The so-called Nation Builders are often dismissed as insignificant cogs in the social machinery. Sadly, people in the profession of teaching are so cowed down by Power Play, that they bring down their self-respect and personal dignity to the bottom of the well. A place, from where all gossip, whimpers of complain and helpless wringing of hands are neither seen nor heard. My take on the perceived worth of an Teacher in a "touted" Democracy.


Who is She? , asked the Leader.

You ask them, "who is she",
Well, I'm also trying to know,
She seems to be a slave,
as things appear to be;
She used to be an angel,
My Lord Your Majesty,
till she entered the Elysium,
of glorified Anarchy;
With tired wings of Truth,
she managed to postpone,
the comatose state of Righteous,
the grand death of Democracy.
You ask "who is she? "
She's a superhero fiend, a martyr, a nobody; She tows the voice of reason-        
She's a "Teacher!” Oh hell, what adversity!  
         
You only mock her presence,
You do not wish to see,
She's driven by rare virtues,
Yes, she's living testimony!
Your words continue to singe,
Your manner is in want,
Your blindness takes you nowhere,
You only hear the chant,
Of a glorified ego,
ballooned by sylph-like goons,
You cannot think what's right
in plush, narcotic lagoons.
You ask " Who is she", -
She's the dying torch of Change,
chained to the stone of Excellence,
in the cave of Anonymity.
You question "who is she?"
She's an impassioned teacher,
tryin' to Walk-the-Talk,
a Wonder in the Dark...
She's what YOU used to be.

---------------------------------------------

The Unloved Poem

Have you ever heard a lover making up to his sweetheart who is feeling neglected? Better still, have you heard a Poet speak to his Poem that's feeling the same? Who or what can tell apart , the feelings of an impassioned lover from those of a cognisant writer? Read on and see if you can tell the difference.


The way you look at me,
as blank as verse could be,
your eyes are far from truth,
your makeup lies to me!
You brought out all your zing,
in the form of laboured verse
(I couldn't feel a thing:
your touch was cold and terse)
You couldn't hide away
-no matter how you tried -
the starkness of the gray
that hid in black and white.
I didn't think I'd   live,
to bear this loss of touch;
I knew I didn't give,
my love 'n' care as much!
I should've writ you less,
I should've heard you more,
I should've held you close
when you'd walked in through the door;
I shouldn't have judged you so
for no reason and no rhyme,
I could've let you in
my heart from time to time...
It's not your fault, my love,
that meaning plays truant;
when muse and writer fight,
the poem's most defunct!
I now vow to infuse,
some colour in those cheeks -
with scintillating strokes
on all your curves and peaks;
I know I have to work;
on feeling you inside me,
on making love to thoughts,
you have when you're beside me...
Now ne'er again my love,
will y' look like hoary rime
I'll bathe you in such ether,
you'll be my poem sublime!

Bird in the Gym

I was in the gym the other day and something about the whole experience felt a bit different. Not because I was exercising after what seemed to be a century but because of the way the music inside my head was getting louder than the cacophony in the gym. And I was the only woman inside; thus establishing that the skill of disturbing the aural eco-system doesn’t lie entirely with the “fringed”- pardon the pun!

The 40-going on 20 man on the treadmill next to mine had decided to give a full-throated voice over to Arijit Singh’s soulful rendition of Kabiraa. And just to drown his voice, and my grief, at this cold-blooded murder of sur and taal, I turned up the volume inside my head. By rerouting the input pathway, I felt more connected with the Universe now. My treadmill faced a glass window, which gave a panoramic view of a small verandah with a few trees tucked away in quiet corners. As I was walking, sprinting, spluttering, gasping and then crawling in intervals, I noticed a tiny sparrow (it could be anything between a warbler and a peacock- I couldn’t tell the difference to save my life) came and perched on the branch of a tree, positioned at 10 o’clock. Nothing great about a bird coming and parking itself on a branch, you’d say. My sentiments, exactly. 

Experiences, they say, come in the briefest moments. And they come unannounced.Like the I.T. guys. As I looked at that little creature very casually, I was hooked by this crazy thought that the bird was staring at me. No, I wasn’t working out after a heavy lunch, so no chance of delirium caused by sudden spikes in blood sugar. I averted my gaze and looked back at it. Gawd, for sure the bird was staring at me. This was a bit crazy. Averted my gaze again. And looked back again. Sure as hell, the tiny round eyes were fixed on me. That sideways glance was so obviously and purposefully directed at me. It also seemed, however, that the little winglet was trying to keep it as discreet and polite as possible. Was it the bright colours that I was wearing? Was it the way my hair looked (prospective birdy home)? Was it my boobs/ was it male? WAS IT/ Wait…yes, that was it! It struck me then. 

