Pathakji, more than just a teacher

V Ravi Shankar

Those were the days! Teachers used to be loved, respected and feared at the same time. Being South Indians, Hindi was our waterloo. We had it as the second language in school. In an ‘academic’ South Indian household, how can one think of flunking in any subject!

So, entered Ram Chandra Pathak, or simply ‘Pathakji’ in our lives. Stocky, and with a booming voice, he was always attired in a dhoti and kurta, with a ring on his index finger that said ‘RC’ and a choti. He was the all-subject teacher for our neighbours — the Somanis and others. The Somanis were from Rajasthan, whose two sons were taught by Pathakji. I also used to sit through the classes, so my friend could be left off early for play. Pathakji saw through the ploy. ‘Shankarji Maharaj, aap bhi apni kitaab le aaiye’. Thus started my love affair with Pathakji first, and Hindi later. 

His lessons were interspersed with witty remarks, anecdotes, live examples, making learning a joy. I loved the way he used to take us through Munshi Premchand, poems of Hariwansh Rai Bachchan, Manto, with each lesson coming alive.

All good things come to an end. And soon, the Somanis returned to Rajasthan. I was now his prime student. Time and money were never an issue with him. Sometimes, an hour-long class would stretch to two. The fee was always in a white envelope, handed over by mother, who would ask: ‘Masterji, kam toh nahin hai?’ Nonchalantly, he would stow away the envelope in his kurta pocket, replying: ‘Aap jo de de, wohi sahi hai… waise bhi ghar ki baat hai.’ 

Months changed to years. I scored well in Hindi in the ICSE and ISC. Pathakji beamed with pride. Finally, the time came for us to part. For college, we shifted to Calcutta. It was bye-bye to Ballavpur, Raniganj and Pathakji. 

Later, I joined the Army. When I got a chance to visit Raniganj on a holiday, I jumped at the offer. I met my old friends. On the eve of my departure, I thought of meeting my ‘Sir’. As I entered the portals of the small Ballavpur primary school, I could hear my heart thumping. And then, I saw him! A frail figure. Age had taken its toll, but the booming voice remained. The glimmer and pride in his eyes on seeing me made my eyes moist.

‘Shankarji Maharaj!’ he bellowed. I touched his feet, as children greeted in unison ‘Namaste, Sir.’ 

‘Bachchon, yeh fauj main hain. Mere sabse priya chhatra. Aapko inke jaisa banna hai.’ Turning to me, he took out his wallet carefully from the kurta. Concealed among the notes and other identity cards, was a passport-size photo of mine, in uniform! I could not recall when I had sent it to him.

‘Main ise hamesha apne saath rakhta hoon!’ he said, as I wept and hugged him.