Colleagues

As I’ve previously mentioned, the staff at Samata School had always been very pleasant and welcoming towards me but there were a few who went out of their way to talk to me and truly make me feel like a part of the gang. Clear winners in terms of making me feel at home were obviously the Didis – particularly Boss Komala and her able deputy, Gyanu – the two mainstays of the kitchen staff throughout my 3½ months of contact with the school. Their cheery natures, great cooking and sisterly love made a real place for them in my affections and, as much as with any of the kids, I had a real lump in my throat when it was time to say goodbye to them at the end of my time in Nepal. Once I had bumped into Komala on Bouddhanath (the main road in my part of town) while I was with Michael (my volunteer successor at Samata – more of whom in the next few chapters). She insisted on taking us for tea and cakes at a nearby café and wouldn’t hear of us paying a single rupee after force-feeding us just about every type of cake in the cabinet. Her motherly generosity and spirit of hospitality was, as I was to learn, the very essence of Nepal and I’ll look forward to returning her many kindnesses in (I hope) the not-too-distant future.
Aside from the guardians of my appetite there were really four members of the teaching staff who I came to know a little during my short stay. The least shy of these was the school’s advanced English teacher, Pratiba, who often came seeking advice and meaning on the ridiculously tough Oxford textbook she was expected to teach her classes. I do not wish to imply that she was simply using me for my knowledge of my native language even if this did account for the vast majority of our conversations. She was an extremely dedicated teacher, under a lot of pressure to teach well-nigh impossible topics to often-poorly-motivated kids…if she didn’t have more time to shoot the breeze or exchange pleasantries, I could understand. However, she never had a problem talking to me after the ice had been so easily broken and I would occasionally show her photos from my travels or of friends and family at home and we would sometimes be able to talk about our family backgrounds and the major differences between Nepali and British life. Of course, I’ll never be able to think of her without smiling at the memory of trying to explain to her (repeatedly!) the scoring system of tennis, necessitated by a totally loony chapter in her text book on Steffi Graf’s astounding comeback against Jana Novotna in the 1993 Wimbledon final. (!)
In my first few days at the school I really noticed my separateness from the other staff and can still remember feeling extremely grateful when one of the younger teachers began to talk to me one lunchtime as I sat on my own in the corner of the staffroom. Muskaan had lightish skin, dark, pretty eyes and a wicked smile. Dressed in her uniform sari with her jet black hair tied back in a quite severe fashion she looked at once stern and incredibly attractive. Of course, I had no pretensions of trying anything on with one of my recently-acquired colleagues, but I can’t deny that it was an absolute pleasure to be chatting and laughing with someone so easy on the eye. Better still, Muskaan came as part of a double act – her accomplice, Reshma, being of darker skin and a lighter nature, was just as pretty and the possessor of a pair of smiling eyes that could melt hearts. Over those first couple of weeks I spent a lot of time getting to know these two while they taught me Nepali during lunch hour. I had to keep reminding myself that they were probably no more than 18 (student teachers) because they were far more serious-minded and interesting than their average counterpart back at home. As well as demonstrating beyond doubt the highly alluring and diverse appeals of the Nepali womenfolk, they also gave me an insight into the teaching profession in their home country. I mean no disrespect to either them or any of their colleagues at Samata School (there really were some talented and dedicated teachers among them) but it was plain that the selection criteria for teaching were scant. It was an interesting fluke that these two should, whilst showing me two attractive ends of the scale of ethnic diversity, also demonstrate two ends of the scale of job satisfaction. I soon came to realised that Muskaan’s usually stern demeanour was hiding a deep unhappiness with her job. Conversely Reshma, who was forever smiling and laughing seemed to be perfectly at home in the classroom…and from what I saw, her kids adored her. I sat in on a few of Muskaan’s UKG (upper kindergarten) lessons and could see that she really wasn’t comfortable with the kids and didn’t seem to know the best way to keep discipline. Perhaps taking her example from the older teaching staff, she carried a stick which she used frequently – more for emphasis than punishment, I might add. Unfortunately, it seemed that having to use the stick caused her great self-revulsion and a number of times I could see that she was close to tears. In the end, it was of little surprise to me, when she upped and left to go back to college. If perhaps there were better selection procedures for new teachers and perhaps a little more in the way of training for these poor young things (barely out of the classroom themselves!!), this kind of situation could be avoided. It was obviously a negative experience for Muskaan and I don’t doubt that it must have been emotionally wrenching for the kids in her class, who may even have felt themselves to blame for her abrupt departure.
Reshma, on the other hand, remained at the school during the rest of my stay. Her bright smile and warm personality – not to mention her stunning looks ;-) – were always something to look forward to at lunchtime and, in our measure, we became reasonably good friends. I was disappointed to learn that she left the school shortly before the end of my stay in Nepal – a real shame considering the rapport she’d established with the kids. However, I think she’d left for practical reasons to concentrate on passing her exams at college (she and Muskaan would go to lectures from 6-9 every morning before coming to school!)…and I really hope she goes back to the school when these are over.
Last, but by no means least, of my better known colleagues was the formidable Soba. This diminutive beauty was effectively the school’s deputy principal – certainly in charge more often than not during my latter days as Uttam was more closely concerned with certain events in Bhaktapur. Sitting serenely at her desk, collecting fees from parents or tenderly nursing a sick or injured child you would see her as a pretty, sweet-natured girl, whom all the kids adored. Flying into action with her big stick or shouting at a shonky tradesman and you would see the terrifying disciplinarian, so feared by the wideboys of the upper classes. She was never anything but sweetness and light towards me and, particularly, I’ll never forget her bringing me freshly-washed grapes and hot milk tea when I was suffering from some mystery illness that left me pole-axed and dizzy in the staffroom. Once again, different in looks from both Reshma and Muskaan, she was yet another stunning example of Nepali beauty. When the kids weren’t around she had a mischievous sense of humour and was the only adult I knew who could get a laugh out of the forever-focused Uttam. She had all the necessary attributes to take on the running of a school of her own, just as, I’m sure, Uttam intended.
During my short stay at the school, these were the people who I can honestly say that I got to know a little. The other staff (for reasons already explained) remained, polite and smiling, in the background. Of course, they weren’t there to meet volunteers but to teach children…and those that stayed certainly seemed committed towards this.