And we grew up playing

“The greatest invention in the world is the mind of a child.”- Thomas Edison

While lunching at a relative’s birthday party a calendar with pictures of children playing ‘childhood games’ on Indian soil caught my eyes yesterday. The music which flooded the dining room transported me to a phase when Ma tried her best to lull me to sleep for an afternoon nap (mainly on Sundays/ holidays) but I would sneak out to play with my friends from the neighbourhood.

Nearly a decade back while on a trip to Chamba-Bharmour in Himachal Pradesh to escape what becomes a gas-chamber during Delhi’s sizzling summers, I saw youngsters tobogganing. What laughter each apple-red cheeks radiated! While ascending the curvy, nearly-steep climb as I panted, I couldn’t wait to pause a moment to see the boys tobogganing downhill with a blast of laughter in unison. Back home the younger version of me clad in a cotton frock would sit on coconut fronds while one of my pals would be happy to play the role of a pilot navigating me through the by-lanes inside the campus, with the condition that after some pulling she would sit on the much-prized ‘throne’.

This year the organisation where I am currently working held a 2-days team-building activity near a river’s confluence in Ukiam on the Assam-Meghalaya border. The pre-monsoon rain had not swollen the rivers and there was knee-deep water in most parts of the river. After trying the different outdoor adventure activities, my attention diverted to a group of young village boys who were playing the game of seven-stones right in the middle of the river. We played with lawn-tennis balls with randomly picked 7 flat stones which we collected from the road. The two groups, equally divided, has to target and topple the seven stones, each piled one after the other, something which resembles the place Baralach-la if you have travelled to Ladakh on the Manali-Leh highway. (Travellers stack stones offering prayers for their onward journey through the treacherous terrain). Even when the ball fell in the drain (the drains where much cleaner then), we picked it up, dipped it (at times only but not always) near the small pool of water next to my house and once again continued with the game. You see, hand-sanitizer came in much later and we perhaps became stronger by playing physical games and thereby building in strong resistance for our body.

Seasonal fruits are to be eaten and are only to be avoided when a virus is on an attacking mode. I much relish the sweet-juicy litchi (lechu in Assamese). Deota peeled-off the head of a match-stick and inserted the pointed end of it on the half-cut lechu seed and we happily spinned it as another lechu disappeared inside our cavernous mouth with the calcium-coated stalactite and stalagmite of teeth extracting the sweet flavour. We could make simple toys to play out of seeds we ate that has been replaced with the metallic fidget-spinner students are commonly seen spinning nowadays.

Tyre- Did you ever get tired of playing with tyres (or anything round/ cylindrical)? We derived as much pleasure by inflating air in the cycle tubes with the hand-pumps as by deflating air from unwanted trespasser’s motorised vehicles intruding our ‘game-space’. Our group also readily agreed to lend a helping hand to any stranger whose car’s engine failed and whose vehicle needed just one push to kick it live.

Kite-flying is yet another game which people cutting across all age groups enjoy. We now have kite-flying festivals organised by Jeevan held in our city. I have seen how Delhites esp. on Independence Day colour the sky with kites of different colours and sizes. On any other day each kite flier tries to cut kites flown by others by smearing the string with manja, a practice banned now as it snaps off or damages electrical wires and poses a threat to avian life.

And who has not collected marble and played with it in their childhood? The metamorphic rocks chiselled in perfect round shape can easily fill a child’s hands, front pockets and mind with metamorphic happiness by how much he or she has collected and the count in the jar. Playing with marbles is generally considered to be a boy’s game in India but our gang had this share of fun too.

Every girl- village, town, city or elsewhere is familiar with kut-kut (hop-scotch in English). Learning of geometry came in much later in school. In the absence of the white chalk, we drew boxes in paired squares and rectangles with broken pieces of brick which we usually found on the roadside and by flinging a stone inside the boxes we had to hop on one leg without touching the lines.

Panch-guti (knucklebones) was also a game which girls generally played with small stones. With the panch-guti- 5 stones inside our right fist we had to slightly throw the 5 stones in the air as swiftly as possible and turn the right palm facing the ground and then carefully let the flying 5 stones settle on our fingers. There were different rounds for the game of panch-guti, a few involving both the hands simultaneously.

We also experimented on developing communication lines by building something which somewhat resembled Alexande Graham Bell’s invention- the telephone. Though in no way it looked like the dialled landline telephone of yesteryears, we were at least able to hear the sound which was carried through the thread and with containers attached at both ends. Reuse and recycle we did even then to make devices with which we greeted each other ‘Hello, hello’ followed by long, loud laughter.

People of my age will surely agree that back then Guwahati was far greener and we had lots of vacant land on which children could play. Greenery also meant that we had more hideouts for the game of hide-and-seek. God! We never fell sick while playing this game even when it rained. If outside it was hide-and-seek, it was blind-man inside invariably in a dark room in which a child’s eyes was covered with a gamusa and the blind-man had to find his/ her missing mates in the cover of darkness.

As a child I didn’t quite like to eat curd but I thoroughly enjoyed tekeli-bhanga khel (sans the curd). I surmise, the game of breaking the empty earthen pot by a blind-fold man holding a stick and marching all the way in search of the pot (minus the treasure) must have emanated from Lord Krishna’s days. You have to sniff your way out to locate that pot in order to win.

Padum-phool, literally meaning lotus, is not just a flower which grows on water. It was a game too in Assam in my growing up years. It could be a dead game now. 2/3 players were enough in which a pair would sit down on the ground facing each other. The duo had to try different hands and legs posture while the third one had to jump, over and above, and cross the duo, with no body part of the jumper touching the sitting-pair. Otherwise, she was declared out. Talk about flowers and it reminds me of yet another childhood game- Aai Re Amar Tagor. I may have forgotten the rules of this game but I remember the last few lines

“ . . . Juwa bhonti juwa goi, chira-pitha khuwa goi.”

Assam is a land-locked state. We may not enjoy a maritime climate like children in coastal areas do but we have good weather to play. Coastal location reminds me of sand and sands in turn reminds me of castles- sand castles. I can vouch on the fact that we all have sun-soaked our hands once in life with sand for building castles. Not all of us can be an architect in life but no harm if a child architect builds one out of sand, with the township complete with neat roads, row of trees and a place of worship at the summit of a miniature hillock.

Tug-of-war:  The rope in the front line (as in a battle front) instead of being placed in between two warring parties is instead placed parallel to the two teams as they face each other and each member clings to the rope as tightly as possible in order to win. Life is like a game of tug-of-war. It must be best played with true sportsmanship. Likewise, “Love is like a tug-of-war. It’s hard to hold on. But it’s harder to let go.”

