Hello Mr. Chips!

How I love the story with its sonorous roll-call. A diffident schoolmaster who grew into his job and finished his tenure magna cum laude! No thrills, no titillation and a sad ending. Yet it is a story that I have returned to again and again and it never disappoints.

Though I come from a long line of teachers, if the family tree is to be believed, I never wanted to teach having seen first-hand what it entailed. So, even though most of my classmates went on to do their B.Eds, I chose to explore other pastures. But one can never escape one’s genes, or so it seems: post retirement, I was roped in to teach via the Internet – I became an e-teacher! Now, once again, I have ‘retired’ and can indulge in reminiscence.

Aditi, Amita, Anuradha, Avantika……Deepti, Delna….. Gayatri, Gulveen…. Harsha…… Kadambari, Karishma …..Maclean, Misha, Moumita…. Nandita, Neeti …..Payal, Pervin, Pragya, Prakash, Priya… Rajshree, Rishabh, Roheena…. Sahaaj, Salil, Samalin, Subhash, Swapnila…. Tanvi, Tawina …..Vivek ……

…… they were just names to me till they started sending in their assignments. Gradually, I got to know them through their writing: some were eager, some recalcitrant, some energetic, some lethargic, some receptive, some quite deaf to advice. There were those who showed sparks of genius and there were the strugglers. They were diverse in attitude and capability – a motley crew - and they provided a challenging audience. It was only later, when circumstances allowed me to access their personal data on the Institute’s files, that I realized that some of the younger students were incredibly adult and some of the adults were incredibly young! How revealing our writing can be!! There was one student who fluctuated between maturity and a typical teenager, for want of a better description (I have yet to meet two teenagers who were similar – so what makes ‘typical’?) that I was tempted to ask whether I was dealing with two persons instead of one. I later learnt that the student’s mother was a teacher and had helped her with some of the assignments!

All in all, it was an exceptional experience and a learning curve – teaching over the Internet and interacting solely through the written word which, coincidentally, the courses were all about: News Reporting in the print media, Short Story Writing, Feature Writing and Practical English.

I was often amazed at the feedback – the very eclectic selection of poems and book titles that were sent in as personal preferences for the requested reports. This forced me to read books that I would never have looked at previously. Some books I would still not read anyway, but others made me realize that to teach, one had to expand one’s tastes. I also had to study like I never had before. I was, in my time, a questioning student and I was glad to find that my students were also interrogative, some of them fiercely so. The icing on the cake? Each and every participant in the Distance Education Program was there because he or she wanted to be there. It was a very personal interest that brought them to the courses and, therefore, they were a captive – and captivating! - audience. Here was no ‘whining schoolboy with his satchel and shining morning face creeping like a snail unwillingly to school’.

Have I, like all teachers, touched tomorrow? I think so. Have I made a difference for the better? I hope so. Did I love ‘teaching’? I know so!

What’s in a name?

For me, unforgettable memories!

Shakespeare’s rose may smell as sweet even if called otherwise, but the association with names is a strong one, dredging up moments from past encounters, conjuring up images, sounds and aromas.

As I pick over the treasure trove in the showcase, I am transported to different lands thanks to the travelers who visited our shores.

Remember Ceylon? The name evokes the scent of tea and walls decorated with metal silhouettes. The latter were round, dinner plate size and depicted scenes of coconut trees, boats and fishermen. Beaten into shape and painted an unrelieved black, they were travel souvenirs and de rigueur gifts from returning relatives. Today, Ceylon is Sri Lanka and though it is a beautiful and much in demand tourist destination, the present name conjures up, somehow, cricket and the ethnic strife both of which dominate our television screens.

Then there is Burma. Romantic Burma: Burma of the teak, the brass and the pagodas. There was excitement and adventure associated with the name. I still have the charm bracelet handed down to me by an aunt who made several trips in the late '40s/early '50s. Hand-wrought in brass, it is very delicate and the charms are unusual – a palanquin, a rickshaw, a fish in a dish, an oilcan, an elephant, a clog, a fishing boat and a whistle which really works! Many Anglo-Indians and Anglo-Burmese had common roots and a visit to Burma was a visit to family. Today, Myanmar is associated with a repressive, military dictatorship.

And, what about Bombay? What was once a city with well apportioned stone-faced buildings, leafy avenues, sea-front boulevards, and known for 'Bombay Halwa' is now Mumbai – overcrowded, dirty and with buildings that crumble within a short span of time. Bombay was the port of call and departure for the inward and outward bound seafaring traveler. Mumbai still is. But, somehow, it is just not the same. The poetry is missing. No‘Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir.…’* visits the mind.

People, places, things linked in a showcase: each souvenir recalls the person; the person recalls the place, and each place is thereby coupled by the souvenir to its past.

*Cargoes - John Masefield

BESLAN

You hold me hostage

To let your comrades live.

But, you seek for them the

Freedom

That only love can give.

Did you, too, see

A childhood playmate die?

Did you feel the fright and

Anguish?

