A Blazing Idiot Shines!

The matrimonial read ‘Wheat complexioned’. My instant response was,” A miller’s daughter!”

 The next words were ‘Good natured’. My retort: ”Who on earth is going to admit otherwise?! Only time will tell and by then it will be too late!”

And so it went. Each adjective in each advertisement being derided in the most scathing terms. I was enjoying myself hugely from the superior heights of my enlightened worldview – the perfect way to pass the time till the hour struck for me to leave for the University to determine how I had fared in my MA English finals.

And that’s how it all began - as a joke. I continued scanning the ads, freely commenting on each one, when suddenly, the matrimonials came to an abrupt end and my eye fell on a teeny tiny advertisement at the very end. Curious, I took a closer look at it and one word jumped out at me – Columba’s. The name struck an immediate chord as my brother had studied in a school with the identical nomenclature. So I decided to take a closer look. Sure enough – it was from St Columba’s School. They were advertising for an English teacher.

I sprang off the bed, where I had been reclining and dashed towards my father. “Pay attention! St Columba’s is looking for an English teacher. Think I should apply?”

My esteemed parent peered at the miniscule lettering (he had forgotten to wear his reading glasses) and replied with great sagacity, “Well, it wouldn’t do any harm. You need to start appearing for interviews and this is a perfect opportunity to get some exposure without being disappointed because you know you are extremely unlikely to be selected for such a prestigious institution considering you have absolutely no teaching experience whatsoever.”

My youthful, arrogant self took umbrage at this statement but I chose to play it humble and meekly agreed. As the school fell enroute to the University, we decided to stop for the interview and then proceed onwards to my college, to determine my destiny.

Well, an interview demands formal clothing.  My free spirited, University bred self rebelled but better sense finally prevailed and I climbed into a salwar kameez, albeit darkly muttering about “institutionalization killing the freedom of choice.” Worse was to follow. My parents took one look at me and marched me right back to my room with strict instructions to don a saree. A saree?! You have to be joking! But any and all protests were silenced with the words,” If you want to be taken seriously, you have to stop looking like a baby.” At 23 years of age, such adjectives do not sit well on one. Today, I would be delighted! Ah, the vicissitudes of time….

So dressed in the full nine yards, I struggled my way into the car, tripped when getting out, righted myself in the nick of time and marched up the stairs with the remnants of my dignity wrapped around me as tightly as my traditional apparel. The sight that greeted me nearly made me turn tail and run. Matrons of every size and shape stood there waiting to be interviewed, their hair grey with years of chalk powder and with eyes so piercing that a hawk would give its left claw to possess even one of them. In comparison to these demi goddesses of learning, I looked like a kitten that had strayed into the lionesses’ enclosure. I quailed. Who was I kidding? My dad had been right. As the saying goes: I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. I resigned myself to rejection.

Mustering my courage, I settled down on a chair to await my turn. Whilst I was busy doing my best to imitate a wallflower and thus remain as unobtrusive as possible, someone thrust a piece of paper into my hands and told me to study its contents. An exam? I looked down and saw a printed poem. Now we’re talking! Poetry happens to be my passion. With a happy smile, I got to work.

“Next!” came the stentorian cry. I looked around. All eyes were on me! So taking my cue from all the baleful stares coming my way, I meekly followed in the footsteps of the peon preceding me.

With trepidation I entered the lion’s den. There, seated majestically behind his desk, was the all-powerful head of the school – Bro Philip Pinto. Seated next to him was the vice Principal, Bro Hayes. Bro. Pinto gestured courteously for me to be seated, (his charm is legendary) and once I was settled into the chair, proceeded to grill me on the poem I had studied. God bless the recently done MA exams! The papers on poetry had more than adequately equipped me for any inquisition and I calmly and steadily responded to each question, no matter how difficult, with a growing confidence.

I had nailed the interview!

Then came the curved ball – Bro Hayes hit me with a totally technical question on grammar! I hadn’t the faintest clue what the correct answer was. In an instant all the carefully acquired calm took flight and soared into the distant horizon. I looked helplessly at the ceiling for inspiration, but I am no Moses and so no heavens opened up for me, nor did a little angel whisper anything in my ear. What on earth was I supposed to do?! There was only one recourse left open to me – “My mother is really good at grammar. She teaches English. I will ask her and get back to you.”

Don’t ask me who was more surprised by my blurted response, the Brothers or I. They looked at me as their jaws slowly dropped. Then, shaking themselves as if awakening from a bad dream, they threw their next googly at me. “Where are your MA documents? Only your first year results are attached.”

 

I didn’t have any option, did I? My mother had brought me up to tell the truth. (Why are parents such a bad influence?) ”I am on my way to collect my final results. Don’t worry. I am confident I have got through”.

They now looked as if they were trapped in the middle of a very bad dream. Struggling to retain their sanity, they gently asked, “You are very young and have no experience. How are you going to manage the boys?”

Well, that’s when I truly covered myself in glory – “I have 2 older brothers whom I have handled all my life. I’ll cope!!!!!”  

That they managed to usher me out politely speaks volumes for the Brothers and their self control. I am quite convinced that the carpet in the office must have come in handy as they rolled about on it, helpless with laughter. I doubt they have ever had such a naïve creature turn up for an interview, and that too (did I mention this earlier?) for the Sr Secondary School!

Well, having made a thorough fool of myself, I exited, no longer looking like a kitten but very much like a bedraggled, wet hen that had narrowly escaped the kitten’s attentions! Once again, scraping together the remnants of my self respect – a very, very, scanty amount, I assure you - I departed from St Columba’s with my metaphorical tail firmly tucked between my legs and my confidence shredded beyond belief. The only comfort(?) lay in the bitter truth that my father had been right. I had at least gained some experience (though of what kind I have still to figure out).

On my return home, I disappeared into my room to skulk (read ‘sulk’) and to nurse my badly bruised ego. Never before had I been so humiliated. The worst part was that I had done it to myself! Isn’t it terrible when you have no one to blame? The last vestiges of my dignity were fast disappearing into vapour trails.

I woke the next morning to the dulcet sound of my brother yelling into my ear,”Phone for you from St Columba’s!” What on earth could they possibly be ringing about? Were they bored and in need of a little more entertainment? Dragging my reluctant limbs out of bed, I headed for the instrument, my heart filled with a nameless dread.

“Is that Kavita?”

“Yes”. Keep it short. Stay in control. The less said the better. You can’t make a fool of yourself – yet again – that way.

“Would you be able to come in tomorrow?”

“Why?” Keep it short. Stay in control. The less said the better. You can’t make a fool of yourself – yet again – that way.

“Aren’t you interested in the job?”

“What?!!” Keep it short. Stay in control. The less said the better. You can’t make a fool of yourself – yet again – that way.

 “Look, miss. Either you are interested in working in St Columba’s or you aren’t. Will you be coming in tomorrow?”

The shreds of ego coalesced around me. The vapours became solid again. My bent spine straightened with a snap and I was suddenly waltzing my mother around the drawing room. I had done it! I was going to be a teacher. In the Senior Secondary School. In St. Columba’s.

Call it Destiny or name it God’s Will, but in truth, what began as a joke - a “time-pass” - materialized into a job that changed my life. Bro Pinto swears to this day that I twinkled at him across the table and didn’t display an iota of nervousness. I maintain the opposite.

But, in the end – what difference does it make? I got the job, didn’t I?!