The Maths Teacher I never knew

The tall, thin and shy young man seated at the dining-cum-study table had the thick spectacles and genteel demeanour of an earnest khadi-clad socialist; he looked briefly up at me – then a little boy of ten – and went back to the Maths text book in front of him, while my brother, who was studying for his IIT entrance exams with the assiduity he normally reserved for his tennis, concentrated on the entirely unfathomable heavy book in front.  

The young man was good at his subject, of this there was no doubt; indeed, if anything was his world, it was the arcane planet of formulae and he had a good Brahmin’s brain to negotiate the treacherous pits that math sums (as problems were then called) hid in your path.  

My parents were delighted at having him teach my brother maths, of course, and my mother, as moms are prone to do, alternated between praying for the IIT seat and praising the maths teacher every day, though she hadn’t the faintest clue to what was being taught (she would, however, announce to the world that Calculus was not for the faint-hearted).  For in Digboi, the World’s finest little town, nestled amidst the tea bushes of Margherita and the oil fields-and-forests that stretched to Burma, a maths teacher of his competence was quite a dream come true; possibly, the only thing that might have bettered this would have been an invitation from IIT on a bone-china plate with a lemongrass, rosemary-and-thyme dressing (but, of course, one must be realistic, particularly about the lemongrass, rosemary-and-thyme dressing). 

Purkayastha did not set out to be a professional teacher; he was studying Chartered Accountancy and had a modest job in the Finance Department at Assam Oil, where Dad was the head of Internal Audit.  He looked up to Dad and had volunteered to teach my brother maths, when Dad had passed the question around.  And, so, that was that.

When my brother got into IIT, I saw Purkayastha for the second time (I was banished from the dining room when he normally came in to teach, as ten-year olds are deemed a nuisance to society in general and to older brothers in particular).  Purki (the name that stuck with him for life) had a broad smile on his face, and his quiet tone conveyed satisfaction.  And, one can only speculate that this early success was a deciding factor in his decision to become a high-school maths teacher at Carmel Convent, the local ISCE institution.

He never taught me: a couple of years later, we left Digboi for good just after I had finished my sixth standard. Family friends who visited us in Bangalore said that, while he had left his finance job at Assam Oil, he hadn’t quite left finance; his goal to become a Chartered Accountant had only been strengthened, and he prepared twice a year;  CA exams, I will add, may be termed the most arduous of all punishments invented in the Twentieth Century. 

Occasional reports informed us that he hadn’t yet cleared CA, though he came close, even as his reputation as a Maths whiz began to grow and  everyone spoke of him with a touch of awe.  And then, the odd report from Digboi stopped coming and I assumed that Purki had probably moved out of the town, possibly to Calcutta or elsewhere. 

In 2012, I went back to Digboi, thirty five years after I had left it and met with my old – and among my dearest – friends, Rajiv.  We had much catching up to do (and some ribbing, for the water that had flowed under the bridge over the years had taken a lot of our hair as well) and then, the conversation inevitably moved to our teachers.  When Rajiv spoke about Purki, his normally-genial expression underwent a change and he turned grim and forthright.  For Purki, he said, had been a terror, a monster of sorts, for my old classmates when they reached their tenth standard and had remained one ever since.  He would set problems in tests that were harder than the hardest and was harsh and relentless in his assessment; often, only one student – Vineet, acknowledged now to be quite a genius – consistently met his grade.  For the others, there would be vitriol, scathing sarcasm and nasty predictions of failure and it seemed that many in the class were deeply emotionally impacted by what was said and, more, by who said it (a maths teacher is a touch below God in the Hindu pantheon).  A few years of personal failure – that damn CA exam -  seemed to morph this genial, shy, young fellow into a dark, embittered man.  Rajiv ended his possibly justified tirade with a mild warning – he has retired from the school and is still somewhere in Digboi, he said, but meet him at your own risk. 

I decided at that moment to meet Purkayastha.  It was an impulsive thought, of course, and strange, for I had seen him just a couple of times, had smiled at him once thirty five years ago, had never been taught by him and knew nothing about him.  A silly decision?  Perhaps.  Or perhaps, I believed that a word of appreciation on my brother’s behalf would make a retired teacher’s day come alive.

 Events conspired interestingly.  I met a lady with the same surname as his, asked if she knew him and, voila!, I had his number.  When I called the next day, the voice was non-commital and hesitant; he would be ok to meet me, he said.  Walking up to the busy market area of Charali, I sipped a cup of tea at a ramshackle little hotel and then strolled down a nondescript street asking passers-by for the way to Purki’s home.  It wasn’t easy to find and I lost my way a bit but, when I did get there, the tiny little house on a narrow by-lane presented itself.  I stood for a moment to contemplate if I was indeed nuts to do this and then rang the bell.

This was the second time I had met Purki and, of course, he had changed; he had put on more weight and had a heavy chin, but, above all else, I saw a tired and unhappy man.  After we had sat down and exchanged small talk, I spoke of my father, whom he remembered well, and passed on the compliment I had come to deliver.  

It was as though I had opened up a tap of turbid – and complex - emotions.  Purki began to ramble, with more than a trace of dejection, his rant reserved for Carmel School that had been his life but had in the end treated him badly, even as he recalled some of his students fondly while being indifferent to others.  He spoke of his integrity as a maths teacher, of how he had hardly ever missed a day of school in decades of teaching, and of being isolated by other teachers and of the hurt caused by this loneliness.    He spoke of his frustration with the CA exam, the abandoning of which had sealed further opportunity.  And, he spoke of his son, a bright student he said, but languishing in the Government College as there was no money to pay for private education.  

I listened. 

Isn’t it true that beneath many exteriors - many sustained exhibitions of hubris, derision, harshness and criticism – there is a great sadness?  Anger masks sadness and nostalgia enlivens it. And for many who do not see a different tomorrow, this sadness offers the meaning they once were seeking.  

After a while, the conversation, as it unwound, began to seem forced and it was time to say goodbye.  He asked for help for his son and I promised, leaving my number behind, but knowing that he probably would not call. 

As my palms came together and I said Namaste, I knew that we would not meet again.  Some meetings are meant to be this way.