Musical chairs and passing the parcel exclusively came under birthday or picnic games. The sound of clanging simple kitchen utensils like a steel bowl and a steel spoon was for passing the parcel. Indoor games which dominated was Ludo ( Latin for ‘I play’). My elder brother always cheated when he realised that he had little chance of winning on Ludo. Once or twice I remember playing a Manipur indoor game with cowrie shells, thanks to my next-door neighbour Sinha aunty whose sons were my elder brother’s friends. During winters we made a badminton court in the children’s park near my house and connected the court with electrical wires to bring in electricity from home so that we could play even after the sun set at around 5 p.m.

In those days a doctor’s chamber was few and far between, in sharp contrast to today’s world. So what did we do when there was an injury while playing? “Suck your own blood if the blood oozes out in trickles”, I heard someone from my friends circle say. We may die if we do it now. Blame it on our too toxic and polluted blood. It is strange considering at that point of life when we were academically at the lower rungs of the ladder we knew which plant’s crushed leaves or juice to apply on the fresh wound, something which evades my memory at early 40s.  If the blood gushed out, then the injured player headed straight home. Parents, neighbours, relatives would take us to the dispensary. Only the real sick rushed to hospitals then while the not-so-sick visited the local dispensaries.

Play your game well. “Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have , and only you can determine how it will be spent.”-  Carl Sandburg

Of books, looks and what cooks on Saraswati Puja

Among the pantheon of Gods and Goddess in our country, Ma Saraswati occupies a sacred place among students and learners of all age groups. Aai Saraswati blesses us with knowledge and wisdom and candles our lives with brightness and hope. She is also the Hindu goddess of learning, music and arts.

In Assam, youngsters esp. the girls of school-going age clad themselves in mekhela-chador on this special day. When I was a student, preparation for what to wear went much ahead of the day of Saraswati Puja. Since I went to a missionary school the puja was not held within the school premise. However, the day being a holiday, I with my friends went from one school to another in the radius of about 2-3 kms on foot, that too clad in mekhela-chador, to seek the blessings of Ma Saraswati. This was a special day for us since it was the only day, out of all 365 ¼ days, when we got the chance to wear our mother’s mekhela-chador.

Ma jokingly sang these lines in Assamese- “Saraswati Aai, ashirbad kora, porixat nokol korilau noporu je dhora” meaning Goddess Saraswati, bless me so that even if I use unfair means in the examination, may I never be caught.

Bogori (berry) which ripens during this festival always brought water to our mouths. However, eating the berry before Saraswati Puja was associated with either bad results or poor academic performance. Hence, my friends and I totally refrained from eating it while in school even when temptations raised high in our tongues, just like Eve for the forbidden apple.

On the day of Saraswati Puja we were given some money (Rs 5 or Rs 10 then) by our parents to eat something outside. I remember there was this new restaurant which opened in Rukmini Nagar- Ambees. We placed our order and when on my last bite I remembered it was Saraswati Puja when non-veg should have been avoided. I had already committed the mistake of eating flesh on the day of Saraswati Puja and dreaded the result day at school and hence I surmised I would flunk in the examination for eating non-veg. This restaurant still exists now and this is where I once went with my boyfriend while dating him years later after this incident.

 Saraswati Puja is that one day of the year when we try not to read books and newspapers as it is believed that Ma Saraswati may knock us out of our brains if we read or write. I still avoid reading the newspapers on this day even when I am in my late 30s. Habits die hard. I associate computers with Lakshmi and hence happily charted out maps or keyed in it.

Saraswati Puja during college life was quite different from those of school life. The streets of Panbazar would flow like a river of lava, fresh out of its volcano with pretty young ladies in their best attires paparazzied by a battalion of equally adorable young men. There would be more of glamour and beauty than obeisance to the deity.

Khichdi (kedgeree) with labra served during Saraswati Puja was a simple yet  grand feast which every bhakt looked forward to after the puja was over. The aroma of such puja prasad still brings water to my mouth. Chick peas mixed with green gram (soaked overnight) with slices of ginger in it and cut fruits, served to one and all on banana leaves added to the traditional touch.

Even Durga Puja, celebrated in the later part of the year, is incomplete without an idol of Ma Saraswati sitting on her bahn- the white swan or on the white lotus. Her whiteness stands for purity of thoughts. I remember taking school books and genuflecting before the idol of Ma Saraswati, seeking her blessings religiously in order to pass in the examination, on the last day of the Durga Puja. It’s a ritual I abandoned as I grew up.

We were taught when very young to touch our book(s) on to our forehead if it accidentally fell down on the floor. This was done to ensure that we treated our books (and other stationery items like pencil and pen too) with utmost care so that Ma Saraswati won’t desert us at any point of time or lest she thought that we didn’t pay her enough respect.

The only thing one cannot steal from others is one’s knowledge but definitely it grows when we share our knowledge with others. Without learning and without education, this life is an abyss of vacuum and emptiness. Books, one of the greatest sources of knowledge, are also man’s best companion which even helps to keep loneliness at bay.

Near my house there is an SBI Learning Centre with a small idol of Ma Saraswati at a distance, somewhat away from the road. Every time I walk or wheel on my cycle on this road my head bows down as I offer a quick, silent prayer so that Ma Saraswati can bless me, like all others, with wisdom, confidence, courage and strength. As I write this I sincerely hope that spread of knowledge and education engulfs us like a forest fire, removing social evils like witch-hunting which still plagues our society.

There is no full-stop for learning and ameliorating our skills. I find the presence of Ma Saraswati in my Mother- my first teacher in life’s nursery, my elder sister who is no less than a preacher and all my teachers from school who taught us to dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s, the college and university lecturers/ professors who imprinted strong impressions in the ‘tabula rasa’; my colleagues (both superiors and juniors) who has helped me grow immensely both professionally and personally. Each and everyone one is a tributary of that river of knowledge which flows and grows at each confluence and what Ma Saraswati epitomizes. And like rain drops falling from the sky, may we be showered with blessings by Her, removing the dust of ignorance and illiteracy.

Durga Puja- a garland of memories

Durga Puja- a garland of memories                           

The four seasons are equally blessed with colours and festivities so when the scent of sewali phool (night jasmine) is in the air, when the hot and sultry days of summer perspiration ebbs and our skin is kissed by a slight morning chill, you can smell the sweet fervour of Durga Puja which lingers in the air.

