CHAPTER-2
Those
were the days
“School
is such a bore
And
they are building more
Lord
Macaulay wanted to make
A
country full of natives who break”
These were the iconic lines of a musical
called Kidstuf, A powerful musical which was scripted by the
students of the celebrated St. Xavier’s School, Delhi under the guidance of
Param Var and Barry John who were both classical performers but the makers
faced troubled childhood. Perhaps their emotions resonated with this remarkable
production.
The
play had several Aha! moments, where the scintillating score by Param
Vir and the script and direction by the fabled theatre personality Barry John
enthralled audiences across Sofia College, Mumbai, Kamani Auditorium Delhi,
Doordarshan Delhi and Gaiety Theatre, Shimla.
Kidstuf which was sponsored by
Max Mueller Bhavan, Delhi and produced by St Xavier’s School were keen to peg
this outstanding piece of art at a much higher level for larger audiences to
watch and empathise with the pangs of growing up. In the year 1979 this was
certainly a brave endeavour.
Meanwhile there were two strong rumours while
we were rehearsing before performing the musical. One, the production would be
staged at Broadway!
“Wow,” we thought, “We would visit the US,”
the young performers of the musical prayed fervently for the miracle to occur.
And second that Param Vir and Barry John (a
former English school teacher who settled in India to teach English and
theatre) were homosexuals. This information was received by us with mixed
reactions; both good, bad and ugly. In fact, we were not aware what was the
line of actual control in such cases and what could be a possible surgical
strike of truth.
We
proud Xavierians were stripling youngsters who ogled at members of the fairer
sex with gay abandon. The fantasises led to our first experience with puberty,
night dreams, night falls, understanding our sexuality and experiencing the
thrill of masturbation.
However, we were young and innocent, not
aware about the politics in these extremely personal matters relating to sexual
choices and preferences of humans. Students of public schools like St Xavier’s
Delhi, St Columbus, Modern School Delhi, Springdale’s and others we were
brought up on a diet of Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, English movies, oh yes,
some Hindi films too.
Songs
like Imagine by the iconic John Lennon, Sounds of Silence by the
talismanic Simon and Garfunkel and Pink Floyd’s Brick in the Wall have
inspired generations across the globe.
There was a revolutionary romance in the
lyrics and music of these numbers which lifted the spirits of youngsters who
were on the threshold of breaking free from all bondages.
The prevailing education system had set in ossified thinking among
students. They could not think out-of-the-box.
Everything in academics was determined by the marks scored and not the
knowledge gained. It was plain ROTE learning.
Education was merely acquisition of information and not acquiring
knowledge or gaining wisdom. Years later Aamir Khan in his classic movie 3
Idiots and Sushant Singh Rajput’s film Chichore had graphically
captured these aspects of our failed pedagogy where premium is placed only on
obtaining marks can result in disastrous consequences. The immense pressure on
students to “perform” or “perish” stultifies their growth process.
Thus, these songs and subsequently
participating in Kidstuf once again challenged me to emerge as a
revolutionary, an anarchist or fighting for the underdog (so I thought about
myself, may be for a cause without much pause).
But in my case after stepping out of my teens and entering college my
dalliance with spiritual masters continued in some form or the other. While in
school, Ganapathi Sachhidananda Swamiji was the lifeboat of our family.
Perhaps today with some study I would indeed attribute it to karmic
cycle or positive deeds on part of my ancestors and parents that we were
associated with various spiritual masters and pristine religious centres at
different points of time which suffused us with constructive thoughts and
positive energy.
Everything is finite in life, but one
experiences infinity sitting at the feet of a spiritual master. And this
flowers the plant of faith in the life of an ordinary person or a seeker.
It was not a case of spiritual shopping, but our family had the unique
opportunity of seeking the blessings of Swami Chinmayananda, Jiddu
Krishnamurthy, Sathya Sai Baba, Pope John Paul, Mother Teresa, Raghavendra
Swamy, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (Sri Sri Ravi Shankar who was to still attain fame
as Gurudev, Sri Sri or Guruji was present with his master, Mahesh Yogi, at that
juncture, the ministering angels through their inner voice told me) and the
noted environmentalist Sundar Lal Bahuguna.
