Skool Daze 

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Ah, school days. The endless battles with confusing and conflicting instructions from parents and educators, the semi-inspired teachers, with us trying to find our niche in that social order among the barrelful of us equally disinterested, uninspired wiggling monkeys. Trying to stay awake through classes on those hard, narrow, scratchy wooden benches, ignoring the discomfort on our behinds or words of wisdom etched thereon by previous generation of occupants. 

I think it was fifth grade, and I was mighty grateful to have been promoted (with distinction, pat pat on my back). Back story - a stern Jesuit Sister in the previous grade (not Sr Carmella) had "threatened" to hold me back, displeased at some transgression(s) of incomplete or half-hearted attempts at homework(s), with words inscribed in my notebook that instilled terror through my core - "If you don't shape up, I won't let you advance to the next grade." I still have nightmares about it. I never shared this bit before with anyone except my with my older sister, who told me to ignore it. Sometimes, things just work themselves out.

But here we were, me and my fellow miscreants, blissfully unaware of the cultural gems to be crammed into our reluctant brains by the one and only Sri Hareram (“Haram”) Pandit.

Now, Sri Hareram was a man with a purpose. That was to force-feed us a steady diet of culture, philosophy, and language, all while we were still trying to figure out how to make the perfect paper planes and learn the latest insults from/for our fellow monkeys. His one weapon of choice in this noble battle? Sri Biharilal Chaube's Satsai, a collection of 700+ couplets that were like a treasure chest of puns, wordplay, and confusing ancient references. Picture this: a Hindi / Brijbhasha poet from the 17th century who was clearly the local Bard of punning; he’d make your dad's puns seem like high art.

And of course, Sri Hareram would regularly thrust these couplets into our faces like a puzzle box we weren’t ready to solve. One of his favorites was:

“कनक कनक ते सौ गुनी, मादकता अधिकाय।  
वा खाए बौराय जग, या पाए बौराय।”

Now, to the untrained ear, this may sound like an ancient magic spell that could either summon a demon or get you stuck in a time loop. But no, this was Sri Chaube trying to teach us about the intoxicating power of kanak (gold) and how it makes people go crazy. Roughly translated, "Gold is 100 times more intoxicating than the other kanak (dhatura). One will make you crazy if you ingest it; the other, if you just get some of it." So deep. So profound. So, in the face of such wisdom, the really important questions in our brains were, "Why is this in our syllabus, saar? Do we have to memorize it? Will it be on the test?"

Can't help thinking if Sri Biharilal were alive today, he’d probably be replacing "gold" with something far more relevant: WhatsCrapp and other unsocial media. “Oh look, I have 237 notifications... and now I must react to each one with an emoji! Opine with profundity and dispense my expertise on *every* subject under the sun.” 

In fact, I’m sure if Sri Biharilal were alive today, he’d drop a line like, "$hitter, $hitter, a 100 times more bitter, than a shot of espresso, in spite of the glitter!" (Focus not on quality of content, it’s about the quantity of doomscroll.)

Back in the day, though, we didn’t have the mental bandwidth to appreciate the brilliance of such lines. While Sri Hareram passionately recited these mind-bending couplets in between throwing well-aimed dusters at people, we were still trying to figure out how to navigate the algebra and trig minefields. No one was thinking, “Ah yes, the deep allegory of gold versus dhatura!" No, we were thinking, “Can I get through this language class without having to recite and regurgitate anything? Can I avoid attention and stare studiously on my desk or whatever happened  to be on it so I can escape the cloud of chalk-dust?”

Every Hindi class was a battle. “What is the deeper meaning of this couplet?” Sri Hareram would ask, the fire of knowledge burning in his eyes. And we’d be like, “Uh… it’s about… life?" A modern day wag might have said, "Is it… it’s about wi-fi! Yeah, like when the internet’s slow, and you’re just... lost.” But such words didn't even exist in those days in our wildest imaginations. And Sri Hareram would look at us with frustration, exasperated and disappointed like we were trying to solve the riddle of the Sphinx with a hammer. 

