All the World's a Stage

This is the story of how I came to be an educational celebrity. Or something along those lines.

Famous garden on my commute

1. Walking to Work is Good for the Environment

Right? So in an effort to see the city, save some Rupees, maybe even lessen my carbon footprint (that last one is just for good faith) I decide to walk to work this morning. It's a nice day, not too hot, and I have enough maps that there's only about a 15% chance of me getting lost. Okay.

It only takes a few minutes for me to notice that those charming little curious looks that I receive everywhere I go have now become full-fledged stares. Bikes going by me stop or nearly swerve off the road that they seem to have forgotten to watch. It's not everybody, but its consistent. Every so often a middle-aged man will give me a big smile.

Now, I'm not particularly out of step with the rest of the pedestrians, and I'm a professional at not-look-like-a-tourist-ing (I once had a woman seriously argue with me about whether or not I was a native New Yorker). But so far, I haven't seen a single foreigner in all of Chandigarh.

Fresh flower shop for puja (worship).

Someone (you know who you are) decided to enlighten me on how India's relationship with pornography may or may not influence the way people interact with me. This wasn't something I particularly wanted to know, but it might explain a bit. So in India, where the sight of public kissing can still be considered obscene, the dirty show is most definitely illegal. In fact, one of the teachers was asking me earlier if sex before marriage had been legalized in America. “We can't do that here,” she said with a half-smile, half-grimace. So this special someone's thought is that this anti-porn law may lead to a conceptualization of Western women based on actresses in available freaky films.

But that's just one hypothesis (and a shout-out, you crazy fool).

I make it about 3km before I give up and get on a damn rickshaw. No time for walking, Docta Jones.

2. Edutainment

Believe it or not, this is where it gets weird.

I make it to school okay, and spend some time in the Principal's office (read: lounge) where I get more quality time with Parveen (remember her? Touchy-feely, no English?) and the "take-take-take" serving lady. They notice the tattoo I have on my wrist, a thick-lined sparrow flying over the ocean, fashioned in the maritime tradition of travel. The two are admiring it (“very nice”), asking me who drew it. It takes a minute for them to realize that it's permanent. The serving lady doesn't seem to believe it, and rubs her thumb over it for about thirty seconds, perhaps thinking each next stroke will the the one to smudge it. Atleast now they know the word "tattoo."

The cleaning lady takes her hand and places it next to mine. “Yours light. Me dark,” she says, pointing to our hands. “This is good hand,” she says, holding my hand. “Light.”

I weakly protest. What can I say that will transcend our language barrier? “No” is all I come up with.

This isn't the first time someone's told me about the Indian obsession with fairness. The other night, I watched an Indian Serial (read: Soap Opera) with my hostess, and was kind of surprised to see how unbelievably pale the actors were. Several commercials were for soaps with whitening agents, and I later found some of this skin bleach in my own bathroom. It seems that complexion self-hatred is somewhat more universal than I had expected. I wonder if these soaps are as deadly as our tanning booths.

Upstairs, I meet with 9^th/10^th grade class teacher again. Apparently she teaches and runs both grades, and she's going to have me sit in on her 10^th grade session before I start with my own 9^th. Up until now, I've never taught my own class before; I've always been the TA, tutor, etc. So I'm pretty nervous and happy that I'll get to sit in on this one, see how it's done. There are about sixty fifteen-year-olds in this room, all in uniform and separated by gender. At the front of the room is a plastic lawn chair, similar to the rest of the teacher's chairs I've seen. The teacher walks with a limp and seems somewhat disabled, but forces me to take the chair (despite my protests) as if I'm some sort of foreign dignitary.

“Good Morning, Ma'am,” they chant in unison.  Those nearby touch the foot of the teacher and then their faces. “This is our new teacher, she is from America, and she will be telling us a little bit about herself today.”

What's that?

Okay, let's see. “My name is Kelly, and I'm an Anthropologist. Has anyone heard that word before?”

Oooh, that felt good to say. Blah, blah, blah, snow, blah, university, blah, blah, blah. Okay, that was about four minutes. Good introduction.