In meantime I was now in the 11th to 12th standard
and later went on to join college. It was around this time that I had the
unique opportunity to listen to the spellbinding speeches of the eminent
philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurthy in person.
While as far as my father was concerned
the philosopher’s speeches were a voyage into science once again to prove the
credentials of thought process, for my mother it was diving into divine faith.
In either case, both my sister and I were to
be blessed by the exposure. The noted philosopher and scholar spoke for an hour
and there was pin drop silence. Once he spoke on “death” which left the
audience spellbound, some in tears, others weeping. We were left numbed.
His piercing eyes, handsome face and extraordinary persona were
exceedingly attractive. But what attracted me and several others was is
espousal of non-formal system of education as imparted in the Rishi Valley
School. The pedagogy was truly the Gurukul form of imparting education. Many
years later, I had the unique opportunity of visiting the Rishi Valley School
at Madanapalle and spent several hours at the school and meditated in the
polymath’s library.
I happened to come across a certificate signed
by Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar extolling the virtues of educational system
imparted by the school. This was a unique testimony of faith and
something miraculous which touched us all deeply.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
My schooling began at a nursery located
in Delhi University. Subsequently I was schooled at St Michael’s Grammar
School. The principal was once a teacher at St Xavier’s School, Delhi who broke
ranks with the prestigious school to become a renegade and founded his own
school.
I was faring reasonably well at the school and
participated in athletics and extracurricular activities. My mother encouraged
me to participate in these events so that I could overcome the demonic thoughts
about my frail health. She was fighting her battles and was desirous I confront
mine by chanting the names of Lord Rama and Bajrang Bali.
But then, life is never hunky dory. Soon there were a string of events
as a result of which my school was relocated to Badli village around 15
kilometres from our house. The long journey to and fro meant there was not
adequate time to look after my health.
Those days my diet in the morning was a
concoction of egg flip which included all proteins, but more than often I threw
up. In fact, my mother used to hold my nose and make me drink the concoction. Tiffin
to school included sandwiches.
One fine day my mother was intrigued by
the presence of a large number of mice scurrying in and out of my study room. It almost appeared
that there was a Pied Piper lurking in the corner of the room. Upon
investigating further, my parents were aghast to witness
several pieces of sandwiches, half-eaten by rodents lying below my study table.
It was a shocking and terrible sight. I got a
sound hiding from my parents who had no other way of expressing their concern.
It was more of an anguish of the concerned parents.
Meanwhile, on a couple of occasions the rickety school bus by which the
students were ferried from Badli village to Kingsway Camp broke down and we
were despatched by auto rickshaws to our respective houses.
My mother, the perennial Joan of Arc
clad in a shining armour could not accept the callous attitude on part of the
school administration and confronted the principal.
When she found no satisfactory
resolution to the problem, she followed the advice of some friends and
well-wishers and decided I should change schools. The premier educational
institutions at that point in time in Delhi were St Columba’s School, St Xavier’s
School, Modern School, Springdale’s School, Delhi Public School and Army Public
school.
Though my father was agreeable for a
change given my predicament and puny health, he closely looked at his pocket
and realised that Modern School and Springdale’s were beyond his means. The
options then zeroed down to the Jesuit schools – St Xavier’s or St
Columba’s.
My mother was clear in her mind that I
should be shifted to St Xavier’s School located at Rajpur Road, Civil lines.
The school was close to our house at Kingsway Camp unlike my present
school.
Since we were followers of Swamiji at this time, we met him and he
blessed me that I would be successful in getting admitted to the St Xavier’s
School. As was his wont my agnostic father did not quite share this conviction.
But my mother did not budge from her conviction and her faith in Swamiji.
As far as she was concerned, His words were cast in stone.
