Rough Rhymes

Friday, May 02, 2008

When people mispronounce my name, the one thing I get reminded of, is my secondary 5 Chinese language teacher. Nor will I forget her in my life and rightfully so. And not only her. There's a whole list of teachers and stories I will never forget when it boils down to my name and secondary school days. This, is one of the many stories yet to be uncovered.

Just after the bell went off to mark the end of the never-ending social studies lesson, my Chinese language teacher walks into class. More often then not, she was always punctual for lessons. She was one of those dedicated teachers willing to sacrifice hours with students just to see their grades jump from D7 all the way up till distinctions. Though she and I both knew exactly who each other were, we've never spoken or acknowledged one another. So much so that I've actually forgotten what her name is. Though her name doesn't seem to linger anywhere around my mind, what she called me just months before I graduated, memories of how the class burst into laughter, will never be forgotten. This is exactly why:

Back in school days, I hated Tamil lessons just like how any bad, deteriorating Indian boy should. I've never attempted at homeworks when Tamil language was concerned. And I was always an outstanding boy when it came to Tamil lessons. Cause I was always standing outside the classroom while the others went ahead with the scheduled lesson plan for the day. Just having finished my Social Studies lesson, I knew instantly it was Tamil lesson for me seeing my Chinese language teacher so eager to carry out the lessons for the day. And I also instantly knew I'd be instantly standing out of my Tamil classroom for the entire lesson cause, as usual, I didn't do my homework. As a matter of fact, I didn't even know where the book was. Some corner of the soccer field surely. And as I watched my Social Studies teacher walk out of the classroom, I saw my Chinese language teacher walk right in anxious to start the lesson. Acting oblivious to this, I took my time looking for a notebook I knew wasn't anywhere in the proximity of my classroom. Of course it's rude to stare so I had to put up a good mama drama pretending to search for something. And with me searching, was the entire classroom including my Chinese language teacher. And not that they offered a helping hand. They all offered a helping eye. Not in a way I wanted it to be. Stares were thrown at me while I continued searching. Of course I knew I was holding up the lesson. I had no choice. I had to delay every single second I'll have to stand outside the classroom. And, of course, I was humane anyway. I felt like I did have to explain what I was searching for and not hold up the lesson for those who really want to learn a thing or two. I looked up and staring right smack at my face was my impatient Chinese language teacher who, for once in my life, produced a stern face contradicting her usual self. And just before I could twitch a muscle in my face to explain what was going on, she exclaimed this:

She: WEI!
Me: *Jaw drop to the table*
She: PAPA KAI LAN!
Me: *Jaw drop to the floor* THAT'S NOT MY FUCKIN' NAME!

And the whole class burst into tears. Nothing but from the sheer pain produced in the stomachs after laughing so hard that I was surprised the roof didn't blow off. Of course I left the class in anger and the highlight of the day? My Tamil language teacher actually was on MC. Notice how it's only me that all this shit has to happen to? Remember Murphy's law? Everything that can possibly go bad, will go bad. This is how this shit is. And just for the records, I'll put up the different kind of names I had to tolerate year long from various teachers.

1999: I was an alcoholic with a bar named after me by my Literature teacher who was later in the year whacked by a metal chair thanks to yours dearly. I was *Bar-Bara-Karan* for 1999.

2000: I was accidentally made god by my maths teacher. She was Buddhist. I don't blame her. I was *Baba-Kan* for Y2K.

2001: I was recruited as a young Barcelona fan by my soccer coach. Maybe he saw potentials. Heck, maybe that's how I got to play for Home United. I was *Barca-Ba-Karan* for 2001.

2002: I was in the heart of every women. Literally. I was made *Bra-Kang* for year 2002 by my science teacher. I seriously still am trying to figure out where she got the kang from. And what the fuck does kang mean? Anyone?

2003: This was the only year my name didn't tarnish. Because no one even mentioned my name at all. I magically turned *Bala* for year 2003. Is it because it was an easily pronounced Indian name? Why wasn't I called some Prabu or something? At least it comes close. But why BALA of all names?!?! WHY? WHY? WHY?

2004: I, somehow, turned vegetable. She walks off the undoubted winner. My Chinese language teacher's classic: *Papa-Kai-Lan* for 2004.

Having said that, let me wrap it up. The story of my name and how it turned from a P to a B. Here's how:

See, when my parents named me, they actually sought after a priest to have the most blessed name I could adorn. I was named Prabakaran by the priest who later went on to tell my parents I was blessed in heaven and I'd be a very intelligent boy with a good future. [That's under chapter 2.1216 to the power of 10 of the standard Indian astrologer's lies. Page 13, line 69 if you'd like.] And being the women who'll fall for everything that's sugar not spice, my mum DECIDED, without my permission that is, that I should be named Prabakaran. Of course the guy who did my birth certificate had other ideas. He conveniently had to type a B instead of a P smack in my birth certificate. Now you know why my life's so screwed up? I am patiently waiting to catch hold of the damn astrologer. I'll set his parrot on fire. Adios.

Praba - 1:35 AM 0 comment(s)

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