Dear dedicated reader,
As it is the middle of October, I find my mind turning to my compatriots in the US, most of whom are still working on the first sixty days of the school year, the part where you use your exceptional teaching ability to establish the order and expectations and tone of your classroom that will last you the year through and are the foundation for your ability to get things done.
To my own frustration, my development in that department has been a bit delayed, having been thrown in haphazardly with no preparation as to what to expect from the school or students and no orientation about what to teach, not to mention schedule and class changes that went well into our first month here. As a result, it was difficult in those early months to set the appropriate, productive, unchaotic tone. While my novelty got me through the first few weeks, the students, intelligent as they are, have realized my deficiencies (crippling inability to speak the Gujarati, inconvenient aversion to corporal punishment) and are exploiting these mercilessly to thwart my attempts to teach them a language that some of them don’t care to learn.
In theory, my co-teacher Tabussum and I agree that hitting students is wrong (not to mention illegal, although here you wouldn’t know it), and thus I recently proposed a workable class system so we could be a more united, organized front. One of my more proud accomplishments in the past few months, aside from now being able to wrap a sari in under ten minutes, is learning the names of almost all of my 240 students. If anyone of them is misbehaving, their name goes on the board. If they are caught again, they receive a check and must come and stand at the front of the classroom. If they are foolish enough to be fooling around WHILE standing at the front of the room, it’s straight out of the classroom and to the principal’s office. Tabussum agreed to give this system a try.
As is so often the case, the gap between theory and practice remains wide. The first day of our attempt to institute the system, Tabussum arrived at the door of my class bearing a standard 12 in/30 centimeter metal ruler. As she offered no explanation for its presence, I, unaware of its purpose, began to teach my lesson and the predictable amount of side conversations began as well. I turned sharply around and raised my eyebrows into my meanest, sternest teacher face at the offending student.
After a second warning, I was about to put the name of the boy on the board when I heard a distinctive “THWACK” and turned in time to see Tabussum pulling away the metal ruler from the back of the now pained 9th standard boy. I paused for a moment, unsure if I should continue as she went on to yell at him in Gujarati for misbehaving or stop and watch in the same fascinated manner as the rest of the class. Merely watching made me feel party to this particular method of behavior management, so I uneasily tried to continue as she, hawk-eyed, made the rounds of the benches, raising the ruler in a threatening manner anytime a student dared to even think about talking.
While I normally find our co-teaching arrangement very satisfactory, I must say that at moments like these its deficiencies become apparent. Luckily, Tabussum speaks excellent English – the first co-teacher we had, as nice and welcoming as she was, barely spoke any English at all which made coordination of teaching philosophy (or anything at all) virtually impossible. When Tabussum arrived to replace her, I was happy to learn that we both shared our idealism about what an English class could and should look like and she was pleased to inform me that Melissa’s and my teaching methods matched much more closely what she had been taught in her B.Ed program than any of the teaching that she had observed so far at government schools and she was looking forward to learning a lot more.
Under increasing pressure from the principal, however, to maintain classes that look and sound like properly Indian ones, I fear she is beginning to crack and the ruler may merely be the first indication. She recently disclosed to me that the principal approached her about the noise level coming from our ninth standard all boys class and asked her to control the classroom “properly”. I asked her why the principal did not just approach me himself: the general consensus, it seems, is that since Melissa and I are not from here, we don’t know what is to be expected and therefore can’t really help in bringing it about.
In light of these dismal expectations for my abilities, I wonder to myself how much role I *can* have in solving behavioral issues. After so much experience sorting out these things in the US, I find that my traditional leverage points (my relationship with a student, my knowledge of his/her individual goals, dreams, not to mention my relationship with his/her family and my ability to talk these things through fluently with both parties) are mooted in the face of volume and cultural appropriateness and linguistic ability. The only one remaining is my ability to create engaging, relevant (oh, educational buzzwords!) lessons that create a motivation in the student to want to pay attention.
And so, for now, I guess that’s the route I’ll continue to take.
