2005-12-04T07:05:00.000-08:00

Amalgamate

A short story by Siva Gopal Ojha

I was enrolled in Nripati Sir’s class in the primary school at the age of eight that monsoon. Long back he had also taught my father. It was strange that in spite of sporting a name that meant ‘king’ Nripati sir had to work as a primary school teacher. On the first day of my school when my father met him, he addressed my father with a complementary ‘sir’. So many of his erstwhile students had secured respectable positions in the course of time but Nripati Sir continued as before. There was no change in his life style for ages, or so did it seem.

It was raining incessantly outside. The cloudy sky had turned the classroom darker for there was no electricity. A thatched mud house was all we had for a school. But that was enough. None among us had any different idea vis-a-vis school buildings. We, the students of class three, were waiting for the teacher seated in the few non-descript benches in class. Our favourite primer ‘Kishalay’ was to be taught first. We had to wait almost everyday for him like this. It was almost afternoon when our teacher appeared thoroughly drenched in the rain. It was not clear whether the broken umbrella he carried was of any help or had really aggravated his plight.

He was about sixty. A lean man he was, with white patches all over his face and thin hair. He appeared sickly at first sight. A palm full of coconut oil was rubbed on the head before taking a quick dip in the roadside pool. Remnants of the oil along with water were flowing down his cheeks, as he did not have any time to attend to himself. The lower part of the dhoti was wet and stuck tightly to his legs restricting movements. He was not expected to wear shoes in such wet weather. And the question of wearing shoes did not arise, as he didn’t have any. He was comfortable washing his feet in the flowing rainwater, just in front of the school, before entering the classroom.

There must be some reason why he was late for school everyday. But once he reached school he taught with all sincerity. A poorly paid schoolteacher, he had been so sincere in his work to successive generations of students. What prompted him in doing so? There is a belief among people living on agriculture that in order to survive one must have supplementary income. Teaching in a school located in the same village provided an ideal opportunity to satisfy that maxim. Being a schoolteacher also resulted in some private tuition coming his way and further supplementing his meagre income. Add to that the crops produced from whatever small holdings he had, Nripati Sir could somehow manage to make both ends meet by putting together his small incomes from various sources.

Though more inclined to teach language Nripati Sir had to teach all subjects. There was no arrangement for exhaustive treatment of all the subjects though. He could not afford to teach at length for he was the only teacher of the class. Language, History, Geography was taught in tandem with arithmetic. In a lesson in the language class it was mentioned that a child was moving through various lands in his dream. The boy reached an island in a strange ocean where a living volcano was in action. Molten lava was flowing down like a river. Smoke was billowing out creating dark clouds totally cutting off the sun.

Nripati Sir had difficulty in describing what a volcano was like. Neither the children nor he had any conceivable idea as to what a volcano really was? Was it a river from a hill in which some kind of molten metal was flowing, creating a flood like situation? Were the clouds the same as the monsoon clouds with which the sky is usually overcast in the rains? There were so many questions, which remained unanswered. Never the less, the class listened to his soft voice, which evoked confidence, with rapt attention.

Some other day he would start with a poem which described Bengal as the most beautiful among all lands, where the creepers were greener, where you could not avoid squeezing the soft ‘durba’ grass while treading on them, where the golden crops grew and golden lotus bloomed etc. etc. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his voice was choked when he recited the poem. He could never complete reciting the whole poem as emotions overtook him. He would then ask some one among us to recite and look outside the windows with starry eyes at the swelling waves of greenery in the rice fields.

He had been teaching like this for the last forty years to generations of children sitting on these very benches. He cannot clearly see the distant hills these days. Distant vision is failing him now. He is growing older.

His eldest son was a bright boy. His name was Narayan. Sir was a devout Vaishnavite and wore a customary Kanthi round his neck. He was not dogmatic about his religion, but had named his son Narayan because the name brought him peace. His son used to study in the same manner as the children are studying now. He could easily grasp a subject and had a sharp memory. Sir started nurturing ambitions centering on his son. But Narayan gradually became a psychic patient for some unknown reason. Otherwise a normal boy, Narayan would become violent all of a sudden. He has to be kept under chains these days.

Nripati sir has to attend to his son before coming to school. He serves one Narayan at home and then rushes to school to serve so many of them there. That’s how he spends all his time. Hardly he has any time left to attend to him. He is a widower since long, lives on very little food, mostly fruits and milk during the day and a bowl of rice at night. He leads a very austere life and has no complaints against anybody. Nripati sir has a theory, which says that amalgamation breeds happiness whereas fragmentation causes misery only. He has many examples to cite including the partition of the country because of which no body benefited.

One day he asked us to write the meaning of our names in the slate. We obeyed him and did exactly as he told us. Then he checked all the meanings and corrected them. Suddenly an idea came to his mind and he asked.
-“ You know that I have a son. You know his name and my name too. If he were a normal person, he would have a grown up son by this time. Probably my non-existent grandson would have been your age and sitting somewhere in this classroom at this moment. Can any one tell us what his name could have been?”
We kept quiet as the question was beyond our comprehension.
Sir went on to tell us that he liked teaching us because of this reason. His grandson could be just like some one among us. He said he could feel the grandson that never was, sitting right herein the classroom and yet invisible, because of some unknown reason. He said it gave him so much joy to teach us for that reason.
-“ But what name he would have?”- Asked Nripati sir to the class, pleading almost.
None of us could answer.
Sir said –“ I give you a clue. Why don’t you amalgamate to get the answer.”
An idea flashed through my mind suddenly and I answered-“ Nripatinarayan”.

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