Misanthrope

I think negative emotions are more passionate than positive ones, with age and time it intensifies like old wine. I have never heard revenge and anger wane but I have seen love dissipating. That's exactly why we see people in love separate with no qualms, the hatred defeats the love. And it's to counter these emotions  that religion was constituted. To give people hope ( false hope) - of an unconditional love, eternity that they would gain for  this unconditional love. And it's amazing how it works with the weak. The weak always believe their situations will change, while the strong are too busy to even worry about eternity. I wish I never got these weird epiphanies- it's making me a misanthrope :) I love that word. If a man is a sum total of his experiences then I am a bad case. I have been blessed with a rare combination or adversities and I am not saying this to be depressed, I have not been very lucky with the mundane- the things people take for granted and so I am a negative emotion binge eater- which obviously makes me look philosophical and intellectual but also makes me a poor companion. I have zero tolerance for frivolity and no wonder I have no friends. I was grateful till now for having a life partner and then I realized why we gel together- a misanthrope can only survive with another one ( or at least someone who identifies the misanthrope as one). Why do you think Watson understood Sherlock :)

Found this beautiful quote that sums these thoughts

“Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them.” 
― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

Sometimes we laugh at people for being loners or eccentrics, I assure you they are the best story tellers. 

For the sake of sanity, please don't send me condolences and comforting messages like 'will pray for you', 'god is merciful' and  ' be cheerful'- chances are that I might even contemplate killing you. I am not a fan of morals and humanity.

Bizarre antics of the Average Mallu male

I was reading Cyrus Broacha's 'Average Indian Male' and it occurred to me that he hadn't analysed the South Indian male adequately. And being a malayalee I cannot claim an authority over the whole of South India but from my 30 years of experience with Alpha-males from the Kerala region I guess I know them quite well. Before I begin, let me assure you I will be discussing pure breeds alone and my representation of a Malayalee alpha male is not the second or third generation Non- resident Keralite living in other states of India or the Middle East ( popularly known as GULFF), or Europe and the United States. Though occasionally few traits transmitted from the true breeds over generations can be evident in these half- breeds. My favourite case studies for this study would be my dad ( his soul rests in peace) and my pop-in-law ( a soul that can never rest in peace). Now I have few cousins, uncles and other assorted relatives who exhibit more or less the same traits, for me to conclude the reliability and validity of my experiment. For the purpose of comparison I have chosen two case studies from different educational, geographical, cultural, ethnic, caste, creed, complexion ( my dad and dad- in-law). But the end result will show you irrespective of the differences they conduct themselves quite the same. So let me delve into some bizarre antics of the Average Mallu Male.

1) Table manners- An average Mallu male  is quite particular about his food, he can't be enticed by viagra but can definitely be coaxed by over- priced exotic tasteless fish ( like pearl spot for instance). He would constantly quote the price of the fish during meals on the table and remind his kids how tactfully he bargained and got them a good catch. An average mallu male would also insist on sitting at the head of the table and in rarest or rare cases some alpha male would request they be served in a different plate than others to mark their supremacy. Their wives require exemplary surveillance skills. An average  mallu beta female seldom eats peacefully with her one eye looming over her husband's plate asking him dutifully if he needs refills, which he replies in grunts ( like hmmmmmm - if its a yes and hmm hmm - if it's a no). A traditional alpha male finds it hard to confine his food to his plate. He drops his food around the table sometimes strews the table with fish bones and curry leaves which by the end of his meal is dutifully swept by his wife or daughter but never him. Taking one's own plate to the kitchen is unheard of in average mallu culture and modern husbands doing so are still frowned upon and considered henpecked husbands in many parts of the state.

The end result of every meal is a dissatisfied beta female and tortured gamma prodigies who find it hard to relish the taste less over priced fish. 

