For more than 7-8 years now I have been airing this thought to my acquaintances. Why can't BJP and Congress join hands and create a coalition? First and foremost, it will be free of the smaller and often disruptive elements. Secondly it would mean the end of secular/pseudosecular debate which has no meaning and no substance. No party in this nation is secular or communal. Each party has a different brand of communalism or secularism. Each party champions the cause of this or that religion in the name of secularism, each party plays vote-bank politics in the name of secularism and each party succeeds in stoking the fires of hatred and strengthening the hands of religious dons whose interest is in keeping the populace backwards so that their business continues unabated. What we need is a coalition that realizes that the true probelms to be addressed are economic in nature. The BJP has always had a liberal outlook as far as economy is concerned and Mr. Manmohan Singh and a few others in Congress have shown their mettle already in this area. In fact, Manmohan Singh has been the progenitor of the entire reforms process.
The effects of such a combination would be:
1. Cooling down of communal fires.
2. Faster economic development.
3. Stabler governments.
4. The persistently coughing communist comrades will be kept out and will not be able to hold the entire nation to ransom.
5. In the long term the nation may even be able to get out of the stranglehold of the Gandhi family.
There will be one bad effect of such a combination:
Life will become rather boring for us passionate political arguers. Currently, it is such a hot and worthy and steamy way of passing time, getting excited, calling others by bad names and feeling great about it. All that would vane and we would be very sad indeed by its passing.
So, what do you think?
Friday, August 24, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
OUR FIRST TRIP TO BANDHAVGARH: I
Reaching There
The first time we visited Bandhavgarh was in 1997. Kakoli, the two kids (Maitreyi is my daughters name; she was 10 and Udayan, my son, was barely 8 years of age) and I went to this National Park which is much farther off compared to Kanha. We did not even know the route properly and went to Bilaspur by train. From Bilaspur we wanted to take a taxi all the way to bandhavgrah. I did talk to a few taxi drivers but rejected their offers since Kakoli did not like the look of them. I have to admit that Kakoli overall is a better judge of human beings than yours truly. After talking to people at the railway station we decided to take a train to Shahdol. I do not like train travel and therefore was loathe doing it. Also, I love travel by a car and so was fretting and fuming about Kakoli’s decision. But this I did internally. There are two reasons for this. First of all I like to be taken as an accommodating husband (internally I may be just as good as any other husband!). Secondly, Kakoli does not take it kindly if you oppose her decision (call me henpecked!).
But the train ride proved to be good against all my assumptions. First of all it was a passenger train. These trains are to be hated because they pause for a long time at every small station. This one did too. But the terrain through which it progressed was so beautiful, you did not mind the slow progress at all and as time went on my nerves were calmed and I got lost in the beauty of the surroundings. Secondly, it brought an assortment of passengers from all stations. Many of these passengers wore very colorful dresses and they were lost in their own conversations which revealed their simplicity of thinking (I did eavesdrop). One rather interesting passenger boarded the train at a station.
Right from the beginning there was something odd about this passenger. I looked up at him and then again and then yet again and just could not understand just what was striking me as odd. The fellow was very fair and rather feminine by the texture of the skin and the cut of the face. But many males are effeminate. That couldn’t have struck me as odd. The guy had a bushy moustache. But that is not at all odd – I myself sport one. The guy took out a potli (a small cloth bag) and brought out a few eatables and started eating. Even the manner in which he ate was quite dainty, more like a female. For the life of me, I just could not guess what was gnawing at my mind about this person. About 5-6 stations later he disembarked. As the guy got up I noticed that he was wearing a rather gaudy red sari. HE WAS WEARING A RED SARI! It was not a he. It was a she and she had a bushy moustache. God! One male character and you are fooled enough to take the whole package as male – the power of the moustache.
We reached Shahdol at around 3 PM. It was quite difficult to get a taxi from there to Bandhavgarh. In fact nobody knew of Bandhavgarh! Gradually we found out that the name of the village is Tala and people know about Tala but not Bandhavgarh. We got a taxi after about an hour. The road was bad. The travel jarring. Eventually it was about 9 PM that we reached the MPTC resort. It was winter and it was freezing. The manager at the counter was gulping down a highball and there were quite a few people in front of the desk. We talked to the guy, showed him our reservation papers and were taken to a cottage that was situated at the farthest point of the resort.
The resort was not what it is today. There has been fresh construction and several new rooms have been created. However, the serenity of the past is lost at the cost of accommodating more tourists. But back then, when we reached the cottage, it was quite isolated. We bathed, and almost immediately dressed to go for dinner. The way to the restaurant was quiet and dark with dim lamps at the ground level to show you where you walked and to bring to light any serpent or other creatures. My children huddled together. My daughter does not like cold and she complained a bit. The son is the other way round; he loves winters and the harsher they are, the better. I and Kakoli are more or less like him.
The dinner was not so good. Although I must admit that if you give me a drink or two, the pain of bad dinner is not felt so much. There was one saving grace though. The waiter realized that we had not liked the food. He came over asking what was it that spoiled the experience is. My son and daughter enthusiastically explained to him how they want the things. From the next day, the things improved considerably.
After the dinner we got out into the open. The sky was dark but laden with sparkling stars. The air had the fresh quality that is there in winters and especially so in the jungles. We took a short walk till we came to a wicket gate. There were instructions there that one should not venture beyond this gate. We normally abide by the rules. In this one instance though we broke the rule and walked through that gate. We knew that it could be dangerous. Also, come to think of it, it was downright foolhardy to do that. But we did for god knows what reason. We walked for about 200 meters before we thought we should retrace our way. The jungle was getting too dense and we could not see our way beyond. So we retraced our steps back.
Just how foolhardy our action was became clear the next day. Talking to workers in the resort over lunch, we were told,
“Sahib, do not go beyond that gate. Previously, just a year back, there was no boundary enclosing this resort. But leopards and some herbivores used to come over right up to the cottages. So we enclosed this in barbed wire fencing. The gate is a part of the fence. A few months back, a leopard got caught in the barbed wires just besides the gate. Some employees come through that gate – that is why the gate is there. These employees report seeing leopards quite frequently in the area near the gate.”
The first time we visited Bandhavgarh was in 1997. Kakoli, the two kids (Maitreyi is my daughters name; she was 10 and Udayan, my son, was barely 8 years of age) and I went to this National Park which is much farther off compared to Kanha. We did not even know the route properly and went to Bilaspur by train. From Bilaspur we wanted to take a taxi all the way to bandhavgrah. I did talk to a few taxi drivers but rejected their offers since Kakoli did not like the look of them. I have to admit that Kakoli overall is a better judge of human beings than yours truly. After talking to people at the railway station we decided to take a train to Shahdol. I do not like train travel and therefore was loathe doing it. Also, I love travel by a car and so was fretting and fuming about Kakoli’s decision. But this I did internally. There are two reasons for this. First of all I like to be taken as an accommodating husband (internally I may be just as good as any other husband!). Secondly, Kakoli does not take it kindly if you oppose her decision (call me henpecked!).
But the train ride proved to be good against all my assumptions. First of all it was a passenger train. These trains are to be hated because they pause for a long time at every small station. This one did too. But the terrain through which it progressed was so beautiful, you did not mind the slow progress at all and as time went on my nerves were calmed and I got lost in the beauty of the surroundings. Secondly, it brought an assortment of passengers from all stations. Many of these passengers wore very colorful dresses and they were lost in their own conversations which revealed their simplicity of thinking (I did eavesdrop). One rather interesting passenger boarded the train at a station.
Right from the beginning there was something odd about this passenger. I looked up at him and then again and then yet again and just could not understand just what was striking me as odd. The fellow was very fair and rather feminine by the texture of the skin and the cut of the face. But many males are effeminate. That couldn’t have struck me as odd. The guy had a bushy moustache. But that is not at all odd – I myself sport one. The guy took out a potli (a small cloth bag) and brought out a few eatables and started eating. Even the manner in which he ate was quite dainty, more like a female. For the life of me, I just could not guess what was gnawing at my mind about this person. About 5-6 stations later he disembarked. As the guy got up I noticed that he was wearing a rather gaudy red sari. HE WAS WEARING A RED SARI! It was not a he. It was a she and she had a bushy moustache. God! One male character and you are fooled enough to take the whole package as male – the power of the moustache.
