Inclusivity in education

I confess... I sometimes wish, wish really hard that people were blind to the differences in others. Wish there was equality. Wish where everyone is brilliant at what they do, I was not different and noticeable. My wish is very socialist in extremities while the world is capitalist, god bless the United States. Ha-ha, but it makes sense.

Most people are quite nice. Nice till their final ounce of sympathy drains out. They offer to listen, nod with understanding, but they have their reservations. They stare, they believe I do not realise, but they forget I have other functioning senses that make me feel like a zoo exhibit. I understand morbid curiosity. I experience it too. But doing the same thing over and over again, in my case understanding, does get boring.

I sometimes question my socialist wishful thinking. How would the world be without hues? Transparent? Without days and nights? I would miss black and gray and white and purple? People would not realise how good I look in red? Obvious much, my conscience growls at me, that is why it is wishful thinking. The world would be boring. Difference and competition puts us on different levels, and we all want to put ourselves on pedestals.

I enjoy being around mixed company. I listen. I observe. I judge. I speak. I learn. And at what place can this possibly happen? At school of course. A place where we meet and grow with people of the same age group. A place where we compete and learn. A place where we commit and regret our own mistakes. If only the chance was given.

Similarity is what the world looks for. I beg to differ. In a world where everyone is good at what they do, how can I be any worse? I can only be different. The other day, was a good day. I achieved something. I only needed the world to appreciate. But it apparently has its own chores to do.

I realise I am digressing. I might also be blabbering. Never the less, I assert, the society has no chance of success if it has brain power wasted. I am visually impaired, but I have the insight that is greater than anyone with eye sight who thinks I do not deserve inclusive education.

I justify my crying

Sad stories make me cry. Yay! At least I am not an emotionless robot.

What makes you cry the most? Hearing a sad story? Or being a part of a sad story? Have you ever realised tears gives pleasure? Have you ever realised we think and love ourselves more when we cry? What is it if it is not the joy of sorrow?

When have you last told yourself that no one understands you more than yourself? When was the last time you hugged yourself and told yourself you are not wrong? When was the last time you pitied yourself for all the things that happened with you? Have you, in that moment realised that the other side of the grass seems greener? Have you at least attempted to put yourself in the other person’s shoes?

Nothing... We know nothing in that moment can blow that passion that burns inside us. We know yet we don’t realise that self love balms our warped souls.

When was the last time you read a book? Karlos Ruiz Zafon said “every Book has a soul, the soul of the person who wrote it and the soul of those who read it and dream about it.” Don’t you think it is true? You cry along with the character. You laugh along; you sing along, you dance along. Or you just forget yourself and inhabit the character’s soul. It happens. A sweet escape.

But again, when you cry along with the character, or maybe, inside the character, don’t you know you are right? Don’t you experience a bout of depression overwhelming you? Don’t you realise that the only company you crave is that of tears and sobs in that moment?

Sometimes, all that you just need is a really good, hard cry. And the reason could also be ‘a crying practice’. Release all that builds up inside you on to your pillow through the flow of tears. It is akin to a pressure cooker.

In my case, I just blame it on that extra X chromosome.

It’s ok. It’s just the joy of sorrow.

How soon is soon?

He gently touched my left ring finger with his right index.

“Soon” he sighed dreamily.

“How soon is soon?” I asked being sure of the answer. No, not again. This guy, cheers my heart and I forget to do my daily chores. I have an assignment to submit the next day.

“4 years from now” he sounds realistic now, end of dream!

I sighed heavily. “Really now” I pulled my ring off my other hand. “You party-pooper! That’s so anti... anti...”

“Anti-climactic?” he took the ring from me and slipped it onto my heart finger. I looked away, my waves covering my face. He pushed them back to get a clear view of my blush.

“We are in the metro. People are looking.”

“Too late,” he said, his hand on my shoulder, “a few are already goggling at us.”

“I don’t want to turn the few into the train full.” I said pushing his hand off my shoulder.

We laughed softly, like two little kids after a mischievous deed, trying to hide it from mum. We stood there, bathing in the proximity in that overcrowded train.

“Wasn’t it an awwwwwwwwwww moment?” he mimicked me.

I giggled. I silently prayed for an eternity and a day with him.

From the ridiculous to the sublime. This is real! :)

If being in love with a fictional character is wrong…

Then I don’t want to be right...

J.K. Rowling had me at “Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were normal, thank you very much.”

It was love at first read. It was small at first, our little love affair. Harry would magically open a door here. Levitate a wand there. But as time went on, it became more intense. Winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament, breaking into the Ministry of Magic, going on a horcrux hunt with Ron and Hermione. I was thoroughly devastated when he started going out with Cho Chang. I came to accept that he married Ginny and has three children, but it still stings. Eventually we decided to move on.

You know, they say you can’t forget your literary love. I still get (as absolutely silly and ridiculous as this might seem now) dreams about Harry. Yes, dear reader, you read right. I dream about Harry’s adventures often. I dreamt about the eighth horcrux recently.

A dream is just a dream. Or is it not? Well, let me recount the story for you.

A green tent, the air was tinged with the reek of cats and (my mind said) dragon blood. Late afternoon.

“A horcrux could be anything, Harry,” said Hermione, “the last that he killed was… well, y… you…”

“My scar, yeah” completed Harry, “d’you reckon it’s a living being?”

