A different type of teacher

Even in your wildest imagination you are never going to be able to guess who my strictest teacher was! But let me tell you about a few others before I come to him . When I was in school, I had several strict teachers. I do not remember all of them, but a few do come to mind. There was Mrs P- a tall, stout lady with large, bulging blue eyes and a mop of grey hair, who taught me Math in Grade three. Three things to note here. Firstly, I hated math and was quite weak in the subject. Secondly I was mortally scared of Mrs P and that would be putting it mildly – she terrified the daylights out of me in class, and last but not least , of all the people in the school, my mother decided that I would go to her for private tuition . I think that decision was made as Mrs P did not charge any fee, as my mother worked in the same school, and we could not afford it in the first place. That sealed the deal. Every math period was like going to purgatory and back. Okay, not so bad but I guess you understand. For some unfathomable reason, I would either forget my text or exercise book at home, not complete the math homework or mix up the answers to the ‘’Tables’’ which she made us practice every morning. Strangely , each boy had to answer once and by the time it was my turn , I was asked to give the answer to eighteen times nine or sixteen times twelve so some such difficult numbers – remember this was in grade three. Needless to add, I failed to answer correctly and was then called up to the blackboard to work out the sum. With fifty pairs of normal and one pair of bulging eyes staring into the back of my head, the correct answer always eluded me . The rest as they say is History. I often got the ruler and was made to stand in the corner till the period was over. The tuition period was a trifle better, as I was the only one there, but mistakes and using the eraser till there was a hole in the page, often ended with me getting a whack with the thick Math book. On a few occasions when it rained, and she had the umbrella at her disposal, she used it on me to good advantage. But she was a good teacher . Then there was a Hindi teacher. I do not remember his name, but he seemed to love hearing me read and mispronounce words. He would barely walk into the class when it was a know fact that he would look in my direction and nod. That was the signal to start reading. I could be sitting in front, in the middle, in the corner or at the back – it mattered little - he would ferret me out. Seeing him chuckle when I mispronounced words made me cringe. I vividly remember another Math teacher – Mr D. He taught me Math in Grade eight If I am not mistaken. Straight back, no smile and no nonsense were words I would use to describe him. He was very good at his subject and one, whose methods I followed. However, after setting a sum he would walk up and down the line checking on what we were doing and, on the progress, we were making. Now you would know this fact – If you are not excellent at the subject and the master comes and stands beside you, you freeze. That has happened quite a few times with me. In order to overcome the pickle I would sometimes find myself in , I made it a habit to drink water , fill ink in the pen or start doing some hurried calculations on a rough sheet of paper away from his prying eyes. I am sure he knew why I did that but it mattered little to him and he continued ! There were these and a few more. However, the guy who had me on pins and needles was the instructor at the driving institute. Whether you know how to drive or not, mandatory lessons and a test are compulsory in the UAE. From the very first lesson, I knew instinctively that this was going to be one tough cookie and that put me off. His whole persona was of a cold mean man. He wore the company uniform along with a cap and very dark glasses and throughout the forty lessons, I saw his eyes and his teeth just once , as he never removed the glasses and he never smiled. Before the first lesson we introduced ourselves to each other, and I gave him my visiting card,hoping to impress him. He looked at it half-heartedly and threw it into the compartment between us. There were about fifty cards in there and I immediately knew that he had won round one. All attempts at softening him up by telling him where I worked, that I was the Principal of a large prestigious school etc seemed to fall on deaf ears. I then tried the personal touch by informing him that I was married and had two daughters . I felt he was deaf as he did not react at all. Then the ordeal began in right earnest. Whether I turned left or right, used the indicator or the break, started, stopped or parked – he was never pleased. Almost daily, he commented on the fact that I was either driving too slow, too fast, was extremely careless, casual or day dreaming. He called me sleepy, bad driver, distracted and very foolish. Things became so bad that I would pray that the forty-five-minute lesson got over. On the days I had driving, my work suffered and as the time approached, I was sure I had palpitations. Often when I returned from a lesson, teachers would ask me if all was well and as to why I looked pale and drawn. After about twenty lessons he brought me a supposedly confidential feed- back form to fill in about his teaching – part of quality assurance he mentioned nonchalantly. However, he lent me his pen and a book to rest on and peered over my shoulder when I was ticking the boxes. So much for the confidentiality! I was left with no alternative to give him a ten on ten and so the ordeal continued. Then things seemed to deteriorate, and he was even more strict. I asked friends if I should complain and ask for a change, but he seemed to have a sixth sense. That day he was “normal and a trifle kind” and so I changed my mind. The next afternoon he told me that I was a Principal in my school but a pupil in his car and I better shape up or I would fail. That frightened me even more as the classes were costly. However, the more I tried, the worse I seemed to drive. Then came the parking test and it was a miracle I passed in the first attempt as he was standing out of the car and glaring at me. I missed the parking line by inches, and I guess he was left with no other alternative but to pass me grudgingly. I felt that I had won this round. That hurdle being crossed I was more confident, and my driving improved by leaps and bounds. That week he seemed to sleep while I drove around and I was not sure whether he was sick, fed up of me, depressed or purposely not commenting and just waiting for me to have an accident. Vague thoughts continuously crossed my mind. I often peered at him through the corner of my eye, but he was the master of deception and I could not fathom out what he was up to. On a few occasions I tried to engage him in small talk, but he just grunted in reply as if in a dream. And then it was the big day when I was to be tested by a police inspector. There was just one last practice round with my instructor and I breathed a sigh of relief. As we cruised down a lonely stretch with me driving at ninety kmph, he asked me to pull over. I did so with trepidation and a certain amount of apprehension coupled with plenty of anxiety For the first time he took off his dark glasses, put his cap on his lap, wiped his brow and looked me in the eye. My heart was beating fast as I was sure he was going to give me hell for something or the other. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder and said “well done Sir” He told me that he had been strict as in the initial days I often behaved like a Principal in the car and if he had let that continue , I would never have been a good driver. He then gave me just one piece of advice which I will put down here in Roman Hindi. He said when you drive, remember just two words “ Bacho – Bachao” which roughly translated means- Save yourself and save others when you drive . I remember those words till today. He was such a strict teacher and I feared him – but he was a master of his trade. I once thought of going and meeting him after all these years but sadly I don’t even remember his name – Seriously, I would love to . Nevertheless – wherever you are – “Thank you, Sir”

