Fear and punishment are used to cultivate a sense of discipline in some schools! But are teachers always right? Are children always immature? Let’s read this story because we need to understand our children before we try to discipline them.
I will share a bitter experience with you but I don’t want you to mention my name anywhere. We are not rich. But we are not very poor either. I have a younger brother. I lost my mother when I was 3 years old. My nani (maternal grandmother) lives with us and takes care of us. We live in Dahanu which is about three hours by bus from Mumbai.
I used to study in a small school there. I would go to school in the afternoons at 12.30 and return home at 5p.m. The teachers were really nice and taught us well but they were very strict too.
My nani is quite old. My brother sweeps and mops the house. I help my nani with the cooking and wash all the utensils. My father shares a small shop in Mumbai with another vendor. He lives in Mumbai and comes home once in a month for a couple of days. He keeps saying, “I am struggling because I am uneducated. You both need to study well. Only then can you create a good future for yourselves.” We understand what he says. Very well. My friends’ mothers work as maids in big bungalows. They too study sincerely because they don’t want to work as maids like their mothers.
One day, my nani was down with fever. I woke up early to cook for the three of us. But the water supply was late by 10 minutes that day. I did all the work as quickly as I could and ran all the way to school because I did not want to be late.
But the classes had already begun by the time I reached school. My Math Sir glared at me. He did not like students who came late to school. He looked at me for a long time, picked up a plastic foot ruler that was lying on the table and asked me to extend my right hand. He asked me to turn it around by 90 degrees. I did. I was trembling. I knew what he would do.
He then put the ruler vertically between my fingers and asked me to support my right hand with my left hand. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was shaking from head to toe. He held the ruler firmly in place between my fingers with his left hand and smacked me hard over my fingers with a wooden duster.
I started sobbing. But I did not utter a single word. My fingers felt as if they were on fire. They had turned red and looked swollen. He then gestured to me and asked me to sit at the back of the class. I could not pay attention to any of the classes that day. My friends pacified me. They said the pain would subside after a week or so. I just nodded. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone that day.
I don’t know how that day passed. But it did. I told Ravi, my brother about it when we met after school hours. He looked at me quietly for a long time. I could see the anger and the frustration in his eyes. He then hugged me and wrapped a wet bandage around my fingers carefully. He was 7 years old and I 10. We wanted to study. We knew that if we wanted to create a better future for ourselves we had to put up with such things.
I was relieved when nani told me she was feeling much better now. She had brewed herself a ‘kada’ from the spices that were available in our house. But nothing could ever escape her eagle eyes. She noticed that I was hiding my hands within the folds of my skirt. She pulled my hand out by the wrist and looked at my red blue swollen fingers. I could see the tears rolling down her eyes. She wiped her tears with her sari, marched out to the nearby shop and made one telephone call.
She was old but she was a quiet strong woman. My papa came home within 4 hours. I knew he would. We were already in bed but woke up as soon as he came in. He hugged us both tightly, rocked us back and forth in his arms and started crying. He let go of me and looked at my fingers. They still hurt. A lot.
I could not control myself. All my fears came tumbling out along with my words. I said, “Papa, I don’t want to study in this school anymore. Just take me away with you to Mumbai. I don’t like it here anymore. I want to study in a good school. I don’t want to live here. I don’t want to become a maid like other women. I want to study and work in an office papa. Take me with you. Please papa.” Papa cradled us in his arms for a long time. My nani was sobbing quietly too.
I knew my papa would complain about the teacher to the school principal. I told him not to do so. I said, “I will study properly. I will never be late to school again.” Papa looked at me and said, “I won’t complain child. I will just make him understand things. Okay? Promise.” I nodded to him.
I was scared to go to school that day. But I knew I had to. I wondered what my papa had told my Maths teacher. I sat on the last row of the class again. I did not dare to look at my Sir. My hands were shaking with fear. I thought he would do the same thing to my left hand today. I jumped in fright when he called me by my name and asked me to come and sit in my usual place in front of the class. I looked up at him hesitantly. He smiled at me, asked me to sit down and continued with the class as usual.
He called me after the class got over and said, “I am sorry dear. I should not have smacked you over the fingers like that yesterday. I will never do that to any of you again. You are my best student. I thought you too were taking your studies casually like the others. So I beat you.” I just nodded my head quietly and walked out.
This happened when I was in 6th standard. I have just finished writing my board exams. I am waiting for my results. So I am attending tailoring classes in an NGO near my house now. After a month, I will join a basic computer class here. I want to work in an office. But I have to finish my college first.
My papa says that my brother and I will do him proud someday. I don’t know about that. Maybe we will. Who can predict the future? All I know is that whenever I think of that day, I get tears in my eyes. I wish it had never happened. I wish my teacher had given me a chance to explain that day. No one ever listens to us. So we don’t even try to speak up for ourselves.