Folding socks from a heap is the truest test of your patience. It tells you exactly where you stand in the evolutionary ladder- whether you can maintain your cool or whether you will succumb to irritation.
The socks are all washed nice and clean. All that you need to do is to match up each pair, fold them in half and neatly stack them up in your wardrobe. Easier said than done! The socks are supposedly of the same colour, size and brand. However, each one seems to have acquired a distinct personality over time- some are spotlessly white- this is their first wash, others a little yellow with age, the heal is protruded in one, the height a tad shorter in the other.
That's what makes folding socks such a compelling task. You take one, rummage through the entire heap, pick its partner, click your tongue in disapproval for it doesn't exactly match up, pick another which seems a better fit, fold it in half and put it away. When you get to the last pair, you're in for a rude shock. Either there is no partner for the last sock you are holding up or if there's one, they are as well matched as Laurel and Hardy!
Evidently, you've made a mistake somewhere. It is an onerous task now... to go back to each folded pair, put them all back on the table and start the process all over again. Even the Rubik's Cube can be solved in 16 moves, but not this. At the end of it, you've had enough of this nonsense. You simply take the last pair..and regardless of their credentials, match them up. If marriages can survive with ill matched partners, why not a measly pair of socks!!? They go right into the wardrobe as they are, they deserve each other you mutter.... slam the door... and dive into some other fruitful activity!
Socks can never be domesticated. They look upon their entire existence in the wardrobe as a life in solitary confinement. Andy Dufresne took 20 years to tunnel his way out of his prison cell at Shawshank. All that he needed was "geology and time". Socks can do it with much less- their favourite Houdini Act is to make a getaway from the washing machine. You swear that they were all in. By the time the washing machine has exhausted itself and you pull all the clothes out, one sock is gone. You twirl the drum multiple times, you stick your head and peer into it to ensure that it is not stuck between one of the rims- it is terribly perplexing...but the fact is....the sock has escaped... as clean as a whistle!! By the time you realize it, the sock is possibly well on its way to some island in the South Pacific... to a "warm place... with no memory"! You can keep twirling the washing machine drum with your hand faster and faster...in exasperation... but he ain't coming back any time soon!!
Our Drill Teacher in primary school was Miss Grace. That was just her name, it didn't exactly influence her personality. She liked all the students to be arrayed in rows..and dressed smartly. She didn't care whether the uniform was frayed or the shoes were dirty or the laces hung out liked tangled hair. But the socks had to be just right. They had to stretch up till the shin, just below the knee roll- "taut and white". If you occasionally wore shoes without socks because they got wet in the rain, you were castigated- "doodhwala bhaiyya...coming to school.. is it!?"- in obtuse reference to the milkman who wore footwear which required no socks.
By the end of the academic year, the socks were as tired as the students. After all, nothing changed in the Drill period the entire year. We were still marching up and down in the blazing sun. The elastic was frayed with use.... which meant that they went about their duty in a rather desultory manner now. As Mehernosh kept marching- left, right, left, right... the elastic gave up... and the socks slid down ever so slowly. There was nothing he could do about it. Soon, they were at his ankle, hugging his feet rather apologetically... making his legs stick out even more prominently like a pair of thin pipes! Miss Grace grabbed Mehernosh by one ear and while he winced in pain... pointed to his socks and said that he had better have them corrected.
This dressing-down ensured that Mehernosh followed a rather peculiar ritual from then on. He marched left-right-left.. and as Miss Grace went to the back of the class, he would stoop down, tug at one sock till it came right up to the knee roll; and again as Miss Grace passed him once more to the front of the class.. he would reach down and pull up the other sock and continue marching!! A delicate balancing act all right, but it kept him afloat for the remainder of the year.. till he could buy another new pair of socks- "taut and white"!
If at all there was a hitch, it was this one- the rest of us who were positioned behind him in the row and copied his actions verbatim.. found it difficult to avoid this act alone. Soon an entire row had a different technique.... with a rhythmic tug at the ankles included in the marching regimen !!
Students used socks for all kinds of activities. They wore them on their hands and pretended they were lepers and went around the class begging ...or caught dragonflies and grasshoppers and stored the booty in their socks. It made them itchy and like Mehernosh, they just *had* to scratch and twitch right in the middle of the never-ending exercise drill. It was tough.
The showdown happened one afternoon... when Sridhar turned up in a pair of socks-a shocking pink colour. Miss Grace's eyes bulged as never before. Cool and composed, Sridhar was the first to speak- "Ma'am, my mother washed my socks with her sari in the same bucket! Ma'am, we are not so rich that she can buy me a new pair of socks." In two straight sentences, he had completely disarmed Miss Grace. She was silent for the rest of the class, while Sridhar turned back and gave us one of his mischievous winks. That sly fellow!!