Interestingly admissions were closed for 6th standard and to
gain admission to St Xavier’s School I would have to literally catapult myself
to 7th standard directly from the 5th standard.
Little did we realise that there were other factors at play.
Doctor’s Colony in Kingsway Camp on the premises of R.B.T.B. Hospital
was, as the name suggests, populated by doctors. For a few of these doctors,
the presence of my mother a mere medical social worker in the same
colony became a bone of contention. Other than this ugly issue raising its head
occasionally, there was bonhomie among the neighbours. But if there was one
topic that never died down, it was about whose child performed better in
school, whose child was better at academics etc through the process of mugging.
And this was exactly where our covetous
neighbours were certainly not pleased. For some reason, the prospect of the son
of the medical social worker joining the prestigious St Xavier’s School was
simply not acceptable to them. They found it preposterous that their son, who
had been one class senior to me, would now have a St Michael’s product
alongside him.
This
prompted my mother to share the problem with Swamiji, who allayed her fears and
instilled confidence in her.
My mother’s unflinching faith in
Swamiji made her even more determined to go ahead with the project despite all
opposition.
At the entrance exam, I flunked in the
mathematics paper scoring pathetically though I sailed through the other
subjects. But this did not deter my mother’s unflinching confidence that I
would be able to cross the Rubicon.
As a dauntless warrior, my mother armed
herself with a letter of recommendation from Father Rego, Secretary General of
CARITAS (with whom she had providentially interacted at Agra during a
conference of medical social workers), she was to meet Father Puthumanna, the
principal of St Xavier’s.
She was convinced that Divine
Whispers resonate in this gigantic universe of the maker, but our minds and
ears are small which are not tuned to be receptors.
“Listen to the inner light, it will
guide you.
Listen to the inner peace; it will feed
you.
Listen to inner Love; it will transform
you.
It will divinize you; it will
immortalize you,” was an unpretentious post card my mother received from a
cousin much senior to me who was serving as a District Collector of Cuddapah
and a devotee of Swami Chinmayananda.
These were immortal words of
Swami Chinmayananda and she was sure everything positive would happen.
Meanwhile back in those days the
logical mind of my father continued to be disturbed with the jarring
development concerning my schooling and as to whether I would be able to attain
exclusive membership of this missionary school.
Now how did this interaction with Father Rego
take place? This was again an intercession by the divine. CARITAS
is a prominent Catholic frontline organisation and an administrative wing which
funds various establishments of Catholics in the country including educational
institutions and charitable projects.
One can discern a unique string of connections – her faith in Goddess of
Good Health Mother Vellankani, education at Stella Maris, a prestigious college
in Chennai and then foray into medical social work and supported by CARITAS and
then Father Rego stepping in to the help of my mother who was seeking my
admission to St Xavier’s School, Delhi. This was nothing but faith transforming
into a miracle. To a lay person these could be pure coincidences; but for my
mother these were all blessings of the Universe. Father
Rego was to give her a cross which came as a blessing from the Divine and my
mother held on it with deep regard.
Father Puthumanna, a well-meaning and an
affable Jesuit priest mulled over my mother’s request and agreed to do the
needful with a strong caveat that I had to reappear for the mathematics paper and
emerge successful.
Well, numbers and I have never been harmoniously aligned much like a
malefic planetary configuration which has to be appeased. So, I was once again
put under the scanner and sat to take the maths entrance test. This renewed
effort was scoffed at by our neighbours and this in turn taxed my abdomen more
than my brains.
I continued to soldier on and arrived the hallowed portals of St
Xavier’s School on D-day. I had to solve a solitary paper of mathematics, with
a fuzzy head and a bruised stomach.
The school establishment was stupefied when I performed exceedingly well
in the examination and emerged triumphant.
I too was shell shocked and rendered speechless with my
performance.
“It was none other than who Swamiji who
appeared in disguise and wrote Munna’s paper,” was my mother’s ecstatic
refrain. This was nothing short of a miracle and I was admitted
to class 7B while Viresh Chandana a.k.a Bumboo (our green-eyed neighbour’s son)
sulked in class 7A.
