Urban Solace

As the last coach of the Bangalore bound Chennai Mail dragged out of platform two; I took a deep breath, taking in as much of the Chennai air as I could, the city I was born in and the only home I knew. 

Despite its many stereotypes admonishing ones traveling to the city-about its climate, its reputation for being conservative and boring, I clung on to the Chennai smells, its burning heat and distaste for anything non- Tamil quite vehemently. I searched for every semblance of Tamil in the new city that my marriage was growing in. The Tamil speaking auto driver, made me smile, the banter with the local Tamil shop fellow made my day, cheering for Chennai Super kings amidst a sea of vociferous reds, and hooting for Tamil flicks were my moments of pride. I clutched on to the city that gave me my happiest times. The sad memories conveniently flitted out of the window of my mind at least momentarily. Nostalgia is such a disease. When it grows, it grows on everything, sucking the vitality out of one like a leech, much to the annoyance of the very patient husband. Settling into a new city, especially after living in the same one for 27 years, was not as romantic and dreamy as it had seemed. The roads, people, weather, language, house and work, too many things were changing at the same time.

But as I grew older, my marriage wiser, the city also started spreading its tentacles on me, albeit silently. What is the identity of Bangalore? I wondered. Mumbai is the city that never sleeps. Calcutta has its intelligentsia. Chennai is conservative. Bangalore? It tries to be as nonchalant as Mumbai. It is definitely isn’t as ethnic as Chennai, yet it holds on to its Tipu Sultan and boasts of its Kanada heritage .It certainly doesn’t have the cinema or infrastructure that Hyderabad boasts off. Bangalore is the typical ‘jack-of-all-trades and the king of none.’ But maybe being the jack is the best thing. This salad bowl of a city has everything to offer to everyone. It loves cricket, cinema and shopping; has some of the oldest architecture, the ever-brewing liquor industry, a bubbling fashion industry and even a vibrant queer culture.  Known as the start up capital of the nation, Bangalore gives space for every little idea however obnoxious it may sound.

From Belly dancing to kathak from making cupcakes to masquerading crap from your house as art, everyone has a niche, and everything sells. Some of the most ingenious ideas have taken root in Bangalore, the latest being an ‘After party clean up service’ that targets the city’s youth who are too busy partying in homes (given the 11 pm curfew) and too hung over to clean up the next day. There are people to pick up your mess after you without nagging and with a smiling face! This must be heaven!

After ‘Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara’, became a hit; Bangalore launched its very own Tomatina Festival. (Thanks to some levelheaded souls, the idea was shot down later). The city has its own Oktoberfest; Holi is celebrated with the same fervor as Shankaranthi and, the birthplace of Carnatic music is also every rock band’s muse.  Though the identity crisis looms large, it’s a large hearted and open-minded place that is very welcoming and accommodating. Speak to the shopkeeper in your native tongue and he will happily haggle with you in it.

From the queer to the quiet, from the orthodox to the out of the box, this city has a place for everyone, from every state.

Interestingly it’s not just the exploding human population that the city caters to. Bangalore is a pet’s paradise. Nothing bears greater testimony to this than a pet shop aptly named, ‘Pampered Pets’. There is also a store, called ‘Paws’ sprawled across 2 floors that houses everything for your little halves, even a 4 post bed!  Some of the plushest restaurants, including the Taj have ‘dine with your pet ‘options, every alternate weekend. I don’t think there is anyone who has better karma than my dog Leo. He lounges at home all morning the cloudy weather making him sleepy, goes for long walks in the evenings, gobbles ‘Corner House’ ice-cream on Sundays and goes to the Dog Spa once in a month (which he loves by the way). Pets’ birthday parties are meticulously planned and celebrated with the same pomp as a toddler’s and the birthday doggy has even a cake ordered from an exclusive bakery called ‘Barkery’! I am only glad that Leo cannot talk; lest he would be throwing tantrums to throw him one and buy him toys! 

Being a true Chennaite who hasn’t experienced any other difference in weather except the variations in heat, I was awestruck when March began. The city burst into delicate shades of pink and lilac, akin to the cherry blossoms of Japan. It was the onset of spring! One could see these lovely Desi cherry blossoms dotting every road from the busiest MG road, to the narrow gullies, covering the ground with thick carpets of lavenders, pinks and radiant yellows. Such a sight does make one’s commute more pleasant, especially when you have to spend most of your time grinding your teeth through traffic.  For the first time in life I had actually witnessed the four different seasons. Until then my concept of season existed only in petty rom coms that I feasted on when ever I wanted to feel good.

