Kolkata is a proud town as it should be. The Communist Party. Eden Gardens and Taj Bengal. Presidency College and Jadavpur. Rabindranth and Sharmila. Tiger and Saif. Moon Moon and Imran. Utpal and Suchitra. Saurav and Saurav - he equals two people for being captain. Something for everybody. Heck Paris (the city), would be proud.
Growing up in Calcutta (yes dash it that's what it was when I was there - CALCUTTA - there I said it) it was obvious that the city took pride from art, culture, academic achievement, sport, and above all, righteous indignation at uncouth Delhi and capitalist Bombay. Back then, the Vindhyas were too far away and no one had ventured beyond them; we were therefore mostly unsure whether they had electricity down south. Naturally, in keeping with general Calcuttan mores of fairness, everyone below the mountains got a catch-all name -"Southees", a minor improvement over "Madrasees" which was the term used by the ignoramuses of the previous generation. Along with the name, we gave Southees the benefit of the doubt that they were most likely human. While Mukund Vasudevan, George Verghese and George Thomas gave us some emperical evidence that there might even be intelligent life down there, the doubters contended that since those three were in Calcutta it was unclear how bad the situation was post such brain drain.
In this city of joy I lived in a little hamlet called Park Circus, not unlike some Gaulish towns I had read about with a balanced ratio of bards, homeopathic druids and warriors. Park Circus has a post office called Jhowtala. In 1986, Jhowtala post office occupied 200 square feet with 4 service agents manning the counters and the general smell of rice-based gum, paper, and stale postal stuff. "Service agent" being a loosely employed term since there was little indication that their induction into the job included various training measures to teach service oriented skills, and "4" a charitable answer to the question "how many different people had been spotted over the course of a month behind any one of the iron rails in front of the line customers were supposed to stand in?" The probability they were there all at once to serve customers at any given time was as Mr. Adhikari would have said, asymptotically trending to zero. In front of the counters were three benches with the usual stacks of postal forms, some scraps of rice-glue, and the odd broken pen.
In 1986 I was 17. Not the pimply, unsure type of 17. Worse. The snot-nosed, sure-of-everything 17. The type of 17 that says "I am applying to undergraduate institutions of higher learning (yes probably in those words) and my mail is very important and please get out of my way if sending your mail takes too long". In other words the aggressive, lets-do-it type 17 surrounded by a system where demand of all kinds far exceeded supply, with only 2 available ladders one could climb and a third that pointed to the United States just emerging as more of a ladder-ette than a real ladder.
So here I was at close to 3.50 pm, 17 years old in Jhowtala post office with the clock 10 minutes away from the dreaded hour of 4.00 when all good post office workers disappeared, a period of time when those who walked in felt a little trepidation because their fate lay in the hands of a "service agent" who could on a whim decide at 3.56 that it was 4 o clock and tell you that tomorrow was another day when your mail could be handled equally well. And if you had to mail something out today because those chumps at some firangee school couldnt handle a tardy application for admission, well, heck thats the reason we threw the British out in the first place.
On the fateful day I speak of, the post office was empty but for two people. Behind the counter was the large, affectionate and Mrs. Doubtfire like-lady who I had grown to know and like over the last few years. I had seen her help customers with the zeal that many of her younger colleagues would have done well to emulate. In front, next to one of the benches with the glue was a gentleman who had clearly just come in after a session of prayer, his cap and manner betraying a peaceful soul, one who realized the importance of getting that letter in before the 4 oclock hour and one who, like me, knew better than to assume the government issued rice-glue was to be trusted unless applied in liberal doses. He stood there with stamps and letters neatly going about his business.
I had assessed the situation at hand and felt good about it. All I needed to do was go to Mrs. Doubtfire, ask her to weigh the admissions packet I was going to mail, buy said amount of stamps, go to the bench, apply the stamps and come back to hand in the letter. 90 seconds tops if that. Piece of cake.
So I walked upto the counter, my cheery self pushing the packet through the open alcove feeling a little Oliver Twist-ish as she weighed the letter, told me what it would cost, took my money and gave me my stamps. Nice. 45 seconds and I was almost done! I whirled around, doing my best Nadia Comaneci pirouette and headed to the bench with the glue.
This is when I discovered the fatal flaw in my calculation.
The issue at hand was that in assuming the 90 seconds completion time, I had neglected to set aside a buffer for the time that might elapse between when I got the stamps to when I would be able to apply rice-glue on them. In 1986, the stamps made available to the Indan masses were not self-adhesive, nor partially sticky so one could get away with a lick and enjoy the accompanying high. What was required was diligent application of rice glue, the type of which would have made Mao proud.
So what stood between me and task completion was a nice grandfatherly gentleman who was now upto letter number 6 in the stack of what looked like 15 or so mail-bound objects. I watched as letter number 6 was unwrapped, the flap opened and pressed down neatly on the surface of the bench, followed by a measured amount of glue taken onto a fingertip. What followed was a meticulous brain surgeon like move where the finger was very very slowly applied over the exact right surface of the envelope flap, with not a millimeter spilling over into the zone that might smudge the glue into unwanted parts of the flap when closed. He may as well have been performing non-invasive arthroscopy on an out of place meniscus.
And thats when it happened. The years of Salesian priest instilled self-control snapped. The thought of waiting while another 9 of these objects were dealt with in this manner and the horror of an extra seven minutes this might take was too much. I had things to do, places to go and the spectre of being told to come back tomorrow to mail my application was too disturbing. I rushed toward the bench and made a direct line for the glue. The nice old man sensed that something was afoot and literally moved a little so it seemed to me like he was shielding the glue! That did it. Impatience mixed with anger is never a good thing let alone in a situation like this, so I lunged forward like Michael Phelps for butterfly gold.
I missed. Instead, in a smart motion, the man had moved again, with an alacrity that would have made Ali proud. Avoiding man and glue, I landed headfirst with my hands grappling for balance and nowhere close to the glue, which he incidentally had shifted to the edge of the bench along with himself.
There is probably an appropriate thing to say in a situation where you have almost physically attacked a man three times your age and six inches shorter. Perhaps a smile, a Pierce Brosnan like calm followed by a "Cheers" or "Oh hi, I am an idiot. And you.. you must be Father Time". Strangely none of those words seem to quite find their way onto my tongue. Instead as I recovered, he stood two feet away across the bench, my sheepish smile met with a look of uncomprehending alarm. In better times I may have even asked him what he was thinking but for now all I managed was... "ugghh.. sorry er.. can I use the um.. glue please"?
He looked at me, calmly slid the piece of gooey paper across and smiled. "Go ahead. But beta, ek baat bataao (Son, tell me something)".... he slipped his wet finger over envelope lapel number 7.. "Dilli se ho? (Are you from Delhi?")
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Friday, January 30, 2009
Padho magar pyaar se...
Despite said claims being made of English, Hindi is an equally ph-unny language. Especially if the following conditions hold true:
1. Mr. Srivastava teaches it to you
2. You are in Kolkata, and
3. The mix of your class is fashioned after the national anthem.
A rough pie-chart showing point of origin of Don Bosco's 1987 ISC class that underwent Hindi instruction would go somewhat as follows:
1. In green, the 20% certified and sealed gentlemen who hailed from the South of India due to no fault of their own. If they got this far, one had to give them a hat tip for effort.
2. In blue, the 20% pure sons of the heartland soil, yours truly included, who heard the Chalisa at home, and later in life wondered if Jenny Craig was around when Hanuman was doing his thing. This group was also characterized by infrequent trips to what was then Uttar Pradesh, in the process imbibing several character building experiences they never forgot. Or bizarre ones they couldnt.
3. The rest, best visualized in hot pink, was a mish-mash of smart young men who spoke a variety of languages at home, none of which could be expected to prepare then for Premchand or Tulsi and such. RD Burman they could be expected to get especially if Helen was dancing to him, maybe even SD on a good day. Certainly they could understand what Gambhir and Afridi were talking about. But no, not Tulsi.
Unfortunately the choice all three groups above had was binary - Hindi was, well, for this lot anyway, easier to grasp than Bangla. Then of course this same crew took Bangla as their third language, tales of which are also full of joy and merriment but which we shall leave for another day.
Now before I get too far, and somebody gets hurt, let me be clear. I am not a proponent of having a national language, or of Hindi instruction in school, or of the use of torture when interrogating foreign nationals believed to be operating against America's national interests. I think they should shut Gitmo down and stop teaching Hindi to people who don't want to learn it. Of course those that chose not to learn the language should do so with full knowledge that they may be depriving themselves of the full appreciation of mortal pleasures, which are heightened by a Gambhir-esque grasp of the language. However, the purpose of this particular chronicle is to play scribe on events as they transpired and not to question their existence per se.
So onto Mr. Srivastava.
You folks have been introduced to Rosie, right?. Remember him? Close your eyes and think of him for a minute. Now open your eyes and think of the anti-Rosie. There you have it. I present to you Mr. Srivastava, ladies and gentlemen.
To illustrate the point, here is a sample tete-a-tete between Mr. S and a member of the green segment above. We'll call our hero Kamalahasan (KH) for now to protect the innocent. So KH has just written an essay for his Hindi homework and proudly brought it with him. The subject is "Mera Paaltu Kutta" or "My pet dog". Most likely, this is based on a fictitious creature since most people in school didn't have pets but then that's neither here nor there.
