The Memory Box

Image courtesy: Google

Tucked away within the powdery dust

of layered thoughts recent and crusted,

lies a memory box with secrets locked

by a promise ancient yet trusted.

A whiff of its dark air deeply perfumed

by a cherished childhood complete,

takes me back to days bygone

through objects that seem obsolete.

Its hesitant creak upon my touch

sends forth ripples of innocent laughter

from carefree days lived to the brim

with no worry of what came after.

I caress its contents treasured-

feathers dyed, leaves dried,

letters inked, stones that winked,

coiled cones bequeathed by the tide.

Cradled deep within my memory box

is a handful of special red seeds

and brown ones with silken white tufts

wedged between luck-bringing weeds.

The broken red of bangles, bright

as the untouched bits of a heart forsaken

Faded petals, dry and brittle

once crimson with the love I’d taken.

Inside my little memory box

that mirrors a life of perfection

I seek refuge on rainy days

to see a sunny smile on my reflection.

Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

The Calling

Image courtesy: Google

I wish to be a farmer

wielding a rake and a hoe

or even teach grammar

and other things I know.

A writer, I’d be happy to be

in a wonderful world of words,

as a traveller, the world I’d see

jungles, canyons and flocking birds.

A singer, an athlete, a scientist

I know I have it in me,

a magician, an actor even an artist-

the options are endless you see.

But I’ll be told when I grow

it is all about the money,

to reap I’ll have to wisely sow;

grown-ups sometimes act funny!

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

Queen of my Heart

Image courtesy: Google

The balm to my soul, my mother

like your soothing presence, there’s no other,

your loving smile and precious tears

string together memories for a thousand years.

So special is the love we share

that with ease our hearts we bare

to each other, lifting heaviness

wiping weariness, ushering happiness.

A child again cradled in your arms

absorbed, enchanted by your charms,

I want to sleep undisturbed once more

loved, caressed, wanted like never before.

The world may change within a blink

snapping apart many a strong link;

do remember, queen of my heart

even death cannot make us part.

P.S: I fall short of words to express my love for my mother, the woman who taught me to be soft yet strong, simple yet beautiful in my own way. The miles that separate us physically is a painful exaggeration of the distance between our hearts. She is the definition of pure, unselfish love.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

Red Apples

Image courtesy: Google

"Apples are red" the teacher said.

Green, yellow too said my head.

"Green apples, tangy and sweet,

bright red ones just like meat,

white inside that time turned brown."

I was wrong said the teacher's frown.

Then she drew an apple with a leaf

And I painted it red with some grief.

"Very good, so bright and neat"

she smiled as she came near my seat.

My friends too did the same

to escape her frown and blame.

Soon I was lost in the red tide around

with just dreams of a place where colours abound.

Image courtesy: Google

Food for thought

• 

  Image courtesy: Akshaya Patra Foundation

  
  
   One crisp Bangalore morning as I walked to school enthralled by the warm sunshine and the cool breeze, I was startled by a voice that called out “Vidya Akka!” from somewhere behind me. I turned to see one of my students, a 13 year old boy running towards me. Gasping for breath, he said he wanted to walk with me to school. Both of us were glad to have company during the 20 minute walk and so we talked. He asked me about my daily routine, family and so on. I answered him and asked him the same. He said he played after going home, bathed, did his homework, studied if he felt like and then slept.                                                                                                     
  

   I felt that he had missed out something. “What about dinner?” I asked candidly. It was only when he stared at me without an answer for two whole seconds did I realise my stupidity. I felt really bad but I couldn’t take back my words, instead chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to change the topic. It was too late. He said “I don’t have dinner Akka. The food we get from school is all that I eat.” I was speechless. Thankfully we had reached school by then. He waved and ran to play with his friends.                                                                                                                                     

