The Guiding Ms. Khan

The prescribed course for her to teach was Biology- to Std XI students, but she doubled up as class teacher as well. With her flawless efficiency and strict discipline, she was one of the frontrunners for the post of Section Supervisor- having lost to the winner by a mere single vote. She was fastidious- a perfect example of a teacher- and she taught our unruly batch of fifty.

We all marvelled at her once-must-have-been-porcelain skin, now reduced to a pit marked leathery replica, her once-gossamer hair, now tied tightly in a bun, lest the coarse strands escape from their confinement, dark kohl- lined eyes and her once-slender, but now stubby fingers always filled in the crevices with chalk dust. Though she was no raving beauty, her long hair pulled back into a tight bun and her stentorian shapeless salwar kameez endowed her with an aura which was difficult to miss. If she caught any girl misbehaving, she was sure to be given the full treatment- ending with a bout of tears. We did not like her, but her stern attitude made it difficult to be indifferent to her- so she became a tangential role model for us- never become like Ms. Khan. May you never become a spinster, an old maid.

Word had it that she lived with her old mother in a small old house- where she had been born. Bereft of father, brother or sister, she stayed alone- her mother's raspy cough and our test exercise books her only companions on dreary evenings. She basked in solitude and books. It is said that her shelf in the teachers’ common room would always be overflowing with books- poetry, philosophy, fiction, metaphysics- she had read them all. Sometimes, in the midst of drawing amoebic protoplasm on the blackboard, she would share with us a few nuggets of wisdom gleaned from those tomes and we would hide our giggles surreptitiously- too immature to take in the experiences of a jilted lady.

For jilted she was, by her lover, of a different religion, who had once professed his undying love for her (our seniors recalled a handsome, tall built, muscular mustached man, waiting patiently outside the school gates for her, many aeons ago) but not mustering enough courage to run away with her when their parents objected.

So she threw herself into her work and was the best at it.

Our group of three were her favourite whipping girls. She would catch us slyly grinning at each other, and ask us to stay out of the class. When marking attendance, if our eyes wavered to the calendar, or the clock in front, she would threaten us with absent marks. She was eccentric in many ways- till The Incident happened.

One of our favourites was to bunk classes by disappearing into a small passageway beneath the library.  Over chocolates and muffled laughs, we would dissect the latest Shahrukh thriller, or piece together the love life of the Boys’ school captain. We were careful to bunk ‘useless’ classes like the Library period, or Zero period- the sole aim of which, we thought, was to waste time.

One such day, we had bunked the Library class, and were in our usual spot. The passageway was accessible through a small flight of steps leading down (it was a basement for dumping old books, concert paraphernalia and sports day fixtures)- and it was quite airy through a row of windows on one complete side.

We were shrieking over some previously unreleased snaps of Bon Jovi when we heard footsteps on the stairs- and before we could hide away our loot, we were face to face with Ms. Khan herself.

Looking more stern and grimmer than usual, she led us all out silently, into the teachers’ common room, which was, thankfully, empty.

As she pried open our hands to check the contents of our loot, my friends and I knew this was probably the last day of school for us, and we steeled ourself for the rustication that would follow.

Instead, she kept looking at the pictures for a long time, and when she looked up, there was a broad grin on her face.

What she explained to us that day, will remain with me forever.

‘Make the most of this time.  You are not here to enjoy, but I will overlook this incident.  You have many more years to be serious in life. Learn the importance of time, and remember, each second gone is an opportunity missed. Did you learn something in the past second,  that makes you a better person right now? If not, then you should question yourself.’

Suddenly, I realised with a little shock that she had been so sacrificing all along. There was no resentment, no outward hurt in her. She could have easily taken us to the Principal, and our future would be wasted. Instead, she chose to counsel us in the best possible way.

I realised that all the girls who had been face to face with her, would have taken away some realisation of this fact and it was no surprise then, that our group emerged from the room in tears.

It was only when I had made the entrance test of a reputed  B school by a narrow margin (or so I thought) that I realised the importance of learning each second.  

I would love to conclude by saying that I follow her advice perfectly- that I learn something new each second, that I’m a better person as the day pass by, but I’m not. I am too lazy to implement it each minute- but I will always remember what she had taught us in that small stuffy room- a guiding principle of my life.  (September 02, 2009)