We use gifts and donations to express our affection or to reciprocate a good turn. These gifts have the ability to always move us when we see them or recall the moment they were given. At a time when the teacher was a traditional guru and the place of learning a gurukula, the practices of making offerings to and honouring the guru were prevalent. Today, even though that system of learning is extinct, the customs of paying one’s respects and making offerings to a teacher have not yet died out. After all, no traditional practice disappears overnight; its half-life continues for a long time.
The respect my students show me is limitless. There are a few who get up even when they talk to me over the phone, not to mention those who refuse to sit in my presence. Although I disapprove of such behaviour, I have been unable to put an end to it. Similarly, despite all my strictures, I have been unable to stop my students from buying or bringing me gifts whenever they call on me. One of my students, Kathirvel, lives with his widowed mother, who sells vegetables. Whenever I pass by his house, I take a moment to talk to him and his mother. His mother never lets me leave the place empty-handed. She will be at peace only if she gives me at least a bunch of coriander leaves wrapped in a bag. Although I receive a salary from the government to teach her son, she feels impelled to offer me something for her part.
Back in my school days, we would vie with one another to gift our teachers the seasonal produce at home – groundnut, bottle gourd, pumpkin, green chilli, ice apple, palm fruit, palmyra sprout, clear limewater and colostrum. Teachers, however, did not take all those gifts home. There have been times when the supply of fresh groundnuts from us made its way to the old lady at the school kitchen to be boiled and served to all students with our school lunch. Such things have become a rarity in our times when everything around us is commodified for profit, yet there is no better way, after all, to express our love.
One afternoon, Ramachandran – a research scholar under my supervision – dropped in at my place. In his hand was a bag full of vegetables right from coconut to tomatoes. He had just got married and I assumed he was simply playing the responsible householder by running domestic errands, but then he proffered the bag to me. “Soon as I got off the bus, I saw the greengrocer’s, sir, and I thought these might be of use to you at home.” Despite all my protestations, he left the bag behind at my place. I understood how much his marriage had turned him pragmatic. It is an offering I can never forget.
One night when I was all alone at home, I went out to eat at a little joint nearby that I visit on and off. Sometimes, I used to get food for my family there as a takeaway. The main reason I liked the place was that the family running the business ate their own meals there. As soon as I walked in, one of the patrons stood up and I thought he was moving out as his meal was done – but he saluted me with his greasy hands! I figured out he must be one of my former students, yet I could not recall in which class or year he had studied. I inquired and learnt he had studied English literature but dropped out during his second year since he got a job offer as a teacher in a government school. He had previously completed a teacher training course.
It seems I had taught him foundation Tamil during his first two years of college. I could place this student once he named a few of his classmates – he was Padmanabhan. When I asked him about his work, he volunteered, “I teach them writing just the way you told us, sir.” Now I had no idea what method he was talking about. I say many things in passing during my classes, but I may not remember them later. However, my words sometimes make an indelible impression in my students’ minds. Apparently, I had told their class on some occasion when we were discussing good handwriting, “If you observe those who write a neat hand, they invariably inscribe every letter completely. When you teach children even in their primary school to trace out the full form of every letter, their handwriting automatically becomes beautiful.”
He recalled how I neatly drew the shape of every letter on the blackboard to make my point. Following my tip, he teaches his students to practise writing each letter minding its shape. Teachers’ words, after all, are seeds scattered all over, and nobody can tell where they might sprout. I asked after his family before wishing him, “Enjoy your work! It’s hard teaching little kids, but the joy it brings is worth it all.” By the time I finished my meal, he had already eaten and left. When I tried to settle my bill, I discovered that he had already paid mine too. He had not given me a hint that he was going to, perhaps fearing I might object. A fine gesture of offering, just like his neat handwriting.
Most students in a government college do not rely on their families for money to meet their needs since their families simply cannot afford it. Consequently, they find part-time work to earn money, much of which then goes to supporting their families. Unfortunately, this arrangement makes their paid work their prime concern, while studies take a back seat. Once they get a taste of money, they are no longer invested in learning. So, I always caution my students, “Earn just as much as you need. Only then will you be focused on your studies. You’ll land a good job if you study well. Don’t be satisfied with what you’re doing right now.” Those who have taken my advice seriously have lived up to my expectations.
One night, I went to a restaurant famous for its chicken to buy a takeaway since my children wanted to have naan and chicken for dinner. I saw Ramachandran, my student from the second year of BSc botany, working there. A sweet-natured student from Dharmapuri, he was studying in Namakkal as he worked part-time. His circle of friends was huge, mostly comprising girls; in fact, he knew female students from every department in the college.
I usually joined his classmates in teasing him. “Whenever the college office needs details about the girl students – how many girls study here, where are they from and so on – they come directly to our Ramachandran,” I once quipped. That joke spread like wildfire, but Ramachandran remained unfazed. He countered, “Yes. Let them come to me for any details they need.”
One time as I was walking to his class, I noticed Ramachandran surrounded by girls from the commerce department. Seeing me head to the class, he hurried after me. I quietly welcomed him saying, “Come in, Ramakrishna!” He was quick to correct me, “Have you forgotten my name so soon, sir? I’m Ramachandran.” “Wherever I turn in this college, I see Ramachandran there. They might have as well named you Ramakrishnan. In fact, that’s what I’m going to call you from now on.” For a while, everyone addressed him by this new name, but Ramachandran was not bothered. He bowled me a googly saying, “Our names always belie our true nature, sir. Now, you’re called Murugan. Does it mean you’ve got two wives like the god?”
It was the same Ramachandran I ran into at the restaurant. Despite the throng of customers, he quickly attended to my order. When we unpacked the food parcels at home, my daughter, who emptied the chicken gravy into a large vessel, asked me, “Appa, how come the gravy has so much chicken today?” and my son joined in, “There’s an extra naan in here, Appa.” There it was – Ramachandran’s offerings to his teacher.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Offerings to a Guru’ in Students Etched In Memory, Perumal Murugan, translated from the Tamil by V Iswarya, Penguin India.
