Have you ever wondered how as children we always wanted to grow up?
Talks of 'that school', own baths, writing with a pen, all the activities that proved that we had grown up were sought after. To be big, grown up, a 'big brother' was cool.
I remember the chanting of 'Bramharpanam'. The 7th standard guys were 'called for lunch' last. We were given the mats that were near the wall. We would all put out backs straight and say 'Bramharpanam' in a bass voice, sounding like puppies trying to roar.
And then Own Bath. Fifth standard was probably the worst of all the years. You were grown up enough to start hitting on 12th standard girls, but everyday for half an hour, you were at the mercy of amma, stripped off all your prestige. And then, come 6th standard, and we would arrive with buckets and mugs, and our initials written boldly on them. And even then, after you have had your 'own' bath, your hair was combed.
Sitting in the lines during Sports and watching 'big brothers' perform their activities. And then coming back to the hostel and enacting all the stunts again. Or looking at those ultra fair form boys with green stubbles, and then touching your own chin and realising that's a long way off.
And getting to write with ink pens. Fighting for Hero pens and proudly showing off ink stains on the shirt pockets, and Bluetooth in our mouths. And placing 'orders' for items crucial to the country's economy, like Natraj Plasto 621 Eraser and Luxor Sketch Pens.
It was always about growing up.
And now, I am grown up. I have my own bath everyday (well, almost), I have a different kind of Bluetooth in my pocket, and shaving is a pain. And now that I have done everything I wanted to do as a child, I want to go back.
I think elders realise the value of Children's Day more than the kids themselves. The poor guys are bombarded with boring stories of Chacha Nehru and stuff. We veterans, meanwhile, are cruelly reminded of an age when nothing was more important than getting hold of the magnet and radium.
Happy Children's Day, oldies!!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
PUNISHMENTS
According to the Right to Education Act, that was enacted across the nation from the first of April this year, there are some major changes that are to take place in our education system. Primary among them is abolishing corporal punishment for children.
Like most of you, I thought it was laughable to imagine being a student in Parthi and not getting a few knocks now and then. How I wish this law was enacted way back in the 90s.
Or may be not. I mean, what would be the fun if every teacher was sweet and kind and nice? The world would have been beautiful and everyone would be form boys. Not fun.
Fact is, life for me was going from one knock to another. When your entire life is dictated by a bell, you cannot be a slow coach. I was always late for everything., dunnapotha or slow coach as we were called. And no, my birthday is in April, so I could not even be f'irst for lunch'. So right from Suprabhatam to Night Prayers, my body was undergoing tough physical kung fu style training.
The day would begin by Suprabhatam, for which I would be late. Even if I was on time, I'd doze and somebody would 'write my name'. This meant that in half an hour, I was going to get a tight whack with a cane on my hand. The Praveena Hand Whack (PHW).
The PHW was generally doled out after the morning Yoga session. For best results, it was conducted in cold, winter days on the terrace. A minder would read out all the names of the sinners who had the audacity of dozing during a prayer session that could put an owl to sleep. You were asked to stretch out your hand, and...
WHACK!! A thin cane came whipping down on your palm. The trick to minimise the pain of the PHW was a scientific process. You had to bring your hand down at the exact moment when the stick came down on you. Morning shows the day, and without doubt, more such endearments would be in store for me through the day. We were given 30 glorious minutes to finish breakfast, bath, and get ready for school. As usual, I was late. Once the dreaded Second Bell went off, I would rush to school. Without doubt, the prayer would have started and I would be among the others to sit outside the hall. Once the prayer was over, it was time for Bitex.
I dont know why its called that. Bitex. Sounds like some scabies ointment or something. But bitex would be used on us a lot. It was the usual uthak-baithak, but sprinkled with some creativity by Principal Sir. So you had to do a hundred of them, and each with Aamir Khan like perfection, while he would personally count. Here again, the easier way was to keep your hands on your knees, so it was easier when you were standing up, somewhere in the Nervous Nineties. So by the time you reached the class, your hands and knees felt like Shane Bond's. And then, you missed the first few minutes of class and got a few mottikayis for that.
The mottikayi was an indigenous home-bred torture weapon that could give foreign imports like Bitex a run for their money. The teacher would roll his hand into a fist, knuckles pointing down. And then raise his arm in a backlift, and wham, it came crashing down on your head. Though the mottikayi involved no sticks, two or three of these could leave you wondering if your head had become a golf ball.
But these were just physical punishments. They would heal in a while, and if they dint, you could always go to the dispensary and hope Ram Mohan Sir didn’t stab you with an injection. But the worst tortures are the mental ones. The ones that break you from inside. I have been subjected to three levels of such tortures.
Pantry Cleaning was the first of them. I have been subjected to it not once, but twice. The trick to seeing the quality of food in a hostel is by seeing the dust bins. The amount of stuff in the dust bin clearly indicated the students' opinion of the food. Now, the punishment involved cleaning the dust bin and then taking a stick and making sure none of the food particles got stuck in the pantry. If you were faint-hearted, you could faint somewhere in between due to the stench. Thankfully, John would give you a few whacks to render you senseless and so you couldn't make out the smell too much. There was no way you could escape this punishment, and there were no shortcuts, as John would personally come and check if everything was in order.
Cleaning the toilets was the next one. This one sucked, really. This punishment was given when other people were away for darshan, so at least you were saved of the embarrassment. This was reserved for crimes committed for which you were deemed unfit of a darshan. You had to take a pipe and go about washing all the toilets in the floor. While you thought you could get away with just spraying the entire place, John, whose brain works faster than Chacha Chaudhry’s, would come to check up on you. Grindingly, every bathroom, every lav, every wall, would be microscopically inspected before being approved.
