The Miseducation of Miss Kamal

Yes I've attended colleges and universities and have some sheets of papers that have some names of degrees printed on them, gathering dust somewhere in some cupboard that defies a kingdom of termites out of sheer fear of my mother.

But I'm not talking about that education. I'm talking about my miseducation. The one that I could have almost missed. The one that's cleverly hidden away until we look in the unlikeliest of places. It's really like finding a lion in a teacup.

Miseducation Number 1.

Theatre. Had I not been involved with it since an early age, I wouldn't have understood words the way I continue to. I would have been literate but not truly educated. Thank you script, stage, sound, lights and costume. You have been my toys and my weapons and I owe you much.

Miseducation Number 2.

Manooghi Hi. Music is looked upon as entertainment. As a hobby. As a passion. Rarely a job. Never a miseducation. But this band is miseducation at its best. It seduced me, in the last few years to re-examine old theories, concepts, even distorted words, corrupted ideas, birthed sound with a screech that left me cross-eyed between desire and disgust. This band of crazy, wonderful, miraculous, hopeful losers, taught me things about my own job, my beliefs and then rattled every part of my brain into unlearning it. I don't know how and why they do it and how the hell they find the strength and drive that allows them not just to be fabulous musicians but to really educate, teach, impart and colour the world they touch, in the most brilliant paroxysms of sound and word. Thank you Mehnaz, Todd, Ava, Hollis, Jimmy, Jarrod, Kent. You are the actual spelling of Hope and Joy.

Miseducation Number 3.

Teaching India. From a tiny volunteering teaching job to being a guest lecturer at the National Institute of Fashion Technology in Hyderabad, teaching is the biggest miseducation of all. We know nothing is a phrase that pops out in particular. The youth, the biggest know-it-all group in the world is a hungry predator and if you're not practising the kill, they'll chew you up and spit you out with their thousands of questions and why nots. I owe them all a debt of gratitude for re-educating me about education and teaching and the courage, discipline and fun that are prerequisites. Degrees are for sale. Those are not. Thank you, Nishrin and all the students. Even the ones who dozed in class or texted behind a book. Yup, I knew. I just need to teach better.

Miseducation Number 4.

Kristin Pedroja. Yes, that's right. One person. When we met. 2003. Number of times we've met since then. Zero. Number of times we've collaborated on ideas, taught, critiqued, cajoled, helped, exposed, trashed, praised and assisted in nothing less than a PhD in 'The Thankless Pains Of Writing.' 987,654,321. A tiny woman who's so tall, it's hard for me to imagine not walking with that shadow by my side as I toil over each sentence, punctuation and character. She is proof that no publisher, no literary agent, no appointed editor can do for your writing what a writer who really loves to write, read and selflessly share her brain, can. Thank you, Kristin. You're really one of my Tall Women.

And thus continues the Miseducation of Miss Kamal for which she's truly grateful. These are not paper degrees nor are they merit badges. They are simply what allow me to find and refine my unique expression. And then try to find a word that's not as un-unique as unique.

A revisitation

Ever felt like you wanted to go back and do it all over again? Surely you cannot call yourself human if you haven't. I've been off the radar for a bit as I've been travelling. Strange places like a Mafia-ridden Moscow. And then suddenly, Hyderabad. I've been to Hyderabad before. About two decades ago when I didn't have political opinions. Or social opinions. Or too many opinions. At least that's what I'd like to think. All I remember from then is the Charminar and how frighteningly ugly the surroundings were. I'm in a different Hyderabad as I write this. A dichotomous one, as most large urban areas in India tend to be. But something happened here that made me want to go back and do it differently. I taught. I guest-lectured at a friend's educational institute. I'd never before been confronted by the rising hopes and aspirations of small town India, well-heeled India and confused India all inside one classroom. All looking at me as if I was the box that contained the three wishes. It was daunting for a minute. About ninety minutes later, I disconnected from my body and floated upwards. Probably in reality towards the window because of the heat. And I saw this one woman throwing out questions and giving out answers and this group of young students whose suddenly translucent skulls showed their rapidly expanding brains. It was like peeking into the elixir of youth, knowledge, hope and vitality, all rolled into one. I couldn't for the life of me believe that no cosmetic company had tried to harness the very air they breathed. At the end of three hours and three sweet vended coffees later, I paused. I had just knocked off ten years of tiredness and revisited realms of knowledge and half-lives and reworked my entire understanding of what students outside the cocoon of South Bombay are. And it was so very disconcerting that I didn't know if I should do it all over again to confirm that I hadn't been in a dream or if I should hop on to the next flight to Bombay. I did it again. I wasn't disconcerted this time. I was present. I was with them. I was inside their heads and they were knocking down the doors to mine. I thought for a moment, if I could go back to being a student, I would be this. This energy, this thirst, this humour, this challenge. I would abandon the armour of knowing, the gothic net of false perception, the non-chalance towards life and the taking it for granted.

As I returned to my disconnected, falsely calm gated community, I wondered. Does inspiration need hope? Or does hope need inspiration?