Did you watch a Mother cry?

Surely, you must know

That hate imprisons still,

With bars that bind you,

Lifelong,

To its will?

So I ask for us

The end of sorrow.

I wish for you and all the

World,

A compassionate tomorrow.

This has been written in remembrance of those children who were held hostage and/or who died in the Beslan massacre on September 1, 2004. A photo wall of the victims is displayed at: http://www.golosbeslana.ru/pamyat.htm

Paper Dolls

Flat and one dimensional, paper dolls are as far from the cuddly rag or plastic versions as, to use a well worn cliché, chalk from cheese. Still, they had a very firm and fond place in my childhood and, I imagine, in other children’s lives as well.

Thrown on my own devices as an only child since the nearest neighbours had no children of playing age, I spent much of my time either buried in books or engrossed in a make-believe world made a little more plausible by these dolls. They were named Nora and Tilly – blonde and brunette twins – and were published by a women’s magazine. They would be faithfully cut out every month, pasted on cardboard and dressed up in the wardrobe supplied. Soon, the wardrobes started expanding with the assistance of wrapping paper, crayons and paints and huge dollops of imagination. One could create whole environments and situations assisted by the accompanying short story, detailing the recent happenings in their lives, unfettered by time and place. To a little girl cut off from real live playmates, they were a lifeline.

Today, paper dolls have no place in a world where toys have developed beyond all imagination. My playthings were home and handmade – knitted, crocheted, stitched, crafted, woodworked, and drawn. They were unique in that they carried the label ‘manufactured with love’ and were not mass produced in some factory, churned out by the thousands on a conveyor belt. Today’s child would consider me deprived, but I certainly never felt that way.

When you have to fall back on yourself for entertainment, creativity takes wing or so I would like to believe. ‘Designing’ the dolls’ clothes allowed me, in later life, to design and stitch my own. Fashioning my make believe world made English Lit and Lang classes a fun place to be; it was so easy to be transported to foreign realms peopled by the likes of folk from Jane Eyre to Prospero. Writing an essay in class? No problem, except that time ran out far too fast!

Did I say that paper dolls would have no place with today’s generation? Well, I was happily surprised and tickled pink to find that electronic ‘paper dolls’ exist on the Net. Several websites allow you to pick and choose appearances, apparel and accessories. The child in me delighted in the discovery and reaffirmed my supposition that paper dolls unleash creativity, as is very evident by their electronic avatars!!

*I was pleasantly surprised to find 'collectors' who had scanned the Nora and Tilly pages from the W&H. Grabbed a pic for this blog - trust they will not mind!

A Mouse in the House

My husband is habituated to telling me that I can be, on occasion, incredibly brilliant and also incredibly stupid!

I once allowed the neighbour’s little son to decorate a rather prominent wall in our living room with his newly gifted ‘washable’ crayons. Needless to say, the crayons were definitely not washable and the resultant mural was rather less than Picasso-esque. Incredibly stupid? I guess so, though we did have rather a lot of fun! A subsequent monsoon caused extensive damage, requiring us to repair and paint the flat. The ‘mural’ is a long distant memory and the little boy is now a grown man with other talents to boast of.

Which brings me to the mouse. While I can murderously squash flies and mosquitoes, and scream the house down at the sight of a cockroach, I can ‘talk’ to the lizards and the mice with equanimity. A negligible gift, I agree, but one that can engender little doses of humour.

I was deep in a book while sitting with my back to the TV, when I heard a scrunching, whispering sound. The TV was off at the time and the book was so interesting that it took me a little while to realise that something was out of place. I glanced up and spotted a mouse. It was dragging strips of paper picked up from an open carton full of packing material, which was awaiting disposal, and tugging them into the back of the TV! Each trip involved hopping down from the unit, scampering across to the carton near the front door, grabbing a strip in its teeth, tugging it out of the tangle, climbing out of the carton and up to the television. I was fascinated.

I called out to my husband to ‘come and see’. The explosion was instantaneous, ‘Are you nuts?!!!!’ The television was a brand new acquisition and an expensive one (for us) at that - it had been purchased by hubby for viewing the forthcoming football World Cup in full colour. But the mouse was so cute: round, brown and furry with pink ears, nose and paw tips, bright boot-button eyes and whiskers aquiver. It was a storybook illustration come alive. Cuteness notwithstanding, the technician was summoned and the mouse dishoused. A mousetrap (the wire cage kind) ensured no further incursions.

But my husband is a gentle person. He walked many a mile, trap in hand, to release the mouse in a field far, far away where it hopefully found the right kind of home. He consoled me with the thought that it would have eventually fried inside the TV!

The Way Things Are Meant To Be

You arrive at the station in happy anticipation: you are on your way from the suburbs to the city to catch up with friends. The train arrives, you jump in and luck favours you with a window seat. Soon, you are lost in reverie, soundproofed from the surrounding cacophony by your thoughts and the moving scenery. It promises to be a good day.

