School Memories - Fancy Fair

Preparations would start a week before. Ashish Dey, our senior and enfante terrible had a Fancy Fair commemorative bath exactly 4 days before the event. The southern part of the dormitory knew that for Ashish a typical body wash day comes after every 2 months. He explained convincingly that very morning while puncturing a zit on his face, “on a time continuum it is like shaving daily”. Ashish and a few of our "house" seniors made note of all the desirable items the juniors wore for work throughout the year. Leather belts, Terricot shirts (was a rage then), Stylish Mocassins, Sneakers, handkerchiefs, socks, ties and blazers to mention a few. In the days leading to the fair they would routinely accost the noted owners of such items to build their trousseau for the occasion. They would try these new things on, look at themselves in the mirror, sing a song, smile, and talk late into the night as the D-day approached. We proffered to this tradition by wangling a tie or a sneaker from our juniors. In our case, since the authority was far from absolute, this transaction was an acrimonious one and involved calling names and spewing threats aplenty.

The grand day cometh, we trudge down our respective hillocks, pockets brimming with false paper currency for the day. Girls School descends from the steeper slope. For Junior School a less steeper, albeit a more disciplined one. For the Senior Boys, a relatively longer raucous trek down to the valley. The layouts of stalls were identical every year with little changes here and there. We look out impatiently towards the valley swathed in the mild afternoon sun, with stalls dotted across its green.

Ribbons cut, we enter. To the left is “Lucky Seven” run by Mr.Chimwal. Mr. Pande ran a roulette wheel beside it. Walk along the pushta to the left, across the still visible 100 meter finish mark chalk, and one comes across little food eateries run Italian family style by our former teachers from Junior school. “Dahi vada”, “Gulab Jamun” and “Chole Chaat” are the fares on offer. It is meeting time with our former teachers at Junior School, and a strange inexplicable ego trip too. Driven by loyalty and some unknown bond, we decide to spend our first buck on Miss Tomar’s stall. I make a mental note of the fact that Miss. Sahni still wore unsuspecting maroon polish on her ear gorging nails. Delicacies savored, our favorite old school teacher’s acknowledged, it is time to move to other things. “Panikkar, bring in the rest of your classmates too” came the refrain from Miss. Thapa as we left.

We usually dug into the food first, then played the sundry money games and as we got down to the last few coupons had ice-creams near the juke box. By this time, the eyes very slyly start trailing our counterparts from the girls school as they inched their way towards the cricket pavilion. This was the usual pattern which could be broken by an unprecedented rush of luck on the “Roulette” or “Lucky Seven”. Junior school folks with their limited allowance are the first to run out of money. They divert their attention to gainful begging from friends or become cheerleaders at other events. Games that were openly meant to fleece the unwitting students had an aura of respectability to it. Mr. Naqvi and his real world assistant Mr.Das, for example manned a game station which included throwing a ping pong ball into a aluminum bucket that was impossibly angled. The ball, understandably, would not stick in. The kids from Junior School, having lost all their money in such games, were taking devious delight from watching others walk into the trap. We tried to keep a safe distance, but then Mr.Naqvi sent a few flacks to round us up for this sham. Another stall people visited out of purely obligatory reasons is Mr.Shukla’s “Treasure Island”. As our Housemaster, a visit to his stall was obligatory, although losing money there was never an imperative. His brother, affectionately called “Junior Chol” was lazing somnolent on a chair beside. This adventure game comprised of a fancy scenery of hills and rivers, mud made, gaudy green painted on a wooden board, atop which little flags were hoisted. I stopped for a moment to take in the dreariness of its annual journey to the valley every year from Mr. Shukla’s garden shed. Everyone was bored, no one was playing for treasure, but Mr. Shukla looked suitably sporting.

Arguably the busiest stall in this fair. Mr. Chimwal who ran the “Lucky Seven” counter was a class act. Years later when I saw the movie “Casino”, the Robert Di Niro character reminded me of him. A lifelong affair with Mathematics put paid to a budding career in the gambling industry. There he was, goading, taunting, thumping the desk, cheering and shouting as hooligan like as the kids surrounding his stall. A roar of delight ripped through the valley as soon as big money was made out of the “Seven” bet.

