Myfriend, Rohan Rodrigo, brought a knuckleduster to the classroom.
Rohan is a tough, brave boy, bringing in a hand-to-hand weapon, everybody thought.
Whom is he going to use it against? was on everyone’s mind. Rohan was the fearless hero of the day with a weapon. Brandishing it, he was showing it off to fellow classmates. The boys gathered around him, marvelling at this weapon, touching and admiring it.
D J Antony, our language teacher, walked into the class — pin-drop silence, not because of fear, but because every student respected D J Antony. From the corner of his eyes, D J Antony saw Rohan trying to conceal his knuckleduster, hiding it among his schoolbooks.
D J Antony did not utter a word. He pretended everything was normal. Quietly, he came to Rohan’s desk and took the knuckleduster away. There was no drama. His friends around him expected the worst. But D J Antony was calm. Back at his desk, D J Antony packed the knuckleduster in his bag and continued the class as if nothing happened. His timely action prevented a likely weaponised teenage brawl.
That act was not unusual for D J Antony, this liberal teacher at St. Benedict’s College in Colombo, our high school in grade ten. The teenage boys never took kindly to the other teachers but not to D J Antony. They loved D J Antony, adoring and listening to him in his class. Everyone waited for his period when he taught Sinhala, the native majoritarian language in Sri Lanka. Not only taught the language, but he also taught them psychology about growing pains. In an age where sex education was a foreign concept in schools, D J Antony knew the art of explaining this difficult subject to the boys as tactfully as he could.
The teachers had strange nicknames, from ‘Japanese cat’ to ‘Coconut oil’. Nobody was spared of this humorous name-calling. Not even D J Antony. He had a nickname, but it was said with a tang of gentleness. His was ‘Nas polla’, simply translated as ‘nose rod’. He had a rustic, deep voice, so the name. Do not ask me how people come up with these weird nicknames; that was an art of their own, only known to Sri Lankan islanders. D J Anthony was a strong, well-built and alpha male. That, coupled with his rustic voice, ‘Nas Polla’ became his idolised name among the boys. He was the Jamie Fox of our generation.
D J Antony, our beloved teacher, was always on time for class. He took his profession seriously, wearing clean white pants and a shirt. He was different. He was young as a teacher in his twenties, relating well to the teenage boys under his wing. He was passionate about teaching and his life mission.
Teaching and giving back to his community was his calling from his student days at St Benedict’s, the same school where D J Antony studied ten years earlier. To achieve his career goal, he went to university and then teachers formation school, studying child psychology. Then he returned to his old school as a teacher. He was very proud of his job, educating and empowering youth.
Every boy loved D J Antony’s wisdom. There was a soft corner for him in every boy’s heart.
I loved being a student in his class.
D J Antony as a young teacher and, at his graduation, a redeemer of youth
Now, this is the thing. D J Antony was also my relative. His mother was related to my parents. D J Antony’s mother, lovingly called Julie Akka, lived with my grandparents when my mother was a young girl. Julie looked after my mother as a toddler. Our relationship was entrenched going back a few generations. D J Antony’s mum was my grandmother’s cousin. As a young boy, we visited his family home whenever we attended mass at the church in Pamunuwila, the neighbouring suburb where D J Antony lived. D J Antony had seen me grow up.
But in school, I was just another boy in his class. There was no preferential treatment. No nepotism. Neither one of us expected any. But I was conscious that I had to do my best in his presence. He was my teacher, and I was his student. That’s all. The family relationship was put aside in school. Simple and professional in a country saddled with family nepotisms in social and political life, almost every aspect of life.
Nobody in school knew our family relationship. It was not relevant to my student-teacher relationship.
That year the school organised an educational day trip for year ten boys. D J Antony was the teacher leading the trip to the ancient rock Sigiriya and Dambulla cave temples in north-central Sri Lanka.
Wearing my long pants and excited, I joined my school friends on the trip. I was the first boy on the bus, cause the touring bus started from D J Antony’s home, not far from mine. A bus full of boys joined, singing and enjoying ourselves. We started early and enjoyed this day trip under D J Antony’s caring supervision. We climbed Sigiriya Rock and toured other historic sites. D J Antony had a time keeping the testosterone-pumped high-energy boys in check, but he was good at it.
I was experimenting with smoking as every teenager did back in the day. During a break in the trip, I felt bold. I lit a cigarette and showed off to my friends, pretending to be a grown-up.
Lo and behold, D J Antony saw me in the act. That was not expected. I shivered in my pants. Not only was he my teacher, but he was also my uncle. I panicked, imagining what would happen to me if my mother came to know about my delinquency. I was in double jeopardy.
But the graceful D J Antony just gave me one look. I was conscious of my misadventure, sweating and nervously imagining how my mother would react.
To my luck, D J Antony simply ignored the incident. He never mentioned the episode to my parents. Whenever he visited our home, I was conscious of what I had done, smoking and getting caught. That embarrassing moment never came to pass, thanks to D J Antony.
I was grateful for his gracious and thought-leading act — discipline and corrections with love and without a fuss.
D J Antony knew his boys, had the foresight to understand growing youngsters, and nurtured them when education was yet to evolve in Sri Lanka — the best child psychologist of a teacher for teenage boys back in the day. I am sure many generations after me benefitted from his foresight: lovely man, an educator with emotional intelligence on the tiny island of Sri Lanka.
That’s why I think fondly of D J Antony. Not as my relative but as my teacher, a role model of a teacher.
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