ASSOCIATING AND ASSISTING THE TITLE OF ‘PROFESSOR’

This article may not be a worthy reading for those who are not from the academic background.However, information is always worth acquiring, you may continue reading.

Two incidents motivated me to write this article.

Incident 1: In one of the gatherings a man introduced his young wife as a Professor of Public Administration. Someone further enquired, ‘In which University?’ The answer was ‘In a coaching institute’. It's acceptable but moronically. Boom! She is not a Professor; she is at the max a subject instructor or the teacher of that subject.

Incident 2: This fully clad woman was praising her fiancé's intellectual skill as a Professor. Her fiancé teaches English prose to Class 12 students.

A man who had struggled half his lifetime to get the title of ‘Professor’ will be in a better position to understand my deepening frustration for the misuse of this word.

Who is a Professor?  There is no single definition of the term. It varies from country to country but the standard definition is someone who ‘professes’ after all he/she ought to be someone in power to make someone hear, a teacher of highest rank no. In India, the academic ranks in University nomenclature follows in this order:

Chancellor

Pro Chancellor

Vice Chancellor

Pro Vice Chancellor

Dean/Director

Principal

Head of Department

Senior Professor

Professor

Senior Associate Professor

Associate Professor

Lecturer (Selection Grade) / Assistant Professor (Selection Grade)

Lecturer (Senior Grade)/ Assistant Professor (Senior Grade)

Lecturer / Assistant Professor

See the hierarchy; you will have a clue of what I am saying. It is like calling ‘Captain’ as ‘Colonel’ in army rank profile. The title of ‘Professor’ has weight in itself, however, while pulling someone’s leg, if that specific someone is nerdy, absent minded, someone with cardigans, a mug of coffee and reminds of your ageing Professor, well then it is justified.

The number of students and thesis supervised, the number of books and journals published (authored, co-authored, and edited), conference and seminars attended (scores depending on whether it is national or international) eats up the life span of a Professor. Confronting arguments and counter arguments, adjusting and surviving the politics within the academics, as academics is also not free from politics, is something a Professor has to deal with. Some of them are in the profession because of choice, some out of no choice. On the top of all these, staying with a spouse from a non-academic background is a battle which does not have the reward. But at the end of the day, it all trickles down to what stuff the ‘Professor’ is made of.  Anyway, next time if you hear someone being introduced as a ‘Professor’ then just remember this article of mine.

Who gave me the liberty to argue on who should be called a ‘Professor’? Nobody, but, at least, don’t forget the amount of hard work and perseverance one have to go through to be conferred this functional title.  

ALAMODE- THE UNCONVENTIONAL WAY OF NARRATING STORY

BITCHES ARE EVERYWHERE, BUT DO YOU BELIEVE IN WITCHES?

A frustrated dog was smoking somewhere around the park. Just then a haggard old bitch came near him and asked, ‘Doggie, I am a witch. I will grant you all your wishes if you sleep with me.’ The dog got excited, ‘Wow, sure I’ll.’ They engaged in clumsy sex. Next morning, the dog jumped on the bed and woke the old bitch, ‘Wake up, this is the list of my wishes.’ The old bitch lighted a cigarette and said, ‘Come on, don’t be a retard. It is the 21^st century and you still believe in witches. We are so gullible, that’s exactly why our masters are busy training us. Uff!’

