Ejaculation 24: English Vinglish, Teacher Feature, School Fool….Part 2: The Life-changing Return of Rhymer Murray in my life!

The Innocent Days When the Smiles were radiant and Mind was forming (and deforming!)

So I failed in the year-end test of class 6 in Maths (what a irony looking back today!) and was asked to repeat the year. As mentioned earlier though I was a mediocre student so far ranking somewhere in the middle of a class of approximately 40 students, I had never really been declared ‘fail’ in the results overall, except once or twice in English alone, till this class 6.  Now I had failed twice overall via Maths - First in the Middle Term and now the repeat of the year. Shamed and abused by the family, embarassed by the smirking BUT education-challenged cousins, I didn’t know how to react except withdraw into my shell. Ashamed. Lonely. Wretched.

Of course my family, and the larger ‘Khandan’, were hardly known for education! My biological father’s family had migrated to India during the bloody partition from Rawalpindi in Punjab, now in Pakistan, and had finally settled in Calcutta after a series of movement through Delhi and Kanpur leaving some relatives in each the cities. While some clever migrants did manage to take all forms of help the Government of India must have declared for the suffering migrants, my father’s family was one of many such families which really had never really benefitted from such largesse, either by their ignorance or by corruption of officials, and were struggling to make a living. Most of them started some or other ‘business’ with many of them hardly educated those days. For the youth of migrants those days completing a ‘matric’ was considered a achievement, and the very few who did their graduation (a ‘B.A’ as they called it) were spoken about in awe. (Today ‘M.As’ and ‘PhDs’ are a dime a dozen). 

My biological Father claimed he had done his ‘matric’. And he was very fluent in Urdu as in pre-partitioned Punjab days Urdu was the common vernacular language, devoid of any religious bias as seen nowadays. He was a creative person and a artist of some skill who would part-time paint Hindi films Banner displays for a living in his teenage and early twenties, supposedly a contemporary of M F Hussain, who also started his career as a Hindi film Banner display painter. Of course I have not seen those days of his, except surreptitiously going through his personal sketch books, hidden in the attic, which included sketches of  Nudes turning me crimson red!  Those were days when Internet permissiveness had not yet arrived!! I remember him, as a small child, as a ‘successful’ businessman, post-marriage, in Hindi Films distribution for Bengal and Bihar, who often would go to Bombay on business trips and get me a novel toy or so once in a while, provided the couple were on talking terms not screaming. beating or accusing each other! Some wonderful memories as a child were driving down to Bihar with my father, in his Ambassador car (costing around Rs 36000!), via the Grand Trunk road, on his business trips to oversee his distributed films’ releases. And the fun in advertising the film in the car loudspeaker while driving down the localties of different towns. And sneaking into all the movies being played in the town using the local sources.

My biological mother came from a much better placed well-known business family of Calcutta but again hardly with any ‘education’ genes though she did read Hindi books and newspapers and write occasionally Hindi fiery women articles for the local Hindi paper ‘Sanmarg’. My legendary maternal grandfather, a migrant Sikh from Punjab who came over to Calcutta in late 1800s, struggled to make a living by selling various small articles before making and selling a food product in 1890s which went on to become a very well-known brand in Calcutta, starting with the customers who were ‘Marwaris’ and other non-Bengalis families and then gradually being accepted by the locals. He removed his Sikh looks and picked up the clean-shaven looks possibly to blend in with his initial Marwari clients. He single-handedly took his food product business to stupendous heights; his contemporary struggler migrant was a certain ‘ Haldiram’ who today is talked about in Parliament debates on FDIs!  My maternal grandfather survived the British rule and the 2^nd World War Japanese bombings of Calcutta to go on to became a ‘lakhpati’ in those days; opened retail shops in the iconic ‘Burra Bazaar’ and the posh ‘Chowringhee’ areas and a factory for production which was a 'secret' family-man produced; when he tried to build his 3-storied bungalow in Ballygunge in early post-independence years, the locals initially refused to allow him to build it as they felt the Bengali ambience would be threatened! He survived like any street-smart businessman by negotiating and sponsoring the local Durga Pujas lavishly. Of course most Bengalis progressively became a fan of his food product; and his name became synonymous with the product.  He even played Golf, when the Japanese possibly hadn’t not even heard of it , busy bombing China, India (and Pearl Harbour!). Or getting nuked! He had  5 children, 2 daughter and 3 sons.

  
His 3 sons, my non-Sikhs Uncles, went to run the business or actually continued making money on my grandfather’s name. They were also not formally educated, but unlike my grandfather, they could not quantum jump on his initial success and fame - just content in maintaining the status quo of his success and fame. And no more Golf pretences. Typically the entire days were spent at work; anything else including education was a time waste. My cousins, also education-challenged products like many traditional business families, just split and shred the famous name into pieces, properties and pretences  and most continue to ‘eat succesfully’ on the name of my uneducated but a great entrepreneur and visionary grandfather - like many such stories, and unlike some stories like ‘Haldirams’, who also split but in a much more mature and visionary way and therefore went on to become bigger, diversified, and ‘global’ even in parts. My Cousins have brought down the famous name and failed to progressively evolve into legendary business scions. Of course most do earn much more than I have ever, most have houses of their own, unlike a educated homeless like me, and they are all ‘respectably’ married - and that’s the only pride(s) they have (with typical scheming duffer wives of any TV serials!)! It has never struck them, and now their children, ever that they have not only done nothing of note on their own or upto the levels they should have; they have actually disrespected the Iconic grandfather’s name. a few of my cousins’ children, it seems, have fared a little better by becoming formally ‘educated’!! I am still the most ‘educated’ of the khandan from the Father and Mother side! And they have never let go of a chance to take a swipe at me, as I have struggled to deal with my ‘demons’, with the same response: “…  Itna Par Likh ke kya Fayada hua……”!!!

