The ebb and flow of words
within the silence of time;
heavy-headed, I sleep
in yellow dreams
At nine.
A space,
a kaleidoscopic sea;
as a passive smoker shrugs,
inhaling monotonic hours,
sweeping down with cartoon prophecy.
I am of course still sleeping,
rolling over ever-stifling time;
steady-footed, I sink,
in tender amnesia
At nine.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
What is Indian Literature?
The attempt at categorization
Our relentless effort to establish order cannot be better illustrated than by our peculiar yet untiring attempts to categorize the world around us. Disorder puts us in a very tricky situation, for if nothing is fixed and nothing determinable then our egotistic assumptions on the knowable world –and our possession of that ‘knowledge’- hangs precariously, since the universal and the general –upon which knowledge is structured- is replaced by the chaotic- manifest in arbitrary individualism and defiant subjectivity. We like to organize things into neat little boxes that make us feel good about ourselves and reassure us that we know what is where; we like to think by categorizing them we have conquered them and subdued them into those neat little boxes we find in biology books and anthropological studies.
Academics and Scholars, naturally, have therefore an even greater zeal in categorizing and then theorizing such categories. In Universities teaching Literature you are likely to encounter whole Papers and Blocks like ‘Australian Literature’, ‘African Literature’ and the new arrival ‘Indian Literature’. Deeply political as it is to define ‘Literature’, for present purposes let us say it is the mass of all literary work within the category imposed upon it; hence ‘Indian Literature’ is representative of all literary work that may be termed ‘Indian’. The complexity of defining the second word, for once, pales in comparison to that of the first. What is ‘Indian’, and what constitutes its literature? The category seems to defy categorization. So how do you do it?
It’s easy if you are Warwick or Oxford; you just need to mix Tagore with Shobha De, add a touch of Vikram Seth, a dash of Salman Rushdie, and you have made yourself the perfect Indian curry. Unsavory as that might sound, it is perhaps not as ‘wrong’ as it seems since a Cambridge definition of ‘Indian’ is purely their perception of the Indian and unsurprisingly the books selected are the books that have made the westward journey and got there. But the problem at hand is -if we must- then how does one define Indian Literature?
One can either look at ‘Indian’ as implying the political India, or the more elusive cultural ‘India’. Political India –as the geographical chunk encompassed by the international border- in terms of an Indian Literature would imply an aggregative approach where every literature within India – Hindi, Maithili, Marathi, Telegu, Bangla and the vast many language-literatures of India- together constitute Indian Literature. This statement itself makes obvious the lack of any unity in such an approach and, to put it as Aijaz Ahmad does “A ‘national’ literature… has to be more than the sum of its regional constituent parts, if we are to speak of its unity theoretically.” India, as a nation that never existed as unified entity till two centuries ago, and a nation that has never, till date, spoken one single language, has a culture that, if one follows the tourism brochures, revels in this diversity. But even in this complexity let us attempt to try and salvage if we may a unified culture that is Indian, and which may aid us in understanding what Indian Literature is or could be. It’s not just cliché humor to say that India exists in Cricket and Bollywood movies. To look for Indian culture –and subsequently Indian Literature- we must look at what surpasses the distinctions of demographics, ethnicity, religious groups and language clusters.
In terms of language it comes down to what language does an India think in, or rather in what language can one envision an India? Languages specific to certain regions are often limited in conceptualizing the vastness of this problem and are often geographically restricted in terms of market-audiences. Hindi, in spite of sixty years of aggressive (and expensive) state promotion and propaganda, has failed to become the medium of our national consciousness, severely restricted and loathed as it is in the South, the North-East and various other parts of the country. The most politically scandalous thing to do now would be to suggest English as a -if not the- language that can conceptualize an India and subsequently be the vehicle of Indian Literature.
We may shy from it but it isn’t incorrect to say that India is the product of colonialism, and that our colonizers, for better or worse, invented an India. English, therefore, was the first language to adopt ‘India’ into its vocabulary and even NCERT textbooks concede that the rise of English speakers in India not only united the country but gave rise to a sense of pan-Indian nationalism. But it is not as easy as saying Indian writing in English is what constitutes Indian Literature.
