Different masters, different strokes

Teachers are often remembered not only for their subject expertise but also for their peculiarities. As I bow in gratitude to my schoolteachers, who initiated me into the world of knowledge and learning, I fondly recall their personalised ways of teaching—each one with his own swag and style.

My first vivid memory goes to the short and stocky Sardar Kuldeep Singh, who taught us English in class 8, a subject introduced only in class 6. He would write difficult spellings or odd sentences for changes of voice or narration on the blackboard, along with their solutions.

Then he would issue his trademark command: “About turn!” which we had to obey, reluctantly turning our backs to the board to face his volley of questions. We were often tempted to look back, and soon his cane would come to “correct” us. However sore my back would become, I remember till today the spellings and grammar rules of the ‘Queer Quizmaster’.

Equally unforgettable was our heavily built, bespectacled drawing teacher. Before sketching a bird or an animal, he began with his typical phrase, “Peh’ laan ik beja ban’anana vey” (first, we must draw an irregular shape). Then, with a running commentary, he drew a few simple lines that magically transformed into a complete figure. We struggled to decipher beja, but were amazed and amused at the grandmaster’s magical manoeuvres.

Science had its own distinctive disciplinarian—tall, muscular Saif Saab. In his roaring voice, he would declare every day: “Yaad kar ke aana, main kal iss chapter mein se sawaal puchhoonga” (come prepared. Tomorrow I will ask questions from this chapter). Fearing his thunder, I often burnt the midnight oil. Ironically, very often he forgot to ask promised questions, yet his awe and aura made us learn the entire chapter by heart. Such methods were, without doubt, supremely successful.

Unlike today, when corporal punishment is a criminal offence, our era religiously followed the rule “Spare the rod; spoil the child.” The rod really reigned over us. And even in caning, individuality was evident. The maths teacher struck palms with his wooden ruler, chanting, “Danda peer hai vigde tigdeyan da” (the rod tames the wayward). Striking with a scale, the motherly Hindi teacher scolded softly, “Sha’rm nahin aati sha’raarat karte hue?” (Aren’t you ashamed of doing mischief?) And the burly PT master struck and spoke: “Laaton ke bhoot baaton se nahin maan’te.”

The statements differed, and the strokes varied, but the essence was the same—a deep sense of commitment to discipline and an unshakeable urge to educate. They, therefore, lashed and loved at the same time; hands were caned, but heads were caressed.

American author Guy Kawasaki rightly remarks, “If you have to
put someone on a pedestal, put teachers. They are society’s heroes.” My heroes may have wielded rods and rulers, but they left me with lessons that outlast every bruise—discipline, respect, and the lifelong joy of teaching and learning.