A Remarkable Person

Dear dedicated reader,

It is unusual to meet a really remarkable person.

Last week while our director was visiting, I met one. His name is Nanubhai Nayek, and he is the namesake of the Foundation that I work for: the Nanubhai Education Foundation. As a former principal of Kadod High School, he managed the school from 1956 to 1983 and all of us had the pleasure of having tea with him.

His reputation preceded him. Having been a student during his time as principal, the driver who took us to see him at his house that afternoon expounded on his virtues for the entirety of the ride, much to our listening pleasure.

“In the time of Nanubhai,” he explained (in Gujarati translated by our director),“there was discipline in the school. No student would even think of cutting up in class – students would practically pee their pants if the principal came into a class. Teachers were afraid of being pulled into his office because they knew he’d yell at them fiercely – and he knew all the students’ names and knew all the students’ families. A family wouldn’t even think of questioning him if he hit a kid – they’d know their child had done something pretty bad. And boy, if he caught you – you were dead. There was discipline then. Once I had my shirt untucked and I still remember how he yelled at me even to this day. The board trusted him, but if they questioned a decision he made, he’d always keep a letter of resignation in his pocket and he’d take it out and say, “I’m the boss of this school and if you question my judgment, I resign!” Of course, they never took it.”

The driver went on. “He knew when kids cut school, too. If he found out someone was skipping school, he’d hop on his bicycle and go right down to the picture hall and pull those boys out of there by their ears and take them back to school. During the holidays, he’d go through all the teachers’ classrooms and test every bench and every desk and if he found anything missing, a nail, a wobbly leg, he’d make a note of it and harangue a teacher later for not fixing it. But,” the driver explained, “he was fair and generous too. For the poor students who could not afford uniforms, he’d have them come down to the school on Sundays and do grounds work for the school upkeep for a few hours and then pay them 100 rupees for the work so they could buy what they needed. But he never gave out charity – he believed the students should work hard.”

Our director echoed this, explaining that when he had approached Nanubhai with the idea of starting the Foundation a few years ago, Nanubhai had explained that the Foundation was not to give full scholarships. “Only give part scholarships, so the students still have to work some,” he explained.

The driver nodded and continued. “I have this book, The ‘Gita,” he held it up and looked back at us while simultaneously narrowly dodging an oncoming truck. “Every Saturday, Sir would read this to us and teach us how to live our lives.” He looked thoughtful. “I keep it to this day because of what he taught us then.”

My mind having been filled with these stories all the way from Kadod to Bardoli, I felt a little intimidated to meet the man behind them. As we pulled up to the gate of his large, pink house, we got out and I felt filled with a kind of apprehension.

A smiling, elderly gentleman appeared at the door of the house. “Come in!” He said enthusiastically with a wave of his hand. He disappeared into the house and we followed.

As we sat, I looked over at this man whose reputation had preceded him. He was tall and thin, but not in the way that most Indian men are thin – he had a very athletic look to him, despite being 84 years old. He was dressed in an impeccably neat white button down that had been carefully tucked into his long khaki pants. He had a stately look, though his eyes seemed far away.

He and our director chatted for a few moments in Gujarati. Our director introduced the four of us and explained that we had been doing work on behalf of the Foundation for the past two months at his high school.

Then he turned and addressed in the English of the intellectual class from the time of Raj. “How are you finding it here?” He asked us. We explained that we were happy and chatted about our work at the school. After a few moments, this topic was worn out and an awkward silence descended upon the room.

I broke it as I had a thought. “Sir,” I said, “Our director has told us that you were here to witness Gandhiji coming to Bardoli.”

He smiled. “Yes, I met him,” he said with some satisfaction. “You see,” he began, “in 1942, Gandhiji began the “Do or Die” and “Quit India” movements because he believed the Britishers should be out of India. And in that year, I took a year off from my college – I was in my second year of B.A., and I attended meetings and prayers and supported the movement.”
I was rapt. I waited for him to continue. “Hitler, the Germans, they were crooked,” he explained, “but then the British won and the next thing was for Free India.”

He continued to explain about Sardar Patel, and a number of the other Gujarati freedom fighters. He remembered when each came to the area and what they had done. After he finished, he fell silent and looked into the distance as though he were far away, transported to another time by telling these stories. To think, he had actually seen these people in the flesh!

“Sir,” our director encouraged, “tell them about your trip to the USA.”

He came back. “Well,” he began, “I have now over 100 students in the USA. And when I retired, there was a large function in 1983 to celebrate my retirement. My students in the USA wanted to do something for me, and so they arranged a trip for me.”

He told us about how the thing he was most impressed by in the US was its honesty. This surprised me. He illustrated his point by telling us the story of how he was once in a car with one of his former students and they were pulled over by a policeman for speeding. “In India,” he explained, “This would be resolved through a matter of a small bribe to the policeman and you’d be on your way. But here, it was not like this. When my student told him he was taking his former principal to the party, the policeman merely told him he could contest the ticket in court, if he so desired.” He leaned back, satisfied. “I was much impressed.”

When it was time for us to leave, I felt reluctant to go. I shook his hand and told him sincerely what a pleasure it was to meet him.

“Come back and visit,” he said in his stately English.

I intend to.

Best,
Cat