A Requiem for Education

It was time for reason to flee

When Jaggu took over UGC,

For his well-timed exit from  JNU

Saved him from the falling debris,

Of that now- scrunched up university.

 

Everyone’s heart was in their mouth,

Knowing   twas DU’s time to go south

That is when in stepped HERA Pheri

Plus other practices jo Jaggu ne en route gheri!

Promoting questionable exams, benefitting neither meri nor teri !

 

Those were tiny shoes he had to fill,

 Vacated by previous VCs who had made DU ill

One had even opined that a little plagiarism was good,

This Jaggu at UGC speedily understood.

 Hence Michigan’s protocols have now become DU’s staple food

 

Our university years have lengthened,

And our specialized syllabi have shrunk!

 "No, don’t get into a funk,"

Jaggu declares, much strengthened:

 "In the new economy student fees will form a huge chunk."

 

 We asked :” What about ethics and equality and research standards?”

 He replied :” On such overloads,  why  must  energy  be  squandered?”

 “We promise ease of reduced teaching and guarantee pleasure

 Over four years you will be granted much more leisure.

 Why does such immanence worry you in undue measure?”

 

“ Our leaders, they are our national treasure,

 We must  not subject them to any more pressure,

 At all times, the university, student and teacher

In the leader’s diminishment must not feature

The ill educated leader is now an iconic creature.”

 

 “All education must take a hike,

So everyone go pedal your bike,

let us whip up the froth and fluff

 let no one dare to call our bluff,

 Less must be in fact, much much more than enough.”

 

Thus will NEP trip,  nip and rip education,

 Pushing students onto an overpriced  vacation

Under this new policy of Ignorance,

Education will forever be in a trance.

See how our politicians jump up and prance.

 

Meanwhile let us iterate as we so heavily fall

Know this: The anguished writing on the wall

  Higher education was not built by chance

 All those of you continuing to look askance

At innocent minds speared  through  mischance.

 Will you not end, this relentless,  macabre dance?

 Of Newspapers and New Mornings. 

Every morning in the cold season, as I stumble out of bed and into living, I focus on getting my limbs in readiness for the day. With a tall mug filled with a hot beverage, I ease myself into a comfortable sofa  and in the light of a lit  table lamp surf through newspapers. Invariably there is little to read. The world is falling apart; we've destroyed as  many institutions as could be destroyed and  damaged as much of the environment as we could, although grand national plans continue to march on relentlessly.  Meanwhile everyone in power is turning upon  anyone  out of  power, while much muscle flexing and badgering continues  between  those who occupy high offices, as part of the bid to worry people who stand outside them. 

So I quickly shift from dismal  news to stuff that is more diffuse, because  my brain cells  demand to be  fed some stimulation that will  keep Alzheimer's and dementia at bay, before I succumb to  the coup that macular degeneration  will achieve in due course. My solution to postpone  ageing and to contribute to a better world is now focused on solving word and number puzzles. 

I spent a considerable part of the previous year sucked in by wordle and its multiplying kin quordle and phrazle and so on, deeply enmeshed in a combination of propelled speed and power. until one morning, while I lay in bed a little longer, it struck me that this addiction to various cults in the wordle family had given me a grasp on floating alphabets and all I did was to place one letter next to another until my moment of revelation arrived. I got the correct combination and the page revealed a green light, almost florescent, that told me I had  conquered, in other words, mastered the word of the day. I felt powerful for a long time, and turbo-charged as well. I usually got wordle most days, at least by the third try, so as an indicator it suggested that my gray cells were ageing well. My success  with Quordle was about 75 percent. I got three of the four words right, but my moment of octane filled pleasure came from phrazle because I got the entire phrase  very very quickly on most days. So the adrenalin flowed on and on for  months on end.

