Remembering Those Years

Exactly six years ago to the day, my life changed. By evening, the various coaching institutes had already come up with the solutions and the indications were fairly good. Sitting today in my home in Bangalore with one of my flatmates, with nothing better to do on a Sunday night than the usual, I cant help but think about those years that lead to it all .

School was...well...easy. I was a good student, had the best set of friends to hang out with, the teachers knew me and my parents never complained about anything. I didnt know what failure was. I didnt know that life wont always stay the same. The last two years in school were madness. Get togethers, farewells, parties, cricket; the fun never ended. What hastened it was that one of the most (ok, the most) popular girls in our batch was leaving school to study in Singapore. That was the perfect trigger to the festive spirit that continued till the end of 12th grade and a little more. Classes became a mere formality and even the teachers understood that. Especially our English literature teacher who taught Hamlet to almost empty classes. In fact there was just one boy who regularly attended her lectures sitting in between all the girls who by nature were more sincere than the boys. We made so much fun of him that he was often on the verge of embarrassment.

Anyway, we used to arrive almost an hour before the official assembly time and play what we termed as Australian Cricket. The most striking part of the entire exercise was that a 2 feet, cylindrical bamboo stick substituted for the bat which meant that edges flew thick and fast. We therefore had a slip cordon in place for all the edges. Laboratory windows were broken more than once and we went to apologise to the Vice Principal demanding a second innings! It helped that we were the 'bright' boys in school and so everything was forgotten and forgiven pretty soon. A few classes were also attended in between all the fun and laughter. Then there were the quizzes for which some of us were officially allowed to bunk classes. Lunch was quite often taken at one of our friend's house which was a 2 minutes walking distance from the school gate. Again there was some cricket that followed which on occasions extended well after the lunch period was over. In fact, I remember one occasion when the Principal on his way to school after lunch spotted us playing cricket when we should have been attending classes! What I dont remember is how we explained it. Classes got over at around 3:30 in the afternoon but school didnt. It was time to either play some really silly games or go to the nearby Vora Brothers to have soya chilli and some Pepsi.

Till the time Neha left for Singapore, we had lost count of the number of parties that we had had at each other's homes and at times in the school. It was the best time spent in school. The farewell was happening a year in advance and all because of her leaving. People got closer to each other, understood each other in a different light. Some people cried when she left, some fell in love with her, it was all very emotional and dramatic at times. She left sometime in the December of our 11th grade, after celebrating her birthday; before celebrating mine and so I made her promise to send me the first postcard from there.

In between all these, there were the Physics, Chemistry and Maths tuitions. We changed tutors and made our life hell by attending tuitions in the wee hours of the morning even during the rains and the winters in search of something we werent even very sure about (or at least I wasnt very sure about). But even the tuitions were made out to be more of fun activities than educational ones. Laughing behind our tutors, imitating their mannerisms, even laughing at how we didnt have a clue about some physics problem, we didnt realise that we were about to get the shock of our lives. What helped keep us in this illusion was the confidence our peers and teachers had in us. We were supposed to clear all entrance exams easily. There was never a doubt about it. Even slam books (that sounds so childish now!) were full of references like...'when u get into such and such college...'. So the cricket and the parties continued as a huge chapter in our lives drew to a close.

I vividly remember the day my father left me in a private hostel from the balcony of which I could see the Convocation Hall of IIT Delhi. It was a tough decision. The urge to leave everything and join DU was overwhelming. I was never a fighter. Things either came easily to me or didnt at all and I saw my first failure in life as an indication of the fact that it was not meant to be. I never saw it as a result of my foolishness, my overconfidence and my extreme optimism. My first reaction was, what the hell... I have a good percentage.. let me get into Stephen's and study Maths Hons. So standing in front of Hindu along with my father, almost ready to fill out the forms while all of my friends were either preparing for life in IIT or dropping a year in pursuit of it, he asked me one last time about my decision. I have always been instinctive when it comes to decision making and so I said the first thing that came to my mind. I said 'Ok dad, lets give it one more try.....'.
Anyway, that day when he was leaving, he just said one thing. He said 'Son, you never really deserved it this time around. You never tried hard enough. With all this fun and frolic, it was always going to be an uphill climb. Anyway, thats history. If you want to do anything this time around, just try.... a lot harder and you can get it.'
I cried. I cried for what must have been about 5 minutes. Non stop. Not because I had failed. Not because I hadnt achieved what I had set to. But because I had let down my parents and all those who thought I was capable of it. Because prior to that moment I hadnt even felt bad about it.

