The restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful pursuit of inquiry

"Knowledge emerges only through... the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in this world" - Paulo Freire

Being a learning facilitator is so much more than going to do a job in a workplace. Or, as it has been in this last year, working on one's laptop, "zooming in" to children's homes, and somehow carrying on against the odds.

A few months ago, I enrolled for a Master’s Degree in Education with the University of the People, Pasadena, California. The first course I undertook was Education in Context: The History, Philosophy and Sociology, a course that was like a light at the end of the tunnel, providing a larger context in extremely trying circumstances when daily work sometimes did not make sense. In a world that was changing rapidly into something unrecognisable at times, revisiting the foundations of education, from its purpose to the role of educators in a changing world was an exercise in grounding oneself.

The inquiry that began with rediscovering the purpose of education in Unit 1 had an impact, daily, on how I began to see my work with learners. As a department coordinator (Theory of Knowledge - TOK), it also made me think about what sort of growth opportunities I open up for my colleagues in the department. This led to the creation of a Google Classroom for reading books together, watching films and series, collecting ideas from whatever we were working on in our study groups or anywhere else. The department started reading Sapiens by Yuval Noah Harari, and we began a discussion on the discoveries we made. 

In my study groups, learners have always been co-travellers, so to speak. We are always on a journey together. While I do realize that I have a responsibility towards them, I always try to help them become owners of their own processes. I find that this makes them want to come to class, engage with the activities. One of our units, on knowledge and power, left them dumbfounded for a few minutes when I proved to them that I have no power over them. They had stated unequivocally that in this study group I had the most power. It took just a few minutes to show them that actually they did, at least over themselves and their own learning. This was a mental shift equivalent to a paradigm shift, a moment in which they felt compelled to make a decision - whether or not they would exercise that power in the interests of their own learning.  

In Unit 2, the History of Education, I have to confess that I went back several decades to the lecture theatre of my institute where I undertook my Bachelor's degree in Education. Revisiting the much-derided Macauley's Minute after so many years was also an eye-opener and I found that my position vis-à-vis that document had changed. The intervening years have brought real experiences that have cemented my belief that but for that Minute, I would been raised in a purdah milieu, not in the freedom I have often taken for granted. 

Unit 3 had me revisit many books that provided the foundation for my educational philosophy many years ago - including Ivan Illich's Deschooling Society. Of the many ideas that were introduced to me by that book, this one is the most stunning: "All over the world the school has an anti-educational effect on society: school is recognized as the institution which specializes in education. The failures of school are taken by most people as a proof that education is a very costly, very complex, always arcane, and frequently almost impossible task" (Illich, 1970). The world has changed immensely since he wrote those lines; but has it? In my study groups I find that students are not willing to become owners of their learning because they have been lulled into believing (much as their parents have) that just being physically present in the room will somehow imbue them with learning. Throughout the different social strata, this particular institution does more harm than good, and gets away with it.

The greatest rediscovery for me was, of course, Paulo Freire. "Classrooms die as intellectual centers," writes Shor, "when they become delivery systems for lifeless bodies of knowledge" (Shor, 1992). This is the passion with which I have approached education all my life. It reminded me of why I do so. Exactly why it has never made sense to "teach" but to "facilitate learning" and to constantly be a learner myself. I am privileged to have "met" Freire's work when I was starting out on this journey 33 years ago. It formed the basis of my beliefs and helped me to grow and become the facilitator I am. 

It doesn't surprise me, therefore, that I would choose to quote Freire as the epitome of my reason for being a learning facilitator: "Knowledge emerges only through... the restless, impatient, continuing, hopeful inquiry human beings pursue in this world" (Freire, 1971). I am that restless, impatient, hopeful human being, continuously pursuing meaningful experiences for myself and the learners in my class.

References

Freire, P. (2017). Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Penguin Modern Classics). S.l.: Penguin Random House UK.

Harari, Yuval Noah. Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind (pp. 112-113). Random House. Kindle Edition.

Illich, Ivan. Deschooling Society (I Grandi dell'Educazione) . KKIEN Publ. Int.. Kindle Edition.

NOVA. (n.d.). School of the future- What should the school of the future look like? Retrieved March 10, 2018, fromhttps://mass.pbslearningmedia.org/resource/nvsof-sci-futureschool/wgbh-nova-school-of-the-future-what-should-the-school-of-the-future-look-like/#.Wr13LIjwY64

Schor, I. (1992). Education is politics: Paulo Freire's critical pedagogy. In Paulo Freire: A critical encounter. [pdf] (pp. 24-36). Retrieved from eBook Central in LIRN.

