Student Psyche

A fictional account, bordering on fact

"Question 7", she drooled on. My mind woke up just in time to catch the last bit of the question, "If yes, give some instances to show it". I quickly made a mental note of this. Saying it was no would be simpler, just say no. Everyone would think you are unique and you think differently (For yes was obviously what they expected you to think) plus there was not the need to give an instance. And mind went back into the trance it was in before I had been rudely disturbed. The world out of the window seemed to beckon, and I could heed it only after the ring of the bell, 12 agonising minutes away. There was something about me, I was just not right, something apart from the fact that the stomach was empty and my bladder full. Something deep, something which made it more interesting to see in which direction the wind drove the clouds rather than what Khushwant Singh thought of his grandmother. I was going through it all. Why not the massive amounts of energy of the monsoon winds be tapped? What about all the rain that falls, why let it literally out of our hand? The cool wind from yonder, aah how I wish I could go out there and feel it fill my throat. How I wish....

Huh?

Something had caused me to spin around, the focus of my crystalline lens, whose structure I had struggled with just a few months back, was sharply on the teacher. "What would your answer be?", she asked me, in a thought-provoking manner, in a way she hoped could ignite her unbelievably dull class.

Within seconds, the old bean was whizzing in my head. Act fast, it said.

"Errr.... Ma'am I can't think of any additional points to the ones already raised", I said.

Aaah, the triumph, THAT feeling of self-contentment. One well-thought line was sufficient to put to rest all allegations that I was just out of a trance. My reverie had been rudely interrupted, not once but twice, and both times I had found the answer.

In the few intervening seconds when the teacher looked away, I wormed out off my partner, exactly what the hell was going on in here.

To my absolute delight, it was in fact a question I had already thought off, and sure, I had an impressive answer ready. The kind of answer that would draw the teachers awe, mostly, hopefully

Before she could ask anyone else, I was upto it. "Ma'am", I started, garnering all my energy in making sure she takes notice, when for the third time in that quarter of an hour, I was interrupted. The rather rough school bell, informing us it was time.

"Yes, you wanted to say something?", she said spinning around, her sharp ears trained to even the slightest trace of my voice. I spluttered for a second, looked hither and thither, the curtain fell over me, driven, again, by the wind.

"Nothing ma'am, I said, endeavouring to take the curtain off my eyes. "Nothing".

And I rushed out. The wind-driven curtain reminded me of the world outside, more inviting. And there was always time to get in her good books.

"Thank you Ma'am"

And aah, I was going into the outside world, less interesting than when viewed from the window, but more interesting all the same.

Post glory

The results of the All India Secondary School Examination (AISSE), better known as tenth boards, in the recent years has been available on the net. A boon of course. No messy phone calls to New Delhi or Chennai and waiting for several days before the result is known. However, when the result threatens once too often, they lose its charm. When the results scheduled respectively for 16th May, 20th May, 23rd May and certain to be on 28th May were finally announced on 31st May, I had just a day to savour the "top of the world" feeling. Passing into 11th standard with a "CGPA" or Cumulative Grade Point Average of 10, was, well, it. It was a culmination of a year and a half worth of effort, rather than the usual month and a half effort, head conspirator being Mr. Kapil Sibal, an eminent lawyer who, being the HRD minister of the Union of India, introduced "CCE", every students enemy and also thought-up the theme of CGPA, "fixing" the good old percentage system, though I never remember it broken, ever. Translated to layman terms, a CGPA of 10 meant 90% or higher marks in every subject. What mattered to me was I had cracked, taken 10 out of a possible 10, and there I was, perched on my throne, surrounded by a whole proud family, a proud neighbourhood, attempting to be modest, struggling to keep the triumph out of my eyes.

It is darkest just before dawn they say. Here, though, all was bright, sunny and someone, presumably god, thought it would be fun to just blow the fuse, just at the wrong time, or right, whichever way you prefer.

Less than two weeks on, I feel battered, bruised and betrayed, by what everyone said would be an ideal life armed with a decent CGPA. Tenth board exam, I thought was this unconquerable mountain, the coveted real estate, the prized possession. And having climbed it, I now have to crane my neck to look at what lies ahead, a whole range, with the mildest done.

