A few weeks ago, our second semester started. I told myself, "Back to square one." And honestly, that's life, isn't it? Whatever we dream, whatever we do, and whatsoever life lingers on—it's always back to the square. Back to the square until death. But some mates try to break the rules of nature. I myself wanted to. The result? I joined the semester late. Good that I was late, because some didn't show up for weeks. (At the back of my mind, though, a tiny voice whispers: learning is the first priority. I ignore it professionally.)
One fellow (name withheld, but he knows who he is) has the habit of turning up to class once in a blue moon—maybe when the moon is also feeling generous. He spends all his time wheedling with his life's wife, and hearsay has conjectured that he might be scared of his partner's affairs with trespassers… he he. During the last semester (our first semester), he only showed up to write the exams. God alone knows what he scribbled. Let his result come. I'm pretty sure I will take his place if he succeeds. That's how confident I am in his mysterious methods.
Let me now write about how we survived our first semester exams. Uh… to start this true narration is a disturbing one. It upsets me. I become slightly eccentric. Some might say more eccentric. Good things come, yes—but bad things lurk right behind them.
I've written so many exams. Let me count. I've studied for sixteen years. Every year: two exams, no fewer than seven subjects. So 16 × 14 = 224 exams. Two hundred and twenty-four times of pure, unadulterated dread. I sometimes wonder what benefit I've gained. The only benefits I can confidently name are fear, tension, and a lot of hair loss. My pillow looks like a shedding sheep.
And now, after seven years of giving exams to students, here I am—taking exams again. Hard nut to crack. The stories of exam tension, exam miscreants, and bullies fill the air like a bad perfume during exam season.
I have a friend who wins through his talks. His speeches are like the outbursts of a dam—rowdy, overpowering, delivered through hard-loud sound. He can subdue anyone with sheer volume. Such a tongue is needed in many affairs, especially while buying stuff from certain Indian cheaters. He cuts the price to half using only forceful words. I like to call his language "bazaar language"—rough, crude, and effective. People who know him simply say, "He speaks like that," or "His nature is like that." But this nature "like that" doesn't work everywhere. He has given me full liberty to use his name in any writing. He always asks me to write his full name: Omar Khalid Hashim. "Hashim," he says. It's nice that his name becomes legendary. Anyways, this legend—this roaring lion—was once caught in a net. He too suffered the consequences of rowdy talks.
An unlucky university exam it was. The final paper. Hashim wrote something on his question paper that was not supposed to be there. Two or three words. The stern supervisor found out. Asked why. And Hashim unleashed his bazaar language. The supervisor went mad—not the fun kind of mad—hearing the noise. "Why are you speaking like that?" Intense exchanges followed. The whole exam hall got disturbed. The supervisor took the paper. Hashim got barmier. He rushed after him. More exchanges outside the room. Somehow, Hashim lost his time. The paper was finally returned with a warning: last one. Such is the advantage of a good talker in a disadvantaged situation. Roar, and sometimes they roar back.
Everything is back to square one this second semester. Our lectures. Our superfluous debates. Everything. Everything. Except our HOD for Gender Studies, Dr. Umashankar, left the college. We miss his sweety-moot-y, crafty-witty talks on masculinity, femininity, and trans-gender. Nevertheless, our new HOD plus Gender lecturer, Dr. Prabha, will continue the noble human tradition of stereotyping sex. Good! Some things change. Some things just get a new name tag.
No comments:
Post a Comment