But, as frustrating as it was, I can now see what he was trying to do. He wasn’t just teaching us ancient literature. Oh no. He was trying to make us think, which, at the time, felt like cruel and unusual punishment. Yet somehow, despite all our creative(!) interpretations of his work (and let’s be honest, they were borderline tragic), Sri Hareram persisted. He kept throwing pun after pun, couplet after couplet, hoping we’d catch at least a fraction of the poetic magic. 

And while we may not have really understood the meaning those clever words, the alankar's of Sri Biharilal’s Satsai back then, five decades later, I find myself reflecting on those ridiculous lessons and, surprisingly, appreciating them. You know, like when you finally understand the jokes your parents made 40 years ago. Or when you realize that your teacher was trying to warn you about the dangers of social media way back when you were more concerned with your lunch period, cricket scores, and later... uh, girls, etc. which was truly the things that mattered in your life at that time.

As for me, I think I get it now. Sri Hareram’s frustrations were real. He wasn’t just teaching us Language. He was trying to teach us how to face the curveballs that life might throw at us... and how to avoid getting caught in the trap of unsocial media or our obsession with InstaCram influencers, yet to come.

So yeah, Sri Hareram Pandit ji, here's a very late salute to you. Also, to Sri Biharilal Chaube, the man so far ahead of his time. While we were busy worrying about who got the last samosa at lunch, exchanging insults and chasing each other on the field, Biharilal had predicted the chaos of online notifications and gold/WhatsCrapp-induced madness centuries ago.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

🙏🏻 to Dr SM for the inspiration

Yet Another Chopter

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(from my faulty memory, triggered while enjoying some homemade, air-fried Veggie Chops with Kahwah this morning, thank you, Mrs YT. That was an extraordinary day in the mid-1970s. )

It started out as another winter morning, foggy and cold, with a layer of fresh dew all over the grassy and grimy areas, dirt piles swept into corners, over vigilant stray dogs, and huddled street people. The neighborhood bhadralok were all bundled up, scanning the morning newspapers with steaming mugs of chai, prior to getting ready for the daily sabji market stroll. I muddled through my morning routine reluctantly without my usual lukewarm water since the others had used most of it, and I didn't have time to heat up some more. Finally, I made it out of the house, traveled about two miles, and entered the cavernous halls of learning, aka, my junior college.

Imagine if you will, an imposing building designed and built by stern Jesuit missionaries, with spartan amenities and no regards to any comfort in mind. Built to impart knowledge, efficiently, ruthlessly, without any frills. Huge, cold classrooms, high sunless windows with bars, hard wooden benches like church pews. Besides the strongly military industrial fortress look preferred by these educators, there was one other strong theme that was apparent. The entire interior architecture was designed by Catholic martinets with a firm belief in keeping the sexes apart.

My freshman batch was divided into three sections, a mix of Science, Arts and Commerce streams. Section C was all Commerce, all boys. Section B had about 150 teenage boys, with high collars, long-haired, thick sideburns, bell-bottoms, etc. Think about a wiggling barrelful of monkeys, and you get the picture. Section A, which happened to be my section, was graced by some civilizing influence - there were something like 25 young ladies among the 150. All the boys were enchanted by the sheer blossoming during the summer months between the secondary school exams and the start of junior college. These young ladies were suddenly free from the constricting, shapeless school uniforms and seemed to have acquired extraordinary clothing sense with a riot of colors. The Catholic nunsense were unable to kill their fashion creativity, and I, for one, was quite pleased with their sense of style on display. Mind you, it was all quite demure, we were all still under our parental strict control at home and that of the Jesuit missionaries at this institution.

Did I mention the theme of "keep 'em apart" being the pervasive and dominant motif, There was a total of less than 150 young ladies, all sections and years combined for a place that offered undergraduate degrees and had an overall population of about 1200 students. The Girls Common Room was another smaller fortress-like building a few hundred feet away from the main building reputed to be stocked with comfy sofas and chairs. (I will have to ask my sisters, the reality may have been different than our imagination).

