HAPPY TEACHERS DAY!

SEPTEMBER 5 is a special occasion celebrated annually across India to honour and appreciate the tireless efforts of educators who shape the minds and futures of students young and old. It celebrates the bond between the students and teachers, recognising the efforts, hard work and commitment shared by the teachers to their students.
On this special programmes are organised by the students to honour the hard work of the teachers. But it is also observed that the non- teaching staff, which includes the office staff and the helpers and peons are not given any importance on this day as they too contribute to the building of the educational institutions. This is a day that should not just be celebrated as Teachers Day but as Staff Day….the non- teaching staff also teach the students. Finally, I wish all for a HappyTeachers’ Day!
—Cajetan Peter D’Souza, Mumbai

BUYS AT ASHTAMI FERI, PANAJI
COME the annual Ashtami Feri down the Campal promenade in capital city Panaji and everyone’s in shopping mode. One may get some really decent stuff for the household for a steal. I picked up cotton pillow covers at Rs100 per five pieces, and some were going for Rs10 per piece, a little damage but good enough for daily use!
Kurta sets are selling at Rs300, free size. Fridge covers, dining table covers: Rs50. There are Rs100 to Rs400 bedcovers single and double, very nice. A razzmatazz of cosmetic jewelry for daily use, Rs40 plus, plus earrings.
It’s vendors’ cries of “Sau ka teen!” That is, Rs100 take three of many things…Rs25 cotton hankies, tops, pants, are going for Rs100…buys for our tough times. Purses for Rs100, crockery…take ten cups for Rs100, better ones only six pieces.
This is no storm in a tea cup! I bought a cast iron chappati pan for Rs160. Hurry, September 8 is last day. We are not surprised aam aadmi waits for this Ashtami Feri to happen come Chavath to do their shopping for the year. Thank God for it.
—Heena Shaikh, Panaji

ZEBRA CROSSINGS CONTRAST!
FOR many decades the Panaji Civil & Criminal Courts were functioning in the premises next to Panjim Residency (Tourist Hostel) along that very busy road. For the convenience of the advocates, staff and litigants, the authorities finally notified a Zebra Crossing to enable people to cross with a right of way.
Despite the law requiring motorists to stop at a zebra crossing once a pedestrian has set foot on to the crossing, it was anguishing to helplessly watch that vehicles including two wheelers continued to zoom along while that ornamental Zebra crossing notification was just on paper. Sadly to date the same state of affairs continues at every zebra crossing in Goa with the pedestrians having to wait for the vehicles to first cross.
Notably in Europe at every Zebra Crossing the vehicles unfailingly and rigorously stop to give pedestrians their right of way. People here act responsible and as a matter of duty comply and abide by the rules and not just out of fear of the law!
—Aires Rodrigues, London

A POEM BY RAM JETHMALANI

(The famous advocate passed away when he was a nonagenarian at 95 years of age, presumably before he died he was disillusioned man and wrote this poem, very inspirational for our times!)
UNTITLED
Sometimes in the dark of the night,
I visit my conscience
To see if it is still breathing,
For its dying a slow death
Every day.
When I pay for a meal in a fancy place.
An amount which is perhaps the monthly income
Of the guard who holds the door open.
And quickly I shrug away that thought,
It dies a little.
When I buy vegetables from the vendor,
And his son “chhotu” smilingly weighs the potatoes,
Chhotu, a small child, who should be studying at school.
I look the other way
It dies a little.
When I am decked up in a designer dress,
A dress that cost a bomb
And I see a woman at the crossing,
In tatters,trying unsuccessfully to save her dignity.
And I immediately roll up my window.
It dies a little.
When I buy expensive gifts for my children,
On return, I see half clad children,
With empty stomach and hungry eyes,
Selling toys at red light
I try to save my conscience by buying some, yet
It dies a little.
When my sick maid sends her daughter to work,
Making her bunk school
I know I should tell her to go back.
But I look at the loaded sink and dirty dishes,
And I tell myself that is just for a couple of days
It dies a little.
When I hear about a rape
or a murder of a child,
I feel sad, yet a little thankful that it’s not my child.
I can not look at myself in the mirror,
It dies a little.
When people fight over caste creed and religion.
I feel hurt and helpless
I tell myself that my country is going to the dogs,
I blame the corrupt politicians,
Absolving myself of all responsibilities
It dies a little.
When my city is choked.
Breathing is dangerous in the smog ridden metropolis,
I take my car to work daily ,
Not taking the metro,not trying car pool.
One car won’t make a difference, I think
It dies a little.
So when in the dark of the night,
I visit my conscience
And find it still breathing,
I am surprised.
For, with my own hands
Daily, bit by bit, I kill it, I bury it.
… And we call it a living!