How Teachers Violate Children Privacy in Schools

It's been five years that I am teaching in this school, located in rural Bengal.  Like my last post on The Question of Reservation in Schools, this time around I want to focus on something I feel deeply about: the issue of children privacy. In my years of experience if there is anything I have noted, it is how grossly teachers take on the mantle of invading their privacy and grossly abusing them to no end.

Let me put forth my case with a classic example of this privacy invasion. This is standard VIII, sometime after the lunch break. Students are already a little relaxed. For many, the school is as good as over because they are mainly here for some food on the plate in the afternoon. By the way, there are kids here and there who report to school even in high fever. The moment the lunch at the mid-day meal scheme is over, they want to go home because frankly they are too sick to continue. Teachers ask the same question to them on every occasion: why did you come to school if you are so sick? Well teacher, ask yourself if you have no other food than what you get in school.

Anyway, coming back to the example, eaten and relaxed, most students tend to drift away from lessons being taught. So this kid is doodling something on the back pages of the open copy in front. The teacher spots the inattentive student and hauls him up. It is not just about a rebuke to make the kid pay attention. It is more about, what are you writing at the back of the copy? Show me the copy.

The kid is aghast and penitent, mostly nervous. Any punishment is okay, but to reveal the contents of the back pages will burn him alive. The kid defends and begs with most sincerity. But the teacher has already scented blood and curiosity gets the better of her. With no mercy whatever, she gets other kids sitting around to forcibly yank the copy out of the offending kid's protection. The kid is no match for four of his friends acting on behalf of the teacher. The copy is duly yanked and handed over to the teacher.

The teacher gleefully, not visibly though, flips to the back and discovers the name of a girl doodled on the page. The teacher, of course, knew all along what she might find. She immediately reads out the name, shaming and scorching the kid. The girl's name doodled may well be in the same class. The teacher doesn't really care. In one stroke, she shames both and walks off with the copy to the staffroom.

In the staffroom, with a big smile on her face, she plonks the open back page right in the middle of the table. She declares in a booming voice: look what XYZ has written! Several cheerful teachers mill around, reading and guffawing. In ten minutes flat, almost every present teacher knows that XYZ has doodled the name of a crush and who that crush is. Mission accomplished, the teacher who has provided this fodder for gossip takes on the high moral position of self-righteousness to lecture on the sorry state of affairs among kids, even in standard VIII. Others dutifully nod their heads in vociferous agreement.

There are so many things wrong here, on so many levels. To begin with, adolescents have crushes, they doodle and they feel the world for the little flame burning in their heart. Is that so new for teachers to understand? Did not the teachers themselves doodle some name on the back pages at some time in their school or college? What if their teachers had heartlessly yanked off their copies and made them the butt of jokes for the entire school?

I strongly believe that children have equal rights to privacy as adults have. I wouldn't want anyone to browse through my phone. So what gives me the right to browse through the personal scribbles of a kid? True, as a teacher, I can rebuke a kid for not paying attention in class. I can make the kid give up the copy and then return it when the class is over. I cannot shuffle through personal scribbles to dig dirt and smear kids. This affects them irreversibly. It pains them like nothing else.

Unless it is done with the exact intent of hurting and paining the kid, the teacher had no other reason to make a public spectacle of personal space. When I shared this idea with some teachers, some agreed but most didn't! I was so surprised that teachers take the moral ground so easily, completely forgetting that this is not about YOU! It is about the kids and their welfare and their upbringing. Invading a child's privacy to bring out dirt may make you feel responsible and alert, but it is actually not that, is it? What you are doing is showing off how vigilant you are, kids be damned and privacy rights be damned.

I rest my case here. If you feel differently, do chime in and I will gladly discuss this with you.

The Question of Reservation in School Classrooms

After years, my professional writing assignments are not so crammed anymore! It may be a blessing in disguise but this disguise rather not be too difficult to shake off. After all, these writings pay for my annual vacation. 

However, I call it a blessing primarily because I now have some time to write for myself. After brainstorming for a couple of days, I decided on this topic. This has been on my mind for some time now and the only constraint in penning it down was time. Anyway, introductions aside, here's cut to the chase.

Make no mistake thinking that the question of reservation, with all its connotations, rises up at the threshold of leaving school and entering the next phase of education. Or, later on during job interviews in the public sector. This is very much a question on the table, the proverbial elephant in the room, in school classrooms, right from the primary stage.

I have never studied in classrooms where caste or religious distinctions were made, save for the fact that Christian students headed for Catechism class, while we went to the Moral Science class and Christian students could live in the school hostel. This is where it ended. They, or anyone else, received no additional benefit, at least in full view of others in the classroom.

This sense of parity is totally disturbed in state-aided schools, as I discovered to my horror when I started teaching in one. Even children as young as Standard V know that there are some money grants exclusive to others while they are deprived. The uniforms of some boys after Standard VIII are paid for by the state while many others of their male friends have to make do with the old set or pester their parents for new ones. 

