A Teacher is born, with a LESSON

The whiff of nascent Freedom wafting through the winds of the early fifties, the sandy, sleepy, seaside village of Muthukur saw me turn from a playful kid into a proper lad.

Muthukur had only three ‘Government Officials’: the benign-tyrannical Headmaster of the High School (my father), the Country Doctor ringed by his array of big bottles of colored concoctions, and the awesome Sub-Inspector, keys of his one-cell jail dangling from his starched ‘uniform’ pocket. They formed a loose team (I recall the evening the Headmaster and the Doctor, as august members of the Official Committee, rendered the convincing verdict that the dead chap in the jail did die of suicide).

As Headmasters go, my father was rather a micro-Arnold, and our School a nano-Rugby in fun and frolic if nothing else. (It is tough to write of one’s late father…..he sort of peers down one’s shoulders.). Truth and Justice were his fixes, but he tended to forget that kids have a partiality to ‘convenience’, and abstract morals are sparingly soluble in their tender hearts. Thus, there never was a day when my father didn’t invoke the Golden Rule: ‘Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child’. Indeed, the one piece of ‘furniture’ wantonly granted to the Headmaster from his ‘contingency’ fund was the 3-foot long Madras cane. Come Monday morning, the School Pupil Leader (a largely nominated idol) would read out the roster of culprits of the past week in the Assembly; and they would file one behind the other to take the allotted number of ‘canes’ from the H.M.: their Judge, Jury and the Executor. I sensed that some of the routine miscreants were rather pleased with this drill, and pushed up their palms cheekily, fancying that the little ladies of their school adored their nonchalance. Attention was all they craved; and this they got one way or the other.

Life is never normal for the son of a H.M. (I had the double trouble of graduating from a Headmaster’s son to a Principal’s nephew……frying pan to fire).

First the teachers: They fall into two sets. One would treat the son with embarrassing deference to try and curry favor with their boss. The other would taunt and bully him for the imagined wrongs of his father.

Then the classmates: One set would converge under the bowers of the cashew tree boisterously laughing and yelling, but would fall eloquently silent when the son tries and joins them. The other would tail him beseeching his attention willy-nilly. He could never hope to have true unalloyed friends, for what he was worth.

Same with the public.

The exception was the Village Master Tailor, Jaan Saab, a pious kindhearted Muslim. I was 13 and he was like 43. But, he treated me as I loved to be treated: just another naughty boy. Whenever I was free from play and more play, I was in his thatched shop housing two heritage Pfaff Sewing Machines, the older manned by his taciturn nephew and the gleaming new piece reserved exclusively for his use. Often, however, he would squat on the floor-mat and set about the delicate job of ‘cutting’ the cloth to order. The pleasing whirr of the pedaled wheel below, the purring whirl of the driven wheel above, the tic-tak, tic-tak, of the sewing needle, the fine brow of Jaan Saab, tape draped round his neck, pencil in his ear; the smooth curves of his colored chalks on the cloth, the hefty scissors waiting to follow, the tribal belles haggling over their bashful blouses, the messy oil oozing out of its wood-pecker can, the exotic scents of fabric fresh from mills, the colored strips and striped ribbons of wasted cloth littering the floor, the rag pickers racing for them…… it was all a heady feast for the surging senses of a growing kid.

Jaan Saab’s sewing machine witnessed my rites of passage into my teens. At first I would climb his stool awkwardly, feet not yet reaching the pedal, and gingerly turn the wheel and watch the needle settle into its dance, Jaan Saab gently warning: Nakore Baeta! Over the three years I ran his shop, my feet landed firmly on the pedal, and learned the subtle art of setting the wheel into its swinging motion. Very like yo-yo, it was a sexy affair. Soon I learned threading the needle, pushing the cloth and pulling it under it; and in general being a nuisance to Jaan Saab, with his constant remonstration: Nakore Baeta!.

After convincing the nephew that I can sew, I begged him to let me do the re-stitching: some works required double stitches for strength. The leading first stitch he would do, and let me do the follow-up job. This suited him as well; but Jaan Saab wasn’t amused; yet he was too mild to shoo me out.

