My memories of the score and three summers that I’ve seen are divided into distinct periods. The mention of summer vacations brings back nostalgic memories of Calcutta, where I was born and spent a major part of my childhood. The vacations in Calcutta, where the school sessions were in resonance with the calendar year, meant a break just as the pace of studies at school was beginning to pick up.
The vacations were meant to spare the pupils the hassles of commuting to school in the heat. But part of the fun was lost due to the fact that the students were assigned tonnes of ‘Holiday Homework” (a contradiction in terms, now that I come to think of it!!)
Most of us managed to get over the obstacle by clearing out the homework on a war footing. We would then be rendered free to pester our mothers throughout the day.
One summer, my mother decided to harness the potential in me. She taught me, over the subsequent vacations, the preparation of tea, coffee and several other recipes. Beginning with the basics at the beginning of the holidays, I would sharpen my skills to that of an expert by the time schools reopened.
Getting me to stand by her side on a stool and add ingredients under her expert eye, had been a shrewd human resources management move: it saved her the trouble of constantly keeping a tab on me and my activities. In addition, it saved her part of the daily grind. She had put the theories of human resources management into practical use long before good old Rajiv got himself an independent minister for the department.
I am, by some standards, an accomplished cook now and can hold the fort whenever the need arises. So much so, that during my occasional fits of depression, I take the daring decision to remain a bachelor throughout my life, eking out two square meals putting my culinary expertise to use.
But the thought of disappointing scores of girlfriends at one stroke deters me from my determination. In any case, I would definitely like to earn the ‘punya’ of answering the prayers of at least one of them.
Summer memory
In the later part of my childhood at Calcutta, the vacations also meant visiting the tourist attractions in the city, and the most frequented places would be the Zoo at Alipore, the Nehru Children’s Museum and Birla Technological Museum. The last named was my favourite, and I made monthly visits to the place even during the rest of the year.
One distinct memory I have of my childhood summers is the long face of my ‘mamashree’ on Sundays and holidays, when he had to stay home and miss the cool comfort of the huge coolers put up at his office – LIC. I now have several opportunities to visit the LIC office, and find that the coolers are the only ones who work sincerely throughout the day.
We then shifted to Nagpur, and summers came to assume entirely different meanings. Summer vacations meant loafing around without any care in the world, since the examination would be over by then and the only thing we could do was to keep body and soul together for our teachers to hammer knowledge into our heads in the next class.
While in high school, we spent our summer afternoons playing the game of ‘business’ (‘Byopaar’ in Hindi – the Indian version of the American ‘monopoly’).
We would spend hours trying to make our fortunes around the board, buying up properties in Bombay and building ‘houses’ and ‘hotels’ on it. The game board would be divided into several squares, and each named after famous localities in Bombay, and priced accordingly.
But the prices at which we nonchalantly bought and sold these gold-edged pieces of real estate, would definitely make any real-estate dealer gladly jump into the Arabian Sea.
As the sun tilted towards the western horizon, our enthusiasm waned for the day.
Outdoor
Then would begin a game of cricket that would last well into the late hours of the evening. Only the inability of our star batsmen to see the ball would make us draw the stumps; hunger and thirst bore little importance.
The love for cricket manifested itself in the form of an under-19 tennis ball cricket tournament one summer. The tournament tested our organisational and managerial skills to the very limit, and we came out with flying colours, to say he least, despite a few ‘crises.’ The few protests and incidents of unruly behaviour brought out the best of the crisis managers in us, and the skills have stood us in good stead even today.
I also used to spend part of the vacations exploring the city on a bicycle along with a friend of mine, who was an enthusiastic cyclist.
The two of us would bike into all odd lanes and by-lanes, trying to get to know which lane connected which road to which other road, trying to discover short-cuts and roads that would bypass busy streets.
We never got lost. We developed the skill of remembering every turn that we took, and would recall the route taken, backwards as it were, during our ride back home.
