Poornima Manco

Author

simplicity

My Cup Runneth Over…

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I started my Guest Blog month in the hope that at least 50% of the people I had contacted for articles (people whose thoughts, lives and words I admired) would get back to me with some material. In actual fact, nearly 80% did! Yes I did pester and harangue them quite a bit (SORRY!) but my goodness, the response! I am humbled, grateful and overwhelmed beyond description.

My month overran, once again, like last time. But I didn’t mind and nor did my readers. It’s refreshing to come to a blog and read something new and unexpected. And boy, were the articles different and the topics varied!

André chronicled his unusual life and path in My unlikely journey to fatherhood. It was honest, heartfelt and emotionally uplifting. The response to his article was phenomenal. People reached out to tell him (and me) how much they admired him for his choices. His love for his children and their mothers shone like a beacon, and I hope it allowed other seemingly unlikely candidates to believe that they too can be mothers and fathers. After all, families come in all shapes and guises. It is love that holds them together.

The ghost in the office was Shantanu’s retelling of a mysterious series of events that occurred in one of his early offices. Does the supernatural exist? For a practical and rational person like Shantanu, nothing can explain away the incident he mentions. Spooky and eerie, sometimes there are things that are beyond the realm of our understanding, and maybe it’s best to leave them as is. What did you make of it?

Diya had a cushy existence till she decided to take the plunge and start teaching a group of underprivileged children in My rendezvous with God’s angels. What she found there was more rewarding than she could have ever expected. Their innocence, their eagerness to learn, their love for their teacher transformed her life. She learned to let go of the petty annoyances that plagued her, and immerse herself in giving back. To this day, it enriches her life in ways big and small.

Making mosaics became more than a hobby for Jyoti. It was an unconventional choice of craft and she encountered more than her fair share of problems, from the paucity of tools to the reluctance of other practitioners to share their skills. As a result, she started her own blog with the aim of helping other beginners and amateurs to source materials, tools and provide guidance in the process as well. Not only does she create the most beautiful mosaics, but also believes in the adage – ‘Gaining knowledge, is the first step to wisdom. Sharing it, is the first step to humanity.’ In Why do I make mosaics? Jyoti’s passion, humanity and humility shine through. She is an incredibly inspirational lady.

The Call of a Siren was an article sent to me by someone who wished to remain anonymous. If you’ve read the article, you will know why. The beauty of it is that this man has turned his life around from that lapse of judgement he details, and today he is an incredibly successful entrepreneur. He is also an avid reader and dabbles in the occasional bit of writing. It was my exhorting him to put pen to paper that created this thrilling recounting of an incident from his 20’s. I’m sure you’d agree that it reads like an episode from an exciting television series. My own heart was thumping as I read it for the first time! My friend, if you’re reading this, write more. You do have a gift.

HeartonWheels is Jeanne’s raison d’etre. She spends half her life in these refugee camps in Greece helping children overcome the trauma of escaping from war torn countries and being separated from their families. In extremely difficult conditions, she tries to fill their lives with laughter and with joy. This is not just a part time job for her, it is a calling. She is invested physically, mentally and emotionally in the well being of her charges. Her dream is to provide free education to all children in such conditions and through her mobile bus, which she is raising funds for, she hopes to realise this dream. Do have a read and contribute to her justgiving page if you can.

To say that Mohana has had an interesting life would be an understatement. A straight A student, who, for many years let her academic qualifications dictate the course of her life, then suddenly, on what seemed like a whim, let her art and talent take her on an entirely different journey. Yet, in her article, Life’s Nudges to Eke an Untrodden Path, Mohana explains how the seeds of this journey had been planted many years ago. The daughter of a renowned dancer, Mohana herself was an exceptionally talented danseuse. But it took many years, and many tiny hints from the Universe for her to realise where her true path lay. Unapologetically spiritual, she incorporates elements of her faith in her dance. There is an unalloyed joy that she transmits to her students through her teaching, that elevates her dance from the ordinary to the extraordinary.

Bharat is a writer I admire immensely. His grasp on the English language is breathtaking. He can bend, twist, transmogrify and transmute words into astonishing combinations of sentences, transporting the reader into worlds where these words dance and twirl around one like whirling dervishes. A man whose imagination is so fertile, so fecund that he can trot out poem after poem without breaking a sweat. Yet, a self confessed procrastinator, it took me close to a year to get him to write about his Vipassana experience. For a man of words, how strange it must have been to have none for ten days. A retreat that is a true test of one’s mettle, but also a retreat that helps one to delve deeper into the self. Bharat’s take on it is part humorous, but there is an underlying awe and a deep love and respect for humanity that comes through. A tale of two beards is more than just about beards, it is about man’s search for meaning and silence in a world that grows louder and more chaotic each day.

Finally, the poignant and heart wrenching The Bus Stop was Joan’s tribute to her mother who suffered from Alzheimers for several years before succumbing to it. Disease of any kind strips the body of its well being and dignity, but Alzheimers strips the mind of everything. To not know oneself, one’s own life forgotten, one’s family becoming strangers, must be a horribly scary and isolating experience. Joan’s poem gives words to the wordless. It is an insight into a lost and wandering mind, trying to find its bearings, trying to grasp fruitlessly at memories that are slipping away. ‘Am I a lost article?’ is what her mother asked her once. Maybe we all are, lost in one way or another. But to be lost to oneself… what could be worse than that?

