Friday, 4 November 2016

Teaching is part of life

Teaching has become a part of the daily routine. It's been a decade since I started giving private tuitions to the local school children. I still remember when my grandmother suggested that I should try to earn my pocket money and introduced me to my first student. She used to teach as well but never took any payment. She believed that there is no price tag for education, it cannot be a commodity. To be frank, my financial condition prevented me then, and even now, to enjoy such a philosophy, but I have always made sure that I gave my full dedication as a teacher.

I have been lucky in my share of students. Although of various levels of intellect, all were more or less obedient. They were never "rebellious". The one thing about India is how we still treat our teachers with the same respect as with our parents. This has helped when I occasionally needed to be strict. 

Then everything changed when the fire nation attacked when I had this 7 year old as a student. 

To be honest, although I have spent a considerable portion of my life around kids, I have never felt much sentiment toward them. I'm not the one who likes to hold babies or pull a cute kid's cheeks. Children don't have the effect on me that people expect from me. I had been reluctant thus to take this little fellow as my student as well but the mother believed I had some mystical power of eternal knowledge and felt under my guidance her son will shine like a newly scrubbed diamond. (I don't make the propaganda, it just follows). Once I saw him I knew there would be a problem because that pampered little devil understood no authority. He won't even weep if beaten (his mother told me this, I never, could never if I tried, beat a kid) and didn't bother when scolded. His mother told me to punish him if he didn't behave (as if that would help!) and I was at a loss. 

The first four months were torture. He would not listen to what I said, wouldn't do his tasks on time, you get the picture. I would come home and tell my mother how I would definitely quit the next day. But I didn't. Somehow I went on. 

Then one day he asked me about zombies - how they were formed, what they would eat, how they could be killed. I promised to answer his questions if he finished his tasks on time. He did and I kept my promise. I have been keeping those promises ever since. 


It's nearly the end of the annual term. The mother says that I need to continue the next term for the son insists upon it. And she feels he won't respond to anyone else this well. 

I remember what my grandmother said to me and believed in. I know I am still not in a position to teach for free, I do need that money. But I do know how that kid loves to sit close to me when he would do his sums, how he loves to pull my cheek when he is happy that he got an answer correct and how he makes me smile when he proudly shows his mother his report card and tells the exam was easy because I had explained everything to him. 

I am not saying I'm a great teacher. I don't even know how much of his improvement is due to me. I do know but that he has changed me a lot. I have become a warmer, a calmer and more understanding person. Most importantly I have learned how important it is to treat people how they want to be treated rather than how you want to treat them. I think that makes me a little less self centered as well. 

What I mean to say is education isn't a one way street. It's a straight exchange between two individuals. A teacher is benefited just as much as a student is and there lies the true value of education. Or at least that's what I think it is, probably what my grandma wanted me to understand as well. 

Is this something I only think? No way. Is it something we should all think? I very well think so, yes. 

So let's not give up teaching, let's not be give up on sharing for that's also what education is. Even if you're not a teacher, never let go of an opportunity to educate someone, to share your knowledge . You will be pleasantly surprised of what you learn about your ownself. 

Thursday, 24 March 2016

Dawn of Ju...OHMYFREAKINGGOD Look at Wonder Woman!!!!

Disclaimer: Spoiler free, I swear I do not mention her or any other character in these sentences below.

For the last one month, I have had tiny hopes riding on tiny nightmares about a Friday of March, not because it will be a thirteenth and all hell will break loose, but it will be the 25th of March, when Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice finally releases and all hell will definitely break loose. A slight turn of events (well, it’s actually my comic loving equal half) lead me to a glorious opportunity (that would have made me shoot myself had I refused), and armed with popcorn and stupid grins, us two happy beings eased ourselves in comfortable chairs for a premiere show of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice *dum dum dummm*

