Once a girl told me, “Your dress sense is awful. You wear clothes in any combination. And all your pants are either too loose or too tight.”

While I agree that I am quite careless in matching colours, the second part of her statement isn’t entirely my fault. The problem is that I’ve had too many ups and downs in my life. Literally, practically and weight wise. Especially my weight. I have been falling ill at regular intervals throughout my life. Each bout sees me shedding fat.

My first such experience was at the age of ten. I returned from living in England and I lost 7 kilos adjusting to the new climate. I looked like a stick. Chicken pox after matriculation led to a drop of 6 on the scales. Twelfth class illness: 8 kilos. But the real weight killer was tonsillitis during graduation. After it all died down, the final count was 16kgs! I think I feel lighter by a few kilos even if I have a stomach infection. So what am I supposed to do?

I have my own Newton’s law law vis a vis gravitation:

Whenever my weight goes up, it must come down

Now you can imagine what havoc this must be playing on my clothes. I can’t comfortably wear a pant I bought when I was down when I become up. That’s also the case the other way round.

At one point, I calculated a mean weight and decided that all my pants should be stitched according to that. If I was over this average, I would tell the tailor, “Stitch the pant extra tight as I’m going to lose at least five kilos.” Or, “Make that extra loose!” The result was that all the tailors of the neighbourhood thought I was mad and never listened to me.

That leaves me with clothes of extreme dimensions. Imagine you’re wearing a very tight pant and you go for dinner some place. You eat and eat and eat and become so full that your stomach gasps for breath. Your hand goes to your belt to make it loose. The only snag is that there is no belt. It’s your pant that’s tight. Ouch! So you can only painfully grin and bear it when the warm hostess keeps piling your food with more and more food.

When I start gaining my weight over a period of time, my shirts become tighter and tighter and even tear. I feel as I’m the Incredible Hulk in extreme slow motion. (He Minutes Hulk. Me Months Hulk) Everyone outgrows their clothes as they grow older. For me it’s a lifelong process.

People gave me all sorts of solutions. Wear elastic pants. Yuck! Wear suspenders. Hmm, I can’t see myself in them. My sister finally told me, “The answer lies in India. Become ethnic. Wear a kurta pyjama whenever you go out and lungi when you’re at home.”

I fear that I may be forced to take her advice.

© Sunil Rajguru

When I was small, I was battered with golden sayings, proverbs, adages and maxims of all sorts. They were there in our ‘Thought for the day’, school diary and liberally in our teachers’ speeches. All of them got registered on my mind as truths of life, but as the days progressed, they started to make less and less sense.

Take ‘Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.’ I don’t know about the healthy and wise part, but I haven’t heard of a single wealthy man who doesn’t go to bed late. Another gem is, ‘Speech is sliver, but silence is golden.’ Saving a few situations here and there, I don’t see how far you can go with silence. You have to be a good talker to make your way around the world.

But I’ve faced the greatest problems with ‘Practice makes a man perfect’. There are certain people who have a natural talent for a thing and are near perfect with their first try. And there are others like me who for years persist and get nowhere.

For example, take football. I watched stars on TV do wonders with the ball and got attracted to the game. I started playing seriously at the age of seven. I played during the breaks, after school and in my spare time. After three years, I was still where I started. I joined a boarding school where we used to play football daily. Let alone master the ball, I never could even score a single goal in a single match.

Once in a match, 22 players were crowded near a goal. I got disgusted and came out. To my luck, the ball popped out of the melee and landed at my feet. I excitedly took the ball and started running towards the opposite goal. The whole crowd froze, staring at me in silence. After some time the opponent goalkeeper also took off.

I thought it would be simple, but the ball just wouldn’t stay at my feet. It moved far to the left, then to the right and then to the left again. I was zig-zagging desperately as the goalkeeper gained on me. I reached the goal after what seemed like ages. I fumbled and kicked the ball to open my account. But out of nowhere, the goalkeeper dived and it was a save. I passed out of school and remained goal-less after a decade of football.

It’s the same with my handwriting. I had the most atrocious handwriting in class. My teacher told me that the more I wrote, the better it would get. I patiently wore out practice books and even chose a greeting card with beautiful handwriting to imitate. I don’t know how many hours I spent in all that and was it worth it? Today, after all that practice I have a handwriting that looks like, as my sister puts it, ‘squiggly ants’.

When I became an adult, I was exposed to two things — shaving and driving. When I shaved for the first time, I ended up with blood and leftover hair on my face. A thousand shaves later, I am just marginally better.

Each time I ride my scooter, I say my prayers. When my father started to teach me to drive in school, he was a very frustrated man in a matter of weeks. Today, after being on the roads for 7 to 8 years and driving in a tough place like Jodhpur where nobody follows any rules, I am what I was.

And it’s the same with a dozen other things.

(This article appeared as an Edit Page Middle in Deccan Herald newspaper in 1995)

I hate shaving. Period. The very sight of a razor is enough to give me the creeps. I’d rather go to work unkempt than indulge myself in this daily ritual.