Sorry….I had digressed to illustrate the family background of mine.

Especially that day, in class 6, when I sat all alone as a failure.  I cannot remember how many times my parents had attended my school programmes unlike the ‘fevicol’ Bengali parents, in general. Yes my biological mother is the one who put me in a ‘missionary’ school because of her unfulfilled dreams BUT she was not the driving force for me to survive there. As written in the first part she was a more a roadblock who added to my misery of problems of adjustments in a different ambience of schooling by being my biggest de-motivator by her constant abuses and beatings, hyper expectations, inefficient mentoring, mindless suspicions… and suffocating me off from the ‘social networking’ skills by never allowing me to go out and interact in non-school time with my peers. My non-school time was at home with my 2 sisters and occasionally with the large brood of snobbish cousins and others at Ballygunge. So whatever ‘socialising’ happened was during the school hours. Once home I was cocooned in the house not being allowed mostly to even play with children outside. My mostly-absent biological father never showed much interest in my studies anyway. And when he was at home mostly he was busy having his slanging matches with his wife, while the three children cowered in the adjoining room praying to God to intervene.

In the holiday interval, before I went back to repeat my class 6 with my juniors, my biological mother called in a young Bengali woman to tutor me in maths. Even though I found her a attractive young woman, attractive not only for her looks but also for the fact that not too many outsiders came home to whom we children could talk to, surprisingly I reacted to the idea negatively. Today when I tried to peer though the faded memories to understand why I did NOT accept the idea of having a private tutor the only reasons I can think of : Firstly, I had no prior tutor ever to teach me so I saw this tutor appointment more as a reminder of my incompetence; Secondly I believe today the last two years with the coming of Rhymer Murray, and his inspiring stories, followed by Brother Gayle and Brother Noronha briefly, who in the best tradition of Jesuit Missionary schools, introduced me to the world beyond my family, and Calcutta, to India; or more importantly the World beyond through English stories books, Greek mythology, literature and comics which gave a very shy child, with no success and self-confidence so far, a inexplicable strength to stand up and refuse the tutor as a insulting idea!

First time ever in my life I took self-responsibility and convinced my family that I wanted to study this coming year on my own again. If I fail, I will go in for a tutor. The attractive Bengali  tutor glared at me for my insolence and as she departed I looked at her ample rear and wondered if I was going to miss a lot of experiences not only maths! My mother heaped threats at me if I failed again. My father… well where was he? I still remember that night I felt very thrilled at taking a decision of my life on my own; I was also very nervous what if I failed again. I went to sleep realising that I had no choice but to study and understand maths, and other subjects, and not fail again.

Class 6: The Second Attendance and a Second Miracle:

Holidays over, sheepishly I went back to school to repeat my class 6. AND who walks into our class as our class teacher? The Rhymer Murray! My God! Instinctly I felt a miracle happening.  The teacher who made me enjoy my studies first time ever in class 5 second term; who made me feel grown up with his colourful stories and jokes (which my mother would kill not only me but even he for corrupting a child!); who made me realise the world outside; the teacher whom I shamed when I ran away from home and my mother shamefully accusing him wrongly as a bad influence…………. was my class teacher again. In the school prayers to Jesus I prayed to a ‘God’, a hybrid of The Faceless Supreme, Jesus, Krishna, Rama… to give me strength and wisdom to not fail again.

Like those days in Class 5 when Rhymer Murray had walked into the class, the first term of the repeated Class 6 was a concoction of serious academics, exciting teaching and a hilarious party. Rhymer Murray, a B.A. in English Honours, was a all-rounder. He taught English and now started teaching serious maths! The examples, the way he explained the concepts, the encouragements…… and I realised that Maths was NOT at all fearsome as I had thought last year with the two erudite reverend teachers. Arithmetic was never a problem, the incoherent Algebra started becoming crystal clear and Geometry I fell in love with. And I was totally hero-worshipping Rhymer Murray. And I would have jumped off the Gothic school building’s terrace if he ever was to ask!

A Offer I could Not Refuse!

We had  the school library period, once a week, when we were allowed to issue one book for a week until the next library day. Somewhere in the first term for some reason, still not clear to me though I can guess - possibly seeing my extreme worship of anything he taught, instructed or evaluated;  my curiosity of literary, film and even comic characters he talked of and I did not know of unlike some topper nerds or the  back-benchers of my class, -  one day he made me a offer I could not refuse (The Godfather was to be written much later!). He said he will allow me exclusively to issue a library book EVERY day but with some conditions. I will have to finish the book that day itself and return it the next day and taken a new book – provided I answered satisfactorily a mini quiz by him on the earlier book! Excited and flushed with pride that I was being given a exclusive offer, imagine what it meant to a shy, mediocre and low-esteem kid, I jumped on the offer. 

It became a routine, after the school to pick up my sisters from the nearby Loreto School and reach home about 2 pm or so. Quickly finishing my lunch, I would lie down on a favourite sofa, with a bowl of crunchies on my chest, and devour the book of the day with a deadline of 5.30 pm; 6 pm onwards was my study time with supper at about 9 pm and off to bed by 9.30 pm or so. The TV era had yet to arrive!! Even the adults would normally retire to bed by latest 10 pm. The day commenced early as School started by 8.15 am. And I would run to Rhymer Murray at the first instance of his getting free, answer his mini quiz, get the library keys from him and issue the new book of the day. And I was the only lucky one with the offer!

