Orchestra
There was nothing happening since morning when all of a sudden I felt ripples in the nerves.
A thud on the floor,a bang on the desk, the slamming of the door, the ringing of the bell sounded like a cacophony in my mind when I was relieved after the first period. What am I going to do with these class 9 brats, known for their skills in everything odd and ugly yet nourishing a secret desire to stand out of the lot making a world of difference in their lives?. I had already planned my composition but they wanted to play their own music all the time, irrespective of the fact whether they were playing the right key or not.
As I climbed up the stairs after lunch, I saw them coming one by one.The holidays had blown the trumpet, but their arrival was heralded with a melancholy strain from my side. They should have come late....
Manjula Padmanabhan's 'Slumcake Millionaires' slowed down my thoughts as the librarian played a soft tune in her monitor and the 8th graders whispered amongst each other about their holiday inuendoes. The article juxtaposes the rural urban mentality in the so called elite societies where a 60 year old 'baby' is gifted with a cake that resembles a slum. At that point a girlish laughter was flute to my ears........
'It is reported to have been created with shanties, pipes and a road sign with the celebrity's age displayed as the 'gali number'.Her husband is either a disllusioned lover or a down-to-earth fool.
The drums beat faster with the arrival of two trucks loaded with God knows what that could have as well caused gastronomical disaster;- 'Would it show a greater sense of humor and/or irony if there had been candles in the shape of the slum-dwellers?'.........
' The husband of the sixty year old birthday baby is reported to have accused cake-critics for being humorless. The couple is known for their support to worthy causes and in particular to pavement dwellers....
Here the AC takes a new sound....
.So perhaps they should have responded to the criticism by gifting the residents of the slum closest to their residence a cake of matching size, but made in the shape of their own apartment building.
The bell rings an alarm. The period was over.
The flutttering of the papers on the teachers desk, the loud male voice followed by a slow dragging female monotone set the music for the noon. I perspired to get the wi-fi configuration on my laptop and fell mute at the turn of events. My MTS USB was not working. Spoons fell crashing in the box outside the dining hall,water splashed and poured heavily down a pipe from the second floor of the hostel and people voiced out loudly over someone's mistake.
Don Gunda who claims to be a student of mine happened to leave a message in Facebook. A not so serious interaction somewhat helped me divert to a different strain. Allowing myself to plod over the pages of the text book, I went for dinner. The sitar, the tabla, the congo all started playing at once when my mind raced through the project work prescribed for them. The wi-fi seemed to have taken out lyrics from my soul.
The keyboard would do more had I resorted to writing down my plans, ( I would have suited the role of a percussionist for the day) but thank God, as of now the music is all set for tomorrow.
'August Rush'.......
I remember the movie where the child creates his own music listening and hearing, hearing and listening to the beat of the drums, the tapping of the foot, the flapping of the wings, the dribbling of the basket ball, all in consensus giving rise to systematic patterns of beats and rhythms.A thud on the floor,a bang on the desk, the slamming of the door, the ringing of the bell sounded like a cacophony in my mind when I was relieved after the first period. What am I going to do with these class 9 brats, known for their skills in everything odd and ugly yet nourishing a secret desire to stand out of the lot making a world of difference in their lives?. I had already planned my composition but they wanted to play their own music all the time, irrespective of the fact whether they were playing the right key or not.
As I climbed up the stairs after lunch, I saw them coming one by one.The holidays had blown the trumpet, but their arrival was heralded with a melancholy strain from my side. They should have come late....
Manjula Padmanabhan's 'Slumcake Millionaires' slowed down my thoughts as the librarian played a soft tune in her monitor and the 8th graders whispered amongst each other about their holiday inuendoes. The article juxtaposes the rural urban mentality in the so called elite societies where a 60 year old 'baby' is gifted with a cake that resembles a slum. At that point a girlish laughter was flute to my ears........
'It is reported to have been created with shanties, pipes and a road sign with the celebrity's age displayed as the 'gali number'.Her husband is either a disllusioned lover or a down-to-earth fool.
The drums beat faster with the arrival of two trucks loaded with God knows what that could have as well caused gastronomical disaster;- 'Would it show a greater sense of humor and/or irony if there had been candles in the shape of the slum-dwellers?'.........
' The husband of the sixty year old birthday baby is reported to have accused cake-critics for being humorless. The couple is known for their support to worthy causes and in particular to pavement dwellers....
Here the AC takes a new sound....
.So perhaps they should have responded to the criticism by gifting the residents of the slum closest to their residence a cake of matching size, but made in the shape of their own apartment building.
The bell rings an alarm. The period was over.
The flutttering of the papers on the teachers desk, the loud male voice followed by a slow dragging female monotone set the music for the noon. I perspired to get the wi-fi configuration on my laptop and fell mute at the turn of events. My MTS USB was not working. Spoons fell crashing in the box outside the dining hall,water splashed and poured heavily down a pipe from the second floor of the hostel and people voiced out loudly over someone's mistake.
Don Gunda who claims to be a student of mine happened to leave a message in Facebook. A not so serious interaction somewhat helped me divert to a different strain. Allowing myself to plod over the pages of the text book, I went for dinner. The sitar, the tabla, the congo all started playing at once when my mind raced through the project work prescribed for them. The wi-fi seemed to have taken out lyrics from my soul.
The keyboard would do more had I resorted to writing down my plans, ( I would have suited the role of a percussionist for the day) but thank God, as of now the music is all set for tomorrow.
Comments
Post a Comment