I was no good at Maths. But there was no escaping from Mrityunjoy babu, as one had to if one read in Municipal High School.
When I reached class nine, a new routine took over the old one. M.K. figured every day under Maths in class routine block just before the tiffin period.
So Mrityunjoy Khan came just the second day of new class. He came wearing a shawl over a creased punjabi; his dhoti and leather chappals were as usual an add-on to his persona.
He ambled in to the class. We stood up. His plump frame dropped down to chair. Still we stood on. His calm eyes closed slightly. We sat down. He took a Maths book from a first-bencher, browsed through the pages quickly and settled at theorem. He pulled his body up and blithely went straight to the blackboard with a giant-sized wooden compass. Through the class he worked hard (and harder for back-benchers, the failed lot) to prove that opposite angles of a rhombus are equal. The tiffin bell struck the moment he came back to chair. What an impeccable timing! He left the class the way he came in. Cool, calm and composed. The whole class heaved a collective sigh of relief.
It did not take much time for the next day’s class to gallop in. Mrityunjoy babu came, sat, and stood up again, just like the previous day; with a vital exception. This time he asked a student from last bench (a veritable failed boy) to come to the board and prove what he had already proved just twenty four hours back. He handed over the compass to the boy.
The boy’s trembling hands failed to draw a simple rhombus before the probing eyes of M.K. and the eager eyes of the whole class. M.K. snatched the compass and started hitting him hard. In the process, the rusted nail of the compass got stuck in his back. The blood fountained. Almost half of the class splashed in fresh blood. A teacher from next class rushed the student to hospital. The tiffin bell rang. As M.K. came to his senses, he took a rickshaw and hurried to hospital.
The father of the boy ran down the narrow passage of hospital seeing M.K. disembarking from a rickshaw with some effort at the hospital gate. The guardian hastened to touch the feet of M.K. Mrityunjoy babu looked on in wonder.
‘Why do you take pains to come here, Sir?’ The guardian asked.
M.K. stood on speechless.
‘Where’s my student?’ Mrityunjoy babu wanted to know.
‘He is at O.T. He’s getting stitches done by a seasoned doctor.’ The guardian replied. Tears rolled down Mrityunjoy babu’s eyes.
The guardian dropped him at school in his bike in time for Mrityunjoy babu’s next class post tiffin.
Mrityunjoy babu visited “his student” in the evening in the latter’s house. ‘Sir, you?!’ The guardian wondered aloud. ‘Take me to my student.’ Mrityunjoy babu demanded.
So Mrityunjoy babu was taken to the inner room where the boy rested his head against a damp wall in such a manner as to keep his heavily stitched back free from any undue touch. Mrityunjoy babu placed his shaking hands on his head. The room fell silent.
‘Sir, I have a request to make to you.’ The lanky guardian said with folded hands. Mrityunjoy babu looked up. ‘Please, beat him again… bleed him again, if my boy can’t do Maths. He has to learn it. Otherwise how can he stand on his own feet?’ He pleaded. ‘I’m going to send my boy to school tomorrow.’ The guardian added.
Mrityunjoy babu fumbled for words. ‘Sir, promise please. Beat him, if necessary, bleed him again…’ The guardian persisted. ‘He’ll stand on his feet. I’ll see to it.’ Mrityunjoy babu said with some determination chewing the jorda-heavy pan slowly. His lips reddened.
The failed boy got more than eighty in Madhyomik. He took science at Higher Secondary and got letter marks in all the science subjects. He did his Honours and Masters in Maths. He ended up becoming a lecturer at a city college.
Mrityunjoy babu kept his words. He proved all the opposite angles could coalesce sometimes; even in life.
Gone were the days; gone were the teacher and his commitment; his technique too.
M.K. is not a routine name. Mrityunjoy Khan lives on in every room, every dark passage, every breath the century old Municipal School takes in the annals of its hallowed history.
Excellent write up