Colour me!

Anita’s is a darkish-yellowish-orange—warm and smooth.

Nidhi’s is a bright yellow- bubbly and cheerful.

Shahrukh Khan’s is a deep red- very passionate (at least in his movies).

My favourite RJ’s is a mixture of sky blue, black, and bright green- sometimes light, sometimes serious, and sometimes funny.

That’s the colour of their voices. Every voice has a colour, depending on the personality and image of the individual. I can almost instantly identify a person’s voice with a colour. Call it weird, but it’s true. So when I see a colour, I remember the person I associate with it.

I wonder what’s the colour of my voice.

Very Funny

I can never be funny. No matter how much I try, I can never make people laugh. I don’t think I have the funny bone.

On the other hand, I laugh easily. I love laughing. It usually begins with a slight giggle, and then graduates to a laugh. Even remotely funny things can make me smile.

You can imagine my condition during my history lesson in school, where the teacher was always unintentionally funny.

She was known for getting angry fast, and being hilarious when in that state. Her usual remarks on being angry with a particular student were:

“You junglee child! I’ll throw you like a football into the Chowpatty waters!”

OR

“Bogus behaviour!”

These statements were accompanied by elaborate hand-gestures towards the window, door, the student, or no one in particular.
Once, in a fit of rage, she threw her spectacles on the floor. Luckily, they didn’t break. But we got a ten-minute lecture on how expensive spectacle frames were and how she’d have to pay for them from her salary.

I could never control myself in her class. But to camouflage my laughter, I’d cover my mouth with a handkerchief and pretend to cough. If that didn’t work, I’d pinch my arm really hard.

Another unintentionally-funny teacher was the Biology teacher. She never knew what she was talking about, and her, “Come on now! I’ll throw you out now!”, spoken very gruffly, made me burst into giggles.

Unfortunately, when I moved onto college, funny didn’t exist in the teachers’ dictionary. Their attempts to be funny are met with smirks and artificial laughter.

Ah! Those were the days of true laughter. And trust me, it was therapeutic, because I hardly fell ill in my schooldays. And now, I fall sick almost every week.

On the basis of the above observation, I have a suggestion for the education board:

Make humour a part of our teachers’ training. That’s the only way they can keep the class alive while talking about long-dead kings and glacial formations.