Sunday Editorial
Surveying education in Bihar: forget schools, visit the coaching classes!
By Ratnakar Tripathy
If you really want to check on the state of education in Bihar rather than limit yourself to ‘official’ education, it is best to turn yourself invisible and attend classes at a few coaching institutes. These are the sites, the labs where the real Bihari of the future is being sculpted. In case you are too old to pass off as invisible, the next best thing is to talk to those who are attending these classes on a daily basis and are willing to talk about the normal state of affairs, as they put it, attending classes everyday for as long as 9-12 months.
Here is the inside story that I must split into two parts, for reasons you may appreciate as you go through the tragically hilarious tales:
The teacher as the Gunda [ruffian]: and the gun in the gutter!
‘My name is Neeraj. I come from Nawada. I came to Patna to improve my standard. Science teachers in Nawada are so so. But I heard coaching institutes in Patna are far better. I came with father. My father found out Vineet sir[Er] is best for physical chemistry, my weak subject. He is ex-IIT chemical engineering. Fail or pass, I don’t know. I know ex-boyfriend often means boyfriends who became ex before becoming friends.
So my father went and registered for the course after standing in a long line starting at 6 PM. His turn came at 3 AM next morning. We took turns standing in the line. But I ate some bad litti at 9 in the night and by 10 PM I started having loose motions and ran to my uncle’s house, 10 kms away where we were staying. So my father carried on without me. He paid Rs 9,000 and came back at 5 AM and woke me up.
‘This is the beginning of a new life for you’, he said and pushed me out of the bed and started snoring within two minutes. When I woke up on the floor after two hours, he had left.
I was traumatized. How could a father, and a father like mine push his son off his bed. The hurt stayed with me for months, for forever, almost!
Next day I went to the class and found that my class looked like a political rally held indoors. There were more than 400 students in a large hall, sitting in chairs, over chairs, around chairs and near chairs, chairs with all the permissible prepositions. I got the windowsill to sit on. I balanced my notebook on my lap and started taking notes. I could see our genius Vineet Sir move his mouth but couldn’t hear him. He then wrote some equations on the board and it became clear to me that I was surely being taught. I was indeed being taught but the challenge was to ensure that I remain taught through a window that brought in the sounds from physical chemistry and creaky fans together, not to mention voices of girlfriends calling with speakers on and autos honking right next to the ears. When a bullying neighbour pushed my notebook with his fatter notebook from the inside of the window, I gave up and ran away to get some rest in my lodge.
Next day, I was a bit late. Vineet sir was at it. He wrote an incomplete equation on the board and started staring at me. So I stared back at him so that he will recognize me, remember me and like me later on. Then he stared at my neighbour who ducked instanly. Then Vineet sir called him to the dais.
‘Complete the equation, boy’, he said and gave him the marker pen.
The boy started running his tongue over his lips like a maid wiping a desperately unclean floor. I could see the sweat drops on his face grow bigger and bigger like angry pimples, getting angrier by the second.
Suddenly, Vineet sir was all over him. Yes, the boy was getting beaten right, left and centre, looking around for help or moral support. The boy, built somewhat like Sanjay Dutt was much bigger than Vineet sir, and I could see he could break Sir’s face with one single punch. I do think he considered doing exactly that.
But five security men with guns were already sidling up. They stood around Vineet sir as he dealt with the boy like a washerman at dhobi ghat .
In the next few days, the number of students had come down from 400 to around 200. The coaching institute was advertising already –‘seats still vacant’. I stopped attending classes. I was working hard on my own and cursing my father whenever I found the time. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and ask the question ‘How could a father, and a father like mine push his son off his bed’?
Several months later, when I passed my test with flying colours, I got a call from Vineet sir, personally.
He said ‘Neeraj, I have selected you for our annual award. You get your refund. Plus 20,000 Rs. Come tomorrow with your postcard size photo since we are putting you in the papers’.
So all over again, having completely and totally forgiven my father, and by way of winning forgiveness from my father without asking, I went to the coaching institute at 3 AM.
I knocked. The massive iron gate split up just enough for the security guard to shove in a gun, and more than enough for me to pull it out using my full strength. Within two minutes the licensed gun was dunked in the Bazar Samiti canal. Which is where it lies to this day, in case the police is still interested!
The teacher as gentleman: teaching the walls not human beings
Note: The editor has rejected his own piece on grounds of length. But indulgent as he is with contributors, including himself, the second part of the story will appear next Sunday.