The boy in the shabby shoes

There was nothing wrong with our little Ramu—he was a class-topper, never late to school, never missed a day of class—except for that tattered uniform and those old shoes of his

As always, I rang the bell for assembly. The students, who were scattered all over the playground, suddenly hustled up for the morning prayers. Before the prayer began, though, the school’s principal approached her wards with her usual authoritarian look, the kind that could scare you off from even inhaling and exhaling in her presence.

The sun was at its zenith, and the students on the ground were sweating, yet standing patiently with their heads down. It was pin drop silence as the teachers moved through the lines, looking for signs of scruffiness. From my position, I could see the shiny, well-oiled heads of those who were neatly dressed in perfectly ironed uniforms and polished black shoes.

In the crowd of students, I noticed Ramu, a grade five topper, who was looking a bit nervous as his class teacher was about to come towards him. The closer the teacher got, the more he was sweating. And that wasn’t the only thing that stuck out about him. He was also slightly unkempt, his hair not as well-brushed as that of the others.

Eventually, the teacher got to him, and by this point, his head was hanging. Seeing his appearance, the teacher pulled him out of line and dragged him, by the ear, to the front of the crowd. Everyone was looking at him. The principal pointed her finger at him and said, “Look at that rough donkey!” To him, she said, “Is that a bird’s nest on your head?” The students burst out laughing at this, and poor Ramu looked like he could die of embarrassment.

It was true that Ramu looked different from the others. His white shirt could barely qualify as ‘white’, and his pants were worn at the knees from overuse. It was clear that his clothes hadn’t seen an iron for a while. And then there were his shoes—faded, unpolished. They looked parched and hungry.

The principal continued to mock him, warning him that he’d be chased out of the school if he dared to appear looking the way he did again. “You must iron your clothes, and your shoes need changing…Get a new pair tomorrow.”

Once assembly was over, all the students marched to their respective classes. The needle on my wristwatch moved on, and I went on clanking the bell at intervals—as was my duty—until it was the tiffin break, at which point the children bustled out of their classes, hands filled with colourful lunchboxes.

A while after the others, I saw Ramu slinking out of his class, his eyes darting here and there, taking in his classmates enjoying delicious snacks. His hands were empty. Feeling sorry for him, I waved him over. I offered him half of the loaf of bread that the school provided me on a daily basis. It was all I had.

When he had wolfed down his piece of bread, I asked him why he hadn’t brought anything to eat.

“I didn’t have anything at home I could bring,” he said simply.

Down with red ink

A decade has gone by since I started teaching English to children. Whether those kids have become better people now and whether their positions in life have improved is something I cannot tell for sure. But I have definitely moved up the ladder, working at a university now.

I have deliberately mentioned my association with a university—a bombastic thing, at least for those kids. My upward mobility is significant no doubt, but the irony it embodies is paradoxical and embarrassing too. I have moved upwards, and forgotten the kids. The children I have introduced here with love are perhaps languishing in the corridor of a dream-seller, somewhere in Bagh Bazar or Putali Sadak—or any other dream-selling mall for that matter—simply because their English does not work. Subject-verb agreement is a bizarre thing, and prepositions are frustrating.

I am aware that among those who ‘incidentally’ became my students in the past, there are now some successful scholars proficient in English. I honestly confess the English they have acquired is not an outcome of my teaching. It is a fruit of their individual endeavours. I have no doubt about my failures because, looking back at my ‘teaching’ from the position I hold now and the experiences I have gathered so far, I have more embarrassment and guilt to collect rather than narcissistic claims that I taught them English.

This confession is informed by the fact that the methods we teachers employ are completely wrong, and deter children, rather than invite, from learning a language. The red ink many ‘teachers’ like me use with pride and dignity to foreground students’ errors makes all the difference!