After the mindless hurry of Mumbai and the sense of urgency plaguing Chennai, many would say that Bangalore reeks of laziness. Shops open leisurely at 11 AM and promptly roll down their shutters at 9PM.  And while you are the store nobody is a hurry to bill your items. What is the hurry? Why doesn’t one stop and smell the flowers seems to be the motto.

Weather. One of the first things that city serenades you with. And before you know it, it even transforms the 27-year-old Chennai Vaasi into an irritating tourist who sighs and grumbles about the weather every two minutes, while visiting any other city. A very tolerable summer meant I could wear my skinny jeans and full sleeve kurtas without a burning desire to cut my left arm and fling it in frustration. The weather spoiled me.

  

Rain frequents this city more often than others and drenches it into silence. The minute it starts raining, life comes to an abrupt halt. People scurry back to their homes, vendors shut shop and auto walas refuse to budge (even if that was an opportunity to milk and make more money). The romance of monsoon, hot chai and a book are the staple of every Banglorean.  Chill winters follow the monsoon and with winter, Bangloreans scramble into their sweatshirts and quilts and snuggle into deep slumber.  Weather comes first, work can wait.

“One of the nicest things about life is the way we must stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating,” said Luciano Pavarotti and Bangaloreans are a fitting example of that.

The food in Bangalore grows exponentially to its population. People’s favorite past time is eating out. However people also gym and walk in Cubbon Park with equal ferocity. With the weather being kind, outdoor seating is the most favoured option. There is also something for every palette. Calcutta manifests itself in many outlets, Mexican is truly authentic and there are even restaurants serving the Anglo Indian community.  The plethora of restaurants have even wackier names, ‘A hole in the wall café’, ‘Fat Chef’ to name a few. With extravagant lifestyles and greater purchasing power, a stroll in the weekends makes one feel that nobody believes in cooking at home.

Besides Food, Bangalore’s other favorite pastime is Malls.  Much like IT companies, malls sprout in almost any available space, and most often the relationship is symbiotic and perhaps even parasitic. Without a beach, without a public place to relax (barring the parks that are sometimes littered with condoms), malls are the only hangout places that people throng at.  In Chennai the Express Avenue fascination lingered on for quite some time. “Lets go to Express Avenue” was something that we weren’t bored of saying. But the malls in Bangalore made my eyes sore. Aisles and aisles of the same stores, same products arranged in identical fashion and exorbitantly priced made me claustrophobic. But the people here take their shopping very seriously; for its very difficult to spot a Bangalorean who doesn’t like to dress well. Enormous amounts of money, time and energy seem to be spent especially by the young in recreating fashion trends. Many are literally cardboard cut outs of their favorite characters from TV shows such as ‘How I met your mother’, and ‘Gossip Girl’. Bags change with the season; so do colours of nail enamel and hairstyles with every new song. Being one of the so-called ‘trendy’ teachers in Chennai I was in for a shock when I entered the campus of the new college I started to teach in.  Almost all the Lecturers were impeccably dressed with earring matching their saris and hairstyles being flaunted even while lecturing. Their many chores of packing lunch boxes and fending off prying in -laws were no deterrents to dressing to the hilt. Some claimed that they have never repeated a sari!

What is about Chennai that I missed I did not know. Maybe it was the wide roads and less traffic. Maybe it was the beach. Or maybe it was just home.  Most probably it was just my mother. Home is where the mother is after all.  The fact is until two years ago I made all my memories only there.  But now I was in a new city making new memories. Bangalore accepted me very soon. The vibrant culture and the scores of things to do kept me hooked. In less than a year I scored off many things that I had dutifully written in my bucket list. I learnt to make sumptuous cup cakes, I drove, I learnt dance and did yoga to maintain my sanity. Running a house of two kids, one overgrown and one canine I felt the onus was on me to rise up to the occasion. From being the one who is generally taken care of I became the caregiver. I came home everyday to a million little things that needed to attend to. I diligently made ‘things to be done’ lists in my phone. I set right the curtains, cooked, washed, made the bed, stocked the fridge, and paid the billion bills that never stopped coming. I made a home. I announced that I was now a strong and independent woman!  Of course I happily and slyly shrugged off the tag every time I fell sick. (Which the husband would say was many a time). But the city was growing on me; and so was I.

