You don't know me

You think you know your kids. She's the smart one. He's the talkative one. He's the shy one. She's the quiet one.
But you forget that the classroom does not define them.
You forget that there are several facets to a personality.
You forget that people have different comfort zones.
You forget that they might be different in their own homes.

**********

Last Friday, I was told to go and spend time with a student in their own home. I decided to go with a girl called Shraddha - quiet, sincere, hard-working. She never disrupted my class, she barely even spoke. It used to be an achievement just to get her to talk.

But the moment she heard I was coming to her house, there was a noticeable shift in her personality. Suddenly, the excitement of the pending visit was all she could think of. As we left school together, I wasn't sure what the next few hours would bring. Would they be awkward, disturbing, or enjoyable? It turned out, all three were true.

Shraddha literally held me by my hand and guided me through the traffic and moving buses (because I told her if she let go of my hand I would get lost - a quite likely situation). As we got off the bus stop and walked towards her house, she said, "Didi I don't have a very big house, but it's also not a very small house. It's in between." Since around me there were a number of the "in-between" size houses, I thought I knew what she meant. But she stopped before a 8x8 tin-roofed and tin-walled house. Inside, one corner was the kitchen, another corner a place to have a bath. The remaining half was the hall. On one side was a television. The walls were packed with trunks and utensils and the usual house-hold items. There was one toilet (aka sundaas) outside which was common for everyone living in the similar houses around them.

In her house lived Shraddha, her parents, and her two siblings. When I first entered, I remember naively wondering if this was just a part of their house, and if they had a separate place where they slept. It seemed inconceivable to think that five people could live in an 8x8 space. And yet, cliched as it sounds, they were the happiest group of people you could think of (at least in front of me).

The lack of space hardly kept her family from treating me as royalty. As they forced me to sit on a chair while they sat around me on the ground, those same feelings of awkwardness and being privileged trickled back. It was at least an hour before I was able to convince them to let me sit down with them.

Shraddha's sister shattered another one of my misconceptions. She lived in that house, with bare minimum resources, yet spoke perfect english and was preparing for MBBS. Until I met her, somehow I always assumed that living in such conditions and going up the professional ladder could not go together. Ever since I came to TFI, I have heard so much about the sense of possibility and heard so many inspirational stories, yet this was one concept that always remained quite abstract. Meeting Gauri (Shraddha's sister) made me realize that it really is possible to speak impeccable english and chase your dreams regardless of your economic background. I realized that until now I had been unfair to my kids, telling them they could be whatever they wanted, yet not completely believing it myself.

I had been unfair to Shraddha too. That always quiet, shy girl transformed in her home-ground and became the most talkative, confident girl I ever met. She cracked jokes, laughed with me, walked with confidence, showed me around, played with me, and made me see a completely new side to her that I had never bothered to notice in class. Perhaps it was the home surrounding that allowed her to open up, but at least now I know how she really is at home, and can now work on bringing out that side of her in the classroom.

And the last lesson from that day....was how much my visit meant to her and her family, and how much I genuinely enjoyed spending time with her outside of school. Thinking back to my own school years, I would have found it so awkward to have a teacher come to my house, but the reaction I got from Shraddha and all the other students was absolutely overwhelming!

Rain Dance

The land was dry. The air was hot. The wind non-existent.
Our parched throats cried out for relief, and only to be met by the glare of the sun.
And as we sat squirming uncomfortably at the rolling streams of sweat
It happened

The horizon changed
From light blue, shades of gray entered our vision
And before we knew it, the glaring sun was gone
The non-existent wind was now cool and refreshing
The mood around shifted from frustration
Relaxed smiles replaced our frowns
And then we saw it

The dark hue of the sky was split apart
A dazzling light streaked across it
Carrying with it loud rumblings
A glimmer of hope started emerging within
We all knew what we wanted, but dare we say it out aloud?
Would the clouds and the wind betray us, and they had so often done before?
We looked at each other, wondering, hoping, waiting
And then we felt it

It fell on my head, trickling down my face
Overpowering the sweat, and bringing cool comfort
As I looked around, I knew I wasn't the only one who felt it
Loud cheers erupted from around
But before we could even finish screaming for joy
The clouds decided they could not longer hold on against the force of the water
And they let loose

Putting our bags under the shade, we ran out down the steps
Shouting, screaming, cheering, singing
Hugging, dancing, jumping, twirling
The rain dance had begun

***

I've lived in many places in my life, and seen various types of rain. In Dehradun, I've gone into the garden and collected hailstones. In Bangalore, I have gotten drenched returning from school because the rain decided to time itself accordingly. In Kuwait....well, no rain there. And in Toronto, I've complained incessantly about the rain and the depressing weather it brings.

