The children found a bird. It was a baby, learning to fly, and must have fallen out of the nest when it was trying. It wasn’t injured, but seemed shocked, and sat very still and let me pick it up. Ankur had put her in a basket with a lid.
I sent the children off to ‘make a nest’, and they happily brought back fistfuls of grass and leaves, scolding each other and scattering it about. As more children appeared, I found tasks for them to do – get a box, bring water, find some rice, find some insects, specifically, worms. Find a piece of jali to cover the box. They asked me how to find worms, and I said to dig the ground with a stick (sometimes I think that I actually just keep making the children do useless things for my own amusement). One of them came triumphantly back with his hands cupped together. Everyone gathered around as he slowly lifted the top one to reveal – nothing! Then we saw an ant scampering away on the ground. As the bell for assembly rang, two class one children argued vehemently about whether the bird was white or black (she was actually brown).
In the meantime, inside the box, the bird had started calling out, and trying to fly. I called Mirza, who said that I should put her back near the nest, and the mother would come and get her, and to not try to feed her anything, since we didn’t know what she eats normally.
So, I took Sheetal dada, our carpenter, along to watch the bird from afar, because I had to get back to work. We went to the roof, close to where the bird was found, and saw the nest and the parents flying around. We put the basket and some water close by and went farther away to watch. Soon, one of the parents saw her and started circling around. Finally, she darted down close to the baby and flew away again. The bird was quiet now, perched on the edge of the basket, and seemed to be watching the parents.
The mother (or father) kept flying to the baby and flying away. Then, in one flight, the baby came with her, and flew to a low down branch. At this point, I had to leave, but felt that my duty was done, although I had made all the children run around for nothing (except maybe to occupy them during the before-school time). I also had to tell them, but when I did, they accepted the very simple, “We put her to the roof and her mother came and took her away.”
I wasn’t surprised by this. The children were very excited by the bird, and enjoyed the few minutes of running around. But I don’t think that any of them would have spent any more time looking after her or taken on any real responsibility. I could just imagine myself scolding them for neglecting some chore.
Is that how all children are? Or are these children more like that because most of them, especially the boys, are given no responsibilities or duties at home, have very little contact with ‘nature’, and don’t usually work on longer projects without immediate rewards, and are mostly interested in TV and ‘exciting’ things like that? As I think those things, the immediate contradictions face me. So many of the children look after younger brothers and sisters or help their families, including in earning. Many own livestock and must help in the care or at least be aware of what it involves.
But still, most seem ‘spoilt’ to me, not knowing or caring enough to follow through on something like this. There must be more we can do in school…more longer-term projects, pets in the classrooms, nature trips, more responsibilities that have real consequences that matter to the children.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Tiffin-time with class 1
At tiffin time, H, the same ‘wrestler’ boy from Encounter 1, appeared on my verandah, rubbing his eyes and looking upset. A couple of other class 1 children wandered up as well, some settling themselves on the chairs, and others just standing around. I asked H what was wrong, but he couldn’t give me a coherent answer beyond not feeling well.
I looked at them again. Other children were running around, some through the verandah, so that, in passing, they could spy on us. These just looked a little quiet and lost. After all, you might not feel like running around every tiffin time. You might want to do something quiet and peaceful. It seemed to me that H’s unwellness was something of that sort as well.
“Do you want to read a book?” I asked. They nodded enthusiastically. So, they took off their shoes and arranged themselves on my dari while I looked at what I had. I decided to read them a story, since I felt in need of some energizing, myself. I found one about two cars, red and green, who go on a night-time race (I can’t remember the name at the moment).
They enjoyed it. H took his own book, but kept peeping over and joining in the commentary as we read. The others laughed and cried, figuratively, through the race, cheering on the cars and predicting which would come first.
When it was over, I realised that it was very quiet outside. Tiffin time was over! I rushed them off to class. That was an excitement in itself, to have gotten late because one was reading during tiffin.
At the end of the day, when the School was milling around generally, waving to parents and dragging backpacks and bumping into each other, two of the gang ran up to me and handed me colourful pictures of – guess what – cars. I put them up in my office.
I looked at them again. Other children were running around, some through the verandah, so that, in passing, they could spy on us. These just looked a little quiet and lost. After all, you might not feel like running around every tiffin time. You might want to do something quiet and peaceful. It seemed to me that H’s unwellness was something of that sort as well.
