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

 

Sleep, My Angel

Change, I heard, is the only constant in life. Most of us find change to be the catalyst of our joys and aspirations. There are also people who live in perennial hope of some radical change in their lives, never to live the joys of the moment. And when the change comes, it ascribes an altogether different meaning to the want. Have you ever been stuck in a change that you wished and prayed desperately for and yet, wanted to undo it all when it came in an unexpected form? ‘Sleep, my angel’ is the story of one such person.

“Sleep, my angel, roaming free,

the day is charmed, the night breezy…”

I had never sung her a lullaby. This was an unusual desire. I wished I could cuddle her. She had been mumbling in her sleep for quite some time now.  Her father lay next to her, exhausted by two consecutive weeks of running around, signing papers and finishing off with tedious, unnecessary formalities. She had wriggled out of the covers too. I tried to reach out in desperation; as if in a dream. The futility of it gnawed away at my core reminding me of my inability to make her snug in bed once again. She had already rolled over and put her arms around her father, who tucked her in lovingly.  I lingered on till the cuckoo clock sprung out, gauging the chiasmic distance between us. It had been two weeks now since we had parted ways. The weather didn’t look too balmy either. It wasn’t the ‘thunder, storm and lightning’ kind but just a melting, sweeping drizzle pressing upon the window. Irrespective of the weather, it was getting increasingly difficult to go away now.

Read the complete story at:

http://300stories.com/sleep-my-angel?fb_action_ids=10152387480283136&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582

Revisiting...

 FLIGHT OF FANCY

Green and white,

crisscrossed by black

the tiles on the floor;

some drooping shy,

some free and wild,

spring-flowers through the door

to-

the staircase then

leading to when

they hopped over the fence

the cobbled snake

moved on to meet

a sprightly wilderness.

A look about

and furtive search

for rabbits in the dark

mushrooms and twigs

and berry things

not found in the park

climb up a tree

that doesn't know

its nature, name or fruit

hang upside down

and try to see

the world with wandering roots

the beehive or the weaver bird

don't spare a look or care

the clumsy vines,

the unkempt hair

who needs to stop and stare?

the frenzied brook

and the broody nook

with cradled rocks ahead

the deer, the doe

that briskly go

to the princely tiger's stead

then run askance

and leave behind

all glories

and the chase

if one would stop

to ponder much

they'd lose their wondrous gaze

hop, skip and jump

and lo, behold

the house is back in sight

what joy, what fun

in the winter Sun

and a chair-bound legless flight !

*****

WAIT FOR ME, TIME

I found my way back to this place, after a long trek through mountainous terrain, sometimes treacherous but mostly pleasantly tiring. Along the way, I met doubt, confronted pain, emerged triumphant and resumed my step, trying to catch up with lost time, sailing adrift a song:

Wait for me...

I’m breathless!

Don’t move so fast,

So reckless!

It’s a snaking spread

For me. For you?

just a darting spurt ahead.

I keep trying

t’ match your step

and just when

I think I’m dying

and barely up to speed,

with a teasing brush

of orchids

‘n’ spearmint

away you sprint

to another arduous lead.

I know you’re strong

don’t need to stop

at any curve or prong;

or even the coveted top;

what you have

I amply lack

the propensity of having

by virtue, vice or tact.

To travel light

like a mountain spring

or a string-less, hands-free kite

or a baby cloud

an empty shroud of

reflective, air-combs white

each one of these, a poet's muse

to the sky? -a wishful reverie

you never take

a walked-through path

yet beaten roads

are forced on me.

So, does that mean

that every walk

will be a test of strength?

I’ll keep calling, catching up

yet you will stay abreast?

Come now, my friend

call off this game

Go find a worthy opponent.

Henceforth, I give you not

any of you that’s mine;

you play with those

who have you none

and chase you so,

a-fleeting, O Good Time!

*****

MY PINK, HANDCRAFTED CUPBOARD

In light of assaults on women in recent times, these few lines are an attempt to relate to the thoughts of a rape-survivor, who is trying to regain balance between the trauma and her life prior to the incident.

