Typically, when a Loyolite is in his primary or upper primary classes, he views seniors with admiration. The good speakers and sportsmen in high school are heroes, and even their routine performances appear extraordinary. 25 years later, when I set aside my 4th standard glasses, and pick up the amateur historian’s lens, I see those years differently.

What happened in 1984-85? Two Loyola athletes picked up medals in the state schools’ meet, Loyolites figured in state school teams (three in rural basketball, one in rural hockey, two in cricket), Loyola were district champions in shuttle badminton, and we won the St Thomas Basketball Trophy. This is typical of the kind of sporting excellence one saw in Loyola in the 1980s and 1990s — each batch would have two or three individual sporting talents (in the 1985 batch, Aju R, John Cruz Stellus, and Pradeep Suthan) who would excel in their chosen sports. These youngsters could fuel a match or two for Loyola, but they were insufficient to power the school to championship trophies consistently. Team games like basketball, hockey and and cricket require more than the odd star.

NCC seems to have had a good run that year. At the annual training camp, “the Loyola troop got the trophy for aeromodelling and shooting, and the overall championship”, says the Principal’s annual report on School Day. Loyolites also won the quiz competition, and picked up the best cadet, and second best cadet awards. I wonder whether such a clean sweep has been repeated since.

The highlight of the sports day was gymnastics by Loyolites. The school magazine captions a photo “We introduce gymnastics”, and the Principal’s Report talks of gymnastics coaching. Was it triggered by a display by armymen, or the televising of 1984 Olympics?

I thought the first computer reached the school in 1985-86, when LOBA donated one white-box PC. But the magazine of 1984-85 talks of a computer club in the school. Wish somebody would throw light on the pre-computer computer club (which teacher guided it? how many members?). The school magazine carried an article “The Computer” by Deepu John (1986; then in 9th standard). An excerpt would be of interest to today’s geeks too:

Once I got hold of a computer. I had heard so much about it. I knew it was a wizard and I knew it could answer any question I asked it. So, immediately with great hopes, I punched in the sentence, “what is your name?” Then I pressed some other button. To my surprise and disgust, I got a reply “ERROR”. I had never expected this. I had expected something like “My name is FABIO FX Z100 XP”. I was disappointed. It was only later that I found out my mistake. A computer cannot understand human language.

Those of us who were in Loyola in the mid-1980s would remember a Jesuit volunteer teacher. Yes, James Conway! He joined in 1984-85, and was a popular (and prominent) figure on the campus. Young, athletic and cheerful, James Conway used to join the Loyola basketballers for games in the evenings. The magazine places on record that he was from Canada; my impression was that he was from Ireland.

I was a bit surprised to find an unsigned article titled ‘Qualities of a Christian Leader’, right after the Principal’s Report. Coming as it did in Loyola’s school magazine, I would’ve expected it to be titled ‘Qualities of a Leader’. As far as I recall, Loyola rarely injected or projected Christianity (or any other religion) into public spaces, in an in-your-face way. The monthly Mass, the weekly Scripture classes, etc were never thrust upon non-Christians. The school song, as well as a few other songs taught in music classes had a Christian tinge, but one noticed that only decades later. The school magazine used to have only the photo of first communicants. The only Christian ritual which seemed to attract student attention was the blessing of the buses at the start of every academic year — even though blessing of vehicles is not a Christianity-specific ritual, the priests went about it in the way they were most familiar with. Religion, in general, took a backseat in those years. No wonder the prayer service assemblies were unexciting.

If you have only two minutes at hand, and you wish to dip into the 1984-85 school magazine, read “My Dangerous Trip to School” by Girish S (1987; then in 8th standard). Anybody who has walked to school from Pongumoodu will sink into nostalgia; others can relive the fun and fear of being chased by dogs.

For a few decades in the US, everybody seemed to readily know the answer to the question, “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?” (or “where were you when you heard the news of the assassination?”) I suspect that the corresponding marker of popular history in India for a later generation, would be Indira Gandhi’s assassination. The academic year 1984-85 had quite a few other emotional flashes too: PT Usha losing Olympic medal by 1/100th of a second, and the Bhopal disaster. The former was perhaps too parochial, and the latter too distant to make it to the school magazine. But not so the assassination of the prime minister. Two articles, both uncritical, kicked off the Malayalam section. The student article, I suspect, revealed the politics of the average Loyola parent (viewing the Emergency as necessary, and Indira Gandhi being punished unjustly at the end of it); the teacher article, in poetic prose, was silent on the Emergency but loud on Mrs Gandhi’s efforts to usher in stability, protect India’s unity, and defend secularism.

It reminded me how our perceptions change over the decades, be it about politics or sport events of our schooldays.

Where lies Mahabali?

by Jiby Kattakayam

“Where are you all going for Onam vacation?’ Geetha M’am asked the Standard II class. “What is Onam, madam?,” Aju asked. “Okay, I will tell you the story of Mahabali and Vamanan. Onam is when the good old king, Mahabali, returns to visit Malayalis,” she said, and proceeded to tell the tale. “So Vamanan said a lie?” Rehaan asked. “No.  Mahabali was not smart,” M’am replied.  Sonu, who loved tales said defiantly, “No, Vamanan lied. If I meet Mahabali I will tell him he is a good man. Will he come to our class?” “Yes, if the school decides to invite him.” Dressing up rotund men and boys as Mahabali was a location tradition and now a marketing technique, but would the school follow suit, Geetha M’am thought, and then changed her mind. “No, Mahabali stays outside.” Sonu was disappointed.

