Maha's musings

My Grandma's pickle jar "Where is that? Where have you hidden that this time, granny?”, I would call out to my granny as I enter, whenever I visited her.  The long hours of travel, the exasperating hot sun, lurching tongue craving for water, droopy tired eyes strict disciplinarian mom with disapproving looks could do nothing to stop me from nagging my grand mom just to get my then favourite, childhood obsession— the pickle jar, from one of the topmost shelves of my grand mom's dingy, smoky kitchen.  My grand mom's kitchen used to be my childhood's treasure hunt hotspot ! It would always charm me into fishing out the various antique pieces which had been hoarded by my grand mom— half were the heirlooms of her rich tradition and half were the sheer portrayal of her ever growing craze to hoard antique pieces.  This magnificent heap of treasure included— brass mortar and pestle, flower edged wooden churner, peacock shaped brass cutter, coconut-scraper, bowl...

Writing!  It's a good stroke of luck that I found writing as my refuge, as an escape from reality. I can dive deep into my memory lane and pull the heartening or heart wrenching memories back to the paper, converting them into words. I can see the wonder— the pen bleeding in blue sometimes black.  Writing is not just a hobby or pastime. It's  recreating; it's giving birth to endless immortals. It's a flimsy thread between my bleak world and the seemless world outside. People read my words more accurately than they read my mind or face.  How dashingly beautiful it's to find my feelings and emotions dancing in front of me on the paper in various colours and shapes. They let me wonder how deep and how dense my emotions are.  Each and every time when I seek refuge in writing, it shows me who I am— how I feel when I'm praised, how I feel when I'm cursed, how I feel when I'm loved, how I feel when I'm ignored. It's  a mirror which shows the...

An ear-piercing "Good aaafternooon....,maaa'mm" was the chanting with which those students invited me. It was totally unexpected as I had been habituated only to a silent standing up and a half-hearted muffled good morning/afternoon/evening from my students. It was pleasant and annoying at the same time— pleasant to see their hearty smile, annoyed due to their exploding scream.  The children are so weird. They are the bittersweet mixture of chaos and charisma.  I entered the classroom with an approachable smile gesturing them to be seated. There were some muffled voices, as they sat down talking among themselves.  I stood still for half a minute in front of them all, scrutinizing their vibrant faces habituated to pure fun and mischiefs. The boy who waved at me was still sulking. The remaining children were so curious as if they were on an adventure. That is all a teacher needs— a welcoming, conducive environment to share whatever he/she feels like sharing w...

She's freaky, she's fussy, she's funky, she's flimsy, she's feeble, she's flexy  She's all that is imperfect. Yet there is a beauty in her imperfection. She is a waning moon— a crescent, incomplete yet charmingly bright.  She cries,she cribs, she complains, she condemns, she contradicts. She does all that is insignificant. Yet there is a beauty in her insignificance. She is a phoenix— burns itself and rises out of its own ashes. Highly unpredictable to estimate.  She, the woman, the multi tasking juggler, an early bird— wakes up, does chores at home, flies out seeking her share of bread, finally comes back home, seeking refuge.  This routine never ends despite some thoughtless people pelting her with their stones of criticism.  It's time to correct even Shakespeare, for he once wrote "Frailty thy name is women" instead it has to be, "Resilience thy name is women"

With the same pace I climbed some two flights of stairs and reached the class on the second floor, panting. The previous period teacher hadn't left the classroom as she was busy endorsing some tasks to the students. When the first bench boy notified my arrival, she peeped out with a formal smile on her face, gesturing two minutes for which I responded readily with my thumbs up.  Time is so weird — it stretches and shrinks as it wishes. When I was in staffroom, sitting leisurely in my chair it flew away like anything but those two minutes seemed like an eternity. I kept my book and chalk on the ledge and stood there straight to the window so as to observe the students' hight of naughtiness perhaps. That was a blunder I committed.  The last two rows were visible through the window. They seemed unbearably impish with bubbling energy. From the very moment they noticed my presence outside, they couldn't go on with their works.  One of the boys from the penultimate bench smile...

It all began with a tremble... It was 1:40 in the afternoon; Friday. A day on which a teacher's energy level is already on the sump.  I was in the staff room, sorting out the then collected grade-11 term-2 answer scripts. I counted, it came somewhere near hundred. It was a long day. I had already been exhausted with back to back classes and invigilation duties.  "These papers are not so much in count. We can easily correct them, fifteen papers per day; will take around 5-6 days", convinced my optimistic mind. "These many papers? Correction within 5-6 days? It's a humanly impossible task!, protested my dominant  pessimistic mind— When to prepare for the classes? When to prepare study materials? When to do this? When to do that?.....", the list went on and on... It's always difficult to settle between these two. The staffroom was empty except for some two to three teachers— one was typing something frantically in her laptop and other two were s...