Issue 29

Steve: It seems to me, increasingly, that we are only touching the surface of our ever-mounting problems: the roots of our unhappiness lie much deeper. And nothing we are doing in the contemporary world—the prodigious advances in technology, for instance—does anything to alleviate—indeed, it exacerbates—the isolation both existential and immediate that hangs about us like a cloud. We have abdicated the field of education—what one might call true education —for measurement, averages, point scores and placings, leaving the vast terrain of the psyche untouched. What we need is access to this vast terrain, some tentative yet quietly balanced exploration of the hidden depths that control our behaviour.

Most learning in school fits into neat little boxes—boxes for subjects, timetables, learning objectives and outcomes. A label says: ‘learning happened in bounded slots, assigned to subjects, moved toward outcomes’.

There are two rooms in the house where I live. One is closely surrounded, almost on all sides, by the other buildings nearby. The other room has a building only on one side, while one side is more open. Interestingly, the room that is encircled by other buildings gets quite warm, and I often find myself moving into the other room, which remains surprisingly cool even though it catches a lot of sunlight during the day. 

Education, as Krishnamurti envisioned, is not a preparation for life but the process of understanding life itself. As educators, we ought to thus ponder over what education truly means. Is our intent merely to endow our students with knowledge and explicit skills? Or is it also about leading them towards being mindful of themselves, becoming aware of their doings and emotions, and how their actions affect themselves, others and the world around them?

Inclusion in schools is often talked about as a set of rules or practices. In the classroom it feels more like a natural part of the day. It shows up in moments that are easy to miss. I noticed it when a child stopped at the door, looked around the room and another child scooted over to make space for her on the bench without being asked.

When I began writing reports for my students, I found myself pausing — not because I lacked words, but because I was held back by a question that I could not frame. I was thinking of a seven-year-old child in my class, a child who fidgeted constantly, filed the edge of his scale repeatedly until one end had become triangular in shape, and rarely sat still. Yet, when questions were posed in class he responded intuitively, expressing his understanding through language that felt personal and comfortable. As I prepared to describe his learning progress and participation in a report to his parents, I stopped. What could I say? Could I tell them that the child was learning to listen, even though he was physically restless?

The role of a teacher in a small school based on Krishnamurti’s teachings is difficult to define. This is not because all the big and small tasks required of the teacher are impossible to list; but more so because many of these tasks are ever emerging as fresh situations present themselves. I would liken this most to living together in a large joint family where one is responsible for everything. It is not that every task depends on your doing it; but that you must keep abreast of all ongoing activities so that you can take decisions that maintain a wholesome family dynamic. 

The boy continued, ‘Because I am a nerd…!’ The teacher looked at him incredulously and said, ‘But you are not. You are fine!’ She was surprised by her own quick and heartfelt response. The child’s nonchalant acceptance of the way he was being addressed by his classmates irked her. What had once been a distressing remark had now lost its sting, and he no longer seemed affected by it. After all, he had been listening to these comments every day.

Schooling is designed around futures that are collapsing. And yet, if you ask anyone what they think is wrong with the education system, you can easily guess the typical answers. What if I were to tell you that fixing any of those issues will still not prepare the children of today for the present climate-altered reality? This is a challenge that they will feel more acutely in the future. This is because the design and content of formal schooling are largely built on a blueprint that serves the very economic paradigms that have put us in the global mess that we have today. To tweak and refine the existing ‘system’— through better pedagogy, curricula, teachers or infrastructure — is like missing the wood for the trees. 

The students sat quietly in the classroom, looking apprehensive yet excited. Their fresh faces eager to learn what lay ahead of them in the next four years at university. I could feel the weight of their expectations of me as I stood before them. It was the first day of what would be a month-long summer programme for a fresh batch of undergraduate students. 

In the large canvas of life many teachers have helped me, nurturing me  at various stages, and each of them is so special to me in different ways. I  would like to share a few evergreen memories of them. 

Of the many transformative learning experiences in my life, I will share  two. The first was with my father; the second, with my research supervisor.  

The teacher who made the deepest difference in my life—and the one  who left me with no choice but to become an educator myself — was an  integral part of my growing years. From the age of seven to seventeen, I  lived and learned with her. In those ten years, my life was transformed; I  moved from the rugged, treeless mountains of Ladakh to a green haven by  the seaside city of Madras. Living and learning flowed seamlessly into one  another.

Throughout my schooling and my forty-year career in school-level teaching, I have drawn inspiration from a wide range of individuals— the teachers from my early years in school, as well as professional  colleagues, visiting educators, and educational writers. Identifying any one  individual as a primary source of inspiration has thus proved challenging!

I had just begun teaching in Shibumi, a small space for learning in  Bangalore inspired by Jiddu Krishnamurti. At that time they were  looking for a mathematics educator. With no background in teaching,  except for the occasional guitar lessons I gave, and with my work experience  being mostly in the corporate and start-up world, I was not sure what it  meant to teach mathematics to children.

