North East is so cute yaa!
I have said this before and I say it again that for now, I am glad to be back from the land where everything is “so cute yaa”. “Hey, look at that kid, he’s so cute ya!” “That dog is so cute yaa!” (The localites would surely find this amazing – people from Mumbai calling their breakfast cute.) It wouldn’t have been long before every hill, every tree, every fern and every sparrow began to look cute.
Imagine a father sparrow coming home one evening and telling his kids, “You %$@^%!! How many times have I told you not to drop your droppings all over the floor of the nest? And you have the cheek to do this on the very day when some stupid tourists call me cute, you…”
Every place we went to had a sinister cuteness hovering about it. All of a typical Mizo village in Aizawl was cute, including where the head tribesman kept his water bottles, where he shat, where he kept his women and chicken and the names of each of these abodes. One of them read Lal In – which an ignorant Malayalee would think is the abode of Mohanlal.
Well, despite the excessive use of the word ‘cute’, everything in the North East was cute in a way. There were many things that one couldn’t imagine seeing like trees laden with purple flowers. There were amusing sounds to hear and giggle. Then there were amusing names of people and of places.
Mizoram, it seems, holds an unofficial record for the maximum number of funny-sounding names. So it wouldn’t be surprising to run into people named ‘Everfriendly’. A weary member of the trip lamented that she would love to marry someone named ‘Never Walk’.
The term Mao means stone. So there are these triplets intellectually named Mao, Patthar and Stone. What is more interesting is that these names often come from random English words they caught from someone’s conversation or some English word they caught in a film, that they liked the sound of. (Which takes me back to a show by Russel Peters who once wondered how to react if someone called you ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’) So, there are funny names like Stormy Weather and Bhavya.
With due respect to the sentiments of my North Eastern brethren, I add that the names of places in that part of the country sound like they are filled with phlegm, like comedian Jeff Dunham's dead puppet terrorist Achmed. There are places named Hmawngzawi and Khliehriat. Wonder if they colloquially use abbreviations for these names. “Hey, where you off to?” “Aw, me…ah…no…awww…ya…go to…aww…ya…K.” Or “Hey, you wanna run me down to the H-Wi?”
Name, place, animal, thing just got more exciting. String a few letters together to make a completely random word that remotely sounds like an organ off the human anatomy and you are in a village in the North East! No kidding. Get a map of the region and catch Pynursla, Lakadong, Lumding and Lungding (could be distant cousins), Haflong and Longpi.
Meanwhile, in other news, dhinchak dhinchak has become a standard entity on treks small and big alike. For those who came in late, or never came in, dhinchak dhinchak is the story of how some guy called Shivaji gatecrashes a party being hosted at the Le Malvan (the only underwater hotel in India) – used as a teaser to dedicate a song to a person, situation or an object.
And it so happened that these dedications last only for 15-20 seconds and then fizzle out to make way for the next dedication. The game never ends as ceremoniously as it begins. It only fades out when the people who know the lyrics come to know of their might and pull out or drop asleep. The alternative is that something interesting happens right when a dedication is happening, like a flat tyre or an accident.
These so called dedications are also sung as stand-alone songs in antakshari style and rapid fire style for approximately six hundred and seventy two times. Remember that if you change vehicles…you’ll also have to sing those very songs in the other vehicle…that will make it one thousand three hundred and forty times! Then you go about humming all of these songs to yourself for the next fortnight. Bah! Whoever thought of making these songs so catchy surely knew what he was doing.
I might sound like I have had enough of the northeastern states but I am going back there to steal their folk songs. I think they are cool with their throaty + nasal vocals, earthy beats and homemade stringed instruments. Think I’ll make that my mission number two.
Hey, this article is so cute yaa!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Mumbai Guhwahati Express S7 31 - All Alone
I had the opportunity of travelling alone from Mumbai to almost Guwahati, baby sitting a seat, protecting it from 500 others who would kill to sit were I sat. I was amidst strangers who did not seem to like the fact that I wanted to sit with a little space around me. So, there I was baby-sitting my luggage like mother sheep guarding her lambs from the very bad wolf.
I spent a good half of the first day cribbing to myself through clenched teeth about the lousy situation and why I couldn’t be part of a group that would crack up at my wisecracks and not so wise cracks and play OHNO with me. Why did I have to be stuck up with a bunch of losers so bored that all of them watched goggle-eyed as another guy stood up on his seat and placed three very interesting guavas into his bag on the upper berth in slow motion – one by one? Each movement of the man was like breaking news. “Dekhiye kis tarah ek aadmi NE apne seat par chadhkar ek nahi, do nahi, balki teen amrood apne bag ke andar ghusaaye…”
The TTC, I bet, feels more important than Pratibha Patil feels inside the Rastrapati Bhavan. This lanky guy wearing black clothes is suddenly God for my fellow travelers. They want their tickets confirmed and give him looks that range from pious-innocent to smug-bribey.
And thus, interesting traits of people around me began to ooze out, which is when I decided to stop cribbing and make the most of the situation. Who knows, one of these could be characters in my first film.
A couple sat to my left. The man spoke a mix of what seemed to be a mix of Bengali, Hindi and Awadhi. His female partner looked obviously Nepali and even spoke like Bollywood’s caricatures of Gorkha watchmen. Though not too much into PDA, I was of the opinion that they were all set to star in the next controversial mobile clip that people around the world would download for $ 50. What the woman had to tell the man had to be very important stuff because she yelled every word of it. I wonder why the guy wanted to know about how the woman had hit another woman (who was washing utensils) for staring at her. The man kept chewing sachet after sachet of Kolhapuri gutkha and the woman kept pulling at his hair for this habit. Wonder if the man was putting up with all this because he thought she would make up for all of this later? (Wink wink).
Their eating habits psyched me out. The food from the railway pantry car is akin to the food Raveena Tandon feeds her pets. Ya, so there are a couple of things in the dal that you cannot really eat like long pieces of fried chilly, pieces of the foil etc. so the couple took out all of this and placed them on the seat while they devoured their food with all possible limbs. Post lunch the woman raked off the residue from the seat with those very hands, leaving dal tracks all over the seat. Aur phir Bhagwan Ramchandra ne us nanhi gilahri ko apne haathon mein uthaayi… aur apni ungliyon se uske peeth par teen reshayen banayi… The guy then wiped the wet dal with a gammchha (towel) and proceeded to sit on it.
