As I stepped out of the house, I was fascinated by the Gulmohar tree, the Bougainville flowers, and the Neem tree, all doing some sort of synchronised drill.
The labourers on the construction sites were also busy. At least six apartments were being built in the vicinity, and all were involved in specific drills.
Last evening, as I sat in the dental clinic, waiting for my turn, the whirring of the drilling machine kept piercing my ears.
Drill – drill – drill.
It struck me that the entire life is one unending drill.
I suddenly heard our old school PTI ordering the girls in a bellowing voice:
“Pehli line ka doosra ladka,
theek nahi chalta theek chalega
Ek do ek.”
To this day, I do not remember why he referred to the girls as boys, and why his commands were embellished with harmless but funny expletives.
And why the ‘pehli line ka doosra ladka’ invariably happened to be me! A GIRL!
I was a tomboy – yes – but…
I must admit, he had a huge repertoire of innocuous expletives, which he very discreetly refrained from using in front of the nuns.
But once a very colourful expletive slipped from his mouth in their presence, and he sheepishly scampered away, hitching up his loose khaki half-pants.
But, I, a ten-year-old was witness to a pair of fiery eyes drilling holes in his broad back.
The drilling machine of the present was at work again at the construction site, drowning the stentorian command of the PTI of my school days.
Well, as I said, it’s all a question of drills.
