When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, "What will I be? Will I be pretty, will I be rich??
Here's what she said to me.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera .
The librarian plays Solitaire as the kids wait anxiously in the queue, the professor continues ,royally ignoring his inefficiency in teaching and it’s effectiveness in the form of successful distractions amongst students, family business becomes a compulsion and an excruciating U turn from fantasies which get wrapped n forgotten in d name of hobby( with oodles of stories to narrate after 30yrs…notice the pride in their eyes when they do that) for some fresh graduates, the maid servant screams she’ll charge extra for cleaning the pink handkerchief isolated in a heap of white bed sheets , a top brand manager of a popular newspaper feels he is caged in his office n pours his heart out to a 21yr old stranger, the beggar pushes her three tiny tots in a myriad of automobiles because they are a better bet when it comes to the Ka Ching. I wonder what would have happened had they questioned what was being dished out to them. What was fair? What justice and the right to choose means? I wonder if life would have been more miserable for them if these questions were answered. Which of the two makes sense…waiting for the answers or just keep on moving?
Angels from hell ( AFH…they take their job very seriously ) : why advertising after 4yrs of engg.? Why this drastic shift ?
Phaedrus ( 4 clouds of thoughts floating around the head)A) I am interested in the field.Gives me the adrenaline rush. ( Go drink coffee then.More effective….Don’t say this)
B) Working for college events ..which blossomed a liking for the field ( you are from xyz coll. Which is in a town called Nagpur with xyz events relatively small in number. Forget the 450 participants you got for your event. Other colleges from other cities talk in thousands….nope not this)
C) Creative I am. Can’t go with the flow.can’t follow the norms. ( Hmm but do you want to risk scaring them with your rebellious streak already? Think.
D) This is what I want to do. I know a quality education of 2yrs n I would have traveled enough to announce my arrival. Don’t you notice the passion in my eyes and words when I speak about what I like? The heart has reasons that reason cannot know ( hahahaaa. Wrong century,dudette!! Its not thirst to learn , its thirst to earn)
What comes out of the mouth is what lies in the heart…Ohhh Phaedrus, you romantic fool !! The queen of Hearts has always been your best bet. Says Phaedrus : “ if everyone continued with what they started then Rajnikanth would still be a bus conductor n Sean Connery , a milkman.” (option E will occur rarely.we will hesitate to chose it most of the times.only the brave n foolish go ahead with it.)
AFH collapse stupefied .
Satan seems to understand and laughs.
Phaedrus remains an incorrigible dreamer.Now it seems to me, some fine thingsHave been laid upon your tableBut you only want the ones that you cant get….Desperado.
An 18 yr old drags his feet claming it to be a moonwalk in a reality show viewed by millions. Says he has been doing it from d age of one. He has to be like MJ. That is all he knows n that is all he wants. Phaedrus laughs. Somebody save him. She believes she’ll cause rain when she sings the Malhar raag. She begins and frogs surrender to the snakes (its better to die this way than die due to lack of rainfall ..which won’t take place ever ).Phaedrus squeals and rolls on the sofa laughing like a maniac. What makes these fools believe they can sail through their entire life doing something they are not even meant to do? 6 months…Phaedrus, the joke is on you. Can you even manage a smile now? Self awareness needs lot of courage. Unfortunately, it needs a stamp of agreement from people sitting high up there. When you are there, people think that you really know.