A different type of teacher

Even in your wildest imagination you are never going to be able to guess who my strictest teacher was! But let me tell you about a few others before I come to him . When I was in school, I had several strict teachers. I do not remember all of them, but a few do come to mind. There was Mrs P- a tall, stout lady with large, bulging blue eyes and a mop of grey hair, who taught me Math in Grade three. Three things to note here. Firstly, I hated math and was quite weak in the subject. Secondly I was mortally scared of Mrs P and that would be putting it mildly – she terrified the daylights out of me in class, and last but not least , of all the people in the school, my mother decided that I would go to her for private tuition . I think that decision was made as Mrs P did not charge any fee, as my mother worked in the same school, and we could not afford it in the first place. That sealed the deal. Every math period was like going to purgatory and back. Okay, not so bad but I guess you understand. For some unfathomable reason, I would either forget my text or exercise book at home, not complete the math homework or mix up the answers to the ‘’Tables’’ which she made us practice every morning. Strangely , each boy had to answer once and by the time it was my turn , I was asked to give the answer to eighteen times nine or sixteen times twelve so some such difficult numbers – remember this was in grade three. Needless to add, I failed to answer correctly and was then called up to the blackboard to work out the sum. With fifty pairs of normal and one pair of bulging eyes staring into the back of my head, the correct answer always eluded me . The rest as they say is History. I often got the ruler and was made to stand in the corner till the period was over. The tuition period was a trifle better, as I was the only one there, but mistakes and using the eraser till there was a hole in the page, often ended with me getting a whack with the thick Math book. On a few occasions when it rained, and she had the umbrella at her disposal, she used it on me to good advantage. But she was a good teacher . Then there was a Hindi teacher. I do not remember his name, but he seemed to love hearing me read and mispronounce words. He would barely walk into the class when it was a know fact that he would look in my direction and nod. That was the signal to start reading. I could be sitting in front, in the middle, in the corner or at the back – it mattered little - he would ferret me out. Seeing him chuckle when I mispronounced words made me cringe. I vividly remember another Math teacher – Mr D. He taught me Math in Grade eight If I am not mistaken. Straight back, no smile and no nonsense were words I would use to describe him. He was very good at his subject and one, whose methods I followed. However, after setting a sum he would walk up and down the line checking on what we were doing and, on the progress, we were making. Now you would know this fact – If you are not excellent at the subject and the master comes and stands beside you, you freeze. That has happened quite a few times with me. In order to overcome the pickle I would sometimes find myself in , I made it a habit to drink water , fill ink in the pen or start doing some hurried calculations on a rough sheet of paper away from his prying eyes. I am sure he knew why I did that but it mattered little to him and he continued ! There were these and a few more. However, the guy who had me on pins and needles was the instructor at the driving institute. Whether you know how to drive or not, mandatory lessons and a test are compulsory in the UAE. From the very first lesson, I knew instinctively that this was going to be one tough cookie and that put me off. His whole persona was of a cold mean man. He wore the company uniform along with a cap and very dark glasses and throughout the forty lessons, I saw his eyes and his teeth just once , as he never removed the glasses and he never smiled. Before the first lesson we introduced ourselves to each other, and I gave him my visiting card,hoping to impress him. He looked at