2) Stand up or mind it !- An average mallu alpha male expects people to stand up when he enters a room especially the women, the young and those who rank socially lower than him. If the audience wear a tradional lungi ( aka 'mundu') that is folded up revealing one's legs, they are expected to drop it down to show respect to the alpha male. Many wives have been restricted from visiting their homes for the reason that a brother or uncle of hers did not stand up and let his mundu drop down when the Alpha male visited them. But if the Alpha male grants you the permission to sit down- you  can, provided you don't lean back and relax yourself. Occupying 1/4th of the chair and a posture that indicates you are leaning forward eagerly listening to the alpha male  can earn you brownie points ( like a packet of dunhill, a  jasmine roll on, yardley powder or Fa soap).

3)  My money is my money, your money is my money-  The alpha male controls the primary and secondary income of his family. The secondary income though perhaps more than his, will never be identified as an independent source. A joint account in a mallu family is always a hoax, for the account would always be operated by the alpha male. The alpha male still believes in feudalism and curbs minor revolutions budding in his household with the use of leather belt, cane, chappals and bare hand. Prowess and aggression is considered as a sign of manhood and hence gamma prodigies get dutifully caned for asking bare necessities ( which they will be then eventually granted). The beta females constantly suffer from Stockholm syndrome. They earn money yet deny the ownership over their earnings, and defend the alpha males reverentially. 

4) Narcissus is my true god- The alpha mallu male is always in love with himself. He lives in a world of grandiose plans. He believes he is the neatest and cleanest man on earth and despises every other males especially those of other cultures. There are of course exceptional behaviours that he rules out ( like peeing/shitting under his favourite coconut tree is considered bonding with nature). He conducts himself as he pleases. In his encyclopaedia of  conduct, things work his way and never the vice versa. His mistakes are lessons for learning and others mistakes sheer stupidity.

5) Oh I am modern yet close to my roots- An average mallu alpha male will ask for curd rice and lentils ( aka kanjim- payarum) or fish curry meals  after a dinner at pizza hut. The logic being his stomach will get constipates if he is denied of his daily diet. The problem is that average alpha mallu male finds it very hard to accommodate new habits alien to his culture but also wants to pass the message to other cultures that he has updated himself. So he force feeds himself noodles with chopsticks and stuffs himself with pizza all the while criticizing the backwardness of the neighboring South Indians and average North Indians, only to get back home and ask for his favourite fish curry meals, kanji or dosa. It is no different when it comes to dressing.

 A proud mallu though might be well accustomed to jeans, shirts and other accessories needs a lot of air circulation for which he prefers wearing his bizarre colored lungi ( with pink flowers and purple butterflies more like a bedsheet)  which he manages to procure on his every visit to Kerala dutifully even when he resides abroad. This attire is suitable topless showing off the hairy chest. There are a lot of advantages to wearing a mundu or lungi as evident from malayalam movies- you can lift it with your feet in the middle of a fight- that's sheer style, you can remove it and tie it over your head when you attack your enemy or are totally drunk, it is very easy to remove and throw when you are in a hurry to rape, in fact unfolding a lungi and tying it again is a strong message that the guy is ready to fight. A lot can be written on the politics of Lungi.
Men wearing shorts are often looked down and considered municipality sweepers, inferior and unmanly- shorts have no politics to be mulled over. The same applies to the moustache a mallu male adorns trimming it and curling it using his favourite coconut oil. Minus the moustache the mallu male loses his prowess the way Samson felt helpless without his hair ( refer old testament in bible). Moustache if viewed in the right way is the antennae for the mallu male- he twists and plays with it when aroused, in fear, when nervous, while plotting revenge- the direction his eyes faces determines his mood. The manliness of a mallu male solely rests on his moustache, lungi and the number of bad words he can swear oops and not to forget the number of pegs he can ingest ( after all we top the charts in alcohol consumption).