You cannot rationalize this at all, simply because you cannot approach this problem from the mindset of a teenagers years away from attaining intellectual or emotional maturity. There is only a binary thought: he gets it, I don't. The reason is clearly announced in open classroom by a teacher or an attendant: SC/ST students are made to stand up and be counted. Or, some announcements are addressed directly to them so that they may report to the offices of the school with the necessary documentation for some grant or the other.

What this discrimination does is manifold. For starters, students, each one of them, know those of their ilk and the 'other'. Those who get the benefits are not spared, either. They are often taunted for the extra privileges. While the 'get's eye the 'not-get's with jealousy and derision, the 'not-get's look on the 'get's with suspicion and fear. It is a strange dynamic equation that sets in, disturbing everything in its wake.

What's worse is that schools make no bones about keeping a lid on this discrimination. It happens out in the open, with no regard for children's feelings. All talk of child-centric education and what not drops out of the window the very instant this discrimination is made in handing out benefits. I don't want to get into the politics of whether some students, on the basis of caste or religion, should receive additional benefits. All I propose it that it happen in a guarded way, so that other children do not feel deprived. 


Children, instead of being sensitized about the question of reservation, are conditioned to use them as a tool, either to defend or to attack. No wonder they are so insecure about this question, no matter which side of the equation. Students who get the benefits already know they can look forward to it before they reach the stage of receiving reservations in higher education. Students who won't get them also know that their lot is deprived, often not making an effort to even take a shot at it.

In schools set in challenging socio-economic backgrounds, almost every student could do with a new set of uniforms or grants. It is rather cruel to differentiate between students when they are totally on the same page. How can you offer a plate of food to one hungry child while another starved child looks on?    

The Journey to School - I

Since I joined Bantul Mahakali High School, somewhere in a far-off area in rural West Bengal, I have been inundated with questions. Curious friends want to know how life is at this village school for someone who has studied and worked in the city and knows nothing of what life can be 50kms away from the heart of Calcutta. I have tried to answer these questions to the best of my ability but there is just so much to say that nothing I could write on chat boxes or say on phone conversations could totally encapsulate my experience. A series of blog posts on my life at school was long overdue! With the doors of this co-ed institution shut for three consecutive days and the weather enforcing me to keep my own door firmly bolted, it’s time to keyboard my story.

This was going to be my first journey on a local train! Yes, when I mention this to anyone, they don’t believe me. It surely does not make me feel proud of this dubious distinction but I have never traveled short distances by train. I didn’t need to. I was gearing myself up for the worst when my colleagues laughed at my question, “Where should I punch the monthly ticket?” These two friends are regulars on local trains and had told me to buy a monthly ticket for convenience. I was of the opinion that they could be punched, much like Metro Rail tickets. When my colleague took out his ticket and railway ID card, I had my first look at what I needed to be armed with to take local trains on a daily basis.

I had done a reconnaissance a few days before I was scheduled to join and knew that it would take me a couple of hours to reach the school. I started off this reconnaissance trip with a lot of foreboding. I had no idea how it is going to be. I had a rough sketch of where I needed to go and what I had to take. The rest would unfold when I hit the track. High on a desire to explore and quite low on enthusiasm, I took off. I had to walk for 5 minutes to reach the bus stop. If I had to go to Calcutta, I need not have walked because a bus going that way would have saved the trouble for me. Anyway, not to be weighed down by the loss of this luxury, I took a bus to the train station. The bus was near-empty because office goers were headed the opposite way, towards Calcutta. I was going away from it. The bus stopped on a flyover above the train station. I had to climb down about two levels to reach ground floor.

The way to the school was a series of questions. The first one was, “Where is the ticket counter?” I had no choice but to depend on random strangers to locate a destination where I might spend the rest of my professional career. I was shown a structure which was more like a concrete hut with a tin roof and polished marble floors. The rain in the morning had left patches of water on the floor and years of use have eroded the surface. Walking carefully, I reached the ticket counter. Two counters were on the sides of a room that can pass off as a rectangular hall. Rubbish was heaped on at least two of the corners. An old woman was strategically standing between the counters, expecting passengers to drop their loose balance into her begging bowl. Many were disappointing her.

I bought my ticket and headed for the over-bridge that will take me to another platform. Again, this information was indebted to a stranger. The climb up made me sweat badly and I realized with a tinge of fear that maybe these flights of stairs, the flyover and now this, will be difficult to manage some years down the line, if I continue to skip exercises. I got to the right platform and asked a tea vendor when the train will come. He replied that it was due and anytime it would arrive. True enough, I saw it chugging in lazily. With each passing day, I have learnt to trust the information of train hawkers more than railway time tables or officials. Seats were available on the train. The same reason, like the bus, applied to save me from another physical exhaustion. I was on my way.

An Empty Ode

Sterile thoughts clog my void brain,

I cannot wade through thoughts profane;

The want far exceeds the frugal means

Of sustenance that life did me ordain.

Each day I hope for a pregnant sunrise

Each day the boredom I despise.

