Now, I was no stranger to the character of Tarzan. I knew that he was an extremely strong man, wore just a loincloth, lived in the jungles of Africa, and ruled over animals, even the lion. I also knew that there was this Mazhar Kaleem who wrote Tarzan’s stories and “Yousuf Brothers, Pak Gate, Multan” published them. (Years later, when I finally grew up enough to recognize that there was no genius in Mazhar Kaleem’s pen, I regretted how I was introduced to many fictional characters through his adaptations/plagiarizations. Side note: I really should write a separate post for ranting against Mazhar Kaleem once and for all.) So anyway, those four Tarzan books immediately caught my attention because one, they were bulkier in comparison with other story books; two, their cover designs were in complete contrast with the plastic looking cover drawings of Yousuf Brothers’ stories; and three, I could clearly see the all-familiar Ferozsons logo, and I had always enjoyed reading stories published by Ferozsons.

So I turned to my Nana ji’s friend and asked him about the novels. He told me that those were the Urdu translations, meant for children, of the original Tarzan novels. That was enough for me to start tugging at my Nana ji’s sleeve, and he bought the first two books for me.

The next few days were filled with excitement and surprises. One surprise was knowing that Tarzan’s stories were originally written in English by an American writer, Edgar Rice Burroughs. At that time, I’d read his name as Edgar Rice Bruce, thanks to the transliteration of his name which was ایڈگر رائس بروس. The transliteration of English and French names had played quite some games with my young mind; I remember reading William as Waleem, because that was how it was written: ولیم! I did, however, realize that جان was John and not jaan, but I wondered why the name of Tarzan’s ape-mother was Kala instead of, you know, Kali. And the pronunciation of D’Arnot is still a mystery for me—it was transliterated as ڈارنوٹ, but considering that it’s a French name, I am guessing it’s pronounced something like داخ نو. Do let me know if you know.

Other surprises included knowing the backstory of Tarzan: why he was in Africa in the first place (his British parents were marooned by a gang of mutinous sailors), how he learnt how to swim and hunt, how—in an extremely persevering manner—he taught himself to read and write just by looking at a bunch of books and a dictionary (yep, Tarzan was not just super strong and super athletic, he was also super smart), how he discovered “civilization” when a party of British and American elite were marooned on his jungle, how his friend D’Arnot helped him in adjusting to the ways of the cultured man, and how Tarzan continued his adventures outside the jungle. All of this was so different from the usual Mazhar Kaleem’s Tarzan stories (where Tarzan had no other thing to do except picking fights with wehshi tribes and rescuing some random princess) that I was completely hooked and I soon finished all four books, only to start reading them again.

Time passed, and—cue some sad music—I lost my copies of Tarzan novels. But then I discovered some old tapes of Cassette Kahani that my parents had bought for us siblings, which I had previously ignored.

Cassette Kahani was a series of audio stories in Urdu, and they were absolutely brilliant—amazing voice acting, spell binding narratives, awesome background music, and overall great production. (They actually deserve a whole post of their own, and I found some resources out there for those who are interested.) Anyway, so in that series of audio stories they had presented Tarzan’s story too, and I was overjoyed to hear that the story they were telling was the same as I had read in the first two Ferozsons books of Tarzan. Listening to those stories was always a great pastime, and I with my siblings used to act out the lines of Tarzan and other characters. (One of our most favourite lines was Kerchak’s (leader of the apes) when he was trying to snatch some meat from Tarzan’s ape-mother, Kala: ”دے دے، دے دے۔ یہ گوشت مجھے دے دے، کالا!“)

Time passed, again, and—cue some more sad music—I lost my tapes of Tarzan’s Cassette Kahani too. I didn’t mourn for long; my attention was soon grabbed by Ishtiaq Ahmad’s novels and, eventually, the Imran Series.

A couple of months ago when I was getting bored in the office, I looked for Tarzan on Wikipedia, and found out that Edgar Rice Burroughs had written 26 books about the ape-man. A little bit of reading around the web also revealed that most of his later Tarzan books are seen as “formulaic”. Nevertheless, I just thought to read the first two anyway, because they were my most favourites and I had nothing else to do. So I headed over to Project Gutenberg and downloaded Tarzan of the Apes and The Return of Tarzan.

