Delightful Recompense

Master Tarachand was like an ancient relic rarely found in an underground excavation by archaeology department. Not only did his students but his wife too fondly call him Maasssab (a respectful term for a teacher in Hindi heartland). He was a living legacy of Morena, a town in the notorious Chambal valley of Madhya Pradesh.

After teaching in a government school for 40 years, he had worn his body thin, but the stiffness of his gait remained. Before becoming the headmaster, he had taught mathematics in the same school. Even after the promotion, burdened with administrative responsibilities, he never gave up teaching math. At times, he might had slipped in his teaching schedule, when it came to disciplining students, he was relentless. Some say the only reason he continued teaching after becoming the headmaster was for the pleasure of thrashing his students!

A teacher is generally considered as the disciple of Saraswati (the goddess of knowledge), but in the classroom, Maassaab looked more like a warrior form of Durga. Chalk, duster, and stick regularly flew furiously as guided missiles and landed with uncanny precision on the trouble makers who dared to disturb the harmony of his classes. He had mastered the art of wedging pencils between students’ fingers as punishment while they squirmed in pain. Parents hardly interfered in Maassaab’s methods. The students looked at him with complete awe.

Among the many students he taught were doctors, engineers, IAS officers and lawyers. But interestingly, some of his students also turned out to be infamous Chambal dacoits!

Master Tarachand was now retired. Every evening, he would don a black sherwani, tight white pajama, and carry a watch in hand as he took long walks in the town. People would see him from afar, smile, and greet him respectfully:
"Ram Ram, Maassaab!"
He’d twist his thick moustache with pride and nod,
"God bless you! Is my teaching doing you any good?"

One day, Maassaab's 20-year-old nephew was coming from Udaipur to Morena. His bus broke down on the way. It was winter, and night was approaching. While other seasoned passengers waited for another bus to arrive, the nephew wandered to a nearby petrol pump, where he met a truck driver.

“Bhaiyya is there any way to get to Morena?”
“Hop on the truck, it’s carrying marble. We’ll drop you there,” the driver replied.

Being naïve, the boy climbed aboard the open truck loaded with Makrana marble. Two other men were already seated in the back. Covered in blankets, they looked suspicious. From under their blankets, the nephew spotted two guns but it was too late by now as the truck had started moving on the highway. The boy knew that Morena had the highest number of unlicensed firearms in the country. His heart pounded. Trying to stay calm, he kept a safe distance and sat quietly in a corner. The two men whispered to each other, eyeing him.

After a while, one of them asked gruffly,
“Ladke, Where are you headed?”
“Morena,” he replied hesitantly.
“We’re from Morena too. Whose house are you going to?”
“To Master Tarachand's… He’s my uncle.”
“What! Maassaab's place?”

The men looked at each other and grinned. One of them tapped his gun and said,
“Why didn’t you say so earlier? We thought you were a rich kid and we were hatching a plan to kidnap you for ransom!”

The boy was petrified. Sensing his fear, the second man consoled him,
“Beta, this is Chambal. Always be alert while traveling here—and do not venture out after dark.”

The boy nodded like a helpless sacrificial goat.

“Now, as we know that you’re Maassaab’s nephew, you’re safe with us. Your liberty today is our guru dakshina (a token of respect) to Maassaab!”

Their loud laughter reminded the boy of Gabbar Singh from the film Sholay. He feared they might change their minds and kidnap him after all.

Sensing his unease, one of the men stood up, knocked on the cleaner’s window in the truck’s driving cabin with the butt of his rifle and barked an order to drop the nephew directly at Master Tarachand’s home. The driver and cleaner obeyed the command without a word.

When the truck stopped outside the house, one of the men even helped the nephew down.
“Tell Maassaab that Tomar brothers send their regards! And remind him—no cop ever beat us like he did!”

The nephew, drenched in sweat and trembling, rushed inside the house without looking back.
On seeing Maassaab the boy blurted,“Mamaji, I had a very scary experience tonight!”

Maassaab gave a look over to his nephew and observed, “I can see that from your face. Was there a road accident?”

The boy related the entire story in one breath.
“Achcha, so you met the Tomar brothers! Those rascals… I thrashed them plenty in school. It took them three years just to pass one grade—and both dropped out of school after 5^th class.”

“Yes, Mamaji. They still remember your beatings fondly!”

“Their deeds are unlawful, but they’re free-spirited. Once, they even stopped the legendary actress Meena Kumari!”

“What? Tell me more!” The nephew was slowly recovering from his earlier harrowing misadventure.

Maassaab was happy to oblige, “One night, Meena Kumari was traveling through Shivpuri for a Pakeezah film shoot. Her car ran out of petrol in a desolated area. Tomar brothers happened to be passing by and they held everyone captive—including meena kumari’s husband, Kamal Amrohi, the film’s producer.”

“They must’ve extorted a lot of money from the Bollywood stars!”

“No, not all. The elder brother, Jagga, was a huge fan of Meena Kumari. When he identified that Meena Kumari was in their trap, he turned the event into a party. They arranged for dholak and harmonium, and had her recite her famous ghazals! After providing them a sumptuous dinner, they even sent a man to fetch petrol for her car. Jagga got her autograph on his pam before letting her go.”

“They didn’t look like the artistic type to me!”
“You can never know a person inside out. Well, they let you go without ransom too, didn’t they?”

“But how do you know Meena Kumari’s story, mama ji?”

“Meena Kumari herself told about that incident.”

“You mean Meena Kumari told you the story herself?”
“No, no. Meena Kumari mentioned it in an interview given to journalist. You can as well verify it on Google.”

The nephew bowed respectfully once again.
“Mama ji, Meena Kumari’s art saved her that night—and today, your reputation has saved me.”

Maassaab twirled his moustache, sat in his chair, and straightened his already straight back. He was proud—not just of teaching math, but of having taught his students the values of life. The rest, as always, was up to fate and individual karma.

So if you ever find yourself stranded in Morena at night—just drop the name “Master Tarachand.” It might just save your life.