Time beats everything but Memories!

She taught us English. Joined us when we were in 9th grade. The opportunity to be her students, for us, was only for two years.

Strict, disciplined, impeccable in the language she taught, precise, practical, logical. 
Her persona had a command over others.

Our class was one bunch of troublemakers the school had never experienced before, and she was assigned to be our class teacher.

We knew we were getting a new class-teacher, but, what we did not know was that she would tame the shrew.

The moment she entered the classroom she made it clear she meant business. I liked her. I liked her for the respect she demanded, from us, for the school and for herself, with a few lines that she spoke. The entire class of the unpopular students had already begun to cave in.

No one had ever been able to do that.

The chapters became more interesting, more knowledgeable. Everyday I looked forward to learn from her. English was my favourite, and the love for it had notched up with her teaching.

I even liked getting yelled at by her. Yes, I did.
It felt like she genuinely cared for the students ...she wanted us to become good humans. The scoldings were not just to follow the discipline of the school.

Our school had all sorts of activities going on round the year and her involvement was not restricted to studies.
She made sure the talents of every student was polished and put forth. She was active in the cultural activities and sports. Singing, dancing, plays, debates, essay writing to name a few. She was multi talented.

I was one of the fortunate ones to have been trained under her guidance in some of these activities.

Our school made it to the finals of a dance competition. Every school showcased their dance representing a theme in the inaugural ceremony of the interschool sports competition. Our theme was Goa. She had choreographed and conceptualized along with another teacher. I was part of it and was so proud. Then there was choir singing for the Christmas day celebration. Various activities during annual day.

Two years were over in jiffy. We left school to get into 11th and 12th grade. How I wish our school wasn't limited to 10th grade...we would have the privilege to learn more from her.

Years went by...I got busy experiencing life and growing up. She, however, never left my thoughts. I would proudly tell her stories to friends and family whenever I had the chance to.

Then social media happened. Orkut... Facebook.
A few years ago, I found her on the latter platform along with our math teacher. I send her friend request. It was never accepted. 
I found out she wasn't much active there so, I thought, perhaps she never saw it. 
I even wondered if she at all remembered me. She knew me very well, so, her not being able to place me was unlikely...but, then again... it was years ago. I still wonder.

I, however, did not resend her the request. I thought, I'll instead meet her someday...surprise her and if she had indeed forgotten me, I would help her recollect and tell her everything that I wrote above here.

Tell her what she means to me...tell her how wonderful teacher she is...show her my blog, my other writings, my stories, haikus...make her proud and learn more when she would point out the mistakes...all this...I would do, SOMEDAY.

Here I was waiting for that 'someday', and the TIME bested me.

On 18th of this month, I received a WhatsApp message. The obituary clip mourned the loss of my favorite teacher.

Now, I'll never get to tell her all this. I was stupid to wait for that someday. I took time for granted. I missed all the opportunities that came by or the ones that I could have created myself.

I type this with a heavy heart and crying eyes...
Susan ma'am, wherever you are I hope my feelings reach you. You are being missed by so many lives you have touched. We love you.
I love you!

For you, the reader:
If you want to tell someone what they mean to you, seize this very moment to do so. You might never get the opportunity again. 
There's never a right time or a wrong time.
Time is just...TIME. Bold and in caps... Authoritative...Untamed.

The Hand-Writing Mirror!

  

One of the childhood memories that flashes before like the crystal clear water of Gangotri, is that of my father yelling, snorting, cribbing about me not having good handwriting. He from his boyhood days was a proud owner of a handsome handwriting and I had a terrible one. Well "terrible" by his standards, "okay-ish" by my teachers' and "readable" by mine.

Every time dad went near my notebooks, it meant a lecture was on it's way. I don't remember his words, so much so for as clear as Gangotri, but he definitely meant; handwriting is the mirror of human's soul. I cared the least. What would an eight year old care for a soul's mirror as long as it's readable?

Universe had it's other plans and my school announced handwriting competition along with spelling contest. I took up the challenge. I was competing against myself. And don't we give our best with the best opponents?
I practiced, imitated dad's handwriting, copied the way the boy who sat next to me scribbled.
Result, I won the spelling competition ...lost handwriting one to a girl from my class whose features were similar to Juhi Chawla, something that gave her the right to behave like the actress, and gave every girl the licence to hate her.

