This Lesson is a Gift

An interesting thing happened the other day. My class XI students and I were reading “The Accursed House,” a 19^th century French satire by Emile Gaboriau. The story is about a nobleman who inherits an apartment building from his recently deceased, miserly uncle. When he learns that the uncle had been charging a high rental rate, the nobleman, out of pure altruism, decides that he will lower the rate by one-third. When his decision is announced, the tenants begin to wonder why the nobleman made such a drastic change in the rent. They think that there is something wrong with the apartment, conjecturing that it must be poorly built, or that soon the nobleman will burn it down in order to collect the insurance money. Conspiracies build and the tenants accuse the nobleman of being a criminal, running a counterfeiting operation in the basement, harboring Prussian spies. They distrust his altruism so much that they begin hearing haunting noises in the building and seeing ghosts. In the end, because the nobleman lowered his tenants’ rent, every one of them fled the building, leaving it forever empty and “accursed.”

When I asked my students to identify what the author was satirizing, I was disappointed with their responses. It seemed like they had an inability to discern the obvious. They guessed that perhaps the satire was about being superstitious, or that sometimes buildings are poorly constructed. The best guess—asking if the satire was about the contagiousness of rumors—still seemed like they missed the point entirely. Again I analyzed my pedagogy. Did I fail at explaining the difficult vocabulary or the general plot? Did they misunderstand the whole story, or just a critical part?

I pointed out the central satire for them. “Humans distrust generosity,” I explained. “If someone gives us a gift for no reason, our tendency is to question the person’s motives.”

The students diligently wrote down my explanation. But when they looked up, still, I could sense that they didn’t understand.

Frustrated, I explained, “Think about it. If someone just gives you a gift for no reason, you think that they have ulterior motives, right?” And as soon as the words slipped from my mouth, I thought about these past seven months in Bhutan. Not a week goes by without my neighbor knocking on my door and offering me fresh chilies or radishes or onions from his garden. My students come with candies and give them to me and the other teachers just because they have extras. Colleagues will drop off pickled foods at my door and when I visit people’s homes they offer me tea and beer and dinner, and I often leave with a bag filled with fruits and vegetables. And when there is no physical gift to give, still people will freely offer up compliments: Looking smart today, sir. Sir is as tall as a prayer flag. Sir, you have a very cool walk.

It clicked. Once again the day’s lesson was much more profound for me than it was for the students. I remembered how I joke with them when they give me such compliments. “Thanks, Tashi,” I say. “You get ten extra points today,” suggesting that he must have wanted something from me; why else would he give me a random compliment? I use that joke all the time. I think it’s hilarious.

“Maybe we should fix your notes, actually.” I attempted to correct my error, writing on the board: “Westerners distrust generosity.”

When they finished amending their notes, they all looked up at me. Still, the idea seemed difficult for them to understand. They appeared to be analyzing my very being for the explanation; I am the only westerner that most of them know. I wondered if they now questioned any kind gesture that I had done for them, any moment when I was generous. But then I asked myself if, aside from teaching, I’ve done anything generous for them for no reason at all. Have I given them gifts? Offered them food? Paid them compliments?

No. I don’t think I have.

*Note: As I was writing the first draft of this, another teacher came over and offered me a huge slice of cucumber.