China Clay Boy

A couple of weeks ago, I bought some play dough for my 4 year-old. He was thrilled, his imagination ran wild and he started making an eagle,a motor bike a mixie all as he saw them, so the eagle was just a huge staright line of dough with a protruding speck for the eagle's head. As he played with it, I recalled how expensive and rare dough was when I was a child. It was called China clay then. If there was one thing that my sister and  longed for as play item it was china clay. Only one cousin of ours in the whole wide extended family could have it. He was an only child and his parents beleived in making the best things available to him. He was good at making moulds with the china clay. I clearly remember him making a radio, a hut  and a car with it. He would share the china clay with my sister and I but he was ridiculously paticular about how we handle it. Most often I was just happy to watch him make shapes and models out of it. Thoughts of china clay brought many other memories about  the same boy. He was a talented guitarist and was simple amazing with the bongos, but I never heard him sing or hum to himself, I never saw him close his eyes and loose himself in the tune of a song.
Those were the days when USSR was a mystery to many and the Sputnik and Misha were two magazines that seemed to let you peep a little into that mystery. No one I knew, except the china clay boy, had subscribed for Misha the Children's magazine from USSR. I loved to visit his house during summer vacation, for I would get to read all the issues for the previous year. China clay boy however did not seem excited about Misha and its contents. Not once did he hand me an issue and say 'Hannah this story in this issue is very good' . To me the learning of new words is an unexplainable thrill, he never turned my attention to the several he may have learned from his priceless books.
One cannot remember the time when Herge's Adventures of Tintin were inexpensive in India. Till date one needs to pay through ones nose to buy a copy. The Week, a weekly would carry a page of Tintin in every issue, I would beg and plead with my uncles to buy The Week just to read the Tintin. But boy!, the china clay boy's house was full of them. I fell in love with Captain Haddock, admired Tintin, adored snowy, laughed at the detective twins and marvelled at Prof. calculus all in the couch of his house. Sadly the boy himself never shared with me his joy of reading Tintin. Who was his favourite character, did he secretly cry out 'Blistering blue barnacles' like me. I never knew.
China boy died an untimely death, his parents were shattered. As I walked in to their house that day, they wept and asked ' You look for meaning and try to explain everything around you Hannah, give us an explanation for this sorrow'. Tears fail me when I need them most. I just stood there motionless and let them cry on my shoulders. Why would one with such a wide range of exposure in early childhood, shun adult life? Why would one so talented and gifted find no meaning in living? Why would one who received so much love be so devoid of hope. Despite spending dozens of summer vacationa at his house he never played with us, never laughed out loud, never shared experiences. In short he never became a friend.
May be it is not so important to give the best to your children or love them with all your heart as it is to teach them to love themselves and many many others with thier short comings. May be, as an individual it is not so important to be talented and gifted than it is to use the little that we are given, to plant a smile on another face. No amount of love, talents, books or music can make life meaningful unless you let it touch your soul.

The man who broke the wall

It was my son's third day in a new school. Months of preparation and pep talks just disappeared in to thin air as  my son saw his wailing classmates. "You teach me a lot of things, could you not be my teacher and not send me to school" he sobbed.How often I had considered home schooling and gave up only because it would deprieve him of growing up with other kids. Of course I could not tell him that. My mother stayed in the school as I reluctantly left for my office.I tried hard to recall my first day at school, but had no clue about what I had done."Thank God, Hanniel will not remeber today I told myself".
At noon, I rushed on my two-wheeler to get my mother and son home. His school like mine has a huge ground before the school building and my son was running up and down in glee. As I saw my mum holding his bag and just watching him run, I remembered how I would run across the ground in my own school several years ago. Then the three of us set off on my vehicle homeward.
My two-wheeler huffed and puffed up the little hillock on which my house is situated. Ahead of me I saw a tractor carrying some construction material. Suddenly the tractor started moving backwards uncontrolably. Its breaks had failed. I stopped still, should I turn round down hill?, should I move sideways and make way?. I could not figure out. But the tractor driver turned his steering wheel so hard that the tractor wagon turned in a right angle and hit the compound wall of a house.The wall broke COMPLETELY.
The owner of the house was furious. He yelled and I saw the tractor driver stand with downcast eyes. I heard him explain to the owner of the house about his breaks that failed. To him the tractor driver was a wall breaker to me a life saver. I could do nothing to save the driver from a possible pay-up, except say he averted a huge accident. Would the driver who was far poorer than the owner of the house be forced to pay? or would the house-owner exhibit humanitarian consideration? As I watched the driver be sent off without penalty I said a prayer of thanks. I had just received an answer to the pray we sang at school. "The world stands the need of liberation my Lord, it still has to learn to love".There is still hope for mankind, for kindness lives on in human hearts.

Reconciliation

Sometimes I wonder dear friend,
If good times must thus end.
They should really come again,
For now I am in great pain.
In me there is love to give,
If only you will me forgive.
Lies to you if these words seem,
My longing will be but a dream.

Ode to the Vicar of Whitefield

Shaking hands and building bonds.

Preaching sermons deep and short.

Smiling broad and laughing mild.

Visiting homes and spreading cheer.

Meeting the kids with child-like glee.

Luring the youth with jokes and truths.

Enchanting the old with a listening ear.

Encouraging the adults with words of hope.

Teaching the Bible with authority-while.

Learning the Bible in humility.- He is

A young priest with firm principles.

A good friend and a warm human being.

