“Ma’am, if we already know the answer, why write it again in the test?” one child asked me. Before I could blink, another said, “Perhaps teachers just like handwriting practice.”
There it was: philosophy, wit and rebellion – all before the first bell.
We often confuse teaching with learning, grades with education, and certificates with competence. What we get is mechanical repetition – like chewing the same piece of sugarcane long after the juice has gone.
In Chennai terms, we value the idli (logic, calculation, memory) but forget the sambar (creativity, rhythm, intuition). And honestly, what’s an idli without sambar? Dry, dull and only half the joy.
The real trouble is that schools tell children what to learn but rarely how. The word ‘education’ comes from the Latin ‘educare’ — “to bring out”. Instead, we pile in facts as though children were MTC buses at peak hour. Cleverness becomes the goal; intelligence is left at the bus stop.
As J Krishnamurti said, “The function of education is to create human beings who are integrated and therefore intelligent.”
Some of my favourite classroom moments have been sparked by questions that silenced the room:
“What is happiness?”
“Why do people lie?”
“If cows could talk, what would they say about Chennai traffic?”
You don’t always find answers. But isn’t that the beginning of real learning – curiosity without fear?
And the memories that stay aren’t of exam marks. They’re of field trips where children leaned on each other, of laughter on a tough trek, of whispered life-stories under a shady tree.
So here’s my question to you, dear reader: “Does life prepare us for life – or do we prepare life for ourselves?”
And just between us, would you have passed school if sambar had been on the syllabus?