“Do you want to read a book?” I asked. They nodded enthusiastically. So, they took off their shoes and arranged themselves on my dari while I looked at what I had. I decided to read them a story, since I felt in need of some energizing, myself. I found one about two cars, red and green, who go on a night-time race (I can’t remember the name at the moment).
They enjoyed it. H took his own book, but kept peeping over and joining in the commentary as we read. The others laughed and cried, figuratively, through the race, cheering on the cars and predicting which would come first.
When it was over, I realised that it was very quiet outside. Tiffin time was over! I rushed them off to class. That was an excitement in itself, to have gotten late because one was reading during tiffin.
At the end of the day, when the School was milling around generally, waving to parents and dragging backpacks and bumping into each other, two of the gang ran up to me and handed me colourful pictures of – guess what – cars. I put them up in my office.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Strange morning encounter...
I woke up to the hoarse, intense crying of a small child. It was so loud and painful and close (sounded like it was in the campus) that when I finally became conscious, I went out to the balcony to see who is was. Beyond the low back wall of our campus, through the trees and bushes, and without my glasses (like in ‘My Cousin Vinny’), I saw two small figures struggling. As I watched, one of them kicked the other, who was lying on the ground. It looked really as though some child was beating up another mercilessly. The one on the ground tried to get up and run. The other caught him, and he fell down.
I called out, asking who was there and to stop hitting and fighting. The figures seemed to pause, but then ignored me. I rushed down and ran to the wall.
I found a child of four or five, and another of six or seven. The younger one was crying and sitting in the dust. I asked what was going on and found out that the mother had gone to work and this child wanted to go after her, and his brother was trying to get him to come home.
Ah. So different from what I had imagined.
I looked at the older brother, himself such a small child. He was standing next to his brother looking helpless and tired. Every few minutes he would say to his brother, “Ghar chalo” (come home), or try to pick him up, but his brother would shriek even louder and shake him off. He had been crying for so long and so hard that he was coughing and choking in the middle. One of his knees had gotten slightly scraped, and he would look at it, cry harder, and angrily swat off flies.
I asked their names, tried talking to the younger brother, D. He didn’t respond, but his crying seemed to lesson when I talked to the older brother, G. G said that there was no one else at home. I asked if there was an older neighbour or relative living nearby, and he said, “Sab sukta hai,” (everyone is sleeping). His mother and father were both at work and go every day, but today D was insisting on following his mother.
It was a familiar, every-family situation. But now that I had come down all the way and talked to them, I couldn’t walk out, especially on G, this little responsible boy. Not that I was any help, but he was just a child, feeling that his brother would never stop. Around me, there were other stirrings of activity, but not a glance at these two, or me. Non-interference, such as people never attribute to ‘Indians’, but actually, an important characteristic in many situations, especially personal.
I looked at G, his tight face, and thought that maybe we would be out here for hours. D showed no signs of stopping, and when he did, he would look at his knee and start again. Talking to him had no effect. I imagined writing this, and wondered how it would end – I couldn’t leave, but couldn’t stay forever, and couldn’t figure out how to help quiet a child who didn’t know me and I couldn’t touch (we were separated by a wire fence). I tried gathering all my experience and knowledge about children, but felt like I knew nothing.
Finally, I told D to follow me, and started walking along the fence towards his house. This motivated or interested him enough to at least stand up and not resist his brother, who nudged him towards me. His house was just a few steps away from the end of the fence. When we reached, he started crying harder, perhaps feeling somewhat tricked. I showed him my balcony and told him that I was going up there and he should show me his house so I could see it from the balcony.
On the balcony, I called him and waved at him. He hiccupped and looked at me. I asked G if they could go up on their roof, which is across from my kitchen window. He said yes, and D allowed himself to be led (or pushed) up, sobbing. When I reached the window (I was delayed by a wasp), G was looking around, trying to see if I was still on the balcony. I called out to them and waved, telling D that he could come up and say hi to me every morning. I waved goodbye to G.
There was silence after that, now that they were home, I suppose. I felt ashamed, though, I am not sure completely why. Because G was taking care of D, being just a year or two older, and I presumed to step in. He looks after D every day, apparently, because there is no one else at home.
