I was a lecturer at the University of Yangon since the early 1960s. Before that, I served about three years as a middle school teacher in my hometown of Taungdwin-gyi. At the risk of being thought boastful, I must say that I was considered quite a good teacher at both posts. Actually I had thought it was nothing much: one becomes known as a ‘good teacher’ without too much effort or talent. However, what I encountered on my trip home in 1963 shook me. 

I arrived just as the schools reopened for the new semester and I realised I had been way off the mark with my evaluation of ‘good teaching.’ 

Let me explain. 

On that visit to Taungdwin-gyi, I liked to spend my time at the Shwe In Taung pagoda, where a little museum had been set up. I was one of the directors of the museum along with some of my best friends, so we liked to meet there in the evenings. On my way to the museum I would drop in at the primary school next to the pagoda to inform my friend, U Nyan Sein who teaches there, that I’d be waiting for him. He was also an art teacher but he also taught reading and writing to the newest children in school: the kindergarten. 

One day I stood at the door of his class to tell him to come along to the museum afterwards. He was drawing something on the blackboard: I watched to see what it would be. His class of five-year-olds waited silently. After a few deft strokes they recognised a popular cartoon character, as I did.

“It’s Master Tortoise!” they cried as one. 

U Nyan Sein added a walking stick. 

“He’s holding a walking stick!” the kids chorused again. 

Then, “He’s smoking a pipe!” 

U Nyan Sein turned towards his children. “One day, Master Tortoise was out walking, and who do you think he met?” 

He turned back to the board and started another drawing at the other end.

 “Master Rabbit!” the children shrieked in one voice. 

“Well, Master Rabbit said to Master Tortoise...” 

He seemed to be making up the tale as he went. I did not remember any of it as I just waved at him and left. 

“You can listen, too!” he called with a laugh. I told him I’d see him that evening. 

For two or three days I would just see him making drawings and telling stories so I asked him why he was not teaching anything. 

“I can teach reading and writing anytime,” he replied. “Yes, it’s true, I mean it, but right now it’s important that children enjoy school; they must love coming to school, not fear it. It’s the most important step.”

 I reflected that it might well be true and the next day decided to spend more time watching him at work. 

There was one young boy in the front row crying his eyes out. 

He would not look at the drawings nor listen to the story: he cried steadily and without any sign of stopping. He would often glance out of the window and I saw an elderly lady, probably his grandmother, sitting under a nearby Tamarind tree. 

After a while U Nyan Sein called out to the lady:

 “Please go home, Daw Aye Thar, don’t worry about him. As long as you’re there I won’t be able to stop him crying.”

At this the boy’s sobs turned to shrieks. The grandmother looked reluctant to move. 

“This is awful,” he said to me. “It’s much worse handling these old dames than the kids."

Then he called to her “At least, please go around the corner where he can’t see you.” 

The old lady moved away slowly. The howls of the boy shook the room. 

U Nyan Sein went on with his story while the kid sobbed on. This went on for some minutes until U Nyan Sein paused to look at the boy with a slight smile on his face. 

“Now, class, it seems this little boy could not use up all his crying, that’s why he can’t stop. Why don’t you all cry so that it will be used up quickly? 

The other kids immediately went into a loud pantomime of crying: they sobbed earnestly, rubbing their eyes, howling in glee. The room rang with their ‘sobs.'

The boy stopped crying in amazement, looking around in confusion. Then the other kids stopped. I could not help chuckling at the sight of it.

 U Nyan Sein went on with his tale. After a while, the boy started again: and again the others joined him, crying together to ‘use it all up.’ There were no more tears from anyone, real or fake, after that.

The next day I went early to his class. That kid looked as if he had been crying but was not at the moment. Their teacher looked happy and excited. He called to the class: “Hey, today I’m going to give you some plums, you want them?”

 “Yeessss!” answered the kids. 

“Fingers up those who want plums!” 

The little fingers flew up. The kid who liked to cry did not raise his hand but gaped up at his teacher: would there really be plums, he seemed to be wondering. So was I. 

U Nyan Sein turned to the board. He drew a circle, and put a stem at the top. “Here’s a plum...who first? You, you’re the youngest...here it comes!” 

He pretended to pluck the fruit from the blackboard and threw it at a child who pretended to catch it and ate it with a smack of his lips. The class roared in appreciation. 

“Here’s another!” He drew the next one and threw it. “Here’s one that is not sweet,” he said, “It’s not very round, it’s sort of longish. But anyway, see how sour it is.”

The kid he threw it to puckered up his lips. “It’s very sour!” The other kids screamed with laughter. There were loud cries of “Me! Me next!”

“And this one is rotten, it must taste awful”, he continued, drawing a wobbly circle. 

The kid he threw it to made the appropriate face.

 The class of five year olds were having a time of their lives; the plum picking session was a great success.

The next day I learnt that a new step was being taken.

 “Today, I’m going to buy plums from you, five at a time” he announced. “But only the sweet ones will get paid with a mark. I won’t buy sour or rotten ones so you won’t get a mark. Now see how a sweet plum is made.....here...” 

He drew a very round circle clock-wise on the blackboard. 

“And a rotten plum is this,” he said, drawing the circle anti-clock-wise. 

The kids made motions in the air with their little hands when he showed them. 

“Like this! Not like this!” they chanted after him. 

I wondered how he would check on writing anti-clock-wise, since he could not be watching all the kids at once. 

A little voice piped up: “Teacher, he’s drawing a rotten plum, like this!” his little hand waving in the anti-clockwise move. 

His neighbour said, drawing in the air, “No, no, I’ll write it like this!” making clock-wise motions with his hands. Aha, I thought, the kids check each other. 

So that was all the plum picking was all about: the Myanmar alphabet is based on the circle and the letters are in that sense deviations of the sweet plum, a very round little circle. 

The kids set to with a will, drawing ‘plums’ on their slates. 

After writing five ‘plums’ each, they brought their slates for inspection. 

“Now this is sour, next time I won’t buy it,” he’d say. “But this time

I will,”  and made a mark. The kid went away happy.

 The little cry-baby came up shyly. 

“Hey, you may cry a lot but your plums sure are sweet!” U Nyan Sein told him. The boy scampered back to his place, very happy, and I noticed that he came up often and happily, to show more plums.

 The next day a new lesson started. He asked each one to stand up, and to announce their names. Then he drew a ‘Ka’ (First letter of the alphabet) on the black board. 

“Now, you all have names...tell me your names, one by one...now that’s a pretty name! What a fine one!...and what nice names you all have. Listen, he’s got a name, too, it’s ‘Ka’...don’t forget now, you like to be called by your very own name, right? So does he.”

It went on like this all through the alphabet.

 After seeing my friend at work, I was truly shaken; was I as good a teacher, was I doing as much good for my students as he is? 

The End....