A parallel underground supply of comics of Archies and  2nd World War dog-fight battles came from the fellow last-benchers, who were in the last ranks of the class, worse than me, mostly muscular Chinese and Anglo-Indian Bullies of the class; and in return for the favour I would help them to complete the many class assignments of Rhymer Murray, who inspite of his colourful stories and interesting teaching , was a feared task master of all especially the last-benchers where I was the only exception. The first term came to a end with the exams over.   

The day my results were due, the first after the last year’s failure, a mega film premiere was also on at 1 pm or so.  I still remember the premier of the hottest pair of the day-  Dharamendra and Hema Malini’s  ‘Naya Zamana’ at then posh The Lighthouse cinema theatre, the elite cinema hall of the day. My Uncle had bought the tickets for the entire ‘khandaan’ and it was a very hep event to attend with the film stars to be present at the premiere. And I was scared of my results.  My mother who was already on her way to the cinema hall, with other members of the khandan, had  told me very ominously, before leaving - that in case I failed again I should not show my face at the cinema hall and shame her in front of other relatives. I should just go home!

I landed up at the school with my heart doing a bigger ‘dhak dhak’ than what Madhuri Dixit would do in the next generation.  As I walked nervously up the staircase to my classroom I crossed many of my classmates - some the permanent toppers as always walking with a permanent smugness and swagger; some happy that they just passed; some with a zombie look which meant they were the ‘goners’; I anxiously asked some if they were of aware of my result as I just wanted to turn away and go home in case I know that I had failed again. Forget the cinema premiere I did not want to pick up my result from Rhymer Murray in that case. But nobody seemed to know other’s results which were still lying with the class teacher. So slowly I crept up to Rhymer Murray in the crowd and waited for my chance. 

When he saw me he made a grimace. I knew I had lost it again. I just wanted to turn and run away from there. But he had seen me and was pulling out my report. I stood with a white face. He looked at the report, looked at me, looked at the report, looked at me….. “ Rajan You need do to better….”  My heart popped out and shattered. “ …… EVEN better than what you have DONE!” He pushed the report to my face. My eyes were already flooding with tears of pain, shame, loss; I could hardly see the report. My eyes went automatically to the Pass / Fail column first. Why was the word fail not there? Why was some other word there? Only when the welled up tears plonked off and my eyes cleared a bit I realised the word ‘Failed’ was not there because it said ‘Passed’! Eh? I blinked, wiped my eyes and looked again. Yes it said ‘Passed’. I looked up at Rhymer Murray. He was smiling wickedly. I lamely murmured – ‘Thank You.. Sir’.

" ‘ Rajan Bala’… (many times he would call me that after the legendary Radio Cricket Commenatator)… what are you thanking me for? You have taken the tests! If you have stopped crying you may want to look at the next page at the marks…. And the rank?” 

I nodded and turned the page. I had scored very well in English!!! And … I had the highest marks in the Maths!! (my best ever marks in my life so far). Then the eyes wandered below the subjects marks to where the Rank is mentioned. A position I hardly looked ever earlier being content checking why I had passed the exam or not. Rank was a meaningless entity as it invariably would be somewhere in the lower half of the class and last year twice it was blank as I had failed in the mandatory Maths and therefore ‘Failed’ overall. But what is this? Why did Sir asking me to see the rank? My gaze went lower to the ‘Rank in the class’ column. It had some terrible error there. I looked up at Sir. He still had that amused and wicked combo smile on. He is making fun of me. I looked down again. The column said- “7^th in class”! Stupidly, I looked up again and asked him -
   “ Sir… it says….” 
“ Yes… what does it say?” 
“…7^th in the class…”           
“ Well Rajan ….. if You don’t like what you see I could remove it if you wish!”
 I quickly looked down at it again…. Rubbed my eyes….wiping the ensuing the new tears with my hanky…. and looked again. It still said “ 7^th in the class”. Rhymer Murray had by then put his arms around me and said – 

“ Rajan… Congrats…its true. You deserve it. Hope you will keep it up. Now go home and tell your family …” 

I incoherently thanked him, trying unsuccessfully to control my tears. 

“ Sir… its all because of you….”. 

He made the famous grimace and said – “ …. Well then all in my class would be 7^th or above isn’t it….” 
Then he moved away to talk to students and their parents crowding there. 

I ran out of the school towards the Lighthouse Theatre at a World Record 100 m sprint; I had not only been vindicated on my maiden attempt to self-confidence by refusing the home tutor, I had scored the highest in Maths, did respectably in English for the first time, and even more I had leap-frogged places to 7^th in class. 3 permanent top 10 of the batch were actually below me for the first time! And one ousted of the top ten! The memory of the day is still so vivid of my first success ever. I sprinted through the crowded lanes and streets from the school, down the Madan Street, up the New Market Street and into the crowded the Lighthouse with crowds thronging outside the Theatre to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Superstars. And I, the fortunate one to see the movie along with the Stars! My Mother looked stunned when I blurted out the results. I relished the shock on her face and she personally checked the report card before she allowed me to accompany my khandaan into the film premiere; my Cousins appeared confused and blanked-out on the attention I was getting by the fawning adults; Dharmendra never looked more macho before and the Dream Girl looked as divine as she does even today.