And boy, did that bring back memories. I never knew that after all this time, the abridged translation of Tarzan’s stories that I had read and listened to in my childhood was still buried deep inside my mind. As I continued to read on, I surprised myself by recalling many details, which only increased the pleasure and joy as I read again how John Clayton’s son became Tarzan. But the biggest surprises came when I read the plot elements that were censored by Ferozsons (rightly so since they were targeting children), including the details of the romance between Tarzan and Jane Porter.

Let me show you the love letter that Tarzan wrote to Jane in the jungle. (Keep in mind that he learnt to read and write English on his own, but couldn’t speak a word of it.)

I am Tarzan of the Apes. I want you. I am yours. You are mine. We live here together always in my house. I will bring you the best of fruits, the tenderest deer, the finest meats that roam the jungle. I will hunt for you. I am the greatest of the jungle fighters. I will fight for you. I am the mightiest of the jungle fighters. You are Jane Porter, I saw it in your letter. When you see this you will know that it is for you and that Tarzan of the Apes loves you.

Getting straight to the point, our dear ape-man. Burroughs preceded the letter with “While [Tarzan] waited he passed the time printing a message to [Jane] [...] in which he was not so uncivilized after all.”

I personally liked Olga de Coude—another romantic interest of Tarzan who, I believe, was completely omitted in the Ferozsons translation—better than Jane Porter. But since Burroughs was American, I guess he preferred an American girl over a Russian for his hero. *shrug*

Also removed in Ferozsons translations were the comparisons that Burroughs made between the jungle and the civilization (through Tarzan, of course). As a kid, these would have bored me to death (“Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance.” and “Who would go back to the stifling, wicked cities of civilized man when the mighty reaches of the great jungle offered peace and liberty? Not he.”), but reading them as an adult was amusing.

And then there was the wicked and cowardly Rokoff, who was an absolute pain in the ass. Of all the fiction I have ever read, there have only been two negative characters who have managed to get on my nerves. One is Dolores Umbridge, and the other is Nikolas Rokoff. I had decided not to read past the 2nd novel (because although I didn’t remember the details of the 3rd and 4th novels from my childhood, I did remember that my real favourites were only the first two), but when I read on Wikipedia that in the beginning of the 3rd novel (The Beasts of Tarzan), Rokoff escapes from the prison he was thrown into at the end of the 2nd novel, I just had to read it. And after Rokoff meets his absolutely hideous end, I didn’t read any further—even the remaining four chapters. (It might be the fact that I was getting bored of how Burroughs was stretching the story; in my opinion, Tarzan’s adventures should have ended with the 2nd novel. And it also might be the fact that I didn’t care much about Tarzan’s son.)

In the end, here’s a favourite excerpt of mine from the first novel. It happens after D’Arnot succeeds in making “Tarzan of the Apes a polished gentleman in so far as nicety of manners and speech were concerned.”

“There would be little pleasure in hunting,” retorted the first speaker, “if one is afraid of the thing he hunts.”

D’Arnot smiled. Tarzan afraid!

“I do not exactly understand what you mean by fear,” said Tarzan. “Like lions, fear is a different thing in different men, but to me the only pleasure in the hunt is the knowledge that the hunted thing has power to harm me as much as I have to harm him. If I went out with a couple of rifles and a gun bearer, and twenty or thirty beaters, to hunt a lion, I should not feel that the lion had much chance, and so the pleasure of the hunt would be lessened in proportion to the increased safety which I felt.”

“Then I am to take it that Monsieur Tarzan would prefer to go naked into the jungle, armed only with a jackknife, to kill the king of beasts,” laughed the other, good naturedly, but with the merest touch of sarcasm in his tone.

“And a piece of rope,” added Tarzan.

Just then the deep roar of a lion sounded from the distant jungle, as though to challenge whoever dared enter the lists with him.

“There is your opportunity, Monsieur Tarzan,” bantered the Frenchman.

“I am not hungry,” said Tarzan simply.

The men laughed, all but D’Arnot. He alone knew that a savage beast had spoken its simple reason through the lips of the ape-man.

