Horizon January 2015

Jan – Feb 2015

JANUARY 2015 T – Together E – Everyone A – Achieves M - More

It is 50 years since the club was formed. The oldest club in the region and mother of all clubs. MTM has had the privilege of being guided by 83 President’s before me. The pioneers before me have set the bench mark. The distinguished Presidents have set high standards. And our committee plan to maintain the standards set by the gentlemen of the earlier executive committees. The motto for our term will be Sustain, Succeed and Share. Our committee shall work to Sustain the club’s stature as the leading club in the region. Our efforts will be to help meet each TM to Succeed to achieve his or her personal goals. And we shall ensure that the success of TM’s is shared with all club members so as to inspire others. As Confucius has said “The will to win, the desire to succeed and the urge to reach your full potential – these are the keys that will unlock the doors to personal excellence.” Our team’s efforts will be to find these keys. The executive committee is all set to bring you a term of good fun, a lot of learning and gaining new knowledge. Ratinder Nath, President.

From the desk of The President

4 Sustain, Succeed and Share

MANAMA TOASTMASTERS – January 2015 3

Welcome to this year’s first issue of the Horizon. In the words of Goran Persson “Let our New Year’s resolution be this: we will be there for one another as fellow members of humanity, in the finest sense of the word.” Manama Toastmasters has stood the test of time for 50 years because of this truth and will continue to do so as we build on our past successes. We have included the list of our past presidents, 83 so far, whose vision, leadership and team efforts have helped shape the legacy we have. It has been a very busy month; we had a very well attended Installation ceremony conducted by TM Mariam George, a past president, and our humorous speech contest. There was no meeting on January 24th as we offer condolences to our neighbors in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for the passing of King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud. May his soul rest in peace. A warm welcome to our new installed Executive Committee (Excom) members. We also want to thank our outgoing Excom for all their efforts during the past six months. Hope you enjoy reading this issue; stay tuned for the upcoming ones. As always your contributions, comments and feedback are always welcome. With warm regards, Tosin Arowojolu VP Public Relations (January –June 2015)


Club Updates 5

Toastmaster of the Month 6

In the Press 8

Sheaffer – Yes you can write , Local News 9

Wishing on the Moon by Chris Noronha 10

Snap, click-packed, yet empty by Claire Cosgrove 12

The Wailing Shore by Ahmed Shukri 14

Short Story Overview by David Hollywood 16

January Meetings at a Glance 17

Word of the Day 18

Installation Ceremony 19

Humorous Speech Contest 20

Photo Album 21

Birthdays & Anniversaries 22

Past Presidents 23

Our Executive Committee 25

Educational Awards

Dec 2014

Competent Leaders: TM Ammar Madan

TM Hannah Karanja

Congratulations!!!

Warm welcome to our new members

From L to R: President Ratinder Nath, New members: Anthony Mitchell, Severa Pagcaliwagan, Lettisia Sarah Cherian, VP Membership Hannah Karanja


Congratulations TM Isaac Matthew, keep up the good work!

ROLE POINTS

MC 15

Evaluator 5

Attendance 10


Will you be the next Toastmaster of the month? Get involved TODAY!!! For more information on how you can get involved please contact VP Education TM Kishore Babu - [email protected].


In the Press

Published in Gulf Daily News – January 18, 2015

www.WhatsupBahrain.net January 31, 2015


9

After much anticipation the results of the short essay writing competition “Sheaffer – Yes you can write” are in and the winner is Chris Noronha, our former VP Public Relations, for “Wishing on a moon”. She was featured in the Gulf Weekly newpaper with rave reviews from eminent writer, Mr. Mohamed Mahmood. Many thanks to TM Sheela Pai for all her efforts in organizing MTM’s first ever writing competition as part of our 50th anniversary celebrations. Congratulations also to 2nd place winner, Claire Cosgrove for “Snap, click-packed, yet empty” and 3rd place winner, Ahmed Shurkri for “The Wailing Shore”.


