The fabulous mums of cha.., p.1
The Fabulous Mums of Champion Valley, page 1
Also by Zarreen Khan
Koi Good News?
My Best Friend’s Son’s Wedding
To all the mums out there,
who keep the show running
even if it’s on Comedy Central
From: The Desk of the Principal
Champion Valley School
Golf Links Estate
Gurugram
Haryana, 122002
18 February 2022
Sub: Appointment Letter
Dear Ms Ambika S.,
It gives me great pleasure to welcome you onboard as a full-time faculty member at Champion Valley School. You have been appointed as Class Teacher, Grade III, for the Academic Year 2022–23.
It is our constant endeavour to include individuals in the Champion Valley family, who are passionate and committed towards building an education ecosystem in line with our core values—Integrity, Perseverance and Consciousness. We want our students to become flagbearers of free thought, and, as an educator, your role is critical in shaping their future. May we all succeed in our pursuit of excellence across all fields—academic as well as non-academic.
The details of your employment are attached herewith. Kindly send us a signed acceptance of the same.
Regards,
Malini M.
Malini Mehta
Principal, Champion Valley School
Contents
Ambika
Lesson One: Life Sciences
Riddhi
Giselle
Pareeta
Kainaz
Jia
Lesson Two: Social Sciences
Ambika
Kainaz
Riddhi
Pareeta
Lesson Three: Home Science
Giselle
Jia
Kainaz
Riddhi
Lesson Four: Communication & Technology
Ambika
Giselle
Pareeta
Lesson Five: Economics
Riddhi
Kainaz
Pareeta
Lesson Six: Political Science
Jia
Kainaz
Pareeta
Ambika
Lesson Seven: Unit Test
Riddhi
Pareeta
Giselle
Ambika
Lesson Eight: Recess
Ambika
Giselle
Kainaz
Riddhi
Lesson Nine: Drama
Pareeta
Kainaz
Ambika
Lesson Ten: History
Jia
Giselle
Riddhi
Kainaz
Ambika
Lesson Eleven: Philosophy
Jia
Giselle
Kainaz
Riddhi
Lesson Twelve: Moral Science
Ambika
Giselle
Pareeta
Riddhi
Kainaz
Lesson Thirteen: Accounting
Riddhi
Kainaz
Giselle
Ambika
Lesson Fourteen: Current Affairs
Jia
Kainaz
Ambika
Riddhi
Pareeta
Lesson Fifteen: The Last Bell
Pareeta
Giselle
Riddhi
Kainaz
Jia
Ambika
Acknowledegments
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
Ambika
It was as if someone had eaten a thesaurus for breakfast and spewed out this splattering of words—loosely resembling sentences—on a piece of paper. ‘Pursuit of excellence’. ‘Flagbearers of free thought’. ‘Education ecosystem’. ‘Integrity, perseverance and …’, wait for it, ‘consciousness’! What did that even mean? Was it a school for zombies? Did the students come to school in comatose condition?
It established its authority by using unnecessarily complicated jargon, even if its primary stakeholders were uneducated five-year-olds. Even I, aged thirty, had to read that letter three times to make sense of it. What exactly was being asked of me? To shape their future? Sure, if amoeba is counted as a shape. Because that was the shape of my own life now. Fluid and directionless. Meandering and ambiguous. Confused. Not to forget, pretty much asexual of late.
But I knew I was being ungrateful. This was a skill I was most competent in. I had a gratitude journal lying by my bedside, waiting to be inaugurated, and this offer letter would have been a great way to get started—but I was, instead, viewing the letter with absolute contempt. Spend eight hours of my day surrounded by snotty little monsters voluntarily? No, thank you!
Of course, I knew what a great opportunity it was. Parents fought bloody wars to get their children admitted to CVS, and many embarked on pilgrimages to give thanks once they were successful. I had seen stickers on cars that read ‘Proud CVS Mom’, ‘CVS Dads’, ‘There is no such thing as perfect parenting, but my kid goes to CVS’, and so on. Like, calm down! It’s only a school!
The only thing my own school could ever claim was: ‘Convent girls in short skirts, can kick you where it really hurts’. But then the education system had undergone quite a transformation over the years, as my best friend Dodo told me. Teachers were now kinder, academics were experiential, marks weren’t the only measure of learning, overall development in children was encouraged and parents suddenly seemed to be far more involved with their children and actually believed that the power of words worked better than the power of chappal.
Yet, that doubt nagged me. Was I really doing this? Was I choosing this life?
Was I choosing to be surrounded by tiny human beings that I didn’t give birth to? Was I choosing to wake up at the crack of dawn and board a yellow bus that would take me to an institution I’d often described as ‘prison’? Was I being expected to discipline eight-year-olds when I’d spent most of my own schooling hours in detention? Was I being asked to hold them accountable for not doing their homework when my imaginary dog had perpetually feasted on mine? Was I being asked to maintain discipline and pin drop silence in the class when my legendary note-passing skills in school could put any social network to shame? Was I choosing to be an educator, a disciplinarian, a rule enforcer—voluntarily?