Indian Literature, if we must, has to be that literature which is able to recognize this India as a united entity, and speak of this unity. It is perhaps largely due to lack of alternatives that Indian writing in English constitutes a large bulk of what I may term ‘Indian’ Literature. It is also not to say that since India is a product of colonialism Indian literature cannot speak of anything else except our colonial experience. It is merely to state that Indian literature needs a broader scope of national understanding and at the moment only English seems to be doing that.
An interesting point to note is that the India that is producing, reading and theorizing this literature is hardly representative. An elite wealthy English-speaking minority is hardly the average Indian, but oddly, it is perhaps the only India that cuts across other religious and linguistic divides. For most of this country there simply exists no Indian Literature since there simply exists no one India. Every language group has its own India, one which cannot be translated into another language, which in turn has its own India. In that sense, the Indian literature which is in English is representative of only one of these many Indias that exists today, the only difference being that the audience –the readers, writers and scholars- of English are spread across the country and cut across all other language groups in this country, though limited nonetheless by economic barriers.
It is indeed tempting to jump to conclusions regarding this situation, but one needs to understand the latent complexities of this problem before branding it good or bad. The concept of an Indian literature is just as arbitrary as any other attempt at categorization. The need for this categorization perhaps arose out of the mere necessity of creating something new in the curriculum of a University, one possibly far removed from all such concerns of actually defining an Indian identity. Perhaps the real purpose was mere scholarly discourse and academic debate, where the emphasis is on posing questions, not on eliciting a single answer?
However, there really is no need for there to be a single answer to this question –and that precisely is my conclusion.
Academics and Scholars, naturally, have therefore an even greater zeal in categorizing and then theorizing such categories. In Universities teaching Literature you are likely to encounter whole Papers and Blocks like ‘Australian Literature’, ‘African Literature’ and the new arrival ‘Indian Literature’. Deeply political as it is to define ‘Literature’, for present purposes let us say it is the mass of all literary work within the category imposed upon it; hence ‘Indian Literature’ is representative of all literary work that may be termed ‘Indian’. The complexity of defining the second word, for once, pales in comparison to that of the first. What is ‘Indian’, and what constitutes its literature? The category seems to defy categorization. So how do you do it?
It’s easy if you are Warwick or Oxford; you just need to mix Tagore with Shobha De, add a touch of Vikram Seth, a dash of Salman Rushdie, and you have made yourself the perfect Indian curry. Unsavory as that might sound, it is perhaps not as ‘wrong’ as it seems since a Cambridge definition of ‘Indian’ is purely their perception of the Indian and unsurprisingly the books selected are the books that have made the westward journey and got there. But the problem at hand is -if we must- then how does one define Indian Literature?
One can either look at ‘Indian’ as implying the political India, or the more elusive cultural ‘India’. Political India –as the geographical chunk encompassed by the international border- in terms of an Indian Literature would imply an aggregative approach where every literature within India – Hindi, Maithili, Marathi, Telegu, Bangla and the vast many language-literatures of India- together constitute Indian Literature. This statement itself makes obvious the lack of any unity in such an approach and, to put it as Aijaz Ahmad does “A ‘national’ literature… has to be more than the sum of its regional constituent parts, if we are to speak of its unity theoretically.” India, as a nation that never existed as unified entity till two centuries ago, and a nation that has never, till date, spoken one single language, has a culture that, if one follows the tourism brochures, revels in this diversity. But even in this complexity let us attempt to try and salvage if we may a unified culture that is Indian, and which may aid us in understanding what Indian Literature is or could be. It’s not just cliché humor to say that India exists in Cricket and Bollywood movies. To look for Indian culture –and subsequently Indian Literature- we must look at what surpasses the distinctions of demographics, ethnicity, religious groups and language clusters.
In terms of language it comes down to what language does an India think in, or rather in what language can one envision an India? Languages specific to certain regions are often limited in conceptualizing the vastness of this problem and are often geographically restricted in terms of market-audiences. Hindi, in spite of sixty years of aggressive (and expensive) state promotion and propaganda, has failed to become the medium of our national consciousness, severely restricted and loathed as it is in the South, the North-East and various other parts of the country. The most politically scandalous thing to do now would be to suggest English as a -if not the- language that can conceptualize an India and subsequently be the vehicle of Indian Literature.