Do we really have a control over what we want? Why do others play an important role in deciding our access to our desires? Is is okay to fear that you might go waste? Why is it so agonising when you dare to ask questions but never find the answers? Why is everyone running in the same rat race? Even if you win you still remain a rat. Is is okay to find a reason for each chase? They say I gotta learn But nobody's here to teach me. If they can't understand it, how can they reach me?Ayn Rand says…Nothing is given to man on earth except a potential and the material on which to actualize it.The potential is a superlative machine: his consciousness; but it is a machine without a spark plug, a m/c of which his own will has to be the spark plug,the self starter and the driver;he has to discover how to use it and he has to keep it in constant action.The material is the whole of the universe, with no limits set to the knowledge he can acquire and to the enjoyment of life he can achieve.But everything he needs or desires has to be learned,discovered and produced by him- by his own choice,by his own effort,by his own mind.I'm an educated fool with money on my mind Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye.Too much television watching, got me chasing dreams…The spider continues spinning in the dark in spite of all the times the web is torn apart. Sometimes I wonder whether not questioning is the answer to most of the questions. Very difficult to do so for some one like Phaedrus but saves him from self mutilation.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Importance Of Acknowledgement
The endearing cheek of a cherubic face, all of 5yrs, broadcasted an unstoppable flow of salty waters amidst the potpourri of faces with smiles that seemed permanently starched. After an investigation carried out to crack the mystery behind d sorrow, the accused ,looking very pretty in pink and of the same age as the victim, was unmasked. She was found guilty of ignoring the crucial information and updates about Barbie and Ken that the former had to share. A treaty was signed and the white flag was waved. An audience was found in one and the speaker was delighted. A few hours later something happened rather something was made to happen which left an impression on my mind. The victim ,no longer so, strutted around along with her mother finding an audience in hundreds. A tantrum for an exotic dress had done the trick.Now she didn’t have to cry for the gal in pink to cater to her wedding plans for Barbie. She was being ‘heard’ because she was being ‘seen/noticed’.
When we are born ,the first thing we are supposed to do is cry.Cry our lungs out.Cry so that we are heard loud and clear and given a thumbs up by the doc for our chances of living beyond the hospital room. When we die, the epitaphs read our duration on this earth.We still want to be heard even after our death.I just didn’t vanish from the face of the earth.I was there for some decades.You better not forget that and I hope your are listening!!
If this world is a stage, I’m sure none of us would want to be a tree .Tree which is laden with fruits but still is just a background display with no dialogues. Everyone wishes to be Old Mcdonald (the only protagonist) and rest to be the farm animals.
I do not detest the desire to be heard in people. A joke shared, the validity of an information crucified by a debate, a sorrow understood ,a speculation steamed and served,an outcry for justice,a plea to condone, a nonsense stretched , a memory revisited, a talent appreciated, an advice consumed/ignored, a proposal heard, a deal fixed ,a success celebrated, a failure criticized, a bark thanking for the biscuit etc etc. We all need to be noticed to be heard. The fact that someone is listening to what you have to say does give a sense of satisfaction and justification that we are not the living dead yet.The topics of conversation changes with different people. As we grow, we become aware of to whom and what we need to say in order to be heard. Your dentist is paid to listen to your toothaches and not about the tiff you had with your boyfriend.As a result we sub consciously choose the information to be shared just to find an honest sounding board in the opposite.
The newspaper reads “ former Tiger mistress predicts bright future with him”.Why does she need to be a clairvoyant suddenly?? She has already done the damage with the affair confessions ..so why this new update? Well, it is simple. She was finally being heard,..heard by millions.She succeeds.An ardent admirer threatens to hang himself if Sonia.Gandhi refuses the PM post. He is heard too…heard for his ‘loyalty’. A politician goes on a hunger strike to highlight his demand. Heard again…heard for his ‘sacrifice’. A superstar refuses to grace an occasion when denied the front row seats. He is heard…heard because he is a ‘brand’..A 19 yr old molestation case ends with a stripping off of a medal and a smirking accused flaunting in front of the cameras.19 yrs of talk and still not heard here.The devastating effects of a heinous crime cleans the ear wax of the authority. Sometimes you need to scream to be heard or sit really high up.
Sometimes indecisiveness, insecurity and fogged vision about the future may lead us to people for an advice. It is perfectly fine but choose your audience. A stranger maybe of some momentary help because his advice will be somewhat unbiased but won’t it be better if you share it with someone who at least knows you better?? Most people just hear us out and not listen. Share but share wisely. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. We tend to confuse attention with a false sense of care. To be seen is not necessarily be heard. A painting can be just stared at or the story behind it can be discussed. Borrow different hues but paint your work alone and make sure you stroke a magnificient story.
