Raj: A Story of Becoming | Thursday Tale No. 10

  The teachers we revere are often those who reached us beyond the syllabus, those who taught us to see, to hope, and to believe. Yet, we rarely turn the gaze back to them. 

  What if every great teacher is simply a lifelong learner, one who understands that to teach is to evolve? For when each classroom becomes a living mosaic of stories, teaching transforms into the art of listening, learning and becoming. 

  Raj is a meditation on what it means to guide, to falter, and to be transformed by those we think we are shaping.

Raj

Digital illustration by Mercy Rebonica.

  She was there, where she had always envisioned herself to be. She had a desk by the window side, floral curtains that allowed just the right tint of sunlight to shine on her every morning, and a stationary kit neatly picked and assembled for her by her sister. 

  It felt surreal standing in the same shoes as Ms. Gomes, Ms. Lilet, and her mother. She had traced every aspect of them, their walk, their talk, their gestures, and above all, their temperateness in interacting with others, especially children. She still remembered her young self, counting with her tiny fingers the number of years she had left to be who she wanted to be. She was disappointed when she realised that she had to study for 17 more years instead of 12 to become a teacher. 

  But all the struggles, all the self-awareness, all the conscious choice of patience and assertiveness had finally paid off. She was now a teacher. Ms. Janani Selvaragavan. 

  For a few days from the day she joined, she felt a fleeting sense of contentment every time she walked down the corridor, stood at the podium, and interacted with her students. In fact, having been brought up in the field of education, she had picked up the sense which every teacher possessed — the super power of  “just knowing things with a glance into someone's eyes.” Some days , she would make the best of her skill to call out students eating on the last bench, or the ones using their fingers to show the answer to another during a class test. But during such moments, she'd always let her smile and her kindness walk alongside her gentle reprimands. 

  5B was her first class. Despite having freelanced as a teacher, this was her first official job as a teacher, and her first official class. Janani was a natural at her role, but she still took some time to settle into the rhythm of her class and her students. In the initial days, she'd write a list of the things to do — mostly obvious, but something she was afraid she'd forget or message up. She'd write:

“To-do:

1. Open the window.

2. Write the date and subject on the board.

3. Say prayer-before-class. 

4. Take attendance.

5. Ask about their day. 

6. Ask for their homework…”

  Soon the flow set in. Within a month, despite her difficulties to remember names, she was able to recall all 60 student's names with their surnames, she knew each student's strong and weak subjects, which one could become more involved in class if pushed in the right direction, which one’s over-enthusiasm needed to be regulated without diminishing the curiosity, which one's had which needs, and which teaching method worked on which. 

  Through her observation, the only thing that became apparent was the difficulty in distinguishing between who the learner is, and who the teacher was. This reiteration amused Janani. She found joy in absorbing in the purity with which children perceived the world. 

  Even today, she vividly remembers how Parth had said that his favourite colour was white, because it readily mixed with every colour. And that being adaptable was the most important thing in life. It was too big of a philosophical idea to be put forth for a 9 year old, or at least that is what any adult was conditioned to think. 

  Janani loved listening to the tales which the children voluntarily shared. She would be writing a grammar concept on the board when a child would rise from their seat, walk to her side and say, “You know, my baby brother just rolled around yesterday.” And walk away. So through these random bits of story sharing moments, she had learnt that Shravya had a twin brother studying in the nearby all-boys school; Miara had two pet parrots, one of which had a rare diamond shaped pattern on its head; Kavish was Ms. Lavnya’s neighbour; Tina went swimming at 5 p.m every Thursday; Ronak was the only child and had ADHD; Nabiya had a visited 7 countries beyond India already; Kathy was very particular about her belonging; Zack’s parents were separating; Belinda had a heart surgery when she was 5 years old; and many more seemingly insignificant yet profound in substance. By the end of the first Unit, she had built quite a bond with almost all her students except Raj. 

  Raj was an aloof kid. He walked to class late almost everyday, mostly sat by himself, and never responded to a single question directed towards him — neither academic, nor personal. He wore his shirt untucked, his tie hanging around his neck in a loose knot, and his belt holding on to the last grip of its buckle. His shirt collar had a layer of grime, his shoes unpolished, his hair dry and unkempt, and his nails long and bit unevenly. His works were always turned in late, and were almost always shabby. Even the declaration form which had to be filled by his parents was submitted to her after 3 months and 13 calls. 

  He was a mystery to her. Every once in a while, all his work would be turned in, although late, but submitted. He would wear a pristine set of uniform, hair oiled and groomed, and he would carry an air of freshness. Those were the only days he would perform his best. 

  Because of his differing demeanor, he was always excluded from P.T. games by his peers, teased during lunch, and ostracised during class hours. Even after advising the class to be mindful, the air of divide seemed to remain. 

