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 Ejaculation 6: Ranjan Bhattacharya: A Visit to Past.

Ranjan Bhattacharya is dead. He died by lung cancer in 1987. The following is a remembrance I wrote weeping after his death for the Company newsletter, though not as uncensored as this version, where both us then worked. I didn’t want to write a hypocritical obituary; it should be as it was. Today as I go through it I am awestruck by, in the words of Steve Jobs, the connection of dots looking back.

WE MEET

Five years ago (1982) I had been to the Company A’s interview at The Great Eastern Hotel, Calcutta. I had been shortlisted as a Officer Trainee, through a national level Entrance Test (very similar to CAT) conducted by IIM Calcutta on behalf of the Company A. Here was a leading company of India, with an American Multinational past and still enduring culture, a blue-chip Company as a career prospect for a graduating Chemical Engineer like me.

All the prospective Officer Trainees had come nervous and ready for a cut-throat 30 minutes Group Discussion (GD) followed by a Interview. The panel came in and explained the ground rules of the GD. The topic given was: Presidential System Vs Prime Ministerial System of Governance in India. I silently swore at the staid topic and decided to play a smart game! I would grab the delivery of opening the discussion, keep rambling for a couple of minutes and then let others handle the baby. I was sure none of us would come up with a fruitful discussion on this boring topic. So I planned to spend the remaining time nodding and smiling energetically (pretending to be thoroughly involved and understanding) and then pick up the lead in the last few minutes and sum up with a flourish all the points which others would come out with!

The discussion started aggressively. The lead from me was followed by a raucous medley before Number 5 - a plump, fair guy, with an unruly mop of hair, having as many pimples on his handsome face as I had on my ugly one. In impeccable English he began methodically listing the points in favour of the Presidential System.

Immediately I sensed ‘danger’. My confidence (which tends to be in excess) took a jolt. In a few minutes this articulate speaker was stage-managing the whole show. I decided to play safe and avoided a direct confrontation with Number 5 – to stay in the run for selection, Others tried to match him. Number 5 demolished them with his speech, content and a most disarmingly charming smile!

In the last few minutes I was desperately seeking to sum up the discussion to show  “Leadership Qualities” to the Selectors watching us. I somehow grabbed the lead, murmured something about time running out and the need to sum up – and then I realized I did not know what to sum up!  Panic engulfed me. My God I am caught in my over-smartness. And then I played a dirty trick in desperation. With a flourish of a dramatic act I said: “… though I favour the present system of Government, I request Number 5 to sum up today’s discussion for us. Thank You!”.  Number 5 blinked for a while, realized I was passing the buck to him; He recovered and flashing the same disarmingly charming smile went on to make a superb summary of our discussion. That was my First Meeting with Ranjan Bhattacharya. A smart Chemical Engineer from the Jadavpur University.

WE MEET AGAIN, RANJAN

Some months later I was surprised to get a joining letter from Company A! In the days, when jobs (mostly IT) in the 3rd year like today's engineering colleges was not a norm and we all had to mostly job hunt on our own. I packed and got ready for the City of Gold. Initially we were put up at the St Xavier's College Hostel, Bombay where the Xavier Institute of Management was to coordinate our 2-month residential Company Induction Programme. As we stumbled into one another in the balcony of the conference room, the first thing I got to hear was some curious juxtaposition of English, Hindi and Bengali gaalis for the dirty trick I had played on him during the GD time! Then we became friends. I asked him what or who the heck was a “ croak” or something like that he had kept talking in the GD that day. Ranjan showed a grimace of a superior intellect-possessed Entity, then went on to correct me with a condescending smile- “ arrey Baba, not a croak…. Howard Roark!”. I still had no idea what he was talking about but the embarrassment of admitting my ignorance, even though I thought I was a “well-read” person, I changed the topic.

Ranjan, I liked your sense of humour more wacky even by my standards. You would out-match my feeble attempts at witticisms. You had a full-throat laughter that went on non-stop for at least 2 minutes and sounded something between a thundering cloud and a screeching automobile. But it was infectious!  I was awed by your well-read intelligence. You finally explained about Howard Roark in Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead, which I had to read 5 times before I understood it and it went to become a gospel for me. What You found in me, God only knows; but we soon became inseparable friends.

