The scent of cracked cement filled my nostrils as old memories flooded my mind. There was a jolt of excitement and nervousness that ran up my spine. Stepping into my old school classroom felt nostalgic. I could almost see my friends and classmates coming through the door any minute, ready to take their usual seats. The same high whiteboard hung on the front wall, rows of blue chairs lined up neatly, wooden desks polished to a shine, and soft boards decorated with vivid posters and drawings.

But this time, it was different. I wasn’t here as a student. I was the new teacher.

“My name is Aimen, and I’ll be your new math teacher,” I announced to a sea of unfamiliar faces, forcing a smile that I hoped looked more welcoming than anxious. While some faces appeared unbothered, some students seemed genuinely interested, eyes bright with curiosity. A few were more concerned with their new stationery or babbling up about their summer vacation.

“I am the substitute for your retired teacher, Miss Fatema,” my voice echoed as I stood before the class.

She was an extraordinary teacher, with a heart of gold, who had devoted over 20 years to this school. She had been my math teacher too, and I wondered if she would still remember me. Now, it was my turn to step into her shoes and take up her duty. I silently prayed for some good luck in my new role.

The first week went smoothly, probably because we didn’t dive too deeply into the subject. I introduced algebra and most students seemed to grasp it quickly. Yet, in the following days, curiosity was weighing on my shoulders. Do the students truly understand? Were they progressing or just not keeping up with the class?

As a student, I despised math like a mortal enemy, and I knew many of them probably felt the same too. Determined to change that, I introduced ice-breaker activities and visual presentations to make the subject more engaging. Homework was assigned three times a week, much to the dismay of some students, but I knew it was necessary.

But as the months passed, the classroom began to reveal its true colours of chaos. The paper planes blowing through the air, and the popping of mini rocket packets often interrupted my lessons with a loud ‘POP’. I found myself wasting my minutes yelling at the students, trying to restore order.

“Alright, settle down!” I shouted one morning after a loud bang. “We’re going to go over the homework problems now. Everyone, please focus!”

My frustration grew, but I had to achieve my aim. My goal was to ensure every student either excelled in their exams or showed improvement. To that end, I started holding extra math sessions for those who struggled with inquiries or were lacking clarity on certain problems. Then I’d go back and forth between the classwork to ensure everyone understood it.

During my free time, I began to chat with other teachers, surprised by the challenges they faced. Their stories were often so unreal — tales of sleepless nights, endless grading, and the constant struggle to balance work and life. Yet, despite everything, they remained dedicated, driven by a passion for teaching that I could only admire.

To free myself from my packed schedule, I sometimes joined the girls in the class for light-hearted conversations during breaks. The boys were usually too busy with basketball and other sports, but these moments with the girls felt like mini tea parties, and it lightened the sudden weight on me.

As the end of the term approached, I anxiously awaited the results. Because the exam papers were checked by another teacher, hence I was clueless about my students’ performance. When the day finally arrived, the pride I felt was indescribable. Many students had scored exceptionally well, and others had made significant progress. The strategy seemed to have worked. It was a victory not just for them, but for me as well.

On Teachers’ Day, the school was buzzing with excitement. Students handed out gifts and handmade cards, and I received my share too — paper bracelets and glittery ‘Thank You’ notes decorated with clumpy markers and washi-tapes that I tucked carefully into my bag. They held a special place in my heart, a reminder of the impact I was making.

Later that evening, I dressed in my best attire and drove to visit Miss Fatema, the retired teacher. When she opened the door, her face lit up with recognition.

“Aimen, my dear! It’s been so long, you have grown up!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a warm hug.

After such a heart-warming afternoon chat, I handed her a box of doughnuts, which I had especially got for this auspicious day.

“Consider this a small gift from a teacher to a teacher. I wouldn’t be here without you,” I said as I offered her the box.

We spent the evening reminiscing about her old days, and as I listened to her stories, my admiration for her grew even more. She had shaped countless minds and now I was following in her footsteps.

As I drove home that night, I reflected on the past year. Teaching had been far more challenging than I had ever imagined, but it was also incredibly rewarding. I have had the honour to work among such strong inspiring women and men — the teachers, the principals and their assistants, and even the guards — and their auspicious and reckless hard work deserves appreciation. Active mornings and sleepless nights of sweat, I felt very sheepish to be complaining. Their dedication and zeal were nowhere a level near mine.

Teaching, I realised, is not just a profession. It’s a journey filled with endless learning and growth. It’s hard work, yes, but it’s also one of the most fulfilling careers there is. And for that, I was grateful.

Published in Dawn, Young World, October 5th, 2024