Net Neutrality vs. Free Basics (and why I use the 'vs.')

I originally posted this on my Facebook timeline. It is reproduced (with added formatting) here to hopefully reach a wider audience. I would also like to request someone to translate this for non-English speakers, who are the target market for Internet.org/Free Basics.

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<fact>

Let's clear this up once and for all: Net Neutrality and Free Basics (new name of Internet.org for India!) are conflicting ideas! Anyone who signed petitions for both is under woeful ignorance, I'm afraid.

</fact>

<opinion>

As for which to support, here's my two cents. You can skip it and read the much better explanation in the link, too.

1. Free 'basics' does not include Google, LinkedIn, or any educational/financial/trade websites. It includes Facebook and its partner apps, which allows them to control the 'news', 'information' and 'education' that people supposedly will receive from it. Facebook's version of digital 'equality' is not equality at all since it will give this much to all for free...
2. ...which telecom providers (who will incur the loss, not Facebook, who gain via traffic and ads) will make up for by hiking data rates for everything else. So someone with more money has more access to digital resources in a worse way than ever.
3. Because of the monopoly of a company/companies on information (via agreements of Facebook and partners with telecom providers), the internet will not be neutral and there will be no opposing opinions. The Internet will essentially become China. Our government is right in banning free basics, since it will stifle our voices on the Internet, the only platform still relatively safe to voice our opinions on!
4. What Facebook could do if it had the right intentions: subsidize basic things like Google, LinkedIn and net banking for helping underprivileged/remotely located students, job seekers, traders, etc.; and do this via ads (or even donations, if they really have such kind hearts) instead of changing the way telecom providers charge us.
5. And no, Facebook is not the worst place to share this, but the best, because Free Basics stifles Freedom, something that Facebook originally took to new heights, but now is selling out for capturing the lucrative market of the non-Internet-using Third World population.

</opinion>

<request>

Whichever side you support, please do spread the idea that the two are in conflict!

</request>

Read Kshitij Salgunan's answer to "Should I support Facebook Free Basics in India" on Quora

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A Short Ode To A Special Friend

CBSE East Zone Swimming Championship, hosted by Hem Sheela Model School, in the autumn of 2013. More than sixty schools from all over eastern India gathered in the J.N. Avenue campus. As the Class XI Coordinator in charge of the hosts' Student Volunteers, I was assigned a crew of Class IX and XI Students Council members and a ragtag group of additional volunteers from Class XI. Among these volunteers was a moderately troublesome rodent-like fellow who, one afternoon, seemed like a suitable person to take charge in the joint absence of me and my regular deputy.

Following my deputation of this kid, circumstances best forgotten dictated an unfavourable turn of events; but eventually, to myself and to the world, my initial instincts were proved right. This kid later volunteered laudably for the Council during the end-year personnel crisis; and when, in Class XII, I was to become Head Girl, taking oath beside me as Head Boy, in the torrential rain on 1st July 2014, was to be the same kid -- a crucial friend and colleague in the months to come, someone difficult to forget, a kid I have high hopes for.

As I write this annotation to my timeline nearly two years in the future from aforesaid events, on the verge of my leaving Durgapur, all I can say to Nihal is this: thanks, buddy, and wish you well.

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( +NIHAL SINGH )

Unintentional Throwback

Cross-posted from Facebook.

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Those were practised gestures -- to be standing beside important people on the stage, dressed well, smiling as is wont, and then accompanying them off the stage when the day is done.

We were in practised company: the school administrators and senior teachers, dignitaries, guests, and one another.

It was a familiar place -- Drury Hem Sheela Recreation Centre; green carpets, galleries, lights, a wild crowd above and a less wild crowd below.

The feeling was familiar, too: to feel bashfully proud of everything that we were doing, everything that we were a part of, everything we stood for, and everyone we knew and loved.

Even the end was familiar: walking off the steps while snidely commenting on the people around, taking stock of the goings-on and subjecting it all to paranoid scrutiny, throwing in a few jokes and a few deep philosophical thoughts, and then parting with a handshake and a fist-bump.

So yes, aside from the fact that we were dressed not in our uniforms but in clothes of our choosing, the fact that we were not the in-office Heads of Council but ex-students who happened to also be the outgoing Heads, the fact that our classmates sat not above but below, and the fact that we were seeing one another and most of our classmates for the last time in many months, Felicitation 2015 wasn't all that different from a usual HSMS day of our lives.
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(On Felicitation 2015, as requested by Nihal Singh).

Exam Results, and The Friendship Rant

First, the news: AISSCE 2015 results are out, and I scored 96%. As far as we know as I write this, the highest score in the Science stream from my school is 97.4%, and from the Commerce section, the highest score is 96.2%, from my friend and former colleague Nihal Singh. The newspapers reported today that the highest scorer in the country is a Commerce student from Delhi, with 99.2%; the highest Science scorer is not known to me yet. My congratulations go out to all the toppers as well as everyone else who cleared this very important milestone. The Class of 2015 has come of age, and hopefully we will go far. Now we await the results of our attempts at getting into college. Bystanders and bygones, wish us luck!

Since the last of the competitive exams were done, I have been struck by a crushing sense of emptiness -- though in reality I have plenty to do, especially things that I did less (or none) of in the past few months. I have a pending storybook in my hands; I have a ton of French that I can learn and a ton of Runescape that I can play; and today after a long time I picked up my tanpura. Yet, I feel devoid of a purpose. At the end of Class X, I knew that I was going to spend Class XI in HSMS and Aakash Institute. Now, I have no such certainty. Even if I get a barely decent result in the competitive examinations, I will have a formidable list of colleges to choose from -- and once I get there, I have to take the wobbly first steps towards an adult, independent life. Don't get me wrong -- the prospect of that life does not intimidate me; instead, it excites me that I will have new friends, new knowledge and new experiences. What I do not have is immediate motivation. Sure, career prospects and even the possibility of being able to do some meaningful charity someday is great motivation; but as I leave school life for real, I have no meaningful connections to show for it -- no people whose faces, far away, will give me strength in my future endeavours; no tangible, living representatives of the spirit of youthful idealism that I hope to carry into my life of nascent maturity. To put it simply, leaving school life, I do not have a single friend that I can possibly allow myself to miss.

It is a well-known fact that anything worth doing is faced with stiff opposition, and that anyone worth their salt is never too well liked. A low friend count is a cross I can bear for the path I chose in my school life, because that path was important to me -- and the burden of that cross is much lightened by the few friends I made in passing -- but none to know and trust, none to call at 3 a.m., none that accept me for the exact person that I am and are yet not afraid to be close to me. I revel in solitude, and I've always hated so-called friends who are too clingy, but sometimes I wonder if one absolutely must suffer indignities to one's conscience, privacy and principles to maintain friendships. If it is that way, trust me, I'd rather not have friends -- but sometimes I wonder if that whole 'adjustment' story is bullshit. Adults (technically, I am one now, but bleh) have always told us bluntly that true friends are a near-impossible rarity, and we youngsters grow to believe it. The other day when I visited HSMS and spoke to my class teacher, she agreed with me when I mentioned the improbability of true friendship, and praised my maturity in realizing the truth!

