Categories
Growing Up

How I became a better student at school

This is the story of how I became a better student. My schools had no role to play in me becoming a better student. It was all my skills, my talent, and my hard work. I promise. Don’t believe me? Read on –

During my initial days in school, my father always compared me to the Prithvi missile, which was designed and developed by Defence Research and Development Organization.

I don’t know what my father’s reasoning was…but I guess it had something to do with the fact that Prithvi missile never hit its intended target. (Update: After many years of trials, it did start hitting the targets. Just like me.)

“You are just like that surface-to-surface missile, Prithvi. Can’t even find Pakistan,” he would say.

It wasn’t always my mistake that my father got called to the school often. Like that time when the teacher asked me that dogs question. She said: “Rajan if I give you two dogs and then give you two more dogs…how many dogs would you have?”

I said: “Five Dogs.”

The teacher asked this question many times and every time my answer was five. I think after the seventh attempt, she lost her cool and called in my father. My father’s answer was ‘Four Dogs’ and even after I reminded him that we already had a dog at home, and the correct answer was ‘Five Dogs’ he only gave me a stare.

I think I was in Kendriya Vidyalaya No 2, Jalandhar, Punjab then – in the 1st standard. The moment we got my first standard results (I passed), he said we would be moving to Kholapur in Maharashtra.

“Papa, why are we moving? Have you been transferred?” I asked him.

“No, I wanted to put you in a stricter school and that’s why we are moving.” He replied without looking up.

Once in Kholapur, I was admitted to Seventh Day Adventist (SDA) School. The first day changed everything – they took me to a hall where they had publicly nailed one student on a giant plus sign.

Just to confirm, I asked the student sitting next to me: “Why do you think that guy has been nailed to a big plus and hung on the wall?”

He replied: “Maybe, he failed maths. Why else, would they nail him on a big plus.”

I thanked God that he hadn’t failed English. Imagine being nailed to an ‘A’ – a nail thro’ the head for sure.

I didn’t want to meet the same fate and ended up becoming the best student the school had ever seen. Now, I could get my progress report signed on the same day it was given to me by my teachers – not because I was getting good marks, but because now my classmates had stopped borrowing it to scare their parents.

By now I had realized that the lesser activities I did in school, the lesser my chances of making mistakes, and thus even lesser my chances of being nailed and hung on the wall. When one makes lesser mistakes, one becomes a better student.

In order to limit the activities, I avoided eye contact with teachers and when they asked me to do anything I would re-confirm if they were talking to me.

I think I was in the fourth standard when I became the favorite student of my English teacher. She had spent the last 15 minutes waiting for one of us to give two examples of the pronoun. I tried hard to avoid eye-contact but after 15 minutes, my turn did come. She asked: “You over there….give me two examples of a pronoun.”

I was quite. I didn’t look up.

She came closer, and said: “Hellow…you…look up and give me two examples of a pronoun.”

I had no choice but to look up. I looked at her, looked behind, and looked on both my sides and then looked back at the teacher and asked: “Who? Me?”

The teacher went ecstatic. Since then I became her favorite student. Unfortunately, we left SDA when I got my fourth standard results.

Categories
Men and Women

Group dynamics in a married man’s house

Prakash Raj is a close friend of mine who lives in Delhi. This is his story – of how group dynamics in a married man’s house has affected his life. This Saturday, we met up at the Barista in DLF Mega Mall in Gurgaon. He had called on Friday and said: “Jammy, don`t you project yourself as a specialist in man-woman relationships?”

“I never did!” I protested. But my friend wouldn`t listen and fixed a 12 noon meeting at DLF Mega Mall. Easing into the soft, brown cushion at the Barista, he said: “You are lucky, your mother doesn`t stay with you.”

“Why? What happened?”

My longtime friend detailed out an average day in his life. Apparently, his mother and his wife were having trouble adjusting.

Here is his narration, in his words

If my mother and wife have had a fight, I will know by 7.00 p.m. itself. Both my mother and my wife will call me at office and check when I will be home. Armed with the knowledge that the night was going to be stressful and long, I will enter the house by 9 p.m..

If my mother managed to open the door for me, my wife will be at an arms distance to get my laptop bag. If my mother kept my shoes in the newly bought shoe-rack, my wife will bring me the towel and ask to freshen up.

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Finding a reason to enter the house, I will look up at my father for some support. With an Economic Times and a TV in front of him, he will just shrug and go back to the distractions. I know what his shrug means: “Buddy, I managed it in my time, now it is your turn.” So wouldn`t disturb him and move to the washroom to freshen up.