We reached Shahdol at around 3 PM. It was quite difficult to get a taxi from there to Bandhavgarh. In fact nobody knew of Bandhavgarh! Gradually we found out that the name of the village is Tala and people know about Tala but not Bandhavgarh. We got a taxi after about an hour. The road was bad. The travel jarring. Eventually it was about 9 PM that we reached the MPTC resort. It was winter and it was freezing. The manager at the counter was gulping down a highball and there were quite a few people in front of the desk. We talked to the guy, showed him our reservation papers and were taken to a cottage that was situated at the farthest point of the resort.
The resort was not what it is today. There has been fresh construction and several new rooms have been created. However, the serenity of the past is lost at the cost of accommodating more tourists. But back then, when we reached the cottage, it was quite isolated. We bathed, and almost immediately dressed to go for dinner. The way to the restaurant was quiet and dark with dim lamps at the ground level to show you where you walked and to bring to light any serpent or other creatures. My children huddled together. My daughter does not like cold and she complained a bit. The son is the other way round; he loves winters and the harsher they are, the better. I and Kakoli are more or less like him.
The dinner was not so good. Although I must admit that if you give me a drink or two, the pain of bad dinner is not felt so much. There was one saving grace though. The waiter realized that we had not liked the food. He came over asking what was it that spoiled the experience is. My son and daughter enthusiastically explained to him how they want the things. From the next day, the things improved considerably.
After the dinner we got out into the open. The sky was dark but laden with sparkling stars. The air had the fresh quality that is there in winters and especially so in the jungles. We took a short walk till we came to a wicket gate. There were instructions there that one should not venture beyond this gate. We normally abide by the rules. In this one instance though we broke the rule and walked through that gate. We knew that it could be dangerous. Also, come to think of it, it was downright foolhardy to do that. But we did for god knows what reason. We walked for about 200 meters before we thought we should retrace our way. The jungle was getting too dense and we could not see our way beyond. So we retraced our steps back.
Just how foolhardy our action was became clear the next day. Talking to workers in the resort over lunch, we were told,
“Sahib, do not go beyond that gate. Previously, just a year back, there was no boundary enclosing this resort. But leopards and some herbivores used to come over right up to the cottages. So we enclosed this in barbed wire fencing. The gate is a part of the fence. A few months back, a leopard got caught in the barbed wires just besides the gate. Some employees come through that gate – that is why the gate is there. These employees report seeing leopards quite frequently in the area near the gate.”
SCENES FROM THE INDIAN ACADEMIA: III
Pompeii
The Library Committee meeting is on. Fifteen teachers, the Principal, the Librarian and the Assistant Librarian are sitting around four small tables hastily joined together and concealed beneath one double-bed sheet. The male teachers in this committee are reluctant members. Actually, they are the leftovers. The more influential ones have got themselves on the Sports Committee. Not that sports is a consuming interest. But the sports committee is known to provide a sumptuous lunch after the meeting. And that, of course, is of consuming interest. The members of the library committee have to do with a few measly samosas. The interest they show is then, naturally, commensurate with the niggardly fare they are getting.
The meeting is brought to order and copies of last year’s minutes are distributed around the table. The members glance at them casually and then put the sheets down.
“Shall we take the minutes as read?” asks the Principal.
Everyone nods assent.
“Then someone should propose them and another one should second,” advises the Principal.
This is promptly done.
“Any other business?” the Principal again.
There are a few voices now. The old teacher from political science argues about subscribing to one more health magazine. It is very good, he emphasizes. Other teachers suppress smiles; everyone knows that the gentleman is growing old and is besotted with quite a few health problems. More health magazines mean an increased chance of finding home-remedies to his health problems.
Then someone says, “What about the dust? Something should be done about the dust.”
Everyone looks at the woman who has said this. She is young and obviously has just been appointed.
“Yes. What about the dust Ms. Joseph?” encourages the Principal.
“There is so much dust on the books. Layers upon layers of it. Every time I pick up a volume, I get a bout of sneezing not to mention spoiling my clothes. Something must be done about it.”
There is a general agreement on this issue. The teacher of microbiology reminds that germs use dust as vehicles. Concern is voiced about the health of the teaching staff. Questions are asked. Is the library not cleaned periodically? Are the books not dusted regularly? How does the dust get in? Are the windows not kept closed? Does the library own a vacuum cleaner?
The librarian has the answers. The library indeed gets cleaned every now and then. The books are not dusted because some lecturers had voiced fear a decade or so ago about the possible damage to the books if they were to be dusted by people who didn’t love books. The windows are always closed and no, no pane is missing. And no again, the library does not have a vacuum cleaner. And yes, as to how the dust gets in, the dust is very fine and such dust can enter even if the windows have been nailed permanently.
What he forgets to mention is the fact that layers upon layers of fine dust can get deposited only when the books have not been disturbed for months/years on end. The history teacher should know. Pompeii, with everyone dead, with no one left to care, got shrouded under successive layers of dust. The botany, zoology, geology, teachers should know. An organism dead at a place where no one disturbs the body will become fossilized under layers and layers of fine dust.
The Library Committee meeting is on. Fifteen teachers, the Principal, the Librarian and the Assistant Librarian are sitting around four small tables hastily joined together and concealed beneath one double-bed sheet. The male teachers in this committee are reluctant members. Actually, they are the leftovers. The more influential ones have got themselves on the Sports Committee. Not that sports is a consuming interest. But the sports committee is known to provide a sumptuous lunch after the meeting. And that, of course, is of consuming interest. The members of the library committee have to do with a few measly samosas. The interest they show is then, naturally, commensurate with the niggardly fare they are getting.
The meeting is brought to order and copies of last year’s minutes are distributed around the table. The members glance at them casually and then put the sheets down.
“Shall we take the minutes as read?” asks the Principal.
Everyone nods assent.
“Then someone should propose them and another one should second,” advises the Principal.
This is promptly done.
“Any other business?” the Principal again.
There are a few voices now. The old teacher from political science argues about subscribing to one more health magazine. It is very good, he emphasizes. Other teachers suppress smiles; everyone knows that the gentleman is growing old and is besotted with quite a few health problems. More health magazines mean an increased chance of finding home-remedies to his health problems.
Then someone says, “What about the dust? Something should be done about the dust.”
Everyone looks at the woman who has said this. She is young and obviously has just been appointed.
“Yes. What about the dust Ms. Joseph?” encourages the Principal.
“There is so much dust on the books. Layers upon layers of it. Every time I pick up a volume, I get a bout of sneezing not to mention spoiling my clothes. Something must be done about it.”
There is a general agreement on this issue. The teacher of microbiology reminds that germs use dust as vehicles. Concern is voiced about the health of the teaching staff. Questions are asked. Is the library not cleaned periodically? Are the books not dusted regularly? How does the dust get in? Are the windows not kept closed? Does the library own a vacuum cleaner?
The librarian has the answers. The library indeed gets cleaned every now and then. The books are not dusted because some lecturers had voiced fear a decade or so ago about the possible damage to the books if they were to be dusted by people who didn’t love books. The windows are always closed and no, no pane is missing. And no again, the library does not have a vacuum cleaner. And yes, as to how the dust gets in, the dust is very fine and such dust can enter even if the windows have been nailed permanently.
What he forgets to mention is the fact that layers upon layers of fine dust can get deposited only when the books have not been disturbed for months/years on end. The history teacher should know. Pompeii, with everyone dead, with no one left to care, got shrouded under successive layers of dust. The botany, zoology, geology, teachers should know. An organism dead at a place where no one disturbs the body will become fossilized under layers and layers of fine dust.
SCENES FROM THE INDIAN ACADEMIA: II
Lecturers do not indulge in research
Scene 1
Two lecturers are discussing how to fill up the `self-appraisal’ form. Filling of this application form was made compulsory by the University Grants Commission for the sake of promotions to higher scales.
“What to write under `publications?’”
“Did you publish anything last year?’
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
“Shall we leave it blank then?”
“No. Write NA.”
“NA…..um …Not applicable.”
“Yeah. That’s what you say when you have nothing to write under a given column.”
The two should have consulted other lecturers on how to fill up the column in question. The following is a sample of the items used by the others.
`Five letters to the editor.’ Details of the newspapers and the dates.
`Four letters to the editor. One more has been communicated and is under consideration.’
`Three stories.’ This entry belongs to a teacher of physics.
`Next year!’
Now, that is a promise.
