kasmenon

I rebel so that you may survive….kuch kas It began just like another day at school. The good old headmaster , nicknamed Drago, if my memory serves me right, had finished explaining the intricacies of the polynomial equation when the high pitched bell rang, calling an end to the math period. Out he went and soon enough few us followed. To go to the loo was the standard official reason. The minutes before the next period and away from the preying eyes of the Principal, was fun time. Pranks committed, the list of which will take reams of electronic space. Cricket scores, transactions involving buying hot botata vadas and roasted peanuts from the telewala who peddled it in front of the school, are few unmentionable ones. The logistics of how the botata vada exchanged ownership was as intricate as the Mumbai dabawala business system.  The class monitor, who occasionally happened to be yours truly, was part of the game. That was my way of getting the thugs to behave at other times....

Cirsa 1972. A Mumbai suburb with predominantly middle class inhabitants , a mix of Gujarati, Maharashtrian , south Indian and the necessary anglo Indian Mary, Janet and John thrown in for good measure. It was the usual short walk from School. While the late evening hues bathed the land, the dark clouds hovering across the skies meant imminent rain. It also meant a delightful and complete drenching. Soon , slow and tiny droplets of water fell on my face . I hummed ". Rain drops are falling on my head " and walked briskly. It turned into a deluge. With B J Thomas on my lips , I trudged along, gleefully enjoying the rain. The new notebooks, probably, felt my joy too! After a quick wash and drying upon reaching home, I was ready. It sat there majestically as usual. The baby with finger on her cheeks was her brand logo. Hope I got the gender right! Occupying the pride of place, up on a special wall mounted stand. The Murphy radio was any family's window to the outside ...