For old times' sake

‘And this time, it's going to be brilliant’, were my thoughts when I disembarked from the train and was mighty chuffed to find everything so ‘in-sync’(for want of a better expression) – that car, that front seat, that stereo playing the same old CD, passing that Green-and-Yellow gate on GT road, that Kolkata Knight Riders’ Billboard(:o), etc.

And yet there was this voice at the back of my head which said, ‘Stop it – this rummy feeling isn’t going to last for long. Before you know it, it’s gonna be gone’. Understandably, I scoffed at even the slightest thought of the hols ending. Three months is a long, long time yaar. Now I have to go and vote as well, first thing in the morning. Will it be the Reds or will it be a Trinamool whitewash (err, greenwash)? Why am I thinking of all that bilge? And so I filed away that unsavoury thought somewhere far, where it wouldn’t be able to needle me.

It’s surprising how easily one can get back into that old way of doing things. It’s no point living in the past – I know someone who’d sneer and say these exact words. Well, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to live in the past. The past lives on… in you. And you don’t take a couple of days to ‘acclimatise’ to the change. You know how to deal with it. I trudge into the dining hall first thing in the morning, which has the TV no. 2 tuned to Times Now/NDTV 24x7/BBC World and that familiar genial man sitting in front of it, sipping his morning tea, and then downing whatever he can find in the fridge or in the loft. The lady in the kitchen reacts testily –‘Your cholesterol levels are going to get you!’, to which all he offers is a sheepish grin. A 13 year-old bloke emerges from the bathroom in a towel and yells – he’s getting late for school.

And I’m back there. In the afternoon at 2, I go to school to pick the brother up. Familiar faces smile and wave – the juniors, the teachers, the guards at the gate (Traffic duty, boss :D) and the usual question ‘Kemon aachish/Kemon aacho/How are you?’.

In the evening, I make a couple of phone calls, zip down to Polo Ground/Apcar Gardens/Burnpur Club/somebody’s house(whichever is convenient) and kickstart those adda sessions which seem neverending, until there’s a missed call from mum at, say, 10:30 pm at the earliest.

I come back home, shove dinner down my throat and then flounce off into the study. I switch on the PC, resume the inactive torrents and transfer the completed ones onto my laptop for viewing later on. Then I watch some TV, after which I switch on the AC in the bedroom and read whatever it is I’m reading at that point in time.

And then drift off to sleep until next morning, for which I can’t wait. That’s because I’m going to take out my two-wheeler at 5 am and go someplace with my bros. Or do something our group feels like doing, like having a gang over at our place to watch some movies or duel it out in Gran Turismo on the Playstation or indulge in the usual guy-talk (cars/sports/films/THAT girl).

These are my life’s little pleasures.

It’s been rightly said (here I go again, cockface) that people seem to get nostalgic about a lot of things they weren't so crazy about the first time around. How effing true is that!

That’s why I’m typing this out, while sipping Diet Coke, biting into the last pieces of that chocolate cake Mama made, and listening to ‘City of Blinding Lights’, which I feel is weirdly suited to the tone of the sentimental hogwash that you’re reading right now.

Of a school, a racing series and an implausible dream...

Indulging in rumour-mongering is one of the guilty pleasures we all enjoy – those who snub this ‘disgusting’ and ‘cheap’ habit feel smug and those who do partake in it, well, their pleasure knows no bounds.


Anyway, one more thing rumours do is that they give us a more often than not interesting topic to discuss with our friends – they are responsible for kick-starting many lazy afternoon conversations over the phone, or even a boisterous, pointless natter over beer-mugs among friends in a pub. And that’s generally because people do tend to have an opinion. The rumours, then, give us something to chew upon, something to kill time with, something to ensure our life stays as meaningful or meaningless as we want it to be.


And one such rumour is responsible for this post. And my gut says it will probably turn out into speculation on an extremely fanciful scheme. More on that later.


