My Fa­vorite teacher

Business Bhutan - - Editorial - YESHEY DORJI The writer is an ar­dent blog­ger.

Con­fronted with the re­cent cases about school prin­ci­pals and teach­ers be­ing in­volved in rape and mur­der of chil­dren, it has made me think about my own teach­ers. I firmly be­lieve that crim­i­nals are not their pro­fes­sion. Th­ese peo­ple could have been any­one. The fact that head­lines flashed the word ‘teacher’ grabbed ev­ery­one’s at­ten­tion. I’m not say­ing that the me­dia should have hid­den their iden­tity. I’m just say­ing that not all teach­ers are rapists and mur­der­ers. And to­day I’m espe­cially feel­ing nos­tal­gic for my fa­vorite teacher.

He was an old man. A very happy and kind old man. He’d smile at and greet any student he met on the way. There was some­thing about our bond that no one un­der­stood, and few other stu­dents en­vied. My par­ents thought we had some kind of karmic con­nec­tions.

I think like par­ents teach­ers aren’t sup­posed to have fa­vorites but ev­ery­one could see that I was his fa­vorite, and he mine. He praised me a lot, the hy­per­ac­tive, chatty, bossy, oc­ca­sion­ally an­noy­ing know-it-all that I ap­par­ently was. I re­mem­ber that once on World Chil­dren’s Day, he wrote a card for the class, and wrote a sep­a­rate card for me, and gifted me a ge­om­e­try box. Some of my class­mates weren’t very happy haha. We were all kids.

He taught us Math. My least fa­vorite sub­ject. But his classes were al­ways so much fun. He wasn’t one of those con­ven­tional teach­ers who needed ab­so­lute si­lence and obe­di­ence. We could talk, dis­cuss, move seats (!!), prove him wrong, make him write “Good” on our note­book. And he told sto­ries!

Sto­ries. As kids that was all the ex­cuse we needed to not study. “Sir, tell us a story!” we’d say be­cause we knew he wouldn’t refuse. He’d hap­pily tell us one. He’d go around the class, throw his arms in the air, jump, spin, jog, laugh, cry, gasp. I don’t re­mem­ber the sto­ries but I re­mem­ber him telling them. I guess it’s true; you don’t re­mem­ber what some­one said but how they made you feel. He made us so happy. He was a great sto­ry­teller. I wanted to be just like him.

I’ve al­ways been a bit too dra­matic (I think I’ll be one of those moms who emo­tion­ally black­mail their kids haha) but maybe I got some of my overly an­i­mated per­son­al­ity from him. He was al­ways happy, smil­ing and ex­cited about ev­ery­thing. That’s how peo­ple de­scribe me most of the time.

He was big at op­ti­mism. He’d cor­rect our un­tidy Math note­books and say, “You kids will go to NASA one day.” We had no idea what a NASA was.

The last time I heard about him was when a for­mer class­mate told me that he had re­signed. We lost con­tact a long time ago, and that’s re­ally sad. I’d re­ally want to meet him again. He’ll al­ways be my fa­vorite teacher, whom my par­ents said was my sec­ond fa­ther.

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