BOOK REVIEW CHAOS, THEOS and KOSMOS

 

                                         

                                                     BOOK REVIEW

        CHAOS, THEOS and KOSMOS

        

I must start with an honest confession that my judgement about this book went wrong terribly.

Having three to-be-read books on my desk, I thought this would be fiction but when I started reading, I  found it unique. This book has fifty short articles on different topics. The authoress Kosha Shah Chandaria renders her inspirational views in a subtle, blatant and phenomenal expression. Her writing reflects that she is a liberated woman who has a clear vision of life and its phenomenons. 

      On Menstruation, she writes-                    

                          Why be ashamed of the stains... of your own blood?

                 If breathing can be normal, why can't bleeding be?

 The narrative is poetic, though it is not poetry. I wonder what amount of thoughts she invested to write such a book. As she submits-

"Overthinkers are true lovers, the real achievers...Those who care, Those who really care..."

The authoress confidently and unabashedly talks about the relationships and taboos to which a lot of stigmas are still attached and a larger part of our society shy away talking about.

I loved the conversational style of writing. The opinions are expressed with a careful watch against being preachy or sounding superior.

Kosha Shah's 'Chaos, Theos and Kosmos' is a wonderful read that profoundly represents an educated and empowered woman who has strong opinions and a clear vision about life.

PROLOGUE- IT ALL HAPPENED IN A SCHOOL

      IT ALL HAPPENED IN A SCHOOL

                                                         a novel by Gaurav Sharma

PROLOGUE

GOD & GURU CONVENT

Monday, September 11, 2017

The chirpy five-year-old angel to her father is unusually quiet today. After months, she has refused to have lunch with her father after returning from school. He tries his best to cajole her but nothing works.  He gives up and infers that she is not well. But, strangely, as her parents turn away, she slips into the bathroom.

Minutes pass. She is still in the bathroom. The father, restless and worried, asks his wife to check. The mother finds her frantically washing her clothes. The bloodstains on her clothes have tinged the water red. Soon, the mother finds out that her little daughter has been raped. The girl tells her mother, “The uncle who wears a cap has beaten me with fingers down there.”

The father rushes her to a hospital where the doctors confirm that she has been raped. Her condition deteriorates and she is in a critical state now.

Police have arrested the culprit. This forty-year-old ‘uncle’ is a peon in her school. He, himself is the father of a teenage daughter.

The innocent victim also mentions that she had complained to a teacher but she laughed it out.

She goes to TAGORE PUBLIC SCHOOL in Gandhi Nagar, Delhi.

Barely three days before this heinous incident was a boy found murdered in the toilet of RYAN INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL in Gurugram, Haryana. Police arrested an employee of the school, a bus conductor, and reported that he had confessed to the boy’s murder. Later, it surfaced that a senior student of the same school had killed the boy.

The rapist and the killer didn’t think about the parents for whom their children were the hope and purpose of life. They didn’t think that their merciless act would paint a dirty picture of all schools. In the latter incident, the criminal himself was a juvenile. By committing this needless crime, he killed the myriads dreams of four parents.

The schools are supposed to be the safest place for children after their homes. They are not. Not any longer. Even the teachers are not true to their profession. The teacher the little girl complained to should have listened to her and should have acted upon immediately. She was a woman and must be a mother to a daughter.

The extensive coverage of these crimes by the media has ensured that the culprits would be brought to justice but, there had been a case that didn’t come into the limelight. Power stamped out the flames before they could grow. However, the ashes refused to cool down. Another five-year-old was raped in a school twelve years ago.

The news of an untoward incident in a school anywhere makes tremors run through me. My foundations shake and the earth threatens to loosen its grip over me. The sun looks away. Skies spit on me. The air cuts through the arches on my terrace hurling expletives. The ‘Nishan Sahib’ and the huge Cross installed on the terrace feel ashamed of their association with me. Terrible events of yesteryears still hover around and blatantly refuse to die.

I am not the only one who suffers when a felony is committed to any school student. My horrendous past troubles another person. It refuses to allow him peace as well and haunts him as severely as it haunts me. When a gross offence occurs in a school, he comes here after work, to visit the Gurudwara sahib and sit quietly for some time. The magnitude of our guilt is so huge that twelve years of remorse could not wash it off.