The year went by amidst some serious studies and realising the mistakes of the past year. There were several trips to home. There was VVS Laxman's epic innings in between. New friends were made in the hostel. I grew up. A lot. Living alone, caring for myself, cutting out on the fun things in life to achieve something. These were totally new experiences for me but I somehow managed. The experiences of that year, the ups and downs, the agonies and ecstasies are too much to put in this post.

The last day before I would leave for home having done with all my entrance exams, we were having one last bakaiti session. All of us had done reasonably well in the exam and so were expecting a call. The brightest amongst us by a long way had his birthday on the 18th of June, the same day the top 1000 would have their counselling session at IIT Delhi. I told him, 'Chal yaar, milte hain 18th ko Delhi me tera birthday manane.....'. He didnt make it.

There are a lot of factors that affect our lives. Instantaneous decisions, luck, surroundings, circumstances. In hindsight everything looks much more clearer. The mistakes that we made, the what ifs. But thats life. These lines from Rushdie's Midnight's Children put it aptly.

Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems - but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems more and more incredible. Suppose yourself in a large cinema, sitting at first in the back row, and gradually moving up, row by row, until your nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars' faces dissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; the illusion dissolves - or rather, it becomes clear that the illusion itself is reality.

Those were memorable years. In more ways than one. I dont want to get into the paths I could have taken other than this. That's not the point. Remembering those days which have largely shaped the person I am today, is.

The Delhi Walla Blog

Thanks to Sammy, I got an opportunity to write for his cousin Mayank's blog about some of the hangouts around IIT. Here's the link. The original post was modified at places by Mayank and it looks much better now :)

Me And The Stage

Its been long since my last post on this blog. Life's been pretty mundane and inspiration has been hard to come by. So it felt nice when a few friends inquired about this sudden hiatus. The last few days have been particularly frustrating and so I thought that I would try that extra bit to take my mind off my daily existence and string together a coherent post. So here goes......

All I remember from that day is that it took me quite a while to get the brown boots on while the music played in the background and the scene where I had to pounce upon the mouse.

My first stage appearance (as Puss in Puss In Boots) happened when I was in class three. Till the fourth or maybe fifth grade there were also a few elocutions but then I realised that I never won anything and so decided to stop it altogether. In class six the Maggi Quiz happened and I found myself representing the school while some Mr. Derek O'Brien asked questions like why is 'AMBULANCE' written in the way it is. We came second by a whisker but I had found something which would put me on stage and something at which I didn't suck.

It had its advantages. It gave me an existence in school. It allowed legitimate bunking of classes. I was quite good at it and along with my partner formed a formidable team which lasted till the end of our schooling days and left me with a showcase full of trophies and more knowledge about the World War and India's freedom struggle (courtesy the 50th year of the Indian independence and the Quizzes that followed in its wake), soccer, literature and movies than my peers. The thrill of knowing the answer to a difficult question and waiting till it came to you, the buzzer rounds, the rapid fires; I loved them all. And a major reason was that mostly we won. I loved the stage. From the friends who came along with a couple of teachers to cheer us, to the applause which followed during the prize distribution and in the school assembly the next day, it sure had its rewards.

In the meanwhile I also got enrolled in the newly formed Music Academy where I learned tabla. Even there the stage appearances continued although as part of groups of almost 10 with instruments like tabla, violin, guitar and sitar coming together to play a composition on raag Kafi or Kalyan. And the best thing was that on more than one occasion I created a place for myself (which meant a 20-30 second solo when all other instruments stopped) by volunteering to play the pakhawaj or the khol. It certainly helped that I was a fast learner and picked up things with ease. Amidst the applause during a jugalbandi between the percussionists and the stringed instruments, the words of appreciation by our teacher on the completion of a successful performance, the spark in the eyes of my parents as I watched them from the stage looking at their son; my love for the stage kept growing.

Then college happened and I suddenly found myself thrown in amongst immensely talented people. Luckily there weren't many good tabla players around. So I got a new life and went back to the first instrument I had laid my hands on as a seven year old and had left after my class 10th Boards. So my love affair with the stage in general and music in particular continued. In fact it blossomed like never before, at a totally different plane, in the company of some great musicians. I never had stage fright and although the prizes kept eluding us, yet the experience itself was prize enough. We performed in the inauguration of Rendezvous and Tryst and also once at the India Habitat Center and I got to know about every corner of the Sem Hall and the Convo. After third year, tabla gave way to rhythm Guitar but the love of the stage remained intact, changed perhaps only in its expression.