Scene 2
A fellow lecturer comes back from the US after a year’s post-doctoral research. The following are the queries he faces from the other teachers.
“How many?”( In Hindi, `many’ can be masculine or feminine. Here, it was feminine.)
“You must have brought some Playboys and Penthouses. Yes?”
“An ipod you must have brought. What else?”
The poor fellow fields the questions as best as he can. Playboys and Penthouses, he has brought with him. In fact, they were the first things that he snatched from the bookstore, his curiosity being inflamed from years of hearing about these magazines. iPOD and other goods, well he has never had any interest in such things. As for “how many?”, his answer is a rueful shake of his head. Who knows he is telling the truth or not. But no one is ready to believe him. Even today, the Clintons and the Lewinskys only serve to emphasize the archetype of USA that is so deeply embedded in the mind of the average Indian. So when someone goes there to do research, it is very difficult for us to believe that he is going to do research.
The poor fellow gets away from the clutches of these gentlemen and heads towards his own department where a lady teacher is sitting at the table. Her bulk makes obvious what her priorities in life are.
“What did they give you to eat there?’ she asks. And this is the only question she will ever ask of him in all their years together!
Ph.D. is the end of research
An overheard conversation between two teachers
“Oh. You are still doing research? I thought you had done Ph.D. Long back.”
Not all the teachers are like these. Some read enough to stay abreast of the latest developments in their fields. Some actually apply for grants and do research. You can easily find out from the staff room talks who these few people are. They take part in the normal bonhomie for a few moments and then, as if by some magnetism, huddle together ignoring the raucous talk bubbles all around them. Often they talk of some interesting development. More often though, they criticise the state of education and the lack of seriousness and the time-serving attitude of their fellow teachers. Quite a few of these will fall by the wayside in the next few years. Criticism is such an easy incentive for doing nothing!
One of those who fell by the wayside quite a few years ago, but whose conscience is yet to be blunted by being a member of the majority group, has a very insightful observation to make. “When I was appointed as a lecturer here, I used to think a lot about whether I was suitable for this job. That question I have never been able to answer. But whether I am suitable for this job or not, I know now that this job is suitable for me.”
Scene 1
Two lecturers are discussing how to fill up the `self-appraisal’ form. Filling of this application form was made compulsory by the University Grants Commission for the sake of promotions to higher scales.
“What to write under `publications?’”
“Did you publish anything last year?’
“No.”
“Neither did I.”
“Shall we leave it blank then?”
“No. Write NA.”
“NA…..um …Not applicable.”
“Yeah. That’s what you say when you have nothing to write under a given column.”
The two should have consulted other lecturers on how to fill up the column in question. The following is a sample of the items used by the others.
`Five letters to the editor.’ Details of the newspapers and the dates.
`Four letters to the editor. One more has been communicated and is under consideration.’
`Three stories.’ This entry belongs to a teacher of physics.
`Next year!’
Now, that is a promise.
Scene 2
A fellow lecturer comes back from the US after a year’s post-doctoral research. The following are the queries he faces from the other teachers.
“How many?”( In Hindi, `many’ can be masculine or feminine. Here, it was feminine.)
“You must have brought some Playboys and Penthouses. Yes?”
“An ipod you must have brought. What else?”
The poor fellow fields the questions as best as he can. Playboys and Penthouses, he has brought with him. In fact, they were the first things that he snatched from the bookstore, his curiosity being inflamed from years of hearing about these magazines. iPOD and other goods, well he has never had any interest in such things. As for “how many?”, his answer is a rueful shake of his head. Who knows he is telling the truth or not. But no one is ready to believe him. Even today, the Clintons and the Lewinskys only serve to emphasize the archetype of USA that is so deeply embedded in the mind of the average Indian. So when someone goes there to do research, it is very difficult for us to believe that he is going to do research.
The poor fellow gets away from the clutches of these gentlemen and heads towards his own department where a lady teacher is sitting at the table. Her bulk makes obvious what her priorities in life are.
“What did they give you to eat there?’ she asks. And this is the only question she will ever ask of him in all their years together!
Ph.D. is the end of research
An overheard conversation between two teachers
“Oh. You are still doing research? I thought you had done Ph.D. Long back.”
Not all the teachers are like these. Some read enough to stay abreast of the latest developments in their fields. Some actually apply for grants and do research. You can easily find out from the staff room talks who these few people are. They take part in the normal bonhomie for a few moments and then, as if by some magnetism, huddle together ignoring the raucous talk bubbles all around them. Often they talk of some interesting development. More often though, they criticise the state of education and the lack of seriousness and the time-serving attitude of their fellow teachers. Quite a few of these will fall by the wayside in the next few years. Criticism is such an easy incentive for doing nothing!
One of those who fell by the wayside quite a few years ago, but whose conscience is yet to be blunted by being a member of the majority group, has a very insightful observation to make. “When I was appointed as a lecturer here, I used to think a lot about whether I was suitable for this job. That question I have never been able to answer. But whether I am suitable for this job or not, I know now that this job is suitable for me.”
SCENES FROM THE INDIAN ACADEMIA: I
Policies shaping up Indian academics themselves need to be shaped up properly. But as long as we have people like Arjun Singh lording over the HRD ministry, that will never be get done and, conversely, the things will get worse from here onwards. A lot can be written about what is wrong with Indian academics and you will still not be able to write enough and bring to the fore the malaise that plagues it. I have been a teacher, teaching undergraduates and postgraduates for more than two decades. I have seen the system from the inside and am one of several who have served and continue to serve the system. So, rather than lamenting and being another bore who indulges in lamenting, I think it is better to write juicy little snippets that bring to the fore this malaise. That way, it is interesting for people to read and that way even smaller ills that plague the system will be exposed. There will be a series of these snippets. But mind well, while enjoying reading these, do not forget the seriousness of the issue at hand.
Correct
I walk into the NEERI library and request the librarian to allow me to refer to a journal.
`Do you have a letter from your employer?’ she asks apathetically.
`No. But I am a lecturer,’ I show her the ID card.
She takes the card but doesn’t look at it. `That is all very well. But you will have to bring a letter of request from your principal.’
`But ma’am I would require just about an hour. Only that much and no more, ’ I persist.
`I am sorry. But that’s the rule. We can’t allow anyone to just walk through.’
`But I am not anyone. I am a lecturer. And well, several of my students work here. One of them is even doing Ph.D. under me,’ I am trying hard to shrug off the `anyone’ label and am not succeeding at all by the look on her face - she looks as if she is trying hard to suppress a belch.
`That is all very well. But you will have to get a letter from your employer.’
`I have to go back then?’ It’s not a question. I am actually trying to appeal to her good sense, to her sense of empathy for an academic turned back without getting anything for his troubles.
`I am afraid, yes,’ she decrees. No empathy here.
Next day I approach the principal. She hears me out patiently. `You get a letter typed on my letterhead. I will sign it,’ she says. So magnanimous of her.
I hurry over to Ms. David and write out in a legible hand what I want to get typed. It reads as follows:
To,
The Librarian,
NEERI,
Nagpur.
Dear Madam,
Dr. Avinash Upadhyay , a lecturer in this college, may please be allowed to consult the NEERI library for a period of six months. The college will feel obliged if he is extended all the services that the library normally provides its readers.
Thanks.
Principal
XYZ College
`Come after two hours and collect it,’ Ms. David says pointing her hand to the enormous pile of paper indicating she is very busy.
Two hours later I collect the letter and take it to the principal. On her face is something that makes me wonder whether she has an ulcer in her alimentary canal. She reads the letter and frowns.
`No. No. This won’t do at all. What is this “please” and this “obliged?” I am the principal. I am not going to request a librarian. No. This won’t do. Look here, Upadhyay, you come after an hour and I will have the letter ready. The correct letter,’ she waves her hand; I am dismissed.
I loiter around. Talk to other lecturers. Smoke a cigarette. Drink a cup of tea. Kill time and hunger since it is past lunch time and I can’t go home yet. The I go back and the principal hands me over the letter, the one which is correct. It reads as follows:
TO WHOM SO EVER IT MAY CONCERNS
Dr. Avinash Upadhyay, who a lecturer (biochemestry) in our esteemed college, wish to consult a few libraries for which we have no objection and he is not overlooking his classes or practical classes therefore the question of objection do not arise.
For notice of librarians.
The Principal.
I decide not to visit the library after all. With such a correct letter to present, who would?
