For five days in a row that week , there was no P.T. instructor.
Mrs. Roberts' had retired after a gala send -off , and no one had replaced her in a hurry .
Mrs. Sehgal came for the first two days' , and valiantly tried to keep the flag flying . She stood on the podium ,in her orange leotards , looking like an enormous carrot , with a brilliant ruby red pair of lips , shouting instructions , which everyone sniggered at . She was a music teacher , and consequently , not taken seriously .
The third day , she was found slumped on an easy chair , hoisted up to the podium , still in her pyjamas , from where she croaked into the mike , down with flu (later diagnosed as dengue fever). The pandemonium during school assembly was reaching a crescendo. The entire exercise was fast becoming a farce of mythic proportions.
Then , as a saviour , in stepped Mrs. Erickson , the ex-P.T. instructor from the neighbouring St.Teresa's for girls. She had a formidable reputation . She had once slapped a fainted weakling and sent her off to complete two further rounds of the school grounds. If there was any milk of human kindness in Mrs. Erickson , it had long ago curdled up . She was wrinkled , white , short , had a short haircut , and looked every inch the severe person she was reputed to be . When she stepped onto the podium , you could hear a leaf fall . The mike had to be lowered to her height. Then she spoke , and the silence deepened. She had a raspy voice , from a lifetime of training obese kids , and her words came out in short , wheezy , whispers .
But where Mrs. Sehgal's booming voice and Mrs. Roberts' cheery leers failed , Mrs. Erickson scored . Soon , order returned to P.T. classes and assembly time . Kids feared her . With that fear came a grudging respect for order , and authority.
For three weeks Mrs. Erickson's writ ruled the assembly and the P.T. ground. There was silence , ramrod stiff discipline , and military-type rope climbing , jogging and running around the tracks.
Then Mrs. Sehgal reappeared , after her long convalescence. Mrs. Sehgal , the curvy music teacher. Also a socialite , with political connections.She was a tenacious survivor , who was reputed to not give up too easily . Her family fled to India after the partition , so did her husband's. Through sheer grit , her family built its fiscal and political fortunes. It had been a hard way to the top.
She wore flouncy dresses and would change the colour of her finger nails , lipstick , shoes , handbags , to match her attire of the day. She would handle the mike gingerly , with the tips of her fingers , taking care not to chip the nail-paint . When she drank from a glass, she took care that her lipstick was not smudged.
Mrs. Erickson , in contrast , was austere. And single. She had been offered this post , as she was an anglo-indian (Anglo riff-raff , Mrs. Sehgal would sniff woundedly ). There were rumours that she had trained in the Army during the Second world war . No one knew who was Mr. Erickson , who gave her the powerful -sounding surname.
She was thin , dressed simply , in a cotton shirt and trousers , and had never worn any form of feminine make-up.
The first day , Mrs. Sehgal stood next to the podium , smiling at all and sundry, like a politician returning from hibernation , fomenting plans of toppling the usurper.
Next day , she came dressed in her trademark carrot leotards. She was the comic relief the kids were looking forward to . Some one in a senior class, loudly wished her . This was followed by a few more kids . Next thing we knew She had grabbed the mike and was shouting her sing-song "incantations" (that's what Mrs. Erickson would call her words). Mrs. E was hauling up some flagging girls at the back , showing them how to jump and clap correctly. A tiny blood vessel was seen throbbing on Mrs. E's temple , as she clenched her jaw to the incorrect and slow tempo of Mrs. Sehgal's 1-2-3.
There was a massive confusion amongst the girls . Gone was the crisp 1-2-3 , of Mrs. E's Roman Galley like beat . This was more like a call for auctioning one of Mrs.S's jhumkas.
After a moment, Mrs.E gathered her wits , marched to the front , and unceremoniously wrenched the mike from Mrs. S's manicured fingers . There was an audible gasp from the girls , and Mrs. S turned beetroot red . We had just witnessed the beginning of the World War 3.
Mrs. S left in a huff, and as some sympathisers noted later , in tears. Most of us were neutral and were highly entertained by this outbreak of hostilities in the open.
Objectively , Mrs.S had no business conducting P.T. , as a teacher had been appointed for that purpose. She should have gone back to the anonymity of her ragas , harmonium and tablas. Apparently , she enjoyed the limelight of P.T. with one's loud voice booming across the school , first thing in the morning . It was too much to give up .
The school management was petrified of telling this to Mrs. Sehgal , as she had political clout , which could be wielded at will , like a nuclear arsenal. Mrs.E , on the other hand was the bomb herself , a veritable missile-head. It was an a devil and the deep sea kind of situation .
Several attempts were made by Mrs. S , to foray into the P.T, class, each of them rebuffed . This precipitated the need to hold several counselling sessions , from which Mrs.S emerged red-eyed and smiling , and Mrs. E emerged with her facial features gray and set in stone , cadaver-like.
Eventually , Mrs. S was offered a more substantial position as vice -principal of a branch of our school in the suburbs. The commute was twice as longer , but Mrs.S could bully the hapless bengalis in her pristine english to her hearts' content. Her manicured persona helped too , and last heard, the principal was contemplating throwing in the towel , as he couldn't get a single word in , edgewise, at any meeting , forum , or decision -making deal. He was over-ruled and out-smarted , on a regular basis.
Our music lessons were now taken by Mr. Hardy , a thin , wiry , graying soul who wore thick glasses and could hold forth on biblical history . He would sit in the church, and play the organ for hours at end. Practising notes , forgetting his classes.
He was not interested in grabbing Mrs.E's mike , ever.
Seeking cheap thrill,
With lots of time to kill,
Out would come , Bill ,
Dressed as a dowdy ,
His eyes a-cloudy ,
A joint hanging askew
He would greet anew ,
All whom he didn’t
and those whom he knew,
he’d tip his hat moodily
and say cheerily
“Howdy?”