A Fond Lesson

The back benches in the college had drafted most of the fond memories. Be it the written conversation in the last page or the scribbling in the desk, the last bench has never ceased to upset its ascenders. I was not particularly a last bencher, I prefered the ‘in between’ seat, to be on the safer side.For it is universally acknowledged that the teacher’s keen eyes befalls the infamous spot which can only be a fool’s paradise.I carefully crafted a safe abode for myself somewhere near a shielding pillar and a tall girl in the front seat made my secluded haven to endure the tedious lectures, following a short nap or a gulped samosa at times. I was safe there,carefully cocooned,unattended and unnoticed until this new professor arrived. I hated his slothy lectures on solenoid whose only knowledge to me was its diagram, a spring like mousetrap which was a left hand task ( thanks to my art classes). So it happened on a sultry afternoon, the room was stifling with sweat as he was explaining something which was always gibberish to me, I decided to decode my sketching skills. Carefully I flip the last page of my classmate notebook and begin to draw him. His apparition was easy, he was a sardarji so I had the least effort in drawing the head camoflaged with the turban, broader spectacles, moustache and beard. Next the torso,he was pot bellied, and a clalk in his right hand while the other hand had a book. Suddenly a witty mischief struck me and I began to give him ten hands like goddess durga, each hand holding a different spectacular asset daunting his shallow personality (appologies for the words, but back then I thought so). Therefore a Wren and Martin in one hand, because Lion was Loin for him and Mall was Mole. The second hand clutched on a book called ‘how to lose weight without any effort’.His other powerful weapons were a deodrant, a talcum powder, a stick,a laptop with the site ‘aged matrimony’,a bowl of peanuts and spear,for his words were as sharp as a spear stuck into your soul that you shall never forgive till eternity. Particulary, I remembered him calling me a generation of brooding donkey which indeed was true to a bit extent back in those days as a struggler, for when you choose a stream out of your interest and ability, this is what you reap.

He was witty enough to spot my distracted attention in over detailing his face.He suddenly marched upto me like a thunderbolt, seized my copy and discovered my impending disaster.I knew I awaited an indisciplined soldier’s punishment and quickly began to concoct excuses, ‘it was drawn earlier… hold on, but the picture is of him no matter when I have drawn it….my friend has drawn it, but why did I allow… this is not my copy,wait, then whose copy is this and how did it land near me?’
Finally I decided to embrace whatever awaits me and meet his gaze. He seemed lost in the picture, his careful gazelle eye scrutinized the minute details and the emblems I had entitled to him like some military medals, then in a quick moment he walked to the podium and displayed my artistic skill to everyone.
” Come and draw the same in the blackboard,let everyone see this young talent.What are you doing in my class? You must be in some art and craft school.You are in the wrong place, you still have time to rectify.”
I was frozen enough to throw a reaction,at the same time his unprecedented response amazed me, ‘Is he going to complain to the principal? I might be suspended, but its just a drawing,I did not offend him in anyway.’
He casualy asked me to sit down while handing over the copy back as he carefully flipped the pages of his Mechanics book.Still emerged in finding the right page, he suddenly uttered melancholicly like a worldly wise sage,’ when you shall grow to become a teacher in future, and your students will talk, disturb and scribble rubbish about you in the class, you will realize how it feels.’
I didn’t speculate in his words much for back in those days I always wanted to be a designer, be it an interior or a fashion, and god knows why cluelessly I attended science classes when I had no intention to pursue a career out of it.
Yes, I was one of those students at whom I yell now, for karma follows you.This incident has been a big lesson in my adulthood ever since I started working as an Assistant Professor,and I never miss to narrate this to my students.
One morning, as usual, I was late for a 9 am lecture.I was denied entrance inside so I decided to take a stroll in the college’s colonial corridors. As I walked past each room, there struck something in me from a classroom accomodating atleast a hundred students, all sitting quietely as the Professor rhythematically chants a stanza:
“What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ”
There electrified a spark from within,the lines were so touching…’wild ecstasy’. What must be the poet thinking when he wrote this line.It lingered on my mind the entire night until the next morning I opened the computer to search about it. This was from Keats’Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ The poem had a hidden robust spark in it which captivates me even today. My immature self could hardly believe that I discovered what I actually fondled.Indeed it was my unearthed buried interest as I enter the realm of literature. I passed my higher secondary with a presentably unashamed result, decent enough to fetch a moderate college ticket, but this time I choose my course wisely.
“But why english honours?”
My father made perfect sense as he spoke to me gently, ‘Are you not preparing for entrance exams?’
So did asked my uninvited relatives for all their wards were toiling hard to make it to the best engineering college.
It was a terrible phase, the HS result was just out and all the science students even the nincompoos, rushed to the prestigious medical and engineering coachings paying a whooping amount (although a handful would make it later).But it became a status symbol of how many entrance exams one would sit for (forget about cracking). The regular colony gossips were, ‘my daughter is appearing for AIEEE’ while the other bragged ‘my son is sitting for both AIEEE and IIT’.My poor father had nothing to say for his unworthy daughter has failed him. He still tried to convince me, ” Then what is the use of studying science, look everyone is appearing for entrance.”
“Everyone is appearing, but how many would successfully make it. This is a temporary phase, a few months and the entrance season will be over, then you see, all these parents will be hidden indoors while everyone enquires the results.Besides, I am smart enough to save your money as I can foretell I won’t make it to any of the entrances while all others who are following the fashion would only end up wasting their money, so sit back and relax.”
My father was forcibly convinced, he wasnt much of a fussy dad afterall.
It really turned true, the mellow season was over, I had already taken admission in english honours while the entrance results were out. All those proud parents who were seen roving about their ward’s opportunities remained locked indoors. And for the sake of societal prestige, no matter what, they continued to study any of the science subjects even if it never interested them.
All three years of my graduation days were totally different from the past.I progressed upright as a college topper to a gold medalist and realized that the perception of an intelligent and dull student lies beneath a thin line which is the choice of subject. The moment we choose what interests us, we incline to excel in it. Had I heeded all those uncalled advicers during my prime teen, I certainly would not have landed where I am today. Afterall success is about doing what gives you happiness.

