Halli Times September 2020 by A Learning Hut

Teacher’s Day !

~Sahana Sandeep

We all have our families and school is like our second family. The teachers are like our mothers and fathers. They are kind and want to educate us. That is their profession and they are born to do it. Teacher’s day is celebrated to thank our beloved teachers for helping us to be knowledgeable and educated. We have to be good students to our beloved teachers. They work hard to keep us engaged for almost 6 to 7 hours daily. They make us study in a fun way, for example, with quizzes and activities. Now I am going to tell you a story about the dedication of our teachers. One day my friends and I went to school together. There was some preparation going on, but we had no idea what it was about and the teachers know that we do not remember the festivals that much. Then, we went to the auditorium.

To our surprise all the school staff were gathered there and they shouted, HAPPY CHILDREN’S DAY!!!! We were so happy. They gave us donuts, candies, chocolates & especially cake. There were no studies that day, only playing and more surprises. My teachers put in so much hard work to keep us engaged. We must ensure we are good students so that they will also feel happy. That will also be their best gift from us since our school does not allow any gifts. We must thank God for good teachers. Sahana Sandeep loves to read books and watch new TV shows. She loves going to school, rather than lockdown because she loves to spend time with her friends. She goes to Bharatanatyam and vocal classes and is learning to play the veena and the violin too.

Thank you, merci ! ~ Pratima To begin the journey we did. The captain with her motley crew! We learnt the ropes as she bid. A common goal, a quest, For French - the language, a treasure chest. While we searched high and we searched low. The captain standing firm at the bow; while the winds of change turned into a tornado. She got the crew to shelter in place. While moving towards the goal at a metered pace. No more a means to an end. The captain, a godsend. One's yet to see, a safer passage, a smoother ride While the motley crew tasted success, found the treasure of collective pride.

Prathima is 5 feet 8 inches tall and enjoys writing poetry and learning new languages. She is a sensitive human being who wants to find her place in the world.

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Viswamitra ~ C S Sriram Bhumika was tearing her hair out. She was to address the gathering of "imminent personalities in the field of sustainable architecture" the next morning as the newspaper article put it and she had no clue what to speak. The only flash of intelligence she could manage was to smile exasperatedly as she inserted a mental (sic) after "imminent" when she read the article. Whoever came up with award ceremonies anyway? Not that she hated the attention she basked in it actually. She could feel the admiration of her envious peers and eager juniors wrap her in a warm golden glow. But award ceremonies had none of that - it was just one boring rigmarole that everybody went through. How nice would it be to just wake up the morning after instead and read about it all in the papers directly. And how nice would it be to not make a speech, especially when your brain has as many ideas as an arthropod has mammaries. "Amma, do you know the Bala and Adibala mantras?" Bhumika smiled a bit. Perhaps a bit of time with Shital will free her thoughts. "Who told you about those, Shital?" "Mohit was telling us that he is going to learn them from his grandfather and once he learns them he will never have to eat or sleep again. Is that true amma?" "What do you think?" "I think it's hogwash amma.", said Shital, the word ‘hogwash’ garnished with an intonation of innocent pride that an eleven year old gets when she uses a new word that she learnt recently. "Oh is it?", Bhumika smiled as she recognized that tone of pride. "Why do you think so?"

"Because if that were the case we would all learn it and nobody will have to do anything ever. Besides, who really wants a life where you don't have to eat or sleep. It's fun to eat and sleep." "So you are saying there is no such thing as magic?" Bhumika quizzed. "Oh, magic is in the stories amma. Like in the story Viswamitra can teach magic to Rama. But in real life it won't happen, right?" "..." "Amma?" Bhumika seemed to be lost in thought. She shook herself out of her reverie. "Actually, there is magic in real life.", Bhumika called Shital to sit next to her. "Let me tell you a story, ok?" Shital jumped up eagerly at the mention of the word story. "So, once upon a time, there was a little girl, say eleven years old", Bhumika brushed Shital's hair, "just like you. Her name was Bhumika." "Oh but that's your name too. Did you know this girl?" "I knew her very well. She was a smart girl who always got into trouble with her teachers..." "Teachers? You mean like in a school?" "Yes. So what happened was..." Little Bhumika was sitting outside the principal's office with a sullen look on her face. She did not carry the slightest tinge of fear that most kids who are summoned to the principal's office do. She swung her legs furiously for indeed, she was very angry. She had done nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing wrong! It was lunch recess. She had finished her lunch early and she had sat down to read Sherlock Holmes. Silver Blaze it was and Watson had just told Sherlock Holmes the dog ÂŠ â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Halli Times, September 2020

