Today, while driving, a memory from my past resurfaced—a memory that consists of two distinct parts.

The First Part: School Wasps

My daughter was just five years old at the time. She was a sweet, chubby, healthy, and innocent child. I was raised in the USSR, where children started school at the age of 7. However, in India, my daughter began school at the tender age of 3. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. In that scorching climate, she had to endure a 30-minute journey in a tempo, dressed in school code attire and lugging a school bag that felt as heavy as a rock.
One day, we missed the tempo, which presented an opportunity for me to drop her off on bike, with the assistance of my father-in-law, who kindly helped carry her burdensome bag. In the USSR, we were taught that heavy backpacks were detrimental to young spines overall child health. In contrast, capitalist countries seemed unconcerned about the consequences of such decisions.

I arrived at the school's main gate, guarded by a stern security officer. This was yet another difference from Soviet schools, where security guards were unheard of. Only students and teachers were responsible for maintaining order. Fortunately, the guard allowed me to enter with my child.

Inside my daughter's classroom, I saw something new—a room filled with wooden benches and tables. At one desk, four girls were seated. This arrangement differed from the Soviet system, where we sat in pairs. I placed my daughter's heavy bag on her bench, preparing to leave. However, another girl and her mother entered the classroom.

The other mother struck up a friendly conversation with me, discussing matters related to notebooks and test papers. At some point during our discussion, inside the classroom, I suddenly heard a sharp voice. It was Karen, my daughter's class teacher, barking the words, "Parents are not allowed to stand here." I was shocked by such rude behavior, considering it was our first encounter. There was no greeting, no inquiry—basic communication skills were sorely lacking. My daughter burst into tears, and my heart ached for her and my own helplessness.
Admission to this school had not been an easy task, and seeing my daughter in such distress was heart-wrenching. She clung to my leg and begged me not to leave. I was deeply upset that I couldn't respond to the teacher's unprofessional conduct. I wondered if this was the norm among teachers in India. My daughter often complained about school and didn't want to go. She once told me that the teacher threatened to place misbehaving girls (it was an all-girls school) on top of a bookshelf where wasps would sting them.

Leaving her crying in the classroom was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. I reassured her, that nothing will happened, everything is O.K. and promising ice cream after school and asking her not to be afraid. As I walked away, tears streamed down my face, burning with anguish all the way to the gate. My father-in-law, seeing me in such distress, asked me what had happened, but I couldn't find the words to explain. Emotions churned within me. It took some time for me to regain composure. After hearing the story, my father-in-law decided to visit the school himself. I'm not sure what transpired next, but I believe he managed to address the situation, although that visit marked my first and last interaction with that school. Until grade 12, I never attended parent-teacher meetings. A similar story unfolded at my son's school, which I will recount later. My daughter has since grown up and successfully graduated from school.

Now, on to Story Two: The Rock of Ignorance.

I have experienced significant professional growth since the incident with my daughter's school. I have entered the academic realm and am actively involved in conferences, seminars, and lectures at an Indian university. During one of my visits as a guest at an event, I had the opportunity to meet a lady who used to be a teacher at the same girls' school my daughter attended. She ran a grooming and personality development studio as her self-employed venture. Our introduction was pleasant, and we exchanged contact numbers. She reached out to me promptly and displayed genuine sympathy.

Within a few days, she invited me to her birthday celebration. However, the timing was inconvenient for me due to my demanding work schedule. Obtaining leave from an Indian college or university can be quite challenging, and I didn't know her well enough to determine her preferences or the type of guests she might invite. She suggested that I could network with her friends during the event, but as someone with a non-commercial mindset, I was more interested in connecting with her due to our shared interests. I teach communication and life skills classes, so I saw potential for a valuable connection.

After much consideration, we decided that I would attend her birthday celebration a week later, on a Friday evening, after my work hours around 6 p.m. This marked the first time in my life that I decided to arrive empty-handed, a departure from the common practice in my surroundings. I believed there would always be an opportunity to understand the person and choose a thoughtful and appropriate gift. I had often brought inappropriate gifts in the past, like giving sweets to someone with diabetes. So, I resolved to be more discerning in my gift-giving. Even simple flowers were not highly regarded as gifts within my circle.

When I arrived at her place, it was already dusk, and darkness was setting in. She warmly welcomed me at her gate, which led to a spacious home located in the city center. Her hospitality was delightful, with cozy rooms and tasty snacks. Throughout our conversation, she exuded friendliness, emotion, and empathy, making me realize what a genuinely good person she was. I promised myself to bring European chocolates and some snacks next time, as her cupboard revealed an interest in mementos. Our conversation deepened, and I felt increasingly connected to her.

Eventually, I shared the story of what had happened to me at my daughter's school. She was surprised and asked for more details, deepening our bond. With the grace of God, I hoped we might become friends. At some point, she inquired if her services could be of use at my institution. Given my desire to help people and my open-mindedness, I candidly told her that, as a decision-maker, I lacked the authority to invite her as a guest speaker. My boss had already made it clear to all staff that he preferred to utilize the expertise of our well-educated and trained academic staff.

I conveyed this message to her transparently, and she captured a few memories of our interaction. To my surprise, she gifted me a small present—a box of chocolates and a lipstick. It was a kind gesture, and I vowed to select something special for her in return. I had prepared a New Year's gift, as it was approaching soon after our last meeting. I called and messaged her several times afterward, but faced a wall of silence. She barely responded or initiated contact, and I received only advertisements and studio updates from her.

Later, I learned that she had been invited by my university to participate in a student orientation program. Surprisingly, she didn't inform me about this, despite being in touch on WhatsApp and knowing that I worked at the same institution. Simultaneously, I was disheartened by my boss's actions, as he had instructed me to handle certain matters while still inviting external experts. This discrepancy was disappointing to her.

I suspect there are multiple reasons for her decision not to maintain our connection: firstly, she may not prioritize building friendships and instead focuses on her business; secondly, she might have felt that I posed competition or could affect her chances at my institution; thirdly, my arrival without a gift may have been a factor; and there could be various other unseen reasons. But the person whom I have finally opened my pain, stemming from the experience at Daughter’s school, left an indelible mark in the unseen realm, a message of understanding left hanging in the air, forever.