Today,I found an old notebook. It had only 20 pages in it, the cardboard was almost gone and the poor pages were yellow and dirty. But,I could smell my childhood in it. The Donald-duck sticker on it said that I had been in eighth grade then. Hindi had been my least favorite subject, which was quite evident by my handwriting which seemed both bad and sad.
I could never score well in Hindi, maybe because my teacher made sure that we turn into perfect Hindi poets and writers. She had always been a strong and responsible woman. She was about 55 years of age and lived alone, all on her own. I went to her home once and she offered me toffees and biscuits. I couldn't like her cramped home. Things were stacked against each other and occupied almost all of the space. I had been thirsty then, so I drank water and came out with pocket full of coffee bites and eclairs.
I was 10 years old when she first saw me. And smiled at me. She always wore a red lipstick. She was extremely delighted when she heard my name.
"Shagun!! Ahhh... bahut hee sundar naam hai aapka...", I was happy to see her cheerfulness and hence I started liking her because she liked me.
Soon I became one of her best students. But,I always kept a distance from teachers unlike other students who would flatter teachers unceasingly and shower them with expensive gifts. Their annoying efforts to capture the attention of the teacher by being so falsely sweet and caring towards them kept me away from befriending them.
I used to give her roses though. And I made cards for her on my own with wax crayons and the last page of my notebook. There was love, and I made it with love.
And she used to like them a lot. Things had been so simple then. Everything was easy, uncomplicated and pure. And she unbiasedly marked me on my academic performance and not on the quality of roses or the excellence of my handmade cards.
But things changed for the worse day by day. I turned twelve. She was now the butt of jokes in our class. I resisted it, I hated when my friends made fun of her. I just kept mum all the time and felt bad in my heart about her. She still loved me.
Later, when I turned fifteen, I would occasionally indulge in gossips about almost everything which included her as well. I saw her now as funny old woman. One day she was wearing a cherry red muffler on the top of half sleeve suit which was hanging and almost touching her toes on a freezing winter morning and on the top of that her lipstick had spread outside her lips as well, and she made an exception of wearing white sport shoes which were not her size for sure.
I laughed.
She heard.
She looked into my face.
I looked into her face.
Disappointment.
She didn't say anything.
She looked sad.
She looked away.
I looked away.
And everything came to an end.
A sudden sadness seized me tight in its grip. I could not undo it. I was ashamed of myself. I never showed her my face again. But, I did not cry that day. I lost something so valuable whose worth I realize today. I wish I could go back in time and change it all.
Today I cried.
I don't know if I'll see her again. If I see her I will run to her, touch her feet and say sorry.
The writing is rightly nostalgic and candid. However it could have been more vividly described, as against what the intensity of the writer suggests. That is, the author could have imparted a bit more graphical detail to the disposition or the countenance of her teacher.
ReplyDeleteAny great work of art, combines the intuitive and the intellectual components in the right mix. This piece ceratinly, is high in intuitive content, but feelings somewhere, lacked the backing of 'reason'.
I will say, you have the potential.
Thanks for reading and letting me know your views about it:)
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ReplyDeleteReason as an equivalent of premise, like the one that exists in mathematical logic might not exist. But every human action is rooted in subconsciousness, I'm talking about these elements, and the application of the same, to make the characterisation more justifiable.
ReplyDeleteEverything has a reason, it's unfortunate that most of the times we don't know it.
ReplyDeleteTo turn the modesty of our limited knowledge and pronouncing it like a maxim 'Feelings don't have a reason' is just arrogance and hence a full stop to optimism.
State a feeling (state of mind) that you believe doesn't has a reason
hope your hindi teacher reads it! she'll cry.
ReplyDeleteWell written. Reminded me of my school days - the teachers, the students and the act of balancing the expectations of both parties! I'm happy that I stumbled across your blog.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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