6) Relationships- It took me years to conclude with these findings. In Kerala the dad's side of the family is always full of vamps and villains and mom's side with angels. Dad's side of the family be it an aunt or uncle will always crib, torture and use un-parliamentary words just because they are the dad's side of the family. While mom's side of the family are by nature forgiving and loving people who give, give and give. They respect the son-in- law and serve him the best of best while the daughter-in-law gets royally disgraced because that's how the dad's side behaves. For this reason kids always long to visit their maternal side where they are duly adored and loved while going to the dad's side can be a nightmare. A common theme in mallu movies and mallu families is the rivalry over property issues and death of the alpha male- head of the family. These fights sometimes legal battles extending to two generation revolves around the division of land and property. Every alpha male will have a story of being betrayed by some sibling over some land issue which is the sole reason for Kerala topping the alcohol consumption charts ( that and some pending dowry he has to receive from his wife's family).

The beta female is the most subdued, psychotic, depressed and convoluted creature in this community. Despite her education she is still a victim of this vicious torturous cycle. A lot more can be told about the bizarre antics of average mallu male but then my hubby thinks I am too critical about things and should stop doing this for my own peace but since this post was composed before this statement of his, I use my  discretion to post this here. By the way my hubby is not a typical mallu male and I married him for this reason :)

The Bread Of Life

 
  And the Lord said, ‘I am the bread of life’. He could have said – ‘I am the rice of life’ or ‘I am the pasta of life’ but he chose the humble bread. But I think the modest bread also has a mysterious side to it because I have heard people say, “I made biryani today” or “I made payasam at home” or even made a Pizza, but I have never heard anybody say “I made bread today”. On the contrary there wouldn’t be anybody who has never tasted bread in his or her life. So how is that bread is something that everybody has eaten but have never made it at home. Even at my home, we have not made bread, though we have made a lot of things with bread.  But that is going to change in our household pretty soon.

 

  My encounters with bread go a long back in time. This was before the age of cycles and motorcycles and as a kid I used to walk more than a kilometer to reach the grocery store. During that time there were only two other things that made me do a long haul on the road - to buy milk or to buy Don’s cigarettes. Sometimes I used to get lucky when all these three things were to be fetched at the same time. At the grocery store, breads would have their own space, on a small table, just at the entrance of the shop, with one stack on top of the other like a pyramid. The local name for them was – ‘Double-Roti’. The name was a misnomer as the bread was not round in shape, as a Roti nor was it just double the size.  There never used to be more than two brands, three flavours and three sizes. I still remember the red and blue checkered wrapper of Modern breads. The three flavours used to be plain, sweet and tutti-frutti. And as far as size goes there was a small, the normal and a big long packet. I have not seen the big long packet from a long time now. Maybe it lost ground when the joint families started disintegrating into single units. At home, mom would usually make french toast, a no fuss and easy breakfast for a working mom. But I disliked the sweet and soggy taste of what the bread was turned into.

 Outside the house, the encounter with bread was with omelet and Aji. We both would go to Basanth Bhai's omelete shop, adjucent to the Habibganj Railway crossing. It would usually be a crowded place in the evenings but on days with less footfalls Basanth Bhai would conjure up a delight for us. He would first do a side of the big omelet, then place in four bread pieces flat and turn it around for another two minutes and then fold it all up on a plate. It was bliss to have it with the green chutney, on a winter evening, with life passing by. We would discuss the ways of the world and the happenings of the unworldy, with Basanth Bhai kept busy in the background, such that in those days we would usually wound up sans dinner.   

In Kerala, where we used to go during our summer vacation, the bread was called ‘Paccha-Roti’. Again an improbable name in terms of not being ‘uncooked’, as ‘Paccha’ meant it to be. Unlike its cousins in the north, the Kerala bread was a single undivided unit of bread and not sliced into pieces. We were very fascinated with this difference in appearance, same as a person looking at a complete fish, who would have had only seen fishes in cut pieces till now. Also unlike Bhopal, where I used to usually bring home the bread, in Kerala it used to mysteriously appear in the pathayam (a box in which rice harvest is kept). We would never know about it until there was an offer from the higher powers to have bread. We would be very happy to step into the pathayapura, which was dark and cluttered place where the pathayam was kept. Inside the pathayam the bread would be kept wrapped in a newspaper, along with bananas kept for ripening. I think the most exciting part of this bread was that it could be sliced and torn into any shape we wanted. We often used to sneak into the pathayapura to try our luck, to see if there was a ‘Paccha-Roti’ inside the pathayam.
       

