The forest is my home
That's all there is to living
And breathing
And more breathing...
That's all there is to living
And breathing
And more breathing...
Friday, July 13
Forest is My Home.
The forest is my home
That's all there is to living
And breathing
And more breathing...
That's all there is to living
And breathing
And more breathing...
Monday, July 9
A visit to the RRO
A stifling little office on the third floor of the sickly brown Pondy Housing Board building is the office of the Regional Registration Office. You go there once and may never want to go again. I have had to go there in the past. I had to go there again today.
From what I recall from my visit to that office quite some years back, absolutely nothing has changed. The tasteless blue of the walls in the passage is still tasteless and blue but it has not peeled-off. I noticed it because most government offices are wont to have paint-peeling walls. Overhanging cobwebs have not multiplied, suggesting that there happens some sort of clean up once every couple of years or so. There are all sorts of irrelevant bills stuck on the walls, most of which seem to have a tone of warning rather than information.
I reached there a good fifteen minutes before the scheduled time which was 9.30 in the morning. I took the sickly elevator up. Just to make sure I asked a fellow levitating man whether the RRO was on the third. He aspirated a yes along with a nod making me look away in embarrassment, for all on a sudden the little square elevator was suffused with awful halitosis, adding to the depressive atmosphere.
The third floor was littered with previous day's sweeping - could have well been last week's garbage. There was one plastic chair and one bench for three. An elderly Indian widow was already sitting there. I nodded to her and sat at the other end. Presently there came bouncing a petite French girl. (I knew she was French at once(!), later verified by her accent as she spoke to the officer) She stood close to the unopened door, determined to jump the line. Perhaps she did not see that we were also on business in the same office. Perhaps it is something French to be disdainful and impolite, but as soon as the big chief pushed open the door, she plonked herself in the chair before the officer. Obviously she had come there without a certain piece of chit which the officer had given her on her earlier visit. I heard them speak, - she insisting that she had not lost the chit and the officer indignantly demanding to know why she had come there without that all important piece of chit. The French girl pronounced it 'shit' because in French 'ch' is pronounced as 'sh'!
"I yav not loast ze peece of Shit"! she pleaded in earnest.
The man dismissed her with a flick of his index finger. The girl got up in a huff and out she bounced through the ugly door as the officer was midway through his parting shot. He was saying, "Everything here is a piece of chit!" ( I tried to amuse myself by 'translating' his last word in French!)
Then was my turn because the old widow, although she was before me was obviously brought up to let men pass before her. And I am not exactly a gentleman.
I pulled out Mir's documents and gave them to the man. "Sir", I said in token of much craved respect. He browsed them and said something like 'pyo' , which in Tamil sounded very much like 'po', meaning get lost!
"Excuse me?"
" PIO book!", he clarified.
This time I did not hear him.
"PIO BOOK! Person of Yindiyan worigin!" (person of Indian origin), he yelled.
I gave him Mir's PIO booklet.
He showed me the letters printed in gold and repeated, "Person of Indian origin."
"Oh"! I said obligingly.
Then he scribbled something in his ledger and flicked his index towards a chair saying, " Please wait. I will verify the documents, then you can go."
" Thank you", I said and sat in the chair he had indicated, giving the old lady a chance to get yelled at.
Within about 5 minutes my documents were verified and the officer said that I could go. " Come back between 4.30 and 5.30", he said.
I nodded and smiled at him. He actually smiled back, without realizing that mine was a smile of relief.
From what I recall from my visit to that office quite some years back, absolutely nothing has changed. The tasteless blue of the walls in the passage is still tasteless and blue but it has not peeled-off. I noticed it because most government offices are wont to have paint-peeling walls. Overhanging cobwebs have not multiplied, suggesting that there happens some sort of clean up once every couple of years or so. There are all sorts of irrelevant bills stuck on the walls, most of which seem to have a tone of warning rather than information.
I reached there a good fifteen minutes before the scheduled time which was 9.30 in the morning. I took the sickly elevator up. Just to make sure I asked a fellow levitating man whether the RRO was on the third. He aspirated a yes along with a nod making me look away in embarrassment, for all on a sudden the little square elevator was suffused with awful halitosis, adding to the depressive atmosphere.
The third floor was littered with previous day's sweeping - could have well been last week's garbage. There was one plastic chair and one bench for three. An elderly Indian widow was already sitting there. I nodded to her and sat at the other end. Presently there came bouncing a petite French girl. (I knew she was French at once(!), later verified by her accent as she spoke to the officer) She stood close to the unopened door, determined to jump the line. Perhaps she did not see that we were also on business in the same office. Perhaps it is something French to be disdainful and impolite, but as soon as the big chief pushed open the door, she plonked herself in the chair before the officer. Obviously she had come there without a certain piece of chit which the officer had given her on her earlier visit. I heard them speak, - she insisting that she had not lost the chit and the officer indignantly demanding to know why she had come there without that all important piece of chit. The French girl pronounced it 'shit' because in French 'ch' is pronounced as 'sh'!
