The Billiards room chronicles

 Behind the Swing Doors: The Billiards Room Chronicles

I spent 20 years at The Bishop’s School, Pune (1981–2001), and among the many pastimes that kept us occupied, billiards was a special one. Bishops was one of the rare schools to have a proper billiards table—old but well-maintained. We considered ourselves lucky to have it, though the room itself had an eerie charm, especially at night.

Having been skilled at carrom, I took to billiards naturally, much like a duck to water—or rather, a cue ball to a pocket. Many of the senior teachers were seasoned players, and I picked up the nuances of the game from them. Names like Max Fletcher, Denzil Innis, William Daniell , Rodney Barrow, Kline Aitkins, Allen Seymour, Michael Gomes, and Eugene Pope come to mind.

Getting a game was tough, especially between 4 to 7 PM—the prime-time rush. The moment the final bell rang, some masters who had strategically waited in the room during the last period would take the first shot before anyone else could even step in! We were crazy about the game, and heated debates over tactics, shots, and rules were a daily affair. Arguments over the validity of a cushion shot or the perfect angle of a bank shot could get intense.

Saturdays and Sundays were prime time. If our wives ever wanted to find us, they knew exactly where to look. Games started as early as 9 AM and carried on throughout the day. Some masters grew so attached to their favorite cues that they started taking them home—presumably to “protect” them from others. That was highly annoying, especially when you reached for a cue only to find it missing!

Most of the rules were followed—no eating, no drinking, no damaging the cloth—but a few artistic liberties were taken with smoking. Some masters and players would casually take a puff even while playing, much to the amusement of others as the smoke drifted into their eyes mid-shot.

I often practiced late in the evening—either with someone to play against or alone. The silence of the room, the dim lighting, and the occasional creak of the swing doors made it feel eerie, especially on weekends. Some swore they felt someone watching from the large windows!

Even the Headmaster, Mr. Ringrow, would occasionally walk in and take a few shots, as would Mr. Roberts. On a few occasions, I invited my relative, Joey Fernandes, a true master of the game and a champion in his own right. Watching him play was an education—I picked up invaluable tips from him, and my game improved significantly.

Even the Master’s on duty ( MOD)  couldn’t resist. They’d slip in for a quick game, pretending to be “observing” if anyone checked. Senior boys often sneaked into the room just to watch the masters in action, soaking in the skill and strategy. On some nights, games stretched as late as 10 PM, with only the dim lights and the occasional creaking of the swing doors keeping us company.

After much persuasion, we finally convinced Mr. Roberts to re-cloth the table, possibly using funds from the fete raffle. The irony? Once it was in pristine condition, interest waned, and the room fell into quiet neglect—perhaps left to the spirits that always seemed to be watching from the windows.

William Daniell 

Alan Seymour 

Joseph Fernandes 

Audrey Fernandes 

Neville Darukhanawalla 

Christine Barrow Weltzien 

Jean Roberts 

Ryan Innis 

The Bishop's School, Pune 

The Bishop's School Alumni 

The Bishop's School Alumni Association 

The Bishop's School, Camp, Pune

Blurred lines

 "Blurred Lines: My Battle with Spectacles

I seem to have a love-hate relationship with my spectacles. That might not be the most accurate description, but the fact remains: my glasses don’t last more than a year. They get scratched, the temples (yes, I know that’s what the arms are called) get stretched out of shape, and the lenses inevitably chip. The culprit? My own carelessness. I use the case religiously—for the first week—and then it’s forgotten. I tried a chain and the other time a cord to keep them around my neck, but frankly, both looked hideous. I’m not proud of all this, so please don’t judge me.

This morning, clutching the newspaper, I realized—something was off. My spectacle number seems to have changed yet again. Hold on—it’s been just six months since I got these! I’m half convinced the prescription was wrong. Was it my fault or the ophthalmologist’s? Was she even qualified, or was I too distracted by her ‘eager beaver’ attitude and fast-talking sales pitch, to notice if the test went awry? Honestly, her whole demeanor cracked me up!