  Another event that I remember clearly was during the curfew that was imposed as an aftermath of the riots of 1992 in Bhopal. Because of the curfew all shops and establishments got closed and therefore we had to depend upon a guy to get us our groceries. This guy used to come on a Bajaj M80, with an iron box saddled on the back, instead of a pillion. Because it was curfew time and with all our outside activities stalled, this was the only guy who used to break the monotony of the day. So the moment the guy used to honk at the gate everyone would jump to get outside. You would then see the whole neighbourhood crowding around him. People would claw inside his box and claim whatever they could get. Inside his iron box there used to be variety of breads, more than those at the grocery store. It was in his box that I first saw a bun. Mom was not too happy as it was a small thing, which would not satiate the whole family and then we would have to buy a lot many of them. Because of all the riot issues around we used to stock up things from him, because we never knew when he would next show up. I am not sure what we did with the bun but was definitely happy when I held it for the first time. But once the curfew was lifted and life came back to normal, my routine went back to the grocery store, though I would often see the guy riding his bike with the iron box and remember the curfew days.

 Now in Bangalore, a place which I would say has the largest number of mallu bakeries, maybe second only to the homeland, but definitely more than the average number of pan shops in the north. Mallus have kind of monopolized the bakery business, if not at owning a corner bakery shop. It’s in a bakery like this, the one on the starting of 5th Cross, the road opposite to Canara Bank, at 100 feet road Koramangala, to be precise, that I saw the divide of the south and the north collapse, the day when I first saw the - the bread slicer. It was a metallic contraption, which was at almost waist to chest height and looked more like a part of the printing press. The guy would put a ‘Paccha-Roti’ at one end and it would come out as a ‘Double-Roti’. I stood there for a whole half hour, eating three to four egg puffs and having as many teas, just to see how the whole process worked. And in the end I bought  a ‘Paccha-Roti’, for old times’ sake.  Unfortunately I have not seen this device after that day,  though I frequent many bakeries even today, eating egg-puffs.

  Quiet recently, I moved from being a bread eater to a bread creator. The opportunity came via Bhujji, who forwarded a mail regarding a bread course offered at Lavonne Academy, Indiranagar. (www.lavonne.in). The course was on a weekend, from 10am to 4pm, costing Rs. 1700. I think the course is a little costly but Bhujji says because they are letting you make your own dough, bake it and eat it too, it’s reasonable. We were taught by Chef Vinesh, a jovial and pleasant guy and surprise surprise, is also a mallu. We were taught to make four kinds of breads - Soft Rolls, Grissini, Foccacia and 7 grain bread. We were five people who attended the course that day, and surprise again, four of them were mallus.

   We were each given our own working tables and ingredients for each kind of bread. Under the watchful eyes of Chef Vinesh, we mixed, we rolled, we kneaded, we rolled a little more and we kneaded further more. In the first half we got our hands dirty and by the second half we were on a roll.

We waited patiently for the doughs to rise and then impatiently to get them baked. Chef Vinesh would often give tips and tricks in between and we tried to remember most and others we noted in between the kneadings. The first to come out of the oven was the Soft Rolls and they were a delight to watch. I am sure the pics would not hold me as a liar.

  We ate our own Soft Rolls as antipasta with garlic butter and it was awesome.

   In the end it was a bread-filled day as we had SUBWAY for lunch and then packed the Soft Rolls, Foccacia, 7 grain Bread and a whole lot of Grissini as we said our good-byes. On a whole it was a nice experience to learn how to bake bread and add it to my bread stories. Hopefully I would be able to add a few things I learned here too as a blog post. Next time when we plan to go to Lavonne Academy, it’s going to be the Mr. and Mrs. together.                    