The bell rang. Geetha M’am left. Sonu had made up his mind. As he walked to the door, a fierce tug on his sleeve stopped him short. “To where?” Kiran asked. “I am going to see if I can meet Mahabali.” “Don’t go. You will get into trouble,” Kiran replied, scared. “No one will notice. You just keep quiet. Hide my bag under your desk,” Sonu responded with a threatening glare.

Where do I look? There were two places in Loyola that young boys couldn’t go. The haunted house where the scary man lives and the hollow well where the crocodile dwells. Are there more scary places that I don’t know of, Sonu wondered. He skipped down the steps and slipped out of junior school.

The newly built indoor stadium towered before his eyes. It looked like a palace! Sonu ran towards the monstrous structure. The sun beat down harshly. The lack of shade bothered him. His dad, an ex-student had said that a vast unused playground, and before that a jungle with ancient trees once stood in place of the stadium. A jungle would have been so much fun! Where did the trees go? Who put the trees there? Who took them out? The stadium was locked.

A sudden fear gripped him. What is the punishment for cutting class? What if Mahabali would not come to Loyola? Sonu looked around. No one was around. Like a soldier trying to evade enemies in the computer game Tasha played, he proceeded to the football ground. Stopping at the row of water taps, he felt thirst. Sonu cupped his right hand under the tap as he stretched to reach and open it, and let the water gush into his little palm cup. He moved his cup quickly to his mouth like the seniors did. Drinking this water was now forbidden. But the cooler didn’t taste so good. A few sips later, Sonu, now refreshed began to feel the light breeze feathering him under the cool shade of casuarinas. But I can’t rest here, I’ll get caught, he said to himself.

The sands on the football ground soaked in the colours of the sun, rain, sweat, chalk, blood and tears over the years now glowed yellow in pristine solitude. Paper balls firmed with rubber bands, rubber balls, cork balls, footballs, the stamp of shoe and sandal and the press of rollers had churned it to life and ground it back to death, day in and day out. Seeming to respect its serenity, Sonu stepped off the ground and walked around its boundary. Hitting a laboured stride, he cast a fearful glance at the windows of the junior school classrooms and then a worried, fleeting look at the haunted house and finally reached the reassuring long shadows that the gulmohars cast on the “steps”.

Climbing the “steps”, he headed for the tennis court, forgetting the crocodile’s well. “What are you doing here?” a harsh voice and a rough hand on his collar rudely broke his reverie. “Looking for…” Before Sonu could finish, the hand pulled him down on to his knees and then to his butt. He felt the surge of tears and they sprung out before he could down the shutters. “No. Don’t cry. I won’t tell on you.” Sonu looked up. The older boy had a kind face now and was patting Sonu on the back. “Why did you cry? I was only joking. You too have cut class, haven’t you? I know junior school is a prison. Wait till you get to Plus-Two. It’s a cage then!” “I wasn’t cutting class,” Sonu said indignantly. “I came looking for somebody.” “Stay a while and keep a lookout for the non-teaching staff, will you?” the senior asked. He took out a mobile phone. “Hello…aah Sheela, Ajith here. You didn’t go to school? I just thought I’d give you a ring…” The seniors were always talking about girls. In the canteen. At the bus stop. Inside the bus. Maybe it is that what is called Love. But loving girls! I can barely stand Tasha.

Ajith stood up and paced, phone in hand. Weren’t phones banned, Sonu wondered? Time to slip away. He passed the tennis court and was on the road leading to the school gate. What was outside the school walls? In school, layers and layers of friendships, classes and pastimes had stood between Sonu and the school walls. The world outside came to his notice only during evening walks to the shops with Mummy. His attention passed the open gates and caught a sign that read “Police Station”. If they catch me outside, will it be worse punishment than what the school will give me? He ran past the road, across the hockey ground dissecting it in a neat straight diagonal leaving him at the end of the hostel corridor. The corridor opened into the Loyola College campus.

Sonu suddenly felt small. Should I walk on? What is the time? Like I know to read time. Time was measured in bells. How many have rung? I am too far to hear them now, he sighed. A curiosity to see the college engulfed him. A group of men and women sat under a tree, engrossed in carefree chatter. What were they talking? I’d like to sit like them, and talk. But then isn’t playing football better than just talking? Sonu couldn’t make up his mind and walked. A priest! I am caught, Sonu thought. Now what? Should I run? “Are you lost? The school is that way.” The priest pointed to the narrow road that led past the college, wound around the chapel and then continued to slope gently down. “Thank you,” Sonu muttered.