Then came the day of my just deserts: One sultry somnolent afternoon, when the master and his nephew broke for their lunch, I was playing with the machine, stitching the borders of a silk hanky. And soon, the thread in the bobbin gave out, and needed refilling. I had often watched Jaan Saab and his nephew do this delicate task, but never dared do it myself. It called for sliding the palm under the sewing plate and pulling out the bobbin blindfold, deftly releasing it from its catch. I was in a hurry and couldn’t wait for the duo to finish their meal. I stuck in my hand and did some fingering. Failing to feel the release, I finally tugged at the bobbin. Something snapped and I found the broken bobbin staring at me in my palm.

My first instinct was to CUT and RUN. But, I was growing up, and that route didn’t appeal. Further, there was nowhere I could flee; I was all alone all the while: no alibi and the evidence tight. I had to sit it through and wait for the music. By and by, Jaan Saab returned and saw my ashen face. He was aghast looking at the broken bobbin. He let out a grief-stricken cry. And fell silent. And his nephew came in. And found us face to face fighting our emotions. And I gathered from their talk that the bobbin cost a good 14 annas, roughly a day’s earnings for the shop. And, it had to be got from Madras. And that meant a 3-day shutdown for the Master’s machine.

Jaan Saab looked at me and read my face. He mentioned to his nephew that the H.M. was an upright man and would surely fork out the 14 annas, but would whack me black and blue: my father was hard up, with a platoon of young ones to feed and dress. And Jaan Saab was a pious man. But he couldn’t let it pass. A pristine quandary: A poor noble soul facing a stupid growing kid.

It is at such times that the brain marvels.

I recalled the chink in Jaan Saab’s armor: his son Rahim. Jaan Saab wanted Rahim to be a Government Official; not another tailor like himself. Rahim was a studious lad, all sold to realize his father’s dreams. But the catch was two-fold: English and Algebra. They foxed him. When he passed in the one, he failed in the other. And so, he got detained twice in Class IX losing two precious years. Jaan Saab used to visit my father imploring him to pass his son. But the H.M. was an upright man; and failed his own kids when rules ruled them out. And the Day of Judgment used to be a day of despair for son and the father. And, it was the third and last chance for Rahim.

I got down from the wretched stool and made my plea to Jaan Saab: If he keeps my misdeed all to himself forever, I would coach Rahim gratis for the next 3 months before his final exams.

I was a little precocious in English and Algebra. English came as liberation to me from my mother tongue Telugu. It had only half the alphabet, there were no convoluted conjuncts; the writing was smooth and cursive, not involving letters beneath letters and dots in their bellies; and was devoid of the absolutely mystical half-nulls. Algebra again was free from the interminable transactions of Arithmetic involving purchase and sale and wheels and deals and profit and loss and the abominable Janus-faced Rule of Three with its double standards for Time and Work vs Time and Speed.

Jaan Saab jumped up and embraced me, and the deal was struck. I stopped visiting his shop.

From then on, my routine changed. Every evening, at 6 P.M., Rahim would come over to our home and I would curtail an hour or two of my precious playtime. I would take him upstairs and we two would try and find out what could be done. It was a little awkward at first: Rahim was a year or two older than me, bristles sprouting on his upper lip. And he was way bigger than me. But I soon found out that he was as charming as his quiet father. And a couple of weeks were all we needed to get the thing going.

The H.M. was too busy to notice the change in my routine. But my mother was mystified, but said nothing. After a couple of weeks, she apparently liked the change and would send up coffee for two.

The exams were done and I was back with my full-time playmates. But, it seemed I had grown up meanwhile and it would never be the same again.

One fine evening, Rahim ran to me in the foot ball field and dragged me home. And, there he was, Jaan Saab squatting on the floor, his loose limbs spread-eagled, and speaking courteously to the H.M.; my mother peeping from the curtains. Apparently, Rahim passed in flying colors and the doors were ajar for his father’s dreams. Jaan Saab pulled out the tape from his neck and bade me stand beside him. And, measurements were taken for my first FULL PANT and FULL SHIRT.

Jaan Saab knew my own ambition: to get out of the regulation Khakhi Knicker and Drill Bush Shirt, and join the exclusive club of grown ups’ outfit. Parents always lag behind others noticing the dawn of adolescence in their own kids. Apparently, Jaan Saab offered his deal to the H.M. He would stitch my full pant and full shirt for free if the H.M. foots the bill only for the cloth. A quick consultation between my parents settled the deal.

