I squinted at the clock. I knew that it was at least an hour since day-break. A stream of glorious morning sun-rays seeped through my window making a part of the room unusually brighter than the rest. The room was cold and, though well tucked into my rug, I gave the faintest of shivers. The clock struck 7. I immediately jumped out of my bed, threw the rug into the corner of the room, and sprinted to the bathroom. The morning-rush had begun. It was the same routine--brush, switch the geyser on, sip hot piping tea, read the newspaper, curse the clock and bathe. Then followed breakfast (bread or cornflakes or sometimes, both).
The only thing that is remotely interesting in my life is my journey to my school. I own an old Bajaj scooter that, somehow, has managed to keep itself going all these years. The school is a good 5 kilometres away, right in the heart of our small sleepy town. I live a little off the town in my ancestral house--a structure that once housed many a great person. I am one of the few living descendents of the great Kuluru Basavaraya, a lawyer, scholar, architect, Diwan and one of Karnataka’s most prominent luminaries during the British Raj. I tilted my Scooter and after a somewhat complex manoeuvre that involved some smart balancing and quick footwork, performed with the grace of a seasoned man, I kick-started the Scooter. The engine shot into action with a roar that one wouldn’t generally associate with one so old (It was the country weather, I always insisted) and within seconds, I sped along, solemn-faced and silent.
I reached my school at five minutes to eight. I parked my vehicle in a corner specially reserved for teachers, nodded to the school peon, and strode along to my office. Five minutes later, I walked into my class, stifling a yawn. The students rose in unison and chanted a greeting. There was a time when I felt tremendously proud of myself when seeing a class stand up out of respect for me, but now I barely realized them standing. Mechanically, I said "Sit down" and began calling out names from the register. I walked up to the first bench, peered into someone’s book to check where we had left off the previous day, and perfunctorily explained. Words flowed from my mouth without as much as a pause—my thoughts were given a free rein—for the whole teaching process was completely involuntary.
I had always wanted to teach. It was a dream that I harboured since the age of 8. It was one of the reasons why I had volunteered to stay back in the village while almost the entire family had migrated away. I wanted to stay back and teach children—not for money, but for pure love of teaching; for love of children. I was terribly over-qualified to be a high school teacher and sometimes I wonder if that is the reason for my progressive decline in my interest in the profession. There was a time when I posed intriguing questions to the class and begged them to think. I would collect things for the class, prepare for them. I would sing, draw, dance and do everything to entice those in front of me. Yes, there was a time when I would do all that and more—a time when every class was a performance, an experience for both the teacher and the taught.
The bell rang and I walked away. Some students stood up and said a half-hearted "Thank You". With the merest shake of the head (another unconscious action), I carried on. Little by little, I was becoming a machine-- mechanical and boring. I was getting sucked into my routine and I could do little about it. The main concern was that I made absolutely no effort to prevent myself from getting sucked; A part of me felt comfortable with the repetitive pattern that my life seemed to take—feeling falsely comfortable in a seemingly safe system that somewhere inside, I wasn’t happy with. I wondered if there was an ounce of humanness left me—something that would distinguish me from a robot. It wasnt that I was unkind or inhuman, but, I was so well settled with my schedule,that I rarely gave much thought to anything that happened around me.
**********
That evening, I went for my usual evening walk among the acres of farmland that I owned. The day’s newspaper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I wandered aimlessly. I waked back home, with at least an hour before sunset. As I sat on my rocking-chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for one of the servants to place my tea on the table beside me, I heard someone call out—
"Ayyah?"
I peered over my newspaper and was surprised to see four weary but expectant little faces staring at me. With one look at me, they let out a squeal of excitement and one of them exclaimed—
"Arrey! Namma Mestru!" (Our teacher)
I was momentarily taken aback, but asked with a smile,
"What do you want?" in Kannada.
They held some farmland tools in their hands. Their clothes were patched, dirty and some, well oversized. They were sweating profusely, but none of them seemed to be remotely bothered by it. I had a vague recollection of one of their faces.
"We were wondering if you had some work for us" said the oldest among them.
"Work?"
"We can work hard" screamed another, puffing up his chest and the others nodded their heads in agreement.
I didn’t know what to say.
"What are your names?"
"I am Manju"
"Kamal"
"Srini"
"And you?" I asked the youngest and the meekest of them all.
"Karthik" he said in a barely audible whisper.
"Karthik!" I echoed.