Visiting the ophthalmologist is always a laughable escapade that veers between comedy and confusion. Let me explain...

The room is typically poky and dim, with one oversized chair that’s been sat on once too often - and a screen lurking ten feet away. First, you’re asked to stick your head into a contraption that looks like a medieval torture device. Your chin rests on a cold, unyielding metal piece—too high, too low, never just right. And then, bam! A puff of cold air invades your eyes, one at a time. Although I was warned, the puff still caught me off guard and startled me. Apparently, the results were “good.”

How could they tell? I flinched, blinked, and almost toppled off the chair.

Then comes the pièce de résistance: the heavy metal trial frame. These oversized, round frames—what I can only describe as “portable satellite dishes for vision testing”—are plonked onto my face, and the experiment begins. I squint at the illuminated screen as the ophthalmologist swaps lenses rapidly. The test starts with a gigantic letter ‘A,’ probably there to reassure me that serious vision impairment hasn’t fully set in yet. Other large letters follow in quick succession, but before I know it, they shrink into what feels like microscopic dots. I can barely make out anything and wonder if I’m about to be told I’m practically blind.

“Better with this one or the last?” she asks in rapid-fire, her cheerful tone adding to my panic. Am I even answering coherently? Meanwhile, my wife sits nearby, whispering, “Make sure you read properly!”

I squint – I struggle – I attempt to use guess work. It’s a hit and miss on quite a few of the letters, as lens after lens are interchanged. In another life the ophthalmologist could be a juggler – her hands move so fast.  After some time, I have lost track of which was the best lens, and whether the left was better or the right.  In an apologetic tone I request her to start all over again! She looks exasperated but obliges with a smile. That ordeal is over- she scribbles down some numbers. She reassures me that things have not changed much, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

 We then shuffle out and move over to the selection of the frame. This is a major nightmare.   They never seem to have what I am looking for and my wife doesn’t make it easier while playing the big ‘wife role, much to my chagrin.  Her veto power always kicks in during frame selection. “That’s too bold,” she says about one. “Too black,” about another. “Your face isn’t the right shape for that!”- “looks funny” she concludes. I grind my teeth and swallow hard- not wanting to make a scene. 

By the time the ever-friendly saleslady starts pointing out "fresh designs," from dozens of drawers, I’m resigned to confusion and at my wit’s end. Prices swing wildly for similar looking frames - 700 dirhams for one pair, 1400 for another. I wince in disbelief and whisper to my wife that they are trying to crook us! As if on cue both pairs get “discounted” after a calculator-tapping marathon. I breathe deeply, pay up manfully and settle the bill with as much dignity as I can muster.

And with a promise that my new spectacles would be ready in two weeks, I leave , hoping they’d not only sharpen my vision, but also make this entire ordeal worth the wait.

A pensive mood

 A pensive mood

A vintage Port

The lamps aglow 

Sam 'lightnin' Hopkins for company.

Asking for more?

No. 

Desiring  a change ? 

No.

Could be better

Yes!

But certainly not bad !

The lazy boy 

Cushions tucked in 

Legs stretched out 

Comfortable 

A cat purring at my feet

Begging for love?

Probably not.

She is a mean kitty

And as elusive as they come!

And then

Suddenly - a phone call 

Out of the blue 

And 

It all changes. 

The mood, the music, the wine too.

And what an unexpected change 

In seconds 

I am glad.

Euphoria? 

No .

Happy ? 

Oh yes 

Life . Yes that's life. 

Patience is a virtue 

And it pays .

Dinner beckons.

My new blue jeans

 

My new Blue Jeans

The early 70s saw the “jean revolution” slowly sweep into India, and for a teenager like me in Allahabad, jeans were the ultimate dream. Back then, denim wasn’t something you could simply walk into a shop and buy. There were no Jean shops for sure.  Most people who owned jeans had either received them from kind relatives abroad or found second-hand treasures that trickled into markets in major cities—and some even made their way to Allahabad.

