The Floating Fairy

her hair ripples behind her

So she believes

the short crop imagined longer

for effect.

Carefully, toes touch

the hard ground, little by little

Lightly, so lightly,

You wouldn't guess she is there.

She walks slowly

cautious,

Making sure no one can see her.

But we do see her, oh, we do.

We are mesmerised by her

That ethereal something

always a crowd puller.

And so people mill around

She tells stories,

she laughs, sometimes raucous

sometimes tinkling.

You smile like the sun, we say.

Our world feels brighter and better.

And she feels there is some use, for her.

She needs to feel useful.

Self-validation.

words.

Like music in her ear.

We pull her in with words

Sweet as honey,

meaning a few of them

exaggerate the rest.

But one day she found us out

she caught us out on our hypocritical behinds.

She struggled

We held her

hard we could

but she stood

her ground

and floated out.

And we were left

to pick up the pieces

of our dependence.

The Diary of A (Boarding School) Teacher

"Akka, do you miss your parents?"

Richa, 10 years old, is wondering why her letter hasn't arrived yet. She sits despondently outside the dining hall, her dinner uneaten. The week has been a hard one. Her Science, Math and English diagnostic tests have not worked out.  The teachers tell her that a lot of work needs to be done. She doesn't have a decent grasp of language, which is affecting her work in other subjects.

Sitting beside her, noticing her obvious vulnerability, I couldn't help wonder about how none of that really mattered. Never mind that I am one of the aforementioned teachers. Nevermind that I gave her a C in the diagnostic test. Nevermind that I scolded her last week for spreading rumours about people in her class. She sits next to me, slams her plate down on the other side, and looks as if she needed a shoulder to cry on. She writes regularly to her parents, every week, but never receives a letter in return.

"Yes, I do. Very much."

*

 If I am Anne, teaching for the first time at Avonlea school, then S- is definitely my Paul Irving. He has told me, more than once that he would either like to be a great scientist or a great writer. For this reason, I and L-, who takes science, are his favourite teachers. But, he says, "I don't know what I will want to be next term. It usually depends on the teacher. If I can understand what the teacher is saying, then I go deep into the subject, but if I can't understand it, I get moody and switch off. Now tell me, Akka, do you like imaginary people as friends? I have two of them right now. But I'm getting a little bored, so I think I will imagine some other people next term."

*

SB sat in my class, weaving a friendship band as I powered through nouns, verbs and basic sentence construction. Following a polite request to put it away, I, still very politely, grab the half-finished band and place it on my desk.

"Focus on the class, please."

He slunk over to my side of the class while I was engrossed in conversation with another student. I notice him from the corner of my eye, and neatly grab the friendship band before he can touch it.

"24 hours confiscation. You'll get it tomorrow evening."

"What!" Tears. "Like an idiot I wrote five drafts of my essay for YOU!" More tears. "I don't give a damn about this place. I want to go home!"

"Yes, I noticed! I'm really, really proud of you, SB. Finish off that last paragraph, come on."

"What??" 

*

M, 15, walking with me and another teacher, has an interesting question. 

"Anna, where did you learn to make worksheets?" 

Y, who has just wrestled through a long, hard day with the same M-'s class, sighs. I cut in.

"Every year, Anna goes to worksheet writing workshops in Timbuktu. They have some of the finest workshops in the world, and Anna gets funded by school to attend them. Back home, he teaches these techniques to other teachers."

M, transfixed, turns from my narrative to Y. 

"Anna, where is Timbuktu?"

Y, in a state of general stupefaction, replies,

"Near Royapettah, Chennai." 

 

the window

aunty comes to dump garbage in the bin

no use, it'll overflow soon.

an assortment

of robins, bulbuls, peacocks

blue flycatchers,

basking in the unbearable summer heat,

their best songs

a lovely concert at 5 am.

two girls burn a bunch of papers...

post-exam ritual, this.

the grass resists the numerous attempts to thwart its growth.

a purple sunbird's nest on the tree outside my window

metallic purple,

shining in the oppressive sunshine.

and i draw my curtains,

lime green and transluscent

to comfort me with their light in the room.

Word Weaves

You tell me everything

And then you tell me, no that's not what I meant.

I juggled the words around,

Hoped for new meaning.

Everyday had new questions,

And I answered for you, in my own words.


*
  
Thursday. Amma is refused a promotion. 

She is doing what she is passionate about now, they say. 

Any need? 

Not much increment anyway, so...


*

They are passionate about what they say,

They have beautiful words,

Perfectly woven fabric

Visible on walls... banners... in their loudness...

To create a wall

between them

And the people they hate.

But with no peace.