A student delivered me to warden’s room.
“Be careful! He loves to hit with folded knuckle.”
“Great!” timidly I knocked on the door.
A tall man, with long unkempt hair, in dhoti and a banayan was sitting on his bed. Sorrounded by books, and news papers, a pair of bifocal glasses hung on his nose. This was Abani da, dedicated to school, donated his salary to school.
“You called for me sir?”
“Did I? Which class? What did you do?”
“Oh! new comer! Did not study at home? Did they tell you about my discipline and punishment?”
I could not see a despot. Well that was my first day. Many years, much experience later, I stood infront of the corner room of the stone building to admit my son. No Abani da. They don’t make teachers like him any more.
“Why tears dad!”
Word Count: 147
Competition No. 189
This little piece of fiction was inspired by the weekly prompt challenge of 29th Oct, 2018 hosted by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks for reading! Other entries on the topic can be found here.
Photo Credit:Jade M Young