Shala

by Milind Bokil

  I was having my tea with toast when Aaisaheb announced, ‘Naru mama is coming.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I suppose in a day or two. I got his letter today. He is coming to Mumbai for some work and he will be here any day.’

  Naru mama is a lot of fun. He is Aaisaheb’s only sibling. There is a lot of age difference between the two, hence a darling of the family. Naru mama changed a lot of jobs and is now teaching English in a college in Aaji’s town. We are great pals. Earlier, he used to spend a lot of time with Ambabai, but ever since I came to high school, he has become my buddy.

  ‘Waah!’ I said. ‘I will go for an English movie with him.’

  ‘An English movie, is it?’ Ambabai taunted, cutting vegetables. ‘What about your studies? Remember you are going to be in class ten next year.’

  ‘Isn’t that next year? We will see when it comes.’

  ‘Yes, but you need to start preparing from now on. And what about your tuition classes?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Mukund! Don’t act like a dunce. Aai, this fellow has not joined tuition classes yet.’

  ‘Why do I need tuition? Don’t they teach me in my school?’

  ‘Everyone knows what they teach you in your Warhadkar school; all ghati folks!’

  ‘Let them be ghati. I am not bothered. We know what they teach in your college. ’

  Ambabai studied in Subhash Vidyalaya. We call that a Brahmin school. It has produced some rank-holders. That’s why the students there strut around with their noses up in the air. Ambabai used to nag Baba to put me in Subhash Vidyalaya, but luckily Baba ignored her. She’s very proud of her school and ever since she has joined that fashionable college in Matunga, she considers every other school ghati.

  ‘You have to join the tuition classes the moment your half-yearly exams are over, okay?’ she announced. ‘Aai, don’t listen to him one bit. He just whiles away time after school.’

  ‘I don’t need your advice.’

  ‘Why? Is she saying something wrong?’ Aaisaheb joined in.

  I thought it was best to keep quiet. These folks had made up their mind to make me an engineer and the preparations were to start now. Ambabai has been harping on these extra tuitions ever since I came into class nine. Earlier, Aaisaheb was of the opinion that we needed to have extra tuitions only in class ten, but the constant nagging has changed her mind. On top of it, Ambabai gives examples of toppers—useless folks—who have joined the tuition classes. I just hate these classes, especially the ones that are held in the evenings. Who in his right mind would want to study the same thing after learning it all afternoon in school? Moreover, the classes are held in small, cramped rooms with three or more students sharing a bench under a dim, yellow light. Who would want to spend one’s evenings there?

  That does not solve the problem of spending time in the evenings, though. One can do a lot if one wishes to. Depending on how you see it, you could call my home part of a chawl or a building. It’s an L-shaped structure. There is an empty space in the middle with four houses on one side and four on the other. Ground-floor houses have a verandah in front and the first floor people have balconies. The first floor guys can just stand in that balcony, but the ground-floor folks spend all their time in the open space. Sukhtankar and Ponkshes have actually moved their beds outside. Many sleep on the verandah at night.

  Our landlord, Kudalkar advocate, does not stay here. He is an old man who comes once a month to collect rent. He does not take much care of the building, hence the tenants are at constant loggerheads with him. He has a stock reply for every complaint—‘Are you willing to pay a higher rent? I will take care of the repairs then.’ But the tenants do grudgingly admit that the construction is very strong;it is impossible to even drive a nail through the thick walls.

  Most of the tenants go to Mumbai for work; by the suburban train, of course. They return only late in the evening. Upasni aaji stays home the whole day as she’s alone. She makes papad, pickles and such items, and sells them in the local shop. Nikam kaka works in our Municipality and does not have to board the daily train. Except for the ladies, there is no one in the building at daytime. The building comes to life in the evening. In the morning you hear the sounds of pressure cookers whistling, radio news, and Marathi songs. Each door on the ground floor has curtains with floral prints. But most of the doors remain open throughout the day; except that of the newlyweds, the Mayekars! Sudhakar Mayekar stayed aloof even as a bachelor, and did not mingle with the rest of the tenants. In the evenings, inviting smells from various kitchens in the building waft into the open courtyard. The Shenvis love fish. The Upadhyes get fragrant rice from their village in Konkan, which they refuse to sell to anyone despite eager pleas from all. The Nikam household eats mutton for dinner every Sunday.

