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In Good Hands (Jacob Kurien, Aug 25th, 2007) |
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I stood silently between my dad and my first teacher. Not comprehending the
gist of the conversation that flowed between them, my ears pricked every
time I heard my name mentioned. I stood engrossed, soaking up all the
details of this new environment and mentally registering any prospects for
companionship. As the chat interchange displayed signs of coming to an end,
my vision gradually elevated upwards. My little eyes quizzed inquisitively
at the two faces gazing down upon me. I traded puzzled glances from one
visage to the other. Even at that tender age I could discern the concern in
my dad's look masked behind his smile. My tiny hand was transferred from my
dad's to hers. As her reassuring hand took hold of mine, I stopped breathing
for a minute.
It was the boldest achievement of a three year old. From now on I had to
place my trust in this lady. Her pronounced ivory-hued hair was worn neatly
as a bun. Her soulful eyes conveyed an equal measure of soothe and warmth.
Her smile shone like a rainbow. If SantaClaus ever participated in nuptials,
I was looking at his mate. The minute passed and my delicate lungs proceeded
to function again. I was going to be okay.
Any time I felt lost in a sea of strangers my age, I just had to look in her
direction and waves of calm would descend upon me. My days passed and I
survived in good shape under her supervision. I never did quite remember the
name of my first teacher but her radiant face stayed etched in my memory and
engraved in my heart.
As I advanced in grades, I had different teachers take me into their pseudo
motherly care. One of the earliest that I remember with crystal clear
clarity was Mrs. Dilemma. I am not sure what fascinated me about her except
maybe that she was synthesized from sugar and cinnamon. I derived great
pride in having been shaped by her. Likewise, I adored the stories that Mrs.
Sen would narrate to us. Full of passion, she brought story book characters
to life. Cradled in her sunny world, my life was heaven. Nor can I forget
how Mrs. Singh recited the tussle between Bhima and Bakasura. When the tale
was done, it felt like each one of us had slayed the errant giant ourselves.
They weaved magic with their words and reaffirmed my conviction (albeit
sometimes feeble) that the education process was not the enemy. It aggrieved
me every fresh academic year to learn that the mother hen didn't make it
with this chick into the next class. Change was grueling but I passed from
one compassionate set of hands into the next.
Bit by tiny bit, they rained drops of wisdom over me which percolated into
the receptive trenches of my cerebrum and laid the seed for the fruits to
follow. I gathered that there were different parts of speech like verbs and
nouns. When married together into a chant they transformed into nursery
rhymes. Habits that were desirable to inculcate and those that were
despicable were communicated repeatedly in the hope that it might resound
some day in the future when confronted with worldly choices. Night didn't
exist for the sole purpose of giving us a chance to catch a wink but more
because the sun's rays disappeared along with it in the West. The world was
an exciting place and the journey of discovery had more surprises beyond the
proverbial tip of the iceberg.
As I grew a little older, I had to depressingly come to terms with the harsh
fact that I was no longer any teacher's favorite. Now there were competing
elements vying for the same spotlight. I gradually lost the battle and grew
more accepting of my second rate citizenship in class. Starved for
attention, I continued in this mediocre existence for a while. Struggling
with subjects, my grades fell precipitously. LCMs and HCFs were horribly
skewed complications that were designed to frustrate. Somewhere deep inside,
we all hunt for the incentive that will spur the finest in us. I was sadly
lacking in this department on my own accord and external stimulus was rare.
I had lost sight of the guiding light which led me early on. As I groped
desperately to get a grip, all I found in return was disappointment.
Enter VIth grade and a dim light started to glow again. I chose the Sanskrit
pathway and my best year in school took birth. Mrs. Madhuri Afle, who had
taught me once before, was responsible for improving our Hindi. Her brief
association during that year proved to be the necessary impetus to jumpstart
me back on the right track. She once casually announced her opinion of who
would do well in academics. The string of names she listed culminated with
mine. The turning point had arrived. I fed on the confidence entrusted in
me. An overpowering infusion of optimism and new found hope commenced to
crystallize within me. I used to be settled in leading a life of low
expectations and suddenly someone was urging me to excel. Not wanting to let
her down, I laboured harder than average in the weeks that followed. No, I
didn't top the class but the wave I was surfing finally reinstated my
long-lost conviction. I was spelling effortlessly again and could perform
the feat of handling remainders during division gracefully. There was no
looking back and all it took was the planting of a tiny sapling of faith -
the key that unlocked the doors of a struggling toddler's intellectual prowess.
The word "conspicuous" was first introduced to me by Mrs. Laila Ponnouse who
played dual role of English teacher and class teacher. She explained that
the yellow beard donned by the character in King Solomon's mines was what
made him stand out. Bam!! I never forgot that word again. Whether it was a
lesson about sea serpents or how the conniving Tom Sawyer shrewdly got
another boy to paint the fence, she dramatized it in style. But most of all,
my heart felt for Jane Eyre, whose chronicle was so splendidly taught by
her. Life was special that year. The best pleasures in life came knocking at
my doorstep. Books helped me transcend into a world of fantasy whether it
was the adventures of the Famous Five, each marvelous term at Malory Towers,
the eccentricities of Mr. Pink Whistle or even just Amar Chitra
Kathas(ACKs).
I only had the privilege of another year at ISB before I had to leave
Bahrain. Space prohibits me from enumerating each shining light along the
way - Mrs. Lobo, Mrs. Geetha Sivakumar, Mrs. Chacko, Mrs. Sequeira ....the
names are too many and each one a pearl of great price.
I miss every teacher who had been instrumental in engineering the blueprint
of my life. Each day announces aloud that the efforts and
nurturing from twenty years ago did not miss the mark. Let me express my
gratitude to the endearing and magnanimous spirit of all our teachers.
But above all, I want to overwhelmingly thank my dad (and mom), who let go
of my hand at the nascent age of three, because they knew that it was time
for me to walk. They let go because they knew I was ready .... and most of all, because I
was in good hands.
Here are the teachers who taught me in VIth and VIIth grade -
VIth
English - Mrs. Laila Ponouse
Hindi - Mrs Madhuri Afle, Mrs J. Kaur
Math - Mrs Geetha Sivakumar, Mrs Susan Paul
Biology - Mrs. Ramani Joshua
Physics - Mrs. Geetha Sivakumar, Mrs Susan Paul
History and Civis - Mrs Chacko
Geography - Mrs. Philomena Menezes
Sanskrit - Mrs. Shaheen Abbasi, Mrs Vinitha Mathur, Mrs. Uma Sharma
Library - Mrs Nirmala
Physical Education - Mr. Barato, Mr. Satwant Singh
VIIth
English - Mrs. Chacko
Hindi - Mrs. J. Kaur
Math - Mrs. Omana Phillai
Physics - Mrs. Susan Paul
Biology - Mrs Lakshmi Ramamurthy
Chemistry - Mr. Saudagar
History, Civics and Geography - Mrs. Indira Richards
Sanskrit - Mrs Uma Sharma
Library - Mrs Nirmala
Physical Education - Mr. Mohan
Also heres an autograph (my only autograph from ISB) from Mrs. Abbasi before
she left.
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