We addressed him ‘Master-mashai’, sometimes qualifying it by adding the word ‘Head’ before. ‘Mashai’ is a colloquial abbreviation of the Bengali word ‘Mahashay’, used for addressing a person respectfully, closer to the use of ‘Sir’ in English. Usually in village areas we used to address our male teachers as ‘Master-mashai’ and a woman teacher as ‘Didimani’. I think in many of our villages, still some people use these addresses, though it is common now-a-days to address our teachers as ‘Sir’ or ‘Mam’ (Madam). Our Master-mashai was also the head teacher of a primary school. My mother newly joined as a ‘Didimani’ of that school then. It was in the year 1971. I was a kid of eight years old, and was about to repeat a year in my third grade for failing in Mathematics twice, both in my half-yearly and annual examinations. I was reading then in another school of our town. As a kid, I had little idea how serious the matter was. But it must have been very tormenting for me even at that stage, as I still have the visual memory of those red-inked letters on my mark-sheets, in one of which the number 19 was written, and in the other a little improvement with 25. The qualifying mark was 30. From my school, my parents were advised to make a prayer to the school administration for my promotion. In stead, they decided to keep me in the third grade itself. It must have been a very painful decision for them too. Just a year before, they were proud parents of their son, who stood first in the final examination of his second grade. One day in the last week of December of that year, my father announced it to me with a happy smile. I naively asked him, “What does the first boy mean?” He laughed and presented me two badminton rackets with a plastic cork, “Play with your brother.” Both my brother and I were so excited with those bats, that without bothering for any further explanation we rushed to our playground. Incidentally, that was also my first year in a school, where I was given a direct admission to the second grade. Initially, my parents thought about putting me to the first grade. However, after going through my performance in the admission test the teachers there advised my father to get me admitted into the second grade. So when I failed to clear Mathematics in my third grade, they might have thought that the early advancement of a year of study was taking a toll on me, and decided to keep me in the third grade for one more year.
Before her marriage, my mother was a teacher in a nursery school. She had gone through the Basic training, a year-long education program of Government for nurturing primary school teachers. After her marriage too, she was teaching for a few months. Then my father got a transfer, and they came to the town of our present dwelling. Mother had to leave her job, and she could not get any, until she received an appointment as a primary teacher in the village school, I was talking about. On the very first day of her service, she took me with her to the school. The village was at a distance of about five kilometers from our residence. There was no public communication for going there. Its nearest railway station then, was the railway station of my town. That was also about three kilometers from it. We needed to cross the railway station on our way to the village. The path from the railway station to the village was non-metal. A considerable portion of it ran through paddy fields. During rainy season it would become so treacherously muddy and slippery, that even the cycling and walking were difficult. So in a good weather, the comfortable option was to travel by a rickshaw, and in any season the other feasible option was the long tire-some walking. My mother mostly preferred the latter, as the first one, even if available, was not sustainable by her paltry salary. Today I cannot remember, whether we enjoyed a rickshaw ride on our very first journey to her school.
The Head Teacher of the school was waiting for us. He was then in his fifties, of medium height, with a head-full of curly hairs, lean and stout, wearing a Dhuti (a typical dress for a Bengali gentleman consisting of a piece of robe, worn in a specific style covering the lower part of the body), and a Fatua (a long and loose shirt without any collar and with a full covering of both hands), and having spectacles on his face. He welcomed us and introduced to his only colleague there – a very old person, who must have crossed seventies by then, but was still in the service. My mother became the third teacher of the school. The Head Master-mashai called me, “Babu (The little master)! Come here. What is your name?”
On my mother’s prodding I touched his feet for his blessings (a common gesture for showing respect to elders) and told my name. Then he asked, “In which school do you read?”
I told my school’s name. The next question was too embarrassing for me. He asked, “Which class (grade)?”
I remained silent and was hesitating how to explain him about my state of academic misfortune. My mother replied, “He was supposed to be in the class four. But he failed in Maths. That’s why we decided to keep him in three (third grade) again.”
