Parenting, memories

  

Where did that dog

that used to be here go?

I thought about him

once again tonight

before I went to bed.

-Shimaki Akahiko

Prologue

“What’s after six?”

“Five,” said my daughter. She’s three now.

“No. On the other side?”

Pause. Head scratching. “Seven?”

“Yeh! High-five!”

Messy house

House is in a perpetual mess. One of these days, if you enter our house unannounced, you’ll feel like you have entered a cowshed by mistake, and you turn around to find the right entrance on the other side. Only to realize there’s no other entrance.

I think there’s some kind of evil pleasure in leaving things around——creating the mess. That’s what the little devil has been doing these days. Initially we, parents, tried to maintain order; But as soon as you straighten one room, things fall apart in the other, and then after sometime you are so tired with this routine, you leave everything to God.

Kabir Das once went on a long search to find bad guys. He could not find one. But when he looks into himself, he admits, he’s the worst of all. Anyway, I once circled the neighbourhood searching for a messier house. And, like the mystic poet I too have failed. But when I see our house, I admit, it is the messiest.

A pause

Kids are like sponges. You’ll be amazed, how they absorb only the bad things from parents. Ria has noticed me struggling on the weighing scale, often. (Something is wrong with the weighing scale at home; the numbers never come down.)

One day, she decided to check her weight herself. Only she didn’t use the weighing scale. I heard the cracking sound from the couch. And realized immediately something important had broken. I dashed for the rescue. Picked her up. When I saw what she was standing on, my heart cringed.

“This is a laptop, not a weighing scale!”

Laptop survived though. I guess the Quality Control teams of these laptop makers have young moms, who consider households with small children. Maybe the laptops are built to withstand such harsh treatments. But certainly no laptop is waterproof. I have found this out recently, when she spilled milk on the key board. Now some of the keys work and some don’t. ‘E’ is not working——the most used letter. The Pause key is working——though I don’t have any use for it. I don’t remember the last time I used the PAUSE key on my laptop! In fact I have forgotten the very use of this key!

What I want now is a pause button for my life. Yes. That’s what I want. I want to pause this life, tear this computer screen, come out and sit next to you. I want to listen to your stories. You have listened enough of mine. Now it’s your turn. I would appreciate a cup of tea, if that’s not much of an inconvenience. Tea and Britannia Good Day biscuits. That’s my dream: sitting next to you, eating tea-dipped Britannia Good Day biscuits, and listening to your stories. How about that?

Preschool

She goes to preschool now. I was not in any hurry to put her into school; but she pestered so much, we had to give in. No one in our family was so excited to go to school——certainly not me. I went to kindergarten only for a few days; there when I saw the kids fighting their turns for the rocking horse that didn’t make any advance, I got an idea about our education system. After that I made such a ruckus not to go to school, I was allowed to loiter at home.

Later, whatever I learned at school only helped me in getting good grades, but didn’t prove to be of any use in real life. All those theorems and math equations really were of no use to me. In college, when I learned ‘sin square theta plus cos square theta equals one’, I asked myself, where in the world am I going to use this? And, sure enough, I have never used any of that stuff till today; and now, after so many years after college, I have to recollect the wretched math equation just to show you how useless it is. I learned Languages, History, Geography etc. in school. But the technical knowledge that was needed in the outside world was not taught at college.

After the college, in the initial days of job hunting, the interviewers laughed looking at my resume; since, the computer languages I had mentioned——the ones taught at college——were outdated before I was born! I had to do a six month’s emergency crash course to bring myself up to speed. In these six months I learned more than 4 years of engineering.

My grandfather, Louis Serao, a wonderful gentleman——it’s possible you would have ran into him if you ever attended Kinnigoli’s weekly market fair——one who, if you start writing about, you’ll end up in long sentences, fragments,  redundant adjectives, dashes and commas, as far as I know, never used Calculus, or any second derivative math equations,  or iPhone or email id. Yet, he lived up to 90, enjoyed his life to the fullest. And at that late age, like the great writers Hemingway (suicide), Virginia Wolf (Suicide), Sylvia Plath (suicide), Gogol (suicide), Jerzy Kosinski (suicide), he lost hope on the mankind. Grandpa didn’t commit suicide; he just lost hope. I wonder where people get such ideas.

School bag

Ria had to have her choice of school bag. Her mom suggested better ones. But the options were ignored and the brightest bag with Disney character Tinker Bell was chosen. The bag is huge. Half her size. In it, she can haul college books easily, if she retains the bag that long. Every guest, visitor gets a free demo of its features. School bag has put her on cloud nine; I wonder when was the last time I was that happy? Or will I be so happy ever?

“I miss you,” she said, after the first day at school. I asked myself: when was the last time someone, anyone for that matter, had said those words to me? And, regretfully, after rattling past memories, I need to inform you this: no one. So here I am, a loner whom no one will miss if I have to leave this planet right now. Suddenly I feel like I am standing alone on the divider of NH-17 highway, somewhere near Surathkal bus-stand, while express buses dash on both sides with great speed.

On the second day after the school, she fought with her mom, not to come back. Beats me. It’s a miracle. I, on the other hand, went to school only to please Mom. Not going to school was not an option. Mom is like thousands of Mangalorean moms who want their children to be number one in everything. Even now, with all my writing, she’s not impressed. The fact that I didn’t make any money from almost a decade of writing, is pricking her heart. Such a waste of time she says.

In her time, Mom had to wake up early and work in our rice fields, before going to school. Grandma was strict. She made all her children work in the farms. Though Mom was an early riser, I’m sure she never took a break to enjoy the sunrise. In her free time, she had to weave flowers. But I can assure you she never stopped to smell the very flowers she was weaving. She didn’t have time for such finer things. Life was tough. Even after her marriage, when life became a bit easier, she got blessed——ha ha ha——with 3 demanding kids in a short span of time; at least one of them was doomed to become a failed artist. Because of this background things without monetary values became useless to her. She is quite a pragmatic person.

I was paid once though. When I was in Bahrain, I wrote a small article to an American website. As a token of appreciation, they mailed me a $25 cheque. The bank in Bahrain said, being an international cheque, they’d charge around 12 Dinars, which in fact is more than $25. Any sober person would have ignored the whole thing at this point. But deep inside I am a poet and a romanticist, I had to convince myself that writing is worth it. So I ended up paying from my pocket to clear the cheque.

Cartoons

I have opposed, in my past articles, children watching cartoons. I take that back now. Sometimes it’s a blessing, especially when you need a few quiet moments. In those times, I make her sit in front of the TV——switch on her favorite cartoon. (Right now, she’s watching cartoons in the next room.)

I have watched more Disney animation movies in the last few months than in my whole life. When I was a kid, we had only 2 VHS tapes of Tom and Jerry. I watched them all the time——again and again. Now there are so many cartoons. Some of them are violent, meaningless, and painful to watch. Only a few months ago, I was unaware of the existence of such cartoon characters as Tinker Bell, Dora, Caillou, George, and Martha. The last one is her current favorite.

It seems that the dog, Martha, accidentally ate alphabets and instead of going to its tummy, these alphabets went to its head. And, now the dog talks! This is probably the dumbest idea. I know. It doesn’t deserve mentioning here. But my daughter loves the dog.

If a big word pops up in the conversation, the show kind of pauses, and the dog turns to its viewers and spells out the word. Also, gives a few possible meanings. Sometimes it asks questions to the audience, and waits in anticipation for the answer. Sometimes there are long lectures on what the good kids should do and don’t.

