The clock ticks away audibly, with every second the tension grows. Every sound is amplified – pencils scribbling away, etching answers on to paper, meticulously filling in random answer bubbles, making a pattern of some sort. Every circle makes a difference that can change lives and futures.
It’s that time again when the SAT fever is virulent and it seems about everybody is walking around shuffling about flashcards, sketching abstract graphs and reciting tenses and formulas. 2B Pencils are abundant, strewn over tables and found materializing from pockets, and abhorrent answer bubbles are revolving around dazzled heads.
For those of you unfamiliar with the nefarious SAT drill, it is a Standardized test taken in high school by teenagers thinking about applying to universities. It tests Math, Critical Reading and Writing skills and scores your performance on a rather gargantuan scale of 2400 – a score that heavily influences your applications and résumés.
So, for nearly four hours, just about seven times a year, hundreds of students crouch uncomfortably over creaking desks, their noses nearly up against their answer booklets, scratching out choices and guessing answers, armed with calculators, erasers and lucky coins.
Though the SATs give a general overview of your academic brilliance, it is no way representative of it. That’s the problem associated with ‘standardized’ tests – you are looked at like a dreary fish in the ocean, expected to have the same abilities, tested on cognitive thinking and effective communication and nothing more.
But we are more than just beings that can multiply three digit numbers and juggle around convoluted words; we have a farrago of talents and abilities that cannot have numbers attached to them.
When we apply to universities, we like to think that our acceptance is a reflection of our achievements not a reward for an impressive number. We like to be taken seriously as a competent, well-rounded candidate that has done more than rote-learning and astute manipulation.
There is more to a person besides their academic potential that can do far greater good in the real world.
The SATs have lost meaning along the way, with people suffocating themselves with piles of work, in order to score above the sacred 2200. True, academics are an essential piece of the pie but to be truly savoury, you’ve got to have the filling.
Showing posts with label The School Locker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The School Locker. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
2400 is the magic number
I haven't posted in quite a while.
I'm ridden with the guilt of neglect.
What with the endless tests, World Literature essays, lab reports, assignments, worksheets, presentations and community service, time seems scarce.
But as of now, I'm on Spring Break.
Well, not SPRING Break.
The other one.
The one when you don't party till four a.m. and then suffer from a mind crushing hangover.
It's the one you get when Easter comes along. A time to both relax and do some light revision.
Ha.ha.
Then they invented College Board who decided that it would be excruciatingly fun to administer a standardized test to all teenagers to ruin their prospects of ever attending a university that has its own hoodie.
So now I'm confined to a writing desk with a prescribed 2B pencil and a 800-something-page book.
If this carries on any longer, I'm going to be walking around with answer bubbles polka-dotting my view.
Now, I must go and practice.
Where's that pencil, I need to randomly jab options with, gone?
...And where has my lucky blindfold disappeared to?
I'm ridden with the guilt of neglect.
What with the endless tests, World Literature essays, lab reports, assignments, worksheets, presentations and community service, time seems scarce.
But as of now, I'm on Spring Break.
Well, not SPRING Break.
The other one.
The one when you don't party till four a.m. and then suffer from a mind crushing hangover.
It's the one you get when Easter comes along. A time to both relax and do some light revision.
Ha.ha.
Then they invented College Board who decided that it would be excruciatingly fun to administer a standardized test to all teenagers to ruin their prospects of ever attending a university that has its own hoodie.
So now I'm confined to a writing desk with a prescribed 2B pencil and a 800-something-page book.
If this carries on any longer, I'm going to be walking around with answer bubbles polka-dotting my view.
Now, I must go and practice.
Where's that pencil, I need to randomly jab options with, gone?
...And where has my lucky blindfold disappeared to?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Gifted of the Gulf
His hands flew across the keys as his nimble fingers nearly effortlessly weaved the music into a gentle cascade of rippling water. The notes rose and fell beautifully; climbing up and down, enchanting, spellbinding the captivated audience. His prowess knew no bounds as he went from passion fuelled pieces to softer ones, almost as if he was stroking it to sleep.
And then, her bow wove majestically across strings; guided by her dexterity and precise agility. Her cello resonated with a majestic bass melody that filled the room and held the audience breathless. Her swift fingers were a mere blur as she progressed through a magnificent symphony flawlessly.
The Young Musicians of the Gulf 2010 was a breathtaking event to say the least. It showcased young aspiring musicians in a variety of instruments and categories, and their artistic expression and musical interpretations, bringing them much needed extolment.
On stage, they were spectacular, having mastered their pieces to the very last note. They make it look so natural and are so at ease that one marvels at the amount of perseverance and hard work they must have put in. These young musicians have trained for years, some even a decade, playing into the night, regardless of the world around them, just living in the music.
Every little detail had been looked after, every bit of synchronization had been perfected and every last note and stroke of hand had been honed to precision.
Their performances were nothing less than awe-inspiring.
The competition also roped in what maybe was just a peek of the vast spectrum of music. There were compositions played out by flutes, euphoniums, cellos, violins, pianos and even pieces of wood. Adding a regional touch to the event was the tabla and the oud; their distinctive melodies making Bahrainis proud.