And yes, it is a truth I realized long, long ago. Back in CCHS, I had realized as young as Class II that being betrayed by friends was routine procedure. Right up to Class VIII, each and every year, without fail, I made a new friend in the beginning of the year, who hurt me horribly by the end of it -- with such scathing regularity that I came to expect it in the beginning of every school year. In Class IX, I gave up hope of ever making new friends. In HSMS, I didn't expect a fresh start, at least in this regard, but I was given one nonetheless. I often tell people how, much of HSMS and Aakash was a concise and accelerated version of the CCHS experience for me -- and part of what I mean, is that numerous people flitted in and out of my life in these two years, and bonds were made and broken not in a year, not in a month, but in days, hours and minutes. I made and lost nearly as many friends in HSMS as I had in CCHS. Talk about history repeating itself, and that too six times faster!

No, I wasn't a quiet kid. I wasn't a wallflower, I wasn't timid, I wasn't invisible. I was well known, I was popular among juniors, I held the top posts in the student bodies and everybody knew my name and who I was -- but that was the end of it. Any friendships I had left at the end of my school life died in a series of sad encounters in the days leading up to our Farewell Day, and lastly, crushingly, excruciatingly, on the very day that I bade Farewell to HSMS, and thus my school life. Reconnecting with some of these friends worked out quite well, actually -- but it was never the same. When I look at these people now in photographs, when I hear them now as disembodied voices over telephone, when I run into them at the odd exam centre, I find they've changed, or perhaps revealed some truth about themselves that I had been oblivious to. I find them different -- just like, déjà vu, I found many of my Carmel girls metamorphosing into unrecognizable skeletons of their past selves in post-Carmel meetings. My maturity be praised, I understand all of this as a normal part of adult life -- people can't be forced to like each other, and true friendships don't exist -- and I am ready to accept it if someone can convince me that it is always true: if someone can refute me when I debate that it is still worth my while to try making new friends.

Yes, I know -- I'm an adult, and I'm supposed to have my life all figured out, including my bunch of age-appropriate, status-appropriate, gender-appropriate, culture-appropriate, brand-appropriate friends to show off to myself on some bloody list that I'm supposed to check off I don't know when. But I have no shame in admitting that I actually don't. I don't know how to make friends, and I don't know if trying is even worth my time. What I do know, however, is that I'll never, ever change myself, never ever remain silent against any injustice, never give up even a single bit of my personality to keep myself glued to some friend. I'll never, ever, do all the things I wrote about in that poem. Silence is not the price I will pay for friends, and silence is not what I will expect of any friend that decides to accept my voice.

I also promise, however, that while I will forever be careful, and never too trusting, and never too easy to make friends with, I will never, ever, stop trying to make friends. Because, you see, every friendship I've ever had was wonderful while it lasted. Even the people who weren't who I thought they were, were a joy to me as my imagined versions of them. So no, oh wise grown-ups, while I won't ever endanger my identity for the sake of a friend, I will always remain on the lookout for one -- even if it is ever reduced to a selfish tool of giving me joy. And while I'm at it, I will remember the principle that has always held together my most treasured friendships -- summarized by this C.S. Lewis quote:

"Friendship is born at that moment when one man says to another: 'What! You too? I thought that no one but myself...'" 

So, past friends, thank you for having been there. Present friends, if you exist, let me know who you are because I haven't the slightest idea; and, world full of potential future friends, here I come!

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I actually have one friend, just one, outside school, outside the country in fact, who has always been wonderful to me despite having never met me in person. This post being about school friends, I didn't talk about you in it, but thank you, +Paige Marie / +SuperPaigeT .  You're a dear.

Image courtesy: Unknown creator via Google Images

Of Heights, Quakes, and How Everything is Wrong

We clawed at walls. We smiled at the world till our cheeks hurt and our lips bled. We did everything right -- to what end? Rickety buses filled with sweat, drudgery and depraved machinations; the morbidly obese sweating at the gym after eating far too much; young people dying because someone, somewhere, does not know better -- and what have we accomplished?

Rumbles of suspicion arise somewhere deep in our brains at every kind word, every kind touch, every holy gesture, because somewhere between the Value Education classes and the deadbeat degree our evaluation of kindness quietly shifted -- from the scale of people served, to the adult and practical yardstick of social points accrued -- and by those measures we give and receive what was preached, to the gullible child by the hypocritical adult, as gainful only in the afterlife. And so we were kind and we are kind, because it helps to be kind. Even if the fear of God didn’t convince us as kids, we’re all so kind, now that we’re grown -- for convenience in this here mortal life. Everybody and their mother is kind in adulthood. Everyone. Not just the pious with season tickets to paradise but atheists like me too. Because it's useful. And so we're kind. So, so kind. Parents are so kind to children that kids don't have to take the trouble of dreaming their own dreams -- don't worry, baby! Mum and Dad lived in the 80s and have a lot of dreams left over from that hopeful era! Here, take them. Fulfil them. Parents will pay for whatever you need to get that done. You just do it. How convenient, right, baby? No need to waste your time being yourself! We're doing you a favour. Just like the government is doing us all a favour! No one has to lift a finger to build an identity. It's all encoded for you by our freely and fairly elected masters. Here are the basic rules that define your identity as an Indian:

1. Government decides what you eat. Don't eat a cow, it's your Mom.

2. Government decides who you have sex with. 'Honey, not now' is something that only men can say in a marriage and expect to be respected. A woman's sexuality is an object promised to her husband by her father who similarly ‘received’ her mother once, so married women beware, you can't be raped by your husband. Because in India, marriage is a sacrament which makes marital rape a non-issue.

3. Government decides who you don't have sex with. Because gender is so binary that all hell will break loose if someone explores outside the extremes. On second thought, we don't understand such sophisticated stuff. You want a reason? Well, because, tradition or some vague thing like that.

4. Women, don't be a woman or you will be raped. Men, if you denounce rape, you are not man enough. Children, there is no such thing as rape. You see, ignoring the very dictionary definition of rape, we believe that she was asking for it.

5. If all of that is difficult, just do as you’re told. SURRENDER NOW OR PREPARE FOR A FIGHT! (Meowth, that's right). Because hey, be grateful you don't live in Syria. At least we don't behead you.

