It just doesn’t sound the same when I
translate Guru Paurnima into English. Can’t call it Teachers’ Day, because
that’s in September, on ex-late President Radhakrishnan’s birthday. Guru, included
in the English lexicon of Indian origin, means more than teacher. Lovers of old-old
tradition and ancient Vedic stuff might be pleased to note that irreligious,
irreverent people, too, value this day.
My first namaskar on that day last
week was to my maternal-looking, grey-haired, soft-cotton sari-clad
kindergarten teacher who taught me to sit in one place, clap rhythmically and
repeat after her words I didn’t understand like ‘ellemen-o-pee-cyu’ when I was
learning the English alphabet. She was a widow who needed the income.
Next to my primary teachers, who had strange-sounding (to my
middle-class Hindu ears) names like MizGonzalviss and MizGrayshuss. They had
short hair, wore skirts, were prim, and insisted that our pinafores were
ironed, shoes were polished and handwriting was neat. Five decades later, I’m
still punctual and tidy thanks to them. (At this point, Shri Husband grunted
and his lips grimaced … that’s his closest-to-a-smile look.)
In the evenings of my schooldays, I went to the very
different world of a Vyaayaam Shaala in my neighbourhood, where I discovered
that Kamat-bai and Kulkarni-sir who taught children to play kabaddi and kho-kho,
spoke no English and barked orders, but were strict and caring. From them, from
the Sane Guruji Kathamala and the plays staged by Ratnakar Matkari and Sudha
Karmarkar came my love for Marathi. Hindi came into my life much later, when Mr
Sharma forced higher-level stuff down my and my classmates’ throats. Hated it
then, grateful now that I can enjoy books/poetry/songs/movies… and cuisine of
regions outside my home state. I didn’t learn French/Portuguese. My loss.
Neighbours, Dada-Maushi, guided me through my troubled
teenage years. Though communists and atheists, they taught me to recite from
memory various shlokas and stotras, told me stories from the rich repertoire of
Indian mythology and allowed me to judge for myself what I must accept and what
reject from organized religion.
They coerced me into learning Sanskrit, an extra-curricular
activity that my school knew nothing about. I took an elementary-level exam in
the language from a reputed institution that did the unthinkable: it sent the
certificate to my propah, leftover-from-the-Raj school principal. My name was
called out after Assembly and I stumbled embarrassed and furiously blushing to
the stage. I owe to Dada-Maushi the principal’s words, etched in my memory: ‘we
are proud of you’. Neighbours are teachers, too.
Secondary school. My classmates were my teachers. Dirty
jokes, day-mares of broken romances, heartbreaks involving poor marks… and
struggles through formulae, calculations, diagrams, essays, exams. Whoever
invented studies should be killed was a common thought. Don’t want to live
through those years again; but those now invisible (many in the Celestial School
up there, hopefully resting in peace), unsung Ma’ams and Sirs who made our
lives miserable laid the
foundation for future success. Thanks, Ma’ams and Sirs.
In college we behaved like there was no tomorrow. Music
programs, parties, late nights, hikes, hours and hours in the canteen. Then
frantic scrambling to complete journals, make notes, revise the syllabus… we
fumbled and stumbled, chose and followed our careers.
On the day before an important graduation exam, I phoned my
lecturer: I was blank, mind was blocked. I couldn’t do it, wouldn’t go through
it, life wasn’t worth living. Her response: to tell (her) about how (I) fared
later, after submitting the paper. Give it blank, but give it, she said. Subsequently,
she told me the worst that could have happened: had I failed, I would have
graduated at twenty-one instead of twenty, not a big deal. I passed. Thank you,
Ma’am.
Surgeons who teach registrars, physicians who coach interns,
matrons who keep an eye on junior nurses, instructors who train pilot-pupils
one sortie at a time, lawyers who groom youngsters, editors, grocers (hands-on
practitioners of commerce), managers, hoteliers, actors, technicians,
therapists, chefs, hair-stylists, cobblers, why even politicians… all have a
role to play in transfer of knowledge. More than money, it’s skill that must be
given in charity if we are to improve the lot of coming generations. It’s the
passion for achieving excellence, of doing error-free work that gains the
respect of one’s peers. (Oh-- cars, too, and phones and designer footwear and
jewellery.)
In the College(s) of Crime, Mallya and Co must be having
their own shishya following. Gurus come in all shapes and attires. Some lead
from the back, sending pupils to face bullets whilst they monitor from the
stands. Or caves or houses of worship, or neighbouring countries, wherever. All
students must be grateful for knowledge gained, especially on Guru Paurnima.
I remember a young paanwala touching the toes of an elderly
one on this day. “Aashirwaad doh,” he had requested. Ah, tradition!
In my list of those to thank, I can’t forget Googledevi, can
I? Human beings apart, there’s so much I’ve learnt from and through technology.
Deep salaams to it.
Then there’s Nature. Gives me lessons everyday on how
reptiles kill frogs, birds kill insects, animals kill birds, earthquakes,
floods, violence everywhere. I also witness tender buds breaking through hard
rock walls, hard rock then crumbling under constantly dripping raindrops,
micro-organisms causing disease, ruining the fruit we try so hard to grow. No
thank you, Nature.
People, whether on crowded railway platforms or remote
villages are ever a source of infotainment. And fodder for stories/articles/column.
I unlearn from them what I’d learnt in childhood: to break queues, get ahead by
elbowing others out, sneak in someplace illegally without being noticed,
bargain hard, opine without expertise, trample on whoever can get trampled upon,
outshout, outrun, out-bribe, out-eat, spit, complain,... so much to unlearn. Teachers,
teachers everywhere, India’s one big schoolroom, methinks this Guru-Paurnima.
An unusual day, where one is thankful to neither god nor
family for contributing to the making of oneself.
Feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in.
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