So KH starts reading his essay per Mr. S's instruction. Here goes:
"Mera ek kutta hai". (I have a dog). Mr. Srivastava looks up at KH and nods, the simple beginning fluent, no errors so far. Clearly establishing the baseline as to the presence of said pet upon which the rest of KH's treatise is built no doubt. Strong, solid foundation.
"Uska naam Ram hai". (His name is Ram). Ok, so at this point from a purely stylistic perspective, two short sentences to kickoff your essay is like a back pass all the way to the goalie when starting a game of soccer. From a more contentful perspective, however, KH had just said that his dog was named Ram, a Hindu god of some import. The poor fellow clearly meant no disrespect and when writing a Hindi essay could hardly be blamed for not naming his dog "Earl". Ram is an innocuous enough name, and perhaps as a member of the green team one that was among a subset of 2 he considered worthy of using in a Hindi essay - the other of course being "Krishna".
To Mr. S though this was sacrilege. Not so much for religious reasons but for the same instructional purposes someone may think it inappropriate to name one's cat Jesus. Such nuance is a delicate matter though and from both sides' perspective, the use of the name can be argued as being more or less appropriate.
This is however where the anti-Roise streak enters the equation. Where a simple chuckle or a stern rebuke would have been adequate enough, the response from Mr. S describes best the certain acerbic undertone that pervaded Hindi class, with just enough humor to make the sharpest remarks unforgettable.
"Accha? To Tumhari ma ka naam Sita hoga" (Really? Your mother must be named Sita). So on the face of it, this is unbelievable. In effect, being called a son of a bitch without so much as an apology. To a hapless, unsuspecting soul. Attacking an unarmed enemy with a Bazooka.
"Nahi sir. My mom's named Savitri". The sarcasm totally, completely lost.
Now I don't know if you are laughing or crying, I'll tell you one thing for sure. No one in the graduating class of 1987 who has ever owned a pet dog has likely called the dog "Ram". Similar to not having mis-spelled "athlete".
This was the sort of treatment we all got - politically incorrect, harshly direct and always tinged with dark humor. I remember not remembering that "income tax" was "aay kar" and being told "Aapke baap dada Angerzon kee dukan chalate honge jo income tax dete the" (Your forefathers probably worked for the British and paid income tax. The implication being that if they had been less treasouness in their affiliations, they would have paid "aay kar" Which was odd since both would have gone to the Brits anyway. Oh well.) Or when not being able to report that transport was "parivahan", being told off as someone who had never ridden a public bus in his life. Of course there were the distinctly memorable times when he would facilitate Hindi learning for an Anglophilic set of kids by inserting absurdity like "Red Butter with 4 altars" as a way to remember "Makhan Lal Chaturvedi".
No matter which color team we were on however, some of the side-effects this treatment had were hilarious. Take this for example: A good portion of the green team decided that the only safe way to navigate through Hindi class was to memorize one particular essay from a book of Hindi Essays - "Nibandh Bharti". I believe the most popular one was "Varsha Ritu" (The Rainy Season or The Monsoons) that started like this "Aaj Greeshm ka avsaan hua, Dharti ne Varsha Ritu kaa aagman kiya" (The summer ended, the earth welcomed the rains)
The idea was that no matter what the topic presented, three of the six-ish paragraphs required to complete an essay would be verbatim about Varsha Ritu. Whether the subject be "My Pet Dog", "A trip I took to the Arctic", or "My family and friends", the only issue was how many sentences needed to be written before the fateful words would be penned accompanied by a massive sigh of relief: "Aaj Greeshm ka avsaan hua, Dharti ne Varsha Ritu kaa aagman kiya". And after that, the remainder of the essay would be like a Photoshopped version of the 2 pages from Nibandh Bharti about the rains. Need one say more?
1. Mr. Srivastava teaches it to you
2. You are in Kolkata, and
3. The mix of your class is fashioned after the national anthem.
A rough pie-chart showing point of origin of Don Bosco's 1987 ISC class that underwent Hindi instruction would go somewhat as follows:
1. In green, the 20% certified and sealed gentlemen who hailed from the South of India due to no fault of their own. If they got this far, one had to give them a hat tip for effort.
2. In blue, the 20% pure sons of the heartland soil, yours truly included, who heard the Chalisa at home, and later in life wondered if Jenny Craig was around when Hanuman was doing his thing. This group was also characterized by infrequent trips to what was then Uttar Pradesh, in the process imbibing several character building experiences they never forgot. Or bizarre ones they couldnt.
3. The rest, best visualized in hot pink, was a mish-mash of smart young men who spoke a variety of languages at home, none of which could be expected to prepare then for Premchand or Tulsi and such. RD Burman they could be expected to get especially if Helen was dancing to him, maybe even SD on a good day. Certainly they could understand what Gambhir and Afridi were talking about. But no, not Tulsi.
Unfortunately the choice all three groups above had was binary - Hindi was, well, for this lot anyway, easier to grasp than Bangla. Then of course this same crew took Bangla as their third language, tales of which are also full of joy and merriment but which we shall leave for another day.
Now before I get too far, and somebody gets hurt, let me be clear. I am not a proponent of having a national language, or of Hindi instruction in school, or of the use of torture when interrogating foreign nationals believed to be operating against America's national interests. I think they should shut Gitmo down and stop teaching Hindi to people who don't want to learn it. Of course those that chose not to learn the language should do so with full knowledge that they may be depriving themselves of the full appreciation of mortal pleasures, which are heightened by a Gambhir-esque grasp of the language. However, the purpose of this particular chronicle is to play scribe on events as they transpired and not to question their existence per se.
So onto Mr. Srivastava.
You folks have been introduced to Rosie, right?. Remember him? Close your eyes and think of him for a minute. Now open your eyes and think of the anti-Rosie. There you have it. I present to you Mr. Srivastava, ladies and gentlemen.
To illustrate the point, here is a sample tete-a-tete between Mr. S and a member of the green segment above. We'll call our hero Kamalahasan (KH) for now to protect the innocent. So KH has just written an essay for his Hindi homework and proudly brought it with him. The subject is "Mera Paaltu Kutta" or "My pet dog". Most likely, this is based on a fictitious creature since most people in school didn't have pets but then that's neither here nor there.
So KH starts reading his essay per Mr. S's instruction. Here goes:
"Mera ek kutta hai". (I have a dog). Mr. Srivastava looks up at KH and nods, the simple beginning fluent, no errors so far. Clearly establishing the baseline as to the presence of said pet upon which the rest of KH's treatise is built no doubt. Strong, solid foundation.
"Uska naam Ram hai". (His name is Ram). Ok, so at this point from a purely stylistic perspective, two short sentences to kickoff your essay is like a back pass all the way to the goalie when starting a game of soccer. From a more contentful perspective, however, KH had just said that his dog was named Ram, a Hindu god of some import. The poor fellow clearly meant no disrespect and when writing a Hindi essay could hardly be blamed for not naming his dog "Earl". Ram is an innocuous enough name, and perhaps as a member of the green team one that was among a subset of 2 he considered worthy of using in a Hindi essay - the other of course being "Krishna".
To Mr. S though this was sacrilege. Not so much for religious reasons but for the same instructional purposes someone may think it inappropriate to name one's cat Jesus. Such nuance is a delicate matter though and from both sides' perspective, the use of the name can be argued as being more or less appropriate.
This is however where the anti-Roise streak enters the equation. Where a simple chuckle or a stern rebuke would have been adequate enough, the response from Mr. S describes best the certain acerbic undertone that pervaded Hindi class, with just enough humor to make the sharpest remarks unforgettable.
"Accha? To Tumhari ma ka naam Sita hoga" (Really? Your mother must be named Sita). So on the face of it, this is unbelievable. In effect, being called a son of a bitch without so much as an apology. To a hapless, unsuspecting soul. Attacking an unarmed enemy with a Bazooka.
"Nahi sir. My mom's named Savitri". The sarcasm totally, completely lost.
Now I don't know if you are laughing or crying, I'll tell you one thing for sure. No one in the graduating class of 1987 who has ever owned a pet dog has likely called the dog "Ram". Similar to not having mis-spelled "athlete".
This was the sort of treatment we all got - politically incorrect, harshly direct and always tinged with dark humor. I remember not remembering that "income tax" was "aay kar" and being told "Aapke baap dada Angerzon kee dukan chalate honge jo income tax dete the" (Your forefathers probably worked for the British and paid income tax. The implication being that if they had been less treasouness in their affiliations, they would have paid "aay kar" Which was odd since both would have gone to the Brits anyway. Oh well.) Or when not being able to report that transport was "parivahan", being told off as someone who had never ridden a public bus in his life. Of course there were the distinctly memorable times when he would facilitate Hindi learning for an Anglophilic set of kids by inserting absurdity like "Red Butter with 4 altars" as a way to remember "Makhan Lal Chaturvedi".
No matter which color team we were on however, some of the side-effects this treatment had were hilarious. Take this for example: A good portion of the green team decided that the only safe way to navigate through Hindi class was to memorize one particular essay from a book of Hindi Essays - "Nibandh Bharti". I believe the most popular one was "Varsha Ritu" (The Rainy Season or The Monsoons) that started like this "Aaj Greeshm ka avsaan hua, Dharti ne Varsha Ritu kaa aagman kiya" (The summer ended, the earth welcomed the rains)
The idea was that no matter what the topic presented, three of the six-ish paragraphs required to complete an essay would be verbatim about Varsha Ritu. Whether the subject be "My Pet Dog", "A trip I took to the Arctic", or "My family and friends", the only issue was how many sentences needed to be written before the fateful words would be penned accompanied by a massive sigh of relief: "Aaj Greeshm ka avsaan hua, Dharti ne Varsha Ritu kaa aagman kiya". And after that, the remainder of the essay would be like a Photoshopped version of the 2 pages from Nibandh Bharti about the rains. Need one say more?
