moodsandcolors

Thoughts on not_such_a_youthful Day

There were times when standing in front of mirror was a pleasurable activity. Though, no Madhubala or Munro peeped back at me, yet the freshness of youth was cheerful enough to look into the mirror every now and then. The mirror wouldn’t have considered me the prettiest of them all, but it would have opined that I was pretty enough to rouse the interest of some and attract some others. Alas! All that is gone now. At this stage in life I dread facing the mirror. I steal a sheepish glimpse from angle here or angle there but the disappointment remains. The lines tell it all, some receding some bulging and some darkening.

My dear friends console me constantly, you are as old as you think you are, or that age lies in mind and not in body. I appreciate their efforts to console me. After all why worry about something that happens to all, as my Dad would say. However, it is easier said than done. If old age was just a physical phenomenon one could have reconciled with it. But there is lot more to it.

First and foremost with age comes wisdom, a virtual killer of all dreams. A certain degree of naivety goes into making dreams. The belief that you can change the world, the belief that there are simple solutions to everything complex and the belief that everything exists in black and white are now notions you can only jeer at. These wrinkled notions take away so much joy from your life, leaving you blanched.

Then, without ever being noticed a certain degree of rigidity sets in. As you get comfortable in a set pattern of life, you get averse to change. Any change disturbs you. You become less and less receptive to new ideas. You just want peace and status quo. Lack of thrilling newness takes away another chunk of joy from your life.

Finally, you get into the habit of taking stock, every now and then. Have you made it? Will you be able to make it? Time is running out. What happened to my dreams? Where has life brought me from the point I started? The constant flow of questions keep nagging you.

If you thought I am the one who constantly cribs about getting older by the day with teeth darkening and hair lightening then you are mistaken. It’s the wilderness of my blog that brings out my worst fears. And yes what’s a blog that doesn’t let you share your deepest fears?

7.11.08 20:01, comment

The Blooms

I am in class IXth elaborating on author's unwritten words. Most of the times I concentrate on the unwritten rather than the written.Just now I have presented the most unconventional view on positive thinking and am rather sorry to see the puzzled expressions. When I do that, and I do that quite often, I feel extremely sorry. A face or two in the crowd seems to understand what I said.That's enough. Next time there will be many more. What I had to say has attacked their conventional beliefs. Beliefs which their parents, teachers and others have passed unto them However, I had to do my job, even if it requires moments of cracking and crumbling. I have to push open the windows for them What they observe and absorb will be of their own accord. After all I can't control that.

There are also times when you have to fight your own ossification. Constantly reminding children of obedience, conformity , unquestioned respect for elders is second nature to teachers. But hasn't this world progressed by the nonconformists, non believers? Then why try to convert our children into obedient robots? Why curb their free spirit? Why not let them question? I have an answer. Because that's inconvenient. For that we will have to change ourselves. We will have to evolve continuously coming out of our rigid zones.

My class always remains the noiciest. One can always hear students' voices, arguments and laughter. Last year when I became the class teacher of class Xth I overheard remarks that the class has gone totally out of control and that our result might be spoilt. The irony is that it broke all the previous records of the school and one of my students attained a position in first five hundred toppers in English.

Nevertheless, I can still hear remarks that class VIII is turning into a set of hooligans Anjali ma'am being the class teacher. Far from disturbing me now, these remarks bring images of glorious moments when my children have achieved feasts never achieved before.

This post is not about me but about my vibrant, bubbling, wonderful students who will take this world by storm one day. So I wish, so I believe.

2 Comments 11.9.08 19:50, comment

Thoughts

Term End Thoughts

What makes a student? A teacher, a school, a parent or an environment? Or is it the sum total of all these? If it really is the latter, then maybe I have an escape. The list of failures is perhaps not only a reflection on me. I might find refuge in passing the buck but then somewhere a thought keeps nagging me - you could do better, better, better.

Checking papers is perhaps the most painful part of teaching. What glares on your face is not what you actually taught but rather what you failed to teach. When a class ninth student prefers to close his letter to his father with “yours approximately”, do you doubt his father’s paternity or the fact that you failed to tell them that rhyme and synonymity are two different concepts? And yes, attempting a character sketch in literature is not the same as attempting a sketch in drawing. Was that to be told?

I shall be careful next time.

Friendship Day Thoughts

You know the day is round the corner, when Dove starts planning days ahead…bands, chocolates and cards.

My gratitude…Thank you friends for being there. Flowers for all the friends who come here.