The movie unfolds like the pages of a comic book; it takes its time to go through each panel, allowing the viewer to understand the story, make out meanings of the surrounding, and to see the bigger picture with its own eyes and not just what the director wanted to. For Snyder is cruel when he is being kind. He shows us a lot of things, he revealed the full potential of the DC-verse, he didn’t hold back; he took a chunk of DC lore and shoved it in front of the camera and showed that DC movies don’t need separately scripted stories, they do not have to be untraceable adaptations, that DC stories are good, no, great, and they make the DC-verse spectacular. So he mashes up like maybe at least five stories, pounds on them, and moulds them into something singular, something new. So when you sit and watch the movie, you know which story is unfolding, but just when you think you know the end, just before the last page, you realize it’s the middle of yet another story.  And when the last panel is finally there, it’s a bittersweet feeling for it’s not over, and there is the torture while waiting for the next issue movie.

p.s if you want my rating, I will tell you to rate it yourself. Go watch the movie.

That's Batman protecting me

Saturday, 5 December 2015

The Almost 3 am Post

This is one of those nights when I don’t really feel myself. Then again what is myself, what is this self, for I have been a different person a year before, somebody else again the year before that, and now that I lie on my bed, and feel my eyes glazing over as if a sheet of clear plastic shields them from the light of the bulb, I remember a different person, a different me. A different me with a different life, with a different love, smiling at different jokes, whispering different sighs. It’s all so different, my mind wonders along wisps of fantasy, and as the eyes find more whites and blurs, whether those memories are mine, or borrowed, I am no longer sure.

A yearning fills me, I can feel its threadlike fingers wrapping around my heart, cocooning it in a warm, dark net. I long for that person who made that different me smile, sigh, love. My fingers stretch forward and search for him, and I suddenly realize my face is buried in his shoulder, he is that close. I smile, and hope he can feel it, through his clothes, his skin, through the warmth.  I imagine feeling his arm on my back, holding my tight, pressing me against him, securing the hug, ensuring that it lasts. The other arm just lies there, dangling at his side. I don’t know what it is supposed to do, I don’t know whether I’m allowed to hold it.

I remember looking at that arm, for I’m afraid to lift my face and look at you, I’m afraid you will disappear if I do. But for all the reasons, known, unknown, right, wrong, I look up and you’re looking at me. But who are you? I know the smile, those eyes, that nose, that hair, that neck, but they are not yours, they belong to many, many others before you, many others after you. But what does it matter if I fail to give you a name? names have failed me before, words have betrayed me, more often than I can count. I will let myself gaze at those eyes, feel them calling out to me, feel their hunger, the lust, the love, for soon enough they will disappear, that much I know. Do you wonder who I am? Am I the “me” you were looking for? Or do you also see a different set of lips, a different pair of eyes, a different nose? Do you feel a different kiss, for I know we just kissed and it is a kiss that can’t be contained by memory, a kiss I will forget as soon as I will open my eyes. I do want to talk about the kiss, but it would break my heart, and I don’t want to mend a broken heart alone.

I am here with you, and I will be with you even after I don’t remember this. It feels good that at some place we are having this moment, letting it last through eternity. It gives me hope that someday we will be in this moment and we will remember it afterwards.

I will just be here with you for a while longer, with all of you, with all of me. A shudder runs through me as you pull me even closer. The heavy breathing, the loud heartbeats, the rushing memories create a heady rhythm.

Maybe before the dream breaks, she will reach out and hold that hand.

Thursday, 24 September 2015

Dust on the Keyboard

Every time someone has asked me to start my blog again, I have had to sit back and wonder but write about what? The words were there, the ideas as well, but something always made me close the word document after the first line.

There’s definitely no scarcity of topics to pick from. One glittering boon of tech advancement is the bubbling and babbling pond-world of the internet, where you dip a finger, and there you have - all the mundane and not so mundane, the crazy, the brilliant, the loud, and the quiet, the ignored, the forgotten, waiting to be picked up, talked about. Type a few words, let the insta-search produce humorous, reader friendly socio-political articles, lengthy in depth, lived in, in situ analysis, and thesis about almost everything under the still warm Sun. Every thought, every fragmentary, partially formed shred of muse is documented, published, displayed. And witnessing this rumbling mill of activity, I feel stunned, and quite envious. For these armies of writers-analysts, who come from different vocations and practices, have so easily mastered the concepts of literary theories, producing engaging strings of words seemingly effortlessly, whereas even after four years of continuous training, I fumble about the idea of literature, poetry, frankly, intimidates me, and I struggle to find the confidence to pen down, to give form to my muse. I am a disheartening case.

