Cynthia's thanksgiving

Cynthia was cycling early in the morning along the long stretch of road as a part of her daily exercise. She chose this lonely road very rarely as it was free from heavy traffic and was lined by trees on both sides giving a shady and cool ambience. Only some stray trucks could be seen at long intervals. When she started this day, she hesitated for a few seconds to take this route as the sky was overcast and cloudy but decided as she felt she could make it before the rain came.

As ill luck would have it, the sky broke loose when she was midway and what started as a drizzle became a downpour. She looked around and could see no houses or a shelter to escape the rain except one house a little yonder. She cycled fast, left the cycle at the gate and ran on the pathway to the door of the house that was deep inside. She was completely drenched. As she rang the bell and waited for it to open, she looked around. The lawn was uncared for with litter and leaves scattered all over. The windows were all closed indicating that the house was uninhabited. The downpour was torrential. She pressed the bell again and kept the finger long on the switch.

After a long interval, the door creaked open slightly. She saw with surprise a handsome man in his early forties, strangely well-dressed at this inappropriate time in a three-piece suit, smiling at her.

 “Please come in. I am sorry I made you wait. Make yourself comfortable. I see you are drenched but can offer you nothing, except a towel “he said.

When she looked around for a place to sit, she found the sofa and chairs all covered with dust. Cobwebs were hanging everywhere from the ceilings, windows and walls. The floors looked dusty and had not been swept for a long period. He looked incongruous in his smart dress in a place so despicable.

As if reading her mind, he said “Yes, I am sorry the place is not presentable. That was the reason for my hesitation initially to let you in. But the rain is so heavy that I had not the heart to turn you away.”

Are you living alone? The place looks uninhabited and desolate” she asked.

“Yes, I am living alone. I am sorry I am not able to entertain you with tea and snacks. There is water in the tap. Better you don’t use it.” he said

“Sorry for asking this. Aren’t you scared to live in what looks like a haunted house? Can you not get someone to keep the place clean just like you? Please excuse me for my reckless question “she said

“I am accustomed to living here. True, the place is not looking good. I am unable to get it cleaned as much as I would wish. If you have no objection, I have some work upstairs. I will go. Please be at ease and you can leave the place when the rain stops without having to take leave of me. Just keep the door closed as you leave” he said, taking the stairs to the first floor. As he was climbing, she could see him smiling at her as she mumbled her thanks.

After he left, she peeped into the kitchen on the other side of the hall. There were some unwashed cups with brown stains, cockroaches running all over and a few plates and dirty saucepans around the place. Here again, the whole place was filled with cobwebs with soot hanging all over. There was a stale smell that made her feel like vomiting. She closed her mouth and nose with her kerchief and came out hurriedly near the front door. She never liked the place and wished to get away as quickly as possible. Luckily for her, the rain had subsided and there was only a slight drizzle.

Cynthia opened the creaking door softly and as she turned to look at the staircase to see if he was there, she saw on the mantlepiece a large framed photograph 4x2 feet in size of a person in a three-piece suit. She looked intently and it was the same smiling gentleman who was talking to her. Stifling a scream with her hand and with hair that rose to stand on its ends all over her body in fright, she ran out to the cycle at the gate as fast as her legs could take praying to the Lord all the time. It was only after reaching home that she could breathe calmly.

When Cynthia opened the newspaper the following morning, she saw at a corner a news item,

A YOUNG COUPLE WAS ASSAULTED AND ROBBED ON A DESOLATE ROAD. THE GOONS TRIED TO MOLEST THE WOMAN AFTER TYING THE INJURED MAN TO A TREE.

IT WAS ASCERTAINED FROM THE MAN, THAT THE WOMAN WAS SAVED AT THE NICK OF THE MOMENT WHEN A DARK SKELETON-LIKE APPARITION WITH HOLLOW EYES AND SUNKEN CHEEKS APPEARED FROM NOWHERE BEFORE THE GOONS IN A THREATENING MANNER, MAKING THEM RUN AWAY IN PANIC. THE POLICE ARE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THE CULPRITS.

