Schooling vs. Education

 From an ecological standpoint, the more diverse an ecosystem, the better chance of survival it has. To use this analogy, current directions and concepts of educational structures are not geared up to sustain diversity. Against a scenario, where education and economy are more and more interlinked and interdependent, the lofty aim of learning tends to get reduced to preparing students for the job market. With the tag of human capital being attached to an individual right from early years, this process which revolves around acquisition of knowledge, skills and values has failed to create an environment which fosters independent and critical thinking and instills confidence. 

The word education traces its etymology to the Greek word, 'ducere', which means, 'to draw', and with the added prefix 'e', it literally translates into 'draw out'. So, the very premise of  education is that an individual  holds the knowledge within...and, its objective is merely to assist him/her in finding the source of that Knowledge, and learn to manifest it.

Schooling on the other hand,  is based on the assumption that an individual is born ignorant, and needs to be taught. Schooling is that part of every organised society, which wants to  create an individual who would conform, and thereby contribute towards its well-being and prosperity. Furthermore, it conditions the mind and body to think and act in a certain way, to become a useful, well-oiled cog of the great machinery, suppressing in the process, the natural proclivities of a being, trying to grow into its own person.   

In this system, being curious and asking questions is often translated into unnecessary distraction for the class, and being creative is perceived as steering off the subject. Sometimes, my personal observation brought to attention a Catch-22 situation which many  students get trapped in: the ambiguity between what is expected and one's own introspective spontaneity.  This is most apparent in  English composition classes, where writing more than is asked could be termed as redundant, while writing to the point, and therefore sometimes less than expected,  might get interpreted as insufficient. Yet, what is actually expressed by the student is seldom taken into consideration. In most cases, correctness of sentences, and format of the essay overrides   the originality of content and viewpoint. This trend or misplaced emphasis may land up encouraging the importance of form over thought, especially when transcribed to a larger canvas, as that of Life.  

Likewise, in math, only the method as taught by the teacher, who, in turn, must have learnt it from 'The Teacher's Answer Manual', is acceptable. If a student happened to wander off to follow a different path of logic and yet, arrive at the right answer, it would be marked as wrong. For, the method as learnt in the class was not applied. This approach could prove detrimental in the long run, since it disallows tackling a problem from different angles, and gaining new perspectives.

Examples abound.  And, until and unless we learn to differentiate between schooling and education, and have a clear vision vis-a-vis the goal of learning, we would be stuck in a cat and mouse game. 

Globally, from China to Japan to U.S. and the European Union, educational policy makers endeavour to create curricula to meet the need of the international professional market. The implicit assumption that the best way to prepare our children for the world is to hammer unto them  the importance of getting and keeping a job reflects the production-line mindset which has hijacked the intrinsic goal of education. 

It is unfortunate that while our present government has been busy tinkering with the curriculum with a vision focused on the idea of a new India, there hasn't been anything ground-breaking in terms of redefining the meaning of education which is in sync with its own age-old tradition of learning. A system which is primarily geared  towards passing an exam has left  little room for anything but the formula by which the promotion from one grade to another can be facilitated. Books, such as "Exam Warrior", written by none other than our honourable prime minister, do not help the cause either, especially when the young students are advised to treat the exam, as they might a festival, and prepare for it, as they would for a festival. It is translated in several languages. It is a pity that the prime minister, who has such a vast reach, should  choose to shy away from his own example on how one doesn't need to pass an exam, or have much of a schooling to hold the highest office in the country. In fact, he should consider himself  an idyllic candidate to promote the true  objective of education.

Papaji: A Man of Letters

 "The drawing you made of your new drumset, mentioning all its different parts, was just fantastic. I had no idea that a drumset could be so complex. In your next letter, if you could elaborate on the function of each of these parts, that would be really nice..."

The above excerpt from my father's letter dating back to 2008, written to Dhani, his ten-year-old grandson, just serves to illustrate how his curious mind thrilled to everything and wanted to wrap itself around whatever it could.

Papaji, as he was called by his children and all those who knew him, along with being a father, a husband, and a grandfather to eight adorable kids,  was above all a towering figure whose very presence commanded respect. His unflinching idealism and his faith in humanity were  contagious to all those who came in contact with him. A scientist by profession and a poet at heart, Papaji was truly a renaissance man. 

By the virtue of being away, initially to a boarding school, and later abroad, a steady stream of letters remained the main channel of communication between us, interspersed with occasional phone calls. It helped that both of us, Papaji and I were  conscentious in our correspondence. Not only his letters provided me with a sense of continuity and belonging while living in far-flung places, away from home, but  my very lifeline came to depend on our invigorating epistolary exchanges. 

