“Oh my gosh! Did you see that Santa? That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. No WONDER none of the kids believe in Santa here!”
Yet while it’s true that Santa has few followers, there’s still a bit of youthful innocence to be tapped. During the Christmas celebrations that P.R. Khatiwala had on Christmas Eve, the day was mostly full of ruckus, but a few precious moments were interspersed: among them, my class period with 4-B, my best-behaved class.
Earlier in the week I’d given the class a taste of some Christmas Carols. I had printed out some choice carols to share with my classes and passed the sheets out to the students, and we tried singing “Deck the Halls.” Since it created too much commotion I had taken the sheets back, but 4-B was ready to try again on the day of the Christmas celebrations, and as soon as I walked in they greeted me with,
“MA’AM! WE CAN SING TODAY?”
So I passed out the sheets and we sang some rather successful renditions of Rudolph, Deck the Halls, and had just started Joy to the World when I was interrupted by some students asking for a definition.
“Ma’am, what does this word mean? Reedulf?”
I frowned. “Which word?”
A student ran up to me, sheet in hand, to point out the word.
“Ohhhh, Rudolph! It’s the name of the reindeer. Do you know the story of Rudolph?” I looked around the room at all the blank stares.
“No? Well, I’ll tell it to you then. You can put down the music. If you’re quiet I can tell you the story of Rudolph.”
Thankfully, I watched that movie obsessively each year at Christmas time (there are few movies I’m willing to watch multiple times, but I loved the holiday classics) so was able to modify and abbreviate the story for the class.
First, I asked if they knew how many reindeer Santa had. I didn’t really expect an answer, but one girl raised her hand and called out decisively, “Nine!”
“Exactly. How did you know?”
“Because in the pictures of Santa there are nine reindeer.”
Observant girl. “Yes, Santa has nine reindeer. But he didn’t always have nine reindeer. He used to have only eight. This is the story of Rudolph, a young reindeer who lived at the North Pole. He dreamed of someday pulling Santa’s sleigh, but he was different from the other reindeer…”
The class listened attentively to the story and gasped in all the right places. (“Do you know the abominable snowman? He isn’t really a snowman… he’s the scariest monster in the North Pole! He is covered with white fur so he looks like snow, but he is eight feet tall and has one hundred teeth!” [COLLECTIVE GASP])
At the end of the story, which covered the island of the misfit toys and Rudolph’s triumphant placement at the head of the sleigh on Christmas Eve, one (noisy) boy tentatively raised his hand and said, “Ma’am, this story is true?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“But… reindeer can fly?”
“No, no. Not all reindeer can fly. Only Santa’s reindeer can fly.”
“Ohh.”
So despite being far away from home, I felt a bit of the magic of Christmas then.
My class party, however, was another sphere entirely.
(They look so cute, huh?)
Funny to think that in the U.S., class parties mean generally sitting around with good behavior, waiting to be served food and drinks (or perhaps lining up for them in a more or less orderly manner) and talking and goofing off at a reasonable volume. At least, that’s what I remember from my school days.
Here, it’s total chaos.
I mean, Indians DO know how to throw a party. But when it’s me versus the 28 terrible ten-year-olds, my eardrums can only take so much. Trying to serve snacks was probably the worst part of the day. I did my best to instill some order (“I’m going to dish up all the plates, and then you can take them”) but as soon as I would dish up one plate, little boys would be crowded all around me, stealing food from all the plates, and as soon as I looked their way I would see that one dish of food was already empty. I tried making an assembly line and having them go through it while some assigned helpers dished up food. Still people were stealing more than their fair share of food. The smaller kids, the quiet kids, and the girls complained to me from the sidelines, “Ma’am! I’m not getting any food!” while I struggled to deliver snacks to them.
(Boys clamoring to be in the picture)
Giving up on the food and leaving them to their battle, I progressed to the drinks, and tried to issue some kind of structure again, even as entire two-liter bottles would disappear to the back of the room, smuggled into some boy’s bag. “Hey! Who took the Pepsi??” I would yell, as a group of girls would scurry off to try to wrestle it back for me. Unable to get them to settle down until I had poured all the cups, I eventually settled for the path of least resistance: filling the plastic cup that was shoved closest to my eyeballs so it would get out of my face.
(Most of my girls)
By the end of the day my class literally looked like a dustbin (as one of my students helpfully pointed out). The floor was wet and slippery from some clever boys who wanted to do the moonwalk so slicked up the already dirty floor. At one point during the day three of the boys ended up shirtless (I’m still not sure why) and an entire cake was devoured by a few students when I had to leave the room for a few minutes.
Still, when I danced with them toward the end of the day, it ALMOST felt like the party was a success. They do throw fine dance parties, and my kids really loved it that I was willing to dance with them.
For the next party, I might have to do what the other teachers seem to do, and just let them have at it. I’ll let the girls go first, but then it’ll just be survival of the fittest.
But those who beat others won’t get any food. Going without snacks may be the worst punishment for a kid in Surat. Surtis really do love their food.
(Some leftovers)
Namaste,
Dalena
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