WEARING COLOURED GLASSES

WEARING COLOURED GLASSES

This happened while I was working with a large business group as a HR manager. After having been promoted as a manager from an executive position, I felt the need to attend a training programme to hone my managerial skills. Encouraged by my CEO, I registered for a programme at New Delhi. Arrangements for my stay were made at the company guesthouse at Sheikh Sarai, Delhi. This guesthouse was owned by another company, which was part of our business group, though we never had any direct transactions with them.

Shamsher was the man Friday of the guesthouse. He rose early, greeting each guest with a smile, served delicious breakfast and generally looked as if he had just woken up from bed. However he never looked anyone in the eye. Shamsher Singh was from UP, a “bhaiyya”, and poor to add. This was enough for me to view him with suspicion. To add to this “potent” combination of ingredients, I had received some seasoned tips from our Finance manager, about how I should be wary of such people.

My better half Shiv too had some work at Delhi and had thus accompanied me. Every morning Shiv dropped me off at the training venue, attended his tasks and came to pick me up in the evening .The evening was packed up lots of activities, some sight seeing, lots of eating and shopping. So every night we returned to the guesthouse with several shopping bags filled with clothes, footwear, little trinkets and gifts for everyone back home. I would carefully pack all these and count and recount them every night since I knew Shamsher had a spare key. My husband was surprised and was curious about the sudden change in me – I was never a person who locked my cupboard or my room, never suspicious and generally careless about my belongings. I told him what I was advised my by colleague and added, that Shamsher did not look too trustworthy. He laughed it off and asked me to relax.

Finally the training programme ended and so did our shopping spree. We thanked Shamsher, tipped him generously and left for the station with our enormous luggage. Our indulgent shopping had cost us quite a bit and we had exhausted almost all the money we had carried, except a couple of thousand rupees. (This was in 1992 – when we did not possess credit cards, ATM cards or debit cards – we had just heard of them). There was chaos all over at the Nizamuddin station and as we were wondering what was happening, there was an announcement that due to a major derailment near Jhansi, all trains going or coming via Jhansi were cancelled. We were horrified; it meant we had to stay back at Delhi until we could try some other mode of returning home. So after getting the tickets cancelled, (luckily I kept the money from the refund of my tickets in my purse) we went back to the guesthouse. There was nothing we could do except stay back that night and work out some plans the following day.

When my husband put his hands in his pocket to take his purse to pay the taxi, we had the second shock for the day. His pocket had been picked. He then recalled the smart young man who was talking to him at the station and profusely apologised after bumping into him as he was leaving. Cursing fate and our circumstances, we went back to the guesthouse with forlorn faces. Shamsher welcomed us back, gave us our room and said he would arrange for some dinner. When we came down for dinner, he observed our morose expressions and asked “Saab, Madamji, what’s the matter?” .My husband told Shamsher that it was something we would have to handle on our own and that he (Shamsher ) should not worry about it. However he insisted and listened to our woes. He asked us to carry on with our dinner and went out .He returned in the next twenty minutes and came to our room. Knocking at the door he said in a very hesitant manner, “Saab, can you come out for a minute?” There he stood, with a wad of crumpled notes in his hand, and said, “Saab, there are four or five guys from my village who work in the vicinity. I have met all of them and gathered some money .I feel ashamed but all of us together could manage to pool in only about 1000 rupees. Please take it.” Saying this without waiting for an answer he, stuffed the money into Shiv’s hand and left.

What an eye opener this was for me! Here I was, checking my luggage everyday with the fear that Shamsher might have stolen something, and there was Shamsher, who had never met us before, never known us but trusted us enough to lend us his paltry savings. Here I was, an “educated” person, looking at him with suspicion, there he was, an illiterate rustic, looking at us with trust. I realized then that I needed to discard the coloured spectacles, which I wore, colouring all I saw with doubt and negativity. I realized then that I was just literate, but Shamsher was more educated than me.

HOW I LEARNT TO TEACH STUDENTS AND NOT SUBJECTS?

I had never in my vaguest dreams aspired or wanted to be a teacher. I still remember when I was pursuing my Masters Degree in Sociology, a friend suggested I should look at teaching as a career, I scoffed at the idea and called it the most “boring” and “uninspiring” career. Now, I’ve just completed a wonderful decade in the teaching profession and looking back, I have absolutely no regrets.

