Crib Crib

The greatest tragedy that haunts the noble profession of teaching is that it is almost an inadvertent loss of one’s right to crib. It is almost a forced hiatus from the fine art of complaining. In the world of whining, teachers are, well, the never specified “others” category, which could really be anything from Leprechauns to Oompa Loompas or Oliver Twist to Edmund Dantes. We do not even have a nomenclature in this world, forget representation. I know all about grouse and grumble; I come from a Patiala clad world of mobile jammers, after all. It, however, was also a world of beautiful sunsets, brilliant sky walks, amazing city-views and libraries you could lose yourself in. Hashtag CampusesIHaveBeenAPartOf, I am pedagogically polyandrous. 

In exiting these campuses, it seems I have exited spaces that accommodated my bitterness, manic depression and biting sarcasm. I do not like this transition into a self effacing, bereaved, mother-figure, therefore, this evening, I will take some time out and rue. 

I want to mourn the broken strands of my hair that have been dusted away, like my DNA has been erased from a certain space. I want to wail over lost stationery items that seem to have slipped into the universe of lost stationery items, a different dimension, not accessible to us, and therefore, can never be recovered. It is thus that I never have a pen. I want to cry over the simultaneous sojourn of all my favourite shows. I want to chide those responsible for the infernal amount of time that punctuates the shows, books and films of a series.  

I want to agonise over not being able to afford an assistant, specifically for the purpose of giving directions to Uber drivers. As an aside, I also want an assistant for remembering passwords and ATM Pins and withdrawing money. As I type this, I realise I am not fit to be an adult. I also want to lament being an adult, primarily because I cannot cartwheel anymore. I want to curse taxi drivers, who strategically stop twenty steps ahead of you, upon being summoned, make you walk all that distance, only to reject you. This is abject sadism. 

I want to mutilate my mouse, which interprets a single click as a double click and a double click as a paragraph selection. The simple act of shifting the position of the cursor is not for me anymore. I want to weep over my 80 GB PC that I have not switched on, in over three years. I want to lash out at the stupidity of them who undertook the futile endeavour of shutting down torrents. 

I want to protest the titillation that is ‘The Cursed Child’. No one should have written about Harry Potter other than Rowling. It is blasphemy. I want to reject certain words; words without depth, accuracy or meaning. 

Lastly I also want to throw a fit about the non-possession of dragons, though not the iron throne. I do not want the suffering that comes with it.