December is a special month, allowing me to keep my longish tryst with my home. I often ponder what components make up and define 'home.' What is it about growing up in a place that makes it special?
I went to the Club we have been members of, for ages, yesterday, with my parents. And all of a sudden, I was sucked back, through a whirling vortex of a timeless illusion...suddenly, I was 6, staring into the pool in which I had swum my first lap, where I had participated in that very long ago first swim meet...where I had struggled to negotiate with the raw energy and power of water, grappled against its strength, and completed my first 'length,' without stopping. It was by the side of this pool, that my parents, my grandparents would so patiently wait, while my coach trained me...to whom I would run to for food and warmth, shivering, cramped, when I had my breaks.  It was the same Moon, which I would look at, while floating on my back, and counting the stars...something I still do...and it was so overwhelming to meet both my swimming coaches yesterday...and how they still treated me like a little child. Then I ran across the club lawn...where the fountain of Yore still stands in a quiet corner...and I took in the changes with slow breaths...change and sameness...all around...decay in some corners...compensated by renovation...and that is when I suddenly realised that I will keep coming back to this city of mine, each time older, hopefully, (in some ways) wiser...but all that my eyes will seek in this City are those signs of my childhood, which I want to cling to forever...and the older I get, the more sharply will I hunt out everything which made me who I am...those lower rungs of the ladder of life, which we climb with shaky, tentative but unforgettable steps...treasured, treasured...the tension between the tug of childhood and the future of all that lies in front...for I won't call this a contradiction, for growing up is but a Logical culmination of those ever-etched formative years. Everytime I try to re-live old episodes, which never die...living through memories constantly making new ones.
And then I went to the street which used to house my old school...which has now been reduced to a wel,, one knows what...and I had to furiously activate my imagination, to replace the, well, structure, with dear delightful CIS...its green windows, regal (I insist on calling it that) staircase, its cosy little lawn, its glass room( class 7) its people, the atmosphere, the values, the culture, the cosmopolitan ambience...
And then there were phone calls...for thought most of my friends are world-scattered, there are some who have thankfully stayed on in Kolkata...and I realised how blessed I am to have met such a Host of Kindred Spirits as I have...my four best friends from College, and all those wonderful school, building, club friends,  all so different, all so excellent...I should catch up with my Bangalore friends...another eternal episode...
And the fact that when I am in Kolkata, I am inundated with familiar old loves, Feluda.........on sign boards, Tagore everywhere...sighs...more later

A moment to Thank.

Let me take a moment to Thank. To thank Life for its opportunities, blessings, surprises and challenges. To thank the Human Body for helping our minds adjust to external and environmental changes.To thank my Parents for all that they have done, which I cannot bring myself to reduce to a mere list. To thank my Grandparents for being who they are.
For those sudden dreams, which bring back to life, if only for a moment, those we have Loved and lost. This might be and IS very personal, but two days ago, I HAD A DREAM which featured my Grandfather's long ago voice, and I realised that  not one bit of its texture had faded from my Memory. I don't remember what he said, I just remember that calm, kind, ever well-meaning voice, gently falling on my ear, like pearl on rich velvet, and it soothed and calmed me in the most complete way.
I thank the heart for all its physiological work and also for mirroring emotions...there is such a thing as heart-ache when you are feeling down, there is a feeling of distinct heart-sickness, when in Despair.

 I thank those Friends who are silently encourage, loudly applaud, magnanimously share, soundly scold, earnestly listen,  freely give and hold us in remembrance.
I thank the power of Rectification and Realisation, I thank Introspection. I thank Tears for they let us unburden those quietly pent up emotions. I thank Tears which let me celebrate those exquisite moments of Joy, when words and gestures fall short.
I thank Writers and Poets for telling us that they have been through what we are going through, and that others after us will experience much the same, despite ever-changing, rapidly swerving temporal and spatial contexts.
I thank Musicians for allowing us to transcend our transient problems, our grievous heartbreaks, our small joys...and elevating us to a world where language is indeed common...how many of us listen to songs of other languages, and still enjoy some of them without comprehending lyrics? And instrumental music is of the category where notes take over words and syllables and music breed magic.

I thank Quietness for the thinking time it forces us to accept. I thank Noise for allowing us to both appreciate itself and Quietness.
 I thank Great Minds for inventing Instruments of Technology, Medicine, Machinery and hosts of things which are beneficial to Human Kind.
I thank Deep Thinkers, I thank Hearty Laughers, I thank Frank Faces, I thank the Open Hearted, I thank The Kind Souls, who perform altruistic tasks so freely, so quietly, so silently, every day, een this Very moment
I thank Smiles, for brightening up dismal days, I thank the Rain for balancing those Too Bright Days, I thank the Night for its lack of Light, I thank the Day for its Lack of Darkness.
I thank Pats on the Back, for being so encouraging, I thank Sympathy for being so understanding, I thank Warm Hugs for being so reassuring, so all-embracing, physically, emotionally and psychologically uplifting.
I thank Conversations, for giving me revealing Glimpses into the lives of others...for Conversations draw the curtains between people apart, if only for a while, before they often drop, and whether they stay apart or not depends on Friendship, on Rapport.
I Thank Food for nourishment, I thank Water for its innumerable uses.
Most of all, I Thank The Creator, the Nurturer, the Eternal Guiding Light, the Binder of the Universe, the promoter of Love and Tolerance.

