In the last story the readers were introduced to Master Tarachand, the math teacher, whose influence saved his nephew from the clutches of Chambal dacoits. There’s no evidence to suggest that massaab had ever met the famous poet, Firaq Gorakhpuri, in real life. Yet, just like Firaq taught English with a poetic flair, Master Tarachand taught math with a generous sprinkling of morality and philosophy.
What on earth could be common in English and math teaching? Well, it was said of Firaq that while teaching English at Allahabad University, he’d often slip his Urdu poetry into the lessons. Similarly, Tarachand Master, while solving equations, would gently nudge students toward the deeper truths of life.
Take, for example, the classic speed-time problem in a class 7-8 syllabus:
“If a train is moving at 40 km/h, how long will it take to cross a 100-meter platform?”
After explaining the basic formula, Masterji would pause and say, “Speed can be illusory. Sitting in a moving train, rooted trees on the ground seem to race by. However, if you contemplate, even stationary trees have nutrients and water constantly flowing within them.”
Then he’d add thoughtfully,
"And remember, not all movement means progress. Sometimes, movement leads to a downward spiral."
It's not as if Masterji came into the class with a script each day. His wisdom flowed naturally—like an overflowing pot, or a raincloud bursting at the right moment.
While teaching profit and loss, from the textbook he would ask:
“If Ram buys something for ₹10 and sells it for ₹12, what’s his profit percentage?”
Masterji, being cut from a different cloth, would spice up the stale textbook question:
"If during the COVID pandemic, a shopkeeper bought a medicine for ₹500 and sold it for ₹25,000, what percentage profit did he make?"
For the students who struggled to score even 30% marks, this question was quite daunting. The academically proficient students would promptly apply the formula and proudly arrive at the answer—only for Masterji to remark:
"Yes, mathematically you're right. But this isn't what we call ethical profit.”
While teaching about units of distance, he took pain to explain,
"You know, when the distance gets too vast, the unit of kilometers becomes inconvenient to record it. That’s when we measure distance in the units of time. For example, the sun is 8 light-minutes away—that’s how far light travels in 8 minutes at 186,000 miles per second."
Just as students were trying to digest this cosmic scale, he’d quiz them further:
"And tell me, what’s the unit for measuring the distance between the conscious mind and the sub-conscious?"
The class would go silent.
Perhaps, only years later would the students realize that though the units for different measurements were the creation of human mind, they were still incapable of measuring those intricate distances. Students considered themselves lucky that such complex questions never appeared in their exams!
For calculating areas of bodies the formula given in the book was simple:
"Multiply length by breadth to get the area of a square."
Masterji would not let the opportunity go waste for drilling an important facet of life:
"Just being big in size doesn't mean much. In a forest, the elephant is the biggest animal—but the lion is called the king.”
Einstein had said that he imagined riding a beam of light while theorizing about the theory of relativity. In each class Masterji took his students on a mathematical beam for voyage of interesting details about forests, mountains and cosmos.
Masterji’s genius was that he never taught a math lesson without weaving in a life lesson. After teaching the rules of interest, he'd ask:
"At a 10% interest rate, how much will ₹1 lakh amount to in three years?"
The enthusiastic students would immediately put their heads down to solve, but he’d caution them:
"Wait! First ask yourself—are we dealing with simple interest or compound interest? Never rush to solve a problem without knowing all the facts."
As students moved to higher classes they had to struggle with irrational numbers, complex numbers, imaginary numbers and also with an incomprehensible entity called infinity. Masterji’s explanation often bordered on the mystical. When he introduced infinity, he’d say:
"The one who reduces his desires and needs to zero... becomes infinite."
The students got perplexed.
"But sir, zero means nothing, and infinity means everything—how can they be the same?"
Masterji replied,
"Because when you have no more wants, you are unshackled. He who finds contentment... experiences infinity."
The students held deep respect for Masterji, knowing that even if an answer wasn’t found right away, it existed—somewhere. Eventually.
One day, Masterji came to the class with a riddle:
"This question doesn’t need a math genius—you just require a basic understanding of fractions.
A man left 17 cows to his three sons in his will.
· Half to the eldest son.
· One-third to the second son.
· One-ninth to the youngest son.
How do you divide 17 cows according to this will?”
Even the smartest students were baffled. The numbers simply didn’t add up.
Finally, Masterji smiled and told the solution:
“A wise neighbor of those sons came with a solution. He added one of his own cows to the herd—making it 18.
Now:
· Half of 18 = 9 cows to be given to the eldest son.
· One-third = 6 cows given the the second son.
· One-ninth = 2 cows given to the youngest son.
Total = 17 cows distributed according to the will.”
“What about the 18th cow Masterji?”, protested the students.
The teacher reminded, “The 18th cow belonged to the neighbor who took it back.”
The class gasped. Then they all burst into joyful laughter.
Masterji concluded, "This story teaches us something beyond math. In a family, mutual understanding is crucial—but good relations with neighbors are just as important. You never know when you might need one.'‘
Interesting one