Salaam Shalom
Bani Hari Har Lal

In the beginning there was chaos. For a long time I had resisted the move on to the campus, but was finally forced to concede defeat to Mr. Shomie Das. Clutching a pressure-cooker full of dog food, on the last day of February 1996, I made a less-than-stylish entry into the Jaipur B’s Housemaster’s residence, to find haphazardly strewn furniture and cartons festooned with unknown persons. With the first of many plastic smiles intact on my face, I cordially accepted their invitation to join the party, even as my insides were churning with rage. My anger was not at their presence, but was wholly and solely directed at Jayant on two counts. Firstly, in spite of pleas for orderliness while shifting, he had gone out of his way to be contrary. And secondly, for the fact that all the while I had been single-handedly packing up the previous home, JHH had been pretending to be buckling down to a new job, when in reality he had been having himself a jolly good time.
The word ‘no’ acquired a new meaning in my life. There was no help of any sort, barring Mr. Shamu, the house sweeper, who looked and smelt as though he was unacquainted with soap and water. No washing of clothes or beauty baths were to be attempted on Sundays and other outing days. No sleeping in was possible during term time. There were not too many late nights or noisy evenings on the agenda. No on the spur-of-the-moment programmes could be made as the job did not allow it. There was no privacy. Ever. But to make up for the hardships and privations, there was a plethora of boys. They were here, they were there, they were everywhere.
The lady-like German Shepherd, Rola, Esha and I, slavishly bowed down to the terms and conditions of employment. On the other hand, Tina, the faux Labrador, showed more spunk at expressing her extreme displeasure at the situation by either wrecking the place, or by slugging it out with PBR’s Coco. The hatchet remains unburied.
As time went by, I surprised myself by taking a temporary break from bemoaning my fate. The household help, the sweeper, the gardener and the suppliers of milk and the newspaper were in place. The amenities provided by the School were taken for granted, as were the beautiful surroundings. The residents of the campus had either become friends and fellow-conspirators, or then, if they persisted in being the ‘others,’ were consigned to the flames. The constant interruptions of doorbells and phone bells had ceased to be major irritants. In-house intrigues, in-house lingo, house feasts, Leavers’-dinners, Golden Nights, the Afzal baski tournament, the madness of Founder’s, unreasonable/reasonable demands at odd hours, entertainment, debates, talks, VVVIPS’, judging, the emptying of the larder and the fridge. Ill-mannered people, well-mannered people– all had suddenly become par for the course. And Mr. John Mason’s presence loomed large over each and every aspect of The Doon School.
In the meanwhile, Rola had moved on to her heavenly abode. Tina had moved on from being a recalcitrant pup to becoming a half-way obedient, adult animal. Esha moved on from Ann Mary School to the Welham Girls’ School. And in June 2001, JHH informed me that he was moving on from being Housemaster to the post of the Deputy Head of the school. I was given the order to move on too.
I revelled in my favourite pastimes of grumbling and behaving like an eternal pessimist, all over again, as I found myself handling a king-sized garden and extra people and things. My yakking skills needed no further honing. The patience and diplomacy I had been somewhat successful in absorbing along the way were coming unstuck. KPB must have recognised the danger signals emanating from a bored housewife, and moved in fast to save his deputy’s sanity. Although an ex-landlady, JHH and my mother had for long urged me to pick up a pen, it took a gilt-edged invite by the HM to write for the Weekly, to get me going.
In the end, ten years have gone by in a jiffy. My family, like many before us, have barely had time to say hello, when the opportunity to explore uncharted territory is upon us once again. So exactly how does one say goodbye to pals? One doesn’t. We say: God bless and thank you for a jolly good time!

The Weekly bids adieu to its ‘Pub Man’ and wishes him and his family the very best.
 

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