(Author's Note: It is remarkable how many instances of The Fountainhead  have repeated in my life till today  as I look back albeit in a more real-life versions. Do we start copying our gospels or is it a beyond-our-understanding happenings?)

 
We would go to restaurants, and while others sipped bottles of beer on getting the first salary, we gulped glasses of ‘lassi’ competing to finish the largest number of ‘Lassis’.

We were a “Unity in Extremity”. You spent the time impressing the visiting faculty at the Xavier’s classes, I spent the time impressing (or trying to) the girls in the class. When I fell head over heels in infatuation for a girl, I thought I was great; You called me a fool. You were right. Where she went I have no idea!

Suffering your “I told you so”s after that, I took my revenge  by winning the 2^nd prize in Public Speaking in the finals at the Taj Hotel, Bombay ballroom where You lost. In the evening we went to the Leopold Café and drank beer for the first time the whole night, and then walked drunk on the deserted streets of Bombay till dawn, when it dawned on us that we had not informed the Xavier’s Hostel of our night-out and we will have to pay a severe penalty for the same.

Skinny Dipping!

The Induction over, we were happy to know that we were getting the company accommodation in the Officer’s colony, in a 8-room Chummery, two in each room. Walking daily to the Officer’s club which was a bachelor’s den mostly, we would ogle at the Aunties and their daughters and whisper about our fantasies! Every evening after work we would go to the Chembur Station Area and ogle at many more girls and drink our mandatory Lassis. Naturally, to attract women we had to make a ‘body’ to attract them. So we joined the local Talwalkar’s Gym. I joined first. You left first.

We would dream of making a Writer-Cartoonist team which would generate comics better than Goscinny- Uderzo’s Asterix comics. My great idea was about a hero  HanuMAN - the Original Superman! It never materialised because we could never decide which one of us was a better writer or a cartoonist. (and today people have cartoon series on Bal Ganesha, Bal Hanuman, etc!!) We decided to break our ‘virginity’ of drinking hard drinks in the coming Officer’s Party. We lost it totally that night and spent the next day trying to prove each other more drunk than self. Till the next Officer’s party when it would start again.

Cheers. Typically I am 'down' and Ranjan, formally dressed even for a party, busy eating!

Even for the following 8-month around-the-departments training we were together in the same sub group. During the day we would try to out-smart each other in influencing the department manager who among us was the more intelligent one; the evenings we would rip apart the concerned manager in the most irreverent terms. In 1983 after the training we got posted in different departments. You in Operations and I in Technical Services. Typically, we wanted each other’s department!

WE QUARREL

Then something unbelievable happened. We fought. We stopped talking. We did not talk for weeks. Abused each other behind each other’s back. It looked we would never talk again. And then one evening as I alighted from a car lift back home I saw You waiting near the gate. I pretended not to have seen you and was surprised as I crossed you that You called out my name. I turned and then seeing your face I knew something major was up. You asked me to help You.  When I heard the problem I was shocked and also pained that You of all people would have done it. But it was not time to talk about morality. You were scared of the symptoms and feared the worst. We quietly slinked out of the colony and caught a cab to the nearest Government hospital. I chose a government hospital for anonymity versus if we went to a private doctor. As I sat near you I grimaced and trying to not let you know I had shifted away from your touch. Who knows if it was infectious. 

In the cab You confessed that during your visit to Kolkata on holidays You had gone out to drink with your friends and got badly drunk and landed up in a ‘coloured’ area. On waking up You realized what You had ended up doing. And now you were afraid if you were infected. I was flabbergasted. Ranjan not You. Man not only we are virgins, we with all the pretences were supposed to remain so….. well at least not lose it with such a person! You looked so crestfallen and made me swear that I will not tell anybody. I said I won’t but shifted a few more inches away from you as discreetly as I could.

