Bangalore: If you are a college student in India's Silicon city, be prepared for security guards to stare you down if you aren't "properly" dressed. In fact, they can refuse entry to students if they aren't "decently" attired. Worse, if your tank top doesn't measure up to the outsourced guard's sense of morality, you will be fined… College authorities admit that security guards are authorised to monitor the dress code… "…We are preparing students for a professional life…"
In B'lore, college guards enforce dress code; The Times of India, New Delhi; Saturday, March 20, 2010, p. 11
Once upon a time, I worked in a school in which teachers were forbidden to wear starched cotton saris. In fact, they were encouraged not to wear saris at all. The dress code, if one could call it that since there was complete freedom afforded to the faculty in this matter, comprised of jeans and comfortable t-shirts or kurtas. The die-hard sari cadre was inspired to seek comfort in salwar-kameez or churidar-kurtas. And they were reformed….
The children of this school were, initially, allowed to wear whatever they wanted to. Then, acting on requests from parents who wanted their lives simplified, the school introduced jeans and t-shirts for the students. At one point of time, it was quite easy to mistake a teacher for a student.
There was, of course, a philosophy behind this apparent madness. The school's vision envisaged a place in which there were no artificial barriers between teacher and student, especially those created by attire. As one founder-teacher put it, "If a little child wants to plop down in the teacher's lap, she or he should not feel hindered by the starch. And the teacher too should not have to worry about the pleats falling awry."
This was a school in which "academic" teachers regularly trooped down to the soccer field or the basketball court with their children and played with them. They observed their students in contexts other than their own limiting subjects. But what the dress code really made space for was an approach to education which made a lot of sense: teachers were constantly, weather permitting, holding classes outdoors. What better way to teach Wordsworth than in early spring when the dahlias burst the garden with colour? How can a classroom experience of area and perimeter compete with actually going out to the field, measuring and marking the exact area required for various sports and athletic events? We did not need ICT to teach the children about pollination - we just took them out and settled them down to quietly observe the butterflies at it. If we needed an effective setting to discuss dominant and recessive genes, we strolled down to the sweet-pea trellis, and the name Gregor Mendel was always indelibly linked with the dusty fragrance of the colourful flowers. I could indulge in many purple passages on the excitement of working in such a school - the day-to-day delight of teachers and students alike - of the curious phenomenon of students who did not want to go home at the end of the day and who hated weekends as these kept them away from school; the even more curious phenomenon of a body of dynamic teachers who did not really care about the paycheck and did not treat being in school as a job.
However, imagine doing all of the above clad in your organza or Kanjeevaram? Or even in your pleated trouser with matching jacket?
And what is the significance of this clothing style, you ask. It was deep: in the absence of the "teacher-image", students found us approachable simply because we looked like them, not like figures of authority. It led to an exchange of views and ideas, not being afraid to admit that we didn't know something, and then being detectives hunting down the information together. It made a lot of sense. The clinching factor, in case you haven't seen it yet, was that WE did not see ourselves as different from our students. All educationists worth their salt will tell you that the best teachers are those who approach their subject not as experts of their fields but as enquirers or learners.
This was, as I said, "once upon a time". It seems like a fairy-tale land which no longer exists, thus inspiring the opening phrase. The school attracted the kind of parent who is not looking for high grades from the child - or a delivery mechanism to turn the child into an info-regurgitating machine. These were parents who thought about what sort of education would help their child to be happy and fulfilled as a grown-up. They were parents who were dissatisfied with the strait-jacketed, exam-oriented system which was out to kill the uniqueness of the child.
It was before the corporatization of education took place. And with this came a new philosophy that saw parents as potential clients. A natural outcome was that suddenly all schools, right-wing, left-wing, and bang centre, reviewed what their teachers were wearing, and enforced strict dress codes. Simultaneously, any debate about uniforms for children went, instantly, flying out of the window.
To understand the above phenomenon, here's an example of how dress codes work in many ad agencies. While the client-servicing people are required to wear complete formals, the "creative" people are given complete freedom to dress any which way they want. The logic: the client-servicing executives deal with the clients and must present a certain image to inspire confidence; on the other hand, the "creative" people are not supposed to be hindered by uncomfortable attire lest their creativity be blocked.
Transfer this information to a school's adult community: those people who deal directly with parents-the-potential-clients must dress formally so that they are viewed seriously. Imagine the head of admissions or marketing in a pair of faded jeans! God forbid! Parents would definitely wonder about the quality of education on offer. But should not the school's "creative" division be allowed to dress in accordance with comfort? The creative division being, in this case, the faculty….
Not really. For, parents often interact with faculty members, and would they be able to trust that I, dressed in jeans, will be able to effectively take their children through the Drama or English curriculum? Will they not see my casual approach to my clothing style as a casual attitude towards my work as well?
The debate here does not focus on whether or not formals affect our ability to work more professionally. It does not even wonder about the effects of attire on creativity. In fact, the debate really exists only in small pockets of teacher-groups who feel that we need to prepare our students to question more and accept less on face value. And here is where the contradiction strikes one horribly between the eyes.
The corporate world is about unquestioningly following orders. It will brook no dispute with company policies which are printed without embarrassment in Times New Roman 10 Points sometimes in Bold on documents you have autographed with or without hesitation. You don't like it? Well, there's the door, and don't bang it on your way out.
Faced with that attitude, most slink back to their cubicles, tail between their legs, grit their teeth and silently curse the day they signed on the dotted line. Of course, there are those few who do use the door, some who even bang it on the way out. Many of them make it bigger than the company they quit. Some, unfortunately, find another equally oppressive situation, and learn to live with it. Do these different responses have anything to do with the way these individuals were taught in school?
The word "teach" is from Old English tǣcan, from a Germanic root meaning "show" (The Concise Oxford Dictionary, Ninth Edition, Page 1429). Therefore, a teacher must "show"…?
But before a teacher can "show", s/he must ask:
Should I prepare my students to be the slink-back-to-cubicle type of person or the door-banger gutsy guy who is principled and ruled by what s/he believes to be right?
Should I nurture the creative uniqueness of my students or through devices such as neatly tucked-in uniforms convey to them that no matter who they are inside, they have to live according to certain pre-defined standards and appearances?
But most importantly, should I treat this corporate culture as one that my students should accept or teach them to question the very basis of Appearances vs Actual Quality?
Uniforms and dress codes are but a symptom of the deep-rooted superficiality (although that sounds like an oxymoron, I suspect that it isn't) that forms the foundation of the corporate world. They garb and cloak mediocrity under shiny ties and well-cut jackets; they straitjacket originality of thought and enforce conventionality. They contradict the very basis of any sound educational philosophy: that each child has a unique potential, and the true role of education is to help bring that potential to fruition.
We tell our children not to judge a book by its cover and in the same breath pull them up for the tie gone awry; does no one see the contradiction?
**********************************************************************************
Some responses from friends on Facebook:
Rukmini Sen December 31 at 1:04pm Reply
Uniform is a good idea. If we agree that EDUCATION is indeed a RIGHT! if we agree that education should be EQUALLY distributed...which means we take care of special needs of everybody and treat every kid with dignity...then we would see kids from different sections of society coming to same kind of schools. In such a case parents of lower income group can relax if there is an uniform or 'study clothes'. The focus will shift from trendy clothes to basics...sports, music, drama, fun and education...
***
Jayanto Banerjee December 31 at 12:46pm Reply
i have always had a problem with this 'uniform' debate, where the politically correct answer is to shun all forms of dress codes. and this coming from someone who IS in advertising.
this comment is purely from my personal point of view and experience. it centres around 2 core premises:
1. why do we believe a 'dress code' hinders 'creativity'?
