**************************************************************************************************************************************
Let me briefly describe the shuttling mannerisms of our own Wrecking Crew.
Mrs T was not all that short...her bat was too tall for her rather. And she was 'healthy'.
This euphemism was taught me by my friend SVT hailing from the heart of UP as he used to claim...Bulandshahr...which it is far from, as Wiki Maps tell me. He said when you wish to sell your rather stout sister in the bridal market, you say:
"Oh, she is healthy (tandurust)"
And when a married lady asks you if she looks obese, you don't go saying "yes" if you don't want to be hit on your head with her roller-pin...you say:
"Bilkul nahi...absolutely not...what rot...bas aur nahi"
And it was obvious from her demeanor that Mrs T was the boss of her home sweet home. I discovered the secret behind wives who dominate by leaps and bounds in their household. It is when they gift their hubbies a plethora of male children. Each succeeding male issue boosts their egos and their power exponentially. That is how, the psycho-historians tell us, Gandhari turned her hubby blind...he was physically blind to start with...but he became morally blind too when she delivered her hundredth son...she never allowed him to touch any one of her sons...and did it with her eyes closed.
Professor T was not that gifted...they had a mere three hardy boys. The Club and me wouldn't have known nor cared of their existence had the three li'l sweets (aged equi-spaced between 2 and 6) not invariably accompanied their parents to the Club. The Caretaker Das was told to 'look after' them for the nonce. Das was too old, too timid, and too cowed down to spank them where it hurt them most. So, the threesome in turn wrecked the antique furniture in the Hall. I never could guess what the innards of a sofa looked, springs and all, had they not treated it as their trampoline day after hopeless day. They were gamboling and jumboling over it like in this video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TK27aknWVI4
But for them the Club would never have got new and unbreakable furniture.
And Mrs T always wore what perhaps was the most unsuitable sporting gear for badminton which is a game where footwork, if not leaps and bounds, was of the essence. She always wore a figure-hugging silk sari which, as you know, doesn't permit you to bend or bow down easily...not even when you tuck up one end of it showing your slip. So, she sort of became the Event Manager of her side of the court, giving instructions and encouragement to her partner to do all the running and jumping, giving a shuttle-to-shuttle commentary...and that was that as far as she was concerned. And criticizing and showing him how that particular shot ought to be played...in retrospect.
We could never hear what Professor T was saying in reply...he must have been equally unheard when he taught tricky things like Anti-Markownikoff's Rule in his class room...unless his teaching mannerisms dramatically metamorphosed as soon as he saw 40 IITians in his class room....it happens you know.
For instance our own Raamda (Prof RGC) had such a stammer while he spoke to me...we shared office for a couple of years...that I wondered how he acquired the reputation of the 'best teacher' of our department. And MSS told me that he once spied on him watching outside the class room door. And found to his astonishment that after the Roll Call was somehow gone through and RGC picked up his piece of chalk and reached the blackboard, he was a totally different man...silver-tongued...nothing less.
Professor T was tall and lean...so lean that all his joints could be seen in action on the court...for...he never believed in moving from where his wife put him...right behind her...so that the umpteen shuttles she missed could be 'covered' by him. His reach was such that he could bend and twist and turn and tilt every which way and cover half the court...like a universal joint...he never bothered about the other half....for he always wore chappals to the court.
The scene on the other side of the court was sort of a mirror image. Mrs S, no less healthy, was better dressed for action. She was in what South Indians call Punjabi Dress: salwar kameez (or is it churidar kurta?) with the dupatta worn like a judo black belt. The legs were now freer to move around the court, if there was a will to move, which Mrs S certainly had, compared to her hubby. She was quiet on the court, wanted to enjoy her outing, smiling and laughing intermittently. It was nice to watch the spirit in which she took the game.
On the other hand, Professor S seemed to have walked in straight from his Office: he wore his white shirt with stripes over his dark pant and was always wearing his Ambassador shoes, which must have weighed something like the chain of a mini-elephant. It didn't bother him since he never moved from his front post where he stood stock still and kept up a drawl, low in volume, and unvarying in pitch. What he was saying could be deciphered only by Mrs S, who would suddenly stop playing and laugh like a tickled child of 2, and give him a thappad with her bat on his ample butt...he must have said something juicy and it was your guess as good as mine at whose expense the joke was. And he would look grave and continue his drawl...
http://gpsastry.blogspot.in/2011/01/bathroom-i-built.html
When I first met him, Subbu said he was 50...but his half a dozen grandkids laughed and said he was 50 ever since they were born...and he chased them around his front-yard. He was more like 70 and his eyesight was no better than mine now (entering into my 70s in a month). But he was recommended by one and all and he came in with his Assistant who was in his twenties. It was not on the basis of BOT or anything like that since they insisted that they would work only on daily wages...which they did diligently till the walls came up halfway, when they were sure that they had me in their grip. After which they relaxed, smoking beedis, and gossiping.
