Among the many unanswered
questions on the planet is one that boggles the mind. The question: 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 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 that wore an occasional slow, shy smile, and a reluctant walking style which was in significant evidence when she treaded the path to our classroom.
Every year, much to her dismay, she would be alloted subjects like Economic Geography, Political Science, Commerce and Business Administration, 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 tedious, dull, dreary, mind-numbing, lifeless, lacklustre, unexciting, routine, plebian, pedestrian, wearisome subjects were allotted to her, because no one else would touch them with a barge-pole tied to the end of a javelin. Mrs Vaz was far too good-natured to argue with the clever Head of Department and, consequently, at the beginning of every year, she’d turn up when the bell rang, her face a picture of resignation, her posture defeated but holding a pretence of defiance.
My class - I cannot emphasise this enough - tested her sorely. As she took that hesitant step onto the
wooden podium (that had once housed a stack of crackers under it) in front of about a hundred boys and girls, the vast majority would welcome her with a collective vacant look of vacuous, languid asininity (which was an independent function of time of day). 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 attempted to smile in an effort at feminine
bonding, but the boys just ignored her presence, and an odd
fellow - Society's misanthrope - would shout, ‘Welcome Ma’am’ in the falsest of notes, while she
would nod her head passively knowing perfectly well that he meant no such
thing.
And, much as Dr. Seuss’s immortal
Horton the Elephant sat on an egg 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.
If Dr. Seuss were watching, he would present her case succintly:
“Let them ignore
Roar.
Snore.
Let them stare
Dare.
I don’t care.
I will for sure
conduct the tour.”
The large contingent of back-benchers who should have
been serving time in solitary confinement for their disservice to civil
society, would often stretch and yawn with a loud remonstrative groan, day-dream and express their creative,
artistic expression on any available medium (including, once, the shirt of the person in front). Many caught up on their sleep. Others simply did nothing: being part-time philosophers, they stared out of
the window in meditative contemplation
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 and, 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 and her gentle face would become a noticeable red, testing her blood pressure sorely.
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 joined in the collective merriment – not at her expense, but clearly not at her
instance (is this an occasion to assuage a guilty conscience?).
It was a hopeless
situation, utterly hopeless.
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 of us did need help, she was always ready, her gentle nature acting as
a balm. Despite all those provocations, she never had a bone to pick. I did well in her subjects and she treasured that - years later, she told me
that she ‘knew’ I would do well in my career, an unforgettable compliment but happily
untrue for I exited the career race early.
If only He knew that one of those books was Economic Geography.....