She could not resist the thought that the suited man in the house could have been the ghost who helped the hapless woman and how gentle he was to her. As she read further, she found her surmise correct as the horrible incident had happened near the entrance of the haunted bungalow a short time after she had left. It was a narrow escape for her. She shuddered to think what could have happened to her on the road if she had delayed her departure. She crossed her chest with her hand grateful to the Lord for saving her. She knelt before the Lord’s picture with tears in her eyes and her heart suffused with gratitude and joy.

“God’s miracles are unbelievable.  He can make impossible things possible…Glory to God…”

Joy from an unexpected quarter

Palani, an incurable alcoholic beat his wife Bhagyam daily in the evenings for money for his booze. A lazy loafer, he brought no money for the house. With three young children to feed, Bhagyam worked hard in many houses. Life was a humdrum daily grind with only back-breaking work. It was the last week of the month with not even a grain of rice let alone other essential ingredients to cook a broth. The leftovers she brought from houses where she worked hardly helped to keep even the kids from hunger at the end of the month. In desperation, she often toyed with the idea of suicide along with kids but would abandon such thoughts, when she saw their trusting eyes and start visualizing a better tomorrow.

This particular day, she made in the dim light a thin gruel from broken rice she had borrowed and diluted liberally with a small quantity of buttermilk that one household had given. Hardly adequate for all and it only kindled more hunger. Each one had a glass with a small quantity kept aside for the worthless Palani.  The chimney lamp, the only source of light in the hut, was flickering starved of kerosene.

As Palani entered, he saw the children along with their friends in the neighbourhood jumping with joy amidst peals of laughter. Bewildered, he saw a smiling Bhagyam with her eyes glued on a new but small TV placed on the rickety shelf in the corner, a freebie from the generous government, ahead of a municipal poll. He too joined in the gaiety for a few moments oblivious of the irony of a TV in the hut bereft of electricity but chuckled later at the prospect of some money on its sale for his booze.

 

 

Elementary, my dear Watson

It was already past noon on a hot day and the sultry weather made it unbearably oppressive. Neela found the busy road outside neither noisy from the honking of vehicles nor did she hear the loud voices of hawkers to attract customers. Neela peeped into her mother’s room to see her sleeping soundly on the bed in the cool comfort of the AC. Neela sat quietly on the recliner by the side of the bed. It was a Saturday afternoon with no office work and she closed her eyes wishing to relax for a while. The steady and soft snore from her mother Shyamala made Neela turn to see her face.

It brought to her mind the frequent bickering with her over what her mom perceived as her disinterest in settling down in life. She was highly qualified and had a well-paying job. The fact is she was in no hurry to marry and had also not found a man to her taste. She was already 29. With the demise of Neela’s father two years back, her mom felt responsibility had fallen on her. A month back her mother was pleading with her to allow her at least to find through her contacts someone suitable for her leaving the final decision with Neela. She could not bear the pathetic sight of her sobbing mother beseeching her repeatedly and Neela in a fit of remorse agreed. Ever since the old lady was calm and satisfied that a big hurdle had been crossed even as she spread word among her contacts.

The sound of the doorbell woke Neela up from her reverie and she rushed to the verandah to find a young man standing outside with a packet.

“There is a packet for Ms. Neela, possibly containing a book or two. I would need her signature,” he said holding a form in his hand. He was a tall and sturdy man who looked handsome despite his clumsy beard and drooping moustache. The dark mole on his forehead over the eyebrow was prominent.

“I am Neela. You can give it to me. But, are you in the habit of guessing the contents of the packets you deliver to the customers?” she asked with a mocking smile.

“Here is the form for you to sign. I object to the insinuation that I pry into others' packets. It was as plain as the nose on your face that the packet contained books. You can open and see for yourself,” he replied in feigned anger.

Aghast at the way he spoke to her but impressed with the way he spoke in fluent English; she took the packet after signing the form but did not allow his insolence to go unrefuted. She asked him in an angry tone,” How dare you speak to me like this? Which courier company are you working for? I would like to speak to them. What is your name?”

“Why are you taking offence at a simple guess and making a mountain of a molehill? Anger doesn’t suit you, young lady,” he said with an injured innocence on his face.

Hearing the loud conversation, Shyamala hurried to the verandah and looked at the young man and the red motorbike parked near the gate.

