Friday, October 8, 2010

Editorial (October - September '10)



It’s rather unbelievable how the months have flown by like a breeze. It seems like just yesterday, when our corridors were full of fresh faces and eager smiles. They shuffled their way into classrooms, with their books, some dog-eared and some brand new; pages waiting to be read and written on. Last term was a blur of activity and excitement. The Department Orientation welcomed the Freshers to a new world; the Freshers’ Party saw them exploring this Wonderland; and the trip gave them an opportunity to get to know their seniors, and each other, in the lap of nature and amidst the scenic beauty of Dharamshala. We’ve tried to capture these fleeting moments, ephemeral like autumn leaves, and preserve them as vignettes. We take this opportunity to welcome the Freshers aboard a voyage which they will cherish forever.


We are all aware of the dilemmas facing the department and the country, with the implementation of the Semester System and the hosting of the Commonwealth Games. Yet, we should also appreciate the brighter side to everything, celebrate the success of past events, and look forward to a promising and wonderful second term. We apologise for the delay in publishing the journal, which was due to unavoidable circumstances, and hope you will enjoy this first issue, fresh off the press. To have a room of one’s own is a privilege, as well as a responsibility, and we hope you keep writing in to us. Because we share Atwood’s conviction that ‘word after word after word is power’.

The Editorial Team 


Snapshots by Niharika Gupta

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Martha Kanter Speaks

Martha Kanter, Under Secretary of Education, USA, speaks to Jabberwock about the prerequisites of the Semester System.


The semester system has worked successfully in American higher education for many years. But at the heart of any system is the quality of the courses that are taught. Professors must be supported to determine the competencies and student learning outcomes planned for every course, the required number of hours of instruction, laboratory work and a host of other issues that makes any system a success.

A Death Foretold

On the day they were going to kill him, Mohammed Abdul Rasheed got up at five in the morning, to attend the morning prayer at the local mosque. Dressed in white, his crocheted taqiyah neatly covering his head and his prayer book tucked under his arm, he went through the house with long strides, as the shadows of dawn danced upon the earthen walls. He walked toward the winding pathway leading to the courtyard of the mosque, smiling at the little boys on their bicycles, on their way to the madrassa. He passed the khejri tree under which the village panchayat was gathering to discuss matters pertaining to the community at large. The young girls beside the pond by the village post-office, looked away coyly as he approached them, hiding their faces with the rims of their sarees. The youngest and the most beautiful of them all, lovingly called Beba by the village folk, was the only one who looked up to catch his eye. She walked with him toward the shady grove at the water’s edge, where he asked her not to entertain anyone this evening, for he would stop by at her kothi before dusk.

The air was still, and the cocks were crowing, just as they had in his dream the night before. It was a calm and quiet morning, just like most mornings in the quaint little village of Samain, in spite of the revelry which had continued till the sun decided to rise on the paddy fields. Marriages were a big affair in this small town in Fatehabad, especially if one or both of the betrothed belonged to the moneyed class. So when Ramesh Tyagi, the son of a money lender from Rohtak, decided to woo and finally wed Pavitra, daughter of a craftsman in our village, the proposal was met with much jubilation. Pavitra was a distant relative of mine, and I remember her as a young girl, reticent and homely. On those few occasions when, tired of the grime and squalor of the city, I would come down to Samain to spend a few leisurely weeks in the rural countryside, I’d live a couple of days with her. She kept to herself mostly, scrubbing pots or cooking for the family. When her father went blind, her brothers Shiv and Prithvi took upon themselves the task of earning for the family’s meager wants, by raising chicken in the backyard. As for Pavitra, she confined herself to the chores, under the watchful eye of her mother.

I was staying at her place, when Ramesh came to town with a job at hand, and decided to inform the entire village that the pretty damsel washing clothes at the ghat had caught his fancy. The very next day, her family received sweets and bouquets of freshly pruned flowers, a fair barter for her love. Initially, the khap panchayat had annulled the marriage, holding that it violated the age-old custom defining the areas of incest, and prohibiting marriages within the same gothra. However, when they heard that Ramesh had plans of setting up a bank in the district, they blessed the couple and pronounced it a match made in heaven. So Pavitra, the new bride with vermilion on her forehead, was told by her mother that love too can be learned, and was led away like cattle.