The last level was the worst sort. It might seem harmless on the surface, but ask one who has undergone it, and he will tell you the extent of trauma your body has to go through to withstand it. This was one was called ‘Splitting the channa’.
Now, in HS, we were always told that PS had lots of money so they could give us awesome food, while HS was the poorer, more boring cousin. So there were efforts to maximize production by minimising costs. Primary among these efforts was sorting out the channa. Channa was stored in large drums, and after a few days it gave off a nasty smell. Some rocket scientist masquerading as a cook would add new channa to the drum of old channa. To sort out the old channa from the new would be the work of a poor soul like me. I have been subjected to this torture method not once but twice.
I don’t remember the first time. But the second time is vivid. Me and The Dude were caught roaming near East Prashanti during bhajans. This senior who was a maintenance guy (meaning he licked John’s ass a lot) caught us and took us to his master. John, without thinking twice, sentenced us to 2 hours of rigorous channa sorting. The drums of channa were rolled out and we were made to sort the good channa from the bad, in two heaps, while the others ran out to games.
I got to work, sorting out the channa while using extremely high levels of Pranayam. The Dude obviously dint give a rat’s ass, and sat with the calmness of a Zen monk. Calmly, he put his hand right in between the lump and like Moses, divided it into two lumps. I was shocked.
“But that’ll mean everyone in the hostel eats stale channa for lunch”
Calm smile, and The Dude walks off.
Like most of you, I thought it was laughable to imagine being a student in Parthi and not getting a few knocks now and then. How I wish this law was enacted way back in the 90s.
Or may be not. I mean, what would be the fun if every teacher was sweet and kind and nice? The world would have been beautiful and everyone would be form boys. Not fun.
Fact is, life for me was going from one knock to another. When your entire life is dictated by a bell, you cannot be a slow coach. I was always late for everything., dunnapotha or slow coach as we were called. And no, my birthday is in April, so I could not even be f'irst for lunch'. So right from Suprabhatam to Night Prayers, my body was undergoing tough physical kung fu style training.
The day would begin by Suprabhatam, for which I would be late. Even if I was on time, I'd doze and somebody would 'write my name'. This meant that in half an hour, I was going to get a tight whack with a cane on my hand. The Praveena Hand Whack (PHW).
The PHW was generally doled out after the morning Yoga session. For best results, it was conducted in cold, winter days on the terrace. A minder would read out all the names of the sinners who had the audacity of dozing during a prayer session that could put an owl to sleep. You were asked to stretch out your hand, and...
WHACK!! A thin cane came whipping down on your palm. The trick to minimise the pain of the PHW was a scientific process. You had to bring your hand down at the exact moment when the stick came down on you. Morning shows the day, and without doubt, more such endearments would be in store for me through the day. We were given 30 glorious minutes to finish breakfast, bath, and get ready for school. As usual, I was late. Once the dreaded Second Bell went off, I would rush to school. Without doubt, the prayer would have started and I would be among the others to sit outside the hall. Once the prayer was over, it was time for Bitex.
I dont know why its called that. Bitex. Sounds like some scabies ointment or something. But bitex would be used on us a lot. It was the usual uthak-baithak, but sprinkled with some creativity by Principal Sir. So you had to do a hundred of them, and each with Aamir Khan like perfection, while he would personally count. Here again, the easier way was to keep your hands on your knees, so it was easier when you were standing up, somewhere in the Nervous Nineties. So by the time you reached the class, your hands and knees felt like Shane Bond's. And then, you missed the first few minutes of class and got a few mottikayis for that.
The mottikayi was an indigenous home-bred torture weapon that could give foreign imports like Bitex a run for their money. The teacher would roll his hand into a fist, knuckles pointing down. And then raise his arm in a backlift, and wham, it came crashing down on your head. Though the mottikayi involved no sticks, two or three of these could leave you wondering if your head had become a golf ball.
But these were just physical punishments. They would heal in a while, and if they dint, you could always go to the dispensary and hope Ram Mohan Sir didn’t stab you with an injection. But the worst tortures are the mental ones. The ones that break you from inside. I have been subjected to three levels of such tortures.
Pantry Cleaning was the first of them. I have been subjected to it not once, but twice. The trick to seeing the quality of food in a hostel is by seeing the dust bins. The amount of stuff in the dust bin clearly indicated the students' opinion of the food. Now, the punishment involved cleaning the dust bin and then taking a stick and making sure none of the food particles got stuck in the pantry. If you were faint-hearted, you could faint somewhere in between due to the stench. Thankfully, John would give you a few whacks to render you senseless and so you couldn't make out the smell too much. There was no way you could escape this punishment, and there were no shortcuts, as John would personally come and check if everything was in order.
Cleaning the toilets was the next one. This one sucked, really. This punishment was given when other people were away for darshan, so at least you were saved of the embarrassment. This was reserved for crimes committed for which you were deemed unfit of a darshan. You had to take a pipe and go about washing all the toilets in the floor. While you thought you could get away with just spraying the entire place, John, whose brain works faster than Chacha Chaudhry’s, would come to check up on you. Grindingly, every bathroom, every lav, every wall, would be microscopically inspected before being approved.
The last level was the worst sort. It might seem harmless on the surface, but ask one who has undergone it, and he will tell you the extent of trauma your body has to go through to withstand it. This was one was called ‘Splitting the channa’.
