(With only little guilt, I steal this title from two authors - One published and another, yet to be - through whom I have managed to learn some significant language skills as well.)
I slowly opened the door, only so much that my eyes could hunt for my mother. I couldn't spot her. But her voice was pretty clear. I shut the door. As I heard her tell all that were pertaining to my family, I started counting on people whose presence could have had the highest probability. I simultaneously looked on either sides and saw how the navy blue had brightened my face out of happiness of having found a dream wear!
My ears were still tuned to the two voices alone, blurring all other. My eyes were still admiring the blue fit and it urged me to step out and show it to my mother to see the same excitement in her eyes as in mine. I could wait no longer and so I opened the door again, this time a little more.
And there, I saw her - the person to whom my mother was talking with! Only a part of her figure was visible, but that was enough. I closed the door such that it made no sound. I was confused. Should I step out and have a conversation with her? Or let myself in, till they waited for long and finally departed? A little later, while their voices still seemed full of energy, I felt terribly bad about the second thought that had taken birth as an option. With guilt overwhelmed, I quickly changed back to the fit I owned and opened the door with my face full of smile. I knew I would be bad at acting as if I just saw her, but I still chose to. There was no ID card to fiddle with. There was a comfortable substitute though - the navy blue anarkali that was hanging on my hand.
I had heard her speak with my mother in Tamil till then but she jumped to English as the conversation within us started. With the how-do-you-dos at the start of the conversation, I looked at her complete figure. An elegant cotton saree tied not very neat - that was her style. Big round maroon bindi exactly at the centre of her forehead, adorning her face. Those sharp and majestic eyes. Those overgrown and inexplicably beautiful eyelashes that demand my attention all time. A little elevated teeth that elated spirits. A few white strands of hair that had turned brownish after their relation with henna. Her face was glowing and her eyes were sparkling as she talked. She had not changed much. In fact she had not changed at all.
I said "I am very happy to have met you ma'am." And before she was thinking about the means of expressing her overwhelmed happiness too, my mother interrupted saying "Aama ava siripa pathale theriudu. Romba pesrade illa ipalam. Office ponadula irunde avalku edukume time illa."
Without a second's delay, my teacher asked me - "Are you in touch with writing?"
I was taken aback. My memory wasn't flooded with too many teachers. I guess that isn't the case for any student who had done the 14-year-long schooling at the same place. But for a teacher who had shifted a couple of schools, who had trained batches of students over years and years, wasn't it a burden to remember every child'stalent interest? And to care and make sure things are still in good places is an act of a genuine well-wisher.
There was a little silence and my mother resumed the conversation giving her the credits she deserved for me having got two of my articles published in a magazine that I was mad about during my school days. I wasn't equally proud of it. There was so much that I had not did. I told her that I wrote now and then during travel. She acknowledged my answer but was more concerned in talking to my mother - "Aama ava apolam romba nalla pesuva. Two minutes speech lam eluda solli neraya paduthirukom avala." I was dumbstruck. All that we talked about later is not in my memory for I wasn't there for sometime. My consciousness had gone a short tour to a place unknown, as if I had got a marriage proposal from my dream guy!
She asked me if I had chosen my dress. I showed the one in my hand and gave an affirmative nod. Her daughter had come out of the trial room by then. We exchanged our contact details and with a keep-in-touch message, we departed.
I didn't know if I had to contact her or not. I wasn't comfortable and so I chose not to. But I did keep staring at her contact details on my mobile for a long time when nostalgia took over me.
I never obeyed the maths teacher who asked us to work out problems in paper and not just skim through the already worked out ones. I never obeyed the chemistry teacher who constantly warned of forgetting the equations pertaining to organic chemistry if one had lagging written practice.
But I would happily obey this lady who asked to read out loud our lessons in the English text book. She would say every lesson required our attention 20 times and that that would make all the difference in the way we learnt thesubject language. I would go awestruck along with the class that screamed but would secretly wish the number was bigger.
I didn't have to memorise the memory poems, except for the punctuation, for the exams that questioned meaninglessly. Punctuation - I have never been comfortable with them. Because I paid very little heed despite the awareness about their importance that the teachers and the lessons kept warning me.
