To Sir

I would have started about, and lets admit it, how everyone curses someone who has caused them pain. Sometimes, really meaning it. But then, do we really mean it? Halt! To respect ratiocination & to give it a foreground, here goes my story:

Back in school, life was good. And though discipline was pilloried, it was respected. A pat on the back, a whack on the bum, or a mention in the school assembly (fame or defame) was celebrated with equal aplomb. And looking back today, I feel my school days couldn't have been better. Everything was immaculate.

Everything but Sir Antony.

He joined school when I was in Class VII. A short man with big black eyes, in his early 30s, handsome, had an air around him which made him look redoubtable. He started teaching us English in class IX. And when he introduced himself in his first class, well, if you asked me an hour later, I couldn't recall anything & I still cant, except that he was a boxer at college. He was married with a kid, & his wife was expecting another one.
Soon, our halcyon days came to a grinding halt. We were introduced to a whole new meaning of punishment. Sir Antony would serve us anything from his smorgasbord of tortures. From an armpit pinch to making us write a composition (he called it "imposition") a thousand times, from wringing the ear to making us stand out in the sun with our hands up for hours. Guess he was too blase` about the old stick. It was genocide.

And whats worse, he had his eye on me.

I have always been a backbencher; it gives you the space & range to be puckish & do the things you like. You are the unnoticed prodigy, & you enjoy it that ways.

Not with Sir Antony. As it turned out, Sir had a weird proclivity to swagger around the last row, and as long as it was his class, time paused, the spine chilled, heads hung low & the pen ran across the pages fearing to stop. Everyone went numb. We started envying the front benches - they had a ball all the while.

As if out of habit, I expected him to slap, spank & pinch me for no apparent reason. Everyday. He was a bit too rash for a 16 year old, and I wont deny, it did hurt a lot. Let me keep the details out of this, but he never missed a chance to disparage me if I ever forgot to get the book. He would go apoplectic with rage if I dropped a pencil, & what I'd only assume to be catharsis, his rage fell on me like a sword. He made me pick leaves on the playground twice, coz I stayed out a minute too long during my lunch break, but I dont complain about that. As long as I was away from him, it was harmony.

And I cussed him within, wishing he was dead. Everyone did.

I languished, and school got over for me an year later. With some of my classmates planning a vengeance, I chose to move ahead, & I shifted base to Delhi. Years have gone now, & minus the time when we friends met, Sir Antony was a forgotten story. The vengeance plan turning out to be quixotic, or maybe a pipe dream, life sailed on smooth for all of us.

A couple of months back, the news coming as a bolt, we heard it from the horse's mouth. He had passed away. It was a cardiac arrest.

Was it comeuppance? Was I to blame? Was it the innumerable curses? Did he deserve to die?

No he did not. Did I tell you he was a good teacher who knew what he was teaching? Did I tell you he was an aficionado? Did I tell you he praised me when I scored best in class? Did I tell you he lost to me on purpose when we arm wrestled in a free period? Did I tell you he was the heavy-weight boxing champion at college? Did I tell you he called up home one day to tell my parents he was proud of me? Did I tell you I never once forgot to carry my books ever again? Did I tell you I still pick up strayed leaves when no ones watching?

Sometimes, the arcane is presumed to be egregious - the overt enshrouds the covert. But for what its worth, its every ounce of pain worth it.

This is for you Sir. I respect you for everything you are. Thank you for making me the man I am today.