Dancing with the daffodils

Dedicated to all the wonderful teachers I have known.

“I don’t know, Papa. I just don’t know if I want to get married right now. And that too, to someone who will take me away from all of you.”

“Well, dear, I do hope you will think it over at least. You have talked with Praveen twice already. If you want to, meet him again. He will be here for another week. I only hope you won’t take a rash decision.”

“Ok, Papa, let us talk in the evening. It is time for me to go. Bye, Amma.”

Deepika tucked the end of her stiffly starched cotton saree into the folds of her petticoat. The ride to school will cheer me up, she thought. She started her Scooty and whizzed off. Soon she caught the morning breeze into her nostrils and grinned. This is the way to live. She inhaled deeply. A public bus overtook her, expelling nasty black fumes. Deepika had a sudden bout of coughing.

Deepika reached school nice and early. The school buses had not reached, which meant that she had the school grounds mostly to herself. She liked to read the lesson to be taught one last time, that was why she reached so soon especially when she had a morning class.

“Good morning Teacher” Fourty eight voices shouted in unison. She smiled, “Good morning children. So you are all ready for the lesson, I hope.”

The murmurs were soft and scattered this time. English was not a favourite subject with her students. Most of the students attended private tuitions where the tutors drilled the questions and answers into their heads. Years of learning by rote had taken away all the fun from English lessons. An unimaginative curriculum did not help either.

Deepika had wanted to be a teacher all her life. She had sat in her favourite classes, taking in the various methods her teachers used, always wanting to be in their places. Choosing to Major in English was not a tough decision either. The literature which she was exposed to from an early age made sure of that. She had gone through Teachers’ Training College patiently, vowing to make a difference in her students’ lives, determined to choose innovative techniques.

She had chosen her school carefully. Not too far from her house, and not one of those schools where only the snobs studied. She wanted to teach children, not children who thought themselves know-it-alls. St. Agnes Convent for Girls was perfect, she thought. The nuns there were kind and friendly, and she liked the girls who studied there. She attended the interview, crossed her fingers and waited. To no one’s surprise except hers, she was chosen.

That was two years back. She had won the admiration of students, and grudging appreciation from her colleagues. Deepika teacher was sought after for any occasion in the school. But all this did not change the disinterest the students had towards English. Most of the girls hoped to choose the Science stream for Plus Two. Tenth was the last class when English was given equal respect as the Science subjects. They just wanted to get good marks. Most of Deepika’s methods failed to stimulate minds dulled by never-ending tuitions.

Yet Deepika went on, determined to do what she wanted to- teach with a passion. Today she was starting Wordsworth’s Daffodils, a poem which she loved.

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Deepika was soon caught up in Wordsworth’s magic. I must be the only one, she thought sadly. Some of the students were listening intently, some with a bored expression visible on their faces. An overly enthusiastic girl was mouthing the words along with her, trying to catch her attention, wanting to communicate that she already knew the poem.

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

Here Deepika stopped. What made her look up to a corner of the room, she knew not. But she did and she was glad she did. Teaching has its own sweet rewards, she thought. For she saw a small head gazing at her, with eyes which were ready to fill over, a wistful expression on her face which would have made Wordsworth proud of himself. Deepika forgot her resolutions about teaching for all of the students. For the rest of that class, she taught only for that one ribboned head. She read out the poem, explained all that she possibly could, feeling sorry when the bell sounded.

 She learnt that the girl’s name was Ritu. A new student obviously, a cast-off from another more prestigious school for failing to comply with the high standards expected of their students, which was a polite way of telling the parents that the school feared their child would spoil the hundred percent first class reputation of the school. Her parents had pleaded with the principal of St.Agnes, a kind-hearted lady who accepted her, as well as the hefty donation her parents made.

Deepika sat in the staff room with a smile on her face. She had found out that it was not her teaching that was lacking. These two years she had secretly wondered why she could never evoke the passion in her students the way her teachers could in her. Maybe she just was unable to find a student like her before, someone who shared her love for the English language.

Deepika was sure of one thing, Ritu might lack in ability in other lessons, but English was a different story altogether. That one class was enough to tell her that. Deepika had just another class that day. The rest of the day she spent doing her other work, as well as wondering whether to call Praveen. She did finally, making arrangements to meet him the next day at her house.

Deepika talked things out with Praveen. The new found confidence that Ritu gave her surely helped. Maybe Praveen was what she needed in life. Praveen in turn, told her about how life would be in Muscat. With her records, she could surely get a teaching job, that too maybe at the Indian School there. Life would be good, Praveen promised.

“And I want to marry you, for good or for bad, for better or for worse.”

Deepika raised her eyebrows.

“I thought this English teacher would like a touch of romance.” he smiled.

Deepika agreed to the marriage. Soon it was her last day in school. The teachers and students came by to say good bye and to wish her good luck. Some students brought her small gifts. Soon a shy hand came to her with tear-filled eyes.

“I will miss you, teacher” said Ritu. “Will you give me your autograph?”

Deepika smiled and opened the autograph album.

She wrote,

“Dear Ritu,

You have immense potential. Make use of it in a wise manner. I expect great things from you. Never stop believing in yourself.”

She signed her name. And on impulse, she wrote down her email address and asked Ritu to keep in touch.

Deepika sat, checking her email. Her two year old daughter was near her. Life couldn’t get much better, she thought. There was a mail from Ritu. She was now a first year English student. She had sent along a copy of a poem that she had done to be published in her college magazine. It was dedicated, to Wordsworth and to my English teacher Deepika, both of you taught me to believe in myself.

Her mail went like this.

My poem is not that great, I know. I want to write poems, but what I really want to do is to teach. I want to be like you, teacher.

Deepika smiled. This was the best reward a teacher could get. She was thinking, Ritu, you might think I helped you so much in your life. Yet, you taught me so much. Till that day, teaching was something I was going to do well. That day, teaching became something I did well, you made that difference.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Well, Ritu, Wordworth took pleasure in the daffodils. But when in a pensive mood, my heart turns to a day long gone, to a corner of the second bench, to a pair of eyes ready to fill over, to a bent ribboned head, to a girl who taught me that I could teach and not just English.