Now, in HS, we were always told that PS had lots of money so they could give us awesome food, while HS was the poorer, more boring cousin. So there were efforts to maximize production by minimising costs. Primary among these efforts was sorting out the channa. Channa was stored in large drums, and after a few days it gave off a nasty smell. Some rocket scientist masquerading as a cook would add new channa to the drum of old channa. To sort out the old channa from the new would be the work of a poor soul like me. I have been subjected to this torture method not once but twice.
I don’t remember the first time. But the second time is vivid. Me and The Dude were caught roaming near East Prashanti during bhajans. This senior who was a maintenance guy (meaning he licked John’s ass a lot) caught us and took us to his master. John, without thinking twice, sentenced us to 2 hours of rigorous channa sorting. The drums of channa were rolled out and we were made to sort the good channa from the bad, in two heaps, while the others ran out to games.
I got to work, sorting out the channa while using extremely high levels of Pranayam. The Dude obviously dint give a rat’s ass, and sat with the calmness of a Zen monk. Calmly, he put his hand right in between the lump and like Moses, divided it into two lumps. I was shocked.
“But that’ll mean everyone in the hostel eats stale channa for lunch”
Calm smile, and The Dude walks off.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
If you were among the lucky few, Ganesh Chaturthi was a one week extravaganza that involved bunking classes, darshan and anything else boring. This was among the few indulgences that was in HS, and not PS.
It all began a week before the actual day. Each class made a palanquin in which to take Ganesha to the Kulwant Hall, and eventually to the back of the Sai Gita shed. The juniors were to make palanquins, and from tenth standards onwards they made chariots. The chariots were built like Tata Nano - minimum costs and maximum aerodynamics. The basic structure was a rickety trolley. This trolley would on a normal day be used for carrying sambar from the kitchen to the dining hall, but for that one week, these trolleys were coveted like Jaguars.
The rickety trolley would get four rods to serve as pillars and then the creative energies of a few guys would transform the humble trolley into the 'Chariot' for Lord Ganesha. So anyway, without digressing too much from the topic, lets get back to what the fun part about it was.
Every class had a group of guys who did this work. These Intellectuals put in their creative energies into creating a piece of art.
So these few guys were allowed freedoms. The entire week was bliss.
We were allowed to wake up late, bunk Suprabhatam and John's Daily Dose of Mindfuck. We could then have breakfast late. It was a fun, Godlike feeling to see everyone else scamper when the Second Bell rang, and we would be happily taking our breakfast to the terrace. Somehow, the Chitraannam and cocounut chutney seemed even more tasty then.
This went on for a full, blissful week and the trolleys were transformed beyond recognition.
Then it was the day of the Immersion.
Our chariots would be ready in a week and Ganesha statues installed in each of our chariots with Puja and stuff. Each class got a Ganesha. This was one of the only time we really noticed the statues. Have you ever wondered how Ganesha manages to go around on that poor little rat? No wonder its always hungry and munching on that laddoo forever!
Each class would take out their chariots and palaquins (with their Ganeshas in them) and take out a procession to the Mandir. Each class of 60 singing bhajans, banging the hell out of duffs, and talams clanging along with the cacophony. Now imagine, more than twenty such processions going along, shouting, screaming, breaking coconuts, and generally having a ball of a time.
The screams also had a character of their own. While there was the usual 'Ganapati Bappa Moriya, Aadha laddoo choriya', some creative batches like ours came up with some awesome, completely non-tacky versions like 'Ek Do Teen Chaar- Ganesha is our Superstar'. I know. Sad.
The best part was that the chariots were taken around the Kulwant Hall and kept 'linewise'. If we were lucky, the chariots would be on the Ladies side. This was the only time we could go there after attaining puberty (which it was assumed we all attained in Class 8). This would make us guys ecstatic and we would start behaving animatedly - talking loudly (in a 'grave' voice of course), laugh at stupid jokes to draw attention and take pictures that could be only described as, well, bizzare.
After the photographs and the Prasadam, it was time to take Ganesh on his journey back. This was a more relaxed affair, mixed with a blend of nostalgia. It seemed a little weird. I mean, you create this chariot, install a statue, do puja and stuff, and then throw it in the river? It seemed like all of our efforts were going down the drain.
When we reached Sai Gita shed, our Ganeshas were taken out from the chariots and taken inside the shed. I don't know why Sai Gita shed was chosen to immerse Ganesha. May be it was the whole 'elephant head-elephant head same pinch' thingy they had going. Our chariots felt empty and were dragged back into the hostel compound, ready to be stripped of all their glory and reduced to the sad life of a kitchen trolley.
We then took pictures with our chariots - wearing the costumes that we had to the procession - a wide collection of dresses from Satish Babu, our very own Manish Malhotra whose collections covered the gamut from bhangra to 'Band dress'. There was usually a special dinner in store for us.
The Immersion Day did not have study hours and if we were lucky, Prushty sir and his Oriya boys would show us a thrilling Jackie Chan thriller.
The next morning, we wake up listening to Gantasala on the PA system. We go to Suprabhatam, and then back to classes. Thing fell into place. The honeymoon was over.
Makes me wish Ganesh Chaturthi, like Dussehra was also celebrated for 10 days. Come to think of it, Ganesha handles the Education Department among the Gods - a pretty important one for students. He deserves it.
But anyway, on this day, hope you remember those times. Singing songs, pulling your chariot, and celebrating a festival with your friends.
Happy Ganesh Chaturthi !!
It all began a week before the actual day. Each class made a palanquin in which to take Ganesha to the Kulwant Hall, and eventually to the back of the Sai Gita shed. The juniors were to make palanquins, and from tenth standards onwards they made chariots. The chariots were built like Tata Nano - minimum costs and maximum aerodynamics. The basic structure was a rickety trolley. This trolley would on a normal day be used for carrying sambar from the kitchen to the dining hall, but for that one week, these trolleys were coveted like Jaguars.
