The Montfort Chronicles

Page three

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 04:09:00 +0000

You know that t-shirt that says “ So many beautiful women but not a single one in my college!” You could say the same about good teachers and Montfort. Granted, we got our basics drilled in right; Nigli, Betty, Hookens and Maam( the Anglo-Indian Quartet) knocked us around hard enough so we got a smidgen of sense into our dense noggins. But oh, the rest of the teachers, save for a few exceptions,were a flock of fast-changing, crap-talking, no-english-knowing rabble that weren’t qualified to work in McDonalds, leave alone teach in an institution like ours. They came and went, staying just for a year(two at the most); a constantly shifting exodus of educators who nobody learnt from and everybody fucked around with . During our time, there were a bunch of idiotic wannabe teachers who had the added misfortune of having moronic parents who chose to name them after flowers. We had a Daisy, a Rose, a Lily, maybe even some Petunias and Chrysanthemums ( ok, I made those up). This veritable garden of sari-clad excrescence, ugly as they seem now in retrospect, at that time represented the highest in seductive allure. Starved of female company and hormones-a-raging, anything with tits looked positively ravishing; you’d tumble in the dirt with anything in a skirt, roll in the hay with any wench any day. I’ll have to grant that not all of them were bad looking, especially the ones who feature in the romantic entanglements below, but I doubt we’d have cared much either way. On a scale of one to ten, any chick scored atleast a five just for being a chick– that mysterious otherworldly entity we seldom saw and rarely, if ever, touched ( What? You touched one?!! Get outta here.)Besides, we had a philosophy in those less-selective days : If she looked bad, cover the face and screw the base. Bag her head and bang her, Fred. No wonder then, that when a half-decent looking chick came along, be she teacher or ayah, you’d have a bunch of guys queuing up vying for their attentions. Yes, I said ayah. This guy in our batch( I won’t say who, but his name rhymes with Bakes) had a thing for an ayah once. And she wasn’t even anywhere in the general vicinity of hotness. Come now, no point denying it.

You know that film Rockford? The whole student-teacher tease thingie going on there doesn’t have shit on some of the stuff that really went down in our time. Heck, we had brothers hot on students, students banging teachers, teachers screwing Brothers – think OC set in Montfort. So basically, Rockford was just a PG version toned down for sensitive Indian audiences.

Disclaimer: I didn’t really witness any of the acts performed in these stories, so their veracity might be suspect. However, in quite a few cases I had it on good authority or heard it from the horse’s mouth. Besides, in most cases, where’s smoke there’s fire et cetera. My job as amanuensis is merely to chronicle; I’ll leave the fact checking to the guy who makes the documentary some day. I do not mean to impugn the characters of the characters in question, but given as they’re Monty students they shouldn’t give a raccoon’s ass. Hell, they should be proud even. But if you do mind, do write in and I’ll guarantee anonymity. Names have not been changed, so as to preserve authenticity. Dates might be slightly off.

Here’s the skinny on some of the stuff that went down.

Linton & Miss Michelle

Pure hearsay, but good hearsay at that. And hey, I never was one to let the facts get in the way of a good story. If the facts don’t fit the legend, then print the legend. Here’s the legend of Socials ’95. Miss Michelle: Anglo-Indian teacher -4th standard, hotter than the hinges of hell. Linton: Anglo-Indian 12std student, swimmer extraordinaire, prefect?(I think so. Was he?) . Musta been the Anglo connection. Anyhoo. Socials Nite. Everybody’s havin’ a blast. Liberal amounts of alcohol, illicitly smuggled in of course, are imbibed, inhibitions lowered. Linton, smooth operator, senses an opportunity and coaxes the normally demure Miss Michelle to take a walk in the moonlight. Their midnight peregrination leads them to the teachers’ quarters near the infirmary, where Miss Michelle stays. Their little hike over, Linton hikes up her skirt and they start banging away like jackrabbits till kingdom come (or Linton, whichever arrival occurs first). Michelle is a late comer, and after she finally does come in an explosive mind-shattering, toe-curling, planet- alignment-shifting orgasm, the light of reason makes a dim appearance in the innermost recesses of her mind. She kicks Linton out, post-coital cigarette and all, naked as a jaybird. He’s happier than a temple full of smiling buddhas. Linton has just discovered what it took Clinton two terms in the White House to find out : that the kinkiest sex is found in the arms of secretaries, schoolteachersand other spectacled, bookish types .

The next year, Michelle’s gone. And with her, my chance to enter manhood at the wee age of 8. Oh, well, in retrospect I doubt she’d have initiated me in the pleasures of the pelvis anyway. Jumping a willing senior’s bones is one thing, but cradle-robbing is an entirely different prospect. Theories abounded as to why she left (to Australia, the story went). The most popular theory and the one that fits in snugly with the Linton-Michelle coital hypothesis is that their affair became public knowledge among the staff, and Michelle was fired to prevent a scandal. Others say she left of her own volition, due to the disapproving sneers and stares of prudish, self-righteous colleagues. In either case, one can assume ( rather, one hopes) that India’s loss was Australia’s gain and that Miss Michelle initiated many a willing Aussie lad.

Bro.Augustine & Miss Belinda

If this romance were turned into a movie,here’s how the trailer would go :

(Begin Vatican music. Commentary in rich gravelly voice) He had pledged his soul to another. ( cue images of Jay Cee on the cross) She was a shaper of minds. (image: Demi Moore shaping clay in Ghost.) They worked together (image: montage of Mayfield) never knowing that close proximity (image: atomic fusion) could have explosive consequences (image: mushroom cloud over Hiroshima). This summer, forbidden love blooms in the unlikeliest places as one man (image: stick figure of man, anatomically correct) with one desire (image: stick figure of man, tumescent) will finally find what he’s been looking for.