All this preaching is a big NO in adult fiction. Writers can no more lecture their readers; although, such a thing was prominent in Victorian literature.

Learning

Before the child, I had this constant feeling that I am in a Satyajit Ray movie: nothing happened for long periods of time. Now I feel like I am in a Mangalore-Udupi express bus. She has become mischievous and overly imaginative: eats only the center circles of bread slices; Quietly enters the room while I am writing, switches off the light, runs away and hides; has developed a strong liking for licking ice cubes, and shuts my mouth while I talk on the phone. (Imagine the last thing, while explaining a critical thing to a client.)  

A few days back, She tried to staple my finger. In a sense I am metaphorically stapled to frozen time. You’ll notice this when you read my short-stories. The super-ideal characters have baffled many readers. Where do such people exist? They have asked me. And, I have gracefully accepted, these people exist only in my imagination.

“Can you hold my hand?” I asked her in the crowded mall, one time.

“Why?”

“I’m scared,” I said. “I might get lost here.”

“Don’t be scared. You are a big girl now.”

She cannot differentiate a boy from a girl. So she has by-hearted this information. It is so silly. This notion of roting logical things probably she got from me.

At school, I was extremely good at by-hearting. I would even by-heart math problems. The same problem with different parameters would have multiple copies in my head. I was so good at this, I was one of the toppers. Here’s what I have to say: In any school, if the topper is a person whose way of learning new things is roting——then there is something wrong with the system. Don’t you agree?

Such people, whose Modus Operandi is roting, should not join computer industry. I did exactly that, and had a tough time in the initial days of my career. Most computers are dumb——they understand only 0s and 1s. Imagine talking to a person who understands only two words: Yes & No. How do you communicate with such a person? In short, to make these dumb-computers work intelligently, whoever programs them, need to be quite logical.  

Only much later in my career, I realized that any complex idea can be dissected into smaller, simpler parts, which are easier to digest. This applies to writing as well. Writers who lack clear thoughts, use jargon and convoluted language. (Convoluted? Gosh! Should have used a simpler word!)

Epilogue

One day she offered me water in a small plastic cup from her kitchen set. She cooks imaginary dishes for me now and then. Sometimes I ask her to add more salt or ask for a second serving. This is a kid game. But might turn out fatal for writers. I am now at a position where I am slowly losing the sense of reality. When I read some of the stuff I had written in the past, I am not sure if those things really happened or they are just my imagination.

Anyway, the water in the cup was real; I saw the little circles. She signaled me to drink. I was about to oblige, but  then  I realized she cannot reach any of the water taps in the house.

“Where did you get the water?”

At first she refused; after much cajoling, she obliged finally, pointed to the commode.

Note: 
If you liked this one, you might like to read my other memoirs. Click here for more.

This article was published on www.daijiworld.com. Click here to read it on Daiji. 

Sun is sleeping

The old pond;

A frog jumps in —
The sound of the water.
-Matsuo Bashô

From the couch I saw my daughter pulling out the kitchen chair in the far corner; the chair is taller and twice heavier than her. She used the chair to climb onto the table; and, slowly opened the chocolate box, which I had thought was out of her reach. She had approached the table quietly——knowing I’ll be into my book. But once you have a child, you cannot really concentrate on anything. You always have a background thread going on in your head, on her whereabouts. I dashed to the table——caught her red handed. This made her jump; but, when she realized it was the lenient parent, she got relaxed.

“Only one,” she said. I pointed to the fistful of chocolates. She dropped all in the box, retained one. I checked the box; there were a few left on the bottom. Over the days, she had finished most of it. Chocolate monster!

I carried her down. "No eating too much chocolate,” I said.  Two-and-half now. Why this? Why that? All the time. Thank God, there’s Google. I know now more animals, more birds, more colors, and more flowers.

One time, she pointed to a tiger in the picture book, and said ‘fox’. Then she pointed to a lion and said ‘Yellow’. I was alarmed. Did she mess up everything? Do we have to start all over again? Then she smiled mischievously; told the correct names pointing to the right pictures, laughing all the time——she was just messing with me. She was in a good mood.

On such occasions, she calls me ‘Lobo’ or ‘Ravi uncle’. In India, our neighbors taught her that her dad’s name is panji——pig; so sometimes she calls me, panji Lobo.

There are a few genuine screw-ups too. One time she saw a shark on TV and exclaimed:  “airplane!” and once she called a Kangaroo, ‘Pengaroo’. That’s because of the Penguins.

In fact, I myself cannot differentiate many things: sheep, lamb, and goat; shrimp and prawn; crocodile and alligator; tortoise and turtle. (For long, I thought the bigger ones in the sea are turtles and the smaller land cousins are tortoises; but it is not true.)

She knows four colors: yellow, purple, red, and orange. She can name more, but cannot really match them. She also doesn’t have a sense of time. When she says ‘Tomorrow’, she means sometime later. ‘Yesterday’ could be yesterday or anytime in the past. But when she says ‘Now’, she means NOW. “I want it now,” is such a big pain. Sometimes I reason with her; why we cannot watch cartoons; it’s night and sleep time. She listens patiently. Nods to everything I say and responds, “I want it now.”

Occasionally, I manage to distract her: “What’s this stupid dragon doing in the closet?” I say, and we both go on a dragon hunt.

Sometime ago there was another Ria in the community. So one was ‘Big Ria’ and my daughter was ‘Baby Ria’. The other family has moved out. But the name stayed.

“What’s your name?”

“Baby Ria.”

She thinks ‘Baby’ is her name.

She talks in rhymes.

“How much do you love Mamma?”

“Too-much Too-much.”

“and Dada?”

“Little-Little.”

My wife has cast a spell on her. If you ask my daughter: do you like Dada or gutter-water? She would opt for the latter.

She makes small sentences, and fragments. I like to irritate her. When she asks questions to Mamma, I jump in and give wrong answers. “I’m not talking to you,” she says. I think she picked that line on the TV. I myself haven’t used any such line with my parents, never——they would have thrown me out. In fact, only now, in my articles I pull their legs, otherwise all along I was a nice kid, except probably in my teens.  

And sometimes, my complaints are taken to Mamma. “Dada not listening to me.”

The only time I might ignore her——that too for few seconds——is when I read something interesting. It takes a small lag to comeback to the real world. But by then she would have run to Mamma with my complaint. (You cannot become a good writer, if you don’t listen. Probably the greatest writer to follow this advice was Maugham. He had a bad stutter. Maybe, because of that he would listen all the time. Even eavesdrop on strangers. Then copy the exact dialogues in his books. He’s one of the most read authors! His books are wonderful.)

In my school days, I was not allowed to read novels. I used to hide in the bathroom, for hours——reading books. Even now, If I find something interesting, I lock myself in the bathroom and read. 

“Lobo, where are you?” She bangs on the door.

“Give me 5 minutes.”

“Watcha doin? Come out?”

Children are so impatient. Sometimes when I’m working on the laptop, she turns off the lights.

“Shooo Dolly is sleeping,” she says. Dolly goes wherever she goes. Sleeps with her. Dolly has the status of a real person. I learned this the hard way——when I used Dolly as a pillow. Something hit me hard on the face. And, Dolly was yanked off. “No sleeping on Dolly,” I heard the warning. Some toys can be effectively used as weapons.