  And I also hope that the Lord would agree that those who bake bread together should be happier than those who just break bread together. So for happier days ahead, bread be with us. Amen!

Pen Fights and other games

These days I am reading a lot on how children think and I came across the Piaget Primer for beginners. Piaget's contribution to developmental psychology and cognitive psychology is tremendous but that is not what I want to discuss here. I won't bore anyone with theoretical inputs but for those interested in research concerning children or interested in children, this is 'The book'.

I have already discussed about play patterns of children in an older post "Lets' play". Children learn a lot by playing (though as adults we concoct plans to steal this pleasure from them). Play to child is as inevitable as gossip to adults. In the right sense both can be enriching. Beginning with imitative play where children derive pleasure from imitating our actions to make believe play where children pretend to live the outer world through games , children progress sequentially through developmental stages through games. It culminates to a stage where a child invents his/her own games and decides rules for them too. Big or small, logical or non sensical these games are dear and mean business to a child.We all have fond memories of such games we played in childhood or observed others play.

These are excerpts of some games, some heard some seen and some experienced.

Piaget described a game played by shepherd boys of Valais using 'Y' shaped sticks as pretended cows. The 'V' part of stick was taken as the horns of the cows and the lower part of 'Y' became the body of the cow. The game involved pushing and throwing of one cow by the end of the game.

I studied in the middle east and we had no pleasures of climbing trees , date palms were not ideal climbing material, or playing in the wild. Every game I played was within the concrete walls of my house or the pathways surrounding my building. I remember boys in my school playing pen fights. I never understood what the game was like but reading about the Valais reminded me of this game.

Students played this in teams of two. Each had a pen and the kind of pen added to the prestige. Some used ball point pens because if they fell they caused lesser harm than ink pens. Some used ink pens confidently, sure they would not drop them. The arena was the desk and the player like rodeos sat at two ends of the table. They pushed pens with their fingers and the whole game was more like the Valais cow fight. Pens flew off table, fell over a pen overthrowing it and boys cheered around as if in a Colosseum. I never saw girls playing this and never did a girl kiss a pen saying it was her lucky 'pen fight' pen but the boys obviously practiced these traditions with rigour. To me it was just waste of ink and pens. Now that I look back it explains to me the nurturing instincts in men towards games that involved power, authority and violence, maybe their pens represented themselves, their pride and even in silly games these emotions and ideals manifested.

The silliest game then was called 'gold spot'. There was basically a catcher and all the players huddled together with the 'den' and on the utterance of the word Gold spot all ran as far as they could and froze . Now the den in seven steps was supposed to capture one of the person and he became the new catcher or den. We even had people breaking their bones in attempt to jump high and capture their preys in less than 7 steps. I got no clue why the game was named Gold spot and who invented it. This was a mixed game with both boys and girls but you never found boys above the age of 10 playing it. I don't know why girls enjoy hopping and why boys hated it.

The craziest of all was 'crocodile, crocodile can we cross the golden river'. Too long a name for a game I would say. Here the game had a crocodile who would prevent people from going to the golden river unless they provided an object with a colour he/she asks for. The squealing and screaming as we neared to the crocodile frightened the life out of me though I knew it was a just a game. Girls went hysteric, more than boys, worrying over shades of colours while for guys silver and grey meant all the same. More than the crocodile the girls ended up fighting over whose shade was the perfect one. Maybe this was a forerunner for the shopping mania women were to enter in future.

I personally feel we carry over these games with us into our adult life and release them once in a while. Do you? Share your child hood games and how you relate to them today. It could be fun.

I am a teacher

For those who love being with children, who love teaching them and learning from them. For those whom patience is more than a virtue. An excerpt from Mr Done's 32 third graders and one class bunny.

