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by R. L. Lalprema

The gist of a letter addressed to a teacher who is acquainted with me read thus, 'In commemoration of the World Teachers' Day we are delighted to invite the College staff to a felicitation trip, sponsored by the Old Peterites Group 82-87'. No sooner had I empathized with the contents, than I was thrown back, along with my memories that were in hibernation, to a beautiful world of teachers, in which worries and pains unknown.

Their gesture of gratitude evoked in me, now passing my early sixties a feeling tainted with anguish and guilt, calling to my mind the thanklessness of leaving my teachers with a forgotten past since my last day at school. This drove me to a point of an irresistible urge to run into their embrace, fall at their feet with a humble plea for apology, but with little prospect as most of them would be no more to be met in person.

One half of a century ago, my school of little fame, St. Servatius' College, now put on the map by one of her great sons. Sanath Jayasuriya, the cricket prodigy, was far from claiming student organizations, for such laudable action. Instead, my memory haunts the many occasions when my teachers took us on outings with utmost care, until we were safely placed back in the care of our anxious parents who used to wait with eyes fixed on the road.

Nevertheless, they continue to dwell in my heart with every word that I write, a part of their knowledge, which they generously imparted to me. It saddens me for the lost opportunity and forsaken duty since I freed myself from their custody, at least to murmur into their ears about my humble appreciation of their vital role in leading us the right way.

I wish I had said, "You are the mentors whose inheritance is the shared marvel and faith that I made my life meaningful." Perhaps those few words could be the only thing they would expect in return for all that was selflessly done for me, for many thousands like me. About the teachers, it is nothing but the truth that they do prepare us for a better life, which is, perhaps, otherwise destined.

At my first encounter with my Principal, I was awestruck with his long, spotless white garb worn over the trousers and the broad black belt intersecting at the waist that enhanced his fine physique. As for me, a Buddhist village lad, who had not seen a clergyman of the Christian faith before, I thought it was the conventional attire of every Principal. My secondary education set off with one Ms. Fonseka, a strong limbed bob haired Burgher lady in her fashionable dresses, who walked all mornings to school from her residence in the Dutch Fort. She laid in me the basic foundation for grammar. Her markings in red characters "good, very good, excellent" filled my books which I had preserved for years after school.

Motivated by a feeling, in particular, to win her admiration I crammed my lessons which secured me the first place in the class. However, frank as it should be, I was never the sort that any maths teacher would desire both in the class and in examinations.

"Continue with your good work," the good lady advised me when I had to leave her class on promotion to next grade.

Neatly dressed in full white with a panama hat on, the dark figure of old Mr. Gunasekere was distinctly impressive, with his teaching accompanied by histrionic gestures. At the beginning in his new class he frowned on my essays but later, I was elated by his praise for my compositions which he used to read aloud in the class. I eagerly looked for his assignments, something, at first, I dreamed of doing but never believed I could do. One day, like in a trance, he was wrapped up in explaining, I still remember, The King Robert of Sicily when I was dumbfounded by a thundering slap that came from nowhere.

Tears burst from my eyes although I tried to curb. He would have been sharp at noting that I was inattentive, perhaps, not with my consciousness. However, after the class he beckoned me to his table and said, "I am sorry, you are a studios boy".

Confidence, instilled as that, I did carry with me to the upper classes, where I joined the science stream, the other beings arts, as a prelude to the Senior examinations. I was able to keep up my position to receive the term report on the stage of the assembly hall in the midst of deafening applause from the Father-Principal for it was a tradition that he gave it away to the first three boys.

However, for my low marks for science, my class Master, Seneviratne, had remarked therein 'unfit for science'. Not dispirited, instead, I took it up with pride that I was, exceptionally, gifted for languages. I was not robbed of my interest in my Sinhalese, taught by an elderly Master, Jayasuriya of the Cumaratunga school of grammar. Fair looking Mr. Joseph, a graduate from Kerala, taught us Botany His quintessence was reading the text to the class and he would, at times, ask for the Sinhala equivalents of botanical terms.

Students made fun out of him giving indecent names pretending serious, which he unsuspectingly believed, though manifestations of disapproval read on our faces, concealing laughter with utmost care. One day, least unusual, he wanted a name when a mischief maker was prompt with something funny. Furious, he called him and pulled him by the ear until he apologised. He threw a piece of paper at the class which contained the corresponding Sinhala term which he had already obtained from someone.

Our Head Master's wife, Mrs. Coopman, in her look of elegance, with her two young daughters, studying at the adjoining Convent, travelled in a buggy cart which jolted all the way with a creaking clatter that easily replaced the warning signal of a horn. One knows this was the traditional and respectable conveyance that symbolized the little town Matara, where you get the extremity of the southern coastal railway line.

For literature she made us act, not mere reading, Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.

Not satisfied , she insisted that I did my part well. Now I remember the relevance of her two lines in my autograph album - Honour and shame from no condition arise; act well your part there all the honour lies. In the higher classes for our English we had a Mrs. Manuel, who was obsessed with precision and keeping to the point, was not without sarcasm in her remarks on a pupil, "You write a paragraph for a sentence, an essay for a paragraph and a chapter for an essay."

My first language teacher, Mr. Munaweera initiated in me self-assurance to dispel fear and shyness that had gripped me at the beginning.

As if by fate, I met him at some function, yet, not in the image of the bubbling youth of the master in his immaculate white dress, I saw four decades ago. With all the veneration filled in my heart I embraced him. He was unable to recognize me. I mentioned my name to him but to no avail although he tried to call up. His was a formal response to my appreciation.

I was disappointed. I felt I was a nonentity to him. He was right, I accused of myself. The forty long years that separated us had erased off the eventful past though I talked to him in the same fervour.

He bade farewell to me before he quietly retreated to join his companions to make himself more comfortable.

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