Our postman had spent the good part of an afternoon scouring the hillside looking for a Mrs. Aili.
"Who's that? Never heard of her," I said, until suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks -- the power of
a misplaced full stop had altered my name and my gender too.
I chased him downhill.
"Look, what they've done to my name," complained Peter Lugg, a teacher at Woodstock School, showing me a telegram addressed to a Mr Plugg. It had been all over the school doing the rounds, until a bright student managed to crack the code and steered it towards Peter.
Often than not, I too tend to mix-up names hastily written on pieces of paper at the last minute, and shoved into my hand. On one occasion, our college's literary society invited Mr Jeremy Firth, an Irishman to a poetry-reading session. How could I have faulted Professor Mishra, our English teacher, for fluffing his lines when he boomed: "This is Mr Blundel from Firth School of London."
Most graciously, Mr Firth took it in his stride. "I am not the blunder of Firth School. I simply schooled at Blundell’s in Tiverton. It is a place with a lineage of 250 years."
During my years in college, Professor Mishra showered me with love and affection. I am grateful for his kindness, considering that all I brought to the table was the self-assured cockiness of a young boy who spent his waking hours trying to catch a glimpse of the cabaret artistes setting more than the floor on fire in Hakman's Grand Hotel.
On the other hand, Panditji (for that is what we furtively referred to Mishraji) taught John Milton's Paradise Lost with immense passion. For a passing moment, Satan rose to become the leader of fallen angels by standing up to god's authority. By the time he reached the end, he was lost to the beat of the rhyme, quite forgetting his dentures -- we hung on to the edge of our benches as he came perilously close to spitting them out.
Years flew by until by chance, I met Gitaram Joshi, a retired officer of the Indian Revenue Department, who opened the doors to the past. "His home," he told me, "was the first port of call for all anyone coming to study in Doon, especially from Jaunsar-Bawar."
One day a telegram arrived with news of Mishraji's father having passed away in Allahabad.
"Trying to be helpful, I got him a train ticket, packed an overnight tiffin for the journey, packed his clothes, fetched a tonga and saw him off on board the train."
Done and dusted. Or so he thought as he made his way home and arrived to find that Mishraji had got there well before he did. "There he was sitting on his favourite planter’s chair on the front verandah, sipping his cup of tea."
Seeing the stunned look on his face, he murmured, "Why go through this farce? I never did get along with my father all my life, having left that house as soon as I was old enough to be my own man. Why start a new chapter now?"
In life, often some roads turn into the roads of no return.
Ganesh Saili is an author, photographer, illustrator. He can be reached at sailiganesh@gmail.com.