Hemantha Kalam - 55 'The binding and the bondage'

                                                                         ‘Irunthaalum marainthaalum peyar solla vendum,                                                                                     Ivar pola yaar enru oor solla vendum…’                                                                                                                                                      

[Existing or departed, the name we should say; who is like this man, the town should say]                     --- Part of a Tamil song by lyricist ‘Vaali’ for the Tamil film ‘Panam Padaithavan’

(Excepting one, all the photographs are courtesy my brother and two sisters – thanks to them)

A chance conversation with an Uber cab driver poked the memories nest.

The months of June-July are significant in the lives of the school going students in India. For some of them it could be a new school, new premises, new classmates and new friends. But, for almost all of them the teachers and a new set of books are something inevitable and to look forward to.

I went down into my own memory lane of about half a century ago. Those were the times when schools did not yet become so nastily commercial where the books, the uniform and in some schools nutritious food, extra coaching are directly provided (match making is indirectly facilitated) by the schools and in the schools.

The schools I was attending, for my elementary classes, and later the high school, had a list of books – both text and note books - prescribed for the coming academic year and usually we were always directed to one shop to get them – Tirumalai Stores near Panagal Park in T. Nagar in Madras (now Chennai). Normally about a week time is given for the students to buy and to attend classes with all the books.

For me that one week of respite used to have mixed emotions. I was happy that for about a week the donkey load of books (regretfully most of the Indian schools, to this day, have not got out of this practice of over burdening the school going children with a lot of books; making them load donkeys if they study well and if not, literally asses) will be absent and I can go hands free excepting for my lunch box that my mother insisted I carry on all days – come hell, heaven or high water; and more happy after I had to take the new books to the school to show off (more of this later as the blog progresses, please).

The shop, Tirumalai Stores, was wedged in between the famous bakers McRennet and the then equally popular The Parklands Hotel both emanating wafts of confectionery from one side and condiments from the other. Sadly all three do not exist there today at the location, giving way to greedy mega-shops that have been systematically predating on smaller shops and not so very well doing businesses (if the government’s plans fructify, the lung space of Panagal Park itself may be extinct soon giving in way for a multi level car park, catering to the ever increasing greedy commercial establishments who have literally killed the joy of the residents in this area; forever).

It used to be like a jamboree at the book shop. Being a shop that used to cater to more than half a dozen schools in the vicinity, the evening hours during the June-July months used to be crazy with a mad rush at the place.

There used to be a large barred window where at one corner, a cashier used to sit and collect lists of books needed, from the students/parents and handover the lists to the helpers inside to fetch the books with one hand while collecting cash for the delivered books with the other. From the other corner of the window, the helpers used to deliver bundles of books by calling out the names and standards of classes.

Indians, ever since attaining independence, or for that matter even earlier perhaps had rarely shown any respect for orderliness or queues, I have to say. We are like the air and can be anywhere and everywhere. Where others form one queue we are capable of forming several – at least three or four.

So there used to be a melee at the window with parents and students jostling with each other trying to get the attention of the cashier and the helpers, all shouting at the same time. It was sheer madness. Yet, there appeared to be a method in the madness, for rarely did the shop guys err in any of their deliveries.

Those students who got their bundle of books and other paraphernalia (brown sheets to cover the books, black and sets of colour pencils, pencil sharpeners, erasers, those who are getting into larger classes getting a pen and/or a geometry box and a sheet of labels to paste on the books after covering them with the brown sheets), moved away from the window along with their parents.

If you are getting a ‘Globe’ Geometry box (Camlin entered the business arena much later) costing about Rs.5.00 means that you are from an affluent family. The rest of the guys used to make do with a normal box that might not have cost more than Rs.2.00. Getting a pencil with an inbuilt eraser is real fancy and which is very often prone to be knocked off in the class.

Getting a fountain pen for the first time, along with a bottle of ‘Quink’ ink (of Parker – later this brand was called ‘Chelpark’ but over a period this brand gave way to another one called ‘Bril’. But my first and last love for ink always had been for ‘Quink’ only) was a thrill that cannot be described in simple words.