As luck would have it, a few months back I got to perform on the stage in a totally new avatar. That of a solo singer. And that too in front of the entire company. And frankly speaking even though it was a debut of sorts, I wasn't nervous. So when the 'once more' came, I knew I had added another page in the chapter titled 'Me And The Stage' in my life's book.

I love the adrenalin rush, the transient nature of a stage performance, the spectators, the applause, the anxiety before the performance, the accolades that follow it. I love the ego boost, the kick that it gives. I like to be known and acknowledged. But above all, in the few minutes that I am on stage, I forget everything around. I lose myself to the occasion. I feel liberated.

New Face, New Voice

She plays both the guitar and the piano with equal dexterity and has a fantastic voice (and an even better false). Spent the entire day listening to her. My favourites are:-

• Say It's Possible
• Close To Your Head
• The Vicodin Song
• Go Quietly
• Flesh For Bones
  

She's the winner of this year's YouTube Awards for the Best Music Video. Check out Terra Naomi. She's quite good looking by the way!

By the way, also loved this song by the 'Sick Puppies'.

Good day at work!

Autobiography of a PC

The CPU cabinet now doubles up as an elevated platform on which the monitor rests. The off white colour of the monitor has changed to a dirty white with visible streaks of gray. I sit in one corner of the large hall shielded away from the daily exercise of the bai which resembles some form of sweeping. Lying amidst my more stylish, sleek and powerful brothers, people now look at me as if I am some relic from another age. My days of glory are long gone and from today I will have only one person who would care about me. Yet in the summer of 2002 in Delhi, things were so very different.

Equipped with a Intel P4 processor, 128 MB RD RAM an original Intel Mother Board and most importantly, Creative 2.1 Speakers, I was the best of the lot, a dream come true for my proud owner (henceforth to be referred to as Atish). And being among the first few of his batch to get one, he ensured that I got my fair share of limelight and adoration. The evening that he brought me home along with his 'I-know-stuff-about-computers' friend, the entire wing was abuzz with activity. Within minutes I was set up, hooked to the power supply and the LAN port and switched on. As the familiar Windows Welcome tune played and the bliss wallpaper appeared on the monitor, everybody let out a collective gasp, 'Chal gaya ...'

I was witness to the evolution of the IIT Delhi LAN. From the famous TOBU to the primitive and tedious IP Scanner and the memory intensive Sharescan and then finally to the longest standing avatar, DC++; P2P clients were the most popular applications that I made friends with. Virtually everything that ran on me depended on the LAN. Music, movies, some other kind of movies, wallpapers, docs, everything was there on the LAN. Atish was in the Computer Science Department which meant that I was also used to connect to his department's servers for a faster internet connection. Xterm and later port forwarding through the Putty became as popular as the P2P clients and I remember people flocking to my room for checking their mails and downloading stuff from the net.

I met with an accident during my second year. Something was wrong with my Hard Disk and since Atish and his friends were not sure if it was a disk problem or something related to the Mother Board, it was decided that I be taken to Nehru Place (NP). So we were going to NP on Sahu's bike when suddenly I slipped out of Atish's hands in the middle of the traffic and went tumbling down the road before finally stopping. I dont know how, but I was still in one piece. No vehicle hit me and the thermocol and the cardboard covering saved me. My hard disk had to be replaced and I was back, alive and kicking.

I was such a vital part of Atish's existence. True, he was not the kind of guy who sat in front of me for hours, playing games or randomly surfing the net or even watching movies. Chat was probably the one thing which kept him occupied the most and during his pre final and final years, TV serials. Yet his room was always a hub of activity and that meant that I was kept busy. The presence of the Creative speakers ensured that almost all the music practice sessions originated from his room as Suhas, Venky, Maddu, Shastri came in with the guitars and the keyboards to figure out the songs. Often he would sit in front of me on the chair with the guitar on his lap, the web page with the chords of a particular song opened and the pluck between his lips, as his hands moved from the keyboard to the strings trying to figure out the song. I found him to be very happy and content during those times.