Remnants of the dal could still be seen on the woman’s saree a day after that particular lunch session. The man switched from Kolhapuri to another locally available gutkha brand. He also developed a rare mental condition where he would get down and run to the water faucet with at every possible railway station.
On my right sat a bouncer in a dark blue Sando vest. He could give Yoko Zuna a few tips on muscle toning. Besides entertaining the broom that grew out of his armpits, his occupation throughout the day was to rile salesman, interrogating them with pointed questions about the price, quality and quality of their wares. He even volunteered to sit on a plastic torch after its salesman claimed that it was unbreakable. When he wasn’t playing CID with them, he would squeeze out his mobile phone out of his tight pants and make calls to people inquiring about the number of sacks of cement they used to build their new house and the shampoo they put on their head.
A whiny kid sat in front with his mom who looked so much like Shashikala that I almost asked her for an autograph. The 8-year old whined for everything from his toothpaste to his right to sit at the window. The whining was beginning to get to my nerves and I would’ve stuck my only black pen into the imp’s ear if it wasn’t for redemption that came in the form of Anish who asked me to join the rest of the gang in a compartment across seven seas.
Not that the rest of the journey was uneventful…but all of that is another story.
I had the opportunity of travelling alone from Mumbai to almost Guwahati, baby sitting a seat, protecting it from 500 others who would kill to sit were I sat. I was amidst strangers who did not seem to like the fact that I wanted to sit with a little space around me. So, there I was baby-sitting my luggage like mother sheep guarding her lambs from the very bad wolf.
I spent a good half of the first day cribbing to myself through clenched teeth about the lousy situation and why I couldn’t be part of a group that would crack up at my wisecracks and not so wise cracks and play OHNO with me. Why did I have to be stuck up with a bunch of losers so bored that all of them watched goggle-eyed as another guy stood up on his seat and placed three very interesting guavas into his bag on the upper berth in slow motion – one by one? Each movement of the man was like breaking news. “Dekhiye kis tarah ek aadmi NE apne seat par chadhkar ek nahi, do nahi, balki teen amrood apne bag ke andar ghusaaye…”
The TTC, I bet, feels more important than Pratibha Patil feels inside the Rastrapati Bhavan. This lanky guy wearing black clothes is suddenly God for my fellow travelers. They want their tickets confirmed and give him looks that range from pious-innocent to smug-bribey.
And thus, interesting traits of people around me began to ooze out, which is when I decided to stop cribbing and make the most of the situation. Who knows, one of these could be characters in my first film.
A couple sat to my left. The man spoke a mix of what seemed to be a mix of Bengali, Hindi and Awadhi. His female partner looked obviously Nepali and even spoke like Bollywood’s caricatures of Gorkha watchmen. Though not too much into PDA, I was of the opinion that they were all set to star in the next controversial mobile clip that people around the world would download for $ 50. What the woman had to tell the man had to be very important stuff because she yelled every word of it. I wonder why the guy wanted to know about how the woman had hit another woman (who was washing utensils) for staring at her. The man kept chewing sachet after sachet of Kolhapuri gutkha and the woman kept pulling at his hair for this habit. Wonder if the man was putting up with all this because he thought she would make up for all of this later? (Wink wink).
Their eating habits psyched me out. The food from the railway pantry car is akin to the food Raveena Tandon feeds her pets. Ya, so there are a couple of things in the dal that you cannot really eat like long pieces of fried chilly, pieces of the foil etc. so the couple took out all of this and placed them on the seat while they devoured their food with all possible limbs. Post lunch the woman raked off the residue from the seat with those very hands, leaving dal tracks all over the seat. Aur phir Bhagwan Ramchandra ne us nanhi gilahri ko apne haathon mein uthaayi… aur apni ungliyon se uske peeth par teen reshayen banayi… The guy then wiped the wet dal with a gammchha (towel) and proceeded to sit on it.
Remnants of the dal could still be seen on the woman’s saree a day after that particular lunch session. The man switched from Kolhapuri to another locally available gutkha brand. He also developed a rare mental condition where he would get down and run to the water faucet with at every possible railway station.
On my right sat a bouncer in a dark blue Sando vest. He could give Yoko Zuna a few tips on muscle toning. Besides entertaining the broom that grew out of his armpits, his occupation throughout the day was to rile salesman, interrogating them with pointed questions about the price, quality and quality of their wares. He even volunteered to sit on a plastic torch after its salesman claimed that it was unbreakable. When he wasn’t playing CID with them, he would squeeze out his mobile phone out of his tight pants and make calls to people inquiring about the number of sacks of cement they used to build their new house and the shampoo they put on their head.
A whiny kid sat in front with his mom who looked so much like Shashikala that I almost asked her for an autograph. The 8-year old whined for everything from his toothpaste to his right to sit at the window. The whining was beginning to get to my nerves and I would’ve stuck my only black pen into the imp’s ear if it wasn’t for redemption that came in the form of Anish who asked me to join the rest of the gang in a compartment across seven seas.
Not that the rest of the journey was uneventful…but all of that is another story.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I am tired of the cwap people adorn their Orkut profile names and status messages with. One I recently read reads – Life is a virtue. Earn it. It is all the more irritating when people who have such profile names scrap you on Orkut. The email notification in your inbox in such cases reads ‘WHO LET THE DOGS OUT has sent you a scrap’ or ‘BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMZ has thrown a Huckleberry Fig at you.’
The next half an hour is spent in identifying the owner of the dogs and calling up a dream analyst. Now this is another wild goose chase because where I expect to see the face of the person who scrapped me, I see the picture of a semi-nude John Abraham or a depressing image of a blade inserted into the tongue. So much for the warnings Orkut gives you before you upload pictures. It’s proven. No one really reads the T&C while signing up.
(Oh and among my other friends are R. Madhavan, Eisha Koppikar, Raj Thackeray, Anil Ambani, Rani Mukherjee, Brett Lee, poster babies, the Khan khaandaan, the Bachchan family including the downloaded Tulu codec and Baba Ramdev. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my friends’ list.)
I admit that I don’t know the exact purpose of status messages. The ideal purpose would be to put in something that you think is amusing out in everybody’s face so they could have a chuckle. But I am sure about one thing and that is that using the status message space to put up stuff like – ‘Enjoy life today yesterday is gone, Tomorrow may never come’ is a heinous crime. People doing this must be sentenced to three months in jail and/or fined with three thousand rupees or at least tattooed with such a warning.