When we are born ,the first thing we are supposed to do is cry.Cry our lungs out.Cry so that we are heard loud and clear and given a thumbs up by the doc for our chances of living beyond the hospital room. When we die, the epitaphs read our duration on this earth.We still want to be heard even after our death.I just didn’t vanish from the face of the earth.I was there for some decades.You better not forget that and I hope your are listening!!
If this world is a stage, I’m sure none of us would want to be a tree .Tree which is laden with fruits but still is just a background display with no dialogues. Everyone wishes to be Old Mcdonald (the only protagonist) and rest to be the farm animals.
I do not detest the desire to be heard in people. A joke shared, the validity of an information crucified by a debate, a sorrow understood ,a speculation steamed and served,an outcry for justice,a plea to condone, a nonsense stretched , a memory revisited, a talent appreciated, an advice consumed/ignored, a proposal heard, a deal fixed ,a success celebrated, a failure criticized, a bark thanking for the biscuit etc etc. We all need to be noticed to be heard. The fact that someone is listening to what you have to say does give a sense of satisfaction and justification that we are not the living dead yet.The topics of conversation changes with different people. As we grow, we become aware of to whom and what we need to say in order to be heard. Your dentist is paid to listen to your toothaches and not about the tiff you had with your boyfriend.As a result we sub consciously choose the information to be shared just to find an honest sounding board in the opposite.
The newspaper reads “ former Tiger mistress predicts bright future with him”.Why does she need to be a clairvoyant suddenly?? She has already done the damage with the affair confessions ..so why this new update? Well, it is simple. She was finally being heard,..heard by millions.She succeeds.An ardent admirer threatens to hang himself if Sonia.Gandhi refuses the PM post. He is heard too…heard for his ‘loyalty’. A politician goes on a hunger strike to highlight his demand. Heard again…heard for his ‘sacrifice’. A superstar refuses to grace an occasion when denied the front row seats. He is heard…heard because he is a ‘brand’..A 19 yr old molestation case ends with a stripping off of a medal and a smirking accused flaunting in front of the cameras.19 yrs of talk and still not heard here.The devastating effects of a heinous crime cleans the ear wax of the authority. Sometimes you need to scream to be heard or sit really high up.
Sometimes indecisiveness, insecurity and fogged vision about the future may lead us to people for an advice. It is perfectly fine but choose your audience. A stranger maybe of some momentary help because his advice will be somewhat unbiased but won’t it be better if you share it with someone who at least knows you better?? Most people just hear us out and not listen. Share but share wisely. There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. We tend to confuse attention with a false sense of care. To be seen is not necessarily be heard. A painting can be just stared at or the story behind it can be discussed. Borrow different hues but paint your work alone and make sure you stroke a magnificient story.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Being Differently Same
Once upon a time in the lively village of Whozwhoville, lived people who called themselves wannabes and wanted to be willbes. The people followed a peculiar custom. Every child was named after a famous celebrity by his/her parents and it was the duty of the child to live up to his/her name. While some parents were over ambitious for their kids, the others reduced the pressure by naming them Cyrus Brocha.
Nobody expected you to be a world famous celebrity but you had to live the profession synonymous to your name and if that was not possible at least you had to do things similar to that person you were named after in your daily life. The people under the former category were called ‘willbes’ because of their sheer will and endurance that made them successful. The latter were called ‘wannabes’ because their efforts didn’t really justify the talent in their names. The town was named inspired by Mr. Khan who was a famous and respected Willbe. He had successfully lived up to his name (named after a very famous Deputy Head Clerk working in the Govt. Pay & Accounts Office in Mumbai).
While everything and everyone continued to live the life assigned to them , a troubled soul seemed to brew inside the girl with the prettiest smile in the village. She was Madhuri Dixit; the patent Sita (much to Karishma’s disappointment) in all the Ram Lila’s and was bestowed with great expectations. She was supposed to dance in a sari every time it rained in the village while the others were safely protected in their old-fashioned duckback raincoats and hide her face like an ostrich and feel shy every time someone complimented her. Although she hated the way she was remote controlled, one thing kept her alive and that was her fascination for aircrafts. With an air-base nearby the village, aircrafts flew frequently in the sky. Her dream was to fly An IAF Mig-29, painted yellow.
