The little story of a teacher

 

Uncle Mahender, fondly called Masterji, has been very ardent about fulfilling his roles and responsibilities. He is nearly eighty now. During his teaching days the teachers received a paltry pay cheque. He used every single paisa very-very carefully to raise his five children and gave them good education from the rural standards. His meaning of education has been centered around technical education. To bear the costs he would break all records of the maximum number of shaves using the same blade.

Masterji has a sweet tooth and throughout his life he has consumed copious amount of sweets without much adverse consequences for his health. A few years ago, he welcomed me at his house with a gesture his son says he won’t show even to a state Governor if he happens to visit the house. Masterji brought out his box of specially made laddoos from his secret chamber and opened it in front of me so that I could help myself with sweets. It was almost an eighth wonder, as his son says.

Masterji is now nearly deaf and blind. But even more painful is his memory loss. He is sitting in front of the house and I stoop down to shout ‘hello’ in his ear to draw his attention. ‘Do you recognize me Masterji?’ I ask. ‘Hum, yea, yes, you are…Tina’s brother,’ he hits the arrow of memory on the margin of perfect ten. But then he wants to be more specific. ‘You…what do they call you…you I think have a popular name…what was it?’ he is giving a push to his brain to spell out my name. The villagers call me Soofi, Suuppi, Soopi, etc., all the rustic derivatives of my pet name Sufi. ‘Never mind Masterji, the main thing is that you know who I am at least,’ I console him. I don’t tell him my name, leaving this little puzzle for his feeble mind to solve and get some exercise. The old age seems to shed away all the layers we have built-up in life.