Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was a very little girl.
One fine day, or maybe it was rainy, my Mother, Father and Grandmother told me to get ready for something called an "interview." It had seemed such a big word at the time...I was too young to realise that the word was scary, that it involved selection through exclusion. I just remember my four year old self donning a new dress and meekly walking into a huge, air-conditioned office, and coming face to face wth one of the kindest, nicest smiles I had ever seen. For my first memory of Mrs. Chatterjee was just her smile...I vividly remember yet, her asking me, with that smile on her face, why I wanted to join CIS...and I thought hard trying to come up with a befitting reply, and finally decided on tilting my head to one side and smiling back at her. I remember her patiently repeating the question, and how I just smiled on, thinking my answer was eloquent and appropriate. I don't remember the rest of the interview, just a gentle word or two from my parents later as to why I had not thought of something to say in response to her question...but the exchange of smiles and probably a few words, paved the way to my memorable and precious journey for the next 14 years...
I had always looked up to Mrs. Chatterjee...I loved her words of prayer, encouragement, advice and rectifications during those long ago morning assemblies. I loved the placid serenity her face seemed to offer me, I loved how she draped her Saree around her, I loved the trademark hairstyle. To my young, wide-eyed self, she seemed to be the epitome of all things good, powerful and aspirational.
Mrs. Chatterjee's handwriting still dances before my eyes, it had such a lilting, effusive quality about it...there is ample evidence to document what I have just said, she would write notes of encouragement on each of our report cards, while we were growing up. I loved how she spoke impeccable Bengali with our parents, when she would meet them on the school porch, for example.
However, the best was waiting for me. I am so incredibly grateful and thankful to God for having given me and my friends, among the millions of millions in this world, to have had the opportunity to study Literature and History under her tutelage. I feel very inarticulate and words fail me when I attempt to put into prose what those lessons meant for us. They were not just about the texts we read. They were not anaylsed from the lens of a host of other secondary materials. She taught us a skill which is invaluable, and which I truly believe remains our collective forte to date...to analyse the text incisively, to make evaluative connections with the support of substantiation, to read between and beyond the lines, but most importantly TO READ THE lines...as I grew up, this is a habit I never lost...I would not touch any Secondary Material until I had finished reading the text...
And the texts...I am a Literature lover in all senses of the word...On some nights I murmur myself to sleep by reciting various lines from my favourite poems...my heart still flutters before 'sharing' a poem on public forums...my heart leaps on beholding favourite lines from my favourite texts in the most unexpected of places...and somewhere, in a guarded corner of my heart, amidst all the Bi- and Tri- cuspid valves, the veins and arteries, there still hides the fledgling dream, the silent hope of wishing to become an author myself...and I would like to sincerely thank, thank seems so prosy and inadequate a word, for rowing us out into this Island of Lit...for first introducing us to Keats "The Eve of St. Agnes," to Browning, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," to Robert Burns, "Tam O' Shanter," to Tennyson, "Morte d'Arthur," to Blake, "The Tyger," and the ballad "Edward Edward."
For taking us through Pride and Prejudice, and bringing out everything Austen stood for, for those great lessons on Animal Farm...and of course, during our A/S Levels, who ELSE could teach "Streetcar" the way in which she did? There were always so many levels of analysis to consider, so many perspectives from which to study each character, so many assumptions to challenge, stereotypes to break...and words will let me down altogether if I even try to examine what your teaching of "Howards End," did for us and to us...how you talked about the bridge which must be created, between the Pragmatist and the Idealist...the Schlegels and the Wilcoxes...how you talked about, oh ever so many things, how "Only Connect," Forster and you have so silently helped us pull through our lives in so many ways...in all our early struggles as new professionals, our endeavours, which of us did not seek silent solace in those not-SO-long ago words of wisdom? Your oh-so impeccable pronounciations, your deeply original insights, your razor-sharp intelligence which you so freely shared with us.
Who else would make such effortless parallels between the Sciences and the Arts, while the rest of the world JUMPED at the idea of segregating the two? Who else would have bothered to call us over to her house, for one last consultation before our Howards End exam? Who else would have said, and sincerely meant, that life was bigger than our imminent O and A Levels, though examinations were important? WHo else would have said that remember to give freely, without any expectation of return, of any kind, to lead a happier life? Who else would and could
And those History lessons...I was enamored of them...I really was and still am. I love how Mrs. Chatterjee helped us understand poetry, by making us write some ourselves. SHe would also encourage us to analyse each other's poems.