Best,
Cat
Dear dedicated reader,
Whenever I embark on accomplishing something here, I have come to regard unexpected, unanticipated or just plain unwelcome obstacles as merely a matter of course. The seemingly simple matter of photocopying a few pages requires the principal’s signature and the (uncharacteristic) functioning of the photocopier; finding a classroom for before school Spoken English means apparently working around the early morning cleaning schedule of the school peons; getting our modem fixed means waiting days or even (at this point) weeks.
To all of this I am accustomed and my helplessness in the face of these things does wonders for relaxing my attitude about them. I have shelved my American sense of absolute efficiency in favor of an attitude which believes that everything will happen the way it will happen in its own time and I, buffeted in the waves, will merely paddle with the current. In fact, in this respect I believed myself to be unflappable.
Perhaps by karma itself, I find that my hubris has been called out: I must admit that the circumstances I am about to relate have genuinely surprised even me.
Some context: Upcoming is the Diwali vacation, a three week holiday that happens in the middle of the second trimester. It provides a nice ellipsis after the constant pressure of exams and the almost holiday-less teaching schedule of June, July and August. It is akin to the Winter Break of American schools, only it is longer, lasting three weeks instead of one and a half.
Melissa and I, anticipating that this break would be one of our few opportunities to really travel and see the country (as well as fulfill our visa-created obligation to exit the country after 180 days and re-enter again), began planning our break back in the beginning of September. Train schedules were pored over, American friends were coordinated with, hotels were contacted, tickets were bought and the details were finalized. With only ten days to go until our break, our excitement has been building as the final itinerary pieces have fallen into place.
All of this came to a halt the other day when we were summarily informed that the Diwali holiday, scheduled to begin on October 18th, has been moved to “the 25th or the 27th…”
“Which is it?” We asked. The bearer of the news was unsure.
Melissa and I pondered this quietly for a moment. I, usually hesitant to swear, couldn’t help but feel that the phrase, “WTF?” was appropriate and used it quite freely on this occasion talking in the fast, overly exaggerated American accent that I use when I want to make sure that no one around us will understand what I am saying.
“But, how did this happen?” We asked Tabussum, our co-teacher.
“They wanted to make the schedule for the schools the same,” she replied hesitantly, sensing that we were feeling slightly distressed. “So the university schedule and the schools would have the same holiday and then all the students are being on holiday at the same time…”
“Who’s brilliant idea was this?” I asked with a resigned, only semi-sarcastic smile.
“The government of
Ah yes, I thought and for a moment I had a brief image in my head of the crowded, paper filled desk of the Gujarat Education Minister – stamps and paper weights to keep documents from flying away under the powerful Indian variety fans (quite unlike our wimpy American window fans). Buried under all of this, hidden away perhaps under the shelved bill to allow students to bring their textbooks into their exams, is the resolution to change the vacations. Cleaning out some papers, he finds it and, after a pause, realizes he should probably take action soon as the holiday is set to begin in a few days. He hands his decision to a peon who is sent to disperse it to all the government school principals.
Perhaps that’s how it really happened; perhaps I’ll never know.
“But, what should we do?” I hear Melissa asking, rousing me from my day-time reverie. She had already arranged her tickets back to the
Sejalben, also in the immediate vicinity in the staffroom, turned in her chair. “You will need to ask the principal,” she told us.
“And I can take your classes,” Tabussum offered helpfully. “He will probably say yes.”
Luckily for us, further obstacle was prevented due to the principal’s subsequent agreement that yes, we could leave a week early. In light of some of the class behavior I’ve been experiencing since classes resumed, I can’t help but feel a little relieved by this. Perhaps a month away from the school will give me some time to think up creative ways to control a room of 65 boys that don’t actually involve the very refined Government school method of beating them into submission…literally.
But, on a final note, seriously: who changes a vacation for an entire state a week beforehand? The whole situation is just so (and I never use this expression frivolously)… Indian.
Best,
Cat
P.S. Here is my itinerary for the (now) month long vacation.
October 18-21:
October 22 – 23:
October 24 – 25: Train ride from
October 26 – Nov 1:
Nov 2 – Nov 14:
Nov 15: Back to Kadod
Dear dedicated reader,
Despite the departure of the monsoon rains, our house and the surrounding environs are beginning to resemble a zoo once more. In the absence of the constant, beating rain, the dry ground insects seem to have multiplied and insistently find their way into our house, our furniture, our food and our beds via cracks in the windows, screens, floors, and doors. Even as I write this, I can occasionally feel the tickle of their tiny legs on my neck or on the back of my leg and I frantically try and swat them away before they sink their malicious pincers into my tender skin.