Critics you cannot miss.

Growing up in a largely relatives dominated family, I have come to recognize the definition of success. Theoretically in your relatives’ version, success is something that is a marathon away from you. No matter where you reach, you will be constantly reminded of the failures in your life. As a child I could never fit into the societal paradigm of a bright student who scores shining grades. My percentage hovered around 60, sometimes even lesser. Nevertheless in my tenth and twelfth I managed to secure a respectful percentage, much to the dismayed irk of my relatives. That was the first arrow shot at me when I reached my grandmother’s house bundled with a packet of sweets.

“You must have copied in the exam otherwise how it is possible that you could bag a first division; Oh!you had two private tuition for Maths, people can’t even afford one. Your parents had to spend a bulk for you.”

These were my aunties’ words, the very aunties who scrupled my childhood with incessant sarcasm that the younger me never bothered to decipher. But as I matured in age, the words appeared pricklier. The younger me was an impetuous quick flaming fire that outrageously reverted, “but it need not bother you as you have not waged the fees.”

“Oh look at your daughter, didi, how she argues with elders.” I cannot particularly blame them as this has remained the constant weapon in Indian culture to taunt younger people into subversion.

My mother remained swayed with her boisterous siblings who convinced her to deem herself as a liability and dependent on them. They were influential indeed for they had already taken my sister into the custody of self effacement but I always remained the rebel child. My insurgent intuitions guided me since a tender age to decipher good and bad advice. So while my cousins tossed and jostled their childhood to bag a rank in class, I spent my afternoons in careless wanderings through the garden chasing the grasshoppers and fighting with imaginary demons.

So my relatives’ constant one sided competition ruffled against me because I never considered myself as a participant while they automatically assumed their kids to compete with me and defeat me. After completion of my education, I joined a college as an assistant professor of English and pioneered in my family to distribute the first packet of sweets for a job. Their endless questions and suggestions however were not only thrilling and humorous but rather felt like an military interrogation.

Them: “So you teach English in a college, why don’t you join a school instead?”

Me: My mind felt a retort, “seriously, why should I join a school, did I tell you I am unhappy with my job or so”.

The next thing that followed was the most hilarious one.

Them: “So you teach in which language, are you fluent in English.”

Me: “Certainly not, infact I teach in Hebrew and expect them to understand me”.

Them: “Do the students understand what you teach?”

Me: “Refer to the previous answer, I have already replied.”

Them: “It is not a government job, better try for government jobs as banks, SSC (School service commission).”

Me: “Ok! your husband had been in a government job and I can see his progress.”

And not to miss the best disbelief,

Them: “If they have recruited you then very well we can understand the standard of the college.”