did nothing in the night-time. The bell rang and she had to reluctantly close the book. Her mistake was that instead of placing it back carefully in the bag, she had left it to lie on the desk. Sushma, the English teacher, walked in and her eyes fell on the book. She swooped on it with an uncalled for vehemence and carried it off. Five minutes after the after-lunch prayer, Bhumika was hauled to the principal's office for having broken the rule of "no comics allowed in class". "You again Bhumika", said the exasperated principal. "What this time Sushma?" "I confiscated this from her bag madam", Sushma said presenting the copy of Sherlock Holmes as if it were Exhibit A, the bloodied blunt knife that had been found buried in the Baron's back. "What do you have to say Bhumika?", asked the principal from her purported pulpit. "First of all madam," began Bhumika in a confident, methodical manner and continued, "that is not a comic. I tried explaining it to Sushma madam. The book is almost completely text and has no graphic images. So I did not break the ‘No Comics in the Classroom’ rule. “ Bhumika looked at the principal with slightly hopeful eyes. "It is literature madam...", she continued undaunted by the principal's steely glare. "Secondly, if I did break the no comics in classroom rule, then Sushma madam broke the ‘Nobody must move when the prayer is in progress’ rule madam", she protested. "What head weight!” gasped Sushma madam. "Such insolence", rasped the principal superseding Susma's pedestrian English with something that more suited the gravity of the situation. "Bhumika, please bring your parents to school tomorrow. We need to have a discussion!”

The Principal’s voice spluttered with fire and brimstone. With a gesture that showed visible annoyance, Bhumika deadpanned "Yes madam." "Oh you are teaching sixth standard? Good luck to you", said Meera with a smirk. "Why? Is there something that I must be aware of?" asked Gauri, the new English teacher. "Bhumika is in that class. Why do you think Sushma went mid term? She couldn't handle that brat. Thinks she is the queen of the all that she purveys" "Ah, interesting. So is she really?" "What?" "The queen of all that she purveys?" Gauri laughed at her own joke as she picked up her books and started to leave. Meera looked nonplussed. Gauri paused at the door and walked back to Meera. "It is all that she surveys, not purveys. Purvey is to provide. Survey is to oversee." She said as discreetly as she could before heading to her class. The classroom was, like any teacher might remark, a fish market. Except for the studious few and the prudish few (and you couldn't make out which one was which easily), the entire class was in an uproar. The five minute delay in the new class teacher entering had loosened all semblance of order that the school had worked hard in inculcating over many years. Two boys were engaged in a tug of war over a school bag that obviously contained some priceless treasure. A third boy presumably the owner of the bag was running around in circles and at times jumping on the bag in a bid to win back his property. A bunch of girls and boys were gossiping with furious intensity in a corner. Two boys in the last bench were devouring their elevenses with gusto - they had even taken off their shoes to match their Hobbit-like appetite. Amidst all this and more, the class monitor

was screaming her throat hoarse, the only way she had seen adults try to get the class in order. In this she too failed as miserably as the adults did. Gauri took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. These kids had learnt a lot. A lot of wrong things. She walked into the chaos like Liberty amidst the Revolution, graceful and sylph-like and calmly took her seat. It took a few minutes before any of the students registered her presence. But once one of them noticed her, all it took was a few whispers of "Hey, madam da..." for the whole class to settle down. To quote a teacher again, there was pin drop silence in the class. They all waited for the storm. But nothing happened. She just sat there, her expression neither angry nor hostile. The class monitor trying to salvage the situation mustered a sheepish, "Sorry Madam", with her head hung low. This is what Gauri was waiting for. "Why?" "Because we were noisy madam." "Is that something bad?" Another voice chimed in this time. "We must not be noisy in the class." "Why?" "Because...because..." "Because our talking will disturb other classes madam." Bhumika who had been observing everything with her curiosity piqued, ventured with an answer. Here, after all was a teacher who seemed to want to talk to them, not at them. "Talking? We are talking now. Is it disturbing others?" ÂŠ â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Halli Times, September 2020