Right off the bat, I’d like to expressly state that the Bro. Augustine mentioned in this sordid tale is not Augustine Novello, that moral pillar and epitome of fortitude and erect bearing. No, this Augustine is an altogether different kettle of fish. The mustachioed Don Juan in question was dorm warden for Mayfield’s Big Dorm in the years ’96-‘98. Pet name: Benny. He was also an on and off Math teacher and could be seen often in the football and cricket fields displaying his athletic prowess for all and sundry. A strict brother, not to be messed with, oodles of attitude. This was the Augustine who was primarily responsible for the investigation into the porn magazine scandal of the mid-nineties.. Bastard turned out to be quite a hypocrite, punishing us for our natural carnal inclinations while indulging his own perverted proclivities.

The Belinda of this story was a Junior School teacher, one among the flotsam jetsam that would often run aground on Montfort’s shores. She wasn’t bad looking; a little on the plump side, with a ready smile and jugs out to Jupiter. I still don’t know what her subject was, but whatever she was teaching, dear Brother Augustine was keen to pick up. Despite his vow of chastity, this full blooded male supposedly succumbed to the sin of fornication, trapped in the rapture of Belinda’s inviting thighs.

Consider the facts : The Cricket World Cup was on and Augustine’s room (next to the senior dorm) had one of the only two TVs in Mayfield. The gracious brother would often host many of the teachers in his room so that they might watch the matches. How we envied them, sitting up late at night and cheering India on while we had to hit the sack early. We could tell if India was doing well from the rhythm of the oohs and the ahs coming from the room. Anyway, some of the guys got suspicious of Agu’s nocturnal activities when oohs and ahs began emanating from his room even on nights when there were no matches. Some wiseguys, who presumably maintained a round-the-clock vigil on Augustine’s room, witnessed Belinda coming and going at odd times and in various states of undress. The circumstantial evidence led these discerning detectives to surmise that Augustine may have expressed his feelings for Belinda in a far from brotherly fashion. Considering Belinda’s track record ( see next) , it is not at all an unlikely conjecture. Also, pundits say that perusal of all the porn he had confiscated circa the time of these events had given Augustine a hint of what he was missing out because of this whole irritating vow of chastity thing. Anyway, the fact remains that one fine day Augustine vanished, vamoosed, split, up and ran without a trace, right in the middle of term. News reached us a couple of years later that he was somewhere in Bangalore, living as a civilian. He’d quit the brotherhood, and was now married. We figured his vows had gotten to him; poverty and obedience were fine, but having savored sexual ecstasy, chastity was a hard one. As for Belinda, it turned out that she was quite the busy bee.

Kumaresan & Miss Belinda

Salem, circa 2001. We’re here for the inter-district football matches and having just soundly trounced our opponents, we’re huddled into the changing room, a sweaty mass of tired bodies. This is the same team that will go on to win the States later in the year. The Augustine Belinda tryst is three years behind us. For some reason, it comes up in locker room conversation and all eyes turn to Kumaresan, one year junior to me, not much to look at, skinny as a beanpole and left footed striker for the team. I’d heard faint rumors that Kumaresan and Belinda had a thing, but as to its nature and details I could only guess. Until now. Kumaresan begins a story that I’d have sworn was a complete fabrication, if all his batch mates in the team hadn’t witnessed and corroborated certain parts of his testimony.

Apparently, Belinda had quite a voracious sexual appetite and varied tastes that ran the gamut from mustachioed men to skinny prepubescent boys. Despite the dicking that Reverend Brother Augustine was dishing out, Belinda craved younger, fresher meat. Untainted innocence, inexperienced awkwardness, untamed sexual fury; she wanted a virgin. And into this web of carnal desire walked our 12 year old Casanova, to experience such stuff as the wettest dreams are made of.

This was the year (I think) that Princi (either George Vazhayil or Karadi) took the disastrous decision to hold the Annual Prize Night in the basketball court. It was to be a grand open-air event played out on several stages. I remember they’d converted the top of 12th standard dorm to make a stage and the audience had to turn around and crane their necks to see certain parts of the performance. Despite the grandeur of the acts, the show was an utter debacle; the acoustics was shot to hell, the sounds scattered to the winds. As part of the evening’s entertainment, the Mayfield kids were to perform a protracted dance sequence, whose choreography and practice sessions were left to the charge of numerous Mayfield teachers, the buxom Miss Belinda among them. Kumaresan, having just the appropriate amount of left feet, was selected in the dance. Their first encounter, (if I remember right) occurred in the TV room. A practice had just ended, the other students filtered out and for some reason Kumaresan was left alone with Miss Belinda. She might have engineered this, I don’t remember. Why she picked him remains a mystery. He was plain enough, no Adonis to look at, just another kid. The luck of the draw I guess. Into my parlor, said the spider to the fly and the fly walked in. The spider unzipped the fly, out popped his willie and in it went, down her rabbit hole. There was an electricity in the air, the heavens shook with the audacity of their coupling et cetera. I think I heard mention of a prophylactic she took out from her purse and gave him to use. So she was obviously prepared; more queen conspirator than naive pawn. The details of the coupling I’ll leave to your imagination.

Suffice it to say that from this first forbidden tryst was born a relationship of sorts. There were other occasions, most or all initiated by Belinda herself. She calling him to her quarters, keeping him on after dance practice, that sort of thing. And then on a dare, (he dared her, I think) on the last day of term, just after the exam sheets were handed in, they liplocked in front of the whole class. Played tonsil hockey in front of several eyewitnesses. This part of the tale was corroborated by all present, which lends some credence to the rest of the tale. Sadly, the affair had an abrupt, unhappy ending. Kumaresan apparently went home and couldn’t keep from blabbing about how good he was in the sack or some such shit. A sibling heard the tale and off with it she went to Momma. Mommy dearest complained to Princi and the twisted Miss Belinda was given the sack, thus depriving our school of many more years of much needed real-world education. She ought to have been more prudent, chosen somebody who wouldn’t kiss and tell. I got word later that she had been a call-girl in Erode or somewhere, but that is merely speculation. The lucky protagonist of this lurid tale was somehow cast in the light of a victim in the whole affair, and was allowed to stay on in school. Kumaresan, if you’re reading this and would like to shed more light on the subject, please do. I’m sure our readers would like some illumination.

