Education: What is the Point of it All?

The “Smart” kid.

That was me. The one who followed instructions. The one who answered questions. The one who always got the marks.

And this is me now. The confused one. The lost one. The one searching for answers – for a purpose.

For the last one year, I have been teaching a class. I have almost declared that I want to continue in the field of education. After all, it is such a noble profession. What could be more important that educating a child? Nobody has questioned the decision. Nobody has ever asked me: what is the point of education?

It was the one question I knew I would never have to answer. It was also the one question I never could answer.

What is the point of education?

So that I can quote Shakespeare.

So that I can tell you the exact date that Hitler displayed his massive army to the world.

So that I can solve for x.

What is the point of education?

So that I can go to college.

So that I can get a degree.

So that I can get a job.

So that I can get money.

What is the point of education?

So that I can get married.

So that I can have kids.

So that they can follow the same cycle.

So that my grandchildren can follow the same cycle.

What is the point of education?

So that when I lie in my grave, or feel my body burn to ashes, I have the comfort of knowing that I had  my grandchildren, my kids, a marriage, money, a job, a degree, college, the value of x, the date of the Nuremberg rally, Hamlet’s soliloquy.

I repeat, what is the point of education?

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I few days ago, I met and started working with a group of novice teachers – novice, I specify, because none of them have more than two years of teaching experience. They’re a group of unique individuals, with more differences than similarities. But they have one common cause that brought them together; a burning belief that education has a purpose: a purpose to understand self, others and life.

Self. Others. Life.

Three things that I think are worth knowing – or at least, worth attempting to know.

What is the point of Hamlet’s monologue? None, except that it helps me, as a person, understand the power of introspection and reflection of my own actions.

What is the point of knowing the date of Hitler’s Nuremberg rally? None, except that the context helps me see the impact of misconceptions and persuasion in the lives of the people who share this planet.

What is the point of knowing the value of x? None, except that it shows me that when faced with a problem I don’t know the answer to, I just need to begin with the things that I do know and work my way through [source: Gaurav Singh, 321].

Education is not about the marks; it’s not even about the content: it’s simply about what you can do with the content. It’s about what you learn.

Unfortunately, we live in a world that cares more about results than learning. Results can be measured. Learning cannot. Teaching, for that matter, cannot.

And so, we as Indians continue to pride ourselves on our ability to retain information beyond the point of saturation. And others in USA continue to pride themselves on having some of the best teaching institutions when it comes to student achievement results.

No one cares if I learned something today that made me question myself, understand the people around me, or probe life for further answers.

Why? That should matter.

What shouldn’t matter is whether I followed instructions. Whether I answered the questions. Whether I got the marks.

Whether I was the “smart” kid.

Discovering Pakistan

I’m obsessed with Pakistan. And no, I don’t mean I want to throw missiles at it. I’m obsessed with wanting to visit the country, with wanting to change people’s perception of that nation, and more importantly, I’m obsessed with the notion that just because I’m Indian, I’m not going to blindly hate Pakistan.

Of course, that kind of obsession is nothing sort of blasphemy in this country. How dare I pick Pakistan over India? Well, don’t force me to pick then.

It’s not easy for someone to understand why I’m so obsessed with our neighbouring enemy, because it’s not something I understand myself entirely. So in an attempt to understand, I decided to re-visit my life.

*******

I was a kid. I can’t even remember how old, maybe seven or eight. I just remember a typical match between India and Pakistan, where my entire family gathered around in Bangalore to cheer for India. I remember looking around at them, taking in their passionate love for India, and even more, their passionate hatred for Pakistan. And I remember thinking to myself how unfair it was that there was nobody around to support Pakistan. So I loudly proclaimed to everyone around that I would support Pakistan in the match, quite enjoying their looks of shock and outrage.

And that’s what I did. For that game and every game that was played thereafter. I think I was just supporting the underdog. But I had no idea that I was starting to walk down a path that I would never turn away from.

*******

Five years ago, I stepped onto the York University campus, having arrived fresh from India. Walking around, I came across a statue of Mahatma Gandhi at the library, and instantly felt a surge of pride. Then, walking outside, I came across another statue that made me stop suddenly with a frown on my face. It was the statue of Mohammed Ali Jinnah. I didn’t understand what it was doing here. Wasn’t he the man responsible for the partition of India and the subsequent massacre? Wasn’t he the biggest villain in Indian history? What were these people thinking, placing his statue – a considerably large one, at that – on campus?

*******

A few weeks later, a friend of mine, introduced me to another group of first-year students. I was really apprehensive and shy about meeting people in this new country, but one glance at the group and I sighed in relief. The dark hair, the skin tone and the unmistakable language gave it away. I felt myself relaxing without even trying to. Turning to the girl standing next to me, I asked – India? Without missing a beat or faltering in her smile, the girl who would soon become my closest friend in college shook her head and said – Pakistan.