Everything around here is correct. The Librarian is correct - she is going by the rules. The principal is correct - is she not greater than the librarian? The letter, well it is correct- did not the principal herself say so? With everything so very correct, it is very surprising that academic matters suffer.
While we are talking about libraries, here is a wonderful rule that our University has ( many other Universities complement ours in this regard, or so have I heard) : a student who registers for Ph.D. will receive eight library cards entitling him to borrow eight books at any given time while a lecturer in a college affiliated to the University will get only two! So if you are a Ph.D. guide to a student, you will get only two cards and your student will get eight. After all, research must get priority, shouldn’t it? It is also an implicit admission on the part of the University that its lecturers do not indulge in research. Another interpretation of the rule can be that research means doing Ph.D. and that once this degree is achieved, research, for that individual at least, is over. Take the interpretation you like best.
Both are true!
Correct
I walk into the NEERI library and request the librarian to allow me to refer to a journal.
`Do you have a letter from your employer?’ she asks apathetically.
`No. But I am a lecturer,’ I show her the ID card.
She takes the card but doesn’t look at it. `That is all very well. But you will have to bring a letter of request from your principal.’
`But ma’am I would require just about an hour. Only that much and no more, ’ I persist.
`I am sorry. But that’s the rule. We can’t allow anyone to just walk through.’
`But I am not anyone. I am a lecturer. And well, several of my students work here. One of them is even doing Ph.D. under me,’ I am trying hard to shrug off the `anyone’ label and am not succeeding at all by the look on her face - she looks as if she is trying hard to suppress a belch.
`That is all very well. But you will have to get a letter from your employer.’
`I have to go back then?’ It’s not a question. I am actually trying to appeal to her good sense, to her sense of empathy for an academic turned back without getting anything for his troubles.
`I am afraid, yes,’ she decrees. No empathy here.
Next day I approach the principal. She hears me out patiently. `You get a letter typed on my letterhead. I will sign it,’ she says. So magnanimous of her.
I hurry over to Ms. David and write out in a legible hand what I want to get typed. It reads as follows:
To,
The Librarian,
NEERI,
Nagpur.
Dear Madam,
Dr. Avinash Upadhyay , a lecturer in this college, may please be allowed to consult the NEERI library for a period of six months. The college will feel obliged if he is extended all the services that the library normally provides its readers.
Thanks.
Principal
XYZ College
`Come after two hours and collect it,’ Ms. David says pointing her hand to the enormous pile of paper indicating she is very busy.
Two hours later I collect the letter and take it to the principal. On her face is something that makes me wonder whether she has an ulcer in her alimentary canal. She reads the letter and frowns.
`No. No. This won’t do at all. What is this “please” and this “obliged?” I am the principal. I am not going to request a librarian. No. This won’t do. Look here, Upadhyay, you come after an hour and I will have the letter ready. The correct letter,’ she waves her hand; I am dismissed.
I loiter around. Talk to other lecturers. Smoke a cigarette. Drink a cup of tea. Kill time and hunger since it is past lunch time and I can’t go home yet. The I go back and the principal hands me over the letter, the one which is correct. It reads as follows:
TO WHOM SO EVER IT MAY CONCERNS
Dr. Avinash Upadhyay, who a lecturer (biochemestry) in our esteemed college, wish to consult a few libraries for which we have no objection and he is not overlooking his classes or practical classes therefore the question of objection do not arise.
For notice of librarians.
The Principal.
I decide not to visit the library after all. With such a correct letter to present, who would?
Everything around here is correct. The Librarian is correct - she is going by the rules. The principal is correct - is she not greater than the librarian? The letter, well it is correct- did not the principal herself say so? With everything so very correct, it is very surprising that academic matters suffer.
While we are talking about libraries, here is a wonderful rule that our University has ( many other Universities complement ours in this regard, or so have I heard) : a student who registers for Ph.D. will receive eight library cards entitling him to borrow eight books at any given time while a lecturer in a college affiliated to the University will get only two! So if you are a Ph.D. guide to a student, you will get only two cards and your student will get eight. After all, research must get priority, shouldn’t it? It is also an implicit admission on the part of the University that its lecturers do not indulge in research. Another interpretation of the rule can be that research means doing Ph.D. and that once this degree is achieved, research, for that individual at least, is over. Take the interpretation you like best.
Both are true!
MY TEACHERS: V
Pappu: My Cousin and Sex Educator
Every summer I used to travel to Guna in company of my parents. My grandparents lived in that village and it was there that my summer vacation was spent regularly. I had friends over there – Titu who lived in the house to our right, Bina, Manju and Diggi, who lived in the house right in front of us. The walls dividing the houses were low and as one climbed the stairs to go over to the mezzanine floor, after the 5th stair, one could look over the wall into the foyer of the adjacent house. The houses were on both sides of a narrow lane. The sewers were open. As you stepped out of the house, there was one stair and then you stepped into the lane. Below that stair ran the sewer which was continuous from the first house in the lane and actually came from beyond that house from the main street. So whatever got washed upstream came flowing through the sewer and the last house could see the remnants from several houses and shops upstream. That in itself could be a nine pastime – sit on the door of your house with you legs resting on the out step and watch for the scum flowing in the sewer and find out what the others were doing and what they had to eat last night. Of course it smelled horribly and there were flies. But unencumbered by any knowledge of even the term unhygienic, it was not bothersome.
This summer was different from the other summers. Two of my cousins, Pappu and Guddu had also come over and there was real fun. Pappu was 5 years older to me and Guddu was my age. So it was with Guddu that I bonded better. Pappu was not only older, he was a bully of whom we were afraid. He could twist our ears for faults we did not know we had committed and could slap us too. So we avoided him. He smelled of cigarettes and used to go to the only movie theatre that was there in the village. Therefore he was to be respected.
There were several volumes of Mahabharata in our house. This was a wonderful thing. The text pages were interspersed liberally with plates illustrating characters and events described in the epic. So one could see Arjuna, Bhima, Draupadi, Duryodhana and Dushasan, scenes from the war, and several paintings of Krishna. One volume had many plates where Apsaras were illustrated. Apsaras are very beautiful and sexy girls who dance in the court of Indra in the heaven and cohabit with him. In the plates, the illustrations did justice to the famed beauty of Apsaras. They were clad in the scantiest of clothes with just a bra-like top and very tightly worn dhoti which accentuated the shape of the thighs and the hips. The torso was completely naked except for the brief top and the navel could be seen. To tell you the truth, we did not understand the significance of breasts and hips till that point in our age. But our curiosity was just getting ignited about these differences between boys and girls – just that much.
One evening when Guddu and I opened the Apsara illustrations volume to ogle at the paintings, we were rather surprised. A wheat-grain like tiny object had been drawn on each of the paintings just below the navel and just above the place where the dhoti started. What was that we didn’t understand. But I remember that we giggled at the additions. While we were still giggling, Pappu walked in and before we could stop, he caught us up by the ears and twisted the pinnae. We cried out in pain.
“So, you scoundrels, you have mutilated grandpa’s Mahabharata, hain! And what audacity, what have you drawn here, hain? Don’t you feel ashamed of yourselves, hain?”
We were all red in the face trying to free ourselves from the bully while simultaneously trying to make him understand that we were not the guilty ones. We pleaded with him to leave us alone and that the culprit must be someone else. But the guy held on to our ears and took us to where our mothers were sitting. There he told them that we had fallen into bad company and the evidence of it was in the inside room. He took us back into the room now accompanied by our mothers. Once inside, he encouraged them to look at the plates depicting the now wheat-grain sporting Apsaras. A look of horror came onto the faces of both mothers. After this, the remaining punishment was met out by them. They harassed us by their questions. They wanted to know how much did we know and what did we mean by showing our knowledge this way. They kept on enquiring about the source of our knowledge. It didn’t do that we protested about our lack of knowledge or lack of guilt as far as the wheat-grain adornment of the paintings was concerned. We were then locked up in the inner room. This was really bad because this room was very dark and the only switch was at a height we couldn’t reach. We were very frightened and started banging the door. After about an hour, there were voices outside. Our mothers commanded us to promise that we would not do the dastardly thing again. Although we had protested earlier about the accusation, this time we meekly promised to be good. That was necessary to get out of the darkness that held potential for god knows what kind of perils. We were allowed out of the room but our guilt was now confirmed.
