On a chilly January morning, I entered a large room with my heart thumping like kettledrums. Rows upon teenagers sized up every wrinkle on my sari, watching… waiting for me to make one false move that would drown me in a flood of ridicule. Why? Why had I let myself into this? It was only a month-long leave vacancy, they said. It was a decent college if not the best, with well-behaved students from middle-class families. The lectures needed to be simple,targeting Kannada medium BA and B Com students for whom clearing the mandatory papers in English was a side-issue. I needed no further convincing and now here I was, like the proverbial lamb waiting to be slaughtered.

I had to start these youngsters on ‘Hamlet’. Getting them under the skin of my favourite Shakespearian tragic hero, should be a challenge. Thirty pairs of eyes continued to stare, some at the floor, some into space and the rest gaped at me with boredom writ large on their faces. Others glanced at each other quizzically. This class no longer looked like it was going to be fun, but simply a challenge. Remembering the way things were done in my college in Delhi, I first gave a brief introduction about Shakespearean tragedies. I then asked for volunteers to read out roles from the first scene of the play.

Mr Class Heartthrob slouched in his seat, his jean-clad legs stretching well into the aisle. “We don’t want to hear stories, Ma’am. Exams are nearing. Please dictate important questions with answers and notes, which we can read and pass.” He looked around to nods of approval from his peers.

“I’ll give you notes, but why not first go through the actual play once? It won’t take more than a few periods if you read out the roles by turns. It will not only be fun, it will be simpler for you to remember the details for your exams.” I could see several faces light up with interest.

“Ma’am, please explain in Kannada.” That was Ms Smarty, clearly angling for some action. “We find English difficult.” My name and looks loudly proclaimed my origins to be from the other side of the Vindhyas, so I guessed they expected me to fumble and provide some comic relief.

“If we stick to English in our classes, you’ll get that much more experience in using the language,” I said. “I’ll explain in Kannada, if you can’t understand me.”

“Can you really speak Kannada?” Incredulous stares and gasps rose from the class.

“I’m learning. I can’t speak too well but passably,” I said in limping Kannada. Mr Class Heartthrob pulled himself upright, gave a thumbs up and grinned. Others brightened up too. “So let’s make these lessons a two-way street,” I continued. “I correct your English, and you help me improve my Kannada.”

That broke the ice and the teacher had passed the first test. My class of thirty teens turned out to be a bright and inquisitive lot, firing me with questions not to be found in any textbook. Best of all, they began debating their answers among themselves.

‘Why did they need to learn English?’
“To open windows to the rest of the country and the world, to know more…” Their list went on.
‘Why study a five centuries old play?’ “Because this great classic showed deep insight into human nature and made us ponder the eternal, complexities of life. And oh, one could even use some of these insights in dealing with people at today’s workplace.”

My teachers had guided me to read widely, seek answers and think for myself. I found my students taking the same path. Mugging important questions and answers no longer remained their sole priority.

When it was time for me to leave, Mr. Shy Guy made his maiden speech. I praised his newfound command over spoken English. “Your Kannada has improved too, Ma’am,” the class responded in unison.

The writer is the author of the fantasy-adventure novel for young people, ‘Riddle of the Seventh Stone’ (Young Zubaan). She also blogs at www.monideepa.blogspot.com. She can be reached at moni_deepa@yahoo.co.uk.

Is it wrong to be a southpaw? This autorickshaw driver certainly seemed to suggest it. When he dropped me off at the office this morning and I was giving him the auto fare he said to me, “Amma, acche haath se de do, boni hai” (Madam give it to me with your right hand, you are my first passenger of the day). I was taken aback and certainly felt insulted! I know all about the Indian sentiment of the right hand being the good hand, but I don’t understand it. As a left-handed person, my left hand is my right hand!

My parents never gave my left-handedness a second thought and in the confines of my home, all was well. But when I stepped out into the right-handed world, I was made to feel as if something was terribly wrong with me. I remember I was enjoying a delicious wedding lunch once when an aunty came up to me with a sweet smile and asked, “Don’t you know you have to eat with your good hand, beta?” Concerned relatives and friends would often corner my parents and ask them why they were not teaching me to distinguish the right hand from the wrong. I was a girl. I had to be married off at some point and what would my future in-laws think of having a southpaw for a daughter-in-law?

