To sir, with love

It was the year 1996. Another warm summer’s day. The curtains had been drawn so that a faded shade of yellow coloured the otherwise bland room. I sat there gazing dully at my father, a string of thoughts slowly engulfing my mind.

-Would I ever make it to the tenth standard?
-If I persistently remained dim-witted for the next five years (i.e. from 6th to 10th std.), failing in my tenth boards was of course one thing-but it was more, the forced association with maths for that long a time that frightened me. I gulped. Between living a nightmare, and choosing death, I wasn’t left with much option.

My brother was to blame for my newly discovered tenth standard phobia .Watching him pace across the room with a book in his hand every day and every night with a “board-exams-can-kill” attitude, it was, but natural, to treat tenth standard as the ultimate crucible and something against which I could measure all scales of progress, to and fro.
(Maths which I considered as a separate entity altogether didn’t leave one with any other choice but death).

“Chapter 1. The Number System”

I pulled myself back to common ground. My father glanced at me, giving me the impression that he was aware of my sense of foreboding, but he did not seem perturbed. He returned to reading the book, and I noticed his forefinger was bent and touched the tip of his thumb, moving in a manner that was in perfect synchronization with the rhythm of his voice.
At least I had something good to look forward to. Today was Tuesday. I mentally recited the serial agenda, only to make myself feel better.

8:00 –Tu Tu Main Main
8:30- Junoon
10:00-Padosan
10:30-

“Are you able to understand Jiki?”

I looked at him, then at the book, trying to give an impression even if mildly so, that I had been concentrating. My eyes darted across the page, my mind desperate to pick on words that could offer some scope for asking questions. Something clinked into place.

“How can there be negative numbers? How can you define numbers that don’t exist?”

I knew even before I had plunged into the second question that he had been conscious of my mental absence, but he nevertheless ploughed on to answer it. My attention however, was now drawn to the left page.


GANDHIJI’S TALISMAN

“I will give you a talisman. Whenever you are in doubt or when the self becomes too much with you, apply the following test:
Recall the face of the poorest and the weakest man whom you may have seen and ask yourself if the step you contemplate is going to be of any use to him. Will he gain anything by it? Will it restore him to a control over his own life and destiny? In other words, will it lead to Swaraj for the hungry and spiritually starving millions?

Then you will find your doubts and your self melting away.

(signed)
mkgandhi



I read it again. I faintly registered my father’s voice enunciating in the distance, but did not allow it to intervene into my thought flow this time. I read it once more, perhaps with a little more interest, but was still unable to understand why it was placed in the preamble of a textbook. I remained in my confused thoughts for a long time after that, much after my father had closed the book, and much after I had finished watching my serials.
I do not know why, but I never questioned anybody about it either.






It is the year 2006. Today maths is possibly one of those few subjects that I treat with incomprehensible fondness (I got 90% in my tenth standard maths board exam!). It is indeed strange how life (or perhaps the perceptions of it?) can change so drastically with the tides of time. And it comes with a startling realisation.
The power in every word of that talisman.

(This incident has been narrated with minor modifications)