Class Four Students

This year, I teach Class IV English and Class X English while juggling about seventeen other responsibilities that probably have no job description. But honestly? Being with little humans and watching them actually learn something makes my heart do a happy little dance. Seeing them grow up right before our eyes—sometimes even vertically—and become actual people is a huge source of contentment for both parents and teachers. Unless they become louder. Then we question our life choices.

Class IV kids are barely ten years old, and let me tell you—they are tougher to handle than a bag of hyperactive squirrels. They shout, play, sleep, run, jump, and occasionally achieve the Zen state of doing absolutely nothing. They grumble and complain about each other like tiny retired uncles with zero filter. The Class IV English textbook is the thickest book any school-going child has ever seen—it could double as a doorstop, a weapon, or a dumbbell. So I tell them, “Congratulations, you are now college students, because you’re carrying the thickest English textbook in the entire school!” They laugh proudly, puffing out their chests like little weightlifters.

Starting the lessons was pure chaos wrapped in a blazer. ‘Reading and English Literature’ took almost a week—just introducing what they were going to study. Since they’ve leaped from Class III, they barely understand what’s happening in class. I suspect some of them are orbiting a different planet entirely. I go on speaking English. I go on explaining. I go on making them read, write, speak, and listen. Their universal reply to everything? “Yes sir,” said in the tone of someone who has absolutely no idea what they just agreed to.

We had a spectacularly hilarious time pronouncing the word ‘Literature’. Some said cutely, “Li-te-te-te” (which sounds like a broken robot). A few said, “Lit-te-ture” (close, but no cigar). Some went with “Lit---ta-ry” (mysterious and artistic). Everyone said it differently—like a pronounciation potluck. Only a handful could say it correctly. Then I had to explain what literature actually is. We listed down poems, stories, essays, letters, and that one note you pass in class. Then we had to write what a poem is, types of poems, and basic features of a poem (a.k.a. “What makes a poem a poem and not a grocery list?”). And so, we stumbled forward with other genres too.

A few days ago, we learned a poem with lots of role-plays—suddenly I was surrounded by overacting champions. That made them interested and happy. Then we did speaking practice, where they produced tailless, headless, legless English. One student declared, “The poem is about to remember.” Another one nodded sagely, “Remember is the poem.” I didn’t know whether to correct them or frame those sentences.

The next eternity comes when they write. They write at a snail’s speed—a snail with a broken leg. Tortoise speed? The tortoise would lap them twice. When asked to copy a word from the board, they mutter P-O-E-M like it’s a sacred spell. Writing one sentence in their notebooks takes half the class period. I’ve seen glaciers move faster.

But here’s the thing: they learn fast. They catch on quickly. Many students can now answer my questions without looking at the ceiling for divine intervention. I must always keep an eye on them, though—because the moment I blink, someone tries to become class president by force. When I contort my face and speak in a higher pitch, like a mildly unhinged opera singer, they get scared and keep mum. Finally, silence. Blessed, temporary silence.

Such is my Class IV. Everyone wants to be captain. Everyone wants to go out and play. But nobody, absolutely nobody, wants to get spanked by teachers. Some things never change.

Class IV students writing

 

Busy Writing

Smiling

And Writing