The Dead Bee Syndrome

Family and friends would often comment how great Mr. Sharma’s life was. The house in Mumbai, the son overseas, he was living the Indian Dream.

He had retired two years ago, with sufficient income to support his wife and himself. The son in the UK did wire some money now and then, but that was just frosting on the cake, the pension made sure of that.

The son would call them almost every fortnight, the ring of the telephone echoing through throughout the empty house. Every time, just before ending the call, he would ask them one thing, and the answer was always the same.

No.

Mr. Sharma loved his freedom much more.

But the retired Quality Head was bored. For as far as he could remember, his life had been like a bee, always humming. Until his retirement though. At his retirement, the bee died. Watering the plants, reading the papers, house-chores had replaced carrying out quality audits, shouting at people, and having fun. Life had hit the brakes, but Mr. Sharma wasn’t loving it. The humdrum of the never changing timetable was overwhelming.

That morning as he sat up on his bed, he was distinctly aware of the clock ticking away in the distance. With every stroke of the seconds’ hand, a sense of deep foreboding deepened. He let out a huge sigh, and swung his leaden legs onto the cold floor. On the other side of the bed, Mrs. Sharma opened an eye before falling back asleep. It was going to be one of those days.

At dot eight-thirty, he was sitting at the dining table, dressed impeccably in formals, going through the day’s paper. Old habits took time to get rid of. While handing the parathas to her visibly distressed husband, Mrs. Sharma could see that today could prove to be a specially tasking day. It was only better that he spent the morning out of her earshot. So as soon as he washed up, she handed him a list of groceries and his umbrella, smiling sweetly the entire time. She would have to think something about the afternoon, and fast.

Dragging his feet, Mr. Sharma made his way across the street. Some might have called the day beautiful, but those idiots weren’t “living the Indian Dream”. Even the hawkers he passed seemed to have a more exciting life.

By the time he came up to the main street, the morning crowds had thinned, and the shopkeepers were settling into positions they would occupy for the rest of the day. His head was now throbbing with helplessness he felt at his empty life.

He figured the list in his pocket. Just like her to send him to get groceries. He could swear he had seen two liters of cooking oil in the kitchen cabinet and still it was there on the bloody list! Women just didn’t know how to manage.

The Main Street ended, and the KG circle lay ahead. It was a walk he had done innumerous times before. A few hundred meters to the left more. This walk was exactly what was wrong with his life. Always the same turns, always the same road. Left turn beckoned an old friend.

But at the crossroads, this time, he took a right.

His feet had moved on their own accord. His heart was pounding as he advanced into the unknown. Buildings on the side of the road gave no indication as to what lay ahead, but there was something different about them, for they were new to him.

And new was good.

Pretty soon he came up to a T–junction where a building with a red façade loomed in front of him. There would have been a time these windows would have spoken but now they had been silenced with planks of wood, firmly in place. Mr. Sharma could remember coming here sometime back in the old days, but he couldn’t just put a finger on it.

He spied a low hanging tree in a garden adjacent to the building which seemed to point towards right, so after a momentary hesitation he took the right fork.

After gingerly walking a hundred yard or so, he became distantly aware of a low humming noise that slowly increased in decibel as he neared the source.

After almost ten minutes he stood in front of a gate that proclaimed “College of Engineering”. He nervously combed back the misplaced locks of the pampered white hair, wondering if he should dare.

His fears proved unfounded as no one challenged him as he stepped inside the gates. The security at gate gave a curt nod as he walked into the campus. Inside, he felt as if a whole new world had unfolded.

New was different. And different was good.

His walk became more confident as he strode into the main building. Turning left into a corridor, he started down a row of classrooms. One had the professor running up and down the class, and someone was doing the chicken dance in another. He moved ahead warily. Okay, this one seemed quiet. Ah, exam time. Then he spied an open class, with a few students lounging outside, the others, inside.

Upon seeing the smartly dressed authoritative elderly man moving towards them the students outside quickly moved inside. As he neared the classroom door, he could feel a few curious eyes hovering on him from within the room.

A wild idea took root.                      

He took a deep breath and entered the class. A smattering of good mornings emerged from the front seat as he made his way to the blackboard.

Facing the students, he announced, “I’ll be your professor for this lecture. Mr. …”, he quickly glanced at the register, “Bin-dra, Mr. Bindra is not well today.” The class greeted this with the same disdain it had displayed when he had entered.

Picking up the book that lay in front of him, he read the title slowly. Financial Accounting. Oh, great. The hairs on his neck stood up as he felt the collective gaze of the students on him. As he kept the book on the table, he was aware of a single bead of sweat running down his brow.

He took a deep breath. Flicking off the sweat bead, he picked up the book again. With the loudest pah he could muster, he flung the book out of the open door. A collective gasp knew he now held their attention.

Walking up to the bespectacled boy up in the front, he slammed the desk. “Pah! Books! Rubbish!” Mr. Sharma reckoned the boy must have jumped a couple of feet in air.

Now, the scene was set.

