Tag: teachers

Writers Need to Write

Warning: Contains no (intentional) philosophy.

writers need to write

I’ve been writing for a bunch of different audiences for a while now. And I realise why a writer needs to write for herself.

We know: Writers write.

But to whom?

Most often than not, writers write for someone they don’t know. In case of a blogger, the audience is their readers.

But for a writer working for a corporate, the audience is much wider, ranging from tech experts, to teachers, and even doctors. And oftentimes, the writer is so focussed on conveying a point to so many people, that she forgets that there’s reader within starving for attention.

When we write, we talk. We convey out thoughts to another person in such a way that we hope they understand. But do we even understand ourselves? Do we ever feed our own soul?

When we’ve been writing for so long for others — to meet criteria that fit external causes, to write in a way that others would agree or appreciate — that we lose our sense of personality.

We become writers who write what needs to be written. In other words, we write whatever we need to, to get the point across. Or, being honest, to pay the bills.

What’s then, the difference between someone who chose a professional career because that pays more and a writer who chose to write because she wanted to write?

If a writer is to survive (soul-wise), she needs to write something other that what others tell her to write. A writer needs to write imperfect prose. Because no one who writes for themself cares how it reads, it’s all about communicating your deepest desire; not just getting the right tone, the right call to action, and the perfect sentence length to match the design.

And sometimes, a personal journal is the way to go. Think about the days when you could just go, “Dear Diary, Jane was mean to me today…”

There’s something reassuring about writing to yourself. Because when you write to yourself, you write for yourself.

When you just let go of all the restrictions of a writing job, you understand there’s a whole world of ways to say the same thing. It gives you a shift of perspective your narrow-minded job would never approve of.

And that’s the beauty of it. When you’re just writing to make yourself smile a little wider each day, you see that it doesn’t matter what others think of your writing. It doesn’t matter that the word choice is a little awkward or the pun is too abusive, or, that your sentence has no emphasis at all.

Because when you write for yourself, you’re free to write.

The Other Kind of Harmony

harmony

For a brief period in my life, I learnt music. But then the teacher showed such obvious favouritism to some students that I ended up hating her class.

I should have joined another music class elsewhere.

Because I didn’t, I had to resort to making harmony from trees and lamp posts.

Looking Within

I’ve been reading the Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for a while (from November, to be specific), and though I have mixed feelings, I love certain concepts the author mentions.

Like how irrelevant grades and degrees are, for instance.

“This surprising result supported a hunch he had had for a long time: that the brighter, more serious students were the least desirous of grades, possibly because they were more interested in the subject matter of the course, whereas the dull or lazy students were the most desirous of grades, possibly because grades told them if they were getting by.”

And it’s true. We’re always looking for something to point us to the right direction. We want someone to acknowledge us and tell us we’re doing the right thing. We want an authoritative figure to assure us we’re getting by.

But do we need that? Perhaps we should look further than other people to judge our abilities. Perhaps we should look at ourselves, and define ourselves, by ourselves.

“He had wanted his students to become creative by deciding for themselves what was good writing instead of asking him all the time. The real purpose of withholding the grades was to force them to look within themselves, the only place they would ever get a really right answer.”

It’s OK to be average at something. But unless we look within and accept how much we can grow, we may never understand how we’re getting by.

I enjoy reading this book. Even if it does make a good pillow.

Chapter Fifty: The Final Chance

Praveena carried on, sharing her knowledge and experience with the children who came her way. She painted whenever she felt like it and grew as an artist.

She showcased her paintings in exhibitions, and people bought her work with interest that surprised her. In all of the exhibitions she attended, she displayed the drawing of the three stallions. But despite a lot of people offering to buy it, she remained reluctant to sell.

She and Ms Marrie met now and then in The Green Leaf restaurant. They spoke of things that bothered them, and Ms Marrie would often give Praveena some handy tips.

On her twenty-eighth birthday, Praveena eagerly opened the letter she had received. Ms Marrie and Anil were her only well wishers. Ms Marrie had called early in the morning, and the letter had to be from Anil. And sure enough, it was a hand-written letter.