He stared at me. I could see from his expression that I did not satisfy his expectation, and was repenting on the fact that I came with my mother to this place. The Head Master-mashai commented, “But he looks so bright! What is his problem?”
“Oh! He could not do a single sum correctly,” mother replied dejectedly.
“They were big numbers, and too many of them!” I tried to defend my inability by asking for a little more humane consideration on the difficulties of handling large numbers.
Master-mashai told me, “Is it so? I always thought there is a fun in adding numbers. Let me see how you perform.”
He gave me to add a few four digit numbers on a slate. I like an obedient student, engaged myself on that fearsome job, and was careful enough to run my fingers several times on my palm to keep track of serial accumulation of numbers in my computational steps. Master-mashai snatched the slate from my hand, “What are you doing?”
I was surprised and also apprehensive whether I made any heinous crime of committing an error in between.
“Why are you counting your fingers? That is the stupidest thing to do in adding or subtracting numbers,” he exclaimed.
I kept mum, as it was what I learnt for doing a summation. He continued, “Do it mentally. There won’t be any error.”
Then he started asking me the sum of a pair of numbers, the last one being a single digit, and I had to respond fast to each of his queries. I felt at ease, as there was not a single mistake in my instant responses. Finally, he told my mother, “Let him study in my school. Why should he lose a year? I can guarantee you that he would get a scholarship in the class four board examination.”
In our time we used to have a board examination in grade four for each district. From each district, a few top rankers of this examination were used to be awarded with a scholarship (or Britti in Bengali) from the Government. That is why this examination was called the Britti Pariksha. It was a matter of pride for the teachers of a primary school, if any of its students gets this scholarship. During the rule of the left front, in early eighties this school board examination was abolished, and the tradition of a competing atmosphere among the schools for showing good performances in the board examination was also lost.
My parents were initially hesitant and a bit reluctant to accept Master-mashai’s suggestion. First, my age was relatively young compared to the grade I was studying. They were considering whether it was prudent to allow me to continue further. Next, the village school had a very poor infrastructure compared to the town school, I was studying then. My mother’s new school had only one large hall under a tiled roof, with a few partitions to segregate classes for students. Its foundation was of brick, but a part of it was still built with mud and bamboo sticks. There were no separate entries from the outside for each partition, where classes were held. For attending any class, one had to get inside using one of the two doors of the hall-room and move to a specific class. As a result, the humming and uttering of students and the teacher of a class were clearly audible by all others present in the school. There were effectively two teachers, including my mother, for all the students in the school starting from grade one to grade four. The old Master-mashai was about to retire, and he had been given partial responsibility to teach only students of grade one, who used to sit on the floor to take lessons from their teachers. Other than grade one, each class was equipped with a few benches, a table for the teacher, and a black board. The school in my town was run by a Hindu religious organization with strict adherence to discipline and punctuality. We used to get a number of teachers according to subjects even in the lower grades. We had separate class rooms and, the school building was being newly renovated and expanded that time. But, the most worrying factor for my parents was the distance of the village from my home. They were concerned whether I would be able to walk such a long distance regularly to attend the school. Still I do not know how they were persuaded by the Head Master-mashai. Our new session in my town school was yet to start. So I was still going with my mother to her school, and used to attend classes with others. For a few days, I did maintain a state of fuzziness of my belongingness to the school, saying to my friends that I would stop coming once the session at my town school begins. After a few days, to my delight my mother informed me that they had decided to shift me from the town school to her own, and I would be studying in the fourth grade in stead of repeating a year.
Suddenly everything around me changed. I was feeling myself at the center stage of an exciting experiment, where our Head Master-mashai electrified me by his guidance and encouragement. He told me, “Do you know the story of Arjun from the Mahabharata? While aiming his arrow at a wooden bird kept on a tree with his bow, Arjun was asked by his teacher Dronacharya, what he was able to see then. Before him, all his brothers replied to the same question differently. Some said the tree, some said branches, or some pointed the bird. Arjun replied that he was seeing the eye of the bird only and by saying he sent the arrow straight into the bird’s eye. You should also prepare in the same way for the scholarship. I know you will be able to get it and make us proud.”