The other day while cycling in the downtown areas of the city I spotted an idol of Ma Durga clad in clay when the childhood reels set rolling. Durga Puja marks the celebration of ushering in goodness, victory of good over evil and the killing of all negativity from our lives. The foreground of the puja pandal, where I religiously worshipped Ma Durga since my childhood years and spanning for around 2 decades, was the World War tank, coated in olive green, which stood rooted within the erstwhile Dispur Capital Campus, a cosmopolitan colony of sarkari officewallahs with a high and a huge stage between the Durga Puja pandal and the war tank. This ‘stage’ was the fixed venue for not only Durga Puja, Kali Puja, Lakhi Puja and all other pujas but also the Rongali Bihu functions three to four decades back. A few metres walk led you to a serene lake. This rectangular stretch between the stage and the lake was the divide between the Assam Sachibalaya (Janata Bhawan now) and the residential colony where I grew up.

In the pre-globalization era, Fancy Bazar was the sure stop for buyers and sellers alike. People thronged in large numbers to Fancy Bazar a month or two ahead of Durga Puja. And if you were a last minute shopper you won’t get enough space to even drag your feet a few inches. Buyers walked in inches, rubbing shoulder to shoulder in the streets of Fancy Bazar and the voices of the roadside vendors luring customers resonated within the bazaar. But nevertheless people still went to shop.

As a school student, I eagerly waited for the Durga Pujas not because of the new dresses esp. frocks, skirts and tops I was gifted by Ma-Deota. We didn’t have the luxury of buying dresses frequently then but it was limited to twice and thrice a year. Puja was associated with chutti from school, family visits by my dear aunts and uncles showering us with their gifts of toys, ludos, pencil boxes and such things which were very precious to me for the simple pleasure of owing them. Herein I would like to add that Mahalaya was eagerly awaited by my parents and they would be glued to All India Radio to listen to the chanting of the slokas. It won’t be wrong to state that we grew up listening to it on Mahalaya, every year.

The lane where I grew up and its adjoining areas were populated more with girls than boys. This young girl’s group was notorious for stealing. No, no, please don’t get me wrong. It was only confined to stealing flowers during Durga Puja. Every household had a front garden which was fenced by bamboo trellis. The young gang were pretty flexible in physique. It didn’t take us much time to trespass on our neighbour’s compound, pluck it with our tiny delicate fingers and stack the flowers into our pockets or baskets as delicately as possible or while handing it over to our partner’s in crime across the fence in no seconds and vanish like a passing tornedo from the scene.

We were very meticulous in the art of stealing flowers. It needed much pre-planning and preparation, mindfulness, the Do’s and the Don’ts when ‘work was in progress’ and last but not the least you had to be a good sprinter (our Bihu medals proved the last skill required for this). A day before stealing, we planned who would bring the knife, the torch and such other paraphernalia, the time of waking up and the venue of meeting at the next pre-dawn. It was invariably at one of our friend’s house, right in front of the gate when it was still dark.  Even though we were scared of ghosts and ‘jokhinis’ it took us good courage to shun it for a few hours. Not all the flowers came from our stealing. Wherever there was a sewali in full bloom with its boughs shading the lanes and by-lanes, it was GPS-ed well in advance by us.

There was one particular family, a Bengali family in our locality which belonged to an IAS officer. It was a south-facing corner house lining the post office field. The aunty of that house had a passion for gardening and come spring (or even during autumn) her house was a riot of colours. Hence, aunty’s house occupied the top slot in our ‘places to steal’ list. Aunty would keep guard a day before Durga Puja as we once discovered to our dismay.

It must have been around 3:30 am/ 4 am when we went on our rounds. When we flashed on the torchlight to focus on the flowers, the beam of light lit a full moon-like purnima-face. My friend Bhonti- the female priest in our group, saw aunty’s face (as she swore later to us). Bhonti whispered something to us and we ran as if we saw a ghost at night. It was pitch dark then and the sentinel of the house sacrificed her sleep just like we did on one such raid.

After the ritual of plundering the neighbourhood off flowers and collecting the freshly-fallen sewali phool from the lanes and by-lanes, we gathered in our friends Kabita and Tutumoni’s house with needles and white thread to make garlands for the various idols. The largest and the brightest garland was marked for the idol of Durga Ma and the rest for the idols of Lakhi, Saraswati, Ganesh and Kartik. The last one was meant for the ‘banana plant’. The entire duration of making a garland was time-taking. We would sit in pairs, each holding the two ends of the thread and running the needle through the fresh flowers. Sewali phool (night jasmine), gendha phool (marigold) and joba phool (hibiscus) were the mostly sought-after flowers for the garlands. While making the garland we weighed the pros and the cons of stealing flowers and if we would be punished by Goddess Ma Durga for such a wrong-doing. We consoled ourselves right on the spot that we would be propitiated of our sins since we were offering our garlands to none other than Goddess Ma Durga herself. Our parents knew about our garden plunder but never dissuaded us from doing so. Their ways of parenting was very strict when it came to core values but permissible around this part of the year for the fun we got from it. Once the garland was handed over to the committee people we waited for the evening.

The stalls that sprang up overnight near the tank field also left an indelible mark in my mind’s sepia album. There would be stalls selling all kinds of food and cheap fancy stuffs. Tea-stalls to sweet-shops, stalls selling paratha-ghugni, puchkas, toffees and lozenges, chewing gums and bubble gums, local potato chips, balloons, cheap and colourful plastic toys. One such toy which every child in those years possessed was the pistol and the rolling gullis. While leaving from home for the puja venue we reminded each other to take a safety pin so that we could deflate the balloons at one go from whosoever carried one on his/ her hands.

One incident which I vividly remember happened at Durga Puja night. My elder brother came home late after the cultural show during puja. The rest of us were sleeping when we heard Deota’s shouts from the dining-room. He had a habit of waking up at night to drink water. Since all the government quarters were small in size (and also probably because he was diabetic), he never kept a bottle of water in his bedroom but preferred to walk a few steps to the dining-room. When I ran to the dining room to check what the matter was, I saw Deota holding the hard stick which was meant to shoo-off thieves (that is in case if one broke-in into our house). There was no thief around on a puja night but Deota aimed at a snake resting right at the centre on top of the dining table. It was only when my elder brother entered the room, the confusion was cleared. It was a ‘cherry-blossom’ black snake made of plastic which my brother got from one of such stalls, probably to scare me off, which he never thought in his wildest imagination that someone else would be petrified by it, least of all Deota.