Whatever instrument they had chosen, they were one with the music, lost to the audience, putting themselves in their pieces, giving them new meaning. It was amazing to watch their love for music manifest in notes, sung, composed or played; giving the audience merely a peek of their delightful world and the mysterious secrets only they understood.
In a world now filled with fluorescent screens and techno-jargon, an evening of blissfully classical music was a rare and beautiful treat. It was a reminder of the simple joys of life and that every great musician or any great person, for that matter, has risen to excellence through pure determination and talent, the will to succeed and an undying blazing passion for their art.
And then, her bow wove majestically across strings; guided by her dexterity and precise agility. Her cello resonated with a majestic bass melody that filled the room and held the audience breathless. Her swift fingers were a mere blur as she progressed through a magnificent symphony flawlessly.
The Young Musicians of the Gulf 2010 was a breathtaking event to say the least. It showcased young aspiring musicians in a variety of instruments and categories, and their artistic expression and musical interpretations, bringing them much needed extolment.
On stage, they were spectacular, having mastered their pieces to the very last note. They make it look so natural and are so at ease that one marvels at the amount of perseverance and hard work they must have put in. These young musicians have trained for years, some even a decade, playing into the night, regardless of the world around them, just living in the music.
Every little detail had been looked after, every bit of synchronization had been perfected and every last note and stroke of hand had been honed to precision.
Their performances were nothing less than awe-inspiring.
The competition also roped in what maybe was just a peek of the vast spectrum of music. There were compositions played out by flutes, euphoniums, cellos, violins, pianos and even pieces of wood. Adding a regional touch to the event was the tabla and the oud; their distinctive melodies making Bahrainis proud.
Whatever instrument they had chosen, they were one with the music, lost to the audience, putting themselves in their pieces, giving them new meaning. It was amazing to watch their love for music manifest in notes, sung, composed or played; giving the audience merely a peek of their delightful world and the mysterious secrets only they understood.
In a world now filled with fluorescent screens and techno-jargon, an evening of blissfully classical music was a rare and beautiful treat. It was a reminder of the simple joys of life and that every great musician or any great person, for that matter, has risen to excellence through pure determination and talent, the will to succeed and an undying blazing passion for their art.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Question Everything You Ever Knew
It’s a bit disconcerting to one day realize that everything you believe in, or rather, taught to believe in, comes crashing down upon you and that safe, secluded cone that enveloped and cradled you once, has shattered to expose you, raw, to the big bad world.
We take it for granted – our beliefs, our notions and our perceptions.
From a very young age, we look into the world through someone else’s eyes.
Questions are muted and intrigue is dampened to produce an ideal product of society; one that speaks, hears, understands the way he is programmed to be.
It is something we never realize as we hobble along in our monotonous ruts.
But in the past week or so, questions started springing, doubts crept in and bafflement pulled the strings of many minds.
At school, our weekly Theory of Knowledge sessions most often end in mental disarray as we prod at questions and engage in heated debate. For those of you not familiar to Theory of Knowledge, it is a class in which students analyze and dissect the various facets of ‘Knowledge’ and learn to be independent, inquisitive thinkers meant to challenge things and not accept it as it is.
Recently, a very intriguing debate arose about Conspiracy Theories and it made me realize how we often accept things without any questions.
We were told of the 9/11 attacks and that Osama Bin Laden was the root of all evil. Newspapers heralded it. Heads of Media reporters on television bobbed in agreement over the giant yellow Breaking News tape stretched across the screen. Authorities importantly cleared their throats, tapped their microphones and condemned the attack, vowing to fight back and further went on to proclaim the rights of every citizen.
And we bought it. Bought it, Ate it, Digested It. Hook, Line and Sinker.
Where was the judgment? Where was the radical thinking? Where were the questions?
We were scared to differ from public opinion, safe within the mob.
Why did the World Trade Centres collapse at the same time even if one was burning for longer? Did a plane really hit the Pentagon? Why was an unmarked plane flying in territorial air space?
In Theory of Knowledge classes, we learn that the core principles are Reason, Perception, Emotion and Language.
However, we often chose to ignore at least one of them; not seeing the big picture.
Feeling secure and being an impression cast by the mould of society may seem an easy way out. Yet, it is merely comfort food.
All the people that ever made it big, asked questions. Questions that shook their faith and foundation. Questions that changed their lives.
Life is full of mysteries and some may never find answers. Shying away may keep you living but to be truly alive is to take a crack at the riddle.
We take it for granted – our beliefs, our notions and our perceptions.
From a very young age, we look into the world through someone else’s eyes.
Questions are muted and intrigue is dampened to produce an ideal product of society; one that speaks, hears, understands the way he is programmed to be.
It is something we never realize as we hobble along in our monotonous ruts.
But in the past week or so, questions started springing, doubts crept in and bafflement pulled the strings of many minds.
At school, our weekly Theory of Knowledge sessions most often end in mental disarray as we prod at questions and engage in heated debate. For those of you not familiar to Theory of Knowledge, it is a class in which students analyze and dissect the various facets of ‘Knowledge’ and learn to be independent, inquisitive thinkers meant to challenge things and not accept it as it is.