We may shy from it but it isn’t incorrect to say that India is the product of colonialism, and that our colonizers, for better or worse, invented an India. English, therefore, was the first language to adopt ‘India’ into its vocabulary and even NCERT textbooks concede that the rise of English speakers in India not only united the country but gave rise to a sense of pan-Indian nationalism. But it is not as easy as saying Indian writing in English is what constitutes Indian Literature.
Indian Literature, if we must, has to be that literature which is able to recognize this India as a united entity, and speak of this unity. It is perhaps largely due to lack of alternatives that Indian writing in English constitutes a large bulk of what I may term ‘Indian’ Literature. It is also not to say that since India is a product of colonialism Indian literature cannot speak of anything else except our colonial experience. It is merely to state that Indian literature needs a broader scope of national understanding and at the moment only English seems to be doing that.
An interesting point to note is that the India that is producing, reading and theorizing this literature is hardly representative. An elite wealthy English-speaking minority is hardly the average Indian, but oddly, it is perhaps the only India that cuts across other religious and linguistic divides. For most of this country there simply exists no Indian Literature since there simply exists no one India. Every language group has its own India, one which cannot be translated into another language, which in turn has its own India. In that sense, the Indian literature which is in English is representative of only one of these many Indias that exists today, the only difference being that the audience –the readers, writers and scholars- of English are spread across the country and cut across all other language groups in this country, though limited nonetheless by economic barriers.
It is indeed tempting to jump to conclusions regarding this situation, but one needs to understand the latent complexities of this problem before branding it good or bad. The concept of an Indian literature is just as arbitrary as any other attempt at categorization. The need for this categorization perhaps arose out of the mere necessity of creating something new in the curriculum of a University, one possibly far removed from all such concerns of actually defining an Indian identity. Perhaps the real purpose was mere scholarly discourse and academic debate, where the emphasis is on posing questions, not on eliciting a single answer?
However, there really is no need for there to be a single answer to this question –and that precisely is my conclusion.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Last Delirium
We
who had gathered
unknown, amidst strangers
witnessed the first signs.
The distant noise
-a murmur,
riding the waves.
Rising; raising ripples in the music.
One by one
we came, one and all,
we, who were what was the crowd.
Unaroused
we gathered around fires,
little circles shielding the light,
melting numbed joints.
We, who had gathered
brandishing machetes
and books and tools,
suffered the first Loss.
Thronging the streets,
littering the halls -the temple steps,
we could not see it coming,
submerged as it was
underneath our clamor.
You and I,
who were there, on that fateful day,
stared at its face
and met those pitiless eyes.
Blazing fire
in sudden spiteful fury,
beating in ecstasy the drums of doom.
A toppled mountain plunging into the streams
the tides rising like never before,
the thundering steps
growing louder,
over and above apocalypse.
And we, who were there
saw in its face
the unrelenting power
of creation that no longer submits to any creator
We, who had gathered
rushed out to see our nemesis.
One so bold to smite us.
It was then, perhaps
that you and I,
in the scattering crowd
of the unraveling world
were struck by its force.
We stared at its face
helpless,
you and I,
who had created this monster
flesh and blood, and bronze,
But now, we can only gape
at our creation
sounding the music of the final delirium.
who had gathered
unknown, amidst strangers
witnessed the first signs.
The distant noise
-a murmur,
riding the waves.
Rising; raising ripples in the music.
One by one
we came, one and all,
we, who were what was the crowd.
Unaroused
we gathered around fires,
little circles shielding the light,
melting numbed joints.
We, who had gathered
brandishing machetes
and books and tools,
suffered the first Loss.
Thronging the streets,
littering the halls -the temple steps,
we could not see it coming,
submerged as it was
underneath our clamor.
You and I,
who were there, on that fateful day,
stared at its face
and met those pitiless eyes.
Blazing fire
in sudden spiteful fury,
beating in ecstasy the drums of doom.