  I felt so silly. I had taken for granted everything that life had given me- food, clothing, shelter, loving family and friends, education, career, health and so many other things. My thoughts were interrupted by the school bell to remind us of breakfast time. As the students lined up for a helping of chitranna (lemon rice) I felt so glad that the school provided breakfast, lunch and ragi malt in the evening. It made sure the kids were not hungry in the classroom and could be attentive in class without growling stomachs to distract them.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

   Akshayapatra Foundation of ISKCON provides food to all the students of the school as part of its mid-day meal programme. Along with other factors, the mid-day meal initiative plays a crucial role in bringing many students to school, who would otherwise have landed up as child workers or would never have come to school. Thanks to various other benevolent people, breakfast and nutritious ragi malt are also given to all children from kindergarten to 10^th standard. They are given boiled eggs twice a week. Many children like my 13 year old student don’t eat anything after going home. If government schools and NGOs provide basic nutrition to students, it will definitely attract them back to class, prevent drop outs to an extent and ensures that the child is energetic enough to absorb the knowledge he/she is being fed with. It also ensures that more girls are sent to school and not kept at home for domestic work.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

  I hope I can fuel a child’s hunger for knowledge as a teacher and satiate his/her hunger for food as a blogger. I am going to #BlogToFeedAChild with Akshaya Patra and BlogAdda.
• (This is an initiative by BlogAdda which will sponsor meals for an Akshaya Patra beneficiary for an entire year for each blog that is written about this)
• P.S- Don't wait to think. Be the change!
•                                                     
• 
  

Attention please!!!

Image courtesy: Google

Yesterday was Children’s Day. The numerous posts on social media reminding everyone about the importance of the day made me close my eyes and dream a little. My students in their blue and green uniform. Laughing, chatting, playing....... Then a petite girl in a pinafore with checks of black, white and red, a crisp white blouse and a red tie. She walked along the school corridors, the fingertips of her outstretched hands caressing the walls, leaving an invisible mark of her presence. She stopped and turned towards me. It was myself! Minus two decades. It was a refreshing vision, in the cozy comfort of my closed eyelids. I couldn't help letting out a childish giggle recollecting fond memories of childhood…much before the turbulent teens that would accelerate my metamorphosis into an adult.

When I was in second grade, once for some strange reason I fail to recollect, my friend Vinaya and I decided that we wanted to die. So we kept chewing our pencils, swallowing the lead that painted our teeth a powdery black. Our teacher Mini Miss spotted us sharpening our pencils with great focus, chewing endlessly at their sharpened ends, while the rest of the class paid attention to the lesson. She immediately demanded that we leave the room and wash our mouths if we wished to sit in her class. As we walked to the restroom, we asked each other why we hadn't died. Strange!

The entire class watched us (in awe, I liked to think) as we quietly occupied our seats. We felt like war heroes. So what if we had been caught and scolded. We had “dared” to try and kill ourselves with pencil lead. Now when I think of it, I guess I hadn't really wanted to die. May be just fall a little sick to gain some attention from friends, parents or teachers. An extra helping of love and care, some favouritism I thought I deserved!! May be that’s why when I oooh! and aaaahh! over small cuts, burns and bruises even now, my husband calls me a drama queen. A little bit of drama to feel like the queen of his heart. Yes, the child in me is alive and kicking!

Image courtesy: Google

Let’s talk: Alone amidst the crowd

Image courtesy: Google

He was the tiniest in my class. Cheeky, lively and bubbling with excitement all the time. Except when there was writing or reading to be done. He was an amazing actor, sometimes volunteering to act out parts of stories that I read out in class. I would often catch him strumming an imaginary guitar when the entire class was busy multiplying gigantic numbers or doing the “Chammak challo” act as I cleaned the black board. He could hardly read and write but loved listening to stories. Once, while the rest of the class was playing, I caught him sitting alone in class. I decided to give him company and invited him to a game of dumb charades. He was not in the mood.

Boy: Akka, I want to tell you a story.

