Queen of all Times - Vodka

Ever so often, garbed in a saree, the hair blow dried, the lips stretched a milimetre in each direction, sitting in the midst of bright lights and women, men sipping alcohol at a distance, the jazz band crooning some old ‘70’s number in a bid to infuse some life, I wonder if in the overall scheme of the universe, at this point of time, this is where I am meant to be. Try as I might, to convince myself that this is a very small role-play involved in the larger theatre of life, I fail miserably at snipping the tentacles of extreme impatience rising up from within my gut, urging me tor escape from the din and smoke of delusional enjoyment that we have created around ourselves.

It sounds almost disloyal to express oneself in a brutally honest form about an organization where the pros outweigh the cons. But it is also impossible to con oneself into believing that this is where we’re having the time of our life. A party would bring to mind the essential ingredients of music, dance, loud conversation, friends, good-humoured banter, alcohol-inspired happiness – generally some delightfully entertaining stuff pleasing the senses. In our context, it implies a diktat from the word go. Everything is laid down from time and dress to the overall conduct of the programme. In a way it makes it easier to know what is in store but then we end up playing to the gallery rather than playing for our own mirth.

Well there are some amusing moments for sure. For instance before the biggest dignitary arrives, an announcement is made. Announcement part I - “As we all know today’s party is in honour of so & so.” Incidentally the whole station has been abuzz about the arrival of ‘so & so’ since a week; and on this particular day, every man, woman and machine has been injected with kinetic energy with the sheer impact of events in his honour. So after having heard so & so’s name throughout the day, it is highly likely that we may forget that this event of the day is in his honour. Announcement part II – “All men are requested to be with their respective wives.” Now this is not to cast aspersion on the moral integrity of the men, it is just that at our parties we manage to separate  the ‘mardana’ and ‘zenana’ section of the population with an almost puritan zeal. Announcement Part III – “Each one of you is requested to meet so and so and make your acquaintance.” So and So stays just a couple of thousands miles away, is here for just two days, will see us for about a minute and a half, and may never be seeing us again unless fate has other plans. But get acquainted we must, how much of that acquaintance lasts is a frivolous question in the domain of ‘etiquette during the party’. Announcement Part IV – “For dinner all men of rank X and above will be seated in the same hall as the VIP, the rest will be seated in the lawns.” You would almost think ours is a racist organization, classifying the noblemen and plebeians, when announcement part IVa) sets the record straight, “Please do not embarrass us by leaving the chairs in the dining hall vacant.” Even the royals want to be commoners!

Announcement Part V – “Snacks will not be served, snack trolleys will be moving around, you can help yourselves.” This is the most viable piece of information so far, like I said earlier, nothing like knowing what’s in store, especially in the gastronomical department. Announcement Part VI – “I hope we have all understood the conduct of the programme and will adhere to the basics.” This almost has the ring of ‘tresspassers will be prosecuted’ written on boards defining private property. No one trespasses but it would be adventurous to indulge in, so long as prosecution does not read persecution.

 ‘So and so’ is soon deluged with over 200 men and an equal number of women one after the other. These 400-something people seem like clones of each other, dressed in dark suits and sarees mouthing the same words – ‘Good evening’, ‘how’s your stay been so far’, ‘two days is too short a time to visit’, ‘how’s the weather back home’, before ‘so and so’ moves on to the next one to hear the same set of lines all over again. Even the intonation and punctuation doesn’t vary, I bet. So and so, is also an evolved specimen of our very own species, so we also know what he’s going to ask and what we are supposed to say. So when he says, “Hello, how are you”, I say, “I am well, thank you”. Then come the standard questions of ‘how many kids do you have, the weather’s good here, are you having a good time, must be exciting.” It is now that that the conflict begins – to be or not to be. I know the answers have to be bordering on positive if not altogether positive. So the first two questions, well yes thankfully I can say I have two kids and the weather’s great in this part of the country but excitement and good time seem to be like asking about the sunny days in Mawsynram. The husband is a tactical specialist, he is trained to foresee and avoid disasters. So before I can utter that yeah, we’re having a great time, it is just that the women happen to spend about half an hour with their husbands on a good day, the husband intervenes with his take on our lives, on how we’re all living like a big happy family and manage to work hard and play hard. Every bit, politically correct, he lives up to his training.

