FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

आओ बचपन सींचें - 6

चाहे कितने भी बड़े हो जाएँ, फिर भी हम सब हमेशा थोड़े-थोड़े बच्चे ही रहते हैं l नए कपड़े पहन कर बड़े भी इतराते हैं l जन्मदिन पर गिफ्ट पाकर बड़े भी खुश हो जाते हैं l 
जरूरी है बच्चा बने रहना और बच्चों से जुड़े रहना l  




FOND MEMORIES OF MY SCHOOL TEACHERS

A HUMBLE TRIBUTE


What could be a more appropriate subject for this week's post other than remembering the teachers who play an important but underrated role in our lives? 

My first thoughts were to write about the invaluable contribution of teachers in making us capable to face the challenges of life, however, I changed my mind for two reasons. 
First, all of us have written essays on 'My Favourite Teacher' or 'An Ideal Teacher' in schools that everything I would have written might sound cliched. Second, I am a teacher myself. My write-up to glorify teachers would sound like preaching or self-adoration. 
So, I chose to share memories of my teachers with you. 

My first school was St. John's Primary School at Barmer, Rajasthan. On the first day of school, my mother went to drop us (My Sister and I) to the school. Not ready to part with her, I went into hysterics and clasped her sari. When nobody could console me, Mr. Mathew came forward. He held my right hand as my mother's sari was in the tight grip of my left hand. There was a tug-of-war between Mr. Mathew and me. After putting up a spirited fight and creating quite a spectacle, I lost to Mr. Mathew. Overpowering me, the robust teacher with a bushy moustache and Rajesh Khanna like hairdo, signalled my mother to leave. His heart changed colours like a chameleon the moment my mother left. Giving me a tight slap, he sent me to my class. Another thing I remember about Mr. Mathew is his strange habit of pinching on the thighs of boys whenever they made a mistake. We wore knickers and his fingers bit our tender flesh like forceps. Though I have unpleasant memories of him but he made me sit in a classroom on the first day of my fifteen-year-long unforgettable and happening school life. 

Ms. Suman Kashyap was the headmistress at Happy Time Public School where I studied for grades one, two and three. Once seeing me crying, I don't remember why I was, Ms. Suman came to me and held me in her arms. When I didn't stop sobbing, she cuddled me like a mother. She was the same for every child. Soft-spoken, always smiling, cracking jokes and an ideal kindergarten teacher. Children loved to be in her company. She was everyone's favourite.
I was fond of her at that time but as I grew up, my fondness changed into reverence.

At National Victor Public School, Mr. Virender Singh taught me mathematics in grade four. My memories of him are significant to my making into a mathematics teacher.
After distributing the half-yearly exams answer-sheets to the whole class except me, he asked, "Who is Gaurav Sharma?"

Stunned by this undue summon, I timidly stood up. I knew I hadn't topped.
"You've got 17...passing marks. And, you can see I have given you undeserved marks here and there because I liked your name. (GAURAV used to be a rare name those days). In lieu of this favour, I want you to promise to do better next time."
I nodded like a robot but his words and gesture did motivate me. I managed to get fifty percent marks in mathematics which was a hurdle for me to be among the first three ranks in the class.
Virender Sir's words kept on haunting me and pushed me for improvement year after year. The progress, however, was gradual.

Pune was a new atmosphere. I was at Air Force School, Viman Nagar, Pune for classes six, seven and eight. I was like a rustic simpleton who had landed into a metropolis. The first day, class Six, when Mrs. Chawla, our English teacher, asked me to read from the textbook, I pronounced "Come on" as "Common". My classmates burst into laughter. Mrs. Chawla corrected me. Nervous, I still read it wrong. The class repeated their chortling. Mrs. Chawla reprimanded them and asked me to read it again. I think I got it right after six or seven attempts. That was quite an embarrassment. Mrs. Chawla didn't give up on me. She used to call me at her home and gave me grammar lessons. She would ask me to read the lessons aloud and corrected me when I mispronounced a word. That was going several miles farther to help a weak student. It was unfortunate I could not meet her when I visited Pune in July this year as she was in the US at that time. But I always remember her when somebody admires my writing skills.

