I am Poet and I know it…

Sometimes its difficult to choose in life; which is more humiliating- the pathetic attempt at poetry which was generated at the last minute from the moral obligation one feels for her alma mater even though that fine institution does not give the person a convocation, or being questioned by the Manager that leaves him and the rest of the team laughing with quite a lot of unintended amusement at the ‘answers’.
Which brings us to the main point- I am a published poet.
An unwilling one at that, nevertheless, a published one.
My fling with poetry started, funnily enough, with my tendency to come late especially on Mondays when the first period, which would be in full swing when I land, was English.
My Teacher Mrs.Rani Jeyasanker has a sense of humor that can perhaps be described, even if a little understatedly as, ironic. She would usually let me stay outside until her class concluded, not producing any effect on me other than the increase of Vitamin D in my skin and circulation of fresh air in my lungs.
Our little arrangement suited me fine. It let me cool off from the hectic cycling I did to get to school anyway. I guess if anything is too good for you, it will not last long, so it wasn’t very surprising when our keen teacher caught a whiff of the fact that her ‘outstanding’ student was actually enjoying her punishment, which was, in a nutshell the antithesis of the very purpose of punishment.
So she set about making a very devious plan to make me squirm and also made sure it would give her an idea as to why this student(me) had the feeling that she was supposed to report at school at 9 while the others correctly knew that the time was actually 8.40 am.
One fine Monday (if ever there is such a thing), I landed at my class, late, happy, perspiring and oblivious to my impending doom, in the same order. Rani ma’am didn’t look up for my
”Excuse me, Ma’am” bleat, instead she responded while her eyes still kept their vigil over a precious attendance book.
“Yes, Remya (me). Come in.”
The class was stunned. It was one of those ‘tension in the air could’ve been cut with a knife’ sort of circumstances. My eyes as wide as really wide and spherical objects, I came in with faltering steps that betrayed my surprise and took my seat at the backbench (predictably).
Having finished her intensive work with the above-mentioned book, Rani Ma’am walked up to the center of the class from where she usually tries her level best to stop us from saying ‘yaar’ as the suffix of every sentence and other such fruitless pursuits.
Raditating from the unblinking stare from each of the souls that haunted the class, she said, “I want you to bring tomorrow, without fail, a poem on why you always come late”.
My fate as the laughing stock of the class was sealed when she innocuously mentioned ‘without’ and ‘fail’ consecutively. Only suicidal people would dare to challenge those softly spoken words.

The long and short of it was I did write one and Shalini, who was wandering around with her senses alive and looking for kill from her position as editor of the girls school magazine, pounced on it as ‘a certified hoot’ and published it, causing most of my alma mater to always remember me as ‘the-girl-who-wrote-that-latecoming-poem’. Hardly a compliment for a serious poetess, but for me it was Olympic praise.

Today I wrote another poem describing my college life, which I sent not only to my HOD, for who’s eyes alone it was strictly intended, but to the entire ex-class from college (big mistake), hereby ensuring that they will each be having moments of mirth at my expense or will shudder at the very though that they were ever acquainted to me and how best they can bury that ignominy. Maybe both in any order.
I stay… infamous.
Rain
PS: would I ever want it any other way??