Among all the teachers at whose feet I sat and learned during my student years, the one who comes to mind most often is Harisadhan Datta Sir, the English teacher at Chittagong Municipal Model High School.
I have never encountered another human being as simple and scholarly as Sir. His erudition could only be compared to the infinite sky. In mathematics, Bengali, and English—what the other teachers possessed could be called knowledge; what Harisadhan Sir possessed deserved to be called wisdom. He was a devoted follower of Sri Ramakrishna Paramahansa; he had profound scholarship in the Vedas, the Gita, the Upanishads, and the philosophies of various religions. Three teachers shaped my foundation and passion for English: my father, my second uncle, and Harisadhan Sir. These three men I knew were walking dictionaries.
Sir never wore a watch, yet by reading the positions of the moon and sun, he could tell time with perfect accuracy. He was a deeply spiritual man. He spoke in the regional dialect of Chittagong, wasn't particularly polished, nor did he have much sweetness in his speech. But those soft-spoken, simple words carried the weight of mountains. He would rise at three-thirty in the morning and bathe in cold water year-round, ate only once a day, was disease-free and lean. This man of medium height and small build seemed almost invisible as he walked by; he moved very quietly, staying out of everyone's sight... he preferred to live in hiding. His lifestyle was extremely simple; he kept money in his punjabi pocket, never used a wallet. I never saw Sir wear shoes—dressed in very inexpensive dhoti and punjabi, he would either wear sandals or walk barefoot. All the feet that wore shoes combined were not as weighty as Sir's bare feet.
Our revered headmaster, the lion-like A.K.M. Mahmuddul Haque, showed respect only to Harisadhan Sir, bowed his head only when speaking with Harisadhan Sir. He had brought Sir to our school from an ordinary village school in some remote corner, almost pleading and begging. Sir absolutely disliked living in the city, was thoroughly irritated by urban life. He would say, "Ah, how long it's been since I've seen real human beings..."
Sir lived in a broken-down room behind the school. The headmaster wanted to repair the room, but Harisadhan Sir refused. He had said, "Use that money instead to arrange clean drinking water for the students." And that's exactly what was done. Several of us would literally sit on the ground at Sir's feet to listen to his words; and Sir would sit on the small step at his room's doorway. A single word from his mouth was worth more than a thousand words from a hundred teachers.
Harisadhan Sir read extensively. Even during his morning sunbathing, Sir would have a book in his hands—we could see from a distance as we headed to class. When he got angry, he would hurl the duster from his hand at us in class or on the school veranda. Because of his stern behavior, not many dared to approach Sir. We hadn't yet reached the age to understand that a slap from Harisadhan Datta's sandal could be a priceless treasure for life!
The two things that irritated Harisadhan Sir most were money and lies. The treasure scattered at his feet had to be claimed by sitting at those feet, not with money. Remarkably, Sir truly never told lies. I have never seen anyone in this lifetime teach English and geometry as simply as Sir did. This completely secular-minded man would say, "Don't seek religion, my child, seek humanity."
Do you have such a teacher in your life?