English Sounds/Meanings

The cat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the cat."

The hat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the hat."

The bat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the bat."

I bet these will make me mad

if it was not a dream.

What is the difference in sounds?

What is the difference in meanings?

The Three Cunning Men

A humorous short story told by my mother when I was a kid I think many of us have heard this tale before. Though it is quite popular, I have never seen a written record of it in any language. So here, I have briefly and roughly reproduced it from memory. But let me now tell it properly, the way my mother told it to me.

Once upon a time, in a small village nestled between rolling hills, there lived three men. They were not handsome men. They were not strong men. In fact, each had a peculiar flaw—but none of them was willing to admit it.

The first was called Threadlike Neck. His throat was so slender and delicate that swallowing a grape was an adventure. The second was named Scrawny Chest. His rib cage was so fragile that a hearty sneeze could trouble him for days. The third was known as Lanky Leg. His limbs were long, thin, and brittle—like dried twigs pretending to be tree branches.

One sunny morning, these three decided to go on a picnic. They met in secret behind a banyan tree, whispering like conspirators. "Listen," said Threadlike Neck, his voice a thin whistle. "No one must know about our plan. If others come, they will eat our share." "Agreed," said Scrawny Chest, puffing out his hollow chest. "This shall remain among us three." "Absolutely," added Lanky Leg, shifting his weight carefully from one foot to the other. "Not a word to anyone." And so they swore a solemn oath of secrecy.

“The next morning, while the village still slept, the three men slipped out like shadows. Carrying a large basket filled with rice, spiced meat, fresh vegetables, and pickles, they marched into the deep forest. They walked for an hour, then another, until they found the perfect spot—a clearing beside a bubbling stream, shaded by a mighty fig tree. Birds sang overhead. Butterflies danced among wildflowers. "This is the place," declared Threadlike Neck, setting down the basket with a grunt. They gathered firewood, lit a small flame, and began to cook. Soon, the aroma of simmering meat and fragrant rice filled the air. The men's mouths watered. Their stomachs growled. Lunch was almost ready. And it looked positively luscious. ” Each man eyed the food greedily. Each wanted to be the first to taste it. But none wanted to appear too eager. Finally, Threadlike Neck cleared his throat—carefully, always carefully—and spoke. "Let me check if the salt is all right," he said, as if doing everyone a great favor. Before anyone could object, he plunged his hand into the pot and fished out a large, juicy portion of meat. He lifted it to his lips. His friends watched with envy. But Threadlike Neck was in such a hurry that he did not notice—the meat contained a small, sharp bone. He gulped. The bone shot down his throat and lodged there, tight as a cork in a bottle. "Gkkk—" he gasped, clutching his neck. His eyes bulged. His face turned purple. His threadlike neck, true to its name, could not pass the bone. Within moments, the poor fool collapsed onto the forest floor. Dead.

Scrawny Chest looked at his fallen companion. For a moment, sadness flickered across his face. But then he glanced at the pot of food, still steaming and delicious, and his sorrow evaporated like morning dew. “"Well," he said cheerfully to Lanky Leg, "now there are only two of us to eat this tasty quantity. More for you and me!" He was so pleased with this realization that he decided to celebrate. He slapped his hand hard and fast against his own chest—thwack!—the way a triumphant warrior might beat his breast. But Scrawny Chest had forgotten something important. His ribs were scrawny. Fragile. Brittle as old twigs. ” At the force of his own slap, his ribs splintered like glass. A sharp crack echoed through the forest. Scrawny Chest gasped, staggered, and fell beside his friend. Within moments, he too lay still. Dead.

Lanky Leg stood alone in the clearing. Two bodies on the ground. A pot full of delicious food. And no one left to share it with. His eyes widened. His lips curled into a smile. Then a grin. Then a wide, wicked laugh. "Me?" he whispered. "Only me? All of this… just for me?" “Happiness knew no bounds. He threw his arms into the air and began to dance—a wild, victorious jig around the fire. "Me, only me!" he shouted, leaping higher and higher. "I am the luckiest man alive!" He pranced. He twirled. He kicked up leaves and dust. But Lanky Leg had forgotten something too.” His legs were lanky. Thin. Weak. Not made for dancing, and certainly not made for boasting.’On his seventh triumphant jump, his left leg buckled. Then his right. There was a sound like dry branches snapping—crack, crack—and Lanky Leg crashed to the ground. He tried to rise, but his legs would not hold him. The pain was terrible. The shame was worse. And so, with the scent of spiced meat still in his nose and no one to hear his final cry, Lanky Leg died.