The reduced water level of the Tapi river has also brought new problems. There was a knock on the door yesterday and when I answered, one of the 7th standard hostel boys said to me calmly, “Snack, teacher. Snack.” I looked around outside as he retreated down the steps, wondering what the snack could possibly be. Perhaps ladoo, an Indian sweet, for the festival?
Then, I spotted it. The reason for the knock.
“You mean SNAKE!” I yelled correctively after him in horror as I watched the long, slithering form writhing in the hand of the snake catcher fearlessly heading for his bike. A crowd of the hostel boys had gathered and they cackled at my obvious discomfort. I hid behind a pillar as the “snack” went by.
Later that evening, I was sitting on the porch reading when I noticed the principal standing in the middle of another group of boys which had formed on the far side of the yard. He motioned from afar for me to come over. I obliged, leaving the relative security of my porch and heading across the school yard. As I got closer, he waved his hands to indicate that I should give the growing crowd a wide berth and join him up on the raised ledge on the edge of the yard. He was peering curiously down into one of the brick basins which encases the palm trees which line the outer boundaries of the school courtyard.
As I hoisted myself up next to him, he said simply, “Come, look there!” and pointed into the basin itself.
As I looked down, I gasped. It was just as I had seen in the movies: a small snack, hissing, gathered in a coil, its hooded head raised straight up in the air.
“A toxic snake,” the principal stated seriously. “It is small, but it is very, very dangerous.”
I took a step back. “It’s a cobra?” I asked, timidly, unable to take my eyes away from the spectacle.
“Yes,” he replied, “it’s a baby.”
“And if it bites?” I asked.
“You must go to the hospital,” he replied. “But you cannot delay, even for 10 minutes. If you delay half an hour, it will be too late, even from a small bite.” I nodded, taking in this tidbit of information.
Another snake handler was summoned and was able to lift the snake out of the basin using a long stick like instrument with a set of moveable pincers on the end that held the snake far away from the body. As he lifted it out, there was a collective gasp from the group of gathered boys and everyone gave an instinctive, synchronized step back. The snake handler, gingerly taking the snake by it’s head, forced it to open it’s mouth and take the end of its tail between its fangs, so that it formed a loop. Like this, he carried it out.
After its departure, as we walked back to the house, I asked the principal if the snake would be killed.
“No,” he said, thoughtfully. “They will take it to the jungle and set it free.” I mad a face. “Far from here,” he added quickly with a smile. Then he continued, slowly and purposefully, “You see, this is why I tell you to close your doors tightly. If you are not careful, it can slither inside and hide in your home. You must be careful.”
It was only today, however, that I learned this lesson in earnest.
This afternoon, Melissa and I were sitting in the main room of our house, lazily using the last day of the Navratri festival to spoil ourselves by watching episode after episode of the TV on DVD that I brought with me to keep us amused. School had been cancelled unbeknownst to us and so with our planning completed it seemed like the time for such an indulgence. Our dinner of parathas and daal had been put on the table in the usual blue lidded containers (all of our food comes from the hostel), but since it was a little early, we had decided to wait and eat it later.
Leaning forward to advance the DVD to the next episode of the show, I noticed with some puzzlement a dark, hairy hand undoing the lid of our dinner containers and reaching in for a parantha. Assuming that someone (perhaps the watchman) had come in the backdoor of the kitchen but unable to see the owner of the hand from my current position, I rose and walked a few steps towards the kitchen to greet them. As I got closer, I couldn’t help but scream.
Sitting on the table, a paratha in each hairy hand, was a huge, dark faced, yellow haired monkey, staring at me with unblinking eyes!
Instinct took over as I screamed “MONKEY!” to alert Melissa as I took to my heels and ran out the front door of the house.
“Oh God!” Melissa shouted and followed me out. I didn’t stop running until I was all the way out in the courtyard. The real guard, alerted by our screams, came rushing over and asked us in Hindi what was wrong. Even the hostel boys who had been placidly been playing volleyball stopped their game to stare at us.