But it wasn’t always like that. When I was small, all things connected to shaving including ads on TV had a great fascination for me. I just loved watching my father put thick white creamy lather on his face and see the razor remove all the hair along with the foam like magic. I used to frown whenever I saw any uncle or bhaiya with a stubble.

So there I was looking in the mirror everyday and rubbing my cheeks hoping to see that elusive sprout of hair. One of my schoolmates, as eager as I was, used to shave his face with a dry razor even though he was as barren as the Thar desert.

Then one day, I finally saw it coming! I monitored my chin carefully every morning and patiently watched its progress like a farmer watching his first crops sprout. I soon got a good stubble and it was D-Day.

Armed with all the implements, I started. Phase I. Cool. Working up a lather and applying it on my face. Phase II. A disaster! I took the razor and removed the cream, I got a cut. Then another cut, then another… I washed my face and looked in the mirror horrified. All I could see was patches of blood alternating with patches of hair.

After a few more rounds of shaving I was still left with an unsmooth chin. “Don’t worry,” I was assured, “it happens to everyone the first time. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

So I waited. In vain. Days passed. The days became months and the months years.

Everyone gave me suggestions. “Rinse your blade after every touch.” “Use warm water.” “Use the right angle.” Nothing changed it, I still looked like an injured warrior with a rough chin after shaving.

“I finally decided to get away from it all and grow a beard. And that’s when everyone started picking on me. My relative, a spinster, looked at me with disgust and said, “I simply can’t stand men who don’t shave.” One girl started calling me Devdas, while another remarked, “You look quite primitive,” relegating me to the status of a Stone Age man. A friend put his arm around my shoulder and exclaimed, “My, don’t you look depressed!”

This sentiment was echoed by others and I failed to understand the negative response my beard was getting. Even the college dean singled me out of all the people who didn’t shave. Bang in the middle of a lecture he gave me one of his cold icy stares and froze the class for 10 seconds before saying, “But why have you stopped shaving?”

The last straw came when one of my best friends refused to go out for a film with me and my beard because I looked to mean and resembled a beggar! I had had enough and decided to shave my grown beard. In my first try, it remained intact. With more than a dozen tries, it finally came off with a record number of cuts.

My friend engrossed in his paper looked up at my blood-stained face and said, “Now you look much better.” I was back to square one.

In a science fiction novel I read, the hero, thanks to a futuristic device, shaved just once a month. I wait daily for someone to come out with such an invention.

(This article appeared as an Edit Page Middle in The Indian Express in 1995)

We returned to Jodhpur after a gap of seven years to find that a lot had changed. The population had crossed two million; sleek shops, showrooms and star hotels were mushrooming.

Change is inevitable and we took all this in our stride, but we were really disappointed to find that the wonderful open-air cinema had shut down and was gathering dust. It was something we all had eagerly looked forward to. But the projector no longer lit the screen. There were no movies, no crowds, no steamy samosas. Instead, a cold and deserted structure stared at us and the samosa hut was full of cobwebs.

I still remember sitting in the roofless, wall-less cinema which had moodas (straw chairs) on its circular cement steps as a substitute to the normal theatre seats. For us, it was a joy just being there in the open watching the big screen. If you by chance got bored with the movie, there was always mother nature to turn to. Movies used to start in the evening and one could enjoy the cool breeze, watch trees swaying in the background or observe clouds traveling across the sky. Those in the uppermost row were at liberty to turn back and watch proceedings elsewhere and we actually went to the open-air cinema for a sort of double entertainment.

The best movies used to be brought to town in those days , catering to all tastes. English specials and Hindi masala, classics and new releases. All this with a daily change. Anarkali to Kaaliya, Roman Holiday to Cabaret. You name it, the cinema screened it all. At less than two rupees, tickets were a steal.

Of course, there were certain disadvantages. When jets from the Jodhpur air force station flew by all the celluloid melody was drowned in noise. So night flying would see Amitabh’s choicest dialogue drowned in a deafening roar of the passing MiGs. Or there was the occasional distraction of the odd, quiet chopper slowly passing by.

When the rains came, a few who had come prepared would put on their raincoats or umbrellas and sit smugly watching the rest of the movie. Of the remaining, half would flee the place and the other half would pick up moodas and continue watching as if nothing had happened. The movie would continue amidst the chaos, with people running here and there, with the pelting rain blurring the screen and thunder roaring in tandem with the sound track.

There is talk of a revival, but I doubt if it would be taken now with the same enthusiasm as it used to be in the past. Also doubtful is the length of the cinema’s second innings.

