Teachers’ Day: From a Teacher’s Perspective

On Teachers' Day: Confessions of a Glorified Babysitter (Just Kidding... Mostly)

Coinciding with Teachers' Day today, I would like to write something about teaching and what it means to me. The best way I have learned to be a teacher is by looking at how others teach me—which is sometimes terrifying, sometimes inspiring, and occasionally a great lesson in what not to do. Teachers are lifelong learners who relish the chance to grow and evolve. Moreover, the innocent enthusiasm of young students keeps teachers young, as they remind you to smile through the chaos, the marking, and the endless meetings about meetings.

In many ways, learning and teaching are tied to each other—like a married couple who can't decide whether to hug or strangle each other. Teaching means helping people learn something. Teaching is learning, enriching, and growing. Teaching is caring, motivating, and inspiring. Teaching is collaborating, equalizing, energizing, and exhilarating. Teaching is also exhausting, confusing, and occasionally makes you want to hide in the supply closet. But we push through.

I gain fondness by seeing a person who learns, changes, and gains understanding about the meanings of life and the world they live in—and having the ability to be unselfish and worthy contributors to society. In other words, I help them grow into what they want to be, provided they stop sharpening pencils during my lecture.

I have encountered many best students in my life who have in turn shaped my life better. They are Monu Tamang, Mahindra, Yangchen, Sonam3s (yes, with a 3—there are many Sonams), Susan, Karma, to name a few. The rest are still a work in progress. So am I.

A novice child comes into class not able to read. When he leaves in December, he will have become independent, understood the way of things, and become a potential and creative solver. I have to say, seeing the progression of a child and making a difference in a child's life from February to December is invigorating. It's also exhausting, but in a good way—like running a marathon while being asked "Why?" every thirty seconds. That's what makes teachingmean the most to me.

Teaching to me means caring, nurturing, and developing minds and talents. It is about passion as much as it is about reason. It's about not only motivating students to learn but teaching them how to learn—and doing so in a manner that is relevant, meaningful, and memorable. It is about listening, questioning, being responsive, and pushing students to excel. At the same time, it's about being human, respecting others, and being professional at all times—even when someone has just asked, "Is this for marks?" for the fifteenth time.

Teaching is more than just a job. It's a calling. It's an ever-surprising mix of grueling hard work and ecstatic successes, both big and small. To constantly improve teachingcapabilities and to be there for the student, and to help with any problems they have, in or out of the class, to teach and delight—that is my motto. Also, to never lose my sense of humor. That one is survival.

There are as many different learning styles as there are ways to solve problems. The ability to look at life in a different way and to explain a topic in a different way is one approach. Not everyone gets a subject as taught by every teacher. Images, pictures, trips, and the occasional bribe of candy are some ways.

As a teacher, I think we need to have the ability to change, but it is also important to be able to keep hold of the good things—like coffee, patience, and the fire extinguisher. Some teachers may fear change, as change is uncertain, but it is not necessary for teachers to change everything they currently do in the classroom—just the things that aren't working. Like yelling. Or falling asleep during silent reading. Change is a slow and difficult process, so it should be taken step by step. Preferably with tea.

As teachers, we should always remember the 'Wise Old Owl':

The wise old owl lived in an oak

The more he saw, the less he spoke

The less he spoke, the more he heard

Why can't we all be like that bird?

Because, dear owl, we have thirty students asking questions at once, a principal with a clipboard, and a bell that rings every forty minutes. But we try.

The work of the teacher never ends. Its continuous ripple effects are always there, somewhere, somehow—like a bad cold or a good joke. We teachers must remember that if a student fails, then: the teacher has failed; the examination system has failed; the evaluation system has failed; and, by and large, the education system as a whole has failed. No pressure, though. Happy Teachers' Day!

Something

Note: The poem describes a minute bus stop in one of the terminals in Bangalore metropolitan city. Indians peeing on the wall is the most prominent thing one could see anywhere in India—in front of the crowd. Very embarrassing!



Everybody is doing something—
working, talking, staring, sitting,
sleeping, standing, waiting,
peeing…

I am doing nothing.
Just watching.
Or so I tell myself.



At a boulevard depot,
a minute bus stop,
I stand here looking—
doing nothing.
Or maybe doing everything
by doing nothing at all.



Everybody is doing something—
driving, climbing, jerking, crying,
reading, writing, playing,
peeing…

I am doing nothing.
But my mind is occupied
by all these somethings.
So am I really idle?
Or just busy in a way no one can see?



A minute watch.
Catch a touch
of wall painting
and wall washing.
Or is that just another name
for what they're doing over there?



Everybody is doing something—
selling, buying, tweaking, pulling.
Some happy, some sad, some eating.
Some angry, some disturbing.
A minute: three people peeing.

Wall painting or wall washing?
Hard to tell anymore.

I am doing nothing.
But my mind is occupied by all these somethings—
and still, I feel like I'm doing nothing.