The Evolution of Mind and Body:

The Next 3 Years - Class 6(repeat), Class 7, Class 8 – were/are my best years of my life. Best for the most transformation in Personality, Education and Life. And the constant factor in these 3 years? Rhymer J Murray! Yes! He got promoted in these 3 classes along with us. He was also the School library-in-charge and also became the School Scout  Troop-Master!! His all-round abilities, not limited to his qualifications which were meant to be a English Language Teacher, were going to change my psyche, and my abilities, for ever. He told us about making foreign pen pals, in the age when a letter took about 30 days to reach a foreign country in Europe and beyond; helped with a draft of writing a letter to a foreign pen pal and getting one; took us to a Overnight scout camp at Ganganagar behind the Calcutta Airport; taught us camp songs and skits; (and a couple of absolutely dirty songs); ragged us when we went to sleep the first camp night plastering our faces with tooth pastes for us to wake up in the morning and point each other out of having some paste on the face only to discovered our own faces smeared too! Made us play some real macho tough physical games and discover our hitherto unknown physical strengths. I had grown to be one of the tallest in the class. A boy who had not played any team game ever till now was playing some tough camp games and being called a ‘toughie’ to avoid being hit by. I remained ever since till the end of school always in the Top 10 of the class. I never got Rank 7 again but always shuffling between Rank 8 -10 (One shocked toppled topper had tenaciously crawled back!). Never I went below 10 even when Rhymer Murray stopped being the class teacher in Class 9 and 10 -  He was only there as a Scout Master and a Mentor around. And in Books I had graduated from 'story books' to adult Fiction including Frederick Forsyth, James Hadley Chase,  and Harold Robbins.

Class 9: The School Scouts Troop with Rhymer J Murray!

Once when my great mother accused me of going into bad company and worse when she saw me coming home later than usual because of the extra-curricular activities at the school and refused to believe me. I broke down in front of Rhymer Murray and said I wont be able to attend further activities; he wrote  a very personal and warm letter vouching my ‘character’. I was slapped by my mother, on seeing the letter, on my audacity to complain to my mentor about her!   

But the evolution was complete. I got the highest marks in maths in my subjects ever since till the school end. AND I became very fluent and competent in English too!! In fact, by class 9 and 10, many times I was able to correct my English teacher on some of his errors! I evolved in the English Language not so much by the English Classes but majorly by becoming obsessed of English and becoming a voracious English reader of Story Books, Comics; and by Class 9 of Fiction including the grown up versions. By the end of school end English Language had become my ‘mother’ tongue. Till today I think in English though I am no more that strong grammatically.

Articulation in a language comes not necessarily by the syntax but more importantly by immersing oneself into it 360 degrees. Rhymer Murray then was the face of the changing pedagogy of teaching a Language. No more the boring and frightening ‘Wren and Martin’s of the Dinosaur teachers BUT the International modern way of immersing a Student into an environment of the language through the Ear, Eye and the Tongue. And using the grammar as a supplement and not as a primary way of learning. A person may be technically very correct in a language but may not be very articulate and communicative. I credit my remarkable turnaround in English competency and articulation in just 4 years, between class 5 to class 9, to a mix of modern pedagogy followed by the teacher fortified by a total immersion in English reading. Similar was the case with Maths. A Teacher’s ability to make any subject understandable and evoke a interest of the student(s). Rest is the student’s commitment. Many students lose it in the first part itself. Thanks Rhymer Murray. As a teacher much later I was to be a poor copy of his be it the teaching ability or the dirty stories. My ‘dirty’ stories were at a young adults level; he was at it at Class 5 onwards!

I never took tuitions or coaching ever! We were a pioneering year in the class 10 board examinations. The first year of 10+2+4 system. The School’s ‘Senior Cambridge’  got replaced by the ICSE council. I passed with successfully. And moved to Bombay for Class 11 of Plus 2 level where my family had moved last year as My father decided that he wanted to produce and direct his Punjabi Movie Magnum Opus to match the leader of the Punjabi Movies Production: Dara Singh!

Class 10: Final Days in School.

The Farewell Day!

© Rajan Kapoor 2013

Rajan Kapoor's STUDIO: Photography and Digital Art 52: Calcutta Chromosomes 5

© Rajan Kapoor 2012

Rajan Kapoor's STUDIO: Photography and Digital Art 51: Calcutta Chromosomes 6

© Rajan Kapoor 2012

Rajan Kapoor's STUDIO: Photography and Digital Art 50: Calcutta Chromosomes 4

© Rajan Kapoor 2012

Rajan Kapoor's STUDIO: Photography and Digital Art 49: Calcutta Chromosomes 3

© Rajan Kapoor 2012

Rajan Kapoor's STUDIO: Photography and Digital Art 48: Calcutta Chromosomes 1

© Rajan Kapoor 2012

Rajan Kapoor's Ejaculation 8: Kolkata . . . Oh Calcutta! Part 3 ... A Story of a Lady and 3 Idiots!

The Imperial Calcutta:  The Legacy of the British

2012:   A recent status update by a lady on my Facebook friend list caught my attention. As she and her husband got into a taxi in Kolkata they found a Nokia Lumia  cell phone lying on the passenger seat. She tried checking the last call made on it to try find out the owner’s details. The cell phone battery had run down and the phone was shut. She initially handed it to the cab driver to take care of it. Then realising the driver may or may not be responsible and the phone owner may lose it for ever, She took back the phone. Next day as she could not get the phone battery charged as it needed a special charger, She took the initiative to walk down to a Nokia dealer and get the battery charged. Then calling on the last number recorded in the phone she actually got in touch with the owner’s mother in Bangalore! Her South Indian son was in Kolkata on some training. The lady finally got the details of the phone owner and handed over the phone to him. Hats off to the magnificent initiative and social responsibility shown by the Kolkata lady. And the lady flushed with the act’s blessing shared her story on Facebook.

