"every man lives by exchanging"
-adam smith
"we were in school, and just like you, we had teachers we were absolutely terrified of. it was a lot stricter at that time. people weren't scared to hit back in the 1980's, they'd take a yellow ruler collecting dust on the desk and make sure your hands were red and inflamed by the end of five very, very unfortunate minutes"
"one teacher took an extreme pleasure in calling out any student he wanted and delivering ten rather strong raps on the palm of their hand. sometimes they'd end up crying but that really didn't do much other than sweeten the deal for the old man. on days we were particularly obedient, he made sure somebody would be blamed for the floorboards creaking and he'd set off on his daily routine. ten raps to the hand. stern warning. then we'd turn back with our palms stinging too much to pick up a pencil for the rest of the day"
"fifteen years later, our entire year was called for a reunion back in the old school building. fifteen years later and all of us had lost hair, moved onto new things- better or worse- we were new people. but something remained within our entire class that was artfully hidden beneath layers and layers of new social interactions. we saw our old teacher, the one with the yellow ruler and the gray glasses.
he had a cigarette between his permanently down-turned lips and was making his way through the crowd, occasionally stopping for a quick second.
"he had taken up chain-smoking as a hobby long before he was our teacher, it was common knowledge. we had never seen it ourselves but here he was, pack of cigarettes in his right hand and the absence of a yellow ruler in the other. for someone who liked to abuse others hands a lot, he certainly paid back with his lungs. eventually he made it close to our group. we stood straight, hands behind our backs and went dead silent. fifteen years later and our respect born out of fear for this man hadn't disappeared"
"any of you have a lighter?" that's all he asked. no hello, no admission of recognizance; just a steady question with a steady purpose. it was fitting. one of the men gathered around us handed him a lighter and he turned around to light the cigarette in his mouth. we didn't know what to say. should we approach him? is he still inclined to hit our palms?''
''i went up to him. "good evening sir", i said. my voice trembled, syllables escaping through hesitant lips. he nodded, i went quiet. another one of my friends came up behind me and said, "hello sir, how are you doing?'' that was smart. a question. i should have asked a question."
"he gave a slow answer, almost as if he was trying to recollect the past ten years or so. we waited, hands stinging in vague memory. we struck up a conversation; the teacher and our group. and we felt freer for it."
"that's exchange.
a lighter for a conversation.
the burning pain of our hands to the burning cigarette."
(a rewritten account of an experience narrated to our class by our hindi teacher on monday, october 15)
-adam smith
"we were in school, and just like you, we had teachers we were absolutely terrified of. it was a lot stricter at that time. people weren't scared to hit back in the 1980's, they'd take a yellow ruler collecting dust on the desk and make sure your hands were red and inflamed by the end of five very, very unfortunate minutes"
"one teacher took an extreme pleasure in calling out any student he wanted and delivering ten rather strong raps on the palm of their hand. sometimes they'd end up crying but that really didn't do much other than sweeten the deal for the old man. on days we were particularly obedient, he made sure somebody would be blamed for the floorboards creaking and he'd set off on his daily routine. ten raps to the hand. stern warning. then we'd turn back with our palms stinging too much to pick up a pencil for the rest of the day"
"fifteen years later, our entire year was called for a reunion back in the old school building. fifteen years later and all of us had lost hair, moved onto new things- better or worse- we were new people. but something remained within our entire class that was artfully hidden beneath layers and layers of new social interactions. we saw our old teacher, the one with the yellow ruler and the gray glasses.
he had a cigarette between his permanently down-turned lips and was making his way through the crowd, occasionally stopping for a quick second.
"he had taken up chain-smoking as a hobby long before he was our teacher, it was common knowledge. we had never seen it ourselves but here he was, pack of cigarettes in his right hand and the absence of a yellow ruler in the other. for someone who liked to abuse others hands a lot, he certainly paid back with his lungs. eventually he made it close to our group. we stood straight, hands behind our backs and went dead silent. fifteen years later and our respect born out of fear for this man hadn't disappeared"
"any of you have a lighter?" that's all he asked. no hello, no admission of recognizance; just a steady question with a steady purpose. it was fitting. one of the men gathered around us handed him a lighter and he turned around to light the cigarette in his mouth. we didn't know what to say. should we approach him? is he still inclined to hit our palms?''
''i went up to him. "good evening sir", i said. my voice trembled, syllables escaping through hesitant lips. he nodded, i went quiet. another one of my friends came up behind me and said, "hello sir, how are you doing?'' that was smart. a question. i should have asked a question."
"he gave a slow answer, almost as if he was trying to recollect the past ten years or so. we waited, hands stinging in vague memory. we struck up a conversation; the teacher and our group. and we felt freer for it."
"that's exchange.
a lighter for a conversation.
the burning pain of our hands to the burning cigarette."
(a rewritten account of an experience narrated to our class by our hindi teacher on monday, october 15)
