Maha's musings

Kamala Das— a renowned poetess shares her mental agonies when she sees her 66 years old, senile mother who is no longer the one she used to see in her childhood days, in one of her poems— " My Mother at Sixty-six " . It inspired me to scribble something about   My Mother at **age can't be mentioned** Dear mom.. You are awesome.You know something? I envy so many of your qualities— the never give up attitude, keeping up with the pace of life without complaints, being readily available for the needy (it stretches even beyond our family), straightforwardness, etc.,  You have always been a source of solace for me. You have given me both the best and the worst advise.  Rewinding the past I can remember the days where you used to wear that "STRICT MOTHER" mask and would never miss any opportunity to straighten your daughter out. (The means were alarmingly diverse though)  I believe that you too still remember those hundreds of situations where you forced

No more alarm to be set earlier; no more rush to board that "7:50am" bus; no more flower vendor to inquire, "why are you late to the stop today?; no more 15-20mins of free roller-coaster ride with a bag hanging over the shoulder; right hand, clutching the railing and the left hand, carrying a water bottle and my mobile. No more cardial smiles and unexpected assistance, offered by the strangers; no more bumping into the long lost people out of serendipity; no more leisurely walk basking in the soothing sun and sniffing the inducing aroma wafting around the hotels on the way; no more kiddish satisfaction—"I'm the first to reach today!" No more random thoughts that keep me engaged for another 10-15mins along with the breakfast I prepared; no more random smiling faces which enquire my whereabouts and kickstart a lovely day;  No more chance to witness the teachers, juggling with so many forms and answer booklets to be evaluated— red pen at one hand a

Every single person was deeply engrossed in something or other. Some were seated in pairs and were chattering as if they were a part of a fiesta. It didn't seem that they were teachers from different schools rather a part of a huge extended family. Some were dressed in sarees and a few were in salwars. Some were modest in their cosmetics and others were entirely showy; some sported gaudy jewelry whereas others, formal in their outfits. Needless to be mentioned— there were merely three gents whowere left to be seated in the last row.  There wasn't much diversity in their attires too.   Despite the amiable atmosphere, I felt like a kid stranded in a huge mob. My eyes searched for Ms.Vedha who had also been designated as an evaluator from our school. She even spoke with me over phone and told me that she had reached the spot five minutes before. But to my annoyance she wasn't to be found anywhere there. Plus some pairs of eyes were even glued to me as I advanced. What else can

Being a teacher demands us to take numerous incarnations and gives unpredictably diverse tasks to be done. One has to run helter skelter fulfilling the duties endorsed on him/her.  They don't just have to teach;  They have to teach, they have to set question papers, they have to conduct tests, finally they have to correct the papers too. Do you think with that their duties end? A big NO! who will tackle the parents? For the children's dipping marks? Undoubtedly THE TEACHERS!!! And these are just the concrete, materialistic side of the profession.  There are so many self imposed abstract things like motivating, inducing, igniting, inspiring, habituating, etc., too, which almost nobody outside cares about. Being a part of this noble profession, I'm in no way exceptional or exempted from such predicaments. Here I'm sitting among a mob of diverse people whom I have never spoken to or even never met before. Here I'm not just Mahalakshmi. They call me Examiner no.xxxxxx.

After all cooking is a paradox. Easy to look at but difficult to carry out. You put in this that give it a stir or boil or fry that's it. But taste? A billion dollar question! There I wanted to give a twist. Nothing much. I just took them. Instead of tearing the parathas manually, I put them into the mixer and ground for half a minute. It came out coarse and half ground. It was a brilliant move (so thought I at least).  "You need to rinse the jar" intruded my mom for which I replied with a hushed nod.  When I put the ground parathas into the tava, my mother was totally puzzled and asked me what for I ground them. I brushed aside the question with a proud smile which added to her curiosity (as I wished).  By then she had completed her works and stood there just to assist me or at least to remind me if I forgot anything important. As I am bound to forget this or that while cooking.  If truth be said, it was due to my mother's presence and her assistance that