The bell rang. A clamour arose. Teachers stepped out of classrooms and were soon lost in the black and white that milled all around. It was lunch break. My lunch box! No, I want parotta today. But, no money. He moved in the direction of the canteen, scanning heads for familiar faces until it rested on Ajith again, eating, no sight of the mobile phone now. A tantalizing smell of beef curry that flowed easily around two dead-beaten parottas reached Sonu’s nostrils. “Where did you disappear?” Ajith demanded. Sonu didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on Ajith’s steel plate. “Here, take this.” Ajith offered a fragment of parotta he had just pealed and dipped into the gravy. “Thanks. But I am hungry.” Sonu felt no shame. Ajith smiled and took out his wallet. A frown quickly appeared on his face. “I am sorry. I have only twenty rupees. I need to buy a recharge coupon.” Sonu was disappointed. Why had Mahabali given up all he had, Sonu wondered.

Sonu lumbered about. It was nice to be around people. He watched a boy, his age, bend down and pick up something. A coin. The boy looked at it, put it in his pocket and walked. Thief! Sonu decided. Time, for some policing. He remembered the police station, and shivered. He followed the boy. The thief stopped outside the vice-principal’s office, pondered for a while, looked hurriedly around and walked in. Sonu peeked in. ‘Father, I found this rupee lying on the…” Why did the boy give up his possession? Why did I judge him that way? Sonu was bewildered.

He walked on and stopped at a sign. “Onion Bank of India.” No, it was a U. But how to pronounce that? Sonu stared at the sign in perplexion. Two seniors were coming out from the bank. “The buggers are raising the fees like crazy. My dad said he could educate 10 kids like me at an aided school for the same money,” one said. “Dey Chill. You are studying at Loyola. Not some godforsaken government school,” the other smirked. Sonu looked inside the bank for Mahabali. What need has the king for a bank? Didn’t Vamanan take everything he saved?

He trudged down the steps, past the cage. His dad had told him that there once lived a python in the cage. The python had died. After it had died, a senior named him Kaa. Through the quadrangle and past the basketball court, he walked. Dad said Loyola had good basketball teams and that BB players were the heroes at school. But everyone was playing cricket now. Why would I play a game that no one watches anymore, Sonu thought. A tall, gawky boy hunched in grave conversation with a short teacher, an answer sheet in her hand. They didn’t notice Sonu. “M’am I needed those five marks. It would have got me a Distinction.” “But why copy,” the teacher shook her head. “Everyone cheats, M’am.” Everyone cheats? Did Mahabali cheat in school, Sonu wondered.

I am tired. I am hungry. I want to sleep. Will I see Mahabali in my dreams, Sonu hoped. The place he chose to sleep was the last remaining woods in the school. Beside the indoor stadium, bordering the big estate. They used to go there during lunch breaks and play hide and seek. Sonu looked around for ants and wasps and spiders and squirrels. Satisfied that nothing from nature that would harm him was around, he slept. Soundly.

Wasn’t that the bell ringing? Sonu rose with a start. Was school over? He walked over to the edge of the stadium and peered. The buses were coming in, ready to park and wait for the boys to leap in. One more period to go. He had survived. He would wait. It had been a good day. His first adventure. Would Tasha believe me? Will I do it again? Sonu shuddered at the thought. Mahabali hadn’t shown up. Sonu tried remembering why he wanted to see Mahabali in the morning. The bell rang again, for the last time in the day and Sonu knew it was “three thirty”.

“Let me sit.” It was Arun, the bully. “No!” Sonu responded fiercely. He needed the window seat. No bully could unseat him today. Mahabali was a fool. If needed, I will fight. Maybe the old king is somewhere in the city. I will tell him he is a fool. Sonu resisted the tug of home though his stop was nearing. He slid down in his seat so that the conductor uncle would not notice. His stop went by and new, unfamiliar places opened up before his eyes. “Eda Sonu, why didn’t you get off at your stop?” the conductor uncle on spotting him, asked, flustered. “I slept off, uncle.” Lie. A harmless lie makes a difference, Sonu thought. The conductor made calls to Sonu’s home.

“Mummy, I am done with school. I saw a college and I have also travelled the world. When can I start working?” “Right away. I have forgotten all I learnt in school. You can start with teaching me every day all your lessons,” Mummy said. Sonu’s face fell and his footsteps lost pace. There was no homework from today’s class. What would I tell her? Will truth save me? Or will another lie help? Didn’t Vamanan lie? Where is Mahabali?

Jiby Kattakayam (1998 ISC) is a reporter for The Hindu newspaper, in Kozhikode.

Hat tip: Harikrishna M. (1994 ISC)

* * *

Thampi Sir taught in Loyola in the late 1980s and 1990s. The bald schoolteacher with a doctorate degree stood above his colleagues, also literally — he was over six feet tall. The news of Thampi Sir being awarded a doctorate reached him when he was a teacher in Loyola. Hence, many of us know that it was awarded for his research on place-names, which has since been published as Sthalanama Padana Pravesika. (According to the Mathrubhumi obituary, he won it from a German university, but my recollection is that it was a Belgian one.) My brother, who was taught by Thampi Sir, always used to go ga-ga while discussing his Malayalam classes. Those less fortunate, like me, have to content ourselves with discovering Thampi Sir after his death.

* * *

A neglected aspect of the much-praised student-teacher relationship of Loyola is that students know very little about their teachers. That neglect is most striking and shameful in the case of Dr Thampi, for he was a scholar who, even before he set foot in Loyola, had etched his name in the annals of Malayalam literature and Kerala historiography.

