Besides teaching, the extent of a teacher’s work nowadays has reached… toilet cleaning. So often, I find myself asking: what exactly is a teacher’s real job? To teach? Or to scrub a commode? And don’t get me started on “wholesome education.” This so-called wholesome education has turned teachers’ lives into a special kind of hell. It has chopped us into bits and parts—like a human salad no one ordered.
Some may call toilet cleaning the dignity of labour. Fine. But the “model teacher” description has become as clichéd as a motivational poster in a staffroom. What do students really want at the end of the day? Good passing marks. No big deal! The real imparters of wholesome education—these jack-of-all-trades knowledge machines—are themselves deeply unwholesome. “Everyone cannot be whole, sir. Some must be parts,” said a naughty student in my class, turning my face blacker than a burnt bread in front of everyone. I had just complained about his indiscipline. And you know what? He’s right. And that’s dangerous. To be a jack of all trades and master of none—that’s what our system teaches. No specific skill, just blunt poles that won’t jab into the soil. And teachers’ stories are no different these days. Teachers must not only teach, but also strip off their ghos or Kiras and kick a football between wide posts. Teachers must not only teach, but also dance like monkeys on command. Teachers must sing at the top of their lungs, loudly enough to demotivate any future playback singer in the room. Teachers must dig the ground to sow seeds of a fruit that may never grow. Teachers must be guide, parent, mentor, and the father of all—though they have fathered none.
Toilet cleaning is the new trend at Darla MSS. Darla is the father of toilet cleaning—if other schools follow suit. And where the hell is Darla? Darla was once Tala. Tala is now a money-grinding machine in Bhutan. Hydroelectricity checks the trade balance, especially with India. Somewhere downstream, the lights are on; upstream, we’re holding toilet brushes.
In 2010, out came the teachers’ toilet-cleaning routine. To everyone’s surprise—and I mean genuine, jaw-dropping surprise—it was unexpected. Some laughed at the foolishness. Some made jokes. Some simply refused to use the toilet they had to clean. So many odds and ends came out. It pushed us into a day with a very stressed mind.
Those thoughtless Chamchas groups did whatever they were told. The other half questioned whether it was good or bad. But an order from the head? Many submitted into silence, nodding like broken toys. The Head is the progenitor of all. He is considered omniscient—an all-knowing type of charlatan. Bow before the flush.
Yes, dignity of labour is important. And the basic of all basics is cleaning the toilet. A grand routine was displayed: two lady teachers and two gent teachers, every morning and evening. To make matters worse, there were hues and cries among students. On one of my morning SUPW duties, I clearly heard a student say resentfully, “It best suits teachers—especially that discipline Lopen [name withheld]—to clean the shit.” I pretended not to hear. My ears, however, heard everything.
The real reason we had to clean toilets? No wet sweeper in the school. And the Dzongkhag wasn’t willing to provide one, despite so many unemployed scamps roaming around. Our dry sweeper loved only dry work. But the boys? The boys were wet.
Nobody took it seriously for more than two or three months. I suspect nobody bothered to clean the toilet except a few paranoids. Within this period, the matter worsened. Instead of cleaning the shit, a huge heap of shit was purposely messed near the door of the toilet and on either side of the pots. Intentional. This matter reached the mastermind. Soon, there was a three-hour meeting. On shit. It was the shit meeting—to vomit some hard, undisclosed, and hidden words. Disagreement, agreement, etc. Finally, the big solution: one evaluation criterion would be toilet cleaning. People must be forced in this democratic country sometimes. “This school is really becoming shit,” concluded our Lopen, who keeps his senses only through high alcohol. The end of a meeting is always welcome. Many times, I wish for a meeting to end before it starts. But beware—not with this life’s ending.
The story of cleaning toilets became quite successful—thanks to the fear of losing PCS marks. The cleaner of the day would wake up early, reach before anyone else, flush the toilet, sweep the passageways, and deodorize like a hotel housekeeper possessed. At closing time, the same routine. Many did. Many didn’t. And now I feel sorry that I malingered and absconded from this civilized work for some days. So, I half-sort-of promise: when I join back, I will be the first one to go inside the toilet… and the first one to come out.
Haha.
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