Life as a JPAL RA

Fresh out of Oxford and armed with my research gear in August last year, I joined JPAL as Research Associate (RA). I was told during one of the interviews that an RA is essentially ‘the CEO of a project on ground’.

Now that I analyse my life over the past one year, I am amazed at the versatility of roles I have ended up performing and the multiplicity of skills I have ended up gaining.

My first month on the job involved heading to the hinterlands of my homeland in Punjab. Intensive fieldwork and piloting with my PI and co-RA amidst the remotest schools close to the international border was an extraordinarily adventurous and eye-opening experience. I was right at the grassroots interacting with people and navigating my way through the real world. I could finally relate to concepts learnt at grad school – whether it was spotting a tinge of ambiguity aversion in the choice made by a student or understanding unusual trends from data. That was my first and foremost role in the new job – that of a researcher.

On the weekly skype calls with my PIs, I felt like a reporter – meticulously organising my diary from the previous week and reporting the list of weekly events and insights from the field. My PIs would do a lot of brainstorming/design discussion on call which would drag up to 3 hours sometimes. What started as a bit of an overwhelming and challenging role eventually became something enjoyable.

A few months into the job, I realised that I had to be the lynchpin to get anything done. If it was about conducting a test at a school – then everything from start to finish was upon the RA. The design of question papers, the formatting, the printing, the arrangements, making a procturing plan to finally getting the papers evaluated and catalogued for future reference. As the project scaled up I eventually had a field staff of 30 who would do those jobs for me. Having been through the nitty-gritties personally helped me manage them effectively.

When I moved to Amritsar, I initially found the role of being a manager of staff to be slightly challenging. I had to make sure they had enough work to keep them busy at office. Then I learnt an important trick from one of the candidates who I was once interviewing. Funnily, I had asked him if he had had any managerial experience and if he could share any tips about how to handle shirkers. He said he ensured that he reached his office before everyone else to chart a delegation plan beforehand. Voila! That was such a treasure of an advice for me at the point of time that I adopted it instantly.

Mid-way in the year, came the baseline assessment – a massive task to conduct our pre-intervention assessment of 5000 students in our sample. We planned bit by bit, prepared on war footing, working late into night, excited to finally begin with our baseline. We piloted, executed, learnt from failures and accomplished the gargantuan plan finally. To begin with, in order to hire surveyors, I had to take on the role of an HR manager. Suddenly, I was reading ‘how to hire’ guides online and then grilling candidates with my list of questions. Moving to the other side of the interview table was certainly a novel experience.

After this brilliant pool of people were hired, I took on the role of a trainer leading a team of 19 new recruits, training them about the tricks of the trade, the protocols and techniques of administering a task, conducting extensive field drills. Once this enthusiastic bunch was trained and ready, seeing them at work, working with students was such a fulfilling experience. I could see my younger piloting self in them – one who would return home dead tired after an exhausting day of repeating a script but with eyes full of exciting stories from the ground.

On other days, I would be couched in front of my laptop, organising and cleaning data to be sent to my PIs for final analysis. All throughout my role as a planner and manager moved simultaneously on the side.

Sometimes it would become overwhelming but working on an education project offered the luxury of internal satisfaction when field visits to schools were involved. Just a little smile or compliment from a cute kid at school would light up my day. The peace of knowing that the work is making a difference to a kid somewhere would compensate for the work hangovers.

There were some rare days when I had to don unique and completely unexpected roles as well. Once a filming crew from our donor USAID visited Amritsar. I had to be a director for a day – deciding filming locations for the team at schools and planning bytes and shots for them. At the hotel after school visits I had to be the TV anchor asking questions to the academicians invited to speak on the project. At the Chandigarh office, I was a pedagogue and content creator – thinking from the viewpoint of a 3rd grader if a question in a certain frame of words would make sense.

Amidst these diverse roles, there were some common lessons I ended up learning.

I became more empathetic to the plight of common people. Prior to joining JPAL, I had solo-travelled by public transport – train, plane, AC bus at the maximum. After moving to Amritsar, I travelled by a ‘local ordinary bus’ for the first time. It was such a heart-warming experience. The faces of village folks travelling alongside gave me so much peace, filled the crevices of my soul. They were never in a rush like people in the metros and seemed to carry around a state of equilibrium. Their presence alone was enriching enough for me. Besides the people, the rickety state of transport and delayed schedules taught me the most important lesson about public goods.

Also, my role as a manager opened my eyes to the state of unemployment in Punjab. I had never expected my interview room to bustle with so many candidates for a job posting with a salary that looked quite meagre to me. I slowly discovered that the local field staff I was managing were the same age as me, most were older, in fact. I was deeply shaken the first time I realised this. It was such a painful irony that even though we hailed from the same state, had enjoyed a similar childhood, but here in this office by sheer quirk of fate - I was the boss and they were my employees. It was a terribly humbling experience – the joy on their faces at landing this small field job opened my eyes to how privileged I had been.