Then there were the movie screenings when the lights would be switched off and the windows closed (if it was day) and a few friends would bring their pillows and take their positions on the bed. Atish mostly sat on the chair though. Often his friends (mostly Laddu) would make fun of my processor, calling it names like a P3 or even a P2, when some movie clip took a little longer than usual to start, or some application hung up. I remember it was a favourite pastime of Atish and Laddu to discuss whose dabba was better (or worse!). I would like to believe I was, but Laddu always had different views.

In the last couple of years, Wonder Years, Lost, Desperate Housewives, Joey, How I Met You Mother & Scrubs had become Atish's favourite pastimes. I remember during the Diwali break of 2005, he spent two days continuously watching the first season of Lost because he was so 'lost' in it. 24 episodes of 40 minutes each. Figure that out for yourself!

Once my keyboard and mouse had to be changed, the former primarily due to Atish's new found fixation with a black keyboard after his internship (although the old one had become rather difficult to use) and the latter because, it had reached a stage where only he could use it and anyone else who tried his hands on it vowed to throw it out of the window the next time around.

Sometimes Atish also used me to make his assignments! Hard to believe but true. See, basically he hated the labs and the atmosphere there, where a dozen faces would be looking at what you are doing and while all the bright ones would be thinking of ways to optimise their code and make it more elegant and readable and what not, he would probably be struggling just to make it run. So the confines of his room suited him the most and he tried doing his assignments (particularly the ones in Logic, PL and ADA) sitting in front of me, punching out the alphabets and the numbers, frequently dashing off to Pinku's or Laddu's room to seek help and occasionally getting someone to come by if the going got too tough for him. I never thought computer science was meant for him. I seldom saw him enjoying coding. While making the assignments, he was more focussed on selecting the right playlist than anything else. He probably enjoyed writing articles for Kara Update more than coding but we will talk about his love for writing later.

Hmm.. so where were we. LAN, music, movies, serials, assignments. Yes, chatting. he did a lot of that. With his school friends and even the ones in the campus and he attributed his typing speed to just that. I still remember how Laddu used to tease and curse him when he chatted with his girl friends from school.

And finally we come to writing. In the December of 2005, he started blogging, inspired solely by Zubin's blog. Invariably he used to compose his posts late at night, alone, without anyone's disturbance and at one go. I particularly remember the day the IIM interview results were out. It was 3 o' clock in the night as he sat in front of me to pour his heart out. It was sad and I felt bad for him.

I would like to believe that I have been an important entity in his college life and though the plastic cover came off after the second week, yet the occasional cleaning up with Colins ensured that I was better looking than most of my mates. Even in Bangalore, where I have been perhaps the most crucial part of the daaru parties (after the alcohol that is!), the jubiliation that followed my arrival, confirmed that I still had a part to play in his life and that of his friends. But it will never be like those days, in Karakoram. I know he misses hostel and come to think of it, so do I.

Excerpts from 'The Plague'

In short, we returned to our prison house, we had nothing left us but the past, and even if some were tempted to live in the future, they had speedily to abandon the idea - anyhow, as soon as could be - once they felt the wounds that the imagination inflicts on those who yield themselves to it.

But, naturally enough, this prudence, this habit of feinting with their predicament and refusing to put up a fight, was ill rewarded. For, while averting that revulsion which they found so unbearable, they also deprived themselves of those redeeming moments, frequent enough when all is told, when by conjuring up pictures of a reunion to be, they could forget about the plague. Thus in a middle course between these heights and depths, they drifted through life rather than lived, the prey of endless days and sterile memories, like wandering shadows that could have acquired substance only by consenting to root themselves in the solid earth of their distress. Thu, too, they came to know the incorrigible sorrow of all prisoners and exiles, which is to live in a company with a memory that serves no purpose.

All I maintain is on that this earth there are pestilences and there are victims and it's up to us so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences.

Next day these fancies would have passed and qualms of doubt returned. But for the moment the whole town was on the move, quitting the dark, lugubrious confines where it had struck its roots of stone and setting forth at last, like a shipload of survivors, toward a land of promise.

So all a man could win in the conflict between plague and life was knowledge and memories

And when the train stopped, all those interminable seeming separations which often had begun on this same platform came to an end in one ecstatic moment, when arms closed with hungry possessiveness on bodies whose living shape they had forgotten.

For the moment he wished to behave like all those others around him who believed, or made believe, that plague can come and go without changing anything in men's hearts.

