The great escape

I woke up in the morning expecting some form of sickness but as always, my pregnancy like the previous two was hale and hearty. It was a task catching the school bus which did not wait for us much, as the morning traffic jam was always a threat. The breakfast for the kids and my husband was a mug of chocolate milk and I hurriedly prepared their school snacks.

“Wake up fast or we’ll miss the bus!” This was the regular opening statement for my poor boys who sprang from their beds and followed the morning rituals of brushing and changing. I would run to change myself and just before we left the house, my husband lovingly handed me the iron tablet with the much dreaded glass of milk. “Don’t make a face. It’s important.” And I wondered how many husbands cared enough to love their wives that much.

The summers turned into winters and I became four months pregnant. I was climbing stairs everyday and walking from one block to another all day long. I liked being active and it didn’t matter much that my feet were almost always swollen.

At school, it was a messy year. There were eleven new teachers and each one needed assistance in one way or the other. I would be running after them for their lesson plans and trying to meet all deadlines. Some teachers were intelligent and picked up the school programme quickly, some struggled with new concepts and then there were some who had opted to teach for no reason or rhyme.

My day usually began with a smile and I loved the teachers who walked up to me in time for information and help. I would shoulder my responsibilities as well as some of theirs acknowledging the time restraints. And then of course there were unforeseen emergencies that simultaneously occupied me physically and mentally.

I was regular with my doctor check-ups and she was quite happy with my progress. The baby was becoming heavier to carry and yet the bus could not wait in the mornings. If we missed it, we had to walk about two streets to get picked up near the mosque. This happened several times and despite my husband’s warnings to be careful on the wet winter roads, I would carry my heavy bag, along with my younger son’s bag and practically drag them to the bus stop. Often when we boarded the bus, the old colleagues insisted that I take it easy and be careful with the baby. I loved their attention and concerns and like any pregnant woman, felt important and looked after.

It was my seventh month when complaints regarding Year 3 teachers started to pour in. There had been prior concerns about their sketchy abilities but I had been trying my level best to train them in areas they faltered. Despite my regular visits to their classrooms and discussions on lesson plans, they failed to satisfy the worrying parents.

I called for a meeting with each one individually to get my apprehensions some notice. There were three sections. I thought it was important to give it one last try before allowing the management to take some relevant action. The first teacher I spoke to listened with patience and nodded mostly. She understood the gravity of the situation and was prepared to make an effort. The second teacher was a relatively better one amongst the three. She was intelligent but the poor discipline of her class was a hurdle in her efforts to achieve most targets. We decided to reinvent our discipline programme for her section and she volunteered to find some fun ideas.

The lady in discussion here was a pleasant looking female with no prior experience in teaching. She had joined the school in the second term after the Year 3 teacher left suddenly. She spoke politely but was always on the defensive when spoken to. “I do complete my plans on time. It’s you who makes all the last minute changes and then how do you expect me to follow through?” This was usually her tag line. “How do you expect me to ensure that every child gets it and yet move with the plans of the other two sections?” “You can’t always correct my plans!”

It was quite difficult to get across her and often I needed to keep my calm and help her digest the fact that teachers were skilled men and women who needed to rise to the occasion. Despite stress and in spite of all the pressing issues, a teacher just had to meet a certain level of expectation. She looked at me and said, “I don’t like the way you speak to me. No one speaks to me like that!” I looked at her disbelievingly. Was she really a teacher? 

“You are not helpful at all. All you do is criticize. Each time I submit my plans, you correct them with your red pen as if I am some child.” She had made up her mind. I listened quietly and then replied, “I really don’t understand what it is that you disapprove of? It is my job to guide you with lesson planning. I do sit with you and have been giving you extra time to plan lessons with you. We have in fact planned most of your lessons together. But of course I understand that you will take some time to become independent about it. Till then I’m sorry, I will just have to use my red pen. If you want, I can change the colour, but the purpose is to help you, not criticize you.”

The meeting was futile and the next morning when I met her in the sports field, she was standing with her Year 3 group. I approached her with a smile thinking there should not be any awkwardness between us as we had to work through our issues. She smiled hesitantly and I asked her, “All ok now?” She looked at me in the eye and said, “Yes, of course! I went home quite upset but when I spoke to my husband I realized that you were pregnant and probably having your mood swings!” I was taken aback by her comment. She laughed a little sarcastically and I didn’t know how to respond to her sudden revelation.

I was cross in my mind because of the statement. What did my pregnancy have to do with her inability to plan her lessons? “Ms. Shama, please can you conduct one audio visual class for me next week. It will help me understand the objectives better.” The Year 1 teacher pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked at her and asked her, “Do you have the plan on paper?” “No! The Junior Head wants me to update my corrections and submit the notebooks to her in two days. I can’t seem to find the time to do it.” She was honest. I nodded my head but told her, “You will not sit through the class but will assist me through it ok?” She thanked me. It helped erase the sour experience of the morning.

