The Graduates

Christmas vacation is here and with it, the last quarter of the academic year. There is pride and excitement in children’s talk about next year. But, the last quarter is something like a sprint to complete portions, intense coaching, revisions and mock tests.  Starting from somewhere around half year, the co-scholastic periods will unceremoniously disappear, confiscated...by a science teacher, a maths teacher etc. It is the same story from my school days unfolding before me. And by the looks of it, this will unmistakeably continue all through my children's school years. By then they are subtly convinced of the superseding importance of some subjects and the unimportance of some others. The “holistic approach”, “all round development” etc, boasted in the beginning is tossed to oblivion.

In midst of this, there is a widespread consensus, especially among the middle class who can afford the luxury of private schools to depart from the traditional rote learning, and search for something progressive. The need for reforming the education system is discussed extensively in school forums and elsewhere .As if to cater to the demands in vogue, private schools have mushroomed with catchy bill boards of smiling, happy children that greet us on    road sides. They quote the latest research, say, on multiple intelligences in big colourful prints. The pre-K and the kindergarten sector have indeed boomed, though others are not far behind. The parents considering themselves amongst the forward thinkers flock to open houses, carnivals and other crowd attracting events held by the new generation schools. The coordinator dons a marketing cape, and talks about making the children independent, the development of their inherent intelligences, their sensory and cognitive skills. Impressive. And, I worked in one of those. They seemed to be practicing what was preached, nevertheless, things started to take a turn after the 1st term.  Some parents started fretting that their children couldn’t write while t their neighbours’ children could.  “They were far ahead”, I was told..I explained how it works, .but I could see that they were not getting convinced. This began to have a domino effect...and the school, considering parents’ opinion revamped their curriculum. In fact the school was trying not to lose children and future admissions..I am not sure who the real hindrance was; the school for not standing firm, or the parents, who feel insecure about their children, when someone else starts writing 6 months earlier. The initial talks of being progressive are reduced to some catchy phrases in posters. A routine request I used to get about the 4-6year olds is, could you tell where exactly my son/daughter stand in the class. When told that comparing with other children is a negative approach, the next question, oh, then, would my child come within the first 5?

The irony is that when progressive is the buzzword in talks, the quiet thought that run in the mind is, how can the "result" be ignored? Otherwise why are the top scores of various schools enquired with tenacious veracity? .The admissions in much sought after schools are over months in advance of the academic year, and reserving seat a year ahead is also suggested. Parents brave long winding queues to buy the application forms, on top of that pull strings, according to their liaison with those in power to secure a school admission. The desire to be progressive at the same time, being unable to free from the hold of 'result'/mark oriented system, calls for introspection on, how genuine are we to the cause of learning. Caught in the conflicting pull of what we are and what we want to be, children end up in the losing end.

Its often repeated by educationists, that our system is a ghost of the colonial era, that if it made administrative officials and clerks then, it is now reduced to a portal to secure a certificate. The quality and relevance of the content is another issue altogether. Reforming the content requires copious research to come up with time relevant curriculum. Presently, to an average mind it occurs as if too much information is poured in   without a respite for what is inside to come forth. Nevertheless, CBSE...in conjunction with NCERT..,ICSE etc .have been trying to make changes in the way children are being evaluated. Evaluation in itself is a complicated subject, and in the recent years they have come up with a range of parameters spread through the year, as opposed to examination being the final verdict on the child. Parents of some secondary school children explained how and why these good intentions fail at the level of execution. For one, there is a rat race to churn out the coveted results which form the basis of future admissions. Many prominent schools, condense the 9th syllabus, tweak  things here and there, brush aside subjects deemed not-so-important, so that 10th portions can be started in the 9th itself. Picking from the parental aspirations, many schools have integrated coaching classes for iit/engg in the school hours. What are we training the children for, cracking competitive exams? And some 'techno' schools advertise their ' iit foundation curriculum’, and cannot afford any co-scholastic hours .To think  that the children attending such schools made a conscious and free decision is a stretch of imagination. I remember reading an article on sending children of 6th std for coaching classes during vacation, and the words of the parent paraphrased reads--- it’s for expanding my daughter’s knowledge, but I would really like her to do medicine. At the end of it, students they toe along with aspirations not theirs.