I had problems at school too. I used to go to one of those schools that had about 70 children in one class. So, about 5 or 6 of us were made to sit on this long bench to accommodate all of us in that one classroom. I often had to fight for space with my right-handed neighbour on the left. When we had to take down notes that the teacher dictated our elbows would hit each other. Then there was this one particular teacher who insisted that I learn to write with my right hand, until I had my parents complain to the principal. At the end of every semester, when progress reports were distributed among students, a class teacher wouldn’t give me mine until I extended my right hand.

So you see, it isn’t easy being a left-handed person. Everything is designed or built for the right-handed person. I wasn’t able to use a scissors on my own until they started making scissors that both right and left-handed people could use. Cutting open a milk packet used to be such an ordeal, I remember. When you buy shirts or blouses with buttons on them, you realize that they were stitched only for the right-handed person and not for you. When computers became such major tools in offices, I had to train my right hand to learn to control the mouse. Since my right hand is the weaker of the two, it still complains when I force it do things. Sometimes I wish there was a left-hander store, where we could buy things made just for us lefties.

Well I am who I am – a southpaw – and there is nothing wrong with that, so the autorickshaws can ferry their right-handed passengers, while I get my left-handed husband (a pleasant coincidence) to drop me off at work every morning.

Some time ago a 16-year-old boy, Naresh, asked me whether there was any competition in girls cricket. I couldn’t help but laugh when he asked me….

Women’s cricket may have made progress in terms of facilities and exposure, but the number of players remains the same. In state teams, you find 25 girls fighting for 15 spots. On the other hand, in boys’ teams, almost 200 boys fight it out for a place in the selected 15.

Like I told Naresh, in comparison to men’s cricket, women’s cricket is far behind, not in terms of facilities, but in terms of competition. Boys start playing cricket in school, when they are 10 or 11, whereas girls have no such opportunity. The boys have many more categories to play in as well – under 12, under 14, under 16, under 19, under 22, and Ranji. The girls have two categories – under 19 and seniors (open category). Not only that, boys also have the opportunity to play just for fun. They have inter-school matches, inter-college matches, corporate, and even club matches. In women’s cricket, you only get a chance to play if you’re ‘good enough’ to play for the state.

If the officials want women’s cricket to make progress and expand, then it’s important that young girls too get the chance to play at an early age. It’s not as if the girls are not interested. They are! In fact, I tried to start a girls’ cricket team in one of the schools I went to. I spoke to the principal and he agreed almost immediately, but he said that the girls would need a different coach from the boys and that I would have to take care of that! It didn’t make much sense really, but I went ahead anyway and made announcements, took down names and found that more than 150 girls (across classes VI to XII) were extremely interested to play. Before I could make any more progress, I passed out of school and never went back to talk to the principal.

What I’m trying to say is that for the game to spread and become more popular among the girls, it’s important that they’re given a chance to play in school. That way the competition will grow, which will lead to an increase in standards as well. Everyone benefits! The reason why the Indian men’s cricket team has been so successful in the past two years is because there has been a lot of healthy competition within the team. People are being challenged for their places and there is someone waiting in the wings ready to replace you. Women’s cricket can reach such heights only if the game spreads at the grassroot level and more girls are encouraged to play.

Another luxury that men have over women is that they have the chance to play ‘just for fun’ – club and corporate matches. Even when they’re old and round and just want to play for the sake of playing, they have opportunities to do so, whereas women don’t. Once you stop playing competitive cricket, it usually signals the end of your playing career, which is unfair. One of my former teammates, who is now a journalist, wants to start playing just for fun. After a couple of discussions, we realized that she’ll never really be able to play any matches unless she joins the state camps and plays practice matches.

Very often, before practice we see a group of old, round men playing matches and having a whale of a time in the Gymkhana cricket ground in Hyderabad. Never have I seen a group of women playing for the simple reason that they want to play.

Yes, women’s cricket in India is growing, but there’s still a long way to go. We need more opportunities to go out there and prove that we can play too. Hopefully, it’s just a matter of time…

The author is doing her final year BA from St. Francis College for Women, Hyderabad.

Dull grey and too profuse to be exotic, what can a pigeon teach you? A recent experience challenged my assumptions about teachers and modes of learning.