My Guest Blog month hasn’t quite ended. A colleague, the extremely intelligent, erudite, politically astute, deep thinking Joke Brunt is working on a series of articles on Brexit for me. The month of May will be devoted to her take on what Brexit stands for, and what the ramifications will be, to those of us on both sides of the fence. Do keep reading, keep commenting and stay engaged!

A very BIG thank you to all of my contributors once again.

My rendezvous with God’s angels – Diya Sarkar

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It was just another boring Monday after an exciting weekend. My husband was at the office and my children at their respective hostels. I had nothing constructive to do as usual, except for supervising the daily household chores being done by my maid, when suddenly I came across  ‘Teach For Change’ on Facebook, an NGO engaged in teaching  underprivileged children. I had plenty of spare time and so I thought of killing some.

I was super excited to get out of the house for a couple hours regularly on a weekday, for a change. But nothing seemed to work in my favour. I complained about the weather, about the traditional dress which I chose to wear and yes, waking up early was not my cup of tea. Well, my list of my grudges never saw a full stop.

As my car approached the gates of the government school, I saw from the tinted glasses, tiny feet walking in a line on a not so smooth road; crossing crowded streets, holding hands, each one taking care of his or her partner.

Most of them, unlike our children, could not afford to hire a cab or for that matter, a bus. Most of their parents did not own vehicles. So, they needed to walk miles before they reached their school whether it was sunny, rainy, cloudy or otherwise. But they did not complain.

School shoes were an item of luxury for the majority. They came to school wearing slippers. Perhaps that was their only footwear for walking, running and playing. But they did not complain.

I reached their classroom and there wasn’t a single fan. It was a hot summer afternoon. They were sweating, yet they wore a beautiful smile. They were still not complaining.

They were thirsty and their bottles were empty. Water was rare and precious for them. They had days and specific timings when the water supply came through the taps at their homes. So, after taking my permission, they went, one at a time, to the water cooler at the school, to fill up their bottles. They seemed happy and they weren’t complaining.

I can never forget the first time I stepped into their classroom. They were holding my hands and hugging me. They wanted a secure future, a smooth life, water running through their taps, a good pair of shoes, nutritious food and somehow, they found hope in me. Their eyes were twinkling with curiosity. There was an urge to learn something new, something that would iron out those wrinkles from their road to success. At such a tender age, they had already seen enough … poverty, malnourishment, domestic abuse,  parents separated, being orphaned, beatings on a regular basis, child labour… you name it and they had experienced it.

The bell rang and my class was over. It was their lunchtime. In fact, they came to school for that midday meal. Many of them were hungry since the morning. Still, no complaints. Instead, to my surprise, there were so eager to help me to arrange my things, carry my bag, open the door for me and so on. They were all excited to know more about me and my next visit to their school. As I climbed down the stairs, they joined me. They were waving at me when I walked out of the school gate. “Bye Didi (that is how we refer to an elder sister in India) are you coming tomorrow?” was still ringing in my ears.

No amount of shopping, fine dining, catching up with friends or even holidaying had ever given me the pure joy and happiness that was offered by these God’s Angels.

The bitter experiences, harshness, difficulties, insecurities which life had in store for them had failed to erase the twinkle from their eyes, the smile from their lips or the love from their hearts. Not even their hungry stomachs or the uneven ground on which they were standing upon, could stop them from waving and smiling at me.

Days have turned into months and I am, once again, getting ready to go to school. I’m all excited to teach my students so that I can empower them with education, so that they are not at the mercy of someone, so that they don’t have to use secondhand stuff given to their elders by households like yours and mine. And yes, the weather or that traditional dress don’t bother me anymore. My list of grudges have also reduced considerably. There is something bigger than these irrelevant complaints of mine. The trust which they have invested in me, without an iota of doubt, which, in turn, has brought about the most precious bonding with these little souls. Alongside I have also learnt some valuable lessons for life – to remain humble and evolving.

God bless them, God’s Angels in disguise.

Diya pic 2

Hello, this is Diya Sarkar from Delhi, India. I presently reside in Hyderabad, city of pearls, Nizams and biryanis.

After completing my Masters in Journalism and Communication, I worked as a freelancer at ‘The Indian Express’, an Indian news media publishing company. 

I am married with twins, a son and a daughter, who share their birthday with their father, who is also a twin. I have been a part time teacher in a couple of schools… in fact, a teacher to my children, both at school and at home. Now, I love teaching underprivileged children at a Government school. There is so much to learn from each one of them.

I am an avid traveller and have been on the move since my childhood, exploring different parts of the country, the cuisine, culture, landscape etc. In fact, unity in diversity is what defines India in one line. 

I like reading, writing, cooking, shopping for traditional items or garments, and also have an interest in interior decoration and flower arrangement. I am planning to blog in the near future too. Thank you. 😊