Me:  Really? Which one?

Boy: No, not from any book. I made the story in my mind.

Me: Wow! That’s nice. Would you care to write it out in your book?

Boy: No Akka. I hate writing. I don’t know any spellings.

Me: Ok. Tell me.

Boy: There was once a boy who studied in a good school. He never listened in class, never did homework and was very, very naughty.

Me: Hmm..

Boy: He loved to sing, dance and act. But he hated English and Maths. His teachers always scolded him. He had no friends. Nobody liked him. His parents and sisters always punished him.

Me: Oh! That’s sad.

Boy: Yes. The boy felt very sad. He was alone all the time. One day he did not go to school. Then all his classmates missed him. But he was not at home too. His parents were worried. They searched for him everywhere. All over the earth. But they did not find him.

Me: Where did he go?

Boy: He made a rocket and flew away to another planet where nobody could find him. He was happy to be alone in that planet. Everyone on earth cried because they missed him. But the boy never came back.

Me (shocked): That is a sad story. The boy seems to be nice and maybe he WAS loved.

Boy: You know who that boy is, Akka?

I had guessed by then and enveloped by sadness, but wanted him to speak.

Me: You say.

Boy (laughing): Me!!! So easy it was. You didn’t know?!

I was shattered. The words “You didn’t know” kept echoing in my head. I had nothing to say. As a teacher, as a part of the education system, I had failed. The system has no room or time for emotions and sentiments of students. No room for diversity.  Whoever heard of testing students in acting and storytelling skills when there was so much to learn in Maths, Chemistry, History and Literature? So what if a student was lonely, stressed or depressed? In the mad rush by students, parents and teachers to complete the syllabus, prepare for exams, flaunt good grades, meet deadlines and targets, there seems to be no space for such beautiful wild flowers to blossom. They perish, their beauty unnoticed among the endless fields of similar looking flowers. 

Black and White

Anita loved reading stories to her seven year old son. She looked forward to those moments of togetherness, when both of them would cuddle inside a blanket after dinner and step into the truly bewitching world of stories. Fairy tales, stories with moral, fables, folk lore and stories from her own childhood would come alive in their cosy little den every night without fail. Nikhil loved stories that taught him some value. He would imagine himself as the protagonist of such stories and feel like a hero, with so many good deeds to his credit. “I will grow up to be an honest, caring and wise man” he told his mother, who would then feel proud of her kid. “My son will grow up with a lot of good values”, she thought to herself with great happiness.

One evening, as usual mother and child prepared themselves for story time. With great curiosity and interest, little Nikhil listened to a story that taught him the important value of compassion. The story became etched in his mind and he decided to be kind and try his best to help people in need. Apart from wanting to make his parents proud, he also wanted to feel good about helping someone in trouble. Anita told him many more stories that fascinated him, but this one was always in the forefront of his memories. It was his favourite story. He badly wanted to experience the joy of caring and sharing. He just did not know where to get started.

On his way back from school one day, he happened to get the coveted window seat. He was only interested in the window and not the seat. He gazed with childish amusement at all the wayside sights- people returning from work, other school children, shopkeepers and hawkers, beggars, high rises, houses, huts, tents, trees and so many other things. He then saw something that touched a raw nerve. A child of his age was begging on the streets, a baby girl ( probably his sister) in his arms. Initially he was surprised at that sight, but deep hurt and many many questions haunted him during the rest of the journey. Why didn’t the boy go to school? Why were they poor unlike him? How could he help the boy? Nikhil decided to do something about it and bring a smile on the boy’s face.

Anita was pleased that her son empathised with the street urchin. She repeated to him, “Good boys care for others and help them in times of trouble. You feel like helping that boy. So you are very good at heart. Daddy and Mummy are very proud of you!” Nikhil felt triumphant. He was going to give his parents and the boy a big surprise. The next day, he did not take the school bus home. He roamed the streets in search of the boy and his sister. He found them and talked to them. He learned that the boy and his sister had been orphaned. They were hungry and had to beg or pick pockets to get enough money for some bread. His heart went out to them. He seemed to know what to do.