On the day they were going to kill him, I was packing my bags and getting ready to leave for the city. The rickshaw-puller waited impatiently outside, surrounded by the village dogs, barking excitedly and pacing the yard. Away from my knowledge, Pavitra lay locked in the next room, bruised and beaten, her salty tears streaming down to her trembling lips. She had been returned that very night, similar to the cattle which the butcher deems unfit to slaughter and sell. On being asked to reveal the identity of her clandestine lover, she had looked in the shadows, only to find Mohammed's name among the many, and she nailed it to the wall with her well-aimed dart. And away from my knowledge, beside the little shop where Kavita sold milk and local brew, Pavitra’s brothers were waiting to kill him. Everyone knew that they were going to kill him. And everyone thought he knew it as well. But Mohammed Abdul Rasheed walked down the winding pathway from the mosque, at peace after the muaulvi’s blessings, blissfully unaware of his impending fate. It was as though fatality makes one invisible.

As my rickshaw pulled toward the village square, the contraption creaking under the weight of my baggage, I heard a commotion in the distance. And I saw the dust rising up as numerous feet shuffled in that direction. I climbed down, and stopped a passerby to question her about the chaos.

“The Hindu men have killed the Muslim boy,” deplored the old woman, clutching her beads to her breast.

In a community where Hindus and Muslims lived in harmony, this piece of news disturbed me deeply. I turned toward Bittu, a boy working at the chai dukaan, and grabbing him by the shoulders I asked him the same question, a bit more frantically this time.

“What’s done is done,” he replied insightfully, shaking his head.

“It had to happen,” explained the village chowkidar beside me. “The panchayat believes it. So do the people. If a virgin will not bleed, then the perpetrator must.”

Gauri Behn, coming from the opposite direction, wailed aloud. “They’ve killed Mohammed Rasheed. They killed him for honour, when there is no honour in killing. We all killed him. Both you and I, and each one of us.”

Before she could complete her sentence, I found myself running toward the crowd. As I approached Mohammed, the man who we had killed off to keep alive our honour, he was in the throes of death, gasping, choking and sputtering like a fish out of water. He clutched his side, where the blood had imbrued his cotton jubbah, and was slowly forming a pool in the dusty ground.

“Allah will forgive them for their sins, for Allah is oft-forgiving, most merciful.”

With these last words, he stopped struggling, lay still and closed his eyes. I remained kneeling beside him, till his chest stopped heaving, and his head dropped to one side. The village folk soon dispersed, some grieving, some lamenting, some doubting, some believing. The sun was slipping behind a cloud, and its waning rays bedimmed the village square. Yet Mohammed Abdul Rasheed's face glowed, under the darkening sky, its expression serene and almost childlike. I looked at my hands, carmine stained, like those of the priest at the sacrificial altar. Allah, most merciful one, only you know whether this man has sinned or not. But as for our sins, would you ever forgive them?

~ Bhavika Sicka

The Sinister System

“Do we have any classes tomorrow? I heard that there’s some strike ...”
This has become an oft repeated question by students in the past few weeks, some hopeful and others apprehensive. What most of them fail to realize is the fact that no class today would imply extra classes tomorrow. And ironically, this then leads the same students, who were jubilant about the class cancellation the day before, to realize their plight and request teachers to take class.

No, this isn’t an attack on either the teachers or the students, but on the ‘sinister’ semester system looming ahead. You may have observed that it has created quite an uproar among the colleges of Delhi University. If you ask a DU student about the semester system, you’ll encounter an alarming change in countenance – their eyebrows contract, ears redden, teeth are bared and fists curl. The general impression one assumes about the system, is of an all-consuming evil thing, out to get the vulnerable students and teachers.

For those who are unaware of its structure, the semester system will require two examinations to be held in a year; a total of six three years in a degree course. Whatever has been taught in one semester is not repeated in the other. So what happens in a literature course? Can you divide a lengthy novel and teach it in two parts without referring one part to the other? The arguments of the teachers against it don’t seem to be senseless either. The Vice Chancellor Deepak Pental has been accused of forcing the system, without an adequate debate or consensus among the teachers. Moreover, many clearly state that the annual results are never on time. How, then, will the University manage to declare the results of two semesters in a year? The students won’t have sufficient time for extracurricular and co-curricular activities, which would go to mean, in dramatic words, that for a majority of students, college life is over. It’s like you crawl out of school curriculum and then you’re dragged back. Some advantages stated by those who advocate the system is that it’ll make students more focused and control absenteeism. Since a semester is more intensive, the student will have to keep up with what is being taught in class. Also, the credit system doesn’t reveal the student’s actual marks, which reduces a sense of failure among those who score poorly.

Deshbandhu, Kirori Mal, SGND Khalsa and Delhi College of Arts and Commerce are among colleges protesting actively against its implementation. Those colleges where the teachers didn’t protest but chose to conduct regular classes include Lady Shri Ram College, Indraprastha College, St. Stephen’s and Dyal Singh College.