“A monkey…” I managed to say in Hindi, pointing at the house.
“A monkey is inside?” He asked me quizzically.
I nodded frantically. “Please look?” I said pleadingly. He grabbed his long stick and set off for the house. As he got to the gate, he stopped and pointed at the roof of the principal’s house. There was the criminal himself, parathas still in hand, sitting and peacefully nibbling on the edge of one of them while his long, ugly tail hung down over the edge of the roof. I scowled at him. He scowled back.
The guard merely laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“You should –“ He began.
“Keep our doors closed,” I said, still scowling. “Yes… we should.”
Best,
Cat
Dear dedicated reader,
It has been so long since I taught a class that I worry that I have forgotten how. My fingers are itching to hold chalk again, my mind hungers for the split-second decisions you must make at every moment, the awareness of what every child is doing all the time.
Instead, I spend my days designing curriculum, an occupation I find rewarding but easier to do in tandem with teaching. During the last two weeks, the students have been taking their first set of exams, which means no classes (even our Spoken English class has been cancelled so students can prepare). The school is on a rough trimester system here: the students take a formal set of school administered exams at the end of September, January, and then finally their annual exam in March/April. The other teachers must help administer the exams by being proctors. I am excused from this responsibility because of the small matter of not being able to speak Gujarati.
We have not, however, lost all contact with the students during this time. Five or six times a day, I will hear students calling to me from beyond the overgrown barbed wire that separates our house from the school. They wait patiently until I arrive at the open door and when I come out onto the porch, they say simply, “Book?”
I cannot take credit for this ever-growing arrangement: the genesis of the book-lending program that operates out of our guesthouse has its roots in a humble plastic bag. Early in the summer, one of the interns mentioned to one of the boys in her Spoken English Class that we had some English storybooks available in the guesthouse if he wanted to borrow them. Naturally, he came by our house during the school courtyard’s most crowded part of the day and when the other students saw that the American teachers were on the porch, they pushed in to see what was going on. The intern had to resort to smuggling the goods to the boy in a plastic bag or risk being overrun at that particular moment with requests for storybooks.
Over the summer, a few other students came to know of the arrangement. I have christened it such as it has never, even now, enjoyed any formal publicity. They heard from Amin that he had borrowed some books and so they also surreptitiously whispered what they wanted and received their deliveries in similar plastic bags. This book trade continued on a small scale up until the time that the interns left Kadod.
On returning from our Independence Day vacation, perhaps infected with the revolutionary feeling of the holiday itself, Melissa and I decided that we wanted shed the shackles of the furtive plastic bags and go public with the lending library. We began to give the books openly, even bring the entirety of the library (quite extensive at this point) out to the porch so the students could peruse the contents in a leisurely, unhurried way. Picking one book up carefully in their hands, a ninth standard boy would lightly turn the pages and take in the colorful schematic of the illustrations, perhaps putting this down, perhaps examining another, until he had finally made his choice.
The system is simple: we record the name of the book and the name of the student in the notebook that we keep for this purpose and simply check it off when the book has been returned to us. The students are surprisingly punctual: they return the books without fail within two or three days of borrowing them and the book is nearly always in perfect condition.
Slowly, unbeknownst to us clueless American teachers, word of the program has spread from mouth to mouth. It started with siblings of the ninth standard boys: my student Asad has five sisters, one of whom is also my student in 11th standard, and she came with her friends to borrow some of our more complicated chapter books.
“Do you have any books about Hannah Montana?” She asked me, hopefully. I could only offer a short book-from-movie version of High School Musical: 2.
Soon afterwards, his younger sister showed up with her friends. She was in the seventh standard and her friends were delighted with the beautiful pictures. When the sixth standard girls saw the seventh standard girls with picture books, they soon came calling to me outside the door and soon this spread to even younger ages: fourth, third, and finally even little Anush from the first standard. I was hesitant to give him the book, but it was clear his siblings were going to carry it for him, so I carefully put his name in the record book and asked that it be back in two or three days.