On the days of saptami, astami, nabami and dasami, we chanted the Sanskrit slokas after the purohit and took pushpanjali. I also remember collecting all the rice grains and chewing a few grains of raw rice right there. The collected lot was tied in a corner of a new handkerchief and was carried home to be used on special days. On the day of nabami, we derived great pleasure as we took turns to distribute khichidi (kedgeree) with labda (mixed vegetables- not the mixed veg we get in restaurants nowadays), plain rice, lemon, chilly, salt and water. What an ambrosia! The very thought salivates my mouth and mind equally. Again, there was a pot-belly gluttonous uncle who always brought a steel bucket from home to carry some extra khichidi back home, this was even when the devotees still ate on the stage.

The sacred yellow-coloured thread was distributed to the bhakts in the morning on Dasami and I fail to understand why this task was entrusted to the tallest uncle among the puja committee members. As soon as we spotted Goswami uncle carrying the sacred thread, the locality children would literally attack him, like a pride of lioness upon a deer, from all directions to get hold of just one. Once in the melee, 3-4 children jumping near uncle lost balance. The consequence was my inverted tombstone-like tooth left a gash on my friend Tikli’s forehead after all the pushing and pulling for the sacred thread among the unruly young devotees. When there is pleasure, there is pain! We also got to see a glimpse of Ma Durga’s feet viewed in a mirror placed on the ground. We carried a few textbooks from home all the way to the puja pandal (I carried Mathematics and Assamese for obvious reasons) and washed Ma Saraswati’s feet with it so that we scored good marks. I did so simply to pass in those dreaded subjects. It is strange I never prayed to Ma Durga to instil strength in me or to bless me with courage to face adversities in life. Dasami, the last day of Durga Puja, was incomplete without feasting on jalebis to our heart’s content.

The evening cultural show performed by various artists including solo and group dancers, singers, mime artists, natak etc. was the limelight for all the residents esp. for us. It was the time of the year when these artists got the platform to showcase their talent live other than on Rongali Bihu. During those days DD was the one and only T.V. channel so this was a good diversion for youngsters like us. All the good artists would be on stage only late at night and it was quite disheartening for us kids as we would often fall asleep when the show was on. We found an easy way out for this too- we joined three to four chairs in a neat row and slept for some time but woke up immediately when the main attraction of the evening started. On one such Durga Puja celebrations, Zubeen Garg came to perform in the cultural show. He was quite a popular figure in Assam then (but not  in the rest of India then) and I remember he sang his hits viz.- Maya, Anamika and one old Hindi song from my favourite actor Kamal Hasan starred Sanam Teri Kasam. Years later when I reached college, one day I heard from my elder sister that Zubeen Garg had shifted to the house opposite ours in Dispur Capital Complex, the same house where my sister-in-law once lived when her father was transferred from Jorhat to Guwahati. By being the next-door neighbour of such a talented artist we got the privilege of listening to Zubeen Garg’s songs even before it was released.

Every year Deota would take us in a car to see the other puja pandals in Durga Puja hot-spots like Maligaon, Pandu and closer still at Ganeshguri. Traffic almost came to a grinding halt in the evenings in those days but it was still fun to be temporarily lost in a sea of human waves with the illumination of rainbow hue and blaring sound of latest Assamese, Hindi and even Bengali hits.

Just like all good thing comes to an end, Durga Puja is also no exception. Dasami marks the immersion of the idol of Ma Durga in a river. Lorries and trucks are hired for bixorjan and the young and the old across both gender participates in the final adieu. In my 17 years of stay in this campus, I was allowed to see this only once most probably in Kachari ghat. As children I was never allowed to go due to security reasons as there were stray cases of drowning. Our rivers are equally polluted not just by effluents from industries and factories but a certain percentage is also contributed by immersion of idols which uses plastics and other non-biodegradable waste. Efforts by a few artisans to use green, non-toxic or biodegradable waste is commendable and must be encouraged.

Sadly during Durga Puja time very often young bikers lose their lives, as one did years ago from our neighbourhood and a young relative of mine a few years from now. Also, being a rational human-being first and an ardent animal lover second, I could neither accept nor support animal sacrifice to appease Ma Durga. How can a buffalo, pigeon or a goat, all Her creations, be made a scapegoat for the sins committed by sinful souls?

It is a pity that Indians have reduced Durga Puja only to idol worship when the Goddess stands as a symbol of strength, courage and victory. What I see is after every few kilometres there is a puja pandal richly decorated often with diverse themes. Should we confine such a worship only to idol worship when female foetus is aborted right in the mother’s womb, when the girls are stalked, teased, molested or ghastly raped, when innocent young girls become victims of acid attacks, when widows are hunted down in remote villages and burnt or killed brutally after labelling them as witches, when brides are tortured and ruthlessly silenced for not bringing in enough at their in-laws house, when wives are battered by their drunken and so-called ‘educated’ husbands, when married daughters are not welcomed to live in her parental home after separation from the spouse. There is a Durga in each living soul, either in Her dormant or active state, and it need not be only a girl or a women. These are people like Dr Birubala Rabha who is crusading against witchcraft in Assam, like Jahnavi Goswami who is an HIV-AIDS activist, like Purnima Devi Barman who is a conservationist, like nobel laureates Malala Yusafzai who fought the Talibans and stood for education of the girl child and Kailash Satyarthi who is working to stop human trafficking and is a voice against child abuse, like each and every one of us who is fighting a lone battle to bring goodness in not only their life but also touching other’s lives and empowering them with strength, courage, perseverance and wisdom. Merely blowing of the conch shell or the beating of the drums during such rituals to appease the Goddess is no true devotion when we commit crimes and sins and show no respect to all sentient beings created by Her. This Durga Puja bring out the dormant Durga in you, only then you can be truly blessed.

-By Karobi Gogoi Hazarika

Bucket List for Summer

Bucket List for Summer

Sultry days with golden rays,

   With ice-creams, juices on the trays,

Shore sands and pebbles with cooling breeze

   High up in the mountain where waters freeze

A morning walk or a jog with furry friend Cae-Sukimy pet dog,

  Escape to a distant place veiled by a blanket of fog,

Emptying cups and cups of garam chai,

Or bowls of maggi or wai-wai,

A plunge in the inviting aquapool,

 When the thermometer reads your body’s temperature as ‘extra cool’

A meandering trek in the wood,

   Satiating your tongue with gourmet food,

The simple pleasure of reading a sea of books

   To tasting all the dishes of what Ma cooks.

When the alarm doesn’t go ‘tring-tring

   And you can snooze and land up in a dream’s wing.

