It was twenty-odd winters ago. On holiday, I was preparing for a trip to explore a mountain riv er. Basically, to indulge in a dope called angling, that I was hooked to since I was ten and ran in the bloodline. Watching me prepare were my parents, who were sipping coffee and soaking in the lovely winter sun.

In biked a handsome friend, who blended well with the machismo machine he was riding.

Seeing me do what I was doing, a little sheepishly, he opened up to make a request. Something that shocked the hell out of me. It was an invitation, actually, a plea to teach ! Dad smiled, for he knew my grey matter. My hard disc retained very little, for I never saved or stored! Even in the wallet, for the rainy day.

Just like my sons now, my friends then laughed at the selection of the teacher! I was usually promoted from the back-bench to the front in school, for you know what.

Jokes apart, I couldn’t refuse my friend. For Danny Boy was a friend in deed and needed help. “Only for a month. I’ll try to be back before Christmas”, he reassured. “Don’t forget your gear”, he reminded, as the late night train moved out of Guwahati, with him and an ailing brother I liked very much. With a silent prayer in my heart, I wished them Godspeed.

I was to step in his shoes as a teacher, in a remote village they called town, way up in the Patkai Hills. A job Danny needed to keep then.

I had heard tales of the land from Danny and my Dad. With time on my hands and the pleasure of seeing a new place, I boarded the cabin of a Trans Assam Wheels bus, courtesy a friend named Manjit Hazarika, on a night journey to Upper Assam. Just before nightfall the next day, I was in Danny’s land of new zeal after a back-breaking jeep-ride of a journey. Part of it through a stretch, where the sun’s rays, probably, has never kissed the land. The jeep swaggered along, like a drunkard who knew his way home. It was familiar 4X4 country.

As the first rays fell, I could see that it was as beautiful as they had described. Serene and very calm. Picture post-card like. Danny’s outhouse was the southern-most point and at an altitude, over-looking the town’s main thoroughfare. The rivulet and its meadow on the east, with little islands in the stream. The ranges of Burma, further east. The pretty Church, hung in the middle of the ridge on the north, like a guardian angel.

I trooped in around eightish with the sealed introductory letter. Ol’ man Princy Joseph surveyed me from top to toe. I soon sensed his thought that I didn’t look like the teacher kind ! To be honest, as you know by now, I never was. Something, however, made him change his mind. Maybe, the discussion he had with two young teachers, in a dialect I couldn’t follow.

Kevin and Mary introduced me to the others. I had to teach English, History and Geography ! The co-ed batches were like any other I’ve been to. Wily and clever. Noisy too. I soon hit it off, managed to make many friends and even progress on the course. The hard disc was functioning!

The weekends were wonderful. Allowing me to survey the place. Adi, a charismatic 12-year-old, was my guide. Much more matured than his age, his comments on any subject we discussed were very relevant. Every abeli, we used to walk the main road. Soon, I knew who lived where and who owned what.

Over cups of lovely tea and cakes at Little John’s eatery, I was introduced to the townsfolk. Amongst many, Reverend Russell, the Pastor. Salt and pepper-haired Khireswar, a retired Subedar Major of the Assam Regiment. From the plains, but now a man of the mountains. A settled agriculturist with a power tiller. Elegant Ai, the graduate who owned the bookstore. Then, there was rosy Rosalita, Danny’s neighbour and her pretty daughters. All six of them !

In the evenings, the music of the village choir wafted through. The guitar and the sopranos made melody.

Sundays were mostly spent down the stream. Picnic with rod and line. At lunch-time, the transistor played melodies, broadcast by AIR, Dibrugarh. The presenter, whoever she was, had a very nice selection.

We even tried climbing up the vertical ridge, but it was too slippery and the leeches were too many! I remembered the man who used to treat me to Kwality ice-creams — Mountaineer Rohini Bhuyan, who lies buried in Mt. Kamet. And a dear cousin of mine, Mayo College teacher and later IPS Officer, P.M. Das of the Punjab cadre. Men of the mountains.

Danny was back , as promised. His sullen expression said it all. We went to Church that Sunday, to pray for the easing of David’s pain. Pastor Russell enquired if I had heard of Godhula. Yes, I had. I remembered reading about Godhula and Nidhi Farwell, but did not know much about them. Men of the Lord, he said. “Son, see Dzukou Valley when you can”, he added.

It was time to leave. The farewell at the school was short and sweet. Kevin had a few nice words to say. Adi touched upon the chapter on Japan. How he found it difficult to remember the names of the islands till he was helped by — “Hokkaido, Honshu, Shikoku, Kyushu — Kokaido, tumi muk kiwa sikutisa? Osaka, Nagasaki, Borneo — Wah, moi nai sikuta!” He was quick to add — Borneo was in the Phillipines.

The students pulled my leg. Don’t know much about History, don’t know much about Geography... the girls sang in unison, with Leo, the School Goalie on the guitar.

Princy Joseph was very candid. He had guessed it all. Even snooped on me, while I taught. Wise in the ways of the world, he explained; I was breaking monotony.

At a loss for words, I thanked them all for their warmth and affection that touched a chord in me.

It was a misty morning when we drove down after a cup of steaming tea at Ai’s cottage. I checked out Joseph’s general purpose vehicle. The Willys wandered, but on course. She was a beauty. Perfectly tuned.

Both Danny and Mary cleared the Civil Services. They married the next year. Adi, now a handsome young man, works on electronic design automation. Ai, I am told, delivered to the school library double of what I left behind, in a white envelope!

Recently, in Bangalore, we caught up on ol’ times. Danny drove up, all the way from Chennai. Amongst many things else, we both agreed that teachers should be paid well. They shape the future of the country. Don’t you agree ?

Raktim Phookan