Mumbai Central - Likhaai:Chapter 5 of Rottingbrain Rolls On

Rottingbrain Rolls On

By
Professor Madankumar A. Majmundar

Chapter 5

MISS PEACH COMES TO ROTTINGBRAIN

I was making Herculean efforts to wrest a modicum of relaxation out of one of the arm-less, straight-back, hard-bottomed wooden chairs standing round the long, dusty, creaky table in the Rottingbrain staff-room.

Suddenly, the flap-doors flew open with a piercing squeak and let in the bulk of Professor L. This gentleman made straight for the chair to my right and lowered his huge frame on to it. I tried to neglect him. I desired rest, not Professor L's company.

Author Bio

Professor M. A. Majmundar was known for his typical inimitable style of subtle British humour. He was a well known professor of English at Bhavan's College, Mumbai. His literary freelancing across a span of two decades rendered him a very affectionate recognition amongst his readers who could never afford to miss him and were always keen to read and treasure his contributions in Shankar's Weekly (New Delhi) and Amritabazar Patrika (Calcutta). Professor Majmundar has made appearances in almost all contemporary newspapers and periodicals in India. He had the honour of being reproduced in the British digest 'Parade' (London). He is also translated into number of Indian languages .

"Professor," Professor L blared into my ears.

"I am not deaf, sir," I yapped at him.

"Heard the latest?" he pursued.

"No," I snapped, packing into the monosyllable as much of pure crystalline resentment as possible.

"The University Commission is visiting us early next month. And a young lady is filling up the post recently left by my lecturer," trumpeted the chatterbox, accompanying the latter half of his information with a sly wink.

"A lady?" I asked, suddenly interested.

"A lady," said Prof. L, winking again.

"And young?"

"Young, very young. A girl, to be precise."

"Married?"

"Single, my dear fellow, single. A maiden meditation fancy free."

"You don't have to wink away so meaningfully, Prof. L."

"She is a 'gem and flower of heavenly light, pearl of imperial skies, violet of Paradise!' I can see your mouth watering, you old rake." "What's her name?"

"Peach. Madeline Peach. Divinely musical, eh?'

"European?"

"One of the indigenous peaches. But as lusciously and succulently pretty as her name. Boy, we are getting on."

"How do you happen to know all this?"

"A little bird told me."

"When's this Peach joining us?"

"About the middle of next month."

"Take care. You are a bachelor. An old one; still a bachelor. And remember, there's no fool like an old fool."

"I'm not old enough to be called old. Thanks for your warning; however, I'm happy this Peach is coming. Rottingbrain is about as merry as a graveyard in plague time. The girl will bring life and colour to it."

"Why should she come here, of all the places in the world?"

"Our good luck. Some romance atlast, boy."

"Prof. L, I strongly object to your addressing me as 'boy'."

"Sorry, old corpse."

"Professor L!"

"Your eyes are shining out like beacons in the dark, old goat! That's the magic of Miss Madeline Peach, M.A. You old rip!"

"I shall thank you to subtract yourself from my visual field, sir."

"There goes the college bell, old horse. Can't give you the pleasure of my company anymore. Ta-ta! Sweet dreams!"

And the room smelt better for the old dotard's exit. I'm afraid Prof. L is Evolution's most questionable enterprise. Had the man gone off his rocker?

But the news turned out to be authentic. The little bird, as I soon unearthed was the principal of Rottingbrain. Prof. L is a satellite of the principal. He gets things straight from the horse's mouth. Well, it was very big news for Rottingbrain.

At the particular period in its history, Rottingbrain badly needed life and colour, atleast so far as its staff was concerned. With not a single young lady on the staff, the staff-room breathed the atmosphere of a cemetery.

This atmosphere had the weird property of deadening and fossilising every thing that slid under its sway. We had all arrived here as Learned Lights, and then rapidly degenerated into Laughable Loons. We did not study anymore, not gave lectures.

We mugged up cheap cribs and passed on the hoosh to our obtuse and unsuspecting students in the shape and form of notes. No more could the college magazine and the debating society excite our instinct of self-advertisement.

Our brains had almost rotted away into wispy fungi, and our bodies and garments reflected this sordid degeneration. We had no regular haircuts and shaves, and we scuffed about in crudely tailored and indifferently laundered clothes.

One of our critics made this observation about us: "Rotting brain teachers look as if they were barbered by tailors and tailored by barbers. They always present the sight of a bunch of bedraggled cockroaches that has just had a word with a couple of errant schoolboys. It'd be hard to find another such ragged and sinister crew on the surface of this planet."

But now Miss Madeline Peach was coming to Rottingbrain. Things began to look up at the old seat of learning. They hummed. The imminent Peach had electrified us.

Three days after the big news, four or five of us were talking some kind of scandal in the staff-room as usual. We were interrupted by the flap-doors squeaking open and disgorging and elegantly groomed, immaculately dressed, most distinguished looking stranger.