Alright, that brings me to the end of this post.There are a few more incidents that didn’t make it due to space constraints. Maybe if the response is good, I’ll post a sequel sometime in the future. It’s been a while since last I posted. 13 months. I’m really sorry about that. Be assured that future posts will be more frequent. But keep visiting and posting your comments; it’s nice to know people care. And long as I got limbs, a laptop and a lingering memory, this log will live on. Also, the sixth sheikh’s sixth sheep’s sick…

Thrice-born motherfuckin bastard

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 15:42:00 +0000

Thrice born: The origins of this term are shrouded in mystery. It had its beginnings during one of the house picnics (Gabriel House picnic, I think). The approximate time of coinage was between the year 1997 and 2000.My memory is so flaky that's the least I can narrow it down to. Besides, the term was coined by some senior and the story had gotten so diluted by the time it reached my ears I can hardly vouch for its authenticity. I remember it was the talk of the school at that time, the use of this original expletive and the legendary fight with followed between the budding linguist and the offended party. The original usage in its extended form was thrice-born motherfucking bastard. Of course, no lucid explanation can be given for such a fancifully bad-ass term, but this is what I always thought it to mean.

1.Son seduces his Mother, dies and is reincarnated as the mother's bastard child. The coupling obviously happened out of wedlock.

2.The bastard child mentioned has an Oedipus complex, leading to coitus with his mother.

3.Obviously, he dies before his pregnant mother comes to term and is re-incarnated as his mother's second son.

4.The baby grows up and repeats steps 2 and 3.

Now the child that is born out of this coupling is thrice-born, he is a motherfucker and has the added distinction of being a bastard. Ergo, he/she (yes, the third reincarnation could be female) is a thrice-born motherfucking bastard. Pretty simple, eh? Obviously certain conditions need to be taken into consideration, including late menopause for the mother. Also, the son must die in the few seconds just after ejaculation and before the egg is fertilized. The possibility of all these conditions simultaneously occurring is extremely rare, thus making thrice-born motherfucking bastards very scarce entities. The whole scenario can also be achieved using a time-machine, but the resulting temporal fluctuations in the space-time fabric could possibly render existence into oblivion, so this is not something I'd suggest.

Anybody who has an alternate meaning for the word is welcome to write in. Thrice-born motherfuckin' bastards are called "Thrice-borns" for short and sometimes even called "Thrice" affectionately.

A glossary of terms

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 16:09:00 +0000

I got an exam tomorrow, but seeing as how I love my alma mater so much, I took a break and jotted down some of the words we used to use in school. It's a dying language so you gotta represent and start re-using the words anywhere and anytime you can.

Punt off : get lost, fuck off
Ex: These juniors were bugging me so I told them to punt off.

Go Hang: get lost, go die
Ex: Go hang macha! Nothing you know

Cack: shit, feces, turds
Ex: The bogs were so full of cack I couldn’t even take a dump macha.

Sneak: to complain about someone to brothers, teachers etc
Ex: I bunked out of campus to buy kottu from Muruga Bhavan, but Arokyam saw me and sneaked to Princi.

Bogs: Toilets
Eg: Don’t irritate man. Go hang in the bogs!

Charmettes: area of school which now houses the tennis courts. Used to be full of cows eating grass and shitting dung.
Ex: We were smoking this one time in Charmettes and almost got caught.

Matey: Montfort waiters
Ex: We bribed this matey so he would give our table extra chicken every Thursday. And lots of dosas.

Bugger: a guy, any guy, random guy
Ex: Guy 1: That bugger’s gay man.
Guy 2: Aren’t they all?

Thugged: Failed a subject
Ex: “This term I’m definitely thugging atleast three subjects man.”
“ Did you hear about that bugger? He could have got 1st rank, but he thugged in art.”

Thulp: thrash the living daylights out of
Ex: This one time Frenchie thulped me so bad I couldn’t stand, sit or eat for three days.

Fudge: copy during exam
Ex: This bugger got caught by Adrian for fudging and got majorly thulped.
Bio was minding the exam hall, so every fucker was fudging and passing bits left and right.

Bit: miniature paper used to copy during exams, usually hid in shoes, socks, pencil boxes, underwear, in sleeve, written on hand. Also bits of paper, erasers containing answers passed around during exams.
Ex:This bugger knew that Bella had seen him take out his bit. So he swallowed it and pretended ignorance when Bella came round and did a body search on him.

More to come later. This is the first of a two part series. If you think I missed out anything, do let me know. Examples would be great.

Forget it Jake, it's Chinatown

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 20:28:00 +0000

the management regrets to inform you that this post has been taken down due to objections from certain quarters.

The games we played

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 16:54:00 +0000

One of the things that made Montfort and its students great is the creativity and ingenuity of the games we played. Our pioneers sure chalked out some real whacky games so that we could make the most of our break times. And the greatest thing about most of these games is that they made great use of the school buildings and structures; they sorta crafted the fabric of the games around the infrastructure of Montfort, thus making them unique. Now a lot of these games are played around the world by kids, but a few of them are truly original and restricted exclusively to the grounds of Monty. I know kids from other boarding schools like Lovedale, Doon and others, and trust you me, those kids had seriously deprived childhoods and they aint heard the first thing bout Holly Golly or Bathroom Cleaner. We Monty mothafuckas had it good.

Right until the time we moved out of Mayfield, most of us spent every minute of our break times getting sweaty and dirty playing one of these games. We’d go to class panting, ties loose and shirts unbuttoned till Hookens or Pinheiro or Nigli noticed us and sent us to the bogs to wash up. Saturday afternoons, which was our time to do whatever the fuck we wanted ( this was long before Princi instituted his gulag regime ) were completely dedicated to playing these games and the blazing sun did nothing to stifle our young, foolish vigour. We used to be like fucken androids; three hours of intense play would do nothing to us but work up a light sweat. Now the tar in the lungs has gotten me to the point where a trip to buy groceries leaves me panting like I just blew my load after an intense session of lovemaking. But I digress. Here’s a rundown on a few of the games we played in our time.

