English Literature And why I chose it.

As a highschool student, on the verge of beginning their career, I was, like every friend of mine sure to choose the mainstream. Science was the only option in the environment I grew up in. Becoming a Doctor or an Engineer was the prime focus of every mind at the age of mere fifteen. In the herd I followed and was set to become an engineer. Architecture did appeal to me but ut wasn’t something I was particularly passionate about. As kids who had groqn up in a science-supremacy domina schooling, most pf teachers too were focused on physics, chemistry, biology and mathematics. History and Geography were mere score holders and English or Hindi not even counted as subjects.
This was all until a new Literature teacher showed upto the school. He was fovused upon English as if it was the most important thing in the world. Others found him to be obsessive and comical in this seriousness towards a humanitarian subject. I was, however, struck with this passion he had. I sometimes caught myself wanting to have such a passion for engineering in my life.
As a result, I started reading stuff about engineering and tried to learn more and more about it. Inevitably, it was an interesting field to explore, but I still couldn’t find it in myself to be passionate enough for engineering.
With passing time, Sir taught us different stories, different poems and different essays. Literature was simple and yet complex. I found it easy to grasp and complicated enough to provoke my thoughts.
When our mid year examinations came, I scored highest in my class, and marginally so. Sir, who I had never seen be so impressed, came upto me and congratulated me on my performance. He went as far as to say “you have a knack for the literary.” I was proud of myself, but only in the capacity that I had topped a subject and a teacher, who barely ever acknowledged a student’s existence, gave me a compliment.
I came home and told ny parents. My brother’s response was very simple and yet I believe for it to have changed something within me about the perspective to this decision, “Are you happy about this or are you happy for what it might lead to?”
I reflected upon this simple inquiry. He was right, was this just a one time thing for me? A compliment that will sit om my mind’s shelf for ling collecting dust, that i may someday recall before someone?

A week or two later, Sir entered the class with no books in his hand. He declared that he was not going to teach today. And for the first time in my 11 years of schooling was I upset over a cancelled lesson. He sat down tensing to some administrative work, when a boy in my class asked (and boy am I thankful for that) “Sir where did you teach before here?”
At this all heads turned to Sir and he closed the work owing to the curious gazes. “ I taught literature in Assam” Gasps filled the room.
“Before that I was in Delhi and prior to that in Arunachal”
“Sir, how long have you been teaching literature?”
“This is my 35th year of teaching”
“Sir, are you happy with what you do?”
“I could be in a pool of gold and not be happier than I am with my career in literature”
Immediately, I asked myself if i would be as happy with being an engineer in 35 years.
The answer obviously was, no.

After having realised that it was not within my passions to become an architectural engineer, I was surrounded with doubts of what i would do next. Multiple possibilities dor once weren’t as exciting as they used to sound. Terror and confusion overtook me and I succumbed into constant anxiety.
At the age of 14, having decided your life goal was important. What you would do in your career, what degree that entailed and what stream would you choose after your boards to achieve this degree. These were ques that circles around this decision of career.
I started exploring ideas, picking grown up brains and reaching out to people who could provide informal career counselling. I was surprised at how many different career paths were taken by people worldwide, and somehow most of them had done it because they were passionate about their choices in them.
I aaked my friends what inspired them to become a doctor or and engineer. Unfortunately, none of their choicws was influenced by passion or desire. Some said it was what they were supposed to do and others said that it was what they have always known to be a worthy profession. Science was the only way to go forward and the choice was only between Biology or Mathematics for them.
I explored the internet, read about people in psychology, sports, fine arts, astrology and many different things. None of these things sparked anything in me. It was tough to believe that discovering your passion was such an investigative job. I always thought it would just come to me. Apparently that wasn’t it.
With these doubts and concerns at the back of my mind, I still carried on with my daily life and school schedule as per life’s pace.
My school held multiple competitions and extra curricular activities ranging from singing, dancing, essay writing, declamation, plays, quiz etc to sports such as races, table tennis, badminton, chess etc.
I often participated in most of these, honestly because I was always inclined to win something.
In January of my 9th grade, with acade session about to close, declamation was just around the corner.
Declamation was a oratory competition, students were supposed to write their speeches or pick one from history and deliver it by heart. Many of my competitors chose to pick out a speech from history books to be on the safe side. For days, I tried to memorise one such speech but could not do it, I always missed a “the” or an “and” or forgot the beginning of the sentence.
We were due to aubmit out intended speeches to the panel on the following saturday and I decided to write a speech on my homeland. The nect day, I submitted it to one of the panelist. It was my literature teacher. He took the slip from my hand and read it in silence for a good 10 minutes. After this he took out his specs and looked at me. He asked “you are delivering this for the competition?”
My heart sank and i said with uncertainty “yes, sir”
he looked away and spoke at a low pace “I do not believe people your age would understand this. It is highly philosophical.” and then he smiled.
HE SMILED!
the teacher who was always serious, SMILED!
I delivered the speech and won first prize in the competition.
Then on, something began to change in my life.

