Sunday, March 23, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Professors - Unplugged !!!
Last month,there happened to be an alumni meeting at our alma mater ,Loyola School.We passed out of school nearly 10 years ago and I haven't quite been a frequent visitor at school since.The school had changed a lot and while we passed the staff room,there weren't many familiar faces there too.I hoped I could see atleast one of our teachers,but couldn't.They had been real special and the staff room bought with it some memories of some truly magnificent teachers that we had.
The first one has to be Jacob Mathew Sir,our chemistry professor.He was around 60,almost always impeccably dressed,in pucca formals,and seriously,if he gave a modelling career a thought,Raymonds and Peter Englands would be at his doorsteps the next day,vying with each other to woo him.Such was the charm he had,and add to it a level head with a toungue that could never utter something unless it was absolutely necessary and appropriate,he was the complete package - a gentleman,head to toe.And we gave him one of the cutest nicknames one could ever think of - Jams - a short for Jacob Mathew sir.Once he was giving a class test and underprepared as we were,malpractice was a foregone conclusion.The thing was not in commiting the sin,but it was in doing it as stealthily as you ever could.One of my classmates,Shivaji,was not very good at being inconspicous,and in a moment of desparation,resorted to peeking into the book of the guy sitting behind him and could not escape Jams's probing eyes which picked him out almost immediately.Normally in such situations,the guy is made to stand and undergo a dressing down right then.But Jams's response was a classic.He reached over his shoulder,looked at Shivaji and gently quipped,
"Shivaji,dont strain too much .You will break your neck ".
There was a delay while the joke sank in,and then the class roared with laughter.
Then there was Gayathri Manohar,our english professor till class Ten.She was the iron lady,with a heart of gold,and with her stern looks and imposing presence,could glare down even Mike Tyson with ease.The only time I remember her soften was at the funeral of one of our classmates,,while we were in class Ten,during which she was uncontrollably in tears.With her,there was no messing around,no half-measures,no pranks and she was the ultimate taskmaster.Her nickname too,almost went wonderfully in tune with the terror that she generated.Gayathri and Manohar got truncated identically to leave Ga and Ma,and the name GaMa just stuck.Once she was about to teach an act from The Merchant Of Venice,by William Shakespeare,when she asked for a copy of the book from one of us.One guy,Boney stood up in a trice and proudly took his book to her.There was reason for him to be proud,as he was one of the guys who came under constant chiding from GaMa for not coming to class with a proper text book.Moreover the book was neatly covered.But for some strange reason,instead of writing the full name-"The Merchant Of Venice"-on the cover,he inscribed just the first letters of each word.
As a result,the book cover read "T.m.o.v".
GaMa took one close look,frowned,then let out the rarest of smiles and said,
"Boney,I dont want the Russian version.Could you please give me the english version instead?".
A bewildered Boney,all his enthusiasm evaporated,was left struggling for words.
Another incredible teacher was Deepa Pillai,alias DP,our English teacher in the Plus Two course.Pint sized and frail,her appearance belied the energy and enthusiasm which she carried within.School days,dramas - whatever cultural programme held at school- the strings were and had to be pulled by DP herself.I haven't seen a better english teacher,and for each verse from Shakespeare's classic tragedy,Hamlet,she would enthrall the class with its hidden meanings,puns and umpteen connotations.And she was very concerned with the grades that each of us were managing to get in each exams and was particularly exasperated with the performance of one of the boys in our class,Harish.He was a gifted hoopster,the school general captain and one of the top athletes in the school,and had then taken to playing the jazz drums for the school choir.Inspite of being an extremely intelligent guy,his grades at school had plummeted badly,and DP badly wanted him to focus more on studies and less on drumming,and one particular day,while distributing the mark sheets to each student,Harish's grades drove her to despair,and she exclaimed,
"And Harish,will you please STop BAnging away at those BLessed DRums?".
The sentence was so magnificently accented and delivered that it came close to resembling a drumbeat sequence in itself.We all stared,impressed at the verse,as DP acknowledged our open mouthed admiration with a sweet little smile,and nonchalantly continued with the distribution of the mark sheets.