He smiled weakly. My heart melted. I felt guilty for some unknown reason. I felt as though I was somehow responsible for their pitiable state, as though I lived without caring for anyone but myself—a selfish and self-obsessed life. My servant placed my tea on my table and I sipped on and told him to get the best bananas we had. His face gave the tiniest of frowns, before it relaxed, and he went about his way, without questioning. I was glad he didn’t ask why, for I myself wasn’t sure. I turned my gaze towards them and immediately looked away. I was never a brave man and the sight of such suffering was intolerable on my delicate eyes that were brought up on a dose of lovely green trees, rich farmers and farmlands. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I asked—
"What does your father do?"
" We have no father", said Manju.
"Our mother works in the farm nearby" said Srini firmly.
I didn’t prod any further. They didn’t seem to keen on discussing their family matters.
I whistled softly to myself—a tune that I had picked up as a child.
Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, my whistling out of tune and the children, a little fidgety, my servant arrived with a plateful of Bananas. I unpeeled each of them with care and handed them to the children, starting with the youngest, Karthik. They ate in silence and at once. Ripe Bananas were indeed a luxury. I offered more and they devoured them, greedily.
"Does anyone want water?" I asked to the ceiling.
It was a poor question. I had never seen heads nod so vigorously in unison. By the time I turned towards him, Sathish(my servant) had already gone. Without turning my head, I looked at them through the corner of my eyes, and drew my tea-cup to my lips. Karthik called his brother and with one fleeting glance at me to make sure I wasn’t looking, asked,
"Meshtru Orey Kannaa?" (Is Master Squint-eyed?)
*********
In fifteen minutes, the four children trudged back home, their tools unusually spotless.Their stomachs were somewhat full and they had got enough money to last them a week. I had pushed into the eldest’s hand, a couple of 500 rupee notes, much to the annoyance of Sathish who said that they would become regular visitors. I hadn’t even allowed them to work, he complained.
Just as they were leaving through the front gate (which is at a fair distance from the door) the children heard a loud honk. They turned around to see me with one of the biggest smiles that had ever adorned this face in years.
"Coming?" I asked.
The older ones looked unsure. Karthik however, walked straight up to the scooter, stood between me and the handlebars, and with one superior look at the others, said—
"Go"
I smiled at the others and asked them to sit behind me. They sat and I asked—
"Readiyaa?"
"Ready!" they yelled as one.
My engine roared like never before, I accelerated until the wind nearly blew my scarf away, the roads seemed wider than ever, the children cried at the top of their voices, the woodpeckers on the tall green trees pecked on noisily, I whistled shrilly, the sound being swallowed up in the din around me, and amidst all this, my mind that managed to stay amazingly clear, bellowed in unmistakable exuberance, enthusiasm and supreme satisfaction, "I am human, I am human!"
The only thing that is remotely interesting in my life is my journey to my school. I own an old Bajaj scooter that, somehow, has managed to keep itself going all these years. The school is a good 5 kilometres away, right in the heart of our small sleepy town. I live a little off the town in my ancestral house--a structure that once housed many a great person. I am one of the few living descendents of the great Kuluru Basavaraya, a lawyer, scholar, architect, Diwan and one of Karnataka’s most prominent luminaries during the British Raj. I tilted my Scooter and after a somewhat complex manoeuvre that involved some smart balancing and quick footwork, performed with the grace of a seasoned man, I kick-started the Scooter. The engine shot into action with a roar that one wouldn’t generally associate with one so old (It was the country weather, I always insisted) and within seconds, I sped along, solemn-faced and silent.
I reached my school at five minutes to eight. I parked my vehicle in a corner specially reserved for teachers, nodded to the school peon, and strode along to my office. Five minutes later, I walked into my class, stifling a yawn. The students rose in unison and chanted a greeting. There was a time when I felt tremendously proud of myself when seeing a class stand up out of respect for me, but now I barely realized them standing. Mechanically, I said "Sit down" and began calling out names from the register. I walked up to the first bench, peered into someone’s book to check where we had left off the previous day, and perfunctorily explained. Words flowed from my mouth without as much as a pause—my thoughts were given a free rein—for the whole teaching process was completely involuntary.
I had always wanted to teach. It was a dream that I harboured since the age of 8. It was one of the reasons why I had volunteered to stay back in the village while almost the entire family had migrated away. I wanted to stay back and teach children—not for money, but for pure love of teaching; for love of children. I was terribly over-qualified to be a high school teacher and sometimes I wonder if that is the reason for my progressive decline in my interest in the profession. There was a time when I posed intriguing questions to the class and begged them to think. I would collect things for the class, prepare for them. I would sing, draw, dance and do everything to entice those in front of me. Yes, there was a time when I would do all that and more—a time when every class was a performance, an experience for both the teacher and the taught.