Another punishable offence reads – ‘Life is an ice-cream, enjoy it before it melts.’ Someone else’s status message tells me he is ‘enjoying the nuances of life’. The same someone was yelling “Life is a play and I am an extra” last week. When will life cease to be such a STMC (Shit Status Message Creator)? Life this, life that. It’s either life or the other extreme.
‘Till death do us apart’ has asked you to kindly fill in your personal details including credit car number and DOB so she could buy you a birthday gift using your own money!
‘Death is a calamity’. Dude. *Looks for the number of the local asylum*
‘Death is a catastrophe’. Ya, you go with that guy. *Points at calamity*
‘I’ll die in my love for you’ You sure will, especially if you say that to more girls.
The next half an hour is spent in identifying the owner of the dogs and calling up a dream analyst. Now this is another wild goose chase because where I expect to see the face of the person who scrapped me, I see the picture of a semi-nude John Abraham or a depressing image of a blade inserted into the tongue. So much for the warnings Orkut gives you before you upload pictures. It’s proven. No one really reads the T&C while signing up.
(Oh and among my other friends are R. Madhavan, Eisha Koppikar, Raj Thackeray, Anil Ambani, Rani Mukherjee, Brett Lee, poster babies, the Khan khaandaan, the Bachchan family including the downloaded Tulu codec and Baba Ramdev. Don’t believe me? Take a look at my friends’ list.)
I admit that I don’t know the exact purpose of status messages. The ideal purpose would be to put in something that you think is amusing out in everybody’s face so they could have a chuckle. But I am sure about one thing and that is that using the status message space to put up stuff like – ‘Enjoy life today yesterday is gone, Tomorrow may never come’ is a heinous crime. People doing this must be sentenced to three months in jail and/or fined with three thousand rupees or at least tattooed with such a warning.
Another punishable offence reads – ‘Life is an ice-cream, enjoy it before it melts.’ Someone else’s status message tells me he is ‘enjoying the nuances of life’. The same someone was yelling “Life is a play and I am an extra” last week. When will life cease to be such a STMC (Shit Status Message Creator)? Life this, life that. It’s either life or the other extreme.
‘Till death do us apart’ has asked you to kindly fill in your personal details including credit car number and DOB so she could buy you a birthday gift using your own money!
‘Death is a calamity’. Dude. *Looks for the number of the local asylum*
‘Death is a catastrophe’. Ya, you go with that guy. *Points at calamity*
‘I’ll die in my love for you’ You sure will, especially if you say that to more girls.
Bag(h)ban
People who travel in trains have a platonic relationship with their bags. There are people who love their bags a little more than their spouse.
This species gets into the train, hands you the bag and waits till “the guy in the ugly black t-shirt” has kept my bag safely on the shelf.” It is this species that asks for the bag to be placed on his lap, when he sits, so he could take ample care of it himself.
This species has a strain of creatures that are a bit superior to it. These creatures keep the bag with them, come what may. “Darling, take your most precious thing and rush out! It’s an earthquake!” *rumble rumble* *CRASH* “Well, well, let’s see, I got my bag. Honey, the kids are with you right?” Get the drift? Somehow, I think I fit into this species. I like to keep my bag to myself.
Then there are those with an obsessive-compulsive disorderly behaviour. They prefer their bag to slant at an angle of 67.85 degrees- nothing less or more. These people often ask others to maintain the perfect tilt of their bag or give up their seat so they could do it themselves with a pocket protractor.
There are a few others, who would rather leave their bags in the train and tell their wives how the Al Qaeda stole it during a mock hold up session at the office. This tribe of people likes to stand 50 feet away from the luggage rack and throw their bag making sure that it hits the guy in the window seat and gives him a spondilytis of the neck. One would think it is an accident, considering the profuse way he apologises after the fiasco, every time. But the number of times I have been witness to this game of basket-bag tells me that this is the kind of story he would tell his grandchildren. “…and then I aimed the javelin at the lion and broke his neck!”
Some people are strict parents, even to their bags. Wherever they go, their bags need to follow them. They let their bag rest on the first empty spot in sight. Then the guy thinks, “There’s another spot there. May be my bag’s future will be more secure if I put it there.” The bag is moved from here to there. But then the guy has to get down soon and the previous spot was closer to the door. So the bag is moved back to the previous spot.
So which one of these is you?
People who travel in trains have a platonic relationship with their bags. There are people who love their bags a little more than their spouse.
This species gets into the train, hands you the bag and waits till “the guy in the ugly black t-shirt” has kept my bag safely on the shelf.” It is this species that asks for the bag to be placed on his lap, when he sits, so he could take ample care of it himself.
This species has a strain of creatures that are a bit superior to it. These creatures keep the bag with them, come what may. “Darling, take your most precious thing and rush out! It’s an earthquake!” *rumble rumble* *CRASH* “Well, well, let’s see, I got my bag. Honey, the kids are with you right?” Get the drift? Somehow, I think I fit into this species. I like to keep my bag to myself.
Then there are those with an obsessive-compulsive disorderly behaviour. They prefer their bag to slant at an angle of 67.85 degrees- nothing less or more. These people often ask others to maintain the perfect tilt of their bag or give up their seat so they could do it themselves with a pocket protractor.
There are a few others, who would rather leave their bags in the train and tell their wives how the Al Qaeda stole it during a mock hold up session at the office. This tribe of people likes to stand 50 feet away from the luggage rack and throw their bag making sure that it hits the guy in the window seat and gives him a spondilytis of the neck. One would think it is an accident, considering the profuse way he apologises after the fiasco, every time. But the number of times I have been witness to this game of basket-bag tells me that this is the kind of story he would tell his grandchildren. “…and then I aimed the javelin at the lion and broke his neck!”
Some people are strict parents, even to their bags. Wherever they go, their bags need to follow them. They let their bag rest on the first empty spot in sight. Then the guy thinks, “There’s another spot there. May be my bag’s future will be more secure if I put it there.” The bag is moved from here to there. But then the guy has to get down soon and the previous spot was closer to the door. So the bag is moved back to the previous spot.
So which one of these is you?
Saturday, February 07, 2009
A supernatural drama in the building
I won’t claim to have seen all possible events that are disturbing for mankind but I think I considered myself a little stronger than most when it came to feathers of the supernatural kind. The idea could have been ‘seeing is believing.’ Have I been a witness to an incident of the supernatural kind recently?
I don’t know. I have been witness to a disturbing incident but would ponder over it for a long time to come before I would term it ‘from outside the world’ or otherwise.