The rickety trolley would get four rods to serve as pillars and then the creative energies of a few guys would transform the humble trolley into the 'Chariot' for Lord Ganesha. So anyway, without digressing too much from the topic, lets get back to what the fun part about it was.
Every class had a group of guys who did this work. These Intellectuals put in their creative energies into creating a piece of art.
So these few guys were allowed freedoms. The entire week was bliss.
We were allowed to wake up late, bunk Suprabhatam and John's Daily Dose of Mindfuck. We could then have breakfast late. It was a fun, Godlike feeling to see everyone else scamper when the Second Bell rang, and we would be happily taking our breakfast to the terrace. Somehow, the Chitraannam and cocounut chutney seemed even more tasty then.
This went on for a full, blissful week and the trolleys were transformed beyond recognition.
Then it was the day of the Immersion.
Our chariots would be ready in a week and Ganesha statues installed in each of our chariots with Puja and stuff. Each class got a Ganesha. This was one of the only time we really noticed the statues. Have you ever wondered how Ganesha manages to go around on that poor little rat? No wonder its always hungry and munching on that laddoo forever!
Each class would take out their chariots and palaquins (with their Ganeshas in them) and take out a procession to the Mandir. Each class of 60 singing bhajans, banging the hell out of duffs, and talams clanging along with the cacophony. Now imagine, more than twenty such processions going along, shouting, screaming, breaking coconuts, and generally having a ball of a time.
The screams also had a character of their own. While there was the usual 'Ganapati Bappa Moriya, Aadha laddoo choriya', some creative batches like ours came up with some awesome, completely non-tacky versions like 'Ek Do Teen Chaar- Ganesha is our Superstar'. I know. Sad.
The best part was that the chariots were taken around the Kulwant Hall and kept 'linewise'. If we were lucky, the chariots would be on the Ladies side. This was the only time we could go there after attaining puberty (which it was assumed we all attained in Class 8). This would make us guys ecstatic and we would start behaving animatedly - talking loudly (in a 'grave' voice of course), laugh at stupid jokes to draw attention and take pictures that could be only described as, well, bizzare.
After the photographs and the Prasadam, it was time to take Ganesh on his journey back. This was a more relaxed affair, mixed with a blend of nostalgia. It seemed a little weird. I mean, you create this chariot, install a statue, do puja and stuff, and then throw it in the river? It seemed like all of our efforts were going down the drain.
When we reached Sai Gita shed, our Ganeshas were taken out from the chariots and taken inside the shed. I don't know why Sai Gita shed was chosen to immerse Ganesha. May be it was the whole 'elephant head-elephant head same pinch' thingy they had going. Our chariots felt empty and were dragged back into the hostel compound, ready to be stripped of all their glory and reduced to the sad life of a kitchen trolley.
We then took pictures with our chariots - wearing the costumes that we had to the procession - a wide collection of dresses from Satish Babu, our very own Manish Malhotra whose collections covered the gamut from bhangra to 'Band dress'. There was usually a special dinner in store for us.
The Immersion Day did not have study hours and if we were lucky, Prushty sir and his Oriya boys would show us a thrilling Jackie Chan thriller.
The next morning, we wake up listening to Gantasala on the PA system. We go to Suprabhatam, and then back to classes. Thing fell into place. The honeymoon was over.
Makes me wish Ganesh Chaturthi, like Dussehra was also celebrated for 10 days. Come to think of it, Ganesha handles the Education Department among the Gods - a pretty important one for students. He deserves it.
But anyway, on this day, hope you remember those times. Singing songs, pulling your chariot, and celebrating a festival with your friends.
Happy Ganesh Chaturthi !!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Being Sick
Being sick was one of the best things in school. Don't get me wrong. It's not as if I did not enjoy the hajan-bhajan of daily life. But once in a while, it felt great to remain horizontal and watch all the other guys go about the motions while you drank Viva, and watched Pandavas kick Kauravas' ass.
Most guys like the sympathy that comes with being sick. Not me. Coz most of the times my fevers were marginal, and hugely exaggerated by sad expressions and naagin-style histrionics, which couldn't withstand extreme scrutiny. Calling in sick had to be done with extreme diligence. Too little, and you would be sent right back to class. Too much, and you would be quarantined to the General Hospital, where your only contact with people would be when your classmates would scream "Sai Ram, KVNSPA!" and wave at you while they were returning from darshan.
I remember the early visits to medical room. The large number of medicines stacked in the small room, the kind doctor aunty shooing away kids who come with mosquito bites, and the surreal, hypnotic picture of a Greek healer tending to a patient's leg that hung on the wall. By the time we had reached class, we knew which ailments were treated with homeopathy pills.
Being sick was awesome if your mathematics skills were neanderthal and a Unit Test had just gotten over. You got special mashed rice with rasam, mashed potatoes, Viva, Tinkle comics, and unlimited video shows. All was well till you got on the wrong side of Unnavalli amma. Now, UV amma was very impartial. So whether you were 'sick' or 'alright', she would give you a colourful boquet of abuses.
In high school when the only pleasure in our lives was watching NDTV's Natasha Jog for 15 minutes a day, these sick days were my only solace. Theories about how to get unwell were circulated in advance (put an onion in armpit, play in the sun and stand under a shower, manage to digest both the lunch and dinner etc.) The teachers checked your temperature if you claimed to have fever. I generally resorted to other bunker-friendly ailments like stomach pain, headache, loo-mos etc.
