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Let me briefly describe the shuttling mannerisms of our 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.
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...
...Posted by Ishani
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Let me briefly describe the shuttling mannerisms of our 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.
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...
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