Alright, alright. I'm sorry about the ranting and the discombobulated writing and the fact that the lettering above probably gave you a seizure. But hey, I'm right about the routine, muscle-memory survival summarized succinctly by the movements and conversations of commuters on public transport. I’m right about the hypocrisy in pretending that the luxury of affording good food is not a luxury at all since it makes you fat, as well as the homogenous beauty standards associated with ‘fat’. I'm also right about the pointlessness of parents dictating to children and in turn being dictated to by the powers that be. I'm right about the micro-aggressions we face every day for not fitting into the boxes built around us. You know I’m right.

Before you say it: no, I don't know what to do about it. This is a rambling, whining, selfish, elitist, pseudo-activist piece by a tired young adult who has no idea how to fix the dog-eaten world she inhabits. This is an immature outburst in response to frustrations accumulated over many months of walking on the streets feeling unsafe, navigating online and offline interactions with narrow-minded judgmental dimwits, being irrationally mistrustful of new people because of being hurt and disrespected too many times, and reading the newspaper only to be left thanking my dumb luck that I'm still in one piece.

And yes, this is a rant about everything that's wrong around me, and it’s triggered by survivor's guilt – because Anik Mukherjee, my senior by a year from Hem Sheela Model School, a troubled guy, a flawed guy, and an extraordinary aesthetic, comedic and literary talent who I had the privilege to know and watch performing live, recently succumbed to the crisis of dreams versus conventional careers, and committed suicide -- late last week.  Pragmatically speaking, I am saddened, grieved even, and my thoughts are with his family who must be going through hell right now. On a less pragmatic note, however, the only thought running through my mind is what this all is worth. Anik was a rebel; he didn't walk the straight and narrow. But even those of us who did everything right, as I wrote in the beginning -- what do we get? On good days, we get financial security and false bliss, with a faint hint of regret for having never rebelled. On bad days, the pathetic nature of our robotic existence hits us like a block of ice to the face and we fall into a damaging periodicity of low self-worth and bully-like egotism -- essentially either pulling ourselves down, or rising up by pushing down on others – and so on and on it goes. Our consolation is that some unknown heights are reached in the process. Some unreachable correctness is apparently achieved when we let our lives be copies of a set template. Some comfortable predictability, some spinelessness mistaken for likeability, some ingratiation of the world at large -- that's what we get. That, and the fact that young people die.

Because someone, somewhere, prefers that one or two youngsters die if only to reinforce in the minds of the others that they are being so very strong by doing exactly what is told instead of giving in to weaknesses such as dreams and individuality -- and thus a generation is born who make fun of two friends for discussing the loss of someone they knew (yes, that happened) because it's so funny and so stupid and EHMAHGERD TOO LOL that the idiot killed himself, ROTFL such a wuss. "Oh, look at me, I've never dreamt, never built anything beautiful. Look at me, because it took me such strength to conform and never say enough. I'm gonna be an engineer and my Momma will love me more and cook me bigger pieces of chicken..!" Well guess what, strong-man dear -- Anik lost a battle. You never fought. I wish he were alive, because he was nice to me while you are horrid to me. I’d have him alive and you dead any day.

Sounds harsh, I know, but those are my words for those who ridicule suicide victims. It's a lapse of judgement -- a fatal lapse of judgement -- but it means that the person did something, be it good or bad, to land themselves in deep enough trouble, so there. The strongest are the ones who came back from the brink. The weakest are those who don't know what it's like to be criticized and made to feel worthless. Those who, unfortunately, tip over the edge are somewhere in between. Because:

“It's not worth doing something unless someone, somewhere, would much rather you weren't doing it.” -- Terry Pratchett

So yes, with many apologies to my readers, I will be irrational today. I will be a pseudo-activist today and you can judge me all you want from the great heights you've reached in your quest towards homogeneity. Speaking of those heights, Congratu-fricking-lations to you.

Don't get me wrong. I am probably on the way to a deadbeat degree -- fortunately, for the better part, not because of external pressure but because my academic tastes happen to be conventional. But at least I know that it's much, much harder, and not weak or lesser at all, to be doing something different. As for the non-academic stuff, I know exactly what it's like not to fit in -- and as I said, it's my dumb luck that I'm in one piece. No pedestal here for me to stand on!

Today there was an earthquake here, again – thankfully yet again non-fatal. Now, as anyone with half a brain would, I'm not partial to earthquakes. However, I wouldn't mind a non-fatal earthquake once in a while, especially of the metaphorical kind -- because we as a society, we as a country, we as a species, need a mad shaking up from time to time. Our fake heights need to crumble, our veneers need to be rudely torn, our sense of mortality needs to be reinforced, if we are ever going to get real about how pathetic all of this is getting.

Ergo, we need a quake. A significant one.

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For the sake of preservation, here is a link to my original Google+ post reacting to Anik's death. Feel free to talk about these posts, or not. Thank you for putting up with me.

The Spirit of New Year's

Image Courtesy: globzer.com via Google

When the sun rises this morning, the birds won't know the difference. Neither will the trees, insects, cats and dogs, or for that matter the rivers, streams and rocks. Even the sun and the earth won't know the difference, which is ironic because all the hullabaloo is because of the earth completing a full revolution around the sun -- they won't know the significance of the specific point on the earth's orbit which we pick as a cut-off for our calendar years. In fact, if we look at it, that point varies across cultures, and many New Year celebrations exist outside the dominant Gregorian calendar system. Even within it, time zone differences mean that the same moment is not shared as the defining one between revellers across the globe. Sad, isn't it? It can almost make one feel that this entire New Year ruckus means nothing. Yet, New Year's festivities constitute one of the earliest kinds of celebrations in the history of human civilization. This tells us that, aside from noticing the repetitive nature of season cycles and using it as a measure of time, humans have felt the need to document and commemorate their entire lives in terms of this cycle: appraising their lives in terms of tasks accomplished in one such cycle, and treating each one as a new chance at the same seasons and the same conditions, providing ample scope for alteration and improvement based on lessons learnt from the bygones. The reason we love New Year's Day so much is that it represents fresh chances -- which, while invigorating, is not entirely true, because in our complex lives, not everything comes back every year.

No one knows who first decided to celebrate the periodic repetition of weather conditions. I like to think that someone sitting in a prehistoric cave felt cold, or hot, and started counting days until the same feeling returned after an intervening period of different weather of all kinds, and then noticed that it is regular. I like to think that this realization of regularity was quickly followed by a realization of the finality of hope -- a realization that no matter what, favourable times and weather conditions will return, and that long winters and long summers are actually never longer than stipulated, and that the worst will always pass -- and thus New Year's Day was born. The flip side, though, is that the same person probably also realized that just like the worst, the best will also not stay for long.

