The word scientific temper has been permanently etched into my memory.
In my school days, we believed that the scientific temper would take us far.
Scientific temper does not belong to laboratories and classrooms alone, it should also penetrate our drawing rooms, dining rooms and even our bedrooms.
I discussed my inchoate musings with friends, who helped me put together an action plan.
We decided to surreptitiously remove one or two things from the stock allotted to each of us in the school laboratory, and thus create a small lab in my backyard.
We squeezed amounts of the different salts for our lab into our pockets, rolled in old newspapers.
Next on the scale of difficulty came concentrated acids.
They were kept in the small bottles hidden between the cover of the books.
The bulge of the books was concealed behind the folded wrist and forearm.
Lastly, on the scale of difficulty, came the burette.
Those who have seen this long, slender, fragile, graduated glass tube may well imagine the problem of logistics involved in carrying it out of the lab, in broad daylight, and without the instructor noticing it! This unenviable task was entrusted to (or rather, thrust upon) me, because no one else volunteered.
Their argument ran: Since the lab was to be created at my house, I would benefit from it the most.
The fateful day finally arrived.
My heart was pounding wildly against my chest, but somehow I was able to slip the burette into my pants from inside of the waist band.
Its upper end touched my right armpit, while the lower end came slightly above my knee.
Now, I had to keep myself ramrod straight, so that the bulge would not show at breast pocket, and yet limp along keeping my right leg straight, to keep the stuff intact.
But scarcely did I cross the doorstep of the lab than, horror of horrors, the instructor materialized from nowhere.
For a few moments-that seemed to mean eternity-he stared blankly.
"What makes you limp so badly," he asked.
"Sir...
sir," I stammered, "my knee struck against the heavy lock on the almirah.
" I recovered my sang-froid in the nick of time.
"Well...
well.
" He made a dismissive gesture and let me go.
This was how we created a lab whose end proved to be as anti-climactic as its beginning was exciting.
After a brief harangue that barely lasted one short minute, I cut a red rag with blunt piece of rusted blade and declared the new temple of learning open, the demonstration followed soon enough.
I held a small bottle of acid in one hand and tried to open it with other, but its tin cap had rusted and stuck adamantly in place, while I tried to unscrew the cap, it flew off and the liquid spurted out splattering all and sundry.
Amidst the ensuing din and chaos, little did I realize that our expensive woolens had been ruined by the acid; besides, many of us suffered minor acid burns, while I suffered a major one on my neck.
Half lying on the floor with the shards of broken acid bottle strewn around me, I heard the stomping of feet draw near, and felt a chill run through my spine.
I knew only too well that my mother was zeroing in on me, and sensing the impending doom, closed my eyes for the inevitable.
(I now realize that any unauthorized and unsupervised use of harmful chemicals can lead to unintended consequences and can prove hazardous in the experienced hands.
We were lucky to escape with minor and superficial burns.
However, a faded white spot on my neck still reminds of my youthful folly.
)