The Writer's Nest

By Akshita

    • About
    • Archives
    • Categories
    • Contact

  • Fire

    File:Candle flame (1).jpg
    Photo by Jon Sullivan (Wikimedia Commons)

    The wait is endless.

    The outcome no nearer in sight.

    But the fears have fallen

    On the way in the quest to get.

     

    I stand impatiently

    On the branching pathways.

    Each road better and worse.

    Each way beckoning and repelling.

     

    I see broken shadows

    Of desires; pent-up and hidden,

    A lifetime of unspoken wishes

    On the path that I’ve come from.

     

    But I’ve come a long way

    And the past is now

    Nothing but that; past.

    I look forward, restive.

     

    The fierce fire burns within

    The wake of passion

    Has shaken off

    The strings of vulnerability.

     

    I am no longer afraid.

    Unabashed, I am free to be.

    As the fears have fallen

    On the way in the quest to get.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    March 4, 2014
    Category: Poetry
    Tags: Dream, Fear, Fire, Passion, Poetry

  • Being Enough

    One year ago, I began this blog.

    One year ago, I felt pretty lost. Everyone around me was doing so much, or so I felt. I didn’t feel competent enough. I felt I was being too complacent, too cowardly, too negative. This blog began as an attempt to revive my love for writing and… and something else; something that I couldn’t quite place.

    I had been mulling over blogging for at least six months before I started. But for some reason I never felt I could go through with it. I had stopped writing since a long time, and it didn’t come as easily as before. I had no idea of what would be acceptable to publish. The first post had been sitting drafted on my computer for a long time.

    File:Stipula fountain pen.jpg
    Photo via Wikipedia Creative Commons

    One night though, I made a snap decision. Past midnight already, I opened WordPress.com, chose a cheesy URL, picked out the first theme I saw and hit publish.

    When I started blogging, I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to come out of it. I liked writing, but had pretty vague ideas about what exactly I would write. I was being affected by too many other bloggers who had their own style. There were bloggers who had weekly features, who wrote fun stuff. For some time, I tried doing all of that. There were several posts that I published and then deleted. Nothing worked; it just wasn’t me.

    For several months, I wrote just for the sake of it, struggling even to publish just once a month.

    A change came around September. I participated in a blogging challenge. I wasn’t able to finish it, but I wrote more than what I was previously doing. I think it was significant in two aspects; one, that it helped me get rid of my writers’ block, and two, it gave me the courage to publish without spending ages on revising it.

    I remember the first follower I had, the first time I got a comment, the first time someone “liked” my post. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was seeking; validation perhaps, that there were people out there who liked reading my thoughts. I remember signing in with anticipation every time, getting excited when I saw something orange on the top right corner of my WordPress account. A follow made my day, I liked being “liked”. The time I hit a 100 followers, I was over the moon; there were so many people who were reading my blog.

    In the past few months though, a change has come. I still smile when someone “follows” or “likes”. But I am the happiest when the orange button indicates a comment.

    I’ve finally realised why I started blogging. What I wanted the most was conversation.

    It’s not like I don’t have friends; I do, and they are great friends. But they all know me in bits and pieces. I discuss books with some, poetry with some, feminism with a few others. I talk about stuff close to my heart, the things that make me wonder, the things that I fear, my musings generally, with certain others. This blog is where all pieces of me come together wholly to form the mosaicked self  that I am.

    Over time, I’ve figured out a rhythm for myself. I’ve developed a voice that I can see myself talking in. More importantly, I’ve become brave enough to put myself in the posts. I no longer feel the pressure to publish twice a week; I know now that thrice or four times a month is more suitable for me. I write what I actually want to write about, taking time to articulate what I have to say.

    I never was comfortable writing poetry before. I think it has something to do with the fact that my father is a Ghazal writer. Ghazal is a very restrictive form of poetry; there are a lot of rules to be followed. Somehow I always felt it would be too much work to write poetry to be able to enjoy it. When I started blogging, I also started reading more blogs. Though I knew this before theoretically, it was only then that I finally internalised that poetry didn’t have to be restrictive. I have no idea whether my poetry is any good, but I don’t feel conscious about it anymore. I write it because I like to. Blogging has given me this gift.