Mrs. Chatterjee.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was a very little girl.
One fine day, or maybe it was rainy, my Mother, Father and Grandmother told me to get ready for something called an "interview." It had seemed such a big word at the time...I was too young to realise that the word was scary, that it involved selection through exclusion. I just remember my four year old self donning a new dress and meekly walking into a huge, air-conditioned office, and coming face to face wth one of the kindest, nicest smiles I had ever seen. For my first memory of Mrs. Chatterjee was just her smile...I vividly remember yet, her asking me, with that smile on her face, why I wanted to join CIS...and I thought hard trying to come up with a befitting reply, and finally decided on tilting my head to one side and smiling back at her. I remember her patiently repeating the question, and how I just smiled on, thinking my answer was eloquent and appropriate. I don't remember the rest of the interview, just a gentle word or two from my parents later as to why I had not thought of something to say in response to her question...but the exchange of smiles and probably a few words, paved the way to my memorable and precious journey for the next 14 years...
I had always looked up to Mrs. Chatterjee...I loved her words of prayer, encouragement, advice and rectifications during those long ago morning assemblies. I loved the placid serenity her face seemed to offer me, I loved how she draped her Saree around her, I loved the trademark hairstyle. To my young, wide-eyed self, she seemed to be the epitome of all things good, powerful and aspirational.
Mrs. Chatterjee's handwriting still dances before my eyes, it had such a lilting, effusive quality about it...there is ample evidence to document what I have just said, she would write notes of encouragement on each of our report cards, while we were growing up. I loved how she spoke impeccable Bengali with our parents, when she would meet them on the school porch, for example.
However, the best was waiting for me. I am so incredibly grateful and thankful to God for having given me and my friends, among the millions of millions in this world, to have had the opportunity to study Literature and History under her tutelage. I feel very inarticulate and words fail me when I attempt to put into prose what those lessons meant for us. They were not just about the texts we read. They were not anaylsed from the lens of a host of other secondary materials. She taught us a skill which is invaluable, and which I truly believe remains our collective forte to date...to analyse the text incisively, to make evaluative connections with the support of substantiation, to read between and beyond the lines, but most importantly TO READ THE lines...as I grew up, this is a habit I never lost...I would not touch any Secondary Material until I had finished reading the text...
And the texts...I am a Literature lover in all senses of the word...On some nights I murmur myself to sleep by reciting various lines from my favourite poems...my heart still flutters before 'sharing' a poem on public forums...my heart leaps on beholding favourite lines from my favourite texts in the most unexpected of places...and somewhere, in a guarded corner of my heart, amidst all the Bi- and Tri- cuspid valves, the veins and arteries, there still hides the fledgling dream, the silent hope of wishing to become an author myself...and I would like to sincerely thank, thank seems so prosy and inadequate a word, for rowing us out into this Island of Lit...for first introducing us to Keats "The Eve of St. Agnes," to Browning, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," to Robert Burns, "Tam O' Shanter," to Tennyson, "Morte d'Arthur," to Blake, "The Tyger," and the ballad "Edward Edward."
For taking us through Pride and Prejudice, and bringing out everything Austen stood for, for those great lessons on Animal Farm...and of course, during our A/S Levels, who ELSE could teach "Streetcar" the way in which she did? There were always so many levels of analysis to consider, so many perspectives from which to study each character, so many assumptions to challenge, stereotypes to break...and words will let me down altogether if I even try to examine what your teaching of "Howards End," did for us and to us...how you talked about the bridge which must be created, between the Pragmatist and the Idealist...the Schlegels and the Wilcoxes...how you talked about, oh ever so many things, how "Only Connect," Forster and you have so silently helped us pull through our lives in so many ways...in all our early struggles as new professionals, our endeavours, which of us did not seek silent solace in those not-SO-long ago words of wisdom? Your oh-so impeccable pronounciations, your deeply original insights, your razor-sharp intelligence which you so freely shared with us.
Who else would make such effortless parallels between the Sciences and the Arts, while the rest of the world JUMPED at the idea of segregating the two? Who else would have bothered to call us over to her house, for one last consultation before our Howards End exam? Who else would have said, and sincerely meant, that life was bigger than our imminent O and A Levels, though examinations were important? WHo else would have said that remember to give freely, without any expectation of return, of any kind, to lead a happier life? Who else would and could
And those History lessons...I was enamored of them...I really was and still am. I love how Mrs. Chatterjee helped us understand poetry, by making us write some ourselves. SHe would also encourage us to analyse each other's poems.
I would have never said this, but dear Mrs. Chatterjee, in all my inadequacy, may I dedicate my long ago A Level Synpotic Paper to you? It's not only that I am happy that the examiner gave me full marks...no, it really isn't...it's the fact that I have never so immensely enjoyed 'solving' a Literature paper in my life...I have never so enthusiastically analysed Form and Content, never so delightfully made abstract and obscure connections, (fully substantiated, of course)...that was exam where my marks reflected the extent of my enjoyment with that particular paper, they tallied with your years of passionate teaching, and they re-inforced my firm conviction in my love of all things Lit...I tell my students that marks stand for something else, they are mere numbers on their own...sometimes, they are the culmination of the years of dedication the teachers have put in, to culminate their craft, their art...for teaching is one of the most difficult crafts in the world...they are representative of the rich exchange of knowledge, this selfless sharing from person to person, this passing down of knowledge through generations...they represent the eagerness of students, their unmitigated enthusiasm and fervour, their open minds and receptive hearts...from Dmitri Mendleev, down many generations, to us through our teachers...to use an example from Chemistry...they are not always representative...sometimes years of earnest study may not be reflected in your marks, and that has happened to most of us at some point, but that is okay too...but when they do, well there is some sense of some kind of intangible triumph...perhaps...but as I have grown older, to me, now, marks are just numbers...but a part of me feels like I should dedicate whatever I can to you, to tell you that in my own way, I have immensely benifitted from your teaching, that yours is a life to be ever-cherished, to be ever-admired. I will never forget how you had explained 'Negative Capability' to us. RIP Mrs. Chatterjee, and may your thoughts abide in each and every one of us.
Mrs. Chatterjee, this really does seem to be an end of an era to a whole lot of us...we really are devastated by this loss...and we just hope that we can make you live on through our little, everyday endeavours...all of us seem to be world-scattered, but what does hold us CISers together is that thread of unity which you used to tie us together.

Writing without thinking about what I am writing...an interesting exercise...Must read before I publish though

In the lonely hours of the first half moon, Dorothy would sing silent lullabies to her unborn child. Not a human child, but the offspring of her devotion to Music. Yes, she was yet to relase a music album...yet, she was apprehensive about flinging her voice into the amphitheatre of criticism which awaited her in the world outside.
She had always been a child of the Moon, constant yet capricious, predictable yet dynamic, eternal yet elusive...and her voice was infused with all these rare traits of her personality. She sighed as she turned away from the terrace, and made her lonely way back to her gigantic bed-room.
For gigantic it was...of epic proportions indeed...and all the space emphasised her loneliness wih great emphasis, until she often felt like a splash made in the Sea by the smallest of stones...
She should have listened to those long ago cautionary tales her grandmother had chanted on those sun-bathed mornings...her words of advice against spending a life alone...how loneliness eats away at the core of our golden souls like a famished canker...how the warm gold glow which all souls seemed to be born with, in her grandma's opinion, would harden into a metallic state of cold indifference.

Proeeeme

Well, the marking's done for the year,
And I should heave a sigh...
Yet, with happiness so near,
I still don't know why,
I am very near a cry.
And it's not that I am sad...
I'm not far from feeling Glad.

It might be that I am getting on,
In years and some sorts of experience.

It has been days since I just let my fingers part the webs of my mind, peek in, sift out, extract and write. These days I am fully occupied, which is a good thing in many ways, it is. The mind has less time to dream and fantasise. I don't really dream of faraway places, bridges with flowers, gardens and bowers anymore...I don't have crushes on imaginary people, or historical or fictional characters anymore. That part of me has been lost forever. And I am sad. Maybe this is the signal that I have grown up. I scolded myself out of fantasising about a year ago, and told myself that I should ready myself for the 'Real.' Little did I realise that whether we like it or not, we WILL be confronted by the 'Real,' that we always have been. It's just that the dream world, the parallel universe of the mind which we inhabited allowed us to escape into the fleeting world of Fantasy, if only for a while...a place safe and secure from the reach of all things Real, where the world really "WAS MY IDEA." Anyway, I let it go, and though shreds of this prior skill do curl like broken tendrils around the corners of my mind, it is predominantly a lost craft.
Often, I feel like I crave reality...and I have had to swallow many bitter pills and drink  glasses of bitter gall...howver, life has also held up overflowing cups of Jasmine (Greeene) tea, with just the right amount of Honey to my lips, more often than not...I feel more meditative, more contemplative, and if I may also say, more spiritual...more anchored in faith and realisation...I have also learnt to come to terms with myself on many more levels...my personality, my own character, my national identity, my ethnic characteristics...I have let go those pet peeves I might have had, I have taught myself to be geuninely thankful and grateful for Life's Blessings...and to learn, to really learn from the smattering of Not-So-Pleasant experiences I have witnessed...as I grow, I strive to endeavour in this continuous process of soul-searching, soul-doctoring and soul cleansing...besides which, life has been good.
Durga Puja made its annual visit to the delighted Bengali soul...and this year, I was more at peace with myself in Singapore. The last year, I had missed home so dreadfully...I missed home very much this year too, but a part of me has also buried a little root here, to make me feel more anchored...though I think of Kolkata as my home everyday and I often wonder what the term really means.
Home. Does it literally mean a house? Well, I do miss the physical comfort my homes in Cal offer me...I miss the over-stuffed sofas, the familiar bed, the rugs, the carpets, the so-familiar utensils, the floors...but most of all, ofcourse I miss the memories evoked by physical closeness to the places where they were created I miss the people, I miss being in the close physical proximity of my family. I look forward to my vacations but am always sobered by the fact that a vacation needs must come to an end...but what is never-ending in life anyway, apart from Life itself?
I am being increasingly drawn to Rabindrashangeet these days...and am putting my Smartphone to optimum use...
And I have resumed reading...not as copiosuly as of yore, but when time permits...

