It was a sleepy Friday afternoon. Everyone in class X got their English Composition workbooks back. Only mine was missing. “The teacher must have misplaced it,” I thought to myself and packed my bag to leave school for the weekend.
I was always tardy and one of the last to leave, as usual. I’d almost headed out of the door when the teacher called me. “Haroon,” she said. “I’ve kept your assignment with me. I’d like to read it again.” Uh-oh. I thought to myself. Was my essay that bad? Sure, I did take some creative liberties with it – “The Computer” is hardly an exciting subject. But it wasn’t that bad, was it?
What she said immediately afterwards would later change the course of my life: “I really like your style.”
Slow on the uptake as I always am, I mumbled a “thank you” and left the room.
Many years later, I would remember this brief interaction. These few words would change the direction of my life, and as things stand now, save me from a pointless life that was headed nowhere.
My English teachers never taught me anything I didn’t know earlier. I had always completed my English textbooks at least three times before the beginning of the term. I’d have read all my aunts’ books – the books they read as young girls before they left for a married life, and left behind, annotated with their notes, sometimes – at a relatively young age, and felt quite equipped to take on anything the NCERT books threw at me. Poetry was tougher than prose, but still a breeze, compared to other subjects.
But I was reminded, again and again, by parents, siblings, relatives, classmates, total strangers and self-styled well-wishers that all this counted for nothing. Absolutely nothing. If you were to succeed in life, you needed to be a doctor or an engineer. Do maths. Study physics. Chemistry. Biology. See that Banana Chips seller? He has an Master’s degree in English. What’s the use? See that clerk at the government office? He did his BA in History. You want to become a clerk? A loser?
As it turned out, my school-leaving marks weren’t that good. I did poorly in maths. I scored exceptionally well in English and the social sciences, subjects that didn’t matter. The fact was I didn’t make it to the Maths-Physics-Chemistry-Biology stream, which was mandatory criteria for a career in medicine or engineering. I was now worthy of the “loser” designation.
By luck or by devious design, in a desperate fourth attempt triggered by panicked parents, I made it to the commerce stream. My parents heaved a sigh of relief. My “loser” status was upgraded to “hope-he-will-make-something-out-of-himself-in-this-life-or-the-next”. Outright smirks eased themselves into patronizing smiles. But my struggles were only just beginning. I struggled through accounts, numbers, balance sheets, long and dusty shelves of thick, featureless, number-filled ledger books. It seemed hopeless. Was I destined to lead a life adding up somebody else’s earnings and spends day-in and day-out?
One such dreary, boring, rainy night, after spending several hours cross-checking five-digit figures in mouldy account books, I came home and announced my decision to quit accountancy to my shocked parents. I wasn’t “asking” them, I told them. “I am informing you: I want to be a journalist, a writer, and hopefully I will make it.”
On that night, I remembered what my English teacher said to me that dreary, unremarkable afternoon – “I like your style.”
I haven’t touched an account book since.
Thank you, Ms Girija.
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