 THE PATHETIC CRY OF THE JACKASS

Towering on the emotions one feel when he sees a train on the track where he is tied to be run down by the vehicle, which had often been the topic of debate since its introduction. When one feels the need of help, when one knows he is to be sucked by death and no one will give a shit to the cries he will make then he realises that he indeed is in big trouble. There is no saviour for him, as all the superheroes are busy saving people from villains and your story does not have a villain, it is you who have brought yourself the misery and the bondage. To escape from the situation is to face death without reservations, you want to make yourself believe that you are just dreaming, but it is damn real and the thread from your sock says it all. It is really bizarre, but what will he do in such situation, he could ejaculate, and do not have dirty thoughts on this, the ejaculation will give no cum but of a word that could make him believe that there are reasons to hold on to the belief that he will survive, not matter what he sees himself through. Immortal being having an immortal live pissed and shook to the core; having an absolute no control over the lives of other individuals they f*** the hell out of you. Bloody screamers! When the moon shines, but the land is dark, when the sun shines, but there is no ray then there comes the rising troop of love and the enigma of the soul and the swallowing of the tube and the turmoil of the half faded jeans and discounted bra. His lover’s lipstick which was his favourite smell will bring nothing but pissing on the day when the cries of the revolution will be heard. The necks and the fundamentalism of the cow herd dictionary and long driving leg and the thundering thighs and the extravagant tits all dissolved to form the bloody constitution, the constitution had, therefore, milk and water and blood and gravity and soul and vulgarity of the people for the people and by the people.

SENSELESS MARIJUANA TRACKS THE SENSE

Once there was a gathering, ladies gathering to be precise. An elderly woman posed this question, ‘Ladies, whom would you like to marry, a sportsman, a soldier, a business tycoon?’ Modest and honest <could be pretentious too>answers came floating, someone replied, ‘Sportsman, I will be the happiest when he brings laurel for the country.’ Someone said, ‘Solider who dies for his Motherland. Such an honour it would be to be his wife.’ In the process, they all have forgotten that there were three options; the business tycoon option was singled out. Senseless Marijuana replied, ‘I could like to marry the business tycoon.’ Every head was turned towards her, she continued, ‘Well, I just want to know where he is going to invest his money, meaning, whether in match fixing or in buying weapons for war.’

       

THE PRINCE AND THE BEAR

There was a prince who was handsome, dashing, intelligent, talented, stylish, and the entire adjective to adorn him. But, 24 x7 he was being guarded by a sticky, fat, ugly, bear and that bear was so annoying that throughout his life he never got any hugs, he could have made an excellent football but the factory owner had something in mind. There was a beautiful, charming and witty woman who with her literary achievements could have made a fine ruler, anyway, that lady was highly infatuated with him. She wanted to take him somewhere, or wanted him to take her somewhere, she wanted some time alone with him, possibly to hold his hand and share some light kisses and hugs. However, that farty bear always came in between; he never once left the prince alone. The woman started to wonder whether or not there were gays, so much in longing and wanting with each other. What bothered the woman was not how good looking the prince was or how strong their bonding was, what really bothered her was why the bear always stuck on the prince liked a clue from a cobbler’s shop. It was torturing not to see him alone, not to spend time with him and to say what she wanted to say. Seeing him everyday walking and talking and spending his time with the bear was taking a toll on her. Anyway, the thunder god took pity on her, so a jolt of thunder stroked her. She died. Thus, she was relieved from the pain of seeing the bear and her prince together forever.

THE PROLOGUE IS MISSING

Mr. Mouse achieved the title of ‘International Playboy’. He was happy. But, he was not a playboy some years ago. Mr. Mouse was a car driver; he had no girlfriend of his own. One day, a pretty waitress asked him out and the very next day, she dumped him. He was so hurt, so hurt, he promised to shoot down all the pretty women, but guns were expensive and license was tough to get as he was a migrant. He did nothing but on the seventh month after the heartbreak he went to a man’s parlour and transformed himself just like SRK did in Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi. Suddenly, all the women in the street started singing, ‘Hi handsome, hi handsome.’ He slept with 11000000000000000000000 women but did not commit to any of them. He was a heartbreaker, player, flirt, call him all the names in the dictionary but deep down inside the magma, he knew he was hurt and lonely. Does anyone care to trace the prologue of his story?