Babai called me sometime back and told me St. Patrick’s are probably thinking of making the +2 section co-ed. My instantaneous reaction was, “WHAT. THE. FUCK?” Seems people at the SPOBA have lost their marbles. Or is it the SPAI (I still can’t forget how they ruined our last official day in Class X. Almost.). Retards that they are, they will definitely extend this ‘cooperative effort’ to the other junior classes. And then?


Nothing. When I thought about it later, I realized that the school would be more or less OK. With the girls coming in, probably the number of 90-pluses will increase (albeit the equal increase in the number of dumb, dumber, dumberer females-which will restore the average). And probably being seen together in random places downtown in school uniforms will be less scandalous for those who want to move their love-life into a higher gear. But my question remains. WHY? Ever heard of the saying, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”? Of course you have. How daft of me. They should definitely encourage inter-school interaction through any number of events – like those dance parties they used to have years back, but sleeping with the enemy (sorry about that) is a strict no-no. Please. See some sense. STOP THIS.


One more thing struck me. It shouldn’t come as a surprise after all, but still. If the school thinks it wants to be innovative, to be a trend setter, it should invest in my grand scheme. With all the right moves, I’m sure we will get all the visibility, the popularity and the reputation we could ever want. Or need.


They should start the SPS GP Challenge, which will be a racing series for the under-18 class. This could be held during the winter break. Standard go-karts could be made the norm, with 4-5 HP 2-stroke engines, a barebones chassis with (a trifle expensive, I agree) slicks bolted on to them. Or we can use engines from the stupid lawnmowers which have rattled our brains out while we were in 9th and 10th. The steering racks could be welded together in some local foundry. Stop smirking. I know it’s not particularly high-tech, but it’s not at all about the technology – it’s about nice, old-school racing, wheel banging and trying to ram each other off the racing line on the corner entry and exit segments. And I think I am safe in the assumption that the most balls-out racer will take home the Gulmohar leaf trophy.


Of course, all this is very well, but what about the racetrack? Don’t stick your stinky sock into my pine-fresh dream studio yet. We have one right inside the campus!


If you don’t believe me, continue reading. If you do, do the same as well.


The Start/Finish line will be in front of the large manual bell(which we fooled around with occasionally); the machines then accelerate up to the large oak tree(with the 2-tonne pitch roller under it); next comes a medium right past the canteen and the disused building behind it. Just as the curve straightens, there’s the Triangular Section (Traffic duty….thoo) with a hard 90 degree right – hard on the brakes here, and this is one of the overtaking zones, a section which will be extremely critical to the lap times. My favourite part comes next, a delightful high-speed section at full throttle, past the senior school, towards the junior school, as the cars, sorry, karts fly past the middle school building and the parking lot. This brings us to another stand-on-the-brakes hard right. And then, it’s smooth sailing all the way – it’s all about finding the best possible line and straight-lining the final section, past the school auditorium and back to the main straight and across the line.


Think about it. The guys in town will kill to be a part of the race, whose entrants will have been rigorously screened by time-trials, and selected from (hopefully) hundreds of other aspirants. The girls will also probably fancy a guy in a racing suit and a helmet a wee bit more that your average Dick. The mothers would have something better to bitch about to each other than their children’s grades and their love interests. I have no doubt that the standard of racing here will be superior to the standard of the football they play in the Salt Lake Stadium and also to the performances of the Kolkata Knight Riders (sorry Shahrukh). If all goes well, the money will flow in as well. TV coverage would probably work it’s way up from the Asansol Cable Network to no less that Star Sports (I’ll take TEN Sports as well, thank you very much). It will, god-willing, be a top draw event in Eastern India. It might catch the eye of individuals and corporates who would like to support good talent instead of being part of stupid poverty-alleviation schemes which usually benefit no one. If it were to become the pre-eminent racing championship in India, then it would become the breeding ground for the future generation GP2 and…wait for it…Formula One race drivers … the possibilities seem endless to me(though you won’t be wrong in thinking that I’m too carried away at this point)…


Who knows, the next Formula One World Champion might probably be in Asansol right now, busy with Mr. S. Chattterjee’s math homework.