The Sorrow of Teaching 

They get free uniforms, which they proudly wear on special days because those are the best attires in their box…


College life has become hectic these days. Tests, assignments, Projects, Ppts, Models, and what not – there’s so much to do in so few days that I have to compromise with my porno time. On Wednesday, I was teaching Mesopotamian Civilization History to six of my classmates. Then, the days before had ben torturous as I had to make the model of the Great Bath and finish six assignment questions. Assignment questions in graduation stretch like Indian soap operas – you keep expanding until you’ve included every goddamn possibility. The benefit of this is that you gradually acquire the skill to turn a paragraph into 10 pages, which might help you to write Gone With the Wind or something in your later life. 

Anyway, teaching is a soul-pleasing experience, I tell you. When you have students who’re genuinely interested in participating in the process, teaching becomes a blissful experience. Since we had a test on Mesopotamia that day, they were attentive as cranes. As I finished the last subtopic, the satisfaction was abundant. It made a difference in their life, a small and momentary one, but it goddamn did. I could see it on their faces, the confidence was higher now. 

My father too is a teacher, but it’s been years since he experienced the joy of making people wiser. He’s in a government school. Kids don’t go there to know Copernicus or understand Oxidation Reaction, they go there because every afternoon runny dal and cheap rice is served on old, dented aluminium plates and they don’t have to pay for the meal. They get free uniforms, which they proudly wear on special days because those are the best attires in their box. Girls get free bicycles, which are sold in order to add to the savings which must gradually grow to a perfect size in order to pay off dowries. These are the people Stephen Spender talks about in his poem An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum. Their narrow street is sealed in with a lead sky…

They don’t care about constellations or geometry, they are just trying to live. The education we are providing them is trash. And so they don’t listen, and my father, shackled with his limitations and beaurocracy and office politics and burdened with files and administrative responsibilities and a family, doesn’t make an extra effort to infuse in them the knowledge of Aurora Borialis or Continental Drifts. They are in a reverse-symbiosis relationship, where nobody cares for the other party. 

I won’t lie that I feel like doing something for them, because it’s a depressing collision with reality in the end. My father has been teaching for 22 years now, and kids are living lives as miserable as in 1994. You can’t make it better for them unless you have a trillion pounds in your account. The political parties aren’t interested either – no new news – and so it’s almost impossible to heal them. A few NGOs have popped up, and my mother works for those, but NGOs aren’t exactly the stitches you’d need to cover the wound. 

So I’m sure if I ever become a teacher, I won’t be in a government school in my hometown. But that’s a long dive into the future. At this moment, I like teaching my friends. 

Artwork : 27/10/2016

All at once everything is different, now that I see you….

All at once everything is different, now that I see you……
                          – flynn rider

The Treat : nostalgia #3

The beauty was in her asymmetries….

Okay..the thing about dining in posh restaurants is that it feels like heaven – with soft melodies floating in scented lukewarm air,   the ornate elliptical tables surrounded by matching chairs, the abstract paintings on the wall glistening in the mellow lighting, the picture perfect sight and the preciousness of moments – unless instead of your girlfriend it’s a male gourmand in the opposite chair and YOU’RE THE ONE WHO IS PAYING THE GODDAMN BILL.

So back in std. XI, I saw this ethereal face on the dais, the big beautiful eyes falling on the paper in her hand and sweeping through the audience, the lips moving ceaselessly and so precisely that you could read those, and the soft tinkle of her words that kept reverberating in my mind for hours. I hadn’t seen someone like her in 4 years of my career as an artist. I mean there are beautiful girls, then there are very beautiful girls, and then there are some girls who just cannot be portrayed through a metaphor. She was something I so so wanted to capture on my A4 size sheet that I promised Heroine a huge treat in KAVERI if he’d procure her photograph. I had no idea he was going to take this mission so seriously. 

“You think she is beautiful? “He quizzed. 

“Yes. Absolutely. Don’t you think so? ”

He stared at me in surprise and pity, and said,

“When was the last time you went for an eye-checkup? ”


I didn’t believe him because I could clearly see how beautiful she was. The beauty was in her asymmetries. In those blemishes that were just at the right places. The gorgeous melancholy in her big, doe eyes. The stunning simplicity of her ever-lively hair. The delicate stretch of her soft pink lips. And the vampire canines which I loved more than anything else. She was savagely beautiful, and I didn’t care if he couldn’t see. 

Since she was absent from all kinds of social networking sites, it felt like finding Nemo amidst the Pacific. I sent numerous friend requests to her numerous friends, also her male classmates, and everybody I ever saw talking to her. To my disappointment nobody accepted my friend request. 

“Hey. You said Kaveri, right?”Heroine asked me one day, a huge satanic smile pasted over his face. 

“Yeah. “I said nonchalantly. “But after you get me a photograph. ”

“Here it is! “He said triumphantly. 

