His Name Reflects the Sun 

From the day he was born, it was startlingly evident that he was one-of-a-kind.

With a personality that shone (is it any wonder  - his name is the name of the sun god), his turn of phrase often took one’s breath away – because one was usually laughing so hard! I still recall his pointing at a passing flatbed truck and exclaiming, “Ooh…..’nanga’ (naked) truck”!!

He joined a playway at the tender age of two. Three short days later, he stepped off the bus and nonchalantly handed a piece of cotton wool to his father. It contained one of his teeth that he had knocked out when he fell off a decorative toadstool that he had determinedly climbed – only to slide off a few seconds later – headfirst!

Allow me the privilege of recounting the annual day show.

I will never know why a rabbit should be a virulent shade of pink, but who are we to question the wisdom and sagacity of a kindergarten teacher? So when the great day dawned, his parents proudly escorted their (virulently) pink rabbit/son to the hall, handed him over to his sagacious guru, and settled comfortably into their appointed seats to witness the magic onstage.

The curtains opened to a fanfare roll of drums, to reveal a wonderland of farmyard animals. I strongly suspect the staff in charge of this event were either colour blind (did I mention the virulent pink rabbit costume?) or rainbow besotted, because what we witnessed put a psychedelic fairy tale to shame. There were green cows, purple dogs, cats in various shades of orange, sunflower yellow bears and, of course, a number of other rabbits in equally rabid rosé! Suffice to say, I wistfully regretted leaving my sunshades in the car.

But I digress.

The curtains slid open and the show began….the Farmyard Dance. The animals swung into action and did their best to follow the prompts of their mentor who was seated on a chair, her back to the audience. They dipped and bowed and hopped and swooped, much to the delight of their maters and paters ensconced in the auditorium.

That is…..until our hero got bored.

Have I mentioned that the protagonist of this narrative is an extremely creative persona? It is also a disturbing law of nature that homo sapiens blessed with this singular trait, are incapable of performing mundane, repetitive chores. Now do keep in mind that the antics on stage had already been repeated ad infinitum, in the name of ‘practice’, prior to its showcasing on the said doomsday. So you, dear reader, can well imagine how fretful our imaginative imp already was when he was unceremoniously marched onto that offending landscape.

Now what happens when a two-year-old bored terrorist is trapped in a strictly structured nightmare? Elementary, dear Watson – he strikes out, determined to make a difference!

Step one – change the step. So there was the entire class timidly responding to their leaders intimations, when suddenly one blushing (I refer to the hue of his outfit) bunny starts ‘sweeping’ the stage. These vigorous mime motions of his led to some startled critters eyeing him uncertainly because his assured actions have left them bewildered…..did this rose hued hare know better? Was their sacred mover and shaker (read ‘teacher’) in the wrong?

Be that as it may, such was the confidence that our magenta cottontail exuded, that a few fellow creatures switched abruptly from a swoop to a swish. Suddenly, to the excitement of the enthralled onlookers, there was an exhilarating dance-off happening! One set of performers were still determinedly emulating their beloved boss, whilst the remnants were, with equal and enviable persistence, quite literally following in the footsteps of their brand-new debutante director!

Now, dear reader, as if this wasn’t a disastrous enough scenario, our Braveheart chose that exact moment to hit yet another passé pause. He’d had enough of sweeping and so stopped what he was doing to look around for another distraction. Whist he was doing that, you can well imagine what the scenario was around him. His forlorn followers, having lost their intrepid leader, were milling around aimlessly, whilst the other faithful few, kept up with their pre-taught antics!

In the midst of all this chaos, our champion’s searching gaze fell upon the biggest lad on the stage that he could find. His eyes lit up with unholy glee and, before anyone could stop him, he charged the hapless victim and, placing a hand on his chest, gave him a mighty push, followed by a bloodcurdling “ha ha” that would have been the envy of any wannabe villain.