2. i think it is extremely important to 'dress up' for work and it allows me to 'switch on and off' from work.
let me start with the first issue. there is a school of thought that says truly great ideas come not from 'thinking out of the box,' but by 'thinking within the box.' what this means is that, think within the framework of a problem or an opportunity. i really believe 'school uniforms' build discipline --- not in the sense of conforming to 'corporate culture' but fosters 'discipline in thinking - in applying a logical process in understanding and learning.' while 'discipline and rigor in creativity' sounds like an oxymoron, it is probably the single most important thing FOR genuine creativity.
the second point is even more important for me as a person. 'dressing up' for work and 'dressing down' when i get home plays a huge factor in my being able to separate my work and my personal life. even when i work from home, i find it aids my productivity (and focus) when i dress up, sit at the table and swith off the TV --- rather than sit on the bed in my shorts with my laptop on my, well, lap. dressing up in 'work clothes' allows me to switch on to my 'work mode' and conversely and as importantly when the time comes to 'switch off.'
as a head of an ad agency office for the last 5 years, i can count the number of times i've worn a tie to work (maybe 10). my usual dress code is chinos, shirts and a jacket. smart casual as it is called nowadays. much as the 'jholas of JNU' don't foster 'intellectualism', neither does an unshaven, crumpled shirt(ed) creative person in an ad agency foster creativity.
and lastly (and i've kept this for the last as i have very little authority to speak for or against educationalists), i also believe that children in their formative years need 'role models' from their 'teachers.' this does not contradict with them being 'fellow enquirers.'but i've personally always lost respect for teachers who try hard to be 'friends with the students.' please teacher - dont try and be a friend - be a good teacher who i can look up to.
moyna's school here (which is an IB) has a flexible uniform. a choice of 4 colours for the T-shirt (light blue, dark blue, yellow and white - with a small school logo) with blue or black trousers/ pants/ skirts/ capris etc. the student has a choice every morning to decide which colour to wear to school that day and whether to wear a skirt or trousers.....
if you visit the school, initially you think there is no uniform.
somehow i like the uniform with 'choice' concept. it has a certain amount of discipline, without it being rigid and totally, ahem, uniform.
***
Abhimanyu Dasgupta January 3 at 9:47am Reply
Finally managed to read through your blog! Made me reflect too on my wide ranged experiences in different schools and their norms with regards to the uniform! Have seen both sides of the story! Finally my rule of thumb, which is guided by the only proverb taught by my mother in Hindi... ap ruchi khana aur par ruchi pehna, is that as in Rome dress like the Romans! ;)
Shirin Hasrat January 3 at 11:43am Reply
Surprizingly, or maybe not so, my mother said something similar in Hindi, "Khao apni pasand ka, pehno dusron ki pasand ka." The one reason why uniforms make sense is that there is equality and no "keeping up with the Jonses' syndrome.
Divya Oberoi January 4 at 10:40am Reply
As a parent of two boys I think uniforms is extremely important in Schools because it make our children believe in equality of Education and inculcates a sense of DISCIPLINE in the young minds. ANOTHER ASPECT OF ALL THIS COULD BE YOU SPEND LESS TIME ARGUING WHAT YOUR CHILD SHOULD WEAR TO SCHOOL.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, July 10, 2009
Delightful News
I am really happy to announce that the end of the world (predicted by some to be caused by an inter-religious war in which no side will win, all will lose), has been deferred indefinitely. The reason may be found in the following news item:
CLERICS URGE CENTRE TO RETHINK GAY STAND BEFORE GOING TO SC (TOI, 10 July 2009, pg. 13)
or at:
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/India/SC-admits-petition-challenging-HC-gay-ruling/articleshow/4760022.cms
Hmm…. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Usually, they don’t agree on whether to break an egg at the big end or the small end (sorry, Mr Swift, for plagiarising), but the minute there’s talk of “making dem queer guys legit”, they come together to form the homophobic morality police, warning the courts and the government that the moral fibre of human society will be destroyed forever.
Wow! With utter delight, I watched leaders from various (otherwise) warring religious groups take the platform together (AHA!) and jointly address a press conference about the HC’s ruling on article 377. Just as, according to the history books, Indians of every hue came together to fight for “freedom” from British rule in 1857, all religious leaders have decided to pitch their lot with each other in order to fight this GREAT EVIL called homosexuality.
I don’t think there’s any point, in fact, of countering any of their arguments. Many fellow scribes are already doing that and we really can’t know for a fact whether God would actually object or not to the High Court’s view. What is of great importance here is that they CAN agree on something! Call it “unity in diversity”, the “sangam” of opposite minds, the basic commonality of religious streams, whatever…
So, I see this as a reason to celebrate; to call it the harbinger of religious harmony. What we should do is quite simple: place a challenge before this august board of homophobic fanatics – set them a task that REALLY needs to be done. And in our country there are far more important goals to be achieved. Let them come together to eradicate poverty, illiteracy, unemployment, ill-health, etc. etc. etc. We must capitalise on this rare moment of camaraderie between forces that at other times tear apart the very fabric of social harmony they are now together to protect.
Let us allow them to exercise their moral superiority over lesser beings who are obviously not as connected to God – by turning their hand to something constructive for a change, so that they cannot see through this act of God.
Really, I’m serious!
We need to act quickly to divert their minds from this path-breaking chapter in God’s plan for humanity… You see, they have missed the sub-text in God’s script: basically, the religious clerics have got the obvious part of the Delhi High Court’s ruling that the following two things will happen to humanity immediately: 1) by legitimising homosexuality, all the closet gays and lesbians will come out into the open, thereby destroying the (out-dated, patriarchal) institution of heterosexual marriage; 2) by ensuring that heterosexuals begin to feel hopelessly out of place in the newly-expanding gay milieu, that they too will turn gay to keep up with the Joneses.
Like I said, our sage leaders have got this part bang on. But they have missed the reason behind this grand plan: why, to bring down the human population by 2050 so that every (gay) human that survives this Immoral Flood (and the one connected with global warming) actually has a bit of earth on which to live!
P.S. This may actually indicate that God is female rather than male since such delicious lateral thinking for problem-solving has usually been beyond the capabilities of men!
By the way, Sara (who goes to church as often as she can hitch a ride) was INCENSED the other night at Father Emmanuel’s suggestion that homosexuals were usually from broken families. According to her, "Well, du-uh! this is totally ridiculous!"
CLERICS URGE CENTRE TO RETHINK GAY STAND BEFORE GOING TO SC (TOI, 10 July 2009, pg. 13)
or at:
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/India/SC-admits-petition-challenging-HC-gay-ruling/articleshow/4760022.cms
Hmm…. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Usually, they don’t agree on whether to break an egg at the big end or the small end (sorry, Mr Swift, for plagiarising), but the minute there’s talk of “making dem queer guys legit”, they come together to form the homophobic morality police, warning the courts and the government that the moral fibre of human society will be destroyed forever.
Wow! With utter delight, I watched leaders from various (otherwise) warring religious groups take the platform together (AHA!) and jointly address a press conference about the HC’s ruling on article 377. Just as, according to the history books, Indians of every hue came together to fight for “freedom” from British rule in 1857, all religious leaders have decided to pitch their lot with each other in order to fight this GREAT EVIL called homosexuality.
I don’t think there’s any point, in fact, of countering any of their arguments. Many fellow scribes are already doing that and we really can’t know for a fact whether God would actually object or not to the High Court’s view. What is of great importance here is that they CAN agree on something! Call it “unity in diversity”, the “sangam” of opposite minds, the basic commonality of religious streams, whatever…
So, I see this as a reason to celebrate; to call it the harbinger of religious harmony. What we should do is quite simple: place a challenge before this august board of homophobic fanatics – set them a task that REALLY needs to be done. And in our country there are far more important goals to be achieved. Let them come together to eradicate poverty, illiteracy, unemployment, ill-health, etc. etc. etc. We must capitalise on this rare moment of camaraderie between forces that at other times tear apart the very fabric of social harmony they are now together to protect.
Let us allow them to exercise their moral superiority over lesser beings who are obviously not as connected to God – by turning their hand to something constructive for a change, so that they cannot see through this act of God.
Really, I’m serious!
We need to act quickly to divert their minds from this path-breaking chapter in God’s plan for humanity… You see, they have missed the sub-text in God’s script: basically, the religious clerics have got the obvious part of the Delhi High Court’s ruling that the following two things will happen to humanity immediately: 1) by legitimising homosexuality, all the closet gays and lesbians will come out into the open, thereby destroying the (out-dated, patriarchal) institution of heterosexual marriage; 2) by ensuring that heterosexuals begin to feel hopelessly out of place in the newly-expanding gay milieu, that they too will turn gay to keep up with the Joneses.
Like I said, our sage leaders have got this part bang on. But they have missed the reason behind this grand plan: why, to bring down the human population by 2050 so that every (gay) human that survives this Immoral Flood (and the one connected with global warming) actually has a bit of earth on which to live!
P.S. This may actually indicate that God is female rather than male since such delicious lateral thinking for problem-solving has usually been beyond the capabilities of men!
By the way, Sara (who goes to church as often as she can hitch a ride) was INCENSED the other night at Father Emmanuel’s suggestion that homosexuals were usually from broken families. According to her, "Well, du-uh! this is totally ridiculous!"
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Labour of Love
When the D’Avrincourt family were leaving for Mauritius three weeks ago, they discovered a lot of uncooked stuff in their kitchen. Some of it, being the immediate neighbours, was inherited by us. Early in the morning (it was about 5 a.m.), Sara was handed various packets and bowls, and asked to put some into the fridge, some into the freezer and some into cupboards. One such freezer-destined bowl had something, she said, called calamari.