I have no doubt that the popularity of this organically grown program has less to do with our ingenuity and more to do with the utter lack of English language alternatives here in Kadod. I recently discovered the school library, tucked away behind a few classrooms on the far side of the school. A dusty affair, the books are kept in locked glass cabinets and permission to browse can only be taken from the librarian himself, who on an impossibly confusing key ring holds the keys to the various cabinet padlocks.
“I’d like to see in this cabinet, if it’s all right,” I asked him on my first trip. I had spotted a few shelves of English books amongst the endless titles of Gujarati and allowed myself the small hope that perhaps I would not have to import all of my future reading material after all.
He smiled and came over, fumbling with the key ring and looking at the fifty or so keys it contained in a befuddled manner.
“I think I have it here,” he said, more to himself than to me, “wait a minute…”
I did.
He eyed the padlock, then the endless keys on the ring, and announced, “It’s broken. That cabinet can’t be opened.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “It can’t be opened at all?” I looked longingly at the books in English collecting dust behind the glass.
“The key isn’t here,” he said sadly. “And the padlock is broken. What can I do?”
I nodded and smiled, hoping he wouldn’t feel too badly. What could I have possibly expected?
And thus the alternative underground trade in storybooks continues to flourish out of our house.
Best,
Cat
Dear dedicated reader,
“Ganapati bappa moriya,” a mischevious Hitesh chanted under his breath as I passed his bench in my 9D class today. I stopped, turned to face him, intending to discipline him for joking around. Instead, as his twinkling eyes met mine with an elfish smile, I couldn’t help myself. My frown became a chuckle.
I mentioned that the Festival of Ganesh has been going on for the past ten days in our small hamlet of Kadod. Each night, Melissa and I have ventured out to see the ganapatis, snuggled away in their havens of glitter and flashing lights, prasad (food offerings) at their feet. We’ve snacked on ladoos (the favorite Indian sweet of Ganesh) and joined in the clapping at the nightly puja and arti. None of this, however, prepared me for what I saw yesterday.
The feeling I have today is one that every college student knows: that feeling of “What exactly happened last night?” and the waves of embarrassment that come when you run into someone who you saw in a previously compromising position: your eyes slide away and you pretend to look at the ground as you hurry past, knowing that you both remember that the other was there. Conjure up that feeling from your past, dear reader. Now, imagine this happening with every person you see.
The scope, I had known: I had been told by the students that there would be dancing as they took the ganapatis down to the river on the last day of the festival, that people would throw rang (colored powder) and generally fun would be had. All this I knew. What I had not been told was the scale: there were 25 ganapatis in Kadod alone, and 25 more in the surrounding countryside. Each neighborhood had it’s own belovedly decorated statue and was bringing it to the river in style.
‘Style’ in this circumstance means atop a large flatbed truck bedecked in enormous human sized palm leaves, surrounded by children handing out vats of sweets to passerby and followed by a huge procession of young men banging drums and wildly dancing to Hindi film tunes belted out by speakers the size of a small child traveling on the bed of the truck. The sight of one is enough to impress: the sight of fifty, one after another, was unlike anything I have ever experienced. For a party in a state that has banned alcohol, it was wilder than I could have ever anticipated.
Add to the image a misty, pink colored coating on everything as the rain beats down from the sky atop the parade. Twenty pound sacks of rang were carried for the occasion and handfuls were thrown festively and arbitrarily in the air create a pink haze and mixed with the light rain to create pink puddles running through the muddy streets.
Perhaps the image in your head now looks something like this.
“It’s like a regular parade without any rules!” Melissa observed as we watched another firework explode in the middle of the street amid the crowd with no previous warning. As foreign teachers, we made easy targets. Every time a procession passed, our students would run up, prasad in hand, offering it to us. To refuse prasad would be unacceptable since it was the food offered to Ganesh, so we’d obligingly put out our hands, only to be covered in rang (the colored
powder) by the hidden hand of our mischevious students! Soon my brown hair had acquired a pale pink color and the small granules of ground powder covered almost every part of my clothes and body. They pulled us out into the street to dance garba (the
The earlier floats were tamer: a few dancing boys, a few drums, mostly older women walking along behind the trucks singing. It was the later floats that were riotous and rowdy, each one trying out do the one in front and behind. And like so many unregulated functions, it eventually turned ugly.
