School of life

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Instead of teaching us geometry and mensuration why were we not taught basic survival skills, when we still had the energy to learn them? How to cope with a bad day or a bad partner (that is if you are lucky to have already chosen one!)? Making a perfect circle with a rounder requires precision but even better is a round roti, if one wants to fit in, I suppose. I don’t know about you but sticking out like a sore thumb is somehow less appealing during the times we are living in. Maybe not better just aesthetically pleasing. Not for me a job well done and all that, but the quiet sound of people other than my mother reaching out for my rotis. Mine turn out to be map-like hence I stick to baking where failure is less easily noticeable (especially if you have a sweet tooth) and you can always blame the elements!

Why weren’t we apprised of the fact that life isn’t neatly divided into past, present and future like the tenses we were so diligently taught in school? Just because you ate tiffin (lunch break it was but lunch it never was) together (okay you ate your friend’s tiffin and your friend ate yours!) and sat together in classes for nearly half a decade doesn’t mean that you will remain friends or even in the periphery of each other’s lives. From seeing each other everyday to now just seeing or liking their posts. If you are lucky that is! Oh yes, hate following is a thing.

But the ultimate betrayal isn’t knowing who they have become, but not seeing the old selves beneath the layers they have accrued since you last knew them. I know, change is the only constant but it still registers, even if for the briefest of moments.

Why doesn’t school or college or the various degrees we study for prepare us for the imperfect lives we are going to lead, and more importantly, how to make our peace with it? Some many lives are lost everyday in the quest of unattainable goals. We are taught the ultimate lessons in the school of life, both its vicissitudes, and its bounty. In practical, not theory as it turns out.

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