meet STP

In this entry, I shall relate the poignant tale of a class of students of above-average intelligence who were subjected one day to one of STP’s English classes without warning. Yes, you’ve guessed it – the class was mine – and Nicky’s, as well, just for the record. The first major shock came from the knowledge that our English teacher wasn’t GK this year, but STP, his underling, and an incompetent nincompoop who tries too hard to be something he’s not – a respectable person. The second major shock came from seeing STP face-to-face for the first time at such close range. As far as appearances go, he’s not exactly what you would call “human”, or even “humanoid”. For the most part he looks like a cross between a mammoth and a warthog, the fact that he wears thick glasses that cover what I’m sure are a pair of maniacal, unfocused eyes being only a mildly attenuating factor. His name, STP, stands for Srinivas Tight Pants, an obvious allusion to the fact that he wears ridiculously tight pants that morbidly accentuate the rotundity of his posterior. But I’m inclined to believe “tight” also alludes to the fact that he’s incredibly uptight all the time, for no apparent reason. It inexplicably seems to give him great pleasure to pretend he’s in an important enough position to go around disciplining people. Paraphilias can be so annoyingly incomprehensible sometimes.

Now that I’ve given a decently substantial introduction to this STP pathogen and its general characteristics, let’s go deeper and analyze how exactly this man affects the psychology of all sane people in the vicinity, and instills nameless fear in anyone who finds himself staring at his behind. Well, for one thing, STP knows very little English – not even enough to ask for directions on the street. I have been able to extrapolate that his education had been prematurely terminated in the womb stage because his family lacked the necessary monetary resources. It’s no wonder, considering how much money the fetal STP is likely to have eaten as food from his mother’s body – probably enough to have given him that bloated backside. The only thing he’s taught us so far – and I say “taught” for lack of a better word – is how to make curriculum vitae. He betrayed the fact that he was a total ignoramus on the subject the moment he started on the topic. Where it said “full name”, he wrote “Miss Lavanya”. Aside from the fact that STP seemed to be going through some sort of identity crisis, and couldn’t seem to figure out if he was a man or a woman, the fact that he totally missed the point of writing his FULL name was epic.

Pretentious words and bad grammar betrayed his profound ignorance of everything a self-respecting human ought to know. The sound of his voice was jarring. His miserable attempts at appearing suave almost had reverse peristalsis going in my esophagus. I thought the way in which he blatantly ogled at the girls was disgusting, but that was before he started ogling at the boys in pretty much the same way. You could see that his thick, bushy eyebrows had shot skywards as he lecherously weighed the pulchritude of each of the people in our class against that of the last person he had taken to a cowshed. In the middle he started drooling, and the water alarm went off, and several dutiful cleaners had to come and mop away the mess. He even tried luring one of the boys into a dark corner behind a pillar, but was baffled in his attempt by the fact that he had just remembered something vital.

“I will leave you now,” he said in a grave tone, his voice brimming with self-importance. “I have to go to the Board of Intermediate Education for evaluation of papers.” This last sentence was said in a burst of passion that eclipsed everything retarded he had said until then. And since nothing can be said without body language, he added a good deal of that, too. The look on his face said it was a great honor to be called by the BIE, as noble an organization as it is, for “evaluation of papers”, and that such an honor had never been bestowed on him in the past. Finally, after years of living in GK’s small shadow and being vastly outdone by Vijay Waghray in terms of disciplinary kick, this was his moment. This was the day STP finally became a man. But then his identity crisis kicked in again, and he began brooding for a couple of minutes as to whether it was a man he would be becoming or a woman. Eventually he reached a compromise within himself, and decided that he would be becoming both. Then he ran out of the class happily, his joyous yays being heard even through FIITJEE’s famously soundproof walls, until he fell into the Hussain Sagar. We haven’t seen him since.