How did I enter this profession after having sworn never to get into this field? Marriage made me leave Bangalore. I moved to a small city in North Karnataka. After the initial enthusiasm of settling down ebbed, I could feel an utter sense of loneliness and desperation. My better half could not help as his work entailed a lot of travelling, leaving me to fend for myself. However he wasn’t immune to my growing restlessness, and one Sunday he suggested that I apply for a lecturer’s position at a reputed college. Much against my will, I applied and got the job.

Day one, I went bundled in a sari (feeling most uncomfortable) and heavily armed with loads of reading done, albeit a little nervous. The class was students of the final year of BA, the paper Indian Society and Social Problems; the lesson I had to start was “Prostitution”. When I entered the class, I got the shock of my life! There were about 35 faces staring at me, about 20 males, almost my age or older. Trying to keep a straight face, I started with my talk, what I assumed would be a great lecture .30 minutes later, I had exhausted all that I prepared for .The session was supposed to be for an hour and I was aware the principal was outside doing the rounds .So I started with the same stuff I had spoken the previous 30 minutes. When the bell rang, I did not know who was more thankful, the students or me.

By the end of week one, I had overcome the two major challenges I was faced, I could walk without stumbling in a sari, and the time frame for my discussions did no seem so unmanageable. Three lectures later, I had students raising questions and healthy discussions being held.

The acid test was to begin the following week, where I had to teach 120 students, a “dry” paper, which was a paper crammed with theory, sociologists with long alien unpronounceable names. I started with the class with a lot of mixed emotions, since my predecessor was well liked and was asked to leave since he did not have the requisite marks as required by UGC. (University Grants Commission). I could see a lot of faces unwilling to accept me as their new teacher. Perhaps it was a boon for me, as it spurred in me a desire to be accepted as a “good” teacher. After two weeks, I could sense a comfortable rapport developing between the students and me. So this was battle two which I won.

Then came the final battle, which taught me my biggest lesson in life. The class PUC I, 130 students, the classroom –huge with long French windows (through which I had seen students ducking out of classes, when it was not “interesting” enough for them) and the students –a heady mix of youngsters from English, Kannada and Marati medium schooling. I started my lessons in all earnest and I generally had classes at the unearthly hour of 7 am .I had often observed a student who used to sit in the corner of the fourth row, usually alone, sometimes gazing intently outside and usually dozing in his seat. It did unnerve me to a certain extent and one day I called him and asked him why he often slept in the class. He did not reply and seemed at a loss for words. Fortunately, a friend came to his rescue and translated to him in the local language, “Madam wants to know why you sleep in every class?” To this he replied saying that he had to wake up very early to tend the cattle and as a result was very tired when he reached college. From his body odour and the remnants of dried cow dung around his toenails, I knew this boy was not lying. I felt assured that it was not my lecture, which was driving him to sleep and decided that it was better he comes to class and sleep rather than not come at all. So my friend went on dozing in class (of course now he woke up every now and then since he was aware I was observing him).

One morning when I came to class, my fourth bench friend was awake when I started teaching and remained wide-awake throughout the class. The topic was one, which was close to my heart, and though I was so deeply involved in discussing it, I was constantly aware of the fourth benchers gaze on me. When I stopped my lecture, I asked my friend, in a mixture of the national language as well the local language (which I had picked up a smattering by then), why he was so wide-awake? I expected that he was going to complement me on my "excellent" talk and waited with bated breath for his answer. My friend answered with a smug look on his face that, that morning the buffaloes were taken care of by his brother and thus he did not feel sleepy in class. I was stung by his reply and the disappointment must have closely shown on my face. Probably to soothe me he said, “ But madam, you teach very well!” The words were like a soothing balm to me until he said “But the only problem is that I don’t understand any thing!” I was confused and almost lost my cool .So I asked him, how could he call me a good teacher and claim not to understand anything? Fourth Bencher replied, “Madam, your expressions, your gestures and your voice make me feel you are a good teacher but your long English words and sentences make no sense to me .I am from a vernacular background, where the only English I have been exposed to is A for apple and B for Bat, suddenly you come and bombard us with these complicated terms .How do you expect me to understand?” That’s when I learnt my first, biggest and best lesson on teaching. I made a conscious attempt to use simple words and not jargon, made a list of sociological concepts, translated them into Hindi, Kannada and Marati .I learnt how to make my lectures a session where every one could speak out regardless of whether they were good in English or not. Most of all I learnt to teach students and not subjects.