*******

Towards the end of the first year, the Pakistani Students’ Association screened a movie on campus called “Jinnah.” By this time, my circle of friends included a mix of Indians and Pakistanis, so I was comfortable enough to admit that I really wanted to understand this subject more. Who was this Jinnah person really? And why was he called Quaid-e-Azam? I needed to solve this quandary before I could understand head or tail of Pakistan. Moreover, I told myself, if Shashi Kapoor – a famous Indian actor – was a part of this film, it couldn’t entirely be Pakistani propaganda, could it?

So I went to watch the film. And it turned out to be a film that left me feeling like I had just been punched in the stomach. It showed me a version of history that I could never have imagined even existed. It made me realize just how biased my own history classes had been. Of course, the film itself was far from unbiased. But it managed to imbibe in me a mindset that has not yet left me: that there can be more than one side to a story.

*******

Just before I started my third year, Jaswant Singh, an Indian politician, was expelled from the BJP party because he wrote a “controversial” book on Jinnah. His book was even banned in the state of Gujarat. Regardless of the contents of the book (which shockingly did not put the entire partition blame on Jinnah), that event really shook me. Banning a book? Firing a person for speaking out in a different light? Was this the same country that specifically gave us all freedom of speech in its constitution? I’m not saying Indians should forget all their history in a spur of the moments and turn 360 degrees in their thoughts, but not allowing people to voice out their thoughts because they went against the accepted public view was plain dictatorship. It didn’t exactly increase my faith in this nation.

*******

During my fourth year, I shared an apartment with the aforementioned Pakistani friend. One random day, I can’t remember why, but we were going over the map of India and Pakistan. And very soon, we got into an argument. We were pointing to the same area on the map, but she kept insisting that it was called Azaad Kashmir, while I resolutely said it was Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (POK). We were sure the other person was wrong, because this was a fact that we had both grown up with, so there was no way we could be wrong. Finally, Wikipedia solved our quandary. Both of us were right. It was the same area – just called by two different names, depending on the nation we belonged to.

*******

The end of my final year in college was marked by the cricket world cup, where India and Pakistan met each other in the Semi-Finals. The tension brewing on campus was quite palpable. My roommate and I decided it was time for us to act appropriately as rivals, and so divided up our house into Azaad Bathroom and Pakistan Occupied Kitchen.

Not wanting a massacre, the match was screened in two separate rooms on campus. Yet they were close enough for me to jump back and forth. Every time I entered the “Pakistani room”, I was met with waves and cheers and half-hearted jeers. I think it was in the midst of throwing insults at each other with big smiles on our faces that I realized I felt more comfortable in this room than the other.

*******

Just before I left Canada to join Teach for India, another Pakistani friend of mine said to me, “I know there will be at least one classroom in all of India where the children will not see or hate Pakistan as the enemy.”

*******

Since I was teaching Std. 2, I told myself these kids were too young to be discussing heavy topics like India and Pakistan. So I ignored the subject altogether.

Six months after I started teaching my Std. 2 kids, one boy came up to me with a drawing and started explaining it to me proudly – “Yeh India hai. Yeh Pakistan hai. Aur yeh India Pakistan par missile daal raha hai.”

I had no reply for him.

*******

My friend and I had been planning a trip to Goa for a while, yet it kept getting postponed for some reason or the other. Last week, he told me that it would have to be pushed further back, because he had just got his visa for Pakistan and was planning to visit there. He seemed really apologetic. So I said to him, “Dude. Chill. Goa or Pakistan? No competition.”

Just before we hung up, he said, “Ruch, you realize we’re probably the only two people in India who would think that?”

I wish we weren’t. 

A Walk Down Marine Drive

It’s a sea like any other. There aren’t even big waves to boast of. But there is a charm – a rather inexplicable one – that draws me back to this place again and again.

I’ve always wondered what was so special about Marine Drive. Why is it that I make sure that anyone who visits Bombay has to go there? What makes it such a major tourist destination? What makes me – time and again – walk into Dadar station just to hop onto a train heading towards Churchgate, just to go and lie down next to the sea all by myself?

The view is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that. But at the end of the day, it’s a sea like any other. It doesn’t have Goa’s waves to boast of, or the breathtaking shades of blue like Maldives. It’s isn’t lined with pubs or amazing restaurants, and if you ever begin to search for a dustbin, you’re probably in for a long and unsuccessful trek. In fact, having been home recently, I’d say it looks almost identical to the Gulf Road in Kuwait.

Despite all this, I keep going back there. And the last time I went there to show Mom around, staring at all the people around me, I think I started to understand a part of that charm.