Rose walked out of her office in an invisible bubble of anguish that even the chill wind couldn’t penetrate. It can’t be true! The cry came from somewhere very deep within her. Heaviness lay like deadweight in her stomach. Hadn’t it been enough agony to go through it the first time around, without having to endure it again now? Yet there was no escape, she had to face reality. She had no choice, she had to leave her husband Gabriel. Without her being aware, she had somehow managed to make her way home on the train. As she entered the house they had lovingly called a home for the past seven years, she remembered the day they had come here to see it for the first time. They had held each other as they said that it was the perfect house for a large family. Everything had changed. Her life then had been neatly mapped out in front of her. She would marry Gabriel, have three children, give up working and be a mother in the truest sense of the word. It had seemed a perfect future. Now it would never happen. There would be no children. No happy ending. She couldn’t bear to stay there. The house made her feel miserable. She walked out, slamming the door behind her. Rose walked along the beach, deep in thought. If only I had never met him. Never fallen in love with him. And yet… How could she wish that she had never met Gabriel?

and the doctors had told her parents that the chances of survival were weak at best. Never to have experienced such a magical couple of years being his wife? It had been a blessing she could never regret. With weariness in every muscle, she lowered her aching body down on the sand. She could still remember the first time they met. She had been with some friends at Palm Beach in Florida when suddenly high pitched squeals were heard and out of nowhere, the dorsal fins of dolphins apparently caught in a strong current could be seen heading towards the shallow waters. Within seconds, stunned beachgoers quickly raced into the surf to drag the mammals by their tails into deeper waters. Rose had rushed too, without a second thought, but she was too slight to make much of an impact. A man rushed over to help her and within a couple of minutes, they had succeeded. After all the dolphins had been rescued, the crowd of dolphin-savers drenched, yet exhilarated, broke into cheers. Rose looked at the stranger who had rushed to her aid. He was a head taller than her with a clean short crew cut and chiseled jaw, not handsome yet there was something that drew her to him. His brown eyes twinkled at her in shared amusement and at that moment she knew that she had met the man

she was destined to spend the rest of her life with. It was obvious that he felt the same way too as he immediately asked her out and for the next couple of months they could not stay apart. Within four months he proposed and she had said yes. As the larks singing high above her intruded into her reverie, she covered her face with her hands, groaning. She understood that for her there would never be another man like him. A wild little wind wailed eerily around the beach. And she wept, wept for what the future held in store for her. You don’t get it, do you? Rose thought to herself. Sometimes in life, things go against your best-laid plans. What malign twist of fate had made it happen? Her mind slammed into action, No! I will not allow it! I will control this. It will not control me! The mantra gritted through her head, repeating as she clenched her fists. It was vital, essential to keep control. She couldn’t go there. She would not think about it. From her pocket, her cell phone trilled impatiently. It dragged her back into the world of reality. Each movement as she reached into her pocket to retrieve the phone reinforced the agonized ache that she felt deep within herself. It was Gabriel! She muted it and dropped it unceremoniously on the damp sand. 10 Sustain, Succeed and Share

Cutting him out of her life was going to be like having an amputation, because he had not only been her husband but her best friend, a soul mate whose tastes and personality ran hand in hand with her own. The thought of losing him filled her with despair but it had to be done. She would have to go home again, write a note telling him that she would be taking off and not to search for her. No big deal. No huge goodbye. They’d settle into their respective lives and he’d forget all about her. Except for her. She would be crushed. She could not imagine life without hearing Gabriel’s hearty laugh when he really enjoyed a joke or the way he tenderly held her hand in his whenever they took a stroll along this very beach nearly every night after dinner, wishing on the full moon as it shone a silvery path across the vast endless sea, making plans for their future together. She took a steadying breath. No point treading that bitter path again. The path paved with broken dreams. She waited for the tsunami of tears to sweep in, waiting for regret, for desolation to arrive. But instead Rose just sat for a quiet moment, blinking as she realized that those feelings were absent. Acceptance. She had been through this before and she had prevailed. She would do so again. It was not in her nature to run away. She was born a fighter. That was what her mother had told her, time and time again and had been ingrained into her memory. She was a premature baby, born at 27 weeks weighing less than two pounds.

