Why young people need their silences to be heard

It was a regular summer morning. Time for the daily school assembly. I had a speech ready. I was going to represent the school magazine as its editor and I needed to make an appeal to all students to contribute to the magazine.

I was not a student known for being outgoing. But that morning I was inspired. And determined. I don’t remember most of the speech but I remember how it ended. “To paraphrase John F Kennedy, ask not what your school can do for you, but what you can do for your school. Contribute to the Dips Diary.” I remember the glow of triumph when I was done. There was silence all around. No one knew I was going to walk into this moment and deliver something with such aplomb. My teachers were impressed.

In front of me, the entire school was standing in the basketball field, separated into Houses — Ravi, Sutlej, Chenab, Yamuna… I forget the rest. We were thousands of students — the biggest school in Delhi at that time. Everyone in white uniform, with green belts. Some of us with socks falling near our ankles. Others more proper. Some very tall boys still in shorts. Most wearing white shirts from the uniform shop, some like me in her father’s white shirt. It was fashionable to wear oversized, ballooning shirts that year.

Our school principal was standing where he always did. He must have listened to my spontaneous, unannounced performance. I rarely crossed paths with him. As an adult now, I notice bright young adults who avoid older people. I don’t judge them.

While this was a moment in which I was thriving in the public gaze, at most other times, I had mastered the art of being in my own cocoon. In retrospect, I can see it as my time off from the sensory overload that school situations inevitably are.

I have vivid visual memories of roaming the expansive network of corridors and hallways of my school during class hours. Walking without a purpose, always seeming preoccupied; pretending to be one of those students who had been given important work by teachers and she had to be out in the spaces of the school campus. It must have been my way of escaping the overwhelm of the classroom.

Now I know that movement is a legitimate human need. We are not designed — physically or mentally — to stay still or confined in spaces. We think better when we are moving. We are able to process complex emotions by creating a physical distance from the scene. Poetry and music come to the surface when we are on the move. Memories return. Big ideas visit us. The greatest adventures, expeditions and connections between cultures have been forged because human beings are wired to seek movement. Our bodies and psyche have inbuilt energy and power. It really is a wonder how generations of children survive the noise of 50 children in a classroom and the emotional violence of teachers forced to be mean just to control them.

When systems fail us, it is the insight and kindness of individuals that come to our rescue. My chemistry teacher, Mrs Meera Maini, comes to mind as a contrast to the everyday raucousness of school. She had a calm, serene presence. The way she seemed to float gently in her colourful soothing saree. I began to love chemistry. Kindness is a great catalyst for learning.

Mrs Sishta, my elderly biology teacher, held my hands in the corridor one afternoon and asked me how I was doing after my stint at the hospital. Amazed at how my right hand had recovered from total paralysis, she turned my palms upwards and said, “Surgeon’s hands. These fingers will perform surgery one day.” She gave me confidence.

Mrs Raghavan and Mrs Ishwaran, my English teachers who brought empathy into the classroom with stories from classic novels and our English textbooks. ‘Great Expectations’ by Charles Dickens. A lost boy named Pip who grows up and has to unlearn self-hate and shame.

Then there was my other hero, Mrs Kohli. Her loosely wrapped sarees. Her easy command over English. Her magnetic hold on our attention. She was the teacher in charge of the Dips Diary, that I was the student editor of. I was so in awe of her, I never spoke to her. I did not even show her the editor’s note and the lead essay I wrote for the school magazine. She first saw both of them when the printed copies arrived for distribution. She called me to her room to talk about what must have been my first narrative non-fiction political essay on terrorism in Punjab. It was the year 1989.

I had no words to speak at that age. Only silence to express myself with. Now I recognise it as social anxiety. In the university classroom where I am a teacher now, I observe how pervasive it is.

It is all so clear now. Our young people need their silences to be heard. They need movement. The more we get in touch with our own younger selves, the better we will be able to connect to those who matter to us. We will heal collectively.

—The writer is a filmmaker & author