Little Masters: Stories about Children
Little Masters
(Stories about Children)
Mahesh Paudyal
To all those children of the world, who have
not been understood by the adults
A few words....
Most
of the stories in this collection have been derived from real-life situations,
while some are pure fictions. The ones that are real chronicle the tale of some
of my students whom I could never understand as a teacher. My readers, if they
are teachers might be pained by the revelation, but the experiences are my
personal, and hence are the confessions of my own weaknesses. Yet, I believe
that many teachers who read these stories will not be able to help biting their
lower lips on finding their own reflections in the stories, though they may never
tell it out or write for a thousand requests.
I am convinced that our
children get spoilt because we seldom try to understand their personal and
internal worlds. Our egos and vanities come and interfere, and we fall prey to
them. Consequently the children suffer.
Children to me are great philosophers,
who can teach us the colours of life; only that we need to acknowledge this
reality and befriend them. If this book can disseminate this message, I will count
my attempt as successful.
Thank you Dai and Bhauju. Thank
you Rama. Thank you Bikram and Sanjeev.
Mahesh Paudyal
Content
1.
Three Sleepless Nights
for a Gift
2.
An Aborted Tomorrow
3.
Anita and Three Rupees
4.
The True Face of Defeat
5.
Sushma
6.
I Will Tell Lie, Sir
7.
The Epileptic
8.
The Prodigal Children
9.
No Father, no Son
10.
The Fall of a Feather
11.
Nemish
12.
An Unanswered Question
13.
A Role-Model Denied
14.
The Lost Voice
15.
Speak English
Three Sleepless Nights for a Gift
“Ajay? I know that idiot. He is
good for nothing.”
“Ajay? Yes, I know him. He is a
nuisance.”
“Ajay? He is an impossible
case.”
And more and more and more….
That was my second day in the
school and these were the comments I heard about Ajay from his other teachers.
The discussion was triggered by an incident inside the class. Just the previous
day, I had been introduced to the class by the Academic Coordinator of the
school as the ‘class-teacher’ of grade four. The children had received me well,
and I had thought I could get along with them pretty easily. But the very next
day, I saw there was a rub.
Binisha took out a dry cake of cow-dung
from her bag and showed me as soon as I took their rolls. She complained that
she had found it inside her bag. I asked the class who did that. There was a
unanimous claim, “Sir; it’s Ajay.”
I asked who Ajay was, for I did
not know him. They showed me a lank boy who sat on the last bench. He looked
rough and rather defiant, and seldom looked at the teacher. He was busy in his
own world, and nothing seemed to bother him.
I asked Ajay, but he denied
having done that. I told Binisha I would look into the matter and inform her. I
also promised that the guilty would surely be punished. I took my class and
went out when the bell rang.
In the staff room, I wanted to
know more about Ajay. The comments above were made by fellow teachers, who
claimed they had been teaching the boy ever since he was in the kindergarten.
There was frustration in each of their comments.
One or two could be wrong; if
everyone said the same thing, I had reasons to believe. The blank account in my
mind got the impression: Ajay is an impossible case.
Days passed on. Opinions
however did not change. Ajay continued to be a ‘nuisance’. I got firmly
established among children and every time they had break time, they would come
to me. Ajay was no exception. He loved to come and stand by my side, and listen
to what I said. However, he never dared to come as near as Bikram or Bijay did.
I knew he had been made to believe that he should never come near to a
teacher, for he was a ‘nuisance’.
What bothered me was that I
never found any nuisance in him. He always listened to me, did the assignments
well, greeted and treated me as a decent student is expected to do, and made me
feel comfortable. He wrote his English examination well, followed the
grammatical rules, and improved handwriting. Once he even told his grandmother
that he liked English the best. Yet, he was a taboo, a stigma, a blot, and I
had to believe what all said. He failed every subject except English.
The school closed for the festival,
and we were notified that we would meet after a month. The children exchanged
wishes among themselves and did not forget to wish their teachers a happy
festival time. Ajay too wished me, “Happy Dashain and Tihar, Sir!” I received
his wishes with a smile, and wished him the same.
After the holidays, we met
again. As I was the class teacher, grade four got me in the class in the very
first period. I asked everyone how they celebrated the festivals. Everyone said
they had enjoyed a lot. After a casual small talk, I drew them into business
and wound the class up after a discussion for which they were not prepared.
Before I left the class, Ajay said, “Sir!”
“Yes, Ajay!”
“Sir, I have a gift for you!”
That sounded strange. Other
children started looking at one another. They knew Ajay and gift for a teacher
could never go together. They cheered up, for they anticipated a joke.
“Gift? For me?”
“Yes Sir, for you?”
I stopped. He had something
wrapped in coloured papers.
“Do not take it, Sir!” Binisha
warned me. “Last time, he had a snake
inside his snacks box.”
“Then?”
“Then he feigned that the cover
was too tight for him. He then asked mathematics teacher to open it. When he
did so, the snake raised its hood and the teacher fell down for fear. That was
however a plastic snake, thank God!”
I had reasons to believe
Binisha, for I had heard about the episode in the staffroom. I decided to
leave.
“Sir!”
I turned back. Ajay stood
dejected. He had tears, triggered by the pain of rejection and negligence.
“Ajay!”
Tears rolled. I was convinced
that tears would not roll, if it were a mere prank. I decided to receive the
gift.
I took it. A glow appeared on
his face, though very slowly. I paid him a quaint look, and went out.
I did not go to the staffroom.
Rather, I went into the room in the hostel where I stayed. I unwrapped the gift
with my heart on my hand. I was prepared for anything including a mischievous
prank.
No, it was not a prank. It was
a beautiful flower inside a glass jar. I guessed it would cost not less that
seventy-five rupees.
Ajay and gift! Ajay and
seventy-five rupees! No, that was not natural. I rushed to him and called him
out of the class. He immediately complied, and came out, suspending the game he
was engaged in.
“Ajay! Thank you for the
beautiful gift. I guess it cost you not less than seventy-five rupees.”
“No, Sir. It cost me one
hundred and fifty rupees.”
That made me even more suspicious.
Somewhere I concluded, he had stolen the money.
“How did you get the money? Did
you steal?”
His face suddenly clouded, and
the happiness of getting close to me transpired in no time. Ajay was back to
his past — a past of gloom, rejection, and stigma.
“Sir, I had a hundred rupees,
and my grandma gave me fifty.”
Lies always smell. I knew I had
no reasons to believe him.
“How did you get a hundred
rupees?”
He was afraid. His lips
quivered and the throat chocked. He had to speak, however. He went on.
“Sir, Deusi.”
My head went round, and I saw
darkness everywhere. His sentence made little sense to me.
“Deusi? Explain that!”
“Sir, with my cousins, I went
from house to house for three nights. I did not sleep much!”
I could understand that. During
Diwali, children go from house to house and sing. People give them a rupee or
two. For a child like Ajay to collect a hundred rupees, he must have haunted at
least two hundred houses. He had a partner too, and most usual deal is
fifty-fifty. Two hundred houses! Three sleepless nights for a gift!”
Ajay’s age was around twelve. A
child of twelve sleeplessly suffering for three nights and getting a gift for
his teacher, instead of ice-cream and chocolate for himself! That was strange.
I could not speak! I beseeched
him to go to the class.
In the evening, I phoned his
grandmother.
“Yes Sir, that is true. He
collected a hundred rupees and took me to the departmental store this morning.
He picked the flower and said, he would buy it for you. I asked him why. He
said, he wanted to gift it to you, and there was no reason he could give. The
flower cost one hundred and fifty and so, I added fifty rupees to his
collection.”
That was Ajay! Three sleepless
nights for a teacher! The same Ajay who was ‘an impossible case.’ I asked
myself, ‘Who could measure the dimensions of his heart? Right Ajay was in the
wrong place…’ I felt he was great not because I got a gift, but because he had
love, he had respect; he could sacrifice, and he was humane. What more is
education for?
I still have his gift in my
room. It always reminds me of the child.
☻
An Aborted Tomorrow
“Sir, my mother has sent some money. Will you
keep it for me? I may lose it.”
It was already dark and the
stars were twinkling outside. Everyone was happy except me, I thought. I turned
to the child. Austere was his face and innocent were his looks. How much belief
he had in me!
I could not answer him right
away. I lifted him up and pointed towards the sky.
“My King, can you see the
bright moon up there in the sky?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“One day you will shine like
the moon. I will make you shine.”
The child did not speak for a
long time. Most probably he was wondering what the black spots in the moon
were.