A toppled mountain plunging into the streams
the tides rising like never before,
the thundering steps
growing louder,
over and above apocalypse.
And we, who were there
saw in its face
the unrelenting power
of creation that no longer submits to any creator
We, who had gathered
rushed out to see our nemesis.
One so bold to smite us.
It was then, perhaps
that you and I,
in the scattering crowd
of the unraveling world
were struck by its force.
We stared at its face
helpless,
you and I,
who had created this monster
flesh and blood, and bronze,
But now, we can only gape
at our creation
sounding the music of the final delirium.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Afterwards
The shingle stones;
the shroud
of golden butterflies
hovering over the edge of my dreams.
You were the glazen mirror;
the glinting sunshine
ramming through nothing
was the poetry etched on your glass.
We were clouds;
once upon a time-
we were clouds.
An endless fall;
a hunger
of jagged knives
claws at the bottom of this desire.
You are a picture still
still enough a picture
-you are my picture still.
But the twilight;
the distant storm
of unprovoked tamarind lust
has washed these tides with words.
You are the blazen mirror;
The vastness
of your presence;
and I must step back to capture everything-
that slipped
back, beyond the edge of this cliff.
the shroud
of golden butterflies
hovering over the edge of my dreams.
You were the glazen mirror;
the glinting sunshine
ramming through nothing
was the poetry etched on your glass.
We were clouds;
once upon a time-
we were clouds.
An endless fall;
a hunger
of jagged knives
claws at the bottom of this desire.
You are a picture still
still enough a picture
-you are my picture still.
But the twilight;
the distant storm
of unprovoked tamarind lust
has washed these tides with words.
You are the blazen mirror;
The vastness
of your presence;
and I must step back to capture everything-
that slipped
back, beyond the edge of this cliff.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
-untitled-
-untitled- (or ‘A very blue memoir of a rainy day on sixth street’)
--(untitled and quite incomplete; rejected for the lack of coherence)--
She said she wanted to be free. She was walking in the rain, under a clear sky that betrayed no hint of the coming blue. It wasn’t very clear- it was raining quite heavily- and I couldn't see; maybe it wasn’t really her.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Orchestra, is the music too loud. No it isn’t a question, not quite. Yes I know you cant hear me, and of course, there will still be cheese for dinner.
She was still talking when she got into the cab – sorry, I mean the rickshaw. Did it change anything that she didn't have a bag with her, no rosy lipstick and no sticky business in the corner shop?
No the mirror didn't crack as she left- as he left- or whatever. ‘It’ left me alone in the street. I took maybe the subway home, and in any case I don’t recall how I came home. I read sometime in the newspaper that our city will soon have a subway- or a park, where there will be people.
Of course you cant hear me, child. Go run in the rain, I would have done so if I were you. Am I not you? How can you say that. Oh yes, I couldn't quite see that it has stopped raining. Very good, you will make a good citizen someday, my brave boy. If not, you will definitely make a good doctor.
So yes, we were at the moment when she left me. She said she wanted to be free. She had the most awful air of unsaturated indignity around her. She was sitting next to a microbiologist. She was the microbiologist. No no no, you are getting it all wrong- you had dated a microbiologist sometime next Wednesday.
I have a dream. I didn't like it much but I always have the same dream. I am in a blue room, with fifteen chairs and fourteen tables.
Of course blue is my favorite color, how did you know?
Ah, I am tired. It has been a long time. She took such an awful time to leave. I wish she hadn’t. I wish he hadn’t left with her. I wish they had stayed over at least for coffee.
I don’t like drinking alone- or with more than three people. I always go to a bar with three chairs. The fifteen chairs had a gilded lion on them. Funny, I have never seen a lion!
She was my most romantic soulmate. Yes I am aware that the dictionary says ‘soulmate’ is not a single word and no, you may not run after the kite in south park, or west park, or any blue park for that matter. Yes blue is my favorite color.
I had given her a blue cigar on her nineteenth birthday. She believes she has smoked it away. I never found the ashes, and I know she is lying. She gave it to him under the darkness of a summer noon in Palermo. My dear lady, I saw he was Italian!