From being the new girl in the city, exploring every nook and corner with excitement and caution I become the multitasking, independent woman that I always dreamt of being. It’s been a journey. Thanks to the city that just let me be.

Epiphany

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It was time to say bye. One of those customs I hated doing even when it was bidding adieu to something that was good while it lasted and I was moving on to greener and perhaps more promising pastures. In that bubbling melting pot of nostalgia, sadness and strange optimism, there was also an easy calm that gnawed my insides. As I cleaned my table of all the books, it dug deeper into my chest.

I had been teaching for 2 years now. I had established myself as a teacher noted for her passion. I dabbled in different subjects and widened my horizons. My personality and my teaching gradually evolved into a more confident and mature role. I shared a lovely relationship with all my students.

 Everything was fine. Except one class.

They were not a bunch of hooligans who would disrupt the class at every possible juncture, and bring the roof down. They certainly didn’t bully me or participate in mass bunking.  They just did not care.

The attendance was good, the class performance was fine. But they did not care. I taught them a subject that didn’t require to be studied; advertising. My classes were infused with many videos, analysis of ads, interaction and assignments that demanded only creativity, yet they were unperturbed. They stonewalled all my attempts to motivate them. Even then, they did not do so with a dramatic walk out or even a snigger, but with a wry smile.

It was at that point that I realized that indifference was more powerful than hate.  Even if a person hated me, it meant that somewhere I was part of their thought process and thereby there was scope for change. When they don’t care, when you don’t really ‘exist’ nothing can change.  Up until then, that was the biggest disappointment of my career, that I could not fathom why this class behaved this way. Feedback sessions with the students were futile. My attempts to make the classes more interesting didn’t help. I was alone, introspecting, again and again.

As I was packing, one of the students from that class, peered into the staff room, hesitantly, and asked if I had a minute to spare.  She thrust a tiny envelope into my hand that read “Dear Shakti Ma’am’” in her beautiful calligraphic handwriting. “ I heard you are leaving, I just wanted to give you this “she mumbled under her breath and disappeared before I could complete the thank you.  I hadn’t told the class that I was leaving. I didn’t feel like.

Shreya.She was one of the quietest girls in the class. One of the prettiest too. She sat in the left corner, second bench and took copious notes. She made eye contact at times, but rarely smiled. The first thing that struck about me was her beautiful handwriting. But when the class projects came, I was floored. She oozed of creativity; one of those rare minds that you feel would be a crime if it ever went to waste. She hardly spoke in class and I barely interacted with her as well.

 A tiny little card emerged from the handmade paper envelope and read “ Dear Shakti Ma’am, Thank you very much for your classes. We will really miss you.”

Those were the most eloquent words that I had ever read.

And the best compliment I had ever received.

Perhaps I was also too pre-occupied with the big picture that I failed to look at the finer details. Lots of students have waxed poetic about my classes. Many of which I would take with a pinch of salt.

But Shreya had, in her own soft, inconspicuous style done more than that. She silently reaffirmed the faith in myself.

She was probably speaking for the class out of politeness. But the tiny drop in the big ocean was enough and was all that mattered.

 I was ready to say Goodbye.

PS: Shreya Chakravathy now a budding Graphic Designer from NID designed this blog for me. Its been a pleasure to see her grow, and to see our relationship grow in more ways than one. Thank you Shreya for everything.

Happily Ever After

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“Enjoying your honeymoon period? “. 1 year into marriage, and this is all I have been hearing from all quarters of the society. The word honeymoon makes me squeamish than any other word in the English dictionary. Speaking of which I Google the word and our modern age ‘go -to guide’, Wikipedia throws up this definition.” Honeymoon. Originally "honeymoon" simply described the period just after the wedding when things are at their sweetest; it is assumed to wane in a month. This is the period when newly wed couples take a break to share some private and intimate moments that helps establish love in relationship.”

The key here - this is the period, lasting perhaps a month to a year is supposed to be the sweetest and establishes love in the relationship.

I think not. I beg to differ. I strongly oppose.