Unfortunately, the answer was ‘yes’. Because I had bills to pay, things to buy and places to be. And no other job was going to give me six-week-off at a stretch, allowing me to indulge in my real passion—travel. I had twenty-seven stamps on my passport, a massive map of India on my wall filled with travel pins, souvenirs and magnets framed and mounted in my living room … and, yet, I wanted more. Even if it meant slaving away half my life as a primary school teacher. So, with much reluctance—and forced gratitude—I found myself completing the joining formalities.
This resulted in me getting rocket-launched into a series of excruciatingly boring training sessions—something I hadn’t accounted for. It was ironic that I had to study to teach. But I went through the whole regime as a committed foot soldier—soft skills training, subject training, conflict training, personality training, and so on. And just when I thought I was doing pretty well, as is tradition for me, I was summoned to the principal’s office. Even before the term had started!
Memories flooded my mind, as I walked down the sterile, quiet corridors of the administration block. It was like a parallel universe of the chaos in the classrooms on the other side of the building. All schools felt the same. And, oh, the countless principal visits I’d made as a student for things I had and had not done! The ‘had not’ mostly included homework and the ‘had’ covered everything else. The prickly anticipation of what my punishment would be this time—whether Dad would be called again, whether I’d be grounded, whether I’d be let off with a stern warning only. I’d been so glad to leave those days behind me. Yet, here I was again—and life had come a full circle for me. Even if it was, for a change, not as an errant student but as an ‘empowered’ teacher, as we had been defined in our ‘Proud to Teach’ training module.
I reached the end of the hallway and entered the brightly lit, freakishly clean glass cabin that bristled with the fragrance of an Elizabeth Arden perfume. My new employer indicated that I should take a seat and so I did, obediently. She really radiated authority. And she always had, Mrs Mehta, my ex-high school maths teacher at my boarding school and now principal of Champion Valley School. She’d come a long way. And so had I, as I had to remind myself.
‘You’re a part of her team now,’ Dodo had said, as he counselled me before I started the job.
‘Correct.’
‘You shouldn’t be scared of her.’
‘Why would you assume I am scared of her?’
‘Because she’s Mrs Mehta.’
‘It sounds like you’re scared of her.’
‘I’m scared for you.’
‘How is this helping? Are you asking me to be scared of her?’
‘I’m just saying—be yourself.’
‘You’re still not helping.’
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘I never am.’
‘But be a little afraid.’
‘Because she’s Mrs Mehta?’
‘Right, because she’s Mrs Mehta. Everyone should be a little scared of her. But don’t enter this relationship with any baggage.’<
‘She’s my employer, not my lover.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I never do. And I don’t know why the fuck I take any advice from you at all!’
To be fair, if it wasn’t for his advice, I wouldn’t have had this job. I didn’t know whether to blame him or thank him, though the current theme seems to be gratitude, so I had thanked him with as little sarcasm as possible.
Presently, Mrs Mehta was signing a pile of papers, her glasses perched at the edge of her long regal nose, her starched saree clipped to her effervescent white blouse, her long hair intentionally left grey, falling neatly around her angular face. She looked like she was working very hard to save the world! So, I cleared my throat to remind her that she had the pleasure of my company and she’d have to put her superhero cape aside for just a bit.
‘Sorry about this. Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked tersely, like she knew the answer would be in negative, so, I shook my head and thanked her. Evidently the etiquette training had helped. ‘I’ll only take a minute more, Ambika.’
She said ‘Am-bika’, not ‘Um-bika’, as my name should be pronounced.
It struck me then that there are only two reasons I can never be made a school principal. One, I don’t have that crisp diction that most principals seem to possess—the one where they bite their v’s and hiss their s’s and cluck their t’s and give everything, including names, their very own pronunciation twist, almost making you wish that you were called Ambika and not Umbika. And two, I don’t have the stern-looking aquiline nose that principals seem to possess. Mine was more button-like and did not suffice for one that commanded respect.
Mrs Mehta picked up the stack of papers and tapped it against her table to align the edges before keeping it aside. Then, she interlocked her long, artistic fingers, with a glinting rock adorning one. I wondered how many of my travel plans just that one rock could finance.
‘So, my dear, welcome to Champion Valley School!’ her voice boomed, and I immediately sat up straighter.
‘Er, I’m thankful for the opportunity,’ I said carefully.
‘I’m sure you will be a great asset.’
I nodded, forcing myself to smile, an expression I barely dared to use with principals in my earlier interactions.
‘I just wanted you to know how much is at stake here.’
Right. Futures to shape and all. I cleared my throat and declared valiantly, ‘I will try my best to—’
‘To start with, you have to make sure you are aligned with the rules and regulations of Champion Valley School.’
‘Of course. I’ve read the manual and attended—’
‘You need to be here at 7.45 a.m. everyday. No leave unless sanctioned beforehand. Sick days are restricted to five. A medical certificate is required to be submitted, if you need more.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of it. I’ve seen the—’
‘Dress code is of utmost importance. No casuals. Nothing above the knee. No fancy hairstyles. No fancy accessories.’
‘I wouldn’t really even bother—’
‘Your role here is not to befriend the parents. Nor are you here to belittle the parents. You’re here as a facilitator, a partner, an educator. You’re responsible for the growth and development of all your wards, with special emphasis on their mental well-being.’