“Sir, my money. Won’t you keep
it for me? “
I was trapped again. I had to
reply.
“Today is Tuesday, my child. On
Tuesdays, we don’t give money to anyone. Keep it for a night, and tomorrow, I
will surely take it.” I was not sure
whether Tuesdays were inauspicious for financial give and take. The sentence
came to me, for I needed an excuse.
“Thank you, Sir!”
The hostel was a big building.
We had a fine top from which we could feel the cool evening breeze. Two of us
were only there.
Tring, tring, rang my cell, and
there was his mother. It was a smart coincidence. It was almost like a fairy
tale.
“Sir Namaskar! I think my son
reached well.”
“Yes Madam. Please do not
worry. I am here.”
“Yes, my son mentions your name
time and again. He has told me you love him so much.”
“Ya, a sort like that..”
“We are ‘janma dine’
parents and you are ‘karma dine’ parents.”
She meant that they were the
progenitors, and we the teachers were the acculturating parents.
“Let me pass the phone to him!”
I passed the cell to him, and
heard a son and a mother talk in the great resonance of love. I could not help
remembering my own mother. On the day I left home, she had advised me, “Always
love people. This is our culture!” She had tears in her eyes, and they occupied
much of my mind for many, many hours during my journey.
The mother and the son talked
about many things. The memory of my mother came floating in the air. He passed
the phone to me once again.
“Sir, I rely on you. Please
take care of my son.”
“He is my son too. Please be
sure. I will not allow any hardship to touch him.”
“Thanks. May I take leave?”
“Namaste!”
Slowly it was getting colder.
We thought it better to move into the dormitory. We started descending the
stairs. He held my hand, and I held his heart. Such warmth! I bet you can never
experience it for a million dollar.
“Sir, the glass of my
wrist-watch has broken. Will you help me replace it? If my father sees, he will
scold. He will come soon, I think.”
I knew that was a new watch. I
too knew that he was a small child and it was quite natural for him to break
it. I could not promise the mending, however.
“Sir please… I am afraid”
“Sure, my child. It is dark you
know. Tomorrow, you and I will go to Kaushaltar and get it mended. Is that OK?”
“OK Sir!”
By then, we had reached the
threshold of the dormitory. There was nobody around. All had moved to their study
rooms for the evening tutorials.
“Sir, I have problems with
biology. I have not understood anything about the root system. Will you
explain?”
“Sure my child. Tomorrow!”
He started hurrying up for the
class. The teacher would not allow the late comers to enter. He knew this.
“Babu!” I said, holding his
hands.
“I will not leave you till you
pass your SLC. You will be a great doctor one day, and I will help you.
“I know you have some problems.
I will correct them. One day you will shine out. You are my king. “
He did not say anything. What
could he say? He was too young to understand the total world of my rippling
emotions.
This way, we reached the study
room, and I ushered him in. The teacher said nothing, because I was there. He
started doing his works and I returned to the dormitory.
At midnight I woke up and
inserted something inside his pillows.
It was five and I woke up. I
remembered all the promises I had made the previous night. When they all woke
up and went to the top floor for ablution, I went too. I saw him; he was
brushing his teeth. He looked austere and innocent. I felt like going to him
and picking him up as I had done the previous evening. But something inside me
prevented. I paid him a squinted look. He did not see me. Quickly I came down.
When he came down after the
wash, I was not there. The last time I saw him was with a brush in his mouth.
Yes, he looked austere and innocent.
Where did the promise go? I had run away, leaving him and leaving
everyone else.
After around
fifteen days, I visited them. The moment I was inside the gate, he came
running, caught my arms, and said, “Sir, you told me that you would mend my
watch. Take, and do it today. That money too! You have to keep,” and before I
had said anything, he ran to get his watch and the money. I stood there
speechless.
Someone told me
in the afternoon that for those fifteen days, he had not read a word. He just
kept looking out of the window. Perhaps he was looking at the spot in the sky
where we had spotted the moon together, and I had given him false dreams.
We plan our ways,
our days and our directions because we love our ambitions and our money. Many
children plan their ways, their days and their directions because they love us.
Where is the intersection of the two? Obviously not in the false dreams we
force them into.
☻
Anita and Three Rupees
Anita and Three Rupees
“The telephone bill is so high!
How can we bear it all? Mr. Singh, you will look into the issue. Discourage
indiscriminate phone calls from the office. “
The principal always spoke with
authority. That day too, he had his typical demeanor. Mr. Singh, the
superintendent of the hostel said a meek ‘yes’.
After the meeting, Mr. Singh
gathered all the hostel staff and told them about the ‘royal verdict.’ It was
instantly Okayed; for, its denial would deprive them of bread and butter.
Anita was a newcomer in the
hostel. She had come from Dhankuta to Kathmandu
for ‘better education’. That was the
first time she had gone that far from home, and she was missing her grandmother
more than anyone, for it was she who had taken real care of her at home.
She was a shy girl. Many of her
thoughts and desires she would subdue for want of the energy to express.
Newness in the school was perhaps the reason for her reserved sociality.
“Sir, can I call my
grandmother?” she told me one morning.
That was the first time she had asked me a question.
“Why?”
“Because, today is my happy
birthday, and I have to call my granny. She loves me very much.”
I could not say ‘yes’ easily,
because the meeting verdict was not remote enough to be violated. I thought it
wise to weave a cock-and-bull story and engage her till she forgot the issue.
“Happy birthday to you!”
“Thank you Sir. May I phone
now?”
“Birthday is a great day. Where
is the cake?”
“Cake? O, I don’t know sir. I
have to ask my granny. Where can I get a cake, Sir?”
“Out there at the
confectioner’s. I will buy you one.”
“But after I phone. Is that
okay Sir? May be granny is already at the temple to pray for me. Last year we
went at five in the morning.”
“Great! Morning is very
beautiful. The air is cool and the birds sing prettily. Which bird do you like?
“
She took time to decide. A
sudden blankness besieged her, and her lips trembled. After a difficult try,
she said, “I like the doves.”
“Why?”
“Because, my granny says, they
also leave their homes and go far away. “
There was seriousness in her
voice. I knew my beating about the bush could never divert her determination.
But I could not grant her a call. A call would merely cost three rupees,
though.
“May I call her now, Sir?”
I knew here, the reserved child
had given me those many words to coax me to allow her a call. There was an
investment, innocent though.
“Tell Mr. Singh! He is the head
here. He is fatter than me, and he has large moustaches. We should tell him.”
She looked into my eyes
straight. Perhaps she wanted to know how I would pay for those many lovely
words she entertained me with. I saw in her eyes a question on my helplessness.
She turned her head quick and
ran out. I sat still like a winner, for I had cleared a disturbance out.
“Sir, may I make a phone call?”
“No. The bills are very high.
The principal will cut my throat.”
And that was the end. The
breakfast bell rang and the children ran like goats. Soon the classes commenced
and the day got along.
Every now and then, a sad face
would peep out of the grade five windows. No word would escape the lips. A
sorry realization of a bitter defeat pervaded the looks.
I and Mr. Singh saved three
rupees for the school. We were perhaps the most loyal employees. At the end of
the month, we were congratulated for bringing the telephone bills to a ‘record
low.’
Singh was freely hailed in the
meeting. He was a ‘great price manager’. He looked elated and said, “I have an
intuitive flair for such things. This is my god-gifted talent.”
The abortion of the call saved
three rupees. What was the cost of the tears that kept falling from Anita’s
eyes silently throughout that day?
☻
The True Face of Defeat
He was twelve and I
twenty-seven. The previous evening, I called him into my room and assured him
that he had no reason to fear. I promised him that he would be given all love
and care and a true guardianship. I told him, as I had always done, that he
carried my dreams and that I saw my future in his bright, brilliant eyes. This
was not a secret thing, as everyone around us knew it.
This evening I beat him
hard on the face. The drama took place in my ‘office’ upstairs. The slap was
loud enough for people downstairs to hear. They did not dare to make many
whispers, as they knew well that I was a man of ‘power’ and powerful people
were not to be poked.
He wept loud, not
because the blow was painful, but because it was I who had charged him the
blows. The first blow he repelled with power. The second blow too went in vain,
and it was the third that had touched him. It was a powerful blow, and I knew
that for sure. I could tell that, because my palm that administered the slap
kept tingling for a long time.
Convention says it is a
crime for him to push my blows away. But I say, he was questioning my court, “I
don’t need to respect your naked justice!” My face was black like hell with ink
of defeat spilled all around.
