Being a Mallu during my school days was considered a privilege. In spite of the heavily accented clan that we were, all puns on our intonation and our duskier membrane were relegated to backseat, the moment we came dressed in those satin knickers when even the noble class could afford only polyester; or when we sported that enviable Casio digital watch; or when we had at least one Hero fountain pen in our pencil box.

Certainly not the most affluent community, when compared to the Gujaratis and the Marvaris, what made Malayalis still stand apart rubbing shoulders with the prosperous was that every household from the pea-shaped state that we belonged to, had an Indian Diaspora.

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