Lights and Planes

I have been a seafarer for 9 years now which means there have been many many happy homecomings and too many sad, tearful goodbyes. So much so that I now have a goodbye routine- A well practised drill, a 'before leaving home' checklist I follow everytime I have to leave home and join a ship so that I don't let my emotions overwhelm me into missing out on the important things. My list is thorough and goes from small things like 'buy pens' to big and most necessary items like 'buy seedai, peanuts and instant pepper rasam'. My list also reminds me of all the people I want to meet and say goodbye to, personally. Most of my friends and relatives only get phone calls or text messages as I barely have time before joining. Being an A1 procrastinator I pretend that I'm not going anywhere so I won't have to spend my last few days at home weighed down with the sorrow of leaving. I inevitably scramble in the end to buy all the things I need and assemble my suitcase. In the little time I do find in this self-created mayhem, I like to stay at home as much as possible. I eat my favourite things and lounge around talking to everyone, absorbing 'home' as it is. I also lie down on my bed a lot because that's one of the things I miss the most onboard - my bed (also my sleep). Those last few days being quite precious, I meet very very few people and one top person on my list is Athai- it was actually Avva AND Athai for the longest time. I usually drive down the 2 streets from my house to talk to them and tell them when I would be leaving and how soon I'll be back and what kind of ship I was going on. Avva would always tell me- come soon and get married so that I can see the celebrations while I'm still here. She'd then tell me how smart and capable I was and how my grandfather would've been so proud if he could see me now. She'd ask me if I had money and press a few notes into my hand even when I promise her I have enough. She'd then bless me and apply some vibhuti on my forehead after saying a short prayer. After that, it would be Athai's turn. She'd also bless me and remind me to stay safe and work safely. It was always the same with them. There was a certain dependability to that routine, a certain constancy. It was the same every year and it gave me so much peace and comfort. I always left feeling grateful. We grieviously lost Avva a couple of years ago (may God bless her good soul) so it is only Athai now. 

 When I reached her house in December it was already past her bedtime but Athai was sitting there waiting patiently for me because she knew I had an early flight the next day and that was the best time I could do. I went in and we chatted for a bit, both of us quietly remembering how that moment was missing an important person, feeling the large gaping hole of her memory. We prayed to her, Athai then wished me a safe flight and a safe contract onboard. When I was about to leave, she asked me what time my flight was and I said we'd be departing at 6am. She immediately recalled how she can see planes flying in and out at really low heights from her terrace. She told me if I could spare a minute she wanted to show me where the flights came from. I have lived in West Mambalam longer than she has and I know where the planes came from, I remember watching them as a kid from our terrace and feeling so mesmerized. I was also really tired that night and I still had a long list of things to go through before I hit the sack but I went anyway because she seemed so excited. When we reached the terrace, she showed me the direction of the airport. She said if we waited a few minutes, we were sure to catch one leaving or entering. She then showed me Pothys, the Rangarajapuram flyover, the railway station and the church. Athai grew up in Madurai and I think for a few years even in Triplicane. But she lived most of her life in Dindigul and Madurai. Earlier whenever she'd come to visit us during the summers or any other holidays, she'd always be itching to go to TNagar. It's not as though she was a big shopper, she just loved the hustle bustle of the shopping area. She'd quietly sneak out when everyone took their afternoon naps and walk her way to TNagar from my house. She'd stroll around the place, take in all the colorful sights and sounds, get her heart full and come back home, only to get an ear full from Avva who would never understand why Athai wanted to go to TNagar so much, every year, even though she hardly ever bought anything. But none of that ever stopped Athai, TNagar was the New York of her world and she loved it. Only a few years ago, both Avva and Athai permanently moved to Chennai because it was easier for dad this way to take care of them and they naturally found a house closer to ours (thus closer to TNagar too). 

 Athai was so joyful that night because we could see most of the brightly lit TNagar shops from her terrace. She showed me some of her favorite buildings which had fancy LEDs making beautiful patterns in the night sky. She said she comes here ever so often just to sit around, get some air and admire the lights. I was so moved hearing this because I couldn't remember the last time I did something so simple as stand on my terrace and watch aeroplanes or lights. For a second, I forgot where I was or where I had to be and only stood there taking it all in. That night I rode back home missing Avva who would've definitely scolded us both 'ladies' for going to the terrace 'so late at night' but also felt extremely grateful that Athai took me up there and shared her happy TNagar lights with me. 

Gaythri Madhavann

18 April 2020

Since Whatsapp said this post was too long for a broadcast!

