My Teacher and Our Country

-- by Sujatha Vijayaraghavan, sujviji@gmail.com

It was the day after Deepavali. The school was a riot of colours. Girls in resplendent pattu pavadais and glass nylon dhavanis, boys in full pants and new shirts were parading in their Deepavali outfits. Amidst them one group stood out, boys and girls, every one of them wearing Khadi as a part of their ensemble. As everyone turned to look at them, they were proud of the attention they were drawing, but more eager to know what their teacher would say.

She was surprised but pleased that everyone of her wards had heeded her words and persuaded their parents to get them khadi clothes.

She was Miss Jeyalakshmi Subbiah, the most respected among teachers of the St. Josephs High School, Madurai. A frail, diminutive woman, she wore only khadi sarees and blouses, which were coarse and heavy those days. Daughter of a freedom fighter, she never married and spent her life devoted to teaching. Even though she was seniormost by age and experience, she chose to remain the class teacher of 3rd Form A section, the 8th standard of today.

Several generations had passed through her class and she had taught the elder sisters and mothers of several students and remembered each one by name, performance and anecdote. Her energy and liveliness were contagious. It was impossible to idle or daydream in her class. Homework and class work seemed to get done on their own accord. Learning was fun every hour.

She was our class teacher and taught all our subjects and we had to be on our toes all the time to keep pace with her. Every subject came alive as she kept throwing questions and eliciting answers from us. And she was an unforgiving taskmaster in English and Tamil grammar. In Maths class there was always a race to be the first to complete the sum and rush to the teacher, to get the star. Social Studies was a mishmash of History and Geography. She somehow made us love it. A lesson in First Aid found us all putting our kits together and running in to enact first aids for burns, snake bite, fracture and drowning as our names were called and the command given.

Group dance or English play, she was the director with an eye for talent and rehearsed us tirelessly until we got every line, every movement to her satisfaction. A strict disciplinarian in class and in the assembly, one look of hers brought things under control. Our teacher also had a fine sense of humour and enjoyed a hearty laugh with us. Sometimes we were “tube lights” in comprehending her tongue-in-cheek humour and an audible titter soon swelled into a roar of laughter as the sense dawned on the rest of us.

Many a time the teacher in the next class peeped in to see whether our class was still around or had gone out to play. And the neighbouring teacher was even more surprised when she found the class studying in silence while our teacher had been called away.

Any problem, any emergency there was an SOS for Jeya teacher. “Jayaa!”– Mother Rose, the legendary nun who was the Founder Correspondent, would appear from nowhere, calling out to her. For it was only Jeya teacher, who could keep pace with the awesome human dynamo, Mother Rose, a multi-tasker doing things in fast forward.

Two months in a year the teacher trainees would descend on us and take classes for us while our teacher sat at the back to evaluate them. While some of the boys would fire doubts at the nervous trainees just to enjoy their discomfiture, one cough from the last bench would silence the pranksters. Fully aware of the shortcomings of the novices, our teacher would casually hand over her set of notes to one of us, even while she insisted that we took down the notes given by the trainees. Never would she betray their shortcomings or handicaps.

Taking two busloads of students on a day-long excursion to Trichy and back to Madurai, Jeya teacher kept a watchful eye on all the boys and girls. Within a matter of twelve hours we had walked in and out of Srirangam temple, Thiruvanaikaval temple, climbed up and down Rockfort, walked around an airplane on the tarmac, visited the All India Radio and watched a recording session, walked into the bazaar and picked a few knickknacks and tucked in sumptuous breakfast, lunch and tea. She did take us close to the Cauvery, which was in spate and glared at anyone who would dare to go down the steps at Amma Mandapam. Every minute had been planned meticulously and executed.

Each bus had practiced several film songs for the journey and we were ecstatic when our rendering of Kannadasan’s Chenthamizh theyn mozhiyaal, was declared the best by her. To identify the students on each of the two buses, she came up with an ingenious idea. The girls wore red kanakambaram or yellow javanthi (samanthi) flowers while the boys had to pin coloured ribbons in their shirtfront.

She taught us to be honest, fearless and industrious. To stand erect, look into the eyes of the teacher and speak with clarity for all to hear, were some of the traits she tried to instill into everyone of us. She sowed in us the seed of patriotism and respect for elders. She made us aware that it was a matter of pride and honour to be born a woman. For her, the lineup was Matha, Pitha, Guru, Desam and Deivam, all the five to be revered. Gandhi was God and his word gospel. In our autograph books she wrote quotations from Gandhi, the significance of which we realised much later in life. She wanted every one of us to be a worthy son and daughter of this country. Sixty years have gone by since we left her fold, but we sense that Jeyalakshmi teacher is still checking on what we have made of ourselves.

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