My journal: Day Three

It has been many moons since I had the privilege of going to North Wales for teaching practice. I remember we were going to Llanberis, a small village in North Wales. Our trip was organized by the Institute of Education, London University.

They booked our stay in a house belonging to a local family. They were three individuals in this family, the father, mother and an eleven year old son.

It was the month of November, it was a cold snowy evening when we arrived by bus. The lady of the house was very charming, she showed us our rooms. In those days there was no central heating. The family spent early evening in the drawing room. There was a fireplace to heat this room.

When we came, they let us spend the evening until bedtime in this room. The bedrooms were cold, so we were told to take hot water bags to keep us warm. The bag of hot water only kept the bed warm for about forty five minutes, after that we depended on the quilt provided by the landlady.

All in all it was a new experience, we were ready to face it with a smile.

In the morning we went to the school where we taught English to the little Welsh children. The children were delighted to have us strangers for a fortnight. Perhaps they felt freer for a a few days without their regular teachers.

I was nervous because our Profs went with us, they sat in the back of the classroom to listen and watch us.

The part that worried me most was I was supposed to explain how I did. There was an empty room where we gathered with the profs and each of us became our own critic. One of our Profs whose name was Mr. Hill, was very easy going, he was pleasant, every now and then he’d joke with me. I happened to be the youngest student in our class . Most of the students were professors from India, who did this course once in India. This was their second time.

After two weeks we came back to London. I enjoyed our trip back and forth.

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Journal: Day Two

My Dad is transferred from New Delhi to Rawalpindi

Our journey from New Delhi to Rawalpindi ( by foot, tonga and train): first we had to walk from our house to our Dad’s office on foot. It was a Sunday, the streets were quiet, there were no tongas in sight, only some humans who were having fun watching us, dragging our feet to reach our destination. They knew we were in trouble, there were some who asked, ‘where are you going?’

My Dad and all of us pretended we did not hear them. Finally we stopped at a place, where there were two or three tongas waiting for passengers. Dad felt it was safe at that point to hire the tongas to go rest of the way to reach his office.

From the office we were transported to old fort, New Delhi. We stayed in tents for a couple of days. My Dad was informed, arrangements have been made for us to travel by train.

How we went to the station and got in one of the compartments of the train, is a complete blur on my mind. I only remember the compartment was pitch dark and filled with passengers, there was hardly room to move. My baby brother was thirsty, he was crying, one man said, ‘it’s better to kill him or our enemies will kill all of us, if they find out there are passengers in this compartment.’

This is how racism looks when man does not hesitate to kill another man because of religion.

Our train was stopped for a long time, we could hear shots fired by Indian army against those who wanted to kill the passengers of the train. The train tracks had to be cleared of large branches of trees before the train could move.

After many long hours our train stopped, we finally reached our long awaited destination. We were welcomed by Pakistani officials. There was water, food and everything to make us feel at ease. But the fact that we were safe made our day.

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My Daily Journal

I’m trying to start writing. I could not think of anything, I’m therefore taking the help of a regular journal, to keep me from getting bored.

This evening I’ll take myself back years ago. I was in Lady Irwin Higher Secondary School, New Delhi. I was a primary student. We were waiting for Mrs. Biswas to give us some work that morning. To my utter delight she gave each one of us a picture of a person. We were asked to make up a story. The picture I had was of a lady. She was dressed in a sari.

Since we were learning Bengali, we were encouraged to write in this language to improve our written work.

I started writing in Bengali. I said, this lady’s name is Roma. She is wearing a sari. Sari is usually worn by Bengali women. Roma is a very pretty girl. I like the colour of her sari. It takes six yards of material to make a sari. The border of her sari is red and the rest of the sari is blue.

Roma has to be careful when she walks. If she’s careless she may fall and faint. I wrote this because my older sister wore a sari to school one day, she could not deal with the six yard sari she really fell and fainted. Her headmistress said, ‘Firdaus tell your mom to let you wear the dress until you get used to a sari.’

I thought I’d add that little anecdote to make my story interesting.

I started feeling tired, because Bengali alphabets are tricky to write.