Two days later Pappu asked us about the thing again. We started weeping now imagining that the whole thing would now be repeated again. But he calmed us down and told us that it was actually he who had done the thing. Armed with this revelation, when we started getting up to tell our mothers the truth about the whole thing, he reminded us that it wouldn’t be any good for we had admitted to the guilt already. Also, he would not own up the thing in front of them.
“Is it not enough that I am admitting it to you?” he asked. That was true, he did not have to admit it.
“I am admitting this so that I can tell you about certain realities. You kids are growing up, you should know about bigger things in life,” he said.
Now we were curious. Who doesn’t like to grow up? Besides, once we were educated by this big brother, we could go out and, in our turn, pass the wisdom to the others of our age. That way we would assert the right of seniority over them by dint of our superior knowledge.
“What you think are wheat-grains, are actually vaginas.” He told us conspiratorially. Actually he used the Hindi slang word for vagina. His voice was a whisper and our ears were totally tuned to that. We knew that we were being made party to the big secrets of adulthood.
“What, you don’t know their use?” he asked feigning astonishment over our lack of knowledge. “They use it to pee of course. You see the slit? The water comes out of that.”
In the afternoon when we went out and told the big secret to our friends, they poured a lot of cold water over our egos. They already knew that! Gradually we found out that they all had sisters and had seen them peeing. So they knew.
Soon it was time to go back to our respective towns. But almost in a matter of days after we came back, Pappu also came to Nagpur. I got educated further.
“Do you know how your were born?” He asked.
“Yeah, I came out of my mother,” I said. “Everyone does.”
“No, you fool. Who put you there inside your mother? You know that?”
I was stumped. I admitted I didn’t know that.
“You have that tube with which you pee, don’t you?” He asked, beginning education.
“When you will put that tube inside the vagina of a girl, a baby will get inside her!” he revealed.
I felt like puking. Yuck. Why ever would I put it inside the vagina of any girl? That is a dirty thing to do. Urine comes out of that place. No, no. This guy was joking. But he told me that there is another hole there where you put it. But it still appeared yucky.
Next day, I was sitting with Kalusingh karki on the mound of sand outside the school where some construction activity was going on. I told him about the revelation that had been made yesterday. His jaw dropped and seconds later, he asked me, “You mean, our fathers put those things into our mothers and that is how we got made?”
I told him that this yucky thing had kept me awake half the night and that I was not certain it was right. But there was enough here to make us investigate. It was impossible to ask any of our teachers. We would be severely beaten up. Who to ask? Kalu said that he knew of a bully in his locality. He was very worldly-wise fellow and he would know. So we went to him with hearts beating wildly. We found this boy called Bhuri. And Kalu straight away put the whole situation before him.
“Ha ha ha ha…. Ha ha ha ha..” the guy couldn’t stop laughing. When he did, he asked, “You mean you do not know how things are? In which class do you study?”
“Fifth,” we said as if we were ashamed of the fact.
“Hah! Fifth. And you still don’t know? I knew of this right then in the 3rd and then I left school.” Bhuri said indicating that we were real dimwits. He then told us that what we had been told by Pappu was indeed correct. We were crestfallen with the confirmation that we were both made in that ugly manner. And yet, there was this odd sensation of having accomplished something – the feeling that you get when you acquire some knowledge that is hitherto unknown.
“Avinash,” Kalu said while we were walking back after the school was over, “What if you feel like urinating when your tube is inside that?” That was the fundamental doubt that was plaguing him.
“May be you take it out, urinate, and then put it back for the time required to make a baby.” I said, speculating.
“No, no. I mean what if you urinate inside?” Kalu persisted.
I didn’t know the answer.
“Why don’t we ask Pappu?” Kalu suggested.
We found Pappu smoking behind a thick tree near the garden. He blew smoke in our faces when Kalu put the question to him.
“This is a wonderful question, he said,” and Kalu looked very proud of himself.
“You should not do that. You should hold your urine. But then if you can’t and pee inside, the child that is born has acne all over the face.” Pappu revealed.
“Karade,” Kalu said.
“What?” I asked, not understanding the meaning. Karade was a classmate of ours and had a bad case of acne. HE HAD A BAD CASE OF ACNE!
“My God!” I said.
At this point the things were rather good in school. Fifth class is middle school. So when I came to fifth, the teachers were all new and my previous reputation had not come with me to the new class. And my performance in the first few tests was very good and so I had claimed back my position in the elite group of which Kalu was also a part. The teachers were all quite happy with me again. For once, better times reigned at home too because my father was happy that I was doing well in school. My mother was happy that her son was proving himself.
Next day, during the recess, several of us were sitting on the sand mound and munching on tidbits and talking. As the conversation progressed, I picked up an argument with a friend. Things started heating up. Suddenly, Karade jumped into the argument on my friends’ side. Kalu joined my side. The things became very heated and at one point Karade told us that we were good for nothing kids and that our parents must be pigs. This cut me up and I said
“Now, don’t let me reveal something about you. That won’t serve you at all.” I looked at Kalu and he was looking at me.
“What do you have to reveal?” Karade asked. “You have nothing.”
“Your father peed into your mother’s vagina,” I told him loudly so that the others could hear.
“And that is why you have so many pebbles growing on your face,” Kalu finished off the matter.
In the next moment, a brick appeared in Karade’s hands and before we could understand, there was blood on Kalu’s forehead and he was lying unconscious on the ground. There was a lot of commotion. The girls’ group which was standing at some distance saw this. Some of them started weeping. Some others rushed to the teachers and Mr. Poddar came out with a cane in his hands. First things first. Some water was sprinkled on Kalu’s face. Bit by bit he became conscious. He was then taken for first aid by the peons who had also assembled there. Mr. Poddar found out that it was Karade who had thrown the brick. He caught him and took him to the Principal.
As the next class started, a peon stood at the door. He whispered something. The class teacher told the class that there was an emergency and he would be going to the Principal with Kalu and me and that the class will not make noise while he was out.
When we went inside the Principal’s office, Karade was standing there and on his face was a smirk.
“What did you say to Karade?” Shouted the Principal at us.
We did not say anything. But when the question was repeated, I told him the whole thing and also the sources from which our wisdom had been received. When this was over, the sentence was passed. Karade was set free and he smiled. We were severely beaten up by the Principal and reprimanded. We were made to take an oath which went something like this:
“I will pay full attention to studies.”
“I will read only the text books
and such books as suggested
by the teachers from time to time.”
“I will not read any literature
that is of a corrupting nature.”
“I will not talk to bad boys.”
“I will not indulge in curiosities
that are not proper for my age.”
We were made to repeat this oath ten times. After this we walked back to the class with Mr. Verma, our class teacher.
Once in the class, Mr. Verma pronounced us bad boys and asked other students to not to play with us. I had become a front bencher. But I was stripped of this right and was asked to go back to the back-benches. The same fate befell Kalu. Kalu fought with me because he thought I was the root of this whole thing. We fell out for some time. My reputation went back to normal, i.e., that of a boy good for nothing.
The back benchers received us with enthusiasm. But the girls shunned me completely. They lay a lot of stock by the teachers. Even the girl who was my neighbor and who used to walk back home with me from the school, refused to be with me. Soon she gossiped with other girls of the locality and the other girls also started shunning me. Conversely, I became a hero with the boys of the locality and, as a repayment for the acceptance, spread the wisdom among them. A whole movement to get to the bottom of the truth erupted henceforth and we spent considerable time in educating ourselves about sex.
Every summer I used to travel to Guna in company of my parents. My grandparents lived in that village and it was there that my summer vacation was spent regularly. I had friends over there – Titu who lived in the house to our right, Bina, Manju and Diggi, who lived in the house right in front of us. The walls dividing the houses were low and as one climbed the stairs to go over to the mezzanine floor, after the 5th stair, one could look over the wall into the foyer of the adjacent house. The houses were on both sides of a narrow lane. The sewers were open. As you stepped out of the house, there was one stair and then you stepped into the lane. Below that stair ran the sewer which was continuous from the first house in the lane and actually came from beyond that house from the main street. So whatever got washed upstream came flowing through the sewer and the last house could see the remnants from several houses and shops upstream. That in itself could be a nine pastime – sit on the door of your house with you legs resting on the out step and watch for the scum flowing in the sewer and find out what the others were doing and what they had to eat last night. Of course it smelled horribly and there were flies. But unencumbered by any knowledge of even the term unhygienic, it was not bothersome.