There are still much more about school,about which I could go on writing forever.It is great fun recollecting them,and saves me the trouble of reciting boring events,which seem to have "happened" in every school,every year,every batch like how the chemistry professor asked to "take an iron rod of any metal" or how the drill master instructed to open the windows to "let the air force come in".
Teachers at Loyola,take a bow !!
The first one has to be Jacob Mathew Sir,our chemistry professor.He was around 60,almost always impeccably dressed,in pucca formals,and seriously,if he gave a modelling career a thought,Raymonds and Peter Englands would be at his doorsteps the next day,vying with each other to woo him.Such was the charm he had,and add to it a level head with a toungue that could never utter something unless it was absolutely necessary and appropriate,he was the complete package - a gentleman,head to toe.And we gave him one of the cutest nicknames one could ever think of - Jams - a short for Jacob Mathew sir.Once he was giving a class test and underprepared as we were,malpractice was a foregone conclusion.The thing was not in commiting the sin,but it was in doing it as stealthily as you ever could.One of my classmates,Shivaji,was not very good at being inconspicous,and in a moment of desparation,resorted to peeking into the book of the guy sitting behind him and could not escape Jams's probing eyes which picked him out almost immediately.Normally in such situations,the guy is made to stand and undergo a dressing down right then.But Jams's response was a classic.He reached over his shoulder,looked at Shivaji and gently quipped,
"Shivaji,dont strain too much .You will break your neck ".
There was a delay while the joke sank in,and then the class roared with laughter.
Then there was Gayathri Manohar,our english professor till class Ten.She was the iron lady,with a heart of gold,and with her stern looks and imposing presence,could glare down even Mike Tyson with ease.The only time I remember her soften was at the funeral of one of our classmates,,while we were in class Ten,during which she was uncontrollably in tears.With her,there was no messing around,no half-measures,no pranks and she was the ultimate taskmaster.Her nickname too,almost went wonderfully in tune with the terror that she generated.Gayathri and Manohar got truncated identically to leave Ga and Ma,and the name GaMa just stuck.Once she was about to teach an act from The Merchant Of Venice,by William Shakespeare,when she asked for a copy of the book from one of us.One guy,Boney stood up in a trice and proudly took his book to her.There was reason for him to be proud,as he was one of the guys who came under constant chiding from GaMa for not coming to class with a proper text book.Moreover the book was neatly covered.But for some strange reason,instead of writing the full name-"The Merchant Of Venice"-on the cover,he inscribed just the first letters of each word.
As a result,the book cover read "T.m.o.v".
GaMa took one close look,frowned,then let out the rarest of smiles and said,
"Boney,I dont want the Russian version.Could you please give me the english version instead?".
A bewildered Boney,all his enthusiasm evaporated,was left struggling for words.
Another incredible teacher was Deepa Pillai,alias DP,our English teacher in the Plus Two course.Pint sized and frail,her appearance belied the energy and enthusiasm which she carried within.School days,dramas - whatever cultural programme held at school- the strings were and had to be pulled by DP herself.I haven't seen a better english teacher,and for each verse from Shakespeare's classic tragedy,Hamlet,she would enthrall the class with its hidden meanings,puns and umpteen connotations.And she was very concerned with the grades that each of us were managing to get in each exams and was particularly exasperated with the performance of one of the boys in our class,Harish.He was a gifted hoopster,the school general captain and one of the top athletes in the school,and had then taken to playing the jazz drums for the school choir.Inspite of being an extremely intelligent guy,his grades at school had plummeted badly,and DP badly wanted him to focus more on studies and less on drumming,and one particular day,while distributing the mark sheets to each student,Harish's grades drove her to despair,and she exclaimed,
"And Harish,will you please STop BAnging away at those BLessed DRums?".
The sentence was so magnificently accented and delivered that it came close to resembling a drumbeat sequence in itself.We all stared,impressed at the verse,as DP acknowledged our open mouthed admiration with a sweet little smile,and nonchalantly continued with the distribution of the mark sheets.