And my mom was getting restless at the slow pace of their work and asked me to 'invigilate'...something I always hated. And slave-driving is not in my blood...rather it is the other way round...folks had to chase me to stop gathering wool and do something useful. So, I used to sit down in my chair and dream. And Subbu would start drawling in low monotone incessantly and his Assistant would suddenly get up and burst into peals of laughter. And I would wake up with a quizzical look as if asking what was the good joke...they would fall silent and pretend to get busy with their trowels and threads and plumb lines and bricks and cement and I would get back to my daydreams. And after a few minutes the drawl would restart and end in another peal of laughter from the Assistant...and it went on...and I was unable to decipher who was the butt of Subbu's jokes. Till, one day I went in and watched the twosome closely from behind a window. And I discovered that every time the young one got up and burst into laughter, a dame was walking along the streets...Subbu in his 70s!!!
But once he got down to work, it was a pleasure to watch Subbu...he was a wizard with his trowel.
At first I thought trowel was an implement to spread cement on brick-work and smooth it. But in Subbu's hand it was much more. He would use its sharp sides to chip and break bricks, its handle like an inverted hammer, its nose to scoop out the innards of brick-joints like a woodpecker, turn it and use it to sprinkle water...it was all-in-all for him..and his hands had a grace that was a treat to watch...it is always like that watching a wizard with his tools.
Once I employed a rickshawala in Gudur with his covered rickshaw, like a palanquin, to transport all the paraphernalia I rented from the Tent-Utensil Shop to the Marriage Hall. The entire stuff was laid out on the roadside...huge tarpaulins with their bamaboo poles, 50 folding chairs, vessels to feed a hundred and more, ladles, spoons, plates, frying pans and pots and cauldrons, the list was endless. And I thought our rickshawala would need at least three trips. And, lo and behold, he was magical in packing them up in (and on) his hooded rickshaw. He took less than ten minutes and everything was up and he said: "Chaliye!" asking me to get in too...
It was such a pleasure watching him that I gave him a hefty tip and re-employed him for the marriages of my next two sisters there...
...Posted by Ishani
**************************************************************************************************************************
Let me briefly describe the shuttling mannerisms of our own Wrecking Crew.
Mrs T was not all that short...her bat was too tall for her rather. And she was 'healthy'.
This euphemism was taught me by my friend SVT hailing from the heart of UP as he used to claim...Bulandshahr...which it is far from, as Wiki Maps tell me. He said when you wish to sell your rather stout sister in the bridal market, you say:
"Oh, she is healthy (tandurust)"
And when a married lady asks you if she looks obese, you don't go saying "yes" if you don't want to be hit on your head with her roller-pin...you say:
"Bilkul nahi...absolutely not...what rot...bas aur nahi"
And it was obvious from her demeanor that Mrs T was the boss of her home sweet home. I discovered the secret behind wives who dominate by leaps and bounds in their household. It is when they gift their hubbies a plethora of male children. Each succeeding male issue boosts their egos and their power exponentially. That is how, the psycho-historians tell us, Gandhari turned her hubby blind...he was physically blind to start with...but he became morally blind too when she delivered her hundredth son...she never allowed him to touch any one of her sons...and did it with her eyes closed.
Professor T was not that gifted...they had a mere three hardy boys. The Club and me wouldn't have known nor cared of their existence had the three li'l sweets (aged equi-spaced between 2 and 6) not invariably accompanied their parents to the Club. The Caretaker Das was told to 'look after' them for the nonce. Das was too old, too timid, and too cowed down to spank them where it hurt them most. So, the threesome in turn wrecked the antique furniture in the Hall. I never could guess what the innards of a sofa looked, springs and all, had they not treated it as their trampoline day after hopeless day. They were gamboling and jumboling over it like in this video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TK27aknWVI4
But for them the Club would never have got new and unbreakable furniture.
And Mrs T always wore what perhaps was the most unsuitable sporting gear for badminton which is a game where footwork, if not leaps and bounds, was of the essence. She always wore a figure-hugging silk sari which, as you know, doesn't permit you to bend or bow down easily...not even when you tuck up one end of it showing your slip. So, she sort of became the Event Manager of her side of the court, giving instructions and encouragement to her partner to do all the running and jumping, giving a shuttle-to-shuttle commentary...and that was that as far as she was concerned. And criticizing and showing him how that particular shot ought to be played...in retrospect.
We could never hear what Professor T was saying in reply...he must have been equally unheard when he taught tricky things like Anti-Markownikoff's Rule in his class room...unless his teaching mannerisms dramatically metamorphosed as soon as he saw 40 IITians in his class room....it happens you know.
