What
would my life be if English suddenly stopped existing in it. I will lose my voice;
nay, I will turn mentally a vegetable. My English command is not perfect or
even comprehensive. Thank God! Many English Language Teachers (and other
language teachers similarly) may laugh at my syntax mess in my verbal and
written communication. They may be way ahead of me in mouthing the rules of
grammar and the correct usages. But most such ‘teachers’ cannot match my
articulation in using the language; the irreverent constructions of my
expressions or the fluency of my thoughts in the language! I would easily outdo
most of such ‘English’ teachers when it will come to using Business English including my capability to analyse and evaluate Personal Essays and CVs. No wonder established English teachers in my ex-office would
conspire with the management to keep me busy teaching Maths most of the time! Yet I would get my opportunities during the
so-called XAT Decision-making classes
and the following Group Discussions
and Personal Interviews sessions where I would easily leave such
teachers behind in communicating with and acceptance by the students.
But
this ejaculation is not so much for my boasting as for my love for the English Language. And through it also
espousing the best way for others to become better in communicating in English (or in fact any language). I was
born in a Punjabi middle class business ‘khandan’
where forget English education, Education
was a time waste; with young men of family encouraged to join the family business
as early as possible (and young women to get ready for marriages). The only
credit I am reluctantly willing to give my biological mother is that she put me
into a ‘missionary convent’ school as
she possessed a huge inferior complex of not knowing too much of English and so
saw the compensation in my admission in a English medium school. I am reluctant
to go beyond this in the accreditation of parents’ role with a observation that
many parents do enrol their children in such schools but that does not makes ALL those children develop a
command on or love the English Language
beyond reasonable daily ability to speak or write it. In fact most are pathetic
even when finishing the high school. Especially today’s most students not even
communicating in normal English what with a surfeit of indulgence in a
‘sms/chat’ English replete with :-( type of ejaculations!
And
then these students grow up and decide to appear for MBA Entrance examinations and other premium tests where they are
evaluated for their verbal skills! Very soon they realise those tests are NOT easy
to survive even when you may be from a ‘missionary’ school because the skills
may be more rigorous, diverse and different from the tests of schools and
colleges so far. Most pick up a ‘mugging up’ or a ‘robotic’ approach. And quite
a few will survive the tests and go through. BUT does not mean they have become
articulate. They just become competent in a very Robotic manner resorting to
the ‘correct usage and syntax rules’ bureaucracy.
The
articulate English users are a class above. The first rule to be a articulate
and expressive language user is to LOVE the language; no, be obsessed by it!
Class 5 : The First of many
impending Miracles
I
remember my early days in a all-Boys ‘missionary‘ school. My mother had put me
in the school but my family never spoke the language and worse had no
subscription to English in any way. The newspaper was a boring hindi ‘Sanmarg’ along with a couple of Hindi
women magazines. And remember unlike today, there was no TV or Internet for a
child to experience the language on his own. And no engish books as gifts. And
yet every morning I had to land up in the school where English was pervasive.
And I would struggle. And struggle. As I tried conversing in broken English
peppered with Hindi, many a times I would get my snobbish class mates end up
mocking me if not down right humiliating me.
Till
class 5 only matronly Anglo Indians became the class teachers who may be good
teachers but sometimes cruel on the drawbacks of a shy, inarticulate Punjabi
boy. After a abusive mother at home, and a distant father, to have insensitive
‘aunty’ class teachers at School was a torture. I was a mediocre, though
regular, student with a poor command of English and a poorer ranking in class
results. And then in the middle of class 5 year, the Anglo Indian matronly
class teacher decided to leave for Australia to join her son there. The class
was abuzz about which monster matron would be the replacement. And then a
miracle happened. Some class mates came running into the class and said the new
teacher had joined and was standing outside the class talking to someone. The
whole class rushed to the door and had a look. A very smart, short and handsome
man in a black polo shirt and a tweed jacket stood there, immaculately dressed.