The bell rang and I walked away. Some students stood up and said a half-hearted "Thank You". With the merest shake of the head (another unconscious action), I carried on. Little by little, I was becoming a machine-- mechanical and boring. I was getting sucked into my routine and I could do little about it. The main concern was that I made absolutely no effort to prevent myself from getting sucked; A part of me felt comfortable with the repetitive pattern that my life seemed to take—feeling falsely comfortable in a seemingly safe system that somewhere inside, I wasn’t happy with. I wondered if there was an ounce of humanness left me—something that would distinguish me from a robot. It wasnt that I was unkind or inhuman, but, I was so well settled with my schedule,that I rarely gave much thought to anything that happened around me.
**********
That evening, I went for my usual evening walk among the acres of farmland that I owned. The day’s newspaper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I wandered aimlessly. I waked back home, with at least an hour before sunset. As I sat on my rocking-chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for one of the servants to place my tea on the table beside me, I heard someone call out—
"Ayyah?"
I peered over my newspaper and was surprised to see four weary but expectant little faces staring at me. With one look at me, they let out a squeal of excitement and one of them exclaimed—
"Arrey! Namma Mestru!" (Our teacher)
I was momentarily taken aback, but asked with a smile,
"What do you want?" in Kannada.
They held some farmland tools in their hands. Their clothes were patched, dirty and some, well oversized. They were sweating profusely, but none of them seemed to be remotely bothered by it. I had a vague recollection of one of their faces.
"We were wondering if you had some work for us" said the oldest among them.
"Work?"
"We can work hard" screamed another, puffing up his chest and the others nodded their heads in agreement.
I didn’t know what to say.
"What are your names?"
"I am Manju"
"Kamal"
"Srini"
"And you?" I asked the youngest and the meekest of them all.
"Karthik" he said in a barely audible whisper.
"Karthik!" I echoed.
He smiled weakly. My heart melted. I felt guilty for some unknown reason. I felt as though I was somehow responsible for their pitiable state, as though I lived without caring for anyone but myself—a selfish and self-obsessed life. My servant placed my tea on my table and I sipped on and told him to get the best bananas we had. His face gave the tiniest of frowns, before it relaxed, and he went about his way, without questioning. I was glad he didn’t ask why, for I myself wasn’t sure. I turned my gaze towards them and immediately looked away. I was never a brave man and the sight of such suffering was intolerable on my delicate eyes that were brought up on a dose of lovely green trees, rich farmers and farmlands. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I asked—
"What does your father do?"
" We have no father", said Manju.
"Our mother works in the farm nearby" said Srini firmly.
I didn’t prod any further. They didn’t seem to keen on discussing their family matters.
I whistled softly to myself—a tune that I had picked up as a child.
Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, my whistling out of tune and the children, a little fidgety, my servant arrived with a plateful of Bananas. I unpeeled each of them with care and handed them to the children, starting with the youngest, Karthik. They ate in silence and at once. Ripe Bananas were indeed a luxury. I offered more and they devoured them, greedily.
"Does anyone want water?" I asked to the ceiling.
It was a poor question. I had never seen heads nod so vigorously in unison. By the time I turned towards him, Sathish(my servant) had already gone. Without turning my head, I looked at them through the corner of my eyes, and drew my tea-cup to my lips. Karthik called his brother and with one fleeting glance at me to make sure I wasn’t looking, asked,
"Meshtru Orey Kannaa?" (Is Master Squint-eyed?)
*********
In fifteen minutes, the four children trudged back home, their tools unusually spotless.Their stomachs were somewhat full and they had got enough money to last them a week. I had pushed into the eldest’s hand, a couple of 500 rupee notes, much to the annoyance of Sathish who said that they would become regular visitors. I hadn’t even allowed them to work, he complained.
Just as they were leaving through the front gate (which is at a fair distance from the door) the children heard a loud honk. They turned around to see me with one of the biggest smiles that had ever adorned this face in years.
"Coming?" I asked.
The older ones looked unsure. Karthik however, walked straight up to the scooter, stood between me and the handlebars, and with one superior look at the others, said—
"Go"
I smiled at the others and asked them to sit behind me. They sat and I asked—
"Readiyaa?"
"Ready!" they yelled as one.
My engine roared like never before, I accelerated until the wind nearly blew my scarf away, the roads seemed wider than ever, the children cried at the top of their voices, the woodpeckers on the tall green trees pecked on noisily, I whistled shrilly, the sound being swallowed up in the din around me, and amidst all this, my mind that managed to stay amazingly clear, bellowed in unmistakable exuberance, enthusiasm and supreme satisfaction, "I am human, I am human!"
