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On this Easter day, I would like to share a memory and a seed I had planted on the luscious ground of that memory.
Although I had thought of posting my Easter story today, I could not. The reason is that I received the Easter story only yesterday night [7-4-12] at the church where my family and I visited for prayers. I returned home late and could not write the story down. Still, I am hopeful that I will be able to contain the story in words soon and present it to you.
I feel the story and its writing down is very important, since the story is my experience itself, though it would be told in the language of fiction. It is through this experience I received the wisdom of ‘the Candle’. I am eager myself to write it down and to see how it all turns out.
The memory I intend to talk to you today about is embedded in my student days, during my graduation. I did my graduation in English Literature as correspondence course, where you get all the course materials postal and no classes to attend like regular colleges.
There were of course some days of formal classes called ‘contact classes’ where teachers come and introduce different courses to the students. These teachers were appointed by the University and were always in a hurry to finish things off within the allotted time. Yes, there was an allotted time schedule for these classes, eight hours, in two days for one paper, usually.
So a couple of my friends and I decided to join a parallel college to help us with the portions. After one year, the manager of the parallel college called me and told me it would be difficult for them to carry us as a class, because we were just three students and we must therefore start looking for some other college to help us.
We all had this common thing, then,—and I attribute this to a specific reaction common with humans—we were totally, pathetically shaken. The problem was with the course we were doing. There was no other parallel college in the city or nearby areas that took Literature as a course, as all of them were obsessed with Commerce and Engineering Diplomas, the vogues of the day.
We felt ourselves a bunch of outmoded morons, who now had to go looking for someone to help. The first person I decided to call was Prof. Kammat, an old retired professor who taught us in the parallel college, kind, benevolent, and good hearted.
“Don’t worry, I am with you,” he said and nothing more, even though I expected more words to cool off our hearts full of the lava of concern.
The next day he rang me up and said, “I have talked with our manager and made arrangements. We can use one of their rooms and I will teach you whatever you need. Don’t worry. You are no longer vagabonds.”
Another of our teachers too came forward to help us, Mr. J.P, at the request of Kammat sir. J.P is known by this short name, and till this day I have no idea what his real name is.
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Our marks in the final exams were top row, especially among the correspondence students. Later, I joined for Masters in Literature and Professor Kammat went to
to live with
his son’s family there. Bangalore
I kept my contact with him all through these years. There was something always special about him; he did not just reply our queries, but always came for us, asked how we all were doing and told us how he enjoyed teaching in
The previous Saturday, I sent him a text message, just to let him know what I feel about him. It’s true that he knows it as I never kept my thoughts from him.
I would like to quote that text message here, for my readers:
There is a magic in every living organism that is hidden, for the most part, in their lives, even from themselves, until a wizard comes along and transforms their lives forever. In my life, you are the wizard and I am the magic you initiated. Good day!
The seed of these fifty-one words has grown in the fertile soil of memory to become this article. I am just a spell. The wizard is hidden from everyday sight.