Dear Sarvanama:
I am resolute to keep my schedule going – one epistle a week. That’s not too much for my keenness on written words. The format has given me innumerable subjects to craft new pieces. But for the second post, I chose to rework the journal entry from last year. Obviously for its timely (or timeless) merit.
This epistle, dear friends, may reflect some audacity. Some of you might feel a tinge of dislike for it and for the creator. But, if you remember my last post, you will also remember my claim that I have grown beyond the like-dislike binaries and feel no urge to respond to your emotions. So, bear this fact also in mind, would you? When you live more than half a century, and more than half of that as an active educator, you become a persona – a metaphor. I am already a metaphor. If you found inspiration to begin this piece and read up to this paragraph, you would identify with the persona you run into. You would love or hate or trust or mistrust him, but you would be with him till the last punctuation mark.
A metaphor has stories. No doubt. You have yours and have spilt them here and there. My post stems from stories of some of you, which reportedly featured me in as dubious or shaky a self as the world can imagine without warrants. I write about it here as a service; I want to free you from the burden of illusion. In the days after I took transfer in April 2022, the stories folks crafted about themselves had these three straws about me. First, I was ‘sent away’ from the main campus. This portrayed me as a misfit and a potential bone of contention in the changed scenario. Second, I was ‘brought to’ the new venue to wait as a future leader. This painted my character as an invader. I had, in fact, sensed this belief in a satirical poem recited by a senior professor during a picnic organized a month after my transfer. Third, I had chosen a comfort zone and secure career ladder since there were no prospects at the central campus after the change of high-level officials.
I want to cut the background short here. The following excerpts are self-explanatory. I can do nothing about the above interpretations, though.
“In view of the prospect of having justifiable utilization of my faculty role and gaining a distinct career progression in English Studies and English Language education, I request your approval of my transfer to School of Education.” (8 April 2022)
“Dr. Kafle deserves whole-hearted thanks and our profound regards for his valuable contribution in initiating and strengthening the BBIS Program at Dhulikhel Campus besides presenting himself as a warrior whenever the institution would require him no matter who is his commander.” (11 April 2022)
The story is so ordinary. The newly appointed dean wanted me to be involved three days a week at the School venue to help the M Phil program because I had already hosted two M Phil cohorts at the main campus. The proposal came to me sometime during the early days of April 2022. Three days’ physical relocation to Hattiban sounded incomplete to me on the face of upcoming promotion. I realized instantly that such a split would not bring credibility to my work. I told the dean that I would rather give a thought about a full transfer if the VC approved the idea. He called the VC and reported to me a positive signal. I called the VC to confirm the same. This ensued a detailed email, a part of which is the lines above (first).
The second set of lines above is part of the email the registrar wrote to approve my request for transfer. As you saw, the approval also contained an acknowledgement of my contributions at the central campus. With the certainty of relocation, I was slightly afraid of the possibility of physical hassles due to the distance. But my determination to change place culminated in the transfer letter a day before New Year day of 2079 B.S. I began the aching but enthusiastic trip to Hattiban from 2 Baishakh 2079.
The ensuing months were eventful. But this narrative does not feature a linear chronology, unlike what it signifies on the surface.
Finding an ordinary place at the new venue sounded more than ordinary. It started with people’s reluctance (if not refusal) to leave a cozier/office-like room for me. The situation slapped my initial impression that my relocation was a welcome episode. I was in no mood to grudge, though, even if I was treated as an outsider, let alone an intruder. I waited patiently to be treated with some regard as someone who carried the history of hard work, resilience and experience. Yes, it was only my illusion. At heart, I felt I was an accidental bone in biryani.
The dean made me feel important by assigning tasks he knew I could accomplish. These were what the old folks there would take as an additional burden. The first responsibility I got in April 2022 was to take care of the departmental activities – without a portfolio. There would be no position like a head because the person recommended to be one was undergoing medication and was expected to take up headship soon. But as his recovery prolonged and I found it impractical to carry on non-signatory routines, I put a condition to the dean. Either he would release me completely and let me remain an ordinary faculty member or recommend my appointment as the Head and include me in his executive team. I was subsequently appointed the HoD.
This is the first-ever position I claimed to take up – out of sheer compulsion. No matter how many myths have been spread about my taking positions at this institution of repute.
The appointment, I later found out, had its fault lines. As a prelude to ensuing dissatisfaction at the prospect of my induction, a friend from the School of science cautioned me not to assume any administrative position at the new school. I still do not know why he had to counsel me if he had not been coaxed into trying it at least once. Some folks from Hattiban had reportedly lobbied to debar my appointment. The appointment letter dilly-dallied for a couple of days. I never tried to know the reason except having a primitive assumption of it as a usual bureaucratic delay. I got it after I inquired about its whereabouts.
It was my second headship. The first had been at school of management, which I had transferred to a colleague earlier in February. This second had a lot of to-dos on the dean’s list for me. Foremost, he insisted on rebuilding the department ‘as visible as other units at the school.’ He had this dissatisfaction that it was slackened by complacency to the extent of deterring higher inflow of students, recruitment of new teachers, and development of new programs.
The first resistance in my tenure as the head came against the resumption of the Fall cohort of M Phil at Hattiban. A common pretext for such reluctance involved: “We cannot supervise the students with the desired quality. We are only two here.” The ‘two’ surprisingly did not include me, in fact. I forced the Fall admission with this common assertion: “A University is not anyone’s comfort zone. It is a platform for creating opportunities for many. There’ll be more students and more teachers in my tenure. Those who cannot cope with the growth can keep their basic businesses going and let me work.”
