A simple revision question for my class 3s this morning. Hands shot up, and as usual, it was fielding the salvo of numerous good answers which kept me on my toes. "We can't see air, Sir." Very good. And correct. Hold that thought.
Each child was then given an incomplete pie chart on which to label the gases which make up air. "Label the sections with the correct gases and then colour it in."
"But Sir, gases have no colour!"
Outwitted by an 8-year old, again.
Class four in the next lesson weren't such a challenge.
"Nikesh, how tall are you?"
A big smile from little Nikesh: "Nice, Sir."
Hmmm. Some work to do there, although in terms of his development as a 'thought-phobic' Indian citizen he is right on track...
Higher up the school today and Sarah and I found ourselves apologising to one particular student. Although we may have made considerable progress towards Everest during our trek, we returned, along with the students and staff who had celebrated their equivalent of Christmas, to find that much of the progress we had made prior had regressed. Unbelievably frustrating, although we should have predicted it. But let me paint you a picture:
Abishek is really the character of the school's pupils; bright, well liked, and cheeky as you'd expect from a chap whose character is so much bigger than his stature. Inclusive Indian education most certainly is not. So as the best, Abishek finds himself volunteered for most extra-curricular activities: at the moment this includes football team member, lead role for our English play, Nepali dancer for the school's foundation day performance, and participating in the inter-school fashion show during the town's inaugural 'tourism festival'. Which would be fine... Except that he's forced to spend hours on the latter, 'practising' (practising in India is a good pseudonym for justifying idleness) during scheduled school lessons, and play rehearsal times. Pulled this way and that, and wanting to excel in his forthcoming academic exams, the poor chap has found himself in the midst of our disagreements with the headmaster regarding our thoughts on his dismissal of lessons in favour of events that make him look good. It's an extraordinary situation, and one that poor old Abishek is merely the puppet for.
It's worth noting at this point that we were given strict instructions that the school play should have no reference to romance in it. And yet, taking 12-14 year old kids out of lessons to strut seductively along a catwalk is encouraged...
So, we've definitely regressed since before the break. But we have done so in a way that shouldn't really have come as any surprise. It's classically Indian. When we approach the headmaster to ask why half our cast are missing for their scheduled play practice, he assures us with an infuriating "sure, sure" (which means that he isn't listening to a word we are saying) that he'll solve the problem. How? Easy. If the children must be at 'fashion show' competition practice during slotted rehearsal time, then simply move rehearsal time to during lessons in the morning...
This is but one example of how things happen here. Spontaneous is one thing, but unconsidered spontaneous is the staple and very wearing too. It shouldn't raise blood-pressure after over 6 weeks, but I'll share another classic example with you:
We've identified that nursery would benefit from a lot of work. One aspect would be to install a blackboard. So we were pleased to see today that in fact that is just what has happened. Until of course, we realised that class 1 is now without one. The term consequence is almost as rare in Indian vocabulary as the concept of planning. They are both on the endangered-near-extinct list and I suspect that Sarah and I are not sufficient to preserve them.
As truly oxymoronic and frustrating as all this is, one aspect out here never fails to make us smile: the children. Only today were we treated to an impromptu performance of the Nepali song they have been practising for Foundation day. Their keenness to show us what they could do, to make us happy is just, well, almost selfless and that is quite overwhelming. And they are so so patient. Nursery kids sit quietly whilst their teachers all but ignore them, older children wait calmly for their scant moments of activity at the farcical fashion show practice, and they all tolerate teacher absences (any number of excuses are justifiable) with behaviour that is scarcely believable, so good are they. So perhaps that is what they really learn at school: patience and the discipline to have absolutely no expectations of those adults responsible for them during the day. The adults often display so much patience that you expect that they would wait for themselves before making any sort of decision. Perhaps this adds weight to my suggestion. But of course, all this patience is always punctuated by occasional outbursts of such frenetic and chaotic activity that at least it reassures you that you are of course still in India.
One final observation, and perhaps my first of a toiletry nature so far (hopefully the only one!). All, and I mean all, the shops sell loo paper. How extraordinary in a country where no one actually uses it...
Pictures:
Classes 2,3 and 4 give it their all singing to us.
The cast of 'The Wager' making props...
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