To Ms Smita

A bond between a teacher and a student is very special. It goes beyond the classroom. Beyond learning. Close to a sense of parenthood, even. So, when they leave for someplace else, it hurts. A lot. The pain, more than the fact that you wouldn’t be able to see her again, would be the fact that there would be no more of her jokes, her scolding, and most importantly, her love. On the 31st of December 2021, which is now last year, one of my favourite teachers left school, in Manipal, and planned a move to the West Indies, and I was left heart-broken, that I didn’t tell her how much I admired her. Hence, this poem is dedicated to her, her teaching, and of course, the last 40 minutes I ever spent with her in class. Unless of course, lady luck has me on her side in the future!

The Last 40 Minutes – A Poem by Prahlad Madhu

For 40 minutes I sat silently, absolutely mesmerized.

As I thought back to all the memories, all the jolly good times.

But then came my emotions, and then came the pain

My efforts of parsimoniously holding back those dreaded tears, they too went in vain.

I thought about all the times I misbehaved in her class. All the times I,

With my bullish ego, cracked a bad joke, or laughed like a maniac, but

All she’d do was gawk at you, and

Her forgiving eyes, and her compassionate smile would almost impel anyone to mend their ways.

As I sat, repenting, yet reminiscing, I looked at her now.

Tears on the cusp of dropping down from her prepossessing eyes. She didn’t want to leave.

Her hands, trembling, as they evaluated the last set of notebooks they ever would.

Her mind, thinking about what she would do in Trinidad,

Her heart, rooted as firm as could be, still at school, in Manipal.

For every ounce of me that wanted to tell her not to leave,

Was another part that wanted to accept reality.

For I was already so privileged that I was her student and she, my teacher,

How much more greed could a human heart give out?

The last 40 minutes trickled past me quite coldly,

And she got up and waved goodbye to us, and we did so too, in return

As she walked out the door, pen in hand, tears in eyes, for one last time, I asked myself -

What isn’t there about her to miss?

For all her jokes, her quirks and foibles I certainly would.

For such a profound impact she’d had on my life,

That a million “thank yous” would not suffice.

As she left school that evening, I knew I wouldn’t see her again.

Not anytime soon, at least. And that hurt.

Because I thought teachers were supposed to make students smile,

But she was terribly unique, for she’d made me weep!

This write-up, on the other hand, is regarding an experience, or rather an incident with this very teacher that taught me how to be someone better. It was the first time I had seen a teacher do something like this for it was very rare that a teacher actually answered the questions that I use to pose. I had a reputation of being called “over smart” so I thought that would have been the case this time as well, but her actions were, to me so pleasing, and the sense of satisfaction I attained when I knew this teacher had suddenly gone against all the “orthodox” regulations the Indian education system sets, was immense. That was the day, in my mind, when I had the highest levels of respect and admiration for one of my favourite teachers ever.

The Day it all Changed – By Prahlad Madhu

I always thought Madhava Kripa had a dearth of good English teachers. For every year I had been there, it seemed to me that the quality of English teachers would only deteriorate. I’d, of course, try my best to impress them – use fancy language, read up the lessons and poetry before, narrate long stories in class, write poetry, and of course, the longest of answers, but it would still never suffice. For some reason, I would engage in quarrels, disagreements and of course, what teachers would like to call, being “over smart”, when I’d respond to them in sometimes, a condescending way.

Given, it was never a bed full of thorns, and the quarrelling was never a one-way street. Nonetheless, I always was quite greedy for someone else. Of course, the teachers who I loved, either never ended up teaching me, or ending up leaving after some of the shortest stints as a teacher. It truly was uncanny, how I used to hate one of my favourite subjects, courtesy of the faculty.

As a subject, English truly had eluded me. I would always do very well in class, and the subject too, but for some reason, other than meagre marks on a piece of paper, I would never really procure the satisfaction of actually learning better English. I truly longed for a teacher who would push me. Make me work hard. Think fast. And write better. But, alas! That would almost always never be the case.

I say ‘almost’, because it did happen once. I distinctly remember third grade, when we had one of the most amazing English teachers I could ask for. Ms Gagan, I remember, was so engrossingly fascinating, that nobody would not pay attention to her. In what was a time I used to hate coming to school, I think I had just found a reason.