For instance our own Raamda (Prof RGC) had such a stammer while he spoke to me...we shared office for a couple of years...that I wondered how he acquired the reputation of the 'best teacher' of our department. And MSS told me that he once spied on him watching outside the class room door. And found to his astonishment that after the Roll Call was somehow gone through and RGC picked up his piece of chalk and reached the blackboard, he was a totally different man...silver-tongued...nothing less.
Professor T was tall and lean...so lean that all his joints could be seen in action on the court...for...he never believed in moving from where his wife put him...right behind her...so that the umpteen shuttles she missed could be 'covered' by him. His reach was such that he could bend and twist and turn and tilt every which way and cover half the court...like a universal joint...he never bothered about the other half....for he always wore chappals to the court.
The scene on the other side of the court was sort of a mirror image. Mrs S, no less healthy, was better dressed for action. She was in what South Indians call Punjabi Dress: salwar kameez (or is it churidar kurta?) with the dupatta worn like a judo black belt. The legs were now freer to move around the court, if there was a will to move, which Mrs S certainly had, compared to her hubby. She was quiet on the court, wanted to enjoy her outing, smiling and laughing intermittently. It was nice to watch the spirit in which she took the game.
On the other hand, Professor S seemed to have walked in straight from his Office: he wore his white shirt with stripes over his dark pant and was always wearing his Ambassador shoes, which must have weighed something like the chain of a mini-elephant. It didn't bother him since he never moved from his front post where he stood stock still and kept up a drawl, low in volume, and unvarying in pitch. What he was saying could be deciphered only by Mrs S, who would suddenly stop playing and laugh like a tickled child of 2, and give him a thappad with her bat on his ample butt...he must have said something juicy and it was your guess as good as mine at whose expense the joke was. And he would look grave and continue his drawl...
His drawl reminded me of the mason, Subbu, who was commissioned to build our Attached Bathroom at Gudur:
http://gpsastry.blogspot.in/2011/01/bathroom-i-built.html
When I first met him, Subbu said he was 50...but his half a dozen grandkids laughed and said he was 50 ever since they were born...and he chased them around his front-yard. He was more like 70 and his eyesight was no better than mine now (entering into my 70s in a month). But he was recommended by one and all and he came in with his Assistant who was in his twenties. It was not on the basis of BOT or anything like that since they insisted that they would work only on daily wages...which they did diligently till the walls came up halfway, when they were sure that they had me in their grip. After which they relaxed, smoking beedis, and gossiping.
And my mom was getting restless at the slow pace of their work and asked me to 'invigilate'...something I always hated. And slave-driving is not in my blood...rather it is the other way round...folks had to chase me to stop gathering wool and do something useful. So, I used to sit down in my chair and dream. And Subbu would start drawling in low monotone incessantly and his Assistant would suddenly get up and burst into peals of laughter. And I would wake up with a quizzical look as if asking what was the good joke...they would fall silent and pretend to get busy with their trowels and threads and plumb lines and bricks and cement and I would get back to my daydreams. And after a few minutes the drawl would restart and end in another peal of laughter from the Assistant...and it went on...and I was unable to decipher who was the butt of Subbu's jokes. Till, one day I went in and watched the twosome closely from behind a window. And I discovered that every time the young one got up and burst into laughter, a dame was walking along the streets...Subbu in his 70s!!!
But once he got down to work, it was a pleasure to watch Subbu...he was a wizard with his trowel.
At first I thought trowel was an implement to spread cement on brick-work and smooth it. But in Subbu's hand it was much more. He would use its sharp sides to chip and break bricks, its handle like an inverted hammer, its nose to scoop out the innards of brick-joints like a woodpecker, turn it and use it to sprinkle water...it was all-in-all for him..and his hands had a grace that was a treat to watch...it is always like that watching a wizard with his tools.
Once I employed a rickshawala in Gudur with his covered rickshaw, like a palanquin, to transport all the paraphernalia I rented from the Tent-Utensil Shop to the Marriage Hall. The entire stuff was laid out on the roadside...huge tarpaulins with their bamaboo poles, 50 folding chairs, vessels to feed a hundred and more, ladles, spoons, plates, frying pans and pots and cauldrons, the list was endless. And I thought our rickshawala would need at least three trips. And, lo and behold, he was magical in packing them up in (and on) his hooded rickshaw. He took less than ten minutes and everything was up and he said: "Chaliye!" asking me to get in too...
It was such a pleasure watching him that I gave him a hefty tip and re-employed him for the marriages of my next two sisters there...
...Posted by Ishani
**************************************************************************************************************************
No comments:
Post a Comment