I used to write in the evenings. She won’t allow it anymore. Why write about her, when she is right there to play. Now, I wake up one hour early and write. If you want to become a writer you should write daily. No other tricks.  (Sometimes while I am writing, from the bedroom I hear the sleepy question: “Where’s Dada?”)

Once I woke in the middle of the night and found her awake. I tried to say something.

“Shoo Dolly is sleeping,” she said.

“When will YOU sleep?”

“Tell me story,” she said.

I am very poor at children’s stories. I know only one story. I repeat that one all the time. Children’s stories are much different than the ones for grownups. Children like repetition.

5 little monkeys jumping on the bed one fell off…  

4 little monkeys jumping on the bed…

A grownup would know instantly where this is going, and toss the book immediately. But the kids like it. They love the sound of repetition. You can raise the monkey-count to 75 in the above poem, and a child would still love it.

In the only children’s story I have cooked up, she’s a character. She makes a guest-appearance in the story. She likes to hear about herself. In fact the character in the story (her alter ego) is a better version of herself: Drinks milk; Brushes teeth twice; Eats mum-mum. All without any fuss. She knows this. Knows the character in the story is better; but she’s like——what do I care?

So painful to make her eat anything; things she doesn’t like are ‘picy’——she cannot say spicy.

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she pushes away the plate. This trick had worked in the past. You can ask her if she is nice or kakka, and she would do the nice thing for you. Not anymore.

Soon I’ll be out of tricks. Sometimes I say, “How come you look beautiful today? Did you drink too much milk?”

She likes that. I don’t know how long this one would work. One fine day, she might say: I would rather be intelligent than pretty.

Whenever she dresses up, she comes to me for approval. She stands at distance, cross legged, and head hung on one side. ”Wow,” I say, “You look so pretty.” The need for attention comes so early.

And, sometimes, I hear a shriek: “I want Dada!” This means she has done some mistake and, Mamma has punished her. That’s the only time she needs me. When I hear this jungle—cry I need to leave whatever I am doing, and run for the rescue. I have told her that it’s okay to make mistakes. Everyone makes them. Pencils have erasers etc. “Just say by-mistake,” I have said——Mamma would understand.

Before she came in my life, I could leave a book on the stairs, or at the kitchen sink, and there would be no question of not finding it at the same spot hours later, when I would come looking for it. But, now, If I leave a book on a low place, it’ll will be gone, I might find shredded paper, but mostly the book would have been vanished.

One day, I was reading a book; she snatched it and vanished in one of the rooms. Then she came back, and flourished the fingers. “Magic,” she said. I searched for it desperately, but the book is gone. She’s not telling me either. The next day she forgot the whole thing. I was at an interesting point when she took away the book. It’s a short story collection. I don’t know the name of the book. The story will haunt me to my grave.

On my book shelf, between classics and writing books, a small section is reserved for her. Her books are small and bright. They have many big pictures and a few sentences. A picture explains many things! (Very few writers narrate picturesquely: Tolstoy, Proust.)

People have different fears. Some don’t like spiders, some snakes. I cannot change diapers. I know what you are thinking. But, it’s just not my thing.

Now she is potty trained. So things are not that bad. One day she was in the bathroom with Mamma; I heard the command: “I want Dada!”

Gosh I said, not now! I gave her hundred reasons, why Dada might not be the right person for the job. She listened carefully, nodded in agreement, then said: “I want Dada!”

So now that I have done the stuff, I feel there are 2 types of men in the world: those who have washed the bums of their kids and those who haven’t. I belong to the former one——the holier among the two. I am now, a Kevalin. Nothing else matters.

Parenting is an experiment: what works for one child doesn’t for another. So you keep experimenting till the kids become parents! I have raised my voice only twice, so far. Sounds like an annual event. I do have the patience of a vulture. But sometimes she just gets on my nerves. Last time when I raised my voice, a little, there was much wailing and screaming, followed by kicking the nearest toy, and throwing the milk bottle, and then banging the door to lock herself in the bedroom. Luckily the door doesn’t self-lock. I am not surprised at her. I was like that too, but not at two——I was unmanageable in my teen years. My parents considered many a times to drive me to a distant desert and leave me off.

“Can you get me some See-O-Kay-E?” I ask my wife from the dining table. She brings me Coke in a china cup.

“You want milk?” I ask my daughter. Offer the cup.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

I am going straight to hell. They will put me in hot water or fry me on the giant pans. There’s no forgiving for my sins.

Once, she made a big fuss about going out at midnight. I reasoned with her; why we cannot go tata; it’s night and no sun and dark outside. All in vain.

Plan B:

“Are you nice-baby or kakka-baby?”

“Kakka baby,” she replied.

Plan C:

“What’s this dragon doing in the closet?”

That didn’t fly either. So we decided for a small ride. The moment we were out of the parking lot——she started snoring. Since we were out anyway, we went ahead with the ride, roamed for half hour. I had to carry her back to home. Once inside, she opened her eyes, looked around——all sleep gone. “I want to go tata,” she said, “NOW!”

So here we are. One more memoir. Whenever I write a short-story, some or the other responds: “The stories are fine, but when you’ll write a memoir?”

At the bottom of this article there is a list of my past articles. The first one was published somewhere in 2007. So I have been doing this gig for some time now. Most writers would move on. Not me. My readers won’t allow. I am going to be a life-time memoir writer. A writer whose memoirs are more fictitious than true events.

Anyway, there’s a big difference between what I am writing now and what I wrote then. The current articles are less funny——of course. I wish I had not read so many books on writing. I was a better writer before reading them. I was writing whatever came to my mind——incoherent thoughts. Then someone said from a podium at a gathering: “Hey you. Not you. You! The one with less hair. Yes. The fat-guy. You should learn the craft.”

I got hooked. I probably have the world record for reading the most number of books on writing. But I still don’t get it.

Anyway, having a child at home helps me look at the world in a different way. All ‘art’ is looking things in a different angle. ‘Sun is sleeping,’ she says at night, looking out the window. I myself cannot imagine such things——even after writing for so many years. She amazes me.

All right then. No more beating around the bush. Let’s see if we can end this smoothly. I need your help. Here’s what we are gonna do: Finish this off with only short sentences. And, we’ll use present tense. For a change. Let’s italicize the text to note the change in tense. No other gimmicks. No big words. Wait a second. Let me stretch a bit. Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.

Epilogue

We are at a carnival. She is sitting on my shoulders——legs around my neck. She holds my head for balance. We roam around. Look at the colorful things: rides and food stalls.  Then suddenly I feel something cold on the back of my neck. I turn my head. Look up at her.

“Did you make su-su?”

“Yes,” she says.

Moments pass.

“By mistake,” she says.

                                                             ///////////////////////////////////////

Note: If you liked this one, you might like the other ones in the series. Click here for my other memoirs. 

This article was first published on www.daijiworld.com; click here for the original post. 

I’m just fine

“Since my birth, I have slept more than 10,000 times. But I have never dreamt of being able to fly like a bird.”

-Masa Nakamura, The Bird People in China

Prologue

I am teaching people-skills to my daughter.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Fine,” she replies.

“Very Good,” I am overjoyed. “Now you ask me: How are you?”

“Fine.”

“No. No. I will say fine. You ask: How are you?”

“Fine.”

“No. You don’t get it. Just say, How are you?”

“Fine.”

“How are you? How are you? H-O-W A-R-E Y-O-U?”