There are still much more about school,about which I could go on writing forever.It is great fun recollecting them,and saves me the trouble of reciting boring events,which seem to have "happened" in every school,every year,every batch like how the chemistry professor asked to "take an iron rod of any metal" or how the drill master instructed to open the windows to "let the air force come in".
Teachers at Loyola,take a bow !!
Monday, January 21, 2008
Glassy Recollections
Last week,taking the cue from one of my friends,I decided that I would undergo laser treatment to my eyes.It was easy,he said,just a half an hour at the doc's,and your eyesight would be back to normal and you could dump your spectacles for good.The talk about the specs took me for a walk down the memory lane,with my glasses by my side.
They had come, the light of my eyes, neatly wrapped in a shiny plastic case with the name of the shop neatly embossed on it, in golden italic letters, and a yellow satin cloth inside to wipe them clean.
They were initially taken off before sleep, carefully with both my hands , wiped clean with the cloth and tenderly placed back into the box. As time went by, I would whip them off and toss them on to my table. The cloth, replaced by the loose ends of my shirts, disappeared first, followed by the box, which ended up covered in dust, at some forgotten corner of my wardrobe. As a result, within weeks of purchase, they invariably end up with one leg pointing towards London and the other towards America.
They made the text on billboards and films on television clearer, and saved me from the wrath of many who would smile at me from far away, only to meet my blind, blank stare. They have emboldened me to look people in the eye, as I know it wouldn’t be very easy for them to see my eyes, through the glasses.
They contrived with my then awkward gait, to give me the geek look, but the competition from my miserable grades right through school and college was too much for them and ultimately the grades won, hands down.
They made me very appearance-conscious, and despite instructions from the doctor to wear them permanently and persuasion from my parents, I always made sure that they rested in my pockets till I crossed the row of shops on either side of the road, which preceded the rather deserted path which led to my school.
They ruined an otherwise good looking photograph of mine--which honestly speaking, is quite a rarity--by reflecting the studio lights with a vengeance. Despite the best efforts from me and the photographer, neither the good looks nor thankfully the glare, repeated itself again.
They once silently rested on my nose, as if mocking at me, while I ran desperately all around the school, searching playgrounds and bathrooms thinking that I lost them. I realized they were still with me, only when, temporarily forgetting that I had "lost" them, I involuntarily readjusted their position on the bridge of my nose.
They have evolved from brown to black, oval to square, from biggish to smallish, the evolutions being triggered by wear and tear or by the latest fashion trends. But the demise of the first pair was the most tragic.
“They were in the pocket of my shirt,
The shirt was hanging on the door,
The door was then slammed tightly shut,
They were smashed and crashed to the floor.”
Nice rhyme, but such a cute piece of poetry occurring to me while speaking of this incident seems quite an anticlimax, as the sight of them crushed to a hundred glass pieces, jammed between the door and the wall, had been too much to bear. I got a sound thrashing from dad that day and a brand new pair on the next.
They have reduced RayBan and PolicE brands to utter irrelevance as far as I am concerned, as sunglasses don’t come with provisions for the visually imperfect, and wearing sunglasses over your eyeglasses isn't exactly what you call sanity.
They haven't been a permanent fixture on my nose of late, and they come up from my pocket only in the event of something interesting (read beautiful) cropping up before me. While at college, me wearing them and looking in a particular direction was a sure-shot indicator of a pretty someone walking past, and scores of hopeful adolescent eyes would soon follow mine. The flip side of the whole thing was that even some of my innocent, unassuming glances were quite often grossly misunderstood.
They get deposited by me, at the oddest of places, on bathroom window sills, on living-room cushions, in trouser pockets and many such unlikely places. I go mad hunting for them, and keep everyone around me on tenterhooks as well. They do resurface at the end, leaving a sheepish smile on my face, but the resultant mess-the upturned cushions,malaligned furniture,rummaged wardrobes- takes at least another hour to get cleaned up.
