A VISION...

Once upon a time I often used to dream
Of a school which is naturally the crème de la crème.

Offering the Edwardian vision of achievement
Coupling zeal for perfection with attainment

Where the students are all true copies of Dilton
Comprehending with alacrity both Mendel and Milton

No truants like Holden Caulfield to upset the applecart
No Tom Browns to gently question the system from the start.

The story of each teacher would like the last chapter of “Goodbye Mr. Chips” read
But could all touch their hearts and be able to deny any deed

That smacks of favouritism, nepotism and petty politicking
Of small cruelties, rank injustice and deliberate backbiting

That may a shatter a young mind, or a promising career
Tearing decency and integrity into shreds like an angry terrier.

I would also dream of an ideal management
That would consider teachers god and bleat in agreement

To feather light workloads and bountiful of cash
Shut their eyes to parents’ concern and consider their opinions trash.

‘The children will to their potential grow’- would be the explanation
If your child does by merit fail, send him for private tuition

The infant may with his bag load of homework faint
The syllabus is completed on time – so let there be no taint

Upon the school’s reputation which shall shine ever bright
For in the darkness of illiteracy, have we not brought the light

Of spoon feeding, thought control-call what you may
Remember, Education is also an enterprise- so don’t stand in the way!

From such a nightmare I woke one day
Fearing the vision that ahead lay ….

Of the young Frankensteins that we would help to nurture
Who being cheated of a cherished childhood would build a monstrous future


Without the warmth of empathy or consideration beyond self
A genius without conscience, a selfish giant who will crave for help

Yearn for love and weaknesses that make him human
For such qualities also resided in every Aristotle and each Henry Truman.


Can’t we therefore envision a different school?
Where the future Noble Laureate may parley at ease with the fool?

“Where the mind is without fear and the head in held high”
Where the sight of the school gate may not let out a sigh

Where education becomes a search for learning the treasure within
Where a team player is moulded and not a king pin.

Let us hold our child’s hand and become a guide
Help him to seek and not allow to hide

Under a mountain of incomprehensible knowledge that for him has no use
For he knows not his aim, no one has given him the ruse

To hanker for answers that his fervent mind quests
And to cross the unexplored vistas his first footstep sets.

Let us train each child to lift his eyes to the sky
And unfurl his untested wings in order to fly

With Jonathan Livingston Seagull and gather wisdom of his own
To light the first spark with an early man and to know how the first seed was sown

Let every child put together his first two plus two
Watch the falling apple and learn the way Newton knew

And to arrive at the concrete e=mc2 from the abstract yet mundane
Features of life that range from the hissing of the tea kettle to how pigs are slain.

Let us allow a child to know a little less geography
It’s no less important to bring in that cricketing trophy.

My dream school therefore shall such a syllabus follow
That spurs a child to think and absorb knowledge and definitely not wallow


In a quagmire of information spouted from a frothing teacher
Frantically demonstrating his memory power, feature by feature

Spoon feeding is to be banned along with tongue-lashing
Gone are the days when each lesson was taught along with a thrashing.


In my dream school no question can be stopped by a foreboding frown
Any quest for knowledge by anyone is as priceless as a reigning monarch’s crown.

In my school’s timetable a lot of colours are used
Study time, play time –the contours becomes diffused

Feinting in the football field, messing about with glue
Throwing a fit in dramatics and diving into the aqua blue

Singing, dancing, debating -our days are quite full
Our children are not the ones to passively learn and let their heels cool.

A mixed bag of students we’ll have- feisty, brilliant and quiet
Yet in each will burn the love for others-steady and bright.

A medley of teachers there will be-as friends and discerning guides
Holding the hands of their young companions along the narrow and wide

Knowledge will be dispensed here with clarity and verity
Discipline will be tempered with understanding and charity.

The focus here will be on the child, his growth and his mind
There’ll be room for everyone, every creed and every kind.

