Lesson from Madhopur

I am writing this piece from Madhopur — a little-known village in Bihar. And this journey from the highly sophisticated academic circuit of New Delhi to this remote village has its own story to tell. Shiksha Swaraj — a voluntary group led by a young idealist named Vikash Sharma, working in the field of children’s education — has given me the opportunity to interact with rural children. As I find myself involved with these children, I begin to realise that even after 31 years of teaching at a leading Central university, I have to continually learn and unlearn. As a university professor, I read great books on education; I could quote the likes of Ivan Illich and Paulo Freire comfortably; and I could theorise and write academic papers. But as I find myself in this village among these children —largely poor and marginalised — I realise the worth of three important lessons.

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Every child, irrespective of caste and class, is endowed with potential. It is sad that in this hierarchical and violent society, we throw so many people into the bin of history.

First, I see the futility of the ‘ego’ many of us as metropolitan academic intellectuals seek to possess. We think that we are intellectually superior as we write scholarly papers and supervise doctoral students. And what is there to teach children — beyond ‘A’ means apple, or 19×19=361, or the technique of drawing the sun beneath the hills? Anybody, as we say with our characteristic arrogance, can do it! This is like devaluing the pedagogic art of teaching children. However, this journey has made me realise that there is no hierarchy. As I sit with them, walk with them, play with them, and collectively learn, unlearn, discover and explore, I feel that I am mentally, intellectually and spiritually alive. And I begin to learn the power of empathy, endurance and the art of listening. In a way, I too rediscover my childhood.

Let me give a simple illustration. I was working with a six-year-old girl. We were jointly discovering the presence of mathematics in the world around us — the play of numbers in the human body, or the flowers that have just bloomed in the garden, and the geometrical shapes and designs we see around, be it in the door of the library, or in the book rack. After 40 minutes of this experiential mathematics, I walk with her, and see the garden with wonder — tiny red flowers and green leaves dancing. I urge her to see it mindfully, absorb it, and then, draw it in her copy. As she experiences the blend of mathematics and aesthetics, I see light in her eyes. And I feel that I too have just begun to learn.

Second, I realise that every child, irrespective of caste, class and gender, is endowed with a great potential. It is sad that in this ruthlessly hierarchical and violent society, we throw so many people into the dustbin of history. With our caste/class privilege, we tend to think that only our children — those who are enrolled in elite schools — are capable of learning science and poetry, or mathematics and geography. And even those of us who strive for ‘alternatives’ tend to think that only the children of the cultural elite can be enchanted by the pedagogic principles of Rabindranath Tagore and Jiddu Krishnamurti. However, as I interact with these rural children, I undergo a process of psychic transformation; my worldview begins to alter. I look at their curious eyes, feel the vibrations of their energetic bodies, and experience their amazing simplicity. And I realise that once you touch their souls, trust them and break caste/class barriers, a miracle happens. They receive. They understand. They begin to communicate.

To take yet another illustration, with a group of senior children, I initiate a conversation on caste and patriarchy. And yes, slowly and eventually, they regain their voice. And this voice is so important in a caste-ridden/patriarchal village where many of these students have been humiliated, silenced and repressed. Possibly, a series of engaged conversations (no monologue, no rote learning, and no fear of examination) made them feel the worth of what as university professors we theorise as ‘critical pedagogy’. Likewise, in yet another free-floating conversation, I tell them about Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, particularly his idea of ‘walking meditation’. For the first time, they heard about him. Yet, as I try my best to communicate with them in a way that is simple and rhythmic, I establish a communion with them. And then, we begin to walk — slowly and mindfully. In their own ways, they could distinguish hurried walking, which most of the time we do, from mindful/meditative walking. Who says that only the children of Santiniketan and Rishi Valley School can receive the light of ‘alternative’ education? In fact, every child is a promise; and we must acknowledge it, if we wish to heal this fragmented/violent/divided society.

And third, I realise the power of love and compassion. They tell me the stories of humiliation — the way some of their schoolteachers abuse them physically and mentally, or the way everyday hardship (poverty is the worst form of structural violence) tends to demotivate them. And then, the gaze of the ‘forward caste’ elite is enough to stigmatise them. But then, when they begin to trust you, and feel that you are not humiliating them, or ‘disciplining’ them through brute force, but listening to them, touching them and walking with them, you discover the moment of catharsis. These children have become my new friends. And I realise that there is no power higher than that of love in the realm of education.

Amid cynicism and despair, these three lessons are truly therapeutic.