it half-heartedly and threw it into the compartment between us. There were about fifty cards in there and I immediately knew that he had won round one. All attempts at softening him up by telling him where I worked, that I was the Principal of a large prestigious school etc seemed to fall on deaf ears. I then tried the personal touch by informing him that I was married and had two daughters . I felt he was deaf as he did not react at all. Then the ordeal began in right earnest. Whether I turned left or right, used the indicator or the break, started, stopped or parked – he was never pleased. Almost daily, he commented on the fact that I was either driving too slow, too fast, was extremely careless, casual or day dreaming. He called me sleepy, bad driver, distracted and very foolish. Things became so bad that I would pray that the forty-five-minute lesson got over. On the days I had driving, my work suffered and as the time approached, I was sure I had palpitations. Often when I returned from a lesson, teachers would ask me if all was well and as to why I looked pale and drawn. After about twenty lessons he brought me a supposedly confidential feed- back form to fill in about his teaching – part of quality assurance he mentioned nonchalantly. However, he lent me his pen and a book to rest on and peered over my shoulder when I was ticking the boxes. So much for the confidentiality! I was left with no alternative to give him a ten on ten and so the ordeal continued. Then things seemed to deteriorate, and he was even more strict. I asked friends if I should complain and ask for a change, but he seemed to have a sixth sense. That day he was “normal and a trifle kind” and so I changed my mind. The next afternoon he told me that I was a Principal in my school but a pupil in his car and I better shape up or I would fail. That frightened me even more as the classes were costly. However, the more I tried, the worse I seemed to drive. Then came the parking test and it was a miracle I passed in the first attempt as he was standing out of the car and glaring at me. I missed the parking line by inches, and I guess he was left with no other alternative but to pass me grudgingly. I felt that I had won this round. That hurdle being crossed I was more confident, and my driving improved by leaps and bounds. That week he seemed to sleep while I drove around and I was not sure whether he was sick, fed up of me, depressed or purposely not commenting and just waiting for me to have an accident. Vague thoughts continuously crossed my mind. I often peered at him through the corner of my eye, but he was the master of deception and I could not fathom out what he was up to. On a few occasions I tried to engage him in small talk, but he just grunted in reply as if in a dream. And then it was the big day when I was to be tested by a police inspector. There was just one last practice round with my instructor and I breathed a sigh of relief. As we cruised down a lonely stretch with me driving at ninety kmph, he asked me to pull over. I did so with trepidation and a certain amount of apprehension coupled with plenty of anxiety For the first time he took off his dark glasses, put his cap on his lap, wiped his brow and looked me in the eye. My heart was beating fast as I was sure he was going to give me hell for something or the other. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder and said “well done Sir” He told me that he had been strict as in the initial days I often behaved like a Principal in the car and if he had let that continue , I would never have been a good driver. He then gave me just one piece of advice which I will put down here in Roman Hindi. He said when you drive, remember just two words “ Bacho – Bachao” which roughly translated means- Save yourself and save others when you drive . I remember those words till today. He was such a strict teacher and I feared him – but he was a master of his trade. I once thought of going and meeting him after all these years but sadly I don’t even remember his name – Seriously, I would love to . Nevertheless – wherever you are – “Thank you, Sir”