And Oh. My. God. There it was!!! Right before my wide-stretched eyes! 

So I took him to Kaveri. We had a nice time as there were a few pretty girls, plus the superdelicious food. The bill kind of gave me a heart attack though. I could buy a goddamn novel out of their VAT charge. Anyway, I grabbed all the toothpicks as a souvenir and slipped out, wondering if I would ever have that girl on the opposite seat. 

Strict Daily Plan : nostalgia #2

I always thought of my maths teacher as an expressionless woman with an awful sex life. I even pictured her talking in cosines to her husband.

​#strict_daily_plan 😆


This little thing reminds me of the blue colored walls of my room, the least noticed among which was the one that had trigonometric formulas on. Well, I wanted to learn some formulas but I really had no enthusiasm for undergoing the learning process, so I asked this semi genius friend of mine if he could help me out.

“Oh it’s so simple! “He said, “Write them down in a paper and stick them to your wall. ”

“Really? That’s it!? “I said, quite amazed. 

“Yeah. “He said. 

It was the day I wrote all the formulas on that super white sheet and stuck it on the back wall. You have to stick it on the front wall, he clarified four months later. Obviously! 

On the side wall, I had this strict daily plan I’d drawn after some in-depth graphical analysis of my own supply capacity and the demand by the subjects. I also drew distinct emojis after each subject as I’d heard visual representations help you to focus. In fact, I was so deeply influenced by this theory that I started drawing during maths classes just so that I could understand a little bit of integration. It is other thing that two months later I was drawing naked girls – yeah, that was me but I swear their oversized breasts wasn’t my creation – on the desk the entire period, and I got to say this, my knowledge of the areas under curves actually got better! 

Anyway, the reason I put up the plan was that my father has always asked me to make a routine. Sometimes, I’d want to have a conversation with him or maybe just ask him about constellations, and I’d go to him and look at him, and he’d say, gazing deep into my eyes,

“You know what, son, you should make a routine. ” 

I actually used to make them in the beginning, but I stopped after chucking away the 146th routine in my life. But then, I read Business Studies and got dumped by a Facebook friend who turned out to be my junior, and then I realized my father was right. Maybe the purpose of life is to get a routine, after all!

This plan started with 2 problems of accountancy each day. I loathed accountancy like I’ve never loathed anyone, not even the bully at the primary school who rubbed dirt onto my glossy shoes almost everyday just for the fun of it. At the end of the session, and almost 150 days, I’d solved a total of 3 and a half questions. 

Number two was Eco, and Lord Evans and I had studied Economics for exactly 16 hours the whole year. And that’s the aggregate figure. 

Number three. BST. Two days before the exam. I even made notes with glitters and all. And yeah, there were lots of drawings, which mostly consisted of stick-figures standing together for no particular reason. 

And Maths. I can’t even word my hatred for Maths. I hated maths so much that I always thought of my maths teacher as an expressionless woman with an awful sex life. I even pictured her talking in cosines to her husband. The emoji’s perfect though. And 20 problems! God! Was I insane or what!?

And who the hell drew that goblin face by the VVS sign!? It was either the great RP, or Heroine

And micro was all about paying attention in the class, because the teacher was a no-nonsense man. He loved molesting students. Figuratively. 

I remember looking at this piece of card everyday and procrastinating all my responsibilities for some day. My father certainly wouldn’t have been happy about it, but I believe that human life wasn’t supposed to be tamed by a set of instructions supported by hieroglyphics, I believe we were born to rebel against the routine, we were born to stall and fuck up, we were born to be unpredictable and messed up.

“How many routines did you chart out when you were a kid? “I asked my father the other day.

“I didn’t. “He said, “I was smart. Gold medalist, remember? “

Stalking Girls – nostalgia #1

Sometimes, I’d nudge him to be a man and go talk to a girl. 

​#maal_road 😂
PC : Lord Evans

I have walked down this road a million times, mostly stalking nymphets and sometimes desperately hoping for them to turn up so that we could have somebody to stalk. I wasn’t developing softwares or making space stations for NASA, so it was only fair that I spent my days hunting chicks along with my favorite people. 

The thing about Ranchi girls is that the hot one always has a dog accompanying her. The monster is usually a bulldog or some species that ranks high on Discovery Channel’s top ten badasses, and he’s usually savagely happy, his saliva-drenched tongue lolling out like an active serpent. It was quite a risky business back then, as we always worked in fear of ending up in Ispat hospital, having to take rabies vaccine shots in the abdomen. But sometimes, the dog wouldn’t care as we maintained a fair distance. 

There were quite a few girls who lived in the numbered houses along this street, and we were, particularly, enamored with a slim waist adolescent who paced up and down the road in the evenings. The hot girl usually has a semi or non hot girl accompanying her in walks. We would pace up and down the road too, and pretend to discuss the string theory while we stole glances at them. 

