University Dreams...

My second article appeared in The Friday Times a couple of weeks back. I have forgotten the title that they gave it but I call it University Dreams...

“Sir, will I be able to get into the MBA programme if I do my B.A?”, he asks me while cleaning the table. I have just come out of a class and it’s lunch time. He is looking blankly at the table and his hand moves mechanically in circles. The table top doesn’t absorb any water, instead thousand of tiny droplets follow the movements of his hand and make circular patterns on the table giving off a pungent smell. I sit down to eat my lunch. “No, I think you will have to do your M.A as well. I think they don’t take people straight after B.A. anymore. But you should check with the admission office”, I lazily answered. His hand stopped and thousands of water droplets chasing it came to a halt. The pungent smell also seemed to have decided to hover over the top of the table. “But, I will do it, I will do my B.A. and M.A. privately. I will clear my B.A. this year, both parts, and next year I will do my M.A. Can I take both parts of B.A. in the same year?” He asks. “I’m not sure. I think the education department has changed the rules now. You can only take one part in a year.” He looks at me as though I have slapped him. He counts “1, 2, 3, 4…”

on his fingers. His calculations seem to have gone terribly wrong; another four years here—like this? His hand is moving again--faster. He is looking at the table as if trying to look through it and his hand draws circles after circles on the table top to clean it. The smell doesn’t seem to go away. We stay quiet for a few moments. “Aitchison se hon ge aap, A-levels kiya ho ga , yahan kee fee bhee bohat ziada hay”, he says. “No, no I am not from there. You always forget. I went to a different school, Crescent Model, it’s in Shadman in Lahore, and I am partially supported by the University, the rest I manage on my own,” I hurriedly answer him. How could he think I am from Aitchison and can afford to pay my way here? I hardly look like anybody from there and I hardly look rich; he must have confused me with someone else. “Acha!” he looks surprised “You must be bright…” I sense a whiff of sarcasm. I smile. I might not be bright, but in any case I certainly don’t have enough money to study here. Somebody wants him back in the kitchen, one of his colleague waves at him. “Thank you, sir...” He quickly stands up and disappears.

This isn’t the first time he and I have talked and this isn’t the first time he has confused my class origins. There are many like him in this place wearing black pants and white shirts. They all work in the Pepsi Dining Center or PDC as it is called. They hardly seem visible; although, in the monotony of colours put up by students, their uniforms stand out. I am a bit annoyed by him not taking my (many) hints that I have given up my class pretensions. I try to tell him that I come from the lower middle class anyway and I am almost like him. Obviously, I don’t have the courage to say all this to his face and I think he doesn’t bother to figure it out for himself.

He is back and looks happy today; surprisingly there are not many people in the dining center. He is relatively free and pulls up a chair opposite mine. “So, sir what are your plans?” he asks in his usual way – with a whiff of sarcasm and a bit of curiosity. “I won a scholarship and I will hopefully leave for my PhD in Economics--provided I get the visa” I answer while eating my Qeema biryani. His eyebrows arch up and his skin folds up neatly along the lines on his forehead as he exclaims “Wah! You will get it, your visa... don’t worry. But you should be happy, you don’t seem to be.” I smile and try to tell him that it’s not a big deal and that there are several others who are also leaving to pursue their PhDs and that I just got lucky. He looks at me and rolls his eyes. We both laugh. He doesn’t want to buy my attempts at modesty. “So, what are your plans?” I ask him. “None as such, I don’t really make plans”, he replies rather curtly. I don’t have the courage to ask why and go back to my plate of biryani. I should have taken a half-plate today, I tell myself. He takes his leave and starts pushing his trolley full of empty steel jugs towards the kitchen.

This also isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Every time I try to ask him about his life, he quickly shuts himself away. He only seems to divulge information on a need-to-know basis. I have often tried to wonder the type of dreams that he dreams in the university environment. After all the university aims to imbue a spirit of entrepreneurship and leadership in its students. It also strives to create an environment that brings out such qualities in students. Does the environment have a trickle down or a spill over effect? Does he get affected by it? Are there others like him? Suddenly, he and all his colleagues seem miles away from me. I can’t answer any of my questions, yet all this time I thought I was one of them. I feel a sense of shame or perhaps embarrassment. I quickly look around to see if any one has “caught” me. Nobody seems to care. Fortunately, no body knows. I breathe a sigh of relief. My biryani is finished and so is my musing. I put my tray in the stack and start walking towards the law department where I work as a part-time research assistant.