With a purposeful stride, he started marching across the room. Passing each student he grunted complete nonsense. Boy, would they be scared now!

Stopping, he pointed to a boy in red shirt. “What have you learned so far?” he snarled, his voice icy as the cold winds that blew outside.

“Err…. Sir… the first few chapters.” The boy in the red shirt managed to mumble, before relapsing into a state of oblivion.

“What in those?” This time he turned to a girl in white dress across the room.

The girl rattled off, “Statement analysis, funds analysis, cash flow analysis, working capital management. And oh, some part of short term financing.”

Oh God. He must remember to steer clear off her the next time.

“Who can tell me what is a cash flow analysis?” he asked, his voice deadly calm.

“You.”

A boy squirmed as a finger rose in his direction.

The boy replied, “Cash, cash flow analysis is the analysis, analysis of-of “, the voice fading into silence.
Mr. Sharma jumped at this opportunity.

“You don’t even know what a cash flow analysis is?” he asked in general.

No sound was forthcoming from the bunch. Time for some more fun.

He caught sight of a boy two rows back, who was pecking away on his cellphone fervently.

Pointing a bony figure towards him, Mr. Sharma said, “You. Get out.”

“Sir?” a bewildered voice replied.

“I said out! Out or everyone else is marked absent!” Mr. Sharma almost yelled. This was sure to get the mood going.

A brief interlude and plenty of jostling later, the boy picked up his back and left through the door, giving him a dirty look. Mr. Sharma would have sworn the boy would have attacked if he had a knife on him.

Quick. A name. Ahh.

“What is Tendulkar’s Theory?” he asked the girl in white.

Her face turned white. “Tend… Tendulkar?”

Mr. Sharma replied, “Yes. Tendulkar.” He strode forward and stood directly in front of her.

“Tend… Tendulkar’s Theory states that cash flows are a sum of- the sum of all- of all- flows in the company,” she offered.

Shaking his head violently, he went up to the board, and wrote out ‘Tendulkar’s Theory’.

A flurry of action followed as dozens of notebooks opened. Mr. Sharma could hear the rustling of the papers as the used ones were unceremoniously swept aside. Now, what the hell did Tendulkar say?

Turning around, he ventured, “Tendulkar’s theory states that at the approaching of the end of the financial year the cash flows er.. of the company … tend to be erroneous.”

No opposition occurred as pens raced in the first few rows. The last benches were still not amused. Time for another show. By god, he was loving it.

Purposefully he strode into the far end of the class. With each step it seemed the tsunami advanced. Notebooks were being opened, and the mobile phones hidden away.

Reaching the other side of the classroom, he surveyed the students. There must be around fifty students in there, but there was pin drop silence. There were some whispering going on but they stopped pretty soon.

He had them, he had them good.

Half an hour and a couple of more shows, as he called them, he was fully content. Names and outlandish theories conjured up from tidbits of newspaper and books had so far forced the class into subjugation. The girl in white had tried to interrupt once or twice, but Mr. Sharma very carefully side-tracked her.

He was on “Rajagopal’s Theory of Bills” when a peon peeked in the room with a torn book in hand. For a minute the peon simply stared incredulously at the state of the class. Five back benchers were standing on their seats reaching for the sky and other two were at the blackboard struggling with a nonsensical numerical. Other students were writing furiously, filling up papers as fast as they could.

From the back of the class, Mr. Sharma stared at the peon. With the most menacing look he could, he barked, “Leave!” The peon jumped a couple of feet in the air, and moved forward to keep the book back on the desk. Mr. Sharma could have sworn he saw him shake with fear as the peon left.

It was time to go. Time for the final act.

With a clap and an “Oye!”, he motioned everyone to be seated. Taking his time, he moved back to the center of the class.

Pointing at the girl in white, Mr. Sharma snarled, “List what we have studied so far.”

Without so much as looking in her notebook, she said, “Tendulkar’s Theory, Kalam’s Theory, Theory of Closing Bell, AMUL Theory, and Rajagopal’s Theory of Bills.”

Mr. Sharma was secretly glad to see her strained look. Finally, she was down.

“We shall be stopping here today.” The class heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“But!” Frowns, replaced the grins. Buts’ were never good. Especially at the end of a lecture.

“But, we shall be having a test next time on these theories. Be prepared.” said Mr. Sharma as he picked up the register on the desk for a roll-call, taking care to stare at every student, as if he was looking right through their souls. With Vikram, he slammed the register shut and exclaimed, “Pah!” and left the room.

As he entered the corridor, he spotted the peon walking towards the class with a frail old man. It was Mr. Bindra it seemed. Quickening his pace, he hurried past the two of them, hiding his face. They were fervently discussing something, and Mr. Sharma somehow knew he was the subject of the discussion. His steps quickened.

With a curt nod to the security guard at the gate, Mr. Sharma came out through the iron-wrought gate. Humming an old tune, he walked back home, the grocery list forgotten.

“The shop was closed?” she inquired as he entered the house empty handed.

Mr. Sharma just smiled.