“I will give you a kiss if you pass in maths”, she had said.
It was 1988. I was fast approaching one of the many turning points in my life. My high school board examination. Against my better judgment I had been persuaded to take Math as one of my primary subjects.
‘It will be useful when you apply for admission to professional courses”. Of course no one bothers to explain how an understanding of inverse trigonometric, exponential, and logarithmic functions competing with Rolle’s and Lagrange’s theorems – would help me anywhere. It also did not help – at all – that I had shifted from the Kerala State Board syllabus to the revered (for what joy?) Indian School Certificate system, after my previous turning point (my 10th). And besides it was a posh school. Way posher than where I had come from.
It seemed I was destined to keep turning for a long time. And it was into that nightmare that Miss K stepped in.
Little did I realise then that I wouldn’t be the first to have had a crush on my teacher. I definitely wouldn’t be the last.
Miss K was petite. Fair. Shoulder length hair that was always tied up in a high pony tail. But what I fell in love with was her voice. There was a lilt when she spoke of Pearson’s coefficient. There was a softness to the rhythm when she explained Bayes Theorem and Binomial distribution. There was a sway and flourish when she taught me lines, planes, angles, distances, and the area calculations between curves. (No, I am not being naughty).
“Call me K”, she had said. My teen heart soared, and fluttered, and did impossible summersaults.
But there was only one problem. I had to share her with Sujoy. My best friend.
Sujoy and I had met in school. I had shifted states. From small, sleepy Kozhikode to the large, bustling metro that Madras was. Sujoy had just moved in from Pune. Underconfident and shy – we were drawn to each other’s awkwardness. Mine with language. His on account of a polio affliction which had left him needing to wear a leg brace, and walk with a limp that was as much a part of his being as his loud laughter was.
“Which girl will like a boy with a limp”, he had once asked.
“Which girl will like a boy who can’t string together a simple sentence in English”, I had responded.
Strange are the ways that friendships are formed. Some are made over shared secrets. Others over shared grievances. Yet others, over a lifetime of growing up together.
Ours was over Math.
There were many things we had in common. But where our collective traumas came together and danced with unrestrained abandon was in our aversion to maths. We detested the subject. Our friendship was cemented over this aversion.
And then K came into our lives. She was a lifeline. She was a love. She just was.
The fabric of a fledgling friendship between two high school friends could have been threatened in the face of sharing such love. But it was not. We agreed it was in our mutual interest to share her affections (ahh, the beauty of teenage fantasies).
It was clear that our lessons during school would not be enough to help us cross the enormous chasm that represented our lack of appreciation for the subtler nuances of high school math. Indeed, it was a major obstacle that we did not seem to even appreciate the more obvious strands of the subject. And so, much to our delight it was decided by K – and our parents – that we would need to get after-school tuitions. At her home.
It would come to pass that soon after school Sujoy and I would head to her house. Sujoy had gallantly offered to take her on his moped. I had voiced my concerns. Obviously, with only K’s safety in mind. But she accepted his offer.
And so, there we were. The two of them on his tiny moped. Me, furiously peddling alongside.
January.
One month before Board exams.
Weeks of special tuitions had turned into months. Much tea was consumed in these hours, as were many dozens of packets of Parle-G glucose biscuits which K generously served. Math made progress. We didn’t.
It was not all about Math during those days. K told us about her family. Her young brother who was still in school. Her parents in a far away city. Her love for the preciseness of the subject.
For two young boys, it was the first experience of an adult friendship. A friendship based on some semblance of equality. Except, we were too young to appreciate how special and unusual that was.
In all that time, K hadn’t lost hope in us. We certainly hadn’t lost hope either. Except that our respective trajectories and scopes of hope did not intersect.
It was then that she said.
“I will give you a kiss if you pass in Maths”.
Neither of us slept that night. Our minds were running permutations and combinations. Just not of the mathematical kind.
But something changed that day. And in the following weeks.
There was a rare fervour that we brought to our preparation. Perhaps it was because we didn’t want to let her down. Perhaps it was the desire to justify the leaps of faith that our parents had made in us – and our abilities. Perhaps it was our desperation to not have to go through another year of having to face Pascal and Pythagoras. Or perhaps, it was two teenage boys wanting to ensure that the other did not walk away with the trophy. All alone.
April.
Board examination results had been published.
I was in Kozhikode. Sujoy in Lucknow. A cousin had gone to school to collect our results.
Sujoy had 46/100. I had 44/100. We had done the impossible.
Trunk calls were placed between Lucknow and Kozhikode. There was a definite under-current of anticipatory thrill. It could be felt all the way from Lucknow to Kozhikode.
May.
K met us one evening in May when we were back in the city. At her apartment.
It was a typically hot, humid Madras evening. The ocean breeze did nothing to calm the beads of sweat streaming down as two riders – one of a moped and other a cycle – arrived almost together at K’s apartment.
We grinned at each other. The stupid, nervous grin that stupid, nervous teenagers give while being, well, stupid.
She laughed in genuine joy. The room brimmed with mirth — all of it orbiting around Math and the absurd miracle we had managed to pull off. She served us tea and Parle-G biscuits. She had let her hair down. For the first time. Dressed in white and blue – we thought she looked oh-so beautiful.Through the decades since, the edges of that chapter blur in my mind — or maybe the reverse is true.
Memory, I’ve learned, is not a precise and indelible archive but a living organism; each recollection reshapes what once originally was. Details fade, rearrange, even invent themselves. The moment once frivolous but real in the minds of two young, teen boys – becomes a retelling, polished by prudence, chastened by wisdom.
A smile lingered on her face, as we said our goodbyes. Unlikely to meet again, as we made our way to different cities on paths that were unlikely to bring the three of us together again.
This connection that had brought two students and a teacher together had come built in with an expiry date.
“You both made me so happy. And proud”, she said.
The irony of being feted and celebrated for what would otherwise conventionally count as a failure and an embarrassment of an exam result was not lost on Sujoy and me. We laughed. Sujoy’s louder than mine. As always.
At that moment, we would neither understand – nor be able to imagine – what that moment of triumph might have truly meant for K. Self-absorbed – and self-congratulatory – as we were.
“I have got a gift for you two”, she continued. Our hearts hammered in our chests.
Even fantasies, after all, rest on a scaffolding of hope.
She took out two small bags and handed over one, to each of us. Inside, were two packets of Parle-G glucose biscuits.
With every return of memory to that period, the scenes transform — no longer the romanticized reverie of youth, but a quiet realization of how we were saved. From becoming the versions of ourselves we might have come to regret.
The secrets of how we approach adult relationships – of any kind – in our adulthood are perhaps buried deep within our growing years. In what we learn to admire. In what we choose to pay attention to. In the kind, generous spaces that others once held for us.
I see now that, in the brief span of a graceful, gentle, charming – yet professional – relationship, she offered two young boys a lesson beyond measure.