The little boy in the light brown uniform shorts and a nice cream shirt looked around the class. There had been a reshuffle of his classmates of Grade One (We called it ‘Standard One’ then) and he could see new faces. The lack of familiar faces did not bother him as much as the fact that he was told that his favorite regular teacher of Class I, who incidentally was also his neighbor aunty, was no more his class teacher. He had tried to reason with his parents urging them to speak to the principal to perhaps retain the teacher. The first experience in life of ‘who moved my cheese’ was already in action.
It was also not the old class room anymore. The comfortable one on the ground floor in the main building looked out of reach now. They had shifted to a new two storey building painted in light pink and looking more beautiful but less sturdy than the school’s majestic main building. The new building still appeared unfinished, debris still lying around near the staircase well. The little boy was irked by the sight of the unseemly pebbles with cement sand piled up near the entrance. He would later see the peon always struggle with the collapsible gates which usually got stuck on its railing because of the small grits but it did not seem to occur to anyone to get it cleaned. The spanking new steel bodied water cooler stood on the ground floor at the first right turn. If you turned left you got the coveted A division. One always suspected that there was an order in the division. The children in class A always appeared bright and snobbish or was it his imagination? And to the right were the B, C and D divisions.
The benches were new too. Most of the wooden benches were yet to feel seasoned. One sat and the little prying fingers searched for that ubiquitous clay that felt so nice to dig out from their hallowed natural pits in the wooden desk. Running around the class was a very unsafe affair and the first casualty was always the knee knocking around the almost curved corner of the benches provoking immense ‘cry out loud pain’. But these very desks after seasoning provided experts with an opportunity to practice drums on them. Seeking out the right sound was an art.
The teacher walked in with a pale blue white sari. She was very tall well built. To a seven year old the teachers always appeared 6 foot tall women. Stern women, most of the time unsmiling beings, who always were in love with your homework. One look at the stern teacher as she set her paraphernalia of books, ruler, fresh chalks, and mandatory attendance register on to the wooden table and looked at the class. The unified sound of the chorus “a gooood morninnnnngggg teeeaccher” rent the air. There is no better way to depict the stretched out sing song greeting.
To the boy, she almost looked like a taller and healthier version of his Class One teacher who was more slender but strict, quiet but a task master. He watched from his first bench seat where he found himself by default due to his diminutive height. He wondered how this teacher could turn out to be. He did not like school at that moment. Why oh why did everything have to change so quickly? Why did the school not continue the same teacher till they became very big? He wondered. He was broken from his reverie by the teacher taking the attendance. She was calling out his name and actually gave him a smile as he picked his hand up with practiced ease and greeting “present teacher”. Hmm she was warm after all. It was just a day or two for him to realize that this was going to be his second best teacher and he was settling into the loss of his first grade teacher.
We just called her Lobo teacher. And I can safely say that she must be one of the breed of rare teachers who ran the class like her home with all the children like her own family members. She was amazingly dedicated. All teachers have favorites though they may deny it and I remember as a vivid childhood memory that Balbir and I vied for that spot.
On an occasion in the second grade during the finals all the children seemed to have erroneously copied the wrong exam papers and date combination. It was around 9pm and we opened the door to find Lobo teacher anxiously asking for my calendar. Without any explanation she quickly went through the dates and advised my parents of the correction. She hurried down and we ran behind her. Lobo Uncle was waiting with his Phillips Bicycle (I remember that because it had a closed chain cover that I loved) set to go to the next student’s house. Lobo teacher quickly asked me for a number of houses of my fellow students. Even then I was amazed and open mouthed at her dedication towards the welfare of her children.
She was an extremely progressive teacher. One afternoon when the school periods were over and we were supposed to have a free games period, Balbir and I went to her with a path breaking news that we had heard of. Apparently there was this new marvel where one could see moving pictures on a small screen. They had this in the badminton wing of the officer’s club. Could we go there, have a quick look and come back? She gave one look and seemed to appreciate our honesty. The club was not too far from our school ground. She seemed to ruminate on the risks. Then she sighed and said “Ok but only if you are back in 20 minutes and also explain to me how it works”. Our joy knew no bounds. Balbir and I ran as fast as we could, arriving huffing and puffing at an already crowded club where everyone stared in the dark at the invention called television. It was already old for the world but new for India and even newer for our isolated reclusive town. We were amazed and gaped at the badly snowing black and white screen as Gavaskar batted against the West Indies and I came to associate the static sound with high level technology for a long time to come.
