The day I turned 25, I found myself in a classroom full of ninth graders waiting to meet their new English teacher. As soon as the principal introduced me to them and stepped out, one enthusiastic voice shouted, “Akka we thought you would be at least 60. But you’re not!” That very moment, I was branded the ‘young teacher’ in a school full of (mostly) older teachers. In my two years at Rishi Valley School, this peculiar position opened me up to many facets of my students, but more so of my own self.
Being a young teacher brought with it everything one might expect—relatability, approachability, and a quick bond with the students. It didn’t take me long to break the ice inside the classroom. The students were curious and chatty, with many questions up their sleeves: “Akka is that a permanent tattoo? Are you bisexual? How did you come out to your parents? Akka, how did you know when you were first in love?” Their questions were surprising, but I didn’t let it show. Then I realized this was perhaps exactly what they were testing me on. To check if I’m ‘one of them’; whether I think about, and have opinions on, issues they consider ‘cool’. Perhaps I passed.
In the literature classes I was teaching, I tried my best not to replicate the drudgery I experienced in school not very long ago, especially in the way Shakespeare was taught. Inspired by my college professor—a Shakespeare scholar himself—I brought in Bollywood references and Shakespearean trivia to keep them engaged. The end of term projects proved a testament to the fun we managed to have with Shakespeare. The students turned in many creative pieces, including an imaginary interview where the playwright answered questions pertinent to the current times, a WhatsApp group chat dealing with the plot of the play in current-day lingo and emojis, and a job interview with Shakespearean wordplay.
Another Gen-Z idea that worked in the classroom was making students settle down for class on time. The problem was that students took about five to seven minutes after each class to settle down for the next. This would leave me restless about the time lost and the class would start off on a sour note. So, I made a deal with the students. If they settled down in under a minute, I would play them a song on my speaker. And voila! They not only settled down in time but were also fresh and ready for the lesson.
Outside class, however, I was still finding my footing. Being a teacher in a Krishnamurti school meant that there was no distance between my workspace and where I lived. ‘Work-life balance’, something all my friends outside talked about, was a concept alien to this setting. Dining hall duties, games and prep supervision, conversations in playgrounds, meant as much as teaching the syllabus did. It took me a while to understand that my job was not limited to the classroom and that the person I was on the whole would have an impact on the students. This was vastly different from my previous job where I could ‘switch off’ after a day’s work.
What this also meant was that I needed to be more in touch with myself, understand my needs and moods, reactions, and emotions. Reading Krishnamurti in isolation was one thing, but I was beginning to understand more deeply what he meant about relationships being the mirror through which one knows oneself. I used to joke to my friends, “I practically sleep in my office”. The gap between rehearsing and performing had to be bridged entirely. It was showtime, all of the time! But the upside was that if one is open to it, the entire day can be a quest for self-knowing.
I started with this: admitting to not knowing. Teaching felt like it was less about imparting what one knows, and more about the willingness to explore along with the students what one doesn’t know. This being my first formal teaching experience, there was a lot I did not know—both subject-wise and otherwise. In class, when someone asked me a spelling I wasn’t too sure of, or a question I didn’t have an immediate answer to, I would say, “I don’t know, but let me find out and get back to you.” Curiously, with each ‘I don’t know’, I found myself becoming more comfortable with admitting to not knowing.
Even outside class, I wasn’t always sure how to respond to students sharing what they were going through—broken families, self-sabotaging thoughts, relationship troubles, and so on. Then once, a ninth grader came to talk to me. After she was done sharing, I responded, “That sounds tough. I wish I could help you, but I don’t know how.” To which she calmly responded, “But I’m not looking for help. It’s why I came to you. You’re not old enough to give me advice, but you’re also not young enough, like my friends, to indulge me.” She articulated my position better than I could have and reassured me that I’m not here to solve their problems, but instead to hold their hand while they find their own solutions.
Dealing with not knowing was only the tip of the iceberg in my learning journey. As time passed, the ‘young teacher’ persona faded. Students would not take my instructions as seriously as they did from more senior teachers, assignments would drop in late with no valid reasons, and duties would be left undone. What I’m apprehensive to admit here is that this was amplified by my own insecurities about not being a good enough teacher and seeking their validation to assuage my fears. This meant I wasn’t assertive, couldn’t draw boundaries, and didn’t know how to get them to listen to me without being worried about them disliking me.
Again, I began to see what Krishnamurti meant when he said, “The real problem in education is the educator. Even a small group of students becomes the instrument of his personal importance if he uses authority as a means of his own release, if teaching is for him a self-expansive fulfilment.” Was I using teaching for a self-expansive fulfilment?
When I reached out to a senior teacher with all my concerns, she patiently said to me, “The first step is the very first class. No one tells you this, but in your very first class, you must TEACH. Come prepared with a great lesson plan and just teach your subject. Don’t play ice breakers, don’t do funky introductions, don’t chat or get to know each other. Because in your very first class, you need to build their trust, and establish that you know what you’re doing. Friendship can come later. If not, of course they’ll take you for a ride!” As contradictory as this may sound, especially in a Krishnamurti setting, I thought back to how true it was for all the teachers I admired.
The more I looked within, the more I found pending inner work to be done. Understanding my own self became imperative to do an honest job at work. Like Krishnamurti said, “Without understanding ourselves, mere occupation leads to frustration, with its inevitable escapes through all kinds of mischievous activities.”
I remember sharing with a friend that in Rishi Valley, the highs are extremely high, and the lows achingly low. She responded, “That’s because that’s how high or low they really are, with nowhere to escape. You don’t have distractions there, so you have to feel it all fully.” That couldn’t be truer. Having nowhere to run was uncomfortable at first, but eventually I learnt to face what is, just as it is. Being in the valley, I inevitably learnt more than I taught: about the world around me as well as the one within me.
Everybody is eager to remind me that the twenties are a defining period of one’s life. When they say this, they usually have financial stability and/or a strong career in mind. But for me, the past two years are testimony to the fact that my twenties are defining not just in terms of a career, but in terms of who I become as a person. Who I become is inevitably tied to who I am now. So, while many might regard teaching at a young age as a phase or a stepping stone to something more grand, for me it happened to be the most meaningful decision of my life. There is still a long way to go, many more lessons to be learnt and taught, but I’m grateful to have begun this journey of self-knowing.