The first time I am to get a pen, my father didn’t buy a pen at the shop much to my consternation, but he got only the ink bottle. When I reminded him he just smiled and did not answer. I was much disappointed and put up a sulking face till we reached home. There was no pen the next day, or on the following days. I was getting worried and was nagging my mother as I dared not ask my father directly. I loved him alright but I was more scared of him those days. Its only when I became a full fledged adult (hmm… some say I am still child like and some say that I am childish) that I became more and more closer to him.

My mother also religiously used to remind him and his answer was always a silent smile. His smile was the best in him as he was quite a handsome man and a smiling he, was a great scene to see.

Well, coming back to the book shop; after receiving the books bundle, the parents used to stand away from the issue window and keeping the books on the carrier of the bicycles, scrutinise all text books page by page for any missing or improperly printed/cut pages and the straightness of the wooden scale/ruler.

The students were always worried about the cover pictures of the note books and the designs of the labels. Every student wanted his / her books to be unique. I think the boys were more finicky about these than the girls. Either the girls, many of them, didn’t really care or didn’t find it important to vocalise their concerns in this regard.

If there are any pages missing or not printed properly, the parents used to immediately draw the attention of the shopkeepers and claim for a replacement and once issued with a replacement check that or those too for any anomalies.

The whole process used to take anything between a half hour and three hours. Some parents used to go the next day morning and take the books leisurely and in peace as the students were attending the school at that time   

I rue that I was too young to study the process as now, when I look back, I think that it was a great case study of a well oiled ‘Project Management’.

Now, while all the students used to have their books neatly covered by brown sheets, my books and later my siblings’ were always unique, thanks to our dear father.

He used to pedal his bicycle from his office, pick me up at my school from where we used to ride doubles to the shop and after getting all the books at the shop, pedal back home together.

He then used to take his evening bath (he always liked to bathe twice a day for a long time), offer his evening prayers, have dinner and start opening the books and start measuring the sizes and take notes.

Next day he used to visit ‘Swarnam Stores’ the textile shop, in Pondy Bazaar (since defunct and extinct), where we usually bought our clothes from regularly and get discarded thick card boards (which come as packing for rolling shirt and trouser cloth) from them along with a meter or a half of Calico and what is called as 'Gada cloth' locally, which normally is an off white, unbleached coarse cloth.

My father was working in the production departments for the film industry initially and used to stock at home what is called ‘marble paper’ which used to be available in pink and green colours with a lot of varnished sheen on the surface.

The next day evening he would cut all the cardboards to the size of the text books, cut the marble sheets, cut sufficient strips of the Gada Cloth for the spines of the books and ask my mother to cook some Maida flour (something like the cake flour) mixed with a little of Copper Sulphate (CuSO4). The CuSO4 is to ensure longevity of the books and to protect from predatory insects. No wonder our books lasted over 50 years or so.

He then used to select some good designed pictures from old calendars and cut them to the size of the front as well as the back of the book to form the inner layer – two of them for each book – one for pasting to the board and one for leaving as an attractive inner cover and then stitch the papers to the book firmly with good quality twine. Then he used to paste the strip of the gada cloth carefully to the already cut boards with the cooked maida flour which now becomes the glue and also apply the same evenly without any bulges anywhere to the sides of the front and back boards as well as to one of the stitched layers of the calendar paper on the book. Like this, he used to patiently bind book after book and keep all the books under a wooden plank and place a large grinding pestle on top of the plank and go to sleep.

 Grinding Pestle Picture Courtesy: Google Search Engine

The next day I could see lovely bound books.

The year when I had to start using a fountain pen and on the day when I started taking the new books to the school, my father called me and asked me what I was going to do for a pen. Angry that I didn’t get a pen and scared to ask him, I remember giving him a dreadful look with eyes bulging with tears. Then he laughed and took a box from the cup-board where he used to keep a choice of brand new unused pens as a collection and asked me to take one that I fancied.

I took a lovely pen and lost it in the school on the first day itself. Someone knocked it off from me. The next day my father got me an ordinary pen that cost something that was lesser than one rupee.

This book, perhaps, is about 50 years old now.

