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 fo...

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 c...

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 tha...

"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...

Dear students, Soon after you leave, your classroom will be filled with other set of children. Other set of impish creatures, chatter boxes, wimpy kids and brainboxes.  Back to square one!   I won't lie that you are the best but I will surely miss you. Your jokes, laughter, the witty counters and every single thing. I even love the way you irritate me. You have always been and will ever be close to my heart. The year with you was eventful— filled with lectures, class tests, revisions and model exams. Every single day was a brand-new learning.  Looking back, I can't recollect what I taught but I can certainly remember what I have learnt from you. It's from you I learnt that the students are not aliens (though they behave like one), It's from you I learnt that the students want a teacher and not an instructor. It's from you I learnt the art of empathy. It's from you I learnt how to keep one's cool even during adverse times. I don't know whether I'll be...

" I am Kalam " the title of the movie is quite elusive that I thought it to be a biopic of our former president Dr.A.P.J.Abdulkalam. later, only when I scrolled through the comments that I came to understand the essence of the movie. The comments were so lavish in praising the screenplay as well as it's noble theme that made me watch the movie. It was an hour and a half long. Every scene and every dialogue was deeply engrossing that it didn't bore me even a bit.  "Chhotu, who cleans vessels at the dhaba; Chhotu who gets smudged with oil while cleaning trucks and busses; Chhotu who looks for food in the garbage bins;  Chhotu who looks after Madame's baby;  Chhotu who tolerates his employer's scorns and beatings; Chhotu who wants to sit on his dad's shoulder and go a carnival;  Chhotu who wants to hear his mother's lullaby;  Chhotu who wants to be praised and lovingly corrected by his teacher;  Chhotu who wants to have a name of his own...

It was purely serendipitous that I chanced upon this movie– "Rough Book" when I was casually surfing through a collection of movies. The very title and the poster convinced me to watch it at once that I directly plunged into watching.  There are countless educational dramas being streamed on various online platforms. They either praise the paragons of knowledge or blame the shortcomings of the education system. Rough Book is nothing different from them. At some places it also reminded me of " Taare Zameen Par" . The viewers are of mixed opinions about the movie but being a teacher, I could very well connect with the characters and travel hand-in-hand with them.  Santoshi, an idealistic Physics teacher is shown spending most of her time reading and experimenting. She has a good teaching career in the beginning. However things take a sudden turn when her husband is caught for taking bribe. When she sees the bribe money stashed behind her books, she gets ...

"Angry River"  by Ruskin Bond Ruskin Bond is an octogenarian contemporary writer. Being a versatile writer, he has tried his hand in various genres ranging from novels, short stories, novellas and poems in English. " The Angry River" is one among his novellas. It is typical of Bond to create down-to-earth characters who can be seen in daily life and are easily relatable. "The Angry River" deals with people living in the lap of nature— Sita, a little girl who lives in a secluded island with her grandparents on the bank of a river. As she has no one else to share her secrets with, she herself makes a doll with her grandma's help, out of quilts and names her Mumta.  She leads a carefree life by spending most of her time taking care of her sickly grandparents and doing chores—cooking, milking the goats and taking care of the chickens.  Once when her grandma's health deteriorates, her grandpa has to take her to Shahgunj, a faraway village a...

Reading books is always an escape from reality. When it comes to reading Ruskin Bond's, it's an escape to a wonderland where there is no place for worries. To add more pleasure to it, the book was suggested by a 14 year old girl.  While we were engaged in an engrossing conversation—all about reading, I accidentally mentioned Bond's" Blue Umbrella " as one of my favourite reads and suitable for children.  She countered me with n number of books— "The Angry River", "The Naughtiest Girl in the School", "Percy Jackson", "Nancy Drew", "Famous Five", "Find-outers and Dog", etc...., the list stretched.  The glee in her eyes and her curiosity enthused me and I assured her that I would read those books for sure. She went a step further and lent her book to me willingly, so that I could read.I felt so overwhelmed and promised her that I would give her another book to read in turn. When I grabbed the bo...

It was around half past three when a white TATA zest came to our doorstep, hooting its horn. Though irritating it was strangely amusing. Three days— three whole days away from the endless clockwork.  With the same josh, I assisted my dad in sorting out the luggage and clambered into the car. It's an unwritten rule that my dad has to sit in the front seat next to the driver and my mom has to be sandwiched between my sister and me.  When it comes to enjoying the trip, we have our own unique ways— my sister, being a recluse, plugged in her earphones and leaned back in her seat. My dad was striking up conversations with the driver occasionally on the wierdest of the subjects that couldn't be fathomed. My mom was closely watching the changing locations so carefully as if she was registering every single detail in her mind and  I was under the charm of the Rahman songs from the driver's playlist. It seemed the songs were carefully handpicked for an ardent Rahmanian. Long drive,...

"Ma'am..." he started.  I responded rather curtly, "What?"  "Why are you hitting so forcefully on the desk, ma'am?", he said recklessly as if he were talking to his long lost friend.  It was too strange for me to react or respond. But he just went on without waiting for my response, "It will hurt your palms, ma'am. Clutch it! Tap this book on the table!!" They were unexpected words of kindness at an unexpected moment from an unexpected mouth. That made me stand tongue-tied half guilty and half ashamed for having turned so savage in front of those tender children. But thankfully they couldn't read my mind. "So? You use book to tap on the bench?", I blurted out with pretended seriousness, staring at him. His response was a wide sheepish grin. By then I understood that I could rant and rave at them but that wouldn't make any sense. So I decided to have rather a light touch on them.  I went again to the board this time w...

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...