It looked like nothing I had seen (and certainly never cooked) before. (In case any of my readers are vegetarian, and/or squeamish, perhaps I’d better not try to describe it here.) And, I’m ashamed to admit this since I edited several books on cooking and eating out during my tenure with Penguin Books, my culinary vocabulary is rather limited. Not only that, the title of my autobiography may well end up being The Rather Reluctant Cook. Those who know me well, or have asked me, “Are you fond of cooking?” already know that the stock reply is, “I HATE cooking, but I love my kids!”
Anyway, I invoked the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Dida, for inspiration. For, if I hate anything more than cooking, it is wasting any kind of food (perhaps I was a Native American in a previous birth since I’m almost fanatical about this!). A quick Net search later (yes, the Net was running faster that day) I discovered that calamari was actually squid. However, since I wasn’t any better equipped to handle cooking it now that I knew it was squid, I fished for some recipes. To cut this long story short, I managed to turn it into something edible (which both Sara and Tyger enjoyed – really, it was cooked beyond recognition) within a day. What’s important here – all the while I was cooking it, I kept thinking of Dida and how much she cooked and how much variety there was in the dishes she churned out with seeming effortlessness.
A few days later, I discovered a frozen packet in my freezer, which, upon opening, turned out to be some type of gigantic prawn, in its pristine glory. OK, again will not describe what this looked like, but the smell was crazy! The smell reminded me again of Dida. She did cook prawns for us, many times, and only because I spent a good amount of time hanging around the kitchen that I remember how they have to be cleaned. Banning the squeamish Sara from entering the kitchen (what’s the point of cooking it if she won’t eat it?), and firmly pushing Tyger out as well (although he isn’t squeamish, and decided that it looked like catfish) I embarked on a journey Dida had undertaken several times.
Through the whole process of cleaning, washing and cooking, she was there in spirit beside me, guiding my hands, reminding me of spices and procedures, making sure that I did not overcook or undercook. Although acute memory failure reigns, I have a sense that she used to keep up a running commentary on how to cook different stuff, so I learnt a lot by just hanging around. Again, the dish that turned up on the dining table had suitably disguised the raw material. But when I sniffed my hands, I could have cried. For it had the same smell that Dida always had after cooking prawns. And now, having cleaned, washed and cooked them for the first time, I recognised for the first time that every day that we spent with her during the summer vacation, she laboured in the kitchen to bring tasty dishes onto the dining table – her labour of love.
I’m not sure whether she was truly fond of cooking or not. But I’m definite about why she cooked – she REALLY loved feeding all of us. The only one who protested once in a while was my younger cousin (who lived in the flat opposite theirs) who was the designated taster throughout the year as Dida tried out recipe after recipe in that little kitchen of hers. The rest of us always went back to school after the summer break much fattened!
Unfortunately for me, she passed away before I really had a chance to get to know her. Injured in an accident (she was 73 and completely fit and active), she struggled on a hospital bed for a month before moving on, just a day or two before Durga Puja. I was just 21. Receiving the news from my uncle’s office over the phone, I was shocked and shattered, and alone since both my parents were in Calcutta with her. When I spoke to my grandfather, Dadu, later that day, his words were broken for the first time in all the years I had known him.
And again, drama comes into real life with Dida. A couple of years before she died, she and Dadu were in Delhi on their annual visit. She had just visited my maternal uncle and family in Pune, and arrived at the railway station with armloads of shawls. Apparently, she had spent the long train journey knitting shawls for the entire family. The one for me was a beautiful pale peach colour – I treasure it till this day, especially since it turned out to be the last garment that she knitted for me. But where drama comes into it is my involvement with a play and how she bridged the gap between my mother and I that autumn.
We were preparing an adaptation of a play (I’ve forgotten the name of the original – but please forgive me for it has been 23 years!) which we called Sher Nikalkar Bhaga. As the “senior” members of the theatre group, we took on all the back-stage responsibilities for our productions, and for this one I was working on the sets. Since the target audience was to be children, the sets were elaborate, colourful and very expressive. There were 6 flats, 9 ft by 5 ft, to be painted on both sides, and one cut out of the Delhi skyline. So, I was spending nights at the Nizamuddin flat which the group used as a base, painting till my arms hurt (luckily, I’m partially ambidextrous), sleeping for a couple of hours, and then getting onto the first Mudrika of the day, attending college (mostly dozing through lessons except the ones involving Macbeth), going back to Nizamuddin, etc. etc. etc. I’m sure you get the picture. For approximately three weeks, my mother and I had not seen much of each other as I only stopped by the house to bathe and change – and she was miffed. Well, that’s putting it mildly. She was angry enough to declare on one of those occasions that she, for one, was NOT going to watch the play.
That’s when Dida and Dadu arrived, and over lunch one day, Dida asked which day they were going to see the play. I continued to eat silently, waiting for the explosion. It came. My mother said, without mincing words, that as a general protest over my sudden lifestyle change, she was not going to see the play. First Dida looked shocked. Then, in a very gentle voice she asked, “My grand-daughter is doing a play, and we won’t go to watch it?” With great difficulty, I kept out of the discussion, and focussed on the food (some of which was cooked by Dida and was extremely tasty!).
The decision was taken. EVERYONE, due to Dida’s gentle diktat, was to watch the play, and I was asked to book enough seats as near the front as possible. Hiding my relief, for if Ma had persisted, no one from the family would’ve dared to oppose her, I quietly left for the evening rehearsal.
And, since the sets were there, going on and off in each scene, Ma was able to see how much work had really gone into it. Though not much was said, she was proud of my work – which, but for Dida’s intervention, she would not have even got to see – and said so when I reached home later that night. It was not the last time we clashed over my passion for theatre, but at least this one ended well.
For many years after Dida’s death I spent as much time as I could with Dadu, who was really lonely without her. I did not want to miss the opportunity to get to know him too. I travelled to Calcutta between jobs, and he, till the last year of his life, always made a visit to Delhi once a year. That was his labour of love; at the age of 85+ it couldn't have been that easy travelling up and down by train. We had a connection that went beyond DNA, I think. He could tell when I was upset even if I put up a cheery face. And just a hand on my head was enough to calm me down or, make me break down completely. He left me his precious Roliflex camera and books on photography as he saw how involved I was with it, appreciating the dark room where I developed and printed roll after roll of b-and-w photographs, teaching me about angles, light and shade, composition. Even more importantly, he taught me a lot about pranayam, meditation and yoga – what to do and what to avoid. In terms of a life-style, I can’t think of anyone else who worked so diligently on leading a clean, healthy and active life.
Well, not to be too uncharacteristically mushy, in the years after they both moved on, I think I missed not having them around to a point of feeling physical pain sometimes. There are so many times that I know they would’ve really appreciated what I came up with – stuff that no one else has ever really been interested in. Like the teddy bears I knitted for Sara and Tyger two summers ago. Or the blankets I am still trying to complete knitting. Dadu would’ve been delighted with the photographs I’ve taken recently of the hiking trips around the school.
And Dida would certainly have been very proud of the culinary achievement with the calamari!
It looked like nothing I had seen (and certainly never cooked) before. (In case any of my readers are vegetarian, and/or squeamish, perhaps I’d better not try to describe it here.) And, I’m ashamed to admit this since I edited several books on cooking and eating out during my tenure with Penguin Books, my culinary vocabulary is rather limited. Not only that, the title of my autobiography may well end up being The Rather Reluctant Cook. Those who know me well, or have asked me, “Are you fond of cooking?” already know that the stock reply is, “I HATE cooking, but I love my kids!”
Anyway, I invoked the spirit of my maternal grandmother, Dida, for inspiration. For, if I hate anything more than cooking, it is wasting any kind of food (perhaps I was a Native American in a previous birth since I’m almost fanatical about this!). A quick Net search later (yes, the Net was running faster that day) I discovered that calamari was actually squid. However, since I wasn’t any better equipped to handle cooking it now that I knew it was squid, I fished for some recipes. To cut this long story short, I managed to turn it into something edible (which both Sara and Tyger enjoyed – really, it was cooked beyond recognition) within a day. What’s important here – all the while I was cooking it, I kept thinking of Dida and how much she cooked and how much variety there was in the dishes she churned out with seeming effortlessness.
A few days later, I discovered a frozen packet in my freezer, which, upon opening, turned out to be some type of gigantic prawn, in its pristine glory. OK, again will not describe what this looked like, but the smell was crazy! The smell reminded me again of Dida. She did cook prawns for us, many times, and only because I spent a good amount of time hanging around the kitchen that I remember how they have to be cleaned. Banning the squeamish Sara from entering the kitchen (what’s the point of cooking it if she won’t eat it?), and firmly pushing Tyger out as well (although he isn’t squeamish, and decided that it looked like catfish) I embarked on a journey Dida had undertaken several times.