This man, Harjeet Singh, is a former employee of God & Guru Convent. The terrible events that took place fifteen years ago devastated him such that he had to quit his job. The disaster did help him to evolve as a human being and as a teacher; however, the cost of this transformation was so high that it would keep him burdened for life.

I am happy for him because his career flourished after he left me as it always happens with all the good teachers who unwittingly join this school. They prosper in life and career when they change their employer. As if, they serve here under a curse and once that curse is lifted, there is no looking back for them. Harjeet is now the Principal of a reputed school in North Delhi.

When he resigned from his job, his wife was pregnant with their first child. “If the baby is a girl, I'll call her Pankhudi and if it's a boy, I'll call him Soubhagya.” He had decided. Pankhudi and Soubhagya were two of his colleagues during the last three years of his tenure here. He adored both. His daughter is twelve and son is ten years old now.

It is ten past three and Harjeet is here.

Since the day I was founded, I have a special power. When someone associated with me contemplates sitting alone, their thoughts seep into me. I’m a sole witness to the rumblings of discontent and an audience to their soliloquies.

You can order your copies here:

Flipkart

https://www.flipkart.com/all-happened-school/p/itm36ff7f5302dbd?pid=9789385440731

PustakMandi:

https://www.pustakmandi.com/it_all_happened_in_a_school_118184_1

Amazon:

https://www.amazon.in/dp/938544073X?ref=myi_title_dp

#schools #crime #books #novels #teachers #students #education #rape #murder #thriller #fiction #authors #readers #reviewers

                       LEADERSHIP

This is not a regular blog post but, my son's views on LEADERSHIP. Recently, my son had applied for a scholarship in which he was asked to write about his views and ways of leading a team.
I am sharing the same writeup by Arnav Sharma here......

Ideally, a leader should be an influencer but that influence must not be forced upon. His followers or his sub-ordinates must choose what about him influences them.

When I lead, I try to lead by example. As a leader, I don’t try to grab the most important task but, readily assign it to someone who, I think, can do it better than anybody in the team.

For instance, when we make a documentary or a short movie, we know it is teamwork and everyone in the team has a specific role to play.  The final product will be as good as our efforts, zeal and degree of passion. Even if it is my idea and I have taken the initiative, I cannot accomplish it alone. I not only depend on their help and support but their devoted Participation.

Professional relationship is just a derivative of personal relationship. To be more productive and continuously raising the bar of performance, we need to create a congenial environment of working that includes the rapport between the professionals.

For sound professional relationship, one must understand the temperament, likes and dislikes, aptitude, attitude towards life and career, ambitions and dreams, and a little idea of the personal life of each one of my associates.

Trust and respect are indispensable for any relationship. We must appreciate and always give positive affirmations to our associates. Even when something doesn’t yield expected results, we must encourage and motivate them for future endeavours without going mad at them.

During the making of one of my short movies, my friend who was playing the lead character didn’t turn up on the shoot-site. We tried to contact him but could not. After a long wait, we had to cancel the shoot. All of us were angry. His called on my number and the first thing he said, swept away my frustration. He said, “I have called you because I know you will understand” His voice enunciated the trust, hope and faith. I couldn’t retort and chose to hear him patiently. He said, “My uncle who lives in Nagpur passed away this morning. We had to leave immediately. We are still in the way.”

You can’t always behave with your co-workers weighing their worth for your business. I believe that a diplomat may fail but a humane heart will never in any kind of relationship. 

ARE WE ON THE WAY TO ACCEPTING RAPES LIKE DOWRY-DEATHS?

ARE WE ON THE WAY TO ACCEPTING RAPES LIKE DOWRY-DEATHS?