Seven Stones: This one’s a classic, and hardly unique at that. People the world over play it and the idea is to inflict pain with a tennis ball under the pretense of detracting opponents from building a tower with seven flat stones. We played this one quite a bit. I remember playing it in the Charmettes during games time one day when it had rained during warm-up and everybody went to dorm and only 5 or 6 of us turned up at our field.

Holly Golly: This one’s a classic and an original Monty as far as I can tell. Some bright ass mothafucka looked at Seven Stones and went, “ what the fuck we need em stones for nigga. I just wanna bring the pain to them haters.” So began the ultimate game of hit and run. There was this one year when my batch went crazy over this shit. We’d play in that outdoor badminton court near the junior block common toilets, every lunch break for months on end. Sadly that place is demolished now. We even had loosely shaped gangs and then it became like a war. People used to get thrashed and return for more the next day. Damn, we had some real soldiers in the ‘hood then. Blood was spilt and ultimately Augustine ( of Belinda fame ) abolished the game and captured every tennis ball he could lay his hands on.

Gilli: I used to think this one was unique to Montfort till I saw Lagaan. Apparently we Indians have been playin this one for centuries. I remember it used to be hard to get good gilli sticks, so if we found one, we’d treasure it. I also remember I brought this game home and was playing it with my innocent li’l cousin and the gilli stick flew into her eye and her momma thrashed my butt good.

Bathroom Cleaner: This is the cream of the crop, the absolute puppies privates of all Montfort games. We played this in the first field gallery. There was no other place you could play it really. It also involved hittin folks with tennis balls but was a whole lot more fun. As to the origins of the name of the game, I am totally clueless and would appreciate any efforts to shed light on the situation. And don’t try telling me Ali Muthu invented it.

Steps: This is the first game little Montfortian tykes got introduced to. Twohands, onehand, twohandoneclap, onehandoneclap, and so on. We played this every break on the Mayfield main steps till they started capturing our tennis balls. Talking bout those steps, I must mention that sliding down those step railings was totally kickass. Those railings had no paint on them at all and were perfect for sliding.

Oblikutty: This one, I think was a game only those of my generation would be familiar with. In essence a running and catching game, we played it by jumping over the little half-walls just outside the Mayfield auditorium. It’s probably died out by now. Shame!

Country: The game of world conquest played with a stick and square countries drawn in the mud. A perennial classic and well-loved by my generation. You had to forge alliances with your neighbours so that they’d allow you to step in their territory while annexing new lands.

D.O.N.K.E.Y : All you football lovers in da house, this one’s for you. Played in the field in Mayfield just near the 7th std field using the huge stone wall that adjourned the junior block tennis courts. It involved kicking the football against the wall before it came to rest.

Book cricket: Who says sports gotta be outdoor? Book cricket is how most of us got through the really boring night study. All you needed was a numbered book and a pen to keep score. Book soccer was also quite popular, but we couldn’t play during study that often since we needed to be more discreet.

This list is far from exhaustive but time has dulled my memory. Ze olde brain is not what it once was. If y’all remember any other games do write in. Ok, question of the week time: In holly golly, when somebody was too close to you to hit him with the ball, you just knocked him on the head with it. There’s a term for this knock and I can’t remember for the life of me. I asked some other batchmates and they’re equally clueless. Anybody?

Hallowed Ground

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Wed, 09 May 2007 09:22:00 +0000

Picture perfect. This is very likely the greatest film capture of the Montfort cathedral I’ve seen. The azure skies greatly accentuate the dignity and majesty of this powerful structure that towers to the skies, Babel-like. The history books majorly overlook the profound influence of the French in India, except in such quarters as Pondicherry. Montfort is a proud testament to the Frenchman’s efficiency, as too to the towering achievements that the religious fervor and zeal of missionaries often fashion. Misled as missionaries may be in their idealism to convert, their outstanding contributions to the education of Indian youth cannot be overstated.

This church is probably the most monumental and distinguished edifice of the brilliant campus we had. A campus, dignified in no small part by the silent strength immanent in the mute, rough hewn stone that all our structures were built with. Not for Montfort lesser materials such as brick. It had to be stone, cut down from ancient quarries by strong men who worked from dawn to dusk in the blazing sun. From afar came these stones, nearly a century ago and tedious and long was the route they took. Up winding roads into the hills they came, at a time when such modern conveniences as cars or trucks or macadamized roads were a pipe-dream. Stone upon single stone, our forebears built, from the ground up, this beautiful campus of ours. It was a time when men were real men, women were real women and little, fuzzy creatures from Alpha Centauri were real little, fuzzy creatures from Alpha Centauri, to quote Douglas Adams. Sweat and blood built these foundations. Each stone is ebullient with history, each speck of lime and mortar shrieks in silent agony to tell tales of times long past, each stained-glass window and decades-old pine tree curses God for its muteness. Gold and silver are not without charm, diamonds and sapphires sparkle bright, but only stone betrays innate strength and stoic composure. Stone does not hanker for gaudy splendor; it aspires to quiet dignity, maintaining stolidly a resolute, firm demeanor. Stone is objectivity, stone is Ayn Rand, stone is forever; the way diamonds can never be. Forever will stand these buildings of ours, though wind shall beat upon its wall and rain pelter the rooftops; though insidious mist shall leave its damp between rafters and termites work their way through wood, these buildings will stand their ground, yielding not to the elements or to the intent of such human designs as drive our present steward, the Reverend Bro GKJ.

