hi,
attached below is the first hand experience of the futility of the formal
education.
A foreign education is commonly considered an option for the already
well-educated or the well-heeled. Few consider it an option for those who
are perhaps not suited to the Indian education system. Maybe it should be.
Aruni Mukherjee hails from a middle-class Bengali family in Kolkata
[ Images ]. He wasn't a topper in
school, but he went from struggling to make the grade in school to graduate
from the University of Warwick with a BA
(Honours) in History and Politics. He shares his journey to UK school and
university despite his lack of scholarly achievements.
Not many people appreciate the
grindings of life faced by a teenager in Kolkata (and perhaps the whole of
India [ Images ]).
A person with average intelligence and minimal panache for burning the
midnight oil learning about minerals in the London [ Images ] basin (or was it
Paris?) quickly finds himself
falling further and further behind in the Indian rat race that begins in Class
IX. I was a mediocre escapist who at the age of 15 did not spend his evenings
after
school attending 'Additional Mathematics' tuition, although I did tell my
parents I was going there when I left the house.
To the dismay of my rapidly diminishing circle of 'friends' (the size of
your friend circle usually depends on the 90 plus figures on your mark sheet),
I used to play cricket instead. Soon I discovered that I was the oldest amongst
my group of to-be Sachins, since other boys in Class IX definitely could not
(and did not) excel in class and enjoy life at the same time. I felt horrible
when the half-yearly exam results were announced and I had done poorly in most
subjects. So you see, it's not like I didn't care. It's just that I wasn't good
enough to survive this rat race.
Like the scores of weaker wildebeest who are too tired from their trek
across the masai mara to evade the snapping jaws of the crocodiles while
crossing rivers, it was soon dawning on me that I was not meant to be selected
as one of modern India's
survivors. My parents were obviously disappointed with their son not treading
the beaten path as well as they may have hoped. Perhaps they wondered how it
could be so difficult for me, when other children seemed to have no trouble
with this lifestyle. Perhaps they lamented the fact that I was not destined to
be a success. To their credit, they never spelled out their disappointment. But
I felt like a failure, as if my life wasn't worth living as it was so obviously
going in the wrong direction.
It's not like I was passionate about sports or music or had any other
interests. The one thing that obsessed me in the late 90s was the school
stories written by Enid Blyton in the 1950s. The books such as the Naughtiest
Girl and St Clare's series described the world of my dreams. The
boarding school life that the books so vividly depicted became the only thing
for which my heart skipped several beats. We had just had a computer installed
in our house and little did my parents realise that it was later to prove to be
one of the most momentous occasions in my life. My dreams were given eyes as I
feverishly started browsing the websites of the leading public schools in
Britain.
At this point I was simply exploring -- the thought of actually being
able to study there had not yet occurred to me. But the world that this
exploration frenzy opened up for me had me mesmerised, and I became ever more
certain of giving it a shot. I ordered dozens of prospectuses which
arrived in fat A4 envelopes to the utter amusement of my parents. At this point
they didn't realise that I was more than just window shopping. I had found the
first piece in the jigsaw puzzle of my life, which had been higgledy piggledy
for so long. As with many middle-class dreams, mine too were detached from
reality. The fees at the schools I was salivating over were in excess of
GBP15,000 a year, more than just petty cash for a household whose total annual
income did not exceed GBP4,000.
My parents had looked after my future well. They had in place insurance
policies which would pay out a lump sum when I would reach the age of 18 or 21.
However, I had thrown them off track with my wild ideas -- it was unfair of me
to even contemplate asking them for such unimaginable sums, that too for school
education. And even if I did ask, where would they find such sums from? The
situation was hopeless. Yet I decided not to worry about the details
(albeit the devil resided within them) and apply anyway. Mind you, all this was
happening without my parents having the slightest inkling. For all they knew, I
was doing what other teenagers in other houses were doing -- playing online
games, visiting inappropriate websites and chatting on the rapidly sprouting
chat rooms. I had narrowed down my search to two institutions -- Brighton
College and Brentwood School -- both eminent, historic and
eye-wateringly expensive institutions of excellence.
For the latter, I was e-mailed a question paper (for the entrance cum
scholarship exam) which I could complete and submit online (which I promptly
did, ignoring my Class IX annual exam studies). For the former, a question
paper was posted to my headmaster for him to arrange a timed exam for me. And
this was when the penny dropped as far as my parents were concerned. What
infuriated me most was the fact that my parents did not take me seriously. With
hindsight, I understand why they thought I was on a wild goose chase. I would
have behaved exactly the same way had I been in their position. My father was
insistent that I focus on my 'real' life which was unfolding before my eyes
with me
headed for a poor result in my Class IX final exams. My mother shared my pain
but was helpless amidst the monetary straitjackets that my dreams came attached
with.
It is often said that nobody understands a child better than its mother.