She however, had fought and against all odds had survived, to the amazement of the attending doctors. She heard a sound behind her which made her turn. No, she thought faintly, through the numb miasma in her head. It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! Not him, not here, not now. It was Gabriel. He had somehow found her. He dropped onto the sand beside her. Her heart skipped a beat but she kept her eyes on his. “Why did you run away?” Gabriel asked her softly. She pulled her gaze away as her stricken, broken heart twisted within her. How can a heart break twice? Rose gazed at him with her heart in her eyes as she said in a rush, “I received a message this morning from the oncologist, asking me to call him back urgently. Oh Gabriel, I know how much it hurt you the first time I was diagnosed with cancer. You were so brave and stood by me through it all, even though I know how much it hurt you, working tirelessly and taking up two jobs just to pay for my chemo and radiation treatments. That was why I thought I had to go away, I had to leave you.” “You were willing to walk away without a backward glance, not even having the decency to tell me to my face that it was over?” he enquired. “Didn’t you think about how I would feel? Don’t you love me?” “You know I love you,” Rose breathed, “so much, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing me suffering and eventually losing the fight.

I had to come here alone for a while to think. All I wanted was a little space. Now I am ready to face it again, face whatever may come.” She was so close to tears that she had to bite the inside of her mouth until she tasted the metallic sourness of blood. Gabriel lowered his head, resting his forehead against hers. “Oh my darling,” Gabriel whispered. “The call from the doctors was to tell you that the tests were negative and that you have been given the all-clear.” The world suddenly seemed to have gone still around them, and she looked into eyes which blazed with emotion she had longed to see. “I’m sorry,” Rose said. “I should have told you, trusted the love and the bond we share. I promise to never forget that, ever.” Gabriel pulled her into his arms tenderly. They were back together where they belonged and she clung on to him. And between them flowed a message as old as time itself. The eternal message of love fulfilled, that no power could defeat. Above them, the full moon casts its glow across the twilight sky. Rose settled into his arms, relaxed and replete. Whatever the future held, they would be together, and that was all that mattered.


I stood there at table in the corner of the room. My small brown suitcase sits as an offering on the table top. I flick the clasps and fold the lid back. What will I wear this day? Of course, I have no choice. I have one blouse on me right now and that must be taken off discretely and washed. And the other folded up and lies on top of nothing in the case. I take it out and walk slowly to the window and slip behind the curtain. Alone and in my one place of privacy, I discard yesterday’s wear and adorn the flesh linen. That is also in my imagination as its some synthetic cloth: poly this or poly that. It dries quickly, never shows a crease or fold of yester wear. There, fresh and ready, ready for a new adventure. I slip back into the room. No one notices. No one cares to notice. No one cares. That is our life living from day to day. I seek quietness and solitude. After hearing the blasts at unexpected intervals, the ceaseless barrage of gun fire, the wails of widows and the inconsolable cries of the orphaned child.

I mean chaos and anarchy. So now the city looks grimy and unclean just because of the glass pane. We are lucky to have a glass pane as most windows have shattered. The only reason the glass is intact is because it looks out into a narrow alley.. Three feet wide. I could reach out, stretch my hand and touch the sun baked plastered wall of that neighbouring building. But even my gentle, feminine hand could cause that one last wall that’s standing to lean forward and crumble to the ground. I have to leave soon. The Tata bus is waiting down the road, around what once was the corner. Only one way in and one way out. That is why my bag is packed and ready. My memories are all that I have left. And even they do not deserve to be packed away. My possessions, such fine lace, soft and silky cloth and linens, golden threads, baubles and beads, crystals and china, heirlooms that once gave such joy, such pleasure as they drapped my slender neck. Now I wear only the gold wedding band, plain and simple, unable to slip it over the arthritic knuckles. A widow’s band now, since the past three weeks. It brings me sorrow and pain of the life slashed away from me so swiftly. I snap and click the fastenings and slowly progress towards the door left half ajar. The door slab is so distorted and warped now that it neither moves or shuts. I slip between the opening, clutching the one suitcase that was able to click shut.