It has been a year and 2 months at JPAL and I feel more mature, more humble and more committed than ever. Immensely grateful to JPAL for providing me this down-to-earth grassroot level experience that has shaped my worldview significantly.

Teachers who pass the students' test

Published in The Tribune, September 5, 2016

Every time I come across news feeds about teacher trainings and workshops, the student in me feels perplexed. I imagine a trainer, a senior pedagogue coming to these meetings pontificating to teachers about best practices in the field. I wonder why they don’t invite a student instead. Isn’t a student the best person to give opinion about what a good teacher should be like?

Having been a student from the last twenty years and having gained quite an eclectic exposure to teachers from Punjab to Delhi to Oxford, I think I have some interesting insights to make. While every human being is distinct and heterogeneity is evident in teacher quality, there are strings that are common across teachers who become their students' favourites. This teachers’ day, I make an attempt at compiling all the traits that I have keenly spotted in the teachers who have become my personal favourites over space and time:

Those who are passionate about what they are teaching. 

John Quah, one of my professors at Oxford had a contagious passion for his subject. The entire class would be spellbound by the end of his microeconomics lectures. I vividly remember his class on fixed point theorems. After scribbling the proof of Tarsky’s Fixed Point Theorem on the whiteboard, he remained in a state of trance looking at the proof and then told us ‘This proof is the most beautiful thing on this planet and who knows even beyond!’ The entire class was thrilled. Passion is contagious and has the power to ignite unparalleled enthusiasm and curiosity in the minds of learners.

Those who always encourage students to ask questions. 

It signals that one is the master of one’s subject and does not fear answering queries. I fondly remember one of my professors at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi – Mrs Leema Mohan who would always take questions from students with a wide smile on her face. Her patient and placid smile would be so encouraging that even the weakest ones in class would not shy to raise their hands and ask their doubts. She was in complete contrast to another teacher who would deride the students for asking questions that according to him were ‘silly’. The entire class admitted to having developed a phobia for the subject taught by this particular teacher at the end of three years. Creating an atmosphere where students feel empowered and encouraged to ask questions creates a beautiful two-way flow in a classroom. This is one of the foremost characteristics that differentiates a teacher from a preacher.

Those who make an attempt to link the worlds inside and outside classroom. 

One of my high school teachers Mrs Sargam Malhotra at Guru Nanak Public School, Ludhiana would always make it a point to narrate a story in every class. Every student would gear up for this moment in class putting their pens down and straightening their backs every time she would quip ‘Let me tell you a story’. Mrs Kochhar, my political science teacher at Sacred Heart Convent School, Ludhiana would embark on tangents and narrate inspiring personal life stories to make a point. Those stories stay with me still. One of the basic responsibilities of a teacher is to simplify concepts so that they no longer remain esoteric. The ‘Indian Economic Development’ class of my teacher Mrs Poonam Kalra at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi is an excellent example. Her lucid and graphic expositions of poverty, unemployment, hunger and other developmental issues beyond pithy facts and figures would leave the entire class charged with the spirit to make a change.

At the same time, I recall experiences of studying under dull teachers who would merely repeat what was present in the textbooks or just fail miserably at explaining concepts to class. Our blank faces were unable to deter one particular teacher as he would continue enunciating his dry script or copying proofs from textbook to blackboard. He would fail to make us see the connection every time. Being able to synchronise my worlds inside and outside classroom has been one of the most crucial challenges growing up as a student.

Those who would go an extra mile to answer questions that are beyond the scope of the course. 

A good teacher doesn’t snub a question saying this is beyond your syllabus or that it isn’t important for the upcoming test. Even if it is something ineffable for the students at their current understanding level, she would draw a simplified analogy and help the curious students sneak a peak at the knowledge that lied ahead.

Those who are honest and say ‘I don’t know’ candidly. 

There were times when an unexpected question from class left a teacher blank or confused. Some brushed-off the question as being unimportant, some pretended about knowing and gave an ambivalent answer. At the other end of the spectrum were those who would honestly admit ‘I don’t know the answer to that question yet, but I shall get back to you’. And then they would get back the next day as a mark of sincerity. I still harbour oceans of respect for these teachers.

Those who hand back graded answer sheets in time. 

I had a teacher who would take at least a few months to return answer scripts of the class tests he gave. Then there was Pankaj Tandon, my microeconomics professor who would return the graded class tests right the next day after the test. I remember the entire class getting awed when this teacher gave a test on Monday and walked in with the graded tests on Tuesday. It showed us his utmost sincerity and devotion, the kind he expected of us.

Those who say a word of apology for a mistake made on the blackboard. 

There are some teachers who become too defensive to accept the mistake, some who admit the error but very discretely making sure to erase it before any other student notices, then there are those who openly announce in class that they were wrong before making a correction. Acknowledgement of one’s fallibility is one of the hallmarks of a great teacher. We came to respect such teachers even more.

