Skip to main content

Me-time



One of the parents who met me today during the Parent-Teacher Meeting at school told me, “My daughter is your fan. She often wonders how a teacher can be so innocent like you.”

I was too stunned to respond. Just yesterday I mentioned in another class that I was blessed to have such innocent students. My initial fear when I came from Delhi three years ago and perceived such innocent students in my present school in a small town in Kerala was whether I would corrupt them with the craftiness that Delhi had taught me as an integral part of the survival game we played normally in Delhi.

One of the lessons I learnt even before I took up my teaching job in Delhi in 2001 was to stay away from people as far as possible. Shillong taught me that lesson, in fact. That’s the only place where I ventured out into the society at least to some extent. I turned out to be an utter failure. Shillong was my undoing. It was inevitable, perhaps. I needed to learn the lessons that the little hill town taught me in the most rigorous and steadfast ways. There were people in Shillong whose sole mission in life seemed to be to reform me. And they were successful.

Their success was that I learnt to stay clear of society. I withdrew into myself except for the professional encounters I had and still have with my students. I learnt that I was a misfit in society. This gave me a lot of ‘me-time’.



I love spending time alone. I’m in love with the tea which I drink standing in the yard looking at the leaves nodding in the evening’s gossamer breeze. I’m in love with the books that give me company in the me-time that begins with the tea. I love to sit before my laptop and type out my thoughts for anyone who cares to read them.

Today that parent taught me that I have retrieved my innocence. I love that innocence too. I love the students who gifted me that innocence. I love the distance between them and me where the innocence blooms like the gossamer breeze that plays on my leaves and my evening tea.  

PS. Written for In(di)spire Edition 230: #MeTime


Top post on IndiBlogger, the biggest community of Indian Bloggers



Comments

  1. I guess one who survive in Delhi, survive all odds. Great post. Me time is a bliss

    ReplyDelete
  2. Delhi is terrible. So much politics and flashy lifestyle. Glad you went back to your roots. I wrote something about my stay in Shillong. We have so much in common- Teaching, Kerala, Dehli, Shillong! Always enjoy reading your post.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I didn't know you had a Shillong connection. I lived there for 15 long years. My forthcoming memoir, 'Autumn Shadows', has a few chapters dedicated to Shillong.

      Delhi has too many masks. What shocked me, however, was the mask of certain religious people belonging to Radha Soami Satsang Beas. Some of them have the most angelic smiles on their faces but the most venomous fangs behind the smiles. I couldn't learn the survival strategy among them.

      Kerala has been a refreshing change for me though the place has its own share of nasty politics.

      Delete
    2. I have written about Shillong in this post-http://nimadas.blogspot.com/2018/07/a-brief-sojour-at-pine-mount-school.html
      Radha Swami Lol!! Yes I have seen some of them in white dress looking very angelic.
      All small towns have some amount of petty politics. i am half a mallu myself by the way. Keep blogging. stay blessed.

      Delete
    3. Going to keep a closer watch on you. 😉

      Delete
  3. Life teaches us some lessons the hard way. You have a beautiful heart. All the best for "Autumn Shadows" Loved your first book.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you for the wishes. 'Autumn Shadows' is a serious memoir, quiet philosophical .

      Delete
  4. Yes students teaches a lot to a teacher.And I am happy that your innocence remained intact in your journey:)

    MeenalSonal

    ReplyDelete
  5. Being with oneself and being alone are different. The first is about finding what to do with choices and the latter about choices being unable to find you.
    Your interpretation was also interesting. Nice post.

    Arvind Passey
    www.passey.info

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. My aloneness is my own choice. Life teaches us to make certain choices.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

Florentino’s Many Loves

Florentino Ariza has had 622 serious relationships (combo pack with sex) apart from numerous fleeting liaisons before he is able to embrace the only woman whom he loved with all his heart and soul. And that embrace happens “after a long and troubled love affair” that lasted 51 years, 9 months, and 4 days. Florentino is in his late 70s when he is able to behold, and hold as well, the very body of his beloved Fermina, who is just a few years younger than him. She now stands before him with her wrinkled shoulders, sagged breasts, and flabby skin that is as pale and cold as a frog’s. It is the culmination of a long, very long, wait as far as Florentino is concerned, the end of his passionate quest for his holy grail. “I’ve remained a virgin for you,” he says. All those 622 and more women whose details filled the 25 diaries that he kept writing with meticulous devotion have now vanished into thin air. They mean nothing now that he has reached where he longed to reach all his life. The

Country without a national language

India has no national language because the country has too many languages. Apart from the officially recognised 22 languages are the hundreds of regional languages and dialects. It would be preposterous to imagine one particular language as the national language in such a situation. That is why the visionary leaders of Independent India decided upon a three-language policy for most purposes: Hindi, English, and the local language. The other day two pranksters from the Hindi belt landed in Bengaluru airport wearing T-shirts declaring Hindi as the national language. They posted a picture on X and it evoked angry responses from a lot of Indians who don’t speak Hindi.  The worthiness of Hindi to be India’s national language was debated umpteen times and there is nothing new to add to all that verbiage. Yet it seems a reminder is in good place now for the likes of the above puerile young men. Language is a power-tool . One of the first things done by colonisers and conquerors is to

Diwali, Gifts, and Promises

Diwali gifts for me! This is the first time in my 52 years of existence that I received so many gifts in the name of Diwali.  In Kerala, where I was born and brought up, Diwali was not celebrated at all in those days, the days of my childhood.  Even now the festival is not celebrated in the villages of Kerala as I found out from my friends there.  It is celebrated in the cities (and some villages) where people from North Indian states live.  When I settled down in Delhi in 2001 Diwali was a shock to me.  I was sitting in the balcony of a relative of mine who resided in Sadiq Nagar.  I was amazed to see the fireworks that lit up the city sky and polluted the entire atmosphere in the city.  There was a medical store nearby from which I could buy Otrivin nasal drops to open up those little holes in my nose (which have been examined by many physicians and given up as, perhaps, a hopeless case) which were blocked because of the Diwali smoke.  The festivals of North India

Unromantic Men

Romance is a tenderness of the heart. That is disappearing even from the movies. Tenderness of heart is not a virtue anymore; it is a weakness. Who is an ideal man in today’s world? Shakespeare’s Romeo and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Devdas would be considered as fools in today’s world in which the wealthiest individuals appear on elite lists, ‘strong’ leaders are hailed as nationalist heroes, and success is equated with anything other than traditional virtues. The protagonist of Colleen McCullough’s 1977 novel, The Thorn Birds [which sold more than 33 million copies], is torn between his idealism and his natural weaknesses as a human being. Ralph de Bricassart is a young Catholic priest who is sent on a kind of punishment-appointment to a remote rural area of Australia where the Cleary family arrives from New Zealand in 1921 to take care of the enormous estate of Mary Carson who is Paddy Cleary’s own sister. Meggy Cleary is the only daughter of Paddy and Fiona who have eight so