Memories: assholes in kindergarten

Dindigul in the mid 80s was a big town that boasted a handful decent English medium schools and a dozen or so Tamil medium schools of which some were well known even in the neighbouring districts.

My schooling started in JK Matriculation Higher Secondary School, popularly referred to as 'public school' (I know, doesn't make any sense). My school was started in the late 70s, I think. It had pretty decent facilities and had some decent teachers working for it [1]. We even had an old white lady as the principal for a few years. But it truly was public and unremarkable otherwise. The students were from a wide range of backgrounds, from the fairly poor to the really rich. Skin tone composition must have been: a lot of dark brown, some light brown, some darker and a few Kamal Hassan-level light skinned.

UKG:

Ramu came from what seemed like a poor family. Dark skinned, runny nose, messy hair and looked out of place (yes, even for this 'unremarkable' school). We all wore the same uniform but his shirts and shorts had buttons missing, safety pins taking their place. Shirt almost never tucked in because the trousers were too loose without the button or the belt. His shoes were barely together and his socks remained loosely curled around his ankles. Just remembering his appearance makes me want to cry. It's an image that has haunted me for over 30 years. Every school I went to had kids that fit a version of this mould.

Manoj did not strike of anything in an obvious way. He was light brown, thin, not too tall and do not recall him being overtly rich. Only thing that struck was that he already had a posse. There were at least 3 other kids who followed him around and was definitely the most vicious among the bullies.

Manoj subjected Ramu to some of the worst bullying I had ever seen (it did not stop until Ramu left the school in grade 4). Among the many deplorable things that Ramu endured the worst must have been the one in which I participated. Manoj once picked up Ramu's water bottle and had more than half the classroom pee into it. I don't know where the teacher was, but the water bottle was passed along under the desk and each boy took his turn peeing in. I don't know if some refused. I remember thinking about it briefly before obliging. I think I wanted to appear favourable to Manoj more than I felt bad for Ramu. The most distressing thing about the incident was that Ramu just sat at his bench in the back as always and did not protest or cry. He just appeared detached and his eyes seemed to say "well, I don't know expect any better from you little assholes".

It was a class about 30, ~20 boys and ~10 girls no one reported it to the teachers. We were just 4 year old kids, right?

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 Notes:

1.  My faintly informed theory is that it was a time when college graduates who spoke good English only did slightly better than their counterparts who spoke poor English. So a school that paid Rs 600/month to a 3rd grade maths (and science) teacher in 1988 still managed to retain someone who spoke really good English. Of course they were predominantly female and in their 20s. Also I don't mean to equate their skill level in English to their competency as a teacher. It's just that when I look back, that's pretty much the only thing I picked from junior-middle school that has contributed to my life in any meaningful way.

Consuming Music: School days

Music, as I consciously heard and enjoyed for the first time, came out of a radio. Even though we had a tape recorder at home, my father never got into the habit of buying cassettes. I still managed to listen to a lot of songs because of the people around my house. Someone or the other would tune into a station that's playing something from Tamil movies. Home to school, the songs would have a discontinued play as house after house, shop after shop would take the baton as I proceed in my bicycle. I even developed a common "talent": I used to be able to identify a song within a few seconds of it playing in the radio or whatever the source is. Sometimes I would sing through the entire song, word for word. I've even tried my hand at one of those school "singing competitions." That was Dindigul.

Even though Madras was quite different from Dindigul, I never had trouble "belonging". I went to a very 'middle-class' school. It didn't have too many rich kids, there was no play ground, we didn't speak any English among ourselves and the school wasn't big on "extra-curricular activities". Of course, it had a fair share of "Madras Brahmins" known for their ginormous gobs. They spoke more about cricket than playing any, giving a new meaning to the expression "vaayilaye vada sudrathu". Some of these kids would also sing -- because they'll be asked to -- something "carnatic" if the teacher fails to show up for a class and it's substituted by the music teacher (and you know where she comes from). I have a vague memory of an argument over Ilayaraja and A.R. Rehman with these people. I think I sided with Rehman.

