An Idea.

English in India – The language of the cursed?

As a lover of English, I could never have imagined a day when I would actually question my education as well as career. Yet such a day has sadly arrived. No matter how learned or intellectual we may think we are in India, from a global point of view, there is a widening gap between the native or non-native speaker of English.
This does not always work out in favour of a non-native speaker. For example, there have been numerous times when teachers of English in India have faced a dead end while being hired abroad or outside India. The South Asian countries are the worst- with China and Korea being very vocal about wanting white teachers or ‘native’ language users.
I want to understand why ‘native’ language users are considered ‘better’ language users as well as teachers. Is there a scientific reason for it, something stemming from Language Acquisition laws, or is it simply based on an underlying racism that we are speaking a borrowed language?
Finally, I want to reflect on the reverse racism faced by English speakers in India- are they mocked as ‘babus’ or are they actually in a beneficial position with respect to non-fluent speakers of the language?

if we talk about Teaching and Education as a qualitative experience, then how does a native speaker of English provide her learners  with benefits solely based on her country of origin?

If anyone has any points to share or some advice – be it books or research resources, please share it in the comments section, or e-mail me at alisha.nangia@gmail.com

KicK-Start Life!

I had dis-continued writing in my blog after the whole 'Love is a Playlist' fiasco. I just got my heart broken, my start-up idea crushed, and I was feeling over-all quite miserable.
Once Summer vacations were over, it was back to work for me. Now don't judge me- I love the kids, but the paycheck and lack of intellectual stimulation was really getting to me. Not to add, an almost love triangle at the work place, and menopausal women making my life hell, I was ready to throw in the towel.

But then something unexpected happened.

I moved out.

Yes, I left home, under really strained circumstances, and now I really needed the cash, (Low paycheck is better than no paycheck). But now, after settling down a bit and stabilising myself, I'm not ashamed of where I am. Yet, I feel there is so much for me to do. I feel wasted in a small school, under-paid and over-worked. I know I'd feel better if I was doing something that I loved- I like writing, traveling and teaching kids, and i'm searching for something that can combine it all for me.
I know there is no such thing as a dream job, but I want to feel happier.
Currently, I'm a little restless.

Lets get ready for great things.

Stuff.

It's like walking across a busy street and miraculously avoiding the traffic. Taking a step forward, and then back... doing a fatal dance, a final jig- because on the other side -oblivious to you, is
 He.
And you must get to him.
Or die trying.
But the funny thing is that you feel so serene, so calm, it's like you were born to cross dangerous roads.
______________________________________________________
                                         
Your name has this familiar twang to it in my head.
It's this sharp pitch that smells peachy to me. The smell of almost-Summer.
Suddenly, my chest feels walled in.
And my heart is now a glazed block of grey stone
with ivy memories, entwining dryness.
Green spots of colour, leafy streamers of everything I remembered
and did not.
I say, "I am stoned." And God, I have never been so right before.
_____________________________________________________
Today, I found a paper cup
and tore it up
So it wouldn't have to be empty anymore.
The world must be cruel place
 because I'm still whole.
______________________________________________________________________
.

The marks we leave are too often scars.

I remember my 17 year old self wanting to be eulogised- to be commemorated because I thought I was different from everyone else. And that when I died, people owed it  to the awesome, special person I am to remember me.
For a Long time. (I want to use 'Forever' but I am cleverer now.)
So when I was 80 percent through 'The Fault In Our Stars' by John Green and the 17 year old Augustus Waters said to the 16 year old Hazel Lancaster, "I always thought my obituary would be in all the newspapers, that I'd have a story worth telling. I always had this secret suspicion that I was special.", I immediately put down the book and recollected my 'I'm special' moments- whether it was looking for the Universe to send me secret signs, or that my birth date was everywhere I looked, and how that meant something.
Then I continued reading till the end without pause.
And then, I decided to write a post. (To entomb my consciousness at this precise minute for eternity?)
So, let me go back to my former 17 year old self.
I was SO sure that I would  not live to be 24, I expected the people to love me the most to do something extra special to memorialize me- one of them sang a song with my name in it because I was always cribbing how I never had a good enough song after my name.
Somebody wrote a book with all my favorite lyrics and quotes, Another promised to be my biographer- to write about my life so that I would be remembered.
I remember walking down to my house in Park Circus, Calcutta, with a friend, discussing how I felt that I was on a mission, that I was here for something important. Actually, I didn't just want to be remembered, I wanted to do something worthwhile- live or die for a cause.
After watching 'Ghajini' on  New Year's Day, a few years ago, I called my best friend and told him I wanted to die like Asin- to DO something important.
He did think I was crazy.
Well, after reading this book (TFIOS), I think an alternate possibility occurred to me- what if I did 'fade to oblivion?'What if nobody remembered me- ever? What if , after my death, my friends actually didn't deactivate my Facebook account (like I have instructed them), and I was allowed to float in cyberspace- almost alive, like a ghost? How would I react? What would I think?
Would I think at all?
Or would all this cease to matter, as I joined the list of nameless, faceless persons who floated about cyberspace, but otherwise, were not immortalized in a work of Classic Art.
I think the second-last page of the book calmed me, I have a lot to think now, a lot I want to share- but it's mostly about Death- and there is no one more than a dead person who I want to share it with.
As Green writes, 'then I realized there was no one else to call, which was the saddest thing. The only person I really wanted to talk to about Augustus Waters’s death was Augustus Waters.'But something at the end of the book both excited and calmed me- I don't feel the need to colonise people's memory anymore.
This is what I don't want to do anymore, and I feel like a burden has suddenly been lifted from my will.
'Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease.

I want to leave a mark.

But Van Houten : The marks humans leave are too often scars.'

                                                               ***

Examining...

I really want to write something nice but I can't think of anything nice enough.
I'm having B. Ed exams and I don't have much time to think.
Toh I thought I should examine my thoughts, before going in for my next examination.

Maybe the happy part of my day was when the metro went from being underground to seeing the light of day, and I could just see a happy, hazy, breezy day in front of me.
To top it off, I was listening to 'Kinaare' from 'Queen'- and obviously I felt a little pumped up.
:)

Of late, I've been okay on my own. It's been 22 days since I've heard from him. I'm alright. Again.
I wonder what this is- this regeneration that happens.
And I am amazed every time I think of about how I pick myself up.
I never thought I was strong- but I haven't cried about this.

I feel strangely relieved and free now.
But- I don't know if it's a good thing.
It's not like I feel empty or anything- rather I don't have TIME to even THINK.
So caught up with work and stuff.

Let's see how the rest of the weeks play out.
As of now- I feel slightly high on this independence.

More later.

Spark

 Why do you look so lost, my love?
Sitting here by the piano, all alone.

Playing a song about somebody who you knew.
Or is it about somebody new?

Broken nails on broken keys,
playing a broken tune.

Under a broken moon-
The light plays with your hair
blue-black.

Tired leaf,
waiting for Spring.
.
Waiting for blossom and
rain and green weather
to begin-
 But there is still time...

Be careful.

The difference between a flame and a fire -
is but one spark.

Suppress it, lest you get burnt.