Another brick in the Wall.

Not so long ago, when ass meant donkey, rubber meant eraser and desibaba.com used to have more hits than the Facebook login page, there was this little me. A young teenager, he would look forward to spend a few eventful hours every week in the dingiest, shabbiest of 5 ft by 10 ft rooms in pursuit of learning, shall we say, good English. Accompanying him were a few other mortals, like him. But then, there was another one, not quite in the same league as theirs. Someone, who tried to educate them.  “Syar”, they used to call him.

The room was an architectural marvel in itself. Amidst a fine backdrop of greenery adorned by Partheniums, the interiors exuded no less beauty. The soot, cobwebs and dust had their say in almost everything that the cracking walls offered. Finally, the shattered window pane and the creaking 4ft by 10 ft door put the icing on the cake. Sir took great efforts/pains to revive their true colours once in a while, only for them to reclaim their glory a few days later. 

Finally, there were the usual suspects. Innumerable “bet er mora”s adorned the floor and  most of them, during my days there, were at the twilight of their lives. A big red chair was the envy of all except the one who sat on it (Sir). A table, with feeble knees, carried the weight of the world on its shoulders, finely balanced on its two sides thanks to Sir’s notes, files, Radient Readers, Question Papers, Webster’s, Shakespeare(s) and all that Sir English literature had to offer to students. Also in the supporting role were matchboxes, candles, festive greetings and all those things who found their love/destiny on it, courtesy one’s carelessness/forgetfulness. The table had an Uncle Podger feel to it.

Every day, the classes would begin amidst much hullaballoo. No sooner than Sir’s dirty yellow scooter/green Maruti 800 was visible at some distance, we would flock near the door so as to get that hotseat which we desired. (The context of this hotseat would vary from person to person).The moment Sir unlocked the door, each one of us would try to barge in, and in the process, get/receive a few knocks depending on the stars. A dying concrete soul would be brimming with humanity. The class would commence.

The room would be buzzing with activity- On some days, Wren&Martin, O.Henry, R.L Stevenson, Wordsworth would come to life with their majestic works. Whether it was “Home they brought the warrior dead” or Treasure Island or Alice’s/Lucy’s/Daffodils’ exploits, the treatment of the subject was of the highest class. Sir’s narration and the enactment would keep us spellbound as we visualized those scenes for the umpteenth time. On others we would be busy scratching our heads to convey the eternal water clogging problem to the Head of the Municipality. Or scribble down the notes which mostly contained the chartbusters of the question papers.

A word about the collection of notes Sir had. Came in myriad colours (brown, violet, green mostly). Most of them seemed to have survived a world war. Especially, a few of them which were hardest to decipher and at times reminded us of the carvings at Mohenjo-Daro. Nonetheless, they were priceless in their content and though they lacked the oomph factor, decoding and later encoding them successfully during the examinations paid rich dividends! Won’t be surprised if I see one of those featuring as an ancient relic in the next Lara Croft adventure.

And amidst all this, there would be pranks, laughter and fun. A few innocuous glances would be exchanged and some whispering /murmuring would prevail to notify those glances. A few wry smiles would be shared at the cost of one’s sense of fashion/lack of knowledge. The current state of the Indian cricket team (which wasn’t Team India back then) provided the juiciest of gossips. And then, at times, Sir would gorge on some rather delicious (by the looks of it) homemade food on the pretext of having been starving the whole day. At others, we would be treated with tit bits owing to Sir’s birthday celebrations.

Events of power failures were accompanied by loud cheers. Sir would promptly light the candles and would place them on four corners of the table and the class would continue. We would be joined by the evergreen mosquitoes that were having the time of their lives, literally. In most cases, upon our requests, Sir would narrate a joke/real life incident that would soon turn into an impromptu adda session, the climax of which would be intervened by the arrival of power. How I miss those days!

In the present day, that dingy room doesn’t exist anymore. Its rejuvenated version provides shelter to mankind. However, it will always be in my cherished memoirs for all the good times I had. The jokes. The leg pulling incidents.The addas.The essays. For the innumerable times I was excited to tell others that Sir actually scored 100 runs off 1 ball.Those who have heard the story from the great man himself,will probably know about this achievement of Sir's.

