This is the second part of the saga, the first part of which ended with the young, innocent (and incredibly stupid) hero allowing himself to be persuaded to make a prank call at 5 in the morning.
The phone began to ring. I began to have second thoughts.
The little voices in my head whose wise counsel I had so often ignored began to whisper.
To digress for a bit; recent medical research indicates that alcohol injects a little bug into your brain. This bug – let us call him Idi Amin for want of a better name – is not happy to merely traipsy around nerve endings and leave you pleasantly high.
Instead, he speaks to your brain. Most of what he speaks may be twaddle, but the brain unfortunately listens to him – rather like the American electorate listens to George W Bush.
Idi Amin convinced me that the little voices were drunk and didn’t know what they were talking about.
And so I waited till a hoarse voice piped up at the other end.
‘Ella…?’
‘Uh, hello, Lakshmi, er, how are you?’, said I, rather affably.
At this point, Gandhi slapped me on the side of my head, and spoke in a penetrating whisper.
‘Dai bastard! Druggies don’t say hello Lakshmi! How are you? Did you do the AI assignment?. Haven’t you watched Devdas, you prick?!’
‘No…Do you want me to sing or something?!’, I asked him exasperatedly, remembering that Shah Rukh Khan seemed to be doing a lot of that in the trailers.
Gandhi gave me one of his patronizing looks.
‘You SOB! Sob!’
I was befogged.
‘Uh?’, I said, perplexed. I could hear Lakshmi’s increasingly hoarse voice screaming down the other end.
‘I called you a son of a bitch, and asked you to sob as you speak – like so!’, said Gandhi, and gave a passable imitation of a pig’s mating call.
I would have, under normal circumstances, refused to behave like the Empress of Blandings. But Idi Amin had other ideas, and so I continued.
‘Lakshmi’, I said, with a sob that sounded a little better than Gandhi’s, ‘I’m dying for you. I am on dope as I pine for you!’
‘Aeey? Enna, dopeaa? Shiva shiva!’, she screamed, nearly busting my eardrum.
‘Yeah, da! My unrequited and unspoken love has driven me to that plant that was made by god (as Axl Rose once said)!’
‘Axleaaa, what are you saying?’
‘Oh let it pass!’, said I, impatiently, ‘The nub of the issue is I’ll soon be in rehab if I don’t express my undying love for you.’
At this point, Gandhi began to give a very accurate imitation of a swine barfing into his feeding trough. Looking at that, I sniggered.
Silence at the other end. The game was over, I thought, and was about to hang up in disgrace.
‘Siddhu, you are crying for me?’, said she, a mixture of pity (the kind that is generally reserved for stray dogs on the street, and chimps locked in cages) and condescension in her voice.
‘Y..yeah, that’s it!’, said I, and began to laugh uncontrollably.
‘Oh my god! I know I’m very attractive and all that, but you shouldn’t do drugs because of this!’
At this, the eggs, beans and crumpets who were listening in on the extension began to convulse in mirth.
She continued, blissfully unaware of a room full of drunk, laughing hyenas.
‘Listen, I’ll meet you at Qwikys in the afternoon. We have to talk this out! Bring money…’
‘Why?!’
‘Because you can’t haunt an establishment like Qwiky’s unless you pay! It’s not your Nayar tea kadai’, said she, in a stinging rebuke.
‘Doesn’t the Nayar tea kadai at the beach sound wonderful?’, I pleaded.
‘No, it doesn’t! Pick me up later – I can’t get my bike, petrol’s bloody expensive these days’, she said firmly, and hung up rather haughtily.
I cast a malevolent glance at Gandhi.
‘Fine mess you’ve got me into! Hope you enjoyed the show…’, I said.
Scathing sarcasm, yes, but the remark was meant to scald.
But Gandhi had all the sensitivity of a hippopotamus, and wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it were served to him on a plate with watercress around it.
‘Oh yeah I did…’, said he, sounding sinfully cheerful.
‘And now what do I do?’, I asked him desperately.
‘Even to one of your intelligence, it should be clear! Go meet her…’
‘Who’ll pay for that? That place is run by daylight robbers!’
Gandhi waxed eloquent for the next fifteen minutes, and in conjunction with the Idi Amin in my brain, convinced me that continuing to pull the prank was a pippin of an idea.
Cut to: Qwikys
It was not with a song in my heart that I watched Lakshmi pick the most expensive items on the menu. I tried pointing out to her the dangers that Banana soufflé le ice cream la frenchie posed to the heart, the liver and the pocket, but all to no avail. Plugs for a nice, steaming cup of filter coffee met with the same fate.