A young neighbour’s wife eight months knocked up has been trying to run away from home at odd times – in the middle of the night, in the dead of the afternoon and so on. Her husband and her father in law tried to restrain her but she objected with such frenzy that according to me, an average human is incapable of. She pulled herself and her two supporters down the set of stairs screaming her lungs out, flailing her arms, kicking her feet back and forth, hitting her engorged tummy with her hands and banging herself on the walls. She managed to get her mouth bleeding somehow- whether she bit herself or if it was the result of some impact on the walls, is still unknown.
Somehow she was pinned down on the floor in the middle of the staircase. ‘Holy water’ from a durgah was brought (they had a stock of it at home) and poured into her mouth and sprinkled over her head. The frenzy ceased. I put it off as rehydration, she was possibly thirsty from all the effort she had put into screaming. But her arms and feet were still alive and kicking, literally.
Incidentally, a family on the floor where this person now lay believe in the miraculous powers of the Son of God. They swiftly brought out the Hindi translation of the Holy Bible and placed it gently under the moaner’s head. Surprise, she was quiet but still moaned and muttered.
Considering that she was now fine, her relatives tried to pull her back to her feet but the power was back again. They let her lie there making way for people to pass by over her legs.
The head of the believing family meanwhile propounded the theory that this phenomenon was nothing but ‘hawa’. The ‘patient’ had recently got back from her native village and surely might have gone to a nearby water body where the ‘evil hawa’ had gotten into her. (It seems, it’s inadvisable for pregnant women to venture anywhere near water bodies even when remotely pregnant.) And according to him, the only way to field this hawa was to call ‘Uncle and Aunty’.
I wondered if this pair was Bunty & Bubli. Uncle and Aunty soon arrived. Uncle looked like a darker version of Alan Tudyk and Aunty looked like the caretaker of a rural church in Kerala. Everyone stood up in reverence of the holy couple. They themselves stood looking at the patient, probably trying to judge her symptoms. They let out a disclaimer that they have been doing this for the past 10-12 years and that they only pray for the interference of the Son into matters of evil activities.
Uncle and Aunty soon began to call upon their deities with such fervor that I couldn’t help but record a part of it. The patient who by had found some peace lying on a mat in the believer’s flat, suddenly found it impossible to lie in such noisy surroundings and sprang up. Everyone gasped. The evil spirit is trying to get out because of the power of the prayers! A few curses and spits later, the patient lay down again to be fed a little more of the water- this time from some other place.
She slept again, giving in to exhaustion (or exorcism as many others would like to believe). Now it was time to talk about why the Son of God was more powerful than the others and how he had miraculous powers. The others in the room were requested not to feel offended, for Aunty was talking from experience. They asked the patient to be brought to their place the next day, where a powerful pastor was coming to preach and assured that he would surely relieve the patient of all her qualms.
What brought relief to the half dozen people in the small flat was that the patient was now responding to whoever talked to her instead of the curdling swears and gibberish that she spewed earlier.
What is wrong with her? I don’t know. What I gather is that she is a patient suffering of severe depression and might also be delusional. She has attempted suicide a few times including one recently when her family found her on top of the building’s water tank considering a leap a 100 feet downwards. I also understand that things like this happen to people when being pregnant.
Why am I writing this? I seem to think this will help me get rid of the habit of re-enacting the violent scenes in my head. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know yet if prayers help achieve anything. I don’t know…
I won’t claim to have seen all possible events that are disturbing for mankind but I think I considered myself a little stronger than most when it came to feathers of the supernatural kind. The idea could have been ‘seeing is believing.’ Have I been a witness to an incident of the supernatural kind recently?
I don’t know. I have been witness to a disturbing incident but would ponder over it for a long time to come before I would term it ‘from outside the world’ or otherwise.
A young neighbour’s wife eight months knocked up has been trying to run away from home at odd times – in the middle of the night, in the dead of the afternoon and so on. Her husband and her father in law tried to restrain her but she objected with such frenzy that according to me, an average human is incapable of. She pulled herself and her two supporters down the set of stairs screaming her lungs out, flailing her arms, kicking her feet back and forth, hitting her engorged tummy with her hands and banging herself on the walls. She managed to get her mouth bleeding somehow- whether she bit herself or if it was the result of some impact on the walls, is still unknown.
Somehow she was pinned down on the floor in the middle of the staircase. ‘Holy water’ from a durgah was brought (they had a stock of it at home) and poured into her mouth and sprinkled over her head. The frenzy ceased. I put it off as rehydration, she was possibly thirsty from all the effort she had put into screaming. But her arms and feet were still alive and kicking, literally.
Incidentally, a family on the floor where this person now lay believe in the miraculous powers of the Son of God. They swiftly brought out the Hindi translation of the Holy Bible and placed it gently under the moaner’s head. Surprise, she was quiet but still moaned and muttered.
Considering that she was now fine, her relatives tried to pull her back to her feet but the power was back again. They let her lie there making way for people to pass by over her legs.
The head of the believing family meanwhile propounded the theory that this phenomenon was nothing but ‘hawa’. The ‘patient’ had recently got back from her native village and surely might have gone to a nearby water body where the ‘evil hawa’ had gotten into her. (It seems, it’s inadvisable for pregnant women to venture anywhere near water bodies even when remotely pregnant.) And according to him, the only way to field this hawa was to call ‘Uncle and Aunty’.
I wondered if this pair was Bunty & Bubli. Uncle and Aunty soon arrived. Uncle looked like a darker version of Alan Tudyk and Aunty looked like the caretaker of a rural church in Kerala. Everyone stood up in reverence of the holy couple. They themselves stood looking at the patient, probably trying to judge her symptoms. They let out a disclaimer that they have been doing this for the past 10-12 years and that they only pray for the interference of the Son into matters of evil activities.
Uncle and Aunty soon began to call upon their deities with such fervor that I couldn’t help but record a part of it. The patient who by had found some peace lying on a mat in the believer’s flat, suddenly found it impossible to lie in such noisy surroundings and sprang up. Everyone gasped. The evil spirit is trying to get out because of the power of the prayers! A few curses and spits later, the patient lay down again to be fed a little more of the water- this time from some other place.
She slept again, giving in to exhaustion (or exorcism as many others would like to believe). Now it was time to talk about why the Son of God was more powerful than the others and how he had miraculous powers. The others in the room were requested not to feel offended, for Aunty was talking from experience. They asked the patient to be brought to their place the next day, where a powerful pastor was coming to preach and assured that he would surely relieve the patient of all her qualms.
