Summer vacation has finally kicked in. We, the teachers - the pampered professionals, the famed freeloaders of public funds (unless you are a private school drudge), the academic laborers toiling through the deadliest hours of summer, sweating it out in the sweltering educational mines charmingly called classrooms, gulping chalk dust from the “whitened” blackboard, ranting like madmen before insouciant nitwits whose lessons they will most likely never recall - unless, of course, the same content is spoon-fed to them by the same teacher, for a hefty fee, in a smaller group, early in the morning or late in the evening, in a magical place called “tuition,” enduring puerile nonsense and incorrigible doodling, fiddling with parroted redundant crap, and relishing the occasional unauthorized breather while thrashing rapscallions black and blue - are perhaps the most deprived and exploited friends of society. And yes, we desperately need this break.
Whatever. Today is the first Sunday of my already-curtailed three-week summer vacation. Technically, I got it a day early - though let’s not pretend it’s a royal gift. Yesterday, I spent until afternoon “cleaning and organizing” our room with my wife - by which I mean shifting clutter from one corner to another while pretending it’s progress. My mother chipped in too - actually, she handled the dirtiest parts. But since she doesn’t appear in any of my hashtagged status updates, I guess she doesn’t exist.
We had a late dinner. And then, as if by divine sarcasm, the rains arrived. The weather decided to play tricks on us. After blazing us for weeks in that tailor-made academic microwave called “school”, it now generously offers rain - not to comfort, but to mock our tragically underdeveloped sense of “doing the right thing at the right time.”
Hopefully, this weather doesn't keep up throughout the break, only to dry out precisely when school reopens - so it can resume roasting our already-roasted school routine. No pun intended. Okay, maybe a little.
For lesser good, my tuition got cancelled yesterday. No one gave me a buzz. No messages, no calls - nothing. Just the unspoken gospel: “Sir will understand.” And of course, I did. I always do. Except Manisha. Ah yes, the responsible student. She messaged to say she couldn’t come - because obviously, rain is a valid reason to abandon all intellectual pursuit. Still, she gets points for the rare and dying art of informing the teacher.
Meanwhile, the electricity decided to stage its own rebellion. Not gone entirely, no. Just enough voltage to keep the LED lights dimly glowing like haunted fireflies, but not enough to run a single fan. I mean, how am I supposed to tutor in a sauna?
Barely a few minutes past the scheduled time, I was already imagining every tuition student turning into vapor. The cats had stopped meowing, the dogs had gone mute - nature itself had hit the snooze button. And then - like a scene from a low-budget superhero movie - she came. Manisha, my responsible student. Soaked, out of breath, and holding the torch of academic discipline. Fantastic.
And today is the first Sunday I have. But I hate Sundays. Not just because my father passed away on one, or because Sundays are historically cursed for India's chances in tournament finals - though both are valid reasons - but mostly because of the day that follows: Monday. Saturday, on the other hand, is my undisputed favorite.
There's one more reason I can't mention - strictly out of fear of my wife. And that, frankly, is dangerous enough to leave unsaid.
Today is no exception. And yet, somehow, it becomes one. My mother-in-law got injured, and we had to rush to see her. Then, in the sacred tradition of crisis management, we bought some chicken, ate it ceremoniously with misti doi, took a nap (because emotional recovery needs carbs and REM cycles), watched a movie, and finally took her to the hospital.
The rain accompanied us like an overenthusiastic background score - uninvited, persistent, and oddly dramatic.
And there, in the Mothers' Land, the wait began.
We arrived at 6 p.m. It’s now almost 10, and I’m writing (read typing) this with the patience of a monk and the blood pressure of a cola bottle in a microwave.
We had to wait. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Somewhere in between the waiting cycles, we went to Mio Amore, ate some chicken korma to stop from collapsing, and brought back sweet cakes for my mother-in-law - as if sugar could solve injuries or institutional inefficiency.
Then we resumed waiting. Again.
Kalpana Chatterjee - my mother-in-law, aged 60 - became the only constant in this loop of limbo. Her name got stuck in our minds, on hospital slips, on digital screens that blinked but never changed. We clung to that name like an airport announcement that never gets called.
And then we discovered something. The mortality of humankind is a well-known and recognized fact, yet we keep rediscovering it, going humbled for a brief moment before conveniently forgetting. This was a similar discovery: the uncomfortable realization of our tolerance for malfeasance, our silence in the face of corruption, and our blind eyes to all those little things we assume don’t matter much but actually matter the most.
We discovered the compounder running a premium fast-track service - quietly letting people skip the registered queue and waltz into the doctor’s cabin, all for a modest under-the-table consultation fee.
But Kalpana Chatterjee - the patient in the queue, serial number 63 - remained stuck. When we arrived in the hospital, the counter showed 27 had gone into the doctor’s cabin. Nearly two hours later, the number hadn’t budged an inch. It was dead cold, frozen in time, mocking us with its stubborn stillness. I searched in vain for number 28, or any of the other patients who should have come and gone before my mother-in-law’s turn. They were nowhere to be found - lost somewhere in the abyss between hope and inefficiency.
And just when the waiting threatened to become a permanent lifestyle - finally, the turn came. As the nurse called out, I hit the keypad to write. And I realized, to my dismay, that we were the last ones there. Glancing at the register, I saw around 30 more patients listed after my mother-in-law. But where was everyone? Had they vanished into thin air, or quietly paid extra to jump ahead of their official place in the queue?
I shouldn’t blame those “moral and responsible citizens,” nor should I blame the doctor or his compounder. None are corrupt. It is I who am corrupt. And the corruption lies in my halfhearted attempt to maintain unquestioned conformity to our societal values. I should respect the system. I should be ready to pay a little extra to get promoted in the queue, get home early, have a quick dinner, and rush to the TV news to complain that the country is in chaos, that everything is messed up and beyond repair.
And by God’s grace—and after spending a small fortune because an elderly woman just had to lift a heavy bucket and injure herself—we finally returned home. The clock struck 11, mocking us with each tick, as if timing the chaos. We dragged ourselves in, soaked, exhausted, broke, and emotionally overcooked. Good night. May tomorrow come with fewer buckets and better decisions.