Allahabad, my city of birth, was a charming small town where everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was a vibrant place filled with the Anglo-Indian community, who were the life of the city’s social scene. Parties, dances, live bands—it was all happening, and fashion played a huge role. Jeans were a symbol of style and modernity, and everyone—especially the Anglo-Indian youth—wanted a pair. But jeans were rare, and if you wanted one, you had to get creative.

When a kind uncle offered to take me to a shop that sold jean material, I was thrilled. His son, my friend, and he were well-known at the Thornhill Club—fondly called the Bandhwa Club—so I trusted him implicitly- he dressed quite well too . That Sunday afternoon, we cycled through the manageable Allahabad traffic and parked near Niranjan Cinema, the landmark for our destination. Climbing a rickety staircase, we reached Ansari Tailors, a modest shop run by Mr. Ansari himself. (I am told the traffic is horrendous now)

Mr. Ansari was a gaunt, elderly man, about 70, dressed all in white with a scraggy beard that gave him an air of quiet dignity. His eyes lit up when he heard I wanted a pair of jeans. With great pride, he brought out three rolls of denim material—blue, black, and a curious muddy brown. Naturally, I chose blue. It was the “in” color, the epitome of cool.

He asked me a barrage of questions: Did I want loops? How many back pockets?  Studs? Folds? Double stitching? To be honest, I didn’t fully understand much of what he meant, but I nodded eagerly to everything. After all, he was the expert. Measurements taken and promises made; I cycled home feeling elated. In two weeks, I went to a trial, and the jeans looked amazing. Another week, he promised, and they’d be ready. I imagined myself in church amidst good company …... and that’s another story!

But fate had other plans. Shortly after, I fell seriously ill with double pneumonia. I was bedridden for over a month, missed my board exams, and had to repeat the class. In the chaos, my jeans were completely forgotten. I hadn’t paid an advance, and with no phones or address to contact me, Mr. Ansari was left with my unfinished masterpiece. I presumed  uncle never returned to the shop either, and life moved on.

Decades later, I can’t help but wonder: What happened to my jeans, Mr. Ansari? Did you sell them to someone else? Did they find their way into another teenager’s wardrobe, earning them the admiration I had dreamed of? Or did they hang in your shop for years, a forgotten relic of a young boy’s denim dreams?

 Perhaps they even inspired you to create your own line of jeans, Allahabad’s very own denim brand! Whatever their fate, those jeans remain a symbol of a simpler, more connected time, when a small-town tailor and a teenager’s dream could create a story worth retelling.

 

The chulah

 I wonder how many of you know what a 'chulah' is.

I know your smiling and using Google or ChatGPT at the same time and that's fine  ,as this is not a quiz.

Have you ever seen one ? Have you seen it being used.

When making my morning cuppa a short while ago my memory went back to those chilly winter mornings when I was growing up in Allahabad. 

I vividly remember going to the kitchen in the railway quarters where we lived.

And there was our cook. We called him 'boy' although with his gaunt face , white hair and turban he looked about 100!.

It would probably be around 5.30 or 6 am. 

He would be out in the back yard firing up the 'chulah'.

For the uninitiated - it was a claypot stove which served all if not households . Remember there were  no gas stoves back then so we used chulahs and coal! 

Hopefully you know what coal is.

No not just charcoal that you barbecue with but the 'real hard black coal'.

So the coal was put into the bucket shaped chulah along with a few bit of charcoal if available. 

At times a few pieces of wood were added to the mix- old newspaper too.

Once lit from the bottom through a grill it started smoking.

'Boy' would fan the chulah vigorously  , coughing and choking on the smoke while simultaneously smoking a ' biri' .

At times the coal was of inferior quality and the smoke would be excessive.  However, usually he had a beautiful flame up and running in under ten minutes and tea would be ready.

This chulah was refuelled throughout the day and all 3 meals were cooked on it.

It was also used as a heater in the biting cold Allahabad evenings.

Boy would bring it into the hall and place it strategically- warming our hands over it and then placing those warm hands on our cheeks was fun.