I will see if they can join our school.
I called out, asking who was there and to stop hitting and fighting. The figures seemed to pause, but then ignored me. I rushed down and ran to the wall.
I found a child of four or five, and another of six or seven. The younger one was crying and sitting in the dust. I asked what was going on and found out that the mother had gone to work and this child wanted to go after her, and his brother was trying to get him to come home.
Ah. So different from what I had imagined.
I looked at the older brother, himself such a small child. He was standing next to his brother looking helpless and tired. Every few minutes he would say to his brother, “Ghar chalo” (come home), or try to pick him up, but his brother would shriek even louder and shake him off. He had been crying for so long and so hard that he was coughing and choking in the middle. One of his knees had gotten slightly scraped, and he would look at it, cry harder, and angrily swat off flies.
I asked their names, tried talking to the younger brother, D. He didn’t respond, but his crying seemed to lesson when I talked to the older brother, G. G said that there was no one else at home. I asked if there was an older neighbour or relative living nearby, and he said, “Sab sukta hai,” (everyone is sleeping). His mother and father were both at work and go every day, but today D was insisting on following his mother.
It was a familiar, every-family situation. But now that I had come down all the way and talked to them, I couldn’t walk out, especially on G, this little responsible boy. Not that I was any help, but he was just a child, feeling that his brother would never stop. Around me, there were other stirrings of activity, but not a glance at these two, or me. Non-interference, such as people never attribute to ‘Indians’, but actually, an important characteristic in many situations, especially personal.
I looked at G, his tight face, and thought that maybe we would be out here for hours. D showed no signs of stopping, and when he did, he would look at his knee and start again. Talking to him had no effect. I imagined writing this, and wondered how it would end – I couldn’t leave, but couldn’t stay forever, and couldn’t figure out how to help quiet a child who didn’t know me and I couldn’t touch (we were separated by a wire fence). I tried gathering all my experience and knowledge about children, but felt like I knew nothing.
Finally, I told D to follow me, and started walking along the fence towards his house. This motivated or interested him enough to at least stand up and not resist his brother, who nudged him towards me. His house was just a few steps away from the end of the fence. When we reached, he started crying harder, perhaps feeling somewhat tricked. I showed him my balcony and told him that I was going up there and he should show me his house so I could see it from the balcony.
On the balcony, I called him and waved at him. He hiccupped and looked at me. I asked G if they could go up on their roof, which is across from my kitchen window. He said yes, and D allowed himself to be led (or pushed) up, sobbing. When I reached the window (I was delayed by a wasp), G was looking around, trying to see if I was still on the balcony. I called out to them and waved, telling D that he could come up and say hi to me every morning. I waved goodbye to G.
There was silence after that, now that they were home, I suppose. I felt ashamed, though, I am not sure completely why. Because G was taking care of D, being just a year or two older, and I presumed to step in. He looks after D every day, apparently, because there is no one else at home.
I will see if they can join our school.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Encounters with Children part 3
Encounter 3
After school. in stumbled two boys with a teacher, one, again, streaked with tears – P, new in class 5 – and V. He told me that they had fought in the house meeting time and a teacher had separated them, then they had threatened each other, and then another teacher had caught them fighting behind the bus, outside.
First, I did the same thing as with A and B – made them wait, sitting on the chairs. But, after less time, I sat in front of them and asked them to tell me their stories one at a time. I had to explain this to P a couple of times.
While listening to them, I realised again how advanced ‘our’ children are (the children who have grown up in our school). V explained the whole thing to me in sincere, dignified English, understanding already the whole process I was going to take them through, willing to cooperate, leaving the matter in my hands and his mind open. P, a new child, on the other hand (he is probably close in age to class 7), kept sniveling unconvinced-ly. He described the original incident of the argument (they went together to a friend’s house and were playing with an iPod, and one of them hid it in the other’s bag for a joke and they each accused the other of taking it) as full of deceit and subterfuge and conspiracy.
P was a completely different species from V, or any of the others, and I felt my heart sink. What would this boy bring to our children? First, to try to cause trouble through talk of theft and lies, and to continue arguments by threatening, “tumhe dekh lenge,” (“I’ll take care of you later”) and to accost the person outside…it smelled so much of children past, who we could not change, who brought very unwanted things to our school. Listening, I already was imagining conversations with his parents about why he wasn’t suitable here.
