This was a blog post I wrote in August 2019. Teacher’s Day was around the corner, and I was feeling nostalgic about the calling I had misread. Dedicated to all the outstanding educators.
TO TEACH OR NOT TO TEACH.
I, too, had a dream, an ambition during my growing-up years. To be a Teacher ….an English teacher. We all love our English teacher more than the other subject teachers, don’t we?! Although some of us might be strong in numbers or the world of experiments or analyzing our past, most of us would be decent enough in the languages (or so we thought, having hardly studied for it during the exams), especially the Language given to us by the British.
My favourite game in my growing-up years was the “teacher game”. In a make-believe sari and a stick in hand, I zealously recited rhymes and stories to my collection of dolls and my dad. Yes, Achan sat in line with my dolls with a pencil and a notebook. I had colourful chalk pieces to write on the wooden doors of my Air Force quarters. I dusted off the chalk marks after playtime, and I never sullied the walls. My Achan was the best student in my class. He put up with all of my idiosyncrasies throughout, always. I would beat him, give him spelling tests, and assign homework.
An English teacher is someone who is well-dressed and speaks politely, and never punishes (mainly); all in all, they are loved by every student. This has been my understanding since my school days. I recently read about an English Teacher in a Government school near Chennai who was so loved by his students that they, along with their parents, refused to let him go on transfer; social media was abuzz with it. As I aspired to be an impactful teacher, I decided to pursue my degree in English literature (the railway job was in my future, but still, one could dream), another impetus being the introduction to good literature. I enjoyed reading the books in the prescribed syllabus…Shakespeare, Dante, Bernard Shaw, Milton, Hemingway, and their ilk. Poetry was not my strong point; I fell in love with the Drama paper. Shakespeare’s “Comedy of Errors”, Arthur Miller’s “The Death of a Salesman”, Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”, Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie”, so many movies have been inspired by these, and when I recognise the sequence in a film that mirrors these books I whistle joyfully!
Never had the good fortune of studying under an inspiring special teacher, but the ambition stayed on. I remember being mesmerised by my English Professor during my degree correspondence classes. (Pity that I couldn’t join a regular college as I was waiting for my railway posting orders). What diction and a baritone voice. He made even the dry subjects enjoyable. I was proud because he always picked me out from the crowd to read passages aloud to the class. I remember having difficulty pronouncing “ecclesiastical,” and he smiled (I melted!) and gently corrected me. I can understand why students fall in love with their professors, especially the English teachers who sweep you off your feet, mouthing Shakespeare and Wilde!! Hah…I digress.
With great fortitude, I took on the task of tutoring the neighborhood kids alongside a Kendriya Vidyalaya mathematics teacher (he was the Teacher, and I was his assistant). This teacher wanted an assistant to handle English and Social Sciences. I liked these subjects and accepted his offer. I put my heart and soul into imparting knowledge to young minds. After a month, my employer asked me to teach Sanskrit to the students.
I was aghast and told him, “But I never studied Sanskrit in school.”
“You know Hindi? Sanskrit is similar. Add a couple of dots to the script. You can do it, browse through their books, it’s easy, I have been taking classes like that only.”
I reluctantly took on the extra role, poring through textbooks trying to learn Sanskrit and then teach the students. Our education system was atrocious; teachers managed any subject and any grade.
I was punctual in the tuition, prepared notes, and was gentle with the students. They never took me seriously and played pranks on me, and the primary teacher also started taking tuition elsewhere, leaving these students under my capable tutelage. He would come much later, give them sums, summarise experiments, and rush to another home tuition centre. I was distressed to see the mark sheets at the end of my third month of teaching. Almost all of my students failed to secure ‘pass’ marks. I had even managed to get a LKG kid to fail in her examinations. Was that even possible? Can they detain a young child? This was a motherless girl, Kayalvizhi, thin and dark but highly spirited. She sat on my lap during the tuition class.
Her dad oiled her hair, tied it into pigtails, powdered her face, and drew a black star on her forehead. Soon, he was to bring her a new mom, and I prayed that she wouldn’t come between the father-daughter love.
There was another adolescent Pandi, whose father worked in my Achan’s department. Pandi was the naughtiest and the lousiest in studies. But he was my favourite. He failed in all subjects. Before I joined, he had passed in at least a few subjects. Invariably, everyone failed in Sanskrit.
I told my employer that what he was doing was wrong. Either he should be present in this centre for the whole duration of classes, or hire a better assistant who knows how to handle the students. I resigned, and he left the students unattended. I watched the children playing in the park during classes.
Not ready to accept my failure (yet), I joined as a teacher in a nearby school. My Amma said that perhaps I would do better in a classroom or school situation. She reasoned that these tuition kids were beyond repair and not my fault (A mother’s logic). Actually, in those days, it was true that only children who needed extra assistance attended tuition, unlike nowadays, when even the brightest attend tuition. It’s become a matter of pride. My neighbour, who worked at a nearby school, took pity on me, as I was bored waiting for my posting letter from the Railways. I was instructed to come prepared with a “Rhyme” for kindergarten, as the principal wanted to test my teaching skills. Racking my brains, I selected a simple rhyme that would be easy to enact. Armed with dancing moves (Tu cheez badi hai mast was the top of the chart in those days!) and jumping tricks, I addressed my class of tiny tots, who were measuring me with eyes wide with bewilderment. I felt trapped like a zoo animal. They waited to see rabbits fly out of my bag.
As the cue for action came from the principal, I was on, guns blazing. Hickory Dickory Dock (I was doing the Akshay Kumar hand movements), and then mayhem ensued. I was perplexed at the cries and shrieks of “miss he is pushing me “, “miss she’s biting her”, “miss I want my mommy”.
Complete pandemonium, and I was sweating and swearing. With kids pulling my dress and climbing onto me, I looked at the principal with a silent cry for help, who concluded that tiny tots were a burden on me (I still am incapable of handling kids). Not wanting to discourage me, she decided to give me a chance with the older kids.
I was the class teacher for grade 2 students, who were better behaved. They showered me with so much love. I revelled in their adulation. I was famous and impactful within a day. The principal called me over and mildly chastised me for using “yeah” instead of “yes,” as the whole school was chanting “yeah” fervently (this was in 1995, when casual slang wasn’t acceptable in a formal setting). I grinned and answered “yeah” and left the room.
The third day dawned fresh, and I reached the school in a yellow organza sari. Young girls often admire and compliment their teachers on their clothes. I had started wearing saris to school because the principal said otherwise, I looked like a school kid myself. These saris were borrowed from my Amma and a cousin. School was a breeze till noon. My energy waned by the time the sun was overhead, with continuous classes and homework corrections, with not a free period. I was tasked with an additional responsibility to handle the grade 6 brats as their teacher had an emergency. The kids were so tall, I felt like a Lilliputian! My zeal and enthusiasm ebbed, exhaustion kicked in, and I was unable to cope with the Herculean task of standing on my feet, hollering at the kids. I, a frail woman (many eons ago), fainted in class, mid-sentence, and was sent home in a cycle rickshaw. What a bathetic conclusion!
I sent my resignation through the neighbour and was pleasantly surprised when the principal requested that I come as a part-time teacher at least, such was my impact! Realisation struck that I was not cut out for TEACHING and it was not my calling. And not wanting to risk the future generations, I called it Quits!! I should have realised this when I narrowly missed being born on Teacher’s Day!
Salute to the teachers who continue to inspire and mould young minds!!!
P.S. The unrequited dream still affects me, and I don the teacher’s robe at times with my spouse. He calls me “question paper”!!
Photo – Unsplash Haseeb Modi
