Getting class-y

With all the histrionics that I have to put up with relating to my class at school, it's a wonder that my sanity is still intact. Sample some details and you'll know why :

1) The boys and girls (roughly 2:1) are always at each other's throats. Only exception : Miss S.G. who all the boys insist that they not only like but also 'respect' !

2) The girls and boys also lack unity among themselves. There are several camps within students of either sex.

3) The best friends sometimes have such bitter quarrels that they themselves wish me to separate them, or in other words, change their seats in class.

4) If I change a certain Mr P.P's place several times for the simple reason that he is always talking with his neighbour, he bursts into tears in class and accuses me of being 'unfair'.

5) One girl narrates her secret fantasies about a certain eligible bachelor (one Mr slim and silent S.S) and the other girls come and complain to me that they don't want to hear about her dirty dreams'.

6) There is a certain Mr R.S. who is extremely delusional about being persecuted. If I believed him, his tormentors would amount to three fifth of the class strength.

7) Their favourite amusement (as observed by me during floor duty) appears to be to try to examine how many of them can possibly fit onto one bench and then push the extra person off at one end.

8) A certain Miss S.D, is the stuff everyone's nightmares are made up of. The ultimate threat they like to issue to each other being : " if you misbehave, ma'am will make you sit beside S.D !"

9) There is a certain Mr A.D.B who will confidently second all my instructions in class. And then proceed to systematically disobey all of them.

10) Mr A.P and Miss P.P are both excellent swimmers and often participate in swimming competitions. Exposure to too much of water, however, appears to have drastically reduced their auditory efficiency. They are always asking me to repeat the simplest of words.

11) Mr R.S. appears to have no experience worth mentioning in his own country. He has apparently seen the fruit called an apple first in the U.K. Surprisingly he cannot string together one grammatically correct sentence in English.

12) There is no dearth of musical talent in my class. It doesn't matter if there is no percussion instrument visible. The head of the person sitting in front of these rockstars is surface enough to hone their imaginary musical skills. And of course, it is to encourage their great potential that the hard surfaces of their desks exist after all.

13) Mr P.P. and his neighbour (the latter having been till recently, a variable) are always swaying up and down in a seated position in perfect sync.

Shall soon be back with more...keep smiling till then :-)

Caliban-ism

It is quite a special day when one of your students, striving to make a favourable impression on two guests from a British school in Leeds, introduces Sycorax, the witch, (from an abridged prose version of Shakespeare's 'The Tempest') as the mother of the monster 'Cannibal'.

He said it with such confidence that I myself was confused for a moment. Not Caliban ?

And then, I found the rest of the class staring stony-faced at him.

He didn't seem unnerved, though.

I don't know if the visitors were impressed with the originality of his answer. They left almost immediately !  

Lesson Plans and Planned Lessons

Yesterday, in the English Method class, AR made us teach the texts we had recently submitted lesson plans on, with the help of the latter. Having been absent for two consecutive days due to a stomach bug, I was initially clueless about what to do. Turns out most of my classmates were in a similar state, even though they'd been informed about the thing in the last class. Naturally. I mean, not all of us have actual classroom teaching experience. Not that it would have helped much. Following the lesson plan toto is an incredibly intimidating proposition, as we were soon to find out for ourselves.

No one wanted to volunteer to be the one to initiate the process. AR was obliged to first convince and then coerce (the time-tested and universal way to make students do something new). Ultimately, a girl called Sayantani was selected. After considerable nudging and prodding, she took the stage. She had to teach a poem called 'The Kitten at Play' to students of class 7. It's about a kitten playing with withered leaves, sitting on the wall, oblivious to the existence of the rest of the world. A simple poem, you'd think, at one read. But teaching it, as we soon found out, was a whole different ball game. We, by the way, had to behave like class 7 students and give apt answers to questions the 'teacher' might put to us. That wasn't too hard, all of us ready to be in splits at any comic relief that came our way, thanks to the whole mock-teaching session. But seriously, when it was my turn, I found out how hard it could be to follow the lesson plan to the T. It needs a considerable amount of practice.

