TO SIR WITH LOVE
RAJ SIR : MR P S RAJ THE LEGENDARY MATHS TEACHER OF PATNA
BY
JUGAL KISHORE GUPTA
(A few years back there was an article in a Delhi newspaper : move out Doon School, now boys from Patna have moved in. New Delhi is full of these boys nowadays. A few prominent ones ……ministers in the cabinet, a judge in the Supreme court, the Air Chief( later went to RIMC), the Director of Nehru Memorial, an information Commissioner with CIC and so on..)
Preface
In the twilight years of my life tears appear without a warning when a dear one leaves for the unknown “from whose Bourne no traveler returns”. Perhaps this has to do with my advancing age and increasingly fragile emotions. I understand death is inevitable. But helpless acceptance of the inescapable came after I had witnessed several bereavements in my circle of friends, relatives and acquaintances.
When Deepak, a close childhood friend, shared the news that our Maths teacher in our alma mater was no more, my eyes were wet again. But this timer for a different reason.
Many have contributed to my life. They were by my side when I needed help, when I was lonely, when hope rested on the edge of a cliff waiting for a gentle push from a mentor to overcome my fears of skydiving into the arms of exhilaration. Raj Sir was one such individual.
These are tears of gratitude. “His life is worth remembering and worth celebrating,” I told my wife before booting my laptop to write this tribute.)
Raj Sir, surrounded by other legendary teachers of yore
Has it been half a century since all this happened? I rub my eyes in disbelief. Life travels faster than we would like it to. Seconds, hours, days, months, years keep disappearing into the shadows of the past like a never-ending scroll being rolled into itself revealing new scenes.
But the essence of the storyline never changes. Life perpetually revolves around a pair of dualities -life and death, joy and sorrow, peace and war, victory and defeat.
Let me board my Time Machine and start another journey into the sunshine era of my childhood…
The year 1969 was fast coming to a close. I had come home from my boarding school to spend Christmas vacation with my parents in Calcutta. I had been a resident student of St Xavier’s High School Patna for six years. A year back, the Jesuits who ran St Xavier’s had acquired St Michael’s High School from The Christian Irish Brothers. The hostel in SXHS was being shutdown, and all the boarders were to shift to the new campus. Destiny would herald a forced change in my coordinates. I would spend the concluding three years of my High school in the sylvian surroundings of the expansive 50-acre campus of St Michael’s High School.
Life in Xavier’s campus had unfolded like a fairy tale for the boarders. The change came with unwanted anxiety. “The food there is horrible,” informed one of the nosy ones in our midst. More damning revelations reached our ears as the milestone day approached with menacing inevitability.
But our fears were short-lived. The Jesuits ensured all the attractions of St Xavier’s boarding house will go with us. The menu did not change. With the kitchen team intact, we will continue to relish our delicious buns-chips-chops dinners served with signature English beans and sauce, and an ice cream thrown in as the desert.
Most of the teachers opted to come along. Mr. John James, our lovable infirmarian with a healing touch, would come along to take care of our frequent cuts and bruises, and an occasional fever.
By far the most reassuring news came from our School Principal. “Most of the Jesuit Fathers would change residence to be in your midst,” he announced in the assembly amidst thunderous cheers. The cassock wearing priests were all outstanding individuals. Most of them had come from America’s Chicago Province of the worldwide Catholic organization, Society Of Jesus. They had renounced the world in early youth to dedicate their lives for welfare of others.
As things turned out, our new home in the quiet outskirts of the city was an ideal location to pursue our High School studies. The Ganges river flowing nearby would bear witness to three exhilarating teenage years of my life.
But before I reached there, I had to confront some uncomfortable moments at home.
“You will be a shame on the family if you do not score 100% in Mathematics. I am most unhappy with your academic performance. It is time you wake up from your dreams of cricket and hockey.” Dad’s barrage of unflattering words hit me where it hurt most–my pride. His annoyance with my grades was jarring music for my ears, long used to comforting words from him.
My annual report card had arrived in the post earlier in the day. Dad was inspecting my marks in each paper rather closely. I sent a silent prayer in no particular direction. “Perhaps this will not last long,” I thought. I was still not prepared to confront my shortcomings in academics.
Though my dear parent was a man of few words, on this day, he shared his distress using all the eloquence at his command.
“A-grades are missing from your report card like trees from a desert. I do not understand how you can score such low marks in mathematics.”
I must confess that my grade in Mathematics was an unflattering “C5” (55%-58%).
My parent moved on with his scrutiny. “You are studying in perhaps the best English medium school, but you appear to be drifting along with your mediocrity in English as well.” I winced a second time. My low score of “C6” (50% to 54%) revealed our English teacher Fr Cleary’s displeasure with my answers.
