Vijesh

Disclaimer: An imaginary account of a real story. I didn't mean to distort the facts - I just want to present what I experienced when I heard the story.
The magnitude of what I felt was a minuscule fraction of what it must have been in real.

I don't know the exact year on the scale of time. It was just before 1990 actually. This room somewhere in North India was full of kids of different ages. Atleast fifty of them huddled up on the floor. There were four teachers in the classroom with a stack of sheets. They handed out each to the students and began to teach them the English alphabet.

I can move through the room looking at the faces of these kids. I don't see pain. I see numbness that stems from horror. I see the images of seeing one's grandparents being dragged out of the house, neighbours being shot dead in the middle of the street. One's dad on his feet and head bent down before a gunned man. Hordes of people carrying all that they could and taking any means of transport out of their homelands. Houseboats going up in flames. I can see the flames in their eyes.

These kids were stationed at this makeshift school. Their families had lost all the money and confidence they ever had. This school was the family's last hope to revive their son's childhood. To wipe out the images that had frozen in his eyes.

I see Vijesh among those kids. Scribbling a rose with the half-broken pencil. This child had kept his eye for beauty alive amidst all the inhumanity around him.



Vijesh wouldn't like me saying this here. But I, somehow, cannot stop myself. He is an engineer now. And is donating his first salary to the same school which still houses many more children like him. These places are more sacred than all the temples, churches and mosques of the world.

"If you can read this... "

Last month, I went back to school after six years. Everything had changed. A swanky new swimming pool stood where there was barren land. The classrooms were made up beautifully - there were paintings all over. There was a reading room where there existed a science laboratory. And the science laboratory was shifted to another larger place. There was an outdoor chessboard with life-size chess pieces. The school now boasted of three playgrounds – and all this was quite an achievement for a privately governed 15 years old school.

I watched with amazement these changes in my school and kept saying “Yeh hamaare time mein kyun nahi tha…” I happened to walk past the classrooms when I heard a familiar voice. Our Hindi teacher. In that typical tone of hers, she was reading out some chapter from the textbook. Yes, I remembered the chapter. It was about two sisters-in-law who fight and decide to split up the family. Like any other schoolbook chapter, the story ended on a happy note – this is what the textbook-makers are particular about.

She saw me outside the classroom and seemed happy. She completed her dictation while I waited outside the classroom. Then she came out and started talking, “How are you Aditya? What are you doing these days?” “I am doing my computer engineering at Somaiya.” “Wow, that’s so nice. You all have become big boys and girls now.” I smiled gleefully. We exchanged goodbyes and I left the place.

I met many other teachers who were all happy to see an ex-student visiting the school. I was very glad to meet them too – many of them asked me if I was in touch with Swati Ghiya. The famous, talented girl of my batch – then, a rival and now, quite a friend. They still remembered her vividly. Teachers love their students – especially the school teachers do.

I came back home but something seemed to be lingering in my mind. I was feeling disturbed – and I did not know why. This is where the cause of trouble lies for most of us – ignorance. I kept wondering why I was feeling weird and initially thought it was just the nostalgia. But it was not that. It was certainly something else.

A couple of days later, I met a school friend of mine– I would not give away the name because this write-up is going to portray her in a bad light. She said, “I had been to school the other day. I was shocked to see the teachers teaching the same lessons – god! Their knowledge is static – the same lessons, the same ‘extra questions’ and ‘important questions’. ” The words struck me like a bolt of lightening – almost. Yes, this was what was troubling me.

As I walked home, my mind was filled with thoughts. Over the six years after I passed out from school, I had been a part of various educational institutions – studied under many many teachers. When the course is on, we often tend to ridicule them, imitate their mannerisms, tag them as ‘khadoos’ or ‘bechari’. And then we pass out from that institution, move on with our lives, take up a job, get promoted and keep climbing the ladder step by step. And then one day, we look back like this friend of mine, rather look down on them.

They are the people who stood by us – the people who pushed us, the people who helped us to take our initial steps on the ladder of worldly success. They are still standing there. Helping others do what they did to you, years ago. They are the Teachers.

From grammar to arithmetic, from world history to environmental science – all this has been the foundation of whatever we have managed to do in our lives. One cannot undermine the sheer magnitude of the difference these teachers have made to all of us. Every single teacher we have had has contributed in making us the person that we are. And to them, we can only be grateful.

I stopped thinking. Switched on my computer. I changed the signature line of my email account to a quote I had read somewhere – “If you can read this, thank a teacher.”

Today I had realised what that meant.

-Aaditya Joshi