Garima Pura, Poetry Editor, The Bombay Review, inspired by the Short-Story Writing Competition, obliquely shares the art of writing.
The class 7 corridor in the senior wing of the convent school shivered at her arrival and echoed with her voice, “I will dip you in the thickest soup you’ve ever tasted!”, remarked Miss Lucy with anunder-tone as sleek as the blade of the knife, just as lethal too.
Her advent was never heard, it was felt.
A woman of few words, all which escaped her mouth was quotable.
“English Grammar cannot be rote learnt, it can only be understood-
Creative Writing cannot be taught, it can only be practiced”
While students juggled with her question paper that was sure to implant red inked marks on their report cards, she would sneakily elbow them towards the elimination of two options out of four that were offered.
She’d whisper, “Step one to better English, is stop translating it in Hindi to check!”
The classroom could be mistaken for an-equipped-with-sound-absorbing-apparatus studio huddled by mute kittens on her summons for ‘those who want to read their essays aloud’.
“The language is expression. Do not mar the joy of it with fear.
The classroom is to learn, not ace. The language is to express, not impress”.
Three tentative hands and one taut fist could be seen sheepishly half risen, on the horizon where her careful nature reached out, to nurture their frail confidence.
She taught them, to write right.
Her advent was never heard, it was felt.
A woman of few words, all which escaped her mouth was quotable.
“English Grammar cannot be rote learnt, it can only be understood-
Creative Writing cannot be taught, it can only be practiced”
While students juggled with her question paper that was sure to implant red inked marks on their report cards, she would sneakily elbow them towards the elimination of two options out of four that were offered.
She’d whisper, “Step one to better English, is stop translating it in Hindi to check!”
The classroom could be mistaken for an-equipped-with-sound-absorbing-apparatus studio huddled by mute kittens on her summons for ‘those who want to read their essays aloud’.
“The language is expression. Do not mar the joy of it with fear.
The classroom is to learn, not ace. The language is to express, not impress”.
Three tentative hands and one taut fist could be seen sheepishly half risen, on the horizon where her careful nature reached out, to nurture their frail confidence.
She taught them, to write right.
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