Sri Pratap College

 

The early 1970s was a troubled time on college campuses in Srinagar. Student unrest, walkouts and protests were a common occurrence. Sri Pratap College, my alma mater of 1946, had undergone a sea change and had turned into an unruly place in 1973. The number of students had increased manyfold, and so had the staff. Several concrete buildings, which contrasted poorly with the elegant Edwardian architecture of the old main building, had come up.

 

The increased enrollment had affected the college in other critical ways as well. What several decades ago was an elite educational institution, focused on real learning and helping students become the best human beings they can possibly be seemed, sadly, to have been turned into a graduate production mill. The curiosity of most students appeared satiated. The brilliant ones avoided the limelight. They were not the role models any longer.

 

I listened with dismay to stories of student unrest at the college during 1972. The lathi-wielding Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) had to be called in several times to quell the strikes. On one occasion, clouds of tear gas floated through the college lawns for hours as the CRPF constables chased down students who were pelting them with stones. Red-eyed professors retreated hurriedly to the staffrooms, blinking away the tear gas, and musing about their loss of hold on the students. Their tepid interest in the students’ educational needs was partly to blame, but it was not the whole reason.

 

A majority of the students seemed overly influenced by political events in the state and the subcontinent. They formed the incendiary material and provoking them was not difficult. A minor rift in Indo-Pakistan relations or a mundane local issue, like a bus fare hike, was often the excuse for the student leaders to foment trouble on campus. International cricket matches, especially between India and England, or India and Pakistan, evoked great interest among the students. Most listened to the live ball-by-ball commentaries, rather than attend classes. Javed Miandad, Sunil Gavaskar and Imran Khan were the idolised players. These matches created unnecessary controversies.

 

The student leaders came from affluent and politically connected families. Their parents, that had grievances against the ruling regimes, did not mind their wards’ involvement in political activities. The boys were articulate, imaginative, somewhat cocky and ready for protests. Some were contemptuous of the learning process, and a few were total troublemakers. They seemed more interested in raising controversies rather than studying.

 

Keenly aware of their financial strength and political connections, the student leaders scoffed at entreaties to not mix education and politics or to see reason. They invariably had a ‘get out of jail free’ card to play. Not long after a controversy had subsided, you could find them back on campus, lounging in the tea-stalls to the fawning adoration of their minions, scheming about new controversies and how to exploit them.

 

Thankfully, Professor Nazir Ahmed Khan brought a sense of order on campus in 1973. He had, with sagacity, won the confidence of the student leaders. The students largely avoided politicking. However, some continued to bide their time, itching to take issue, often on inane matters. The staff was generally apolitical, but a few were critical of the political situation in the state. Although burdened with administrative work, Professor Khan took time to sit with the staff members, under the chinars in the college lawn. He heard them out, and mostly ignored the complaints. Sometimes he narrated his experiences of serving as a major in the Indian Army. His sole objective was that the college function smoothly.

 

Professor Khan resided in a hostel on the campus. He personally maintained, what came to be known as, ‘The Red Book’. Any teacher found tardy in managing his class was listed in this notebook. He mostly relied on his informers, the orderlies of his office, for such information. Several incidents of cheating occurred during the university examinations. Professor Khan visited the examination halls to remind the invigilators to be vigilant. However, the invigilators were pressured by other politically influential people to be lenient to the wards of the politicians, thus undermining the staff. The malaise could not be eradicated.

 

During this time private home-tutoring classes had become wildly popular. This shadow education system offered classes in every subject, but for a fee. Most teachers considered such tutoring a useful adjunct. They argued that it helped make up the study time lost due to disruptions in the regular college schedule. Others countered that it led to laxity during the regular class schedule, was the cause of student indiscipline and could be afforded only by the affluent. Nevertheless, home-tutoring was in great demand.

 

Typically, a tutoring session was conducted at the tutor’s home. The session started, sometimes as early as 6 a.m. each week day for a few hours, and for several hours on the week­ends. The purpose was to thoroughly understand concepts such as the Avogadro’s number, Boyle’s Law, Charles’s Law, Faraday’s Laws, the Fizeau-Foucault method to determine the speed of light, or the like. Based on the tutor’s judgment, the material was covered selectively but in detail.

 

The strategy was to identify a set of questions, known as the ‘guess paper’ which were likely to appear on the annual examination and to develop complete answers to them. The students were expected to regurgitate the answers, should the questions be asked in the actual examination. The tutor wrote out the answers, pressing his ball-point pen firmly on sheets of paper that were lined with carbon paper, so that the impressions carried through to several copies. These were distributed to the students for review. It was a relentless grind.

 

Such pedagogy, much like the mainstream educational system, was neither innovative nor thought provoking. It did not demand the application of ideas, critical assessments or the ability to cogently put forth a position on a difficult topic. For most students, the focus was to cram for the examinations, score above the passing mark, graduate and secure a sinecure job. For others, the tutoring augmented their preparations for securing a berth in professional colleges. This private enterprise did, however, create wealth and acclaim for tutors whose students graduated with high scores. Good tutors were in demand and could name their fee. Some developed a cult-like following among the students and their harried parents.

