The professor had the best office in the building. It was tucked into the front left corner of the large entrance foyer. From his seat he looked out to the avenue leading to the college lined by a row of tall polyalthia on one side and spreading gulmohars on the other. To the left of the road was a soccer field surrounded by staired seating where students gathered during class breaks under shady trees. In his spacious office, a fan hanging from the high ceiling constantly whirred above his desk, giving instant relief from the heat outside. Bookshelves lined the wall displaying American volumes with glossy pages the professor had acquired as an exchange student in the early 60s.
I parked the motor scooter on the side of the building, climbed the steps to the foyer, and turned to the professor’s office. As soon as I did, I knew I was in trouble. The professor was talking to someone sitting opposite him. I couldn’t see the guest but I recognized the voice. It was KPR's. I had some unfinished business with KPR: I owed him a long-delayed report. I had artfully avoided him on the campus but all that had come to naught now.
I was finishing up my master’s degree and was visiting the professor to discuss my thesis work. Earlier in the year I had taken an extension course with KPR. That’s what resulted in my pending business with him. I was the only enrolled student in this extension course—extension being a subject whose purpose and content remained as murky to the professor as to the students, not to mention whoever fashioned the master’s syllabus. The first day was awkward. KPR began reviewing Maslaw’s hierarchy of needs and I began falling asleep. At the end of the class, we struck a bargain. I would do self-study and write a paper on a development project in a nearby low-income colony. In turn, he would give me an A in the course. With the deal set, we went our happy ways and did not show up for the class for the rest of the semester.
At the end of the course, KPR gave me a B. I was offended. I met him in his office.
“Sir, considering the circumstances, could you please give me an A on this course?” I pleaded, pushing the grade report toward him.
“Sure,” he paused and looked up from the notes he was writing. “But, where’s the report?”
“Eh, aahh, …, the report?”
“Yes, the report. Remember, the development colony project?” he hinted, going back to writing in his notebook.
“Oh, yes, the DC report,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “I am drafting it,” I waved the sheaf of papers I was holding. “I am almost done. I will submit it soon.”
“Let me see the draft,” he said without looking up.
Did he call my bluff? The papers in my hand were the script of a play I was recruited to act in. If nothing else, the acting practice proved helpful.
“No, these are just field notes. I need to put them into a readable draft,” I countered.
“What assurance do I have that you will complete the, eh, DC report?” he asked, peering at me over his reading glasses.
“As I said, I have done the field visits and just need a couple of weeks to wrap up the report,” I answered, noting he was still distracted by his note taking.
“All right, leave the grade sheet here. I will issue a new one,” he said.
“Thank you, sir!” I got out of there before he could change his mind.
Two weeks later, KPR had kept his word; I hadn’t. There was an A on my transcripts, but no DC report on KPR’s desk.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried. I had biked to the development colony and met with Thankappan, the colony leader. He was welcoming and ready to talk about any topic except the development project. He evaded and changed the subject, showing no inclination to share information on the beneficiaries, the benefits, or the end result. Instead, he questioned me about my whereabouts and my family background. Once I told him I lived nearby, he relaxed a bit and mentioned the better situation with drinking water after a public well was dug in the colony. He introduced me to his son Mani, who took me around the area. But Mani was more interested in talking about the Indian cricket team and Mohanlal movies than improvements in colony life.
That left me in a limbo and dodging KPR became a necessity. It worked, until I made that fateful turn to the professor's office.
I stood to one side and spoke to the professor, ignoring KPR completely. When I was done, KPR cleared his throat to speak. My knees buckled slightly.
“Where’s the development colony report you were to turn in?" He asked.
“Yes, I was meaning to comeby. I have been caught up in difficulties with the thesis work, as you just heard.” By sheer luck, I had been telling the professor the hard time I was having getting information needed for the thesis from the Panchayat (a local government body). “I faced a lot of the same problems getting data at the development colony.”
The professor interrupted. “What report, what colony?” he wanted to know.
Before KPR could say anything, I jumped in with my version. That was a deft move because when I was done the professor seemed persuaded.
“People are suspicious of those who come snooping around asking questions about their community and government benefits. It’s hard to get reliable information for project evaluation anymore,” he said.
“They are rightly afraid the schemes will be terminated and benefits taken away,” I chimed in, with a concerned voice.
“Okay, but turn in that report immediately,” the professor said, motioning with his forefinger and pointing at KPR.
“Sure, it's nearly ready.” I looked at KPR and nodded.
“It’d better be,” KPR said, his manner turning serious. “Or else you won’t get the exit form.”
Ah yes, the exit form. That’s the one a student had to complete before receiving the degree certificate. The last laugh of the university bureaucracy. The revenge of the officialdom. One has to get it signed off by every office whether you had dealt with them or not. Finding the officials at their desk was a game of hide and seek and so the process would last weeks before you got all the 26 signatures down.
The exit form shared the features of all other official forms: barely visible instructions printed on paper that looked like it was made from waste material. It's worthy of its own poem.
As the end of term neared Came the form students feared If someone signed by ink, it smeared The paper tore and eyes teared But to get the certificate, it had to be cleared.
I had no way out. The Extension Department had a line on the exit form, and KPR being the head, I had to get his signature. That’s what he had dangled as the threat to get me to submit the development colony report. I walked out of the professor’s office resigned to this fate.
Meanwhile, I got posted as an agricultural officer. Ironically, the job involved extension. As I have already confessed, I didn’t have a clue what that meant. Without going into too much detail, let me briefly say, this led to a copious amount of leisure hours at my disposal. I took my time and finished the master’s thesis. But the DC report sat on the back burner.
It was time to get the exit form signed and obtain the degree certificate. I went from office to office getting the signatures. Eventually, all signatures were down, except KPR’s. It was the moment of truth.
That evening, I put the form on my desk and looked at it. Then I looked at the development colony notes. It was a mess. I started writing a few paragraphs but pushed it away and looked back at the exit form.
Suddenly, I was jolted by a realization. The form was filled with signatures. The extension line lay between entomology and library, both signed. There was no visible space for a signature in the middle! No clerk in the administrative office was going to notice the missing signature. I felt a new respect for the exit form.
The next day, I walked into the office with an air of confidence and turned in the form. The clerk looked it over, made some notes in a big register, and pronounced: “You are all cleared. I will send a memo to the university and you can get your degree certificate in a week. Congratulations!”
And that’s my DC report. Better late than never.
