Skip to main content

Teacher


Top post on IndiBlogger.in, the community of Indian Bloggers


Vasavadatta lay dying.  Upagupta came to teach her the lesson she had never learnt in her life.

Vasavadatta was beautiful.  She had admirers.  The admirers came with gifts and laurels.  She realised too late that men were making use of her.  Making use.  Making her a commodity.  Making her body a commodity.  They admired her lips.  They admired her breasts.  They admired her thighs. 

They fucked her.  In short.

They showered gifts upon her.  She became rich.  She became a capitalist.  There was also the religion to support her.  God was behind her.  She thought that God was with her.

It was by pure chance that Vasavadatta met Upagupta, a Buddhist monk.  Tall and lanky, seeing but not leering, looking and also seeing, Upagupta was different from all the men that Vasavadatta had seen so far.  So different from all the men who had seen only her body.

Upagupta did not fuck her.  But Vasavadatta wanted to be fucked.  For the first time in her life Vasavadatta desired to be fucked. 

“Fuck me,” she pleaded.

“A time will come,” said Upagupta. 

Vasavadatta waited.  Waited for months.  Waited for years.  For the promised time.

And Vasavadatta fell ill.  With too much fucking around. 

Nobody wanted her anymore.  She became filth.  Filth thrown around by men who ruled the world.  By the same men who had showered upon her all the wealth that was now spent for medicines that flourishing quacks and decadent babas.  Frauds had always something to sell.  Even if you lay dying.

Then came Upagupta.  “Sister,” said Upagupta.

"Won't you fuck me?" asked Vasavadatta when worms crawled all over her body. 

Upagupta became the teacher of Vasavadatta in the times of CCE (Continuous and Comprehensive Evaluation, in CBSE curriculum).


Note: A diary entry written after attending an exam duty today in a CBSE school in Delhi. Inspired by the legendary story that must be familiar to all readers. 

Comments

  1. The last line had me rolling in laughter.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm glad you could see through the bleak humour. Thanks.

      Delete
  2. Replies
    1. As a friend of mine says, some ranting can look like literature too :)

      Delete
  3. I didn't study this story in school as I studied under Gujarat Education Board. Unfortunately, I've never been interested in reading classics out of school curriculum. However, this story looks interesting. Would love to read it in detail.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The original story is classic, Pankti. I made it vulgar :) For today's tastes.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pranita a perverted genius

Bulldozer begins its work at Sawan Pranita was a perverted genius. She had Machiavelli’s brain, Octavian’s relentlessness, and Levin’s intellectual calibre. She could have worked wonders if she wanted. She could have created a beautiful world around her. She had the potential. Yet she chose to be a ruthless exterminator. She came to Sawan Public School just to kill it. A religious cult called Radha Soami Satsang Beas [RSSB] had taken over the school from its owner who had never visited the school for over 20 years. This owner, a prominent entrepreneur with a gargantuan ego, had come to the conclusion that the morality of the school’s staff was deviating from the wavelengths determined by him. Moreover, his one foot was inching towards the grave. I was also told that there were some domestic noises which were grating against his patriarchal sensibilities. One holy solution for all these was to hand over the school and its enormous campus (nearly 20 acres of land on the outskirts

Queen of Religion

She looked like Queen Victoria in the latter’s youth but with a snow-white head. She was slim, fair and graceful. She always smiled but the smile had no life. Someone on the campus described it as a “plastic smile.” She was charming by physical appearance. Soon all of us on the Sawan school campus would realise how deceptive appearances were. Queen took over the administration of Sawan school on behalf of her religious cult RSSB [Radha Soami Satsang Beas]. A lot was said about RSSB in the previous post. Its godman Gurinder Singh Dhillon is now 70 years old. I don’t know whether age has mellowed his lust for land and wealth. Even at the age of 64, he was embroiled in a financial scam that led to the fall of two colossal business enterprises, Fortis Healthcare and Religare finance. That was just a couple of years after he had succeeded in making Sawan school vanish without a trace from Delhi which he did for the sake of adding the school’s twenty-odd acres of land to his existing hun

Machiavelli the Reverend

Let us go today , you and I, through certain miasmic streets. Nothing will be quite clear along our way because this journey is through some delusions and illusions. You will meet people wearing holy robes and talking about morality and virtues. Some of them will claim to be god’s men and some will make taller claims. Some of them are just amorphous. Invisible. But omnipotent. You can feel their power around you. On you. Oppressing you. Stifling you. Reverend Machiavelli is one such oppressive power. You will meet Franz Kafka somewhere along the way. Joseph K’s ghost will pass by. Remember Joseph K who was arrested one fine morning for a crime that nobody knew anything about? Neither Joseph nor the men who arrest him know why Joseph K is arrested. The power that keeps Joseph K under arrest is invisible. He cannot get answers to his valid questions from the visible agents of that power. He cannot explain himself to that power. Finally, he is taken to a quarry outside the town wher

Randeep the melody

Many people in this pic have made their presence in this A2Z series A phone call came from an unknown number the other day. “Is it okay to talk to you now, Sir?” The caller asked. The typical start of a conversation by an influencer. “What’s it about?” My usual response looking forward to something like: “I am so-and-so from such-and-such business firm…” And I would cut the call. But there was a surprise this time. “I am Randeep…” I recognised him instantly. His voice rang like a gentle music in my heart. Randeep was a student from the last class 12 batch of Sawan. One of my favourites. He is unforgettable. Both Maggie and I taught him at Sawan where he was a student from class 4 to 12. Nine years in a residential school create deep bonds between people, even between staff and students. Randeep was an ideal student. Good at everything yet very humble and spontaneous. He was a top sportsman and a prefect with eminent leadership. He had certain peculiar problems with academics. Ans

Nakulan the Outcast

Nakulan was one of the many tenants of Hevendrea . A professor in the botany department of the North Eastern Hill University, he was a very lovable person. Some sense of inferiority complex that came from his caste status made him scoff the very idea of his lovability. He lived with his wife and three children in one of Heavendrea’s many cottages. When he wanted to have a drink, he would walk over to my hut. We sipped our whiskies and discussed Shillong’s intriguing politics or something of the sort while my cassette player crooned gently in the background. Nakulan was more than ten years my senior by age. He taught a subject which had never aroused my interest at any stage of my life. It made no difference to me whether a leaf was pinnately compound or palmately compound. You don’t need to know about anther and stigma in order to understand a flower. My friend Levin would have ascribed my lack of interest in Nakulan’s subject to my egomania. I always thought that Nakulan lived