First Day at CBM: A Stairway to Learning and Unexpected Connections

October 6, 2015

9:55 AM

CBM Office, Chamrajpet

I stood inside the CBM office at Chamrajpet, ready for the first day of the CBID training program. The class was scheduled to begin at 10 AM, but the lift in the basement had broken down. The security guard announced, “Naan lift restart-pannitte,” to the CBM employees. I quickly asked, “Stairs yenga errik?” and a kind lady pointed me toward the stairwell.

I climbed four flights of stairs, determined not to be late. On the third floor, I passed two women with physical disabilities also making their way up. I felt a pang of helplessness. The lift only worked till the third floor, and the electronic chair meant to assist them to the fourth wasn’t functioning. I wondered if they had taken the stairs all the way from the basement or had been dropped at the third. Either way, their quiet resilience stayed with me.

As I reached the fourth floor, I noticed Mr. M—someone I’d seen in the basement—already there. Later, I learned he was a clinical psychologist. The training room was empty, and I hesitated to enter until someone from the CBM team nodded me in. I chose a seat in the last row, next to the window, facing the whiteboard. Slowly, others trickled in.

Mr. B, the field coordinator of the CBID project, was on a call, guiding someone to the center. At 10:44 AM, Mrs. X, our resource person, entered and announced we’d wait another 5–10 minutes since it was the first day. She returned later with notebooks, file holders, and pens, which volunteers distributed. I counted—37 participants in total.

Then came Dr. Mrs. F, the program director, in a graceful brown saree. Her calm demeanor instantly impressed me. Mrs. X communicated in English and Tamil, while Dr. Mrs. F made a commendable effort to speak in Kannada. Mr. B, fluent in Kannada, helped bridge the language gap.

Most attendees were grassroots workers. I had applied for the previous batch but was told it was full. I pleaded to be allowed to stand and listen, but it wasn’t possible. So I paid and enrolled for the next batch. When I approached again, Mrs. X hesitated, saying I might not fit in with the grassroots crowd. I insisted—it would be a learning experience. She agreed.

Only five of us were there out of personal interest; the rest were employees of DDRC or CBM, attending as part of their work. Some were enthusiastic, others were nudged into it. As the room filled, a young woman, Ms. P, sat near me, leaving a seat between us. I took the liberty to move closer, and we clicked instantly.

After introductions and some warm exchanges between Mrs. X and Dr. Mrs. F, we were asked to pair up with someone we didn’t know and prepare to introduce them after a photo session and tea break. Something unexpected happened. Mr. B casually mentioned that I had requested to drop in late. I was taken aback. I hadn’t made any such request. It was a strange moment—one of those instances where you're unsure whether to correct someone or let it pass. I chose the latter, but it lingered in my thoughts. Misunderstandings like that can feel oddly personal, especially on a day when you're trying to find your footing in a new group.

Mrs. X paired me with Mr. A, roll number 2.

On the terrace, we lined up for a group photo. Mrs. X asked the younger ones to kneel. No one moved, so I did—feeling oddly youthful despite likely being one of the oldest in the group. The photographer turned out to be the same person I’d asked earlier about entering the room.

During tea, I volunteered to serve coffee. Another lady struggled with the tea container, so I took over both. It was a small act, but it felt good to help.

Back in the terrace, I chatted with Mr. A. He had done his 2nd PUC and was a leather technician, proud of his journey, and traveled 60 km daily for work. His motto: “Work is worship and time is money.” He had a son and a daughter. I shared my background too, though I realized it was hard for him to get my qualifications (BE + MA(psychology)—he didn’t ask, so I didn’t repeat. As I expected she introduced me to have done M Sc in Psychology. I let that pass too.

When it was time to introduce our partners, I was very bold yet hesitant about speaking in Kannada without slipping into English. I managed, though not perfectly. Ms. P appreciated my delivery, but I knew I had room to improve. I set myself a goal: speak fluent Kannada without English interjections over the next six months.

Later, Mr. V from the development team dropped by, saying he was there only for Dr. Mrs. F, who “loves what she does.” His words were simple but sincere.

Lunch break arrived. I had packed mine, but Ms. P hadn’t, so we stepped out for dosas. Before moving out, I did a little a little hi-fi with the toddler in the class. Among the participants was a lady with her toddler—about a year and a half old. What struck me was how silent and composed the child was throughout the session. Not a single disruption. The CBM team was incredibly supportive, helping the mother stay engaged in the learning process. It was heartwarming to witness such inclusion in action. I felt genuinely happy seeing how thoughtfully the team had created space for her. Ms P ate slowly; I used to be a fast eater but have mellowed. We returned in time for the afternoon session.

Afternoons are always tougher—attention wanes, energy dips. Mrs. X and Mr. B returned with Mrs. U, the admin who had just completed her silver jubilee at CBM. We were told that she was honored with a watch and praised for her dedication. Her Kannada was fluent, though she avoided direct eye contact. Something about her presence lingered in my thoughts.

Mr. B had to leave, so Mrs. X asked Mrs. U to help with Kannada translation. There was an unspoken tension. Mrs. X seemed reluctant, and eventually asked students to translate instead. Mrs. U quietly exited, perhaps feeling sidelined. I felt bad for the participants—many struggled with English, and the Kannada translations weren’t always clear. Still, the class continued.

Toward the end, Mrs. X asked for volunteers to serve as Points of Contact(POC). Ms. P raised her hand, and so did I. I wasn’t chasing a title—I simply wanted a way to connect with people, to learn their names and stories. I’ve always found it hard to remember names, and this role felt like a bridge to familiarity.

Mrs. X appreciated our enthusiasm but clarified that she needed three POCs: one for DDRC, one for another organization, and one for the general group—those of us not affiliated with any workplace. She chose Ms. P for the general group. I felt a twinge of disappointment. Then came another call for a volunteer—this time, a single POC for the entire team. Mr. M raised his hand. I didn’t. Mrs. X announced that he would share the role with me since I had volunteered earlier. I had already made peace with not being chosen, so the announcement didn’t stir much emotion. Still, it was a quiet moment of letting go.

By 4 PM, the class wrapped up. What stood out to me was the ritual of beginning and ending the session with a prayer—not religious, but grounding. It brought a sense of unity, a pause for reflection.

As we stepped out, I walked with Ms. P until Ramakrishna Ashram. She caught her bus, and I continued on foot, carrying with me the weight of the day—not heavy, but thoughtful.

This first day was more than just introductions and logistics. It was a mirror to my own expectations, a lesson in humility, and a reminder that learning happens in the quiet corners too—in the missed opportunities, in the shared tea, in the prayers that bookend our day.

More stories to unfold. Stay with me.