A CURIOUS CASE OF SPOONERISM

"Ma , aajke English marks peyechhi ." ( "Ma, we got our English marks today") My son squealed from his room. It was over half an hour since he had returned from school. I was arranging the dining table for the lunch. Since their schooltimes had changed due to the winter season, I was having late lunches. By the time both my children returned home it was 2:30 p.m. and while my stomach pined for some morsels , my brain was an entangled mess which saw and heard nothing but food , food , and food .

"Ma, English marks peyechhi!" He screamed again. This time louder and sharper.
I heard him. But what I heard was the bone of contention for at least another half an hour .
" Ki, ilish maachh kheyechish?" ( "What , you ate hilsa fish?")
"Where on earth you found "ilish maachh" in this part of the season? This boy will eat from anywhere around the world but home ! "
I was quite hyper both vocally and physically. I barged into his room. Meanwhile my son was still busy with the BEN TEN posters that he had collected from different sources.
"You still have'nt changed your dress? And where did you eat that blasted 'ilish' ? Who brought it in the tiffin? Did you eat your own tiffin or has it come back untouched?"
He stood gaping at me as I took some time to gasp for breath. He seemed to have a confirmed expression on his face which stated that his mother was slowly sliding away from sanity. By now my daughter had entered the highly dramatic scene , quite incensed and effused by the prospect that 'ilish maachh' WAS indeed available during this time of the year , quite contrary to what she was told or what she had heard.
"Kothai kheli Bhai, ke enechhe tiffin e?" ( Who offered you , brother ; who brought 'ilish ' in tiffin? ) , lapping her tongue over her lips as she simply loved it.
She then turned to me and challenged me why I had kept her in the dark with such misinformation......................!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At great length , my son took out his English answer paper from his bag and dangled it under my nose. "Eta peychhi" (" I got this " ).
Finally, it dawned on me that I had heard wrong . Hunger not only takes away one's energy but also one's audibility !
Moral of the story: When hungry , EAT: DONT WAIT FOR OTHERS TO EAT.

Yes, I Live for them !

I write naturally because I think naturally. But I am not a great writer because I am not a great thinker. And again, I write occasionally not because I think occasionally but because I am a mother.
In my teenaged daughter's eyes I am a supermom. In my adolescent son's eyes , ''East or West , my momma is the best". They are over- zealous with their plain, simple mother . All I can say about myself is that these kids of mine are what I live for . Doing that extra bit to see their brilliant million-watt smile is far fulfilling and rewarding than being gifted a million- dollar diamond .
It's a different matter though that no one gifts me a diamond !

Mothering children has its own pleasures...... and ...er...displeasures. Yesterday I sat with my eight- year old son with his school-work . Since a long time he had'nt got a 'star' remark in his school copies. I was sort of sulking and chiding him for his lack of aptitude in studies. Then he drew my notice to the language homework that was due. Wasting no further time I opened the page where he was given a set of sentences to mark the tenses.

1. I am playing with a ball.
2. Mona on the stage.
3. Father bought a new car.
4. I will never disobey .
5. My mother is a beautiful woman.

He responded to all the first three sentences correctly, answering "present tense " for the first two , and "past tense" for the third one. So far so good . By now much of my tension had diffused. With some rejuvenated spirit I proceeded with the last two sentences. But Fates, and Frolic seemed too limited in my fortune, for , when I asked him to say the tenses of the fourth and the fifth statement , he answered that they both were "past tense". Exasperated yet as calm as one can be, I asked him why he said so.
He replied more calmly. There was a genuine nonchalance in his voice, "No one obeys now a days. Didi did so in the past. I too obeyed in the past, did'nt I ? And in the fifth sentence...."
I cut him short. Too my abashment I understood his implications !
He was judging the tenses not by the grammatical rules but by their face value !
Needless to say, my next assignment was to clarify the haze from his mind.
[Although the fifth sentence continued to haunt my mind ! ]
But at 9 o'clock that very night as I was packing his bag , I suddenly noticed the last page of his English copy. He had made a small sketch of me there. The vermilion, the tiny bindi and even the miniscule mole on the right cheek were in place.
Below were written his favourite words, . "East or West, Momma is the best".

TALE OF TWO SOULS

Some time back while flipping through the pages of a poetry book titled 'Figments of Imagination', I chanced to read W.H.Auden's 'September 1939', which is a moving yet shocking revelation of the feelings of Americans of the uncertainties of the future before the Second World War, the time when Hitler attacked Poland in a Blitzkrieg operation.

As I was ruminating about the atrocities of Hitler and his troubled childhood, having done some research on his background, my mind inadvertently began to hover around him. Simultaneously , I also thought , about our own Gandhi. The two were entirely contrasting personalities- the former, ruthlessly violent, barbaric and heinous; while the other resilient, meek and non-violent. The two had never met during their lifetimes.
The reason why I thought of the two historic yet contradictory figures, deserves some explanation .