Whoever has been telling us that the first year of marriage is a bed of roses has obviously never been married and is definitely wrong. Is it pragmatic to assume that life would be a beautiful for a new comer? When has life been kind to us when we had to face something for the first time? First time we went to school, first time our tooth fell, first time we went on stage, first time we rode a cycle, first crush, first exam. Oh hell, they have all been scary! They have all tested the best of our abilities. Logically speaking, shouldn’t one therefore conclude that having not been married before, that the first year of marriage is the hardest? The firsts only seem poetic or romantic in retrospect.

It’s a popular perception that couples are in their best of behavior during the years of dating. Maybe not. But its probably human tendency for partners to find things that they agree with more easily than things they don’t, during this time. But when the humdrum of everyday life kicks in, all the little things that one doesn’t agree with slowly starts bubbling up to the surface.

There are perhaps many couples who would recount their days of glory in the first one-year.  Many arranged marriages work beautifully on that principle. But for urban couples, who live alone, have distinct identities that they are uncompromising about, and are off the same age/have engaging careers; living together is a different plane.

With live-ins still a distant reality for most of us, the first one month of marriage is the first time you actually start seeing the person for 24 hours, 7 days a week.

 A typical day begins with you waking up to a groggy face and most often you are not a pretty sight either. White goo streaming from the corner of the eyes, tousled hair and sluggish body language. The door bill rings. Who is going to attend the door? An argument ensues. The less lazy, or the one who didn’t get up the previous time, or the one who is better dressed, gets up in a huff, muttering under his/her breath.  

Good Morning!

You observe his habits, and you study yours. If they clash, sometimes (rarely) you don’t care but if you are walking on the OCD tightrope, and these habits border on issues of hygiene, you argue.  Sometimes you also command in the pretext of a request. “Can you please close the lid of the toothpaste?” “ Can you not throw the wet towel on the bed”, followed by “ How many times have I told you; can’t you keep your footwear inside the shoe cabin,”

Most couples spend a lot of time, in their initial one-year of being together, eating out. This is usually due to pesky relatives’ invitation to honour your ‘holy matrimony’, but most of the time a result of the trials and many errors in the kitchen He points out that the salt is a wee bit more in the rasam. All right you mutter, but when you wonder why he couldn’t complement you with the same enthusiasm on the chicken that he is slowly slurping away, you fume.  When he cooks, the food tastes fine, but the kitchen is in complete disarray and there is way too much oil, you now nitpick. Food can say a lot about a person. Lack of food, and lack of food on time makes some people divulge their worst side. Some adjust and eat whatever they are given; some will eat precisely only five vegetables. Food dictates mood, food reveals upbringing yet food can also make people bond, especially when eaten out.

Fights. You squabble over petty things. Watching TV, over not helping in the kitchen, over not letting things go and squabble over squabbling all the time.  Whether house chores, or planning a vacation, you want things to get done immediately, he doesn’t understand why everything is urgent and suggests that you take a ‘chill pill. ‘You don’t want to become the nagging wife stereotype, yet you are treading that thin and dangerous line between getting things done without sounding nagging. “Why can’t you do it when I tell you to do it, then I don’t have to nag” you bark and justify. But by then you are already labeled ‘Hitler’! It is a vicious cycle!

Sometimes the fundamental principle of nature- people are different is sadly forgotten. He doesn’t want to talk about work when he comes back. He would rather have the SportsCenter chick or FIFA 13 for company. But it’s your nature to rattle off about the day and ask a lot of questions.  He answers in monosyllables with his eyes transfixed to the screen. The attention is divided, and the rattle turns ballistic.

When he is upset he wants to be left alone, when you are, you want to talk for hours, eat something high calorie, or go out for some retail therapy.

At the end of the day, when you don’t have a rationale you simply put the blame on nature. Men and women. Oh we are wired do differently. (I am sure Allan Pease of  'Why men dont listen and women cant read maps’ fame is having a hearty laugh).

But somewhere along the way of exploring uncharted regions in the relationship and testing waters, you learn. Sometimes unlearn and re-learn. In that process you may also discover new found interests and shared beliefs. You watch movies together and dissect them in glee. You have always wanted to hike and he has been hiking all his life. So he pushes you to walk that extra mile.  Kindergarten duties are rekindled as you learn to divide and share. He loves going for long walks while you don’t. So he takes the dog for a walk while you make tea. And you bathe the dog while he dusts the fan. You also learn each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. He is not a morning person and there is no point in bombarding him with questions when he wakes up. You don’t like anybody hovering around you after work and appreciate it when he doesn’t.