After the Nirbhaya case on 16 December 2012, we have developed this habit of ranting on social media, holding noisy protests, organising candle marches and hearing our God-like celebrities expressing rage (a few tweets from the greater mortals are the testimonials that the incident was horrendous). Every time the news anchors report the incident, they pretend to be sombre and choose the best words from their vocabulary.
“The moral root of this nation has shaken once more” can attract more ears in comparison to “Another woman raped” which is as plain as a nose on someone’s face. Though this show of concern, mixed with anger starts with great determination and energy but it dies of natural death in a few days without achieving anything. The news of incidents of rapes with greater cruelty and fearlessness keep coming. The culprits of Nirbhaya case are still making merry at Tihar jail while taking a cue from them,  the potential rapists outside the jail have no fear of law. We, now, are a country where more than a hundred thousand rapes happen every year. The Hyderabad rape case is another slap on our shameless faces.
Have we grown habitual of rapes?
We are approaching a stage of acceptance of sexual crimes as we have accepted the dowry-deaths and honour-killing. We, Indians, are losers. We surrender easily. We cannot turn tides-we have never done that. Even in sports, we are infamous for losing from a winning position and not the vice-versa. I hear great-minds-with-meagre-education saying that these rape-cases are the consequences of women empowerment or the short dresses or the women keeping out till late. By saying this they confess that men of this country are beasts who on seeing a helpless woman lose their sanity. They completely ignore the fact that these sick perverts see even the infant-girls as opportunities.
The other day, I was discussing this issue with my young students. I asked how do you think we can stop rapes? “Girls should not be out after six,” one of the boys responded. “If a violent dog has biting-tendency, would you chain the dog or the people around?” I retorted. When he didn’t react, I asked again, “Won’t it work better if we don’t allow men to go out after six?” He smiled and nodded. A girl said that all girls should get self-defence training though she agreed that this too has limitations. However powerful and bold a girl maybe, she can’t overpower four or five men alone. “Girls should not tolerate slightest of nuisance and raise alarm at the very first inkling of someone misbehaving,” another boy came up. Finding a boy hesitant, I threw up a blunt question, “Do you think you can rape a girl?”
His response surprised everyone. “No, sir. It needs courage.” I knew he couldn’t choose the right words. “You mean to say every courageous man should rape? And, would you commit rape if you happen to grow courageous sometimes?” He shook his head voraciously, “My parents will kill me if I ever do such things.” That fear made me feel good. Every parent can instil that fear, if not values, in their sons when he is still young. They can tell their sons that they would not only disown them but would not spare them even if they manage to escape the law. We need to start from the beginning to teach them not to rape when we teach them not to lie, not to steal and not to quarrel.
I think it would be a good idea if teachers talk to their students especially boys starting with middle classes (just when puberty has hit or about to hit) asking their views on rapes. This can serve the dual purpose of sex education and making them understand the difference between ‘Sex with Integrity’ and ‘Sex with criminality’ elaborating the consequences at the same time.
We must think of the ways to make all men understand that rape cannot bring the pleasure they intend to seek like in sports, you will not enjoy if your opponent doesn’t play with the same zeal and spirit as yours. Sex is not the game that can be played and enjoyed without or against the consent of your partner. It is high time that we thrust into the minds of all men that they do not have a birthright to do sex whenever and with whomever they want. Sex is not a privilege and they need to earn it every time. There is no licence for sex other than the consent of their partner. We need more advertisements shouting and warning people against sexual assaults.
Women too, need to be cautious and vigilant. We can’t deny that they have a right to lead their lives in whatever way they want but taking small precautions can save them from the irrecoverable trauma called rape. While roaming in a forest, it is insane to take a beast for granted. They should not trust anyone when it comes to their body. I personally, have no issues with Public Display of Affection other than that it makes the two people involved vulnerable and also put others to risk. Rapists are psychologically ill and, in most cases, they are from a humble background. The tendency to rape is also a privilege-deficiency disorder. These already depressed people feel jealous when they see other men enjoying the proximity of women. They snatch what they can’t get.
I refuse to agree that rapists are sex-deprived or sex-obsessed people. They are sick with an untreatable mental disorder resulted from faulty upbringing. Rapists can’t be reformed. I have researched and found that they are repeat offenders. So, imprisonment is a waste of time and resources. It is like nurturing a threat on a false assumption of keeping it under scrutiny. Such notions soon make us repent when the offender commits another crime as soon as he gets an opportunity. To prevent rapes, we need the most stringent of laws.

BOOK REVIEW - SUMMER HOLIDAYS

BOOK REVIEW

                         SUMMER HOLIDAYS

                                  By KORAL DASGUPTA

“Some sentiments are personal. They are deep and impassioned. They expose the raw, unfabricated feelings of the heart so ruthlessly that it feels naked.”  (Page 223)

To a writer, a review is not just about praise or criticism. The unimagined and never thought of perceptions that reviews bring out, which sometimes, even the creator of the story hasn’t touched upon are more valuable to a writer.

