When the Building Came Alive

Image
Kasturi Dhama Apartments — the play area where many evenings came alive. The lights would go out without warning. For a brief second, the entire building would fall silent. Then, from somewhere in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, a chorus would erupt. “Yayyy!” It is difficult to imagine children celebrating a power failure today. But in the Bangalore of the nineties and early 2000s, a power cut did not always feel like an inconvenience. Especially in the late evenings, it felt like permission. Permission to stop whatever we were doing, leave the darkness inside our homes, and step into the building outside. Before Kasturi Dhama became home, we had moved through a few different parts of Bangalore. My family had begun in Srirampuram and Vyalikaval before gradually cementing ourselves in Malleswaram for the next few decades. My earliest memory is of living in a vatara —a Kannada word loosely used for a building or a cluster of homes—on 15th Cross, near Karur Vy...
4 comments

When Grammar Met Clarity


Writing has always fascinated me. It’s such an interesting aspect of communication; you can pretty much convey anything you want, in any way you want. Even a grammatically incorrect sentence can carry its full meaning. Yet, somewhere along the way, we began mistaking good communication for intelligence.

“Oh, he writes and speaks so well.  He must be smart.”

Good communication can create a false sense of technical pride. I grew up believing that grammatical precision was the measure of knowledge. But in hindsight, that wasn’t entirely me; it was my teachers. They were absolutely particular that every sentence not only conveyed meaning, but also respected the sanctity of grammar. A misplaced article or preposition could invite the harshest of corrections.

Yesterday, my wife and I were talking about writing and as all conversations these days eventually do, it veered toward our kids’ writing. We were laughing over Sahana’s recent schoolwork: a delightful mix of humor, dialogue, and imagination. That conversation took me back to my own early years at BP Indian Public School in Malleswaram, Bangalore, where my first and second-grade teachers, Ms. Alice and Ms. June Kenneth, both Anglo-Indians, left a deep mark on me. They were exceptional. They cared not just that I wrote neatly within the lines, but that I respected the craft of writing itself. Even today, when I write an email or reply to a short text, I can still hear their voices in the back of my head, guiding me to get that article right, that comma placed correctly.

The English books from those years were wonderful, one focused on grammar, the other on literature. The Junior English series still lingers in my memory. They taught me similes, idioms, tenses, and prepositions - the quiet scaffolding of a language that would stay with me for life. Somewhere in those pages, I fell in love with English. Reading became pure joy, not for grades or recognition, but for the music of words.

For years, I judged conversations by their grammar. I believed that fluent English reflected education and intelligence. Over time - life and people - gently corrected me. I met individuals from vernacular backgrounds whose clarity of thought and depth of insight far exceeded their comfort with English. That’s when I realized something liberating: language is only a medium. Thought is the message. Fluency is a gift, but clarity is a virtue. Communication isn’t about showing mastery; it’s about building understanding.

I owe a lot to my early teachers. Their discipline helped me appreciate structure; their care helped me respect precision. But experience taught me something equally valuable - that expression transcends grammar. Today, I cherish both: the foundation of correctness and the freedom of genuine expression. Because in the end, writing isn’t about impressing; it’s about connecting.

Comments

Post a Comment