I Am Not My Gender.

I asked my class today, how many thought Barbie Dolls were only meant for girls. A number of them put their hands up. Except for a few of them who had neutral or no opinions, everyone cumulatively agreed that boys shouldn't be playing with them. In fact, when Om confessed to having played with them, they laughed. The class also cumulatively stated that girls can't (/shouldn't) play football. When I asked them why (I think they call me 'Why Didi' behind my back), the responses I got, disturbed me. Girls are not strong enough, Bhakti said. Therefore they can't kick the ball, Ekansh added. Krishna said he knows that girls can't run fast. About cricket, Swaroop told me, girls can't lift the bat because the bats are heavy.

A couple of days back, Aditi came crying to me. Harshada had apparently scorned her for having worn 'shorts' one day. Aditi also doesn't go out to play because there aren't any other girls in her colony and the boys won't play with her.

Rohan wants to play with Harshada but is asked to go and play with the boys instead. Om's best friend is a girl and he often complains about how the class is mocking him. Krishna won't wear leggings (a part of the annual day costume) because he thinks only girls wear it. Bhavik won't hold Meenakshi's hand because she is a girl. The class sneers each time I mention how well Pranjal Bhaiya cooks. Boys cant cook, they tell me. They approve of me hugging Veda Didi but hugging Pranjal Bhaiya results in either high-pitched 'HAWWs' or sneaky smiles.

As much as this disturbs me, I dare not judge them. My kids are 7 years old. Some maybe 8. They are unaware of the boxes they've been in and/or have built around themselves. Already. Unaware that this where it all starts - Gender Stereotype.

I don't want to answer the million questions about why I've been talking about these. I am scared. It's difficult. Very. Rather, I don't want them to build more boxes. I don't want to tell them that boys also cook. I don't want to tell them about girls playing football. I don't want to tell them that girls can do 'boy things' and boys can do 'girl things', This is not what I want them to take away.

What I DO want them to learn is that it doesn't matter. That there are no 'boy things' and no 'girl things'. That I am not my gender. That they are not theirs. And while on one hand I am determined to do this, there is a lot of my faith which is being put to test.

It bothers me so much. To anybody who asks me how rape, sexual harassment and Violence against women have anything to do with upbringing and family, this is my answer.

This is my answer as to why I don't believe in capital punishment for rapists. This is my answer as to why rape is more cause than consequence. This is my answer as to how patriarchy is as oppressive on men as it is on women. This is my answer as to why I felt pity more than anger when a fellow biker lurched at me today and broke into a song while I was on the bike with Veda. This - is my answer as to why I feel guilty each time I feel extremely fearful of men around me.

I want to teach my children to make correct choices because of their will. Not because of their gender.

My big plan now, is to just give them as many examples. And let them figure it out by themselves.

Amen.

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.