Head In The Game

Time seems to rush past me with cruelty and I find that in my daily reminiscing, all my memories and recollections of my happy schooldays are fading or dulling at the edges. I have never been great with details but here, somehow, I find myself clinging to every last bit of information about a certain day or a certain month or a certain thing with all the tenacity of a man holding on to flotsam in the sea.  This post is one desperate bid to hold close some very special moments I have shared lest they slip from my hands. I want to be able to show my grandchildren this post and then fondly talk about those sunny days when we only knew laughter and sadness was something that bowled you over when you broke your favorite toy.

So, where was I?

Aah, yes. Class 12. PT period. The second period on Wednesday, preceded by the mind-numbing, ennui-inducing chemistry period.(please don’t kill me for saying that)The chemistry period lasted from 7.55 to 8.35 and everyone rushed out like a horde of angry bulls in the bull run in Pamplona the second the bell rang. Wednesday was all about the PE period; everyone would just come into class, drop their bags off and start talking about what team they would play in.

To set the scene- we were six to seven backbenchers who, I believe, came to school on Wednesday just to play basketball. I was the only one who wore a watch in the entire row or was I the only one who nagged everyone around me for the time? I can’t remember exactly. So this is what it sounded like.

7.59 am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Lot of time left. “

GR: “God, this is boring.”

Teacher: “Gayathri, stop talking please.”

GR:*buries face into her chemistry textbook and can almost feel the book radiating “I-am-boring”ness.*

8.07am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Half an hour left.”

GR: “You said that ten minutes back.”

Friend: “I didn’t.”

GR:  “Are you sure you know how to tell the time?”

Teacher: “There, in the back, have you solved the questions assigned?”

Us (Faux interestedly):  “We’re working on it, ma’am.”

8.15 am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Twenty left.”

GR: “Oh thank you God.”

Friend: “Could you work out problem 5 on page 345?”

GR: “Are you kidding me? I am not even paying attention to this shit.”

Friend: *no comment*

8.28 am

GR: *taps wrist and gestures*

Friend: *holds up five fingers*

8.31 am

GR: “Khatam hua ki nahiin?”(Has it finished yet?)

Friend: “Paanch minute”(Five minutes)

GR: “Tune paanch minute pehle hi paanch minute kaha tha.”(You said five minutes five minutes ago)

Friend:“Har do minute poochegi toh kya bolunga?”(What am I supposed to say if you keep asking every two minutes?)

8.34 am

Now I am really on edge, fidgeting endlessly and I can’t wait to shut my book with a loud slam.

Teacher:  “Gayathri, please tell me the answer to problem 7.”(Because she is mighty irritated with me)

I somehow fumble through, my ego/pride kicks in its self-preservation mechanism and I manage to deliver the answer. I am not perfect, but perfection in a chemistry problem is hardly what I am aiming for right now. Not with the prospect of forty blissful minutes of freedom looming in front of me.

8.35 am

*runs from the classroom looking like someone fleeing a burning house or running an Olympic race*

I hope I have managed to catch the moments succinctly enough. I believe some explanation is due.

We always had two PE/PT periods a week. While we squandered all our PE period in eleventh by ambling about aimlessly and gossiping, we craved for it in class 12 with all the fervor of a thirsty man searching for water to quench his thirst. Wednesdays and Fridays always, without fail had full attendance along with the added presence of a football or two. The class divided itself into two sections- the one that played football (which was all-guy) and the one that played basketball (a mixed crowd). I belonged, as is obvious, to the basketball crowd and was probably one of the rowdiest players in the gang.

After playing  a few games in class 11, all my classmates hit upon a startling conclusion- we all played basketball with skill and more importantly, with abandon. And what was more, however you split us into two teams, the two sides were always evenly matched. After this collective realization, basketball was agreed upon by an unwritten law as the game of Class 12-D.

Basketball was panacea. It was forty minutes of wild unfettered joy; of a release of worry, tension; of a display of come-on-I-can-do-it aggression; of name calling and hair snatching; of playing the game in a manner even cavemen shy at. Technically, the game we played was not fundamentally basketball-it was a hybrid of basketball, rugby and kabbadi.All the rules just went out of the window and it was just us 14 or so people and a red colored ball between two baskets. And why did we cling to the game so? Or at least, as I can only speak for myself, why did I cling to the game so? Apart from the aforementioned reasons-basketball implied freedom. Freedom from the worry of your board exams, freedom from the worry of ever mounting schoolwork, freedom from societal pressures to perform well (we’re all Asian), freedom from anxiety about getting into a college and freedom most of all from the insides of your own head. And why do I say that? As anyone who has gone through the rigorous grind of CBSE class 12 will tell you- a twelfthie’s mind is just obsessed with three things – school, tuition/coaching, performance. While there are glaring exceptions to the rule (I am NOT one of them), all our minds were forever filled with the putrid stench of “What can I do to score better?” and “What can I do to get into a decent college?”Some of my friends/acquaintances didn’t show this much on their features but somehow they always ended up being the most expressive ones in a feisty basketball game.