The incident happening a week or so before August 24, Kolkata's Birthday, will trigger among the Kolkata readers of this blog a rerun of oft-repeated updates in Facebook of   " . . .  while other metros may have money or power or both, Kolkata has a SOUL  . . . " ( I think a quote by Vir Sanghvi of Hindustan Times).  But the above story of the lady is not about Kolkata’s soul; it’s about the lady's education, care and Soul. It is incidental that she is from Kolkata. She would have done the same even if she came from any other part of the country or the world. Kolkatans, in general may not have done so just like a general  Mumbaikar or a Delhite may not have . The lady’s act is not a usual behavior of a Urban person too preoccupied living one’s life and its demands. Though not all finders may be dishonest enough to keep the costly phone for self, many would feel they have done their duty by handing over the phone to the cabbie. Any fool who disturbs their urban routine and puts them into a civic responsibility situation, especially with such a costly item, deserves to lose the item! The lady’s act therefore is a rare gesture in today’s world and deserves an applause by us. And emulation.

Such acts may be rare but bring a blessing to the receiver which has no monetary compensation but may be worth a life-long remembrance. I personally have been receipt of two extraordinary such receipts of help, beyond the call of duty, which I will recount below. In return I then resolved to help in a difficult situation whenever I will come across others needing help. And I HAVE . . . at the risk of once or twice almost becoming a victim to the infamous Bengal’s mob violence. But I had to CONTINUE the chain of such acts as a THANK-YOU to my saviours. Many of us receive some disgusting chain mail shit on social networks involving religious salvation or success if we pass on the chain messages, while it should be this social chain of care, intervention and follow-up which is more required to be involved with and encouraged. I believe the above lady’s act is a Karmic continuation of such a magic chain!

If ever Calcutta had some soul, and it did have it I admit, Kolkata has lost most of it if we go by the recent happenings there. And if I am able to notice it it’s because I left Calcutta in 1982 and returned to Kolkata in 1997 after a long stay out and the change and deterioration in the soul was very clearly visible. (as it is visible for Bombay now. What that is another story!)

But first a digression to making a self-defence. Recently after a couple of blog articles of my life in Kolkata and about Bengal in general, a student of mine during a online chat congratulated me on my articles and went on to say something to the effect that  “these people should be exposed". . . Catching his trend I had to remind him that I was writing about Bengal and Kolkata as a insider and not a outsider;  Bengalis or Kolkatans meant people who stay there and not necessarily whose mother tongue is Bengali. And this includes him and me too. But the cut-short conversation did momentarily made me squirm if I will be seen as a outsider making such racist comments or worse a deserter who was now getting  even. But the fact that my largest number of students (and the erstwhile big fan following) have been Bengalis; and even today, after my retirement, they are the largest number on my Facebook friend list gives me the confidence that MOST will not see me as a bigot but a insider critic, who had a caustic tongue as a mentor &  guide and now is a caustic ejaculator. And his mother tongue being Punjabi is a biological event if not a accident. As a person born, "bread and buttered “ in Calcutta and worked for the last 15 years in Kolkata, I was more a Bengali than most Bengalis. I have played serious football at the level of college, university, and organisation, that too as a " officer" ; loved more Bengali women than a Punjabi or a Tamilian or a Marwari ; possessed more of a intelligent and creative brain than just being a ‘Punju’ brawn. Credentials established, I now can continue with my version of remembering Calcutta, now Kolkata, on its birthday.

Calcutta's Two Icons together:  Amitabh Bachchan padded up for a charity match at Eden Gardens in Kolkata, India circa 1980

Following is the chronological narration of some Magic events in my life as a part of the larger Karmic continuation of  a Magic chain mentioned earlier.

1.     1979-80:    A Help I could be.            @ Calcutta
 I had returned home (Calcutta) on a college vacation and went to the College Street to browse and buy some books. (The obsessive love for books I picked up in my life is another proof of my being a Calcuttan!)  As I reached the spot bang opposite the famous Presidency College, I noticed a crowd near a book stall on the opposite side of the street where mostly school books and test guides are available. Curious like any Calcuttan, I came closer to the group to see a young boy being beaten up by a man , a stall owner,  on account of stealing a book from the stall. The man was mouthing the choicest expletives and landing blows on the hapless boy. It seemed a injustice that the boy should be so mercilessly beaten up for stealing a exam guidebook costing hardly Rs 10 or so. The boy appeared belonging to a ‘good family’. Confused and pained on the aggressiveness of the shop keeper bordering on violence, I was about to move away when the boy’s wails for help and his innocence stopped me.

In schooldays, I was a shy person and restricted by my mother from mixing with others and mostly my playing network was with myself or my two sisters. It was only now staying away from my dreaded mother (who I rebelled against finally in class 12) in the freedom of a residential hostel of a engineering college, I had started learning to open up a bit and also see on close quarters the topsyturvy life of students when they all get freedom from their parents once they arrive enmass to a residential campus. And the resultant madness, defiance and manipulation of authority in those 4 years. Especially in a college like ours with a reputation! But one good spin off of it was that made me lose fear of a mob or crowd collecting as it was a routine scene in the campus. THAT gave me the strength to do what I did next seeing the boy screaming for help.