The numbness remains my vital shadow

When will life bring me a surprise?

I feel compelled to shield my eyes,

From the naked shrapnels of the past.

What stark, bare force in them lies

That bring them up out of the dust

The need for a physical consolation escalates;

Blocked are the routes of escapades.

This is a poem I wrote way back on a June evening in 2008.

Dear Dad II

It’s been a year since I last wrote to you. It’s not easy making up my mind and begin to write a letter to you, you know! No, it’s not just the emotional upheaval that I’m scared of. It’s also because of the lack of emotional intimacy we shared. I don’t remember talking to you frankly or freely about my problems, neither did you feel easy enough to do the same with me. Somehow we kept our lives separate, lest we betray our vulnerabilities. There’s something that held you back from talking about your needs. You could never say what you wanted. If somebody understood instinctively, it was done for you. You would accept the favor with silent gratefulness. If it was not done, you would have no qualms about it. I inherited this trait from you, though partially. I can keep silent when no one realizes what I want, but somehow I cannot help but be bitter about it. I feel a bad aftertaste in the mouth.

This last year has been oddly quiet. There were no major events except for my laptop breaking down and me having to spend a whole two months to bring things back in control. Yes, I bought a laptop last year in May, with the money I received as Provident Fund from my last office. I tried to sell off my desktop, the one you worked on, but changed my mind. Remember how we used to fight over it? Things used to get so ugly on Sundays! You were so paranoid about checking your email every hour and I would grumble that I cannot have the computer to myself. I would complain to my mother and she would raise a ruckus and bully you into letting me take over. You would calmly get up and watch TV. I would finish my non-existent work in half an hour and join you on the sofa. Invariably I would take the remote and change the channel you were watching. You would immediately adjust your mind and watch what I did. Why did you never assert yourself? The computer and the TV lie silent for days and months. Need I say more?

You want me to talk about mom, don’t you? She’s fine! She’s heavily into singing devotional hymns and has learnt to play my old harmonium! She asked me to teach her initially. But you know how she picks things up! I gave up in two sessions. She went ahead and got herself a tutor. The lady is a very patient and an ideal teacher. Krishna Aunty joins mom for these sessions that happen thrice a week. But mom practices every single day! She’s really taken this up and is happy to keep herself occupied. Her sense of humor remains keen and outrageous to the hilt. Remember how you used to poke her so that she may say those funny, quaint things? You would laugh till tears came flowing. I enjoy her hilarious side a lot. She makes me smile with her excuses for bad cooking. When I’m pensive, she asks me if I am worried. Then without waiting for an answer, she brushes away all such considerations saying that I need not worry as long as she is around. I trust her completely when she says that. She may be comical, but she’s rock-steady. They don’t make them like her anymore. You did well to choose her as my mother.

If you want to know how we are doing on a daily basis, I have nothing much to say because nothing much has changed. There’s no one to bring the fish every day, so we don’t have it regularly. You know mom wouldn’t put anything non-veg in the fridge. As you know, she’s beyond reason when it comes to following null and void customs that are etched on her mind. She gets hysterical when I try to make her see sense. I don’t try hard or she may think that I’m trying to push my opinion on her. I don’t argue with her, unless I feel that she’s open to change her mind. She asks for my advice on little things these days. She feels that she’s getting old and now I must take the decisions. I tell her what I think of the matter and give her options. I don’t know if I’m capable of standing up and being there for her when she needs me. But I’m not giving up. Ever.

I dream about you every other night. Don’t look away, I know you realize what I’m talking about. Just the other day you were holding me in a half-hug when I woke up, like you used to. Don’t deny, you were right there, I could feel your stubble on my cheek. On other nights, you tell me things that I don’t remember when it’s day. I can’t recall a single word now. Naïve are the people who say dreams are nothing but your sub-conscious mind playing visual tricks. You are not my sub-conscious. There are some little things that keep coming back to me: silly jokes you found really funny, India losing cricket matches, our drunk neighbors fighting. As days pass, I feel I’m imitating the way you were. I gulp water like you did, I sometimes speak like you used to, I react like you did. And you know what, I wrote all these tenses of the last line in present tense.

That’s it for now. Don’t be conscious that I referred to your visits in my dreams and stay away from me. I would feel really lucky if I could talk to mom during the day and with you during the night. I never want to choose between you two. I will accept nothing but the both of you.

Be with me always.

Friendship: Then and Now

I am a self-confessed Facebook addict. If I’m not doing anything better, I’m surfing around through Facebook-scape. It’s like my Ethernet access has shrunk down to accommodate only this one particular website, like a house cut down by a cruel bulldozer to just a room. While I pace up and down this rather cluttered room of mine, I bump into many vestigial relationships. I’m talking about my friends who used to mean a lot at certain points of time, but have dissolved somewhere along the way. Many of them unsubscribed from my life when school was over, and there were many that I couldn’t keep track off. I must admit that I made little or no effort to do that, because migrations are necessary for many.