“Please can you check the Year 3’s for me. Are they writing the objectives on the white board or not? They were reminded again yesterday. Just walk through the corridor and have a look.” It was an instruction from my Head. I was disappointed to see that none of the white boards had any objectives. One of the classrooms was without the teacher and so I entered to speak to the children. I asked them if they had rubbed the objectives from the board. “No Ms. Shama. We never write the objectives. Our teacher says there is no time.” It was the same lady. I ignored the comment and spoke about the importance of knowing what their learning was all about. I addressed their understanding of knowing what they had learnt through the day. I advised them to keep a diary to begin with the habit of jotting down the targets that they achieved everyday in each period. To comment on whether they had grasped the concept or not and let their teachers know about it.

The Sports day had come to an end and I had enjoyed being out and about with the students. The summer heat was setting in slowly. My tummy now showed quite visibly. I was almost 8 months pregnant. “The water content in the sack is too much lady,” said the doctor. “You need to take some rest. Look at the swelling.” I smiled and said, “I’m at school. No chance of a rest!” She smiled back. “Alright then, try to keep your feet up every now and then. The 8^th month is crucial. You have to be careful.” I understood well but could not imagine sitting in my office with my feet up! Work is work, I thought.

“The Headmistress would like to see you.” The secretary called and informed me. I was busy decorating the reception with the Year 1 and 2 project work. The receptionist was admiring my commitment, “The baby is going to be a fighter! No odds will stop him from winning!” I was standing on a chair pinning up the chart paper work. “I hope so! The scans all show him sleeping!”

“What were you thinking? Asking the children to spy on their teacher!” I sat completely stunned by the anger and disappointment. “The teacher is so upset, she might not show up tomorrow!” I was still thinking. What spying? “I did not ask the children to spy at all. I only asked them to write about what they had learnt through the day and show that to the teacher.” I could not believe the nonsense that was coming my way. “But the child was brought to my office by the teacher who claims that you purposely asked her class to report on her activities.” It was too much to absorb. I was being questioned about my loyalty to the job and my commitment to the cause. “It simply appears to be a poor interpretation on part of a child. I’m sure she isn’t lying but I would like to believe that you know me far better than this teacher or child.” I was struggling to keep the tears from flowing. “What impression will this teacher carry from our school now! Your hormones have really played up your mind!” And that was that! I stood up and left the room.

It was nearly home time. I packed up my daily files, picked up my laptop and with a heavy heart walked to the bus. My children were noisy as usual. All seats had been taken and so I fitted in and shared the space in the extended middle seat. “Mama, I’m hungry!” shouted my younger son. I quietly handed him a biscuit pack. “What about me?” My elder one complained. “Please share,” and I closed my eyes to hide the immense pain that I was feeling. Quite a few teachers witnessed my tears on the bus that afternoon and in hushed voices had already calculated the magnitude of the reason, having never seen me cry before.

I carried on with my tasks as usual. In my 9^th month, I stood in the hot sun fulfilling my break duty. I completed all my classroom observations. I was thorough with my folders and files. The computer files were transferred in time. The lockers and chest of drawers were labelled and I tried my best to streamline the lessons for my teachers whom I was going to miss so much.

I left the school premises not knowing if I had contributed enough or had simply failed their expectations. What was most disappointing for me at that time was the camouflage that they had created to disregard my role in the name of my pregnancy. And while the men admired my strength and energy that I carried to work everyday, it was the women who time and again blamed my conflict of opinion and strong stance over issues as a hormonal dysfunction. It was an emotional blow to my strength as a Woman.

I had worked through all my pregnancies till the end. I had never expected any special treatments or adjustments in life. Pregnancy is not a disease. It empowers a woman with the ability to give life. It does not cloud her decision making powers or dilute her capacity to make logic. There are no hormones that can push her to frame untrue stories. No mental imbalance that can elude her from the truth. This may be true for those who find in it, the great escape!

The Dream Team...

I was asked to teach Year 3 when I joined school in the Year 2006. There were two sections and the ladies in-charge came across as good friends and colleagues. I was replacing one of them who was being moved to teach Year 2. She appeared a little occupied with the change which required a lot of files being transferred to me and lesson plans that needed to be filed yet.

I tried to make the process as smooth as possible but couldn’t help feel like the outsider who had broken a comfortable set up and relationship.

The other teacher, whom I was going to team up for the year was a young unmarried girl from my own country by origin and came across as reserved. She had heard about me from older colleagues and friends that I had worked with, before taking my leave of two years after delivering my second baby. She spoke about relevant matters and kept the conversation short and limited to work.

My two year old son had joined with me and I was going through a lot inside my mind as well. The students had not joined yet and so he often dropped into my classroom crying or wanting to go home. I tried to deal with him keeping my patience, but in between a lesson planning session, I would sometimes lose my focus and my frustration would come through my voice. My colleague’s expressions indicated her reservations about me and the kind of year that would follow.

The year began. The children came in and as always, there was no time to chat. We had rooms opposite each other. The mornings began with a formal hello and we sometimes sat together at break time, only to enjoy our snacks. She carried a home-made sandwich, while I would always buy one for myself. She walked into my classroom to teach Math and I entered her classroom every morning to teach her class English.