Through the whole process of cleaning, washing and cooking, she was there in spirit beside me, guiding my hands, reminding me of spices and procedures, making sure that I did not overcook or undercook. Although acute memory failure reigns, I have a sense that she used to keep up a running commentary on how to cook different stuff, so I learnt a lot by just hanging around. Again, the dish that turned up on the dining table had suitably disguised the raw material. But when I sniffed my hands, I could have cried. For it had the same smell that Dida always had after cooking prawns. And now, having cleaned, washed and cooked them for the first time, I recognised for the first time that every day that we spent with her during the summer vacation, she laboured in the kitchen to bring tasty dishes onto the dining table – her labour of love.
I’m not sure whether she was truly fond of cooking or not. But I’m definite about why she cooked – she REALLY loved feeding all of us. The only one who protested once in a while was my younger cousin (who lived in the flat opposite theirs) who was the designated taster throughout the year as Dida tried out recipe after recipe in that little kitchen of hers. The rest of us always went back to school after the summer break much fattened!
Unfortunately for me, she passed away before I really had a chance to get to know her. Injured in an accident (she was 73 and completely fit and active), she struggled on a hospital bed for a month before moving on, just a day or two before Durga Puja. I was just 21. Receiving the news from my uncle’s office over the phone, I was shocked and shattered, and alone since both my parents were in Calcutta with her. When I spoke to my grandfather, Dadu, later that day, his words were broken for the first time in all the years I had known him.
And again, drama comes into real life with Dida. A couple of years before she died, she and Dadu were in Delhi on their annual visit. She had just visited my maternal uncle and family in Pune, and arrived at the railway station with armloads of shawls. Apparently, she had spent the long train journey knitting shawls for the entire family. The one for me was a beautiful pale peach colour – I treasure it till this day, especially since it turned out to be the last garment that she knitted for me. But where drama comes into it is my involvement with a play and how she bridged the gap between my mother and I that autumn.
We were preparing an adaptation of a play (I’ve forgotten the name of the original – but please forgive me for it has been 23 years!) which we called Sher Nikalkar Bhaga. As the “senior” members of the theatre group, we took on all the back-stage responsibilities for our productions, and for this one I was working on the sets. Since the target audience was to be children, the sets were elaborate, colourful and very expressive. There were 6 flats, 9 ft by 5 ft, to be painted on both sides, and one cut out of the Delhi skyline. So, I was spending nights at the Nizamuddin flat which the group used as a base, painting till my arms hurt (luckily, I’m partially ambidextrous), sleeping for a couple of hours, and then getting onto the first Mudrika of the day, attending college (mostly dozing through lessons except the ones involving Macbeth), going back to Nizamuddin, etc. etc. etc. I’m sure you get the picture. For approximately three weeks, my mother and I had not seen much of each other as I only stopped by the house to bathe and change – and she was miffed. Well, that’s putting it mildly. She was angry enough to declare on one of those occasions that she, for one, was NOT going to watch the play.
That’s when Dida and Dadu arrived, and over lunch one day, Dida asked which day they were going to see the play. I continued to eat silently, waiting for the explosion. It came. My mother said, without mincing words, that as a general protest over my sudden lifestyle change, she was not going to see the play. First Dida looked shocked. Then, in a very gentle voice she asked, “My grand-daughter is doing a play, and we won’t go to watch it?” With great difficulty, I kept out of the discussion, and focussed on the food (some of which was cooked by Dida and was extremely tasty!).
The decision was taken. EVERYONE, due to Dida’s gentle diktat, was to watch the play, and I was asked to book enough seats as near the front as possible. Hiding my relief, for if Ma had persisted, no one from the family would’ve dared to oppose her, I quietly left for the evening rehearsal.
And, since the sets were there, going on and off in each scene, Ma was able to see how much work had really gone into it. Though not much was said, she was proud of my work – which, but for Dida’s intervention, she would not have even got to see – and said so when I reached home later that night. It was not the last time we clashed over my passion for theatre, but at least this one ended well.
For many years after Dida’s death I spent as much time as I could with Dadu, who was really lonely without her. I did not want to miss the opportunity to get to know him too. I travelled to Calcutta between jobs, and he, till the last year of his life, always made a visit to Delhi once a year. That was his labour of love; at the age of 85+ it couldn't have been that easy travelling up and down by train. We had a connection that went beyond DNA, I think. He could tell when I was upset even if I put up a cheery face. And just a hand on my head was enough to calm me down or, make me break down completely. He left me his precious Roliflex camera and books on photography as he saw how involved I was with it, appreciating the dark room where I developed and printed roll after roll of b-and-w photographs, teaching me about angles, light and shade, composition. Even more importantly, he taught me a lot about pranayam, meditation and yoga – what to do and what to avoid. In terms of a life-style, I can’t think of anyone else who worked so diligently on leading a clean, healthy and active life.
Well, not to be too uncharacteristically mushy, in the years after they both moved on, I think I missed not having them around to a point of feeling physical pain sometimes. There are so many times that I know they would’ve really appreciated what I came up with – stuff that no one else has ever really been interested in. Like the teddy bears I knitted for Sara and Tyger two summers ago. Or the blankets I am still trying to complete knitting. Dadu would’ve been delighted with the photographs I’ve taken recently of the hiking trips around the school.
And Dida would certainly have been very proud of the culinary achievement with the calamari!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
And in the naked light I saw...
A strange thought banged about my head for quite a while today. While meditating on the cosmic consciousness this morning, I was feeling quite detached (as is generally the case unless I'm very disturbed), and got to the point where I was floating far enough to make the earth appear small as a football. And yet, while everything else was left down there, I simply couldn't detach myself from two small bundles of white energy, which, it turned out, were Sara and Tyger.
I tried, quite hard, but I could simply not let them go. Was it, I wondered as I came out of it, because I am the only one on the planet on whom they can depend for survival? And then, with a flash of blinding light, came the thought, "Would Siddharth have abandoned Rahula to go in search of enlightenment, had he not felt confident that Yashodhara would be there to bring him up?"
In the parikrama of the school that followed, this thought echoed repeatedly. Several years ago, in a TIE production called "The Prince Who Gave Up the Throne", I played the role of Yashodhara. Actually, I was cast in that role by my colleagues due, perhaps, to the ease with which I could evoke emotional memory on stage - in this case, it was waking up to find her partner gone, then meeting Channa (the charioteer) who had brought back all the royal clothes and, heartrendingly, the prince's beautiful locks of hair. The scroll which, in short, said that he had left and explained why he had to go, would be explained by the audience to Yashodhara in each show through still images.
In retrospect, it amazes me that the question that bombarded me this morning, never presented itself throughout the whole time we devised and performed the play. Somehow, in focusing on the feelings of abandonment and hopelessness as the character, the perspective of the parent did not intrude! Certainly, not only did Yashodhara not feel inadequate as a single parent, she also, according to reports, did a brilliant job of bringing up little Rahula. This was a given, taken for granted. Especially since she was a strong-willed, independent-minded, socially-conscious woman.
And yet, as it happened often in earlier times, what if there had been no Yashodhara? Women died more often then during childbirth or soon after.
What would Siddharth have done? Would he still have left home to seek enlightenment?
As a single parent, my life does completely revolve around my children. Everything I do is directly related to either their present or their possible future careers. And recently, some thoughts of my own retirement have come into focus - not to be burden on them financially, as also to be able to provide a place they can come home to.
Sometimes, when my life and what I am doing here makes no sense - and there are deep, deep longings to do something more meaningful - I force my focus back onto my children. It keeps me going till the next blip or blop. I know, as surely as the fact that the sun will set tonight and rise again tomorrow morning, that I have to do this for them. And now the new thoughts about life post retirement... Where earlier I had had some vague plan of getting to an ashram, or finding a meaningful NGO that was doing what I really want to do...
Hats off to parents who do this without any disturbance throughout their lives. But this morning the ultimate "selfless" act of giving up the kingdom to seek enlightenment, suddenly seemed like one that would not have been possible without feeling reassured that someone would look after his offspring.