But two days ago in Pune, I experienced rain like I never have before. As the rain started pouring, a bunch of us, ranging in age from 20 to 35, ran outside and danced in the rain for almost 2 hours. We sang and danced to every song we could think of, played every game our kids could have thought of, and bantered with our project managers to cancel our lesson plans for the day (without success, of course).

There were no inhibitions left. No awareness. No thoughts. Just feelings. Feelings of relief, excitement, craziness, laughter, friendship, and pure happiness. It was the best kind of high.

I know that monsoon in Bombay is hardly a romantic fantasy, and within a few weeks, I will be complaining incessantly about it. But for those two hours in my life, I learnt to love rain the way I never have before.

And knowing me, I think that's saying a lot.

Why TFI? - part 4 (last)

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.

Scared

Picture yourself standing in an airplane, the door wide open, the wind rushing past you in full speed, urging you with every gust to take the step. You have your parachute ready, so you know you’ll probably be safe – although it’s never a guarantee. You just need to take that one step, and the next few seconds could be the worst of your life. Your free fall could leave you injured; you might hate it from the moment you let go; you might regret the entire ordeal by the time you touch the ground.

Or you might just experience the most exhilarating feeling ever as you soar past the clouds and get to see your world from a completely different perspective.

I’ve stood at that door most of my life. In fact, the only time I’ve ever stepped off is by accident or peer pressure – never willingly. I’m scared of talking in front of many people, so I make sure I never have to become the center of attention. I’m scared of taking responsibility, so I avoid it with all my semi-conscious power. I hate making decisions, so I always ask others for their opinion under the garb of wanting all perspectives.

In short, I run far away from that door, or else hold on to it with all my might. Either way, I never step out.

It wasn’t an easy decision taking TFI, because I knew joining this organization would mean doing all the things I run away from: standing in front of a group of people and talking; taking responsibility for their results and making decisions that might affect their lives. People say you should always listen to your heart, but in my case, I think my heart is the weaker link. It’s what nudges me away from doors by altering the blood flow of my body, thus causing massive shivering and queasy stomach aches, telling me that quitting is so much easier. And the mind, for all its determination and courage, is no match for this blood-pumping organ.

Enough biology.

I’ve lived my entire life within my comfort zone, and I’ve been – comfortable – in it. But that comfort came at a tiny cost – self-confidence. I believe in TFI’s cause: “one day all children will achieve an excellent education” – how can anyone not believe in it? It’s myself that I never believed in. And so running away became a way of life – the easier path, the one without the prickly stones or the biting mosquitoes.

I don’t know if the next two years of my life will be the best or the worst; parachutes won’t be able to stop the rush of queasiness or exhilaration. I have absolutely no idea which one it will be.

Yet here I am, with no bars to hold on to, no ground underneath me.

I’ve stepped off.

Why TFI? - part 3

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.

Silently Passionate


People have different aspirations. To earn money. To see the world. To become CEOs of major companies. Doctors. Lawyers. etc.

I had one too. It's been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I wanted to make a difference to someone's life; to do some good; to be remembered in such a way that I make others smile.

Of course, I never said those words out aloud. What if someone heard? If you've ever seen Miss Congeniality, you might know what I'm talking about. Phrases like "world peace" and "human rights" have become so caught up in political melodrama that the only positive outcome they have is in being used as the butt of some dry humour. In short, they've become meaningless.

In a world where everyone around you is bursting with ambition, "wanting to do some good" hardly stands as an equal. Sure, everyone wants to end poverty and see equality. I was passionate about several causes, but never did anything about it. Not out of fear, but out of my own laziness. I took the easy route out.

Like everyone around me, I joined clubs in university to show my dedication to various causes. Perhaps even attended a potluck or two. Maybe spent a few hours here and there volunteering our time to help the 'needy'. Made myself feel good. What more could I do? What more could we do? After all, we had our real lives waiting, our real jobs. It's not like we could do this forever.

