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Rottingbrain Rolls OnByProfessor Madankumar A. Majmundar Chapter 4ROTTINGBRAIN AND THE BIG DAY |
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"Gentlemen," declaimed Professor L, somewhat in the fashion of
William Shakespeare's Mark Antony, "the twenty-sixth of January is the
Indian Republic Day."
"I don't. How d'you know it is?" demanded Professor P. "It is a universally acknowledged fact." "I don't acknowledge it." "You've got to." "Certainly not." "The twenty-sixth of January is the Indian Republic Day." "Prove it." A hush fell over the Rottingbrain staff. How did you prove such things? And then a most amazing thing happened. Professor H, our official man of genius, whisked a diary out of his pocket and handed it to the doubter. The doubter made the appropriate reference. "All right," he granted, grudgingly. "Proceed." And he lapsed into his habitual stupor. In this condition he looked exactly like a rat that has been run over by a bus full of university students on a jaunt. "It's just a fortnight off, and it's high time we put our heads together and chalked out a fitting programme to celebrate the day in a manner worthy of this great institution," Professor L delivered himself, importantly.
"I suppose we'll be having a holiday on that day?" asked Professor E. "Of course," said Professor L. "Isn't that enough of a celebration?" "It is not, Professor E. The world expects something more of Rottingbrain." "I expect the world to mind its own blasted business." "Let the world go to hell," erupted Professor G. "Gentlemen, I've drawn up a tentative schedule," Professor L went on, contemptuously disregarding the backsliding pair. "Bravo!" exclaimed Professor C. "Hear, hear!" gushed Professor Z. And there was a lot of stamping of the staff-room floor and thumping of the long staff-room table and general clapping and caterwauling in the midst of which Professor P remained rigidly a run-over rat. "Order, gentlemen, order!" fog-horned Professor L. Order was established. "Let's have the schedule," said Professor C. "Out with the schedule," said Professor H. "Produce the schedule," said Professor G. "Flag-salutation at seven," Professor L announced, the tip of his nose a little creased. "Morning or evening?" Professor G wanted to know. "How could it be evening, sir? Morning. At seven." "I call that an unearthly hour." "It's a very reasonable hour, sir." "Make it eight-thirty." "Why?" "I cannot get up before eight on a holiday." "This is Republic Day." "That makes no difference." "Regrettable. Very regrettable." "No comments, Professor L." "All right, Professor G. I'll make et eight. Eight-thirty's much too late. You'll make it convenient to get up at seven or thereabouts and be on the college-grounds not later than five minutes to eight." "Frightful ordeal," grunted Professor C. "You ought to consider it a privilege, sir" Professor L rasped out like a saw. "A privilege?" "Where's your patriotism gone, Professor C?" "Into your pocket, Professor L." "I don't like this levity. In the words of a poet whose name escape me at the moment, you all men of Rottingbrain must vow to your country, all earthly things above, entire, whole and perfect, the service of your love; the love that never falters, the love that stands the test, and lays upon the alter, the dearest and the best. And, to draw upon the poet Rupert Brooke, if you should die, you should ask the world to think only this of you that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever India." "Else," barged in Professor G, "to requisition the diction of the poet Scott, we shall all go down to the vile dust from whence we sprung, unwept, unhonoured, and unsung." "Manual work from eighty- to nine-thirty," Professor L stemmed the tide of quotations. "What do you mean manual work?" Professor H barked, viciously. "We'll sweep the college floors." "Haven't we got any army of overpaid peons to do the job?" "Dignity of labour, my dearest sir, dignity of labour." "Dignity of labour my eye. The only kind of manual work I'm prepared to do is to sweep all the grime off your bald pate." "Cut that out!" demanded the rest of the professors (except Professor P, of course) as one professor. And we were also tough and so rough that Professor L had to bend and cut the item out directly. "Variety entertainment from three to six," he continued. "Some sense in that," opined Professor H. "Give us your famous imitation of a chimpanzee eating a raw banana, Professor L," trilled Professor N. "The entertainment will be given by our students," Professor L clarified, several creases of anger on and around the tip of his nasal appendage. "And, Professor N, you'll kindly note that I have never imitated a chimpanzee eating a raw banana in my life." "Then you imitate a chimpanzee eating a ripe banana?" "I don't imitate a chimpanzee eating any sort of banana, sir." "Then you have wasted your life, sir. The lord in His infinite wisdom and mercy has granted unto you the exact looks and natural gestures of a hefty chimpanzee, and you have never cared to use the divine gift to any advantage!" "Illuminations from seven in the evening onwards," Professor L concluded hastily. "Who will pay for the illuminations?" inquired Professor E, very pertinently. "The management's agreed to pay." "I find it hard to lend credence to it." "Nevertheless it's true." "Well then why waste all that good money on illuminations?" "What would you have instead?" "A dinner. A grand staff dinner. Nothing like a grand staff dinner to cap off R-Day celebrations." "Who'll pay for that grand staff dinner?" "Divert the illuminations grant to the dinner." "Impossible." "Make it possible, my dear fellow." "How am I to make it possible?" "Tell the management that the Rottingbrain professors with fine free food inside them constitute the most dazzling illuminations ever." "You are making fun of me, Professor E." "I have better things to do than that, Professor L." "Donkey!" "Chimpanzee!" That was the last straw. Professor L forgot himself so far as to hurl his 'Complete Works of Robert Browning' at the anatomy of Professor E. The latter caught the volume with great manual dexterity and very successfully brought it down on the glistening top of the missile's clumsy launcher. Someone brought Professor P back to life by the wise expedient of pulling efficaciously at that gentleman's pendulous nose. The outraged savant began picking up objects and directing them to all available targets. This amazingly erudite operation played havoc with the various academic noses, ears, chins, tummies, backs and behinds around. "Gentlemen!" came a resounding boom. We all froze up. The only noise we heard was that of slow and steady drip of about half a pound of ink that had soaked into the bottom of Professor L's trousers in the course of fray. It was the principal. "Will someone come forward and tell me what has been going on here?" the principal ground out. I went forward. I told him all. "Professor L," he hissed, his nostrils flaring out, his eyes blazing, his forehead furrowed into a dark frown, "I thank you for having taken upon yourself the responsibility of deciding the Republic Day celebration. But you'll kindly leave such things to me in future." "The big Day is fast approaching, sir, and I thought I'd save you the trouble of such mechanical activities," Professor L tried to defend himself. "I'm sure I'm deeply grateful to you for that handsome consideration. But you seem to have missed a point which appears to me to be important." "What's it, sir?" "Just this. The twenty-sixth of January is the Indian Republic Day. Today's the eleventh of February. That is to say, this year's Republic Day is now a thing of the past. Rottingbrain did have a celebration of sorts on the twenty-sixth last, but many of you failed to turn up." |
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