This Kashmiri Teacher Carries A Classroom In His Bag

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
This is an AI generated image. Photo used for representational purposes only

By Muntashir Kifayat Hussain

I was recently on an academic visit to a small government primary school nestled in the hills of Budgam, my home district in Kashmir. It was meant to be a routine inspection, a check on foundational literacy and numeracy. I came in with a notebook, some questions, and, admittedly, a few assumptions. I left with something far deeper.

The first thing I noticed was an elderly teacher with a white beard, sitting comfortably on the floor with a group of tiny children. One leg stretched out, he looked like just another mystic figure in a meditative place.

I started asking the children questions about letters, numbers, shapes. To my surprise, they answered everything quickly and correctly.

Delighted, I looked at the teacher, half-expecting a modest smile. Instead, he burst out joyfully,“It is we who taught them!” That small“we” said everything.

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As we talked, a small child ran up to him shouting something in broken Urdu.“Shar... shar... shirt ka button gir gaya!” The button of my shirt fell off. The words were rushed, childlike, adorable.

Without missing a beat, the teacher reached into a small bag slung over his shoulder, pulled out a needle and thread, and calmly stitched the button back on. No scolding. No fuss. Just quiet care.

I started noticing that bag more. We strolled through the school lawn: lush green, with a hill rising nearby. The teacher limped slightly. He told me he had gout, but brushed it off.

A boy, no more than four, had fallen on the grass and his face was dusty and streaked with tears. Again, the teacher hurried over. He didn't just wipe the child's face. He picked him up, carried him to the washroom, took out soap from that same handy bag, and gave him a bath. Clean clothes, gentle hands, no drama.

I realised then that I wasn't here just to monitor, I was here to learn.

The school had about 15 children in its pre-primary classes: nursery, LKG, UKG. When the lunch bell rang-than, than, than-they ran outside in a flurry and sat in a half-moon formation on the soft grass.

The teacher rolled up his sleeves and started feeding them, one by one, with his hands.“Me first, me first!” they giggled and shouted, falling over each other in excitement. He smiled, feeding them patiently, lovingly. It was like watching poetry in motion.

I wondered how, in this tiny building with peeling paint and no fancy resources, the children looked so loved and happy. And then I saw why.

Just as we were settling for our own lunch, we heard a loud cry. The teacher rushed out, bag still on his arm, and I followed. A child had scraped his elbow on the fence. The teacher unzipped the bag and pulled out antiseptic, gently applying it as the child sobbed into his shoulder.

That bag, it wasn't just a bag. It was a toolkit of compassion.

Inside the school building, the walls were painted in bright colours with drawings and lessons on morals and discipline. Curious, I asked him how it was all funded. He looked at me as if the answer was obvious.“From my salary,” he said.“I earn Rs 70,000. I can spare Rs 10,000.”

Later, in a corner of the lawn, I noticed a small tin shed, just six by eight feet. Inside were carefully arranged Kashmiri cultural artefacts: woven baskets, miniature samovars, old musical instruments.“I collected these from nearby villages,” the teacher said.“Children should know where they come from.”

Even the corridor walls had portraits of great personalities, each one with a short biography in simple words. He believed in teaching values, not just syllabi.

I didn't want to leave. But the final bell rang-than, than, than-and the children began to leave, one by one. Each one hugged him before stepping out of the gate. He kissed their foreheads, whispering something to each of them. Not one wanted to let go.

The bag was still there, hanging from his arm. Ready for the next bruise, the next broken button, the next tear.

As I left the school, the words of Khalil Gibran came to mind: Your children are not your children... they are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

I had walked into that school thinking I was the educator. But it was that white-bearded teacher with a limp, a gentle smile, and a small handy bag, who truly taught me what it means to teach.

• Muntashir Kifayat Hussain is a teacher at Boys High School, Narbal.

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