Blink-and-you’ll-get-it

Over the last few weeks, school life has been less about studies and more about a study of conjunctivitis. Wherever you looked (if you were one of the last few left who could still ‘look’) you saw children bearing down upon you in menacing dark glasses, looking like phoney commandos, clutching their ‘weapons’ which were so much more dangerous than any gun in the world – soggy tissues dripping with drippings of pus and germs.

In the early days of the epidemic, one did try to be polite. So one moved away from the dark glass wearers swiftly – even while trying not to give the impression of swift movement. No jerky jumps, no evidence-giving running. Just a quick about-turn (away from the depths of those deep dark glasses) and a gracefully rapid pirouette in the opposite direction, with an air of ‘Oops, I have to go get those books from out there’. But after two weeks of such graceful pirouetting, it all boiled down to simply screaming at the sight of anyone with the-disease-that-cannot-be-named and fleeing helter-skelter.

Suddenly one felt that there was no need for one to give students an occasional hug or a pat on the back. The same words of encouragement could well be hollered down the corridors, couldn’t they? As for birthdays, no harm in going up to the third floor to lean out and wish the student on the first floor, is there?

And then there were exams.

And so there was a special area (‘special’ is a more politically correct word than ‘infectious’) for those who answered their question papers from behind dark glasses. And since students suffering from conjunctivitis also need invigilation, a teacher suffering from conjunctivitis was called upon to keep an eye (oops!) on them. It was a rather heart-wrenching sight.

And then these er…‘special’ papers needed to be corrected. It meant direct contact with these papers. These papers were sealed into envelopes and handed over to the respective subject teachers. (Might as well have handed over a ticking bomb each.)

And now, to open those envelopes at home. The scene resembled an art-and-craft class.

Things needed: some old newspapers, a pair of scissors, a pair of disposable gloves, hand sanitiser, a pair of disposable glasses, a red pen, gum.

Method: Put on disposable gloves and glasses, spread the newspapers on the work area, open envelope with scissors, draw out the paper with the tip of the scissor, use disposable pen to correct paper, return paper to envelope and reseal, throw away pen, glasses, gloves, use hand sanitiser liberally, say a quick prayer.

Just a moment... One did notice that not everyone was as scared of the-disease-that-cannot-be-named. There were some who did get on with life quite normally – and accepted their lot quite cheerfully when afflicted with conjunctivitis.

So, is the rest of the world eccentric, or what?

Prankly speaking

If we could use equations to figure out every aspect of life, I guess we could say: wit + affection x laughter = pranks. And teens have all these ingredients in generous dollops. Along with which they have those idle minds (only while in class, of course), ready to turn into imps’ workshops.

Sometimes these pranks are not even planned. One which I faced recently, couldn’t have been planned. Simply because it began with my feeling thirsty in class. It was a hot summer afternoon, and while I was spewing thousands of words of wisdom, these eleventh graders were sitting back, clutching their bottles of cold water – all dewy and delicious on the outside – sipping on (what looked like to me) ambrosia, and pretending to listen.

Suddenly the need for water got urgent. So I asked if I could borrow anyone’s bottle. Lots of bottles were extended my way, I accepted one of them and tossed back a lot of the life giving fluid, when one of the boys squinted at the bottle that I was drinking from and idly commented, “What’s all that at the bottom of the bottle?”

Even as I froze mid-sip, another answered, “Oh, that must be the samosa Rohan had, during break.”

I gagged, ready to bolt to the washroom to spit out the remaining water from my mouth. I must have turned yellow (or some such colour), because one of the girls decided to give me a reprieve. “They’re just joking,” she smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing at the bottom of the bottle.” Tentatively, I took a look – and found the bottle completely in the clear. And swallowed. With relief.

All this happened in seconds, but was enough to take my breath away and rouse up the imps’ idle minds with uproarious laughter.

Another prank that I was a victim of, was more planned. This time by the eighth graders.

It started in the previous class, when I found a normally argumentative and highly opinionated student (a delight for any Literature teacher) catching up on his sleep in class. So deep was the effect of staying up (I guessed) to watch a football match the previous night, that even when I called out to him, he continued to sleep angelically on. So I walked up to him and sprinkled a few drops of water on him – at which he finally woke up and the class rolled with delighted laughter.

Refreshed, he got on high alert and was his usual delightful self for the rest of the class. And I thought that was that.

Evidently, it wasn’t. The next time I walked into class, I found it dark, with all lights switched off. My first thought was that they had gone to a lab or a PE class and were yet to return… That’s when I spotted that all of them were at their desks, fast asleep.

I realised what they wanted. They were simply checking out if I would have the energy to sprinkle water on all of them.

No, I didn’t oblige. I attempted an off-key rendering of ‘Hush little baby’ instead. No surprise that they chose to wake up immediately.  

P.S: The teacher who had been teaching in the class before mine later told me how the class had asked him for five minutes of free time so that they could settle down in their places and pretend to sleep, well in time before I arrived. “They took a lot of trouble, I think it’s affection, more than naughtiness,” he remarked.

As I said, wit + affection x laughter = prank.   

Hitting a false note

A jokingly uttered stray remark threw me, the other day. It was said during a tenth grade Literature class, first thing in the morning. We had just had a rather heated round of argument among the students on whether a character in a story (a Chekov story, if that’s important) could be judged less harshly because he felt terrible pangs of conscience while contemplating a murder or should be damned for contemplating murder at all. The matter hadn’t been settled, but we all had (kind of) agreed to disagree. 

It was at that point that the class asked for a two-minute break, before moving on. That was customary, since I do make a habit of giving breaks. Then they asked if they could snack during the break. That, too, was customary. Very often I allow my students to eat during breaks – can’t have them dreaming of food instead of focussing on Chekov. In fact, at a workshop on improving one’s effectiveness during teaching, I once saw a video of an ‘ideal’ class atmosphere where every student sat with his sandwich and soda, relaxed, sated, and so, able to focus. 

But that’s a digression (and a debatable topic). To get back to my Literature class that day, initially I refused them permission to eat since I felt it was too early in the morning – rather soon after breakfast time. The students, of course, convinced me that they needed the food, so I eventually gave in. Then came the shocker, when a student casually remarked, “You are the only teacher with whom we are so gentlemanly and ask for permission before eating – because we know you usually allow us to eat. In other classes, we just hide our food and eat, anyway.”

I stared at him in disbelief. He grinned back. And this brings us right back to the topic of ethics. 

Does one ask for permission only when assured of a positive answer? Is the possibility of a negative answer simply solved by breaking rules?

Before damning students, I tried to see if I could find the same principle (it’s ironic to call it a ‘principle’, really) applied to adults, as well – about more serious matters than grabbing a bit of a sandwich in class. 

I found, it does. Only, we call it the ‘need to know’ principle. The boss will not understand if we tell him that we need to stay home to catch up on playing with the kids one day, that the parent-child relationship really needs urgent repair work. So the boss need not know about our reason for not reporting to work – a bout of food poisoning will do fine, instead. Would a pick-pocket ask for permission to take someone’s wallet, if he knew that the answer would be positive?

Life, of course, offers her own little jokes and irony. Soon after the class, back at my desk, I was mulling over the remark, when another student came in to ask if he could have a word with me. He had been discussing various community service plans (as a part of his project) with me over the last few days, and he had at last come up with an idea. “Shall I organise a lecture series on ethics in various professions, and wrap up the series by forming a code of ethics for our students to pledge allegiance to, and follow?” he asked.

We do live in a brave new world, after all.