With the surgery imminent,my glasses wouldn't be staying with me for long.Even with a perfect 10/10 vision,and free from all the fuss which accompanies them,and the fact that I can spot a RayBan without bothering about them,I realize I would miss them ,and miss badly - my unsung companions,their reassuring presence,the desperate spectacle hunts - and the more I think about them,the more second thoughts am I having about letting them go.
They had come, the light of my eyes, neatly wrapped in a shiny plastic case with the name of the shop neatly embossed on it, in golden italic letters, and a yellow satin cloth inside to wipe them clean.
They were initially taken off before sleep, carefully with both my hands , wiped clean with the cloth and tenderly placed back into the box. As time went by, I would whip them off and toss them on to my table. The cloth, replaced by the loose ends of my shirts, disappeared first, followed by the box, which ended up covered in dust, at some forgotten corner of my wardrobe. As a result, within weeks of purchase, they invariably end up with one leg pointing towards London and the other towards America.
They made the text on billboards and films on television clearer, and saved me from the wrath of many who would smile at me from far away, only to meet my blind, blank stare. They have emboldened me to look people in the eye, as I know it wouldn’t be very easy for them to see my eyes, through the glasses.
They contrived with my then awkward gait, to give me the geek look, but the competition from my miserable grades right through school and college was too much for them and ultimately the grades won, hands down.
They made me very appearance-conscious, and despite instructions from the doctor to wear them permanently and persuasion from my parents, I always made sure that they rested in my pockets till I crossed the row of shops on either side of the road, which preceded the rather deserted path which led to my school.
They ruined an otherwise good looking photograph of mine--which honestly speaking, is quite a rarity--by reflecting the studio lights with a vengeance. Despite the best efforts from me and the photographer, neither the good looks nor thankfully the glare, repeated itself again.
They once silently rested on my nose, as if mocking at me, while I ran desperately all around the school, searching playgrounds and bathrooms thinking that I lost them. I realized they were still with me, only when, temporarily forgetting that I had "lost" them, I involuntarily readjusted their position on the bridge of my nose.
They have evolved from brown to black, oval to square, from biggish to smallish, the evolutions being triggered by wear and tear or by the latest fashion trends. But the demise of the first pair was the most tragic.
“They were in the pocket of my shirt,
The shirt was hanging on the door,
The door was then slammed tightly shut,
They were smashed and crashed to the floor.”
Nice rhyme, but such a cute piece of poetry occurring to me while speaking of this incident seems quite an anticlimax, as the sight of them crushed to a hundred glass pieces, jammed between the door and the wall, had been too much to bear. I got a sound thrashing from dad that day and a brand new pair on the next.
They have reduced RayBan and PolicE brands to utter irrelevance as far as I am concerned, as sunglasses don’t come with provisions for the visually imperfect, and wearing sunglasses over your eyeglasses isn't exactly what you call sanity.
They haven't been a permanent fixture on my nose of late, and they come up from my pocket only in the event of something interesting (read beautiful) cropping up before me. While at college, me wearing them and looking in a particular direction was a sure-shot indicator of a pretty someone walking past, and scores of hopeful adolescent eyes would soon follow mine. The flip side of the whole thing was that even some of my innocent, unassuming glances were quite often grossly misunderstood.
They get deposited by me, at the oddest of places, on bathroom window sills, on living-room cushions, in trouser pockets and many such unlikely places. I go mad hunting for them, and keep everyone around me on tenterhooks as well. They do resurface at the end, leaving a sheepish smile on my face, but the resultant mess-the upturned cushions,malaligned furniture,rummaged wardrobes- takes at least another hour to get cleaned up.
With the surgery imminent,my glasses wouldn't be staying with me for long.Even with a perfect 10/10 vision,and free from all the fuss which accompanies them,and the fact that I can spot a RayBan without bothering about them,I realize I would miss them ,and miss badly - my unsung companions,their reassuring presence,the desperate spectacle hunts - and the more I think about them,the more second thoughts am I having about letting them go.
Monday, January 14, 2008
'INVITATIO'Nailed !