Those were not his mere words of encouragements. He believed in my ability so much, that he proudly declared to the villagers and teachers of other schools that, that year his school was going to produce a boy with a scholarship. So I was enjoying the attention of the villagers also. I was quite naïve in my attitude towards any success or failure at that stage. My Head Master-mashai instilled his belief in me so strongly that I never doubted that I was going to achieve what my teacher was saying. However, my mother must have felt the pressure of meeting the expectation from her son. She often advised me, “Try your best. That is what finally matters.” She used to teach me every day, and helped me solve old question papers of the final examinations of different school boards of districts of my state.
That was the year when I started enjoying my schooling. Even walking such a long distance was a fun for me. My mother was always with me, and I used to keep her busy with all sorts of queries on the subjects and objects, which would appear on our ways. I learnt to recognize many plants, trees, flowers and birds in those sessions. More so, I was amazed by the unfolding of beauty of nature before me, as if my text book poems were throwing their rhymes on the three dimensional canvas surrounding me. In the last part of our journey to the school, we used to cross a large field. The path curved through it mostly uncovered and unshaded. There were only a few land marks in this part in the form of a lonely thorny Babla tree (gum tree) or a fence of a single farm house. On winter days, it was lovely to enjoy the mist and coolness of the air across the open field. During that period, in stead of treading through the non-metal road, we could use a trail winding through the empty paddy fields (called aal in Bengali), which would shorten our journey to some extent. In fact, our school building was visible, from a place very near to my home, throwing an illusion of its proximity. But it used to take more than an hour to cover that distance. The rainy season was the hardest season, and we had to follow the longest path, along the railway track, to avoid the mud. Even so, we needed to negotiate some stretches of muddy segments. Sometimes my mother tried to keep me home during this period. However, unless I was sick, I always wanted to go with her. The most enjoyable season was the autumn. During that period, the paddy fields were at their prime, filled with different shades of green. The sun and clouds used to play their usual hide and seek game on top of them. The village life also made some impression on me, though my interaction with the villagers was brief, as I had little time to spend there. There was a large banyan tree in front of my school. It was the signature of my school. Even from a running train, by identifying the banyan tree, we could easily locate the building of our school. During the recess, many students used to enjoy their rides on the hanging trunks of the banyan tree. One day, some of my friends took me to a field where peas were grown. They also plucked a few of them. When we returned, some villagers complained to my mother about my presence with them. I was not sure what the nature of complaint was. But on my denial of any wrong doing, my mother got very angry with me, and she started scolding and beating me very harsh. It went on for sometimes, until the Head Master-mashai intervened. I was still in the mood of defiance without understanding what grave crime had been committed by me.
After a few weeks from the beginning of our session, preparations for participation in the annual sports event started. All the schools in a block (an administrative area covering a number of villages and the town) were used to compete in this event. Head Master-mashai took a great interest in identifying the suitable competitors for each event. A school was entitled to send only a limited number of participants for each event. There was an in-house competition for selecting the students for representing a school in those events. I was never good at sports. Moreover I was relatively taller, and that put me in the category of seniors (among the students of primary schools) in the sports. I failed miserably in all such events, running, long jump, high jump, etc. Master-mashai told me, “Still there is one event for you. I think you can win a medal for us.” I was not sure. He suggested, “Compete in the Maths race.” It is a funny race. In this competition, one has to run for fifty meters, add a series of four digit numbers, and then run another fifty meters to finish the race. The winner of the race is the person, who reaches earliest with the correct result of the addition. In my whole life I won medals thrice in any sporting event. All were in those years. All were from Maths races, the first one was from the sporting event, I was talking about. The next was from the event organized for a circle. A circle consists of a few blocks, and the sports meet for a circle was the next higher level, where winners from blocks could participate. The last one was from a sporting competition organized in the village of my school.
