It was a severe winter in Syracuse, New York, in 1989. After having taught for a decade in India, my husband was back in school, pursuing his doctorate. Used to a noisy joint family, I was lonely in an unfamiliar white campus. The lexicon here was bewildering: toilet was restroom, university was school and timetable was schedule.
To make sure that I too savour the American campus experience, my husband came up with a suggestion. Every semester he could attend a maximum of four credit courses, but there was an option; he could drop one course in case it became burdensome, and then the spouse could take it up. I was really excited. I opted for a course in mass communications. I had always aspired to be a journalist but in my time journalism was not a popular subject as it was not really considered a safe choice for girls.
My first day in class was a jaw-dropping experience. I was worried that I would be considered an oddity among young college-goers, being a 28-year-old in their midst. No one even noticed my presence. Some students in class were sitting nonchalantly chewing on an apple or a chocolate bar; some on their friends’ laps, hugging and talking at the same time. The professor, Peter Moller, a pleasant, diminutive person, walked in with a briefcase in one hand and a large coffee mug in the other.
The classes were fun, replete with quizzes, film appreciation, critical reviews and essays. It was one of the days when I was tired of just reviewing Hollywood films that I took permission from Professor Moller to speak to the class about Indian films in general and Sholay in particular because that was the only film video I had with me. The very next day, armed with the video, I faced the class. They were very animated as they were being exposed to a kind of cinema they had never heard of.
For most of them, Indians were Red Indians who lived in reservations in the US. That next to Hollywood the Indian film industry was the second largest in the world came as a surprise not only to the class, but to the professor too. Sholay grabbed their eyeballs. Steam engines, dacoits and horse chases for them were extremely quaint. Hundreds of questions were thrown at me. Was the movie an Indian Western? Was India dacoit-infested? Why couldn’t the widow (Jaya Bhaduri) marry her love? It was a small contribution, but I was able to make India’s presence felt in a small classroom in the cold climes of Syracuse.