Saturday, September 13, 2008
I want to be Anthony Gonzalves
I was born the year the Americans landed on the moon. Which meant that by the time I got to high school, there wasn't a whole heck of a lot to cheer about. Those born in the 80s or later can jump up and down about outsourcing, one whole Olympic gold per billion, and Aishwarya. Oh and Coke, Nike, and foreign exchange convertibility if they care. Those born in the earlier part of the century might have gotten a chance to sit on Nehru's lap and talk Lady Mountbatten. Perhaps play poker with Gandhi, or the back nine with Sarojini.
By the time I was a twinkle in Mummy's eye, there was shall we say a certain lull, a paucity, a vacuum, in role-models of the political variety. Maybe it was just me but I did not find myself waking up too often to Binaca-polished cheers of "I want to be like Jagjivan" or "I wish I could grab a drink with Morarji". I was led to believe Sardar Patel was India's Roosevelt - soft voice, big stick and all - and that all the aforementioned were great people one might role model. The problem was that the entity conveying said greatness was Simon & Schuster not a real hero him(her)self.
So lacking a Kennedy amongst us, my child-like need for a hero - which existed because well, because I was a child - sought solace elsewhere. So like a lot of other kids my generation, I gravitated toward sport. There I discovered the situation was slightly better but not egregiously so. Perhaps a pale yellow alert in the Bush-Chaney grading system if you examine the summary facts:
In one word, Amitabh. Anthony Gonzalvez. Vijay. Veeru. Coolie. Kaalia, Babu Moshai. No matter who you were, what mood you were in, and no matter what his ridiculous outfit du jour (and they were all ridiculous - white suit with white shoes, yellow shirt with an orange jacket, both showing a hirsute chest while he fought a shark or presented watermelons to a love interest), he could at least take you to a make believe world that was far more pleasant than the real one you faced as soon as you got up from the popcorn strewn seat. He could be Rakhi's Kabhi-Kabhi lover or Rakhi's Shakti-shali son, and Oedipus couldn't have carried the role more convincingly. To all those Kolkatans out there who will claim "Yes but Utpal was a better thespian", here's what I have to say to you: "I saw Amitabh in concert a few weeks ago in SF and at 68 he still pulled a crowd that caused a two hour traffic jam. So, bondhugon, get over it!"
After the concert I also realized that there are some good reasons why Anthony Gonzalvez stood up so clearly as a role-model for a boy desperate to believe that better pickings had to be available than the ones at hand.
By the time I was a twinkle in Mummy's eye, there was shall we say a certain lull, a paucity, a vacuum, in role-models of the political variety. Maybe it was just me but I did not find myself waking up too often to Binaca-polished cheers of "I want to be like Jagjivan" or "I wish I could grab a drink with Morarji". I was led to believe Sardar Patel was India's Roosevelt - soft voice, big stick and all - and that all the aforementioned were great people one might role model. The problem was that the entity conveying said greatness was Simon & Schuster not a real hero him(her)self.
So lacking a Kennedy amongst us, my child-like need for a hero - which existed because well, because I was a child - sought solace elsewhere. So like a lot of other kids my generation, I gravitated toward sport. There I discovered the situation was slightly better but not egregiously so. Perhaps a pale yellow alert in the Bush-Chaney grading system if you examine the summary facts:
- After the firangs made us play on astro-turf, we didn't win an Olympic medal in the national sport: hockey. Before the firangs made us play on astro-turf, the only Olympic medal we won was in hockey. By the time I was old enough to dissect a frog, hockey had became like the rest of Indian history - just about anyone who could run and carry a stick was able to raid and plunder: the Dutch, the Germans, the Aussies. Chak De anything but Indian hockey in the 80s.
- I grew up barraged by noise about how I was living in the mecca of Indian soccer. Turned out, the two best players in the Calcutta league were imports from the middle-east - college kids Jamshed and Majid - who with all due respect would be lucky to be ball boys for a real European club's second social team
- Vijay made it to the quarters of one Wimbledon and choked - supposedly an achievement which Indian tennis buffs talked about for decades. Ramesh's first serve wouldn't make Lindsey Lohan proud, assuming Lindsey plays tennis when not attending to other pressing affairs of health
- Prakash won one major tournament and since then his biggest contribution to India has been his daughter. Mind you he deserves high marks for that. Lots of famous Indians have not left behind scions similarly pleasing to the eye so credit to PP where its due
- Miandad with that last-ball six. And Imran for about three series when he would either hit an Amarnath or two on the head and / or bowl about three of our top chaps in two overs with a cricket ball I am convinced was tampered with a Thumbs up bottle cap. That sort of thing made it hard to focus even on the 1983 and 1984 wins. Losing off the last ball and that too to Pakistan - it has taken twenty years and the 20-20 victory to clear that palate somewhat. To this day I wake up in the middle of the night cursing "He knew he had to get 4!!! Anything but a full-toss. Anything. A Trevor Chappel. Anything, Sharma, anything!!"
In one word, Amitabh. Anthony Gonzalvez. Vijay. Veeru. Coolie. Kaalia, Babu Moshai. No matter who you were, what mood you were in, and no matter what his ridiculous outfit du jour (and they were all ridiculous - white suit with white shoes, yellow shirt with an orange jacket, both showing a hirsute chest while he fought a shark or presented watermelons to a love interest), he could at least take you to a make believe world that was far more pleasant than the real one you faced as soon as you got up from the popcorn strewn seat. He could be Rakhi's Kabhi-Kabhi lover or Rakhi's Shakti-shali son, and Oedipus couldn't have carried the role more convincingly. To all those Kolkatans out there who will claim "Yes but Utpal was a better thespian", here's what I have to say to you: "I saw Amitabh in concert a few weeks ago in SF and at 68 he still pulled a crowd that caused a two hour traffic jam. So, bondhugon, get over it!"
After the concert I also realized that there are some good reasons why Anthony Gonzalvez stood up so clearly as a role-model for a boy desperate to believe that better pickings had to be available than the ones at hand.
- Like me, he couldn't dance if a necklace depended on it. Take this for example. Who in their right mind dances like this? Walk in, break up two perfectly decently paired people and break into song? If that isn't enough, steal the necklace right off of the poor unsuspecting muppet of a girl?
- Awkward, gawky, no Amir Khan romantic. Just like me. I could totally relate to expressing love to a woman through a watermelon - purely as a matter of looking out for her daily intake of fruit.
- He was taller than all the Pakistani cricketers including Sikander Bakht.
- The rest of the pack. Take Jeetendra for example. Yes he had similar wardrobe malfunction issues but bracketing him with Amitabh was like clubbing David Boon with Usain Bolt as members of the set {Good Runners}.
- Rekha.
- His dad. I always thought Harivanshrai Bacchan outdid his son as an artist. Take Path Ki Pehchan. Or Madhsushala, or, well, pick up just anything senior B did. (Unfortunately senior B needed a better PR agency. Since his face wasn't plastered across every poster defiling every corner of town, Harivanshrai didn't get to build similar brand equity.)
- His knowledge of English, and issues with its illogicalityness.
- Only he could die 30 minutes after being shot right in the chest and one would suspend disbelief for that period. Or have the "Maa ka locket" save him because the bullet ricotched off it while he was riding 100 miles an hour on a motorbike. Jump off bridges onto a train as a 4 year old and reach the train 21 years later. Not everyone could carry that off, not even, well especially not Utpal.
- Sholay. You know, people rave endlessly about Gabbar's entry when they talk about Sholay. Helen and her dance. But here's a less well known two minute clip that I find I can recite back to front because of just how well it is delivered. Possibly the smartest piece of comic relief in Indian cinema if I might go out on a limb.
- Sanjeev-Anthony bhai-bhai. For the record, my parental unit are from UP and had adopted Calcutta as their home. Bachchan married a good Bhaduri girl and had worked in Calcutta for some time doing some odd job. So my intensely logical mind drew the following obvious connection: take the Venn intersection of the 100 million UP-ites with those that have Calcutta as their adopted home. Then ignore the small things - like looks, height, and voice. Once you do that, the parallels are unmistakable - like me, he is another Bhaiyya from UP with ties, tenuous as they might be, to Calcutta. Practically brothers you might say. Sanjeev-Anthony bhai-bhai.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Full Frontal Bonding
I am convinced that ET taught us Chemistry for about a year in high school. Either that or it was Borat, who early in his career while fleeing the long arm of Kazakhstani law, had found his way to Don Bosco Park Circus and successfully presented credentials that allowed him to masquerade as a Chemistry teacher. Since we can't be sure, we will for now refer to said entity by his purported initials, which anagram to "CKR". That year, 1986, was also the one in which Haley's comet re-visited the inner solar system after its fly-by in 1910. Even if the concurrency of the two events is purely coincidental, I rest easy knowing that some phenomena occur only once every 76 years or so.