When under the shade of trees

   You surrender to the sky painted by the birds and the bees.

To be kissed by the debouching pearls of a water-fall,

   Pack your bags for Summer’s call,

-

Once our ‘Climate’

The Earth is dying.

But there’s no fixed date.

What ails our planet?

Reducing it to this state?

Man’s uncaring nefarious activities,

Releases the floodgate.

Smog, deforestation, acidification.

Is the once green planet’s fate.

Desertification, glacial melt,

Ozone depletion must abate.

Global warming and greenhouse gases

With carbon, methane and nitrate

Puff off smokers and 4-wheeled vehicles

The Earth through human-beings opiate.

Laced with acid, the raindrops

to the ground percolate

How much misdeeds of mankind

The Earth must tolerate?

Mountain wildflowers and orchids vanishes

The apple, onion and fish has no taste

Forest and wildlife threatened

Pests swarm at alarming rate.

Our ever increasing needs,

Didn’t Mother Earth satiate?

Hoping her children will learn to protect her

With patience she does for days and years await . . .

Let’s pledge to ebb such ramification,

Before it’s too late

For there’s no space for earthlings,

to be cradled in the womb of Earth’s mate.

Let’s make haste

Before the Earth asphyxiate.

Let not our future generation

Curse us with scorn and hate.

The future lies in today’s present

Who must revive, rejuvenate and regenerate.

Let’s pledge to recreate the natural flavor

Of our fast eroding climate. 

Kaziranga and the deluge

Way back in September, 2008 the company I worked for in Delhi sent me to an official trip to the London office in UK. Unfortunately I got cautioned by the metropolitan police, just a day after landing, for carrying a pen-knife in my bag to a public place (the Big Ben). At the police station I was asked to produce my passport. On questioning I told them that I hailed from Assam in India. It is then that one of my interrogators commented “The place from where the tea comes from and also famous for the rhinos”. On the verge of tears I added “And oil too”.

Those tears of mine dried up as I was dropped at the apartment in Pimlico by the two police personnel late at night with a “Enjoy your stay in London” but today while watching one of the local news channels (which I rarely do) highlighting the floods inside the national park, brought back fresh flood of tears.

Wild animals still alive  swept away along with the current, rhino calves separated from its mother, dhekia-potia bagh (wild feline) floating and struggling between life and death, deer taking shelter and other wild beats escaping the inundated areas and fleeing towards the national highway- 37 and the embankments, rhino calf barging inside the bamboo-fenced compound of a house-hold in the fringe village, animal carcass floating in the river-water, were a few clippings which were enough to kindle moisture in the eyes of this animal lover. The not so fortunate ones of God’s own creations met with a watery grave. Needless to say, poachers lurking around may find the easiest catch.

Kaziranga situated in the floodplains of the mighty river Brahmaputra encompasses the districts of Golaghat and Nowgaon to which Sonitpur was also added later. A few kilometers upstream is Majuli, the largest riverine habitable island in the world. Both Kaziranga and Majuli are the two geographical hotspots within Assam which is facing the vagaries of flood and its accompanying unabated natural erosion. The national park, also a world heritage site declared by UNESCO, is the habitat of several endemic, endangered and vulnerable species. Its rich biodiversity in terms of both flora and fauna is enriched by the complex interaction of diverse biotic and abiotic factors including the river water of Brahmaputra. The ecosystem in KNP is not only unique but also different from those of other national parks within India like the Corbett NP in U’khand etc. owing to different its physiography, climate,  soil, etc. The river Brahmaputra sustains life of the wild creatures of the park by recharging the beels (wetlands) and the natural water-holes and replenishing and rejuvenating the complex ecosystem of KNP. The irony is that the river water of Brahmaputra which sustains life in this national park also takes away countless lives of wild beasts during the monsoon season.

Years ago my animal lover friend Azam Siddiqui, whom I knew from my association with PFA, emailed me a photograph captured by the famous photographer Rituraj Konwar wherein predators and preys alike (in KNP) were clinging on to dear life, as each stood in the temporary make-shift elevated platform erected by the forest department at the time of one such floods in Assam. Such is nature’s marvel.

As a student of Geography, I learnt about the sculpturing of the earth’s surface by the different agents of erosion viz. running-water, glacier, sea-waves, under-ground water and wind. Its blessings are in the form of beautiful meandering course of the river, ox-bow lakes, natural levee and flood-plain in the middle course of a river, as is commonly seen in Assam. After the flood water recedes, it leaves behind rich alluvial deposit which is highly fertile for the cultivation of different crops, esp. our staple crop rice. It is nature’s way to supplement soil nutrients derived from weathering and transportation which enriches the soil.

Nature is the best sculptor, agreed. But at what cost? Dhemaji is the worst flood-prone district in Assam, which gets cut-off from the rest of the state at the time of high floods. I consider myself to be so fortunate sitting at home (parental home), sipping my cup of evening tea as I watch the news. Entire villages swept clean by the killer-flood, standing crops bull-dozed by the flow, domesticated animals either swept away or have to be carried to safer areas by their owners from the angry-hungry river. Life is brought to a complete standstill. People are brought down to the roads, reduced to beggars (often seen begging in Guwahati), with nothing to eat, no other clothes to wear, no home to go to because the flood water either submerged it or swept it all. Everything wiped clean when it came surging. The tribals esp. the Mishings have built their homes on stilted platform owing to the floods which hits the headlines annually without fail. They have learnt to acclimatize with the ravages of floods.

I remember my father brought home some answer scripts for checking which was for a job opening. One of the questions was on “Floods in Assam” (probably an essay). An examinee wrote “Assam’s flood is compulsory”. That one liner is a dark humour. It just knocks everything down, like a glacier mowing down whatever comes on its way.

While porcupine structures and geo-bags are erected as a measure to check erosion and minimize the devastation caused by floods, these are not permanent solutions. If at all floods have to be controlled the entire catchment area must be taken into consideration which includes the states of Arunachal, Nagaland, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Manipur and Sikkim because the tributaries of river Brahmaputra and also Barak down south in Assam either originates or flows through these states. It is a known fact our neighbor Arunachal is damned by the ongoing building of mega-dams to generate hydro-electricity, so much sought after by city/ town-dwellers and the unsatiable industries to run its engines. Pristine-virgin lands of Arunachal Himalayas have been submerged to make way for such projects, definitely not on sustainable lines, and not in consultation with the locales. It is pertinent to highlight here that entire northeast India falls in the highest seismic zone (Zone V). Trees which binds the soils together has been axed at an alarming rate, that much of Arunachal’s once sylvan cover, can be easily detected on the satellite imageries standing bare and exposed. With lofty mountain without the binding element, there is a free-flow of river load further downstream. There is no denying the fact that deforestation is also silently going on at our own backyard. We are hungry for land. We don’t think twice before we chop-off trees in order to clear the forest so as make way for agriculture or some other economic activity. The teeming Indians and their ever increasing numbers is the moot cause.