Don’t play such somber tones- I am still alive and happy and singing. But you cant hear me, and you cant see that my red coat is drenched in the rain.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the radio station, you blissful angels playing music so late in the night, you must be tired. If I had a telephone I would also work for the radio- and sing for myself and others and my two sweet next-door girls who always pester me. They are all four years old and they already believe I am an air force pilot.
I think I need sleep. I know what dream I will have, so there is no suspense- the same reason why I stopped going to the movies- they simply have no dreams.
Yes dear, the cheese is cold, but the bread will make it better.
I think I sometimes cant say things right. She said as much, when she slammed the door on my face. But how could she slam the door? She went, poor me, in an innocent rickety rickshaw. But she slammed something. Maybe her invisible bag or her passionate love for me.
I think it was still raining when I said I am sorry. But she didn't hear it. I didn't hear it either. The gravel on the road was dry as bloodstains and the mud on the pavement as wet as my heart. My heart is perfectly fine, thank you. The doctor had checked just last leap year.
Sleep is after all coming over me. I have a room with only one bed. It’s a triple bed. Sometimes I used to go to bed with her, sometimes she with me. It had been quite well, but off late she brought him too, and we all went to our obviously triple bed.
It was stuffy; there were too many legs, too many hearts and too many aching breasts to nurture. There was also the fact that the windows in the room all faced the wrong side. She left me on the day the windows were taken out and put on the right side. Now the sunlight and the moonlight come from the right neon signs.
They left me in my misery, and carried away all my vintage wine. But wait, I never had vintage wine, I never could! But they took something vintage, some grandfather clock which never worked perhaps. The triple bed was far too crowded, and one day when I discovered myself on the floor, I knew I had had enough. I told her to get out, and then I screamed and then she screamed and then it rained.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Orchestra, I am quite tired, and I dare say I need some sleep, and I would like it very much if you could play something special tonight. She always sang so well, and even then, in the rain, she was singing; good lord, singing! She sang some ballad or some ode or some jazz as she slammed the door on my crumbling face.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Orchestra, is the music too loud. No it isn’t a question, not quite. Yes I know you cant hear me, and of course, there will still be cheese for dinner.
She was still talking when she got into the cab – sorry, I mean the rickshaw. Did it change anything that she didn't have a bag with her, no rosy lipstick and no sticky business in the corner shop?
No the mirror didn't crack as she left- as he left- or whatever. ‘It’ left me alone in the street. I took maybe the subway home, and in any case I don’t recall how I came home. I read sometime in the newspaper that our city will soon have a subway- or a park, where there will be people.
Of course you cant hear me, child. Go run in the rain, I would have done so if I were you. Am I not you? How can you say that. Oh yes, I couldn't quite see that it has stopped raining. Very good, you will make a good citizen someday, my brave boy. If not, you will definitely make a good doctor.
So yes, we were at the moment when she left me. She said she wanted to be free. She had the most awful air of unsaturated indignity around her. She was sitting next to a microbiologist. She was the microbiologist. No no no, you are getting it all wrong- you had dated a microbiologist sometime next Wednesday.
I have a dream. I didn't like it much but I always have the same dream. I am in a blue room, with fifteen chairs and fourteen tables.
Of course blue is my favorite color, how did you know?
Ah, I am tired. It has been a long time. She took such an awful time to leave. I wish she hadn’t. I wish he hadn’t left with her. I wish they had stayed over at least for coffee.
I don’t like drinking alone- or with more than three people. I always go to a bar with three chairs. The fifteen chairs had a gilded lion on them. Funny, I have never seen a lion!
She was my most romantic soulmate. Yes I am aware that the dictionary says ‘soulmate’ is not a single word and no, you may not run after the kite in south park, or west park, or any blue park for that matter. Yes blue is my favorite color.
I had given her a blue cigar on her nineteenth birthday. She believes she has smoked it away. I never found the ashes, and I know she is lying. She gave it to him under the darkness of a summer noon in Palermo. My dear lady, I saw he was Italian!
