All our lives we’ve been taught to tone down our exuberance and our anguish so everything seems normal. So everyone else can pretend everything is as it was before, that nothing has changed and that nothing perhaps will change.
But change is a way of life eh ? Poetic analogies of metamorphosis aside, there’s no denying that life constantly throws up new stuff for those on the lookout (and even for those who aren’t!). As a fresh post-grad, I’m always on the lookout. For change ? For opportunities for change ? Yeah, that sounds good, something I can include in my CV.
But change also creates memories. Memories that teach, that haunt and that make us celebrate and regret our decisions in life. But memories also tell us who we were. Before teaching or haunting us, they give us an identity. And thinking of these memories later articulates this identity the way milk becomes curd (or cheese if you like).
But for all this, memories have to become memories. Lest we forget……
Forget what ? Mostly the mundane that leaves little trace on our overall existence beyond the coffee stains and the grimy collars…..but also those that happen really fast. Yep, when life grabs you by the collar and swings you like a mighty Hulk to new shores. Not literally, not yet, not in my case – yet. But allegories make life interesting don’t they ?
Five paragraphs down, let’s cut to the chase. I’m speaking of a particular phase of life, a month, 30 days – days where everything seemed to speed up. And when it did, I had to make split second decisions that decided where I ended up. Where I am now.
The wheel began turning in late June, when a certain college (check my profile for the name, if you haven’t you don’t deserve to know!) advertised positions. With my Guest Lecturership in abeyance due to the holidays, I decided to take a shot.
Then I got a call. Le’ts call her a friend of mine. A workshop was coming up. Good institute, great speakers. Add it to the CV, she said, you won’t regret it. Perhaps workshops are meant for this one purpose only – but I’m a fresh post-grad right, who am I to know ?
Anyhow, I applied. Ran to the University to get the signatures. Got them and ran to the institute again. Submitted. The college ? Oh yeah, I submitted my CV there too!
So July dawned and I was calmly contemplating an interview along the lines of my first job interview (aka the Guest Lecturership). Then on 3 July, I was found that I hadn’t been selected for one of the two workshops I’d applied for. Oh, I didn’t tell you there were two ? My bad!
I was disappointed, quite disappointed, since I had expected the SOP for this one to be stronger than that of the second one. It felt as if you had to know about the subject to be selected to study the subject. Twisted logic eh ?
Then came 7 July.
First I had the interview. I’d prepared a presentation and gave a short demo class. Then answered questions. Then left. I was quite happy with myself for an interview decently done.
Then came the email. Turned out I’d been selected for the workshop where I thought I had less chance.
Then I checked a site to see if I’d been shortlisted for a certain PhD interview. I had been.
Finally, I checked a certain website to see if I’d been shortlisted for a certain interview I’d applied months earlier. I had been.
Have you ever felt the need to shift from first to fourth gear ? Like pull the gear lever forward, sideways and then forward again ? Not likely – you’d have to go through gears 2 and 3 for that. Life isn’t like that. I had a PhD interview and a job interview coming up. On successive days – 13 and 14 July.
One of the common fallacies among intellectuals is that they know something of everything. Put them before an interview board and their something turns out to be little more than nothing. I consider myself an intellectual. I had an idea about the whole of human history. To be on the safe side, I buried myself in Sekhar Bandhopadhyay.
13 dawned and I turned up late to the venue. After verification of documents and a VERY long wait (for someone giving the first such interview) the interview began a little before 2PM. Turns out my knowledge of modern history wouldn’t be tested, not for the most part. I gave a demo on medieval history, then answered questions on medieval history and then moved to other questions. Why had I tumbled through the venerable Plassey to Partition ? I don’t know.
14 dawned in quite a different style. I was already familiar with the institution so navigation took place sans Google Maps. A friend of mine had also been shortlisted. I was called first and realized there’d be no one to guide me there. My friend had a similar experience. Ah well.
For two days I had peace. Almost. Dad left for Chandigarh – he’d been transferred. A routine transfer, but in the midst of this maelstrom ? When it rains, it pours right ?
Then I was called to the college. I’d been selected. Whole-time work in an AC environment and a choice of designations (though they all meant the same, within broad limits of ambiguity) to choose from. How could I refuse? I joined.
I’d have loved to sing off here. But as the reader remembers, I had gotten through to a workshop. Paid for it as well. So I attended it. Turned out the methods weren’t for me at all – I was in the wrong workshop. I sat through long math and stats classes. Instructors asked me why they had spent their whole lives staring at numbers – they missed being able to stare at the sky. Very funny. Ha ha ha.
But in a haze of coffee, clouded skies, complex greek alphabets and STATA, it was over. I got the certificate, treated myself to KFC and moved on.
Then I got a call from my old college, where I taught as a GL. When could I join ? I couldn’t join. When could I resign? Does one have to resign when shifting jobs ? Common sense says yeah, definitely. Yet it never occurred to me anytime before that I’d be submitting a resignation in 2015. Much less to a college that had pretty much taught me everything I knew about teaching. My departmental colleagues were the ones who’d helped me become a teacher, and think of myself as one. In my last class in May I’d told the first years I’d continue in July. Or August maybe.
Hardly able to believe myself, I drafted the letter and took it with me. With a letter certifying my new position in the new college. I was leaving for greener pastures, yet I could hardly believe myself. I sat in the same chair where I’d given my interview and was wished good luck for the future. Would I get an experience letter ? Of course! Then I had exited the college – without meeting the students whom I’d promised to teach again in July.
July was over.
I settled down to my new role in the college, resumed my horribly interrupted MPhil classes and learned that I hadn’t gotten through to the PhD. The other interview’s result is awaited. Chances are slim and it’s not on my mind to be very honest. Life is moving on.
But before I end this narrative, let me add one last thing – rain. July is a month of rain, heavy rain. Rain that pauses traffic, slows you down, seeps into your sandals and makes you slip and slide, makes you slosh in muddy puddles and generally, makes you realize you are sitting in Charnock’s swamp.
But when life isn’t mundane, the mundane rain becomes beautiful. It gives you a strange rhythm when many certainties are being questioned. It accompanies you as you run between Sadan and Sarobar, College Street and Camac Street. As the axes of your pursuits change and the vertices of your life enter new dimensions, it somehow seems familiar.
And then, when you’re weary and tired and returning home after a long day of work….You’re in College Street, the same place where you’ve studied 3 years and spent so much time you pretty much know every nook and cranny. But then, it’s the evening. It has been raining. The streets are wet, reflecting the lights of cars too busy to realize the patterns they are creating. Patterns of liquid, patterns of light. All on the wet street. It was beautiful.
But where was my Presidency ? I don’t know, I never looked. It was – dark. Life lay elsewhere.
And then life moved on again. Details are coming up and melting away. Facts, figures, etc etc. Life is settling down, touchwood. The vertices are becoming stable, the lines are becoming rigid, the mundane is dominant again.
And the rain ? They say it has been raining on and off, like it does in July and August every year. July AND August ? I beg to differ……