Dearest Praveena,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am well too. Life in Bangalore is so boring. I am thinking of shifting to Chennai, and stay closer to you if it’s alright with you.

How is your life? I know you would have changed a lot from the last time we spoke. I know the lonely years have troubled you, but remember, you are not alone. I’ll always be with you.

I really hope you do take care of yourself. I will be coming over to Chennai tomorrow and want to talk to you. Meet me in “The Green Leaf” at one o’clock.
Please do come.

Anil.

Praveena read and reread the letter. Anil was coming to Chennai? After such a long time? She couldn’t understand why. And why had he mentioned the place and time in the letter? He could have just called her, or an SMS would have been enough, she wondered confused. She felt a bit reluctant to meet him. What would they talk about?

She waited for Anil at The Green Leaf restaurant. Ever since her father had died, their friendship gradually diminished. ‘Then why’ her inner voice was curious ‘does he want to meet you?’

Anil came into the restaurant and walked over to her. He hadn’t changed much. His hair was unkempt as it had always been, and he wore blue jeans and a blue full sleeved shirt folded half-way.

“Hey,” he said taking the seat opposite her, smiling through his trimmed boxed beard.

“Hi,” she smiled broadly. “It’s so good to see you again,” she said earnestly. Seeing Anil again brought back old memories, bringing a familiar smile on her face. “how’ve you been?” she asked.

“Good, good” he replied, nodding. “and you?” he raised his eyebrows.

Praveena nodded. ‘Alright’. Anil nodded as well.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” she asked crossing her arms on the table.

“Oh,” Anil hesitated. “Er – about starting that self-help, recovery thing,” he waved his arms casually, “remember?”

“What about it, Anil?” Praveena asked exasperatedly.

“Let’s start the organization,” Anil said rubbing his hands together looking excited all of a sudden. “I’m bored with my job,” and seeing her raised eyebrows, he added, “you wanted to do this too. We’ll get it started,” he shrugged.

Praveena thought about it. He was right. She had wanted to do this, but she wasn’t sure if now was a good time. But she also didn’t know when a good time was. She could work in the institution and teach at the same time. That wouldn’t be a problem. She wondered why the thought had never occurred to her earlier. ‘Because you had no one to talk to,’ the voice in her head helped, and Praveena agreed silently. With Anil back at her side, they could set this up together. Her dream would become reality.

Anil watched in silence as she waged the war in her head. He had seen her do it before and knew better than to interrupt.

“Alright Anil,” she sighed. “Let’s do this,” she smiled widely. After a long time, she felt the same excitement she had had years before when the thought first hatched in her head. “Thanks, for coming,” she smiled at him.

They sipped on their juice in silence, and once finished, she was about to stand, when Anil stopped her, “Praveena?” She looked questioningly at him. “One more thing,” he paused looking serious.

“What is it Anil?” she asked leaning forward in her chair.

“I tried to tell you a lot of times…” he stalled shaking his head. He swallowed. And then, he smiled brightly. “Praveena,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, at the way her pupils dilated in curiosity, “Will you marry me?”

Chapter Forty Nine: A Father’s Confessions

Kamal parked in front of the small brick house. “Are you sure this is the place?” he asked Praveena who sat in the front seat next to him, examining a piece of paper. “Yes, Pa” she said looking at the half open gate. “This is it.”

They got down from the car and, despite the open gate, Kamal rang the doorbell. A thin woman clad in a sari with her hair held back in an unravelling bun, appeared at the gate. “Who is it?” she asked Kamal irritably. Praveena stepped forward. “Are you Mrs Henry, Helen’s mother?” she asked.

“Yes,” the woman answered, a little uncertain. “But who are you?” she sounded confused, and Praveena knew Helen’s name was the reason.

“I’m Praveena, Helen’s art teacher at school. And this is my father,” she announced. “Can we speak to you, if you don’t mind?” she asked politely.

“Oh, sure.” the woman replied courteously and opened the gate widely to allow them inside. “Please come in, Helen’s told me a lot about you.” her smile had become warmer.

Praveena and Kamal followed the lady inside the house. “Please sit,” Mrs Henry offered, clearing away the toys from the chairs. “Sorry about that,” she said breathlessly “They are my son’s.”

