I was sent to National School in 1944 and graduated with a BSc from National College, Basavanagudi, in 1960. Nursery through BSc in the same institution. My brothers, all six of them, also studied at the same school. Our family (nine children and our parents) stayed on the Uttaradi Mutt Road near National College, and we just hopped over the compound of the Mutt and landed safely in the school.
Back then, all families followed a common practice: whether one had studied adequately or not, before going to the exams, all of us would prostrate to our mother and ask for her blessing, believing that her blessings would get us through our exams.
Once, when I failed Sanskrit, I confronted my mother, saying, “Amma, what blessings you gave that I have failed Sanskrit.” Instead of asking me to study better, she said, “I will bless you better next time.” Not just for exams, we counted on our elders’ blessings for every competition. My cousin asked his grandma to bless him for a running race, and she blessed him with “Nidhanama odittu vaa” (run slowly)! But we had immense faith in their blessings.
Our math teacher in high school would call out our names and announce our marks: “Rama, you got 95; try for more; Krishna, 76; try for more.” When Venkat, the most mischievous boy, was called, he stood up and said loudly, “Yes, sir.” “You got 7 only.” He had the audacity to ask, “Sir, out of how much?” The teacher was not upset, and he replied, “Out of my mercy, sit down.”
When we went to college in 1955 for junior intermediate, most of us were less than 15 years old. Our Sanskrit teacher in college, G K Thimmannachar had asked a question in the exam: “Sketch the flight of Rama with Sita from Lanka to Ayodya in the Pushpaka Vimana.” As a small-time artist, I made a sketch of the Pushpaka Vimana with two wings and Rama, Laxmana, and Sita standing in the aerial car flying in the midst of clouds. The teacher did pull me up but said with a smile, “I am giving you a passing mark for your creativity.”
It was common for teachers to punish us by beating us on our palms. But it was accepted because we knew they cared deeply for our welfare. We loved them, and we went to them for their blessings even after their retirement. I am now 83 years old, and our last teacher (college) Sri S Deshikachar, whom I met at least once a year, passed away last year. My classmates—we were 64 in 2002 and are currently reduced to 43—are scattered all over the globe, but we meet at least once every three years.