 

Sri Pratap College was staffed with scholars such as Professor Kashi Nath Dhar of the Hindi department, Professor Laxmi Narayan Dhar of the History department, Professor Ghulam Mohammed Mir of the Chemistry department, and Professor Ghulam Nabi ‘Firaq’ of the English department. They were the stalwarts and our role models. Mohammed Shafi Shaida, a lecturer in the Urdu department was an unforgettable colleague. Gifted with a facile pen, he wrote Urdu prose and poetry with equal ease. His dramas were delicately worded, rich with puns and political allusion. Shaida enjoyed a controversy. His tiff with Education Commissioner J.N. Dhar, won him instant admiration from his colleagues, and bears recording.

 

J.N. Dhar was an efficient officer, but was equally arrogant and petty minded. He was especially critical of college teachers, who visited the India Coffee House situated at Regal Chowk, nearby Sri Pratap College. Patrons went there, sat for hours, exchanged views and extracted information over endless cups of coffee. The coffee, on occasion, was watery, but that did not really matter. It was a place to go to, and be seen. Lawyers, college teachers, engineers, businessmen, scheming politicians, and college students spent time at the India Coffee House.

 

The place had a buzz and one could savour the latest gossip there. It was a place where reputations were made or marred: where secrets were partially leaked, and where one could hone the skill of repartee. A sudden calm occasionally descended on this exuberant place, when a waiter urgently whispered in your ear that a police informant was present in the hall. Whether Shaida frequented the India Coffee House is not certain, but apparently the education commissioner had information to this effect. Shaida subsequently received his transfer orders. The mild-mannered Shaida was livid.

 

J.N. Dhar was also known by an alternate surname: Thass. Depending on the context of usage, the Kashmiri word Thass has three connotations: ‘a loud noise’; ‘a tall claim that is hard to believe’; or ‘a thrashing’. Shaida wrote a veiled parody on the education commissioner that wove together the connotations of Thass into a mocking drama. The skit was aired on Radio Kashmir Srinagar. It was not difficult to guess who the parody was about. Those who knew the education commissioner quickly inferred the subtle nuances. The joke made the rounds at the staffrooms for weeks. Shaida had exacted poetical revenge on Thass.

 

“Beware the wrath of an artist wrongfully scorned,” Shaida exulted.

 

I rarely visited the India Coffee House. My favourite haunt was Ahdoo’s restaurant. It was on the Bund, at Residency Road, and next to Pestonjee’s building. The kababs at Ahdoo’s were a specialty: soft and marinated, and with a unique flavour. The waiters knew their patrons, and their service was prompt and courteous. Additionally, Ahdoo’s was not on the radar screen of the education commissioner.

 

Principal Yusuf, my acquaintance from Baramulla, took over the college in 1975. Age and experience had mellowed him, but his enthusiasm for erratic administration and micro-management was undiminished. He did, however, encourage extracurricular activity for those who chose to take up such pursuits.

 

One balmy day in August, I decided to take the college rowing team out to Gagribal Lake. The exercise would do the crew good and help prepare them for the annual regatta competition. They too were eager for it. By noon, we assembled at the boathouse near the Dal Gate lock, and then quickly lowered the boat into the lake. The crew sat ready holding the heart-shaped oars. We pushed off. Soon, the oars were digging in the water and the boat was being propelled forward rhythmically. The wind rose in our faces and lotus fronds swept by, accompanied by the swish of water.

 

As the coxswain, I felt pleased that the winter’s inactivity had not dulled the crew’s rowing skills. We still had a good chance at the trophy. “Faster! Faster!” I instructed. The crew responded, their faces intent, their arms moved in synchrony, like well-oiled pistons. The boat leapt forward, gliding fast in smooth spurts as we neared the deepest part of the lake. Shikaras with fanciful names like Vuzmal (lightning), Tarakmal (galaxy), Dilruba (heartthrob), or the playful, Mr. Bulbul, which minutes ago were bobbing along the Bund had disappeared from view. The lampposts on the Bund’s parapet walls glinted in the distance. Suddenly and unexpectedly, the boat leant over on its side sharply, and dumped everyone into the lake. Splashing around, I tried to locate my guest, who I had brought along, and see whether he had surfaced, or was holding on to the hull. The guest was nowhere in sight. We righted the boat. My instructions for an urgent search, given the demands of responsibility and hospitality, elicited a lukewarm response.

 

“Maybe the extra weight caused the boat to tip over,” someone chimed in mischievously, eliciting chortles from the others as we paddled to the shore.

 

It dawned on me, rather belatedly, that the crew had been a bit reluctant to let the guest join in the boat-ride. They, apparently, had coordinated to intentionally capsize the boat at a signal unknown to me, soon after the guest was introduced to them at the boat house. The prank did not bother me, except that the guest was Sidarth. He had dog-paddled to the shore, spurting water from his mouth. He was plucking bits of mongol buol (weeds) from his hair. Seeing me run up the shore he roared with laughter. He seemed none the worse off. I, for my part, was relieved not to have to invent an explanation for his mother. Sidarth, despite much persuasion, had not learnt to swim well, a very uncharacteristic trait of men from Rainawari. . .