We were routinely shuffled around when our regular class teachers were absent and distributed to different divisions. My favorite lookout was Division A where I had my favorite friends. I was also fond of the savvy teacher Mrs. Bajaj. Roy teacher actually more Roy aunty for me was the class teacher of division B and being a family friend and having nurtured me from childhood felt responsible towards me and kept heralding me back to her class. It was also then a childhood chivalry to help teachers carry their books home and the chosen one was usually considered the teacher’s pet. In one of those affectionate moments Roy teacher beckoned me to help her carry books home that evening. I was already annoyed at having being pulled out from Division A and my friends. So in a rare moment of childish bickering murmured to Balbir that I was not her servant. Now Master Balbir took this as a great opportunity to warm up to the teacher and dutifully reported it to her.
The news reached my home and my class teacher Mrs. Lobo the next day. Roy Aunty was very emotionally disturbed that I was not responding to her honest affection.
Back in class the next day a grim Mrs. Lobo walked in and told the class that she had heard something that had her disappointed and crying. She then looked towards me and asked if I had said something wrong to another teacher. That was enough for me to burst into tears. She held me around the shoulders and gave me the lesson of my life. Never bicker about others behind their backs and more so your elders. She said she felt sad that a child of hers had displayed this behavior. I went back to my seat.
She then put her second act into play. She asked who would fetch her glass of water from the water cooler. Up went my hand.
I waited with bated breath. That was my copy righted area of action. No one could fetch water for my Lobo teacher other than me.
But Mrs. Lobo wanted the lesson learnt sharp and deep. She pointedly looked at me.
“I hope you won’t feel that you are my servant? Will you?”
I nodded vigorously “Never in my life teacher”
“Good, Navin will get me my glass of water”
I secretly wondered if she had really wanted water or she just wanted a moral ending to the story. One stronger block added to personality building of her children. A job that teachers took so seriously in those days.
I recall the three years of the primary division as the real foundation of our personality and ethics. And am I glad that we had such a wonderful mason of character to help build us.
Going to secondary was painful. The pangs of separation were indeed bad. I kept going to the staff room.
“Lobo teacher will you come back to our 5th grade class as our teacher?”
At first she found it cute but then repeated approaches made her feel that this hangover was real bad for her children. She decided to get tough with us and in a moment of false display of anger she shot back
“Enough now you are grown up children and you should love your next teacher as much as you do your previous teachers. I do not want to see you approaching me again on this”
We were shocked not sure why our favorite teacher was so angry with us. Our minds numbed. Was it wrong to love your teacher and affectionately hope that she continue with us?
Again it was a ‘who moved my cheese’ moment.
We kept approaching her, wishing her vigorously every time we passed her home on our bicycles finding excuses to wish her a Happy New Year or Happy Christmas. But as years went by she seemed remote and barely recognizing us. For us she was a very important block in our memory but she seemed to be letting us go.
Life moved on but I never forgot Lobo teacher. Decades later with the electronic world finding raging inventions like the internet leading to revival of real time nostalgia and networking with the past, I desperately searched for her. Quick checks with alumni seemed to yield no results. No one that we knew seemed to know where she or her children were.
Till recently my childhood friend Lizzie, Joseph teacher’s daughter decided to put an end to my agony and crowd sourced my query of finding Lobo teacher. And amazingly leads were provided finally getting me her phone number in the US of A.
I rang her up one Sunday morning their time. A shaky female voice came on the phone.
'Hello'
'Uh Hello Teacher'
'Hello. Who is this?'
'Uh Teacher good morning. My name is Navin. Navin Dutt. Your ex-student decades back.'
I wait. There is a long pause.
'Navin. Yes good morning. Navin. Yes. I remember you'
I slumped into a chair. My joy knew no bounds. It seemed to bring a closure of sorts.
'Navin. Yes. I do not remember your face but I remember you.'
'Teacher do you remember Balbir and Mili …'
'Yes those names are very familiar. But you know I am quite old now and it is really difficult to remember things.'