"I yav not loast ze peece of Shit"! she pleaded in earnest.
The man dismissed her with a flick of his index finger. The girl got up in a huff and out she bounced through the ugly door as the officer was midway through his parting shot. He was saying, "Everything here is a piece of chit!" ( I tried to amuse myself by 'translating' his last word in French!)
Then was my turn because the old widow, although she was before me was obviously brought up to let men pass before her. And I am not exactly a gentleman.
I pulled out Mir's documents and gave them to the man. "Sir", I said in token of much craved respect. He browsed them and said something like 'pyo' , which in Tamil sounded very much like 'po', meaning get lost!
"Excuse me?"
" PIO book!", he clarified.
This time I did not hear him.
"PIO BOOK! Person of Yindiyan worigin!" (person of Indian origin), he yelled.
I gave him Mir's PIO booklet.
He showed me the letters printed in gold and repeated, "Person of Indian origin."
"Oh"! I said obligingly.
Then he scribbled something in his ledger and flicked his index towards a chair saying, " Please wait. I will verify the documents, then you can go."
" Thank you", I said and sat in the chair he had indicated, giving the old lady a chance to get yelled at.
Within about 5 minutes my documents were verified and the officer said that I could go. " Come back between 4.30 and 5.30", he said.
I nodded and smiled at him. He actually smiled back, without realizing that mine was a smile of relief.
Saturday, July 7
I've Buried My Shame
I've
buried my shame
In the soil of my birth,
wandered about lame
Green orbits of Earth...
The glory of my name
I've hid with my soul;
Tapped
every door-frame
With my begging bowl!
Wednesday, July 4
Promise
I know a school teacher. In many ways he is like me. He is passionate about values, the philosophical argument etc. although on the practical level he is rather indolent. The similarities do not end there as quite like myself he has started teaching in a school nearby. He is a 'volunteer'. So am I, and like me he does not draw a salary. But a certain greater degree of freedom of movement in school compensates that disadvantage in comparison with the other staff. He may, for example, miss the assembly or choose not to eat with the other teachers.
We met yesterday in a restaurant. I asked him how it was to teach in a school. He paused for a while. Then he lit a cigarette and said, "Oh!". I could not fathom this mysterious 'Oh!' I looked at his 'o' shaped smoking mouth, hoping to get some elucidation from him.
The level of English was abominable he began telling me. "I wonder who those idiots are who mistook their sloth for compassionate sympathy to promote my students to class IX! They do not know to define sentence! Their verbs and tenses are appallingly wrong. They do not yet know how a simple letter is written!" He puffed deep at his cigarette and blew smoke all around his face. I could see his frustration in it.
" Relax!", I advised, " You have just about begun yaar. Give them some time to get used to your ways."
"Hmmm"...!
"What?" I asked him seeing that he was not convinced.
" Damn it Charu! You should see them in class. When I explain the lesson so damn clearly and I ask them whether they have understood what I had explained a very satisfying and collective "Yesssir!" rings in the class. But then I check their work in their notes and I see DIZZASTER!!" He uttered the word almost with a double 'Z'.
"There is this one dude, Shiva is his name. Nice looking fellow, neat and all, but he does not understand a thing. I asked him to read the other day. He could barely read a sentence without stumbling. I asked the class to write answers to some questions which they did. I corrected them in their roughs and asked them to copy them in the fair books without mistakes. This guy Shiva copied exactly as he had written them in his rough, mistakes and all! And he is not the only pillock! It is a class full of dumb idiots! I am disheartened. I am considering quitting."
"Already? Not yet three weeks since the school reopened?"
" Oh yes! Three years will have gone by even without any progress with those morons. A couple of girls show promise though, and I am speaking comparatively here."
I told him to take it as a challenge. I quoted Swamy Vivekananda who had said that a good teacher instructs but a great teacher inspires, etc. which only prodded my friend to complain some more.
" There is another dolt whose name is Punnyakoti. Punnyakoti indeed! I read the pathetic essay he had written about his school and his English teacher. I felt so hopeless when I read it that I called him to the staff room and made him write this: - 'I shall apply myself in the class so that I understand my lesson. Whenever I do not understand I shall request my teacher to explain again so that I understand. I promise to keep my promise. '
A day or two after that he again showed no interest in trying to understand. I made him stand up and reminded him of his promise. He simply kept looking at me with that silly grin of his.