Recently, a very intriguing debate arose about Conspiracy Theories and it made me realize how we often accept things without any questions.
We were told of the 9/11 attacks and that Osama Bin Laden was the root of all evil. Newspapers heralded it. Heads of Media reporters on television bobbed in agreement over the giant yellow Breaking News tape stretched across the screen. Authorities importantly cleared their throats, tapped their microphones and condemned the attack, vowing to fight back and further went on to proclaim the rights of every citizen.
And we bought it. Bought it, Ate it, Digested It. Hook, Line and Sinker.
Where was the judgment? Where was the radical thinking? Where were the questions?
We were scared to differ from public opinion, safe within the mob.
Why did the World Trade Centres collapse at the same time even if one was burning for longer? Did a plane really hit the Pentagon? Why was an unmarked plane flying in territorial air space?
In Theory of Knowledge classes, we learn that the core principles are Reason, Perception, Emotion and Language.
However, we often chose to ignore at least one of them; not seeing the big picture.
Feeling secure and being an impression cast by the mould of society may seem an easy way out. Yet, it is merely comfort food.
All the people that ever made it big, asked questions. Questions that shook their faith and foundation. Questions that changed their lives.
Life is full of mysteries and some may never find answers. Shying away may keep you living but to be truly alive is to take a crack at the riddle.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Shade It Grey
Chapter 2 : Quadratic Equations, Functions and Inequalities
Functions? Do they have functions?
I am quite bemused why my enormous Math text is filled with graphs and visual representations of equations of little importance.
Don't get me wrong.
I love Math.
It's a challenge - a bit of mental gymnastics, if you like.
There's funny numbers, squiggly lines, odd brackets, exasperating asymptotes and tangents and unrealistic variables - Yet they can all be eroded till a single satisfactory answer to a seemingly impossible question is obtained. A quest to reveal the fortified elusive truth!
Personally, I enjoy Algebra - All the transposing, xs and ys, hilarious word equations. (If Amy left New York on a train travelling 50 kmph and Zoe took a train from Toronto travelling 60 kmph, at what time would both the trains pass each other, considering they both started at the same time? I mean, how would you know if the train stopped at a junction or something?)
But Geometry, Alas! , I fail to comprehend the mysterious purpose it conceals.
Endlessly, we sketch surreal shapes - measuring their supposed volume- and draw imaginative graphs with even more complex numbers (some of which are made up).
Thus it is with great impatience that I try to decipher which side of a Quadratic Inequality to shade to get an apparent correct range of answers to the inequation.
Help.
Functions? Do they have functions?
I am quite bemused why my enormous Math text is filled with graphs and visual representations of equations of little importance.
Don't get me wrong.
I love Math.
It's a challenge - a bit of mental gymnastics, if you like.
There's funny numbers, squiggly lines, odd brackets, exasperating asymptotes and tangents and unrealistic variables - Yet they can all be eroded till a single satisfactory answer to a seemingly impossible question is obtained. A quest to reveal the fortified elusive truth!
Personally, I enjoy Algebra - All the transposing, xs and ys, hilarious word equations. (If Amy left New York on a train travelling 50 kmph and Zoe took a train from Toronto travelling 60 kmph, at what time would both the trains pass each other, considering they both started at the same time? I mean, how would you know if the train stopped at a junction or something?)
But Geometry, Alas! , I fail to comprehend the mysterious purpose it conceals.
Endlessly, we sketch surreal shapes - measuring their supposed volume- and draw imaginative graphs with even more complex numbers (some of which are made up).
Thus it is with great impatience that I try to decipher which side of a Quadratic Inequality to shade to get an apparent correct range of answers to the inequation.
Help.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Not So Study Periods
What's the link between a guitar, a stapler, CAS forms and SAT books?
They all point towards the CAS office/Sixth Form library.
It also means I am pointlessly wasting my 'Study Period' whilst a tottering pile of homework awaits me when I manage to drag my sorry tired self home.
I don't really know why teachers even bother to emphasise that it is a Study Period while in the common room, it goes under the pseudonym of 'Free'.
I am blocking out the horrid, excrutiatingly painful image of my Biology Practical write-up and wistfully enjoying in the simple pleasure of idleness. Oh the joy.
Oh waddya know? I've already let ten minutes of my 'free', or to be politically correct 'study period', leak through my lethargic fingers.
Now I shall jet away, to make more fruitful use of my time. For time is never returned, it is transient and temporary available of engraving.
Or I could always go and get a laugh out of past Year 8 Yearbooks...
Toodles.
They all point towards the CAS office/Sixth Form library.
It also means I am pointlessly wasting my 'Study Period' whilst a tottering pile of homework awaits me when I manage to drag my sorry tired self home.
I don't really know why teachers even bother to emphasise that it is a Study Period while in the common room, it goes under the pseudonym of 'Free'.
I am blocking out the horrid, excrutiatingly painful image of my Biology Practical write-up and wistfully enjoying in the simple pleasure of idleness. Oh the joy.