While reading ‘SUMMER HOLIDAYS’ I was wondering how challenging it was to write this story. For me, it would have been too difficult to write such a story. I was gobsmacked, mesmerised and in awe of the authoress. In an era when everyone writes either a Romance or a Thriller, someone chooses to write about families, siblings, and relations. And, it’s not just a naive attempt but a masterpiece. I reckon this book will soon be in the curriculum for the students pursuing literature. This is the story that I would call ‘Real Fiction’.

I have great respect for the people who respect relations. Our relations are our strength. They are the people God wanted to be in our lives. Our relatives are the people who love us in spite of knowing all our shortcomings. Their unconditional love brightens up our lives. We may not hear from them for months even then, we live with the assurance that we can bank upon them in the hour of need. The belief that some people are just a call away and will come to our aid no matter what the circumstances are makes us face all challenges life throws at us. A rift, small disagreements, trivial arguments, random quarrels should not cut off the divine bond that binds us. Our lives will always suffer and feel the lack of cheerfulness if we shove them out of the sphere, they are naturally an inseparable part of.

This story has touched me, stirred my emotions, wetted my eyes many times and for a change, made me a slow reader- I sipped it rather than gulping that I normally do. This book is a ‘Research Material.’

“When you don’t water your plants, they die.” This, Major Dhillon says about relations.

Narrated in an uncomplicated third person, the story begins with a rift between parentless siblings- a brother and a sister, that distances them for years but another pair of siblings-their kids, eventually bring them together again.

The protagonist, Rishi is a real artist. The way he treats Meera stirred the brother in me. He is protective but wants her to transform the small-town-introvert-maiden in her into a confident woman who flaunts her goodness. How great it is that a brother tells his sister that ‘She makes heads turn’. The teasing remarks he passes to his sister takes you back to your childhood.

    “Someone seems to have made peace with tattoos.”

The manner, in which Koral Dasgupta describes the artwork, shows her artisanal skills. I could see the picture that Viyaan buys and the sketch of the boy sitting under the banyan tree in front of the tea-stall.

I love the way he warns Viyaan Iyer, his employer against flirting with his sister. And, the way he snubs the taxi driver when he Meera reaches Mumbai. And, how he sweetly he treats Shabnam. Girls, do read this book and you will fall in love with Rishi.

Meera impresses as a motherless girl and a daughter of a disciplined Army officer. I love her no-prejudice-demeanour towards his father. Daughters are always so accommodating and understanding. I admire the efforts she put in to understand her brother, Rishi.

Major General Anil Dhillon is a stereotype army officer, disciplined, egoist and suppressor of emotions. He impresses towards the end when he accepts the imposter Rahul Pandey as his daughter’s suitor although he disliked his habits. That’s what a father is.

Viyaan Iyer appears rude. Despite his magnanimous personality, I worried about Meera whenever she meets him.

Deepti Bua is all right though, I felt that the author could have shown her thinking about her brother and niece a few times.

What a man Sharat Bahl is! A brilliantly drawn character blessed to have inherited the author’s great sense of humour. A perfect English literature professor. I had instant respect for him when he says, “In a few days he will see his dreams come to life. He will be able to touch it. Can anyone be richer than that?”

And when he says to Meera, “Usually it’s my wife who stands there staring at that photograph. I had just started to rejoice that she had suddenly grown young. Tough luck.”

And, the wife, Deepti Bua refuses to hold back.

“You can trust English Professors to be desperate.”

The ever-enigmatic and infamous Husband-Wife equation has been realistically expressed.

“Just check whether there are chilli flakes in the tea”

“You do all kinds of strange things and I have to hear about it for months after……… Why should I face the music for someone else’s strange habits?”     (Page 133 is fantastic)

We wonder how strange things manage to find only us. This is the kind of story that will bring solace to our distress of being cursed. When an author writes about the things you thought happened to you only, a sense of relief embarks upon you that you are not alone.

There is philosophy even in the humour. The comparison that the author draws between a Physics lecturer wife and an English-literature-professor husband is thought-provoking- She looked older than her age while he looked the same.