I asked him whether he knew what a promise was. He shook his head! Charu, HE ADMITTED THAT HE DID NOT KNOW WHAT A PROMISE WAS!! I pulled out a hundred rupee note from my wallet and asked him to read the promissory note on it. He read it, stumblingly of course, but he did. I asked him what he held in his hand. He said that it was one hundred rupees. I said that I did not believe it was one hundred rupees. "It is a piece of paper", I told him. He refused to believe me so I asked him why he believed it to be not a piece of paper but hundred rupees. He did not know why.
I asked him to read the promise on the currency note again. He read," I promise to pay the bearer the sum of Hundred Rupees". I asked him to look at the signature of the Governor of The Reserve Bank of India and told him that the piece of paper had become valuable only because of that written promise of the governor of the Reserve Bank of India. I told him that a promise had to have some real value, like that piece of paper which arrogated the value of hundred rupees owing to the promise."
My friend stubbed out his cigarette and looked at me. His eyes were slightly teary.
I admired his sincerity, but more than that I loved the example he gave his student. I have little reason to doubt that this chap will inspire his students before long.
We met yesterday in a restaurant. I asked him how it was to teach in a school. He paused for a while. Then he lit a cigarette and said, "Oh!". I could not fathom this mysterious 'Oh!' I looked at his 'o' shaped smoking mouth, hoping to get some elucidation from him.
The level of English was abominable he began telling me. "I wonder who those idiots are who mistook their sloth for compassionate sympathy to promote my students to class IX! They do not know to define sentence! Their verbs and tenses are appallingly wrong. They do not yet know how a simple letter is written!" He puffed deep at his cigarette and blew smoke all around his face. I could see his frustration in it.
" Relax!", I advised, " You have just about begun yaar. Give them some time to get used to your ways."
"Hmmm"...!
"What?" I asked him seeing that he was not convinced.
" Damn it Charu! You should see them in class. When I explain the lesson so damn clearly and I ask them whether they have understood what I had explained a very satisfying and collective "Yesssir!" rings in the class. But then I check their work in their notes and I see DIZZASTER!!" He uttered the word almost with a double 'Z'.
"There is this one dude, Shiva is his name. Nice looking fellow, neat and all, but he does not understand a thing. I asked him to read the other day. He could barely read a sentence without stumbling. I asked the class to write answers to some questions which they did. I corrected them in their roughs and asked them to copy them in the fair books without mistakes. This guy Shiva copied exactly as he had written them in his rough, mistakes and all! And he is not the only pillock! It is a class full of dumb idiots! I am disheartened. I am considering quitting."
"Already? Not yet three weeks since the school reopened?"
" Oh yes! Three years will have gone by even without any progress with those morons. A couple of girls show promise though, and I am speaking comparatively here."
I told him to take it as a challenge. I quoted Swamy Vivekananda who had said that a good teacher instructs but a great teacher inspires, etc. which only prodded my friend to complain some more.
" There is another dolt whose name is Punnyakoti. Punnyakoti indeed! I read the pathetic essay he had written about his school and his English teacher. I felt so hopeless when I read it that I called him to the staff room and made him write this: - 'I shall apply myself in the class so that I understand my lesson. Whenever I do not understand I shall request my teacher to explain again so that I understand. I promise to keep my promise. '
A day or two after that he again showed no interest in trying to understand. I made him stand up and reminded him of his promise. He simply kept looking at me with that silly grin of his.
I asked him whether he knew what a promise was. He shook his head! Charu, HE ADMITTED THAT HE DID NOT KNOW WHAT A PROMISE WAS!! I pulled out a hundred rupee note from my wallet and asked him to read the promissory note on it. He read it, stumblingly of course, but he did. I asked him what he held in his hand. He said that it was one hundred rupees. I said that I did not believe it was one hundred rupees. "It is a piece of paper", I told him. He refused to believe me so I asked him why he believed it to be not a piece of paper but hundred rupees. He did not know why.
I asked him to read the promise on the currency note again. He read," I promise to pay the bearer the sum of Hundred Rupees". I asked him to look at the signature of the Governor of The Reserve Bank of India and told him that the piece of paper had become valuable only because of that written promise of the governor of the Reserve Bank of India. I told him that a promise had to have some real value, like that piece of paper which arrogated the value of hundred rupees owing to the promise."
My friend stubbed out his cigarette and looked at me. His eyes were slightly teary.
I admired his sincerity, but more than that I loved the example he gave his student. I have little reason to doubt that this chap will inspire his students before long.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)