Tap, Tap, Tap in the Classroom.

I’m standing in front a small group of learners in a classroom. By my side, a stretched canvas board is perched on an easel. I have a paint brush on my right hand and a palette of paint on the other. These children are about to start a painting exercise on understanding the use of arbitrary colour. And here I’m about to demonstrate a few techniques. They sure seem very interested. Captivated, in fact. Some are smiling in throbbing anticipation.

"Remember," I say to the class. "When you mix your colours, avoid..."

A hand flies in the air. A girl on the front table. One of the smart ones. Plaited hair with a small butterfly clip on the side. Slacks and a buttoned blazer. Neat as a pin. Almost immediately, I know what it’s going to be. How can a donkey be green and trees blue? They’ve always asked that, smart ones like her. It conflicts with nature and defies logic I know, I’ve always said. But in art, everything is logic, and art is nature in itself. Most of them had been convinced. Now I hope this one will be convinced. And so, I nod a please-go-on-and-ask nod.

"Sir," she says, a little smile twitching on her lips. "Please pardon me, but I don’t intend to divert you. We always read and hear that you write and tell stories. Can you please tell us a story? A brief one, Sir, please?"

Honestly, I’m taken aback. For a moment I’m lost of words. Surely this is not a literature class. "Okay look," I say to her, trying not to smile, though unsuccessfully. "That’s true. I write and tell stories. But I also paint stories. So here today we’ll all be painting our stories. Painting is a very..."

"No Sir," she shakes her head stubbornly. ‘We want to hear a story from you because..."

"When you say ‘we’ you are including everyone else. But it’s only you who wants a story told. Other learners want to paint now. Maybe we should..."

Suddenly all the hands in the classroom are straight up, like antennae searching for signal. Some are even raising both hands! "Now what?" I squint, trying to read their little faces, I mean, come on, I’ve studied child psychology. They all want a story, I reckon. They want to hear a story, period. They have me under siege. No story, no painting. I sigh in despair and put the brush and the palette on my desk.

"Okay, you win!" I say, throwing my hands in the air. They clap hands, these children, they clap hands.

"Once upon a time when I was your age," I start and the applause dies. "I wasn’t as smart as you are, of course, but that was the case with most of us, the youth of our generation. We had a different kind of smart. An interesting kind of smart." There is a thick, tangible silence in the classroom. For the first time, I notice that one of the taps at the back sinks is leaking, as steady and slow drops hit the metal of the basin. Tap... tap... tap...

One boy shifts on his chair, making himself more comfortable. One props his chin on his palm, elbow pinned on the table, eyes gazing at me. "I was almost always top of my class with whistle clean straight A’s, particularly in my favourite subject, Art. I was simply unbeatable, and my classmates knew that. But one day," I wag my finger for effect. "A new boy – apparently transferred from another school – arrived in my Art class." I can feel their ears zooming in. They are thirsty for a story, I can tell by the concentration in their eyes. "He stopped on the doorway, his rucksack balancing on one shoulder. His eyes scanned the classroom. He was looking for something. Everyone was looking at him; olive dark skin with a cluster of pimples dotting his expressionless face. His eyes fell on mine. Then he lifted a finger and pointed at me. I looked behind me, thinking that perhaps he was pointing at something on the wall behind, but his eyes were focused squarely on mine. Then he spoke, loud enough for the entire class and the teacher to hear." I pause.

These children’s eyes are swimming with anticipation. Please go on, Sir, their eyes are pleading. Tap... tap... tap... I go on.

"Still looking at me, he said, ‘Kiss your superior excellence goodbye, sonny boy.’"

"Aaaah!" the children in my painting class exclaim. It’s a chorus that bounces on the walls of the classroom. I continue.

"That’s what they did too, my classmates. They aah-ed and ooh-ed, but not me, the victim of the humiliation. I was shocked. Who was this gutsy little boy with a raspy little voice? How dare he come threaten me in my territory? And worse, he just called me ‘sonny boy’. The pencil in my hand was shaking slightly, revealing that which will haunt me throughout my school days. I put the pencil on the table and stood up to face the daring boy. I didn’t look at the teacher, who was probably dazed as well. I didn’t look at my classmates either. I looked at the boy on the doorway. He did not know that I wasn’t only a master of art in my school. I was also a master weaver of words! I needed not think them out first. My words were always on the ready. And so I opened my mouth to let out a bombshell that was visibly vibrating on my lips..."

The children in my painting class are holding their breaths. Some mouths are slightly agape. Waiting. Waiting for the next line of the story. Waiting to hear what I said to the new boy in my Art class back in the days when I was their age. Will there be any painting exercise today? I wonder. Silence pulses in the classroom - an almost frightening silence punctuated by a steady dripping. Tap...tap...tap...

Blood and Phlegm

I woke up and blew my nose. Blood spurted. I panicked. Even after all these years of living, I still can’t get used the sight of blood.  But then I reassured myself that it was only a sign that I was healing from the cold. I bled for nearly 15 minutes and the headache just wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. When I staggered to the bathroom with rolls of tissue soaked in blood, I thought I was dying. Sick thought, I know. But then what was I to think when blood spilled from one nostril and phlegm oozing from another, throat dry and coughs bursting in the chest like a raspy exhaust of an old van? And still, I had to go to work. I had to wait for the bleeding to stop and throw my feet on the road to work, schlepping a heavy cross on my shoulders. The day was, needless to say, dull. Every time I blew my nose, blood threatened to spill down. So I refrained from blowing. Now you can imagine a grown up man like me sniffing and gurgling with mucus-filled throat. All day. I felt like a baby.

Of an Angel, Your Hands (Poem)

Of an angel, your hands, every time you touch me
Wonder sometimes where your wings could be
Your touch sinks beyond the layers of my skin
Throwing my soul on a wild, joyous spin
A look in your eyes melts the marrow in my bones
Your eyes, two very precious stones
Oh, what you are made of, I cannot tell
From your sweet spring I drink and swim in your warm well
Hold me again, angel of love, and let me feel your heart beat
The drum that keeps me dancing on my feet…

Mourning in the Morning (Poem)

Have you ever woken up with a sore heart?
Dourly believing that certainly you deserve that
Oblivious you are to my grief, how much I’m mourning
But to you, sunshine, I wish a very good morning

Bitter Pill (Poem)

These capsules are way too bitter
I curse the doctor who prescribed this medicine
I mean, check, I’m not getting any better
I never really anticipated to be fine
It takes time, so the doctor had said
But to where inside of me does this supposed remedy go?
And why do they drive me so sad?
I lift my palms and shout NO!

Please, Stop Your Rhymes (Poem)

First – and foremost – you wanted me,
Now that it’s no more, wasted I will be
Today I’m reading your rhymes
That echo like graveyard chimes
It’s unbearable to think that I had almost
But alas, once again I’ve lost
For almost, surely, doesn’t count
Troubled spirit I am, under enormous haunt

So Deep, This Feeling, So Deep (Poem)

It’s the rich scent of your skin that I smell
For you wear that which no mortal can create
It’s no wonder that for you I fell
If indeed it is, then this isn’t just a call of fate
So deep, this feeling, so deep
So deep is the well from which we drink
Sated we are, even as we cuddle in our sleep
Look at what we’ve become, who’d ever think?
Who’d ever think one soul could steer two bodies?
Child, let these hands of mine touch your cheeks
Connected, you and I, offspring of another species
Your aura, child, it sustains me; it moves me; to me, it speaks
Sail me to eternal bliss, as you cuddle me to your bosom
Thy love thee has taken and look how we blossom