 Adapted from one of my portfolio submissions for the course Education in Context: The History, Philosophy and Sociology.

The Womenfolk

As you know already, I do so despise the stereotypes that neuter women, preventing them from leading creative and exciting lives. The ones that make us feel constrained within our own homes, circumscribing existence to what the men will "allow" or not. [Who the hell are they to "allow" anyway but it would shock some to find this to be a universal phenomenon - one of those really negative trends that pervades cultures worldwide.]

But this peaceful scene in the park on a sunny winter afternoon, four elderly ladies on two benches, spied from my balcony, reminded me of my grandmother. 

My grandmother was the most incredible person of my childhood. Strong, beautiful, industrious, she was a matriarch who ruled the family with an gentle iron hand (I suspect). There are two predominant memories of her: one in the kitchen, or engaged in some sort of food production; the second, seated somewhere with her hands busily turning out the next woollen garment for the next lucky person in the family. In the second photo above, you can see how she doesn’t stop knitting even to smile at the photographer - my grandfather!

Every now and then, I want to imagine what she would have made of her life if she had had the choices that I have, or the ones that my daughter has. She was extremely well educated, but perhaps didn't have our degrees. Her creativity in the kitchen and in wool knew no bounds. One look from her could turn our knees to water when we were little. And simultaneously, she was a favourite as we grew older. 

Secretly, I have always believed that I was her favourite grandchild. (I am very sure the others - sibling and cousins will hotly contest this.) In spite of being the most rebellious, I was the one who took apart her sewing machine one summer when it had stopped working, figured out what was wrong, fixed it, and closed it up again. With a big smile, she prophesied that I would become an engineer like my grandfather. [Well, I had to rebel against that too!]

Of all five of us - my brother and my three cousins - I was the one who took to knitting and crocheting with a vengeance as well. I think she loved me even more for this! Between devouring the books in their library and eating absolutely delicious food through summer vacations, I also loved to churn out pieces crafted from wool while she watched with a mysterious smile.

However, the strongest memory I have of her is from one of my grandparents' annual visits to Delhi. As part of a theatre group, I was designing and painting these huge sets for a forthcoming production called "Sher Nikalkar Bhaga" which had an escaped lion on the rampage through a city. As the play was meant for children, the sets had to be huge and colourful, and painted like illustrations in a book. We had decided, after much research, to give it the look of traditional Indian paintings.

Needless to say, it required work. During the day I would attend college and at night I would go to the house in Nizamuddin where the group rehearsed. I would spend half the night painting (they were enormous 7 X 4 feet flats, and several of them), and sleep for a couple of hours before heading home at dawn. Shower - breakfast - college - repeat painting. 

So, my mother was really miffed - this girl, she stays out all night, I really don't know what she's up to - and had actually stopped talking to me. Along came my grandparents for said annual visit. During dinner, a few days before the shows were to begin, I asked everyone how many tickets I should reserve for them. My mother immediately said sternly that no one was going to watch the play - since I had been "behaving badly". I didn't say anything and continued to eat as a silence fell over the table. Then, in a soft and gentle voice my grandmother asked, "Onoo is doing a play and we won't go to watch it?" 

There was further silence. Later I realised that she was not asking a question but issuing a diktat in her typical style. No one else could have made my mother take her words back, but she did, and I was asked to reserve seats for everyone in the family. 

After the show, my mother came really very close to an apology as well. She saw the sets, the dimensions, the designs, and I think she realised that I had not been fooling around when I stayed out the whole night. It was perhaps the first time in my largely misspent youth that she approved of something I had done. Did my grandmother know this? I am sure she did. And more importantly, she was there to facilitate one of the longest-lasting ceasefires between my mother and me. She helped my mother to see beyond what must have seemed utterly erratic behaviour from her once-sweet little girl - to really see that there was some worth to the work I had undertaken for my theatre group.

So what would my grandmother have done with her life had she had the same opportunities that I have had? I imagine her as a doctor, a healer curing people by giving them sound advice not just for the body but for the mind and soul as well. I picture her as one of the topmost chefs of the country, creating new dishes, jams, preserves, marketing them to a vast public. Without stretching my imagination too far, I can even see her as an exclusive designer of her own unique clothing line.

That's me wondering about what she might have wanted to do with her life. But that is not what she did do. She looked after her entire clan, down to the last grandchild, making sure of our well being. And she was peaceful about that life.

Just like the womenfolk in the park, basking in the sun, knitting for someone in the family, making the most of whatever it is that the world thought fit to bestow upon them. They were not asked either about what they wanted to do with their lives. They make the most of it because that is the only truth they know. But the world lost, perhaps, a great doctor, a path-breaking chef, a brilliant designer... because it didn't think to ask.

 

Dad

The 2nd of April, 2018: Dad's 90th birthday

To lose a parent is never easy. Losing Dad this year, in the middle of the lockdown, not having been able to meet him on his birthday, or indeed after he got home from yet another visit to the hospital, and then suddenly....

But as the horror of the pandemic unfolded, it seemed as though he was one of the lucky ones. To go quietly and gently into that good night, not after suffering alone for days in some godforsaken ICU but simply slip into oblivion without notice. Yes, probably spared the bewilderment of not having any of us around him in hospital.

After my mother died, Dad's hospital visits were regular. At the National Heart Institute in South Delhi, he underwent surgery for a stent (he needed four but did not want so many!), and all of us discovered a little Café Coffee Day outlet which we haunted while waiting for news.  Some mornings and most evenings we would divide up the time (half an hour) equally between all those who wanted to visit him. Dad would look forward to the visits. He would ask each one whether the others (and how many of them) were waiting to see him. As soon as one would come down, the next would rush up the stairs. Even that year when I was recovering from a broken leg, I would wait outside the lift and relay up the second the previous person reached the ground floor. 

However, that was only while he was in the ICU. The instant he was shifted into a private room, all of us were sneaking in and out past the guards all day long. There were two passes, one for the attendant and the other for the visitor. We would sneak two people up into his room right at the start so that one person would always be with him while the second person would rotate. So we got to spend the entire day with him. 

Interestingly, those were bonding days for the rest of us as well. Usually, we only met during occasions - birthdays - but when Dad was visiting NHI, all of us would meet up there. And those hospital visits were the most social the family ever got in the past few years. I think I had the deepest conversations with my brother, my sister-in-law, and my daughter - sitting sipping tea, coffee, and eating those little Belgian Chocolate desserts - than I have ever had before or since.

It had everything to do with Dad. Like a magnet, he pulled us together, gently, inexorably, wonderfully. There was always so much calm - except when any of us was trying to get him to do something he really didn't want to - and so much peace around him. That smile, that ability to take life as it came, that stock response to "how are you" - "I am fine... today... can't say anything about tomorrow." - Said with a beatific smile. Always. So you wanted to spend time with him.

Sometimes, all it meant was to sit and watch cricket. Even after a surgery, the first question he would ask would be about cricket scores, so we would tell the floor attendants to keep him up-to-date with those!

At others, we would watch his TV serials with him. When I visited (and stayed with him), he would help me catch up with what I had missed in the interim. But since Bong serials don't move very quickly, there wouldn't be too much missed! 

Every now and then, he would be peeved with the hospital because it didn't have his Bengali channels. So one summer, I realised that his current series, Devi Choudhurani, was showing on Hotstar. I took along my laptop and sat grinning as he did what so many people do - binged! Episode after episode - the entire week had been missed - and then he was happy.

It took really very little to make him happy. But one thing used to get him upset - the food! If there was no chicken! Not that he complained too much, but he would inform the dietician that he was definitely not used to a vegetarian diet! Much to the consternation of said dietician! In the last three weeks of his life, my brother told me later, he had lost interest in food. That should have told us something, I guess.

It wasn't just his good nature, of course, that was so attractive. It was his innate honesty in all his relationships. He played the game damned straight, always. Although not brutal in his honesty, he never hesitated to tell people exactly what he thought of them, usually with a disarming smile. On occasion, we were mortified, though. But he had a beautiful child-like quality that was deeply endearing. And a sense of fun. 

I did not think, when he was alive, that it would be so difficult to cope with his passing. But it has been a wrench. Whenever I pass NHI, I find myself tearing up, because he is no longer there to be there - you know... I miss that soft, gentle smell of his clothes, and the little chomping noises he made while eating - enjoying his food like a small child. I miss seeing him fall asleep watching cricket, and waking up when someone got out. And then sometimes when the Indian team was not playing well, switching off the TV in disgust (even though several others were watching the match!). 

Mostly, of course, I miss being around him.... just hanging out with Dad.