The main reason for me to bunk classes was so that I could read. I was among the tabooed 'readers' of the class. While I didn't have Kate Winslet aunty teaching me about the birds and the bees, I was involved in the flourishing black market of oojaar! inducing novels that did the rounds.
So once the teacher allowed me to stay back in the hostel, out came the novels and my flights of fantasy would begin. I have read some of the best books of my life when I was 'sick'. Sherlock Holmes, Asterix and Tintin, Famous Five, Harry Potter and the Krishnavatara series, all read against the backdrop of morning assembly prayers that seemed to come from a different planet altogether.
Once I was done with the novels, I passed them on to one of my friends, who would fall ill in the next few days.
Most guys like the sympathy that comes with being sick. Not me. Coz most of the times my fevers were marginal, and hugely exaggerated by sad expressions and naagin-style histrionics, which couldn't withstand extreme scrutiny. Calling in sick had to be done with extreme diligence. Too little, and you would be sent right back to class. Too much, and you would be quarantined to the General Hospital, where your only contact with people would be when your classmates would scream "Sai Ram, KVNSPA!" and wave at you while they were returning from darshan.
I remember the early visits to medical room. The large number of medicines stacked in the small room, the kind doctor aunty shooing away kids who come with mosquito bites, and the surreal, hypnotic picture of a Greek healer tending to a patient's leg that hung on the wall. By the time we had reached class, we knew which ailments were treated with homeopathy pills.
Being sick was awesome if your mathematics skills were neanderthal and a Unit Test had just gotten over. You got special mashed rice with rasam, mashed potatoes, Viva, Tinkle comics, and unlimited video shows. All was well till you got on the wrong side of Unnavalli amma. Now, UV amma was very impartial. So whether you were 'sick' or 'alright', she would give you a colourful boquet of abuses.
In high school when the only pleasure in our lives was watching NDTV's Natasha Jog for 15 minutes a day, these sick days were my only solace. Theories about how to get unwell were circulated in advance (put an onion in armpit, play in the sun and stand under a shower, manage to digest both the lunch and dinner etc.) The teachers checked your temperature if you claimed to have fever. I generally resorted to other bunker-friendly ailments like stomach pain, headache, loo-mos etc.
The main reason for me to bunk classes was so that I could read. I was among the tabooed 'readers' of the class. While I didn't have Kate Winslet aunty teaching me about the birds and the bees, I was involved in the flourishing black market of oojaar! inducing novels that did the rounds.
So once the teacher allowed me to stay back in the hostel, out came the novels and my flights of fantasy would begin. I have read some of the best books of my life when I was 'sick'. Sherlock Holmes, Asterix and Tintin, Famous Five, Harry Potter and the Krishnavatara series, all read against the backdrop of morning assembly prayers that seemed to come from a different planet altogether.
Once I was done with the novels, I passed them on to one of my friends, who would fall ill in the next few days.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
One among the many quirks that existed in school was the habit of collecting pictures of cricket players. Cricket, you see, was more than a craze. While we were taught that all religions were one, cricket was clearly not included in the list.
Pictures of cricketers would be collected and stuck in scrap books. Quantity was clearly more important than quality here, and so the person who had the most number of pictures was the winner. This resulted in a mad scramble for any picture of a cricketer. Even a Syndicate Bank ad that had Sunil Joshi and Venkatesh Prasad was fought over.
There was a bubble gum in those days called 'Big Fun'. The gums were terrible, but they gave free cricket cards. We chose it over the Big Babool - which was softer and had more flavours. Another source was magazines like Sportstar.
I remember during holidays, I would subscribe to three newspapers, and then cut out the pictures, paste them in my book, and bring it back the next year. We were true connoisseurs. The more desperate ones would resort to more risky techniques to acquire pictures. The only time we got to read newspapers was after lunch. We would have lunch quickly (difficult, when the punishment for eating slowly was being made to sit in the girls' side) and rush to the staff room. We would then request a teacher to give us the newspaper and read the Sports section. This was when the desperate among us would slowly tear the Sports page, fold it to the size of Vim Bar, and sneak it out in the pant pocket.
Cricket stickers had higher value among the collectors. You could exchange a sticker for five 'rare' pictures, two chintapandu balls, a magnet, or a bubble gum. Bubble gums promised a good bargain due to the effort involved in smuggling them into building. On Sunday when there was Parents Meeting, there were 2 guys who went around the ground with a bell, signalling to one and all that it was time. The trick was to make sure that you were among the bell boys. A prior understanding meant you were given bubble gums, which you pocketed and entered the building with the bell, while others were checked in the lobby for things they might have attempted to sneak in.
Coming back to Cricket Stickers. The cricket stickers were valued possessions and played a number of roles. One of them was being paid to seniors as some sort of 'tribute'. I remember a senior who would bully a friend of mine.
"Fellow, pay me 5 cricket stickers,ee"
"I dont have, brother...."
"Then pay me nuggets curry...."
As a result, whenever there was nuggets curry, my friend would eat slowly, wait for the 7th std. guys to say Bramharpanam in the '7th std bass voice', and then give him his nuggets curry. Of course, he could dip his chapathi in rasam or slip it under the mat.
There was this other senior who had a favourite bathroom. One day he saw me coming out his bathroom and stopped me.
"Why you went to my bathroom, ee?"
"It was empty..."
"So? You'll enter off,aa?....Now pay me 10 cricket stickers"
"Ok", I said dejectedly.
