Teachers are arguably the most impactful social engineers among us.
They do not just hand children facts, but they shape young minds, with the immense power to inspire and impart wisdom about life.
I decided to write this tribute for Mr Govindarajanthiran, who burst into my life when I was eight years old, in Year Three at Sekolah Kebangsaan Sinaran Budi in Rawang, Selangor.
I have carried this memory for almost 40 years, and as I complete 25 years being an educator myself, I’m more aware of the significant impact Sir Govind (as we used to call him in school) had on me.
As a child, I had experienced some traumatic experiences and had slowly felt unseen, especially after being bullied by those who were meant to care for me.
My pain and loss were often invisible to the rest as I had a loud personality and I enjoyed singing, which masked the pain and loneliness I carried.
I did not yet have words to express my experience. I remember being a boy who did not belong, who was disliked by my class teacher and who was targeted for being expressive.
I was loud and arrogant and I was punished for standing up to other students who bullied me.
Looking back, with the help of therapy, I am aware of how one teacher could crush a child’s whole school experience and their sense of self.
School life for me was traumatic until Sir Govind burst onto the scene. Much like Robin Williams’ Genie from Aladdin, Sir Govind brought with him life.
He was full of joy, full of exuberance and allowed me to be a child again.
He would sing the folk song Zum Gali Gali and fill our space with laughter and vibrancy!
But he did more than just entertain. Sir Govind gave us empathy, love and care, and treated each of us like his own child. My traumatic school life became much better after his arrival.
One day, during recess, I got so caught up in playing that I left going to the toilet too late.
The bell rang. I rushed, found the toilet too filthy to use, hesitated, and in that hesitation, wet myself.
I was terrified. I hid, ashamed of the smell, ashamed of being seen, certain that this was the kind of thing I would never recover from. I cried in fear, alone.
The class after recess was Sir Govind’s. He came looking for me. From the toilet, I heard him call out my name, “Tiru! Tiru!”
When he found me, he immediately knew what had happened and gave me a warm hug, and said, “Don’t worry, Tiru.”
He wiped my tears, washed my face, and then, so no one would notice I was wet, splashed water over my clothes so it would look like an accident with the tap rather than something to be ashamed of.
Then he walked me back to class himself, all the while with his arm around my shoulders, keeping me safe.
When we got to the class he turned to the room and said, “Hey! Why didn’t any of you go looking for Tiru? The poor boy fell near the toilet! That’s why he is wet!”
He returned my dignity in front of the very people I feared would take it from me. Through his grace, Sir Govind gave my crushed spirit wings.
I did not have the language for it then, but I understand it fully now. He was my guardian angel that day, and in many ways, every day after.
That single act became the benchmark I have carried through my own life as a teacher.
Long before I stood in front of a classroom myself, before I understood anything about pedagogy or research or having an authentic impact on students, I already knew, in my body, what it felt like to be seen by someone with power over me and to be treated with tenderness instead of judgment.
Sir Govind taught me that a teacher’s real teaching is never really the subject, rather it is the kind of teaching that makes a child leave the room feeling smaller or larger than when they walked in.
I carried that lesson through every dark and uncertain stretch of my own path, through the years I doubted whether I belonged anywhere near a university, through a PhD journey that tested me more than I expected.
And I carried Sir Govind himself, quietly, as a kind of measuring stick.
Whenever I have had the chance to comfort a struggling student, or to defend someone who could not defend themselves, some part of that has come from a Year Three classroom in Sinaran Budi, and a teacher who chose kindness in a moment when almost anyone else would have chosen to look away.
Last year, on a work trip to Malaysia that turned out to be one of the most meaningful, I had the chance to meet Sir Govind again after all this time.
I am deeply grateful to his daughter, Nishah Devi, for making that meeting possible.
Walking in to see him, I felt like a boy again, and also, at the same time, fully a man carrying everything that boy had become.
I got to tell him that I had gone on to devote my life to authenticity and to learning, that I had become the kind of educator he had shown me how to be, long before I knew that was what I was learning.
I got to introduce him to my wife, Saveena, and to our son, Vedha, who sang him the very song Sir Govind had once taught me in that classroom. Watching my son sing that song to the man who first gave it to me felt like watching a circle close, sacred and complete.
Sir, on your 84th birthday, I want you to know that you took a lonely, bullied little boy who was filled with fear and shame, and rewrote the story on the spot, with a hug, a smile and love I could never repay.
You taught me that education at its best is not about what we know. It is about the humanity we choose to bring into the room.
You are a giant in my life. Thank you for the light you brought into my darkest years, for the dignity you gifted me when I could not find it myself, and for still being the standard I try to live up to as a teacher and as a father.
Happy 84th birthday, Sir Govind. I carry you with me everywhere I go.
With love and lifelong gratitude, your student, Tirukumar (Tiru).