Oh waddya know? I've already let ten minutes of my 'free', or to be politically correct 'study period', leak through my lethargic fingers.
Now I shall jet away, to make more fruitful use of my time. For time is never returned, it is transient and temporary available of engraving.
Or I could always go and get a laugh out of past Year 8 Yearbooks...
Toodles.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Fishy
This is a poem I wrote for an English Activity in class. It's a bit crude with a few frayed ends but I decided to post it up anyway. We were given or asked to pick images from a farrago of black and whites and I ended up with a picture of an aquarium crammed with fish. A single normal fish was trashing about in its confines, stuck in the mass of ugly fish. The glass was at the point of collapsing by the looks of it. Using it literally or as a metaphor, we were meant to write a poem. And here is mine.
The neon lights flickered outside
Its dull buzz
Reverberated in the fish tank
A dozen fish
Squirmed
Cramped in its dreary confines
They breathed shallow
Every bubble, a struggle
The farrago of fishes
Trashed in their entrapment
Fighting for the top
To be the tyrant of the tank
The fittest survived at the surface
The weak bore scars of pebbles
The glass cage was their world
In it they were shackled and bound
Under the glowering eyes of microscopes
For aren’t we all…
Prisoners of Civilization?
Specimens of Society?
With Actions so transparent.
We’re all just fish.
In a treacherous sea
Just fish.
Indistinguishable fish.
Trying to be
The King of the Ocean ---x
The neon lights flickered outside
Its dull buzz
Reverberated in the fish tank
A dozen fish
Squirmed
Cramped in its dreary confines
They breathed shallow
Every bubble, a struggle
The farrago of fishes
Trashed in their entrapment
Fighting for the top
To be the tyrant of the tank
The fittest survived at the surface
The weak bore scars of pebbles
The glass cage was their world
In it they were shackled and bound
Under the glowering eyes of microscopes
For aren’t we all…
Prisoners of Civilization?
Specimens of Society?
With Actions so transparent.
We’re all just fish.
In a treacherous sea
Just fish.
Indistinguishable fish.
Trying to be
The King of the Ocean ---x
Saturday, October 31, 2009
NO Go For YES; Aspiring Students, Shattered Dreams
Imagine having all the pieces in your life just falling into place. Imagine your dream coming true. Imagine that after all your hard work and perseverance, you have attained the goal you have yearned for.
77 students, from 16 Middle East countries, experienced this adrenaline rushing thrill, having received confirmation from the Youth and Exchange Student Programme (YES); giving them the green light to head to various American universities for a year long study programme.
They underwent rigorous training complete with interviews and examinations for six months gearing up to the challenge.
Four days before their departure, when their bags were packed and the goodbyes had been said, the unforeseen happened. Their visas were cancelled.
They were left devastated, reeling from shock. Disappointment, disbelief and hopelessness came crashing down whilst their dreams were shattered and their faiths were shaken.
Inadequate housing was the poor reason given to these poor unfortunate youths.
While the 77 were left behind, the remaining 913 applicants from other parts of the world will descend upon the United States of America to embark on a new journey.
Isn’t this the height of unfairness? Not only do these unlucky teens miss out on ‘their opportunity of a lifetime’ but they have to carry the burden of seeing their fellow counterparts living the dream they once fantasized.
Further implications pursue this dilemma as these 77 applicants require re-registration at their old schools, half way through the academic year, to complete their education in their respective countries.
This programme that intended to give aspiring academics hope instead has left them heartbroken. Alternative arrangements or compensations are definitely due to these students.
Deferred participation for the next academic year, a six month YES programme starting next January and a short term four-to-six weeks YES summer leadership programme are some of the suggestions put forth by the authorities who hold the reigns of the YES programme.
However, for the Middle Eastern students, these options are not viable as it insinuates that they will remain idle for up to six months or worse, find it difficult to get a diploma.
As a student, I realize how important it is for these teenagers to fight for their ambitions to guarantee a propitious future. They cannot afford anything that jeopardizes their chances of reaching that ultimate aim.
So I propose that the committee responsible for the YES programme look into this issue seriously and provide them with temporary housing or at least pay them compensation with a guarantee that they will participate in their exchange programme in the near future.
I wish all 77 of them the very best of luck and hope that they will be requested to jump aboard the YES express once again!
They are indeed upcoming future leaders, fighting for their rights and will no doubt have a bright, successful future!
77 students, from 16 Middle East countries, experienced this adrenaline rushing thrill, having received confirmation from the Youth and Exchange Student Programme (YES); giving them the green light to head to various American universities for a year long study programme.
They underwent rigorous training complete with interviews and examinations for six months gearing up to the challenge.
Four days before their departure, when their bags were packed and the goodbyes had been said, the unforeseen happened. Their visas were cancelled.
They were left devastated, reeling from shock. Disappointment, disbelief and hopelessness came crashing down whilst their dreams were shattered and their faiths were shaken.
Inadequate housing was the poor reason given to these poor unfortunate youths.