This summer was different from the other summers. Two of my cousins, Pappu and Guddu had also come over and there was real fun. Pappu was 5 years older to me and Guddu was my age. So it was with Guddu that I bonded better. Pappu was not only older, he was a bully of whom we were afraid. He could twist our ears for faults we did not know we had committed and could slap us too. So we avoided him. He smelled of cigarettes and used to go to the only movie theatre that was there in the village. Therefore he was to be respected.
There were several volumes of Mahabharata in our house. This was a wonderful thing. The text pages were interspersed liberally with plates illustrating characters and events described in the epic. So one could see Arjuna, Bhima, Draupadi, Duryodhana and Dushasan, scenes from the war, and several paintings of Krishna. One volume had many plates where Apsaras were illustrated. Apsaras are very beautiful and sexy girls who dance in the court of Indra in the heaven and cohabit with him. In the plates, the illustrations did justice to the famed beauty of Apsaras. They were clad in the scantiest of clothes with just a bra-like top and very tightly worn dhoti which accentuated the shape of the thighs and the hips. The torso was completely naked except for the brief top and the navel could be seen. To tell you the truth, we did not understand the significance of breasts and hips till that point in our age. But our curiosity was just getting ignited about these differences between boys and girls – just that much.
One evening when Guddu and I opened the Apsara illustrations volume to ogle at the paintings, we were rather surprised. A wheat-grain like tiny object had been drawn on each of the paintings just below the navel and just above the place where the dhoti started. What was that we didn’t understand. But I remember that we giggled at the additions. While we were still giggling, Pappu walked in and before we could stop, he caught us up by the ears and twisted the pinnae. We cried out in pain.
“So, you scoundrels, you have mutilated grandpa’s Mahabharata, hain! And what audacity, what have you drawn here, hain? Don’t you feel ashamed of yourselves, hain?”
We were all red in the face trying to free ourselves from the bully while simultaneously trying to make him understand that we were not the guilty ones. We pleaded with him to leave us alone and that the culprit must be someone else. But the guy held on to our ears and took us to where our mothers were sitting. There he told them that we had fallen into bad company and the evidence of it was in the inside room. He took us back into the room now accompanied by our mothers. Once inside, he encouraged them to look at the plates depicting the now wheat-grain sporting Apsaras. A look of horror came onto the faces of both mothers. After this, the remaining punishment was met out by them. They harassed us by their questions. They wanted to know how much did we know and what did we mean by showing our knowledge this way. They kept on enquiring about the source of our knowledge. It didn’t do that we protested about our lack of knowledge or lack of guilt as far as the wheat-grain adornment of the paintings was concerned. We were then locked up in the inner room. This was really bad because this room was very dark and the only switch was at a height we couldn’t reach. We were very frightened and started banging the door. After about an hour, there were voices outside. Our mothers commanded us to promise that we would not do the dastardly thing again. Although we had protested earlier about the accusation, this time we meekly promised to be good. That was necessary to get out of the darkness that held potential for god knows what kind of perils. We were allowed out of the room but our guilt was now confirmed.
Two days later Pappu asked us about the thing again. We started weeping now imagining that the whole thing would now be repeated again. But he calmed us down and told us that it was actually he who had done the thing. Armed with this revelation, when we started getting up to tell our mothers the truth about the whole thing, he reminded us that it wouldn’t be any good for we had admitted to the guilt already. Also, he would not own up the thing in front of them.
“Is it not enough that I am admitting it to you?” he asked. That was true, he did not have to admit it.
“I am admitting this so that I can tell you about certain realities. You kids are growing up, you should know about bigger things in life,” he said.
Now we were curious. Who doesn’t like to grow up? Besides, once we were educated by this big brother, we could go out and, in our turn, pass the wisdom to the others of our age. That way we would assert the right of seniority over them by dint of our superior knowledge.
“What you think are wheat-grains, are actually vaginas.” He told us conspiratorially. Actually he used the Hindi slang word for vagina. His voice was a whisper and our ears were totally tuned to that. We knew that we were being made party to the big secrets of adulthood.
“What, you don’t know their use?” he asked feigning astonishment over our lack of knowledge. “They use it to pee of course. You see the slit? The water comes out of that.”
In the afternoon when we went out and told the big secret to our friends, they poured a lot of cold water over our egos. They already knew that! Gradually we found out that they all had sisters and had seen them peeing. So they knew.
Soon it was time to go back to our respective towns. But almost in a matter of days after we came back, Pappu also came to Nagpur. I got educated further.
“Do you know how your were born?” He asked.
“Yeah, I came out of my mother,” I said. “Everyone does.”
“No, you fool. Who put you there inside your mother? You know that?”
I was stumped. I admitted I didn’t know that.
“You have that tube with which you pee, don’t you?” He asked, beginning education.
“When you will put that tube inside the vagina of a girl, a baby will get inside her!” he revealed.
I felt like puking. Yuck. Why ever would I put it inside the vagina of any girl? That is a dirty thing to do. Urine comes out of that place. No, no. This guy was joking. But he told me that there is another hole there where you put it. But it still appeared yucky.
Next day, I was sitting with Kalusingh karki on the mound of sand outside the school where some construction activity was going on. I told him about the revelation that had been made yesterday. His jaw dropped and seconds later, he asked me, “You mean, our fathers put those things into our mothers and that is how we got made?”
I told him that this yucky thing had kept me awake half the night and that I was not certain it was right. But there was enough here to make us investigate. It was impossible to ask any of our teachers. We would be severely beaten up. Who to ask? Kalu said that he knew of a bully in his locality. He was very worldly-wise fellow and he would know. So we went to him with hearts beating wildly. We found this boy called Bhuri. And Kalu straight away put the whole situation before him.
“Ha ha ha ha…. Ha ha ha ha..” the guy couldn’t stop laughing. When he did, he asked, “You mean you do not know how things are? In which class do you study?”
“Fifth,” we said as if we were ashamed of the fact.
“Hah! Fifth. And you still don’t know? I knew of this right then in the 3rd and then I left school.” Bhuri said indicating that we were real dimwits. He then told us that what we had been told by Pappu was indeed correct. We were crestfallen with the confirmation that we were both made in that ugly manner. And yet, there was this odd sensation of having accomplished something – the feeling that you get when you acquire some knowledge that is hitherto unknown.
“Avinash,” Kalu said while we were walking back after the school was over, “What if you feel like urinating when your tube is inside that?” That was the fundamental doubt that was plaguing him.
“May be you take it out, urinate, and then put it back for the time required to make a baby.” I said, speculating.
“No, no. I mean what if you urinate inside?” Kalu persisted.
I didn’t know the answer.
“Why don’t we ask Pappu?” Kalu suggested.
We found Pappu smoking behind a thick tree near the garden. He blew smoke in our faces when Kalu put the question to him.
“This is a wonderful question, he said,” and Kalu looked very proud of himself.
“You should not do that. You should hold your urine. But then if you can’t and pee inside, the child that is born has acne all over the face.” Pappu revealed.
“Karade,” Kalu said.
“What?” I asked, not understanding the meaning. Karade was a classmate of ours and had a bad case of acne. HE HAD A BAD CASE OF ACNE!
“My God!” I said.
At this point the things were rather good in school. Fifth class is middle school. So when I came to fifth, the teachers were all new and my previous reputation had not come with me to the new class. And my performance in the first few tests was very good and so I had claimed back my position in the elite group of which Kalu was also a part. The teachers were all quite happy with me again. For once, better times reigned at home too because my father was happy that I was doing well in school. My mother was happy that her son was proving himself.
Next day, during the recess, several of us were sitting on the sand mound and munching on tidbits and talking. As the conversation progressed, I picked up an argument with a friend. Things started heating up. Suddenly, Karade jumped into the argument on my friends’ side. Kalu joined my side. The things became very heated and at one point Karade told us that we were good for nothing kids and that our parents must be pigs. This cut me up and I said
“Now, don’t let me reveal something about you. That won’t serve you at all.” I looked at Kalu and he was looking at me.
“What do you have to reveal?” Karade asked. “You have nothing.”
“Your father peed into your mother’s vagina,” I told him loudly so that the others could hear.
“And that is why you have so many pebbles growing on your face,” Kalu finished off the matter.