And yes, you guessed right. Eleventh took me like a tornado and I'm still twirling in it's midst. A believer in good beginnings, all my plans fluttered and flew like a mere feather, when, on the very third day, I had a good talking to from my new class teacher (read monster), inspite of what in my opinion was a reasonable excuse for the lack of words in my fresh smelling book.

When a mildly pleasant looking person whom you've seen round here and there suddenly surges into your presence and on very first acquaintance demands discipline, decorum and several other Ds, you are slightly apprehensive. When she says she's your class teacher, you are shaken. When she unpredictably differs her tone of voice and the size of her eyes, the high voice and the big eyes curiously coinciding, you feel, with the time intervals when she sees your highly undesirable mass seated in front of her, the fear may just seep in, ever so slightly. When she demands you to understand what she wants with just her look, you are terrified. And when she draws punches, ever so closely spaced, before capping it off, forcing out of you a "voluntary" vow of co-operation throughout the coming year, ending by saying she loves you a lot, it is then you let go of all airs. Messing your pants is all you don't do.

Now, the green pastures of tenth standard, are all blurred against the background. Sharp in focus is the academics, the unknown, untamed wilderness of eleventh grade, where a journey round the edge can break the hardiest, and a small sojourn into it can wreak havoc. It's like travelling on a rough sea, the current and the wind against you, the boat too small and the destination too far. But just hang in there, as they say, for perseverance may not help move mountains, but it certainly helps climb them. (Stolen of a roadside signboard deep in the Himalayas).

Down the memory lane

First the mother, then the teacher.Third who?? Doctor of course.

It was a pleasant,summer morning in the city of Bangalore. I mean this morning. Bright and refreshingly chill despite it being the month of May. Nothing bright though about me. Just off a night of fever and sweating, my self-medicated body was battered and bruised. Still is, as a matter of fact, but an event in the intermediate two hours breathed a new life into me.

Our, more so my, search for a family doctor has been in vain. Treated by an old-timer for the first 10-12 years of my life, who in his prime treated my grandfather as well, his retirement had created havoc in my life. Never again would I fake illness just to get a taste of his "kemp oushdi", which literally translates to red medicine. It was him, and the precious minutes spent in his clinic, in his presence, that really cured. Not the bitter pills we had to swallow. He was more a friend than a doctor, more a human than a healer.

And today, when I fell sick enough to be compelled to visit a doctor, I really felt his loss. But so close was this man, that on finding the shutters of the nearby doctor's clinic down, we thought it worth to disturb him on a Sunday, despite of his 80-odd years and his being officially in retirement.

We set out to find him, grandson on his side, calm, with his ever present smile. There was something about him, as he peered at you through his specks, ever sliding down his nose bridge. Something of a Dumbledore, without a wand. He didn't need one. His hands and his words worked the magic.

An hour of banter, between three old comrades, self, father and doc, representing different generations, of which hardly any time was spent dwelling on the actual issue at hand, was all it took to get me back to my chirpy self. Several things were discussed, and as with most Indian conversations, started with inquiries on the well-being of common acquaintances and led to more, interrupted by a loud conversation taking place somewhere outside between doc's grandson and an unknown person. At one point I heard the unknown question the junior. 265+24! At this stage of my life, where I'm all agog on sines, cosines, roots and logs, it was a simple calculation, 289. My quick calculation was confirmed few seconds later, when the boy spoke my thoughts, loudly and excitedly.

The conversation within was more interesting, though my thoughts wavered from it too often to give an accurate account. It ranged from gossip, to reverences for the dead, facts of life and more. This man had healed many a people, saved several from sufferings, had pioneered a new herbal cure for jaundice and the several accolades lining his walls were testimony to this.

Then, it was time to leave. Medicines in hand, gratitude in my heart, I walked out, pondering over the need for these medicines, when my heart and my limbs were already feeling lighter, from the moment I set my eyes upon him. He ushered us out, with as much dignity and pomp as his age would permit and left us at the door. As I bent to put on my slippers, my eyes caught a piece of paper on the sill outside. I peered at it, hoping to do the doctor a good turn by bringing in what I thought was a letter for him.

A closer look enabled me to ascertain it was no letter, rather just an old piece of paper, which clearly showed signs of having been used recently. 265+24=289, it said. I chuckled on seeing it, and walked away with my head held high, truly and completely healed

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.