A day I dare not forget

Today, the 21^st of April, 2005 - a day that would be cherished for years to come…

Around 10 o’clock I reached the Professor’s office to collect my corrected assignment. There was a thick cloud of unexplainable fear surrounding my wavering mind. As I entered the 200m-or-so long corridor, I could already hear his voice: an audibly loud, yet pleasing tone. He seems to be advising my unknown classmate of his options to make up for his classes and attendance. There’s always a plausible solution for any student’s problem at my Professor’s desk.

In his usual repetitive eloquent style, he was returning something that this guy - and some time back me too - had forgotten in the grand melody of life: basic human values. The most crucial among them being practicing and spreading a mélange of human compassion and mutual respect. More succinctly, he tells us that what is outside the self is fear that creates varying degrees of influence. These rudimentary spheres of influence separate themselves by drawing boundaries around each one of them; but all of them enmeshed in one another with their centre pegged at fear. It is his earnest hope that students try to annul at least few boundaries so that what masquerades as fear can be consistently and meticulously triumphed over.

Back in his room, I listen to his gladdening voice. It mellifluously slips outside his room and form into a symphony of thought. Decorates the polluted skyline and without loosing its audibility and quality through thousands of satellites, overhead spying drones, the sonata keeps resounding in the untouched Kosmos. After some time, the melodious music escapes back to earth. Racing all the way at the fluttering speed of the flag of an African country, Nigeria. Standing near the flag post is Nigeria’s world famous novelist Chinua Achebe gloriously singing in free verse: “ A human is human because of other humans”

Back in India, my professor was still going on with his prophetic oeuvre. Usually, it is a tradition that a student sitting opposite to him has to cope up with the wise wizardry of words. Not because he uses an opaque prose; but his talk is so thick with winsome words and sagacious sentences that he easily establishes a direct connection with the audience’s hearts. Then, once this networking of hearts is completed, be ready to enjoy his roller-coaster literature ride; he just operates the ride - guiding it in right directions.

I was on this ride a few months back. Before the ride began, I was speculative about a post-conventional professor's impact on my ignorant life. But, as I glided attentively to the various altitudes of literary and philosophical accomplishments, my speculative confidence was gradually turning into a self-assurance. Occasionally, there are some worthwhile stops on this nonstop ride. At every stop, there’s an auspicious beginning waiting there with the prospect of conscious sensemaking of oneself- along with keeping a joyful vigil on the “content of our character.”

Well, with these wild ruminations restlessly transfixing my mind, I strolled across the corridor - waiting for my classmate to end his chat. I was in no hurry as I was rehearsing how I would present myself to this gentlemanly character. I had already made up my mind that I never would disagree with my assignment’s awarded grade - as I was fully confident that I deserved it. Moreover, it was a brilliant polymath who was entrusted with the correction of the assignment. But, what if I would get a “C” grade, I would at least ask Prof. Ashok for some critical comments. Suddenly, there was a pleasant voice from behind. It was the Professor’s. “Just wait for a minute,” he said. He continued: “Be seated” – showing the seatable rectangular projection of the wall opposite his room that was almost one-fourth the majestic height of my professor.

Wouldn’t it be audacious to sit in front of his room, facing him on his back? I always wondered that even when I sat, I crossed my legs usually and I’m always reminded that this is as a gesture of flaunting one’s pride. For quite some time, I’ve been apprehensive of this heightened self-curiosity regarding adherence to the wise guidebook about human conduct - scrupulously authored by my professor and few others. Whatever is ordained as a doable thing, has had an inerasable imprint on my mind and a collection of such imprints have assembled into the conduct-manual.

In this manual, one direction (it would be ugly to call them rules) would frequently zoom in and remind me: “Do it, but make none hurt by it. Display it but with humbleness and courage.” So, I chose to walk up and down the corridor - rather than sit before his room. Suddenly, there was a strong fragrance gracing the air. A classmate - who I fantasized less about - just walked opposite to me into the corridor with a brittle bag that was so heavy that she seemed to be weighed down by it. This girl was an uncommonly beautiful girl with gelled hair whose plaits flowed like a short waterfall – not going beyond her throat. The black hair was in total contrast to her radiant face. Still, there seemed to be a telling gloom on her face.