“Sometimes, the elders
who love you….”
“No elder; no felder.”
I was trying an example.
I would say that the elders who love their juniors sometimes beat to correct.
No, it is not the truth.
A teacher beats a student to purge his anger. In many cases, he does so to hide
his defeat, or to prove his power. A man of twenty-seven proving his power to a
child of twelve! Fie to his degrees!
I beat him, and as a
winner, went to every office announcing that I beat him. I was a hero in every
office. A victory worth celebrating with thousand candies and thousand candles!
I beat him on his right cheek that turned red in front of me, and in that
redness my image was reflected. I saw in the image a powerful man standing with
honour and dignity – a man of victory, an epitome of power, an insect, a dead
degree and a dead experience, a weakness as weak as weakness itself.
I did not beat him
because he deserved a beating. He had made a small error of judgment that I
make almost every day. I am not noticed or punished because I have a powerful
position. But he is, because he has no parents here and he is helpless. He is
doomed by his circumstance to say ‘yes’ to whatever injustice we the powerful
ones inflict on him and many like him.
It is always the voiceless that suffers, be it in the society, the
nation, the school or a hostel.
I beat him to prove my
power. Here is a rub; I want you to listen to me carefully.
I beat him hard. It
pained him a lot. I was a victor; a great winner.
Yes, I beat him. I could
have said, “My child, there has been an error. Let’s correct like this.” If he
had been upset with me too, he would melt. I could have brought him to my lap,
stroked his forehead with love and said like all other days in the past or the
present, “My son; your activities bring credit and discredit to me. They think
that you go wrong because you are pampered by my love. Let’s be careful.”
But I beat him. Had I
taken the emotional stand, I am pretty sure he would have given me his warm
lovely hands and said, “Yes Sir, I made a mistake. I will be careful in future.”
But, I chose to be
cruel. I wanted to give a reply not to him but to others. There were people
around me, who alleged time and again that he was going wrong because I had
given him too much of undue love. They had warned me and had even said that I
had a hole in my heart and brain and personality and that I was an emotional
and moral freak and I was leading him to a dangerous end. One of them had said
to me one afternoon in the dining hall, “Do you know Sir? He will be mentally restarted
if you continue to love him that way. I read about a similar case in the
Readers’ Digest recently.” I never knew whether he ever read that magazine.
There also were rumours
that I could never take action even if he committed crimes as serious as
killing someone. They said that I was too weak for that.
I had to prove that I could
beat him and that what they had told me was not correct.
I beat him and I proved
my power. In order to prove my powers that did not have the worth of an
insect’s power, I slapped an innocent child. But he forgave me the very next
moment. He was in fact too innocent to house the bitter feeling for long.
I beat him to prove that
I was strong and not weak. I don’t know whether I proved this to others.
However, I know for sure, I proved myself the reverse. I was weak and not
strong.
Sushma
Sushma!
Yes, that is the name. I still
remember without any mistake.
The memory goes back to
February 2008. Angels’ Home
Academy
It was decided that a magazine
would be launched. A colourful cultural show too was arranged. Creative and
thoughtful students wrote articles for the souvenir. The agile and high
spirited ones prepared dramas, dances and songs. They got respectable
representations. But what about the few disabled ones that too were in the
group of our students?
I was given the authority to
‘engineer’ the program. I had been told to prevent monotony and boredom at all
cost. “It should be very interspersing,” I had been instructed. It was a valid
instruction.
Sushma was in sixth grade then.
She would not pass any examination fairly. Her mental condition would not allow
her. Even her parents had failed to understand. They had thrown her in a school
like ours that was meant for other categories of students, and Sushma needed
special care through specially trained teachers. We did not have those
trainings and qualifications.
We had a grand rehearsal. The
ground went all wild with dances, songs and dramas. Everyone looked fresh and
happy. Sushma too sat nearby. She would shout out with the singers, and jump
with the dancers. Her own world was alive and young inside her.
When the rehearsal ended, every
one set to go. Sushma stood by the side of the gate for a long time. She looked
back and forth, and came running to me.
“Sir, how are you?”
“I am fine, thank you.”
“Sir, I have written a poem.
Can I read it in Students’ Day?”
I did not mind her preposition,
though. But I had difficulties saying ‘yes’. The official warning was too heavy
on me to overlook.
“I am very busy Sushma. Will you ask Rohan Sir?”
That was a lame excuse. Rohan
Sir’s was not the right office to approach for the same.
She went running to Rohan Sir
with hope. Rohan Sir told her to contact ‘Mahesh Sir.’
Once again she came running to
me. I told her to meet Arun Sir. Perhaps she went several rounds looking for
him but he was nowhere. At last, she rebounded to me.
“I am busy today. Meet me early
in the morning tomorrow.”
And that “morning tomorrow”
never came. I deliberately showed up late, and acted my best to appear too busy
to listen to anyone.
The program kicked off. The
dances rocked the stage. The songs were wild in the air. Martial art stunts
were mesmerizing. The magazine we published was commented to be very scholarly.
Every one looked quite happy. From the stage high up there, I could see Sushma
down there, sitting among the audience and clapping almost at everything.
The next day at school, I asked
the children how the program had been. They said it was great and they were
very happy. Sushma was among those who had the most prodigal compliments.
In the meeting the following
day, I was appreciated for the grand engineering. In fact, I was not the
engineer of the program, for I could never do that. I was just one of the
planners, and that was all.
I got a warm reception and
appreciation. My principal said that he had even thought to felicitate me with
an award for my ‘good work.’
Appreciation made me happy. But
deep inside me, Sushma was raising her finger and questioning me, “What did you
do for me? After all, wasn’t I one of your students?”
The evening bell rang, and soon
the assembly was dispersed. That evening, I did not feel like staying back
after the working hour.
I joined the galaxy of students
walking out like a school of fishes. I joined them, and we walked together. The
vermillion all over my face by still fresh; only that I had started sweating, and
with the flow of the sweats, it was fallen upon and blotting my color.
“Sir!” said Sushma, and I
looked back. She was rushing to walk together with me.
“Congratulations Sir!”
The colour from my forehead had
flown into my eyes along with the sweats. My eyes were turning red, and a
bitter irritation made it difficult for me to see.
“Thank you, Sushma.”
“Sir, in next Students’
Day, allow me to read my poem, OK?”
She had no grudge, no
complaint. She only awaited a future when her poem would receive the right
worth. I lamely said ‘yes’, for I could not say anything more. Before our roads
diverged, she said, “Bye Sir!”
I stood and observed her walk
away along her street. She had few friends to walk with. Almost all the time,
she would be seen alone. That could be one of the reasons why she liked to walk
with me and other teachers.
Pain! A bitter pain indeed. The
colour on my forehead irritated me. I was more a satire than a feliciation. The
eyes burnt more, and the heart was set ablaze. The poor, wronged girl walked
away with contentment. She still bore very high feelings for me, which I know,
is impossible for ‘normal’ people like us.
What pained me even more is
that Sushma never showed unhappiness at my discriminatory treatment. In fact
she was never aware of that. She was too dumb to be aware of that, and I took
advantage of her weakness to get a general appreciation. I had killed her
poetry and the poet inside her, merely for the sake of making the program
‘interesting’ in the eyes of the adults, the ‘teachers’, the ‘principal’ and to
my vane soul, that voraciously wanted
felicitation.
A few days later, a short
message came to my cell reading, “I love you Sir.” In fact, I had received similar messages from
the same cell number a couple of times in the past too. However, I had not
cared to reply, or inquire whose number it was. Later, I came to know, it was
Sushma’s.
After the session ended, I came
to know she left the school for good.
☻
I Will Tell Lie, Sir
It was a story class. Every
class used to be a story class, I confess. I would even confess that I did not
teach anything at all, save telling petty animal stories and fairy tales,
keeping the children confined for forty minutes and ending up with a curious
question so that the students would be ready to continue the next day. English,
literature, grammar, usages… Oomph! Ghost would take care of all those things,
I thought.
‘Once there was a fat boy, as
fat as Humpty Dumpty…’
There came a noise from the
back seat. I would tolerate anything save noise in my class. I lost my temper
and shouted at the gentle, lovely boy at the end, “You moté, what do you want, ha?”
And that was the end of the
story. How could I continue? I never thought that the words would touch the
child so deeply. He stooped down and burst into torrents of tears. I tried to
convince him that I did not mean it. But all my endeavours went in vain. It was
the last period of the day and he continued till the end.
