Logging out of adulthood: ‘Dil toh still bachcha hai ji’ style

The world may have come to a grinding halt during COVID, but education refused to be quarantined. Teachers across the globe, armed with nothing but determination and dodgy Wi-Fi, reinvented themselves as digital warriors. We, too, turned our home into a buzzing hub of virtual classrooms. Each adult, being an educator, laid claim to a separate room, transforming bedrooms into lecture halls and kitchens into seminar spaces. The children, no less ambitious, tucked themselves into nooks and crannies, logging in with the seriousness of CEOs.

But amid this disciplined chaos was one tiny rebel: my three-year-old niece. For her, “online education” was less about ABCs and nursery rhymes and more about wrestling with devices bigger than her face. She would stare blankly at teachers who appeared like mysterious moving stickers on the screen. While the rest of us adapted to the brave new digital world, she reminded us—with her yawns and frowns—that learning can’t be downloaded.

Since her mother was too busy conducting her own classes, the Herculean task of making my mischievous little niece attend hers fell upon her elder siblings—and, occasionally, upon me. The child, looking angelic in her tiny school uniform, would be parked at a desk with a mobile phone propped in front of her like some high-tech babysitter. But of course, the real work began behind the camera. One of us had to crouch there, mouthing the teacher’s words and flailing our arms about, so the little madam could faithfully imitate and appear like the most obedient student in class.

Dance periods, however, took the prize. While she twirled and pranced earnestly before the screen, we poor “invisible assistants” performed in the background—sweating, spinning, and stomping like backup dancers in a badly rehearsed music video. The teacher got a star performer; the audience saw a graceful child, but the real circus was behind the camera.

Of course, not every day was smooth sailing with our pint-sized pupil. There were times when the little truant flatly refused to sit, speak, or so much as glance at the camera. While the teacher dutifully called out her name, she saw nothing but an empty chair, because the star of the show was usually hiding under the desk or playing peek-a-boo behind the curtains.

That’s when our bargaining skills were put to the ultimate test. Chips, chocolates, soft drinks, and every snack in the kitchen suddenly became bribes in our desperate negotiations. “Just one rhyme for a biscuit,” we pleaded, or “Finish this song and earn a cola.” Her trademark excuse was always, “I’m hungry!” It didn’t matter if she’d just polished off a pack of chips; hunger was her all-purpose shield against alphabets and counting.

It’s hard to believe that four years have passed since the lockdown. Those chaotic yet comical scenes of online classes have slowly faded into the dusty corners of memory, while life has obediently marched back to its daily grind. Yet, every now and then, they sneak back, especially on mornings when my own inner child throws a tantrum.

On such days, I stare at the alarm clock with the same defiance my niece once reserved for her online teacher. Instead of rushing to work, I feel like slipping under the blanket or vanishing behind the curtains, hoping the world will forget I exist. Professional duties, social gatherings, endless errands—surely they can all survive a day without me?

What I really need, I realise, is the same magic formula we once used on her: bribery. If only someone would wave a bar of chocolate or a bag of chips in front of me and say, “Come on, finish this report and earn a cookie”. There are days when the child in me refuses to fall in line with the world’s classroom. I don’t want to dance to society’s complicated choreography or hum along to its endlessly recycled tunes. Instead, I long to channel my inner nursery rebel and declare, “I’m sleepy!” or “I’m hungry”, shut my eyes to the outside world or gleefully hit the metaphorical “log out” button.

But alas, the universe has stricter rules for adults. Nobody is going to bribe me with a chocolate bar to attend a meeting, or tempt me with chips to show up at a social function. Deadlines and responsibilities don’t respond to tantrums.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, that stubborn child hums a tune of its own, “Dil toh bachcha hai ji…” Perhaps that’s why, even as I juggle the seriousness of adulthood, I secretly wish life came with snack-based incentives and the option to hide under a desk now and then.

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