My Primary Education (5)

5. My Primary Education

30th July 1960, my birthday. Ba (mother) used to say that I was born premature, in the seventh month, and was such a smart child that instead of crawling, I began walking directly by eight or nine months, holding onto the wall for support!

It was the second week of June 1965. I was still one and a half months short of turning five. My friend Raman Parsottam was walking from a corner of our street towards his home that day, dressed neatly in brand-new clothes, with a tilak on his forehead and his father holding his hand. His father, too, was wearing a new lehnga, khamees, and a round black cap.

I was in the courtyard of my house, playing a little game; I had two clay pots (gabi), and I had made a small hole between them so that I could pour water from one pot into the other. My father was sitting on a cot, smoking tobacco through gujariyu (small hookah). I loudly asked, “Raman, where are you coming from in your new clothes today?” His father replied, “He has been admitted to school today.”

I looked at my father and said, “Kaka, please get me admitted to school too!”

In our family, we used to call our fathers “Kaka” when there were elder brothers to him in the family. My father didn’t pay much attention to my request at first, but when I started crying, he called Naran, the second son of our distant relative sister Soniben, who lived four houses down and said, “He wants to study; take him to school and get him admitted.”

School Admission 

Naran took my birth certificate from our house, and off we went. As we walked, we chatted along the way. I told him, “Don’t register my name as Poonambhai Khemabhai, but as Poonamchand Khemchand. I don’t want an ordinary name, I want something special and dignified!”

Talking and laughing, we reached Rajpur School No. 1 (Gujarati Primary School). When our turn came in line, the admission clerk looked at my birth certificate and said I wasn’t yet five years old, so I couldn’t be admitted. We were sent back, that was on a Thursday.

When I got home, I started crying again. It was decided we would go again the next day and make a request to the headmaster. So, we went back the next morning. When the clerk again refused, we went to the principal, Shri Purushottam Parmar. Seeing my eagerness to study, he said, “Alright, admit him immediately to Standard 1 in Menaben’s class.”

I was given a seat on the mat in the first row and that’s how my schooling began. It was Friday, 18 June 1965.

Std-I

On the wall of our first-grade classroom was a blackboard made of plaster, and above it, painted on the wall, was a picture of a monkey sitting between two cats, holding a balance scale to weigh a piece of bread.

Our class teacher, Menaben, was affectionate, and her voice was as sweet as a cuckoo’s. When she taught, it was a joy to listen, and we remembered everything she said. In those days, the class teacher taught all subjects — numbers, alphabets, the baarakhadi (syllabary), reading, and writing. We learned on a paati (slate) using slate pen.

Every day, school started at 12 noon. In the school courtyard, students lined up according to their grade, we recited the group prayer, and then everyone went to their respective classrooms. My classroom was on the ground floor, second from the end on the right side.

Every day, Menaben took attendance by calling out names. When a student’s name was called, they would respond with “Jai Hind” or “Jai Bharat.” But since my name wasn’t on the register, it was never called out, and my face would fall right at the start of the day. Still, even without my name on the roll call, I attended school regularly and paid close attention to my studies.

Within a few days, I became one of Menaben’s favorite students. This “attendance without enrollment” must have gone on for about one and a half to two months. Then one day, after finishing the roll call, Menaben smiled and called out, “Poonamchand Khemchand Parmar.”

I used to listen to everyone’s names every day, but this time my ears perked up suddenly, a spark lit in my eyes, and it felt as if a current of electricity ran through my whole body. I stood up with full energy and loudly said, “Jai Hind!”

The entire classroom echoed with my “Jai Hind!” — my voice filled the room. Everyone, Menaben and my classmates, was delighted that my name had finally appeared on the attendance register.

Std. II

When I completed first grade, I was promoted to the second. My classroom was on the first floor. Our class teacher was a Christian lady, with burn marks on her neck and a rather harsh voice. She used to bring her fair, handsome little son with her to school and seat him on the table in front of her. From time to time, she would feed him milk from a bottle.

Naturally, our attention was more on the child’s antics than on the blackboard. Whenever the child cried, the teacher would scold or even slap him and the whole classroom atmosphere would become tense and unpleasant.

Silently, I used to pray, “Dear God, please free that poor child from his mother’s harshness and somehow, let our second-grade days become as happy as they were in first grade.”