My text was 'Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening' by Robert Frost, to be taught in the second language period of class X. A poem we're all too familiar with. To my dismay, it turned out AR's area of speciality is American Literature (she has a PhD). Naturally, all my mistakes would seem glaring to her. Anyway, I had no option of opting out. I started with testing the 'previous knowledge' of my 'students' (to help link their past knowledge with their future), asking them about their personal encounters with forests, snow and horse-drawn carriages and urging them to provide adjectives to describe a snowy winter evening in the forest. Having captured their attention by now, I proceeded to write the title of the poem on the board (being careful to ensure that the chalk didn't squeak, as that would distract their attention pronto) and introduce a few new textual words ( following the 'Knowledge' section of 'Behavioural Objectives'), discussing their meaning and opposites and even asking a few selected students ( trying to avoid the rude "yes, you") to compose sentences with the new additions to their vocabulary ('Application'). I also had to test their 'Understanding' by asking why the woods would feel quiet and lonely, why the horse was possibly confused and how the poet had described the stark beauty of nature even in winter.

The next stage was a few immediate text-related questions which preceded the actual ideal reading of the text (loud and clear, with correct pronunciation, proper punctuational pauses and poetic fervour). The students were then supposed to read the poem silently, with the teacher moving around, offering assistance wherever required. Meanwhile, a verbal gist of the text was given by the teacher to aid them in the comprehension of the text. After the reading was over, students were to be given appropriate examples of new concepts incorporated in the text, for instance, examples of other units of distance (other than 'miles'). The use of teaching aids like charts or models was to accompany the teaching of the text while ample and judicious use of the blackboard was a serious factor in measuring teaching capacity. The students were to be divided into groups thereafter and allowed to discuss the text (a bad idea in most schools, as far as discipline is concerned, and definitely inviting trouble in terms of marks for 'classroom management'). The process was wrapped up by the three-fold steps of consolidation (a pointing out of the central idea of the text by the teacher), evaluation (a few pertinent questions addressed to randomly selected students) and writing down a question for homework on the board. Finally, the teacher should not forget to rub the board before leaving the class.

Whew.

I still can't believe that I was treated to effusive praise by my classmates and a complacent look from AR (which, as far as I know her, is a good sign). I was still sweating from sheer nervousness.

Teaching in a school isn't half as easy as one thinks.

Well, at least, in your one month of practice teaching, when your lesson plan has to be submitted (you may consult only the text and your teaching aids while actually teaching) to the teacher sitting in the last row, observing you (ready to pounce on you, more likely) and the students know you're a temporary phase (and therefore get ready for all sorts of 'Sound of Music'-like pranks).

God save me.

Highs & Lows in the Life of a 15-Days' Old School Teacher

HIGHS :

The chocolates and toffees that accompany my students' b'days. Most of which I pass on to weight-oblivious family members.

The authority to order people about and inform them that you are the law.

Eating lunch on time, just like the students.

The permission to give free advice without being considered didactic.

The liberty to dress up in and consider looking good part of your daily responsibility :-)

Saying something as inane as " I presume you have only one father, then why on earth are you not writing 'dad' or 'father' with a capital letter at the beginning of the word in your letter-writing classwork ?" and getting away with it. (Although the students did look suitably scandalised. And for a minute, I myself was like " Shit, I'll be fired.")

Being praised profusely for your creativity in something as trivial as the cover of your lesson-plan file.

Getting to read all the poems and stories and plays you loved in college all over again. And interpreting them anew.

Students giving up their rickshaw for you, although they were before you in the queue.

Being able to quail a human being just by glaring at him/her long enough ;-)

LOWS :

Losing my voice every weekend. Hoping to regain it by two days of silence and the absence of the species called students anywhere within a 10 mile radius.

Losing sleep over the preparation of lesson plans of 3 classes for the whole year.

Having to scold the tiny creatures of classes IV over trifles such as
"Miss, he is beating."
"Miss, she is kicking."
"Miss, he is spitting."
"Miss, he is laughing (at me)."
"Miss, he is saying/writing bad things."
"Miss, they have changed their places (without your permission)."

Bringing home piles of unchecked exercise books (a la dirty laundry).

Losing sleep over the pathetic state of their grammar, syntax and bizarre spellings.

Being allotted a specific chair and position in the staffroom, which you are not at liberty to change.

Not being able to wear just what your mood dictates to work (in my case, usually jeans and a T-shirt).

Checking the tendencies of young teenagers to flirt with their preferred 'other', while in class.