She spoke first.
‘I understand what you’re going through. It’s happened to lots of boys before. They just can’t help it. I guess it’s just something about me…’, said she, a smirk playing on her face.
‘Your modesty, maybe?’, I said, trying hard not to smirk myself.
‘No…its not entirely about my personality da. I guess I’m physically attractive as well, naa?’, said she, and paused for a second.
I figured it was my cue to speak.
‘I guess that’s how the dope came about!’
‘Anyway, now I shall speak to you. So you can come off dope…’
I thought of suggesting that a bit more than speaking would help me get off it a lot quicker, but decided it was dashed injudicious.
‘Oh wow, you’ll actually SPEAK to me!’, said I, lacing each word with the sarcasm that stings, and trying to feign a look of delirious joy on my face.
‘Yeah I shall speak to you when I have nothing else to do. But try not to look like this. Oh, and don’t wear those yellow t-shirts of yours – they’re awful! Burn them if you can! And yeah, when you speak, you’ve got to stop that irritating habit of dabbing your nose and mouth with a handkerchief. And cut your toe nails – they’re hideous.’
I was flabbergasted. My toe nails were a product of love and affection. I had carefully allowed dust and mud to accumulate on them, so as not to interfere with its growth. It had taken me months of care to grow my big toe nail to the length of three whole inches. But I nodded in assent.
‘Okay, my birthday’s on the day after. Though I guess you would know that…’, she said, sounding so hoarse that I was reminded of that old Vicks jingle.
‘Oh yes, I do! I mark birthdays of people like Mahatma Gandhi, Pamela Anderson and yours in red ink on my calendar’.
She didn’t get the subtle barb, and continued, ‘So get me a present! Something nice, something furry would do. And yeah, some of us may go for a movie. You can come if you bring your car along.’
‘Yes,’, said I, too stunned to say anything else.
‘Okay, I’ve got to leave now. Drop me home’, commanded she, pleased at the thought that she’d spread so much happiness and light into my life.
Cut to: The next day
I espied Gandhi in class – asleep in the last bench as usual. I walked over to him. Machiavelli or not, I needed his advice.
‘Dai Gandhi! Big trouble, machcha!’, said I, running towards him.
Gandhi bestowed upon me a beatific smile, and tried to look as much like Mata Amritanandamayee as he could.
‘Don’t worry, my child… I shall work around it.’
I told him of the latest twist in the kahaani and asked him if it were time to reveal all.
Gandhi convinced me that getting her something for her birthday would be exactly the kind of thing that would lead to something he called ‘an inherent belief in the suppression of the male ego, which is the alpha female’s ultimate desire’ (whatever that meant!), and that all could be revealed after more fawning on her birthday.
‘What do you mean by all that ‘suppresion’ shit you said?’, I asked, puzzled.
They wouldn’t have let me in on those Princetonian mettings I was talking about either.
‘That means, my dear retarded imbecile, that she’ll think she’s got a sniveling, slimy, subservient, love-crazed little retard of an admirer. Which is what we want her thinking.’
I did not like Gandhi’s description of what I was supposed to be, but let it go.
‘We want her thinking that?’
‘Yes! The higher the mountain she is on, the greater the fall shall be – Newton’s second law or something’, Gandhi said pompously.
I highly doubted if Newton would ever have spoken of how to push women up on pedestals and also pull them down. I also had grave doubts as to whether a luminary like Newton would have anything at all to do with Gandhi’s ilk. I was about to state that when Gandhi spoke again.
‘And don’t worry about buying something expensive. You can get her one of those little twenty five buck teddy bears who look like gangsters from the hood.’
I walked away, pleased that things were going according to plan. The little voice in my head appeared to have forgotten all about the lurid past as I browsed a store for the cheapest (and ugliest) teddy bear I could find.
But it was with the faintest of suspicions that I drove toward her home on the fateful day…
To be continued…soon
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
The Junkie and the Teddy Bear - Part I
It was a very lazy night – the kind of night during which one does not have much to do. The kind of night that seems to be getting ever more frequent in my life these days. But I digress. The nub of the issue was what happened on one such lazy night.
This was a lazy night that came along during a period when lazy nights were rather a scarce commodity. Being diligent students of engineering, we had very little time for lazy nights. We had to think of several important things – like AI classes (or to be more precise, what the hot lecturer would wear to the next AI class) and Graphics classes (whether fortune would continue to favour us and engineer another fall of the Graphics lecturer’s pallu).