GTT was born on 23 September 1929 in Manavalakurichi, in Kanyakumari district of Travancore state. Growing up in a Tamil-speaking village in a state dominated by Malayalam speakers, GTT became proficient in Tamil and Malayalam. When Kerala state was created in 1956, his native village, along with other Tamil-speaking taluks, went from Travancore state to Madras state (renamed Tamil Nadu). But GTT began his teaching career in 1957 in Kerala. For the next four decades, he taught in various Nair Service Society schools and Loyola, Trivandrum. He also served as President of a cultural history organisation in Kanyakumari district.

Our generation will most likely remember GTT as a teacher. When we are gone, he will be remembered as a scholar and litterateur. His oeuvre comprised researched studies (on place names and ballads), a biography (M Rajaraja Varma), children’s literature (Bhoomi Enna Muthassi), on grammar (Vyaakaranavum Vrithaalankaarangalum), historical non-fiction (Mandaykkaadinte Charithram; in Tamil), and a historical novel (Aditya Varma; in Tamil). He also published articles in periodicals (including Malayali, Malayala Rajyam, Manorama, Vijnana Kairali, and Vachinad) and presented papers at seminars organised by the University of Kerala, the latter on studies of grammar and folk literature.

In 1984, the Kottayam-based Writers’ Cooperative published two works by GTT — Thiruvaathirakali Paattukal, and Valiyakesi Katha. The first was prompted by a “renaissance” of thiruvaathirakkali performances in youth festivals. GTT compiled several songs of this popular art form of southern Travancore (according to the book, the corresponding art of northern Kerala was kaikottikali) and wrote a researched article to accompany the compilation. The second (Valiyakesi Katha) is his most notable contribution. Valiyakesi Katha was a ballad that he had heard of when he was young. When GTT began his literary odyssey by going about collecting thekkan pattukal (literally, “songs of the south”; the vadakkan paattukal are more familiar to Malayalis), he had little hope of stumbling upon Valiyakesi Katha, estimated to be written around AD 1696. After several years, when he discovered this popular ballad of southern Travancore, he published it with his notes explaining the meaning and historical context of the composition. This work became a textbook for MA students of Malayalam, in Kerala University in the 1990s.

In 1999 and 2000, out came two studies on thekkan paatukal. The 1999 work — Thekkan Paattukal: Oru Padanam — was published by the Trichur-based Kerala Sahitya Akademi and is a good introduction to songs and ballads of southern Travancore. In less than 80 pages, GTT lucidly touches upon various aspects of the songs — their language, their descriptive styles, their themes (devotion, heroic exploits), their typology, and the method of writing on palm leaves (even how the leaves were readied and bound with wooden pieces). In it we enter the world of southern heroes like Eravikutty Pillai,  who match Thacholi Othenan of the northern ballads.

In contrast, GTT’s 2000 book — Thekkan Paattukal: Chila Adisthaana Chinthakal — published by the Trivandrum-based Rajarajavarma Bhashapadana Kendram, is not for just everyone. It is a sequel to the 1999 book, and intended for those who wish to go deeper into the linguistic and literary aspects of the songs. It is based on a study of 17 songs and ballads, that include those he found in books, unpublished scripts, and palm leaves; those he could recall; and those he heard from others. A dying tradition, some of these songs continue to be sung, in private temples in Kanyakumari district, every evening after deepaaraadhana. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the foreword to this scholarly book was written by GTT’s Loyola colleague, poet, critic, and my Malayalam teacher in high school K.V. Thikkurissi.

In his books, GTT lamented the neglect of the study of thekkan paattukal and in general, the literary culture of the past. “It is not just stories that we learn from the ballads. We can, in them, find the political conditions, cultural customs, and social history of that time. In these ballads, we can see the people of that era,” he wrote. These two recent works on songs of southern Kerala reveal a patient man who went about collecting songs, and decoding them, so that our past can be enjoyed by our future. His native soil was fertile to supply the knowledge of Tamil and Malayalam that such an enterprise called for, but the passion and persistence were cultivated.

It would be a fitting tribute to institute GTT prizes for researched essays in Malayalam by school children, on any aspect of Malayalam literature. GTT, who pored over songs written on palm leaves as well as quickie publications that appeared on pavement stalls will not object to the medium of the document — it can be a humble essay, a creative multimedia presentation, or one prepared for the mobile phone screen. As long as the research exercise fans the flames of curiosity and students learn more about their culture, Thampi Sir would be alive in Loyola, perhaps more meaningfully than he ever was.

This blogpost is based on an obituary in the Mathrubhumi (31 May 2009, p. 8), and four books by GTT.

Download the PDF version of The Loyolite 2009
Cover and Table of Contents (3.1MB)
Pages 01 to 15 (10.4MB)
Pages 16 to 32 (7.7MB)
Pages 33 to 50 (8.8MB)
Pages 51 to 69 (8.2MB)
Pages 69 to 89 (22MB; class photos; e-version not being released)
Pages 90 to 100 (5.6MB)
Pages 101 to 128 (10.2MB)

Hat tip: Fr Toby Joseph, who sent me the DVD within a week of the magazine’s release.

Happy reading!