    It is here on this blog that I’ve talked about overcoming failures, about obedience, about being good. It is here that I’ve come to terms with why I am the way I am. It is here that I now feel I am enough.

    Thank you. For reading, for sharing your thoughts, for conversing. I appreciate it.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    February 21, 2014
    Category: Life in moments
    Tags: Blogging, Conversation, Personal Growth, Writing

  • Silent Love Poem

    You saw me see you.

    I saw you see me.

    We both know, and yet

    The world is oblivious.

    And day after day

    We continue to have

    This tryst in front of the whole world.

     

    Where eyes are the park

    The bench, the ambiance.

    The smoldering look

    A holding of hands.

    The hidden smile

    A stem of rose.

    The turning away our parting.

     

    Our silences are music.

    Our ears are so tuned

    To unspoken words.

    I glow as I listen

    To your lucid confession.

    Your eyes light up

    As I sing to you this, a love poem.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    February 13, 2014
    Category: Poetry
    Tags: Love, Poetry, Silence

  • Taking Care Of Borrowed Books

    As the owner of so many books, I’ve often been the person that people come to for borrowing them. That is all very well; I’m really glad that you want to read, especially something that I enjoyed too. We can discuss the story, the characters; or you can tell me that you didn’t like it at all. You’re most welcome to do all of that. But you are certainly not welcome to spoil my books. Spoiling includes wrinkled pages/cover, stains on the pages, and the like.

    Someone has not been treating the book very nicely at all! Just look at Froggy. Someone has scribbled all over him with markers and crayons! (A book to teach kicks how to take care of books)
    A Kindergarten lesson in taking care of books.

    But I’m giving you the benefit of doubt. Perhaps you’re not sure how to take care of books? No worries then. The following is a step-by-step procedure that will ensure that the borrowed book can be returned in its original, pristine condition:

    • Keep the book in a shelf (preferably closed to avoid dust).
    • Do not keep heavier books/other items on top of the book.
    • Do not carry the book in your already overflowing bag.
    • Do not mark the pages using pen/pencil/sketch pens etc.
    • Do not fold the pages of the book in lieu of a bookmark.
    • Always, always, always use a bookmark.
    • Keep the book away from windows to save it from dust, rain, wind.
    • Do not keep the book open and turned upside down.
    • Keep the book away from drinks/food.
    • Ensure that your pet/infant does not try to read the book.

    If the book lender is Akshita though, here are some additional guidelines:

    • Make keeping the book safe your biggest priority in life.
    • Take care of the book as you would take care of your child.
    • Return the book on time, i.e., within a month (More if the book is bigger).
    • Do NOT wait for Akshita to remind you three times.
    • Do NOT dare tell Akshita that you did not read the book after you return it two months late.
    • Do NOT make fun of Akshita’s book-caring mania requirements.

    I hope I make myself clear.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    February 3, 2014
    Category: Books
    Tags: Book Care, Books, Humour

  • Winter In The Heart

    dark path
    Photo via Pinterest

    Silence screams into the ears

    As she walks down the path of her heart.

    She sees old, long-forgotten dreams,

    Dreams that lie shattered along the way,

    Each jagged piece cutting into the ground

    That is her heart.

     

    She hasn’t visited this place in years

    Each emotion that passes by in the winds

    Brings with it a feeling of déjà-vu.

    And yet, all emotions feel new,

    Strangers pulling at the strings

    Of her heart.

     

    She comes to a ruined mansion.

    Regret dwells here,

    Housing the damaged rooms,

    The empty, cobwebbed corridors.

    Fear is nearly a permanent house guest

    He comes accompanied by Grief.

     

    Hope had once lived here,

    When each room was all light,

    When each window was open wide

    To ideas, opportunities, love.

    Sunshine rained in the backyard,

    Fleecy clouds shone across the blue sky.

     

    The sun does not shine here anymore,

    The healing rains do not shower.