"No, pay me a cricket sticker with Sanath Jaysuriya and Sachin Tendulkar drinking coffee"
"From where I'll get that..?"
"Then pay me nuggets curry"
So whenever there was nuggets curry, I stuffed my lunch within seconds and went to the staff room to tear off the Sports page from the newspaper.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A misunderstood Robin Hood?
Everybody asks me why I think so highly about Enrico. I mean, he was a general pest, and pissed off everyone around him with astounding frequency. So what exactly was likable about him?
Well, the thing was that he was a rebel in the truest sense. Someone who can give Ryan from 5.someone a run for his money. Though it was easy to brand him as a poltergeist, I can now see why he behaved the way he did.
Think about it this way, You are a 5 year old from Italy. All of a sudden you are put in a strange land, where you do not understand the language, the people, the customs and the prayers. You cannot eat the food that is served on a daily basis, and you are considered an outsider wherever you go. And in those days, being a foreigner had its own Damocles sword. You were expected to be a hooligan, and had this reputation to live up to. But like I always say, he was quite nice at heart.
It was difficult to be his friend. All the teachers marked you out, and since Enrico was genetically created in such a way that he could never be punished, you bore the brunt of his being Italian. The punishments were accompanied with threats of TC and there were hardly 5-6 guys in the class who spoke to him on a regular basis. For others, he was trouble with freckles, and they just avoided him.
Though most of his hatred was directed towards homo sapiens, he had love for animals, especially puppies and kittens. I remember in Class 8, we had found two puppies without their mother in the stadium. We brought them and built some sort of a house for them in the terrace. We used to steal breakfast for them in the morning. And in the afternoon, since Enrico never attended any classes anyway, he was given the responsibility of taking care of the puppies. And he never forgot to do his duty! He also got along famously with Narsimha, the official hostel pet.
And he had strange urges. While everyone else would be in the Kulwant hall attending a discourse, he would want to check out the Kalpavriksha hill. Now, sneaking out with him was always risky. Since he grew up in Parthi, every hawker and shop keeper knew him. While we would try to sneak out being as inconspicous as possible, my heart would jump when all of a sudden, a voice would call out, "Hey, Henry! How are you?". And like a true friend, he would always go and meet the shop keeper, leaving me standing outside, hoping I had brought an Invisibility Cloak with me. Once we reached the top, he liked to stand on top of the highest rock and look down upon the entire town. Its a different matter that once Janardhanan saw us from the hostel and we were duly butchered.
Another incident that comes to my mind was when we were really young. We must have been in Class four. I dint go home during Winter Holidays (in those days, they were for a full month) and so I stayed with a relative in Parthi. Inside the ashram, all the students who were in Parthi (foreigners, lecturers' children etc.) would gang up and play.
And what fun we had! There weren't as many buildings as there are now. And since Diwali was round the corner, we would buy crackers from outside and choose ideal locations and victims for them. Under the chair of a sevadal enjoying a siesta, lighting a bijli bomb and throwing it into the East Prashanti toilets. East Prashanti had a lot of grumpy old people and we thought it was cool to be chased by the Sevadals. And then, we would go to his home and his mother would cook the best Italian food I have ever eaten.
So anyway, it was one of those days when I was waiting for him to come out of his house in Round Building - 3, so we could go on another of his rounds of destruction. I was waiting in the garden behind the Round Building - the one that has the bronze statue of Ganesh with an umbrella and other structures.
When I was sitting there, a guy approached me. He must have been about 25 years old. He enquired about who I was, and asked me if I watched movies. I don't remember the exact conversation, but he asked me if I watched films. I said yes (Bhakta Prahalad is a film, mind you) and he then asked me if I knew what heroes and heroines do after getting married.
After a while, he asked me if I wanted some money to buy chocolates, which I happily accepted. He then asked me to accompany him to the East Prashanti toilets. It was only when we entered the toilets did I realise what he was upto. When I was trying to run out of the toilets, Enrico arrived and saw that guy trying to get hold of me. He came and asked me what was the matter.
The guy was all smiles, explaining to Enrico something about toilets and hero and heroine and love.... I still remember the kick.
We weren't very tall then. But I remember him taking his leg backwards, resembling Sehwag when he sees an over-pitched ball. He raised his leg backwards, and brought it down right in middle of the guy's legs, jeopardising his chances of starting a family in future.
The guy was on the floor, screaming his heart out. Sevadals rushed to the spot and we ran from there, straight into his house.
I don't remember if I thanked him. I mean, he wasn't exactly the kind of guy who laid a lot of emphasis on Thank You, Please, and Sorry. But I remember thinking that he wasn't that bad a guy after all. May be some sort of a misunderstood Robin Hood.
Well, the thing was that he was a rebel in the truest sense. Someone who can give Ryan from 5.someone a run for his money. Though it was easy to brand him as a poltergeist, I can now see why he behaved the way he did.
Think about it this way, You are a 5 year old from Italy. All of a sudden you are put in a strange land, where you do not understand the language, the people, the customs and the prayers. You cannot eat the food that is served on a daily basis, and you are considered an outsider wherever you go. And in those days, being a foreigner had its own Damocles sword. You were expected to be a hooligan, and had this reputation to live up to. But like I always say, he was quite nice at heart.
It was difficult to be his friend. All the teachers marked you out, and since Enrico was genetically created in such a way that he could never be punished, you bore the brunt of his being Italian. The punishments were accompanied with threats of TC and there were hardly 5-6 guys in the class who spoke to him on a regular basis. For others, he was trouble with freckles, and they just avoided him.