...

How startling is life, when we think of how...
It alters us, even now
I feel a change, somewhat strange,
Descend upon me like a settling cloud.

How Life flings us far away
From the very day
Of our birth...how it rents us apart
From our birth places...
Tears us away from those well-loved faces...

How it paints new chapters, with an invisible brush,
Sometimes ambling but forever in a rush...

Reporting

Whenever I am in the midst of tonnes of work, I think of so many things to talk about on my blog...and when I finally find some time, no, rather take some time off, I find myself wandering around the bare avenues of my mind, for things to write about...I have really learnt to keep myself company. This was an area of particular concern for me, when I never managed to enjoy being on my own...I still love being surrounded by friends and family, more than anything else in the world...but ff late, I have not felt those rivulets of warm brine meandering swiftly down my cheeks...I don't find myself worrying about others and stuff...I have really TAUGHT myself, to just be true to my own intentions and everyday I strive hard to be a better human being...who said it was easy? It is just soul-satisfying...and I love Paying to a Higher Being every morning...and I refuse to take things for granted anymore...I am deeply grateful for the smallest of things...

Random Rambling

So I get so many insights whenever I talk to people. Off late, I find myself constantly engaging in various forms of conversation with a plethora of people...and every time I speak to them I discover something new about myself...I just discovered the incredible amount of passion which brews inside me silently for my City of Joy, I discovered how my Love of Literature has not abated a bit, I discover that I am still encouraged by encouragement, how I still take criticism too seriously...which is a good thing, JUST THAT i CAN BE VERY HARSH ON myself and chide myself for mistakes...and then I was speaking to one of my best friends yesterday and she pointed out that I do a whole lot more soul-searching, away from home...this kind of deep introspection makes me feel very complete...and I understand the reasons behind things better...Moving on, i think the issue of confidence versus humility/modesty is still a raging debate in my life...how to be assertive while remaining humble...t'is a thought worth exploring...On the end of books, I have had the privilege to engage in a number of perusals off late...from Coelho's The Alchemist, hich made a whole lot of sense to me, to an Agatha Christie, to a host of other snippets...I recently bought Murakami's Norwegian Wood....seems sublime so far...and I have been thinking about my old friends, all of whom are very dear to me indeed, a lot these days...and I miss home as usual, but parts of me are reaching out to this new land, just as it has reached out to me.

Reflections!

In the midst of most of most flurried of days, I sit back and think. A few days ago my happiness knew no bounds...a few days later some sad occurences transpired...now I am back to being all chirpy and happy...i had thought of so many things to write...I have so many incidents I would like to ponder on...some of which I would like to relish and cherish...and some of which I would want to discard from my mind forever...each day seems to be a new chapter...each of my days is so different from the other...I should be thankful for the excitement life offers me...I am thankful to be able to pray to a wonderful Higher Being every morning...I was so ambitious as a little girl...in some ways I still am...but now I can feel on my very pulses that the most desirable ambition, at least for me, is to build a life based on and centred around Love...this is what makes the most difference in any one's life...

Not JUUUUST a mall

Though there are stacks of marking crying out for my attention, they can wait just a while. Oh is WHAT is that part of speech called, where a part represents the whole...as in, would my reference to academic essays as 'marking,' qualify as an xample of a Synechdoche, or would the term Metonymy be more appropriate?
Having said that, I have been singing several silent odes to a shopping mall of late...ask my close friends back in Cal...I was averse to shopping malls in general...while some might, and rightly argue that they have their advantages, such as creating a host of jobs, allowing people to congregate and offering convenience in terms of 'all things retail,' in general...i was still averse to them...to me, they were impersonal, overly-commercial buildings, rows of shops with no emotional value whatsoever...maybe because my old school campus was, well, replaced by one...
However, however...JP is different. It's where I could FEEL myself growing up...i feel that this is not going to be as eloquent a post I had hoped it would be, though I have so much to say...It is in a lonely corner of this mall that I had silently teared, having succumbed to a powerful wave of home-sickness...I must have attracted the collective attention of many passers-by, but the people here are so nice, that they did not stand and stare at me, they let me be...it was here that I bought my first dress with my first-earned allowance...it was here that I shopped for presents for my family and friends with the remuneration for the first few months...I remember spending every penny I could spare...and buying things which were mostly, largely, unnecessary...I remember walking around this place for hours, my splendid sense of direction leading me the wrong way every two steps...I remember trying to immerse myself in the food culture here, tentatively trying out new food items, and learning the spellings of local delights! I remember walking off the tension of having to take my first ever class here...I remember how 'comforted' I felt when I began to find my way around, with a warm sense of familiarity in an unknown land, when I received sudden and beaming smiles from the sales-people, who possibly saw me gallavanting around, more often than not...I remember trying Hot Soya Milk for the first time here, I remember the warm, 'runny' comfort it offered me as it trickled down my throat and how I thought it smelt as fresh and sweeeeet as a baby...it was here that I wove so many hopes for my days ahead, it was here that I must have unconsciously planned my lessons and anticipated student-reactions. It was here that I spent some lonely hours as well, and tried to over-come some sad feelings... It was here that I watched my first movie alone, and cried through it, just feeling funny that I was watching a movie alone, though it is rather a natural thing to do...it is here that i watched my SECOND movie alone, loving every moment of it...it counted that the movie was much better than the first, of which I didn't miss much, despite the tears...it was from here that I made thousands of phone calls home...Ami ekhon ei dokaane, ei khachhi, er shaathe...it is here that I had deep, indelible, ever-etched conversations with some of my closest local friends...it was here from where I embarked on my first ever MRT ride...I passed through JP with one very close friend of mine during those tiring weeks of practicum...and both she and I barely used to catch one another, because we were both so sleepy...
In another strain, life has been rewarding...i am trying to sip out the honey and cast out the thorns, as Anne Shirley was wont to do...except for those thorns whcih will help me grow by bleeding out my faults...

What is life, unless it is filtered

Through a many-hued prism?

What is a connection all about?

Unless it's been through a schism?