Meanwhile, my musical horizons were widening. No, I didn't learn to play anything. I listened to English music for the first time in my life, thanks to FM Radio and DD Metro. I was struggling quite a bit with the lyrics, though. I could probably make out 10-20% of what they said, but I was now able to appreciate -- however superficial it might have been -- the music and music videos that were produced in the 'West'. There was a subconscious sense of sophistication. My parents' aversion for western music -- the little I got to watch on DD -- validated the feeling.

The songs and the artists were still slippery and I thought the odd mention of Michael Jackson and Prince would suffice to achieve some "hipness" at school. But the dweebs who sat behind me knew more than just MJ. They were both Christian and knew how to play the piano too. I don't even remember any of the names they threw at me during our 'debates' about the "unoriginal music" Indian music-directors were churning out (hail sophistication!). Thankfully, though, they were too "ugly" to make me feel insecure.

Self consciousness is a tricky feeling to tackle, especially when you're young.

Higher Secondary: a lot of new kids from other schools -- usually, the scum of PSBB and KV -- got into mine. Even though these kids were rejects in a sense, they were walk-in alpha males in my school. They did not have to fight other males and establish their territory before their status was acknowledged. Because, they were representatives of the gentry -- they just colonized the rest of us. Yes, there was an untold us and them. Communicating in English and pulling "conventish" pranks on each other and some teachers, they were the quintessential post-pubescent "players". Pretentiousness, their 'game' platform. They were learning French while we were "stuck" with Tamil.

As for music, most of them didn't get beyond Aqua and Ricky Martin -- the most popular of pop music. However, there were a few who would mention Metallica and Aerosmith once in a while. I don't know how, but I became friends with these guys. They introduced me to rock music. As is the case with many, I didn't like rock music one bit. The first time I listened to Metallica I had a headache the whole night. Pop and techno had a straightforward appeal. So the two years in higher secondary didn't change too many things as far was my knowledge and exposure of non-Indian film music was concerned. Next stop, college.

You may be wondering what happened to girls in all of this. Fooling around with girls wasn't big in any of the schools that I went to. The teachers would go "fundamentalist" if they saw anyone "talking too much" with girls; it's worse if it's outside the school. Personally, I had a very low esteem in terms of sex appeal to be worried about girls. So internet porn was a better, non-judgemental alternative to keep my mid-teen curiosities under control. (Related podcasts: one and two.)

More in the next post.

PS. This post was inspired by the movie Ghost World. It became an instant favourite and I highly recommend it.

April 1

I don't really remember being all that creative to 'fool' someone on April the first. It's probably because I would get really annoyed after getting "fooled" by some retarded logic/process and I assumed mine wouldn't appear any better to others.

I did, however, very willingly take part in the no-nonsense ritual that was common in Dindigul and, based on some anecdotal knowledge, in few other cities (but Madras) -- splashing ink at your friends, cousins and at times, passers by in the street. Sometimes it also involved crushing tomatoes/bananas in the face. No, they don't just throw them at you; they get really close with absolute stealth and attack you from behind -- place the tomato at your face and squeeze the last drop of liquid down your eyes and nostrils. Usually there's someone to distract you, so it's a two men job (I don't really remember watching girls do this stuff).

The most irritating line we get to hear on April 1 is "annei, wheel suthudhu" from second and third grade students when we are pedaling in the hot sun. They all want to take part in this seemingly fun activity and want to feed their tiny, budding egos with being bold and clever. Little bastards.

Years have passed since then and there's not a lot of memories for me, for this day. Maybe where I lived in Madras had a lot to do with the dry spell since I left Dindigul. The schools were pretty lame too, there were no trees, no play grounds, just concrete pavements. Come to think of it, schools in Madras did not have the 'splash ink at the end of a major exam' ritual either.

PS. Try some of the featured videos in youtube (before April 2). They are all somewhat funny.