“Never mind,” Praveena waved her hand away.

“Shall I get you something to drink? Coffee – ”

“Nothing, please.” Praveena said shaking her head, “won’t you sit down? We need to talk to you, and your husband.” She looked around for the man of the house.

“He’s not home at the moment,” Mrs Henry said, “Is it about Helen? Has she done – ?” Praveena cut her off with a shake of her head. “This isn’t about Helen,” she said sighing. “It’s about your husband.”

Mrs Henry glared at Praveena as if she were mad. Praveena explained, in detail, what Helen had told her in school that day.

As she finished, she noticed Mrs Henry’s eyes soften. “He doesn’t do it on purpose,” she said dutifully defending her husband. “He can’t help it. He has tried to drop the habit, but he can’t.” she shook her head in worry. “Helen doesn’t understand how much it pains him. Once he gets drunk, he forgets his family.” Praveena let her finish, she saw traces of tears in Mrs Henry’s eyes.

“Well, in that case,” Praveena sighed. “Why don’t you get help? Talk to a therapist and get your husband involved in rehab or an alcoholics organization. There are people who support those who want to give up addiction.” As Praveena spoke, her father watched in silence, unable to believe what he saw.

Praveena continued and Mrs Henry listened intently, “Encourage him to follow the therapist’s medications. Keep telling him he can do it, and one day, he will. Trust me.” she nodded.

Mrs Henry responded with a grateful look. “Thank you so, much. I’ll talk to him.”

Praveena nodded smiling. “Tell him to give it a try. For his kids, at least.”

Praveena yawned as they walked into the house. She wanted to fall back on the couch and sleep, but there was dinner to take care of. “Let’s have toast,” her father said reading her.

After dinner, both of them slumped on the couch. Praveena waited for her father to switch on the TV, but he didn’t. When she was about to do it, he stopped her.

“Can I talk to you, Praveena?” he asked quietly.

“Sure, Pa.” she said turning to him. She had a feeling he was about to tell her to quit her job. She wasn’t in the mood to argue, but she knew she would.

“I’m proud of you, Praveena.” he said unexpectedly.

“Huh?” Praveena wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.

Kamal smiled apologetically. “I never realized,” he sighed “how much you’ve grown,” Praveena listened, not sure where this conversation was headed. “I’m sorry, Praveena.”

“No, Pa,” she shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, you haven’t done anything wrong!” she defended.

“No, Praveena.” he held her hand in both of his. “I shouldn’t have stopped you from doing what’s right. I’m really sorry,” he pleaded with tears peeping through his eyelids. He blinked them away. Praveena couldn’t make sense of it at all. What had gotten into her father?

“Listen Praveena,” he continued. “when you told me that you wanted to help drug addicts, I wasn’t sure if you were mature enough for that kind of thing. But today,” he shook his head, unable to speak for a while. “you handled it so well,” he gulped.

“Go ahead, Praveena,” he continued. “Don’t let me stop you. Do whatever feels right to you.” he had tears in his eyes as he finished saying what he had wanted to tell her. “I’ll be wth you always,” he added smiling encouragingly.

A sense of relief spread through Praveena’s veins. She had always wanted her father to believe in her. He now did. Time does work its magic.

Life for Praveena went along just fine. She postponed her plans for her self-help group. She liked what she did and wanted to spend more time teaching. Two years she worked alongside Ms Marrie and changing a lot of lives. Helen’s father recovered, and now every time she saw Helen, Praveena couldn’t help but feel proud of herself.

During the third year of her teaching life, Ms Marrie announced her retirement. She hadn’t thought of marriage, but had decided to live alone and conduct private classes to students who wished to learn from her. And there were a good number of students who were willing. A phenomenon that didn’t surprise Praveena at all.

Later that year, Praveena’s father passed away from cardiac arrest. The loss left Praveena shaken, and the customary pity from the relatives who had hated him did nothing more than to annoy her. Anil didn’t make it to the funeral but he had called to console Praveena as best as he could. Speaking with Anil made her feel much better. She held on to the comfort as she walked the treacherous path that followed Kamal’s death.