To set the stage a bit, Chemistry wasn't exactly a source of great joy for me at any stage in school. My excuse being that unlike Physics, principles seemed few and far between, and the subject required rote learning of equations and such without the ability to derive them when needed. Since we have already established the capacity constraints associated with my brain, you can surely understand why I wasn't a card carrying Mendeleev fan. Because the pre-CKR teacher - Mrs. Jayaraman - was so good, I had learned to tolerate the subject and believe like she did that knowing the properties of alcohols, metals, semiconductors, and gases could lead to a healthier and happier life. Unfortunately, Mrs J met with a sad accident that put her out of commission for a few months and the school desperately sought a new Chemistry teacher.
So enter CKR. If you have to create a mental picture of him, think of a slightly shorter Borat with the language skills of Basil Fawlty's man Manuel. The first day he came to class, we were mostly grateful to have a warm body fill the vacuum. Given the extraordinary circumstances under which he was brought in, one could also understand the school not having done thorough reference checks through Scotland Yard and the like, so expectations weren't exactly high. But when CKR introduced himself as a Masters in Chemistry who had just landed in the big city from humble roots in the village, said expectations rose like overnight futures on pig ears after a storm in Idaho. Clearly here was the brightest chemical loving kid who had survived cut-throat competition and made it to the big time to fulfill his pedagogical dreams. The lack of polish would be made up copiously by a surreal depth of understanding of how molecules form, bonds are made and broken, and catalysts sip their cocktails while the reaction does its thing around them. And so what if his language was a little off, the words chosen a bit erratic - all surely telltale signs of genius.
That assumption turned out to be a tad naive. It wasn't long before we discovered that the issue was not just the absence of any evidence of communication skills in any known human language. It was also coupled with disorganized thought, and a not very visible understanding of Chemistry. Or at least what and how it needed to be taught. Take the case of CKR explaining polarity in covalent bonds, standing tall as Socrates probably did in his day:
CKR: "So bhain cobhalent bonds jano to phormason hoi, ektu ektu there becaaam polarijason sometime". If you weren't fluent at Bangla, that statement would be hard to understand. If you were, it would be harder, because you'd want to make sense out of it. The only slight hint we'd have at this point would be the sight of CKR in front of us holding two imaginary round objects we could only suppose were atoms or molecules. Then he'd push them together so one could triage that we were discussing some kind of bonding even though what had just been uttered was not very meaningful.
Class: "Eh? What sir, what?"
CKR: "Na na, boozle na?" (Did you not understand?) A desperate, slightly irritated look, hands on hips. Followed by a George Bush smirk and shoulder roll chuckle.
Class: "Na sir, na" (No we didn't.)
Deep throated grunt and swallow followed by a jump to the board and the drawing of two circles with dots at their centers. Palms then raised to cup the circles from the outside, pushing them together as if trying to get the board to let him connect the chalk edges. Thankfully he would have written "Cl" on each circle indicating Chlorine atoms were involved, because small chuckles would have started to run in Mexican waves through the class as the prurient adolescent mind started to wander.
CKR: "Cl-Cl atoms hoi jai Cl-Cl molecule". Look of satisfied glee as if all was clear now and there was no room for any doubt. Back to the board, and the two circles would be replaced by intersecting ones showing Cl-Cl.
CKR: "Bonding. No polarijason".
Ok, so two chlorine atoms were bonding to create a molecule and it wasn't polarized.
Class: "Eh, why sir?"
CKR: "Why mane ta kee?" (What do you mean why?). "Cl-Cl kano polarije hobe?" (Why will Cl- Cl polarize?)
Class: "Why will Cl-Cl NOT polarize?"
CKR: "Aamar Englees bhalo noi so you are making phun?" (Just because my English isn't good you're laughing at my expense?)
Class: "No sir. We just have no idea what it is you said".
About 25 minutes or so later about 3 people would have understood that since the two Chlorine atoms were electronegatively identical, they would share the electrons in the bond created between them and so there would be no resultant polarity, creating a net neutral molecule. 53 others would still be staring at two circular orbs with a little nub in the center, translating innuendo into graphic imagery, pretty much giving up on what covalent bonds did.
Then he'd move on to why H-F or similar bonds had polarity. This is the all-time CKR classic.
CKR: "Now, imajeeen H-F straacture". (This we got, "Imagine the structure of an HF molecule") 56 pairs of eyes waiting for another pair of nipple-topped circles, which would be drawn forthwith.
CKR: "Eta Eta Eta ektu polarije hoi jai" When excited CKR would speak really fast and occasionally stutter. Apparently the H-F combo had some polarity to it. Then without preamble or warning of any kind, he would lean over, stand on one leg and do a Travolta-like move, stretching his torso far out to the left.
CKR: "Aee reaacsaan - eta, one atom gates leftaidd to the seeft!" Stunned, complete silence - imagine Borat doing the floor exercises at the Olympics, one arm outstretched high in the air, his whole body leaning like the Tower of Pisa pointing due East. Not a word understood, it may as well have been a Marxist symbol.
CKR: "Boozley na?" (Did you not understand?). Hours later, someone would pick up the chapter relating to this topic and explain despite CKR that all he was trying to say was that since H and F had different electronegative properties, a chemical bond between them had electrons shared unequally, they moved toward the more negative one. So the bond would form with electrons having "shifted to the left - or in CKR speak "leftaidd to the seeft"".
Since then, I have researched and confirmed that the X-Files have not carried the CKR story, but if attempts at establishing contact with the producers are successful, we may have a good chance of sending Mulder and Scully to dig deeper into CKR's FBI files.
Other CKR classics:
"The SN2 reaacsan cannot happen from phront side. So electrophile atttacks from baaaackside". The specifics of the SN2 chemistry are pretty vague in my mind but the dramatization is crystal clear. Thankfully there were no images or similar props on this one, but his hands would move to show how one pair from a nucleophile attacks an electron deficient electrophile and bonds to it. The hands would move to show how direct frontal attack was futile, so the approaching ion would settle for penetration from the rear. I kid you not, I could not make this stuff up if I wanted to; the R rated nature of this display was mightily thrilling for 16 and 17 year old boys who had been turning to Chapter 9 of every Biology text handed to them.
In one Chemistry lab situation when dealing with the possibilities of Sulphuric acid, he warned us to be careful: "Bisaal Explosaan Hobay. Sobb Party Moray Jabay". Loosely translated this was Nostradamus talk: "There shall be a mighty explosion and all parties concerned shall die". He then proceeded as he was wont to talk about how Hydrogen Sulphide would be "paaaaaassed" through a most interesting visual involving aspects of the anatomy one might associate with hydrogen sulphide.
Very quickly we were quite clear that anyone who cared would need to pick up a book and learn their own Chemistry, but missing CKRs class should only be done at one's own expense since the comic relief was unparalleled . Discovering Borat years later proved that CKR had either moved to Kazakhstan or that imbecilic genius knows no geographic boundaries.
What is perhaps less well known and possibly a fitting end to the CKR saga was the final exam in 11th grade. We all got our Chemistry grades but never actually saw the graded papers. Apparently he had given us all scores at random without grading anything at all. Unlike the practiced criminal however, the poor rookie had left the ungraded exam in the hot air oven in the school's chemistry lab (quite appropriately one might add). An enterprising member of our class found them, CKR was unceremoniously ejected from the premises, and Chemistry class was back to its equilibrium state - empty.
To set the stage a bit, Chemistry wasn't exactly a source of great joy for me at any stage in school. My excuse being that unlike Physics, principles seemed few and far between, and the subject required rote learning of equations and such without the ability to derive them when needed. Since we have already established the capacity constraints associated with my brain, you can surely understand why I wasn't a card carrying Mendeleev fan. Because the pre-CKR teacher - Mrs. Jayaraman - was so good, I had learned to tolerate the subject and believe like she did that knowing the properties of alcohols, metals, semiconductors, and gases could lead to a healthier and happier life. Unfortunately, Mrs J met with a sad accident that put her out of commission for a few months and the school desperately sought a new Chemistry teacher.
So enter CKR. If you have to create a mental picture of him, think of a slightly shorter Borat with the language skills of Basil Fawlty's man Manuel. The first day he came to class, we were mostly grateful to have a warm body fill the vacuum. Given the extraordinary circumstances under which he was brought in, one could also understand the school not having done thorough reference checks through Scotland Yard and the like, so expectations weren't exactly high. But when CKR introduced himself as a Masters in Chemistry who had just landed in the big city from humble roots in the village, said expectations rose like overnight futures on pig ears after a storm in Idaho. Clearly here was the brightest chemical loving kid who had survived cut-throat competition and made it to the big time to fulfill his pedagogical dreams. The lack of polish would be made up copiously by a surreal depth of understanding of how molecules form, bonds are made and broken, and catalysts sip their cocktails while the reaction does its thing around them. And so what if his language was a little off, the words chosen a bit erratic - all surely telltale signs of genius.
That assumption turned out to be a tad naive. It wasn't long before we discovered that the issue was not just the absence of any evidence of communication skills in any known human language. It was also coupled with disorganized thought, and a not very visible understanding of Chemistry. Or at least what and how it needed to be taught. Take the case of CKR explaining polarity in covalent bonds, standing tall as Socrates probably did in his day:
CKR: "So bhain cobhalent bonds jano to phormason hoi, ektu ektu there becaaam polarijason sometime". If you weren't fluent at Bangla, that statement would be hard to understand. If you were, it would be harder, because you'd want to make sense out of it. The only slight hint we'd have at this point would be the sight of CKR in front of us holding two imaginary round objects we could only suppose were atoms or molecules. Then he'd push them together so one could triage that we were discussing some kind of bonding even though what had just been uttered was not very meaningful.
Class: "Eh? What sir, what?"