It was a Sunday evening, and as any Mumbaiker would know, Marine drive was packed. Packed with anybody and everybody – children, adults, old couples, young couples, gay couples, Parsis, Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Indians, non-Indians, rich folk, poor folk, people in saris, burqas, tank tops and shorts, either jogging or walking or sitting or sleeping  –  all human beings were welcome. Actually, for that matter, so were monkeys and dogs (pet as well as stray). And I realized that this is exactly what makes Marine Drive so special – anyone and everyone is welcome there. There is an unspoken, unwritten, open invitation available for all.

Then again, it’s Bombay. It’s filled with people. Nobody ever needs an invitation to get on the local train. So how can people make this place so special? I think it’s because over here the people are no longer special. Sitting in awe of the vast sea and feeling alive with every gust of the wind, individuals stop mattering. There are no expectations, no entrance fee, no dress code, no code of conduct, and no restrictions based on your background. Nobody is going to ask you who you are, nobody cares what you wear or where you live. You could live in a mansion or on the street – here, it doesn’t matter. Because here, everyone’s the same. Whether you’re the CEO of a major company or the street vendor selling channa, it just doesn’t matter. Unless you’re Salman Khan, I doubt anyone’s going to spare more than a few seconds to glance at your. it’s just you, the sea and the wind, and about a hundred odd people whom you probably have nothing in common with, except a love for this place.

And unlike every other place in Bombay where people seem to always be in a hurry to get places, here, time just slows down. You’re no longer trying to reach a destination, you’re already there, so you might as well enjoy every moment. 

A lice problem...

Before leaving for Bombay, mum told me not to go around proclaiming the news to people. So, naturally, I decided to write a blog about it and post it on Facebook.

It started as a small insignificant itch, before slowly gaining the kind of frenzy that had me scratching my head at every given moment, regardless of who was around. After one month of crazy scratching, the first thing I said to my mother when I met her was “Something is wrong with my head! Please have a look.”

She didn’t have to look, really. The incessant scratching was enough to tell her what was the problem. But just to confirm, she glanced through my hair, before stating, “Yep, you’ve got lice.”

Now, for anyone who might not be aware, head lice (singular: louse) are “wingless insects spending their entire life on human scalp and feeding exclusively on human blood.” – Source: Wikipedia.

Okay, so the problem was diagnosed. I had insects sucking the blood from my scalp and making babies all over my head. Now all we had to worry about was the cure. So we scanned the pages of Google to figure out the best way to remove head-lice. After rejecting the possibility of dousing my hair in cooking oil and vinegar, I decided on a safer alternative – poison.

At least, that’s what it said on the cover of Licel oil. Moment of self-realization: pouring oil on your head suddenly becomes a lot harder when the bottle comes with a single-word warning: poison.

In any case, I did it. Twice. I even bought a special lice comb from this guy at Dadar station, who laughed when I asked him for it, saying most people never ask him for a lice-comb so directly. His words reminded me of something my mother had mentioned. Apparently, society – aka people – tend to have very similar reactions when they encounter someone who has head lice. I think the reaction goes something like: ewwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!

Before leaving for Bombay, mum told me not to go around proclaiming the news to people. I think she knew my erratic tendencies a bit too well.

So, naturally, I decided to write a blog about it and post it on Facebook.

I’m trying to understand the connection between head lice and eww. Sure, the last thing anyone wants is to have little insects pouring their faeces all over your head, but still. The problem is the insect, not the person, right? Why ostracize the person?

Perhaps this has a lot to do with the cause of head-lice infestation: they are more common in places where personal hygiene is not seen as being of utmost importance – such as slums, where people might have slightly bigger concerns in their lives. And the most common way for transmission is through hair-to-hair contact. Assuming that I got the lice from one of my 45 kids, the thought that comes to mind is – how do I make sure I don’t get it again?

The answer is simple – I stay away from them. Physically, I maintain my distance. This means no carrying them, or swinging them around, or receiving impromptu bear hugs from the entire class.

To any other person, the choice might be a no-brainer, especially when you consider the importance of your hair, the embarrassment from walking around scratching your head at all times, and the thought of creepy-crawly insects going at it through your lovely tresses.

To me, the choice is also a no-brainer, especially when I think of a little girl Mahek who gives the warmest hugs after Mom; the kind of hug that cheers you up no matter how bad your day is going; the kind of hug that makes me get down on my knees in front of this little kid and ask her specially for a hug - a request she is only too happy to fulfill.

Three guesses as to which option I would choose?

The mind of a grouchy adult

Remember when you were a little kid, and were constantly told by adults - don't put your hand out of the car window, don't touch that knife, don't get wet in the rain, don't run down the stairs, don't stand too close to the door in the train, don't run, don't stand, don't sit, don't talk - just don't.

And the whole time there was just one thought running through your head - Aaaaaaaaarrrrghhhhhhhhh!!!