During our sojourn in Alaska, in a cabin without television and internet, Papaji made sure we kept ourselves abreast with things back home, especially those that interested us. So, his letters overflowing with love and much-needed warmth, also kept us informed on the political front. Details of elections and by-elections were quietly slipped into the letters, as were various clippings from different publications to further authenticate his assessment of the situation. Knowing my love for Shayari, (Urdu poetry usually in a couplet form) sometimes he would include a few at the bottom of the letter, asterisking difficult words he thought I might not know and penning down their meanings in English. 

For Amando, my husband, a wildlife lover and a train buff, he collected any article, ad, tender related  to these two topics. It could have been the announcement of a new line or closing down of an old one, or a conversion from meter gauge to broad gauge, or an effort by the ministry to re-introduce the good old steam on some touristic lines, he made sure that Amando stayed updated. He also sent neatly clipped news items related to tiger census and fresh sightings of the animal where it was thought to have disappeared. However, it was for Dhani, our son, and his seventh grandchild that he reserved the most tender words. He also made sure to share with him poems he had learnt in his childhood: an inadvertent effort to pass on his own passion for poetry...a legacy which we all inherited in varied degrees.  If it was not poetry he was culling out from his memory, he was busy tickling a child's imagination with riddles, or uplifting it with inspiring quotes from the great saints of India, such as Vivekananda, Sri Ramkrishna and Sri Aurobindo.  Every now and then, he would also enclose the 'Youth' section either from 'The Indian Express', or from 'The Hindu', sometimes sending both. For our homeschooling son, those naturally calligraphed letters filled with tidbits, along with a tightly-packed bundle of newspaper supplements  came to represent something exotic, traveling across thousands of miles, over land and sea, being sent by his most adorable and loving nanaji (grandpa in Hindi). 

Recently, while going through my neatly wrapped collection of his letters, I came across one which had a recipe of laddoos made with whole wheat flour, ghee, nuts, sugar and roasted gum arabic, eaten traditionally in North India by the lactating mother to enhance the quality of milk. The measurement of each ingredient was precisely jotted down, and the method was expounded in detail. It read more like the directions for a scientific experiment than a gourmet booster shot.

 

Below the recipe was a quote from the epic poem called, 'Savitri', reading and grasping the essence of which had become the very raison d'être of his later years:

"Let us give joy to all for joy is ours".

That was Papaji. 

Lead me not into temptation...

 "It is the most patriotic thing you can do," said President Biden, emphasizing the importance of getting vaxed, during his address to the nation on the occasion of America's 245th Independence Day. The fact that Covid-19 vaccination drive found an honorable place in Biden's 4th of July speech just goes on to illustrate the chasm dividing the country over the issue of 'to vax or not to vax'. 

A country that thrives on weekly coupons, seasonal sales, Black Fridays, Boxing Day bonanza, the need to tempt the reluctant, vax-fearing citizen with some irresistible combos, coupling vaccination with goodies was heartfelt across the board. 

Panera, the popular food chain picked up the cue, immediately announcing a free bagel for all those  customers who produced  proof of vaccination. Macdonalds, Krispy Kreme, Taco Bells, Chipotle however have already been part of the great vax mission with their own platter of freebies for  those who shall obey. 

As food chains and stores are vying with each other while piling patriotism and sales pitch together, corporations like Amazon have dangled an enticing Honeycrisp apple for its employees in the form of a free vaccination clinic on site and Benjamins! The grocery chain Albertson too  has promised its vaxed employees 100 dollars.

If businesses are doing their share to help battle the pandemic, desperate states also have been preoccupied with conjuring up ways to tempt the residents to get their shots. Over and done with. To a safer, better and stronger America! Sounds like a war-cry alright.  Even though the states seem to have drained their power of imagination with one-upping each other for vaccine rewards, the offers aren't alluring enough to compel the fervent non-believers into compliance. With New Jersey promising free beer, New York MetroCards, Connecticut any beverage of one's choice, it is truly the trigger-happy West Virginia which seems to have clinched the deal  by including a $1.5 million cash prize, custom-outfitted trucks, and custom hunting rifles and shotguns, glamorously packaged as weekly lotteries for the vaccinated lot. Any West Virginian who has received at least one COVID-19 dose will be eligible to register. 

Yet, trust Washington itself to weed through ideas to come up with its own 'high' bar for incentives. Whether as a mood enhancer for those stuck at home waiting out the natural side effects of their shots, or as a lollipop for those solid citizens willing to take one (or two) for the Team, an advocacy group from the District of Columbia has managed to put forth a truly winning plan: one joint of Grade A, All-American marijuana to the willingly vaccinated candidate. "Joints for Jabs". Even the name is a clincher. And while it does toe the line with the rest of the nation's endeavour, one can't help but be more than slightly dumbfounded. Marijuana, vilified on the Hill until just a few years ago as the Green Dragon that was turning the country's moral fiber to ashes, is now being freely distributed, as both reward and testament of willingness to sacrifice whatever is necessary for the sake of the nation: the ultimate proof of a True American. 