They say marriages are made in heaven. But outsourcing being the order of the day, it seems marriages too have been outsourced from heaven nowadays. The quintessential marriage broker and marriage bureaus have taken a backseat as more and more get to find their better halves by themselves. Though largely unsuccessful so far, I have put in quite a number of efforts to this end myself.
The main bottleneck has been the shortlisting.Talkative girls don’t make the cut, so doesn't the fashionable and the over-socializing ones. No mirror cracking materials please, as she would get soon get bored going about cracking mirrors without my company. But long hair and intelligence are an absolute must-I still have my demands, you see. If at all some lady meets all the criteria she would have to still have to get acquainted with me and at least pick up a friendship with me. Sounds wishful thinking, but let me tell you, there has been more than one on my list so far. To be precise, six of them.
Now the twist in the tale. Of the six, two were already married, one was engaged, another one was already in love and the last two got engaged within a month of me meeting them. Call it pessimism or whatever you want, but I formulated my own theory about girls and me. Bring any girl who is struggling to find her match, due to reasons ranging from domestic to monetary to horoscopic, get me to like her and within a month, her cup of matrimonial woes would be empty and mine would be that much fuller.
Then I happened to switch my job. Quite often a change does you a world of good. Sometimes a change is what makes Lady Luck to cast her benevolence on us.Atleast that was what I hoped when I joined the new job. My hope wasn't out of place at all, when within a week I spotted what was to be the next entry on my growing list. She had joined recently and sat diagonally opposite to me. There was everything, the charming smile, long hair, simple dressing and calm demeanor and the fact that I didn’t even know anything about her couldn't put me off at all. Before long, glances and smiles were exchanged, and my brain worked overtime to correlate the smiles and glances to something like a mutual liking. Except for the smiles and glances, we never talked to each other. From my past relationships one thing which I had learnt was instead of being pushy,it was always better to be patiently bide my time and wait for the break.
So far, so good. By the way, I am not in a position to reveal the name of the girl, so let me call her Miss. DreamGirl.I needed to find out more about Miss. Dream Girl, starting with her name. The problem here was that since both of us were new at the office, there weren’t many whom I could ask for such sensitive data and there wouldn't be many who actually would know the details. That was when one day, luckily, I met this particular guy at our pantry. I will call him Mr.GodSend.Mr.GodSend was a talkative fellow, and since then, we used to talk occasionally over coffee. The talk was pretty much the boring crap - about the latest bank interests, housing loans, worsening condition of the roads of Cochin, train timings - the topics which come to your rescue when your interests doesn't match with someone and you still have to pick up a conversation. Though he was quite good at gossip-mongering, I was apprehensive about asking Mr. Godsend about Miss.DreamGirl as his chat never veered to "girl-topics”, as we call them. But his furtive glances and knowing smiles at me whenever a pretty, well-endowed female walked past us made me feel confident that he could be my man. I went ahead and managed to get her name from him, and also came to know that even her native place was the same as mine.
The signs were pretty bright and I sat down and formulated my plans. I methodically rehearsed our first conversations and the questions that I would ask her and so on. Meanwhile the glances continued, the smiles grew wider and the occasional one line conversations started to flourish too. Things were slowly picking up pace when after some days our Mr. Godsend came up to invite me for his marriage. He handed me his wedding invitation.DreamGirl was invited too,and was attending,so I made up my mind that I would attend too, and I joked to him about how me and Miss.DreamGirl would come to his seat to invite him to our marriage. He departed, and I folded the invitation and put it into my table to find yet another invitation there.Out of sheer curiosity I opened it.
I would have admired the card, with its silver background and embossed golden letters, if it was not for the content. I read the card again, hoping that I had read it wrong. But I hadn’t. The bride happened to be our Miss.DreamGirl and the saddest part was the date of wedding-it had happened a good two months before. I couldn’t help cursing her for not sporting at least an obvious Sindhoor mark on her forehead.