MISHAPS: THE REJECTED EDITION REVIEW

Come on,  all the people out there who is reading this article knows how many shots make a perfect dating scene in a movie, especially Bollywood. But, it does not happen in real life, why? Because in real life no one knows the script and decoding the metaphor of two abnormally big roses kissing each other has made us mature enough to know that we are not a hero/heroine of the high budget movie. And the movie has its own edits.

In movies, when a guy and a girl meets the music descends, obviously! We hold our respiration till the magic strikes and they envelopes in warm hug followed by a perfect kiss, white pearly teeth-no decayed gums. In real life, at least, in my life things have never happened that way. Dating is fun; of course, there are psycho rapists out there of whom a woman should be careful of. However, this article is not suspense thriller-chiller; it is light and funny and very philosophical, I am talking about utilitarianism. Anyway, here I go, trust me, I am going to be gentle as ever, throw me designer shoes if you find me nasty.

Scene one#withcourtly

Once upon a time, there was a handsome man with six packs and biceps which did not look good for his short height. He invited scene one for a lunch @ his under constructed home. He said he was a great cook, but none of the dishes had salt in it, thought that his family was high on blood pressure. When scene one was about to go for the second serve, his beloved mother joined them, she did not have a problem with her, ruckus she was a disciplinarian. She told scene one that a woman should not act foodie in front of a man. Scene one looked at her then at her son and said, ‘I wish this house was a hotel.’ End of the story.

Scenetwo#withbrotherofapossessivesister

Once upon a time, there was a dark, handsome, intelligent man with  a poor sense of style, he had a sister who was not happy to take the trophy of best supporting actress, she was possessive of her brother which was written all over her face. He invited Scene two for a lunch in his one room apartment. He did not cook; indeed, he ordered from somewhere, the food was nice.  His sister did not speak the entire hour, finally, when Scene two was done with the food, she complimented his sister's beauty (well, Scene two lied. She did not like her pout lips, it was so fake). She replied, ‘I know. Everyone tells me so. You don’t have to remind me.’ You know what Scene two said in return? She said, ‘I was just kidding.’ Like a good brother, he found Scene two’s defensive humorous statement offensive, yeah. Anyway, every time Scene two wanted to kiss him, his sister’s proud and obsessive face crossed her mind. So, she bade good-bye. End of the story.

 

Scenethree#withkleptomania

Once upon a time, there was a real charmer who was fresh out from M&B novel. He taught Scene three how mysterious Bermuda Triangle was. Every time she met him, she lost something from her bag. He was magical, not literally, though. Suddenly, one fine day he burst out into tears, just to confess that he was kleptomania. Scene three forgave him but did not take him back, psychotherapy was expensive and thief looks cool only in the movie. Case solved. End of the story.

Scenefour#withcalculative

Once upon a time, there was a nerdy guy, he confessed his love to Scene four they dated, but he got a job, they maintained a long distance relationship but he married his colleague. He remained unhappy with his wife’s beauty, Scene four brought him down to earth by shouting, 'When I first saw you I thought you were the prince of squirrel.' God be with this marriage. End of the story.

Concluding remarks

So, once upon a time, there was a heavy rain and all the foxes in sheep’s wool were drenched. I am not sheep, I am a German shepherd, I am not scared of the foxes, but I do pray for timely rain.

THE LAST PUFF

*The unedited version was published for Your Story Club where this story hit the SPIXer (most popular) slot*

Statutory warning: Cigarette smoking is injurious to health

Scar knew that rain has colours, dreams have aroma, beautiful nights has its own beautiful morning, passion has veins, but in the town where she lived she was alone and unique. She was a confused smoker with a determined soul.  Her over sized dirty white shirt had black ink stains on it. She was neither a writer nor a painter nor an artist of any kind; she got the stains from the pen that leaked like her bleeding heart. She was engrossed in the words she was writing. It was a reply to the letter written years ago but reached the hands of the rightful owner only the previous week. She had tears in her eyes, she knew so many things but she knew nothing. Over the years she had learned to live her life in two extremities- to love like heaven and to hate like crazy, however, such emotions in her could only be stirred by the man whom she had completely loved. Her beautiful locks covered her forehead; her broken hairpin lay on the floor.  She looked at her cat, it was busy tearing her cushion covers with its playful paws; she was pleased to see the little creature enjoying its independence. Turning her attention towards the letter, her hands trembled as she held her pen, but somehow she took control of it and started writing.