Prayer for a restless soul...

I hold the summer dawn in my eyes. Somewhere in the background is the shuffling of the night shadows, listlessly shifting camps. The flutter of awakening wings and an occasional glimmer of muted light coerce the dreams to withdraw their baiting tentacles and recoil.  

The gold of this new day pierces me, demanding an identity all its own, lest it too gets pressed through a copier and shelved into an almirah where all those yesterdays are neatly stacked. 

How about me? I want to know. I too am afraid of the sameness of my being and the routine which has it cast in a mould. Melt, molt, remould me, a prayer escapes from the inmost adytum of the Self. Graft me wings,  either that of a butterfly or of an eagle that I may flutter around or gyrate the heights, grant me solitude, either that of a chrysalis, or of the Lone Wolf, that I may lose myself in the music of  deafening silence or sprint across a thousand miles of wilderness... Hammer and fashion me, either into a wayside daisy, shy and wilting, or into the mighty Baobab, supporting with its powerful boughs the leaning sky. 

Dawn slips through me, metamorphosing into twilight. I lie on the grassy floor, looking up at the stars, away from home... 

The Sound of Alchemy

 Our lockdowned  long summer days have gradually learnt to find redemption in the ruckus of the government diesel truck, which ventures into our gated community twice a week with the seasonal harvest of mangoes, purple grapes and red and yellow bananas. 

As the truck, manned  by a couple of  masked and gloved attendants veers into our neighborhood, the hustle and bustle of this new activity  brings the winged populace of the area, otherwise busy vying for attention with their ceaseless singing, to a sudden attentive halt...Prompted by their unanimous decision as not to waste their precious talent to pure noise, they either eavesdrop on people haggling, or conjure up new melodies to attract more prospective mates. 

I think the sudden rise in avian activities is owing to the fact that the lemony yellow, ethereally delicate amaltas (golden shower) flowers are in bloom...A blessing endowed upon us mortals once a year, it allows us to bask in their beauty even as we pick up the fallen blossoms, rich in fiber and vitamin C, to be combined with ginger, green chillies and salt and made into a delicious chutney to be consumed either with savoury pancakes or with rice. 

Amaltas is native to the Indian subcontinent and to the Southeast Asian region. In the Ayurvedic school of medicine, it is rightly known as Aragvadha, meaning 'disease killer'. A glance at the innumerable benefits of each and every part of this tree in the National Health Portal's website is enough to justify its ancient Sanskrit name. Right from being a cure for various skin eruptions, eczema and insect bites to an effective remedy for rheumatism, migraines, syphilis, and believe it or not, even malaria and jaundice, amaltas is one of Nature's great elixirs: cooling for the soul, and when everything around is emitting blistering heat, healing for the body.   

Growing up with an amaltas tree right in our school courtyard, I remember attempting to encapsulate in words its graceful artistry in our creative writing class. I sat for the whole period in the balmy shade of the tree,  trying to listen and understand what it was so eager to convey through this abundance of pure allure, but my ears were not  attuned  to its language.  

However, with an amaltas blooming right next to our place now,  I feel the bond between us slowly building. As the boughs bend low with the weighing beauty of its weightless clusters of flowers, I sit in its shade and close my eyes.

1.

As the prowling heat of 

summer assails the earth

lapping up life with its 

lolling tongue,

and we seek shelter 

behind enclosed walls,

in AC rooms and mojitos,

the slender amaltas

braves it all.

Its calm ascetic temper

transforming the leaping

flames of a pitiless sun

into sweet dangling blossoms

soft and delicate

and filled with nectar: ah love,

the alchemist!

2.

The brazen blue 

of the summer sky,

squeezes

through

the dense  dangles 

of amaltas,

to lie huddled

in its gentle shade

3.

Long golden tresses

as that of Rapunzel

so casually undone

to tempt 

the passersby.

4.

The koïl

cooing all day

to celebrate

the flowering 

amaltas: 

sore-throated now.

Waltzing with the Self...

 Sofia's hand jerked, creating a storm big enough for the coffee to spill over on the table and make a puddle... She let it be, not bothering to wipe. 