The bird was most certainly a male member of the species. And no, it wasn’t my body parts that had his attention. It was perched a few feet away from an untidy, scruffy nest tucked away in a nook among the branches of the tree. I could see it when I looked around for evidence for my theory. Yessir! The daddy was on smart vigil. He needed to go to his nest but did not want to do it as I was looking at it and his irresponsible flight could have given away the secret location of his home, and compromise the safety of his family! He needed me to look away, not just divert my gaze, in order to ensure that nobody watches him fly home in a covert operation!!!  I smiled. You sweet, little soldier-on-the-guard, I thought. And as visibly loudly as I could; I turned my neck a decent 90 degrees to my right, my peripheral vision trying to keep him in its radar. Twenty seconds was all it took. I looked back and lo, there he was - lovingly straddling his little ones, wings spanning the nest as if to say: Don’t worry I got you covered. I continued to watch – smiling at the tender joys of Nature, as well as on the satisfaction of a validated thought. Oblivious of my immediate neighbourhood, I must’ve uttered some deep-throated groans, rather unknowingly, sending wrong signals to the aspiring singer. My foul-voiced neighbour on the treadmill had started to settle his hair, rather coquettishly, in the glass as he saw me smiling (probably thinking that I was smiling at his reflection in the glass). The bird was oblivious of its stealthy observer now, completely immersed in its task of feeding(and smothering) the little ones.

 I simply had to stop my sprint, pick up the phone camera and click a few pictures; both for my satisfaction and my neighbour’s clarity of thought.  The pictures didn’t come out too clean but the moment stayed with me enough to motivate me to write about it.

What I’m still struggling to understand is: what is it that made me think instantaneously that the watchful, protective bird was most certainly a father to the nestlings and not the mother. Was it heart-warming to tell myself that daddies are there to protect? I am still wondering. Any answers, anybody? The Arabic evil-eye charm on the wall seems to be watching over everything like a matriarch. Stereotypes? I wouldn't say so...

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

अलविदा

जिसका जो जो 
मेरे पास है
सब लौटा रही हूँ
कल मैं घर से
कहीं दूर जा रही हूँ
जो भी तोहफे
प्यार के पर्चे
फूलोकेगुच्छे
ढेर से वादे
झूठे-सच्चे
भीनी यादें
अनकही बातें
सब उम्मीदें
और ख्वाहिशें
इस संदूक से निकाल कर
सब और फैला रही हूँ
मैं कल घर से
कहीं दूर जा रही हूँ
इन्हे सजालेना
सुंदर हैं
फूलोंकी तरह ये नाज़ुक हैं
मेरी ही तरह
अति भावुक हैं
काँटों को अनदेखा कर
प्यार की धूप, समय के पानी
से हो सके तो महका लेना
पर इनके रहते गर बादल उमड़ें
दिल में बद-हवासी घुमड़े
तो तस्वीर मेरी की ढाल बना कर
कुछ आँसू छल्का लेना
मॅन को डपट, मना लेना
ना जाने क्यूँ
तुम्हे यह सब समझा रही हूँ
मैं कल घर से
कहीं दूर जा रही हूँ
तुम सोचोगे मैं पागल हूँ
बेमानी सी घायल हूँ
हो सकता है
कुछसच भी होगा
पर जाते हुए इक बात बता दूं
चेहरे की बेबाक मायूसी
बिखरे मोती
हँसी रूआनसी
कब से आँचल पकड़े हैं
लहरें, जो आँखें जकड़े हैं
इन सब को कहीं उडेल कर
रूह नयी सी सुहेल कर
हो ना हो 
वापिस आ रही हूँ
मैं कल घर से
कहीं दूर जा रही हूँ

The Loss of Akhlaq

A man was ruthlessly lynched, in Dadri, by a barbaric mob, over rumours of having consumed beef. The holes, in the threadbare fabric of Democracy, gape shamelessly at us. Akhlaq, which means virtue, morality, good conduct and manners, is with us no more. Words, however deeply felt, fail to commiserate.

The Loss of Akhlaq

Why are things so broken,

Lives so cluttered,

insides so shaken

Souls so embittered

when now

There’s so much knowledge,

Such awareness

Pursuit of God

And propriety of goodness?

Why are acts so clueless

Of their purpose or worth

Why blood’s a witness

To guile and mirth when

There’s so much more freedom

More expression

More clarity

And far less suppression?

When all the tools

And ingredients

Keep growing to better

Genetic pools?

Weren’t things nicer when

There was less of everything

Less words that spread

Lesser readers and the read

Less knowledge

Less thought

Lesser power

Of the writ and the wrought?

Weren’t things better when

People

Knew less

Thought less

Wanted less

And sought less?

perhaps yes

When food for the stomach

Did not ulcers bind

When rewards of the till

Were not burdens of the mind.

Between then and now

Have we grown?

Have we reaped

What we have sown?

Why Ramraj didn’t last

If it was perfect?

Why’d faith go aghast

and not the way of the Prophet;

the path of love

and tolerance and heed

not that of spite

and vile and greed.

