ஒரு ஆசிரியர் தனது வாழ்நாளில் ஆயிரக்கணக்கான மாணவர்களைச் சந்திக்கிறார். அவர்கள் அனைவரும் காலநிலையைப் போல வந்து போகும் வேளையில், ஏதோ ஒரு மாணவன் மட்டுமே காலம் கடந்தும் நினைவில் நிற்கிறார். அப்படி மனதில் நீங்கா இடம் பிடித்த ஒரு மாணவன் தான் வினோத்.

அந்த மறக்க முடியாத மாணவன் குறித்த ஆசிரியர் வ. துர்காதேவியின் கட்டுரை...

A teacher meets thousands of students in a lifetime. Many pass through the classroom like seasons—present for a while and then slowly 

fading into memory. But once in a long while, a student appears who stays with you for years, sometimes even for life.

For me, one such student was Vinoth.

I entered government service in the month of December. By the time I joined, the half-yearly examinations were already in progress. So my first experience as a teacher was not standing before a class with chalk in hand, but standing quietly in an examination hall as an invigilator.

Rows of students writing in silence.

The soft scratching sound of pens moving across answer sheets. That was how my journey began.

Soon after the examinations, the half-yearly holidays began. When the school reopened in January, only then did we step into classrooms and begin our regular teaching.

There was another small distinction about my posting that I still remember with pride. I was the first properly appointed English Graduate Teacher in that school. Until then, teachers of other subjects had been handling English along with their own subjects.

When I joined the school, Vinoth was in the ninth standard. The tenth standard classes were already being handled by two senior teachers. Even so, I felt strongly that I should contribute in whatever way possible.

So during lunch breaks and special hours, I began conducting extra sessions for the tenth standard students.

My belief was simple.

When their answer papers reached the valuation camps, they should stand confidently beside the papers of any matriculation school student. An examiner does not know where a paper comes from. Only clarity of thought and presentation should speak.

It was during those extra sessions that I began noticing Vinoth.

He seemed to be first in almost everything.

First in studies.

First in helping others in their studies.

And quite interestingly, if there was a quarrel somewhere in the playground, Vinoth would somehow be present there as well.

Yet he carried no pride.

Many toppers develop a certain attitude. Vinoth never did. He moved easily among everyone and seemed comfortable with all the students.

There was another interesting thing about him.

He was left-handed.

Whenever I watched him write, I was reminded of the graceful batting of Sourav Ganguly. Just as Ganguly’s strokes seemed effortless and elegant, Vinoth’s writing flowed naturally from his hand.

His handwriting was neat, beautiful, and incredibly fast.

Later, when I began teaching tenth standard classes myself, I arranged the timetable so that English periods would come consecutively.

In the first period, I would teach the lesson.

In the second period, the students would memorize a paragraph and write it as a test without mistakes. I usually gave them fairly long passages because I wanted them to develop both memory and precision.

Vinoth would listen quietly.

Then, within ten minutes, he would stand up and say, “Ma’am, I am ready.”

While the others were still memorizing, he had already completed the process in his mind.

Often he would finish the test much earlier than the rest of the class.

Those moments created a small space between us.

While the other students were still writing, I would sometimes sit with Vinoth in the corridor or on the floor outside the classroom, speaking softly so that we did not disturb the others.

Vinoth never hesitated to ask questions.

But they were rarely about grammar or lessons.

He would ask about my family, my favourite food, my favourite colours, and the songs I liked.

And I would answer freely.

From the timeless music of Ilaiyaraaja to the understated performances of Vijay Sethupathi, our conversations wandered far beyond textbooks.

Looking back now, I realise those small conversations created a bond that was different from the usual classroom relationship.

Vinoth was not a boy who lived only with books.

During lunch breaks, while many tenth standard students spent their time memorizing lessons, Vinoth would usually be in the playground playing with students from other classes. He was good at sports too.

Yet when the time came for studies, he stood out effortlessly.

His family was not a wealthy one, but a simple household living close to the middle-class level. Perhaps that simplicity shaped his quiet strength.

Then came the day that remains vivid in my memory even now.

The Confession

The public examination results were announced.

The school corridors were alive with excitement. Laughter travelled from one classroom to another. Students compared their marks, celebrated their victories, and shared their happiness.

Vinoth had scored the highest mark that had ever been achieved in that school until that time.

Naturally, I expected him to come running with joy.

But he did not.

I noticed him standing quietly at a distance, almost withdrawn from the celebrations around him.

When I called him, he came slowly.

“Vinoth,” I asked, “why are you standing so silently?”

He looked at me with a seriousness that did not belong to a day of triumph.

“Ma’am,” he said softly,

“I feel I have broken my promise.”

I was surprised.

He continued,

“You spent so much time correcting my mistakes. Even when I was playing, if something came to your mind you would call me and say, ‘Vinoth, write about this situation,’ or ‘Vinoth, write a letter about that.’ You believed I could score more. But I could not reach that mark.”

He had scored around ninety-five or ninety-six in English, which was already an excellent achievement, especially in those days when English had two separate papers.

Yet he felt he had fallen short of the faith placed in him.

In that moment I realised something that no mark sheet can ever capture.

Greatness does not lie merely in scoring high.

It lies in feeling responsible for the trust someone places in you.

The Years That Followed

Life moved on, as it always does.