“Fine. Fine. Fine.”

“All right. Forget it. We’ll try it some other time.”

“Fine.”

What am I doing?

When you have children at home, time flies. They grow so fast. It seems only yesterday, when I wrote my first (pseudo) memoir, in which I had announced to the world that I won’t be writing any such stuff in future. And yet, I am back with one more. This time with more lies and interesting stuff that really didn’t happen in my life. But time and again, my kind readers have forgiven me, tolerated my articles, knowing certainly, not everything is black and white. Like me, they are addicted. We are in this together.

Now though, I have a reason. A goal. Something to look forward. I hope my daughter reads these memoirs sometime in the future. Of course, she would realize right away everything is made-up. Hopefully, she would mine out the truths among the lies. A small dose of philosophy right there for you.  

Anyway, I am writing a memoir after a long time. Again and again, I come back to memoirs because my short stories either confuse the readers, or the readers understand more than what I write! In my last story, Beautiful Miss Iyer, a small boy gets infatuated with his teacher. Many of my readers thought it was my own story! Such a preposterousness!  Apparently, they think I am incapable of inventing such fiction. In a sense, I am doomed, since my readers believe each and everything I write. In fact many writers crave such readership. James Frey wrote A Million Little Pieces——a memoir; but readers found out right away it was all made up. Was there really a Bengal tiger in the lifeboat, in Life of Pi? Or is it just an allegory? Even Shantaram, which moved us so much, is just fiction, not memoir! Once you are a writer you cannot write true memoirs! It’s a paradox.  

At this point, I re-read whatever I wrote from the top, and found nothing significant! But I have a feeling you will continue reading; although, I must warn you, the interesting stuff is over.

A shot at learning

My daughter is already doing things which I was not doing at that age. Along with other things, she knows the first 3 letters of the alphabet. But she writes the letter ‘A’ upside down. That’s because she was on the other side of the writing pad, when I taught her that. What a blunder! I don’t know how to correct this mistake. She recites the days of the week; but always starting from Monday. If you ask from any other day, she would start from Monday anyway in her mind. You can see the lip movement and when she reaches the said day, she would say it louder.

Unlike computers, children learn many things on their own. This is a big plus. You don’t need to teach each and every thing. Without previous knowledge, a child can easily relate a trunk to an elephant. But a computer cannot do that. However, with the aid of artificial intelligence, a computer can do some kind of deductive logic to come to the correct conclusion faster than human beings. Computers are faster and they don’t get tired. A word-processor can do the spell check instantly. And, it can check the grammatical correctness almost as we place the period. But speed is not everything. A computer can’t write a poem——that way we are unique.

Whenever she does something new, I ask myself, Is she supposed to do this at this age? Am I putting pressure on her? In other words, am I becoming like my parents: expecting greatness from children, though they themselves are regular folks!  I hope she doesn’t become another me: reaching the destination before time, while missing the journey.

I also have the peer pressure. Other kids here are learning ballet, karate, Taekwan-Do, piano and swimming. How many times in real life you get to use your Taekwan-Do skills? Or How many people really watch ballet nowadays? All these questions swarm me.

Some of the kids here are into everything. They have a busier schedule than the celebrities. I didn’t learn any of these things in my time——and, I am doing okay! (Well, I write at least; you don’t! how about that?) I don’t know Taekwan-Do, but I never ended up in a situation where I had to resort for martial arts. You don’t pick fight with a 6 foot, 200+ pounds, silver back, alpha-male apish person!

I remember vaguely, I had shown some interest in karate during my schooldays. Mother vetoed it out right away. “You are such a threat to your siblings already, if you master the dreaded art of killing, God save the mortals,” she said.

“I won’t harm anyone,” I had said. “I want to defend myself, if the situation calls for it!”

She sized me up, top to bottom. I was already a last bencher in the class. And, in the prayer lines of assembly, I was farthest from the stage. “Believe me,” she said, “no one in his right mind would ever pick a fight with you.”

In my schooldays I fought only twice. These fights were brutal and merciless; Often, held after the class in a remote corner of the playground. I won both the times. I was never a bully, but occasionally after seeing a super- hero movie, a kid would get delusional——Thinks it could do anything. On such occasions, I have helped the blighter to keep the facts straight. Being bigger than my challengers, I was a true Goliath. But the kids were not Davids. In my Mother’s words, they were simply out of their minds!

Child’s play

Every kid with some talent makes my wife nervous. She fears whether she missed out anything for her daughter.

“May I interest you in a cup of coffee?” a kid asked us one time, when we visited his parents. Once the kid vanished into the kitchen with our order, my wife nudged me: “Did you notice that?”

“…notice what?”

“Such fine mannerism! We should inculcate such things in our daughter.”

“Let me tell you about this kid,” I said. “He is a perfect kid. He will always talk nicely. He will make into top lists. A front runner. A torch bearer. He will be number one in local Taekwan-Do meets. He’ll marry the perfect woman of his parents’ choice, ditching his school time love. He’ll lead a top post in his father-in-law’s firm. He will attend the right meetings; Laugh at the right time—— even for old jokes. He won’t read, One Hundred Years of Solitude. And one day in his old age, searching for meaning, he will ponder, if only he had built sand-castles in the backyard, instead of entertaining strangers with phony coffee requests——”

My wife cut me off with a wave of hand. “It is interesting how you figured it all out just from a coffee request!”

I feel——and this is my opinion——kids should just indulge in kid-stuff. There is a lot of time later in life, to chase phony goals. With this philosophy, I have taught my daughter simple pleasure giving activities: blowing bubbles while drinking from a straw; biting ears of unsuspecting victims, when asked for a kiss; rapid tongue flashing and simultaneous blinking in front of guests; repeating every word with elders.  

No video-games for her so far. I don’t know how long I can restrain her from the evil-toys. I belong to the time, where most of the games where played outside on the playground. Children were expected to round-up on the playground in the evenings or weekends, for an hour or two. And sometimes a few scratches here and there were expected. Occasionally, a cricket ball, hit by a future Gavaskar, would smash the neighbor’s window followed by sudden calmness. Sometimes a mad dog or a lost cow would barge into the ground, disrupting the play momentarily. Such wonderful days.

Long back at a cricket game, our fast-bowlers noticed a patch of grass on the pitch causing hindrance. It was decided to burn out the obstacle. I don’t know who came up with this idea——certainly not me! But I must say, at that time it looked like a brilliant idea. I remember suggesting circling the offending patch with green-branches; just for emergency. No one listened to me. Most of the players were taking a break——stretched out at the boundary line. Once the fire started, it not only burnt down the whole ground in moments, but also invaded the neighboring fields. Many people came running with buckets of water or whatever handy to put off the fire. A few players vanished. To this day no one knows who all were involved in the original team who came up with this indigenous idea. But everyone relates this incident to me. Because I was the one who went to Cecile-bai’s house to get the matchbox.

“What? Started smoking already?” she had said.

“Nope! Not my thing. Just a small patch of grass on the pitch needs to be cleared out. Batsmen are complaining about bodyline bowling.”

“In this sun you’ll scorch half of the village!”

“Don’t worry about it. We got it all covered. And, if you are concerned about your precious matchbox, let me assure you, it’ll be returned in its pristine condition barring only a few matchsticks.”

When the fire started, one of the first fire-fighters to rush to the scene was Cecile-bai herself. She probably had a vision of the Armageddon; but she was a bit late.  After the fire was put off, I met her among the ruins at a safe distance.