I would have never said this, but dear Mrs. Chatterjee, in all my inadequacy, may I dedicate my long ago A Level Synpotic Paper to you? It's not only that I am happy that the examiner gave me full marks...no, it really isn't...it's the fact that I have never so immensely enjoyed 'solving' a Literature paper in my life...I have never so enthusiastically analysed Form and Content, never so delightfully made abstract and obscure connections, (fully substantiated, of course)...that was exam where my marks reflected the extent of my enjoyment with that particular paper, they tallied with your years of passionate teaching, and they re-inforced my firm conviction in my love of all things Lit...I tell my students that marks stand for something else, they are mere numbers on their own...sometimes, they are the culmination of the years of dedication the teachers have put in, to culminate their craft, their art...for teaching is one of the most difficult crafts in the world...they are representative of the rich exchange of knowledge, this selfless sharing from person to person, this passing down of knowledge through generations...they represent the eagerness of students, their unmitigated enthusiasm and fervour, their open minds and receptive hearts...from Dmitri Mendleev, down many generations, to us through our teachers...to use an example from Chemistry...they are not always representative...sometimes years of earnest study may not be reflected in your marks, and that has happened to most of us at some point, but that is okay too...but when they do, well there is some sense of some kind of intangible triumph...perhaps...but as I have grown older, to me, now, marks are just numbers...but a part of me feels like I should dedicate whatever I can to you, to tell you that in my own way, I have immensely benifitted from your teaching, that yours is a life to be ever-cherished, to be ever-admired. I will never forget how you had explained 'Negative Capability' to us. RIP Mrs. Chatterjee, and may your thoughts abide in each and every one of us.
Mrs. Chatterjee, this really does seem to be an end of an era to a whole lot of us...we really are devastated by this loss...and we just hope that we can make you live on through our little, everyday endeavours...all of us seem to be world-scattered, but what does hold us CISers together is that thread of unity which you used to tie us together.
One fine day, or maybe it was rainy, my Mother, Father and Grandmother told me to get ready for something called an "interview." It had seemed such a big word at the time...I was too young to realise that the word was scary, that it involved selection through exclusion. I just remember my four year old self donning a new dress and meekly walking into a huge, air-conditioned office, and coming face to face wth one of the kindest, nicest smiles I had ever seen. For my first memory of Mrs. Chatterjee was just her smile...I vividly remember yet, her asking me, with that smile on her face, why I wanted to join CIS...and I thought hard trying to come up with a befitting reply, and finally decided on tilting my head to one side and smiling back at her. I remember her patiently repeating the question, and how I just smiled on, thinking my answer was eloquent and appropriate. I don't remember the rest of the interview, just a gentle word or two from my parents later as to why I had not thought of something to say in response to her question...but the exchange of smiles and probably a few words, paved the way to my memorable and precious journey for the next 14 years...
I had always looked up to Mrs. Chatterjee...I loved her words of prayer, encouragement, advice and rectifications during those long ago morning assemblies. I loved the placid serenity her face seemed to offer me, I loved how she draped her Saree around her, I loved the trademark hairstyle. To my young, wide-eyed self, she seemed to be the epitome of all things good, powerful and aspirational.
Mrs. Chatterjee's handwriting still dances before my eyes, it had such a lilting, effusive quality about it...there is ample evidence to document what I have just said, she would write notes of encouragement on each of our report cards, while we were growing up. I loved how she spoke impeccable Bengali with our parents, when she would meet them on the school porch, for example.
However, the best was waiting for me. I am so incredibly grateful and thankful to God for having given me and my friends, among the millions of millions in this world, to have had the opportunity to study Literature and History under her tutelage. I feel very inarticulate and words fail me when I attempt to put into prose what those lessons meant for us. They were not just about the texts we read. They were not anaylsed from the lens of a host of other secondary materials. She taught us a skill which is invaluable, and which I truly believe remains our collective forte to date...to analyse the text incisively, to make evaluative connections with the support of substantiation, to read between and beyond the lines, but most importantly TO READ THE lines...as I grew up, this is a habit I never lost...I would not touch any Secondary Material until I had finished reading the text...
