became a mother and that overtook everything else in my life. I was a full-time mother and I enjoyed every minute of it. Of course there were sleepless nights and messy days, but it was all an adventure for me.

  Once, when Yatra was a year old and I had a moment to rest from the child rearing, I was going through old photographs and saw one of the diploma award ceremony. I stared at it for a while, marvelling about how things change. Yet, the thought of how badly I had wanted it left an aftertaste that lingered for days after I saw that photo. I found myself searching for correspondence courses online. I wasn’t very net savvy and may have missed something. But I was obsessed. There was no way I could attend college at this stage of my life, I knew I would find it more than a little embarrassing. I asked a few people and they hadn’t heard of any law courses that could be done sitting at home. I didn’t give up, I called everyone I knew who was connected with the law. A very close family friend finally came up with a plan. She spoke to the head of a law school that was located a couple of hours away from Chennai. He would let me study at home, he said, but I would have to come to the college to write the exams every term and attend any relevant practical classes. I hugged my friend tight and after digging out all my certificates, enrolled for that year’s course. The college accepted my application. Dhanush and Appa were very excited for me. I was on cloud nine. My husband had also missed out on college and was happy that I could do it.

  Now came the tough part. How could I study without the support of teachers? It had been years since I passed out of school. I wondered if I could write a single lucid paragraph without help. A cousin came to my rescue. She had just started classes at the city’s premier law college. She responded to my SOS call and agreed to play tuition teacher. The next step was to find time for it all. My young one had started playschool, so I had a couple of hours then; the rest of the studying happened when he was asleep. But getting back to academics was tougher than I had imagined. I would sit down to study but household chores, my son, other work that I had, everything crowded into my head, leaving little room for theories or case studies. When my cousin arrived to teach me, I would be all enthusiasm and excitement, but once she started, I would begin to yawn. It was weird. My eyes would droop, but once the class was over, I would be as bright as day. Concentrating after being away from studies for so long was extremely tough. But I refused to give up and plodded on. Dhanush would find my yawning and cribbing extremely funny. He would shake his head as I drooped through the classes and then at night as I struggled with the notes I had taken. As the semester passed, I got the hang of it. My cousin was impressed with my progress from a blank-eyed, yawning student to one who could now answer questions. My son would come up to me and ask a hundred questions. He couldn’t understand why I was studying at home and not at school with a proper teacher. He wanted to do the same thing. A pretty good excuse to miss playschool!

  The semester came to a close and the day before the exams, I went home to get my parents’ blessings. I had my notes for some last-minute revision, a new notepad and a pouch filled with new pens. These were placed in the puja room. I had to leave four hours ahead to reach the college in time. I was tense and called the poor principal at 10 p.m. He was very gracious and assured me that all arrangements had been made. Nobody knew except a few professors and they had strict instructions not to tell anyone.

  I had a warm glass of milk and went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep. I am ashamed to say I had to take a sleeping pill. I woke up before dawn and found myself calm. I had a quick shower, a few moments in the puja room, then I kissed my sleeping son and left for college. Dawn broke along the way, as I looked through my notes. My phone pinged. Amma’s was the first message of the day. It said, ‘Do well’.

  Appa called in a while and wished me well, and as I reached the gates of the college, Dhanush called too. I was feeling as ready as I could be. But when we entered the gates and I saw the buildings looming ahead, everything flew out of the window. I wanted to ask the driver to turn back home. I found a few staff members waiting for me and ridiculously asked them if I could write the exam in a room alone. The request was politely turned down. When I walked into the hall, I could hear a few gasps and murmurs. I wanted to dig a hole in the ground and disappear. The murmuring continued while I wondered why the exam wasn’t starting. I felt like bolting home. Those late-night struggles, the effort I had made just to get here, to write this exam, stopped me. Thankfully, the teacher started handing out the sheets and everyone went quiet. She came close to me and smiled. ‘Relax and just concentrate on your paper. I am sure you will do well.’ Just as I felt a wave of relief, she continued, ‘Once you are done, hand in the paper and please wait. The staff want to take a picture with you.’

  I am sure she thought I was ill, because instantly the blood drained to my feet and I could barely breathe. There were almost a hundred people around me, staring at me. Panic gripped my insides, but I refused to give in. It wasn’t anything new; I had been gawked at from an early age. I could handle it. Picturing my grandmother in my mind, I opened the question sheet and closed out everything else. Thankfully I knew the answers and it felt as though things were finally going my way. I finished and the thoughts came crowding back into my head. Would the other students think I was a spoilt brat for the concession I was getting? Did they assume the only reason I was here was due to my father’s influence? Did they wonder if I had studied at all? Given the rampant corruption in our country, even if I passed, they might wonder if it was because of some additional help I had received.