She once traveled to a nearby air show sitting uncomfortably on Anil Kapoor’s bicycle. They returned with a bicycle with a punctured tyre.Her mother Helen was shocked by this incident and felt Madhuri needed to lose weight. She decided to stop feeding Madhuri her favorite large paper masala dosa.Madhuri was horrified and decided to put an end to this ludicrous way of life. She decided to visit Mr. Khan and ask him the secret ingredient of his success.
She narrated her miseries to Mr. Khan and he heard them patiently. At the end, he smiled and said “The secret ingredient is... nothing! To make something special you just have to believe it's special.” It turned out that Mr. Khan was actually Dirubhai Ambani’s nephew who was expected to be great in the business sector. He dabbled his entire youth trying to live up to his famous surname but in reality the people around him were more ambitious for him than he himself was. All he wanted is a normal and modest lifestyle. He decided to change his name to Mr. Khan and live somewhere where nobody knew him. When he entered Everyonezville (old name of whozwhoville) he was very handsomely dressed and his manner of speaking was daunting for many. People started looking up to him and slowly the attention made him feel important. One fine day, the Panchayat leader ‘inspired’ by Mr. Khan decided to change the entire relaxed functioning of Everyonezville where everyone was anyone to a more ambitious Whowhozville, where who is who mattered. Everyone shouted in chorus “ What an idea Sirjee!! “
That evening, Madhuri thought and thought and thought some more. Thinking was against the custom considering her name but she did it anyway. The next morning she bundled up her belongings and decided to do what she should have done long before…pursue her dream of becoming a pilot. As she left home bidding adieu to her family , her mother asked what made her take such an extreme step. She coined her words in the simplest form and said “When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go!!”
Nobody expected you to be a world famous celebrity but you had to live the profession synonymous to your name and if that was not possible at least you had to do things similar to that person you were named after in your daily life. The people under the former category were called ‘willbes’ because of their sheer will and endurance that made them successful. The latter were called ‘wannabes’ because their efforts didn’t really justify the talent in their names. The town was named inspired by Mr. Khan who was a famous and respected Willbe. He had successfully lived up to his name (named after a very famous Deputy Head Clerk working in the Govt. Pay & Accounts Office in Mumbai).
While everything and everyone continued to live the life assigned to them , a troubled soul seemed to brew inside the girl with the prettiest smile in the village. She was Madhuri Dixit; the patent Sita (much to Karishma’s disappointment) in all the Ram Lila’s and was bestowed with great expectations. She was supposed to dance in a sari every time it rained in the village while the others were safely protected in their old-fashioned duckback raincoats and hide her face like an ostrich and feel shy every time someone complimented her. Although she hated the way she was remote controlled, one thing kept her alive and that was her fascination for aircrafts. With an air-base nearby the village, aircrafts flew frequently in the sky. Her dream was to fly An IAF Mig-29, painted yellow.
She once traveled to a nearby air show sitting uncomfortably on Anil Kapoor’s bicycle. They returned with a bicycle with a punctured tyre.Her mother Helen was shocked by this incident and felt Madhuri needed to lose weight. She decided to stop feeding Madhuri her favorite large paper masala dosa.Madhuri was horrified and decided to put an end to this ludicrous way of life. She decided to visit Mr. Khan and ask him the secret ingredient of his success.
