Bansi, the watchman next door, is an immigrant worker. He and his family travel from one work spot to another and their life is largely ruled by the whims and fancies of the agent who finds a placement for them. Bansi and his family hail from a remote village in Nepal. Along with their two adorable sons, they live in a tiny, neat quarters behind the huge house that they cleaned and swabbed every single day. I have seen the husband and wife wash out the windows, dust the curtains and spruce up the huge garage as well as the swank cars, till they all looked as good as new.
Their two boys are a treat to watch. Bathed and dressed in bright coloured clothes, healthy with their mother’s loving home-cooked food, they are happy and content to play all through the day. They like to wave the cars in and out of the garage like their father, probably imagining themselves to be in the same profession several years down the line. The only time I saw their eyes going misty and dull, was when they watched students on their way to school early in the mornings. It broke my heart to watch the longing in their eyes when they saw children in their uniforms, carrying backpacks, water bottles and lunch bags, chattering away and discussing lessons, classes and teachers. What was even more disturbing was the fact that there was a private school just a few feet away from where these children lived. Many of the parents who accompanied the children are from the lower middle class and were beaming with pride to see their children go to a private “English medium school”. They do not hesitate to spend every penny they earned or borrowed on educating their children. Many of us living in the colony help these children monetarily, as the private schools demanded huge tuition fees, building funds, a special amount for lab facilities and so on.
While pruning the trees in my garden or taking a morning walk, from the corner of my eye I would watch these boys peer into school buses, waving out to early morning school-goers or sit on their haunches till the last student disappeared into the school premises nearby. Once I even heard the older boy cry out loudly to his mother, “I too want to go to school.” The mother shushed the child and took him inside quietly. I realised wearily how often we learn to take our education for granted or forget to realise how our fortunes may have changed had we been born in a different environment. Khalid Hosseini put it so succinctly when he said, “The privileges we enjoy are the result of an arbitrary genetic lottery.”
Therein started my mission. I bought books, colouring pencils and writing pads and started basic classes in writing and reading for these two boys. The parents were thrilled and encouraged the children to study with me. But there was no way I was going to stop there. I had been a teacher for 25 years and I was not going to see a potential student go to waste. In my broken Hindi, I challenged the father and asked him, “Don’t you think you should give your child an opportunity to study and perhaps let him choose a profession different from yours?”
“Mem saab, we are immigrants. We move from place to place. We cannot afford to educate our children , and they too find it difficult to pick up the local languages,” was his rationale. Every time they moved from one State to another, a different language and culture await them.
“Did you even try,” I asked. “The local government schools do not charge fees and provide mid-day meals too. Even if they don’t pick up the language, they can make friends, get used to a life of discipline and learn the basics of maths and science.” He promised to think about it and went about his usual routine, disappearing quickly inside the gigantic gates of the huge bungalow that he smartened up with such earnestness and sincerity.
Much to my surprise, a few weeks later, I saw the older boy going to the local government school wearing the navy blue and white uniform. I was thrilled to bits and congratulated the watchman on his efforts. Very soon, he approached me again and said that his son was finding it difficult to commute to the school which was in the middle of a busy market area and had decided to pull him out. “I don’t want my child meeting with an accident on his way to school. The scooters and motorbikes go up and down at breakneck speed and I keep worrying all the time. I don’t have the time to drop him and pick him up from school.”
There was no way I was ever going to let go of my precious student. In conspiratorial tones, I whispered, “Why don’t you ask your employer to pay the fees for the private English medium school nearby? I will pitch in a bit you know. I myself am funding the education of my maid’s daughter and son.” I did not want to interfere too much in case the employer thought I was instigating the watchman. I also did not want him to lose his livelihood at any cost.
“Oh no, mem saab, I cannot dare ask him that,” was his reply.
“Well, you should not give up that easily, you know,” I persisted gently.
I had to leave for the U.S. within a few days of this conversation. When I returned after two months, I was in for a fat surprise. I saw my little Nepalese school student spruced up in khaki shorts, a red, checked shirt and shiny black shoes and socks marching off to the private school nearby. Since it was very close, the little boy did not need a chaperone to accompany him.
“Mem saab, I took you advice seriously and enrolled him in the private school nearby. My employer has very kindly agreed to fund my son’s education.”
Every day, as I watch my little friend go to school, my heart swells with pride and gratitude and I never forget to give myself a tiny pat on my back. I wanted him to experience a childhood that he would cherish later, be exposed to stimuli that would throw opportunities for him to grab and enjoy a childhood from which he could draw strength and courage whenever he felt challenged. I wanted to rewrite his “genetic lottery,” I suppose.
sreelatharadhakrishnan53@gmail.com
