I was always late for the class. Not because I wanted to but because I just could not skip watching the last 5 minutes of the Hindi soap that used to be telecasted in the national television. But then, I was not the only person who was late. Sometimes, I used to be the only one. But that happened rarely. As I silently keep my cycle next to the brazened compound wall filled with wild bougainvillea, only conundrum that used to run in my head was whether Sreedevi teacher, as we fondly called her, had come or not.
But most often, it was relief when I wade through hordes of cycles parked in the portico and to see that her footwear not being present in the jungle of foot-wears in front of the veranda. I never used to give second glance to her husband who used to sit in veranda pretending to read the newspaper. He always wore a polo t-shirt with white lungi. For some unknown reasons, he had this disgruntled look on his face. I would silently creep into the room where they would have started the alap. Nisha, teacher's daughter would be playing harmonica, directing me to my place with her eyes. She had beautiful eyes along with beautiful voice. I would lazily put taala before clearing my throat to join the chorus. Manju sitting on my left had excellent control over her voice. Ashwathy, on my right, on the other hand would mess up notes in random. She always managed to get some of the easy notes get flat. Then suddenly, my teacher would appear. She would give her handbag to Nisha and ask her to leave. She works in local school and teach us music after she is done with her work. I always used to think why she couldn't dedicate her whole time for us. But then I did not know then how difficult it is survive as a middle class family.
Because of running, she used to sweat, which she would wipe out with the end of her pallu. Most often it was a yellow cotton saree with black border. Then she would start taunting us - especially me, for not practicing. She would make each one of us sing separately picking up our faults. The finale would be with me. Mocking me left, right and center for my rendition. Sometimes I would feel like running away from that closed room with one window. But I never did that. Instead I continued this for almost 5 years.
When time became scarce, I had to forsake music. So I stopped. But then I thought I was never good at it. But years later, my mother met Sreedevi teacher, she asked her why I stopped singing or rather stopped coming to her. I never used to sing at home so she told her that I had lost interest. Teacher was sad to hear that. When my mother probed she told that I was the best student in that batch and she thought I could have had a career in music.
Generations of musicians have learned under her tutelage in that closed room. Some became famous and some are still famous. So when she said that I had a chance to be musician, I was not disappointed because she had inspired me to find what music was really to me. All her chiding and grueling sessions had moulded me to find patterns and perfect myself. Music was the inner perfection that I could see and sometime that which I could smell. Like the cadence of voices that danced in my head, I could relate all my surroundings to a tune. Something that is so profound, complete in all sense and perfection and yet, something, which my incapacious vocabulary cannot define or convey. Yet, it is there.
I still have her face clearly etched in my mind. Sweeping the sweat from her eye brows. Her tenacity to impart something so divine into 12 naughty brats who perhaps didn't know what they were learning then.
This is what teachers does. They inspire; sometimes in a very latent manner.
I was blessed to have so many teachers who inspired me. Planting a fire or two in me which never burned me but soothe me over the ages. Meandering memories from yesteryears; The stern voice of mathematics teacher who stood me out of the class because I did not score even half of what the average scored for two hours straight and then taking me for a walk telling me that I was expected to get cent percentage in Maths, which i rubbished off with a laugh. Eventually when I did score cent percent for my board, only thing she told me was - "didn't i say so? ". The calm Biology teacher begging my mother to make me write biology entrance exam because she firmly believed I could clear it. And so did it happen. Then there was dance teacher, art teacher, language teacher who found things which I overlooked or rather did not care to search. It was them, who without expecting anything in return, inspired me and shaped my life. A beautiful life.
I thank all of them.
So it was a very nostalgic moment when my former advisor asked me to return to India to join the perhaps the best technical institute in the country.
But, with all humility, I must decline that offer. Because I can never be a teacher, with all those shadows of who had inspired me , I don't know how to inspire. And that one trait is the only trait required to be teacher. Alas I don't have that.
There are still things which I have to understand about myself. With tools that my teachers have imparted years ago, I continue my search for those.
But most often, it was relief when I wade through hordes of cycles parked in the portico and to see that her footwear not being present in the jungle of foot-wears in front of the veranda. I never used to give second glance to her husband who used to sit in veranda pretending to read the newspaper. He always wore a polo t-shirt with white lungi. For some unknown reasons, he had this disgruntled look on his face. I would silently creep into the room where they would have started the alap. Nisha, teacher's daughter would be playing harmonica, directing me to my place with her eyes. She had beautiful eyes along with beautiful voice. I would lazily put taala before clearing my throat to join the chorus. Manju sitting on my left had excellent control over her voice. Ashwathy, on my right, on the other hand would mess up notes in random. She always managed to get some of the easy notes get flat. Then suddenly, my teacher would appear. She would give her handbag to Nisha and ask her to leave. She works in local school and teach us music after she is done with her work. I always used to think why she couldn't dedicate her whole time for us. But then I did not know then how difficult it is survive as a middle class family.
Because of running, she used to sweat, which she would wipe out with the end of her pallu. Most often it was a yellow cotton saree with black border. Then she would start taunting us - especially me, for not practicing. She would make each one of us sing separately picking up our faults. The finale would be with me. Mocking me left, right and center for my rendition. Sometimes I would feel like running away from that closed room with one window. But I never did that. Instead I continued this for almost 5 years.
When time became scarce, I had to forsake music. So I stopped. But then I thought I was never good at it. But years later, my mother met Sreedevi teacher, she asked her why I stopped singing or rather stopped coming to her. I never used to sing at home so she told her that I had lost interest. Teacher was sad to hear that. When my mother probed she told that I was the best student in that batch and she thought I could have had a career in music.
Generations of musicians have learned under her tutelage in that closed room. Some became famous and some are still famous. So when she said that I had a chance to be musician, I was not disappointed because she had inspired me to find what music was really to me. All her chiding and grueling sessions had moulded me to find patterns and perfect myself. Music was the inner perfection that I could see and sometime that which I could smell. Like the cadence of voices that danced in my head, I could relate all my surroundings to a tune. Something that is so profound, complete in all sense and perfection and yet, something, which my incapacious vocabulary cannot define or convey. Yet, it is there.
I still have her face clearly etched in my mind. Sweeping the sweat from her eye brows. Her tenacity to impart something so divine into 12 naughty brats who perhaps didn't know what they were learning then.
This is what teachers does. They inspire; sometimes in a very latent manner.
I was blessed to have so many teachers who inspired me. Planting a fire or two in me which never burned me but soothe me over the ages. Meandering memories from yesteryears; The stern voice of mathematics teacher who stood me out of the class because I did not score even half of what the average scored for two hours straight and then taking me for a walk telling me that I was expected to get cent percentage in Maths, which i rubbished off with a laugh. Eventually when I did score cent percent for my board, only thing she told me was - "didn't i say so? ". The calm Biology teacher begging my mother to make me write biology entrance exam because she firmly believed I could clear it. And so did it happen. Then there was dance teacher, art teacher, language teacher who found things which I overlooked or rather did not care to search. It was them, who without expecting anything in return, inspired me and shaped my life. A beautiful life.
I thank all of them.
So it was a very nostalgic moment when my former advisor asked me to return to India to join the perhaps the best technical institute in the country.
But, with all humility, I must decline that offer. Because I can never be a teacher, with all those shadows of who had inspired me , I don't know how to inspire. And that one trait is the only trait required to be teacher. Alas I don't have that.
There are still things which I have to understand about myself. With tools that my teachers have imparted years ago, I continue my search for those.
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