When I was a student almost every year we would have to write an essay on the topic, “The day everything went wrong” ; you know, one of ‘those’ days. Well, yesterday was definitely one of “those” days, but with a difference. Yesterday I had a day when almost everything went right!
My day started early, really early when I woke up to the sounds of the mynas quarreling over something in the balcony. I lay in bed watching them indulgently as a couple of squirrels scampered across the railing. I felt so blessed that living in a city like Thane, I could still enjoy these beautiful bytes of nature.
The next highlight was my special student, Anmol, who was in a perfectly receptive mood. Working with him is always a challenge and though I love it, it can be pretty exhausting some days. Today however, he was in a fantastic learning mode and he completed all his work beautifully and way ahead of schedule!
The highlight of the day was that my daughter wanted to go shopping to Colaba and Bandra and whom does she choose to go with her? Mamma dearest of course! It’s been a long time since Mummy took precedence over friends, but who was I to complain?
We got window seats in the train that wasn’t too crowded and were amazed to see a hawker selling Kiwis in the train. As my daughter said, “Even the hawker’s wares are getting cosmopolitan.”
Then the young lady sitting next to me bought some oranges and she and her friend started eating them in the train itself. “Uh-oh”, I thought to myself, “Now I will have to get ready to give another of my famous speeches on not littering the compartment.” But, I was pleasantly surprised, no, actually delighted when the young ladies neatly put all the peel and pips into a carry bag and into one of their handbags to be disposed off later.
I was so surprised that I actually turned to them and told them, “Do you know, you are one of the very few people I have seen doing this. I have to give most people a lecture on littering.”
“The way I see it,” the girl said, “I will definitely not pick up somebody else’s litter. But I can at least ensure that I don’t add to it. That much I can do for my country and city.” I guess there is still some hope for us after all.
First stop, Crawford Market, where I actually found the mascarpone and golden syrup that I needed to try out the Chocolate marquise with mascarpone cream recipe from MasterChef Australia. I had searched high and low for these ingredients in Thane and had almost given up hope of finding them and of making that utterly yummy looking dish.
Finally at the end of the day, when we landed at Mulund check naka, what do I see? Instead of a chaos at the auto rickshaw stand, where the auto drivers habitually refused to take you to your destination, there was a queue. Yes a queue of people waiting for autos which were being forced to the stand by a group of traffic policemen. A few auto drivers tried to escape, but they were roundly scolded and forced to enter the stand and take the passengers where they wanted without any grumbling. Oh the sight was heaven!
When we reached the beginning of the queue, I beamed a grateful smile to the policeman standing there and said, “Thank you very much!” The look he gave me was both startled and sheepish. As we sat in the auto, my daughter told me, “Saying thank you to him was a nice gesture.”
I shrugged and said, “When they don’t do their job, we are the first to criticize and grumble, so when they actually do a good job, why not appreciate it?”
She looked at me with a look in her eye that I had not seen since she was in her teens and said, “I’m so glad you’re my mamma!”
What could be a more perfect end to a fantastic day!
I am Sunita, and relate strongly to the phoenix who can rise after it is reduced to ashes and can use its tears to heal others. I am passionate about helping people succeed and am a life skills coach. I also love writing and learning. I love sharing my ideas with people and help them get up and go on again.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sharpening pencils, moulding minds
This morning, before sitting down to plan my day, I started sharpening my pencils. I have just bought a box of “Funn” pencils and I love them. No more red and black, or black and grey pencils. These pencils are beautiful ! All the colours of the rainbow and then some!
I call them my happy pencils because
a) They look so attractive. It lifts my spirits just looking at them.
b) They write beautifully and make me want to write.
c) My students fight to use them. No longer is writing a chore for them. It’s now fun. I use the pencils as a promo, “I’ll give you the pink pencil if you write neatly.” Or “The purple pencil is yours if you write a nice essay.”
Coming back to what I started off saying, I was sharpening my “Funn” pencils. I love sharpening pencils. It reminds me of helping people sharpen their skills and bringing out the best in them. It reminds me of my students.
As I sharpened the pencils, I found that some sharpened easily. These were my students who were easy to teach. They respond well. I don’t have to put in much effort to bring out the best in them.
With other pencils, I realized that I had to actually apply less pressure while sharpening them or else the point would break. When they were sharpened very gently, they were okay. These reminded me of some of my students who are so low on self esteem or so scared and scarred by criticism, that it needs lots of love and praise and gentleness to bring out their best.
For some pencils I had to use a different sharpener, just like I have to devise new methods of teaching for some of my students. For some, reading is enough, for others I have to supplement it with audio visual aids, with yet others, I have to get them to do practical stuff. Some respond best to stories, others need to play to learn.
And finally, I realized that I need to keep sharpening my pencils. I need to continuously encourage my students to learn, explore, experiment, achieve. It is a never ending process but the results are always worth it!
I call them my happy pencils because
a) They look so attractive. It lifts my spirits just looking at them.
b) They write beautifully and make me want to write.
c) My students fight to use them. No longer is writing a chore for them. It’s now fun. I use the pencils as a promo, “I’ll give you the pink pencil if you write neatly.” Or “The purple pencil is yours if you write a nice essay.”