I love my 'cuppa'

I love my morning tea and when brewing it a short while ago, it just brought back vivid memories of childhood and of growing up in Allahabad. I make a great cup of tea – I think so, and many have corroborated the fact. That probably is because, as a young boy of around nine, I was taught to do so by my mother and by my aunt – who both loved a ‘good cup of tea’ very early in the morning . I was the official tea maker and I enjoyed it ! Back then, tea was brewed quite differently than how it’s done now- at least by me. To start with, there were tea leaves and not tea bags. We used Brook Bond Red label. In fact, tea bags were not heard of, at least not in Allahabad. I remember the large white porcelain tea pot with small blue flowers painted on it. Water was boiled on the “coal stove’’ or “chulah” which had been lit by the cook at around five am. (If you are not a Millennial you will know what that means and would have probably seen one in old family photographs. I would then carefully wait for the water to boil in the old kettle, and keep opening the lid to check when exactly that happened – let me tell you there is nothing worse than under or over boiled water ! It is believed that boiling tea water correctly is half the battle and an art. It was then that I probably learnt the phrase, “a watched pot never boils” The moment the water boiled, I would pour the same into the tea pot, add in three ‘level’ teaspoons of tea leaves, give it a stir or two and put the lid back on. A Tea cosy (tea pot warmer) was then put over the pot and the tea was left to brew for three minutes (I looked at the clock). There again, if you do not know what a Tea cosy is, and I don’t blame you - Google it! Meanwhile the cups and saucers were laid out. The tea strainer was then placed on each cup as the tea was poured in, thus straining out the tea leaves. Believe you me, the smell of the fresh, steaming, golden coloured brew was amazing. Milk and sugar to taste then followed and presto, the tea was served. There was one clear instruction as well – no slurping. I will admit though, that I enjoyed drinking tea from the saucer at times and would often slink off and do that - I wonder if any of you readers have ever done that too? The pot of tea, covered with the tea cosy, remained hot for about half an hour and that was so convenient as most adults had another cup around that time. Today I make my tea very differently and it is a much quicker and easier process. I boil water in a small saucepan, use a tea bag which negates the use of a tea strainer, and drink my tea in a mug – I do have my favourite mug as well. Whenever I travel, on work or on holiday, I make sure I carry my Lipton tea bags along. I am also not too crazy about milk, so just a wee drop is what I use in a mug of tea. When on official trips I always take some extra tea bags along as I have colleagues who like the way I make tea and I guess, my company as well, so they ring my bell at six am and we have a “cuppa’’ together while discussing the plans for the day . Indians have bonded over steaming cups of tea for centuries- I guess they always will.

I love my 'cuppa'

I love my morning tea and when brewing it a short while ago, it just brought back vivid memories of childhood and of growing up in Allahabad. I make a great cup of tea – I think so, and many have corroborated the fact. That probably is because, as a young boy of around nine, I was taught to do so by my mother and by my aunt – who both loved a ‘good cup of tea’ very early in the morning . I was the official tea maker and I enjoyed it ! Back then, tea was brewed quite differently than how it’s done now- at least by me. To start with, there were tea leaves and not tea bags. We used Brook Bond Red label. In fact, tea bags were not heard of, at least not in Allahabad. I remember the large white porcelain tea pot with small blue flowers painted on it. Water was boiled on the “coal stove’’ or “chulah” which had been lit by the cook at around five am. (If you are not a Millennial you will know what that means and would have probably seen one in old family photographs. I would then carefully wait for the water to boil in the old kettle, and keep opening the lid to check when exactly that happened – let me tell you there is nothing worse than under or over boiled water ! It is believed that boiling tea water correctly is half the battle and an art. It was then that I probably learnt the phrase, “a watched pot never boils” The moment the water boiled, I would pour the same into the tea pot, add in three ‘level’ teaspoons of tea leaves, give it a stir or two and put the lid back on. A Tea cosy (tea pot warmer) was then put over the pot and the tea was left to brew for three minutes (I looked at the clock). There again, if you do not know what a Tea cosy is, and I don’t blame you - Google it! Meanwhile the cups and saucers were laid out. The tea strainer was then placed on each cup as the tea was poured in, thus straining out the tea leaves. Believe you me, the smell of the fresh, steaming, golden coloured brew was amazing. Milk and sugar to taste then followed and presto, the tea was served. There was one clear instruction as well – no slurping. I will admit though, that I enjoyed drinking tea from the saucer at times and would often slink off and do that - I wonder if any of you readers have ever done that too? The pot of tea, covered with the tea cosy, remained hot for about half an hour and that was so convenient as most adults had another cup around that time. Today I make my tea very differently and it is a much quicker and easier process. I boil water in a small saucepan, use a tea bag which negates the use of a tea strainer, and drink my tea in a mug – I do have my favourite mug as well. Whenever I travel, on work or on holiday, I make sure I carry my Lipton tea bags along. I am also not too crazy about milk, so just a wee drop is what I use in a mug of tea. When on official trips I always take some extra tea bags along as I have colleagues who like the way I make tea and I guess, my company as well, so they ring my bell at six am and we have a “cuppa’’ together while discussing the plans for the day . Indians have bonded over steaming cups of tea for centuries- I guess they always will.