But for some reason or the other, and maybe I was just blessed with the most terrible bad luck, an unshaven bastard called reality stepped into the picture and tore apart my relationship with this wonderful teacher, and hence, my incentive for coming to school vanished. One might think that this seemed like an absolutely stupid reason to not come to school. But, for god knows what, I was hell-bent on a good English teacher.

Had I been Christian, I probably would have asked for it during Christmas, but even if I was, I doubt I would be experiencing the joy of Secret Santa giving me a new, fabulous English teacher! But then, one fine day, what seemed like a Christmas gift five years too late, I thought I’d experienced it. An English class that was supremely interesting, it had made me pay attention.

As usual though, my ecstasy was short lived, for what followed in the upcoming months, were some of the most gruesomely boring and uninteresting classes I had ever been in. Giving the benefit of doubt where it was due, our curriculum was really mundane, the classes of course was online, and I mean, I would also doze off at times, for no given reason. I’m pretty sure the teacher would do everything in her power to make interesting the class, but for a reason that I would never be able to explain, greed overcame me. I’d always want, a much more demanding English class.

Soon enough though, our school resumed offline, and with that, came an even greater urge, to find an inspiring English teacher. I could only imagine what it would be like to hear the teacher who had been rambling on with no effect for months online, in physical school. Soon enough, my wishes were granted, and she walked in. A broad smile on her face, books, and laptop in hand.

Looking back now, I don’t remember how her first class went. I probably wasn’t paying attention, something that I was used to doing back then. Disappointing as it may be, back then, it seemed like classes wouldn’t get more interesting, and hence, my ignorance seemed somewhat justified.

It was probably a month or so into her classes that I actually started listening. As usual, bound by the archaic, abominable norms of our horrendous education system, our teacher had started giving out our assignments. Now mind you, these weren’t some research-based papers, or projects where you actually had to use your brain. No, these were nothing close to the sort. Instead, our board decided to give us tasks like drawing comics (which was really harder than it seemed), designing clothes and making a brochure. All of these tasks were way too artsy for a simpleton like me, and I couldn’t digest how blatantly stupid our board was about this.

“How are these projects even remotely connected to English ma’am?” I protested vociferously. “You could’ve asked us to write something, to speak about something, to debate, to present, to act, to read, or do anything else under the Sun. But no. It had to be 4 tremendously arduous projects not even related to the subject, didn’t it?”, I vehemently put forward.

The moment that last sentence came out of my mouth, I knew I was done for. I knew what would come next. It’d be the lectures about how my indiscipline has no margin, how I was disrespectful, how I had a lack of understanding about the big things, and yet, how over smart I was. Looking down, somewhat guiltily, as she called out my name, I stood prepared that the storm that was going to hit me.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the berating and the uninhibited rebukes, but not once did they come, to my surprise. I was so sure she was going to blast me for those statements of mine, but no. Nothing but my name came out of her mouth. Prompting me to look at her face, she continued, “You took the words out of my mouth…”

That was all I had to hear for a smile of joy, tinged with confusion, to be imprinted on my face for the rest of the class. I just couldn’t believe it. For the first time in my life, not only had a teacher entertained my questions willingly, but she was urging me to converse more! I pinched myself, for I didn’t see how this could happen in our school, for she’d used such verbose language in answering the questions as well! Ecstasy would have been an understatement of the century at that point.

And so, for the next twenty-five minutes or so, deliberation continued. We spoke about how horrendous our education system was, about the lack of freedom she had as a teacher, constrained by the very system that advocated her freedom. We spoke about those rotten projects, which didn’t even seem to have that much relevance to me now. For a teacher to have been that open, that conscientious, that empathetic, and that kind, it shook me.

The bell rang, sharp at 4, and all the students, myself included scurried onto the bus. The ride home was different that day. Throughout the ride, I smiled, at myself. The procrastination had finally come to an end. I was proud of myself for finishing off something I’d been putting off for years. For after seven years at this school, and a greed that had grown large enough to even consume me, not once more would I have to look for an interesting English teacher again! And all was right with the world.