I have this penchant for surprises, I just love giving them and receiving them, so thanks for a great birthday surprise people! (I shan't try to write about it, for those who were there, just remember my face when I opened the door)
The first time I wrote something serious (or even seriously) was in class 9. It was a poem on the fear of something or the other (one of those things where you rhyme just the last word and still manage to make no sense /sound mushy).This particular poem was written because our grammar teacher insisted we write something and I had spent the entire period laughing at the sardar in front of me (Santa Banta jokes are underrated…even MS word recognizes Santa and Banta as words!) and looking at trees outside the class. (yes I do that for some odd reason, a certain history teacher felt it was because I was George of the jungle in my previous life, I just smiled back at her, for which the what-her-name-is threw me out to join my green buddies) In the last 5 minutes of the class I wrote whatever I did, which ultimately made it to the school magazine. The editor of this particular tome found it necessary that I give a picture of mine, in school uniforms mind you, which could be printed along with my name, which was a morale boosting exercise carried out for all the wonderful literary artists produced and eventually destroyed by our schools passion for the sciences.
So I was fairly excited about the whole thing. Youthful enthusiasm and all that as they say. Instead of looking around my house for one, I decided a trip to the nearest photo shop was in order, you know, to keep it as a surprise for my mother dearest when she saw her sons photo was published in one of those magazine type things, albeit not in the prizes section where the more intellectual type (including my sister…..) made it.
Now for the brighter amongst you, this figures as a fun thing to do, as long as the parents are rather blissfully unaware of it. However it turned out that passport photos were beyond my economic status back then, at 70 bucks for 10 passport sized pictures (instant et al). So on this particularly rainy day, I made my way back home from the neighbourhood camera man with my windcheater on and a tie in my pocket. On telling mother dearest that her son was amongst the wodehouse and frosts of his school, she was happy, to put it mildly. So she took me to the same place again, this time with a willingness to shell up. Of course proficiency in grammar is appreciated as long as you study the sciences…don’t get me started.
Have you ever been inside one of those photo studios where the walls are covered with odd wallpapers of the lakes of Kashmir in a background of a valley full of flowers? It makes you feel like you are one of tellytubbies for some odd reason. I fail to understand the purpose of such extravagant backgrounds. But it exists, as do appendix’ in humans and judges on reality shows, with no purpose that serves for greater good, but never to be questioned.
At about the same time of the year, I don’t know if it was the weather or something else, I had discovered a peculiar talent in me. I had the ability to do Elvis Half lip smile. Back then life was simpler, I had decided that education would be given up by age 17, when I would take up a job as an Elvis impersonator, or if nothing else say “Welcome to Walmart” 200 times an hour with the smile on my face, indicating scorn.
Thus sat one of the brighter minds in the country, and decided the time had come to tell everyone watching, Elvis was in the building!
The photographer, an unusually jolly chap decided somehow, that the Elvis smile was a mistake. He asked me to pose for another pose. I was never amongst the patient type, and demanded to see the picture on his digital camera. I took a moment to explain to the simple man, there was no real mistake there; it was just me, aiming for greatness. He just muttered something about the loons he got everyday and got the damned thing developed.
In the mean time, my dearest mother sat in the car, in anticipation of yet another picture she could show to the police when I ran away from home (it’s an eventuality, so she keeps records of pictures, age 7 to 18). When yours truly walked down the steps of fortune, in anticipation of laurels etc, he thought something was amiss. Then he realized, he needed to give the Elvis to the world while walking down to make it really memorial.
“One half smile for man, one giant leap for mankind”
Some people however, had other ideas…..
“What on EARTH were you thinking?” she screamed, “Do you realize this is a formal photograph? This isn’t funny. I find this incredible, how could you do such a thing? Do you realize how much those pictures cost? And it’s not about the money; I can’t believe this, is this what we have taught you both?”
It didn’t end there of course, but I’m pretty certain that explains a great deal of what my mother dearest had told me across the two hours I was lectured followed by 3 days of the silent treatment.
Thus died my ambition of working at Las Vegas. Also with eventual balding, I really don’t think Elvis impersonation is the best career line for me. The author also decided against writing for any scientific journals et al for fear of a similar backlash. His mother now accompanies him to all photo shoots. The snaps of course were confiscated and I was asked to procure them an evening before by mixing film with silver iodide or some such thing. For the magazine, I ended up cutting an old ID card from class 5 or something and telling the editor “I grew overnight” when questioned about the age of the photograph. She promised me carbon dating would clear that out, so I just shrugged and left.