    No ideas flower in the window boxes,

    No love grows in the garden.

    No light enters the mansion;

    It is a perpetual night.

     

    Occasionally, a flame flickers,

    In one corner of the highest tower

    Reminding the walls of what once was.

    The candle bearing the light

    Had once belonged to Hope.

    It has now melted down to a stub.

     

    Tonight she sees it flicker again.

    She looks on bleakly, not daring to believe.

    Her heart is all void,

    All covered by a blanket of wintry snow.

    Courage comes and stands by her

    Hoping against hope.

     

    The flame wavers about in the winds

    Now gaining strength, now losing it,

    Love too looks out her hiding place;

    She hasn’t seen Hope struggle in so long.

    A star or two watch down, disinterestedly;

    They have seen all Hope’s attempts.

     

    Regret wakes up suddenly now

    He creeps up the staircase slowly.

    The door creaks open, bringing Fear with it.

    Regret opens its dark wings.

    The flame extinguishes in its wake

    And all is dark again.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    January 28, 2014
    Category: Poetry
    Tags: Hope, Poetry, Regret

  • Not Being Able To See

    In A Song for Summer by Eva Ibbotson, there is a scene, where the protagonist, Ellen is being interviewed by the principal of the boarding school where she has applied to be a housemother. At one point, he asks her what she fears. And she replies, “Not being able to see.”

    Being blind isn’t what she meant. She meant being limited by something (prejudice, love) to be able to gain a clear perspective on a situation. Basically, she meant that she was afraid of being ruled by own emotions, her own fixed ideologies.

    I’m sure that many of us struggle with this. There has been a time period in my life when I was so consumed by what was supposed to be, that I failed to see what actually was. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had problems with perfection. It was particularly bad during this period. I had such a clear vision of a Plan, that I couldn’t (wouldn’t) accommodate any curve balls. Admitting to myself that I tried something and failed isn’t easy for me. It’s not about other people; I don’t accept my own failures with an open mind. And this is the reason why I could only see my so-called “failures” instead of what I had actually achieved.

    Today when I look back at that time, I realise that the situation wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t like my life was doomed if just one single thing went wrong. My plans weren’t that off-the-track that I couldn’t redeem. I know now, that I could have avoided a lot of pain, tears, irrational fears, had I been able to see.

    Today has been one of those days. You know, when nothing seems to be going right. When your judgement is addled by mood swings. When your own view becomes so myopic  that everything seems a disaster. I was agonizing for half a day about what was going wrong with absolutely everything. For the major part of the day, I could only see the flaws.

    And then I stopped. I decided to let life happen, in its own way.

    It’s so easy to become lost in the perfect picture of the future. I’ve mentioned before that I make a conscious effort at trying to be in the present. It still doesn’t come that naturally. But I try.

    I fear it too; not being able to see. Because I know what that kind of narrow-minded worry can do to me. Instead, I try to let out the steam; cool off, call up my mother and rant about people and things that she barely knows. But I try not to let that anxiety sit in my heart. It’s better to be annoying to others for a little while than harm yourself with worry. People who are close always understand.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    January 23, 2014
    Category: Life in moments
    Tags: Fear, Living in the present, Optimism, Personal Growth

  • Grief

    It was her decision to abort the child. Her own. No one asked her to. No one advised her to.

    Her husband wanted her to abort. He knew the pregnancy was dangerous. He knew he loved her too much to risk losing her. And yet, when she had told him her decision, there was…something. Surprise, a mild shock, or was it disgust? Did he want her to beg and cry to keep the child? Did he want to be that voice of reason in the midst of unreasonable maternal instinct? Did he want to prove that he loved her but he considered the fact that she loved herself to be unwomanly?

    She saw these emotions passing through his face, but the final one was relief. She was relieved herself to find that emotion on his face. Relieved to know that despite all, he loved her.