On this lazy night that I have spoken at length on, I decided to call a few friends over. Among the many headed who graced my house on that fateful night was Gandhi – the Machiavellian blighter who is undoubtedly familiar to regular readers of my blog.
As the clock ticked away the precious minutes we had left of this lazy night, and we became less and less conscious of the clock (and several other things), Gandhi spoke –
‘Ahem….’, said he, rather regally.
I ignored him, and continued to sip on the blushed hippocrene that makes these long, lazy nights bearable. If only the rest of the idiots had, the lazy night would have wound itself to an uneventful close.
But the rest of them did not. In spite of having proven himself to be a rotten swizz in the affair of the Mysterious Prank SMSes (not to mention his being a mercenary who enjoyed dropping unsuspecting fellows into boiling broth), the rest of them idolized him.
It was as if a thunderbolt had struck. The mane of shaggy hair that was Gandhi, the dreg of Eastern civilization, had spoken.
‘Yes, Gandhi…’, said an over-eager blighter, the very same who was responsible for my unfortunate predicament in class a few months ago.
‘Let’s do something….’, said Gandhi as he gulped down another glass, for which he had not paid his share.
There was a chorus of agreement from the inebriated souls who surrounded him, drowning the only voice of sanity in the room.
‘You know that female Lakshmi of our class….’, said he, rather unnecessarily. For Lakshmi was a girl who, while having all the smarts of a dodo, had the assets of a Pamela Anderson. That the rest of her reminded most people of E.T and Close Encounters of the Third Kind was not something that concerned the average Indian engineering student – whose definition of female beauty amounted to anything that dressed in a salwar.
It was therefore hardly surprising that a couple of tongues lolled as Gandhi continued,
‘We should play a prank on her! It’s 5 in the morning...’, said he, drawing our attention to the fact that we’d spent all of the night in a Bacchanalian orgy of Roman proportions.
‘….and being the pious (&^&*^*& she is, she’s probably just done her fertility rites for the morning.’
Gandhi’s opinion of most women amounted to the unprintable – being of the kind that would elicit a loud guffaw from the average prurient male, and fire from the nostrils of the average feminist.
‘So’, continued he,’ someone calls her up and tells her that he’s head over heels in love with her…’
‘Oh shut up, you piece of shit! You’re drunk’, I said, and continued my one eyed survey of the ants climbing up the wall.
It was unfortunate that I did not look the part of the sober uncle counseling sense to the drunk young men (and looked more like the drunkest of the drunk young men). That is why what happened happened.
A couple of his apostles tried to stuff waste paper into my mouth as Gandhi ignored me and continued his discourse, ’Now, just being in love with her is not good enough – there are a hundred other bastards who’d say that to get a piece of her. The ardent lover should have turned to drugs in his unspoken desire for the young woman.’
The crowd, which even in normal circumstances was very unlike the crowd that discussed Mathematics in Princeton, was rendered particularly slow by the organic compounds that sloshed within them. They were befogged and managed to say as much.
‘You drunk retards’, said Gandhi, in that condescending and patronizing way of his, ‘Siddhu is going to call her up and tell her that he’s on dope because of his unrequited love.’
I looked up, startled. The ants would have to wait until I could resume my one-eyed survey of their migratory practices. Gandhi was hatching one of his vile schemes that usually spelt doom for the pure-at-heart who loved a quiet life.
‘F*** you’, said I, but was unfortunately ignored again.
‘Siddhu is ready, alright! Hell, he looks ugly enough to be a junkie!’, said he, to a loud chorus of approval.
‘Balls, f*** you *&(&)(&( , no f****ing way!! I’ll do it over my dead body!!’, screamed I, forgetting all about the ants.
A few minutes later, I was punching her number.
To be continued...
This was a lazy night that came along during a period when lazy nights were rather a scarce commodity. Being diligent students of engineering, we had very little time for lazy nights. We had to think of several important things – like AI classes (or to be more precise, what the hot lecturer would wear to the next AI class) and Graphics classes (whether fortune would continue to favour us and engineer another fall of the Graphics lecturer’s pallu).
On this lazy night that I have spoken at length on, I decided to call a few friends over. Among the many headed who graced my house on that fateful night was Gandhi – the Machiavellian blighter who is undoubtedly familiar to regular readers of my blog.
As the clock ticked away the precious minutes we had left of this lazy night, and we became less and less conscious of the clock (and several other things), Gandhi spoke –
‘Ahem….’, said he, rather regally.