As the last sip trickled down the oesophagus,  she sat the empty cup on the brown puddle, picked up a paper napkin from the holder, and began stamping coffee rings on it...randomly. The process relaxed her, and the neatness of the individual rings against the erraticness of the emerging pattern  was liberating in itself...Taking a quick snap of the stamped napkin, she posted it on her Instagram as the artwork of the day for the 15-day art challenge she had accepted to give an impetus to her creative self during this lockdown period. 'Coffee Stampede', she wrote under the caption, feeling pleased with herself. A task was out of the way, and the coffee was delicious. "Maybe, next time, I should try it with the black coffee: spill some right on the napkin, make a stain!" Her mind was already jogging, adrenaline rushing...on the way she picked up some fallen leaves, their rich coffee imprints beginning to invigorate her imagination.

So it was Sofia, a ceramic artist by profession, who by her own experience, made me thrill to the idea of non-judgmental art. "Everything one creates is art," she philosophized. "For, it is an expression of oneself in a fleeting moment...a circumambulating  memory wanting to leave an impression".

As for me, after years of being a proud miniature artist with love for packing in minute details into a tiny space, espousing Sofia's philosophy literally felt like shaking myself off of my back. From creating intricate paintings on pistachio shells, sea shells, tree bark and pebbles with 1 and 0 size brushes, to embracing the freedom which comes from using thick paint-smeared brushes was a matter of 'letting go'.  The next step entailed running  the paper under the tap and squeezing tubes of watercolors over its soaked surface, smudging it all up and letting the streamlets of colors determine their own course...invent and re-invent themselves infinitely. With the sole objective to loosen up, I indulged in several mindless quick paintings, letting myself being carried away by the leftover colors on the palette, and by the mood of the moment. Sometimes it was the criss-crossing courting calls of the crow pheasants which dictated the strokes, and sometimes a sudden rush of wind toppling over the cashew boughs...and sometimes it was just the lazy afternoon silence stretched across the porch which quietly stole into the artwork, à mon insu.

In the wake of the two-week complete lockdown, which has now been extended further,  'loosening up' takes up a greater significance. One just needs to let go of all the self-imposed prejudices, mental limitations and breathe deep and slow...discover,  re-discover,   and un-cover oneself, and revel in those thousand and one facets of one's being which are purposefully kept shut...take this opportunity afforded to us by these innumerable lockdowns, to unmask the Truth within...unlock our hidden Self,  and  waltz with It.

And Another Day Ends...in Dance

With the two-week lockdown imposed by the state government to curb the rising cases of Covid-19, once again we find ourselves face to face with ourselves and the wall...the wall could very well be a screen of one's smartphone or of the laptop, or it could simply be that chiaroscuroed space scaled by the vagrant shadows in varied degrees...

I try to stay within the confines of the house, cook a lot, plan much, execute little, and let the ruthless titanic might of Chronos snatch away my hours mercilessly. But, come six o' clock in the evening, and my feet haul me up to the terrace to indulge in an hour of leisurely walk, while feasting upon the changing vistas of a sprawling sky. Almost invariably, a colony of crows and a couple of Brahminy kites land up staging a short play. The plot is always the same, the manoeuvres different. The Brahminy kites, by the virtue of being the birds of prey, are perceived as the usual suspect of homicide, or should we say 'corvicide' by a  skeptical  group of crows, who chase them around, pecking them furiously, in an effort to steer them away from the fledglings in the nest. Now, call it the paranoia of parenthood or sheer collective hooliganism, we will never know. But guys, I have to give it to the kites for maintaining their calm all through this exercise and letting the crows  have the last word.  But, I wonder who has the last laugh...I'd like to believe it's me, the sole witness of this daily drama. 

Two days ago however I was treated to a very unexpected finale. The chasing game had reached its usual dénouement with the victorious  crows emptying  the sky in a hurry to return to their loved ones. The Bahaminy kites too had conducted a rigorous inspection of their territory, patrolling the area a few times. But instead of diving homeward, the pair soared higher and higher, catching the thermals... above the gold of the setting sun to the blue quivering heights they glided , and what followed was a visual poetry flung across the sky. 

Suffused in the golden

mist of the late evening,

there they were

threading their way

across the deepening 

blue of a dying day.

One pursuing the other,

at the acme of

swallowing heights

away from the

hurried world of men,

gyrating, gliding, 

sidling and sliding,

sensuous in their

twilight courting, 

they danced to the

melancholy of a 

lonesome sky...

to the inner music

of a love unspoken,

to the gentle calling

of the rising vesper...

They danced until

the sudden onrush 

of the tropical night

drew them apart, 

One disappearing 

into the comfort of 

a coconut grove 

the other cruising on

to follow the sound

of the crashing waves.

Natural in their

togetherness

and accepting

in their separation

these Brahminy kites

eternised an instance

of the fallen hour,

bringing home to me  

my own yearnings

and my own 

silences