The leveling out that death's imminence had failed in practice to accomplish was realized at last, for a few gay hours, in the rapture of escape.

In short, they denied that we had ever been that hag-ridden populace, a part of which was daily fed into a furnace and went up in oily fumes, while the rest, in shackled impotence, waited their turn.

....we learn in time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.

Read & Remembered

An effort to remember the books read over the last 4/5 years.

Salman Rushdie: Midnight's Children, The Satanic Verses, Fury, Shalimar The Clown, Step Across This Line (collected non fiction) : My favorite author. Fell in love with him after reading Midnight's Children. There's nothing I can possibly say about him which has already not been said.

Rohinton Mistry: A Fine Balance, Family Matters : A writer with an eye for detail. He can portray emotions as few can. As some critic put it, Mistry doesn't require the magic realism of a Rushdie....in his prose, the mundane becomes magical. Should also thank Mistry for earning me my biggest blog fan!

Amitav Ghosh: In An Antique Land, Shadow Lines, The Hungry Tide: Shadow Lines is a wonderful novel. It talks about geographic boundaries, and others which divide and unite us. The author keeps shifting time frames which makes it a difficult read and tough to grasp at times, but this was the novel which hooked me to Ghosh. In An Antique Land is an account of the author's travels as a student through Egypt. I loved The Hungry Tide because I had earlier been to the Sunderbans which has been brought to life beautifully by Ghosh. The struggle between land and water, man and beast and how the Tide rules everything there.

Albert Camus: The Stranger (aka The Outsider), The Plague: Just finished reading The Plague and believe me, it's an absolute masterpiece. Will soon compile and put up a post on it consisting purely of quotes from the book.

Leon Uris: Exodus, The Haj: My interest in the Middle East, Arab-Israel conflict was totally due to Exodus. To me the best fact based fiction ever written. Would recommend both these books to anyone who wants to know the story behind Israel.

William Darlymple: City OF Djinns, At The Court Of The Fish Eyed Goddess

The Impressionist - Hari Kunzru : A very interesting read with a lot of Rushdie in it.

Kim - Rudyard Kipling : It's a classic I know and it was good but I expected more.

Soul Mountain - Gao Xingjian: A semi autobiographical account by China's first Nobel laureate in literature. The author's use of I and You to depict the same being is an utterly unique and amazing concept as he goes on describing his journey through China in search of the Soul Mountain. The novel is steeped in Mao's exploits, the Cultural Revolution, the effects of industrialization, vanishing Giant Pandas and more. It has a magical element to it and as the blurb at the end of the book puts it perfectly, it's like walking through mist.

Red Poppies - Alai: This one takes us to Tibet, before the Chinese invasion. A land ruled by warlords. A land full of lust and sin. And how eventually opium yielding poppies destroy it and its people.

An Equal Music - Vikram Seth: Its hard to believe how an Indian writer could so beautifully conjure up a world of Western Classical Music. Replete with details of a string quartet and Bach and Beethoven, it is quite unlike any novel written by an Indian writer. Another must read.

The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini: Absolutely loved the book. Its a poignant novel, written in very simple prose and even though has its fair share of 'Bollywoodesque' coincidences, yet it remains one of my favorites till date.

The Swallows Of Kabul - Yasmina Khadra: Bought it after reading The Kite Runner. Another novel based in war torn Afghanistan, not as good a read as the former though.

My Name Is Red - Orhan Pamuk

A Sense Of The World- Jason Roberts

To Sir With Love - E.R. Braithwaite

Tuesdays With Morrie - Mitch Albom : Touching

Princess - Jean Sasson: A rather disturbing but true account of the plight of females in Saudia Arabia. And this one belonged to the Royal Family!

Those Days - Sunil Gangopadhyay & Tamas - Bhisham Sahni : Read them during my first Humanities course at IIT, ' Modern Indian Fiction In Translation'. Was particularly impressed by the former due to its sheer scope and epic nature. Have never read a book with so many characters. Talks about 2 families in pre - independent India, the time of the zamindars and has several historical characters like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar and Michael Madhusudan Dutt in it.

The World Is Flat - Thomas Friedman: Outsourcing, Supply Chain Management, China, India, Globalisation, Infosys... a very well written book full of anecdotes and small stories explaining the world we live in.

The Life And Times Of Michael K - J.M. Coetzee : The simplicity of Michael K leaves you speechless. A superb depiction of South Africa amidst the civil war.