I ignored him, and continued to sip on the blushed hippocrene that makes these long, lazy nights bearable. If only the rest of the idiots had, the lazy night would have wound itself to an uneventful close.
But the rest of them did not. In spite of having proven himself to be a rotten swizz in the affair of the Mysterious Prank SMSes (not to mention his being a mercenary who enjoyed dropping unsuspecting fellows into boiling broth), the rest of them idolized him.
It was as if a thunderbolt had struck. The mane of shaggy hair that was Gandhi, the dreg of Eastern civilization, had spoken.
‘Yes, Gandhi…’, said an over-eager blighter, the very same who was responsible for my unfortunate predicament in class a few months ago.
‘Let’s do something….’, said Gandhi as he gulped down another glass, for which he had not paid his share.
There was a chorus of agreement from the inebriated souls who surrounded him, drowning the only voice of sanity in the room.
‘You know that female Lakshmi of our class….’, said he, rather unnecessarily. For Lakshmi was a girl who, while having all the smarts of a dodo, had the assets of a Pamela Anderson. That the rest of her reminded most people of E.T and Close Encounters of the Third Kind was not something that concerned the average Indian engineering student – whose definition of female beauty amounted to anything that dressed in a salwar.
It was therefore hardly surprising that a couple of tongues lolled as Gandhi continued,
‘We should play a prank on her! It’s 5 in the morning...’, said he, drawing our attention to the fact that we’d spent all of the night in a Bacchanalian orgy of Roman proportions.
‘….and being the pious (&^&*^*& she is, she’s probably just done her fertility rites for the morning.’
Gandhi’s opinion of most women amounted to the unprintable – being of the kind that would elicit a loud guffaw from the average prurient male, and fire from the nostrils of the average feminist.
‘So’, continued he,’ someone calls her up and tells her that he’s head over heels in love with her…’
‘Oh shut up, you piece of shit! You’re drunk’, I said, and continued my one eyed survey of the ants climbing up the wall.
It was unfortunate that I did not look the part of the sober uncle counseling sense to the drunk young men (and looked more like the drunkest of the drunk young men). That is why what happened happened.
A couple of his apostles tried to stuff waste paper into my mouth as Gandhi ignored me and continued his discourse, ’Now, just being in love with her is not good enough – there are a hundred other bastards who’d say that to get a piece of her. The ardent lover should have turned to drugs in his unspoken desire for the young woman.’
The crowd, which even in normal circumstances was very unlike the crowd that discussed Mathematics in Princeton, was rendered particularly slow by the organic compounds that sloshed within them. They were befogged and managed to say as much.
‘You drunk retards’, said Gandhi, in that condescending and patronizing way of his, ‘Siddhu is going to call her up and tell her that he’s on dope because of his unrequited love.’
I looked up, startled. The ants would have to wait until I could resume my one-eyed survey of their migratory practices. Gandhi was hatching one of his vile schemes that usually spelt doom for the pure-at-heart who loved a quiet life.
‘F*** you’, said I, but was unfortunately ignored again.
‘Siddhu is ready, alright! Hell, he looks ugly enough to be a junkie!’, said he, to a loud chorus of approval.
‘Balls, f*** you *&(&)(&( , no f****ing way!! I’ll do it over my dead body!!’, screamed I, forgetting all about the ants.
A few minutes later, I was punching her number.
To be continued...
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Freedom Special Post
This post (or rather, a part of it) is scheduled to appear in the Deccan Chronicle on the 15th of August.
It’s that time of the year again, when we push carnations into our buttonholes, pin a flag to our chests and run out into the sunshine and sing the national anthem – while in the bargain getting baked to a crisp listening to a (usually fat), middle-aged man wax eloquent on how we were once a jewel in the British crown, and how the British ruined it all.
But, do not get me wrong, brand me a traitor, and set the NSG, RAW, IB, CBI (and for good measure, the CIA) on me. I love Independence day as much as anyone of you do – not counting a few maniacs in Srinagar who cheer hardest when Miandad sends a particularly juicy full toss crashing into the stands.
Of all my life, it is this year that I realize completely the value of freedom. The simple pleasures of democracy and freedom of expression that we take for granted in India; pleasures which I began to notice only when I was deprived of it for the short period I spent outside my country.