“What is the problem, Neela? Poor man, he has come in the hot sun to deliver a parcel and is perspiring all over,” she asked.

“Amma(mom), he has the audacity to guess the contents of the packet and when I question him, he has the cheek to tell me that anger does not befit my face. I wish to lodge a complaint with his company about his bad manners,” Neela spoke agitatedly.

“Calm down, Neela. I see no great misdemeanour in his guessing the obvious content and telling you about it. He has not opened the packet after all. When you shouted at him undeservedly, he still paid a sort of tribute to your face by saying that anger spoils it,” the old lady said to the chagrin of her daughter and to the surprise of the young man.

 Turning to the young man she remarked,” Your face is familiar though I am unable to place it readily. I think it would be best for you in your profession to speak to a minimum to the point as you are meeting various kinds of people. By the way, you are sweating a lot. Do come inside the verandah and have a cool drink. May I know your good name? Could it be by any chance Sudhanva?”

He gave a surprised look at her but drank the Coke hurriedly. “Thank you, madam, for the kindness and for the cool drink that I badly needed as my throat was parched and dry. I like the positive way you look at things, a rare trait these days” he said.

Turning to Neela. he said before leaving,” I am sorry to have upset you. Please do not spoil my livelihood by complaining to my office I hope you get another packet soon when I can present it with greater civility and manners,”. As he closed the gate and got on to the bike, he smiled at her waving his hand. Leela's face turned slightly red as she watched him speed away on his bike but was confused and curious to note that there were no other parcels on the bike for delivery.

She opened the packet and found to her delight two paperbacks, ‘The Winemaker’s Wife by Kristin Harmel and Falling in Love Again by Ruskin Bond.’ What a nice choice but who could have sent these so thoughtfully, she wondered.

Later in the day, Shyamala told her, “I have already told you about a young man 32 years old who is coming to meet you tomorrow at 4 PM with his mother. He has a doctorate in Economics from an American University with a diploma in management from Stanford and is in a very good position in the US. They are happy with your profile and like you from the photo I showed them. Please do not go out in the sun but make yourself free for the whole Sunday.”

“Do you have his photo?” Neela asked.

“No, you are going to meet him anyway tomorrow. I wish that both of you warm up to each other and hope this alliance fructifies by the grace of God,” Shyamala said. After a pause, she added, “His mother lives in our locality just two streets away and I have met her in the park many times. It was only two weeks back I broached about my search for a match for you when she volunteered her interest in you for her son,” she explained.

Sharply at 4 pm the next day, a young man with his mother and two other ladies came as promised and were received warmly by Shyamala. Neela was in her room waiting eagerly to be called.

After the pleasantries were over, Neela was called to the drawing room. She entered demurely in a fine silk sari adorned with selective jewellery. When she turned to see the young man, she was taken aback for a moment when she saw the dark mole above his eyebrow and was struck by his similarity with the courier guy she was arguing with the day before. Otherwise, this man was clean-shaven with well-combed hair in trousers and a casual T-shirt of good quality. She could discern a faint smile on his face when he looked at her. He handed her a small box with a flourish making a gratuitous remark that he was neither aware of the content nor could he make a good guess.

Neela looked at him puzzled by his remark bringing to memory the tussle had with the courier guy the previous day. There is something more than what meets the eye, she thought to herself.

His mother broke the intervening silence and asked her son,” Sudhan, have you met her earlier by any chance the way both of you reacted to each other?”

“Let me explain, Amma, in a while. Turning to Shyamala, he asked her “What made you ask me yesterday, whether my name was Sudhanva?”

“I saw the name partially on a red motorbike parked in the portico of your house when I visited your mom with the rest of the name covered by a tarpaulin. I remembered your name is Sudhanva from the conversation I had with your mother. It is one of the thousand names of Lord Vishnu. Hence when I saw the same red bike on which you came to deliver a packet to Neela, I surmised it could be you in disguise trying to have a look at her before the formal meeting. Am I right?” Shyamala explained.

“Smart lady! You are absolutely right” exclaimed Sudhanva to the laughter of others.

