Mr. Slow and Steady

Meet Sujal Pawar (I specify Pawar because I have 3 Sujal's in my class!): he's the quiet one, the one who keeps to himself, never gets into trouble, doesn't bother anyone, and minds his own business. He's also the shortest kid in class. But, like my earlier Pawar, he manages to stand out.

Here are a few reasons why:

This picture is over a year old - but he still looks the same!

- During winters (which in Mumbai are quire nice!), he used to walk into class wearing a blue jacket with the hood pulled over his head. Being as short as he is, he looked just like Jadoo (the fictional cute alien character from the movie "Koi Mil Gaya"). That look automatically tugged on my Bollywood-crazed-heartstrings.

- He has the sweetest smile: it doesn't blind you or dazzle you, but melts your heart in a way that you can't keep your own smile off your face.

- He brings the tastiest food in class, with his rotis all rolled up with vegetables which he then proceeds to feed me (a common routine for all my students).

- For a class project on the Winter Season, he was given the role of Santa Claus - sorry, I mean "Small Santa Claus" - which he pulled off amazingly well, adding his own dance routine to the Jingle Bells song. Plus he looked adorable in a white beard!

- His one drawback is that he is painfully slow with writing - he zones out every few seconds and has to be reminded to continue with his work, resulting in him being the last one to usually complete his work. One day, while waiting for him to finish, I told him that I would start calling him a tortoise because he was so slow. He thought for a second and replied: "Then I'll be steady!"

How can you not love this kiddo???

The Hole in the Wall

Tushar excitedly led me through the lanes in the direction of his house. By the time we reached there, I had no sense of direction left.

After walking for twenty minutes in the rain with an umbrella that barely protected the two of us and both our bags, we reached the maze. I call it that because there is no other way to describe it. Scores of homes scattered around, with dozens of lanes running crisscross in every direction. Like a city made for dwarfs. Except it’s not dwarfs that live there.

The lanes were barely wide enough to fit two children, and flanked by houses on both sides. I passed by naked children running along the lanes, sidestepped women washing clothes and dishes in front of their homes, tried to avoid stepping into the overflowing foot-wide gutters, attempted to peek into the barely 8-square-feet houses without being obvious, and ignored the blatant stares of the residents, all the while trying to keep up with the child running freely ahead of me, tracing the way to his home as he has done every single day for several years.

Every 2 minutes we would switch our roles and I would ask the 7-year-old kid leading the way: “Are we there yet?”

And every time I would get the response: “A little ahead.”

After 10 minutes of huffing up stairs, squeezing through the maze, and praying I had lost enough kilos so as not to get stuck between the walls, I finally heard the beautiful words: “We’re here.”

I looked around, trying to figure out where here was. We were out of the maze, in a small courtyard that offered a little more breathing space than its precursor. But I saw no house. I looked in the direction that he was pointing, and all clichés aside, felt my mouth drop open for a few seconds.

Now, I have been to many of my students’ houses. I have been to their chawls, their 8-square-feet houses placed lower than the surrounding ground or above local shops, and their vertical staircases that are impossible to descend from. I thought I had seen them all.

Clearly I was wrong, I thought, as I gazed up the rickety ladder that he was pointing towards.

It was a hole in the wall.

If you’re picturing a rat hole, think a little bigger; but if you’re picturing a cave, think a little smaller: it was a hole just enough for a crouching adult to squeeze through. To enter, you have to push aside the box masquerading as a door. The door to a home: his home, where his mother greeted him warmly as he scurried up the slippery ladder with little effort.

From his doorway, he waved down to me cheerfully, and noticing the lost expression on my face, came back down. He knew I was lost. So he proceeded to lead me out of the maze, consequently nulling the point of me dropping him home. I followed him silently, wondering what on earth would motivate this child to come to school and attempt addition and subtraction and break his mind on a language that makes less sense with each passing day.

*****

Sometimes it scares me, the amount of trust people place on this system known as education. Every morning on the way to the school, I see parents living under a flyover get their children into their school uniforms, walk long distances back and forth to their school, and work endless hours to ensure that their children’s tuition fees can be paid: all this, so that their children can receive an education; so that their children have a chance at a better future than their parents.

It’s scary because I don’t think our education system is quite there yet.

There was a time when the government had to work hard to convince everyone to send their children to school, to convince them of the importance of education.

They’re convinced now. They are doing their bit to get their children to school. If not all, a lot of them are.

The question is, can our system match up to their level of trust and conviction? 

The Impact Model

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

We all want to make a difference in this world. At least, I hope some do.

Do our part.

Help others.

Give back.

Volunteer.

Charity.

Philanthropy.

Kindness.

In kind.

Something to make you feel better.

It makes you feel better about yourself, no doubt about that. But how do you really know whether you’re actually making a difference?

How do you know if that packet of biscuit you offered the beggar filled his hungry stomach?

How do you know if the lives of those children you volunteered with over the summer are better now?

How do you know if the money you donated helped improve the lives of the earthquake victims?

How do I know if these two years in Teach for India will make even a dent in the lives of my children?

Do you need to know you’re making a difference in order to make one?

At the basic level, I suppose not. You can still continue making a difference. By the end of my first year as a teacher, I couldn’t honestly say that I saw a lot of growth in my students.

Maybe it was difficult to act as a fly on the wall observer.

Maybe it was my lack in self-confidence.

Maybe it was true.

Either way, I didn’t feel like I was making a difference – at least, not at the magnitude that I was aiming for. Still, I pushed forward, mixing blind faith with determination and hope. There were enough moments of frustration.

Of depression.

Of doubt.

Still, I pushed forward, repeating the mantra in my head, “I’m making a difference, I’m making a difference” in an attempt to convince myself.

I was waiting expectantly, anxiously, for a sign: something to prove the above. I’m a person of logic – I need proof. Without that, it’s all just hypothetical.

Theoretical.

In my head.

I needed something.

Something to keep me going.

Something to show me that yes, my time and effort here were meaningful.

Like Maslow’s 2^nd level of esteem in his hierarchy of needs, I needed something more.

And now, a few months into my second year of teaching the same group of students, I’m starting to see it.

Their growing academics.

Their increasing confidence.

Their shortening pants.

And those occasional light bulbs turning on, which motivate me to push them harder.

Because the truth is, if I saw no progress in them (as is still the case with some students), I would continue to push them hard. But at some point, I fear I might give up.

On hope.

On belief.

On them.

On myself.

And when and if that happens, the possibility of making a difference will become moot.

*****

It’s not necessary to know you’re making a difference in order to make one.

But it’s definitely helpful.

The classroom experience

I’ve been teaching my kiddos for over a year now, and yet it just occurred to me that I haven’t blogged about them much – if at all. That’s quite shocking because personally I think there’s no place more eventful than my classroom. As much as you might think a time table gives you routine, not a single day is the same. There’s always so much happening – good stuff and annoying stuff – that there’s just no room to get bored.

So I’ve decided to dedicate a new blog to my experiences in the classroom: not from my initial childhood days, but from my second innings as a teacher.

Why Second Innings?

• Because coming back to school as a teacher is an innings’ jump from my own school days.
• Because I get to see the game from the perspective of the other team.
• Because some things are different: I genuinely enjoy going to school now.
• Because some things are still the same: Holidays are highly appreciated!
• Because during my own school days, I never imagined that there would ever be a second innings.
• Because the second innings is the game changer.
• Because this is my chance to do things differently: change things I did not like.

But unlike the game of cricket, this game is not going to be over at the end of the second innings.