'You read it the way you want. I write it the way I want. If what you conceive is not in terms with my intention and you feel that they should be, perhaps my language is not what your mind is looking for', the egoistic literate would declare.
I remember those days during 8th grade when she had asked me to go and stand in front of the class and do the job of a timer before she arrived. There would be too much noise made in between the time the previous hour's teacher left the class and the next hour's teacher entered.
I would go and stand beside the black slab at the front of the class and say 'start'. All of us had to write something for 5 minutes, until I said 'stop'. We had a dedicated book for this. At the end of the five-minute writing we would count the number of words we had managed to write that day. We couldn't write rubbish for we might turn unlucky for the day in reading it aloud in front of all.
This helped us amazingly in increasing our writing speed. It also made us habituated to writing. It made us realise that there were so many things to write about. It gave us extra time to answer reasonably during exams.
Something I was proud of making my classmates do as a teacher's pet had deeper meanings.
There were hard times during my childhood as there are with anyone on earth. The star performer, the extra smart kid who scored extremely well with very less time devoted to make things happen was subjected to pointless anxiety all of a sudden. I was amidst tears almost all the time. My teacher would tell my parents during the parent teacher meeting - 'She runs extremely well. And in the last lap, she gets anxious about the victory that's in front of her and trips'. I find myself doing this even today. But I am still amazed at the way she had studied me.
I also remember one of the times when she took me to the science lab for privacy. When she guessed rightly that I was worried about my looks she asked me "Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? I have always been jealous of your eyes. Do you know how sharp they are?" she went on. I have always been fond of her eyes and this statement of hers lifted up my spirit. I don't really agree with her, but I take that point even today. I don't give a lot of importance to my looks. She told me a lot of things and then said 'Life is all about coming back. Don't regret failures. Bounce back. There is a lot ahead.'
Time flew and we grew a little older. We were shifted to the room that read 'Class XI' in the entrance.
During one of our classes when she was in tears, which she often would be in, I went near her and held the book to dictate further without a second thought about the comments that would follow from my friends. She was more of a friend to me, a closer one.
I had also ruthlessly hurt the heart that had always soothed mine. When she borrowed one of the free hours and stepped in to continue with lessons, we sang the usual 'ma'am free hour ma'am' when she pointed at me and threw the right words - "Pavai, you go via a friend's house and they shut the door. How will you feel?" She left us free then and while leaving the class told all of us, "Maths, Physics and Chemistry is not all that is required. There is a college called SASTRA where they judge students by the total marks, which means your score in English also matters."
I was angered the whole day. The first half at her and my friends who had nagged me to shout along with them. And the later half at myself for being one of the reasons for her hurt. And SASTRA had taken a special place in my heart right from then. My instinct told it had something to do with my life and it did.
Her words linger in my mind forever. Early times I learnt the skill of being warm and welcoming from the duty bound teacher who taught us life and character.
Now, when people tell me that my parents have moulded me well, that I do agree, I owe the same amount of credit and pride to the school and the teachers who make it - the English teachers in specific.
There have been a lot of times when she had shared instances from her personal life to teach us value. When she was a kid it had been raining heavily and the light in their house had gone off. There were no elders for hep and she being the elder sibling, had to make arrangements for a person to look after it by struggling a bit. All the person had to do was rotate the bulb and adjust such that it was in the right place. She told us that that was the day she was taught to know the simple things in life first. 'Self help is the best help' would have otherwise remained as just a quote in my mind.
As I now wait for the already burdened EB people fixing the electric posts that had fallen after the recent cyclone Vardah, my pen writes...
"Had we spent some time -
Learning to fix the electric posts -
Of the times we learnt fetching data
To and from back end and front end,
As we fondly call them,
There would have been a meaning
For the advancement in technology
That we go boasting about.
Had we shown a part of our smartness -
In fixing the broken entities ourselves -
Of the smartness we show in making reports
With a decade long data,
There would be meaning for the wit
We use to place ourselves on the upper part of the society."
You have passed over so much to me. When I have to send a SMS in an economic way, your precise writing helps me. When circumstances don't aid in me putting down the sentences that my genius gives, I would put them down as hints. And when I get back to them, your hints development helps me. The times when you would talk to my mother about your daughter, times when you called me up to ask my opinion about colleges for her future, I learnt humility from you.