Using my precious voice to answer the same silly questions everyday as in :
"Miss, may I drink water ?"
"Miss, may I go to (the) toilet ?"
"Miss, may I share the book (having forgotten to bring mine, as usual) ?"

Missing out on my daily quota of maachh-bhaat and afternoon nap because of the school timings.

NOTE : This is a fun post. Not meant to trivialise school teachers or the teaching profession in any way.

What's in a Name ?

A certain classmate of mine back in MHS used to claim the latest kid-on-the block as her relative. Be it a recently acclaimed singer or the reigning Miss Universe (at that point, Sushmita Sen), everyone with even the faintest trace of fame shadowing him or her seemed to form part of her immensely talented family tree, irrespective of how tortuous the path of ancestry appeared to us. Others used to laugh at this tendency of hers the moment her back was turned but were either too timid or too tender-hearted to tell her exactly what they had to say about this silly habit.

Strangely enough, she is not a rare instance. After several years of my pitifully plain and plebeian existence, I've come to be acquainted with numerous variations and specimens of this type. Several of them being educated adults with sufficient potential of their own and making a name for themselves in their respective fields of work. And therefore, you would think, not likely to have to glorify themselves by such a puerile habit. Unfortunately, such reasoning doesn't help when you encounter the complex species that is human. On countless occasions, I have had to bite my lips to prevent myself from vociferating against this inclination, in order to not strain my relationship with these people, often very decent, friendly and kind from every other viewpoint. Hence, the problem remains.

However, the issue is a disturbing one, to me at least. Gone are the days when one needed to provide proof of allegiance to a certain monarch or party or to be of illustrious lineage to claim right to a job or jewel, a possession or position. Nowadays, merit is supposed to be all that counts. I remember the case of Sanjeeb Basak, a boy whose mother worked as seamstress to sponsor his education and their family needs. Our parents were overwhelmed by his dedication and determination and did their best to convey the same to us. We deciphered that it was important to be lauded for earning one's own laurels rather than falling back on the feats of others to gain appreciation in any form. Another case I recall was that of a batchmate of ours in SPHS (let's call her A), who was extremely dark-complexioned, short and painfully thin. A used to avail of the schoolbus in which I travelled and provoked immediate attention by the skimpy and faded navy blue skirt that formed part of her school uniform. In short, she looked poor and plain. But I was touched by the great awe with which a very wealthy male classmate of ours (and who, btw, I was madly in adolescent love with) used to accord to her whenever he referred to her. This was because of her record in academics, which was scintillating. I myself have been at the receiving end of such bizarre difference in treatment when I shifted from MHS to SPHS. At my previous school, most (not all) classmates were from stinking rich families who distributed pencil torches with their ward's name carved on it on her birthday and viewed with disdain commoners like me who received a mere Rs 10 as pocket-money for a school fete or who, along with her sibling, carried a torn and tattered bag to school for several months at a stretch simply because their father lacked the time (not money) to go get them new ones. I felt I had come home when I moved onto SPHS. Everyone respected me only in terms of my academic performance, which was by a great stroke of luck, good. I therefore still consider the latter my true alma mater.

I diverge. The point is that when someone name-drops, it immediately gives you an impression of the way they perceive people. Not as friends or relatives or good or gifted or graceful. But as of being either potentially useful or useless to themselves in their climb up the socio-economic ladder. These are a different category of snobs. Parasitic and piteous. They thrive on their connections and networks for giving value to their own selves. They measure you in terms of set standards of the branded clothes you buy or the people you disco with or the car you whizz by or the profile of the company you work in and the salary you receive. Neither do they evaluate your intrinsic merit nor do they treasure your integrity as a person. They are too busy dropping names (in all possible ways) of the inside scoop on important things and persons (thanks to their contacts) to bother about such things as possess sterling worth.

I'm not being vitriolic. I really feel sorry for them. I was watching 'Luck By Chance' yesterday and it suddenly struck me that the Greek concept of 'Anagnorisis' still holds water. Only, some people are too busy and un-blessed to attain it. In time.