The Boys did not have any such space, and only could enjoy the vast open area on the west and south sides of the main building, no matter what the weather. There were no benches or other places to perch except dirt and grass. Oh, and there were some neighboring paanwala shops right outside the gates of the entire complex where some of the boys gathered, enjoyed camaraderie between puffs of cigarettes and an occasional paan or two. There was a "softie" ice-cream place about half a mile away and a Madras Cafe House, which was frequented by kids bored with classroom shenanigans and money jingling in their pockets. The softie was 1.25, I think, and a plain dosa was 1.50. The rite of bunking classes and partaking such forbidden delights could only be enjoyed rarely, alas. The Professors each took attendance prior to their lectures and had extraordinary sense to distinguish the actual corporeal presence vs. some friend doing their buddies a favor surreptitiously shouting, "Yassir!". One fellow classmate got into huge trouble with a Prof Mitra of Math dept. That guy didn't even lift his head from the attendance register, but singled out the hapless dude, and expelled him from the class. Academic instructions were not for the faint of the heart, apparently.

The only other place that could offer up some sanctuary to the Boys was an underground library, with many hard benches and cafeteria style tables between the unpainted concrete support pillars of the structure. The books were kept in a separate room guarded by a white-robed desi Jesuit Brother. That junior monk was disdainful and mean, having had plenty of experience with boys over the years who had not taken kindly to his diminutive stature or skin color, scrawling derogatory names in his beloved books.

Me and my small group of friends were lounging in the library one day, mind you, very discreetly between classes when Fr Proost, the principal, was making his rounds. This gruff, bearded man could strike fear in anyone's heart and often did so - students and parents alike. He observed us, saw no open books or any other study material on the table, walked over and growled, "Should I order some chai or coffee for this table?" We made an immediate and hasty departure with our books and other things.

Back to the "segregation by design" practices apparent for the place - there were two staircases connecting the three floors. One for Girls only. The other for Boys. Some authority figure would be parked near the stairs on one of the floors to ensure that there was no comingling. I went back to visit that place and met my Physics Prof. Fr de Brouwer twenty plus years after I had left, and that routine with two staircases was still firmly in place.

There was another reminder of our rigid social order - that of the College Canteen located at the other end of the huge lawn towards the back of the property. They made passable attempts at chai and decent Veggie Chops and assorted items like pakodas, among other things. Occasionally we could get steaming Samosas still dripping oil fresh from the fryer and some ooey gooey Jalebi's as well The Boys could go there whenever they wanted, but strict, unwritten protocol was in place for the Girls. Chhotu was the runner - he would run to the Girls Common Room, take orders to the Canteen, and run back deliver the snacks when ready. No Girls, apparently, had walked to the Canteen across the lawn which doubled as sports fields and parade grounds in the history of the place, to the best of my knowledge acquired through folklore. Until that fateful day.

One of the fellow classmates, this young lady with a rebellious streak, gathered a few fellow ladies and determinedly marched the few hundred steps to visit the Canteen. I happened to be in the vicinity and distinctly remember the horrified shout by Chhotu alerting everyone to this extraordinary event unfolding before our disbelieving eyes "Ladkiyān āa rahi hain!". The warning was heeded by all who ogled the spectacle with their mouths open as the ladies arrived and ordered some snacks. The smirking short-order cook, now somewhat recovered from the shock just enough to prepare the snacks while shaking his head about what the world was coming to, and Chhotu served them their snacks on the same grimy benches in the Canteen. There was some uncomfortable squirming about the cleanliness but after a few half-hearted swipes of Chhotu's less than clean towel, the then version of the gulabi gang settled down to enjoy their snacks. For once, it seemed that the Canteen was filled, more with rule-breaking glee and the girlish giggles instead of the usual raucous singing and rowdy laughter following the rude, crude, and socially unacceptable jokes.

The earth kept revolving around the sun following this, and the "incident" was investigated by the proper authorities. It wasn't repeated for the rest of my time there so the ladies may have been admonished about proper "lady-like" behavior by parents and educators alike but more likely the "forbidden" Canteen didn't quite turn out to be the place of their dreams.

I don't know if there is another Chhotu reincarnation is in place maintaining the equilibrium of the universe these days, running between the Canteen and the Girls Common Room carrying Veggie Chops and Samosas, or the library is being managed by another junior monk with a dour demeanor to match his sour outlook on life. Pretty sure that the separate Boys & Girls staircases are still in place. Sadly, both Fr Proost and Fr de Brouwer since have departed this earth.

These Veggie Chops are surely a great memory booster! Highly recommended.

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