Quiet please

The favourite topic of discussion those days was the sweet romance between our art teachers Mr M and Miss M. Woe betide those who say that all work and no gossip makes one a dull person. I should have wisely continued studying but I had to air my two-bit view on the subject. ‘‘I fail to understand why Mr M and Miss M do not get married. They have so much in common and it is a bit of a miracle that they are both still unattached in their late forties…’’ I stopped, interrupted by a loud sob. Miss M’s niece had joined the group just as I began on my discourse.

I still wonder about that sob sometimes. I ask myself about where the tragedy in that relationship lay. At that time, however, my primary concrn, since I could not eat my words, was to try to undo the harm I had done to myself. Painting was my favourite subject in school, and after that small incident, that later blew up into a full-fledged ‘‘episode’’, the mild-mannered Miss M hated me with the ferocity of a tigress.

Those who were unaware of my faux pas — and the subsequent row of blunders committed while earnestly trying to undo the harm — must have wondered why she picked on me all the time. I was the quietest girl in school who loved painting with as much passion as Miss M obviously loved Mr M.

With the passage of time she learnt, albeit grudgingly, to give my work its due but she never forgave me. The lesson was well and truly learnt.

Or so I thought. Because lessons learnt in childhood are easily unlearnt in later years. I remembered it a few weeks ago when an evidently wrong choice of words in complimenting a fellow artist friend at Garhi, managed to ruffle his feathers to the extent that the most gentle, soft-spoken artist in our clan almost squashed me underfoot with a scathing. ‘‘You know, when I entered this field, you were probably still sucking your thumb!’’.

I was tempted to tell him the truth, that I heartily wished I had been sucking my thumb, but i was busy being caught foot-in-mouth (so much more dangerous than the ‘‘thumb-in-mouth’’ syndrome) situation, making ill-advised comments about my art teachers. That started me wondering all over again about that love story.

The other day I met a niece of mine studying in my alma mater. Mr M and Miss M are still as close as ever, I am told, and the little ones’ favourite gossip revolves round the twosome.

I still do not know the beginning and the middle of that story but since I doggedly believe in miracles, I am hoping for a happy ending to that long romance. After all, 60-something is not the end of the road. And miracles do happen. Sometimes.