I have a job that comes with a fancy advantage. It is nothing like a desk job, I'll give you that. Every time I sign a contract, I go on an entirely different ship and I get to work with a whole new bunch of people. I rarely ever have the same colleague twice. This is usually a fantastic thing because you get to start afresh, make new friends, learn exciting stuff and irrespective of how bad your last ship was, you get to leave your past behind and choose to make it better this time around. This also means having to go through some monotonous rituals over and over again. I have to say hello, smile and introduce myself to my fellow crew who come and go every six months, I have to learn all the intercom telephone numbers again, I have to work extra hard to prove myself to my every new boss, I have to figure out (again!!!) which direction to put the printed side (of the paper) when making copies on the new photocopier, I have to wait till the men get used to having me onboard, I have to establish boundaries and make sure they're seen and understood.

If you are thinking this is yet another feminist post or one about sexual harassment at the workplace, like the plenty you've been reading on Facebook everyday, it isn't. This one is gender neutral. Although, I do plan on writing one on those topics, just to give the world a perspective of the issue in the maritime sector.

I'm 5'2" tall and weigh over my BMI. This seems to have a few consequences: I'm more prone to heart failure, joint pains and other health issues than the average person who fits the BMI. But most importantly I'm more prone to getting free advice and fitness suggestions from random people than the average person would. The minute people see some extra body fat on someone, they feel this uncontrollable urge to blurt out fat jokes or start lectures on how their weight could kill them someday. We get it.
Extra fat = Quicker death = Very bad.
Psst! Let me tell you a secret. All that brand new information you just gave us on your 30 second fitness peptalk? We already knew all of that. In fact, we have that speech rote by heart.

So far I've had to tell 2 of my bosses (both grown ass men) that it is not okay for them to keep judging my capabilities based on my weight or throw around loose comments like "it will help you lose that tummy fat" or "you'll slim down faster" whenever I complained about being burdened with extra work. One of them even went ahead and told one of our trainees that he won't accompany the rest of team into the ballast tank because he may exhaust himself faster (due to his weight) and end up needing a crane to lift him out. I was shocked. When I protested about these remarks and jokes, I was told they're said in good humour and must be taken lightly. But these "jokes" aren't even remotely funny. This cadet I'm talking about, is one of the strongest, most able hands onboard.

There is all kinds of humour out there, why don't we pick the kind which doesn't require shaming someone in order for someone else to have a laugh? Let us stop being that generation which feels the need to judge people based on their weight or rank or city and mocks them for it. Let us collectively be better and maybe expand our thinking to the bounds of the other person's feelings and just for one second, ponder if our random "jokes" or comments are going to affect them.

If you know me, you'll know that I am a person who holds zero grudges. I forget faster than a goldfish. But then, I had a Captain who always had horrible things to say to me. He bodyshamed me atleast once in 2 days. When you surround yourself with such negative energy every day for 6 months, it tends to get to you. My self esteem took a beating and I had a tough time recovering from it. I'm all better now but that was an experience I didn't have to go through. If you're in a place of power, take care to not be an asshole to the people who work under you. Be nice and throw happiness around. Spread compassion by practice and be inclusive. We have enough hate in this stupid world already, we don't need more people adding to it.

That said, let me give you a pointer - unless someone begins a conversation with you where they indicate that they are welcome to your suggestions about their weight loss, please refrain from giving them out freely. Those are liberties we usually save only for our families and close friends.

Let us try and make this world a better place than we found it.

PS. That goldfish thing? That's a myth. Goldfishes don't have a 3 second memory.

- Gaythri Madhavann
02 March 2017

No artificial preservatives added.

It was calm outside for a change. We had finally escaped the South West monsoons that had turned the Arabian sea into an agitated rough waters and entered the sheltered Persian Gulf where the sea was so calm one might mistake it for a giant still pond. I had just taken a nice long shower and gone down to the mess room. The North Indian dinner menu didn't look appetizing for some reason. I was suddenly hungry and homesick. How long had it been since I called home? 10-12 days? I should call and say hi, I made a mental note. My steward was looking at me as if to ask "Are you eating or what?" so I hurriedly took some rice and dal. Annoyed with my limited choices I requested for my precious pickle bottle that was stored away in one of those mess room cupboards. I picked the "Onion Thokku" (bought from Grand Sweets, of course). Mom had sent it from home in a fancy parcel along with gongura, mango pachadi, coriander thokku and my pretty birthday dress. I took a generous serving of the thokku and hungrily tried to eat more pickle with little rice than a normal person would. The thokku was so so good. In the middle of all the banter that surrounded me, about which SUV was the best (Men will be men!), I quietly transported to another world.

It is practically impossible for someone in South India to not have a friend, relative or a cousin who has gone abroad for higher education, and all NRIs as we know take home made pickles with them. I never understood why they did that though, not as if anyone was gonna miss eating pickles and stupid chutneys when they can eat pizzas, burgers and pasta all they want. But they carried them anyway, religiously every time and always talked about missing silly things like keerai kootu (spinach & dal) and arusi aplam (fryums) every time they called. I never got these people, not until I became one myself and went so far from home that the closest thing I have to home food is my onion thokku. The warm fuzzy feeling it brings inside when you take the first bite. Adadada...