A miracle is an extraordinary and welcome
event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore
attributed to a divine agency.
Securing
admission to St. Xavier’s was nothing short of a miracle. My
father was compelled to grudgingly acknowledge the achievement. Though he was
still to accept the miraculous powers of Swamiji quite unlike my
mother.
It was champagne time for the family. But
since we joined Swamiji’s fold, liquor was a taboo and no bottles were
uncorked. Instead, celebrations were held in form of chanting the divine name
and renditions of soul stirring bhajans during a satsang.
The first stumbling block was overcome. However, I was overwhelmed by
the colossal environment, humungous number of students, huge buildings,
sprawling sports field, a swimming pool, tennis and squash courts, basketball
courts, the morning choir, rigorous academic sessions and a plethora of
activities.
There was romance in the air, a certain
mystique about the school which made it so different from St Michael’s. Fines
were imposed on students who did not speak in English. One was proud to be a
part of the school and to be referred to as a Xavierian. The school had a
remarkable pedigree in various fields.
There were exclusive schools for girls
such as Presentation Convent, Mater Dei School and St Thomas’ School. Students
of 11th standard had the opportunity to interact with nubile girls
of these schools. These events were referred to as socials and were an
important event in the school calendar.
The Xavier One Act Play festival, rock
concerts, the annual cricket tournament and the prestigious Xavier Fair which
drew humungous crowds of Delhi added spice and glamour to the school.
With all these momentous events at
school and with the reduction of severity of malabsorption I began spending my
summer vacations at Mysore Ashram of Swamiji.
I was still to enter my teens but have
vivid memories of Swamiji. As per our ancient Indian traditions under the
Guru’s guidance a disciple learns various skillsets for a period of 12 years.
Thereafter, the Guru performs a ceremony
called Samvrat and releases his tutee to the world to spread knowledge.
The student has two options before him, to be either a shishya or a sakha.
Arjuna was the Sakha of Lord Krishna ….
and was that nara (human) who was instrumental in revealing Narayana to the
universe.
I recall with misty eyes and a lump in
my throat how I used to breakdown and weep inconsolably whenever I had his darshan.
Perhaps I was on the road and the path to be a sakha and not strictly a shishya.
These were nascent thoughts germinating in my febrile mind.
Mysore Ashram introduced me to yogic
exercises. The practice was faithfully followed by all ashram inmates and
visitors. Among the popular asanas practised were hands touching the toes, Pavan
Mukta asana.
But
certainly, toe touching and Pavan Mukta asana were help in arresting the
bloating feeling and repairing the wounds sustained by the stomach.
Oddly, during those peregrinations to
the ashram, I would always feel the movements of trains all over the place.
Some kind of a model of supply chain management unfolding and I seemed to enjoy
it. The ministering angels through the inner voice were to reveal humungous
number of trains rattling away and a clear-cut model of business logistics management, which I found to be rather uncanny and
freakish. Frankly I could not make any sense of
it.
But years later these visions were to
crystalize into reality as I was to join the Indian Railway Traffic Service.
Meanwhile agnostics, rationalists and sceptics debunked the divine
manifestations of Swamiji and termed it more of magic and found no solid
science or logic to support claims of curing people and materialising objects.
To them this was nothing but voodoo.
However, my mother was convinced about
the manifestations and materialisation as it made me overcome the nagging
and troublesome affliction of malabsorption.
A high point in this spiritual sojourn
was when Swamiji rendered his discourses which were accompanied with heartfelt
renditions of bhajans on our terrace under a starlit sky. These
sessions teleported us to some kind of a fairy land.
This was the high noon of our
association with Swamiji. Some called him a miracle man, others God man. But he
had certainly arrived and was there to stay.