Thus I have had to sit back and wonder if it is still alright to talk about the simple; autumn sky and the lazy afternoon, the tired salesman who asks for a glass of water, the rooftops and the memories, the failures and the fears. May be everything has be said and told and discussed, but there is a chance we will find something new if we start again. 

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

A Dull Poem

There is the crowd and here is me,
In an attempt to find unity --
I bridge the gap with eager steps,
Jostling for a place in the mesh.

It's hard to breathe.
It's hard to see.
I feel so tiny in this throng of human bees.
Buzzing and moving, to gather, to store,
An array of minds all synced to a single core.

I met Jack, on his way from work,
He’s a party loving and hardworking clerk,
He hates to be dull, and thus makes sure --
Like everybody, to follow the new haute couture.
His wife is happy, his second car works fine,
His boss laughs at his jokes and in fine hotels he loves to dine,
He hoped I was good, but didn’t ask for more,
His chaps were waiting with beers and cricket scores.

As Jack waved me bye, vanishing in the swarm,
Leaving me thinking, for a moment and few,

As I stood aside, watching the crowd pass by,
I wondered why Jack was called dull,
--- and not me nor you.

Monday, 20 May 2013

"Sleep No More!"

Shakespeare, the dude, always had it right. Do a hard work and baam! "Macbeth hath murdered sleep!" and he can't sleep no more! And they called it poetic justice!

But it’s hardly the time to make interesting remarks about life or the surrounding events, global or local.

Neither is it the lovable pleasing atmosphere, to tell lines of a pink romance or a cherry lip kiss, beneath a golden moon, beyond the city skyline.

It’s just a long night, creating droopy eyes and overactive brain, a night which, like any festival, is rare in its occurrence, but also unlike the festival, isn’t met with any whatsoever mirth and/or  smile.

It is the night of the eve of exam!!!
*apologies for the lack of thunderous background music. we are desperately short on funds*

I now am emblematic  of that particular feeling when you know that a single more word will blow your brains to small, not at all pretty looking, bits and provide food for ten winters to the ants in your room. I stand sit, as example and proof, that there is no such existence of a peaceful sleep that refreshes your mind and prepares you for the impending exam, with a brisk and invigorated outlook.


Worse than the Santa Clause scam!!

Countless years, with even more unaccountable exams, have I experienced and that refreshing sleep has always eluded me. It’s as fantastical to me as my dreams to ride an unicorn, while i munch on a ham sandwich. But you didn't have to know that. Moving on...

Reader, don’t bore yourself further! If you are no student presently, and face no impending exam, be on your way.

*Male readers – Dude! Seriously!! Is something wrong with your testosterone levels! Not the site to be! Go incognito!!!*

My ramblings have helped in certain ways, to vent out the excess of words which have been bothering me like a crown of flies, found at the posterior of a holier than thou cow.

Don’t give that corrective attitude and a lecture on how a year long study helps. I can’t think of a smart retort right now, but I am still not agreeing with you. Sympathies please! I have studied for eight six umm, some straight hours.

Well, I feel less bored now.

I still find no sleep though.

I can so empathize with that Macbeth fellow right now.

Anyhoo! Enough of talks! I need to save some words for the exam.

Peace out!! 

Sunday, 12 May 2013


The leaf shrugs off the persisting chains
Farewell to parental bough!
Blows away with sailing breeze
Dispossessed, aimless.
The leaf knows not its solitary fate,
Destined to wither in some foreign earth.
An Original mistake, not time enough to learn, but suffer.

The wind blows away, to scavenge another soul,
 Stealing the vestiges of a happy dream,
Suck the hope from the shivering dawn,
Caress with a cool finger, those warm cheeks,
It flies hence.
Dispossessed, aimless,
Eternally unloved.