She narrated her miseries to Mr. Khan and he heard them patiently. At the end, he smiled and said “The secret ingredient is... nothing! To make something special you just have to believe it's special.” It turned out that Mr. Khan was actually Dirubhai Ambani’s nephew who was expected to be great in the business sector. He dabbled his entire youth trying to live up to his famous surname but in reality the people around him were more ambitious for him than he himself was. All he wanted is a normal and modest lifestyle. He decided to change his name to Mr. Khan and live somewhere where nobody knew him. When he entered Everyonezville (old name of whozwhoville) he was very handsomely dressed and his manner of speaking was daunting for many. People started looking up to him and slowly the attention made him feel important. One fine day, the Panchayat leader ‘inspired’ by Mr. Khan decided to change the entire relaxed functioning of Everyonezville where everyone was anyone to a more ambitious Whowhozville, where who is who mattered. Everyone shouted in chorus “ What an idea Sirjee!! “
That evening, Madhuri thought and thought and thought some more. Thinking was against the custom considering her name but she did it anyway. The next morning she bundled up her belongings and decided to do what she should have done long before…pursue her dream of becoming a pilot. As she left home bidding adieu to her family , her mother asked what made her take such an extreme step. She coined her words in the simplest form and said “When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go!!”
Monday, January 18, 2010
To my Teachers, With Love
A dinner table family discussion can turn out to be pretty tricky if everyone is feeling nostalgic and the spotlight is on you.Tricky because the skeletons safely tucked in the closet are brought out again n again n again and the reason behind it being coz its ‘funny’ (albeit the kin would prefer the word ‘adorable’ ) Stupidity is one sin that is truly forgiven when you are a kid. Foolishness seemed okay coz you could compensate it with being cute.But if you look at it this way….You were being observed so closely by people around you who refused to let you out of sight even for a sec coz you were ‘important’ to them….it makes you smile. So I sat n smiled today as I remembered a few happy chapters in my life. These are just few dog eared pages involving people who knew if burnished well, I could shine and spark.
Chapter 1 : Initiate……Have the courage to pick up the pieces and make a start.
The human structure neatly tucked in a uniform gets comfortable on the familiar four legged wooden structure. The legs of the former dangle in mid air; too short to reach and rest on the ground. The pose remains the same but nevertheless looked forward to with sheer delight every morning by the 2yr old waiting to be painted with different hues. The peregrination always ended a few happy steps before the ideal destination.While the other lilliputs steered in the huge brick box with tables and chairs and tried to figure out what the female soma had to say , I sat in my daily posture and gazing pose on my favorite chair( placed with perfection facing the street..) for two months. I sat smiling as if amused by a self composed surreptitious thought. The smile widened when lured with chocolates ; the bait being the entry into the classroom ( the big box ).But all this in vain!! When I was busy observing infinity each day, Mom observed me.Figuring out the sine qua non for educating her child was constantly on her mind.She noticed and she noticed me well. The drumbeats accompanied with a decorated team of oxen sped my heartbeats and gave me the heebie-jeebies (as King Julian of the Madagascar fame puts it). To bereft the nightmare of being taken away by this jungle of men and animals, I finally slipped myself into a new four legged furniture..placed much to my liking near the window.Education in the form of learning finally shook my hand. I had missed out on the two months of strenuous training of drawing celestial bodies and writing alphabets and numbers. The scene consisting of two chairs , a yellow bag , a desk and sunlight from the window still remains with me. This scene was followed each afternoon with only two actors …Mom, the protean teacher and me, the obdurate novice who always colored the sun a little too bright.I scored a 99/100 at the end of the year.Mom, I still exaggerate when I sketch but I do know my alphabets well now.
Chapter 2 : Dance….The power to express without saying a word.
Mondays and Fridays evenings saw me dressed up in red and yellow dancing away to glory…literally for 8 years. My legs found movement, my body found rhythm, my facial expressions found melodramatic escapes and my mind found the seminal grace. I was introduced to Bharatnatyam when I was in grade one by the most graceful lady I have met in my entire life. I called her Aunty and she reciprocated with Deeeeboleena.I never corrected her for the extended “e’s” . I never felt the need to. A stern look from her in case of any mistake was enough to scare us and make immediate amendments. This form of dance taught me grace, the difference between stiff and flexible , the power to do and not over do, the power to feel and express. What followed was a number of performances on stages of different widths and bases at different locations with different genres of people appreciating the art. The stage fright that once existed was reeled to the ground now. When on stage, it is my kingdom and I’m known to be a just and fair ruler.The love affair with the dance ended abruptly after my 8th grade. I had reasons then but learning this form of art will always be a reason for what n who I am today.All that I desire to point out is the general principle that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.
