Cricket, exams and unfulfilled dreams

Board Exams

I've come a long way since back then when I thought board exams were written on boards and we could write it when we were "big". But on the day, it wasn't quite that simple, though atleast I knew I didn't have to write on a board, I was happier writing on the answer sheets, something I was more accustomed to. And on the subject of "big"ness, well I have scarcely an idea whether I am privileged enough to be classified under this, mentally or physically.

It didn't matter anyway, for I had to write the board exam. And it was a tense affair. I was prepared and the paper was bound to be easy, easier than I had thought atleast, easy in it's own sense perhaps, hopefully.

But today, a week old, or three exams old, put whichever way you prefer, I find that the "board exam fear" is a lot to do with the mind and little to do with the actual portions. What, in my opinion, the Education board of the country has to do to remove this paranoia of fear is to make it like any other exam, or make any other exam like it. It's not the questions on the sheet that faze your mind but the the things like "to be filled by the board" or the several blanks for the several examiners signature is what really puts the young minds off. When you know that your paper is destined to fall into so many pairs of hands, each combing it at a microscopic level to find even the slightest of flaws is enough to scare even the bravest and the calmest. And that these are the hands of people you don't even know, not the fat, jolly, old teacher who knew who since you first peed in your pants in school, but someone far more intimidating just adds fuel to the already raging fire. And filling in your unique roll number for just this exam just enhances the feeling that this is something more than your daily piece of cake and it is here that the tremors originate in my opinion, and not in the textbook or the classrooms.

Last day of school

The good-byes were said, tearfully and each hug warmer than the previous. It would be the last time we would be seeing some of them and the rest we would be seeing only after a long time. They had played with us, cried with us, laughed with us, wet their pants with us and today they wet their eyes for us as we did for them.

There was something about it, when you realised the human worth of that irritating, show-off whom you always ticked-off and fought with everyday. You could look the deadly teacher in the eye, as her eye just like yours, is moist, softened by the tears. Tears of sadness, that we have to say goodbye. Tears of joy, that we've grown up so far. All the fun would be missed, all the memories would be treasured. Hopefully a million to one co-incidence finds you and your old classmate neighbours in a far-off land. Till then, we have only the memories to live on.

Everyone said bye to everyone, memories re-lived, times looked back upon. It was sad, but we were moving on.

Now, two days hence, I've already met five off them, spoken to three more and hardly thought of it, immersed as I was in preparation for the exams. But while correspondence maybe temporary, Memories are forever.

And boy, will I ever forget that day? Exams dangerously close but beyond the horizon in our minds, filled as they were with friends and foes alike.

Of Ravi Shankar, Mani Shankar and Arnab

The last thing I do before going to bed is to watch a bit of TV. The three news channels, "Times Now", "NDTV", and "CNN-IBN"are easily the most watched channels in the house.

Last night, I lazily rolled on my back as my father surfed these three channels with the luxury of knowing that my I didn't have to rise early to go to school the next day when I let out a shriek. "Times Now" I observed, had my favourite anchor, Mr. Arnab Goswami grilling Mr. Mani Shankar Iyer among a panel of others. A classic, certainly. I implored my father to stop switching the channels.

As an avid follower of political developments, I had developed a liking to certain politicians and no political parties.

While the most intellectual were the lawyer folk, the Jaitleys and the Sibals and the Chidambarams, personally the sharp-tongued spokespersons were my favourite.

The exile of Shashi Tharoor from the main Congress framework deeply disappointed me for he was one who didn't fear to voice his opinion over his own party-men and also used the net to air his views, a sign of modernity.

Mani Shankar Iyer, rather like him but more conscious of the hierarchy in his party, was another outspoken general, a man who would say "Absolute Bullshit" instead of saying "I respect his opinion but I think he has got it wrong." Brash, is what I'm driving at.

Though Ravi Shankar Prasad and the above mentioned Iyer may share the Shankar in the name, they share hardly anything else. An out an out BJP man, Prasad is the main focal point of all news-room discussions, perhaps because he is a part of the opposition. The kind of chap who will wait for the applause (if any) to subside and continue and jab his finger violently at the camera while coming close to concluding his point. And after every punch line, he gives a knowing smile, sure that he has caught his opponent in the net.

And then there's every politicians biggest enemy, the newsroom anchor, be it Burkha Dutt, Rajdeep Sardesai or Arnab Goswami. Although Burkha Dutt had always had a special place in my heart (which she lost after Niira Radia tapes were released), Arnab Goswami always stole the show.

Where Burkha would say, "Sir yes sir, but in a sense......" full of respect and poise, Mr. Goswami would just shrug his shoulder and say "You've got your facts all wrong". Brash diplomacy, if there is such a thing.

But then, my dream has never come true. A newsroom discussion hosted by Mr. Goswami with the Shankar's as his guests. I've never really seen Mr. Iyer stretched while Jayanthi Nataraj has come close to doing like-wise to Mr. Prasad.

Mr. Iyer is rarely present on these shows, though he was prominent when Kalmadi accused him of causing the delay in CWG building construction after he said in characteristic style that he would "get the hell out of Delhi" during the CWG. Mr.Prasad on the other hand frequently encounters Burkha Dutt and Arnab Goswami, somehow never making a fool of himself or his party. But then, he always has a certain Manish Tiwari (not sure about the name), a most lacklustre spokesperson if there ever was, to deal with. Never a match for the Prasad.

And then there's Chandan Mitra, another BJP man with a characteristic style. He will sit silent, speak only if spoken to, which he does in a methodical manner, and the second he sees this flaw in a Congress compatriot, he comes up with a flawless, nonreturnable one-liner and laughs his face off, knowing he has won. "Charisma" is the word.

