Big Teacher

Family

I am walking down the driveway to sounds of Happy Birthday being sung by children.

This morning, I am visiting an Early Learning Centre on the Habarana-Trinco road.

What greets me is the entire school and a few parents, congregated in an area decorated colourfully next to the playground.

The birthday singing continues, with each fresh round bringing forward a child to the massive cake in the middle. A candle is lit along with a colourful name-board of the Birthday boy/girl stuck on the cake. As the child blows the candle and a cut is made methodically by the side of the cake, the parents pose alongside, and photos are duly taken.

Then the next child’s turn.

Big Teacher poses by the celebrating child and hugs where the parents are absent.

 

There are fish buns, wadais, cake and yoghurt being served to all, and today the kids have not brought their usual tiffin. The school provides.

Every month or so these collective birthdays happen and the students attend in coloured clothing, so no one feels left out for the want of a treat.

Everybody celebrates the same.

 

I take my time watching and walking around unobtrusively as possible.

There are around sixty children, and all are well attended to.

 

Climbing to the upper floor of the school building, the breeze is welcoming. I can hear the chatter of some mothers; they smile pleasantly, but go quiet.

Sitting around a table, making paper hats for the upcoming graduation, are about ten ladies.

The greetings are friendly all around. I introduce myself, stating simply my reason for being here.

I allow for silence and awkwardness, occasionally commenting on things that are related to school and their village.

I am in no rush. I have all the time in the world.

 

Finally, one parent asks me, whether I have children.

Yes.

“Api okkatama oney ithin, apita wadiya hondin ape lamay hadenawata….” She says.

(All we want is our children to do better than we did)

 

That’s a good start to the conversation, I think to myself.

 

They are all proud that the school is producing children who are out performing, not just in studies but in manner and paying attention, once they enroll into government schools for Grade 1.

The feedback so far has been excellent.

A hundred percent rate.

‘Seeyata seeyak”

I remember a notice in Sinhala, hanging on the gate.

“All vacancies for next year are full. No more children will be enrolled.”

 

“This school started with 5 children, and everybody was skeptical of the Big Teacher who came from another country.” volunteers one.

“Now a lot of people want to be here, though there are still some who are suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what?” I ask innocently.

“Well, she is from another faith…. And she refuses to teach religion as a subject in school”

Ironic. This is me thinking.

“They will accuse her of indoctrination, or else!” this from another parent.

 

Teachers, students and parents are all from surrounding areas; as far as 15km. One teacher braves 50km from Kantale, each way daily. She is an old faithful who started with Big Teacher in 2016.

All of them are trained on location. But some leave for the old fashioned dream of A Government Posting and gets sucked into an archaic system that does no favours in anyway.

 

The parents are a lovely mixed bunch.

Bakers, farmers, fisherman, forces/military, B&B operators, safari drivers, spa operators, shop keepers, children of the teachers and school help, vegetable vendors, desperate womenfolk of the village drunkards and wife beaters.

Despite the traditional and clannish value systems most come from, these villages are heavily dependent on Tourism; being part of the Cultural Triangle and National Parks. And with Covid it is in peril.

There are Hopper vendors turned Onion growers.

Safari drivers turned farmers.

Spa operators turned fishermen.

Wife beaters are still wife beaters, and

drunkards are still drunkards.

 

I am invited for wood fired Hoppers (crisp rice flour pancakes with a soft middle) by one birthday girl’s parents, an invitation I accept eagerly.

They are supposedly famous with the drivers on the Trinco road. The wayside shop opens at 4.30am.

“Meya oyawa avilla geniyay,” says the wife indicating to the husband. (This one will come and pick you up)

“Habai den ithin api govi thenata barai.” She adds further.

(But now, we are mostly into agriculture)

“Issara meya uddallak wath atha gavey nehe.” They both laugh.

(Those days this one did not even touch a hoe)

 

One thing they all agree is that they want their kids to have a different style of education, at least at the start, if not through the rest of the years of schooling.

All enroll into government schools for year 1. Most of these schools are “hardship schools” lacking in teachers willing to be posted in these isolated locations.

 

The fees are nominal at this Pre-school and for the desperate, waived in exchange for some service or other towards the school.

 

“ayyo, meya dan kakussiyata yanne neha, wathura binduwak thibboth, polawe,” the mother in pink declares with feigned annoyance.

(Ayyo, this child does not go to the toilet, if there is a drop of water on the floor)

“Ai ape ekkena? Okkoma ekata wadi wela kamu kiyanawa. Den thaththa enna oney welaasana.” One in the Blue T-shirt.

(Why, our one? Says we all need to eat together at a table. Now the father has to come home without getting late)

 

I ask them about the other Pre-schools in the area.

None like this, everybody agrees.

“Mehe Ingreesyth ugannanawa, apita eva awashyay ne?”

(Here they teach English as well; we need it, no?)

A quiet lady softly speaks, “ my child is differently abled, this is the only place she was taken in and they know how to treat her. Even the other children know how to be with her…”

 

I hear that there is computer orientation now, and kids who are in Primary schools are invited back after school, for lessons.

Yes! They all smile broadly.

 

“Api hari asai Loku Teacher meka Prathamika iskolayak karawa nang”

(We would like if Big Teacher makes this a Primary school)

“Nehe Nehe, Maha Vidyalayak!” some chorus together.

(No, no, one with Primary and Secondary both)

“Hapo, danatamath kochchara karadarada?” a mother chimes in.

(How much of trouble, even now?)

 

“Haha gihilla wawey paniy,” there is raucous laughter.

(She will go jump in the lake)

 

 

 

Next: Big Teacher- The Thirst for Tea