Morning Walk

The quiet and narrow road, with houses on either side,

Huge stony walls with crawling creepers on every side,

Glimpses of the beautiful flowers that they do hide,

Towering trees and tales they seem to want to tell,

Unkempt gardens and within them an unused well,

Chirping birds that make your heart with emotions swell,

The absence of people, the absence of noise,

The absence of traffic, the absence of chaos,

The feeling of calm, the feeling of bliss,

The fitting rewards for strolling awhile- in circles,

Around, the Whitefield outer and inner circles.

Unforgettable poems from my days in school

If music is the language of emotions, poems are but music in words. In my opinion they are superior than songs, for they give you the liberty to read them to your own tune. Poems can stir intense emotions not just on the first-read but on every-read. Fourteen years of schooling exposes one to poems of a variety of genre. The first I remember reading was "Boats Sail On The Rivers by Christina Georgina Rossetti". Elementary school English textbooks had many of her poems. As a child I marvelled at the simple subjects she chose and the profound philosophy she infered. 'Everything in nature is prettier far than anything that man has made',she said in her 'Boats sail on the river'. 'The clouds keep moving but where do they go?" she asked in 'Clouds'.
Come primary school and the subjects of the poems were a little deeper. Who could forget the truth in the words 'King will be well, if he sleeps one night. In the Shirt of a Happy Man', from John Hay's 'Enchanted Shirt' or the mystery in the words' who has seen the wind niether you nor I', from Rossetti's 'Wind' or the triumph of justice in Goldsmith's 'Elegy on the death of a Mad Dog'.
Middle school brought in the form of poetry a mixture of humour, romance and nature. I rolled in laughter for 'Simon Snoots Whiskers' and A.P.Herbert's 'At the Theatre: to the Lady behind me'. I  blushed reading Lord Byron's 'She walks in beauty' and Noyes'  'The Highway man'. I sang with Wordsworth's 'Solitary reaper' and shuddered reading Walter de lamare's "The listeners'. I sailed the seven seas as I read Masefields "sea-Fever' and "Cargoes'.
Highschool was simply breath-taking, beginning with Milton's 'On his blindess' I drenched myself in the wonders of  'The Village School master', 'Night and Death','Tiger', "Death the Leveller', 'Stopping by the woods on a snowny evening', 'The Daffodils', 'Menelaus and Helen', 'Milk for the cat', 'La belle dame sans merci', 'Soldier' and the ironical 'Ozymandias'.


I was always poor at memorising poems, but some lines stay etched in my mind for the truths they speak, the valour they express and the music they play.

1. "But the bow that bridges heaven,
   And overtops the trees,
   And builds a road from earth to sky,
   Is prettier far than these."
2. "The glories of our blood and state are shawdows not substantial things"
3. "only the deeds of the just smell sweet and blosoom in their dust"
4. "If I should die think only this of me, That there's some corner of a foreign field
   That is forever England"
5. "And that one talent which is death to hide"
6. "For oft when on my couch I lay in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon my inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude and then my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils"
7. "Behold her single in the field yon solitary highland lass, reaping and singing to herself"
8. "Tiger tiger burning bright in the forest of the night'
9. "Men may come and men may go but I go on forever"
10. "Still they gazed and still the wonder grew, how one small head could carry all he knew"
11. "The soldier's pride
    Touched to quick, he said:
    "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
    Smiling the boy fell dead."
12. "And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
    And no birds sing."

Poetry is such soothing salve to the wounds inflicted by the cacophony of the FM radios, silly SMSs, formidable forwarded emails, jarring caller-tunes and raucous ring -tones.

Pleasures that come with a power cut

I am making chapathis in the candle light, my nose is dewed with sweat and I am feeling very very hot. Just as I am thinking of fretting about power cuts in summer, I hear my son and my husband chit-chatting in the front yard of my house. "The moon is big and the stars are so small" my son was saying. "Actually the stars are much much bigger than moon, they are so far away that they look small" my husband was trying to explain. My mind flew back 15 years and I began recollecting power cuts during my childhood. Just when the power went off, by dad would start whistling " I saw rain drops on my window....". His whistling was good always, but the power cut made it more comforting and solemn. My mother would find her way in the dark to the room my dad was in and say "These power cuts in summer- annoying really". "Its cooler in this room" my dad would say. The luring of the silence that followed nwas magnetic. My sister and I would stumble in the dark and go to mum and dad. Together we would look at the sky always my sister would be the first to exclaim "hey hannah look how beautiful that cloud looks!" "yeah and it floats so nicely" I would say". "This is how our childhood was" my dad would say," no electric lights at home , just the kerosene lamps".  "We had to be back home from play when the street lights came on" my mother continued "we used to play so much in those days" she said.
When starring at the sky got boring we played a word game. one of us would say a word and the next has to say a word that started with the last letter of the word just said.  "English" I said "herb" my sister said "bedlam" my father would say "what on earth is that?" I would ask and my dad would tell us the meaning and the usage." "When the power comes back, you should look it up in the 'chambers'" my dad would tell us always. The number of new words I learnt during the many powercuts are numerous. 'Quay', 'etymology', 'mayhem', 'apothecary' to list a few.The way we bonded as a family during the power cuts almost made them welcome in our house.
Now my son is saying "Appa that cloud is moving" "why?". "They are light and can be moved by the wind my boy" my husband is explaining. I wipe sweat off my face, switch of the stove and sneak out to sit next to my husband and son and stare at the sky.  "Amma" my son starts "the clouds can be moved around by the wind do you know, appa just told me about it" he goes on. What sweet music it is to my ears.
Power cuts are a powerful and sure way to family time.