Finding happiness

I love this photo. It's one I clicked recently and I love it for a lot of reasons. I love it for the light, which by the way came from a paper lantern (see below). I love it because at that moment I was surrounded by children working on lighting and letting go of their paper lanterns with so much concentration that their teachers would have been wistfully staring wondering where this side of the kids is in a classroom. But mostly I love it for the expression on the child's face. 

Last year a newspaper article urged us to write in about what a child loses as he or she grows up. I was among a lot who wrote in. I said the saddest thing that happens to one as they grow up is that they lose the sense of wonder. As you grow, I feel it even among my peers now, you have this "been there, done that, seen that, nothing new can happen" attitude. One memory which sticks to my mind is of when I was in Grade   8 and we had gone to a planetarium. Because it was a school trip, we got to stay on after closing hours and use the telescopes. I remember standing on the terrace and pointing out a plane's twinkling lights excitedly to my classmates. A classmate's retort to this was a mocking laugh and the words "Have you never seen a plane before?!"

This expression was one filled with such wonder, and just a tinge of apprehension as he wondered if the lantern is actually going to rise. And as soon as the lanterns rose above us, and made their way across the sky as if making their way towards the moon, a huge cheer rose. There were smiles and whoops of joy all around, and kids running up to me saying "Look at those lanterns go!! May I please click a photo with your camera??"

Once in a while, you need such a boost. You need to surround yourself by people who find joy in the littlest things. That evening will remain a very sweet memory for me, because after a long time I saw wonder, joy, and a strange sense of satisfaction surrounding me. We often tell people we teach these children. We couldn't be more wrong. It's these children, in their own special ways who teach us something, every single time we meet them. 

And the wings unfurl...

The child stares out of the window, at the leaves and farther away at the hills. He can hear sounds from the highway. They’re comforting, soothing even though they’re far away. The teacher’s voice cuts through.  Staring out the window is not going to fetch you marks, she reprimands, snottily.  Tyrant, he silently curses her, wistfully lowering his head and staring at his book.

The letters soon start playing Tag. The PD chases the I trying to find the W. The numbers start doing the foxtrot. The child smiles happily as they jump out of the book and use his desk as a dance floor. The teacher interrupts again.

The child has wings but he does not know. Each day they get clipped just as Flavius wished Caesar’s would. With every sharp word, with every angry red cross, the wings lose a feather.

The child is crippled. Wounded. He starts taking his anger out by going home and playing the violin till his finger tips are raw.

One morning, she hears him. There is music coming out of an empty classroom. She peeks in to see the child playing at a furious  pace. Gradually, he slows down and a peaceful smile lights up his  face.
She takes him as her student. Slowly, steadily, the feathers grow back. The wings grow, fuller and lighter, than before.

The PD still chases the I, but the child knows that anytime he wishes, he can unfurl his wings, and fly to the distant hill, once just a dream.