A DAY OFF MY LIFE AT WORK

I take the last turn to my college very slowly. There is a large crowd at the gate. I spot some girls hitting on the bhelpuri, some others on the bhelpuriwallah and the boys in turn hitting on the girls. I honk repeatedly on the horn but they are hard put to even spare me a glance let alone move out of the way. Somehow I manage to go inside and park carefully negotiating my path amidst giggly groups of girls, raucous groups of boys and mixed duos lost to the rest of the world.

I get out, lock the car and walk into the college building, my eyes focussed at an indeterminate point on the wall. I am aware of being the subject of detailed scrutiny. The freshers are in awe of the college ways. There are more people outside than inside the classrooms and the ma’ams all seem to be dressed better than their moms back home. So it is quite safe to just stand and stare vacantly at whoever is passing by. The senior girls check my saree to confirm that I have not repeated the one I wore the day before. They quickly scan my bindi, bracelet and shoes to see if they go with the rest of the ensemble. It seems I haven’t failed them. The boys however, deprived of that discerning vision, are generally letching as they would any female between eight and eighty. It doesn’t register in their incipient brains that the group called teachers could qualify for exemption from such activity.

I still studiously avoid making eye contact, well aware that no one is in a hurry to wish me. Perhaps putting your hands together and bowing your head in obeisance is no longer the ‘in’ thing. Anyhow I reach the staff room, my dignity still intact, albeit a little worse for wear. I heave an audible sigh of relief. My colleagues are involved in conversations ranging variedly in intensity. Two of them are cursing the previous principal for giving them a uniformly bad CR. Someone informs me that Mr Mohanty’s wife had beaten him black and blue on finding him in a clinch with the maid. Mrs Mishra PhD. declares to whoever is listening that she had taken her bath, then made breakfast, packed her husband’s tiffin, cooked crab curry still managed to squeeze in last night’s episode of ‘Kyunki - - -‘ and reach college in time. The thought of leaving this temporary haven is anathema to me, but no go; I have a class in ten minutes.

The bell goes and I reluctantly collect my stuff, willing myself to muster up enough imperviousness to negotiate another couple of hot and happening corridors to my class. I do so, deceptively nonchalant to the FM radios spewing out handy hints, Bollywood jargon and youth funda, all in a language that can only qualify as modernese. A boy holding a stick, with friends in tow for moral support, is driving a cow out of a classroom. Love talk is being conducted in the open too. A passing teacher is at best a minor irritant, too insignificant to merit a temporary lull in their loud exchange of amorous views and vows. Two girls pass by me, one dressed as a fish and the other a rather overdressed fisherman carrying a net that looks too small to hold the fish. There’s a fancy dress contest somewhere. Somebody has let a lunatic in who is roaming freely, uninhibited in his state of undress as well as vocal with his particular brand of choicest abuse. I bless my stars he has not spotted me yet. Lunatics do have a way of coming towards you.

I reach my classroom. No one stands up. With a displeased expression on my face I run my eyes over them. A couple of students I am directly looking at stand hesitantly, then a few more follow, then some more and finally the whole class stands up, with much scraping of chairs and finding their feet or shoes or both in some cases. Thankfully, I have been saved the ignominy of not being wished even by my own class. I quickly spread a grateful smile all around.

I start where I had left off in the last class, “Darwinism” and proceed to his first postulate, ‘Prodigality of production’. Clueless, ignorant, unenlightened and even some indignant eyes stare back at me. ‘Prod - -‘, ‘prody - -‘, ‘prodil - - ‘, are the various words their mouths are trying to get hold of. Perhaps Ma’am has made a mistake. She does sometimes; only last week she was trying to make us believe ‘arachnophobia’ was actually a word.

P-R-O-D-I-G-A-L-I-T-Y, it means wastefulness, extravagance, surplus. Prodigality of production, now production? They know what production is. Of course, they do. But seeing some frowning faces I decide to clarify. Now what is production? Every face and that means e-v-e-r-y, is turned to the notebooks for fear of being singled out to explain that brain teasing ballistic formula ‘production’.

I find myself defeated in my cause when I encounter such exclusive dimwits in the class. More so when they refuse to answer, interact or participate in any discussion whatsoever, determined to project an appearance of a united and dull face. A student yawns, some scratch their heads. Two, three at the back are engaged in a private discussion probably concerning India’s nuclear future. A pen drops and someone gets up to tell me the ink in his is over. A girl giggles and the boy at the corner is having a coughing fit that threatens to choke him. Some turn to look at him interestedly, as he turns first red and then blue. Nobody offers him water until I ask them to. The apathy demotivates me and my self-esteem takes a severe beating. It looks suspiciously like a circus to me with myself as the ringmaster nobody obeys.

I eagerly look at the watch, wondering when the class would be over so I can run away, this time not bothering to see if they stood up. Uff!! Another day gone.

Copyright © Lekha Shree 2007.

Lekha Shree has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.