On hindsight, I feel, it all started when my husband shared the sorrow of a pigeon that had just lost an egg. High on the edge of a temple pillar sat the mourning pigeon. A piece of the broken egg was on the floor. My husband had stopped to speak to the visibly shattered parent.

Less than a week later, we noticed some unnatural activity in our erstwhile ordinary balcony. The turmeric rhizome was growing, undisturbed, on one end of the narrow, rectangular planter, but what was this beside the plant? A pigeon sitting on the mud, encircled by dry grass! We spied an egg too! The pigeon was unperturbed by our curiosity. None of us had seen an egg in a ‘nest’ from such close quarters.

Let me make it very clear that we are not one of those National Geographic families – raising iguanas or even cats. We are the most un-pet-prone family you could find. My husband empathises with the Earth’s creatures and my daughter desperately wants pets, but my son and I steer clear of anything that creeps, crawls, barks, or mews.

So, this surprise Pigeon Plan left my family of four polarized. My husband and daughter felt chosen. My son and I felt targeted. “Out of 600 flats, the pigeon couple chose our balcony!” my daughter’s eyes shone with pride. “Out of 600 flats, why our balcony?!” my son asked. I felt anxious about “the mess, the smell, and what the flat-owner will say.”

“My Space!” – tolled a wildly clanging alarm bell in my head. “I wish it had been a parrot!” – I’d barely said it when I saw the raw and evil desire to associate with ‘beauty’ and something less “ordinary”. I was terrified of what I had discovered in myself.

My husband suggested consideration and compassion. “Let’s avoid going into the balcony”, he said. My mind projected visions of a whole balcony of pigeons incubating eggs and their young in various stages of evolution. I protested. “Let’s not cut ourselves off from the balcony or we may never get it back!” I said.

Untouched by our confabulations, Naddy (a helpful, young neighbour named her) laid another egg. Her partner, we presume, brought an occasional blade of grass or a twig, offered it, dubiously looked around and flew away.

Between chores and work, we took to stepping out to “check on” the pigeon. She refused food and water and incubated her eggs for three weeks. Kunjumani and Kunjusri were born one Saturday afternoon, within hours of each other. My daughter named them with much delight. My maid cleaned the balcony carefully everyday and muttered to me about “not allowing these things to happen again.”

We all watched with unabashed fascination as Kunjumani and Kunjusri transformed into smart, grey pigeons from blobs of yellow-grey. Pigeon parents are not fussy or overprotective, we learnt. Naddy would leave her one-week-olds alone and fly off for the day, always returning in the evening. K and K grew in size and strength. Within a month, they looked full grown. They strutted about the balcony – owning the space. They took tentative leaps from the edge of a planter to the balcony floor and back.

Every morning, we ran to the balcony, hoping K and K were still there, but knowing they would have to fly the nest one day. One morning, they were gone. I could hear them on the balcony above – flapping their wings and trying to take off. Our balcony was an ordinary shell again.

Naddy occasionally visits. K and K – confident, far-flyers – drop by too. They remind us that almost anyone or anything can be a ‘good teacher.’

The author is a Bangalore based writer with a background in journalism, teaching, social development work and theatre. She can be reached at charumathisupraja@gmail.com.

When Teacher Plus asked me to write the ‘Last Word’ for the September issue about my favourite teacher, I was at a loss; I have so many I fondly remember. So what do you write when you’re asked to write about teachers? The term ‘teacher’ makes me hop on to the memory train, whizzing past everything that I did in school all those years ago; taking me to my earliest memory of the word ‘teacher’.

I remember, as a child I would love to “teach”. My mother continues to embarrass me by telling all my friends about my fixation as a child with the game ‘teacher-teacher’. Turns out, I would even hold a stick in my hand and hit the floor punishing my imaginary students! It is just as well that I am not a teacher now.

Like in most schools, in my school too, Teachers’ Day meant students role-playing, trying to behave like their favourite teacher. The ‘student-teacher’ visits all the classes, the teacher goes to and teaches all the subjects that the teacher covers. This role-play was serious business, as students playing the part of teachers were judged by a panel comprising teachers. On the annual day, which was usually sometime in November, the results of the competition would be announced.