A breath-taking phenomenon, from his beautifully pomaded hair to his expertly shined shoes. He exhaled a powerful lavender-scent that went to our heads and made them spin. We automatically rose respectfully and greeted the aristocratic visitor with obsequious smiles. He grinned at us affably, baring two strikingly familiar gold fangs.

Good Lord, if it wasn't that old fraud Prof. F? But he was! But yesterday he could be mistaken for a chimney sweep out of his job, and now here he was cutting very nearly the figure of a Prince Charming! Verily, clothes make the man.

Well, we sat down foiled. And before the week was out, every mother's son of us had transmogrified himself from a scarecrow after a storm into an Oscar Wilde in his heyday. Our brains started functioning like billy-o. We began hacking through the largest tomes we could lay our hands on. We bombarded the editor of the college magazine with articles.

We made the classrooms and the assembly hall ring with our oratory. Our students gaped with wonder and astonishment. And we pestered the Principal to let us deliver open public lectures. And we challenged one another to public elocution contests. Yes, sir. Madeline Peach had pressed the switch, and Rottingbrain was whirring away like a gigantic factory.

And then Prof. L disappeared for a few days, and came back with an object that made us all gasp with pleasure. It was an autographed copy of Miss Peach's photograph. Prof. L proudly passed it round with the unmistakable air of a man who has won the girl of his dreams. Our jaws dropped to behold this Peach, the Paragon of Beauty. In the immortal words of the poet Keats, our hearts ached, and a drowsy numbness pained our senses, as though of hemlock we had drunk, or emptied some dull opiate to the drains one minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk.

We were married men with troops of children; yet we were consumingly jealous of Prof. L. The man was a bachelor. A bald bachelor. Still a bachelor. He'd conquered this Peach, no doubt. Soon there'd be wedding bells for him, and, for us much expense over wedding-presents.

"Isn't she a marvel, boys!" the sexy old clod chirped like a mad cricket. "She's the first whiff of spring, lads; she's the cool green blaze of a forest; she's the first gorgeous sunshine after the monsoon. She's coming on the 15th next month. We'll see you at the ceremony soon afterwards, Madeline and I."

That was quick work! I never knew the fellow had it in him to be so up and doing. Or had he known the Peach for a long time past? How I loathed that 'we'?

The University Commission did not see the pig-sty it had confidently expected to see. It fairly blinked at the scrumptious show we were putting up for our Peach. Yes, Sir Madeline Peach was ours, and we were dead set on being a credit to her. We had a very flattering report from the Commission. The Principal was pleased as Punch.

The great day dawned at long last. At college, I overheard Prof. L and the Principal fixing up between them the reception of Miss Peach at the suburban station. The selfish old wretches! We were to be kept out of the show, eh? Well, we didn't care to be thus relegated to the inglorious background. We itched to be in the limelight.

We all privately decided to march to the station in a body, dressed in our best, and let the two self-sufficient scoundrels have us full in their eyes. They gave us a hollow laugh when we met them at the platform at which the through train on its way to the terminus would draw up. They looked very rudely surprised and dark scoundrelly scowls went on flitting across their faces.

The train pulled in, a good hour late. "There!" cried the Principal, starting to run. We ran after him, falling over one another in the stampede. The Principal stopped at a compartment, gasping and spluttering. So did Prof. L. So did we. The door of the compartment opened.

"That woman's blocking up her way!" snarled Prof. L like a tiger, pointing an accusing finger at an elephantine woman who'd appeared in the doorway. She was a vast system of countless folds of fat. Black as ebony, ugly as sin, rigged up in a travel-stained khaki frock, an oleaginous solar topee, navy-blue stockings and brown canvas shoes frayed at the toes, she made my stomach turn.

"Welcome to Rottingbrain, Miss Peach," the Principal piped, stepping up to the female mastodon with an extended hand.

"The beggar's made a mistake, correct him!" I whispered into Prof. L's ear. All he did was to give me a sly wink.

"My staff, Miss Peach. Gentlemen, Miss Peach," the Principal continued. You could have knocked us all down with a feather.

"Gentlemen," the Principal explained to us later, "I and Prof. L did it all for the University Commission in the interest of Rottingbrain. There seemed to be no other way of shaking you out of your torpor. I interviewed the lady in Calcutta and then described her to Prof. L. And Prof. L suggested to me the idea of exploiting the damsel's charms for the good of our great institution. About that photograph... well... you can get any number the like of it anywhere these days.
And I don't think the autograph requires any explanation. Gentlemen, you'll all agree that Prof. L has done us a real service. He deserves some practical recognition of this service. I propose that we have a staff dinner in his honour. It will come to Rs. 10 a head. The head-clerk will be going around for contributions tomorrow. I don't want any defaulting, please. Thank you."

Write to us at likhaai@mumbai-central.com with your views about this section and if you would like to see your work here.

Mumbai-Central.com

Top:likhaai

Rottingbrain Rolls On

Chapter 5

Author Bio