In the mean time, the classmate, who was already there inside getting wise advice from my professor, seemed to have got his final piece of counseling and in no time walked out. As he became clearly visible to me when he walked beside, I was shocked by his exhaustive remorseful face that appeared like carrying a “megaton” of troubles – in spite of just having the privilege of conversing with one of the most exhilarating thinkers of our time.

Fine then, the professor just walked out of his room and he appeared like a shy boy pleasingly peeping out of his room. Then there was a teasing question: “Who came first between you?” – pointing towards the nymph and me. I said: “Myself, but…” To which he replied: “I would take her in first if you could hold on for a minute.” I said: “That’s ok sir.” And, I pushed myself back into the customary walk down the corridor, I was enjoying for the past 30 minutes.

There was commotion in the room for some time as the professor tried to explain to this girl why he awarded that grade to her. A comprehensive explanation that cannot be brushed off – various metrics for awarding the grade were revealed to her and elaborate details about how she fared in those metrics was provided. I could hear a submissive resistance from this girl. Now, I was growing anxious about what would be my fate. The assignment’s research-period was nearly a month and all the appropriate references were regularly provided by the professor during his lectures.

Whatever the outcome is, I would respect the pains taken by him to correct my assignment. Then, amidst this up-and-down walk in the corridor, I was drawn to the notice-board right in the middle of the corridor. The notice board was overflowing with courses that seemed like competing with each other as they were pinned one above the other. Among these notices, there was an unusual one that was printed with dull ink on a pale paper. The notice was inviting participants for a course on Jacques Derrida at IIT, Gauhati. Derrida was deconstructed of his life recently; he died last year. A philosopher par excellence had left the bastion of French intellectuals.

As I was struggling to recall the various references to Derrida from several lectures for the past 3 semesters, a thick cloud of toxic perfume surrounded me. The aroma already trailed through this corridor once. Ah! The girl was out of the room looking somewhat drained of her iconoclastic behavior.

I suppose she was deconstructed of her literary pride at the altar of professor’s para-literary genius. So, I rushed towards his room and as I was nearing, he glanced outside the room and pulled his hands into his fist - gesturing me to come in. His mysterious smile was luring me into saying something. But I held back because I had to scurry through my limited vocabulary for some finest words and use them appropriately and wisely. I could do neither. Then, the professor pointed to the second chair in the line of chairs with assignment papers unevenly distributed across the chairs. I picked up my assignment and was happy to see it again – with an equal fervor as someone who had met a dear friend who was away for some time.

As I picked up my assignment, it was heavier than it seemed it was when I gave it for evaluation. Perhaps, because of the extensive time and revitalizing spirit, with which my professor would have went through the paper.

Then, the professor invited me to take the empty chair before his majestic seat on the other side. While getting down on the chair, my eyes were immediately attracted to the unruffled covers of the books of WG Sebald, one of my professor’s favorite authors. The book-covers look refreshingly new as they were neatly ironed on his table by the thick see-through glass sheets placed on them.

Then, he told me to go through the corrected assignment. As I was pulling it out from the cover, my eyes were relieved to see the first comment on the opening page: “a fair introduction.” Few more critical remarks decorated the pages. Some subtle words of praise here and there! Any such praiseworthy prose would boomerang back at his feet. I couldn’t utter a word as I went through the 7page-assignment with one of the professor’s witty epigrams trying to settle into the blissful aura around me: “every word in a sentence is the loss of the previous word and lack of the next word.”

But what made me happy was what the professor said in parting: “You have given me moments of joy.” This sentence I would dare not forget because I (in fact us,) through a prose inspired by his virtuosity, just tried to transform a spark of professor's gifted knowledge into a sparkling prose that derived its inspiration and sustenance from him. Whenever I write the assignment, his shadow of wisdom superimposes on my soul and the creative shades of thought completely take me over. In true spirit of what William Faulkner once said: "We are living the lives already once lived." Through this more-than-30minutes stay in his room, I received three handshaking exercises that gave me a feeling that one thing was common between us: a highly delicate character.

As I walked out of his room, I could hardly contain my happiness. And as I walked down the corridor, I leapt to a height less higher than the altitudes of philosophical happiness my professor has rewarded me for the past one year.