“But you are afraid, just as any of us would be, to go out there naked, armed only with a knife and a piece of rope,” said the banterer. “Is it not so?”

“No,” replied Tarzan. “Only a fool performs any act without reason.”

“Five thousand francs is a reason,” said the other. “I wager you that amount you cannot bring back a lion from the jungle under the conditions we have named—naked and armed only with a knife and a piece of rope.”

Tarzan glanced toward D’Arnot and nodded his head.

“Make it ten thousand,” said D’Arnot.

“Done,” replied the other.

Tarzan arose.

Naturally, Tarzan wins the wager.

My interest in an unseen textbook used to make me skim my siblings’ textbooks as well. I used to examine the contents of my elder brother’s textbooks to see what I would be studying in the coming years, while my younger sister’s books used to make me reminisce about different things… like, for example, the chapter that was really, really boring.

So naturally, I am also interested in textbooks that my younger brother (who is the youngest of us all siblings) has to study. Much of my interest is also triggered by the changes that have been made into the curriculum during the past 10 years. I don’t reminisce much because of these changes, but I still enjoy the skimming.

It was quite a surprise then when I noticed that English Grammar & Composition for Classes 9 and 10 (published by the Punjab Textbook Board) was, for the most part, unchanged. It still had the same essays, the same stories, the same letters, and the same translation exercises.

It even had the same Aabi.

I was introduced to Aabi in the following Urdu-to-English translation exercise:

عابی میرے بچپن¹ کی دوست تھی۔ اکٹھے² کھیلا پڑھا۔ پھر میری ایف-اے کے بعد شادی ہو گئی اور میں اپنے میاں کے ساتھ لندن چلی گئی۔ عابی نے آگے پڑھا یا اس کی شادی ہو گئی مجھے کچھ خبر نہ ملی۔ جب میں پانچ برس کے بعد وطن لوٹی تو ایک روز بازار میں اچانک³ عابی کی بڑی بہن سے میری ملاقات ہو گئی۔ میں نے بے تابی⁴ سے عابی کے متعلق⁵ پوچھا تو ان کی آنکھوں میں آنسو⁶ تیرنے لگے۔ میرا گھر نزدیک ہی تھا۔ میں ان کو اپنے ساتھ لے آئی تاکہ وہ اطمینان سے مجھے عابی کے بارے میں کچھ بتا سکیں۔

Vocabulary:
1. childhood 2. together 3. suddenly 4. impatiently 5. about 6. tears

I remember it very clearly: our English teacher had read aloud the above quoted paragraph, and all of us had cried together, “Ma’am! Translation can wait. Please tell us what on earth happened to Aabi!”

To this day, I have been unable to find out the truth about Aabi. Maybe she died. Maybe she got married and her husband turned out to be a nutcase. Or maybe she left for college one day and never returned. The textbook doesn’t mention the source, but I doubt that the paragraph belongs to a proper story. And if my doubt is correct, how hard it really would have been to add a sentence or two, explaining Aabi and her family’s ordeal?

Okay, so maybe I am over-dramatizing. Because now I am certainly not as curious about Aabi as I was 10 years ago.

But still.

I still remember that light blue, shiny plastic case, with “Dux” printed inside a dark blue circle on its lid. In those days, anything from Dux used to be a status symbol, whether it was a simple eraser or an “ink remover”; even Staedtler couldn’t attract as much envy as Dux. Dux just used to declare out loud that the students carrying its products take the straightness of their lines and the roundness of their circles seriously.

Not to mention that compasses, and specially dividers, from Dux could also be utilized as accurate weapons. Accuracy was everything when you wanted to plant a compass under the seat of your “enemy” — quick and lethal, but also subtle. Sleight of hand, of course, was also important, so that you could swiftly recollect your compass, taking advantage of the ensuing chaos in the classroom after your enemy would jump two feet into the air and start rubbing his butt while yelling like a yeti.

But anyway, this post is not about such misadventures. It’s about a certain method that we discovered while doing geometry exercises.