When I look at them today, I find it hard to reconcile their present with the memories of my past. I find it hard to figure out when I spoke to them last, and if I can somehow remember that, I cannot save my life to tell you what we talked about. It’s like we lived in a village that has been ravaged by the keepers of time. And then we settled elsewhere only to meet at a village fair many years later. By then we have transformed into self-sufficient units and can feed ourselves. We no longer need to join hands for a cause; we no longer need to come together again.

Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying that I do not like connecting with old friends. But there’s so much that has happened over the years that the person I work with knows more about me than the friend who was in the school Literary Club with me. It seems like a gigantic task to fill them up with updates, force the drab details down unwilling throats. I feel that friendship, like all other relationships, has a shelf life. Once you drag them beyond their span, you feel the burden and the weight crushes the fond memories you have. I’d pick my memories any day over reconciling myself with a stranger who looks like my long lost friend.

Ode to an Office

An incomplete poem I started writing long time back. It's about an office I worked in...

It was not a long time ago,
That I got an opportunity
To add my spirit of usefulness
And contribute toward an exercise in quality.
There exists a Gothic building,
That stands like a figure imposing;
To know more about this den,
Let's start meeting its merry men.
Guarding the door is a sentry gentle,
He neither smokes, nor chews beetle.
But he has got quite a curiosity,
And asks questions with feverish tenacity.
If you want to get through the gate,
Better come early, or you'll surely be late.
After climbing up the stairs few,
You are greeted with a solemn view.
With computers black, people sit in rows,
They work with perpetually quizzed eyebrows.
Work is not the reason for this gloom,
It's just that on the right is the boss' room!
It would not be safe to talk about
Some of these merry men,
Should they come to know of this,
They'll surely knock out my brain!
So let's go only to the harmless men,
They are nice, they are timid, they are sane.

Napping Away

This is another post triggered by the bus rides that take me to work and back. It’s not that I observed it off late, but I never thought of writing about this earlier. Check the snap. I took it on my cell phone when I was comfortably perched at the last seat of the bus. The gentleman (X) was almost resting his head on the shoulder of the man (Y) beside him. Y was sleeping too, but he could keep his head firmly straight, except for a slight droop. Each time X’s head touches his shoulder, Y gives his shoulders a violent shrug. This alerts X and he sits up bolt upright. Before long he gives up his resolve as the cool breeze wafting in from the Hooghly river sooths his alert nerves. His head starts the sideways slump again. This continued repeatedly till X’s journey came to an end and he somehow pushed himself out of the packed bus.

It’s not a wonder for me anymore. Over the years I have seen passengers on the bus take power naps on their way. Many wake up from the bounce on the roads. Many naps are cut short by an elbow of the passenger standing beside him. Some have a lot of peace stenciled on their faces. It seems like this is the only time which they have to themselves. They can sleep peacefully without a wife yelling in the other room or without a teenage child hankering for extra pocket money. They don’t really feel guilty about taking it for granted that even if their heads end up on the adjacent person’s shoulder, there won’t be much harm done! Some don’t even apologize. Some get angry when they find a head on their shoulder. Sometimes quarrels are triggered. I have seen considerate conductors leave the sleeping passengers alone when he goes along collecting fares. The ones standing and swaying to the movement of the bus look at the sleepers jealously. What would they not give to swap places? Some people have all the luck, they seem to grumble. And why not? While they sweat it out in the humid interiors of the bus, with only very short intermittent gusts of wind striking their grimy faces, the better-off mortals are replenishing their energy reserves.

I am guilty of the same offense as well! There were quite a few times when I fell asleep on my way. But I don’t use the person beside me as a pillow; that much I can assure you! However, I allow children to use me as a pillow if they fall asleep! I make jerky movements to ward off adults looking for the same privilege. As for me, actually my mind starts to wander about the moment the bus starts moving. When it gets lost in a maze of incomprehensible garbage, I find my eye-lids getting heavy. Before long they meet secretly. Their hug is torn apart when the bus comes to a sudden halt or when the car beside honks unusually loud. I squint out to check where I have reached. If that’s far off from where I have to get off, I allow myself to indulge a little, with a mental note that I have to keep this short. Sometimes when I wake to see my destination just a couple of minutes away and I feel really sleepy, I have this mad urge to sleep on and come back on another bus! But I fight it off because our time is such a slave to others that even if we want, we cannot get it to do something for our own pleasure.

A Noboborsho Morning Revisited

My earliest memory of the Bengali New Year was waking up at 4am. My parents had a business of their own. According to the custom of businesspersons, they woke up early on this day to pay a visit to the temple. This was the starting of the business year. Hundreds of small and medium scale businesspersons and their spouses would gather on the temple premises very early. They carried a big wickerwork bowl (called jhuri) filled with flowers, a new copy and assorted items needed for the ceremonies. Tucked away comfortably in the jhuri was an idol each of Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and her elder brother Ganesh, the god of prosperity. The bro-sis duo is the deities the businesspersons worship in this part of the world.

