Private tuitions are a class apart

Back to School is in full swing in the geographies where this abomination is inflicted on innocent children in September.

And with BTS another phenomenon rears its head. Private tuitions. Born out of a mismatch between expectations of a service and its delivery. The service here being teaching.

The word “private” before a service usually implies exclusivity. The kind that money can buy. Personal attention. In your face. By your side. Private tuitions deliver some of this. Exclusivity? Yes – many are one on one between tutor and tutee (does that even exist?). Expensive? Depends on the subject, the tutor’s pedigree and the depth of the parents’ wallet. Discreet? Not anymore.

As a wee school-going student, I reached a stage in mathematics where my ability to add and subtract was subsumed by more theoretical concepts. Such as the Pythagoras Theorem. Or Euclid’s Postulates (I was asked to leave the class because I dared to correct the teacher’s pronunciation of the gent’s name). Tail-lashing, slavering-at-the-mouth devils such as algebra and geometry entered my peaceful world. Then came the holy trinity of doom – physics, chemistry, and biology. These were the Five Rings of Hell.

My school, such as it was, had a stellar group of humans masquerading as teachers. With an average student-to-teacher ratio of 70-1 it was a miracle they managed roll call. Their focus naturally was on the gifted. I was a leading chorus member of the “others”.

I therefore had to be handed over to private tutors. Over a period of six years, I went through a series of personal and group tutors who waged pitched battles to save me from the dragons maths and science. Weapons ancient and modern were brought into play, from motivational talks to loud yelling to the waving of a foot ruler under one’s nose, to threats of withholding food and drink. Thankfully corporal punishment was not on the agenda.

I managed to clear the first five years. Little did I know that the ultimate pressure test was yet to come.

In the final year of school, I not only had to suffer maths tuitions at the hands of Medusa (in actual fact the principal of a well-known school known for churning out Bright Minds) but also had to attend private tuitions for French. A subject I knew well and loved, but needed the mindset to score at the board exams.

The classes were held in a cavernous dining room in one of those old houses of Mumbai. The room was full of portraits of faintly Victorian mien. The presiding deity was a quaintly eccentric lady with a ferocious command of the intricacies of this most romantic of languages. And who knew most of my siblings and aunts who had studied in her school in years past.

And I was the only boy in a room full of girls. All from the same school. All pigtails and giggles as the deity gravely made me sit in the seat of honour next to her, and introduced me as the last of a distinguished family to have passed through her doors. I, bespectacled, with a stammer, and a nose that seemed to be suspiciously bulbous at the best of times, wished for the floor to swallow me. And spit me out in Timbuctoo.

This turned out to be the best tuition experience I had. Not only did my grasp of the language improve; I also made a couple of friends who continue to honour me with their company even today, 4 decades down.

My parents spent vast quantities of dinero on burnishing my education. I am not entirely convinced they got a decent ROI on their investment. But they did what they had to do as parents.

They helped me start the car; where I drove it was not their problem.

Bax to school

there is a lot of chatter these days about “back to school” in those economies where schools and other institutions of learning function normally. the august-september period usually sees the advanced economies starting the academic season. other economies start the season with the onset of the monsoon.

today (3^rd september) is a particularly significant day for me. for it was on this day a few years back that i went back to school. business school, to be precise. in one of the most storied cities of the planet. whose name originates from the old roman word for swamp (how ungodly!). called lutetia at one time, and lately, well, since the 9^th or the 10^th century ad -…paris.

this day is also the anniversary of the day when the world was plunged into the deadliest conflict it had witnessed till then. but that’s for the historians.

my descent into france was not entirely planned. like most indian children of my vintage, i had harboured the desire of studying and living abroad. but the question was, “where?” let’s face it – it’s a big planet, there are over 200 countries on it (ok, not every country welcomes foreign students, or is suitable for such an endeavour), and it wasn’t easy for a lad with limited means, fiscal and intellectual, to just pack a bag and go west. besides, my interest in marketing and communications was no guarantee of untold riches in the future; unlike finance, law, tech, or astrology.

like most good things that have happened in my life, the decision to go to france was crystallised in quite an unexpected manner. over a cup of tea with a french rugby player in mumbai (formerly known as bombay), if you must know. this gent was the regional representative of a french bank in the dear city, and i was a lowly wage slave in his office. learning the ropes of commerce as a trainee something-or-the-other (any similarities to mike and psmith are the result of a fevered imagination).

this gentleman was the product of one of the best grandes écoles de commerce (business school for the anglo-saxons) in france. he suggested i try for one of those schools. so i did a bit of research (a major task when one had to rely on real intelligence), and zeroed in on ESCP Business School. the world’s oldest business school, which offered the Master’s I wanted.

it's not an easy place to get admitted to. but surprisingly for such a venerable institution, and french to boot, it processed my admission at a speed one did not usually associate with that country. i was processed and pronounced ready for admission in six weeks. the chest puffed out for much longer than that.

at the beginning of fall, i flew northwest (ever geographically challenged, west was not my direction) and landed in france in a german aircraft on the 1st day of september. and entered the portals of the school on 3^rd september.

france was not really on the radar of indian students at that time for business studies those days. the flow was more for language, literature and theoretical science streams. in fact, i was the first indian to be admitted to ESCP. so when i entered the classroom on the first day, i was about as familiar to my classmates as a mango in a baguette.

but there was a "social ecosystem" in place for indian students in the city - housing in the maison de l'inde, the occasional cricket in the bois de boulogne, plenty of friends and fellow countrymen – which took care of the leisure hours.

the academic system was an altogether different story. for a lad used to leisurely readings of economic theory and french poetry, the weekly surprise tests, live case studies with real brands after a 2-hour lunch with a charming bordeaux, and the realisation that although i had spent nearly 10 years soaking up the language, its literature and way of life, i couldn’t understand a word of french for the first week, made me doubt the wisdom of my decision for a few days.

but one thought kept me going. the memory of my parents at the airport seeing me off.

the trip to the airport was a subtle signal to the world that the child was off to do the family proud. my father was not known for expressing emotion of any kind, and he probably produced a grimace-trying-to-be-a-smile under a force-majeure clause (he was a lawyer...). but it was brighter than the lights of the eiffel tower for me. my mother was content to bask in the knowledge that the boy was out of her hair for the foreseeable future.

though my expression in the photo does indicate a slight FOTU (fear of the unknown), the warmth and camaraderie of my classmates, professors, and every person i met in paris helped me overcome this in a matter of days. i also finally understood french as she is spoken.