People have asked me several times why I would want to spend two years of my life doing something that I could probably do in a couple of months through volunteering. I always knew the answer to that question, but it's become a lot clearer over the last week at institute. These children are used to having volunteers come over for a couple of hours and spend time with them, showing them a really good time. But as soon as that time is over, the children know they have to go back to their own reality. These few hours might give them happy memories they could hold on to as they follow the footsteps of their parents and continue living in poverty. But those few hours won't change their life.

And it is that life that I want to change. I want to help them tap into their own potential and give them the skills they might need to bring themselves out of that poverty and create their own new reality. I don't just want to give them memories anymore. I want to give them a life, so that they can do the same to others, and set the wheels in motion.

I want to remove the silent, and stick to the passion.

Why TFI? - part 2

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.


Confused

Esters. Propane-2-ol. Complex organic compounds and whatever functions they were used for: I loved it. Organic chemistry was fascinating. Human biology was mesmerizing. And yet, here I am, a 21-year-old with an undergraduate degree in arts, who can't even remember what an ester is, how do I write propane-2-ol, or what those things are that we do with there compounds.

Life has changed. Yet one thing has remained constant: I still don't know what I want to do.

It's the question I was always asked. Being labelled as the "bright" student (colloqially known as a nerd), everyone had high expectations: "yeh toh zaroor kuch bada karegi." What that big thing was, I never knew. And again and again I was told that I would one day figure it out. And so it continues even today.

I loved biology and chemistry, yet decided to take up arts. I thought I really liked journalism, but am no longer interested in it. My list of things I don't want to do has always been huge, but the things I want to do has been empty.

People find it weird that I have absolutely no inkling of what I want to do. To be honest, so do I. I have moved from one sibject to another looking for inspiration - the kind that comes in the form of a light bulb switching on inside my head. It never came...at least, not until TFI. I wouldn't call it so much of a light bulb as a tube light that started flickering long ago and eventually came on.

Of course, the path in between the flickering was far from smooth.

Why TFI? - part 1

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.


Privileged

For as long as I can remember, I have felt this way.
...Having had a PR card in Canada without ever having lived there, and so never paying the exorbitant international fees like all my friends.
...Going to TISB, an international boarding school in Bangalore that is often automatically assciated with rich snobs.
...Living comfortably in Kuwait with two doctors as parents who earned enough to give my brother and myself the best education.
...Squirming awkwardly when approached by a beggar on the streets of Bangalore, and being told not to just hand out money to everyone. "It's just the way things are."
...And Dehradun: the place where I was born; the place where I learnt that not every human being is "created" equal. I had a friend there, more like a sister. She was our gardener's daughter, and lived with her family in a one-bedroom house next to our huge bungalow. We used to play, laugh, spend all our time together: I would tie rakhis to her brothers, and she would tie one to mine. She was family - or at least, I thought she was.

There's this memory that was burnt into my head when I was 5 or 6 years old - a memory that I think got buried under layers of useless information until I extracted it again yesterday. One day, I had invited her over for dinner (I can't remember now if that was a common occurence - this is the only night I remember). Mamma was making maggie for us. Excited, I sat down at the dining table, and when I turned around to look for her, I found her sitting sublimely on the floor with her plate. Shocked, I asked her to sit up at the table, but she politely yet firmly refused. (Again, I can't remember clearly what happened after that: either I convinced her to come up or I sat down with her). Her calm refusal still shocks me everytime I think about it - it was as though she was saying she knew her place.

It was hardly an out-of-the-world incident, but to that 5-year-old me (and even to the 21-year-old me), it was an eye-opener. She knew her place in society. Her parents and brothers knew their place in society. I don't think my parents have ever propogated this discrimination, but neither did they pretend to be on the same level. And I say pretend because it would seem like pretence to most - this discrimination has been internalized so deeply by every member of our society, that any attempt at equality seems like pretence to others.

And so, at the age of 5, I too learnt my place in society - it was at the table, not on the ground.

A rupee for your thought

Go out into the community and earn Rs.25 each. No begging. Limited resources. Two blindfolded group-members.

The rules were set. The challenge was made. The execution...was interesting.