Though most of his hatred was directed towards homo sapiens, he had love for animals, especially puppies and kittens. I remember in Class 8, we had found two puppies without their mother in the stadium. We brought them and built some sort of a house for them in the terrace. We used to steal breakfast for them in the morning. And in the afternoon, since Enrico never attended any classes anyway, he was given the responsibility of taking care of the puppies. And he never forgot to do his duty! He also got along famously with Narsimha, the official hostel pet.
And he had strange urges. While everyone else would be in the Kulwant hall attending a discourse, he would want to check out the Kalpavriksha hill. Now, sneaking out with him was always risky. Since he grew up in Parthi, every hawker and shop keeper knew him. While we would try to sneak out being as inconspicous as possible, my heart would jump when all of a sudden, a voice would call out, "Hey, Henry! How are you?". And like a true friend, he would always go and meet the shop keeper, leaving me standing outside, hoping I had brought an Invisibility Cloak with me. Once we reached the top, he liked to stand on top of the highest rock and look down upon the entire town. Its a different matter that once Janardhanan saw us from the hostel and we were duly butchered.
Another incident that comes to my mind was when we were really young. We must have been in Class four. I dint go home during Winter Holidays (in those days, they were for a full month) and so I stayed with a relative in Parthi. Inside the ashram, all the students who were in Parthi (foreigners, lecturers' children etc.) would gang up and play.
And what fun we had! There weren't as many buildings as there are now. And since Diwali was round the corner, we would buy crackers from outside and choose ideal locations and victims for them. Under the chair of a sevadal enjoying a siesta, lighting a bijli bomb and throwing it into the East Prashanti toilets. East Prashanti had a lot of grumpy old people and we thought it was cool to be chased by the Sevadals. And then, we would go to his home and his mother would cook the best Italian food I have ever eaten.
So anyway, it was one of those days when I was waiting for him to come out of his house in Round Building - 3, so we could go on another of his rounds of destruction. I was waiting in the garden behind the Round Building - the one that has the bronze statue of Ganesh with an umbrella and other structures.
When I was sitting there, a guy approached me. He must have been about 25 years old. He enquired about who I was, and asked me if I watched movies. I don't remember the exact conversation, but he asked me if I watched films. I said yes (Bhakta Prahalad is a film, mind you) and he then asked me if I knew what heroes and heroines do after getting married.
After a while, he asked me if I wanted some money to buy chocolates, which I happily accepted. He then asked me to accompany him to the East Prashanti toilets. It was only when we entered the toilets did I realise what he was upto. When I was trying to run out of the toilets, Enrico arrived and saw that guy trying to get hold of me. He came and asked me what was the matter.
The guy was all smiles, explaining to Enrico something about toilets and hero and heroine and love.... I still remember the kick.
We weren't very tall then. But I remember him taking his leg backwards, resembling Sehwag when he sees an over-pitched ball. He raised his leg backwards, and brought it down right in middle of the guy's legs, jeopardising his chances of starting a family in future.
The guy was on the floor, screaming his heart out. Sevadals rushed to the spot and we ran from there, straight into his house.
I don't remember if I thanked him. I mean, he wasn't exactly the kind of guy who laid a lot of emphasis on Thank You, Please, and Sorry. But I remember thinking that he wasn't that bad a guy after all. May be some sort of a misunderstood Robin Hood.
Of rules, rulers, and rule-breakers
I have met a lot of friends after we passed out from school, and most of the time, I am surprised at the transformation that has taken place. Some who were considered 'duds' are now the most successful, silent guys have become extroverts, and there is a sense of rebellion in almost everybody. Another thing is that when they step out, almost everybody has long hair. (At least for a few years, till like me, they realise they look like a rickshaw wala).
But when there are talks of meeting up, it is always found that some of the guys are unwilling to meet up. Many are ashamed to admit they studied at Puttaparthi and instead say they studied somewhere in the outskirts of Bangalore. Some do not want to talk to the rest of the batchmates. This has never failed to surprise me.
How could this be? We were given the perfect education, weren't we? The flowers in the Garden of Sai or whatever. Why then would these so called flowers not bear to talk to each other then?
I think the problem was too much judgement. Even before we could make sense of the rules, the language, and the daily routine, we were categorised into good and bad. Into bright and dull. Into form boys and rakshashas. Too early in life, and these tags stayed for ten years.
If there is anything about my schooling that I regret, it is this categorisation. I know it is difficult to control a large number of kids, and that sometimes we did get under the teachers' skins, and onto their nerves. But still, sometimes the categorisation was too much. And it was in this habit that our education became pretty much one-dimensional. Sports was extra-curricular, other talents were only to be noticed during competitions. If there were two things you had to be good at, it was studies and behaviour. I found it a little stifling.
Rules are meant to be broken, I know. But some of the rules were completely ridiculous. One of the main problems I had with the school was the rule against talking. I talked a lot - while eating, during darshan, during classes, and also sometimes in my sleep. And I got punished for that too. But how can you ban talking? Children are human beings after all. How will they communicate if they do not talk?
We did not have parents to talk to, nor could we go talk to someone after school. The teachers weren’t exactly E.R.Braithwaites, so we couldn’t talk to them. And I really could not understand what the fuss was about talking. Come to think of it, talking to each other was illegal throughout the day, with games time being the only legal talking time. If children do not talk, do not communicate, what will they do? Write autobiographies? Develop spiritual theories??
Another rule I could not understand was the rule that banished people from going to others' rooms. I understand this rule was created when swami had once said that boys are going from one room to another like cats and dogs. Now, even someone with a basic understanding of things would tell you that the problem lay elsewhere. But the brilliant minds there could do nothing but take the statement verbatim and ban people from entering others' rooms. So, if you wanted to talk to someone about something, you could not enter their room. You had to stand at the door and speak to the person.
