Читать книгу Once Upon a Coin - Aditi JD Bhardwaj - Страница 8

Inside the iron box I smelled of different flavours, vanilla, chocolate, lemon all mixed with coldness of squashed ice. Discovering life was turning colourful. One day many trades. One life many roles. I was learning so many things. Staying in a house as a piggy bank captive – made me meet my teacher.

Her hands were so soft; she got me spinning over her dining table and kept singing. These were lines of a famous old Hindi song. I can’t retrace which one, but the words came so well out of her pink lips.

Her room smelled of fresh flowers and there were books adorning a full wall unit. The room was large and airy, walls white with random wooden furniture placed carefully to contrast the simplicity of the layout.

She left me on the table as the phone rang loud and made a soft turn towards the window, her long hair flew backwards as she hurried. She was divine.

She was my first teacher, she was my first guru and her beauty was matched with her intelligence. I owe my wisdom and capability to coin my story to her.

Professor Shashi Bala Sundaram.

By the afternoon I could only know her name and profession. By the evening I knew that she lived with her father and 2 younger brothers – Vijay Kant Sundaram and Shri Kant Sundaram.

The boys were aged around 12 and 15 years respectively. They were bright kids inheriting the same genes from their parents that gave their sister the glow and aura in her personality.

Before the dinner was served, Vijay picked me up and broke my thought process. He yelled, “Why is the coin kept here? Who so ever has kept it here is now notified that this goes in my piggy box.” There was no response at least for the 5 seconds that Vijay waited, there was no claim.

So, here I was slid inside a huge piggy bank. Thud over my coin community. I could hear some whispers and rounds of laughter over the dinner table. It soon got silent, first went off the TV volume, then the dragging of chairs and ruffle of newspaper. Slowly the lights went out and it was silent.

I slept too with my teacher’s pretty face all over in my dreams.

The morning came in as early as the night went off. I heard Shri and Vijay revising their lessons from school. They were talking about a Mathematics Olympiad and both were determined to win it.

After a few hours, I heard chants in an elderly voice, later the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the space. Soft Carnatic music played in the backdrop, soon the house smelled of sandal and jasmine. My teacher’s sweet voice poured in a strange language, in between a bell tinkled at some intervals. She was singing a song it seems and it was in a language that I could not understand but I liked what I was hearing.

My teacher left for her college soon after. She was a lecturer in a state college and taught Physics. I kept missing her the whole day, the house was silent and all I could sense were a few footsteps, ruffles of a newspaper and music. Later in the day, I smelled of spices, curry leaves and a pungent sharp smell maybe it was chilly and mustard.

Shashi Akka, I soon started recognizing my teacher by this name, arrived in the afternoon. She spoke gently and changed some pleasantries with her father in her mother tongue – Tamil.

Her father offered her a cup of coffee and she sat in the rocking chair near the window, next to the wooden almirah on whose topmost cabinet I was seated, in a semi transparent plastic box.

She was talking about something serious with her father in their mother tongue; I could make out from their tone.

Soon the boys returned from school too and the family had lunch together. Their house always smelled of curry leaves and freshly brewed coffee.

In the evening the brothers and sister had a discussion on plastic as a threat to humans and ways to save earth from this hazardous substances. They spoke on how inevitable plastic was in human life from small plastic carry bags to the spaceship; they spoke about how it took thousands of years to decay and created a hole in the ozone layer of the atmosphere. I always listened carefully; much of my general knowledge is to my teacher’s credit.

They always had interesting new topics to talk about, child labour, child abuse, child marriage, brain drain, inter-caste marriages, IIT, Great sSouth Indian legacy, Tamil movies etc. I enjoyed listening to them.

That evening, they talked about the history of the Indian coins. I was so damn excited and curious. They spoke about the barter system of trade and its advancement after the concept of currency was introduced. The father told his sons and daughter stories of how they had silver one rupee coins when he was a young boy and might that they could purchase with it. I was a legacy inherited from the ancient civilizations crossing the Mughal dynasty, jubilated by the British Raj and flaunted by independent India. I was happy to familiarise with my ancestral royalness!

The piggy bank was now full to the brim. The brothers had been contemplating to take the money out and deposit it in a bank, my stay inside the piggy box could be over any day. The day arrived on a Sunday morning when the brothers opened the piggy box and started counting their wealth – all totaled to Rs. 1783 and 25 paisa. They felt happy. Their sister promised to deposit the money in the bank the next day.

Counting their money the boys got pretty excited and spoke about how saving even one rupee a day could be a good start to build up big amounts of money. My teacher appreciated her brothers for saving money and told them this habit will go a long way with them in life. They discussed that with such a large population of our country – if each one contributed just one rupee it could bring about funds for bigger reforms and well being of the society. I was listening to all this and imagining my worth with great interest. This discussion would come to life later in my journey – something that I never knew at this moment.

Next morning the boys went outside the house early and returned with a small garland made of beautiful red, orange and white flowers. The brothers affectionately gave the tiny garland to their sister and asked her to wear it on her hair. My teacher smiled and hugged her brothers.

She left for college sealing the coins in her handbag.

I was remorsefully leaving my teacher’s house. In my head I was recollecting all the good things I had learnt at my teacher’s house and was thanking her for imparting education to me. In some time I would be deposited in names of the Sundaram brothers in the savings account of a national bank.

The smell of those fresh flowers from her hair is sealed inside me.

I will miss you my teacher.

Chapter’s take away -

“Anyone who can give you guidance and share experiences is a teacher. However learning comes with your wisdom – hence what you choose to learn is your call.”

Education is like the play dough – it is soft and pliable. The way we mould it defines our intelligence.