When So and So moves to the next couple, the husband and I gravitate to our respective gender groups. Sarees and jewellery, form the skeleton of us women’s conversation. This is not as banal as you’d think it to be. This is that one source from where fashion, geography, economics, cultural lineages of fabric and politics bursts forth. In a casual conversation, you learn to distinguish tussar from jute, pashmina from crepe, benarsi from bandhej, bonkai from balucheri, kanjeevaram from ikkat, and designer from wannabes. Then comes the geography bit, where the loom is manufactured and exactly in which state, city/village, gali, mohalla, ward number, one can access the best at the most economic cost. We make some intelligent conversation too, how the looms of the weavers of Benares are lying barren because no one wants to take up the profession. We’ve read the page on city-sales and can rattle out verbatim the stores where sales are on. From macro level we go micro, talk about embroidery and whether Kashmir’s needlework is as good as Bareili’s khaddi work, and if chiffon is sturdy enough to withstand the needlepricks as crepe is. Then we talk about how the husband is never an accompanying sufferer in the shopping expeditions of women, how they never have the time, how we as a sorority of sisters must bandy together to achieve our objective – buying all sarees, embroidery and ethnic stuff that the city has to offer in the two years that we spend here. I look from one fountain of knowledge to another, clearly awed by their zeal.

I go across to the husband across the lawns, seeking refuge. The men are discussing Spectrum Raja and ISRO-Devas deal. I know there’s a scam but can’t understand any bit of what it entails. A glass of Vodka and sprite down my gullet helps, and suddenly I have started my own conversation on schooling and the challenges of child-rearing with an articulation I’ve never experienced before. Another glass down and I can even contribute my own two-penny bit on corruption and morals to the husband’s group. The ‘70’s crooner seems to be striking the right notes. I am rapidly engrossed sharing details of ‘Shantaram’ with someone when ‘so and so’ saunters in our direction, and asks me, “Having a good time”. I give a nonchalant shrug, and he’s kind enough to tell me, ‘The best way to have a good time in the Army ………”. Before he can educate me, I give a new dimension to valiance, I finish his sentence for him, “…….is to have two vodkas at the party.”

“Well that too,” he smiles benevolently, and the shocked looks on the faces of the gentlemen quickly change to sheepish nods. They better not disagree with whatever gyan spouts forth from  ‘so & so’.

‘So & so’ moves on to broaden his spectrum of acquaintance. But I am doing a double take on what I just stated in the earlier part of this note. I am sure that ‘so & so’ staying ‘thousands miles away’, meeting us for a ‘minute and a half’ will surely be carrying an everlasting piece of some acquaintance inspired by the Queen of all Times – Vodka.

Ode to 4 BIHAR on its 50 years

There was one moment in time

That one moment that I was born

To live and breathe and fly and soar

During noon and night and dusk and dawn.

In my fledgling wings of 1960

I gave people a sense of belonging

They gave me the name 4 BIHAR

And for fifty proud years I’ve been a standing.

I have felt the agony of loss

And the jubilation of victory

I’ve tasted the salt of the tears

And indulged in the frenzy of revelry.

Discipline and training, demos and exercise

Hockey and football, every minute made me wise.

I am tuned to be battle-ready, for peace or for war

To run in with a battle cry, or host a party for two hundred and twenty four.

The snow capped peaks and the desert dunes

The band of pipers and the military tunes

From the Chinese aggression to the Sri Lankan op Pawan

I’ve seen the grief and glory associated with each one.

North Biharis and Adivasis

Form the warp and weft of my fabric

In their courage & commitment,

They’re nothing short of heroic.

Tradition and valour are my middle name

Esprit-de-corps is the strength of our game.

The digest of service dotted with fading ink

It’s the saga of a culture where the brave don’t blink.

People come and go

To places known and unknown

But I remain the only one

They would always call their own.

Like the flow of a river, there’s no stopping me

Like the majestic mountains, I stand as tall as can be.

Like the wind, I blow across the sands of time

Like the sky, I embrace each one as mine.

I am courage, I am enthusiasm, I am discipline, I am killer instinct

I am warmth, I am wisdom, I am passion, I am my fellow brother’s kin. 

I am 4 BIHAR, I am a paltan with 50 years of inventory

I am culture, I am tradition, I am the future inspired by my history.

Morning Raga

The Morning Raga

It is the same story every morning

The same song I sing

“Up and out, in and spit”

Whisper and shout, love and rift.

I threaten the son

Cajole the daughter

The boy obliges

The girl can slaughter.

I raise my voice

There’s a wailing noise

From “Don’t you dare” to “won’t you please”

These so-called angels bring me to my knees.

I’ve supplied all toothpastes

The red and pink and white and blue

They sampled and experimented

And each one they eschewed.

The milk temperature is never right

The taste always terrible

Bournvita, Horlicks, Boost and Amway

I’ve got it all on the table.

One wants it warm

The other likes it cold

There’s no one package

In which it can be sold.

Between the microwave and the ice

The egg half-boiled and fried

I roar, “Sip and gulp, chew and swallow”

I am all-agitated, down to my bone marrow.