It felt like it was one of those standard motivational speeches. I began to relax a little.
‘CVS has a standard to uphold, and we cannot be seen as someone frivolous, especially with respect to our staff.’
It was obvious that she wanted no contribution or reassurance from me during the course of this conversation, but I had to look attentive—of which I was doing a great job, if I could say so myself.
‘Our teachers and teaching methodology speak for themselves. We are a school known for its high standards of ethics. We are a school known for imparting impactful, applicable learning.’
Yes, yes and yes, it was all on the website, thank you very much. And Shilpa Anand, the Grade III coordinator, had been drilling it into our heads all of last week.
But then suddenly, Mrs Mehta leaned forward and narrowed her eyes.
‘Which basically means, Ambika, as you would be well aware, nobody should know the real reason you’re here.’
Lesson One
Life Sciences
From: Grade Coordinator Shilpa Anand
To: Grade III Parents Group
Date: 15 Mar 2022 at 9:31 AM
Sub: Welcome to Grade III
Dear Parents,
‘Integrity is doing the right thing even when no one’s watching’ – C.S. Lewis
A very warm welcome to Grade III!
We have had the most delightful year watching our children acquire new academic and social skills in the year gone by, and look forward to further application of these skills in the year to come.
The class is undergoing a shuffle. Your assigned class teacher will be in touch with you shortly. We look forward to having a full house on Orientation Day, to set expectations and prepare ourselves for the fresh academic year. Please block 22 March 2022, 9 a.m., in your calendars so that we may kickstart this journey together as a team.
Just a quick update on the fabulous achievements of our CVS Junior School students this quarter:
Karthik K. (Grade V) has won gold at the Delhi swimming meet hosted by AISA
Reyaan Kumar and Avaan Prabhakar (Grade V) won gold at the All India Table Tennis Doubles Championship 2022
Rhea Sharma (Grade IV), Kiera Chandok (Grade III) and Virat Sethi (Grade III) won silver at the International Art Competition 2021–22
Syra Chhabra (Grade III) attained gold in the International SMART Learning Meet in Maths, Science and English Literature
Please join me in congratulating our young achievers.
We wish you a very restful spring break and look forward to seeing you on 22 March.
Regards,
Shilpa Anand
Coordinator, Grades III, IV & V
Riddhi
Weight: 72.5 kgs
Diet plan: Salt-free
Why do they even call it a ‘diet’? Diet means food. But ‘dieting’ means you have no food! You just eat air. And stare and stare at photos and reels of food on Instagram. And dream about your cheat day. And count how many hours it’s been since you last ate something and how many hours before you are allowed to have the low-fat, non-tasty, fistful portion of a meal.
I was so happy when I was doing keto—chicken legs with cheese and banana cake and gobhi ka pizza base and what not! But I gained three kilos. I told Harsh that ‘Harsh, maybe one has to gain weight before losing’, but he didn’t listen. Not even when I admitted that well, in true sense, I wasn’t doing full carb-free. I mean, if you don’t add maida to banana cake, how it will rise? And how to eat dry chicken legs without garlic bread? And so what if you use regular Britannia white maida pizza base instead of gobhi as long as you are putting gobhi on top of it? It should still be okay, no?
But Harsh is too conscious. He’s put me on some other diet. Some Indian guru’s ‘go back to roots’ diet. He doesn’t realize my roots are in Punjab! I used to have ghee poori for breakfast and malai lassi for brunch. Then aalu kulcha for second breakfast and gur halwa for second brunch. There’s more butter than blood in my body and, even if I eat vegetables, they will enter my bloodstream and get deep-fried into pakodas automatically. What a nonsense diet!
But today the dietician gave me a ‘salt-free’ diet. Why did Gandhiji do the Dandi March for then? We could have gotten Independence from those Britishers a few years earlier only if we didn’t care for salt as society! It is anti-nationalist to go salt-free! I told Harsh that, but ever since he’s become broker in Gurgaon—he was in Rajouri before this, and sorry, ‘real estate agent’ he likes to call himself now—he thinks we must be like all Gurgaon people. Have you seen movie Hindi Medium? We are like that only. He is, not me. He’s branded top to toe. I still buy all my clothes from Dolly Boutiques in Pitampura but he shops at Emporio: Tom Afford, Gucchi, Armani, Burglary, Versace, Tommy Hilfinger and what not. He says I should also upgrade! Well, Dolly Aunty has three-storey boutique now, instead of two, thanks to me; so how’s that for upgrade!
He gets angry too much, my Harsh. If one kilo also goes up and he acts like I’ve become a cow. He is forgetting I’m Riddhi Makheeja Chhabra! I’ll be gorgeous even if I’m 100 kilos. Abhi toh I’m only 69. Weighing machine is showing 72.5, but that’s because I’m wearing a very heavy dress today. My in-laws’ side is visiting, na!
I look up from the reel I was watching on Instagram on how to make healthy butter chicken—put dahi instead of butter, which means it’s not butter chicken, na?—just as Syra walks in and, as it is around her, I sit up a bit straighter.
