It was one of those typical Friday evenings. For one thing, I do not have a class on that day. Now after three days of getting up at six-thirty to attend class at seven-thirty (which further meant sitting dreamy-eyed through one or two hours, after which you blissfully realise that you have understood nothing), this itself should be cause for celebration. Besides, there was this further prospect of going home ( that is, giving hostel food the slip for two whole days, and getting to taste such elysian delights as KFC chicken, Irish coffee at CCD, or simply maccher jhol at home) that made Friday all the more enchanting.
But this Friday was different. Because on Thursday night I had consumed this huge plate of American Chopsuey (that too, on my roomie’s behest) that had turned out to be particularly treacherous. So, after two rounds of throwing up the earlier night, I was left with a weak body and a raging anger against all the joints serving Chinese cuisine at KGP.
All that, of course, meant that I got up at 9’o clock, gave a gargantuan yawn, and threw away the covers with lots of difficulty. “It’s Friday!” the whole surrounds seemed to scream.
Let me fast-forward the next one hour in which I brushed my teeth, had a bath, put on my going-out clothes and combed my hair. I am a woman, you see, and a woman with an incomplete toilet is no woman at all. So it was ten when I was ready to go out for the lab (Friday is a fine time for catching up on old friends through mail, you know, and what can be better than the free internet at the lab), when suddenly I saw my guide’s number ringing on my cell phone.
You see, there are times when you feel technology simply didn’t exist. The mobile phone, which is such a useful contraption for cootchie-cooing with your sweetie late at night, can really put you in distress when you have, for example, your mom’s number blinking on it while you are at the disc with a can of beer in your grip.
So now my guide was calling me, and when I picked up he informed me that I was supposed to take a tutorial class for the first year undergraduate students of the department that morning. And that class had already started. From nine-thirty. And I was required to join immediately.
The first feeling, of course, was of fear. Man, I had done away with these topics when I was in my undergraduate first year, and I had been only too happy to forget about them. Besides, doing a class yourself and taking a class are two different games altogether.
But escape I could not, so off I trotted to the department. There were around 30 of the newbies, patiently and assiduously solving a problem sheet. I was supposed to act as facilitator, helping them in case they got stuck with a problem.
I strutted around the classroom, trying to look important. They say this is the age of showing off, and it was very important that they got no wind of the butterflies in my stomach.
Once in a while, one of them would raise a hand, or some a finger. Some had solved a problem and got an answer which did not match the one given on the sheet, others were worried about a misprint in the paper, and some others were inquiring about the correct method to go about solving a problem.
You have to give time for a relationship to build up. I would never have believed it had I not taken that class on that day. Half an hour into it, and I was slowly feeling comfortable. The coldness on my palms vanished. My throat was clear when I spoke. I was no longer apprehensive while I answered their queries. Most importantly, I was enjoying it.
There was a chubby young boy in the corner, calling for me. He showed me his work. “Is this the correct way to solve this problem, ma’am?” was his question. I assured him that there was no other way as such. “I will call you when I finish the rest of the problem, ma’am.”
So five minutes later I was back at his desk. Here was a problem in which you were required to find out the percentage increase in a resistance value with temperature.
It seemed the boy was in great trouble. He had his chin cupped in his hands and looked the very picture of distress.
I looked at his work. He had calculated the ratio of the changed value of resistance to the original value. Obviously, he had obtained a 1+ an additional term.
“How do I find out the percentage increase, ma’am?” was his question.
“You have already found it out, dear,” I informed him. And then explained to him how he would get it from the expression.
And then the boy smiled to himself- a half-ashamed, half-relieved kind of smile. Given the situation, I would say it was almost beatific.
Gradually, the three hours allotted for the tutorial drew to an end. It was time for them to submit their notebooks for evaluation and leave. It was important for us to check that each had written his /her name on the front cover.
The chubby boy submitted his copy and walked off. He was apparently in a hurry.
I turned the front page, to ensure his name was there.
And there it was. His name was Achilles.
The hero of the Trojan war who was vulnerable only on his heels.
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