He turned to Neela and asked, "What made you look at me with puzzlement?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson, your dark mole on your forehead is a dead giveaway. By the way, I thank you for the two excellent books I was looking to buy,” she remarked as she extended her hand that was clasped with alacrity by Sudhanva.

 

The debt of gratitude

Usually, Delhi airport would be very crowded and some days there would be mayhem causing a lot of inconvenience and delay. Luckily it was not so today and Madhavan could board the plane for Chennai easily. The plane was expected to depart on time. A brief profile of Madhavan would not be amiss here.

Madhavan has been working with the Government of India in New Delhi for decades and residing in a large apartment allotted to him. He had a year for superannuation. After a good education, his two sons and one daughter found jobs abroad in the US, Australia and Germany and settled there. He wished to spend his final years in Chennai where he had spent all his childhood till he completed his education. His wife had no objection as she had her siblings and other relatives in Chennai and other towns nearby. He was on the lookout for a small plot of land to build a modest house and had spread the word among his relatives and a few friends about his requirement. Nothing was materialising as quickly as he had hoped for.

He was bound for Chennai to attend a conference for two days. Having been away except for occasional visits, he was wondering who could help him in locating the land as he had lost touch with the folks he knew.

As his mind was reminiscing about his younger days, his memories took him to his boyhood friend and neighbour Pacha of the same age but short in height. While Madhavan lived in a separate bungalow with his parents, sisters and brothers, Pacha resided in a thatched hut at the rear corner of a vacant plot next to Madhavan’s house, The owner of the vacant plot, it seemed, lived in Singapore or Penang and the residents in the street have not seen him. There was a barbed wire fence separating the house and the land.

Pacha’s father Manoharan, a Tamilian, was a painter by profession, colour-washing and painting houses in the locality with irregular income, especially during monsoon months. His mother Bhuvana was from Andhra and Pacha had two sisters. It was a tough living for them with a meagre income. They were a nice family, non-interfering and helpful when a need arose. Although not on socialising terms, the relationship was neighbourly and cordial.

 Madhavan suspected that his father had the house colour washed every year, more to help Manoharan with some money than real need. His mother too did not lag behind his father and gave without fail daily the leftovers to Bhuvana. Here again, Madhavan felt his mother was consciously cooking more than required for the sake of the poor family. After a few months of use, she also gave the family her saris and his sisters’ clothes. The coconuts, plantains, papayas and mangoes that the trees/plants yielded were shared liberally with them. Madhavan’s father was a lawyer with good practice and was affluent. He got varied gifts from his clients on all festive occasions some of which were again given to them by his mother. Pacha’s family was treated with dignity despite their poor circumstances.

Madhavan lost touch with them after he moved to Delhi but had heard from his mother that Manoharan had fallen one day from scaffolding and broken his legs and was rendered unfit for work. The two girls had discontinued study and took up jobs as caregivers to aged people either immobile or affected by dementia. Pacha who had studied up to class ten undertook odd jobs till he finally attached himself to a politician as his acolyte and assistant. Years passed by and Madhavan’s parents had passed away and their house was sold. Pacha’s family, he came to know, were forcibly removed from the plot years back by some relatives of the owner. Their whereabouts were not known.

When there was an announcement about the fastening of seat belts as the plane was to land soon, Madhavan woke up from the reverie and wondered whether he could ever meet Pacha again.

The next day he was busy the whole day in a conference with state government officials and business honchos that included foreign companies too. It was there he befriended a senior state government official with whom he worked closely during the day. They decided to meet the next day in the official’s room to finalise some pending issues before the report was made. They took a liking for each other and the official insisted on Madhavan having lunch with him the next day.

Things went smoothly the next day and by lunchtime, the pending issues were sorted out for the report to be ready by evening. It was during lunch with the official, that Madhavan mentioned his efforts to find a small plot for his house through the Government Housing Board. The official suggested Madhavan should meet the minister in charge of Housing and Urban Development that afternoon if the minister was free and in office. Madhavan was lucky to get an appointment at 4 PM thanks to the efforts of the official.

When Madhavan was ushered into the large and luxurious room of the minister, he found a fat and short man in a spotless white shirt and dhoti standing to receive him. The face seemed familiar and Madhavan was trying to recollect when the minister exclaimed with a beaming face,” Are you not Madhu who lived in T. Nagar years back.”