I read Charlotte’s Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory every year, and every year when Charlie finds the golden ticket and Charlotte dies, I cry.
I take slivers out of fingers and bad sports out of steal the bacon. I know when a child has gum in his mouth even when he is not chewing. I have sung “Happy Birthday” 657 times.
I hand over scissors with the handles up. My copies of The Velveteen Rabbit and Treasure Island are falling apart. I can listen to one child talk about his birthday party and another talk about her sleepover and another talk about getting his stomach pumped last night – all at the same time.
I fix staplers that won’t staple and zippers that won’t zip, and I poke pins in the orange caps of glue bottles that will not pour. I had out papers and pencils and stickers and envelopes for newly pulled teeth. I know the difference between Austria and Australia.
I plan lessons while shaving, showering, driving, eating, and sleeping. I plan lessons five minutes before the bell rings. I know what time it is when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the nine. I say the r in library. I do not say the w in sword.
I put on Band-Aids and winter coats and school plays. I know they will not understand the difference between your and you’re. I know they will write towhen it should be too. I say “Cover your mouth,” after they have coughed on me.
I am a teacher.
I examine new braces and new blisters and holes in mouths where teeth have just fallen out. I can spell vacuum. I know the magic word.
I wear four-leaf clovers and dandelions in my shirt pocket that have just been picked with love at recess. I pray for snow days. I pray for Stephen to be absent.
I spend Thanksgiving vacation writing report cards, Christmas vacation cleaning my classroom, and summer vacation taking classes on how to relax. I know the difference between a comma and an apostrophe. I can say “apostrophe.”
I buy books about cats and dogs and sharks and volcanoes and horses and dinosaurs. I turn jump ropes and am base in tag. I am glad you can only get chicken pox once.
I correct pencil grips and spelling mistakes and bad manners. I push in chairs all the way, push swings higher, and push sleeves up while children are painting. I can touch the paper cutter.
I own one suit, two pairs of shoes, and eight boxes of graham crackers. I have every teacher mug that Hallmark ever made and every Save the Children tie too. I say, “Use two hands!” when they carry their lunch trays. I say, “Accidents happen,” after they did not use two hands.
I wear green on Saint Patrick’s Day, red on Valentine’s Day and my bathrobe on Pajama Day. I poke straws into juice boxes and untwist thermos lids that are too tight. I unpeel oranges that are too tight too.
I sign library passes and yearbooks and new casts. I attend soccer games and Little League championships and funerals for guinea pigs. I answer to both “Mom” and “Dad.”
I am a teacher.
I hope April Fool’s Day is on a Saturday. I blow up balloons that will not blow up. I always blow the whistle too early at recess.
I can borrow and carry very fast. I give them more time to answer six times eight than two times three. I never end a sentence with a proposition. I know what a preposition is.
I draw stars and smiley faces. I say, “Take over,” in four square games when I was not looking. Once I forgot eight plus seven.
I know when to say “can” and when to say “may.” I have worn green marker, red paint, yellow chalk dust, glue stick, and glitter all on the same day. I hate glitter.
I always begin a sentence with a capital and end it with a period. I always walk in line. I always lose at arm wrestling.
I leave “shugar” and “vilets” misspelled on their valentines. I know all my continents and all my oceans. I tape pages back into books. I can find the end of the new roll of Scotch tape. I call on children whose hands are not raised.
I know that colonel is a really hard word to read, and so is doubt and so is gauge. I know that kids will read started, when it says stared. I have spelled outbecause and beautiful and friend six million times.
I am a teacher.
I look both ways before crossing the street. I save balls stuck in basketball hoops. I have given 842 spelling tests and have written “Have a Good Summer!” that many times too.
I collect milk boxes and coffee cans and egg cartons. I know all my times tables. I can type without looking. I know that two pretzels do not equal one Hershey kiss.
I can make a telescope out of a toilet paper roll and a totem pole out of oatmeal boxes. I can make snowflakes out of coffee filters and a space shuttle out of a Pringles can too.
I know my notes because “Every Good Boy Does Fine.” I know my directions because I “Never Eat Slimy Worms.” I know all my planets because “My Very Elegant Mother Just Sat Upon Nine Pickles.” And I can only say my ABCs if I sing them.
I fix watchbands, repair eyeglasses, and search for lost milk money after freeze tag. I know when their fists will make a rock and when they will make scissors.
I know when a child does not understand. I know when a child is not telling the truth. I know when a child was up too late last night. I know when a child needs help finding a friend.
I am a teacher.

