Gridlocked

You stand there with a bouquet of white and yellow gerberas. At my classroom door. A good fifteen minutes before your scheduled time.

As you see me turn a corner with an armload of pale green report cards and other sheets to be signed and distributed, you hand over the bouquet to your eight-year-old cherub. He makes a move to hand it over to me but is sensible enough to see my hands are full. And stops.

I smile at him and a couple of other early bird parents who want to finish up with whatever I have to say about their precious ones and head back to their routines for the day.

I take a cursory look at the arrangements I had made in my classroom early on: A quote approved by the administration and “Welcome to the Parent Teacher Meeting” in coloured cursive on the blackboard. With a few reminders listed under it for the benefit of the parents who don’t bother to check their children’s diaries. And the activity display boards at their cheeriest, on walls.

I arrange my report cards like loaves of freshly sliced bread, on my table. Prop up a pile of summer assignments to be handed to my right, and place the attendance sheet close to the twin chairs placed across from my table.

Once done, I nod graciously at you to come in and apologise to you for having kept you waiting. Even though it was none of your business to have come early and to have waited. And make me hurry down the corridor awkwardly in my starched cotton saree.

You nudge your son whose face is a flushed pink gerbera. And encourage him to wish me before he clumsily thrusts forward the bouquet and a box of assorted chocolates. I accept, murmuring an “Oh! You shouldn’t have.” And admire your choice of flowers. Respectful. Not like a few fathers I have met who came up with red roses that gave me creeps.

Your eyes have swiftly scanned my classroom and me. With your cautious smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, I can sense your misgivings. You, an ex-NRI, who has recently relocated to India, for whatever reason; I’m guessing ageing parents who are alone or the fear of ageing alone or something in between. You want to be sure you are doing right by your son.

You are scared he might be scarred by the sudden change in culture. That his spirit might wither by a sense of not belonging. And his voice may dither in a classroom of forty students compared to maybe one-third of its strength he is used to.

You flash me your suave smile and say “Anurag likes it here,” trying hard not to roll your r’s. Please roll them away all you want; I won’t judge you. I watch enough Netflix when I’m not busy preparing the assignments on my five-year-old laptop with patchy internet. So, you can trust me to catch up on your accent.

Sorry to have digressed. I know this meeting is not about you or me. It’s about the child.

He is timid. His writing is slow. He has no friends. And he is struggling with his Hindi.

But I won’t tell you that. It’s not your or his problem to deal with. It’s mine.

I will tell you that he has the best smile. His manners are impeccable. His math skills are excellent. His art teacher is impressed with his choice of the colour palette. And it’s been just two months for him in a new classroom and he will do well in time.

I bet this is not what you wanted to hear. It’s not for no reason that you have given him a name beginning with “A”. Is it according to his star sign? Or did you look up the research that says children with names beginning with ‘A’ normally go on to conquer the world? You must have been a straight ‘A’ student throughout to have made it to the greener pastures so early on in your life and to have grazed enough to return.

I’m digressing again.

I listen to your queries on his participation in class activities patiently and give replies that won’t make you alarmed enough to devise your own set of activities at home for him. For I know, down the list of the parents I am going to meet after you, there are a couple of them who want me to give their children weekday-weekend-holiday assignments that would keep them occupied. Away from unproductive activities. Like exploring the soil under their feet and the sky above their heads. Or experiencing anything around them. They just want them to be ahead. Of everyone around them.

I hope you are not one of them.

I do draw your attention to the pale green grids on my ten-page handwritten report where he has scored ‘A’s. I hope you don’t go back home and pelt him with the ‘B’s and ‘C’s that are also a part of it.

I know it is not my place to say that the grid is inadequate. That it drives a wedge between my children and me. I wish I had the brilliance or resources to come up with the stardust that settles only on the unique jagged curves of who they are. Instead, I am just left with tools that cut and capture them in grids.

Anyway, for now, I make do with my remarks at the end of the grids. At times, I am at a loss as to what to write. And at others, I am a bit embarrassed by the profusion of adjectives. Over the years though, I have acquired a fine art of writing remarks that would not raise the expectations sky-high or dash hopes to rock bottom. Who can tell what an eight-year-old will grow up to be? I am not a kennel keeper!

Well, much as I would like to spend more time discussing the learning curve of the apple of your eye, there are 39 more to go. Maybe just 34. There are always about 5, who are too busy or too ashamed, that will not come on this day. They have already buried their hopes under ‘D’s and ‘E’s.

Thank you once again for the flowers and the chocolates, which you should not have brought. But you say today is Guru Purnima and you want to teach gratitude to your child, the Indian way. So, I’ll keep them. But if you think this is going to change how I am going to rotate seats or assign leadership roles, I am sorry to say you are going to be disappointed.

You see that tree in the corner, with uncountable branches? On it, I hang my opinion about each one of my children before I walk into the classroom. Every single day. And it took me a long time to master it.

Oh! Dammit, did I make this about me again? Sorry.

Yes, before you leave, write your remark and sign the attendance sheet, please. It would be nice if you wrote good things about me.

Pick up a brochure about the summer camp on your way out. And here, take this assignment. Don’t forget to make your child complete it before the school reopens.

Have a wonderful vacation!

#ThankyouTeacher