Respectful salutations (to Samiran Sir and Samarendra Sir)

 (I am writing about two of my teachers, whose contributions to my reaching today’s position I always remember with a bowed head.)

I studied from Class Six to Class Ten at Chittagong Municipal Model High School. Until Class Eight, I was second in the class. In Class Eight, nine of us from our school received scholarships. After receiving the scholarship, five students including our first boy changed schools and went to Collegiate School. I stayed behind. My father’s philosophy was the philosophy of Paradise Lost: Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. Father understood my psychology. He realized that if I didn’t receive attention at that age, I would be lost. Father felt that since I was accustomed to staying in the front ranks at school from childhood, if I couldn’t stay in the front ranks at Collegiate School, perhaps I wasn’t yet mature enough to handle that. Good students study at Collegiate School. I might not be able to compete with them. Besides, Father strongly believed that if I left the school that had raised me from childhood and went elsewhere, the hurt to the teachers would fall upon me as a curse. Anyway, when the first boy of our class went to Collegiate School, I was made the first in the class. I still remember, when relatives or others would ask me my roll number during that time, I would say, “My roll number is 2, but since our first boy went to Collegiate, my roll number is now 1.” This wisdom was taught to me by my mother. Now I understand how thoughtfully my mother had done this to prevent any kind of pride from entering a teenager’s mind. Every parent in the world is a great philosopher. Nature makes them different people when creating fathers for boys and mothers for girls. What a wonderful mystery! During my school days, I saw that not being the first boy in that school wasn’t very easy. No one really studied much. Those who did would become first, second, and so on. In a barren forest, even the jackal is king. At the private tutoring sessions where I studied, students from many prestigious schools in Chittagong would come—Collegiate School, Government High School, Ispahani School, Khastgir School, and others. Mother would search and find out where the good students took private lessons. Studying with them, I came to understand very clearly that I was behind even the worst student from a good school. I would need to work harder, try to advance myself.

I studied Bengali, English, and Social Science with Samiran Sir. Sir would call me ‘Balti’ (bucket) in front of everyone. (Many people called our school ‘Bucket School,’ and still do. We had once donated many buckets for flood relief. That might be why. According to many, our school got that name because during lunch break, tiffin was served in buckets.) Hearing this hurt me deeply. Sir never praised me. At that time, I was ready to do anything in the world to hear a simple ‘thanks’ from Sir. (I said ‘anything in the world’ because I was young then. My world was a small person’s world, a teenager’s world. That world was very simple, foolish, innocent.) I had enrolled with Sir at the beginning of Class Nine. On my first day at Sir’s private coaching, I saw all the first boys/girls from good schools sitting there. Just standing before them filled me with such embarrassment. Some of them were calling me ‘balti-balti.’ I went into the class and touched Sir’s feet in greeting. I saw that this too was cause for laughter. Sir told me to sit on the back bench. Yet many who came after me were allowed to sit on the front bench. Later I saw that they were either the first girl from Khastgir School or brilliant students like the first boy from Collegiate School. When you become first or second at a young age, what often develops is not humility, but pride. No one was paying me any attention. Later I saw there wasn’t much reason to pay me attention either. Where they would score 40-42 out of 50 in objective (MCQ) tests, I would score at most 28-30. Let me tell you about one incident. Once, when I couldn’t answer an objective question, Sir grabbed me by the ear and made me stand on the bench. The person after me also couldn’t answer the same question. He was the first boy from Government High School. When he was about to stand on the bench himself, Sir said, “Hey, why are you standing? You’re my favorite student. Would I make you stand?” I thought then that I too should sit down. As I was about to sit, Sir struck me with the curtain rod (Sir used this to beat us) and said, “Makki! (Sir used this word when cursing. I still don’t know what it means.) Did I tell you to sit? You’re a bucket! Stand quietly like a bucket.” Tears began streaming down my face. Teachers have always been my most beloved people, people I respect. I can never get angry with beloved people, only deeply hurt. I told Mother about Sir’s words with great resentment. Mother said, “Son, whatever teachers say, they say for your good. You try so that you never have to hear such words again.” Wounded in my self-respect, an incredible stubbornness took hold of me. I began trying desperately to catch Sir’s attention. I learned at home that teachers are like God. I don’t remember ever raising my voice to any teacher. I would touch the feet of all teachers in greeting. This was Father’s teaching. When any elder came to our house, it was mandatory for us two brothers to touch their feet in greeting. Whether that elder had a PhD from abroad or was a completely ignorant, uneducated peasant from a remote village—the same rule applied strictly in all cases. Teachers loved me greatly for this humility. I would often ‘compensate’ for knowing less by showing this respect. Of course, I was so foolish then that it never occurred to me that not showing humility could be a kind of smartness (!).