"Hmm...we can talk like this. But we were shouting and fighting madam. We were...", Bhumika paused trying to find the right word, "boisterous." "So we can talk in class madam?" This was an incredulous Chaitanya who spoke as if the listener was two miles away. Gauri suppressed the urge to make a joke at Mr.Vociferous. "Maybe. What do you guys think you can do?" "We can talk in the class, but calmly. Like how we are talking now." This was the usually timid Shabna. "Super. So that settles that then. Let's get started with a nice story today. Have any of you been to a village fair?", Gauri asked as she opened her book to "The Lost Child" and looked up to see many little arms shoot up in enthusiasm. Bhumika felt happy inside. She did not know it then, but she was feeling the warmth that accompanied the beginning of a beautiful friendship. In the coming weeks, there were numerous complaints in the staff room about how class 6 was always "noisy" when Gauri was in the class, but very few noticed how silent the class was before she entered it. Bhumika was devastated. The rumours were true then. In the 6 months that Gauri madam taught their class, there had been so many subtle changes. Shreyas was no longer breaking toys and benches during the recess, although he did break into the occasional Kata display which could potentially turn out to be equally dangerous. Shabnam who wouldn't confidently look anybody in the eye could easily muster cheery goodbyes in the evening before she rushed off to her music classes. Saravanan no longer tore papers from his textbook but was busy with the fine Japanese art of paper folding as he called it.

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And Bhumika. The world had changed for her. She got up every day with a list of new words to use in the English class. She was now bending rules and not breaking them she read her Sherlock Holmes in the playground and learnt to bear the boredom of Maths class like a martyr. After all, what followed was her special after hours phonetics class with Gauri Madam. Just when everything was hunky dory, it all came crumbling down. Gauri madam was leaving the school. Bhumika was angry, hurt and sad at the same time. She spent the entirety of the school's last day away from everybody, especially Gauri madam. "Oh, there you are Bhumika. I've been looking for you all day." Bhumika bravely hid her tears and put on her best nonchalant expression. "I'm sorry madam. I didn't know." "You know I am leaving. I've got something for you." Bhumika's eyes lit up as she saw a parcel in Gauri madam's hands. Judging by the size of it, it was a book. A good fat one. Gauri began as if she were going to give the parcel to Bhumika and then stopped. She fidgeted a bit, trying to say what she had wanted to say, especially to Bhumika. "Oh God! I too am going to become one of those lecturing teachers finally. Well, here goes nothing...", thought Gauri as she started. "Bhumika, I wanted to say something to you before I leave." Gauri bit her lip. "You are a different girl Bhumika, not like the other kids in the class." Bhumika beamed as if she had been complimented, which after all, was what had happened. "Now it is not easy being different. I am sure you would have already realized that. In general people are afraid of anything that is different and do everything in their power to make it conform." Gauri waited to see if Bhumika would ask the meaning of the word ‘Conform’. There was no question. © Halli Times, September 2020

