Chapter 6: The Calling

The news about changing Class 12C’s teacher spread like wildfire. Within an hour, everyone from lab assistant to peon knew. The staffroom was abuzz—"Arrey beta, don’t take tension. This too shall pass," the senior maths teacher told me.

The principal had just announced Prakash would take over, when Meera—eight months pregnant, class teacher of 12J—came to the staffroom. She pressed her palms together, almost in a namaste, her eyes tired but hopeful.

She said, "Sir, pehle koi option nahi tha, ab mera bachcha kabhi bhi aa sakta hai. Mere husband roz tension mein hain, darr hai ki class mein hi kuch ho na jaaye. Main aur nahi kar sakti. Please, aap meri help karo, 12J le lo."

Her voice was calm but exhausted. Teaching is hard, but teaching while pregnant takes another kind of strength.

Me: "......"

I was speechless for a moment, caught between relief and responsibility. The timing felt like fate’s nudge.

Meera continued, "Sabko staff group mein pata hai ki is Class 12C wale mamle mein, aap bilkul sahi hain. Isliye, please ek incident ki wajah se apni puri career pe doubt mat karo. Kabhi bhi teaching chhodne ka sochna mat."

Her words soothed my bruised ego. She rested her hand on her belly, smiling.

"Yaad hai Uttarakhand ke pahadon mein jab hum do hi volunteers the? Tab tumne bola tha, jab students mehnat karte hain, toh energy khud aa jaati hai. Bhool gayi kya?"

She grinned, and I remembered my first Teacher’s Day—the garland of marigolds itchy around my neck, students giggling as they tried to pronounce "mathematics."

Meera laughed, "Bas, sab kuch inevitable hai. Main nahi bol rahi ki tum un Class 12C waalon ko maaf kar do. Unko Prakash hi suit karta hai. Par teaching chhod mat dena. Samjhi?"

Her laughter lifted my mood. Her words reminded me why I’d chosen this path.

After Meera left, I sat alone in the staffroom, the bell ringing for the next period. I barely noticed, tracing my old lesson planner, thinking of all the faces over the years.

Unlike others who have families to support, I was luckier. Even if I never worked another day, I could live comfortably. Some even joked I was a rich second generation, teaching for the experience.

But I just love the feeling of standing at the blackboard—the sense of accomplishment it brings. There’s magic in seeing a student finally understand.

That afternoon, I called Meera. Her voice was as warm as ever.

"Theek hai, academic office jao. Approval milte hi, aaj evening self-study se tum le lo."

A burst of joy on the other end. I imagined her husband heaving a sigh of relief.

Meera said, "Dusron ki madad karna mandir banane se bhi bada kaam hai. Mere aur mere hone wale bachche ki taraf se, thank you, Sir!"

Her laughter echoed. I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in days.

As I set the phone down, sunlight spilled across the playground. Boys played cricket with a broken bat, their laughter cutting through the heat. I remembered, all over again, why I chose this life.

No matter how many times the world tried to push me out, the classroom always called me back. For better or worse, I belonged here.