A professor, in a class of her own

They get paid little. You curse them for doing their job and find ways of avoiding them when they are around. And yet, when you lose one ...

They get paid little. You curse them for doing their job and find ways of avoiding them when they are around. And yet, when you lose one of them you realise just how much they meant. Last week the papers carried news of the murder of 68-year-old Mehroo Jussawalla in her Altamount Road flat. To most readers she was just another unfortunate old lady, a victim of the times.

But to me and countless others who she taught she was simply unforgettable. Till her retirement in 1989, and for as long as anyone can remember, Mehroo Jussawalla taught English literature at Elphinstone College. You did not need to have studied literature, however, or to have been a student of the college at all to have heard of her. She was, to put it mildly, a presence. Part of her renown derived from her physical appearance. She was large — in the six-foot range with broad shoulders and silver hair. She always wore pale-coloured saris and high-backed blouses. Her intimidating size was matched by a fiery temper. She could flare up overshoddy work, absence or some other real or imagined misdemeanor and leave a hapless student or colleague quaking with fear. She could also, unexpectedly, find humour in the simplest things. She had many and some rather unusual achievements and pre-occupations. Her annotated text of the Faerie Queene was prescribed for the A levels. She studied Marathi and was apparently researching a book on Shivaji. But these were interesting sidelights to other rare and remarkable qualities.

Miss Jussawalla or Jussie as we called her was erudite without being pompous. She was learned but not obtuse. She was involved but not sentimental. Her subject was the work of dead writers, but her mind was alive. And if she came across as daunting it was often because you felt completely incapable of matching her dedication.

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I should know. In my final year, I was assigned with two others to her for tutorials, a much-feared fate given her high standards and expectations. Towards the end of the year my fellow students droppedout and I went for my last session alone hoping, that in view of the approaching examinations I would be let off lightly. It was of course, a foolish expectation. “Write an essay on the concept of the king in Shakespeare,” she said peremptorily and scribbled the names of four plays I was to consider. Neither the subject – which could have filled one or several decent-sized books – nor the plays had anything remotely to do with the prescribed syllabus. I grumbled, I agonized, but with the fear of Jussie in me I got down to work.

It turned out to be a stimulating exercise. And that perhaps, is what was so exceptional about her. She challenged you and yet, seemed unaware that she was doing so. That ignorance stemmed from a certain idealism. She was a perfectionist. Not the nit-picking, finicky sort of perfectionist but one who was so committed to her chosen field that quality was a matter of course, not something extra.

I remember once submitting an article to her for the annual college magazine, TheElphinstonian. The piece had the germ of a good idea, I thought, though I was less than happy with the execution. When I saw it again, in print, however, I almost did a double take. The changes were subtle, just some words cut and punctuation altered. But the transformation was incredible. It was, and still is, the most skilful piece of editing I have ever seen. Not that Jussie would have seen it that way of course. For her it was just a job, which meant that it had to be done well.