We are asking for a system where brain is treated as some kind of a memory device, crammed with data. As long as the schools cater to the misplaced expectations and aspirations, they continue fomenting those while children bear the brunt. Education has become synonymous with mounting pressure with every passing of year. In a sense, as a society we are desensitized to the reports on students taking lives after results are published, behavioral problems on account of pressure and tension to perform consistently well. Holding on to attitudes rewarding correctness over original thinking, accuracy over creativity will only prolong the existing scenario. Perhaps we should see ourselves as the part of a problem and rethink our expectations from education for reforms to occur or to create a conducive environment for  executing the little that is being done.

double helix

double helix
twirl  anti spin.
tangential rays
scrape,
stars    and
dust     and
rubies  and
kisses   and
glass debris
uproot
water hyacinth crest.
warm lake,
strewn 
tumultuous spangles,
the fabled one of
bedtime tales
sleeps
in its page.

Of Stomach and Seas

Sight of excess and want juxtaposed, is just one of the myriad contradictions that India breathes naturally.In the case of this resort,by virtue of its secluded location,it appears private though it is the livelihood to a few of the local fishermen.The tourist season had not quite begun,it was only the 1st week of October.The absence of a buzzing crowd and verandahs with many a wet beach towels added to the sense of exclusiveness. The sea was rough for the children and the fishermen gave us words of caution several times.Notwithstanding the inconvenience of drenching in the salt water in normal clothes,we went into the sea, morning and evening.The evenings were especially beautiful.

That evening,something resembling the balloon puppies made at kiddie parties by 'yours truly'-,the hired birthday clown, came wobbling towards us. Dear co-sister let out a shrill shriek."It touched me", she was gasping and jumped forward.Wow,it was a perfect lab specimen of a stomach and the intestines bobbing with the rise and crash of the waves.Perfect specimen.No tear,no wear.No trace of hunger,flesh or blood.The sea has washed it immaculately,stretched it with just the right amount of air it could hold.It was difficult to believe that it exists inside us.It must be a fisherman's.It made us uneasy..isn't it a handy word to describe  feelings we don't find  words for? It made us very uneasy.Now,after a year,thinking on that feeling,it was fear.Not only fear of death,it was a primeval fear,fear in its purest abstract. Unsettling the very core.The sea was quite in love with it,not a rupture.The immediate course of action was to call a fisherman in sight and ask him to move it to somewhere we couldn't see.In retrospect,we did good not to have acted on it.While my brother in law was telling us of the legal complications that could arise,should we touch it,I saw it touch a rock and swim back and forth in tune with the waves, majestically buoyant.The known earliest consciousness awakened, it was difficult to act normal.But,act we did.We moved away from it,the thing sumptuously fed with dutiful meals, and carried on with the discussions on the lives of fishermen.We didn't see it vanishing,we were occupied with acting normal.

The Divine Guilt of Motherhood.

Last summer holiday, I decided to take some days off from the domestic front and indulge a few days with my friends in Kerala. I boarded a passenger train from Bangalore which rambled along the folklore inspired temples along the way. My fellow occupants were travelling as a family, a lively bunch. The lady of the group was eager to engage in a conversation. The talk started with the predictable pleasantries. The inquiries on where I was going, when my return was due etc were duly answered .The curiosity also binged on my marital status, kids, and their whereabouts. Also,an attempt to find the reason for my visit was made, “must be something important to... leave the children back home?" I answered that it was just a casual visit. “My children will not stay without me”, she said, a touch of pride there.And continued that she didn't like to leave them out of her care. Does taking time out exclusively for myself, devalue being mother? Am I being irresponsible?


This casual conversation made me look at some choices women that I have come to know make. A newbie mother brought a nanny from hometown, and was back to work, the third month of birthing. As with similar instances, there was a talk on how the mother, “rushed back" to work. The “deteriorating” sense of motherhood was discussed at length. Many in the community mourned on profession becoming ‘more’ important than mothering,how mothers are becoming 'irresponsible.' It seemed that,with the onset of motherhood,it  becomes the single defining purpose of a woman, diminishing all the other facets of her personality. The notion of motherhood as the pervasive function of women after birthing needs to be refuted .It is one of the many experiences of being a woman. In comparison, nobody questions the other facets of a male, with the arrival of fatherhood. The lopsided patriarchal view judges of women who choose to return to their profession or interest 'soon',as being negligent of  their duty.