The train arrives at your destination, the lofty domed terminus that is a landmark in the city. You alight and are immediately jostled by the rushing crowd. You are not propelled by the same urgency and search for a spot where you can stand awhile. Suddenly, you feel a tug at your sleeve: it is a little girl well dressed, oiled hair smoothly drawn into a single plait down her back. She has lost her ‘Mummy-Daddy’ in the crowd and wants you to help. You guide her to the two women constables outside the Ladies’ Compartment and tell them the problem. They promptly grab her by the hair and administer two hefty whacks, ‘Don’t you have anything better to do than harass the passengers?’ The child wraps her arms about herself protectively while tears roll silently down her cheeks. She casts an accusatory glance, ‘I asked for bread and you gave me a stone.’ You try to explain to the constables that she did not ‘harass’ you and that she is ‘lost’. The advise you, brusquely, ‘Don’t worry yourself sister. This happens every day. These children are a menace. Just mind your belongings and walk carefully.’

Unconvinced, you walk to the Station Master’s cabin. It is empty. You wait hopefully in the doorway and soon a man walks up to you and asks what you are there for. You explain. He brushes you aside, muttering under his breath about persons always wanting to waste his time and energy. You walk away and take a furtive glance about. The girl is standing forlorn, the space around her burdened with unshed tears. You walk with leaden step to the exit and see the gun-slung constable standing there. You approach him and tell him your problem. He tells you to take the child to the nearest police station and gives you directions. What if someone accuses you of kidnapping or worse? He tells you no one will even give you a second thought. You approach the child and tell her what you wish to do. She puts her hand hesitantly into yours. After all, she trusted you once. Your instinct tells you to take her to the Newspaper’s office just across the road, but you dutifully take her to the police station. Relief. The Sub-Inspector on duty listens to you attentively. He plies you and the child with tea and biscuits. The child’s details are ascertained and her home located. It is in a far off suburb at the end of the line. There is no one to take her. You volunteer and, this time, she comes trustingly. Armed with a piece of paper, you reach her to her doorstep. She recognizes her mother and darts forward, leaving you with a sense of fulfillment. But not for long. The mother beats her about the face and scolds loud and long. She gives you a dirty look and you have no choice but to walk away without so much as an exchange of words, forget about thanks. You ponder about the vagaries of life, filled with an anger and frustration that will linger for the rest of your day and beyond.

Script for a television serial? No. This is an almost verbatim account of a friend’s experience. Seated around the canteen table, we listened on the Monday to her Sunday experience. Someone at the table spoke up, ‘We are destined to be where we are and you should not interfere with destiny. The child was meant to be lost, just as the dying man is meant to die, just as the sick are meant to be sick and the prosperous are meant to prosper. When you interfere, you push the universe off kilter and disturb the natural order of things. You must never interfere.’ I am appalled. Where is the humanity?

When I get home, I spend an uncomfortable hour or two in introspection. Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? What is my life meant to be?

But that was yesterday. Today is fresh and new with much to be done. Yesterday will soon fade into distant and unruffled memory.

Clutterbumph!

Shades of ‘My Fair Lady’ and ‘why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?’ Well anyone who knows will tell you that spoken English is a minefield that is well nigh impossible to navigate.

Written English is a snap and with a little practice, words can be made to trip breezily off the pen. All you need is a collection of esoteric words and phrases, culled from adventurous reading; Google them to find out the meanings and how they can be used, bung them into your sentences and, hey presto, you sound erudite! Thanks to the creative Americans, there is no shortage of new words and we have to thank them for the growing weight of our dictionaries, reverse dictionaries, thesauruses and mental baggage.

Spoken English, on the other hand, can strip off the mask, leaving you exposed. It’s everyone’s clutterbumph (love the word – thank you, Paul Gallico). Thanks to the fact that the English language is heavy on adoption, we have to negotiate words culled from every language of the globe, ancient and modern. Greek and Latin are not too bad, the Indian languages are phonetic and therefore pose no great problems (except for the British!), German is another happily phonetic tongue – spoken as she is written. But when you come to words derived from French, your troubles begin. Pronunciation is diametrically opposite to the way the word is spelt, and why on earth anyone would want to do that is a mystery. Spanish (‘j’ is pronounced as ‘h’ and ‘ll’ is pronounced as ‘y’!!) and Italian (actually, not too bad) add to the confusion. Throw in silent letters and words that are spelt similarly but pronounced differently (cough and bough are good examples), add to them the staples of pronunciation exercises (Worcester pronounced ‘wooster’ and brougham pronounced ‘broom’) and you will be caught up in an inextricable tangle. Despite investing in a pronunciation dictionary, spoken English still sends me into a tizzy.

The social interaction aspect also comes into play. How does one discourse with another whose pronunciation of common words differs radically? Shades of ‘I say tom(ah)to, you say tom(ay)to’!

Peter Piper, of tongue twister fame, will probably realise with chagrin, that it’s time to stop ‘picking pecks of pickled pepper’ and get with it if he wants to orate with sangfroid and chutzpah!