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 12: English Vinglish ... Teacher, Feature...School, Fool..

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.

 

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…)

© Rajan Kapoor 2012