While the 77 were left behind, the remaining 913 applicants from other parts of the world will descend upon the United States of America to embark on a new journey.
Isn’t this the height of unfairness? Not only do these unlucky teens miss out on ‘their opportunity of a lifetime’ but they have to carry the burden of seeing their fellow counterparts living the dream they once fantasized.
Further implications pursue this dilemma as these 77 applicants require re-registration at their old schools, half way through the academic year, to complete their education in their respective countries.
This programme that intended to give aspiring academics hope instead has left them heartbroken. Alternative arrangements or compensations are definitely due to these students.
Deferred participation for the next academic year, a six month YES programme starting next January and a short term four-to-six weeks YES summer leadership programme are some of the suggestions put forth by the authorities who hold the reigns of the YES programme.
However, for the Middle Eastern students, these options are not viable as it insinuates that they will remain idle for up to six months or worse, find it difficult to get a diploma.
As a student, I realize how important it is for these teenagers to fight for their ambitions to guarantee a propitious future. They cannot afford anything that jeopardizes their chances of reaching that ultimate aim.
So I propose that the committee responsible for the YES programme look into this issue seriously and provide them with temporary housing or at least pay them compensation with a guarantee that they will participate in their exchange programme in the near future.
I wish all 77 of them the very best of luck and hope that they will be requested to jump aboard the YES express once again!
They are indeed upcoming future leaders, fighting for their rights and will no doubt have a bright, successful future!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Samurai Peas: Still Kicking Arses!
After a month of being held hostage by my teacher, the Samurai Peas have finally been freed!
Hallelujah!
Finally, I can blissfully continue to draw their crude sketches during my free periods for the amusement of everyone, myself included.
With much luck and time, I hope to post them up here!
Cyber Samurai Peas! Going techno-savvy! I like it!
For now, pencil and paper should suffice. And very soon, my Samurai Peas will unsheathe their swords and dominate the World! Muhahaha!
Hallelujah!
Finally, I can blissfully continue to draw their crude sketches during my free periods for the amusement of everyone, myself included.
With much luck and time, I hope to post them up here!
Cyber Samurai Peas! Going techno-savvy! I like it!
For now, pencil and paper should suffice. And very soon, my Samurai Peas will unsheathe their swords and dominate the World! Muhahaha!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Twitter for Help!
The bird hobbled onto the court. We blinked, perplexed for a moment- the basketball forgotten and the other team, oblivious to the bird's plight, went on dunking baskets.
Poor little thing, the bird was. A sorry state- feathers ruffled, eyes half closed in the sun's glare and quite visibly traumatised by the injury.
Its gait suggested a broken leg or a fractured wing. Either way, the bird was more or else immobile with a respite of waddling a metre or so. We crowded around it, some in awe, some, like me, in anxiety and yet others simply because the rest were conglomerated at half court.
One of the girls managed to gingerly pick the bird up in cupped hands after the bird's futile attempts to take hasty flight out of fear.
After the game came to an unsavoury end after ten minutes or so, I hurried to the four girls who had decided to take the bird away from the court and harm's way.
They were standing in a ring, looking expectantly at the bird. Watching the bird.
"A little water might do him good," I suggested, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice; for before me, curled in the girl's palm lay a fragile, broken bird, weak and in need of immediate assistance.
They provided the water and the bird drank. It drank; gulped gratefully and opened a bleary eye while vigorously shaking his/her head clear. Hope.
The bell rang a dismal note signalling the end of the class. We had a dilemma.
How were we supposed to explain to our Physics Professor the reason for bringing a bird to class?
That's when it went wrong. I did something utterly stupid.
We left the bird there. In the shade, near a big, bright, lush green plant. If we ever got the chance, we'd come back for the bird, we thought. So we thought. Yet, it never happened.
I went home, muddling what was to come for that poor little bird and what fate had in store for him/her.
The next day, rushing to its hideout, I found the bird missing. It had gone.
Maybe Nature took its course and the bird healed and took flight. Maybe it wandered to a safe haven to nurse itself back to prime health. Maybe it went looking for nourishment and kept safe and secure. Maybe. Hopefully.
My heart goes out to that little, pathetic, poor, battered bird (who I have christened Hedwig/Hermes).
Get Well Soon and Be Safe, Lil Birdie!
Poor little thing, the bird was. A sorry state- feathers ruffled, eyes half closed in the sun's glare and quite visibly traumatised by the injury.
Its gait suggested a broken leg or a fractured wing. Either way, the bird was more or else immobile with a respite of waddling a metre or so. We crowded around it, some in awe, some, like me, in anxiety and yet others simply because the rest were conglomerated at half court.
One of the girls managed to gingerly pick the bird up in cupped hands after the bird's futile attempts to take hasty flight out of fear.
After the game came to an unsavoury end after ten minutes or so, I hurried to the four girls who had decided to take the bird away from the court and harm's way.
They were standing in a ring, looking expectantly at the bird. Watching the bird.
"A little water might do him good," I suggested, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice; for before me, curled in the girl's palm lay a fragile, broken bird, weak and in need of immediate assistance.