In the next moment, a brick appeared in Karade’s hands and before we could understand, there was blood on Kalu’s forehead and he was lying unconscious on the ground. There was a lot of commotion. The girls’ group which was standing at some distance saw this. Some of them started weeping. Some others rushed to the teachers and Mr. Poddar came out with a cane in his hands. First things first. Some water was sprinkled on Kalu’s face. Bit by bit he became conscious. He was then taken for first aid by the peons who had also assembled there. Mr. Poddar found out that it was Karade who had thrown the brick. He caught him and took him to the Principal.
As the next class started, a peon stood at the door. He whispered something. The class teacher told the class that there was an emergency and he would be going to the Principal with Kalu and me and that the class will not make noise while he was out.
When we went inside the Principal’s office, Karade was standing there and on his face was a smirk.
“What did you say to Karade?” Shouted the Principal at us.
We did not say anything. But when the question was repeated, I told him the whole thing and also the sources from which our wisdom had been received. When this was over, the sentence was passed. Karade was set free and he smiled. We were severely beaten up by the Principal and reprimanded. We were made to take an oath which went something like this:
“I will pay full attention to studies.”
“I will read only the text books
and such books as suggested
by the teachers from time to time.”
“I will not read any literature
that is of a corrupting nature.”
“I will not talk to bad boys.”
“I will not indulge in curiosities
that are not proper for my age.”
We were made to repeat this oath ten times. After this we walked back to the class with Mr. Verma, our class teacher.
Once in the class, Mr. Verma pronounced us bad boys and asked other students to not to play with us. I had become a front bencher. But I was stripped of this right and was asked to go back to the back-benches. The same fate befell Kalu. Kalu fought with me because he thought I was the root of this whole thing. We fell out for some time. My reputation went back to normal, i.e., that of a boy good for nothing.
The back benchers received us with enthusiasm. But the girls shunned me completely. They lay a lot of stock by the teachers. Even the girl who was my neighbor and who used to walk back home with me from the school, refused to be with me. Soon she gossiped with other girls of the locality and the other girls also started shunning me. Conversely, I became a hero with the boys of the locality and, as a repayment for the acceptance, spread the wisdom among them. A whole movement to get to the bottom of the truth erupted henceforth and we spent considerable time in educating ourselves about sex.
Friday, August 17, 2007
MY TEACHERS: IV
Mr. Parate
Class 4 – my behavior, in the eyes of the class teacher Mr. Parate, had become completely wayward. According to him I deliberately solved those problems which he had not given, deliberately wrote lines that he had not written on the board. I found this strange. But who could argue with a teacher whose face looked completely pugnacious. His face was small, roundish with a small crop of disheveled hair on the top and the lips and the nose were slightly pushed out. That gave the appearance of the snout of a bulldog. Moreover, the entire face was full of pockmarks from an earlier pyrrhic victory over chicken pox.
He used to beat me everyday for doing homework that he had not given in the first place! How strange; why would any kid waste his time doing wrong homework especially when that much time got deducted from playing in the fields? This taught me a few lessons and from these lessons came out a few deductions:
1. Time spent in getting caned (2 canes on each palm, Mr. Parate’s standard): 1 minute.
2. Total time spent getting caned over the day (7 periods per day): 7 minutes.
3. Total time spent doing homework on average: 2 hours.
Ergo: If the punishment for not wasting 2 hours away from play was just 7 minutes, why do any homework at all? The moment this postulate came to my mind, I stopped doing homework once for all. The punishment remained the same and I became a happy kid. Gradually my palms hardened and my attitude toughened. The world became a better place to live in.
My image though took a severe beating. From a promising kid I went to a pure nincompoop. Gradually a different scenario evolved which pained me but I had become a hardened traveler (for appearances) of the road I had chosen. There was no turning back now. The new scenario became a routine and went something like this.
Mr. Parate enters the class. He puts down the copybooks and the book that he is carrying. He puts the cane down on the table. He then takes out a handkerchief from his right pocket and wipes his glistening forehead – the only part of the face not invaded by the chicken pox. He folds the handkerchief with all concentration as if that was a life and death matter. This done, he speaks:
“Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”
I stand up. He picks up the cane and walks towards me.
“Hold out your hands.”
I thrust my hands out.
Four times the cane swishes and impacts the outstretched palms. He then walks back. Halfway through to his desk, he stops. Almost as an afterthought, or may be to just confirm and so absolve himself of any guilt, he asks:
“I am sure you have not done the homework.”
“No sir,” I say dutifully. He nods his head and tells himself “I told you so.” He goes back to his desk. “Sit down,” He issues the final command.
I close my hands. Put them in my pockets and sit down. I am smiling to show to the entire class my defiance. Inside I am crying. I am now branded wayward. I do not want to be branded such. But it is too late now and I have to travel this road putting up a brave front.
“It is better to get the first things done first, class. Now that the thing is done, let us turn towards some study. Avinash, it is up to you whether you want to participate in the action now.”
This last sentence completed the routine that followed day after day, each day. And this last sentence was the worst punishment I have ever received. It completely cut me up from inside. It made me cry from a million eyes I didn’t even know existed. And all the tears were acrid. They burned all my insides. They made holes in me so deep they reached my soul.
Lately things had not been good on other fronts too. I have fallen out with my earlier gang which consists of the elites in the class. I have a new set of friends – all of them truant; one of them smokes and that is a brave thing to do. They steal money from their parents and even go out and have snacks in the restaurant opposite the school.
Three students sat together per bench. My friend who sat beside me, Bhupinder Singh, a Sikh who was fair to the extent of being transparent and who was rather pudgy so that you felt you were shaking hands with a mollusk, had not been behaving like a friend. He refused to let me look into his copybook to see what he was copying from the board. Every time I tried to peep, he would tell me that he was disturbed by that. “Why don’t you look at the board and copy like I do?” He would ask exasperated. I couldn’t understand his behavior. He was doing this even when I had stolen a few imported pen nibs from my father’s drawer and given one to him just out of friendship when he had broken his nib and was afraid that he would be scolded at home. I admit that I used to look a lot into his copybook but that was because I couldn’t properly see what was written on the board. I had to narrow my eyes to very narrow slits before the letters on the board made some sense. There is a limit to how long can you narrow your eyes like that. The eyes get tired.
I told him I will put some rose water into my eyes and the things will be alright but for now he must allow me to look into his copybook. My mother was a big votary of rose water, Every time I told her my eyes were tired and that there were big hazy circles around the street lights, she would ask me to put rose water in my eyes. Lately I had been very tardy in doing this. That must have been the reason for my present plight.
Then came the exam. Mr. Parate wrote out a few math problems on the board and asked us to copy those and solve within the period. Bhupinder refused to let me peep. So I narrowed my eyes and copied whatever I saw and solved the problems. When the result came the next day, Mr. Parate asked me to come up front. I went and received a double-dose of canes and was handed over the answer sheet. As I turned, he gave a mighty whack with his hands on my back. That almost sent me sprawling to the floor. I somehow maintained my balance and gave the class a smile and walked back to my seat.
“And get your answer-sheet signed by your father tomorrow,” He said to my back.
That was bad. I had looked at my answer-sheet and had found out that I had scored a perfect zero out of a possible twenty. I am going home to get beaten up by my father.
When I reach home, I am downcast. Somehow I summon up the courage and give my father the answer-sheet and look at the ground. I would welcome if it opened up and gobbled me up like Sita. My father looks at the sheet, looks at me, looks at the sheet and then beats me up. When his anger is drowned in my sobs, he picks up the sheet and goes through it. Then he says something that gets me right up and besides him to look at the sheet.
“But all the answers are correct! How could you get a zero? You should have got twenty! I am coming to your school tomorrow and meeting your teacher.”
Next day he comes and meets him. When I go home, my father is waiting for me.
“You get ready now. We are going to a doctor. You should have told me before. May be I should have guessed.”
Two days later, I am standing on the balcony outside the doctor’s 3rd floor office staring out into the beautiful world. In front of me is the big signboard saying “ESSO” in big, red letters. I can see it quite clearly and the much smaller letters beneath it. No need of any rose water to see so well. The significance of a minus 5 correction for my eyes right in the beginning is lost upon me. My father is worried as he talks to the doctor; I am happy. I know I will be able to see the things on the board quite clearly and that would be the end to my bad performances. I can join back my original gang of top students and will be able to break the ostracism they have placed on me owing to my slipping grades.
I go to school next day brimming with confidence and pleasure. My friends see me.
