To A Headmistress Like Few Others
As a young person, I used to be a little embarrassed to say which school I studied at. Mine wasn’t one of the posh catholic institutions in Madras that charged hefty fees, insisted that the children wore shoes, socks, and a tie in spite of the tropical heat, and shamed them for speaking in Tamil.
At Children’s Garden School we left our chappals outside before entering the classroom, spoke in Tamil, Telugu, and whatever other vernacular rolled off our tongues, and sat on a mat on the floor with a desk in front of us.
I wished I could say in effortless English that I studied at St Such-&-Such or Holy So-&-So while casually tossing my untied hair. Instead, I was stuck with stiff, greasy hair plaited with green ribbons and a stodgy, stuttering English that would not budge even if I loaded it onto roller skates and pushed it downhill. Looking back, there couldn’t have been a bigger blessing than the school which gave me friends I still laugh with, classmates who included Tibetan refugees and those who lived at an orphanage, and an abiding love for my mother tongue. A love which I’ve reprised recently with weekly lessons with my Tamil teacher from school.
A few years ago when I learnt that the school was raising funds to replace an asbestos roof, I pooled my efforts to raise a modest €700 which translated better in Indian rupees. I used it as an excuse to meet Miss Shakuntala Sharma who was the headmistress when I was at school. (below is a picture from that visit with me and school friend Supriya stood behind our headmistress)
The youngest of three daughters of Ellen Teichmüller and VN Sharma, a German-Indian couple who founded the school, Chakku Akka as she was referred to affectionately, ensured that the founding vision of grounded and rounded education for all was not lost.
Dance and drama were given as much importance as Maths and Science. The school went beyond just providing education for all. They were feeding children long before the midday meal scheme was introduced by the government. As a child when my doctors insisted that I should include egg in my diet, it was to my teachers that my mother turned for help. Miss Bertha Paul, my nursery teacher tried valiantly to get me to eat that vile stuff.
A couple of years later my mother says she was summoned to the school when I am supposed to have told my teachers of being hit regularly by my grandfather. Amma says that on that occasion she was told that if it didn’t stop, the school would take me in. It moves me to think that despite the multitude, they ensured that every child mattered.
In March Chakku Akka turned 80. I am sure every one of her students will have a story of kindness like mine to share. It is no small legacy. Whole generations of women owe much of who they are to visionaries like her.
Happy birthday, ????? ?????! My namaskarams at your feet always.