There were three categories of players (or so I like to classify them):-

1.       Players- the ones who can really play well, and can give the school team a run for their money. Though their motivations to play basketball were the same as mine, some of the reasons overlapped with control issues- while you couldn’t control your grades or your college applications from careening wildly into the dust heap, you could control that red ball and all the people waiting around it like hungry dogs. You could shoot extremely well and emerge winner. For such people, the game implied two words-“predictability” and “control”

2.       Screamers-People who didn’t know to play much, but they usually captained teams because of the high decibels their voices could achieve. They didn’t get possession of the ball as long as they would’ve liked to, but they sure as hell got the onlookers’ attention. Screaming manifested itself in three ways- they either yelled at their teammates for being incompetent nitwits or screeched their lungs out at the one who currently held possession of the ball-usually giving them advice as to where the ball’s next destination might be(usually “Pass kar. Main free hoon.”)- or they swore like sailors at the opposite teams.(If an opponent team member did something intergalactically foolish-like passing the ball to someone from the other team- the screamers usually showered such walking models of ignominy with “I love you”)

3.       Hangers-on- Don’t let the name fool you. These people were THE most important members of the game. Hangers-on are never great players; truth be told, they suck big time. But, they are the stabilizing glue that prevents the team from exploding like a supernova because of its own brilliance and aggression. Usually, these people don’t care much for the game and are never too driven to win it. They are just there to enjoy themselves because it is a free period and good humouredly take part in whatever foolhardiness their more tempestuous teammates may plan. They observe the other categories of players with mild interest and amusement-akin to someone watching kittens play with a ball of wool. They never take the game developments seriously and observe violent arguments from the background with a smirk.

Evidently, I recognize myself chiefly with the first two types.

And now the game itself.

Time was precious, ticking by mercilessly so we had to make optimum use of it, usually by cutting ten minutes of the next period. Games often devolved into Gladiator matches, complete with a bloodhound crowd hungry for battle. People would fall, bruise their knees, twist their ankles or tear a tendon but the game wouldn’t stop. Super obsessed people like me never even noted when a warrior fell, marching on grimly, throwing in a few choice swear words to the entire opponent team. Name calling was a given. I am not ashamed to say that I have sworn like a fishwife at some of my best friends in the heat of the game- an official amnesty would be issued at the end of it- no hard feelings. Sometimes, the two teams would polarize into a twisted version of the jaded “boys vs. girls”-we won, no doubt. And then there was the “yeh mera boyfriend, chhodo isse” conundrum.Which I would LOVE to explain here.

To put it succinctly, whenever anyone gained possession of the ball and someone else tried to snatch it, said possessor of ball would hug the ball to their chest and bend-hence cutting off all access to it. Sometimes, a tug of war would ensue-so virulently violent that best mates would turn into snarling adversaries. At times like these, I used to dance around the involved parties and sing (in a faux girly, high pitched voice even KJo doesn’t make his actors use)”Chhodo isse, yeh mera boyfriend hai.Nahhiin, yeh mera hai.”(Leave him alone, he’s my boyfriend; no, no he is mine)

Aah, the fun I’ve had in this lifetime.

If the footballers ever came to play with us, they would usually be appalled that you are not “double dribble” or that the court was so teensy small that two passes and one shot at the basket meant score. Or they would do something super silly as dribble the ball standing outside the court-ten voices would scream “Foul”.

And the one last and personal favorite, dimension was Foul. Or rather the perpetrating of an unlawful act on a basketball court. Usually involved tripping, violent snatching (this has left gash marks on the arms of many of us), or shoulder pushing. At any such incident, one loud bellow would issue forth from the mouths of the team members, “Foul”. Usually involved parties would fake their injuries a bit longer to get the ball to return to favorable hands.

We all lost all sense whatsoever of propriety and sometimes clothes were torn (I am thinking of one memorable occasion here). We went at each other like madmen (and I don’t mean that positively or sexually) and emerged with disheveled hair, sprains or injuries, uniforms that dripped with sweat. We also usually smelled real bad- but now I like to think that there were tones in our malodor-tones of victory, tones of achievement, tones of defeat, tones of anger, tones of aggression, tones of hurt, tones of determination, but most importantly of all-tones of freedom.

So after my lengthy recollection that is sure as hell not going to fade with time- I am so glad my grandchildren will know the things I did as a teen-because this is written here. After this exercise, I have realized that happy memories are written in indelible ink, they will never fade with time. And why is that? Because every time you think of a moment of such wild, giddy happiness-details don’t matter; what matters is the rush of warmth in you, that tingling in your toes, the whale-sized butterflies in your tummy and most importantly of all, that grin you sport on your face. See, that very one that you are smiling right now.