What pained me much was the
fact that he was the first boy of the class and I liked him very much. He would
often come very close to me and share many things that intimately belonged to
his personal and familial world. He even remembered my birthday when no one
else did.
I watched him board the micro
van as the evening assembly ended. His eyes were still red and his sister sat
next to him, convincing. How he defended his position, God knows. I was
speechless, full of sour guilt and remorse. Curse me! Do I deserve teaching
‘literature’ to children?
I had my apartment inside the
school premises, and I looked after the hostel too. In the evening came rings
after rings, enquiring who one ‘Poudel’ was and why he had abused their child.
“Does he understand children’s psychology?”
The next afternoon I entered
the class, blank. There was no story inside me. Absence of stories meant
absence of my every resource. Story was my bread, my breath and my life.
Grammar, language, literature, usages… Oomph!
Sad, dark, somber and badly
beaten, I stood staring at the back walls. I could not look straight on
anyone’s face. How could I? Why did not I perish the previous night? There was confusion
among the children. They knew that something had gone wrong, but none dared to
ask anything.
“I am not feeling well. I
cannot teach you anything today. Will you please keep quiet and study
yourself?”
This would have been a welcome
suggestion in science and mathematics classes that demand a lot of
concentration and exercise. But, story and postponement… No! It was hard to
agree. But no one dared to deny, for the looks on my eyes were not normal.
For a few minutes, there was a
dead silence. I paid a squinted look at the boy. He was there, moving his eyes
from one corner of the room to another.
When the silence grew too
hostile to be reconciled with, he abruptly got up from his seat and started
sobbing, “Sir, I … know w..hy you are ang…ry. Yeste…day te..le..phone. I am
sorry, Sir!”
I did not know whether I liked
his confession. I too could not decide whether I was angry or sad. The world
looked blank to me. I took time to gather some energy and speak, “But why did
you tell that to your parents, honey?”
“Because my eyes we..we..were
red and my my mother asked and I could could not no no not tell her lies and I
told. I have have ne..ver told lie to my
mo mo mother.”
That was true. As a student too, he never been caught
telling a lie. In the school too, he had been awarded with the title “The Most
Disciplined Student of the Year,” not only once, but many times.
“But this evening, I will have
to leave the school and go somewhere else. For more telephone calls are going
to come. You cried today as well, and your mother will ask you again. You
cannot tell lie today either. You should never tell lies.”
There were tears of course, but
embedded deep in them was a thoughtful look, a serious contemplation and a
sorry realisation. I knew, I was completely on the wrong side, and he did not
need to be sorry. He was perhaps sorry because his relation with his ‘best
teacher’ was souring.
I studied his looks again. Out
of this hardship, a crime that I had forced into his austerity, was
germinating.
“I will tell lie today. Sir, I
will tell her I have got severe headache.”
His voice did not tremble this
time. He was firm in committing a crime I had forced in him. He was ready to
give his white soul an ugly dark blot, because that blot had come to him as a
blessing from his ‘teacher’.
No telephone came that evening.
I just kept asking myself, “Am I a teacher?”
☻
The Epileptic
“Get ready soon; we are getting
late!” I urged the children. We had to go to Kirtipur for the shooting of a
television program for children. Six
girls were supposed to dance, while others would be the audience.
We had no time for the morning
meal. The children were fed some bread and jam, and we hurled them into
the bus. In about an hour, we reached
the shooting spot.
We were so mindless that we
forgot to ask the principal to allow us some money to buy the children their
afternoon snacks. Haste made us forget that.
It was not even ten in the
morning when we reached Kirtipur. The dancers went to the dressing room while
others waited patiently in the gallery.
The clock struck eleven and
then twelve. The show did not begin. They said, the chief guest had a very
important work, and would be there at one. It was two when he arrived.
Since there were around five
other schools, our turn came only at
four. The children were hungry to their bones, but we did not have much money.
With whatever we had, we bought some ready-to-eat noodles and fed. But that did
little justice.
Those who had voice spoke. They
rebelled and demanded. They bargained and argued. We were forced to listen to
them. We had to buy them more; we did. Those who did not speak suffered on.
It was almost dark when the
shooting ended. We goaded the children into the bus, and I beseeched the driver
to gear up.
We had barely crossed Balkhu
when someone from the backbench shouted, “Sir, Upama has fallen. Sir, please do
come here. See, she is unconscious!”
Aniket, sitting next to her
took one of his shoes off, and made her smell the reeking sock. That was the
rustic medicine for fits. I told him to stop the nonsense.
We could do nothing. I asked
the driver to speed up. After around half an hour, we reached the school.
We left the rest of the
children to themselves, and carried Upama to the infirmary. We made her lie on
one of the beds there, and sprinkled water on her forehead. We could only wait
for her eyes to open and wish that
everything would be fine.
After around an hour, she woke
up. She was so tired that we could not ask her any question. Even when she were
fine, she would speak little. She was a new admit, and was so shy that she
would not stand any teacher nearby. We had lived for around two months
together, but we had not perhaps exchanged one hundred words. She had no
claims, no demands, and no complaints. She was an earth. Sometimes, she would
tell me some faint ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and
that was the only communication she made. To many, she was a speechless
child.
She was fed some mushroom soup,
and made to sleep. A matron was assigned the task to keep a constant watch on her
condition.
When the principal came the
next morning, I reported him everything. He did show some gaudy interest in
asking how the girl was. Then he walked straight into his office upstairs and
rang the parents of the child, far away in the eastern border of Nepal
“During her admission, I had
asked you if she has any chronic disease. You said, she doesn’t have any. But
she turned out to be an epileptic.”
“Epileptic? She is NOT.”
“How can you say that? She
showed fits here. She is an epileptic.
Do you know; it can be dangerous.”
Silence! A long pause.
“She is not an epileptic, Sir.
She never showed fits in the past.”
“I know; I know. Parents never
tell everything. Our school has decided to see her off. Please do come and
collect your child.”
And they came in a week, and
received the child. The principal was an expert of children’s psychology and
had a doctoral degree in adolescents’ behavior from America
Before she boarded the bus with
her parents, I asked her intimately, “Upama! What was it that made you fall?”
She had no answer. The bus
speeded and she went away from us forever. The show was telecast after a week.
All watched the dancers; I noted when the camera turned to the audience hoping
to see Upama. She was there, calm and quiet, absorbed in the dance.
A few days later, Sanskriti
came to me and whispered, “Did you know Sir? Upama fell in the bus because she
was very, very hungry.”
☻
The Prodigal Children
Samip and Saurav – the two new
admits in the ninth grade, became notorious within a month for their mischief.
They were cousins, and had their homes not farther than ten minute walk from
the school. It was not therefore difficult for us to guess why they were thrown
into the hostel so near. The hostel was a reformatory for their parents. We
accepted them because more boarders meant more money for us.
Samip and Saurav were like a
pair of oxen that ploughed the field together, and yet could not stay without
clanging their horns. They would always fall out, get the teachers drawn into
the trial, and then walk together giggling after the trial. Everyone called
them a cat and a dog, born to quarrel and yet eat from the same bowl.
One day, the two stood in front
of the principal. History Teacher had caught them fighting near the sports
room. I had seen the incident too. I had even seen that the History Teacher had
canned Samip in a fit of rage, before goading them towards the principal’s
cabin. As they walked in like two beaten dogs, Samip frantically moved his left
wrist and often touched the thumb. He was red and tired, while Saurav walked
with little guilt.
“You idiots! You will never
allow us peace. Do you know how much your parents are worried about you?”
“Yes, Sir!” they said. The
heads bowed. Samip still jerked his wrist, and held his right thumb with the
left hand. Something was wrong for sure.
“What happened? What’s wrong
with your hand?”
Samip projected the hand
forward. The principal felt it. Samip made a sharp ‘sh…….’ and pulled the
finger backward. The base had slightly swollen. Fracture!
I knew the secret about the
fracture, but I could not tell. I chose to keep quiet though I knew, that would
engender in me a guilt from which I would not be able to recover throughout my
life. And that happened.
“Fractured? So you fought till
you broke yourselves. One day, you will end slaying each other.”
The history teacher who sat
nearby explained without a second’s delay, “Yes, they fought like a cat and a dog.
Saurav broke his finger.”
Silence. The boys looked at one
another. Their remorseful heads fell again.
The parents were phoned, and
within a few minutes they turned up. It was said, they fought madly and Saurav
broke Samip’s thumb. The parents were asked to take Samip home and treat. As
they walked out of the gate with their parents, the History Teacher told other
children, “See! If you fight, you will see such a day. How many times did I
tell them to behave well? But, who listens?”