    The doctor came in then. He nodded when they told him, his eyes all the while on her husband. He was the one who must have convinced her, of course. He waited politely for her to shed a few tears, which she did. But the doctor looked on quizzically. She was in physical and emotional pain, no doubt. But she seemed composed when she signed the papers. No hysteria, no drama, no refusal, no changing the mind at the last moment. Perhaps she was in denial; this was all a bad dream.

     

    Photo via Google Images

     

    She felt every movement, everything that was being done to her. For all her years to come, she would be able to remember exactly what was done to tear her baby apart from her. Her husband said all the right things, did all the right things, and still, she felt he wanted to detach himself from it all. His comforting her felt slightly cold, his demeanour slightly icy.

    The following few months were painful; the words and the sympathy felt forced. She wondered whether he blamed her for losing the child. She wondered if their families thought so too. His mother resolutely accepted when they told her, but she kept waiting for her daughter-in-law to break, to reproach him for making her do this.

    “Maybe it’s all for the best. She isn’t…well, it’s difficult for women nowadays to appreciate the love for a child…” her mother-in-law broke off when she saw her standing at the doorway. She had been stricken by the words. Was she really not loving enough to be a mother? Did people imagine it was easy for her to let go of her child?

    If she had wanted to risk her own life for the child, would that have made her a good mother? Wasn’t “sacrifice” the accepted standard for the society for being a good mother? Wanting to live, wanting to try again for a child, wanting a healthy pregnancy, wanting to be able to see her child alive and happy; this was perhaps, too selfish.

    “I want to try again,” she told her husband one day. “We should see a doctor about the complications.”

    He agreed, if only to make her happy.

    “Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”, she asked him, five months into her pregnancy.

    He nodded, smiling slightly, before turning away.

    He didn’t ask whether she thought he would be a good father. Neither did his parents, who were very supportive of him when he wanted her to terminate the first pregnancy.

    The girl was born healthy and on time. The family rejoiced. She was the perfect baby.

    “Do you think I am a good mother?” she asked again when Tanya was a feisty seven-year-old.

    He hugged her impulsively and tightly. She caught the words I’m sorry… breathed into her ear.

    She grieved again, after all these years; this time, only for her lost child.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    January 11, 2014
    Category: Stories
    Tags: Children, Fiction, Motherhood, Pregnancy, Stories

  • Best Books Of 2013

    It has been an interesting year as far as books are concerned. Since I began formally recording what I read only in May, I cannot give the exact number of books that I read this year. I estimate it to be around 45. This year I read the kind of books that I didn’t normally read, and that has been very gratifying. The following is a list of the best ones.

    1. Chokher Bali – Rabindranath Tagore

    I read Rabindranath Tagore’s works for the first time this year; Chokher Bali (A Grain of Sand in the Eye) and a collection of short stories. I have to say that I greatly enjoy his writings. All the idiosyncrasies of his time and his world are so deftly described in his stories. The characters are extremely well-etched and all their complex emotions are presented with ease.

    chokher bali radha chakravarty - Google SearchComing back to Chokher Bali, Tagore addressed many issues. Adultery, a widow’s dissatisfaction with a life doomed to perpetual loneliness, the subtle ways in which Binodini manipulates Mahendra and Asha; it was all presented so poetically. It was sorrowful to see that despite being bold enough to rebel against the norms meant for widows, Binodini ultimately decides to walk away from Bihari, the person who loves her and wants to marry her. Tagore himself said that he regretted the ending. But perhaps that was the way Binodini redeemed herself; by allowing herself to have a little pride left.

    Asha’s progress from a shy, young bride to a woman matured by circumstances was very beautiful to see. Her plainness made her endearing, because there were probably so many women like her. I especially loved the scene of her turning point; her distress on seeing her house in chaos without her mother-in-law. Sure, I don’t agree with many of the choices that she made, especially her decision to take back her husband after he fell in love with another woman. But I have to concede because it was a different time; the book was written more than a century ago.

    Radha Chakravarty’s translation was simple and easy to read. A beautiful and sad book.

