The viral video of a teacher asking a group of students in her class to slap a Muslim boy is certainly disturbing. It is a serious reflection of our public culture, where slapping, abusing, and even lynching Muslims is normal and acceptable.
However, the most troubling aspect of this viral video, at least for me, was the violent image of a teacher. Her attitude seems to glorify violence - not merely to teach this Muslim boy a lesson but also to reproduce social divisions, religious segregation, and above all, partition in a classroom context.
This episode destabilizes my sensibilities - not as a teacher or a Muslim, but as a helpless student. It evokes the old memories of my school days, which, in a way, have shaped my thinking of this noble profession called teaching. More specifically, it reminds me of my teacher, Master ji, who still survives in my imagination as the most ideal, loving, and caring figure. Two personal incidents are relevant here, which have a much wider significance in the present context.
Master ji
I was sent to a primary school called Mufti Walan, which used to be a Muslim-dominated educational institution before the Partition. This school is located in the Daryaganj area of Old Delhi. After the formation of the Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD), the government took it over. Around the same time, many migrant Hindu Punjabi families settled down in this mohalla. As a result of this demographic transformation, the character of the school also changed quite considerably. It became a Hindi medium primary school dominated by Hindu and Punjabi students and teachers.
My admission into the Mufti Walan school was a conscious choice of my family (my adopted family, as I was an adopted child). They wanted me to be educated in Hindi medium so that I could master Hindi for better future prospects. They were not wrong entirely. The Urdu medium students had to work very hard to survive in education and in the job market. I realised much later that my adopted family also had a wrong assessment of the situation. English, not Hindi, was the language of power, though Hindi had a slight advantage over Urdu.
The teacher, who taught us in primary school (Classes 1 to 5), was a Partition victim. His name was Inder Prakash Sharma, and we used to call him Master ji. He and his family had migrated from East Punjab during the Partition violence. (I came to know about his family history almost 20 years after leaving that school). Master ji was a popular teacher because he did not believe in any kind of punishment. He was very kind, lovable, and caring. I was good in my studies and for that reason very close to Master ji.
"Partition was a mistake"
It was 1982. On a winter afternoon, I reached school a bit early. I saw Master ji with a tall man wearing a Kamiz Salwar (it was not called the Pathani suit at that time!). It was obvious to me that this person was a Pakistani Muslim. Kamiz Salwar was a recognizable Pakistani dress in the 1980s. It had not yet become an acceptable Muslim attire for residents of Old Delhi at that time. I came to know that this person was an old student of the Mufti Walan school and he wanted to meet the present generation of students.
After the school assembly, the Pakistani visitor came to our class. In a rather formal conversation, Master ji told him about the educational progress of the school and the achievements of its students. He then introduced me as his most-favourite student and the topper of the previous classes. The visitor was curious to know my name.
It was a bit shocking for him to learn that a Muslim boy was the topper of a class in a Hindi medium school. Something unusual happened. The Pakistani visitor and our Master ji became extremely emotional. The visitor hugged Master ji and said "taqseem se kisi ka bhi fayada nahin hua (Partition did not help anyone)".
How do you teach?
I met Master ji the last time in 1997 when I was teaching at Delhi University as a lecturer. I requested a few old teachers from the Mufti Walan school to help me find his address. I finally got his address and went to meet him. Master ji was a retired teacher now. Yet, he was deeply involved in community service in this locality.
I touched his feet and told him about my education and job. He looked at me and smiled. It was clear to me that my so-called achievements were not going to impress him at all. In his usual loving tone, he said, "I was confident that you would do good in life. That's fine but now you are a teacher. Tell me how do teach?"
I gave a modest answer: "I always try my best to make the topic of my lecture simple and understandable". Master ji was not convinced. He made a profound argument, "Teaching is not merely about explaining a topic, it is a responsibility. We teachers shape future generations. It is our duty to nurture social harmony and brotherhood for creating an environment of patriotism". He elaborated on this point and said, "It is expected from a teacher to transcend the boundaries of religion, region, and caste. So, it is your duty now to follow this clear objective in your teaching."
It was not merely an advice. It is the mantra for teaching the real meaning of nationalism in our post-colonial Indian context - something which the teacher of the Muzaffarnagar school clearly failed to understand.