Personal
Firecrackers…
Today was Diwali (Ref. earlier post of the day for explanation). Every year, I fall sick on this day. No, it’s not some strange and unknown curse like that of the Pharaohs that gets me, but a simple allergy. Every year, I get allergic to the smoke caused by firecrackers and fall sick. Last year, it was a throat infection. The year before last I was, thankfully, in Paris. And in the preceding years, I was variously sick with cold, sneezing, throat infection and even fever. This year, I suspect it will be wheezing. I can hardly breathe. The air is full of smoke. I wish I could do something about it. Before any of you begin to accuse me of double standards, I have never burst crackers, even as a kid, nor do I intend to in the near future. I refused to burst them, not because I was making a statement against pollution, but because I was terrified of the noise it made.
Anyway, my rants apart, the point is, is this really necessary? The last I heard, Diwali was also known as Deepavali: the festival of lights. I don’t see too much light here in Chennai. Instead, I hear the kind of noise one would expect if he/she were stuck on Mount Road with everyone around them honking. One look at the price list of the local supermarket reveals rather a lot. One would have to spend nearly Rs. 2000 ($50) on firecrackers for a child. This, assuming the said kid likes to burst them and have a good time. And in India, Rs. 2000 is a lot of money. Is this really needed? Can’t we teach our kids to spend that money better? Even a trip to a restaurant or new clothes would be worth it. It appears a criminal waste to buy firecrackers for $50 only to burn them up (literally) the next day. Be honest, would you burn a $50 bill for fun? I wouldn’t.
Oh well, I am ranting again. My cousin tells me my questions attest the fact that I am old. She is 12. Maybe she is right. At the ripe old age of 25, I fail to appreciate the intricacies of cracker-bursting and look at it as a waste of money rather than necessary expenditure. Yes, she is right. I am growing old!
Remembering…
I just realised I will turn 25 next month. I also just realised that it has been 4 years since I left college. I hated everything while I was there; the library, the department, the rules, the restrictions…everything. Now, I wish I could go back. Go back to the carefree life I led while I was at college. My worries, my problems, my crushes: all of them seem trivial now. It’s amazing what four years can do to you. My biggest worry at 21 was whether I would be able to sneak out of college to go watch a rock show at Saarang. Now, I would give anything to be able to worry about that. I suppose it is only normal that people change. In college, I got into trouble every other day. But, come what may, I knew there was one person who would back me up and stand by me. Nandini. Today, I remember those times when I did not value her. I remember those times I did not bother to call and find out how she was doing. It’s been a year. A year since I learnt I would never hear her scream into the phone in excitement again. A year since I learnt that I could never again kick her for screaming into my ear. A year since I lost someone I truly loved and never told her that I loved.
I know people don’t come back from the dead. I know I am not being realistic in expecting her to call. I still pick up my phone and dial her number sometimes. Yet, I know I need to stop. I wish I could wind the clock back a couple of years. I wish I could have spent more time with her. I wish I could set all the wrongs right. I wish I could have at least told her how much she meant. Unfortunately, all that we wish does not come true… Why her? I suppose it’s just fate. I don’t know who else to blame. I don’t know how else to reconcile to her death. I hope she knew she was loved…
Teachers’ Day
Yesterday was Teachers’ Day in India. For those of my readers who don’t know, it is the birthday of India’s former President Dr. Sarvapalli Radhakrishnan. The man was better known as a fantastic teacher that as a President. I remember looking forward to Teacher’s Day every year when I was in school. To me, it meant a day off from studies. It meant students of Class 12 taking over the role of the teachers for one day in the year. It also meant a rare opportunity to socialise with my teachers the way we had never done during the rest of the year. We could see our teachers take a well-deserved break from teaching, participate in a game of Antakshari, dance to the sound of a popular Bollywood song and try their luck at quizzes. On the whole, it was a fun day, both for the students and for the teachers. I wonder if Chinmaya Vidyalaya retains that tradition today. The purpose behind such a celebration was not just to give the teachers a day off, but also to teach those poor students of Class 12 just how difficult a teacher’s job can be. These celebrations were a way of giving them the responsibility of running the school for a day even if the gesture was simply symbolic. It helped in cultivating a sense of involvement in school life.
That is why I was rather surprised to learn that Teachers’ Day was a holiday for the SBOA School near my house. Apparently, the school administration decided that the best way to give the teachers a break was to give them a holiday and force them to sweep and mop and cook special meals at home instead. Or maybe use the day to catch up on pending work at the bank or a government office. When I asked the kids why they had a holiday on Teachers’ Day, they seemed genuinely surprised to learn that the day was supposed to be Teachers’ Day. Then, with a look of dawning comprehension, one of them told me that it was a holiday for teachers to enjoy. That is the sad state in which many of our schools find themselves. To my neighbours’ kids, the teacher is simply someone who is paid to repeat what is printed in the text book. There is a clear absence of personal rapport and respect for the teacher. In fact, the situation is so bad that I heard an irate parent tell her daughter that she would only end up as school teacher if she continued to do badly in studies. It is a sign of our decadent times that the last profession a parent would want her child to take up is teaching. Is it so bad to be a teacher? I am a teacher myself, or rather, was a teacher until August 2005. Some of the best experiences I have had as a human being are as a teacher.
