The tyrannical classroom

 

Its half past eight, in the morning.

The classroom seemed like a newly opened shop where things were being distributed for free. The air was filled with the rustles of turning pages and screeches of wooden chairs. Students were chattering about the previous day’s homework and trying to predict sir Jarrar’s reaction to their incomplete assignments and poorly learned tests. Some inquired others in search of guidance. Others, agreeing upon a more individualistic approach, were trying to make grammatical connections between words of a literary(german) text. Most of the students struggled with this part, since German isn’t our native language and it had only been a while that we had come to know of its technicalities. We were in, what I would rather call, a familiarisation phase. Where German terms had steadily become a part of our routine although, haven’t adequately manifested upon us their meaning.

Meanwhile, Minal had entered in the class. She had been the first person that I had met here. Her moderately elevated height complimented her slim figure. She was blessed with a smooth, dusky skin and thick hair that stretched to her lower back making her appear even more alluring. I would always ask her the secret to her healthy hair and she would squarely reply: oil and braids. She strongly believed in the Asian tradition of oiling one’s hair and tying them in a braid and that it was the most efficacious formula to shine and silk. And, at least, her own hair reinforced that.

She had always been weak and thin. Sometimes, I could tell that her bag had a greater share on seat than herself. Every time she met, her cheeks, that hardly had any flesh, would curl into a pleasant smile. It had the power to make you forget everything around and stare at the priceless kindness it offered.

Today, her face told a different story. She seemed uncertain as if she had forgotten her usual spot. Her eyes, like they have lost all their moisture, were in search for some space and had become even smaller. She squeezed herself on a seat beside me, without adding to the noise around her. Upon looking closely, I noticed a few creases on her hijab which was a very unusual thing in her case. Conforming to the norm, she extended her hand and I held it. It felt cold.

“Assalamoalaikum, how are you?” I asked, worriedly
“I am good, Alhumdulillah” she replied, looking unsure.
“You look very tired, is everything ok”
“ Hmm, yes... actually no, nothing is ok. Mama has had a minor attack two days ago”

I could, now, make sense of why she had suddenly skipped two days. Two weeks ago, Minal’s grandmother had passed away. Her mother, a diabetic patient, had been in deep sorrow since then and this has been worsening her health.

The clock had struck 9:00am. Just like it has been doing since it was fixed on that terracotta wall. Time seems to be running. Like a wisp of smoke that appears from an incense stick. It can be witnessed when it spirals in the air, smelled with all the flavors in its composition, and its presence looks palpable. But can we ever hold it in its entirety, fixate our eyes at it while in our hands, or feel the texture of those particles? Time is similar. You know of its existence. You track it on a clock, but before you take account of a second, it has passed away already.

The class had become silent, as though it was hinting a caution, and only the humming of a fan could be heard. Sir Jarrar stood behind the podium. He was a lenient teacher. However, his moods were incredulously unpredictable. One minute he could be a drop of water that could extinguish even the most fiercely set fire, while in the other, he would become a flood of the same drop. And naturally, this uncertainty contributed to the terror-warning air of a classroom

“Have you all solved the questions?". Sir Jarrar's voice, unsettling the atmosphere, intimidated everybody.

Some hands were raised instantly and that made me think of my teacher who says: It is difficult to wait upon knowledge.

A few hands, like they wanted to be in the former category, were lifted hesitantly.

And lastly, the ones which were never raised were the foremost victims of sir Jarrar’s questions followed by his judgements. Minal’s belonged here.

“Why did you not do the homework ?"Sir Jarrar inquired
“Sir, my mother had an attack” Minal replied, fearfully
“How should that stop you from doing your homework” Sir Jarrar inspected further.

“Sir we were frequently visiting the hospital, and entertaining the visitors” Minal replied, this time, more fearfully.
“That’s terrible. You could have done your work if you had wanted to” Sir Jarrar retorted, dismissing all that Minal had said.
“Keep standing”. He announced

Minal stood there, sobbing intermittently. Her thumb twitched fitfully and her hands grew colder with sweat becoming visible. At this moment, she felt vulnerable as if she had seen a mirage diminishing in a desert or had experienced a reality that she had disregarded as a nightmare. And maybe, sir Jarrar was right, it was terrible. She felt terrible. Increasingly terrible.

The class continued, fostering all the tyranny that classrooms have been long advocating for.