My intuition was telling me that something was not right in the whole thing. I pushed my way into the crowd of inert onlookers, which is a regular happening in Kolkata, and asked the shop keeper to stop beating the boy and tell us what the issue was about. And then the true story came out as the pause in beating help the boy to move away towards us. He had a argument with the man on the price of the book and not getting the discount he wanted he tried to move ahead. The man insisted that the boy had wasted his time and MUST now buy the book. On refusal the boy was assaulted and as the inert crowd collected he lied that the boy was a thief and the bloody idiotic crowd stood watching. As simple as that.

By now all of us had moved to the other side of the street right in front of the Presidency College gate. Suddenly as if the spell was broken, the crowd moved forward chasing the shopkeeper down the Hindu College lane and a few of us consoling and tending to the poor boy. A couple of old fogeys who earlier were mute spectators and now leaders thanked me for taking the lead in helping the boy. It was first time in life I had been accused of being a leader. I felt embarrassed and shaking hands with the boy I slipped away as the remaining crowd was still busy chasing the shopkeeper down the lane baying for his blood!

As I walked back home I felt elated having trusted my intuition and saved the boy from being lynched not only by the shopkeeper but by the bored crowd who would have just gone along with the lies had I not intervened in time and broken the spell. But as a resident of Calcutta where I had always said in its support that Calcutta people come to one’s help on the streets if required unlike the impersonal Bombay, I was now as a growing young adult confused.  Do the Calcuttans really come to help the right people in need or do they just need some excitement and a vent to their tensions and can be manipulated by somebody if one wants to. Recent events in my personal  life, entwining different generations and times, have convinced me that more likely it is the second reason more than the first. People just want some excitement or some gossip or some scandal about others to spice-up their boring routine life. Truth be damned. It’s so boring and painful trying to understand the truth. What if the boy had been harmed. And he was a Bengali!

Ek tha Royal Bengal Tiger: Famous Man-Eater Tiger at Calcutta - Killed 200 men, women and children before capture - India 1903

2.   1988-89:    Allah -o- Akbar aka  A  faceless ‘Sunny Deol of Damini’ in My Life after a intervention of mine goes horribly wrong.              @ Calcutta

 I was back in Kolkata briefly after working in Bombay and had joined a seemingly creative job here. My cousin had a 1-room flat vacant at Saltlake in a colony bang opposite the Stadium where the Hyatt Hotel stands. Saltlake was just coming up and by 6 pm streets would get deserted and hardly any shops open in the area; a torture for a single man who always eats out. So I would finish my dinner in Kolkata and then catch a bus to Saltlake. There were hardly any buses plying to Saltlake those days and the bus number S23 was the savior for people travelling after 8pm though a long wait was inevitable. And I was waiting for it at the Exide Crossing where now there is a ‘Haldiram’ eatery. Then it was a semi-deserted bus stop after 8 pm. 4 – 5 people were waiting including me and a mother- daughter duo ahead of me.

Suddenly a white Ambassador car slowly takes a turn from the Chowringhee Road side and briefly stopped in front of us. A short man, visibly drunk, leaned out and stared at the two women. There were at least two more persons in the car along with the driver inside.  One of them, a tall burly man, seating in the front seat next to the driver. It was a very shocking sight for me having returned to Calcutta after a long time and where one didn’t expect such a blatant behaviour and that too on a main and very busy traffic crossing. And the men did not look like common criminals but more like government employee types ( Please don’t ask me for a explanation for such feelings!). The two women too appeared disturbed and moved back a bit. The Ambassador slowly meandered ahead and  STOPPED.

The short man who was leaning out of the window and the tall burly man in front got down and started moving towards us!  I was flabbergasted and had a hunch something bad was about to happen.  The two men crossed me and moved to the two women who by now were standing just 4 feet away from me. The short man whispers something to the older woman who protested and pushed the younger woman behind her. The short man did not give up. The burly man by now was standing right in front of me behind his ‘boss’  but not taking part. The older woman again protested and tried to move away. I could not believe my eyes. At Exide, near a busy traffic crossing, two men blatantly harassing  women with indecent proposals. And then anger. 10 years ago I had intervened and saved a boy. This was a worse situation. I moved ahead and tried to shoo away the sort man. He was definitely drunk and he abused me. I tried to be calm and asked him why was he disturbing the two women who don’t want to talk to him and to leave them alone.

That’s it. The next 5 seconds are a blurred memory till today. In a foggy slow motion I remember the burly guy next to me grabbing my collar with a iron hand. I was shit scared even though those days I was a well-built tall person and known, by my football and other colleagues, as a tough nut to crack. But something in that iron grip not only told me that this guy was much stronger than I but a pro!  That scared me and I regretted my intervention though it was too late. I looked around frantically hoping I will get the famous Calcutta crowd coming to help. The 2-3 other men waiting for the bus had pushed back to safer distance; the 2 women I went to save were walking fast down the street away and away! With no crowd around I noticed a lone traffic policeman atop the stand in the centre of the Exide crossing busy guiding the moving traffic. I tried to scare the burly guy by threatening to call the policeman to complain. The guy with a malicious grin tightened his grip on me and said : ”you want the policeman ...I will take you to him”. He dragged me across the busy traffic towards the busy policeman!

Picture Perfect:  Wish the Kolkata of today was as beauty full of sights!