I studied at Patha Bhavan in Santiniketan, a residential school founded  by Rabindranath Tagore. For him the purpose of education was to  nurture a student’s physical, emotional and intellectual growth in natural  surroundings. The development of the senses and appreciation of literature,  music, dance, and the fine arts were as important as intellectual growth.  Many teachers made a great impact on me, and I will share a few stories. 

When I think back to my school years, one teacher stands out with extraordinary clarity—my class teacher, Ms. Baby Saju Joseph. She  was not someone who was loud or commanded attention with authority.  Her presence was quiet but steady, and she made you feel safe by simply  being there. 

Krishnamurti schools are envisioned as places where ‘both the teacher and  the taught explore not only the outer world, the world of knowledge, but  also their own thinking and their behaviour’. This session at the conference  evoked moments of both introspection and interconnection. Seven teachers  from diverse backgrounds were asked to reflect on the following question and  share their responses: 

I was reading the picture book, A Day’s Work, by Eve Bunting, which  tells the story of an immigrant boy from Mexico and his grandfather  who live in the USA. When the narrative begins, they are waiting by the  side of the road to find some work. As the story unfolds, the child who  can speak English helps his grandfather communicate with would be  employers. They eventually manage to get work by lying about their skills. 

Language learning presents opportunities for understanding the world and oneself. Language is the medium through which we gain  knowledge and which we use to understand and make sense of the world we  live in. While there is much to gain by using language to read informative  texts, it is also a window into our inner selves for it is through language  that we can articulate our thoughts and opinions and come in contact with  what we think and feel.  

‘Look…not with your mind but with your eyes’—Krishnamurti uses this pithy line towards the very end of a talk with Rishi Valley students,  during the course of which he makes a rare concession with regard to ‘how  to’ and guides them in a step-by-step observation exercise:

In the quiet of a high school physics classroom, a student hovered over the  diagram of a projectile, pencil tip wavering just above the paper. In my old  life as a quantum scientist, I would have described her as being in a state  of cognitive superposition—considering three or four different paths to a  solution and as yet uncertain about them all. 

While most of us engage with the world through our five senses, centuries  of living in increasingly urban settings have dimmed our sense perceptions.  For forest-dwelling humans, not being fully alive with all their senses could  cost them their lives; staying alert is a way of life for them. City dwellers  though have no such need, except while crossing a road on foot or when  driving a car.

At Good Earth School in Naduveerapattu, biology classes rarely begin with a diagram; they begin with the land. A class may walk  out towards the paddy fields in the early part of the day, when the light is  still soft and the soil holds the memory of water. Or students may gather  near a compost pit that has been quietly working for months, transforming  what was once discarded into something fertile and alive.

‘Look, Akka!’ said Priya, ‘this leaning tree could be an “A” with the branch and me bending this way.’ 

‘Look, Akka, this caterpillar is making a  “C”,’ said Sumit. ‘Oh, now it’s making  an “I”.’ 

We were on one of our weekly  nature walks at the beginning of a  lesson block introducing the English  alphabet. Every few minutes the class  stopped because someone had found  a new letter in their surroundings.

When I began teaching at Oak Grove nine years ago, I was already a seasoned teacher with fifteen  years under my belt, and I thought I  had it all figured out. If you had asked  me back then why I teach, I would have  said that teaching is all about enabling  children to find their voice.

There is a question that is asked of those of us who were educated in Krishnamurti schools. Family members  ask it when they notice we do not  rush to compete. Employers ask it if  they expect urgency or desperation  from us. Were you prepared for life after  school? Can you cope with the demands  of the ‘real world’? We may even ask it  of ourselves in moments of doubt or  failure.

All living beings, from plants to unicellular organisms and sea anemones, from butterflies and glow worms to hummingbirds,  from alligators to dolphins, from cats, dogs and horses to apes and human  beings wish to continue living, and to flourish. Every minute of their lives  they do all they can to live and flourish. And in this they succeed according  to the sensorimotor and mental abilities they possess, and to the extent  that outer circumstances allow. 

‘And if you are interested in teaching, and also in what I am saying, then  you will find out the method of teaching… You want me to lay down the  principles; I cannot do it. But you will find out for yourself how to work,  how to draw the principles out of what I have been saying, if you are  interested as teachers. For teachers, it is not a peculiar profession. I do not  think it is a specialist profession: it is a human profession; you need not be  scientists who are specially drawn. You are human beings, and from that  you are to approach it — your teaching and everything else.’  

What is compassion? Is it emotion, something romantic? Does it expend  itself in some kind of social work? One has to find out what compassion  is, what love is. Is love desire? Is love pleasure? And can there be love  where there is ambition? Can there be love when one is trying to become  something—not only in the outward world but also psychologically  where there is this constant struggle to be or to become something? Can  there be love when there is jealousy and violence; when there is division  between you and me? Can there be love when you are nationalistic?

So, if you will this morning apply the art, the art of listening. We rarely  listen to anybody. We are so full of our own conclusions, our own  experiences, our own problems, our own judgements, so we have no  space in which to listen. We ought to have some space so that as two  friends, you and I, the speaker, are talking over together their problems,  amicably, under the shade of a tree, sitting down and looking at the  mountains, but concerned with their problems, and so they are willing  to listen to each other.