CKR: "Na na, boozle na?" (Did you not understand?) A desperate, slightly irritated look, hands on hips. Followed by a George Bush smirk and shoulder roll chuckle.
Class: "Na sir, na" (No we didn't.)
Deep throated grunt and swallow followed by a jump to the board and the drawing of two circles with dots at their centers. Palms then raised to cup the circles from the outside, pushing them together as if trying to get the board to let him connect the chalk edges. Thankfully he would have written "Cl" on each circle indicating Chlorine atoms were involved, because small chuckles would have started to run in Mexican waves through the class as the prurient adolescent mind started to wander.
CKR: "Cl-Cl atoms hoi jai Cl-Cl molecule". Look of satisfied glee as if all was clear now and there was no room for any doubt. Back to the board, and the two circles would be replaced by intersecting ones showing Cl-Cl.
CKR: "Bonding. No polarijason".
Ok, so two chlorine atoms were bonding to create a molecule and it wasn't polarized.
Class: "Eh, why sir?"
CKR: "Why mane ta kee?" (What do you mean why?). "Cl-Cl kano polarije hobe?" (Why will Cl- Cl polarize?)
Class: "Why will Cl-Cl NOT polarize?"
CKR: "Aamar Englees bhalo noi so you are making phun?" (Just because my English isn't good you're laughing at my expense?)
Class: "No sir. We just have no idea what it is you said".
About 25 minutes or so later about 3 people would have understood that since the two Chlorine atoms were electronegatively identical, they would share the electrons in the bond created between them and so there would be no resultant polarity, creating a net neutral molecule. 53 others would still be staring at two circular orbs with a little nub in the center, translating innuendo into graphic imagery, pretty much giving up on what covalent bonds did.
Then he'd move on to why H-F or similar bonds had polarity. This is the all-time CKR classic.
CKR: "Now, imajeeen H-F straacture". (This we got, "Imagine the structure of an HF molecule") 56 pairs of eyes waiting for another pair of nipple-topped circles, which would be drawn forthwith.
CKR: "Eta Eta Eta ektu polarije hoi jai" When excited CKR would speak really fast and occasionally stutter. Apparently the H-F combo had some polarity to it. Then without preamble or warning of any kind, he would lean over, stand on one leg and do a Travolta-like move, stretching his torso far out to the left.
CKR: "Aee reaacsaan - eta, one atom gates leftaidd to the seeft!" Stunned, complete silence - imagine Borat doing the floor exercises at the Olympics, one arm outstretched high in the air, his whole body leaning like the Tower of Pisa pointing due East. Not a word understood, it may as well have been a Marxist symbol.
CKR: "Boozley na?" (Did you not understand?). Hours later, someone would pick up the chapter relating to this topic and explain despite CKR that all he was trying to say was that since H and F had different electronegative properties, a chemical bond between them had electrons shared unequally, they moved toward the more negative one. So the bond would form with electrons having "shifted to the left - or in CKR speak "leftaidd to the seeft"".
Since then, I have researched and confirmed that the X-Files have not carried the CKR story, but if attempts at establishing contact with the producers are successful, we may have a good chance of sending Mulder and Scully to dig deeper into CKR's FBI files.
Other CKR classics:
"The SN2 reaacsan cannot happen from phront side. So electrophile atttacks from baaaackside". The specifics of the SN2 chemistry are pretty vague in my mind but the dramatization is crystal clear. Thankfully there were no images or similar props on this one, but his hands would move to show how one pair from a nucleophile attacks an electron deficient electrophile and bonds to it. The hands would move to show how direct frontal attack was futile, so the approaching ion would settle for penetration from the rear. I kid you not, I could not make this stuff up if I wanted to; the R rated nature of this display was mightily thrilling for 16 and 17 year old boys who had been turning to Chapter 9 of every Biology text handed to them.
In one Chemistry lab situation when dealing with the possibilities of Sulphuric acid, he warned us to be careful: "Bisaal Explosaan Hobay. Sobb Party Moray Jabay". Loosely translated this was Nostradamus talk: "There shall be a mighty explosion and all parties concerned shall die". He then proceeded as he was wont to talk about how Hydrogen Sulphide would be "paaaaaassed" through a most interesting visual involving aspects of the anatomy one might associate with hydrogen sulphide.
Very quickly we were quite clear that anyone who cared would need to pick up a book and learn their own Chemistry, but missing CKRs class should only be done at one's own expense since the comic relief was unparalleled . Discovering Borat years later proved that CKR had either moved to Kazakhstan or that imbecilic genius knows no geographic boundaries.
What is perhaps less well known and possibly a fitting end to the CKR saga was the final exam in 11th grade. We all got our Chemistry grades but never actually saw the graded papers. Apparently he had given us all scores at random without grading anything at all. Unlike the practiced criminal however, the poor rookie had left the ungraded exam in the hot air oven in the school's chemistry lab (quite appropriately one might add). An enterprising member of our class found them, CKR was unceremoniously ejected from the premises, and Chemistry class was back to its equilibrium state - empty.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Rosie By Any Other Name
"Even on your death bed when mommy asks you, "what is the spelling of "athlete"", all you need to say is "Mommy, no "e"!". That's it! The rest is obvious. No one makes a mistake in "athlete" except for putting an extra "e"".
Mr. Rosario, High School Doyen of all things English, Don Bosco Park Circus 1986-87.
I will grant the skeptical reader that the probability of my mother, were she to be beside me on my death bed, asking me the spelling of "athlete", is low. That said, my ability to recite these words almost verbatim 23 years after they were uttered tells me just how much of an influence Mr. Rosario has been on my use and misuse of the Queen's language. Even without data from copious in-depth focus groups at hand, I can guarantee that a good percentage of the thousands of others he taught would tell you how they owe their language skills more to Mr. Rosario than to Msrs. Wren and Martin. Better still, since I have never mis-spelled "athlete" since school, his form of English instruction was clearly effective. In fact, more than just effective - measurable, trackable, and very targeted. Heck, he could have taught a marketing class.
Mr. Rosario taught us English Language and Literature for the last two years in school. He was an avuncular, Anglo-Indian gentleman who looked and talked a little bit like Anthony Hopkins. Generally cheerily disposed, and with an excellent grasp of the language to boot, he was a permanent fixture in school, having seen generations of young men like yours truly graduate. Like with all our teachers, we gave him a nickname. His - "Rosie" - was particularly pleasing for a whole set of sordid reasons. For one, we were in an all-boys school, and anything that allowed us to imagine we were associated with the opposite sex was particularly exciting. Even if it meant naming a 50ish gentleman Rosie. For another, actual engagement with that half of the species required walking down the road to my sister's college (Lady Brabourne) or to a high school a few blocks away (M. B. Girls) or others further away like Modern High. And most of the time encountering a real live female was not without risks - one might actually have to say something intelligent and couldn't get away with just throwing chalk at them as some of the crew were wont to do from classroom windows on high. Don't ask me how or why that particular ritual found its way into the Bosconian bag of tricks. Let's just say that like God, the onset of testosterone works in mysterious ways.
When the movie is made, I would like to see Rowan Atkinson play Rosie with express instructions to project himself as an average of Mr. Bean and Black Adder. For the more precise minded, Rosie = (Mr. Bean + Black Adder) / 2. Or maybe Hugh Laurie could play him - the Jeeves and Wooster version of the man that is, not the guy who shows up in House. I say this because I think those two could do better than even Anthony Hopkins in bringing to life what I affectionately refer to as "CRM" - the Classic Rosie Move.
Classic Rosie Move (to be henceforth referred to as CRM)*: When addressing high school boys and asking a question, do four things at once:
Rosie used this move several times a day, one supposed because he felt it worked for him. In fact a typical screenplay of aforementioned movie would include at least one scene that went like this:
Hushed silence in class. Rosie (played by Laurie or Atkinson) looks at yours truly (played of course by Elijah Wood). Insert first instance of CRM.
Rosie: "So....ooo Mister Agrawal...." the long, lingering look, mouth open and finger pointed skyward to accentuate the importance of the words about to be uttered. Religious riots could have been happening in UP, Bihar, and Orissa at that very moment but time stood still as the 17 year old me awaited the task about to be bestowed with the eagerness of a pending knighthood. "What is.......the..... figure of speech....... in "long, lingering look"? The last three words spoken at rapid-fire pace.
Self: "Er.. sir.. "Long Lingering Look" is an alliteration?"
Rosie looks pleased. Maybe other kids than just Saibal might consider a future in English. Not as good as Saibal's but then not bad for a transplant from Uttar Pradesh (a subject we shall explore in some depth in future chronicles.)
Rosie: "Yes sir it is. Yes sir..... "Long lingering look" is indeed an alliteration. Good Mr. Agrawal. Now...... (insert second CRM here)... what is an alliteration, Mr. Agrawal?"
Self: "Hmm.. er.. when the first sound is alliterated sir?"
A ghastly look while the blood flushes from Rosie's already pale face. The early promise shown by boy fast waning, I suppose you can take the boy out of UP but not UP out of the boy. Introduce touch of sarcasm when he speaks next.
Rosie: (insert CRM #3) "I see. I see, Mr. Agrawal. You say....an alliteration .... is when the first sound is alliterated? I see. I think we can do better than that Mr. Agrawal"
As we have established elsewhere, I am quite experienced with logical fallacies and once spelled out in legible handwriting, I usually am able to discern when I have made one. Realizing the obvious circular logic in this situation, the smart young scholar recovers.
