| Jawhar Sircar |
which was equivalent to Class X, in the Humanities Section, with an
enviable track record of standing last or second last in every class
from VI onward. The crowning glory was my failure to pass Class VIII,
followed by my close shaves in my second year in the same class as
well as in the next class, when I studied Science in the ‘Higher
Secondary’ stream. Till date, I have never been able to figure out how
I landed up in the ‘Senior Cambridge’ group in Class X, after my
abysmally-poor performance in Class IX of the ‘Higher Secondary’
group. The other feathers in my cap were the several warnings
received for ‘poor conduct’, mischief and misbehaviour. In other
words, I was an ideal bad student when I joined, not without
trepidation, the first day in my new class.
Everything was strange: the room, the boys, the subjects –
no physics, chemistry or maths, only silly subjects like history,
geography and literature. But the strangest was the class teacher,
Father P.Y. Gilson. I had seen this strange padre in the corridors and
had always wondered how this placid Belgian missionary, with such a
peculiar accent and without any noticeable chin, survived the heat of
India and the turmoil of unruly boys. I would like to flatter myself into
believing that he had heard of me as the quintessential problem child.
Even if he did, he seemed to take no notice of it in spite of my
fight with an overgrown Parsi boy right on the first day and its
evidence so prominent all over my dress. He asked me to move up to
the first bench, which was outrageous. And he proceeded straight into
the lessons, little realising that I could hardly understand anything, as
I had not studied the basics of these subjects in Class IX. Be that as it
may, I was unconsciously drawn into the stories(which child can resist
a good story?) that this Father seemed to weave with his magical
voice.
His narrative was so life-like that I listened spell-bound, and gently
stepped on a magic carpet which carried me over fantasy-lands. His
quips had a rare touch of Gallic humour and, for the first time in my
life, I was not bored in the class-room. When the period ended, I
could not believe myself I had actually enjoyed literature!
More wonders were to follow as more stories came out of this
magician's hat and very soon, I actually started looking forward to his
classes. Perhaps the greatest transformation that Fr. Gilson induced in
me was not only a friendly attitude to his subjects but towards studies
per se. And that was only the beginning. As class teacher, he was in
overall charge of my scholastic welfare. Between classes and after
classes, he would encourage me to meet him for extra lessons to
make up for the whole year's study that I had missed at the class IX
stage. The special care that he seemed to heap upon me had a
soothing influence not only upon my attitude to studies, but to the
world at large. No more was it a hostile jungle where only bookworms
studied and sissies came first in class.
But, my reverie was soon shattered by the reality of the class
tests. The dread and horror with which I had viewed this ‘Inquisition’
was reinforced by the sinking feeling that I was condemned to stand
last in this class as well, in spite of my brief flirtation with academics.
“English Essay” was the first test and I distinctly remember the
choking voice with which I told Fr. Gilson that I had never scored well
and that I was always at a loss with words. His encouragement could
hardly stop the streams of sweat that flowed endlessly during the exam,
as I groped for the right expression and the appropriate word.
But when the results came out you could have knocked me
down with a feather. I had stood fourth in class! My parents were
overjoyed, my friends pinched me but nobody realised what it did to
my confidence. The next surprise was a ‘first’ in Arithmetic. Coming
from the Science stream to Humanities it was not so difficult to score
and I had learnt to dream. History, Geography and others followed,
but there was no way I could stop this new-found excitement of
‘topping’.
The rest was just crazy – success followed success, of course
with a lot of toil under the constant guidance of Father, dear Father. A
few months later, we learnt that Fr. Gilson was to leave for another
school and in a day or two he just left! I wept openly. Nobody had
ever treated me like this before. Nobody else could turn around a sad
case like mine into a fairy-tale. And thanks to him, I am where I am
today: no doubt about that.
Many years later, I was posted as Additional District Magistrate
of Asansol and Durgapur in the Burdwan district of West Bengal. I was
overjoyed to hear from a friend that Fr. Gilson was the Headmaster of
St. Xavier's, Durgapur. I sought for an immediate appointment. How
could I tell him all that I wanted to say? Here was the teacher who
had turned my life around. After so many years, would he recognize
me? He was the man I had referred to in all my Teachers’ Day
speeches in all the stations where I had served as a Magistrate, at the
dozens of school-committees on which I served as President, ex officio.
I could hardly wait.
The day finally arrived. A strange feeling of nostalgia
overpowered me, as my official car drove into the school with red
lights, policemen and other unavoidable trappings of authority. I was
ushered in from the staircase and as I walked into Father's room a
familiar scent greeted me. He was not there, for he had to take a class
as some teacher was absent. But he came in soon and shook my
hands warmly. "I am proud of you", he said. He was just the same, a
trifle older. But, I was transformed, from a picture of confidence to a
quivering, nervous ‘student’ groping for words. Even before I could
frame my gratitude into proper sentences, the bell rang and Fr. Gilson
sprang up from his chair exclaiming: “Oh my God, there's another
class to attend. And the little boys are waiting. Naughty, you know,
like you were. I must go. God bless you, my son. Do well. But I must
leave.”
The good Jesuit had no time for my praises and my ever-lasting
gratitude. He had others to tend to, to improve, to reform.
******
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