I was thrilled to see the replacement for the dowdy and snooty aunty. And it
helped when catching the sight of the kids staring at him, he did the
unexpected. He actually winked at us. We were floored!
In
a few days we knew he was different though a Calcutta man! He even had a very
strange name. Rhymer Murray! And
frequently used irreverent comments and occasionally told us ‘colourful’
stories which made us embarrassed and at the same time inexplicably made us
feel grown-up. Coming from a orthodox family where the members never hugged
each other or displayed any other forms of overt affection, this incorrigible,
unusual person, liberal with affectionate gestures and words, and with a
brilliant ability to make the class lectures humorous and witty; and more
importantly make each boy in the class feel he was speaking to him. And he was
greatly multi-talented. A B.A. in English Literature he would
teach English, Maths, Science, Geography, History,… in his unique and inimitable
style. And he had competitions in class which I never won but still tried to
compete and win if not a prize then at least a encouraging comment from him. I
had found my hero! Suddenly going to school was no more a necessary evil. I
actually looked forward to it. A respite from a very oppressive and quarrelling
home. A creative and fun world. And I no more felt ashamed on my English
because he never made fun of it but would point out the errors in a very
friendly way which made me feel encouraged to not make them again.
His
inexhaustible stories, from fiction
to Greek Mythlogy, made me become
aware of books and characters like the comic ‘Billy Bunter’ series, ‘William
The Naughty’ series; the Enid
Blyton series….even that something called Comics existed and characters like Superman, Batman, Phantom… and the first idea of love and
romance … Archie, Jughead, Betty and Rebecca. But the first part of the
miracle of learning ended very quickly as the year ended. I did a little better
in results but I was sad that he wouldn’t be my teacher any more.
 |
| Sneaking in next to my Idol! |
Our
Principal was a Irish priest, Brother Gaffeney, a very strict and
feared principal. Every Morning he stood near the gate and checked our hair
cuts and the polish on our shoes! Some habitual hair cut offenders were given a
on-spot hair cuts! And a sweeping cane on the arse. Corporal Punishment was not illegal in those wonderful disciplining
days. We would call him ‘the ghost who walks’ as he would be on us with his
long silent strides before we realised. Accompaning him on his silent strides
were two, even more silent and very snooty, Daschunds! Those days the school, a member of the Calcutta’s
Xavier Irish Priests schools, had quite a few Irish missionary ‘brothers and
fathers’ as teachers. The Missionary schools no more have them being replaced
by the native priests who are, in general, no match for the Irish priests’
capabilities and global outlook which made the ‘missionary’ and ‘convent’
schools the legends they are. Brother
Gaffeney was the one who had brought in a local Anglo Indian teacher rookie
called Rhymer Murray to balance the
depleting Irish species called ‘Brothers’! Very soon Rhymer Murray would become his favourite
protégé handling a lot of responsibilities in the school.
© Rajan Kapoor 2012
Class 6 (the first time): A
unmitigated Disaster and a Unexpected (Mis)Adventure
Promoted
to class 6 I had my first priest teacher, Brother Gale. He was erudite, sincere but very serious. Not a Rhymer Murray. Class 6 was also when the
school started teaching Algebra and Geometry as a part of Maths. I missed
Rhymer Murray especially with new torture called Maths; I tried to compensate the miss by replacing listening to the
class lectures by surreptitiously reading a comic, funny, romantic, or a Second
World War action one, hidden on my lap sitting invariably at the last desk
mostly all alone. And frequently getting caught by Br. Gale to a point that if he saw me with my eyes down he would
stop teaching and come to check if I was reading a comic. I was getting
infamous and notorious!
The
First Term results came out and I
flunked Maths and so was declared ‘Failed’! So far I had been a mediocre student but
sincere and regular one. I was failing for the first time and that too because of
the new obsession I had picked up thanks to a Mr Rhymer Murray. Reading! Not text books but rather comics. I had failed
in Maths and not my expected subject
called English which strangely I did
better!! Inspite of the fact that many wise persons were asking me to not to
read comics as it would spoil my English language. As if it was ever good!
