Stumbled upon something today. An old essay book from school. NO! Not the Navneet style printed essay book with 'My favourite festival, colour, country, planet, toilet etc. '. It was the book where I had written some pretty 'un'academic essays, the first ones I was not obliged to write academically. Retrospectively, I don't find any signs of a budding genius in these essays :P (Though, in those days, I felt that the removal of the budding tag is an accurate description of my literature) and I shudder thinking of how I was the 'best' in English in the matriculation class of Umedbhai Patel English School.
I am documenting these here to preserve my ideas for posterity (who knows a future biographer may stumble upon it someday and document my legendary lifetime :P). And a warning to the regular readers of this blog (even those who are addicted to the trash I churn out!); before you consider reading this, consider the background of the author:
The writer is a soon to be 15 year old who holds great airs about being the best in English in his class. His experiences with literature encompass great authors like Enid Blyton and the Grimm Brothers. His readings include everything from Champak to Chandamama, from Hardy Boys to the Famous Five. His experiences with humour in the Queen's language have been confined to a one chapter excerpt from 'Three Men and the Boat' and he still equates Wodehouse with a habitation constructed from dead and hardened carboneous plant life.
Ok so here follows the first of the two essays from the book, with all the spelling mistakes and grammatical errors intact. [My comments, the present me I mean, are in square brackets like this one.]
"
[Page 1]
My book of absurd Essays
-Ankur Saraf
All the events and persons mentioned in this essay are fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely co-incidental (and co-incidents occur too often)
This book is registered under the trademark of Ankur Saraf [This is followed by my signature]. No part of it may be printed or reproduced in any other form of binding or cover in which it is now without the prior permission of the author.
[Page 2]
Preface:-[Page 2]
I have written a few essays in this book on persons I have met and incidents (rather, accidents) in my life which I remember (dread). I hope you find it enjoying to read these essays. I have prepared a column in the last pages for your review. Please consider them. Happy reading.
-Ankur Saraf
P.S.:- You might find it a little difficult to understand my handwriting. [This is one situation which has only taken the downward path since then. Thankfully a computer and keyboard are here to help.]
[Page 3]
1) The elocution competition Pg.No.1
2) My Maths Teacher Pg.No.10
(As seen from the eyes of Ankur Saraf)
[Page 4]
The elocution competition
The day started as any other. I got up lazily at 6.40 in the morning, got ready for school unaware of the disaster that was going to befall me on this very dreaded thursday of 16th Sept 1999. We had a half day at school due to an elocution competition to be held in the school. I lazed away my time at school with the boring lectures [Somethings never change, do they?] being delivered by one of my teachers I disliked. Joking and passing time, the disaster was approaching near. [sic]
Time sped up. We were asked to wait in the school compound. Our class teacher had informed us that we were given the 'privilege' of being audience to the event (which would mark history and of course I needn't explain why?). One of our teachers had been given the responsibility (dreaded by everyone, the teacher of course) to see to it that we don't play truant and spoil their plans of spoiling our day. My teacher announced that the 'privilege' would be denied to us because of the lack of enough seats but the 1st three rankers were granted the calamitous oppurtunity. (unfortunately, I was one of them.)
I marched towards the hall where a batch of the greatest orators known till now waited for the competition to start. The competition started as soon as we arrived (hunters always wait till they get their guns ready and innocent animals slowly approach the most terrible trap set for them)
First, the juniors were called on to deliver a 3-minute speech (of course, 3-minutes wasn't the real time. I certainly felt the timer's watch running slow).
I was given the first taste of the hunter's gun. Then we were all asked to clap. (After all, the formality had to be finished like it or not). I could easily go over 2 or 3 speeched but the whole lot of 15 was lying in ambush to attack my 'tiny' [you will understand this if you see me!] little self.
The sharp woices attacked my ears and went right to my head which slowly started aching. I tried to stop this using a handkerchief but they excelled in the art of carrying forward with the only thing they had got to do. The only aim of their life seemed to bore me to the full extent. The voice on the mike grew louder and louder. Blah, blah............ went on their non-stopping mouths. The only one I liked was the one who said nothing. The first prize should have been awarded to him (in the name of humanity)
Seconds seemed hours. Minutes passes like centuries. Many millenia passed till one by one they tortured me mentally. Compulsory, literal mental torter [sic] of the highest service was served
before me with a kind cruelty. To top it all, a teacher was made to sit behind me, all parts of a pre-made plan.
The luckiest person seemed to be the chief guest. She ran away during half the competition.
Then the senior group started. I had been tired to a great extent and the noblest thing I could think about was to kill the organiser, call my best friend Dracula to suck every drop of blood out of him, kill his friends, relatives everyone, to down his house and sing comic songs on his grave. It was my moral responsibility to save my fellow spectators from this calamity.
Hitler should have called these people in his concentration camps to torcher the POW's and take my word for it, every piece of information would be lying at his feet. And the Mumbai police could certainly make good use of them.