This email was sent by my friend and colleague, Abhimanyu, in response to my post. He couldn’t post it as a comment as the Net was too slow (how I empathize!!!). I am adding it here as it is truly worthy of being seen by anyone who goes through feeling useless and indispensable (alternately) with boring regularity…
I can only try and understand your situation and can never realise what you go through. However, I feel that there is no need to seek enlightenment outside daily life! That is what the Buddha taught towards the end of his life. He clarified that right action in daily life can truly enlighten you! So look for enlightenment in your children and the thought processes that chain you or free you with regards to them. I am sure you do find bliss when you wake up Sara from her slumber in the morning or observe Tyger rapt in attention observing a puppy! Don’t search outside when you have the universal consciousness truly residing in your home! Seek not so far what is right where you are... remember The Alchemist?? God Bless! Prayers from my heart for the happiness of the three of you! Abhi
I tried, quite hard, but I could simply not let them go. Was it, I wondered as I came out of it, because I am the only one on the planet on whom they can depend for survival? And then, with a flash of blinding light, came the thought, "Would Siddharth have abandoned Rahula to go in search of enlightenment, had he not felt confident that Yashodhara would be there to bring him up?"
In the parikrama of the school that followed, this thought echoed repeatedly. Several years ago, in a TIE production called "The Prince Who Gave Up the Throne", I played the role of Yashodhara. Actually, I was cast in that role by my colleagues due, perhaps, to the ease with which I could evoke emotional memory on stage - in this case, it was waking up to find her partner gone, then meeting Channa (the charioteer) who had brought back all the royal clothes and, heartrendingly, the prince's beautiful locks of hair. The scroll which, in short, said that he had left and explained why he had to go, would be explained by the audience to Yashodhara in each show through still images.
In retrospect, it amazes me that the question that bombarded me this morning, never presented itself throughout the whole time we devised and performed the play. Somehow, in focusing on the feelings of abandonment and hopelessness as the character, the perspective of the parent did not intrude! Certainly, not only did Yashodhara not feel inadequate as a single parent, she also, according to reports, did a brilliant job of bringing up little Rahula. This was a given, taken for granted. Especially since she was a strong-willed, independent-minded, socially-conscious woman.
And yet, as it happened often in earlier times, what if there had been no Yashodhara? Women died more often then during childbirth or soon after.
What would Siddharth have done? Would he still have left home to seek enlightenment?
As a single parent, my life does completely revolve around my children. Everything I do is directly related to either their present or their possible future careers. And recently, some thoughts of my own retirement have come into focus - not to be burden on them financially, as also to be able to provide a place they can come home to.
Sometimes, when my life and what I am doing here makes no sense - and there are deep, deep longings to do something more meaningful - I force my focus back onto my children. It keeps me going till the next blip or blop. I know, as surely as the fact that the sun will set tonight and rise again tomorrow morning, that I have to do this for them. And now the new thoughts about life post retirement... Where earlier I had had some vague plan of getting to an ashram, or finding a meaningful NGO that was doing what I really want to do...
Hats off to parents who do this without any disturbance throughout their lives. But this morning the ultimate "selfless" act of giving up the kingdom to seek enlightenment, suddenly seemed like one that would not have been possible without feeling reassured that someone would look after his offspring.
This email was sent by my friend and colleague, Abhimanyu, in response to my post. He couldn’t post it as a comment as the Net was too slow (how I empathize!!!). I am adding it here as it is truly worthy of being seen by anyone who goes through feeling useless and indispensable (alternately) with boring regularity…
I can only try and understand your situation and can never realise what you go through. However, I feel that there is no need to seek enlightenment outside daily life! That is what the Buddha taught towards the end of his life. He clarified that right action in daily life can truly enlighten you! So look for enlightenment in your children and the thought processes that chain you or free you with regards to them. I am sure you do find bliss when you wake up Sara from her slumber in the morning or observe Tyger rapt in attention observing a puppy! Don’t search outside when you have the universal consciousness truly residing in your home! Seek not so far what is right where you are... remember The Alchemist?? God Bless! Prayers from my heart for the happiness of the three of you! Abhi
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Just the Tip of the ICEBERG
Since the news broke this morning, I've been watching with growing consternation views floating for and against the new change proposed by Mr Kapil Sibal, Hon'ble Minister for the Ministry of Human Resource Development.
At the outset, it seems that Mr Sibal has his heart in the right place. That he finds it "unacceptable" to put children and parents through the stress of the Board Exams for Grade 10 makes him, in my view, one of the "good" guys. I say this based on instinct; most good cooks will tell you that instinct usually plays a much larger role in creating a tasty dish than a well-measured recipe. So, really, what Mr Sibal must now do is follow his instinct that something is really rotten in the state of education - and act upon that instinct to completely revamp it.
However, what needs to be voiced, and voiced VERY STRONGLY, is that the Grade 10 Board Exams (and the stress caused by them) represent only the TIP of an iceberg just waiting to sink our ship.
The Times Now newshour debate was fascinating, especially in the representation of students who held diametrically opposite views. The principals, teachers and others who marched through the debate (for once, no one tried to interrupt and drown out the others' voices - a refreshing change) ALL seemed to be missing the main point.
Education, as a system, is only one little cog in the general wheel of the country. It plays an important part (as the ministry's name reflects) where "human resource development" comes into play. What Mr Sibal Must Ask is: What do we want to achieve through the system of education?
Those who spoke against Mr Sibal's proposed move to scrap the Grade 10 Board Exams had basically two points: 1) It maintains national standards; 2) It helps in streaming students according to their talent/ability. One vociferous echo, of course, was "why shouldn't children go through a bit of stress"?
THAT, to my mind (after having worked in education for about 20 years now), is the defining statement of the current system. We deeply believe, as 21st century Indians, that stress is something children need to learn to cope with; therefore, the earlier they begin (someone cited that this starts as early as Grade 1) the better they will be able to cope with it.
To all the promoters and believers of this philosophy I would like to point out that the human brain takes a LONG time to develop. In fact, research shows that the human brain reaches complete maturity only by approximately the age of 25. One student of Grade 11 was more accurate than all the grown-ups when she said that students of age 17 are better able to cope with stress than students of age 15. This is because the human brain is not just about cognitive ability. Emotional maturity (including stress-management) comes in as we mature and age and often this process goes on throughout life.
Another speaker spoke about E.Q. and was questioned by another whether I.Q. and E.Q. could exist separately.
They are no doubt better equipped to comment on these. What we need to keep in mind is that E.Q. is a scarcely understood term; it is usually bandied about by more progressive educators in order to be allowed to throw some parts of an unjustified curricular load out of the window.
Let us return to the main point then: What do we want to achieve through the system of education?
Every society, country, community, defines its goals and objectives and then designs its education system.
We are, in spite of 62 years of freedom, and many commissions and omissions later, still struggling to define the philosophy and objectives of our society. We talk about "competition", "equal platforms", "standard evaluation processes", and my favourite "core subjects" - without really having the long-term goals in mind.
Mr Sibal must ask whether in our rapidly changing world "competition" is more relevant than "cooperation".
He must ask whether the little guy in Teekli Village can really be on an equal platform as his more privileged compatriot in the school on top of the hill.
Having asked this, he must further question the whole idea of standards in evaluation; he must question very strongly what is being evaluated at all.
And finally, he must really think about the race for marks in the "core subjects" - and ask profoundly why there is such a rat race for some subjects and no rush in others.
In short, he must question the very foundations of the system that is no less than a serial killer.
As an educator, I have watched this system fail no less than 16,000 times in the last three years (a Times Now statistic). Indeed, I am lucky that I did not know any of these children who were killed by the Board Exams. But I have not slept easy knowing that I too am part of the system that killed them.
Somewhere, this "elimination" stinks of "Social Darwinism" (as described by Dr Krishna Kumar): all those who can, cope; those who can't...
Addressing the tip of the iceberg, Mr Sibal, is a good beginning. A great beginning. It gives someone like me hope that the rot can and will be exposed. And once exposed, we will have no option but to clean it up. I know that there are many like me just waiting for the opportunity to help revolutionize the system.
It is my observation that there are two circumstances that facilitate learning: 1) if the learner is involved and having a LOT of fun; 2) if the learner's survival depends on it.
Being products, usually, of fun-less learning environments, as educators it requires a great deal of effort to facilitate fun-based learning. So, we tie our children down in various knots which they must unravel in order to survive - we tell them that the be-all and end-all of their curricular efforts lie in the year-end exam. Dry rot in the foundation: teachers' attitudes to the teaching-learning process. The lack of awareness of alternatives. The lack of training to help children to be life-long learners. Deeply embedded convictions that are by now out-dated. And the readily available carrot-and-stick of the Board Exams.
So, some survive, some do really well; others, quite literally, perish. And that's 16,000 deaths too many. Even a country as over-populated as ours must never allow the death of a child to go unquestioned. We are, as a species, supposed to "look after" our young. As a community we must not become desensitized to the extent of not feeling great outrage each time a child takes his/her life - this is an appeal to the pro-stress corps: I'm quite certain that no one who has actually lost a child or a student in this manner will ever take up the "a little stress will train them" cause.