Lessons will be framed keeping in mind his age and his need
For teaching-learning is both a reciprocal and a continuous deed.

Books will not be the only resort…
Technology, field trips, television-the ship of learning will touch many a port.

The teachers will indeed be the captains of their ships
Working alongside the rawest crew to prevent any slip.

Their hearts too will be ‘with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.’

They too will marvel at ‘the tiger, tiger burning bright
In the forests of the night.’

“Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya” the ancient sages had intoned
To that end will be our journey, to that end our skills honed.

The ideal management will not be the one with palm open for donations
It will have to be the one with heart open for students and ears open for suggestions.

Is such school a figment of imagination, a Hogwartian piece of magic?
To dream of such an ideal, can the end be only tragic?

Still I will dare and dare to dream such a dream
I shall await that enchanted hour and wait for it to chime

I know that the road ahead is going to be steep
And also that in future “I have miles to go before I sleep”

But I know that I no longer want to hear Pink Floyd say with conviction
That teachers do “ Thought-control “ and children say“We don’t want no education”

Therefore my new motto is “I can and I will”
If needed I will part the sea and move the hill

The journey is not easy, but the path is clear
There is trepidation but no longer any fear

For I know that, I in my quest ,shall companions find
Many voices echo these words that are in my mind.

Fellow educators, pupils and parents, together we’ll go
For friends are we, neither antagonists nor foe.


(i had just joined Oakridge and fuelled by the excitement of becoming a part of a brand new pedagogy, had simply reeled out this poem...believe it or not.... at one go......looking back it seems hopelessly optimistic and definitely sophomoric...but what the H...did get a national prize anyway. ....)

what i told my students...post hyderabad blasts

The recent upheavals in the city—manmade –be it connected with dark forces of human nature or sheer negligence---seem to have put this rather languid city of ours under a pall. Do you, as students, have a role to play in its recovery? Certainly you do! BE ALERT; BE SAFE. Keep your eyes and ears open for something out of ordinary; something / someone who just does not fit in and bring it to attention. Keep your minds and hearts open. The burden of blame must not be dumped on a single community---it’s the individual who falls, not the community. Be vigilant. Protest against a wrong, even if it has been perpetuated for long and given the absolution of tradition—you are the future and you have to ensure its sanctity. Keep your hearts open---ordinary people like you and I do not harbour the forces of darkness in our souls. Be clinical in your judgement, yet do not lose your sensitivity and power to empathise. Be passionate, yet evaluate your goal before you commit yourself. Be loyal, yet ensure fairness. Revel in the strength of your youth—ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY. Be safe!

FORTIES IS THE NEW....

“Gather ye roses” the poet Herrick said
Youth will pass, love will fade
I simply don’t agree.

Teenage was such confusion
Hormones rampant, tantrums in profusion;
Focus off-tangent by degree.

Twenties and Thirties were times unstable
Dreams and relationships demanding labels.....
The fluxes were killing.

The Forties seem the best of times,
Time to take stock, count out the chimes,
The wounds are healing.

Acquaintances fade in and out, friends have stayed
Relationships have mended, some are dead;
Life makes you move on.

The convictions are clearer, obstinacy is set
The urge to follow a trend is offset
The real “me” is born.

The moulting is unavoidable and not altogether unwelcome
Stripped of others’ words and images there comes a calm
To stand alone without inhibitions,
To no longer be scared of unpleasant explanations.

THOUGHT IT WAS RATHER EASY

the idea of creating a blog was swirling in my thoughts for a long time , specially after the various encouraging remarks of friends who seemed to have been regaled by the tales of our various holidays. then i met a group of writing enthusiats of hyderabad who also do the same. the idea of a kind of online shelf for strictly literary ventures and not random thoughts started sprouting. so i hope those of you who are following this once in a while, will leave your comments.at the moment what i have uploaded are old stuff, edited or otherwise....infact quite a few might be familiar to you. need to get down to penning "fresh meat":)

MAKING A DIFFERENCE

At gathering of acquaintances, after the preliminary ‘How do you dos..’the inevitable question is ‘What do you do?’ When I reply ‘I am a schoolteacher’, many a time a slightly pitying glance answers my response ..‘My god, it must be so boring!!!’ It’s my turn to look inwards and smile…it has not been boring at all. Life has been a myriad of experiences: new faces each year, new things taught and so much learned. I remember how it all began.