"But no matter how difficult it might be, you must always be you. As long as you are true to your own self.” Gauri and Bhumika both smiled as they caught the Hamlet reference simultaneously. Gauri moved close to Bhumika as if she were to whisper a secret chant. "And at any point in life, if you are in doubt about the truth, just ask ‘Why’. Remember that is your only protection. Ask ‘Why’, again and again" Gauri handed over the book to her. It was a used copy of "Fun with Maths and Physics" by Yakov Perlman. Before she knew it, the summer holidays were over, Gauri madam had been supplanted by an impostor and all Bhumika was left with was Fun with maths and physics. So just to keep alive a memory, she began reading it. And she realized this was a book of "Whys". Why do boiled eggs spin but not raw eggs? Why does your hair stand on end sometimes during winter when you run your comb over it? Why did the Lilliputians have to use 150 beds to make one bed for Gulliver who when they were just one-twelfth his size? As she read more, Bhumika realized she loved asking why. So she began to do what no honest student would ever dream of doing. She listened to what her teacher had said. She asked, ‘Why?” ...when she was fifteen and a cowardly loafer passed a vulgar comment at her on the road. ....when she was seventeen and her uncle lectured her on how she should choose only between engineering and medicine. ...and later when her father tried to convince her hard to take a B.E. seat in a reputed college instead of the B.Arch. course that she always wanted but was only available in an unknown college. ...when she was twenty and her friends tried to push her to try drugs at a party. © Halli Times, September 2020

...when she was twenty five and her mother wanted her to marry immediately. ...when she was twenty eight and her mother said she would never have a granddaughter thanks to her irresponsible daughter. ...when she saw Shital's teachers asking her to try and write with her right hand when she was obviously left handed. "So she asked why,when she was thirty five and her daughter refused to take bath in the mornings but kept jumping around in her chaddi!" "He he he", giggled Shital as Bhumika tickled her. "But amma, magic?" "What did Gauri madam tell about asking ‘Why’ to Bhumika?" "Hmm...she said it was protection." "So wasn't that magic? A simple question that protected Bhumika all through her life. How does that sound?" "Hmm...I don't understand amma. Super bore only this story is." Shital pouted and ran away to get her colouring book. Bhumika smiled. The next day, clad in a simple cotton saree, Bhumika commenced her speech. "My daughter asked me a story yesterday. A story about Viswamitra, the teacher, the friend of the world. And I remembered the story of my teacher, my friend who gave me my own magic mantra that took me beyond just food and sleep. Good evening to you all fine people..."

Epilogue Bhumika finished watching the video titled "Architect wins award and hearts with her speech" the second time. No errors in diction, grammar or pronunciation. "Can be sent.” she muttered to herself softly. A couple of minutes later, her Whatsapp chat window showed two grey ticks. A few seconds later, the ticks turned blue. Almost instantly, the phone rang. The newly updated contact read - ‘Gauri Madam’.

Sriram C S is a passionate engineering coach and mentor. In his spare time, he participates in Carnatic Antaksharis unsuccessfully due to his disappointing singing skills. His other failures include two startups and an attempt at learning to play the violin.

To Sir, With Love ~ Lalitha T Arun I can’t teach anyone anything; I can only make them think.’ (SOCRATES)

(Photo courtesy: Ivan Aleksic u nsplash.com/) Teaching is considered to be a noble profession, yet it is a hard job being a teacher. All lamenting about the education system and the cause of the underpaid, overworked teachers aside, it is undoubtedly a challenging job at any level to mentor and guide young minds and shape the future generation. Teachers do come in all shapes and forms though. From those who inspire

you with their thinking and living, to those who foster your creativity and give flight to your imagination to those who just treat teaching as a job. This year has made us all teachers in some capacity---whether it’s home-schooling your children or tutoring your nieces and nephews on Zoom or doing ‘how-to’ tutorials on YouTube, teaching has never been more appealing or yet more relevant.

As we mark yet another Teacher’s Day (Indian Sept 5th and International Teacher’s Day on Oct 5th) this year which has been ravaged by the pandemic, it would perhaps be an uplifting exercise to commemorate the efforts of the inspiring educators who have made such a difference to our lives and education. Although it may seem redundant to list them as most of us are familiar with their lives and work, there’s probably no better time to commemorate their legacy.