There was a structure to her classroom. It was bright, clean and the borders on the soft boards were neatly pinned up with no edges. She had the book shelf labelled with subject tags and the notebooks were placed accordingly in piles in their respective spaces. She was every bit organized and planned all her tasks well.

My classroom was bright with many coloured boards. The corners that I had selected to border my soft boards were all abstract in shapes. My book shelf was labelled as required and the activities that happened through the day did not allow much time for a lot of cleaning. Still, before the children left each day, I made them collect the rubbish from the floor and dump it in the bin. I was always coming up with a new idea and being organized in such a frame of mind was very difficult for me.

We sat in my classroom discussing the lessons we had planned for the coming week. Her structured manner had made me a little careful with my planner and I had to keep everything updated to ease her discomfort. She on the other hand, was struggling with my last minute changes and additional ideas. She listened to them with interest and added her own views on them as well. Often, she said to me, “This appears quite attractive on paper, but I doubt if it will work in reality.” But she never refused to give it a try. I started to admire this quality about her.

As time went by, we began to understand each other better. She was not very expressive but registered all emotions surrounding her. I was a complete extrovert, and my manners and cheer helped break the ice that often never allows people to give each other a chance.

I had my strong influence in most of the school departments and each time we planned something new, I took the responsibility of collecting the matter and looking after the relevant arrangements. I felt responsible for the frequent changes in our plans and thought it was necessary to provide her with all the required materials. She appreciated my thoughtfulness and slowly began to volunteer and contribute generously towards our challenging planning. I met all my deadlines and she likewise, always kept her part of the deal.

Being married, I was a little more caring about her needs. Each time, I would visit the store to collect my monthly stock of board markers, pens and chart papers, I always made an effort to collect her requisition materials as well. She always thanked me and somewhere deep down, we had become good caring friends.

The corridor was filled with our laughter and silly jokes by the second term and it was then that she got engaged to be married. The news thrilled everyone and especially me. I was happy to see her smiling face each morning. She would sometimes run to my classroom to show me a special gift.

The year was coming to an end and we had to plan our Annual Exhibition. That meant, we had to think of a theme for our classrooms and exhibit the students work accordingly. Both of us wanted to create something big. We decided on drawing and painting huge cut-outs that would carry the student activities. We embarked on this cumbersome journey and it took us two complete weeks to create our magical cut-outs with the help of our students. The last two pieces were painted and we left them all to dry closing the door to the classroom. As we walked to the gate, we shared our joy at being able to complete the task in time to put it up on the walls for the exhibition which was marked in two days.

The next day, I entered the corridor and found my friend in a state of shock. “What happened?” I asked her feeling worried. “All our work has vanished! There is nothing in the classroom!” I comforted her a little, “Maybe, it was collected and placed somewhere else.” “I have asked every one about it. I have a bad feeling Shama. Maybe, the cleaners who come in the afternoon have thrown it thinking its garbage as it was lying on the floor.” I was not ready to accept that story and so I rushed to our Supervisor for some help. “If you left it so carelessly, and did not inform anyone about it, it’s plainly your fault. You won’t be able to recover it now. My advice is, replace it with something else now. And please remember, there is no time, so don’t indulge in something too fancy.”

I returned from her office feeling a complete failure. All that hard work had completely vanished. My friend met me at the classroom door. “What are we going to do Shama?” I wanted to cry but as I looked into her eyes, we burst out laughing! It was a strange reaction to a very complicated situation. We laughed for quite some time analysing our fate! Then suddenly she said, “Ok, let’s see how many charts are left with us.” I looked at her in disbelief. “You mean, we will do this all again?” I asked her with my eyes wide open. “We can if we want to. We will have to stay back after school to complete the whole décor and I’m sure we can do that.” 

We were fighters. We took to the task of reproducing our project work in a matter of hours which otherwise had taken us weeks. Everyone left at home time to come back refreshed for the exhibition the following day. We were the only two teachers who stayed back pasting pictures, creating borders and sticking 300 small footprints to guide the parents to our classrooms.

It was evening when our work finished. She had the car and offered to drop me home. We celebrated our victorious spirit by stopping at the grocery and buying ourselves a sandwich with a soft drink.  All through the travel we laughed about our hop scotch painting, hurried cutting and camouflaged taping. We had come through a crisis letting go of our perfections and understanding the need to rise to the occasion with respect and dignity.

The year ended and the school staff held a special music ceremony for her wedding which was planned in the summer break. And when the time came to bid farewell, we hugged each other. She held on to me and cried telling me how much she would miss me. I was touched by her love and knew that I would miss her just as much.

The year was a successful one because, we had given each other a chance despite our initial reservations and opinions. I had become more organized and she was able to express herself with much more warmth. We were different people. But what remained common between us was the desire to experiment on each other’s ideas, and let go of our perfections to be able to become a Dream Team!

The Cookie Competition

This memory dates back to my initial years of teaching. I was quite young and was in-charge of the Grade 4 children. It was a small villa school in Dubai, but gave me all the space to experiment and learn as a teacher.

