Tyranny of time
There are always some people in our lives who leave us but not before leaving a lasting impression on us. They are around for a little while and then disappear never to show up again. Such noble souls are seldom celebrated because presence is key to memory and memory is key to everything. Sometimes, you will sit back and wonder about them, yet you’ll find yourself with a bucket full of questions and a mug full of answers. Granted we can’t put a number to the equation but we might like to call ourselves individuals even though we are amalgamation of several humans who touched us in our journey. We don’t realize it instantaneously but the way we act, the way we think, the way we speak, the way we walk, the way our sense of humour is formed… are inspired heavily from the people we consumed.
In other words, we owe a lot to those who let us consume them.
And in this regard, I owe a lot to K. She was my tutor in 1994–95 during third grade. She taught me for only one year and still here we are learning about her. Although I’ve been fortunate enough to have learned under some of the finest teachers out there, I would still say that K holds a special place for me. She was sharp, persistent, straightforward and kind. When you are really young, you tend to forget what the adults tell you but you remember how they are in general.
It’s amazing to note how during the height of my tattoo addiction, I got initials of people and places who shaped me inked on my right arm. First was B for Bombay. Second was K for Kalyani teacher. This was 2012. I had last seen her in the summer of 1997. Yet I could distinctly remember her. Must be a reason, no?
For starters, she was the first teacher who didn’t treat me like a dumb kid. Patronizing wasn’t her style. With her, I felt like a person. And there were times when she would ask me to accompany her to the market, or to make calls, or once even to buy a TV. All these events remain etched in my head. Back in those days, there used to be STD booths, entering which, you’d pay for the seconds you talk on the landline. And she spoke better than those people I heard on radio at home and that too in English. I remember just standing inside those booths, looking up at her in awe as if she was performing magic. My teachers at school spoke perfect English but hers was more worldly, more personal and hence more memorable. In other event, one evening, she took me to Chembur, about 6 kilometers away from home, on a BEST bus (355 limited was its number). I was wearing my usual t-shirt and half-pant whereas she wore a nightie with a dupatta. She was like that, with little to no heed to what or how one must be. I believe my utter lack of sartorial consciousness—I am that guy who has no qualm about repeating clothes because I don’t have a lot of clothes because clothes don’t mean anything because their job is to cover us, not evaluate us—stems from K’s insouciant behavior. She seemed to bother herself with stuff that really mattered.
I guess we don’t really have the mental bandwidth to understand how others impact us, particularly when we are little. She could have been a bad influence if she were a bad person but she wasn’t. She was the most sober, wise soul in my vicinity and it broke my heart to learn that she won’t be running her tuition the following year. Later, when I was in fifth grade, she married and left our neighbourhood. The last time I saw her was at her Brahmin wedding and that too from a distance.
It’s strange when I wonder how come I never met or spoke to her after 1994–95. If she was so nice and dear to me, how come I don’t have any memory of visiting her place even once—she lived in the temple premise my amma took us to every week? Or is that how kids are supposed to be: fashionably idiotic?
It’s been about 25 years and I have only good memories, all fainting though, about the time I spent under her tutelage. From a fat old dictionary that she had to the smell of Good Knight Mat in her house, I can only run back to the pleasant moments shared with her. One afternoon, outside, under the peepul tree, I kept staring at the sky and told her how I am seeing floating objects. She immediately responded saying she does too. It was much later I learnt it’s called blue field entoptic phenomenon. But at that moment, the agreement by an adult meant everything to me. We are constantly seeking approval and similarities as children. Not that much changes after we grow up but it’d be fair to suggest that childhood is essentially vulnerable and devoid of nuance.
Very lucky few can claim that strangers somehow turned into wonderful beings and in my case, K was clearly so.
Lastly, I don’t think she will ever read this blog post but at the same time, I can’t help but imagine the tyranny of time. So much is written about the tyranny of distance but it’s nothing compared to what time does to us. It gives us so much only to take it all away. Today, if I were to meet K, where will we connect, if at all? At least I remember a lot from that one splendid year; can I expect the same from her? After all, wasn’t I just one of the many students that she helped study better?
To add insult to injury, there is not a photograph from that era. It’s like a separate piece of universe wobbling in the past. And it’d be unfair of me to expect somebody else to be as nostalgic about it as I am. People have different priorities and keen perspectives during different stages of life. I had mine at the age of 8. She surely had hers back then. However, the greater truth here is the part played by memory more than anything else. She will obviously remember me but she won’t remember the influence she left on me. Most probably, she won’t remember how she ended up smiling out wide after seeing me laugh mad about a silly thing — something I still do to this day — a fellow student (named Himaam) said one night.
Tragic.
Once you forget something, it’s gone. All those memories are like a country lost. It is our own personal Partition and there’s no coming back. Once you migrate and lose touch with somebody — no matter how close you once were—a piece of you is gone. Irrespective of your efforts, you will never redeem it. That’s life.
If I were to talk to her today, I’d perhaps say only one thing: “Kalyani teacher, I am grateful to you.”
