R stands for courage
It all began with Jino, my son. One fine morning last year Jino’s mom asked me to offer him grammar lessons once in a while.
‘Remember, charity begins at home,' she had said.
Well, the problem is unless I see at least 50 pairs of eyes gauging me, I cannot utter a single word. You can blame it on old habits. But heaven came to my rescue when that very evening a couple of women approached me with a request to teach their daughters English. I said, ‘Sure, but no course book, I’ll offer only grammar lessons.’
Thus started my journey with a motley group of 3 students, which, in a couple of months, swelled to about a dozen.
Now there in that group was a girl, whose mother was the first to approach me. A lanky dusky bubbly Bengali girl, who could never stand still and waved her two hands in tandem in dance-like gestures while she talked. Soon I discovered that she was the one to watch out for. It took her a few minutes to master the nitty-gritty of English grammar while with students double her age it took years. She was a gem. Let me call her ‘R’.
R is now in grade 7 as all the students in her group are. She recently sat an English Olympiad and has scored 54 out of 60 and her international ranking is 61. Given that English is her second language her effort is all the more commendable.
This week I had a scheduled class with the group on Wednesday morning at 7:30. I had got the news and as I entered the classroom (I have an annexe to teach students) I realised so had all the other girls. There was uncanny silence as all the students sat with their heads cast down. R’s seat was vacant. The day before, her father had passed away.
I was at a loss for words and somehow managed to say, ‘Don’t you think you should all go to R’s house to stand by her and if possible ask her to attend the class? Maybe this could bring her some solace.’
About ten students including Jino ventured out. Soon they were back.
R was there back in her seat. I could say nothing. I felt a lump in my throat. I stole a glance at her. She looked thinner, her mouth twisted in an effort to bury her feelings.
The class went on for an hour or so. She did all the assignments without a word. I did not talk to her. I said nothing. I had, in fact, nothing to say. She sat there before me, her face all drawn and draped in pain. I felt nervous. Never ever had I in my life been confronted with so much courage. I bowed my head in reverence to that gutsy young girl. I said sotto voce, ‘I salute you, I salute you, my girl!’
‘Remember, charity begins at home,' she had said.
Well, the problem is unless I see at least 50 pairs of eyes gauging me, I cannot utter a single word. You can blame it on old habits. But heaven came to my rescue when that very evening a couple of women approached me with a request to teach their daughters English. I said, ‘Sure, but no course book, I’ll offer only grammar lessons.’
Thus started my journey with a motley group of 3 students, which, in a couple of months, swelled to about a dozen.
Now there in that group was a girl, whose mother was the first to approach me. A lanky dusky bubbly Bengali girl, who could never stand still and waved her two hands in tandem in dance-like gestures while she talked. Soon I discovered that she was the one to watch out for. It took her a few minutes to master the nitty-gritty of English grammar while with students double her age it took years. She was a gem. Let me call her ‘R’.
R is now in grade 7 as all the students in her group are. She recently sat an English Olympiad and has scored 54 out of 60 and her international ranking is 61. Given that English is her second language her effort is all the more commendable.
This week I had a scheduled class with the group on Wednesday morning at 7:30. I had got the news and as I entered the classroom (I have an annexe to teach students) I realised so had all the other girls. There was uncanny silence as all the students sat with their heads cast down. R’s seat was vacant. The day before, her father had passed away.
I was at a loss for words and somehow managed to say, ‘Don’t you think you should all go to R’s house to stand by her and if possible ask her to attend the class? Maybe this could bring her some solace.’
About ten students including Jino ventured out. Soon they were back.
R was there back in her seat. I could say nothing. I felt a lump in my throat. I stole a glance at her. She looked thinner, her mouth twisted in an effort to bury her feelings.
The class went on for an hour or so. She did all the assignments without a word. I did not talk to her. I said nothing. I had, in fact, nothing to say. She sat there before me, her face all drawn and draped in pain. I felt nervous. Never ever had I in my life been confronted with so much courage. I bowed my head in reverence to that gutsy young girl. I said sotto voce, ‘I salute you, I salute you, my girl!’
