As a child, I was a good girl. A very good girl. And hence, often the class-monitor -- a position that I held for the entire school year. If the teacher needed to go to the staff room, to the library or to talk with her love-interest, she made me stand at the front of the class, gave me a chalk to write on the black-board the names of students who talked during her absence. To my future chagrin, I obliged with sincerity. I stood by the teacher's table and watched 40 classmates, who gazed back at me with resignation or loathing. Every two minutes, a name made it to the blackboard. The teacher essentially had me tattle on my classmates. And thanked me for my efforts. Decades later, during a parent teacher conference with my child's elementary school teacher in the U.S. of A, I got a crash course in tattling versus reporting. Never mind why I was served the course. .