  Kudalkar advocate has gifted the courtyard with a partially covered, tiled floor. It has proved a great blessing as everyone can assemble there in the evenings, thus escaping the heat of the cramped rooms. Ponkshe kaka continues to sit bare-chested despite repeated nagging from kaku. There is an open space where some grass grows. Once in a while, some of the enthusiastic members of the building clear the space and play badminton over there. They put up a makeshift pole on which a naked bulb dangles at night for light.

  The boys play underhand cricket during the day. But evenings are meant for chess and carrom. Baba introduced the chawl to chess and it has now become an addiction for many. At any given point, there are a few games happening simultaneously with enough ‘advisors’ around each. Ponkshe kaka got a carrom board and now there are two such boards to play on; the ‘advisors’ are present there too! Everyone assembles here after dinner. The womenfolk get busy cutting vegetables or chatting and exchanging gossip. The tenants from the first floor are come too. In one corner of the first floor are two rooms kept locked by Kudalkar. He gives them on rent for wedding celebrations or other such functions. The other corner is occupied by a threesome—KT, Ashok and Vijay. No one knows what they do for a living. We see a group of men and women come into their room once in a while. They close the door and we are unable to make out what they discuss. Then they join the crowd, playing chess on many evenings. They also participate in the children’s underhand cricket. They are a nice gang to hang out with.

  Baba comes home sharp at seven, unless his train is late. He comes in, goes for a wash, changes into his pyjamas, has a cup of tea, and then sits down to play chess. He has to finish one game before dinner and one afterwards. He then goes to sleep. If you want to speak to him you have to find time either when he is having tea or when he is eating dinner. He does not like to talk while playing chess, only gesticulates because there is a wad of tobacco tucked away in his mouth. But that is only before dinner. Not afterwards.

  Baba is of no use in the evenings, much to the chagrin of Aaisaheb. He does household chores only on Sundays or on the second and fourth Saturdays when the office is closed. He does not play chess on those days, but that does not stop Aaisaheb from getting upset. ‘I feel like throwing away your chess board!’ she grumbles. But would she dare! In fact she takes care to search, the next morning, for the pawn or any other chess piece fallen under the bed. She’s happy that I am not addicted to chess. It is not that I don’t know how to play. In fact, I play quite well and have defeated Baba a few times. Baba says he taught me chess when I was in fifth standard and had I continued I would have been very good by now. But he did not force me. Some people come to him to learn. He does not believe in participating in tournaments. He says one should play for personal satisfaction and not for winning matches.

  I don’t like to be at home in the evenings. I love to spend time walking down the roads, especially after the street lights come on. The soft, friendly glow of the streetlights makes the town warm and affable. I like that hour when no one can recognize you walking by. I spend my evenings visiting either Chitre or Phawdya or go to the Municipal library. I did the same when Ambabai started her discourse on the bene
fits of extra tuition. I picked up a book and made my way to the library.

  We had assembled at our adda as usual. Surya was fine until he saw Kevda, which is when he grew desperate. He was keen to speak to her, but did not know how to get started.

  ‘Ichibhana, Joshi, come on! Give me some idea,’ he pleaded, seeing Kevda pass by. ‘How the hell do I woo her?’

  ‘It’ll happen, don’t worry,’ I said, winking at Chitre.

  ‘Don’t you see, the days are just passing by? She goes by and I just sit here looking at her. She needs to know, no?’

  ‘Bloody fool’, I muttered under my breath. But when Shirodkar passed by, and I sat there with my heart pining for her, I could empathize with him. I realized the days were flying and we were doing nothing except sitting there watching the girls walk past. Shirodkar needed to know! I wondered how I would ever be able to tell her. The familiar feeling of emptiness in the pit my stomach deepened.

