“Why would someone want to see me at eight in the morning!”
was my first response when I was told that the HOD of English department of a school, a former colleague of my mother’s, wanted to see me. This
was a high profile school and there was an opening for the post of an English
teacher. Through some internal (and mysterious) channels, the HOD got to know
that I happen to teach English somewhere. She phoned my mother. To cut the long story short: I was
summoned.
Now, I already have a job so I was not too keen on or desperate
for this proposal. But the only thing that tempted to even consider it was: an
opportunity to work in a purely academic space with young students who are
going to be (can’t resist the cliché) our future.
The previous evening while talking to friend I happened to
mention this proposal by the way.
“So you want to be a school teacher!” His eyebrows rose in
unison and so rose his pitch. Clearly, he was surprised.
“Well, yeah...I won’t mind. I teach for a living anyway. So
except for the change in the set-up I don’t perceive any dramatic shift. Plus,
I’ve always fancied being a teacher,” I said.
“Still! You’d better think through this,” was his last word
on the matter.
I understand his apprehension. In this highly competitive
world the notion of one’s aspiring to become a school teacher might seem
anachronistic and lax.
In retrospect, I think, I should have qualified my
affirmative. I would like to be a school teacher among the many other things
I’d like to be. The best feature of my present job is that it gives me the time
to do things on the side. And for a person of my temperament, it is critical. Apart
from working I also need to constantly be doing things that don’t feel like
work and yet give me a sense of accomplishment (hobbies stand discounted by
that measure). I would want a job wherein I am not doing JUST that.
However, while in this job, too, I teach, I can’t play the
role of a nurturer, as it were. The framework I operate in is highly
transactional and performance driven. You don’t have students—you have clients.
They have to be pleased. You talk to them about climate change or gender
equality or the things that matter beyond exam scores, and all you see them do
is return a blank look at best or yawn at worst. How to crack the damn exam is
all that matters to them.
My mother was insistent that I consider this proposal
sincerely, for she wants me to have a ‘settled and sorted’ life (ha!). My kind
of job doesn’t have universality she says. It’s fine so long as we live in the
metropolis, but what if we move? Will there be such jobs elsewhere too, she
asked pointedly.
Schools are everywhere (thank heavens!). So if I am a
qualified and experienced school teacher, my chances of being unemployed will
be minimal, now that I have long abandoned the much beaten IT path. I
understand her concern too.
But what she, and perhaps even I, do not (fully) understand
is that my life defies any form of regularity. And quite vehemently so. In my
life, since my very birth, deviation has been the norm. Whenever we have even
attempted to make it follow a set path, there’s been a backlash. (So,
yes, we have collected quite a few lemons by now).
____________________________________________________________________
After much ado I (somehow) reached the said school at eight
in the morning. The receptionist had a harried expression on her face, and I am
sure she half frowned at me when I told her that I wished to see the HOD. Maybe
expecting a smile from someone at eight in the morning is too much, so I did
not quite mind her.
“You wait there,” she said pointing to a couch (without
losing that half frown).
I saw what made her behave so: there was a steady stream of
people she had to attend to: there were parents whose wards had forgotten their
lunch-boxes, there were parents who brought along with them models and projects
that were too large to be carried by children themselves, there was a loud lady
whose son had missed his school bus because the timing of the bus was changed
without intimation and she wasn’t willing to let go off this anytime soon.
After a few minutes I was ushered into the HOD’s room. She
wasn’t around. I was again asked to wait. Soon she walked into the room. A
short and stout woman easily in her late fifties. She had fine a complexion
that complemented her pink (think Roohafza mixed in milk) sari. Her glasses
made her big eyes look even bigger. She smiled at me warmly as I rose to greet
her.
A middle-aged man followed her into the room, panting.
“Just give me a moment. I need to get this sorted,” she said
to me coolly.
The haggard man stood right next to me and placed a paper on
the table. The paper looked as worn out as did he. Apparently it was a grade
card. It had different columns and one entry under these columns was circled.
He began from where
he must have left off before he had entered the room: “Madam, I am telling you
there has been some discrepancy. These grades are wrong. This should be C1, not
D1. The final GPA will increase definitely...”