“Yes Sir, would you by any chance be connected to one Pacha who lived adjacent to my place?” asked Madhavan deferentially.

“Hey Madhu, how could you fail to recognise me? I am the same Pacha, your good friend. Thanks to the affection and support of my benefactor to whom I attached myself when young as his errand boy, I have risen in the political party and am presently a minister after a long stint as Corporation Councilor, and Chairmanship of several government boards. Nothing of these would have been possible but for the kindness and benevolence of your parents in feeding and educating us when my parents were struggling against poverty. My sisters are married and well-settled in life. I have dedicated my life to working for the betterment of poor and disadvantaged sections as your parents did in a small way. I have not married,” he said.

“I am so fortunate and lucky to see you, Pacha, in a comfortable and high position. I attribute this good turn to your parents who were honest and hard-working and never strayed from a straight path despite the poverty,” Madhu replied.

“Madhu, I am happy you will be coming soon to Chennai and I want your help in guiding me on the several philanthropic activities I am doing. I heard about your search for a plot of land to build a small house. I came to know your children are abroad. It is not safe for elderly people to live alone in separate houses.

Let us not get involved in government lands. I have a well-thought-out suggestion. I have built four apartments next to my house in Raja Annamalai Puram, spacious three-bedroomed apartments, each slightly more than 2,000 square feet in area. I have rented them out and one of them is vacant. I have decided to transfer that apartment to your name if you kindly agree and thus the matter bothering you would get sorted out. What do you say?” asked Pacha.

“A 2000 sqft apartment in RA Puram must be costing a bomb and I cannot afford it. I am looking for a tiny plot, not in a posh locality, to build a small home,” Madhu demurred,

“Who asked you for money, Madhu? Why do I need four apartments beside a house for a single person like me? This is not given to you but is a very small token of boundless gratitude of me and my family to your parents. But for them, we would have all starved. I cannot take a no from you. If you feel embarrassed, you can donate a small portion of the money you intended for land towards the charitable destitute homes that I have built. When it is convenient for you, please visit Chennai with your wife so you can both see the apartment and register the sale deed. That would discharge me from my debt of gratitude to your parents” pleaded Pacha as he hugged him affectionately.

Madhavan was very happy that the power, high position and fame he had acquired from the political field had not sullied Pacha’s noble character and he continued to be an honest and humane person devoted to the cause of the poor. Madhavan was also pleased that he could continue to be with his friend adjacent to his house and assist him in his philanthropic activities.

 

Kanakadhara

Tirumalai was leading a humdrum life working as an accountant in a private company. With a small salary that was barely enough for his family of wife, two children and an old mother to take care of. The month ends were a struggle to make ends meet. His mother fell sick frequently due to bouts of asthma needing immediate medical attention. The quarterly school fees and the extra expenditure on festive occasions were two things he dreaded most. He was a pious and honest man given to no vices. God-fearing man, he did his daily puja twice in the morning and evening, praying for greater financial comfort.

He remembered one incident often told by his mother in his younger days about how Adi Sankara invoked the blessings of Maha Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, for a poor woman who had nothing to give him as alms except a dry gooseberry fruit and how the Goddess showered gold on listening to his Kanakadhara Stotram. Little wonder, he chanted this sloka daily with devotion but to no effect so far.

When his wife reminded him about the due date within a week for the school fees, he kept quiet. though seething within, with anger and disappointment at the total indifference of Goddess to his intense pleas for improving his financial circumstances. He decided in frustration that day would be the last one for his daily prayer to Goddess if She did not pay heed to his prayers. He arranged things in the puja room mechanically, lighted the lamps and decked the idols with flowers. His mind was not calm but perturbed at his inability to increase his income.

