But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived a hidden life faithfully, and rest in unvisited tombs.”
― George Eliot, Middlemarch
These were the lines floating in the sky of my mind when I met my school teachers.
The morning of August 13 was unusual.
I came back home with a school memento, like a school report card. My mother held it, hugged it and, like any sacrosanct object, kept it carefully away.
It is a symbol of love, respect and admiration.
After eighteen years, I was going back to my school, Woodlands House School, as it was celebrating its sixtieth anniversary.
It was established by a woman, Mrs Rup SP Singh, in the year 1966.
It is located in the picturesque, serene foothills of the Zabarwan mountain range and Takht-e-Sulaiman/ Shankaracharya Temple. The school started with a few students, but with her persistence, dedication and devotion to impart education, its enrollment grew. Her work as a woman was recognised by former Chief Ministers also. Her initiative to impart education to both girls and boys came at a time when there were hardly any private schools.
I left early in the morning when other students were also leaving for school. However, this time I was alone. No grandparent, uncle, aunt, or any of my parent accompanied me to my bus stop. No school bus was coming to honk. There were no friends.
Life had happened, changed in eighteen years. We had drifted apart. Floated in different parts of the universe. Our own little worlds shackled us. We couldn’t fly back to school. Everyone had grown old.
Seeing parents and teachers grow old often shatters something inside silently. It probably also tells us something about ourselves too.
Nostalgia crept up, childhood memories swirled, as I met my batchmate, JP Singh. For almost two decades, we could never meet despite living in the same city. Today, as our alma mater had invited and considered us for an alumni talk, we had the opportunity to revisit school and have a rendezvous. Our busy schedules kicked in and we parted soon. Again, school had anchored us to shore of past for a fleeting moment.
My words flew and vanished as I entered the school gate. As students were preparing for morning assembly, tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t speak. The past was speaking with the present, and I was staring in silence. We had been absent from the school for a long time as alumni, but it greeted us with an overwhelming love and respect. The lovely, innocuous, obedient students welcomed.
Our teachers should have punished us. It is their lovely, mild punishments that shaped us and our future. It instilled in us the sense of right and wrong. They were our guardians when the poor seeds could have been trampled, blown away by vicious winds.
They shielded us, then with their teaching and now with their prayers and love.
Irrespective of any generation, everyone adores childhood memories and school days. Everyone loves their school, school friends, and teachers.
So did we.
Everything was triggering the memories of childhood. Each student of each different class reminded us of my own days when the school and its devoted teachers laid our foundation to be better human beings and students of knowledge and wisdom. They imbibed values which shaped us so that we can contribute to society.
We came from a generation when neither social media nor mobile phones existed. Neither AI nor ChatGPT. Our sources of seeking knowledge were limited, and we had only one address: teachers and books.
Now teachers say times have changed and even students. We hold our teachers in deep reverence as these were the values imbibed in us by our grandparents, society, culture and religious scripts.
Has anything changed? Evolved or devolved?
However, teachers’ respect was paramount in our lives. We idolised them, as their behaviors shaped us. Our parents always expected us to respect teachers, for they were contributing to shaping our lives silently, like them. When we were punished, our parents considered it the teacher’s right and contribution to our shaping as better humans. I am not espousing corporal punishment but I am seeking a space for a teacher where she has the right to assert her authority and guide.
Unlike today, when boundaries have blurred between teachers and students leading to worst outcomes, our generation of teachers and students had a relationship of a parent and a child. The teachers were accountable for their behaviors so did students.
Today, looking back retrospectively, our teachers, who taught us different subjects, laid the foundation and made us resilient for future challenges. The school’s infrastructure and pedagogy have evolved and developed. These teachers, whose contributions remain anonymous, are everywhere, in everyone’s alley of memory.
They are not mine; they are yours also.
We had a few minutes alumni talk in morning assembly with future generations.
“Life is beyond the books. It is the values within you that teach you to be empath, compassionate and loving towards fellow humans. It is life and life’s purpose,” my friend said. As I had to speak, I reiterated the essence of respecting teachers as they are not just the source of knowledge but wisdom which any machine can’t be. I restored my hope in backbenchers as it is they who usually do well in life.
We laughed with wet eyes as our teachers were hosting us. Usually during school days, we were summoned for mischievous activities but now our teachers were full of pride. The seeds they had planted, watered, nourished, protected had grown into trees and giving shade to many.
This shade belongs to them; here and hereafter.
(My special thanks to Woodlands School, its management and administration and our teachers like Sharifa ma’am, Shafi Sir, Farooq Sir, Shazia ma’am, Shabnam ma’am, Arshi ma’am, Shaista ma’am, Raza sir and other teachers who have shaped us.)
Regards,
Khalid Bashir Gura
Batch 2008.
