Srinivasan Master
Srinivasan Master was a hero to hundreds of students who passed out of Vidya Mandir, the Mylapore school that celebrated its golden jubilee last year. He was certainly my hero when I was growing up. He was my history and geography teacher in my final year of school but remained a friend and mentor until his untimely death in 1993, in his sixties.
His classes were original and inspiring. He made Indian history come alive, lighting up the class with fiery anecdotes from the freedom struggle, though there was an RSS bias to these stories. Somehow, when he spoke of the sacrifices made by such people as Veer Savarkar, there was no religious fanaticism behind his utterances, only fierce patriotism. He had a sonorous voice that had enough modulation in it to lend itself to song, and he used it to advantage in Vidya Mandir's famous General Class on Friday afternoons, belting out such unforgettable melodies as 'Hum Karen Rashtra Aradhan' and 'Are Sadhak, Sadhana Kar'. The old teachers we met during the recent golden jubilee were surprised to find that some of us still knew those songs.
Srinivasan Master's Geography classes were no less exciting, believe it or not! He made games out of the driest of lessons, pitting one team against another in quiz programmes, 'match the following', etc. He was also always there for you when you were in a spot of trouble common to teenage years. He could give you sage advice, even visit your parents to explain your viewpoint to them when they did not see eye to eye with you, or to convince you that they were right.
He cycled everywhere, and it was not uncommon for his young wards to go cycling with him. Often, he cycled along with you until you reached home, and then went on to his own home. Sometimes, he patiently listened to your woes or explained some problem to you standing at the street corner, and you returned home in an uplifted frame of mind. Through him many of his students learnt deep breathing and meditation exercises that helped them greatly at a crucial juncture of their lives.
For a few months after school, I accompanied Srinivasan Master on his long cycle trips to nearby villages and slums to perform his social work. These were great learning experiences for a young man who had never been exposed in such proximity to poverty. With him, I learnt to sit down at some poor man's hut and accept his hospitality, be it a cup of tea or bowl of gruel. Initial aversion gave way to appreciation of the simple generosity of these humble folk. But for Srinivasan Master, I, for one, would never have shed my inhibitions about poor people.
For years after I left school, he was there to guide me or at least hold my hand when I courted trouble of one sort or the other. Once when I was particularly nervous about a university exam, he appeared as if by magic just outside the college gate, minutes before I entered it, and gave me such an encouraging smile and powerful slap on my back that my nervousness vanished and I did the paper extremely well. Many years later, when I was at a crossroads, he assured me I was doing the right thing by choosing a writing career. To know that I had his - and another teacher Shrimati Buch's - approval in my 'eccentric' decision, was to feel confident about my future during a time of great anxiety.
A few months before Srinivasan Master's death, I lost my father, and he was there by my side at the cremation ground. That was to be expected of him. But when he turned up the next morning there when I went to collect my father's ashes, I knew I would never see another like him.
His classes were original and inspiring. He made Indian history come alive, lighting up the class with fiery anecdotes from the freedom struggle, though there was an RSS bias to these stories. Somehow, when he spoke of the sacrifices made by such people as Veer Savarkar, there was no religious fanaticism behind his utterances, only fierce patriotism. He had a sonorous voice that had enough modulation in it to lend itself to song, and he used it to advantage in Vidya Mandir's famous General Class on Friday afternoons, belting out such unforgettable melodies as 'Hum Karen Rashtra Aradhan' and 'Are Sadhak, Sadhana Kar'. The old teachers we met during the recent golden jubilee were surprised to find that some of us still knew those songs.
Srinivasan Master's Geography classes were no less exciting, believe it or not! He made games out of the driest of lessons, pitting one team against another in quiz programmes, 'match the following', etc. He was also always there for you when you were in a spot of trouble common to teenage years. He could give you sage advice, even visit your parents to explain your viewpoint to them when they did not see eye to eye with you, or to convince you that they were right.
He cycled everywhere, and it was not uncommon for his young wards to go cycling with him. Often, he cycled along with you until you reached home, and then went on to his own home. Sometimes, he patiently listened to your woes or explained some problem to you standing at the street corner, and you returned home in an uplifted frame of mind. Through him many of his students learnt deep breathing and meditation exercises that helped them greatly at a crucial juncture of their lives.
For a few months after school, I accompanied Srinivasan Master on his long cycle trips to nearby villages and slums to perform his social work. These were great learning experiences for a young man who had never been exposed in such proximity to poverty. With him, I learnt to sit down at some poor man's hut and accept his hospitality, be it a cup of tea or bowl of gruel. Initial aversion gave way to appreciation of the simple generosity of these humble folk. But for Srinivasan Master, I, for one, would never have shed my inhibitions about poor people.
For years after I left school, he was there to guide me or at least hold my hand when I courted trouble of one sort or the other. Once when I was particularly nervous about a university exam, he appeared as if by magic just outside the college gate, minutes before I entered it, and gave me such an encouraging smile and powerful slap on my back that my nervousness vanished and I did the paper extremely well. Many years later, when I was at a crossroads, he assured me I was doing the right thing by choosing a writing career. To know that I had his - and another teacher Shrimati Buch's - approval in my 'eccentric' decision, was to feel confident about my future during a time of great anxiety.
A few months before Srinivasan Master's death, I lost my father, and he was there by my side at the cremation ground. That was to be expected of him. But when he turned up the next morning there when I went to collect my father's ashes, I knew I would never see another like him.
posted by Ramnarayan at 6:00 AM
3 Comments:
Another wonderful story that brings tears to the reader's eyes. Maybe you shouldn't limit that book to cricket stories.
Thanks. I hope I don't run out of stories. I am still running on the fuel of my memory. I better write before I forget.
Good teachers are rare, they were rare in any generation, but the few good ones are remembered forever by their students. Srinivasan Master was a universal hero.
Another good one. Yeah - a handful of teachers are remembered forever. I have a few memories too - but Ram, I never would write as well as you do. So, I'll just wait for more of your memories.
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