It was easy living in Bangalore. Even if you hadn't read the book, you'd have, for more reasons than one, seen the movie. Ayn Rand and Richard Bach were enough to get you to the head of the class, even if the grades were laughable. Madurai changed all that.
The entrance test was a disaster. Fifty marks for the History of English Literature. This psychology, sociology and economics student had only just learnt to spell Shakespeare. However the listening comprehension, even though Mr Nedumaran tried to make it as difficult as possible,
was a song. Speaking of which, Kenny Roger's Gambler came to the rescue when asked to write about an incident in your life. Fiction was allowed, they said and the song was weaved into the story. I wasn't a gambling person, but if this paid off, I'd think again.
Chewing nails come naturally to a low-second class student who's gut is clenched with fear and heart is filled with hope. Several meals later, I went in for an evening interview minus my cuticles.
"Who is your favorite poet," asked a smiling Stanley Mohan.... Mind freeze!
Would they mind if I told them that the only poems I'd read were the
ones I'd written.
"Of course they would. And if they didn't, they'll ask you to recite
it and..... mind freeze!"
"John Donne," said an undergrad from the back bench of his general
English class.
"Which poem of John Donne," asks Mr Mohan.
"Er... something about a sun rising..."
Looks are exchanged and the intention is questioned before being told
-- "You'll be informed by post."
I hate that. I was still waiting from the last time I had heard that.
I'll never get that mail. Despair, despair.
But the postman did come, rang twice, and changed all that.
First day, first show -- an Aspects of Prose class by professor RP Nair -- and V S Naipaul has the gall to say on page 3 of his India: A wounded Civilization, that University students in Bangalore haven't heard of the glories of the Vijayanagar Empire. (He says this in parenthesis, mind you!) The author is hated for life and damn... we're off to a bad start. But the lecturers, they changed all that.
Being a lazy Sunday cricketer meant fitness was more talked about than worked out. A slip on the field, compounded by other habits had laid me low with a disc prolapse. It was Dr Premila Paul and RPN who took me to an orthopedic surgeon. The trip to the doc with my teachers
itself was half the therapy. Further rest was advised and a ticket later was back in Bangalore. Recuperation sans motivation is always difficult and the weeks wore on. On the dot of the month a card came calling. A get well card signed by the whole department. Even Mani annan had a hand in it.
Men don't cry. They pack their bags and go where they belong.
The sun was brighter in Madurai, this time, but the heat was gone as was the shooting pain emanating from the lumbar. The balm that makes you belong did its work and come next semester, it was back to cricket.
Shakespeare lived many lives. Everyone knows that, but to experience this was something else. If Hamlet was brought alive by a mere wave of Professor Vasanthan's hands; Macbeth jumped and cursed and spat .... many a time in Tamil, as a powerful Mr Issac took us through it all.
(Sir, you were loved; are remembered; your classes we cherished. PS - I even ride a bullet, just like you did.)
Indian literature in English too was more than just a class. Dr Premila Paul, a combination of Julia Roberts, Smitha Patil and Arundhati Roy, all rolled into one gracious and delightful package,
also had the ability to speak with her hands. It was Nissim Ezekiel, in her class who taught us to be writers. He did it tangentially off course, teaching us first to be lovers and birdwatchers. The good students that we were hung on to every word and practiced it overtime.
Overtime, it must have been. Having come here to study and finding a wife instead. The initial culture shock I felt in Madurai had cracked the shell and over the two years grown roots so deep that it went past Tirunelvelli, where my ancestors hail from and reached Kanyakumari where my wife hailed from. Marriage was the last thing on the mind, but futures were planned in jest. One must never joke about these things, you know. Lyola then a year my junior and I were married a year after she passed out. The year -- 1996. Today... we're still married and quite happy about it. The reason -- Madurai taught us to laugh. And we're still laughing. Sometimes I wonder if life is really that funny. But it is you know!
Love wasn't always in the air at American College. Sometimes it lived in Barton House. Dr Paul Love couldn't have been named more aptly. He reflected this in everything that he did. Back in Bangalore as a lecturer, I tried to be him, but stumbled miserably as the brats tested my patience. The lone success I had though was the extensive comments I was able to pen on answer scripts.
On one of my initial job interviews, I was asked for something I had written. I told them that the only things worthwhile were my answer scripts. The interviewers after going through them wanted to hire Dr Love who'd commented on my scripts.
Dr Love took us through DH Lawrence, a writer who grew from a weak man into a hero. This would never have happened but for the brownies and the lemonade at Barton House.
Then came the creative writing workshops. One couldn't have asked for better. What with writers you had read, instructing you in the flesh. The hills added to the whole experience and even if I didn't write anything worthwhile there, a lot of others did and one always learns
by watching and listening. I watched. I listened.
Speaking of which I don't think I listened to anyone more than I did to Latha Rangachari. What I didn't do in undergard, I caught up in crash courses with Latha. She knew it all. And, that made things easy!
It would be an understatement to say that she more than a hand in my clearing my papers in time. (And in parenthesis -- got a first class for the first time in my life).
Over and above all this, Madurai for me, was Dinakar. The man epitomised for me the PG English Dept. I have learnt from Dinakar too. Learnt that love sometimes is just what you are.
I came to Madurai a man and left a boy.
There was so much more growing up to do, but I'd learnt how to do it !
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