  I handed the paper over and almost ran to the car. The dean was standing outside and I had to thank him before leaving. The moment I shook hands with him and turned, there were around fifty cameras at the gate. Somehow, between the time I walked in and the time it took me to finish, the news had leaked and a contingent of press persons had arrived. The dean was as surprised as I was and kept trying to apologize. He was drowned out by the noise.

  ‘How come you are here? What made you come here to study? How long have you been doing the course? What did your father have to say about it? What was your husband’s reaction?’

  I ran to my car and took off. The dean called me and apologized again. Nobody knew how the news had leaked. I told him it wasn’t his fault. We both realized that my presence would be a disturbance for the rest of the students. There was no way I could continue with the course. I had to cut short my dreams again.

  The poor dean also had his own troubles for a while after that. The press wouldn’t leave him alone. They continued to stalk the college and its students, thinking that I would be back.

  I must also mention that my stubbornness, subsequent marriage and moving out must have caused some change in Amma’s thinking. That is the only way I can explain it. Soundarya was in school when I had fought to study outside Madras and she wasn’t involved in any of the discussions or arguments. So she didn’t realize the importance of what she eventually achieved. My sister wanted to pursue graphics and multimedia, it was her passion, and she applied to Australia with full support from my parents and got through. I am no saint and when she first burst into my room with the news, I was a little disconcerted. I was very happy for her, after all she is my sister and I wouldn’t have wanted her to go through the same suffocating rigmarole that I went through. All I wanted to know was what had changed my mother’s mind. I never get around to asking her, and then it didn’t matter. I had been blessed with a beautiful life and there was so much to look forward to.

  I did not think of anything to do with studies for a long time a
fter that. I had my second baby, directed movies, did some writing and became thoroughly busy. Between having the two boys, I had started dancing again. (It stopped again for a while after the second one.) Dhanush needed help with production and I took over. I was happy with the various roles I was playing and my earlier disappointments never crossed my mind.

  A couple of years later, during a brainstorming session at work, the subject of law came up and I explained my fascination to a colleague. She wondered aloud why I didn’t pursue it again. I told her I had too much on my plate and I felt that the universe just didn’t want me to do it. I had tried and failed too many times. I enjoyed the subject but practising as a lawyer was not on my agenda any more. Movies had spun their magic on me.

  A week later, as we were talking, she placed a few papers on my desk and asked me to take a look. I had not expected to see the crests of international universities and glossy brochures explaining options that someone at my stage of life could take advantage of. I was reluctant to go through the material. It lay on my table for a week. My colleague kept asking me to take a look and I resisted. Two weeks passed and one day, as I was checking my email, I came across an acceptance letter from a university abroad. It was for a four-year degree in criminology. I read it again and again, wondering why my name was on the letter. It turned out that my dear colleague had enrolled me in the course. I couldn’t practise law, but I could study the subject, its ins and outs, even discover why it fascinated me so much. Criminology includes the psychology of crime and research into its prevention. I was hooked. The incident at the college had made me realize that I could never finish a proper law degree, with its emphasis on practice. This was the perfect alternative. My colleague had made me realize that it’s never too late and when every door slams in your face, a window opens somewhere. All I needed was a nudge and thankfully someone had provided it.

  When Dhanush came to know of the course, he was not surprised at all. He did exactly what he had done the previous time and supported me all the way. ‘If it makes you happy, do it. Nobody in the family is going to judge you or be dismissive.’ Dhanush has strong, educated women in his own family. Both his sisters are well-regarded doctors.

  The thought of studying made me a little apprehensive. What inspired me at that moment was a family member. She had completed her PhD when she was eighty years old—I thought she was a rock star. I look in the mirror every day and draw inspiration from women like her, including the one who brought me up and now watches over me from somewhere above. As I work on my assignments, which are challenging but fun, my sons sit alongside and finish their homework. It is an inspiration for them too.

  I believe that education is the greatest gift one can give to one’s own self-worth. There is no satisfaction like it, especially if you are passionate about it.

  The induction for my course was to be held at the college. It would be a four-day affair and I packed my bags with excitement and fear. The last time I had entered a college, it had been traumatic. These four days were to be filled with classes and lectures that would equip us to study from home.

  I landed and was driven to the university town. It was a very different experience for me. An entire town dedicated to a university, serving the students and the professors. By 7 p.m. everything shut down. The town rose early and slept early. On the first day, I stepped out apprehensively. I had packed a satchel and felt like a real student, walking to my classes from the place I was staying in. Nobody looked and nobody stared. I got lost and had to muster up all my courage to ask the way from total strangers. It was the first time I was having to fend for myself. All the precautions drilled into my head about surrounding myself with the right people, about strangers taking advantage, crowded into my head. Should I make conversation? Should I smile? What if a conman followed me to the hotel? Paranoia gripped me. But I forced myself to remain calm and, slowly but surely, found my way.