Since they lived near, what
followed next spread everywhere, and every bit of information reached the
school. In fact they were the sons of brother and sister. Samip was the brother’s son.
The families completely stopped
communicating. The sister blamed her brother of pampering the child and turning
him into a rascal. The brother claimed that Saurav was no less a brute.
However, the brother had to bear all cost of the treatment that amounted to a
handsome sum, because they had to have a surgery. It took around a month for
Samip to join the school. His study had badly been affected.
The families continued to
negate one another. The relation that was linked by blood broke because the
children fought and one broke the other’s thumb.
Though the families did not
converse, the two boys met as they did before, and walked together in the
school. Samip did not seem to have any grudge against his cousin. They sat on
the same bench in the class as they did before. That was what no one could
explain.
They graduated after a year and
departed. Both passed well. We went to Samip’s home one day.
I could see, the thumb nail was
permanently bent. After all sorts of niceties and hospitalities, we rose to
leave. The History Teacher called Samip near and said, “Now that you have
graduated, we expect you to be intelligent. Thank God, the fracture did not
deform you permanently.” In fact, he had not seen the permanent deformation.
Samip nodded, and bowed his head in respect.
I was the last to leave the
room. I called Samip and said, “Why didn’t you tell anyone that it was his cane
and not Saurav that broke your thumb?”
He promptly answered, “How can
I do that, Sir? He is my teacher!”
☻
No
Father, No Son
“No father, no son!’
Yes, that is what he said. If I
were he, I would say the same too. I would even use harsher language. He said
that alone and kept quiet. The rest of the talking was done by hot salty drops
of tears that were flowing out of his eyes, with stories that have been untold
hitherto. Suffocation was letting itself fall in the form of big, round drops.
No talk ensued for a long time.
My lips would not open. He was looking on the floor, as though he was counting
the number of drops falling and merging into a small pool that collected on the
dry cement. Once, after five minutes, he looked up. His eyes were red. There
was fire.
That was the first time I had
slapped him. The first experience of everything is quiet sensational. The
sensations here were burning ones. They were really of killing types.
I did not know how quickly the
slap emerged and collided against his cheeks. Those were the cheeks that I
always loved to stroke for they looked so innocent and pure — the uncorrupt
cheeks of a small child, a pair of sweet, flower cheeks.
But that happened. I could have
averted that, but things were far above the limits. I heard that one evening
before three days, the hostel boys had argued with their superintendent that
they should be allowed to watch TV, for they had the finals of the ‘Indian
Idol’ where Prashant Tamang, an India-born Nepali was likely to win. It was a
national issue, an issue of communal prestige. The teacher said yes, though the
examination was very near and the leakage of the information to the parents
would invite sharp misunderstandings. “Have we sent our children to your hostel
for watching television during examination season?” they could ask.
The evening next to that, Nepal was taking on Malaysia Nepal
Right the next evening, there
was the final of Twenty-twenty cricket. That was a historic occasion, as that
was the final of the first ever Twenty-twenty. This time, the teacher did not
stoop.
“We will break the television,”
shouted someone on his way to the study. A small child overheard and told the
teacher.
“I will box the fox,” said the
other.
“I will leave his hostel right
away and go home.”
“He should know that we are not
here for free. Our parents pay them big wads every month. And they – they do
not allow us anything,” added another.
A meeting ensued. The
superintendent gathered all and asked for explanation. No one would speak. They
held their heads low like overloaded donkeys and listened. Nothing came out of
the meeting and he thought it wise to dismiss it.
As they were moving out of the
room, one of my fellow teachers heard Anthony saying, “I will box everyone,
teacher or no teacher.” The report came to me.
That was too much. Anthony had
been my favorite for last five years, and I was the proudest teacher on earth.
I had reasons to claim that I could mould impossible children into diamond and
Anthony was one. Could it be possible that he spoke such a sentence? I was
simply taken aback.
I tried very hard to calm my
emotions, but failed. At last, I thought it wise to seek means of catharsis. He
was summoned to my office.
“Anthony, did you say that?”
No answer would come. He kept
looking on the floor vacantly. This was what he always did whenever I charged
him of something.
His presence in my front as an
accused is the most difficult situation in his life, I know. The great love I
bear for him, and clarity with which he knows this fact is the reason. He is
hurt to know that he has hurt a man who loves him more than anyone in this
strange city.
“Anthony, speak. Did you say
that?”
“Ye!”
“Anthony could say that; how
can I imagine?”
“We were denied permission to
watch cricket.”
“And what about the Indian Idol
and Nepal
“That was a special day.”
“And exams?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sorry?”
“No!”
That that ‘no’ invited the
catastrophe. I could not even calculate how soon my palm projected. His cheek
was red. I wanted to charge a second one, but he repelled with a strong wrist,
and I felt the pain of it.
The superintendent rushed in to
rescue me. He thought the child had attacked me. I asked him to leave us alone,
for the matter was something I could deal with very easily. He complied and
went out.
Anthony let his head fall on
the table and cried. I told him, “See, sometimes it happens. Sometimes a father
slaps a son.”
“No father, no son!”
I knew what he meant. I used to
call him son, for no other words would explain the depth of my love for him.
But on this occasion, I was trying to cite an example that sometimes
misunderstanding arises even between a father and son, and end up with a slap.
But he thought I was referring to our emotional relations that he wanted to
dilute that moment.
It was really a terrible
situation. I saw blankness all around. I felt, I had lost the purpose of my
existence. His absence in my dream world would mean the fall of all the worlds
for me. Loss of purpose is the greatest loss in a man’s life. ‘What can bind my
thoughts here further?’ I thought, as I bit the lower lip and looked out of the
window.
The past kept coming into my
mind, bits by bits. There was a time, he would throw into my arms and I would
tell stories. We would both cry in the end. I would point up to the sky and
say, “Hera Babu, one day, you will be a star like that.” He would smile
at the prospect of that future, with my love as a strong base to rely on.
“Anthony!”
“Yes Sir!” his voice was heavy.
“Is that all over?”
“What Sir?”
“Our past. You can box me too,
that means. Right?”
Dilemma! Red blood ran all over
his face, and he sweated. The moral pressure was too much for him to bear.
“Okay. That ends everything.
You can think of boxing me. Live your life. Good luck!”
Silence, as cold as death.
Silence, dead and long. Long, long silence – a killing one.
“No Sir, I am sorry,” came
after a long, deadly pause.
And the words brought into my
arms a life, the life of a life, closest to me on earth. We were soon lost in
each other’s heartbeats. I do think, as everyone does, that he was wrong in
thinking of boxing a teacher. But I was wrong too in beating him. A crime, to
prevent another crime, cannot be justified.
Didn’t I beat him?
I apologized. I said ‘sorry’.
He said sorry too. I know he understands me. It has been so many years, and
people always see us together.
☻
The Fall of a Feather
‘I am done with this school.
Tomorrow I am leaving it forever.
‘I know I love this school.
When its mother left it unattended, I had come to help its bereaved children.
We gave it food and water, and now, it is strong. It has dreams and desires. It
can flourish. Now it does not need me. So I am leaving it tomorrow.
‘I love the walls and stones.
It was a dying baby, and I have contributed to its recovery. So I love it. But
now, I am done with it and so I am leaving.
‘The gate is lovely. The rooms
and the benches are lovely too. The buses look quite attractive. My friends
have all been very kind to me. My students, who have always been as lovely as
flowers, will remain in my memory forever.
‘You may ask me how I can leave
all these things. I tell you, I can.’
It was almost midnight, and I
had no sleep. The gate, the rooms, the buses and the stones would not say
anything if I left them because they did not have hearts. The friends would
say, “We will miss you,” and the next day the load of their works and the
demands of their children would erase my faint memory from their minds forever.
My students may be happy because an ugly, cruel teacher, who knew nothing
besides scolding and making fun in the mass, was leaving. Some of my students
would be a little sad. But they would soon get a new, and a better teacher and
they would drown in their own world. Memories work as long as they are fresh;
with time they fade away.
These were the reasons why I
could leave this school so easily.
It was more than midnight and
yet I could not sleep. Sleepless nights are not new to me. I have a sort of
experience staying together with the raw nights. I think I love the sleepless
nights.
‘No you cannot leave. There is
one thing that will bind you,’ my alter-ego popped up and interfered.
‘What do you say? Why can’t I
leave?’