The Island Below the star by James Ruford

A friend of mine asked me if there was anything on the blog for children. She liked the animal pics and thought few anecdotes put up were fit for children. So I thought why not put up few more anecdotes and poems. This is something I came across in between my literature review. After all we all love stories, don't we?

Long ago, on a tiny island in the South Pacific, there lived five brothers who loved adventure. The first , Hoku loved the sun, the moon and especially the stars. The second Na'ale, loved the sea. The third, Opua , loved clouds. The fourth, Makani, loved the wind and the fifth, tiny Manu, loved birds.

One Night Hoku told his brothers there was an island below a certain bright star, which he pointed out to them." Let us sail to it", he proposed. No one had ever gone so far before. Tiny Manu was the first to accept the proposal. But his brothers laughed and said such a dangerous trip would be out if the question for such a small boy.

The next morning Manu watched his brothers prepare for the great trip. Hoku dried fruit for them to eat. Na'ale made fish hooks and readied harpoons. Opua gathered rain water. Makani repaired the sails. After several weeks of preparation they were ready. The last night they had a great celebration and then set sail just before dawn.
Little Manu had sneaked aboard the canoe during the celebrations. He was not discovered until sunset of the first sailing day.After pretending to throw Manu overboard, the brothers accepted him and put him to work. Everyone had a job. Manu caught fish, Hoku used the sun, moon and bright stars to navigate. Na'ale used the rhythms of the ocean waves to keep the canoe on course.When the clouds covered the 'the heavenly map' Opua watched the clouds to predict storms. Makani 'disentangled the knotted winds'.

After several weeks at sail, Makani noticed a strange rush of warm air. The waves grew. A strange cloud appeared. Fearing rough weather, the brothers tied a safety rope to Manu. For five days and nights they struggled to survive the monstrous storm. After the storm passed the brothers realised that they had been blown off course. But Manu caught sight of a bird high , very high in the sky. Manu alone was able to see the direction the bird was flying. Hoku steered the canoe in what Manu told him was the direction of the bird's flight.
That night the brothers saw the bright star again. No one could sleep. The next morning they saw the island and a quiet bay for the canoe.At sunset they went ashore. That night they gave thanks for their safe journey to the island below the star.

This simple but gripping story of how Polynesian explorers discovered the Hawaiian islands 1500 years ago is told in a language worthy of a poet. It is a story of how a child can see something important that the much more experienced adults around him have missed.

(Extracted from Gareth B Mathews column of stories in Thinking Journal,2004)

The Animal school

Once upon a time the animals decided they must do something heroic to meet the problems of a "new world," so they organized a school.

They adopted an activity curriculum consisting of running, climbing, swimming, and flying. To make it easier to administer the curriculum, ALL the animals took ALL subjects.

The duck was excellent in swimming -- in fact, better than his instructor; but he made only passing grades in flying and was very poor in running. Since he was slow in running, he had to stay after school and also drop swimming in order to practice running. This was kept up until his web feet were badly worn, so then he was only average in swimming. But average was acceptable in school, so nobody worried about that except the duck.

The rabbit started at the top of the class in running, but he had a nervous breakdown because of so much make-up work in swimming.

The squirrel was excellent in climbing until he developed frustration in the flying class, where his teacher made him start from the ground up instead of the treetop down. He also developed "Charlie horses" from over-exertion and then got a "C" in climbing and a "D" in running.

