The Abacus

I still remember the first (and the last) toy reckoner I ever had (Some call it the abacus). It was beautiful, so beautiful that I had to know what was inside every single bead.

I don’t know if there are any of them around now. I haven’t seen one since those days. Even if they exist now, they would have synthetic beads and frames. The little guys, especially boys might still have an antagonistic attitude towards such lovely teaching tools.

But the one my father brought for me was made of wood. I can still remember it clearly. There was the number of metal wires fixed across a colorful wooden frame. Every one of those wires was beautiful. They twinkled like heaven. Every wire had beads (Well the first one had just one bead I suppose) of different and exquisite colors and they were silken and smooth to the touch….

Mother says my father liked to play with us children when we were very little. Unfortunately I do not remember any of those intimate moments now, not of my father or of my mother or of any one else. It seems very strange not having any recollection of those moments at all. May be I took it all for granted. I was a first child and must have been petted and made much of by everybody then.

Perhaps only the out of the ordinary things get registered in the mind.

I can recall objects and events with great clarity but not a single instance of intimacy. Like every lucky child I must have had it pretty easy then……

I must have been running around on all fours at the time I got the abacus. The moment it was given to me I was completely riveted on it. My father must have shown me how to move the beads along the wires.

I remember impatiently moving them here and there. I was very rough with them, rattling all of them and sliding them helter skelter. They slid smoothly across. I remember the beads had slight ridges at the point their two parts were joined together to form a bead. Or they could have been the edge formed by some sort of molding tool, as they were being shaped.

But of course that discovery only heightened my curiosity about what lay within. I do not know if it is a trick of memory. But I can recall every one of those beads now, even the slight imperfection one bead had. It had a depression on one side like a half moon.

I was feverish with excitement. I just had to know what was inside those fantastic beads. If they appeared so nice on the outside what wouldn’t those contain on the inside!

I was ever the scientist it seems. I won’t be satisfied with the outward beauty. I have to dissect them into nothingness, to be satisfied that I have done my bit to unravel the mystery about the thing.

The moment my father was away and I was alone with the counter I started my experiments with the truth. No amount of pulling would make the beads come out of the wires. I tried repeatedly to smash the frame on to the floor to get the wires and beads out of it. But it was built to withstand such minor hazards as that. I tried to pluck away the metal pieces which held the frame together at the corners. Nothing happening at all!

I could hear voices from the next room. My father or mother might come back at any moment. I had to do something immediately.

I became frantic. It seemed that my last chance of discovering what was inside was about to go to waste. I was playing on the porch, an idea struck me. I crawled down on to the ground with my machine. Well there it was- a round stone I could handle easily. I picked it up and placed the contraption on the steps.

It took some work. But at last I was able to pound every bead to dust. Of course I did not find anything wonderful inside the beads. Only shreds of wood. They were colored brown.

I do not remember what my father and mother said to me after they found out what I did with the thing. Mother must have severely scolded me.

“What, what did you do, you rogue, do you know how your father brought it home. He held it like the greatest treasure in the world because it was for you. I will kill you, you little devil. You broke his heart.”

[None of us children really minded being scolded by our dear mothers. They, the mothers, might look fierce and roll their eyes at us, they might run after us with the biggest stick they could find, they might even have a go at us if they can catch us. But we never felt those blows on us. They always felt like feathery beatings. We normally let our mothers do whatever they want with us. ]

Well whether I received a scolding for what I did or not, I made my mathematical temperament quite clear to my parents with that one incident.

I was never going to be in the business of numbers.

I was going to be a reductionist.