I remember very little of my kindergarten days. That is normal given that I was barely four then. But, it is impossible for me to forget the wonderful “Sulochana Miss”, without whom I would have refused to attend even my second day at school. She made my life school a joy. I looked forward to seeing her every morning. She made my innocent, four-year-old life worth living. I wonder where she is now. I wonder if she knows that I have come this far in life. And, I wonder how she will feel about it. Along the way, other teachers have made their impact. Mrs. Kanti Ramakrishnan at the age of 15, Mrs. Titty Phillips at 18, Mme Brigitte Maury at 21 and Mr. Eric Chevallier at 24: each of them has been a positive influence in what would have been an uneventful and mediocre life without them. Each of them has had a lasting influence on my career choices and made me what I am today. I have not had the opportunity to tell them this ever. I wish to say thanks to each of them through this post. Thank you for making me what I am today.
I am not an engineer…
I am not an engineer…and no, I am not a doctor either. Nor am I in the IT industry. In fact, I have nothing to do with computers, except when I blog, browse or check my mail. “Then what the hell do you do in life?”, I hear many of you asking. This question has been hurled at me a million times over the last seven years, when I chose to do a BA in History after managing to secure 84% on my Class 12 CBSE Board Exam. I can almost hear my readers exclaiming, “History? Why? Did you not get admission anywhere else?” Don’t worry. I won’t take offence. I am used to that question by now. This is why I could relate to this article on Rediff. I was checking out my friend, Nita’s blog, after a long time. And I found a link to this. I could relate to it so well that I could not resist posting on it.
To be truthful, even my parents had no idea I was going to do so well in life. I am pretty sure my mother let me do what I wanted to because she knew there was no point in forcing me to do engineering. I have never been a great fan of the hard sciences. Small wonder then, that just Class 12 was a nightmare I never want to relive again. In fact, my nemesis has always been mathematics. As the author of the article mentioned above recounts, many mothers have asked me what I intend to do with my life with my dislike for the subject. In fact, one of them even went to the extent of offering to coach me for free so that I could try and catch up with her daughter’s marks in the subject. It was depressing. At one point, I was convinced that my dislike for mathematics would only ruin my life. Only my parents’ reassurances and my own self-confidence stopped me from becoming a manic depressive. Today, when I read that article, it reminded me of Dad’s words after a particularly nasty meeting with my teachers. The meeting took place a few days after the school’s annual day celebration during which I had got a prize for attending school without a day’s absence. My school decided that such regularity in attendance was commendable. I got off the dais feeling extremely happy about the event, when my Math teacher stopped me and said, “Enjoy this occasion while you can. It is not as if you are ever going to get prizes for anything else in your life.” I came home and cried. Then followed the meeting where the said teacher told my mother that she should think of getting me married off at the age of 18 as I was not going to get admission into any college anyway. I came home shattered. I remember what Dad told me then. He said, “Every person has some talent that remains hidden. I would rather my daughter be an excellent lawyer than a mediocre engineer. Do what interests you most. And you will do well.” I have not forgotten that lesson to this day. I have always done what interests me most.
To some, it may sound like sheer madness to do a Bachelor’s degree in History, a Masters in French literature and a second one on International Affairs. But, I have not regretted any of those choices to this day. I love my work. I enjoy what I do. That is all that matters today. As the author of the Rediff article says, I am happy and can sleep peacefully at night. Money, fame and everything else will come with time. I will say just this to any parent who is reading this post. Let your children do what they like best. Don’t force your children into becoming mediocre doctors and engineers just because your neighbour’s son is doing so. Trust me, you won’t regret the decision.
Ever tried doing nothing?
I am back after a week-long sabbatical. That reminds me, ever tried doing absolutely nothing? I have. And trust me, it’s not at all easy. I have been jobless over the last week and I am absolutely looking forward to having something to do once again. It is so goddamned difficult to vegetate. I feel like I have lost a couple of IQ points over the last week. The only thing that kept me sane was the news. I know that sounds pathetic, but it’s absolutely true.
Anyway, my last post was on Pottermania, something that I had written during my 9-hour long flight to Bombay. However, I spoke very little about the flight in itself. I would like to register my disappointment in, and utter lack of professionalism on India’s celebrated national carrier, Air India. Agreed, my experience with international airlines is rather limited. But, even in comparison with the not-so-good Delta Airlines, and the slightly better Air France, I can say that travelling by Air India is the worst experience one can ever have. Where do I start? Right! The baggage check-in. Air India must be the only blasted airline in the whole wide world that actually weighs your hand baggage. After a ten minute-long argument with the in-charge at CDG on my baggage, I was forced to chuck some clothes to bring my baggage weight down from an alleged 26 kilograms to 23 kilograms. First of all, I had serious doubts about the accuracy of the scales. It is difficult to lift a suitcase that weighs 26 kilograms. I could lift mine quite easily. I am pretty sure it was only about 22. Then came her problem with the tiny silver Ganesha idol I was carrying in my suitcase. She refused to let me check it in on the grounds that it was considered a cultural artefact and that I would have to declare its value at the customs counter at Bombay Airport. After much argument, which involved me telling her I would handle Indian Customs if the need arose, she allowed me to check it in. By the time I was done with that woman, I was so pissed off with the Airline that only excellent service could salvage their reputation in my eyes.
Then came the flight itself. What can I say about it? It was a Boeing 767 bought by Air India sometime in the 1970s. And, it has never seen the inside of a mainenance shed since then. The window edges were blackened and rusted and the wallpaper (or whatever you call it) was peeling off from everywhere. To top it all, the aircraft smelled of ginger, garlic, onions and fish, mixed with sweat and cheap perfume worn by its illustrious passengers from Newark, its original airport of departure. As for the pillow and bedsheet provided, the less said, the better. It smelled like my grandmother’s old saree that had been abandoned at the bottom of the attic for several years. In short, the flight was the dirtiest and worst-kept I have ever seen.
Now, all this brings me to my overarching concern. What image does the illustrious national carrier present to the rest of the world? I do not know if India is shining, but after that flight, I can say with conviction that Air India definitely is not shining.