What brought relief to the half dozen people in the small flat was that the patient was now responding to whoever talked to her instead of the curdling swears and gibberish that she spewed earlier.
What is wrong with her? I don’t know. What I gather is that she is a patient suffering of severe depression and might also be delusional. She has attempted suicide a few times including one recently when her family found her on top of the building’s water tank considering a leap a 100 feet downwards. I also understand that things like this happen to people when being pregnant.
Why am I writing this? I seem to think this will help me get rid of the habit of re-enacting the violent scenes in my head. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know yet if prayers help achieve anything. I don’t know…
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Tujhjyakade stumps aahet ka re?
Watching gully cricket in Ambarnath is a wonderful experience. I am not really sports-friendly and I mean this in a gentlemanly sort of way. I don’t hate sports or cricket for that matter. It’s just that my ideas of fun are books, movies and the like. I am the kind of person who would rather wait for the football to come to him and then kick it than run after it in a huddle of other sweaty males.
Thanks to an evening work plan that got cancelled, I got to visit an old friend of mine who was recuperating from a serious leg injury. Now this friend of mine is a die-hard cricket fan, so even as the doctor advised him complete rest and a routine exercise regime to get his leg back in shape, this guy goes to play cricket. Well, he has a runner to run for him. So all he has to do is stand like a batsman and hit the ball when it comes to him and the runner will run. Fair enough. It’s doable for an injured batsman. There were more amusing moments in the game session that I saw which I will now delve into.
Gully cricket here is a funny affair. Funny because all you need are a bat and a ball. Of course there will be a batsman and another guy who needs to stand near the bowler who will switch sides with the batsman when they have taken a run or when the over is over, if you get what I mean. (Look, this is exactly why I said I am not into sports, so you could spare me the agony of those ‘Why can’t you use proper cricketing jargon’ looks.) The funny part here is that, the guy on the other side won’t have a bat, because like I said there’s only one bat. So the other guy has a stick in hand broken from the branch that hung lowest that evening.
Then there are the spots that are ‘declared’. My acute observation tells me that if the ball that you hit goes into these declared zones, you get a number of runs that has been pre-stipulated. For example, if your ball goes into the 2D zone, he gets 2 runs and 1d begets one run, of course! Hit me on my head if I even think of animation. These regions are mostly chosen because of their inaccessibility. Like today, the D zones were the insides of a scarcely used-but-filled-with-slimy water- swimming pool- a place that a fielder can’t jump to catch a ball or anything for that matter. The ball that goes into such zones usually comes out looking a bit different. Suppose it went into a thorny thicket, it would have scratches. If a red ball went into a slightly wet swimming pool with blue-green water, it will come out as a wet red ball.
There is a serious dearth of umpires on the field. Imagine a cricket scene that has no umpires. The players have to undergo the rigorous task of decision-making even while they are concentrating on the barrage of obscene words from the other side. The first batsman to lose his wickets makes all the players in the gully happy because he is the new umpire who is expected to suddenly turn objective and give unbiased decisions and not to make your team win even if you can.
Gully cricket is gully cricket because it is played in the gully. So obviously there are no selectors. The players just select themselves and count themselves in. Halfway through the game, one can expect a switch of loyalty and one can’t point anything at him – anyone would want to join a winning team, after all. Each time would have an equal number of players, strictly. If team A has 6 members, team B needs to have 6 members too, not less, not more.
Rules exist in the unwritten, unspoken and seldom-mentioned bye-laws of gully cricket for a stray extra member. In regular cases as such, the stray extra member could either bat for both the teams or one member from the team with one member less can bat twice, but only after everyone else gets a chance to bat. The stray extra also needs to field (run after balls with the idea to get hold of it and to throw it on time onto either of the stumps that is convenient.) twice. Fielding twice is just too much effort, which is a good reason not to be late for the match.
The bye-law also restricts players from using their mobile-phones during the match. The match often requires to be cut short for bad light because the bowler got a phone call to which he replied something akin to “Arre me khaali aahot, kheltoy (pause to hear the other side)…kay? (Something interesting!) Aalo thaamb.” Then the bowler bowls the ball and the batsman hits it towards the fielder who has right then yelled that he was not ready because he got an important call. No points to guess the caller from the leering smile on the fielder’s face.
The lack of space and growth in the number of glass panes that have popped up in recent times, simpler methods of getting out have been invented. One of them is one-tappa or ek-tappi. You have been caught out if the ball that you hit bounces once on the ground and lands in the hands of the fielder. In such a case, the fielder will also throw the ball back in the air with his hands up in the air in mock joy/ amok with joy.
There can be as many matches in a day as you wish. There can be 10-over matches, 5-over matches, 2-over matches and single-over matches. The evening play session is started with a match with the biggest number of overs. The number of overs is cut down as the sun begins to set. So while the sun is almost kissing the horizon, our teams are battling it out in a one-over test match, complete with two angry fielders who yelled at each other for no reason and a guy who tried to catch a ball between his chest and chin.
Too dark to play, the players say goodnight to each other and skittle off home- back to MBA study books an engineering assignments after an enriching evening game.
Watching gully cricket in Ambarnath is a wonderful experience. I am not really sports-friendly and I mean this in a gentlemanly sort of way. I don’t hate sports or cricket for that matter. It’s just that my ideas of fun are books, movies and the like. I am the kind of person who would rather wait for the football to come to him and then kick it than run after it in a huddle of other sweaty males.
Thanks to an evening work plan that got cancelled, I got to visit an old friend of mine who was recuperating from a serious leg injury. Now this friend of mine is a die-hard cricket fan, so even as the doctor advised him complete rest and a routine exercise regime to get his leg back in shape, this guy goes to play cricket. Well, he has a runner to run for him. So all he has to do is stand like a batsman and hit the ball when it comes to him and the runner will run. Fair enough. It’s doable for an injured batsman. There were more amusing moments in the game session that I saw which I will now delve into.
Gully cricket here is a funny affair. Funny because all you need are a bat and a ball. Of course there will be a batsman and another guy who needs to stand near the bowler who will switch sides with the batsman when they have taken a run or when the over is over, if you get what I mean. (Look, this is exactly why I said I am not into sports, so you could spare me the agony of those ‘Why can’t you use proper cricketing jargon’ looks.) The funny part here is that, the guy on the other side won’t have a bat, because like I said there’s only one bat. So the other guy has a stick in hand broken from the branch that hung lowest that evening.
