Not a garden, none good gardeners and a wilted flower

My seven-year experience at GEMS

There was once a little girl who was one-of-a-kind. A quiet parrot among the birds, and a bright orange amongst the blues, greens and reds. Confidence coursed through her and she spoke actual words aloud for others. But she didn’t remain one-of-a-kind for long. The parrot in her left, the orange dulled, and the words stopped when she entered an institution that bred thousands of “one-of-a-kind”s.

Too much? Let’s put the metaphors aside. For now.

I was born in the summer of 1996 in a riverside house, where walls were adorned with large windows and sunlight poured through everyday, from sunup to sundown. During those initial years, despite not remembering much, I get flashes of memories that were good and pure. I can feel, even today, that I had a happy childhood. I had friends. I was allowed to consume an appropriate dose of TV. I still remember being mesmerized by Madhuri Dixit dancing on the screen in her purple sari. But more importantly, I was encouraged to read. I used to recite portions of the daily newspaper to my grandfather. Nobody fought in our household. They disagreed on a lot of things, but they never fought. Never let their anger go out of hand. And that is what I am most grateful for. Which makes my future experiences outside of this pristine household difficult. Difficult to talk about and difficult to write.

The experiences that I am about to share involves a certain school that makes its name for being the best in the country, yet fails to follow the basics of what it stands for and what it was established for.

The year was 2004, and like most parents, my parents wanted me to be enrolled in a school that was reputed. Graded English Medium School (GEMS) fit in the criteria and soon I was one of the 400 that formed the batch of students I would spend competing with and sharing some memorable moments with for the next 7 years of my life.

Even at the first glance, the school was very intimidating. Three buildings rose from the ground and faced each other as if in a staring contest. A giant bell stood in the middle of the assembly ground and colorful flags adorned its sides like a few good bodyguards.

Source: edusanjal

Aside from its appearance, what made the school more intimidating were its rules. The rules were precise, formal and repeated several times during the course of the first few weeks. There was a certain dress code. There were specific class schedules. You were not allowed to go outside during class hours for any reason, including to go to the bathroom. These rules shocked me. My old school did not care about such things. They let you go to the toilet whenever you wanted. I mean, think about it, your bladder does not care when the bell is going to ring. It has a biological clock of its own. But. The eight-year old me said to herself that she is a big girl now, and she has to follow the do’s and don’ts laid out in front of her. And she did, for the most part.

So, here is one thing that is difficult to grasp when you are 1 in 400 — you cannot stand out unless you are exceptional. And as a kid, I thought I was exceptional because everybody in my family said so. I am not saying I was pampered. I did not always get what I wanted or floated one inch above the earth, reigning over everybody. No. Not even close.

I was protected. Definitely. And why wouldn’t I be? My family loves me, and they brought me up in a way that made my childhood hundred times easier than theirs. And there is nothing wrong with that. If I had a kid, I would do the same. And honestly, if we do not protect our children, then who will?

So imagine my dismay, when I got my report card for the first exam that I gave in this school and saw the ranking that was religiously published at the bottom of the page: 130/400. You might be surprised, but as an eight year old, I immediately thought that there were 129 students who were better than me. I didn’t turn to my friends and said, “Let’s go play hopscotch! We are eight!” No. I thought, that day, that I was not exceptional. And I don’t know if you have ever heard your dreams being shattered, but that was what happened. A bubble shattered in my head. In my small, eight-year old head.

I confess, it’s a lot to take in as a kid.

The thought that I was not good enough. Just average. That hurt more than anything.

Needless to say, things got worse after this.

Physical punishment was big in GEMS. It was the norm. Every teacher followed it. Every student accepted it without raising any questions. When hundreds of eight- and nine-years old enter an institution and they are told, “Hey, if you do not follow our rules, we’ll whip you”, no one is going to stand up and say “No, this is wrong. You don’t have the right to hit us.” All of them will nod their heads and say “Yes, master.” If I am asked to list the number of times I have witnessed or experienced physical punishment at the hands of the teachers, I will run out of fingers, my own and all of my family members combined. I can even list the punishments from bad to worst on the basis of the overall pain and humiliation.

You know what? I am gonna do that:

1. Lean stick/ruler on the palm (this is what I liked the best, because it hurt the least)
2. Classic slap in the face (the number of slaps can extend from 1 to 10, depending upon the redness on your cheeks, which depends on how fair you are)
3. Metal geometry box on the knuckles (this could easily get bloody)
4. Lean stick across the ass (this was for unknown reasons the favorite of most male teachers)
5. Gymnastic roll in front of the class (not the worst physically, but definitely the worst psychologically. I am biased towards this one, because you see, being a girl and having to wear a skirt, a gymnastic roll would not be the best way to peek-a-boo at your nether region, especially when you are an early teen)

Phew. Surprisingly, that was genuinely cathartic.

Maybe I have just been processing things differently, but hear me out.

When a teacher enters a classroom with a stick, ready to unload on those students who have failed to submit their assignments, and not even those who are a regular to missing deadlines but the unlucky first timers as well, you would want to submit each and every one of your assignment ahead of time before you receive another dose of punishment, the aftermath of which involves being unable to sit properly on the hard metal benches. You essentially become a puppet.

And when you are told that is how the system works, you do not think against it. For me, it was very easy to understand as well as accept the system because nobody hit me at home. So, it was quite easy to differentiate the functions of a school and a home. A home is where you are taught not to repeat your mistakes again, whereas a school is where you are forced not to repeat them.