As we reach the cop I screamed asking him to help me. The cop turned towards us, his eyes met mine and then that man’s; I thought  I saw some recognition between them, and then the cop, to my horror, turned away ignoring me. In a slow motion it struck me that I was in deep trouble. That car was most probably a cops’ car! And they were cops! But how come the cops were doing what I saw them doing? Till today I have no clear-cut answer. Only that the burly man was virtually enjoying my wide shocked looks. He slapped me across my face. My glasses went flying down the road, tears rolled automatically down my cheeks at the really heavy-handed slap and I saw 20 -30 people had by now collected at the kerb corner to WATCH! It was a reverse situation of 1979-80! I was on the wrong end and I needed a savior. In the slow-motion event of the next few seconds millions of thoughts raced in my mind. Will I survive or will he do a encounter of mine? What will my family think when they read the news of the encounter tomorrow morning? Will they know the truth or read the cops’ false implants? Will I see tomorrow sun rise? Or was this my last sun set?

The goon humiliated me further by tearing my shirt down the front till the belt. Thankfully those days I had not become a recognizable face as a future Teacher so the fear that some students might be seeing me in this state had not yet come. In desperation I started screaming just like that boy years back whose screams gave me the strength to save me. Now I hoped somebody will believe me and come forth. Nobody did as they stood and watched. Cars were whizzing past around us on the busy road.

And then magic! A emaciated-looking muslim man, in a torn shirt and a lungi, coming from the Kidderpore side of the crossing, stopped his bicycle next to me and asked me in Bengali what happened. Those words are still etched in my memory. Somebody not joining in a mob madness but stopping and actually asking what happened??!!! Same what I had done years ago as a shy undergraduate. The blessings were coming back. I screamed, and with tears streaming down, the face aching and the eyes half blind, I blurted out the summary of what had happened. The goon was still laughing and slapping me as he smirked and abused me further. The emaciated man got down from the bicycle and parked it in the centre of the road. The goon tore my shirt further, the cyclist came closer and I had this vision I was going to be lynched. I will die not in a encounter now but mob lynching. Memory came to me of the horrible mass lynching and burning of the Ananda Margi priests and nuns on the Ballygunge Bridge.

The Muslim man was very close to me now. And he did something which actually surprised and disoriented me further. With a huge swing of his thin arm he hit the rogue cop across his face and kept hitting him and again. The rogue cop was taken aback, staggered a bit, and then with a growl lunged at the emaciated muslim. I was numbed; now the encounter was assured but of two persons. Newspapers will scream, remember there was no TV media then and the Statesman still made money!, that two criminals from Kidderpore were shot dead by cops at the Exide crossing. And then my nightmare ended. Suddenly the 20-30 men watching the show woke up and raced towards the rogue cop screaming the famous or infamous words of Bengal mobs:  “…Maar Saala ke maar…. Mukh fatiye de… Ghar bhenge de…..”

As a educated Calcuttan I have hated these words; feared them not only from uneducated rickshawwallahs or political cadres but from educated elite who momentarily forget their upbringing --  in the campus when mad seniors would attack juniors who dared to oppose them; smash a poor professor’s house who gave them less marks etc. BUT right now, as I saw the rogue cop sprinting down the street towards his waiting Ambassador with scores of mad Bengalis after him with my Muslim savior leading the charge of the brigade, the words seemed to me like a azaan call from the top of a mosque or a life-saving mantra recitation. And then the hero caught the goon. Dragging him by his collar he was brought to me, trying to put back my glasses at the right spot, and he asked me to slap the rogue cop the way he had done to me. The crowd roared its approval. I almost got carried away. But the sight of my torn shirt and how I was going to ride a bus back home, if they will allow me into the bus, was troubling me. I refused to hit him. Remembering the poignant  words of the wife of a assaulted professor in the campus who did not identify a student culprit in a culprits’ ID parade but just whispered to the student to remember that her husband also has a family and children who saw their father being beaten up, I just said “... see divine justice still exists, if not the police one …”. I heard a couple of the agitated crowd members abuse me for being such a letdown after all the drama. They did not mattered. The person who mattered was standing there having landed a few extra blows on the rogue cop. The cop taking advantage of the break in action turned and ran towards his waiting car and the car sped off. I murmured some gibberish to my savior. He waved it away, picked his bicycle and pedaled down the horizon never again to meet me again. May Allah bless him.

The New Hooghly Bridge: One Architectural Beauty which is not a British Gift to Calcutta

3.   2003-04:   I am still so bad in thanking the good Samaritans.   @ Kolkata

I had returned to the now Kolkata in 1998.  Made a name for myself.  If the above incident was to happen to me now chances were one of the two things may happen. Either  I will be recognized by some students on the road who would rush to help me or that I will be recognized by some students on the road and they would slink away to gossip about of Mr. Kapoor’s criminal antecedents or character that he was seen teasing some women on the streets and the cops really hammered him!

But what a student (not even knowing me) did for me is the third and the last story of facing the blessings of the human chain I talked earlier. In 2003 having left IMS for the first time after 3 years of fame and colleagues’ games, I was forced to start a MBA Prep Classes of my own. Another proof my Bengaliness:  I was more happy teaching at a big institute than running a business of my own. But many have always thought that being a Punjabi I was a born businessman. Talk about the stereotypes!! Anyway I was lucky in the very first year of my classes in 2003. About 100 students enrolled and I was the sole trainer for all the skills: Quants, Verbal, DI, RC and GDPI. Not a bad start for a reluctant starter.

