Notes from the diary of an Indian in England
Sometime in the late 1930s or early 40s, a newly minted Canadian schoolteacher by the name of Laurence J Peter saw a door sign in the august institution he was then employed at. It said: ‘Emergency Exit. Authorised Personnel Only’.
One tragedy of being an academic, besides eventually succumbing to the corruption of one’s discourse with articulations such as one’s discourse, is that one is doomed to a life of perpetual panic.
I am an Indian living in England — a former journalist, now an academic.
There is this four-letter word in English that many of us are severely allergic to — and no, this one doesn’t start with ‘F’.
In my many years of marking student journalism, nothing has given me more pain than the apostrophe: my teeth are all gnashed-out now, and I think I am in need of an urgent hair transplant.
The most interesting part of an academic year is the first couple of weeks. I love the buzz it brings.
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