MINDSET

“If you are going to X-E be sure to encounter that nerd of a tomboy. She thinks no end of herself. She will ask you endless questions, all irrelevant.”

That is my colleague more experienced and senior. I had joined only two days back in mid-term on leave vacancy.

“Thanks” I say and walk away with my books along the brightly lit corridors to X-E. I have nothing to worry. I am armed with knowledge and my lenses. That’s a secret. My glasses! They are specially designed in my dad’s lab; it could map the DNA of anyone I focus on. What I have is a trial version. Dad’s invention is a path breaker and may win him the coveted Nobel Prize.

The temple tips touching the audio nerves, the hinges of the frame, its temples, the nose-pads, the pad-arms resting on the nose bridge, rims, and butt strap all are fitted with tiny wires connected to my cell invisibly and to the waves outside. They catch multiple signals and can map the DNA of anyone.  My dad potters around his lab with a slight bend running his fingers up and down his suspenders claiming to eradicate crime with his invention.

There was dead silence in the class room, the silence you get when you enter for the first time. Several pairs of judgmental eyes pry on you as is the case. Everything depends on your first word. I put my bag down and look at the students, all girls.

“Ma’am what’s your name?”

“Whose voice is that?” I ask.

A hand goes up. “Stand,” I say, “How do you frame your question? May I know your name?”

“Sorry Ma’am, May I know your name?”

“I am Ines Reid. I am here to teach you History.”

“History is a dead subject, the foolishness of hundreds of people in the world, struggles and wars and death, a waste of time. Why should we learn all this in school, can’t we let the past be and move ahead, Ma’am?”

Several glances speak silently condemning the speaker and her question, mouths twisting, nostrils flaring. But the girl is in all smiles. I open my bag and carefully take out my glasses and wear it. The cell is activated; some unknown rays passing through my lens begin to work.  I focus on the girl, fair, lean and lanky. The images begin to float before me in a flash.

She is Pia, the tomboy.  She is the only child of her parents who have no time for her. The only thing they tell her each night is ‘Good night, baby, sleep well.’ She is monitored by servants at home whom she looks down upon. All activities are timed in her house. She has a high IQ, reads Stephen King and watches horror movies. She likes purple color; likes her teachers, some more than the others. She is looking for kindness in her teachers; she had bluffed to her governess about her class and gone to the Mall with her friend to watch the film The Karate Kid. She nearly jumped out of her seat when Dre Parker fixed Cheng.

This morning she had dropped a tenner into a leper’s bowl at the junction and gone without breakfast, she is on Face Book and only last evening clicked on ‘like’ for the picture someone had posted that of a cute kid in all smiles, kissed by puppies with the lettering: ‘If you love someone show it.’

I remove my glasses. She is a lonely child, deprived and denied, in need of appreciation, love. There’s no one to tell her: “Yes, this color suits you. You look so lovely in this dress. Go carefully, and come back soon, I’ll be waiting for you. Or even “So how was your day? What happened in school today? How about taking a day off and going to Mount Abu? Come let’s cook chicken curry today or bake a cake.”

“I fully agree with you, Pia. Consider this-would you not be interested in your friend’s history and background? So how much you should be interested in the History of the Nation of which you are a citizen? Moreover, when you study history you also learn from other’s mistakes and you don’t commit them in future. That’s what the ruling class is supposed to do. Do I make sense? So now let’s turn to page no….

“How did you know my name Ma’am?”

“Excuse me Ma’am, sorry to disturb you.” That’s the captain at the entrance. “The Principal wants Pia in her office right away with the calendar.”

Pia takes out her calendar from her bag and begins to follow the captain. Hushed rejoices. I wear my glasses again and concentrate on the saturated sounds in the class room all in an instant. They had called her priggish, snooty, disgusting, retarded and some adult voices—undisciplined, trouble monger.

My own school days flash before me and I see so many buried hurts, rejection, indifferences and rebuffs from my peers, teachers, including my parents. I turn away at once and shut the door of my mind. I had refused to see it over the years, then why now?

As for Pia she has not got her remarks in the calendar signed. Homework not done, Journal not submitted, incomplete work! etc. But she will defend her parents and take the blame on her and get a good dressing down…..

I resume my teaching. I try to explain the background of Marxist theory. I do not go beyond a few sentences. Pia appears and walks with her head bent, her eyes full of unshed tears. Some show thumbs down and hi-five each other below the desk.

Time for prayers. “Pack your bags.” I say.

Outside the air is inundated with vapor and thunder rumbles. Dark rain clouds smudge the sky.  There’s going to be a heavy downpour.  I relax in the back seat. The car moves slowly through the crowd. I see Pia at the bus stop. She isn’t crying. She has no umbrella, no raincoat and nobody is waiting for her at home.

I take out my cell and write a message. She will log on to her Face book at 5.38.   She will read this message and it will put a smile on her face: you are a lovely person, Pia.

 Girija Natarajan.

–END–