Chapter 3 : The Table…that unfolded many exigent tangles.
The blue folding table rests peacefully in the store room. It deserves to after all the trauma it has witnessed. This table was the most important base and meeting point of two people on days of crucial importance. It provided support bearing heavy objects crowded unkindly..as if testing it’s patience when it came to bearing the pain. It provided the weapons in the form of books to a mentally wounded soldier who desperately seeks the assistance of a war Major for the war of mathematics dated for the next day. My eyes, sodden with pain and anguish the cruel world of examination had caused , looked towards Dad. The look has always worked..thanks to the tactics I had developed in expressing elaborated in chapter no.2 .Dad , the master and ardent lover of the subject never refused to provide assistance even at the eleventh hour. He always believed the basics should be strong.After all the entire structure was dependent on it. Agreed but when you have an exam the next day, you really want someone to tell you only about what you would face and not what would make you really good at it. But grumbling was of no use. So I wrote the definitions of a point,circle,segment etc knowing very well that none would be asked. Dad had tremendous patience.I understood this as a kid. After 3hrs of rigorous solving when somebody falters at a silly question…you really feel like ripping your hair off.Dad surprisingly never did that although tempers did fly once in a while. He gave me short ten min breaks where I could go and hit my sister and come back. The hitting was usually usurped by botherings of my rantings because Di was the shark and I was the goldfish back then.I always scored well mostly because I never wanted to let him down. It was important for me to do well when I was taught so well.The celebrations of a good score with corn and a heap of peanuts with Dad was priceless.
Chapter 4: Imagination…. makes you think better.
Try to imagine what your pet must be dreaming about when he is fast asleep. Try to imagine your leafy garden turn into a jungle with you it’s inhabitants and your pet dog as your pet tiger. Try to imagine a picnic in the woods with jars of marmalades and cookies on a blameless blue Sunday. Try to cook up names and associate cartoon characters with people you know. I am not asking you to cross the line and use hyperboles which cause nausea. I sure do pity the people who can’t dream, who can’t imagine. It’s a must tenet which should be swallowed by each child along with his/her baby food. Di had swallowed oodles of it and she made sure I had my share too. The result was me hanging stockings till the 7th grade greedy for Christmas gifts each 25th dec night while rest of my classmates sniggered and sneered. The disbelief so strong in them just made me feel sorry for them. For I had the power to weave a story and generate interest. Interested and interesting is all I want to be all my life.Although Di there are times when I don’t want you to associate me with a one eyed green water thing with tentacles called Plankton …I hold dear Hakuna Matata that song you,me n Pluto share.
P.T.O ( to be continued as and when meet and sigh at the sight of people who measure all the students with the same yardstick)
Chapter 1 : Initiate……Have the courage to pick up the pieces and make a start.
The human structure neatly tucked in a uniform gets comfortable on the familiar four legged wooden structure. The legs of the former dangle in mid air; too short to reach and rest on the ground. The pose remains the same but nevertheless looked forward to with sheer delight every morning by the 2yr old waiting to be painted with different hues. The peregrination always ended a few happy steps before the ideal destination.While the other lilliputs steered in the huge brick box with tables and chairs and tried to figure out what the female soma had to say , I sat in my daily posture and gazing pose on my favorite chair( placed with perfection facing the street..) for two months. I sat smiling as if amused by a self composed surreptitious thought. The smile widened when lured with chocolates ; the bait being the entry into the classroom ( the big box ).But all this in vain!! When I was busy observing infinity each day, Mom observed me.Figuring out the sine qua non for educating her child was constantly on her mind.She noticed and she noticed me well. The drumbeats accompanied with a decorated team of oxen sped my heartbeats and gave me the heebie-jeebies (as King Julian of the Madagascar fame puts it). To bereft the nightmare of being taken away by this jungle of men and animals, I finally slipped myself into a new four legged furniture..placed much to my liking near the window.Education in the form of learning finally shook my hand. I had missed out on the two months of strenuous training of drawing celestial bodies and writing alphabets and numbers. The scene consisting of two chairs , a yellow bag , a desk and sunlight from the window still remains with me. This scene was followed each afternoon with only two actors …Mom, the protean teacher and me, the obdurate novice who always colored the sun a little too bright.I scored a 99/100 at the end of the year.Mom, I still exaggerate when I sketch but I do know my alphabets well now.