If we are to help children prepare for the future, we must keep one very important fact in mind: by the time the current batch of primary school children become old enough to seek jobs, many careers will have ceased to exist, and as many new career options will have emerged. What they need to know is how to learn quickly, without stress, and explore new areas with open minds.
So, please don't stop here, Mr Sibal. By all means, scrap the Grade 10 Board Exams, centralize all the Grade 12 exams, and bring everyone onto a "level playing field". But that alone is not going to cure the rot. Changing marks to grades, percentages to percentiles, scrapping some and centralizing others may only replace the old flawed system with a new, flawed, one. We have a real chance to turn our country around by helping to bring up our children to be happy, healthy, kind-hearted individuals who learn because they want to, not in order to score marks or grades.
At the outset, it seems that Mr Sibal has his heart in the right place. That he finds it "unacceptable" to put children and parents through the stress of the Board Exams for Grade 10 makes him, in my view, one of the "good" guys. I say this based on instinct; most good cooks will tell you that instinct usually plays a much larger role in creating a tasty dish than a well-measured recipe. So, really, what Mr Sibal must now do is follow his instinct that something is really rotten in the state of education - and act upon that instinct to completely revamp it.
However, what needs to be voiced, and voiced VERY STRONGLY, is that the Grade 10 Board Exams (and the stress caused by them) represent only the TIP of an iceberg just waiting to sink our ship.
The Times Now newshour debate was fascinating, especially in the representation of students who held diametrically opposite views. The principals, teachers and others who marched through the debate (for once, no one tried to interrupt and drown out the others' voices - a refreshing change) ALL seemed to be missing the main point.
Education, as a system, is only one little cog in the general wheel of the country. It plays an important part (as the ministry's name reflects) where "human resource development" comes into play. What Mr Sibal Must Ask is: What do we want to achieve through the system of education?
Those who spoke against Mr Sibal's proposed move to scrap the Grade 10 Board Exams had basically two points: 1) It maintains national standards; 2) It helps in streaming students according to their talent/ability. One vociferous echo, of course, was "why shouldn't children go through a bit of stress"?
THAT, to my mind (after having worked in education for about 20 years now), is the defining statement of the current system. We deeply believe, as 21st century Indians, that stress is something children need to learn to cope with; therefore, the earlier they begin (someone cited that this starts as early as Grade 1) the better they will be able to cope with it.
To all the promoters and believers of this philosophy I would like to point out that the human brain takes a LONG time to develop. In fact, research shows that the human brain reaches complete maturity only by approximately the age of 25. One student of Grade 11 was more accurate than all the grown-ups when she said that students of age 17 are better able to cope with stress than students of age 15. This is because the human brain is not just about cognitive ability. Emotional maturity (including stress-management) comes in as we mature and age and often this process goes on throughout life.
Another speaker spoke about E.Q. and was questioned by another whether I.Q. and E.Q. could exist separately.
They are no doubt better equipped to comment on these. What we need to keep in mind is that E.Q. is a scarcely understood term; it is usually bandied about by more progressive educators in order to be allowed to throw some parts of an unjustified curricular load out of the window.
Let us return to the main point then: What do we want to achieve through the system of education?
Every society, country, community, defines its goals and objectives and then designs its education system.
We are, in spite of 62 years of freedom, and many commissions and omissions later, still struggling to define the philosophy and objectives of our society. We talk about "competition", "equal platforms", "standard evaluation processes", and my favourite "core subjects" - without really having the long-term goals in mind.
Mr Sibal must ask whether in our rapidly changing world "competition" is more relevant than "cooperation".
He must ask whether the little guy in Teekli Village can really be on an equal platform as his more privileged compatriot in the school on top of the hill.
Having asked this, he must further question the whole idea of standards in evaluation; he must question very strongly what is being evaluated at all.
And finally, he must really think about the race for marks in the "core subjects" - and ask profoundly why there is such a rat race for some subjects and no rush in others.
In short, he must question the very foundations of the system that is no less than a serial killer.
As an educator, I have watched this system fail no less than 16,000 times in the last three years (a Times Now statistic). Indeed, I am lucky that I did not know any of these children who were killed by the Board Exams. But I have not slept easy knowing that I too am part of the system that killed them.
Somewhere, this "elimination" stinks of "Social Darwinism" (as described by Dr Krishna Kumar): all those who can, cope; those who can't...
Addressing the tip of the iceberg, Mr Sibal, is a good beginning. A great beginning. It gives someone like me hope that the rot can and will be exposed. And once exposed, we will have no option but to clean it up. I know that there are many like me just waiting for the opportunity to help revolutionize the system.
It is my observation that there are two circumstances that facilitate learning: 1) if the learner is involved and having a LOT of fun; 2) if the learner's survival depends on it.
Being products, usually, of fun-less learning environments, as educators it requires a great deal of effort to facilitate fun-based learning. So, we tie our children down in various knots which they must unravel in order to survive - we tell them that the be-all and end-all of their curricular efforts lie in the year-end exam. Dry rot in the foundation: teachers' attitudes to the teaching-learning process. The lack of awareness of alternatives. The lack of training to help children to be life-long learners. Deeply embedded convictions that are by now out-dated. And the readily available carrot-and-stick of the Board Exams.
So, some survive, some do really well; others, quite literally, perish. And that's 16,000 deaths too many. Even a country as over-populated as ours must never allow the death of a child to go unquestioned. We are, as a species, supposed to "look after" our young. As a community we must not become desensitized to the extent of not feeling great outrage each time a child takes his/her life - this is an appeal to the pro-stress corps: I'm quite certain that no one who has actually lost a child or a student in this manner will ever take up the "a little stress will train them" cause.
If we are to help children prepare for the future, we must keep one very important fact in mind: by the time the current batch of primary school children become old enough to seek jobs, many careers will have ceased to exist, and as many new career options will have emerged. What they need to know is how to learn quickly, without stress, and explore new areas with open minds.
So, please don't stop here, Mr Sibal. By all means, scrap the Grade 10 Board Exams, centralize all the Grade 12 exams, and bring everyone onto a "level playing field". But that alone is not going to cure the rot. Changing marks to grades, percentages to percentiles, scrapping some and centralizing others may only replace the old flawed system with a new, flawed, one. We have a real chance to turn our country around by helping to bring up our children to be happy, healthy, kind-hearted individuals who learn because they want to, not in order to score marks or grades.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
A Thorn In My Shoe
When I sat down to click-clack this one into the laptop, I seriously had a serious story in mind. But as I approached the desk, it turned itself on its head (as often happens), and now I'm laughing at myself.
But I jump the gun. Let me tell you about the thorn in my shoe.
Several weeks ago, on one of our Saturday morning romps on the Aravalis around PWS, I picked up a thorn in my left shoe. Well, actually, it wasn't the only one... There were many even thicker, longer, stronger and pokier (? - I've run out of epithets) than this one. What set it apart, was... its tenacity, I guess you could call it that. My eye-brow plucking device took care of all the rest - we had quite a collection - but somehow, this one just WOULDN'T come out. (For the hyper-hygiene conscious, I have two eye-brow plucking devices, one dedicated to pulling thorns out of my shoes. I mention this insignificant fact since I know that the hyper... will have stopped to regurgitate dinner, etc. during the previous sentence.)
So, not being all that persevering a thorn-puller-out (in any case the kids were becoming impatient) I left that persistent and tenacious thorn in.
Most of the time, I wasn't even aware of it. However, the second I would step on a stone, or a bump on the track, it would poke. (Did you know that most of our nerve endings are centred on the soles of our feet? Well, I found out, and how!). The place where it poked was the tender spot between my big toe and the next one, let's say half-an-inch south of that. OUCH! It would not only send shooting pain up my leg, but frissons down my spine as well (remember, nerve endings) and be partially debilitating for about 10 to 15 seconds each time. And time, as the scientist said, is relative. It seemed like HOURS!
This happened over a period of several weeks. By the time I got home on each occasion, I was too tired to have another go at it. And the next time I went out, there were always two impatient kids to contend with. Since I have quite a shoe-wardrobe a la Imelda Marcos (does anyone remember her?) it didn't hamper daily life beyond the fitness-freaking episodes.
OK. Finally, after one really painful event in the gym, I decided that it was either me or the thorn. Equipped with the Device, I planted myself squarely on the edge of the bed, told the kids to keep an arm's distance for all hell would shortly break loose, and had another go at it. As they looked on suspiciously, I tugged, pulled, pushed (got pricked on my finger), groaned, grunted and was generally being the roaring-Leo-rattled-by-a-thorn. But, Tenacity! It perversely hung on to the rubber, refusing to budge more than a millimetre at a time in either direction, not enough to give me enough purchase to tug it out.
