Blame this unholy ,irreverent piece on Late Vinod Mehta. May his soul RIP. In an unfortunate confluence,Teachers Day has fallen on the very day I am stuck at page 12 of Mr Mehta’s memoir “Lucknow Boy”. As he relates of getting caned on the bum for his umpteen school capers , in empathy I can feel my bum swell to redness and sting.
Decades ago,Mr Mehta,a day scholar,could scoot home and let parents sort out his transgressions with Father Superior, but poor me ? Stuck at 6000 ft above sea level ,500ft higher up the nearest town ,Kurseong, and a climb up along a 2 Kms long winding road from the highway below ,there was no escape from the leather strap for a boarder. The School Dispensary,of course,was there .It offered anti inflammatory balms, pain killers and a Sister Irene to poke and prod you into guilt confession and provide the solace “ it will do you good”. You left her care wondering whether she meant the balm or the punishment .
Still,school life wasn't all that difficult if you reconciled with the stick and the leather strap as a part of the teacher’s armoury as much as his erudition. Even parents endorsed felt “it will do you good”.I resided in that twilight zone ,neither brilliant nor a dud. Believe me, that's the most comfortable zone to be in for a boarder.You, succinctly put, are left alone to your devices. So lesser swooshes of the dreaded stick on palms and fewer whacks from lashes of the leather strap on bare bum.
However my bum was most vulnerable to the leather strap in English Literature class. And so it happened .It gave me the mortification of five lashes of the strap on my bare bum.This being the first and the only occasion,the mental scar remains indelibly etched. Also it planted a lasting dislike for two things –‘The Merchant of Venice’ and Synagogues.
On that inglorious day it was my turn to read the following lines ;
The Merchant Of Venice, Act Three ,Scene I
Shylock to Tubal
“Go ,Tubal,and meet me at our synagogue; go,good Tubal; at our synagogue,Tubal”
In retrospect, many things went wrong.In those early days of transition from a vernacular school to an English medium my diction was heavily accented by Bhojpuriased Hindi .It tended to be as Bassanio says of Graciano “ too wild, too rude and bold of voice”. Further the tonal inflexions of Shakespearean verse, charming as it is, always confounded me. Ignoring commas ,semi colons and regardless of modulation of voice at appropriate places,I read out loud and clear in one quick get away lest Shylock extract his pound of flesh from me.
I got away from Shylock alright, but not the class.Instead of applause for my racy rendition it broke into a wide chortle. Brother Conners ,the class teacher, gave the class an all encompassing severe cold stare and immediately pin drop silence ensued.
“My dear boy ,the letters ‘ue’ at the end are silent, not to be pronounced, so read synagogue as
synagog Right, now read it again.” said Br Connors
This time I got the first one right, my tongue failed me at the second one, again synagogue. Br Connors glared at me menacingly. And the class waited in silent anticipation.
“Out of the class .Repeat it till you get it correctly. Then come back and read those lines again.”
How I wished someone lent me his tongue instead of his ears ! After repeated iteration in the corridor outside the class, I thought I got it right. Rev Br let me in and as sure as the earth and the sky,this time it was synagog at both places. But what the Hell. Br Conners was all fire and brimstone.
“Are you making fun of me? Why ‘syna’ instead of ‘sina’ now. You said it right before leaving the class. One last chance . Now Read it right ,else..”
The threat was too ominous in my present nervy state.I flunked again-culprit the word synagogue.There was no redemption now;you had it ,said the mind.
“Come here . Go to Principal’s office and get the strap . And be quick”
Trudging those hundred yards or so from classroom to Principal’s office to fetch your own instrument of torture is punishment enough.Legs feel weak , time crawls along with the legs and the mind agonises infinitely more than the likely physical pain from impending lashes.The clerk delivered the dreaded strap much like Br Roh handed out chocolates in his tuck shop .A few gave knowing looks of commiseration,save for an ageless lady,I forget the name,with an eternal grizzle. She evoked visions of the seamstress in the French Revolution keeping daily count of nobles put under the guillotine. And walking back the worn out overused leather strap seemed to weigh a ton.
The actual punishment,by contrast,was anti-climatic.I pulled down my pants, down came the strap -whack,whack,whack,whack,whack,winced each time and it's over. No tears , big boy don't cry.Evening went to Sister Irene in the Dispensary. She didn't recognise me for I wasn't a frequent visitor.The balm was handed over,confession made in return for the solace “it will do you good”
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