Twenty pairs of intense, sharp, clear eyes set in frail and small bodies, peering into your face trying to listen with concentration interrupted by restlessness and distraction can be unnerving for even a seasoned teacher not just an ill prepared one like me. It was 2002 and I was a novice teacher unnerved with my little classroom impossibly filled with raucous children hell bent on doing anything but sit steady and listen. But it was not that their restlessness was driven by ill intent, they seem animated by spirits stronger than their frail bodies could handle. But then those faces were in their own way remarkably diverse in colour and character and told me tales that I had never heard. Their little bodies were clothed with colours of playing in the dirt, some torn, few mended, few slipping to reveal tender limbs or shy bottoms, faces smeared with dust and tears or of the dried ice cream around chin and cheek, tousled hair, one pigtail with a missing ribbon, another with a broken clasp, one with sores on his feet, one who had waded in the gutter, many with a wide grin in an endless inventiveness of childhood pranks. Their satchels were as diverse as themselves and the state of their books and notes made me feel faint. The satchels’ real treasures were broken bits of coloured glass, some forgotten half eaten fruit, a feather, a drawing crumpled between books, chocolate wrappers, matchboxes, empty cigarette boxes, felt pens with missing caps, pencils with chewed ends, a magnet etc. They would give a sweet smile that would make one swoon at its innocence and resume their pranks of pulling a girl’s pigtail, or passing another’s pencil box across the room, or eating up someone’s tiffin box. I was helpless and crestfallen not knowing how to handle my little class.
I had been for several years a respected teacher of business management at a post graduate level, with some accolades for teaching and academic administration and receiving very high grades in student evaluations at the end of every term. But teaching small children in a balwadi at the edge of a sprawling slum with open gutters flowing right outside the tiny hovel that doubled up as class room was something of a culture shock. I was used to using wireless mikes, overhead projection, power point, laser pointers amphitheatre settings and the most intelligent youth and now the space was reduced to an ill lit room with a yellow light bulb, unpainted walls, a door that would not close and a window at the rear that showed a grey and stain splattered wall just a foot away and keep at bay the yelling and shouts of washerwomen, and thoroughfare of vendors, and passers by negotiating alleys that were less than a two feet in width and drain waters flowing in between and all drowned in the delighted screams of children at play. But there was such optimism as none of this caught the eyes of the children, they ran and sang, and screamed as though amidst the arboreal bliss of paradise, only rudely broken by teachers trying hard to put on a straight face.
I had just quit my job in a huff at the business school and had plenty of time and probably a gnawing need to make myself useful. Once on a Sunday morning I noticed a small built woman with streaks of grey hear tied tightly behind and in a bright orange salwar kameez make a dozen children sit by the edge of the road in rapt attention to a story she narrated. Her name was Aruna Burte and she lived in my own compound and I had known her for long though never in this avatar. I was humbled by her ability to hold her class despite the din on the road, and traffic all around. I hung around to see how she goes about her routine, shy to directly request a seat to observe the proceedings. She soon swept me up after class and infected me with her enthusiasm to spend some time with the children. What was remarkable was that she was not trying to teach them anything though learning was implicit. She would speak to them as an equal and engage them deeply, despite the restlessness of little bodies’ unbounded energy, they sat remarkably still being drawn into the womb of the story. I was much moved by what I thought was such exemplary commitment and skill. I knew I knew nothing despite my many years in the same profession.
Aruna was an epitome of patience and seemed to have the sweetest of tempers. She would be indulgent and yet was firm. She was the nurturing authority that knew no bullying or swagger or even little airs like I did but like the dawn dew moistened the driest of leaves. She had no curriculum and no agenda just a few hours on a Sunday morning chalking up tales or overseeing the kids draw and paint. I was sceptical when she saw patterns in their drawing that she interpreted as hints of violence or abuse or fear and anxiety. But then mine was an unlettered eye who was still trying to make sense of the world of a child. All my reading of Plato, or Piaget, Rousseau or Rodgers on educational theory was thrown into the gutters as I watched her conjure her magic. One day she asked me to tell them a story. I was shocked as I discovered that I had to think of some childhood tale and chose Cinderella; my horror compounded when I had to narrate it in Hindi; what does one call a fairy god mother in Hindi, or a charwoman, or even a pumpkin chariot and a glass slipper (sheesh/kaanch chappal sounds terrible- or for that matter what does one call an elf or leprechaun in Hindi). I did not even know enough stories. Besides Aruna probably saw some pattern of exploitation and marginalisation even in Cinderella and I was abashed at being insensitive. Her tales seemed so much lighter and rooted to the soil they had Indian names and Indian vegetables and cows and crows unlike my Grimm’s and Hans Christen Andersen’s derivate tales. I am sure they laughed at my Hindi more than my tale, but then they were a forgiving lot and probably pitied my efforts. I knew this was not my cup of tea but I was fascinated.
My parents worried and were convinced that I was on the wrong track and that ‘they’ were unlike ‘us’ when it came to studies and teaching. One day some of the children unknown to me followed me to my home and asked innocently that they wanted to see my house. It was a most sweet and innocent request but standing at the door were both my parents shocked that I had urchins in tow unkempt and wanting to be let in. My mother was sweet enough to keep her reservations under wraps till they left but my father much to my embarrassment made no such effort. Curious as little children they touched all things that caught their eyes, especially curios that to them were poor substitute for toys. They ran their little fingers along polished granite, stared at the high ceiling, and wanted to know how I lived in such a big house. I was not sure whether I felt guilty though it was a small house of just 500 sq ft but understood what their curious minds sought. My mother made them some sherbet though watching them from the corner of her eye for any mishap of dropping something fragile. The children left noisily thanking me loudly and all down the staircase embarrassing me as my neighbours looked stiffly and my father asked me to never repeat that again, and that teaching them was bad enough, instead of seeking new work or joining some other college. I argued and protested though I knew I was living at their house. My few friends thought I was desperately trying to keep myself occupied and possibly laughed at my vain efforts.