As a kid, summer vacations meant a few regular features - unlimited mango milkshake and buttermilk alongside big fat watermelons (for my sister Jan who never let them last more than a day) stored in the fridge; lots of playing in the sun, afternoon naps and board games with mom. There were also the mandatory trips to both grandmas' houses when our uncontrollable, undying energy along with constant questioning about irrelevant things became too much for mom and dad to handle alone. These trips were all about meeting relatives whom we met only during summers. But these trips mainly meant mom getting endlessly pampered with 'palagaarams' (traditional home made snacks and savouries), 'aplams', 'podis' (instant powders that make everyday cooking easy) and lots of pickles from both grandmas. Mom always kept these pickles very (read VERY) carefully. She got protective of them much like her possessiveness over the "candy crush" app on her phone in recent days. These oorgas (or "achaar" - as they're called in the rest of the country), she always insisted on serving them herself every time you wanted to have a piece just so she can be absolutely sure you didn't slip the used spoon back into the jar, God forbid. I loved them so much even as a kid. I had to have a piece of avakkai (mango) or nellikai (gooseberry) every day at lunch. Curd rice with pickle is still my first answer to "Which food item would you pick if the world came to an end and you could eat only that for the rest of your life?".

Of all the things I left behind in my past, I can say I miss my childhood the most. All the lazy summers cycling around town with Jan, the Diwali celebrations which started at least one week in advance with 3 new sets of clothes and went on for even a few days after, the many many boxes of crackers that dad used to bring home, which we carefully smuggled on the train to grandma's house under all our clothes, the no early morning bath curfew, the cursive handwriting practice books, the hot pakoras and bajjis at 4pm with coffee and the late night story sessions with everyone lying down in the same room facing the glow stickers on the ceiling, telling funny stories about their own childhood summers.

Who would've thought the small pickle bottle would have managed to 'preserve' so many memories too?

- 22nd June 2016

His name was Zammil Khadim and he was not a terrorist.

Before I go into my anecdote, let me give you a little bit of an idea about how merchant ships work. Considering that my family - even after me being a seafarer for 5 years - doesn't understand half the things I say, you might need the background study.

I am a deck officer on a tanker that transports oil. We are currently chartered (hired) by Hindustan Petroleum Corporation Limited to bring crude oil from middle east Arab countries (particularly the United Arab Emirates, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and Iraq) to the HPCL refineries in India. This crude oil is processed to produce petrol, diesel, naphtha and other such expensive jewels. (Next time you go into a HP petrol pump to fuel your bike or car, you could think of me with gratitude and maybe send me gift cards for being so vital to your everyday life. Yes, I also accept cash gifts.)

When we come into the port for loading or unloading crude oil, an experienced Captain from the port comes onboard our ship and guides us in bringing the vessel (ship) safely inside since they know the local waters and it's dangers quite better than we do. This designated person is called a harbour pilot and my story is about one such harbour pilot I met in Iraq.

11.01.16 was just another Monday to me, until I came on watch (duty) at 1500h (3pm). We were supposed to bring the ship inside the port of Al Basrah for loading crude oil. As you might have already guessed, one strict looking Muslim pilot with a unibrow came onboard. Tall, clean shaven face, no beard, no mustache, holding a tasbih (prayer beads) tightly in his hand. Throughout the pilotage he kept to himself, only occasionally talking into his walkie talkie in Arabic and instructing our steering man now and then to turn the vessel in a particular direction. He didn't talk to me directly and I assumed it was because I'm a girl. You see, I'm used to being kept distances from. A lot of seafarers around the world are still adjusting to the idea of having women onboard. I stopped taking offence for it a long time go and decided to let them grow up.