Iraq was at war with Iran and the Middle East had become home ground for the U.S Marines. UAE too became a common host to these young officers. Many such Marines became regular visitors at our school. At first I didn’t understand their agenda in the school, but often found them cleaning, scrubbing and helping out with the maintenance of the building. As per the Principal, the school had been adopted by them and so, two army officers painting the school wall became a usual sight.

It was in their presence that I was awakened to the complexes that some of the Asian communities have inherited and hold onto with such fiery grasp.

One morning, during the assembly, it was announced that a high ranking naval officer had readily invited all students from Grades 3, 4 and 5 to visit the U.S Ship that had anchored in Dubai. The purpose of this field trip was to high-light the life of a navy marine at sea and also marvel the complexity of the huge and sophisticated vessel itself.

Children clapped with excitement. I too was thrilled to be a part of this adventure. I had never been on a ship and the idea appeared quite romantic at that age.

The buzz on ‘visiting a war ship’ carried through the day. I asked my children to bring small note pads and pencils to jot down their observations. I also asked them to think of some relevant questions to ask and be prepared for a rocking ride.

While the buses got ready in the morning, we formed the lines, waiting impatiently to begin our journey. The children wanted to know if there would be ‘firing’ and ‘bombing’! I laughed at their innocent fears and constantly teased them about forgetting their helmets at home!

While we were entertaining each other, I could see MS. X, as I don’t want to name her, loading her lot of Grade 5’s with a list of instructions. Every child in that line was standing upright, no smiles, all business and looking at their profiles, you could have imagined, we were really going in for a battle!

I pity children who are handcuffed for a complete year with some dictator who basically produces photocopies of herself at the end of the year.

“You will address them as ‘Sir’. If they ask you a question, don’t stand like statues. Answer them and be polite. Show your manners. They will be looking at the way you talk and behave. I don’t want anyone talking out of place and being disrespectful. If you want to use the toilet, what will you say?” Nobody dared to answer. “You will say, Please Sir, Can I use the toilet?” And the detailed resolution was never ending.

On a field trip, discipline is managed more through actions then verbal orders. The reason is related to natural child behaviour. When children enter an exciting new place, their senses are filled up with their surroundings. It’s difficult to connect through words at such times but a sign language can do wonders. I had taught my children certain signals that indicated. “Be quiet now”, “move straight”, “raise your hand” and “line up”. When the noise level is high, they work well. And I didn’t want my children to be quiet and have nothing to say. I wanted them to have as many exclamation marks that day as they wished or desired.

This sad story continued through the bus journey and I was unfortunately teamed up with Ms. X on that trip. Just before we were to get off the bus, I stood up to face my children. I said, “Alright now, we are there. Will you remember to follow our sign language?” “Yes Ms.Shama”. “Good! Ask as many questions as you like and be careful not to touch or fiddle with any equipment without permission. All clear?” I purposely instructed them in an Admiral’s tone which made them laugh! They in return gave me a salute and shouted, “Yes Sir!”

We were received by the Captain. He smiled at us and welcomed us on board. “The pleasure is all ours Sir. We are honoured to be here. Aren’t we children?” Ms. X gave her introductory speech. By now, the word ‘sir’ had started to pick on me. I looked at his name tag and it read, Captain Charlie. “Hi! I’m Ms. Shama. How are you Charlie?” He got completely confused but offered a hand shake which was a cultural shock for Ms. X again. “I’m fine. Thank you. So, how do you want to go about this tour?” We thought it would be best to move in lines with teachers and helpers to monitor each end.

The tour began with the control room. Children strolled on the open decks and got to touch the anchors. They were amazed to witness so many bunk beds in a narrow space. The ship’s wheel was the real treat. Everyone got to hold it for a while. The boys couldn’t stop saying ‘cool!’ while the girls giggled at the funny faces the friendly crew made to make them feel more welcome.

“We have a special treat for the teachers and the children to offer in our on board cafeteria. Let me lead you to another interesting place on this ship. We prepare our own meals on the ship and to kill the hunger, prefer a lot of snacks. What our crew has baked for you today are yummy chocolate-chip cookies!”

“Yeahhh!” There was a loud cheer and we entered a small space with many square tables and chairs. Everybody sat down chirping happily. I sat with a group of teachers while the crew distributed two cookies per child. The children ate happily and were busy exchanging news on the ‘cool stuff’ that they had seen. Ms. X was on guard as usual and constantly kept wiping crumbs off the children’s faces.

“Alias” was a chubby little boy in my class. He was clumsy in his manners and often created a lot of laughter in class. His classmates loved him for his simple answers and funny expressions. He had thoroughly enjoyed the cookies and merrily walked up to the Captain and said, “Captain Charlie, I would like some more please.” And that was it! Ms. X approached Alias and pulled him back. “What’s wrong with you? Everybody got two cookies right? Sir was kind to treat you this way.” And what she murmured in her breath was heard by all. “Such greedy behaviour!”

