A Different Stroke

Thursday’s throng of sixty plus adolescent boys wildly waving and yelling uninhibitedly had reduced to about half its size two days later, as we approached the Residential Boy’s School Campus. The younger looking ones kept their wide-eyed wonderment silent as the older, more “leader of the pack” types took over with shouts and questions. “Cricket at four o’clock sir?” “Carom this afternoon mam?”

This time we were prepared. “Yes, but only after the class is over at four thirty,” we told them firmly and pushed past to the computer lab where we would be holding our class.

The boy’s school has proven to be an entirely different set of challenges and eye openings. The principal was never there, the teachers, for the most part were disengaged, and after four-thirty the slight resemblance of supervision completely disappeared. The polite, reserved students of C. Ramchand were long gone as we were faced with a room full of outspoken, confident thirteen to fifteen year old males. As Sudek put it so bluntly, “here in India the girls are afraid to speak to their elders, they are not supposed to, they don’t leave the house or go out like the boys do.” And the effects are clear. Even some of the boys pointed out that their sisters do not go to school. “Only the boys go, mam,” they chimed.

We ran our first class according to the same structure as our first lesson with the girls. A new set of tongue-tangling names, except this time with an Islamic twist. From Ganga Bhavani to Mustaq Ahmed.

The boys did a little better with the birthday line-up group building exercise, cleverly using pens to communicate with each other instead of words and admitting during the debrief that it was a difficult game to play. But the writing exercises that followed quickly closed the divide.

The boys stared blankly at their papers as we prompted them with questions like, “who are you,” “what do you believe in/ think about the world,” “what does your home look like,” “what do you like about India,” etc.

After much coaxing, and glancing at their neighbor’s paper the boys read their answers out loud. As we listened, the throng of sheep that had blocked the bus that morning, flashed momentarily through our minds.

“My house looks like a garden, it is like heaven,” “I believe in God and my parents,” “I like India because of Taj Mahal and Charminar,” “India is great because it has the second largest population in the world,” spilled verbatim out of each boy’s mouth.

Granted a few of them threw in some spicing of their own. “I believe in God and my mother, I want to take care of my mother one day,” one boy earnestly expressed. The token teacher’s pet added, “I like Remy and Piya,” at the end of his textbook dictation. The wall was definitely in place but there seemed to be some peepholes of light slowly forming.

Throughout the class, boys lined up at the door, intently watching our every move; mouthing the words on the chalkboard. Asia, the computer teacher, literally had to lock the door to keep them from falling through. When the electricity went out for the second time that afternoon we had no choice but to open the door, allowing the “leaders of the pack,” to take charge, shoving the boys away. By the end of class at four thirty, the computer lab was free game. All fifty boys reappeared, crowding around Remy and I as we tried to install a few items on the computer, eyes penetrating, not to miss a move. Even the English teacher, who finally decided to appear at the end of the class, treated us like a celebrity. “You come from Amrika?” he asked us excitedly, “will you take our boys there?”

That second day, the boys surprised us by sharing that they had each wrote a short story about the topic they were interested in making a video about. One by one they read, some factual reports about the city of Hyderabad, or Nalgonda; about historical figures like Mahatma Gandhi and Abdul Kalam Azad, and some more personal stories about the role of mothers in our lives, or the difference between love and friendship. One boy even wrote a short Bollywood type saga about two lovers called, “Heart Beatings,” (see below.)

At first we were floored. The boys had actually listened to our instructions the class before and not only thought of topic ideas but actually written them out? Could any teacher be so lucky? But slowly suspicion crept in. Where had the boys gotten these stories? Only some appeared to have written them on their own. Had they copied them from their history textbooks or from some magazine? Some of the handwriting in their notebooks looked exactly the same. There was snickering throughout. Clearly the students were more than eager to please, repeating how happy they were to have us at their school, but how far would they go to get that “right answer?”

After the token four-thirty “crowd around Piya and Remy and watch their every move” session, and dodging difficult questions about the price of the computer, we were practically dragged outside to play some games with the boys. Remy ventured into the field to learn about cricket as I succumbed to a game of Carom. Four of us sat around the board as another forty surrounded on all sides. In between rusty flicks of the striker, interrogations slid my way. “Do you speak Punjabi or English with your parents?” “Wait are you Indian, or American?” “You’re American, so what is your American name?” “Why don’t you have one?” “Where is your passport from?” “What other countries besides India and the U.S. have you been to?” “How long are you actually going to stay in India?” “Only till April, Oh.”

A gentler boy from our class calmed the atmosphere. “We’ve never had an American at our school before,” he explained. Then, a particularly prying boy from the tenth class with light hair and a confident grin joined in: “Did you like his answer about not having to go to the Statue of Liberty to see greatness?” he asked, pointing to the boy next to him who had dictated this line uncomfortably in class. “Oh so you wrote it,” I realized. “Badmash,” I said, staring at him pointedly (The Hindi word for trickster). The crowd erupted. The gates had opened wide.

Most of the boys focused on the game in front of them as the Badmash waged a match of his own. “Do you want to be as rich as Bill Gates?” he pushed sarcastically. “And when you are will you give all your money to the poor? It’s six-o’clock, isn’t it time for you to go home?” The striker spun ferociously on its side, then toppled with a bang.

There it was. The confrontation that every “volunteer” dreads. This boy was not stupid. His anger no kind of joke. The cards had been dealt unfairly. Who was I to try and re-deal?

Heart Beatings, by Fayyaz

One day in the city there is an engineering college. The heroine enters into the college. Some boys ragging her. The hero enters into the middle and beat the raggers and take to the class. From there slowly the heart beatings started to love. They together enjoyed their life for some time. The hero’s father accepted him to marry her. In hero’s house his mom dad and he. But the heroine’s father did not accept her to marry with him and the college students encouraged their love. They told that we will give our lives to your love. The heroines dad rejected and dismissed her to go to college. Then her dad called the police. There is no use of it. At last hero married with heroine. So from this story we know that “love is great, no one can stop it.”

Where I am From, by Afroz
I am Afroz. In this district I live in the town Nalgonda. The old name of Nalgonda is Nilgiri. The Nalgonda is famous for the hill. In summer season the Nalgonda temperature is very high. The one hill is famous from the name Latisha Wali. In the months of May the small exhibition is out in the down side of hill. In summer season the people of Nalgonda most eat the fruits of mango. The most grow fruit in Nalgonda is sweet orange and the most growing vegetable in Nalgonda is tomato. In Nalgonda town the vegetable market, fruit market, bus stand, railway station, post office and two police stations. The old famous centers in our town are chouRasta, jama masid, akachalma rahaman, bag mahiyam chalka, and groob street.

Life with Happiness, by Kareem
I am Kareem from Achampet. Now I studying in Nalgonda S.L.B.C. In my life I am happy with my family and I am in love. I think my friends are also blessing me. They encourage me to succeed in my love. My love is one side. Not only my love, my family is also important for me. In my life, my best friend is Umar. I think he is well and my father treats me like a friend. On my birthday my father presented me bike. I hope my father is always with me in my life.

Remy and Piya was founding such a school for AIF. They are discussing about computer system. Rem and Piya feeling with students like friends and they are checking knowledge in students we hope we succeed in knowledge.

Some More Drawings:

A drawing of the school building: