I was very happy when my daughter’s school responded positively to my suggestion that they should start online classes. That was at the beginning of April, a week or so into the lockdown. I thought no matter what they managed to come up with, it would help to reduce the burden when schools resume, as my daughter is in the all-important Tenth grade now.

First came the assignments on WhatsApp, with the title distance education. Some dozen PPTs, short videos, Q&As and DIY assignments later, I knew more than ever about COVID-19, personal hygiene and face masks; I also squeezed in an educational viewing of the movie Contagion with my daughter.

Next was the ABP-Bengali channel live ICSE class trial sessions. Yes, a bad dream that ended quickly.

Then things started happening. Parents were asked to download the Zoom app. A formidable timetable with lessons to be covered followed.

The government diktat to play safe with the Chinese app was dealt with through a Zoom session with parents being given clear directives: “Stay in the same room when the class is on. Switch off all other apps - especially those for online payments. Mute video. Mute audio but switch on to answer questions in class. Attend classes in an enclosed room. Monitor the child’s ‘active’ participation etc.”

First Class: Biology. For some reason, it turns into a recorded YouTube video. Daughter beams at me through the day. I am distracted by my work. Towards evening, she asks me the correct pronunciation of gamete and zygote. Oh, ok – the class was on reproductive health and she is enlightened and it appears quite happy to know the goings-on in the adult world.

As the classes continue, I turn into a silent participant (phone/laptop are “in use” anyway). I close the window to shut out the barking of a neighbour’s dog. But what about the sheep bleating? I tell my daughter to alert her friends – perhaps one of them lives on a farm. After all, it is the green suburbs on the outskirts of Bangalore. Daughter gives the eye-roll, shushing me.

The goat/sheep bleats again. Alarmed, I say, “I told you, there it is…” She whispers: “Ma, you are embarrassing me - that is my classmate. You know boys…” Now I don’t react to the farm animals, the deliberate heavy breathing, and the tortured sighs.

The Physics class is on about ‘Force’ and the video is not working! I tie myself up in knots as the paper and hand appears and disappears – each time a sizeable portion of the ‘workings’ or ‘diagrams’ seems to have been completed.

“Are you following?” I ask the 14-year-old, worriedly. She gives me a look of disdain, as she slams a finger on her lips, eyes all icy.

Time for the language class…the Kannada teacher is speed reading ‘Natya Mayuri’ and I am transported back to my college days and a more in-depth study of Shanthala.

The voice turns metallic, the network is bad and I hear students groaning, “M’am, M’am, your voice is breaking, we can’t hear you, we can’t understand…” I am tasked (through sign language) to WhatsApp the class teacher. A slew of messages follow. Class ends.

The Chemistry teacher decides to reschedule the class. I learn that I have neglected to track the WhatsApp message, leaving the daughter stranded in the ‘Waiting Room” at the Zoom meeting. That’s supposed to be parental negligence, according to the daughter. For she was given a virtual rap on the knuckles with a few others for crowding outside.

I try to clear the air but am ticked off for drowning the teacher’s voice when the intricacies of chemical bonding were being explained. I try to leave the room in a huff, but no I am not allowed such luxuries. I am supposed to stay put and, Thank God, I did, for who would have quickly plugged in the charger to the Bluetooth earpiece that died?

The English class I knew would be a breeze because my daughter loves the subject. As it turned out, not all do. I discovered that when I stumbled upon ‘the backbench’ of video sharing apps: the screen share.

Even as the types of speech were being explained, I saw a lot of scribbling and the words HATE appear magically on my laptop – now in the sole custody of my daughter. She smiled and told me it was a ‘hostel’ boy in action. “What if the teacher sees,” I asked in trepidation. “She may have been blocked out,” said my daughter sagely.

A lot of time during the History class on the ‘Growth of Nationalism’ was taken up by the teacher on Zoom etiquette. “Who is Rocker? I don’t want Boss attending my class…” was her plaintive cry.

I peeped in on her Geography class on ‘Soil’ too. This teacher was very interactive and asked a lot of questions. I was on tenterhooks and prompted my daughter who was answering too softly, “louder, louder – tell your name too.”

I was at the receiving end of that look of disgust again. “Mom, she is naming the student and asking the question…I have the habit of telling the answer under my breath,” she protested. I retreated into my crouching position on the bed, proud all the same that she knew all the answers.

Then finally, it appeared she was asked a question. For her voice rang into the air as she listed all the components of soil loud and clear. The door to the bedroom where we were huddled for the Zoom session was flung open noisily as her father barged in excitedly with a “Thumbs Up” sign. It was my turn to do the eye-roll and look-of-scorn routine. Hubby beat a hasty retreat.