Her hair is sticky and either stands up spiky or has dried to her sweet flesh, masked in blood of battle. But then that old man over there begins to croon and wail in his native tongue. It sends shivers up and down my spine. A plaintiff cry. For him, he journeys back to his teenage years in a village in the mountains. Other younger men gather around to chat unceasingly. One voice climbs up over the next voice as the voices continue to reach a crescendo. My nerves are twitching, my mind is screaming inside of me. I wish they would be quiet in the moment. Respect the silence. I take out my tattered bible. It’s not that way because I read it every day. But the old man who slouched in the fireside chair used to stuff it into his coat pocket with all his worldly possessions. I don’t read it. I simply hold it in my hands as if it were magic. After all it tells of miracles of healing and of feeding thousands with bread and fish. I don’t like fish so I am happy that I was not there that day. But I believe that holding it is like a prayer. At least I hope it is. I hope it will heal what ails me. I hope it will heal our land. I hope it will save my people, where ever they may be. Slowly the daylight sneaks through the dust caked window. They used to send young, athletic men to scale the building and wash the windows in this part of the city. But new management stopped all that. “New management?” you ask skeptically.


It’s my hope for a future that I will one day be able to fill it to the brim with new hope, new life, new dreams. Cautiously, I step across the rubble, and stretch down to the half step below. Then the next step and so down I go. What’s that stuck behind the fallen plank. It once was a bright red but now it covered with white dust and clay fragments. I must hurry but something tells me to bend down and explore the faded red cloth. I stretched my hand down and reach out to move the dust. The cloth is moving ever so gently. There is, there is hair beneath the cloth. Black matted hair, the white dust covered an ashen face. An orb of an infant. How could I leave one so innocent buried in this way. It’s not her fault, none of this. But life has been snatched from her as painfully as life was born to her between her mother’s thighs. I felt so compelled to rescue her for a fitting burial. I would be late for the bus to safety, the ride to freedom. But as I gently removed the broken and brittle plaster shards, I felt or thought I heard a muffled sound. I continued to slowly wipe the body free of dust and debris. There was only one plank impeding the way but could I wriggle my hands in under the body. As I did, there was a gurgle. It must have been a final breath I thought. Why me? Why must I carry death to the door. I need to hurry for the bus will be leaving. I reach in with both hands determined to bury the cries once and for. My own sobs were so loud that I did not hear any more gurgles or gulps of air. Time was moving on, ever so fast especially when it is most needed. I drew the infant to my body and draped the red checkered table cloth over the head and body. I ran not counting the steps or frailty of the moment. . I ran and ran. I had left my well packed case when I clutched this dead child in my arms. I turned the corner, the door of the bus was closing, I shouted. I yelled like I have never yelled before. The bus jerked to a holt. I clambered on board and fell into the last seat. A wail rung out. Where or what had I sat on. I infant in my arms was alive, barely but with determination to live. My case was empty and left behind but my arms were filled with the reason to live.


“I just love the icy feeling that runs down my spine every time I come across a jump scare” That was my spontaneous answer to the shady seller who had the audacity of flashing the latest bootlegged blockbuster movies from the back of his van. I was 12 at that time, probably too young to bother about copyright rules, and definitely too bored to care. The sweltering summer days, the long humid nights, a pocket replenished with the elusive monthly allowance from dad created the perfect backdrop for a bored middle school student like me, who had two things in abundance: time and imagination My coming of age journey took me head-first into the twisted realms of horror created by eerie writers such as Stephen King and ingenious filmmakers like George Romero and Wes Craven. I must admit that such an addiction to the grotesque ways of death did not come about without a toll; there were nights when sleep alluded me to the point that anosmia ruled over my world like a sadistic dictator in search for blood and fresh victims. It is worth noting that for a large part of that summer, a thin yet very distinctive proverbial line separated my lacklustre summer days from my

