I saw, in an old house’s window, an old man’s face. He looked as if he had very few days left to live. I have never seen anyone waiting for death with such impatience and anger. He was a lone passenger with a heavy luggage of pain and disgust, sitting on a desolate bench for the black train’s arrival.
This man was not a stranger. He was my teacher. Kasturi was his name. He was a jovial man in his six-foot frame. He wore his six-yard dhoti in orthodox Vaishnava style. His forehead always bore red and white tilak. He was a picture of health. He used to joke and laugh a lot, only in the classroom. Only there did he feel at home. At home most of the time his wife would chastise him for one thing or the other. On the first of every month she would snatch the pay from his hands. He had to beg her for even the few rupees that he had to pay his barber for getting his head shaved once in three months. All his five sons and two daughters were their mother’s allies.
He never wore any footwear, though with the money he earned he could have purchased a Bata shop. He never went to a restaurant. He used to take only rice and boiled tamarind water with a few vegetable pieces three times a day. But when he walked, the earth used to shake. A master teacher of history, he had a phenomenal memory and could recall the dates of the world’s landmark events with ease and accuracy. He would describe battles and wars as if right in the middle of them he stood. His description would bring before your eyes Genghis Khan, Alexander, Ashoka and Akbar in flesh and blood.
I loved the chemistry lab. Initially, history looked drab. But Kasturi sir painted this misunderstood black-and-white subject of the past in rainbow colours of the present. He made me realise that some subjects have hidden colours that spurt out at the touch of the right teacher. Kasturi was never hard on pupils. He never raised his hand to slap them. He never even scolded them. Generally henpecked teachers unleash on their students the impotent anger they have. Kasturi Iyengar never committed that mistake.
How I wish I hadn’t seen him now. I have to remember him as an old angry, mean man instead of as the jolly, nice guy who he always had been during my school days. Who said only the first impression was important? The last impression we leave is also equally important.
M R Anand
Email: mr.m.r.anand@gmail.com