This above building was built in 1931. Still too, this date remains carved on the structure, like an epitaph upon the tomb of Ozymandias, urging the reader to look upon it and tremble. As upon most of the older edifices, atop this too looms a stone cross, that blesses and protects and more importantly, looks classy as hell. Subsequent building followed in due course, with the Brothers’ parlour, the infirmary and it’s adjoining teachers' quarters being built at around the same time or earlier ( I never was good with dates ) . Mayfield came in a few years later, but still held fast to the artistic vision of the pioneers, inasmuch as it employed unpolished stone for the structures. Still too, the building continues, fueled by the desire for new space as well as the satiation of the ego of our present principal, but sorely lacking in artistic quality are these new architectural monstrosities. The extension of the 8th and 9th classrooms were absolutely fucken unnecessary. A good campus needs as much free space for trees and grass and such as it needs infrastructure. An estate crammed with buildings( as ours threatens to become) resembles more a concentration camp that a school campus. This seems to have escaped the mind of our head honcho, and he seems infatuated with reclaiming all natural land to continuing his shrine to concrete monstrosities. The demolition of the Charmettes was a totally unnecessary move. I cannot quite fathom why we needed so many fucken tennis courts and any perceived need of a cricket field is foreshadowed by the loss of the old world charm that lazy cows strolling about on a grassy maidan had about it. Come on KJ, you robbed us of tradition man. This was hallowed ground, as is every inch and nook and corner of Montfort; you desecrated it macha. Wat macha? Why?

I fully understand and support your desire to build an indoor stadium; Montfort’s gotta change with the times or it’ll die out like the dodo. Improvements on this scale, though wildly ambitious, are deserving of applause as they indicate your foresight and vision. While you’re at it, you might as well knock down the senior block public toilets and install new ones with Western-style closets. Face it, the Indian squat style is past its prime. Some things have to go; this should. The only reason our toilets were so dirty is cos they had no proper flushing system; western bogs could change that.

But for God’s sake, leave the trees be, man. And don’t you lay a finger on that chapel. That’ll leave good ole’ Eugene Mary spinnin’ in his grave.

Do any of you fellas know which was the first building in Montfort to be constructed?

The Montfort killing spree - prime candidate?

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Thu, 19 Apr 2007 22:47:00 +0000

I have been ignoring you of late. I have no excuse, except that I am subject to the laws of my university, which compel me to study for meaningless examinations which reveal nothing about my usefulness in the real world.. Alas, for such is the sad travesty that our system of education has become; a pointless exercise in futility. Thankfully, Montfort had an easy curriculum that most of us breezed through. Of course, the ASLC system screwed most of us over when we left school and found out that undergraduate education was not quite the cakewalk that we had been prepared for. Now that I look back, failing subjects in Montfort might have had quite some charm about it. Or perhaps it’s just my tendency to associate everything Montfort-related with a sense of nostalgic charm. I know people who could have gotten first rank but didn’t cause they failed art. When the time came, Karadi and other principals went about dispensing report cards and beatings on the butt. Fuse of course, has dispensed with this charming little custom. Caught up as he is with administrivia and the iron-gripped rule of his kingdom, he has long lost any need to interact with its subjects, except perhaps to occasionally fist them and give them uppercuts when he feels the need for a little stress-relief. Talking of Fuse, does anyone have any info on the origins of his name? It seems like the only people who can tell me are from the batches of the 80’s and frankly, there don’t seem to be many of those on the net. If any of you know, do write in.

The recent Virginia Tech massacre jolted me outta my intense mugging marathon (make that movie marathon). After I’d spent sufficient time mourning the deaths of the unfortunately deceased, I started wondering : “ If guns were legalized in Montfort, who would be the most likely brother/ teacher to go ballistic and start shooting folks up?”

It definitely wouldn’t be Fuse. That guy’s the kinda, cold, calculating sonuvabitch who’d read Sun Tzu’s Art of War and use its tactics to mastermind a chilling plan for your annihilation. Guns aint his style. The Brothers Antony ( both Arnie and the food in-charge bloke) both seem too peace loving and Gandhian to adopt any sort of violence. Besides the only bullets canteen-Antony believed in was the was of the Enfield variety. Augustine would be too much of a pansy to do it. If he had to kill people, he’d lecture them till they got so irritated and bored they’d commit suicide. Karadi (Sebastian) seems more the wrestler type; kinda bloke who’d pin you down and squeeze the life outta you with a slow bear-hug. The other Bro. George ( who was prince from 92-94) has been rumoured to have a liking for fair young boys, so if he were to choose a way to kill people, he’d prefer sodomising the students and killin’ em with AIDS. I doubt there’s any truth to these rumours and I deeply respect the guy, but hey, like they say, There is no smoke without fire, so it does make me wonder.

To continue, Bro, Anselm wouldn’t hurt a fly let alone kill a guy. Bro Wilfrid is a similarly lovable old dinosaur with a heart of gold. Bro Jose, who had a notorious temper, is unfortunately the late Bro. Jose, having given up the ghost due to a regrettable love of the bottle. Liver failure, I think. Bro. Varghese was a nice bloke too, no violent tendencies there. That leaves Augustine( of Belinda fame) Joseph Louis and KK. These three had such infamous tempers that I’d believe them capable of anything. Joseph Louis especially could be one violent
sonuvagun. Of course, I've only heard rumours, but he seems like a savage guy.

Moving on to teachers leaves us with a plethora of possible trigger happy nutters with the temperament of the likes of Idi Amin. Offhand, Roland, Frenchie, Robert Bellaramin(Bella), Chandrasekhar ( Chemi ) and Adrian come to mind. Adrian especially had an infamously short fuse, probably triggered off by a Napolean complex of sorts; a need to show the world that despite his small stature, he could sure pack a punch. Remember Joe Pesci’s character in Goodfellas? Same thing.

The female teachers seemed docile enough. Though most had bark, few had bite. We’ve all felt Maam’s cane and Hookens’ stick too on our butts once or twice, but these crazy old loons wouldn’t hurt a fly. One possible candidate I may have overlooked is Suresh Babu, fondly called Sus Babes. This guy sure had certain principles and once famously remarked when he found some guys stamping on the NCC beret, Stamping the NCC beret is like stamping me, man. Whether he would go stir-crazy and start rainin down bullets is questionable, but the fellow sure had a temper sometimes.