                                                            15th August 2010

Dear Winter,

The season so loyal to your name has set in; the cold winds are blowing from my broken window which I am yet to repair. I cannot thank you enough for introducing me to my friend loneliness. In a crowded platform, I feel as if I am walking in the rain all alone. People say that whiskey drinks away all sorrows; they lie. Even after having bottles of cowboy’s solace I think of you. Once you said I won’t remember you that you will be like a thread long torn. Winter, it has been more than a decade yet I remember you. I remember you, like a sad graduation song that hums on an alumnus’s lips.

Do you even remember how we met? Let me bring back the old memories, it still thrills me. It was January, everyone was wrapped in the warmest of clothes, I being the unusual one, wore a green T-shirt and around my neck was a mauve muffler which I found lying on the rusted iron benches of the park. Your mom had considered my best friend Nina to be the ideal match for you; I was there to accompany her; that is what best friends do. You came forward like a reluctant groom, you were indifferent to so many things, but then your silent glance was on me. I could feel the tension heating up, I left the room, little did I know that you could come searching for me. The corridor of your house was long; I found solace taking the puffs. Your maid had warned me, smoking was not allowed inside the house; well your dad had no objection to offering me one. When you found me all alone making splendid delights from the puffs, you looked into my eyes, and these were the first words you said, “Romeo must have hated Shakespeare for making him climb up the balcony but Juliet’s kiss took his agony, together they made a great love story. Anyway, when Shakespeare was writing Romeo and Juliet, did Anne Hathaway, his beloved wife told him to keep his pen down and get on the bed?”  I was marveled to hear that, the only reply I could think of was, “There was no man in Jane Austin’s life; she died single. Yet, she created Mr. Darcy, the beloved of all romantic heroes. All Elizabeths in the world should kiss Jane’s hand and sing a song of the happy ending.” These words made you clap, we heard you name being called, but before turning your back to me, you said, “Save the last puff for me.”

I wonder what made you say that all I thought was my best friend’s future. When the time came for your opinion, all you said were, “I have found my match.” The wedding never took place, you came as a guest at her wedding and that was the second time I met you. Without attracting the attention of anyone who came up to me and said, “For Slyvia Path, Ted was a bastard; he never deserved her in the first place. She died but gave us the Bell Jar.”  I replied, “Virginia Woolf had beautiful nose, beautiful lines from her book always amuse me, pebbles were heavy for her, the river swallowed her. Her light house stands apart on the deserted street.” I never took it as a mindless banter, for me strange lines of yours were always a way of knowing you better, but the next lines that followed really made me think you are a lunatic trying hard to impress someone worthless of your love, how could you say something like, “My heart is restless every since I laid my eyes on you, I am in love with you, I have seen our unborn children in your eyes.” The only thing, I could utter were, “You imagine a lot, Don Quixote in becoming.” However, that evening something happened to me for the very first time, my heart melted and I knew that the feeling was mutual. In my pride, I did not say anything then, however, I want you to know that you took my breath away from the moment you requested me to save the last puff for you, and I will always be thankful to you for holding my hand in the moment when I was confused.