I am proud of my country. Why, the skeptic bean may ask. An equally skeptic crumpet may smirk, as a cynical egg asks me this. Well, that’s because:
• Because India is a free society, but is definitely not a fine society unlike some of these South East Asian tigers. I am yet to be fined for spitting on the roads or urinating on that (illegally pasted) poster of the latest porno playing in the Pilot Theatre.
• Because the Indian police work to the best of their abilities to reduce paperwork – the cop doesn’t issue you tickets or ask you to come to court. Getting fines paid and transgressions done with is a quick, easy process involving the cop and yourself. Now if only the cops would allow the use of debit cards when bribing them; we could cut the paperwork down even further
• Because we can engage in mass murder with a smile playing on our lips and a song in our heart, and still become a mantri.
• Because I can switch lanes with impunity. (Just watch out for that idiot switching from the other lane to the lane you are on)
• Because I can crib about corrupt cops, murderous ministers and inefficient bureaucrats. Not that it does any good, but I can crib, can’t I? :D
More seriously, it’s
• Because years spent fighting terror hasn’t resulted in India being turned over to all powerful Junta. Because our army does its job, but doesn’t assault us with ridiculous posters of our soldiers in jungles.
• Because a Veermati can grab a policeman’s beret and try to set a new shotput record with it, in front of fifteen television cameras.
• Because a Nanavati can pop up from nowhere and provide hope to thousands that the deaths shall not be forgotten with the bodies.
• Because I can say ‘No! I don’t want to join the Army!’ if I want to. And fight for my country if I want to.
• Because my news media doesn’t believe in embedded reportage.
• Because I hear not just of the valour of the soldiers who fight to save my country, but their wretched cowardice as well.
• Because I am allowed to hold my own views on things, and disagree with the powers that be.
• Because India is human, with all the frailties that characterize a human. And we are not ashamed of being wrong.
• Because, when I set foot on the ‘free world’ as they call it, I can hold my head up high and tell them that my country is as free as theirs.
• Because I was born here.
It’s that time of the year again, when we push carnations into our buttonholes, pin a flag to our chests and run out into the sunshine and sing the national anthem – while in the bargain getting baked to a crisp listening to a (usually fat), middle-aged man wax eloquent on how we were once a jewel in the British crown, and how the British ruined it all.
But, do not get me wrong, brand me a traitor, and set the NSG, RAW, IB, CBI (and for good measure, the CIA) on me. I love Independence day as much as anyone of you do – not counting a few maniacs in Srinagar who cheer hardest when Miandad sends a particularly juicy full toss crashing into the stands.
Of all my life, it is this year that I realize completely the value of freedom. The simple pleasures of democracy and freedom of expression that we take for granted in India; pleasures which I began to notice only when I was deprived of it for the short period I spent outside my country.
I am proud of my country. Why, the skeptic bean may ask. An equally skeptic crumpet may smirk, as a cynical egg asks me this. Well, that’s because:
• Because India is a free society, but is definitely not a fine society unlike some of these South East Asian tigers. I am yet to be fined for spitting on the roads or urinating on that (illegally pasted) poster of the latest porno playing in the Pilot Theatre.
• Because the Indian police work to the best of their abilities to reduce paperwork – the cop doesn’t issue you tickets or ask you to come to court. Getting fines paid and transgressions done with is a quick, easy process involving the cop and yourself. Now if only the cops would allow the use of debit cards when bribing them; we could cut the paperwork down even further
• Because we can engage in mass murder with a smile playing on our lips and a song in our heart, and still become a mantri.
• Because I can switch lanes with impunity. (Just watch out for that idiot switching from the other lane to the lane you are on)
• Because I can crib about corrupt cops, murderous ministers and inefficient bureaucrats. Not that it does any good, but I can crib, can’t I? :D
More seriously, it’s
• Because years spent fighting terror hasn’t resulted in India being turned over to all powerful Junta. Because our army does its job, but doesn’t assault us with ridiculous posters of our soldiers in jungles.
• Because a Veermati can grab a policeman’s beret and try to set a new shotput record with it, in front of fifteen television cameras.
• Because a Nanavati can pop up from nowhere and provide hope to thousands that the deaths shall not be forgotten with the bodies.
• Because I can say ‘No! I don’t want to join the Army!’ if I want to. And fight for my country if I want to.
• Because my news media doesn’t believe in embedded reportage.
• Because I hear not just of the valour of the soldiers who fight to save my country, but their wretched cowardice as well.
• Because I am allowed to hold my own views on things, and disagree with the powers that be.
• Because India is human, with all the frailties that characterize a human. And we are not ashamed of being wrong.