Anita was surprised that the boy hadn't come home. She was beginning to get worried and decided to call the school. Her fears melted when she heard the doorbell ring. She rushed to open the door. What she saw left her perplexed and angry. There he was, her little one Nikhil, holding the hand of a dirty, unkempt kid from the street carrying a baby with dirty nails, tattered clothes and a running nose. “We will take care of them Mummy”, he said excitedly.

Her head was spinning. How could they have kids from the street at home? What if they were part of a group of gangsters? What if they carried some disease? What would friends and family say about these new filthy members of the family? This was ridiculous. No one did such things. She lost her temper and screamed, “What’s wrong with you Nikhil? Go inside, take a shower NOW! And for God’s sake ask these creatures to go back.”

Dark clouds of sadness gathered on Nikhil’s face. He was deeply hurt.” I thought you would like the surprise, Mummy” he cried. The other two kids stared without any expression on their faces. They were used to being screamed at, so they left silently, without any fuss. But Nikhil was inconsolable. He threw himself on the bed thinking about his new friends who left suddenly. That was his first encounter with the hypocritical world of adults which was like a black and white chess board.

Shades of Green

She heard voices far away. They were so familiar. Was it her mother? They became louder and louder. And louder until her ears ached. “Please stop it!” she begged. But the voices continued. What kind of a cruel joke was this? She felt tired and her body felt sore. She wanted some peace. She wanted to sleep, curled up inside her mother's womb. But these voices!

“Don’t speak or laugh loudly.”

“Don’t whistle.”

“Sit properly with your legs close to each other.”

“Wear loose clothes that don’t reveal the shape of your breasts.”

“Don’t mingle too much with boys.”

“We are expecting guests, go and wear your dupatta.”

“Don’t ask too many questions, just do as you are told.”

“Better learn to cook, sew and clean the house.”

These were just few of the strict instructions Meera had received from her mother and aunts through her growing years. From that day. Yes, the day she first saw that bright red streak of blood as she prepared to shower. Little did she know that it would change her life forever.

For a few days, perhaps even months she felt very special. She could join her older cousins Lavanya and Namita in gossiping and sharing  secrets. Earlier, they used to speak in hushed tones while Meera was around because she was just a kid. She even felt elated that some of the boys in class had begun to look at her differently. She enjoyed the attention secretly but never forgot her mother's words. “Wow! It really feels special to be a girl” she thought, as she browsed through her wardrobe unable to decide what to wear to the party that evening. She liked being her parents' little princess, she felt protected and vowed never to disobey them.

Her mother kept feeding her with lots of dos and don'ts. Why not? She was a girl, like a burning splinter, dangerously placed near fuel. The only solution was to douse the splinter. Sometimes Meera felt they were appropriate and at other times she would ask her mother to stop nagging her. She was a good girl, she would never do anything that would make her parents upset. So she was safe unlike those bad girls who wore short skirts, who had boyfriends, who conveniently forgot their dupattas at home, who roamed the streets after dusk and sat carelessly with legs apart. She took pride that she was growing up to become a well mannered and respectable young woman.

She woke up with a start. Her mouth was parched, her feet cold and her head felt heavy.  Then she heard other voices.

“Hey you! Beautiful.”

“This won't take much time.”

“Come on, don't do anything stupid. Or you will regret.”

Then after a long pause, “The bitch deserved it. Come on let's leave.”

 Her eyelids could no longer contain the outburst of sadness as her entire body wept. So did her spirit. She felt her mother's warm hands caress her tear stained cheeks. What went wrong? For a second, her gaze met her mother's. With utmost pain she realized that there was no answer. With a sigh she closed her eyes again hoping to slip into another world where she would truly be a princess.