Our Boys

By Wednesday of each week, as we wind up with the girls’ school, reviewing lessons and assigning homework, my mind drifts readily towards the etched in faces of Our Boys.

Despite the nine AM to eleven PM days, the grueling two and a half hour bus ride, withstanding minutes on end of incessant honking likened to a baby with coop, broken to simply non-existent shocks, swarms of curious mosquitoes, bathroom’s that require a gymnast’s skills to maneuver, and a school that transforms into a zoo upon our arrival (NOTE: we are the caged spectacles), Our Boys make it worth it each time.

We are the talk of the town (or campus so to speak). “They’re staying in Abids,” and the chamchas even know which neighborhood in Hyderabad we live in!

We began last Friday’s class by discussing the homework that we had assigned. The boys wrote to the prompts: “If I had the power to change one thing, I would change,” and “Some of the problems in Nalgonda are” (Read some of their answers below). Once again, the students impressed us with well thought out, full-length answers. Kareem had even illustrated his essay by pasting cutouts from the local newspaper into his notebook. Overwhelmingly, each boy dreamt of saving his beloved country from the age-old tragedies that characterize it: contaminated water, poor to non-existent healthcare, bad crops, broken bridges, decrepit roads, corruption, lack of a proper educational infrastructure, the list goes on. Afroz even drew a map of what his new and improved village would look like, and Fayaaz our token storyteller had written his essay in the first person, and he, the protagonist, was the town hero. “We all want to help the poor people mam,” they told us. “We want to change lives.” Of course the next question is: how? But to pin this burden on a ripe bunch of fourteen year olds? To listen to these boys intelligently talk about the changes they dream to bring about in their India; to simultaneously read about and watch firsthand the corruption, the greed that keeps these populations merely dreaming; to see the immense amount of hope and confidence in these boys’ eyes when they say, “I want to do software engineering, mam;” then watch them fumble with the computers, at most, once a week; to stare speechless when they ask us how much our watches cost; to smile and shrug when they ask us how to go to the U.S; to ask them these questions and not give them a solution? I only wish that our short presence here will somehow contribute to a solution, to their solution.

After some fumbling with teaching styles and lessons plans, it became clear in our latest classes with the boys, that they are ready to take on much of this project on their own. They proved this through the photo scavenger hunt, meticulously planning and executing each shot, then putting together a photo story about their school on Power Point. So on Thursday, after only a few minutes of instructions about their newest tool, the video camera, the boys set out in two groups to capture “A Day in the Life of an AP Boys Residential School Student.” They began their documentation with waking up in the morning and ended with climbing into their bunks at night. Each group member had a different role, cameraman, director, narrator or actor and in this way the boys learned the basics of video making, returning to the classroom breathless, just seconds before the end of class. On our “bus journey” back to Hyderabad, complete with four on a two-person bench, Remy and I huddled around the cameras, and watched the work of Our Boys. “I’m really proud of them,” Remy said and the sun slid slowly beneath us.

On at least one of the two days each week that we spend in Nalgonda, the boys convince us to watch their afternoon cricket match. “India vs. Pakistan! Eighth class again ninth class! Please sir, please mam!” they insist. So we follow them, or rather, they follow us, a brimming entity, toning our steps with their own.

After bringing two chairs from the classroom for the pseudo king and queen, the boys arrange themselves politely in a mess around us. As soon as one limb accidentally falls into our field of view a band of shouts reflexes it back into place.

The boys keep us entertained throughout the two-hour match with scattered facts about cricket (I think our cricket comprehension has increased significantly, though there are quite a few holes), stories about the boys participating in the match, and of course the usual rapid fire of interrogations, this time complimented with imitations of our accents: “The score is fooooorty-five!”

When the catcher’s pants ripped at the thigh in the middle of a play, their careful etiquette had no choice but to implode: “haha he is so fat!” they cried delightfully, their laughter echoing in roars ricocheting against the evening sky.

The boys’ nicknames truly stole the show. “The baller is cheenie (sugar).” “Cheenie balling!” they screamed and hooted, “and chuah (female rat) is the catcher!” Better yet, Remy and I had apparently made many “friends.” “Remy Bhaisab, there is your friend!” they exclaimed, pointing to a boy that had hit Remy in the shoulder the week before, when he bravely took the field. “And there is your friend, mam,” they added cleverly, pointing to my favorite Badmash of the Carom board.

Of course, a few of the boys remain aside, too mature to participate in such a childish display. These are often the tenth classers, or the scorekeepers, diligently watching the match, marking the progress in the sand. One boy, who sneaks into the computer room each day to greet us, observing carefully our lessons of that day, following closely our actions on the computer, approached quietly and stood besides me. “You are tenth class?” I asked him, turning to see his face. “Yes,” he responded thoughtfully, “It is our bad luck.” Our eyes met, then returned to the field.