Why Vaz Was Wise

Among the many unanswered questions on the planet is one that deserves scrutiny if you happen to study motivation.  The question – an inverse one as it might seem – is, how did Mrs. Vaz remain, well, normal? 

Normal, for this elevated purpose, is hereby defined as a condition in which a person is not transmogrified, by circumstances, into 

a) a weeping wreck

b) a furious furnace

c) a cowering catastrophe

d) a depressed decadent

e) all of the above and exhibiting delirious symptoms suggesting that there would be more to come.

Mrs. Vaz was the only lady in a small group of lecturers who taught our class in St. Josephs – PUC and B.Com, and she did so relentlessly for five years which suggests a resilience last seen in The Charge of the Light Brigade.  She was of medium height, always dressed  in a sari with her hair tied in a neat bun, a quiet, demure lady with an impassive freckled face and  an occasional slow, shy smile.  

Every year, much to her dismay, she would be alloted  subjects like Economic Geography, which were, to put it mildly, unteachably boring.  Let me emphasise this in case you missed it in a hurry to get to the end – the most boring, tedious, dull, dreary, mind-numbing, lifeless, lacklustre, unexciting, routine, plebian, pedestrian, wearisome subjects were allotted to her, because no one else wanted them and she was far too good natured to argue with the clever Head of Department. And every year she’d turn up in class at the beginning of the year, her face a picture of resignation and posture defeated but with a pretence of defiance. 

My class tested her sorely.  Every year she would hesitantly step onto the wooden podium (that had once housed a stack of crackers under it).  And every year she would look down and see a class of about a hundred boys and girls, the vast majority of whom stared back at her with a collective vacant look of vacuous, languid asininity, particularly if it was the class after lunch.  If she felt the need to return the compliment, she did not show it, for such was her bearing and sense of dignity.  Some of the girls – the quiet, half-sari and curd-rice for lunch type - at least attempted to smile in an effort at feminine bonding, but the boys just ignored her presence, and just an odd fellow would shout out, ‘Welcome Ma’am’ in the falsest of notes, while she would nod her head passively knowing perfectly well that he meant no such thing.

She took most of this really well, having developed a certain detachment from pedogogical ideology.  If Dr. Seuss were watching, he would present her case:

“Let them ignore

Roar.

Snore.

Let them stare

Dare.

I don’t care.

I will for sure

conduct the tour.”

So, much as Dr. Seuss’s immortal Horton the Elephant sat on an egg way past his bedtime (Horton Lays An Egg – don’t miss it), Mrs. Vaz laboured through every single class with commendable doggedness, reading out chapter after chapter, her voice a montonous refrain that triggered drowsiness on a warm afternoon.    The large contingent of back-benchers who should have been serving time in solitary confinement for their disservice to civil society, would stretch and yawn with a loud remonstrative groan, day-dream and express their creative, artistic expression in a notebook. Many caught up on their sleep.  Others simply did nothing, they stared out of the window in meditative contemplation (two such worthys are now senior managers in organisations and I understand they do much the same thing). 

Occasionally, though, a loud giggle would break out at the back.  Or even some laughter.  Or someone would visibly display somnolent behaviour that was calculated to test the patience of a certified saint. Or there would be a question asked by an otherwise disinterested superstar (who had spent the last few minutes combing his rapidly thinning hair), followed by much tittering around him and words of encouragement that were as hilarious as they were provocative.  In these not-so-unusual situations, her voice would rise, the rapid flow of words followed by a gesture to the main protagonist to exit the room, something about three quarters of the class was desperately waiting for.  As the offender quickly stood up to leave, others would offer to accompany him or offer loud advice, or say sorry on his behalf or even suggest substitution.  Most of this inflamed her anger greatly; her gentle face would become a rather noticeable red and her demeanour change.  On one or two occasions, she stormed out of the room, but that was playing right into everyone’s hands.  After a few seconds spent in silence, the mass of prospective Chartered Accountants, MBAs and businessmen would evacuate the classroom to the comfort of the college canteen. While I generally kept quiet when there was mayhem, there were times when it was difficult to not be swayed by the peer group and I did join in the collective merriment – not at her expense, but clearly not at her instance!

It was honestly, a hopeless situation. 

My primary emotion, though, was one of compassion.  She was doing the best she could, for you can, after all, only play with the cards you are dealt and, when one did need help, she was always ready, her gentle nature acting as a balm.  I did well in my tests for that was then a matter of pride and she treasured that (years later, she told me that she ‘knew’ I would do well in my career, a unforgettable compliment but happily untrue for I exited the career race early).

The exact root of the word ‘retired’ is not something I know, but surely it is derived from ‘tired’.  Mrs. Vaz retired some years ago and is now probably savouring the company of her grand children, even as an ex-student thinks he should have probably said a quick ‘sorry’ for adding to the torment on occasion and a ‘thank you’ for those flashes of education when they did happen.   Not that she has a bone to pick.  She never did.