Camlin geometry box. (kokuyocamlin.com)
A geometry box has become the unlikely repository of nostalgia these days.
One compass, one protractor, two set squares, one pencil, one eraser, one ruler, one sharpener. All neatly tucked into a yellow-and-orange metal box, a place for everything and everything in place. In pre-liberalisation India, the Camlin “geometry box” was a rite of passage. Children studied arithmetic. But the Camlin box of “mathematical writing instruments” meant we had graduated to geometry (and algebra). It didn’t just open up a world of magical shapes. Now we could also painstakingly inscribe our name on wooden desks at school with the compass. It was a brief interregnum sadly. Soon, trigonometry would descend and the days of the “geometry box” would end.
The death of Subhash Dandekar, chairman emeritus of Kokuyo Camlin, prompted a flood of nostalgia about Camlin products. Many remembered their “geometry box” as the ultimate schooldays flex of pre-liberalisation India. But if flex means to show-off, the Camlin “geometry box” was hardly a classroom flex because everyone had it. We took it for granted, like our Camel paints and pastels. As a boy, I went to endless sit-and-draw competitions where I more often than not drew “A Day at the Zoo” with my Camel pastels, pack of 24 shades.
After selling the popular artwork brand to Japan’s Kokuyo, Dandekar was serving as the chairman emeritus of Kokuyo Camlin. (X)
It’s only with Dandekar’s death that I discovered the story behind the camel. Camlin began as Dandekar & Co., a writing ink manufacturing company started in 1931 by D P Dandekar and his brother Govind. The company went through a lean period and almost shut down, but decided to stick it out and chose the camel as its mascot because it was a symbol of endurance. Subhash Dandekar studied colour chemistry in Glasgow and diversified into pastels, crayons, water colours and pencils with floral patterns. The “Camel” and “Ink” eventually fused into Camlin. In 2012, the Japanese company Kokuyo acquired a majority stake and it’s still going strong as Kokuyo Camlin.
Often, our fond remembrance for the products of a pre-liberalisation India is a strange nostalgia for deprivation. Recently, the re-introduction of Campa Cola provoked a gush of made-in-India nostalgia as if we had forgotten Indians really wanted to feel good and have fun with the banished Coca Cola. Instead they had to make do with the wanna-be. There’s something odd about fetishising deprivation as nostalgia.
But our nostalgia for Camel/Camlin is different. It’s affection for certain brands that defined us without even realising it. Boroline ointments, Binaca toothpaste, Kissan squashes, Britannia biscuits, HMT watches, Camlin geometry boxes were all the gold standards of what it meant to grow up Indian. This was not about any manufactured made-in-India nationalism. The allure of the foreign still ran strong. Visiting aunts and uncles from abroad were much in demand for all the exciting foreign things they could bring — Dove soaps, Danish butter cookies and Toblerone chocolate bars. But products like Camlin delivered a quiet reassurance about India’s own capability as well. There was something solid about them like the Ambassador cars. They may not have been flashy but they were utterly dependable. They were stalwarts.
Boroline ointments, Binaca toothpaste, Kissan squashes, Britannia biscuits, HMT watches, Camlin geometry boxes were all the gold standards of what it meant to grow up Indian. (Pictures from respective product websites)
In a more fickle age, we are learning that dependability also has value. No one wants to roll the clock back to a licence raj where we had few choices but we are also realising that a plethora of choices does not necessarily buy happiness. In fact, in a world of multinational mega companies who own almost everything, what we are often really served is merely the illusion of choice in snazzy packaging. I grew up with Camlin geometry boxes and Camel paints as did my sister before me, as did my niece and nephew after us. We didn’t feel deprived. Rather, there was comfort in knowing we were part of the same caravan, like a line of camels marching through time.
As India modernises rapidly, there is a growing market for nostalgia. One of the busiest stalls at the Kolkata Book Fair was one selling Sulekha inks and fountain pens. Campa Cola wants to cash in on the nostalgia as well with its relaunch. Camlin, however, never went away. So the nostalgia here is not for a lost geometry box. It is for the orderly simplicity it represented — no frills, no fuss, no excess yet utterly functional.
As we come out of the biggest blingiest wedding the country has ever seen, even the most obtuse will admit there’s something acutely reassuring about a geometry box that was always quietly at the right angle.
Roy is a novelist and the author of Don’t Let Him Know
