The Head Teacher (standard:non fiction, 1994 words)
Author: Raj	Added: Jul 03 2004	Views/Reads: 3440/2513	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a real life story describing how the jaws of death clamped on Achayan and the mysterious funeral written in 2 parts

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

convoy of vehicles, one among them – a Maruti van bedecked in creamy 
khadas (scarves) and flowers - had the school's former teacher, Mr. P. 
O. Jacob, lying in state. The crowd on the road swelled as the 
students, staff members, neighbours and well-wishers surrounded the van 
and solemnly descended the steps to the little cottage, the home of the 
bereaved family for twenty three years. Blue plastic roofing provided 
shade to the rows of chairs in front of the house. Inside the 
living-cum-bed room, one could hear the heart-rendering sobs of the 
widowed lady, Mrs. Padma Jacob, a teacher of the school for the period 
the family lived in the town. 

Just nineteen hours earlier, we had rushed him to the government
hospital at Gangtok amidst the fury of a raging storm. The whole 
evening of the previous day and throughout the night, Achayan, as he 
was popularly known in the Malayali circles, battled with death. By 
morning, the jaws seemed loosened only to snap shut in a quick stroke 
at about eight-thirty. 

“I escaped from the jaws of Death,” he had said on his return from Dubai
only ten days before. He and his wife had gone there to spend the 
winter with their younger daughter, Nancy, as proud grandparents. There 
he had a massive stroke and was unconscious for six days in the 
intensive care unit. It was only a stroke of luck and the medical 
expertise of the doctors at Dubai that he was on his feet again. 
Against all advice of his daughter's family, other relatives and 
friends, Achayan returned to Pakyong with his wife. When I asked him 
why he returned to Sikkim, he told me, “Your madam has to attend her 
duty while I have a mission to accomplish”. 

At the hospital, the critical night that was watched over by a sorrowful
wife and a tearful friend, Mr. Sebastian. Now in his last repose, he 
wore a smile at the corner of his lips. Tranquil, he perhaps wanted to 
say, “Budo (old man), why have these people gathered here today? Help 
me get up!” to his best friend, Mr. G. P. Tiwari who stood near the 
van. With a forlorn look time and again, he glanced at his late friend. 
Many others felt that with his smile, he could be watching from above 
the people present at his house. 

Within a few minutes, we shifted Achayan to his bed in the centre of his
room. Near his head was placed the Holy Bible with a burning candle and 
incense sticks. As friends and well wishers streamed inside the room to 
pay their respects to the deceased, the inconsolable sobs of Mrs. Jacob 
pierced everyone's heart. Her colleagues and other ladies huddled near 
her whispering condolences and words of comfort. 

Slowly the crowd outside thinned as students, teachers and well wishers
moved away mumbling sympathetic words. “I've lost my best friend. 
Pakyong has lost an intellectual, a social worker and a legal adviser 
to any one who knocked his door for help.” Mr. Tiwari turned to me as I 
sat beside him on the steel chair. 

“Indeed, he was like father to me since I met him here after a span of
22 years. A philosopher and a guide too. I still recollect vividly the 
days when he was my village school head teacher in Bhutan. I just can't 
believe that he has left us forever.” The words choked me as I 
visualized the previous evening when he held my hands and told me to go 
and rest for the night with the electronic gadgets were clamped to his 
chest. Then I left the premises for the school after a solemn while. 

Mr. Sebastian had informed Acjhayan's only children, Annie in New Delhi
and Nancy in Dubai from the hospital itself. By evening, Annie arrived 
with her cousin Mohan. Only informed of the attack the previous 
evening, Annie was shocked to see the blue plastic stretched in front 
of her house as they drove up. “Only when we reached the road to the 
school, Mohan told me that papa was no more though he had known 
everything beforehand. I knew something was amiss when I espied the 
blue plastic from the helicopter,” she told me the next day. “Oh why 
God took him away so soon!” 

The next day, Achayan's body was taken to the mortuary till the funeral
two days later. His brother and his sister arrived in the afternoon. It 
was only the next day, Wednesday, could the younger daughter, Nancy 
arrive from Dubai with her husband and their seven-month old daughter 
Natasha. Mohit, the elder son-in-law had waited for them to arrive and 
accompanied them home. 

“We had told papa to have his bypass surgery in Dubai itself after the
stroke but he would never listen to us. He always talked of Pakyong and 
wanted to return. He came only to....” Words choked her. Her eyes were 
swollen and tears rolled down as she her held her mother's hands. The 
arrival of the daughters and other relatives had brought some 
expression on Mrs. Jacob's face that had withered and hollowed since 
the stroke on the Sunday afternoon. 

In the evenings the Cluny and Carmelite nuns took turns to be with the
bereaved family with offering prayers and singing of hymns. Neighbors 
and friends visited them. 

Thursday, the funeral. Achayan's body was brought from the mortuary
along with the pastor for the last rites. The school was called off at 
11 o'clock enabling staff and students to attend the funeral. At 11:45 
a.m., Achayan's last journey began from the house to the cemetery. As 
we carried the coffin to the waiting hearse, the solemn procession of 
about 1000 people trudged along the dusty road in the scorching midday 
heat. 

The hearse reached the point above the cemetery. The coffin was carried
to the mound of the fresh sod near the grave. As Father Victor 
conducted the holy rites for the deceased, Mrs. Jacob and her two 
daughters knelt beside the coffin for the last glance and touch of 
their beloved father. We silently observed Achayan's family and 
relatives bid a tearful final farewell. The gathering paid their 
respects to Achayan's mortal remains with khadas, flowers and bouquets. 
The smiling face was sealed from view as the coffin lid was nailed. 
Even the two chilly nights in the mortuary had not wiped his last smile 
that appeared fresh as ever, an expression of peaceful repose. 

Amidst many tears Achayan was laid to rest six feet below the surface as
Mrs. Jacob swooned. All the members of the funeral precession offered 
their last gifts to him – a handful of fresh soil. The black coffin was 
out of sight as the soil level rose. The funeral function was 
completed, khadas were laid with burning of incense all around the 
grave and bouquets covered the raised part of the grave. 

A sudden gust of whirlwind rose from nowhere in the graveyard as the
finishing touches were put to it. We felt cool and momentarily relieved 
from the sweltering afternoon heat. The light whirlwind disappeared as 
fast as it had come from the confinements of the cemetery. I looked in 
all directions - not even a leaf moved a little further off. 

Was Achayan bidding adieu to us all in his immortal form, giving a
soothing touch to his family and friends as he rose heaven-bound 
leaving behind his mortal remains for ever in the laps of mother earth? 


Whenever I enter the cottage to say hello to Mrs. Jacob, my eyes fix on
the photograph on the table with his smiling face – the smile hanging 
from the corner of his lips that defied the jaws of death. I then 
visualize Achayan smiling and soaring with the whirlwind on his last 
journey to serve the Savior in heaven. 

--X-- 


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