Nikhil Parekh - Indian Poet
I listened with rapt attention to the sonorous voice,
my feet were locked in recesses of tight boot,
body besieged with several coats of salty sweat juice,
hands trapped in dark realms of trouser pocket,
loose chalk powder smeared on curls of scalp hair,
large palms soaked in a blend of fountain ink and perspiration,
with a carton of paper sprawled before me,
bulky textbook volumes to be read for the day,
i was getting restless by the passing clock second,
as streaks of grey camouflaged the sky,
droplets of fresh monsoon pelted down in savage fury,
large masses of mundane crowd shouted in animated glee,
while me and my counterpart mates absorbed the stringent voice of our history
teacher.
the situation had risen beyond limits of tolerance,
our hearts throbbed in mounting excitement,
scorched bodies of ours bathed in pools of exhaustion,
each syllable he uttered struck us with magnified intensity,
restless feet trampled the sun baked floor,
while our teeth clusters gnawed every possible inch of object in proximity,
as we formulated mischivious plans of getting respite,
from crowded interiors of the obnoxious classroom.
we collected small pinches of red chilli extract,
ground it into small fragments of powder mix,
hurled it in chorused unison towards the man who taught us in dedication,
galloped out to smell waves diffusing from freshly soaked mud,
as the history teacher held his face in contorted dismay,
admiring the extravagant courage of aspiring youth existing in the brand new
millennium.
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The History Teacher
The History Teacher
