During my formative years, I received my primary education in a school founded by the Railways Employee Union and later taken over by the Municipal Corporation. Our classrooms were unconventional, housed either in tents under the expansive shades of towering trees or in barrack-shaped structures with asbestos roofs. The journey to school was an adventure in itself – applying white clay on wooden boards, swinging them in the air, singing Hindi songs, and carrying an inkpot filled with natural black ink, all held together in a homemade cloth bag.
In this humble setting, we wrote dictations and solved math problems on wooden boards, with teachers using blackboards placed on Essel Stands, partially visible to students beyond the second row. However, questioning or expressing doubts was not appreciated. The back benchers, engrossed in games like dots and lines on slates, swiftly erased any signs of distraction when the teacher approached.
My school, nestled within the Railway Colony, drew students primarily from families of white-collar railway workers and lower-tier staff, including janitors, track maintenance personnel, and steam engine drivers. The children of these blue-collar workers often faced educational challenges, either starting late or repeating grades due to exam difficulties.
The contrast between the values my mother instilled in me, and the school environment was stark. Swearing and fights among teenagers, discussions about relationships, and teasing during lunch breaks were commonplace. At home, even a hint of inappropriate language resulted in a curfew on outdoor play, leaving me isolated as the only child.
In those days, financial considerations weren’t a primary concern when planning a family, and many classmates came from large families. During harsh Delhi winters, students from modest-income families layered multiple cotton shirts instead of woollens. If a shirt didn’t fit, they borrowed from an elder sibling.
Now, regarding the horror of corporal punishment, a particularly disturbing incident comes to mind. Mr. Daya Shankar, the class five teacher known for his rage, went beyond using a stick on an unruly student. He resorted to hands, boots, and legs, followed by the ‘Cock’ posture punishment, where the student bends forward and holds their ears through their legs. Placing a notebook on the student’s back, with a strict instruction that it shouldn’t fall, he continued the beating for an extended period. However, a sudden change of heart led to a surprising shift in his demeanour, treating the student as a confidant.
This incident left three of us so frightened that we decided to skip school the next day. Our adventurous day in the Railway Colony led to exploring archaeological structures and enjoying ripe tomatoes growing in the confines of the protective fencing. The following day, which was a Sunday, I returned to school, confessing to the school gardener, Panna, about my truancy. His simple yet profound advice on the importance of education motivated me to return to school regularly.
And so, the experiences in that school, with its unique challenges and lessons, became an indelible part of my journey through childhood.
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