In practical terms, birthing is a transformational phase. To the women with other interests/career, it necessitates a decision regarding the time needed to be away from those.It could range from a few weeks, months or a few years. There is no right choice per se, the focus is on the mother's assertion, and her voice playing a part in the consensus, without the ‘guilt’ that many women say they feel. Of late, the guilt factor has become the cause for anxiety and frustration among the working mothers who are expected to hit the perfect family-work balance. The woman is constantly evaluated on how dutiful a mother she is, and also on how good she is in taking care of the domestic sphere. The hig bar set  makes woman feel deficient and guilty.


There is another friend who went back to work after a gap  of 4years.She was bogged with many 'after' and 'before' comparisons .Comments abound on how she was more attentive to children then, and now, not exactly being so. There are a few things deferred, some short cuts in cooking , add to it being “impatient”.Why is there an ‘evaluation’ of this sort on the female? Resolutely, the domestic role is ingrained in the social psyche as the role of the female, that should she adopt it as her only priority, questions are hardly asked. But, by being a professional woman, it seems, she just added something more to the domestic role. Right there comes the golden standard of the family-work benchmark.. with a healthy dose of being a ‘good’ mother. Two female colleagues of my sister, turned down promotion citing stress, ”managing children  and profession” as the reason.Many women fret that they simply ‘fall short’ of what they should be,and feel guilty about it.And hence,it is easier to forgo promotion and settle for something lesser.I recall an instance where the wife had gone out of town for a job requirement,and the husband had to take care of the kids,and of course his work.She was telling me about how the well wishers were sympathising with the husband and being impressed by the graciousness.She did make it a point,to reply that it was something that she had done before.But,she confided,that at some points,she felt that it was a wrong decision from her part. The self doubt did get to her. 




This anxiety/frustration has a lot to do with the romanticised version of motherhood.Recall the sea-of-benevolence ‘good’ mother characters in  films and serials, the kind, ever patient, always -putting- herself- last, types. Such behavioral norms are perpetuated in the patriarchal hegemony, so much so that women continue to 'measure' themselves according to the glorified definition.The unnatural reverence of motherhood does more harm than good by setting unattainable goals. Many a times,women find themselves caught in apologetic and defensive explanation of their choices.The feeling of 'guilt' is unfounded.Women need to stop being harsh on themselves, and reject the unsolicited ‘evaluations’ of their ‘performance’.Its essential to debunk the myth of the perfect mother and reject the need for approval from patriarchal definitions.  The neat 'order' that comes within the mystified perception of motherhood serves only as an utopian ideal.The family dynamics need to renegotiated in the private sphere.The woman should assert her intellectual aspirations, the many facets that make her personality and engage in interests that nourish the spirits, even if it gets chaotic or ruffle some feathers.

Trick

Behold ! behold !!
The magician
extracting colours
out of his mouth.
Paper crepes never ending
yellow,purple,fuchsia
fuchsia,purple,yellow.
Yellow,the bile.
The jeering children
haven't learnt it yet.

The tricks perfect
Wring out the intestines
small and large
all of it's length
the infested stomach
The slick sick bile
The inside,out.

A Flash

Glimpses arrive cradled
in fleeting  repose.
Shimmering peacock feathers
rippling canopy over
million paper boats
surfing seas.

Pecking crows

Voracious crows

Peck  the crumbs.

Vegetable eternity.

Time,the time.

If it's not time,then
what else is?
Sporty dictator,
envelope tent
for  conscious followers
and  wanderers.

The out-of-date-man
carried green canvas bag
stuffy with recorded
 and re recorded
video cassettes,rent
for five rupees a week.
three decades of thinness,
bits and bytes forward
over write memories to convenience.
My  biological clock
has a heady disdain for those,
Mere apparatus.
Tiptoes with every breath,
The cells lost
in renewal and replacement
are the ties to be severed.

Will

Lives in me exchange stories
of times that were and
times that are not.
Reminiscing the deranged
line that parts the two.
By design,
body and it's shadow
do not catch up?


The mechanism of my will
commands to stow away
the trinkets,books and what-nots
that carry your faint apparitions
Bury your fragrance,in the woods.
Tend the backyard,
get high on noisy laughter,
though it echoes with a vengeance.