"What are you up to now? Don't look for anything. There is nothing!", spouted my mom from nowhere. Only then I noticed that she had returned from the dining hall with the chopped vegetables to the kitchen. Awe! I was caught red-handed. Besides, I felt bad that she thought I was in search of something to eat when actually I wanted to learn or experiment with cooking. How discouraging? Sometimes mothers are like this. Extremely judgemental and not at all empathetic. I guess, they even think that their daughters are good for nothing when it comes to cooking. Anyways I pulled up the train of thoughts and answered her rather gruffly. "I'm gonna prepare something delicious, mum. And I can do it on my own! No assistance is needed you see! " "Oh! wash the vessels too then. I won't bother. Else leave at once!", said she apathetically.  "What mom? On one hand you want me to cook on the other hand shooing me away from the kitchen?" W

As I was wracking my mind to choose a recipe to be tried, I saw the leftover parathas kept on the ledge. There were some five in the bowl. Slightly thick but mushy. Some were a bit more doughy than I expected. I chose two which were still crispy in the edges and comparatively thin of course to make the dish which every amateur would try— Chilli parotta!  The very thought made my mouth water. I didn't disclose that to my mom as she would at once reject that without any consideration. I headed to the cupboard, picked up the needed cutlery then went to the refrigerator for the ingredients. After all cooking is not entirely new to me. I have already tried my hands in making desserts ranging from falooda to random "diet burfies" (taste is immaterial though). Hence I was not in need of my mom's assistance or resistance. Besides, having mothers around while cooking is life-threatening (like tackling a lion in its den).  So I went to my ultimate refuge, YouTube. T

"When are you going to learn cooking?" is a clichéd, irritating question that every single girl has to face and dodge. Especially Indian girls. Their mothers never get bored of posing such a monotonous question to their daughters even after knowing that the answers will never satisfy them. My mother is not an exception after all.  No Sunday can escape without our heated discussion on cooking, or a brawl if not at least my mother's lengthy sermon on the inevitability of cooking in a woman's life. Last Sunday for some reasons unknown I was determined to put a fullstop to this unending affair. "What's the big deal about cooking? After all we have YouTube on which thousands of people waiting just for our single finger tap to share with us their delicious recipes.  I rushed to mom, "Mommmyyy.. I'm gonna cook today! But I can spare only 30minutes!!! Happy? Just tell me what I have to cook", I went on.  It was actually half past one when it

Letter to Gran... Dear grandma, It's your thoughtless, selfish, stupid grandchild writing to you. How do you feel now? I really hope that you are fine. You have been sick and senile many times even before. But this time it's so different. I feel something pressing on my chest. Is that an ominous sign which implies that I'm going to lose you once and for all? Or is that some stupid, duffer overthinking? Whatever it may be it feels like hell. I have never been a good grandchild to you, grandma. Now I wish I could have been one! How lovely and caring you used to be (and even now). I'm always a child to you no matter how big I grow. "Visit me when you find time! Take care of your mom! Don't fight with Pavi! Learn cooking!"  Your advice would stretch. Your words keep resonating in my mind. Who will advise me unless it's you? Who will shed tears thinking me? Who will take my side when amma scolds me or Pavi fights with me? Trust me grandma I have always want

"Oh these days the students are so indifferent. They are so difficult to be tackled. I don't think I can make sense! Teaching is my duty and if they don't respond, I can't do anything further! ....." The movie reminded me of all these thoughtless grumpy words which I have uttered on various occasions. And I regret it all now. It takes just a minute for a teacher to blame the students for their shortcomings. But it takes immense courage and compassion to take responsibility. Most of us fail in this. Only select few teachers like Ms.G surpass this and create an everlasting impact in the lives of their students! "Freedom Writers" — the American movie which hit the screen in 2007 is based on the book "The Freedom Writers Diary" published by Erin Gruwell (a compilation of her students' write-ups) The plot revolves around Erin Gruwell (known as Ms.G). She joins Wilson Highschool as a teacher of English and is given freshm