• Because, when I set foot on the ‘free world’ as they call it, I can hold my head up high and tell them that my country is as free as theirs.
• Because I was born here.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Eccentric Teachers I have met - Part II
This post is a rather insipid continuation of the post I'd begun ten days ago - I write it to draw things out to their logical conclusion. In the meanwhile, I've managed to secure myself entry into the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (no wonder they prefer calling themselves the UK), and will be moving home and hearth to Scotland on the 9th of September. So, for the next coupla years at least, don't be surprised to hear me belt out an inspired rendition of 'Rule Britannia' - though with my voice, that would probably be deemed sufficient grounds to eject me from the UK.
Year: 2001
Lunatic under the microscope: Jinnu Bonny, Physics lecturer
Ms. Bonny was not just a lunatic, but also a sadist. To look at her, one wouldn’t by a long shot call her a sadist. One (if one’s a straight male or lesbian, that is) would be too busy goggling at her to delve into such minor details as her latent sadism.
Wodehouse, being the politically correct bastard he is, would have called her a pippin and the kind that would elicit a whistle from the least susceptible of America’s armed forces.
I, being the politically incorrect bastard I am, choose to describe her as hot, with the right amounts in the right places.
But, beauty is but skin-deep and often hides a heart black enough to put George W to shame. Her sadism was not of the Kamasutran mould; she did not routinely try to cleave heads into two with a carving knife. But in her own way, she was crazy enough to compete with luminaries like Kamini Mannan and Kamasutran.
Jinnu Bonny was never a forgiving woman. Legend goes that she flunked a young man on suspicion of his eyes having been a few inches below where his eyes should have been. The young man’s repeated pleas that he had a squint, he was colour blind, and that he was gay, fell on deaf ears.
Since then, Ms. Bonny has been exceedingly cautious of allegedly straying eyes. This has spelt doom for several classroom cartoonists, including yours truly. I was executing a particularly fine recreation of Ahmed Shah Masood fighting a President Musharaff dressed as a drag queen when she called out loudly.
‘Siddhu Warrier, are you drowing the figure awn the board or are you drowing my figure?’, and struck a pose, which seemed to convince me that the latter wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.
Stumbling to my feet, I answered in the negative and tried to shove the notebook under my desk.
But Jinnu Bonny, apart from being a lunatic who saw people drawing her nude in every corner, was also an accomplished sprinter. Before I could react, the book was in Ms. Bonny’s hands.
‘You are drowing me wearing belly dancing costume. You come to vice-principal!’
I spent the next half an hour trying to convince her that it wasn’t a picture of her belly dancing, but Pervez Musharaff dressed in drag expressly for fighting Hamid Karzai. I even pointed the moustache out to her, but all to no avail…
Year: 2001 – 2005
Lunatic under the microscope: ******
***** is what one could term the eccentric to end all eccentrics. Since his eccentricities are too great in number to document using an anecdote or two, as I have done while documenting the eccentrics who preceded him in this series.
• Mr. *****’s prefer
Year: 2001
Lunatic under the microscope: Jinnu Bonny, Physics lecturer
Ms. Bonny was not just a lunatic, but also a sadist. To look at her, one wouldn’t by a long shot call her a sadist. One (if one’s a straight male or lesbian, that is) would be too busy goggling at her to delve into such minor details as her latent sadism.
Wodehouse, being the politically correct bastard he is, would have called her a pippin and the kind that would elicit a whistle from the least susceptible of America’s armed forces.
I, being the politically incorrect bastard I am, choose to describe her as hot, with the right amounts in the right places.
But, beauty is but skin-deep and often hides a heart black enough to put George W to shame. Her sadism was not of the Kamasutran mould; she did not routinely try to cleave heads into two with a carving knife. But in her own way, she was crazy enough to compete with luminaries like Kamini Mannan and Kamasutran.
Jinnu Bonny was never a forgiving woman. Legend goes that she flunked a young man on suspicion of his eyes having been a few inches below where his eyes should have been. The young man’s repeated pleas that he had a squint, he was colour blind, and that he was gay, fell on deaf ears.
Since then, Ms. Bonny has been exceedingly cautious of allegedly straying eyes. This has spelt doom for several classroom cartoonists, including yours truly. I was executing a particularly fine recreation of Ahmed Shah Masood fighting a President Musharaff dressed as a drag queen when she called out loudly.
‘Siddhu Warrier, are you drowing the figure awn the board or are you drowing my figure?’, and struck a pose, which seemed to convince me that the latter wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.