The socks are all washed nice and clean. All that you need to do is to match up each pair, fold them in half and neatly stack them up in your wardrobe. Easier said than done! The socks are supposedly of the same colour, size and brand. However, each one seems to have acquired a distinct personality over time- some are spotlessly white- this is their first wash, others a little yellow with age, the heal is protruded in one, the height a tad shorter in the other.
That's what makes folding socks such a compelling task. You take one, rummage through the entire heap, pick its partner, click your tongue in disapproval for it doesn't exactly match up, pick another which seems a better fit, fold it in half and put it away. When you get to the last pair, you're in for a rude shock. Either there is no partner for the last sock you are holding up or if there's one, they are as well matched as Laurel and Hardy!
Evidently, you've made a mistake somewhere. It is an onerous task now... to go back to each folded pair, put them all back on the table and start the process all over again. Even the Rubik's Cube can be solved in 16 moves, but not this. At the end of it, you've had enough of this nonsense. You simply take the last pair..and regardless of their credentials, match them up. If marriages can survive with ill matched partners, why not a measly pair of socks!!? They go right into the wardrobe as they are, they deserve each other you mutter.... slam the door... and dive into some other fruitful activity!
Socks can never be domesticated. They look upon their entire existence in the wardrobe as a life in solitary confinement. Andy Dufresne took 20 years to tunnel his way out of his prison cell at Shawshank. All that he needed was "geology and time". Socks can do it with much less- their favourite Houdini Act is to make a getaway from the washing machine. You swear that they were all in. By the time the washing machine has exhausted itself and you pull all the clothes out, one sock is gone. You twirl the drum multiple times, you stick your head and peer into it to ensure that it is not stuck between one of the rims- it is terribly perplexing...but the fact is....the sock has escaped... as clean as a whistle!! By the time you realize it, the sock is possibly well on its way to some island in the South Pacific... to a "warm place... with no memory"! You can keep twirling the washing machine drum with your hand faster and faster...in exasperation... but he ain't coming back any time soon!!
Our Drill Teacher in primary school was Miss Grace. That was just her name, it didn't exactly influence her personality. She liked all the students to be arrayed in rows..and dressed smartly. She didn't care whether the uniform was frayed or the shoes were dirty or the laces hung out liked tangled hair. But the socks had to be just right. They had to stretch up till the shin, just below the knee roll- "taut and white". If you occasionally wore shoes without socks because they got wet in the rain, you were castigated- "doodhwala bhaiyya...coming to school.. is it!?"- in obtuse reference to the milkman who wore footwear which required no socks.
By the end of the academic year, the socks were as tired as the students. After all, nothing changed in the Drill period the entire year. We were still marching up and down in the blazing sun. The elastic was frayed with use.... which meant that they went about their duty in a rather desultory manner now. As Mehernosh kept marching- left, right, left, right... the elastic gave up... and the socks slid down ever so slowly. There was nothing he could do about it. Soon, they were at his ankle, hugging his feet rather apologetically... making his legs stick out even more prominently like a pair of thin pipes! Miss Grace grabbed Mehernosh by one ear and while he winced in pain... pointed to his socks and said that he had better have them corrected.
This dressing-down ensured that Mehernosh followed a rather peculiar ritual from then on. He marched left-right-left.. and as Miss Grace went to the back of the class, he would stoop down, tug at one sock till it came right up to the knee roll; and again as Miss Grace passed him once more to the front of the class.. he would reach down and pull up the other sock and continue marching!! A delicate balancing act all right, but it kept him afloat for the remainder of the year.. till he could buy another new pair of socks- "taut and white"!
If at all there was a hitch, it was this one- the rest of us who were positioned behind him in the row and copied his actions verbatim.. found it difficult to avoid this act alone. Soon an entire row had a different technique.... with a rhythmic tug at the ankles included in the marching regimen !!
Students used socks for all kinds of activities. They wore them on their hands and pretended they were lepers and went around the class begging ...or caught dragonflies and grasshoppers and stored the booty in their socks. It made them itchy and like Mehernosh, they just *had* to scratch and twitch right in the middle of the never-ending exercise drill. It was tough.
The showdown happened one afternoon... when Sridhar turned up in a pair of socks-a shocking pink colour. Miss Grace's eyes bulged as never before. Cool and composed, Sridhar was the first to speak- "Ma'am, my mother washed my socks with her sari in the same bucket! Ma'am, we are not so rich that she can buy me a new pair of socks." In two straight sentences, he had completely disarmed Miss Grace. She was silent for the rest of the class, while Sridhar turned back and gave us one of his mischievous winks. That sly fellow!!
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