Then there are the spots that are ‘declared’. My acute observation tells me that if the ball that you hit goes into these declared zones, you get a number of runs that has been pre-stipulated. For example, if your ball goes into the 2D zone, he gets 2 runs and 1d begets one run, of course! Hit me on my head if I even think of animation. These regions are mostly chosen because of their inaccessibility. Like today, the D zones were the insides of a scarcely used-but-filled-with-slimy water- swimming pool- a place that a fielder can’t jump to catch a ball or anything for that matter. The ball that goes into such zones usually comes out looking a bit different. Suppose it went into a thorny thicket, it would have scratches. If a red ball went into a slightly wet swimming pool with blue-green water, it will come out as a wet red ball.
There is a serious dearth of umpires on the field. Imagine a cricket scene that has no umpires. The players have to undergo the rigorous task of decision-making even while they are concentrating on the barrage of obscene words from the other side. The first batsman to lose his wickets makes all the players in the gully happy because he is the new umpire who is expected to suddenly turn objective and give unbiased decisions and not to make your team win even if you can.
Gully cricket is gully cricket because it is played in the gully. So obviously there are no selectors. The players just select themselves and count themselves in. Halfway through the game, one can expect a switch of loyalty and one can’t point anything at him – anyone would want to join a winning team, after all. Each time would have an equal number of players, strictly. If team A has 6 members, team B needs to have 6 members too, not less, not more.
Rules exist in the unwritten, unspoken and seldom-mentioned bye-laws of gully cricket for a stray extra member. In regular cases as such, the stray extra member could either bat for both the teams or one member from the team with one member less can bat twice, but only after everyone else gets a chance to bat. The stray extra also needs to field (run after balls with the idea to get hold of it and to throw it on time onto either of the stumps that is convenient.) twice. Fielding twice is just too much effort, which is a good reason not to be late for the match.
The bye-law also restricts players from using their mobile-phones during the match. The match often requires to be cut short for bad light because the bowler got a phone call to which he replied something akin to “Arre me khaali aahot, kheltoy (pause to hear the other side)…kay? (Something interesting!) Aalo thaamb.” Then the bowler bowls the ball and the batsman hits it towards the fielder who has right then yelled that he was not ready because he got an important call. No points to guess the caller from the leering smile on the fielder’s face.
The lack of space and growth in the number of glass panes that have popped up in recent times, simpler methods of getting out have been invented. One of them is one-tappa or ek-tappi. You have been caught out if the ball that you hit bounces once on the ground and lands in the hands of the fielder. In such a case, the fielder will also throw the ball back in the air with his hands up in the air in mock joy/ amok with joy.
There can be as many matches in a day as you wish. There can be 10-over matches, 5-over matches, 2-over matches and single-over matches. The evening play session is started with a match with the biggest number of overs. The number of overs is cut down as the sun begins to set. So while the sun is almost kissing the horizon, our teams are battling it out in a one-over test match, complete with two angry fielders who yelled at each other for no reason and a guy who tried to catch a ball between his chest and chin.
Too dark to play, the players say goodnight to each other and skittle off home- back to MBA study books an engineering assignments after an enriching evening game.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Govinda came. He saw. He scampered.
I have a thing against loud things. Loud people are also things. I agree, this is a difficult way to live, considering we live in a place where a festival means Nasik dhol and 125 speakers waala deck that go woof woof with Koni kutra sodla re?
So yesterday was Govinda. What they used to call dahi handi when I was in school. Dahi handi means, you make a potful of milk, honey, coconut pieces, jaggery, sugar, sugarcane pieces, loose change and top it up with water (no dahi, mind you!) seal it with cloth and then hang this up between two buildings or streetlamp poles or anything high enough, drink a few pails of ale and make others drink too and then clamber onto each other to try and reach the pot first. The first few attempts look a bit structured. But then you know how ale is. It makes you see things. So then the young Govindas put their feet where there is no shoulder and down they come like a pack of cards soaked in Khajuraho beer. All this while, the DJ is showing off his collection of triple mix songs and beams everytime the glitchik-blitchik-glitchik happens between tracks. (and somewhere in Jupiter, a volcano erupts. It can’t help it. The DJ’s system is so loud. It’s no wonder Sabu decided to stay back on Earth!)
One must think that Devki and Vasudev needed a home theatre system inside their prison cell in order to have sound sleep and a quick roll in the hay before that- quickie because they couldn’t let the chowkidaars outside their cell become voyeurs.
And then Krishna came. After a premature birth and moving homes at midnight, during a heavy downpour and water-logging at Milan Subway. The point is, he came in the morning. Not came as in “Aaah, aah, I’m coming!” But, came as in ‘was born.’ So, he was born in the morning, around midnight? But people at news channels are so active and zestful, they could be called Bean Bags. So they tell these Govinda organizers, “You want us to cover your dahi handi fest, do it in the evening, so we could get up at noon, run a few errands for home, lie in the bath tub for a while, make a few STD and ISD calls and then leave for work.” The organizers have no option. Ramaize Bhai needs the coverage to show that he is the only big man in the locality. The channel had promised to show him (and his obese boobytrap) dancing at his balcony every 15 minutes!
So, for all of us here, that naughty prankster-who accidently fell into the navy blue acrylic colour vat when he visited the Camel factory, was born in the evening. Wow, press power!
Ya so, the high decibels of sound waves go on through the evening. But for the only time in the history of mankind has the timing of a power-cut been so well-appreciated. Power gone, DJ popat! All he can do is tinker around with his wires and cables. This spells a three-hour break for our high Govindas. No song-no game! More ale, more Keshtos.
In the end, the Govindas were so tired, that someone suggested that they cheat a bit. So what they finally did is, they stood with their mouths open under the hanging pot and struck it with a really really long piece of bamboo. Yay! Govinda aala re and all that…
So such are festivities now. Another piece of disjoint, useless news. It seems people in Kerala are now celebrating sarvajanik ganeshotsav. Hey, aint that kewl, man? That is cool alright, what is wrong with worshipping the elephant god like we do it here? Well, nothing really. I’m just a little concerned about the tourism department and the numbers that haunt Kerala for its wonderful backwaters…sarvajanik ganeshotsav, idol immersion...get it?
I have a thing against loud things. Loud people are also things. I agree, this is a difficult way to live, considering we live in a place where a festival means Nasik dhol and 125 speakers waala deck that go woof woof with Koni kutra sodla re?