Study First

One day in second grade, after the morning group prayer, I was running up the school stairs behind my friend Jashu when my foot struck the edge of a broken step, and I fell. The corner of that step hit near my left eye, and blood started to flow. I didn’t have a handkerchief, and there was no first-aid kit at school. So, I took my school bag, the one where I kept my paati and pen,  pressed it against the wound, and went straight home.

Before my mother could even ask where I got hurt, I grabbed our ESI (Employees’ State Insurance) card for free medical treatment and ran to the D-25 clinic. The clinic was about two kilometers from our house and closed around 12 or 1 p.m.

I hurried there, took a token from the counter, and showed it to the doctor sitting in the clinic. He prescribed some medicine, and I then went to the dressing room. The compounder, Kacharabhai, immediately cleaned my wound with some stinging liquid, applied ointment, placed a pad over it, and wrapped a bandage around my head.

Next to him were jars full of white and pink pills. He took some white pills, wrapped them in paper, and handed them to me. I went home, kept the ESI card safely, and returned to school, bandaged and all, to sit in my place.

The class teacher said, “Since you were hurt, you could have stayed home today.”

But how could I skip school? Even a single absence felt wrong. I didn’t want my name to be called out as absent!

My father was a member of the Mazdoor Mahajan Union and kept our family informed about political events. Because of that, stories of the freedom movement, Mahatma Gandhi, Pandit Nehru, Sardar Patel, and Subhas Chandra Bose deeply inspired us.

I still remember the days of the 1965 India-Pakistan war, the weekly fasts, the Tashkent Agreement, and the sudden death of Lal Bahadur Shastri, after which the whole nation was in mourning and schools were closed for a public holiday.

During those two years, I used to strengthen my reading skills by reading the shop signboards on both sides of the road on my way to and from school. And I would often reflect on the five moral stories we were told in class, trying to apply their lessons to my own life.

Lessons leaned from First Primary School 

Six stories shaped the path of my life.

The first story was the one painted on our classroom wall — the fight between two cats in which the monkey ends up benefiting. From that, I learned the value of unity and sharing.

The second story was that of King Harishchandra, the ruler devoted to truth and promises. To keep his word, he sold his wife and son, and even when it came time to collect the cremation fee for his own son, he did not waver in performing his duty. From him, I learned the greatness of truth and integrity.

The third story was about Shravan, the devoted son who carried his blind parents in a sling (kaavad) to take them on a pilgrimage. When he was struck by King Dasharatha’s arrow, mistaking him for a deer, Shravan, even in his dying breath, asked the king not to distress his parents by revealing the truth, but instead to care for them. It was the ultimate example of devotion to one’s parents. As long as my parents lived, I served them faithfully and wholeheartedly. Their blessings, combined with the fire to lift my family out of poverty, eventually paved my way into the Indian Administrative Service.

The fourth story was about Guru Dronacharya’s test for the Pandavas and Kauravas. Only Arjuna passed, because he could see nothing but the bird’s right eye — his target. From that, I learned that to hit your goal, your focus must be absolute and unwavering.

The fifth story was that of the lark and her chicks. As long as the farmer depended on others to harvest his crop, the chicks were anxious, but the mother bird remained calm. However, the moment the farmer decided to do the harvesting himself, the lark told her chicks it was time to leave. The lesson — “Dependence on others always leads to disappointment” — became my lifelong guide. Better to burn your hands at work than to waste time worrying. This lesson made me a “one-man army”, ready to take on any challenge or task on my own.

The sixth story was about Mahatma Gandhi. As a child, he was afraid of the dark. A household worker, Ramben, taught him the Ramanama (chanting the name of Lord Ram) to overcome fear. Whenever he felt afraid, he would recite Ram’s name and his fear would disappear. I too used to be scared of the dark, especially because the older boys in our chawl often gathered to tell stories about ghosts, spirits, and witches, which made me tremble with fear. Inspired by Gandhiji, I also made the remembrance of God’s name my life’s mantra, and it gave me the strength to overcome both darkness and obstacles throughout my life.

Std. III

When the second grade ended, we were told we would now attend the new school at Popatiyawad — Rajpur School No. 3. I didn’t like the change at first, but once I began studying in Janakben’s class, I was happy again. After all, we were free from the noise and scolding of the Christian teacher! Janakben, was kind, graceful, and hardworking, an ideal teacher.

Third grade went wonderfully. My reading, writing, and arithmetic became so strong that my father proudly asked me to read aloud from books in front of guests, praising me, “My son is very smart — listen to how clearly he reads!”