Anyhow, I was beaten by myself...I shrugged, what would a nine year old care about a mirror of a soul?
At home, dad's eyes were moist. Alright, I'm exaggerating, they weren't moist, but certainly were happy. Due to all that practice, I had acquired a good handwriting which now flowed everywhere out of habit. Yes my handwriting had improved and how. It was almost like my dad's.

From then, it was no looking back. I never again participated in handwriting competition as they were no longer held...but appreciation for my handwriting galore. Boy I was one happy soul. Surely it's mirror of our souls, eh!

Years later, with computer and now with smart phones at my side, the mirror of my soul types. My fingers refuse to conjure the beauty once it was famous for. It's been a week now, and I have been struggling to get those handsome curves in my words that ruled the handwriting world.
This morning I felt a tinge of the royal beauty...I'm certain I saw the glimpse of the old bugger. Ergo, with gallons of hope to revive it and keep it alive and healthy for good, I'm signing off for now.

Wrath Upon English!

  

Image: Inmagine.com

"Did you cutted your hairs?"... An unforgetable question that will rest in my memory for eternity.

I am not a paid editor or a proof reader nor do I find nirvana in correcting people, but it just becomes too hard for me to not to cringe over the erroneous words uttered together or independently. And as long as my cringing is silently mumbling inside my head there is peace. The moment it's out, no matter how sugary my words are, people take offense. Ergo, I have been tagged one of the most bothersome grammar Nazis around.

Nobody likes to get corrected specially by a non-authoritative person and I value that, furthermore not everyone is open to learning and I get that too…yes its individual choice to remain in the deep dark primordial well. So, it's fine with me with the title and the indifference of the ignoramus minds, except that flaws in the language peeve me and my oh-so-understanding nature refuses to show up. And I'm not talking about confusing cousins like "then" and "than" or "accept" and "except" nor I'm speaking of the catastrophic use of apostrophes, where "Girls' Hostel" becomes "Girl's Hostel". I'm talking about the other sort...the sort that gives acidity to Mr. Shakespeare in his grave (Lord Bless His Soul).

Look, I don't expect anyone to be an expert in English, neither am I. But, I fail to understand, how people can make humongous blunders and furthermore refuse to learn and correct them.
The other day a co-commuter asked a woman before me 'where are you get downing?'. Initially, I ignored it as a slip of tongue until she repeated merrily the same ‘downing’ statement. This time it was for me.  Anyhow, I couldn't correct a stranger while all she needed to know was my destination, so, I replied, "I'm getting down at Bandra"... stressing on the word "getting". Alas! She repeated the "downing" question, again, to another girl.

I did my schooling from a fairly good school, it's one of the sister branches of a very prestigious school. And it had some very good teachers too, but it did give me a few cringing moments. Some of the teachers were accustomed to asking the loud chatty bunch of students to "talk slowly". What they meant was "talk softly". But sadly, they never got the difference between slowly and softly as they literally translated the Hindi word "dheere" here. This mistake is quite common among many teachers here. My itch to correct our educators knows no bounds. I hope they realize soon how amusing it gets for the students listening to their teachers making such howlers.

My friend Brendan aptly calls this perversion of the English language in India as a revenge on the British for ruling over us for two centuries. I couldn't have agreed more.

*****

P. S. If you find any howlers in this post, kindly state it on the comment section. I detest living in the primordial well.

No Happy-Birthdays For Me...

I had to leave early this morning for office.  It was 6.15 when I started from home. The sun was still in the sleepy mode and the only source of light was the street lamps. I live in the suburbs of Mumbai which is close to nature and here the temperature decisively drops a degree or two more than it does for the city. And even then it is not cold enough to clad in woolens. I just had a wrap around my kurti; both garments thick enough to offer me warmth.  

Yet the chill in the air made it little difficult for me to fight my keenness to get back home. It was difficult to kill the urge of going back and tuck myself in my snug bed. The pink floral bedspread, the fluffy pillow, the comfy mattress were calling for me, I could hear their voices…oh so welcoming. But, work had a stronger voice and I was piloted towards it.

So, there I was waiting for an auto- rickshaw when I saw them. Dressed in red sweaters, ears covered with cute knitted woolen ear scarves, they stood across the street with their respective guardians. Their beige and red uniforms were peeking through the warm clothing giving away their school's identity. One of them looked from a different school though. The girl had her hair done in a different way and her pink frock and ballerinas told a different story. Then it clicked-Of course, she is the birthday girl.

