My Son's Teacher

My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!

It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.

Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.

The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.

The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.

When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.

There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.

I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.

My Son's Teacher

My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!

It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.

Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.

The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.

The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.

When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.

There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.

I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.

On the Wings of Family and Faith

On the wings of Family and Faith
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

It is not unusual to have rambunctious arguments in progress, in a home with one teenager and one 11-year old. Real acrimony is generated when I ask my young ones to assist me with some religious custom. My sons usually want an answer to what its nexus is with their everyday existence. They will usually retort, “Mom, Science tells us there is no God.” “Know why India cannot take her rightful place despite all the IITs and IIMs and riding the BPO wave? …..Because our socialisation drags us right back into the dark ages with puja and path.” “Where else will you find a society that worships machines (Vishkarma) rather than productivity? Having expended his teenaged angst, my son will usually do as he’s told but in weathering that little storm, I reinforce two important Indian values, family and faith in the almighty.

In time, the boys will appreciate that it is not the degrees or IQs of the doctors, engineers and the ubiquitous NRIs that has scripted many a “India Shining” global success story, but the EQ ie the Emotional Quotient of these Indians. EQ rooted in the time honoured Indian values of family and faith imparts the winning edge to all these players. Witness the Gujaratis, Marwaris and Banias’ legendary business families and the unique Indian business model: the family owned, professionally managed, corporation. Family and faith are the “It” Indian values.

Prayer binds the Indian Family. Much before the dramatic Tele-Mandirs glittering with icons or the ‘Tulsi worship’ in Balaji Telefilms sumptuously crafted ‘Saas’ serials there was, in most homes, a small mandir placed on a cupboard shelf or a tiny puja room. The family gathered in the morning and evening to pray. It was a ritual for some and a deeply felt expression of faith for others. But it was a practice that set the tone for the day. The family collected together, automatically reinforcing family ties. Arguments, tantrums just melted away as everybody joined in the recitation of the holy scriptures followed by “tilak” or “prasad”.

Even as the Left parties dwell on the absence of a security net for Indians, it would not be out of place to observe that life even below the Poverty Line in India is infinitely preferable to that in a country with superior development indicators. Employment, Roti, Kapda, Makaan, and capital for business, are all provided by the family. A family, where children have both parents, the sage influence of grandparents is a security blanket that no welfare state can provide.

Even as a new government takes over the reins, increasingly the average citizen is coming to terms with the realisation that if civil society is to flourish and we are to check the corruption associated with an all-pervasive State machinery, then every Indian has to rely on himself : Self-reliance rather than “Sarkar” is the secret to “India Shining”. And self-reliance is the temple built on faith and family.

My Sons Teacher

My son’s teacher
by Punam Khaira Sidhu

WHAT’S up”, queried my husband when he found me desperately rifling through yellowing papers. “I’m trying to find my degree certificates and medals”. I responded. The last time I presented them for scrutiny was when I took the Civil Services exams, 17 years ago. Now, my qualifications and competence were again on test. Only this time, it wasn’t the mandarins at the UPSC, doing the assessment: it was my 10-year-old son!

It all started rather innocently. My son was doing a routine homework assignment when I corrected the spelling of accessaries to accessories and rhynoceros to rhinoceros and pointed out that ships were not parked in a harbour, but anchored in it. The little man took umbrage, and argued, “Look, my teacher’s marked it correct in my written work”. The complete conviction in his teacher being correct and complete lack of confidence in his mother’s erudition, or rather the lack of it, was a fell blow for my self-esteem.

Every time I checked an error in spelling or fact I found myself having to substantiate it with encyclopaedia and dictionaries. I would spend evenings helping him prepare a chart with diagrams et al but, when it did not meet with his teachers’ approval, my proficiency rating plummeted. That was what had me rummaging for my degrees. Junior needed to know that his mom had gone to school too and obtained a first class first Masters degree.

The student-teacher relationship, the guru-shishya parampara, is special and has been down the ages. It has to do with the aura every child invests his teacher with. The teacher is the “significant other”, the “Guru, tutor, instructor and coach”, in every little-one’s school world. The one who knows it all, is the final arbiter of all that is right and wrong, and above all holds the key to the mysteries of the world. In school, of course, the teacher is God but even outside when we run into Brother, Ma’am or Sir, the traffic stops, and a hush descends on my noisy brat as he points them out with awed admiration. From that position the teacher’s words carry complete conviction, magical appeal and unrivalled powers of persuasion.

The epics tell us of Eklavya, who cut off his thumb as “dakshina” for his Guru Dronacharya even though it meant an end to his career as an archer. The same spirit, miraculously, imbues most younger students even in the present day.

When I voiced my concern about TV, I was labelled a spoilsport; the teacher organised a debate and my son was suddenly an articulate spokesman for the harmful effects of TV. Books lay gathering dust, until Ma’am directed that each boy read a book a week and write a report. Suddenly, my son was reading abridged versions of the classics and was an authority on Charles Dickens and Mark Twain. Every parent learns to cognise and appreciate that the teachers can get their little devils to write poetry, and prose, inspire frenzied research on esoteric topics, teach them to paint, and even sing in tune. They inspire them with the motto of ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ in sports, and infuse them with charity and capitalism when the proceeds of the School fete are used to fund scholarships for poor kids. The teacher is the miracle worker. Mom and Dad, are well, just progenitors, to be kept in good humour so they keep the pizzas and pocket money coming in.