A villager who was interviewed by the media broke-down in tears having lost everything to the floods- his child, his agricultural field with its crops, his livestock, nothing to call his own.  My husband who also hailed from Dhemaji once narrated an incident about floods. As a youth while out to provide food and clothes the relief providers were shocked to see two dead bodies that of a mother and her daughter, locked in a tight embrace as they drowned in the flood water.

The solution to controlling floods doesn’t lie in the interlinking of rivers (as in Europe). Assam faces drought-like conditions in the non-monsoon period. Aquatic life in the rivers could be jeopardized in the name of checking floods. We cannot simply copy and paste- what is good in Europe may not be good in India when it comes to inter-linking of rivers. How will we check pollution of river Brahmaputra considering river Ganga and its tributary Yamuna is far too polluted than our Brahmaputra. Why must river-water pollution spread out to lesser polluted natural waterways?

All the governments who were in power in Assam could have come up with a permanent solution to tame the problem of Assam’s flood. What can we expect from a government whose leader who led the state until a few months before stated humorously that people can use bamboo plantain bhur (raft) when such a natural calamity strike. With a change of power, more so because the current chief minister of Assam whose constituency is Majuli, will things improve for the better? Let’s hope it does, fingers-crossed.

If we don’t care for our trees and our forest which is the home of the wild animals, a day will come when our natural forest will stealthily turn into urban concrete jungles. Will we go wild then?

                                                                                                                        -By Karobi Gogoi

Marks Market

“Do you know where I can buy marks?” asked the child to his cousin. The child was Bhargabh Barman who studied in class IV in a city school. His cousin Jitu who came from the remote Dhemaji town was there to spend his vacation at his maternal uncle’s house in Guwahati. Bhargabh was willing to shell out his accumulated wealth from his piggy bank which was in the shape of a piglet made out of coconut- the pocket money which he got whenever his mother didn’t pack his lunch-box to school. Little did his parents know that their child at times feasted on other’s lunch boxes- devouring on noodles, cakes, rolls, sandwiches, sweets and whatever satiated his taste-bud.

Bhargabh’s Ma was always after him to study. Study in the morning, study in the afternoon (if it was a Sunday or any holiday), study in the evening and still some more study at night. He was curious to know the location of the Marks Market because the other day he had heard his parents discussing that the class X board examination’s Mathematics question paper was leaked and he had also watched in the T.V. about the recent Bihar episode where a girl student became a state topper who didn’t even know her subjects right.

If his cousin Jitu was not able to help him out then he can always ask the neighbourhood hero Ron, few years older than him and who was a storehouse of valuable information. At the same time he also tried to check the location of Bihar in his Oxford atlas which he got from the book fair last time. Not far away from Assam, only the state of West Bengal was sandwiched in between Assam and Bihar. It measured just his little finger’s breadth. His mind wheeled on a railway coach to Bihar where he was sure to easily procure good marks without any effort (unaware to his parents) and which they would show it to their relatives, friends and neighbours and distribute sweets too if it happened to be the board examination. Now board had a different meaning to him. He had heard from his seniors about a CBSE board and his school was under SEBA board and his classmate’s elder brother went to an ICSE board. Then one of his cousins who was in a boarding school at Dehradun in Uttarakhand was under IGCSE board. Perhaps it referred to the different boards wherein a teacher wrote in the class room or so he thought.

When he went to Beltola market with his father on a Sunday, he had his eyes and ears wide open for he was in search of a vendor who sold marks; good marks, many marks or just any marks but passing marks, to any or many student(s) buyer(s). When his mother took him to Khadim’s in Ganeshguri to get him a pair of new shoes as the one he had was old and torn out in the monsoon rains, his searching eyes picked up the tiny new shoes; kept neatly arranged in racks in the shop, to check if it had marks hidden below or if it came inside shoe boxes. When the fruit and vegetable vendors or the fish-seller came to his locality, he hurriedly rushed in front to check if they also sold marks for money. If only marks flowed like the waters of the river Brahmaputra which skirted his city or if there was a torrential downpour of marks like the way it rains in Assam during the monsoon or more still instead of the flood waters if only it flooded everywhere with marks, how lucky all the students would be. But alas! He had no such magic wand. When the kabbadiwallah too came for collecting used plastic and glass bottles and old newspapers and magazines with a weighing machine and his cart he thought perhaps he was a godsend for him. But no, no such kabbadiwallah ever came to him with a cartload of marks. Before the approach of winter too when he heard the strumming of the quilt-maker’s instrument go twang-twang and he saw the soft fluffy cotton in jute sack, he wondered if it would fluff out marks instead of the light raw-material. How comforting it would be to sleep in a quilt of good marks which would keep the cold wintry days at bay!

Sunday through Saturday he had to strut accompanied by his Mommy to his private tutors houses: first Biren Tamuli sir’s house every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. On each of those days he tried his best to store all the mathematical calculations in his small brain which weighed just a few grams resting on his small head. His one hour class at Biren Tamuli’s house could best be termed as a mind ‘out-of-class’. But who cared apart from his parents who had to burn a hole in their pocket by shelling out Rs 1600 per month for they had a dream to make him an engineer one day. Engineering without mathematics is like eating one’s favourite meals without the braces on. Not naturally digestible, quite naturally.