It only took a nano second for the victim to miraculously transform from a harmless lilac pooch into a raging bull. Before you could say “Thundering fiddlesticks”, a rose rabbit and an indigo hound were rolling around the stage knocking down everything and everyone that came in their way, so that the scene now closely resembled a bowling alley with the pins/peers flying in every direction!

Oh dear! What a mess! Bedlam on the stage and shrieking staff.

In strong counterpoint to this, was a hushed hall full of mesmerized guardians, not quite certain whether what they were witnessing was pre-ordained or a twist of fate.

Their perplexity was brought to a swift end when a Goliath appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the meddlesome mite and quite literally physically hauled him off the stage!

As for his parents? The curtain closes on 2 adults convulsed with laughter, helplessly leaning on each other and completely delighted that their shining star (did I mention that his name reflects the sun?) had saved the day by introducing a modicum of excitement into an otherwise stultifying performance!!!

                                                    The Golden Rule!

‘Twas the summer of 2013 and all was well with the world…..the school was thriving and the boys full of mischief. (If they weren’t, then something was terribly wrong!)

It happened to be the Sports season. The inter-house matches were being played with great zeal, with every point being  challenged vociferously and conceded grudgingly. After all, even 1 point could be the deciding difference between the Champion House and the Runner-up.

It was in the midst of all this controlled chaos that the new Class 12 suddenly approached the Principal one day with an idea –‘Let’s hold an inter-house Kabaddi Championship’, they said. The Principal thought it over, consulted with her coordinators and finally accorded consent as she secretly quite liked the idea of including an ethnic sport into the curriculum.

Plans were made and executed with great rapidity, rules drawn up, the trophy designed and presented by the outgoing batch as their ‘gift’, and finally the great day dawned. All the Senior Secondary staff assembled on the playground to witness this historic moment. The macho hormones were on full display as the teams swaggered into place, trading insults to the manner born, while the school PE Teacher vainly attempted to call all present, to order.

The whistle blew and the first team launched themselves into the restrained space, desperately avoiding the clutches (whilst simultaneously attempting to pin him down) of the opposing player who kept muttering “kabbadi kabbadi” incessantly till he ran out of breath and had to retreat back over his team’s line. And so it went and all was well with the world, barring the fact that most of the vests were ripped off within the first few minutes thanks to the firm, bulldog grip of the opposition. But it’s an all-boys’ school so no one was particularly disturbed by the hairy chests on full display. The sight was accepted with perfect equanimity as befits a single gender institution.

That is, until disaster struck.

You see, it being the first kabbadi tournament ever played in the school, no one had thought every finer detail through. And ladies and gentleman, let me reiterate…..success lies in the details!

So what exactly did happen? Well…as the offender lunged to grab one of the defenders, he accidently grasped the shorts of the opposing team member. What followed belongs to the infamous Tales of Woe. Before the poor lad could comprehend what was happening, to his absolute horror, his shorts abruptly and rapidly descended, leaving him exposed to the elements in nothing other than…. his solitary undergarment!

Now what would be your first reaction if you were to find yourself having performed an unintentional strip tease in the presence of all your teaching faculty, 90% of which happen to belong to the feminine gender? Wouldn’t you immediately spin and check who had seen what, even while you were desperately hoisting the offending garment with a rapidity that left its descent a slow-motion event in comparison?!

Well, that’s exactly what our young hero did. But to his utmost relief (may the good Lord forever bless the teachers for their adroit presence of mind) he found the staff in its entirety, bar NONE, minutely examining the branches of a nearby tree, whilst a few others were closely observing a hawk spiraling directly overhead!
Not a face was turned in his direction and not a word spoken to indicate that anything untoward had taken place. It was a moment of suspended animation that would have been worthy of an Oscar nomination….the boy blushing furiously and gaping suspiciously, whilst  the staff were the epitome of nonchalance, even going so far as to then turn to each other and comment upon the beauty of the tree/flight of the hawk with perfect seriousness, all the while carefully avoiding eye contact with the said hapless victim.