I saw before me, each of them passing by, a demonic smile on his lips. What humour was, I didn't see. My objective now was to reach home alive. I kept thinking of this beautiful world and how less I have seen of it. My science teacher (who was sleeping a quiet sleep with a serene and divine look upon her face) had explained us that mental stress often led to heart-attack.
The deadly giants of the devil himself had started hitting my ears. I began to feel sick, ill, my time, I felt had come. Suddenly, the prizes were announced. The judges had been the expectators [sic] of the trauma. The prizes were given to those who persecuted [sic] their task with perfection. But, I think, the audience were really worthy of being rewarded for going through these demanding situations. One of the participants spoke on child labour in inhuman conditions very similar to the present situation. Now, the golden words were uttered, "The programme is over, thank you.". Well I thought I ought to thank them for letting me out of this tedious experience. I rushed out, a bird freed from a cage, proud of my brave self.
-[My signature went here]
(Ankur Saraf)
[Something I added later as an afterthought. It is written with different pen.] Please register your comments on the adjoining page after filling the details and please don't forget to mention if the essay is worst, bad, O.K., good or very good. For eg.
Name:- A. Saraf Sign:- [My sign]
Remarks:- O.K. ............
[The 'adjoining page' is quite hopelessly empty]
"
And if you thought the above post was not worth blogging about, you are not getting the job of my biographer. Get that? :P This essay was written in my rough book the day after the elocution day. The girl sitting next to me read it and passed it on in the class. I had got some pretty good comments on my rough book, sufficient enough to egg my soon to be 15-year old ego, to write a another essay.
I marched towards the hall where a batch of the greatest orators known till now waited for the competition to start. The competition started as soon as we arrived (hunters always wait till they get their guns ready and innocent animals slowly approach the most terrible trap set for them)
First, the juniors were called on to deliver a 3-minute speech (of course, 3-minutes wasn't the real time. I certainly felt the timer's watch running slow).
I was given the first taste of the hunter's gun. Then we were all asked to clap. (After all, the formality had to be finished like it or not). I could easily go over 2 or 3 speeched but the whole lot of 15 was lying in ambush to attack my 'tiny' [you will understand this if you see me!] little self.
The sharp woices attacked my ears and went right to my head which slowly started aching. I tried to stop this using a handkerchief but they excelled in the art of carrying forward with the only thing they had got to do. The only aim of their life seemed to bore me to the full extent. The voice on the mike grew louder and louder. Blah, blah............ went on their non-stopping mouths. The only one I liked was the one who said nothing. The first prize should have been awarded to him (in the name of humanity)
Seconds seemed hours. Minutes passes like centuries. Many millenia passed till one by one they tortured me mentally. Compulsory, literal mental torter [sic] of the highest service was served
before me with a kind cruelty. To top it all, a teacher was made to sit behind me, all parts of a pre-made plan.
The luckiest person seemed to be the chief guest. She ran away during half the competition.
Then the senior group started. I had been tired to a great extent and the noblest thing I could think about was to kill the organiser, call my best friend Dracula to suck every drop of blood out of him, kill his friends, relatives everyone, to down his house and sing comic songs on his grave. It was my moral responsibility to save my fellow spectators from this calamity.
Hitler should have called these people in his concentration camps to torcher the POW's and take my word for it, every piece of information would be lying at his feet. And the Mumbai police could certainly make good use of them.
I saw before me, each of them passing by, a demonic smile on his lips. What humour was, I didn't see. My objective now was to reach home alive. I kept thinking of this beautiful world and how less I have seen of it. My science teacher (who was sleeping a quiet sleep with a serene and divine look upon her face) had explained us that mental stress often led to heart-attack.
The deadly giants of the devil himself had started hitting my ears. I began to feel sick, ill, my time, I felt had come. Suddenly, the prizes were announced. The judges had been the expectators [sic] of the trauma. The prizes were given to those who persecuted [sic] their task with perfection. But, I think, the audience were really worthy of being rewarded for going through these demanding situations. One of the participants spoke on child labour in inhuman conditions very similar to the present situation. Now, the golden words were uttered, "The programme is over, thank you.". Well I thought I ought to thank them for letting me out of this tedious experience. I rushed out, a bird freed from a cage, proud of my brave self.
-[My signature went here]
(Ankur Saraf)
[Something I added later as an afterthought. It is written with different pen.] Please register your comments on the adjoining page after filling the details and please don't forget to mention if the essay is worst, bad, O.K., good or very good. For eg.
Name:- A. Saraf Sign:- [My sign]
Remarks:- O.K. ............
[The 'adjoining page' is quite hopelessly empty]
"
And if you thought the above post was not worth blogging about, you are not getting the job of my biographer. Get that? :P This essay was written in my rough book the day after the elocution day. The girl sitting next to me read it and passed it on in the class. I had got some pretty good comments on my rough book, sufficient enough to egg my soon to be 15-year old ego, to write a another essay.
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