And then we talked for 20 minutes. One of the most memorable 20 minutes of my life. I filled her in all the events since school. She listened patiently.
Then she apologized herself. She needed to go to church.
There was a beautiful closure to an open loop in my life. The teacher who had set the mortar of values in my younger days was reconnected and told that the values hopefully still stood strong and her efforts were not wasted. I just had to let her know that I owed it to her for a beautiful period in my life so memorable that I remembered minute details of it exemplary of the strong impact it had.
I hope to call her again soon sometime.
'Hello Teacher. Thank you for everything.'
The benches were new too. Most of the wooden benches were yet to feel seasoned. One sat and the little prying fingers searched for that ubiquitous clay that felt so nice to dig out from their hallowed natural pits in the wooden desk. Running around the class was a very unsafe affair and the first casualty was always the knee knocking around the almost curved corner of the benches provoking immense ‘cry out loud pain’. But these very desks after seasoning provided experts with an opportunity to practice drums on them. Seeking out the right sound was an art.
The teacher walked in with a pale blue white sari. She was very tall well built. To a seven year old the teachers always appeared 6 foot tall women. Stern women, most of the time unsmiling beings, who always were in love with your homework. One look at the stern teacher as she set her paraphernalia of books, ruler, fresh chalks, and mandatory attendance register on to the wooden table and looked at the class. The unified sound of the chorus “a gooood morninnnnngggg teeeaccher” rent the air. There is no better way to depict the stretched out sing song greeting.
To the boy, she almost looked like a taller and healthier version of his Class One teacher who was more slender but strict, quiet but a task master. He watched from his first bench seat where he found himself by default due to his diminutive height. He wondered how this teacher could turn out to be. He did not like school at that moment. Why oh why did everything have to change so quickly? Why did the school not continue the same teacher till they became very big? He wondered. He was broken from his reverie by the teacher taking the attendance. She was calling out his name and actually gave him a smile as he picked his hand up with practiced ease and greeting “present teacher”. Hmm she was warm after all. It was just a day or two for him to realize that this was going to be his second best teacher and he was settling into the loss of his first grade teacher.
We just called her Lobo teacher. And I can safely say that she must be one of the breed of rare teachers who ran the class like her home with all the children like her own family members. She was amazingly dedicated. All teachers have favorites though they may deny it and I remember as a vivid childhood memory that Balbir and I vied for that spot.
On an occasion in the second grade during the finals all the children seemed to have erroneously copied the wrong exam papers and date combination. It was around 9pm and we opened the door to find Lobo teacher anxiously asking for my calendar. Without any explanation she quickly went through the dates and advised my parents of the correction. She hurried down and we ran behind her. Lobo Uncle was waiting with his Phillips Bicycle (I remember that because it had a closed chain cover that I loved) set to go to the next student’s house. Lobo teacher quickly asked me for a number of houses of my fellow students. Even then I was amazed and open mouthed at her dedication towards the welfare of her children.
She was an extremely progressive teacher. One afternoon when the school periods were over and we were supposed to have a free games period, Balbir and I went to her with a path breaking news that we had heard of. Apparently there was this new marvel where one could see moving pictures on a small screen. They had this in the badminton wing of the officer’s club. Could we go there, have a quick look and come back? She gave one look and seemed to appreciate our honesty. The club was not too far from our school ground. She seemed to ruminate on the risks. Then she sighed and said “Ok but only if you are back in 20 minutes and also explain to me how it works”. Our joy knew no bounds. Balbir and I ran as fast as we could, arriving huffing and puffing at an already crowded club where everyone stared in the dark at the invention called television. It was already old for the world but new for India and even newer for our isolated reclusive town. We were amazed and gaped at the badly snowing black and white screen as Gavaskar batted against the West Indies and I came to associate the static sound with high level technology for a long time to come.