Buddha on a bookcase

Nope. I'm going to be introducing myself, apparently, for the entire forty minute class. I thought we were working on reading comprehension....?

It basically turns into a long Q & A session about America. Do girls really fight like in Charlie's Angels? What do they wear in America? What are your holidays? Wait, can you explain Halloween again? No, is this really real? Monsters and candy?

When they ask me to speak a little Italian, I tell the only Italian joke I know. They love it, they're laughing and clapping at the sound of all those vowels. They ask me to say something in Hindi, and I say the only thing I'm sure I know; “namaste,” with a minute head bow. Kids are rocking back in their chairs with laughter and grinning ear-to-ear.

I'm really not one of those people to get up in front of a room and charm it. I like to think that with a little experience, maybe my teaching will be entertaining enough to entice my students to do well or develop an interest. But for some reason I'm still not sure of, these kids seem entertained to the max. One girl actually came up to me near the end of class and asked for my autograph (I know), and the teacher stopped others from doing so. When the period ended, they cheer and applaud me out of the room, a couple of witty boys saying “namaste,” as I leave and looking delighted when I laugh. 

Needless to say, I'm never going to top my first class.

Second is the 9^th grade class I'll be teaching solo for the rest of my time here. Sitting in the teacher's lounge before it begins, I'm teased about how I got the class with a terrible reputation. “They've been caught carrying condoms to class,” one of teacher solemnly tells me.

So, slightly anxious, I start class. They don't seem to be deviants, they're all just sitting there looking the same as the last class, but a little bit younger. This time, we have to actually get some work done, so I only make a brief introduction before I ask if anyone has questions about me or my culture. No questions. As I'll come to learn over the next forty minutes, the kids of 9C are significantly less comfortable in their English and have an even tougher time understanding my American accent.

We read a mind-numbingly dull story about professional boxing, all the while I'm asking them questions about comprehension and they're starting to get more comfortable. There are a select few at the front of the class who try go Hermione Granger on me and are practically begging to be called on. When answering a question, it's customary for the student to stand. Some of these kids just keep standing, or stand without being called on, they're that eager to answer. It's actually a bit encouraging, and about half-way through class I've got over a dozen raising their hands to answer questions. Hooray!

And what of this class' horrible reputation? So far, the only tomfoolery I've seen is talking. It's tough to keep a room full of 60 teens silent, and there's generally a low buzz of chatter from the back of the room. However, no guns, no shankings, no outbursts, nothing really scary and reputation worthy. I think I've got a lot to learn about Indian education.

All of your fathers are doctors?

3. You take Rickshaw.

Later, I go back for Urmil's last day with the afternoon class. My strategy is just to sit it out, and come Monday, when the regular (read: English speaking) teacher arrives, I'll be teaching ABCs and duck-duck-goose like never before. It's another relatively adorable day, and for some reason we spend the whole time outside. The field-hockey team comes over to us during practice and a girl in front introduces herself as being part of my 9C class (yup, the unenthusiastic ones). They push a little boy forward, raise his arm to shake my hand, and prompt him to say “nice to meet you.” The girls want to know about America and about my time in India so far and ask me to play field hockey. Next time girls, when I'm not working.

When it's time to go home, Urmil is talking rapidly at me, and every so often I catch the word “rickshaw.” No rickshaw, walk,Urmil. I'm determined to try again; I'm not spending a whole month in this city being rickshawed around everywhere. She seems to understand, but tries again a minute later. She eventually calls over my student from hockey practice to get her to translate.

Tuk-tuk.

“You must take rickshaw or she will take tension.” Well, Urmil's already got enough tension.  She's is so insistent that the girl starts to seem uncomfortable. “You take rickshaw.” Okay, sweetie. Just go back to practice.

I'm thinking I can escape just as we're leaving without bothering with the rickshaw, but to my surprise Urmil has sent sends one of the eleven-year old boy off and he returns riding a tuk-tuk (motorized rickshaw).

Sigh. Thank you.