  I decided to seek advice from Naru mama. He had arrived by four o’clock, and when I returned from school, he was chatting with Aai, a tea-cup in hand.

  ‘Mukund, how are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Not phine,’ he corrected. ‘Faieeeen…that’s the way to pronounce it. The person hearing you should feel you are really feeling fine.’

  ‘Faieeeen,’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes. Say, Fine, thank you sir,’ he said.

  ‘Fine, thank you sir,’ I repeated.

  Aaisaheb watched us with admiration. I had nothing to worry as long as Naru mama was here with us. Ambabai had gone visiting some friend. We went out. The English movies are screened only on Saturday and Sunday mornings. We did not want to see some stupid Hindi movie, so we decided to go to the place where the new bridge is being built.

  ‘So, how are your friends?’ Naru mama asked.

  ‘They are all fine.’

  ‘No girlfriends yet?’

  ‘They are trying. But they haven’t found one yet.’

  ‘What about you? Haven’t you found anyone?’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘I don’t have time for all that.’

  To be honest, I was about to blurt out Shirodkar’s name, but I checked myself. I could not afford to confide in him. What if he blurted it to Aaisaheb? I’d be doomed.

  ‘There is this boy in my class,’ I began carefully. I knew that Naru mama was sharp, so I created a fictitious character. ‘Manoj Desai. He is in love with a girl. But he does not know how to tell her that. The girls in our class don’t talk to us boys, you know.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Naru mama said. ‘All he needs to do is to impress her. Then she’ll automatically start reciprocating.’

  ‘But how does one do that?’

  ‘That’s for him to decide.’

  I did not pursue the discussion further for I knew Naru mama would smell a rat. I knew Naru mama would broach the topic on his own later. He had a few affairs in college. He is full of stories, but I am not sure which ones to believe.

  Aaisaheb has seen a few prospective brides for him, but he has not shown any interest yet. I suspect he has some girl in mind. He has not confided in me though, and that’s quite all right. These things are private. Unless, of course, you are an idiot like Surya who goes about telling the whole world.

  I mulled over Naru mama’s advice but was unable to decide the next move. Bendre ma’am caned us again in her next class. We remembered her teaching us ‘past participle’ the previous day but she had not asked us to write a few examples of it on our own as homework. But she thought she did. So she decided to punish the entire class. She started with the front bench and continued till each one had received their quota. Bibikar tried to object and got an extra one in return.

  She then began the class in her usual monotone. The whole class was silent after the caning. It was hot outside and there was no one in the playground. Naru mama’s advice echoed in my head. I wondered what I should do.

  Bendre ma’am began writing on the blackboard, and I took the opportunity to stand up and do an elaborate namaskar. For a moment, no one said anything until the boys sitting behind my desk began to giggle. Some of the girls had a vague idea of what I had done, but most of them looked askance as the boys sniggered away.

  Bendre ma’am turned around to face us but could not put her finger on what had transpired while she had been busy writing on the board. The whole class was silent. She turned to write when Chitre, who was sitting next to me (for Desai was absent that day), stood up and mimicked my action.

  The boys behind were expecting it; this was our regular pantomime. Earlier we used to show the middle finger, touch the tip of the tongue, and point it at the backs of teachers who were either tyrants or bores. But that was very risky. Once someone had tried to do that to Prem Chopra but got caught and was hammered badly. Then we discovered the relatively harmless namaskar gesture, where chances of a harsh punishment, if caught, were low.

  The boys behind us laughed out loud seeing Chitre stand up and do the namaskar. Sundri, Sukdi and a few girls too giggled, covering their mouths with their handkerchiefs.

  Ma’am turned around and asked in Marathi, ‘What is so funny?’ She lapses into Marathi whenever she’s angry. But no one answered. Other boys were ready to mimic the namaskar as soon as they got a chance. There was an air of anticipation in the classroom now.

  I waited for a few minutes. The moment ma’am turned, I stood up and repeated the gesture. The boys giggled again, and this time Chitre and I joined the laughter to avoid any suspicion. Ma’am turned around, fuming. ‘What is it? What is happening? Looks like you haven’t had enough of the caning.’

