12 Sep 2024 / Anecdotal analects

Bumbling Along with Principal Paul

Principal Paul -- undisclosed vintage. Masquerading as Nicola Tesla

The title is a turn-of-phrase, but I employ it for more than just that reason and what it denotes. The Bumblebee actually, by way of its body structure, is not qualified to fly according to the laws of aerodynamics. It does, and very efficiently, because it is unaware of these precise laws, and even if it were, is unconcerned. The odds of life are never predicted and almost always seem to weigh against those who veer off neat grids of pre-determined paths woven around the norm and strung across mutually profitable equations with individuals as well as the group. Yet, there are Bumblebees. The point I belabour, is that the scheme of things is never neatly ordained or set, much as we would like to believe. They carry an equal amount of quantum options, probabilities, alternates and seemingly contradictory thetas. Bumbling along anything may yield exclusive vistas of experience but is almost entirely devoid of fruit except a canker. The truly fortunate though, may hit gold.

Of cankers, there is a tale of my uncle. Born many summers later, I shared the same birthday as he, besides some common indulgences. The man had already snip-snapped his name from Sarvindrapal Singh Chaudhery to Servi Paul several years ago, when he dallied with Sir William Shakespeare’s writings, enacting them in college plays and amateur theatre. Before settling on the role of Othello which he played almost forever, with as many as five Desdemonas who he married in quick succession before (almost pauperized) he bid them goodbye without the customary kiss. These marriages were, but punctuations in the larger narrative of life. An ordinary one by any yardstick, but devoted to hedonism. Servi Paul lived the hubris of a consummate lover of all things beautiful. His wives (known) and girlfriends (unknown) were items on the list which included as he liked to say “things of the body, things of the mind, things of the spirit”. My father’s younger brother started economic activity at the age of 30 or thereabouts, since most jobs were beneath him. Interests lay in gambling, drinking, poetry, drama, rhetoric and travel. These were buttressed by two passionate indulgences: perfumes and silk. These interests ensured that he ran through his share of inheritance rather fast and had overstayed his welcome in many people’s lives and houses. Disenchanted with the “louts who cannot appreciate the mannerisms of a gentleman” he talked his way through (it was the early 1950s and India was gullible to a good looking, dapper young man with good references and an impressive academic record) to joining academia straight off as the principal of a remote DAV College in the Punjab. Servi Paul became Principal Paul; a name that stayed until the end. Now, the DAV (Dayanand Anglo Vedic) institutions are run by the Arya Samaj, which, among other admirable things, is a stickler for order, discipline and ‘moral character’. These, unfortunately, were weak areas for my charming uncle. Within a month or two of assuming charge to shape the character of young men and women, Principal Paul was doing quite the opposite. The impoverished and constipated 1950s were hardly the years to promote free love, preach the increased concentration cannabis could induce, patronize theatre and cinema at the cost of textbooks and picnics at the price of classrooms. Principal Paul’s goose was cooked when he was discovered in bed by his student-cum- girlfriend, with her mother. Hell broke loose and he was ejected from the honourable college faster than shot from a cannon. The principal fled in the night aided by the fog. The next appointment, and some others like it, was as tutor of English. This time, of a rich baniya family. He was called Master ji and over the course of prostrations by the simple baniya with not so simple ambitions and unhindered rounds of refreshments, was engaged in making a WOG of the baniya’s son. The finger of God intervened yet again. On a Diwali, as was customary, the good baniya distributed gifts. His age old baniya sensibilities prevailed and Master ji received a used coat. That was the end of the matter. Principal Paul did not deserve the baniya and the baniya certainly did not deserve him. Over the years, uncle skimmed across life nursing his drink and hedging his bets. Wins at the table meant trips to the Continent (no other place ever) or Wildflower Hall in Shimla interspersed with a fair amount of action between the sheets.

The years rolled by and Principal Paul was taken under her wing by his elder sister, a widowed aunt of mine. He lived with her and grew fond of her servants. He designed clothes (in silk, what else?) aided by the dozen odd darzis who tried as wannabe designers, while Principal Paul impressed upon “appropriate” maidservants the “innate talent and grace” they had, and their golden futures on the ramp. His “supply of greens” was united in denominators by his type of aesthetics in female beauty – duly tested. The Principal would be crucified for multiple crimes against women after being denounced as sexist if this was today. Thank God this was in the 1980s. As cover, Principal Paul served as an untitled aesthetics advisor to upcoming ladies.

Ever the cards man, Principal Paul was rumoured to have pawned his servant once without the latter’s knowledge. His black Ambassador car purchased second-hand from my father, had a cask in the boot accessed from the rear seat. The windows were impermeable black and red silk ---- dainty curtains to shut out the world. Darker than the body paint. The interior was signature style with rugs and silk seats and silk roof -- all in passionate red. And the waft of expensive perfumes. Between the driver’s bench seat and the rear seat, our man had installed a rather imaginative partition with a picture of Cupid surrounded by grapes. In those lovely days New Delhi was beautiful and tipsy driving posed little risk, for the streets were mostly dead. Principal Paul’s car very considerately snaked through the summer sun meandering past women’s hostels and gallantly stopping for any young and pretty lady hitchhiker. Anyone else could fry to death or evaporate as far as he cared. Many an address and landline number were exchanged for undisclosed soirees.

I remember the room he occupied in my aunt’s flat. It smelt like an expensive perfumery, had tomes of drama and poetry books in English, Urdu and Farsi. Ghazals and qawallis played and sometimes Brahms, Mozart or Bach. In interludes, Principal Paul would emerge, resplendent in his silks, colour indicating mood. With the years and the pot he smoked, he went a little off the hook I think. Ageing Othello had turned to pilgrimages, but a leopard never changes his spots. On an ostensible pilgrimage to Swayambhu Mandir in Kathmandu, he veered off course and landed at one of the many casinos thronging the capital of Nepal. My aunt received a call a few days later of his death in a hotel room which reeked of One Man Show and scotch mixed in the air. Principal Paul’s cupboard in his room at auntie’s flat in New Delhi, contained a neatly folded silk shroud in black. Within its folds, five thousand rupees for his cremation and a list of things he owned. Against the three item heads, the recipients. His silks, liquor and gold chains went to Chotu, auntie’s loyal servant and Paul’s (once pawned without his knowledge) confidant. Perfumes and books came my way. A bag of Royal Canine and a few kilos of cooked chicken went to stray mongrels outside the flat. There was nothing else to bequeath. A thank you note and a silk scarf went to auntie.

Principal Paul lived a chimera, what may be called a wasted life. He never fully utilized whatever talent and ability he may have had, chased rainbows from start to end and spun more yarn than most Penelope. Years later, inspired by Principal Paul and/or {Principal Paul plus shared DNA strands, I founded The Brotherhood of Perpetual Indulgence {but that’s another story}.

He was a Bumbler. A caricature. But he had a blast. I liked the man born on March 28th