 

How to construct a stereotype

Every now and then a video pops into the inbox that has the capacity to shock one deeply because of what is says, and does. What is really does.... Here is one of them.

There is something quite dangerous about putting women on pedestals. The problem with a pedestal is that it has many layers, like an onion, and stripping each layer off one at a time is a good exercise to expose the deep, deep lies it upholds. 

This video is full of contradictions but not at first sight. First, and easily missed, is the word “sarcasm” on the top right-hand corner, which runs through the playing time of the video. It is the only indication that this is not meant to be taken seriously. However, it is very easy to miss this and indeed feel moved by what the video shows... the daily drudgery of the female of the species, neither thanked nor cherished for her hard work. 

In this seemingly supportive message lies a quagmire of misogyny. 

From the word go, in this first shot, the idea of a home, a safe and cosy one is built up. 

The narration indicates that they are happy together, and ending their day in togetherness. 

This is dangerous sub-text. Without saying a single anti-woman word, the video shows how smart young women will buy into this myth that is being constructed. Apart from smartness and youth, this narrator also has all the so-called attributes of beauty including a great figure. These are the big guns being pulled out; people are more likely to receive messages that come in such neat “packages”. I seem to have objectified this narrator. But actually, I haven’t. The video has. It is similar to those car advertisements featuring bikini-clad women on the bonnets. 

The next shot brings us up close to the protagonist. She has a gentle smile on her face. The viewer buys into her happiness. 

Seeing her in close-up brings us right into her life, into her story, and straight into her shoes. As a device, this is most likely to win our hearts as well. We buy into this fantasy of the happy, hardworking wife who doesn’t begrudge the drudgery she is about to undertake. 

Immediately after this, we see a series of hardworking women, from all kinds of nationalities, performing a series of mundane tasks. Have a look:

Here is a pair of disembodied hands. They could belong to any "white" women from any country. The anonymity is important.

Another woman, and an interesting shot from inside the fridge.

And this is followed by several different women all of whom have the same sad story. 

Showing how a woman's job is never done, while the man is free to relax.

In this mid-shot one is shown the calm, smiling expression as well which belies the late hour, and tiredness factor. 

What finally takes the cake, of course, is the husband calling out something as bizarre as "I thought you were going to bed." 

There is nothing to beat the last image of the husband:

How peaceful he looks! But does the audience feel any strongly negative feelings for this man? Of course not! The sense of entitlement, the taking for granted, the sheer callous ingratitude is all swept aside by this beautiful image of a nice-looking young man who has peacefully gone to sleep.

What follows is really quite the most dangerous part of this story. The narrator asks, "Is there anything extraordinary in this story?" and after a slight pause adds, "No, right? That's why women are special."

Here we have another series of images of happy-looking women as the narration continues, this time firmly placing women on that oh-so-horrifying pedestal - that women are special because they do all of this without letting anyone know the effort that goes into it. They are apparently the "pillars of the house, the strength of the structure". Not just the wives, please note. Our mothers, our sisters and our daughters too are included amongst these pillars.

The greatest irony comes at this point with the statement: "They do so much for our house yet their contributions go unnoticed all the time... their contribution is invisible yet the greatest." Somewhere along the way, the narrator also asks why they are not appreciated, rhetorically. Is it because they don't bring in the money?

And therein lies the rub. Let's peel this onion:

Layer 1: 

A woman on a pedestal. Read doormat. Leaves the man watching TV to perform a series of tasks which he could also be contributing to. The video does not address that.

Layer 2:

Several women from different nationalities all merge into one in this universal story of Doormatism. The narrator herself is a personable young woman who seems completely sold on this story. Several men also merge into one in this story, first watching TV on their own and then going to sleep. The video does not question this either.

Layer 3:

The mythification of Doormatism takes place in the declaration that there is nothing extraordinary about all of this. And laying the blame (if you will allow) at the door of the woman who does this without letting anyone see her "invisible" contribution. The video reduces this unpaid, even bonded, labour to the level of a "miracle" performed by these creatures around the house, clubbing all sorts of women of different ages into one mass of doormats. 

Layer 4:

Then, finally, there is an appeal to the viewer to spread this message in appreciation of the women of their lives. 

Dear god, really? Forward the video and go back to being entitled? 

Sleep peacefully with a clear conscience since you have spent a few seconds pressing "forward"? 

And how will women who receive this video from a man they are fond of respond? "Ah, finally he sees me?" The wife, the mother, the sister, the daughter - filled with gratitude that for a few seconds the contribution is acknowledged. And then, back to the drudgery because all those women in the video are doing the same damn thing with a lovely smile on their lips.

