Meet the teachers

Compared to the simple, straightforward parent-teacher meetings in India, where you meet one class teacher, dust your hands and go for a movie, the Singapore equivalent is a complex algorithm designed to confound aeronautical engineers. Not knowing this the first time I got invited to one, I responded with foolish
enthusiasm.

It was a balmy day in April — or October, but definitely balmy (it’s always balmy in Singapore) — when my son returned from school with an envelope.

“It’s for you,” he announced, “You’re both invited to meet my teachers next month.”

“Wow!” I said, excited, “How come? Did you top the class? Are they giving you a medal?”

“No, no, of course not,” he corrected me (a bit hastily, I thought),

“It’s a routine parent-teacher meeting. Here,” he opened the envelope and showed me a list - “you can select up to seven teachers from this list.”

“Why only seven? I want to meet more.”

“I’ve taken seven subjects, Appa,” he said in the same annoying, patient tone he uses when helping me with a computer problem,

“So which of the seven do you want to meet?”

“Is this free or do they charge per teacher?”

It was a serious question. Despite charging healthy tuition fees, this school is notorious for extracting money from parents on any pretext: for examinations, field trips, annual concerts… They even “allow” our children to sometimes go to school not wearing their uniform (but wearing something else of course) and ask me to pay a few dollars for the privilege.

When I was assured that the parent-teacher meeting was free, I naturally put a tick mark against all seven teachers’ names. Soon, we got the schedule for the parent-teacher meeting. It was in three columns: the first had the list of time slots, the second the names of the teachers (with their initials in brackets) and the third the table number. We were to meet the first teacher from 17:11 to 17:18 hours and the second from 17:18 to 17:25 hours. After meeting four teachers back-to-back, we had a seven minute break, then two teachers at a stretch, another seven-minute break and then the final teacher from 18:00 to 18:07 hours.

This fierce-looking table was accompanied by a map showing the hall’s floor plan, with rows of desks in straight lines, each inscribed with a number and the initials of the teacher.

After gazing at both documents for fifteen minutes with my mouth open, I figured out what to do. Starting with the time-table, I identified the first teacher on my list and located her initials in the map: she was assigned to table 32, the second table on the fourth row from the left. On my schedule, I numbered this table “A” (cleverly using the alphabet to avoid confusion with the table numbers). I did the same thing for the second teacher, marking her table (number 56) “B”. I drew a path from table 32 to 56 (straight to table 42, right-angle turn, straight to table 56). I then repeated this process for all the teachers, carefully including the two breaks when we had to sit in a “Waiting Area”. At the end of forty-five minutes, I had produced a mishmash of crisscrossing lines that was a wonder to behold (see Figure 1).

“Look at this,” I said to my wife, my voice brimming with satisfaction, “Doesn’t it look like a war plan used by the Indian Army?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “I’ve never been privy to those plans. But as usual, you’ve complicated something simple. I know all Vishnu’s teachers… we don’t need a map.”

I was hurt to see my hour’s painstaking work dismissed so contemptuously and determined to prove her wrong. On the fateful day, therefore, I had the map in my hand.

Finding the first table was easy as we had arrived early. The interview started. But as the teacher spoke, I began to worry about finding the way to the next teacher, so I took out my map to locate the route. Doing this surreptitiously on a desk three feet square was difficult. The teacher paused and looked at me quizzically.

“Please carry on, Ms Grenshaw,” my wife said, jabbing me sharply with her elbow, “He’s just taking notes.” I was forced to write something on the map - in my fluster I covered some of my carefully-drawn arrows. Suddenly a bell rang: slot number 1 was over. Everyone began getting up.

“Hurry!” I cried, leaping from my seat. I trotted down the path marked by my arrows and arrived at my destination only to find another set of parents about to sit down. I realised my notes had obscured the correct path. Like Disney’s Wilbur Robinson, I had travelled into the future, reaching the sixth table on my list. In confusion, I retraced my path, found the right route and finally made it to the correct table, where my wife was calmly talking to the teacher.

“I told Mr Smith you’d be a few minutes late. Did you find the restroom?” she said. Then, prying the map out of my fingers, she continued: “I’ll take the notes from now on.” I did not protest.