Don’t play such somber tones- I am still alive and happy and singing. But you cant hear me, and you cant see that my red coat is drenched in the rain.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the radio station, you blissful angels playing music so late in the night, you must be tired. If I had a telephone I would also work for the radio- and sing for myself and others and my two sweet next-door girls who always pester me. They are all four years old and they already believe I am an air force pilot.
I think I need sleep. I know what dream I will have, so there is no suspense- the same reason why I stopped going to the movies- they simply have no dreams.
Yes dear, the cheese is cold, but the bread will make it better.
I think I sometimes cant say things right. She said as much, when she slammed the door on my face. But how could she slam the door? She went, poor me, in an innocent rickety rickshaw. But she slammed something. Maybe her invisible bag or her passionate love for me.
I think it was still raining when I said I am sorry. But she didn't hear it. I didn't hear it either. The gravel on the road was dry as bloodstains and the mud on the pavement as wet as my heart. My heart is perfectly fine, thank you. The doctor had checked just last leap year.
Sleep is after all coming over me. I have a room with only one bed. It’s a triple bed. Sometimes I used to go to bed with her, sometimes she with me. It had been quite well, but off late she brought him too, and we all went to our obviously triple bed.
It was stuffy; there were too many legs, too many hearts and too many aching breasts to nurture. There was also the fact that the windows in the room all faced the wrong side. She left me on the day the windows were taken out and put on the right side. Now the sunlight and the moonlight come from the right neon signs.
They left me in my misery, and carried away all my vintage wine. But wait, I never had vintage wine, I never could! But they took something vintage, some grandfather clock which never worked perhaps. The triple bed was far too crowded, and one day when I discovered myself on the floor, I knew I had had enough. I told her to get out, and then I screamed and then she screamed and then it rained.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Orchestra, I am quite tired, and I dare say I need some sleep, and I would like it very much if you could play something special tonight. She always sang so well, and even then, in the rain, she was singing; good lord, singing! She sang some ballad or some ode or some jazz as she slammed the door on my crumbling face.
--(untitled and quite incomplete; rejected for the lack of coherence)--
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Early School Memories: A name, a trick and some numbers
I didn't know. In fact I had no idea. Staring at me was the white of the paper that seemed to mock me. I thought I could hear it cackling madly at me, though now that I think of it, there might have been a tinge of sympathy in that mockery. I felt miserable, and foolish, and confused. I couldn't believe that they would ask such a difficult question on the very first day. I had walked into my new classroom quietly. It was the second door to the right on the first floor. I couldn't read very well at that time, but I have come to believe there must have been a board that said ‘Class I – C’ on that door.
“What is your name?” my new teacher asked.
I looked at her. I remember her smile; it somehow seemed to make her face glow with some unknown joy. I remained quiet. I could feel the eyes of my classmates inspecting the newcomer.
“Son, tell us your name. Don’t you want your new friends to know who you are?” she said, still smiling.
Someone laughed, or barked, or at least made a noise distracting enough that it gave me a moment to think of what was in front of me. What was my name? Well I was sure I had heard that question before, but strangely, I didn't recall ever having answered it. My Dad, or my sister, someone was always around to answer that question, saying words whose alphabets I was yet to learn.
I looked up to see my teacher. Something behind that smile had changed, though I couldn't say what. Maybe she looked concerned.
I just stood there, unsure what to do. I didn't know. In fact I had no idea.
I came back home. I told mum about what had happened at school. I put to her the question that was puzzling me from when I first heard it.
“Mamma, what is my name?” I asked her. I don’t know why but I felt that somehow knowing my name was rather important; something I should know.
She looked amused. She too smiled, but somehow for a child yet to know his name I could now distinguish different smiles. Her smile was different from the one I saw on my new teacher. I remember wondering at that moment whether a smile can perhaps be rude sometimes.
I asked mum again. She told me my name. I told her it was too long. She then wrote it down for me. I couldn't spell much at that time. How was I to remember it? She taught me a trick.
“Look at the cover of your books. I have written your name there. Just copy it.”
That was the first trick I learnt.
I went back the next day with renewed confidence. I was ready to answer anyone who wanted to know my name, and what’s better, I could spell it, given enough time. On my way, I made it a point to tell the second door on the right that I had a name.
