There’s a certain image of ourselves we have in our minds - the kind of people we like to believe we are. And I suppose on most occasions, we try hard to match up to that image. But there are also many occasions where we fall short of being our best selves; moments that make you look back at yourself and cringe with guilt.
Around 9 years ago, I took up a two-year Fellowship to teach children in a government school in Mumbai. Going in, I didn’t know what exactly I was going to do, but I did have a certain idea of the kind of teacher I wanted to be; or at least, the kind of teacher I didn’t want to be: that angry, shouting, scary type.
And for the most part, I managed that. I might not have been the most efficient teacher when it came to increasing the learning outcomes of my students, but I was a teacher they were all comfortable with. But what I gained there in terms of the trust of the students, I lost out in managing their behaviour. And while I tried hard to maintain my temper and not become that person, there were occasions when it became really difficult.
This story is about such an occasion.
It was towards the end of the school day, which, most teachers would know, is also the time of peak exhaustion and brain-friedness. The kids had their PT period, for which everyone had to go downstairs. The school management had recently asked us to start locking the classroom doors, so I had to ensure every child was out before I could lock the door and go along.
There was one student, V, who refused to leave. Now, from the time I knew her, V had been a fairly docile and quiet girl. She had short hair, and big brown eyes that could melt anyone’s heart. But for the last few weeks, she had been acting out in different ways: the most prominent being leaning over her desk and swinging dazedly in the middle of any class. I’d asked her to stop multiple times, and she would, but only to go back to that habit a little while later.
That day, as I was waiting for all the students to leave, V continued to lean over her desk and swing her legs. After ignoring multiple requests from me to go down with the others, she looked at me and finally said, “No”. I was shocked. She had never directly refused to follow an instruction before. When I asked her why, she didn’t respond, and just continued swinging her legs.
This went on for a while: me, frustrated, asking her to leave the classroom, knowing I had 40 kids already downstairs waiting for me and most likely creating a ruckus; and her, nonchalantly swinging from that desk, ignoring every request and order to leave the room.
I don’t know what happened. Something within me snapped. I looked at her, the anger evident on my face, and said, “Fine, I’m locking this door with you inside.”
Instantly, her face changed. She stopped swinging and cried out for me to stop. But I was beyond the point of rationality and empathy. In fact, a part of me was actually sadistically happy that I’d finally managed to get a reaction and figure out what it was that would make her move. I could have closed the door and not locked it. She would probably have come out.
But I went ahead and locked it. With her inside, crying, screaming, banging the door.
And then, to make it worse, I took a few steps away from the door, just to let her suffer for a little longer. Finally, after waiting for a good 20 seconds, I opened the door. She was there, crying her eyes out, looking terrified.
In that moment, as I looked at her terrified face, something broke within me. Guilt rose up in a very real way. I wanted to hug her, but I guess my ego held me back. So I let her walk past me, tears still streaming down her face, as I finally locked up the door and went to join the class downstairs.
I can’t excuse what I did that day. Exhaustion, impatience, 40 crazy students - none of that makes up for those terrified, crying eyes: the ones I was supposed to protect, not terrify. That incident weighed me down for the rest of the day and all night. I knew that at the very least, I had to apologize to her, if for nothing else but to ease out my own guilt.
So the next day, I got my chance when I found V in the corridor without any of the other students. I went to her and called out her name. She looked at me, with those big eyes, but strangely, with no glimpse of anger or fear. Just those big, brown eyes looking at me questioningly, as though nothing had happened.
I crouched down in front of her, and said I was sorry for what I did yesterday. I expected some sulkiness, maybe a few more tears, or another glimpse of that fear I had been the source of.
But her big eyes got even bigger, a little lost and incredulous. She smiled hesitantly, and said, “It’s okay,” as though the apology was unwarranted.
I pulled her in for a big hug, which she returned warmly.
As I watched her continue on her way down the corridor, the feeling of relief mixed with something heavier: the surprise on her face made it clear that she never expected an adult, a teacher, a person of authority to ever apologize for their actions.
Maybe because nobody ever had.
