PURE.English

# # # **“A Human Being Is a Possibility”** ✍️

A human is not a finished form,
Perfectly shaped at birth’s first light,
But rather a possibility—
Waiting to bloom, to grow, to rise.

Through education’s careful touch,
A caring world, relationships warm,
A soul is slowly carved and shaped,
Protected gently from the storm.

Every child is an open page,
With meanings yet to be written there,
Where learning, life, and lived experience
Together shape what they will bear.

If education is reduced merely
To discipline and grades alone,
Then a possible human being
Turns into one who obeys the known.

A mind that does not question deeply,
Nor wonders why, nor seeks the truth,
Just follows orders, silent, still—
A shadow stolen from its youth.

Then where shall wisdom rise again?
Where will a Gandhi’s courage shine?
Where shall Einstein’s restless wonder
Cross the boundaries of time?

If learning is not rote completion,
But the courage to ask and understand,
Then teachers are not mere instructors—
They are builders of humankind.

Schools are more than walls and classrooms,
Communities shape futures too,
For every child becoming human
Depends on what we choose to do.

And if cruelty starts to blossom,
If violence darkens young hearts’ ways,
It is not family alone that failed—
Education must share the blame.

Pedagogy warns us time and again:
*"Teach compassion, wisdom, grace,*
*Teach coexistence, empathy too,*
*Let humanity find its place."*

Otherwise, crowds may surely gather,
But societies cease to grow,
Machines may rise in human form,
Yet humanity may never show.

And if tomorrow a child becomes
A tyrant, criminal, or lost soul,
We must pause and ask ourselves—
Did we help them become whole?

Or were we too busy shaping them
To fit a rigid system’s frame,
Turning living minds into products,
And calling that success by name?

If education teaches no compassion,
Then knowledge becomes an endless load,
A mountain built of facts and figures,
But no humanity at its core.

For a human is never fully made—
A possibility, fragile and bright,
Give them wisdom, love, and learning,
And let them grow toward the light.

**✍️ Girjesh Kumar

# # # **“Ramautar Master’s Homework”** ✍️

The Supreme Court’s verdict had come,
And weeks had quietly slipped away,
Ramautar Master slowly accepted
A truth he never thought he’d face one day.

For twenty-seven years he had taught,
Lighting countless minds with care,
Yet now he had to prove again
That he was worthy to stand there.

But the real storm did not arrive
From courtrooms or legal decree,
The real challenge came one evening—
Straight from family authority.

While sipping tea, his elder son
Folded the newspaper and said,
*"Father, teaching alone won’t work,*
*You must prepare for TET ahead.*

*Buy the books, start studying now,*
*If you want your job to stay,*
*The world has changed, the rules are strict,*
*There’s simply no other way."*

His wife declared the next day’s law—
*"Morning walks are canceled now,*
*Evening debates and idle chats,*
*Less newspaper somehow.*

*From today your only mission,*
*Homework and preparation too,*
*The one who gave assignments for years,*
*Must now complete a few."*

Ramautar smiled a puzzled smile,
At life’s peculiar spinning art,
The teacher of thousands of children
Had become a student at heart.

Two days later, under pressure,
He bought a giant TET guidebook,
So thick it almost frightened him
The moment he gave it a look.

He opened the very first chapter—
*"What is Education?"* it read,
And suddenly Master wondered
What irony lay ahead.

After twenty-seven years of teaching,
Children, chalk, and endless days,
Now a textbook would explain to him
What education truly says.

He turned the pages thoughtfully,
Found theories with foreign names,
Only to realize with surprise
He had practiced most the same.

Perhaps in education, he thought,
Doing mattered a little less,
Than knowing the English title
For everyday classroom success.

Soon the family enrolled him too
In a coaching class nearby,
A young student beside him asked,
*"Sir, how long have you been trying?"*

Ramautar answered with a grin,
*"Son, I’ve prepared for twenty-seven years,*
*Only the exam is new."*
The boy looked confused, not amused.

At coaching they memorized commissions,
Years, committees, policies old,
Who recommended what and when—
Facts to memorize and hold.

Slowly preparation advanced,
His mornings filled with endless notes,
Theories, concepts, scholars’ names,
And facts he quietly wrote.

His wife looked pleased,
His son reassured,
Neighbors deeply impressed,
Only Ramautar remained unsure,
Somehow quietly distressed.

*"Am I preparing to teach again,*
*Or becoming an examinee?*
*Will passing suddenly transform me,*
*Into what I’m meant to be?*

*If I pass, will classrooms brighten?*
*Will struggling children learn with ease?*
*Will schools improve overnight,*
*As if changed by some breeze?*

*And if I fail by just one mark,*
*Will twenty-seven years disappear?*
*Will thousands of memories vanish too,*
*And trust no longer be here?"*

The night before the exam,
He stayed awake till late,
The book was open before him,
But his mind challenged fate.

It felt less like a test of skill,
And more a battle of belief—
That a teacher’s worth is measured
By a question paper’s brief.

Morning came. He closed the book,
Removed his glasses with a smile,
For perhaps his greatest struggle
Had lasted all the while.

In this country, many times,
Understanding education may not suffice,
What matters far more, sadly,
Is proving it with certified advice.

**✍️ Girjesh Kumar

**📸 “The Photo Gallery of Democracy” 📸**

Today, they met someone grand,
Tomorrow, they honored another hand,
The day after came a warm reception,
And social media celebrated the occasion.

Today, garlands found their way,
Tomorrow, shawls were proudly displayed,
A ribbon cut here, a cake sliced there,
A coconut broken with ceremonial flair,
And somewhere people quietly assumed—
Perhaps development had finally bloomed.

Open a profile, and every third post
Shows greetings shared with another host,
Every fourth speaks of honor bestowed,
Every fifth of chief guest glory bestowed.

Stages rise and smiles appear,
Welcome banners everywhere,
Yet strangely in this crowded frame,
The people themselves seem rarely there.

Easy it is to gather crowds for a picture,
Harder it is to hear their pain,
Easy it is to carry memorandums,
Harder to question systems again.

Whether ruling power or opposition’s voice,
The faces may somehow change,
Yet in the politics of photographs,
The scenes remain strangely the same.

One cuts ribbons in celebration,
Another submits demands with pride,
But the ordinary citizen in every frame
Stands quietly pushed to the side.

Roads may come or never arrive,
Yet photographs beside them must survive,
Problems may linger unresolved,
But selfies with suffering must still evolve.

Relief may or may not reach the weak,
But cameras must find comfort each week,
People may struggle beneath the weight,
Yet viral posts seem worth the wait.

Social media once promised connection,
A bridge between leaders and the land,
Yet slowly it turns into a theatre
Of self-display carefully planned.

Now there are fewer issues, more poses,
Fewer ideas, more polished views,
On public timelines the people remain
Background figures in political news.

Democracy seems slowly drifting
From dialogue into ceremony’s art,
From difficult questions to protocol,
From real struggles to symbols apart.

And the common person still stands waiting,
Exactly where they stood before,
Only this time they seem to find
No space left on the timeline anymore.

Once leaders were known for their ideas,
Then by the work they chose to do,
Now in many places recognition grows
Through carefully arranged photo views.

Crowds are many, faces are endless,
Programs rise one after another,
Yet amid this endless celebration,
The people still search for each other.

✍️ **GIRJESH KUMAR**