Every two months, on a Saturday this year, I’ve been making
my way to Borivali. In his house on the first floor of a housing society there,
retired professor, JC Coelho, has been holding informal poetry appreciation
classes. A group of us have been attending them, over two decades since we last
attended Sir’s classes at DG Ruparel College. He was the HoD of the English
Department there.
When I moved back to Mumbai from Goa, I was in the SSC. A
terrible year for studies and also to make friends. So it was with much
excitement that I had joined college. But as an introvert who took time to make
friends, I didn’t do well in the beginning.
In FYBA, I chose English literature as a subject, and truly
felt ‘settled’ in college. I now had friends with the same interests as I –
reading and writing – and great professors who not only taught the subject, but
became our mentors.
Perhaps the most loved of our professors then was Coelho
Sir. I don’t remember his first class, but I remember thinking, ‘Oh, this tiny
man is the professor?’ Over the years he became more than a teacher to many of
us. He became our parent, our friend, our guide and our critic. After we
graduated, some of us were taught by him again at the Mumbai University, where
he took classes for MA. Over the years we kept in touch with him.
Then last year, my friend Linda, convinced him to hold
classes again, for a group of us. Four of us from our batch in college are
joined by four others for these classes which began after Christmas in January.
The choice of subject was poetry.
Every class is held with a break when Mrs Coelho – aunty
June – makes tea for us and goodies to eat, some brought by students. As Linda
says, “It’s also a food appreciation class.”
The first class was held after Christmas and so we had a lot
of goodies to eat. We also got to see the crib made by the Coelhos. “Ashlesha,
just pick up baby Jesus from there,” Sir said and I promptly obeyed. He wanted
us to see how well their domestic help had painted the figurines. As we admired
them, Sir casually said, “Some of these figurines are over 43 years old.” I was
suddenly acutely aware that I have butter fingers and baby Jesus immediately
went back into the crib.
Over 20 years since I last attended his class, I can see
that the years have not lessened Sir’s enthusiasm and passion for literature or
his students. His method remains the same. A serious lecture interrupted by
anecdotes and jokes. As I chuckled and whispered into another friend, Sheena’s
ear, one particular joke, I remembered he had told us back then. I think the
humour in my book, Musings, also comes from Sir’s influence.
The class is interrupted with talks on politics in India and
the world, civilization, culture etc. Some politicians from desh and videsh are
particularly discussed. Sometimes, like back then, Sir goes overboard with his
histrionics. There are many stories about him from college. As one Coelho
legend goes, a student was standing near the window before he arrived for
class, back in college. The class was a floor above the staff room. The student
loudly said in her most mad literature student manner, “Romeo, Romeo, where art
thou?” And Sir, who was on his way upstairs, promptly said, “Wait, wait, I am
on my way!”
Then there’s that class I missed, when he did the catwalk.
But despite that occasional mad professor behaviour, Sir always made us work.
Even now, this class has assignments which he insisted on giving. He has also
threatened to repeat prosody and scansion, a subject that I dread.
It must not be an easy task teaching a class with a varied
age group, including millennials. But Sir has managed to hold everyone’s
interest in the subject again. He still writes notes for us. No computer
printouts. My handwriting …quite remarkable… is still the same, Sir recognised
it.
