Spinal column

Ever since I can recall, I''ve had what I call a relaxed posture, and what others call less flattering things. You there in the back row, stand up straight; don''t slouch like a dhobi''s bundle, the PT master at La Martiniere would bark at me all those many years ago. Sit straight in the saddle, not all flopped into it like a pudding, the riding instructor at the Calcutta School of Equitation and Horsemanship would snap at me.How was I to break it to them that I wasn''t slouching or flopping, like a dhobi''s bundle, pudding, or whatever you liked, but was trying to master the art of inconspicuous survival?
The higher, or taller, you are, the bigger the fall. You''ve got so much more distance to go before you hit the ground. I''m far from tall, standing — or slouching, if you prefer — some five foot six in my number eights. But from an early age I decided not to take any chances. The closer you keep your eye to the ground, the greater the chances of spotting the banana peels of slippery misadventure. Maintain a low profile and an even lower centre of gravity, so that should you come a cropper hopefully it wouldn''t be a bumper harvest, was my motto. Our ancestors, the early primates, went about their peaceable business, grubbing around for roots and suchlike, bent double and using their forelimbs. It was only when homo erectus stood upright on his two feet that the woes — and the wars — of the world began. Stand straight, stomach in, chest out, chin up, shoulders back, ''ten-shun! By the left, forward march!
And before you could say sergeant-major everyone was in uniform, and mankind in its newfound militarist posture had goosestepped its way to Kurukshetra, Troy, and countless fields of dubious battle. It was the end of civilisation before it even began. And why? All because some upstart orang-utan or other proto humanoid got a bee in his bonnet about good deportment and began to balance a dictionary on his head to improve his posture. Next stop, Hiroshima.
Regrettably, others didn''t see eye to eye with me. Maybe because my line of vision was, in the interests of self-preservation, several inches lower than theirs. And getting lower with the years. If you get any more hunched you''ll end up like Quasimodo, said Bunny. In which case you can be my Esmeralda, I replied. But Bunny wasn''t having any more of my crookback allusions. She fixed an appointment for me to go see a bone densitometrist. What''s a bone densitowalla do? I asked. He checks the density of your bones, Bunny replied. My bones are plenty dense, I protested. The ones between your ears certainly are; the ones I''m worried about are those in your spine, you might be getting osteoporosis, said Bunny. So I went to the haddi doctor who put me through a battery of tests and peered sombrely at the results. Tell me the worst, doc: How''s my spine? I asked. Your spine''s fine, but you''ve got the worst posture I''ve come across — just sit up straight, will you? said the bone boffin. And charged me 3,000 bucks for the prescription.
I went home feeling considerably relieved. You''re looking straighter already, it''s the quickest cure I''ve seen, said Bunny. That doctor must be a miracle worker, she added. I nodded agreement. You can say that again, 3,000 times, I replied. After all these years I''d finally realised where I''d miscalculated in emulating our anthropoid forebears. Hunching forward was great for survival — provided you didn''t have a hip pocket containing a wallet which your posture invited to be lightened of its contents. I knew I could no longer afford to stoop to conquer my evolutio-nary karma. And civilisation would just have to take its chances, along with everyone else.