A Teacher’s Day

          I packed my bag and water-bottle to leave school for the day, after Jana Gana Mana. As I alighted the steps of my first floor class room, I noticed him standing at the rear gate, waiting for me to come out. I knew that he was there for me because the maid, who was to carry the school bag, was away. How unfair this was! True, I cannot carry my heavy schoolbag. But that shouldn’t mean that he carry it. How did Amma agree to this arrangement, in first place? Now that he’s shown up here, should I make him carry my bag? No way! The moment I reached the rear gate, I found his outstretched arm eager to take hold of my heavy bag. It was so endearing that anyone but I would have happily handed over the bag to him gleefully and made the way back home. But I wasn’t going to give up, not as yet. ‘I cannot’, I said, still wondering how Amma had agreed to put him to this much of strain. ‘No, dear, give it to me’, he said, as he gently took away my bag from my shoulder.  I looked at his face, which showed the signs of ageing, but then his lean frame betrayed the strong arms which were a part of it

          He walked elegantly, with a walking stick at the end of his right hand, and my bag hanging on his left shoulder- I observed that he was not feeling over burdened by this, on an undulating path that led to my house. On the descent, we were taken aback by the arrival of a white- and- white clad grey haired gentleman, who seemed to have known us before, for sure. Before I (rather we) could understand what was happening, this man had got off  his an Ambassador car (a luxury in the times I was talking about), and got close to the person accompanying me, and asked in a very soft voice, ‘Am I speaking to Mr. CSR?’

‘Yes, but forgive my forgetfulness andi (a respectful suffix in Telugu), I am unable to recollect our association’.

          Mr. White- and- white promptly fell at Mr. CSR’s feet, and, with tears in his eyes, said, “Sir, I must have accumulated a lot of punyam (Telugu word for religious merit) to be able to see you after four decades. My name is Venkata Rao. I was a student of yours in the class of 1942-44 of Intermediate. I vividly remember how wonderfully you explained the meaning of the well-known saying of Keats’, ‘A thing of beauty is joy forever’. You had taken one full hour to explain different ways of looking at it. I should not trouble you now, but if and when you have time for me, I can repeat that class for you. You were an inspiring person too! By your exemplary behaviour, you made me imbibe your values. I have recently retired from the State Government as a high ranking official. And I can confidently say that I gave my best and never, yes NEVER, misused the powers that I possessed. Do you see the building up there?” He pointed to a new building on the plateau we had just passed on your way down, and continued, ‘I humbly invite you to my post retirement abode for a cup of tea”. Mr. CSR politely refused. Mr. Rao then noticed the bag Mr. CSR was carrying, and offered to drop us home. But the latter held on, saying, ‘I come out for a walk every evening. This is my grandchild. She’s just recovered from a double attack of typhoid. We’ve hired a maid to help her with the books, but she could not report to work today. I thought I could fulfil the twin purposes by assisting this girl. My daughter-in-law entreated and protested, but to no avail. If I accept your lift, I will fall short of my walking target. Thanks for a kind offer but I have to apologise to you for not accepting it.’ There was a glint in the eye of Mr. Rao, who expressed happiness that his guru hasn’t changed his attitude!

          When we walked back home, I looked at my visibly beaming grandfather and wondered whether the student’s day was made by this chance meeting or the other way round. Not all teachers are remembered and recognized four decades after the student leaves the college, right? I promptly thanked God for the fortune of being born in the family of this inspiring individual!

          Today is his 107^th birth anniversary. He left us nine years back, but he’s there with me and with those whose lives he’d touched.

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