Amidst this New Year revelry, I would like to be the voice of reason, and point out that while motivating oneself using New Year's hope, and pledging to make changes, and of course having fun, are all very well, one must recognize that changes are never made abruptly at the stroke of midnight, opportunities do not replicate themselves year after year, and that New Year's actually signifies time passed -- time lost, not time gained. So, while it is wonderful that we are the only species on this planet hopeful (and intelligent) enough to celebrate New Year's Day, it is perhaps prudent to understand that the exact day does not matter as much as the idea of it does. We could pick any random day in the year for this. In multicultural India, we already have a bunch of different New Year celebrations. What they all have in common is the human intention of appraisal and improvement -- an idea that, while reinforced on this festival day, should permeate our lives every day.

To put it differently, we don't know at which point the earth started revolving around the sun. We don't know at which point our planet was when the first life form or the first human was born. We have no decisive zero from which to start measuring our years. Which means that, if we want it to, every day marks the beginning of a new year in some sense: maybe not as 'Happy' a new year, but a new year nonetheless! So I say, let New Years' Day be less about the day itself, and more about the spirit of human hope and our constant efforts not just to survive, but to live and live well, as individuals and as a species. Let 1st January be a day to honour Time, the only resource beyond our control -- let it be about making fruitful negotiations with Time to make the best of its fleeting nature.

In short, we can't party every night, but let tonight's party be an expression of a yearlong drive to make Time give us all it can, preferably make it suffer for all the limitations it places on us -- because we humans are boss like that! So do keep smiling, keep working for the better, and be grateful for the opportunity to understand New Year's -- unlike the birds, the animals and the trees, who will never know why none of us are sleeping tonight. Happy 2015!

I Felt This Was Necessary

It takes immense maturity, and is a desirable characteristic of civilization, to hate the sin and not the sinner. However, there are numerous instances in which, that intellectually charged sense of heart-wrenching fairness becomes a vehicle for excuse-mongering in favour of convenient injustices. What then? In the face of a rampant social evil, is the sympathy-based correctional approach at all fair, or for that matter, effective?

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Blame

It's not his fault, they told her--
Blame his parents, his childhood, his home,
But not the poor boy.
His mother probably didn't teach him well.

So she forgave him, and prayed for his soul.
Not being its fault either,
She let his godforsaken child live:
Hated the kid all her life, but raised him, fed him.
Even took him to see his blameless father;
Sent him to school, where one day he knew.

He turned sixteen:
Decided it was his time to emulate Father.
Many saw him, and kept quiet.
Mother saw him, but kept quiet,
And she prayed for his soul
Because perhaps she hadn't taught him well.

And that's what they said to the girl.
Who, history repeating, let it live.
The guilty mother saw the signs one day.
Decided to make right her sin,
Took a blade to the girl's throat,
Went to jail for misplaced mercy.
The sixteen-year-old blameless son
Watched her shackled departure in disgust.
His child, his blameless child, he thought.
His innocent creation in the belly of his prey.
A boy, he had hoped.
Just like him inside his mother.

What a shame!
So he went out to make things right.
Few nights later, one of them screamed.
This time everyone saw.
Elections approaching, this time,
The many-coloured flags rose in protest.
Also some candles, black arm bands,
Journalists, columnists, analysts.

But one wise old man said,
It's not his fault.
His mother didn't teach him well.
What a tainted mother anyway, to let him live --
And gladly the old man repeated events
To those not in the know.
The old man's wife reminded him, helpfully:
Not just that, husband --
Remember how she killed that girl?
Of course the poor boy's not to blame;
To have a mother like that, poor thing.

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This poem is a product of many people, on many occasions, encouraging me to understand the greyer shades between black and white, and appreciate the reasons behind crimes committed. In response, I have chosen to write, and I've picked the foremost criminal issue in India which was also the last issue I discussed with someone along those lines -- the continuum of sexual aggression against women, from harassment, to domestic violence, molestation and rape. While a lot has been said about fixing the grassroots and changing mindsets, which I respect and even agree with, I will never support the utterance of these ideas in the immediate context of a crime. With all due respect to campaigns like #startwiththeboys , and the women and men who want to change the attitudes at the origin of crime, we cannot expect a victim, or even her immediate family, to appreciate the reasons behind the crime. Doing so trivializes the victim's ordeal and shifts focus from her trauma. Once the crime has been committed, once the basest human dignities of a person have been trampled upon, there are no shades of grey -- it is black and white. 

All crimes, sex crimes included, are a product of troubled pasts and wrong teachings in some form -- but let that not become an excuse. Once committed, the primary action must be punishment -- harsh punishment. Campaigns are for potential criminals, not hardened ones who are already desensitized -- and even if convicts are to be reformed, it can hardly be done in a day, and is best attempted inside secure facilities. Let us not be so concerned about being fair to the perpetrators and protecting their rights that we forget the justice we owe to the victim.
(Speaking of victims -- let us not subscribe to the voyeuristic idealization of the 'shamed victim' picture. Let us offer the kind of support that encourages a victim to be strong and move on, instead of defining her by her ordeal for the rest of her life.)
The secondary theme in the poem, and the reason I chose to write about the mother, is a simple and direct reaction to this:

"Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman. Always." -- Nana, in Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns.

That book, along with its predecessor The Kite Runner, are some of the rawest stories of systematic social injustice that I've read. More on that later, hopefully clubbed with the discussion on And The Mountains Echoed, which is next on my reading list.
Meanwhile, #startwiththeboys , but lets not make a victim live with the humiliating knowledge that the perpetrator has received lenient treatment or, as is often the case, has gone scot-free. Men who consider women less than human, should receive a taste of that same humiliation. Domestic violence is non-negotiable. Harassment is non-negotiable. Molestation is non-negotiable. Rape is non-negotiable. It is black. Very black.

Of Change, Clichés and Reality Checks

I heard in some TV show of an experiment where they gave people glasses that fed them with an upside down view of the world. At first, they had trouble but in three days, they got used to it and could make their way around. Then, they removed the glasses.

The scientists wanted to know if the recovery of normal perception would take as long as the 'upside down' conditioning did. Knowing that the way we usually see the world is 'normal', you would expect it to take less time, wouldn't you? But no, the test subjects where just as disoriented as during the first change, and took all of three days to get used to the upright world.

The conclusion? Even something trivial as which way up is subject to conditioning. Our brain has immense power to adapt, and half the things we believe to be set in stone are not actually so.

Hmm, that statement got dangerously close to cliché territory, didn't it? Very self-help! Maybe the other day's motivational session courtesy Aakash (should I write about that or not... show of hands?) left me with some inspiration. But I know what it most certainly left me with. I volunteered at the session and scored myself a bar of Bournville... hey, hey, hey!

Ahem, focusing. Focusing.

So, people want to change things -- say people like me, and we're always up to making some noise. But lately, I find people throwing all their nonsense unplanned dreams into the world and expecting them to come true. I'm sorry, y'all, but if you want to bring a social revolution or something, my heart is with you, but you need a damn head! Back in Carmel, the SPICE Club did very little for the society and the planet compared to bigger organizations for similar causes; but whatever was done was planned and hence fruitful.

