Ruling with the rod

The drawing master's cane treated my right palm with half a dozen of the juiciest.

The provincial school that nurtured me felt the boys should learn a couple of crafts on the side Though gardening, one such option, was our fav-ourite, we had to suffer embarrassment when the rowdyish black ants gained entry into the half trousers while sitting cross-legged under a banyan tree. The crows, on their part aerially bombed the boys’ heads at will with yucky poo. No! There was no Narendra Modi, Vidya Balan or Swacch Bharat Abhiyan those days.

But what we dreaded most was the drawing class. The grumpy master, who was reportedly tormented by a combo of haemorrhoids and duodenal ulcer, always appeared with a menacing cane.  It became an inseparable part of his persona, as the mace with Bhima.

One day, he drew on the blackboard an assortment of a solid cube, sphere, cone, cylinder and such stacked on a plank. A naked bulb was burning on top on the left. We had to draw the objects and their shadows. As he went around the class, he froze near me and lifted me by my ear lobe. “Tell me, you numbskull, when a visitor comes home for lunch, will you first place the wooden plank on the floor for him to sit, or will you ram the wooden seat under his fundament after he sat.” His cane treated my right palm with half a dozen of the juiciest.

At home, my grandma was moved to tears seeing my right palm. “Don’t you worry,” she said offering me solace and more importantly a plate of freshly made coconut burfis. “Your drawing master will not use his cane hereafter.” But how? She didn’t tell.

The cane-wielder did not attend school for about a month. When he appeared, there were gasps of surprise from the boys. The cane was missing.  Rajappa, the front-bencher, later swore  he saw secret smiles dancing on his lips now and then. Amazing!

When I told my grandma about the incredible transformation, she merely tousled my hair with a smug expression. When pressed, she said, “It was due to Kanaka, the master’s wife.”

I blinked. I knew the master’s wife had died six months back. Paatti tousled my hair again and continued. “Your master married the beautiful Kanaka, his wife’s sister. That girl is benefitting from my  tutorship on cookery, rangoli, embroidery and such. But, as a guru dakshina, I did not demand her thumb. I told her to make her hubby throw away the dreaded rod and love his students.”

“But, paatti, you mean the obstinate  master agreed? Unbelieveable,” I said.

“You are too young to understand such complexities. Crusty men turn into  putty in the hands of young and beautiful women. When even the sage Viswamitra, who did tapas standing on one leg  for ten thousand years or so, would fall head over heels in love  with the alluring   Menaka, why not a mere mortal, a drawing master?”