For years, I became a part of the system whose fuel was to create fear among students so that they don’t walk astray from their prescribed lines. And oh, how much they loved their lines. Year after year, I studied hard, and slowly climbed the academic ladder, partly because I wanted to be better, and partly because of the fear. I created a habit of studying, not by understanding but by mugging up. I became a class monitor in grade 9, a house captain in grade 10, and finally entered the top 10 best performers list in one of the last exams in my final year. At that moment, I felt a sense of achievement, but it was not necessarily a sign of happiness.

I was not happy. I hated going to school. Every year that I spent at GEMS, it took a part of me that was confident and that voiced opinions. I became a subservient member of a system that regulated its students with the might of their fists and not with their knowledge.

During my early years, I used to fake stomach aches and headaches, which I guess is normal for any kid that age. But what was not normal was the anxiety that I would get when my supposed “sick day” neared an end and my thought would immediately jump to the next day when it was possible that I would be punished for not coming to school the previous day and not finishing my assignments. That fear was legitimately the worst thing of what was supposed to be the best day in a kid’s life.

Moving forward, in the later years of my life at GEMS, I was known for wearing skirts that were too long and too high up my waist that even my juniors would start to comment on it. Because I knew the trend. I knew what would happen if I wore my skirt too short or too low, or styled my hair in a different way. Early morning, in one of the daily assemblies, I would be forced out of my classroom line to be paraded in front of thousands of students — an example of what not to do with my choice of clothes and hairstyle. Somehow, the humiliation frightened me more. So the hair remained oiled, and the skirt remained at the appropriate length.

And GEMS loved to create an example out of their students. A student, who at the cusp of his rebellious teenage years, dared to ring the final bell of the day 15 minutes before intended, would be made to stand in front of thousands of students and teachers, scolded, called out names, and finally bent over and fed more than half a dozen whips from the teachers’ favorite stick. And if this is done by none other than the Vice Principal of the school, I am sure that it sends a thumbs up to all the teachers to whip out their sticks out and the students to silently bend over.

After I graduated from that school where I spent the most important seven years of my life, I didn’t go back. Not even once. And I don’t intend to either.

It was only years later that I started talking freely within my family about the abuse I felt in this school. My mother, shocked to hear my account, asked me teary-eyed, “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

Why didn’t I?

Because I thought it was normal. So normal that I have even joked with my friends about the types of punishments we got. “Oh, do you remember that particular teacher who used to get so angry and did that?” “Oh, yes!” That’s how we reacted, because we didn’t think it was out of the ordinary. Until the day I heard accounts of another school I joined to complete my high school, where if the teachers even laid a finger on a student, the students would revolt against the teachers. My first reaction when I heard of such a thing was relief. I was relieved that the doctrine of the school respected students. It gave me some agency and control over my life. There wasn’t a higher power that dictated how I should behave, and more importantly how my bladder should behave. I felt more freedom to do things my own way, study in my own time, and make my own decisions. I immediately became more confident and started to perform better. Not for the system, but for myself.

However, years of psychological and emotional abuse doesn’t go away that easily. I am still the person that those seven years made me. I cannot erase those years of my life, no matter how much I want to. I am one single, small person and GEMS changed my personality in a way that cannot be reversed. I have harbored anxiety, fear, self-confidence issues, and communication issues because of the torturous years that I spent in this school. Metaphorically, if I was in a cocoon that was created within my family, instead of softly opening the cocoon and letting the butterfly out, GEMS threw the cocoon on the ground, forcing it to break and said, “Now you are out. Deal with it.”

I wished for a long time that I could go back and change the person that I was. Be more confident and be less affected by the norm that this school forced on its students. But such thinking isn’t any good for my mental health. It’s about what can be done in the future that is more important. The blatant normalization of abuse that this school has fostered for years and years is toxic, and needs to change if it hasn’t already. It is only after changing schools and going to multiple universities that I am able to freely speak on the topic. But especially, it is only after I have shared my experience and heard others’ that I have been able to pinpoint my faltered experiences as having a deep impact on me even as an adult.

And that is what is key here. Communication and conversation.

If we start brushing off issues under the rug, then that is where it will remain. Only if we let them out will the system be challenged.

In an altercation, it is easy to point fingers, and difficult to find solutions. I don’t know if such physical punishments are still prevalent at GEMS, but it is not a unique experience only reserved for this school or only for me. I am sure there are several people around the world who have had similar experiences. Schools that use punishments as a way to discipline their children, thus forcing students to accept it as a way of life.

Directly or indirectly, such schools are hampering the lives of thousands of children. And honestly, if they do not take care of their children then who will?

I do not have to stress that the minds of children are fragile. And school is such an important part of their lives, as much as a healthy household is. When an institution prides itself for its excellence, it is a shame that its methods of reaching said excellence are faulty at best.

I feel the need to say here that this is my experience, and everyone is entitled to their own. I know some who worship this school as a temple, and I am not disparaging their emotions. I am just stating mine.

Every week at the school assembly, all the students sang the school anthem: GEMS is a garden and we are its flowers. Unfortunately, it has failed to nurture this flower. It poured toxicity on the plant, and ignored the care that it required.

And thus, the quiet parrot disappeared, and the orange dulled from existence.