What does friendship really mean

Unless it is tested by time?

What does harmony imply, if we

cannot sift cacophony from a Chime?

What does Love mean to you

On the loneliest of nights?

How is Companionship able

To reach unattainable heights?

As sweet as joy is the most bitter pill,

To a body which is weary and ill.

How a firm grasp of a gentle hand,

Energises and revives the will...

How warm is the sense of security,
After being in the heart of a storm.
How nice it is to find ourselves,
After we've been out of form.

How do we measure the softness of a petal,

If not against the flower's thorn?

How do we mend something precious,

Unless it has been torn?

How soothing are the gathering clouds,
After a spell of Heat...
How welcome is the hardest chair,
After hours of being on our feet.

How purple is the evening haze,
When gazed upon with tired eyes.
How like music is a baby's laugh,
After enduring a night of cries.

How calming is a night of sleep,
After days and nights of unrest.
How important is kindness to a starved soul,
Its beauty surpasses all rest.

How thankful we are for a true, true friend,
When the day is all but done.
How rewarding it must be to unite,
With the chosen one.

What will happiness mean to us.

If we don't shed a bitter tear or two?

How drab will Life be indeed,

Unless it passes through unintended hues.

http://bunnyherolabs.com/adopt/finish.php?clr=0xcc654d&cn=scamper&an=d&mc=guineapig%2Eswf

Thought processing

You know, I  miss writing all the time, at every part of the day. Sometimes I wake up to a dissolving dream which awaits chronicling, but try as I might to recall it all day, I find myself unable to do so. It makes me feel horribly incompetent to be such a lazy writer. For though I am excessively occupied with professional matters, I should motivate myself to scribble a line or two now and then.
Work is demanding but is also rewarding. Teaching can bring you to the highest of highs. It can also drain you...physically and emotionally. I have made so many mistakes, and I realise that I haven't lost my old and possible eternal fear of making mistakes. I try not to repeat them but make new ones instead. I don't know where the problem lies: in setting unrealistic self-expectations or in the discerning attitude of the world.
Life has also been positive...meeting many people, but mostly being absorbed into the work culture. But sometimes I  fear that I am forgetting myself in the process...like yesterday,  I watched Ratatouille and felt re-connected with 'my inner sense of art' (my how grand THAT sounds...haha) all over again. I keep trying to figure out how I would have reacted to a similar situation 2 years ago...I keep trying to map my growth, my change. I am expected to have ventured into the realm of full fledged adult-hood now. Well maybe I can allow myself to be twen-teen for another year. I am supposed to be grown up. A phase I have dreamt of ever since ever...but WHAT does the word mean? How am I expected to behave? I feel certain undeniable changes in me...I find that I have become MUCH less picky about things in general...I use the word since I heard it yesterday, in Ratatouille and registered it at once as a piece of Profound wisdom: THE TRICK, my friend, lies in not being PICKY...yes, being fastidious will only bring with it a host of problems...I feel more humility as I learn new things every day...I feel more shy sometimes, I don't know why...not while taking classes, which I approach with more confidence and ease ever day...but in my social interactions, I feel more diffident than ever before...and I am puzzled...where is my ease of conversation hiding? Why am I becoming quieter? When will I laugh a hail and hearty laugh at nothing in particular again? I guess I should wait till I am reunited with my best of friends again...a whole host of them fro school and University days...
I guess its the transition...from being a student to a career-girl, from actually watching and feeling my dreams take shape around me...for a lot of them have come true...hard work though it may be, this is PRECISELY the kind of job I had craved for, in those long-ago days of weaving the future out of threads of hope, hard-work and wonder...but had I asked for something more?
All transitions are hard...happiness lies in accepting things fast, and then ensconcing yourself into the wayyyy of things before the next transition turns up...
I guess I need to engage in a heart-to heart conversation with one who has known me for a looong time...that would help me connect my life to the past me more happily...because while I grow and Learn, I must not forget the shadows of the past...I miss my old life, but I am warming up to a new way of seeing things...all for the best, I hope...
Also whenever I recall my childhood the first thoughts to cross my mind are that of a girl reading and imagining, reading and imagining, alternately...but usually together...and interacting with people...the faces of my friends are forever in the fore-ground of my mind...the many memories we've made together, from the smallest to the largest, from the loudest to the quietest, from the palest to the most colourful, are woven together with memory glue, much like a spider's web...
But there's one thing I await...
Life tests all of us, it's what we learn and how we USE and APPLY that knowledge, and strive to be better people, along the way.
I suddenly miss Kolkata...I miss it all the time...I miss family
As an aside, I really want to watch the movie on Darwin's life, named CREATION...and I want to re-read so many books...<3 ...am="...am" currently="currently" ingleside...oh="ingleside...oh" l.m.="l.m." montgomery="montgomery" p="p" reeeeading="reeeeading">

New Developments

There have been so many new developments in my life, that I seem to be floundering around in a forest of mist, trying to make sense of what is going on...I fell sick, I went to a hospital for the first time in my life, I survived Practicum, I re-visited my beloved City of Joy, I moved back, attended many seminars, shifted out of the land of verdure, NTU, I moved in to a new place, I joined a new JC...things have been happening at the speed of a galloping horse competing with light particles.
I have so much to chronicle, lest I forget: some bitterly disappointing disillusionment, some rewarding, lasting friendships, forged some unforgettable memories. At the moment, I am marking scripts, and I should get back to that soon. I am growing up so fast, and I am trying to make sense of the years which are speeding by, trying to negotiate the relationship between age and maturity, years and responsibility, innocence and experience. Blake's poems chronicle this passage with such ease, but life itself is far from it.
I miss my dearest of friends @sacredsprites, Mad Girl, Vigo and IBM...if you girls read this, remember I will love you forever...
And a big hug to all the new friends I have made here...things are falling into the Anne scheme of things, what with the teaching, but one absence, a significant one, looms large and clear...sigh...and there is that other aspect...niggling, yet wriggling, that weird thought of transformed friendship.

More rambling

I was born with a forehead of wrinkles,

And a beard of the ripest gray...

Each of my eyes wearily twinkles,

To welcome the visitors gay...

I am ageless, they say

I have been around for years,

 My  legs work tirelessly, bereft of choice.

I have also been deprived a voice.

My head is fixed at an awkward angle,

My jacket is a screaming green.

My characteristic shock of hair,

Is kept immaculately clean.

I help people re-connect with their past,

Their days of childhood glory.

When they had seen me move up and down...

Some say, I'm lucky, with not a worry 

In my mind...others say they're sorry

That I probably feel bored...

Because I cannot participate in the Roar of the world.

Hard

It's going to be hard, hard, hard
But I must try
To rectify
All that I need to...
I must learn that the world is perfect
Despite Imperfections...
I must learn and unlearn
I must think, re-think
I must not be cheated
When people behave unexpectedly
I must not feel depressed
And wallow in sadness
My emotions must
Re-create a Trampoline
I must bounce back up
I must continue
To strive to be a better person
I must try and understand people
I must never intentionally hurt
I must channelise the love within me
I must Love, I must Love
I must Hope, I must Hope
I must Smile, I must Smile
I must Help, I must Help
I must Laugh, I must Laugh

Honestly...

