The Pilot

It is 2014, inside a small school in Delhi, probably during the sixth or seventh period, and I am writing something for my English conversation class. During this period, the teacher mostly used to give us random topics so that we could think about them for five minutes and then write something in our notebooks to read aloud later in front of the whole class.

Our very small school had extremely compact classrooms, and each classroom would become the epicentre of the scorching Delhi heat. There were only two fans, placed in such ridiculous corners that the whole class used to drip like faucets. Obviously, the entire institution heavily lacked English-speaking teachers and students because “English-speaking teachers and students” are found only in air-conditioned schools.

While every student used to find this subject very difficult because it was tough for them to think of something rather than follow a straight line and cram something from a textbook, I used to enjoy it. I deliberately used to write something amusing or weird that no one would expect, both to have fun and to challenge an education system focused only on cramming and order. I was revolutionary even in half-pants.

That day, our teacher gave us the topic “Your Dream School Period.” Every kid went with the basics, such as the teacher being absent or us having two sports periods.

What did I do? I wrote everything opposite to normal. For instance, in one line, I wrote that the teacher was scolding Ashu and Kartik—my two best friends at the time, who were class toppers and whom teachers loved for their quiet and obedient nature—while praising me for my slow writing speed and the most disgusting-looking handwriting. The class, along with the teacher, burst into laughter because it was completely contrary to our usual routine.

Every kid used to follow the movements of our teacher’s lips with complete focus, waiting to see whose name and roll number the teacher would call next. During the split second between the teacher saying the final word to the student who had just recited their essay and ma’am calling the next student’s name, the entire internal system of every student would shut down with fear.

When you found out that it was not you, you could very clearly feel all the anxiety and stress releasing from the centre of your chest. The confidence and skills of the students could be judged by the speed at which the next contestant stood up and opened their notebook, accompanied by the crisp sound of every page turning.

The student would move in slow motion because of fear. Inside their head, they would be hoping for a miracle: that the moment they started reading, the period bell would ring. But that barely ever happened.

So, in that classroom, making everyone chuckle for even a few seconds felt great.

I was a huge fan of a television comedy show, and this was probably the first time I felt as though I could be like a comic telling jokes on that stage. Whenever I feel down and out about my skills as a writer or creative person, I return to this instance in my memory and think about what massive frauds all those kids and teachers were. They laughed at my lines and made me believe that I could become a creative writer.

I think about it as I read a rejection email from a media agency that saw my presentation, with all my copy and taglines, but chose another candidate who might also have made their classmates and teacher laugh in ninth grade—with a better line.