We were routinely shuffled around when our regular class teachers were absent and distributed to different divisions. My favorite lookout was Division A where I had my favorite friends. I was also fond of the savvy teacher Mrs. Bajaj. Roy teacher actually more Roy aunty for me was the class teacher of division B and being a family friend and having nurtured me from childhood felt responsible towards me and kept heralding me back to her class. It was also then a childhood chivalry to help teachers carry their books home and the chosen one was usually considered the teacher’s pet. In one of those affectionate moments Roy teacher beckoned me to help her carry books home that evening. I was already annoyed at having being pulled out from Division A and my friends. So in a rare moment of childish bickering murmured to Balbir that I was not her servant. Now Master Balbir took this as a great opportunity to warm up to the teacher and dutifully reported it to her.
The news reached my home and my class teacher Mrs. Lobo the next day. Roy Aunty was very emotionally disturbed that I was not responding to her honest affection.
Back in class the next day a grim Mrs. Lobo walked in and told the class that she had heard something that had her disappointed and crying. She then looked towards me and asked if I had said something wrong to another teacher. That was enough for me to burst into tears. She held me around the shoulders and gave me the lesson of my life. Never bicker about others behind their backs and more so your elders. She said she felt sad that a child of hers had displayed this behavior. I went back to my seat.
She then put her second act into play. She asked who would fetch her glass of water from the water cooler. Up went my hand.
I waited with bated breath. That was my copy righted area of action. No one could fetch water for my Lobo teacher other than me.
But Mrs. Lobo wanted the lesson learnt sharp and deep. She pointedly looked at me.
“I hope you won’t feel that you are my servant? Will you?”
I nodded vigorously “Never in my life teacher”
“Good, Navin will get me my glass of water”
I secretly wondered if she had really wanted water or she just wanted a moral ending to the story. One stronger block added to personality building of her children. A job that teachers took so seriously in those days.
I recall the three years of the primary division as the real foundation of our personality and ethics. And am I glad that we had such a wonderful mason of character to help build us.
Going to secondary was painful. The pangs of separation were indeed bad. I kept going to the staff room.
“Lobo teacher will you come back to our 5th grade class as our teacher?”
At first she found it cute but then repeated approaches made her feel that this hangover was real bad for her children. She decided to get tough with us and in a moment of false display of anger she shot back
“Enough now you are grown up children and you should love your next teacher as much as you do your previous teachers. I do not want to see you approaching me again on this”
We were shocked not sure why our favorite teacher was so angry with us. Our minds numbed. Was it wrong to love your teacher and affectionately hope that she continue with us?
Again it was a ‘who moved my cheese’ moment.
We kept approaching her, wishing her vigorously every time we passed her home on our bicycles finding excuses to wish her a Happy New Year or Happy Christmas. But as years went by she seemed remote and barely recognizing us. For us she was a very important block in our memory but she seemed to be letting us go.
Life moved on but I never forgot Lobo teacher. Decades later with the electronic world finding raging inventions like the internet leading to revival of real time nostalgia and networking with the past, I desperately searched for her. Quick checks with alumni seemed to yield no results. No one that we knew seemed to know where she or her children were.
Till recently my childhood friend Lizzie, Joseph teacher’s daughter decided to put an end to my agony and crowd sourced my query of finding Lobo teacher. And amazingly leads were provided finally getting me her phone number in the US of A.
I rang her up one Sunday morning their time. A shaky female voice came on the phone.
'Hello'
'Uh Hello Teacher'
'Hello. Who is this?'
'Uh Teacher good morning. My name is Navin. Navin Dutt. Your ex-student decades back.'
I wait. There is a long pause.
'Navin. Yes good morning. Navin. Yes. I remember you'
I slumped into a chair. My joy knew no bounds. It seemed to bring a closure of sorts.
'Navin. Yes. I do not remember your face but I remember you.'
'Teacher do you remember Balbir and Mili …'
'Yes those names are very familiar. But you know I am quite old now and it is really difficult to remember things.'
And then we talked for 20 minutes. One of the most memorable 20 minutes of my life. I filled her in all the events since school. She listened patiently.
Then she apologized herself. She needed to go to church.
There was a beautiful closure to an open loop in my life. The teacher who had set the mortar of values in my younger days was reconnected and told that the values hopefully still stood strong and her efforts were not wasted. I just had to let her know that I owed it to her for a beautiful period in my life so memorable that I remembered minute details of it exemplary of the strong impact it had.
I hope to call her again soon sometime.
'Hello Teacher. Thank you for everything.'
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