Upur 9

 Chapter 9: The English Teacher

Teaching English in Kendriya Vidyalaya was an art possessed by only a handful of teachers. Unlike the Convent and Public schools, where speaking English was almost a culture and often treated as a status symbol, our school had a different atmosphere altogether. Most students came from ordinary middle-class or service backgrounds, and English was spoken fluently only by a few girls and some boys from defence families.

Spoken English and grammar were two completely different worlds. A student fluent in speaking was not necessarily good at grammar, and one who mastered grammar often struggled to speak confidently. Only a few among us were comfortable with both. For most students, English was merely another theoretical subject — something that could be passed with minimum effort unless one lacked even the basic foundation or had no educational support at home.

Much depended upon the seriousness with which the subject was taught. More importantly, it depended on the man standing before the blackboard.

Our first English teacher was Mr Pahariwal. He spoke English heavily influenced by Hindi pronunciation, and therefore we never truly experienced the charm of the language through him. Yet he maintained excellent discipline because of his strict punishments, which everyone feared. The class usually remained quiet during his periods. Homework was limited to written exercises, and life moved on comfortably under him. In simple words, his expectations from us were modest, and so were our efforts.

Then one day everything changed.

A lean, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties entered our classroom with a stiff-necked confidence and an intense personality. He walked straight to the dais, placed his books on the table, looked around the class, and spoke in a deep, commanding voice.

“Well students, I am Mr Rathore, your new English teacher. I will be taking your class from today onwards. I do not teach merely to earn my bread. I put my heart and soul into my work, and I expect the same seriousness from my students. Within a few days, you yourselves will realise what I mean.”

The class instantly fell silent.

“Before we begin,” he continued, “let us know each other better. Yes, bête, what is your name?”

And thus began the introductions. Each student stood up, spoke their name, and mentioned from which part of the town they travelled daily to school. Some replied in English, others in Hindi. Mr Rathore listened carefully to every answer, observing each student closely.

Even the girls, who otherwise chatted endlessly during classes, sat properly and answered with unusual seriousness.

After the introductions, he opened our English textbook, glanced through a few pages, and closed it again.

“I will teach grammar along with literature,” he announced. “Those weak in grammar will improve under me because I shall correct every mistake alongside the lessons. Tomorrow, all of you will bring a separate notebook for Tenses. Remember my words — it will help you not only in examinations but throughout your life.”

By then more than half the period had passed. For the remaining fifteen minutes he taught us The Face on the Wall by Ruskin Bond without once looking at the textbook. The class sat stunned. His narration was so vivid that it felt less like a lesson and more like a story unfolding before our eyes. Nobody whispered. Nobody moved.

When the bell rang, he swept out of the class as quickly as he had entered, like a gust of wind carrying unfinished business elsewhere.

For the rest of the day, he became the only topic of discussion.

Everyone sensed one thing clearly — this man meant business.

The next day almost every student arrived carrying a new notebook. Only a few careless ones still took him lightly. That day he began teaching “Tenses.”

He drew a beautiful grid on the blackboard — four columns and three rows — and systematically wrote down all forms of past, present, and future tenses with their variations. Then he took a simple sentence and transformed it into twelve different tense forms, making the entire concept astonishingly easy to understand.

Suddenly he stopped.

“All those who have not brought notebooks, stand up.”

The guilty students rose slowly in pin-drop silence.

“You do not have enough money to buy a notebook? If you cannot afford one, take the money from me and buy it.”

Then, without raising his voice further, he ordered them out of the class.

The message was loud and clear.

After he left, panic spread among the weaker students. They immediately began completing assignments, afraid of facing humiliation later. Soon clusters formed around the desks of intelligent girls. Nalini’s desk resembled a help centre. Sonia and Ansuyia too were surrounded by anxious classmates seeking help with grammar exercises.

The very next day, when Mr Rathore entered the class, every student rose and wished him respectfully.

“Sit down,” he said. “Today we shall study literature. First I will narrate the story, and later you may read it from the book. When I narrated this story in IX-A, many students actually cried.”

The class instantly leaned forward.

“The story is The Home Coming, about a boy named David Copperfield who longs desperately to return home after living far away from his family…”

And then he began.

His narration cast a spell upon the class. We listened as though watching a grand 70mm film. Nobody looked at their watches. Some rested their chins on their palms; others sat stiff-backed, eyes fixed upon him. Even the weakest students, usually indifferent to English, sat completely absorbed.

By the time the bell rang, we did not realise how forty minutes had vanished.

The next day, however, was grammar day — and grammar meant terror.

As Mr Rathore entered, nervous faces stiffened. Silence gripped the room.

He rubbed his hands together, smiled faintly, and asked, “So, shall we begin?”

The blackboard was already decorated with the topic “Tenses,” neatly written and underlined by the front-bench student. Mr Rathore drew his familiar grid and wrote:

“What will be its past tense?”

Hands shot up instantly. But Mr Rathore ignored the volunteers. His eyes searched instead for the fearful faces trying to avoid attention.

Finally his gaze stopped at Nalini.

“Yes, go on.”

“I had gone,” came her soft reply from the backbench.

“I could not hear you, bête. Louder.”

“Sir… I had gone.”

“Good.”

He deliberately chose Nalini because he knew she would answer correctly. It relaxed the class slightly and restored confidence among the students.

Then came the next question.

“What will be the future tense?”

Once again fear spread through the room. This time his eyes stopped at Balli.