As we were dropped off at a road with a few shops lined around, we looked at each other, wondering how we would extract money from people who barely had any to begin with. It wasn't a slum, but neither was it Bandra or Gurgaon. But as I slowly came to realize, what they lacked in money, they made in dignity, compassion, and utmost generosity.

After wandering around for a long time with nothing to sell, we soon realized labour was all we had to offer. I managed to get myself a half-hour stint at a cigar shop (more like a cigar box), thanks to another Fellow who had already convinced the owner before. Sitting in that tiny cubicle, barely understanding what the customers were asking, and looking dazedly at the countless items in the shop (bloody brands), I asked myself many times what I was doing in that stall. The odd looks from all the men coming to buy cigarettes (and something that looked like paan ki supari - but was not) didn't help. So at the end of my half-hour, I was more than happy to take my 30 rupees and get myself out. But I can't forget the old man who stood patiently behind me the entire time (while the owner lounged in front on a chair) and guided me through every sale.

Next, I hooked up with another TFI fellow, Abhishek, who until then had been earning his way by teaching people how to solve the rubik's cube (note to self: LEARN). He managed to get us a job at a xerox store, where we were given the task of binding books. Halfway into the task, the man working with us told us to stop as our hands would hurt later. Coming from someone who binds a hundred books per day and still had a big pile in front of him waiting to be bound, those were the most touching words ever.

Of course, we completed the entire pile before stopping, and began politely reverse-haggling with the owner over our payment ("aap batao kitna dein hum" / "nahi aap jo dena chahte utna dijiye"). We were hoping to get 20 each at the most. And then, he took out a 100 rupee note and gave it to us. The shock on my face could barely match the sense of guilt running through me: that was way more than we deserved. It didn't feel right taking it from him, but at the same time, his empathy and generosity meant so much more.

We had set out to earn Rs 25 each, but I felt like I had earned a sense of humility and dignity in everything we did. Around me, other fellows were sweeping floors, waiting tables and washing cars. No job was too small, no task too menial. And walking back, I couldn't help but wonder what this country would be like if every person could walk that same talk: could learn the difference between pity and empathy.

Disconnection

Training with TFI has officially begun. And one of our very first activities was to travel to a low-income community and "connect with a child". No further instructions. For me, the thought was terrifying - what am I supposed to say to a random child that would help us connect - and in one hour?!

As I walked around the narrow streets, I found myself too nervous to approach any child, so for a while I busied myself with just looking at the surroundings. I have never been in a slum before - seen them from outside, from my so-called real world, but never, physically, entered one. What appeared to be one single lane slowly ended up being a maze of small lanes, packed with one-room houses on either side. The heat drove everyone outside, and the people were sitting outside their houses and chatting with each other, looking at us visitors with unhidden curiosity. At every few steps was a barrier on the road - whether in the form of a woman was washing her clothes, or a 2-year old boy sitting naked while a man squirted water on him frome a hose-pipe, or a group of children who were playing cricket with some of our TFI fellows.

Yet their hospitality could put us so-called "hospitable Indian" to shame; as I offered some crayons and a paper to a 4-year-old boy named akaash, his mother invited me inside their home and offered lunch to me several times. How many of us would smilingly open doors (assuming we have them) to strangers trying to talk to our children, and how many of us would slam the door and call the police?

As I sat with Akaash and his sister Aarti watching them draw and colour, I realized I didn't know how to take the conversation further. Around me, other fellows were swarmed with children as they laughed, chatted, and played, and here I was, at a loss for words, unable to ask their mother questions that I was craving to know the answers of. But I didn't know what would be insensitive - that pre-conditioned sense of "appropriate versus inappropriate" kept nagging me, preventing me to speak up and ask about their family's situation and try to understand their lifestyle. 

And so, while the clock moved all too fast for the other fellows, for me, it moved all too slowly. And that scared me. The whole journey back, I was naged with doubts in my head, questioning whether I would always be like this with children, questioning my decision to spend the next two years of my life with people whom I can't seem to talk to.

But in the evening, as we sat in a huge auditorium for our opening ceremony as TFI Fellows 2011, someone from last year's batch said two things that completely stood out to me - belief and push. Belief in ourselves, that each and every one of us can do what we have set out to do, and the willingness to constantly push ourselves more and more, bringing us closer each day to achieving our goal - our mission.

I hope the believing and the pushing begin today.