Excuse me!
Would you please let me know where I can find Prof. Dhruvika Dhanju? I want to meet Dr. Dhanju.
A seventeen-year-old girl directed her query to a twenty-five-something boy who was strolling around the corridor near the inquiry window, eyeing for an opportune moment to make his way to his hidden hideaway, the plastic chairs behind the canteen. Where he could take a break from his exhausting clerical job of an LDC, and crack a few jokes about the tyrannical and ultra-hypocrite man who sadly was the principal of the college he worked in.
When she was about to push the door open, she could hear the girl and the LDC from afar. This, out of the blue, promotion to the rank of a Professor tickled her ears. To the best of her knowledge, because if she was sane, she was an Assistant Professor who had just completed her probation period. However, she found the thought of being named a doctor, let alone a professor without a PhD, amusing.
She shifted her gaze to her gracious promoter, and the next second she went inside the room. The room had ‘Sahayak Aacharya Kaksh) (Assistant Professor’s Room)) written above its entrance. She sat down in one of the chairs arranged around the large table. She placed her bag on the dusty table, only to retrieve it and place it in her lap. The room smelled of stale orange rinds. She could also feel the scent of dogs that had slept on the same chairs last night and were probably watching her from the window for invading and usurping their territory.
Her gaze was drawn to the window where the peon was boasting about his exploits with the on-call peon. She called him near the window and asked him to send the girl in blue jeans in. He didn’t enquire further because a girl in jeans was a rarity in this part of the planet.
The college boasted of sixty glorious years of being the emblem of illustrious heritage of the town, imbibing the culture and tradition of the place within its massive walls. With vast verandas and solidly constructed pillars, it stood robust to inhale the uproar of unresolved financial disputes of retired and about to retire professors with dubious charges. It had been a bold observer of the student-led strikes, which were often backed by the same professors. The huge walls appeared to sneer at the tiny shards of humanity that were left in those that were entrusted with its protection. Over time, the vast playgrounds became a favorite hangout place of students who were chastised for their despicable urge to sit in the class and demand a teacher teach them.
‘Did you send me a call?’ gasped a low but confident voice. She looked up from the book she was reading. God: The Most Unpleasant Character in All Fiction. It was the girl in blue jeans who appeared at the entrance, perplexed and untidy, her heavy bag hung over her shoulder.
Yes. Ah, yes. I heard you were looking for me! What brings you here? Come inside. Sensing her perplexity, she said I am Dhruvika Dhanju; weren’t you looking for me, if am not mistaken?
Yeah, Yes, ma’am. She was taken aback as if the person in front had sprouted an extra head. Her eyes twinkled and she said vivaciously, ‘I am sorry ma’am, I didn’t know, it’s you,’ in a newly invented friendly tone. I didn’t expect a professor to be that young.
She had only recently heard the word “young.’’ She heard it a lot during her university days since she graduated and completed her post-graduate studies at a young age. The professor’s slender, five-foot-eight-inch frame looked attractive at the mention of the adjective after nearly a decade.
Of late she believed or was made to believe that she was old. Focusing on the visitor she began, and you …before she could complete herself the girl blurted out Ma’am, I am Revathi. I have applied for BA course in this college and have opted for English as one of my subjects,
I am not sure if I’ll be admitted because I could not attach my EWS certificate with my application, but I have started reading my texts. And I am having certain difficulties. I truly have no idea how to do well in poetry? Would you please guide me? I mean, I know I am not your student officially, but…
Dhruvika intervened and calmed her down first by offering a chair to sit and then informing her she could be sure of her admission. She could recall the headache she had obtained two nights before after verifying around eight hundred application forms of students. There were six vacant seats in the EWS category and Revathi being the only applicant in the category was in by default, though she didn’t attach her EWS certificate, but she did state in the application that she would be submitting it soon. Nevertheless, she had a good score too, making her admission secure.
Recalling her application form and grades, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, why did you choose to join this college? She posed the question while surveying the garbage strewn around the overflowing trash can outside the room, with dogs hovering around it.
She rephrased her question seeing how blunt she was. With such a strong academic record, you could have easily enrolled in a good university, so why this college?
She wanted to warn her of the appallingly poor teacher-student ratio in the college. Maybe she also wanted to warn her of a colleague who was wary of the sight of a monstrous student who dared to entertain the wretched desire to be in the class and for the horror of horrors wanted her to play the role of a teacher when she had lot many Pinterest pins to explore. She also had in mind her senior colleagues whom she often found rushing to the office of MLA for certain important works, ignoring the waiting students in the class.
She paused her thoughts. It’s only yesterday when the principal asked her to develop an ‘attachment’ for the college and insisted she take a view of the submersible pump that he has installed in the college. She had already seen it, alongside a template bearing his name in big letters. A reporter was also called to cover the story. She complied, setting aside her diary which had notes on Deconstruction for her MA students. Sending a note to her students that she would be late by ten minutes, she went to develop an attachment with the submersible pump, as instructed but after a few steps she saw the principal hurrying towards the under-construction block, at the pretext of monitoring the progress, but she knew it was time for his puff of cig. She dropped the idea of attachment formation and went to her class.
After an hour he returned with a senior colleague and she overheard him say outside her classroom, ‘this generation doesn’t have any sense of attachment with their workplace. ‘’Bas taabra ne padha raazi karta phire’ Only teaching and pleasing the students).’ She could ignore it effortlessly as she was used to it. Things were different for her two years back when she joined the college after securing a good rank in the recruitment examination. To her, college was synonymous with teaching but she was wrong.
She had a track record of being proven wrong. For her father, she was wrong in her decision to get educated, for her younger landlord brother, it was wrong to take her approval for a marriage alliance when she has already hit the number thirty. For her mother, her birth was a mistake and for her colleagues, her status as a single woman was a massive wrong.