The eagle was a problem child and was disciplined severely. In the climbing class he beat all others to the top of the tree, but insisted on using his own way to get there.

At the end of the year an abnormal eel that could swim exceedingly well and also could run, climb, and fly a little had the highest average and was named valedictorian.

The prairie dogs stayed out of school and fought the tax levy because the administration would not add digging and burrowing to the curriculum. They apprenticed their child to a badger and later joined the ground hogs and the gophers in order to start a successful private school.

Every story has a moral, this one has one too. I would not say its for kids but for their parents and elders who need a moral story once in a while.

It sometimes amazes me how confused our children are. They can calculate square roots but need time management skills to write exams. They can solve toughest logic problem but need counselling when they need to decide on career or relationship.

But we have taught them to apply their brains and. not minds , so what if rabbits cant fly or get horses a "C" in the stories it makes us laugh but we cant see our kids carrying loads like donkeys and pleading for help.

"An application to God"

" I want a multitasked fully automated son/ daughter " who can study/dance/sing/play tennis/crack JEE/GRE/ all the E's left.

In return i am willing to get Boost/ chocloates/ MC D's/N- 70 and all acronyms possible. After all its give an take.


"We have carried loads like donkeys to reach you here son," a father.

"So i got to be one too to keep up the tradition ", asked the son puzzled ( pun intended)


Question: Are we worried about our progeny or ourselves when we force them to do what we think suits them?

Are we blind in love to turn deaf to their pleas and mentally retarded to understand what are kids can do best for themselves?

Maybe we are !!!!! and we are responsible for creating a class of dissatisfied individuals who hate their work and have long forgotten what interested them.And who jump from one job to other to cover up their helplessness. who blurt the same old classical statements, copied from texts and even cant differentiate between their thoughts and quotes.

ITHACA

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:

You will never find such as these on your path,

if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine

emotion touches your spirit and your body.

The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,

if you do not carry them within your soul,

if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Phoenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

and sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Egyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to let it last for many years;

and to anchor at the island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would have never set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

I can write the saddest lines - Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest lines tonight

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured

and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like these I held her in my arms.

I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.

To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.

Hear the vast night, vaster without her.

Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.

What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.

The night is fractured and she is not with me.

That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,my soul is not content to have lost her.

As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.

My heart looks for her: she is not with me.

The same night whitens, in the same branches.

We, from that time, we are not the same.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.

Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.

Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,

my soul is not content to have lost her.

Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,

and these are the last lines I will write for her.

IF SHARKS WERE PEOPLE...

"If sharks were people," his landlady's little daughter asked Mr. K, "would they be nicer to the little fish?" "Of course," he said, "if sharks were people, they would have strong boxes built in the sea for little fish. There they would put in all sorts of food plants and little animals, too. They would see to it that the boxes always had fresh water, and they would take absolutely every sort of sanitary measure. When, for example, a little fish would injure his fin, it would be immediately bandaged so that he would not die on the sharks before his time had come. In order that the little fish would never be sad, there would be big water parties from time to time; for happy fish taste better than sad ones.
Of course, there would be schools in the big boxes as well. There the little fish would learn how to swim into the mouths of the sharks. They would need, for example, geography so that they could find the sharks, lazing around somewhere. The main subject would naturally be the moral education of the little fish. They would be taught that the grandest, most beautiful thing is for a little fish to offer himself happily, and that they must all believe in the sharks, above all when they say that they will provide for a beautiful future. One would let the little fish know that this future is only assured when they learn obedience....
If sharks were people, there would of course be arts as well. There would he beautiful pictures of sharks' teeth, all in magnificent colours, of their mouths and throats as pure playgrounds where one can tumble and play. The theatres on the bottom of the sea would offer plays showing heroic little fish swimming enthusiastically down the throats of the sharks.... There would certainly be religion. It would teach that true life begins in the sharks' bellies... In short, there could only be culture in the sea if sharks were people."
From 'Kalendergeschichten' by Bertolt Brecht.

Hope you could read between the lines :)