It was March 2010.
I had taken up a short contractual assignment with a Noida-based private software training company. On paper, the role was simple enough: conduct personality development classes for B.Tech. students at Subharti University (SITE), Meerut.
In reality, I didn’t yet know what the next forty days would demand of me.
The first morning—10th March—I was travelling to the campus in a company cab with a faculty member who had already been teaching there for a few months. The ride was quiet. Somewhere along the way, she turned to me.
“Sir, it’s your first day. What do you have in mind? I mean, what will you teach today?”
I answered after a brief pause.
“Ma’am, I believe one should not carry a key unless one knows the kind of lock it is meant to open. So, I would like to meet my students first, and only then can I create my strategy.”
She paused, as if deciding how candid to be. Then she said,
“Sir, let me tell you something. You see, I have been teaching at this University for the last four months. And believe me when I say it’s no use putting much effort into these students.”
Her certainty surprised me. Not because it was harsh—but because it came so easily.
I asked, “What makes you say so?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Sir, these kids are impossible. You see, they come from rural areas, their IQ is quite low, and they have no respect for teachers. No matter how much money their parents spend on their education, they will ultimately do ‘kheti-baadi’ (agriculture work) only. I suggest you somehow pass the time and call it a day.”
For a moment, I said nothing.
Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because I was registering something important. I had already made up my mind about how I would approach my classes. What I hadn’t expected was how casually one could be invited to lower expectations—to shrink effort without being asked outright.
Finally, I replied, “I see. Well, that doesn’t mean that I should pass the time. I feel that, as a teacher, I must help my students in the best way I can.”
She looked at me, puzzled.
“But, sir, why put so much effort?”
I remember answering slowly, choosing clarity over diplomacy.
“Ma’am, the very first thing to understand is that I am not doing them any favor. The students are paying the fees, and so it is my responsibility to train them in personality development and help them improve their soft skills.”
Then I added—almost conversationally,
“You see, I am not interested in commuting daily for about 75 kilometres each way from Delhi to pass the time. Had passing time been my motto, I would have done that in a park in Delhi. I have many parks in the neighbourhood.”
There was a brief silence in the cab—nothing else except the hum of the engine.
Before getting down, I said one last thing—direct, perhaps too direct.
“And let me assure you, ma’am. I’ll leave no stone unturned to see my students grow as confident individuals. And forgive me for being blunt, but I think you need to change your attitude a bit. Because you see, with this kind of attitude, I doubt if you’re doing any good to the students or yourself.”
The conversation ended there.
Or so I thought.
Over the next few days, she kept asking about my classes.
“How do you pass the time, sir?”
“What do you teach them for 50 minutes?”
“I get restless after merely 20 minutes.”
Eventually, instead of answering, I invited her to sit in on one of my sessions.
She stayed for the entire class.
After that, she never asked how I passed the time again.
Looking back, that day didn’t change my attitude.
It revealed it.
Sometimes, life doesn’t challenge you by forcing you to adopt a new way of thinking. Sometimes, it tests whether you’ll quietly abandon the one you already have—simply because doing so would be easier.
That morning in the cab reminded me of something I’ve carried ever since:
how you approach your work—especially when no one is watching—slowly shapes your future.
Not through grand decisions.
But through the small ones you refuse to compromise on.
That first day was only the beginning.
What unfolded over the next forty days went far beyond lesson plans, confidence-building exercises, or classroom techniques.
Somewhere between repeated lectures, silent resistance, small breakthroughs, and unexpected moments of connection, teaching, as I had understood it, began to dissolve.
Teaching slowly gave way to something more intimate and unsettling—an encounter with attention, presence, and responsibility that I hadn’t anticipated. That story belongs elsewhere. But it began here.