Over the last couple of days, I was wondering what I should write about next - whether I would wake up with a story idea in place or if I would be inspired to try my hand at poetry again. Then, when I least expected it, I knew what I wanted to write about. Children. Schools. Things I find myself coming back to more and more often these days.
"Enge perai marakkadheenge, Akka!" ("Don't forget our names, Akka!") the little boy called after me as I climbed into the car. I smiled and assured him I wouldn't even as I was sure my miserably memory wouldn't last me a day. Was he Ramesh or Suresh? Armed with a close to fifty page survey asking about everything from the state of their door latches to their teachers' opinion on constructivist learning methodologies, we breezed into their room and started off our methodical yet excruciatingly detailed check. As I pored over their plans for the new bathroom, children poked and tugged at my dupatta, asking for my name, whether I spoke English and where I was from. Suddenly I was almost a museum exhibit.
The schools often don't have running water or a playground to boast of. Their blackboards are old and in need of a new coat of paint. They sit on plastic sheets or if they are lucky, old mats. Their teachers are handling numbers too big to qualify for the 'small groups' that activity based learning targets. Urinals that are actually just a room with some kind of drain are not uncommon. Twelve schools into this exercise, my own standards of 'good' and 'average' and 'poor' have been redefined. Earlier today, as we were discussing the quality of the ramp in a school, someone told me "It is there, hence it is average." Our utopian, private-school, urban standards had given way to rural, small town, government realities. Yet, despite this all, there are special educators, training for teachers, school monitoring committees formed with parents and other stakeholders and a whole host of other checks and balances tat often do not exist in the world we come from. If anything, one thing is for sure - these children live in a world so removed from my own, characterised by the weird mix of activity cards, assessment ladders and traditional marking, watery sambhar, boiled eggs and Grade III rice for lunch everyday. It is also the world of the eagerness to learn, smiles unlimited and unfailing love to anyone who shows they care.
This post may not say much "substantial" - it does not tell you how to "change" the government system; it does not give you miraculous solutions for corporation schools; it does not tell you anything at all. What it does tell you is the awe and amazement that strikes me every time I walk through those doors, either as a government official representative or as a voluntary teacher. It tells you about the love I feel when children hold my hand, pull at my arm, tug at my duppatta and refuse to let me go. It tells you how overwhelmed I get when they offer me a place to stay, food to eat.
As I sit in my hotel room with free WiFi and colour television, I try and keep perspective. I think about the girl who wanted to be a doctor in the mountains of Hanu Thang, the boy who drew us an astronaut in rural Ladakh. I think of Madhumita and Savita in Pazhavanakudi, Meenakshi and Ahmed Basha in Velachery. I think of how many of them mobbed us, followed our car, walked us down the street. I try to keep the story alive. Least I can do, if I can't go home.
