Degrees Of Torture

“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). 

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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?