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In our school in Muthukur we had a Drill Teacher (DT) called Dayanandam. His official designation was Physical Training Instructor (PTI) but no one called him that. He was the Drill Teacher for one and all in school and village.
For us the good thing about him was that he never drilled us. He was too lazy to do it. Instead, his Drill Classes were converted into games periods. Not that he was sticking with us guiding us in our games. He was too busy for it.
Our school had a tiny Games Room and its official custodian was the DT. But he used to pass on the key of the room to the SPL (School Pupils Leader) at 4 PM and ask him to return the key to him the next day at 10 AM.
And he went home.
The SPL would open the Games Room and take out a wobbly football, a soiled net for the badminton court and another one for the ring tennis court and pick up a wool ball and a ring ball and that was that. Most of the kids would play kabadi which didn't require any equipment at all but a few weaklings like me would settle down to a game or two of ball badminton.
The SPL would hand over the Games Room key to me and go away...why me?...because I was the son of the Head Master. That was a clever ploy.
Father, who was as strict as a 4th Additional District Court Magistrate would however be lenient to our DT...to a fault. This was because our DT would do everything for the HM except drilling the students...like arranging the entire tamasha for the prestigious Annual Function where the District Collector would be the Chief Guest, running errands like carrying students who faint in the Assembly to the Hospital...all such service with a smile.
And then came the Griggs District Tournament whose prelims were to be held at Nellore, 12 miles away by bus. Our school had a contingent of around 20 boys going to Nellore for the Do. The games were ball badminton, ring tennis, kabadi and various athletics. I was the center-court captain for our five-member badminton team as well as the ring tennis team of two.
Those few who survive the 5-day prelims and enter the finals would go to Sullurpet, 30 miles from Nellore by road or rail. The rest would hang their heads in shame and return to Muthukur.
The entire contingent was led by our DT who was our official Caretaker. The HM calculated the expenses for the entire Do and handed over the hard cash of Rs 120 to the DT. That was to cover our transport, stay, food and emergency medicines.
I was 12 and my mom was worried...it was my blooding...the first time I left home without parents or elders. Nellore was ok for her since my auntie and uncle were staying there and would look after me if I get typhoid or chicken pox or worse. But there was no one known to her at Sullurpet...and she was silently praying that our team would be beaten hollow in the prelims and I would return with my tail tucked between my legs back home in a couple of days happily.
Father too was worried but he didn't show it...he was an alumnus of the Madras Christian College and he had to keep his chin up...the Code.
The day we were to leave Muthukur was the D-Day for my mom...
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$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$4
In our school in Muthukur we had a Drill Teacher (DT) called Dayanandam. His official designation was Physical Training Instructor (PTI) but no one called him that. He was the Drill Teacher for one and all in school and village.
For us the good thing about him was that he never drilled us. He was too lazy to do it. Instead, his Drill Classes were converted into games periods. Not that he was sticking with us guiding us in our games. He was too busy for it.
Our school had a tiny Games Room and its official custodian was the DT. But he used to pass on the key of the room to the SPL (School Pupils Leader) at 4 PM and ask him to return the key to him the next day at 10 AM.
And he went home.
The SPL would open the Games Room and take out a wobbly football, a soiled net for the badminton court and another one for the ring tennis court and pick up a wool ball and a ring ball and that was that. Most of the kids would play kabadi which didn't require any equipment at all but a few weaklings like me would settle down to a game or two of ball badminton.
The SPL would hand over the Games Room key to me and go away...why me?...because I was the son of the Head Master. That was a clever ploy.
Father, who was as strict as a 4th Additional District Court Magistrate would however be lenient to our DT...to a fault. This was because our DT would do everything for the HM except drilling the students...like arranging the entire tamasha for the prestigious Annual Function where the District Collector would be the Chief Guest, running errands like carrying students who faint in the Assembly to the Hospital...all such service with a smile.
And then came the Griggs District Tournament whose prelims were to be held at Nellore, 12 miles away by bus. Our school had a contingent of around 20 boys going to Nellore for the Do. The games were ball badminton, ring tennis, kabadi and various athletics. I was the center-court captain for our five-member badminton team as well as the ring tennis team of two.
Those few who survive the 5-day prelims and enter the finals would go to Sullurpet, 30 miles from Nellore by road or rail. The rest would hang their heads in shame and return to Muthukur.
The entire contingent was led by our DT who was our official Caretaker. The HM calculated the expenses for the entire Do and handed over the hard cash of Rs 120 to the DT. That was to cover our transport, stay, food and emergency medicines.
I was 12 and my mom was worried...it was my blooding...the first time I left home without parents or elders. Nellore was ok for her since my auntie and uncle were staying there and would look after me if I get typhoid or chicken pox or worse. But there was no one known to her at Sullurpet...and she was silently praying that our team would be beaten hollow in the prelims and I would return with my tail tucked between my legs back home in a couple of days happily.
Father too was worried but he didn't show it...he was an alumnus of the Madras Christian College and he had to keep his chin up...the Code.
The day we were to leave Muthukur was the D-Day for my mom...
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