James Bond and me

The only Social Media I had when I was growing up hundreds of years ago was the Radio! The only stations I tuned in to, on an old Bush radio, were “Radio Ceylon” and the “BBC” . (Of course, there were one or two Indian stations as well). The first for music and the second for the evening news. At times the valve radio did not catch the desired station and one had to give it a thump on the side and presto it obeyed commands thereafter. Whether it was the six am morning music show, cricket matches, Man landing on the moon, late night instrumental music or the daily news – that was Social media for us, and we enjoyed it. Yes we clapped when the cricket commentator shouted out that the batsmen had hit a four or a six and I jumped when I heard those famous words by Neil Armstrong's when he became the first person to set foot on the Moon: "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." Nothing can take away the thrill of those very special moments . Now there is the Internet, television with hundreds of channels to choose from, Facebook, WhatsApp and so many others. The list is endless and continues to grow – who knows what we will have ten and twenty years from now! We are indeed spoilt for choice. I remember going to a movie in my teens and seeing James Bond with a large ungainly looking cordless phone and saying wow! Not that I imagined myself as JB or anything – just the thought of a phone with no wire amazed me. I wondered where it was connected to and how. I remember starting with a Nokia 6210, (Googled to make sure that was the number ) taking it out of my pocket and looking at it often, in the initial days, to make sure I had it and of course to show it off . It was quite a rarity back then and I had sent for it through a relative in Dubai. Now everyone has a phone, and nobody seems to be able to do without it. Children carry it to school , people sign in before an operation , they check it between repetitions in the gym, peep at it in church , click selfies in strange places and feel lost and forlorn if they leave the house without it . I have often forgotten my wallet but rarely my phone. I distinctly remember attending a Leadership programme at “The Tuck school of Business” at Dartmouth some years ago. There were talks, seminars and discussions led by some amazingly intelligent professors from around the world - they almost gave you a complex. One grey haired professor held up his battered old phone and said – “Educationists around the world tell pupils not to bring phones to school – one day , all children will carry to school, will be a phone”- prophetic words indeed . On a slightly different note ….. Looking at schools going online around the world today, I wonder if brick and mortar schools will exist in the future. Everyone is managing quite well and with the advancement of technology this will happen – in fact, it already has. The debate for social interaction will continue and be solved too. Parents and pupils around the world are already getting very comfortable with the “new normal”. Not spending money on uniforms, on purchasing innumerable books, and on travel, is gradually making parents realize the indirect saving they are making and that is something one cannot scoff at in this day and age when every penny counts . Then there is the issue around saving time. With traffic jams and long distances to be travelled between home and school – studying from the comfort of one’s home is now being seen to be very appealing. Lastly with no water bottles and tiffin to be packed every morning, mums are smiling more often! If you notice, I have not even mentioned Covid and the apprehensions, fears and safety concerns around the virus. Mark you – I am not writing schools off any time soon. Nothing can replace face to face teaching and learning. The pat on the back from your teacher, the competition with your friends on stage and on the field, the camaraderie, the jokes, the bunking classes – all seem irreplaceable right now but then again who knows. For how long will “NOW” exist? I never thought I would ever have a cordless phone like James Bond did I?