As he sat for the prayer, his wife was busy in the kitchen, the children readying themselves for school and the maid swiping the floor. He commenced his prayers by reciting Kanakadhara Stotram instead of reserving for the end as he did usually and did not say the other prayers. Instead, he looked at the Goddess's picture and complained as if She was standing before him,” I have been praying for years sincerely with sincere hope you would come to my succour as you are known to be compassionate. But there is no sign of your having heard my prayer. You have been indifferent to my struggles. Where else can I go to get my grievance sorted out? I have lost all hope in you and decided to stop asking you anymore if you do not help me here and now,”

He closed his eyes not knowing what else to do. The minutes trickled past with nothing happening. As he got up in disappointment and anger, he smelt the heightened fragrance of incense, the tolling of the bell on its own and the increasing brightness of the oil lamps. A thrill passed through his spine as he looked up at the picture to witness in disbelief a shower of shining gold blocks in the shapes of small cubes, spheres and circular coins on the brass plate with flowers and Tulsi leaves. It stopped within a few seconds leaving a small pile already. His wife, children and the maid were standing outside the puja room patting their cheeks with their palms.

He eyed the plate with greedy eyes and clasped it close to his chest even as he triumphantly looked at his wife and children. But they, overtaken by the suddenness of the miracle, were seen prostrating before the Goddess in gratitude for the immense unexpected blessing. Soon they picked three pieces from the plate to feel the rare gift.

The ungrateful Tirumalai, who was gloating and jumping over the successful outcome of his threat to stop the puja, forgot to fall at the divine mother’s feet. Outraged at his despicable behaviour, his wife admonished him for his lack of grace and gratitude even as she rushed back to the kitchen. The children too withdrew quietly leaving him alone in the silence that ensued.

He sat on the floor and started counting the number of pieces. He left the plate before the Goddess in the puja room and started thinking about what to do with the newly acquired wealth till his wife called him for breakfast. As they were eating, the maid screamed,” Amma please come here at once to the puja room.”

All of them rushed to see the gold pieces on the brass plate had turned black like charcoal. Tirumalai took one and found it light. It broke into two pieces when he applied pressure and left a black line when scratched on the floor. He was crestfallen and hit his head with his hands cursing himself. “It serves me right, the wretch I am, doomed to poverty.”

When his wife looked at her children meaningfully, they drew the three pieces each from their pockets to see them sparkling in golden colour and were seen beaming in joy.

 

 

Kindling the young minds

I remember this was one of my early stories written almost two decades back and an apt one for Teachers Day. Many of my current readers might have missed it.

Our former President Dr.Kalam always exhorted students to dream, hoping that dreams may ignite their minds to accomplish great things. This wasn’t so a few decades ago for back, as then a dream was associated with slumber and I still remember getting whacked for yawning in class. Yawn, I did not know then, is a prelude to sleep often induced by boring subjects or people.

No one explained why the paper planes that fly in the classroom glide effortlessly at times but nose-dive most often. Nobody ever asked such questions as minds were not encouraged to be inquisitive. It would be presumptuous to interrupt the class with questions and riskier if they turned out to be foolish.

I was in class VIII when the English teacher asked us to write an essay on what we would like to be when we grew up. As a child, I fancied being a steam engine driver with the thrill of driving the engine in the dead of night across the fields accompanied by the rhythm of the wheels and occasional long whistle, watching the stars and stopping at stations to drink coffee from the IR restaurants without the risk of ever missing the train. But afraid of being reprimanded, I wrote about some mundane ambition.

My friend Chellappa, more imaginative and bolder, refused to divulge the subject he wrote about. In the last hour of the day, the English teacher walked in. From his ominous look, we could sense that something untoward was about to happen.

“Chellappa,” he bellowed, “come here.” Chellappa walked with trepidation towards the table.

“So, you want to be a scientist,” he roared and laughed hysterically like Gabbar Singh in Sholay. The entire class joined the laughter only to be stopped abruptly by the tight slap my friend got. “What is your optional subject,” the teacher asked.

Chellappa mumbled, “Book-keeping.”

“How dare you want to be a scientist, having chosen book-keeping,” he demanded. 

My pal replied meekly, “Sir, you asked us to write what we would wish to be and not what we would be.” Rebuffed, the teacher dismissed him from the class.

The teacher also ridiculed a boy who had a squeaky voice and wished to be a playback singer and another who took part only in the lemon-and-spoon race but wished to excel as an Olympic runner. Then, there was the boy who opted for Tamil medium on account of his poor scores in English, but wished to be a playwright in English like Shakespeare.

