My father sent my twin and me to shorthand-cum-typewriting classes after school in our eighth grade. We became the butt end of jokes in school as our friends thought we were fools to do it.
Enrolled in an institute run by a martinet who gave the worst instruments to the newbies, we had to do twelve lines while other students did only six lines. I remember my left pinkie hurting constantly because the ‘a’ key was stuck hard. We endured torture since no one dared go against my father.
Years later when computers came in, I thanked God for parents who didn’t fool us!