“Perfect. “I would say, and Lord Evans would look at me, and we would exchange triumphant smiles. 

Sometimes, I’d nudge him to be a man and go talk to a girl. But he wouldn’t go, on account of his bloody maulikta. 

I remember following girls in spring, amid downpour, and even in fall – it was our favorite hobby, after chess. Our other friend, the great RP, was mostly rotting away in Bhardwaj classes but when he joined us he goddamn stole everybody’s thunder. Clad in red full sleeved checked shirt, he’d be all smeared in fairness cream and a hairstyle only he believed was super-elegant. He’d pretend to be a top model or something, but sadly, no girl ever noticed him, or me. They noticed Lord Evans, but only because he stood tall as a tower. 

We have followed plenty of girls in those roads, and no matter what it resulted in, it was always an enjoyable experience enriched with fierce discussions about physics and philosophy, and the spectacular sight of dazzling beauty. 

An Infinity of Darkness

….and I was still thinking about her. This is how it happens, right? You start thinking about somebody and you don’t stop and suddenly, it’s too late…

I was walking back to the classroom for AECC lecture when I first saw her. Peach tunic and black leggings. Her pitch-black goggles glittered in sunlight. A few stray tufts of her hair struggled for flight. Her lips had suddenly broken into a smile, at something her friend had just said. For the tiniest fraction of second, I wanted to stop and see her some more. Maybe the smile on her lips, or maybe the eyes behind her goggles. But AVS was tugging at my arm and Kammo was already ten feet ahead of us, earpieces slotted in his ears, and so I kept walking. Just when I decided to turn my head to take one last look at her, a trio of hot girls appeared before my eyes and so I didn’t.

The thought of her didn’t cross my mind again as I’ve already got quite a few girls to worry about. My life has always been a mess, kudos to all the females, including my dear mother, who have been a significant part of it. I couldn’t afford another stupid story, no matter how alluring its prospect seemed. And so, for a long time, RJ Heena was my only dream girl in this nightmarish world. 

It was going fine till I saw her again through the glass pane in a classroom door. 109, I noted the room number. She was seated in the middle of the first row, her fingers softly tapping on the desk, as if trying to recreate a forgotten melody on her old piano. She seemed carefree, as though the world wasn’t unfair to her, and it made me wonder if his dad had black money or something. Then I saw the goggles, the same pitch black glasses veiling her eyes, and it struck me like a sledgehammer. 

She couldn’t see. 

It was the day I started thinking about her. You can never honestly put yourself in place of a visually impaired girl without collapsing into a rubble of misery. I remember how I had closed my eyes and stood outside the classroom, trying to see the world in her way, imagining the door and 5 meters of space between us that, to her, were nothing but a sea of infinite blackness. It was so scary, the thought of living like that for more than a minute, for days, for years, that I threw open my eyes and felt the blood rush back to my organs. 

I started stalking her after that. I would walk upto room number 109, stand outside the door, and peep through the glass pane. I’d always find her in the same seat, wearing the same black goggles, sometimes talking to her friend, sometimes sitting in silence, still as a statue. Sometimes, she’d tap at the desk, her fingers following the same rhythm. She was beautiful, and so, it felt unfair that she couldn’t see herself anymore. The mirror, the people, the world – nothing but black. 

Sometimes our paths would cross, and I’d see her face lit up with felicity, or her forehead wrinkled in a contemplative expression, or her lips stretched upwards, her hair fluttering, or her thoughtful silence – a profound quietness amidst a bewildering cacophony. 

I wasn’t in love with her, but she was fascinating and delicate, and it felt like watching her was all I needed to do in those moments. I asked one of my classmates, who also shared a class with her, to get me her name. 
I was back to my room and I was still thinking about her. This is how it happens, right? You start thinking about somebody and you don’t stop and suddenly, it’s too late. 
My mind was like a battleground, where two different ideas were clashing like infuriated battalions. My memory spooled back to the beginning of 2016, and it felt wrong. My motives weren’t noble, either. 

I just wanted a great story, and thus, the prospect of a blind girl seemed fascinating. 

This stupid wish has fucked me big. Insensitivity and hatred now runs in my veins. Exploitation has become my inherent nature. This is certainly not how I expected life to turn out. I’d watch her, I’d write about her and mould facts, I’d word my interpretation of her to sound artistic and great. I’d never understand her, like I haven’t understood any of the females, including my dear mother, who have been a significant part of my life. I’d benefit from her misery and I’d spit out my frustration on her. It won’t be fair to someone who’s alone in her suffering.

“Hey! You wanted to know her name? “My classmate asked me the other day. 

“Nah! I’m after some other girl these days. “I said and walked away as he stared at me quizzically. 
Our paths still cross each other, and I still want to stop and watch her some more, but I don’t. She deserves somebody who would do more than just admiring her beauty and writing a blog about it, somebody who would stand with her in her abysmal infinite darkness.