And the texts...I am a Literature lover in all senses of the word...On some nights I murmur myself to sleep by reciting various lines from my favourite poems...my heart still flutters before 'sharing' a poem on public forums...my heart leaps on beholding favourite lines from my favourite texts in the most unexpected of places...and somewhere, in a guarded corner of my heart, amidst all the Bi- and Tri- cuspid valves, the veins and arteries, there still hides the fledgling dream, the silent hope of wishing to become an author myself...and I would like to sincerely thank, thank seems so prosy and inadequate a word, for rowing us out into this Island of Lit...for first introducing us to Keats "The Eve of St. Agnes," to Browning, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," to Robert Burns, "Tam O' Shanter," to Tennyson, "Morte d'Arthur," to Blake, "The Tyger," and the ballad "Edward Edward."
For taking us through Pride and Prejudice, and bringing out everything Austen stood for, for those great lessons on Animal Farm...and of course, during our A/S Levels, who ELSE could teach "Streetcar" the way in which she did? There were always so many levels of analysis to consider, so many perspectives from which to study each character, so many assumptions to challenge, stereotypes to break...and words will let me down altogether if I even try to examine what your teaching of "Howards End," did for us and to us...how you talked about the bridge which must be created, between the Pragmatist and the Idealist...the Schlegels and the Wilcoxes...how you talked about, oh ever so many things, how "Only Connect," Forster and you have so silently helped us pull through our lives in so many ways...in all our early struggles as new professionals, our endeavours, which of us did not seek silent solace in those not-SO-long ago words of wisdom? Your oh-so impeccable pronounciations, your deeply original insights, your razor-sharp intelligence which you so freely shared with us.
Who else would make such effortless parallels between the Sciences and the Arts, while the rest of the world JUMPED at the idea of segregating the two? Who else would have bothered to call us over to her house, for one last consultation before our Howards End exam? Who else would have said, and sincerely meant, that life was bigger than our imminent O and A Levels, though examinations were important? WHo else would have said that remember to give freely, without any expectation of return, of any kind, to lead a happier life? Who else would and could
And those History lessons...I was enamored of them...I really was and still am. I love how Mrs. Chatterjee helped us understand poetry, by making us write some ourselves. SHe would also encourage us to analyse each other's poems.
I would have never said this, but dear Mrs. Chatterjee, in all my inadequacy, may I dedicate my long ago A Level Synpotic Paper to you? It's not only that I am happy that the examiner gave me full marks...no, it really isn't...it's the fact that I have never so immensely enjoyed 'solving' a Literature paper in my life...I have never so enthusiastically analysed Form and Content, never so delightfully made abstract and obscure connections, (fully substantiated, of course)...that was exam where my marks reflected the extent of my enjoyment with that particular paper, they tallied with your years of passionate teaching, and they re-inforced my firm conviction in my love of all things Lit...I tell my students that marks stand for something else, they are mere numbers on their own...sometimes, they are the culmination of the years of dedication the teachers have put in, to culminate their craft, their art...for teaching is one of the most difficult crafts in the world...they are representative of the rich exchange of knowledge, this selfless sharing from person to person, this passing down of knowledge through generations...they represent the eagerness of students, their unmitigated enthusiasm and fervour, their open minds and receptive hearts...from Dmitri Mendleev, down many generations, to us through our teachers...to use an example from Chemistry...they are not always representative...sometimes years of earnest study may not be reflected in your marks, and that has happened to most of us at some point, but that is okay too...but when they do, well there is some sense of some kind of intangible triumph...perhaps...but as I have grown older, to me, now, marks are just numbers...but a part of me feels like I should dedicate whatever I can to you, to tell you that in my own way, I have immensely benifitted from your teaching, that yours is a life to be ever-cherished, to be ever-admired. I will never forget how you had explained 'Negative Capability' to us. RIP Mrs. Chatterjee, and may your thoughts abide in each and every one of us.
Mrs. Chatterjee, this really does seem to be an end of an era to a whole lot of us...we really are devastated by this loss...and we just hope that we can make you live on through our little, everyday endeavours...all of us seem to be world-scattered, but what does hold us CISers together is that thread of unity which you used to tie us together.
