More than sitting inside a room and teaching, I always found an indescribable joy in teaching under trees at the Gurukula. Except during the rainy season, most of our classes happened in the lap of nature itself.
The children loved it too.
“Mathrushri… let’s sit under that tree today…” they would say, naming whichever tree had caught their fancy.
One such day, we all sat beneath a tree for class. After a while, a few monkeys appeared. Maybe they came attracted by my lesson… or perhaps they thought, “Ah, more of our kind have gathered here.” They arrived and settled around us.
None of us paid much attention to them.
Our children saw monkeys every day. There was nothing especially exciting about them anymore.
But perhaps the monkeys felt insulted.
Maybe they thought these humans were ignoring their playful performances… neglecting them completely.
Who knows what hurt their pride.
From the fence above us, they began plucking ripe white jackfruits and throwing them down one after another.
And was that not enough invitation for my children to abandon seriousness?
That day, our class quietly turned into playtime.
The lesson had to be completed later that night in their respective hostels during study hour — almost like homework. But even that carried its own happiness. After all, if that day’s lesson remained unfinished, the next lesson would become difficult.
On Ashtami, Amavasya, and Hunnime, there used to be anadhyayana — holidays from lessons and discourses. Those days were reserved for wandering around, cleaning work, preparing special snacks, and all kinds of little joys.
And because of this monkey mischief, on the next holiday we gathered all the ripened fruits from that tree and made happala from them.
Back then, when children stood near me, I could easily place my hand on their heads and caress their hair. Within just a few years, they have grown so tall — physically and mentally — that I can no longer do that so easily.
Those ten- and twelve-year-old children are now young men of twenty and twenty-two.
But their affection towards me has remained unchanged.
The memories had stayed alive in them too.
On the day of Ganga Samaradhane, another bogie quietly passed by and disappeared again.
Today, I no longer remember the names of every nut and bolt inside that bogie.
Only the bogie itself remains.
Originally written in Kannada by Veena Shanbhogue as part of Nenapina Haliyalli Sarida Bogigalu (ನೆನಪಿನಹಳಿಯಲ್ಲಿಸರಿದಬೋಗಿಗಳು).
English translation and digital preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue
Shanbhogue Publications 
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