I entered the classroom—neatly placarded 10C ---a waft of aftershave welcomed me and as I timidly stepped inside, thirty pairs of eyes bore into me and a few sniggers followed. I was all of 5 feet and at least half the class towered over me, as they lumbered to their feet to wish. The girls had twenty times my élan. Roll call was a disaster….grunts, mumbles, silence and a few ‘Yeah, Teach’. I thought longingly of the scholarship for higher studies that I hadn’t qualified for and had therefore opted for ‘this noble profession’!

The syllabus had indicated a good amount of poetry and I had come armed with a speech on Romantics( my favourite people), some pithy commentary , a carefully chosen collection of representative poems, but without a clue about ‘ school kids of today’. I had assumed mouth gaping fascination, I was met with skeptical squints; I had envisioned a dreamy waltz with these great poets, I met utter disinterest; I had expected ‘previous knowledge’, I was astounded by complete incomprehension. Thank goodness the bell rang to end the class and my misery.

I spent a truly sleepless night wrestling between the idea of submitting my resignation and the instinct for self preservation. I recalled my Bed teachers assuring us “You are the magicians..” I desperately needed a J K Rowling!!!

I marched into the class next day and without bothering abut attendance, printed on the black board: ‘A man’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a Heaven for?’ There was pin drop silence in the class but a very heavy one. I put on my smartest expression and asked “Any comment?” A willowy fourteen-year old said, “Byron?” I said, “No, you…I want to hear what you say to that line.” A wad of gum was pushed away, a blurry voice commented, “Are you talking about ambition?” Voices started piping up, a fiery debate upon reality versus aspiration ensued. Is it wise, I asked, to aim higher than one’s capacity? Does it not doom one to failure? No, no, some said, that’s ambition and progress! No, said others, that’s frustration and defeat. What about hope? What about despair? You’ve got to be practical! You’ve got to have a dream! We discussed gender expectations, we talked about peer pressure, we talked about generation gap and economic disparity. The students were mostly Khasi, sons and daughters of timber lords of the North East–they spoke with candour about the backwardness of their community, the matriarchal structure of society and its implication in present day, the Government apathy and their anger. They spoke about all these in their own words, with splintered grammar, at times lapsing into broken Hindi and a few American four- letter expressions also strayed in, but their eyes sparkled as their tongues scrambled to express the thoughts and discovery of these thoughts . And I whooped in delight within myself as I joined in with full vigour, adding to the rising decibel of the class. The bell rang and my students paid me the greatest compliment…..they groaned! I turned back to the same willowy fourteen year old and said, “ Robert Browning: Late Romantic. We shall read him tomorrow!”.

That was ten years ago. I love being a teacher, and no, it’s not at all boring being one….after all we are the magicians, “Right ,Pupes?”


{Wrote this quite some time back, for the school magazine, then altered a bit and sent off to Scholastic India for their nation wide teacher's day contest...n lo n behold bagged the 2nd prize at the national level!!}

THE WAIT

THE WAIT

“I was not ready!” Again, she will have to wait. For another day.



Sreemati heaved a sigh as the door clicked with its usual slowness. She turned both the keys. The flat was empty ,like her life. Tara was in Seychelles, seemingly basking in the glow of her new husband’s attention. Her purring call the night before invited everyone to take a dip into her ocean of bliss. Hemant had wanted to prolong the call, the umbilical cord between the father and daughter stretched tight. Sreemati had willed herself not to break down , but a strange sense of alienation had made her conversation matter of fact. She was amused to note that Hemant was pretty aggrieved about it , for throughout their twenty odd years’ married life, he has often remarked sardonically about her ability to ‘turn on the tap’ as he called it, at the slightest provocation.