The two of us also developed our powers of observation, as we tried to remember the distinct landmarks of each locality. These powers have developed over the years, and any ‘subject’ within our eyesight undergoes a detailed ‘scrutiny’ of the ‘outstanding features.’
These outings have also helped me in my present profession of a journalist. The knowledge of the nooks and corners of a major portion of the city has obviated much of the need to ask for directions whenever I am sent scurrying to the site of an accident, or on an assignment at a vague-sounding venue.
The ability of recall the route taken has also helped me on my visits to strange cities, where one has to foot it for kilometres trying to locate the address in hand.
Nocturnal outings
The best vacation was the one after my HSC exams. I would just eat and sleep and loaf around during the day. After dinner, me and two of my ‘langoti yaars’ would get together, go for a cup of ice cream and for a walk, and we would talk about all things bright and beautiful into the wee hours of the morning, much to the chagrin of our folks.
I’ve still not gotten over the habit of nocturnal outings, and have earned quite a notoriety for being a ‘creature of the night.’
When I was studying for my diploma at the polytechnic during the last two years of my student life, I had no summer vacations, strictly speaking.
The annual examination would begin somewhere in the first week of May, and continue into the first week of June. So, while other students had a whale of a time, we pored through books and notes.
But then, we would have the last laugh. By the time we finished our examinations, schools, and, more importantly, colleges, would reopen, and we would loaf away our time while others ran helter-skelter trying to get their hands on uniforms, new books, copies and what not.
Since our session started after August, we faced to crisis because of shortage of notebooks, books, paper or anything else. Being free when colleges reopened had its own advantage. We could free indulge in bird watching, which would be particularly pleasing since the birdies would turn out in their ‘beginning-of-the-year best’!
Incidentally, it was only after I joined polytechnic that I started wrapping a cloth round my head during summer to avoid falling sick and ruining my career just when I was on the threshold of it. Till then, using any sort of protection against the blazing sun hurt my masculine arrogance, and I and my friends used to avoid wearing caps or any equivalent devices at all costs.
But things have changed. The ladies would simply wrap their ‘pallus’ and ‘dupattas’ around their heads, until a few years ago. This tendency has now given way to cute caps and attractive scarves, that add ‘chaar chhands’ to the ‘Khubsoorti’ of the fair sex.
While summer vacations meant tons of ‘Ganne ka ras’ and water melons and ice cream, it hardly bears any significance to my lifestyle now. I am caught up in such mundane matters as my basic salary, the DA, my casual leaves, my balance of earned leaves, the naggings of the boss (I don’t have a wife, thank God!), et al. Rather tragic, eh?
(The Hitavada, Nagpur, May 8, 1990.)
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humour. Show all posts
Elementary!
I had just become the proud owner of a brand new Yamaha RX-100, and was zooming across the town, exhilarated.Young, fun loving and without a care in the world, I spent the first day in getting a feel of the bike.The next day, I stopped at a Red light. As the light turned amber, and then green, I engaged gear, and started moving off. At that moment a huge, ferocious truck roared in from my right. Stunned, I tried to move out of its way.
Near the bed, sat Sandy, my chum.“Hi, there!” he said, grinning, “Welcome to the Club! Congratulations!”
“Eh?” I groaned.
“I mean, you’ve just joined the RAPRC.”
“The what?” I managed.
“The Reckless Accident-Prone Riders Club,” Sandy informed me.I managed a smile. “Oh, that!” I squeaked.
“You’re fresh, buddy. You need a few lessons in driving. Get one thing into your brain, you fathead,” said Sandy, and then whispered conspiratorially, “The Nagpur traffic follows the Law of the Jungle – Survival of the fittest.”
“And the traffic rules?” I whined.
Sandy laughed contemptuously. “They’re for the kids to learn,” he told me, “Rely on your instincts. I’ll give you a few hints.”
I prepared myself for some bizarre guidelines.
Sandy cleared his throat, and started giving me lessons in traffic sense. “First and foremost, NEVER stop at a red light. If you see one, shoot through it.”