My parents would blend in with the crowd. My mom, in a crisp new saree which sometimes retained the glued brand tag because she was always in a hurry and desperately careless, would spend the time at the queue chatting away happily with the other women around. My dad, irritated at having to wake up so early but never complaining in fear of a spat with mom, shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to the others around him. He was a complete misfit there. He wouldn’t even get inside the cramped temple. He would wait outside as mom got in with the jhuri. When she came out with sweat trickling down her face, she had this look of triumph: finally she had got it done before many others!

The jhuri now contained lesser flowers. Red vermillion was painted across the forehead of Lakhsmi, the mark of a married woman. A red dot was marked on Ganesh’s forehead too. This was one was a tika, different from the one on Lakshmi. The copy’s first page was smeared with the same red and a red swastika shone through. There were flower petals inside the pages as well. Mom would open the lid of the paper box containing the sweets and thrust one in my mouth. Her palm smelled metallic. Dad would take the sweet very gravely, as if it was made of the most brittle material. He would then lop that in his mouth and chew it even more gravely. Mom would call on a thousand gods in an indecipherable mumble and eat her share. The rest would be distributed among close family members and the workers who helped the business. We would then be on our way home.

Twittering Friends!

We are in the internet age, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you are thinking of Twitter as you read this post. But that’s not what I’m about to talk here. I’m talking about what we traditionally associate with the word twitter: the chirping of birds. If you are on my Facebook page, you may know that my room and the adjacent ante-room are infested with sparrows. I say infested because they can be really pesky. They are quarrelsome, they are noisy and they are restless. They can go on for hours, letting out a shrill yelp-like sound at an interval of 5 seconds. They are more tenacious than crows when it comes to making continued noise and chaos. However, they are as silent as the water in a mug when the sun is tired of warming the earth on this side of the hemisphere.

I used to get mad at them initially. I used to ask my mom to keep the windows of my room sealed up to prevent them from getting home. Mom would do that but the sparrows outwitted her badly. They would think of new ways to get in and my mom would be clueless. My sleep was disturbed at dawn, every passing day. I felt a murderous rage against the sparrows for keeping me up all morning. And then, one morning, I heard the faint sound for the first time. It was the sound of the baby sparrows!

I climbed atop a stool to take a closer look. There were four of them, beaks open in eager hunger. They thought I had come with food. The guardian sparrows were not there. I went down and asked mom what I can feed them. She suggested milk. I climbed back again and this time I was armed with powdered milk stirred in water and a dropper. The dropper was mom’s idea, of course! I did that for a couple of days, and they made more noise as they grew up. But I was not so upset anymore. Neither did I feel the urge to keep the guardian sparrows out. I understood that keeping them out would be to cut off the food supply of the young ones. As for waking up, I was content with the idea that it was better to wake up to twittering birds than honking vehicles.

But, like many of my other relationships, they disappointed me badly. When the babies grew up, they left my room and never came back. My room was silent again, I could sleep peacefully again. But I missed my friends for days. Then I forgot all about them till life turned full circle. Their breeding season is back. The sparrows have started coming in again, with twigs and grass held possessively between their beaks. This time I’m not willing to be cooperative. I just let them be. They build their nest. I guess the eggs are laid as well because I found one of the eggs displaced from the high rack and squashed over my table. The baby sparrows may come any day now. But I won’t be friends with them again. I don’t like seasonal friends, even if they are twittering friends.

Cricket: The Why and The Why Not!

My creative energy is scattered. I have a simmering anger against something that I have to cope with on a daily basis: collective indifference where action is much needed. My muse is holidaying in Puri with her parents. With no one to talk to largely, I took to the IPL like a free-falling person takes to the cold, cruel ground. I always liked watching cricket but after the match-fixing scandals broke out, I stopped altogether. For years I didn’t watch a single match on TV. With my faith betrayed by some money-hungry scumbags, it was not easy to love the sport again with unadulterated enthusiasm. I remember I used to switch off the TV when Sachin took the field with the bat! I couldn’t bear to see him get out. When he played one of his many legendary innings, I watched the highlights. Even now I pray when he’s at the crease. It’s involuntary. It is part of my system, as it is for millions of Indians.

The IPL has blurred the colors of loyalty. Suddenly you have to choose between the city you live and love and your demigod of a cricketing icon. I live in Kolkata and root for Kolkata Knight Riders (KKR) by default. A very interesting situation is when KKR plays against teams that have Sachin, Yuvraj and Dhoni on their team lists. I find myself hoping that these players score tons of runs but the sum total falls just short of the KKR total! I want them to go hammer and tongs and yet I want them to somehow stop short of batting KKR out of the game. I tried to train myself to will the KKR bowlers dismiss one of the names I mentioned, but I failed to do so hopelessly. The same goes for Shane Warne. I want him to win. Always. No matter which team he’s leading against. Except for KKR, of course!