You know, I have to write. I have to get back to what I like doing the best. I have to re-discover myself. I feel like Life has pulled me by the hair and yanked it hard, to grow me up...But is growing up always a bad thing? I have often been told that I have retained the Child within me...but suddenly, I have begun to worry whether that is a bad thing...I have been told that I need to toughen up, to be stronger to cope with the world...this is an undeniable truth...but is it wrong to retain one's soft and sensitive nature? And I think I have toughened up considerably to be able to lead the life I do...of course I make mistakes, which I do try to rectify.
Life has been kind...and there is this saying at the Clementi MRT station which I ABSOLUTELY love..."There is a calmness to a Life lived in Gratitude, a Quiet Joy." I wish to abide by this saying forever. I will count my Blessings forEVER. I will refrain from falling into a vortex of negative thoughts...I think I need to read more books. I need to watch more movies. I need to satisfy some inner aesthetic cravings...I need something to fill up this inexplicable void which has suddenly carved itself inside me...i DON'T KNOW WHY i AM FEELING THE WAY i AM...My friends used always to say that Diya is the source of cheer and joy...when will I regain my happy-dappy self again? When will I see the silver lining of the Darkest of clouds?
Why am I not feeling a silly joy about life anymore? Life has been kind...I love my students...I have become more confident in terms of time management and professionalism...I am learning from the many mistakes I have made...I have made some unforgettable friends, in my staff room, who have been there for each other, in a way in which I have never seen bonding...wow

What she said to herself ---1809

I am experiencing an indescribable pain,
Though my mind feels numb with grief,
I can't believe this has happened again...
Should I feel sad, or glad with relief?

Tonight I've let you go,
Though you were never mine...
Tonight we're one our own again
And I tell myself it will be fine.

Oh how I loathe the line.

If everything happens for the best...
why do some things happen at all?
Why are such sorts thrust upon me,
Who leave an after-taste of bitter gall?
Why do some people appall?
WHy do I warm up so easy?
Why can't I be cold and stiff?
Why do I have so much love within,
Waiting to be lavished on those
Who never seem to ...

The things I feel like eating...sorry for the ENGLISH-BANGLA MIX, BUT I FEEL THAT THIS IS GOOD FOR MY SOUL

1. Magur macchhe jhol,very light, with a good squeeze of lemon over soft, soft rice...
2. Maye'r haater chicken stew, with lots of kacaha pepe, capsicum and carrots...with a good squeeze of lemon again.
3. Holood ronger posto, which will induce me to sleep.
4. Any rokomer daal and rice, and boiled potatoes.
5. Amr grandmothere-JE KONO KICHHU RANNA...PULAO, chicken with spices, anything...okay, maybe a piece of mutton.
sob, sobby, sobbery...
Ami boro hoye shob ranna korbo...I can cook, and not too badly, or so I think and hope...I can cook machher jhol, I love pottering around in the kitchen,...I can cook yoghurt chicken...and I can bake...but will I have the time to cook every day given my AWFUL timings? Leave home...at 6...return at 7....work till eleven...cook ta korbo kokhon? No wonder no one cooks in this country...shobai food courter khabar khae...but it is hygeinic and safe...kintu not the same as home cooked food...but will I not be tired? But I think cooking can provide a welcome distraction too...i will boil lotsa vegetables and have the soup...hmmm...someday, I hope I have a partner who will help me out, and we can both amble around the kitchen <3...and we can pamper ourselves with comfort food...yummm...ekhon toh hostel-e thakchhi, cooking-er proshnoi othe na...roj canteen food.

From our other blog, http://diyamrin.blogspot.com/2012/03/revival.html

This blog needs to be revived ASAP...this very minute
Why? We miss it, and it needs more posts.
This blog was conceived one winter's evening, when Sacred Sprites and I were pretending to study for a test, (no, actually we always got a lot of work done together, we were very academically productive, weren't we?) at my place. My parents were not there. We were two un-moderated 'children,' around 2 and a bit years ago? Was it, sacred sprites? Okay, then we got hungry. We have always been a tad crazy. And so we got experimental. We snooped around the Dining table, and picked up an apple, which s--sprites quite adeptly cut into paper thin slices. Next, the fridge door was flung open by us, and out came the cheese. We promptly laced the apple slices with the cheese. Were we finished. Oh, not yet. Out came some pepper from a kitchen cupboard. And out came some Indonesian Nutmeg,which had been lying ignored for a while. Sprinkle we did, over the apples and oney, and quite liberally at that, may I add. Then what? You'd think these two crazy girrrrls would have been done by now...but no!!! We fished out some honey from the fridge and poured liberally, like up-turned sunshine...and then what did we do? We deliberated for a bit of course. And then we arranged the apples on a microwave-proof plate, and put in into the microwave oven, and warmed up our creation? How was the end result? What did it taste like? Ask the girls involved.

what should I name this post?