James Bond and me

The only Social Media I had when I was growing up hundreds of years ago was the Radio! The only stations I tuned in to, on an old Bush radio, were “Radio Ceylon” and the “BBC” . (Of course, there were one or two Indian stations as well). The first for music and the second for the evening news. At times the valve radio did not catch the desired station and one had to give it a thump on the side and presto it obeyed commands thereafter. Whether it was the six am morning music show, cricket matches, Man landing on the moon, late night instrumental music or the daily news – that was Social media for us, and we enjoyed it. Yes we clapped when the cricket commentator shouted out that the batsmen had hit a four or a six and I jumped when I heard those famous words by Neil Armstrong's when he became the first person to set foot on the Moon: "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind." Nothing can take away the thrill of those very special moments . Now there is the Internet, television with hundreds of channels to choose from, Facebook, WhatsApp and so many others. The list is endless and continues to grow – who knows what we will have ten and twenty years from now! We are indeed spoilt for choice. I remember going to a movie in my teens and seeing James Bond with a large ungainly looking cordless phone and saying wow! Not that I imagined myself as JB or anything – just the thought of a phone with no wire amazed me. I wondered where it was connected to and how. I remember starting with a Nokia 6210, (Googled to make sure that was the number ) taking it out of my pocket and looking at it often, in the initial days, to make sure I had it and of course to show it off . It was quite a rarity back then and I had sent for it through a relative in Dubai. Now everyone has a phone, and nobody seems to be able to do without it. Children carry it to school , people sign in before an operation , they check it between repetitions in the gym, peep at it in church , click selfies in strange places and feel lost and forlorn if they leave the house without it . I have often forgotten my wallet but rarely my phone. I distinctly remember attending a Leadership programme at “The Tuck school of Business” at Dartmouth some years ago. There were talks, seminars and discussions led by some amazingly intelligent professors from around the world - they almost gave you a complex. One grey haired professor held up his battered old phone and said – “Educationists around the world tell pupils not to bring phones to school – one day , all children will carry to school, will be a phone”- prophetic words indeed . On a slightly different note ….. Looking at schools going online around the world today, I wonder if brick and mortar schools will exist in the future. Everyone is managing quite well and with the advancement of technology this will happen – in fact, it already has. The debate for social interaction will continue and be solved too. Parents and pupils around the world are already getting very comfortable with the “new normal”. Not spending money on uniforms, on purchasing innumerable books, and on travel, is gradually making parents realize the indirect saving they are making and that is something one cannot scoff at in this day and age when every penny counts . Then there is the issue around saving time. With traffic jams and long distances to be travelled between home and school – studying from the comfort of one’s home is now being seen to be very appealing. Lastly with no water bottles and tiffin to be packed every morning, mums are smiling more often! If you notice, I have not even mentioned Covid and the apprehensions, fears and safety concerns around the virus. Mark you – I am not writing schools off any time soon. Nothing can replace face to face teaching and learning. The pat on the back from your teacher, the competition with your friends on stage and on the field, the camaraderie, the jokes, the bunking classes – all seem irreplaceable right now but then again who knows. For how long will “NOW” exist? I never thought I would ever have a cordless phone like James Bond did I?

What is success

Do you consider yourself SUCCESSFUL? I have been thinking about this for a few days now and doing some self-evaluation too. In fact, I sat down and made a list of the areas where I feel I am rather successful. I was not surprised to note, that there are quite a few, where I can do better. I guess a lot depends on what SUCCESS means to you. Is success, peace of mind? Is it material gain? Is it having all you desired and more? Is it a great family life? Is it social recognition? Is it an accomplished aim? Are you successful when you do not fail? Does it have something to do with achievement? Can we compare levels of success? – If I did a better job than you did, was I more successful? Does success have anything to do with age and circumstances? Is success the journey or the destination? Is success a state of the mind? – I feel I am successful, but in someone else’s eyes, I am a failure. Is it self-acceptance of achievement? Does success have anything to do with winning? Is it just a perspective? Should we live for success? This is my take on the topic:- "Success is very personal mindset. It is a journey of self-definition, self-discovery and self-belief. It is about our own desires and sense of fulfillment. Above all, it has a lot to do with the emotional connection we have with ourselves". Would love to hear what you have to say. By the way, do feel free to disagree .