I don’t know about others, but I actually used to enjoy drawing all those triangles and circles using just a sharp pencil, a compass, and a ruler. Somehow, it just felt magical to align the ruler, draw some lines, use the compass to draw arcs and circles, and then see some geometric figure appear on the paper. It was like constructing a small house, brick by brick. The sense of accomplishment used to be overwhelming at times.

Take the following figure, for example…

It’s an inscribed circle, or incircle, of a given triangle. (Everything drawn with the help of a ruler is red; green elements use the compass.) Now an incircle is a circle which is inside a triangle and touches all of its sides. Simple enough. You start by drawing the triangle according to the specification given in the exercise in your textbook. Next, you bisect all the angles of that triangle and find the point where the bisectors meet. You then take that point as the center of the incircle, and adjust the angle of the hinge of your compass so that the radius of the circle you are about to draw equals the distance between that point and any of the triangle’s sides. Finally, you draw the circle. Clean. Perfect. Magical.

Unless — yes, there is an unless — something goes wrong, which used to happen quite frequently.

Most of the time, it used to be the compass. Your enemy’s butt would sometimes damage its accuracy by making its hinge go loose, or by disturbing the alignment of its pin. A price that you just had to pay.

So instead of that perfect figure above, you could end up having something like below. (Notice that the incircle is not touching the side BC.)

At this point, me and my mates used to have two options. One, erase the unsuccessful drawing and start again. From scratch. This used to take a lot of our time. To add to our misery, Murphy’s law also used to spring in action, making matters worse and keeping us frustrated.

Second option was to cheat. But we didn’t like the word “cheat”, so we rephrased it. We started calling it “the commando method”.

Here’s what you do in the commando method. You erase the side BC carefully. Again, the eraser from Dux used to come handy with its sharp edges. (Staedtler erasers also used to work fine in this case.) You then redraw it, and make sure that it touches the incircle.

Clean. Perfect. Magical.

Of course, the commando method demands some changes in rest of the figure as well. For example, a slight change in angle B, decrease in length of the side AC, and adjustment of the bisector for angle C.

But thankfully, our math teacher used to be a human and not a robot. She could spot the difference between an angle of 45 degrees and an angle of 40 degrees, but not between angles of 45 and 46 (or 45 and 44) degrees. Similarly, addition or subtraction of some millimeters in the sides of the triangle would also escape her usually hawk-like eyes.

This, however, is the simplest case for the application of the commando method. Consider, for example, the figure below. It needs a certain level of experience with the commando method in order to get this figure right.

And finally, the commando method would completely fail if you end up with something like the following figure on a lined notebook.

Why, you ask? Because the base of the triangle was always drawn by us on a line in our math notebooks. Re-adjusting the base would move it away from the line, and that literally screamed “CHEAT!” at our math teacher. If, however, a blank page is being used, then the commando method can be applied without any hiccups. (But if someone is competent enough to draw the base of a triangle without any help from a line already present on the page, then s/he shouldn’t probably be needing the commando method anyway.)

With the passage of time, we learnt to apply this method for other exercises in geometry as well. Later on, we extended it to forge proofs of our work in the physics lab. Optics experiments, in particular, provided a magnificent playground for the commando method. In optics, some experiments included erecting a couple of pins on a sheet of paper, then looking at the images of those pins through a glass slab or a prism, and then aligning those images with another set of pins, which actually meant that we were tracing the path of the light rays through that glass slab or that prism. Commando method used to save us all the touble: we would start with drawing the resulting figure by copying it from our textbooks (with all the correct angles and all), and then poke pins on its lines, successfully indicating that the figure was drawn after the images of pins were aligned, when in fact, we hadn’t aligned any pins at all.

And believe me or not, we actually learnt a great deal while applying the commando method. Concepts of optics, such as refractive index and critical angle and other things from the same tribe, made much more sense to us after we cheated on their experiments. Honestly. We knew exactly what to do during our physics practical exam in matric, and nobody among us scored below 20 (from 25). Nobody applied the commando method either.

Now it’s been so long that I have used the commando method, that I miss it.

And I miss Dux as well. Some months before matric, there was a swarm of fake Duxes in the market, and the real Dux also disappeared somewhere, with the quality of its products declining. I have no idea who the current market leader is for geometry sets these days. And come to think of it, I don’t have an idea about anything these days.