“You probably don’t care for your matchbox any more,” I said.

Anyway, I met her many years later. She still has the fond memories of the events that followed.

Good old days. No more such things. All those games you can now play sitting on the couch! Even the overfed kids——who were one time umpires, scorers, and water boys——are now great couch players. What a world!

One such overfed kid beat me mercilessly in a tennis match, on Wii. In the real court, I could beat this kid with my left hand. But on the couch, I could not manage the hand-eye coordination. I got confused. I thought: why should I bother with this pseudo pleasure, when I can play the real game?

So far I have managed to keep my daughter away from all these virtual games. Her favorite game, now, is one with the grocery bag. In this game you throw the empty plastic grocery-bag up in the air and enjoy its lazy parachute-like fall. That’s it. The unpredictability of the bag’s trail is what amuses her. It’s a Zen experience, if you ask me.

It has come to my attention, while indulging myself with the pleasures of this game, that no 2 trails are similar! There are millions of possibilities. If you wait for infinite amount of time, in stable atmospheric conditions, maybe, there could be 2 similar trails. But till now, no one has reported such findings. I might come up with some kind of formula to explain this theory.

Only small children, Zen monks, and mystics can truly enjoy this game at length. Not being any of these, this game is turning out to be immensely painful.

Mangalore

Every time I come down to Mangalore, I find something new. The city is ever-changing. Greek philosopher Heraclites maintained that world is continuously changing and in a constant state of conflict. He illustrated this by his famous saying: “You can never step into the same river twice!” Can you believe that? Do you have to be a philosopher to notice this simple (stupid!) fact?

Often, these philosophers and scientists discover the very things regular folks have known for years. For example: the moving ball continues to move till it hits the wall and when it does that it changes its direction. Is there anything new here? Duck soup! But apparently that’s Newton’s first law.

Hey you guys——you make me stray from my article. Back to my point: No two times you find the city similar. You take a bus from Mangalore to Udupi (Use the seat belt, don’t sit near the driver, make sure your life insurance policy is still valid, keep small prayer booklets of major religions in your breast-pocket because you don’t know which God will save you when the time comes! God has already confused us Mangaloreans so much. Thank you God.), while in Udupi treat yourself with a delicious Udupi-breakfast on a plantain leaf, and take the return bus to Mangalore. Voila! It’s a different city. The city surprises you all the time.

This time after landing at Bajpe, I had some idle time before the conveyor belt started rolling. I took a quick visit to the restroom and noticed for the first time that the bowls of urinals were not reachable, though I am 6 foot tall! Looks like they are made for giants! I had to use the ones for the kids. I was not much far from the flight, from which I had alighted only a few minutes ago; within such a short time, the city had managed to show me something new. It never ceases to amuse me.

The dogs and the pigeons

At my wife’s home, there are many pigeons. They live in small boxes arranged in rows one above the other, in a small room. During the day they fly away or linger on the rooftop waiting for the feed.

After I scatter the birdfeed on the patio, they patiently wait for me to vacate the place. Only when I leave they flock. But when my daughter tries to feed them, they surround her immediately. They try to eat from her hand. She warns them in her language and tries to shoo them away. But the birds are reckless.

There are two dogs: one old and one young. The young one is unruly. It is leashed to a tree at a distance, where it constantly struggles for freedom. And, it is my fear what would happen if it unleashes.

The old one doesn’t have a leash. It loiters on the porch all the time. It is my daughter’s playmate. One time I saw her trying to feed the dog. She was dangling a biscuit in front of it. I watched this scene with horror from a distant. The dog though was kind. It had handled children in the past; hence, it was in a position to skillfully accept the food without alarming the child. Sometimes, she treats the dog like a pillow; she lies on the ground with her head on the dog’s belly. Now and then she pulls the dog by its tail. But nothing can disturb the tranquility of the Zen-dog.

In my home there is no Zen stuff. My mother is a super practical person. The pets have strict tasks and tight deadlines. They are not there for cuteness. Mom expects the dogs to vigil the house at nights, while the masters are asleep. Her dogs are ferocious, violent, mean, and wild. True low-life characters. In the day time, they are latched inside the doghouse. One time, my daughter tried to unlatch them. After this near fatal incident we use locks for the doghouse.

“Why the locks?” a guest had asked.

“The dogs are precious!”

This is a believable answer than the explanation behind the real reason.

Another time, she tried to lift the kitten with its tail; the kitten somersaulted and scratched her. This sudden event raised a hell cry.  A desperate hunt was launched to find the kitten. It has vanished. The little-cat is stupid to do something like that to its future master.

Spice less life

One time, just for kicks, I dipped my finger in tea and placed a drop on her tongue; this experiment backfired. She got addicted to tea. She stopped all the good stuff: milk, fruit-juice etc. At 11 AM and in the evening, she demands tea. We are forced to be creative here. The tea which she drinks is light-brown in color but, it’s actually milk. Mine is the real tea.

Once she determined to drink what her dada drinks, I had to watch my diet. I discarded the Coke and Soda cans from the fridge. In the early months, babies don’t mind whatever you eat. But later they develop a keen sense of observation. They want to try all the new stuff.

Often, it’s a pain to feed my daughter: so much begging and cajoling. And the threats: if you don’t eat the doll will eat to become stronger!  

Now that she eats regular food, we had to reduce the spice level. The food now is bland and tasteless! Sometimes I hide in the kitchen and take an occasional sip of coke or eat something spicy.

And, there are races to finish the food. I am supposed to give a tough competition. But I can’t win. So I eat with the right pace. I am right there behind her. When she finishes the food, I have a few morsels left on my plate.

Epilogue

In the who-will-sleep-sooner race, often, I am the winner! One night, when I woke up suddenly, I saw her staring at me, in the night-lamp. (Night lamps are a pain. I can’t sleep when they are on. For more than 3 decades I hated them; never used one——till the daughter was born. She can’t sleep without one. I wonder what more sacrifices are in store for me in future.)

I signaled her to close the eyes; mama won’t like her awake this late. She did the same sign to me. And she whispered something. I have difficulties understanding her regular talk, much less whispering.

“What?” I asked.

She whispered something more, which could only mean, how could you not understand such a simple thing.

I gave up.

“Say it loudly,” I said.

“How are you?” she said.

That was fantastic. I struggled for words. Words fail me when I need them the most. I usually end up saying something plain and insignificant. “Well…,” I said, “I guess I am just fine.”

                     -------------------------

Note: The article was earlier published on www.daijiworld.com. Click here to see it on daiji. 

Beautiful Miss Iyer

“O Romeo, Romeo, Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

-Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

When Miss Iyer entered the class on the first day of her term, a general sense of unrest started among the boys. But none were more affected than little Duggu. He simply had never seen a prettier woman: in real life or on the silver screen. He fell in love with her instantly.  

She had a slender figure. Her brows were sharp and arched. Her cheeks were tad pink that could have been natural or the effect of cosmetics. On the first day, she was wearing a pleated skirt, whose hem was slightly above her knees. The teaching staff was ignorant, if the shortness of the skirt violated the minimum required length per the school regulations——for rest of the teachers wore only saris. Duggu was in the 9^th standard; not being in SSLC turned out to be a good thing, because such an emotional turmoil would have caused his grades to nose dive, which would have certainly influenced his future.