They provided the water and the bird drank. It drank; gulped gratefully and opened a bleary eye while vigorously shaking his/her head clear. Hope.
The bell rang a dismal note signalling the end of the class. We had a dilemma.
How were we supposed to explain to our Physics Professor the reason for bringing a bird to class?
That's when it went wrong. I did something utterly stupid.
We left the bird there. In the shade, near a big, bright, lush green plant. If we ever got the chance, we'd come back for the bird, we thought. So we thought. Yet, it never happened.
I went home, muddling what was to come for that poor little bird and what fate had in store for him/her.
The next day, rushing to its hideout, I found the bird missing. It had gone.
Maybe Nature took its course and the bird healed and took flight. Maybe it wandered to a safe haven to nurse itself back to prime health. Maybe it went looking for nourishment and kept safe and secure. Maybe. Hopefully.
My heart goes out to that little, pathetic, poor, battered bird (who I have christened Hedwig/Hermes).
Get Well Soon and Be Safe, Lil Birdie!
Friday, May 15, 2009
The Sum of the Surreal and the Spatial
Numbers swirl
In lateral imagination
They squirm and writhe
My angst, My vexation.
Addition, Subtraction,
Multiplication, Division,
Unreal operations
In an arena beyond vision.
Transposing, confusing
A diabolical play
Of numbers, Of signs
Stewing my brain, crushing it to pâté.
Symbols and units,
Quantities not plausible,
Rearranging into Simultaneous Equations
Solutions are impossible
Figures etched in sand,
Scribbled and Scratched,
Faint with the waves' ebb and flow;
Both sides of the equation don't seem matched.
And in this number void
More hypothetical numbers yet
Irrational, Unreal, Imaginary, Complex;
Mathematical Scrutinization on each set.
This farrago of figures
Jumbled in space
This delving into math vortex
This quest, curiosity and chase
Math, concentrated, calculated and cracked,
The ultimate playtime of a mastermind
Prodding higher thinking order,
Searching for things no one can find.
I do not see, I do not hear,
I do not understand.
The laws, theories and axioms,
That Mathematics does command.
Yet, the human mind looks
Looks for answers with no question
Scavenging for the food
That pains the digestion.
Alas! We must, ironically, surrender
And prop open the vividly unclear
And peer into the vast murky depths,
Of the omnious, foreboding Math
I fear ──Χ
In lateral imagination
They squirm and writhe
My angst, My vexation.
Addition, Subtraction,
Multiplication, Division,
Unreal operations
In an arena beyond vision.
Transposing, confusing
A diabolical play
Of numbers, Of signs
Stewing my brain, crushing it to pâté.
Symbols and units,
Quantities not plausible,
Rearranging into Simultaneous Equations
Solutions are impossible
Figures etched in sand,
Scribbled and Scratched,
Faint with the waves' ebb and flow;
Both sides of the equation don't seem matched.
And in this number void
More hypothetical numbers yet
Irrational, Unreal, Imaginary, Complex;
Mathematical Scrutinization on each set.
This farrago of figures
Jumbled in space
This delving into math vortex
This quest, curiosity and chase
Math, concentrated, calculated and cracked,
The ultimate playtime of a mastermind
Prodding higher thinking order,
Searching for things no one can find.
I do not see, I do not hear,
I do not understand.
The laws, theories and axioms,
That Mathematics does command.
Yet, the human mind looks
Looks for answers with no question
Scavenging for the food
That pains the digestion.
Alas! We must, ironically, surrender
And prop open the vividly unclear
And peer into the vast murky depths,
Of the omnious, foreboding Math
I fear ──Χ
Monday, May 11, 2009
Principals, Assemblies and Other Things That Suck
The title would have irked your curiosity or arched your skeptical eyebrow. Or both.
I'm not a pompous, air headed, fashionista, do-my-nails-match-my-eyes cheerleader nor am I a prehistoric, thick skulled, drooling, guffawing Jock.
I'm a... I'm a... Well, I'm ME. That's it.
(I'll be blogging soon about the status quo)
I don't go complaining about the lack of pink in the hallways, the crunched up lockers or even the population of nerds, dweebs and geeks. (Jocks have probably never evolved after the cavemen stage and still find unexplainable delight in picking on small fry.)
I don't whine in a fake French accent and I definitely don't keep fingering a curl of dumb blond whilst saying in a snotty voice- "This School Sucks."
Then WHY the blasphemous title, you ask?
Well, apart from the 'comic incident' and the face that the CBSE system is warped and the mentality of our teachers is twisted, today's outrageous display puts the cherry on the top.
Monday Assemblies is a Code Word. If Susan Fletcher or Artemis Fowl does happen to stumble upon this encrypted word, they'd probably decipher:
Death By Boredom
As usual, the toneless comperes droned on, brainwashing us to be better, greater individuals(to no avail).
The usual stupor wafted through the silent nearly brain dead audience, drugging them into a listless short-lived coma.
These weekly gatherings are usually concluded by a meaningless, incomprehensible speech by our Principal whose 'wise'(read:Cheap magazine ripped words) words echoed through the unresponsive auditorium.
