ODE TO THE MATHMANIA

You had diagnosed yourself to have Mathamania. Why? Numbers made you go crazy. The moment you saw numbers they danced around you like ugly ghosts, or say honeybees out of the honeycomb, circling your head to bite.

You remember, as a seven year old, how your Dad was very particular about his kids doing well in Maths and languages, and his reaction when he found out that it's not exactly so with you. Your teacher had sent a note to your parents to inform them to take notice that you are not learning the tables. That day when he came home, he asked you to recite tables. You started reluctantly and went on slowly until the table of seven, when you went totally blank. Your mouth went dry, you had goosebumps, and you started trembling with fear; tears pricking your eyes. 

He said," Tomorrow when I come home I want you to recite the table of 7 before you say a single word."

You recited the table of 7 all day long, maybe, a 50 times. When you heard his bike outside the gate, you ran and stood at the front door with both your arms on two sides, as if blocking his way. He came and stood towering in front of you. You recited the table of 7 in one breath. 

You then took a deep breath, and turned around relieved that the ordeal of the table of 7 was finally over, but that very moment, he crushed your relief as he ordered," Tomorrow onwards, you must learn one table everyday after 7 and recite it in front of me; and all the table from 2 to 20 before your evening prayers, sitting in front of the Pooja Ghar."

"Shit, shit, shit..how could he spoil every coming evening for you!"

Mom had already spoiled half of your evenings by sending you to a classical music class because it was her dream to learn classical singing, but for now you will have to leave it for another time. Later, you somehow learnt all the tables, still your fear of numbers increased day after day, and year after year. You were in 9th grade and you gazed blankly at the black board as your teacher taught in the Maths class. You had grown dreamier than ever before as a teenager, and Maths class had become a dream class for you. You could never answer anything Ms Birewar, the thin built, geeky, saree clad teacher asked. You just stood numb with all the class enjoying the joke of your utter dumbness. The more seriously Mrs Birewar taught, the more colourful your dreams grew. That tall, skinny guy, who was a topper in Maths, met you outside for coffee, and appreciated your skill with words and history, and bought you a pastry in the dream. He also shared his stamp collection with you in one of the many dreams. But in the real class he was the loudest to laugh.

When you got 6 marks out of 30 in Maths in the unit test, your dad got alarmed and realized the gravity of the situation like never before. You were sent for informal tuitions to a young Bsc Maths student. But she gave up on you, for most of the time you stared at her stone faced. 

Since your 9th grade, you have been at the receiving end of the sentiment reserved for a handicapped child, showered on her by over compassionate people. Your Dad took leave during your 10 board exams, and sat outside the examination hall for three whole hours to boost your morale, and you came out and hugged him with a mix of utter gratitude and triumph of a sportsman who has just broken a world record. You passed 10 std with just okay grades in Maths. He later advised you to give up Maths and go into Medicine, for he wanted to get rid of the stress which you created during your exams. You were overjoyed. 

Even after going into Medicine and suddenly finding yourself to be the most intelligent and all powerful being on the planet, sans Maths, one more demon was standing with his jaw open, yet to be slain. Statistics was his name. You somehow got over it because you had to do just a few simple exercises, and it had hardly any weightage in the big picture. 

Yet, you have now developed a strange habit of miscalculating everything first hand, from grocery bills to shopping bills, and you mostly return people wrong change, and get strange glances often, from shopkeepers and cashiers at malls. Credit cards have solved your problem these days. 

You often wonder if something is really pathologically wrong with your numerical brain. Then you fall in love with Psychology and decide to do Masters just for the love of it.

The old demon lifts his head once again, Statistics. You have to appear for a 100 marks theory and 100 marks practical to pass the masters. Your love for Psychology has presented its test. 

You are determined, you decide to look the demon in the eye, and you for the first time decipher it's secrets one after the other, and prepare yourself without anybody's help. You grow stronger day by day. You have an option of taking tuitions, but you are hell bent on doing it on your own this time. It's a make or break situation. If you cannot clear Stats, you cannot get the Masters. 

When the Stats question paper is given to you, once again the numbers start dancing around your head, but you breathe deeply, and take a long and hard look at the questions. Your head, your hand, and your pen finally co ordinate and get to work. 

You pass your statistics exam with flying colours, and are relieved that you are finally cured of your Mathamania. As you finally rest your numerical pen, you realize, all the subjects you can understand, you may not always love.