Why Kalam's lecture is my fondest memory from college
A Sunday morning in a college hostel is sacred. There are no 8.40am classes to attend, no breakfast queues, since most people would wake up only at the 1pm lunch bell. But this wasn't any other day. It was the Annual College Lecture. It was one of the most tortuous of events the college inflicted on students. We'd be dragged out of our beds at 8.30am and asked to assemble at the lawns. During my first year, for months, we had been fed on a steady diet of how-to-hate-the-college-lecture. But that was before we were told who the chief guest at the lecture that year was.
Right after his term as the president, Dr APJ Abdul Kalam was invited to speak at our Annual Public Lecture. At 7.30 that Sunday morning, the hostel didn't need any external intervention in waking us up. No teacher had to force us to go and attend the hour-long session. The college lawns were teeming with students. Attending the college lecture was a compulsory task, but that December morning needed no coaxing. From us, the 18-year-olds, to the 50-something teachers on the podium, every eye was on this man, every ear listening in awe. For an hour, Dr Kalam spoke to us about education, women's education in particular, and no one could hold themselves back from applauding at frequent intervals. He spoke on nuclear science in a primarily Arts college, to students who'd given up Science, and we listened to him and thought how could one speak this well. His inimitable accent and the bright smile made many of us want to know him better that day. And he was first a teacher, then anything else.
Our normal 55-minute lectures seemed to drag on forever. Sitting through one Literary Theory class was difficult, unless something really important or really scandalous was being discussed. That morning, before we could even realise, an hour had come to an end. The man spoke, and we realised what he could do with students. Once the speech was over, we queued up to get a closer glimpse of the silver, middle-parted curtains of hair and the disarming smile. And he obliged us all with vigorous handshakes. A feeling none of us would ever want to let go of. Something none of us would want overridden by anything else.
In the rest of my college years, two other guests had been invited to speak at the lecture. But the students were restless for the hour to end. Behind the microphone, we searched for that smile which had held us captive for so long.
Since last evening, there has hardly been an Indian who hasn't been personally affected by Dr Kalam's death. No public figure in recent times has commanded as much respect - love, more than respect - as this man. As the president of the country, Kalam found time to personally respond to letters from children who saw inspiration in him.
At 83, when most people are either forced to take leave from work or willingly do so, Kalam was going around speaking to students. That he passed away in the midst of students is perhaps a reminder of that very fact: work till your last breath. Metaphorically, and otherwise.