The Captain was completely taken aback by the sudden intrusion. He spoke politely to Ms. X, “We do have a lot more to share…” but she did not let him complete his sentence. “Of course not! As it is you have been very kind to us. This boy is very ill-mannered!”

Poor Alias sat with his head down in shame. She was moving closer to him to further lecture him but little did she know, she had crossed the line with me. He was ‘my child’. And she had humiliated him in front of his friends and strangers.

A child’s dignity and self-esteem are key elements to his success or failure in life. Therefore, the blow that he had faced for a simple request had to be erased without losing any more time. “Captain Charlie!” I almost shouted in panic as I wanted every one’s attention. “You said you had a lot more cookies to share. How about a Cookie Competition?”

He looked a little puzzled but the applause from the children made him nod his head. I walked up to ‘Alias’ and sat opposite him. Children gathered round to witness what was going to happen. “I bet I can eat far more cookies in a set time than Alias here. In my house, I am the Cookie Monster!” The children laughed heartily. The boys who had felt the injustice of Ms. X towards Alias, sided with him encouraging him to win this contest. He was still unsure, when I held his hand like in an arm wrestling contest and instigated him to participate. Suddenly the atmosphere was that of a boxing ring. There were children calling out our names in a frenzy of excitement. The cookies were piled up in a dish in front of us. He looked into my eyes to see how serious I was about it. “Let’s see who the real Cookie Monster is!”

The whole event is very vivid in my memory. His enthusiasm had returned and we both set on eating as many cookies as possible. It didn’t matter how messy we got, or how dreadful we looked. We were enjoying the moment and as soon as he won the contest, he was picked up by a tall officer who carried him on his shoulders, declaring him the ‘Cookie Monster’!

I reported the incident to the Principal who spoke to Ms. X about her inappropriate handling of the child. What I wished in my heart was for someone to inform her that the ‘colonial era’ had long been deposited into museums and historical books. The inferiority complex that consumed her was her own figment of imagination. 


While most Western nationalities keep an open mind policy towards their eastern counterparts, the desire to please them and justify all our actions is but our own created demons. We strive to project perfection in their presence, we correct our manners for them and are even ready to sacrifice the simple joys of our children to run a fake programme. 


The cookie competition was an attempt to break free from following a rule book, to escape falling into the trap of racial discrimination, to move forward and embrace the spirit of being human and playing a fair game to build the trust.


There was a lot the children filled in their note pads that day, but the 'Cookie Competition' remained the high-light!

The Survival Kit

Hussain was like any other child in my class. Naughty, talkative and full of zooming energy. He enjoyed coming to school and being with his friends. He had a sweet innocent face which was partly covered by his black framed glasses.

His smile was infectious and so it was no surprise when I found him surrounded by all the children feeling a little down. “What’s the matter everyone?” I asked as I was worried to see the usually cheerful lot wearing such gloomy masks. “Hussain is leaving us. He is going to Canada with his family.” The girls being extremely emotional were all teary and had probably already started missing him. The boys sat quietly reflecting on the loss of a great ‘Tag’ player.

Hussain appeared a little confused with all the reactions. He was happy to set on this new adventure but the depression that filled the classroom probably made him realize that ‘good bye’ was not going to be easy.

Quite honestly, the news was quite sudden and in the middle of the final term. I checked with the front office and they confirmed that his father had requested for a transfer certificate. I called up the father who informed me that they had applied for immigration a while back and it was finally time to move. He requested me to handover all of Hussain’s books by the end of the week, as he would not be attending school after that.

Another day went by and the classroom was still quiet. Suddenly it struck me that this was a good opportunity to teach them about “Happy Good-Byes”. I came home that day and went out to buy a few gifts. I bought a sketch book and some markers, a reading book, a tour guide book on Canada, a Contact book, a chart paper and a little bag pack. I also purchased a few delicious chocolates and sweets.

I loaded my car with an empty small water carton, some coloured paper and glue. My plan was working well. I just hoped the outcome would be as I had perceived it in my mind.

I reached school and carried everything to my Year 3. The children looked at the shopping bags wondering what was in them. The carton was another tool of suspense. “Good Morning children”, I greeted them with a smile. “Today, we are going to have a special Literacy Hour. In this class, we are going to use all our language skills to bid farewell in the nicest, warmest and happiest possible manner to Hussain!” The cheer was louder than I expected. “How are we going to do that teacher?” The tsunami of questions fell on me. “ok, to start with I am going to ask all of you to come together on the circle-time mat.” The level of excitement was high and Hussain was on another level altogether!

I sat with them placing next to me, the exciting mysteries in bags that would unravel one by one. I first unwrapped the chart paper and with a marker drew the outline of a little boy to cover the chart. I labelled him 'Hussain'. The eyes were glued and the buzzing appreciation was audible. I took out some more coloured pens and handed them to children in groups. “Alright, now one by one, we are going to fill up Hussain with all our feelings and thoughts about him. Messages from the heart. You can also describe him as a friend and classmate. Just pour your heart out and do remember to write your names as he will pin up this poster in his room in Canada!” The plan seemed to be working as there was so much laughter and busy hands. Hussain sat with me as we reviewed some of the printed messages that described him as friendly, cute, helpful and happy. There were hands being raised to ask spellings and some artistic ones customized their space well.