I was actually reminded of my adolescent period when a group of three of us, [ popurlarly known as ' The Three Daredevil Musketeers' ], felt a strange urge to talk to spirits. YES SPIRITS! We were in the tenth standard and had fared miserably in History and Geography in the second terminal examinations. We were looking for some good guides. And what better guide than the spirits -who- know-all, thought we !

They and only they could give us redemption, we thought again.

Our next hurdle was , which spirit to call. After a long session of polemic arguments and disputation we zeroed in to two figures: Hitler and Gandhi. the reasons for the choice was this: both were historical figures, so both could throw light on each's geography too !!! " But why on the blasted earth Hitler and Gandhi?" exclaimed some exasperated one. " And why not?" Tempers , by now were fairly high- strung. "See , their nature is like oil and water- unmixable. So when you ask a question and when one answers wrong, the other will automatically or invariably counter him. So either way their is no chance for us to be screwed." I suggested, quite happy at my innovative ingenuity !
After the frayed tempers had been cooled at large, we then sorted out the basic questions - the questions that needed to be asked to our V.I.S.
[ S for spirits].
A day was chosen. A dark moonless day, at my own house, my own room . Here the three of us sat piously around a table. The fourth chair was unoccupied. We now wished ,"We would'nt really have minded to be called 'THE AWSOME FOURSOME' " with a fourth friend.
Incence sticks were lighted, prayers were chanted, invocations were made.
Then the spirits were summoned.

As they began their downward journey towards the earth from their extra- terrestrial abode, it was Gandhi who broke the ice . As usual, he had no qualms in setting the ball rolling.

"Hey Hitler, " were his first words now. His last words were ,"Hey Ram". How death changes people !
" And is not this our innocuous, irreproachable Gandhi, from India?"
"Namaste, Hitler saab.Thanks for remembering me. You see I am forcefully remembered in my country , through relics, 'samadhi-sthal', edicts, currency notes, memorials, movies and the like. By the way, Charlie's take on you in the movie , 'The Great Dictator' was also superb. We great men are drilled into the minds of the common , uninterested people. No wonder then that death becomes us. How are you? "
"I was fine, till some time back. But you see these mortals, they will not let you be in peace."
"Ha, peace ! Who's talking of peace? The man who killed the very word 'peace' along with millions of people in his lifetime, talks of peace post death. No wonder death changes people !"

Hitler was uncannily silent. Was it the lull before the storm?

In fact, the whole atmosphere around us was drowned in a pall of utter silence. I even sensed an icy cold aura pervading over us. Yes, our guests had arrived. I became sure because the coin beneath my right index finger had begun to quiver. Before I could realise it , the coin began to move violently as an unseen power began to control both my finger and the discoid metal.
I perceived that my other two valiant partners were shaking too ! We forgot all our rehearsed questions. I only managed to ask, " How do you do?" While Hitler and Gandhi reigned, History and Geography were forgotton subjects. Along with these two vexing subjects many other things faded into oblivion- our senses !

I next found myself under curious, peeping people two of whom I slowly recollected as my mother and my father. Of course, neither had smiles on their faces !

My two other friends, I wisely gathered, had regained their senses much before I did !!!

New Year Resolutions


Today my students asked me if I had made any new year resolutions.
I said I never made any. "I never make anything to unmake it."
"Don't you think Ma'am you are a bit old fashioned?" Sumit remarked tentatively.
"What has fashion to do with resolutions, Sumit?" I retorted, a bit shocked.
"It's the in thing Ma'am. Everyone makes it, specially our school teachers. Our English teacher has in fact even given us a holiday assignment of listing our resolutions and how we plan to execute it. "
"Fine," I say, "Let's talk more on it, since you all are so keen on this topic."


Having said so I began to think was I really orthodox , or backward never to make any new year resolutions? Was I not trendy or 'cool' ? I then threw a veiled glance at the class and found them busy sharing each other's NYR [the acronym for New Year Resolutions ]. So I continued my self-introspection. Actually, I said to myself, I was not only trendy or 'cool' but also honest. I had the guts to call a spade a spade. The guts to say that it is just mere fashion to make NYR. I am sure all those who make them are a bunch of blasting liars. Resolutions, as the word suggests, literally means purposeful determination- the willpower and tenacity to stick onto something. Now, making a NYR at the beginning of the year and adhering to it throughout the whole span of the year, is not only ridiculous but also cumbersome and unpractical, according to me . It gives you a foolish rigidity and takes away the elasticity.

