Clean slate.

   I struggled to update since the very first post. The question was always about what to post, what would NOT bore to anyone who was sweet enough to read my blog. When I did find a topic, it just never came down well on paper... writing my own thoughts suddenly seemed to be the most excruciating exercise. More than exercise itself (an activity I conveniently never find the time to do!)!

   Mrs. Canteenwala helped not just me, but my entire batch in this regard. She's a rather nice looking lady. Presumably mid 60s. Has short curly hair (salt 'n' pepper) and dresses with the subdued class of a South Mumbaikar (always in a sari). The round glasses perched on her nose add so much character to her face. Frankly, I just can't imagine her without them.

    She teaches us Effective Communication Skills (and is an epitome of it herself, if I may say so). 'You are what you eat' is a very oft heard adage. 'You are what you teach'  is something you very rarely come across. And by this I mean a teacher who really knows her subject.

   Fortunately, where I come to learn, everyone knows their job well (it's more than just a job for them). Mrs. Canteenwala is no exception. I remember feeling a sense of embarrassment in the very first Comm Skills class (or maybe even mild humiliation) when she gave us a large word from which we had to derive smaller words. Almost everyone around me had written more than 10 words. I was still doodling on my page, with only 3 or 4 words.

   My heart (among a great many things) seemed to almost leap up my throat when she approached my desk and saw what I had (or had not) written. Back then, I mistook her benevolent smile for pity. Now I know she was just being helpful. I had never done such an exercise before and told her so. Mrs. Canteenwala suggested that I pick an alphabet from the word and quickly scan it to form as many word combinations as I could. It may seem like simple advice but it wasn't something that had occurred to me. Well, it's true. The runaway of my mind occassionally requires two take-offs.

   It was the next exercise which she suggested that appealed to me the most. Ma'am would give us a word, and tell us to write our thoughts about it, or pen down a string of thoughts that were triggered by just one word. In the first class, I remember her giving us a simple word - Wood (in the first class). Most people had written a paragraph on the word. Me? I wrote about it in points (something like Wood - brown, tree, furniture)...  Do I feel stupid thinking about it now? Uh...heh heh...well...a little...

   But it was a practice I began to find most useful. Every class she would walk in, write a word (any random word) on the board and tell us to write something, anything on it while she took the attendance. Although she expected us to write our thoughts on the word, I would launch into narratives. Basically, I'd begin to pen down a story around the word rather than voice my thoughts on it.

   Mrs. Canteenwala did it to open up our minds, think out of the box and beyond all that we see or are so accustomed to in our daily lives. I remember feeling a little nervous when this exercise was initially introduced. Creative freedom in an academic class was a bit of a novelty for me. It became most liberating once it became a regular feature. It encouraged us to do what we hadn't done....in a long, long time. Think for ourselves. To be a little more original each day. To begin every lecture...with a clean slate. :)

Euphoria

   I don't know how many of you remember or have experienced a particularly defining moment during exam time. I'm not talking about late night cramming from borrowed notes (from an infuriatingly efficient classmate). Or stealing question papers (no, that wasn't me!). Or watching a movie a day before (nope, not me). Or landing up drunk in the hall on D-day (what, are you crazy??).

   No, I'm talking about the moment when you sit in an exam hall and your answer booklet is handed out to you. It comes just after the aforementioned classmate mouths, "I'm so screwed" to you and you resist the urge to abuse him/her in five different languages.

   I'm talking about the moment when the examiner faces the class after prowling around its circumference and booms, "You may begin writing!" It is that moment, I believe, which determines how your paper will go. That is the moment when you collect your thoughts. When your nib stains the paper.

   Write what? is the first panicked question that comes to my mind, never mind how well-prepared I may be. But for most of my papers it was a transient thought which either faded away or was forcibly pushed out due to lack of time.

   Unfortunately, the question made an exception during my mathematics paper in school. It was the 9th grade final semester exam. It lingered around my formulae muddled head with the annoying persistence of a housefly. Finally, it wasn't just my mind but my eyes that wandered...around the hall (not advisable...AT ALL!!). I don't remember what the paper was about or what I wrote, but these are a few of the sights I never really forgot :

• Saw the aforesaid classmate attack the paper like a ravenous animal, absolutely enthusiastic to share his/her knowledge with the unyielding correcter.

   [All the "brainees" of our class, in fact, occupied a row. They seemed to be connected by The Invisible Thread of the Geniuses. Why do I say so? It's because they all moved in enigmatic unison. They all collectively pushed their spectacles up their sweaty noses, scribbled with equally competitive ferocity and paused, seemingly at the same question.]

• The black crow which flapped its wings ominously at lesser mortals like me.
• Horrendous cacophony emanating from the radio of the neighbouring slum.
• A stray dog howling, almost as if on my behalf.

   These sights and sounds sufficiently distracted me, not for a long stretch, but between pockets of time whenever I was too exhausted to solve I did not know for a paper I did not want to submit. I wordlessly handed over my answer sheet, cringing when the teacher grimaced at the untidy cancellations I made on the first page itself.

  Needless to say, I was miserable throughout the vacations. Life never seemed greyer. Never ever. I was almost tempted to beg my subject teacher to show me my marks. Mom and I were at my grandmother's the night before the result. "I don't want to fail," I remember saying to her during bed-time. Also struggled to shed a tear in the dark.

   Because I knew crying would make me feel better. Mom gave my woes a patient hearing. But when it became a little too patient (read : unresponsive), I knew that she had fallen asleep. The tears never came and I did end up feeling worse. (Woot...)   I had cried on ridiculous occasions for ridiculous reasons earlier. But now, at a crucial moment, I felt betrayed by my own emotions.

   Dad called the next morning. My report card was with him. I reluctantly took the phone from Naani after she was done exchanging the usual pleasantries with him. "Yea, dad?" I said, hoping I sounded casual.

   "Your results are with me." *dramatic pause* (yes, dad does that)

   "Did I pass?" (My grip threatened to crush the receiver before I got a reply.)

   "Your marks in most subjects are good...except for maths."

   My heart sank. I had flunked. All the hard work for nothing.

   "How much?" I asked, pretty sure I sounded more like a hostage negotiator than a paranoid kid wanting to die.

   "It's not good," dad sighed. I could hear his tongue click.

   "Tell me..."

   "Disappointing result..."

 

   "Dad, please..."

   "Well..."

   "Come on..."

   "55%!"

   "What!"

   I had passed. It was unbelievable. It was extraordinary. It was a miracle. "You're on to the 10th grade. You've been promoted." I was happy...I was so happy. But the joy did not manifest into a visibly evident jubilation. I had wordlessly handed over the phone to mom. The chromium latch locked in place when I shut myself in the bathroom. I did what I hadn't done the whole vacation.

   I cried. Cried till I sank down on the floor. Till my shoulders sagged. Till my head rested on my knees. Till nothing else in the world mattered. When I lifted my head after the convulsions ended, I saw myself in the mirror. I was a mess. I broke down again, though the sobbing was less intense than the last time.

   But it was laughter now, that erupted from deep within my throat. It was not anguish but euphoria that seized me this time. I would not be laughing this hard again, until after I was done with my 10th boards. But at that moment, I was grateful for having taken a step ahead in life. Even if there was another daunting year of maths to face. Because I felt I had triumphed, even if it was temporary.

   Even though the tears came faster now, I had never felt better.