‘You have your soul here. You
have given him hopes and promises. You should not leave him.’
I could not understand
anything. My alter-ego is harsh and cruel. It does not understand me.
‘He will be happy if I leave
him.’
‘No. He will weep and cry. He
will break. He will be deprived of all love and care. A marketed love will
never be enough. He will be almost dead in your absence.’
I had some reasons to believe my
alter-ego. Yes, I had already read in the child’s eyes the promises of my
future. But I had never known what he thought about me. Till this day, he has
told me nothing, and even at present I don’t know whether I have any position
in his life. I know I have no meaning in his life.
But my alter-ego is obstinate.
It speaks from the world of emotion. That day too, it forced its decision, ‘You
should not leave him. He will be almost dead.’
But I could not hold my
decision. I had to leave this school.
I woke up early in the morning.
My bags and baggage were all ready. I wanted to go out before the sun rose and
before the children woke up. I could see others; they would say good bye. But I
could not see him because he would catch my sleeves and weep to his extreme. My
sleeves would be wet with his warm tears full of unfathomable love and
belongingness. I would not be able to endure through that moment.
So I woke up early. I brushed
my teeth, cleaned myself and picked up my bag. I did not have anything more than
a bag.
Slowly I came down to the
ground. I wanted to avert his sight. I did not want him to know that I was
leaving. I was sure, if he saw me he would cry and his tears would break my
heart. I could never see his tears. So I would have to take my decision back.
If he did so, I would throw the bag away, bring him into my arms, wipe his
tears, and say, “Sweet my child, I live for thee.”
It was six o’clock and I was
leaving. I knew some children had woken up. I prayed that he was still
sleeping.
I took my steps towards the
gate. Some voices called me from the back. I stopped.
“Do not forget us, Sir.”
“I will not. You are
always my favorites.”
I was nervous. I could see him
there. I could not move; I was stuck.
“Sir!”
I looked at him. A child of
eleven – so innocent and so pure! I knew, he had some problems in his thigh
joints, and the doctors had suggested that it would not be right until he was
twenty. Thigh joints are rather difficult cases even for a child. I knew, he
would not tell about the same to anyone else. I knew it because there was
nothing he would not tell me.
What was strange about his
presence among the ‘other’ children that morning was that I had suddenly made
him stand among the ‘other’. In fact, no student should be ‘other’ to a teacher.
This, as far as I know in reality, is just a philosophy. Everyone has his or
her favourites.
That child, whom I called ‘my
son’ till last evening, was standing among ‘others’. A big hiatus had been
erected between him and me. He could neither speak, not utter a cry. A gap, a
hiatus! It was I, who had told him we had no gaps.
Where had this gap come from?
Gaps come if we the adults want, and they recede if we want. We create gaps out
of our selfishness.
I stood there, and he stood
among his friends. That was a strange sight. On any other day in the past, he
would come running to me and hold my finger. But today? The gap, the distance?
He had a letter in his hand. I
had written him before he went for his pooja vacation, just a month back. It
read, “I will never leave you, my child!” He had caught time by its throat. He
was strong. He wanted to ask me what it all meant, when I was all set to leave
him and others.
However, I moved out of the
gate. My movement was like a funeral procession. Far away in the sky, I could
see a black thing moving. It was fast moving towards me. It was flying at a
good speed. I was afraid. It could be anything. It might bump on my head and I
might be injured. When it fell on the earth, it might explode.
I moved a few more steps
forward. The object came and fell in front of me. There was no sound, and the
landing was silent. I watched it close. It was nothing but a feather; most
probably of a hawk. I picked it up and took my way. ‘Like me,’ I thought, as I
passed the old oak. Before I took any vehicle, I found a secret place and wept
for a long, long time alone.
☻
Nemish
Nemish was his name. I remember
it even today. How could I forget? It is not an old story.
I stayed at a school hostel in
Bhaktapur. The job was good. There were many children. We had relations more
like friends than like a teacher and students. For this, I would often be drawn
into controversy too.
I had come far, leaving my
home. Soon after Dashain-Tihar vacation, I used to have my university
examinations. So, during vacations, I often did not go home. In fact, those who
worked the whole day saved vacation time as study time. If the ones that had
homes far way decided to go home, their study was sure to be spoiled.
This way, it had been long that
I had been barred by situation from going home. People perhaps asked how people
like me lived. Some possibly termed us to be heartless. Others might say many
more things. But we leave those who tell, for they do not till others’ fields.
A nemesis of such people
happens to be that they befriend people if they are around, or befriend stones
and soil if they are not, and try to forget their homes. A friend of mine, who
cuddled into his mother’s lap even at an age of thirty and asked his father for
his bus fare, asked me one day, “Sir, is your heart made of stone?” I did not
answer him back for I did not feel it necessary. My mother knows it very well
whether it is stone that makes my heart or soil.
This vacuity perhaps propelled
me to befriend children more. The smaller ones, I called ‘sons’ or ‘daughters’.
I called the older ones by name, but showed more intimacy than others. The same
scholarly friend told me after some days, “Sir, I strongly feel that you have a
very weak heart. This can be a chronic disease too. You have no control over
yourself.”
This time, I replied him, “Sir, stay away from your parents once.
Celebrate a few festivals away from home. You will know everything. “
The answer was short. I knew, scholars needed
just a signal to understand.
People say those who endure
through pain, become more and more robust. Yet others say they become
heartless. There is still another category that says the emigrants have no
mercy. But the reality is diametrically reverse. Perhaps no one is as soft and
emotional as an emigrant.
It must be May when Nemish was
brought to the school. Those who are admitted late bear some problems. If the
new admits are still very young, the problems lie in the parents.
Nemish – a dark boy, rather
filthy! Both of his nostrils had been filled with dry snot scabs. He must be
nine or ten years old. Blots of dirt could be seen all over his limbs. Old
rags, dark ankles, long and dirty nails, long, unkempt hair and yellow teeth
that perhaps had not been brushed for many days, formed his identity.
He entered the hostel. I
accepted to be his guardian not became I wanted, but because I job decreed so.
With time he got more care. He became cleaner, but could never parallel other
children. So he could never be a front-liner in my choice.
In one side of the school
playground, a stage had been erected. Every evening after dinner, I would sit
there and sing to the swallows flying in the sky. In a while, I would begin a
story, and children would squeeze closer. I don’t understand this drive; even
to this day, I feel the story sounds the best if you seat nearest to the
teller. Perhaps the children too felt the same; they always rushed very near.
Bikram, Vijay, Samrat, Astha, Suneksha, Yamuna, Rakshya, Anjali – these were
some of the names to whom I owe a great deal. They have listened to many of my
stories from top to bottom. They would always sit very near to me. Some even
sat on my lap.
But Nemish? He sat a litter
farther. Though he was a child, he somehow understood that I did not welcome
his presence very near.
This way, almost a year
elapsed. Nemish always occupied the periphery. He could never dare to
transgress the imaginary limit I had drawn around me.
The next day, we were to move
to our homes for the festival vacation. In the evening we sat again on the same
stage, and I started a story. After the story, all the children stood and ran
to their dormitory. I shook Samrat who had slept on my lap, and asked him to
run. I said, “Come on, my son! All have gone. You run to the dormitory too!”
Samrat woke up, and ran in.
Nemish was standing very near to me.
“Nemish!”
“Sir, please call me ‘son’
too!”
He had in fact come very near.
The moon in the sky had turned into a very thin arc. The stars had started
twinkling.
I looked at him, and from a
distance said, “Son!” His face glowed. On it, I saw a glory that I have never
seen.
“Thank you, Sir!” he said. I
stood perplexed.
In the evening I related the
story to Buddha, my colleague. He explained, “He has no mother. The stepmother
treats him very badly. That is why his father brought him here. The father is a
rogue too. He drinks a lot. They are from around Bhatbhateni.”
The next morning, the parents
came to collect their children for the vacation. When Samrat was about to board
the vehicle, I gave him a flower and said, “Honey, you will forget me now!” I
still remember the cascade that flowed out of his innocent eyes.
The father of Nemish came too.
There was a brawl about the fee he owed to the school. After a prolonged
discussion, he declared, “I will not bring my son back. Do you think this is
the only school on earth?”
After a year, I saw Nemish in a
narrow street at Tangal, playing with an iron wheel. There were a few other
boys too.
Yes, the same Nemish. Equally
filthy and the nose running in the same way!T he limbs had once again acquired
the dirt layer. Old rags, cracked hills, long and dirt-filled nails, long and
unkempt hair, and the teeth equally yellowish. This time, not at his request
but out of a natural internal urge, I wanted to call him “My Son!” but my lips
would not open. Telling that would bear no meaning too.