“Secondly, ride on the wrong side on a one-way street. Did you learn the traffic signs and signals?” he asked. “Yes, I…”“Forget them. Never use them.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “But how the…,” I started to protest.
Sandy held up his hand. “Elementary, my dear Andy! The secret is to take them by surprise. People who drive don’t look for the obvious. Their minds are on the alert for abnormalities.
“Everyone stops at a red light, but they’ll immediately spot you if you don’t, and will avoid hitting you at all costs.”
I was beginning to see wisdom in my chum’s words.
“Similarly, a vehicle going the other way on a one-way street is a danger, and everyone will give it a wide berth.”
“How true!” I said.
“As for signalling, it confuses everybody. Half the folks don’t know how to signal correctly, and the other half don’t know how to interpret them. “So, if you want to turn right, just go for it; don’t brush away imaginary specks of dust from the air and make a fool of yourself. The point, again, is the element of surprise.”
My respect for my friend increased, and I listened more attentively.
“Overtake from the left. The other chap will never let you pass from his right – because it’s obvious you’ll try. When you zoom in from his left, the guy’ll panic like hell, and get out of your way.
“Again, a word of caution. Never signal to him that you are overtaking, from whichever side you do so. He’ll always block your way. People get sadistic pleasure from preventing others surpass them." I knew. Such men should be shot at sight.
Just then, the nurse came in to check my temperature, pulse or whatever. She was stunning, devastating. But Sandy, a chronic bird-watcher, didn’t even raise his eyes. Then and there, I knew he was damn serious about what he was talking, and whatever doubts I had, were gone.
The nurse poked and pinched here and there, generally trying to make me uncomfortable. But I stayed put. She finally gave up, and left.
Sandy continued, “Exceed the speed limit by at least 100%. Everyone will hear you coming when you’re a couple of miles away, and clear your path. You’ll feel like a VVIP.
“Think of the 21st century. Imagine you want to reach it tomorrow.”
“I will,” I said, and meant it.
“And when you stop, don’t glide to a halt. Jam on the brakes. The idea is…”
“Element of surprise,” I said.
Sandy nodded approvingly, “You’re already learning!”
“Oh, yes! There’s an intersection where right turn is supposed to be prohibited,” he went on, “Whenever you pass, remember to turn right. Every smart Alec thinks he’s the only one doing so, and that nobody’ll notice, and he tries pulling a fast one.
“If you try going straight, you’ll land in crab-soup.”
“As I have now,” I said, thinking of the Chinese restaurant I would not be able to go to for a month.
“Right. Keep with the majority, turn right. That way, it’s easier for all.”
Sandy looked at his watch, and picked up the keys. “There are numerous other small details, but you can take care of them, I’m sure,” he said, “For example, keep your number plate dirty.”
“I’ve already done that,” I told him.
Sandy stood up to go. “A last word of caution. Never look a cop in the eye. They’re mind readers. And if one blows his whistle, pretend it’s for someone else. He can always find another victim.”
He started to leave, stopped, and said, “And, buddy, remember this: You are not the only one following these set of rules; hundreds of others are doing the same. They’ll try to catch you unawares. So, watch out for the surprises in your own dish: the chap who turns without signalling, overshoots a red light, and the like. They are all our brothers, believers in a common code.”
I was impressed. I thanked him, and then asked, “Hey, Sandy! Where did you learn all these things?”
He smiled, “My boy, I’m riding my bike for the last ten years. I kept my eyes and ears open!”
“Well, be seeing you! Get well soon,” and he was gone.
I lay there, trying to digest the lessons he had just heaped on me.During my stay in bed, I debated whether to put his advice into practice. I weighed all the pros and cons, and finally decided to give it a try.
The day I was fully fit, I took out my bike, and toed Sandy’s line to the last. I sprang all the possible surprises, and scared the daylights out of everyone.
And I rode happily ever after.
