There was once a juggler. He was known across the land for his skills. He could juggle practically any number of things for as long as he wanted. It was said that he had never made a mistake and was, in fact, incapable of making one.

His fame grew as he travelled far and wide and performed in palaces, royal courts, and town halls. Because he made juggling look like the easiest thing to do, many tried their hand at the craft. They gave up when they were bored or became too acutely aware of their limitations. Funnily enough, no one had ever asked the juggler to teach them.

I have always wondered what people have against short answers.

In school, most of my classmates had problems squeezing ideas into a given limit of 200 words. When it was not about ideas and sheer data was what needed accommodation, they struggled with the squeeze again. There is only so much you can do to elucidate chapters of world history without giving in to the seductive bulk of it.

Even in college, I found word limits greeted with expressions of frustration and annoyance. For many people, being brief and simple actually requires more of an effort than being elaborate does.

Ever been called to lunch and refused it or postponed it because you had a late breakfast and were not hungry? Ever seen people cajoled into a marriage, even if they were not ready, because it was time for them? In short, have you ever, when told it was time, felt otherwise?

Some people choose the evening snack over the lunch. Many choose to remain unmarried if they realise they can’t do justice to the bond. What do you think separates these people, however moderately, from the great majority who live by the book?

Every student knows the horror of the listless question that comes up early in the study of any subject. It is the call to define the subject. What is Biology? How would you define Journalism? What is Political Science? What the blazes is literature? And there are the ancillaries: Is Political Science a science or an art? Is travel literature literature too?

I am willing to bet your way of dealing with them was saner than mine. I crumpled, tongue-tied and lost for words. I watched helplessly as my chance at making a brilliant first impression flew out of the window (these questions usually come up during introductory classes). The teacher’s eyes glaze over and drift to another student (prig) slicing the air above his/her head with a raised arm.

As a kid, I was racked by guilt each time I read a comic book. They were banned in the house. Reading comics was not permitted, bringing them home was unpardonable, buying them was unthinkable. My mother’s sensibilities having been formed by voracious reading of Sarita, a magazine that stood for new age thinking (bah!) in the late eighties.

Though she was totally against my reading Raj Comics, my mother quite encouraged Champak, Nandan, Balhans and the like. Mostly because they had goody-goody stories about children my age (dealing with cute little problems like an upcoming exam or a class bully) and were published by reputed publications but also because they weren’t high on action, like the books I preferred more.

I was never good at math. I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes after nightmares involving my many math tests. But perhaps advocating Maharashtra government’s decision to make mathematics optional after standard 8 for the reasons above will make me look vain. So I will seek some more educated answers.

The average high-school goer in India is a curious mix of conflicting ambitions. He even likes (gasp!) school sometimes. This is because most of the horror stories he was told as a pre-schooler about schools being torture houses and teachers being demons (who spreads these things I wonder) have proven themselves wrong by this time. He has favourite subjects (sometimes one of them is even math), and many a time nurses fond dreams of making a career out of them.