Another thing he said which annoyed me was, “ma’am, ap usse puchlijiye,” (“Ma’am, you can ask him” (a witness) which is a common enough thing to say, but he kept saying it. His whole ‘story’ was some kind of presentation of evidence, instead of a recounting of his version of an incident, aimed to make me believe him over V and scold the latter.
I told them (both) severely that in this school, we don’t talk like that; we assume that we trust each other, and if I ask them a question, I don’t want to hear anyone else’s confirmation of what they say. I told them some other things, emphasising “this school” and looking deep into P’s eyes. V just sat there, quietly and seriously. He is usually someone I feel is one of the least of ‘our’ children, but then, I wondered at how much he had learnt, in just two years.
After that, I talked to them about what anger is, how arguments are natural, how the point is to figure out what to do from here. I asked them about their friendship before (casual and superficial) and gave them some options. The one that emerged, through my navigation, was that they would have to put this behind them, forgive each other’s mistakes, and move on without dwelling on this incident any more, because it wasn’t worth the effort or their intelligence to do otherwise. They agreed. I am not sure how much P understood, though I spoke mostly in Hindi.
So, I made up, as I spoke, they should look at each other, shake hands, and apologize, to show to the other that they were ready to move on, and to end the matter.
This they could not do. They were still too bitter, and didn’t trust the other to reciprocate, and just couldn’t look at each other.
I told them to sit and think about it – how they wanted to proceed. I worked on something, then went to the office door because I heard a familiar sound. I, another child, was roaming around carrying a bag and looking for another. He said he was waiting for V, and so were others. Who others? Looking mischievous and a little sheepish, E, B, and A emerged. I asked them about the bus, and they said they hadn’t felt like going on it, and were going to go together on each other’s cycles instead. I crouched on the stoop and they gathered around, leaning on each other. So familiar to me, so trustworthy.
They questioned me about V and P, “Ma’am, kitna samay lagega?” (“Ma’am, how long is this going to take?”) Those irreverent boys, my beloveds.
I went back in and the two in question were sitting on the chairs, looking wretched and glum. Oh, goodness, I hadn’t expected this. Okay, what about – “If it is difficult to talk to each other, I’ll give you paper, and you can write to the other person about how you feel and what you want to do.” I handed it out, explaining again, and they immediately bowed over it. I turned away while they scribbled. When they finished, I took them.
V: “Dear P, I feel angry because you said you don’t like something you lies but you are lying yourself. I don’t have much hope that we will be good friends after this, but I want this discussion to end now. V”
P: “I am sorry can we be good friend?”
Oh, dear, I thought. But handed them back to be read by the other. I told them to write a response. I checked:
V to P: “Yes, if you want to, we can be good friends! ☺ (big smiley face)”
P: “Yes, I want to be your good friend.”
Great! I gave them to the recipients. I turned away for a brief second and then they were standing at my desk, with the peculiar expression of trying to control a smile. I asked, “Ready to go?” They nodded. I told them to look at each other and shake hands. They did, but were too shy to look directly. They sped off, and I heard them calling out to their friends, back and forth.
It was quite amazing to me, to see how well it had worked. They weren’t able to be the first to speak or make a gesture to the other, but writing wasn’t like speaking first, because when you get a letter, the other person has spoken to you. And seeing a “sorry” is enough, I think, to make a child (or even an adult) completely forgive. P probably didn’t understand the whole thing, but got the idea of it. Standing at my desk, they both looked happy in the way that you do when a weight is lifted.
That long time they had spent was completely worth it. I felt very pleased. And gratified that the right step had ‘come’ to me.
After school. in stumbled two boys with a teacher, one, again, streaked with tears – P, new in class 5 – and V. He told me that they had fought in the house meeting time and a teacher had separated them, then they had threatened each other, and then another teacher had caught them fighting behind the bus, outside.
First, I did the same thing as with A and B – made them wait, sitting on the chairs. But, after less time, I sat in front of them and asked them to tell me their stories one at a time. I had to explain this to P a couple of times.