The Telugu Essay text book I must have used circa 1967-69 and still available in our house

It may be hard for many to believe, but in the entire city only I and later my siblings used to have such wonderful and colourfully bound text-books. A few students used to get their books bound by professional binders but those books clearly looked machine made and never had the same charm as those my father did for me and for us.

Most of my classmates used to wait to see what I produce this time every year. Yet, I realise today that my father never checked with me once as to what was the reaction of my teachers or my classmates to his fine handiwork. He wanted to give us books that would last long and that is all his objective was.

Later it became difficult for my father to get hold of good calendar pictures so he used to use thick plain sheets. He also started using whatever unused or discarded cloth was available in the house for the spines.

The good thing about his binding was that at least students of three to four consecutive years (those days the syllabus never changed so frequently) could use them in almost the same condition unless anyone wanted deliberately to be careless.

This book was first bound for my first sister, used next year by my cousin brother and 

the next year or probably two years hence, used by my second sister

He collected the children’s magazine Chandamama in Telugu language from 1963 till almost Chandamama stopped publishing in Telugu and periodically bound six books for one bound each. In the 1970s he helped a budding publisher who was our neighbour and who brought out a competing children’s magazine called ‘Bommarillu’ (which also came out in several Indian languages), collected them from the inception and bound them too. Incidentally my first earnings of my life of a princely Rs.5.00 was for contributing to this magazine sometime in 1972 if I remember well and thus my first paid publishing was also this.

 The ‘Chandamama’ series from January to June 1964 -

This bound book collection was rebound by the professional binder but the pink marble sheet used by my father when he bound it first still exists and shows from behind.

One of the attractions for children, friends of mine and my siblings, in our house was these children’s magazines and the comics that I had collected. But, as a policy, the books were never lent to their homes. They can read at our home as long and as many they wished to, though.

The other rule was, the local inmates, that is my siblings and I can read the magazine when it arrives in the month, but can read the archives only when we had quarterly, half yearly and annual holidays. I so fondly remember looking forward to the holidays to read the repository of stories through these books. As soon as I wrote my last test / examination every year, I used to rush home, have lunch, take a Chandamama bind from the oldest, lie down on one of my dad’s camp cots and start reading the book till it is the next meal time (today I use many of these stories in my training sessions; thanks to the efforts to preserve them by my dad).

Due to this continuous use, some of the books were becoming slightly dog-eared and apparently I had brought in a professional binder to re-bind them. I don’t remember this, but my mother and my siblings reminded me that I brought in a professional binder to get these rebound. My father did not much like the work by the professional binder and somewhere from mid 1980s or so he stopped the binding work at home.

I had learnt this art from my father and could have done the binding too but neither did I have his penchant nor his patience for the work and sadly never did the same for my children – not even once!

My father need not have explicitly expressed his love and affection for us; but what he left behind is enough proof for us, for eternity; that he cared for us and loved us, in his own way. The books he preserved by binding are with us but he left us off from the bondage.

It’s been two years since he passed away on this day, the 14^th July. Hope he is resting in peace, but knowing him, he is not the resting type and surely can’t be idle for long. I wonder each and every day, as to where ‘he’ could be now and what ‘he’ must be doing there, wherever. For me it is an obsession; looking forward to meeting him again!

Till then, 

Krutagjnatalu (Telugu), Nanri (Tamil), Dhanyavaadagalu (Kannada), Nanni (Malayalam), Dhanyavaad (Hindi), Dhanyosmi (Sanskrit), Thanks (English), Dhonyavaad (Bangla), Dhanyabad (Oriya), Gracias (Spanish), Grazie (Italian), Danke Schon (Deutsche), Merci (French), Obrigado (Portuguese), Shukraan (Arabic), Shukriya (Urdu), Bohoma Sthuthiyi (Sinhalese) Aw-koon (Khmer), Kawp Jai Lhai Lhai (Laotian), Kob Kun Krab (Thai),Asante (Kiswahili), Maraming Salamat sa Lahat (Pinoy-Tagalog-Filipino), Tack (Swedish),Fa'afetai (Samoan), Terima Kasih (Bahasa Indonesian) and Tenkyu (Tok Pisin of Papua New Guinea).

Hemantha Kumar Pamarthy

Chennai, India