The first time I wrote something serious (or even seriously) was in class 9. It was a poem on the fear of something or the other (one of those things where you rhyme just the last word and still manage to make no sense /sound mushy).This particular poem was written because our grammar teacher insisted we write something and I had spent the entire period laughing at the sardar in front of me (Santa Banta jokes are underrated…even MS word recognizes Santa and Banta as words!) and looking at trees outside the class. (yes I do that for some odd reason, a certain history teacher felt it was because I was George of the jungle in my previous life, I just smiled back at her, for which the what-her-name-is threw me out to join my green buddies) In the last 5 minutes of the class I wrote whatever I did, which ultimately made it to the school magazine. The editor of this particular tome found it necessary that I give a picture of mine, in school uniforms mind you, which could be printed along with my name, which was a morale boosting exercise carried out for all the wonderful literary artists produced and eventually destroyed by our schools passion for the sciences.
So I was fairly excited about the whole thing. Youthful enthusiasm and all that as they say. Instead of looking around my house for one, I decided a trip to the nearest photo shop was in order, you know, to keep it as a surprise for my mother dearest when she saw her sons photo was published in one of those magazine type things, albeit not in the prizes section where the more intellectual type (including my sister…..) made it.
Now for the brighter amongst you, this figures as a fun thing to do, as long as the parents are rather blissfully unaware of it. However it turned out that passport photos were beyond my economic status back then, at 70 bucks for 10 passport sized pictures (instant et al). So on this particularly rainy day, I made my way back home from the neighbourhood camera man with my windcheater on and a tie in my pocket. On telling mother dearest that her son was amongst the wodehouse and frosts of his school, she was happy, to put it mildly. So she took me to the same place again, this time with a willingness to shell up. Of course proficiency in grammar is appreciated as long as you study the sciences…don’t get me started.
Have you ever been inside one of those photo studios where the walls are covered with odd wallpapers of the lakes of Kashmir in a background of a valley full of flowers? It makes you feel like you are one of tellytubbies for some odd reason. I fail to understand the purpose of such extravagant backgrounds. But it exists, as do appendix’ in humans and judges on reality shows, with no purpose that serves for greater good, but never to be questioned.
At about the same time of the year, I don’t know if it was the weather or something else, I had discovered a peculiar talent in me. I had the ability to do Elvis Half lip smile. Back then life was simpler, I had decided that education would be given up by age 17, when I would take up a job as an Elvis impersonator, or if nothing else say “Welcome to Walmart” 200 times an hour with the smile on my face, indicating scorn.
Thus sat one of the brighter minds in the country, and decided the time had come to tell everyone watching, Elvis was in the building!
The photographer, an unusually jolly chap decided somehow, that the Elvis smile was a mistake. He asked me to pose for another pose. I was never amongst the patient type, and demanded to see the picture on his digital camera. I took a moment to explain to the simple man, there was no real mistake there; it was just me, aiming for greatness. He just muttered something about the loons he got everyday and got the damned thing developed.
In the mean time, my dearest mother sat in the car, in anticipation of yet another picture she could show to the police when I ran away from home (it’s an eventuality, so she keeps records of pictures, age 7 to 18). When yours truly walked down the steps of fortune, in anticipation of laurels etc, he thought something was amiss. Then he realized, he needed to give the Elvis to the world while walking down to make it really memorial.
“One half smile for man, one giant leap for mankind”
Some people however, had other ideas…..
“What on EARTH were you thinking?” she screamed, “Do you realize this is a formal photograph? This isn’t funny. I find this incredible, how could you do such a thing? Do you realize how much those pictures cost? And it’s not about the money; I can’t believe this, is this what we have taught you both?”
It didn’t end there of course, but I’m pretty certain that explains a great deal of what my mother dearest had told me across the two hours I was lectured followed by 3 days of the silent treatment.
Thus died my ambition of working at Las Vegas. Also with eventual balding, I really don’t think Elvis impersonation is the best career line for me. The author also decided against writing for any scientific journals et al for fear of a similar backlash. His mother now accompanies him to all photo shoots. The snaps of course were confiscated and I was asked to procure them an evening before by mixing film with silver iodide or some such thing. For the magazine, I ended up cutting an old ID card from class 5 or something and telling the editor “I grew overnight” when questioned about the age of the photograph. She promised me carbon dating would clear that out, so I just shrugged and left.
PS: One tends to use hyperboles at times.
1 comment:
You write very well.
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