Spinning Yarns

I learned knitting way back in school, in MHS, in class VII. I remember picking up the nuances of the craft quite easily and enthusiastically. A little too enthusiastic perhaps. We were all asked to knit a set of clothes for a newborn baby, as per instructions, to create a sleeveless woollen vest (the sleeveless part has always struck me as absurd), a bonnet and a pair of booties (socks). Mine eventually translated into one that when cheerfully displayed to our needlework teacher, Mrs Srivastav, struck her speechless with amusement. After her recovery from a bout of inane toothing, she managed a benign grin and said she was quite pleased with my performance but I needn't really have exerted myself to such an extent. Apparently, my creations were big enough to apparel a six-month old baby quite effortlessly. I packed my bags after the class, hurling imprecations against the world in general for not having offered me any opportunity to develop the slightest idea of the relative difference in size between a newborn and a six-month old baby. No wonder Siddhant struck me as miniscule in terms of magnitude a few months back.


There was a particular reason for my disgust. Salt Lake was almost an island in those days, in terms of transportation options. It did not help that my father is a doctor by profession, too busy to lavish much attention on our arts-and-crafts-related (and therefore entirely optional and futile, according to him) needs. Ma, though extremely street-smart and intelligent, was only courageous enough to venture bravely into the New Market shopping territory. Salt Lake itself suffered from a gigantic dearth of shopping destinations. Hence, procuring all needlework etc related raw materials was really an issue of sorts. After several sharp reprimands in needlework classes for my failure to produce the necessary knitting paraphernalia, I ultimately effected a showdown back home, threatening to boycott education until my needlework needs were taken seriously. Results were prompt. After considerable gnashing of teeth and directing of choice expletives against my hallowed academic environs, Baba took a trip to Gauranga Bastralaya in Gariahat and returned with wool in the brightest, gaudiest shade of chrome yellow imaginable. Even now I shudder when I care to imagine any newborn or even six-months' old baby being attired in clothes of that colour. I wouldn't want this type of misfortune to befall even the child of my worst detractor.


Well. That is my point. Baba excused his colour-blindness by citing the inability to procure so many yarns of such a ply simultaneously at the aforementioned store except in this garish hue. Mrs Srivastav's matter-of-factness therefore had every potential of triggering off any latent hysteria in me. To undergo such histrionics for all that knitting and then its being considered as superfluous. Well, no wonder I've been short tempered since.


Why return to knitting at such a belated stage of life, you're obviously wondering, when it's evident I've unresolved neuroses regarding this area in my unconscious. Turns out Tanima inspired me to re-tread dreaded territory with a very sacred purpose to fulfil this time. Namely, a muffler for K. I wished to gift him something that incorporated my signature and which, he would therefore, treasure for years to come. Maybe he'd show it to our children some day with a glow in his eye, reflecting all the warmth that it bestowed on him and the sense of his worth it distilled. So, though with quite some trepidation, I did buy some wool at Walmart and left him to shortlist the multicoloured yarn he wanted spun into a muffler. It wasn't the typical Libran indecision that he battled this time. The place does offer you exquisite colour combinations and left to me, I might have ended up purchasing more than what figured on my initial agenda. I called up Tanima and verified that I was getting the right raw materials. The needles did scare me a bit, being miles long (not literally, silly) and of Christmas tree ball hues: gold, purple and deep blue. I settled on purple (predictably).


On Monday, after K left for office, I downloaded a couple of DIY (Do It Yourself) knitting videos on YouTube and set about charging my knitting batteries. It took me a day to gain courage and finally embark on the decided project. When I did, I don't mind confessing that I had to unravel the entire thing thrice. The first time, I took too many stitches and then realised that I wanted a muffler, not a shawl. The second mishap was occasioned by my discovery that I was not doing the 'purl' correctly, forgetting to bring the yarn towards the front every time I changed from 'knit' to 'purl'. The third (and fortunately the final) setback was owing to my flipping through a couple of webpages and determining that what I actually wanted was the ribbed look for the muffler. Happily, I still had enough motivation to allow me to proceed. Even after all these unhappy incidents. Only goes to show how badly I wanted to get this gift going. For our sake.


Here's how it looks at this moment. Wish me luck (and no more mishaps) with the rest of it !



P.S. Here is the link to the 2 knitting videos that caused me to sally forth on this voyage, in case you too are stranded in deep waters and need immediate aid.

Btw, I discovered I'm not alone in knitting related fears. Check out this one, if you don't believe me.