When Moses sank

When a child recently killed himself after being beaten by the Principal of an elite Catholic institution in Calcutta (no such British institution can reconcile to Kolkata), the media began this whole beaten debate about ‘corporal punishment’ again. Why is a debate even necessary to punish those who use their force and armour against children?

Perhaps I am impractical. And, of course, I have never taught a rough, noisy, garrulous bunch of children. Yet, I know the pain.

In December 1977, my family left the little town of Digboi and came to Bangalore. I had then finished my sixth standard in a small school (the ‘school year’ then was Jan to Dec). This institution, run by the Sisters of Mount Carmel was more an extension of all the families that lived in the town – after all, everyone knew everyone else. I was considered by teachers to be a meek and studious chap, never prone to take risks, a ‘teacher’s pet’. Of course, i had never been punished.
I first joined Frank Anthony Public School, Bangalore, in January 1978, it being the only one in which I got admission, Mum and Dad (Dad, in particular) aspired to put me in a true-blue, academic-centric ‘Convent’, which Frank Anthony certainly wasn’t. Their opportunity came in June and I joined St Josephs Boys High School, the venerable public school of 19th Century vintage, with a distinguished alumni list and a place of pride on Museum Road . My brother threw his weight behind the decision: in his class at IIT, there were a number of Josephites, but none from Frank Anthony.

My first day at Josephs was the day school commenced after the summer vacation. It was a hot, dusty day in June, and I sat uncertainly amidst thirty five boisterous boys (it was the first time I had left a co-educational classroom), timid and hesitant in a huge, old classroom, the walls, desks and benches of which carried numerous holes, scars and slashes of creative expression; the scene could have inspired Rowling in her creation of Harry Potter’s institution.

The classes began well enough and I remember relaxing into my uncomfortable wooden bench. A teacher named Moses walked in for the Biology class. After taking the attendance, he asked if all students had done their homework, assigned to them before the school closed for the vacation. There was silence and everyone looked around at everyone else. The boy next to me whispered,” Have you done it?”. “No.” I whispered back. “Then stand up.”

I stood up with trepidation (as I write this, I can feel the emotion coming back thirty two years after the event). “I haven’t done the homework, Sir.” I stammered out, and possibly would have added that it was my first day at school, but such explanations could wait. Moses advanced down the aisle and hit me on the face.

It was a brutal blow, in more ways than one. I had never been hit in school before, was in an alien environment and Moses was a powerful fellow, a brute of a chap, and I reeled back and felt the tears swell. He ordered me out of the class, and I stood in the dark and cold corridor for the rest of the session, sobbing into a hankerchief and wondering just what I had done wrong.

It took me many months to reconcile myself to the school and to this man; I would sit in every class of his with fear. Moses was clearly the worst teacher one could have: of average intelligence and education, and lacking in competence, with limited knowledge of his subject and a menacing air that brooked no questions, he was brutal with students who could not stand up to him (he hit me twice in the succeeding years) and partial to those who showered him with goodies (there were many of those) or who chose to flatter him. I realise today that children can be very tough indeed and can adapt, on the outside, to difficult people: I actually tried to flatter him over the next few years, realising that my marks were in his hands, and even succeeded. Yet the scar never ever went away.

For years, I hated Biology as a subject, and have only, in the last decade, been fascinated by it, largely the result of my interest in wildlife. After leaving school, I often fantasised situations where I gave it back to Moses either physically or otherwise…..but abandoned any thought of retribution after reading Mahatma Gandhi’s biography by Louis Fischer.

Did any child complain about Moses? Some apparently did, and it seemed to boomerang on them. For, Josephs believed in the rule that the teacher was always right, particularly, if he happened to be Catholic. Some years ago, I heard that Moses was still there: the loss to human value by having such a teacher is incalculable.


There are thousands of children who have had to endure much more than this. If we wish to have them educated, and not just literate, the first step is to replace the hand that hurts, with the heart that seeks to understand. Calculus and trignometry (or indeed the digestive system) can wait.