Amidst all these ongoing events in my
life, a few of us formed Children Gyan Bodha Sabha, mimicking the parent
organisation. We tried to play the role of the seniors. Some of us in turns
became Swamiji and other devotees and enacted the scenes we witnessed. The
youngster who became Swamiji produced mysterious ash and talismans. He would
plunge into an imaginary havan kund and emerge unscathed and slip into a
trance. Other children would sing bhajans and sway like gopas and
gopikas, while the person enacting the role of Swami would play the
flute.
But it was all fun as my inner voice
transmitted by ministering angels seemed to have experienced all this in some
previous birth form and was to disclose to me about the Raas Lila held during
the times of Krishna and Radha. “But they were Sattvic in nature and not
Rajasic or Tamasic,” they were to tell me.
We also did some social work. As a
young army of Divine soldiers, we set up a library which was to feature comics
of Tintin, Asterix, Phantom, books by Enid Blyton, apart from Amar Chitra Katha
and Panchatantra, began conducting yoga classes for youngsters and helped out
the seniors in assisting my mother at the T.B. Hospital.
My mother was certainly pleased at the
evangelical activities in which I participated as it diverted my attention from
whenever I faced any unexpected revolt by my stomach.
Now some of the doctors raised the
cudgels against my mother and spread false charges against our family that
voodoo was practised at our house in the presence of a tantrik. To their
minds the tantrik was none other than Swamiji who produced ash from thin
air, materialized objects from nowhere and was always surrounded by a bevy of
female devotees.
It was Bumboo who led the army of naysayers
and spread this canard. It did not bode well for the overall atmosphere of the
colony, but several people seem to buy the argument.
Every Thursday and Sunday satsangs
were held at our place where bhajans were sung, Guru Puja performed and
some knowledge sessions were conducted by Mr A.S. Hebbar, a devotee and an
intellectual from Jawahar Lal Nehru University. He also gave discourses on the
Bhagvad Gita. This was too esoteric for a bandwagon of evangelic children who
disappeared to play various games and explore the innocence of the young world.
My mother used to cook a lavish prasadam
for around forty devotees on Sundays but astonishingly nearly a hundred
followers of Swamiji savoured a hearty meal.
“How did this happen, Amma?” I
was to enquire from my mother.
“It was my faith and Swamiji
performed a miracle,” was her confident answer.
Our house had become a virtual spiritual and
religious energy centre. In addition to the swamis, rishis, followers of
Swamiji, there was the enigmatic Jallababa who made the odd appearance,
Catholic priests who helped my mother and some RSS and Congress functionaries
who gravitated into the fold of Swamiji.
It began with murmurs, but reached
cacophonous proportions when our neighbours led by the maverick Bumboo
complained to the Medical Superintendent that the interlopers were disturbing
the quietude and privacy of the doctors of the colony.
But when the Vice-President of India,
Shri B.D. Jatti, the Municipal Commissioner Mr Tamta and Gautam Kaul a
prominent DCP also known for his proximity to the Gandhi family began following
Swamiji and visiting our house the naysayers of the colony beat a hasty
retreat. All the calumny and canards spread about my mother, Swamiji and
so-called tantric acts faded into the background.
The inner voice of the
ministering angels was to tell me, “Whatever be the situation power always pays
and the presence of powerful people is welcomed by a slavish mentality.”
Without doubt proximity to administrative and
political power more than religious and spiritual power was quite apparent to
be seen for any discerning observer.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It was early January, and the final results of the 7th grade
had been announced. For some strange reasons the final result was delivered
through the postal service in those days. And there was a post office very near
our flat.
My performance in the new environment was subpar in general and in
mathematics it was pathetic. I was sure, that I would flunk in the examination.
“I will not score more than 28 out of 100 in maths,” I told my mother.
We were hoping that I would scrape through.
She kept her fingers crossed, prayed to Swamiji and Mother Mary and
applied sacred ash. She also asked me to hold on to the talisman materialised
by Swamiji. Uma, my younger sibling watched my march towards the post office
with a great amount of trepidation.
A pack of friends had invaded the post office. The group included Viresh
Chandna too. The outcome was sealed in medium sized envelopes.