“My grades could have been worse, but he is a kind man,” I recollected with fondness my years of association with the compassionate Jesuit.
Before I could curb my ruffled thoughts, dad’s next pointed comment could not have been better expressed: “Geography and History were never your areas of interest, I understand this pretty well! But you cannot justify scoring a low P7 (40% to 49% marks) in these subjects. If you had memorized a few chapters, you could have done much better. History and Geography do not require use of brains. Your laziness is more than apparent here.”
Low scores in History and Geography revealed my complete disinterest in the life and times of Akbar and Alexander, or about the mysteries surrounding the fauna and flora of the Amazon rainforests.
My class teacher’s remark on the last page of my report card summarized my attitude towards academics: “Not serious in studies, Jugal is very talkative and restless in class.” Dad read this slowly with a telling effect. He placed the report card on the table and stared at me with unconcealed concern. I fought back my erupting tears. Silence was my solitary refuge.
Large-hearted dad lowered his voice and spoke in a comforting tone: “Jugal, you are entering high school now. The next 3 years are important for your future. It is my duty to caution you. Please put more effort in academics. This is as important as games and other activities. I am sure you will do well if you try a little more.”
My vocal chords stirred at last. “I will do much better next time.” My promise lacked conviction.
“Sure you will my son!” Dad’s gentle tap on the head came with his immeasurable kindness.
Uneasiness lingered on for quite some time at my parent’s outburst. None of my elder siblings were scholars, and mathematics was never in our genes. My eldest brother, Madan, took a flight from the world of equations and angles after high school. The intricacies of the human anatomy were less daunting to him than the abstract world of mathematics. He joined Prince of Wales Medical College, Patna, to pursue a career in Medicine.
My elder sister, Leela, shied away from the challenges of geometry and trigonometry as soon as the school allowed her to do so. Escaping into the world of plants and animals, her major in high school was Biology.
My second elder brother, Nandu, a diligent student by any standards, believed in the powers of the midnight oil. He required no motivation from our dad in matters of studies. Many late nights saw this very endearing brother escape into the kitchen to continue with his studies.
Our elder sister would not allow him to put on the lights in the bedroom which she shared with him. “I have to catch the school bus early in the morning. Please don’t disturb my sleep. No lights after 9 PM.” She was big enough to enforce her rules on her younger siblings.
Nandu Bhaiya found none of the science subjects endearing to his practical mind. Father reconciled with his situation; his second son’s strengths lay in the more practical world of commerce, the stream he himself had pursued in college. My brother got an honorable entry into accounts and taxation curriculum with no parental sermon disturbing his tranquility.
Thus, it was left to me to salvage the family’s “honor”. The goal:
The Year 1970 arrived; it was time to return to the boarding house. I made my New Year resolution, and this time it differed from all the previous ones – to excel in academics. “And the measure of my success would be a score 100% in mathematics.” I set this rather unachievable benchmark to test my triumph.
I left for Patna in the first week of January for the new term in school. My mind carried inside its mysterious paths the burden of changing over to a more responsible track in the world of academics.
“My lopsided interests lean at an acute angle towards the cricket and hockey grounds, not to forget tennis and handball courts. These areas of the hostel attract me more than the classrooms and the study halls,” I confessed to Deepak, a close friend in school. “A game of hockey holds a far greater charm than simultaneous equations and Newton’s laws of motion do.”
Deepak was among the bright-five of our class and a stout one at that. A perpetual optimist, he had a unique way of making difficult situations look ordinary and often funny. “Don’t worry Jugal; I will help you. It is not impossible to score A1 (80% +) in mathematics. In fact, a hockey stick is far more difficult to wield on the grounds than pen over paper in the Mathematics class room. Cheer up. You can do well.”
The term started with one addition in the school’s staff room. A young man had joined the faculty. His name was Mr. P S Raj. Fresh from college and armed with an M Sc degree in mathematics, he had traveled 4000 Km from his native town of Madurai to become a teacher in our school.
Dark-skinned and strikingly thin, Raj Sir would not attract a typical teenager looking for a macho role model. We would learn soon that magnetism comes from an inner beauty and not from bulging muscles. Our new teacher had a presence which was very reassuring. Blessed with a thick crop of shiny curly hairs, long mustaches that extended over his thin lips before folding downwards at the ends, and unusually bright eyes, he appeared an epitome of goodness.
In the maiden class he took, I sat upright with more than a casual interest in the formulae he scribbled on the blackboard. His south Indian accent and fast “speed of speech” sounded like the clatter of aluminum pans being washed in the hostel’s kitchen by an irrate worker.