My mother used to teach me all the subjects in our home. She would have preferred to keep me away from walking to the school, unless she felt my need of having lessons in Science and Maths from the Head Master-mashai. My parents grew a great respect for him as a teacher. He was indeed great. It is not that he had dumped us with fundas, and clear explanation of everything around. He was simple in his approach. He was friendly with his students, and could point out mistakes with a smile. Hardly had he scolded anyone in the class for not doing an assignment, or not able to comprehend a topic. He tried to raise curiosity among our young minds by telling different stories. One day while teaching us planets and stars, he told us such a story. He would start, “Let me tell you a story of creation of these planets.” Then he went on narrating, “Do you think these planets were there from the beginning of creation? That is not true. There was a time when our Sun was a lonely star. He was big, but had no planets revolving around. One day a foreign star came near it. It had lost its direction, and ways. It became quite close to the Sun. Now these large bodies are able to pull each other. So they raised a fight. Each one tried to draw the other towards it. The Sun is very hot, and its matter is made of gases. So the pull from the foreign star could tear many of its portions. Those portions went toward the star, but could not overcome the pull of the Sun. So these gaseous pieces started revolving around it. In the mean time, the foreign star also went far away. Those smaller pieces after cooling became planets. Our Earth is also one of them.” I understand this is far from our modern scientific explanation of creation. But it was good enough to confront us against our beliefs on stories of creation from mythology.
The year was also marked by the year of Bangladesh’s war of liberation. That time the country was called ‘East Pakistan’. After the event of March 26, we were closely following what was going on in that country. That evening my father came grim faced from his office, and told my mother about the brutality of the Government of Pakistan against the Bengalis. Then came the stories of sufferings and sorrows of refugees from the other side of Bengal, who took shelter in this part. Soon the guerilla fight started, and even as a kid, I was keenly following the news broadcast from radios, and also the reports of newspapers. The talk of liberation of East Pakistan was every where. Every night we used to listen to a special radio channel, which broadcast Sheikh Mujibur Rahaman’s famous speech. We had almost memorized it. A part of it even plays in my mind with his distinct thunderous melody, “ ….Our fight is the fight for liberation! Our struggle is the struggle for independence. None of you can crush us! …” Some of my friends could recite the full speech mimicking his voice. Around that time the slogan, “Jai Bangla! (Victory to Bengal!)”, became so popular that people attributed it to every holy or unholy thing, which made a guest appearance in that year. We had “Jai Bangla” Saris (Dresses for Indian Women), “Jai Bangla” shirts, caps, rings – even that year the common eye disease conjunctivitis widely spread in different parts of our state. People named it “Jai Bangla”. I was also not left out from its blessings. For two or three days, I was kept inside with my swollen red eyes. I also had personal experiences of watching refugee camps in a border town, where my grand parents (from my mother’s side) lived. We had no doubt about the victory of the liberation war. For us kids, then the adult world was painted with black and white only. There were either good fellows or bad demons, and who doesn’t know that the evil will be finally defeated? So we strongly believed that the liberation war would be won, as we also knew that America would be defeated in Vietnam. In our play time, we transformed the hide and seek game into a new form. We made it as a mock-fight between two warring parties, where one had to kill an enemy by shouting against the opponent soldier, as soon as he or she was visible. The shouting slogan was ‘Jai Bangla!’, and the name given to the game? – Naturally, ‘Jai Bangla!’
The formal war between India and Pakistan started after my final examination was over. But by that time, as far as I remember, Pakistani army was almost defeated. The local liberation army had already dealt a vital blow to them. It took only a few days to finish the war. It was a moment of glory and happiness for all of us. I have no particular memory of my examination days. I could remember that my mother used to wait to receive me after the examination. Head Master-mashai also used to visit the center and encourage us to perform well. After my examination, our days were full of excitement with the news from the war front, sensing a possible victory and the birth of a new country, which speaks a language of our own, and where my parents had their roots. During this exciting period, Master-mashai came to our house in one afternoon, and with a radiant face he congratulated me, “You did it! I knew you would get the scholarship. You proved it. I was waiting for this day.” He was quite emotional. While returning his blessings on my respectful bow to him, he told, “Grow up and make us proud!” I did not realize then what a tough assignment he was setting for me. The scholarship was much easier!
22.11.11