I am in no way missing you ma'am. Not until world's try hits success in changing the golden values you have inculcated in me. And trust me their tries are really serious and powerful though they fail. I still wonder how you managed to do it so easily!
I slowly opened the door, only so much that my eyes could hunt for my mother. I couldn't spot her. But her voice was pretty clear. I shut the door. As I heard her tell all that were pertaining to my family, I started counting on people whose presence could have had the highest probability. I simultaneously looked on either sides and saw how the navy blue had brightened my face out of happiness of having found a dream wear!
My ears were still tuned to the two voices alone, blurring all other. My eyes were still admiring the blue fit and it urged me to step out and show it to my mother to see the same excitement in her eyes as in mine. I could wait no longer and so I opened the door again, this time a little more.
And there, I saw her - the person to whom my mother was talking with! Only a part of her figure was visible, but that was enough. I closed the door such that it made no sound. I was confused. Should I step out and have a conversation with her? Or let myself in, till they waited for long and finally departed? A little later, while their voices still seemed full of energy, I felt terribly bad about the second thought that had taken birth as an option. With guilt overwhelmed, I quickly changed back to the fit I owned and opened the door with my face full of smile. I knew I would be bad at acting as if I just saw her, but I still chose to. There was no ID card to fiddle with. There was a comfortable substitute though - the navy blue anarkali that was hanging on my hand.
I had heard her speak with my mother in Tamil till then but she jumped to English as the conversation within us started. With the how-do-you-dos at the start of the conversation, I looked at her complete figure. An elegant cotton saree tied not very neat - that was her style. Big round maroon bindi exactly at the centre of her forehead, adorning her face. Those sharp and majestic eyes. Those overgrown and inexplicably beautiful eyelashes that demand my attention all time. A little elevated teeth that elated spirits. A few white strands of hair that had turned brownish after their relation with henna. Her face was glowing and her eyes were sparkling as she talked. She had not changed much. In fact she had not changed at all.
I said "I am very happy to have met you ma'am." And before she was thinking about the means of expressing her overwhelmed happiness too, my mother interrupted saying "Aama ava siripa pathale theriudu. Romba pesrade illa ipalam. Office ponadula irunde avalku edukume time illa."
Without a second's delay, my teacher asked me - "Are you in touch with writing?"
I was taken aback. My memory wasn't flooded with too many teachers. I guess that isn't the case for any student who had done the 14-year-long schooling at the same place. But for a teacher who had shifted a couple of schools, who had trained batches of students over years and years, wasn't it a burden to remember every child's
There was a little silence and my mother resumed the conversation giving her the credits she deserved for me having got two of my articles published in a magazine that I was mad about during my school days. I wasn't equally proud of it. There was so much that I had not did. I told her that I wrote now and then during travel. She acknowledged my answer but was more concerned in talking to my mother - "Aama ava apolam romba nalla pesuva. Two minutes speech lam eluda solli neraya paduthirukom avala." I was dumbstruck. All that we talked about later is not in my memory for I wasn't there for sometime. My consciousness had gone a short tour to a place unknown, as if I had got a marriage proposal from my dream guy!
She asked me if I had chosen my dress. I showed the one in my hand and gave an affirmative nod. Her daughter had come out of the trial room by then. We exchanged our contact details and with a keep-in-touch message, we departed.
I didn't know if I had to contact her or not. I wasn't comfortable and so I chose not to. But I did keep staring at her contact details on my mobile for a long time when nostalgia took over me.
I never obeyed the maths teacher who asked us to work out problems in paper and not just skim through the already worked out ones. I never obeyed the chemistry teacher who constantly warned of forgetting the equations pertaining to organic chemistry if one had lagging written practice.
But I would happily obey this lady who asked to read out loud our lessons in the English text book. She would say every lesson required our attention 20 times and that that would make all the difference in the way we learnt the
I didn't have to memorise the memory poems, except for the punctuation, for the exams that questioned meaninglessly. Punctuation - I have never been comfortable with them. Because I paid very little heed despite the awareness about their importance that the teachers and the lessons kept warning me.
'You read it the way you want. I write it the way I want. If what you conceive is not in terms with my intention and you feel that they should be, perhaps my language is not what your mind is looking for', the egoistic literate would declare.