But I have to smile and nod

And learn to spare the rod

The clock is ticking away

And I have to keep the mutiny at bay.

Milk and egg, is only half the marathon won

And another half, yet to be run

There’s the bath and the school dress

And until then, I live under duress.

The bath is not a shower

Between mother and son, it’s a game of power

He says, “This cut on the knee, and nick on the shin,

A drop of water there, and up will go my chin”.

I sigh and tell him, “The soap’s a car

And your limbs the highway

As it negotiates the distance

It’s only I, who will have a say”.

I scrub him with soap and let him mope

“It’s almost eight, you’re going to be late”

That’s my standard battle cry

Win or lose, I have to try.

Somehow the soap is washed

The little body towel wrapped

Now’s the turn for my second one

The same bath story in a different format.

The soap becomes Barbie’s chariot

The horses galloping fast

As this pixie of mine rebels

Once more the die is cast.

There’s not a trick in the book

That works with this adorable imp

Explode or implore

All efforts simply leave me limp.

So I play to her tune

For so long as I can

Father, mother, didi, bhaiya

She’s the ring master for the whole clan.

If it’s my good day

She will accept my act

And if the entertaining not good enough

There’s no absolution, use force or tact.

Some formula I desperately fit in

And this one joins the brother in the towel

With the TV now on

There’s no mindspace for either to grovel.

On come the shirt and tie, tunic and shorts

The TV’s on, no room for rebellious thoughts

Pogo and cartoon send them into a trance

Suddenly there’s a magical change in their stance.

Whoever called the TV an idiot box,

It makes it easier to get on the shoes and socks

But it’s not all cakewalk

The TV’s off and they begin to balk.

Gently I push them

Towards the exit door

While answering at least 10 questions

Or perhaps even more.

In their pickup they’re about to leave

A sigh of relief I am about to heave

When out comes my son and runs into his room

With what speed – zip, zap, zoom.

He is a man on a mission

His face is fraught with tension

It’s like looking for a life jacket on a capsizing boat

As he excavates amidst books, toys, sweaters and coats.

I fret and fume and raise all hell

When out he comes carrying his Ben Ten satchel

He wears a guilty look, he tries to hide a smile

How could I remain angry with someone so without guile.

His satchel has goodies,

He gives his sister some

And once in the vehicle,

He has earned a hero’s welcome.

They pop their head out of the window

And throw their arms around me

It seems like a 6-day and not 6-hour parting

But I’ll love this feeling for so long as a mother I’ll  be.

So we hug and exchange our muaah-muaahs

Soak in every bit of the emotional opera

We could make a perfect picture

For an ad film’s camera.

Love, anger, powerplay and subterfuge

We play this morning raga each day

A perfect combination of devilry and angelhood

I wouldn’t have my children any other way.

In the high and lows of our morning raga

The heart’s lute strikes many a note

God’s blessings to me in real live form

These sun’s rays, on my children, I’ll forever dote.

Touching Teaching

Children are the torchbearers of a gleaming tomorrow. They are the ones who symbolize the progress and advance that humankind will make from one generation to next. It is an established fact that three to six years in a child’s age span, comprise a very crucial stage, a stage wherein the child, adult and parent ego states are built and refurbished. Every station has a Shaurya Army Pre-School dedicated to the educational needs of army children in this specific age bracket. Being part of one such school as Principal, I see each child who comes to us, as a lump of wet clay. We model this clay, giving it shape and form by way of letters, numbers and thoughts, modeling not just a mute statue, but an entire character.

Though people are obsessive about grades and their offspring’s performance, they often view a nursery teacher’s job with a certain amount of controlled disdain. Also, being a nursery school teacher is not the first career choice for many. Often it is considered a convenient occupation that is compatible with the 24X7 responsibility that housework for a woman entails. It is only after one has jumped into the fray that one realizes the magnitude of the task.

A nursery school is perceived as an institute which is more of an offshoot of a business idea than an ideology implementation and its teacher often viewed as someone who can easily be replaced by the girl-next door who has just finished her high school. But if you get to spend a day in the classroom at SAPS, you’ll realize that it’ll make the most competent managers and psychologists feel inept as they deal with these adrenalin-filled missiles running about all over the place.

Imagine a room full of thirty voices clamouring for attention – “May I go to drink water”, “My mother’s got a baby from the hospital”, “My sister’s ill”, “I’ve left my English notebook at home”, “Are we going to do Maths first”, “This boy has hit me”, “I don’t have a pencil today”, “I have done all my homework”, “My dada-dadi have come from the village”, “Why didn’t you come to school yesterday”, “Someone has wet his pants”………the information onslaught for the teacher is like a dam whose walls have broken in a split second.

