365 days since the decision to take a break; to walk away.
Years talking to the self was transformed into a will to teach. The wish was granted, and it began quite well. An unparalleled guide – supportive, critical, and correcting – is much more than you could ask for (especially at a job in this space between Himalayas and Indian Ocean). A group of challenging (of the academic kind) students was the best initial offering. The lockdown came as an unwanted aberration that did not help; it destroyed all the plans for classroom interactions.
It was a welcome sight to see another lively group when the classes became fully offline. There is no measure of satisfaction to gauge that contentment. This is difficult to write. The cursor is a tease. It is cruel. It waits for something to be expressed, and blinks as a reminder. A marred memory does not help. It was not all perfect. But I remember the quick response that I had when my teacher asked me ‘How are you doing?’: ‘I have some good students.’ There was nothing more to add.
Even at that front, the things deteriorated. The spaces became dark (and quite literally in the morning classes, and after recess), and unwelcoming. Unreceptive, and dead, for the most part. It was a reminder of Rahi Masoom Raza’s Topi Shukla teaching history lessons. The distant observer within could understand but not accept; could empathise but not comply. Compliance was never (and might never be) a strong suit. As for everything beyond the classroom, there is no need for description. A universally fallen system stands tall only where rebels walk freely; wherever it is followed, doom is a certainty. The absence of any sense of integrity among the people who inhabit this holy land does not help (has never helped, if any of the remaining pages of history are also not whitewashed (use the politically correct colour of your choice as prescribed by the overlords)). Now, it is difficult to stop writing. The Allahabadi (choose the name as you wish; the author left the city before it was renamed, and returned to a new city later, so it is the older term that applies to him… also now ADA is PDA, haha!) mind always finds itself more at ease with all physical and verbal expressions of disdain. Restraint is necessary. But one thing deserves to be mentioned: rudeness has always been comfortable, but wickedness is purely pathetic. The greatest fall was an act of compliance; telling someone, already struggling, to pursue internships in the name of a back year. Any claim to integrity was lost with that; part of the crew, part of the ship: pathetic.
What does a fallen warrior, who does not know how to identify and face simmering emotions, do? Loses his voice (the only tool of the trade), and falls. The last thought while falling was a relief – all of this is over; won’t have to return; the feeling that the final escape brings for a professional escapist. It was an alarm for the conquered consciousness to face that embrace. The memory of relief transformed into sudden guilt, and humiliation in the face of all the loved ones the next day. Dostoevsky became a persistent whisper: ‘Disgrace… for nothing’.
I had a dream. I witnessed it being butchered. I hate this cursor. Blink away, you! There is always hope, but we Allahabadis do not like to talk about the good things. Nazar na lag jaye!