“Eureka! I have stood 4th in
the class and secured 90%,” screamed Bumboo. My palms were sweaty as my friends
pulled out the mark sheet which was populated with several red digits.
My heart was pounding thinking about the
impending score. Eventually a well-meaning friend scrolled down to the end of
the mark sheet where it was mentioned passed in third division.
My
scores in sciences and mathematics were exceedingly poor and I could barely
cross the finishing line. It was no surprise that I secured only 28 marks in
mathematics as I anticipated.
We headed back to our flat D-19 as the Chandana’s rejoiced the moment of
triumph while I was ashen-faced, yet hugely relieved.
“Balaji aur jao Swamiji ke pass …. Fail hote hote bach gaya aapka
ladka,” was general refrain.
“He deserves to be in 6th
standard not 8th and that too in St. Michael’s and not in St
Xavier’s School,” was the clarion call of the inhabitants of doctor’s quarters.
But my mother plugged her mind and ears
to shut out all negative comments and soon our house once again resonated with
melodious bhajans of Swamiji as there was an impromptu satsang
where the spiritual master’s renditions were played with gusto.
My redoubtable mother rang up Vasu uncle, my
grandparents and other devotees and friends and ordered jalebis to
celebrate clearing of the hurdle, much to consternation and annoyance of
jealous neighbours.
“This is time for you to kick-start the new
academic session emboldened and not with timidity. Swamiji and Mother
Vellankani are with you and will guide you,” she fortified me.
Algebra was replaced by geometry which appeared Greek, Newton’s Laws of
physics were orbiting in some apogee, my brain was taxed by formulae like
C4H8O2 besides properties of inorganic chemistry continued to confound my mind.
Like in the 7th grade, my
performance in history, geography and English were my saviours as I stumbled
through the sciences and mathematics.
The year 1967, had been a significant one for the family, especially in
my father’s life. Uma, my younger sister was born and it coincided with my
father’s transfer from Delhi School of Economics where he still could not
complete his doctoral thesis to Economic and Scientific Research Foundation
(ESR Foundation) of FICCI. Over the years he regained his mojo and began fashioning
our personalities.
“Was it a chance happening or faith in the
birth of my daughter?” he smiled and wondered while preparing a policy paper on
the state of Indian economy. Faith, beliefs and even superstitions never seem
to leave us.
He was indeed concerned about my frail
health, the problem of malabsorption and academic performance. Like others in
his family, he was keen that I join the coveted Civil Services. His elder
brother had been selected to the prestigious ICS and others to the IAS and
other Central Services.
Thus, sound schooling was paramount in
realising his dreams which seemed tenuously poised as my academic performance
in St Xavier’s kept plummeting and was at best pathetic.
I was nowhere the same Munna of St
Michael’s School who cracked the periodical tests, mid-term papers and final
examinations in a facile manner.
The bar of St Xavier’s School was much
higher and I was studying in a higher class. It was a daunting task and this
had a detrimental impact on my academic performance and confidence.
But this did not deter my
mother’s confidence or faith. For her the first hurdle of my
recovery from the problematic malabsorption was addressed … the rest would
follow.
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Even the most studious amongst us for
whom cracking the papers of mathematics, sciences and social sciences was a
walk in the park, apart from the languages of course, relished the break
offered in by three subjects. These were Moral Science and SUPW (Socially
Useful Productive Work) and library period. SUPW soon became the acronym for
Some Useful Period Wasted by the brainy ones.
We were taught about God, godliness,
religion and ethics in the Moral Science period. But the minds of youngsters
meandered away and were under the grip of Satan. In the Library period even,
the serious ones also ventured to pore into lascivious literature in some books
rather than absorb knowledge from an array of encyclopaedias. These three
classes were a welcome break from the claustrophobic atmosphere of rote and
soon discussion meandered to the prohibited topics of Adam, Eve and the
forbidden Apple and about girls in the neighbourhood and in other schools and
eventually leading to the much-maligned conversation of masturbation.