Today, however, he did things a little differently.
No, he did strew out some pointless garbage at the end, so no need to keep your hopes up.
After the awarding of athletic achievements, he shuffled to the microphone and in his gruff, nerve wrecking, lazy voice, he said:
"I would like to call upon two girls to the stage and I would like to award them. Though I have no cups or certificates, they still need the recognition."
At this point, he raised a languid hand and gestured to two unfortunate girls in the row across from ours.
They spilled out of line and made their way,self-consciously to the centre of the stage. There, they stood, blushing in the light of hundreds of eyes watching them intently.
He continued, speaking through clenched teeth as always and through his beard:
"I would like to contribute some fils from my salary to these two girls. How generous of me. I would like to donate some money."
He paused and then grinned, cheap and cruel, his yellow teeth barred in self-appreciation.
"To purchase, for them, a pair of socks."
If the girls on stage were pink with embarrassment, I was brick red with fury and disgust.
Angry little hisses broke out through the auditorium.
We were appalled.
There he was, basking in self-content, clearly believing that he had said something 'amusing, hilarious, drop-dead-funny.'
Sick. That's the only word that swirled around my head. Sick.
Is this how the very idea of school has been distorted? Has school become a place, not where we learn, but where we are criticised for our tiny faults and slip-ups? Does it now preach sarcasm and spite instead of understanding and correcting?
Needless to say, not only were the girls thoroughly humiliated at their 'sock-less' attire, (Our uniform is complete with a pair of navy blue long, not ankle, socks.) we seemed to despise the Principal even more, if that's possible.
If it had been a movie, I would have spit ferociously on the ground with an ugly expression on and I would have rubbed my combat boot hard against the floor with the sole, shaking my fist and yelling a few carefully picked swear words. But Alas, it was not.
Ahh..well.
*Twirls six-barrel-gun on index finger and jabs it back into its artificial leather hilt on my belt with its burnished, glinting buckle. Doffs cowboy head gear in spectacular Old Wild West fashion. Tennessee accent against a growing sunset, perched upon a magnificent chestnut brown horse with a silky, glittering mane:
"There will be another day, my friend." *
I'm not a pompous, air headed, fashionista, do-my-nails-match-my-eyes cheerleader nor am I a prehistoric, thick skulled, drooling, guffawing Jock.
I'm a... I'm a... Well, I'm ME. That's it.
(I'll be blogging soon about the status quo)
I don't go complaining about the lack of pink in the hallways, the crunched up lockers or even the population of nerds, dweebs and geeks. (Jocks have probably never evolved after the cavemen stage and still find unexplainable delight in picking on small fry.)
I don't whine in a fake French accent and I definitely don't keep fingering a curl of dumb blond whilst saying in a snotty voice- "This School Sucks."
Then WHY the blasphemous title, you ask?
Well, apart from the 'comic incident' and the face that the CBSE system is warped and the mentality of our teachers is twisted, today's outrageous display puts the cherry on the top.
Monday Assemblies is a Code Word. If Susan Fletcher or Artemis Fowl does happen to stumble upon this encrypted word, they'd probably decipher:
Death By Boredom
As usual, the toneless comperes droned on, brainwashing us to be better, greater individuals(to no avail).
The usual stupor wafted through the silent nearly brain dead audience, drugging them into a listless short-lived coma.
These weekly gatherings are usually concluded by a meaningless, incomprehensible speech by our Principal whose 'wise'(read:Cheap magazine ripped words) words echoed through the unresponsive auditorium.
Today, however, he did things a little differently.
No, he did strew out some pointless garbage at the end, so no need to keep your hopes up.
After the awarding of athletic achievements, he shuffled to the microphone and in his gruff, nerve wrecking, lazy voice, he said:
"I would like to call upon two girls to the stage and I would like to award them. Though I have no cups or certificates, they still need the recognition."
At this point, he raised a languid hand and gestured to two unfortunate girls in the row across from ours.
They spilled out of line and made their way,self-consciously to the centre of the stage. There, they stood, blushing in the light of hundreds of eyes watching them intently.
He continued, speaking through clenched teeth as always and through his beard:
"I would like to contribute some fils from my salary to these two girls. How generous of me. I would like to donate some money."
He paused and then grinned, cheap and cruel, his yellow teeth barred in self-appreciation.
"To purchase, for them, a pair of socks."
If the girls on stage were pink with embarrassment, I was brick red with fury and disgust.
Angry little hisses broke out through the auditorium.
We were appalled.
There he was, basking in self-content, clearly believing that he had said something 'amusing, hilarious, drop-dead-funny.'
Sick. That's the only word that swirled around my head. Sick.
Is this how the very idea of school has been distorted? Has school become a place, not where we learn, but where we are criticised for our tiny faults and slip-ups? Does it now preach sarcasm and spite instead of understanding and correcting?
Needless to say, not only were the girls thoroughly humiliated at their 'sock-less' attire, (Our uniform is complete with a pair of navy blue long, not ankle, socks.) we seemed to despise the Principal even more, if that's possible.