After we completed the poster, I pulled out the Contacts book. “Now, this is for you Hussain. Write your name on it and carry it to all your friends to fill in whatever contact they are comfortable to share with you. If anyone needs to take permission from their parents, then this information can be filled tomorrow as well.” The book was carried around and few contacts were shared while some children deferred it to the next day.

“Look there is more!” a girl shouted as she saw me open up Canada’s map. “Come on everyone, let’s see where our friend is going?” The quest on the map began. “There it is! Teacher, it’s in North America! Oh! It is huge!” “Look Hussain, there are so many states!” Hussain was fascinated by the magical revelations. “Alright children, now I’m going to hand you a long narrow strip of paper and I would like you to find some popular tourist attractions in this book and write them on this paper. Pass on the paper for everyone to enter some information on Canada. There are fun facts and many thrilling discoveries about each state.”

I took a break while they all worked in a synchronized manner completely respecting the permission to a fun hour. All through this process, there was a strong bond and each one was in the positive mode to appreciate each other’s  talents and creativity. They were happy and enjoying the moment with their friend who was to leave them in a day.

I handed the carton to an enthusiastic lot and asked them to cover it with coloured paper. They did a fine job and the information on the long strip of paper that had been filled in was cut into pieces and pasted onto the carton. I presented the bag pack to Hussain and he was over joyed to find inside it, a reading book, sketch book with colours and lots of snacks to enjoy on the flight. He quickly placed his contact book and Tour guide inside and the infectious smile appeared once again.

His chart paper was placed in the little carton along with his bag pack. We labelled it as “Hussain’s Survival Kit”. I had everyone share their final words on the activities of the day. And then, paid a special tribute to this lovable boy with sparkling eyes in the form of a poem. I had printed and laminated the poem, hoping it would embrace the moments we had shared in a short time together. This is what it said...

“Its not Good-Bye”

By Ms. Shama

Hussain, you’re leaving us,                         

And there’s so much to say,

But one thing’s for sure,                            

Our paths will meet one day!

You’ve been with me a while,

And every day was rushed,

We had to read and write,

And grow in all that buzz!

I tried to make a change,

In all the ways I could,

You helped me all along,

As a caring student would!

And when you go away,

And start a brand new life,

Think what you have learnt,

And keep your fears aside!

Math or History or Science,

They’re quite important we know,

But when you’re off to foreign land,

The true Hussain should show!

The bond a teacher makes with each,

Is nurtured every day,

You may not sense my hopes for you,

They’ll meet you on your way!

I pray to god, I reached to you,

In all your times of need,

And want to tell you dear Hussain,

Our paths will always meet!

(I pray to Allah that my teachings stay with you and help you make wise and truthful decisions! Amin)

 29th March 2007

Bags and Baggage...

She carried her bag to the first floor of the school building every day to join her Year 3 friends in class. Most children had been companions since kindergarten, but she had joined them recently. She came across as a quiet, soft-spoken and shy girl. Her language skills needed a lot of support and her preference was to have fewer friends with somewhat the same language command.


She never raised her hand to answer a question or participate in discussions. I would have to drag her out of her silence to engage her a little mentally. At first I believed that the change of school, loss of old friends and the language barrier were primary reasons for her solo act. The only subject that she marvelled at, was her optional subject ‘Urdu’. When I asked the teacher about her presence in the Urdu class, she pretty much had the same picture to relate.


My first meeting with her mother happened a month after she had joined. I was facing difficulty related to her books and timetable. She seemed to lose her notebooks and reproduced them magically in a few days. I was quite hassled with her excuses which more or less appeared as made up stories.


The mother listened patiently and when she spoke, there was worry in the conversation. She said, “She has been doing this with me also. I have a little baby at home and it’s so difficult to keep track of her activities. I ask her about homework and she says she left the diary at school. I have no help at home so she does get ignored a little. I will speak to her and hope this will not happen again.”


“What about her father? Can he find some time with her? Or maybe the baby. I’m sure she will feel better at getting a little more attention.” She said her husband was a doctor and was very busy with his clinic. By the time he came home, the children would be asleep. She paused for a moment and decided to share some information.


“Actually, I’m not her real mother. I’m her step-mom. Her real mother passed away when she was five. I try very hard to meet all her needs but she doesn’t seem to accept me very well. Soon after my marriage, my baby son was born. I have to take care of him and always have to try much harder to balance the situation for her. I’m trying my best to make her happy but she doesn’t really respond with any warmth. She visits her real grandparents often and I don’t know, maybe they fill her up with negativity, but I cannot stop her from going there.”


For a moment, I felt incompatible to comment. It was a huge revelation, one I had never encountered with such blatant honesty before. She gave the impression of a kind lady with a very worried mind. She admitted to her helplessness at resolving the issue without offending the child or the father. Clearly, she was asking for help and as always, I couldn’t refuse. I knew I would need to really work through this one as it was beyond my experiences and knowledge.