Related
School Magazine 2008
School Magazine 2007

In June 1983, the school’s new building (the Silver Jubilee Block) was inaugurated by Bishop Acharuparambil. According to the accounts presented in the souvenir released on the occasion, the building was constructed at a cost of Rs 15,53,116.55, and further works worth Rs 1,50,000 were expected at that time. The money for the building came from loans (more than Rs 9 lakh), from the school (Rs 3.15 lakh), building fund fees (around Rs 1.95 lakh), donations (about Rs 1.29 lakh), the souvenir itself (Rs 1,09,959.17), and interest. To publish these accounts immediately after the Principal’s Preface, and before Page 1 of the souvenir, suggests an ethic of transparency that was extraordinary. Interestingly, the same publication also carried the fuzzy presentation of results of a Jesuit evaluation of the school.

The most historic happening of 1983-84, when I look back, is the change of guard at Loyola. Readers will quickly and rightly guess that Fr CP Varkey left that year. True, after fourteen years at Loyola, Fr Varkey left in September 1983, and Fr Varghese Anikuzhy became Principal. But in retrospect, an equally important change of guard had happened four months before Fr Varkey’s departure. For when school reopened in May 1983, two priests returned after several years to Loyola: Fr John Manipadam (as Rector), and Fr Mathew Pulickal (as teacher of English and History in high school). Together and separately, they were to influence a generation of Loyolites, and build Loyola’s alumni network.

The School Magazine dated 1984 had quite a few pages on Fr Varkey — including the Malayalam poem written by Loyola’s bard Mr PK Sebastian (which was presented as a “mangalapatram” from the staff during Fr Varkey’s farewell function), and an article on Fr Varkey by the other Sebastian in the staff room — Mr BO Sebastian. But here, I will present extracts of only two of the many brief notes by students:

The boys of my class told me how Fr Varkey used to thrash the boys (V to X). I was frightened. But during that time he experienced a change….From then on he started using a new phrase “Golden Heart!” Once when some money and books were stolen, he became very angry. In the Assembly he gave us a verbal beating. In the end he overcame his anger, urged us to kindly return the money to the owner. After a few days the owner got back his money and the boy had apologised to Fr Varkey.
- C Prem IX B

Though one could not call him perfect, one had to admit that his good qualities far outweighed all the others. We boarders were a group to which he had always been attached.”
- Cherian Abraham IX B

In his annual report on School Day, the Principal Fr Anikuzhy said, “From 1st Sept 1983 we arranged for a special bus-trip from the school at 4.45 pm to encourage games to build up teams.” (sic) That year Loyola won the Junior Championship in the District Sports Meet, the athletes also shone in the YMCA Meet, and our cricketers and mini basketballers were runners-up in the District. The “second trip” was an innovation that extended opportunities to day scholars to develop their sporting abilities.

I didn’t know that Loyola had student postmen. But the the school magazine says that the Postal Squad debuted in 1983-84. “With the introduction of this Squad many problems regarding the mail have now been solved,” said the squad member’s report. This squad perhaps served the hostelers. I request the beneficiaries of that era to enlighten us on what problems you faced — mails missing? mails opened before delivery?

As in the previous year, there were various squads which went about their work routinely. But three bits struck me:

I’ll end with an excerpt from one of my favourite articles in that school mag. Abhilash Mohan’s “Mahabali 33, 83″ probably owes it intriguing title to a savvy teacher who decided the topic of the school youth festival’s Malayalam essay/story competition. And this VIII B student rose to the occasion. The article begins directly but poetically “1933-le ponnin chingam. Paadangal thelinju. Pathaayangal niranju.” Two paragraphs later, we zoom fifty years to “1983-le thiruvonappulari. Maveli airbus-il vannirangi.” And a few sentences later,

Nattucha. Nadakkaan vayya. Auto-yum taxi-yum city service-um onnum kaanaanilla.
‘Mooppinnay, enthaa eri veyilu kollunnathu. Valla nerchayumundoe?’, oru cheruppakkaaran chothichu.
Maveli: Oru Auto kittiyaal kollaam.
Cheruppakaaran: Thaan eviduthukaaranaa? Innu bandh alle?

In simple sentences, the 13-year-old Abhilash not only wove in the lingo of the times, but also captured a timeless aspect of the political culture of modern Kerala.

Not because LENS was bad in my time. In the 1980s, LENS used to be elegant — typewritten on a letterhead, with a green band a few inches from the top, the name “LENS” left-aligned and in maroon, a graphic of a lens to magnify the “L”, the expansion “Loyola English News Service” written beneath the logo, and available on the notice-board in front of the school office in the main building. Despite such attractiveness, the first word that comes to my mind when I think of LENS, is “irregular”. Because LENS was sometimes available in the Silver Jubilee Block, but often not. LENS was sometimes published every week, but often not. In my middle and high school years, LENS was like a 60+ in history from Fr Pulickal — you long for it, and you’ll get it one day, but not today.

A few years later, I learnt from other old boys that LENS had turned even more irregular — it got published well in the odd year, but in some years it did not appear at all, and the LENS squad was no longer a ‘star’ squad that students competed to join. This year’s school newsletter brought out before Onam holidays lists a few staff advisors for LENS, but doesn’t mention even one student’s name.

