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I rarely get angry. Not because that it is a virtue. But because of my puny physique in my childhood. Most of the time I used to run away from bullies... I was a champion sprinter in my school in the sub-junior division.
I still run away from unpleasant situations...it becomes a habit. Never had the guts to get angry and come to blows. And it makes no sense getting angry if you don't come to blows, what?
But once in a while I get so angry nowadays that I wish to choke her or him in my fantasy. I don't know if it is he or she but I have my suspicions.
It is like this:
In the early 1970s I bought a paperback titled: "The House That Nino Built". It was slim, just about 100 pages. It had several mini-chapters without any big storyline. It can't be called a novella or a collection of humorous essays. I now know what it is: It is a collection of what we now call blogs.
Like our Ishani booklets.
I loved it so much that I lent it to one of my B-i-L's...the one that wrote a charming Foreword for one of the Ishani booklets. I knew he was a lover of books and went to bed with one or the other in his collection. He raved about Nino; and nothing can surpass the virtual pride that it excites.
And then I forgot about it. After about a decade, I remembered the book and was pining to re-read it. And, as expected, my B-i-L said that his S-i-L borrowed it and it must be with her, unless she lent it to her M-i-L...
And after sustained boring, he hounded and brought it back when we next met. And my joy knew no bounds.
It is now with me in my book-shelf and I often take it out to quote one or the other of its passages in my blogs. And whenever I open it, I seethe with rage. For, someone, perhaps the S-i-L, underlined one or two sentences in ink on every page. Sometimes, with a marginal vertical band. Often followed by a 'tick' mark in red ink. And occasionally a question mark or even an exclamation mark.
That gets my goat...I wouldn't have minded if she defaced and vandalized and pock-marked and mutilated one of her own books or her B-i-L's. But to destroy the flow of a book that belonged to her B-i-L's B-i-L is not done.
Such underlining distracts me no end. When I turn a page and start reading at the top, my mind gets attracted to the emphasized sentence down below and I start wondering what it was in that sentence that so pleased or stimulated or intrigued her. And I close the book and start guessing and founder and get terribly upset and angry with whoever it was that did it to me...
But not so with my 50-year-old copy of RKN's "Next Sunday". It is also a slim collection of beautiful blogs. And I open it often nowadays. And see the sketch-work done in blue on every other page by my son when he was maybe about Ishani's age...I often show it to Ishani for her pleasure. For, the lines that go vertically upwards, diagonally, and looping the loops mean nothing to either him or me or even Ishani. They don't distract me at all.
I recall narrating in one of my Reco-Mela Series the story of the only Project Student of mine who didn't take a Reco from me...she took it from DB. It can endure repetition:
During the early 1990s at KGP many M. Sc. students were enthusiastic in doing a Review Project with me on some topic of GR or the other. There was only one copy of Weinberg in the Central Library. I borrowed it and xeroxed it and got it hard-bound in 2 volumes. And the day the Project Student first met me I used to give him or her my Xerox copy and ask them to work out a chapter or two that I choose, and collect literature and update it.
I did the same to this girl and asked her to meet me every Wednesday afternoon to show me her progress and get any doubts cleared. Which she did religiously...she was a near-topper. But soon I noticed that she was making marginal notes on my copy with a super-hard pencil. I asked her once or twice politely not to do it to my copy, and she should use her own khata for that purpose.
She didn't bother.
Finally, I told her that she should erase all her pencil marks when she returned it to me before quitting...and I joked that if she didn't, I would find which School she goes to after her M. Sc. and write to their Dean. Her face flushed. And after her submitting the Project Thesis and getting her Viva through, one evening I found my copy of Weinberg back on my table with a super-added 1 kg Farewell Packet of Darjeeling Tea left there in my absence.
I had a hard time erasing all her marginal notes...
When I was in my Pre-University at a moffusil college in the Guntur District of AP in 1958, we were 120 rural boys...no girls. The class was still the quietest...
Teachers (including the Principal, my Shakespeare Uncle) used to enter our Class Room, lecture for an hour and go their way out.
But there was this Physics Lecturer (S) who was different. He was a fair, handsome chap with just the right number of pimples on his cheeks to make it pleasantly look-at-able. And he was the only permanent faculty in Physics. He had a Temporary Demonstrator and a Lab Attendant under him...that is all.
And before every Lecture of his, his Lab Attendant would come and clean the blackboard and keep two pieces of chalk on the lectern and go away. Then his Demonstrator would enter, take the Attendance and go away. And then, Mr. S would enter in his full suit, boot, tie and a hanky showing from his check-shirt pocket. And climb the podium ponderously and take out his coat and place it gingerly on the back of his chair and start attacking the blackboard. Often, he would turn back and flick a particle of chalk-dust from his sleeve decorously. And, after the board got filled up, he would turn and wait for all his students to lift their heads; and erase the blackboard and start afresh...and so on...and go away after his hour was over, putting his coat back on his shirt.
No talking....neither the students nor Mr. S.
Everyone was busy taking down his chalkings on the board....but I didn't...I just pretended when he turned back...meanwhile I was distracted by his impeccable pant, shirt, shoes, tie, coat and his graceful demeanor.
Imagine wearing a full suit in the hottest district of AP!!!:
And then I shifted to the AU at Vizagh for my BSc (Hons). In our first year we had a full-fledged English course taught by 3 teachers...two gents and one lady...oh! what a lady!...she was young and just married to our Registrar's son and she was just lovely. Her class was overflowing with students who had no business to be there in her class of 120. She never stirred from her chair. Still!
No wonder nothing went into my head...neither Keats nor Shelley nor Milton nor for that matter Tennyson.