While listening to them, I realised again how advanced ‘our’ children are (the children who have grown up in our school). V explained the whole thing to me in sincere, dignified English, understanding already the whole process I was going to take them through, willing to cooperate, leaving the matter in my hands and his mind open. P, a new child, on the other hand (he is probably close in age to class 7), kept sniveling unconvinced-ly. He described the original incident of the argument (they went together to a friend’s house and were playing with an iPod, and one of them hid it in the other’s bag for a joke and they each accused the other of taking it) as full of deceit and subterfuge and conspiracy.
P was a completely different species from V, or any of the others, and I felt my heart sink. What would this boy bring to our children? First, to try to cause trouble through talk of theft and lies, and to continue arguments by threatening, “tumhe dekh lenge,” (“I’ll take care of you later”) and to accost the person outside…it smelled so much of children past, who we could not change, who brought very unwanted things to our school. Listening, I already was imagining conversations with his parents about why he wasn’t suitable here.
Another thing he said which annoyed me was, “ma’am, ap usse puchlijiye,” (“Ma’am, you can ask him” (a witness) which is a common enough thing to say, but he kept saying it. His whole ‘story’ was some kind of presentation of evidence, instead of a recounting of his version of an incident, aimed to make me believe him over V and scold the latter.
I told them (both) severely that in this school, we don’t talk like that; we assume that we trust each other, and if I ask them a question, I don’t want to hear anyone else’s confirmation of what they say. I told them some other things, emphasising “this school” and looking deep into P’s eyes. V just sat there, quietly and seriously. He is usually someone I feel is one of the least of ‘our’ children, but then, I wondered at how much he had learnt, in just two years.
After that, I talked to them about what anger is, how arguments are natural, how the point is to figure out what to do from here. I asked them about their friendship before (casual and superficial) and gave them some options. The one that emerged, through my navigation, was that they would have to put this behind them, forgive each other’s mistakes, and move on without dwelling on this incident any more, because it wasn’t worth the effort or their intelligence to do otherwise. They agreed. I am not sure how much P understood, though I spoke mostly in Hindi.
So, I made up, as I spoke, they should look at each other, shake hands, and apologize, to show to the other that they were ready to move on, and to end the matter.
This they could not do. They were still too bitter, and didn’t trust the other to reciprocate, and just couldn’t look at each other.
I told them to sit and think about it – how they wanted to proceed. I worked on something, then went to the office door because I heard a familiar sound. I, another child, was roaming around carrying a bag and looking for another. He said he was waiting for V, and so were others. Who others? Looking mischievous and a little sheepish, E, B, and A emerged. I asked them about the bus, and they said they hadn’t felt like going on it, and were going to go together on each other’s cycles instead. I crouched on the stoop and they gathered around, leaning on each other. So familiar to me, so trustworthy.
They questioned me about V and P, “Ma’am, kitna samay lagega?” (“Ma’am, how long is this going to take?”) Those irreverent boys, my beloveds.
I went back in and the two in question were sitting on the chairs, looking wretched and glum. Oh, goodness, I hadn’t expected this. Okay, what about – “If it is difficult to talk to each other, I’ll give you paper, and you can write to the other person about how you feel and what you want to do.” I handed it out, explaining again, and they immediately bowed over it. I turned away while they scribbled. When they finished, I took them.
V: “Dear P, I feel angry because you said you don’t like something you lies but you are lying yourself. I don’t have much hope that we will be good friends after this, but I want this discussion to end now. V”
P: “I am sorry can we be good friend?”
Oh, dear, I thought. But handed them back to be read by the other. I told them to write a response. I checked:
V to P: “Yes, if you want to, we can be good friends! ☺ (big smiley face)”
P: “Yes, I want to be your good friend.”
Great! I gave them to the recipients. I turned away for a brief second and then they were standing at my desk, with the peculiar expression of trying to control a smile. I asked, “Ready to go?” They nodded. I told them to look at each other and shake hands. They did, but were too shy to look directly. They sped off, and I heard them calling out to their friends, back and forth.
It was quite amazing to me, to see how well it had worked. They weren’t able to be the first to speak or make a gesture to the other, but writing wasn’t like speaking first, because when you get a letter, the other person has spoken to you. And seeing a “sorry” is enough, I think, to make a child (or even an adult) completely forgive. P probably didn’t understand the whole thing, but got the idea of it. Standing at my desk, they both looked happy in the way that you do when a weight is lifted.