    2. My Sister’s Keeper – Jodi Picoult

    My Sister's Keeper

    This is one of the very few books that made me cry, literally. The biggest reason that I enjoyed this book was that everyone was right from their own perspective. I especially loved Sara’s conflicts regarding motherhood and the choices that she had to make for her children. The following quote says it all.

    ‘You think you can lay it all out in words, black-and-white, as if it’s that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr. Alexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love both of them equally, everywhere, every place.’

    So many of life’s actual situations are like that, aren’t they? Where you can’t distinguish where the lines blur.

    The book wasn’t perfect though. The clichéd love story between the lawyer and the guardian ad litem could have been completely avoided. It didn’t add anything to the story. Parts involving Jesse as the typical problem child also were a bit dragged. But regardless, it is definitely a book that I would recommend.

    3. Interpreter of Maladies – Jhumpa Lahiri

    Cover of "Interpreter of Maladies"

    I began my reading life with short story collections; fairy tales, moral stories, Aesop’s fables. I discovered novels and the short stories lost their charm for a number of years. I think it was partly because at that time, I was given certain short story collections that I did not enjoy at all. Even when the stories were good, it seemed to me that as soon as I began warming up to the characters, the story ended. I did feel somewhat like that reading Interpreter Of Maladies, but I’m glad that I finished reading it at the insistence of a blogger friend.

    I’ve got relatives who are immigrants; NRIs. They come here every couple of years, stay for a month or slightly more. They want to go back to their lives after that. I can understand that. I’m sure that people get used to new places and new people after some time. This is the time of globalisation and there are people who have lived in various countries. I find that a little scary, to be honest. It’s not like I don’t want to go out and explore the world; I do. But then, I want to come back home. Is it easy to make a home in a place that’s so different from what you know?

    I think every person, who is contemplating migrating should read at least one of Jhumpa Lahiri’s books. She captures the nuances of relationships between people from both the worlds so beautifully. There’s longing for home mingled with the desire to make a new life in a new country. I especially loved the last story. All the hesitations of a new marriage, coupled with the efforts to adjust to a new country; it was very touching to read.

    4. The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood

    The Handmaid's Tale

    Dystopian fiction always leaves you asking for something more; a proper closure of sorts. By definition, the story and the conflicts often remain unresolved. You read the entire novel yearning for a near-miracle. That was my feeling when I was reading The Handmaid’s Tale.

    The story is pretty horrific, but unfortunately, that is the reality of a certain section of women in the world, though maybe not to the extent shown in the book. For every atrocity I read, I was thankful for the choices that I’m allowed to make. My only problem was that Offred was an unreliable narrator. That makes sense since she was a prisoner,  but at some points, I just didn’t want to let it go; I wanted to know. I wanted to know more about her daughter, her husband Luke, and frankly it was maddening to never know.

    I enjoyed Margaret Atwood’s style of writing, and I’m looking forward to reading more of her books.

    5. Gone Girl – Gillian Flynn

    This was a disturbing book. It is impossible to discuss this book without spoiling it, so don’t read ahead if you’re planning to read the book.

    gone girl book - Google SearchIn the first part we get to read Amy’s diary interleaved with Nick’s current reality. It was most perturbing  to read how much differently can two people think about the same relationship. It unnerved me to wonder whether that’s true for all relationships to some extent.

    In the second part, we come to know that Amy’s diary was, in fact, fabricated. In reality, she was psychotic and crazy. She planned her own murder in order to frame Nick. Her original plan was to actually kill herself but she changed her mind later.

    The genius of the book came into play when I thought back to all the crazy things that Amy did to frame Nick. The hidden meanings in the clues of the treasure hunt were especially chilling when re-read after knowing the reality.

    It was a fast-paced book, and I would recommend it to anyone who likes reading psychological thrillers and doesn’t mind the foul language and explicit scenes.

    Have you read any of these books? What was your experience?

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    December 31, 2013
    Category: Books
    Tags: Best Books of 2013, Book Reviews, Books, Literature

  • Authority, Obedience and Creativity

    In second grade, my teacher was the ultimate authority, the one who decided what was right and what was wrong, the one that we complained to in case somebody took our big red-coloured Kit-Kat eraser. I was in awe of her, though I found her a bit strict.

