A Silk Wrapped in Love

- வ. துர்காதேவி

ஒரு ஆசிரியருக்கும், மாணவனுக்கும் இடையிலான உறவு,  வெறுமனே Teacher - Student என்று இல்லாமல் அதையும் தாண்டி தாய்க்கும், மகனுக்குமான உறவாக மாறும்போது அது எப்போதுமே ஸ்பெஷல்தானே.. அப்படிப்பட்ட ஒரு அழகிய அனுபவத்தை நம்முடன் பகிர்கிறார் வ. துர்காதேவி.

Of all the lessons I learned as a teacher, one came wrapped in a bar of chocolate.

It arrived quietly, without occasion, yet it has stayed with me more than years of teaching ever could.

It began on an ordinary February morning.

Some places have a way of calming the mind even before the day truly begins.

The school where I once worked was one such place.

Every morning, as I parked my scooter near the entrance, the first thing that welcomed me was the quiet embrace of the trees. Tall, old, and generous with their shade, they stood like a small forest guarding the campus. The breeze that slipped through their branches carried a gentle calm, dissolving even the busiest worries of the morning.

Within moments, that stillness would slowly give way to the rhythm of school life.

Students would begin to gather around me—some holding notebooks, some rehearsing under their breath—all preparing for the morning prayer assembly. I was almost always the first teacher to reach the campus. A little later another social science teacher would arrive and take charge of the Tamil news while I coordinated the rest.

Our Headmaster rarely raised his voice, yet his presence itself carried authority. If a student made even the smallest mistake while reading the news or presenting the thought for the day, his eyes would speak before words did. That single glance was enough for us to rehearse everything once again.

So every morning we practised patiently until every word sounded right before sending the students to the prayer ground.

With time, I realised how meaningful that discipline was.

A day that begins with care and preparation often carries that same sense of order within it.

It was February.

The campus, like any place filled with teenagers, carried a quiet excitement during that month. Small groups of students whispered in corridors and near staircases, discussing Rose Day, Chocolate Day, Hug Day, and the many little celebrations that float through youthful hearts.

We teachers usually walked past those conversations as one walks past a familiar breeze. After all, such seasons belong to youth—and we too had once lived them.

One morning, just after parking my vehicle, I stepped into the staff room to keep my lunch bag.

A boy stood near the door, hesitating.

“May I come in, ma’am?” he asked softly.

It was Sanjay.

He was the youngest in his family, with two elder sisters. I knew his family quite well, especially his mother—one of the most remarkable women I had ever come across.

She ran a wholesale flower business and was known in that part of the town for her boldness and determination. With a mobile phone always in hand, she moved through the noisy flower market with striking confidence, dealing with retail shop owners with remarkable ease. Her language was commanding, her tone firm—but the workspace demanded exactly that. In a place where hesitation meant loss, her voice carried both survival and authority.

Behind that firmness lived a woman who carried her family forward despite her health struggles, with a resilience that asked for no sympathy.

Many times we think teachers shape students. Yet often, it is the lives of students and their families that quietly shape the teacher.

The quiet strength of many lower middle-class families has always stayed with me. They face hardships without drama, move forward without complaint, and carry dignity even in struggle.

Sanjay belonged to such a home.

And there was another side of him I had witnessed before.

During village temple festivals, students would often insist that we visit their local temples, almost pulling us along with excitement. It was during such times that I had seen Sanjay transform into someone entirely different.

He would perform Saami Aatam, a ritual dance, with a soolam in his hands. His face would be painted pitch dark, his lips thickly coloured in blood red, and his movements fierce and powerful. In those moments he resembled a ferocious Kaali, his dance filled with a wild energy that was both intense and mesmerizing.

I had seen him like that more than once.

And so, seeing the same boy standing quietly at the staff room door that morning felt almost unreal.

Looking at him, I smiled and asked half teasingly,

“What is it, Sanjay? Coming to the staff room so early? Didn’t do your homework? Or forgot a notebook at home?”

He shook his head gently.

“I brought a small gift for you, ma’am.”

A gift?

Then slowly he brought forward the hand he had been hiding behind his back.

There it was.

A Dairy Milk Silk chocolate bar.

Silk — a word that has quietly lived in the hearts of Tamilians for decades.

Smiling, I asked him,

“For whom is this Silk?”

“For you, ma’am,” he said shyly.

“Why suddenly?”

“Today is Chocolate Day, ma’am.”

I smiled.

“That’s nice… but do you know to whom it is usually given?”

His reply came without hesitation.

“To the one I love.”

I looked at him and asked playfully,

“Then why are you giving it to me?”

His answer came as naturally as breath.

“Next to my mother, I love you the most, ma’am. I gave one to my mother in the morning before she left for the market.”

For a moment, words deserted me.

The boy I had seen dancing like a fierce Kaali during temple festivals, holding a soolam with commanding energy—now stood before me with a simple chocolate in his hand and affection shining in his eyes.

It felt rarer than any wonder I had known.

That chocolate was not merely a gift. It was something he had earned slowly—saving coins here and there, perhaps denying himself small pleasures, just to offer it.

Then he added with complete seriousness,

“You should not share this with anyone, ma’am.”

I nodded with a smile.

How could I share something that was not just chocolate, but a child’s love?

And truth be told, sharing Silk was never my plan either.

People often say love is blind.

But that day, I felt otherwise.

Love sees.

And sometimes it sees so deeply

that a teacher finds a place

right beside a mother.

(About the Author: Durgadevi V, Graduate Teacher, GHS Nesal, Tiruvannamalai District)