The other hotspot was Mr.Khanna’s roulette. He routinely used to ban people who won regularly at his wheel. If there was a secret behind the way he spun the roulette, only a few people knew it. If you won big at his wheel, the follow-up history periods in school will not be as pleasant. That will be like his hand behind your neatly shaven head, a wicked smile on his face, the odour of tobacco all encompassing, as he explains the historic moment when Louis the XVI was to be Guillotined. Everyone's idea of fun, and for the victim, a sense of overwhelming Déjà vu.

I never understood why they used two Roulette wheel stations in the fair, but Mr. Pande operated the second one. This one was more equitable. You could spend all your money here and for every loss you will see a sly grimace form up on his face even as he counts up all your money and stacks it away.

Mr. Bagchi had a monopoly over the coconut shy. The balls were from the cricket season last year. The coconuts were placed about 30 feet away perched on iron hinges. This was a favorite with Jharipani locals because they could take away coconuts in sacks with their accurate throws. That is, till the time Mr. Bagchi clamped a ban-order on them. From among students who won coconuts, the ignominy of carrying two sets in their hands was too much to bear especially with increasing attention being diverted towards the Juke Box and the girls therein. The only time I won it, it stayed in my hands till a local guy unburdened me of the ugly thing.

Mr. Pant’s Housie stall near the Juke Box was a very nice place to start conversations between girls and boys. In our class some guys had been paired with girls from the other side. When they found each other, it started off with gingerly “hi’s” and hello’s” between housie number announcements. Then there were sidekicks who bent over, arms around the guys who were chatting up girls. Taking in bits and pieces of conversation, spreading them around, buying Mazaa for the girls all the while trying to look important to the whole event.

The music is already blaring from the “Juke Box”. No, it was not a place where you slotted in a coin to hear the song of your choice. In OG lingua, “Juke Box” meant a maroon cloth hung along all the four sides, taking up a part of the cricket pavilion. So a box it was, with a gramophone LP player in the corner belting out Kenny Rogers, Michael Jackson, Boney M and Cerrone Love in “C” minor. As the girls and boys made their way to the Juke Box, their hangers on followed clicking photographs, pretending to talk, actually talking, and then serving ice creams as they come. Then there are "heroes" who just love to blaze the dance floor, displaying their wares as if no other such opportunity will arise. With the pairs, they are now trying to find little corners for themselves, talking idle, “I did not see you during the chemistry practicals last week”, “when are you girls going to Mussoorie?”, “I love Gabriela Sabatini, do you?”, and an occasional “I like/love you”. A hand touched, a smile exchanged it was enough to last till the next meeting, which will probably be in Platform Number one of Dehradun Railway Station when they depart for their respective homes for vacations. Still others found more intimate corners where they promised love and commitment to each other and sealed their affection with more than handshakes, but about that, another time. Shaken up hormones, subdued by propriety and juvenile first steps in the mating game, synchronised by rehashed music - that was the Fancy Fair Juke Box atop the cricket pavilion.

As evening sets in, students, their pockets empty, teachers, their stalls wrapped up, talk in groups informally as they move towards the Cricket pavilion. The cupid stricken souls move their ways but have eyes still for each other. The Juke Box is now a flurry of activity as it prepares for the raffle draw. A hollow metal cylinder with a handle is cranked, the chief guest fumbles inside to pick up chits. Lucky raffle owners are awarded, Cameras, Table Fans, Torch Lights, Pressure Cookers and Vacuum flasks accompanied by the sound of loud applause. Fancy Fair had ended.

As we tread up along our hillock, I cast a longing glance at our glorious valley green. The setting sun had cast long eerie shadows of Oak Trees through the middle. Will the valley ghosts from times past celebrate their Fancy Fair tonight?

