Katie Revell\’s India Blog

Long time no news. Apparently the Indian government (after heated all-night
discussions) has deemed my blog too damaging to national security interests
and so has blocked it. Actually, this was one of a range of possible
problems set out by the ever-helpful David (Gilmour), but bizarrely is
looking the most likely at the moment…

Considering how quickly time is racing by, I thought I’d better get in a few
posts while I’m still here! We fly from Hyderabad three weeks today, and
it’s less than three weeks until we leave the College and Vijayawada (we’ve
booked an overnight train - 3-tier air-conditioned since we’re being
reimbursed - for the night of the 5th of August).

Unsurprisingly, my feelings are mixed: right now, the overriding one is
excitement at the prospect of being home, and to be honest I revel in
ticking off the days. At the same time, though, I know that it’s easy to
overlook how attached you are to a place and to people while you’re still in
the midst of it all. Undoubtedly there will be things - and particuarly
people - I’ll miss once I’m gone. Being able to get fresh juice, noodles,
chapatti or a cup of tea at the side of the road is a luxury for which I’m
sure I’ll mourn as I survey the limp, plastic-wrapped sandwiches in the
train station. I’ve also been loving having clothes tailored - again, I
somehow doubt that I’ll have the means to continue with this habit on my
return. Apart from anything else, I’m sure I’ll miss the students - their
inquisitive and sometimes naive questions, their constant joviality, and
their uncomplicated approach to life. Part of me feels guilty for being so
eager to leave - but it’s not because I haven’t enjoyed my time here, or
couldn’t stay longer, but rather because the year has made me realise simply
how much I like my home. As far as I’m concerned, that’s equally valuable as
all the revelations I’ve made about India.

Back to the present tense, however. My college classes are still going well.
That is, they’re going well, when they happen. Two of my classes have been
“re-posessed” to be used for other lessons. This is rather frustrating, not
least because it’s clear that no-one had any idea (or had thought to find
out) that I had already started teaching in those periods - despite the fact
that those in charge have copies of my timetable. Resultantly, I didn’t find
out until I turned up to take the lessons and (in the first instance), found
another teacher already there, or (as happened the second time) was
interrupted 10 minutes in and told that the lesson had been earmarked for a
different subject. The first time, I hadn’t actually started teaching the
class, so it wasn’t a major annoyance. With the other, however, I had
already taken them for several lessons and they had been enthusiastic,
cooperative and fun. It’s rather more irking when the class which is taken
away is one which actually wants to learn. When they were told they were to
have “Science and Civilisation” in place of Spoken English, they begged me
to stay (although whether this was because they enjoyed my lessons or just
thought they would be less taxing, I’m not sure). Some of them approached me
later and asked if it was possible to re-arrange the lesson, but since they
have no other free periods there’s not really any solution. Anyway, I guess
it’s nice to feel appreciated, even if only by the students themselves.

Last week I invigilated a Junior Inter History test conducted during the
ominously-titled “Zero Hour” (the extra study hour at the end of the day for
which all Intermediate students have to stay behind). At the end of the
test, I noticed that one of the girls was sitting at the back, surrounded by
her friends, crying. I asked if everything was OK, and one of her friends
informed me that “She’s crying because she wrote her own answers, not the
ones from the book.” She was afraid she’d fail.

Doing the same test were formerly Telugu-medium girls whom I take for
English classes. Their level of understanding is very basic, production even
more so. We’re still establishing the difference between a noun and a verb,
so quite how they’re expected to understand the first line of their textbook
- “History holds a mirror up to the deeds of Mankind” - and answer questions
on religious inscriptions, the Vedas or pre-history I’m not sure. Even so,
these girls had sat diligently throughout the test and scrawled out long
answers: ones they’d memorised, word for word, from the textbook. That this
other girl was miserable because she’d forgotten the exact wording and
resorted to actually using her brain, is sadly telling of the way the
education system often works here. It makes me so angry that students are
penalised for improvisation, for demonstrating understanding rather than
blind parroting of well-practised questions-and-answers. I told her as much,
and said that she must be intelligent to have written her own answers, that
irrespective of the exam she’d do better in life if she could think for
herself. At this, her friend gave her a friendly punch on the arm, so that
must be pretty much what she’d been saying, too. There are some very bright,
opinionated girls in the college, and I love talking to them. I just hope
the system increases their desire to think independently, rather than kills
it.

There’s another totally unrelated incident I’d like to share, because it
also reveals an aspect of the Indian psyche (such as there is one). While I
was supervising Zero Hour in the same class, a big black crow came and
perched on one of the shutters outside the window. Something dropped from
its beak: one of the little, spread-toed green lizards which cling to the
walls at night, tongues flicking. It scuttled across the floor, under the
desks. The screaming and jumping onto chairs which followed initially was
surprising only because of its magnitude. In the ensuing silence however,
the middle portion of the classroom having been completely deserted, one
intrepid student approached the terrified creature…and stamped on it.

Having escaped the clutches of the crow, the poor lizard had met a fate not
much preferable. Initially, I was amused at the hysteria a desperate little
four-legged creature could provoke; when I realised their violent solution,
I was appalled. Obviously, the sentimentality with which we treat animals in
“the West” is not really appropriate in a country where millions of humans
barely scratch out a living, but still, the treatment meted out on the
(mosquito-eating, non-poisonous, 5-inch long, heroically escaped) lizard
just seemed totally unnecessary. It had never occured to me to be frightened
or disgusted by them; they’re such an common sight and, like the nervous
chipmunks which inhabit the college grounds, I’m rather fond of them.

As we wind up the year, we run into the inevitable beaurocracy which, again,
is so very Indian. We’re off to the police station tomorrow to get our
all-important exit permits - without which we would run into serious trouble
at Hyderabad airport. I’m braced (from past experience) for a long few hours
of being passed around various officials in various offices, a lot of
waiting, signing things, pedantic questions and misspellings of my name. I’m
bringing a book.