If it had been a movie, I would have spit ferociously on the ground with an ugly expression on and I would have rubbed my combat boot hard against the floor with the sole, shaking my fist and yelling a few carefully picked swear words. But Alas, it was not.
Ahh..well.
*Twirls six-barrel-gun on index finger and jabs it back into its artificial leather hilt on my belt with its burnished, glinting buckle. Doffs cowboy head gear in spectacular Old Wild West fashion. Tennessee accent against a growing sunset, perched upon a magnificent chestnut brown horse with a silky, glittering mane:
"There will be another day, my friend." *
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Innocent Until Proven Guilty? Damn, No. I'm not American.
It all started that faithful morning. There I was, blissfully ignorant, leaning back in my wooden chair, humming to the creaking of the chair's rickety legs. The mighty ol' sun was beaming out there, little rays of light spilling into the classroom. I sat basking in a shaft of light, gazing out of the window at the dreamy building next door out of repeated fashion than absent-mindedness.
The calm before the storm? Aye.
And as I sat there, mentally absent from the room in which my physical self sat chained, my soul-self cherubically waltzing down the corridors of that fascinating building, a wall away, He strode in.
The effect would have been more dramatic had he been a foot taller with a hair padded head and dark, cold eyes and black attire. No. A more anti-villian.
He came in, snivelling in his worst green and pink striped shirt and sporting his usual half bald hair-do, complete with grey tufts of squiggly hair. His grey, watery eyes scanned the room at his immobile height of five feet. A despicable sight if I ever saw one.
He began his usual lecture. Moles, Molarity, Line Spectrum, Hunn's Basic Principle. Bizzare. Everyone stared back at, with vague expressions, half-concious. Yawning, with some even drooling or catching a quick forty winks, the room was silent as a mortuary.
Then, the girl at the front bench, turned around and asked me if I had done any more comics because she wanted to keep awake or rather alive till the next class.
I obliged. A mistake I will regret for years to come.
Before I move further into the narration of my sad, morbid tale, I must hit the pause button to take a minute to explain the 'comic' bit. You see, I DRAW comics. Not store bought. Not suscribed. HAND-DRAWN. Not very good ones though. But a harmless pasttime nonetheless.
So she sat there, reading it under her table, laughing under her breath at my funnies. Then He comes to focus; a climax approaching. And you all probably can envision what happens next.
He gestured for my comics, took it with him, yelled at the girl, threatened to take her to the principal's office and then stalked out... WITH MY COMICS!
No, don't get me wrong. It's tragic that she got yelled at. It would have stayed that way hadn't she gone back to reading Archies under her table the next day without a damn.
And me. Poor ol' me. Robbed of 6 months of comics. IT WASN'T EVEN MY FAULT!
But no amount of justifying myself or appealing to reason got me back my comics. *Sob*
They're still there; trapped, scared and flummoxed at their plight, caged in a teacher's musty drawer. And I really want them back. I created them, they belong to me, they're part of the family. They got me through Year 10 and I'm not leaving them behind. I'll get them back!
Stay Strong Samurai Peas!
The calm before the storm? Aye.
And as I sat there, mentally absent from the room in which my physical self sat chained, my soul-self cherubically waltzing down the corridors of that fascinating building, a wall away, He strode in.
The effect would have been more dramatic had he been a foot taller with a hair padded head and dark, cold eyes and black attire. No. A more anti-villian.
He came in, snivelling in his worst green and pink striped shirt and sporting his usual half bald hair-do, complete with grey tufts of squiggly hair. His grey, watery eyes scanned the room at his immobile height of five feet. A despicable sight if I ever saw one.
He began his usual lecture. Moles, Molarity, Line Spectrum, Hunn's Basic Principle. Bizzare. Everyone stared back at, with vague expressions, half-concious. Yawning, with some even drooling or catching a quick forty winks, the room was silent as a mortuary.
Then, the girl at the front bench, turned around and asked me if I had done any more comics because she wanted to keep awake or rather alive till the next class.
I obliged. A mistake I will regret for years to come.
Before I move further into the narration of my sad, morbid tale, I must hit the pause button to take a minute to explain the 'comic' bit. You see, I DRAW comics. Not store bought. Not suscribed. HAND-DRAWN. Not very good ones though. But a harmless pasttime nonetheless.
So she sat there, reading it under her table, laughing under her breath at my funnies. Then He comes to focus; a climax approaching. And you all probably can envision what happens next.
He gestured for my comics, took it with him, yelled at the girl, threatened to take her to the principal's office and then stalked out... WITH MY COMICS!
No, don't get me wrong. It's tragic that she got yelled at. It would have stayed that way hadn't she gone back to reading Archies under her table the next day without a damn.
And me. Poor ol' me. Robbed of 6 months of comics. IT WASN'T EVEN MY FAULT!
But no amount of justifying myself or appealing to reason got me back my comics. *Sob*
They're still there; trapped, scared and flummoxed at their plight, caged in a teacher's musty drawer. And I really want them back. I created them, they belong to me, they're part of the family. They got me through Year 10 and I'm not leaving them behind. I'll get them back!
Stay Strong Samurai Peas!
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