First day in Junior school

We completed admission formalities at the school office and trudged up the steep climb leading to the Junior school. The weather was heavy with gloom, as was the case in all the subsequent years too on school joining day. The school building was built of huge square cut silica stones, colonial style. There were occasional cemented intrusions on the façade courtesy the Inspector of Works, Indian Railways. The arched grey classroom windows were highlighted by red brick lattice work over the top. The boundary wall of the school also accommodated an amply spaced ground space dotted by oak trees. This ample front yard was prohibited for the students for some unknown reason. The entry to the portals of Junior School was simple, three steps that lead to a landing which was again a small step away from a covered verandah. From the verandah through, into the dimly lit interiors. I was left by the leg, so with some prodding from Mom, put forward the right one across and into my new world. My heart was a churn of fear, trepidation and overbearing loss. It felt as if I had left a few things behind in just getting here. I turned back to look down at the path behind, and the few steps that would have taken me back outside again looked so impossible. Shubha chechi walked a few steps ahead, greeting all and sundry, while I took in the surroundings. The walls had just received a whitewash, with a red band separating it from the three feet high blue paint coming up to meet it from the base. The smell was musty, of fresh paint, and curry, the last one coming in from the kitchen at the far side. The clock straight opposite the entrance thudded 11:30 AM, perhaps in acknowledgement of the companionship that I would provide it over the next three years. It turned out that extremely “fidgety” students would be asked to stand under the clock during evening study hours. It had two framed art pieces on either side. The first, an embroidered girl with a flowery basket in her hand, the other a solitary sunflower. Over the next 3 years I will have spent hours under the clock thinking about the artist who put together the embroidered girl. Sometimes thinking up elaborate stories etched back in time, behind its conception.

Pappa, went with Shubha chechi to one side of the corridor to enquire about what should be done next. I and Mom stood aside under the steps with the coolie who had already deposited the trunks up the flight of stairs. Mom used this opportunity to instruct me, “Be good and smart, don’t lose the handkerchief, greet your teachers………” Shubha chechi came in a rush, took Mummy’s hand and lead the charge up the stairs. They then disappeared into a hall that announced “Girls Dormitory”. Opposite this was the boys’ dormitory. The coolie had left my trunk, and tuck box just inside. Neat green counterpanes spread across ten horizontal rows of beds. Mrs. Thapa came sailing down one of the aisle’s greeting me with a business like smile “What is your name?”. My father answered “Manoj Kumar” with a strong malayalee accent. “Do you like this place?” She went on, and I responded with a polite smile. I will be in her “Cupboard”, she informed. This in short meant that she will be the keeper of my effects, distributor of cold creams, manager of my personal inventory and arbiter of dormitory discipline. Pappa was asked to take out my personal effects from the trunk and arrange them on the bed nearby. I was starting to notice other parents and kids by now, trooping in to a similar kind of welcome by Miss. Thapa and a few others. Some guardians were almost genuflecting before the “Cupboard” in charge. A few others were trying our beds by sitting on them and then sizing up the local powers that be for better beds and mattresses. The wards themselves were busy piling up stuff on the beds, while a few other parents indulged in small talk. Pappa, was bent over, counting every item, verifying and stacking them neatly and I was holding onto the wrought iron bed stand observing the goings on, around.

Miss Thapa, re-appeared, this time with a grim look and asked pappa. Are you ready? An older woman, looking heavy and matronly ruffled my hair and smiled down at me. She was Ramkali ayaji. This was again portentous. Starting from tomorrow, she will catch us in our towels outside the bath tub and even as she will be discussing little house hold matters with Santo ayah nearby, make a little pond like intrusion in her palm and pour smelly Amla oil clinically into it. She will then proceed to apply the same on our heads. In later days, I would routinely attribute my fast disappearing hairline to the lack of Ramkali ayah’s generous helpings of oil and her firm motherly hands through my scalp every morning.

The counting was brisk. Everything was strictly as per specifications. It had to be. It was all brand new. By next year though the quality of inventory will have suffered badly. It will not be as easy to explain off the dog collared shirts, the quick mended pants and the eroded green base under the tennis shoes. I could sense relief, when Mrs. Thapa approved the stock, asked us to leave it as is on the bed and took us around for a few introductions. Mrs. Singh looked through both of us, Miss. Saxena was warm and beautiful. Mrs. Sahni giggled at some joke which neither I nor pappa understood. Next stop. Headmistress’s office.