Shiraz, a mere gardener, the non-participant and yet very much part of the story is the author’s most favourite. Why, she tells in the acknowledgements. Shiraz never does anything wrong. He is the only one, Rishi has no complaints about. Shiraz is an unflawed human being. He grows beautiful marigolds. He talks to them. Rishi is so smitten by Shiraz that he finds his daughter the most perfect girl.

Shiraz would turn everything into an enchanting story.

He composes folk songs. Everything beautiful nature has, manifests in his songs. A lover of mankind is always a lover of nature though it may not be the other way around. Shiraz dies of snakebite.

“The ugliness is an illusion…You have to see through it to reach the real beauty…” Shiraz says.

The vain comparison between Virat Kohli and Sachin Tendulkar irks the cricket-fanatic in me.

“Work like you are having a blast with the bat (like Kohli), rather than worshipping the bat like Tendulkar.”

And, not forgetting Kunj Bihari ji, the mouthpiece of wisdom, I strongly feel, he exists somewhere if not at IIT Mumbai. He exists and the author has studied him closely for she has written this character with remarkable precision.

Page number 239 to 243, I read with tears in my eyes despite the author’s spirited efforts of balancing emotions with humour. Let me tell you Koral Dasgupta, your brilliance failed here.

SUMMER HOLIDAYS is the kind of book on which I can write a thesis. It’s a book I can read again and again.

But, I am weird. Ending this write-up without criticism will disturb my digestion. A question I asked the writer in me after I finished reading SUMMER HOLIDAYS, why do we writers bring in characters, use them to our advantage and then discard them. I felt sorry for Professor Shayan Banerjee. Why was he in the story? And, the little boy who sold incense sticks on the road, who meets Rishi, rides on his bike, imparts a piece of valuable advice and perishes. Just one appearance?

I maintain that the way someone writes shows the way he or she lives. Only a person who values his relations could have written such a fabulous story. SUMMER HOLIDAYS will always remain alive in my memory. Beautiful story it is!

Do read this if you love your siblings and value your relations.

BOOK REVIEW-Till We Meet Again

BOOK REVIEW

                      Till We Meet Again

                                           -Shiabji Bose 



 
‘Ordinary people have extraordinary stories'- the blurb says. So true it is! 
The story is about the mundaneness of a lower-middle-class household. Their financial woes. The worries of the lone earning member to make children capable of battling the challenges that life poses and his lifelong sufferings to realise only two dreams- to erect a roof over head and to solemnise his daughter's marriage. His shoulders happily and selflessly carry the burden of all other lives. And, when he perishes suddenly, somebody has to take up his role. The quantum of responsibility remains the same irrespective of his capabilities. The bereaved family survives on the saving of the deceased father.  Constraints and worries are an inseparable part of such ordinary lives.

I maintain that the rich only know what life is but the poor understand what life is. The story equipped with the author's deep understanding of life subtly corroborates my belief. The intrinsic and detailed narration of the struggles of a family makes ‘Till We Meet Again' a good read.
'Till We Meet Again' (though I have inhibitions about the validity of the title for the story) is a promising attempt by the debutant author Shibaji Bose. 

Another thing about this story that kept me hooked to it is the protagonist choosing to become a hairstylist. I could relate to it as I have gone through the same. I am a mathematics teacher and when my son conveyed his desire to become a Cinematographer, I was in a fix. After a few sleepless nights, I weighed that my son's dreams are more important than the bizarre opinion of society. 

The narration is a bit unfathomable in the first few pages where extravagantly compound and complex sentences and needless rosy adjectives make reading tedious. The inexperience of the debutante might be the reason for it and the editor should have guided him. 
The letter addressed to the protagonist from the diseased father is the only astounding feature of the story in the first few pages.  The letter to which every father and every son can relate to earned the first applause for the author from the emotional reader in me. The writing improves gradually as the sentences become shorter. Writing a book is a journey and it was appeasing to see an author metamorphosing through his maiden voyage. 