If my wife managed to hand me a washed T-shirt outside the washroom, my mother will manage to shout: “The dinner is served!”

At the dinner table, the silences will be long and the sentences short. The utensils will be a lot noisier than normal days. The decibel levels will give me an idea of the magnitude of the fight. On normal days, the ladle will not hit the plate while the rice or dal is served but on the fight-days the ladles will make their presence felt.

“So, how was your day?” My wife will ask.

Since, I know my response to this question can break my family into two I will just say: “It was fine.”

If I said that my day was great, my wife would fall into a chasm of self-pity and solving the fight will become that much more difficult.

“So, what did you do the whole day?” My mother will ask trying to prove a point that her son is more responsive to her questions. Now, even if I wanted to give a detailed answer I can`t because then my wife will be upset. So I just say: “Nothing much!”

Since my wife is a Malayali (she hails from Kerala), she doesn`t understand Tamil mother starts conversing in Tamil at the dinning table. Being the good husband I am I respond in a neutral language, lest my wife thinks I am conspiring against her.

I look at my father again – seeking advice. The intelligent man that he is, he will just bury his face in his plate.

The dinner will be a disaster. Since both the queens in my life are pre-occupied, they forget to bring to the dining table two of the dishes that were prepared for the evening. The situation worsens if both the dishes were prepared by one individual, for a conspiracy theory is attached to the miss.

When the dinner ends, my mother tries to prolong my stay outside the bedroom by offering ice-cream, fruits, Dabur Chyawanprash etc. If I indulge in these after-dinner-activities, my wife starts hinting me to reach the bedroom soon. She lets out statements like, “I am sleepy,” “Your favourite TV show in on now,” etc. Not willing to upset either of them, I take a spoon full of Dabur Chyawanprash and rush to the bedroom.

Once inside the bedroom, I stare at the TV (and think on how best to tackle my wife). Meanwhile, my wife sits before the dressing mirror and sulks. She sulks so much that I am forced to ask: “Why what happened?”

Even before I finish my question, I realize that I have opened the dam. My wife starts crying and explains how my mother is actually a witch that both my father and I haven`t been able to spot in the last 30 years.

I console her. I tell her that my mother is indeed a bad woman and needs to be controlled with an iron hand. My wife is initially doubts that I am on her side but with some persuasion she is made to believe that I hate my mother. Happy in the belief that she has managed to convince me, she sleeps peacefully. I sleep peacefully too.

The next day while wearing my shoes, I wink at my wife and utter: “Which is bad?”

She glances at my mother from the corner of her eye, then turns towards me and says, “Yes, witch is bad.”

I look at my mother and ask, “Which is bad?”

My mother says, “The blue one.”

I dump the blue socks and wear the black one, as my mother suggests. On my way out, I whisper into my mother`s ears: “I know you guys fought last evening. But I trust you. See even for my socks I still consult you.”

As I start the car, I hear noises in the balcony of my house. In my rear view mirror I see them holding each other by their unkempt hair. They sure love each other`s company.

* * * * * * * * *

I didn`t know what to advice the friend. After all, he was managing the situation pretty well himself. Besides, these are the group dynamics in every married man’s house.

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Categories
Family

Father walked whole month for son who wouldn’t walk 50 meters

My parents hated going out to eat. In fact even when we were traveling and stranded outdoors at odd times, we would still stretch ourselves, reach home, cook food and then eat. As a child, I hated this. Even my two sisters hated it. But both my mother and my father didn’t see anything wrong in this.

“Why eat out when you can have home cooked food?” My father would ask.

And my mother would chip in.“In our ancestral homes, the workers used to be given lunch and dinner in the veranda. I don’t want to be sitting in somebody else’s place and eat like a worker.”

“But ma, we are paying them. They aren’t giving us food because we can’t afford it.” My arguments never reached the intended conclusions.

By 1995 I was attending college and started meeting richer kids. I started hearing stories from my friends on how they visited such-and-such restaurant and had great family bonding time.

“You know Santosh’s whole family of eight visited Pandian Hotel for a buffet.”

“Isn’t buffet where you go and pick up your own food?” My mother would ask. “How distasteful,” she would add.

“Why is it distasteful?” I would frown.

“Imagine…what kind of a host wouldn’t serve you food where you are sitting? It is as if saying go-there-is-your-food go-get-it.”

My father would agree. “I would never set my foot inside such a place,” he would complement my mother thoughts.