The new teacher’s mannerism showed he would waste no time to hammer in the subject into our small heads. And, moment of moments, when he said, “yum to the power of yun”, we looked around clueless.
“This did not sound like mathematics at all.” My whisper to my classmate seated next to me brought a broad smile on his face.
Surprised with our confused roving glances, Mr. Raj turned towards the blackboard and moved the chalk on its surface faster than he spoke.
When we saw that this strange sounding formula was nothing more than our familiar “M to the power of N”, we broke into teenage-giggles. We tried in vain to suppress our laughter. I stared through the window to distract my mind from the comic developments inside the classroom. This did not help matters.
Our immature reactions were not funny to our new teacher.
A few classes later, many of us had been hooked to him and the subject he taught.
Raj sir struggled to pronounce our names before settling for a variation of what we were used to hearing and saying. Mahesh became Magesh, Jugal (myself) was now Jugaal in his class… but did we mind his accent! It did not take long for him to win our admiration. His sincerity and commitment were striking.
“Mathematics would not be daunting anymore,” I told Deepak. “I have moved closer to meeting my dad’s challenge. Family honor stands a better chance of being redeemed now.”
My “house” of interests had got a new entrant. My proficiency in the subject blossomed in quick time. It thrilled me to gallop alongside the best students in the class. A balance between studies and sports had discovered the missing link in my life: Mathematics. With this dear teacher around, I fell into a lifelong love with the subject.
Soon I was presenting a stiff challenge in the subject to the usual high-scoring students of our class. “School days, school days… Reading and Writing and Rithmetic“, the song often sung by our school principal, the legendary Jesuit Fr. Murphy, sounded rather melodious now.
Before the end of the first semester, I became Raj Sir’s favorite student. I could relate to him in class and outside. He challenged my mental faculties, and often I met his expectations by solving all the tricky sums faster than most other students. My changeover from mediocrity to someone who could compete with the best in his subject gladdened the teacher’s heart. More than Mathematics, I learned the art of perseverance from him, a quality that became my forte in whatever I pursued in later years.
By the end of the academic year, I had elbowed ahead beating most of the competition in maths. In the annual day function, Fr Murphy surprised many when he announced my name for the honor’s medal for the subject. Hence forth, I would be known as a mathematician amongst my classmates. I went onto get the Honors medal for the remaining two years of school. The three medals still adorn dad’s vintage wooden almirah in my family home in Ranchi.
As a byproduct, my grades in other science subjects improved. While hockey and football fields continued to sway my emotions more than academics, I knew grades would not remain an embarrassment for me and a source of distress for my dad. “Success breeds success,” I told Deepak before the academic term ended. But I was not the only beneficiary. Rajiv, Mamu, Raghavendra, Raghu, Arup, Darshan and many more had found a unique mentor in Raj Sir.
Plato, the noted Greek philosopher said: “All learning has an emotional base”. Mr. Raj played along this line. He brought an emotive direction in the northwards movement of our interest in mathematics.
Dad did not hide his delight when Class 9 report card reached his hands. The added joy came in the form of an honor’s medal in mathematics. This brought more cheer to him than even Mohun Bagan, his favorite team, winning a football match in the Calcutta football league.
“You are on your way!” his pride was evident. My loving parent could relax now, happy that his decision to send me to the boarding school was at last working to my advantage.
Raj Sir’s zeal was visible outside the classrooms in equal measure. Evening hours found this dear teacher in the playing grounds with a whistle hanging by a thread flung around his neck. He had a tiring time keeping a bunch of teenagers in reasonable control. His was a unique presence, still fresh in memory as he ran along with his students all of 60 minutes.
A memorable incident around our school days revolves around Patna hockey league of 1972. Our school reached the finals after beating several other teams along the way. The formidable Bihar Military Police team stood between us and the rolling shield.
Though not a hockey enthusiast, Raj Sir gathered scores of boys and took them to the BMP grounds in downtown Patna where the finals were being played. Drums, conch shells, whistles were all included in the arsenal of his cheering dozen. And did they make a noise! The grounds resounded with their roaring, whistling, drum beating and conch-shell cacophony.
Towards the end of the first half, Raj Sir invaded the grounds to give the partisan referee an earful. The shocked young man could not whistle the intruder out of the grounds. But he continued with his compromised conduct. The first half ended with our team trailing 0-1; minutes before the intermission, the referee had gifted a goal to our opponents when he ignored a clear offside position of the scorer.