The other day this girl I know -- sweet girl, really, nice heart and all -- comes at me with this weird and creepy-ass rumbling ramble about wanting to go 'motivate' poor kids. Apparently, she got First World Guilt when she passed a slum on the way back from shoe shopping at the mall. She felt we should do something. I had to explain to her that this stuff needs commitment and expertise and not just good intentions -- doing something is different from donating to the Prime Minister's damn Relief Fund. You need something real, like the SPICE Club took up coaching some underprivileged kids. Besides, just talking to them would be intruding into their lives and wasting their time, probably getting in the way of their livelihoods and the work of real social workers, and leave with a fake self-satisfaction that we've done something. It's the typical thing we privileged people do to feel less bad about our indulgences and, well, privileges.  I know many great movements are born from the aforesaid First World Guilt, especially if said First World is ensconced in the Third World, as it is in India -- I, however, highly doubt that quenching the guilt is equivalent to an actual contribution.

At the cost of further cliché, I will say that one should rather start small, around oneself -- be nice to the maid and her kids, stop the elders in your home from mistreating the staff. I will also reiterate that most states of affairs that we take as unchangeable are actually a result of conditioning. Some take three days and some take three decades, but change is possible.

It has to be, however, real change, which comes from realistic effort and a mindset built for not dreaming but doing. Which is why I told that girl -- go and find someone who really knows this work, and volunteer with them instead of stepping out on your own. There is no point in ignoring all the work done by the experts and reinventing the wheel. In the change business, as well as in any other field, growth begins with learning. Always.

Ciao, and peace.

Gratitude 7 (Teachers' Day Special 2014) : Five

Teachers' Day Special : I suppose that's self-explanatory. Please read the entire poem before forming your opinions.

====================================

Five

In the classrooms behind the cobwebs

Of our greying reminiscence

There lives a story of The Five :

Five high school friends --

Five rebels of hot young blood

Who found all things unfair;

Five devils of the school's halls,

Every teacher's nightmare

And how they ruled the place!

They mangled the chairs and walls

And broke the teacher's desk, and

Trashed the washroom stalls.

Every teacher, class and rule

Was branded as nonsense

By The Five, the high school bosses,

With the utmost confidence.

If ever perchance there was a class

That they deigned to attend,

It ended with one or all of them

Standing out at the hallway's end...

... and on Teachers' Day in Class Twelfth,

The Five, the smart and clever,

Decided it was revenge time --

Payback, now or never.

They usurped the stage on September Five,

All prudence dead and burnt,

And hurled every sick expletive

That they had ever learnt.

When The Five finally left the stage,

Anger spent and gone,

Their homeroom teacher of three years

Asked to speak with them alone.

The words spoken to The Five behind

Those closed classroom doors

Are unknown to all others till date --

Not even the Principal knows

But thereafter till Farewell,

The Five went underground;

Come school's end, they shook hands and parted,

Never again to be found.

Tonight, on September Five,

Fifty and five years thence,

Three people gathered at my place --

Three remaining of Five friends --

And on the moonlit rooftop

Looking skyward, we lay

Whispering to every star,

Happy Teachers' Day.

====================================

Owning Your Anger and other stories

Today I felt real, white-hot anger after a long time. I can't remember when the last time I felt like that was -- it had probably been more than a year. The reason I call my anger 'white-hot' is because of how I perceive it. Anger has traditionally been associated with the colour red, but despite my originally explosive temper that I keep gagged and bound, I have never, ever, seen red. When I'm really angry, angry without adulteration by disappointment or sadness, I feel my forehead and the tip of my nose grow hot. I've been told that they turn red, but inside I feel it like a blinding white glow, and you won't believe me when I say that I feel a strange wave of clarity and logic sweep over my thoughts. The irrationality characteristic of anger kicks in only when it comes to translating thought into action. Which is why, when I began to work on my temper, I felt my mental faculties damping. Suddenly, my moral instinct and righteous energy had no outlet, and all of it stewed in my head until they boiled up everything else, eventually resulting in more severe albeit infrequent bursts of anger -- in trying to control my temper, I had transformed from short-tempered to hot-tempered.

It was at the bottom of my anger management curve that I realized that trying to deny myself my anger was not the solution, since the cause of my anger itself was never illogical -- only my consequent actions were. Having realized that, I decided to separate the two. About a year and a half ago, I began to successfully stop myself from acting on my anger without extinguishing the anger itself -- I learnt to think when angry and act when calm. It worked. However, I didn't need the method for long, because soon, ICSE was over and times changed.

Since then, I have transitioned from a Xth Board examinee to a XIIth Board examinee and from SPL of Carmel to Head Girl of Hem Sheela, which in a very short time has uprooted my entire life, taken it for a ride, and planted it somewhere else. In all this time, I was so occupied that I probably forgot to be angry, or to be precise, I never had the time in which my anger could peak, until today.

Today was essentially a very busy day, but unlike most busy days, which I enjoy, today was a disappointing and annoying day as well. To begin with, we (Head Boy Nihal and I) were wantonly disappointed in one of the junior members of our Students' Council. We spent half a class period yelling at the kid and another quarter picking up the pieces of the giant mess he made. To put it lightly, he embarrassed (not to mention disgusted and annoyed) the hell out of us. As if that wasn't enough, I had two different kinds of unpleasant interactions with two different teachers through no fault of mine, no thanks to my uncontrollably 'romantic' (read debaucherous, more on them later) classmates, and to how Indian mothers raise their sons, in reverse chronological order. Also, I had a mildly unsatisfactory Physics Practical test -- mild enough not to bother me, if the rest of the day had behaved, but hell, it didn't. To top it all off, the Council incident made me late for PE -- not only did I lose out on play time, but I also missed my call for the long jump test. They allowed me to take it when I explained, and I beat my personal record, but I believe I could have done better without the preceding 150 metre dash from the main building to our sports complex. My distance was third highest among the girls and somewhere in the top 10 overall, which is much better than anything I've ever done in that test, but I believe I could have made it further.

So, as you see, I had cause to be angry, which my long-sleeping anger took full advantage of, and my method came out of retirement. I allowed myself anger but not action. The white light flooded my head, and I saw it all clearly. The deception, the manipulation, the breach of trust and loyalty, the classroom politics, the moral blame games, the power trips -- all of it opened up like a giant, interactive chart. And then when I calmed down, all the information was right there in front of me, and with Nihal's cooperation as an occasionally vocal sounding board, I chalked out the Council problem. That done, I navigated the others as well, remaining mostly unscathed. I expect some repercussions and hurt feelings come Monday, but hopefully the weekend damper, despite the Saturday Parent-Teacher Meeting un-damper will cushion them. The good news is that this meeting is optional unless a teacher specifically calls in your parents, which is done for academic underachievement and severe discipline issues. So basically, I'm in the clear and tomorrow can be a relatively normal Saturday.

