‘A firefly on my palm’ - Hafsa Sayeed
More than our alarm clocks, at PTG Girls School, Netarhaat, we would be woken up by the ritualistic arrival of girls in our room. They would chirp around, like a choir finding symphony. Sometimes linger around us in silence, and stare indistinctly at us sleeping or in the process of waking up. Our little women woke, unfailingly, every morning at around 5 A.M. There was an ease with which they managed their daily chores. Their faces wouldn’t suggest fatigue or drudgeries, which urban cultures imbibe. When it would be our turn to ferry water buckets to our rooms, they would giggle at our clumsy strolls. Perhaps for them it was a technically awkward posture in which we carried our buckets. Yet, they were overwhelmingly kind always, “layiye Didi Hum Kr dengay.” It was a kindness which didn’t seem cultivated as a mannerism or moral conditioning, but a kindness which just seemed fundamentally characteristic to them. It was only the last day that we couldn’t fight them for they refused to give in, when it came to carrying our bags till the gate.
Our ice breaking sessions were imbued with a subtle awkwardness initially. Whether we navigated through each other or struck conversations that died in shyness. Or hesitant sentences which found refuge in whispers and giggles. Brilliant eyes that shone at us in anticipation as well as curiosity. There wasn’t a single time when any of us doubted the genius or intellect of the girls. Our little women were very quick to pick up and learn. For me, it was always a process of negotiating between patience and creativity, because both had to be maintained in sumptuous quantities.
It was pure joy, whenever they joined together for a song. Their voices crackled like a clear stream, which flew through the memories of my childhood. It was gratifying to see them draw and paint, and sing and dance. The moments of their bliss seemed like a consolation to our gaping existential wounds. Sometimes, paradoxically, through the cacophony of their voices, calling to each other, or shouting, a solace would descend. It seemed to revisit that playful part of us which has been long lost in yesterday.
It was always easier to click with the girls through drawing, singing and dancing. For academic interventions, creativity was must. Teaching First Standard girls about addition and subtraction in a simplistic and regular sense was consuming for me as well as the girls. But engaging with the help of colours or UNO cards, and making it playful was fruitful. Also, creative interventions were must because little children exhibit attention deficiency or get distracted easily. It was also easier to engage them with Audio Visual Aids. They would simply be amused if they were shown anything on the laptop or the phone. The idea of being recorded through video and camera on phone and then displayed was very intriguing for some girls. So, in Class 1, some girls would insist that they shall dance and sing and I should make a video out of that. Later, all of them would see it together. On one such instance, a little girl, named Arti, upon seeing her video realised that her voice in the video wasn’t audible. So next time, she was literally shrieking at the top of her voice (as she was singing) and dancing for the video!
Conversations sought a lot more effort in initial days. However, for discussions like menstrual health as well as gender sensitization, one had to retain more rigour. We had to constantly evaluate the silence, whether it was incomprehension or shyness. If it was shyness, they gave enough signals usually to convey they understood your point. But, if it was incomprehension or blank faces, it meant we had to revisit our understanding of their context. One cannot simply go to a different culture or place, and impose ones’ own cultural or urban sensibility. At the same time, one cannot even possibly derive from ones’ own culture to accommodate through. It is only an exchange, and not a superimposition, which is held. The critical junction remains acceptance for each other. One such instance was when one of the Volunteers asked the girls about my Hijab. The conversation was supposed to be an inroad to the session on identity. So the girls were asked, “Do you realize this Didi always wears a Dupatta?” Or, “Do you realize this other Didi doesn’t wear a Dupatta.” To these questions, the girls expressed blatant disinterest. From their banal response of ‘yes’ and no’, it didn’t appear they seemed to care much or care at all. It stood in a stark contradiction to the normative upbringing of religious discourse or other such cultural distinctiveness. We didn’t seem much informed about each other’s exact background. But the beauty of being was the ease of getting along, and sharing our songs and dances. And laughing together.
Netarhaat, as a place also had to offer discreet memories. For me, some days seemed to fulfill the feeling of winters that were lost over the course of having stayed outside home. One early morning, with the ritualistic chorus of our little women, “Didi Uth jayiye”, one of the girls came and opened the window. There was bare visibility as the dense fog entered our room. Some other time, it was the rain splashing against our windows, as one traced the fierce clouds over mountains.
The evening before the last day, we held a cultural event. We were all performing various songs and dances. I was the last two songs which mellowed down the joyous laughter. The girls had prepared these songs for us. One sang about separation and the other, literally meant that Didi comes and leaves us heartbroken. It was like a prelude to our farewell. A farewell that was drenched in the tears of some of our little women, or in the stoic acceptance of some, that our paths might never cross. A farewell encompassed in the collective appeal of our little women, ‘didi khaana khaa k jaatay.’ The girls refused to listen to us, as they carried our bags and came to drop us outside of the gate. And that last time, when we had to forcibly untangle their hands from ours, as we parted ways.
The times spent at PTG Girls School, Netarhaat, shall resound through the meanings one seeks to find in the dullness of a fast paced life. It shall recur time and again to inform one of the simplicity, which is perhaps swallowed by urban cultures. And it shall shine brightly through the cusps of our nights, like that firefly, which a little girl placed on my palm.