Above Average - Amitabha Bagchi : The inspiration behind this

Complete Guide To Guys - Dave Barry : Hilarious! A total read aloud book to guys. Laughed till my stomach hurt.

When We Were Orphans - Kazuo Ishiguro : Another one of those books that I bought reading the blurb and title. Set in Shanghai and England, it's a crime fiction. Didn't particularly enjoy it though it certainly added to my knowledge of Chinese history.

There could be more, but right now I can't remember. If and when I do, I will put them up here.
And right now I have about 14 books in my room which I haven't read. So please no more suggestions for the time being!

Dilli

The sight of a dear friend waiting at the airport, driving down the DND expressway at 120 kmph, the wide roads and the flyovers, mindless gossip, leg pulling and retelling of old tales at IIT, getting high at MJ, having cakes with chocolate dip at SPICE NOIDA, playing cards till 4 in the morning, having a friend make the most delicious poha for breakfast, laughing till your stomach and jaws hurt listening to one liners from a friend who doesn't need a drink to get high, sitting on the cricket field at IIT, a wonderful evening and a memorable first meeting; the party ends tonight.
Tuesday morning would be tough for sure.

2001xxx

Anonymous Coward and I just started this.
Still very much in its infancy and looking for contributors, ideas and suggestions regarding anything and everything. So go ahead and have a dekko!

Bose Miss

Someone recently told me how my blogs and stories are always about some point in time and rarely about someone. So here's to one of the finest human beings that I have known.

We knew all about her even in standard 3. The transition from Primary to Middle school was not only a matter of changing buildings, there was more to it. We had heard tales of her strictness and her love, of her collection of comic books and the year end party at her home, of her excellence as a teacher of English grammar and Mathematics, of the small hikes that she took her class to and most importantly of her approach to teaching, of changing students forever for the better. So when I was assigned Class IV-B, I knew I was one of the few fortunate ones.

The class was divided into 2 groups named Rose and Lotus if I remember correctly. There were the Red Stars and the Black Stars for your performances in the class tests and your house got points for the same. There was ample incentive to finish the test or any assignment before time. You could then submit your copy and take the keys from her to unlock the cupboard which had the best and the most varied collection of comics that a 4th grader could ever come across. Tintin, Asterix and Archies rubbed shoulders with Nagraj, Chacha Choudari and Super Commando Dhruv. Throw in a few Tinkle, Champak, ChandaMama and some other story books and you have an amazing collection to devour for the entire year. Once every week (or twice maybe) she had the last 2 classes of the day and invariably one of them would be spent outside the class room, playing Dodgeball, Langdi-choo, and all sorts of wierd games. Then there were the Samosa and Jalebi parties which she arranged for in the class room without any notice and quite frequently. Everybody loved her. She was the oldest teacher in school. When we were in 4th grade, our school had completed 25 years. So too had she and we remember the sense of pride in each of us as she was called to the podium to speak about the school on the occasion of the its silver jubilee celebrations. She was easliy the most loved and respected teacher that I ever knew. Till 3rd standard my best performance in class was a mere 69%. In IV-B, I stood second in class and got 84%, the turning point as far as my academics in school were concerned, one which sadly I could never better. The position I mean, not the percentage!

I remember the last day. The famed last day of IV-B when she took all of us to her home. We watched two movies (Deewar. Not the best movie for the occasion though! and another one which I dont remember), played games, all 50 of us, ate Khichdi , I played a few tunes on my Casio SA-1 which I had taken there and came back by the evening. Its been so many years but I can still remember it, not clearly but enough to feel it.

I still have the english grammar copy. The table of tenses; present, past, future and the perfects and the participles, active and passive voice, gerunds and propositions, subject verb agreement, clauses. Important parts underlined in Red ink. It was very much my Wren & Martin. I never needed any and I would like to think I have done just fine. The last time I talked to her was probably class 7 or so. Then we changed buildings and somehow amidst everything, I no longer met her.

She was a lady with a golden heart. For the first month she was very strict and would scold us at the slightest of mistakes. That was her style, to get her students to love and respect her. After the first month, you would never want to hurt her or do anything she wouldnt approve of. She was the best. The best teacher I have ever had, and probably one of the best human beings I have come across. Her name was Mrs. Dora Bose. We called her Bose Miss. The next time I go home, I would try to meet her. Its difficult to say after all these years what would happen but I am sure she would remember the name at least.