The Bird

Blatant summer etherialised
the sculpture of molten hallucinations.
A bunch of dry leaves
prattling on sidewalk.

There was a humming bird
perched fondly on the forged shape.
What became of her?

Bubbles

Bubbles
mutually exclusive spheres
flit
and burst.
silent volcanoes.

Unsaid

It's not
that I'm adamant.
Let all that's
unsaid,remain
in the lagoon ripples.
Not to be tresspassed.
Because,if I were to
write down the lyrics,
we might not agree on
the notes composed.
And your guileless
fury might over turn
the canoe,and
we become the feast
the innocent death delivers
to the beast beneath.

morning auto ride

The sea and the sky are

neatly folded in the almirah.

Starched,dry cleaned,

sari, ironed stiff.

The meticulous square

for a paper dance game,

rests shielded

from the monsoon mold

in a layer of silica gel.

The cold rain of the yester night,

warming listless thoughts

in the early morning auto.

The silly breeze sneaks

through the hair,pulling taut.

Chills the  eyes,

Peppy kajal.

Lungs all puffed up

with the minty air.

Pawn that sari
to make the meter run

until the sun evaporates

all of the early morn.

Whose Gender Is It Anyway

I came across a disgruntled and fiery verbal out pour in  a social networking site. I
plead ignorance to the intended target of the abuse,thanks to the generous  spate of insensitivity, the diction read a lot like...blah blah blah..this is not a shikandi prasthanam...blah blah blah..aanum pennum kettatu..blah blah blah To get a better picture,I forced a second read. It was a frustrated venting on what could be called as " lack of spine".The venting itself is perfectly justified,and there is ample place for that in many forums.But my question is,what is with the  usage like 'aanum pennum kettatu' or shikandi in the context of being 'cowardly./confused'. Such usages are outright  sexist,and demeaning of ones identity.Words covertly meaning transgender are used as a handy slur in agitated grumblings.The transgender identity is a dignified a state,of mind and body as much as that of a male or a female.Identity is each one's right.

A few days back,while waiting for an appointment,I got to see a kannada film.The 15 minutes comprised of a rather imposing transgender,dressed in a glitzy sari,flowers adorning the long plated hair,a large bindi.A side kick to the villain,she is  a conniving shrewd.The flinging of hair,the grimace,the walk,all captured in an all too familiar  slow motion.This is an oft-repeated scene in mainstream cinema,across the border.For one,this  is stereotype on mannerisms.More cynical is  that, the 'non-conformity' of transgender is equated with negative characteristics.As far as the audience goes,it requires a conscious effort from their part to question such narratives.But,mostly they remain complacent.So,the message that sticks with them is only the 'obvious'--transgender=non-confirmity=bad.There are some empathetic portrayals in the films of recent years on the hardships and discrimination faced by them.That is a sure welcome to counter the stereotype.

 Recently , a  teen was ruthlessly murdered after he was discovered to be a transgender..He was brutally mobbed,and the parents wouldn't claim the body for the shame it entailed.Though this happened in Africa,we in india, don't have many reasons to pride ourselves.They are ostracized and many a times cast away from their hometown. They build  their own communities,more often in big cities.The mostly held perception among my friends in Bangalore is based only on the  brief encounters with them at the traffic stops.For the urban crowd,they are just a group who sing and clap and ask money at the signals.

What remains hidden is the lack of oppurtunity and the discrimination  meted out, making it hard for them to get a career available to the 'normal' people.Many are driven to earn a living as sex workers.Bangalore's Majestic subway is a known 'pick-up' point.They proceed callously,through the hussle and bustlle.Right there,is the vicious circle operating,and it could very well remain the same for decades.Where the identity itself isn't acknowledged,all other things become secondary.Volunteer organisations often bring to light are many instances where they are denied timely attention in hospitals,citing lame excuses as to which ward are they to be accommodated. They often need the assistance of NGOs to assert the basic rights available to 'normal' citizens.In the majority of  application forms and in legal transactions,there is place only for an M or an F within the boxes! Of course,it can be left unfilled but it speaks volumes about the 'don't ask don't say' policy'. This absence  intimidates  even those who want to come out of the closets.