Miss Iyer had taken the replacement for Lakshmi teacher, who went on maternity leave. She used to conduct English classes, though her mastery over the foreign language was questionable. Lakshmi teacher had 5 saris: one for each working day. Duggu knew the intricate handiwork on each of them. He could tell the days of the week by seeing the sari——each sari had a fixed day. Duggu was Lakshmi teacher’s pet for asking questions; her absence certainly made his life easier.

Duggu’s initial efforts to match the days of the week with Miss Iyer’s skirts failed miserably. For she had many colorful skirts which she wore at whim; not having a pattern created anticipation and suspense among the last benchers that included Duggu. He started a racket among the boys on predicting the skirt color. This racket was never exposed; it made a few bucks for the little devil.

                       ///////////////////////

Miss Iyer was an outsider; her family was in the south. She rented an apartment near the temple. Many things changed after Miss Iyer joined our school. For one: Ragav sir, the history teacher, started his idle rounds outside our class during the English period. Till then, no one had given him any attention. In the past, he never took any interest in what he wore or what he ate. One time a visiting inspector had demanded tea, thinking him being a peon. This incident——which embarrassed the whole teaching staff——had no effect whatsoever on him. Like Iyer, he too was an outsider and rented a one-room apartment near the market place. But for Miss Iyer, he would have led a lonely predictable life.

A sudden change had come over him recently. He started wearing bright shirts that made him look like one of those colorful sex-dancing birds of Discovery channel. His ancient motorcycle——which many thought was of mud color——had bathed to reveal its jet black color. Earlier, like a defeated mongrel, it used to make a quiet entry to the school premises; nowadays, it roared like a lion, demanding respect, while announcing its arrival.

On the other hand, unknowingly, Miss Iyer made Duggu rich. The Guessing-the-skirt-color scam had flourished. The only person to be adversely affected by this gambling venture was Patel’s son. He bet heavily on losing colors. The heavy-better was from the rich Patel-family. He was the only student who took tuitions from Ragav-sir, in the evenings, after the class. And, the only student whose parents could afford a private luxury car to send their son to the school——the rest were opting for the school bus. Prior to Miss Iyer, during recess, the son was seen in the local ice-cream parlors or sweet shops entertaining his goon friends; but, all this stopped once the betting started, where the unpredictability of the skirt colors cost him dearly.

                       ///////////////////////

Duggu’s elder brother Gopu learned about the affair, when he realized that the picture book was missing. It was a fat, bulky book that housed pictures of many current and yester years’ cricketers. Though, Duggu was the rightful owner, many of the pictures were contributed by the elder brother. It had a few rare pictures of 1983 world cup——exotic shots of Kapil in the league match against Zimbabwe. The book also had a priceless picture: Gopu along with Rahul Dravid. In the last summer vacation, Gopu was at uncle’s house in Bangalore.  There in a mall, accidentally he had met——The Wall. The legendary player had kindly obliged for a quick picture with the young fan. This precious picture was pasted on the first page of the picture book that was missing.

“Where’s it?”

“It’s my book,” said Duggu casually.

“I know. But where is it?”

Duggu went silent.

“Duggu you know more than half of the pictures are mine. Also, the Dravid picture——”

“I traded it,”

“What trade,” that didn’t make sense. “Traded for what?”

Duggu took a notebook from the bag. From the bindings, he uncovered a safely hidden picture and, quietly handed it to his brother.

“You traded our collection for this one picture; what’s so great…” then he saw the picture; he had to hold his breath. An impolite whistle—— often heard in the cinema halls just after the lights go down—— involuntarily left his lips. “It’s worth it,” he said. “I will trade millions of picture books for this picture.” This approval from the elder brother made Duggu glad.

“Who’s she?”

“My English teacher.”

“Where did you get this?”

“It was on her application form.”

“And?”

“It was stolen from principal’s office. Romesh stole it.”

“You traded the book with him?”

Duggu nodded.

“This is a serious crime——”

“Nobody knows.”

The elder boy became restless. The whole idea fascinated him. “A million such thefts are worth this picture,” he concluded. “Such a beauty. I could fall in love with her instantly. But alas, kind Gopinath has to once again make this sacrifice for his kid-brother. I leave you two lovers in peace, though my heart——” He could not complete the sentence; the emotions choked him. “I wonder…” he smoothed the venerated picture; his finger followed the deep V cut, “I wonder what she is wearing underneath——” before he could complete the sentence something hard hit his temple, something hard and stone-like. The force made him stumble; he collapsed on the floor, unconscious. On hearing the thud, Mother and Grandpa rushed to the boys’ room.

“Oh my god!” Mother saw the elder boy on the floor. The younger one had a paperweight. “What happened?”

Grandfather got a water jug from the kitchen and sprinkled water on the limped boy. Meanwhile Duggu had vanished. Gopu opened the eyes slowly.  

“Are you ok?” Mother asked.

“Where is he?” he stared to get up.

“Lie back please. Tell me what happened.”

“The fool has a crush on his English teacher. He could not take a casual comment——”

Mother let a sigh; she looked at Grandpa.

“One crush is allowed per life,” her father said.

“Appa...you are…where is Duggu? Find what is he up to?”

Grandpa went to fetch Duggu.

Gopu was transferred to the bed.

“Your brother is little emotional,” Mother said. “Can I ask you something?”

“No,” the boy had guessed what was coming.

“Please don’t hurt your brother.”

“You always take his side.”

“May be a little. He is younger and not strong like you.”

After her mother passed away, she was the only woman in the house. Different men of the house——Father, Husband, sons——sometimes got on her nerves. The merciless fights between the boys and the eventual pain to settle their arguments tired her. How she had wished for a daughter. How she had fasted and prayed for a girl during the time of Duggu.

Father noticed the dressed-up wound at the breakfast table.

“What happened?”

“I fell,” said Gopu.

Mother mouthed a silent Thank You. Father had to rush for the office; so no further questions were asked.

“I have seen the proverbial picture,” said grandpa. “I will kill for such a woman,” said he. Grandma would have stopped him; she had passed away last year. Mother chose to ignore him. She watched the younger son silently. He was lost in his own world, privy to only one other person, if such an option was available,——Miss Iyer.

                       ///////////////////////

Meanwhile Duggu’s English scores soared. Suddenly he showed a passion for the English language and literature. Many a times, he was seen with The Catcher in the Rye. His was the second copy in the library. The only other copy was checked-out by Iyer. Duggu didn’t read the book, but had learned the story from Mother, who had read it during her college days, before she met her future husband.

Miss Iyer had noticed the little-lover with the book; but she had decided to ignore him. However, when he relentlessly followed her everywhere like a constant shadow, she stopped him one day. “What are you reading?” she asked, although she was well aware of the book.

The devotee handed the venerable book to the goddess. She fondly held the book; for, being her favorite book, she had read it a few times.

“You should read it,” he said.

“I have,” she replied.

“We have the same taste,” he said adoringly.

“So it seems.” Smart little devil, she thought. “You are a bit young for this book.”

“I love it,” he said.

She thought the word Love was stressed, or may be it was her imagination.

On the other hand, Ragav-sir’s shirts had turned brighter and brighter. His hair too endured many experiments. In the latest experiment, the front hair covered the right eye completely, making it dysfunctional. He left open the shirts’ top button to reveal the thick shining gold-plaited chain. Thus he looked like a man in the film poster than a social-studies teacher.

