My favourite were Chatto’s poetry classes. Our ICSE syllabus featured works at least a century old and written by dead white men, but Ma’am Chatto always brought their words to life. Perched precariously on the edge of her desk, she’d sit ramrod-straight, one hand clutching the book and the other tracing elaborate circles à la Porphyria. She wouldn’t just read the poems aloud; she’d recite them and perform them. That’s how we learned about the nuances of rhyme, rhythm and meter – from hearing Ma’am Chatto recite poetry. Years later, while watching Dead Poets Society for the first time, I had goosebumps during the scene in which Mr Keating explains the importance of poetry to his disinterested students. He says, “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.” These may well have been Chatto’s words. Ma’am Chatto didn’t know this, but I’d always dreamed of being a writer. The problem was, as a teenager, I put my literary idols on pedestals. The stories and poems I read in books seemed perfect and my half-baked first drafts paled in comparison. Most times, I didn’t even try working on them. Chatto was the first person to tell me about famous writers’ struggles, self-doubt and failures. She gave us juicy details about their lives to show us that these celebrated literary figures were actually quite like us; flawed, quirky and remarkably human. I came to see them as mortals who had lived lives filled with love, pain, wonder, longing, loneliness and hope, and who created beautiful art out of these emotions and experiences. I learned that to write, one must first experience life. I was a shy, introverted bookworm who preferred reading over talking to people. Believe it or not, my literature teacher helped me realise the importance of putting the book down and actually paying attention to life unfolding around me. Without this, I may well have never become a writer.She gave us juicy details about their lives to show us that these celebrated literary figures were actually quite like us; flawed, quirky and remarkably human.
Chatto did more than just lecture us about Romantic poetry in the afternoons. She made literature accessible and relevant to a generation that was swiftly getting addicted to BlackBerry messenger, online multiplayer games and social media. She’d effortlessly draw parallels between the East and West, the Classic and the Modern, serving up the world’s greatest writing and best ideas to us in a delectable mix. One of our early classes was devoted to dissecting ‘Asterix and Obelix’, which she believed was as literary as anything in our syllabus. She encouraged lively debates in class: Who was the better detective, Poirot or Feluda? Did the Sonam Kapoor-starrer Aisha do justice to Austen’s brilliance? Did Shakespeare really write all the works attributed to him? Chatto taught us how to think for ourselves– she was our only school teacher who beamed with joy when we disagreed with her interpretation of a line or a verse. In Dead Poets Society, Mr Keating tells his students “When you read, don’t just consider what the author thinks, consider what you think.” Over two years with Chatto, I learned to develop my own perspective on art and on life. It’s been over a decade since I was in Chatto’s class, but every year on Teacher’s Day, every time I read a new piece of poetry or an old favourite, every time I see Robin Williams’ smiling face in a still from Dead Poets Society, I fondly think of her.One of our early classes was devoted to dissecting ‘Asterix and Obelix’, which she believed was as literary as anything in our syllabus.