When we reached Class Ten, not everyone could get the opportunity to study in all of Samiran Sir’s batches. Some batches were special. The top students from schools got to study there. They scored very good marks. My mother’s efforts for me to study in those batches were desperate. How many nights Mother stayed up sitting beside me, taking my objective lessons, teaching me subjective lessons, making notes for me (Mother’s handwriting was as neat as pearls)—when I remember all this now, I think Mother’s health deteriorated from running after us two brothers. The lion’s share of credit for our education goes to Mother. Mother would go with me to all the teachers’ houses. She would wait in the guardians’ waiting room for as long as Sir taught, then bring me home. My mother knew my objective test papers better than I did. At that time I was a mummydaddy type, bookish, unsmart, foolish boy. This way, gradually, in the combined merit list of all of Samiran Sir’s batches’ class tests, I began to place within the top 5. From Class Ten onward, Sir would speak very well of me in front of everyone, and this made other ‘famous’ type good students start respecting me too. I was incredibly stubborn. Since I wasn’t accustomed from childhood to hearing that I was bad, that I couldn’t do anything, Samiran Sir’s early words felt like sharp knives to me. Coming to today, I understand how greatly Sir benefited me by humiliating me in front of everyone. In our time, there was something called ‘board stand.’ The top 20 students who scored the highest marks separately from Science, Arts, and Commerce groups of any board in public examinations (SSC and HSC) were said to have ‘stood.’ This was a great honor. Today’s students can’t even imagine it. Their photos and interviews with their parents would appear in papers. The whole country would know them. While it was relatively easy for a good student from a good school to stand, it was that much harder for an even better student from a bad or mediocre school to stand. When teachers check exam papers, if they see several good papers in succession, they tend to give higher marks to those papers. Among those, they give even higher marks to the better papers. But if they see several bad papers in succession, after giving low marks repeatedly, when they see a paper of the same standard as those that got higher marks earlier among the good ones, they do increase the marks a bit from the low marks they’d been giving, but it never becomes as high as the marks given to papers that got high marks in the crowd of good papers. Giving marks in exams follows Newton’s first law of motion. How many good marks a paper gets doesn’t depend entirely on the paper’s goodness, but on the relativity of other marks. Goodness is never an absolute matter. Both goodness and badness listen to what Einstein Sir says. By the way, that was the era of forcibly extracting more marks from teachers by writing difficult, incomprehensible words in incomprehensible style in English and Bengali exam papers. The more incomprehensible someone was, the better student they were considered, therefore the more marks they would get. In Class Seven, I was initiated into the art of writing in difficult language with even more difficult grammar. My initiating guru was my father. I applied this art fully with Samiran Sir. No one could write in a more difficult style than me when creating answers to questions. Everyone would watch in amazement as this famously unsmart, foolish boy from ‘Bucket School’ could write better than anyone in the good batches. For a teenager, being able to amaze everyone is a great gift. I am indebted to Samiran Sir for this gift.

