It was the early nineties. I was running from pillar to post in search of a job, but my efforts were in vain. The pressure from my parents was terrible. Relatives, for their part, always rubbed me on the wrong side. Is there anything more cruel than doing nothing? How many days can one spend on merry-go-rounds?
But one fine morning, an idea struck me. One thing led to another, and I designed educational course material on global warming and deforestation for a Montessori school in my temple town of Tenkasi, Tamil Nadu, as a stopgap.
As luck would have it, I and several others, all unemployed birds of the same feather, flocked together and squeezed the most out of our gray cells to finish the project. While working on it, everyone thought they were a Sunderlal Bahuguna or Vandana Shiva. Technical jargon like carbon credits, climate change, greenhouse effect and ozone layer danced on our lips. One of my nieces, a medico who never missed an opportunity to criticise me, said we were like beggars trying to build a mansion.
We then went to meet the principal. She was very receptive to our project. But she asked me to give a talk on deforestation. Some of the teachers working there, who were good friends of mine, told me the approval hinged on my performance. “Quote some public intellectual to please the amma,” said a caretaker, wise in her old age and capacity to handle the unruly elements in the school.
It was an elite English medium school and the children discussed everything under the sun. The very thought of addressing them sent shivers down my spine. The fateful day came. I was standing before the audience and the children looked tranquil, well-dressed in immaculate white. The principal was in the front row in a green sari, befitting the occasion every inch. Her regal appearance, combined with what I assumed was a probing gaze from behind the Ray-Bans, added to my nervousness.
Taking deep breaths, I started mouthing a few words in Tunglish (an amalgamation of Tamil and English). The children laughed now and then and I could not say whether it was with me or at me. Halfway through, a boy with large eyes stood up suddenly and said, “Sir, your movement has more enemies here than anywhere else.” I asked, “Why is that so?” The boy replied that most of the students were from families of timber traders. The children clapped then, a thunderous applause that took several minutes to subside. All the while I stood wooden before them. That was my first and last experience with any project.
Email: natarajgreen@gmail.com