Months have passed,Miss.DreamGirl was promptly rechristened Mrs.DreamGirl,she is expecting a baby in a few months, Mr.Godsend is happily married and I am still drawing up lists and cutting the entries off with a speed that only my fast-running-out optimism can match.
The main bottleneck has been the shortlisting.Talkative girls don’t make the cut, so doesn't the fashionable and the over-socializing ones. No mirror cracking materials please, as she would get soon get bored going about cracking mirrors without my company. But long hair and intelligence are an absolute must-I still have my demands, you see. If at all some lady meets all the criteria she would have to still have to get acquainted with me and at least pick up a friendship with me. Sounds wishful thinking, but let me tell you, there has been more than one on my list so far. To be precise, six of them.
Now the twist in the tale. Of the six, two were already married, one was engaged, another one was already in love and the last two got engaged within a month of me meeting them. Call it pessimism or whatever you want, but I formulated my own theory about girls and me. Bring any girl who is struggling to find her match, due to reasons ranging from domestic to monetary to horoscopic, get me to like her and within a month, her cup of matrimonial woes would be empty and mine would be that much fuller.
Then I happened to switch my job. Quite often a change does you a world of good. Sometimes a change is what makes Lady Luck to cast her benevolence on us.Atleast that was what I hoped when I joined the new job. My hope wasn't out of place at all, when within a week I spotted what was to be the next entry on my growing list. She had joined recently and sat diagonally opposite to me. There was everything, the charming smile, long hair, simple dressing and calm demeanor and the fact that I didn’t even know anything about her couldn't put me off at all. Before long, glances and smiles were exchanged, and my brain worked overtime to correlate the smiles and glances to something like a mutual liking. Except for the smiles and glances, we never talked to each other. From my past relationships one thing which I had learnt was instead of being pushy,it was always better to be patiently bide my time and wait for the break.
So far, so good. By the way, I am not in a position to reveal the name of the girl, so let me call her Miss. DreamGirl.I needed to find out more about Miss. Dream Girl, starting with her name. The problem here was that since both of us were new at the office, there weren’t many whom I could ask for such sensitive data and there wouldn't be many who actually would know the details. That was when one day, luckily, I met this particular guy at our pantry. I will call him Mr.GodSend.Mr.GodSend was a talkative fellow, and since then, we used to talk occasionally over coffee. The talk was pretty much the boring crap - about the latest bank interests, housing loans, worsening condition of the roads of Cochin, train timings - the topics which come to your rescue when your interests doesn't match with someone and you still have to pick up a conversation. Though he was quite good at gossip-mongering, I was apprehensive about asking Mr. Godsend about Miss.DreamGirl as his chat never veered to "girl-topics”, as we call them. But his furtive glances and knowing smiles at me whenever a pretty, well-endowed female walked past us made me feel confident that he could be my man. I went ahead and managed to get her name from him, and also came to know that even her native place was the same as mine.
The signs were pretty bright and I sat down and formulated my plans. I methodically rehearsed our first conversations and the questions that I would ask her and so on. Meanwhile the glances continued, the smiles grew wider and the occasional one line conversations started to flourish too. Things were slowly picking up pace when after some days our Mr. Godsend came up to invite me for his marriage. He handed me his wedding invitation.DreamGirl was invited too,and was attending,so I made up my mind that I would attend too, and I joked to him about how me and Miss.DreamGirl would come to his seat to invite him to our marriage. He departed, and I folded the invitation and put it into my table to find yet another invitation there.Out of sheer curiosity I opened it.
I would have admired the card, with its silver background and embossed golden letters, if it was not for the content. I read the card again, hoping that I had read it wrong. But I hadn’t. The bride happened to be our Miss.DreamGirl and the saddest part was the date of wedding-it had happened a good two months before. I couldn’t help cursing her for not sporting at least an obvious Sindhoor mark on her forehead.
Months have passed,Miss.DreamGirl was promptly rechristened Mrs.DreamGirl,she is expecting a baby in a few months, Mr.Godsend is happily married and I am still drawing up lists and cutting the entries off with a speed that only my fast-running-out optimism can match.
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