But no one asked my name. The teacher had proceeded to the next lesson. Number-names. I remember feeling indignant at being replaced by numbers. My name was discarded to yesterday, now everyone just wanted to know the name of numbers. But numbers turned out to be slower than me when it came to divulging their names. To begin with, each number had a different name. Some sounded similar, others completely different. And the names itself were peculiar. I recall thinking to myself how sorry I would feel if my name was ‘eleven’, or ‘thirty-two’. Thank god it wasn’t.
School used to get over by one in the afternoon. My aunt came to pick me up. I coaxed her into buying me some candy from the vendor outside school. He made such beautiful patterns with the sugar candy. Others had also noticed his craft, and he was much in demand. He was smiling too, reminding my of my teacher; they smiled quite alike. Numbers fresh in my mind, I strained to hear the price, but was disappointed when he just said, “Dus Rupaye”.
My homework for the day was to write number names from one to hundred. I didn't know them. I promptly asked my mum to help. But this time she didn't have a neat trick to overcome this problem. All evening I tried to complete my homework, but simply could not. I went to sleep without writing anything. I was nervous. I think I even had a nightmare involving some numbers.
“I don’t want to go to school.” I said the next morning. How could I face that smiling teacher without doing my homework?
My mum and my aunt tried to convince me to go to school. It was a routine thing for them. I was never fond of school.
“What is the matter?” my dad called from the other room. A minute later he came in. I was crying by then. Everyone finally gave in. I didn't have to go to school. I spent the day playing with the watchman. The same happened the next day.
In the evening, I overheard my mum and dad speaking about me. They seemed concerned.
“Now look at what your idea has done. He doesn’t like school now. He just refuses to go.” My dad was telling my mum, who looked worried.
“I know. It wasn’t a good idea. I thought….”
“Well, what’s done is done.”
The next day my mum came with me to school. She told me she was taking me to her office, and I believed her. But we went to school. I wasn’t all that worried. I was not in my uniform and it was well past the school hour. We met another women in the school who was “Principal ma’am”. She was smiling too. I fought hard to suppress a yawn in return. Smiles were boring.
I waited outside her room while my mum spoke to her. She came out and took me to another room. We met another women. She had an abnormally big nose and had a very peculiar way of dressing her hair, something like a ponytail. I laughed when I saw her. I stopped laughing when I was told she was to be my new teacher. She smiled. She just thought I was a very cheerful kid.
The next I came to school. I was curious about my new teacher. I think I came to think of her more as a clown than a teacher. The watchman was old and he couldn't play very well. I decided school wouldn’t be that bad after all. And I turned out to be quite right. No numbers, no names, no number-names and surprisingly no smiles either. It was back to business. We started with the alphabets. Now this I knew very well.
A few years later I came to know that when we had shifted to Dehradun, my mum, ever so hopeful of my genius mind, had put me in first grade a year before I should have, skipping prep grade which she thought unimportant. “Thank god for that”, I thought after I came to know, “I thought I was unusually slow at school!”
“What is your name?” my new teacher asked.
I looked at her. I remember her smile; it somehow seemed to make her face glow with some unknown joy. I remained quiet. I could feel the eyes of my classmates inspecting the newcomer.
“Son, tell us your name. Don’t you want your new friends to know who you are?” she said, still smiling.
Someone laughed, or barked, or at least made a noise distracting enough that it gave me a moment to think of what was in front of me. What was my name? Well I was sure I had heard that question before, but strangely, I didn't recall ever having answered it. My Dad, or my sister, someone was always around to answer that question, saying words whose alphabets I was yet to learn.
I looked up to see my teacher. Something behind that smile had changed, though I couldn't say what. Maybe she looked concerned.
I just stood there, unsure what to do. I didn't know. In fact I had no idea.
I came back home. I told mum about what had happened at school. I put to her the question that was puzzling me from when I first heard it.
“Mamma, what is my name?” I asked her. I don’t know why but I felt that somehow knowing my name was rather important; something I should know.