The HOD signalled him to stop by a wave of her hand. She
examined the document carefully for a second or two and referred to a list that
she had handy.
“I have already reported this matter to the class teacher
but the change hasn’t been made yet,” he said, addressing me as though I was
his interlocutor. “You see it’s a matter of my child’s future. This is
unacceptable,” he added. I nodded awkwardly.
The HOD looked up and spoke: “Sir, have patience. Please sit
down. Let me explain things to you.”
“Madam, there’s nothing to understand; the matter is simple.”
He tapped the paper with his index finger.”You just increase the GPA and allow
my son to take up mathematics. That’s all I want.”
“Will you please sit down and listen to me for a moment,”
the HOD said sharply. The man sat down and wiped his forehead. “Look, sir, the
matter of correction has to be referred to the examination department. I will
call up the concerned person right away and get that fixed. That’s not a
problem. But...” she paused here for a moment to ensure that he had all her
attention. “But the problem is that you want your student to have maths and
with that GPA I can’t give him that.”
Here she sank further back into her chair anticipating another
round of rant from across the table.
“But madam if this D1 gets changed to C1 then it...” He wasn’t
allowed to complete though.
“Sir, even then the GPA will increase by 0.2 points. It will
be 7.2. I am not giving Maths even with 7.4.
The cut-off is 7.5. Even a 7.4 won’t work. I am sorry. Besides, just
look at all his grades throughout the year: I don’t see an A anywhere. Where
were you all this while, now that you’ve suddenly grown so concerned?”
“My son was ill for some time. He sat for the annual
internal exam too! Doesn’t that count?”
“Ill? Throughout the year? Let’s not kid ourselves, sir. I
am afraid I can’t help you here.”
“I want my son to have Commerce with Maths, not Physical
Education. I want him to become a C.A. Now you tell me how could you help me?
What’s the way out?”
She almost smiled realising that now she was in command. “Apply
for a T.C. That’s all I can say. He’s not getting Maths here at any rate.”
“How can you say that? We have been associated with this
school for the past 10 years! And that’s all you have? T.C.?” He sounded
defeated now.
She grew sympathetic and softened her stance. “Look, sir, I
understand what you’re going through. But why are you pushing your son for
something he’s clearly not capable of doing? You’re doing him a disservice.
Mathematics is not the end of the world. People without maths excel too. I am
myself a student of Humanities. The subjects he takes up now are not going to
define his entire career or future. This is the age of inter-disciplinarity. Let
him do what he’s comfortable doing. Believe me, sir, I speak from experience. This
is my fifth school. I am on the verge of my retirement. You just said it
yourself: it’s you who wants him to become C.A. Ask him what he wants to
become. Subjects don’t matter, talent does!”
The man kept gazing at the paper that lay on the table. The
HOD rang up someone and explained the situation.
“Now, my office-boy will take you to the examination department.
Just go there and hand over the document; they’ll take care of it.”
The man made a reluctant exit.
She turned to me and smiled again. “I am sorry about that.”
We went to converse about the job profile and responsibilities.
“Your mother told me that you’re teaching somewhere. I think
you’d be great at the job. The formal interview will happen sometime next week;
I should let you know about it. I just called you over because I wanted to see
you. I will pass on your resume to the director,” she said.
“Thank you!” I handed her my resume.
The lines on her fair and graceful face grew slightly more
prominent as she read through it.
“O dear!” she sighed.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“You have a B.Tech degree in your undergrad, not a B.A.?”
“Yes, but I have an M.A. in English and a B.Ed. Won’t that
count?”
“But, you see, it’s a distance learning program.”
“Yes, that’s because I was working simultaneously. I have
been working, teaching rather, all these years,” I said.
“Well, it sort of counts, but you still don’t have a B.A.
And with a B.Tech degree I won’t be able to offer you a job of an English
teacher.” She sounded genuinely sorry.
“It’s a pity that talent doesn’t count in this country. We
are a country obsessed with rules and norms. I wish I could bend them for you.
You’re like my son,” she said to me, handing back the resume.
I smiled back at her and thanked her for her time and
concern.
On my way back I could not help but smile on the irony of
the whole episode.
Is it any wonder, then, that we have Tomars and Iranis
(allegedly) forging degrees?