Chapter 2 : Dance….The power to express without saying a word.
Mondays and Fridays evenings saw me dressed up in red and yellow dancing away to glory…literally for 8 years. My legs found movement, my body found rhythm, my facial expressions found melodramatic escapes and my mind found the seminal grace. I was introduced to Bharatnatyam when I was in grade one by the most graceful lady I have met in my entire life. I called her Aunty and she reciprocated with Deeeeboleena.I never corrected her for the extended “e’s” . I never felt the need to. A stern look from her in case of any mistake was enough to scare us and make immediate amendments. This form of dance taught me grace, the difference between stiff and flexible , the power to do and not over do, the power to feel and express. What followed was a number of performances on stages of different widths and bases at different locations with different genres of people appreciating the art. The stage fright that once existed was reeled to the ground now. When on stage, it is my kingdom and I’m known to be a just and fair ruler.The love affair with the dance ended abruptly after my 8th grade. I had reasons then but learning this form of art will always be a reason for what n who I am today.All that I desire to point out is the general principle that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.
Chapter 3 : The Table…that unfolded many exigent tangles.
The blue folding table rests peacefully in the store room. It deserves to after all the trauma it has witnessed. This table was the most important base and meeting point of two people on days of crucial importance. It provided support bearing heavy objects crowded unkindly..as if testing it’s patience when it came to bearing the pain. It provided the weapons in the form of books to a mentally wounded soldier who desperately seeks the assistance of a war Major for the war of mathematics dated for the next day. My eyes, sodden with pain and anguish the cruel world of examination had caused , looked towards Dad. The look has always worked..thanks to the tactics I had developed in expressing elaborated in chapter no.2 .Dad , the master and ardent lover of the subject never refused to provide assistance even at the eleventh hour. He always believed the basics should be strong.After all the entire structure was dependent on it. Agreed but when you have an exam the next day, you really want someone to tell you only about what you would face and not what would make you really good at it. But grumbling was of no use. So I wrote the definitions of a point,circle,segment etc knowing very well that none would be asked. Dad had tremendous patience.I understood this as a kid. After 3hrs of rigorous solving when somebody falters at a silly question…you really feel like ripping your hair off.Dad surprisingly never did that although tempers did fly once in a while. He gave me short ten min breaks where I could go and hit my sister and come back. The hitting was usually usurped by botherings of my rantings because Di was the shark and I was the goldfish back then.I always scored well mostly because I never wanted to let him down. It was important for me to do well when I was taught so well.The celebrations of a good score with corn and a heap of peanuts with Dad was priceless.
Chapter 4: Imagination…. makes you think better.
Try to imagine what your pet must be dreaming about when he is fast asleep. Try to imagine your leafy garden turn into a jungle with you it’s inhabitants and your pet dog as your pet tiger. Try to imagine a picnic in the woods with jars of marmalades and cookies on a blameless blue Sunday. Try to cook up names and associate cartoon characters with people you know. I am not asking you to cross the line and use hyperboles which cause nausea. I sure do pity the people who can’t dream, who can’t imagine. It’s a must tenet which should be swallowed by each child along with his/her baby food. Di had swallowed oodles of it and she made sure I had my share too. The result was me hanging stockings till the 7th grade greedy for Christmas gifts each 25th dec night while rest of my classmates sniggered and sneered. The disbelief so strong in them just made me feel sorry for them. For I had the power to weave a story and generate interest. Interested and interesting is all I want to be all my life.Although Di there are times when I don’t want you to associate me with a one eyed green water thing with tentacles called Plankton …I hold dear Hakuna Matata that song you,me n Pluto share.
P.T.O ( to be continued as and when meet and sigh at the sight of people who measure all the students with the same yardstick)
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