It was 2017. I had just been admitted to my dream school, in class three. It was some date in early March. Our school hosted the SSC exam center, so February was always a holiday. January had passed with various formalities and fests. The school was completely new to me. Huuuge classrooms, colorful teachers, familiar and unfamiliar classmates. That day was the first class after a long break. We were taken to a new building and seated. Two sections together, and two teachers entered the class. Together. I knew one of them. Faraz (pseudonym) Sir. He was my section’s class teacher. I’d seen him during the one or two days of class in January. The other one I didn’t know. That stranger teacher immediately began speaking in an unfamiliar accent, “Section D students, roll call will begin now! Be attentive!” His words sounded foreign to everyone in my section. That’s why we all sat up ‘alert.’ Their roll call was going on. They sat on the left side of the classroom. We were on the right. Like a little kitten staring with unblinking eyes, observing everything, that’s exactly how I was watching everything. All of us were. The classroom, lights, fans, teachers, classmates — everything. Their roll call ended. So did ours.
Then the stranger said, “Now students, write a paragraph describing how you have spent your vacation.” Hearing this, many of us kittens just stared at the teacher’s face. We understood nothing. He translated into Bengali this time.
I started writing. Until then, I’d only ever written paragraphs about the national flag and a cow. Paragraphs about vacations too? The thing felt new.
“The time’s now over!” said the stranger. We kittens hadn’t yet learned to be disobedient. We immediately stopped writing. “D-zero-nine! Read aloud what you have written!” The boy with roll number nine from section D stood up. Understood nothing, just stared at the teacher. After the teacher spoke in Bengali, the boy understood the responsibility bestowed upon him. He started reading his paragraph. Then another. Then another. There was no smile on the stranger’s face. He was catching one mistake after another.
“Anyone willing to voluntarily share their story?” he asked. My reflexes kicked in. I raised my hand. “Go on,” said the stranger.
What’s in my story? Visiting grandma’s house during vacation? Drinking date palm juice? Playing badminton? Going to the station with dad and hopping on some random train to a random destination? That’s it. Nothing much. I said just that. I saw a trace of a smile on the teacher’s pale face. “What is your name?” “Himel, sir.” “Himel! I’ll remember that name for life. You wrote beautifully.” That kitten at the tail end of childhood lived a very ordinary life. His scope was meager too. “Someone will remember the name of someone as small as me? For life? A teacher from my school at that? I’ve heard the teachers of this school are very distinguished people. Will I find a place in the mind of such a knowledgeable person?” — thought the kitten. After hearing “Sit down,” he sat down. His face was full of smiles.
(Eight years of school life are over. The teacher still remembers me today. That kitten may not have become a tiger, but has perhaps grown a little. Behind that growth, the guidance, discipline, and support received from that stranger throughout school life — all of it is undeniable.)