This may be cliche, but it's true. My mother had a crystal ball through which
she could see me standing in the queue for admission in a third-class college
and then a puny
job and finally witnessing my life sinking within the abyss of irrelevance and
oblivion of being one amidst the hundreds of millions of India's nameless
nobodies. If there was one
person who felt hopelessly helpless at her inability to contribute towards the
betterment of her son's future, it was my mother. The one thing
which my parents did not do was hinder my efforts. They allowed me to sit the
Brighton exam, and off went the papers.
The teachers at my school who knew about my efforts were unsure whether to
ridicule me or pity my craziness. The Class IX final results came, and
predictably they were terrible. I got 27 per cent in the 'Additional
Mathematics' paper which was obviously a fail. I was promoted to Class X 'with
warning'. I cried profusely and promised my parents
(untruthfully) that I would work harder in Class X. In reality I was praying to
God to do something so that I wouldn't have to spend even a day in the damned
Class X. And then came the responses from afar that I had been checking my
e-mails five times a day for.
Brighton was impressed -- they offered me a scholarship, Brentwood was even
more impressed -- they offered a more generous one. I had called out
in pain, and India had
scoffed at my inadequacy. But England [ Images ] had answered. How did
I do so well? For starters, the British syllabus allowed students to choose
subjects across streams. For example, I wanted to study History, Politics,
Business Studies and Information Technology -- an impossible combination for
Class XI and XII students in India.
I sat the scholarship papers in History, a subject which I enjoyed. Of course I
didn't get the highest mark in History at my school in Kolkata (memorising 900
pages was not my forte). But what the British
schools wanted was a passion for the past, a keen eye for research and a skill
to present the facts around the central argument of the historian (ie not book
learning). Of course there was an anti-climax in this whole fairytale.
What was left of the fees even after the scholarship was still not
affordable for my parents. My dreams for a new life had been dangled in front
of my eyes only (it seemed) to be snatched away ever so cruelly. I needed an
angel. And I found one -- the most unlikely character ever to have played
that role. My uncle is loud, opinionated and often angry at what he perceives
to be other people's incompetence or downright dishonesty. Sometimes I can't
believe this quintessentially boisterous Bengali man worked as a successful
engineer in Atlanta for 30-odd years. Sensitivity (at least outward
demonstration of feelings) is
not a trait I often associate with the man even to this day.
There were many children in my generation in our extended family. But
for some reason he always took an interest in what I was doing with my life
(which was not much until now). I remember by coincidence he was visiting India
in 2001 when all this drama was unfolding.
One day he took me aside and asked me the same question. I remember breaking
down and crying uncontrollably just as I had done on several occasions in front
of my mother (who had comforted me and silently loathed her inability to
catapult me out of this nightmare). I remember my jethu shifting
uneasily in his chair, not knowing how to react or console me. We didn't
discuss this issue again and he left for the US shortly afterwards.
A few weeks ensued without event, and then an e-mail pinged my father's
inbox. "Laltu (my father's pet name), your son has gone through a lot to
win a scholarship in England.
He can't tolerate the life in Kolkata and I feel he will excel if we fulfil his
wish. Therefore, I shall take responsibility of his education at Brentwood. I
am not asking you, just letting you know.
Dada."
The bombshell this e-mail had dropped in my house was unimaginable. My
mother was quietly elated, but put up a sceptical face on the outside since she
did not want to take anything for granted until it materialised. My father was
initially hesitant to accept such a generous gift from my uncle, but he never
opposed his brother. As far as I was concerned, I was too overwhelmed
with unparalleled happiness to even contemplate thanking my uncle for the
hand he had extended to a drowning person.
I felt I could jump from my terrace and still survive. Why wouldn't I? I had
wings. I did not sit in a Class X classroom. I did not attend another tuition.
I did not turn over the 451st page of my Life Science book (the Class X
chapters). I did not read another line and re-read it with my eyes shut in
order to memorise it. I vividly remember the confusion and
wonderment in the eyes of my classmates when it was announced that I was
leaving Kolkata for England -- I was beaming since it was so evident that none
of them had even
contemplated such a thing for themselves. Nor did they need to, they were doing
well anyway.
I had been disqualified from India's
rat race. I was deemed unworthy of the honour bestowed upon the brightest of
India's students -- that of perhaps attending an
IIT or IIM. I had been banished henceforth from the echelons of India's elite.
I was the scruffy mongrel in a
beauty pageant for poodles. But no matter, I shall make it where I had always
dreamt to be. When I was deemed not good enough to succeed in India, England
had given me hope. I was
useless in India, but
perhaps I could find some use for myself in lands further Westward.
The passport papers came and went to the Indian government, the visa papers
came and went to Her Majesty's government, and on August 31, 2001, I found
myself inside Dum Dum Airport for the first time in my life, about to board the
British Airways flight to
London Heathrow for my first plane journey. A new world beckoned, my dream
beckoned; I could hear the rustling of the trees that adorn England's
greenest hills, I could feel the chill of an English autumn from thousands of
miles afar. This was my chance, an opportunity that was to be the making of me.
I had goose bumps and spine tinglings through out the entire 10-hour flight.
Ahoy Britain,
I was coming.
Aruni Mukherji
The INTERNET now has a personality. YOURS! See your Yahoo! Homepage.
http://in.yahoo.com/