I
came out of the School with my first term results on the last day before the
summer holidays began, walked to the bus stop to go home and then got engulfed
by terror. My Mother. She will
kill me for failing. The terror gave the meek and shy boy a blinding strength
to do a unthinkable. Run away from her! Where? How? No idea…
just run. All the images and memories of earlier beatings and abuses flashed in
my mind and the terror of a new one gave me the dare to run. I had 75 paise in
my pocket, a reasonably amount those days for a kid to survive for 2-3 days. I
walked down the main Central Calcutta street moving towards the crowded
business area Dalhousie; near the Lalbazaar Police Headquarters getting scared
seeing the cops hovering I gave my 75 paise to a old beggar woman to get her
blessings on my unknown adventure, just like a Tom Sawyer?, which had begun.
Based on my memories of accompany my father in his Ambassador car on his
business drives to Bihar, via the great Sher Shah’s constructed Grand Trunk
Road, I walked and walked, down through Dalhousie, across the iconic and
thrilling Howrah Bridge, through the dirty and crowded Howrah lanes, past the
Belur Math, and suddenly onto the open huge wide Grand Trunk Road. It was late
afternoon, I was thirsty, tired and scared. I stopped at a roadside tea-stall and
asked for a glass of water and gulped down at least 5 glasses and sat down dead
tired in a corner of a vacant bench. Ahead was an open land as far as I could
see with no crowds walking; only trucks and cars whizzing past. The sun was
setting and the desolate GT Road, which looked so exciting sitting next to my
father in the car, now appeared frightening and possibly haunting as the sun
dropped. It did not help that the two boys working at the tea stalls were
making cat calls at me seeing my urban dress including “…Dekh Rajesh Khanna Ke Dekh…… Nahi be Dev Anand hai…. Ghar se bhag ke
aaya hain…”. It did it. I wanted to go back to Calcutta’s crowded security!
The
trudge back commenced. Retracing my steps back on the route it struck me that
it was evening and my family, My father, My MOTHER, must be looking for me. But
I could not go back, could I? She will eat me alive. So the famished hero, having
eaten nothing from morning, landed in Dalhousie again; not knowing what to do
next, he decided to move to the Victoria
Maidans where the family would go 1-2 Sundays every month followed by a
dinner at Sagar or Kwality’s at Park Street. The dinner was
out of question with no money but a rest at the Victoria Maidans may give me a next-what action plan for the next
day. It was my first ever ‘baby’s night-out’ (possibily 1969-70?) and the last
one for many years! Dead really dead tired I flung myself on the ‘5-star’ bed
made of grass much ahead of the intended destination; a small lawn on the Red
Road across the Fort William Gate. A couple of men were loitered around but who
cared as I must have immediately fell asleep. Suddenly I was shaken up from my
deep slumber by a man who asked me to go home as it was very late and what was
I doing there anyway. Putting on my most confident looks I gave him some story
of spending the night here as a dare challenge with my friends. He hardly
looked impressed and in the best standards of a Bengali ‘dada’ retorted : “…
then do it some place else (wow what a unintended pun today!) because very soon a police patrol van may come
over and you may be in trouble!...”. “
Oh Hell… Police does not allows a respectable citizen of India free to sleep
where ever he desires?”. I meekly thanked the unknown ‘dada’ for his wordly-wise
advice, though uncalled for, and started the walk again! On reaching the Maidans just opposite the Victoria Memorial,
behind where the hawkers slept in the nights near the main road, I noticed some
area in shadows where I could curl up on the grass and sleep the night off away
from the eyes of a roving police van.
The
fresh smell of a early morning dew and chirping of the birds woke me up to see
morning walkers already on their strolls. The last resistance to the impending
fate of mine at home vapourised and I decided to go home to meet my nemesis! So
began the last long walk of the last two days’ humungous walks. As I dragged
myself up the 4 floors to my flat I saw the milkman ‘chacha’, one with a huge
moustache, coming down. Seeing me he grabbed me and escorted me to the door.