Brainwave. It you can't pull it out, push it out. Now equipped with another device - a handy tool the nailclippers, there's a curvy attachment that otherwise opens bottles of various types (and no, I don't have two of those) - I pushed the dratted object INTO my shoe, pulling it inwards till... phew, it was out of the rubber.
A closer look revealed that I had pulled out worse ones in the past few weeks. But, and here it comes (the serious story), while I was engaging in battle with this thorn, a plethora of thoughts passed through the top bracket. Or rather, questions.
How often do I allow situations like this to exist - i.e. (for the innocent or the uninitiated) allow metaphorical thorns which periodically poke and hurt like the dickens - not dealing with them, somehow not even hoping that they will go away on their own, but just not dealing with them...
Once it was out, I pranced out of the house, such utter relief in the soles of my feet (OK, won't go into the winged feet metaphor). Actually, you need to go through this to know how very painful it is - and I have a very high pain-threshold.
That evening, the walk proved to be meditative... a mental list was made of all that I wasn't dealing with... they popped up out of hidden recesses almost like thought-bubbles in comic strips.
The very next morning, I set out and dealt with two such situations.
Life was looking more thorn-free.
So, now, why am I laughing at myself?
Good question. Because, as the intelligent will point out, isn't this the case with so many of us?
What makes me laugh (and those who know me, know how loudly I laugh) at myself, is that these metaphorical thorns were illusions caused by various perceptions... They weren't really thorns at all. Just mental constructs that made them appear to be painful. Remove the foundation, and they were just.... air?
For weeks I've been grieving over a remark made by someone in utter ignorance...
For days I've been scribing about my work - as an outlet for the pain caused by the above remark...
For hours I've debated on whether or not to write an email about the remark to various authorities...
For eons I've wanted to shout out really loudly that what I do in class has intrinsic value and that I don't need to "showcase" it...
For pages of my blog I've been ranting about how process-drama works...
SO, the cardinal sin - taking myself too seriously - had been committed. But luckily, all sins are washed away when you laugh at yourself.
By the way, is there a type of meditation called laughing meditation? If not, someone should invent it. It really works!
But I jump the gun. Let me tell you about the thorn in my shoe.
Several weeks ago, on one of our Saturday morning romps on the Aravalis around PWS, I picked up a thorn in my left shoe. Well, actually, it wasn't the only one... There were many even thicker, longer, stronger and pokier (? - I've run out of epithets) than this one. What set it apart, was... its tenacity, I guess you could call it that. My eye-brow plucking device took care of all the rest - we had quite a collection - but somehow, this one just WOULDN'T come out. (For the hyper-hygiene conscious, I have two eye-brow plucking devices, one dedicated to pulling thorns out of my shoes. I mention this insignificant fact since I know that the hyper... will have stopped to regurgitate dinner, etc. during the previous sentence.)
So, not being all that persevering a thorn-puller-out (in any case the kids were becoming impatient) I left that persistent and tenacious thorn in.
Most of the time, I wasn't even aware of it. However, the second I would step on a stone, or a bump on the track, it would poke. (Did you know that most of our nerve endings are centred on the soles of our feet? Well, I found out, and how!). The place where it poked was the tender spot between my big toe and the next one, let's say half-an-inch south of that. OUCH! It would not only send shooting pain up my leg, but frissons down my spine as well (remember, nerve endings) and be partially debilitating for about 10 to 15 seconds each time. And time, as the scientist said, is relative. It seemed like HOURS!
This happened over a period of several weeks. By the time I got home on each occasion, I was too tired to have another go at it. And the next time I went out, there were always two impatient kids to contend with. Since I have quite a shoe-wardrobe a la Imelda Marcos (does anyone remember her?) it didn't hamper daily life beyond the fitness-freaking episodes.
OK. Finally, after one really painful event in the gym, I decided that it was either me or the thorn. Equipped with the Device, I planted myself squarely on the edge of the bed, told the kids to keep an arm's distance for all hell would shortly break loose, and had another go at it. As they looked on suspiciously, I tugged, pulled, pushed (got pricked on my finger), groaned, grunted and was generally being the roaring-Leo-rattled-by-a-thorn. But, Tenacity! It perversely hung on to the rubber, refusing to budge more than a millimetre at a time in either direction, not enough to give me enough purchase to tug it out.
Brainwave. It you can't pull it out, push it out. Now equipped with another device - a handy tool the nailclippers, there's a curvy attachment that otherwise opens bottles of various types (and no, I don't have two of those) - I pushed the dratted object INTO my shoe, pulling it inwards till... phew, it was out of the rubber.
A closer look revealed that I had pulled out worse ones in the past few weeks. But, and here it comes (the serious story), while I was engaging in battle with this thorn, a plethora of thoughts passed through the top bracket. Or rather, questions.
How often do I allow situations like this to exist - i.e. (for the innocent or the uninitiated) allow metaphorical thorns which periodically poke and hurt like the dickens - not dealing with them, somehow not even hoping that they will go away on their own, but just not dealing with them...
Once it was out, I pranced out of the house, such utter relief in the soles of my feet (OK, won't go into the winged feet metaphor). Actually, you need to go through this to know how very painful it is - and I have a very high pain-threshold.
That evening, the walk proved to be meditative... a mental list was made of all that I wasn't dealing with... they popped up out of hidden recesses almost like thought-bubbles in comic strips.
The very next morning, I set out and dealt with two such situations.
Life was looking more thorn-free.
So, now, why am I laughing at myself?
Good question. Because, as the intelligent will point out, isn't this the case with so many of us?
What makes me laugh (and those who know me, know how loudly I laugh) at myself, is that these metaphorical thorns were illusions caused by various perceptions... They weren't really thorns at all. Just mental constructs that made them appear to be painful. Remove the foundation, and they were just.... air?
For weeks I've been grieving over a remark made by someone in utter ignorance...
For days I've been scribing about my work - as an outlet for the pain caused by the above remark...
For hours I've debated on whether or not to write an email about the remark to various authorities...
For eons I've wanted to shout out really loudly that what I do in class has intrinsic value and that I don't need to "showcase" it...
For pages of my blog I've been ranting about how process-drama works...
SO, the cardinal sin - taking myself too seriously - had been committed. But luckily, all sins are washed away when you laugh at yourself.
By the way, is there a type of meditation called laughing meditation? If not, someone should invent it. It really works!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Learning Through Drama
Or, How Grade 8x made sense of history… and what they learnt about RACISM
Drama as a process? Process for what, you might ask…
In the second semester, Grade 8x devised a play called “All For A Master Race”. This was based on Hitler’s well-propagated theory of the Aryan Master Race which he used to “exterminate” Jews in Europe, turning thousands of reasonably well-balanced individuals into anti-Semitic fanatics.
Here is the storyboard of the play:
Scene 1
Bar: An Aryan-Jewish couple (Ancel and Margaret) and their Jewish friends are sitting around the radio listening to Hitler’s speech about the master race. Margaret is scared, Ancel is reassuring – he promises to get her out of this situation safely. Adelheida, who sits at the bar, looks very scared.
Scene 2
Adelheida’s house: Adelheida disguises herself as an Aryan by dyeing her hair and using contact lenses to change her identity – she’s helped by her friend Margaret.
Scene 3
Bar: while listening to the radio German soldiers, including Adelheida, kill the Aryan-Jewish couple; freeze moment when Adelheida speaks her mind (inner conflict) about killing them, but goes ahead in order to save her own life.
Scene 4
Jewish house: Jews plan to revolt against Hitler and form a resistance group. One of them, Aaron, is clearly unhappy with the whole idea and tries to persuade everyone to plan an escape instead of a confrontation.
Scene 5
German army office: all the soldiers report that they have come to know about the Jewish Resistance movement; Aaron, the unhappy Jew comes in and betrays the resistance and tells the German soldiers about where they are hiding; Adelheida is there and slips out while the soldiers surround Aaron.
Scene 6
Jewish house: members of the Resistance are taking their places for an ambush; Adelheida arrives and tells them they have been betrayed; at first they don’t believe her, but anyway she’s too late as the German soldiers come in and there’s a shoot-out; Adelheida switches sides and fights alongside the Jews, is shot, all the other Jews die except one little boy; all the soldiers go away except General Himmler, who finds the little boy, David, who asks him why he is killing everyone – and is suddenly faced by the question, “Why am I killing the Jews?” As he struggles with his conscience, the lights fade out, leaving the audience with the question – will he or won’t he?