Coming back to what I started off saying, I was sharpening my “Funn” pencils. I love sharpening pencils. It reminds me of helping people sharpen their skills and bringing out the best in them. It reminds me of my students.
As I sharpened the pencils, I found that some sharpened easily. These were my students who were easy to teach. They respond well. I don’t have to put in much effort to bring out the best in them.
With other pencils, I realized that I had to actually apply less pressure while sharpening them or else the point would break. When they were sharpened very gently, they were okay. These reminded me of some of my students who are so low on self esteem or so scared and scarred by criticism, that it needs lots of love and praise and gentleness to bring out their best.
For some pencils I had to use a different sharpener, just like I have to devise new methods of teaching for some of my students. For some, reading is enough, for others I have to supplement it with audio visual aids, with yet others, I have to get them to do practical stuff. Some respond best to stories, others need to play to learn.
And finally, I realized that I need to keep sharpening my pencils. I need to continuously encourage my students to learn, explore, experiment, achieve. It is a never ending process but the results are always worth it!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Just another woman at the end of the day
Every morning I saw her as she entered the train.
She appeared so smart in her well ironed police woman’s uniform. She seemed so much in control of herself.
It was not just her uniform. It was in her body language, the way she held herself, the way she walked. She seemed so confident, as if she knew exactly what she wanted to do and was doing it.
Every day when I saw her, I envied her. I wished I could be like her instead of the timid person I was.
I could so picture her standing up for herself and taking no nonsense from anyone whether at work or at home. I could never imagine myself having that kind of confidence. Everyone in life seemed to walk all over me. I never seemed to have a say in anything whether at work or at home. And watching her I would sometimes fantasize that I was as confident as her and could just tell everyone where they could get off.
One evening, I missed my usual train and caught a train an hour later. As I got off the train at Thane and climbed the overhead bridge to exit the station, I caught sight of a familiar face. It was the police woman who traveled with me in the mornings. But what a difference!
In fact, I really had to blink twice to make sure she was the same woman. She had worn a civilian shirt over her uniform trousers and carried a bag full of vegetables. Her footsteps seemed to drag as she walked wearily out of the station to the bus stop. Her shoulders were slumped with tiredness. There was absolutely no vestige of the smart capable woman who went to work every morning.
That evening as I watched her go home, I recognized the tired walk of a wife and mother who knows her days work is not yet done. In fact another shift has just started.
And I realized that she was just another woman at the end of the day.
She appeared so smart in her well ironed police woman’s uniform. She seemed so much in control of herself.
It was not just her uniform. It was in her body language, the way she held herself, the way she walked. She seemed so confident, as if she knew exactly what she wanted to do and was doing it.
Every day when I saw her, I envied her. I wished I could be like her instead of the timid person I was.
I could so picture her standing up for herself and taking no nonsense from anyone whether at work or at home. I could never imagine myself having that kind of confidence. Everyone in life seemed to walk all over me. I never seemed to have a say in anything whether at work or at home. And watching her I would sometimes fantasize that I was as confident as her and could just tell everyone where they could get off.
One evening, I missed my usual train and caught a train an hour later. As I got off the train at Thane and climbed the overhead bridge to exit the station, I caught sight of a familiar face. It was the police woman who traveled with me in the mornings. But what a difference!
In fact, I really had to blink twice to make sure she was the same woman. She had worn a civilian shirt over her uniform trousers and carried a bag full of vegetables. Her footsteps seemed to drag as she walked wearily out of the station to the bus stop. Her shoulders were slumped with tiredness. There was absolutely no vestige of the smart capable woman who went to work every morning.
That evening as I watched her go home, I recognized the tired walk of a wife and mother who knows her days work is not yet done. In fact another shift has just started.
And I realized that she was just another woman at the end of the day.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Beginning
I was all of fourteen. It was the 5th of September, 1979, Teacher’s Day. I was in the tenth standard and as usual the teachers had gone for a picnic, leaving us, the tenth standard students to run the school.
I was in charge of the kindergarten. I had been told to ensure that all the kids wrote down the alphabet. Everyone complied, except one little girl, Monica. She just stared sulkily at her note book. When I asked her why she was not writing, she just shook her head stubbornly, without saying a word.
But the rest of the class yelled out, “She can’t write. She is a dumb head.”
I was shocked to hear these little five year olds talk like that. “Who says she is a dumb head?” I asked.
“Our teacher, Miss Margaret,” they replied.
I felt an uncontrollable surge of anger towards Miss Margaret. “How can anyone call a baby a dumb head?” I wondered as I looked at little Monica who had hung her head in shame.
I put my arm around her and said, “You are not a dumb head. You are my friend. And so friend, tell me, what do you like to do?”
She looked up at me with eyes round in surprise and not a little fear. Then she whispered, “I like to draw.”
“And what do you like to draw?”
“Houses”, she said.
“Okay”, I told her, “Let’s see. If you can draw your ABC just like I am doing, I will let you draw a picture of a house for me. I will take that picture home and keep it on my fridge. Okay?”