    Outside our school there were a few laaris (carts), where a whole lot of low-quality eatables were sold. It was stuff like tamarind, etc. One such taste-bud-tantalizer was some sort of tamarind powder. I never bought these things because my parents said they were bad for health. Our teachers also discouraged it.

    Once, Miss B as I’ll call her, caught a boy in my class eating the said powder. She scolded him in front of the entire class, but that wasn’t all. She proceeded to read the ingredients on the packet too. One of them was citrus acid.

    Now, mind you, we were in second grade, and didn’t really know the difference between edible acids and cleaning stuff. For us, any acid was ACID, THAT THING WHICH WILL BURN YOU, as was taught to us. Miss B, taking advantage  of the fact, lectured  us on the terrors of eating the thing.

    I went home horrified at the foolishness of the boy. Over lunch, I told my parents all about it. My parents very gently informed me how fruits like oranges actually contain citrus acid and that it is completely harmless and edible.

    My first reaction was disbelief. How could a teacher lie to us? How could she take advantage of our ignorance?

    But soon, I realised why she did so. It was easier for her to say that the powder contained acid rather than explain the details of why exactly it was bad for health. Considering the fact that I was seven and idealistic, I think I forgave her quite easily.

    How easy it is, to not explain and merely order. Explaining would take more time, more efforts and probably lead to further questions. Scolding, ordering and even scorning, would take only a few minutes and have a more immediate impact. And of course, a deeper impact, though that part is neglected: Children stop asking “Why?”

    dontask
    Don’t ask silly questions!

    When I was growing up, keeping quiet was a virtue. All students of my generation have heard this from their teachers at least once: Finger on your lips! Don’t talk! Don’t disturb the class! Don’t ask silly questions! I’ve even heard of some teachers completely discouraging any questions when they are in the middle of their teaching, lest they lose their track!

    I was a good student. I was, in fact, a model pupil. I even got an award for it: Best Conduct and Discipline. What does it mean really? Good conduct and being disciplined? In my day, it meant being silent in class, accepting the teacher’s authority, not talking back. It meant that I would never question the teacher. I was fed these “virtues” as food everyday. Distinguishing between proper questions and silly questions came easily to me; I knew instinctively which questions shouldn’t be asked. The teachers adored me!

    But it also meant that a lot of those silly questions were never asked even though I was curious. I stopped daring to be creative with answers because I was afraid that the teachers would expect me to follow the right and taught methods. For each question asked, I had two answers in my mind; one that I wanted to give, and one which I knew the teacher wanted to listen. I always gave the latter one.

    Times have changed now. Questions are encouraged. Creativity is rewarded. The definition of a good student has been changing. Now, we are told that one who asks the most questions learns the most. One who accepts the things as they are told is obedient, but not bright. “Out of the Box thinking” (a much abused expression) is encouraged. For some, the transition has been smooth. For others, it comes with effort.

    I was systematically taught to be obedient. And now, it has taken a good amount of conscious effort to revamp the way my mind works, to stop the instinct to give a “desirable” answer and try giving one which may sound silly.

    It takes courage to wonder, to be in any way, out of the ordinary. Thank goodness, those questions and those answers were only silenced and not completely removed. Thank goodness, that “creative” wondering was encouraged at home. I realise that school played a very major role in shaping the way I think, but I’m glad, that the very basis of my thought process was formed at home. Beneath those layers of obedience, the inquisitiveness remained, though a little rusty.

    Children are curious by nature. Organised learning often kills that curiosity, one question at a time. Every time a teacher gives an order and refuses to answer “Why?”, the child learns to never question authority, to be a doormat.

    Is it that difficult to tell a child Why she should/should not do something? How can one expect a child to choose between obedience and inquisitiveness?

    How was your experience in school? Were all questions encouraged?

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    December 18, 2013
    Category: Life in moments, Random Musings
    Tags: Authority, Children, Creativity, Education, Obedience, Student, Teacher

  • Is Feminism My Hobby?