It seems funny, because the LENS largely disappeared at a time when desktop publishing wove itself into our lives, and opened up numerous ways of publishing LENS smarter. Today, than ever in the past, it is easier to snap pictures using digital camera, key in articles using MS Word, choose multi-column option, and get a neat printed look that rivals the frontpage of any mainstream newspaper. Also, it takes just an hour to get the e-version ready and publish online, to reach out to old boys and former teachers scattered across the world.

In an earlier post on the Great School Campaign, I had argued that the school was getting stronger in hardware (more computers, in this context), but probably weaker in software (poor training to bring out LENS). Rather than just whine, we decided to do something. We got in touch with a student who had published LENS this year. Noel and his friends were not officially in the LENS squad, but they had displayed initiative and talent. The school too welcomed our idea to rejuvenate LENS.

That’s how, last fortnight, I was speaking to Loyola students about the future of LENS — the heights it can achieve in two years. I talked about journalism principles, shared tips on reporting, editing and design, and outlined the possibilities of a web edition. That Friday evening, we took stock of where LENS is, and where LENS can be. We’ll now try to travel from point A to point B.

The rejuvenation of LENS is also an experiment where old boys partner with the school to make Loyola a great school. Because we aren’t satisfied with Loyola being a good school.

***

Visit http://lens.loyolites.com to catch the first issue of 2008. To stay tuned, subscribe to our free, monthly e-newsletter.

Download the PDF version of The Loyolite 2008.

Pages 01 to 21 (including cover; 9.5MB)
Pages 22 to 40 (9.3MB)
Pages 41 to 56 (class photos; 7.4MB)
Pages 57 to 120 (excluding Principal interview; 8.7MB)

If the files are too large for download, please read the Table of Contents (1.8 MB) first and identify your favourite pages for download. Given the discussions we have had on this blog, you might enjoy reading the Interview with Principal (transcript; 74KB).

This year’s school magazine was released before Loyola closed for summer holidays. I am told that this was the first time since 1999 that the magazine was distributed before the holidays. Kudos to the editorial team for bringing the publication date back on track.

This year’s magazine makes it to the Web here thanks to student editor Arun Sudarsan (2009 ISC), and old boys Hari Gopal (2005 ISC), and Jiby John Kattakayam (1998 ISC).

Missed last year’s magazine? Hop over to The Loyolite 2007.

ON BECOMING A FOUR-YEAR OLD BOY

‘Sabse aage ladke kaun..’
You remember those words, don’t you?
And how they fell from your lips,
With the passion of a kiss.
The sweet nectar of a fervent chant
In it we found reassurance.
Something to believe in,
Lapped up by generations of us.

From a baby to a boy,
Not much to ask
Boy to man,
A difficult task.

Your school performed the feat,
You yell to all you meet.
“It moulded me,
It breathed life into me.
The perfect creature I am now
Is because of my school.”
And your eyes slyly ask of theirs,
“Whither your little school?”

But just pause, and wonder.
The others; the boys and the girls.
Study in your school they did not,
Yet there they are, in your office.
At the desk next to yours.
Men and women, doing just what you do.

Look at them; like you they are.
The only thing that defines you,
The ID card around your neck.
The number that you are.

If for you, Loyola was your sun
For them, their school was their moon.
So, ask of yourself this,
How can the sun be better than the moon?
For long years, proudly,
With faith unwavering
You have worn Loyola.
But repulsive the accumulated dirt of condescension,
And perhaps the time has come,
To take your skin for a wash.

Here are two I liked, for different reasons.

1. “Such, Such Were the Joys” by George Orwell
2. “My Favorite Teacher” by Thomas L. Friedman

Orwell is an author I’ve enjoyed reading. I loved Animal Farm and often return to “Politics and the English Language”. When I ploughed through his essay attacking St Cyprian’s School, I did not take an instant liking to it. The tone was so negative that I felt I should read Cyril Connolly’s positive recollections of the same school.

But why I list Orwell here is probably because he has done what I have not dared to: he has gone public. Now, you won’t catch me always singing hallelujah to Loyola, but I shy away from presenting (what I feel is) the ugh-liest side. As a blogger, that’s a dilemma I face. If I hear about corruption or paedophilia in a bygone era, should I investigate and if true, publish about it in this blog on Loyola history? Forget the school. Should I publish a story about a Loyolite whose extraordinariness lies in his current misfortune or notoriety? Even when the writer in me wants to probe and publish, the editor in me is too green to weigh the merits and demerits. Maybe I should learn from Orwell who knew his article to be libelous; it was published in the US only after Orwell’s death, and in the UK, even later — after the villains died.

Thomas Friedman’s piece, in contrast, is a feel-good story that will evoke memories of Loyola. It is as American as Orwell’s is British. But that’s not why I bring it to your attention.

For Loyola bloggers, Friedman’s article is an example of how to write a polished recollection of one’s school or teacher. For students in Loyola, it shows the potential of LENS and the need to re-ignite the paper. For the rest, the essay is a steady flight to a higher plane — of gratitude, excellence and responsibility.

Enjoy!

I first heard of him four years ago when Rajiv Varghese (1977) told me of a Delhi-based batchmate who maintained a huge collection of books and comics. In July 2007, I contacted Vineeth for this blogpost and he suggested that we meet at Daryaganj.

“I am a great western fan and have currently got a collection of 3,700 odd westerns, almost 90% of them purchased from Daryaganj,” Vineeth wrote in an e-group four years ago. His other envious collection is of comics, which includes the first Indrajal comic: The Phantom’s Belt, published in 1964.