In all this positive hullaballoo, I noted a rather disturbing trend. Sledging has been part of cricket folklore. The cricketing gods were not innocent of sledging. In the good old days, an aggressive bowler would stare and glare at the batsmen, making them cringe. The clever, witty batsman would reply with a snide remark or allow his bat to do the talking. However, in the recent times, I see players openly mouthing the f-word and even vernacular cuss words. The idea of cricket as a gentleman’s sport is slowly crumbly with the young guns making it top-heavy. Kids watching the match would love to catch what their icons are doing on the field. They are more likely to grab the idea that the best way to tide over your opposition was to get into verbal duels with them. That is not conducive to the nature and future of the game. I just desperately hope that we don’t come to times when sports telecasts will contain a P/G rating! Till then, enjoy the IPL!

Dear Dad

I’m sure you remember that it’s mom’s birthday today! I know you do. You have never yelled “Happy Birthday!” on any 16th January, but since childhood I have noted that a gift would invariably be there on your hand when you came home from work on the 15th. For as long as I can remember it would be a cardigan because she loved collecting them, discarding many before winter visited us again. You never questioned their utility, like you never questioned any other aspect which received her stamp of approval. I noticed how you would pass on the TV remote to her even as you were on the edge of your seat, watching an intense cricket match. I didn’t forget how you would eat anything that was put on your table, knowing that she is not a good cook. How you could do it unfailingly over the ages, I don’t know. But I learnt lessons by observing these little gestures which kept petty quarrels at bay.

Quarrels! That’s something that you never picked with anyone. Neighbors, relatives, strangers, all of them either agreed to you or you agreed to them. I have to be honest here that sometimes it got on our nerves. Mom and I used to talk ill about you. We used to laugh at you. We used to mock you for being such a yes-man. But we also held a grudging respect for you because people seemed to love you for being what you are. There were so many mornings when I woke up to find neighbors thronging our house, asking you for help and advice. I was more strongly aware of this when the entire neighborhood was at our door the day you died. I couldn’t look at anyone in the eye. I shrunk away in my cocoon lest they expect I’ll be what you were to them.

You were gone before I could be there. I curse myself every day for being so tired as to oversleep that fateful morning. I don’t presume that you would have said a lot of things before you bid farewell to me. You were never a man of words. My guess is that you would have asked me to take care of mom. So that is my priority now. I’m trying to do what I can to make sure that she doesn’t feel lonely. But I seem to be fighting a losing battle. I don’t know what to do when she smiles to hide her pain only to make me feel that she recognizes my effort. I don’t know what to do when I see her arrange those pens you loved a thousand times, tidy up the room you lived in every other day and move your clothes from one pile to another, not knowing where their final resting place will be- somewhere out of her sight but someplace close to the heart.

Both of us are looking for that balance in our lives after your exit. There are so many things we hide from each other because we don’t want to hurt one another. But we are so dreadfully aware that there is a pall of gloom that won’t be dispelled. We have both failed you somewhere down the line. We have wronged, misunderstood and accused you. We take consolation in the fact that you are not someone who would hold a grudge. And that makes us feel even more concerned that you had to leave this way, away from us, in a desolate, solitary hospital bed, isolated and bereft of what you radiated with effortless ease- love and warmth. You never allowed me to touch your feet, let alone apologize. It was as if you are embarrassed yourself that someone is apologizing to you. So asking for your forgiveness now is not the proper way to express my gratefulness for everything that you have done for me and everything that I could and can do for myself because I had you. I can make that have, can’t I?

I know you love tinkering with the internet! I’m sure you will find a way to read this. I couldn’t bring myself to write this earlier, and now that I have decided to put it down, I can’t bring myself to stop. You see, I had a lot of things to say as well…

Apathy

It’s not without a lot of hesitation that I have decided to write this down. By the end of this post you may find yourself cringe, you may feel guilty; you may also find your sensitive side violated. This is the expression of what I have observed over the years on public transports, bus terminals, government offices, and even in educational institutions like schools and colleges. There is a thick fog of apathy hanging determinedly across all these places, enveloping them in a maze of indifference, the walls of which would not thaw or dissolve.

Let me relate an experience that I go through sometimes on my way to work. There is a girl, about twelve years old, who gets on the same bus as me, with her father. She’s dressed in school uniform, wears spectacles, and has a white gauge of bandage firmly taped over her left eye. It’s obvious that she has sustained some sort of injury. The bus is generally crowded then, being peak office hours. I have noted with horror that no one offers this little girl a seat. She sways to the rash driving of the bus, latching on to the edge of the seat to prevent herself from falling over.

The bus is so packed with people at this time that she or her father can’t move beyond a particular point. I generally sit on the last seats. I tried to call her over and offer my seat, but she couldn’t even begin to reach me. Too much of jostling was something that she couldn’t afford with an eye in bandage. And I could sense the others seated near her, shifting uneasily in their cozy seats. They were feeling unsettled that someone far away from her could offer a seat while they couldn’t bring themselves to do that. Some looked out of the window fixedly, pretending they had no clue what was going on.