For the very reason that it's exclusionist,the main stream gender perception is problematic.Its always aligned with binary of male/female  as is taught in the biology classes. .The 'he' and 'she' reproduce to make,again, a male or a female.Simple.Binary.Life goes on.Since the male and the female is dealt extensively at the secondary levels in schools, at the least,it warrants an acknowledgement of transgender as a different possibility.Thinking that I might be proved wrong,I set out to explore my 9th grader niece's biology text.But,I wasn't.Nothing much has changed since my schooldays in this respect.I don't  find the term in her book,although it deals  with the other two genders profusely. She tells me that slurs meaning to be transgender are something they use to poke fun at each other.Intentionally or otherwise, an identity is reduced to an adjective or a slur.True, that transgender is a complex topic and is an umbrella term accommodating many differences.But,does that justify the omission,which is a scientific reality? The text books also follow a silent policy which goes  hand in hand with a society obsessed with the binary.The  secretive and mystery element feeds unto itself,making way for much demeaning and insensitive behavior.Open discourses will have to proceed with legal concurrence in acknowledging the transgender identity and  mitigating the negative construct of the majority imposed on them.

The Meeting

I, will be clothed.
So you can unclothe me.
The phantoms of
beautiful inventions,
Drench in the grass scent.
Apricot Summer.


Pretenses fall,
one by one,
like leaves in harmony.
Lucid vapors disappear.
Through the clocked embrace,
the elms warp endlessly.

Prism

Rainbow veil.

Butterfly-kissed rain.

Eyes, prisms

refract love

Butterfly-kissed rain.

Mist sink in.

Dreams make love.

Every atom

of being.

List

The list
is on the table.
Beside the lamp,
in the foyer.
Where shades merge unto
the polished furniture.


Tunnels seek habitual paths.
The lost pet
wanders back home,
the idiot's hat.

Recalling.

This is his third attempt.

Precisely.

Because it failed.

Turns out that the knife
he used to slash his wrist was

Blunt.

The second attempt.

Precisely.

Because it failed.

Turns out that the lake

he fearlessly plummeted to

was deceptively

Shallow.

The beginners attempt.

Precisely.

Because it failed.

Turns out that the beam

he hung from,

the termites had drained

Fickle

And so here he is,

opening the medicine cabinet.
The anti-depressant affecting a smile.
Sweet pill,endure the journey

through his insides.

For a little while.

After Today

After today,

After this deed is done,

I will go some place.

No,not to a misanthrope's
retreat by the woods.

No,not to a lakefront house

by the mountains.

But buy myself, a flat

with many rooms.

Relativity

Pain,
is relative.
They say.

True.
But,my pain
is my dear
friend.

The Excuse

I like
your stubborn curls.
I like
your secret lips.

They invite me
like the night.

I like
the exuberant rusty
chrysanthemums,the pansies
and the magenta rich  petunias

Do not withhold
a visit saying,
"But these are not
in your flower-bed. "

Head Ache

 
Head ache
That's an emotion too...

The mind insulated.
The soul insulated.
Eyes pushed
into the cranium.
Echoes
disrupt
the head ache.

The S..mall Experience

Who says the economy is in the slumps??Not the malls,that sprout with majestic boldness.Whats the weekend plan?
Off to the newest mall .Strut,strut..through the security ensemble.Right foot in.Was that a magical wand,that the guard waved over me?I turned Ms.Lilliput on the spot.
Everything just seemed to grow from beneath my foot,towering above me,and around.The neon lights are playing on the eyes.The mannequins danced gaily.Did I just hear one whisper, "you little teeny weeny grout of a seed"
The trinkets,the vero modas,the ritu beris ,the patent leather shoes,the burgers and biriyanis..moving in on me.The claustrophobia,the breathlessness!The little pecan of my brain jolted up instinctively to survival mode...Grab that  oxygen cylinder.NOW.
Good that I carry a portable one with me.Its convenient,coming in the form of  the credit card,with all the imaginary stash of cash!All puffed up, took a deep breath of a mighty swipe,warding off my attackers and walked out feeling like a winner.Well ,thats what counts the most,the feeling.

