[dropcap]I[/dropcap] had stood last or second last in every class from Class 7 onward and had managed to fail in Class 8, necessitating a repeat of the year. The Headmaster of St Xavier’s seriously considered expelling me from school, but at my father’s fervent pleas, he gave me a last chance by shifting me from Science to Humanities. So, in 1967, I joined Class 10 in Humanities— which was the second year of our three-year ‘high school’ course.
The other ‘feathers’ in my cap were the several warnings I received for ‘poor conduct,’ mischief, and misbehavior. In other words, I was declared an ideal bad student when I joined, not without trepidation, on the first day in my new Humanities class—without knowing what had already been taught in Class 9. Everything was strange in this Class 10: the room, the boys, the subjects. No physics, chemistry, or maths—only vague subjects like history, geography, and literature.
But the strangest element was the class teacher, Father PY Gilson. I had seen this peculiar priest in the corridors and had always wondered how this placid Belgian missionary, with no noticeable chin and a peculiar French accent, survived the heat of India and the turmoil of unruly boys. Though he knew of my terrible reputation, he took no note and asked me to move to the first bench—something I had never done before. He then proceeded straight into the lessons, little realizing that I could hardly understand anything. Be that as it may, I was unconsciously drawn into his fascinating stories. Which child can resist a good story? Father Gilson seemed to weave tales with his magical voice and funny accent. His narrative was so life-like that I listened spellbound and gently stepped onto a magic carpet that carried me over fantasy lands. For the first time in my life, I was not bored in the classroom, and when the period ended, I could not believe it—I had actually enjoyed the literature!
More wonders followed as Father Gilson’s stories continued to flow from his magician’s hat. Soon, I started looking forward to his classes. Perhaps the greatest transformation he induced in me was not only a friendly attitude towards his subjects but towards studies in general. And that was just the beginning. Between classes and after classes, he encouraged me to meet him for extra lessons to make up for the year’s study that I had missed in Class 9. The special care he took with me had a soothing influence not only on my attitude towards studies but on the world at large.
However, my reverie was soon shattered by the reality of the first-class tests. I dreaded these approaching exams, convinced that I would never pass them, despite my brief flirtation with academics. “English Essay” was the first test, and I distinctly remember telling Father Gilson, with a choking voice, that I just could not write properly. His encouragement could hardly stop the streams of sweat that flowed endlessly during the exam.
When the results came out, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I had stood fourth in class! My parents were overjoyed, my friends pinched me, but nobody realized what it did to my confidence. The next surprise was a ‘first’ in Arithmetic. Coming from the Science stream to Humanities, it was not too difficult to score, and I had learned to dream. History, Geography, and other subjects followed, and I could not stop this new-found excitement for ‘topping’ in class. The rest was just crazy: one small success followed another, of course, with a lot of toil under Father Gilson’s constant guidance.
A few months later, we were all shocked to learn that Father Gilson was to leave for another school, and then, in a day or two, he was gone! I wept openly. Nobody had ever treated me like this before. Nobody else could turn around a sad case like mine into a fairy tale. And thanks to him, I am where I am today—there is no doubt about that.
A decade later, I was in the IAS and posted as Additional District Magistrate of Asansol and Durgapur in the Burdwan district of West Bengal. I was overjoyed to hear from a friend that Father Gilson was the Headmaster of St Xavier’s, Durgapur. I sought an immediate appointment and was eager to tell him that he was the teacher who had turned my life around. Would he recognize me? I could hardly wait!
The day finally arrived. A strange feeling of nostalgia overpowered me as the official car drove into the school with red lights, policemen, and the other unavoidable trappings of authority. I was ushered into Father Headmaster’s room, where a familiar scent greeted me. He was not there, as he had to take a class because some teacher was absent.
But he came in soon and shook my hand warmly. “I am proud of you,” he said. He was just the same, a trifle older. I was transformed—from a picture of confidence to a quivering, nervous ‘student’ groping for words. Even before I could frame my gratitude into proper sentences, the bell rang, and Father Gilson sprang up from his chair exclaiming: “Oh my God, there’s another class to attend. And the little boys are waiting. Naughty, you know. Like you were. I must go. God bless you, my son. Do well. But I must leave.” The good Jesuit teacher, whom I would never see alive again, had no time for my praises and my ever-lasting gratitude. He had other problems, children to tend to, to improve, to reform.