(The Hitavada, Nagpur, October 22, 1987.)
* * * *
When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed (obviously), swathed in bandages.Near the bed, sat Sandy, my chum.“Hi, there!” he said, grinning, “Welcome to the Club! Congratulations!”
“Eh?” I groaned.
“I mean, you’ve just joined the RAPRC.”
“The what?” I managed.
“The Reckless Accident-Prone Riders Club,” Sandy informed me.I managed a smile. “Oh, that!” I squeaked.
“You’re fresh, buddy. You need a few lessons in driving. Get one thing into your brain, you fathead,” said Sandy, and then whispered conspiratorially, “The Nagpur traffic follows the Law of the Jungle – Survival of the fittest.”
“And the traffic rules?” I whined.
Sandy laughed contemptuously. “They’re for the kids to learn,” he told me, “Rely on your instincts. I’ll give you a few hints.”
I prepared myself for some bizarre guidelines.
Sandy cleared his throat, and started giving me lessons in traffic sense. “First and foremost, NEVER stop at a red light. If you see one, shoot through it.”
“Secondly, ride on the wrong side on a one-way street. Did you learn the traffic signs and signals?” he asked. “Yes, I…”“Forget them. Never use them.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “But how the…,” I started to protest.
Sandy held up his hand. “Elementary, my dear Andy! The secret is to take them by surprise. People who drive don’t look for the obvious. Their minds are on the alert for abnormalities.
“Everyone stops at a red light, but they’ll immediately spot you if you don’t, and will avoid hitting you at all costs.”
I was beginning to see wisdom in my chum’s words.
“Similarly, a vehicle going the other way on a one-way street is a danger, and everyone will give it a wide berth.”
“How true!” I said.
“As for signalling, it confuses everybody. Half the folks don’t know how to signal correctly, and the other half don’t know how to interpret them. “So, if you want to turn right, just go for it; don’t brush away imaginary specks of dust from the air and make a fool of yourself. The point, again, is the element of surprise.”
My respect for my friend increased, and I listened more attentively.
“Overtake from the left. The other chap will never let you pass from his right – because it’s obvious you’ll try. When you zoom in from his left, the guy’ll panic like hell, and get out of your way.
“Again, a word of caution. Never signal to him that you are overtaking, from whichever side you do so. He’ll always block your way. People get sadistic pleasure from preventing others surpass them." I knew. Such men should be shot at sight.
Just then, the nurse came in to check my temperature, pulse or whatever. She was stunning, devastating. But Sandy, a chronic bird-watcher, didn’t even raise his eyes. Then and there, I knew he was damn serious about what he was talking, and whatever doubts I had, were gone.
The nurse poked and pinched here and there, generally trying to make me uncomfortable. But I stayed put. She finally gave up, and left.
Sandy continued, “Exceed the speed limit by at least 100%. Everyone will hear you coming when you’re a couple of miles away, and clear your path. You’ll feel like a VVIP.
“Think of the 21st century. Imagine you want to reach it tomorrow.”
“I will,” I said, and meant it.
“And when you stop, don’t glide to a halt. Jam on the brakes. The idea is…”
“Element of surprise,” I said.
Sandy nodded approvingly, “You’re already learning!”
“Oh, yes! There’s an intersection where right turn is supposed to be prohibited,” he went on, “Whenever you pass, remember to turn right. Every smart Alec thinks he’s the only one doing so, and that nobody’ll notice, and he tries pulling a fast one.
“If you try going straight, you’ll land in crab-soup.”
“As I have now,” I said, thinking of the Chinese restaurant I would not be able to go to for a month.
“Right. Keep with the majority, turn right. That way, it’s easier for all.”
Sandy looked at his watch, and picked up the keys. “There are numerous other small details, but you can take care of them, I’m sure,” he said, “For example, keep your number plate dirty.”
“I’ve already done that,” I told him.