He may never understand why you have so many cushions on the diwan, or the concept of window-shopping. You may never get his fascination for the Xbox. As long as you are not trying to change each other, sanity prevails.

Walking together along the learning curve, you pick up the nuances; the little somethings that help you determine where to draw the line, when to put the foot down, where to give up and when to give in.  Then finally one day when maturity makes a come back, you decide that little things must be given only little attention.

As the sunsets, and you snuggle into bed, feeling the warmth and happiness of being together, you realize that most importantly you have learnt to prioritize. You have learnt to accommodate, without that translating into a compromise. (Which is a big word and which never works in the long run). You learn to live and let live, and love without hurting the other. The impromptu ‘I want ice cream now’ trips, movie marathons and sudden holidays make up for all the glitches.

Since we have finally learnt to live with each other, we feel more settled and reconciled to life, doesn’t the happily ever after begin now?

Despite the several arguments, as long as the fun never stops (even while doing the dishes), the laughter never dies (over each other’s stupidity), love is always around, the journey never ends and the learning never stops.

Let the honeymoon (yuck) begin!

29 going on 30

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29 is an interesting age. With one foot in the 20’s and the other in the 30’s, it’s a good time to sit and take stock. Did I slide through the 20’s or did I stumble and struggle? If I get into the 30’s do I officially become an Aunty?

The movies have always given us a glossy and picture perfect notion of the 20’s being this colorful, glossy and fun filled’ period of our lives. Of course it is. It is the time we look our best, have boundless energy and there seems to be so much to look forward to. But ironically it is also the decade where we are expected to make the most crucial decisions of our lives; the ones that can make or break the next 30 years.  Up until then, we were at the mercy of our parents. They chose our school, our clothes (that was the worst!) and sometimes even our friends. We impatiently waited for the freedom to make our decisions, though the difficulty of making one and having to live with its ramifications  (without having anybody to put the blame on or worry about) didn’t occur to us to till then. The 20’s however hurled us at this threshold of taking responsibility for everything that was to unfold.  When it rains it does pour doesn’t it? We finally understood the advice that Spiderman had also received at a similar circumstance!

With so much being written about mid-life crisis, back in college, whenever we encountered an angry and irritable professor, we sniggered that midlife crisis was taking its toll. But to many of us who haven’t witnessed the stagnancy of mid life yet, the real crisis and I reckon the scarier one, is the one that erupts in the 20’s.So many questions. So many fears. No experience. No answers.

What do I want to do with my life? Doubts about whether the current job is my true calling. Should I relocate to a different city? Will I find love? Am I going to marry the person I am seeing?  Is it too fast and too soon?  Adding to the woes of parental and societal pressure is the pressure that you exert on yourself. What AM I doing??

Taking a moment to ponder at this weird crossroad of life, I do a quick SWOT analysis in my head. I think I got by ok.  I fought my demons. I had to face my fears, and woke up to reality, though I admit it was painfully slow. In the process, I found my passion, I met whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I parasailed, and saw the Himalayas.

The number of ticks on the ‘To-Do-List’ could have certainly been more. There were some missed opportunities, and lots of procrastination that could have translated into something productive. But on the whole there is a sense of calm.

The uncertainty seems to have dissipated, (at least momentarily) and the mind is less foggy. In a way I am relieved that I am done making those decisions.

Thus I begin the thirties with a sigh (of relief) and a smile.  

It all looks good.  

30 is just a number.

What is that? No I don’t hear the ticking of any godforsaken biological clock.

Delusion? Denial? Oh please.

Trekking next weekend?

Sure. Only that this niggle in my left knee has been bothering me for a while. I don’t know why.

Ouch.

Musings of a first time Ma'am

So what do you want to be when you grow up?

Life has doled me this question at different stages of my life and I have answered it with childish enthusiasm, early adult cynicism and the nervousness of a 21-year old. However, surprisingly the answer has always been the same. “ I want to be a teacher.”