Let me tell you about another teacher who was like a father to me. He was Samaren Sir from our school. I used to take private tuition from him for science subjects. Sir had tremendous faith in me and expected that I would be the first to solve the most difficult problem in any test paper. Any problem that Sushanto couldn’t solve, no one else in the batch should be able to solve either. He didn’t just expect this and give up—if I couldn’t do it, he would beat me mercilessly. The situation was such that while others might get away with not knowing that two plus two equals four without Sir saying anything, if I couldn’t recite the thirteen times table, I would get a thorough beating. Sir used to call me ‘intellectual’ with affection. I would solve at least two complete test papers. Complete, meaning entirely. I would do all the extra geometry problems, and then pester Sir to give me the twisted versions of extra geometry that appeared in test papers. I was more curious about those chapters that many students would skip. After finishing each term’s syllabus at school, I would badger Sir to complete the next term’s syllabus. I would finish the next periodic exam’s syllabus during one periodic exam itself. Whatever chapter was being taught in the batch, whether it was in my syllabus or not, I would finish it. Sir would say, “You’ll have to increase my fee from next month.” I had infinite patience and shamelessness back then to not take any sarcasm from teachers to heart. Even without doing all the higher math problems, one could give full answers in exams. But I don’t remember ever skipping any problem. Even the problems Sir wouldn’t teach despite my many requests, I would solve them myself by looking at Panjeri guides, understanding them step by step. Later I would tell Sir about this, so that Sir would get angry and teach me those problems. Sir would indeed get angry. And beat me terribly too. Back then, being beaten by teachers wasn’t a big deal. I had always heard at home that beatings from teachers are blessings. Even if you get beaten, you must understand your studies—only then can you become something in life. (Now I understand how much of a fool I was during that time… Thank goodness I was!) Like Bengali, English, and Social Studies for objective questions, I had memorized the science books line by line. In the literal sense, I had the entire books memorized thoroughly, by heart, by rote. This was entirely the teachers’ contribution. I did this work out of fear of Sir’s beatings, or fear of being humiliated in front of the entire class. Those were the days of standing with head bowed before girls, of doing sit-ups while holding your ears.

Sir used to tell me, “You can’t stand first just by staring at the paper and daydreaming while looking at the students who are standing first. For that, you have to make an effort yourself.” I would study a lot before going to Sir’s private tuition, just in the hope that Sir would praise me in front of everyone. During those days, my heart and soul would yearn to hear a few affectionate words from teachers. I felt I could study for several sleepless nights just for that. Understanding this psychology of students is very important for teachers. Samaren Sir used to conduct regular objective tests. While others wouldn’t get even one cane stroke for making five mistakes, I would get five strokes for each mistake. I don’t know what hypnotic magic Sir possessed, but while getting beaten like a donkey, I could never get angry at Sir—all the anger would be directed at myself. Sometimes even when I made mistakes, Sir wouldn’t beat me. Then I would feel tremendous guilt inside. Sir would never know about that thirteen-fourteen-year-old boy’s yearning to be beaten. I would think Sir must be unwell. I would say to myself, “Oh God, please make Sir healthy.” I would truly pray for Sir’s well-being. A teacher who can create guilt in a student’s mind for mistakes made is surely no ordinary person. Sir’s house was near mine. Sir’s private classes were in the evening. One day Sir came to class and asked me, “What’s up, Sushanto, didn’t you sleep last night?” I would sit on the veranda almost every night, playing cassettes on my twin-one, listening to songs while doing math problems and solving objectives all night. (We hadn’t even seen CDs back then.) Sir had a favorite habit of taking his motorcycle out for rides around the city every night. Sir had probably come in front of our building the previous night and seen me studying with the lights on, sitting on the third-floor veranda. The funny thing was, that day I had gotten low marks in chemistry objective in class, and when Sir asked his question, I felt he was asking sarcastically—what was the point of studying so much the previous night then? It was very painful, thinking that the previous night instead of studying Samaren Sir’s lessons, I was studying social science objectives so I could score higher than students from Collegiate-Khastgir schools in Samiran Sir’s private test the next morning. I couldn’t even look at Samar Sir’s eyes out of shame. I felt as if he could read my mind and was very angry that I hadn’t prepared his lessons. The entire credit for generating so much shyness and sense of responsibility in me, along with infinite love and respect for him, goes to Sir.

By the way, I had gotten low marks in Samiran Sir’s private class that day too and got beaten as usual. Samiran Sir had struck at my weakest point. That was my school. He would often say, “That’s right. How can a student from a bucket school know such things?” I couldn’t tolerate any bad comments about my school in any way. Even if it was a bad school, it was my school! How much the teachers at school loved me, believed in me, spoke proudly of me to everyone else. I would study very hard in Samiran Sir’s private classes, just so that no one could say anything belittling about my school. After my father, I learned from Samaren Sir how to live most beautifully and freely in every moment of this world. Sir’s income and expenses were both limitless. From Samiran Sir I learned how to squeeze sticky jaggery from an ant’s belly and save sugar by drinking tea with that. Sir was a terrible miser! But I adopted Samaren Sir’s philosophy.

For what I am and what I am not, I am forever grateful to my teachers.