    The semester is officially over. I’m home, and have caught up on the lost hours of sleep. It’s good to be blogging again!

    I took a Game Design course this semester. By the end of the semester, all of us were supposed to have made a simple game using Panda3D (the game engine) and python. No, wait! The technical part of the post is over, I promise. Hang on.

    Being engineering students, all of us were doing the project at the last minute; finishing it an hour before the demo. My game is basically a Treasure Hunt in a farm-like environment. The final treasure is a book, reinforcing the moral that “Knowledge is the greatest treasure”. It is also  in sync with the book-lover that I am. 🙂

    game

    After the demo was done (which went well), all of us were discussing each other’s games. As I explained  our concept to a fellow classmate who happens to read my blog, and knows of both, my love of books and my “feminist tendencies”, he exclaimed, “Well, at least it has nothing to do with feminism!”

    I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I recovered myself then, but I kept on thinking about it later on. Is feminism something that I merely dabble in, as a recreation, or as a fleeting interest? As far as I understand, the person in question isn’t a chauvinist. But it re-emphasises my belief that there’s still a lot of confusion regarding what feminism is all about.

    I made a gender-neutral game. Sure, the player’s character was a male. I didn’t have a lot of choice in the models to be used. But the rest of it? The farm, the creatures, the treasure; they had nothing to do with gender. I can see why the person thought it had nothing to do with feminism. No elements in the game were regarding “Girl Power” or “Injustice” or “Inequality”. The challenges in the game were simply to find gemstones hidden around and not fight for women’s rights.

    But you know what? I’m going to claim that it is a feminist game. Why the surprise? Because I used the expressions “gender-neutral” and “feminism” in the same post?

    Let me tell you why I claim so. The final treasure is a book, not a sexy lady objectified as a trophy. The game’s concept talks about education, for anybody and everybody. And that is feminism, isn’t it? That I don’t focus on the gender, but instead talk about more important things like knowledge and education.

    It’s a pity I still have to say this, feminism is simply about considering both as equal, about both having the same choices. Yes, some may say I’m simplifying the matters, but it really is that simple. The reason that feminism is mixed with women’s rights and inequality is because there is an imbalance. People tell me one should talk of equality and not feminism. They don’t realise it’s the same thing. The word for it is “feminism” because the imbalance is hindering the female population, not the male population.

    The way I see it, feminism doesn’t happen to me bursts, or in specific scenarios. It’s not something that I’m interested in at the moment. It’s present all the time. It’s there in whatever I do. Or at least, I hope it’s there, and that I’m not a hypocrite. So yes, my game is feminist. Sorry for the confusion. My actions are feminist. My thoughts are feministic. And if you’re to be politically correct at the very least, yours are feminist too.

    It isn’t an interest, or a hobby that I may mention to somebody. It’s so obvious that I don’t have to mention it. Why is that so difficult to grasp for people?

    Have you ever been told that feminism is “too strong” a word? Have you noticed the confusion surrounding the word? How do you deal with that?

    Note: I’m not bashing the person in question. I’m addressing a general confusion regarding the way feminism is perceived.

    Share this:

    • Share on X (Opens in new window) X
    • Share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook
    • Share on WhatsApp (Opens in new window) WhatsApp
    • Share on Pocket (Opens in new window) Pocket
    • Share on Tumblr (Opens in new window) Tumblr
    • Share on Pinterest (Opens in new window) Pinterest
    • Share on Reddit (Opens in new window) Reddit
    • Email a link to a friend (Opens in new window) Email
    Like Loading…
    December 6, 2013
    Category: Life in moments
    Tags: Feminism, Game design, Women, Women’s rights

Previous Page Next Page

Blog at WordPress.com.

 

Loading Comments...
 

    • Subscribe Subscribed
      • The Writer's Nest
      • Join 285 other subscribers
      • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
      • The Writer's Nest
      • Subscribe Subscribed
      • Sign up
      • Log in
      • Report this content
      • View site in Reader
      • Manage subscriptions
      • Collapse this bar
    %d