Education then and now
Mr S A Mansoor is himself a magical writer. His gems of wisdom, advice and anecdotes from a fertile memory, are a must-read for readers and I always look first for his contributions in the Letters Page of DS. His information on the number 9 is familiar to most of us. Many more computations have since come to light over the last 8 decades, but at the moment memory fails.
I had always thought that Mr. Mansoor was a contemporary and he has confirmed that by divulging that he was in Class 8 in 1946 in Calcutta. I was then in Class 6 but since we sat for our Matriculation after Class 8 in St Xavier's School and College (as against Class 10 in most schools), perhaps we both graduated in 1952. This letter is just a stroll down memory lane, so that readers may judge what education was, then, and what a mess it is now.
St Xavier's is run by the Belgian Jesuits and it is acknowledged, at least by Old Xavierians like me, as the epitome for education par excellence. Two small examples should suffice.
1. At least once/twice a week, a student or two would be invited to see Father Van Buynder, our class teacher, then 70 +, in his small cubicle after school (3:00pm). What transpired there was usually not divulged. One day after a tough geometry class, I got the dreaded invitation just when I was looking forward to an hour's practice at the table tennis tables in the common room before going home. Since it was sacrilege to even think about avoiding it, I timidly knocked on his door at 3.30 sharp. Father was already at his desk (after 6 hours in classes) going through the class work. With twinkling eyes, he exclaimed “Ah, Ahmed, you really do not have a clue about that theorem we learnt today, do you?” Head down, I confessed, wondering how the H--- he knew? For the next hour or so, Father patiently went through the theorem and explained it, till HE was satisfied, I had understood. Coaching classes, private tutors, parents doing somersaults at home? None of these ever marred our evenings and holidays as they were practically non-existent and a slur to the dedicated teachers of most of the better schools in Calcutta then.
2. Monday mornings usually began with an hour's essay on a surprise subject that Father wrote on the blackboard. One Monday, he just stood silently for a minute with the chalk in the middle of the blackboard, then he sat down in his chair and starting to read without as much as a glance at us. We waited expectantly for what seemed an eternity and then started to fidget while looking at each other. Finally, he looked up, “Anything the matter, boys? Haven't you started yet? You have already wasted 5 minutes” One of the bolder boys exclaimed “But, Father, you haven't given us the subject”. “Of course, I have, its right there in the centre” he said with a smile. All of us shouted in unison “That's just a small dot” He got up saying “Yes it is, isn't it? Now, let your imagination soar and write your essay on whatever you think that dot represents.”
As I look around and see little boys/girls trudging along with back-packs heavier than themselves, schools sans playgrounds, playing fields turned into profitable fair grounds and youngsters playing games on electronic gadgets, while cooped up in their pigeon-hole flats, I feel a twinge of pity.
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