Drowned in this chaotic cacophony, she tries to stay afloat, takes her own decibel level up, asks, “Whose sister is unwell”; gives the Hindi equivalent of ‘sister’; asks, “How do we fall ill”; tells all about the germs attacking our body, explains ‘attack’ as something that a boy in the class has just done and finally gives her moral science bit on how hitting anyone is just not acceptable in her classroom. Being entrusted with this boiling cauldron, the teacher, threatening some, cajoling some and pacifying some, has to prepare her own cuisine of some exquisite and some mundane educational delights and present it in the most attractive way to appeal to the taste buds of these difficult customers’ minds. 

You can imagine what a balancing act it is for the teacher to give the kids the perfect concoction of discipline and affection, work within a schedule and grant them freedom of choice, work towards common goals and retain each child’s unique ability, hold their hand and yet make them feel independent, understand their mercurial moods and work upon it, say the same things at least 20 times and then answer the same thing again when a kid asks her for the 21^st time, make the class super exciting considering the children’s limited attention span, make them focus on the real while giving them wings of imagination, deal with 25 voices in the same second and satisfy all – teaching these packets of energy can be a physically draining experience. In spite of this staggering effort, there still remain some rebels or simply some highly evolved dreamers, who choose not to listen or understand and then the teacher has to be prudent enough to just let go. She has to make a go at them the next day. ‘Never Say Die’ is her middle name.

Such intense exhaustion, due to such committed application of effort, comes with its own set of emotional awards which are unmatched. A child is in love with his teacher, goes all out to impress her, stays melancholic the whole day if she is absent, does everything possible in his power to make the teacher happy. A smile or a word of encouragement from her can brighten his day. This is what more than makes up for the rigours of the teacher’s experience as she keeps pace with these atoms, who are in a constant state of motion, if not bodily, then definitely in their minds.

The teacher believes in earnest that each child has the innate ability to experiment, discover and learn. Her typical day at the job is spent providing opportunity, environment and training to each child to discover his/her natural aptitude; and exposing him/her to a world of new learning each moment. Her reward comes by way of seeing these young minds absorb and apply the learning and blossom to their full potential.

So much for idealism. Some parents feel that all this is mere rhetoric. There are a whole lot of parents who feel that whatever is being done in the classroom is not enough. They do not realize that in a 30-minute time span, the teacher, before she puts her chalk to the blackboard, discusses the topic at length, elicits response from all corners of the classroom, responds to them and corrects them wherever needed. This takes about 10 minutes. Then she writes one letter or one word or one sentence on the board. She moves about looking at each child’s notebook to see if they are noting down correctly. About 10 children have understood and are writing correctly. The rest, the teacher has to physically help out in all ways possible, explaining, writing, reading, neatness, formation of letters, even in getting the child’s concentration on track. With the best of her efforts a teacher can not give more than 2 minutes to each child. She does what is best possible in a class of 25 to 30 students, in the given time of half an hour. To cut a long story short, the school and the teacher are there to give direction, to make children understand a concept and how it works; but for practice, if there is not an equivalent support coming from the parents, that whole effort goes futile.

Right from tasting things for discriminating among various tastes such as sweet, sour, bitter etc, to hearing sounds made from various objects and identifying them, touching a cotton ball and a stone to identify hard and soft, mixing salt and sand in two different water containers to check out soluble and insolubles, the teacher turns each child turns into a little scientist. Memory games, sequential thinking strategies, activities to promote hand-eye co-ordination, sensory development by touching objects of different textures, experiments with plants and water in the classroom, the teacher is single-minded in her attempt to make her classroom an experiential learning process.

Teaching and learning are mutually symbiotic. The teacher too learns something new from her students each day. Her aim is to constantly adapt and re-invent herself in consonance with the changing needs of the children and the education pattern. Keeping in mind that there is no better way than experimentation, evaluation and drawing one’s own conclusion, she works on a KWL formula; K – stands for what the child already knows, W – for what the child has to learn and L –for what the child has finally learnt. The ambit of teacher’s delivery extends far beyond reading, writing and arithmetic to what real, pragmatic education and its application is all about.

A nursery school teacher may not be a rocket scientist or a neuro-surgeon but she sure is one who is laying the foundation for several such professionals in the making. Education begins on ‘Day One’ when a screaming infant enters this world and ends in that ‘Eternal Silence’ which will one day come to all of us. But in the time gap between ‘Day One’ and the ‘Eternal Silence’, the little time that a teacher spends with a child in a nursery school, her aim is not so much as schooling the children, as it is to help them develop their own school of thought. A school of thought which is in harmony with the larger rules of the world, and in harmony with the even larger laws of nature.