Poetry shouldn't be taught by beautiful ladies...
...Posted by Ishani
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I still run away from unpleasant situations...it becomes a habit. Never had the guts to get angry and come to blows. And it makes no sense getting angry if you don't come to blows, what?
But once in a while I get so angry nowadays that I wish to choke her or him in my fantasy. I don't know if it is he or she but I have my suspicions.
It is like this:
In the early 1970s I bought a paperback titled: "The House That Nino Built". It was slim, just about 100 pages. It had several mini-chapters without any big storyline. It can't be called a novella or a collection of humorous essays. I now know what it is: It is a collection of what we now call blogs.
Like our Ishani booklets.
I loved it so much that I lent it to one of my B-i-L's...the one that wrote a charming Foreword for one of the Ishani booklets. I knew he was a lover of books and went to bed with one or the other in his collection. He raved about Nino; and nothing can surpass the virtual pride that it excites.
And then I forgot about it. After about a decade, I remembered the book and was pining to re-read it. And, as expected, my B-i-L said that his S-i-L borrowed it and it must be with her, unless she lent it to her M-i-L...
And after sustained boring, he hounded and brought it back when we next met. And my joy knew no bounds.
It is now with me in my book-shelf and I often take it out to quote one or the other of its passages in my blogs. And whenever I open it, I seethe with rage. For, someone, perhaps the S-i-L, underlined one or two sentences in ink on every page. Sometimes, with a marginal vertical band. Often followed by a 'tick' mark in red ink. And occasionally a question mark or even an exclamation mark.
That gets my goat...I wouldn't have minded if she defaced and vandalized and pock-marked and mutilated one of her own books or her B-i-L's. But to destroy the flow of a book that belonged to her B-i-L's B-i-L is not done.
Such underlining distracts me no end. When I turn a page and start reading at the top, my mind gets attracted to the emphasized sentence down below and I start wondering what it was in that sentence that so pleased or stimulated or intrigued her. And I close the book and start guessing and founder and get terribly upset and angry with whoever it was that did it to me...
But not so with my 50-year-old copy of RKN's "Next Sunday". It is also a slim collection of beautiful blogs. And I open it often nowadays. And see the sketch-work done in blue on every other page by my son when he was maybe about Ishani's age...I often show it to Ishani for her pleasure. For, the lines that go vertically upwards, diagonally, and looping the loops mean nothing to either him or me or even Ishani. They don't distract me at all.
I recall narrating in one of my Reco-Mela Series the story of the only Project Student of mine who didn't take a Reco from me...she took it from DB. It can endure repetition:
During the early 1990s at KGP many M. Sc. students were enthusiastic in doing a Review Project with me on some topic of GR or the other. There was only one copy of Weinberg in the Central Library. I borrowed it and xeroxed it and got it hard-bound in 2 volumes. And the day the Project Student first met me I used to give him or her my Xerox copy and ask them to work out a chapter or two that I choose, and collect literature and update it.
I did the same to this girl and asked her to meet me every Wednesday afternoon to show me her progress and get any doubts cleared. Which she did religiously...she was a near-topper. But soon I noticed that she was making marginal notes on my copy with a super-hard pencil. I asked her once or twice politely not to do it to my copy, and she should use her own khata for that purpose.
She didn't bother.
Finally, I told her that she should erase all her pencil marks when she returned it to me before quitting...and I joked that if she didn't, I would find which School she goes to after her M. Sc. and write to their Dean. Her face flushed. And after her submitting the Project Thesis and getting her Viva through, one evening I found my copy of Weinberg back on my table with a super-added 1 kg Farewell Packet of Darjeeling Tea left there in my absence.
I had a hard time erasing all her marginal notes...
When I was in my Pre-University at a moffusil college in the Guntur District of AP in 1958, we were 120 rural boys...no girls. The class was still the quietest...
Teachers (including the Principal, my Shakespeare Uncle) used to enter our Class Room, lecture for an hour and go their way out.
But there was this Physics Lecturer (S) who was different. He was a fair, handsome chap with just the right number of pimples on his cheeks to make it pleasantly look-at-able. And he was the only permanent faculty in Physics. He had a Temporary Demonstrator and a Lab Attendant under him...that is all.
And before every Lecture of his, his Lab Attendant would come and clean the blackboard and keep two pieces of chalk on the lectern and go away. Then his Demonstrator would enter, take the Attendance and go away. And then, Mr. S would enter in his full suit, boot, tie and a hanky showing from his check-shirt pocket. And climb the podium ponderously and take out his coat and place it gingerly on the back of his chair and start attacking the blackboard. Often, he would turn back and flick a particle of chalk-dust from his sleeve decorously. And, after the board got filled up, he would turn and wait for all his students to lift their heads; and erase the blackboard and start afresh...and so on...and go away after his hour was over, putting his coat back on his shirt.
No talking....neither the students nor Mr. S.
Everyone was busy taking down his chalkings on the board....but I didn't...I just pretended when he turned back...meanwhile I was distracted by his impeccable pant, shirt, shoes, tie, coat and his graceful demeanor.
Imagine wearing a full suit in the hottest district of AP!!!:
And then I shifted to the AU at Vizagh for my BSc (Hons). In our first year we had a full-fledged English course taught by 3 teachers...two gents and one lady...oh! what a lady!...she was young and just married to our Registrar's son and she was just lovely. Her class was overflowing with students who had no business to be there in her class of 120. She never stirred from her chair. Still!
No wonder nothing went into my head...neither Keats nor Shelley nor Milton nor for that matter Tennyson.
Poetry shouldn't be taught by beautiful ladies...
...Posted by Ishani
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