As for the rest,never mind. :)

A slice of innocence

The paan wallas in Kolkata seem to be in a league of their own.  From toothbrushes to soaps, fancy combs to hair removal creams, early morning digestives to late night condoms, you name it-they have it! Just the other day, I was  pretty amused by this little kiddo  whom I happened to come across at the neighbourhood ‘paan’ shop. This   guy got himself a bubble gum, made a ‘don’t mess with me’ kind of a face and then demanded the tattoo that came with it from the shop keeper. Like a whiff of fresh air,  a few memoirs of the best part of  my life-my childhood resurfaced into my minds once again.

          Those were the times indeed. Some 15 years ago. The HFC TYPE 4 quarters township brimmed with the existence of life. And cricket too. We had two quite big fields in our township and one of them was rather grainy! Nonetheless, cricket prevailed all over the place.

 My MRF bat(a replica) which my mesho gifted me  infused some royal blood in me. Possessing it was an honour. Every day ,dot at four, I hopped from  my house to Sunny’s, had a blast with carton network(courtesy swat kats), went to our favorite hunting ground, assembled all other protégés(most of whom loved to sleep) and the game began. From swashbuckling cover drives to outrageous appeals, brilliant yorkers to blatant hit-wickets,you name it-we got it. Most of them would end with cliffhangers and occasionally many an act of ‘chottamo/choramo’ would creep in.

          However, the levels of commitment we exhibited in that small garden were truely one of its kind. It did not really matter to us how scorching the Sun was in the midst of may when we went out to play.Or the mornings at 11 when 1-t-1-hand short cricket found itself busy in Biswas Kaku’s garden. The games were punched with heroics that were second to none. Bhanjan da taking a stunning catch which resulting in a bruised hand. Me diving on the ground and making my shirt feel the heat of the game. Sunny bowling a mind blowing delivery to knock out  a stump(and eventually it was Banik store to blame for their poor quality of stumps. Some even commented that we should demand compensation from the shop!).Rajdeep da hitting the ball rather well only to result in the ball getting lost in Mazumdar Kakima’s rather unclean garden and getting himself cursed  by his own brother, in the process,and what not. Countless tennis balls saw their doomsday underneath the natural vegetation or the sewage pipes. Countless window panes died prematurely.Nevertheless,Cricket was our religion and the Gods varied according to their form!

 At 12 noon,I remember, we would cool our heels under the neem tree that provided a shade. And the evergreen “ice cream” walla would pass by, and being men, we paid no heeds to our  mothers’ eternal wishes (read:frantic screams) not to have a 1rs worth pepcee! Must admit though that the adulteration, in those days was a bit less and as for the quality of water-I have no clue. But the Rs 5 invariants were made of “milk” –so they said.Who cared,really?!

We loved to watch cricket too.I was a keen follower of the game.And Doordarshan never did justice to it it sufficient amounts!Cable T.V wasn’t quite a necessity commodity, back then. Those who possessed it, were really envied at by us, the unlucky ones who had to find some place or the other to watch Azhar’s antics with the bat or Jadeja’s pyrotechniques.What made it more special was the fact that Cricket wasn’t being played round the year,and the Team India that exists now was just India then.More matches were lost than won.As a result of which, any win(even if against Kenya) was welcomed with joyous celebrations,endless discussions and  spectacular conclusions about which Big Fun superstar should we buy next.

Big Fun. Perhaps the shittiest gum I have ever had in my life.It had this blatant taste which did no make any sense, really given its steep price. Yet,I spent a fortune over it.I was a huge fan of big fun bubble gum.They gave cool cricketer’s cards, one with each gum you buy.After every new series,like say the Titan Cup,a new series of cards were introduced and there you go. Many of my friends competed with me and at one point of time, EVERY single penny gifted to me/taken from baba’s  trousers  was invested in Big Fun! So much so,I would bargain with the shopkeeper to give me Re 1’s worth cricketer cards and not the bubble gum! How I miss those days. How I miss my innocence.

Today, its all so different. The H.F.C township has crumbled into ruins because the factory ceased to exist in 2002.Most of the quarters have become manifestations of crumbling structures interlaced with natural greenery. Tugs at the innermost chords of my heart whenever I visualize what was and what’s left of it. The fields have been baptized into green pastures. Cricket has breathed its last.Not for a long time,shall we hear the frenzy sounds of ‘ice cereeeam’ ,’pep ceeeee’ at noon. Or the sight of a few guys pondering over what should be done after a glass window has been shattered and curses are being showered with. Or the dejected faces after a new ball had made its way into a snake’s pit. Cricket has breathed its last in this part of world. All that’s left of it are these golden memories which will be passed on from one generation to the other. Or so I hope.