Watching ‘Mary Kom’

          Sri Husband believes in watching a film if:

 a) it has been reviewed/approved by someone whose opinion/judgement he trusts,

b) he doesn’t have to stand in a queue to enter (he must have been a goro-paklo in his last life, always punctual, hence can’t avoid the jostle at the door),

c) he’s conned into it,

d) there’s nothing better to do.

Can’t blame him for such antiquated ideas. When/where he  grew up, teachers thought f-i-l-m was another unmentionable four-letter word, never to be uttered in good company. Unfortunately, Sri Husband’s married to a woman who enjoys watching anything that converses/prances on screen/stage, and considers a classroom as good as any theatre to ‘do the needful’ as we Indians say.

          The bunch of twenty-six students I was teaching for a term said they wanted to see ‘Mary Kom’ as a last-lecture treat. I didn’t see how it would improve the soft skills or personalities I was paid to develop in them, but I’m always game to try unconventional methods.  

          Marks-challenged youngsters who do off-the-beaten-track BBA courses believe that talking/behaving politely isn’t going to get them anywhere. I explain that hard skills (certificates) will get them the interview but soft skills will get them the job. Puzzlingly, at the other end of the spectrum, those who successfully clear state-of-the-edge competitive-exams and emerge from respected professional institutes share the same attitude. I think freshly (post-)graduated doctors need the same gyaan: degrees might get them conferences, but bedside manners attract patients.

          I was surprised at the interest ‘Mary Kom’ generated. This FY batch actually displayed as much enthusiasm for it as when they race for lunch after my class gets over. It wasn’t just the on-screen heroine’s well-toned shoulders that did the trick. (And this was a no-hero-no-romance film). Lanky lads who suffer from restless-leg and sliding-bottom syndromes whilst sitting in class were well-informed about the Boxing Queen and her awards. Their praises were warm. In a previous role-playing exercise, they’d been amused at how little I knew about sports (as well as operating the computer/projector, but that’s another story). Even shy Sneha who blushes if I as much as glance at her piped up to say ‘commitment’ and ‘focus’ when I asked what the takeaway lesson of the film was.

          As in all parts of India except wealthy urban pockets, this young audience instinctively empathised with Kom’s poverty and struggle. Not once in 2 hours and 20 minutes did I need to say ‘quiet please’ or ‘silence’. A record. Another record: no one yawned. Or giggled. I was watching. The wriggling was there, though less. The age forbids sitting still. Been there, done that.

          When Kom won an international medal and the strains of the jana gana mana were heard, conditioning made those present stand, or at least sit straight in their chairs. When Kom cried, some eyes moistened. When Kom was angry at injustice meted out, fists were stealthily clenched, expressions encouraging her to do bash on regardless. When she objected to being discriminated against at being a Manipuri, I hoped they recalled where the state is: we had once done a quiz on Indian states with international borders, answers accessed from the internet. The hospitality industry and football have narrowed the gap between north east India and Goa. “They eat little fish and no coconut” was one comment I got when I’d asked my class what it knew about the people who lived there. “But they eat rice,” was said to show the commonality.

          On the ride home, baryaa moodaath I told Sri Husband another thing the students pointed out to me: from the film they gauged that parents could sometimes be wrong. If Mary Kom had listened to her father, she’d have raised her twins and cooked for her man in anonymity. It helps to break the rules, I agreed.

“Not all who break the rules become Mary Kom,” Sri Husband snapped back. “Not all matric-pass become Dhirubhai. Not all school dropouts become Tendulkar.” Sri Husband has this knack for spoiling moods.

Maybe he felt bad about it (occasionally he shows a human side), because he added, “But the zidd, that works.” Strange he should say that, because when he talks about that quality in me, the tone isn’t kind. Of course, whenever he speaks kindly, I get worried, it’s out of character.

After the compulsory bout of silence, I wondered whether I should have learned boxing. Rules of grammar don’t help to vent annoyance.

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