A teacher who was in a class of his own

PANDIT Sadhu Ram was one of my teachers at the Taleem-ul-Islam High School (later upgraded to senior secondary) in Qadian, Gurdaspur. He left an indelible impression on his students. Lanky and hatchet-faced, he had small but bright eyes, and tiny teeth like the pips of a custard apple. He sported a closely trimmed moustache and beard, and spoke in a husky voice. Pedalling from a village situated a few kilometres from our town, he always reached the school well in time. He taught mathematics, science and Urdu to primary and middle classes.

Sadhu Ram knew Urdu very well. He had done his schooling in the pre-Partition era when everyone — irrespective of caste, creed or religion — learnt Urdu. During my schooldays, the count of Muslim and non-Muslim teachers was almost the same at my alma mater. A couple of other teachers, Amar Singh and Mangal Singh, also took Urdu classes. There was no distinction on the basis of religion — the focus was on imparting quality education.

Sadhu Ram was diligent and painstaking, kind and considerate, loving and caring, efficient and encouraging. At times, he would amuse students with his funny talk.

He taught us science in Class III. In the half-yearly exams, there was a question: Pashu bachche kaise dete hain? (How do animals produce offspring?). I didn’t know the answer, so I left the space blank. Later, when the answer sheets were being distributed, Panditji asked me why I had not answered that question. I replied that I didn’t know the answer. He jokingly said: “Jab tumhari shaadi hogi tab pata chalega (You’ll understand after you get married).” The entire class burst into laughter.

After the morning assembly, he would take the roll call. One of my classmates was Abdul Quddoos. Panditji always called him ‘Qaudas’. Once, he told the teacher that his name was Quddoos, but our teacher persisted with his wrong pronunciation.

He taught us the inter-conversion of seconds, minutes and hours; days, months and years; and paise and rupees. He would punish homework defaulters with a thin and supple stick. Brandishing it in his right hand, he would target the student’s ankles with a light touch. While doing so, he would say: Chhatti vaari tuhanu eh numbri karayi ya, pher vi ohi haal eh (I’ve taught this exercise 36 times, still you don’t learn).

In Class VIII, he taught us Urdu for a couple of months, and thereafter, left the job. We all missed him very much.

Many years later, I visited him along with a couple of friends. He had grown old and senile. Wrapped up in a blanket, he was lying on a cot in the lawn in front of his house. Seeing us, he sat up. We told him our names. Peeping through his spectacles, he managed to recognise us. He was overwhelmed to meet his old students.

Later, I learned that Panditji had left for his heavenly abode. His “Chhatti vaari” refrain still rings in my mind.

Musings