And thus, the story of the three cunning men's picnic came to an end. The food they had so selfishly guarded was left untouched by human hands. But not for long.’Soon, the birds of the forest arrived—crows and mynas and bulbuls. Then came the squirrels, the wild boars, and even a shy forest fox. They ate every last grain of rice and every shred of meat. Nothing went to waste. Only the three foolish men wasted themselves.

My mother would always pause here, looking at me with kind but serious eyes, before delivering the moral: "Bragging, envy, and meanness are the garbage of foolish people." She would then add, softly: "A meal shared is a meal enjoyed. A secret hoarded is a poison swallowed alone. Do not be like the three cunning men. Do not let your own flaws become your undoing."

Another Lesson (from me to you) Looking back, I think the story teaches us even more: · Greed disguises itself as cleverness. Each man thought he was being smart. Each was merely being greedy. · Celebration without caution is dangerous. Scrawny Chest and Lanky Leg died not from others' actions, but from their own. · Secrets kept for selfish reasons often end badly. There was no need to hide the picnic. Had they invited the village, they might have lived to share the meal—and the joy. But then again, if they had been wise, there would be no story to tell. And that would be a shame, because my mother's stories were the best kind—funny, sad, and unforgettable, all at once.

 

Classmates: Who is? Who is Not?

From Right: Omar Esmail, Azad, Rizgar, Me, Deepan, Sabin, Kamal, Omar, Senior(Elizabeth), Bejeta, Madam Mamta, Madam Chitra

Disclaimer: The article below is the views and personal expressions of the author, and may not always be true. These are distant observations and are not intended to hurt anyone, explicitly or implicitly—especially some of our best friends.



A-Z of Our Class

A is for Azad, with his A-plus height.
If he ever happened to be in the army,
he would be the first to die—
an enemy would spot him gangling from afar.
(Sorry, Azad, you're the best guy.)
Except attending class often is his admitting Achilles' heel.

B is for Bejeta, a backdrop of topical blazon.
Catty is the way she barks.
She can sometimes be haughty.
There's something she doesn't believe—
not even to good boys. I don't know why,
if you ask me.

C — there's no C name in the class.
So I have a good chance to write
about the common things in the class.
But there's nothing common as such.
All things are uncommon.
You cannot describe them as such.

D is for Deepa, a difficult girl to deal with.
I often see her serious,
minding her business—
a kind of deliriously dolorous soul.
Look into her eyes:
you'll know she's burning her midnight oil.

And here comes deadly huge Dildar.
I'm always scared of him—
that one day he'll box me,
and I wonder if Mr. Doc could fix my bones.
But Dildar wouldn't do such things.
He's the most delightful and dependable person.
He wouldn't tell a lie, even if everyone else lied to me.

E — there's no E name I've ever heard in this class.
I don't want to show my ego
by writing what everyone dislikes.
But the fact is: there's someone with ego among us.

And here comes F — the failure.
The thought of it shakes me with fright.
To fight with failure is to study only.
There are some who fight tough
but still flunk.

G — when I think of G, only one thing comes to mind:
the great shakers of boys—
the girls, of course.
There are four girls in the class.
I think some love Lady Gaga too much,
or some the latest Gangnam Style.

H is a humbling class,
but sometimes it becomes a horrible humdrum
because some students pick holes in uselessly.
I think some of us badly need hemlock.
I have no say. Everyone has a hundred percent rights.

And here comes I — everyone is an I, an individual.
I is ill-fated students taught by ill-equipped lecturers.
I can imagine an ill-assorted future for all of us.

J — what a jerk?
Keep your eyes on some jabbering jerks.
They believe they're jacks of all trades,
but when it comes to doing something,
they're empty jars. Move on…

To K.
Kamal's presence is very necessary in the kangaroo court.
The class would go wild with him.
The lecturers would take half the class,
and the other half would be his—
and Dildar would close his eyes and ears tight.
Such a loquacious man
who loves killer looks.

And I personally want to add something to this K.
There are some students as small as kids,
and they do everything:
killjoys, kickers, kissers—
and kudos, I'm not that good at any of these things.

L — I'll be very laconic here,
as some people only think of love
and have lachrymal tears in their eyes.
I suspect someone is a ladyboy from the class.

M — yes, Mohamein is a small mombati in the class.
He'd attend a week less per semester
and still pass easily.
I'm a fan of him.
I'll try to follow his absenteeism next semester.

N is for Najiba, a nice woman.
Needless to say, she does her needful.
Who would forget to nag
and drag the whole class like some?
Believe me: she's unbelievably logical and true.

Oh, here is O — Omar, a tough guy to consider.
The future onus of the country's PM falls on him,
yet he doesn't have an even-odd job now.
Someday, someone will write an ode about him, I guess.
But for now, he treats class like an open market—
moving off and on, out.

You know, we have two Omars, making Omar square.
This one is Omar Esmail, whose actions speak louder than words.
He throws his hands hard, like playing coins.
He opines and oscillates on his opinions.
He says, "Hi Sabin," many times
until Sabin is fully tired of replying.
Then he sits,
pokes his opinions, and moves out—outside.

P — here I get to play with words again.
P is for Penjor, one of my colleague teachers in Bhutan.
He pokes his nose everywhere:
in the playground, in clubs, in dancing,
with ladies, with boys, in meetings, in eating—
everywhere. He seems really versatile,
but not as much as you'd think.
He blacks his face everywhere,
so he ends up in everyone's black books.
You know what everyone silently calls him?
"Phallus Penjor" — that's what they shout from behind the mountain.

Q — let me not quack here more.
I'll move quickly to R,
which is quite interesting to read.

R is for Rizgar, a rabble-rouser
who seems to run the race faster than others.
What a racket! He thinks he knows everything
yet comes to class with nothing — not even a pen.
God forbid, alas! He flunks, acheo!
I like your funny rags.

S is for Saacha — that's me, a sophisticated guy.
I sometimes cannot understand myself.
I wonder whether I'm on Mars or Earth.
And worse, I have four balls —
which is why I believe I'm an alien.

Here's another S — not me, it's Sabin.
Sabin is always on the move with her satchel,
ready to flee from the tedious class.
I think Saturday is her best day.
She may be physically a little sore,
but I think her heart is as white as Maida flour.
She's been looking for a boyfriend,
just like I've been looking for a girlfriend!

And here's another S.
The greatest news for the letter S is
that the highest number of names in the world begin with S.
So it is. Who cares?
Srinath's presence doesn't make much hue or cry.
He's a dead log.
He comes and goes like a wounded dog.
He tries hesitantly to poke out,
but the lecturers' hectoring trims him nowhere. Pity, no?

T — now it's time to say Tata.
No — where are U, V, W, X, Y, Z?
They're in the line above.
No need to talk about Umbrella, Virgin, Xanadu,
because after Y comes Z — Zamindar,
who will come and collect all the money
for reading this zany article.

Five Dons of AIMS: Some Interesting Facts about My Professors

We encounter many teachers throughout our years of schooling. Most of these encounters gradually become ordinary and fade into insignificance as we progress in our careers. Yet I believe that our teachers deserve far more admiration and gratitude than we typically offer—for they shape us in ways we only recognize years later.

Many great teachers have made an impact on my life. Most of them have been kind, hardworking, and patient—possessing every quality a good person should have. They appreciated me, motivated me, and helped me find my way. They were epitomes of virtue, and simply by watching them, I learned to be more patient, caring, and empathetic. Today, I am grateful to have had such wonderful teachers who left lasting marks on my life.

Through my years as a student, I have come to understand that a good teacher requires more than just subject knowledge. A teacher needs the ability to deliver engaging lectures, a sense of humor, and a vivid teaching style that brings life into the classroom. A teacher with humor not only enhances the relationship between students and teachers but also transforms learning and studying into something fun and joyful. Moreover, a humorous teacher can make students pay more attention in class—because laughter, after all, is the best attention-grabber.

Five Dons of AIMS

To pay my respect and homage to my past and present teachers, I have briefly described (having nothing much to do today) my current batch of professors. The views below are purely personal expressions, and they may not always be true. These are my distant observations and are not intended to hurt anyone, explicitly or implicitly.

