“A MOOT Point: Mentorship, Mayhem and Mild Existential Crises”
"You said you were busy?"
During MOOT prep, I met a fellow student who, refreshingly, didn’t seem remotely scared by my “elderly” status (his words, not mine—but probably his thoughts). On the contrary, he looked quite eager to sponge up some of my life-earned wisdom, like a legal apprentice in the making.
This bright-eyed young man introduced himself with the kind of glowing ambition usually reserved for movie protagonists or people running for president. He declared, with a grin wider than my student loan debt, that he intended to be a future world leader. I admired his confidence—it practically needed its own lanyard.
Full of charm, smiles, and zero fear of wrinkles, he asked about my MOOT strategy and what my “intervention” might look like (making me briefly wonder if I’d accidentally joined a UN peace mission rather than a mock court).
Flattered—and mildly stunned—I thought, “Wow. One of those boys actually sees me? Not just as a mysterious older figure lurking by the law books, but as a person?” I decided to lean in and listen.
We all have biases. Mine come with a packed lunch and a loyalty card. But with a life twice as long as his, I try to keep them on a leash.
He spoke beautiful English (not his first language), and told me he'd spent the past three years in a military school in Pakistan. Suddenly, the “future world leader” claim made sense. This was not just boldness—this was strategy. He’d probably already mapped out his cabinet.
Apparently, I was a potential asset. He wanted to work with me. As a team.
Yikes.
Of all the humans in the law library, I had to be approached by the one person who seemed entirely unlike me in every possible way. Politely (and internally screaming), I told him I already had a team. But he persisted.
He asked, firmly and repeatedly, what I was planning, what cases I’d use, and as the conversation reached a crescendo, I realised I was rapidly losing control of my own plot. I had to make an exit.
I didn’t want to seem rude or judgy, but I felt like a juicy orange being squeezed for pulp while being complimented on how vibrant my skin was. Something felt... off.
My study time is precious. I don’t come to the library to teach—I do that for money. I teach teenagers two days a week, tutor counselling one evening, and that’s on top of law school, kids, pets, and enough domestic tasks to qualify me as a full-time facilities manager.
It sounds selfish. But I made my polite excuses, handed over more advice than I’d planned, and aimed toward the café like it was a finish line.
To be fair, the boy was always respectful and smiley. But even after the MOOT, he still had questions.
During one of our brief chats, I had mentioned (casually, I thought) that I was very busy. This must’ve haunted him. One afternoon, walking back from a lecture, he caught up with me again.
With all the courtesy of a butler and the curiosity of a detective, he asked,
“You said you are busy—what is it that you do?”
I blinked.
“What do I do?” I said. “Well... I run a home. I have four children, three cats and a dog. A husband who works long hours. I teach secondary school two days a week, I tutor counselling to adults, I study Law, I clean, cook, and wash. I give lifts to friends. I go to kids’ parties on weekends. I also write. For fun.” I paused, watching his face try to keep up. “What about you?”
He hesitated. Then smiled.
“I’m not busy.”
Comments
Post a Comment