Mathematics, Death and Lessons of Life.

Last night, my Math teacher from school was struggling for life at Mayya Hospital.
Last night, I heard of his condition.
Last night, I was caught between going to see him and not seeing him.
Last night, I half-consoled myself by calling his daughter and telling her I would come this morning to see him.

This morning, my procastination was laid to rest with my teacher. He passed away last night.

Let me begin at the beginning. It's going to be a fairly long post, because I have a lot to say, a lot to regret.

I joined Stella Maris High School in 1994-95 and passed out in 1998. In those three years of schooling, I was exposed to a plethora of cultural activities, clubs and academic opportunities that the school was well-known for. My parents had tried for admission there when I was in the third, tried again when I was ready for high school. The first time, the headmistress had accused me of not being educated enough to join, the second time I got in because two years earlier my cousin had passed out as a topper and a School Pupil Leader. They must have seen potential.

I hated being judged, still do. I hated the school all the more because they let me in on the basis of my cousin being there. Most of my eighth standard passed in teachers sizing me up in comparison to my cousin, trying to guage my intelligence, how good I was. I carried my head high, nose up in the air - only I knew it wasn't snobbishness, but insecurity and a fear of being hurt, judged.

By the end of the first year, though, I proved my potential. Thanks to a highly caustic, non-secular remark by Ms. Ananthalakshmi. I had just become part of a 'group', and was busy talking with them during class when Ms. A suddenly picked me out and sprung a Physics question on me. I didn't know what to say, I was so unprepared for it. So she asked me what I spoke at home, and I said Urdu, and she mumbled, "Oh, Muslim. That's why." All the things I'd heard about her being a nice soul flew out of the window. Ever since, I tried hardest in her class and by the end of the year, I was one of her favourites. I remember her maun vrat days most, days when she never spoke and instead gave us things to write or read, using sign language.

Then I was part of the Drama Club and Literary Club. I took part extensively in dramatics, volleyball (my favourite game ever), Hindi essay competitions, won stuff for the school etc. etc.

My first encounter with Master Balachandra was immediately after a play we'd put up to introduce the Drama Club. He smiled and congratulated me on a good performance.

My second encounter was when he taught us Math in the ninth standard. And the tenth.

He was a superb teacher, rewarding us when we did well and chiding us when we didn't. He spoke to us like we were intelligent adults. I remember getting chalk thrown at when I was talking in his class once, and another time getting into an argument with him over some test marks or something. He was great fun in class, and even better outside of it - school trips, events and sometimes, even counselling. He loved his students, and we in turn reciprocated the feeling.

Then graduation happened, and I left school with one thought - although I loved the place, the education and the memories it had given me, I would never come back. For a very simple reason - favouritism. Something that happens even in my work life. There are students who are expected to come back, without care about the rest. Students who promise tremendous potential as alumnis, students who need to be taken care of. I wasn't for it. And the only way I could refuse to let it affect me was by never going back. I went only once, when the school felicitated me for scoring the highest marks in Hindi in the board exams. That day, when I met my teachers, most were... indifferent. Except, I remember, Master Balachandra and a few others. He was rushing to class, but stopped and chatted with us anyway.

It's been eight years since I passed out of Stella Maris. I think about school every once in a while, remember the good times I had, sometimes am even tempted to go back but never do. It's something I have been proud of- the fact that everytime I leave a place, I never revisit it. Thus far, I mistook it for being courageous enough to leave the past and move on.

Then things happened to my teachers - Mrs. Bhagyalakshmi lost her son and her father (I think) and she went to pieces; Ms. Kalavathi, who taught us Geometry in the most arbid but adorable manner, passed away; the high school principal changed. The incidents tugged me towards school, but I never made it.

Today, as Mr. Balachandra is already on his way to his allotted space in the afterlife, I realise that it wasn't really courage that held me back, but cowardice. I was afraid of rejection, of not being recognised, not being somebody to anybody who were once so much to me. It's a fear that, after 23 years of 'growing up', I have never been able to overcome.

Which is perhaps, why, I cling to people I grow close to. I become dependent on them. And in the process, I dissolve boundaries marked with a 'private' board and mess just... mess things up. I just lost a dear friend that way today. But I do hope he stays happy.

I regret not going to school last Sunday for the fest, where Master Balachandra bumped into my mother (who's a teacher too and had accompanied her school children there) and asked after me - how I was, where was I working and so on. I regret not going to school and speaking with my teachers, spending more moments with them to cherish. I regret not smiling back at my grandfather when he was on his way to the hospital where he would breathe his last - he gave me a smile that said so much, and I hate myself for not reaching out halfway to meet him in that moment.

It's not just regrets that reinforced their way into my life today, it's also a lesson - two actuallty - that I learnt.

I understood what it means when people say, "Live every moment like it's your last." I think realising that anything could happen to you any moment makes you be so much nicer towards people, so much kinder towards yourself. You become human, and expect yourself to make mistakes. You make an effort to reach out to those who were close to you, who you lost touch with, and rekindle warm feelings between you, to feel good about things when life takes a turn for the worse.

I learnt that the only way to come to terms with life is to come to terms with it yourself. I was grieved yesterday to learn about my dying teacher, life ebbing out of him with every passing moment, the same man who walked jauntily into class, spread cheer around him, made us laugh, made us cry, moulded us into better people so we were able to face the world outside the protective walls of convent education. I needed to talk to somebody about him. The first person I turned to was a friend I value more than my life - he said he was mind-fucked and would call back a little later; then the friend who I lost today - he said he was busy; and finally, a friend I turned to but the soothing words offered just seemed like an act.

I remembered what it was like to be alone again, I remembered how I used to be able to deal with these things myself, and how I'd lost the habit because I now depended on people for emotional fulfillment. I questioned the wisdom of it, and am still trying to draw a conclusion.

I wish I could make the regrets go away.
I wish I could untangle this web of emotions.
I wish I could have gone yesterday to visit Master Balachandra.