Today, I did something I would have thought impossible a few months ago. As a fledgling teacher almost two years ago, I would plan each class in excruciating detail and then work up a Plan B and C and D, in case things didn’t go as planned. Today, I found myself in a situation that I would have never thought possible. Today, for a little over an hour, I handled three different classes across three different syllabi spanning two subjects. And I survived.
Today’s situation was just unfortunate circumstance – a couple of teachers unavailable and my desire to make sure I get as many hours with board exam kids as possible. So here I was, teaching the map work section of Asia’s physical features for Class 8, while one set of Class 9 kids did exercises on question tags and degrees of comparison and another set did an IGCSE-esque reading comprehension on the fast disappearing Indian vulture population. Amidst the doubt clearing, instruction giving, and checking on the classes next door, there were corrections to do and the next set of worksheets to make. And while my throat may not agree with me, it was a riot. It was a moment to realise how much there was to do and how far I had come.
The last few weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions, a see-saw between the never-ending (largely) self-induced panic and stress and the occasional yet overwhelming realisation that this stint is almost over, and if I ignored the never-ending stream of correction and the amount I have contributed to landfills in the form of red pen refills, I will actually miss all of this. I will miss the classroom and the laughter, the silliness of mistakes and goof-ups of teacher and student alike. I will miss the joy of being where the change is, not one foot removed or one step away. Exactly there. And while teaching pronouns often does not seem like creating revolutionary change, every once in a while, a smart question or a well-written piece of work or a thought process that hints at something deeper keeps us there.
But more than that, today was also a reminder of why I came. Straight out of college, I wanted to “truly understand development,” bolster classroom knowledge with something more “real”. And in the middle of juggling four different sets of kids in three classes today, I realised this was that moment. Amidst the intent of “making a difference” and “leaving a mark” (which we hopefully are), this is the reality. These are the moments that development discourse has no way of capturing. That amidst the storyline of educating first generation learners, you need to account for substitution timetables, for sore throats and dusters that don’t dust, for classes that don’t go as planned and choose their own path, pulling you along. This was the real deal.
Today, I had a moment where I had to explain to my class that ‘Indo-Gangetic’ by definition meant it was in India but I also had a moment where we learnt about Johannes Gutenberg and the printing press. I had a moment when I gulped down half a litre of water to calm my burning throat after throwing my voice to catch the attention of a class full of buzzing thirteen-year-olds, but I also had a moment where we all cracked up about something inconsequential and just laughed together for no good reason. And both these stories are worth telling.
With only a few months to go and a series of ‘lasts’ that populates the time that remain, I am at that point where things are starting to fall into place. And one is this. I taught four classes today, and that does not make me an exceptional teacher. It makes me a part of a system that is close to the ground. It makes me one of many others around the country. And it teaches me what no degree in development can – that the “real” story of developmental action, the colours of change in the education space, is made of board marker ink on your fingers, the hangover of the last class, and the perpetual flurry of the next one just around the corner.