The Story of a
Teacher
by Amit
Parmessur
Whatever job I
had done before I had always been a bit different,
trying to bring my own touch if you want. But I
had never imagined I could be so impressive a
teacher. I should simply say that I’d been a
bit more different than usual.
It was a
glorious December morning. Sitting in my
comfortable terrace armchair I could see the
postman leaving a pink envelope in my letter box.
He waved at me in his usual friendly manner,
going away hurryingly. Abandoning the warmth of
my armchair I walked lazily to the gate.
And removing
the key of the letter box from beneath a flower
pot I was soon opening the letter. It was a card
from one of my final year students, wishing me
the greatest Christmas ever. Not without some
effusive words of gratitude too.
I quickly
realised that I must have really left a deep mark
upon those students. After all, it was the sixth
such card I’d received in merely three days
and it was just the second week of the month.
“I must have been damn good,” I said to
myself.
I went back to
my armchair.
“I
must’ve been good!” I smiled.
“Damn magical.” It must have been some
mind-blowing cameo indeed. It all started when I
got a phone call confirming that I was appointed
in the town’s only school, one with the
latest and most impressive tools at the disposal
of both staff and students. I proudly made my way
to work the next morning, impressed to know that
the music teacher I was going to replace was
found dead in his bed listening to Celine
Dion’s I’m Alive on repeat
mode.
As I told you
I’d always try to be different. So the very
first session I was up there to stir my students
and banish any thoughts of their dead teacher.
The students were on the verge of removing their
exercise books when I stopped them.
“Come on
students, take your mischief out of the bag and
concentrate,” I said, “come you all and
stand in front of the piano. Concentrate and
punch it strongly and devour its keys as if they
were delicious chocolate biscuits.” It was
our piano session. We had a real chocolate party.
Two days later
it was the flute session. One student was busy
blowing some crap music. I stopped him and
ordered everyone to remove their flute.
“Take your fingers and carefully close all
the holes in the flute until it suffocates and
dies,” I said solemnly. They all enjoyed
their new status of musical criminals.
I heard the
next day that the caretaker was totally baffled
to see so many flutes in the dustbin. “They
are all dead so he can’t possibly think of
selling them,” one student told me.
I liked his
logic.
Then I taught
the students how to hang their drum from the
ceiling and learn boxing at home. I even taught
them to take the trumpet, blow into it once and
throw it calmly over the roof at home. We also
learned how to mould the triangle into a perfect
square to compose a peppy song à la John Deacon.
The students
were just relishing it and thoughts of their
previous teacher were as remote as the chance of
two suns in one sky. I also ordered them to
listen repeatedly to famous songs until the
singers would tire out and would no longer sing.
I was even thinking of teaching them how to grab
their expensive guitar, crushing it on the floor,
strangling their sadness with the strings. I just
didn’t have time as a sweet letter told me
that I was fired, with immediate effect.
I went home
dead and downloaded I’m Alive.
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