Std. IV & V

Then came fourth grade, and once again, the school changed, since School No. 3 had classes only up to Standard 3. I moved to Rajpur School No. 5. My teacher, Pradeepbhai Parmar, noticed my sharpness and began to shape me carefully. I could recite all my multiplication tables and fractions by heart — thanks to my mother, who herself was fluent in counting quarters, halfs, three quarters, ekka, agiyara, and ekveesa (traditional Gujarati counting terms). I stood first in the class, and that was when I first realized I was capable of being exceptional.

In fifth grade, I had two class teachers — Jashodaben in the first term and Narayanbhai Patel in the second. Jashodaben didn’t teach well, and Narayanbhai had a bad temper — if he got angry, he’d slap or hit. That year was spooned in communal riots of 1969 and we were promoted without final examinations. 

Std. VI & VII

In the sixth grade, the school building didn’t change, but the school number did, since the principal and teachers were different. The school was now called Rajpur School No. 7.

I loved our morning prayer there: “Saraswati Devi, you are the giver of our knowledge; grant us the gift of true learning.” I used to sing it every day with deep devotion.

For two consecutive years, I stood first in the school. From grades 6 and 7 onward, we were taught by subject teachers, which greatly improved the standard of education. For the first time, we moved from writing on slates with slate pen to taking notes in notebooks with pencils.

The free textbooks provided by the education committee often arrived near the end of the school year — so until then, whatever our teachers taught became our textbooks!

Amrutbhai Parmar, our math and geometry teacher, taught us so well that the foundation he laid still supports me today — like a strong building standing on firm ground. Our class teacher and headmaster, Premanand Parmar, taught Gujarati beautifully.

Around this time, my mother became actively involved in my education. She made me read five lessons aloud every night before letting me go to sleep. She would respond to each line I read, encouraging me to keep going until I had finished all five lessons for the day. This daily reading habit steadily strengthened my memory and understanding.

At our home, every year during the month of Shravan, the Mahabharata was recited. If my father worked the day shift, the recitation took place at 4 p.m.; if he had the night shift, it was done at 9 a.m.

It always began with the line: “Vaishampayan aeniper bolya, sun Janmejay Ray, Vistari tujane sambhalavu Shanti Parv Mahimay.” At first, I only listened, but soon I began to read along during the storytelling sessions. The Mahabharata written by Vallabh was full of every rasa — compassion, valor, romance, peace, wonder, and terror; so deeply emotional that one would become completely immersed in it.

After each group recitation, I would sit quietly in a corner and continue reading on my own, eager to know what happened next. By the end of that year, I had read the entire Mahabharata and its stories and sub-stories stayed with me ever since.

My mother was a Vaishnav, the granddaughter of Saint Bechardas of the Guru Kanpir seat, and daughter of Guru Mooldas. She regularly read the Shrimad Bhagavat written by Vallabha, so the Vaishnav traditions and discipline were part of my upbringing from early childhood.

Every Sunday, she would wear a spotless white sari and go for prayers at the Chintamani Parshvanath Jain temple, located right across from our chawl, to perform her regular worship. Her maternal home (paternal village) was Gambhu, where there was the Gambhira Parshvanath Jain temple, so she had also inherited Jain cultural values. The Chintamani Jain temple stood right beside my school, and through her, I too developed a deep interest and respect for Jain religion and culture.

Decisive Moment

As soon as I finished seventh grade, our headmaster, Premanand Sir, held back my leaving certificate. He told me, “Your name has been registered at Khadia High School, so we’ll send your certificate directly there.”

At that time, in our area, the two well-known high schools were Democratic High School and St. Joseph’s High School. Since St. Joseph’s was near my home, I preferred it — staying close meant I could attend school easily and still have time to help my mother and sister-in-law with household chores.

Besides, I had seen how my elder brother Kanu, and his two friends Ambalal and Muljibhai, had gone to Khadia High School, where their studies had completely deteriorated. So, I had firmly decided not to go to Khadia High School under any circumstances.

Despite my reasoning, the headmaster was being unfair, so I stood up for myself. I told him clearly, “Sir, please give me my leaving certificate. I want to enroll at St. Joseph’s High School.”

He hesitated and resisted for a while. But when I saw that he was blocking my path, I threatened to file a complaint with the Education Committee office at Danapith. That made him give in — angry but defeated — and he finally handed me my certificate.

Thus, after completing my primary education across four schools under the Ahmedabad Primary Education Committee, I secured admission to St. Joseph’s High School for my secondary education.

There, I came under the guidance of teachers who would truly shape my character.

September 11, 2025