Stumbling to my feet, I answered in the negative and tried to shove the notebook under my desk.
But Jinnu Bonny, apart from being a lunatic who saw people drawing her nude in every corner, was also an accomplished sprinter. Before I could react, the book was in Ms. Bonny’s hands.
‘You are drowing me wearing belly dancing costume. You come to vice-principal!’
I spent the next half an hour trying to convince her that it wasn’t a picture of her belly dancing, but Pervez Musharaff dressed in drag expressly for fighting Hamid Karzai. I even pointed the moustache out to her, but all to no avail…
Year: 2001 – 2005
Lunatic under the microscope: ******
***** is what one could term the eccentric to end all eccentrics. Since his eccentricities are too great in number to document using an anecdote or two, as I have done while documenting the eccentrics who preceded him in this series.
• Mr. *****’s prefer
Eccentric Teachers I have met - Part II
This post is a rather insipid continuation of the post I'd begun ten days ago - I write it to draw things out to a logical conclusion. In the meanwhile, I've managed to secure myself entry into the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (no wonder they prefer calling themselves the UK), and will be moving home and hearth to Scotland on the 9th of September. So, for the next coupla years at least, don't be surprised to hear me belt out an inspired rendition of 'Rule Britannia' - though with my voice being as it were, that would probably be deemed sufficient grounds to eject me from the UK.
Year: 2001
Lunatic under the microscope: Jinnu Bonny, Physics lecturer
Ms. Bonny was not just a lunatic, but also a sadist. To look at her, one wouldn’t by a long shot call her a sadist. One (if one’s a straight male or lesbian, that is) would be too busy goggling at her to delve into such minor details as her latent sadism.
Wodehouse, being the politically correct bastard he is, would have called her a pippin and the kind that would elicit a whistle from the least susceptible of America’s armed forces.
I, being the politically incorrect bastard I am, choose to describe her as hot, with the right amounts in the right places.
But, beauty is but skin-deep and often hides a heart black enough to put George W to shame. Her sadism was not of the Kamasutran mould; she did not routinely try to cleave heads into two with a carving knife. But in her own way, she was crazy enough to compete with luminaries like Kamini Mannan and Kamasutran.
Jinnu Bonny was never a forgiving woman. Legend goes that she flunked a young man on suspicion of his eyes having been a few inches below where his eyes should have been. The young man’s repeated pleas that he had a squint, he was colour blind, and that he was gay, fell on deaf ears.
Since then, Ms. Bonny has been exceedingly cautious of allegedly straying eyes. This has spelt doom for several classroom cartoonists, including yours truly. I was executing a particularly fine recreation of Ahmed Shah Masood fighting a President Musharaff dressed as a drag queen when she called out loudly.
‘Siddhu Warrier, are you drowing the figure awn the board or are you drowing my figure?’, and struck a pose, which seemed to convince me that the latter wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.
Stumbling to my feet, I answered in the negative and tried to shove the notebook under my desk.
But Jinnu Bonny, apart from being a lunatic who saw people drawing her nude in every corner, was also an accomplished sprinter. Before I could react, the book was in Ms. Bonny’s hands.
‘You are drowing me wearing belly dancing costume. You come to vice-principal!’
I spent the next half an hour trying to convince her that it wasn’t a picture of her belly dancing, but Pervez Musharaff dressed in drag expressly for fighting Hamid Karzai. I even pointed the moustache out to her, but all to no avail…
Year: 2001 – 2005
Lunatic under the microscope: ******
***** is what one could term the eccentric to end all eccentrics. Since his eccentricities are too great in number to document using an anecdote or two, as I have done while documenting the eccentrics who preceded him in this series.
• Mr. *****’s preferred mode of traversing college corridors was to march with feet straight up to an angle of 75 degrees and down again, while keeping his hands pinned behind his back.
• Mr. ***** also had the same weakness as Mr. Joludhu – women. Though lusting for a college-going chick is understandable (considering 90% of us lusted for one of them or the other), doing so at the age of 70 is not. Unlike Mr. Joludhu whose greatest ambition was to have his point caught, Mr. ***** liked to do the catching, grabbing and pinching himself (as several people I know have discovered to their utter dismay as they nursed sore bottoms.)