A week later, I walked over to Jaan Saab’s shop all dressed up to display his precious gift. He cuddled and blessed me with all the verses in the Holy Quran he knew.

Very soon, I left Muthukur for college studies. And my father left as H.M. for a bigger school some place else.

I never visited Muthukur again. And I haven’t heard of Jaan Saab and Rahim.

But they remain part of my life, such as it is.

First, I got to know that I could teach. And, Teach I did for the next half century for my bread and pleasure.

Next, I learned the lesson of my life: Never touch another’s gizmos that you can’t replace.

Jaan Saab’s shop saw the moth fly away.

May his tribe increase!

First Class Encounter

Reproduced from KGPian, October 2007

Way back in 1965, when all my world was young and all my trees green, I joined the Physics Department at I.I.T. Kharagpur as an Associate Lecturer, which position is now as extinct as the Nair Canteen that sustained us then. At the beginning of the new session, I went to Professor H. N. Bose’s chamber to get the course allotted to me. He gazed at me from top to toe, shook his head, and declared that I was too young and puny to handle a Lecture Class. He told me to take a first year tutorial as a starter. I asked him what a tutorial was, hearing the name for the first time. He simply said that all I had to do was make students solve some problems. This was news to me, since we never solved any problem in Physics at our University, which doled out degrees, divisions and ranks depending on how efficient we were at text book absorption, retention and emission (much like phosphorescence). I walked into the imposing Library, took down some book on Mechanics and cleverly chose some half a dozen odd-numbered problems.

By some assiduous trial and error process overnight, I could solve all except one, for which I was getting a wrong answer (That problem involved multiple collisions with reflection and a coefficient of restitution.). Convinced that the book answer was wrong, I entered one of the tutorial rooms which now house the Deans Complex (There were no Deans then, nor their complexes.). It was an ECE class (no CSE then) with barely a dozen freshmen who were as sleepless and dazed as I was. It was scary. I dictated my problems one by one. One or the other of the students produced the right answers in a couple of minutes each. Time was fleeing. Then came the last problem which I was convinced would fox them. However, within minutes, a rather stout but gentle student cracked it and got the book answer. Somewhat contrite, I asked him to show the steps on the black board. Then, I realized where I was making the sign mistake. I lingered over the attendance. Still, the class was over in less than half an hour to the relief of one and all.

The walk to the canteen was thoughtful. I saw that I could learn from students here much faster than all by myself. I decided to stay put at KGP. Which I did for the next forty years, with many intoxicating happy hours in the class room.

To give the credit where it is due… the name of the stout but gentle youngster happens to be one Arjun Malhotra.

The law is truly an Ass!

Those were the eons when telephones were a monopoly in India and new phone connections took more than a year to realize; for love or money, so I thought.

The landline in my late father’s name developed a serious problem. Outgoing calls were working fine but incoming calls were no-go; apparently the relevant lines had to be rerouted. Folks at the Exchange told me that it could be done only by making an application to the ‘big boss’ of the town. I made the application on behalf of my father and met the gentleman in his office, tunneling through many barriers. As expected, he grunted who I was and, what was the matter with me, without lifting his head.

By then I knew my tricks. My province has little heavy industry, and less mineral wealth. So, ‘Education’ happens to be the largest industry; and parents are ready to invest fortunes on the higher education of their kids.

And, ‘I.I.T.’ is the password that opens steel gates here….’Open Sesame!’

So, I just mumbled that I was a Professor at IIT KGP. That electrified him, and he looked up with alacrity, shooed away all his minions, offered me a seat, told me that his son had scored such and such a score in GATE, and asked me if I could counsel him how to get M.Tech. admission at KGP. The score looked good and I named the branches where he would surely get in (I was then thorough with ‘our system’). He thanked me, ordered coffee, and asked to know the purpose of my visit. I narrated my story and pulled out the application from my pocket and handed it to him.

He pondered for a while and suggested that I apply for a new phone connection in my name rather than go through the hassles of getting the old one rerouted, since that was in the name of my father who was no more. I stuttered that the queue for new connections was apparently more than a year. He said that that was for ‘general public’, not for eminences like IIT Professors (I now know that a similar privilege is also there in S.B.I., and I am what is charmingly termed: ‘Visesh Customer’; as hybrid a term as would turn G. H. Vallins in his grave).