The rest of the boys? What do you expect? Of course they rose to the occasion. With perfect presence of mind they formed a phalanx around the poor harried one and smoothly moved him off the court. His replacement glided on confidently as if he’d been participating all along, the opposing team raised no objection, and the game continued as if nothing had ever happened. 

The only small difference to be observed was that the defending team were slightly incapacitated as they were seen firmly holding their shorts up with one hand for the rest of the match.

What happened after I cannot claim to know with any certainty, but I have it on good authority that that poor lad earned himself a brand-new nick name, which he answers to, even to this day!

What I do, however, know with absolute certainty was that a new rule was incorporated with an alacrity that well outdid the speed of light. In capitals it read, “NO BOY WILL BE PERMITTED TO PARTICIPATE IN A KABBADI MATCH UNLESS HIS SHORTS ARE HELD UP WITH A NADA/TAPE’!!!!

 

The Day I Covered Myself With Glory...

 My childhood is to be envied. How many children can boast of the dubious distinction of being taught the parody of every classic western song known to man by their ever-loving uncle, without a clue that there was actually an original piece with the same tune? And which one of these same young ones has accomplished this magnificent feat before the grand old pre-adolescent age of FIVE?

I don't see any raised hands. My condolences. Your childhood must have been desperately mundane.

I still recall my mother's usually serene countenance dissolving into unmitigated horror when she entered the house one evening, after a hard day's work, and was greeted by the charming sight of her three cherubs ranged around the dining table, lustily singing, “In China They Do it with Chi****s", while our Uncle conducted us, his tuneful choir!! The horror turned to terror when she spied the tape recorder placed precisely in the centre, recording this priceless moment in time.

How my Uncle is still alive today, is the stuff that miracles are made of.

Well...armed with this unique skill set, I sallied forth into the world of adults. (Have I mentioned that in our home, we were brought up with the firm belief that ‘Children should be seen not heard.’ Not until they are capable of holding an intelligent conversation.) But I digress….

My debut into the exciting microcosm of Drawing Rooms came when some rather formal guests were visiting. I walked demurely in and settled myself on a chair. Back ramrod straight, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in my lap, eyes downcast…the archetypal princess of a royal household.

The conversations flowed around me and I delightedly eavesdropped. A sentence here. A dialogue there. Each one carefully analysed and stored away for future examination.

Suddenly my train of thought was broken by the guests requesting my mother to play the piano while they accompanied her in song. Ever obliging, she graciously moved to the said instrument and played the bars of a melody. I perked up. This song I knew! The guests too were delighted. It seems they shared my familiarity with the music and  shortly therefore we launched into our renditions.

Barely a few bars into the music, I was struck by a realisation – they had the wrong lyrics! I abruptly ceased warbling and listened in growing displeasure to what I now deemed a desecration of a truly beautiful number. My ire grew with each verse sung, until I could bear it no more. Flinging forth my arms in a truly queenly gesture, I flapped them wildly (still retaining my queenlines) and begged everyone to cease and desist.

The music came to a crashing halt and I closed my eyes and bowed my head reverentially, to express my deep satisfaction at the ensuing, merciful silence. Seconds passed and then a male voice broke the blessed silence with the query, “What’s wrong, little one?”

 “What’s wrong?!” I exclaimed agitatedly. “You ask what’s wrong?! Did you hear yourselves? How could you desecrate something so beautiful?” My voice broke on the last question and I sank into my chair wearily. I was broken hearted. These utter philistines had ruined a work of art. Poetry at its best.

You can imagine my consternation then, when yet again I was posed the same question. Oh horror! Did they really not know what they had done? I decided to enlighten them.

In a voice laced with pity and sadness, I informed them that the words they were singing were completely distorted. Did they not know that the song was NOT

“On top of old Smokey,

All covered with snow,

I lost my true lover

For courting too slow”.

“Is that so? I could have sworn these were the words. I must have heard the song a hundred times. What words do you have?”