 

Image: Inmagine.com

Birthdays were always special during school days. I think it's still is. One gets to wear fancy new clothes, no boring uniform, no boring hairdos. But, I never got to do that. Every year I longed to wear my birthday dress and flaunt it…every year I craved to stand on the alter and listen merrily to the entire school singing "Happy Birthday" during the morning school assembly… every year I desired to distribute candies and toffees to my classmates. All these never ever happened until we were in 10^th grade.

No my parents had nothing to do with this discrimination I faced nor it was an illegal practice, there was no superstitions attached to it either and neither our constitution denied me of this right. The reason was my birthday always fell during Diwali Vacations (I was born on Diwali). Okay, so my parents did have something to do with it, they had me on Diwali. Anyhow, vacations meant no school… except 10^th grade when we had our extra classes conducted. Still, it wasn't much fun given that extra classes never required any student to wear uniforms and by that time everyone thought it to be juvenile to sing "Happy Birthday" and eat candies. Those rituals were meant for kiddos. Yet, it was something to me.

A rickshaw halted in front of me with the driver giving me the 'for hire!' Look. I jumped in within seconds and looked at the birthday girl for the last time before my ride took me away.

The Forgotten Lesson!

One of my lecturers once told us how a project should be dealt. Him being an unconventional teacher we weren't expecting the standard classroom blah-blahs. We weren't disappointed. The next thing that came out of his mouth etched within me and it still remains in the same condition helping me all the time. The simple Golden words were: If you want a winning presentation don’t just love your project, sleep with it…, make love to it.  

This mantra has always helped me even while writing a small paragraph here at CoffeeBeans. However, being a perfectly flawed human- as I like to call myself, I made a huge mistake a few days ago by forgetting the etched message. I did not researching well and jumped on a conclusion and worse I went public with my ignorant yapping.

After a friend pointed it out, I explored the matter kicked myself mentally and had a good laugh with my friends. The blurred teaching of my lecturer now shined with glory and I promised myself never ever to repeat such a mistake.

***

P.S. The CoffeeBeans contest winners… because of some other commitments I couldn't read most of the entries and hence, I will be declaring it on Saturday, 17^th 2013. Sowwiiee :( 

Ducked!

Image: Inamgine.com

Statutory warning: This post contains food talk which may make Strict Vegetarians and Vegans sick. If you fall into that category then do not read further and if you may choose to do otherwise and feel sick or throw up on your keyboards while or after reading, I am not to be blamed. Thank you.

This January, my visit to Kolkata bestowed me with a great gift for my taste buds; the very delicious Duck Eggs. This was my first time with the yummilicious oval delights. I must confess I wasn't sure whether I would like it as I was told; it has a strong odor that puts off many people. My sister-in-law, a fabulous cook, prepared a feast and though there were favorite dishes placed on my platter, all my five senses had their full attention only for the bowl on my right hand-side, yes, the duck egg curry. 

I without any hesitation went for it first keeping aside the much loved chicken. The egg was little bigger than the usual hen eggs. The surface had a hazel crust from the frying process. I pressed it from the middle and a striking orange yolk welcomed me. The contrasting white made it look so inviting. It was a beautiful sight. No more thinking, I took a bite and yes, it did have a strong smell, except that it attracted me more, and the taste was divine. I was in love… and I knew that moment, that this relationship is one to cherish. 

I knew the most important task was to find these heavenly items in Mumbai, for I never had seen them all my life. I was on a mission, I asked everyone I could, and the answers were in negative. I went to the village areas of Vasai, hoping to find the eggs there for sure. I found a lady selling desi hen eggs; my hopes jumped fifteen floors higher. I asked her if she sells Duck Eggs, not knowing what was in for me next. I was gifted with a rather amusing reply; with saucer eyes she asked me, “Kya Badak bhi anda deti hai”? (Do ducks lay eggs too?).
It was my turn to have saucer eyes. I some how manage to say, yes in between giggles. And without wasting my time, I left for my home.

Did I find duck eggs? Yes, I did, but sadly, I am yet to find the divine taste which I found in my first one.

Tonight, its Kanda-Poha for dinner. *wink*