This is what I wrote that day.
You are welcome to give your opinion about my story, remember I was six years old. Compared to millennium little girls who learn from television, our vocabulary was not a whole lot. Television was not invented in those days. We could listen to a radio. But our Dad said, ‘no the children will not study if they have the privilege of listening to a radio.

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Reincarnation : Memories, posted by Ranu

Sometimes my brain needs a jog

Believe me at times it likes to fog

It happened to me yesterday

Reincarnation was the word this day

I was going out of my mind

Thinking my brain needs to unwind

I sat down and thought

What am I doing wrong?

I took a minute and sang a song

I felt my brain suddenly woke up

Sorry Ranu I took a break

Do not worry for heaven’s sake

I am one of your machines

Perhaps you had too much caffeine

Forgive me if I want some rest

It’s the only way I perform my best!

………………………………………………………….. 🙂 (:

G.O.A.T( greatest of all times)by Ranu

In men’s tennis, there is a lot of discussion about, which tennis player is the greatest of all times. In contention for this title are: Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, and Novak Djokovic. How will they (the tennis commentators) decide who is the greatest among these three players. It seems their decision will be based on, which player among them won the most Grandslam Tennis matches.

Let us see who won the most:

Roger Federer: won eight Wimbledon Grandslam titles, One Roland Garros title, Six Australian titles, and five United States Titles. Total= 20 Grandslam Titles

Rafael Nadal: Won thirteen Roland Garros Titles, the remaining seven titles in Wimbledon, Australian, and United States Grandslams. Total= 20 Titles

Novak Djokovic: Nine Australian Titles, Two Roland Garros Titles, and nine titles in Wimbledon and United States Grandslams. Total= 20 titles

If all of them managed to win twenty Grandslam titles. Who should be called the GOAT? In my mind all three of them deserve to be called the Goat.

What do you think dear bloggers?

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Grammarly, Ranu

My writing experience with them is horrific to say the least. It seems they invited themselves to be a part of my blog. As far as I know I did not invite them.

It was a sad morning when I noticed they were trying to read my mind. I had just completed an email. I was about to write the ending, when I noticed the words already appeared before I typed them. I was annoyed, I simply wrote my own ending.

Then at the bottom of the email, there was a question, Did you like our help? Then under that : yes or no.

I promptly checked, ‘No’. It seemed they did not get the message. There was another question. Do you want some more time?

I was disgusted. I knew this was another way of earning money. I tried to let them know, ‘their service is not necessary.’

Imagine some company trying to make you, use their service to make money. I’m tired of this intrusion.

Can you bloggers let me know what I should do?

………………………………………….. 🙂

My favourite song, posted by ranu

In Derry Vale

This is a song I learned when I was in third standard. I was a student in Presentation Convent School. I loved singing it when I was alone in the house. I’d sit on a corner of the verandah. One day I felt someone was sitting behind me, I turned around and found my sister laughing, she then told Dad I can sing. My Dad offered to pay money if I agreed to sing. I declined the offer.

I didn’t think of the lyrics then. Now I know how much our teachers(nuns) missed their home Ireland.

Sometimes I feel homesick and think of this song.

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Tagore Song

translation by ranu

Tagore Song

My days of pleasure

are gone.

The bond of days of laughter,

and sadness is broken.

I had hoped they will learn,

the songs of my heart,

but my desires disappeared

Those wonderful days.

I often dream as if they are

moving around my broken home

hoping to see something

those wonderful days of mine

Can so much pain be mere


Are all what I see is

shadows of birds?

I wonder why couldn’t

my desires float in the sky,

Those wonderful days!

………………………………. 🙂

Destiny,Bengali Song: singer Hemant Kumar

Translation by Ranu

Ferryman’s complaint to destiny

O destiny, destiny,

How long will I,

paddle this boat ?

I help everyone cross over,

this river.

Who will assist me,

to cross over?

This boat is my father and mother,

It’s also my food provider.

All my life I believed,

it is my family.

Yet destiny I have,

one complaint for you.

this boat is my home,

one that provides me with,

roof on a hot day.

During the day the,

sun smiles,

and at midnight the moon.

At times whether I’m happy ,

or sad.

During the ebb and flow of tide,

I hold on to the paddle with a smile.

No one notices when

I weep or laugh.

I only want to complain to you,

How long will I continue,

to paddle my boat!

…………………………………………… 🙂