Hopefully, my methods won't be required anytime in the near future. Lessons learnt : self-control of all kinds is worth learning; negative emotions can be channelized for positive effects; and a sounding board is always a good idea as long as it knows what to echo, what to absorb, and when to do a bit of both.

P.S. : The clock tells me it's 1:18 am... so all the todays should be yesterdays and all the tomorrows todays, I guess.

HSMS Students Council, 2014-15... and good tidings!

People, this is a short post to share some overdue good news. This 1st of July, Tuesday, after a postponement due to rain, and finally braving the rain anyway, the HSMS Students Council 2014-15 were invested with their badges. The preceding Saturday, the Principal, Vice-Principals and some senior teachers had interviewed potential candidates for the various posts available to Class XII students...

The Badge. Slightly battered by
time, but hey, who cares?
(The Head Boy's badge is identical
except for being inscribed 'Boy'
in place of 'Girl'.)

... and I'm pleased and grateful to announce that they chose me as Head Girl! the second time I've held the top post in a school. To add to that, I've hardly been in HSMS for over a year.. I'm so damn happy!
It was a grand, grand moment, despite the rain, to wear that ornate badge and to take oath with the entire Council repeating after. The wait of so many days, the nerves during the interview, the speculation from all my friends, the three preceding years of student body work in two different schools culminates in this : the top post in my last year, not to mention

Alongside myself, my friend Nihal Singh was chosen as the Head Boy, a choice that I am hitherto happy with. He is formally new to this Council, although he did volunteer work with us last year. Hopefully his leadership alongside mine, and my collaboration with him, will enhance and fortify what the preceding Councils, including myself last year, have built.

Personally, I am loving the opportunity to finally lead the Council formally. After the seniors left school last year I was informally in charge, but this is a whole new ball game. As I write this, we have had our first meeting with the Council, wherein I have announced everyone's duties from this year's new roster, which combines my experience from being Coordinator last year with new ideas from Nihal and myself. We (the Heads) have also divided the supervisory duties between the two of us... let's see how it all works out, and please wish me (and all of us) luck.

P.S.: Pictures of badge coming soon! (Edit: included in post above).

The change you want, All or Nothing... you game?

The regional newspapers have been cribbing on about taxicab drivers in Kolkata refusing passengers despite the no-refusal directive and charging rates exceeding the metered fare. From time to time, reporters go undercover as potential passengers, exposing these violations and photographing the offending drivers. The responses of the drivers appearing on these features range from the apologetic ("...I didn't know the rules, never again...") to the defiant ("...I have the number of many police constables, you want them?") but the middle order comprises drivers who, usually politely, justify their violations with stories of police and political forces demanding bribes for their regular parking and plying, the costs of which they must recover from the passengers. "Please understand, we're poor people...", say the younger drivers; the older, disillusioned ones replace the entreaty with a resigned accusation: "You rich people don't get the troubles of the poor".

Meanwhile, the situation remains unchanged, and most passengers comply with the drivers' wishes because, simply put, who has the time to argue? The worst hit are people like us who go into the state capital on limited time to avail facilities missing in our hometowns: everything from medical care to examination centres. We're on the clock, far from home, dragging luggage, hungry, and want whatever we're there doing to be over fast: so we shut up and pay, and end up contributing to the problem -- something that my family and I have done countless times. On a day trip to Kolkata today (yesterday, by my watch), we did it again. The driver, on enquiry, gave us the middle order's answer, even pointing out to us the guy who charged them for access to the exhausted passengers fresh off the long distance buses. "From where shall we recover those costs? From you, obviously, right?... You get it?" And of course, we got it.

No, people, I shall not lecture you on how change begins from one person, how each one of us should stand up against wrongdoing, that our righteousness will inspire others and create a movement... nuh-uh. It's bull, eh? Though that has happened in history, it usually takes a lot of bleeding to stir people up that much. For small things like taxicabs, the balance of probability is towards the harassment of the minority with courage and/or too much time on their hands, while the complacent majority feeds the moral decay. As idealistic as I am, I know that going against the flow is tough, real tough, and never ever will everyone, at once, have the courage or the resources to do it...

...and therein lies the problem. Having established that never ever will everyone rise up at once, we circle back to the situation where someone has to begin, but who will it be? (I'm assuming here that the people who are okay with the status quo, ie. the 'chalta hai' population have stopped reading this by now). Will the taxi driver endanger his livelihood to face the corrupt cop or will the out-of-town passengers with a patient in their midst wait for a metered taxi?

From Kolkata to India, if you please: will Hindus stop saffron activism and live in fear (be it rational or not) of being wiped off the land, or will Muslims give up their self-respect and relent to the incessant discrimination and branding as 'terrorists'?

From India to the world now : Will the developed nations give up their nuclear arms to set a good example, hence risking terrorist attack, or will the small fry stop testing theirs to keep outward peace, as unfair as that may be?

I presume you get the general idea.

No one will act first. Ever. On the other hand, everyone will never act at once, because everyone fears that if they act, they might be the first to do so. The only thing that will bring any change is the very unity that, if it ever existed, stands destroyed by fear and mistrust. We all know what we want : we want morality, reform, justice; and we take every opportunity to complain about the lack thereof. The mathematically impossible occurrence of everyone putting their foot down at once is the only thing that can get us all that we want, but its impossibility lies in the fact that there simply must be a small lag: someone has to, even if by an infinitesimal time interval, go first. And once that hurdle is overcome, someone has to go second, which is almost as difficult to do, because 7 billion something minus two is still 7 billion something, and the minority will remain a minority for 3.5 billion and something precious infinitesimal moments, integrating into quite some time. The reform gamble, if won, will be to the world's benefit; but if lost, it will crush the brave minority and set back all progress made. Now, which fool will risk personal crushing to save the world, especially if they have the option to spend a few extra bucks, tell a few grey lies, and scrape through life?

No one, you say, and I kind of agree, which is why, as promised, this is not a lecture. I'm just saying, y'know, that the big names -- Gandhi, King, Lincoln -- all braved the gamble and went first, and won. Countless others, of course, played at the same gamble and lost, which is why we don't know their names, but they did exist. And after the firsts, many gambled to be second, third, fourth. Some got lucky, some suffered death and worse. Most of us, though (me included, because this is not a lecture, remember?), do nothing and stay safe. So here we are: the changes I want, you want, everyone wants, will happen if someone goes first, just infinitesimally first, but other people may or may not gamble to be second, or if someone does, there might be no third. But, despite how much you are hating me right now, please do face this: deep inside we all measure people by where they come in that gambling order, by how many infinitesimal moments away they are from the one that went first. We will respect the 100th gambler a little more than the 101st; we will honour the nuns who refuse to bribe cops for charity permits a wee bit more than we honour the lawyer who represents them pro bono, because the former gambled first, without any assurance of anyone like the latter turning up.