• Mr. ***** is a marksman who could teach Indian Olympians a trick or two, if only chalk throwing was added into the list of Olympic events. Most lecturers are adept at throwing chalks at young men and women in the last bench who display a propensity towards yawning with their mouths wide open. But Mr. ***** proved that he can, from a distance of fifteen feet, throw a chalk right into gaping mouths. Ask a perpetually sleepy friend of mine with a small three-letter name! If he’s not too busy washing the Calcium Carbonate out of his mouth, that is…
• Mr. *****, apart from providing first benchers with the gentle shower that cleanses the soul and infects the skin, also had the inexplicable habit of shoving papers into the faces of unsuspecting first benchers. And mouldy, thirty year old papers in the mouth tastes rotten!
• Visiting Mr. ***** in his office was always fraught with danger, for he loved throwing paperweights (and anything else he could get hold of) onto incoming arrivals. Why, you may ask? Well, ours is not to reason why…
Year: 2001
Lunatic under the microscope: Jinnu Bonny, Physics lecturer
Ms. Bonny was not just a lunatic, but also a sadist. To look at her, one wouldn’t by a long shot call her a sadist. One (if one’s a straight male or lesbian, that is) would be too busy goggling at her to delve into such minor details as her latent sadism.
Wodehouse, being the politically correct bastard he is, would have called her a pippin and the kind that would elicit a whistle from the least susceptible of America’s armed forces.
I, being the politically incorrect bastard I am, choose to describe her as hot, with the right amounts in the right places.
But, beauty is but skin-deep and often hides a heart black enough to put George W to shame. Her sadism was not of the Kamasutran mould; she did not routinely try to cleave heads into two with a carving knife. But in her own way, she was crazy enough to compete with luminaries like Kamini Mannan and Kamasutran.
Jinnu Bonny was never a forgiving woman. Legend goes that she flunked a young man on suspicion of his eyes having been a few inches below where his eyes should have been. The young man’s repeated pleas that he had a squint, he was colour blind, and that he was gay, fell on deaf ears.
Since then, Ms. Bonny has been exceedingly cautious of allegedly straying eyes. This has spelt doom for several classroom cartoonists, including yours truly. I was executing a particularly fine recreation of Ahmed Shah Masood fighting a President Musharaff dressed as a drag queen when she called out loudly.
‘Siddhu Warrier, are you drowing the figure awn the board or are you drowing my figure?’, and struck a pose, which seemed to convince me that the latter wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.
Stumbling to my feet, I answered in the negative and tried to shove the notebook under my desk.
But Jinnu Bonny, apart from being a lunatic who saw people drawing her nude in every corner, was also an accomplished sprinter. Before I could react, the book was in Ms. Bonny’s hands.
‘You are drowing me wearing belly dancing costume. You come to vice-principal!’
I spent the next half an hour trying to convince her that it wasn’t a picture of her belly dancing, but Pervez Musharaff dressed in drag expressly for fighting Hamid Karzai. I even pointed the moustache out to her, but all to no avail…
Year: 2001 – 2005
Lunatic under the microscope: ******
***** is what one could term the eccentric to end all eccentrics. Since his eccentricities are too great in number to document using an anecdote or two, as I have done while documenting the eccentrics who preceded him in this series.
• Mr. *****’s preferred mode of traversing college corridors was to march with feet straight up to an angle of 75 degrees and down again, while keeping his hands pinned behind his back.
• Mr. ***** also had the same weakness as Mr. Joludhu – women. Though lusting for a college-going chick is understandable (considering 90% of us lusted for one of them or the other), doing so at the age of 70 is not. Unlike Mr. Joludhu whose greatest ambition was to have his point caught, Mr. ***** liked to do the catching, grabbing and pinching himself (as several people I know have discovered to their utter dismay as they nursed sore bottoms.)
• Mr. ***** is a marksman who could teach Indian Olympians a trick or two, if only chalk throwing was added into the list of Olympic events. Most lecturers are adept at throwing chalks at young men and women in the last bench who display a propensity towards yawning with their mouths wide open. But Mr. ***** proved that he can, from a distance of fifteen feet, throw a chalk right into gaping mouths. Ask a perpetually sleepy friend of mine with a small three-letter name! If he’s not too busy washing the Calcium Carbonate out of his mouth, that is…
• Mr. *****, apart from providing first benchers with the gentle shower that cleanses the soul and infects the skin, also had the inexplicable habit of shoving papers into the faces of unsuspecting first benchers. And mouldy, thirty year old papers in the mouth tastes rotten!
• Visiting Mr. ***** in his office was always fraught with danger, for he loved throwing paperweights (and anything else he could get hold of) onto incoming arrivals. Why, you may ask? Well, ours is not to reason why…
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