Beholding the beholder

With serious deadlines (research proposals/research papers etc.) and monsoon approaching together, it's a tug of war for a poetess and nature lover like me. There is music and poetry and photography and whatnot on one end and there are articles and presentation thoughts and not so adorable people to read on the other end. And suddenly I am missing a school teacher who used to teach us English Literature in Class 9. Farzana Ma'am, like others, has also contributed to my persona like so many others. Of several memories, one seems to be a thoughtful attempt by a teacher to give a lesson for life. So, here goes the story...

One day, a chapter based on a poem was scheduled to be taken up. She had already asked us to read it once beforehand and note down the meaning of words from a dictionary. I know this feeling well now. When we assign some task to students and have a basket of thoughts to share based on their reading. Kids or adults (all are alike when sitting across the classroom desks. Sometimes, adults are far more kiddish than kids. And more laughable is the fact of teaching the older ones who have crossed 40. They can be placed along the kindergarten ones sometimes :)) escape opening a new window of thoughts. Maybe because they have not been trained in this art since childhood. The mandate of "getting taught" has only brought so much misery to humans. Returning to the balcony of the story again, she asked, who could read and find the meanings of new words already. I, being the perennial first-bencher was feeling bad and still do, for not doing 'my kind of thing'. She was little surprised to know this but to my surprise, she gave a new meaning to the silence of our classroom.

Farzana Ma'am began asking every student one by one to stand up and tell what they think the first word of the poem 'behold' means. (Even though she knew none of us can know the real meaning and our assumptions are going to be both vague and ambiguous.) Each student stood up and sat with an apology since she didn't skip asking the whys of not reading a simple and short poem. I too gave some absurd meaning of the word and sat with apology. This also speaks of the quality of endurance in a teacher. Many years later, while I was reading law (Masters in Law) I witnessed a similar lesson from our Professor (Dr. Ghayur Alam) regarding the importance of acknowledging that a word means what it means. No assumptions work there. Also, it's a lesson for learning to accept that 'you don't know it all' in life otherwise. So stay grounded and have the essentiality of curiosity. Meanwhile, we all became curious to find out the meaning of behold, and before the pin-drop silence and serious air of that one hour of introspection and disappointment ended, Farzana Ma'am explained how beholding is different from looking or seeing.

So, when did you last behold nature? clouds? wind? trees or plants speaking while swaying in the wind? nocturnal chorus of insects? when did you observe that if the blue of skies and green of trees didn't exist, what colors would be left in our colorless lives after remaining in the light of mobile phones? (Not that I am a great exception. But trying to be an exception. Also, little curious about all that goes. However, at least I know that it's a flaw.) When did we give ourselves the chance to behold and surprisingly find something meaningful?

A part of Life is also about beholding. And all that goes after it. You may know it or you might be completely unaware of the magic. I wish I could send this piece of my thoughts to her and share another branch of a tree that has grown and bloomed rather, from what she planted that day. I don't know anything about her whereabouts. Perhaps my school's alumni association would be of some help. If not, I want to tell my readers one more thing. It's a delight in being teachable. You never know which string works as a ropeway for you.

Before leaving, please read the beautiful poem she taught amazingly in her way of pedagogy

The Solitary Reaper

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

P.S.: The thoughts are original. :) (Since, I have been asked specifically about it earlier :D !)

Samriddhi's