The Government Higher Secondary School where Maya worked wasn’t so much a building as it was a passive-aggressive statement against civilization. Cracks in the walls seemed to be a symbol of overall neglect. Every morning, Maya stood at the gate holding her bag like a riot shield, bracing herself for the war of mediocrity.
The students called her “Maya Ma’am” with the sort of exaggerated respect usually reserved for their Math teacher who speaks in riddles – acknowledging her presence while secretly hoping she’d just go away.
Her first lesson in history wasn’t about ancient kings or freedom struggles. It was the truth that her job didn’t matter. And the second lesson – neither did anything else.
Comedy of errors:
Maya’s career began with a clerical error – someone in the education department must’ve been more concerned with their tea break than accuracy. She wasn’t meant to teach. Her only previous experience with authority was trying to stop her husband, Dhananjay, from wearing his outdoor slippers inside the house. The slippers always won.
When the principal – a lean man whose face looked permanently stuck between disbelief and annoyance – welcomed her, he said, “We need someone to inspire the students.” His tone suggested he needed someone to endure them instead. Maya suppressed a sigh and began mentally composing a list of reasons why she took this job in the first place, hoping it would remind her to stay positive, at least for the day.
The Classroom:
Day one in the classroom felt like stepping into the audition for a low-budget Malayalam movie directed by a clueless amateur. The overachievers in the front row sat poised like they were ready to publish a savage review the moment she faltered. The middle-row kids yawned with synchronized indifference. And the backbenchers – ready with TikTok memes and snack packets, they were the local equivalent of rebels.
“Ma’am,” one of them asked with the audacity of youth, “why should we bother with history?”
Maya paused, scanning their bored faces. Then she replied, “Because it’s the study of why people like you shouldn’t exist.” The class burst in to laughter.
Domestic Detachment:
Home wasn’t much better. “What’s for dinner?” Dhananjay asked one evening, flipping channels on the TV.
“Cyanide,” Maya uttered. She had picked up the term from a Netflix documentary, Curry and Cyanide, which had become her accidental lifeline of late.
“Add some turmeric, bell peppers and onions. It tastes better that way and good for your health” he replied without blinking. Maya stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or cry. The truth was, she didn’t feel marriage so much as secured, it felt like being the unpaid intern in a start-up called “His Life”
Their marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was a maintenance contract. Maya didn’t even feel resentment anymore – just an overwhelming urge to ghost her own life.
Medication and Tantrums:
Maya’s life was governed by a delicate balance of SSRI’s, beta blockers, and caffeine. The pills kept her upright, functional, and barely human. If she missed a dose, the withdrawal symptoms hit like a tsunami – her heart racing, her vision blurring, her mind collapsing into dark little pockets of paranoia.
One day, she forgot her meds before class. The students were halfway through reenacting a scene from Baahubali using their desks when Maya slammed her textbook onto the table. “Sit down!” she screamed, her voice cracking like old furniture.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” a boy asked, his voice infused with genuine concern.
“No,” Maya replied. “But let’s pretend I am.” The laughter that followed was the closest thing to therapy she’d had in weeks.
By month two, Maya stopped pretending to care about the syllabus. Maya’s lessons became part lecture, part stand-up comedy, and part therapy sessions. The students liked her, not because she taught well, but because she didn’t care about her own teaching. “Learning happens despite me, not because of me,” was her favorite excuse.
“History is meaningless,” she declared once. “Unless you like stories about dead people screwing up.”
“What about Gandhiji, Ma’am?” someone piped up.
Maya shrugged.“Think of him as that one person in your WhatsApp group who keeps forwarding motivational quotes.”
A backbencher shouted, “Maya Ma’am, I saw your Instagram page! You’ve shared Pakalu Papito memes – no wonder!”
Existential IBS:
Maya’s only refuge was the school toilet – ironically, the most stable part of the crumbling campus, courtesy of her IBS, but she’s not confined to the solitude. She’s got Andrew Huberman in her ears, turning a gut battle into a brain gain. Talk about making the most out of a crappy situation.
At home, Dhananjay noticed nothing. Or maybe he noticed everything and just didn’t care.
“Want a new phone?” he asked once, mid-dinner.
“No. I need a new life,” Maya shot back.
“Do they sell those on Amazon?” Dhananjay asked. He smiled, pleased with his own joke.
Maya felt like the tragic protagonist of a drama series, complete with melancholic violin music and a spotlight on her unwavering sense of inadequacy. Truly, a masterclass in self-inflicted cringe.
The Renaissance Breakdown:
The turning point came during a lecture on Michelangelo. Exhausted and unmedicated, Maya broke down mid-sentence. “Imagine painting a ceiling for years,” she moaned, “only for people to say, ‘Nice’ and move on.”
“Ma’am,” a girl hesitated, “are you saying Michelangelo wasted his life?”
“Yes, and so am I!”
The students clapped slowly at first, then louder. Maya couldn’t tell if it was mockery or solidarity. She didn’t care.
Epilogue of Absurdity:
Years later, one of her students wrote a book and dedicated it to her. “Maya Ma’am taught us that history is just humanity’s longest inside joke,” it read. She placed the book on a pile of unpaid bills, smiled faintly, and uttered, “At least someone got it.”
Then she made herself coffee, prepared some food, took her meds, and faced another day. Not heroic, not tragic – just absurdly human.