I also felt some loopholes in characterisation. Aryan, the protagonist is ordinary in everything but is like a hermit. He is a dutiful son, a doting brother and a decent male who doesn't 'salivate' (borrowed from the author's diction) seeing women. I would have cherished some more humanly vices in him other than being an ordinary guy. 
Kavya impresses me as a character (not as a woman). Shibaji Bose has portrayed her as a worldly woman with believable traits. Although the revelation of her connivance against the protagonist came as a rude shock, I felt for her. Committing adultery by a wife to teach a lesson to her husband for hiding some wrong practice is indigestible but I accept it as the changing values and modernised institution of marriage. Surprisingly, the marriage survives after the wife's revenge. I had to console the reader in me when the story announced that the couple had united again because I had envisaged that the story would end with Aryan and Kavya tying knot. Alas! It doesn't happen. Uncertainty is one beautiful aspect of storytelling. Readers may not approve of the unthinkable turn the story takes but they always appreciate the author's extent of imagination to outthink them.

Be it Aryan's mother, or his sister- Rhea, be it Kavya, Reema or Priya, all the female characters in 'Till We Meet Again' are self-centred and ambitious. I felt a repressed disharmony and denigration in the author's portrayal of women. I am curious to know the reason for it. The author's rich vocabulary also impresses me.

FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

आओ बचपन सींचें - 6

चाहे कितने भी बड़े हो जाएँ, फिर भी हम सब हमेशा थोड़े-थोड़े बच्चे ही रहते हैं l नए कपड़े पहन कर बड़े भी इतराते हैं l जन्मदिन पर गिफ्ट पाकर बड़े भी खुश हो जाते हैं l 
जरूरी है बच्चा बने रहना और बच्चों से जुड़े रहना l  




FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

A HUMBLE TRIBUTE


What could be a more appropriate subject for this week's post other than remembering the teachers who play an important but underrated role in our lives? 

My first thoughts were to write about the invaluable contribution of teachers in making us capable to face the challenges of life, however, I changed my mind for two reasons. 
First, all of us have written essays on 'My Favourite Teacher' or 'An Ideal Teacher' in schools that everything I would have written might sound cliched. Second, I am a teacher myself. My write-up to glorify teachers would sound like preaching or self-adoration. 
So, I chose to share memories of my teachers with you. 

My first school was St. John's Primary School at Barmer, Rajasthan. On the first day of school, my mother went to drop us (My Sister and I) to the school. Not ready to part with her, I went into hysterics and clasped her sari. When nobody could console me, Mr. Mathew came forward. He held my right hand as my mother's sari was in the tight grip of my left hand. There was a tug-of-war between Mr. Mathew and me. After putting up a spirited fight and creating quite a spectacle, I lost to Mr. Mathew. Overpowering me, the robust teacher with a bushy moustache and Rajesh Khanna like hairdo, signalled my mother to leave. His heart changed colours like a chameleon the moment my mother left. Giving me a tight slap, he sent me to my class. Another thing I remember about Mr. Mathew is his strange habit of pinching on the thighs of boys whenever they made a mistake. We wore knickers and his fingers bit our tender flesh like forceps. Though I have unpleasant memories of him but he made me sit in a classroom on the first day of my fifteen-year-long unforgettable and happening school life. 

Ms. Suman Kashyap was the headmistress at Happy Time Public School where I studied for grades one, two and three. Once seeing me crying, I don't remember why I was, Ms. Suman came to me and held me in her arms. When I didn't stop sobbing, she cuddled me like a mother. She was the same for every child. Soft-spoken, always smiling, cracking jokes and an ideal kindergarten teacher. Children loved to be in her company. She was everyone's favourite.
I was fond of her at that time but as I grew up, my fondness changed into reverence.

At National Victor Public School, Mr. Virender Singh taught me mathematics in grade four. My memories of him are significant to my making into a mathematics teacher.
After distributing the half-yearly exams answer-sheets to the whole class except me, he asked, "Who is Gaurav Sharma?"

Stunned by this undue summon, I timidly stood up. I knew I hadn't topped.
"You've got 17...passing marks. And, you can see I have given you undeserved marks here and there because I liked your name. (GAURAV used to be a rare name those days). In lieu of this favour, I want you to promise to do better next time."
I nodded like a robot but his words and gesture did motivate me. I managed to get fifty percent marks in mathematics which was a hurdle for me to be among the first three ranks in the class.
Virender Sir's words kept on haunting me and pushed me for improvement year after year. The progress, however, was gradual.