And that is why I'm just casually pointing out that it's an open gamble for anyone who's game, the stakes being all the reform we yell for, and for respect from our fellows. So, y'know, if you're one of the rich people who does not like being accused of not understanding the problems of the poor, or one of those world peace lovers or something... no pressure, just think about the possibility of jumping in. You think, and I will think too, and maybe one of us will have the guts to place our bets. Just saying. Because as of now, it's bleak and we kind of are doomed, so just, y'know, hopin'...

Afterthought... should we all just take a break from everything, Pablo Neruda-style? Is it practical?

Btw, my heartiest congratulations to the new Government of India, the new ruling party, and the new PM Mr. Modi. You have the country's mandate, and five years to show us if you have the heart to gamble for reform. You also have no room for error -- if the Modi sarkar fails after all this hype, janta maaf nahi karegi. So good luck, and Jai Hind.

Long Time No See

This post is not a planned comeback -- and those of you who are happy to see me after all this while owe your thank-yous to my pesky brain that, despite there being a Maths examination tomorrow, decided to update my Google+ profile, and in doing so came up with a poem.

Before I present the poem to you, I'll give you a small update on my life: I qualified for NCERT's NTSE programme, and am awaiting the first installment of the scholarship. Class XI is ending, said ending being earmarked by the Second Semester Examinations of which tomorrow's test is a part. Recently we bid farewell to the outgoing Class XII with a programme that I co-anchored with another classmate, and the general consensus is that we did a pretty good job. One of the seniors wowed everyone with an unexpected stand-up comedy act making a caper out of the entire two-year Senior Secondary journey. On a personal front, I'm pretty well settled in the new school now (not new anymore, is it?) and the thought of yet another farewell, in a year's time, gives me shudders. Worse still, this time it will be the end of school life for good. March on m'soldiers, eh?

Now for the poem I promised: being originally intended as a tiny verse for the profile's introduction, this poem was born without a title, and it cannot be put in said introduction with a title, so I came up with the (smart?!) solution of titling it 'Introduction'. Heh heh. Of course, in the sidebar of this blog, it will appear under the heading 'The Speaker' (which, in case you haven't noticed, is my custom heading for the profile gadget) ; but that, obviously, won't work as a title for the poem.

====================================================

Introduction

To conformists and stereotypists it might seem quite strange

When I get all worked up concerning things outside my range

But though Science keeps my mind awake

I must love Art... just for Art's sake

And Commerce gives me happy dreams of mountains of loose change.

Other carriers of tradition have a different peeve

I'm girly if you check my collars but a boy by sleeve

To them I say please go and die;

At the funeral, when I come by

I'll wear a top hat with a dress as I pretend to grieve.

And the Holy Men and Women Who Our Faiths Do Guide

Opine that my lack of the same is a manifestation of pride.

I say to them, come Judgement Day,

When folks don't burn for being gay,

I'll be, with your blessings, laughing away on the winning side.

Summarily, I choose to be a sum of variegated parts

A Calculus-and-Chemistry loving lover of Fiction and the Arts

Not a feminist nor a gay activist

But simply a complete humanist --

That's the memory I'd like to be when this life no longer lasts.

====================================================

I'm not sure if 'stereotypist' is a real word, but it appears in some online dictionaries and is the best fit for what I mean to say. Thoughts?

Constraints and contradictions (the Bijoya rant)

We listened to the Mahalaya broadcast on the radio to herald Devipaksh, bought Pujo specials of our favourite periodicals, sang and danced in school on Mahapanchami before school let out for the biggest festival in Bengal. As I write this, it is Mahanavmi, and while you are reading this Devi Durga ceremoniously departs, making every Bengali a tad solemn, if not outright sad, for the next few days.

Meanwhile, my usual wave of depression before and during any festival has escalated into a worrisome to and fro between crushing sadness and utter numbness. Pujo comes once a year, and we are constrained by time to complete all the pandal-hopping, adda and eating while it lasts: and therefore, come what may, be there whatever issue that demands reserved and solemn attention, I force myself to forget it all and enjoy -- hence the depression. This year it is much, much worse because it is not just about mundane problems and home and school or even philosophical luxuries of thought like the social hypocrisy surrounding festivals or the commercialization of religion. This year, every fibre of my being reminds me from time to time of the grey, gloomy feeling that is loss; of the denial and desperation that precedes its acceptance; and the anger and indignation that resists any attempt by powers more rational to make a suitable replacement. Yes, we have a new Maths teacher at Aakash, who taught here last year and has been called back from where he was transferred. The first class with him involved a lot of unpleasant friction: whether that was because of the nature of the situation, I can't say. We are getting used to him, as we must and as youngsters like us very easily do, though I cringe every time he decides to criticize RJ Sir's methods: I hate talk like that (especially since RJ Sir was better!) even when it involves a simple change in faculty, let alone one where someone died. Died, dammit. For Heaven's sake, show some respect.

But in spite of everything, time passes, the moon takes its position as predicted, and like clockwork, Pujo is here. It is here too soon when I am not ready, but I must swallow the guilt that I feel when, amidst all the fun, some pinprick of a trigger lets the repressed memories into the forefront of my consciousness: something like a story of someone's death in the Pujo special, or running into an Aakash faculty member at a pandal. I can feel myself leading life at a very uncomfortable equilibrium between joy and gloom, which makes me feel incomplete as a whole. But that is no matter, for every human life is full of contradictions: each a unique interplay of light and shadows created on the screen when the rays of one's life-force are reflected, refracted, dispersed, scattered beyond recognition by the obstacles, the limitations, the constraints thrown in by the pesky little devil that is fate. So when Pujo comes, Pujo must be enjoyed. When a new teacher comes, he must be respected. When tests come, even if on Mahanavmi when you are unprepared, they must be answered. Screw the depression, screw the guilt, screw the unrealistically ideal dreams.

Between this Pujo and the next let us hope, and pray to Maa Durga if we are so inclined, that all the bad things that happened between last Pujo and this one are not repeated, (especially the pain and suffering!) and that we have the strength of will to accept the past, survive the present and face the future. As for all the good and happy things that happened: births, successes in exams, weddings, reunions with loved ones long lost; and love and forgiveness and compassion given and received -- for all these things I have just one thing to say: আসছে বছর আবার হবে ! Hope with me, friends, dream with me, that it'll all happen again in the year that comes... and that in some small way, we will make it happen.
আসছে বছর আবার হবে... হবেই হবে!
===================================

সকলকে জানাই শুভ বিজয়ার প্রীতি ও শুভেচ্ছা। বড়রা প্রনাম নেবেন। বন্ধু আর ছোটদের জন্যে রইল এই special message:

মায়ের অনেক কাজ, প'রে ডাকের সাজ 

কতদিন থাকবেন বল?