The first time I participated in the teachers’ day competition was when I was in fifth grade. I played the role of Manjula Aaya (aayas assist teachers in handling large classrooms full of boisterous kids). In my lovely school, playing an aaya also counted for the competition. I was completely thrilled to play Manjula Aaya! She was the head of all the aayas in the school and she sat outside the principals’ office and reported only to the principal. On that day, I dressed like Manjula Aaya in a colourful chiffon saree, with a big bindi and jhumkas. I don’t remember all the things I did that day, but I do remember sitting very importantly in front of the principal’s office with my head held high. I won the second prize that year!

In the tenth grade, I played my biology teacher who also taught me different subjects in different grades. Her methods of teaching were interesting and we always looked forward to new things in her class. A day before Teachers’ Day she called me to the staff room and asked me what I was planning to do in each of her classes. I told her that I hadn’t planned anything and that I would teach something she had already taught or give a surprise test. Instead, she asked me to continue teaching from where she stopped in each class. Her plan was to make each student read a paragraph aloud from the lesson and at the end of each paragraph, note down any question that comes to their mind and discuss it in the classroom. She also gave me a list of possible questions from the lesson. I was reluctant as I was unsure if I could do it, but I agreed.

On the day, I remember going to each of her classes, most of which were junior classes. When the time came to teach biology to my own classmates, I was nervous. But, I followed her plan and soon the class was abuzz with discussions, debates, and fights. The plan worked! Not only did I remember each and every word of that day’s lesson, but also won the first prize in the competition.

Such role-playing puts you into your teacher’s shoes, at least for a day, and I like to think that it taught me the importance of shifting my perspective in all my relationships, so as to better understand others’ points of view. As we shower our teachers with praise, for helping us pass exams (the hard way), for getting us out of trouble, and for all the myriad tasks they undertake to better our lives, I always wonder how much of what I am, is because of the teachers I looked up to, and admired.

There have been a series of events in the last few months in Delhi that have had a strong element of cultural protest – exhibitions, films, music, performances – apart from talks and speeches, seeking to attract a diverse audience including children. So, I trotted off to some of them with my son, Imran, with the biggest attraction for him being rock music, a relatively new passion that finds expression in his learning to play the guitar and listening non-stop to bands his parents don’t know much about.

One of the musicians who performed at some of these events is a young man from Manipur who goes by the name of Imphal Talkies. Singing protest songs in the manner of western folk musicians of the Sixties, Imphal Talkies sings and plays both the guitar and the harmonica. The harmonica is attached to a contraption around his head that allows him to play it while using his hands for the guitar, Bob Dylan style. For an almost 10 year-old, that was a feat worthy of deep respect.

At one of these events, I noticed the musician in the audience as I was leaving, and so I mentioned it to Imran the next day.

Me: I saw Imphal Talkies at the back of the hall when I was leaving.
Imran: Oh! So, he always comes to that kind of event.
Me (pausing): What kind?
Imran: You know, the kind where you are against something…
Me: Against what?
Imran: Against the government, something bad they are doing. There’s a word, na. I can’t remember it. With a ‘p’ …
Me: Protest?
Imran: Ya! That’s it. Protest events. He always comes to them.

That conversation made me think as much as it made me smile. Childhood is so much about learning to conform to somebody else’s vision of the world. As parents, even as we desire for our children’s independence in thought and action, we do seek to bring them up in line with our beliefs. The thought that they may (perhaps, will is the more realistic word!) not conform to our vision of them is the one that most of us struggle the hardest with. And so, perhaps, it’s worth considering the act of dissent for a moment.

For children growing up in colonial India, the act of going to school itself meant an exposure to dissent, as they walked past groups that were picketing or burning foreign goods. There are records of middle class school children participating in the call for boycott, for many at the risk of being expelled from schools. Dissent was a part of everyday life, a question you engaged with, regardless of the position that you or your family finally took. In today’s times of increasing conformism, dissent is a shrinking commodity. With the mainstream paradigm being embraced so whole-heartedly, dissent has become something that the “other” engages in. Life, for most children in our mushrooming mall-cities, is about being cool, not being a geek. It’s about wearing certain kinds of clothes, throwing certain kinds of parties, seeking certain kinds of careers. The market talks to them about this, peer pressure reinforces it and parents mostly acquiesce to it. Even school spaces are about conforming – about learning discipline and following rules. So, where are children to learn about dissent? Where are they to learn that it is a critical element of democracy? That it is just as important a lesson as learning to be disciplined and not breaking the law. That we need to follow rules but also to learn to question them. That their conformism is tied to some distant act of dissent.