I started to speak to her a little more. She was very respectful and always tried to escape too many questions. I spoke to her about being responsible about her books and she agreed to increase her vigilance. In a matter of a week, she again started coming to school with no notebooks or incomplete work. I wrote a note to her parents in the diary and asked her to get it signed. The very next day, she came to class without her diary saying she had lost it. I was aware of the scenario and so quietly gave a call to her mum to ask her. She as expected had not seen the diary. I left the matter to rest for the day, as the mother said she would find it at home.


The whole story unravelled in a few days. She appeared to have a hiding place near the elevator of her building where she lived. She often deposited the books before reaching home to avoid work and this mystery was solved by the watchman of the building who came to deliver the books at home.


I was still in the process of finding a solution when another puzzling game began in class. Everyday one child would complain of missing lunch. I decided to watch the classroom for a while and so one day, I sat in the class at break time and shut the door. Children were not allowed to come up during break. I had a small glass opening on the door and walked up to see the cubby holes that were filled with student bags and jackets. There I saw her, placing her friend’s bag back and leaving hurriedly. I didn’t stop her and she didn’t see me either.


When the children came back and settled, her group mate complained of not finding her pack of biscuits. I asked the children to open their bags and see if anyone may have carried it in their bags by mistake. ( ofcourse, I didn’t want any one being labelled ) and so it was found in her bag. She kept on defending herself saying it was hers. I allowed her the benefit of doubt, though my mind had started to work faster now. I knew soon I would have her open her heart to me.


I discussed the situation with my supervisor, who advised me to call her mother and confirm my doubts about her lunchbox. I did that and as expected, she had not carried any biscuits that day. Her mother was close to tears and said, “I’m so sorry about this. I don’t understand why she is doing this. I have a shelf that’s filled with what she likes to eat. But of course I stop her from indulging too much as any mother would. But she is not deprived.” I knew it was time to involve the father, so I asked her to inform him and if I could speak to him. She felt hesitant and said, “I don’t know how he will react to me saying this about her, so could you please call him yourself and inform him. I will speak to him after that.”


The father was a gentle man who was equally taken aback. He was apologetic and asked me how to take the matter forward. I told him, “ You really need to speak to her and let her know what your expectations are from her. She has been behaving rather strangely since the past three months and I have been in contact with your wife, informing her about her attention seeking acts.” I was about to say more when he interrupted, “You see Ms. Shama, her mother passed away and the lady you spoke to is my second wife. She is a good lady and I know for sure that she is a kind woman. My daughter is very confused I believe and I have been very busy. The new baby and my absence may have lead to her disorientation from the family itself. I will surely speak to her about it and you are permitted to reprimand her for her actions.”


I felt half the battle won. I called the wife and informed her about the conversation. I felt it was better she let the father deal with this one situation alone. She agreed and thanked me for the help.


In the meantime, I found an opportunity, which I am always on a look out for, to melt this little heart. I called her out of the class and we sat face to face. She knew she had been caught and mostly hung her head in shame. I spoke like a friend, “You have everything. You are intelligent and kind. Your classmates like you. You have a dad, a mum”, she cut me short, “She is my step-mother. My real mother is dead.” These were her exact words. The pain of that loss was still intact and there was visibly no acceptance of reality. I did not blink and continued, “ That is sad. I do understand how you feel. I lost my mum too. It’s really hard to fill that place. But you have been lucky dear. That place was filled by someone for you. Imagine how your real mum would have felt seeing you alone. With no one to take care of you. For her, your step-mom must be like a blessing to be thankful for. Isn’t it?” She nodded as all children do. “Try to be grateful my dear. Your mum and dad, both are worried about you. To have that kind of love is a blessing. You must promise to try and be more honest and work hard to make them proud. Starting from now!” I gave her a casual smile that indicated all was forgotten and it was time to move on. She smiled back and the smiles were more often in the second half of the year.


The final exam report was an amazing academic jump for her and was collected by both mother and daughter. She stood by her mom, her hand on her shoulder, enjoying the proud moment of achievement. I asked her if she was lucky to have a mum like that, and her smile stretched to her eyes. After she ran out of class, her mother held my hands and shed tears of gratitude thanking me to help discard baggage that had long been tagging along their lives.

Making Exceptions...

The science project was on ‘rocks’ and the due date was given. I was expecting all submissions on time. The models started to make their grand entrances a few days in advance. Some made from clay, some with foam and others using chart papers. All the while, children would gasp and clap for creative and enterprising ideas. One splendour followed by another.


Most of the models and art & craft appeared to have an adult’s hand in it. I appreciated that because it was an opportunity for parents to spend some quality time creating something with their children. It was a time to bond and share experiences. A chance to learn lasting lessons.


I would usually mark them for creativity and the ability to talk about the project with knowledge. One by one they would stand in-front of the class and speak for about three to five minutes describing the structure.