While our education bodies keep coming up with eligibility tests and stringent requirements for qualifying teachers to teach, I do hope that someone up there is taking a note and making the students’ voices heard. It is time to raise teaching standards in our world by assessing teachers by the students’ criteria as well.

Chalkdust on my dastaar*

There is chalkdust on my hands, my black turban has almost turned white, my eyes are sparkling with a rare joy. I feel like my soul is overjoyed and recharged with fuel. A silent room has just come to life. I have just addressed an introductory economics class of twelfth graders at Akal Academy, Baru Sahib on the topic ‘Mountains and Indifference Curves’.

They have always seen the Indifference Curves flat on the blackboard or resting still in their textbooks. Suddenly those ICs had come alive in this class and risen from the blackboard and textbooks to acquire a three dimensional image. There cannot be a better scenery outside the windows for this class. They are marvelling at the contour analogy I have just introduced and fondly looking outside the window panes imagining themselves climbing giant mountains of utility.

There is a glow in their eyes that I have not seen elsewhere. It is this eureka moment that keeps returning when they finally understand something. I feel like I am taking them through a journey from ignorance to knowledge. I am reminded of my younger self that felt the same sense of discovery and thrill on learning these concepts and acquiring this understanding. It is not as if I have stopped acquiring more knowledge now, it is an ongoing process.

The Principal of Akal Academy at Baru Sahib was kind enough to let me quench my passion for teaching by allowing me to teach classes of eleventh and twelfth grade at their school for three days of my visit. Situated in a picturesque valley amidst the Himalayas, the school has a wonderfully tranquil air to it.

I was enamoured by their pristine faces. There were trains of innocent questions that I seemed to have fuelled by telling them that they have the freedom to ask any question in the world - even the silliest, most trivial question they can imagine.

‘Miss, why are we studying statistics under economics? Isn’t that meant to be in our math textbooks?’

‘In reality, how do you calculate arithmetic mean for 5000 students? You can’t be sitting and solving using that formula on the board, right?’

‘That thing about the marginal and sunk cost – that can’t be true, right? People don’t think that way – do they?’

Each question had emerged from the depths of their hearts. I felt like I had just set a million caged parrots free. They had buried these questions from long and finally liberated them. They energise me as I imagine myself in their shoes few years back struggling with similar doubts. It was the struggle with searching for answers that had made me so confident at the end of my twelfth grade. I answer each question and the glow on their face validates each of my answers, as if. 

 

The bell rings but they don’t want me to leave. They crowd around and ask me many more questions. The next teacher is waiting at the door with a rather surprised look.

I took upto 5 classes a day fuelled by their enthusiasm and would end up with aching legs and a tired throat by night. Strangely, some divine energy would wake me up afresh each morning as I would plan the lecture in my head and decide to tell them real life stories that would clarify the economics concepts.

On the last day, I tell them that I am leaving on the next day.

‘Miss please stay till weekend. Wish all your plans of going back tomorrow get cancelled’ - the sweet girl on the first bench quips.

There is something so priceless and beautiful about teaching. You are connecting to so many hearts by building bridges of knowledge. I stand smiling as the entire class crowds around for farewell pictures. I wonder if I have just discovered my calling.

*dastaar - turban

Naima's Ruksati

Lahore. 20th February, 2016

She was walking down the aisle with Mustafa and surrounded by family. She hugged her granddad and bowed down to get his blessing hand on her head. Then happily hugged her mom, her cousins, her aunts. It looked like a happy farewell with Naima actively acknowledging the arrival of the departing moment. She seemed calm and composed.

Then as we neared the exit, I came in the way of her hugging queue. I kissed her on her cheek and then hugged her tightly. The hug stayed on for longer than usual, I realised she wasn’t leaving me.

Then I heard a sob as we parted.

‘Arre rone dein, mann halka ho jata hai’, I heard someone.

Then I noticed that other hugs had become moist. As the procession neared the car, her eyes had started to glisten with sadness.

I came face to face with this painful parting feeling for the first time in life. I was standing neutral all this while, a mere spectator. But after that quiet sob at the end of the long hug, I was drenched in emotion. She had left me gravely confused. I thought I was just another friend but she treasures me more than just a friend. Her Abbu had told Papa how Naima had never had a close friend after Faislabad before coming to Oxford and that she was so touched to have finally found a friend. I was thinking at that moment why the sob had landed on my shoulder. Did the parting also have something to do with me? The sorrow was of leaving her parents, her siblings behind – but somewhere in that family tree, had I also silently sneaked in? I cried impulsively at seeing her in that condition, more after the car left.

Kranti noticed and offered her shoulder saying ‘Pagli, rote nahi hain’

I felt stupid for a while and laughed it off after wiping my tears.

After the Ruksati, we came home. The house felt strange without Naima. Then a call from Naima’s in-laws came. Her Abbu told us they had invited everyone over to their house. I went along with her Ammi, Abbu, Bara bha, Chhota bha and Bhabhi.

I felt as if I had become a part of Naima’s maika family.