If only I could apply the commando method to understand not just optics, but other things as well.

“Aren’t you going to change?” I asked him.

“Nope,” he shook his head.

“Good,” I nodded, “I used to do the same.”

When I was in Matric, there was this teacher whose tuition academy I used to go to. The timings were such that I just got an hour or so after school to reach his place. Fortunately, my school was just a 10 minutes walk away from my home, so I used to dash towards home after the chhutti, stuff my mouth with whatever meal Ammi ji had cooked, throw the school tie and sweater away (well, not really away, but on my bed), put on a black leather jacket, and then dash my way to that tuition academy. After my return from there, I would just hang around in the same school shirt and trousers, giving everybody the impression that this kid (that is to say, me) is such a hardworking student that he doesn’t even have time to change into different clothes. And tell you what, most people really used to think like that.

Except for that one time when a cheerful fellow in my street asked if I was being lazy.

In my FSc days, things were almost the same. In summer, though, I used to change my shirt. (Those gray school trousers were such beautiful pieces of clothes that they got along with most of my other shirts smoothly.) In winters, there was again the throwing away of the college sweater (no tie, then) and the wearing of leather jacket. And considering that I used to have enough time after college to change into ‘civilian’ clothes, most people then started to suspect that I was being a lazy giraffe. (I only agreed with the giraffe part.)

The one person who was most irritated by this dress code of mine was my Ammi ji. You see, she is quite a perfectionist. Whenever she steps into my room, she takes a look around, gasps with horror, and then in a whispered tone says to me, “Saadat! What have you done to your room?” Needless to say, I almost always reply with no verbal answer but with an angelic, innocent look on my face, trying to convince Ammi ji that this room is highly organized if Saadat’s Laws of Organization could be considered. Needless to say again, Saadat’s Laws of Organization are always promptly rejected.

I don’t know if I miss wearing a school uniform. According to an ex-class fellow of mine, a uniform keeps your honour (izzat) because if you have to wear specific clothes everyday, and everyone else around is dressed in the same clothes, then this saves you the shame of wearing the same pair of jeans for the whole week. (Yes, he was that self-conscious.) To some extent, I agree with him. But if you consider Saadat’s Laws of Garments, then they state somewhere in their clauses that if you are wearing the same pair of jeans for the whole week, they become your personal uniform. Thus, you are then going to have all the benefits of wearing a school/college uniform by wearing that very favourite pair of jeans.

Now, where’s my favourite pair of jeans…?

They should be on my bed, according to Saadat’s Laws of Organization, but apparently these laws do have some flaws in themselves.

Hmm.

This update proves two things. One, that I am alive. And second, that I have nothing to write about. However, here is something that I have always wanted to share. I don’t know who its writer is… I found it at some website’s message boards about 3 years ago. And no matter how many times I read it, it always brings a smile. Enjoy.

Close your eyes…

And go back in time…

Before the Internet, VCD and DVD…

Before semi-automatic machine guns…

Before SEGA or Super Nintendo or Video Games…

Way back…

I’m talking about hide and seek (chhupan chhupaee) in the park or on streets…

The corner shop, Butter Scotch Candy, Mitchell’s Milk Toffee, Jubilee, Mayfair bubble gum…

Football with an old can, jumping in enormous puddles, building dams…

The smell of the sun and fresh cut grass…

A Polka ice cream, pop cone on a warm summer night…

Wait…

Watching weekday 5 pm evening or Saturday morning cartoons…

Short commercials, Tom and Jerry, He-Man, Captain Caveman, Waltron, Walligator, Danger Mouse and Pink Panther…

Staying up late for Knight Rider, Air Wolf or Power of Matthew Star…

Watching nice Urdu plays like An-Kahi, Tanhaiyaan, Sunehray Din, Aangan Terrha…

When around the corner seemed far away, and going into downtown or Liberty Market seemed like going somewhere…

A million mosquito bites, wasp and bee stings…

Sticky fingers…

Walking to school, no matter what the weather might be…

Running till you were out of breath…

Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt…

Jumping on the bed…

Pillow fights…

Climbing trees, building igloos, ice lollies out of tiny amounts of snow…

Spinning around, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for the giggles…