These discussions however never lead anywhere, usually causing Goswami to hastily and diplomatically, yet brashly, in his own style, tell the spokespersons to shut up and close the show, before everyone has had their chance.

Mother India

A random poem I wrote for my Civics assignment.

She hugs me,

makes me feel cared.

She slaps me,

makes me feel scared.

She baffles me,

with beauty and brilliance.

She suffocates me,

with her teeming millions.

She leaves me confused,

annoyed, angry at her.

She leaves me amazed,

awed, envious of her.

Here she slaps me again

There he hugs me again.

She filthy yet she's famous.

She's poor yet the money flows.

She's corrupt yet she's courteous

She contradicts yet she's assuring.

Assuring in her contractions,

Contradicting in her assurances,

Assuring in her contradictions,

She is my mother,

Mother India and inspite of it all

I'm proud of her

Because she is mine,

while being ours.

Nobility

As I was hovering around the house, doing nothing in particular, a sudden urge hit me. Fresh from a holiday in Coorg, felt this craving for a piece of "chikki", a kind of sweet, brought from this land. Needless to say, I knew exactly where it was and proceeded to extract it from a certain box in the kitchen. To my dismay, I found that there was only one piece left and this being my father's favourite, I couldn't just eat and continue living without remorse. It was time for action, for me to step up to the mantle, take the bull by the horns, use my tact, exercise the grey cells and fight for the last piece. Such thoughts ran through my mind when the idea struck. Simplicity itself, I was surprised it hadn't hit me before.

I would simply offer it to my father, he would say "no you eat." He often did this even though he really wanted it, he would forego it in fatherly spirit. On other occasions, I would have myself have lied that I didn't want the item and force him to come out with his real feelings.

But this time, I had different ideas. It was a simple case of saying "Oh, in that case I'll eat it."

There was something about this scheme that I loved. It couldn't fail, I would get my chikki and my father would certainly hail my selflessness. A win-win situation.

Armed with the piece of chikki, I walked confidently to my father, put on an earnest, sincere, loving expression and suppressing a smile, I chirped "Daddy, laaaast piece of chikki" and handed it to him. The moment of reckoning came and was gone like a blur.

Yes, he did hail my selflessness. He thought it rather noble of me. But my tact failed, I had failed to deliver the goods.

Dad performed the simple action of saying "Thank you" full of love and proceeded to eat the chikki whole.

While I was more dismayed than ever, I did have a good laugh about it later. And it was just a chikki. :D

The Urinators

This post contains matter pertaining to men. Although women are welcome to read it, they may not be able to connect to it.

Urination of men in toilets is fascinating to observe. Well, let me start by assuring you that I observe only the men and not their urination and I have roughly categorised them into three.

First are the ashamed urinators, those whose behaviour would suggest they have something to hide about their urination. Of course, they have lots to hide while peeing but nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone pees.They want to get done with this unpleasant job as quickly as possible and probably fear they might get caught in the act by someone, though on what grounds, I have scarcely a clue. Perhaps they're smuggling drugs in their underwear :P

Second, the diligent urinators. They come like men possessed, their target firmly in their sight and perform their task with absolute sincerity. Their eyes disclose a certain passion for this natural process of waste removal. Fixed on the job, they will never slip up. They make sure there's not a stray drop. Make sure they hit their target, no missing it as kids do.

The third are the dreamy urinators, the ones who enjoy life and see emptying their tanks as just a mild break in their fun and games and joyously welcome these breaks. Not a fibre of their brain is thinking of the task on hand. The outflow has become natural and doesn't require any concentration. Their heads oscillate as they muse on all topics under the sun. They look all around, occasionally peep downwards, just to make sure the jet is on target. When they're done, the zip shuts with an extravagant, flamboyant motion and they wet the whole toilet while attempting to wash their hands. Very little of their time is spent dwelling on the urination, unlike the other two.

I would say I belong to the last category, made obvious by the fact that I actually observe the people around me and enough to waste my time typing out a post on the way people pee.

Monotony

The sun rose, ever so faithful. I rose as well, not in the same faith. Seven "Get-up"s, each louder than the previous from my father sufficed to wake me up, not full though. I walk sleepily to the bathroom, wake-up, have a bath, wake-up, wear my uniform, wake-up, eat breakfast and hop onto the bus when I finally wake-up and gather a measure of control over my actions.

The bus goes on the usual round, reach school, the same kid kicks me and bites but gives me a tearful farewell when we have to part ways and reach respective classes. The old friends greet me, the same people harp on the victories of the team they support, same this, same that.

Same Class teacher walks in, teaches biology to a mildly-interested and highly restless class. Same this, same that.

Well you may think it's all boring and you are right in thinking so inspite of being mistaken. The fun element is there, normal high school jokes, a sudden spurt in the funniness of a certain maths teacher's accent and lots of laughter. But the fun isn't enough. The monotony of the fun is there.

Life isn't too monotonous if there is the same thing which you don't like. Sameness creates monotony, negative sameness or positive sameness. Nothing to get the adrenaline pumping through the veins. No stealthily stealing down a corridor hiding from the teacher. It's all fun, fun and fun, which it may sound fun, isn't so much fun. The source of the fun is the same, and the sameness of the fun destroys the fun.

The laughter, the happiness and the joy ring out every period as jokes degrade reality further and further, innovative and intellectual jokes to the immature, silly ones, all are laughed at. But the laughter is too constant. Laughter becomes the monotony and life isn't all roses though it is all laughter. The monotony gets to you.