One Little, Two Little, Three Little Indians...

Who would have thought that an English teacher with no experience in Hindi and a class of Indian students with little English could possibly get to know each other? This is what it's like for me in the catch-up program, where at best the students create a jumbled mess of nouns, and at worst the only English they react to is “A, B, C.” But somehow, I'm communicating with my students, connecting with them, getting to know and care for them. I feel a bit like the gorilla Koko with her kitten; somehow it just works. 

Field hockey team with some of my 9C students 

Class 9C is much more impersonal for me, because it's nearly impossible to remember the faces of 60 students after a few weeks, never mind much of anything about each of them. In fact, I would consider myself an old-timer if I reached the point where every single one of them had said at least one word to me individually. I've come to know them as a unit to some degree; the boys wear heavy cologne and quite frequently don't bring or do their work (today, over half of the boy's side had not brought notebooks to class). The girls vary between shy and ambitious, either standing at every question or blushing if I look at them. The two girls closest to the middle-front of the room are quite talented at English and seem to thrive off of praise. Then there's the thin-faced boy with the devil-may-care hairdo, who exists as some sort of pendulum between misbehaving rogue and exemplary student. Or the boy whose face reveals a strong East Asian ancestry, the class clown who becomes the center of attention when sitting in the back rows, but is instantly transformed to attentive student when he is moved closer to me.

“Good Afternoon, Ma'am,” they say in unison as I enter the room; “Thank You, Ma'am,” they chime when I leave it. These are the children who sit ravished (or maybe just completely lost) when I rant about Shakespeare, but who grow bored and uneasy when I ask them to speak themselves. These are the kids who grab my hand in the hallway, who smile and wave to me when they see me.

As someone who's sat in those seats, I can easily empathize with the fretting that comes with being called on to speak a second language in class. As a teacher, I desperately want them to practice. Devil-May-Care rises at a question, confident in his answer, until that dread moment when I ask him a follow up question. His eyes get big and a little scared, and he whispers something (though in which language, I can't be sure). No worries, child. This is the modus operandi of most foreign language students (yes, including myself). When I try to say a word or two in Hindi, I kind of swallow-mumble my speech, somehow imagining that since it all sounds the same to me, anything will do. 

The first day I met them (the expressions are partly due to the fact I'm standing in front of the sun)

 

However, most of my day is spent with the kids in the catch-up program, an entirely different world. Here, they're more than a class, they're little people (not to be confused with "little people").

First, the adorable Reena, my clear favorite (although I fight not to show it). She's just four and speaks in a tiny squeak I didn't think was possible in nature. Once, I heard her say something that sounded suspiciously like “Mogwai.” I would not be surprised in the least if she could not be fed after midnight. Proudly, she brings me her copied ABCs and 123s, eagerly awaiting a check mark. I learned quickly how much these littlest ones cherish the check marks; they run back to their friends and show them, or stand by me looking sad and holding their notebooks, until I grant them one.

As with many of the children, Reena was terribly shy at first, until I began saying “Namaste, Reena” when she came into the classroom for the day. Now, several times a class, she'll run up to me, squeaking something in Hindi, enjoying my responding smiles and nods, until someone reminds her that I don't speak the language (a phrase I'm getting better at picking out). One day, she'll come in wearing eye liner or red paint at the front of her hair part. Another, she shows me her necklace bearing an image of the goddess Durga on one side and Kali on the other, bringing the necklace to her mouth and forehead. When I come down to look, her little chin raises as if she's proud to show it to me.

Manshi, the clear leader of the littlest kids, is a pig-tailed and aggressive girl; somehow, this translates into an amiable enthusiasm. She takes the flash cards from me and designates herself organizer, handing me cards proudly. When it's time for the children to free-play, the smaller ones all call to her, follow her. She takes to my ABC version of Patty-Cake as if it's the best thing she's ever done. As with Reena, she'll often speak to me in Hindi, usually jumping up and down all the while.

The teeny-tot gang also includes Nikkhil, a small boy with dyslexic tendencies and a problem keeping his fly zipped; Kalu, who always wears a small cap and seems to me would fit well as a Peanuts character; Manshi (another one), always taking care of her baby brother; and several other babies (usually around a year and a half old) who show up sporadically for the food and attention. This itsy-bitsy gang is charming to watch as they run around the playground on stubby legs, dragging behind them babies and giggling all the way. It's times like this that I wish for a Look Who's Talking style audio track, so I can understand what's so wonderful.

Anita, Arjun, Himanshu, and Anuj; an English game

There's the middle group, mostly boys around the age of 9, who proudly catch pigeons, chase each other with whipping sticks, and pull out (honest-to-god) slingshots to take down the small animals in the trees. I often catch Arjun, nose consistently running, with his face split into a crooked-fence toothy grin which becomes a bit guilty when he notices the attention. Vipin, his partner in crime, has a secret talent for English. Mischievous, yes, but when I pull out the extra-thick Disney brand “My First 1000 Words” book, they eat it up, sitting by my feet, pointing at the pictures and saying “lion, ma'am. Car, ma'am. Faucet, ma'am.”

On the outskirts of the social structure are the two older girls. Kamal, a hunched-backed middle-schooler, is actually quite advanced for the program. She almost never smiles, and looks at me suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. For the longest time, I thought she was a bit afraid of me, despite my attempts at friendship and offerings of animal-themed English flashcards. Then the other day, I looked up and there she was, with a tin full of grapes; she had come across the room to offer me one, and then, ignoring everyone else, returned to her seat. Although the gift came with no word or smile, it was something very rare, and I couldn't help but feel a bit honored. 

Anita is a bit like the big sister of the catch-up family. She's older than all of the other children by at least a few years but always seems content. Like a teacher's assistant, she'll sit on the ground with the smaller students, helping them with their work, or swinging them by their arms during free play. Nearly always smiling, she has one of those warm, loving personalities. She very rarely speaks, and prefers to communicate in gestures instead; I believe that she's a bit dumb, while not fully mute, judging by her voice on the rare occasions when she does talk.

Yeah, they're pretty awesome.

Then there are the older boys, around 11 to 13 years old. Most know a bit of functional English and can respond in that odd string-of-nouns form, so we can get a bit more creative here. A game of duck-duck-goose becomes what sounds like “goose-goose-hen,” in which the boys slap each other and race to the nearest part of the surrounding wall. A game of English Pictionary becomes becomes a “let's draw flowers, snakes, and spiders for ma'am, and hide a few willies in them” game. I decide to teach them origami, and find that they've all outpaced me, making boats, hats, snakes, even handing me flowers made of soft white-lined paper. 

Okay, so it sounds a bit more exasperating than it actually is. In reality, I look forward to my time with this group because it's so dang exciting and unpredictable. I'm continually surprised at how enthusiastically they take to the activities I plan, practically jumping over each other to answer questions (except, of course, when the older girls from the field hockey team stop by, as they usually do in the late afternoon). In an adorably stiff gesture, one or two of these boys will jump up to shake the hands of the older girls when they visit, then sit uneasily, eyes pinned on their targets.  

Amazingly, although I can't verbally communicate beyond a basic level with most of the children, I feel like I have relationships with them. I've finally filed all of their names into my unconscious memory (which is difficult to do considering the wide base of children and spotty attendance). I feel as though I know them, and they're responding to me in turn. But a month is not nearly enough time. With the upcoming wedding and trip to Rishikesh/Haridwar, I only have a few days left with my little Indians.