Admission makes strange bedfellows!

And so it begins. The journey of life – for my son as he is about to go to formal school (well, he is currently going to a play school but that’s not the same thing, is it?) And for me – one of the most anxious moments of parenthood as I go about selecting the right school for my son. Well, the second-most anxious moment, come to think of it. The first was when we discovered that my son had elevated thyroids levels at birth and that it could seriously affect his mental health.  But thanks to timely detection, it all turned out well in the end. Just as I know this will too. But till it does, it is turning out to be quite a roller-coaster ride!

“It’s all so confusing!” remarked a much-harried friend who is seeking admission to nursery for her daughter as well. As we swapped stories, we tried to make some sense of the madness that was around us. But at the end of the hour-long chat we still had no answers, only more questions. The one that had been nagging me (and quite a few equally harried parents) from the time my son was about two years old: How do you know which is the ‘right’ school for your child?  And wait that is not all of it! Even if you did happen to stumble upon the answer, how do you ensure that your child gets admitted into your dream school?

Believe it or not, it is in search for these elusive answers that most parents around me (yes, including me, I’d admit albeit grudgingly) have done things that they would not ordinarily do. But then these are not ordinary circumstances and times like these call for tough (read desperate, if not downright extreme measures!) Foes have become friends, friendship has blossomed where previously there was none, and alliances have been forged (and you thought politics makes strange bedfellows!).  They’ve struck up conversations with so-called strangers at parties or even called long-lost friends, friends of friends, relatives of friends’, colleagues, friends and relatives of colleagues, neighbors, and relatives and so on and so forth. They have joined online communities and forums for parents seeking admission to nursery, struck up inane conversations on Facebook, or even taken the boss’ twice-removed cousin out for coffee. All in the hope of getting some much-longed for answers (and also, the kind of questions that are asked at school interviews).

But I digress. I couldn’t help it. Just log on to one of the parent forums and you’ll see the kind of frenzy I am talking about.

Coming back to my question: How do you know which is the right school for your child? (This question may not be applicable for those who had the privilege of studying in some of the finest schools in the country. For them, the story ends right here. Or maybe not.) Funnily enough, it was a question I had asked a family friend (who happens to be a school teacher) out of sheer curiosity sometime back. Her answer was simple: go with your instincts, you’ll know.

Hmm. I got my instincts working overtime when I did the mandatory rounds of schools in the city. The fancy shmancy ones (with the central air-conditioning and color-coordinated potties) I had no patience for. The so-called progressive schools or experiential learning schools seemed too idealistic and were yet to convince me. The ones that had some kind of legacy (and there were just a couple in my city) – the wholesome, no-nonsense, honest-to goodness ones – well, let’s just say it would be easier to get into Fort Knox! And the missionary/convent schools – well, there were none. Nope, not a single one. Where did that leave me? Do I put my son’s life (or least the next 12-13 years of it) in the hands of half a dozen shining, brand new schools that have mushroomed overnight in the millennium city, in the hope that they will make a man out him eventually? Oh wait, that’s my job, isn’t it? Okay, so give him the kind of education that he deserves?

After much thought, (discussions on the dinner table, heated debates and arguments too) we narrowed our choices down to just a couple of schools, two of them not even in the millennium city. And that was the easy part.

The tough part was yet to come. Now that I know which school to send my son how do I assure his admission? With every school following its own system (RTE be damned!) it’s almost like a game of roulette! The only answer I got to this one was from an old friend who refused to join the admission madness for his younger son. (He has just applied to the one school where the older sibling is studying) So exasperated was he with the entire process that he is willing to take a chance this time round. He summed it up for me in one word: sycophancy.  Alright, before we put on our moral hats and get all judgmental, let’s just step back and think for a minute. However much we hate to admit it, he may be right.

The question is: why should I, or any parent, have to resort to sycophancy or curry favors or even learn roulette for something as basic as educating my child? Whatever happened to the good old system of just walking into your neighborhood school, meeting the principal and well, just paying up? That’s it. The entire process took a couple of hours, not 3-5 months. That’s how it worked for me, and my sister, and our cousins. For my hubby too. Or maybe that’s how it’s always been played; all I need to do is learn the rules of the game.