1. Mr. Prabha: The Humorous Critic Mr. Prabha is as humorous as his looks suggest. I think he was Charlie Chaplin in his previous birth. I still remember him once imitating Chaplin's walk perfectly in class. My first impression of Mr. Prabha was that he seemed callous and harsh. He frequently throws out remarks like "foolish" and "useless," and he always finds the negative side of even the most positive things. For example: "Gandhiji was great, BUT…" "Your answer is okay, BUT…" There is always a but. I think half of his mind is filled with that butt!

He tries to teach us Derrida's critique of criticism—one of the most head-breaking theories. And I'm afraid he does that successfully. He is not an easy person to argue with. Last time, one of the most talkative students in our class argued with him about something (I can't remember exactly), but Mr. Prabha's cogent counter-arguments turned that student's face as red as a ripening apple. Mr. Prabha is the most reliable teacher in the college. He follows his daily plans precisely and sincerely. Yet he can sometimes be as careless and mindless as he can be disciplined—I don't know why. He talks and talks and talks on a topic, sometimes making the topic itself seem useless. But I will say this: he cleverly watches every individual student, especially the girls (hahaha). He knows who has understood the lecture and who has merely been pretending to listen.

Mr. Prabha has also presented himself as a scholar of other subjects and areas. He is something of a jack of all trades. He not only teaches us American literature but also Post-Colonialism, Literary Criticism, and Gender Studies—though he himself has confessed that he cannot teach Linguistics or grammar. I think he is well-rounded in his own way. Just as teachers love well-rounded students, I also admire a teacher who is well-rounded across multiple areas. A small note to Mr. Prabha: You are the teacher who can stir and shake the milk very well. We understand your lectures better than we (or at least I) can understand you. You are a great critic, but (I use your word) please try not to demotivate us with the negative beliefs of your own understanding. I personally like your personable way of cracking satirical jokes and asking rhetorical questions to brighten the atmosphere. Life is a mixture of great varieties—both positive and negative. Thank you for that.

2. Mrs. Mamta: The Elegant All-Rounder Mrs. Mamta is another all-rounder professor. She is very pleasing to the eyes of any beholder. Her demeanors are as elegant as she is. She will say "Hi" if you pass by her. She is good. Truly good. I would like to sum up madam in one sentence: you possess the best qualities that a human being should have. Just last week, a friend from another department told me how kind you were to him. I feel lucky to have you as a teacher so that I can instill some of your good values, habits, and work ethics into my own future students. But before that, I must first instill them in myself!

Mrs. Mamta is sometimes humorous, especially when she contorts her face after hearing unexpected remarks from students. She has a habit of folding her hands, resting them on her hips in a typical manner, and making a comical face. I like it. She wears colorful traditional saris most of the time.

Mrs. Mamta has also presented herself as a scholar of other subject areas. She is another jack of all trades. She not only represents the English Department and fights on its behalf but also teaches us American Literature, Post-Colonialism, Literary Criticism, TELL, and has even tried her hand at teaching us how to answer examination questions. She works very hard. I have seen her textbooks filled with colorful marks and paper notes stuffed between the pages. I think she is truly an all-rounder. Just as teachers love well-rounded students, I admire a teacher who is well-rounded in all areas.   A small note to Mrs. Mamta:

You are the teacher who can speak eloquently. Your sweet speeches and presentations thrash and crash through even the most difficult topics. Thank you, and thank you for giving concern to every individual in the class.

3. Mr. Samuel: The Vanishing IntellectualMr. Samuel is a lost guy from the college. If you are looking for Mr. Samuel, you must arrive before everyone else wakes up. He is present in the college for only a short time in the morning. Then he vanishes for months—off to evaluation duties, we are told. And when he returns, he opens his mouth wide in a big "O," bulges his eyes in great surprise, and asks, "What happened?"

He has a great sense of fun hidden inside him, and he unleashes it often during his limited time in the classroom. He looks very intelligent and kind of high-class—a high-flyer, if you will. He looks especially great when he wears his spectacles.   Mr. Samuel is a very friendly person. I know that for a fact. He speaks in a seemingly superficial way, but his words are full of deeper meanings. He is very trimmed—a kind of brief-loving person. "Take it easy," he says. But life is not that easy, Mr. Samuel. His first and second semester teachings were far better than his third semester offering, Linguistics. I think he is dwindling, and I am afraid he might not even turn up in the fourth semester. Let us pray. In fairness, I think this is not entirely his fault—the blame always goes to the administration for not providing us with proper classes for many lecturers. 