Second, all Tuesdays and Thursdays were meant for English, two days where he had to listen to Miss Sampson’s dull and monotonous lectures for an hour without fail. The only attraction at visiting Miss Sampson’s house was the pet dog who barked at almost anyone who barged inside the compound. However, Bhargabh being an animal lover knew that Janus, Miss Sampson’s pet dog who was spotted with black dots on a white milky coat, communicated something else to him. His bough-wough with a waggy tail was what Bhargabh looked forward to. He loved to pat Miss Sampson’s pet in as much Janus loved being patted by him. The pet would at times stand in between Bhargabh’s legs with his tail moving like a pendulum or would place his forepaw on the child literally standing up or would run away from him for a minute or so and dash towards him at lightning speed, all this much to his mother’s annoyance. The rest of his English class would slowly tick-tock by, his often wandering thoughts diverting from English to what pranks Janus was up to when he had to read and write his lessons in English prose, English grammar and English composition. Every time he had to write a few exercises on the parts of speech- nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, prepositions, conjunctions, interjections and now articles too, Miss Sampson asked him to write ‘grammar’ on top followed by the actual heading and at the same time she ensured that he wrote the dates and drew straight margins with a pointed pencil. But he would always write GRAMMER without fail instead of grammar. If the English words ‘drummer’, ‘hammer’ and ‘stammer’ sounded the same as grammar then why was it spelled differently towards the end, he couldn’t infer. Saturdays was again devoted to Hindi because none at home could guide him about the language. He particularly had to struggle with the gender in Hindi since his mother-tongue had gender-neutral words. He was fluent in Hindi because he was constantly glued to the Hindi cartoon channels whenever there were no prying eyes darting at him. On Sundays he was forced to go to his neighbour’s house where Miss Jyotika Talukdar taught him his mother-tongue Assamese. No respite for him even on a Sunday. When he went for his Assamese classes, as also when he returned back, he saw his mother (and father too) with eyes all focused on the T.V. watching serials.  But when he would try to settle down too with them, he would be shooed away. Bhargabh was always thankful that there was no more than seven days in a week else his mother would drag him to yet another private tutor.  He had heard about a particular day ‘dry day’ it was referred to by his father, probably once or twice, and he silently wondered what sort of day it was as it was neither reflected in his school’s time-table nor in the calendar which decorated the living room of his parents.

Also, the other day his English teacher at school Miss D’souza gave a surprise test on the lesson ‘Heidi’. When he showed his answer script to Miss Sampson, it seemed to him that her eyes would pop-out of its socket. After all what he wrote in his answer to the question “Who was Heidi?” (by Johanna Spyrri) was “Heidi is a two volume, young village girl”. He knew his answers right and he was sure to get good marks this time. At times he got confused with the spellings and the words so when in his social studies question paper the students were asked to write about the problems of overpopulation in India, he wrote “Overpopulation leads to storage of food grains”.  (instead of ‘shortage’). In yet another question on ‘What are the factors which influence the climate of India?’ he remembered his Social Studies teacher Mr Barua telling something about the Tropic of Cancer so he wrote about the imaginary line Tropic of Cancer  and added “India has lot of cancer” to it. He had heard his distant aunt dying of cancer recently as also his neighbor from the other block. The disease was as alien to him as this imaginary line called the ‘Tropic of Cancer’ and he wrote down what he only felt. He thought the question to be wrongly printed as he couldn’t gauge the correlation between India’s climate and cancer. Then there was another question on “How is solar energy used in India?” Mr Barua was surprised to read Bhargabh’s answer “Solar energy is used for hotting and cocking in India (instead of heating and cooking). Barua Sir couldn’t help sharing this with his wife before going to bed at night. And just before he slept the only thought that came to his mind was “O My God! Is this what I have taught my students’!”

Looking at his Hindi copy his Hindi teacher at school Mr Shivbali commented, “Erre, yeah toh abhisehi doctor jaisa likhne lege hain”. (He has started to write just like a doctor from now itself). Needless to say everyone in the class started laughing at Shivbali sir’s joke including the ones whose handwriting resembled nothing less than a scavenging crow’s filthy feet.

Miss D’souza, their English teacher asked the students to prepare for the play “The Demon and the Dancer” based on a story of their English textbook. In the story, Bhasmasura, the demon of ashes was burnt by the Goddess of Power who came disguised as a dancer. Bhargabh who was selected for the role of the woman dancer had to ask Bhasmasura if he could dance like her. The way Bhargabh enacted especially his dancing mudras tickled everyone’s bones with laughter. Even Miss D’souza’s face saw a curve of smile followed by laughter. Towards the end of the play the entire class applauded for the actors for their superb performance especially Bhargabh’s.

Life without studies was easy going. In school he was branded as the naughtiest boy in his class. His teachers found it hard to force him to write, which only meant copying down directly from the blackboard. However, naughty Bhargabh would like a wandering satellite, turn back and hit Jumon, the one who had a rich eye-bladder and who would also keep moving his body at varying angles even while class was in progress and at times standing up for no reason or Manash who was the second naughtiest in his class or Pratik who was the most talkative or Manav who was the loudest among all 66 students. Bharghab would saunter as soon as the teacher turned back to write on the blackboard and he snatched either a pen or a pencil or an eraser or a ruler or a sharpener from his classmates or in the worst possible case tease a girl of his class. His class teacher Mr. Ramesh Paswan (also from Bihar), who was new to the school had a tough time controlling him and the bunch of pesky in his class. Paswan sir could never forget the day when in the very first period and this is before the students wished him good morning, a boy Samir by name, shouted loud and clear and complained- “Sir, tomorrow (meaning yesterday) Bhargabh told me sexy”. Paswan sir didn’t know whether to blush in embarrassment or to scold the child, who used that word tomorrow, err . . . yesterday, uff . . . today as well or to ignore his comments altogether like an ostrich with its head buried under the sand. Children as young as a class IV student, few of them if not all, knew a few slangs- words they might have either picked up at home, in their locality or elsewhere.

Bhargabh was not only active in games and sports but would always bag a prize in whichever games he participated in. Winning in sports competition was in his blood, something he inherited from his father Ramen Barman who worked in Assam Sachibalaya. His father had got the government job on sports quota and Bhargabh was also destined to do so, necessary terms and conditions applicable herein- if there is no intervention from his parents. They knew of their son’s interest in games and sports particularly in athletics but ignored it straightaway like a sweet-meat seller who ignores flies settling down on the sugary- syrupy- sweet mithais. How many can become Tendukars and pehelwans and emulate our very own Shiv Thappa?

His mother would always take him to the nearby temple on Saturdays since it was a holiday at school. His prayers to the idol was to make him pass in the school examination especially Mathematics and English, the two subjects in which he got a red line in his progress report. In order to pass the school’s promotion examination without getting a red line he was even ready to sacrifice the much forbidden bite from the unripe berries which he and his friends saw growing in the berry tree which stood in the corner of the playground where children played cricket. It was a commonly held belief amongst children of his age that one bite from the unripe berry and the student would invariably flunk in the examination. How he wished if one day instead of berries, marks, eh, mind you, good marks . . . showered from its bountiful boughs and he would stand right below the berry tree waiting to pick it up from the ground; slightly bad marks he would discard it like the unripe or rotten berries and collect only the best of the best in his shirt and pant pockets. If need be, he was only too willing to be like the actor Salman Khan, to bare out his chest and be clad only in his white vest in his mission on amassing marks. On Saraswati Puja- the Goddess of knowledge, learning and wisdom, Bhargabh would never take non-veg. even though chicken was his all time favourite. If he can sacrifice non-veg. just for a single day, Goddess Saraswati can never ignore such a devout bhakt and may perhaps bless him with at least passing marks.