It is like I promise myself in the morning ,"I will not lie today," which means I cannot go to bed in the afternoon!!
How can one promise himself something and cling to it till the 365th day, without getting irked, frustrated or desperate?
The class, by now had assimilated some opinions and wanted me to join in.

"Why is a NYR not worth encouraging according to you , ma'am?" Raima chipped. "Should'nt we try to continuously better ourselves? Why do you cross us in this exigent? Did'nt you yourself suggest spontaneous improvement ? What is wrong if a person self-acknowledges his lacunae and swears to improve himself ? Don't you think ma'am you are trying to shirk away from commitment and responsibility?''

I was indeed flabbergasted by these volley of questions.
Gathering my wits I bravely quipped, "See Raima, you have yourself answered your questions. Bettering oneself is a continuous process which requires performance, not words. Spontaneous improvement is possible only when we focus on our present problems and act on them. It requires a tacit action not a proclaimed announcement. It needs dedication and involvement of the SELF, not public endorsement."
Way back in the early 90's , I had once taken a resolution to reduce my weight from 56 kgs to 50 kgs. Consequently the first month of January was spent in setting the Thames on fire and burning the candle on both ends so that my ends looked slimmer. By the end of February I actually secured my target but by November I embraced my earlier weight attaching a few more bonus kgs to it!

This experience taught me two lessons. First : Resolutions taken are rigorously and ritualistically followed in the first month. As the year progresses, they are dusted below the carpet. They become passe. Second : Therefore make simple resolutions, like say ," I'll do exercise once in three months!"
I have heard that the Americans make the most New Year Resolutions the top five being :1. I will lose weight.
2. I will show more fidelity towards my partner .
3. I will be good to my neighbours.
4. I will be more organised in my workplace.
5. I will abstain from having random sex.
I will comment only on the first one. America is one of those nations which is plagued with obesity which seems to be a national crisis!!
Nevertheless, it is never the worse to begin the year with virtuous thoughts, positive approach, benign faith and good hope.
But I did hear to my utter horror, that next year, my students had indeed planned to submit their winter holiday assignments writing about how unhealthy it was, to begin the year with lies, lies and more lies!!!

REVEIWING The White Tiger

The White Tiger is a dark, compelling, thought-provoking, stark and a blatantly naked novel. It is a gripping tale of how Munna, aka Balram halwai, aka Ashok Sharma, aka the white tiger , struggles against his sordid birth and background which is so poverty and misfortune stricken. Balram finally succeeds in vanquishing his enemy , that is indigence and penury and frees himself from the shackles of servitude, but not before terminating the life of his very employer Mr.Ashok Sharma whom he would have loved to call [the Lamb].

It is indeed a very different and thought provoking situation, because unlike any other case, where the perpetrator of violence and murder is either provoked, angered, humiliated, beaten, avenged or dealt with harshly by his victim, in this case, the murderer, Balram Halwai does not harp any such angst against his meek, considerate and caring master. He just kills him coldly and later feels sorry for the deceased ! He would rather have killed his elder brother [ the Mongoose], against whom he harps enough disdain, or even their father, [ the Stork, THE GREAT SOCIALIST].

But Balram is a killer with a purpose. He loathes his lifelong servility, having to grovel and toady every now and then. He has BIG dreams. Dreams to quit being a driver. Dreams to become rich. Dream to be an entrepreneur.

Thus his chance journey away from the murky village of Darkness , to Delhi, the Light, is fraught with struggles. The readers are of course supplied with acrid humour, showing the utter despondancy of our protagonist who is on his plight to become The White Tiger. Yes, he achieves all his dreams.

The narration is addressed to The Premier Of China. Why China ? He already expresses his admiation for three nations in the early part of his novel, the two others being Afghanistan and Abyssinia as they never let themselves be ruled by foreigners. It is indeed exemplary, how this ' half-baked clay' rises from filth to fecundity.

THE WHITE TIGER, with its dark plot makes for a compelling read.

NOTHING CAN INTIMIDATE OUR BRAVE METTLE!

Even as I sit to write this, my mind is eclipsed with numbness and horror to the umpteen degree.Right it is, that I am not anywhere demographically near to what is happening in Mumbai, but nonetheless I wholly share the pain and the trauma of the crisis there.
Vijay Mallya has aptly termed the terrorist crisis as the 9/11 of India. The whole world empathises with the Mumbaikars. The entire nation is shocked and grieving. I personally salute, along with my country, those heroes - the police officers who lay their lives in the fight against terrorism. I specially offer my heartiest homage to those staff of the Taj Hotel who, despite being common people, sacrificed their lives for saving their guests. They have indeed proved that the highest standards of hospitality lie not only in providing luxury and comfort which do come with a cost, but also in laying their own lives to safeguard their esteemed guests which is costless ! Besides, all the police officers, the constables and even the common ones who are handing out teacups to the officers-on-duty, are doing no mean stuff.
Even as I write this, I pledge never to feel morally and mentally subdued by the humanity-starved, psychological-deviants, ethically-deprived brutish beasts, whose sole purpose is to intimidate us with their fatalistic gimmickery.
Even as I write this, I know that all I am doing right now is offering my words, yet hoping that, sometimes words can be mightier than guns and bullets- because being a commonplace citizen,if I can feel the pangs of sorrow , will not our leaders feel the brunt and pangs all the damned MORE?