So yesterday was Govinda. What they used to call dahi handi when I was in school. Dahi handi means, you make a potful of milk, honey, coconut pieces, jaggery, sugar, sugarcane pieces, loose change and top it up with water (no dahi, mind you!) seal it with cloth and then hang this up between two buildings or streetlamp poles or anything high enough, drink a few pails of ale and make others drink too and then clamber onto each other to try and reach the pot first. The first few attempts look a bit structured. But then you know how ale is. It makes you see things. So then the young Govindas put their feet where there is no shoulder and down they come like a pack of cards soaked in Khajuraho beer. All this while, the DJ is showing off his collection of triple mix songs and beams everytime the glitchik-blitchik-glitchik happens between tracks. (and somewhere in Jupiter, a volcano erupts. It can’t help it. The DJ’s system is so loud. It’s no wonder Sabu decided to stay back on Earth!)
One must think that Devki and Vasudev needed a home theatre system inside their prison cell in order to have sound sleep and a quick roll in the hay before that- quickie because they couldn’t let the chowkidaars outside their cell become voyeurs.
And then Krishna came. After a premature birth and moving homes at midnight, during a heavy downpour and water-logging at Milan Subway. The point is, he came in the morning. Not came as in “Aaah, aah, I’m coming!” But, came as in ‘was born.’ So, he was born in the morning, around midnight? But people at news channels are so active and zestful, they could be called Bean Bags. So they tell these Govinda organizers, “You want us to cover your dahi handi fest, do it in the evening, so we could get up at noon, run a few errands for home, lie in the bath tub for a while, make a few STD and ISD calls and then leave for work.” The organizers have no option. Ramaize Bhai needs the coverage to show that he is the only big man in the locality. The channel had promised to show him (and his obese boobytrap) dancing at his balcony every 15 minutes!
So, for all of us here, that naughty prankster-who accidently fell into the navy blue acrylic colour vat when he visited the Camel factory, was born in the evening. Wow, press power!
Ya so, the high decibels of sound waves go on through the evening. But for the only time in the history of mankind has the timing of a power-cut been so well-appreciated. Power gone, DJ popat! All he can do is tinker around with his wires and cables. This spells a three-hour break for our high Govindas. No song-no game! More ale, more Keshtos.
In the end, the Govindas were so tired, that someone suggested that they cheat a bit. So what they finally did is, they stood with their mouths open under the hanging pot and struck it with a really really long piece of bamboo. Yay! Govinda aala re and all that…
So such are festivities now. Another piece of disjoint, useless news. It seems people in Kerala are now celebrating sarvajanik ganeshotsav. Hey, aint that kewl, man? That is cool alright, what is wrong with worshipping the elephant god like we do it here? Well, nothing really. I’m just a little concerned about the tourism department and the numbers that haunt Kerala for its wonderful backwaters…sarvajanik ganeshotsav, idol immersion...get it?
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Kaanz International
Ears stuck with earphones makes man a denigrated entity. It's almost as if saying “Let me put these earphones into my ears and become deaf, stupid and clumsy.” The freshman batch of college now filling the trains thinks it's cool to ignore frantic suggestions to not 'throw their weight around.' This obliviously ignorant species often walks backwards to bump into already irate ladies or dabbawallas and then the expression of apology that leaves the conscience decides to not cross the LOC of the lips.
Ears shut, the anatomical system is devoid of any sounds from the outside world, resulting in polite admonitions from taxi drivers which would go something like, “Baghoon chal re #$%^#$^$%, marsheel ekda tya mobilechya naadaat.” Unaware of the flurry of warnings flying his way, our DJ will only smile back, forever apologetic. He would be apologetic all his life, saying sorry and maaf karo to every person he bumps into, which is like a quarter of the over all population.
Reminds me of a joke. There's this crazy scientist who is researching frogs. Placing a specimen on the desk, the scientist orders it to jump which it dutifully does. Pinning it down, the weirdass cuts off one of its four legs and orders it to jump. It does. He proceeds to extract another leg and asks it to jump. It still does manage to do it with the help of its remaing two limbs. Off with the third leg along with an order to jump. With one leg remaining, the frog makes a moving effort to jump and manages to raise itself for the scientist's happiness. The scalpel severs the last limb. "Jump," yells the scientist. The frog only stares at the scientist, but doesn't move. After a few failed attempts at making the frog jump, the scientist observes into his log book, "If you cut off all four limbs of a frog, it becomes deaf."
Why do I mention this amphibian relative of ours now? Well, it's because I have seen a few of our brethren turn into them even as they think they are head-banging to some super rock music when they really are making faces akin to a cross between a pig and a bullfrog.
But I would hand the award to them for at least getting their own earphones instead of waiting for me to offer them a brand new one irked by them using the speakers. But these advancements in science and technology is getting worse day by day, what with the music from the earphones blaring like the loud speakers themselves? Passive music. Much like AIR's style of news rendering. "Aap sun rahe hain All India Radio. Ab aap Kungfu Pandey se samachaar suniye." (Compulsory hai).
They stand on the middle of the road thinking they are unobtrusive to the movement of the world, riding a tricycle on the fast lane. Wonder if they kow that their reflexes are completely sloshed, cut short to a speed of 25 miles per year. When inside trains, they move unwittingly, their elbows pressing spectacles into eyes or grazing people's nipples as they reach into the farthest corner of their pockets to coax out their band-baaja phones. Eyes doped with music and leftover sleep, they step on shoes and hems of trousers evoking mixed emotions.
Scene change. I am being interviewed. The interviewer asks me, "Sir..."
I say, "Err, don't call me Sir, call me Hari." (Cool trend to be called by the first name, not that it aches to be called Sir.)
"Oh, ok, (faking hesitation) Hari, what message would you like to give to the society?"
Thoughtful face. "Hmmm, I think mobile phone companies should start making earphones for only one ear, so the sound from the outside world would reach the person, like hands free sets. But may be people would get two of those kinds and use them on each ear and continue being compulsively irritating, in which case other people should be given permission to carry poison darts. My message to the society is that they should stop being so reclusive and should start behaving like the social animals that Dr. Bhatavdekar says we are. People could start reading in the train like all those cool people who read books from the bestseller lists only. They could also solve crossword puzzles and then tuck the paper under the bum and leave it there, to wipe seats during the monsoons…
Camera zooms out to show interviewer snoring.
