Of ballboys and old age

There was a ballboy in our tennis club called Podu. The fun-potential of that word never struck me when I still used to play. 'A ballboy is just someone who picks up the balls', one would unflinchingly explain when asked what it means. It seems even more hilarious that I could say that with a straight face. Podu had a dead-pan expression. In retrospect, the fact that his name was Podu never struck me as amusing either. Nor did the fact that our club had a lousy name like Dakshin Kalikata Sansad.

Podu was short for Prodeep. In truth, he was short for a normal kid too. He was a stocky kid - the kind with slick hair and penguin feet, who looked like he took immense pleasure in meticulously doing his job. It was unfortunate that a job like clearing the court of any stray balls had to be done swiftly and with about as much revulsion as one should feel while clubbing puppies. Naturally, Podu was bad at his job. But in the lazy heavy days of the time, no one seemed to mind. Least of all the sexagenarians who haunted all the available courts. They had the courts booked for all time slots every day of the week, and for all months until eternity had run its course. Swinging selectively at most shots that come your way must be an important part of staying healthy when you're old.

I don't much care for the idea of getting old. Until a few months ago, I used to cringe at the prospect of not having a good jog every day. But the truth is when I stop doing something regularly, I seem to stop doing it completely. Like the time I stopped playing tennis. It didn't feel right to start all over because it would mean doing something you aren't very good at anymore. Naturally, I didn't get the chance to see Podu very often. It's not something that bothers you, it's just the idea of not caring that puts a shameful thorn in your side. Podu had a lisp. And a stutter. Do you remember how Moose Mason always started his sentences with "D-uh.." Podu was the kind of guy who facilitated your understanding of such characters. Management has a word for such a phenomenon - "tacit knowledge" - which in itself, is a nugget of information that impresses a lot of people and doesn't really mean anything. Like Podu trying to take up tennis. He was so horrendously outclassed by his own shadow that if he didn't enjoy it so, it would have been a painful ordeal to watch him play. For better or worse, Podu could not afford a racquet. 

I meet Podu sometimes at the club and he always has a spare "Bhalo acho toh?" greeting in his pocket to share. Even for a congenitally awkward person like me, it's not hard to smile at the Podus of the world. They're the innocuous and content, easy-come-easy-go, perfectly happy to waddle into court at 6 and waddle out at 9 people whom all you owe is a smile and possibly some pujo'r chanda. If Podu died tomorrow, would I care? Probably not. But someday with age, I'd grow the sensibility to care. That's one of the reasons I hate getting old. Maybe all the times that I didn't care will have a bone to pick with me.