I was amazed. And, he pulled out and filled up an application form, asked to affix my signature and shell out Rs.1000, filled up the Bank Draft form, sent out his peon to go to the Bank and get the receipt, and ordered the lineman to install a new gleaming piece by the evening.

I was stunned.

I then asked him what to do with my father’s phone. He said I could fill out the requisite form, surrender the phone and get the deposit refunded, but there was a hitch. Since my father was no more, I would have to affix a copy of his Death Certificate, and get the signatures of all my six sisters (legal heirs). I replied that that was impossible; they are scattered all over the world. I suggested that I could afford to forego the deposit (which was a measly Rs.200 way back when it was installed). He shook his head and said that there is no such provision:

If a phone is officially surrendered, the deposit HAS to be refunded.

There was no way I could surrender it; and if I didn't, I had to keep shelling out monthly rents and bills for a half dead phone.

Catch-22!

He then recommended that I forget it, keep on using my father’s phone as much as I wished for the outgoing calls, but pay no bill. And in due course (six months or so), the law will take its own course. His lineman would go over to our home, disconnect the defaulting line, pick up the piece and go away.

Wasn’t it Dickens who wrote: ‘the Law is an Ass’?

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P.S. The piece was indeed taken away after six months, but the final bill listing all dues for a final settlement, and threatening police action, came last month, after a lapse of nearly a decade. Fortunately, the P&T also went hi-tech and computerized all its operations meanwhile; so I could pay it on-line in a jiffy. The fact that BSNL is under constant threat nowadays from more efficient (even if less socially responsive) private operators does help. For the first time after many centuries, India is tasting the fruits of good old competitive Market Economy. So far so good!

I must also mention that things have changed in our state (A.P.) during the past decade. "I. I. T." is now passe and is no longer the password it was, what with the proliferation of IITs, our own state acquiring a brand new one. The password now is: "My son is a software professional". But I guess it will soon change to "Finance, Banking, or even Real Estate". A decade ago, everyone here would brag: "All my children are settled in the U.S.". That was the summum bonum of life. I guess it wouldn't be so sooner than later, what with Bush screwing up everything.

The Great Indian Complaints Book

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Ten days of nerve-racking radio silence; and I got news that my wife safely gave birth to our son.

I was then on the East Coast (Bengal), and my wife on the West (Maharashtra). The two are as different as chalk and cheese. The sun rises on the Bay of Bengal and sets in the Arabian Sea. Traveling from coast to coast by train, you pass four linguistic states but the same time zone; unlike in the US, where it is the other way round.

Boarding the train on a 36 hour punishing journey, I began with dreams of seeing my wife after a good 3 months; but midway, a strange, tingling sensation of fatherhood took over. And a terrific curiosity about my son; ‘will he be fair, will he be tall….que sera sera’.

Soon after landing up in Jalgaon, I visited the maternity ward where my wife was confined, and requested the ‘sister’ to let me in, saying that I was the ‘expected’ father. She obliged and I went in, to be greeted by the proud and winsome smiles of my wife. After a few minutes’ how-do-you-dos, she realized that I was dying to be shown the baby, and led me to his crib.

There I found him, all of 6 days, in blissful communion with his Maker Above, not caring a whit for his maker below. I gently poked him in the ribs. He opened one curious eye, gave me what I fancied was a knowing wink, and relapsed into his stupor. That convinced me; and I mentally cuddled him and exulted; “This, this is my son!”; much like Gulzaman in the bleak, sleety, Afghan Mountains:

http://www.subcontinent.com/misc/daruwalla/poem2.html

The sister returned and gently shooed me out asking me to come back at 4 P.M., the official visiting hour. I ‘see-you’ed my wife and strolled out onto the warm high-street of Jalgaon, the town that is the gateway to the famed Ajanta-Ellora tourist spots. I had to beguile a good 4 hours; but was in no mood to disturb the well-earned rest of my in-laws at their home. Exhausted walking the somnolent streets, I wandered into the Restaurant, run proudly by the Maharashtra Tourism Department by the Bus Stop.