I never told you how I felt about you, the bike rides with you were marvelous like the feeling I felt inside every time you kissed me. The day never ended when you were around, it was always the beginning of something new. Oh! Dear, you were my winning bet, you were my victory line, you were my safest abode, my strongest meditation and the greatest lyrics written with my fingers, loving you never left me broke, richness ever grew. The nights spend in your arms were my shortest of nights, yet, I never slept, you were what I was dreamed of.  Kissing you in the rain was cold and warm at the same time, petty fights were like scissors, your hugs were like glue, and your touches were like honey in autumn. Everything was going picture perfect until you came up with the news, the news of the battle, the explanations to convince me how much your duty meant to you. I have to admit that I have sacrificed so many things in my life, but I was not ready to sacrifice the one I so truly loved, I was not ready to let fate decide our love. I was only in a mood to entertain a dream which came with the guarantee of us going to live forever in each other’s embrace.

Your decision, your choice, was something I had to accept.  You have hurt me in past, you still continues to hurt me, the wound will always be fresh. Night and day, silver and gold, bread and eggs, stilettos and sandals have seen my face…they say I look like a jaded feather flying by the help of a gentle wind; that wind has got a name: pretention, I am pretending to live every day. I am asking you and will ask you every day, was your duty more important than the love I had for you?

My period comes to me every month but the flashes of the last day with you, every day. Human beings with all its imperfection try to be perfect for the person they love the most. What I asked you was not perfection but to keep the promise, the promise to return to my arms. Didn’t I tell you that I will hate you forever it you don’t make it alive, I was in my full senses and so were you? You gave your word to me, I gave myself to you; our tears were the witness.  As a soldier it could have been a dream come true for you when your coffin came wrapped in the tri-coloured flag, but as a lover how did it feel not to die surrounded in the warmness of my heart?  Some die in the way destined for them, others they just pass the test and pave the way to die. For years, I considered that your death was a way to escape from the life we were going to share. I tried to keep my mind away from you, I concentrated on my work, cultivated lot of hobbies, made new friends, visited places, but whatever I did and wherever I went, I always knew that I belonged to you. I hated you and in that hate there was love. As obvious as it could be, my friends tried to hook me up with men whom they thought was worth giving a try. Things never worked out, for each step forward I took three steps backward. I have been in the midst of the loveliest crowd, I have heard songs from the best singers; I have dressed in the costliest of attire and tried the perfume which goddesses must have used to seduce the mightiest of warriors, but in all these I could not find happiness. I have prayed to gods and to heroes for strength and wisdom but could not ease the agony that comes from the realisation of not having you.

For you, I kept wondering what life it could have been if you were around. What life it could have been to sit with you by a fire place and see our children draw colourful balloons. These things and much more runs into my head, then the feeling of hate could kill me and tear me apart just to make me see how much I love you. All these years have taught me one thing, no matter how much I tried to hate you for not being with me, for not keeping your promise, I can’t stop loving you.

Last week your mom gave me your letter, she said it was under your dairy, all these years it was resting in the steel trunk box. I read it and re-read it over and over again. Now, I know what you meant when you said ‘save the last puff for me’. I will, I will save the last puff for you.

Yours forever,

Scar

When she was done with the writing, she took out his letter from the envelope and began to unfold it, ever since it reached her hands; she made it a ritual to read thrice a day- morning, noon, and night.  It still carried his smell which was so distinct like the love she had for him and the love he knew that she had for her. “Oh! Winter…” she whispered and began to read.

                                                                  July 5, 1999

Dear Scar,

                I am in a frontier where dew drops speak the language of bullets; solitude is the song we hear; death is the constant guest, but you are my omnipresent ray of hope and our memories are my guiding shield. When countries declare war, soldiers bruise and kill themselves, dreamers dream of a better future, and lovers like you and me are left with one thing-longing. I long for you every day, I am not the first lover to do so and sadly, I will not be the last. Before me and after me were and will be men who could only wish to turn back the hands of time, and all they could do is look at their hands which once had held the one they truly loved. I have never told you a secret, your one look made me a captive of yours, and the beauty of your soul was the reason that made me a better person.