Is there a difference between a professor and a teacher? I think a teacher does more hand-holding while a professor stimulates ideas in the mind. Teaching is recognized as a very meaningful and yet very demanding job here. We are assigned the posts of Civil Servants, and the profession is looked upon with respect.
This is something which has set me thinking for a while. My final posting is to a Junior College. It is equivalent to my A Levels, and roughly equivalent to the eleventh and twelfth standards of Indian schools, but not exactly. Here, Junior College life is more like College life. Admissions to these colleges are very competitive and very selective. The students are given a holistic pre-University college experience, and te academic levels are high...the Lit texts they read are quite demanding, ranging from Pinter to Jean Rhys.
When I first came here last March, I taught at a JC for 10 weeks. I took a class on Wide Sargasso Sea, and a lot of English classes and remedial lessons. I thoroughly enjoyed JC life...most of the students thought I was a new student as well, haha, but that was soon rectified. I will cherish those days forever. The memories will never leave me. The students were eager, willing t learn and very responsive. My colleagues were fabulous and very supportive. The canteen was exquisite and I loved a little cafe they had, it was so quaint, and the food so wholesome and comforting.
Then I made a whole host of RT (Relief Teacher) friends...I felt like I was 19/20 again. I was 23 last year, when I came here, and I felt caught in between my late adolescence and early adulthood. We went out to eat one day, in a big, big, group. We hit Orchard Road, and had a hearty meal at Fish and Co. My friends had ice-cream after that, but I obeyed my throat and refrained.
I will never forget how my friend Shuen, a very sweet girl, gifted me a pair of tottering high heels, because she thought that they suited the personality of a JC prof..haha, and I wore them, looked awkwardly tall, and almost fell down the stairs.
I remember how I went to watch Shakespeare in The Park, Macbeth, with my College, and the wonderful time I had there...I remember how lost I had felt on my very first day, but how things quickly fell into place. I can't believe it's been a year exactly, since I first stepped into that JC...so much has happened since...I have gone through my NIE training, and am doing practicum now...practicum is happening at a sECONDARY sCHOOL, BUT i HAVE WARMED UP TO THE STUDENTS NOW...I am having a great time with them now, but the work-load is quite a lot, and the hours are very long. I leave home, (read: Hall) at 6 and get back at about 7...
My final posting will be to a different JC...I had applied to teach there, as it is a very good and competitive place, and I feel blessed to have been selected...but I will miss teaching secondary school in more ways than one.
I am looking forward to May, when I will be free for a while...and then I'll be here for 3 more years, working for the JC...sometimes 3 years seems like a long period of time...I have told myself that after these years, I will not work such long hours. I am a very family oriented person. I will definitely work, but for much shorter hours. My dream of dreams is to pursue a part time PhD, write books and books of poetry and prose, and teach some part-time classes. But I want to be surrounded by my family and those whom I love. I will never stay alone like this again.
Not that I feel very lonely here. The people in Singapore are AWESOME. I would whole-heartedly recommend the place simply for the people here. The are so friendly, polite and warm-hearted. I have made a host of local friends here, at NIE, and have had so many interesting conversations with htem. I will be in touch with them forever.
I have also had the opportunity to do a VERY REWARDING SERVICE LEARNING PROJECT at NIE.
I miss Calcutta, but I love Singapore too. In Calcutta, I am still the child. In Singapore I have attained some modicum of maturity. Even when I leave this country, I will take some things with me. The art of being humane and polite seems ingrained in most people you will meet on the streets. I love their public transport system, their promotion of an active life-style, and their vast diversity of food culture. I love the fact that there are so many trees, and that every body works so hard. It is a stressful life I am leading now, but I do hope that in the 'long after-years,' this has become a favourite phrase of mine, I will look back upon this experience and smile.
Sometimes I feel like I could not have done what I am doing now without the absolute support of my family. They lov me so much. I am an only child. Yet, they let me come here, to pursue my dreams and fly high. That is what selfless love seems to be about...you need to love someone enough to let the person go and do something for him/herself, no matter how hard it is for both parties. I remember the part, in The Beauty and the Beast(one of my favourite movies of all time) when the Beast lets Belle leave, to meet her ailing father, even though he knows that if she leaves, the spell on him will never be broken. That, in my opinion, is the perfect example of selfless love.
What is my take on relationships? Well, I have NEVER been in one. Why? I want to love one person all my life, and I do not wish to dissipate my love indiscriminately. I do not believe in short, casual relationships AT ALL. I mean, all relationships involve risks, but at least the intentions should be earnest. If things still do not work out, things weren't meant to be. But I am very scared of a relationship NOT working out. Also, I am ultra cautious in these matters. I know that once I commit to someone, I will give 250% into the relationship. I will love with every square inch of my heart and soul. I don't want to get hurt. I believe a romantic relationship is sacred, and needs full commitment on both sides. And I am a very, very romantic person at heart...I think I will be quite the gushing, mushy type in love...let's see...
My favorite book series in the world is The Anne of Green Gables Series, by L,.M. mOTGOMERY...I GUSH ABOUT HER EVERY NOW AND THEN...I think I am very like Anne in some ways...I love the books, they are my guiding philosophies...

Classsssss

Yes, I have been teaching, teaching and teaching. Romeo and Juliet is really very enjoyable to teach, I love the rapturous looks on the faces of the students, and the gender definitions which crop up even at this very young age. I was taught very differently from the way I am teaching. In CIS, the teaching was more frontal teaching, where Mrs. C. and Mrs. Chatterjee would transport us in to a different world, one of imagination, fantasy and alternate reality, simply by speaking to us and reading the texts with us. I loved the lessons there. Over here, I teach using power-point slides and trigger activities to generate discussion. These are very effective for the students I teach, who respond well to visual and verbal stimuli. I think they like having something to look at, some information to copy down, in order to revise later. In my own school, Literature operated at the intangible level of thoughts and very deep discussions, with less 'scaffolding.'I feel that both these approaches have positive aspects.
Yesterday, the Chinese girl Meiyu, (who has become a very good friend of mine, (we are working in the same school) and I ...we are also living in nearby Halls of Residence in NTU, went to pamper our souls with some Hong Kong desserts...food has really been a source of comfort in Singapore...I had this most delicious warm Almond and Sesame paste...we also shared this mango dessert with sticky rice wrapped around...yumm...I did not think I would enjoy the desserts as much as I did. I am more a cake and tea kind of person.
Being a Bangali, I am expected to love MISHTI and Bangali sweets...but I don't like Sandesh much, I find it dry...I am force-fed these widely acknowledged delicacies by my parents from time to time, every now and again. I love the dark sweet, called the Pantua tough...ouwch, I miss it now.
I love berries of all sorts...Blue-berry cheese-cake, strawberry short-cake, mmhmm...but can ANYTHING EVER beat CHOCOLATEEEEEEE?
Kookie Jar remains one of my most favourite bakeries till date...I miss all my birthday cakes from there...I will not be home for my birthday this year :((((((( waaahh, sob, sob, sobby some more...
A good night's sleep has made me feel slightly better today...let's hope this lasts...I have so much work to do, but obviously I am distracted atm, writing random, DESULTORY posts on my blog. My blog is becoming very possessive of me...or am I becoming possessed by my blog? Ke jaane?

Have I changed?

I was perusing my blog. March Suns is clinging on to me today. It is just not letting go off me. The minute I come back to my office after lessons, it is coaxing m to type something out. I am not in the 'writerly' mood now. I cannot expect to write well, when there are a million unrelated thoughts buzzing and milling in my mind. Now, I've gone and made my mind sound like a teeming bee-hive. How awful!
My staff-room is lovely. All the practicum trainees are warm and wonderful, and very helpful.
After a hard day at work, I return to what I have named Lazy-Land, aka the campus, as I am still living in my Hall of Residence.
Hall of Residence 8. What does it mean for me now? What will it mean to me many years hence? Besides being as pretty as a picture post-card, and as steep as a hill, it has many other little connections with me. There is the Games Room, where I validate my room key every week. With its enormous TV i never get to watch. There are the flights and flights of steps I have to climb up and down every day. There is the pantrY where I go, to fill my water bottle. There is my room, a shared double room, where I have wrapped up my life in one corner. There is the view from the window, of verdant trees and the parking lot. There is the fake-wood floor, which I sweep every now and then. There are the white cupboards, there is the big, roomy desk, and the most comfortable bed ever...then there are the myriad drawers, into which I have compartmentalized my life...the one with the detergent, the one with the hand-cream, the one with my books.
Why am I writing all this? To chronicle, of course. When my memory plays tricks on me as the years pass, if it ever does, the little details will not slip me by. Sometimes I wonder how the grains of time, have slipped like sand, through my fingers. I want to go to Puri. I love the atmosphere of the place.
Uh oh, there goes the bell...CLASS

...

I hope I ever become a cynic. I hope I never become the kind of person who is not appreciative of everything all around. Appreciation of the littl things of life is the most important of all. I hope I don't give up on my habit of trusting people easily. But I will never give up being cautious. Specially in some significantly significant matters. You are better safe than sorry. And I still believe that golden dreams are better than a very cruel reality. I have waited so long, and I can wait longer. Forever.

