Xeroxed Struggles and Unxeroxed Lives: Lessons outside the lecture hall

Time of India

18-05-2025

Sonika Sethi is Associate Professor of English in S D College, Ambala Cantt. Her articles are regularly published in Hindustan Times, The Tribune, etc. and has published more than 150 articles. She is the author of the weekly column 'Spell-Bound by Sonika' published on rhyvers.com. She is the Executive Editor of monthly literary magazine, Rhyvers Beat. She is on the editorial board of 8 academic journals and has 7 books to her credit. Her books include: From the Sidewalks of Life, Easter Lilies and Other Stories, Of Gulmohars and Kaners and Other Stories, Rohinton Mistry's Fiction: A Postmodern Approach, Cinematic Adaptations of Literary Texts, Brewing Memories and Shades of Love. Her book Easter Lilies and Other Stories was long listed for Times of India Auther Awards. The book also won the Best Fiction Book Award by Asian Literary Society. Recently her book has been included in the Top 100 Books of India. She conducts lectures and workshops in schools, colleges and universities on the art of storytelling, creative writing, soft skills, Intellectual Property Rights and communication skills. LESS ... MORE
'Don't! Don't you dare pick up that lauki!' my husband hissed dramatically, as if I were about to defuse a bomb instead of choosing a vegetable. We were standing by the local vegetable cart one pleasant evening, amid tomatoes, bhindi, and the occasional buzzing fly. I held up a plump, soft lauki with reverence, admiring its pale green sheen like it was a trophy cucumber.
'Be quiet,' I muttered, elbowing him gently, and dropped it triumphantly into our basket. The teenage girl at the cart watched us with barely disguised amusement, clearly enjoying the free entertainment.
'See? She's always bossing me around,' my husband turned to her with the exaggerated misery of a soap opera hero. The poor girl tried to maintain a serious face, but a giggle escaped, like steam from a pressure cooker.
'Who even eats lauki?' he continued, as if he were launching a national debate. 'Do you like it?' he asked her, carrying forth his nautanki, not only to escape the dire fate of eating bottle-gourd but also for the entertainment of the young girl.
'I like it,' the girl said shyly, her impish smile fading. 'I like all vegetables,' she added, her tone softening as she quietly weighed the items in my basket and slipped them into a polybag. The shift in her expression didn't escape me.
'Do you go to school?' I asked gently.
She nodded, eyes lowered.
'Which class?'
'Ninth,' she murmured, just as another customer asked the price of ladyfinger.
In that brief moment, the playful banter gave way to something quieter—an unspoken glimpse into her world, where vegetables and textbooks seemed to jostle for space in a single day.
We paid and walked away, but the young girl's subdued expression lingered in my thoughts. As a college teacher, I interact with young boys and girls every day. Some are there simply to pass time, their fees effortlessly paid by indulgent parents. Others, however, battle real odds just to stay enrolled, juggling part-time jobs, family responsibilities, and financial stress. That girl, quietly manning a vegetable cart and still attending school, reminded me of the stark contrasts I witness daily—of privilege and perseverance, of those who drift through education and those who cling to it like a lifeline.
I will never forget the day I asked a student during one of my lectures why she hadn't xeroxed the text I had assigned. Her response was sharp, almost defiant: 'I had problems.'
'Would you care to explain after class?' I asked a bit sternly.
'Sure, ma'am,' she replied, with quiet rebellion.
Later, when she came to see me, I was curious, almost impatient for an explanation.
'I didn't have the money to get the text xeroxed,' she said, her voice faltering as she fought back tears.
'You didn't have ten rupees for just five pages?' I asked, unable to hide my disbelief.
'My father is no more,' she said quietly. 'My mother works at the Anganwadi. She hasn't received her salary in three months.'
Her words hit me like a thunderclap. The triviality of the Xerox faded in that instant.
'How are you managing?' I asked gently.
'We're just getting by. We don't buy milk for tea anymore. I come to college only when my mother can spare the bus fare.'
Her honesty, her quiet strength, and the dignity with which she bore her struggle moved me deeply. It was a moment of awakening—a reminder that not all battles are visible.
I blinked back the tears threatening to spill and turned my gaze toward her friend, who stood silently beside her, disbelief written all over her face.
'How could you not know what your friend was going through?' I asked gently, but firmly. 'What kind of friend are you, if you never noticed her struggles?'
A little while later, the two walked away together, smiling as they disappeared down the corridor.
What I did to support the young girl is not something I need to share— it isn't the point of the story. What matters is that the very next day, she walked into my class, holding her text close as if it were a prized possession. And from that day onward, she never missed another lecture.
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Views expressed above are the author's own.