As an educator for the past 25 years and as a career counsellor for the past five years, I am often asked when my journey truly began. Strangely, when I turn the pages of my life, I do not begin with counselling certifications or structured intervention plans. I return instead to my days in a Teachers’ training Program, when I was on deputation to a government school.
An urban dweller since birth, with little exposure to rural schooling, I expected a cultural jolt. Surprisingly, I was not shocked but was excited. The travel to the interior location brought initial apprehension, but it dissolved quickly. What awaited me inside the school, however, unsettled me in ways I had not anticipated.
The infrastructure met my expectations. However, the students’ behaviour and the teachers’ approach did not. It was disheartening. I chose to remain calm and observant. I soon realised that my language barrier was creating distance between me and my students. Trained as an English teacher to avoid using the mother tongue in classrooms, I adhered strictly to that principle. In hindsight, I understand how that rigidity delayed connection.
My turning point arrived on the third day. Nearly ten percent of the students had not appeared in class since my joining which was a silent introduction to the attendance culture of the school.
That evening, after finishing extra duty, I walked through a muddy road toward the bus station. The path was tiring. Two boys were seated on a compound wall, watching me. Their appearance was unkempt, their body language rebellious. As I approached, one jumped down and stood in my way. My initial fear began to fade when I overheard the boy in the red T-shirt whisper that I was their new class teacher.
“Hello, Sinan and Pradesh?” I said, gathering my composure. I felt gratitude for my senior colleague who had given me a description about the two well known students of my class.
The boy in red immediately jumped down and smiled. The other stepped back. I moved closer and extended my hand. They hesitated, but something had shifted. From that day, those faces regularly appeared in my classroom.
Gradually, stories surfaced. During Physical Education period, when I was on supervision duty, Sinan and Pradesh came to me with tamarind toffees. We sat under a tree. It was there that Sinan spoke about being the only son of a mentally ill mother, and never having known his father, and about not regretting that absence. He worked for survival, though not through lawful means. He was involved with a local mafia network, assigned to sell illegal products. Pradesh looked uncomfortable as Sinan spoke, but his friendship held him there.
Then Sinan asked me a question that cut through everything:
“If I pass Grade 10, can I go abroad and earn a living?”
In that moment, I saw a spark in what had seemed complete darkness.
The months that followed became a quiet mission. Not a dramatic reform as we watch in movies, not a rescue operation but it was simply consistent guidance and steady teaching. Sinan continued with his outside dealings, yet he began showing up to school, though not always on time. I could sense the shifts in him. However much I tried to reach Pradesh, he grew increasingly rigid and distant. There were days of appreciation, days of punishment, and days of regret. At times my hopes flickered but they never burned out.
On my final day of training, Sinan’s seat was empty during morning attendance. After the break, as I packed my books in the staffroom, he appeared at the door. The other teachers watched with silent curiosity. He entered and placed a handful of tamarind toffees in my hand.
When I asked if he had gone again for that job, he nodded.
“This will be the last,” he said.
Pradesh was no longer around.
I left the school that day with a heaviness I could not articulate.
Life moved quickly with projects, examinations and professional responsibilities. I entered my own race against time. Two years later, while speaking to my father from the UAE, counting words because international calls were expensive, he mentioned that a card had arrived in the post.
It was from Sinan.
I remembered the day he had snatched a pen from his friend and written my Indian address on his palm. Before I could hear the content, the call disconnected. The next day I learned that it was a thank-you card written in simple English. He passed Grade 10 and was pursuing a computer course.
Years later, during a vacation, I visited that same school. I learned that Sinan had left for the UAE for work and there was no news about Pradesh.
I thought the story had ended there.
But it had not.
I later received a second letter. Sinan wrote about his new job. He also wrote about losing his mother. There was maturity in his words and silence between the lines.
I still wait for a reunion with Sinan. And I carry an uncertainty about what became of Pradesh.
I have not used imaginary names in this narration because these names still echo when I call out attendance in my present classroom. They surface on class rolls, unexpectedly, and with them returns my memory.
Names that leave an indelible mark. One associated with hope. One shadowed by apprehension.
The lessons I learned during that training period continue to shape my counselling sessions today. I understand that policies, frameworks, career pathways matter. But before direction comes listening and before planning comes compassion.
Listen with empathy.
Guide with purpose.
That was my first lesson. And it remains my most enduring one.
Ms. Shini Noor, Head of Department, Career Counselling Centre