The Goddess of Mathematics finally smiled at me.
The first day in class 7, as the bell for the second period rang, clad in a cotton sari and simple flat leather moccasins, with a single long braid and a small black 'bindi', a motherly figure walked in the class. She was Mrs. Seema Aglawe, the teacher to whom I owe my interest in mathematics. The way she taught, took away all my fear. For my newly found fascination, I started practicing math as and when I had nothing else to do.

 

I had and still have great respect for madam Aghlawe. I wrote a poem in Hindi for her and gave it to her.
I left the Air Force School and took admission in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Pune.
Years went by.
After my father took voluntary retirement from the Air Force, we settled in Delhi and shifted to Ghaziabad after some years. Going back to Pune to meet my teachers and friends never happened.
Finally, after 30 years, life took me back to Pune on the pretext of my son's admission. I yearned to meet my teachers and friends who were connected with me through social media. I thought it was an opportunity to get the cover of my book unveiled by my teachers and seeking their blessings.
When a friend told me that Mrs. Aghlawe had consented to come, my joy knew no bound. Meeting her after thirty years and being a mathematics teacher for more than twenty years all because of her would have been a pleasure akin to the fulfilment of the final wish.
But...but...but... teachers give you more than you expect.
When Mr. Rakesh Trigunait, my elder brother like a friend, asked me to share my memories of my teachers, I said that madam Aghlawe might not remember that I had once written a poem for her.

 "Do you have that poem with you? " Mrs. Aghlawe countered.

I shook my head. Madam fished into her handbag and took out a diary. A paper was carefully preserved between the pages. "I still have that poem, " she said proudly.

         "Read it for everyone, " she instructed me. I was in tears. Seeing me overwhelmed, she stood up to read it herself.

She had also replied to my poem but I somehow had forgotten about that. After my poem for her, she recited her reply to me which she had copied in her diary.

 

I got the best gift of my life. While writing this, I am still in tears. Great teachers have humble ways in which their greatness manifests. Their greatness is not subjected to a few acknowledgments. She gave me a valuable lesson that day. 

Madam Naseem, who taught us Chemistry is an exemplary teacher. She is still teaching at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in Pune.



I was jealous of my classmate Saddamma as he played better cricket than me though I was better in studies. One day, madam Naseem asked Saddamma what his future plans were after his dismal performance in a periodic test. He replied that he wanted to take admission to the best college in the city after class ten so that he can play cricket at a higher level. "No chance bro...maybe in next birth," I said smugly. Perturbed by my unwarranted intervention, Ms. Naseem, took a few deep breaths. She asked me to stand up. What followed was exactly what an ideal teacher ought to do in that situation.
She inquired about the reason for my jealousy. Then, she told me to help Saddamma with maths and science. In return, she asked Saddamma to help me improving my cricketing skills. Saddamma and I complied and became good friends. I humbly bow to Madam Naseem.







Madam Oak taught us Hindi in class 7.





I still remember a poem she taught us and made us learn it by heart.

"हम पंछी उन्मुक्त गगन के 

पिंजरबद्ध ना उड़ पाएँगे 

कनक तीलियों से टकराकर 

पुलकित पंख टुट जाएँगे "

She is so soft speech compliments her prowess in Hindi and instills calmness in her listeners.
With her efforts, our school had become a study centre of "राष्ट्र भाषा प्रचार समिति" that worked for promoting Hindi. I enrolled in the course and passed the exam with good marks. Madam Oak used to teach her after school hours. I proudly show the certificate I received to my kids. 


Mrs. Sita Lakshmi was the oldest teacher in the school. She used to be my class teacher in grade seven. We called her 'All-rounder" because she could teach any subject to any class. A short and frail figure, she must have been over fifty-five at that time but came to school on a moped. Riding at a good speed, she entered like 'Hermoine Granger'. We often rove around the school gate to witness her 'grand' entry.

