CHAPTER 5: Discoveries and Daydreams
A Teacher’s Perspective
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Vivek Puri sat at his desk, staring at a paper. In all his 17 years of teaching, he had never met a student so exceptional as Alessandro. Mr Puri couldn’t find one mark to detract, on a writing paper, that too. As an Italian, he probably found French rather easy. But still, seeing such high-quality output reminded Mr Puri of why he had started teaching all those years ago. It was so he could nourish the minds of his students, and watch them grow academically and as people. And doing so was immensely satisfying. He scribbled down a nice big ‘(42/42)’ on his paper, and pushed it aside to grade the next one.
AYESHA VENUGOPAL
He just had to look at the first page to tell that this was not going to be like Alessandro’s paper. He noted down corrections, of which there were many. Did she seriously forget the gender of a table?? And she forgot to put accents on half of her é’s. He turned to the next page, but he wasn’t looking at it. His attention was in the past.
If you imagined that as a high school teacher, he would encounter many difficult times in his students’ lives, you would be right. After all, these years are when you find yourself. You discover what you like and what you dislike. You unearth the places where you can bloom and where you can suffocate. You do this all while the guillotine blade of your first-ever board exams looms over your head. Add to that the raging teen hormones and the rebellious battles for independence, and you have the perfect storm for fiery emotions and bubbling meltdowns.
He tried to combat it by creating a positive and inclusive class environment. One that encouraged kindness and respect for everyone. He checked in regularly with the students on how they were doing. He gave them space and power to make some of their own choices. At least in his class he tried to be as reasonable as possible with the workload. Most importantly, he tried to give them some autonomy. But there was only so much he could do. This was 10th grade, after all, and his class was only one of many. The students came in with high parental, societal and self-expectations. Despite his efforts, he knew that about 1 in 4 students in his class likely had mental health issues. Ayesha was one of them.
He remembered when she first entered his class last year. She was a bright, energetic girl, a little ball of fire. He chuckled as he remembered how, in her very first class, she had criticised his new haircut in perfect French. Over time though, he saw her change. He saw her slowly stop talking in class, instead preferring to zone out and daydream. He saw her eyes turn red and puffy after bathroom breaks. He saw her normally excellent work turn to nothing more than hollow scribbles. He saw the fire in her eyes burn out. He saw her hand, which would usually shoot up after every question, hang low with a pen sitting in it, unmoving. Last month, he saw the very same girl who used to chat fluently in French, choke in the speaking test, her face like a deer in headlights.
The school bell rang. Sigh! He snapped out of his reverie. It was time for class. He would try talking to her again afterwards.
Today’s unit was on cooking and the kitchen. He saw Ayesha sitting in her usual spot by the window, tugging at her denim jacket, staring out the window. Why did she wear a jacket in peak summer? He started quizzing the class on the French terms for various kitchen equipment: fork, spoon, plate, pan and on and on and on.
He prided himself on his engaging classes, but today’s was a dull one. He blamed the heat and the uninspiring topic.
“Does anyone know what ‘un couteau’ is in English?”
Ayesha’s hand shot up.
“It’s a knife!” she said before he could even call on her.
He was surprised and excited. Was she finally getting better, back to her old self!? And then he saw the scars.
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“Ayesha, see me after class.”
Oh no, what did she do?
She dragged her feet to his office after what seemed like the longest-ever class. Was he going to lecture her about her paper? To be fair, she didn’t study AT ALL.
“What is it? Is it about my grades? I know they’re bad, I swear, I’ll improve them,” she said.
“It’s about you, Ayesha. Are you doing okay? You seem… in really bad shape.”
She glanced down at herself. Other than being a tad pale, she thought she looked perfectly okay.
“Huh? No! I look fine!” she bristled.
“I was referring to your mental state. Well actually, your physical state too.”
Ayesha sharply inhaled. OH. Oh god, no. He didn’t see them… did he?
“ Ayesha, roll up your sleeve,” Mr Puri demanded, pointing to her left sleeve.
“What? No! I like them down!”
“Ayesha, either roll it up or take off the jacket.”
So he had seen them. Shit.
She was desperate. She had one last trick up her sleeve.
“Do you know how creepy it is to ask a student to remove her jacket? You could -”
He cut her off with a sharp glare.
“You want me to call your parents here, right now? Okay! You wanna do it with them. That’s fine by me.”
“No wait, fine!” she exclaimed, defeated. God damn, why are teachers so intimidating?
She took off her jacket and flung it on the teacher’s desk. There they were. Her scars, reminiscent of the landscape of Mordor.
She saw his eyes widen in shock, an effect which was magnified by his round specs.
“The cat did it!”
Yet again, he glared at her. This was the glare he used when she lied about homework. Hah, he can see right through me, can’t he?
“Ayesha. Remember what I’ve told you about lies?”
“ I’m not-”
“Ayesha.” He said sternly.
Welp. GG. You won. The game’s up now.
“ I - When I feel frustrated and depressed, I cut myself. Please - please don’t tell my parents. My dad- he’ll - he’ll freak out -”
“Well, I should sure hope so -”
“No - not in the “I’m concerned” way. In the “This is stupid. Instagram has done this to you, Ayesha. You stupid girl” kind of way.“
He frowned.
“Ayesha, look, this is serious. I have to tell your parents.”
“No! Please. I - I’m taking care of it. I am.”
“What are you doing about it?”
Ayesha stuttered her way into silence like a person stumbling down a hill.
Mr Puri looked concerned. He seemed to be deliberating the best course of action. She imagined this is how criminals felt standing in front of the jury.
“Okay, Ayesha. I need to do something. I’m not going to counsel you. I honestly don’t know how. I won't tell your parents yet, but I have to do something. Just… trust me. Okay?"
Phew! She was acquitted! Or so she hoped. She had no idea what Mr Puri would do. Anyway, it was time to leave before he changed his mind.
“Yes okay bye thank you so much!” The words were spewed out as she hurriedly ran out the door.
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What to do, what to do?? Mr Puri was pacing up and down in front of his whiteboard like a scientist deep in thought. He was thinking about what he had just googled. Cutting your wrist artery can be so severe that you may require surgery. If you don’t die in minutes, you can be disabled. Permanently.
He DID promise he wouldn’t call the Venugopals, but he couldn’t handle this on his own. As he glanced across his room, his eyes fell on the gold placard on the office door across his. It was the Principal’s office. Some students had scratched out the name and stuck a sticky note under it. It always made him chuckle.
[ RAJKUMAR E PAL ]
[ ↑ PRINCE ]
[ PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE ]
*Rajkumar = Prince in Hindi
Oh. The solution was staring him right in the face.
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