It is worse than insidious. Much worse than actually chaining this labourer to these Sisyphean tasks. This is deep conditioning to make the labourer love not just the laborious task, but the harsh task-master who sleeps in peace. And ours is not to question this world-order, is it?

So what is the core layer, the real message being spread by this video?

To men, you are doing things mostly right but just stop for a few seconds and forward this video to show that you are a human being. That's all we need from you, chaps!

To women, you are doing things mostly right. Yes, yes, we know those guys don't really get it. Forgive them, they are unable to or incapable of anything else. But see, a man sent you this video, right, so carry on with the good work. And don't forget to smile! Definitely don't expect appreciation - you are a woman and it is your birthright to be a drudge.

That's how you construct a stereotype in five simple layers.

The Further Adventures of Spyro - and the dubious joys of being a simp

This morning, Tyger compelled me to look up a word. Here it is:

simp (plural simps) (slang) A man who foolishly overvalues and defers to a woman, putting her on a pedestal (Wiktionary)

The reason I had to do this involves the further adventures of Spyro who is now on heat. (And a lazy aside here, on heat in British English, or in heat in American English - why would they want to be different about this too?)

Anyhow, the back story to this is that all these months - almost a year now - Antaeus has been the gruff alpha male who was not willing to engage with this  playful little puppy. Even when she grew into a playful big puppy, and in fact became taller than him, he would still growl at her if she tried to play with him. There have been moments when he has snapped at her and literally pinned her to the floor. 

For the last couple of days, however, the roles have been dramatically exchanged. He follows her around everywhere. There is not a bark nor a growl anywhere in sight, and in fact she is allowed to playfully bite him. All he does is follow her around.

Tyger, in his infinite wisdom remarked, "I knew this happened with people. I did not know that this happened in the dog world as well! He's being a SIMP!"

Just as he learnt that the animal world is not so very different from the human world, I got to learn a new word - SIMP.

Of its many definitions, this one caught the eye:

a word that everyone overuses w/out the correct definition. it means a guy that is overly desperate for women, especially if she is a bad person, or has expressed her disinterest in him whom which (sic) he continues to obsess over. They're usually just virgins that will accept coochie from anyone regardless of who they are. respecwaman ≠ simpery (by yovishi April 09, 2020, in Urban Dictionary)

At face value, this meaning is imbued with every nuance of patriarchy. "A man who foolishly overvalues..." - indeed, it is really very foolish to value or even overvalue a woman. This is the subtext of the first available meaning from Wiktionary: women must be undervalued. If you overvalue her, you are, as they say, a "simp".

The Urban Dictionary takes it a step further in adding a label - "especially if she is a bad person" - inadvertently using the stereotype of the "bad woman". These men, says UrbDic, are "usually just virgins that will accept coochie from anyone". This, of course, dissolves the woman's worth further, because by association with a "simp"-guy, she is now labeled "anyone". 

Let us be done with machismo and embrace simpery for a bit, shall we? What would the world be like, if power relations tipped over in this manner? Imagine that a woman is valued whether or not she is seen as "bad". Visualize, if you will, that "bad" doesn't play a role. Further, think about those "just virgins" willing to accept "coochie" from anyone. We could wonder about why being "just a virgin" is considered a problem in men, to the helplessness portrayed in the tag that they don't have the ability to discriminate and appear to accept "anyone regardless of who they are".

If we can embrace simpery, the world would have women who are considered worthy "regardless of who they are". Men would find the freedom to moon over "anyone regardless of who they are" without feeling the need to discriminate between "good" women and "bad" women. Especially "just virgins". Imagine how much pressure we would take off of both genders, and other genders as well, if we could stop frowning upon a chap being nice to a girl every now and then.

Let go of the macho! Embrace simpery!

Neither “happy” Nor “holy” this Holi

For about a week there was a buzz on the Whatsapp groups in the residential complex: kids were chucking water balloons at other kids from the higher floors. There was deconstruction of mass and velocity, and even a photograph of a pinked neck of a victim. They buzzed about parents not educating their children; they even wondered if the RWA (residents’ welfare association) would put out a notice about it. But the water cannons uh, balloons continued to shoot and maim. No one had the power to put a stop to it.