To sum it up, one cannot deny the academic benefits of the semester system, but at what cost?
The system instigates a chain reaction against ECA – a student apprehensive of missing classes and losing attendance, doesn’t have much say, when she/he wants to participate in a college function but is unable to, owing to the classes being held on the same day and at the same time. I thought college was all about balancing academics and extra curricular activities, and being provided the liberty to prioritize between them if one wished to. It’s also a deeply acknowledged fact that those who want to study, will, and those who don’t … well, no semester system can exert any control over them whatsoever.

~ Neha A. Owaisy

Is this Delhi that I see?

Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery
Beautification of the city they said
‘Men at work’ the signboards read
Bricks, mortar, cement, and stone
New structures have been grown
Colour, fragrance, liveliness
Nature spreading happiness
Sweet songs of birds and bees
Pure air and the cool breeze
Now replaced by oil and grease
Smoky air that makes you sneeze
Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery.
 
2010 Commonwealth Games
It was the culprit to be blamed
But is it right and is it fair
Blame not one it should be shared
Wrong has been done, everyone’s to blame
It was not ‘them’ cause ‘we’ had claimed
Beautification by cutting down trees
Progress and growth that’s what we see
Isn’t it so foolish, isn’t it so lame
Putting natural beauty to artificial shame
Cement structures and stony lanes
Done all this for Commonwealth Games
Oh when will this attitude change?
‘Growth’ by cutting tress isn’t it strange
Not measured by the structures built
But by the trees that we have killed
Can’t change it now we’ve done it all
Letting buildings grow & trees to fall
We’ve done it all
We’ve done it all.
 
Is this Delhi that I see?
No birds, no plants, no greenery.

~ P.S. Pranika 

The Death of Báthory


The following is based on the true story of the notorious 'Blood Countess' Erzsébet Báthory (1560 - 1614).

The windy gale blew through the trees
Which grew around the grey brick walls
That rose up high to meet the sky
As did the tower tall.

The grey-blue clouds and grey-green grass
Stretched over hillsides looking down
On winding roads and little huts
Which was Čachtice town.

The broken archway echoed still
With frantic yells of virgins young
While down below in Čachtice
The doleful death knell rung.

The narrow stony pathway paved
With painful cries as dark as night
Wound slowly down the rugged slope
Till it was out of sight.

The candle flickered in the wind
And caused the shadows on the wall
To dance around as witches do
On hearing Hecate call.

As shadows rose when daytime closed
And sunlight waned and moonlight gleamed
The lonely woman in the tower
Could hear the silence scream.

The woman's dreams were plagued with blood
Like carmine stains on dungeon floors
And haunted all her silent nights
Till she could sleep no more.

Her beauty and her youth had once
Made her bloom like a rosy flower
Which withered as the hours and days
Passed by her in death tower.

And all the blood of peasant girls
And maids and serfs and noble dames
Could not prevent the blood in her
From draining as death came.

No vanity or drunken pride could
Save her from the tide of death
Which swept away her glory as she
Breathed her last breath.
~ Bhavika Sicka

A Grey Lock of Hair

Shattered, Shaken and Sudden
Stormed by an inconsolable silence
Two heavy hearts stunned at an inevitable occurrence

On the way to granny's funeral,
A grey lock of hair caught my eye
That of my father sitting beside me,
And a strange tremor passed through me,

I was hit by a pensive thought:

The day life takes a drastic turn,
Of the very destiny that we fear
Of the loss we tremble
Of the age when I will be all alone,
Though my past landscape would remain the same,
Death  would take us all;

devoid of the lively happy times,
The question that crosses my mind
why does life anyway come to a close?
And memories cast an awfully long shadow,

“death can’t defeat me”, said I as a child
“I will be his friend, playing in the forests wild!”

But that day my hands were chilly,
I held my father’s hand unexpectedly,
Who was preoccupied in sleep,
Life is a long journey,
But getting over its end ,is even longer ;
Isn’t it true my dear reader?
That
The filthy race of stumbling each other inferior,
the war for power,
Is so futile and transient,
I know not ,
why is this grey a constant reminder of the end?”
      
Because Death knows no smiles and frowns
No childhood nor friendships, 
Riches give us solace that is so fake..
Nobody is elevated  in death
Then why bicker about the wealth-ridden cart?
Says the battle I wage to my heart
For we are all scared
Of the dawn of that grey lock in our lives.
~ Rini Barman