Manoj Bhattu, a senior teacher in the undergraduate program at SPA, and the person who had set up my two spoken English lessons the other day, had invited me to visit his school, out in the countryside some 25 kms or so from Dhangadhi. I was not entirely sure what “his” school meant, but I was very happy to find out.
It meant another motorbike trip, this time on a more standard machine; no elevated pillion seat this time. But apart from getting on the thing – along with getting off my least favourite part of the whole experience – it was a very enjoyable ride. It was a long trip on this occasion, but that allowed me the time to relax; soon enough my hands were resting on my thighs, and I was enjoying the fresh air, and the sights of things along the way. We were soon in the countryside, and there was much to enjoy – a water buffalo wallowing up to its neck in a stream; the white statue of a warrior in an ordinary garden, life-size and lifelike; the mis-steps in English (a motel advertising itself as an “Eat and park hotel.) There were the usual traffic incidents causing me momentary alarm – buses turning, that sort of thing, but I was mostly entirely relaxed, adopting the same “que sera sera” approach that I had taken to my cancer. A self-inflicted cancer this time, it’s true, but there you go. We turned off the main road onto a small country lane, and arrived a few minutes later at a secluded site in the heart of the countryside.
The front was something of a building-site, through which we had to pick our way; they are building a reception and administration block, having already taken the sensible step of building some actual classrooms, already in use. Here it was, The Gyanodaya Gurukul Montessori school, and absolutely Manoj’s school, built on his land, with his money, and presumably he is responsible for paying the teachers. I was welcomed with a scarf – I’m sure there is a better term for it – a garland of flowers, and then a glass of cold water and a plate of fresh fruit. I also met the children, I could scarcely do otherwise, as they were in and out of the small reception area.
It is effectively just a nursery school at present, but has plans to expand upwards, literally as well as in age; there are the usual steel supporting rods poking through the flat roof, allowing for the possibility of another floor. In many cases, these appear as optimistic at best, but Manoj has plans for four more classrooms. As well as, he tells me, a building dedicated to music, drama ands dance.
I was introduced formally (or more formally; these were small children, after all) to the pupils. I am a bit of a fish out of water kn such an environment, but I did my best, asked them their names, said hello many times, sang a song, recited Humpty Dumpty (the only rhyme I could think of under pressure), had some photos taken, took one or two myself.
Manoj and I climbed the outside stairs to the roof, and I admired the wonderful landscape. The school has something SPA has none of: space. Manoj owns a fair bit of land surrounding the school ,and outlined his plans: a football field, a basketball court, a running track. It had been his father’s dream, he told me, to build a school here, and he had started on the project before he passed away. As for Manoj himself, he had wanted to leave Nepal when a young man, had gone to Thailand to study, had there seen the sort of teaching he was now trying to replicate, and had returned to Nepal. He had worked in Kathmandu for several years, moving two years ago to Dhangardhi, and then to this village, to oversee the building of the school; it had only opened eight months ago. His own daughter was one of the pupils there, and to see him with her was a joy; he is a very gentle man.
He told me he was very happy here, in the peace of the countryside, and I could see how this could be true. His school was beautiful, beautifully made, beautifully clean, with a lovely patterned floor. It had all that it needed – clean water, electricity, wifi (though almost certainly lacking the money to push on with its expansion.) I told him I envied him. He was building his dream, inherited but refined from his father, and he had the gift of time – he was only 35. Not that I am in any way unhappy with my lot, but time is the one resource that is running out. Not that I intended to die just yet, I told him, and especially not from falling off a motorbike.
He had another school to show me, not far away, a secondary school, and on the way there we stopped for a lassi, giving me the chance to indulge in one of my regular amusements, making people laugh. There were three ladies sitting on a bench outside the shop, tow of them looking really quite old. I namasted them, which they responded to, though with no hint of warmth. But then there was the jaunty sound of a ringtone. It went on for some time, as one of the ladies struggled to retrieve it from somewhere in the folds of her sari, which gave me the opportunity to do a little jig, and the ice was broken.
Manoj introduced me to another man there, his oldest friend, he told me. But you are so young, I said, provoking laughter. “You are a funny man,” I was told. No greater compliment, I replied, and emphasised the point by inadvertently stepping in a cow pat. The old ladies’ day was made.
The second school, Udaya Saraswati Campus, had a large welcome archway opening into an open compound, surrounded by trees. And it had monkeys! This was where Manoj had his second job; because of the poor salary, many teachers here find another job if they can. The school was struggling, I was told suffering from falling numbers. I was introduced to the Principal, a dignified man with excellent English, who had been there for twenty-one years, though he still appeared young. I didn’t understand the precise nature of his complaints, but he put much of the blame onto politics – the rapacious nature of the Indian government, the feeble and corrupt response of his own.
I asked why the site was deserted, and was told the students would arrive at three; it seemed to be more in the nature of a college of further education than a school. And a small one, with apparently just the one class.
I was taken to their classroom to be introduced to them, presented with another scarf, and I namasted a greeting. And then everyone sat down, Manoj and the Head, plus a couple of other teachers, plus the students, all facing me standing at the front. “Do you want me to teach a lesson?” I asked Manoj, in some surprise, and he nodded.
Well! It was good that I had taught those two spoken English classes the other day, for at least I had something up my sleeve. Which I proceeded to use. The same introduction, the same explanation of how we learn language, the same exercise of saying Good afternoon to each of them, telling them my name, and expecting a reply, giving me the chance to comment on things like confidence, eye contact, the necessity to bat the conversational ball back, even if it falls unexpectedly.
I asked if anyone had a question, was asked how long I had been in Nepal, which led me on to talk about why In was here, and then to tell the story of Romeo and Juliet. I don’t think I have ever had a more rapt audience.