Maybe that's my something.
Maybe watching is working.
Maybe standing here, confused and confident,
is the most honest thing anyone's doing today.

Being Bad Boys

Boys are boys. Girls are girls. Nicely said.

Boys will remain boys—whether in Bhutan, India, Arab countries, Africa, or any community they belong to. There are no bars, no religions, no borders when it comes to their actions. They are, to put it kindly, damned bad birds.

They sleep all day and enjoy all night. They talk about sex—only sex, please, no love, no affection, no “how was your day?” They watch ridiculous movies. They play loud music. They never go to class. They never wash dishes. I suspect they believe dishes wash themselves by the sheer force of their indifference.

Very recently, a group of boys rented the upper floor flat. Four boys, one three-bedroom hall kitchen. Their behavior? Exactly the same script: loud music, zero hygiene, and sometimes—just for creativity—they throw buckets of water down the staircases. Crazy.

Those boys are complete maniacs. Because of them, I’ve started to think boys are a different species. They have no such thing as forbearance. They are sometimes like animals. In fact, they possess all the qualities of donkeys, monkeys, horses, and pigs—though I admit, that might be an insult to donkeys.

In my class, there was one very mannered, up-to-date, perfectly well-disciplined boy—more studious than even me (yes, even me). But as time passed, he changed. We told him he behaved like a girl, and now? He has become crazier than any of his classmates. He bunks class, sleeps in class, fights with teachers. He has simply become hopeless and mannerless. I feel he simply has no future. Congratulations to us—we successfully peer-pressured him into chaos.

In a distant land, there was a king. He wanted to discover where language comes from. He worked for many, many years. The crazy king asked all his ministers to research it. Finally, he concluded and laughed, declaring, "Language comes from society."

So, language is society-made. But boys, I guess, are not made by society. They are born tough and crazy by nature. The opposite of boys is girls. But mind you, some girls are not that opposite. They are equally crazy, or quite a lot more, than boys. Despite this, I do not have much knowledge of the duck's world. We live in the drake's world. (Look it up. I’ll wait.)

I have encountered many boys from different religious groups. On the surface, these boys appear religiously inclined—pious, proper, forbidden-fruit-avoiding types. But they do not. They say one thing and do the opposite right away. For example, Muslims are bound by a strict set of beliefs that forbid any form of adultery. Yet—well, you can guess. I have seen them drink, make girlfriends, sleep like pigs, and hardly ever pray. Why? Because they are boys.

Same story, different holy book.

As for me, I am a middle person—a kind of GNH follower. Not fanatical about everything, nor completely indifferent. I am on my way, doing all I can to assimilate and conform in life.

That is me.

(And no, I do not throw water down staircases. I have some standards.)

Have I Voted?

There I stood
In front of an Electronic Voting Machine,
Unable to decide.

Three pictures on the EVM
Reflected me:
Who am I?
Why should I press the button?
Why am I here?

Three pictures on the EVM smile.
One: my father's enemy.
Second: my cousin brother.
Third: I didn't know him—
He never visited my village.
The trio had done nothing as such for the village.

I closed my eyes
And tried to study their past.
It was too late to decide.
I had heard so many voices
For three days in the village, saying:
Mr. X is good,
Mr. Y is excellent,
Mr. Z is outstanding.

Who knows who is good?
Or bad?
Politicians are the dirtiest species on earth—
Even you and I, if in their place,
Would be unable to decide.

So be it.
Right is the freedom to choose.

I came out—
Perplexed and saddened.
Have I cast a vote?
Or just a shadow of one?

Somebody Nobody

Everybody is somebody.
Somebody is nobody.
That somebody is me.

I am nobody.
It's me.
Today.



Everybody has somebody.
Somebody has nobody.
That somebody is me.

I have nobody.
It's me.
Today.



Here, in this distant place,
I run to and fro without pace,
looking for somebody.
But there awaits nobody.

That's me.
It will only ever be me.



Here I journeyed long,
a heart without a song.
Then I heard a gong—
life pongs
with all its wrongs.



Baffled, I cry out,
thinking of lucks—
of some ducks—
and me, the dropout.

Life pongs.
Sometimes with all wrongs.



Somebody will have everything.
Someday.

That somebody is me?
Or is that just another lie I tell myself?

Life is nothing.
It's the same every day—
without you.
Or me.
Or anyone who stays.

Coincidence (Story)

Life has many twists and turns, and these twists and turns are the facts of realism. For every curve, there is a bend, and for every bend, there is a curve. For every significant day, there is an insignificant day. Because of the so-called unimportant days, a notable day exists in our lives. There are moments in life, thoughtless days, and unforgettable days.

Pema too has such a moment—an unforgettable day.

Pema, the celebrator of this day, is a brilliant boy of ten. Brilliant—yes, he is the topper of his class. Teachers gasp at his artwork. "What a beautiful drawing, Pema!" In every school drawing competition, the first prize is booked for him, always. That is Pema. Pema Tashi.

He is ten now, but he will never forget the day that shaped his life—blissfully. That was when he was eight years old.