  There is a fatso Shembekar who sits on the third bench right in the middle of the classroom. He is a little oversmart and loves to show off. He decided to mimic the namaskar next. Chitre and I knew that ma’am was alert now. But Shembekar stood up and the moment he folded his hands in a namaskar, ma’am turned around and caught him.

  ‘Come, come,’ she said, moving towards his bench. ‘So you want to do namaskar, is it?’ She came near him and hit him with her ruler. He tried to dodge. He gets caned a lot by the teachers and is an expert at dodging the blows. Luckily for him, the bell rang just then and he was spared. The moment ma’am left the classroom, he came charging at me.

  ‘Saale, Joshi! I got caught because of you.’

  ‘Hey, hold your horses,’ Surya cut in. ‘Bhenchod, who asked you to try a prank on her?’

  He went back to his seat, but I felt bad for the fatso. I was happy that the girls were giggling at my prank, but I was not sure whether Shirodkar had joined in.

  The Physics period was free and Manjrekar sir came in to substitute, much to everyone’s delight. He announced that he would teach Geography, but we all clamoured for a free period and he relented.

  ‘Okay, so what do you guys want to do?’ he asked, sitting on the chair.

  One of the birdies said, ‘Let’s play word games on movie titles.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s been so long!’ Another one added.

  The girls and boys do not talk to each other much, but they love to play games. One of the favourites is a word game based on movie titles. We have outgrown the ‘name, place, and town’ sort of word games and none of the boys know the ones based on film songs anyway. Some of the ma’ams ask girls like Sukdi, Deodhar, Nangre or Deshpande to sing songs in a free period, giving themselves time to sit and knit sweaters. Sukdi hesitates at times, but the others can barely wait for a cue to burst into song. They are stupid enough to sing songs originally sung by male singers. That Nangre is willing to sing some Marathi folk tunes too while most of the boys laugh and make fun of them. That Deshpande has joined us this year from Gwalior or Bhopal or some such place. She has a favourite Meera bhajan—‘Sukh ke sab saathi dukh mein na koi’. She dwells long on the last word, koiiiiii, and the boys join in, mimicking her. That’s when she usually gets annoyed and stops singing. She got badly ragged once and ma’am had to intervene. Since then m
ost of the girls don’t volunteer to sing. But everyone is ready to play word games.

  One of the teams has to write the first and the last letter of the title of the movie with blanks in between and the other side has to guess. We win all the time and the reason is yours truly! Our neighbour Nikam kaka, who is fond of listening to film songs, has a book with movie titles listed in it along with the songs. I have read the book many times and that’s why I can quickly guess the title.

  It is easy to arrive at the name of the movie if the first letter is ‘shree’ and the last letter is ‘s’. It has to be Shree Char Sau Bees. Similarly if the first letter is ‘la’ and the last one ‘yo’ then it has to be Love in Tokyo. We boys are especially good at this and guess them promptly. I come up with tough ones and the girls invariably lose. But we still enjoy playing the game.

  ‘Okay, let us play the game,’ Manjrekar sir agreed. ‘But I don’t want any noise. We should not disturb the other classes, okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir. We won’t make any noise.’ The girls chorused.

  The game began. The girls, it seemed, had done some homework this time, for they seemed to be referring to a notebook.

  As usual, it started with some simple names which we guessed immediately. Bibikar, Ghasu Gokhale and Teredesai were trying to impress the girls while Deodhar and shorty Bakre tried to impress the boys. I was quiet. Chitre was bored and started reading his Physics book. Surya and Phawdya were busy with some prank or the other.

  Ghasu Gokhale wrote on the board, ‘ja’, followed by eight blanks and then ‘hai’. Sukdi promptly guessed, ‘Jab Pyaar Kisi se Hota Hai ’.

  ‘That’s correct!’ Surya exclaimed loudly. Phawdya added, ‘Kisse hota hai?’

  ‘Mahesh se,’ someone answered loudly.

  The boys burst out laughing. Manjrekar sir knew about their affair and smile slightly. Sukdi made a face and sat down without saying a word.