Glutenous matter and other oddities

(not that the title tells you much.)

Fergusson College. Very grand and all that. Collective society of the most motley bunch of people definable. Giving a quick preview, Fergusson College has a welcoming campus with ancient, archaic stone structures and a fair deal of greenery. Nestled between quiet green hills and contrastingly bustling sections of the city, the ideal location and the internal privacy inspite of it, makes it a lovely place to be, whether to introspect under a blossoming tree, or dwell in mutual boredom below oddly shaped structures (the Kimaya), or drink coffee at the canteen, or gape at bottles of live cockroaches in the zoology lab (not that that's a common pastime. That's just a portrait of me during zoology practicals).

Aside from the decorated description of appearance, I find it important to describe the human beings that inhabit the halls of the junior wing building as well. The junior wing building, or AC, itself is slightly leaky and rings with loud drilling noises (read: made by teachers and construction machines alike). The toilets are passably clean. The classrooms are big, looming, and intimidatingly large at first, arranged in levels from front to back with a row of metal benches at each platform. Approximate capacity reaches upto a hundred and fifty students. Which is about as many students there are in a single division anyway. And we have 10 divisions in all.

D division is supposed to be second best after C. What they mean by 'second best' is beyond me. I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve adamantly making sure we don't, even by accident, use our brains. We seem to be fully and dedicatedly not living up to it. And that's where the teachers come in. Or maybe not, but I need to wrap up and start introducing them anyway.

Our class teacher. I have comparatively considerable respect for her. Comparatively. Her motto is 'don't (be) afraid'. If I wanted to stretch my regard for her and be dramatic, I would say that she symbolizes woman power. Or just power. Or maybe that's just her bellowing, trumpeting, sonic boom of a voice. It's the kind of voice that, at it's best, would have you horizontal in midair, eyelids peeling, desperately clinging to your hat and groping for means to stop yourself from being blown halfway across the room. A warning for all stupid enough to induce use of her vocal cords: don't. There are probably people halfway across the intergalactic neighborhood who haven't heard her, and I'm pretty sure would like to keep it that way. Apart from being an indispensable contribution to national defense, she periodically tries to teach us Math. As I said, I have comparatively considerable respect for her; she knows, in the least, how to teach her subject. Comparatively.

Our Math II teacher is...interesting. His main ambition outside the classroom is to herd us in, and inside the classroom, to get himself out. He writes on the board like it's some kind of fire drill. By the time the class's collective mental activity overcomes it's inertia and we have actually started to register his presence, he has half the chapter chalked out on the board, and he's probably standing stylishly with his weight on one leg, twirling the chalk in his hand, asking through his nose whether we understood. Fifteen minutes later, three fourths of the class has given up trying to keep pace with him. On a rare occasion, somebody raises a hand to ask a doubt. He wags his eyebrows with a loud nasal "yes??". The student gapes stupidly at the board, where the subject of his doubt had clearly been written just a moment ago, only to find a whole new overwhelming set of confusing paragraphs and numbers he didn't know even existed. This, coupled with the distinctly nasal pitch of voice reverberating through the classroom that makes it humanly impossible to keep a straight face, is too much for the student and, stumped, he lowers his hand with a muttered apology. The rest of the class, curious onlookers to a sight uncommon to the Way Things Generally Work, resume their regular activities of snoring under the table or having a heated game of spitball.

I am not entitled to have any kind of opinion on my Physics I teacher, simply because he hasn't bothered to show up after the first day of college, and neither he nor his students see why he should change his ways now, nor do they even really care. There is a growing suspicion amongst students that he (or was it a she? No, it was a he...) ever existed. I personally think he died, but nobody bothered to check, and are now passing it off as an 'extended holiday'. For us, he will always be 'That guy who was supposed to be our physics teacher'.

Our other physics teacher, on the other hand, wouldn't miss a day of college if he can help it. On a good day one can find him skipping about, immersed in thoughtful, dignified musings, muttering to himself and oblivious to the weird looks shot at him. In class, he's pretty funny. His dillusion of possessing some kind of noble bearing compels him to tweak his accent and try innovative new techniques to improve the education system. He stated that he did not want to deliberately pick out students and force them to answer, but instead felt that we should have a healthy class discussion where we openly and vigorously debated on physics and it's wondrous implications. When he voiced his castle in the air, he was met with expressions of disbelief, skepticism and obvious indifference, which he chose to read as expressions of wonderment and awe at his awesomeness. As my friend points out, he spends his time pompously leaping about the class and importantly declaring the laws that govern our physical universe. He also has a habit of enacting all his statements. Once, when talking of pendulums, he cradled his arms and comically started swinging them about wildly. It took a good ten minutes before we could emerge from under the table without having to stuff our knuckles in our mouth.

A warning before I start on my English teachers. They don't know English. Other than that, they make wonderful English teachers. Actually, no, they don't. The first calls herself The Bhong. No, no...Bhong is her name. The article is just a display of her linguistic erudition. She knows how to read (thankfully). When asked the definition of monotonous, she scooted around the classroom a bit and told us she'd get back to us. As for our other English teacher. I think God just accidentally dropped a glutenous ball of human matter on Earth, which happened to develop a brain, wake up one day and say, "I think I'm going to teach English." She reminds one a lot of Umbridge. Except that she lacks the conniving ambition and cunning (remember. She's a blob of human material). Her voice is slightly high-strung, and thus she has a weird habit of squeaking mid sentence. Yeah, it can be a bit unnerving. "A slap from one nature's hand," being her most famous quote, it obviously has a lot of gyaan and hidden meaning, as does the rest of what she says. Sadly, none of us have been able to deduce much. Or anything at all.

The rest of our teachers are a lot more normal. An outstanding French teacher (no sarcasm here). A Biology teacher who jumped around in girlish excitement and nearly died of it at the prospect of teaching us the wonders of mitosis and meiosis. The other Biology teacher I'm too bored to talk about. A Chemistry teacher who can bend her elbow at oddly intriguing angles. Another Chemistry teacher who turns out to have quite a rude disposition and treats us like we're something unpleasant he happened to find in the lavatory. Just to be nice, we return his sentiments. A group of us have taken up laughing raucously with heavy sarcasm at his jokes. I strongly dislike him. Strongly.

Well, in a nutshell, our teachers are good at heart, but seemed to have lost whatever brain cells they possessed on the way. I don't mean to be unkind, but sadly, the above described people do exist. Really. Im pretty sure they see us in the same light. Its this mutual distaste for each other that has cemented the bond between our distinct species. And thus we awaken each day to the prospect of seeing each other (and avoiding interaction as far as possible).

Cheers!