The unimaginative teacher, who had neither vision nor compassion, smothered all the harmless instincts of the children. The young minds, peculiarly sensitive to ridicule, never recovered from the shock.

Luckily, this teacher was an exception. I have known several scholarly teachers who responded to their calling with sincerity and passion despite the pittance they received those years. They shaped minds and stoked fires that lay latent in young hearts. They would discover talent-academic, aesthetic and technical-and stimulate and guide the children to become proficient in their chosen skills. 

The teacher should act as a trigger, letting children roam free in their minds and seek answers to their unresolved questions. He should rejoice at the discovery of kindled spirits and provide the answers wherever he can.

The lingering fragrance

 

Today being Teacher's Day, I have posted here an old story of mine written years back to salute the great teachers 'who inspire hope, ignite the imagination, and instill a love for learning in their wards.'

I was in class 8, I think, when I had Mr. Govindarajan (we called him GR Sir) for my class teacher. From my sieve-like memory, I clearly remember that he was short in height, frail with a small physical frame and unkempt hair and appeared much older than his early fifties. But I cannot forget the twinkle in his kindly eyes and the ever-present mischievous smile on his face that belied the initial impression one got of him. His witty and lively classes, however drab the subjects were, made him very popular amongst the boys in the school.

 Despite his bubbly humour and warmth, there was a certain aloofness inhibiting any intimacy or liberties. He knew well how to instill and inspire confidence in his pupils and in making them believe that they could achieve whatever goal they had set for themselves. He never even derided the weak students and took trouble explaining the lessons again and again. He used to devote invariably the last 10 minutes of his class to kindle the interest of the boys in varied general subjects and expand their mental horizon. There was some innate charm about him and in his teaching method that we looked forward to his classes.

 A wise master, he inspired awe in his abilities and earned the respect of one and all including his peers. He had a soft trait in that he could not be harsh even on impish and roguish boys even when occasions demanded it. When any boy complained of the slightest physical discomfort, he never looked askance but sent him home immediately for rest.

 For reasons not known, he took a special liking for me possibly because I lived very close to his house. He used to give me small errands occasionally like getting chalk pieces from the office. It was one day when he entered the class unusually late by a few minutes; he looked distinctly fatigued and distraught. He called me near him and whispered “Partha, I went to hospital this morning to admit my aged mother who is suffering from acute Asthma. It was an emergency and I am coming here directly from the hospital after she stabilized. You know my house. Can you please collect the lunch from my wife? Tell her that I was held up in the hospital and couldn’t come home. Tell her that my mother is stabilizing and that I would be going to hospital directly from the school.”

 I ran to his house that was close to school. It was a small two room side portion, dark and dingy. After I conveyed the message, I was waiting for the lady to pack the lunch. I could see in the dark and bare hall a small boy of my age huddled on a mat. When he saw me, he tried to get up but could not. He made some unintelligible guttural noises that brought his mother scurrying to his side. She said to him “Lie down quietly and I will come in a minute after sending lunch to appa”

I blurted foolishly “Aunty, is he not well? He is not getting up and is making strange sounds.”

She turned to me attempting to hide a tear and said before going to kitchen” Yes, he is very unwell and cannot walk on his own. He cannot speak too and is not a normal child.”

It struck me then that he was not only polio affected but also mentally retarded. What a cruel punishment to have befallen the excellent and loving teacher who never betrayed even in an unguarded moment the piteous and depressing scene at home. An aged sick mother frequently on bouts of asthma, an abnormal child with no future, a small decrepit home and low emoluments, is a deadly combination that no ordinary person can withstand. I wondered how this man’s devotion to his duty and amiable disposition remained unshaken by such extreme personal disappointments.

My esteem for him grew boundless when I remembered his natural dignity, infectious warmth of spirit and willingness to walk the extra mile to teach the slow children till they understood. He never allowed his private grief to intrude in the call of his duty. Education for him is something more than book learning. For him it is an initiation of the young and eager minds into the wonders of the world and life where time and money played a little part on a personal level. The memory of such a great but simple teacher of the past abides like perfume even after the lapse of long years. Such rich contentment and serene detachment are no common possessions of ordinary mortals.