It was as if someone had eaten a thesaurus for breakfast and spewed out this splattering of words – loosely resembling sentences – on a piece of paper. “Pursuit of excellence”. “Flagbearers of free thought”. “Education ecosystem”. “Integrity, perseverance and…” wait for it, “consciousness”! What did that even mean? Was it a school for zombies? Did the students come to school in comatose condition?
It established its authority by using unnecessarily complicated jargon, even if its primary stakeholders were uneducated five-year-olds. Even I, aged 30, had to read that letter three times to make sense of it. What exactly was being asked of me? To shape their future? Sure, if amoeba is counted as a shape. Because that was the shape of my own life now. Fluid and directionless. Meandering and ambiguous. Confused. Not to forget, pretty much asexual of late.
But I knew I was being ungrateful. This was a skill I was most competent in. I had a gratitude journal lying by my bedside, waiting to be inaugurated, and this offer letter would have been a great way to get started – but I was, instead, viewing the letter with absolute contempt. Spend eight hours of my day surrounded by snotty little monsters voluntarily? No, thank you!
The only thing my own school could ever claim was: “Convent girls in short skirts, can kick you where it really hurts”. But then the education system had undergone quite a transformation over the years, as my best friend Dodo told me. Teachers were now kinder, academics were experiential, marks weren’t the only measure of learning, overall development in children was encouraged and parents suddenly seemed to be far more involved with their children and actually believed that the power of words worked better than the power of chappal.
Yet, that doubt nagged me. Was I really doing this? Was I choosing this life?
Was I choosing to be surrounded by tiny human beings that I didn’t give birth to? Was I choosing to wake up at the crack of dawn and board a yellow bus that would take me to an institution I’d often described as “prison”? Was I being expected to discipline eight-year-olds when I’d spent most of my own schooling hours in detention? Was I being asked to hold them accountable for not doing their homework when my imaginary dog had perpetually feasted on mine? Was I being asked to maintain discipline and pin-drop silence in the class when my legendary note-passing skills in school could put any social network to shame? Was I choosing to be an educator, a disciplinarian, a rule enforcer – voluntarily?
Unfortunately, the answer was “yes”. Because I had bills to pay, things to buy and places to be. And no other job was going to give me six weeks off at a stretch, allowing me to indulge in my real passion – travel. I had 27 stamps on my passport, a massive map of India on my wall filled with travel pins, souvenirs and magnets framed and mounted in my living room…and, yet, I wanted more. Even if it meant slaving away half my life as a primary school teacher. So, with much reluctance – and forced gratitude – I found myself completing the joining formalities.
Memories flooded my mind, as I walked down the sterile, quiet corridors of the administration block. It was like a parallel universe of chaos in the classrooms on the other side of the building. All schools felt the same. And, oh, the countless principal visits I’d made as a student for things I had and had not done! The “had not” mostly included homework and the “had” covered everything else. The prickly anticipation of what my punishment would be this time – whether Dad would be called again, whether I’d be grounded, whether I’d be let off with a stern warning only. I’d been so glad to leave those days behind me. Yet, here I was again – and life had come a full circle for me. Even if it was, for a change, not as an errant student but as an “empowered” teacher, as we had been defined in our “Proud to Teach” training module.
I reached the end of the hallway and entered the brightly lit, freakishly clean glass cabin that bristled with the fragrance of an Elizabeth Arden perfume. My new employer indicated that I should take a seat and so I did, obediently. She really radiated authority. And she always had, Mrs Mehta, my ex-high school maths teacher at my boarding school and now principal of Champion Valley School. She’d come a long way. And so had I, as I had to remind myself.
Excerpted with permission from The Fabulous Mums Of Champion Valley, by Zarreen Khan, HarperCollins India.