The Classroom Connection

The small piece of chalk had fallen dow under the grey base of the wooden bench. It might have been thrown at the previous occupant from a distance, and if it was, it's what we'd call immaculate aim. From the writing angle, what one can see when you lifted your eyes is a door that's just short of one push to indicate an unwanted disturbance. A red cushioned chair facing you, waiting for someone's deliberate presence.

Moving closer to line of sight, lay the brightly lit octagonal projection diffracted at the slits in the corner. Overlapping transparenices adorned the wall.

A slight change in orientation..

Left hand supported on the forehead, a momentary blink, a curl of the lip - engrossed, clearly, but I owe to distance, the fact that I couldn't say, in what.

A checked shirt, green pencil, an ocassional upward nod, propped with a convenient Arthur C Clarke in the desk beneath; fair focus on both, no doubt!

A spiked hairdo, a crisp white shirt, peering into a notebook, probably gauging symmetries with a pencil in the left hand.

Right hand rested on cheek, half of a right angle with the bench, an infusion of serious pretension, stealing looks at neighbours,

A 180 degree turn, blended into a stretch to scan some more...

A black pullover to beat the cold, repeated extension of a design, a mehendi model, it'd not be easy to see the hobby express itself in another situation.

The imposed quiet, inabitlty or indifference to follow - skills surge.

At an angle of zilch with the bench, an imperative shift in arm position, restless and can hardly find a blink free stretch of vision.

And finally, the HERO - history, problem, leading to solution, assertion and conclusion - his work, I say.

Of course, how could I forget the blue-n-blue attire, a4 sheets piled infront, an efficient pencil, a guided scan, expressions for every word, oscillating between staring into space, and writing, the very pencil out of which these words are born.

Now, an empty classroom.
Nothing discrete to observe, but an arrangement of benches, an assortment of bags, time for reflection.
It is one of those places, one of those sites of self forgotten involvement, a mega-harmony in action.
50 odd attires, 50 odd thoughts, 50 odd hobbies, none to interfere except for an ocassional irritated glare, but again, why care??
It was not wrong when someone probably said, all classrooms are cradles of creativity. 50 odd intitatives - there's really nowhere else where so many people can independently and simultaneously pursue their never fulfilled ambitions.
Lack of attention in a lecture is fine.
A good lecture is a mere aid to a good student. And he will know it then.
No one really has to do analysis unless they find peace and joy in it. And sometimes, I wonder, may be, that's why people DO attend classes, lectures - a creativity surge.