At the end of the day,the ash wa removed and disposed after keeping some to scrub greesy vessels. 

From time to time , fresh wet clay was applied to the chulah and it was put out in the sun to dry for a few hours. It then looked good as new.

Another variation was a high platform with a built in chulah so one could stand and cook- that was a more modern version if you can call it that.

I tried to light the chulah a few times but the smoke would get me coughing and tears would stream down. 

I must add that anything cooked on a chulah tasted terrific. 

Those were the days and we somehow enjoyed them.

My cup, my tea, my lips

 I have come to the conclusion that although we talk about our morning tea there are so many other things to consider.......

The type of water used

The way you boil it and for exactly how long.

The tea leaves you use

The amount, quantity  and qualiy of milk

The time spent on soaking the leaves in the boiled water

The amout of sugar if any.

There is one more......

The feel of the cup or mug in your hand and more so when the porcelain touches your lips.

I have had favourite mugs over the years and have always made my own tea with the same tea leaves and in the exact way.

I once put up a picture of my mug( the last one) and there were some vague comments. 

Some said it was too small while one also remarked that the colour was not manly! 

Well I loved it and used it well. Believe it or not, it travelled with me as I hate the gigantic mugs and cups that hotels provide  .

Some colleagues  will know that I also carry my own tea bags.

Anyway , a few days ago I woke as usual to make my tea.

Strangely the mug was missing. 

I searched rather frantically - in vain.

Rather hessitatingly I was forced to use a porcelain cup. No, not a cup and saucer - just a cup. And it has flowers on it! 

When my wife woke, she was greeted by " where's my mug"

In a rather smug fashion she made the grand announcement- " I've thrown it out".

I could have burst a vein- like a kid whose told that his favourite toy has been pitched into the bin.

However better sense prevailed.

Her explanation was valid.

One or two years of use and scrubbing had made the mug a trifle unfit for use.

No it was not chipped or cracked or anything, but it was discoloured inside.

My new cup on the other hand is sparkling and coming to think of it - the size is perfect and it feels good to the lips.

So it's out with the old and in with the new.

The cup does look a bit effeminate but who cares. 

It's now officially one of my new favourite possessions. 

My cup- my tea- my lips.

The old photo albums

 This morning, I happened to hurriedly flip through an old photo album, and it was a deeply nostalgic experience. Pictures of me as a child, my daughters, granddaughters, wedding memories, old family gatherings, picnics, parties, and other happy occasions came flooding back. 

There were snaps of my childhood in Allahabad, me playing in the band, and even some of my early years as a young teacher in Pune.

 This particular album seemed to be a collection of leftover photographs spanning nearly fifty years of my life.

 We have numerous such albums stored here in Dubai and back in Pune, and each time I come across one, I find myself transported, spending hours reliving those precious moments.

There’s a unique nostalgia tied to these memories—a reminder of simpler times when capturing moments was a deliberate effort.

 With the old film cameras, we could take only about eight photos on a reel, and some would inevitably be ruined during development. 

Those imperfect but heartfelt photos hold a charm that digital images often lack.

 Today, that’s a thing of the past, but the fondness for those tangible memories remains.

However, not all albums have stood the test of time. Some pages have yellowed with age, others have suffered from dampness, and a few photos have even gone missing. Yet, despite their imperfections, these albums are priceless treasures.

Today, technology has revolutionized the way we capture and store memories. Digital photos are sharper, clearer, and no longer require the hassle of film development. They’re easily accessible at the touch of a button, and most people no longer need a professional camera to take stunning pictures—a smartphone does the job. Yet, this convenience comes with its drawbacks. 

Unlike physical albums, digital photos can be lost when phones are changed or data is not backed up properly.

While technology offers incredible advantages, there’s an irreplaceable charm in holding a physical album, flipping through its pages, and reliving moments that feel as though they happened just yesterday. 

Times have changed, but the magic of those old albums remains timeless.

Any of you miss those old fashioned albums?