10th grade had officially begun. The year that mattered the most, the year that was supposed to be the first stepping stone of a teenager’s life. By now, everyone was immersed in the idea of choosing a career, finally getting rid of subjects that they had no interest in and more precisely, the subjects that did not matter to them. My friends had made uo their minds and I was still stuck on what to do next. In a city that apnly valued the stream of science and offered only the choice between biology and mathematics, I had to make up my mind upon a profession that would entail either of these.

One early morning literature period, Sir came in with the text and announced “Today we shall read the poem ‘Cold Within’ by James Patrick Kenney”
I turned to the designated page and read,

“Six humans trapped by happenstance
In bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood
Or so the story’s told.
Their dying fire in need of logs
The first one held his back
For of the faces around the fire
He noticed one was black
The next man looking acroos the way
saw one not of his church
and couldn’t bring himself to guve
the fire his stick of birch
the third one sat in tattered clothes
he gabe his cost a hitch
why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back
and thought of the wealth he had in store
And how to keep what he had earned
from the lazy shiftless poor
the black mam’s face bespoke revenge
As the fire passed from his sight
all he saw in his stick of wood
was the chance to spite the white
The last man of this forlorn group
Did naught except for gain
giving only to those who gave
was how he played the game
Their logs held tight in deaths still hand
was proof of human sin
they sis not die feom cold without
they died feom cold within”

As I finished reading, I felt my arms covered in goosebumps. The poem in my vision was deeply reflective, a piece of literature that was simple to read, reached the audience, addressed a wide range of discrimination, was lyrical enough to appeal to my aesthetic value and provoked thought within one.
Sir began with his analysis. He asked questions as to what was the major concern of the poem and we rightly identified it yo be lavk of kindness in the world due to discrimination.
He then told us how the six men stand for a metaphor of the entire world and century. What strikes my interest mostly was the fact that the atmosphere, of cold weather, reflected not only what was within these men but was also anticipatory of the Death that was to come to them. Cold, Dim, Hate, Night and Death, all going hand in hand was one thing that was an understood fact in Literature.
For some reason, I thought it was common knowledge and wondered why sir was underlying something so simple and known, until my friends noted this down and expressed kack of understanding over this.
This was when i understood that literature was within my understanding and not only my passion but also my temperament.

After having had the decision of my life I began to yo work towards it.
This was new.
I new engineering, I new the opportunities it brought and most importantly I knew the ateps necessary to proceed towards it.
English was new.
I did not know what it brought and prior to that, what it came about by.
Researching on this was a whole new topic of concern. What one needed to study, read, and understand to be a literature student. I had to go through all the colleges to find out which one would be both best and suitable for me.
But before all this, I knew post boards studies would be the immediate challenge for me.
In a city that was mostly and entirely immersed in the obsession with science, mesical or engineering, choosing, let alone looking for a school with humanities for plus two was a hurdle that now just me but my family also had to overcome.
It was as clear as a sunny day that there was no future for the study of humanities or social sciences here. Even if one would argue that english in itself is a compulsory subject for all students science or commerce, till the age of 18, and that I could atill study science and opt for english in graduation, I was aware how bleak english teaching was here. As aforementioned science was the only subject WORTH studying, so much so that eveb the schools pushed for it. English was nothing but a formality, ans this was openly admitted to by educators. Infact, in some schools science teachers would wing teaching english too. Less periods were allotted for language and even less seriousness.
For me to opt towards english in the future only meant that I would have to shift, alone or with someone.
At first, I insisted on going to a hostel to one of the metro cities near me. This would keep me close to the family and put the burden solely upon me. But my parents were hesitant to have me leave the nest so early on. And with a little time, even adamant against it.
As someone who was always a migrant, my parents dis explore the idea of me and my mum shifting back to our hometown which offered a better prospect for my unconventional choice.
If I joined a school of CISCE board, which focused naturally more on english literature than on hindi, and equally on languages than on the other core subjects, I could find ample time and resources for my interests.
Once this was decided, My mum, me and my brother left for our homecity and dad stayed behind at his job.
Today, I do not think I have achieve anything but whoever and whatever I am, And all my positive traits, beling solely to my family.
To my brother, for becoming the backbone of my decision and stepping up as a man of the house in my dad’s physical absence.
To my mother, who started a new life from the scratch, bearing with all that life and people brought upon when one steps up as the woman of the house.
And to my father, for seeing through the dadk task of having lived alone and for bearing the burden that he prevented me from bearing.

I owe my family for taking my dreams and making it their own, for protecting me and for making me feel like I matter. Even though it was a simple thing to ask for, a simple decision, yet, some simple decisions take much from some people than they do for others. The weight of the same choice can be different for all, my family made it lighter for me.