That long time they had spent was completely worth it. I felt very pleased. And gratified that the right step had ‘come’ to me.
Encounters with Children part 2
Encounter 2
A teacher brought A and B to my office, saying that they had been fighting in sports or karate or something. A’s face was streaked with tears, and B had the same don’t care look he does a lot of the time, mixed with some faint embarrassment or hope or something.
I told them to sit in my cane chairs under the tree (…and cool off), and turned back to my work.
After quite a long time, I gave them “Frog and Toad Together,” by Arnold Lobel, to read (together) on the takhat/bed/sofa. B held it mostly, towards himself, and A looked over his arm.
When they finished, I gave them paper and pencils and markers (I didn’t have any crayons) and told them to write book reports. They were very willing and eager. I left them for half an hour while I went to teach maths, making a mental note to keep crayons, some more storybooks, and maybe a puzzle or two in my office.
In the middle of my maths class, A came and asked me for more paper. I described my rough paper file to him.
When I got back, A had just finished and B was finishing up. I told A to wait for B. Both had written carefully, drawn a picture, written the date, and signed with a flourish. A wrote a more succinct report, with a paragraph about what he thought. B described the story in more detail, step by step, and ending with a (succinct), “It was a thoughtful story. I liked it very much.”
I thanked them for their nice book reports and pinned them to my softboard. Then they went off, together, frog and toad.
A teacher brought A and B to my office, saying that they had been fighting in sports or karate or something. A’s face was streaked with tears, and B had the same don’t care look he does a lot of the time, mixed with some faint embarrassment or hope or something.
I told them to sit in my cane chairs under the tree (…and cool off), and turned back to my work.
After quite a long time, I gave them “Frog and Toad Together,” by Arnold Lobel, to read (together) on the takhat/bed/sofa. B held it mostly, towards himself, and A looked over his arm.
When they finished, I gave them paper and pencils and markers (I didn’t have any crayons) and told them to write book reports. They were very willing and eager. I left them for half an hour while I went to teach maths, making a mental note to keep crayons, some more storybooks, and maybe a puzzle or two in my office.
In the middle of my maths class, A came and asked me for more paper. I described my rough paper file to him.
When I got back, A had just finished and B was finishing up. I told A to wait for B. Both had written carefully, drawn a picture, written the date, and signed with a flourish. A wrote a more succinct report, with a paragraph about what he thought. B described the story in more detail, step by step, and ending with a (succinct), “It was a thoughtful story. I liked it very much.”
I thanked them for their nice book reports and pinned them to my softboard. Then they went off, together, frog and toad.
Encounters with Children part 1
I said recently that I haven’t been having much interaction with children, but this week belied that claim.
Encounter 1
H is in class 1. He has almost blond hair from neglect or malnutrition, I don’t know. He has the physical look of a little boy-bully, a slight clenching look about his jaw that makes you think he might take pleasure in swinging his arm at another child. He looks like he swaggers around with a couple of followers.
Obviously, I didn’t have very high opinions of this six year old.
Since I finally met their mother and made a plan for them to stay after school, I have learnt to see him in a different light (maybe more as a six year old and less as a WWF wrestler).
He came to my office and asked if he could call his father, the first day. When I said that his father knows when to come, and explained what he has to do after school, he looked upset and mumbled, “Bhuk lagi hai.” I decided that these three children, at least the younger ones, should be given a snack by the school. I explained to H that after school, he should first take his bag up to D ma’am, then go to A ma’am and get a snack, then go to the preschool and rest and play, and then go back up to D and do some homework and read. I also put him in charge of his brother, who is only four or five. Then, I went and introduced him to each of these people.
After that day was Teachers’ Day, and in that period of no-one-in-charge-time, I found H sobbing outside, with a couple of children clustered around. I discovered that his new pair of sunglasses was broken (lots of the children had come in sunglasses that day), and he claimed some didi had done it. I tried to figure out the story, then tried to explain to him that sometimes things break. He was inconsolable.
Finally, I figured out that he was afraid that his father would be angry, naturally, since he must have just bought them. I had to assure him that I would write a note for him. I also kept the sunglasses, thinking that a separation from them would be good, and if the father was told, “Ma’am lin hain,” it sounded like something not to be argued with. I commiserated with him again about how things break sometimes, isn’t it a pity.