If I had to place my bets on one individual, I’d say Adrian. Man this little fella could go buck-wild and crazy sometimes. In fact, just reading ‘bout me calling him a li’l fella might set him off. Most times, he was cool as ice. His classes were interesting. He’s helped me copy during exams, asking other classmates for the answer and coming back and telling me. But if you get on his bad side and give him a gun, you’d best not start planning for the future, cos boy oh boy, there isn’t gonna be one.

Of Bogs and Porn

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Sat, 07 Apr 2007 10:27:00 +0000

Great to see this blog is finally receiving some hits. The unidentified area in the last photo of the last post has been correctly identified to be the spot adjoining the current volleyball courts. The white building with the tiled roof is the 8th and 9th standard dorm, the province of such brothers as KK, Antony, Varghese and (in my time) Anselm. Before the recent renovations which included inner toilets, the 8th and 9th standard kids had to walk all the way out here for their baths in their towels. As to the theories that the bottom storey housed a zoo, I really cannot comment. If it did, it must have been before my time.

It’s funny how Montfort never did have any Western toilets, opting to go instead for Indian squat type models which had to be flushed manually by pouring 4-5 mugs of water. And in a strange case of Resistentialism, the mugs and buckets kept disappearing, finally dwinding away to nothing. It would be three or four weeks before they were replaced, during which time we’d have to go from toilet to toilet scrounging for a mug. No wonder our toilets were so dirty. There was this one bloke who was in charge of cleaning the toilets. The same feller was in charge of cutting the chickens on the days that we had chicken and parotta for dinner. I’ll not go into the various health endangerment issues that resulted from this arrangement. Suffice it to say that it is entirely possible that the bird flu virus was born as a result of this guy’s strange combination of professions. In Mayfield, we would see him hacking away at those white hens during the lunch breaks, behind the common toilets, among the firewood. His name was Aramugam, I think. But I could be wrong. If any of you remember what his name was, please let me know. I always respected that guy. Quite grim he was, handy with knifes and buckets and the holy terror of all fowl in Yercaud.

The toilets were also the repository of knowledge, in that various items of questionable moral value were left behind for perusal by users, bringing sexual enlightenment to thousands of repressed, girl-starved Montfortians. Porn galore inhabited the bogs, tucked away behind doors or on top of ledges. Invariably, new magazines would appear when somebody had used it to its maximum jack-off potential, or when there were rumours of spot-checks by the brothers. The usual magazines were the local MenzClub and others, whose names I forget. Playboys and Hustlers were rare and hard to come by, and were considered real finds. I’ve also heard rumors of a small pocket-size hard-core men’s rag called Lick. Apparently, if you’d seen Lick, it was equivalent to losing your virginity. Anyway, these magazines would not retain their structural integrity for long. Within hours, pages would be torn away for private consumption. Pages would also be distributed among the toilets, to ensure an equal opportunity jack-off factor.

Now that we’re on the subject of porn, I cannot resist revealing this little anecdote about one of my batchmates. We were in 10th standard when this happened. For purposes of anonymity, his name shall remain hidden. But for purposes of association with a name, let’s call him Konamooka. This brilliant Malayali genius got caught twice for porn possession in the space of a month. The first time, he had them in his underwear. This was sometime in July, during the sports day drill practice sessions. Garcon, ( of gerzon) , who was our badminton coach at the time, had a sneaking suspiciong that Konamooka had porn. I think he’d caught a glimpse of it when it was taken out of its hiding place. So they begin this game of cat and mouse with Garcon chasing Konamooka. But it’s casual-like, like in the movies. No running, Garcon doesn’t call his name. He’s just following the guy. So our hero gets a little uppity and has a brilliant lollapalooza of an idea. There’s this woman, a young Computer Science teacher who Konamooka has some weird relationship with. A playful, teasing innocent student-teacher thing. He sees her on the field and decides to pass her the crumpled pages from his underwear. He goes up to her and tells her the situation. She agrees to take possession of the illicit material, but just then Garcon comes along and apprehends our little criminal. Busted!

The second time was even more hilarious. Konakooka has an even larger quantity of porn now, nearly a whole magazine, which he wants to dispose of. He can’t just throw it into the dorm dustbin, for fear of the ayah finding it and reporting it to Jason (our dorm warden at the time, this young kid just out of college) . So what does he do? He takes the mag to the toilet and starts washing it, He’s at the sink, where we wash our socks and brush our teeth, and he’s washing this porn mag like it’s perfectly natural. No one knows what the purpose of this exercise was, but the eventual upshot was that ID (Irudayaraj, assistant Dorm warden ) comes along and sees a guy washing what appears to be porn. Konamooka is busted again, and eventually gets sent to Princi.

If you fellas remember any of your porn related experiences, do write in.

Images of olde

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Sat, 10 Mar 2007 14:07:00 +0000

Hey Blokes! I know it's been awhile. What with crazy professors and an insane academic system trying to screw me over at every turn, life's been a rollercoaster. Remember I asked you fellers for snaps of school? Well, someone finally responded. Here's a taste of what Montfort looked like in the days of yore before Fuse architecturally overturned the infrastructure,cut down the trees, leveled the mountains and made it a concrete jungle.

Far view of the chapel... This chapels so rich in history. So many thousands of Montfort boys and their stunning confessions of wanking and fantasizing, so many prayers of getting shy girls...

Brother's parlour. This is where they ate. Glorious food these brothers had. Once, when I was in infirmary, we got served parlour food. Excellent shite. N though the building looks deceptively simple and benign, lotsa torture took place inside.

The entrance to Princi's office. It's doubtful the chap going in will make it out alive.

The passage leading to the Hall/Badminton Court. This is where most of us wrote our entrance examination to Montfort, as well as our boards. From what I hear, Princi's demolished it to make way for some shrine to his excellence...erm, indoor stadium...

I can't quite place this area. It looks like...hmm...no...I aint got the slightest idea really. Identify the place in this photo and win World of Warcraft points.