In a queer way having listened to you, Ranjan, I felt proud it was I you thought of to take help from even when we were not talking. I took it as a endorsement of my trustworthiness.

I didn’t know which dept. to take you to. So using my bookish GK I sneak to a matronly looking nurse sitting nearby and whisper – “Ma’am where is the STD dept.?”. That bitch screams and say “… Kya bolto…. STD dept. pahije?”. Hundreds of heads in a crowded government hospital  turned towards ME and then jumped back!!!! Ranjan had already melted into the crowd. And I felt like a idiot standing there as sniggers abounded around me making fun of me and commenting on the wayward youth. WTF!!  In horror I leaned further towards the matron trying to gesticulate to her to tone down. It only spurred her to continue in loud shrieks giving me the directions and then as I tried to bolt she came out with the lightning…..” Kya kiya hai tumne, eh?”. I must have run my fastest 100 metres of my life from her to try and melt into the crowd and then finding in horror the crowd running faster away from me.

Finally the STD department is reached. Another bulldog-looking matron is sitting there. Wiser, I go and whisper to her that, “ I have come for my FRIEND’s problem; please take care of us by not speaking loud”. Her logic was impeccable. “ Kay ko Sharmane ka…. Sab yahi bolte hai!  Aur tum yeh STD department mein aaya hain toh sab ko waise hi maloom ho gaya!!! Just bolo kya hain?”.  I turned back with a murderous look to find Ranjan hiding behind a pillar and asked him curtly to come over and tell her. A doctor was due so we were asked to wait. The doctor came accompanied by a dozen of medical students, young men and women, and went into the chamber. We both looked at each other with white faces and were on the verge of getting up and running, when the bulldog matron called Ranjan in.

After a long interval Ranjan came out looking totally devastated. I was gearing up for the worst. He caught my arm and we both sprinted out of the hospital. In the midst of the run I realized  he was holding me!!!!! Vision of having the worst sufferings of my friend’s indiscretions flooded my brain. But was it too late anyway? As we stood under the shade of some thick trees outside, He told me there was nothing to fear. It was a minor temporary thing and it would be all ok soon. Gosh. Then I asked him why was he looking so crestfallen coming out of the doctor’s room. He hesitated and wanted to change the topic. On my persistence that I’m there to help him and I should know all….Ranjan confessed. He would have been happy after the check-up if it had not been done in front of all the dozen interns, with his pants down, and having to wait till a long academic lecture to students ended on his affliction!

The good news and the now hilarious once-in-a-life experience coupled with the pride I felt that he came to me for critical help was exhilarating. I thought we will never fight again. We did a few months later. May be it was because of some doubts about secrecy or may be our great friendship was too much in glare. Ever since from 1984 we have never talked to each other (though we did make some feeble indirect attempts). AND NOW FROM 1987 onwards WE CAN NEVER TALK.

Over the next 3 years from 1984, You went on picking  new friends with your varied activities and zest for life. I went on picking up new enemies with my active tongue and rigid mind.  I talked about trekking, You went to trek. I talked about adventure sports. You went mountaineering and skiing. I dreamed about becoming a glamour photographer. You actually clicked!  I became a laughing stock with my Bullet motor bike accidents. You beat me in it by having the largest number of scooter falls in the shortest period of time.

Yes Ranjan. Whether we talked or not, it was always a game of One-upmanship between us. You one-upped me on the first day we met in the GD; You one-upped me in all types of adventures; Ranjan you were one-up even in our bloody names! (and to rub it in Bengal they always wrote my name a Ranjan!)

And now You are ONE-UP by leaving this god-forsaken world.

With You no more around, Friendship will never be the same word to me again. I envied You when I saw the photographs clicked by you. I envied you when I read and published your diary extracts & sketches on trekking in the Officers’ Colony Magazine. And I envy You right now sitting UP there, with a smug look, in Heaven while I fret and frown through life in this wilderness of world.

You have WON, my friend; as usual as you have won. Heads You win, the Tale is of my loss.

Au Revoir!
 © Rajan Kapoor 2012