The Boy who Sat Quiet

Mr. Godbole's class

Digvijay Rathee of Class IX-C was a force to reckon with—a tornado of mischief, a connoisseur of chaos. His name struck both anxiety and amusement among the teaching staff. On most days, he bounced a tennis ball at the back of the Chemistry lab, loudly mimicking Mr. Godbole’s Marathi-accented explanations. He doodled caricatures of Mrs. J. Kaur during Math class, earning her stern glares and muttered frustrations in the staffroom.

Art teacher Mr. Naveen Jain often joked that Digvijay’s finest artistic creation was the pandemonium he orchestrated in class. Gunjan Baweja, the Hindi teacher, was particularly sensitive to his antics.

But there was one anomaly—Mrs. Sukumar’s English class.

Mrs. Sukumar was unlike any teacher Digvijay had ever encountered. Middle-aged and soft-spoken, she carried an air of quiet dignity despite her persistent gout problem. Her teaching style was unorthodox. She allowed noise in her classroom—constructive noise, as she called it. She encouraged debates, storytelling, and drama. For some reason, Digvijay’s hyperactive spirit dimmed in her presence. No pranks, no bouncing balls, no witty one-liners. He sat quietly, absorbed, attentive.

“Digvijay, why don’t you read the next paragraph?” she asked one day in class.

The boy froze for a moment, his usual confidence flickering. “Me, ma’am?”

“Yes, you,” she said, smiling.

Digvijay stood up, holding the textbook awkwardly. He stumbled through the words, faltering on the pronunciation of ‘quintessential.’

“That’s a tricky one,” she said warmly. “It’s quin-tes-sen-tial. Let’s say it together.”

The class joined in, laughing as they exaggerated the syllables. Digvijay smiled, a little embarrassed but oddly proud.

“Well done, Digvijay. That’s what I call effort,” she said.

It was a small moment, but it planted a seed. For the first time, Digvijay felt seen—not as a troublemaker, but as a student capable of growth.

The staffroom buzzed with theories about this transformation.

“Perhaps she bribes him,” joked Mr. Jain.

“She spoils that lot in IX-C,” Mrs. J. Kaur declared, shaking her head.

“Class IX-C is a lost cause,” Mr. Godbole added grimly.

But the truth was simpler: Mrs. Sukumar saw Digvijay—not just the mischief-maker, but the boy underneath.

Meanwhile, the other teachers struggled. In Chemistry, Mr. Godbole caught him passing notes, the tennis ball tucked into his pocket.

“Rathee! Why can’t you sit still for five minutes?”

“I was doing an experiment, sir,” Digvijay replied innocently.

“Experiment? With a tennis ball?”

“Yes, sir. Studying elasticity.”

The class erupted in laughter. Mr. Godbole sighed.

Math class was no better. Mrs. J. Kaur walked into the staffroom one day, muttering, “That boy will be the end of me.”

“Did he draw another cartoon of you?” asked Mr. Jain.

“Worse,” she said, collapsing into a chair. “He tried to solve a quadratic equation using... rap lyrics.”

Everyone laughed, but it was clear they were reaching their limits.

Things came to a head when Gunjan Baweja burst into tears in the staffroom.

“He spent the entire period parroting everything I said!” she wailed. “It was humiliating.”

“Something must be done,” declared the principal at an emergency meeting. “This behaviour cannot continue.”

Disciplinary action followed. Digvijay was scolded, threatened, and sent to counselling. But nothing worked. His antics resumed the moment the punishments ended.

Only in English class did he remain quiet and attentive. And this intrigued his classmates.

“Why don’t you mess around in English?” asked his friend Aditya during lunch.

“She’s different,” Digvijay replied simply.

“How?”

“She listens.”

One day, during an informal staff meeting, the teachers’ simmering frustrations came to a boil.

“Why does IX-C behave differently in your class?” Mrs. J. Kaur asked, her voice laced with annoyance.

“I wouldn’t call them perfect,” Mrs. Sukumar replied mildly. “But they engage well.”

“You indulge them, that’s why,” said Mr. Godbole, folding his arms. “Especially Digvijay. Do you realise how disruptive he is elsewhere?”

“I do,” she said simply.

“Then why don’t you hold him accountable?” Mrs. Baweja asked, her voice trembling. “He’s so disruptive in my class , and yet he’s an angel in yours.”

