Getting even is so sweet:

Avenger’s bottom line payback!

Gaston de Rosayro

Putdowns and bullies used to make me mad. But the best advice I ever had was given by my old Grandpop who said: “Don’t get mad, get even”. And so I started striking back at a very early age.

You do not need to go overboard, and there is no point doing anything illegal or it could just end up getting you into trouble. But you can find safe and legal ways to get your own back and have fun doing it.

And if you are the goody-goody type who preaches that payback is a swine and revenge is sweet then I am the sweetest swine you will ever meet. Now look there is nothing vindictive about looking for healthy justice.

Besides, I don’t care what you think of me, because it couldn’t be half as bad as what I think of you. I dance to my own band and it doesn’t matter if they are a little out of tune.

I still remember my grade four class teacher, who we all looked upon in a mixture of awe, admiration and amusement. I nicknamed him ‘London Canda’. He had the proper combination of humour and authority required to deal with students such as us – a caboodle of raucous, rowdy and rebellious rapscallions.

But I must concede that although his style of imparting education was unconventional it was effective, He meted out his own brand of painful punishment to the recalcitrant rascals, although not always even-handedly. He was judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one. We were convinced then that the Spanish inquisitors could have taken a leaf from his agonisingly inventive forms of punishment that were mostly dictated by whim.

There was not much margin for error in that time and place and corporal punishment even for the slightest infraction was the norm. British-style formal caning was fully lawful in Ceylon schools then and strongly supported by the government.

Most of the country’s secondary schools used the cane, which was a significant element in the disciplinary system. But such punishment rarely fitted the crime, so to say, and provided a free rein for appalling abuse by many tyrannical pedagogues.

This sternness notwithstanding , London Canda’s classes were always conducive to learning. He worked us hard, giving us big and challenging assignments such as requiring a weekend diary complete with an illustration to highlight the event. I was no Michelangelo and never aspired to be one. But I managed to sketch a fairly good cartoon likeness of him to illustrate the satirical text about him. Of course I cheated by tracing a caricature of him from an old school magazine and touching it up to make him look as grotesque as ever.

My classmates thought my diary jottings and sketches were hilarious. But old London Canda caught on to my shenanigans quite quickly. While perusing my diary and drawings he would subconsciously draw not his paintbrush but his cane. As the swish of his switch blistered my tender bottom I wondered as a lampooning artist whether I would ever be able to even draw breath.

As the Lord High Executioner he was never moved by tears. Ok, I concede I cried once. That was enough weakness. Real men don’t cry. They seek revenge. From then on he knew he was dealing with a hellion who mostly beat him to the verbal punch.

Such as while addressing me once he quipped: “You are a complete idiot! Had I countered saying as he expected and said. “I am not stupid,” the uncreative approach would just have created stress and made me seem even more stupid than I really was. But instead I shot back: “Yes I am, Sir! And you are so smart, you figured that out in two minutes!” It worked! Because he did not swish me for the comeback. If he did it would have illuminated his own stupidity.

Now London Canda, also doubled as the Under XII cricket coach who lined up ten and eleven year olds against the sightscreen and dispensed catching practice. We were genuine cannon fodder as the powerfully pitched hard, red blur hurtled missile-like towards our heads and chests. Our very lives depended on quick reflexes as we learned to hold on despite suffering from bruised torsos and almost having our heads scalped apache-style.

But some of us managed to exact sweet revenge on the ostensible horrors perpetrated on us. I recall the time when London Canda took strike in the middle at a practice session. He was in the process of demonstrating to his charges a cover drive or so he imagined. Being above average height for an adult he was forced to bend more than he usually did as he was wielding a junior sized willow.

He ordered me to bowl a straight ball at him, reminding me sternly: “And none of your swing, you rascally thing!” I could hardly believe my good fortune.

To me it was a dream come true. I resorted to a longer than usual run-up.

Galloping in I pitched in an in-swinger with all my might and sinew. My target: His protruding posterior. Much to the amusement of the onlookers I scored a bull’s-eye. You may say I hit two targets with one ball, in that the leather ricocheted off his ample rump and shattered his wickets.

It was the bottom line payback, and for me one of life’s most therapeutic moments!