We evolve

We maintain

That learning

Helps regain

Balance and peace

But what worth is knowledge

That doesn’t seep

Into the ground

Into the roots

flooding the innards

Of religious shoots?

It’s a wild world out there

that always holds a seed

Of a messiah now and then

Is what we always need

As the ivy binds us tight

Of poisonous caste and creed

A new one will come

And show another way

And yet more blood will flow

In the name of Faith to stay.

IF I WERE A TREE

5th September-Teachers' Day in India. A day marked to commemorate an iconic academician in the history of India, Dr. S. Radhakrishnan. All of us have a favourite teacher or more, from our childhood or academic life, who we remember with warm,fuzzy feelings because that's how they'd made us feel when we were their students. However, while we all overflow with chocolatey love for many of our teachers, there's also another fact that meets us squarely in the eye-the existence of the disgruntled teacher, who hates being in the profession and is there for any reason but the right one. The teacher who loves the bright, intelligent, confident and self-motivated student: the student who makes her/his professional life easy by being just them-perfect. The teacher whose wrath finds no mediators when it comes to the average, under-par, less than wonder-child kind of a pupil, and worse still, with the consistent under-achiever. 

No, I will not take away from the flavour of the day when everyone is feeling wonderful about teaching and the teacher-taught relationship. Instead, I want to dedicate this post to one of my teachers from school who, in a bitter-sour kind of a way, is the reason why I strove for a certain proficiency in English through my learning years. Yes, the teacher who loved every student whose diction bespoke of privileged high-society upbringing. And then there was me- from a mediocre, Punjabi-speaking family; whose parents' greatest dream for their children was a plush, convent education. So, one PTM day this teacher of mine told my parents in the most unpretentious manner that I did not belong to an English-speaking environment and that they should seek out a lesser-public school for me, where I would blend in better. It did-not matter if I was good at everything that I chose to learn. All that mattered was my inability to speak, understand and write well in English. I don't know how my parents felt about it then,but I for one, colloquially speaking, was mortally struck. That was the moment when I boarded the English high-ride, rather subconsciously, I'd say. So today, while I should be profusely thanking that teacher for the humiliation, my heart really doesn't.  While she may have been the starting -point of my journey, loss of faith in certain other beautiful things in life, was a huge price to pay. And irrevocable too.

As we celebrate the ideal teacher each year, I'm forced into thinking about several other students like me, who are humiliated by their teachers every day in the classroom, without anybody hearing the sound of that impact. Students who continue to believe that they can never be the best, because their teacher reminds them constantly and consistently about their shortfalls, in several visible and invisible ways. The under-achiever is nobody's favourite. The under-achiever may as well find a school that caters exclusively to losers. It's a happy day when the under-achiever remains absent from school because the only time they're missed  is when everyone needs a good laugh and the resource is missing.

Therefore today, to celebrate the teacher-taught relationship on Teachers' Day, here's something that a far-less-than-perfect pupil wants to say to.....whoever cares to listen:

IF I WERE A TREE

If I were a tree

out there in the woods

stark different from

the orchard's; free

of the gardener's able hands

reared by moody, guileless winds

and the ageless, tireless bee

Would you let me be?

If I were a rose

thorny and wild

with unkempt petals

and restless leaves

different from the ones

raised skill fully

in your garden; and taught

to look like you

sway like you

for you

by you

then,

would you be able to see

with non-myopic vision

my form, my spotless beauty?

If I were a puddle

of unholy water

mixed with grunge and slush

the drivers of sin

Would you,

like the preacher,

take me in your hands

and bring about

stillness, and clarity?

I ask you, teacher,

i seek, I plea

for the sake of our sanity

to take me as I were

and try not

to hold me 'gainst stronger light

to see the dark in me,

for the sake of posterity

love me for who I am

find, mould and nurture

the unseen,

the unnoticed

the undiscovered in me

for the world needs all kinds.

Words and acts blind,

only dole out one

much like another

but fail to add

to the multi-hued glory

of a rainbow's austerity.

I beg you, teacher

for the sake of eternity

let not education break me

but bring in balance

order and peace

first in my heart

and my soul

And that's how the world shall be

for the sake of world-harmony

O' let me be

and the Rumi in me
stay alive and free

so, let me be

Just let me be.

Black Water White Fire

Whooooosh.......I'm back! And how.

Delighted to share with everyone, the book launch of Black Water White Fire, my first traditionally published novel, by Gyan Books. The book launch, at Taj Vivanta, Lucknow, was attended by honourable Minister of State Sh. Abhishek Mishra and Padamshree awardee Dr. Parveen Talha. A book -reading session, followed by a Press Conference over tea, was how my baby was introduced to the reading world. Eight leading dailies covered the event yesterday and I was on air with Radio Mirchi, in a tete-a-tete with RJ Rashee. The book is going to stores now. It is also available at www.gyanbooks.com