Call for anecdotes

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 05:22:00 +0000

Yo monty mofos...

I don't remember diddly-squat 'bout school. What I do remember is vague and more than certain to be riddled with inaccuracy. So send in what you remember or this blog is doomed.

Peace

TMC: Frenchie : Curtains

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 08:08:00 +0000

This is the final instalment chronicling the life and times of Frenchie – teacher extraordinaire and meanest human specimen (late) this side of the Greenwich Meridian.

Frenchie was a righteous bastard where grades where concerned. He took so much obvious sadistic pleasure in failing his students. You could be fucken Balzac himself and Frenchie would still find a way to fail you. Marks above 70 were unheard of. More than 50% of his cohort failed French. And the bastiche reveled in our pain. Frenchie also constantly claimed that the official Guides to the French textbook ( Cours De Langue et de Civilization Francaise ) were a plagiarized copy of his own work. Apparently, his work had been stolen by one of his students and found its way into the hands of one of his rival teachers, (some bigshot hotshit teacher in Chennai) who promptly published it the next year. A load of bull, I thought at the time. But hey, Frenchie’s like fuckin Adidas. Nothing is impossible.

Frenchie’s glory days where he commanded utmost respect and induced shit-your-pants fear soon waned. His prowess declined, the fame of his name became obscured behind a generation of new teachers. Frenchie was relegated to has-been status. Granted, no-one still effed around with the guy, but he had started drawing a few sniggers and lost a few supporters. There used to be a time when Frenchie was considered a cool guy. He’d thrash the living daylights out of you if he caught you copying or swearing or any other behaviour considered reprehensible by his standards. But he was always anti-establishment and would shield you from Princi and the whole fucken system. However, he turned traitor (ref. Bio book case) when we reached 7th standard. In his favor, it can only be said that he was part of the system and had to work from within it to change it. The moment of his crowning glory (thrashing-wise ) came when he half –killed D’Cruz to obtain the name of the other guys involved in the infamous “Biology Book Debacle”. But this is the subject of another story which we will not go into here.

This was the beginning of the end for Frenchie. For every guy who argued that Frenchie be canonized, there was a guy who said he should be hanged, drawn and quartered. The arrival of George Kalangod as Princi only accelerated the fall. George Kalangod Jason was a vainglorious bastard with a God complex that would make Jesus Christ himself question his self-divinity. His megalomania knew no bounds; he wanted humankind to deify him. Frenchie was flabbergasted at finding an ego to equal, if not top, his own. There was no room in Montfort for both their egos. Princi tried to micromanage Frenchie’s life, which irritated the shit outta him.

Our 10std was Frenchie’s final year at Montfort. We were his final batch, his last innings. This was the year of the France World Cup. Frenchie stayed up nights watching Zidane et amis raise hell and roll over opposition. When France won the Cup, he was so fucken proud. Like he was actually French or something. Quel Merde!

Soon the toothache started. Frenchie would get these stupendously bad-ass toothaches. He never showed much pain, but talked a lot about root-canal and other painful sounding procedures, in addition to disappearing for days at a time for treatment.

In ’99, finally fed up of all Princi’s shite, Frenchie decided to pack up and leave.Or so it was rumoured .Go to Chennai or Coimbatore or Pondi; away from all the ego and the madness. He did leave; disappeared for whole weeks. Theories abounded; treatment, alternate job, mistress (?) etc. His wife ( he had a wife. I know, crazy shit) continued to work in Monty. Attempts to glean info on Frenchie’s whereabouts from her received vague responses. The nature of the Frenchie-Mrs Frenchie relationship has always remained a mystery. He obviously loved her, and once told me how he’d toned down his evil bastard image and stopped thrashing students so much cos she told him to.…Anyway, he just upped and vacated, no goodbye, no speech,nothing. I never saw Frenchie again.

A year later, I get the news that Frenchie’s passed on. Whether to eternal damnation or to God’s left hand, we will never know. The details of his death are as shrouded in mystery as the JFK shootings. Apparently, the man committed suicide. I find this a hard swallow, seeing as how much he loved life. Motive remains unclear. So too does modus operandi of the suicide. I will respect his memory and avoid morbid speculation.

However, Frenchie was not done yet. He reached out from the great beyond and played his final ace. News reached us that a week after his untimely demise, his wife’s pregnancy was confirmed. Sacrebleu! The legend was gone, but he’d let a little something behind. Despite the putative lost testicle, Frenchie was apparently man enough to bequeath a legacy.

That’s all I know, folks. He was a great man, charismatic and brilliant. He influenced everyone he came in contact with. He was a bastard to some, a genius to many and a legend to all. He died at the peak of his game. I guess sometimes it is better to burn out than to just fade away…

TMC: Frenchie : Instalment Deux - The glory years

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Thu, 23 Nov 2006 06:54:00 +0000

Frenchie was a holy terror to most guys in Monty. At a time when corporal punishment was not frowned upon, he made liberal use of the rod. Frenchie's cane was a work of art unto itself. Made from supple bamboo, it extended almost a full metre. Frenchie boasted that he made it more flexible by rolling it up and immersing it in a jar of castor oil. After a couple of weeks of this treatment, the cane was dried in sunlight for a good two days. The result was a fully functional weapon of student-terrorization that could bend from tip to tip without breaking a sweat. With such an object at his disposal, the possibilities for terror were infinite. And how well Frenchie capitalized.

By the time my batch had arrived in school, the man had built up a reputation for ruthlessness that would put Idi Amin and the Gestapo enforcers to shame. He was truly Machiavellian; if Draconian measures were required to induce cringing terror in us, that was the path he would pursue. Never mind the consequences. Tales were told of how Frenchie once thrashed a guy just for asking why he smoked. I personally knew this junior of mine called Azad who cried just by seeing Frenchie thrash someone else. He was a major motherfuckin thulper (thulp is monty slang for ‘beat the living daylights out of’). Frenchie,however, had a method to his madness and preached a unique thulping style( rumor has it that he was a pioneer of interrogation techniques in the French army.) The arse would be thrashed first, then your hands got the treatment.. Finally you had to take off your shoes and you would get a few solid ones on the soles of your feet. I have never seen him exercise this routine on anyone, but he once described it to me with obvious pleasure and excitement. The rationale, he said, was to render the victim uncomfortable in every position. He couldn’t stand on his feet or sit on his butt. Basically, he was fucked.

