[My exhaustion took that much of me that I slept on my keyboard. My obedient monitor, monitoring his animated friend asleep, locked the screen and logged Z's too. At about 5:30 AM when I awoke myself and stretched my arms, a severe back-pain rose like the sun and spread its rays all over my physique. It was my awkward position of sitting that caused this acute discomfort. The following piece was composed yesterday but remained out of sight of my blogizens due to the exhaustion-to-sleep factor.]
I look pale today... am feeling extremely tired. My flesh feels numb and bones have not a trait of obduracy.
Today, we had to prove that we would not tolerate communism-led barbarism and such a thinking would never ever ripple our blood.
In our school election, the Managing Committee got some new faces.
We managed to weed out communism from our school ground by transporting the victory of our unity – the teachers' unity – through the dull streets of New Barrackpore. Side by side, we assert by declaring that neither ABTA nor WBTA is the projector that would project teachers to serve their interest. Out of any political outfit teachers look good and a little more sincere. If worn the outfit, they become victims of unique laziness and a nothing-to-do idleness cripples their profession. They lay themselves straight under the political umbrella, churn some undue privileges, go home much earlier without imprinting departure, avoid others' table and shirk their duties by even not coming on active days of examination. But any umbrella, how strong it may be, is a lightweight hand-held collapsible canopy.
The collapsible canopy collapses.
The collapsible canopy collapsed.
I couldn't make our HM believe that I am not a spot on his shirt. I am here to work with him unlike many others and like a few. Even some CPM leaders tried to dent me their polished images with this bulging hope that I would join ABTA and enjoy the benefits.
One day our Assistant Headmaster requested me to be skilled at clerical works and he would curtail the number of my scheduled classes. It was not a stupid utterance of a political dullard! It was a game to steer me away and drive me like a blindfolded bull so that his job of making routines and duty rosters could get diminished and his indolence could touch the zenith.
I couldn't tolerate his honeymoon inactivity and pedantic talks. I humbly went against him. I was burning like a faggot from within. My college days revived. I could easily understand that some others also bore abhorrence against that red-labelled locomotive.
“I” became a part of “We”. We became united. We are “the pack of teachers” who believe in serious political existence. These teachers are non-political, often considered apolitical... with a different prefix. To be non-political or apolitical, whatever the sincere address may be, is also a new dimension of political existence. And this existence bears neither any foul war nor any precarious truce. We all acted together to tear off the livid existence and did something that simply conveyed the art of living... the art of living like a teacher.