I had the last class with XII Commerce. Out of the seven periods a day, I am left
free only in the fifth every Friday. Deadbeat, I was crawling my way to the
class, when I could find all those yawning, worn out faces all around. Some of them were already outside lazing
their way to the toilets. Some were just waiting near the door for my approival.
“Sir, will you give us a break for two minutes?”
Alright, two minutes is all that you have. Be right back after two minutes then.” I
complied with their request. The kids always remind me of my school days. Without being disrespectful to his memory (He's been gone for donkey's age), I can honestly say that I
could never muster enough guts to open up to my English teacher.
That may be one reason why I dreaded English till class ten. He was a giant of a man and even the
naughtiest of the naughty boys would keep pin- drop silence in his class.
Besides, he knew how to make the best use of the stick he carried in his
hand. Anyways, I guess, I am getting out
of the track.
They were all back in time.
I had, by then, written the topic on the green board:
Write a story of
about 300-350 words on the theme of Sacrifice.
The time limit was 45 minutes. They set off with a zeal and vehemence that was
not expected in the seventh period. I
was at my table when Pabitra, one of the front-benchers, tried to draw my
attention by whispering to me,” Sir, I want you to write the outlines for a
story on the topic An Unfortunate Mistake.
She had earlier made the same request to me, but I could not help her
much at that time as I was busy with the Inter-Class
Story Telling Contest. I grabbed the paper she had put forward to me over the
table, was lost in deep thoughts for the next couple of minutes or so. Time
unfortunately was not standing still and there were students sighing for my
help.
My friends were going to a latest block-buster. I was penniless. I stole some finally from my father’s
purse. I lied to him when he talked to
me about it in the evening, unsuspectingly.
He was deeply hurt when the truth was revealed to him finally a few
weeks later. I never betrayed the trust
he had in me again. He was exceedingly proud of me till his last breath.
I handed the paper back to Pavitra from my table. She quickly glanced through the paper and
slowly broke into a smile. I got up and started moving around the class. Karma
Tenzin, in the meantime, had started eyeing me sheepishly. “ Sir, would you mind going through my opening
paragraph? I am not sure of my grammar and don’t know what to write next
…………….”
I ran through his sentences about a family of four and suggested,“Don’t
bother about the mistakes right now, Karma. You’ve got the start. Keep going
not to interrupt the flow of thoughts.
The parents and the children, one son and a daughter, made a
picture-perfect family. Then disaster
struck. The lively, innocent daughter
was diagnosed with a failed kidney. On
hearing about her daughter’s predicament, mother decided to risk donating her
only sound kidney. But as luck would
have it, she passed away soon after. After her recovery, the daughter was
desperately angry with the mother. The story ends with the daughter coming to
terms with the reality of her mother’s death.
I had my doubt whether I was doing the right thing by
spoon-feeding Karma, but there was a look of absolute delight on his face and taking his notebook back from my hand, he immersed himself into completing his story. Only then I decided
to sweep my eyes over all 44 of them. The whole class was busy penning their
stories. There was a steely silence in the class and all of them with their
heads bent over their notebooks displayed an eagerness, hard to fathom. I had not the least bit of doubt in my mind
that all of them were enjoying writing their stories.
The gong was sounded.
Dika Maya, who was not all that attentive in the previous class, was the
first to hand me her story. Then the stories started streaming in. I am sure I received more stories
in a short span of time than I did in a long while.
“Don’t you worry, if you couldn’t finish writing your
stories. You still have the whole of tonight and the weekend. I am extremely
happy with all of you and with all your hard work. This is what you have to do
if you are serious about writing good stories.
One doesn’t become a good story-teller overnight. One becomes one by writing a lot of stories with one's heart. Please keep it up and
you can always submit your stories to me any time you want. Have a great week-ender.”
Inhaling deeply, I slowly put all the papers in my bag and
headed for the door. God, what a difference the grant of a break
of two minutes can bring about in a class!
P.S. I am just back from the border town of
Phuentsholing and have barely had the time to go through the stories. However,
I have read one of the stories entitled “What is Love?” and I must say it is a
very flimsy but heart- warming story about triangular love. I am ecstatic about the fact that I have
underlined only one word in red, so far as the language is concerned.