My sisters and I suspected that my parents were against eating out because it would cost them more money. On the advice of my elder of the two younger sister I tried to find out how much a lunch would cost in such restaurants.

Now the question was to ask the right person. Somebody who wouldn’t judge me. Nitish Popli was a rich classmate I had while I was doing BA Economics in American College, Madurai. I approached him.

“Nitish bhai, you go to restaurants on Sundays, don’t you?” Back then, Sundays were the weekends.

“Yes indeed.” He was least interested.

“So, how much does it cost per person?” I closed my eyes after asking the question, just so I don’t see his expressions.

“Depends on which restaurant you go to.” He was still least interested.

Since I didn’t know the names of any good restaurant, I decided to rely on him. “What is the starting range? And what is the maximum?”

“Let us take Saravana Bhavan for example. The Unlimited Thali is Rs 20 and if you enter the Family Room, which is air conditioned, the same Unlimited Thali will cost you Rs 25.”

Please note this was still 1995, the days before the IT industry had taken off and increased the cost of living for all others.

The moment I reached home from college, and my mother opened the door for me I blurted out. “Amma, Unlimited Thali at Saravana Bhavan is only Rs 20 in non-AC and Rs 25 in the AC room.”

Our landline hadn’t been working, else I would have called them from an STD booth itself.

“What?” Was my mother’s only response. On my insistence, it was decided that once father was back we would discuss the issue.

My father came back home by 8 pm, and I just couldn’t hold it. But my sister beat me to it by running to open the door for my father and shouting right at his face. “The Unlimited Thali is only Rs 25 in the air-conditioned room of Saravana Bhavan.”

“I know. What about that?”

The ground slid from under our feet. So our father knew. So he had been cheating on us. He had been going out and eating in restaurants but never taking us there. This was gross injustice, we thought.

Being the eldest child in the family I had to take control of the situation. So, I called my two younger sisters (one was 16 years old and the other was 13) into a room and we agreed to go on a Hunger Strike. Anna Hazare would later steal my idea and use it to get the LokPal Bill passed.

Being the anointed spokesperson of the group, I spoke out first. “We will not have food till you promise us that we will be visiting a restaurant soon.”

At 10 pm, our parents buckled and agreed to take us to Saravana Bhavan the next Sunday. But not before telling us how the lunch would cost Rs 125 for all five of us. And how this money would have been enough to buy one month’s supply of cooking oil or 15 days supply of vegetables.

The next day I was raring to go to college. Once in, I informed Nitesh Popli that we were going to Saravana Bhavan for lunch the coming Sunday. He seemed least interested and didn’t even acknowledge.

From that day onwards, our house food didn’t taste good. We were yearning for the restaurant food. My parents knew what we were thinking, but kept to themselves.

Next Sunday, we all got up at 6 am itself. By 8 am we had all taken bath and put on our best clothes. My parents didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

By 12 noon, my father made one last ditch attempt to dissuade us from going to the restaurant. He said, “Why don’t I buy a kg of chicken and you guys help me cook. We can all then have a hearty meal in the house itself.”

My younger sister spoke up. She said, “But that’s something we do every Sunday.”

My father’s face fell. So did my mother’s. But we were least interested. We wanted to go to Saravana Bhavan for lunch.

My father called the auto rickshaw. If only I were accompanying them we would have gone by the Pandian Bus Service. But since my sisters were also accompanying us – I always suspected him to be more loving towards them – he had booked an auto.

At 12 noon, we hit the road – all five of us huddled in an auto. Since I was the most able-bodied I was asked to sit next to the auto driver.

My sisters and I haven’t been able to recreate the joy we experienced walking into Saravana Bhavan, that fateful Sunday afternoon. In the last 16 years I would have dined at the best of places, but never felt the joy walking in that I felt that Sunday.

Since I was walking ahead of the pack, the waiter motioned me to a table in the non-AC section. With great pride I waved my hand and said, “We are heading for the air conditioned section.”

It was quite a family affair. My parents, who till now were against eating out, also partied. After lunch my father asked for the desserts and we even ended up spending Rs 5 extra per person.

We came home an excited lot. It was the best Sunday we had ever had. Well, that’s if we didn’t include the Sunday when we watched the only movie we have seen in a theatre as a family in the last 30 years – the 3D movie Kutti Chatan (Chotta Chettan, in Hindi).

Once back, my parents had gotten into their shell again. “We have now had food in a restaurant. That’s all. This shouldn’t become a habit.” My mother said. Which I was sure my father agreed to.