Rabindranath Tagore Gurudev and his writings need no introduction. He founded Shantiniketan and taught using a host of unconventional methods. He believed in learning through activities was instrumental in the all-round development of a child. His teaching methods included debates and discussions, dance, drama and climbing of trees. His love of outdoor education is perhaps more relevant to our pandemic times, that of breaking free from the shackles of confined space - could be both symbolic and liberating. Jiddu Krishnamurthy

(Photo courtesy: Element5 https://unsplash.com/)

digital,

Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishna Born on September 5 1888, he is regarded amongst India’s finest teachers so much so as to mark his birthday as Teacher’s Day every year. Although he was a philosopher (Advaita Vedanta) and served as the President of Independent India, he was first and foremost a teacher who held Socratic beliefs when it came to education. He was amongst the first to advocate that a true teacher is one who helps us think for ourselves. © Halli Times, September 2020

Although primarily a philosopher and public speaker, he founded several schools across India and the USA. He believed in social reform through education. Much like Socrates and Tagore, he encouraged free thinking and debating as a means to stoke curiosity and learning. Savitribai Phule This lone, underrated female voice stands out as a beacon not just for espousing the cause of education for girls at an epoch when girls were seen as a burden on the family. She set up the first all-girls school for underprivileged girls (and 17 more) and fought for gender equality in education.

For some levity, here’s a compilation of some of the coolest teachers from literature and films !

(Photo courtesy: Allie, https://unsplash.com/)

Entre les murs(2008) / (Between the walls) This 2008 Palme d’Or winning French film is about the hard-hitting realities of teaching in an inner-city school in Paris where the pupils are primarily of immigrant parentage. Shot in a documentary style, it feels all too real, especially the challenges faced by François, the English teacher, not just with the academic aspects but with the rivalries amongst the children stemming from their allegiances to their respective African tribes and cultural conflicts with their families.

Dead Poets’ Society (1989) Max Medina (Gilmore Girls, 2000) Robin Williams as Mr. Keating is our dream teacher. We would all be so lucky to have him teach us poetry. Full of quotable quotes and Williams’ nuanced performance, the film is a primer for unorthodox teaching methods and gives hope to teachers everywhere. Imtihaan (1974) Vinod Khanna is an idealistic teacher out to reform the college hoodlums and striving to keep politics out of campus. Loosely inspired by ‘To sir, with love’, this film also gave us that unforgettable ditty by Kishore Kumar ‘Ruk Jaana Nahin’.

The soft-spoken sartorially professorial looking English teacher from the television series The Gilmore Girls gets an honourable mention. He made it here not for his pulchritude but for his proclivity for Proust! Anyone who can make Proust sound simple is ace. Plus, he could shut the garrulous Gilmore Girls up which is no mean feat. To sir, with love (1967) Of course, this list would be remiss without this iconic film. Like Entre les murs, this one is also based on the real-life experiences of ER Braithwaite from his job as a teacher in an inner-city London school in the 1950s.

Reading the book of the same name or watching the film is almost a rite of passage for Gen X-ers. The film is especially compelling owing to Sidney Poitier’s fine performance as a teacher set to reform a bunch of delinquents using unconventional methods. Back to the here and now. We don’t have to look to the past or pop culture though, there are some wonderful teachers doing some great work today and making a difference in our communities.

(photo courtesy: Ben White, https://unsplash.com/) Peter Tabichi, who is a friar with the St. Francis of Assisi Order of Monks, teaches underprivileged children in a Kenyan village apart from donating 80 percent of his salary to the poor. He won the $1 million Global Teacher Prize in 2019. Tabichi was also responsible for starting the ‘peace club’ at the school with a goal of ending tribal feuds.

He continues to teach science and inspires his students to pursue higher education. What a truly remarkable story ! Read more about his inspirational story here. https://blogs.worldbank.org/voices/meetwinner-global-teacher-prize-2019-intervi ew-franciscan-brother-peter-tabichi And closer to home, there’s Anand Kumar in Bihar, who started to tutor and mentor poor children from disadvantaged backgrounds achieve their education goals with his Super 30 programme. He continues to fund the programme to teach thirty meritorious students every year to get into the prestigious engineering institutes (IIT) from his own pocket. So inspiring is his story that it merited a Bollywood film to be made (Super 30). Read his story here ! ‘The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.’ (William A Ward) To all teachers, past and present, with gratitude! Lalitha T Arun is a teacher of English and French. An aspiring minimalist, she lives in England and enjoys long walks, meditation and Carnatic music.