Me: “Wow, you should get a noble prize for this overwhelming prediction .” I muttered to myself because I was left spellbound at their extraordinary CBI prone curious questions.

Today I realize what the taste of success feels like. Success is criticism, when suddenly people hate you for no reason, hate you for your life, and even hate you for being born. With years of experience I have learnt to decode it and enjoy this subtle hatred for me when every sentence of mine is responded with a demeaning remark. I may not be successful in my own terms but certainly I am successful in arousing jealousy.

THE ROAD TAKEN

 

Suddenly the lush green canopied boulevard evokes deep fear. This is the very road Tisha much desired to stroll all through her college romantic days and sometimes to beguile the tediousness; a brief halt was added, coupled with tea. In the evening it seemed like a tunnel of trees, huge and gigantic enough to enshroud the purple hues. But early mornings were the most pleasant, with clear bright light and glittering rays stealing through the fabric of leaves, the road seemed the threshold to heaven. It could be a poet’s perfect imagination or an artist’s etched canvas, but to Tisha it was the perfect beginning to combat the day’s monotony. But last Saturday evening has changed it all. While the scene and shade remains the same but now draws a different landscape of it within her, a picture of horror, petrifying memory, memory of being helpless, of realizing her limitations as a woman that any moment can turn against her.

On her homewards journey from office, she had chosen to slow down her scooter on that road to hear the shrill cries of the evening birds. Dark clouds had enveloped the horizon hinting impending rain. Pluviophilic Tisha loved the smell of the wet soil, dripping birds sitting under the branches, the sound of the downpour, all appealed to the aesthetic senses of the otherwise software engineer. She felt that she is probably not the only silent admirer of this road when she noticed two men in a two wheeler who come and park their vehicle right next to her. It doesn’t take her long to realise that the road is not safe anymore. Taking advantage of the dark, suddenly they grope her; drag her to a shady corner while trying to strip her.

Wriggling to break free, Tisha manages to bite one of the intruder’s wrists and run away. With great fortune she starts her scooter and escapes through the dim lonely street which mesmerized her earlier, while the men kept stalking her. After a heart pouncing chase she managed to reach the busy main road while the stalkers disappear in the crowd. Not looking back, she speeds perilously fast and reaches home, locks herself inside and begins to sob breathlessly. Realizing home as the only safe abode, she takes a deep breath, trying to wipe off the thoughts. But the dark glimpses of those strong hands trying to strip her, drag her forcibly, kept disturbing her mind. For a moment she feels she should avoid the road but an alternative route would cost her an extra hour. In no time her road of pleasing moment turned nightmarish.

This Monday morning she starts off for her office in her usual hour. Perhaps the deadline of the assignments has kept her away from recalling anything hideous. But then the right turning introduces to her favourite road, no more preferred now. She rides through it, nervous and frightful, riding as fast as she could although the pepper spray she purchased yesterday was intact in her bag.  She passed through it with numerous thoughts on how a moment’s experience could tarnish her happiness, her denied right to solitude which is a confined man’s space. The road is as fresh as before, perhaps with an additional shade of jade. But Tisha realises her attachment with the road will never be the same again rather some dark blotches are embedded  on it now.

UNCOMFORTABLE GUESTS

Guests can be received at different moods based on their cordiality. Tackier still are guests with kids. My husband’s rapport with a close friend somehow collapsed once his twins were born. The initial phase included sympathies, unwanted suggestions and help offerings from possibly everyone  who crossed their way since the twins were prematurely born. With one weighing about 700 grams and the other barely a kg, the doctors had almost given up hope. To add to it, the skyrocketing NICU charge and hospital bills drove the couple insane. And as a close buddy my husband’s former duty included extending monetary aid and nursing the babies, which was pretty easier is what I think now.

Back to present, when my husband discovered that his close pal is in town, his excitement leaped with all mirth. And thus we call them for a lavish lunch with little knowledge that it would turn out to be an invitation  to my impending calamity. The morning was spent locked up in the kitchen because my maid refuses to show up on auspicious occasions of guests coming. Probably her years of experience with people has taught her to avoid the unknown and unseen forces of human power, no matter how subtle. And I, only later come to realise that she is gifted with some terrible forebodings on visitors. Until midday I explored my culinary skills till the dining table got filled up with delicacies and savouries, making me feel an accomplished cook. The robust aroma of spices were enough to water my salivary glands but his friend’s arrival delayed; leaving me with an hour or so to give a final touch to the ambience inside. Being a connoisseur of fine aesthetics, I always preferred an elegantly decorated home with an artist’s touch of sophistication, prim and proper furnishings, a small kitchen garden and neatly organised interiors. Every person who visited me, admired and complimented my taste of paintings and antique collections, in particular my fondness for rare handicrafts.