Sandy stood up to go. “A last word of caution. Never look a cop in the eye. They’re mind readers. And if one blows his whistle, pretend it’s for someone else. He can always find another victim.”
He started to leave, stopped, and said, “And, buddy, remember this: You are not the only one following these set of rules; hundreds of others are doing the same. They’ll try to catch you unawares. So, watch out for the surprises in your own dish: the chap who turns without signalling, overshoots a red light, and the like. They are all our brothers, believers in a common code.”
I was impressed. I thanked him, and then asked, “Hey, Sandy! Where did you learn all these things?”
He smiled, “My boy, I’m riding my bike for the last ten years. I kept my eyes and ears open!”
“Well, be seeing you! Get well soon,” and he was gone.
I lay there, trying to digest the lessons he had just heaped on me.During my stay in bed, I debated whether to put his advice into practice. I weighed all the pros and cons, and finally decided to give it a try.
The day I was fully fit, I took out my bike, and toed Sandy’s line to the last. I sprang all the possible surprises, and scared the daylights out of everyone.
And I rode happily ever after.
(The Hitavada, Nagpur, October 22, 1987.)
CONFESSIONS OF AN ACTOR
"Be sure to learn your lines by heart," the director reminded me, "The play is at 2 O'clock tomorrow afternoon." "Yes," I mumbled. I was worried. Here I was, participating in a play in our annual gathering, a challenging role offered to me two days ago, and, like an ass, I had accepted. I had not learnt my lines, and they were expecting me to work a miracle overnight.I was nervous. The other play I took part in bombed at the 'box office.' It was a laughable attempt, as a classmate of mine was told by his friend of the other species. And to think it was a comedy!
Show is on
"What the devil," I thought, "To hell with it all!" I threw caution to the winds. I read the script once, and forgot all about it till the time I put on my 'make-up.
I was to play a murderer, who, in the guise of a foolish telephone repair man, enters households and strangulates the housewives who are all alone. I dressed, picked up my bag in which were screw drivers, pliers, hammer, wires, cutters, and, just in case, the script.
The announcement was made, and the curtain went up. The show was on! As my entry drew nearer, I began to sweat. Was it the heat, or something else? Then, to make things worse, the lights went out a couple of minutes before my entry. My heart began a never-ending 100 metres dash. My knees knocked each other. My mind commanded, "On your marks … set … GO. I found myself on the stage, facing a mob … Oops! An audience.
That was a nice pickle to be in! No lights, no mikes, not learnt my lines, heat, audience, and, worst of all, the prospect of murder. But I held myself together. Said my lines right, by courtesy of the 'prompter.'
Slowly, the drama unfolded. The audience was spellbound. There were only two of us on the stage now.She was sitting on the sofa. I stepped behind her, and whipped out my handkerchief.
"Thanks for coming," she said, and stooped to pick up the keys lying on the table. I whipped the handkerchief round her throat, and squeezed. Her scream died within her throat, and then she lay limp. She was motionless! She was gone!Quickly, I removed the telephone receiver from the cradle, and picked up the bunch of keys. I held them high, and roared with laughter, a la Gabbar Singh.And then, mercifully, curtains!
I heaved a sigh of re… there was a mad scramble to congratulate me for my superb performance. All the while, I had forgotten there was an audience. I had, what they call, 'lived' the role. I had automatically drifted into the character. There was a pink jumble of faces, handshakes, pats, shoves, hugs and words of appreciation as everyone congratulated me. I felt elated.Then, my lecturers did the praises. 'Poltergeist,' 'Dracula,' 'King Kong,' 'Lady Killer,' 'Richard Burton,' 'You-can't-beat-the-man-who-shaves-with-Swish,' 'KGB Agent' – one and all! I was on cloud nine.
Then came the real fun! The dames converged on me! I was surrounded by all the pretty, pretty faces. Wasn't it wonderful? Holding out their delicate hands for me to shake. Everyone vying for my attention. "You were sooooo superb!" said one. "What a performance!" gasped another. "It was marvellous!" cooed a third. In an instant, I was a hero. And then, 'she' came to me, and … ahem! Er, oh … Oh, well, never mind! My altimeter soared to cloud 11!