I was only discovering the new and fascinating world of children’s teaching. I realise how deluded and misguided I was about its significance and complexity. Teaching MBA students was really child’s play with adults in the classroom. I slowly increased my hours going to the balwadi and started spending time on a daily basis with these children. Their mothers probably thought it a good idea to get them off their hair as they cooked cleaned and slaved for their husbands. But I think most importantly they held in value an ancient idea that it might give them some good ‘samskar’ to simply sit in the classroom. I now feel grateful that they had implicitly placed their trust with me by giving me for a few hours what was most precious to them. I graduated from telling tales that I tired of and like a trained academic started looking at establishing a routine and a curriculum. It was an impossible task. Once I enter the class room I never knew who would show up and soon I would have a child of every age, size and shape; a 9th std student telling me that there is a most difficult geometry problem that nobody in his class could solve (given inadequate data), another suggesting that we listen to stories, another wanting to learn English, a third wanting to draw, and a tiny toddler crawling inside with a broken slate handed down by his brother. It was chaotic and made me weary, tired at trying to control the restless group. The task seemed insurmountable, with more than two dozen children of all ages, all going to municipal schools that were ill staffed. I was horrified that many of them were promoted with no skills in reading writing or arithmetic. Some children in the seventh standard were not able to even master the English alphabet, some could not count up to 100. I would be deeply disturbed and except for these children’s smiles I thought it a futile battle. Yet they would show up all around me in markets, on the street, or in the most unexpected places chime “Sir, Good Morning Sir” lighting up with bright faces. It was sufficient for them that I recognise them and smile back.
Aruna would breeze in effortlessly and she would make useful and wise suggestions. She roped in more resources including her husband who was a scientist and it fascinated me to sit in his class as he explained the heliocentric theory and the phases of the moon effortlessly to rapt attention. I thought it to be as brilliant a performance as Bhimsen Joshi on the final night of Sawai Gandharva. Her friends doubled up for Arithmetic and another friend of mine Meena Desai turned up commuting 25 km daily to be with the children to teach English, and we worked for several months. That summer in 2003 Aruna even held a workshop for the children and fascinated me by bringing in a puppeteer who taught them to make homemade puppets to tell their stories, draw on various themes (whose interpretation I was still doubtful), or even sing. I would despite not having much earning love to spend on them. I enjoyed bringing them hot vada pavs each evening, and supply all the stationery, colours, craft paper etc. Aruna once suggested that we share the expenses which I did not want to. It was like asking me that even that little contribution or competence I was not capable of and lied to her a figure to dissuade her. Once we arranged a picnic to the Mahim (Maharshtra) Nature Park in Sion Dharavi and it was a logistical nightmare. The children were all turned up bright and sunny, in their best attire with packed lunch boxes. However chaperoning them all into and out of regular BEST buses to save costs was like herding cats into a box. That evening I almost had a nervous breakdown in being accountable to parents in the event of not bringing back a child safely. I sometimes had unruly teenagers as visitors, some drunk or high and demanding attention in front of the children. I once had a young chap bragging to me asking me if I knew the pleasures of the flesh that he probably had access to at a young age. There were others who demanded that the balwadi was to double up as a meeting room possibly for dalit politics and that they had more important things than children learning. There would be days that they told me the balwadi was simply locked up. It was life as usual in that basti. To me it spoke of the complexity and magnitude of our social problems, of the marginal, the downtrodden the migrants, broken families, struggling mothers, violence, abuse, vice and addiction. Once I almost raised my hand at a little girl in the seventh standard who despite months of teaching was still unable to master the alphabet and I felt ashamed at my impatience and my own failure to be unable to teach. She made me feel small as she suggested sweetly that it was okay and that I should focus on others.
My father was slowly dying and I had not the foggiest idea of it. I had dismissed his forgetfulness as born of age and not one to be alarmed about. He had a tumour in his brain that was causing an accelerated decline in cognitive function and early dementia. He would ask for directions to his own hose just beneath our building and I did not know much to my shame and guilt what suddenly seemed to assail him. He would sit sullen and quiet and sometimes in great peace like the Buddha. I was too busy trying to establish a street school. I drew up its founding ideas, and ideals and a working curriculum with the support of Aruna and her friends. I was soon faced with the final act of my father who soon lost motor control and became vegetative and in need of critical care. I had to abandon the school and its dreams. I was shocked when my father died and felt guilty that I could not tell him how much he meant to me and express my gratitude.
The idea of the school faded away with the mists of that monsoon as new responsibilities accosted me that I was even more ill prepared for. Today the slum has been razed to accommodate a glass façade office and the slum dwellers herded into an SRA building that seems less chaotic but it is a world of its own. I still see some of them all grown up, manning stalls, working in offices, or leading lives of quiet domesticity. Someone will come over and say “Namaste sir” and I would turn around…..arre Ramanuj kaise ho….tumhari behen Chanda kaisi hai”. Sirji sab theek hai”. I smile to myself that it is some consolation.
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