Mr. Thakur was my History teacher in grade eight. He had hardly any hair and wore a buttoned driving cap. Coming to the class, he sat on the chair behind the teacher's desk and removed his cap. Then he would teach us the lesson as if he was narrating a story without consulting the textbook. I still remember his story about the battle of Plassey- how Mir Jafar betrayed Siraj ud-Dauhla and the conflict between Mir Jafar and Mir Kasim.

After class eight, I took admission at Kendriya Vidyalaya No. 3 at Chandan Nagar in Pune.





Mrs. Veena Kaul was my class teacher. She was strict but compassionate. A Science teacher who gives relatable examples from day-to-day life makes this subject even more interesting. 
In class ninth, I had stiff competition for the first rank with Khyali Dutt Sharma (I have given the same name to a character in my book 'LOVE @ AIR FORCE'). Madam Veena encouraged both of us. Seeing that competition was so tough that even half mark could make a difference, she declared, "I will not round off the marks. Whatever weightage comes out, I will consider it and will carry out the calculations in decimals."






That was sheer thoughtfulness of a dedicated and impartial teacher. Now, Khyali and I knew that even one-tenth of a mark can make a difference. We worked hard as if we were at war. On the day of the result, I had a clan of mice in my stomach.

I had stood first with a difference of 0.2 marks. I still have that report card. When I see it, I feel proud. The pride is not about beating Khyali but about having a devoted and thoughtful class-teacher.


Swati Dubey ma'am taught me Social Science in class 9. 
I remember I was making a list of rations and requirements for the class picnic when she was teaching. After a while, she said, "Agar tera hisaab kitaab ho gaya ho to pay attention here. " ( If you are done with your budget-making, then pay attention to the lesson ). I wondered how she knew what I was doing. But, now I realise she was a teacher and I was a naive boy of 14.





She often addressed me Vaibhav and I responded without an inkling because I knew it was the name of her son. "You are like my son, " she would say when she realised she had called me by the wrong name.





I remember the efforts she put into an inter-school exhibition. We had to put up an exhibition on the culture, literature, festivals, famous personalities in one of the Indian states and one country. West Bengal for the Indian state and Russia for the country were her prompt choices. I was on the team of five boys she had chosen. Her guidance and knowledge steered our creativity. We worked hard and brought laurels to our school.









The same year, Mr. Ved Prakash Mishra taught us Hindi. How knowledgeable!
What authority over language!
I waited for his period every day.
He was my first teacher who not only read my poems but assessed them. Then, he called me to his room and explained my shortcomings elaborately.
Often, on Sundays, he called me to his house and talked about literature. He remembered numerous couplets and poems which he quoted while conversing. I had to sit with a pen and paper because his quotes were too intriguing to be missed.

                                       "  जीवन तो इति न अथ  है 

                                 जीवन एक साधना पथ है "

                                           " भूले भटके कभी तो मेरा नाम लिया जाएगा 
                                        आँसू जब सम्मानित होंगे मुझे याद किया जाएगा "

Our school celebrated "हिन्दी सप्ताह ".
There were various competitions on all six days.
I had won the first prize in the essay writing, debate and Antakshri. The last competition was poem-recitation. Mishra sir was one of the judges. 
Khyali Dutt had won the competition because Mishra sir had given me one point less than Khyali. 
I was hurt. My immaturity was not ready to admit that a teacher who said I was his favourite student could do that to me.
When he learnt about my disappointment, he called me in his room.

                                     " निश्छल, निष्कपट, निष्पाप  हो जाना चाहिए शीश 
                                              जब बन जाते हो आप न्यायाधीश "

He told me that my choice of the poem was wrong. It was short and had less scope for you to show variation in expression. On the other hand, Khyali had recited "अर्जुन की प्रतिज्ञा" that had anger, emotions, and fear. 
I agreed with him.

After I left Pune I wrote him letters and got replies from him every time.



May God bless all my teachers with health and happiness. 
I feel indebted to them for their love and guidance. Thank you, dear teachers...Thank you so very much.