One day I had gone to Saltlake in a cab to meet somebody. Saltlake had changed majorly since 1980s. I actually got a cab ready to go to Saltlake with multiple transportation options also now available. And next morning I realized with horror that I had lost my card pouch somewhere on the way, if not pick-pocketed. The pouch had all my cards. PAN, Debit, Credit, Driving License etc. It was a major loss and a danger of misuse by the finder. I spent the next day making calls and suffering the international-level customer services of Citibank, HSBC etc as I frantically tried to get my cards blocked. But the car-driving license and the PAN card renewal were going to be a horror with I totally busy with my classes and impossible to take out time to kiss the backsides of the government employees to get them reissued. I decided to not think about it for the time being.

I would get out of the house, then in North Kolkata, and race to my South Kolkata Triangular Park Classes for the 7 am class and return home late after 10 pm most of the time. With Lizzie all alone the whole day. And the neighbours (those days they mostly were the non-Bengalis in the building) in the best traditions of the middle class busy character-assassinating a Single person and his madness, not even aware of my achievements and fame in my profession!!

A few days later after the cards loss it was a Sunday and the rare one where I was free. I wanted to get up late and spend the remaining time caring for Lizzie. At 5 am my 4^th Floor flat’s bell rang. It was still dark. I thought I was dreaming when the bell rang again! Cursing the disturbance early morning, I flung the door open with Lizzie barking madly too. There stood a smart formally-dressed young man at the door. The first thought was that I was getting so successful in my classes that a enquiry was landing up at my residence at  5 am for joining!! So though very sleepy and irritated and progressively embarrassed realizing I was almost naked, I blinked and said yes? The young man asked if I was Mr. Rajan Kapoor? Bloody Idiot … seeking a famed guru and asking him his name? I nodded wearily as I tried to look around for a towel to wrap around. He fished out something and asked if it was mine. My Card Pouch!! I snatched it from him and checked inside. All the cards were there. And then I remembered him and forgot my towel. “Where did you get it” I asked. It turned out that he entered the cab after I left it at Saltlake and found it lying on the seat having dropped from my pocket. Opening and seeing the contents, as a educated person he realized the importance of them to the owner. So he decided to take responsibility and hand it personally to me. Those days the cell phones had not yet come in or were a very expensive service and not very common. The land lines were the mode of communication. He saw my residence address on the driving license. He even came over to my building  in some week day to hand it over to me personally and did not find me there. The typical middle class Saas-Bahu combos who normally haunt the Indian homes in the day time, on his ringing the neighbouhood homes bells, said something to the effect that  “Woh toh thoda paagal insaan hain; kab jata hain or kab aata hain kuch nahi fixed!! “. They didn’t bother to help him and he did not bothered to leave the pouch with them!

Imagine ‘respectable’ neighbours, who possibly lecture their children about Izzat, Morals and Responsibilities, busy gossiping about me with a Stranger and the Stranger showing incredible responsibility and civic commitment by refusing to hand over the critical documents to somebody else. He was not obliged to come all the way from his Saltlake residence even once to find me and give me personally the cards. But he did and then realizing that I am not available in the day decided to come again at 5 am so that he WOULD find  me at home as he had no idea where I worked!!!!!

Magic was happening once again. Nature how many miracles YOU have given me in this turbulent life of mine and I am busy finding faults with life. By then my sleep had vanished, my shame acute standing there almost naked, and a strong affection to hug this young professional. I could not express properly the last time with that emaciated uneducated Muslim Saviour of mine; and now a upper middle class Saltlake young man was doing it. I weakly murmured  –  “I don’t know how I will be able to thank you enough ever for the extra-ordinary care, responsibility and maturity you have displayed for a stranger …. God bless you….. errr please come in  …. ( shit !I don’t have any thing at home to treat him!)…errr...”. He saved me my blushes and confusion by saying that he had to leave as he has a flight to catch to New Delhi. He was a first-year MBA student at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Institute of Management (LBSIM). I was amazed he came over to take care of a stranger’s cards at 5 am so that he could  find me personally even when he to catch  a flight in the next few hours. I have not seen such professional training or Personal Upbringing in most Gangs of wASSiimpurs or XL-sized hot bags. I let go of my coyness and hugged my saviour even though I am sure he now believed my neighbours’ gossip that I was a “thoda paagal...”. Or more!!!

I have never met him again ever. But I did write a email to the LBSIM Director narrating the act of the first year student of his and that the student LIVED the principles of Lal Bahadur Shastri the best.

 Epilogue:  I have over the years both as a Trainer, a Mentor  AND as a person tried to go out of the way to help people as much as I could beyond the call of duty and earning money was never a primary motivation for me. This way over the years I have hoped to payback and propagate the magic of Strangers in my life who came from the various strata of society, both educated and uneducated.  It didn’t stop their magic on me. Some students, and  many of my office associates, used me many times to misuse my care even telling me sob stories to fleece me emotionally and financially. They have thought they were smart. I let them be because that was the only blessing they had in their life. Every time I got angry at the misuse I remembered my life’s lessons. The best friends of mine were Strangers who chose to remain so. The Magic of Strangeness. Readers enjoy your life, make love, make careers, make families: BUT do not HURT Strangers. If you don’t like them ignore them. BUT don’t  JOIN IN / BELIEVE the vested interests in harming  a person whom you have no idea of …. or even if you do!!! 

I WISH THIS SMALL BUT A POWERFUL CHAIN OF STRANGENESS  CONTINUES. NAY SPREADS. KOLKATA WILL GET ITS SOUL BACK.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! Calcutta - My Twin mother city along with Mumbai.

© Rajan Kapoor 2012