Self: "Repeated sir, I mean an alliteration is when the first letter is repeated. Like "till tomorrow then".
Ok so in hindsight the second half of that statement wasn't necessary. But delivered as it was, that certainly came as the final crushing blow to Rosie's hopes of developing a future Tennyson. CRM # 4, 5, and 6 at once as he tries to pick words carefully. You could see him trying to fight off a mixture of anger, displeasure and pity.
Rosie: "No sir!.... No,.... no, no sir. "Till tomorrow "th"en is not an alliteration!"
Slow raise of finger, pointed skyward, mouth open for a few seconds. CRM #7.
Rosie: "Please repeat after me... Mr. Agrawal. Alliteration is when the first consonant sound, not the first letter in a phrase is repeated" So "Till Tomorrow Ten" would be an alliteration sir. "t" "t" "t". Do you understand?"
And that's how we learned the English language, CRM by CRM you might say. And not just the language, literature too - one could go on for hours about "The Lord of the Rings" and what Rosie thought of Piggy or the thespian rendition of Richard II. If you are keeping track, there were about 12 CRMs in going through Richard and John of Gaunt's chatty banter in the following passage:
Richard: "Lions make leopards tame".
J of G: "Yea, but not change his spots".
But there is this other unfailing memory about Rosie that needs to be chronicled. His role as self-appointed school proctor. His office used to be directly in the path of where hundreds of kids assembled every morning, and then proceeded in immaculate formation like the Blue Angels to their respective classrooms. As they passed by, Rosie would stand tall, looking for those out of uniform and pull them out of line. "No belt", "No PE shoes", "No blazer" whatever the fault of the poor unsuspecting little fellow, Rosie's unerring eye could spot a violation of the dress code from afar, revealing a unique skillset long before Olympic shooting glory bestowed on any Indian the formal title of "keenest eye". I was once sent home with an entry in that dreaded school diary that said "No pants", a comment that would require a signature from a parent. It took some convincing as I presented the diary to my mom, trying to explain that Mr. Rosario considered a black leather belt as a native part of the trouser, not unlike a navigation toolbar might be viewed for a browser. Absent said belt he felt completely justified in proclaiming that I had come to school without required leggings. To this day my fingers feel for metal buckle every morning no matter what I am wearing. The fingers sometimes stray to the neck checking for maroon tie and closed collar, although thankfully I can avoid that particular restraint in my current incarnation.
While I make light of Rosie and the idiosyncracies that accompanied English instruction, one thing's for sure: For good or for bad, for richer or for poorer, in bad writing and in good, a lot of what I am able to express today is Rosie's to blame and his to take credit. Not to mention the shorts I regularly wear to work in utter rebellious defiance of an era gone by when blazers, maroon ties, crisp ironed shirts, and gray flannels were part of the wonderful regimen called school.
Mr. Rosario, High School Doyen of all things English, Don Bosco Park Circus 1986-87.
I will grant the skeptical reader that the probability of my mother, were she to be beside me on my death bed, asking me the spelling of "athlete", is low. That said, my ability to recite these words almost verbatim 23 years after they were uttered tells me just how much of an influence Mr. Rosario has been on my use and misuse of the Queen's language. Even without data from copious in-depth focus groups at hand, I can guarantee that a good percentage of the thousands of others he taught would tell you how they owe their language skills more to Mr. Rosario than to Msrs. Wren and Martin. Better still, since I have never mis-spelled "athlete" since school, his form of English instruction was clearly effective. In fact, more than just effective - measurable, trackable, and very targeted. Heck, he could have taught a marketing class.
Mr. Rosario taught us English Language and Literature for the last two years in school. He was an avuncular, Anglo-Indian gentleman who looked and talked a little bit like Anthony Hopkins. Generally cheerily disposed, and with an excellent grasp of the language to boot, he was a permanent fixture in school, having seen generations of young men like yours truly graduate. Like with all our teachers, we gave him a nickname. His - "Rosie" - was particularly pleasing for a whole set of sordid reasons. For one, we were in an all-boys school, and anything that allowed us to imagine we were associated with the opposite sex was particularly exciting. Even if it meant naming a 50ish gentleman Rosie. For another, actual engagement with that half of the species required walking down the road to my sister's college (Lady Brabourne) or to a high school a few blocks away (M. B. Girls) or others further away like Modern High. And most of the time encountering a real live female was not without risks - one might actually have to say something intelligent and couldn't get away with just throwing chalk at them as some of the crew were wont to do from classroom windows on high. Don't ask me how or why that particular ritual found its way into the Bosconian bag of tricks. Let's just say that like God, the onset of testosterone works in mysterious ways.
When the movie is made, I would like to see Rowan Atkinson play Rosie with express instructions to project himself as an average of Mr. Bean and Black Adder. For the more precise minded, Rosie = (Mr. Bean + Black Adder) / 2. Or maybe Hugh Laurie could play him - the Jeeves and Wooster version of the man that is, not the guy who shows up in House. I say this because I think those two could do better than even Anthony Hopkins in bringing to life what I affectionately refer to as "CRM" - the Classic Rosie Move.
Classic Rosie Move (to be henceforth referred to as CRM)*: When addressing high school boys and asking a question, do four things at once:
- Open eyes wide and look deep into eyes of principal subject being addressed. Rosie seemed to believe this was part of GAPP (Generally Accepted Public-speaking Principles)
- Lift one forefinger skyward to draw attention to fingertip. Eckhart Tolle type stuff, the power of now and such.
- Open mouth and let hang open for a few seconds without saying anything. Let world hang in expectant, or as Rosie would put it, pregnant silence
- Start sentence slow, but say last three words really quickly. Sting at the tail.
Rosie used this move several times a day, one supposed because he felt it worked for him. In fact a typical screenplay of aforementioned movie would include at least one scene that went like this:
Hushed silence in class. Rosie (played by Laurie or Atkinson) looks at yours truly (played of course by Elijah Wood). Insert first instance of CRM.
Rosie: "So....ooo Mister Agrawal...." the long, lingering look, mouth open and finger pointed skyward to accentuate the importance of the words about to be uttered. Religious riots could have been happening in UP, Bihar, and Orissa at that very moment but time stood still as the 17 year old me awaited the task about to be bestowed with the eagerness of a pending knighthood. "What is.......the..... figure of speech....... in "long, lingering look"? The last three words spoken at rapid-fire pace.
Self: "Er.. sir.. "Long Lingering Look" is an alliteration?"
Rosie looks pleased. Maybe other kids than just Saibal might consider a future in English. Not as good as Saibal's but then not bad for a transplant from Uttar Pradesh (a subject we shall explore in some depth in future chronicles.)
Rosie: "Yes sir it is. Yes sir..... "Long lingering look" is indeed an alliteration. Good Mr. Agrawal. Now...... (insert second CRM here)... what is an alliteration, Mr. Agrawal?"
Self: "Hmm.. er.. when the first sound is alliterated sir?"
A ghastly look while the blood flushes from Rosie's already pale face. The early promise shown by boy fast waning, I suppose you can take the boy out of UP but not UP out of the boy. Introduce touch of sarcasm when he speaks next.
Rosie: (insert CRM #3) "I see. I see, Mr. Agrawal. You say....an alliteration .... is when the first sound is alliterated? I see. I think we can do better than that Mr. Agrawal"
As we have established elsewhere, I am quite experienced with logical fallacies and once spelled out in legible handwriting, I usually am able to discern when I have made one. Realizing the obvious circular logic in this situation, the smart young scholar recovers.
Self: "Repeated sir, I mean an alliteration is when the first letter is repeated. Like "till tomorrow then".
Ok so in hindsight the second half of that statement wasn't necessary. But delivered as it was, that certainly came as the final crushing blow to Rosie's hopes of developing a future Tennyson. CRM # 4, 5, and 6 at once as he tries to pick words carefully. You could see him trying to fight off a mixture of anger, displeasure and pity.
Rosie: "No sir!.... No,.... no, no sir. "Till tomorrow "th"en is not an alliteration!"
Slow raise of finger, pointed skyward, mouth open for a few seconds. CRM #7.
Rosie: "Please repeat after me... Mr. Agrawal. Alliteration is when the first consonant sound, not the first letter in a phrase is repeated" So "Till Tomorrow Ten" would be an alliteration sir. "t" "t" "t". Do you understand?"
And that's how we learned the English language, CRM by CRM you might say. And not just the language, literature too - one could go on for hours about "The Lord of the Rings" and what Rosie thought of Piggy or the thespian rendition of Richard II. If you are keeping track, there were about 12 CRMs in going through Richard and John of Gaunt's chatty banter in the following passage:
Richard: "Lions make leopards tame".
J of G: "Yea, but not change his spots".
But there is this other unfailing memory about Rosie that needs to be chronicled. His role as self-appointed school proctor. His office used to be directly in the path of where hundreds of kids assembled every morning, and then proceeded in immaculate formation like the Blue Angels to their respective classrooms. As they passed by, Rosie would stand tall, looking for those out of uniform and pull them out of line. "No belt", "No PE shoes", "No blazer" whatever the fault of the poor unsuspecting little fellow, Rosie's unerring eye could spot a violation of the dress code from afar, revealing a unique skillset long before Olympic shooting glory bestowed on any Indian the formal title of "keenest eye". I was once sent home with an entry in that dreaded school diary that said "No pants", a comment that would require a signature from a parent. It took some convincing as I presented the diary to my mom, trying to explain that Mr. Rosario considered a black leather belt as a native part of the trouser, not unlike a navigation toolbar might be viewed for a browser. Absent said belt he felt completely justified in proclaiming that I had come to school without required leggings. To this day my fingers feel for metal buckle every morning no matter what I am wearing. The fingers sometimes stray to the neck checking for maroon tie and closed collar, although thankfully I can avoid that particular restraint in my current incarnation.
