PRANKENSTEINS OF THE BACK BENCH – (Memoir series – Story 28)

FRANKLY, IT’S JUST A PRANK

“Hey, can I get 25 paise?”

PP George is in a generous mood. And promptly hands over a coin to Raghuram.

PP’s been on a roll lately, you see. He just got back from this mono-act competition, and man, you’d think he won an Oscar. He’s been gabbing about how he should’ve won first prize instead of third.

Our gang of backbenchers is used to this routine whenever PP returns from a competition. He goes on and on, bragging about the crowd that cheered for him, claiming he got more applause than the guy who nabbed first place.

We exchange glances, not sure whether to laugh or roll our eyes. We know better than to burst his bubble.

After what feels like an eternity of self-praise, PP moves on to his next audience, leaving us in peace.

All of us at the backbench are exhausted from PP’s bragging.

Don’t we too deserve to have some fun? So, we put our genius minds together and hatch a plan.

We buy an inland letter from Kadavanthra Post Office with the 25 paise coin we took from PP.

We fill the letter with compliments and admiration. And sign it off as Sunila, a mysterious admirer. We also add a hint of romance just enough to tug at PP’s heartstrings.

In the letter, Sunila raves about how PP deserved the first prize, practically declaring her undying love for his acting skills. She even suggests that if she were the judge, he’d be the undisputed winner.

When the letter arrives, PP’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. He parades Sunila’s letter proudly in front of our teachers, especially Marar Madam, relishing the praise from this mysterious admirer.

Things are getting out of control fast and we can’t keep up the act any longer. So we pull PP aside and spill the beans.

We watch PP’s heart shatter into a thousand pieces when he eventually accepts the truth.

Fuelled by frustration, PP goes to Marar Madam and admits that it was all a prank.

She unleashes a torrent of words about the idiocy of our actions.

We stand there, heads hung low, faces drenched in regret.

But in the end, she forgives us. Phew!

Meanwhile, our ever-enthusiastic Principal Achunny is all about morning school assemblies. He’s always inviting guests to motivate us into increased levels of “enthusiasm”.

One day, it’s a Malayalam film director and everyone’s rapt with attention. After the talk, Principal Achunny reveals the next agenda item: a mono-act by none other than PP. We groan in unison.

PP does his usual routine, and then, after the assembly, he starts tailing the Film Director like a detective on a mission.

When the director finally leaves, PP returns with the biggest grin, claiming he impressed the guest.

The very next day, Raghuram tricks PP into handing over another 25 paise coin.

And sure enough, a letter arrives a few days later.

Lo and behold, it’s from the film director himself! He praises PP’s talent and offers him a role in his next movie.

PP goes berserk, spreading the news like wildfire.

We keep our mouths shut, thinking they’ll eventually figure out it’s another prank. But there’s no way they can trace it back to us. We’ve written it in different handwriting and sprinkled some fancy English words to sound professional.

But PP drops a bombshell on us: PT Master’s about to report the letter to the Principal, and he’ll announce the good news in tomorrow’s assembly.

Uh-oh. Panic mode gets activated.

We corner PP and confess that this letter was another prank.

He doesn’t believe us because he’s already started visualising himself as a superstar actor.

So we quickly recite the exact contents and finally convince him it’s our handiwork.

I take responsibility for this since I wrote the letter, although with some help from Peter George, our vocabulary wizard. Just that Peter had no clue that the big words he had supplied would make their way into a prank letter.

We pay the price for our mischief, standing outside for hours and getting a lecture about the legalities of impersonation. 

Thankfully, PP vouches for us, saying it was just a prank, and that he has no complaints against his friends.

But PT Master pulls me aside and reminds me about my dad’s friendship with him from college days and how my Mummy would be disappointed if she were alive.

From the burning earnestness in his eyes, I know he means every word he’s saying.

I dare not meet his sharp gaze. And I don’t want to reveal my defencelessness by shedding tears.

He goes on lecturing. But my ears are deafened by the voices in my head echoing the stinging words he said earlier.

He may be right. But I hate him for making me look irresponsible and reckless in front of the whole school. Not on my life must I allow the students passing by to see my eyes drenched in tears.

I have worked hard to bury memories of my Mummy deep within me, and I must not let them resurface as tears in front of anyone.

After PT Master scolds me to his heart’s content, I inch towards the classroom burdened with guilt and shame. And I feel like a total loser.

All the backbenchers stare anxiously at my face as I enter the classroom. Their eyes follow me closely while I silently slump into my seat with the weight of bitter resentment.

Just then, PP declares in his dramatic flair, that he’ll never lend us a 25 paise coin again. And we all burst into laughter.

Yeah, we’ll have to endure more of his mono-acts.

Blame it on “ENDHOO…ZIAA…ZUM”