“Yeah, I expect.”

“Yeah, mate, You-Know-Who didn’t own many riches apart from the Marvolo’s ring and the Slytherin’s locket,” said Ron.

“And his other horcruxes are all the things he nicked from Hepzibah Smith’s treasure-trove and the Ravenclaw common room.”

“We’ve been here for the past two days” warned Ron. “We’ve got to move.”

“Yeah, how about Northern Atlantic?” suggested Harry. “Hermione, you are carrying gillyweed in your beaded bag, aren’t you?”

Darkness. Water. Was I Hermione? Sprouting gills?

“What’s that?” the curious question shot out in the form of warm water bubbles.

“Looks like a swimming firefly” I read Harry’s lips.

“That’s a pyrophoric fish, mate,” said Ron.

“Sort of aquatic fireflies, they are, harry, the wizarding world doesn’t have fireflies” more bubbles were sent out by Hermione’s usual well-read, snotty, bossy, posh self through my mouth.

Harry stretched a hand and caught the pyrophoric fish. It transformed into something that looked like a black leather seat at his touch. Ron and the Hermione in me caught Harry by the legs. Our gills began to shrink, the water grew colder, we were swallowing water, choking and we were pulled out, in a seating position. There was a strange sort of a scarlet glow that the bait seat emitted. Strange, it could just fit one.

“This is it, Harry, Ron, the horcrux.” My mind screamed, some strong silencing charm was cast upon us. I looked up and listened hard;there were voices. Voices that hissed softly and dangerously. My insides twitched, the horrible sensation stirring violently in my stomach. It sounded like Parseltongue.

The scarlet shade showed Harry being pushed in to it and then… ahhhhhhhhhh… we were pushed under the seat, Ron and I holding on for dear life. Wand, beaded bag, Harry, Ron, was all ok?

“Welcome,” the voice hissed in English.

Our surroundings grew warmer, yet very unpleasant. I felt Ron’s arm jolting against mine, the beaded bag secure in my sock, and the wand in my sleeve. We were moving forward.

“Welcome to the Aqua Dark World. Dumbledor is dead, his body rots under the feet of Lord Voldemort and his followers.”

I had felt something heavy moving from the inside of the seat. I prayed it was Harry. Fortunately I was able to move; I sat upright and reached for my sock. I realised I didn’t have to hold on, I was stuck to the bait. I felt more scared than ever before. We were very slowly being wrapped around by the bait. More incoherent whispers were being emitted. But what to do next? Stabbing the bait with the Sword of Gryffindor would mean drowning, and not stabbing it would mean dying and leaving the wizarding world on the mercy of the Death Eaters and their master, Voldemort.

I snatched my wand and “Accio sword” I mouthed. It soared out of my sock and plunged into the bait. Then everything changed, I was huddled safe in bed. I was myself, not Hermione, and then came the jarring realisation that there is no eighth horcrux.

A dream is never just a dream, it is a place in sleep, where fantasy and wild imagination collide. No matter how ridiculous the dream, the imagination and the capability to recount the haphazard events always feels fab. Fiction is sublime.

A mango, two glasses of mango milk and me :D

Sometimes my senses wander away to eat grass. Really. My humour is at its best when I am unaware of what I say.

Currently I’m at my chudbud Yashoda’s home. She’s amazing. She ranks amongst my favourite people in this whole wide world. I’m spending the weekend here.

So my hilarity revolves around mango milkshake:

I brought my tiny fruit basket with me. It contained two oranges, one apple, one lemon, and one mango. And Yashoda – the awesome one decided to make mango milkshake as it was a big one.

“How many glasses of milkshake will you drink?” she asked.

“However many there are” I grinned.

“Ha-ha... 5 glasses would do?”

I nodded and resumed to moving to the loudness of my earphones.

Ten minutes later, I got my glass of lip smacking mango milk, and a refilling another five minutes after. Suddenly my brain gasped.

“Wait! Yashoda, how many glasses of milk did one mango serve?”

“Not one! Dad brought home a lot of mangos.”

Both of us died laughing. Uncle seemed taken aback by my stupidity, but all dads are awesome and offering.

Lol! Think before I speak! Think before I speak! :D

An attempt at love poetry :D

I sit here gazing

At the majestic moon so proud and bright

And the stars drifting across her rounded face,

They say our love is right.

I smile so wide

At the thought of you and I on a loverly night,

While a flurry of emotions

Inform our love is right.

Good lord, take to heart my        plea:

Throw us down some beaming light,

In dark multitudes – a bright spot

To signal us that our love is right.

I marvel at the beauty of the feeling

It runs so deep and out of sight,

As I feel us rising in love together,

I know our love is right.

Random thoughts of a conflicted mind

First I think something. Then I think something else. And then after much thinking I realise what I thought first and what I thought next starkly contrast each other. And I think more about what I should be thinking. Has it ever happened with you?

Hello reader, I’m Sai Vindhya (preferably Sai), a 19 year old, typing to you, just to know myself better, and you can know me here. And tell me if I am stupid.

Writing makes me contemplate and reflect over what I think, and some advice from an unknown judging eye will enhance my ability of self judgement.

For so long I kept telling myself I should write a blog. I finally got my lazy fingers to typing this post, so three cheers to some blog blabber. This feels great!

Catch you soon with my next post. Till then, lots of love.