I WAS Chairman of Education at NID then.
One morning, the security guard from the main gate called me to say that a beggar wanted to see me and that he claimed he was my student. When he came to my room, I was shocked. He was in dirty, tattered clothes; uncombed hair, shabby beard, hollow cheeks and lifeless eyes. I could not recognize the beggar.
'I am Gafoor', he said.
My mind went back a few years. Gafoor Mohammed was a brilliant student when he was admitted into NID. The admission panel was amazed at his excellent drawing skills and superb aesthetic sense. He could not speak a word of English since his parents could not afford the costs of an English-medium school. His father was a mechanic in a small company in Pune. The boss of the company who saw the boy's wonderful self-taught drawing and painting skills encouraged his father to apply to NID, the premier institute of design in India.
Gafoor's poor family lived in a chawl, in a single room. Once his friends had visited him and half way through the conversation Gafoor had said, 'Hey guys, don't turn back. My sister is taking bath there.' That room was also the family bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and living room: all in one. They were so poor.
We admitted Gafoor as a first rank candidate and recommended conversational English classes for him to take. His first semester jury went very well and he seemed to have learnt some English. However, surprisingly in the next jury his performance suddenly dropped very low. We attributed this to possible initial problems in adjusting to his class here his peers were all fluent English- speaking, guitar-playing, party- going, smart and elite students. His counselor said that Gafoor would take time to mix with his peers but would pick up in time. We waited.
Two years passed and the teachers started complaining of his absence in class. He had no friends in the institute, so we could not get any clue about his real problem. He started missing fee payments saying his family was having financial troubles. The warden however found out that he was receiving money orders from home. We gave warnings but did not want to dismiss him from the school considering how the poor family's hopes were pinned on him.
One late night, the security of the hostel made an emergency call to me to say that, a bleeding body of a student had been thrown in front of the gate and the assailants escaped in a rickshaw. I rushed there and found Gafoor lying in front of the gate, in a pool of blood, beaten to pulp, bleeding and unconscious. We admitted him in a hospital.
Later enquiries revealed that Gafoor had desperately wanted to belong to an elite peer group. He could not learn to speak English or play guitar or dance but he fell easy victim to superficial short cuts to elitism such as smoking, drinking and before he knew it, drugs. He became an addict and started missing classes and drooling in stupor. He did not have the money even after spending away all the fees money for it. So he borrowed heavily and could not pay back. The drug peddlers beat him and dumped him.
After he was discharged from the hospital, I sent him to a psychotherapist but in vain. He would not go. He would slip away somehow even if I sent another student to accompany him to the therapist.
Finally, I had to give up.
I called his father to take him away from NID and to admit him in a good de-addiction centre. His father was heartbroken and fell on my feet.
After one year, I was seeing Gafoor again. His condition and his mumbled talk told me that he had escaped from the de-addiction centre and had come to hide here. He was starving and had not a single rupee on him.
I sheltered him at my place, till his father came and took him away. That was the last I saw of him.
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