Still full of wonderment, she nodded and “drew” the alphabet neatly in her book. After that she drew a beautiful house and garden for me.
I showed her book around the class and said, “See, Monica is not a dumb head. She is an artist.”
The beatific smile on the child’s face was all the reward in the world.
This was my first experience of how we as teachers can make or break a child. All it needs is a few words to build up someone’s confidence and confidence is a mighty motivator.
I tasted power that day in that kindergarten classroom. I realized that I had the power to change the way a person thinks about himself. I could make people believe in themselves. I could help people succeed.
And in that moment was born my dream. I decided there and then that I would be a teacher… not of academic subjects but a teacher who would teach people to be confident and believe in themselves. I would help people succeed in life.
I was in charge of the kindergarten. I had been told to ensure that all the kids wrote down the alphabet. Everyone complied, except one little girl, Monica. She just stared sulkily at her note book. When I asked her why she was not writing, she just shook her head stubbornly, without saying a word.
But the rest of the class yelled out, “She can’t write. She is a dumb head.”
I was shocked to hear these little five year olds talk like that. “Who says she is a dumb head?” I asked.
“Our teacher, Miss Margaret,” they replied.
I felt an uncontrollable surge of anger towards Miss Margaret. “How can anyone call a baby a dumb head?” I wondered as I looked at little Monica who had hung her head in shame.
I put my arm around her and said, “You are not a dumb head. You are my friend. And so friend, tell me, what do you like to do?”
She looked up at me with eyes round in surprise and not a little fear. Then she whispered, “I like to draw.”
“And what do you like to draw?”
“Houses”, she said.
“Okay”, I told her, “Let’s see. If you can draw your ABC just like I am doing, I will let you draw a picture of a house for me. I will take that picture home and keep it on my fridge. Okay?”
Still full of wonderment, she nodded and “drew” the alphabet neatly in her book. After that she drew a beautiful house and garden for me.
I showed her book around the class and said, “See, Monica is not a dumb head. She is an artist.”
The beatific smile on the child’s face was all the reward in the world.
This was my first experience of how we as teachers can make or break a child. All it needs is a few words to build up someone’s confidence and confidence is a mighty motivator.
I tasted power that day in that kindergarten classroom. I realized that I had the power to change the way a person thinks about himself. I could make people believe in themselves. I could help people succeed.
And in that moment was born my dream. I decided there and then that I would be a teacher… not of academic subjects but a teacher who would teach people to be confident and believe in themselves. I would help people succeed in life.
Welcome
Welcome to “The Quill of the Phoenix”. Why the name? Well it’s a long story but it will suffice to say that I’ve had more than my fair share of knock me downs from life. I won’t bore you with the details, but the fact is that every time I reached rock bottom, I would bounce back, determined not to be defeated.
Once a friend asked me, “What is it that makes you bounce back when everything you’ve worked for is destroyed, and that too not once, but several times. And you always bounce back with the same enthusiasm and joy of life.”
I laughed and told her, “I must have been a phoenix in some past life. That’s why I can rise from the ashes reborn and full of life.”
Though I had answered her flippantly, the image of me as a phoenix appealed.
According to Wikipedia, the phoenix is a mythical bird that is a fire spirit with a colorful plumage and a tail of gold and scarlet (or purple, blue, and green according to some legends). It has a 500 to 1000 year life-cycle, near the end of which it builds itself a nest of twigs that then ignites; both nest and bird burn fiercely and are reduced to ashes, from which a new, young phoenix or phoenix egg arises, reborn anew to live again. It is also said that the tears of the phoenix are supposed to have healing powers.
The idea of being a phoenix appeals to me first because of its ability to resurrect itself and second because if uses its tears, (read pain, failure, experience) to heal others. And no matter what happens, I know that I will always use my disappointments and failures to my advantage; use the fire and ashes to be reborn in wisdom and understanding and love and use my tears to heal the pain of others.
The Phoenix
Once a friend asked me, “What is it that makes you bounce back when everything you’ve worked for is destroyed, and that too not once, but several times. And you always bounce back with the same enthusiasm and joy of life.”
I laughed and told her, “I must have been a phoenix in some past life. That’s why I can rise from the ashes reborn and full of life.”
Though I had answered her flippantly, the image of me as a phoenix appealed.
According to Wikipedia, the phoenix is a mythical bird that is a fire spirit with a colorful plumage and a tail of gold and scarlet (or purple, blue, and green according to some legends). It has a 500 to 1000 year life-cycle, near the end of which it builds itself a nest of twigs that then ignites; both nest and bird burn fiercely and are reduced to ashes, from which a new, young phoenix or phoenix egg arises, reborn anew to live again. It is also said that the tears of the phoenix are supposed to have healing powers.
The idea of being a phoenix appeals to me first because of its ability to resurrect itself and second because if uses its tears, (read pain, failure, experience) to heal others. And no matter what happens, I know that I will always use my disappointments and failures to my advantage; use the fire and ashes to be reborn in wisdom and understanding and love and use my tears to heal the pain of others.
The Phoenix
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