After the final performance, the students took an exam in which they were asked to respond to two questions:
A. What, according to you, was the central message of your play, “All for a Master Race”? To what extent do you think you managed to convey the message and why?
B. Imagine that you were the scriptwriter for your play – how would you improve and strengthen the message of your play (you may increase/decrease scenes and lines in any part of the play)?
The responses to the first part of question A were really to gauge what each one had learnt from the experience of devising and performing the play. They were told that there were no “right” or “wrong” answers for any part of the question; that they needed to analyze their play and present their own points of view.
Here are the responses: (the character each student played is mentioned, in case anyone can spot a correlation between the part played and the “message” each one took away from the experience)
General Himmler: German soldiers killed Jews on Hitler’s orders without knowing or understanding why, for no reason.
Ancel (the Aryan husband): Loss and gain. Everyone loses something or the other, and therefore gains importance.
Margaret (the Jewish wife): No matter how many mistakes and wrong decisions you make, it’s never too late to say sorry and realize your mistake.
Jan (a German soldier): 1) Realisation in a German general, brought on by a Jewish child, that he was killing people who had never harmed him. 2) Disguising herself as an Aryan, Adelheida tried to become “white” but in her heart, her race and her blood remained the same.
David (a Jewish child): Many Jews struggled and even died just because of the “master race”.
Georges Faruk (a journalist): Just be who you really are…
Frederik (a German soldier): There should not be such laws of marriage that Jews cannot marry Aryans.
Rabia (a Jewish woman): …to show the audience a flashback of the past, a detailed history about Hitler… We made the audience think about what would happen to the little child, David, in the end.
Erica (a Jewish woman, leader of the resistance): It is better to stand up for what you believe in than to hide away forever.
Marcus (a Jewish man): 1) …to what extent can you go, just to survive… 2) Forgiveness can help you.
Aarick (a German soldier): Will it be the end of the Jews?
Aaron (a Jewish man, betrays the Jewish resistance): The general, who could not decide whether or not to kill the Jewish child…
Sylvester (a German soldier): … not to kill people; why should innocent people die…
Leona (a Jewish woman who had lost her husband): I wanted the audience to realize how lucky they are to have a life such as theirs – look at how people suffered at that time.
Yara (a German soldier): Betrayal will only lead to hell.
Adelheida (a Jewish woman): 1) The problem of fitting in, an international problem that exists today – in high school, how you want to fit in so badly that you will do anything, leading to drugs, alcohol, even death. 2) “Be yourself” – how we all strive to be something we are not but eventually your true colours shine through.
And now for my analyses:
In the context of racism spreading like wildfire (almost as rapidly as the H1N1 Virus), here is a group of students (13-year-olds) that has experienced, in carefully controlled circumstances, what racism, prejudice and discrimination can do to individual human beings.
They have researched and represented a chunk of history, and made sense of human motivations – delving into extremes like betrayal, courage and mindless killing. Again, this was done in carefully controlled circumstances.
In creating an original play, they have gone deep into their own consciousness to find the seeds of all that they portrayed – from heroism, friendship, and betrayal to internal conflict and turmoil. And, in doing so, they have met their own strengths and weaknesses and have more self-awareness now than when they began.
And finally, without a breath of hesitation, I can say with great confidence that these seventeen children have learnt the lessons offered by this part of history.
Drama as a process? Process for what, you might ask…
In the second semester, Grade 8x devised a play called “All For A Master Race”. This was based on Hitler’s well-propagated theory of the Aryan Master Race which he used to “exterminate” Jews in Europe, turning thousands of reasonably well-balanced individuals into anti-Semitic fanatics.
Here is the storyboard of the play:
Scene 1
Bar: An Aryan-Jewish couple (Ancel and Margaret) and their Jewish friends are sitting around the radio listening to Hitler’s speech about the master race. Margaret is scared, Ancel is reassuring – he promises to get her out of this situation safely. Adelheida, who sits at the bar, looks very scared.
Scene 2
Adelheida’s house: Adelheida disguises herself as an Aryan by dyeing her hair and using contact lenses to change her identity – she’s helped by her friend Margaret.
Scene 3
Bar: while listening to the radio German soldiers, including Adelheida, kill the Aryan-Jewish couple; freeze moment when Adelheida speaks her mind (inner conflict) about killing them, but goes ahead in order to save her own life.
Scene 4
Jewish house: Jews plan to revolt against Hitler and form a resistance group. One of them, Aaron, is clearly unhappy with the whole idea and tries to persuade everyone to plan an escape instead of a confrontation.
Scene 5
German army office: all the soldiers report that they have come to know about the Jewish Resistance movement; Aaron, the unhappy Jew comes in and betrays the resistance and tells the German soldiers about where they are hiding; Adelheida is there and slips out while the soldiers surround Aaron.
Scene 6
Jewish house: members of the Resistance are taking their places for an ambush; Adelheida arrives and tells them they have been betrayed; at first they don’t believe her, but anyway she’s too late as the German soldiers come in and there’s a shoot-out; Adelheida switches sides and fights alongside the Jews, is shot, all the other Jews die except one little boy; all the soldiers go away except General Himmler, who finds the little boy, David, who asks him why he is killing everyone – and is suddenly faced by the question, “Why am I killing the Jews?” As he struggles with his conscience, the lights fade out, leaving the audience with the question – will he or won’t he?
After the final performance, the students took an exam in which they were asked to respond to two questions:
A. What, according to you, was the central message of your play, “All for a Master Race”? To what extent do you think you managed to convey the message and why?
B. Imagine that you were the scriptwriter for your play – how would you improve and strengthen the message of your play (you may increase/decrease scenes and lines in any part of the play)?
The responses to the first part of question A were really to gauge what each one had learnt from the experience of devising and performing the play. They were told that there were no “right” or “wrong” answers for any part of the question; that they needed to analyze their play and present their own points of view.
Here are the responses: (the character each student played is mentioned, in case anyone can spot a correlation between the part played and the “message” each one took away from the experience)
General Himmler: German soldiers killed Jews on Hitler’s orders without knowing or understanding why, for no reason.
Ancel (the Aryan husband): Loss and gain. Everyone loses something or the other, and therefore gains importance.
Margaret (the Jewish wife): No matter how many mistakes and wrong decisions you make, it’s never too late to say sorry and realize your mistake.
Jan (a German soldier): 1) Realisation in a German general, brought on by a Jewish child, that he was killing people who had never harmed him. 2) Disguising herself as an Aryan, Adelheida tried to become “white” but in her heart, her race and her blood remained the same.
David (a Jewish child): Many Jews struggled and even died just because of the “master race”.
Georges Faruk (a journalist): Just be who you really are…
Frederik (a German soldier): There should not be such laws of marriage that Jews cannot marry Aryans.
Rabia (a Jewish woman): …to show the audience a flashback of the past, a detailed history about Hitler… We made the audience think about what would happen to the little child, David, in the end.
Erica (a Jewish woman, leader of the resistance): It is better to stand up for what you believe in than to hide away forever.
Marcus (a Jewish man): 1) …to what extent can you go, just to survive… 2) Forgiveness can help you.
Aarick (a German soldier): Will it be the end of the Jews?
Aaron (a Jewish man, betrays the Jewish resistance): The general, who could not decide whether or not to kill the Jewish child…
Sylvester (a German soldier): … not to kill people; why should innocent people die…
Leona (a Jewish woman who had lost her husband): I wanted the audience to realize how lucky they are to have a life such as theirs – look at how people suffered at that time.
Yara (a German soldier): Betrayal will only lead to hell.
Adelheida (a Jewish woman): 1) The problem of fitting in, an international problem that exists today – in high school, how you want to fit in so badly that you will do anything, leading to drugs, alcohol, even death. 2) “Be yourself” – how we all strive to be something we are not but eventually your true colours shine through.
And now for my analyses:
In the context of racism spreading like wildfire (almost as rapidly as the H1N1 Virus), here is a group of students (13-year-olds) that has experienced, in carefully controlled circumstances, what racism, prejudice and discrimination can do to individual human beings.
They have researched and represented a chunk of history, and made sense of human motivations – delving into extremes like betrayal, courage and mindless killing. Again, this was done in carefully controlled circumstances.
In creating an original play, they have gone deep into their own consciousness to find the seeds of all that they portrayed – from heroism, friendship, and betrayal to internal conflict and turmoil. And, in doing so, they have met their own strengths and weaknesses and have more self-awareness now than when they began.
And finally, without a breath of hesitation, I can say with great confidence that these seventeen children have learnt the lessons offered by this part of history.
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