My colleagues often tease me for giving myself totally to you; little do they know the power of one glance.  How can I explain to them what you possess, how can I explain to them that your name itself is enough to make my heart race, how can I explain that woman like you comes once in a lifetime and only a fool won’t be able to recognize what a gem you are. I miss the days and nights spend with you, your whistles filled the room with an indefinable magic, your laughter and your smiles were my morning toast, how delightful I feel just to remember all those times we had. I can’t sleep at night, I was never a patient of insomnia; out here I feel like one, the only way of making myself off sleeping is by thinking of you. A gentle tear escapes from my eyes when I remember all the things you like, you know what? There are many things you like and few or no things you dislike. I have watched romantic movies based on war themes, out here it is nothing like that; it is heartbreaking.  At the end of the day, there is no standing ovation for soldiers’ love stories, it lives and dies within us.

I wish not to tell you, but this remorse feeling that creeps to me should be shared. I hear a thoughtful messenger every night bringing the news of my death. You might consider I am going insane but I am sure of it like I was sure of you being the only woman for me. Scar, I know you will hate me forever and ever. I know I won’t be able to keep the promise which I gave to you. I might be a martyr for our country, a fool for those who think and a memory for my nearer and dearer ones, but I guess, for you I will forever be the object of hate. Will you please give me a chance to let you know that staying alive is not the only way to show you how much I love you, what matters is keeping the love I have for you alive for eternity.

There were times when in my insecurities I have hurt you and in my selfish pride I had made things worse. There were times when I should have listened to you but didn’t and there were times when I ought to be with you but didn’t. There were times when I should have been the man, you wanted me to be but I didn’t and there were nights when I should have held you but I didn’t. I must have been a coward for not dancing with you, for not kissing you in the way a lover should, for not running after you, but, I did love you, I did love you, remember and erect a shrine of belief in your heart , I love you. Now that you are far from me all my heart says to you is to show me the road you traveled, to throw all the loneliness that burdened you. I am ashamed of myself for being so late; let me hear the weight of the punishment I deserve for being such a fool. Come to me my love, the only soul who loved me unconditionally.

On the lighter side, I am so sure that smoking and loving me are the twins which will be very difficult for you to quit. Anyway, if you ever decide to give up smoking then please save the last puff for me, after all, if I cannot be the beginning of something profound in your life then, at least, I can be its beautiful ending.

Yours forever,

Winter

She kept the letter back in the envelope and with a smile she lighted her last cigarette that was on the table. The only thing on her mind that moment was of the kiss she got from the man she so truly loved. She took the first puff and said, “This is for the day when we first met”, she took the second puff and said, “This is for the day you confessed your love for me”, she took the third puff and said, “This is for the day when I realised I was equally in love”, she took the fourth puff and said, “This is for the day when you kissed me.” She took the fifth puff and said, “This is for the day when we became one”, she took the sixth puff and said, “This is for the day when you proudly came up with your decision”, she took the seventh puff and said, “This is for the day when you breath the last”, she took the last puff and said, “This is for you, my love.”

The morning showed its face, someone knocked her bedroom door. It was her younger brother with whom she shared the apartment. The knock was followed by a consistent silence, he expected the worse as his sister was an early raiser, when all his attempts failed he kicked the door open only to see her sister sleeping like a baby. He knew where she had gone; he knew that someday it could happen, he was happy that she was on a sojourn to the land where spirits of the lovers unite. He moved towards the table and saw her handwritten letter, he believed that it could make no sense of him, so folded it and kept it under the envelope which had her name scribbled on it. Thus, two letters rest together.

THE BIG ENGLISH BAZAR

Do you speak English?

Nagaland’s official language is English, not Nagamese (your general knowledge is really something) and everyone out there knows the meaning of ‘Baby, I love you.’ So, baby with love in mind let us discuss the beauty of SEZ in Nagaland. In this article SEZ stands for Special English Zone and not Special Economic Zone. Okay, baby let us proceed.