My second key responsibility was to develop the Master in Writing and Literary Studies program. I drafted the preliminaries within a month of my transfer to Hattiban. But the induction to headship slowed the process for good reasons. Soon I was reaching out to the back-loggers of the previous MPhil and Masters batches. I was also discussing the possibility of extending a separate cohort of M Phil in Chitwan. The time was so pressing that any grudge or attempt at leg-pulling appeared as ordinary as an itch on my nose. We launched the WLS program in August 2023. There was no drifting away from it.
We did not launch any cohort in Chitwan but received a good number of applicants for the Fall admission of 2022, including at least 10 students from Chitwan itself. The cohort was indeed a successful venture amid doubts about poor applicant turnout. Interestingly, those who opposed the admission competed for the credit on bringing this or that student. That was natural. That was the culture. And that was human.
I knew of the soft gossip about my qualification sans a degree in education. The Dean knew that not having one was not a deformity but encouraged me to join Master in Higher Education the same year. I enrolled in the program partly inspired by the gossip-mongers. One of the then office bearers who often displayed overt nicety for me went so far as to promise me that he would try to create a position befitting my degree and expertise so that I would get a promotion to professorship. I simply thanked him for his new nicety and assured him that he would not need to bother. After I joined MHE and began to generate appreciation for my performance, all gossip and consolations faded away.
While joining MHE was the most significant decision of my days at Hattiban, inducting and mentoring a number of new scholars was the most satisfying initiative. I can spend several pages describing the context in which this was accomplished. I probably lost one’s friendship to gain another’s so that the team could expand, become stable and selfless. In this way, new programs could be launched with greater network and confidence. The tenure started with the delay to hand appointment continued to write milestones for the department. I may have become an eyesore for some but established myself as a key counsellor and torchbearer for those who joined the school with belief in its potential for expansion. So, my source of happiness at relocating to Hattiban lies in the progressive plans and the chances of audacious arguments with non-supporters.
The Hattiban days in the first year took a toll on my personal well-being. I would mention the frequency of sickness and the sense of alienation from the family. I at times called it the consequence of having petitioned to be jailed or exiled for no crime. But I underwent everything with the compensation of progressing in MHE and seeing growth in the programs, units and people. Busy yet happy faces populated the Hattiban complex, while a new building grew up to give us optimism and assurance.
The transfer to Hattiban brought a completely new dimension. I got exposure as a teacher trainer, faculty developer, and community negotiator. This status involved travelling to different districts, cities and palikas. The travels have been so extensive and rich with experiences. I would never have gone to Barju of Sunsari, Sumbek of Ilam and Hemja of Kaski if I were not at the school of education. I would probably not reach Dang, Surkhet, Kohalpur, Tikapur, Dhangadhi, Birgunj and even Shankaracharya Ashram if I had remained stuck in Dhulikhel minding its trifles and mending the emotional peels rampant there.
Hattiban made me stay at the Manahara corridor and witness the hustle-bustle of life around that highly polluted suburb. It dragged me to the vicinity of Imadol and Harisiddhi to the extent of heightening the feeling of alienation. And finally, it urged me to seek alternatives beyond KU buildings by shifting to Katunje, Bhaktapur. Even though I have still not fully recovered from some of the aches I carried along in April 2022, I have gained much self-confidence about how to strike a balance between exertion and comfort.
The transfer may have appeared an invasion into the territory captured till then by those who found foolhardy performers like me unwelcome. My placement may have caused an indirect displacement of those who wanted to make it their lifelong comfort zone. It may also have been a subtle revenge upon those who refrained from a big English fraternity having kept other competent faculty members at bay. I do not regret that it all happened and people got hurt because their private monuments were shaken. Where I landed was an institution with prospects for opportunities. What I collaborated to do was expose that prospect and create opportunities. I celebrate that I helped develop legacies where youngsters multiplied programs and outreaches. I have no credits to claim. All credit goes to the institution that had waited.
Hattiban gave me avenues for upward growth foremost. I became professor of English Studies because it had space for such a position. No doubt, I carved that path along with my well-meaning colleagues. The most remarkable aspect of this promotion was my being the highest scorer at the school and second highest in the university. I don’t know how others took it, but it saved me from the stigma of being called ‘favored’ for a raise.
Dear Sarvanama, I can fill up pages after pages and spend hours recounting my meaningful months at Hattiban as an active intruder, if you may call me so. I have had my position secured there even though I may stretch my presence anywhere at the university in the days ahead.
And you may note that this snippet is only a backdrop. I will come up with a post on my version of leadership and institutional commitment. Take it this way. I am ready for any form of leadership at the university because I have read, worked for, lived with and served as a leader. In mere twenty days from today, I am completing twenty-six years at this thirty-five-year-old University. My slow, arduous yet steady rise from teaching assistant to professor, active leadership roles from coordinator to director and engaged tenures at five different schools of KU place me on a firmer standing than many unwarranted aspirants.
But I am not craving. You can call me Rousseau’s disciple. If you are familiar with his idea of natural man, you know what I mean. He says gregariousness and freedom come after hunger and sex as man’s basic drives for survival. I count H and S as purely private instincts allowed to flourish at home, but I want G and F to seek their best expressions in my workplace. A binding position keeps me away from both. Even if I got one, I would not compromise the avenues of mixing with people and retaining my professional autonomy. I am ready only for those places where I can enjoy the minimum of both. So, if anyone is afraid of being deprived of a title because I am likely to pervade, first check whether the position that holds the title has a gregarious community and a platform for autonomy. If it has, I will make the extent of claim I can justify. If not, all is yours.