He would care for, recollect, and muse over that day—the most important day of all his days. It was the day he heard that he had won a national-level poetry writing competition. He received the news on 12/11/2004. He was cherished, one of the happiest persons in the whole world. It was the turning point in his life. Because of that particular poem, he became a recognized figure. That beloved day encouraged him to continue writing from the heart and by his own hand. But it wasn't only the winning. On that day, something bizarre, unexpected, and special happened to him. Something greater than his victory.

On the night of November 11, 2004, he had a dream. He was trudging across dangerous, craggy rocks, sweating to cross them. His whole body was drenched. Then, from nowhere, a bird appeared—he couldn't name it—a white bird. The bird came beneath him and carried him to what felt like home. It was a beautiful home, filled with the radiance of candles and butter lamps. In front of him stood Jampelyang—the god of wisdom. Pema bowed low. Soon, he was awakened by a piece of music. He couldn't grasp the words. It was just a dream! To hear the music again, he tried to sleep, but sleep was gone. It was already dawn. All he could hear were knocks.

Pema opened the door. He was surprised to see a group of friends near the door, holding newspapers, all smiles and applause. He was down to earth! What had happened? Without delay, his friends told him what he would never forget for the rest of his life. They showed him the newspaper—his poem and his name were there. The previous weekend, he had sent a poem to the newspaper for the Kids' Poetry Competition. He had written about a tree in a treeless land: how a single tree changed the lives of many people, how it provided shelter for many lives. He described the shape of the tree, the surrounding landscape, and the weather conditions. It was a good poem, he thought—at least.

His poem was nominated as the best in the country. He had become like that single, lonely tree—now thronged by so many people in a short time. This day had changed him, just as his tree in the poem had changed many lives. In the struggle of his life, a white bird had appeared. This bird was his poem. He flew high. He was elated with the hive of life. The day became even more joyful when his English teacher read his poem and held him up as an example to his fellow students. Miss Dema read it three times! His teachers were proud. His classmates were proud. His school had something to be recognized for. Everyone congratulated him—all the teachers, a group of friends, a group of girls. His mother, brothers, and sisters were over the moon. His tree had brought change. His whole life had made a U-turn. After that, life had no more twists—it moved straight, no crooked paths, no hooks. He was to stay here, writing and receiving awards.

The day was swift. Merriness was everywhere, but one thing always lingered in his mind: his father's return. His father was said to have gone far away for further studies or some sort of training in the USA. Pema had been waiting for him for more than six years. His father had left when Pema was only two. His father sent letters. He sent photos. And only through those photos had Pema ever seen his father. His father sent love and hugs but never came. Pema's mother expected him to return anytime—for his children, if not for her sake. "The hope of my papa will remain as my dream," Pema told his mother one day. She always tried to make him think of other things and always told him that his father would come someday.

If Pema were to divide his mind into parts, about seventy percent was in a merry mood. Still, he felt incomplete that day. The sun was moving, touching the tip of the mountain. His heart melted down with the sun. His happiness began to melt too. He was sitting at the entrance, reading his poem "Tree." Lost. There was a rush of wind and a sweet aroma from the doorway. Pema looked up. He saw a gentleman, standing tall, looking at him, and smiling at him. He perfectly matched those photos. Behind the man, his mother beamed and burst out, "Here is your father!"

Pema ran toward him, and his happy tears ran down too. "What a coincidence of happiness!" Pema blurted out.

If his happiness had a volume, it would measure the entire space of the earth's joy.

From his long-awaited father, Pema had expected something—and his expectation did come true that day. His father gave him a white laptop from a black suitcase, so he could do more writing. Moreover, his father promised that he would stay with them for the rest of his life. Pema's happiness reached its brim. That day had chosen him—life had chosen him, God had chosen him. He was the chosen one, the most important one on that day. The day was unlike any other because of the series of momentous events. Pema soon narrated his day's events to his father and concluded with the remark, "This white bird is my white laptop." His mother laughed and said, "This white laptop is not a white bird." And his father said, "This laptop is a white bird." Everyone laughed.

That day was the most important and most colorful day of his life. If he ever had a remote control for his life, he would rewind and pause it to enjoy it slowly. He wondered if he would ever have a dream as beautiful as the one he had on that day. And he hoped that one day, the white bird would take him to the real world, where he could hear that beautiful music again.

NOW

I can foresee my time, sometimes

My life

It's as simple as we come and go;

Ending days and nights.

And it is ceaseless

Thinking of the past

Thinking of the future

Days and nights

Of darkness, in my go in the future,

it seems;

Desolate, depressing, dying, penniless, no one to turn on

Suck in the swarthiness; no one care.

And the past was more dreadful than the future.

Why worry now?

Who needs yesterdays?

Who needs tomorrow?

Look at the stars

Shining tonight

Those thoughts

I leave now, all,

And live now,

Now, it’s bright

With the self-love and self-care

And with the trust and the truth inside

Keep me alright, now.