MEMORY ROOM
I
no longer remember the name
of the very first teacher I fell in love
with. I remember the classroom:
It was a large dark room, which,
despite the class teacher’s valiant
attempts—she plastered the walls
with our (frankly, appalling) artwork—
remained gloomy in all seasons,
redeemed only by its proximity to the
gardens and the bathrooms.
Our regular class teacher, Mrs Singh,
was a statuesque lady in a starched sari
and neat bun—practical and measured
in her affections, much like our mothers.On a rain-washed morning after we
had finished mangling ‘The Lord’s
Prayer’—“for wine is the kingdom / the
power and the lorry”—she introduced
the new teacher to us. She was, in many
ways, Mrs Singh’s polar opposite: slim,
long-haired and young ... so young. She
was pursuing her Bachelor of Education
from a Calcutta college and would
spend six months teaching us in order
to earn her degree.
I understand all this now, familiar as I
am today with the manual of adulthood.
At the time we—40 kids aged betweenBy Devapriya Roy114 september 2019
Illustration by Priya KuriyanA tribute to that special bond between
students and their favourite teachers
WHEN
NEW MISS
CAME TO TEACH US