Hi Everyone...
Hope you all enjoyed
reading Play and Foul Play. However, many of my friends asked
me about the name. Why Play and Foul Play? Why not some other
dashing names? That's a long story. It started when I was in Class X. It was
the time when we had our study holidays just before our public examinations. I
was supposed to be reading for my science exam, the lesson Organic
Compounds. I was never good at chemistry. The equations going left and
right always drove me mad. And when there are some reagents running along, it
drives me up the wall. I tried to read on. But the letters in the book seemed
to shimmer and after a while, I found myself staring out through the
window, my mind almost spinning with random thoughts. And then, it came to me.
The idea seemed to cheer me up quite a lot that I ran to my mother working in
the kitchen and declared...
"Mom, I'm going to write an
autobiography."
My mom stopped whatever she was doing for
a moment and gave me the look that all mothers give their children when we
don’t do our work properly. “Very good. Do that. But make sure you pass your
Class X exams first.” I stayed there, unable to digest her reaction. Which
mother would ever discourage her child’s ideas? Perhaps she knew what I was
thinking. And sure enough, she started going on about it again.
“You need some experience before writing
an autobiography. You’re just fifteen. What were you thinking? I don’t know
from where you get all these crazy ideas. Don’t waste your time. Go and study.
I’ll call you when the lunch is ready.”
That was it. Now, she
won’t listen to me. I’ll have o go and study again... I went to my room and
opened my book. Back to the world of lots of equations with C, H, O, single
bonds, double bonds, triple bonds, and God knows what. The letters seemed to
shimmer again. I couldn't help thinking about what mom said. I used
to write poems and other articles. And one of them had come published in The Hindu Young World recently. Well, some day, I’m
going to write the story of my life. Like the lady planning about her future of
what she was going to do once all the milk in her pot is sold, I too started
dreaming...
When I publish my autobiography, I’ll be
famous. I’ll prove to the world that one can write an autobiography even
without being old. And then, all my books will be sold like ice creams. I will
be given awards. I even practiced my speech after receiving those awards. I’ll
put on my best dress for the interviews. I will be given so many awards that I
will reject a few in the name of protest against one thing or the other. And
when I mention their names, my parents, friends and relatives who scold me or
fight with me now will be proud. I’ll note down every single incident of my
life in my diary and people would beg me to let them publish it... Oh! That’s
going to be great. I will be called to inaugurate many functions and the crowd
would ask me for my autograph. I’ll sign a few, neglect a few, and pose for
photos with a few of them. And when I die, it would be declared a public
holiday. My dead body will be placed in a coffin in a decorated vehicle and
taken from one end of Kerala to the other, and I’ll be given an official sent
off. The great leaders of the nation would declare my death as an everlasting
loss to literature. All my fans would be crying and people would be crowded
around my house to get a last glimpse of me. And then, there would be my dead
body lying on the floor covered in flowers, garlands and wreaths. Mom and dad
would be there crying. And so will be my poor cousins. I looked at mother.
Excuse me; wasn't she
supposed to be crying? Then why’s she staring at me like this instead? Mom
looked furious. And she took a scale from my table and...
‘Aaaah!!!’
I woke up, my hand paining. My mom stood
there, her face red with anger and her eyes bulging.
‘Keep day dreaming like this again and you
are dead. What the hell do you think you are doing? Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Wait till I tell your father.’
She turned and went back to the kitchen,
not forgetting to stare fiercely as she left. And me? I was there, sitting on
my chair, staring blankly, jerked awake from the journey to the world of sleep.
Then, it hit me. When dad comes, mom’s surely going to tell him what had
happened. And then, I’ll have to hear all advice from dad and the scoldings
from mom that she forgot to tell me now. Great. Fantastic.
Sure enough, when dad
returned from work that day, my dear mom lost no time in announcing what I was
up to. All this trouble just for an autobiography. Why didn't I keep
my mouth shut? Dad’s reaction was just as I had expected. “Have you ever been
to jail? Have you ever been arrested? Have you ever gone into hiding? Without
experience, you are going to write nonsense on the fast moving mechanical world
that surrounds you.” Well, he said a lot of other things but I don’t remember
all of it. I thought he would declare me a ‘ബൂർഷ്വാ ലോകത്തിന്റെ പ്രതിനിധി’ (Yeah, you guessed right. My dad’s a communist.) Luckily,
he didn't call me that. And there ended the story of my autobiography.
*
One day, I was talking to my dad about
foul plays when I used to play with my cousins. Perhaps he grew tired of me
telling him all that. Anyway, he told me, “You should write a book on all these
games you played as a kid and how you were tragically defeated by the foul play
of others.” “That sounds great. But what shall I name my book?” I wondered
aloud. And he came up with the name Play
and Foul Play.
However, I never wrote an autobiography or
a book on my so-called ‘tragically defeated’ childhood. But when my friends and
some cousins asked me to get back to writing and start a blog, this was the
first name that came up in my mind. Perhaps it has something to do with chasing
a long-forgotten dream. But I felt that in our world ruled by money-mad and
power-hungry people, where everyone is too busy for self introspection, Play and Foul Play would be only too apt...
