Memories of masterji

He was our class teacher in the government primary school of our village during the late 1950s. We had nicknamed him ‘Tattapani wale masterji’ because he usually commenced his talks by prefacing it with: ‘When I was at Tattapani’, and thereafter, a new story would follow.

Previously he had taught at a school in remote Tattapani, some 100 km from our school. Though we had left the school after passing class V, for further studies in a high school, yet memories of masterji lingered on the canvas of our mind.

He was unforgettable in many ways. Thinly built, short-statured, with sharp features and a fair complexion, his face always glistened with a captivating smile. He never wielded the stick, unlike other teachers, yet his students willingly observed discipline and punctuality in deference to his wishes.

The abundance of Tattapani stories provided us with so many vivid details that we were able to describe the place, as if we had lived there for long. He would also teach us drills and exercises with matching tunes played by him on his mouth organ.

Years passed by, but masterji’s memories seemed to stick, defying the transient character of life. His stories would automatically erupt in conversations whenever and wherever classmates met.

One such classmate told me that masterji had since retired and that his wife had passed away. I was saddened to know it and decided to pay a surprise visit to him. I carried fruits and sweets and went to his home. As I knocked, I saw him approaching slowly. He greeted me with a faint smile. I followed him to his small room and surveyed it. An electric heater was placed in a corner near the door. A water jug, a frying pan and a small plastic basket covered with a piece of cloth were near the heater. Surprisingly, none came to enquire about the visitor.

Sitting on his cot, he said, ‘I have three sons. Two are away doing jobs at different stations. The third is here. He looks after me,’ as if I expected to be briefed. His wife had died two years ago. ‘I get my food in my room. This heater helps in heating my food,’ he continued, ‘daughter-in-law brings me tea in the morning.’ Then suddenly remembering, he said, ‘Would you like to have tea?’ I shook my head. I noticed that his famous smile was missing, instead a melancholy hovered over his wrinkled face. ‘We still remember your Tattapani stories,’ I tried to be as casual as I could be.

His face lit up for a while. I saw that captivating smile emerge from beneath the wrinkles. The contrast of his life was too harsh to bear. I placed the fruits and sweets on his cot, touched his feet, bade him goodbye and came out.