Please Pay Attention

A story about passion and profession

One Friday evening, a classroom full of eager souls sat waiting for the performance of the week. Some sat straight - the perfect posture, while others leaned forward counting the second till she walked into the room with her bright lavender saree, the silk glistening in the golden hue of the evening sun, the glimmer only matched by the golden bangles that jingled on her wrists. A handbag over her shoulder, not Prada or Gucci, just something she picked out for its form and function. Modesty with a splash of extravagance - the warmest smile you’ll ever see.

Her name was Ms. Geetha, “melody” in her mother tongue, the muse of second-year undergrads at the University of Arts.

They would sing her praises in the crowded hallways and whisper her lessons in the library. History was her subject and her stories were the stuff of legends. She would not so much teach but take them on a journey through ancient kingdoms — Climb the peaks of human achievements and dive down to the depths of the soul. They listened, not a peep, her words echoed through the hall and settled in their minds.

True to her name, her words were lyrics nestled in a song, her voice attuned to the highs and lows from the ceiling to the floor. They listened in close, they listened well and she never asked for a fee, she never had to say “Please pay attention” for her students had invested every single penny.

Friday evening, every week… The stage was set for Ms. Geetha to sing…

“Geetha! Geetha! Geetha!” A chant rose in the hall as the clock struck three, not out loud of course. The room was thick with anticipation. You could almost taste it in every breath. “Geetha! Geetha! Geetha!”

Screech… The side door swung open and the whole room was aghast.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for… here… he… comes…

WAIT!!! HE!?! WHAT ?!?!

He walked in with a bland grey coat over a plain white shirt, one silver fountain pen clip clinging to the crease of the pocket. Black frames hung over his chest, the stage lights reflecting from the lenses. In his left hand a Rolex watch that didn’t tick and in his right a black leather suitcase, a silver lock protecting the contents inside. A scowl burned into his face, crow’s feet scratched onto the sides of his eyes, scars of a long busy week. A repeating routine he played week after week.

He set the suitcase down, click-click…. Swing… Cough… He cleared his throat and began to rustle through his papers.

The students were in shock.

“What is going on?! Where is our muse? Who is this charlatan here to perform?!”

It started with a whisper then rose to a wave of chatter that engulfed the room. Questions and confusion entangled within. They wanted to know. To find the answers their anxiety demanded.

“Where is Ms. Geetha…? What happened to her...? Was she eve…”

BANG!!!

The suitcase slammed, putting a swift end to the wayward whispers. All eyes snapped to see the man in the gray coat glaring over the room with lackluster eyes.

“Ms. Geetha has called in sick today. So I will be taking over. I expect you all to pay attention!” But from his first impression, you could tell that the purse strings would be tight.

He began the lecture “Flip to page 74, chapter 3 the empire was under a new regime”. On and on he droned, drowning the audience in malaise. Time began to slow, the ticking clock seemed only to tok without the tik. Pens began to tap the desk and eyes began to shift…

Some noticed the mold on the far corner of the left side wall… Others saw how one fan was crooked to the right… They noticed how the stage had an odd number of wood panels and how there was one window with four cracks snaking through the side…

“Are you listening?” a voice boomed shattering their vivid ponderings. “Pay attention!!” But most were in line to ask for refunds.

“Please read chapters 4 and 5 and prepare a report on the intricacies of the economic imbalance during the time of the peasant revolution against the…”

The monotone words crawled their way to the students’ ears and jumped over slumped shoulders making their way to the next victim — taking a piece from them with every phrase. The students tried to pay their due but they had lost interest and couldn’t predict any returns. No dividends in sight, no matter how much they invested…

It was a slog! The words on the page were given a voice through his lips. A verbal carbon copy of the text.

YAWN…

Their minds began to wonder to last Friday at the hall. Flashbacks to Ms. Geetha on the stage… How she would sway her hands in rhythm with her words… How she used the stage to move back and forth in time… The way her eyes lit up when Martin Luther King gave his speech or how her chin quivered during World War 2.

They missed her and their mannerisms made it clear, shifting eyes and clattering feet, watching the time tiptoe around the dial…. One second at a time…

“EXCUSE ME!! You! In the back! stop daydreaming and pay attention” the tall teacher told, trying to take the toll. But they had not a cent to give never mind two.

“Page 126, the empire regained its position at the head of the nation’s administration…”

It felt like forever came, got scared, and left in a hurry. That was how time passed within the hall that Friday evening. Seven more times he asked for payment but their pockets were empty by the fourth request. The room had devolved into drowsy eyes and pregnant sighs. The students tried whatever they could to raise the stocks but in the end, a great depression was inevitable. “When will it end?”

RING!!!!! The old bell in the college courtyard called out marking the end of the academic week.

YAYYYYYYYYY!!!! Would have been the cry but the kids had barely the strength to let out a sigh of relief.

Rustle-Rustle… Slam… Click-Click... Without a word, he walked out like a well-oiled machine leaving devastation in his wake. The children left to count whatever they had left. They had paid what they could and were left poorer for it.

Slowly… one by one they pulled themselves up to their feet and shuffled to the door, their minds empty and hearts filled with holes… hoping next Friday evening would feature their regular artist in the Lavender Saree…

This was an exaggerated story about an experience I once had in college when our history teacher was replaced by a substitute teacher who really didn’t want to be there… and because of that neither did we… Passion counts for a lot in any profession… especially when it involves giving something back to others… So let’s all try to put in that little bit more next time.