She went out into the balcony, to wave the customary cheerful goodbye and the slightly awkward flying kiss. ‘The Sharmas are so very devoted’ all the neighbours noted indulgently .It was important to not break the routine, Hemant must not suspect anything. She would wait for the 11 o’clock phone call, ‘Do you need the car?’ Hemant would have forgotten that her leave from the university was still good for a week. Such details often escape a corporate high flyer. It had bothered Sreemati in the initial years of marriage; after all in the eight long years of courting, his obsession about every nuance of her life had so often felt claustrophobic. She smiled to herself. What a fool!!

She went into the kitchen to make the second cup of coffee. Kamla, their maid for ten years now, came bustling up. Sreemati waved her away, ‘ Go and get ready , your brother will be here any time!’ Kamala ,had requested a two day leave , impatient to share the bounties and news of the ‘to do’ with her agape larger family. Hemant had demurred, ‘ You need a rest. There’s so much mess still …I can’t find anything I want…. you HAD to keep an open house for everyone…. We could have easily used the guest house…’. But Sreemati had not stepped down, her iron resolve to avoid confrontation , for once, ignored . ‘ Kamla , deserves a break …after all a marriage means a lot of work that you men don’t even understand…let her go home, sit back , gossip and make everyone envious. Her batteries will be fully charged in two days. She’ll bully me even more, you’ll see.’ ‘ I will wait on you. O Lord!’ she had added with a twinkle, ‘ Your two glasses of tepid nimbu pani, your porridge just cooked right and fruits just diced right, and the hot water bottle at night just filled so..after all I am not going for work for a week still.’ Kamla must be away… it was essential for her to be not there…After all these years Sreemati didn’t want to make any mistake. Her urgency must have spilled out a little, Hemant had looked at her intently for a fleeting second, even Kamla had stopped pretending to dust. But then he had agreed and Sreemati could have kissed him.

This morning she had suggested going away for a short trip..somewhere nearby maybe. The sardonic smile had played at the corner of his mouth, ‘ Scared of housework , already?’ Then he had spoken, all most to himself, ‘ Yeah.. Why not? We’ll have to start somewhere…It’ll be strange without Gudia ,though..no? Let’s see, I’ll contact the travel guy…why not fly? There’re plenty of points …can you extend your leave?’

Sreemati prepared for her bath. She must be clean , very clean. Kamla was fussing about lunch. She shooed her away .. ‘There’s plenty of left overs ,Kamla, and I still know how to turn the micro on.’ At last, they left, the brother and sister, the latter already loquacious about ‘ Gudiya’s husband.’ Sreemati had settled her monthly payment under much protest from Kamla. But it was almost the month end and Sreemati knew Kamla would not fail to come back. She never had. Anyway, she had a soft corner for this amazingly efficient and voluble girl…things may not be as they always were when she came back and Sreemati felt as if she was already indebted to Kamla for what she will have to manage, later.


It as 10 o’clock. She had to wait still. For the phone call. She had not anticipated that phone call on that evening, though. The date was still sharply etched in her memory….9th of November. The year ,unimportant…it was yesterday. Hemant was having an affair and the distraught second fiddle of his lady love was seeking Sreemati’s help!! She remembered the conversation, it had been a blur then. Had she suspected? Suspect? What a strange word to apply for a person she had known the most intimately in her life and then discovered to have not known at all. There had been signs ,naturally, but faith is such a blinding emotion. It refused to acknowledge a truth.