To go back to the morning of the reckoning, I  had written very little of note and lacked  motivation to write altogether. Worse, once I ran through the quordle clan, I tackled the spellathon next and followed it up with three sets of  sudoko, I felt  my brain cells had had a workout  that left them in a great state of health and that therefore I might as well as  idle the rest of the day away.  So that fateful morning I looked  carefully at the five letter wordle in front of me: It was probable "strip,"  and in the meanwhile the phrazle for the day announced  "Break a Leg." I puzzled over both,  wondering at the subliminal messages. Normally, my brain would race over the multiple meanings encrusted around the word  "strip" and search for synonyms and then try and figure out the history of the expression "break a leg", which has little to do with an actual incantation  for bodily injury, being an expression  used to wish good luck  to actors staging a play,  .

 I reflected  that in an earlier time, people often opened religious texts written in the older languages of the world and accepted the first phrase or sentence their eye fell upon as the message for the day. They dwelt upon it and explored and examined that particular idea at great length.  A version of such engagement became  a set  practice in middle school as well, wherein the thought of the day, would be put up on the general notice board and would be copied out by the class prefects on the black board of each classroom.

 I thought back to the debates we had over " honesty is the best policy" and  the conclusion we reached about how "make hay while the sun shines" discusswed both opportunity and expediency. There was also the practice of the local community that listened to the Hari katha being read or went off to listen to an exposition of the Ramayana Epic.  For those who wanted something more modern, there were LP records, with a range of music and  readings of plays and poetry. How had I exchanged all those diurnal  spaces to engage with  a single word and phrase? It seemed a very slight transaction altogether, in retrospect.

 I was overwhelmed with the feeling  that I could do more for my gray cells and  for the pink cells in my heart as well as  the silver cells in  my soul. The gray cells are the one that occupy my brain at rest and become golden when illumined by ideas. The pink cells live in my heart and inhabit my emotional life, while the silver cells of my soul help me to process and think through ideas and make me examine closely the choices I opt for. Since then, I have signed off on all the wordle and phrazle Whatsapp  teams I was a member of. Now new wordles no longer serve as clickbait. 

 I have gone back to doing spellathon in the daily newspaper. and the odd Sudoko. However, I  have figured out why I had graduated to Worldle Inc  in the first place. The daily newspapers that set up a page of quizzes, cartoons, crosswords and sudokus and spellathons  have now collectively concluded   that mindful pleasure is not to be offered  as a premium to the interested reader.  For those of us still buying newspapers, the cover page is a shout out to IAS aspirants and those in search of coaching classes. However, the entertainment page has been shrinking year by year, column by column, inch by inch,  word by word and alphabet  by alphabet. The crossword squares are miniscule, the crossword clues themselves, grow smaller by the year. The spellathon has also shrunk, but the font can still be read by the naked eye. With the exception of the Hindu which has a decent sized sudoko, doing the crossword and sudoko  in other newspapers  causes severe eye strain. The other curious  thing is that newspapers offer easy and cryptic crosswords, but provide a  solitary black and white square  for writing out the answers. . The logic seems to be as follows :  You can either do the easy crossword or the cryptic one. We do not believe in choice. This is odd, isnt it? As the buyer of a newspaper, surely I have the right to do  both the  easy and the cryptic crosswords? How do I write down two sets of answers in a singularly marked square?

" No, you cannot have such a choice;" the newspapers seem to chine in unison. "We are developing unidimensional  proto-types. Proto-types, who need not strain to read the small print, literally and figuratively." 

" Could you not have larger fonts and illustrations and  provide  the easy and the cryptic clue crosswords their own individual black and white boxes?  Surely such an act will not put newspapers in the red?" 

