CLASSROOM PUNISHMENT

(Contrasting reactions then and now)





We hear often nowadays of some student or the other committing suicide because he or she was punished by a teacher. We also hear of some teachers hitting a student in a fit of anger and damaging some part of his or her body. Obviously something is wrong in the staff-student relationship.

A Ritual Punishment

Many years ago, when I was a school student, there was classroom punishment too, like caning. But we took it in our stride. If we broke down and cried, we were looked down upon by the other students. So we kept a stiff upper lip and took the caning with a small smile, however painful it was.


There was something formal about caning those days. The boy stood with his arm stretched out stiffly and the teacher caned the palm in measured strokes. It was more like a ritual, and no one was much affected by this act. But sometimes the teacher allowed his temper to get the better of him, and then the caning could be painful.

I had a classmate, Vaithilingam, who was rather a foppish character, always showing off and trying to impress everyone, particularly the girls, or rather one girl in particular. This was Vijayalakshmi, a pretty thing full of bubbling spirits.


One day Vaithilingam was caught in some mischief, and the teacher, Mr.Sivasubramania Pillai called for an explanation. Vaithi, in order to impress the class, mainly you know who, gave a haughty reply which sent the teacher into a towering rage. He asked Vaithi to put his hand out. And Vaithi raised his palm much higher than necessary, which angered the teacher even more. And he caned Vaithi’s palm much harder and for a longer time than usual. Vaithi never flinched, and when it was over, he gave a small smile and wafted a side glance that was reciprocated by a tender look of deep concern and sympathy. The teacher seemed very much upset over having lost control of his temper.


When everyone had calmed down, the teacher continued with the lesson. He asked a question to the class, and Vaithi raised his hand. “Yes, Vaithilingam” said the teacher. And Vaithi answered the question correctly. “Very good, Vaithilingam” said the teacher smiling at Vaithi. And Vaithi smiled back, and all of us smiled in relief. That was the end of the matter.

Kicks and ‘Kuttus’

There were other punishments too, like standing on the bench. We never could see how this was a punishment. When a boy was asked to stand on the bench it was a greater punishment for those sitting near him. For the moment the teacher turned to the blackboard, the boy standing on the bench stamped on his neighbours or kicked them. They hit back. There was a ruckus, and the teacher turned quickly only to find innocent looking youngsters gazing avidly at the board. Standing on the bench was more fun than punishment.

Another punishment was a rap on the head with one’s knuckles (Kuttu) which the teachers asked some neighbouring student to administer when a student was found to be inattentive.

One day some girls were chattering away unmindful of the teacher’s voice. So he gestured to some students to administer a ‘kuttu’ on one of them. But none of the girls noticed the teacher’s gesture. Finally a boy who had newly joined the school on transfer, and who didn’t know the conventions of our school, got up and gave a hard knock on the head of a girl. Everyone including the teacher was shocked. For in our school, boys were not supposed to touch the girls. There was tense silence in the classroom. Fortunately the bell rang and saved all of us a lot of embarrassment.

Life went on, canings and kuttus notwithstanding.

HUNG-UP ON THE LINE

(Originally published in ‘FILM FARE’ – 14th November, 1975)



Whatever happened to Chitra Chatterjea? Only a few years ago she was one of the top stars of Bombay. But where is she now? This a question that is not there in everybody’s mind. The public has a short memory, and perhaps, Chitra Chatterjea has already been forgotten. Hers is a sad Cinderella story of high drama, pathos and banality.



Chitra was a poor flower girl who sold her flowers at the bus stand of a small town. She was beautiful in a simple rustic way, and exuded a country charm that no one took notice of. She was wasting away in this small town until one day her Pygmalion stepped out of a Bombay bus.



This was B.R.Passionbra, the new wave director (maker of “Kama”, “Son of Kama”, “The Return of Kama” and “Kama Strikes Again”) who was famous for his shoe-string budgets and g-string heroines. Passionbra ‘discovered’ Chitra, and took her to Bombay by the next bus. Within a few weeks she had completed a film for him. That was the beginning.



She next starred in a series of films for O.P.Rumham and I.S.Hoaxer. Then came a few hits, and many big producers and directors started taking an interest in her. Even Nikhilesh Nickerby was thinking of casting her in his film. Satiate Joy, the film pundit, pronounced her ‘passable’. And Canned Cooks, the foreign producer, gave her a screen test which was banned in India. Chitra was riding high.



She was now rolling in wealth, and her ‘amma’ had come from the small town to look after her interests. A coterie of ‘chamchas’ had gathered around, and they found her a posh flat, where she settled down with great aplomb. She acquired a few oil paintings, a couple of Pomeranians and a liveried chauffeur who acted also as her manager. She even bought a couple of books, which she coloured in her free time. She became friendly with the younger crowd (Shin-Shin, Boobla-Boo, Ballonita Baggy and others), and they called her ‘Chit-chat’ for short.



Amma and the chamchas guided Chitra carefully in her career. She was allowed to stay only fifteen minutes in filmland parties. No more than one drink was permitted. (“Look at Noggin Nevershall; he could have made it big but for his drink habit”). Her mother hovered over her like a brooding hen, keeping party wolves at bay. Chitra was zealously guarded from drugs and cigarettes. (“You know, Funtoosha got into trouble with the Madras producer, Janwarappa, because she smoked on the sets”). Thus Chitra was well-protected. But Nemesis waited around the corner.



The chamchas, after moving heaven and earth, had managed to install a telephone in Chitra’s flat. It was a cute little telephone in pastel pink, and Chitra fell in love with it.



Every morning she dialed a number – any number – and started prattling away. She talked about fan letters, about clothes, about who is with who, and who belongs to whom this week – about anything at all. She just talked. And when the party at the other end of the line cut her off, she dialed some other number and chattered away. When her amma remonstrated with her, she retorted, “If Mrs. Dutt can do it, why can’t I?” The telephone was Chitra’s drug.



She forgot shooting schedules make-up sessions and hair-dressing appointments. Producers became frantic. They could never contact her, since her line was invariably engaged. And even when she occasionally made it to the sets, her voice was so hoarse after all that talking, that the directors had to call off the shooting.



Three producers went bankrupt, and one of these attempted suicide. But like all his films, this attempt also was a failure. Anyway, Chitra’s downfall had begun. She was black-listed. Shin-shin, Boobla-Boo and others avoided her like the plague.



New offers ceased; contracts were cancelled; the chamchas dropped off. Even a ‘Muck’ soap commercial to be filmed on her was called off. The coach had turned into a pumpkin. The glass slipper was broken.



We hear that ‘Chit-chat’ Chatterjea is now a receptionist and PBX operator in a small company. It seems she is mighty happy.