Special English Zone

Once upon a time in the land called Nagaland there was a soothsayer who predicted great things like, ‘In days to come, if a man cuts his face then he will be left with a scar’, ‘In days to come, when two women pull each other’s hair then at least a strand of hair will be in their hands’, ‘In days to come, the man who doesn’t take bath will stink.’ These were some of the examples of his mighty predictions which have come true. He was an outstanding man, use to stand outside the village gate. The prediction below remains his magnum opus, he predicted,

     ‘In days to come, there will be a language not of this land but of the Whites, that language will dominate all over this land. However, the people of this land will make a mockery of that very language.’

Mr. Hoodwink could have lived longer to fool more fools but he died, sad. Years passed by, English dominated over other vernaculars. The English language became the medium of instruction in school and colleges, at least in theory; in practice, some of the teachers were comfortable explaining things in our local creole- Nagamese. When Radio became popular we got NEWS (Now Everything Went Somewhere), the news was read out in Hindi and in English, parents working in governmental offices would call their kids to sit and listen to the news which was read out in English (full volume). While the evening sun looked at them with sympathy, the kids’ mind cursed the discipline springing out from the belief that it was a useless exercise. Measures were adopted to make students speak English, like charging fine if caught speaking in Nagamese or their respective dialect. However, things did not change, why? We were not encouraged to read books outside our textbooks. And those who read books were confronted by ‘nerd quirk’, which meant ‘pronouncing words wrong because we’ve only ever seen them in books and used them in writing.’ Plus, those kids who spoke English with an accent which was unusual to Naga ears were called ‘over-smart’. The Doordarshan news broadcast came to the rescue but globalization hit the country, so all the sleepy towns of Nagaland moved forward to adapt the change. The option changed from Radio to Doordarshan news to BBC and CNN, not knowing why there was different in accent between the two. Then came the call centre culture which not only became the background of many desi novels, it also gave employment to many educated unemployed youths of our state who flocked to major cities in search of new jobs. When it came to right diction those youths working there had an edge over other youths. The preacher who pronounced ‘heaven’ as ‘hiben’ was mocked, the singers who did cover version of Grammy-winning singers were criticised for their mother tongue influence, so was the person whose Naga twang was apparent. People who could not bear the brackish jokes mended on them defended by saying, ‘I am a Naga and I will speak English in Naga way.’ Many were cool with the argument, but many stayed with the consideration, ‘But your diction is killing the conversation.’

Sadly, while some hope could be seen there came a blow in SEZ when it got divided into two sub- zones making the matter worse. These two zones were,

                                            Spoken English Zone: It operates in three ways,

1.Dutch courage: Have you ever wondered why drunken Nagas speak in English even without going to school? I guess it is called Dutch courage.

2.Accent confusion: Thanks to Hollywood movies. Jury Award to Friends and Sherlock Holmes for bringing out the greatest oxymoron American-British- Naga- English.

3.Something went wrong while video-chatting so your new international lover complimented, ‘I love your voice.’ And you mistook it as ‘Your diction is so admirable.’

Written English Zone: It operates in three ways,

1. No problems with East Asian movie sub-titles. Example- You flag a hoist of love in my heart.

2. The social networking site has done a good job. Acronyms- SEZ LOL!

3. Knowledge of grammar is so tough. Scene- Italy is an adverb because it ends with ‘ly’. 

To obviate a bit

Someone with good social and anthropological understanding, not necessarily someone with Ph.D. in linguistics will know that such glitch is arising due to three things: we haven’t spoken much of that language, we haven’t heard much of that language and there was no one to genuinely correct us, without hurting our ego. It is hard to let go of our Mother Tongue Influence (in some sense we take pride in it) and spoken English courses are not for free, but a better compromise can be made if we start correcting our written English. Lastly, this article may not be free from grammatical errors, I promise to improve myself.

 *This article of mine was published for Delhi Ao Students' Union, Souvenir: Silver Jubilee 1989-2014.