Crash landing
Now came the prize distribution, and to my delight, I was adjudged the Best Actor! I was thrilled! My hard work (?) had paid rich dividends.For the next few days, I moved about in a daze.Come April, and Examination Time Tables were flashed all around the college. I plummeted down to sea level from cloud 11. I crash-landed amongst books, pens, pencils and papers. I took off my helmet, oxygen mask and all – I had been flying at high altitudes, you know. I set my foot down, burned a lot of midnight oil and became thin.Because the exam is one place where you don't have a prompter!
May God bless me with a first class. AMEN!
(The Hitavada, Nagpur, July 26, 1986)
Show is on
"What the devil," I thought, "To hell with it all!" I threw caution to the winds. I read the script once, and forgot all about it till the time I put on my 'make-up.
I was to play a murderer, who, in the guise of a foolish telephone repair man, enters households and strangulates the housewives who are all alone. I dressed, picked up my bag in which were screw drivers, pliers, hammer, wires, cutters, and, just in case, the script.
The announcement was made, and the curtain went up. The show was on! As my entry drew nearer, I began to sweat. Was it the heat, or something else? Then, to make things worse, the lights went out a couple of minutes before my entry. My heart began a never-ending 100 metres dash. My knees knocked each other. My mind commanded, "On your marks … set … GO. I found myself on the stage, facing a mob … Oops! An audience.
That was a nice pickle to be in! No lights, no mikes, not learnt my lines, heat, audience, and, worst of all, the prospect of murder. But I held myself together. Said my lines right, by courtesy of the 'prompter.'
Slowly, the drama unfolded. The audience was spellbound. There were only two of us on the stage now.She was sitting on the sofa. I stepped behind her, and whipped out my handkerchief.
"Thanks for coming," she said, and stooped to pick up the keys lying on the table. I whipped the handkerchief round her throat, and squeezed. Her scream died within her throat, and then she lay limp. She was motionless! She was gone!Quickly, I removed the telephone receiver from the cradle, and picked up the bunch of keys. I held them high, and roared with laughter, a la Gabbar Singh.And then, mercifully, curtains!
I heaved a sigh of re… there was a mad scramble to congratulate me for my superb performance. All the while, I had forgotten there was an audience. I had, what they call, 'lived' the role. I had automatically drifted into the character. There was a pink jumble of faces, handshakes, pats, shoves, hugs and words of appreciation as everyone congratulated me. I felt elated.Then, my lecturers did the praises. 'Poltergeist,' 'Dracula,' 'King Kong,' 'Lady Killer,' 'Richard Burton,' 'You-can't-beat-the-man-who-shaves-with-Swish,' 'KGB Agent' – one and all! I was on cloud nine.
Then came the real fun! The dames converged on me! I was surrounded by all the pretty, pretty faces. Wasn't it wonderful? Holding out their delicate hands for me to shake. Everyone vying for my attention. "You were sooooo superb!" said one. "What a performance!" gasped another. "It was marvellous!" cooed a third. In an instant, I was a hero. And then, 'she' came to me, and … ahem! Er, oh … Oh, well, never mind! My altimeter soared to cloud 11!
Crash landing
Now came the prize distribution, and to my delight, I was adjudged the Best Actor! I was thrilled! My hard work (?) had paid rich dividends.For the next few days, I moved about in a daze.Come April, and Examination Time Tables were flashed all around the college. I plummeted down to sea level from cloud 11. I crash-landed amongst books, pens, pencils and papers. I took off my helmet, oxygen mask and all – I had been flying at high altitudes, you know. I set my foot down, burned a lot of midnight oil and became thin.Because the exam is one place where you don't have a prompter!
May God bless me with a first class. AMEN!
(The Hitavada, Nagpur, July 26, 1986)
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