In the past, he had made desperate efforts to talk to Miss Iyer; she had responded with monosyllables. It was difficult to corner her, since Duggu followed Miss Iyer like a pest.  

Eventually, one fine day, Ragav-sir found her alone at the bus-stop. He stopped the motorcycle at the edge of the gutter, precariously.  

“I am going towards your home,” he offered a ride.

“I am not going home,” she replied.

“Which way you are going?”

“Opposite your way!”

At this point, a sudden laughter was heard. Duggu was hiding behind the wall. He could not control himself at the smart replies. The sudden awareness that he has an audience confused Ragav-sir, who lost the balance and, the metal-horse slipped flat in the gutter. Miss Iyer bit her lower lip coyly. The gutter was shallow; there was not much water running in it. The motorcycle was retrieved from the gutter effortlessly.

The next day a mysterious rose appeared on Miss Iyer’s table. It had a small yellow post-it note attached to it: “You did the right thing!” By now, Miss Iyer had corrected enough home work tasks; she recognized Duggu’s writing immediately.

                       ///////////////////////

In the Social-Studies class, Ragav-sir looked calm and composed. Yesterday’s event didn’t have any effect on him. This didn’t surprised Duggu. After all, the much shameful inspector-tea incident had no affect on him either.  Gentle Ragav-sir was beyond such trivial inconveniences. He was known for impositions. Whenever a student failed to answer his questions, the offender was required to write the correct answer 100 times. This punishment had caused a high-alert among the boys. The imposition days were sad days; for in those days, after the school cricket games were not possible; since the play time was needed for writing the impositions.

Today was a great day. Sir had not asked any questions. But just five minutes before the bell, Ragav-sir started asking the capitals of the countries, randomly. Duggu lowered his head behind the boy on the front bench. The countries asked were simple: Sri Lanka, Japan, Bangladesh, and America. The answers were easy.

Then Duggu’s name was called. He reluctantly stood up.

“What’s the capital of Ethiopia?”

Duggu not only didn’t know the capital but also he had never heard of such a country.

“How sad,” said Ragav-sir, “you are the only one for imposition today. Find out the capital and write it 100 times.” Only then, Duggu realized that the yesterday’s event was not forgotten.

In the evening, Ragav-sir’s motorcycle, roared and stopped only after a few feet. The front tire was completely flat. Only a week ago he had serviced the damned thing. When contemplating the next move, he noticed a small yellow paper pasted on the mud-guard. There were only two words written on it: Addis Ababa! These abracadabra type rhyming words confused Ragav-sir, who had never come across such magical words.

At that time he saw Kamlesh-sir, science teacher, coming towards him on his scooter. Kamlesh-sir conducted the yearly quiz competitions for the boys.

“Sir…Sir…,” Ragav-sir stopped the colleague.

“Do these words make any sense to you?” he showed the note.

Kamlesh-sir, removed the glasses from the upper pocket. He gave the keen look of a private-detective to the note in hand. “Adeees abba babba!” he said. Then the light-bulb glowed, brightly. “Why, this is Addis Ababa! Capital of Ethiopia!”

Hearing the words temper suddenly shot to the head. “Thank you sir,” he said, “Thank you very much,” his whole body started shivering.

                       ///////////////////////

Miss Iyer had taken a couple of days off. Even Duggu didn’t know her whereabouts. In her absence an emergency meeting was called by Rashmi teacher. There was general opposition to Iyer’s way of teaching methods and her unorthodox sense of dressing. A compliant was supposed to be lodged to the principal.

But a surprise was waiting for them. Ragav-sir took Miss Iyer’s side and fiercely fought the battle to save the victim. He cited the example of 9^th class boys, whose grades had made a substantial improvement. One of Iyer’s students from 8^th grade had won an interschool elocution competition. This was the sole achievement of the school in the past few years.  

Peon Luka, who had gone to the meeting room with tea and biscuits for the teachers, was privy to some of these altercations. The peon had a soft corner for Miss Iyer because she never send him on coffee errands; where as Rashmi-teacher would demand coffee every time Luka was in her proximity; Luka could never make a coffee that would satisfy Rashmi-teacher. She would always find some shortcoming with the drink. Miss Iyer made her own coffee. Luka heard most of the arguments in his deliberately delayed tea serving. He reported his findings to Miss Iyer on her return; this inside information was offered freely to her. However, it was not free for Duggu, who had to pay for the classified information.

The next day, Miss Iyer was seen on the motorcycle. She was glued to Ragav-sir, her savior, in a precarious uncomfortable position, though there was ample space for one more person. The motorcycle made a couple of idle rounds in front of Rashmi-teacher’s house. Duggu was in the garden, picking flowers for the puja, when the motorcycle stopped at a distance from the gate. Only Ragav-sir approached the gate; Miss Iyer preferred to stay back.

The two rivals, for Miss Iyer’s affection, stared each other murderously, like the stray cats on the wall. Ragav-sir smirked at the looser. “Who’s laughing now?” he said.

Duggu was not listening. He was looking at Miss Iyer who stood next to the motorcycle. A breeze had started. In one hand she tried to manage her skirt, in the other she was brushing off her long unruly hair. Ragav- sir had gifted her a pair of sunglasses, which she was wearing at the time, hence, Duggu could not confirm if she was looking at him or somewhere at a distant point beyond him. In that moment she looked like a goddess out of this world. Though he didn’t realize at that time, this picture of Miss Iyer standing next to the motorcycle, desperately trying to hold the skirt and managing the unruly hair would haunt him for years to come. Ragav-sir was saying something: “Why don’t you stop-by at the library today, exactly at 5pm? I have a surprise for you.” He backed away, not waiting for Duggu’s reply.

In moments the motorcycle darted away, vanished beyond the horizon. That day, the new lovers were seen in many places in the near by Mangalore city. Duggu would get the updates from various resources for months. Some were facts, some not.

Only a day back, they were literally strangers. But today they were in love, inseparable till death. Crazy love.

Duggu reached the library on time. Being Saturday, the school premise was empty. But the library door was not locked. He quietly made an entry. There were racks and racks of books. A noise started at the far end, near the Classic section. Duggu had gone to that section only once, to fetch The Catcher in the Rye.

Miss Iyer was against the wall; her eyes were closed in ecstasy. Ragav-sir was on her passionately kissing her neck. Her one hand firmly clutched the window railing; the other tightly secured his back. The hand holding the railing was shivering in uncontrollable pleasure. Her lower lips, bitten, were at the verge of bursting.  

Duggu had seen enough; while making a turn his hand accidentally hit a stack of books. They hit the ground with a loud noise. Duggu didn’t stay back to collect the books. The lovers parted in a hurry.

“Duggu,” Miss Iyer’s desperate plea was ignored. He darted out.

Sometime after the dinner the phone rang. “Duggu call for you,” Mother announced. Duggu waited for Mother to disappear into the kitchen.

“Hello,” he said.

“How are you?” It was Ragav-sir. “I will come to the point right away. I hope you haven’t told anyone about today’s incident; I don’t care myself. But Iyer will lose her job, if wrong people hear about it. You know, she is only a temporary staff. You won’t do that to your favorite teacher. Would you? Anyway, it’s your call.” When Duggu didn’t respond, a loud laugh was heard from the other side. “Addis Ababa! I didn’t know that. Thank you.” The line got disconnected.