Holi has been, for me, a day during which I prefer to hide and pretend that I am not home. There are some awful memories of childhood bullying that was rampant, my elder brother being a victim one crucial year after which both of us gave up “playing” this barbaric game. “Mud baths” were given to people - after the colour and water balloons ran out. Many of us did not enjoy this. But we still participated up to a point. Why?

Perhaps we did not know better, and when we did, we chose to hide. That was a reality we could create and control. Not the one outside, because in its very nature lay the seeds of hooliganism.

It is, and has always been, borderline barbaric, even in those incarnations that use colour (which some of us were, inevitably, allergic to) without the water balloons. From the legendary Krishna chasing the young girls in an archetypal molestation that did not create a #metoo, through the ages when it became a free-for-all in which boys were emboldened, often aided by free-flowing bhang, to touch girls inappropriately under cover of the “festival”. I remember how scared we sometimes felt traveling to school in public transport in the run up to the festival. They were everywhere, the handsy colourful half-men who were just looking for a little opening to do to one what they would not have openly dared on any other day.

It is a day in which bullying is given authority, victims either play the sport, or sneak away before being battered, and the adult world is content with the chant “bura na mano, Holi hai”.

Even a Toothpick

Every time I see a toothpick, I think of my father. Last summer, when he was hospitalised for various problems including malfunctioning kidneys, he taught me yet another lesson. Without meaning to, of course. 

After a meal, he used the toothpick that the hospital had provided to clean his teeth. Then he took out a tissue, used an edge to clean the toothpick. His attendant moved forward to take both from his hands, but he waved the guy away. Carefully, he rolled the toothpick into the tissue and put it in his pocket. “It is not to be thrown away without being used fully,” he told the room in general.

Who recycles a toothpick and a part of a tissue, I wondered. Not rhetorically. I wondered in a very real way about the mind of someone who did not see even a toothpick as something to use and throw - well, at least, not throw it away till it had stopped being useful.

A long time ago he told me about how poor the family was when he got married to my mother. I was ribbing him in a friendly way about her having brought a lot of furniture - “dowry” I called it - and we were bantering about the life and times of his youth. Suddenly, he stopped bantering and said with complete seriousness. “We needed her to bring that furniture. We were so poor that there wasn’t even a bed for her to sleep on, so she had to bring one,” he told me. I felt humbled by his admission. I felt privileged to be sitting in a huge house that he and my mother had saved up to build - that they had worked every day of their lives till they retired to ensure that neither my brother nor I had to go through that sort of hardship. It is so very easy to take one’s life for granted. And it wasn’t only the house. It was the education - the best that they could afford - which gave us our foundations. 

I must confess that I have had my eye on the sofa set that my mother brought in her “dowry” and have been trying to persuade my father to let me have it. But he simply won’t. Not because he does not have a far more expensive one now. Or because he can’t buy a dozen. But because, I guess, this is one of the few objects to hold on to since my mother passed away. Curious, though. Most of my memories of their interactions throughout my childhood and adulthood is of the two of them bickering - nagging each other for something or the other till one or the other snapped. I wouldn’t have thought that he would feel sentimental about the furniture, especially since I was only interested in the sofa set - not everything else.

It isn’t just a matter of sentiment in the sense of where it has a connection to my mother. I think there is this “waste not, want not” idea that guides his life. None of us ever leaves any food on our plates - even if we are full to bursting, there is absolutely no way that we waste food. This was one of their teachings. As a child, I suffered much trauma as I was not allowed to leave the table till every grain of rice had been eaten. I tried once or twice to stuff my mouth with the last bits and go and spit it out in the bathroom. But every time I was caught. How the hell did they guess what I was about to do? Luckily, I grew up and never had this problem again because I would only serve myself the amount that I could eat without overdoing it.

Now, I appreciate this thing they taught me - and I try without much success to teach Pooky and Tyger (and people in school too) to know the value of what has been put on the plate by the labour of someone else. I did not need lessons in the “interbeing” to learn not to waste. 

I think the whole idea of hanging on to the sofa, the toothpick, the tissue, all stem from the same place. Look after the earth by not wasting its resources. Interestingly, my father would never proclaim that he is an environmentalist. He has never preached “reduce-reuse-recycle”; but he has practiced it and taught us to do the same. 

Every time I put an unused tissue into my pocket or bag, I know that it is my father who is doing this. Every time I hang on to a toothpick that I haven’t yet used, I know that deep inside me my father lives and thrives. And each time, I remember the hospital, and I know that each little thing in this world has some value, and indeed that it has the right to be valued - even a semi-used toothpick.