Kishore Singh: Don't sweat, perspire

PEOPLE LIKE US

The other day, when my sister called to say that her fauji husband and two boys had no idea what a finishing school is, I was happy to explain to them "" at some length, if my brother-in-law's attempt to wriggle off the phone was any indication "" that it is an institution where at one time the finest Indian society and now the nouveau riche go to learn how to eat properly and speak in turn and without their mouth full.

Since this is the kind of thing that was beaten into us by a mother who clearly didn't believe in sparing the rod, I've always wondered why people spend good money to pack off their children to expensive institutions only to learn that scratching in public and spitting on the roads isn't good manners.

On the other hand, there's the home-grown school that insists what's good manners for one is simply bad hygiene for another. For example (and I state this only to give them a platform, but don't necessarily hold with the view), the "Indian" way of blowing one's nose and flicking the snot on the floor may be entirely reprehensible to us, but has as little charm for them as carrying that same mucus around in a handkerchief stuffed into one's trouser or jacket pocket.

What I had no idea (and only learnt later that she was insisting to her family) was that my sister had ever been to a finishing school. She'd been to a residential college in Dalhousie headed by nuns where, as far as I knew, she'd studied her English and history and probably home science for all I know "" but a finishing school? Surely she was deluding herself?

"It was a finishing school," she insisted when we spoke about it later (had she escaped Mum rapping her on her knuckles then?). "It wasn't!" I argued, fascinated by the notion that she might have been taught to curtsey in case the Queen happened by. "It was," she repeated, "it was, it was it was..." clearly proving that had it been one, she hadn't profited much from being there.

"I'm not in the least surprised," said my wife, who had been feeling waspish the whole day because of an argument she'd had with her sister (clearly a candidate for a finishing school, if ever there was one). "I don't think you should say that about my sister," I argued back, "because she thinks everything you've learnt is after you got married, so our family has been like a finishing school for you."

Just when the counter-accusations had begun to become a little interesting, our conversation was interrupted by the neighbourhood contractor. His daughter was in college, but he'd come to tell us that now she'd be doing an additional course in the afternoons that would train her in software, so she could join the growing cyberforce on graduation.

This is not what he was perturbed about though. "You know," he moped, "when I went to admit her, I found that all the other students were doing khit-pit in English, and were very smartly dressed, and I'm worried my daughter will feel out of place." "No, no," my wife attempted to brush away his concerns, "she'll soon make friends and be happy."

Our visitor, though, didn't look convinced. "I spoke about it to the management, and they've advised her to sign on for another weekend course," he said. "How will she study any more, poor thing?" I asked him.

"Oh, she won't be studying," he said, "she'll just be told how to wear her clothes properly, and eat with a fork and knife, and speak when spoken to. I think it's called," he floundered around for the term, "a finishing school.