Halloween, Halloween.... ~Ruth Hazel Sahni

Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble. by the moon we gather here, to celebrate this time of year ! When witches fly and the dead arise, the zombies moan with glowing eyes. we gather round the pumpkin's light, and party long into the night. Witches brew and bat wing stew, Taste our punch and cupcakes too ! Disguise yourself and your better half, Come round 7 for a lot of laughs. We will party long into the night, ‘til all are blessed with a second sight’! Ruth Hazel Sahni is a ninth grader who assures us that she will be famous one day! She desperately wants to become a singer and believes that writing poetry is the first step towards reaching that goal. She enjoys all types of sports and hopes that her poem inspires you to write your own, based on the trials of your life or things you have found happiness with.

A Boring Ghost Story ~ AB

The life of a ghost is rather boring. Yes, us ghosts do have lives as well. Granted, our lives are not as spectacular as those of the living. Days spent in numbing stupor, evenings that come heralding loss, nights that float by as we grope to get a grip on those who are still living. And the days, the evenings, and the nights they all roll by in a single monotonous endless drone bringing no hope, no succour, no novelty, no solace to our wretched hovels; the decaying mansion, the looming tamarind tree, the abandoned temple, the parched well. The life of a ghost is rather boring. I am a ghost. So my life too was rather boring. Until I met her that fateful night. It was a fateful night, no doubt. The night of Samhain when the life of spring is harvested to the last grain and the long cold death of winter begins. And on that ominous night, the harvest of life was so complete that not even the sickle moon was to be seen.

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A pitch-dark night, a holy night for all that is unholy to come forth. And of all the unholy things that came forth that night, she was the unholiest. She shone like the palest moon that ever rose on that moonless night. Her diaphanous tattered white dress, possibly the one in which she had been buried in, enhanced her deathly paleness. Her sallow cheeks reeked of pleasant putridity. Her eyes were sunken graves of infinite darkness, a darkness accentuated by the smeared mascara. Her lips were crimson, and dark, like freshly spilt blood glistening in the full moonlight. I met her underneath the tamarind tree whose branches stretched out like undead claws pawing at the stars. “Greetings!”, she said in a raspy voice. “Oh, hello!”, I replied, startled by how suddenly she had materialized, too sudden for even a ghost. “Are you here for the holy night, too?”, she twirled her dry lifeless locks with her bony fingers, revealing a set of ghastly stitches around her neck holding her head in place. “Very much yes.”, I said, thralled. “And the seances, is it over there?”, she asked, cocking her head over to a clearing in the distance that was lit only by will-o-wisps. “I guess so.”, I shrugged my shoulders, “I am not much of a seance guy. I do my hauntings and rituals alone. I am a loner.” “Oh, an intriguing introvert.”, she laughed like a hundred skeletons rolling in their graves. I blushed and was sure that she would have seen it despite the darkness for there is not much of a difference between darkness and light for us ghosts. “Oh, did I just make you blush?”, she smiled a hollow soulless smile and touched my cheeks. “What dead cold cheeks you have!”, she whispered as she drew closer to me. Love in the world of ghosts is an unheard miracle. Eons ago, there were legends of ghosts falling in love and setting up a horrid haunt together. But these are just legends. And life’s memories are very foggy once you’ve become a ghost. So I did not know how love would have felt.