Or is that something that we have left for the children of Jagatsinghpur, Orissa, for whom dissent is an everyday engagement. As they lie down on the hot earth under the blazing sun and refuse to allow entry to government officials who seek to take over forestland and villages for a mega steel project, these children are no mere audience at a protest event. They are engaging with the larger structures that govern their lives, the very same structures that govern the lives of children in other parts of this country, children like Imran. While some dissent, others consent. Which will Imran choose?

The author is a documentary filmmaker and writer based in New Delhi. She hopes that her work makes children think about the world they want to live in. She can be reached at saminamishra@gmail.com.

Stillness…. slowness…. these words seem to have become synonymous with aging and perhaps even dullness. Why, I wonder. If we look around at nature, there are clear instances of fruits, flowers, and trees reaching their maturity and fullness with a slow but sure growth. In children too while we long for quick signs of progress, it comes when it is time. Even the term, “slow learner” seems part of the conspiracy of speed. Is not slow a relative term? More than that, isn’t there actually a value in slowing down? According to studies, during meditation, the brain functions slow down and there is calm and quietness. But have these words also become old-fashioned and outdated?

Recently, a colleague and I were in conversation with a group of 13 and 14 year olds. We were in an exercise to discuss the possible advantages and disadvantages of searching for information on the internet. One of the recurring arguments was, “It is fast. I can get what I want quickly. It saves time.” Whether we are adults or children, we seem to be in perpetual quest of ‘time’! What do we want to do with this time we are saving? More things, more quickly? However, there was one child who almost reluctantly admitted that she enjoys the leisure of searching through books, where other links and random ideas come into her head on their own, some of which she pursues with much joy. There were a few nods of assent to that. My colleague later shared with me that she wondered whether we, as educators, give a subliminal message to our students that the product must be excellent and perhaps omit to mention how insightful are the explorations and discoveries inherent in the process. She went on to give examples where the process is the product, so to speak! Cooking, gardening, knitting or sewing, building, painting… these are quite clear, but what about reading, writing, researching, working on mathematics? Can we discover an equal joy in the actual doing of these activities?

In the past, I have used the phrase, ‘late bloomer’ quite easily and thoughtlessly, but it was in connection with two cases that the truth of it hit me. One young girl had been dubbed a ‘dreamer’ and even ‘lazy’ by parents, teachers, and others, with affection but with a sense of finality. Years down the line, this young person is finding her feet, slowly but surely, and her whole personality seems to have changed. She smiles where she used to be sulky, is courteous and thoughtful where she used to be a bit selfish and uncaring. The point is that she did not acquire these qualities overnight. They were germinating inside her waiting for the right time. But that time had to be given and in this case it happened fortuitously. The other case is that of a young boy, where anxious parents tried to bring him in line with others of his age. Most of the time, he too appeared selfish and rude and resisted work with a fierce determination. Again, thanks to an understanding environment, the pressure was eased and slowly and at his own pace, he began to do the things his classmates had done some time ago and looked happier and more at ease with the world. These are not just feel-good stories. They are the unfortunate result of our need for haste.

“What is this life, if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?”—
From the poem, “Leisure” by W.H. Davies

There are enough examples of extraordinary people who took a great deal of time in their early years to gather the basics of knowledge and then went on to encompass the whole of it! Einstein, Tagore, J. Krishnamurti, each one a superb ‘late bloomer’! However, I am not trying to create a counter-culture here by saying slowness is best. Rather that there is a readiness for each individual and that may come slowly or quickly.

The long-distance runner has as much skill as the sprinter. Both have passion and joy in what they do. The musician gives equal care to the slow exposition of a Raag as well as to the quicker tempo. Is it possible to not swing to either extreme? We can value quickness where it is appropriate and appreciate slowness where it blooms.

The author is a founder-member of Centre for Learning, Bangalore and feels that there is much to learn from interacting with children and young people.She can be reachd at usha.mukunda@gmail.com.

