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Indian Express

How to raise a boy: As we raise our boys, we also raise ourselves

As a teacher with nearly 18 years of experience, at different schools in Ranchi, Kolkata and Delhi, I have taught young boys and girls from the age group of 11 to 17 years. I have seen several generations transition from boys to men, and the odyssey of emotional growth is never easy. My first challenge was in 1998, as an eager-eyed and bushy-tailed teacher stepping into a gallery of rowdy 16-year-old Class XI students in a school in Ranchi, where the boys rudely, though rather jauntily, demanded my 'introduction'. They preferred to be taught in Hindi, notwithstanding the fact that I was being paid to teach English. They, not I, ruled the classroom, and the 23-year-old avatar of this now grey-haired teacher soon figured out that if one could not snatch their attention in the first five minutes, there was no way anything could be taught or learnt. The principal of the school, a former English teacher himself, understood my frustration and said, 'Madam, upar waale ne kisi ko nikamma nahi banaya. Aapke paas to duniya bhar ke khazaane hai (Madam, god has not created anybody without talent. You have, in your possession, a treasure from across the world)'. He meant the world of literature. A timeless route into young hearts and minds that seemed to have the least hurdle appeared to be poetry. Young men going into battle were known to carry books of poetry with them. I hoped the 'experiment' would somehow work. The sound of the words, the rhythm of the verses, and the lyricism of language (Urdu, Hindi or English) did magically open pathways — to libraries, to bookshops, to friends' bookshelves, or dusty gullies with second-hand book or magazine stalls. Slowly, but surely, a few started striding into class with a poem or a song and read it out or simply talk. A class could begin with a Jagjit Singh ghazal or a latest Euphoria hit, with the loud fists-on-desk rhythm of back-benchers that can never be replicated outside classrooms or canteens. And on one occasion, a Class V boy blithely sang 'Dashing through the snow' in sun-beaten May. The principal, a gentleman who had served for many years in a Sainik School, encouraged my efforts. He was vocal in his critique of corporal punishment long before it was banned. 'It is a form of violence,' he said categorically. He presented me with a tape-recorder to play music in class and the freedom to teach students a song or two in English. Though I spent just two years in that school, the boys started reaching out whenever they found the time or the quiet confidence to sing a song, read aloud a poem or nazm or talk about a film they had watched. The schoolboys I taught appeared sensitive and empathetic by nature, they nurtured a genuine love for Urdu couplets or shayari, and some wrote in their spare time — all this without any encouragement from adults. It was, however, the era of 'tough love', which meant a reproach, if not a sound thrashing, was believed to be the cure for most things. Teachers and parents would tear down the efforts of these young boys with hurtful comments about how they were only trying to win the attention of girls. It was no surprise, then, that we adults were always viewed with suspicion and the boys had their own 'secret societies'. In my small-town world, it was also the era when 'roadside Romeos' would occasionally be subjected to a forced 'shearing' or a haircut by the self-appointed moral police outside women's colleges or girls' schools. 'Privacy', 'autonomy', or 'space' were alien concepts. Then there was the usual complaint, 'Teachers like girls more; they are biased.' Newspaper headlines screaming 'Girls outshine boys in the Board' were furnished as proof. Confronting such allegations proved to be tricky, but the whining seemed indicative of a feeling of being invisible or unmentored. Given an opportunity to express their feelings without being judged, these very same boys seemed more open to ideas or engagement. The spirit of adventure, rather misadventure, dogged their steps like a shadow. Since the school was on the outskirts, several boys drove their motorbikes to school at full speed. It was a 'flex', I was told. An accident left one severely injured and bedridden for weeks. How does one talk to teenage boys without sounding preachy? After I met the injured boy, I suggested to the class that they paint get-well-soon cards for him. I shared details about his long treatment, physiotherapy, the pain, his depression and the need to be with him in his hour of crisis. Soon after, the situation was reversed. His friends took it upon themselves to visit him and follow up on his treatment, filling me in with all the details of his recovery. Their cockiness faded when they saw a peer in distress and a circle of empathy was forged. Boys whose parents were doctors turned to them, drawing them into offering timely help and advice. But let us return to poetry. A few years ago, a boy who was the 'topper' from his batch, and is now studying in the college of his dreams, came to meet me. As we walked around the serene campus of the big-city school where I now teach, he mentioned casually, 'You know the poem I often come back to — Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. We read it in Class IX. There are times I have lain awake at night, thinking about the lines, about myself… Two roads diverged in the yellow wood/ And sorry I could not travel both/ And be one traveller…' I returned home that day deep in thought. Young boys who are in our homes, our neighbourhoods, our classrooms, and out of whom we expect the world — stable and upward career graphs, nurturing homes, secure bank balances — are sensitive young people, dealing with emotions they find hard to grapple with. Do we pause to read or listen, or sing to them as they grow up? Are we 'raising' them or are we failing them, if we do not? As we 'raise' our boys, we also raise ourselves. The principal I mentioned earlier in this write-up is someone who imparted life lessons on how to 'raise' a teacher. The boys we 'raise' will pay forward what they receive today. The writer teaches English in a school in Delhi. She hails from Jharkhand