While our coach, Mr. Jeff, was sympathetically silent, Raj Sir was in his elements. He had a word of advice for everyone. “Jugool!” he directed his fire at me, the team’s centre half. ” You are floating around in the field like a zombie. Put some energy into your game maan!”
The second half turned into a nightmare. With the referee whistling against us all the time, we were in tears as the game progressed. Three goals followed in quick succession; we were down 0-4. The umpire ensured we would never get a shot at our opponent’s goal.
Raj Sir increased the decibel of his cheering dozen. “Make all the noise you can,” he thundered. There was no letup from his corner, and this kept us going the extra bit. Results followed before the final whistle. Reyaz (or was it Binod, our captain?) gave a mighty scoop which took the ball deep inside the opponent’s side. Our agile centre forward, Sanjay Seth, collected the ball on his stick. It was a vintage rally that followed. He dribbled past one… two… three defenders. Before the referee could realize what was unfolding, Seth had flicked the ball into the net. The irrepressible Mr. Raj invaded the field. A dozen screaming boys followed him. The game ended amidst euphoric scenes. We were victorious even as our opponents took away the shield.
Two years sped by. January 1972 heralded the start of our final year in school. When we arrived in our hostel amidst bonhomie and loud greetings, Raj Sir descended in our midst to join the reunion. A faint smile hovered below his mustaches. He was coy with his words: ”Boys! I just got married during the winter vacations. Come over to my quarters in the evening to meet your Anni.” Anni in Raj sir’s native language, Tamil, means elder brother’s wife.
We all turned up in our best evening dresses to wish the newlyweds a happy married life.
The following Sunday, Raj Sir accosted me in the school corridors. “Come over for snacks after the evening games.” His invite came with his customary smile.
Evening found me in the living room of the freshly minted Madrasi couple, Mr. and Mrs. Raj. I got the first taste of several South Indian delicacies – Vada, Idli, Sambhar, Madurai chutney followed by a delicious cup of filter coffee. The aroma that filled the living room was intoxicating. “Memories of a lifetime indeed,” I muttered as I walked back to the hostel for my evening studies.
Life of a school teacher is full of surprises. Sometimes the source of discomfiture is not an adolescents’ quirk.
This drama originated from an unlikely source- mother of one of our classmates, Reuben Lalwani. The lady was in an animated discussion with her son’s math’s teacher when I happened to pass by.
“You are very harsh on my boy. He is not so bad to deserve this type of grades.“ The lady was emphatic in her protest. From her elegant attire and fluent English, it was plain she came from the sophisticated layer of our society. Raj Sir attempts to reason with her put further wind to her ruffled emotions. The situation flipped on its head when the concerned mother burst into tears.
It is hardly possible for a dark-skinned Indian to blush; Raj sir’s face tightened with rushing blood. “How do I handle this?” He seemed to ask his angel in the heavens. I stood there open-mouthed, unnoticed by the two protagonists.
Before Raj Sir could catch me eavesdropping, I slipped away to safety. When I reversed directions a little later, smiles had returned on both faces.
“The problem seems to have been amicably resolved,” I said to myself before walking away.
My last meeting with Raj Sir took place in the school premises in 1995, weeks before I moved to Bangalore where a new career awaited me. I was in Patna to tie up some loose ends for my wife, Nutan. She had been teaching Maths in Don Bosco School, a leading ISC school of the city which had been setup by ex-teachers of St Michael’s. The school had grown on the same lines as St Michael’s.
“Let us visit my alma mater. It has been 23 years since I graduated from there,” I told my wife.
It was late afternoon when we reached the place. The boardinghouse had been closed years back, a few years after I had passed out. Classes had concluded for the day; the premises bore a deserted look, but for a few maintenance staff tending the grounds.
My roving eyes searched for some familiar face; none were visible.
“This place vibrates with countless nostalgic memories. Let me show you some of my favorite spots.” My words came loaded with emotions.
A little later, we were standing on the tennis courts. Century-old trees stood guard along the sides. Many tennis enthusiasts had run over the cemented courts to master the nuances of the game.
Just beyond the tennis courts stood a single-storey quaint bungalow. “That place yonder was our infirmary. It was rare for anyone to fall sick and get interned in one of the room’s inside. We confined our visits to this place for occasional minor bruises or a common cold. Good food, lots of outdoor sports, and sheer joy of living kept us in excellent health during our years here.”
The Hostel Block overlooking a football field
We strolled over several rectangular playing grounds. “We picked up our skills in hockey, football and cricket on the playing fields you see around. The American Jesuits, notable Fr Cox, introduced us to the very American game, baseball. Basketball, volleyball, handball, swimming and athletics were all part of our sporting life here. Those were indeed fascinating days, full of fun and laughter.”
