Guns ‘n Roses

In the course of the numerous monologues that I have documented over the past month, the consistent theme that has run through most, has been the acknowledged delight that a young lady experiences (though she will swear with her dying breath that such is not the case at all) when she is the object of the ardent attention of every schoolboy in the Senior Secondary wing by the simple virtue of being the youngest and the only unmarried member of the staff who also – fortuitously – belongs to the opposite gender. The drawback that accompanies this effortless accomplishment, however, often far outweighs the benefits and frequently leads to some truly convoluted situations that still leave one gasping for breath.

Such was the case one Teachers’ Day….

The hallowed halls of St. Columba’s School, situated in the heart of heavily populated New Delhi, was the setting. It was the 5^th of September – the day when the great nation of India celebrates the contributions of its teachers, in keeping with the wishes of its equally renowned President of yore – Dr Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan - who expressed the desire that his birthday be celebrated as Teachers’ Day in his memory. It also happened to be my first ever Day of Teachers.

The morning in question began uneventfully and delightfully enough. One was dressed to the nines in the full nine yards of elegant sareehood, and right from the moment one had set foot in the school bus, one had been the recipient of numerous compliments as well as good old fashioned chocolates, flowers and sundry tiny gifts. Completely as expected.

After alighting from the accepted mode of transport in those ancient of days (the delights of bus travel have become sadly vitiated over the years), the heroine of this story (I know it is I – I’m trying to be humble and distance myself!) tread lightly along the corridors and slipped into her classroom. There (again as expected), she was hailed with delight, serenaded, courted and cosseted and finally seated on her desk. Did you read ‘on’? Well, one when is barely 5 feet 4 inches tall in a setting where the average height of the gentlemen surrounding her adds to up at least half a foot more, one has to ensure that one is enthroned at a suitable height if one is to be able to survey one’s surroundings and keep each errant schoolboy under the scanner of one’s watchful eye (never underestimate the power of the back benches).

So there our heroine for the day was perched and the ceremonies began. The carefully planned speeches of eternal love, couched in the most respectful terminology one could possibly desire, were delivered with such soulful expressions that they would have left the romantic hero Lochinvar, looking like a piece of dead wood in comparison. These were followed by songs rendered with a passionate dischordance that tested one’s tolerance to the limit and were only bearable because of the said soulful expressions (only a soulless zombie would break the heart of a love sick schoolboy by letting her strained smile slip and covering her ears to keep out the deafening sounds assaulting her auditory nerves). Each death defying delivery (I refer to the fact that one was hovering dangerously close to suicidal tendencies by the time each song was delivered) was, but naturally, followed by enthusiastic applause – never let it be said that we teachers do not have the art of hypocrisy perfected- much to the delight of each said singer.

Then came the time for the tokens of affection to be handed over.

In keeping with the tradition of our much touted school – the boys came forward one by one and, after either bowing deeply or smiling soulfully – handed over the flower/chocolate/token that denoted their undying love for the object of their affections. Each item was, in turn, received with grave appreciation and the bearer of the gifts would depart with an ecstatic expression.

Until it was Harpreet’s turn (all names are changed to ensure the privacy of individuals).

To begin with, the said Harpreet belonged to the group of homo sapiens that are casually classified as ‘humungous’. As wide as he was tall, he constituted what in common parlance is known as “a walking mastodon” and God help the person who tried to mess with this ordinarily quiet soul.

And this was precisely the case when it was Harpreet’s turn to walk up to me. Extricating himself from his desk (you try describing it any other way - I mean the poor man was quite literally jammed into his chair/desk), he lumbered up to me and positioned himself in such a way that his back was turned squarely to the class. Now when Mt Everest decides that no one is going to peek around its corner to see what is going on, no soul in his right mind will even dare to do so. And so it was. Harpreet’s body language had declared that this was his private moment with his teacher and the whole class of 50 odd boys froze in various positions of activity. It was as if time had stood still. I could swear that one boy even turned into a life-sized statue, with a morsel of his tiffin halfway to his mouth.

Anyway – to proceed – the scene at this stage looked something like this:

Yours truly perched on the desk.

Harpreet facing me square on with his back firmly to the class.

The remaining 50 odd students in suspended animation.

And that’s when the nightmare began.

In slow motion, the young giant standing before me, reached up and, to my absolute horror, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so chose the in-between path of jaw touching the floor. Not that my state of discomfort made the least difference to our young maniac. Holding my attention with his steady, fixed gaze, he proceeded to undo the next plastic blob on his shirt and then – the next!

By this time I was looking around wildly for help, trying to signal to my frozen 50 that I was in dire need of rescuing. But have you noticed how when you are most in need of a chivalrous knight, the wretched man seems to be breakfasting in some distant land, completely oblivious to all the smoke signals exploding around his unconscious head? And so it was. My famous 50 did not so much as blink an eye! All my damsel-in-distress act seemed to be reaping was a distinct lack of even a glimmer of a response. The more helpless I looked – as one button succeeded the next in the inevitable descent of the doorknobs – the more they seemed to transform from ice sculptures frozen in time to granite carvings that would never ever, ever unfreeze.  Such was the power of Harpreet’s baleful stare.

And then came the next nightmare. In sloooow motion, Harpeet put his hand inside his shirt! 

Now there are limits to one’s patience and one’s stress levels. So, in keeping with the theory that when one has reached the limits one must respond - I decided to react. I first shut my mouth (I do hope you recall that my lower jaw was making the acquaintance of the floor) and then re-opened it wide and drew in a lungful of air in preparation to letting loose a most unfeminine yell. But just as I reached the peak of my indrawn breath, I happened to glance at Harpreet’s hand and all the air was literally knocked out of me - for there in his huge hairy fist was - a diminutive rose!

I watched with fascination as the said flower was raised and with the most incredible gentleness imaginable, my young man placed the token of his deepest affection in my hand. And as I looked down at that slightly battered, worse-for-wear little plant, one part of my consciousness was recording the fact that the thorns were still intact on it and my eyes were drawn to his shirt to examine it for any drops of blood, while the other part was deeply humbled by the lengths to which my gentle giant had gone to present me with this deeply moving tribute.

Without another word Harpreet turned away and returned to his seat. Oblivious of the fact that his shirt was hanging open and that I had a rose in my hand where before there had been none, he proceeded to re-seat himself as if nothing of any significance had taken place, after which he scowled at his peers and dared them to comment.

Not a soul commented.