Mr. Samuel has a vast store of knowledge. He knows his stuff. He is confident. Only recently, I chatted with a classmate and said that Mr. Samuel has the potential to be the best teacher, if given the chance. Regardless, you are already one of my best lecturers and role models. There is something in my mind that keeps asking me to book your ways. Only some people can truly affect you. Thank you, Mr. Samuel, for your impact.

4. Mrs. Parveen: The Worried Guardian Mrs. Parveen possesses so many good qualities: tolerance, kindness, sympathy, empathy, and more. I admire her most for these. I have not seen many teachers like her. She has been trying her level best. Her teachings were well organized and well arranged in the first semester and the first half of the second semester. She used to prepare thoroughly and present well using a projector. I don't know why, but the third semester has been tiring for her. Like Mr. Samuel, she is also busy with evaluations, and you cannot catch her even with a spy trap.   Mrs. Parveen sometimes treats her master's students like elementary schoolchildren. She scolds and bullies for no apparent reason. She once picked up a stick and threatened us—though it became more of a joke than a real threat. Many students hardly listen to what she says. Because only a few pay attention, there is always a small remark about her at the end of each class. The big mouths complain that she has not taught them anything or provided any notes on the topics.

Mrs. Parveen is as worried as her students about exam results. She pokes her nose into the exams, clears some doubts, and then disappears. All of us smile at her goodness. But for this third semester, the subject TELL has become a real HELL for some people—especially those who have not attended classes and those who took her lectures too lightly. No worries, though; it's all about teaching methods and some mechanisms of teaching. I myself have not even lifted any Xeroxed papers. I have decided to look at the topics and bluff on the paper. That's it. I shared this happy news with a friend yesterday, and guess what he said? He limped high and declared, "Let's go to the party!" It's party time, Mrs. Parveen. Don't worry too much about your subject, and no need to poke inside the examination hall this time. This time we have to drag Mr. Samuel instead (hahaha). We'll do it, madam. Thank you for making us—or at least me—do things for ourselves.

5. Mrs. Chitra Das Gupta: The Sweet Critic Mrs. Chitra Das Gupta is a dolly and jolly lecturer. She left us in the middle of the semester, leaving us in a rolly-polly mood. Now that she has left, I don't feel like writing about her. I don't understand why teachers of critical subjects must always be taken out of the ring. Now she criticizes us from a long distance. She has a vast knowledge of English, and I deeply respect her.

Mrs. Chitra has a peculiar habit of conducting hush-hush business. I sometimes wonder whether it is her secretive nature that keeps her from being seen around the college. She dares to do it right in front of the class. She will place her palm on the side of her mouth and whisper to a certain group of students. Don't whisper, madam—even walls have ears.

Mrs. Chitra was a great teacher, except for her tendency to repeat herself. She would sit and mull over certain lines again and again—most of the time straying outside the topic. Her favorite lines were, "Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, little star…" I remember she would repeat these lines no fewer than three times in a single class. Her examples were sometimes very limited to this twinkle rhyme and stories from her family life—especially about her husband. I miss you, madam, and I hope your husband is doing well.

Mrs. Chitra was a generous woman. If there is one thing I truly miss about her, it is her sweet ladoos. She would bring ladoos and other sweets once or twice a week. I regret now that I ate her sweets and had nothing to give her in return. Only after she left did I understand how good sharing truly feels. Thank you for sharing—sharing criticism as well as ladoos. You have taught me to share.

Teachers have the very important responsibility of shaping the lives of impressionable learners. With this responsibility comes great pride and great joy. Therefore, all teachers should strive to become what is considered a "good teacher." A good teacher can be defined as someone who constantly pushes students to do their best while simultaneously making learning interesting and creative. A positive or negative influence from a teacher early in life can have a profound effect on a child's future. The five professors I have described here—each with their quirks, their humor, their flaws, and their greatness—have shaped me in ways I am only beginning to understand. They have taught me not only literature and criticism but also patience, empathy, resilience, and the value of sharing (both knowledge and ladoos). For that, I remain forever grateful..