THE UNFORGETTABLE JOURNEY

Life is one long journey beginning from birth and ending in death. But this Great Journey is the sum total of all the smaller journeys , comprising man's achievements ,accomplishments , failures and successes. It is not on one such journey that I write today but on a much simpler and pleasurable one.

The incident dates back to the year 2003 when the Mumbai blasts rocked the nation. A student of mine had shifted his base from Mumbai to Jamshedpur. It was just a week that he had joined my classes. In one of the language sessions, I gave an assignment to my students, in which they had to write an account of any experience they may have had of communal harmony. What one child wrote deserves merit and I shall narrate his experience in his person.


" I live in the outskirts of the throbbing and the bustling city of Mumbai. Our vacation for the 'Ganapati Mahotsav' had started ; the atrocities of the Mumbai blasts were smarting in our hearts and minds ; we were still reeling under the horrific trance of the incident .Yet life did not stop but went on. We were a group of ten to twelve boys who travelled to school by local trains and then took buses to reach our destinations.
They were long journeys indeed and difficult ones, I swear. But we were brave hearts. On this particular day when we were travelling back home from school,with great relief that we would get respite from this cumbersome journey for a brief period - we decided to celebrate. So we began to sing ; from the peppy numbers of Himesh, Mica, Abhijit sawant and Daler Mehendi to the old numbers of Kishore Kumar. We tried to compensate our lack of musical talent with our volume and vigour. I wish I could freeze those moments!It was an amazing feeling as the train crossed one station after another.



But our fellow travellers were least amused. A few smirked, some smiled okay. Most were irritated. An impudent uncle even remarked," This is where the tomorrows of our nation are heading towards. The moment they get an opportunity they start wiling it away . A bunch of disoriented fellows. That's what they are."
One disgruntled gentleman ordered us to stop our cacaphony ANON!



We stopped. Not because of the hysterical command but because of a voice. Another voice ! But this time a softer and a more soothing one. In a reflex action we all turned our heads to see from where the voice generated. Only after straining our eyes and craning our necks in the crowded compartment, did we finally spot him . He was a short, frail man, probably in his mid-fifties, who had managed to squeeze inside the train with an 'ektara' in his hand. You guessed it right . He was a minstrel.


"Another singer!" "Oh no, not again!" exclaimed two hopeless passengers. Those who had turned their heads resumed their work. Some slid behind their newspapers. Some feigned sleep. The hapless minstrel must have pretended to be oblivious of all these initial apathy because he began to sing . He sang the popular Kishore Kumar number 'Zindagi ka safar, hai ye kaisa safar'. No sooner had he finished the line than every head voluntarily turned again. This time not in disdain or in indignation. Not even in reluctance. Their heads had turned inadvertantly. Their ears became receptive. Men who were posing to be engrossed in the newspapers now looked up. The sleepy ones opened their eyes. A mother who was hushing her infant to fall asleep by droning a lullaby stopped droning , when her neighbour glared at her indicating her to shut her mouth.


The man continued to sing. One after another he delivered such soulful numbers that we , in fact, joined in too. The whole compartment sang in unison because most songs were very popular. Then he sang the last song , as we approached our destination. This one, he said, was composed by him. It was a very moving lyric where a father was looking for his lost son in a crowd. When it was over, MOST of us had our eyes moist. Then he requested us to join him to sing 'Vande Mataram'. The national song , came alive, as everyone, the young and the old ; the men and the women, the stoics and the flippants , lent voices.The compartment reverberated with an energy that was so profound, so pure , so poignant. It was a veritable mini India. For the next few moments we forgot our sorrows, the blasts, the missing ones, the dead. Many people from the adjoining compartments left theirs to see what was happening in ours. This impromptu vocal ensemble, this medley of voices and this unity of spirit was REAL, was INDELIBLE. Its glory became clearest to me when I saw the impudent uncle chime along , with tears in his eyes.
The power and the impact of this moment will remain with me forever.
The train stopped. Our terminus had come.We got down.

Then someone from the crowd cried out aloud to the minstrel, who was standing behind me, scampering patiently for some space to move ahead, "ASALAAM WALE KUM, Noor Salim!"


Noor salim reciprocated, "WALE KUM ASALAAM , Hari bhai". "