AND THEN THERE WAS LIGHT

Once upon a time there was a handicrafts store in Kamanhalli, Bangalore, called Simsim. Kamanhalli was a buzzing locality full of little eateries and an assortment of shops. Simsim was happy to be situated at a place that had throngs of people passing up and down, looking at its wares, or coming in to buy. After all, Simsim had pretty trinkets, colourful fabrics, smart accessories, and cutesy knickknacks—everything but light. 

The shop had no electricity. And after sunset, all went dark inside.

The shop where Simsim was, belonged to my father, and had been shut for close to eight years. It was being used as an extended storeroom for excess stuff from home. The shop had seen busy days but now lay orphaned. When I opened its shutters to purvey the intended venue of my proposed handicrafts store, unlike my family, I was not terrified of its dark, cob-webbed décor and mountainous junk. 

I saw what I wanted to see—a little, homely place. I used the old dining table and rickety racks and lame chairs that had once occupied the house as shop furniture. When Simsim opened, customers often told me that it looked like a room in a house. The only thing missing was a kitchen. 

Naturally, the shop was open in daylight hours only. When business picked up, I kept it open after sunset with the aid of gaslights. (The Bangalore of yore?) Must say the customers were a sporty set: If sharper light was called for, they stepped out to check the stuff under the street light, or the next door shop's brightly lit foyer (another sporty bunch). 

Darkness did not deter our customers. In fact, it made us quaint. As one regular remarked that we looked so cool with no running electricity!

Well, as much as we liked being different, there is a limit to being unconventional. So, we decided to get the power supply restored. Not an easy agenda. The bureaucratic maze had to be negotiated and negotiated. And finally, one day, there was light.   

All else remained unchanged around the shop: the unconventional timings (open on limited days, for limited hours), erratic interiors (no display shelves), and the tiny stock (more like samples).

Only now our loyal customers could see the wares in hard-gotten KEB-bestowed light.

THE ENGINEERING OF EDUCATION

In a way, the only two "real" subjects we learn at school would be Language and Mathematics; that is—alphabets and numbers. And possibly, the only skills needed to walk (and talk) through our regular existence.

In most professions, new entrants learn on the job: often even graduates of professional schools. Professions like medicine, engineering, accounting and others require their graduates to learn while working. The course is a theoretical framework to follow. But there is no teacher like experience—rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands on the work table.

So the Big Question is—why do we go through a system sponging up on chemical equations, mind-spinning theorems, and the digestive system of a larva? How necessary is it to memorise the names and dates of battles?  Or the height of imposing mountain peaks?

Most of us will not be doing much with our formal learning for the rest our lives. Then why do we waste our prized childhood and youth under threatening text books and tyrannical test schedules? We do that to get into a Good College. Why a good college? Because then you can get into a good professional course, which eventually helps you nail a Good Job. So basically, the education system is churning out economic entities to feed into the market.  

American educator and cultural critic Niel Postman says that the education system views children as "economic units" who are being prepared for a "competent entry into the economic life of a community." Ideally, says Postman, economic utility should be a by-product of a good education, and not the aim.

Are the by-products of education (a love for learning, responsible socialisation, personality grounding, and language skills) being acquired by our graduates? Since schools are busy feeding formulas and theorems to their students, how much time is being allotted to activities that can lead to a more rounded student self? Is our education system doing enough, as Postman says, "to provide an inspired reason for learning."

The world of education should prepare its denizens not for a career alone, but for a richer life, which only respect and love for learning can provide. A system like that will produce just not workers but collaborators.

Schools should be sacrosanct places where young minds and personalities are farmed to flourish without scanning the job bazaars. As Postman says: "Without meaning, learning has no purpose. Without a purpose, schools are houses of detention, not attention."

THE WORDS FILE

Most ideas are easier dreamed up than actually executed. And my plan for teaching writing to children and adults was one such thought. Having been a journo, and done other kinds of writing—words were what I knew something about. And, more importantly, felt and cared for. So, it was time for me to walk my words. 

After a year or so of reading books on teaching writing, going through my dusty MA notes, researching worksheets, informally test marketing, and luxuriously pondering, I came up with a blueprint for my version of an effective writing course, and chose the workshop model. 

The group for this creative writing workshop was a mix of 7- to 12-year-olds. I had made folders from red chart paper for the kids to file their worksheets. (A hangover from my handicraft shop running days.) These folders caused some buzz with my young participants. One of them came up and asked me if I was the owner of Inkpot (the label on the folder, and the name I had bestowed upon my venture), or worked there. Talk about brand exposure! 

The handmade folder distributed to the kids

The budding marketer within me glowed. But the teacher inside (the larger share) felt competitive. I decided to gauge my brand new students idea of creativity through this craft item.

A while into the workshop, I asked them why they felt I had made folders instead of just zipping across to the stores and picking up fancier ones. Their answers made me grin stupidly and do mental cartwheels:One kid declared that since this was a creative class, it was better to create things. Another said that perhaps I loved craft. A third voice solemnly added that this ensured that we had a folder nobody else had.

My young learners intuitively understood what creativity is: doing your own thing (as your imagination dictates)—in words or form—for the love of it. And being original!