I spoke Hindi, read
Hindi, wrote Hindi and thought in Hindi since I learnt to talk. However, never
really thought of it as a language and as a means for communication, it just
came naturally to me.
However, my first
appreciation for poetry happened in junior school with the chanting of prayers
in the morning. Specially the Saraswati Vandana – “Ya Kundendu Tushar Haar
Dhawala……..”
I did not really
understand the words, but the beauty of recitation was something that has
remained with me until now. Though this was Sanskrit, the lyrical way in which
we recited this in a chorus awoke sensations of music, rhyme and so many other
things.
During the early
years, my mother taught us the Hanuman
Chalisa (a prayer for Lord Hanuman) at night before going to sleep. She
also explained the meaning and the story behind the various references in the Chalisa. The way it was recited was
beautifully rhythmic and over a period, it became one of the most potent
protections against fear.
The real love for
poetry in Hindi came in high school. Singh Sir taught Hindi. Lal Bahadur Singh
had a special way of teaching Hindi. He usually did not read out from the textbook.
Incidentally, the textbook prescribed by the Board had an excellent collection
of various schools of poetry. He would ask one of us to read out a passage from
the poem. Instead of getting into the meaning of the poem, he would gently prod
us to read it in the correct rhythm, with the right pauses and with the right
tones at different stages.
If someone was unable
to get it after repeated attempts, he would read it out perfectly, and one
would immediately realize that the poem sounded different. It acquired a new
meaning, a new feel!
Once the reading was
through, he would break up the poems into small parts and not only explain the
meaning in detail, but also the various references to historical and mythical
events indicated therein. Often this would lead to references to other poems
and other writers and thus, without formally being part of our syllabus, he
exposed us to the wide range of literature. Often this would continue o to the
next class and the next and even more. A simple poem, therefore, ceased to be
one and more often than not became a gateway to multiple zones of Hindi
literature.
Singh Sir never made
it clear that he was going to delve deep into the subject. Often the beginning
of most such sessions was quite innocuous. He would say “Bas, do teen baaten hain (Just a couple of things)”. These couple
of things would lead to a couple more and then some more and the session would
spread over several classes. By the end of the sessions, the poem became a mere
tool for imparting more and more knowledge.
His ever-expanding
references brought me closer to Chand Bardai, Tulsidas, Rahim, Kabir, Jayasi,
Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, Mahadevi Verma, Mannu Bhandari, Rajendra Yadav, Ram
Vriksha Benipuri, Sumitra Nandan Pant, Ramdhari Singh Dinkar, Charwak,
Jaishankar Prasad and so many more.
All greats in their
own way, each opening a new door, a new style, a new school of thought – they
exposed us to the diversity of the language and its depth. It helped us to open
our minds to diverse beliefs and a capacity to appreciate the influence that
history and mythology have on literature.
Like most vernacular
teachers, Singh Sir was left leaning. While he was open to most things, he
would never be far away from the socialistic beliefs and did not take kindly to
autocratic behavior. He always put the common person over the Government and
during our schooldays his pet peeve was Indira Gandhi, the powerful and autocratic
Prime Minister of India.
The day she lost the
elections after the Emergency, Singh Sir was positively buoyant. He walked into
our classroom with a barely suppressed smile, went up to his table, gave his
chair a strong enough kick to make it topple over, and declared – “Ulat Gayi, Ulat Gayi, Indira Gandhi ki kursi
Ulat Gayi” (Indira Gandhi’s chair has toppled over!).
This analysis of why
the chair had toppled over, what was wrong with the idea supported by her, who
had what opinion , what would have been wrong had she won, what would be the
future arrangement – all this was discussed over the next week or so. We were
happy to be free from the rigors of text book learning for this period.
But Singh sir,
somehow used to complete the syllabus on time. With so much extraneous
discussions we were sure that the syllabus would not be covered, but without
displaying any undue hurry, he would complete it in time. This displayed a deep-rooted
sense of discipline.
He was also a feared
disciplinarian; across students from other classes and sections, irrespective
of whether the student belonged to his class or not. One day, some teacher was
absent and there was a lot of chaos in class – usual for boisterous bunch of
teenagers. Abhijit, being careful and closest to the door was also keeping a
sharp lookout for any teacher approaching our classroom.
We were the senior
class; on the verge of attaining adulthood and not yet out of the clutches of
childhood. Abhijit was trying to grow a French-cut beard and was thus easily
identifiable. Suddenly he spotted a stern looking Singh Sir moving purposefully
approaching the source of this noise.
He immediately raised
the alarm and in no time there was complete silence. Singh Sir stormed into the
classroom and immediately confronted us. When he got no response from any of
us, he flew into a rage and turned its attention to Abhijit!
“And
what were you doing?” His voice was cold and unpleasantly calm.
“Sir, I was trying to
maintain discipline.” stammered Abhijit. He was certain that he had not been
spotted, or at least identified.
Singh Sir roared “Bewakoof samajhtey ho? Daadhi noch loonga!!!” (Think I am a fool?
I will tear your beard out!!!). While he was not certain about the identity of
the lookout, Abhijit’s French beard had given him away! Poor Abhijit! He was
identified as the real culprit and in for a hard time.
Another aspect of
Singh Sir’s character was that he had no favorites and came down heavily on
those trying to play smart-ass. He never used to berate them and never raised
his voice against such individuals. His scathing sarcasm was enough to cut them
down to size.
Not displaying favoritism
was never to be confused as being indifferent. He was deeply caring about the
students as became apparent during the Board examinations. He was here with the
students all along, encouraging them and trying to contain their nervousness.
Irrespective of the subject, Singh Sir was there all along.
After school, I did
not meet Singh Sir for many years. It was only after a couple of decades that a
few friends decided to attend the annual school reunion. The main intent was to
meet old friends and have fun.
This one evening, we
would somehow rid ourselves of the yoke of professional engagements (slavery,
some would call it!) and spend the entire evening with friends. Some of our
friends would be meeting after twenty years or more.
Evening came and soon
we were the same old bunch of teenagers joking here, pulling a leg there, and
generally having a jolly time. The balding heads, the graying hairs, the
prominent paunches did not matter. Time had turned back! The familiar setting
of the school grounds as the venue for the reunion helped recreate the magic.
Amidst all this, we
suddenly noticed a figure standing atop the stairs leading from the main
building. The figure seemed familiar. I along with my friend, Hemant, moved
towards the figure as if on cue to an undeclared understanding. As we
approached, it was clear that our instinct was on target.
The silver grey hair
was gone, the frame was frailer, but the gait was still erect, the twinkle in
the eye was still present and the smile was still intact. Our old teacher had
taken this opportunity to meet his old pupils.
We went forward and
touched his feet. His blessings were straight from the heart though not
profuse. He did not remember our names but our faces were clear in his mind.
As he started
talking, we could understand that he remembered us, judging by reference to
some of our antics during our schooldays.
This was incredible!
He must have been in his late seventies, and hundreds of students would have
passed through his classroom in the last two decades. And more before us!
Yet he remembered!
We did not know how
to express ourselves. There were so many thoughts, so much love, and so much
respect. For him, it was simple. He did not have to say anything specific.
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