Though my memory often fails me these days, I remember exactly how I felt on the first day of Grade V. Our section of 40-something students was seated anxiously that morning, waiting for our new homeroom teacher to walk in. Who would it be this year? Traditionally, the homeroom teacher changed every two years. In Grade III and IV, we had the great fortune of having Pooja aunty (primary school encouraged us to call teachers “aunty” to keep it informal), as our homeroom and English teacher. She was delightful in every way — so funny, charming, and warm that she was an immediate magnet for most students. That year, somehow, the stars aligned, and in walked Pooja aunty, who we’d just said a tearful goodbye to a few weeks ago. We were getting a bonus year with her. The class erupted in cheer. Rarely a front-bencher, I ensured my chair was as close to her table as possible because I didn’t want to miss the chance to help carry notebooks to the staffroom or be of any other assistance. Till the time I passed out of school, Pooja aunty never failed to greet me and hundreds of her other former students with the kind of warmth that made us feel as if we were all her favourites.
Decades later, I happened to meet her daughter-in-law at a party. When I gushed about how exceptional a teacher she was, she nodded knowingly, telling me how frequently they ran into her former students in Delhi, who would all squeal when they bumped into her.
I know the feeling because my mother is one of those teachers who most students don’t ever forget. My phone pinged with a lovely set of photographs the other evening on my family WhatsApp group. There my mother was, positively glowing, flanked by two bright, shiny faces. They were her former students from many moons ago. One of them was getting married and wanted my mother there. I’m used to my mother being tracked down by her former students from across the world. When my sister and I were children, our landline would ring almost every evening with one or the other student asking to speak with her. In my misplaced teen angst, I would often get irritated. “Why are they calling you at home, Mumma?” I would complain. What I really meant was this: This is our space with you, not theirs. But no matter how many times they called, my mother never seemed annoyed. I realised that those students, who were differently-abled, called her because they considered her their safe space: Encouraging, affectionate, and unfailingly cheerful, letting them be themselves. I watched how easily it came to her to be that kind of a person to them. She was a natural. But teachers like Pooja aunty and my mother were a rare breed during my school years in the ’90s. When they were kind, it felt exceptional, “out of syllabus”, even, and their ability to connect deeply made them almost legendary.
I was reminded of the imprint exceptional teachers leave on students when I came across the work of Mohanlal Suman recently. A social science teacher at Composite Government School in the village of Rajapur in Uttar Pradesh, he has invented an AI-powered teacher, “Suman Madam”, who is a humanoid, ready to answer any question thrown her way. Since she joined the faculty, attendance has shot up to 95 per cent from 60 per cent. When I called Mr Suman to find out more about his unique invention, he told me he wanted to use his knack for low-cost inventions to infuse fun into learning, and make the classroom a place children would want to return to every day. So he spent Rs 3,000 from his own pocket to construct a simple wooden frame held together with joints and bolts, a dummy head with eyes and mouth operated by a motor system, and sound powered by a mobile phone connected to ChatGPT or Google Assistant. The students have made Suman Madam their own, dressing her up in a new sari every day. But what made this story remarkable for me isn’t Suman Madam herself, but the fact that one teacher went the extra mile to create something extraordinary for a school with few resources.
I often think about the changing role teachers play today, especially as I interact frequently with a new generation of them through my son’s school. Here, qualities like kindness and compassion are par for the course, almost as important as imparting the curriculum well. Where there are gaps, there’s an effort to fill them. As pedagogy evolves and schools like his strive to become a safe space, teachers aren’t just teachers — they are part therapist, part guide, part storyteller, part friend, part truth-sayer. There is more expected of them than ever before, and so many of them go far beyond.
In eight years of formal schooling, my son has had more favourite teachers than we can count. They may have only been with him for a year or two, some have left the city, but most have left a meaningful imprint, and we often remember them fondly in our conversations: The One who livened up online classes with witty one liners during the pandemic; The One who relied on him for book recommendations for her son; The One who was a gentle but firm guide; The One who listened; The One who was like a funny friend; The One who made Math fun; The One who made him believe he was good at something he considered his weakness; The One who asked thoughtful questions; The One who encouraged critical inquiries.
From my own generation to my son’s, the more I watch him form deep connections with his teachers, getting to know them as people, not just as instructors, the more I believe that one of the most precious lessons of school is how we remember our teachers, and how we imagine they remember us. A few faces from the first two decades of my life float into my mind and make me smile. For my son, it is already a photo album full of them.
Bhatt is a Delhi-based independent writer and author
