A teacher's love for his student 150-200 word story writing
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It was the eighth bell of the day. Some were exhausted, some were excited, I was perturbed. It was a wreck of departure. I did not monitor and ensconced on the first bench of the first row having glimpse of the corridor through the little opening of the class door waiting for him, for the last lesson. He entered the class in the casual attire and the ever haughty face held high, not a single expression of change, exit, sadness or egress. It was entirely contrary to what I had expected.
He started teaching to everyone’s amazement asking us to copy the business letter he was jotting on the board. I was sitting aloof with my notebook and my pen aligned vertically between the pages. I wasn’t interested in his teaching for the first time. I was continuously gazing at him with a feeling of utter and abject sadness. Recollecting all the memories I had with this great man. I retrospected how he questioned the theme of the story and I raised my hand; that was the first ever time we talked, couple of years ago. I recalled the test I scored a perfect in and the extempore I delivered in the class and the quiz competition I managed to save at the end and the debating competition I won and how every time he applauded, embraced and complemented me to work harder. I felt like the seed he had watered with his dexterity, versatility, knowledge and above all wisdom.
He summed up the latter and finally there was an ambience of silence. He started to look distressed. He declared it was the last ever lesson in his over twenty five years of service in the school. His voice has gotten fragile, his eyes tenuous. He said anyone could ask for his wish on the piece of paper and dismissed the class.
He sat on the first desk of the third row near the window. A group of students gathered around him for the blessings and the photographs. I went for it but he asked me to wait and would write for me at the end. I went back and sat. I was in dismay. The winter had arrived and the last leaf of the tree was about to divorce. I could feel it, the departure of the leaf, cool breeze swaying and striking it.
Everyone had left. He scribble for the last student. It was my turn. There was no one except me, him and my friend (the last one). He wrote for me, I and my friend kept standing. I could no longer restrain, tears came rolling down my cheeks. The leaf had fallen. My friend was awkwardly astonished to see me cry, first time in fourteen years. Another tear came rolling but it wasn’t mine. I was surprised, so was my friend. It was sheer dishonor to see an honorable man sob. I wanted to say a million words, “thank you” I said and touched his feet. He blessed me traditionally touching my head and gestured us to leave. It was our last physical contact. As I turned and saw he was still sitting stagnant savoring and recollecting the memories with moist eyes.