“What do you do that’s so different?” Mr. Jain asked, genuinely curious.

“I respect them,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Each of them has strengths and struggles. I try to work with those, not against them.”

“Respect?” Mrs. Kaur snapped. “It’s discipline they need, not ‘respect.’ You’re spoiling them.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Sukumar replied, her tone nonchalant.

Her monosyllabic responses irritated the others, but she remained composed. After a few more accusations, the meeting dissolved into resigned silence.

Digvijay had been loitering outside the staffroom and overheard every word. The confrontation had left him unsettled. The irritation in the other teachers’ voices, the quiet composure of his English teacher—it all swirled in his mind as he walked home.

The next day, after English class, Digvijay lingered.

“Ma’am, can I talk to you?”

“Of course, Digvijay. What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, fidgeting with his tennis ball. “Do the other teachers… think you’re too soft?”

She chuckled. “People have opinions. What matters is that I believe in what I do.”

“But doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not really. My job is to teach, not to win a popularity contest.”

Her words stayed with him.

That evening, he sat on his bed, holding the tennis ball that was usually his partner-in-crime. For the first time, he began to question his behaviour. He thought about the time he’d drawn caricatures of Mrs. Kaur. At the time, it had seemed harmless fun, but now he wondered if it had hurt her feelings.

He thought about Mr. Godbole’s exasperation, about how his bouncing tennis ball had disrupted countless lessons. Then there was Mrs. Baweja, who had left the classroom in tears because of his mimicry. A pang of guilt stirred in his chest.

Why was he different in English class? Was it just because of how Mrs. Sukumar treated him? Or was it because he didn’t want to disappoint her? She had a way of making him feel capable, respected, even important. It wasn’t fear that kept him quiet in her class—it was something deeper.

Digvijay sighed. For the first time, he realised the chaos he brought to others wasn’t as amusing as he’d thought.

At the next Parent-Teacher Meeting, Mrs. Sukumar spoke to Digvijay’s parents with a tone that surprised them.

“Digvijay is bright,” she said. “He has a natural wit and a way with words. But he needs to channel that energy constructively.”

His mother frowned. “Every teacher says he’s impossible to manage.”

“I won’t deny that he’s spirited,” she said, smiling. “But I see potential. Perhaps we could work on helping him focus.”

Digvijay’s father, who often threatened to send him to boarding school, softened. “What do you suggest, ma’am?”

“Give him a challenge,” she said. “Something he can own—like a class debate or organizing an event.”

The Rathees left, not entirely convinced, but with a glimmer of hope.

Slowly, Digvijay began to change—not drastically, but in small, noticeable ways. He stopped bouncing the tennis ball in Chemistry. He still cracked jokes, but only during breaks. In Math, he actually attempted the quadratic equations, albeit with occasional groans.

One day, during a Hindi class, Gunjan Baweja noticed something remarkable: Digvijay raised his hand.

“Ma’am, can I answer this one?”

The class turned to stare. Gunjan nodded cautiously. Digvijay’s answer was correct, and she smiled for the first time in weeks.

The staffroom buzzed with rumours of his transformation.

“Did someone threaten him?” asked Mr. Godbole.

“No idea,” said Mrs. J. Kaur. “But I’m not complaining.”

The real test came during the Grandparents’ Day celebrations. Digvijay was asked to host the event—a risky decision, given his track record. But Mrs. Sukumar had faith.

“You’ll do well,” she said. “Just be yourself.”

His opening joke about grandparents and their secret stashes of sweets had the audience roaring with laughter. He introduced performers with warmth and humour, earning applause after applause. By the end, even his toughest critics smiled.

Afterward, he found himself in the staffroom, awkwardly accepting compliments.

“Well done, Rathee,” said Mr. Godbole.

“Looks like there’s hope for you after all,” joked Mr. Jain.

Even Mrs. J. Kaur smiled. “You’ve surprised us.”

But the best compliment came from Gunjan Baweja. “Thank you for behaving,” she said softly.

Digvijay grinned. “Anything for you, ma’am.”

Years later, Digvijay became a journalist, using his wit and way with words to write thoughtful, empathetic pieces. Every time he filed a story, he thought of Mrs. Sukumar.

Her kindness had planted a seed of change in him—a seed that grew into something more. He had realised that respect wasn’t just something demanded; it was earned through understanding and care.

And for that, he would always be grateful to the teacher who truly saw him.