While you are figuring this one out it’s time for me to go roll the dice! Jokes apart, some thoughts on this would be welcome. I am curious to know – from parents who have already walked down this road, and those who have yet to: just how do you do it?

Are we raising a generation of sissies?

Are we mollycoddling our kids? Are we raising a generation of sissies? I seem to be running into these questions everywhere I look. I won’t deny it: The first one has been plaguing me almost every single day of my mommy hood; as I am sure it has bothered many others of my kind. In fact, this parenting debate is almost cyclic (not to mention endless which is why I choose not to enter it though I have a ready reckoner for it – you’ll find it at the end of the blog); with each generation lamenting on how pampered (or not) their progeny is! My parents never miss an opportunity to chide me when they see me ‘pampering’ my toddler (Gosh! Are you still feeding him? Why, by the age of three you could eat an entire meal by yourself. Or, he goes to an air-conditioned school? What! You never even had an air-conditioner at home till you were sixteen!) Hmm. Well, hold your horses folks. The second question had me equally worried. After all, the millennials are the ‘I, me, myself generation’. Cut me some slack, or rather, cut our kids some slack. There is no reason to get paranoid. There is one thing we all seem to be missing out. It’s called evolution.

So what if my son goes to an air-conditioned school? He was after all, born in an ‘air-conditioned’ hospital, sleeps in an ‘air-conditioned’ room and rides in an ‘air-conditioned’ car, and what the heck, even plays in an ‘air-conditioned’ mall! He was born in an air-conditioned world – that is his environment. Just as my generation was born to a world of air-coolers (desert coolers, as they are popularly called). Yes, I know there is this whole debate of what will it do to his immunity, but I’m not worried. We adapted to air-coolers (and we were not worse off for it). He will adapt to his ‘air-conditioned’ world. And as far as feeding him is concerned, well, that is something I love to indulge in (he can eat by himself and is a pretty independent three-year-old otherwise) as that is the only time I can get his undivided attention and talk to him about his day.

Now, coming back to the point….My generation was born in pre-liberalization times.  My parents and grandparents’ generations (the baby boomers) were still reeling from the affects of the world wars. Austerity was the need of the hour. It was only in the late eighties and nineties that liberalization and a fast growing great Indian middle class catapulted the Indian economy to new heights.  The nineties and the new millennium saw consumerism in all its fine glory; and our kids are reaping the benefits of that growth.  So yes, they are inundated with an ‘excess’ of everything, even options. (I can almost hear my mother’s voice scolding me as I write this…we never had options, you had few but kids today have too many! They are spoilt for choice….) Alright, they do have plenty of choices today; like other things that is good or bad, depends on how you choose to look at it. I choose to look at the good.  It’s made them better decision makers; they are smarter, wiser, sharper, more focused and definitely know their mind. And because they have options, they are sticking around. (Unlike my generation, also known as Generation X, or the baby boomers, who chose to immigrate westward in search of ‘better options’.  In fact, when I became a Facebook member, I was surprised to find almost sixty percent of my schoolmates settled in foreign lands!) They are compassionate, willing to make a difference and ready to take chances. That takes guts.  I know many young kids around me who have quit high-paying jobs (or simply not taken one) to work with the underprivileged, or in the rural heartlands or simply follow their dreams.  (According to Fortune Magazine ‘fifty-four percent of America’s millennials either want to start a business or have already started one and 46% of Gen-Y wants to start a business in the next five years, while 35% of Gen-X and only 21% of baby boomers do.)

So, we must be doing something right, even if it means a little bit of pampering.  Love, as I know it, never hurt anyone.  (With my three-year-old, it works wonders; not yelling or ranting but love and gentle reasoning.)  Kids today, much like the generations before them, will face their own challenges; they will face fear, know pain and heartbreak and loss.  And they will cope, I am sure of it. Love will only make the journey easier.

My ready reckoner:

Respected Teacher,

My son will have to learn I know that all men are not just, all men are not true.