It rings loud

and hollow

in its shiny newness

my pink, hand-crafted cupboard,

as I begin

to put in

one after the other

vibrant drapes

to adorn my work and play.

Layer upon layer

the shelves and walls

absorb within

the clamour of loud, soulful hues.

It was then yesterday,

that I wore on me

an apprehensive thought

in rueful blue

and paisley yellow

as I ravaged through

the pile of clothes

from a brand new cupboard

and straight on to bed.

The void inside

started to grow

as the heap on the bed

bled to the floor.

The voice of contempt

rang loud and hollow,

like a void

hitting a void;

guttural sounds

running straight into

a larger empty space

on the shelves now

and the walls

empty with

an emptier nook within,

and hooks and hangers

to put

frightful memories on.

Was that yesterday?

Some time today…

…My hospital bed

and the white-washed sheet

is safe because

an unassuming apprehension

has been replaced

by a listless, sanitised calm.

But the soft caressing

of cotton sheets

can’t stop

my skin from pricking

at the recall of rough hands

like nettle on unsuspecting skin

over my mouth

breasts and thighs

engulfing the memory

of my father’s gentle fingers

and brother’s benign wrist.

The hollows

in my eyes

stare at the moment

that led me to that space,

in which,

robes undone

mindlessly lying

where they didn’t belong

unclaimed, unwanted

yet devoured and relished.

I’ll take them

To a tailor,

perhaps

or a seamstress, that’s better

to darn the gaping holes

or possibly

restitch together

a patterned, patch-work quilt

Would that help?

The nurse is not

a seamstress

She says she doesn’t know.

I wonder as I,

on this hospital bed,

relive

in every empty moment

thrusts

of ruthless, mocking laughter

my body, that cupboard

now a gargoyle

for refusing

newer waste

Then and now.

Be brave

I’m told

stay strong

the only way to be

Alive.

I am, always was

and yet, now

I do not know

how to live

despite the acerbic breathing

in a prickly world

of sympathetic stares

and inquisitive cares

that dress me

like mouldy, nettled fabric…

…I find all around…

barter after barter

trade after trade

bravery for safety

courage for peace

comfort for silence

blue for grey

red for white

And yellow for an abysmal nude.

It’s tomorrow now…

I’m home

and normalcy rules

in the corridor, lane, road

outside my house.

And in the loud

ringing hollows

of my cupboard,

I shall fold the colours

to tuck them away

in the deepest nook;

I am now learning

to refill the emptiness

and order the chaos

In my pink, hand-crafted cupboard.

*****

ROCK, THE STAR

A rock can be a mountain,

and mountain becomes a rock

when shadows

come ahead of you

and the fiesty Sun behind

grips you at the ankles

it consumes

your smallness

that tallness

then purges

the mountain

and you, the rock.

At that step,

do turn around

and leave

the shadows behind

just run up to the Sun

through sweat and singeing skin

does that change the facts?

For some.

As the shadow then

gets to tail you

and before it

nails you

at the next pile of rubble

you have left 

the mountain far

and you,

the rock

now, a hurtling shooting star.

*****

Reblogged

So, I re-blogged two excellent posts today. One for the ticklish quality of subtle, tongue-in-cheek humour and the other for saying things as they were ordained. I have been reading from a  potpourri of things lately. From fiction, to inspiring tweets and blogs to ridiculous debates on Rahul Gandhi's speeches. The lesser said about the latter, the better.There is so much going on in the world outside that sometimes, a writer just wants to shut out the echoes in the head and let someone else do the talking. Like, Jo says it, let's blame it on October. These two posts, however, summed up a few things that were fomenting in my head. So, I'll take the liberty of guiding you to the blogs of two fine bloggers. Get to my wordpress blog below.

http://jasthinkingaloud.wordpress.com/

The two posts to look out for are:
1. So, Today I'm Not Happy And...by Jennie Orbell
2. Yakking it up by Jo Robinson

Have fun and feel free to leave your comments.

And Let There Be Light!