Things had been in a mess that year. The relationship was at an all time low….Sreemati remembered her violent outbursts, her recurring threats ‘ You cannot be lived with…I am going to go away’ and Hemant pleading ‘ I am trying to change..you matter the most….give us a chance.’ Hemant was a wonderful father, a good friend ..an awfully weak human being. Their courting had been cloaked in furtiveness. Sreemati’s family had seen him as an opportunist. However, Hemant had proved everyone wrong, given up his drifting ways, achieved the Herculean task of reorienting himself in academics and acquired an MBA from a prestigious business school. Acceptance was inevitable, after all the family background though not at economic par, was extremely respectable. It was staying married finally that proved difficult for both Sreemati and Hemant. The long period of ‘ going around’ had made them feel almost married even before they had started out and therefore the quotidian reality of adjusting to individual quirks and fine tuning of expectations left them completely alone in their togetherness. Tara was born early, before her parents had the chance to adjust to being ‘husband and wife’ and though they had showered devotion on her, perhaps they had failed to bridge all the gaps that were slowly emerging in their own relationship. Sreemati was often depressed, unable to accept a day committed to remembering feeds, bottle washes and midnight awakenings. Hemant went through his own hell of losing out on Sreemati’s companionship.

That year Sreemati had lost her father and when she returned home after a long period of trying to put her mother and family affairs to order, she looked at Hemant for his broad shoulders. She wasn’t prepared for the coolness of his response—perhaps she had forgotten her own past coldness and taken Hemant’s availability for granted.

Looking back , Sreemati often had wondered about that ‘affair’. It was neither serious nor deep. Nor was it that Hemant was a philandering man. But it shook her up . Her hero had shown clay feet .It was unforgivable. She had been never been so alone , emotionally. She had started planning her revenge then.

She would wait.

The incident faded from their relationship. Those who had known about it applauded her courage and her maturity. They did not realise that for her it was a new beginning. She honed herself to become a model wife – the girl who had dreams once was replaced by an apparently caring, devoted , supportive woman determined and destined to make a marriage successful.

But she thought often about her plan. She would inflict the abysmal loneliness upon Hemant at the very time he would need her most. Years rolled by. Tara was a pleasure to rear. Her relationship with Sudhir was an icing on a superbly sculpted cake and their marriage was an inevitable culmination.

Tara glanced up at the clock again. Every thing was ready. The sleeping pills that she had kept on surreptitiously collecting over the past months were all within their effective period and amounted to a lot. She had pondered over the method for long. She couldn’t stand physical pain. Even the consummation of their marriage had left her in agony for days afterwards. She thought of leaving a note---god knows how many she had composed in her head over the years. But no, it was the bewilderment that would add to the sweetness of her vengeance. She did not permit herself to think about Tara, their Gudiya. Fortunately, she had no one else in her side of the family to think of any more—her younger brother had expired in his teens.

Why wasn’t the phone ringing? Strange …..for Hemant was a creature of habit. Should she call up then? What would be her excuse? ‘ I wanted to hear your voice !!?’ Sreemati almost laughed aloud. It had been so, so many years back. She and Hemant would talk through the night, at times even dozing off. Sreemati shook herself mentally. Don’t be a sentimental fool , not at this stage.

The strident pealing of the bell startled her. A gossipy neighbour, interested in juicy details of the celebration over a cup of coffee? A sales lady—no, they were not permitted to wander about in this ‘security’ conscious apartment block. May be if she doesn’t respond the visitor will go away. The second series was more vigorous in tone than ever. Somebody seemed to be leaning on the buzzer.

Sreemati got up . It was HEMANT!! His words rushes over her in vituperative torrent!! ‘ What were you doing? I have been waiting an hour outside. I have been to the loo ten times already! Couldn’t stay back in the office anymore… the doctor also advised rest. Must be the muck you had been feeding me since yesterday. Told you a thousand times to throw away all those leftovers---your ‘savouries’! Come on don’t stand about . Make me some Electral..’

Sreemati still stood about. Like a stone. Again, she will have to wait. For another day.