Despite all his failings, Frenchie was a teacher non pareil. His classes were always brilliant; nary a dull moment. Year after year, the feller managed to get at least one or two of his students to obtain state ranks in French. When my batch’s time came, yours truly did the honours ( State 2nd in French, baby. I know. Crazy shit!)

Also, when birthday boys made the rounds distributing sweets to the teachers (this was customary), Frenchie made sure his students got some too. The bloke had an undeniable charisma about him. Even those who hated his guts admitted to a grudging respect of this mustachioed motherfucker with the fantastic stories and the flexible cane. It was said that as you got older and reached standards 10th 11th and 12th, Frenchie would begin to act quite cool towards you. Unfortunately, we were never able to find out if there was any truth to these tales. I have however, heard of how he would sometimes smoke with some 12th standard guys during lunch breaks. But though he had these moments where he almost seemed like a human being, nobody ever assumed anything where Frenchie was concerned. He could be the nicest guy in the world to you, joking and shooting the crap, but if you fucked with him you got fucked into oblivion. Ultimately, Frenchie remained unknowable and isolated, trapped in layers of mental blocks, attitude and godknowswhatelse.

The Montfort Chronicles: Frenchie - In the beginning

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Tue, 21 Nov 2006 04:09:00 +0000

He was a living legend, even in his time. He’s dead now, of course, but even from beyond the grave, his reach extends and permeates the gossip of the hallowed grounds of Montfort. As with all larger-than-life characters, Frenchie’s aura was owed partly to tales that grew in the telling, around and about him. He was a badass mothafucka and a lot of badass mothafuckin deeds were inevitably attributed to his ass. He might not have been responsible for half of them.

Here’s what is known for certain about the man. He taught us French, hence the handle Frenchie. He was born in Pondicherry, but beyond that all details of his early life cross into the realm of speculation. It is rumoured that even as a kid, he would beat up older kids and once even threatened his principal at knife-point because he pissed him off. He was said to have run a booze-smuggling operation in Pondicherry and when things become too hot for him, he hightailed it to France. Others speculate that he was really a mild-mannered youth with no distinguishable personality who had to skip the country because of a concocted murder charge: Wrong place,wrong time. All this might be just flagrant rumour and the validity of these claims, it is feared, might never be vouchsafed..

What is indubitable is that in his late twenties, Frenchie hauled ass to France. Here he worked for Renault, ( a brief stint, during which, the manager’s daughter fell in love with him. The manager had to fire him to prevent a social debacle. Frenchie’s charm was apparent even in those early days.) Frenchie then went on to serve a few years in the French army, doing 200 push-up days, cleaning latrines and sleeping in the nude in the harsh parisienne winters. This stage in France definitely toughened him up, if he weren’t tough already. This was also the time when one of Frenchie’s testicles got shot off. Supposedly. Which accounted for the fact that he had no children. Other accounts however, relate that the children born to Frenchie took one look at his face and decided that the cost of living might be too high. So they gave up the ghost within minutes of being conceived. This is again, unverifiable. The point, however is that Frenchie’s life has taken on a nature akin to Chuck Norris’ and the truths are difficult to separate from the fictions.

Anyway, he came back to India, loaded with mastery of French, a nasty chain-smoking habit which raised India’s pollution levels tenfold, tons of chutzpah and enough balls to force Saddam out of Iraq. After brief stints of teaching French at Chennai and other places, he finally reached Montfort, where he would remain until his shocking and untimely demise.

Welcome, you Monty thrices.

noreply@blogger.com (SEWAGEMESSIAH) — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 02:25:00 +0000

This be the land of Maam and Shakes. Of punt off, cack, bogs,fudge and mateys. Of pine triangles and charmettes ( now late charmettes, damn Fuse to Hell!). This be the world where machans interact with thriceborns ( the word had its genesis at one of the housepicnics). This is the place where SHY girls and hot Monty teachers (oxymoron? Aw come on, we had a few ) will mate with certain Monty guys ( is there any truth to these tales?) Murders,(suicides) will be discussed. So will the many hidden exits that allow for easy bunking. Yellow matter will be discussed, and I don’t mean sunflowers.

He's the man!

Sports day, house picnics, house picnic Movies. Scout camps with their inevitable mix of vice; porn,booze, fags. 12std Socials ( now a sad travesty, thanks again to Fuse ), the possible assassination of Fuse, the introduction of girls ( what was he thinking? was he thinking?) these and many more are the topics that will fill these pages in the days to come.

Agu, Bella, Antony (Arnie), Dosamuka, Vyramani, Michelle , Sus Babes. Every generation of Montfortians has had its own share of exciting stories and scandalous events, dysfunctional teachers and irritating principals. Glorious sporting achievements, wondrous times spent fuckin around with the system, batch fights, tales of bravado.

You can talk about fucken anything on this blog. Offend anyone, living or dead. Nothing is too sacred to diss. So profane everything, suffuse your posts with invective and blast society to bits. No censorship, basically. What is posted, remains posted. Retain a level of maturity though and exercise some discretion.

I also call out for photographs of Monty times. Scan em and send em to kuriantp@gmail.com. They will find their way into the blog. There aren’t ‘nuff of these to be found anywhere. Postin ‘em will give many long-lost montfortians the chance to revisit some cherished memories. Also,for admin privileges ( they give u a chance to make ur own posts on this blog, ). just send me a mail with your gmail address.

Old boys and new, we do fashion so tightly, enduring links of one long chain.

Montfort boys shall aye be men.

Let nostalgia reign.