Later in the day, I overheard my father tell my mother that the whole outing had cost us Rs 220. Rs 125 (lunch for all), Rs 25 (dessert for all), Rs 20 (food for autorickshaw driver) and Rs 50 (autorickshaw fare).

I also heard my father say: “That’s ok. Don’t worry. We will manage.” And my mother followed it up with: “Yes, I know we will.”

Being a teenager, I didn’t think about it much then.

——–Present———

As you are aware, I was in the beach-side Tirchendor temple in Tamil Nadu recently for offering prayers on the 5th death anniversary of my father. My mother and I had found the priest who was to help us with the prayers. All three of us had to walk 50 meters barefoot on beach sand heated by the 10 am sun. Not a difficult task but I started complaining. I started questioning my mother’s insistence that we do the annual ritual for my father in Tirchendor.

My mother looked at me in disbelief. Then her expression changed to that of love.

She said: “Remember, when you were in college and with your sisters you went on a hunger strike?”

“Ohh yes.”

“You wanted us to visit Saravana Bhavan for lunch?”

“Ohh yes. Those were good times.”

‘For you…yes. They were good times.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father had just retired and we had also built our house, which had cost a lot more than estimated.”

“Ohh…is that so? I didn’t know.”

“That was our intention. We were really cash strapped back then but your father didn’t want you to know.”

“Ohhh….”

“I wanted him to share the family’s financial situation with you. But he didn’t. He said it might affect your studies.”

“Ohhh…”

“Yes. And did you know? After taking you guys out for lunch he didn’t ride his scooter for a month so that he could save on the fuel cost?”

“Ohhh…..”

“Yes…he walked 3 kilometers up and down every day for a month. Sometimes twice a day.”

“Shit!”

“Yes. But he loved you a lot. You can walk this distance for him, can’t you?”

“Yes, ma. I can.”

After walking the 50 meters or so, as I sat down facing the sun for the prayers, my mother took the corner of her saree to wipe the tears in my eyes. “Ahhh…just some sand in my eyes,” I tried to fake it. But my mother would know.

As the Brahman chanted the mantras, I tried to recollect that month. Yes indeed, it had stuck me as odd. For almost a month my father didn’t take out his scooter and instead walked 3 kilometers up and down whenever my mother asked him to fetch something from the market.

I remember, once I had muttered under my breath: “What a miser!”

Categories
Growing Up

Why I chose alcohol over music and how I am correcting myself

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While I was growing up we had an EC TV on which we would without fail watch Rangoli every Sunday. Exactly at 7 a.m. my mother would switch on the television so that the whole family can watch Rangoli and enjoy good old Bollywood melodies. Around the same time, my father would start his rant that it wasn’t a program to be aired at 7 am in the morning. His reasoning – it was too early to start drinking and build immunity towards music.

As you may have understood by now, I come from a family divided over music. And as luck would have it, I got more of my father’s genes and less of my mother’s – the love for alcohol explains this better than anything else.

Not that I hate music. I love it. I love the noise patterns music actually is. It is a unique and different noise. The noise patterns vary depending on who the composer was. Beethoven has his own patterns while AR Rahman has his own.

If only I didn’t get more of my father’s genes, I would have probably cultivated music as my addiction. Music is a great addition to have – it is invisible, it doesn’t smell and it doesn’t cost anything. on top of it, wives won’t have any problems if you were addicted to Music.

As of today, thanks to my father’s genes I have a liking for alcohol and sometimes women, sometimes money and sometimes fame. Funny, for these are all the addictions which force grown up men to wear tight pants, grow hair, pierce bodies and form music bands.

It is another thing that they start off with crazy names such as Def Leppard, The The, Mr Mister and !!! (yes, there is a band called !!! and mind you this band can’t be googled about. Give it a shot, if you will).

If I had started a band, it would have been called “Jammin with Jammy”

They say you are born with a sense for music or you aren’t. I intend to beat that – I have already started working on improving my music sense. As of now my favourite is the music played by ICICI Bank when they put me on hold. Second in line is Yanni’s music played at five star hotels – consistently boring, but pregnant with meaning.

One can’t really get a sense of music without learning a music instrument and that’s why after a good amount of research I have identified Piano as the instrument I am going to learn. I know typing so I expect to pick up piano faster. The only difference I noticed was that the keys on a Piano don’t have alphabets or numbers on them. How difficult can it be if you already know typing? Wait till I have learnt it.

If you leave a nice comment, you will be invited to my first performance.

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