Silhouette of woman against setting sun

In Memory of My First Mentor

Her name was Suhasini. Or was it Subhashini?

I can’t remember. How could I? I was only five when I first met her. And she left my life when I was six.

Suhasini is the name I will be sticking to for the rest of this elegy in prose.

Suhasini walked me to school and back. Every day of the week.

She was three years older than me. I always had to look way up to see her face.

I don’t remember her face, though. As her name was Suhasini, I would like to think she had a smiling face.

Her face must have been a kind one, for Suhasini was one of the kindest people I have ever met in my life.

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Suhasini was so kind that I am sure she was the one who offered to help my mother out. My mother, who was too occupied with my two siblings who were then toddlers, to accompany me to school.

Suhasini’s father, Madhavan, was my dad’s colleague.

She and her dad lived in a housing project (we called it a colony) at the far edge of ours. Her mother had died not too long ago.

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She walked nearly a kilometer to my apartment building to fetch me every afternoon. School started at one.

I would wait at the entrance with my mom and siblings, eager to get the first sight of Suhasini ambling towards us.

Suhasini always offered to carry my water bottle and lunch bag. I must have looked weighed down by the jute school bag slung on my shoulders.

She would ask to me to turn around after we had walked a few meters.

“Okay now, Pradeep, wave to your mom and your brother and your sister.”

I waved. I always obeyed Suhasini.

She was like an older sibling, though I don’t remember addressing her as Chechi.

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I held her index finger as we walked to school, and did not let go until we got there.

True to her other possible name, Subhashini, she was well-spoken and forever giving sage advice to her young mentee.

Our fifteen-minute walk to school would be filled with gems of her wisdom.

Suhasini was the first person outside of school to speak to me exclusively in English.

Even as an eight-year-old, Suhasini was a keen commentator on human relationships.

If I hesitated to wave goodbye to my mom and siblings, Suhasini would chide me.

“Always express your love for your family. They will not be with you forever.”

One afternoon, Suhasini noticed that I did not greet my teacher as the latter walked by us.

“Pradeep, do you think that was nice? One must always wish our teachers when we see them. We must show them respect.”

Of all my memories of my mentor, that one sticks out. I remember feeling bad about myself for disappointing Suhasini. I remember being determined to correct my behavior as soon as possible.

A week later, my teacher walked by us again on the way to school.

“Good afternoon, Teacher,” I said, in a loud voice.

My teacher turned around smiling and wished me too.

More importantly, Suhasini patted my head soon after.

“That was a wonderful thing you just did. See. Doesn’t it make you feel good?”

I did. Especially since my mentor was impressed with my behavior.

Suhasini possessed a wealth of information.

“Pradeep, do you know how many stars are there in the skies? Countless. Don’t ever try to count them. A man once tried to do just that, and died before he could count them all.”

“Pradeep, do you know why the siren goes off at ten every morning at the police station? So that the adults can set their watches and clocks to the correct time.”

“See those white flowers with the long stalks on the hedges. If you pluck them and sip at the stalk, you can drink their nectar like a bee.”

“Pradeep, do you know why the school smells strange when the ayahs wipe the floor with their mops? It is because they add a liquid called phenol in the water. Phenol kills the germs that could otherwise make us sick.”

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Suhasini would tell me stories on the way to and from school.

She regaled me with tales from the Mahabharata, the Ramayana, and the Puranas, long before I read them in Amar Chitra Katha and Chandamama.

She told me about the great leaders of the Indian independence movement, long before I learnt them from history textbooks.

She related stories about fantastic voyages, unexplained mysteries, and even ghost stories.

I don’t remember the stories, but I remember that she told them.

Suhasini taught me the right ways to appear and move around in the world.

Suhasini was the “Ruby” to my “Max”.

“Pradeep, tuck your shirt. Always. It makes you look smart and proper.”

“Pradeep, always walk on the right side of the road so that the drivers can see you and you can see the drivers.”

“Pradeep, never whistle. That is the sign of a bad boy.”

“Pradeep, never put your finger up your nose in public.”

For a year, Suhasini held my hand wrapped around her index finger as we walked to school, feeding me advice, trivia and stories.

Then, she left my life as abruptly as she entered it.

During the summer break, her father sent her to live with her grandmother, in a village far away. As Suhasini was going to be in secondary school the following year, her father did not want her coming to an empty home after school.

She came one morning to wish us goodbye. I pretended to be asleep so that I did not have to say farewell.

I could hear her playing with my siblings in the neighboring room, but I did not go.

I do not remember whether I cried but I would like to think I did.

And then, she was gone.

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