But of the all wrongs the one she cared about or affected her the most was the wrong which she did to herself. She decided to not dare to ask her parents to apply for the PhD abroad, and a scholarship program when her HOD suggested it to her when she was in university. Future prospectus seemed bright to her, she had found great solace in the newly found campus when she could secure a rank in university twice, and when she was chosen by an MNC as a soft skill trainer. It was wrong when she did let the world weigh her down, it was wrong to not being able to rise to shine for a decade. It was wrong to sulk in what Deepika Padukone termed depression.
Brushing aside her far too long ruminations she reverted to reality and attended Revathi, who was likely to resume from where she had left off. She had to start writing from scratch, with her ink, and have to be wary of an array of ruthless erasers. Maybe she’d be able to do with the world what she could not do for herself.
What kind of prospectus can I have in my subject?
Revathi’s abrupt question caught her off guard.
How about studying abroad? she responded with nostalgia. And then settling down there, or returning to India to work with A-list institutes. The person in conversation with Revathi had an odd fascination with A-listers. The heavy profiles of their faculty bewitched her and many a time she even ended up sulking in the corner. At times she wondered if they didn’t have distractions? And she had always been interested in their extensive list of publications and conference papers. Their pdf profile itself contained enough pages and words to be a full research paper. As for herself, she could not produce more than four or five research papers in UGC -accredited journals of moderate repute. Not to mention her wish to publish one in Scopus indexed journal. She often reminded herself of the novel and a collection of poetry she wished to complete for ages.
She sent one to a prestigious Quarterly, but it was turned down citing its narrow focus on a text of limited interest. Toni Morrison, passed away just as she was about to finish the article. It reminded her of Harold Pinter, who died just as she was finishing her M. Phil dissertation. She however appreciated the neatly turned phrases in the curt mail which she received along with the decision letter, telling her how much they enjoyed reading the article. She thought it could be of help while writing her mails, for the college magazine.
Returning from the meanderings to the prodigy in front of her, who was enthusiastically narrating how she was loving the college NCC. Her glistening eyes reminded her of Arohan, a famous 90s television series that aired on DD National. The series depicted passionate women cadets joining the Indian navy.
In their brief talk, they talked about career opportunities. She told her student, how she needs to be an independent reader, capable of deciphering the text’s meanings and finding one for her life. (She added this one with a smile). She went on how she needs to cultivate a reading habit, and the pleasure that reading brings, she said that pointing towards, Black Skin, White Masks peeking out from her handbag, and God: The Most Unpleasant Character in All Fiction, that laid at her table. How she can try to express herself by writing a page daily of the things that matter, how she should have a mind of her own. She couldn’t stop adding how one also needs to have a heart of her own, with her last line she came to a screeching halt. She was not sure if the last sentence would make any sense to the young prodigy. Maybe to a seventeen-something, everyone has a heart if not the mind of her own.
The professor had years of experience with emotions that didn’t belong to her, so much so that she couldn’t even feel her own. The sacrifices she made, the courses she couldn’t enroll into, the permissions she couldn’t even dare to ask for, all testified to the authenticity of her last sentence. And she knew what it was like to be without a heart of one’s own.
She adjusted her dupatta, kept her hands on the table which she managed to get clean by Prema bai, who was always willing to do her works. The prodigy shared how her mother was a single mother post the divorce of her parents. And that she was inspired by a cousin who was a Tehsildar, but she couldn’t afford to pay to study in a good university.
The discussion then went on to schemes of state government for the meritorious students as well as scholarships she could be eligible for in the college. She also asked Revathi to google for certain websites and to start planning for higher studies from now onwards, and be a committed student. And that time just flies.
Time flies, as it had for, and she now had flashes of her transformation from an intimidated child to a threatened adolescent, and from a bottled-up hostler to a woman with fortitude, before her journey reached a still point. She could see the ashes all around her from which she could only rise partially, and not in the way she yearned.
Revathi had left, but not before taking her mobile number and expressing her delight in having found a teacher.
As the professor stood up, she noticed two more visitors at the entrance. A father and his son came to have their documents sealed attested. The son, his father told had an important job interview. ‘So Early a Gazetted Afsar, ma’am’. (Ma’am, at such a young age, you became a gazetted officer) the father who was in his sixties, remarked, as she attested his documents after checking his originals.
The repetition of sensitive adjective gave her jitters. She was well cognizant of the fact that it was not early but rather late. Though she has risen from the ashes, she still has a lot that still lied undone. Wishing him luck she passed a curt smile and walked down the block to the department.
When she arrived at the department, she took a paper and began writing points.
- Google- PhD opportunities for college teachers.
- Google- List of departments in India who offer doctoral in Cultural Studies.
When she reached the third point, she could not bring herself to write it down. She kept thinking, should she marry as per their choice? But that would mean forgetting higher studies! They won’t let her go out of town let alone state. And even the state lacks the department that can provide her with what she desires. She was fairly certain of it, thanks to the webinars conducted by different departments, during the COVID-19 outbreak.
She realized she was standing on the precipice of a new world. Her undergraduate students were waiting in the class for a lecture on Matthew Arnold. She took out the text from her locker. The text was titled, Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse. Somewhere in the middle, the lines ran like this-
Wandering between two worlds, one dead,
The other powerless to be born,
With nowhere yet to rest my head,
Like these, on earth, I wait forlorn.
She put the paper down and walked out of the department. She caught sight of Revathi, who waved at her from afar in the open lawns, and she returned the wave with a smile. Revathi, she wished in her heart, would be a brave and proud inhabitant of the Brave New World, for which she is old and will remain so until/unless she manages to write the unwritten third point with powerful ink. With a placid smile, the professor entered the classroom.