“Fight! Fight!” One of my students ran up to where we were standing by the tailor’s shop. “They are fighting, madam!”
“What?” I craned my next to look down the street where the procession had been held up for a few minutes. It was the first lull in about two hours, so I had assumed that things were winding down. I was wrong.
At that moment, the procession started up again, and I could see the discord in the approaching group written on their angry faces. They were shouting, and some men were holding others back as the ones entrapped struggled to break free and use their fists to say what their mouths were already busy communicating. As they got closer, I gasped. At first it looked like a trick of the light, but I realized that one man’s face was completely covered in thick, red blood. I turned away.
The men moved on as the sole Kadod policeman came and began to threaten to break up the fight with his stick. As the men ran off further down the road towards the river, the policemen was surrounded by revelers, unaware that anything was wrong, who danced to pulsating disco music being belted from one of the nearby flatbed trucks. He swatted at them playfully with his stick and they laughingly dispersed, changing the prevailing mood to a lighter one.
It was perhaps because of this that Melissa and I decided that it was time to head down to the river, away from the general craziness and towards the peace that we knew would come with people saying goodbye to their ganapatis going their final resting place beneath the waters of the Tapi river. We thanked the tailor and the phone booth family for their hospitality and set off down the road, weaving between flatbeds and dancers with the ease of well seasoned crowd navigators.
We were not prepared, however, for what met us at the fork in the road where the Kadod main square opens up towards the school. Hundreds of young men had crowded in, all straining to see what was happening up a small side street. We also stopped, blocked by the massive wall of bodies.
At that exact moment, something must have happened, because I watched as hundreds of straining faces looking away from me suddenly turned and looked straight into my eyes. Their bodies followed and they began to run frantically towards me, dispersed by some unseen force up the road. At that moment, I froze. I knew I had to get out of the way or I would be trampled, but my body wouldn’t move. Suddenly, I felt a hand pushing me towards a wall on the side of the road.
“Madam, go!” The boy shouted. He was one of the 12th standard boys who stays in the Hostel. All the secondary hostel boys had been allowed out for the festival. I pressed myself up against the wall and my breathing returned, glad for the intervention and was jostled by the elbows of the runners, who had been dispersed by police farther up the side road. Apparently, police had arrived from Bardoli to direct the increasingly unruly crowd control.
The boy, named Bhavin, took Melissa and my hands and waded into the rushing crowd, shouting in Gujarati, “Get out of the way!” He pulled us along as people yelled and pushed and finally we came out on the other side of the marketplace, near the river.
“Thank you,” I said, as he embarrassedly let go of my hand.
“No problem, madam,” Bhavin replied, looking at the ground. He looked up, “Do you want to see those ganapatis in the river?”
We nodded and he led us through the accumulated street vendors, selling hot roasted corn and pani puri down towards the bank of the river. We had to duck around the flatbeds from which they were unloading the beloved statues and anywhere between six and twenty men could be seen hoisting them up in time to carry them down the slope to the river bank.
As we drew closer, I saw a rickety hand made raft waiting and watched curiously as they loaded an 8 foot statue on with ten or fifteen people to accompany it. The raft was tied to a tow rope, and they were pulling themselves out to the middle of the river and back again to drop the statue into the water.
After a few moments of watching, Bhavin turned to me, “Ma’am, do you want to go on the raft?”
“Uh, what?” I said.
A few other students who had spotted me and come over to watch with me chimed in. “Yes, ma’am, go on the raft!” They said encouragingly. I eyed the structure, sagging under the weight of the giant statue and too many accompany people. I looked over the loose ended ropes which had been used to lash it together and the cracking planks that indicated its architect’s temporary structural vision.
The pressure became greater as more people joined in. “Go on the raft madam! Go on the raft! Ganapati Bappa Moriya! You know how to swim, right?”
While I would love to say that in the name of adventure (and subsequent blogging), I went on that raft and will forever preserve the memory of playing a key role in such an incredible festival, I firmly declined in favor of preserving my life.
Which means that I am here today, to field such embarrassing questions from my students, “Madam, you dance?”, “Madam, you play rang?” and random cries of “Ganapati Bappa Moriya!” as I walk by.
Best,
Cat