She looked amused. She too smiled, but somehow for a child yet to know his name I could now distinguish different smiles. Her smile was different from the one I saw on my new teacher. I remember wondering at that moment whether a smile can perhaps be rude sometimes.
I asked mum again. She told me my name. I told her it was too long. She then wrote it down for me. I couldn't spell much at that time. How was I to remember it? She taught me a trick.
“Look at the cover of your books. I have written your name there. Just copy it.”
That was the first trick I learnt.
I went back the next day with renewed confidence. I was ready to answer anyone who wanted to know my name, and what’s better, I could spell it, given enough time. On my way, I made it a point to tell the second door on the right that I had a name.
But no one asked my name. The teacher had proceeded to the next lesson. Number-names. I remember feeling indignant at being replaced by numbers. My name was discarded to yesterday, now everyone just wanted to know the name of numbers. But numbers turned out to be slower than me when it came to divulging their names. To begin with, each number had a different name. Some sounded similar, others completely different. And the names itself were peculiar. I recall thinking to myself how sorry I would feel if my name was ‘eleven’, or ‘thirty-two’. Thank god it wasn’t.
School used to get over by one in the afternoon. My aunt came to pick me up. I coaxed her into buying me some candy from the vendor outside school. He made such beautiful patterns with the sugar candy. Others had also noticed his craft, and he was much in demand. He was smiling too, reminding my of my teacher; they smiled quite alike. Numbers fresh in my mind, I strained to hear the price, but was disappointed when he just said, “Dus Rupaye”.
My homework for the day was to write number names from one to hundred. I didn't know them. I promptly asked my mum to help. But this time she didn't have a neat trick to overcome this problem. All evening I tried to complete my homework, but simply could not. I went to sleep without writing anything. I was nervous. I think I even had a nightmare involving some numbers.
“I don’t want to go to school.” I said the next morning. How could I face that smiling teacher without doing my homework?
My mum and my aunt tried to convince me to go to school. It was a routine thing for them. I was never fond of school.
“What is the matter?” my dad called from the other room. A minute later he came in. I was crying by then. Everyone finally gave in. I didn't have to go to school. I spent the day playing with the watchman. The same happened the next day.
In the evening, I overheard my mum and dad speaking about me. They seemed concerned.
“Now look at what your idea has done. He doesn’t like school now. He just refuses to go.” My dad was telling my mum, who looked worried.
“I know. It wasn’t a good idea. I thought….”
“Well, what’s done is done.”
The next day my mum came with me to school. She told me she was taking me to her office, and I believed her. But we went to school. I wasn’t all that worried. I was not in my uniform and it was well past the school hour. We met another women in the school who was “Principal ma’am”. She was smiling too. I fought hard to suppress a yawn in return. Smiles were boring.
I waited outside her room while my mum spoke to her. She came out and took me to another room. We met another women. She had an abnormally big nose and had a very peculiar way of dressing her hair, something like a ponytail. I laughed when I saw her. I stopped laughing when I was told she was to be my new teacher. She smiled. She just thought I was a very cheerful kid.
The next I came to school. I was curious about my new teacher. I think I came to think of her more as a clown than a teacher. The watchman was old and he couldn't play very well. I decided school wouldn’t be that bad after all. And I turned out to be quite right. No numbers, no names, no number-names and surprisingly no smiles either. It was back to business. We started with the alphabets. Now this I knew very well.
A few years later I came to know that when we had shifted to Dehradun, my mum, ever so hopeful of my genius mind, had put me in first grade a year before I should have, skipping prep grade which she thought unimportant. “Thank god for that”, I thought after I came to know, “I thought I was unusually slow at school!”
Monday, March 12, 2007
Something i wrote long back....
I dont remember when exactly i wrote this... seems ages ago... i left it unfinished then... and now i cant complete it...
If I must eye the sunset, and to earth I must fall,
robed in lives woven not by my hands; and beckon
the fire within, will the ice around melt and fall?
For my shoes were never meant to tread the clouds.
If I must eye the sunset, and to earth I must fall,
robed in lives woven not by my hands; and beckon
the fire within, will the ice around melt and fall?
For my shoes were never meant to tread the clouds.
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