The bell rang and my father opened the door. Behind him was a small crowd of
relatives. He grabbed me and a flurry of questions rained on me. A tearful
motherhood arrived and clutching me and asked me who had kidnapped me. On
realising that nobody had kidnapped me and that I had willingly run away on
failing the exams, the tears vanished, she screamed that she knew I had done
that; that the new male teacher who I would keep talking about at home from
last year onwards must be the instigator and ‘corrupter’! And then came a
flurry of powerful slaps. I felt at home
with very familiar ‘feelings’. Welcome home, Rajan!
After
a few days of winding up of my great Adventure, the follow-ups including
withdrawing police complaints against Mr
Rhymer Murray (how ashamed I felt in getting my hero involved in a
unconnected event by my suspicious mother who suggested him as a suspect in the
‘missing kid’ police complain for my disappearance act …and not herself! He, my
hero, who actually had given me fun, lots of self-confidence and scintillating glimpses
of a world beyond the suffocating and claustrophobic Indian middle class family.
I was so sorry, felt so wretched in hurting him.Thank God, I repeatedly said,
that I am no more in his class but in Br. Gale’s (where I came across as a
unwanted, insincere and incompetent student); and now a culprit of shaming a
Teacher.
The
second term once I re-joined the
school after the summer holidays, a couple of times I stumbled upon Rhymer Murray who except a couple of humorous
digs at me how I put him into trouble never showed me any resentment . I
mumbled some ‘sorry’s to him and he waved them off with a disarming smile and
asking me if I was ok and if I was now focusing on studies. A new Brother Noronha joined as the class
teacher. A more friendly and a more considerate teacher, I soon became his ‘chamcha’. The guilt enforced upon me of
the ‘sinful’ act of failing and running away from my home, which my mother never
let me forget, and the genuine guilt within of putting my loved teacher in
trouble, I wanted to compensate by becoming the teacher’s pet. Always ready to
do anything he needed from helping him to clean the school library in the free
time, when others were busy playing or loafing downstairs, or getting him the
new duster and chalks from the office. I just wanted to be considered a ‘good’
student if not by marks then by being involved in the class teacher’s
activities.
Br.Noronha
did come to like me as a helpful student which I realised during the Puja
Holiday when my family went on a trip to Darjeeling. I bumped into him in one
of the local hotels where we were dining and felt thrilled on seeing him and
introduced him to my family. The day the school reopened, Br.Noronha walked up
to me in front of the entire class and gifted me a signed Darjeeling-theme greeting
Card with his written comments of our meeting. It was the most thrilling moment
of life in the school till then as the entire class, including the brainy but
descipable nerds, looked on a bit confused and also a lot jealous. And it was
the first time in my life somebody had given me a greeting card of any type! I
resolved I will sacrifice my life for Br.Noronha
if ever he desired. The year ended soon, the results came out and I had failed
again in Maths and and therefore in the exams and WOULD HAVE TO
REPEAT Class 6!
I
felt ashamed. I had let down my family; my class; Br.Noronha and Rhymer Murray
would never ever recognise me on the school corridors. The nerds who anyway
ignored me on being a ‘duh’; the brawns in class who made fun of me and bullied
me; and I got complexes seeing the sportsmen in my class in the school team
attire being fawned by the nearby ‘Loreto’ and ‘Calcutta Girls’ girls while I
stood at the corner feeling some unexplained emotions and urges. And now I was
the lowest of the lowest of my class- a repeater!
I
just went home this time. My mother landed some blows; handed a barrage of humiliating
abuses and accusations; and let the entire ‘khandan’ know that I had failed,
with even my rich but illiterate cousins sniggering at me. My first Nirvana of
life: No one lets go a chance to laugh at a fallen being, irrespective of their
own failings; in fact the more worthless they be the more they will tear into a
fallen being to compensate and cover-up.
( … to be continued in the next intallment…)
"No one lets go a chance to laugh at a fallen being, irrespective of their own failings; in fact the more worthless they be the more they will tear into a fallen being to compensate and cover-up."---Wonderful!!!
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