She watched as the book flew across the classroom in a beautiful parabolic loop, pages fluttering violently, a solitary strip of tape valiantly attempting to hold on to the brown paper cover as it slowly slipped away. She had a penchant for throwing dusters and pencils and lunch boxes in the general direction of any noise coming from her class to let the students know who was in charge. There was a time when she could flick a chalk and hit an annoying kid smack between his eyes but over the years her arthritis had worsened and she had resorted to the duster as her weapon of choice. Recently her arm strength had deteriorated further and invariably she bludgeoned one of the shorter kids sitting in the first few rows in front of her. Oh well.
Throwing books though: that was a first. Had she caught one of her students doing this, she’d have picked him up by the scruff of his neck and flung him right through the window. Books imparted knowledge and wisdom; they were to be respected, to be loved and cherished. But this book; this high school English book recommended by the local district education board, a bunch of vernacular goons and thugs, who wouldn’t be able to differentiate a simile from a metaphor made a mockery of all that she held sacred. She, who had read all the classics from Dickens to Hardy and could quote Shakespeare at will and had the entire Wren and Martin memorized, was expected to teach this flimsy little book of nothing. How dare they !
It wasn’t even noon yet but the day had already been quite eventful. Immediately after assembly she had been summoned to the Principal’s office for a private chat. In her thirties, as a spirited young woman she would have fancied flirting with a handsome dashing Jesuit priest, but now things were different. She was still a few years from retiring, yet it seemed recently the administration had taken a keen interest in her health and well being and the need for her to slow down and enjoy a well deserved rest after a distinguished career. This meeting with the young principal was no different and had not gone well. He told her that she might find it difficult to adjust to the new framework he was trying to setup and she told him to shove his framework up his rear end … well not quite that explicitly but her tone and disdain for his new ideas made them both realize this was going to be a long and difficult year.
As she stepped out of the office she noticed a middle aged man animatedly racing towards her. She tried to duck into the library but he was too fast for her. Sweating profusely and almost breathless, he gasped, “ My son, Vijay, will be in your English class this semester.” Oh no, she thought, an overbearing father trying to fulfill his own unrealistic aspirations on a helpless thirteen year old. The sweat glistening from his thick graying mustache and a gold filling in one of his molars distracted her from his diatribe about her misguided and antiquated teaching methods, but she did catch the last part: “Studying English is a waste of time but he needs good grades in it so do us all a favor and stick to the prescribed material. Just do your job.” When had it become a crime to teach children to appreciate the romanticism of Wordsworth, the despair of Kafka and the wisdom of Defoe or the subtle difference between a synecdoche and metonymy or the golden rule of never ending a sentence with a preposition. The idealism and energy with which she had started her career as a teacher were a distant memory. With each passing year her tolerance for the abject mediocrity that surrounded her reduced, and her anger and frustration at incompetence and boorish behavior increased. She stared him down and her fingers were twitching to poke him right between his eyes but instead she dug her nails into her own palms, bit her lip, nodded her head and just walked away.
Later during the teacher’s meeting she was informed that the students would now have a course on sex education. In her opinion the only sex education teenagers needed was to know that if they got anywhere near being sexually active they’d have their little penises chopped off and fed to the street dogs. She also got into a fight with one of the physical-ed instructors who insisted on lighting his beedies right through the meeting. What self respecting man smokes in front of a lady .. in fact what kind of a man smokes a beedie. If her sister hadn’t got in the way she would probably have stuffed the entire pack of beedies down his throat and lit them up the other end.
And her sister. Wasn’t she special? With her short skirts and long legs and sleeveless tops, flirting with anyone that had a heartbeat … still unmarried. She looked at her own ring finger. A sadness overwhelmed her and her eyes welled up with tears. It had been thirty five years ….
She shook her head and looked up. The book had landed; balancing precariously on the window sill, the new pages glistened in the morning sun. There was a gentle breeze blowing that made the leaves of the old banyan tree rustle. A few puffy white clouds drifted aimlessly in an otherwise clear blue sky. The calm outside seemed to mock the turmoil and angst within her and this enraged her even more. She couldn’t go on: compromising her principles, feeling miserable, being mocked by her students, accosted by their parents and barely tolerated by her colleagues.
She looked up at her class and pushed her chair back violently. The students were quiet, maybe a little confused, not knowing what to expect next. The kids in the front rows ducked instinctively. She walked to the window picked up the book and began reading, “Gajpati, the baby elephant …”.