He kept standing anxiously at the periphery of my vision until I write the note and tucked it into one of his many pockets (it was coloured clothes that day).
The next day, he ran into my office in tiffin time and asked me if I still had the sunglasses. I had given them to our accounts clerk, B ji (when in doubt, give to B), and sent him there, calling through the partition to tell him. H examined them and came back to me, “Ma’am, abhi bhi tuta hai?” (“Ma’am, they are still broken?”) I nodded, sadly. “Kabhi nahin banega?” (“They’ll never get fixed?”) I shook my head, sadly.
H inspected the glasses again, but this time with more interest, understanding an important fact of life (at least it looked like that). Then he gave them back to B ji, saying, “Abhi rakhiye,” (“Keep them for now”) or something, and ran off. B ji called out to me in consternation, “Yeh phir phek ke chala gaya!” (“He’s left them again!”)
I laughed and told him to keep them for a little while. I think H is too attached to them to just let them go, and he thinks they will be safe in the office.
Yesterday, at 3, H came again to confirm what to do – go to A ma’am and…? Couldn’t say the words too boldly on his own… “she will give something to eat.” I went over everything with him (he told me that he had finished his homework already, so I said he could read and D ma’am would give him new work) and sent him off.
I went outside at 5 to look at some construction stuff. The children were just leaving. H ran up to me to tell me how it all went. He put his hand into mine as he chattered away, about how he wrote four pages of “A B C D” (hmm…must look in to that) and then told tales about his sister, who smiled annoyedly at him. Then he waved gaily at me and departed.
You can see that I don’t think of him as a WWF wrestler any more.
Encounter 1
H is in class 1. He has almost blond hair from neglect or malnutrition, I don’t know. He has the physical look of a little boy-bully, a slight clenching look about his jaw that makes you think he might take pleasure in swinging his arm at another child. He looks like he swaggers around with a couple of followers.
Obviously, I didn’t have very high opinions of this six year old.
Since I finally met their mother and made a plan for them to stay after school, I have learnt to see him in a different light (maybe more as a six year old and less as a WWF wrestler).
He came to my office and asked if he could call his father, the first day. When I said that his father knows when to come, and explained what he has to do after school, he looked upset and mumbled, “Bhuk lagi hai.” I decided that these three children, at least the younger ones, should be given a snack by the school. I explained to H that after school, he should first take his bag up to D ma’am, then go to A ma’am and get a snack, then go to the preschool and rest and play, and then go back up to D and do some homework and read. I also put him in charge of his brother, who is only four or five. Then, I went and introduced him to each of these people.
After that day was Teachers’ Day, and in that period of no-one-in-charge-time, I found H sobbing outside, with a couple of children clustered around. I discovered that his new pair of sunglasses was broken (lots of the children had come in sunglasses that day), and he claimed some didi had done it. I tried to figure out the story, then tried to explain to him that sometimes things break. He was inconsolable.
Finally, I figured out that he was afraid that his father would be angry, naturally, since he must have just bought them. I had to assure him that I would write a note for him. I also kept the sunglasses, thinking that a separation from them would be good, and if the father was told, “Ma’am lin hain,” it sounded like something not to be argued with. I commiserated with him again about how things break sometimes, isn’t it a pity.
He kept standing anxiously at the periphery of my vision until I write the note and tucked it into one of his many pockets (it was coloured clothes that day).
The next day, he ran into my office in tiffin time and asked me if I still had the sunglasses. I had given them to our accounts clerk, B ji (when in doubt, give to B), and sent him there, calling through the partition to tell him. H examined them and came back to me, “Ma’am, abhi bhi tuta hai?” (“Ma’am, they are still broken?”) I nodded, sadly. “Kabhi nahin banega?” (“They’ll never get fixed?”) I shook my head, sadly.
H inspected the glasses again, but this time with more interest, understanding an important fact of life (at least it looked like that). Then he gave them back to B ji, saying, “Abhi rakhiye,” (“Keep them for now”) or something, and ran off. B ji called out to me in consternation, “Yeh phir phek ke chala gaya!” (“He’s left them again!”)