2 Comments 2.8.08 20:19, comment

this too shall pass
somebody said writing's a painful process. truly it is. your head is constantly hammered by thoughts rushing from all directions. you try to streamline. organize. release a smooth flow . one that will want you to touch it, grasp it or simply wallow in it. but alas, when you sit at the keys you hate what comes out. not even an iota close to what you visualised. exasperated, you walk out. no more of it. the end.
end to writing? yes. but could there ever be an end to writhing thoughts that keep creeping at the back of your mind or sudden, lightening flashes that bolt you out of the blue? you try again. you fail.
that my friends has been my story.
but times pass, phases pass, eras pass and so the much cliched, this too shall pass.
today's a small attempt. tomorrow maybe a bigger one.

8 Comments 3.7.08 18:51, comment

Sari

Sundays are always special, but more so now when I get to read a fresh column by Shashi Tharoor every Sunday. So I was elated to read Save the sari from a sorry fate as sari remains my favourite garment. It was a double feast – Shashi Tharoor and his endorsement of my favourite attire. But by any stretch of imagination, I could have never foreseen the kind of response it evoked from the feminists. So much so that he had to come up with a rejoinder asking – “Where did I go wrong?”

My date with sari goes back to the time when I was just a twelve year old. Would wear it to any fancy dress competition in school, festivals or in the parties thrown by the ambassador where different nationals would come. Their admiring looks said so much about the beauty of the Sari. But not for our feminists . They cry hoarse about anyone who pleads to arrest the declining interest of Indian ladies in Sari.

For starters, I would agree with the fact that Sari is not really a very comfortable piece of clothing but then neither are stilettos in the office or cut sleeves in the chilly winter winds. Yet many Indians women don them. Denim is anytime thicker on hot and sultry summer months than a cool cotton sari.

Aqua Genius calls it a tent behind which mountains of flab can be concealed though his models adorn it with panache.

However, passions do not always spring from rational grounds. I really cannot give you too many good reasons why we Indian women should not part with the elegance of sari. But there is something which I find ridiculous about the feminists who jump with daggers in their hands at anyone who speaks about perpetuating any traits exclusively feminine.

Does feminism mean the “man-ization” , if any such term exists, of woman? I guess not. Besides having equal rights, for me feminism means that a woman should have her own space to grow as a woman and not as a man. Therein comes my case for sari. Sari with myriad vibrant colours, textures and designs is epitome of everything feminine. It compliments a woman’s body as no other garment can ever do. It enhances the inherent beauty of any woman which nature has so generously bestowed on women.

So Mr. Tharoor, I am all for this six yards of beauty and there was nothing sexist about your appeal to Indian women to adorn this attire.

27 Comments 9.4.07 20:37, comment

The Crystal Haze

The day’s events have exhausted me. There is too much excitement to contain. So I decide to sit and write.

I am wrapped in questions, problems, solutions and exercises and some more exercises. There is no end to it. Even in my dreams I am explaining how a report is written differently than an article and how Keynes differed from classical economists. What make everything more complex are the extra questions of mathematics, which are, simply beyond my comprehension and which Dove insists that I explain her. Now how on earth am going to crack them! Not able to grasp that her mom has limits, she refuses to take help from anybody else. The whims of a preteen are sometimes simply baffling. Gripped in the time crunch my guilt deepens as I am really not able to do much.

Exams over, it's time for Dove to visit her school to check her answer sheets for any errors that might have crept in totaling etc. When she comes back she is in tears. She has just fallen short of a mark to make it to a scholar. Ironically, more painful is the fact, that her mathematics teacher has awarded her three marks extra and she goes back and gets them corrected. It is too big a temptation but she has overcome it, else her Mom would be angry. But now in front of her mom she breaks down. All her dreams and hard work through the year are shattered. I appreciate her. She has done the right thing. She remains my star. However, nothing can console her now. Her disappointment has not ebbed. But then some of life’s lessons are learnt the hard way. Work harder next year. With a resolution to practice mathematics regularly the matter is closed.

Today is Dove’s result. Though the dad daughter duo can fetch the result I decide to take a half-day from my work. My decision is not free from my guilt, that I could have given her more time. We rush through the maddening Delhi traffic. Somehow we are able to make it on time.

Her teacher congratulates us. We thank her with a wry smile. Not able to digest our dryness, the charming class teacher congratulates us once again but this time she adds another word to her congratulating note. Scholar. I hurriedly scan through the report card. My eyes are fixed on the column where the heading Scholar is ticked. How could that be. She was running short of the stipulated percentage. I am no Ramanujan in mathematics but then simple percentage calculation is not beyond my capability. She clarifies. Dove was considered as a special case for the award. All the teachers have vouched for her and requested the Principal to grant her an extra grace mark. So scholar she becomes! I am too dazed to comment. All the haze has evaporated and what remains are the sparkling crystal colours.

“Honesty is the cornerstone of all success, without which confidence and ability to perform shall cease to exist.” Mary Kay Ash

12 Comments 28.3.07 16:12, comment