So WHAT of the new age impatience? Which is not so new age anymore. Not, at least, from where I’m standing. I’ve lived with it, had it, and seen it for as long as I can remember. Is it really our fault that we’re faster? Doesn’t speed also make for efficiency? What’s the problem then? I suppose the problem arises only when those who are slower feel left out or left behind. They then assign negative connotations to impatience.

But why should patience be regarded a virtue? I don’t know (m)any people who would rather wait for something when they could get it sooner. Maybe it’s time for ‘impatience is a virtue’ because then we would work faster and get more done in less time. When we work fast, we cannot afford distractions. Thus, we concentrate more and focus on the job at hand, which helps in producing better quality work. While driving, for instance, the faster I drive, the more I need to be aware of people and vehicles around, because I’m giving myself less reaction time in case something happens. This results in more accurate estimates of distances and speeds and fellow road-occupiers’ intentions. AKA better driving.

Why must we fight the busy, no-time-to-breathe lifestyles that we see people living? I do know many people who like it that way. And who are able to manage stress, if THAT’S what the fuss is all about. I myself like having a million things to do. I also know how to take appropriate breaks to fight the stress factor. I like to work hard and play hard. A time for everything and everything in its time.

Yet another advantage of my impatience is that I get down solving problems and dealing with issues MUCH faster than slower contemporaries. Patient individuals tend to hum and ho along the way, probably wishing for the obstacles to remove themselves. Although some might call this a far-fetched conclusion, I certainly feel that patience leads to inaction. Dealing with stuff faster leaves me more time to relax. Imagine finishing your work in half the time it usually takes, and then revelling in the bonus free time left to you! I should imagine that ‘bonus’ time soon becoming expected free time!

So, as long as impatience is not used as an excuse to validate sloppy work (that excuse won’t work because I’ve already established that impatience actually leads to work of higher quality), it’s very much an awesome trait to have. Enough of the fuss over patience. A new star is born!

Hmmm. So about giving this a title. I could label it ‘ramblings’ or ‘random thoughts’ or some such, but today, I think I would quite LIKE to have a point. So what can I call it? “Impatience IS a virtue.” Hmmm, could do. “Work faster, work better!” Not bad either. But maybe the first was better. What about taking the very dramatic sentence “A new star is born!” Too dramatic?? Well… Gosh, this is taking too long. I’m running out of patience. But hey, that’s cool, innit?!

The author is working in a research project at the Centre for Neural and Cognitive Studies, at the University of Hyderabad. She can be reached at binit.kaur@gmail.com.

Some people carry credit cards in their wallets for a sense of security. But I carry library cards, past and present. They can’t buy me objects but they do trigger memories which are priceless. Since they range over a time span of fifty years, they also convey the state of libraries across time, space, and cultures. Recently, I was thumbing through my cache and discovered that each card had a tale to tell, which, well, may not curl your hair but might make you sit up and wonder!

The earliest one I have is from the Oxford Book Store in Calcutta, which in those ancient days, had a circulating library on Park Street along with the bookshop. One had to go to the deep end of the shop to a darkish corner where the treasures were kept, for so they were to me. This is where I discovered Georgette Heyer and romance of a harmless and literary kind! The next card I see has a more serious and scholarly tone. It is that of the National Library, again in Calcutta. My friends and I would make the long trip to Alipore with a list of reference books we hoped to find. It seemed as if the books we sought were all buried under the ground, because one first had to enter the details of the book on a small chit at the counter. Then that piece of paper would go into a basket which was lowered into a deep well. Sometimes we would sneak a peek down this rabbit hole to try and spot anyone from wonderland! We would be told to return in an hour or so to get the answer, which time we spent pleasurably in the spacious grounds of the library. Upon returning we would be shown our note with a scribble on it, “Book damaged” or “Book not traceable.” Rarely did we get the book we had asked for. If by a miracle we did, carrying it lovingly to a nearby table, we would try our best to cull the gems it had. No question of borrowing it, you see. Years later, when I visited the British Library in London, I realized where this system had been borrowed from.

The next set of cards plots my life thereafter. I see cards from Rochester, Princeton, and Syracuse Universities, all of which came by way of my husband. I spent many happy hours in each of these libraries. One of them had intricate passages and the story was that you could traverse the entire centre of the campus from the inside! I never had the courage to try. The next stage seems to have been cards from the public libraries of all the places we visited. The Gothenberg Public Library in Sweden was ready to give me a card just for a week’s stay and let me take books home! It was almost as good as being given the Nobel Prize!