Ears stuck with earphones makes man a denigrated entity. It's almost as if saying “Let me put these earphones into my ears and become deaf, stupid and clumsy.” The freshman batch of college now filling the trains thinks it's cool to ignore frantic suggestions to not 'throw their weight around.' This obliviously ignorant species often walks backwards to bump into already irate ladies or dabbawallas and then the expression of apology that leaves the conscience decides to not cross the LOC of the lips.
Ears shut, the anatomical system is devoid of any sounds from the outside world, resulting in polite admonitions from taxi drivers which would go something like, “Baghoon chal re #$%^#$^$%, marsheel ekda tya mobilechya naadaat.” Unaware of the flurry of warnings flying his way, our DJ will only smile back, forever apologetic. He would be apologetic all his life, saying sorry and maaf karo to every person he bumps into, which is like a quarter of the over all population.
Reminds me of a joke. There's this crazy scientist who is researching frogs. Placing a specimen on the desk, the scientist orders it to jump which it dutifully does. Pinning it down, the weirdass cuts off one of its four legs and orders it to jump. It does. He proceeds to extract another leg and asks it to jump. It still does manage to do it with the help of its remaing two limbs. Off with the third leg along with an order to jump. With one leg remaining, the frog makes a moving effort to jump and manages to raise itself for the scientist's happiness. The scalpel severs the last limb. "Jump," yells the scientist. The frog only stares at the scientist, but doesn't move. After a few failed attempts at making the frog jump, the scientist observes into his log book, "If you cut off all four limbs of a frog, it becomes deaf."
Why do I mention this amphibian relative of ours now? Well, it's because I have seen a few of our brethren turn into them even as they think they are head-banging to some super rock music when they really are making faces akin to a cross between a pig and a bullfrog.
But I would hand the award to them for at least getting their own earphones instead of waiting for me to offer them a brand new one irked by them using the speakers. But these advancements in science and technology is getting worse day by day, what with the music from the earphones blaring like the loud speakers themselves? Passive music. Much like AIR's style of news rendering. "Aap sun rahe hain All India Radio. Ab aap Kungfu Pandey se samachaar suniye." (Compulsory hai).
They stand on the middle of the road thinking they are unobtrusive to the movement of the world, riding a tricycle on the fast lane. Wonder if they kow that their reflexes are completely sloshed, cut short to a speed of 25 miles per year. When inside trains, they move unwittingly, their elbows pressing spectacles into eyes or grazing people's nipples as they reach into the farthest corner of their pockets to coax out their band-baaja phones. Eyes doped with music and leftover sleep, they step on shoes and hems of trousers evoking mixed emotions.
Scene change. I am being interviewed. The interviewer asks me, "Sir..."
I say, "Err, don't call me Sir, call me Hari." (Cool trend to be called by the first name, not that it aches to be called Sir.)
"Oh, ok, (faking hesitation) Hari, what message would you like to give to the society?"
Thoughtful face. "Hmmm, I think mobile phone companies should start making earphones for only one ear, so the sound from the outside world would reach the person, like hands free sets. But may be people would get two of those kinds and use them on each ear and continue being compulsively irritating, in which case other people should be given permission to carry poison darts. My message to the society is that they should stop being so reclusive and should start behaving like the social animals that Dr. Bhatavdekar says we are. People could start reading in the train like all those cool people who read books from the bestseller lists only. They could also solve crossword puzzles and then tuck the paper under the bum and leave it there, to wipe seats during the monsoons…
Camera zooms out to show interviewer snoring.
Monday, July 14, 2008
MaHATEmatics
A visit to my little big younger sister’s school on the occasion of a parents’ teachers’ meet brought in a rush of mixed emotions. The main topic of discussion was to discuss and decide the Education Board’s decision to initiate a lower level of Mathematics into the students’ curriculum intended at slashing the rate of failure of students in Math, because they are not “cope-upping” with the current level of the subject called regular Mathematics.
The PT meeting was to begin at 7.30 in the morning, about the time when joggers hit the road on
Much to their chagrin, the principal even announced that it’s no wonder that they kids come late to school. Students attending extra classes for the drawing intermediate exam were instructed to usher extra benches to accommodate the latecomers, now to be seated three on a bench pushing as if aboard a train!
After their students’ parents were uncomfortably seated, the much-awaited debate began with a teacher talking about what Math was and now what Math is, while the other teacher in the classroom passed on an attendance sheet for parents to sign. It will be, but my folly, to tell you that the double sheet of paper was getting more attention than what the teacher was saying “something” about “Yuck Maths” and their kids’ future.
The teacher talked about the Board’s idea of introducing the a lower level of the subject which would be called General Mathematics I & II instead of Regular Mathematics – Algebra and Geometry.
Feeding myself from the circular that the Board sent the school, I understand that students who now opt for the lower level of Mathematics would not be able to take up Math for higher education in the technical field which would require the base provided in 9th and 10th classes, which means they will stand to forfeit a career in engineering and just about anything that includes math, because their study combination of PCM (Physics, Chemistry, Mathematics) would not be complete. The teacher, however, told the confused, bickering lot of parents told the parents that a kid who takes up the lower level of Math would not be able to appear for opt for Science or Commerce because even CA requires Math.
Coming back to the genres of parents that had accumulated in the tiny cowshed, oh classroom, there was a boisterous loud-mouth who thought aloud that the school should reject the Board’s idea because if the kids take up the lower level of Math, their future will be of no use. A ring tone rings somewhere and the parents, teachers and principal look around to spot the melody. I had half a mind to stand up and act Aamir Khan in TZP and say “Ajeeb aadmi hain aap.”
Teachers cry hoarse in the classroom telling the children to shut up and not make noise and “stop talking” and “Put fingers on their lips” (which my father used to parody as Fingers in your mouth.) It is only during these parent teacher meetings that they understand the rule of heredity. The kids talk so much because their parents talk so much!
The meeting ended unofficially as parents began to leave the classroom without being requested to even as the teacher was telling parents how students should be wearing proper uniforms and how girl students should not wear huge ear-rings and should plait their hair. The few who waited back formed a hive around the teacher, much like the way the teacher’s favourite students do right after class.
We waited till the very end, to tell the teacher that we would like to see what the new syllabus is like, since my sister seems to have made up her mind not to take up engineering or any other technical field. So we tell the teacher that the sister finds it really tough to understand Mathematics. And she goes, “Oh, is it? No problem, what are we teachers for? We’ll make Maths easy for her. Plus she has to work very hard…”
If that is what teachers are for, then where is the need for a lower level, me asks.
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