Technicolor world of horror and gore. It was essential for me to keep that line clear and well-guarded so that I won’t lose track of what is real and what is imagined. I guess you could say that while I wanted my world to be in order, a small part of me toyed with the idea of having both of these worlds collide at one stage of time. And since God works in mysterious ways, what I wished for came true in the weirdest fashion. It was a typical August day, and the heat of the day forced my mother to shove the whole family into the backseat of her car and flee the scorching walls of our neighbourhood into the welcoming arms of the nearby seashore. To be honest, it wasn’t fair to call it proper seashore, rather a rusty strip of gravel and pebbles connected to the sea by a million lazy sand dunes and a dirt road that my mother was too scared to venture into without taking the proper precautions. Yet, we were drawn to the waters, like a butterfly rushing towards the burning wick of the candle. I never truly fathomed why we, as an advanced and evolved species, are mesmerized by a primitive force like the sea! Maybe because at one stage of time (if you are a fan of Charles Darwin) our ancestors decided out of the blue to grow a pairs of legs and escape their watery prison into the vast lands of opportunities and mountains of the unknown.

Or maybe because the sea is the most suitable allegory for the place we beseech to forget our worries and pains. Alas, this is not a tale of romance and sentiment; this is tale of horror and fright. A few awkward steps from the place my mother stopped the vehicle I saw what resembled an old path. It wasn’t well preserved, but barely enough to be traced and followed. I thought that this is peculiar enough to be explored and in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shush the sounds that roared in my ears about the things people say about this very spot that I am about to defile with my rugged feet and nonchalant demeanour. “They call it: the wailing shore” There are many versions of the tale, but almost all of them speak of a place near the seashore; an old path just like the one I am about to trace, where an ancient fairy of the sea used to rest. The fairy was resembled by handsome lady with silky charcoal black hair and glowing white skin. Her mystic beauty centred on a pair of breathing-taking eyes as blue as the deep sea. The divine creature captured the hearts and mind of pearl divers who used to commence their pearl voyages from the same spot that I was standing. Many of the pearl divers went on these voyages leaving behind crying babies and worried wives, for many of them faced grave dangers while at sea.

Sustain, Succeed and Share 14

They say that the pearl divers’ fairy was watching them from a distance; wishing them a safe journey and blessing their boats. Many spoke of a light breeze that flew across their bare backs as they bid their loved ones goodbye. Many believed that this was the blessings sent their way by their name sake fairy. Years went by. Boats that carried able bodied men came back without them. Many were lost at sea. With every loss of life, the pearl divers’ fairy lost part of her happiness. Her beautiful silky hair lost its shine and curled up into an ugly white bush. Her growing skin was blackened by the sorrow and the deep blue eyes were left empty and hollow. It was not long before the demise of the pearl industry on the island was announced, along with every story told about the fairy and the wailing shore. Now, I was about to have my real-life encounter with the heroine of the wailing shore. The air was filled with the damped by eerie feeling of the mystery that was about to be unfolded before my very eyes. There she was, with all of her majestic presents, live and in the flesh. “I just love the icy feeling that runs down my spine every time I come across a jump scare” It did not take more than a few seconds for my legs to let go and propel me as far as humanly possible away from the spot I saw the legendary fairy. The next thing I remembered was the soothing touch of my mother and her warm embrace as she attempted to calm me down and whisk away my fears. I must admit that while it was hard to mask away my horror after the close encounter with a creature from the unknown, it was nostalgic to lose myself in the limitless love of a motherly hug. Later that night, my father’s reaction was shrouded by suspension and doubt. “You read it yourself,” said my father while handing me a hefty binder containing his life work of investigative articles, essays and writings of local authors and folklorists. “Tales of the pearl divers’ fairy were the work of the imagination of a few day dreaming divers who sought comfort in the belief that someone or something was watching over them”. “You see my son, when humans deal with situations they can’t control i.e. being away at sea, we tend to use the power of superstition to create the false sense of security and hope so that we can live to face another day.” After a few moments of silence, carefully chosen by my dad to add drama and suspense, he concluded: “what you saw on that beach was probably a flock of the Grey Heron. They are known to build their nests near the spot you were describing”. “ That was not the end of my discussion with my father. While I was not fortunately to prove him wrong by meeting the fairy of the wailing shore again despite the countless times I forced my friends to accompany me to the same spot where I saw her first, I still believe that the story of the wailing shore is too valuable to be summed in tasteless scientific explanations no matter how solid the science seems to be. Until the day I finally meet her again, the wailing shore shall keep lingering in my mind like a sweet mind night summer dream.