 Undeniably,  nothing newsworthy has been  published in India of late. So  this is not a clarion call for an increase in the size of the font for  the  Editorial,  Opinions, Letters to the Editor or Report page.  All I want to know is this: What  is this malice  that has gripped the jugular of entertainment?  Surely, the  entertainment page can provide more joy by the use  of larger fonts?  Are we not to be allowed any mindful pleasures at all? Are we being made to  follow the Kartavya path, whereby  all pleasure and laughter must be relinquished? Small wonder then that newspapers, without any real news, without any arguments, without any legible infotainment and with  diminutive  fonts aggravating reader-discomfort are losing out to the digital world. The font size in the digital world and the material for viewing  continues to be attractive. I can watch Pathan on Prime TV and  amazing, award-worthy documentaries such as The Air We Breathe on You-Tube. If newsprint is losing out to the audiovisual film, it is  not because "the times, they are a changing," it is because the fonts of newsprints, they have "been  a shrinking," along with news and views for a long time now. 

 Clamouring Clerodendrum

Delhi is a city of extremes... It swings slowly between  between opposite ends of the spectrum over a period of twelve months, but continues to give us glimpses of its incredible beauty through its flora and birdlife, both of which are diverse and proliferating.  I love its trees and creepers , many of which have travelled from exotic climes ,  armed with flowers in  incredible colours , names, shapes and sizes. I love the wild rose, the thin pink-tipped jasmine, the plump mogras, the passionflower,  the shankh pushp, the madhumalti, the wisteria and the trumpet flowers, to say say nothing of the multi-hued bougainvillea  that can climb trees and walls and electric poles and street wires and then send down thorny leaf-curtains  well-loved by sparrows, but for me the creeper that embodies the spirit of Delhi is the clerodendrum, a hardy creeper that I have seen  densely populating  walls around homes, schools, colleges and public institutions. Most creepers in fact are gregarious, they are nature's climbers after all, and reach new heights  and newer destinations more often than not. 

When a small spot opened up in front of my house, several years ago, I planted a clerodendrum creeper that was eaten alive by an itinerant cow before it could get its act together. In recent years, since cows are now schooled in goshalas and are seldom allowed to stroll down colony roads, unless bedecked in a heavy embellished sheet and patrolled by an attendant,  I embarked upon Project Clerodendrum again by purchasing yet another creeperling from a nearby nursery. I planted it in the same spot , but a giant mulberry tree which was now lording it over the section of the street shut out the creeperling's sun. Listless, it  took on a grass like identity and grew at the rate of  half an inch every year, but couldn't really put a foot forward because it got  very little sunlight. For a while it straggled, living and partly shrinking, until last year,  a newly appointed maali used  a long string to lead the clerodendrum up the walled path.  I  wondered howthe attached string would help if  we did not chop off  the overhang of the mulberry tree.  When I broached the subject with Rakesh,  my not- newly-hired-anymore maali, about trimming the  mulberry branch, he announced that the clerodendrum required no such assistance. Puzzled l began to  trace the movement of  the single vine  climbing up the wall of my house and discovered to my delight that it had  leaped and bounded to a height of 17 feet  and then spread itself out atop the mosaic platform  that sheltered the wardrobes in  our first floor bedroom. 

 Laying down a nest-bed of leaves, the clerodendrum had burst into  several floral clusters and was preparing to  bloom. This  unexpected, magical moment, showcasing  an incredible event, slowly began to  sink in. I have been watching the flower-buds emerge for about a month now, and  continue to marvel at the tenacity of the clerodendrum, and the alacrity with which it  has created a space for itself, traversing a long distance from its roots. 

These are two pictures, one taken from the ground floor, and another captured from the second floor terrace, that document its  climb. The dark steel gray leaves, often seem to me to have drunk of the  summer sandstorms and the winter air of Delhi,  and gained in strength, feeding on a tough soil that nourishes stragglers and survivors enabling them to  thrive and flourish. When  clerodendrums bloom in New Delhi, they radiate warmth and energy  in  brilliant red clusters,  in the cold wintery months, allowing us to draw succour from their  rich vibrancy. Truly, the "flaming glory bowers" of the clerodendrum  epitomise the life- blood of this city.