Pune was a new atmosphere. I was at Air Force School, Viman Nagar, Pune for classes six, seven and eight. I was like a rustic simpleton who had landed into a metropolis. The first day, class Six, when Mrs. Chawla, our English teacher, asked me to read from the textbook, I pronounced "Come on" as "Common". My classmates burst into laughter. Mrs. Chawla corrected me. Nervous, I still read it wrong. The class repeated their chortling. Mrs. Chawla reprimanded them and asked me to read it again. I think I got it right after six or seven attempts. That was quite an embarrassment. Mrs. Chawla didn't give up on me. She used to call me at her home and gave me grammar lessons. She would ask me to read the lessons aloud and corrected me when I mispronounced a word. That was going several miles farther to help a weak student. It was unfortunate I could not meet her when I visited Pune in July this year as she was in the US at that time. But I always remember her when somebody admires my writing skills.

The Goddess of Mathematics finally smiled at me.
The first day in class 7, as the bell for the second period rang, clad in a cotton sari and simple flat leather moccasins, with a single long braid and a small black 'bindi', a motherly figure walked in the class. She was Mrs. Seema Aglawe, the teacher to whom I owe my interest in mathematics. The way she taught, took away all my fear. For my newly found fascination, I started practicing math as and when I had nothing else to do.

 

I had and still have great respect for madam Aghlawe. I wrote a poem in Hindi for her and gave it to her.
I left the Air Force School and took admission in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Pune.
Years went by.
After my father took voluntary retirement from the Air Force, we settled in Delhi and shifted to Ghaziabad after some years. Going back to Pune to meet my teachers and friends never happened.
Finally, after 30 years, life took me back to Pune on the pretext of my son's admission. I yearned to meet my teachers and friends who were connected with me through social media. I thought it was an opportunity to get the cover of my book unveiled by my teachers and seeking their blessings.
When a friend told me that Mrs. Aghlawe had consented to come, my joy knew no bound. Meeting her after thirty years and being a mathematics teacher for more than twenty years all because of her would have been a pleasure akin to the fulfilment of the final wish.
But...but...but... teachers give you more than you expect.
When Mr. Rakesh Trigunait, my elder brother like a friend, asked me to share my memories of my teachers, I said that madam Aghlawe might not remember that I had once written a poem for her.

 "Do you have that poem with you? " Mrs. Aghlawe countered.

I shook my head. Madam fished into her handbag and took out a diary. A paper was carefully preserved between the pages. "I still have that poem, " she said proudly.

         "Read it for everyone, " she instructed me. I was in tears. Seeing me overwhelmed, she stood up to read it herself.

She had also replied to my poem but I somehow had forgotten about that. After my poem for her, she recited her reply to me which she had copied in her diary.

 

I got the best gift of my life. While writing this, I am still in tears. Great teachers have humble ways in which their greatness manifests. Their greatness is not subjected to a few acknowledgments. She gave me a valuable lesson that day. 

Madam Naseem, who taught us Chemistry is an exemplary teacher. She is still teaching at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in Pune.



I was jealous of my classmate Saddamma as he played better cricket than me though I was better in studies. One day, madam Naseem asked Saddamma what his future plans were after his dismal performance in a periodic test. He replied that he wanted to take admission to the best college in the city after class ten so that he can play cricket at a higher level. "No chance bro...maybe in next birth," I said smugly. Perturbed by my unwarranted intervention, Ms. Naseem, took a few deep breaths. She asked me to stand up. What followed was exactly what an ideal teacher ought to do in that situation.
She inquired about the reason for my jealousy. Then, she told me to help Saddamma with maths and science. In return, she asked Saddamma to help me improving my cricketing skills. Saddamma and I complied and became good friends. I humbly bow to Madam Naseem.







Madam Oak taught us Hindi in class 7.





I still remember a poem she taught us and made us learn it by heart.

"हम पंछी उन्मुक्त गगन के 

पिंजरबद्ध ना उड़ पाएँगे 

कनक तीलियों से टकराकर 

पुलकित पंख टुट जाएँगे "

She is so soft speech compliments her prowess in Hindi and instills calmness in her listeners.
With her efforts, our school had become a study centre of "राष्ट्र भाषा प्रचार समिति" that worked for promoting Hindi. I enrolled in the course and passed the exam with good marks. Madam Oak used to teach her after school hours. I proudly show the certificate I received to my kids. 