Some would fare very well for their information on materials used, on clarity of concept and good presentation skills. And then there were always those who had slept through the creative process. The entire project would be alien to them. They would only get a mark for submitting the project and no more than that.


The last girl waiting in line, was completely anxious. Academically she was an average intellect child, but very persistent and regular in work. I noticed her because she had not yet submitted her project and even now stood with her arms folded. I went through all presentations amazed by the variety of ideas parents and children had used to design their projects.


And so finally, the little girl came face to face with the class. It was absolutely quiet. She placed her hand inside the jacket pocket and pulled out three to four papers that had been torn carelessly from the notebook, taped together and scribbled on. The language had grammatical errors and the pictures of rocks had been drawn free hand. She felt a little awkward as her classmates exclaimed, “that’s it!” She kept on turning the sheets up and down to hide her embarrassment and spoke about the project in broken lines. She had good verbal skills but the comparison of her four torn page project to the grandeur of structures around her had taken away her confidence.


I felt her little feet going cold and got up to stand with her to look at the project a little more closely. It was done by her for sure. The handwriting was messy but the information was appropriate. The pictures were relevant and it was clear that she wasn’t a talented artist. I asked her, “Sweety, did anyone help you with your project?” She looked down shaking her head in a negative response. “So, can you tell me, how did you do your project?” I asked her so she would know I had accepted it as a project. She looked up and her innocent eyes melted my heart completely. She spoke with a little more confidence, still not looking at the papers, “I had planned to do my project with brown clay because my mum said she would buy it for me. She was busy and my dad also had work so I couldn’t do it like that. When I got home yesterday, my parents were not at home. My maid said she did not know how to do it, so I tore these papers from an old note book teacher. I collected the information from the science book and wrote on the papers. I found scotch tape and stuck them all together.”


When a child speaks the truth, you can sense it from the glimmer of tears in the eyes. I pulled her closer to myself and gave her a tight hug. “For your motivation, self- confidence and effort, I am going to give you ‘full marks’ my dear!”


A huge protest came from the students who had relatively good projects but had been unable to speak about them due to the sleep mode that they had encountered. I had cut their marks and their objection now was that her project did not look beautiful at all and anybody could tear papers and stick them together.


The children rightfully needed an explanation and so, I said, “The reason why I’ve given her full marks is not because her project looks pretty or ugly, not even because the information she has shared is limited or beyond the text book. I’ve awarded her these marks for the worry that drove her to create something instead of nothing. They are for her maturity of mind that did not accept the excuse of her parents being unavailable. Today I am applauding her conscience which did not lead her to sit and watch T.V instead. It is to salute her well sought out priorities at such a tender age. They are to encourage her to always rely on her own abilities to cope with work. And sure, she could have presented the same project with better handwriting, coloured the bare pictures and cut the edges of the paper smartly, but all that is learnt with practice. I’m sure she’ll get comfortable with all that in time.”


She was an emotional child and held onto me as a mother figure happy to be a part of my life. She was an ‘exceptional child’ and therefore it was inevitable, I would make that exception.

Sacrifice

It takes a lot of sacrifice on behalf of a teacher, to bring some hope to her pupil. Once upon a time it was a character trait affiliated quite synonymously to a teacher. This sadly has become a rare concept in the field of education now.


There was a Chinese film that I saw many years back and so I fail to remember the name, but it left a huge impact on my senses and to this day, I live and breathe the very morals of that picture.


It was based on the lives of a group of poor village children. These elementary school kids had an agenda, not to let any teacher stay on for more than a week. And it was fun to see the many pranks they played to frighten the teachers away. The members of the school board always preferred strict and threatening personalities with hope that they would be able to silence or discipline these naughty pranksters. But all in vain.


And then I expected this superwoman to enter the plot with her super powers and just fix the whole situation. But as a child I was fascinated to watch that the teacher who came into their lives, was just a girl, a young and simple graduate. I was further amazed to see that everything this teacher tried was met with the same fierce opposition as always. Yet she carried on. She struggled in the beginning but then decided to make her own plan of action. 


She started to observe the children and noted down each one's behaviour and habits. She would sit at night and make up situations that she would create the next morning to make one of them fall into her trap. She walked around the neighbourhood of the leader of the gang to find an opportunity to speak to him alone. She confronted families who were ignorant and stood in the way of progress and better prospects. And as the story moved on, she established a unique and special relationship with each one of them separately.
She would come home to her own family, never allowing the hurt she felt inside to come out. She believed it was just who she was and there was no other way to do it.


And at the end of the two hour film, the young teacher was able to help the children understand the need to get educated. The importance to respect authority and the necessity to make friends. She was able to do this by creating an individual bond with each one. It would not have worked out had she tried to win them over as a group. It ended with tears as the teacher walked away, leaving behind completely reformed minds.


The spirit of sacrifice that we look for in our teachers today is limited to a few exceptions.
If only teachers would 'observe', they would find solutions. A weak academic performance is not always related to the intellect. And any underlying factor would only be visible upon "observation".
Teaching requires sacrifice. It is not meant for the selfish.