But that night as I walked the endless dark of the woods with her besides me, I knew what love was. We spoke of all the dreadful things, the way the worm eats the flesh after you die, how even your memory is forgotten slowly, how the world of living moves on ignoring you. “Have you ever seen the moon in the sky during the day?”, she asked, “How it floats like a ghastly galleon on an endless ocean of blue? How its voiceless lament echoes into emptiness? Can you feel the terror it inspires in the agitated heart, the kind of heart that only a causeless sorrow could create? Our ghostly lives too will someday float like this, in a haunting silence, in the void, bereft of meaning and purpose while life stretches itself in its myriad forms down below, unmindful of our utter death, shaping herself in wonderful new colours, scents, and sights… colours, scents, and sights that are forever lost to us…” I stood transfixed by her words and the grim images they produced. And for the first time since I died, I felt. I had one real feeling in my heart. When dawn came and I looked around, she was nowhere to be seeon. But I worried not, for she had drawn the directions to her haunt in my palm with her blood at some moment of madness in the night’s revelry. I ambled leisurely to my haunt, the parched well in which I had killed myself, now shared with another young chap who had lost his footing and fallen in. “Oh, there you are. We missed you last night.”, he greeted me. “Ah…” I replied wistfully. “I met someone. I know. It never happens in the ghost world.”, I added defensively. “But it did for me last night.” He let out a ghostly cackle. “If it’s last night you are talking about, I hope you do remember it was Samhain and the living dress up like us.” My startled eyes shot to my palm where her blood had congealed, something that ghost blood would never do.

AB is an ethical vegan and goth lover. He spends most of his day trying to perfect his Dracula accent and preparing for horror movie scenarios that will never happen in real life.

The Ghosts of Halloween Past ~Shrinidhi Hemmige

Shrinidhi Hemmige is a highly energetic and motivated individual, a Professional Options Trader, a Carnatic Guitarist, a music connoisseur, an avid Tennis and Table Tennis player and a monster Netflix binger. He loves spending time with kids and is a free spirited resident of Springwoods community.

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How the white cheeked barbet made drumstick sambhar, a Mannathi tale ~Agnibarathi Nobody would have expected that you had guessed wrong had you guessed that Meenakshi was about to cry. All the telltale signs were there - the quivering lower lip, the limpid eyes, and above all, her head about to be flung angrily into her palms before the sobbing started. And if you had seen what happened a bit ago, you would know that there was enough reason for her to cry as well. Despite her best puppy face, her saccharine sweet tone, and her carefully chosen words, her mother had refused to show her another cake baking video to kill her boredom. To make it worse, her father who was usually the easier target had told her in a rather stern voice that her boredom was her problem to solve. As you can imagine, all of this was too much for her fierce six year old heart. So yes, nobody would have expected that you had guessed wrong had you guessed that she was about to cry. But your guess would have been wrong because she did not cry. "Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru!" © Halli Times, September 2020

What was that sound? Meenakshi forgot all about her crying and looked up to find the source. It was not very difficult to find it at all/ It came from the flared, white-striped cheeks of a bird who was perched perfectly erect. The green on her body matched the tender leaves of the drumstick tree she was perched upon. In fact, if not for her "Kotru" sound, it would have been very difficult to spot her1. "Mannathi!", called out Meenakshi. Mannathi stopped "Kottru-ing" and flew down to Meenakshi like a graceful sylph. "Greetings, my child", when Mannathi spoke it was in a deep soothing voice. "Erm... hello", said Meenakshi, bemused by this new voice. "How are you doing Mannathi thatha?", she asked and laughed at her own joke. "If I'm old, I must be a patti, not a thatha", Mannathi smiled beatifically as she corrected her.

"Oh, but you have a moustache", said Meenakshi as she reached out to touch Mannathi's pale beaks. "A common mistake. These are barbs, which is why we are called barbets. You might want to read your father's bird book a bit more carefully, Meenakshi", said Mannathi in an irritatingly patient tone. "You might want to shut", replied Meenakshi in a gruff tone. She remembered how she had been bored and upset and Mannathi's tone which reminded her a lot of her annoying father made her even more uspet. "Maybe! Maybe!", Mannathi continued with the same patient patronizing tone. "Or maybe you can tell me why you are upset?" "Hmm..." Meenakshi sulked a bit. Then it all came out in a flurry. "Amma did not show me cake video. Appa spoke to me hardly. And... and... and... I am bored!" She gushed out with the little Telugu she knew, "Bore kottindhi!" "Ah, boredom, our old enemy!" smiled Mannathi "If bore kottindhi you, how about we kottify bore?" Meenakshi rolled her eyes. This was worse than her father's jokes and his were really bad.