My Student: My Teacher

Once upon a time there was a teacher.
Children worshipped her ‘for she’s not a preacher!’
She loved her job and toiled with a passion
To make learning truly educative was her mission.

Family ties paled
before her commitment to ‘her pupils’
The magic wand she wielded
formed many disciples.
Every trip to knowledge land
was carefully designed
Every scholar rewarded,
none was ever fined.
The dullest child became a ‘performer’
touched by her zeal
Her impassioned involvement comforted
and many a wound healed.


Laurels fell into her lap
with submissive regularity
Her reputation grew
along with her seniority.


Yet she guarded
a terrible secret,
The one if revealed,
her life’s work would desecrate.
.
Counselling she did much,
talked to her ‘inner’ self
But faced with reality ,
her ‘courage’ would shatter beyond help.
She feared this ‘ senseless’ fear
and thus possibly protected and guarded it dear.
the one she dared not face
For if revealed, her life’s work
would vanish without a trace.



This ‘perfect’ teacher could not stand deformity of any kind
Be it of body and limbs or be it of the mind!
Her ‘educated’ mind ran hither thither
Faced with an imperfect body or a ‘special’ mind, it closed down in fear .



Fulfilment coloured
the years rolling by
Touches of grey in hair spoke
of how time can fly.
Then one day,
a child arrived in school
Limbs inert,
mouth adrool.

The ‘perfect’ teacher was summoned to the Principal’s office
Unknowing of the task ahead , she sallied into the hallowed edifice.
‘Meet Mrs.X, a treasure of our school’ lauded the principal
‘Ma’am , these gentleman has only been exposed to refusal

Our school has been the choice
ever since the boy was born
He would have been already a student
had the ‘accident’ not torn
The fabric of a planned future,
the security of a ‘complete’ family.
The tumbling car killed everyone
and left this mite without an ally.


Hanging between life and death many a month passed
Recovering in body at last, the ‘mind’ has been lost.’
Spoke up the gentleman, ‘I am his father’s friend, not any kith or kin.
Numerous homes this ‘unlucky’ one has , in the past months been.
But who will take care
of such a burden?
Everyone has sympathised
and requested pardon.



Tried many adoptive homes
and many residential schools
But they seem to be bound
by ‘unfortunate’ rules.
Came to you in trepidation
yet with some hope
It’s up to you now
to say yes or nope.’

‘I am happy to say yes and consider your special request.
Mrs X, in your loving care will the ‘hurt’ soul nest.
Request I to you to provide him a shelter.
I’ll be with you in any difficulty you encounter.’


************************


Thus the ‘perfect’ teacher
took up her charge.
Her mind numb with the task
she was to discharge.
How will she act ,
how will she treat?
A boy who’s ‘special’
with a mind in retreat?

Day followed day, life took a long turn.
She quelled her disquiet and forced herself to learn
The trebles and nuances of unarticulated gesture.
The first steps were taken , in an unknown pasture.

She wondered at
the brief phases of clarity
Put all her experience
to bring to reality
The promise of cohesive thought
and comprehension
Her efforts showed ,
traces of fruition.

A disaster struck, from unexpected quarters.
She lost her only child ,to drug dealers.
Plunged in inconsolable grief
Her nights passed in eluded sleep.
Tormented beyond self control
Despair sought to destroy her soul.


Help came from a strange source.
Her ‘special charge’ emerged as a life force.
He ‘expressed’ his concern in little gestures
His ‘care’ brought back life’s normal texture.
She gained a son and lost her crippling fear
She planed a life with someone who had ‘become’ dear.

A student changed a teacher’s life
Taught her that ‘life’ may not be only strife;
Many a storm may end in a rainbow
Believe my story for this ‘teacher’ I closely know.

**************************************************

No longer do I aim to be perfect
No longer do I shudder at ‘defect’;
Life has been a very patient teacher
May such benevolence be the fortune of every God’s creature.