When The Building Came Alive

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Kasturi Dhama Apartments — the play area where many evenings came alive. The lights would go out without warning. For a brief second, the entire building would fall silent. Then, from somewhere in Kasturi Dhama Apartments, a chorus would erupt. “Yayyy!” It is difficult to imagine children celebrating a power failure today. But in the Bangalore of the nineties and early 2000s, a power cut did not always feel like an inconvenience. Especially in the late evenings, it felt like permission. Permission to stop whatever we were doing, leave the darkness inside our homes, and step into the building outside. Before Kasturi Dhama became home, we had moved through a few different parts of Bangalore. My family had begun in Srirampuram and Vyalikaval before gradually cementing ourselves in Malleswaram for the next few decades. My earliest memory is of living in a vatara —a Kannada word loosely used for a building or a cluster of homes—on 15th Cross, near Karur Vy...
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The Hindi Teacher

He was a short old man, with a bald patch, the patch almost engulfing the entire space on the head. He used to be dressed in a light coloured blue shirt and a pant that seemed to find its perfect place way below the belly which extended to many centimeters above the ankle. A comb to trim the patch was embedded in one of the packets. Now and then, with effortless ease, he used to shake his head in such a way that those one or two strands of hair settled across the patch to make it look that he did have some hair. Of course, he did it convincingly, but others disbelieved with equal conviction. His slippers were never noticed, as nobody really cared for any further details after all this joke.

He entered the classroom amidst wild jeers and heavy boos with the book tucked in neatly under his arm. He would place the attendance register on the table, and get ready to call out the rooool numbers. As soon as he called out number 38 or whatever, he would say Roool number 38, aage aayiye (Roll No 38, Please come forward). Sadly, the guy with roll number 38 was the unfortunate me. I also used to try my luck to sit in the back benches in every class, but always ended up in the front desks. The history dated back to time when one of the guys in the class whistled in his class, and he thought that was me. Sadly, till date, I do not know how to let out that shriek through the narrow passage through the mouth. That really put me to the front bench much to my anguish. I used to seeth with rage at his very sight, and the way he used to talk really put me off. He would make that customary glance from the book he was reading to make sure that people would be scared by that eerie stare of his. But, the Pre-University college boys never cared. The back benchers would still be hooting and shouting without a trace of scare. Our Mr. Hindi Teacher would never venture out to the back benches to see what was happening. Obviously, he is an old man with a fragile mass. Anything could happen! His narration in the class used to be accompanied by comic gestures that could never find appreciation with the students. He used to make a total mockery out of the subject. His tone followed the middle path - which was conveniently middled to a man and a woman. He was a sort of person who could never command any respect from anyone.

In all, he was a person whom I would not want to meet again in my life. There are some people who are inspiring and unforgettable, and some whom you may end up thinking about them, but for all the wrong reasons. He was one of those who really made life miserable for those around him.

Comments

  1. UnknownOctober 15, 2006 at 11:03 PM

    So many memories.The best part has to be ruul no 38 , aap aage aayiee.
    Man what abt the lady hindi teacher when she putthe straight line against our names in teh attendence register. :)) .
    Ansd all that drama where we tried to cry but ended up laughing.

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