This blog has nothing to do with the book of poems by Judith Goldman. I thought the title, and on a whim net-checked, and then felt too lazy to change. So there it is. Actually, this post is about the time when jimmy taught me to tie the shoes. That too is a line from a poem.
Samir was my elder brother, born on a Saturday in August like me. He arrived in the morning and I in the evening, same time, 7.30 am and pm. Mom told me all this. Till that time I was going to Sachin Babu’s school. A burly, bald-headed, stoutish person who wielded a cane as the Headmaster of the Rajbari School. But the school was known in the locality as earlier given. The teachers of the school used their canes when the students were unruly or when failed to answer the question asked. In the classes taken by Sachin Babu, I kept quiet like everyone else and had been lucky to answer the questions he asked now and then. Then came the day when we had a game period and since the game teacher was absent, Sachin Babu lead us to the playground. Usually, we fooled around with a football, but that day Sachin Babu asked us just to run around. We were so engaged when suddenly Sachin Babu asked me to catch hold of Neepu. Now Neepu was a budding footballer, all lean muscles whereas I was a flaky weakling who didn’t like vigorous physical activities. So, Neepu remained tantalisingly close, but out of reach. It was jolly good fun for everyone, excepting me. So, change of school for me, I resolved .
It so happened that the year was ending and admissions were going on in government school, an institution of some repute, from where Samir and my otther elder brother Sudhin matriculated. I appeared at the tests, got selected and Dad asked Samir to get me admiteed. After it was over we were returning when from a roadside vendor Barda (that’s how I addressed him) got two oranges
and gave me one. I peeled it and butterfinger that I was, dropped it on the dirt road. Muttering in disgust, Barda gave me half of his orange and years later when I read in a poem jimmy taught me to tie the shoes, I knew what the poet meant.
Barda died last year at the age of eighty-four. When I started writing this in 2010, I thought of sending it to him.