Short Story Contest 2014 Overview by David Hollywood

It is always a wonderful accomplishment to attempt some form of written creation and especially merit able when it is designed for public consumption and consequently open to all forms of subjective criticism and comment. Therefore I wish to thank and praise each of the entrant’s to the ‘Sheaffer – Yes, you can write’ Short Story Contest 2014 for their efforts and commitment and varying styles of delivery and imagination. So what is required of a good short story? I suppose we must lay out the drama, setting and main character(s) within the first paragraphs and follow this quickly with a pace and a level of description that absorbs the readers’ attention instantly while also being sufficiently attractive as to have them eagerly glide through a landscape of tight and meaningful wording that aims to provide a conclusion so satisfying, surprising and gripping as to be missed when it is all over. Novels can take their time, but short stories cannot. But how is this done? It is useful to make each sentence meaningful, and consequently we cannot drift into realms of speculation, assumption or hypothesis that the reader might or will necessarily get the message if we do not describe it. That would be unfair! We must always lead the reader through substance and written channels which describe exactly what we mean. Consequently, a short story writer must have an imagination

which is urgent and powerful, even if the story is soft in its tone, because there is only a small space of time in which the task can be accomplished, after which the fiction is over. Reviewing the general effect of the stories I read and judged I would tend to the following descriptions about what I discovered. It was evident t everyone made an effort to impress through the use of colloquial thought and language, and which is fine as long as the plot is absorbing. But few quickly struck at the core of what was proposed, and while the essence of what was meant was merit able in its intentions, I sometimes felt a requirement placed upon me to appreciate the significance and maneuver’s which meandered between images, events, locations, philosophies and scientific evaluations in the hope I should consequently know what had been intended. Of course without the benefit of being explained these illusions were sometimes presumptuous and expectorant of my knowledge and appreciation of what was the author wished I should understand. Therefore, I was sometimes waiting for the major influences and impacts to occur and occasionally left at the end wondering where is the essence of what is meant? Could it have been a case that I was supposed to make up the shortcomings myself, or otherwise accept the inconclusive

outcomes? If so then this is unfair to a short story reader! If I might recommend a particular style and which is to write whatever comes to mind, and then read it aloud to yourself first, so you are practiced in its delivery, and then give it to a trusted companion to read quietly on their own and ask for their ‘constructive’ comments – nothing hurtful or critical, and then on a third occasion read it out loud to the same person. This will iron out the mistakes and provide an ambience to each stories progress. Please accept my thanks for the opportunity to be called upon as a judge within this project, and also allow me to thank Sheela Pai for the privilege of being asked to provide an input and/or insight to the excellent efforts of all the contestants, and to each of whom I wish ‘The Happiest of Writing Experiences and Futures’, and I sincerely look forward to reading many of their forthcoming achievements. Best of luck to everyone, David Hollywood

David Hollywood is an author and the chairman of The Second Circle poetry group which is a division of the Bahrain Writer’s Circle. He is happily married to his wife Ruth and have four children. He has been a resident of Bahrain for many years. 16 Sustain, Succeed and Share

3rd 10th 17th 24th 31st

MC TM Somaya Al-Jowder TM Hannah Karanja

Theme Chocolates World Laughter Day

Best Speaker TM William Barnett TM Tosin Arowojolu

Best Evaluator TM Chris Noronha TM Ed Mleya

Best Table Topics Commentator

TM Tosin Arowojolu TM Guraz Wankadia & Mr. Barry Dunne In

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3rd January, 2015 Delight – Noun/Verb Definition: Noun Something that gives great pleasure or enjoyment Verb To take great pleasure or joy Used in a sentence: Noun The proud parents' faces beamed with delight. Verb She delights in taking long walks

