A girl is sitting on the second bench, this is at least the seventieth hour of her sitting idle like this, gradually tilting, stretching, yawning and then getting up again. She starts scribbling on the last page of her book because she has made a pact with her teacher to shut up and not show off her cadavre exquis* which is an act of automatism, spontaneous(*her level of the subject rotting away,decadent and mossy). The teacher comes and snatches away the personal journal. Yet another fight, another act of defiance against a teacher with 27 years of spotless track record ( of handling students and convincing them that they can never learn). This time it is too much girl. Go, go and try and stay away from my class. The girl shouts," That is what I try and do but I need attendance."
Act two: (no popcorn)
Another day at class. Teacher comes, she also comes. Go, go shameless girl to the dean (who, btw is my husband, snigger). The dean seems sympathetic only, inquires on family background, thinking scum-ness runs in family. He says he is acting parent blah. Girl thinks man understands and tells him how it has been hundred hours of sitting idle and she could do with some poetry. He loses it. He says she has "irritated" a teacher (his wife!) and is a slur to a well formed, structured, long running legacy of teaching which is a thankless profession( read as: I don't even understand why you want to read more than needed, these new age women. What shit queer studies you mumble? That won't make you dean of divine college! Will that get you a husband, or will you walk out on him also if things go awry?) She realises it is time for last trick, lower eyes, bend head and chant " Sorry sir, won't happen again, i assure obedience sir..." Again, she slips by, nonetheless humiliated and threatened suspension. The girls' loo is right next, she goes in a sheds two tears and wonders what was so revolting about writing " Car vois tu chaque jour, je t'aime davantage, aujourd'hui plus qu'hier et bien moins que demain"
So, she just drags feet and walks home, waiting for one more more year to pass by.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
When a mosquito bites and you touch the sting place, scratching is addictive, until it gets red, swollen, sore and it hurts. People hurt as well when they become so addictive that you wait to see them the whole day, the last moment of departure and just see and smile and fade away. The ones you want to invest time and energy into are just too dazed, lost and indifferent. But what do Chamko? Confounded, so many special people change, so many lives... where were you when we were getting high. So I am bored. I could shine every man's shoes and comb his moustache, iron every cassock and still you wouldn't come. Am I the only sad song around? All this inadequate feeling about self just gets on to me! Yes, I ain't good or special or pretty or brainy enough. But Mister Carl Rogers, come and show me unconditional positive regard! Where is it? I painted, I could feel eyes going up and down the staircase gazing beyond, the gaze on my canvas almost mirrored and telling me, we are looking at you! Scratch the niche of the elbow. Those mosquitoes keep company when you feel like a jilted wife of bathe. I can almost feel red fishnets up my thighs and smeared joker rouge on my face. Eh, who said I grew up? Who thought anyone could ever grow out of basic human things like love and rejection, blushing, dreaming, dejection, luna rides and the addictive habit of scratching balls. No, it is for both, for the other it is an attempt to annoy. Write more later on same.