Our canteen under the staircase
“You have taken to your new role of a guide like a fish takes to water. Show me your study hall and classrooms where you met your Waterloo.” Nutan’s teasing remark would have provoked me to retort unwisely in any other setting. But the sheer joy of reliving the past was too intoxicating to allow anything to cause a disruption.
We climbed a flight of steps to reach the spacious landing of the first floor.
The expansive hall had been converted into an auditorium. “This was our study hall. Hundreds of brilliant minds were nurtured here. Yours truly kept pace with the class toppers because of the extra hours spent here.” Nutan laughed at my banter.
Peeping inside a classroom, my wife remarked: “These L-shaped desks must have kept you in a proper leash. I can imagine your restless movements had the school placed you in a more comfortable chair-desk arrangement like we had in my school.”
Well, that was true. These desks did restrict me from squirming in classes, especially History and Geography, which I found boring beyond words.”
We spent more than an hour to complete our tour which took us to the swimming pool, handball courts, our large bathing area in the hostel block, Mr. Raj’s living quarters amidst a beautifully tended garden, the locked rear gate overlooking the flowing Ganges River.
The deafening silence of the present failed to overwhelm the boisterous past of my teenage years as a boarder here.
Dusk had descended unnoticed. It was time to return to our present. We slowly sauntered along the quiet walkways towards the exit gate.
But this was no ordinary day of our lives; a surprise was in store for us.
“Is he my Mathematics teacher?” I was staring at a thin man who had disappeared into a long corridor which ran along several of the classrooms.. ” Let us hurry before he vanishes.”
The Infinity Corridor
Compared to our relaxed exploration of the previous hour, we were on hot pursuit now. Excitement mounted as we rushed into the main school building.
There he was, seated in a small office next to the staircase. A wooden board at the door read: “Vice Principal”.
I peeped inside. Yes, he was indeed our dear Mr. Raj. “Sir! I am Jugaal, your old student.” My voice resounded into his quiet office with unseemly excitement. Nutan stood witness to a unique spectacle.
Moment of moments… our eyes met. The scene ahead melted beyond my wet eyes. Raj Sir looked over the top of his reading glasses. Complete surprise preceded his familiar rollicking laughter.
“I can’t believe this. And who is this beautiful lady with you?”
“My wife, Nutan.” I collapsed in the chair in front of his desk. We laughed and laughed, and talked and talked, almost nonstop.
Finally, Raj Sir turned towards my wife.
“Are you from Patna?”
” Yes, I am a Patnaite. I was born and brought up in this city,” Nutan replied.
“Do you work somewhere?” Raj Sir was curious about the lady in focus.
“I teach Maths in Don Bosco’s. I returned to Patna last year when Jugal went to Govindpur, some God forsaken place near Dhanbad, to complete his rural posting in his bank. But I am leaving now. We are moving to Bangalore.”
What followed was vintage Mr. Raj in a sing-and-dance outburst.
“What a surprise! This day is turning our to be an unusual one. So you are the famous Nutan Prasad of Don Bosco. Your Vice Principal, Ms. Thangma, never tires talking about you. You are a celebrity in your school.” Raj Sir’s joy in meeting Nutan was immense.
“Celebrity for her beauty, not her brains.” My unwonted comment resulted in two contrasting emotions. Nutan glare was menacing; Raj Sir’s thin frame rocked with laughter.
Lively conversation followed between the two math teachers. When my presence got noticed again, Raj Sir asked my wife, “How come you married this bloke?” Our reunion after two decades could not have been more boisterous, with an unexpected twist, the presence of my wife, thrown in.
At last silence descended over the threesome. Like all ephemeral experiences, our meeting had to see a closure.
It was dark when Raj Sir walked us to our car. We sped through the school gates carrying with us unforgettable memories of our visit.
When Raj Sir retired in 2005, his entire family was living abroad. But he refused to leave Patna. “This city has given me so much. There is no other place which can give me more happiness.” He confessed to one of his students. He became an education consultant, mentoring other teachers in the city schools.
Alas, the end did not come in the city he had made his home fifty years back. Anna passed away in his place of birth, Madurai, in the wee hours of 15th May 2019. But he has left behind a rich legacy. His passion for teaching and his optimism has become part of our school’s folklore.
The dear teacher’s life and passing reminds me of the saying:
“When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come to pass: Death has been swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” Corinthians 15:55-57
(Postscript Raj sir’s life is worth celebrating. I cannot leave this post on a sad note. Let me share this beautiful song, one of my favorites from school days:
