Shilpa Naik, a retired teacher at a Mumbai suburb school, transformed the lives of a few students in her class so that they metamorphosed from child labourers into a music band
Teaching at a Brihanmumbai Municipal Corporation (BMC) school has always filled me with a sense of purpose, joy and accomplishment. With every transfer, the experience of mentoring a new set of students has thrown up rich learnings. My stint at Subhash Nagar BMC School in Mumbai’s Chembur suburb was no different. If there were challenges, then there were good times too.
I can still recall the day I took charge of the seventh graders as their class teacher. It was a bright bunch, and I was informed that they all came from impoverished homes. While the majority was from the nearby Anand Nagar slum, a few lived in the crowded basti across the railway line. Their parents were rag-pickers and usually set out for work before dawn to ensure they were in time to pick up the ‘valuable’ trash before their ‘competitors’ get to it. They came back well past noon, only to queue up at the trash dealer’s house to earn their daily wage. Left behind to fend for themselves and their siblings, the children doubled up as household help, baby-sitters and chipped in whenever their parents needed them. Most were either too distracted or extremely exhausted to pay attention in class. There was a general sense of indifference towards education. Their parents, unfortunately, just didn’t have the time or energy to pay attention to them or to their future for there were more immediate existential challenges that they faced.
But, with over 28 years of teaching experience, I was prepared to engage with my students. During the roll call, I chatted with them as they introduced themselves. Around 10 students were absent that day. Apart from three girls who were visiting their native place and were supposed to be back in school in two or three days, there were six boys, namely, Amol, Krushna, Amit, Pandhari, Prakash and Kishan, who missed the class.
Things quickly fell into a routine and the girls came back as expected. However, the boys continued skipping school. Every day, I thought they would come, only to be disappointed. I felt sad while marking them absent. When a week went by and the six didn’t turn up, I decided to visit them in Anand Nagar. As I reached the slum and asked for Amol and Krushna, I was directed towards a gym in a narrow lane. They were surprised to see me but quickly assured me that they would show up in school the next day. They even apologised for not coming earlier. We had a warm interaction and I treated them to vada pav.
I went back home peacefully. I thought, perhaps, home visits were the answer to bringing in the absentees. But I was wrong. They didn’t show up and I felt let down. I discussed their absence with my class and that’s when I got to know their story. “They are part of Banjo Party (musical group). They are called for events and festivals like Dahi Handi on Gokulashtami, Navaratri and birthday parties in the basti. They are also called for playing dhol,” said their friends from Anand Nagar. I learnt that each one earned `300 per event, although sometimes they were not paid the entire amount. “They earn and have a good time. Why would they attend the school?” my informants exclaimed.
What did they mean by ‘good time’, I asked. “Don’t tell them that we have told you all this but they smoke, drink and...” they said and started giggling. I was taken aback. My children are into all this? Yes, I considered them ‘my children.’ They were kids, who had been forced into child labour, they had taken to substance abuse, they were truanting from school and they have a troubled life. They had been deprived of a childhood and parental care. Clearly, they were not afraid to work hard but their circumstances had denied them the chance to shape their life through education. They were carrying the cross of their life on their young shoulders.
But how could I reach out to them, earn their trust and let them know that I cared? These questions troubled me constantly. If I could just get them to come to school, I was sure I could teach them many things. The empty benches scoffed at me. I was being defeated daily. I realised that these boys needed vocational training more than bookish knowledge. So I came up with a plan to make sure that they got both. I gathered some students and went to meet them again. “How about forming a Banjo Party of your own?” I suggested to Amol, Krushna and company. “But how is it possible?” asked Krushna. “You work for someone else and they don’t even pay you enough. They avail all the benefits and you get hardly anything in return,” I said. “Yes ma’am, but how can we go about it? We don’t have enough money to buy musical instruments,” he said.
“Let’s discuss this in class tomorrow. We will work out a plan,” I told them. Amol, Krushna and others were elated and made sure that all six came to school before the first call for morning prayers. “Ms Naik, your ‘heroes’ have showed up,” remarked the other teachers. I felt a sense of satisfaction when I marked ‘P’ (present) against their names.
The whole class was eager to discuss the formation of the Banjo Party. After the prayer, we returned to the class. The boys started off animatedly, “Ma’am, we will have to purchase instruments from Parel and Lalbaug (South Mumbai localities). We have prepared a list of the things we require — instruments like small and big dhols, dholki, sticks, khanjira, and also t-shirts and trousers. We’ve already prepared the budget.” The boys were excellent at calculations, I discovered. “We need around `6,000,” they announced and added, “But we don’t have the cash. Making a list is okay but one needs money at the end.”
I said, “Don’t worry, I will give you the money. You can repay me in instalments. But I have one condition — you have to attend school every day.” They agreed readily. The next day, I gave them the start-up money and a day later, they bought the instruments. The group proudly showed off their talent after class while their classmates danced to their tunes.
The boys not only started attending school regularly, they also practised music under a banyan tree near the local railway station. Many of their classmates visited them. I, too, dropped by a few times. As their peers and elders encouraged them, their confidence and self-esteem grew. The ‘P’ against their names in the roll call shone.
A few days later, the school had been shut for 10 days for Ganesh Chaturthi. When the school reopened, I came back to find a packet of money, a box of sweets and flowers on the table. The beaming Banjo Party greeted me. “You don’t have to pay me back so soon. Have you received proper payment?” I inquired.
“Ma’am, during the Ganapati festival, we were invited to play on all 10 days. In fact, we played during the procession on the first day when the Ganpati idol was placed. That honour is normally reserved for a well-known musical party. We have made so much money that even after paying you, each one of us has `3,000 left. Additionally, we have kept aside `2,000 in the group’s joint kitty,” they shared with delight.
The boys had brought kilos of peda, which were more than enough for the class of 29. Instead of distributing more than one peda each, I requested them to cut them into quarters and distribute them to the entire school. “While doing so, please tell them that we are talented businessmen but we are studying, too,” I said.
That was one of my most rewarding days in the school. My small experiment had changed the lives of these amazing, gifted boys. From being labelled as ‘absentees’, ‘ruffians’ and ‘child labourers’, they had transformed themselves into shining examples of hard work and enterprise. What’s more, they started attending the school regularly.
(The author is a retired BMC teacher. The article has been translated from Marathi to English by Alka Gadgil.)