Mrs. Sita Lakshmi was the oldest teacher in the school. She used to be my class teacher in grade seven. We called her 'All-rounder" because she could teach any subject to any class. A short and frail figure, she must have been over fifty-five at that time but came to school on a moped. Riding at a good speed, she entered like 'Hermoine Granger'. We often rove around the school gate to witness her 'grand' entry.

Mr. Thakur was my History teacher in grade eight. He had hardly any hair and wore a buttoned driving cap. Coming to the class, he sat on the chair behind the teacher's desk and removed his cap. Then he would teach us the lesson as if he was narrating a story without consulting the textbook. I still remember his story about the battle of Plassey- how Mir Jafar betrayed Siraj ud-Dauhla and the conflict between Mir Jafar and Mir Kasim.

After class eight, I took admission at Kendriya Vidyalaya No. 3 at Chandan Nagar in Pune.





Mrs. Veena Kaul was my class teacher. She was strict but compassionate. A Science teacher who gives relatable examples from day-to-day life makes this subject even more interesting. 
In class ninth, I had stiff competition for the first rank with Khyali Dutt Sharma (I have given the same name to a character in my book 'LOVE @ AIR FORCE'). Madam Veena encouraged both of us. Seeing that competition was so tough that even half mark could make a difference, she declared, "I will not round off the marks. Whatever weightage comes out, I will consider it and will carry out the calculations in decimals."






That was sheer thoughtfulness of a dedicated and impartial teacher. Now, Khyali and I knew that even one-tenth of a mark can make a difference. We worked hard as if we were at war. On the day of the result, I had a clan of mice in my stomach.

I had stood first with a difference of 0.2 marks. I still have that report card. When I see it, I feel proud. The pride is not about beating Khyali but about having a devoted and thoughtful class-teacher.


Swati Dubey ma'am taught me Social Science in class 9. 
I remember I was making a list of rations and requirements for the class picnic when she was teaching. After a while, she said, "Agar tera hisaab kitaab ho gaya ho to pay attention here. " ( If you are done with your budget-making, then pay attention to the lesson ). I wondered how she knew what I was doing. But, now I realise she was a teacher and I was a naive boy of 14.





She often addressed me Vaibhav and I responded without an inkling because I knew it was the name of her son. "You are like my son, " she would say when she realised she had called me by the wrong name.





I remember the efforts she put into an inter-school exhibition. We had to put up an exhibition on the culture, literature, festivals, famous personalities in one of the Indian states and one country. West Bengal for the Indian state and Russia for the country were her prompt choices. I was on the team of five boys she had chosen. Her guidance and knowledge steered our creativity. We worked hard and brought laurels to our school.









The same year, Mr. Ved Prakash Mishra taught us Hindi. How knowledgeable!
What authority over language!
I waited for his period every day.
He was my first teacher who not only read my poems but assessed them. Then, he called me to his room and explained my shortcomings elaborately.
Often, on Sundays, he called me to his house and talked about literature. He remembered numerous couplets and poems which he quoted while conversing. I had to sit with a pen and paper because his quotes were too intriguing to be missed.

                                       "  जीवन तो इति न अथ  है 

                                 जीवन एक साधना पथ है "

                                           " भूले भटके कभी तो मेरा नाम लिया जाएगा 
                                        आँसू जब सम्मानित होंगे मुझे याद किया जाएगा "

Our school celebrated "हिन्दी सप्ताह ".
There were various competitions on all six days.
I had won the first prize in the essay writing, debate and Antakshri. The last competition was poem-recitation. Mishra sir was one of the judges. 
Khyali Dutt had won the competition because Mishra sir had given me one point less than Khyali. 
I was hurt. My immaturity was not ready to admit that a teacher who said I was his favourite student could do that to me.
When he learnt about my disappointment, he called me in his room.

                                     " निश्छल, निष्कपट, निष्पाप  हो जाना चाहिए शीश 
                                              जब बन जाते हो आप न्यायाधीश "

He told me that my choice of the poem was wrong. It was short and had less scope for you to show variation in expression. On the other hand, Khyali had recited "अर्जुन की प्रतिज्ञा" that had anger, emotions, and fear. 
I agreed with him.

After I left Pune I wrote him letters and got replies from him every time.



May God bless all my teachers with health and happiness. 
I feel indebted to them for their love and guidance. Thank you, dear teachers...Thank you so very much.