I laughed and told him to keep them for a little while. I think H is too attached to them to just let them go, and he thinks they will be safe in the office.
Yesterday, at 3, H came again to confirm what to do – go to A ma’am and…? Couldn’t say the words too boldly on his own… “she will give something to eat.” I went over everything with him (he told me that he had finished his homework already, so I said he could read and D ma’am would give him new work) and sent him off.
I went outside at 5 to look at some construction stuff. The children were just leaving. H ran up to me to tell me how it all went. He put his hand into mine as he chattered away, about how he wrote four pages of “A B C D” (hmm…must look in to that) and then told tales about his sister, who smiled annoyedly at him. Then he waved gaily at me and departed.
You can see that I don’t think of him as a WWF wrestler any more.
Friday, September 11, 2009
New blog!
I have finally, after five years of planning, decided to start blogging about my experiences here in Banaras. I work on education and the arts with NIRMAN (www.nirman.info), a non-profit organization here. A quick summary of my work here so far:
The first year, I worked mainly on an evening resource centre for youth. It had arts and other classes, as well as performances, discussions, film screenings, campaigns, sports, and other activities. The idea was to create a constructive space for youth to learn, meet others, create their own platforms, and exchange ideas. I also taught grade six maths, grade ten English. I set up the NIRMAN Theatre Studio and directed a new play, "Dhage," by Nandini Majumdar.
The next two years, I taught full time, grades 5 through 10, as a co-classroom teacher of a multi-age classroom, and started making curricula. We set up more formal Arts Studios, to both teach the arts and produce quality products. I directed a play, "Raju ki Barbadi," created a partially improvised and participatory performance, "Socho, Zara Socho," and worked on invisible and forum theatre. I studied improvised dance and capoeira through the Arts Studios.
The fourth year, I worked on the "Ramlila" Project (see NIRMAN's website www.nirman.info), a theatre/film/bookmaking project to do workshops with children from a Ramlila neighbourhood, produce a curriculum kit and children's books, and make a documentary film about the workshops and the children who participate in the Ramlila as actors and audience. I worked more on training teachers and making curricula.
The next year, my co-filmmaker (and fiance) and I showed our film, "Children Playing Gods, in various locations in the US and India. After that, for three months, I and other teachers lived in our village campus, and we had a day school with the children coming from the city by bus. Living in the village was very peaceful and inspiring in many ways. I continued to train teachers and work on curricula. I taught math to grade seven.
This year, my job description has changed a lot. I am a manager at NIRMAN, and, along with other managers, in charge of planning and administering its various projects, including the school. I also plan to write about my work in education and theatre over the past few years.
The first year, I worked mainly on an evening resource centre for youth. It had arts and other classes, as well as performances, discussions, film screenings, campaigns, sports, and other activities. The idea was to create a constructive space for youth to learn, meet others, create their own platforms, and exchange ideas. I also taught grade six maths, grade ten English. I set up the NIRMAN Theatre Studio and directed a new play, "Dhage," by Nandini Majumdar.
The next two years, I taught full time, grades 5 through 10, as a co-classroom teacher of a multi-age classroom, and started making curricula. We set up more formal Arts Studios, to both teach the arts and produce quality products. I directed a play, "Raju ki Barbadi," created a partially improvised and participatory performance, "Socho, Zara Socho," and worked on invisible and forum theatre. I studied improvised dance and capoeira through the Arts Studios.
The fourth year, I worked on the "Ramlila" Project (see NIRMAN's website www.nirman.info), a theatre/film/bookmaking project to do workshops with children from a Ramlila neighbourhood, produce a curriculum kit and children's books, and make a documentary film about the workshops and the children who participate in the Ramlila as actors and audience. I worked more on training teachers and making curricula.
The next year, my co-filmmaker (and fiance) and I showed our film, "Children Playing Gods, in various locations in the US and India. After that, for three months, I and other teachers lived in our village campus, and we had a day school with the children coming from the city by bus. Living in the village was very peaceful and inspiring in many ways. I continued to train teachers and work on curricula. I taught math to grade seven.
This year, my job description has changed a lot. I am a manager at NIRMAN, and, along with other managers, in charge of planning and administering its various projects, including the school. I also plan to write about my work in education and theatre over the past few years.
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