Saturday, December 15, 2012

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..

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Happy Birth Day Pema Tashi

It was a great day when you were born. I can still remember the moment I first saw you as a tiny baby—how you took my breath away. I loved you then, and I love you now. Thank you for being with us, and I thank God for that. As we celebrate your birthday, we also celebrate the anniversary of your arrival in this world—and how you made it a better, happier place for us. The 12th of December will always be an auspicious day for us.

Now, though we are far apart, you are always inside me. I cry out with happiness when I hear your voice in my dreams, and I cry out when I talk to you. You are always here. I pray for you. I miss you, my dear baby.

You have a place in this world that is unique, and so many paths to walk. You have so many dreams to seek, so many talents, so much goodness and rightness within you. You are the golden rays of the sun. And know this: you are our heart, our loving child. We wish you health and happiness. We will do everything for you. We will surround you, making you feel safe, happy, comfortable, and prosperous. We love you, and we care for you. Always.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

My Son

My son Pema
Is a bouncing boy.
He calls himself Rama
And makes Him a toy.

His full name is Pema Tashi.
He likes being called Dorji instead.
He throws a fuss if I say Yeshi—
Better his father's last name instead.

I tell him a name is just a name,
Don't make such a nonsense flame.
It's not where you came from,
But you can still make good fame.

His only aim: to be a truck driver.
He brings many trucks, breaks them too,
Then throws them in the nearby river.
He asks me, "Is a real truck that weak? Is that true?"

He calls me Tom and himself Jerry.
He calls me Eon and himself Ben Ten.
We bet—our team was in a hurry—
Then he smacks me till I'm beaten.

We are like Kenchosum, we are three.
My wife and I do everything for his happiness.
He is the only fruit on our tree.
Let him be anyone—for human goodness.

Friday, November 16, 2012

Nothing


He has nothing today-
nothing exactly,
and nothing more.
And nothingness enshrouds him.
Nothing is worthwhile.
Nothing.

There is nothing as such-
only the sound of rustling,
and nothing more.
Mute, deaf, dumb, and numbed-nothing
Not even a heartbeat.
Nothing.


There is nothing in life.
He is gone today,
leaving life behind.
Hopes, dreams, and wishes-all dead.
Nothingness is all he has.
Nothing.

Nothing will last to the end.
It’s as empty,
 as useless as
a smile from a minute ago
that shifts into tears.
 Nothing.


The world is nothing to him.
He Cannot hold, cannot play, cannot secure.
It’s all nothing-
because he is nothing.
Everything has become nothing.
All that's alive is nothingness,
triumphing over something.
Nothing is what his life has become now-
his dreams lying cold and dead on the ground.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Who DOESN’T Try?

From time to time, we get demoralized by people who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth—probably the same spoon they now use to stir their gourmet coffee while we struggle with instant. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have achieved great heights without doing much. You know the type. They yawn and succeed. We sweat and fail. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of capabilities but are left in the dust. Talented, brilliant, hardworking—and somehow still eating dust while others eat cake. From time to time, we get demoralized by people who have lots of love but are betrayed by the same love. They give their heart, and someone uses it as a doormat.

Everything is unequal. George Orwell's Animal Farm rightly says, "All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others." In other words, the pigs get the good beds. We get the straw. And no one even asks if we're comfortable.

Anyway, life is not all about comparison. At least, that's what I tell myself while secretly comparing. But honestly, I am not so obsessed. I look for a place or path where I can have enough space to stay or walk on. That's it. A plate of rice is enough for me. Maybe with an egg on a good day. And if someone throws in a pickle, I call it a feast.

Life will change, I thought when I was a boy. I was so innocent. As I realize now, life doesn't change—it just keeps changing its mind. And it's only the beginning of overcoming trials and tribulations. The beginning, mind you. Not the middle. Not the end. Just the first of many, many rounds.

I cared so very much about the fruits, not about how a tree is nurtured and taken care of. Classic mistake. When I jumped to get fruits from an un-nurtured tree, the fruits were dreadfully small. Like, embarrassingly small. The kind of fruit that makes other fruits laugh.

Life is trying and trying and even more trying—not axing the dreams. It's trying. I have tried to do many things in my life, but most of them failed. Again and again. I tried to work hard to reach the target I had thought, but my work hung in the vacuum of nowhere. Hardly anyone recognized my toils. Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Or maybe it was an unreachable fate. Whatever it was, it didn't come with a manual.

I tried to write. It faltered devastatingly. Some sentences still lie on the floor, unfinished and ashamed. But I am ever trying. I was hurt, but I move on. The bad parts shape me into a better person—like a rock being carved by a very slow, very patient, slightly drunk sculptor. I tried liking my job, but others didn't like the way I worked. Without knowing anything, it was also fagging—a fancy word for exhausting labor with no applause. I tried to fulfill my parents' expectations, but that kept putting me off to the future. Honestly, they were supposed to fulfill my expectations. I think we got the roles reversed somewhere. I tried to mask happiness, but the internal force was more powerful. I am a victim of my own face. It betrays me constantly. I tried very many alternatives to bring my life to my satisfaction, but every trying is as useless as not trying at all. The more I try, the more worries I have that anguish my problems further. The more problems I encounter, the more solutions I try to find. But the solutions are far hidden behind the mountains. Probably behind the same mountains where my missing socks go.

God forbid me not from not trying. (Yes, read that twice. That's how confused I am.) I will keep on trying. I say this because when everything fails, in the end, one hope keeps me kicking: knowing that I have my family to embrace me and show me that there is still love around me. So I will keep on trying. I am not an escapee. I can't give up easily.

BUT... what can I try now? Good question. If you have answers, please send them by pigeon. Or email. Or just shout.

Anyway, hope keeps waking up. Even when I want to sleep in, hope shows up with a loud alarm and a cheerful smile. Annoying, but useful. And this story keeps me believing there is something in life—an artificially-kind-of-real that we need to display to live our lives forth. Here is the story:

A man bought twelve flowers: eleven real and one fake. He said, "I will love you until the last flower dies." And this is the irony of life: to fake and live, or to live and fake. Either way, the fake flower never dies. So technically, he loves forever. But also technically, he cheated. And that, my friend, is life in a nutshell: beautiful, flawed, and slightly dishonest.