In January 2002, when Vineeth was invited to contribute to Outlook magazine’s Special Issue for Schools, he wrote an article ‘Thought Balloons’, where he described how comics grew on him:

It was Phantom who pulled me into the world of comics when I was seven. But it was only at the age of 15, when I read the Asterix books by Goscinny and Uderzo, that I began noticing new facets of comic books. They now had more complex characterisation and narratives. The old good-against-evil storyline had changed now and the whiter than white hero had begun to acquire shades of grey. Batman now began to show psychotic traits. The Incredible Spiderman was a super hero all right, but he also was an insecure, nervous and even neurotic teenager who I could totally identify with…Comic creators like Walt Kelly in Pogo and Garry Trudeau in Doonesbury were producing scathing satirical evaluation of political climate of the day.

At Daryaganj, as Vineeth moves from one bookseller to the next, it is clear that he is known in these parts. “Yes, when they get a ‘new’ old comic, they inform me on the phone,” Vineeth says. There are buyers and there are buyers.

Today, he has picked up two June and School Friend comics, a 1968 edition of The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley, seven westerns, and four other books. For just Rs 107.

Not all the booty is for his collection; some of it is for book-loving friends he has met in e-groups. Vineeth is active in international e-groups and bulletin boards on comics and westerns, where fans converge to share story summaries, upload cover scans, clarify one another’s queries, and occasionally bump into the artists and creators of the comics. When members ask for books and information, Vineeth procures them to the best of his ability. “Without Vineeth’s help this whole web site would not exist and the joys of Indian comics would not be open to us all!,” writes Terry Hooper-Scharf of indopakbangcomic. Elsewhere on the web, Vineeth is thanked for his “amazing efforts” in preparing a publishing history in India of the Phantom, or for helping to compile a list of Indrajal’s Mandrakes.

Seeing is believing. So, we head for his flat in west Delhi.

Cartons of comics and shelves of books touch the ceiling. I wish to see the first Indrajal comic and he fishes it out for me in less than five minutes. In the process, out come a few others–Sherlock Holmes comics, Art Spiegelman’s Maus (which won the Pulitzer), the Pogo collection We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us (a famous quotation picked up by environmentalists), and Ompa-pa (who makes cameo appearances in Asterix but has a series of his own by creators Goscinny and Uderzo).

In Maus, Spiegelman depicted Jews as mice and Nazis as cats. In the world of comics, which character does Vineeth think is closest to a Loyolite? He replies, “Phantom.” What??? I know that Vineeth is a big ‘phan’ (that’s how Phantom fans call themselves), and that he lurks among the phans as Patrolman (his chosen avatar in the e-club), but I can’t hide my surprise. So Vineeth explains.

“Phantom is for the whole family to read. When he shoots, it is invariably to knock off a pistol or scare somebody, not to kill. Honour, truth, goody-goody. He is not a superhero, but an ordinary man who has developed his abilities fully. He has a treasure house in a jungle but uses it for the community, not for personal gain.” After I’ve taken down all this, Vineeth adds, “Not a realistic character, too good to be true.”

Even as Vineeth preserves the older comics in plastic covers, new comics keep arriving. The white packet on the table has just come from a collector in Australia, who has sent him the 1,500th issue of Frew Comics’ Phantom. It starts with a reprint of the first-ever Phantom comic, The Singh Brotherhood (1936).

Vineeth pulls out Phantom comics from different publishers (Goldkey, Charlton, Moonstone, Indrajal, Budget) to show me how the same story appears differently when published across time and space. Vineeth does not buy every comic that comes his way — the year of publication, and the artist matter. Sometimes, you judge a book by its cover.

Vineeth grew up on the reprints of foreign comics, which he says are more sophisticated in art and content than the Amar Chitra Kathas that came later. That’s why, despite having a decent collection of ACKs, he is not a fan as much as his juniors might expect him to be.

Cliched, but I have to ask. Favourite author? P.G. Wodehouse. “In the sixth standard, I was reading some pulp book in the Loyola library, when vice-principal Fr C.P. Varkey came by. He asked, ‘Isn’t this your games period? What are you doing here?’. I told him that I liked to read and I was not the only one not playing.” Fr Varkey picked a book from the shelf, handed it to Vineeth and said, “Read this, if you must.” That book, Right Ho, Jeeves, introduced him to Wodehouse. More than thirty years later, Vineeth tells me, “Anything that Wodehouse writes will have takers. Even his laundry list.”

Not surprisingly, Vineeth is a mine of information on comics: Dhenkali in Phantom comics was Bengali in the original foreign editions; in the Indian version of Spiderman, you will meet Pavitr Prabhakar (Peter Parker) and Meera Jain (Mary Jane); one comic in Vineeth’s collection is going for Rs 1,500 on the web…

Ah! Any plans to sell? His collection would be worth a few thousands of dollars, right? “No, not for sale. I never bought any comic or book with that in mind. I kept on buying because I liked reading, that’s all.” Vineeth’s wife Fisal says,”In Irinjalakuda [his hometown near Thrissur], he has stocked the almirah with books, instead of clothes.”