And then, there was a brilliant rule in C floor, under which, if you were caught entering a friend's room, your luggage would be sent to that room and you had to stay there. Now, this was completely baffling. Its like saying, alcohol is banned, but if you are caught drinking, you will be given a crate of beer and asked to drink it all. But nonetheless, I enjoyed this rule. Half of my time in C floor was spent in others' rooms, as most of the time the guys in my room were mini-Bhakta Prahalads.
Lastly, the habit of tagging people was more common in the high school than the primary school. If you were weak in studies in Class 1, the tag stuck till you left school. If you were talkative, it meant you were a criminal. Though it was alright in the primary school, there was a sudden transformation in the high school, when a seat in the eleventh standard was on top of everyone's minds.
A lot of my friends stopped talking to me, for fear of being branded as a bad boy. In Class 10, a lot of my friends would get letters from the teachers asking them to stay away from me. There have been instances when parents have called up, asked for me, and specifically asked me to stay away from their children. It took a little time to digest, but it did eventually sink in. That a seat in 11th standard was probably more important than sharing a Sardarji joke. And if they did speak to you, their palms would be reddened with a wooden ruler.
We might have been the flowers of Sai. We might have been monkeys in the Vaanar Sena in Treta yuga, and Gopikas in Dwapar Yuga, and struck third time lucky being students in Cyber Yuga. But behind it all, was a complex structure of trying to figure out who you were, who your friends were, and why everything was black and white.
And then, may be you can understand why some of the guys do not wish to acknowledge their friends once they have left school. May be they are still scared of being judged, compared, and asked to shut up. If there is someone like that, leave them be. They have made the choice they have, and you have the memories of the days you spent together.
But when there are talks of meeting up, it is always found that some of the guys are unwilling to meet up. Many are ashamed to admit they studied at Puttaparthi and instead say they studied somewhere in the outskirts of Bangalore. Some do not want to talk to the rest of the batchmates. This has never failed to surprise me.
How could this be? We were given the perfect education, weren't we? The flowers in the Garden of Sai or whatever. Why then would these so called flowers not bear to talk to each other then?
I think the problem was too much judgement. Even before we could make sense of the rules, the language, and the daily routine, we were categorised into good and bad. Into bright and dull. Into form boys and rakshashas. Too early in life, and these tags stayed for ten years.
If there is anything about my schooling that I regret, it is this categorisation. I know it is difficult to control a large number of kids, and that sometimes we did get under the teachers' skins, and onto their nerves. But still, sometimes the categorisation was too much. And it was in this habit that our education became pretty much one-dimensional. Sports was extra-curricular, other talents were only to be noticed during competitions. If there were two things you had to be good at, it was studies and behaviour. I found it a little stifling.
Rules are meant to be broken, I know. But some of the rules were completely ridiculous. One of the main problems I had with the school was the rule against talking. I talked a lot - while eating, during darshan, during classes, and also sometimes in my sleep. And I got punished for that too. But how can you ban talking? Children are human beings after all. How will they communicate if they do not talk?
We did not have parents to talk to, nor could we go talk to someone after school. The teachers weren’t exactly E.R.Braithwaites, so we couldn’t talk to them. And I really could not understand what the fuss was about talking. Come to think of it, talking to each other was illegal throughout the day, with games time being the only legal talking time. If children do not talk, do not communicate, what will they do? Write autobiographies? Develop spiritual theories??
Another rule I could not understand was the rule that banished people from going to others' rooms. I understand this rule was created when swami had once said that boys are going from one room to another like cats and dogs. Now, even someone with a basic understanding of things would tell you that the problem lay elsewhere. But the brilliant minds there could do nothing but take the statement verbatim and ban people from entering others' rooms. So, if you wanted to talk to someone about something, you could not enter their room. You had to stand at the door and speak to the person.
And then, there was a brilliant rule in C floor, under which, if you were caught entering a friend's room, your luggage would be sent to that room and you had to stay there. Now, this was completely baffling. Its like saying, alcohol is banned, but if you are caught drinking, you will be given a crate of beer and asked to drink it all. But nonetheless, I enjoyed this rule. Half of my time in C floor was spent in others' rooms, as most of the time the guys in my room were mini-Bhakta Prahalads.
Lastly, the habit of tagging people was more common in the high school than the primary school. If you were weak in studies in Class 1, the tag stuck till you left school. If you were talkative, it meant you were a criminal. Though it was alright in the primary school, there was a sudden transformation in the high school, when a seat in the eleventh standard was on top of everyone's minds.
A lot of my friends stopped talking to me, for fear of being branded as a bad boy. In Class 10, a lot of my friends would get letters from the teachers asking them to stay away from me. There have been instances when parents have called up, asked for me, and specifically asked me to stay away from their children. It took a little time to digest, but it did eventually sink in. That a seat in 11th standard was probably more important than sharing a Sardarji joke. And if they did speak to you, their palms would be reddened with a wooden ruler.
We might have been the flowers of Sai. We might have been monkeys in the Vaanar Sena in Treta yuga, and Gopikas in Dwapar Yuga, and struck third time lucky being students in Cyber Yuga. But behind it all, was a complex structure of trying to figure out who you were, who your friends were, and why everything was black and white.
And then, may be you can understand why some of the guys do not wish to acknowledge their friends once they have left school. May be they are still scared of being judged, compared, and asked to shut up. If there is someone like that, leave them be. They have made the choice they have, and you have the memories of the days you spent together.
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