"I am bored and hungry, Mannathi. Don't irritate me", snapped Meenakshi. "Bored and hungry. Then we must kottify bore, so that we can eat; eat drumstick sambhar." "What drumstick sambhar? There are no drumsticks in the tree only. It is rainy season. You won't get drumsticks.", Meenakshi replied knowledgeably. "Yes, that is why we must kottify bore. If we do that we can make these small drumstick flowers ripen into drumsticks. By magic!" Magic! Now this was interesting. But Meenakshi was still not convinced. "Ok, but even if we get drumstick, how will we make sambhar? There are no vessels, no?" "Oh, don't worry about that. I have a pan that I've borrowed from my friend. He is a smith and he makes very good copper-bottom pans.2", reassured Meenakshi. A bit of magic and a bit of logic. This is what Meenakshi liked. "How do we kottify bore?", she asked excitedly. "By being very still", Mannathi perched back on the tree and drew herself upright.

"Ok..." Meenakshi stood up, arms to her side, stiff as a board "What now?" "Take a deep breath", Mannathi puffed up her cheeks "And stay very still."

But the flower did not ripen. Deeper breaths. More stillness. More kotrufying. More magic. But the flower did not ripen.

Meenakshi's chest swelled as she breathed in. "Now stay very still and kottify the bore!", Mannathi's cheeks trembled. "Kotru! Kotru! Kotru!", went Mannathi! "Kotru! Kotru! Kotru!", went Meenakshi! "Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kortu!", went both The air around the drumstick tree was filled with bore being kottrufied. There was an unearthly magic being formed.

"What non-stop noise are you making there, you monkey? Come inside. It's time for your lunch. Your amma has made drumstick sambhar.", screamed Meenakshi's father. Meenakshi looked at Mannathi with wild-eyed wonder. She smiled a cherubic smile of someone who knows that the best magic in the world happens when you do nothing. And that the only solution the monotony of boredom is...

But the flower did not ripen. More kotrufying. More magic.

"Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru! Kotru!"

P.S : Refer to the next page for notes.

Agnibarathi is an aspiring photographer who enjoys telling his seven year old stories from various corners of the world. He is heavily inspired by the Ents from the Lord of the Rings by J R R Tolkien and would like to be able to grow things.

ÂŠ â&#x20AC;&#x2039;Halli Times, September 2020

Notes - How the white cheeked barbet made drumstick sambhar, a Mannathi tale…

1 . White-cheeked barbets are extremely difficult to spot during winters and are conspicuous only by their noise in other seasons. In the photo below, we see that Mannathi has turned the drumstick flower into a drumstick by her magic successfully.

2. Coppersmith barbets are smaller than white-cheeked barbets. They are very colourful and make a sound that sounds like a smith beating on a sheet of copper. Hence the name. In the photo below, we see that Mannathi's friend is still looking out waiting anxiously for her pan to be returned.

HT Quiz # 1 ~ Vaidehi

We are truly excited to bring you our very first HT Quiz ! Questions are based on the previous issues of Halli Times. Do send in your entries to alearninghut20@gmail.com before October 25th, 2020 to win exciting prizes ! Here are the questions ! 1. The Peninsular Agama lizard plays a major role in one of the stories of Halli Times. Which story is this and what’s the lizard’s name in the story ? 2. ‘Ouch, it hurts!’ Why? 3. What insect is the Nephila spider shown eating? 4. Who was Bhumika’s Viswamitra ? 5. Complete the lines : “Witches ______ and ________ stew!”

FIRST PRIZE: Copy of ‘The Great Indian Nature Trail With Uncle Bikky’ by Rohan Chakravarty et al ! SECOND PRIZE: Box of Plantable Seed Pencils ! Consolation prizes: Amar Chitra Katha Comics All prize winners will also receive a printed copy of the Halli Times !