Back to India and my first foray into public libraries began at Bombay. The British Library had an eclectic collection in those days and just wandering around the shelves was a joy. Unlike nowadays, the literature and fiction racks were overflowing with wondrous books and I could easily get lost as I sat browsing between the spacious shelves. The USIS too helped me discover a plethora of American writers whom I would never have known otherwise.

So many cards and so many memories, but let me move forward quickly and share the story of a few recent encounters. The Bodleian library in Oxford will give you a reader’s card along with an oath you have to memorize and recite when asked. The oath which is in Latin asks you to swear that you will not deface, mutilate, or otherwise harm the material nor will you bring in food, drink, or flammable stuff! Imagine sitting reading when suddenly there is a tap on your shoulder and you have to reel off this oath.

The public library in Merthyr Tydwil in Wales gave me a card for the day! Not only that, the librarian was also the friendliest person I have met. She also gave me booklets, picture post cards, and photographs depicting the mining history of that region. The card from the Vancouver Public Library gave me the freedom to take as many books, CDs, and DVDs as I could carry from any branch in the city. It also enabled me to just hang around there rubbing shoulders with scholars, senior citizens, and even vagrants.

Just for the record, I do still have my cards for the local public library. But after encountering shelves and shelves of the SAME book by the SAME author, I retired these cards to my desk drawer! For me, the card is an entry not just to the library, but to a quiet space, a refuge, a home away from home where I can read, think, work, and even take forty winks. Now, with entire libraries being taken over digitally, my card carrying days are numbered. Or are they?

The author has a post graduate degree in Library Science from Bangalore University. She is deeply interested in nurturing discerning readers and users of the library in all places where children abide. She can be reached at usha.mukunda@gmail.com.

I am 4 feet 10 inches tall. Or should I say short? 4 feet 10 inches isn’t exactly tall is it? My problems with my height started when I turned 13 years old. It was an uncle who brought me face to face with the fact that I was short. Until then I was blissfully unaware and unconcerned about my physical built. I still remember when he said, “My god! You are stunted”, I felt like he had dropped a heavy stone on my head. But how could I be stunted? I was going to high school after school reopened. I would belong to the senior section of kids in school. He must have made a mistake I decided. But when I joined my friends on that first day of high school, the truth hit me hard. I gaped at them. They were all taller than I was. What did they do during vacation? Eat some magic pudding? Why didn’t my mother know enough to give me some? My height was a constant problem I grappled with for a long time after that.

Whenever I went shopping for clothes, I would pick and choose clothes with vertical stripes because somebody told me vertical stripes would make me look taller. I always wore sandals that had heals at least an inch high. Didn’t matter if I wasn’t very comfortable. Being comfortable wasn’t a priority at all. I read advertisements from health clinics that offered to make me tall with great interest. Some offered to insert steel rods in my legs, others said they had booster injections that would help me shoot up another two or three inches. If I had some money with me I might have tried one of these clinics, but my horrible parents wouldn’t hear of it. A couple of years later, even my brother, two years younger than I am, had to look down at me. He was lanky and strange in his physical appearance. But did that matter? He was tall now. By then the only people I was comfortable standing next to were my two grandmothers. At least somebody was shorter than I was.

Being short was a problem. Not even looking my age was like bad icing on a bad cake. Not only was my body that of a 13 year old but now my face was also betraying me. It seemed to be stuck at 13 years old as well! Talk about 13 being an unlucky number. Whenever people saw my brother and me together they assumed he was the older and more responsible of the two because his appearance told them that. I realized I was beginning to feel embarrassed every time somebody asked me how old I was. The look of amazement was actually frustrating.

A friend once asked me why on earth did I wish look older when everybody else wanted to look younger? Well, I guess the grass is always greener on the other side. I felt like I was in no man’s land. Never old enough to join the adult club, but not young enough to be happy in the children’s club either.

At 29, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I will not grow anymore or look any different. I am comfortable now and happy. I have given up wearing vertical stripes, I only wear flat heels, and don’t care about any booster injections or magic potions any more. But I am still concerned about one thing. I have a four year old son. He has already reached up to my waist. How soon will it be before he overshoots me? That will be an experience I will write about in another Last Word.