Why did adults have to be so negative all the time?! Were they programmed to say the words "don't" or "no"? Do they really have no faith in children? Do they really think I'm so stupid as to intentionally burn my hand with an iron? Please, I know it is hot! (from experience...)

I promised myself that when I became an adult, I would never treat kids as though they were incapable to doing anything correctly - I'd let them try new things, make their own mistakes, learn from their mistakes. I'll show the adults around me how it's really done. Now all I needed to do was find myself a kid or two...

I found 45 of them. And in the words of Russell Peters - I turned grouchy adult so fast...!!!

Every request that came my way automatically met with a no.


No, you cannot run in the corridor. No, you cannot jump on the benches. They're kids. They're tiny kids. They don't know any better. I'm the adult around here. I can't let them go haywire. I'll have to say no.

Yep, I became the very adult version I had always told myself I'd never be.

But today, standing at the doorway of a local train, I was just reminiscing about all those times as a kid when I was told not to stand too close to the edge, and I couldn't help but wonder why adults become such boring grouches when we're around kids. Is it that I don't trust my kids? Do I really think they're going to jump out of the window of the bus if it is open too wide?

After mulling over this for 30 minutes in the Bombay local, I came to one simple explanation - fear. I have been given the responsibility of 45 children, and I think this responsibility is scarier than being responsible for a multinational corporation. Because one small incident could end disastrously. Sure, the odds of something going wrong are probably less than 5%, but even that is too much for the side of me that is scared of "what if something goes wrong". It's easy to be responsible for yourself, but not so much for others. Especially when the others belong to someone else, and your careless gaze could be the reason for a family shattering to pieces. I have no problem with my kids running down the stairs, but every time one of them falls and gets hurt, the guilt weighs down as I have to face their parents.

So I don't think the problem is that adults don't trust kids - in fact, the chances of us "grown-ups" getting hurt by doing something stupid are probably much greater than kids, considering how sure we are of ourselves. It's that we - at least I - fear that I won't be able to keep up with the responsibility of their safety. So instead of giving them the 95% odds of successfully running backwards across the corridor, I just tell them a flat out no.

Then again, maybe it really is that adults get automatically programmed to reply in negatives. Maybe it's an unconscious initiation rite.

I think someone up there is probably using my life right now to teach his kids the meaning of the words "irony" and "hypocrisy."

Grouchy Adult, signing off.

That Meeting Ground

I spoke to a close friend of mine today. We share a lot of things, yet the one thing we do not share is our nationalities. As we were discussing whether it would be better to meet up in Canada or Dubai, this thought struck me:

You live across from me
Across that street
Across that line
The one we're not allowed to cross

I can stand at my gate
Yet I cannot see you
I can wave to you
Yet have no idea if you're waving back
Even though you live across from me
Across that line we're not allowed to cross

I want to see you
I want to cross the street
I want to cross this line I can't see
But they hold me back
The voices, the anger, the resentment
They are not mine, yet they surround me
They won't let me cross
All I can do is stand at my gate and wave
Hoping, that you're waving back

I want to see your house,
The one I saw in pictures
I want to see your family
Whom I heard you talking to on the phone
I want to see your friends
Who you always spoke about
I want to see your neighbourhood
Which sounds very similar to my own
I want to see you

We're neighbours who cannot meet
Living in a suburb of rivalry
Looking for a common ground
One that is far from our homes
Where there are no voices, anger or resentment

But that meeting ground comes at a price
I can see you
But I still cannot see your home
The one I saw in pictures
I cannot see your family
Whom I heard you talking to on the phone
I cannot see your friends
Who you always spoke about
I cannot see your neighbourhood
Which sounds very similar to my own
I cannot see your country
Which sits next to my own.

For the love of the game

It’s like a dance

A partner dance

Except you don’t look at each other

Yet you move together

In perfect coordination

Without planning

You just know

When he moves to the left

You automatically move to the right

When you move in front

He moves behind

Your eyes don’t have time to meet

At all times, they are focused in front

At that tiny ball whizzing across the table

Time slows down

Your senses go in hyperdrive

Noticing things seemingly inconsequential

The angle of the opponent’s racket

The slight spin on the ball

Your own involuntary crouch

Your partner moving aside to make room

Your own feet moving on their own accord

Ready to strike

Yet ready to move aside just as quickly

To make room for your partner

It’s a game of alternation

Where the chain of events are sacred

Unlike badminton, one strong player isn’t enough

Your partner counts as much as you

And you count as much as your partner

You can’t take all the shots, as much as you would like to

You have to trust your partner to make it in time

Trust your partner to notice the spin that you can see

Trust your partner to return it with precision

Trust your partner to move aside in time

Trust your partner to learn from mistakes

And trust your partner, to trust you