Sugar and Spice?

We had our second day of teaching at Netajinagar--the all-boys school. This day went more smoothly, thought the problems we face on Wednesday did not disappear completely. Jenna and I taught in the same classroom, and it was a different group of boys from the ones either of us taught the previous day.

The picture says it all. They were high-spirited and eager, and at the same time did not want to show too much eagerness to their peers (with a couple of notable exceptions.) There was the definite "too cool for school" crowd in the back corner. Funny how those types always find the spots furthest from the front. Jenna and I actually had to move one of these boys to a seat near the chalkboard so he would stop talking to his brother. He got up with a sheepish grin and kept on a mask of disinterest the rest of the period.

Our lesson asked the boys to practice a conversation and then listen to another dialogue on tape and answer a few questions. My lesson focused on Cooking and Jenna's was on Birthdays. The boys seemed to grasp both concepts with ease, though getting them to answer questions and participate was another matter. However, the ones who did participate were vibrating bundles of energy. When called upon, these individuals would stand up and shout the answer (or sometimes not even wait for the teacher to call on them; they would just stand up and yell.) "Cooking, sir! Cooking, sir!" They would repeat the phrases of the practiced conversation with relish and when I would walk by they would bow slightly and say, "Thank you, sir! See, sir?"

Overall, it was a a joy. The process was still noticeably more exhausting than teaching a roomful of compliant girls, but the messages of the lessons were still received.

***

On the ride back from the school, I sat crammed in the front seat next to one of our observers--a middle-aged man named Alex Fernandes. He was a Kolkata native, with a trimmed gray beard and neatly cropped silver hair. I had to ask him: "Where did you get your name?"

"My family is from Goa, which was settled by the Portuguese. Way back, my family converted to Catholicism. Practically everyone in Goa is Catholic and we all have Portuguese names. But I am Indian. I was actually born in Kolkata," Alex said. He explained that he had been a teacher and had worked for ATI helping them observe training teachers. He mentioned that he had been active in Catholic charities. I coyly asked if he had ever met Mother Teresa.

"Oh yes," he replied matter-of-factly, "many times." I blanched. "Really?" I asked.

"My organization used to do quite a bit of work with the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa's mission). We still do. I would see her usually once a week," he nodded. "It is funny but it was hard at the time to realize how great a person this was. She was so holy and kind. But since I saw her so much..." he drifted off and looked out the window. He came back from his brief reverie: "Have you been to Motherhouse?"

I told him that we had. Jenna and I had gone to Motherhouse--Mother Teresa's biggest mission in the city and the place where she kept her home in Kolkata--the previous Sunday. We had attended mass and had seen Mother Teresa's tomb and the austere room in which she had lived most of her life.

"That is good that you have seen it," Alex said. "She was a great person."