I stared at him for a long
time, and took my way. He got no notice of my presence. On the way, a single
thought kept haunting my mind, ‘Nemish, your dream to be a son could never
materialize, right?’
☻
An Unanswered Question
He was a very popular teacher.
There were some reasons that made him popular. He was a man of positive
attitude, and always kept smiling. He could never see red, and was a stock of
stories. His stories had a flavour of village life and many children loved them
because they were from villages. In myths, fairy tales and animal stories, no
one would match him. He was therefore a perennial source of entertainment for
children.
But no one knew what stuck him;
he decided to leave the school in midsession. He took my opinion as well. I
said, one should decide in favour of a career that sounds more prospective and
more promising. He did accordingly.
In the afternoon, he entered
some of the classes and took leave from the children forever. He knew, after
the delivery of the news, it would be unwise to loiter around for two reasons.
First, people do not stay back after taking leave. Second, he knew and everyone
else knew that the children would react violently and that could shake his
interior.
He left. After the lunch break,
a group of children went to the principal to ask why their NB Sir had left. The
principal was not there. They went to every other office only to be shooed
away. Ultimately they turned up to my room.
“Sir, why did NB Sir leave us?”
“He has some important work. He
will come after a few days.”
“No, he will not. Last time
when Pravin Sir left, you had told us the same. Did he come back?” That was
Akriti, catching my throat with an intellectual firmness.
I had no answer. I looked out
of the window and wished the children understood everything.
A long discussion ensued. Their
tears turned my office into an ocean. I gave them a hundred of logics, all in
vain though. At last Muskan said, “Sir, he left because he will get more money
elsewhere, right? Please tell him to come back. We are ready to pay more fees.
We will tell our parents.”
Why NB Sir left the school
could have many other reasons. But Muskan was not altogether wrong. I could not
answer her. I could only calculate how much love she and her friends bore for
the dear departed. And, I simply regretted how we the adults neglect their
world, simply because we have the mirage of material prospects in our
front.
☻
A Role - Model Denied
A Role - Model Denied
“No, Anil cannot continue here.
He should leave!”
That was my verdict and I
declared it ‘final’. Once the declarations were final, there were no rooms for
negotiation. He had to leave.
His parents came to receive
him. They did not think it wise to argue, for they had been summoned
innumerable times in the past too, and had been informed about the delinquent
behavior of their son.
I could have given a milder
verdict. But he had hurt my sentiments so much so that I had no mercy left in
me for him. He had told the principal that he did not want to see me even with
a broken eye, and irritation was impulsive. I thought I could win in no other
way save sending him off for good.
With the help of the hostel
assistant, I made his parents pack up his stuffs. They packed the books, the
uniforms, and finally the bed clothes. Everything ended well, and he left.
I watched the contingent move
out of the gate. He stood at the gate and turned to me once. His head bowed,
and his face grew grim. A sudden chill went deep down my heart. Somehow I felt,
the decision I took was based on rumours, which was altogether unjust.
But words are words. I looked
somewhere else.
Later I moved into the
dormitory and checked the bed he had been forced to leave forever. In a crevice
between the joints, I found my passport-size photograph. I looked at the back.
It bore a single word: Guru!
Some days later Samir told me,
he had acquired the photo from my facebook and processed it himself. Samir
explained that he wanted it, but was afraid to ask me for one, because we did
not have good terms.
“Why on earth did he want my
photo, Samir?” I asked.
“Sir, he often said, he wanted
to be like you, when he grew. You were his ideal. He respected you so much and
often said, he believes no one other that you.”
The time had slipped. I could
only swallow the air of regret.
☻
The Lost Voice
One of the reasons why he was
dear to me was that he had an amazingly sweet voice. So sweet was his tongue
that you could hardly turn your ear to anything else, if he stood near you
talking. Sugar, sweet to every heart!
For this very reason, I made
him an all-time announcer. He would always be the first name to master a
ceremony whenever we had programmes at the school. He always lived up to my
expectations, and I always embraced him after the programs.
His voice brought us so close that
we became one another’s favourite. He would invite me to his home, and I would
often sit with his parents and dine. If there was a gap in the visits, even the
parents would call me and ask why my visits were thinning. He would also miss
me whenever I remained absent or when we had holidays. Almost every evening, we
would talk over telephone.
That was Arun to me, the
dearest of all speakers on earth. We lived as the best of friends till he
appeared his SLC. He passed with distinction, and walked out of the school
forever. I was not that sad, because I knew, our relation had attained a
different height, and we could always meet. Moreover, the doors of his house were
always open for me.
He moved out, and yet we
continued to talk. The voice had the same charm and the same charisma. I had
the same admiration for it, and my thirst for that sugar throat kept ever
increasing.
But all of a sudden, after a
few days, phones stopped. I made several calls, but all would be missed. He had
no cell so no text message would go. All he had was a cable phone.
I could not understand
anything. It was a really disturbing sabotage. How could he be so rude and
cruel for nothing, all of a sudden? I tried to look back at our past and
examine everything in my bid to find if anything untoward had passed and if
there had been anything that could hurt him. I discovered nothing.
My mental disturbance
increased. Yet, I did not lose heart. After all he was the same child who told
me last summer that he loved me very much. In fact, he had always been soft and
dear to me. Who could have passed an impish spell on him? How could sun
suddenly rise from the west?
When all my attempts to resume
the communication went in vain, I thought of giving up. I concluded that human
is an unreliable creature and no relation is completely trustworthy. I calmed
my sorry heart and said there were others who still loved me. If everyone
leaves, my Bikram will always be with me, I consoled myself.
I tore off his photo that
hanged on my wall. I deleted his phone number from my cell. I broke the glass
veil of flower he had gifted me on my birthday a few days back. I tore his
letter that he wrote me during Dashain vacation and sent with Rabindra. I
decided to change the name of my hero from one of my stories that was due for
publication in a popular newspaper very soon. I wrote a poem suggesting the
readers not to believe anyone who apparently spoke sweet language.
This way a beautiful episode in
my relation with my students met with an ugly end. I started believing less in
easy and cheap compliments and commendations.
One day Aditya stopped me near
the Himalayan White House
College
After some casual talks about
some absurd topic, Aditya said, “Do you know Sir, Arun has got a coarse voice
now. He is so ashamed that he does not talk with anyone. He is fourteen, you
know!”
Next Saturday, I cancelled all
assignments and drove to Arun’s. My Arun was quite the same. He had the same
feelings, the same respect and the same truthfulness. Only that nature had
taken the sweetness of his voice away. I told him it was natural, and he did
not need to be ashamed. Thereafter, he resumed his talks. Today, he sounds
equally sweet to me. Somehow I have even started thinking that it is the words
you choose and the honesty you infuse them with that make your language sweet.
Natural sweetness may be important, but it is not the only important one.
Speak English
Though I was the Academic
Coordinator – a big and a powerful man in the school – I did not love to remain
in the office. I just loved to go to the classes and tell stories to kids.
The new session had just begun.
When new sessions begin, rules tend to be very strong. As time passes, they
loosen and by the time the session ends, the rules remain safe only in papers,
diaries, and boards. In fact, you will see rules put into practice only if you
are born in extraordinary stars. This is what characterizes the so called
‘boarding schools’ in Kathmandu .
I asked my staff to paste
‘SPEAK ENGLISH’ posters everywhere on the wall. The school was full of the
posters. Every classroom bore them. The staff did not spare even the canteen
walls. Our school looked perfectly ‘English’ and we all were contended. A
violator would be fined in cash, and none dared to do that. That was how, we
believed, a second language could be acquired.
It was the first day, and I was
conscious, rules had to ‘appear’ very strict. A boarding school in Kathmandu survives if it has a strict ‘English
Environment,’ inside. I remember, once a parent asked me to advise his child to
speak English even at home with his parents and grandparents. I told him I
would, but I did not.
I went to the fourth grade.
Most of the faces were old, while a few were new. I asked the new ones what
their names were. Most of them turned out to be articulate speakers, and they
responded well. Ritesh, who sat on the last bench did not love to say anything.
I tried to make him feel comfortable.
“What is your name?”
“Ritesh!”
“Where are you from?”
“Es Sir!”
A roar of laughter!
“Where are you from?”
“Es Sir!”
Another edition of laughter!
“I asked you where you are
from, Ritesh!”