Bangalore-A Metronomical Paradox

Bangalore came alive to me years before I started living here, through my friend's accounts of her summer vacation stay here. I have forgotten many of her anecdotes, but I do have a vivid memory of her narration of the' magical place' called Kemp fort. This was much before the advent of new gen malls, one amongst which, the Kemp fort has given way to.  Her generous admiration together with the awe that inspired, I created a fluffy idea of Bangalore.Namma metro, as it is called here, remained in memory as nothing short of a wonderland. Call it naive, but with it's stature as the IT hub, ‘the happening place' Bangalore was kept revered on a pedestal. The step into reality happened some twenty plus years later, as we moved to Bangalore after a decade hiatus in the American mid-west.


 As is with all cases of grandiose expectations, the reality takes time to sink in.Yes,the weather is pleasant, and there's much greenery. But, I certainly did not expect people queuing with fluorescent pails for water early in the morning which is a rare sight in my hometown of Palakkad itself. People with plush cars belonging to even more plush IT corridors, honking away is something sans logic unless they believe, the traffic can be moved with the power of the decibels thus created!.The inadequate infrastructure and the stand still traffic during rains prompting people to leave their vehicles stranded presented a picture of a metro in dysfunction. Awaiting the gates to open at the railway crossing is hilarious and outright defiant at times. The revving up of many auto rickshaws, the ever maneuvering two wheelers, the countless sedans...everybody vying for the first escape to freedom...resulting in a crammed ,..if-i-cant-move,dare-you-to kind of situation. Finally two inches forward, an inch back..tilt to one side, duck to the other..oh sweet freedom. Only that it took more time had everybody kept to their spots. One of the pastimes could very well be identifying  the cars with dents(almost, a badge of honour)and those without.

The initial disenchantment gave way to the subtle truth. The metro reveals day in and out that this is a place where people trapped in the past and those relishing the present coexist. People who go to the market for buying vegetables and those who find them a click away. People depending on shared auto, and those with an assorted ownership of swanky automobiles. An array of people who come to work for you, driver, cook, gardener, domestic help, sometimes outnumbering those in the house. Each member of the house hooked on to their personal laptops..exemplifying the adage, ”to each his own" the space ,at times creating uncomfortable  distances in relationships. And there are many with the physical lack of space, resulting in  the push and shove, cut throat competition among the lesser privileged. In the context where cozy politicians rattle about the price of meals reminds me of one particular summer, when the area was facing shortage of water..is it a wonder that the swimming pools of apartments and gated communities were pelted with stones?

As the scenario exists today, the population is divided between those who live in secure gated communities or apartments and those who live outside of it. The cocooned existence insulating those who can afford them from the other Bangalore, of which they are reminded by the inconvenient waste dumps on the road sides. Tirelessly,the lack of social and civic sense, is bemoaned by the community wallahs. Their hypocrisy exposed in the lethargy exhibited in  separating their own dry and wet wastes as mandated by the BBMP. They are a population in denial. Defying the statistics, they cannot accept that they belong to the top percentile, of the population. They go by the name the upper middle class as the waste segregation continues without much change.

There is no denying that Bangalore is a pleasant place to live, cosmopolitan at that too, only that its feel off mark to call it a benign city of lakes. Its simply a place on the map for those who have benefited from the boom town and for those it has by passed to be juxtaposed. As long as the latter can live off the former, and it rains enough, there is not much  threat of discord. Hoping the hope is well placed.

A Rain Walk

How about .... 
a walk in the night rain
your silhouette joined with mine..?

The yellow dim
of the street lights
escape the cracks
making needles
of our shadows.

The rain,grafting them

to the earth's skin.

Lessons from Rain

Rains teach me

not to anchor
the paper boats,

but coax me to

dive into the puddles

for a treasure hunt.

Some pebbles

are round and smooth

warm to the touch,

the grainy mud

gets between the nails.

As I grow desperate

to rescue
the last crumbs of
the memory of love,

Rains teach me

to romance the blanket

and kiss my dreams.

The Beach Poem

 Let's go to the beach and
feel the tingling sand on our bare souls,

Let's move further the coastline and
let the frothy waves crash on us.
The thud and the splash of water
bursting on our chests.

Let's breathe in the vast expanse
with the humid air,

faces and hair powdered
with the ferric sand.

Sometimes there's a burning 

when the saline brushes

the experience which made us one.