Back to school on a windy day

RS Dalal

AFTER retirement, I wondered what to do. The daylong chain of visitors that one dreaded was now a negligible trickle. As it is, advancements in medical science and health management have made life look like a five-day Test cricket.

One morning, a veteran fauji from my village (believing I could still make things happen) landed at my house with his tall, sturdy grandson, requesting a job for him. ‘Send him to the Army. Look at the way you fought in the ’65 war,’ I complimented him. ‘But there’s a written examination even for a soldier now,’ he rued. Seeing my cold  response, he was quick to change the subject and asked me what I did now. ‘I do nothing, I’m retired.’ ‘Ram ka naam liya kar,’ came the advice as he stood up to leave. ‘It’s a long way to go; why prepare so much in advance?’ I retorted. After seeing him off, I remembered my parents, who true to Mendel’s Laws of Heredity, passed me down a scientific temperament and an agnostic nature. So, engaging in meditative contemplation or joining a religious sect or concentrating on scriptures was ruled out.

I thought of officers who would approach me for permission to pursue higher studies. ‘Why don’t you focus on your job instead and study after retirement?’ I would ask with a wry grin. ‘It’s more convenient while in service, Sir,’ they would quip. Clerks pursued studies as another degree entitled them to a couple of advance increments — an anachronistic rule from British times. I got fired up by these images and decided to pursue higher studies and enrolled after a maddening search for old, moth-eaten certificates.

The date sheet was out. The annual exams were to start from the third week of May and the papers were scheduled in the afternoon. The centre was a senior government school. It was an exceptionally hot day as I reached the school for the first paper. Hundreds of students were frantically milling around the seating arrangement list on the school wall. I reluctantly joined the melee and jostled my way to the list. Having noted the room number, I struggled my way out. As I entered the room, I gave a broad smile to the invigilator. He returned a cold look instead. Why was he so stern I wondered. I approached my seat — a small bench. I squeezed in with difficulty. ‘May I sit in the front, on a chair?’ I asked the invigilator politely. ‘No, at your allotted seat please,’ came the curt reply. Even a little power is a heady wine!

Suddenly, I heard the roaring of the wind outside. The windows which were without latches started hurtling back and forth, smashing glass panes. The sandstorm was in full might. Students rushed and pushed themselves against the windows to keep them shut. The lights went out with a bang. There was utter chaos till the storm subsided. Everyone did their best to restore semblance of normalcy. The paper started late by an hour. The invigilator came to my bench, smiled and asked me to shift to the chair in front if it was more comfortable. The storm apparently had a humbling effect on him. I, too, realised that pursuing studies was no cakewalk.