  Nothing about Raj was pleasing, including his timid nervous smile, which most teachers assumed as sarcastic arrogance. He also possessed the habit of blankly standing by her table for minutes without uttering a word. She would always reciprocate his smile, and try to engage him in a conversation. But nothing came out of her attempts. Eventually, she only smiled back and instructed him to return to his place, but he would not move an inch. This made her both annoyed and uncomfortable. 

  Janani had begun her teaching journey with a mild repulse for kids who disturbed her physical bubble. She preferred the proximity of an arm’s distance between her and any kid, if they approached her. She loved admiring kids, but seldom embraced or liked being embraced by them. So despite her better judgments, despite her emotional regulations, despite her patient smiles, her air betrayed her dislike for him to him. She felt bad, but she could not help herself beyond the situation. 

  From whatever she had known, Raj did not come from an economically weaker background. She had attempted several times to figure out what the issue was. She even sent him to the school Counsellor. They even tried connecting with his parents, but they were irregularly responsive. Having tried everything in her means and failed, Janani had to learn to accept that she could not touch every child, and all that she had to learn to do was ignore him. 

  Soon, the matter fell out of her mental periphery, and she focused on preparing her class for their Annual Concert. She assigned different roles, of varying importance, to different students based on their flairs. 

  Knowing Raj would not contribute much to the output, she gave him an insignificant short line to memorize and recite. She had thought that even if he was not trained at home, she could make him do it in class, given she had a month in her hand. 

  During the first practice, she was surprised to hear him effortlessly recite the line with the perfect pitch, intonation and modulation. Janani and the class were surprised. But when Janani tried to push him further, there was no response. Having had her hopes placed high too early, and having had it broken immediately, she did not venture into giving him bigger roles or responsibilities. But her faith that the boy was more than just the “Raj” that the class knew was strengthened.

  On the final days of practice, when her class had to stay back by an hour after school, it was always Raj’s parents who did not come to pick him up on time. The solitary wait, after the school had emptied out, with Raj by her side, had felt oddly uncomfortable. She accompanied him in his silence, and struggled to hold up whatever positive opinion she had built about him from diminishing. It was a true struggle. 

  The only two things she realised from the wait was that: he preferred eating cheeslings over apples for snacks, and that he could simply sit for very long without wanting to be preoccupied. This was something not even adults could do anymore. “Perhaps, this was his flair,” thought Janani, “ — To be a present observer of the world.”

  Everyday, Raj’s father — a decently groomed man in his early thirties — pulled up in his car outside the school gate, hurried in, apologised, and took Raj away. 

  On one such day, Janani found the right moment, and gathered enough composure to avoid things from turning awkward, and initiated a conversation with Raj’s father. She informed him of Raj’s timidity, the underlying brilliance, and the need for his parents to contribute enough to his academic growth. It was only through this conversation that Janani discovered that his mother had passed away last summer, and they were both trying to navigate their lives without her. He also mentioned how nannies did not seem to work for them, and how he was trying his best to manage his work and personal life together, and how they just needed some time. 

  All Janani could do throughout the exchange was feel a deep sense of pity, an expanding sense of helplessness, and profuse nodding which she believed made it awkward.

  Before departing, Raj’s father earnestly apologised and expressed deep gratitude for her understanding. Janani was perplexed by the intense conversation, and shrugged it off before leaving for home. 

  Finally, the Annual Concert concluded. Every child did their best, and every teacher and parent was fulfilled by their performances.

  Soon, the calendar pages turned to September, and it was Teacher’s Day. Janani wore a saree for the first time. With each wish, hug, greeting card, chocolate and gift, her heart became filled with gratitude for their sweet gestures. By this time, Janani’s physical bubble had shrunk, and she could accept a few brief hugs. 

  It was sweet how students found ways to express their gratitude. Some expressed their artistic skills in cutting, pasting and colouring greeting cards. Some tore out a sheet, wrote a heartfelt note and dropped it on her desk. Some brought her chocolates. Some gave her the chocolates they had received from the birthday boy that day. Some sang to her, some danced. Some just held in a hug, but not a single child shied away that day. Perhaps it was the air, or the peer pressure, or the desire to fit in, or their genuine liking for her, but that day, not a single child shied away from expressing their admiration for her. 

  After the day concluded, and the students walked out of the class in a single file, Raj approached her desk. Janani, smiled at him. Ever since the concert, she had learnt to respect his silence gesture without trying to invade it. She continued clearing up her desk while still maintaining eye contact and the smile. 

  After a long while, Raj drew out a crumpled paper bundle out of his pocket, left it on the desk, hugged her tightly around the hip, and ran away. 

  Delightedly surprised by his gesture, she reached out for the bundle. It was surprisingly heavy for a paper bundle. She quickly uncrumpled it. In it, was a tiny old bracelet, with a single green oval stud in the centre. The metal, an alloy of copper, had worn out from its original golden to a greenish brown. It probably belonged to someone. She picked it up to inspect it further, its metal chill against her index and her thumb. Under the bracelet on the paper was a tiny note scribbled in his typography: “You smile just like my mother. Happy Teacher’s day Ms. Janani!” 

- Mercy Rebonica