While I make light of Rosie and the idiosyncracies that accompanied English instruction, one thing's for sure: For good or for bad, for richer or for poorer, in bad writing and in good, a lot of what I am able to express today is Rosie's to blame and his to take credit. Not to mention the shorts I regularly wear to work in utter rebellious defiance of an era gone by when blazers, maroon ties, crisp ironed shirts, and gray flannels were part of the wonderful regimen called school.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Surely You Are Joking, Mr. Pathrose
Freud would probably have something to say about it, but for some odd reason a number of my memories about school relate to totally dumb moments, mostly involving my own angelic self. Some have been just outright funny, others embarrassing, but the indelible memories are the ones that have been truly humbling. Simply, incredibly, humbling. Or humiliating. Or both.
While I would readily admit that I was seldom the smartest kid in class, in my own defense I wasn't totally dumb either. (For those that know me today and would argue that point, the total dumbness you witness didn't come till I discovered alcohol in a meaningful way). It is true that angels did not break into spontaneous aria when I walked into class, but the affirmative-action-for-the-stupid recruiting team also didn't have my parents on their A-list. So when Mr. Pathrose in his unique way let it be known that the probability he was trying to teach was not the version I was imbibing, the words remain etched in a corner of my brain. It has taken 22 years but finally I think I am ready to tell all.
This Mr. Pathrose was the architect of all things math in the last two years of school including many a week he spent teaching us combinatorics and permutatorics (ok, permutations and combinations if you insist). He apparently felt that before graduating high school it was important for people to be able to write things like 7! and that the path to happiness lay in being able to mind your Ps & Cs. Well, ours not to reason why. Ours, as you will see, but to do and cry.
His teaching methodology included frequent examinations euphemistically called "quizzes" to gauge the limited extent to which his tutelage had been imbuing his genius. Most of these quizzes contained 3 - 5 questions with typically the kinds of things you could answer in 10 - 15 minutes, and so naturally by some fuzzy logic, he would give us 5 questions to answer in the first 5 minutes of class and call it a quiz. He would then nonchalantly proceed to spend the rest of the period discussing why Euclidean geometry failed on a sphere - a subject of import to those one assumes destined to draw lines on spheres (one can but hope, since if it doesn't help them, I can only scratch my head as to the point of the exercise).
Anyway, typical quizzes would be of the following variety:
"You are given 24 square tables, but the tables must be used as rectangles, not squares i.e. two together. How many combinations can be made with the 24 tables? (3 points)
While I would readily admit that I was seldom the smartest kid in class, in my own defense I wasn't totally dumb either. (For those that know me today and would argue that point, the total dumbness you witness didn't come till I discovered alcohol in a meaningful way). It is true that angels did not break into spontaneous aria when I walked into class, but the affirmative-action-for-the-stupid recruiting team also didn't have my parents on their A-list. So when Mr. Pathrose in his unique way let it be known that the probability he was trying to teach was not the version I was imbibing, the words remain etched in a corner of my brain. It has taken 22 years but finally I think I am ready to tell all.
To introduce Mr. Pathrose (affectionately known as Patty by all who loved him), try imagining a combination of Hercule Poirot, M. C. Escher, and Professor Calculus. It was well known he built electronic circuits as a mode of relaxation, his form of deep breathing as it were. One thing was clear - Mr. P. had forgotten more mathematics than most of us would ever learn. To give you a sense of how good he was, even Anindya Nandi didn't practice his cricket strokes to imaginary good-length balls from Imran Khan at the back of the class when Patty was in action.
This Mr. Pathrose was the architect of all things math in the last two years of school including many a week he spent teaching us combinatorics and permutatorics (ok, permutations and combinations if you insist). He apparently felt that before graduating high school it was important for people to be able to write things like 7! and that the path to happiness lay in being able to mind your Ps & Cs. Well, ours not to reason why. Ours, as you will see, but to do and cry.
His teaching methodology included frequent examinations euphemistically called "quizzes" to gauge the limited extent to which his tutelage had been imbuing his genius. Most of these quizzes contained 3 - 5 questions with typically the kinds of things you could answer in 10 - 15 minutes, and so naturally by some fuzzy logic, he would give us 5 questions to answer in the first 5 minutes of class and call it a quiz. He would then nonchalantly proceed to spend the rest of the period discussing why Euclidean geometry failed on a sphere - a subject of import to those one assumes destined to draw lines on spheres (one can but hope, since if it doesn't help them, I can only scratch my head as to the point of the exercise).
Anyway, typical quizzes would be of the following variety:
"You are given 24 square tables, but the tables must be used as rectangles, not squares i.e. two together. How many combinations can be made with the 24 tables? (3 points)
What is the maximum number of people that can be made to sit at the tables and under what combination? (4 points)
What is the least number of people that can be made to sit at the tables and under what combination? (3 points)".
Notwithstanding why one would ever put tables together in this rather pointless way or how it actually matters whether there are 2 or 274556 ways to combine these tables, we agonized over such questions for the 5 minutes we were given and then agonized for the remaining 45 minutes of class over just how stupid we had looked with our responses. Disapproval from the master was not a thought one enjoyed, although it was unclear if there was a legitimate way to avoid it.
So anyway this is the Patty we talk about.
Question: "What is the probability that a random 4 digit number is divisible by 7?"
That was it - the question that did me in. The one that has stuck to my brain like a leech on steroids. One that after years of supposedly growing up I have never been able to expel from the little cerebellum I possess. As alluded to earlier, littler though that cerebellum has gotten through constant infusions of alcohol but that question has not been erased from its confines. (My research into this intriguing subject has indicated that said painful memory could be lodged elsewhere - I seem to remember other useless facts like brains have cerebrums and medullas as well. I take clear exception with why some silly biologist would break an already tiny organ into 3 differently named parts, but in the interest of staying on point we shall save that for another day and another diatribe. Regardless though of the number of pieces you might say my brain has, I doubt it should in normal course have allowed the following humiliation to stick on anywhere - since one hopes it is prioritizing what it retains. It is evident the entire organ has shrunk in inverse proportion to age. Hmm or should I say "grown in inverse proportion with age?" Or "shrunk in direct proportion with age"? Heck if I know, go ask Patty.)
In any case, Patty started class that fateful day with this one question. Simple, straightforward and so seemingly innocuous that yours truly looked at it with contempt, shrugged, and wondered if Patty was highly over-rated after all. If the gentleman from the post office who we had introduced in a separate part of this treatise had been around - the one that had politely inquired whether I was from Delhi - he could have confirmed that the attitude I exhibited at this moment was identical to the one he had experienced. You see, no matter how you examined the problem, which angle you saw it from, it seemed like this was so rudimentary that I couldn't believe Patty himself had offered it up as a real problem to brilliant minds like mine. Clearly the shine was off, the man I had revered for so long falling off in one fell swoop from the pedestal I had raised him on. All this build up and one simple quiz question had burst the bubble. I will mix other metaphors as soon as I can remember them.
Answer: "A number is either divisible by 7 or it isn't.
Hence, P(random 4 digit number is divisible by 7) = 1/2"
QED (Quite Easily Done)
I got the quiz back the next day - it had a number, that looked like 0, a clear mistake obviously. He had meant to write 10/10 of course. I continued to read on, expecting some trivial error on his part, driven by the senility of the has-been Math teacher. The short remark that followed stung like a two-by-four into my stomach.
"Surely you are joking Mr. Agrawal. Even by your Quixotic standards, this lacks logic. Just so you know, 14 of every 100 numbers between 1000 and 9999 are divisible by 7. Next time, take your time and don't do it quite so easily."
So anyway this is the Patty we talk about.
Question: "What is the probability that a random 4 digit number is divisible by 7?"
That was it - the question that did me in. The one that has stuck to my brain like a leech on steroids. One that after years of supposedly growing up I have never been able to expel from the little cerebellum I possess. As alluded to earlier, littler though that cerebellum has gotten through constant infusions of alcohol but that question has not been erased from its confines. (My research into this intriguing subject has indicated that said painful memory could be lodged elsewhere - I seem to remember other useless facts like brains have cerebrums and medullas as well. I take clear exception with why some silly biologist would break an already tiny organ into 3 differently named parts, but in the interest of staying on point we shall save that for another day and another diatribe. Regardless though of the number of pieces you might say my brain has, I doubt it should in normal course have allowed the following humiliation to stick on anywhere - since one hopes it is prioritizing what it retains. It is evident the entire organ has shrunk in inverse proportion to age. Hmm or should I say "grown in inverse proportion with age?" Or "shrunk in direct proportion with age"? Heck if I know, go ask Patty.)
In any case, Patty started class that fateful day with this one question. Simple, straightforward and so seemingly innocuous that yours truly looked at it with contempt, shrugged, and wondered if Patty was highly over-rated after all. If the gentleman from the post office who we had introduced in a separate part of this treatise had been around - the one that had politely inquired whether I was from Delhi - he could have confirmed that the attitude I exhibited at this moment was identical to the one he had experienced. You see, no matter how you examined the problem, which angle you saw it from, it seemed like this was so rudimentary that I couldn't believe Patty himself had offered it up as a real problem to brilliant minds like mine. Clearly the shine was off, the man I had revered for so long falling off in one fell swoop from the pedestal I had raised him on. All this build up and one simple quiz question had burst the bubble. I will mix other metaphors as soon as I can remember them.