I remember those days during 8th grade when she had asked me to go and stand in front of the class and do the job of a timer before she arrived. There would be too much noise made in between the time the previous hour's teacher left the class and the next hour's teacher entered.
I would go and stand beside the black slab at the front of the class and say 'start'. All of us had to write something for 5 minutes, until I said 'stop'. We had a dedicated book for this. At the end of the five-minute writing we would count the number of words we had managed to write that day. We couldn't write rubbish for we might turn unlucky for the day in reading it aloud in front of all.
This helped us amazingly in increasing our writing speed. It also made us habituated to writing. It made us realise that there were so many things to write about. It gave us extra time to answer reasonably during exams.
Something I was proud of making my classmates do as a teacher's pet had deeper meanings.
There were hard times during my childhood as there are with anyone on earth. The star performer, the extra smart kid who scored extremely well with very less time devoted to make things happen was subjected to pointless anxiety all of a sudden. I was amidst tears almost all the time. My teacher would tell my parents during the parent teacher meeting - 'She runs extremely well. And in the last lap, she gets anxious about the victory that's in front of her and trips'. I find myself doing this even today. But I am still amazed at the way she had studied me.
I also remember one of the times when she took me to the science lab for privacy. When she guessed rightly that I was worried about my looks she asked me "Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? I have always been jealous of your eyes. Do you know how sharp they are?" she went on. I have always been fond of her eyes and this statement of hers lifted up my spirit. I don't really agree with her, but I take that point even today. I don't give a lot of importance to my looks. She told me a lot of things and then said 'Life is all about coming back. Don't regret failures. Bounce back. There is a lot ahead.'
Time flew and we grew a little older. We were shifted to the room that read 'Class XI' in the entrance.
During one of our classes when she was in tears, which she often would be in, I went near her and held the book to dictate further without a second thought about the comments that would follow from my friends. She was more of a friend to me, a closer one.
I had also ruthlessly hurt the heart that had always soothed mine. When she borrowed one of the free hours and stepped in to continue with lessons, we sang the usual 'ma'am free hour ma'am' when she pointed at me and threw the right words - "Pavai, you go via a friend's house and they shut the door. How will you feel?" She left us free then and while leaving the class told all of us, "Maths, Physics and Chemistry is not all that is required. There is a college called SASTRA where they judge students by the total marks, which means your score in English also matters."
I was angered the whole day. The first half at her and my friends who had nagged me to shout along with them. And the later half at myself for being one of the reasons for her hurt. And SASTRA had taken a special place in my heart right from then. My instinct told it had something to do with my life and it did.
Her words linger in my mind forever. Early times I learnt the skill of being warm and welcoming from the duty bound teacher who taught us life and character.
Now, when people tell me that my parents have moulded me well, that I do agree, I owe the same amount of credit and pride to the school and the teachers who make it - the English teachers in specific.
There have been a lot of times when she had shared instances from her personal life to teach us value. When she was a kid it had been raining heavily and the light in their house had gone off. There were no elders for hep and she being the elder sibling, had to make arrangements for a person to look after it by struggling a bit. All the person had to do was rotate the bulb and adjust such that it was in the right place. She told us that that was the day she was taught to know the simple things in life first. 'Self help is the best help' would have otherwise remained as just a quote in my mind.
As I now wait for the already burdened EB people fixing the electric posts that had fallen after the recent cyclone Vardah, my pen writes...
"Had we spent some time -
Learning to fix the electric posts -
Of the times we learnt fetching data
To and from back end and front end,
As we fondly call them,
There would have been a meaning
For the advancement in technology
That we go boasting about.
Had we shown a part of our smartness -
In fixing the broken entities ourselves -
Of the smartness we show in making reports
With a decade long data,
There would be meaning for the wit
We use to place ourselves on the upper part of the society."
You have passed over so much to me. When I have to send a SMS in an economic way, your precise writing helps me. When circumstances don't aid in me putting down the sentences that my genius gives, I would put them down as hints. And when I get back to them, your hints development helps me. The times when you would talk to my mother about your daughter, times when you called me up to ask my opinion about colleges for her future, I learnt humility from you.
I am in no way missing you ma'am. Not until world's try hits success in changing the golden values you have inculcated in me. And trust me their tries are really serious and powerful though they fail. I still wonder how you managed to do it so easily!
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