যেতেই হবে যে ফিরে! বিজয়ার sad সুরে 

সকলের চোখ ভরা জল।

পরের বছর ফের আনন্দ হবে ঢের 

মা যখন আসবেন ফিরে;

হবে mindless fun, সারারাত নাচ-গান 

দুর্গা -র family-কে ঘিরে।

শিউলির গন্ধেতে আবার উঠব মেতে

আবার উঠবে বেজে ঢাক।

ততদিন ভাল করে পড়া-খেলা দুই-ই করে

একটি বছর কেটে যাক!

এখন কথার শেষে, শারদীয়া হাসি হেসে 

বলি আমি টা-টা, goodbye!

সত্যের জয় যাতে জীবনের প্রতিপদে 

হয়, সে শুভেচ্ছা জানাই।

P.S.: 

যতই থাকুক পড়া, ভুলিস না এই ছড়া --

লিখেছি খাটিয়ে কত মাথা

মিল রেখে শব্দের, তাল রেখে ছন্দের ;

কাব্য কি চাট্টিখানি কথা?

===================================

Growing up, and it hurts.

It's been a long time since I posted something here. Meanwhile, I've joined new coaching classes, a new school, cleared ICSE with 95.3%, got into the student council, qualified NTSE. Recently, I had a blast leading the student volunteers when my school hosted the CBSE East Zone Swimming Championships. I won prizes for my school, got a best speaker prize... got a piece in the paper about that, too. And for a long time, I've been telling myself to post something on the blog, especially since I gave the URL to a couple of new people. I was wondering what it should be about: school life? Classes at Aakash? The tougher and different life as a class XI student? There are so many shiny, new, wonderful things (and some bad ones, like the Nairobi shootout) happening all around that I've been spoilt for choice, and of course because of aforesaid routine, I've had less time to think. Basically, you could say that I'm growing up. I still have problems with grown-up things, of course, like decisions. And conflict. And choices. And, that which finally brought me to put finger to keyboard, death.

This Monday (yesterday, that is... feels like ages ago), when I returned home after school, my Mom showed me a text from my coaching class (Aakash, as I said) with some very surprising content: classes were not happening that day. That is so unusual for Aakash that I called to check, verified that classes would resume today, but I never asked why. In course of the day, there were speculations, reports of bigwigs in the building, and exchanges of text messages among Aakashians in town. But the most important text, which explained everything, was the only one I didn't notice until today morning when I switched off my alarm. My friend KB who goes to school and Aakash with me was nonchalantly telling me that Monday was off since RJ Sir, our Maths teacher at Aakash, was no more.

Instinctively, I was shocked and sad. This guy's been teaching us for the past six months, and though we found him a little (a lot!) weird, he took really good care of his job and of us. He appreciated us taking interest in the subject, and said mostly nice things about us to our parents. Now that I think of it, his dedication was more than wont: he picked out important sums from the fiendishly long Trigonometry exercises and wrote them all out, got them xeroxed, and handed them out, giving us faster and cleaner practice... and that's the last we will see of his handwriting, which I will treasure.

They say he drowned in a swimming pool... I'm crushed to think that he had to suffer. Human selfishness prompts me to worry about where we'll go from here without his teaching... but I trust Aakash to come up with someone good enough, maybe even better, come next Monday. The problem here is that Aakash is now a gloomy, sad place. Everything reminds all of us of the excruciatingly punctual Maths teacher who walked military style, told us silly jokes, and always mentioned the exact former examination any problem appeared in, grinning at our elation if we solved it without his help; the person who, incidentally, was the first teacher to teach us at Aakash when we began classes on 8th April, and set himself apart by systematically outlining the entire syllabus on that very day. We will remember him for always addressing us with 'aap', the most formal pronoun in Hindi. We will remember his habit of spinning around and asking 'anybody?' before we even finished reading the problem he wrote on the board, and of catching us unawares by snatching up somebody's book at random. We will remember him for his new Spice smartphone, which he never brought to class since the day, on the mischievous advice of our Physics teacher, we asked him (the most serious of our three teachers!), for a treat in its honour...

There isn't much to say. We being his students are much less aggrieved, I would imagine, than his family and close friends, who shall be in my thoughts: even his colleagues, the other faculty members, show worse signs of grief, and have not yet found their way to acceptance. We could see it pained our Chemistry teacher today when he asked, as poker-face as possible, how far RJ Sir had left us prepared for our test this week, what Maths classes we had for the rest of the week, etc. On our part, everyone in the class would agree that those questions slashed painfully through the thick silence that filled our classrooms today, and answering them hurt bad. The last class on Friday had been his, and we had managed to find a joke that extracted a rare smile from the very disciplined gentleman. The mixed-feelings-evoking distinction of being the last class he ever taught probably lies with our classmates from the weekend batch, who had Maths for the last class on Sunday.

I would like to conclude by thanking RJ Sir for every effort he made to teach us better, for being a very revered, very appreciated part of our lives for the last few months. We are lucky that we had him with us, and very unfortunate that an untoward accident took him away from us. We shall no longer see him leaving Aakash at 7:10 pm sharp, jaunting briskly while rolling out his sleeves, curtly acknowledging any student who wished him a good evening without slackening his pace. He will always be one of the top people in my list of good teachers and, I believe, that of many others. I conclude with a message that my rational mind tells me is a mere ornament, but my grief insists upon.

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Good day, Sir, for I don't know what time of day it is where you are. Sir, if there is an afterlife, I hope you find peace, contentment and loads of numbers in it. I hope you find a better phone, and wonderful batches of students to teach, inspire and guide to the doors of whatever IIT equivalent they have there, and I hope you get to meet Aryabhatta and Euclid and Pythagoras and Euler and every other famous mathematician. :)

It was not very nice of you to leave us this way, or any way really -- but not in our hands, eh? I know you suffered when you left: it is a salve to our grief to know that, at least, you are not in any more pain. Do leave your good wishes with us and whosoever comes to teach in your place (not that you can be replaced..!) so that we may achieve the goal that you intended us to achieve. We will do our part, Sir, because that's the only way to honour you. R.I.P, Sir, and thank you so, so much.

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Note to readers: If you are someone who knew RJ Sir, please leave a line or two, because my friends and I don't have much to remember him by. Also, if you have authentic information about what exactly happened, please let me know, because nobody seems to be able to explain how an adult could drown in a pool... was he ill or injured? Was there nobody around? Most importantly, did he suffer much? It hurts not to know.

Update: The news was not on any English daily but through my friends I came to know that the Bengali daily Anandabazar Patrika carried the report as well as a Hindi daily. The image that follows is a screenshot of the Anandabazar report's considerably glitched e-paper version.

He came to help Durgapur's children. Durgapur, unfortunately, was not kind to him.
The last news of RJ Sir, ABP 1st October 2013.