Answer: "A number is either divisible by 7 or it isn't.
Hence, P(random 4 digit number is divisible by 7) = 1/2"
QED (Quite Easily Done)
I got the quiz back the next day - it had a number, that looked like 0, a clear mistake obviously. He had meant to write 10/10 of course. I continued to read on, expecting some trivial error on his part, driven by the senility of the has-been Math teacher. The short remark that followed stung like a two-by-four into my stomach.
"Surely you are joking Mr. Agrawal. Even by your Quixotic standards, this lacks logic. Just so you know, 14 of every 100 numbers between 1000 and 9999 are divisible by 7. Next time, take your time and don't do it quite so easily."
Friday, August 15, 2008
Math Class With Mr. Adhikari
Mr. Adhikari taught us Math for a while. I think the best way to describe him is a man with a brain of a Math PhD with the attitude of Lucabrazzi in The Godfather. Or for those in the know, Saif Ali Khan in Omkara. He would walk into class, head low with hands behind his back, smelling of fresh cigarettes and cologne. 56 of the city's best and brightest would rise in attention and wish him good morning, which would typically be met with a look of disdain and an exasperated "yeeessss yesss good morning". A cherubic, phenominally talented man with a short fuse and a tongue to match.
There were days he'd just go straight to the board and start writing - anything from a quadratic equation to a geometry rider he wanted us to solve. On other days, he'd pick out his favorite text, OP Sinhal and before the 56 pairs of legs had found there way back onto the seats start reading out a problem "ABCD is a pentagon..." to which some smart-ass would immediately interrupt "Pentagon.... ABCDE you mean sir?". Adhikari scowles... "Arrre vvvai Sambit, E is aaanderstood".
Then there would be days in the middle of class he would pick on random people - we'll call one of them RS to protect the innocent. RS was, well lets just say his career trajectory seemed to be pointed in a direction other than a PhD in Math. After a vigorous game of soccer over the lunch break where he defended the goal expertly for 50 minutes, an afternoon siesta would very much be in order. The slight problem being he wasnt at the back of the class, rather in row 1 of the 8 rows of desks, and in column 1 next to the door. Or as Mr. Adhikari's brain worked, at point (-4, 0) since the Cartesian coordinate system started with him at (0, 0).
The exchange would go somewhat like this:
Mr. Adhikari: "So Raoooul, whaat is the cosine of 47 degrees?".
RS as we had mentioned before, would, if we were all lucky be asleep - and I mean literally asleep with his mouth open and quite possibly a little trickle across his chin. Supine with his elbow and shoulder across the wooden desk on which he had carved names of all the girls who loved him, the teachers he hated, and other memorable doodles that would make the Google homepage proud. Mr. Adhikari would at this point, as he was wont, pick up a piece of chalk (the soft kind which he usually preferred) and throw it at RS, nailing him somewhere on that rather long, defenseless frame.
RS, awoken from the deep slumber would flail out his arms, knock a few pieces of paper and look up, with the afterglow of a man who was so far into the dreamy love scene with Madhuri he wished he had been left alone. But in true Bosconian spirit, he would recover... "yyyessss... sirr.... yess... yess".
Mr. Adhikari's scowl would have grown at this point to a full fledged look of distaste, as if the coffee he just had was just that one cup too many, his pH level close to 5. "I saiiiiiid WHAAT is the cosine of 47 degrees?!"
By this time, a number of indicators would have suggested to RS that it was 2ish in the afternoon, he was in math class, and Mr. Adhikari was asking him a question which could be related to one of three things: arithmetic, algebra, or geometry. Drilling down and picking trignometry would not have occurred to him this early on in the proceedings. The other obvious aspect to this whole thing was that the options at hand were limited. It didnt seem like a "Yes, No" question. Also the mean bastard wasnt exactly offering him multiple choices one of which he could pick. Even the IIT entrance folks were less devious.
So what RS would do is fidget into his little school bag and pick up the log table.
Now one may argue that of the ways to try and deflect the question or even as a delaying tactic, this was not a very good choice. Be that as it may, we now had a scene set up for a classic confrontation - the Math whiz teacher with a student who had just picked up a table of logarithms to answer a question about the cosine function. Some of the rest of us may have considered that perhaps genius was at work here and we all just didn't know it - RS would magically come up with an answer to the question using log tables. But seeing Mr. Adhikari's face made it clear he had not placed a non-zero probability on an Euler-like being casting its mighty shadow close to (-4, 0)
Now, Mr. Adhikari's options were also not boundless. The school discouraged capital punishment, and for all we knew RS was connected. Not sure to what or who but he could have been connected to something or somebody no one wanted to mess with. You could almost hear the grinding wheels of an exasperated man wishing someone was dead but not having the power to execute on such lustful thought.
Mr. Adhikari: "Arrre vaaai I am aasssking you what is cosine of forty sav-aiiin. And you are picking up logarithaaam table?" Al Capone shake of head follows. A cricket bat not being close at hand was a good thing. "ARRE VAAI RAOOOUL, YOU SHOULD GO TO VAVA ATOMIC RESEAAARCH CENTER - THEY USE LOG TABLES THERE. AND NOW JUST TAKE A DAANDA AND HEET ME ON MY HEEAD!" The anger turned inward, heck the Buddha would have been proud.
There were days he'd just go straight to the board and start writing - anything from a quadratic equation to a geometry rider he wanted us to solve. On other days, he'd pick out his favorite text, OP Sinhal and before the 56 pairs of legs had found there way back onto the seats start reading out a problem "ABCD is a pentagon..." to which some smart-ass would immediately interrupt "Pentagon.... ABCDE you mean sir?". Adhikari scowles... "Arrre vvvai Sambit, E is aaanderstood".
Then there would be days in the middle of class he would pick on random people - we'll call one of them RS to protect the innocent. RS was, well lets just say his career trajectory seemed to be pointed in a direction other than a PhD in Math. After a vigorous game of soccer over the lunch break where he defended the goal expertly for 50 minutes, an afternoon siesta would very much be in order. The slight problem being he wasnt at the back of the class, rather in row 1 of the 8 rows of desks, and in column 1 next to the door. Or as Mr. Adhikari's brain worked, at point (-4, 0) since the Cartesian coordinate system started with him at (0, 0).
The exchange would go somewhat like this:
Mr. Adhikari: "So Raoooul, whaat is the cosine of 47 degrees?".
RS as we had mentioned before, would, if we were all lucky be asleep - and I mean literally asleep with his mouth open and quite possibly a little trickle across his chin. Supine with his elbow and shoulder across the wooden desk on which he had carved names of all the girls who loved him, the teachers he hated, and other memorable doodles that would make the Google homepage proud. Mr. Adhikari would at this point, as he was wont, pick up a piece of chalk (the soft kind which he usually preferred) and throw it at RS, nailing him somewhere on that rather long, defenseless frame.
RS, awoken from the deep slumber would flail out his arms, knock a few pieces of paper and look up, with the afterglow of a man who was so far into the dreamy love scene with Madhuri he wished he had been left alone. But in true Bosconian spirit, he would recover... "yyyessss... sirr.... yess... yess".
Mr. Adhikari's scowl would have grown at this point to a full fledged look of distaste, as if the coffee he just had was just that one cup too many, his pH level close to 5. "I saiiiiiid WHAAT is the cosine of 47 degrees?!"
By this time, a number of indicators would have suggested to RS that it was 2ish in the afternoon, he was in math class, and Mr. Adhikari was asking him a question which could be related to one of three things: arithmetic, algebra, or geometry. Drilling down and picking trignometry would not have occurred to him this early on in the proceedings. The other obvious aspect to this whole thing was that the options at hand were limited. It didnt seem like a "Yes, No" question. Also the mean bastard wasnt exactly offering him multiple choices one of which he could pick. Even the IIT entrance folks were less devious.
So what RS would do is fidget into his little school bag and pick up the log table.
Now one may argue that of the ways to try and deflect the question or even as a delaying tactic, this was not a very good choice. Be that as it may, we now had a scene set up for a classic confrontation - the Math whiz teacher with a student who had just picked up a table of logarithms to answer a question about the cosine function. Some of the rest of us may have considered that perhaps genius was at work here and we all just didn't know it - RS would magically come up with an answer to the question using log tables. But seeing Mr. Adhikari's face made it clear he had not placed a non-zero probability on an Euler-like being casting its mighty shadow close to (-4, 0)
Now, Mr. Adhikari's options were also not boundless. The school discouraged capital punishment, and for all we knew RS was connected. Not sure to what or who but he could have been connected to something or somebody no one wanted to mess with. You could almost hear the grinding wheels of an exasperated man wishing someone was dead but not having the power to execute on such lustful thought.
Mr. Adhikari: "Arrre vaaai I am aasssking you what is cosine of forty sav-aiiin. And you are picking up logarithaaam table?" Al Capone shake of head follows. A cricket bat not being close at hand was a good thing. "ARRE VAAI RAOOOUL, YOU SHOULD GO TO VAVA ATOMIC RESEAAARCH CENTER - THEY USE LOG TABLES THERE. AND NOW JUST TAKE A DAANDA AND HEET ME ON MY HEEAD!" The anger turned inward, heck the Buddha would have been proud.
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