Poor Balli stood up trembling. Kumar, his bench partner, could not help him. The example was new, and Balli’s notebook offered no rescue.

After fumbling helplessly, Balli muttered in Hindi, “Main jaaoonga…”

“Good! But speak in English,” said the teacher.

Encouraged slightly, Balli tried again.

“I go…”

“Sit down,” Mr Rathore replied. “Your take-off level is too low. You must work hard.”

Balli sat down, relieved that the storm had passed.

Then came JP’s turn.

“I go tomorrow,” JP answered hurriedly.

“Where are you going tomorrow?” Mr Rathore fired back instantly. “You are not going anywhere. You will remain here till you become fit in Tenses!”

The class burst into suppressed laughter while the girls giggled openly.

Then, in complete seriousness, he announced:

“You are below average in English. Therefore, for the next fortnight I shall also take the last period daily to improve your grammar.”

That very day the last period was converted into an English class.

Before leaving earlier, he had assigned ten sentences to be converted into different tenses. When he checked them later, four students had failed to complete the work.

What followed terrified everyone.

“Show me your hands.”

Whoooosh!

The cane landed sharply on their palms.

“Aaaaaah!”

“If you do not understand something, I can teach you a hundred times,” he thundered. “But if you do not even attempt to learn, that is unacceptable!”

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

He spared neither boys nor girls, though he reduced the intensity for the girls. Shockingly, no girl cried. Most accepted the punishment silently.

Raina too received two hard whacks and later pretended to laugh them off, though he was later seen rubbing the back of his trousers quietly. Hips, after all, do not lie — even if lips do.

Yet, despite the terror, results began to show.

Students who could barely form a sentence started speaking grammatically correct English. Homework no longer meant merely writing answers. It meant writing, checking, memorising, practising with friends, and preparing mentally to face Mr Rathore’s questions.

Soon his fame spread throughout the school. Other teachers envied the attention he received. Everywhere one heard only one name — Mr Rathore.

But there was another side to him.

While punishing students he often lost control and behaved almost irrationally. His harshness, especially towards girls, slowly created resentment.

One day Sonia entered the class weeping bitterly. Tears rolled down her cheeks while her elder sister and some senior girls rushed in to console her. We later learnt that Mr Rathore had humiliated her before the Principal and forced her to apologise despite her insisting she was innocent.

Though the exact issue remained unclear, Sonia felt deeply hurt and betrayed. Watching senior students console her strangely irritated me because I felt that as her classmates, it should have been our responsibility to stand beside her.

That incident exposed the darker side of Mr Rathore’s personality.

Then came the confrontation nobody in school would ever forget.

During a combined class of both sections, several students failed to answer questions and were lined up for punishment. Mr Rathore moved down the row, caning boys and girls alike without hesitation.

Then he reached Ranjeet Vohra.

Vohra was a legendary sportsman of the school — strong, fearless, and already furious at the teacher’s behaviour, especially towards girls.

“Show your palms,” ordered Mr Rathore.

“No,” Vohra replied firmly. “You will not hit me.”

“You show me your hands. No arguments.”

“No. This ends here.”

And before anyone realised it, Vohra gripped one end of the cane tightly.

The class froze.

“Leave the cane,” Mr Rathore warned.

“No.”

For a few tense moments both stood facing each other in absolute silence. Finally Mr Rathore released the cane and declared angrily:

“There will be no English class until you apologise publicly before everyone!”

Then he stormed out.

The incident spread through the school like wildfire.

“Aaj class mein teacher ke saath panga ho gaya!”

Before rumours reached the Principal, Mr Rathore himself reported the matter. But the Principal faced a delicate situation. Vohra was not an ordinary student; he was the school’s star athlete who had brought glory to the institution.

Eventually a compromise was reached. Vohra would apologise publicly, and Mr Rathore would stop corporal punishment altogether.

The next day Vohra climbed onto the stage, muttered a four-second apology before both sections, and the matter officially ended.

But Mr Rathore’s anger did not disappear.

Unable to beat students now, he resorted to humiliation and verbal abuse instead, which often hurt even more deeply.

Then another controversy erupted.

One day during class he announced dramatically:

“I have discovered a shameful act by a girl student. A photograph of a half-nude girl was pasted inside her notebook. Very disgraceful behaviour.”

While speaking, he repeatedly glanced toward the backbench girls — Sonia, Nalini, and Ansuyia. Naturally, the entire class assumed one of them was responsible.

The girls were furious.

A few days later Nalini and Ansuyia confronted him after class.

“Sir,” Nalini said calmly, “you mentioned that photograph while looking directly at us. The boys now think we are responsible. Kindly tell us whose notebook it actually was.”

Mr Rathore avoided the question.

But the girls persisted until finally he agreed to show them the notebook.

The next day he produced it.

To everyone’s surprise, the picture was merely that of Nadia Comăneci wearing a gymnast’s costume. The notebook belonged not even to a girl from our class, but to a Class VIII sports student who admired the Olympic champion.

There was nothing obscene about it.

It was only Mr Rathore’s distorted interpretation that had created the controversy.

Nalini later contacted the younger student and confirmed the truth. Gradually the rumours died down, and the boys who had mocked the girls realised how unfairly they had judged them.

Had it been some timid student instead of Nalini and her friends, the stigma might have remained forever.

In the end, Mr Rathore remained one of the most unforgettable teachers of our lives — a man who transformed our English dramatically, inspired discipline and confidence, yet also left behind memories of fear, humiliation, and controversy.

He shaped us deeply — both positively and negatively.