Both Sides of the Desk: A Tale of Gratitude | Thursday Tale No. 9

We often see teaching as the act of imparting knowledge, and so we call it a “calling.” But in truth, teaching is a learning, a quiet and steadfast journey that shapes both the giver and the receiver of knowledge, until at times it becomes hard to tell who is who. Every class, every question, every hesitant answer becomes a gentle conversation between experience and innocence, wisdom and wonder. 

  Both Sides of the Desk is a reflection on this shared journey, on how standing before a class can awaken the memories of once sitting among them, and on how the lessons we give often return to us in unexpected, tender ways. It is a reminder that learning never truly ends; it simply changes desks.

Both Sides of the Desk

Photo by Mathias Reding on Pexels. 

  Janani returned to her desk with an armful of cards, chocolates, bouquets, roses, and a stack of neatly wrapped gifts. Unable to handle the width of the disintegrating pile, she dropped them on her desk, watching a few pens and roses scatter down onto the floor. She picked them all up, placed them on the desk, adjusted the seams and pleats of her saree, and sat on the wooden chair. 

  She looked at her desk, her PC, and the pile of books waiting for correction, and a compact stationery kit sitting as neat as new. She remembered how she had sat there in awe on her first day there, knowing she had reached where she had always envisioned herself to be. She remembered the sole of her footwear tap to the rhythm of her gait as she walked around the corridor. She remembered walking past the rays of golden dust following the track of the morning sun rays, and how they engulfed her in a warm embrace. She remembered how the breeze had caressed her cascading long locks. She remembered the pride that came with taking up such a responsibility, and walking on the same path as all her role models, and being acknowledged in that role by the enthusiastic “Good morning, miss,” of passing students.  

  “I bet you, ninety percent of those gifts are pens and chocolates.”

  “Yeah,” giggled Janani. “This is the perk of being a teacher! I haven’t bought a pen from a store in years.”

  “Being a teacher is nothing less than being a celebrity!”

  “I know. It is cute, isn’t it? They revere you. All you have to do is be kind, understanding, and considerate of their learning needs.”

  “True. If not for the twinkle in these tot’s eyes, I would have run away long back from the stress and unattainable expectations that the administration puts us through.”

  “I couldn't agree less!”

  Janani began arranging the presents, when she came across a pink pen.

  “Look at this one, it is half used. Tia gave it to me. She saw others giving me gifts, and gave me hers. Kids are cute, aren’t they?” 

  “Aww…! They sure are!” 

  “Look, one of my students gave me the butterfly greeting card. This girl has unbelievable artistic skills.”

  “My, my! It doesn't look like it was made by a seven-year-old. Look at the precision. You should encourage her to participate in the upcoming events.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen to this one: ‘Dear Ms. Janani, You are the bestest teacher in the world. You are very beautiful, very kind, and very good. Thank you very much. Happy teacher's day.’ Isn't it heart-melting?” read Janani.  

  “Aww…it's adorable to know how they find us to be the best ‘in the world’.”

  Janani had received around 12 greeting cards — mostly hand-made, and some store-bought — 7 roses, 2 bouquets, and 16 pens, and a bunch of chocolates. She then began unwrapping the gifts that were neatly wound in colourful glitter wrappers; there were about eight of those, each of different shapes and sizes. Just with their appearance she could roughly guess which ones were boxed pens. So she opened them first. Next, she went on to unwrap a blue diary with beautiful white mandala art on its cover page. She vaguely remembered using a sentence, the example of the colour blue while helping them write an essay on their favourite colour. She chuckled at how students connected things and derived meaning. Then, she unwrapped two perfume bottles, one that smelt almost identical to the one she usually wears. She was amused by the observant eyes that watched her from top to toe, everyday, every moment, minute of her time in the school. After that, she opened up a cute little orange purse. With each gift that she picked, she remembered all the students from past years — Manasvi, Riya, Samarth, Robert, Tanisha — and their mischief and innocence. She remembered herself as a student, and how she worshipped her teachers, and how she always made handmade gifts like bookmarks, keychains, and greeting cards for her teachers. She remembered Ms. Lilet who suggested Janani to submit her poem to the Anne Frank writing contest; Ms. Gomes, her English teacher from grade 9, who made everyone in her class feel heard, seen and understood. She felt her heart warm at the thought that the feelings of a student for a teacher, and of the teacher for their student was not too different in either kind or intensity. 

  Finally, she unwrapped the biggest present in the lot, and something she had saved for last. It was a large rectangular box, probably a chocolate box, given by Anisha, a brilliant student from a humble family. She had saved it the best for the last, because she was fond of chocolates, and it was Monday noon — good time to let the sugar rush energize her.  As she was peeling off the wrapper, she realised that it was probably an expensive kind. When the box was completely revealed, she understood that it was an imitation of the expensive version. Still, it was chocolate, her favourite, and on a Monday afternoon. So she opened it with excitement, offered one to Ms. Olivia, her cabin mate, and picked one for herself. Janani had an absurd habit of unwrapping things without damaging the wrapper, so she gently opened the chocolate and was about to take a bite, when Ms. Olivia said, “Shee! Don't eat it, it's not good. It's artificial chocolate, its grease sticks to my mouth’s upper ridge.”

  Janani paused mid way. She had a distaste for such chocolates, and the odd sensation that arose when grease stuck to her alveolar ridge. She quickly picked up the box and turned it upside down to look for the price.

  ₹199. 

  She remembered Anisha, her sincere regard for studies, her shrugged form, her pale skin, the faded ribbons of her plaits, and the way she pulled at her tucked shirt when she spoke with her teachers. She remembered her father who was just a male carbon copy of her — a lean, moderately short man, wearing an untucked checked shirt, his pants rolled up, his worn out slippers, and calloused feet. She remembered their meek looks, and their shy smile when they spoke with her, with a kind of admiration which was difficult to put down in words. She knew it came from a place of gratitude for the tiny extra efforts she took in buying Anisha books for that semester, and for making her feel included in classroom activities in which her parents could not entirely contribute to. 

  From whatever Janani knew of Anisha and her family, she could imagine how Anisha and her father would have stood at the shop, scanning through the display of chocolates. She could imagine how Anisha would have pointed out to this huge box, and how her father would have willingly, despite his means, paid for the chocolate. How, just in case he had run out of a few rupees, Anisha would have dug into her recent savings, which she had maintained in the untorn section of her pouch for the forthcoming picnic, and given him a ten or twenty-rupees note. 

  She remembered how she had drained her tiny savings to buy Ms. Gomes a tote bag, because her hands always overflowed with her teaching supply. She smiled at the devotion and tossed the chocolate into her mouth. 

  “You are still eating it?”

  “Yeah!” Janani replied, “I remembered myself as a student, I remembered Raj, I remembered all the heart and effort that goes behind each of these gifts.” 

- Mercy Rebonica