“Es!”
I thought he was rather shy on
the first day. I told him certain things, advising him to feel at home, and
come to me whenever he faced problems. I went out. I however did not forget to
remind them that they all ought to speak English or they would be charged a
fine in cash.
Days passed on. Ritesh did not
improve. He hardly spoke a word. The teachers continuously complained why such
a dumb and good-for-nothing fellow had been admitted. One teacher even asked me
if I expected her to change a donkey into a cow.
One afternoon, he stood on my
threshold. I knew he had some problems. His face looked gloomy.
“Ritesh, come in!”
He entered.
“How are you? Do you have any
problem?”
“Sir, malai..”
“English! Ritesh, did you
forget what I told you?”
He stood still for a long time,
staring on my face. Then he suddenly turned back and ran away. I knew something
had gone wrong. I sent squads to study, but none would fetch an answer. I
decided to leave the issue.
After some days, Nepali
language teacher ran into my room with Ritesh. He told me he caught the child
near the gate, crying. He added that his friends had beaten him badly, and had
torn his books.
“He told me, this has been
happening since his first day here.”
I was shocked. I requested him
to continue.
“He told me, the boys even
steal his snacks. Yesterday, Krishna kicked
him on the stomach, and he fell on the floor. Today, Rupesh thrashed him and
his knuckle is injured.”
That was too much. I could not
believe such a heinous thing could happen in a school where I was the Academic
Coordinator. I had the distinction of delivering ‘mind-blowing’ speeches on
child-rights and children’s psychology.
“And Sir, why is so? He never
made any complaints.”
“He told me, he had been to
your office a few days back.”
“Yes, I remember. He was here a
couple of days back. But he ran without uttering a word. I was simply amazed.”
“Do you know Sir why is it all
happening?”
“Why?”
“Because he cannot speak
English. That means, he cannot complain. Those who have no voice suffer. Your
‘English ghost’ has smothered so many voices in this school.”
He was really furious.
My head made several frantic
circles. I saw nothing save darkness. He said many more things that I could not
listen to.
“But why could not he tell you
earlier?”
“Because, a new student takes
time to get used to any teacher. It took him a month to gather the energy to
tell me. He chose to tell me not because I was different, but because I would
listen to his Nepali.”
Silence. My speeches on child
rights and children’s psychology mocked at me. Before he left, he said one more
monumental thing I still remember, “Do you know what more he said? He has no
father. He told me, his mother has no money to pay fine if he spoke Nepali
here. So he silently tolerated all slashes and injustice.”
And he walked out with Ritesh.
I looked on the wall facing me. The adhesive of the ‘SPEAK ENGLISH’ poster had
dried and scalped, and the paper was hanging with just a corner still attached,
and was ready to fall on the ground any moment. It did not look compatible with
the postcolonial literature I was delivering to the students of MA at IACER, Pokhara University
I could see the Nepali teacher
walking out with Rupesh in his arms. I could see two cultural heroes walking
away from a vanquished hypocrite. I was jealous, the Nepali teacher snatched
from me the first chance to prove that I too could be a real ‘teacher.’ But, I
could never do that.
☻
The
New Shoes
Hemant was lucky, for his
parents were in the US America
The Imphal River
The hostel phone rang, and I
volunteered to answer. There was a parcel from Hemant's parents. A relative of
his had recently been to be US, and on his way back, had carried the stuffs. I
went and received the same.
Delight was pouring out of Hemant's
eyes as I opened the parcel. It was a sensational moment. All gathered around
me. When you are opening a parcel about whose content you do not have the
slightest idea, your heart comes out into your hands, and you hold your breath
for a while, don’t you?
It had some loose fitting
clothes, and a pair of beautiful black shoes, made in America
The clothes fitted well, but
the shoes didn’t. The clothes were loose, and a little discrepancy in the size
would not pose a big problem. But the shoes require accuracy of size. They
didn’t work, for Hemant had grown fairly fatter in the past few months, and his
parents had no idea about it.
It would be foolish to parcel
the shoes back to the US Iril Valley Iril Valley
In that little pair of shoes
made in the US
A few days later, Poojan's father
came to the hostel. We told him the news with pride, and Poojan didn’t wait for
anything but ran straight to his dormitory and came out in those pretty black
shoes.
"What is this? What am I
to understand?" the father asked.
"It's simple. They didn’t
fit in Hemant's feet, and Poojan has them. Doesn’t matter. He is happy," I
clarified.
Silence ruled for a while. We
could see a sudden twist of emotion in the man's face, marked by anger and
shame. He looked straight into Poojan's eyes. The looks were not ordinary,
however.
"What does it mean? Do you
think that I have no social prestige? Am I someone who would 'beg' shoes for my
son?"
Replying would not work, for he
was blinded by fury. I decided to listen on.
"What do you think, you
town people? Do you think I can’t buy shoes for my son? We also have our
position in the village."
Dead silence. Under a violent
seizure of fury, he pulled Poojan near, forced the shoes open and threw them with
all his might. Then he slapped the child as hard as he could and said,
"Shame on you! You son of a beggar! What was that you lacked? Am I dead
for you?"
Thousand of our explanations
did not work. He went his way before the issue was settled. Poojan didn’t pick
up the shoes anymore. They lay in a corner, in one side of the wide, assembly
ground. Perhaps they are still there. Or perhaps they have decayed by now.
☻
The Lost
Theatre
We had our school in a thickly
populated square in Imphal. There were many schools big and small in its
vicinity, and the competitions were tough. We were making a difference by doing
things other than pure classroom stuffs. Our claims were many, though we did
few. Our greatest strength was that we encouraged children to take park in
competitions and festivals out of the school.
In every program we held, our
Head Master would announce the same thing. We even talked over tea, "Our
Head Master uses a template speech. It has been twelve years since we started
the school, and his lines are exactly the same. The diaries, year after year,
differ in their color and paper quality. About the content, not a single
alphabet alters.'
His sayings were few though. He
would say that classroom tutoring alone was not enough, and we needed to
encourage children in real-life participation. For this particular claim, we
had collected more than a thousand students in such crammed environment. The
parents approved of our claims and said, "O yes, all successful people are
versatile."
The Sumang Leela Association
once organized open yard drama festivals, and we chose to participate. A
beautiful play was written, and our children practiced exceptionally well. When
it was staged, the audience was stunned. The ending of the story that centered
on the sudden loss of a friend, cut across many hearts, and left them wounded.
The lead character, Dhruva, was the hero of the day.
The next morning, the papers
prodigally wrote about the play, and the exceptional talent of the children,
particularly Dhruva. We also got appreciation as directors, and were invited
for interview at a few FM radio stations.
One beautiful thing about the
play was that we had invited some filmmakers, and Dhruva and some of his
friends managed to catch their attention. A few months later, a team of
filmmakers came to me.
"Sir, we want you to
involve your kids in a film about children."
"That's great," I
said. I didn’t need to think. That was the day I was in fact, waiting for.
I was proud of my school, and
confident that it would be proud too to send its kids for the movie. That would
give a great break to the children, and would open a door for their career on
the stage and on the screen. I had only one thing to be careful about. The
shooting time should be in vacation season, otherwise study will be hampered.
The filmmakers said yes, and I wanted them to meet the authorities.
"It's a great idea, you
know. But the problem is, the kids these days do not study, and they need to
focus on books," said the principal.
"Yes, in the last
examination as well, Dhurva scored less than his earlier scores," added
his class-teacher.
Encouraged, the principal
started outlining his educational philosophies that would beat all
educationists on earth, "You know how human brain works. Some are
left-brained and some right. Dhruva is left, and he is more at home in
technical things like science and mathematics. I think stage, films, movies and
the like are not his area. He needs more mathematics, because you know how
human brain….."
And this continued. The
class-teacher had his claims to make. I decided to take the parents into
confidence.
"O no, Sir! Dhruva is such
a naughty child. He always goes around with his friends, and doesn’t study. Films
will spoil him and he will never be a doctor. You know we need a doctor in the
family. I am diabetic and his father has frequent convulsions."
I asked Dhurva what he had got
to say. He said he could manage his study alongside the movie. He also said he
liked art things more than science, mathematics, doctoring and engineering.
However, the story ended. I
didn’t have the parents' authority and the Head Master's power. The film people
never came to the school again.
Dhurva never became an actor.
Neither did he become a doctor. I see him scaling from one square to another in
Imphal. He looks sad and tired, and keeps talking to himself as he walks along
the streets. He however attends every program that stages a play – long or
short.
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