Later that evening, after the ship was brought in safely, we had about 2 hours before the pilot had to leave. In those 2 hours, he shyly requested that I take his pictures inside the Bridge (the glamorous control room from where we steer the ship). It is a very unusual thing to ask for a Pilot/Captain of his age (52? maybe 53), I mean he should have been on at least a hundred ships. I agreed anyway and we went on with the task. He wore his Rayban and held still with the walkie talkie in his hand, and I clicked a picture as if he was caught candid on camera in mid conversation. He posed holding the steering wheel, he posed holding the sound powered telephone. He even posed as if he was looking out melancholy into the sea (a favourite among us mariners, we being suckers for drama). Once he was satisfied with his photographs, he put back his Arabic-Keypad-wala-Samsung-Duos into his pocket and smiled at me. With the ice now broken, we eased into conversation. I guiltily realized he was not rude at all, in fact he was very friendly. Like every other conversation between two strangers, ours too started with complaining about the weather and ridiculing our Governments. I was telling him how the lowest temperature we may experience in Chennai is about 20 deg and how I am so unaccustomed to the cold. In return he told me about his early cadetship (trainee) days when they had to wake up at 5am for P.T and take a shower in the open with cold water. He said he prefers the cold over the sun any day and has come to like cold water showers so much that he braves them even when it is freezing outside. He spoke so fondly about his youth, his family and showed me pictures of his children. He talked about the Iraqi wars and how badly they have come to affect their economy, their everyday lives. He oh-so-painfully narrated how Iraq went to war with Iran and fought for 8 years until everything was completely destroyed on either side. He told me how the jihadist militant groups (like the ISIS aka Daesh) have made their lives hell by laying out rules in the name of Islam and Allah. He cringed when he told me about a young man who cut the head off of his own mother because she tried to stop him from becoming a terrorist. They have no hard limits he said, they wanted to dictate how Iraqi men and women led their lives and brought up their children. They think they are God-appointed guardians of Islam but all the things they do are exactly the opposite of what God wants from us. These so called guardian organizations are so intolerant to the various religious minorities in their country and do everything they can to destroy them and have Iraq for themselves. But that wasn't God's plan now, was it? He would've created only Muslims in Iraq if he didn't want anyone else living there but he created Christians, Yarzans and others too.

He spoke with pride and grief about his country, about how Allah has blessed them with so much beauty and resources. He said Iraq has a lot of natural oil fields. Enough to make them extremely rich. And all this oil is at a very superficial depth beneath the earth's surface. He said if one were to drive around Basrah city, one could see tanker lorries filling up oil at these fields. But no one wants to trade with them. Even their neighbors aren't willing to involve themselves with Iraq in fear of sending out the wrong message to the world. They're also mostly scared of getting looted and bombed by Iraq itself.

He fondly remembered a time from when he was younger. He said whenever they went ashore in European countries, in America and exchanged their money, 1 Iraqi Dinar used to fetch them 3.2 US dollars. But today after the economic downfall his country has faced due to the countless wars and the terrorism that is eating them up from within like termites, the equivalent of 1 USD is 1200 Iraqi Dinars. He asked me how the INR was doing against the USD, I said we are quite okay compared to them at 67 rupees and he seemed genuinely happy for us. I asked him to tell me more about his family. He said he has two wives and was visibly excited when he showed me pictures of them. He said his second wife is a Christian and still prays to 'her God'. He doesn't see why it has to be any other way, they are praying for the same things aren't they? I was overwhelmed by his simplicity and realized how ignorant I had been. You see, I had assumed every Iraqi is either a meathead terrorist or a conservative who lives the way he lives because he believes in organized religion and jihad. For that sake, I could've very well been the most ignorant girl in the whole of Iraq at that moment. Well, I was wrong.

He showed me pictures of Fatima and Mohammed, 2 of his 5 kids. Fatima looked so adorable in a cute lil' angel frock with silver shoes and a tiara, holding up her red lipstick pout. He told me she never stops dressing herself up and is always asking for more make-up goodies every time they went to a mall. She couldn't have been more than 5 and I wished I could've met her. He laughed when he mentioned the funny things he ends up doing because he has two wives, like buying two similar looking phones or buying two similar looking hijabs so that neither feels jealous, spending the same amount of time with either of them, appreciating their cooking skills in the same manner and sometimes even kissing them exactly the same number of times. Hahaha!

It was getting slightly chilly outside while we were still talking about his upcoming work trip. He was so excited about it and I stood there listening, with a new window of realization opened out in my judgemental brain. Sometimes strict looking Muslim guys who say Inshallah way too often and decline your offer to eat onboard, too are simple Iraqi men with families and beautiful kids. They too spend their lives working hard for their daily bread and dream about going to Istanbul one day. They too are scared and disgusted by terrorism just as much as we are. They too, are people like us.

At sun down, he broke his fast with 2 glasses of our Amul Taaza milk and a silent prayer. He left soon after, promising me a parcel of Iraqi dates, the next time I showed up at Basrah Terminal.

A Seafarer' Prayer.

I print this one out and put it up on every ship I go. I cannot begin to explain how close to my heart this one is. It is my all-time favorite.


O God, I ask you to take me into your care and protection along with all those who sail in ships.

Make me alert and wise in my duties. Make me faithful in the time of routine, and prompt to decide and courageous to act in any time of crisis.

Protect me in the dangers and the perils of the sea; and even in the storm grant that there may be peace and calm within my heart.

When I am far from home and far from loved ones and far from the country which I know, help me to be quite sure that, wherever I am, I can never drift beyond your love and care.

Take care of my loved ones in the days and weeks and months when I am separated from them, sometimes with half the world between them and me.

Keep me true to them and keep them true to me, and every time that we have to part, bring us together in safety and in loyalty again.

This I ask for your love's sake. Amen.

- Anon