In
the Advanced Level classes I encountered four mathematics teachers. Mrs
Shanthi Herath (best known as ‘Faluda’) and Mr Dayaratne (‘Daya’ or
‘Pure-Ratna’) taught Pure Mathematics. Mr Samarasekera (‘Summarise’ as
in summer-ice) taught Applied Mathematics. Mr Eustace (Yuta) filled in
when either Faluda or Daya were absent.
The story was that
Faluda was super bright and that had she and Yuta been given the same
three-hour question paper, both would have scored 100/100, only Faluda
would have completed it in half an hour whereas Yuta would have taken
all three hours to finish.
There was also the view, I remember,
that Faluda was the best kind of teacher for smart students who could
keep up with the pace of her mind whereas Daya was more sensitive to
different degrees of math skills among his students. I was never a good
student, so I didn’t quite understand these notions. It all went over my
head. In fact it was only after I plodded through two books by someone
called Ramsey, in translation of course, one on calculus and one on
trigonometry, all by myself, painstakingly completing all the exercises
therein, that I got some rudimentary idea about mathematics.
Ramsey
helped me understand that whoever it was that offered the comparison
between Faluda and Daya was right. Daya seemed to assume that all
students were clueless to begin with. And so he went slow, step by
step. I had probably been daydreaming for most of those early lessons,
which meant that I was absolutely at sea by the time he had moved on to
the more complex problems.
Fortunately, my mother, realising
that I would probably fail the ALs unless drastic measures were taken,
convinced Daya to teach me. From the beginning. Privately. He taught me
both Pure Mathematics and Applied Mathematics. He made sure that things
like calculus, trigonometry, geometry, circular motion, vertical motion
under gravity and projectiles were not seen as words in some alien
language. He had only a few months but he turned an assured F into a
surprising C. Well, 2 Fs into 2 Cs. To be fair, I’m sure that had Yuta
been in his place, he would have helped me secure similar grades.
Faluda, probably not. She was a distraction and probably broke many
hearts unwittingly.
Daya didn't just teach me Pure and Applied; he made me fall in love with Mathematics all over again (Mr Upali Munasinghe was the one who made me love Mathematics the first time). More than that, he was and still is a great human being who has touched so many lived and made so many students realize their full potential.
Daya was a no nonsense teacher. Hardly
ever smiled. Spoke with his teeth clenched or so it seemed to me or
maybe I remembered it all wrong simply because I hadn’t paid much
attention back then. He spoke fast, even though he taught slowly,
compared to Faluda at least.
And then we became friends. Years
later. It happens when the age difference is so much smaller than the
time that has elapsed since school days. It happens when you meet
students (or teachers) in different contexts. Like the Royal-Thomian
cricket match.
Daya always comes to the match. He does the
rounds from tent to tent, is surrounded and entertained with food and
drink by countless former students. He is ‘Sir’ and he calls his
students ‘machang,’ and laughs all the time. Unrecognisable from the
seemingly humourless and strict teacher of our AL days.
Daya is
frequently invited to student reunions and he’s quite active in the Past
Teachers’ Association. When he became one of the gas-cylinder explosion
victims, his students rallied to repair his house. When he became ill,
everyone was sad. Daya just laughed it off: ‘my colleagues told me that
finally others are able to understand what you are saying because you
have been forced to speak slowly! In fact, had you still been teaching,
your students would do much better than those you taught before you
retired!’
Daya doesn’t know this and neither have I told him (I
should) that thanks to him, I became a decent tutor to Arts Faculty
students forced to learn ‘Basic Mathematics.’ I taught calculus to my
friends and those in junior batches. Step by step. Slowly. Obviously
not as well as he taught for he was in a different teaching league, but
good enough for them to pass the subject.
I will probably run
into him this week at the SSC. As has always been the case, I will go
down on my knees, touch his feet and worship him. He would laugh and
say, as he always does, ‘Ah Malinda….umba kohomada?’
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]
Other articles in this series:
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
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