Sleeping late and awaking at the wee sma's

I hope this kind of schedule does not do bad things to my system in the long run...but oh well, this won't last forever...I have a formal lesson observation in a couple of minutes. I am soothing my nervous fingers through typing. Teaching is one of the most taxing and demanding jobs on the planet. More so if you are always on task, alert and occupied, making lesson plans, creating resources, and of course conveying information in a simplified manner. I would think teaching higher levels is always easier...you do not have to modify your content knowledge to a comprehensible level.
But teaching is one of the most rewarding and necessary jobs on the planet. A teacher does teach every other profession. So, as the PhD beckons, I will cast it aside for a while. I have made up my mind to pursue a part-time PhD. No rush. I will banish the word RUSH from my dictionary. I will do things I love at the slow, leisurely pace of a lazily ambling horse. Okay, maybe I will trot about sometimes, but I shall never canter. As I type this out, I know that I'm speaking too soon.
Poetry and Prose will be my ever-long companions.

How do I feel about waking up at 5 in the A.M.?

Mostly numb. Sometimes tired. What can I say?

some day

Some day, like Anne Shirley, I can call this phase an "Epoch in my life." I am being incessantly challenged to do that which I never thought I would be capable of doing. But I do realize that a trying period serves to strengthen one, in the long run. My scatter-brained self is being forced into an organised mode, of better time management and self-discipline. In long after years, maybe I will lie silently in bed, and recall this phase, how crazy and anxious I felt, how inefficient I felt, and how I worked hard on my short-comings.
I was speaking to one of my best friends from College, about how University was really a honeymoon phase, with extra shots of honey and a lot of moon-shine. I mean, I studied a subject I am in LOVE with..LIT.everyday was like a Revelation, like a new phase of a long lasting love-bond.
Today, I feel elated...elation has come, if a little belated.
I taught a young class, of impressionable minds, about the wonders of Shakespeare. Yes, William has ALWAYS been a firm friend, he has never let me down, and he didn't today.
During my O Levels, his lines were inspiration enough for me to look at life with the eyes of a bright, bright bird...oh the thrills his poetry gave me...his plays were so wonderful..."parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good-night till it be morrow." How lovely. R and J is still my favorite play. I've had to read so many plays after that, but this one is unparalleled in its use of language.
The only play I don't like that much is Measure for Measure...it is indeed a "problem play," in the deepest sense of the term.
I am taking a break from my work as I write this. Writing is really therapeutic. It does what the Coolness of a Mother's hand can do to a hot, fevered fore-head of a sick child.
I miss home. But I firmly believe that this 'Rite of Passage' was necessary. It has helped me grow, in ways that will show in later years. Hopefully.
I am contemplating that elusive yet inevitable PhD...Keats? Shakespeare? Post -colonial? I still cannot decide, but I do think that I will settle on poetry in the end.
Teaching Secondary school makes me feel more grounded. It has really brought me down from the Ivory Tower of Lit. I occupied. Why yes, I cannot deny that Lit majors do live in some sort of Utopic world of Ideal Seclusion. Here, I am challenged by real people, real situations. Literature is ALSO about reality. It is one of the most REAL subjects I know. But vicarious thrills are different from real ones. I must add that all thrills are not pleasant.
I was going mad the other day, reminiscing about Chemistry. Though this does sound ODD, I feel that Chemistry is one of the most romantic subjects ever. I love the way in which chemical bonds can be explained. Even the most inanimate of chairs consists of firmly bonded molecules and atoms. And not everything can bond with everything else. No there are rules, preferences, affiliations. wow. And the Periodic Table Sigh. My fervent desire is to have a wall in my room, wall-papered with the Periodic Table. :))
I miss curling up at home, with a nice pillow to hug, reading, reading and reading. I miss sudden phone calls from my University friends, coaxing me to join them for a walk. I miss seeing my parents and grad-parents every day. I miss all this too intensely sometimes. The intensity threatens to choke and overpower, but I am trying to over-power it.
Whta else? I saw a doctor about the cold I caught, and am feeling much better, though I am yelling meself hoarse in mst of the classes. I still have lesson plans to work on and finish.
And Sigh, what else? Lots more? Nothing else? I don't know...sometimes I feel so confused, so lost. At other moments, I see sparks of light at the end of the tunnel. But does the tunnel even have an end? Where does the tunnel lead to. Most importantly, what is the tunnel? Is it a symbol? Basically, writing is my way of talking to myself, in the absence of my besties.
But I must say that I AM VERY GRATEFUL for all the new friends I have made here.

RANT ANGRY RANT

i AM TIRED OF EXPLAINING TO PEOPLE THAT EVEN THOUGH I LOVE WRITING 'SAD LOVE POETRY,' I HAVE NEVER BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP...A BIT OF IMAGINATION CAN MAKE ONE EMPATHIZE WITH THE MOST BROKEN- HEARTED OF PEOPLE...I HOPE NOBODY ELSE ASKS ME: "Diya, are you okay?" To which I reply with a bewildered "WHY?" and to which they say,"Oh your poems are so sad, they talk so passionately about sadness in love." And then there are so many people who will go on to say: "Who would have thought you can write such sad poetry? You are always so happy and cheerful. Do you harbor hurt inside?" PLEASE!! GUYS, writers are meant to be imaginative beings.
I don't have to explain this to my close friends and family who know me, thank Heavens.

THE POEM WHICH I WROTE TO TRIGGER OFF THE REACTIONS:
Tonight I'll let you go,
Though you were never mine;
Tonight we're on our own, yet
I know that you'll be fine.

Tonight I heave a sigh,
As my green-dreams pass me by;
Silently disillusioned, I cry,
"Oh Dreams, you lie, you lie."

Tonight my eyes are wet,
But my mind is firm and set;
For, wait a while yet I won't
Since none of my needs were met.
(Just because I didn't have many,
Doesn't mean that I don't have any.)

Tonight I'm just, well, sad;
Though I have reasons to be glad;
There are so many more people to add,
On to the list of friends I've had.

Soon my eyes will be dry,
I'll no longer need to cry,
I'll no longer question "Why?",
As the days will pass me by.

They say Time heals all,
Even skin-marks left by a fall.
But Time alone will tell,
If it can mend a broken heart well.

Tonight I've set you free,
Will you never think of me?

Tonight I've let you go,
Though you were never mine.
Tonight we're on our own,
Will I really be fine?

GROWING UP

growing....growing....grown

There are times when I feel a strange ache inside me. No, the doctor isn't required, at the moment. These are just growth pains. They are supposed to make us stronger, they are supposed to help us cope with the "BIG, BAD, WORLD." Why, wouldn't it just be easier if the world continued being big, and just stopped being bad...it's not an entirely absurd impossibility, if one comes to think of it...
I have often, no, repeatedly, told myself to steer clear of expecting anything from anyone...apart from those I love with every span of my soul, of course...expectations are of a different category with them. But, just in general, it is best to do and give without hoping for anything in return. And I am not talking about material returns at all. I mean, even in friendship, ONE should learn to GIVE love and affection, without hoping to be loved back in return. This is rare...friendship is usually premised on mutual fondness...this sounds difficult, and it is...but the lower one's expectations, the happier she/he will be....this is what I feel. And there are just days when one feels unloved, but everything is all sunshine and Plums the next day again...friends should give each other that space and respect.
Hmmmmm...so what else have I been up to? Well, reading L.M.Montgomery again. I think I will start crying, out of the sheer intensity of revisited and imagined emotions, (revisited because her books are always visiting my mind), if I ever do really go to Prince Edward Island. The trip will be a Holy Pilgrimage, consecrated to my Love for Literature, and my Devotion to the philosophy advocated in her books.