After a brief vacillation over a penchant for writing and a passion for teaching, I decided to step in to the same college that I had graduated from, but now as a ‘dignified’ lecturer.

 First began weeks of untiring sari shopping expeditions. Followed by frustrating but relentless practice sessions in front of the mirror. Old books and older notes were fished out and dusted clean from the bookshelf. Days were spent in making copious notes and nights in imaginary sessions of teaching where my quick thinking and smart rebuttals fended off students’ questions and pranks successfully. It was a whole new world. There I was, faculty in charge of fifty 19 year olds. The stuff that any parent’s nightmares are made off. There were 100 pairs of teeming eyes, some smiling, some with disdain, some looking skeptically, some sleeping but still open, but all scanning me from top to bottom.

I was a ‘ma’am’, and my stomach churned. The first time a girl wished me “good morning ma’am” I almost laughed on her face. The second time an entire class stood up and chanted it I wanted to duck for cover.

However, the previously irritating 5 1/2 yards of cloth did have some magic, finally. It clothed me with some degree of poise and a gait. It gave a young girl who dragged her feet in a pair of jeans, a sudden grace and a quiet respect. Some would say it made me a woman!

Yet the sari created only early magic.  As classes rolled by, I slowly tried to break the really frigid ice with my interactive classes, presented in a style and manner that they could relate to; keeping in mind that the average college student’s attention span is 30 minutes. Curiosity and questions soon paved way to interest and liking for the subject. However, the other girls who I bumped into, on the corridor, down the stairs jeered, and gesticulated to their friends. A teacher always seemed to have a readymade prototype- middle aged, spectacled and therefore venerable. But when a teacher who was friendly, who hated shouting and looked like one of them, sashayed into the class, she was always received with stunned silence. A young teacher was always treated with suspect both by students and family (mine, theirs), at least initially. Does she know her subject? Can she control the class? Doesn’t she look too small?  Questions were raised. It probably takes us years to realize that sometimes age, and education have nothing to do with the way we think and how good we are at something. The most educated of people can also have the narrowest of thought.  Looking at my students I realized that to be good at something, and to do that something good consistently well, one only needs passion.

Though my Ma’am avatar was accepted and maybe even respected in a month’s time, the same ‘ma’am’ could not be spotted in Coffee Day, in a mall in ‘normal clothes’, and surely not with guy. While some giggled, and some disappeared behind the nearest pillar, the naughty ones would come up and chant “Good evening Ma’am’ at their loudest and ‘sincere’ best! Well according to them, ‘All Ma’ams are boring’ and ’All ma’ams don’t have a life.’ 

My version of the teacher-teacher game did not have the imposing authoritarian adult figure with a stick in her hand and loud booming voice that everyone was afraid off. She was smart, sweet and well spoken. She was not the noble all sacrificing teacher or the commanding and knowledgeable one. She was passionate and wanted to make a difference.

Everything is a matter of getting used to. The bunch of notorious, warm, but also ‘I-know-it-all’ girls had warmed up and we lapped up the joys of teaching and being taught. The students and I grew a comfort level that went beyond the boundaries of age and hierarchy. Personal stories, favorite movies and plans after college were discussed with me, and I enjoyed it, without treading the invisible line that we had drawn. I realized that being a good teacher was about being attentive to the students’ responses and needs, and establishing a communication style that allowed the student to be herself. Instilling obedience or demanding respect never worked.

Students were very smart; whether young or old, they could identify the various types of teachers- The unprepared one, the one who gives unsubstantiated stories, the one who is scared of them, and the one who know her subject but cannot teach and the one who has both.

As for me, the friendly atmosphere made it easier to hold a class in attention. Win the over and hold them there. The foundation was laid.

Teachers are a child’s first brush with the outside world, and it would be an understatement to say that they have tremendous responsibility. We are all molded by our school, and refined by our colleges. To make education work, there must be good teachers.

My favorite teacher was the one who narrated E.B White’s classic “Charlotte’s Web’ every morning, back in second grade. Her simple storytelling pulled me into the magical world of books, and I started to read. The story kindled my imagination and inspired me to write my own.

As a student once told me, “If we like the teacher, we want to do well in her subject”. Good education can be that simple.

The Indian social system may project education as the only stepping stone to success, but it taught me to be original and to contribute something meaningful to life.

 Education is indeed that which remains after we forget what we’ve studied.