The electric feeling and sensation were
discussed animatedly by students. I was then more the shy type but did
participate in the discussion jostling between the smarter chaps, overbearing
ones and those who were intellectually sound.
As the secrets tumbled out there were uproarious scenes in the class.
Lurid description of a drenched Simi Grewal in Mera Naam Joker and in Siddhartha
were the high points of discussions.
Like any youngster, I too experienced the electric sensation and
secretly admired our neighbour, who had acquired the nickname Satra as she
resided in flat D-17.
Satra was turning into a very attractive young
woman and became an overnight rage in the colony. Some of us became covetous of
Bumboo as he was the first to break ice with her by studying mathematics and
science with her (group studies!).
Satra clearly ignored me and it did
pinch my ego or rather self-esteem.
“Boss Munna, to win Satra you have to
master the bugbears maths and science,” a friend would remark.
I could not but help agree to his prescient
observation. While growing up not
everything bordered on faith and miracles. But on a larger perspective and
canvas, life and existence itself is a miracle. To study in a broad-minded
school such as St Xavier’s which opened our antennas and apertures to a variety
of subjects also was nothing short of a miracle.
It was a muggy day. A sharp shower in the morning made weather
conditions pretty humid and unbearable. Most of the students of Class 8- B were
feeling uncomfortable and were drenched in sweat.
I think I was sweating the maximum as we were
waiting for Mr Abraham, a Keralite with a pronounced Malayali accent to declare
our first term mathematics results. I had hoped to pass the examination, more
for my mother’s sake if nothing else so that she would not be subjected to the
innuendoes and barbs of the Chandana’s and some other doctors residing in the
colony.
Sporting a dour face, he distributed the answer sheets, patting the
backs of the students who performed well. He sneered at me with a piercing eye
while handing over my answer sheet. My jaw fell when I was to see my marks. A
mere 7 out 80!
It was a shattering moment and I wondered how
would I face my parents. I checked and rechecked the marks and finally realised
the score was not seven but eight. The floor seemed to cave-in. I somehow
mustered the courage and went up to Mr Abraham who looked at me with a stern
face. He added one more mark to the abysmal tally and confounded my problems by
hurriedly writing Very Poor.
How would I get the paper countersigned
by my father as a mark it had been seen by him was my worry; not the number of
marks secured per se. I was pretty sure that my days at St Xavier’s were now
numbered.
I had little choice and had to disclose
the results to my parents since Bumboo had scored seventy-eight in the subject
which made headlines in the colony the previous day.
My father wrung his hands in desperation and
my mother remained sullen.
As if designed by the Gods, my
mother received some good tidings from Mysore Ashram.
Swamiji was to visit Delhi shortly.
I was advised to immediately take up tuitions
in my nemesis subject – mathematics. Amma observed Swamiji’s clairvoyance,
while Appa had little to say, except to ward-off the barbs of our
not-so-friendly neighbours.
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Set against the backdrop of the Himalayas and with the pristine Ganga
flowing through it, the ancient town of Rishikesh is one of the major tourist
and pilgrimage hubs in northern India, where people from across the world
arrive in search of peace. The destination is abuzz with visitors, who come
here to learn yoga and meditation.
Rishikesh has numerous ashrams, some
of which are internationally recognized as centers of philosophical studies,
yoga and other ancient Indian traditions of wellness. Rishikesh is also known for its connection
with the Beatles.
In February 1968, members of the legendary
English rock band visited Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's ashram (now popularly known
as the Beatles Ashram) to learn transcendental meditation. They too
dabbled with mystical faith in meditation.
The Ganges was tranquil as Swamiji
conducted pujas on the banks and sang soulfully. I felt absolutely surcharged
away from the humdrum of school and Mr. Abraham and mathematics classes.
After spending a few
days in solitude and under Swamiji’s divine canopy the group of devotees headed
to Haridwar.
