The Knack - 1

I was eleven years old when my dad worried that his first-born son had the acumen for art. My art was on public display on every reachable part of the wall until they were white-washed when I was ten. I assure you, I had given up drawing on the walls a long time back, but my kid sister continued the tradition until she was six; sibling after all. Early on, I realized that I could cut stuff artistically as well. My parents were not very pleased with this psychotic perspective.

It was very disappointing to see my dad come home one day with the toy set, ‘Mechano’. Given my history of beheading tiny soldier figures, stuffed toys, and some dolls, I was already looked up on as a poster child for juvenile psychiatric analysis. The idea of buying Mechano was my dad’s brainchild with the view to divert his first-born’s attention towards not meting out capital punishment to innocent, lifeless figurines. I think, the sole purpose behind procreating my sister was their last hope to continue the legacy of our family sanity. But what good would that do, if the parents were parsimonious about buying new toys or clothes for my new-born sister. Even before they knew it, there was no hope for my sister. What good could come out of a kid who played with headless toys!

Coming back to the culprit in question, not my parents but the ‘Mechano’ set, I was hoping to see some drawing accessories or may be a potential toy candidate to perform head surgery on, but alas, no such luck. Of course, my disappointment didn’t creep in, until I figured out that I couldn’t do much with metal strips and Lego blocks and wheels. My dad rubbed his hand in glee seeing me glum. My sister who was seven had been brainwashed into believing that ‘throwing things’ is not a game.

It is in my nature to see if I could utilize any equipment towards my constructive interests. The Mechano set just seemed very lame, and didn’t seem to have any destructive potential. Of course, I could cut and poke stuff using those metallic strips, but it wouldn’t work as well as the knife that was beyond my reach in the kitchen. I had to think of something real quick, before my dad converted me into this Frankenstein creature that he had in mind. I shuddered.

I remember, as a school going kid I had a toy gun. My dad was not always an evil man; his goodness glittered when he presented me with that toy gun some days before the Mechano day. Apparently, the toy shop guys forgot to mention that it was not exactly a toy! It had a nice barrel with a mechanism that mocks cocking a real air gun, and then pulling the trigger releases the mechanism which hit a flat panel and that made a lot of noise. Brilliant!

For the first few days, the hearing of my joint-family members was seriously affected, but it was just a temporary phase. There was a random shooting incident in my neighborhood, much to the horror of our guests, my dad quipped nonchalantly, ‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s just our son.’ As their jaws attempted to drop to their floor, my dad helped them by adding, ‘He’ll be here in a minute. Just you wait.’

No, I have not digressed. The tiny nuts and bolts from the Mechano set made for perfect projectiles. My sister jumped for joy when I informed her about the prospects of ‘throwing’ stuff but at a higher speed than she could ever imagine.

The next day morning, the abolished gun was procured from the attic and we decided to experiment when the house would be relatively quiet in the afternoon after school. The hecatomb that was executed that day continues to remain vivid in my mom’s memory. People have not dared to peek through the peephole ever after, for fear of a ‘bullet’ coming through. The brighter side of the whole exercise was totally lost on my bird-brained family members. One of the kids could have gone ahead to win the Gold at the Olympics at target shooting.

I do not remember being gifted any gifts after 12. Neither does my sister.

I am good at sketching with pencils, primarily because watercolors were banned in my house. They said it was against our religious beliefs. That left me with no option but to sketch using a pencil. At thirteen, when all grandmothers ask stupid questions to every kid playing hide-and-seek, ‘Sonny, what do you want to become when you grow big?’ As much as I don’t believe it, but they said, one of them had a cardiac arrest when I said, I would like to become a painter. I was advised to mutter ‘pilot’ to such idiotic queries after that incident.

That was the beginning of the innocent conversion of a born artist into a code-wrenching, illogical, technophobic technocrat.