English Class

I began the class that day as usual. Teaching English to Higher Secondary students in a Government school in India is challenging. It was a combined class of students from all major science subjects, and the hall was crowded, with more than a hundred students. When there is a crowd, the room heats up soon. The girls were well-behaved, and the boys were unruly. The noise was like that of rushing waters. When I shouted "Silence!" the girls, who were sitting to my left, became silent, and on the boys' side, to my right, the rustle was subsiding gradually. In this dull hall of weather-worn walls, with two dull tube lights and a screeching old ceiling fan hanging precariously above my head, I had to begin my lecture.

The poem I had to deal with was "Snake" by D.H. Lawrence. Though the theme, the tussle between instinct and intellect, was not easy to teach to this bunch of adolescent girls and boys, it was riveting. "Sometimes," I said, "our instinct craves for an act, but intellect commands us not to do that; so pathetic is the soul caught between these two." At once, some girls stared at me, and some boys began to blink. A great silence fell on the class. My voice reverberated loud and clear, and I felt a kind of victory over the crowd.

I continued to explain, with a kind of glory that teachers used to feel when the whole class is fully absorbed in listening. There came the lines:

"Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?

 Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?"

To explain the word "perversity," I started from Creation, navigated through Adam and Eve, and then to the tempter Satan in the guise of a serpent. The story was new to many of the students who were Hindus. It made such an impression that they were all listening with rapture.

Just then, in the third row, was some disturbance among the boys. One of the boys, sitting in the middle, had nudged the one who was sitting next to his right. In turn, that boy had nudged the first one back. The first one, while avoiding this, had hit the boy sitting next to his left. And this one had pushed the first one back with his arm. The chain reaction began to spread fast. Murmur and giggles began to erupt. I felt irritated, as though a thousand ants were crawling all over me.

The boy who started the ripple had been under my suspicion for a long time, for he would sport a long-sleeved white shirt when all other boys were in the usual uniform of short-sleeved white shirt. He used to walk flamboyantly, swinging his long-sleeved arms, followed by two or three of the boys as his bodyguards. Even on sweltering hot days, he would be buttoned-up to the collar. Many a time, I tried to confront him and reprimand him but could not get a chance.

He was caught that day. Anger mounted in me like floodwaters. I stopped my lecture; dropped the chalk piece; stared at him; gnashed my teeth, and pursed up my lips. With pounding heart and choked throat, I yelled:

"What do you think of yourself? idiot!

  Do you think you are Rajnikanth . . . king of all styles . . . Sporting full   sleeves?"

As boys usually do, he posed as though nothing had happened and he was not even aware of my shouting. Walking down the aisle three or four steps forward, I pointed my finger towards him and said,

"Stand up, you close-necked fellow."

He stood up slowly, with face down and eyes up at me. To hide my tension, I continued my shouting:

"You arrogant fool . . . !  Sit down . . . !  Be silent . . . !"

He sat down, thumping the desk. I was standing, scratching my head to recall where I left the poem. A girl in the first row came to my rescue. She whispered, "perversion." Oh, my God! I felt as though I was perverted. Calmly, I began to explain:

"Perversion means unacceptable behavior."

Damn! Am I perverted?!

No, no, no.

Is it he who is perverted?!

My conscience discouraged me to continue my teaching. But I had to move on. How the lesson moved further, I was not aware of that. The bell rang. I told the class that I would deal with poetic techniques and figures of speech in the next class and left the classroom quite vanquished.

I should not have used the words such as "idiot" or "fool." Straight away, he and his gang might go to the headmistress and make a complaint, twisting and exaggerating the words and phrases I had used. I was not aware of the community to which he belonged. He might start a riot if we were from different communities. My mind was racing through the points of defense I might put forward before the headmistress.

I entered the staff room, sat on my chair, and looked through the door. My friend, the commerce teacher, who was sitting beside me, noticing the cold sweat on my eyebrows, asked me, "Are you OK?" "Yea," I said, still looking through the door. There came the boy, walking towards me, accompanied by some of his friends. My vision began to blur. I took off my specs, wiped it on my shirt, and put it back. He came climbing up the steps and stood before me tautly.

As I was about to start another burst of angry words, I saw his eyes filled with tears. Drops of tears began to trickle down. He stretched out his two arms and rolled up the left-arm sleeve with his right hand. I could see white and pink patches on his skin. Then, he went for his right arm with his left hand. There too, I saw white and pink patches. He raised his two arms and began to undo the collar button.

"Stop," I murmured. "Enough!" said I, "Very sorry . . . ! Forgive me, my dear! "