Taking my seat, I found the shop rather empty, with few tables occupied. The waiters were gossiping in a corner, taking their siestas of a drowsy afternoon. Eventually, a teenager in a Tourism-bedecked uniform materialized and took my order for a cup of tea. I sipped it as leisurely as I could, and relaxed in the chair. The boy was sneaking at me once in a while, and approached my table after half an hour, and said something in his lingo. I ordered another cup of tea. He fetched it with an unbecoming scowl. I reverted to my earlier routine, more leisurely than earlier. That blew his top. He rushed at me and said many things of which I could only make out: ‘This is no waiting room!’. I promptly ordered a third cup of tea. He told me off to sort of ‘get lost!’.

I was enraged and walked over to the Manager’s Counter; over which hung the placard: ‘Complaints Book’. When I lose my cool, I slip into a barrage of English words which would sock any languid Englishman on his jaw. All that the youthful Manager could make out were the two deadly words: ‘Complaints Book’. He furtively locked up the shelf where the almanac was stored, and gave a piercing howl. I fell silent. The slip of the waiter boy ran in. Before I knew what was happening, the boy took out his ‘uniform’ shirt, grinning rather sheepishly, baring his upper torso. I was taken aback. And, the Manager smiled, asking as if ‘it pleased me so’, rather biblically.

I could see that the motto was: ‘Anything but the Complaints Book”.

I never felt more foolish in my life. And sought less-fancied watering holes for the rest of my sojourn there.

Till my mid-thirties, I was thin as a reed, weighing barely 45 kg. And wished I could make it to 50 kg to look my age and eminence as a professor. (It is the other way round now). So, whenever I visited the world’s longest railway platform at Kharagpur, I would stand on the platform of the weighing machine manned by ‘The Eastern Scales Pvt Ltd’, drop a coin, and collect the printed ticket displaying my unchanging weight on one side, and my ‘fortune and personality’ on the other, with a picture of my favorite film star thrown in gratis.

One evening, when I was in a rather fractious mood, the machine gobbled up my coin, lights blinking all over, but refused to spew its ‘ticket’ despite blows this side and that. (Americans sledge this swindling by vending machines as ‘slottery’). I felt tricked and barged into the Station Superintendent’s office and asked for the ‘Complaints Book’. He promptly hid it under his table, and asked me what for. I told him my sorry tale. He suddenly realized that my complaint was not against him or his minions, but a vendor who flouts his orders routinely. And he produced that holy book with alacrity, helping me with a couple of carbon papers, and a ball pen thrown into the bargain. He practically egged me on to launch a tirade.

A couple of weeks later, I received an Official Inland Letter from the Eastern Scales Pvt Ltd, with a laconic ‘sorry’, and ‘compensating’ me with a ‘Ten Paise’ Postage Stamp glued in it irretrievably.

Felt foolish again!

My good friend once related to me his encounter with the Great Indian Complaints Book of the Department of Posts and Telegraphs: Those were the years before Manmohanjee opened up our economy and flooded our villages with mobile phones, color TVs and the Internet. Whenever he wanted to speak to his people, my friend had to bike up 4 kilometers and present himself at the Kharagpur Telephone Exchange and wait till the clock strikes 7 P.M. For, the rates are halved for calls made after that beastly hour.

One evening, he was waiting, staring at the grandfather clock proudly peering down from the wall of the Telephone Office, wondering if it was really moving (clocks don’t move when you stare at them; they are shy). Playing hide and seek with him, it eventually struck the blessed hour. And, he took the phone in the ‘booth’ off its hook and talked hurriedly for a few minutes (those were the days when call costs were phenomenal).

But the man behind the counter billed him the ‘full’ rate instead of the ‘cut’ rates. My friend was aghast and pointed to their majestic clock. The clerk turned around, and muttered casually that the thing was ten minutes fast.

But, ‘rules are rules’ and, once the bill is made, there is no going back. My friend wasn’t amused and declined to pay, and asked for the Complaints Book instead. The poor clerk woke up and begged him not to do it to him; he has a large family to support, and will have to shell down the rather hefty sum from his ‘pocket’. My friend relented, coughed up the full amount and returned home. But, something told him all wasn’t well, and he was taken for a ride by the Department of P & T. And, he wrote a stinker to the appropriate ‘higher authorities’.

Pat came the reply: 

‘We are sorry for the inconvenience. We thank you for pointing out the misbehavior of our clock. The relevant office has been ordered to put it back by ten minutes. Much obliged, yours truly etc etc.’

Not a word on refund. They must have been haggling back and forth as to whose fault it was and who would foot the bill. The buck was back where it went!

One lives and learns in India, everyday!

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