Note to self: The next time a thought comes a-knocking, don't make it wait in the reception lobby. Bring it into the cabin and get it to work. 

Rock, the star

A rock can be a mountain,

and mountain becomes a rock

when shadows

come ahead of you

and the fiesty Sun behind

grips you at the ankles

it consumes

your smallness

that tallness

then purges

the mountain

and you, the rock.

At that step,

do turn around

and leave

the shadows behind

just run up to the Sun

through sweat and singeing skin

does that change the facts?

For some.

As the shadow then

gets to tail you

and before it

nails you

at the next pile of rubble

you have left 

the mountain far

and you,

the rock

now, a hurtling shooting star.

*****

http://300stories.com/blog

Healthy Talk

What happened to the writer who fell short of words? Well, they just got written off. That's for the cursory fling with blank spaces. Do people ever fall short of words in their everyday communication? Barring an awkward situation or two, people generally like to babble. It's a communicable disease the world over, the only known antidote being a stifled yawn and a vacant expression in the listener's eyes. But the antidote actually works only on smart -talkers who keep a keen eye out for their listener's responses. For others, it is a flash-flood of thoughts that generally tends to sweep away the innocent and the unprepared. The very concept of gossip emerges from the urge to talk even when there's nothing to talk about. And willing, cooperative listeners make the activity organically productive.

As a child, I was quite a motor-mouth. Verbal diarrhea may just as well be a polite euphemism for my jowl-movement. The only complaint (I'd like to highlight 'only' but being the modest gabber that I am, won't do so) that my teachers ever had on PTM days was that I was a compulsive chatter-box. It was difficult to put a lid on my expression, with little or no reaction-time for my audience. I'd say audience because as a child, even a groan about the humble tiffin-box packed by a sleepy mother at 5:30 in the morning, holds the possibility of advanced physical theatre. I guess that's the reason why children hold us in rapt attention even when they are sleeping because there's language oozing out of closed eye-lids with rolling eyes beneath, snoring nostrils and twitching of fingers. Anyway, back to the point. Teachers, in our times, had the special ability of dousing a good spark if they saw one. One was encouraged to aspire more towards receiving stars on the personality chart for being quiet for twenty minutes, than for learning to talk one's way out of a sticky situation.  Parents, being parents, would never forget to remind me to cap it.

Initially, only in the house and later, when it became embarrassing for everyone to be around a girl who is verbose and uninhibited, at social gatherings too. Consequently, the eloquence found its way to the debating platform. I could argue and declaim without giving a sorry a** to anybody's reaction. Fortunately, that attitude worked wonders. Invariably, the winning trophy would be mine. Unfortunately, it was a disaster in the real world where the driving word for communication is 'diplomacy'. And then slowly, that slogan in the library unfurled its meaning to me. Silence is golden. Better still, silence keeps you alive and loved. Free thought and free speech belong to the land of books alone. Thus came new learning: 

Talk if you must, 

but only just, 

to please or appease

and certainly not,

to flare or combust.

And if silence means,

to hold your beans,

then let 'em rot,

but air your bags out first.

The gift of the gab often landed me among people who wanted to use my free speech to kick up a free storm. Politics beckoned where action need not match words and my words were pricelessly persuasive. However, it is ironical that a field where free speech is the goon, diplomacy of inaction is the king-of-the-ring. And never the twain shall meet.

Anyhow, the point is that, thanks to well-meaning teachers and parents, talking became more of an internal activity than a mode of communication with the world outside. And when that internal chatter becomes incessant, it becomes de-rigueur to write. The world called it upon itself. It's not my fault anymore. It may have been easier to hear and bear than be dead as you read.

Therefore, world, do not rejoice when you find me silent. Prepare, instead, for the print-sprint.

Parents, let that kid talk. If you can’t make sense of the non-stop questions, observations and remarks, then perhaps you’re the ones who need to air out those bags (lungs, incase, you didn’t understand earlier). And teachers, you’re paid to speak, aren’t you? Go eat your words. It's all healthy talk after all.

Cheers and burritos!