As we came out, we found Shubha chechi sharing details about her summer vacation with one of her classmates. Mom was looking on indulgently and she was glad that everything went well with us. We met the distraught Nag uncle outside. His son’s monsoon shoes were rejected by Mrs. Singh. It was not as per specifications. He then went ahead murmuring and was later seen making enquiries about the next bus to Mussoorie.

A thing that impressed me about Mrs. Bhaskar in later years was the personalized attention she would give to each guardian. In my case, she asked mom “did you brush up his knowledge about planets?” referring to the question I was asked during the admission interview. Then even as she was scribbling on some papers Pappa had put before her, “Shubha is a well behaved girl, you should be like her.” She then pulled out a list from under her glass paperweight and announced, “Manoj will be in Mrs. Mathur’s class, III B. You will have to see Mrs. Mathur and hand over the pocket money. It is already lunch time though, and they will have to line up for lunch at the bell.”

School Memoirs - Admission Time

My early remembrances of the gloomy little stop was of a dilapilated building just opposite to where the bus-stand was. The fog was so thick that one could see just 5 metres in either directions. Pappa was his nervous self and i could see that Mamma had dutifully imbibed it. He went about getting the huge black trunks down. Two coolies in their typically rugged pahari outfit and cap came running from nowhere. There was just another parent-student set that got down from the bus. Her parents were having a loud argument Bengali about whether they should have come here one day in advance. Shubhachechi was with pappa, her efficient self, helping him unload the trunks and the bedding. The tuck boxes which were filled with dry fruits, chocolates, pickles, Ghee and other kick knacks were the latest, but pleasing additions to baggage clamor that i saw stacked neatly before me. The dim gas light across the far end of the street was Guptaji's shop. At the other end was lalaji's, or as we would later call it Lalaji's laddoo ki dukaan. Opposite the Lalaji's shop with the trademark red post box outside it, was the Post office. This was Jharipani.

Mummy and Pappa talked about in whispers as if the fog would carry along their conversation to the hard nosed wannabes in the school and their children would be denied admission. Yes, they could be denied admission, still. Every little clause in the school prospectus threatened the parents with extraordinary action if not adhered to in letter and spirit. Pappa turns and walks off into the fog towards the lalaji's shop.

Shubhachechi gets busy again, this time with Mummy, running down the list of all the things that will be asked by the dorm mistress. Mummy shivers as she goes through the list, with nervousness. I gingerly sit down on the cold concrete bench in the bus-stop. A coolie comes scurrying back from the edge of my visible world through the fog this time un-wrapping the towel around his waist and then tying it around his head. Pappa appears behind me, gives me a scornful look that makes me stand up and grab onto my tuck box and walk behind the coolie, all in reflex action. We were going to stay at Lalaji's for the night.

It was to be a bi-annual affair. This was the second time for my parents though. They came the previous year to admit Shubhachechi to the school. This year i had made it to the hallowed portals of this institution called Oak Grove School. The name was announced with a ring to it, back in the Railway offices as the proud parents recounted their experience to their less fortunate colleagues about the trials and travails of having their wards at Oak Grove. This time however, Mummy and Pappa did not allow me bid definitive good byes to my young buddies back home. They were not too sure. Their second born had everything going wrong with him. He got through the examinations on the special consideration that her sister was in the school already. They anticipated something to go wrong at the last moment this time too, which as it turned out was closer to a premonition. The count of the underwears ran a number short than what was prescribed in the prospectus, and pappa had to pinch my behind real hard to have my attention diverted from the finger in my nose, as i was being introduced to the headmistress. So here they were, after having taken the bumpy bus ride to Jharipani. Other parents with their children had decided to stay back at the base camp in Dehradun as per convention and practice. They will start early in the morning and get their wards admitted to school and walk away into the fog, with relieved but tearful contenances. Mummy and Pappa decided to come a day ahead and get over with my admission first early in the morning, such that they can then go about tackling the easier part, Shobachechi's admission.