Category Archives: school

Simply Nanju by Zainab Sulaiman

10-year-old  Nanju  wears a diaper to school and hobbles around as he has crooked feet. He lives with his Appa and older sister Shanti. He doesn’t pay attention in class and regularly scores zero but manages to hide the evidence from his father, who threatens to send him to a hostel. Happy in his world, nothing seems to bother him much. His best friend is Mahesh, who is terribly clever and lets Nanju copy all his answers. He gets by with a lot of help from his friends.

When I was reading Simply Nanju many people commented on the lovely book cover. The face of an innocent child with an endearing smile, who can resist that? (People who have hearts of stone, that’s who!)

It is business as usual in school with petty rivalries and merciless teasing, greeting teachers in a singsong voice, and the class turning into a fish market when the teacher leaves the class momentarily. Class topper Aradhana’s notebooks vanish and return days later in a shoddy condition. Nobody knows who is behind it and Nanju makes it his business to find the culprit when fingers are pointed at him. Mahesh and Nanju, though not quite Holmes and Watson, set out to solve the mystery. Do they manage to find the thief who isn’t a thief? Read Simply Nanju to find out. Continue reading Simply Nanju by Zainab Sulaiman

The incomparable Toru Dutt

Our Casuarina Tree

LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round  
 The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars,  
 Up to its very summit near the stars,  
A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound  
 No other tree could live. But gallantly         
The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung  
In crimson clusters all the boughs among,  
 Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee;  
And oft at nights the garden overflows  
With one sweet song that seems to have no close,          
Sung darkling from our tree, while men repose.  
 
When first my casement is wide open thrown  
 At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;  
 Sometimes, and most in winter,—on its crest  
A gray baboon sits statue-like alone         
 Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs  
His puny offspring leap about and play;  
And far and near kokilas hail the day;  
 And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows;  
And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast          
By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast,  
The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.  
 
But not because of its magnificence  
 Dear is the Casuarina to my soul:  
 Beneath it we have played; though years may roll,        
O sweet companions, loved with love intense,  
 For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear.  
Blent with your images, it shall arise  
In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes!  
 What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear         
Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach?  
It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech,  
That haply to the unknown land may reach.  
 
Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith!  
 Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away         
 In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,  
When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith  
 And the waves gently kissed the classic shore  
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon,  
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless swoon:       
 And every time the music rose,—before  
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime,  
Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime  
I saw thee, in my own loved native clime.  
 
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay        
 Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those  
 Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose,—  
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they!  
 Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done  
With deathless trees—like those in Borrowdale,         
Under whose awful branches lingered pale  
 “Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the skeleton,  
And Time the shadow;” and though weak the verse  
That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain rehearse,  

May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse

Toru Dutt



Upagupta

 

  Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay sleep in
the dust by the city wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and
stars were all hidden by the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets,
touching his breast of a sudden?
He woke up startled, and a light from a woman’s
lamp fell on his forgiving eyes.
It was dancing girl, starred with jewels,
Wearing a pale blue mantle, drunk with the wine
of her youth.
She lowered her lamp and saw young face
austerely beautiful.
“Forgive me, young ascetic,” said the woman,
“Graciously come to my house. The dusty earth
is not fit bed for you.”
The young ascetic answered, “Woman,
go on your way;
When the time is ripe I will come to you.”
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth
in a flash of lightening.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and
The woman trembled in fear of some unknown danger.
* * *
A year has not yet passed.
It was evening of a day in April,
in spring season.
The branches of the way side trees were full of blossom.
Gay notes of a flute came floating in the
warm spring air from a far.
The citizens had gone to the woods for the
festival of flowers.
From the mid sky gazed the full moon on the
shadows of the silent town.
The young ascetic was walking along the lonely street,
While overhead the love-sick koels uttered from the
mango branches their sleepless plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and
stood at the base of the rampart.
Was that a woman lying at his feet in the
shadow of the mango grove?
Stuck with black prestilence, her body
spotted with sores of small-pox,
She had been hurriedly removed from the town
To avoid her poisonous contagion.
The ascetic sat by her side, took her head
on his knees,
And moistened her lips with water, and
smeared her body with sandal balm.
“Who are you, merciful one?” asked the woman.
“The time, at last, has come to visit you, and
I am here,” replied the young ascetic.
Rabindranath Tagore
We had this poem in our English Literature syllabus. The well thumbed Wings of Poesy ,the  poetry book which contains the above poem still exists. I can’t help but go back to that time,to the naive thirteen year old with a million crazy ideas and romantic dreams of becoming a writer someday and living in the country. Whenever I read the poem I am transported back into school,sitting in my assigned seat in class, listening to the lilting voice of our teacher and taking notes when required. It’s as if nothing has changed but everything has changed,on the outside at least.

In the End










If by Rudyard Kipling 

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


This poem was there  in my literature course book called the Wings of Poesy in 8th standard. For some reason it wasn’t included in the prescribed syllabus(I have no clue on what basis they select or reject certain things) and hence it wasn’t taught in class, but it was and is, one of my favourite poems for the message it delivers and hope it gives the reader.That there is always scope for improvement and its never ever too late to be the best version of yourself. It teaches one to be calm and forgiving,to bear everything with a smile and be unruffled by both ecstasy and pain, and handle everything in between with something that resembles(and most probably is) stoicism.Ultimately it is about being human and having humanity.

We are April people

I am really fond of the month April, not because I was born in April. There are many things about April that I like. Like the lyrical and sweet sound it produces when you roll your tongue and say it, Apprilll.

The weather is sunshiney without being brutal. Clear days with bobbing white clouds, blue skies,  starry nights filled with twinkling stars,trees filling with tender green leaves, the scent of  mango blossoms in the air and the promise of ripe mangoes in the near future.

Vestiges of spring are still there and summer hasn’t yet begun, it’s the best time to be outdoors and be merry. The lovely wind, the whispering trees, everything feels so cheerful.Vibrant hues everywhere.When you cycle slowly through meandering roads, absorbing the calmness round you, everything is abuzz with a quiet excitement. You can almost hear a hum if you listen just right.

It’s almost infectious, you can’t help but feel jubilant and for no apparent reason. That’s when I thank God I’m alive because I feel alive. To feel alive is the greatest feeling,no words can describe that feeling of quiet contentment emanating from within.

Ah the school days, the anticipation of the all things to come in the vacation ahead. So many life enriching things to do, places to visit, people to discover, games to invent, story books to read. Almost a never ending list of things to do.

I remember the days, when flying high on a swing felt like a slice of heaven, playing hide and seek in the buildings around, jumping from trees an act of bravura and helping people do their homework an act of greatest goodwill and sacrifice.

April has always signified a time for new beginnings. The new class in the school year started in April bringing with it a sense of adventure and excitement, of shared joys and sorrows, sharing tiffins and lives, playing hopscotch and land and water, of having a favourite teacher and getting a good word from her making your day, crying over silly things like losing a pencil box your best friend had gifted or somebody not inviting you to their birthday party. No competition just blissful coexistence.That was life.The good old days.

Good things always come to an end but while they lasted  memories were created for a lifetime, which can be retrieved at will and even gone back  to whenever the need  arises. An attack of nostalgia is always good. A time machine would have been even better but I live in the real world so I have to take what I can get.

For me April signifies all is that good in life in the truest sense of the word.
Ergo, April is life.