But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero;

that for every selfish politician, there is a dedicated leader.

Teach him that for every enemy there is a friend.

 It will take time, I know; but teach him, if you can, that a dollar earned is far more valuable than five found.

 Teach him to learn to lose and also to enjoy winning.

 Steer him away from envy, if you can.

Teach him the secret of quiet laughter. Let him learn early that the bullies are the easiest to tick.

Teach him, if you can, the wonder of books.. but also give him quiet time to ponder over the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flowers on a green hillside.

In school teach him it is far more honourable to fail than to cheat.

Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if every one tells him they are wrong.

Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with the tough.

Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when every one is getting on the bandwagon.

Teach him to listen to all men but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take only the good that comes through.

Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he is sad. Teach him there is no shame in tears. Teach him to scoff at cynics and to beware of too much sweetness.

Teach him to sell his brawn and brain to the highest bidders; but never to put a price tag on his heart and soul.

Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob… and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right.

Treat him gently; but do not cuddle him because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

Let him have the courage to be impatient, let him have the patience to be brave. Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind. 

This is a big order; but see what you can do. He is such a fine little fellow, my son.

Abraham Lincoln’s Letter to his son’s teacher.

A matter of faith

I was filling up my son’s pre-school admission form when I came upon a pertinent question often asked by educational institutions: religion of father? Religion of mother?   While filling up the appropriate responses (Hindu and Christian, respectively),  I was a tad nervous. Would this in any way affect his chances of securing admission? My friends assured me it wouldn’t. Apparently, some schools give points for intercommunity and intercaste marriage. I was relieved. But the entire episode transported me back a couple of decades when during my first job interview, I was actually asked about my religious preferences. (Fresh out of college and pretty naïve when it came to matters of the corporate world, I did find the question quite out of place). Nevertheless, I went on to answer: Christian. The interviewer looked at me closely and chose to pry further: how come? Your name doesn’t indicate that! (At that point I actually started to wonder where the interview was headed, while mentally venting my angst at my poor parents for not naming me appropriately, whatever that meant). Feeling rather downcast, I answered quietly: Well, my father’s a Hindu. Obviously. So why didn’t you choose to follow Hinduism, asked the interviewer. (By now, I was visibly worried. What IS it with this gentleman? With as much dignity I could muster, I said firmly: It’s a personal choice, sir. Very personal. The gentleman, thankfully, got the hint and gave up.

Little did I realize that this was only the beginning. My family’s background (my parents interreligious marriage) would eventually become a matter of great curiosity in subsequent workplaces and social events. What was commonplace for me was seen as something extraordinary by some. Others actually began to view me as some sort of exotic and rare bird, to be poked and prodded and scrutinized. I was happy to oblige. (Deep down, I was quite proud of my lineage). What was the big deal anyway? Yes, so my parents had different faiths. And to add to that, they also came from two starkly different communities (For those of you who have seen the recent Bollywood blockbuster Vicky Donor, you’ll get the drift. My father is quite the Bengali bhadralok, while my mother draws her lineage from the hardy Punjab immigrants who migrated from Pakistan and subsequently converted to Christianity). A heady mix, some would say. Ironically, it was this very diversity that made our home a truly exciting and enriching place to be.

From Christmas and Easter to Diwali and Durga Puja the festivities were never-ending. Ilish maach, aloo posto, begun bhajja and scrumptious rosogullas were devoured with as much gusto as plum puddings, chocolate Easter bunnies and Christmas cakes. The putting up of the Christmas tree was just as sacramental as the lighting up of the Diwali lamps or a visit to the Puja pandal. Rabindra Sangeet and Bengali folk songs were heard with as much devotion as carols during midnight mass.

The excitement, the passion, the fervour, and the fun were incomparable. The lessons learnt: priceless. I learned to be accepting and tolerant of not just different faiths, but cultures, languages (by age 5, I was speaking Bengali, Hindi, and English) , and people. I learned to be patient. I learned to explore and question. I learned to respect the choices I had and the freedom that followed.