10th January, 2015 Rendezvous – Noun Definition: an agreement to meet at a certain time and place Used in a sentence: He was late for their rendezdous

17th January, 2015 Installation Ceremony

31st January, 2015 Humorous Speech Contest

24th January, 2015 Meeting canceled

Sustain, Succeed and Share 18

As we welcome our new Executive Committee (ExCom), we would like to acknowledge and say a BIG THANK YOU to our outgoing ExCom for the fantastic job they did during their term from July to December, 2014.

Seated from Left to Right – Edmore Mleya (VP Education), Khalid Amin (President), Rashid Maymoon (VP Membership), Laxman Singh (Treasurer), Abraham Joseph (Librarian). Standing L to R Azza Abdulla Bakai (Sergeant-at-Arms, Ammar Madan not in the photo), Tanaji Ahmed (Secretary), Chris Noronha (VP Public Relations)

In Brief: The meeting started promptly at 7pm as the Sergeant-at-Arms TM Azza called the meeting to order. We had a full house with 32 members and 19 guests, as outgoing President, TM Khalid Amin thanked his team and members for their active involvement and support. He then handed the control of the meeting over to the MC of the evening, TM Mariam Jacob, who then very confidently stepped up to podium. We knew we were in good hands and that the ceremony would run smoothly. Outgoing VP Education gave his report and awards were given out for the term ended, by Chief- Guest Mr. Mohammed Abdul Wahab Nass, CEO of Bahrain Floor Mills Company. Area 3 Governor TM Thuraya Juma then administered the oath of Office to all the Excom Members for the term January-June 2015. New President Ratinder Nath gave his acceptance speech, acknowledging the services of all past presidents and committee members of the golden jubilee celebrations. He stated the motto for the new term as “ Sustain, Succeed and Share.” Up next was DTM Vijay Baloor, who gave a toast. Chief- Guest Mr. Mohammed Abdul Wahab Nass, CEO of Bahrain Floor Mills Company, addressed the club members and guests on “ Motivational cadences”, and urged them to be free from worries like a child and stressed every problem offers opportunities. A fun mini jam session conducted by DTM Joel Indrupati followed with participants, TM Sheela Pai, TM Avneesh Mishrah, TM Guraz Wankadia, TM Khalid Amin and TM Tosin Arowojolu. Each vying to speak for a minute without being stopped by the other participants. The evening ended on a very high note. 19

Humorous Speech Contest

The meeting was filled with laughter as one by one, 9 contestants who vied for the spotlight with TM Rashid Maymoon emerging as the winner with a speech entitled “AHHS.” In the photo from left to right, Chief Judge -DTM Ahmed Rizvi , 3rd place – TM Khalid Amin – “Love and Marriage”, 2nd Place – TM Zakaria Sulaiman – “The Bulge”, 1st place – TM Rashid Maymoon – “AHHS”, Contest Chairman -TM Isaac Mathew, Club President – TM Ratinder Nath. Congratulations to the winners and all the best to TM Rashid at the Area Contest in April.

Congratulations and job well done also to our other contestants: Ben Valentin – I am Hers

Edmore Mleya - The Master Dishwasher Tanaji Ahmed – Jinxed or Obsessed

Ameena Nathani – Humor in Life Avneesh Mishra - The Most Pleasant Nightmare

Claire Cosgrove – Christmas Surprise


For more photos please visit: https://www.facebook.com/manama.toastmasters/photos_stream?tab=photos_albums 21

Birthdays & Annivesaries

1st Laxman Singh Rathore 6th Ratinder Nath 7th Kishan Kumar P.S. 12th Tom V. Oommen 27th Mariam George 31st Afaf Zain Alabedeen


As we celebrate 50 years, we honor our past presidents to whom we owe our legacy

Past Presidents 1. J. Nainnan

2. K. Ramachandran

3. J. Abraham Dr.

4. A.M. Mathews

5. K.V. Khan

6. M.C. Shekhar

7. V.P. Thomas

8. H.S.J. Pareira

9. P.P. Varkey

10. C. Mathew

11. M.B. John Dr.

12. K.R. Raghavan

13. B.M. Gorde

14. H. Rahman Dr.

15. B.M. Joshi

16. A.N. Kikla

17. K. Sudesh

18. M.N.K. Rana

19. P.P. Varkey (2nd term)

20. H. Rahman Dr (2nd term)

21. B.M Joshi (2nd term)

22. M.N.K. Rana (2nd term)

23. P.P. Varkey (3rd Term)

24. Sulman R. Halwachi Dr.

25. Mohammed Iqbal Butt

26. Mohammed Iqbal Butt (2nd term)

27. Ghulam Hussain

28. Sulman R. Halwachi Dr. (2nd term)

29. Ali Qassim Rabia

30. M.N.K. Rana (3rd term)

31. A. Ponnuchamy

32. C.M. Daniel

33. K. Sriram

34. K.S. Thomas

35. M Latesh Chandra

36. Vijay Boloor

37. C.B. Raman

38. Edward D’Souza

39. Richard Baranovich

40. Viraf Raimalwala

41. Manoj Megchiani

42. Jose Varghese

43. Annie M. D’Costa

44. Sunil I.Asser

45. Clement Vinayak

46. Yacoob Hermes

47. J. Krishnan

48. Mohammed Iqbal Butt (3rd term)

49. Kawther Al Taitoon

50. Clement Fernando

51. Austin Sequeira

52. Swarnalatha Kudva

53. Hassan Ismail Akbar

54. George Mathai

55. Jameel Al Nasser

56. Santosh V. Pai

57. Anil Hattangdi

58. T.L. Joy

59. Madhavi Tiwary

60. Mariam George Jacob

61. Sheela Pai

62. P.M. Ganesh

63. Guraz Wankadia

64. Chandra Liyanarachchi

65. Nestor S. Ballano

66. Zakaria Sulaiman

67. Sarath Goonatilleke

68. Elizabeth George

69. Farhan Najeeb

70. Manal Matrook


Past Presidents 71. Isaac Mathew

72. Joel Indrupati

73. Abdulrahman Awadhi

74. Khalid AlQoud

75. Claire Cosgrove

76. Afaf Zainalabedin

77. Azad Chalakuzhi

78. Shaikha Butti

79. Kishore Babu

80. Bharat Patil

81. Thuraya Abdulla

82. Khalid Amin

83. Thuraya Abdulla (2nd term)

84. Dr. Khalid Amin.

Working together is success P

President Ratinder Nath January – June 2015

President Khalid Amin July – December 2014


.

. We hope this newsletter has been informative

and helpful. Do let us know what you enjoyed and what you would like to see in future

issues. Contact the Editor on

[email protected]

Executive Committee : January to June 2015

Ratinder Nath President

Kishore Babu VP Education

Hannah Karanja VP Membership

Tosin Arowojolu VP Public Relations

Abraham Joseph Secretary

Tom Oommen Treasurer

Prashanth Gudibande Sgt. At. Arms

Mohammed Farhan Librarian


mailto:[email protected]

Every Saturdays from 7 to 9pm at Crowne Plaza, Diplomatic Area. • Toastmasters International affiliated. • Formed in Bahrain in 1964 • Helps you become confident and comfortable in

speaking to an audience. • Improves communication & leadership skills. • Cordial & friendly atmosphere.

For further details please visit,

www.manamatoastmasters.org www.manamatoastmasters.blogspot.com

Toastmasters International • Non-profit Organization. • Over 250,000 members in 106 different countries.

For further details please visit, http://www.toastmasters.org

Visit Manama

Toastmasters Club

www.facebook.com/manama.toastmasters Contact :

TM Hannah Karanja +973 39170832 TM Tosin Arowojolu +973 36584499


Horizon January 2015

Documents

Transcript of Horizon January 2015