It is rather strange, I must admit, to see the hourglass turned, to see the school system through the eyes of an adult. Did we sound quite that garbled as children? No wonder the teachers didn’t listen to a word we’d said! I doubt we sounded like human speech. In any case, speechlessness appears to be designated for teachers, as I have found out on a handful of occasions.
Like the time one bright student drew the flattering parallel between me and the Gruffalo!
“Yeh didi,” he said, his eyes wide and shining, like baubles on a Christmas tree, as he pointed to the big, hairy beast on the cover of one of my favourite books as a child. “Aur yeh Manoj,” he said, pointing to the mouse. Manoj was the child I was mentoring. The worst part was, he wasn’t entirely wrong, you know! I did feel a lot like an ungainly giant amongst the cluster of seven-year-olds. Even the storyline was sort of relatable. I did not appreciate the insight, though. Thanks to Vinay, I never brought that book to school again.
His antics extended to making funny faces during the national anthem, so I confiscated his bag. I am yet to decide whose punishment it was because I had to lug that thing down two floors and wear it until his parents came to get him. Which makes me wonder – why are their bags so heavy? To make the eventual transition from physical burdens to mental ones more distinct?
If I feared a spinal injury from Vinay’s bag, I had to hold my breath when I saw Akshaykumar’s backpack!
“Is that really his name?” I whispered to his class teacher.
“Oh, yes, and his surname is Choudhary,” she said, smiling at the apple of her eye.
I suppose to make up for having a name like Akshaykumar Choudhary, this large-eared little boy wore a perpetually solemn expression and a work ethic I have yet to find in my peers at college. His bag would practically overflow with textbooks, notebooks and the nice, new metallic compass box he showed off to me.
“Well, Akshaykumar, studying for the whole class, huh?” I joked.
He looked up at me with such serious eyes that it felt like making a funeral joke at a graveyard. Yipes!
As a writer, there is some incalculable joy in finding traces of irony in everyday life. Like electric transformer boxes with, ‘Stick No Bills’ covered with flyers advertising massage services or announcing an upcoming low-budget film. However, irony must have been working overtime, because Vinay and Akshaykumar are best friends. I found this out on a school picnic, when we went to the nature park.
“Don’t throw the sweet wrappers on the floor, okay?” I told the pair of them as they linked arms. Both obeyed, but while Akshaykumar tossed his wrapper in the dustbin, Vinay removed his cap, put his wrapper in it and placed it triumphantly back on his head. This is why I believe life should come with cue cards.
Like, when the boy I mentor, Manoj, starts getting restless and starts using language that doesn’t fit the vocabulary of second graders or any humane conversation.
“Manoj, you’re not supposed to say that word,” I tell him while the word in question dances a tango in my head. He blinks, turns to another classmate and uses another choice expression, even more graphic than the first! Aren’t children the most angelic things ever?
Some of them are. Some little girls regularly run over to me to give me hugs. I wish them vistas of good fortune that extend as far as my feet because two girls tripped over them. The expression, ‘chhamna jeva pag’ came to mind as I helped them up, cringing at the chaos my clown feet were capable of.
Speaking of chaos, the match in the PT (Physical Training) period was a sight to behold. While the poor performance at Ahmedabad this year caused great disappointment, over here, this lent it a certain entertaining quality. I started out as a spectator but quickly joined as an emergency fielder – to prevent our cricketers from running out of the gates onto the road.
“Lag raha yahan sirf do insaan hai, baaki sab zombies,” were the wise words of Akshaykumar, accurately describing the way the fielders went after the ball and the others went after the fielders. The batsmen continued running laps, all while escaping those trying to snatch their bats. It was cricket, kabaddi and track racing, all rolled into one!
How does Baldev sir manage them? I wondered to myself. Then I saw him brandishing a cricket bat as he dished out instructions. Vinay looked receptive to authoritarian input for the first time. So that’s how he does it.
Another few noteworthy moments included loud-mouthed Karthik, whose entire persona belonged in a Hindi serial.
“Aaj kal ke bache kaise hai, re!” announced this seven-year-old, “Puraana zamaana kitna acha tha!”
“Huh? When was this puraana zamaana, according to you?” I asked, nonplussed.
“Arre, you know, 2016!”
Excuse me while I have an existential crisis.
Another incident was when I was waiting with the children at home time. In conversation, I happened to ask Trupti where she lived.
“Bahut door,” she said. “Navjeevan.”
The school in question is at Grant Road.
“If Navjeevan is far, where do you think Andheri is?”
She paused for a pensive moment, then proceeded to say “China!” with unwavering confidence.
Great, so now I need a visa to visit Bharucha Baug!
I don’t think you have to be somewhere very long for it to have an impact on you. Contrary to what the hierarchy suggests, I do believe teachers learn from their children as much as the other way around. I didn’t realise how much it takes – comforting a crying child, getting the entire class to listen to you, or just that one disruptive child who just doesn’t listen. On my walk to the school, anxiety often wove around my thoughts, “What’ll happen today?” or “What if Karthik doesn’t listen to me?” or “Is Manoj going to give me a hard time?”
But just as dawn dispels the darkness of the previous night, I found courage when the first child who saw me waved or smiled. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was going to be okay. And you know what? It was better than okay.
Life can be a lot like, “Bat mili par khelne ko nahi,” (the words of Vinay, on becoming a non-striking batsman) but that changed for me the minute I set foot into the school.
We may not win, but we must play.