And is there an old school magazine in the Irinjalakuda racks? “Yes,” says Vineeth, “there is a copy of the 1972 magazine, the year in which I joined Loyola.”

This 44-year old desk officer in the central government is different from most Loyolites I know. He has built expertise over decades with dedication, focus and fun. While many of us, I suspect, do this in our professional area, excel at work and earn the respect of peers, Vineeth has done it outside the cubicle. With a hobby from his school days, Vineeth Abraham has created a world of joy outside the workplace.

The holy grail is Donald Duck Finds Pirate Gold, Dell comic, issued 1942. “Once I get it, I’ll probably retire on that.” It’s for sale on the web. A blog reader might gift it, I tell him. Vineeth smiles and says, “It’s selling for $10,000.”

Vineeth will pick it up from Daryaganj one day. For Rs 10.

Acknowledgement: Fred Gomez (1977) helped me get in touch with Vineeth. Joshua Newton clicked the second photo in the opening panel.

Update: A modified version of this blogpost was published in the Business Standard newspaper (subscriber login required).

Download the 2007 School Magazine (.pdf; 4.1 MB). To read the Hindi section, download the Hindi fonts (.zip; 1.5 MB) and install them on your computer.

Enjoy. And share your thoughts in the Comments section. How has the school magazine changed? What did you find interesting?…

Karthik (1999) wrote to me and suggested that we digitise the school magazines — make past issues available on a CD or for download. This idea has been around for a few years. Considering that technology is available next door, costs have fallen, and there are a large number of IT-savvy Loyolites, I am surprised that this idea remains an idea.

What are the obstacles?

Ambitious. Yes, but that does not deter fools like me from rushing in.

Unwise? Probably. And that is my worry.

I remember that in 2004, the OBA offered to send the latest issue of the school magazine to old boys, at a price of Rs 100. In the end, less than 20 out of the 1000+ members sent orders. To those of us who had argued for re-starting this service, it was an eye-opener in estimating demand.

Couriering school magazines is a simple service and involves negligible cost; it is ok if there are only two orders for the magazine. On the other hand, digitising school magazines is less simple and fairly expensive. It involves at least two months of intensive networking to get the school magazines from the 1960s to 2007, and then a month to get them digitised and packaged. In addition to time and energy, there is the cost of digitising. A back-of-the-envelope calculation indicates the required investment to be Rs 50,000.

Two models

I can think of two ways to move forward.

Model 1: Voluntary group donation. In this model, a few Loyolites will put in time and energy, while a few others will donate money. Since everybody is volunteering, nobody expects monetary returns. The advantage of this model is that no single individual is worried about the demand — it does not matter if in the end, only five people buy the CD or pay for the download.

Model 2: Enterprise. In this model, a few Loyolites will put in time, energy and money. They bear the financial risk, sell the product, and may make a profit (or loss).

In the past, old boys have tried out the first model. It worked well for the lobaglobal website in 2003-04 (when the 1988 and 1993 batches put in money, and the OBA put in time and energy), and the Joseph Uncle campaign in 2007 (when alumni across batches put in money, and two old boys of 2001 batch put in time and energy).

For digitising the school magazines, should we try out the second model? Are there any entrepreneurial batches out there?

Or if we are sticking to the first model, are there two or three batches who will put in the money?

Depending on your response, we will take this up now or later.

Last month, on a Saturday afternoon, I drove to St Paul’s in Connaught Place, which stocks Christian literature, and has published Fr Varkey under their imprint Better Yourself Books. That day, the shop had in stock a few of his books, but I was instantly drawn to Gently and Firmly, which describes Loyola School’s transformation between 1978 and 1983.

The second chapter — ‘A School Transforms Itself’ — awoke me to a Loyola that I never knew.

“There was a time when it was not uncommon to see students smoking on the terrace of the school building. Drinking was not something unusual during excursions. Toilets had the usual lascivious pictures that are often found in the toilets of boys’ schools. Several attendance registers have been found torn…A few times the tyres of the school buses were found deflated. Once a motor was pushed into the well. Discipline in classrooms was far from exemplary. Though four or five students were detained in each class every year, the results in the School Leaving exams were around 85%. This, in spite of the fact that most students had private tuition.”

Fr Varkey, the legendary former Principal of the school, then writes, “A few years after the introduction of the new approach, the situation changed dramatically.” Not only did campus discipline take a positive turn, but also the academic results improved, to 100 per cent (and thereafter to 100 per cent first class). This, despite the school’s emphasis, in the new approach, on co-curricular activities over studies.

Chapter 6 describes ‘How the School Did It’. It talks of the school assembly, the squads, the doing away with ties and shoes, smarter use of library and games periods, and several things which we have taken for granted at Loyola. “Some of these practices were in the school already,” writes Fr Varkey. “The difference was that a concerted effort was made to introduce as many elements of it as possible.”

Gently and Firmly has several anecdotes and is an interesting read. But as a chronicle of the transformation of Loyola, it is weak; it is at best, a starting point for serious historical inquiry.

I wish that in the coming years:

• Loyolites of the 1970s and 1980s will explain how they saw and felt the transformation; and
• Priests, parents and teachers of that era will tell us how they were agents of change.

Such jottings will help us craft a good and critical history of Loyola, in time for the school’s golden jubilee in 2011.