Home work

I called poms and as usual asked him what he was doing and the usual reply he gives is that he is deep into his home work. His home work is great stuff. He will sit on a small plastic stool ( its always plastic now and we get them in an assorted colors and the women folk at home pick them to match them with the hall color and then that stool will be in any room except that intended room) and spread all his books on a round plastic table. Then after 10 mins of hemming and hawing he will want another table. Table gets substituted with a another stool ( no prizes for guesses, its also the ubiquitous plastic) and then he will start writing english, maths, evs and what not. His handwriting is - again no prizes for guessing - is as shabby as mine and the only the difference is that you can read his whereas you have rack your head for deciphering mine and then going bonkers as to whether its greek or spanish or some extinct language or even extra-terrestrial language and I would not be surprised it you thoughts meander in the direction of the animal kingdom.

Then he writes a line and then has a doubt unrelated to anything to his subject and then a stern voice will direct his thoughts back to the note book. Then he will want to sharp the pencil which already would pierce the skin without much ado. A pencil sharpener would be there and in goes the pencil and the lead would be broken. Then he would want it be sharpened with the electric sharpener which I bought from saudi at not so a pleasing price for which I am still being reminded and again in not so pleasing phrases. The moment I say yes he would be off the stool like a olympic sprinter takes off the blocks in a 100 meter dash. With a grin as wide as a barn door he would setup the sharpener and of course his entire interest is in plugging it into an electric outlet from which he derives an enormous pleasure which we can't fathom in a 100 years. One cant even feebly imagine how such a mundane stuff would enthuse anyone. But poms is made of entirely different mettle and he goes bonkers when it comes to electricity. That is for another day. The pencil is sharpened and the the writing starts. Some letters dive deep and some soar majestically upwards and the spaces given between letters ooze with extraordinary magnaimity. Encomiums are showered on him by the way of screams and yells and the eraser now flashed all around the notebook and he starts his calligraphy all over again, his enthusiasm a bit dampened and face a bit puffed and the twinkle in his wolf eyes a bit duller.

In between he will hear a car horn and would contemplate whether it was a indica or a scorpio and then he would be brought back to the world of home work by some vociferous shoutings. After a few lines the unmistakable hoot of a train horn would stir an hornet's nest in his mind and he would start whistling and then would want to know whether the train is going to dharmapuri or madras and if so how long it would take and how many wheels it has and whether train wheels would get punctured. His train of thoughts would be shattered by another round of castigations from a stentorious voice and poms would sulk for a few mins and in a sudden rash of boundless energy would zip zap and his small fingers would race across the note book at lightning speed.

Lo and behold his home work is done and the whole place looks like battlefield, chairs and stools amidst the strewn note books, erased rubber fillings and the pencil wood flakes and his page will look as it it had been raked all over.