Being tired from playing…

Remember that?…

The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team…

Water balloons were the ultimate weapons…

I’m not finished just yet…

Eating raw jelly, orange squash, and ice pops…

Remember when…

You knew everyone in your street — and so did your parents!…

It wasn’t odd to have two or three “best” friends…

You didn’t sleep a wink on Eid Chaand Raat…

When 100 rupees was a decent pocket money…

When you’d get a coke for 4 rupees…

When nearly everyone’s Mum was at home when the kids got there from school…

It was magic when Dad would “remove” his thumb…

When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at real restaurant with your parents…

When being sent to the head’s office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited a misbehaving student at home…

Basically, we were in fear for our lives, but it wasn’t because of drive-by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc. Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat!

And some of us are still afraid of them!

Didn’t that feel good?

Just go back and say, yeah, I remember that!

Remember when…

Decisions were made by going “eeny-meeny-miney-mo”…

“Race issue” meant arguing about who ran the fastest…

Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in “Monopoly”…

The worst thing you could catch from other person was germs, and the worst thing in your day was having to sit next to opposite sex…

Having a weapon in school meant being caught with a catapult…

Nobody was prettier than your Mum…

Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better…

Taking drugs meant orange-flavored chewable aspirin…

Ice cream was considered a basic food group…

Getting a foot of snow was a dream come true…

Abilities were discovered because of a “double-dare”…

Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors…

If you can remember most of these, then you have lived!

“Having a good memory is a remarkable thing,” Taya ji was saying. “I don’t have a good memory. Can’t remember anything… figures, names, nothing. I guess nobody has got such a 3rd class memory as I have.”

“Well, I can’t remember figures and names either,” Abbu ji added.
“And that’s a very big problem our family has,” said Taya ji.
“But for some people, good memory is a torment,” I said.
“Those are poets!” Taya ji smiled.

Very silently, I cleared my throat.

“Is my answer correct?” Taya ji’s voice was still smiling.

I waited for a moment, and then said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, suppose you are trying to forget an incident, which always gives you pain when you remember it. But your good memory just doesn’t let you do that. What would you do? You’ll be suffering with more pain every time you remember it, and until your brain collapses, you’ll be feeling that pain increase every day.”

“No, no, no,” Taya ji shook his head. “The thing you’re talking about is something different. It happens with everybody. With me too. When my mind gets stuck on one thing, it just sticks. It doesn’t bother about anything else. What you are talking about is mainly concerned with the event itself, and the intensity of the event, and how you take it. It has got nothing to do with a good, or bad, memory.”

I continued driving.

It happens to me sometimes. When I enjoy a good and long sleep in the afternoon, it happens. This sleep of mine starts in the afternoon, but ends in the evening, resulting in a sleepless night. And that’s what I am experiencing right now: rat jaga, as they say it in Urdu. And this rat jaga is not for any prayer or studying thing… it’s like the one which makes you feel like an owl sitting on a tree’s branch with a full moon in background!

The watchman is blowing his whistle out there in the street… phhrreeww! This sound used to freak me out when I was a kid. I used to think that it was due to some sort of an alien who had come to check the conditions for invasion. Then after reading some detective stories I began to think that this sound is made by some smugglers who are challenging everyone to catch them. And obviously I decided to accept the challenge. One night I stayed in my bed to wait for that whistling sound, and when I heard it, I jumped out of my bed and rushed to the balcony, feeling excited that I was going to catch a bad guy… You can’t imagine how disappointed I felt when I saw nobody else but the chaukidaar baba (old watchman). LOL!

Childhood has got its own charms. Mostly because of those ‘myths’ which were famous among us. I never told anyone about this whistle and watchman thing, though. Back then I used to think of it as my secret.

OK, I am still not feeling sleepy. May be I can keep on staring the monitor’s screen to get my eyes tired. Or may be I can try reading one of my text-books… Yes. YES! Now I remember. Back in those ‘whistle and watchman’ days, whenever I wanted to sleep, I used to try memorizing arithmetic tables, which acted just like a sleeping pill for a student like me… I better find my Calculus book now.

Good night!