“Chashmuddin (derogatory for one with specs),” one of them gives a cat call. They poke fun at me. “He is a blind boy,” another one says.
“Now he can see where he is urinating. All these days he was urinating on his boots,” it’s a silly joke but they all laugh.
The class begins. Mr. Parate enters. “Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”
He comes up with the cane.
“I have done homework, sir.” I blurt out, not willing to be caned.
He stops. He looks at me. “You think you are smart if you have done homework just one day in all these days? Put out your hands.”
I do as commanded. There is no choice. Four times the cane swishes. He goes back. There is no brave smile on my lips. For the first time it is difficult the hold the acrid tears. Before I know and can stop it, the tears come welling out of my eyes and I am standing there, in front of the whole class, and weeping stupidly. My specs are all wet and the tears are collecting at the bottom of the glasses. Through that I see distorted images of all my classmates looking at me and of Mr. Parate. The optical distortion makes them all appear like monsters.
“Your eyes have glasses now. Get some glasses for your brains too.” That one is from Mr. Parate. That is a good punch line, I must admit.
It is back to business as usual. I have to be a bad boy. I cannot transgress that label any more.
Class 4 – my behavior, in the eyes of the class teacher Mr. Parate, had become completely wayward. According to him I deliberately solved those problems which he had not given, deliberately wrote lines that he had not written on the board. I found this strange. But who could argue with a teacher whose face looked completely pugnacious. His face was small, roundish with a small crop of disheveled hair on the top and the lips and the nose were slightly pushed out. That gave the appearance of the snout of a bulldog. Moreover, the entire face was full of pockmarks from an earlier pyrrhic victory over chicken pox.
He used to beat me everyday for doing homework that he had not given in the first place! How strange; why would any kid waste his time doing wrong homework especially when that much time got deducted from playing in the fields? This taught me a few lessons and from these lessons came out a few deductions:
1. Time spent in getting caned (2 canes on each palm, Mr. Parate’s standard): 1 minute.
2. Total time spent getting caned over the day (7 periods per day): 7 minutes.
3. Total time spent doing homework on average: 2 hours.
Ergo: If the punishment for not wasting 2 hours away from play was just 7 minutes, why do any homework at all? The moment this postulate came to my mind, I stopped doing homework once for all. The punishment remained the same and I became a happy kid. Gradually my palms hardened and my attitude toughened. The world became a better place to live in.
My image though took a severe beating. From a promising kid I went to a pure nincompoop. Gradually a different scenario evolved which pained me but I had become a hardened traveler (for appearances) of the road I had chosen. There was no turning back now. The new scenario became a routine and went something like this.
Mr. Parate enters the class. He puts down the copybooks and the book that he is carrying. He puts the cane down on the table. He then takes out a handkerchief from his right pocket and wipes his glistening forehead – the only part of the face not invaded by the chicken pox. He folds the handkerchief with all concentration as if that was a life and death matter. This done, he speaks:
“Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”
I stand up. He picks up the cane and walks towards me.
“Hold out your hands.”
I thrust my hands out.
Four times the cane swishes and impacts the outstretched palms. He then walks back. Halfway through to his desk, he stops. Almost as an afterthought, or may be to just confirm and so absolve himself of any guilt, he asks:
“I am sure you have not done the homework.”
“No sir,” I say dutifully. He nods his head and tells himself “I told you so.” He goes back to his desk. “Sit down,” He issues the final command.
I close my hands. Put them in my pockets and sit down. I am smiling to show to the entire class my defiance. Inside I am crying. I am now branded wayward. I do not want to be branded such. But it is too late now and I have to travel this road putting up a brave front.
“It is better to get the first things done first, class. Now that the thing is done, let us turn towards some study. Avinash, it is up to you whether you want to participate in the action now.”
This last sentence completed the routine that followed day after day, each day. And this last sentence was the worst punishment I have ever received. It completely cut me up from inside. It made me cry from a million eyes I didn’t even know existed. And all the tears were acrid. They burned all my insides. They made holes in me so deep they reached my soul.
Lately things had not been good on other fronts too. I have fallen out with my earlier gang which consists of the elites in the class. I have a new set of friends – all of them truant; one of them smokes and that is a brave thing to do. They steal money from their parents and even go out and have snacks in the restaurant opposite the school.
Three students sat together per bench. My friend who sat beside me, Bhupinder Singh, a Sikh who was fair to the extent of being transparent and who was rather pudgy so that you felt you were shaking hands with a mollusk, had not been behaving like a friend. He refused to let me look into his copybook to see what he was copying from the board. Every time I tried to peep, he would tell me that he was disturbed by that. “Why don’t you look at the board and copy like I do?” He would ask exasperated. I couldn’t understand his behavior. He was doing this even when I had stolen a few imported pen nibs from my father’s drawer and given one to him just out of friendship when he had broken his nib and was afraid that he would be scolded at home. I admit that I used to look a lot into his copybook but that was because I couldn’t properly see what was written on the board. I had to narrow my eyes to very narrow slits before the letters on the board made some sense. There is a limit to how long can you narrow your eyes like that. The eyes get tired.
I told him I will put some rose water into my eyes and the things will be alright but for now he must allow me to look into his copybook. My mother was a big votary of rose water, Every time I told her my eyes were tired and that there were big hazy circles around the street lights, she would ask me to put rose water in my eyes. Lately I had been very tardy in doing this. That must have been the reason for my present plight.
Then came the exam. Mr. Parate wrote out a few math problems on the board and asked us to copy those and solve within the period. Bhupinder refused to let me peep. So I narrowed my eyes and copied whatever I saw and solved the problems. When the result came the next day, Mr. Parate asked me to come up front. I went and received a double-dose of canes and was handed over the answer sheet. As I turned, he gave a mighty whack with his hands on my back. That almost sent me sprawling to the floor. I somehow maintained my balance and gave the class a smile and walked back to my seat.
“And get your answer-sheet signed by your father tomorrow,” He said to my back.
That was bad. I had looked at my answer-sheet and had found out that I had scored a perfect zero out of a possible twenty. I am going home to get beaten up by my father.
When I reach home, I am downcast. Somehow I summon up the courage and give my father the answer-sheet and look at the ground. I would welcome if it opened up and gobbled me up like Sita. My father looks at the sheet, looks at me, looks at the sheet and then beats me up. When his anger is drowned in my sobs, he picks up the sheet and goes through it. Then he says something that gets me right up and besides him to look at the sheet.
“But all the answers are correct! How could you get a zero? You should have got twenty! I am coming to your school tomorrow and meeting your teacher.”
Next day he comes and meets him. When I go home, my father is waiting for me.
“You get ready now. We are going to a doctor. You should have told me before. May be I should have guessed.”
Two days later, I am standing on the balcony outside the doctor’s 3rd floor office staring out into the beautiful world. In front of me is the big signboard saying “ESSO” in big, red letters. I can see it quite clearly and the much smaller letters beneath it. No need of any rose water to see so well. The significance of a minus 5 correction for my eyes right in the beginning is lost upon me. My father is worried as he talks to the doctor; I am happy. I know I will be able to see the things on the board quite clearly and that would be the end to my bad performances. I can join back my original gang of top students and will be able to break the ostracism they have placed on me owing to my slipping grades.
I go to school next day brimming with confidence and pleasure. My friends see me.
“Chashmuddin (derogatory for one with specs),” one of them gives a cat call. They poke fun at me. “He is a blind boy,” another one says.
“Now he can see where he is urinating. All these days he was urinating on his boots,” it’s a silly joke but they all laugh.
The class begins. Mr. Parate enters. “Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”
He comes up with the cane.
“I have done homework, sir.” I blurt out, not willing to be caned.
He stops. He looks at me. “You think you are smart if you have done homework just one day in all these days? Put out your hands.”
I do as commanded. There is no choice. Four times the cane swishes. He goes back. There is no brave smile on my lips. For the first time it is difficult the hold the acrid tears. Before I know and can stop it, the tears come welling out of my eyes and I am standing there, in front of the whole class, and weeping stupidly. My specs are all wet and the tears are collecting at the bottom of the glasses. Through that I see distorted images of all my classmates looking at me and of Mr. Parate. The optical distortion makes them all appear like monsters.
“Your eyes have glasses now. Get some glasses for your brains too.” That one is from Mr. Parate. That is a good punch line, I must admit.
It is back to business as usual. I have to be a bad boy. I cannot transgress that label any more.
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