During Durga Puja, on the day when Ma Durga is just about to be taken for immersion, he and his battalion of neighbourhood gang of boys could be seen carrying various academic books- some carrying Science text books, others with Hindi on their hands, some others loaded with Assamese and some like him, almost the entire wooden table of books minus the table of course, as they chanted to Ma Durga to bless them with a promotion to the next class.

A few days back, Bipin borta- his paternal uncle who worked in the Digboi refinery came to his house and over a cup of tea informed his family about his possible transfer to Barauni Refinery in Bihar.  Bihar once again rang a bell to him as did Barua Sir, his Social Studies teacher at school while explaining the chapter on ‘Our Valuable Resources’. “Children, there is a pipeline which transports oil from Assam to Barauni refinery in Bihar” as Barua sir pointed to the India map which stood next to the blackboard hung on the ply-board partition which separated classroom IV and V. And he imagined he was floating in a bed of oil inside the pipeline which transports Assam’s oil to the state where there was a market for marks. His vision of scoring high marks was about to come true with Bipin borta’s transfer. There were two classmates who originally hailed from Bihar- Sunny and Sunil. He knew about their native place because both had reported late to school when it reopened after the summer vacation. Sunil came back with a tonsured head as his paternal grandfather had passed away during the holidays and all the boys had made fun of Sunil since only a tiny pony tail, resembling his piggy-bank’s tail, appeared on his almost empty head protruding like a barren island in a sea. He would remember to ask Sunny and Sunil about the marks market in their native place. Perhaps they would be able to provide some vital clues.

But he had to first find out how much money he had saved up until then in his piggy bank. Bhargabh, unlike other students, didn’t know the art of cheating directly in the examination. His classmate Aniruddha was caught red-handed by another English teacher Mrs Chatterjee who taught English in the senior classes. Mrs Chatterjee does chatter like a chattering Magpie and also makes others laugh with her chatter and there’s no full-stop to her constant chatter and the accompanying laughter). Miss D’souza was called to the examination hall to check if the answers handwritten in small and short chits tallied with any of the examination questions. One question sure did, the one on “How Tenali Raman was able to bag the award of a thousand gold coins from the king?” While Miss D’souza checked the notes written by Aniruddha and cross-checked his handwriting written in his English copy it was found that the way he wrote the letters particularly the ‘s’, ‘h’, ‘i’ and ‘t’ matched ditto as in those chits. Five solid marks Aniruddha lost. Bhargabh who was Roll No. 6 and came right after Aniruddha Borthakur (Roll No. 5) got all the running commentary from the two English teachers (sans Mrs Chatterjee’s laughter this time). This happened last year but the incident was still fresh in his mind. Anirudha who was weak in English just like him was promoted on consideration. Bhargabh could never imagine getting a good hiding from his father for cheating in the examination.

The school’s annual examination was round the corner. Bhargabh would very often dream that he is unable to write as a teacher- his Mathematics or English teacher, yelling at him to write fast as the bell will ring in no time. And he would wake up from his sleep with a start with his forehead laced with beads of warm sweat.

Then, one day while going for his private tuition to Miss Sampson’s house, Janus whispered something in Bhargabh’s ear when he went to greet him still wagging his tail and emitting a low ‘bouuuuugh’- “Watch my shadow”. Janus knew a few tricks like pawing when asked to shake hands with others or to run away when the chain was brought to tie him in the garage. At times Bhargabh also saw him playing with a ball or chasing his own shadow or going round and round in circles holding his tail firmly with his sharp canine teeth.

Just when Bhargabh thought he had heard Janus communicate something to him, he ran away towards the house responding to the call of Naini, Miss Sampson’s helper. And as he ran so did his shadow. He saw the image of Ma Saraswati in Janus’s shadow who told him these lines- “Child, don’t run after marks. The ultimate aim of education is to gain knowledge and not to adorn your report card with marks.” His mother who was standing next to him saw Janus running free and Bhargabh too could sense that what he saw was perceived by his mother too. A shadow falls only when there is light. Let every child’s life be candled by the light of knowledge. Marks would follow automatically, like a shadow, if a student is passionate about learning and develops an interest in the subject. Why go for only marks without having an understanding? The world is your oyster and it is for you to find the pearl hidden inside it. If you don’t use your brain it will rust and very soon it will stop functioning like a rusted machine. The son and mother saw Janus running all around the compound like a child left free. Bhargabh’s mother had a vague montage of her child drowning in the oil pipeline, with him asphyxiated by his school bag which weighs more than him as also by his more than dozen books and copies bulldozing him under its pressure. His mother pinched herself as Janus, the gate-keeper of Miss Sampson’s house, awoke the mother in her and hugging Bhargabh once, she let her child run after the dog, to chase his own dreams and aspirations. The very next day she took her child to the nearest stadium for his admission in the sports of his interest.

Dear parents, would you want your child to grow and learn by sinking in a quagmire of marks or would you love to let your child grow naturally like a sapling, nurtured and nourished by parents and teachers alike, where there is no rat-race for getting marks, marks set much above expectation? There is edutainment in the process of learning. There are students who cheat in the examination hall by adopting unfair means, both verbal and written, with the sole aim of gaining a few extra marks. What purpose will it serve if a student doesn’t even know the answer? S/he will only be marks rich but knowledge poor. If only every family, every parents encourage their children not to read and learn by rote, if nobody pressurized anybody (if you know what I mean?), won’t there be a greater percentage of passed students than failed? Parrot learning, learning by rote, mugging up answers may be the shortest route but such short-cuts in the highway to gaining marks by a few notch is never the surest way of easy access but is an cul-de-sac as it can only lead to long delays in storing our granary of knowledge and ameliorating our skills which comes with learning and understanding.

While hand-holding is required, parental helicopteering must be avoided. It is the parents who build up undue pressure on their child to scale the peak of ‘Mountain of Marks’ not realizing that there could be an avalanche or the child could be trapped in a crevice. Let the child scale such a height on his or her own. Like the beautiful and sweet-scented wildflowers which grow with the right amount of sunshine and rain on the high valleys and mountain sides, let your child also grow, in quite the natural way.

(All characters are fictitious.)