                       ///////////////////////

The next day Miss Iyer found a small pink note on her desk in the staff room. It had a single line: “YOUR SEACREAT IS SAFE WITH ME!!! –D.” A small red colored heart circled the letter D.

In the class Miss Iyer was calm and composed. If she was disturbed, it was not visible. But Duggu was not to be fooled this time; he was bitten once by this calmness in the social-studies class, not so long ago. How smoothly grown ups fake their feelings, wondered Duggu.

As usual, she started asking the spelling of a few long words. She asked Rajesh the class topper: “How do you spell secret?”

“S-E-C-R-E-T” said the boy, effortlessly.

“Are your sure it is not, S-E-A-C-R-E-A-T?”

The boy said something. Duggu threw a sharp glance at Miss Iyer. She ignored him and continued her questions.

The last benchers were asked to spell Shakespeare. A variety and creative spellings were put forward. Then came Duggu’s turn.

“S-E-X-p-e-e-r,” he said stressing the first 3 letters.  

The class started a loud cheer. Bench thumping and chaos ensued. She clutched his arm tightly; her nails made an impression; he didn’t flinch. She knew it was a deliberate answer, suggesting peer sex!  

“Meet me after the class,” she said.

Hers was the last class of the day. After the class, Duggu went to the staff room. “Wait outside, I will call you,” she seemed busy with paperwork. Duggu was made to wait for an hour; He didn’t go inside to remind her. She didn’t look like any anxious to meet him. By this time everybody had left. Eventually, she called him inside.

She handed the pink slip to Duggu. He saw the slip. The word SEACREAT was circled in red correction pen. The three exclamation marks were circled too. Besides that she had written in neat hand writing: redundant, one exclamation mark is enough.

“If you don’t use the language properly the message loses its essence. It becomes a thing for ridicule.”

The fact that she concentrated on his writing skills than thanking him for keeping the secret pained him.

“He’s not a good man,” said Duggu.

“I didn’t ask you,” she snapped. Her voice quivered a little. “I don’t want your opinion of others. And, I don’t like your secret notes. You are my student and I am your teacher. We don’t have any other relation. I don’t need to explain my actions to you.”

He held his breath, terrified. He had never seen her angry or upset. An involuntary droplet, escaped from the left eye, stole down the cheek.

She realized she was rude. “Come here,” she said. When he hesitated, she pulled him close, and kissed tightly on his lips.  With the same dexterity she stopped his forwarding hand. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said, “I am just being kind to you.”

                       ///////////////////////

The next day Duggu was hospitalized. He had not slept the whole night. In the morning he had a temperature.

“I told you not to eat ice-creams,” said Mother.

“This doesn’t look like ice-cream fever,” said Grandpa.  

Duggu gave him a murderous look.

Someone knocked the door somewhere in the evening. Duggu was alone on the bed. The knock broke his nap. It was Patel’s son. He placed a small envelope on the patient’s chest. Duggu opened the envelope. Inside there was a single picture of a happy family. The man was clearly Ragav-sir. Duggu didn’t recognize the woman and the child. It was an old picture.

“Ragav-sir with wife and son,” said the visitor. “He’s already married.”

“Where did you find this?” It was a shocking discovery.

“In his apartment. During tuition he went out for a smoke. I was casually exploring his books——”

“Why do you think the woman is his wife?”

“Check the kid. Doesn’t it has a resemblance to Father? He’s a family in his native place. Don’t ask irrelevant questions. Just give it to Iyer. I bet she won’t ask any proof.”

“Thanks,” said Duggu.

“The picture is not free. It has a price.”

“How much?”

A thin smile came on Patel’s son’s face: “Whatever I lost in betting.”

Miss Iyyer found the picture on her desk the next day. After that she was absent from school. She came after a week. Some of the gossips had already started. Luka had voluntarily taken coffee for her, which she accepted. On seeing Luka, Rashmi teacher asked for a refill. Next day Miss Iyer met Duggu in the canteen. Her eyes were red and hair disheveled. Duggu noticed that she was wearing the same clothes, which she wore the previous day. “You were right after all,” she said, “He is not a good man.” She didn’t wait for the reply. Duggu didn’t stop her.

                              ////////////////////

When Duggu saw Gopu outside his class, he sensed something was wrong. His brother won’t come unless it’s an emergency.

“I think she is leaving,” Gopu said. “I saw her at the station.”

Duggu was about to sprint to the station, when Gopu stopped him.

“I have an auto standing at the gate,” said Gopu.

At the station, before the auto could stop, Duggu jumped out and ran inside. He saw her sitting on the bench. She had a large travel bag next to her. She saw Duggu approaching in blurry eyes.

Inbound train’s whistle was heard at a distance.

“Will you wait for me?”

“You are just a boy,” she said.  

“Please. Will you?”

She sensed the innocence; but she was not in the right mood, things were terribly wrong in her life. A dose of reality won’t harm the boy, she thought.

“No,” she said.

“Please——”

“I am done with this rotten place and stupid people here. Just go home!” she shouted.

That broke his heart. She was indifferent to him. If she chooses to hurt him, he too will do that to her.

The train arrived at the platform. A commotion of passengers and coolies ensued. But she heard his next words very clearly.

“You are just a prostitute,” he said.

She neared him as if in a dream and, slapped him with such a force, she had to hold the near by post for balance. Her hand started paining.

“You are a mean little brute,” she said, “You don’t know how to talk to a woman. I wish I won’t see you again in the rest of my life, ever!”

She dragged the heavy travel bag with much inconvenience. Duggu saw her with blurred eyes. She never turned back. A honk was heard. The departing train left a void in him.

                                                                       

                          ///////////////////////

Epilogue: Many years later

Gopu married a few years back; he has twin girls. The raising number of women in the household has finally made Mother happy.

In the later years, Patel’s son didn’t gamble. From his youth time ventures, he realized gambling was not his forte. He joined the family business. He runs a rice mill.

Ragav-sir had taken a transfer, long back, shortly after Iyer’s departure.

As Miss Iyer wished, she and Duggu never met. Their paths never crossed. No one knows her whereabouts.

Years ago Grandpa had fondly called the grandson Guddu; but, the grandson mispronounced it to Duggu. The name stuck to him. A few years ago, on a summer morning, Grandpa quietly departed this world in his sleep. His words——‘one crush is allowed per life’——have kind of sealed Duggu’s fate. Duggu never had a second crush. Though, a few women came in his life, they were always compared to Miss Iyyer and, found ordinary.

Often, the picture of Miss Iyer standing against the motorcycle, brushing the hair in one hand, while managing her skirt in another, comes to his mind. He knows he would take this memory to the grave.

                          ///////////////////////

Note: If you liked this short story, you might like my other short stories as well. Click here for more. 

On retrospect:

For many days, after completing this story, I could not write at all. I feared I won’t be able to write like this one.

During my school days, in the quiz competitions, the capital of Ethiopia was asked more than once. My team-mate answered all the time correctly. Years later he also edited this story.

I also had a lecturer who was known for impositions. We were to write 1000 times every incorrect answer. I have reduced it to 100 times in the story, to make it believable.

I have a friend whose son’s name is Duggu. The kid was pet-named Guddu, which he mispronounces to Duggu.

The sentence, “Don’t get any ideas, I am just being kind to you.”, came to me first. Later, I wove the story around it.

The Catcher in the Rye is my top 10 all time favorite book.

Who’s Miss Iyyer? Many have asked. Well…I’ll leave that to you.