...

I would like to say a very hearty thank you to my friends who say I should consider formal publishing...I will try dearies...but I don't know how I feel about that...because I really feel like Anne Bradstreet does...hehe...sending out a child into the big, commercial world of printing...haha, but the blog has copyright...lol

The story I'm working on now...incomplete as of now........plan to formalize it a bit more before the final publish

Old Mr. Hanshaw had his face turned towards the wall, as he lay on his bed, living on borrowed time. 70 years had passed by, almost in a jiffy, he thought. But it must have taken AGES, he reasoned with himself, to have built up the repository of memories which were now reposing in quiet corners of his furiously active brain. He no longer felt keenly about the absence of books by his bed-side. It was enough for him to turn over the chapters which were strewn across his mind, and attempt to string them together, in some semblance of chronology.
The doctor had merely given a grave, subtle little nod to the Nurse, that morning. She thought Old Mr. Hanshaw, as he was popularly known, was too ill to realize the dark significance of her little gesture. But Mr. Hanshaw’s eyes had always been sharp, and he felt a sharp pain slice his insides, with the sharp jaggedness of a serrated-edged knife.
The world was far too precious to him. He had NEVER taken it for granted. He’d be up at five, to keenly welcome each morning, he’d sing a silent ode to the hottest of afternoons, sitting at his office cubicle, he’d worship each evening’s ephemeral loveliness, and he would anticipate each new night with the exhilarated eagerness of a love-cloaked girl, awaiting a letter from her beloved.
His thoughts were always with HER. She was by his side, every waking moment, and every sleeping hour. She nestled against him in the soft hours of those lonesome nights, she was holding his hands, with her feathery fingers, in the first hours of the Dawn, when the Dark Curtains of the previous Night were parting, to make way for a brand new day, a brand new scene. She was with him, as he stirred his porridge in his lonely kitchen, as he bent over slightly to see if he had boiled it enough. Her fingers fluttered nimbly, over his, as he turned the pages of the morning Newspaper. She hovered around, like a formless Angel, when he dressed hurriedly, to get ready for work.When he arrived breathless at the bus stop, she would inspire him with her indefatigably energetic spirit. On afternoons, when his clerical duties seemed never-ending, she would infuse him with an enthusiasm so rare, that the people around him wondered at his passion for the monotonous tasks he so smilingly performed.
The evenings were the most Special of All. She would stroke his hair, mop his brow, and effortlessly glide into his soul, as effortlessly as the gentle, sudden transition, with which the sky went from blue-pink-pitch black and star-studded, with a quiet certainty. No, he was never alone. Yes, she was always there, the Moonshine Girl, the Healer of the Spirit, the Stimulator of all things lovely, the girl he had never had the courage to speak to. And yet, he was never alone. Maybe that’s why he was never alone. Yet, she was never a figure of Exasperating Idealism, which a lot of women become to single men. She was real, she had faults...oh yes, she and Hanshaw would argue in his mind, over a plethora of trivial issues...and the end of each session, Hanshaw would leave a silent rose on his window-sill, to make up for his recalcitrance...the first sign of madness, some had said. Mad, had Hanshaw smirked. Who could be labelled as completely sane?
His thoughts drifted even further back, to his mother. The flowers on the table she so carefully arranged, the loose bun on her head, which she so carelessly tied. The warm smell of her gentle, sudden hugs, the lopsided half smile which danced upon her lips when he returned home with his sports trophies. Her love of all food bland, her love for sad, sad movies, which made her silently cry into her pink, pink handkerchief, while the little Mr. Hanshaw watched on, in great distress (he did not like to see his mother cry, but she so often did, thinking he wouldn’t notice), such thoughts came hurtling back to him now, with the speed of an over-zealous train.
His Father. What memories did he have? Mr. Hanshaw tried to turn out his mind, as he would turn out his pockets on his birthdays, when he would receive sweets from his friends. Yes, his father. He had been a big, busy man, busy doing things which Hanshaw had no idea about. He was hardly ever in the house. He hardly spoke to mother. He was hardly ever there. But Hanshaw did remember the rough sting of his father’s one brusque kiss on his cheek, the only form of affection he ever showed, before he left with that brown, or was it grey suit-case. Did the color matter now? Had it ever mattered? How old had he been, Hanshaw? Seven? Eight? Nine? Did it matter anymore? But that was the end of the Father-chapter. Did he miss his father? Did he judge him harshly in his later years? Hanshaw never did. A father was a father to him, if irresponsible, if callous, if cruel, a father was a father. Hanshaw frowned in the Darkness. These were not his words. These had been his Mother’s last words.
Not of mother, though, no. Mother was always there, sadder still after father left, but somehow happier too.
But what about the University degree? Mr. Hanshaw could never complete it. Blame it all on the broken leg, he thought. But a clerk’s job was not a bad one, someone had to do the work, he’d reasonable reasoned with himself.
His office cubicle had been quite a sight to behold. Cluttered one day, organized the next, cluttered one day, and re-organized the next. And the books of poetry…what poetry did to Hanshaw, a bowl of hot soup did to a sore throat, a cool strip of cloth did to a warm, fevered fore-head, a good night’s sleep did to a worn-out body and mind.
Which quote was playing upon his mind now? No, it was not the one he thought would play in his last hours. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” For Hanshaw had ALWAYS been a gentle man, ready to succumb, ready to yield, and ALWAYS ready to re-adjust. No, he had been delusional in thinking Dylan would win over Keats…
“Now, more than ever it seems rich to die…”
And slowly, the jagged knife inside him melted, as though the pain of his imminent extinction was being extinguished by an unseen, cool, soothing balm…
And then there was John Clare, whose "I AM" was embedded in his mind forever...a sudden flash...three boys who had taunted him by calling him fat...Hanshaw shedding tears...the boys laughing...and She, silently reprimanding the boys, smiling shyly at Hanshaw and running away...that had been her last day at school...
Mad, they had called him, mad Old Hanshaw, MAD in his recent days. Why, he thought? Because he spoke to the birds which perched upon the balcony of the Home? Why, because he remained silent for long, long spells, lost in his realm of memories and dreams? Why, because he refused to eat for three days, as he wanted the poor, thin-as-a-rail lady on the next bed, to have his helping as well. So what if she was not allowed to eat solid food, as they had explained to him. Did they ever really matter, the states of matter? What was the state of his life now? Was he about to assume the gaseous state of diffuse nothingness when his solid body would be laid to rest, soil heaped over it? Were the years in between Liquid, flowing from one incident to the next, one state of existence to another?
He remembered his Physics tutor. He had such huge spectacles. And he detested poetry. What was his name? Hanshaw didn’t pursue this thought. It hadn’t mattered then. It certainly didn’t matter now.
All his life, Mr.Hanshaw had wanted to write a book. It was his only regret. His only regret. But now, in his last waking hours, he realized that all books were not written by hand, there were a few which were authored by Life.

?

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder,
That Distance doubles Yearning,
But I am slowly Learning...
To dis-believe unquestioned adages...
Emotional Bandages
On intangible Wounds,
Caused by sorrow and tears, as one so often hears.
Hardly heal.