In an hour or so they finally arrive, the family of four now, the husband wife and the twin boys. We embrace each other while the men greet and finally settle down for their hearty exchange of gossips. The kids however made me uncomfortable as they wickedly began to survey my endeared possessions with a caustic eye like a soldier’s observance of the surroundings before a war. These were my accomplishments over the years; the ferns, the succulents in a brass pot, the Japi and Horai from Assam emporium, the tiny hand crafted elephant hangings from Rajasthan, the glistening lampshade with mirror works; all made their way into my drawing room after thorough scrutiny and I could at any cost not part with them. In a quick period I discovered how two people can be from different planets when one has a child. Firstly, I have to feign a smile thoroughly and laugh away the kids’ nuisances because they are guests and by inviting them I have dug your own grave. Secondly, I cannot express any sign of annoyance because they are kids, so reluctantly I have to put the cartoon channel on TV and suffer while listening to their endless mumblings of ABCD and rhymes. Finally pretend to ignore their vandalising my own property even if it puts a knife through my heart because for their parents they are little innocent cherubs.

The conversation takes a halt as the kids finally declare themselves well armed and loaded to combat the battlefield. My helpless eyes witness cushions being flung out of the windows while the flower pots turned upside down, curtains made into a swing, and the mattress becomes a trampoline.  Living with the futile hope of parental intervention, my lips could wryly smile with ease as the callous couple rather expected me to ignore their children’s trivial nuisances and cajoled me to chat. The fine Thai hat came down and so did the Japi, food were scattered on the floor and shoes kept on the bed. My all attempt to stop their nuisances were received with haughty critical gaze. I practically realised the meaning of ‘hell hath no fury than a woman scorned’, and probably for the moment I wished that the ceiling fan falls on the little pair of devils. The hyper active twins begins to spit on one another, then in the floor, furnishings, sofa, table until everything in the house got bathed with their saliva. The best way to get out of the situation was to feed the family and bid adieu, so while I begin to serve them, my husband attempts to engage the kids in a book, only to realise that the pages are cruelly torn out and strewn like petals.  I could no longer put up a smile and ignore the ransacking turmoil or feign as if I am untouched by it. At once, one of the boys picked up a metallic vase and attempted to break the TV. So much did my agitation boiled that a faint chide in the form of “God!!! Terribly naughty kids” blurted out of my tongue that sounded offensive to the father. He immediately remarked that I must be finding it very annoying since I don’t have kids of my own. Also that boys need to be naughty or else they get tamed. Finding himself in a defenceless situation, my husband coyly stole a glance at me as if to indicate that they were perfect friends during their bachelor days and that he had not the faintest idea about his friend being capable of producing such imps. Well, by now I have completely lost it, having been convinced that these kids can be only this man’s legitimate children, I reverted back, “well, I do receive a plenty of guests with kids but none have I witnessed so miscreant.” That was enough to ignite the spark as the husband finally decided that my home isn’t children friendly and probably they should move to the nearby park which had a lot of tolerance. I heartily approved of his suggestion with the ‘Miss World’ smile. As the family moved out of my house, now turned into shack, the husband gave a brief farewell speech: “Bhabiji, we are leaving, you can be relaxed now, but I must say you don’t have a woman’s motherliness. A woman can be a good mother when she has tolerance”. The possible reply to this could be, ‘since I had a good upbringing, I can sense that you didn’t have a good mother and neither are you a good parent to your sons’. But some strange forces advised me to remain quiet as not all are worthy replying.

As the family goes out of my vision,I stand in the middle of the lonely, quiet yet peaceful drawing room and take a panoramic view of the remnants. To be precise, my house seemed to have undergone a nuclear explosion or passed through a hurricane. I could hear the faint wailing of the tiny earthen elephants that are now lying on the floor, half submerged in a pool of some undetectable liquid. I park my aching bottoms on the coffee stained sofa under the fan while the bits of papers fly around as snowflakes. A few of them settles on my perspiring face. The words of the man echoes through my heart, ‘were they really such miscreants or I over imagined things, is it because I don’t have kids of my own?’

Just then my husband enters. His words answered my own doubts. “This is what bad parenting does”.