There’s a lot of time and energy invested in teachers’ day and birthday: thoughtful cards are hand-painted and fresh flowers hand picked. Parents’ birthdays need a strident reminder and if you try and compare, there’s the gentlest rebuff, “...hey Mom I love you. Surely you don’t need a card or a bunch of old flowers to tell you that...” Well, who can argue with that except the green-eyed monster inside who feels she could use that brand of “special thoughtfulness” inspired in her progeny by his teachers.

I guess if you can’t beat them join them: so I have volunteered with my son’s school, as a substitute teacher. Perhaps I will now discover, that special ingredient, that will take me from Mom to Ma’am and absolution.

Rakhi Musings

Rakhi musings
Punam Khaira Sidhu

YOU know what they say about sons being sons until they acquire a wife, and daughters being your little girls all their lives. Well, as I grew older I found that this homespun adage is perfectly true of real life. My brothers who were part of a close knit family unit changed after they married. No more phone calls, or flying visits to renew the sibling bonds. No more caring or sharing and keeping each other updated on every new pimple or itch.

Parents usually accommodate and come to terms with their sons’ changed priorities. They appreciate that their progeny are busy with new-found mates, even as they strive in pursuit of life’s goals. Sisters usually find it harder to fill up the yawning, aching, emotional abyss that deep-rooted brother-sister bonds leave behind. Initially every sister tries to cling to a relationship under threat. Its not easy to watch bonds, you thought were held together by something, far more durable than any fevicol commercial promises, being rapidly frayed by new emotional equations. I know it wasn’t easy for me. But eventually sisters retreat, deep into their own family unit and try valiantly to hide behind a shield of “as if I care, bravado”. I know I did too.

But deep inside they hurt and pine for their brothers “Bhais”, or ‘Veers’ and the warmth and succour of the brother –sister bond of old. We all use different methods for coping. I use my mother as a punching bag for releasing my angst over brotherly apathy. Rakhi is the time I give passionate vent to it.

She starts reminding me at least a month before Raksha Bandhan. An updated list of addresses follows. Then comes a reminder to send the “Rakhi” so that the brothers get it on time. I usually ignore it, determined to get even with callous brotherly indifference. “Do you know he hasn’t written me a letter or even acknowledged my rakhi?”.”But he sent you a cheque, didn’t he?” I ‘m not interested in their rupees/dollars. “It would be nice to get a letter of thanks, or a greeting on a birthday, or an anniversary “Remember he’s set up a new business,/or he’s got a new posting/or he’s just moved house…….. I’m sure he has his problems. .” “He could call or e-mail if he can’t find an envelope and stamps.” “He could at least have expressed some concern over what appeared to be a huge trough in my life.” “He didn’t even express an interest in my son’s wonderful achievements or congratulate me on my promotion.” . “…..So why do I have to send him a Rakhi?. He’s hardly ever there for me. Fat chance, they will protect or care for me if I should ever need it.”

I moan and groan and my mother lets me. It’s a pattern we have fallen into. Very gently she does, however, make the point that, relationships need to be nurtured. It dosen’t take much to break off a bond, but its difficult to rebuild it. What better occasion than Rakhi to remind them as an older sister of brotherly obligations. “Its your duty to do your bit darling they’ll come around.” “That’s what family is for-understanding and standing by each other” “ Its certainly not about scoring points and getting even”. And so it goes on and every year she blackmails me, emotionally, into sending that symbolic thread of Rakhi that was devised perhaps to remind brothers each year that they have a duty, indeed a responsibility for the well being of their sisters.

This year, however, at that time of the year, came news of a different sort. A biopsy and an emergency operation later, one of my brothers is minus his stomach. There’s a long haul ahead. Chemotherapy, dietary restrictions, a whole change in lifestyle. Life is never going to be the same for any of us. For me, coming as it did, at the time of the year when I usually find reasons why I do not need to renew the bond which puts me in a position where my brothers can hurt me with their careless indifference, I suddenly realise that I cannot bear to think of life without them.

How ephemeral life is? You just can’t take anything, especially those you love for granted. Who knows what destiny has waiting for you at the next corner. More than ever before, I realise, how important my brothers, my ‘Veers’ are to me. Childhood memories, dreams, sibling rivalries inundate me washing away the trivia of my perceived neglect. Cherished memories framed in sepia suddenly come alive. As lachrymal glands go into overdrive I resolve to act, rather than brood in impotent melancholy, for a relationship and indeed a brother I value and cherish.

I can act constructively to do something about it while there is still time. I pack my bags, put in a leave application and tell my husband that Raksha Bandhan is when I need to be with my brother. So what are you waiting for?. Just get together a thali, a Rakhi and a box of sweets and go visit the recalcitrant truant who is an inextricable part of your memories of growing up.