(This article was published as an Edit Page Middle in The Indian Express newspaper on May 3, 1994)

Then: Used to count the runs they amassed
Now: Count the money they mint

Then: Spent hours daily in practice sessions
Now: Are fussy about their style of clothing, armbands, headbands and blackness of sunglasses

Then: Came in a clean white attire wearing their Test cap with pride
Now: Come unshaven in dirty T-shirts, wearing any old hat

Then: Were on the run in every Test and series
Now: Complacent for the series with one good innings and for the year with one good series

Then: Visiting teams occasionally blamed umpires for their defeat
Now: Umpires now are always blamed

Then: Loved to sport their country’s colours
Now: Would rather wear the sponsor’s logo

Then: Used to blame their bad form on things like lack of concentration
Now: Now blame it on things like smog and prawns

Then: At times victims of the establishment
Now: Invariably, victims of themselves

Then: Fast bowlers used to rely on the ball’s speed and swing
Now: A distorted seam and disfigured ball now relied upon

Then: Spin bowlers used to rely on their ability to spin
Now: Only a dead pitch is now relied upon

Then: Test matches were played to be won
Now: Today they are played to be drawn

Then: Symbolised the Raj
Now: Symbolises nothing

(This piece appeared in the Letters to the Editor section of Sportsworld magazine on November 3, 1993)

The kids are getting smarter BUT the admissions becoming tougher

Percentages are increasing AND so are the cut-lines

Study hours are increasing AT the cost of the playing time

School bags are getting heavier AS the students are tiring

The syllabus is becoming more vast AND becoming less relevant

More knowledge is being crammed AS less is being understood

The kids are talking more OF nonsense

More laws are being by-hearted BUT less being followed

Kids are getting more exposure TO the bad things in life

Children are growing up fast AND losing all their innocence

The population is increasing in Geometric Progression (GP) WHILE the jobs are rising in Arithmetic Progression (AP)

Admission ages are getting lower AS the age of getting jobs is going higher

The literacy rate is going up BUT the standard of education is going down

More degree-holders are being churned out of colleges AT what cost?

Courses are increasing AND so is the confusion

Authorities are getting tougher BUT discipline is slackening

Mental capacity is increasing AT the cost of the physical

Tensions are mounting AND parents getting angrier

Students’ voices are strengthening BUT teachers’ voices are weakening

Students are able to solve complicated problems BUT unable to do the simple ones

More institutions are opening AND more corrupting

(This appeared in a student’s publication called Cheel in Jodhpur in August 1993)

Throughout my school and college life, I was plagued with a problem. Students all over the world will empathize with me. How does one sit through thousands of hours of classes where the teacher is boring you with incomprehensible jargon that has absolutely no relevance to your future life?

Me and my friends became LLBs (Lords of the Last Benches) at the age of ten. We tried to devise ways to kill time at the back, while the teacher was killing everyone else’s interest in the front. At first we simpletons sat straight and tried to sleep thinking we wouldn’t be noticed. But a teacher is not that dumb. Then we realized that camouflage is a much greater weapon than distance. Plan 2 was to cover a story book with a dull text and get lost in an altogether different world. The chances of getting caught are 50-50. However, these odds may vary, depending on the expertise of the student and teacher respectively. One of my friends would lift his head and look at the teacher with great concentration at the end of every paragraph he read. However, I would get totally drowned in the plot. “Rajguru! Are you listening?” would go a voice which I never would hear and face the consequences.

After that me and my friends put into motion Plan Philosopher. I would lean my chin on my hand covering my mouth, take the support of the desk and look very thoughtfully towards the teacher. My fellow philosopher would do the same and we would keep whispering and have long classroom chats. Everything went well till my bench mate developed a sense of humour. I managed to control myself at the first couple of jokes… and then he dropped a downright beauty. My laughter traveled to the end of the class.

Our biology teacher was already in his worst of moods and was teaching fungi. “Fun-geee” was the way he pronounced fungi. “Fun-geee, you bhangi! Please come here.” I knew I was in trouble. “You dare laugh at me?” he thundered and I got my first taste of Teacher Brutality. First I was yelled at in front of the whole class and then caught by my belt. Then came blows for 30 seconds, a moral lecture for a minute, blows for… This alternate process continued for what seemed like an eternity. A dazed me was forced to drop Plan Philosopher like a hot duster.

After a brief lull, I started planning strategies again. Actually it was all the holes in the desk that set me thinking. I brought a number of buttons in the class and invented Button Holing. A simple game, in which you had to thumb buttons into the holes of desks. My bench mate was skeptical at first, but decided to give it a try. We always made our moves when the teacher’s back was turned. We became quite successful and the game became a passion.

But poor me again. I always get carried away. In one particular nail-biting game, I thumbed the winning shot. The moment overwhelmed me and I jumped and yelled in triumph. This was too much even for our non-violent history teacher. I had never seen him hit anyone in the seven years I spent in that school, but I was to become an exception. I can still remember the slap of a six-foot-plus broad-shouldered giant.

I finished school a defeated boy.

Nowadays everyone seems to be coming out with a book on everything you can think of. I wish someone authored a book, 101 Things to do in a Boring Class. That definitely would have been a help.

© Sunil Rajguru