  The classes were a revelation. There were people from every walk of life, from every age group. I finally felt comfortable. The professor came in and we introduced ourselves. The entire class and the professor himself were shocked to learn that I had come all the way from India for the induction. Most of them were from cities and towns that were just a couple of hours’ drive away. The first two days, I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked to class. I would wake up and look through the peephole several times in the night to make sure I was alone. But the following two days were fun. I learned to enjoy the experience without worrying about anything and I came back home feeling I had vanquished a monster that had nagged me all my life.

  I fared quite well in my first year and am working towards finishing the degree. I intend to finish it this time. As they say, third time’s the charm.

  We Take It Black

  Picture this—there are six steel tumblers on a tray. One contains coffee decoction, one has hot water, one has milk, and the rest are empty. The first tumbler is picked up and a bit of coffee decoction is poured into one of the empty tumblers. Then a little hot water is added and the consistency checked. This is repeated till found satisfactory. Then the milk is carefully poured into the mix of coffee and water, drop by drop, until the right consistency is attained. It does not stop there. This mixture is then strained into another empty tumbler. Finally, this watery, lukewarm, slightly milky concoction is poured into the sixth tumbler and sipped.

  This is how Amma drinks her coffee, twice a day. Every day.

  Coffee is an integral part of many people’s lives. If we woke up one day and all the coffee on earth had disappeared, I think eighty per cent of the world would come to a standstill. The first thing to touch your lips in the morning, it’s what runs meetings and conversations. ‘Go for a coffee’ has acquired connotations from ‘I am interested in you’ to ‘we need to talk’.

  My affair with coffee began very early. It was an important part of the routine in my grandmother’s home. I woke up to the amazing smell of ground coffee as it mixed with steaming hot water in a filter that stood prominently in a nook near the kitchen window. It had once belonged to my great-grandmother and had been passed on to my grandmother. I would brush and wash quickly, then spend a few moments in the puja room before rushing to the kitchen for my glass of milk. My grandmother would be busy at the stove, which had a big vessel of boiling milk on it. Pots and pans would be strewn about and lunch bags and carriers sat on the counter waiting to be packed, for me to take to school and for my grandfather to take to work. On my arrival, she would pour a strong cup of filter coffee for herself and a big glass of milk for me. I used to nag her until she added a small dollop of coffee decoction into my warm milk. It made me feel all grown up and added a bit of dignity to the next item on my morning agenda—reading The Hindu aloud with my grandfather before heading to school. (I know children aren’t supposed to have coffee, but back then it wasn’t such a big deal and I haven’t suffered any ill effects. The quantity was also quite negligible.)

  My grandfather read the entire newspaper page by page every morning, but he had a quirky way of doing it. He would start at the sports section and head towards the main news. ‘So that I can start with something positive and light, first thing in the morning’ was his answer when I asked him about it. People dying, hurting each other, cheating or worse, could always wait till later in the morning. Thanks to my grandfather, that’s how I read the paper too—back to front. (And now, since the advent of the supplement, that’s what I reach for on most days.)

  My grandparents were very health conscious and had a disciplined lifestyle. Early morning walks were indispensable and once I had become old enough, I had to accompany them at 5 a.m. every day. I think now that they did not want to leave me alone in the house while they went out, so this was the compromise. I am glad they took me. The IISc grounds were beautiful and I was the only kid around, so I got a lot of attention. Later I noticed a father-and-son pair, the slightly chubby son pushed and prodded by the father into running with him. On weekends, my grandpar
ents and four of their ‘walking friends’ would meet at a coffee shop on the main road just outside the institute gates and chat. A small cup of coffee would be poured out for me too. They would take turns cooling the hot, fragrant liquid before passing it on to my eager hands. As I grew up, the coffee I drank started to strongly resemble how my grandfather took it. When I came back to Madras, the coffee did not taste the same as it did at my grandmother’s place. That was when she explained that the smallest of things can drastically change the taste of filter coffee. From the ratio of chicory in the coffee blend to any difference in the quality of water. The filter in each house is also different. So I discovered with great sadness that it was almost impossible to replicate the taste that I had loved so much. I went to the other extreme then, and took to instant coffee. It was quick and easy, and though it took a while to get used to the taste, convenience won. Every time my grandmother saw me drinking it, she would mutter angrily about how modern conveniences had taken over everything, including a simple cup of filter coffee.

  How you like your coffee can be indicative of your character too. Appa likes his strong, with just a hint of sugar, and piping hot. It has to go from the stove to his lips; anything less than boiling hot is considered mediocre. I have already explained Amma’s painstaking coffee ritual. The only time she couldn’t follow it was when we were travelling and she was compelled to have instant coffee. When I reached my twenties, I became a little (a lot!) conscious of my weight and decided to do away with milk in my coffee. I used to have five to eight cups a day and eventually decided to do away with sugar too. Amma was aghast. She constantly chided me, saying it was harmful to drink so much coffee, but do we ever listen to our mothers?