Nandakumar Vaibhav carried a ream of sheets under his right arm, walked a stocky walk, and looked a stalky look.

Not many liked him, three teachers in number (the teachers changed, but the number always remained three) would gather in triangle, and mock him — 'there goes the insane man,' 'I heard he snatched a student's watch and broke it,' 'Oh, you don't know? He also slapped another, so hard his glasses slipped off.'

Nandakumar Vaibhav had done many things to ensure gossip, but Nandakumar Vaibhav had also done many things people liked to not talk about; of free tuitions he gave, of his class that always topped, of good relations he had with his students nevertheless.

Everyday at six he would board the local train, and at half past seven stand by the school gates. His hands folded behind him, and his chin pointed to his throat, head-on. A red Reynolds pen latched onto his pastel green shirt pocket. His shirt — so odorously old, and historic. A boundaried design running across his pocket and his cuffs.

His hour was the one before recess, and then the one after lunch. Restless boys, they would bang tables when he entered; like Nandu Sir was of parliament, and they of audience. It wasn't so, but it very much was so; Nandu Sir, very politically agitated.

He would smile a rushed off smile, and hush them off. Bang his books on the tables then, and stare at us, as though we were a tiring question on his question paper that he wanted to wipe off with a whitner. Very much so, for us — when we read the papers he set, knowing full well he had cheated us into thinking he'd made it easy for us. He had, really. Made studying so much easy for us, but easy should always proceed with easier, now shouldn't it? — I will not question why he was always so mad with us.

His classes; interesting, intellectual, applicative. The hours would pass by, and us, with our refreshed minds at the end of the day would exit his class, having enjoyed, but still growling as is religious.

When our classes ended at half past five, he would be off into his staff room — which was very small, I'll be honest. And in five minutes, Sir Nandu out of school premises, his box backpack upright on his shoulders.

At his home, he then only 'Appa' will bid well the neighbour taking care of his daughter, clean his apartment, sleep next to the warm, breathing,  voiced, home of the house, till it were time for his tuition. Dinner he would have sometimes, sometimes not. Early next morning, Appa would cycle to the townside, there, to play with the old villagers a game of carrom. Buy those cheap vegetables, and cook.

Appa would grow up old, seasoned and weathered, silent perhaps, wise; and Nandakumar Sir will always remain that mad man who broke watches, snatched pens, had the best scoring students.