But I got my reward. The girl smiled sadly at me, as if to thank me for at least trying to help her.

What is it with us? What stops us from carrying out random acts of kindness? The other day when I was having tea at a tea-stall with a colleague, a beggar came with her child. She wanted to buy a cake which cost Rs. 3.50. She had only Rs. 3. The shopkeeper refused to sell it. I took out the cake and gave it to her. The other people at the shop stared at me as if I gave away my purse or cell phone to her. My colleague commented that they earn more than us! I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

A Bus Service That Changed Things

It was sometime in the beginning of this summer. I was out for work at the usual time, talking to my friend while I walked down to the main road to catch the bus. It’s a ten minutes walk from my house. I was engrossed in conversation when suddenly two guys on a bike pointed to a white bus behind me, coming down the road. They said something about the 2nd bridge. To take this further, I need to acquaint unfamiliar readers with a few facts so they know what I’m talking about.

I live in Howrah, a suburb adjoining Kolkata, across the Hooghly river. The ten minutes walkway I talked about had no buses coming in. We had to walk to the main road and then take a bus. I have to cross the 2nd bridge, officially called the Vidyasagar Setu, to get to Kolkata. Every day is like a battle waiting to be fought. Some days you win and the transport is easy. Some days you reach office, too exhausted to be on your feet, forget working. You can refer to an earlier post I wrote about surviving on these buses.

To get back to the story, I saw this bus which clearly had ‘Ruby Hospital’ stenciled across the windshield on one side, in bold, red letters. This clearly indicated, coupled with what the guys told me, that it was crossing the bridge. I noted that the other side of the windshield was blank and on the side, 'K7' was painted in white with a red halo. According to convention, the other terminus should be written on the other side of the windshield. My doubts were confirmed when I boarded the bus.

This was a new service. They had fixed Ruby Hospital as the terminus on the Kolkata side. They had experimented with other areas on this side of the Ganges, but couldn’t hold fort anywhere for more than a couple of weeks because of resistance from local transport authorities. No body wants a new service cutting into their business. Anyway, so there it was. Passengers on board were an excited lot. They wanted this service to work, come what may. Some of them were eager with their suggestions on how to grab market share when it came to passengers. Some were busy advising the conductor and driver on how to drive in a competitive way and elbow out rival bus services. It was all a happy family.

Then people began to complain. They were not happy with the time this bus took to get them to office. They complained about the fare. They alleged that the bus authorities cooked up the fare charts and the chart on display, framed in wood and nailed to the inner walls of the bus, was not the one approved by the government. They complained they were not being able to avail the bus on their way home. Some of them reportedly waited an hour for the bus to come and then took some other bus, disgruntled and disillusioned. It’s not always easy to accept change, especially when you are cynical.

But you are too powerless to resist change for long. The service picked up after the government took off all buses that were more than fifteen years old. Our greenhorn flexed its muscles and grabbed its place under the sun. People thronged the buses and silently thanked the driver and the conductor for saving their neck at the workplace. Local passengers took to the bus eagerly, braving the daunting task of pushing through their way through a bus packed with Kolkata-bound people. Middle-class housewives, who had to depend on male support to take them across the Ganges, could now get to the city in happy, chirpy groups. They could also avail a concession on the ticket if the conductor was a local guy they knew.

It’s nice to see that people embrace change when it happens, though they sometimes need to overcome their inhibitions initially. As we go deeper into the Pujas, the bus is the one people around here are looking at to pierce its trident through the demon of transport problems and chaotic confusion of traffic. Happy Pujas!

The Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Na Syndrome

I like the works of Abbas Tyrewala. Some of the scripts he wrote deserve to be tagged with words like 'fabulous' and 'fantastic'. His directorial debut was not disappointing largely. But I have been experiencing some, in fact a lot of, trouble because of the friendship-love oscillations that he depicted in this movie.

For the uninitiated, Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Na is Abbas Tyrewala's first work with the megaphone. The film revolves around Jay and Aditi, two happy-go-lucky college-goers who are "best friends". To put it plainly, they can't stay away from each other and more often than not, are seen hugging or holding hands, but declare that they do not see each other as lovers. One cannot help but question if they are friends or making an attempt to portray an open relationship. I say that because you cannot miss sexual chemistry between the two. For the naive, hypocritically unsuspecting movie-watcher they may come off as friends, but not to me.

Taking the story on a fast forward, they decide to look for spouses and end up realizing that they love each other! The movie ends but leaves this ridiculous germ in the air that if you are best friends with a member of the opposite sex, you are not friends. You are cover lovers and one day you'll realize that love. There's more: if you don't realize it now you might be late. So even if you have no such feelings for your friend, the collective insistence plunges you into self-doubt: is it so? did I not realize my own feelings? Even then, it's understandable till here.

Now the spiral: what if the person you actually, knowingly, voluntarily and sub-consciously love tell you that you actually love your friend? Phew! That's a sinking feeling. Cry yourself hoarse to convince but you won't find any cookies. And to top it all, you are given the example of Jaane Tu...! It couldn't get worse.

