A Day in the Life of a Humble Teacher
Mohammed Tajul Islam
Life is a dynamic journey—a rhythm of work, fleeting demands, and the ebb and flow of people. My days are filled with the laughter and chatter of children, their voices forming a lively symphony until I return to the calm solitude of the afternoon. Dear reader, I am an ordinary primary school teacher, and today, I wish to share a fragment of my daily life: a serene walk home on a quiet winter afternoon.
It was the end of winter. The dusty, unpaved roads stretched under a clear blue sky, and a gentle breeze carried the remnants of the season. At Baliagari Government Primary School, the clock struck 8 p.m., and a fifth-grade student rang the bell to signal recess. Like a flock of birds released from a cage, the students poured out of the classrooms, eager to head home.
I joined them, walking down the high, dusty path that stretched north to south—a path destined to be paved someday, judging by its elevated construction. Hardy grass lined its edges, swaying slightly in the breeze. A group of students walked southward while others followed me northward, forming a lively procession.
"Sir, you need a bicycle!" one student exclaimed. "How far is your house?"
"About six or seven kilometers," I replied.
"That'll take ages!" he said, wide-eyed. "Why don’t you get a bicycle?"
"Would you ride a bike on such a sandy road?" I teased.
Another student chimed in with a grin, "You’d get stuck in the sand, sir, wobbling like a kite in the wind!"
We laughed together as two students sprinted by, their shoes kicking up clouds of dust.
"Why are you raising a storm of dust?" I asked, half-amused.
"Sir, slap him! That’ll stop him," one quipped.
"Free powder, sir!" another added mischievously. "It’ll make you fairer!"
The playful banter lingered as we approached a grand banyan tree standing tall like a sentinel. Beyond it lay a narrow path, dappled with sunlight and shaded by overhanging greenery. Birds chirped, blending harmoniously with the rustling leaves. A few students called out as they took the path, "Assalamu Alaikum, Sir! See you tomorrow!"
A short distance ahead, the village market of Matasagar came into view. Its name evoked the warmth of maternal love or the depth of an ocean’s embrace. Fishermen displayed their catches—glimmering fish freshly pulled from rivers and lakes—while farmers bartered their homegrown vegetables with eager buyers. The air was alive with the hum of commerce.
After crossing the market, I took a quieter path that led through fields of cauliflower and cabbage. Known as Barduari, the fields stretched endlessly, a vibrant green carpet dotted with the occasional figure of a farmer bent over their crops. Walking along the narrow paths etched into the fields, I felt a profound peace, the cool air beneath the leafy canopy wrapping around me like a blessing.
In the distance, I saw farmers bending and straightening rhythmically, collecting old cabbage leaves for their cattle. Their labor, simple yet purposeful, felt like a hymn to the land.
Looking back, I noticed students far behind, still waving. Their small hands, brimming with affection, touched my heart. I paused, silently thanking the Creator for this humble yet fulfilling life. In the eyes of society's elite, my profession might seem modest and unremarkable. Yet, nurturing young minds, like polishing precious jewels, fills my soul with boundless peace. It is a sacred duty, a form of worship for which I am deeply grateful.
As I continued, I passed a pond bordered by fields on one side and a grove of mango trees on the other. The water glistened under the fading sunlight, where a flock of ducks paddled energetically, their calls breaking the serene silence.
The path led me to Kushadanga, a village with scattered huts and bamboo groves. There, I met Sukumar Roy, a childhood friend, cutting straw for his cow. His wife, cooking in the yard, called out with a warm smile, "Dada, you must eat with us tonight!"
"Thank you for the kind invitation, sister!" I replied, smiling.
Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I reached my home. My father was performing ablution in preparation for Maghrib prayers. Stepping through the open alley, I entered, feeling the day’s memories settle into my heart like a cherished treasure.
-The end=
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