Haridwar is an ancient
city and important Hindu pilgrimage site in North India’s Uttarakhand state,
where the river Ganges is at the Himalayan foothills. The largest of several
sacred ghats (bathing steps), the Har Ki Pauri hosts a nightly
Ganga Aarti in which tiny flickering lamps are floated off the steps. Thousands of devout gathered as Swamiji sang
soulfully. We all felt blessed and were tied to deep faith.
That night, I was summoned by Swamiji and in my mother’s
presence he pressed my bushy eyebrows hard and produced the miraculous
sacred ash and applied it on my forehead.
“These problems will
pass away Bala,” Swamiji assuaged my mother’s worries and demons in her mind if
any …. for she had surrendered.
“But Swamiji, I have
no fear. You have already cured him of malabsorption and I am sure he will do
well,” added my mother. Once she was convinced about something or someone, she
gave her 100 % without fear or favour.
In a matter of few days Swamiji and his entourage left for
Mysore Ashram and I was under the tutelage of Mr Abraham to study mathematics
for a princely sum of Rs 200/- per month.
“Swamiji travelled all the way from Mysore just to take care
of his devotee. You people should develop robust faith in him and his powers,”
my mother was to tell me and my father.
The Chandana’s once again flagged an issue about my taking
tuitions, but this time my father silenced them. He had become a more confident
person after joining ESR Foundation of FICCI. How does life suddenly
metamorphose? A change in planetary configurations, an unexpected divine
intercession, faith or science … my father was to ponder on these
quintessential questions.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Winter was setting in, there was a nip in the air. Delhi
winters are pretty harsh. Several students were wearing the trade mark grey
pullover of the school.
Silence had gripped the class of 8-B as the students were
writing a class test in mathematics. Mr Abraham who was normally the butt of
various jokes and pranks by the students for his typical Malayali accent walked
up to me and whispered as to why could I not answer a particular question in
the mid-term examination. The query left me dumbfounded.
My heart fluttered and
pounded as Mr Abraham distributed the marksheet. I could not believe my eyes
... the score read 78/80 and I had topped the class.
The stunning result made my father extremely joyous while my
mother was more Zen like and stoic and gave a look that appeared to say, “I
told you so but you never believed me or Swamiji’s predictions.”
Among our neighbours, only the Chandana’s were green-eyed and
played down the event. Bumboo even called the success a mere flash in the pan.
“Papa, we ought to register a protest with the principal.
Looks like Mr Abraham had leaked the paper to Munna.”
Our family meanwhile was the proud owner of a PIE black and
white television set in the age of scarcity. This became yet another source of
unpleasantness between the green-eyed Bumboo and our family. He could do
nothing to restrain his grandmother from coming over to our place to watch DD
news, Chitrahar (a programme where Hindi film songs were telecast) and
the weekly Sunday feature film.
Other friends and the new found friend Satra (I
wondered whether it had something to do with my performance in mathematics)
made a grand entry to watch programmes like a German detective series dubbed in
English, The Old Fox, the riveting sports programme Telematch
and sci-fi programmes like Star Trek and Fireball XL-5.
As the clamour for the temple construction for
Ram Lala grew across the swathes of land, the iconic mythological serials,
Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana and B.R. Chopra’s Mahabharata were
televised by the state-run Doordarshan (DD for short). What I find surprising
in hindsight is that it was a Congress-led government at the helm of affairs at
that time.
These serials caught the attention of the of
the public and the nation came to a grinding halt at 9a.m. every Sunday, at the
appointed hour of the telecast. And we were watching these on our colour
television set acquired from Singapore by my mother!
Both
during the black and white TV period and later when we watched these programmes
on a colour TV set, our flat was packed with neighbours much to the dismay of
Bumboo.
My mother was quite indifferent to the antics of
Bumboo and advised me to concentrate on my studies without any encumbrance and
remain in good physical shape. Her holy grail
was to develop an unflinching faith in the supreme power of the Universe and
its intelligence.
Friction between the
two families continued as Bumboo was consumed with malicious intent. He was
irked with the presence of number of devotees and followers of h Sachhidananda
Swamiji swarming our complex as also by my improved academic performance.
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