All equations of similar relationships are not the same. Your relationship with all your friends is not the same, even your equation with your ex and your present are different. Even if we suspend our disbelief to a rather unfortunate extent and accept the movie as a dogma about love masquerading as friendship, it just cannot be accepted that because the protagonists in the movie couldn't realize their love for each other, we become doubting Thomases, suspecting every one to have a love, deep down somewhere, lying neglected and untapped, for their best friend, if they happen to be of the opposite sex. We know our personal equations and relationships and we must not take these attempts to make 'different' cinema too seriously. For God's sake, will people decide you are in love or not?!

User’s Guide to PDA (Not Personal Digital Assistant!)

The overbearing number of techies swarming every corner of the city may make you guess PDA means Personal Digital Assistance. Not so to the average Calcuttan. To us, PDA still means Public Display of Affection and I don't see that changing in the next couple of years.

PDA, where, when and what, is the motion in the house today. PDA seems to be like the anti-terrorist policy of a neighboring nation: it changes its subtexts and annotations according to the situation! What is considered taboo in the Metro may be acceptable at the Rabindra Sarovar Lakes. Similarly, the limits of PDA considered a crest at the Citizen's Park, may well be the trough at the adjacent Eliot Park. It all comes down to where you are.

‘When’ is a tough act to follow. They generally chase you out with a lusty sneer at the girl with you when the sun decides to take a break. People will take you as a good-for-nothing animal-on-the-loose if it's too early in the day. So the best time is sometime between 12pm to 6pm. Lunch time is not the ideal time to get cozy, don't you think so? I mean if you keep talking mushy stuff for hours on end, you are bound to feel the boredom yourself after a heavy lunch. But keep it short. If you can't, as my colleague yells out to couples who get really up close (sometimes they can hear her and cringe!), get a room!

What? Yes, that's the most interesting part. Even this one has one word written all over it: LOCATION! Holding hands in the metro is fine, but hugging is not. Hugging is okay at Citizen's Park, kissing is not. Kissing is acceptable at Rabindra Sarovar Lake but feeling up is not. Feeling up is okay at Eliot Park. I have to stop here. For more details, check up the lodges.

Try not to exceed the limits of PDA. You wouldn't like a policeman come up to you and look at your girl. I can bet his imagination will be more wanton than you ever were. If he demands money, pay up. Cash shuts his mouth up, and you will feel the pinch if he wagged the tail in his mouth. And be courteous to him, even if he's belching and wanting to gulp in more money. A 'Syar' here and there can take you places.

Good luck!

Another Translation!!!

A translation that is more literal than poetic and done in haste and a little recklessness. You should listen to the original poem by Gulzar. I can bet you'll be transferred to a room where you have moss-colored window panes and lots of pathos to give you company. This is in a song called 'Piya Tora Kaisa Abhimaan' from Rituparno Ghosh's film Raincoat. Read on...






It was an unknown gust of wind that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall,
Last monsoon there was no damp on the wall.
Don't know why there's damp on the walls this time, fissures have come up,
And the moisture flows through them as tears flow on dry cheeks.
It was an unknown gust of wind that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall.

This rain used to to hum,
On the parapets and terrace of this very house the rains used to hum...
It used to write messages on the glass windows with its fingers.
Now it writes them behind blocked ventilation vents.

The afternoons seem like empty cases, devoid of life and vitality,
There's no one to place the bets, there's no one make the moves.
Days and nights do not happen anymore...
Don't know what unknown gust of wind it was that displaced the photo-frame hanging on this wall.

Opposites Attract?

Love pundits, if there can be any, are of the opinion that opposites attract. We have heard it repeated many a time and we have come to believe in it in some way. Yes, there are examples of couples who are diametrically opposite to each other in mood and temperament but are in deep love. These examples have taken this theory beyond the scope of questions. We are conditioned to believe it and nod our heads in acceptance. But is it really so? Do opposites really attract?

To explain the exception to a rule, we need to study the rule first. Opposites attract. Yes, they do. When people of different characteristic traits meet, they tend to find, in the other, qualities which are lacking in themselves. As an example, an introvert guy likes an extrovert girl because she makes her see the other side of the coin which he has always wanted to see, but could not. She fits into the jigsaw perfectly as the missing link. With her, he feels that he can get out of his own shell and they arrive at a point where they meet midway. And love blooms.

What if the guy doesn’t want to get out of his shell? What if he wants a partner who’ll fit cozily in his shell and make his world complete? That is when likes attract him, not opposites. That is when you want someone after your own heart and not someone who’ll challenge your boundaries. Stretching the limit is great, but that is again an individual choice.

If your world is full of books, music and movies, you might not like someone to come in and replace your movie DVDs with sports videos. You’d want someone who’ll help you nurture your passion because s/he has a keen interest in the same pursuits. That is when you’ll feel that your life is complete and not the other way round. This is what I feel. Leave me your two cents.