Of course, much of this may not hold much relevance today (after all, I am talking about the seventies when inter-religion and inter-communal marriages were nothing short of sacrilege. My parents’ marriage in 1973 caused quite a furor in the two families!)  But, if media reports and a popular celebrity talk show are to be believed, things are not radically different today. Intercommunity, inter caste marriages are still frowned upon. The instances of such marriages may have gone up but the intense reactions that stem from it haven’t changed much over the decades. Sad, but true. It makes me wonder: will my son (also a product of an inter-religion, intercommunity marriage) too be subject to the same scrutiny? I fervently hope not. While I cannot give him any guarantees about what will come his way I CAN only give him this:

• An enriching and fun environment laden with experiences, stories (about his lineage), and discoveries.
• A celebration that lasts through the year (in fact, my three-year-old is luckier than me as he gets to celebrate all Assamese festivals in addition to Bengali and Christian ones. He is also learning 4 languages simultaneously – English, Hindi, Bengali, and Assamese.)
• Openness of thought
• A will to accept and be tolerant
• A kaleidoscope of cultures, beliefs, and practices
• And most of all, the freedom to make his choice.

Summer camp

As you proceed to read this post, you may at some point begin to wonder why I chose to name it so. After all, it does NOT talk about the dime-a-dozen summer camps that seem to have mushroomed overnight in Gurgaon. It does NOT talk about how summer camps have become a rage with suburban parents. And it certainly does NOT talk about all the ‘fun’ activities that summer camps offer. Ostensibly to keep your children ‘creatively engaged’ lest they ‘dream away the summer holidays’.

What it DOES talk about is summer camp of another kind – the kind most of us went to when we were little – @home. Call me old-fashioned (you can even accuse me of not keeping up with the times) but I see little sense in sending my three-year-old (some camps even enrol one-and-half year olds!) in the searing heat for art and craft or gym activities. I’d rather let my three-year-old just be.

Do we really need to tailor –make his days? I’d rather let him enjoy the whole idea of a summer holiday – with complete abandon, no structure, no timetables. Only then will he learn discipline. I’d rather given him time and space to do whatever he wants to do away from his school environment. Only then will he value school life and the simple pleasures that come with it – riding on the school bus, sharing his lunch box with friends, or playing in the sand pit.  I’d rather let him create his own activities in the confines of his cool room (or as cool as I can make it with the summe

Nothing like a dip to beat the heat!

r sun pushing up the mercury to 45 degrees!) Only then will he learn to manage his time. Let him even stare into space, if he wants to. Only then will he learn to use his imagination and explore the wonderful world of make-believe.

Let him feel the intensity of hot summer days, the stillness in the air, and the idleness of each passing hour. Let him yearn for the setting sun and the promise it brings; of a game of ball in the park, taking a dip in the splash pool, cycling with friends or feeding a stray dog. Only then will he appreciate the camaraderie between friends, the joy of getting dirty, even a sense of pride in showing of his latest injury (a scraped knee) or something as inane as enjoying a glass of cold milk.

Just discovered poster paints & finger paints…what fun!

After all, weren’t most of our childhood days filled with inane, simple joys? Just regular stuff that any childhood is made of. Hide and seek. Playing house. Playing pretend. Climbing trees. Sharing glasses of cold lemonade with friends. Hosing down the garden, the dog, and oneself. Gobbling homemade mango ice-cream. Plucking raw mangoes from the neighbour’s prized tree. Topped off with a visit to the grandparents where other aunts, uncles, and cousins would join the summer fiesta. Just ordinary, regular stuff. Simple, pure fun. Most of us lived it. And were none the worse for it.

My three-year-old just loves the casio…can play for an hour without distractions!

These were summer camps of another kind. The kind that lived on in our memories long after they were over. The kind that showed us that just as there are lessons to be learned in school, or a gym class, or a hobby class, there are equally valuable lessons to be learned from the ordinary, simple things in life.

Maybe few years down the line, when my son turns seven or even eight, I’d probably start thinking of channelizing his energies, so to say. When he is better able to understand the words he can spell, maybe summer camp would make better sense. Till then, I’d rather just let him be what he is – a happy, active, regular, three-year-old!