I drew a deep breath, counselled myself to patience and tunefully warbled:

“On top of spaghetti

All covered with cheese

I lost my poor meatball

Cos somebody sneezed.”

As I took in my next breath to continue, I was nearly knocked off my feet by the roar of laughter that ensued. They pounded me on the back, shook my hand and complimented me on my incredible sense of humour. They told me they’d never been treated to such nonsensical verse and doubled over with mirth.

I watched them with bewilderment and swung my eyes towards my mother, only to catch her looking daggers at my uncle.

And that’s when the proverbial penny dropped.

He had taught us the PARODY!!!

As I said earlier - How my Uncle is still alive today is what miracles are all about.

All I can say is that I covered myself with glory while my mother is being considered for sainthood.

For Better or For Worse

“Will you sing for my son’s wedding?”

“Sure, I will.”

 “Oh – and while you’re at it – will you plan the wedding as well? I have no clue as to how to plan one.” 

“Sure, I will.” (How do you deny Mita [name changed in the interests of protecting the person’s identity]? She is the most helpless, lovable bureaucrat it has ever been my privilege to meet). And that’s how it all began. 

Now before we proceed to the wedding day itself, permit moi to give thee a wee bit of background:

You see, the pastor of the church in question was older than Father Time himself. Unlike old wine, however, he had most certainly not aged gracefully. Quite the opposite, in fact. So, basically, we were dealing with a frail old curmudgeon, whose folded arms, sulphurous scowl and furiously twitching moustache made a thundercloud look like a bright ray of sunshine. And as far as ‘dictatorial’ went – well, the less said the better.

And so it was that as the great day dawned clear and sunny, the atmosphere in the church was anything but. The said venerable gentleman had already lost his temper twice over, had hurled some decorations across the church (Someone had dared to place them on a small table near the altar), and had then taken up his position to perform the ceremony, but not without first glowering darkly at the choir, much to the said choir’s consternation (we only later discovered that it was because his own singers had not been invited to do the honours).

 

Into this cheerful and encouraging scenario tripped our young, handsome groom, accompanied by his shy and lovely bride. 

Now let’s digress for a moment. Let’s step into our young hero’s size 12 shoes and take a peek at the world through his eyes. Have I mentioned that this young lad is lacking the paternal half of his parents (divorce is a sad, sad word) and has been wordlessly watching his charming mother helplessly struggling to organize his nuptials?  And that he is marrying an equally young lass who is ‘relativeless’ in the church because she is getting hitched much against her dearly beloved pater and mater’s wishes and who also doesn’t happen to have a clue as to what is expected of her because she, perchance, belongs to an altogether different faith? To add to all his considerable woes - he finds himself now confronted with a doddering old fogey with a fulminous set of eyes? That the said eyes are magnified manifold times owing to a humungous pair of soda glassed spectacles, does nothing for our brave warrior’s confidence. 

 

The icing on the proverbial wedding cake, however, lies in the untold irony of the fact that it was the young man himself, who insisted on being married by this particular pastor!

Given the circumstances, wouldn’t you be a tad nervous? Well – imagine the state of our dear protagonist.

And so it was that the ceremony began. 

And we, the choir, (who fortuitously happened to be placed where we had an excellent view of the proceedings – a very crucial circumstance given that fate has decreed that I be the recorder, for posterity, of what transpired that day) rendered the first hymn for the occasion. And as our voices were raised in angelic tones, the bride and groom and all and sundry bowed their combined heads in a prayerful mood that befitted the occasion.

Not so our dearly beloved curmudgeon. Scarcely had our dulcet tones faded, than he – as if in deliberate counterpoint to our heavenly voices - started reading out the wedding service in brusque tones that were more reminiscent of someone trying to keep a funeral on an even keel, than that of a truly joyous occasion. One look at Arvind’s (name changed in the interests of protecting the person’s identity) face was enough to reveal the tension that the poor child was undergoing. To the keen observer (in all humility, I must confess that my observational skills would  put Sherlock Holmes to shame. Aha! Now comprehension dawns - why Father Fate pronounced me the recorder!), the pulse beating in his throat was a dead giveaway. The man was clearly one teeny step away from a meltdown.

And that’s when our doughty Doomsday clad in a cassock, played his winning card.

He put a hand to the vicinity of his heart - and rubbed his scrawny chest.

A small digression - Have you ever had the privilege of observing a guard from the legendary Coldstream Guards (the ones that protect Buckingham Palace) collapse? No? Believe me – it is a spectacle to behold. A digression within a digression (all in the pursuit of literary excellence, I assure you, dear reader): Ever beheld a majestic tree fall after being ruthlessly cut from the root? There you go! I see the light dawning. The ramrod straight back as it plummets earthwards thanks to the unstoppable force that the apple chewing genius named Newton, dubbed “gravity”? 

And that’s precisely what young Arvind did. Before one had time to even discern that something, earthshaking (literally) was about to happen (hey, even Sherlock Holmes had his moments of distraction – I was occupied, as was the rest of the congregation, watching the old codger for any signs of imminent heart failure whilst simultaneously tensing for action, al la Superwoman), our doomed groom took a nosedive. Ramrod straight. A true soldier, he did his lady love proud. He plummeted like a rock with a body brace – straight into the table that (fortunately) stood between him and Father Time’s grandfather. Oh, how art the mighty fallen.

Now it was Mother (my feminine instincts are rebelling against too many male protagonists) Chaos’ turn to reign supreme.  As dramatic shrieks rent the air and people milled about in helpless confusion, I am proud to announce that the entire choir (please do recall that your truly happens to be a member of this caroling community) miraculously transformed into the ambulance brigade. Without a word being exchanged, but by some form of unspoken consent, some of us immediately took up strategic positions behind the crusty cause of all the confusion (he happened to have frozen with his hand still at cardiac massaging position), whilst three more raced to place a chair beneath the swooning beauty of a bride, seconds before she could join her companion in his ungainly position on the ground. (Did I mention that he had bounced off the [fortunately placed] table and come to rest on the cold stone floor? I didn’t? How remiss of me. Well – he did.)

As for Arvind – a more professional approach you have yet to find. Within seconds, his belt lay unbuckled, his shirt unbuttoned (revealing a very manly chest), his tie removed and lashings of water randomly thrown at his wax-pale face, whilst another volunteer vigorously fanned him with his own wedding invitation. And just when the holi water (pun intended. Bet you couldn’t have resisted either, Mr Holier-than-thou. Oops, there I go again!) player was seriously beginning to consider the advantages of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation over the disadvantage of it not being the beautiful bride that he would have ministered to with (un)Christian alacrity, our horizontal hero let loose a manly groan, thus saving our conundrum confused chum from having to make a life-saving decision.

And that’s when – as the saying goes – things fell into place.

So shaken was our Frosty-the-Foul-Mood that he immediately declared a ceasefire, adroitly lowered his hand from its heartfelt position and proceeded to conduct the rest of the service with the all the serenity  and decorum of a true man of God, as if nothing untoward had occurred at all. 

That the remaining ceremony took place with all the main protagonists surrounded by a team of chair wielding watchers, did nothing to detract from its beauty and there wasn’t a dry eye in the entire church when the bride and groom finally limped down the aisle. The sound of a hundred held collective breaths being simultaneously released together, making for one gigantic hurricane sigh that swept through the confines of the room, only added to the poignancy of the moment.

Perhaps I should end this happy fairy tale with the words I whispered to the distraught damsel as she swayed on the verge of her own collapse – “Just think: you’ll have a story well worth telling your grandchildren. How many people are that fortunate?!! The young lady in question had a delightful sense of humour. Her amused gurgle echoed through the shocked silence and served as the first step towards the restoration of normality at that unforgettable wedding.