Once, I was a young teacher, brimming with energy and quiet dreams. Over the years, time gently shaped me into an older teacher, and today, at sixty-one, I sit as a retired teacher - yet, in truth, never retired from learning or sharing.
In winter, I bask in the warmth of the sun; in summer, I find comfort in the shade. Life has slowed, but it has also softened. I have come to believe that once parents cross sixty, they gradually loosen their grip on worries about the household - whether everything is enough or not begins to matter a little less. What remains is a quiet acceptance and a deeper trust in life.
And yet, the small, unfulfilled desires from my years of गृहस्थ जीवन still glow within me - fresh, almost youthful. It is no longer just a wish to do something; it feels like a gentle calling, a reminder from within that there is still something left for me to give.
I do not know how others feel at this stage of life, but for me, even the simplest moments can open doors to the past. Something like that happened yesterday at a literary gathering, it stirred memories so deeply that I felt compelled to write.
I found myself wondering: when did I truly become a teacher? Was it the day I received my appointment letter, or had that journey begun much earlier?
As I look back, I realize I had started teaching long before I officially became a teacher, perhaps when I was just fourteen or fifteen. My classmates would often gather around me, asking me to explain lessons that had already been taught in class. Mathematics, especially, would trouble them. I still remember how they once carried an old discarded blackboard from the school store to my home. In the evenings, in the small sit-out of our mud-plastered, thatched house, I would teach them for an hour or more. Those moments, simple as they were, now feel deeply meaningful.
Soon, even juniors began visiting my home to clear their doubts. This continued long before I formally entered the profession. Later, as a school teacher, I would often take extra classes - before or after school, or during long winter vacations - especially for subjects I was not even assigned to teach. It never felt like extra work; it felt like purpose.
As life moved on and I became an educational administrator, that connection with learners only widened. Students, aspiring teachers, and even experienced educators would come seeking guidance. Some came with academic doubts, some with dreams of becoming headteachers, and others with a quiet passion for writing. I found myself guiding not only students and teachers, but also budding writers and research scholars - sharing books, ideas, and whatever little I had learned along the way.
Of course, in that long journey, I did not only guide gently - I also scolded, sometimes firmly, when I sensed carelessness or hesitation. Even today, I wonder how many understood those moments as concern, and how many may have felt hurt. Time does not always reveal such answers clearly.
But what it does reveal is something far more beautiful.
Many of those young minds have now returned, not in person alone, but through their achievements - like fruits borne from seeds sown long ago.
Yesterday, at the literary program in Namchi, one such moment unfolded. The chief guest, a renowned Nepali poet, shared an old memory. He recalled that nearly thirty-five years ago, when he had paused writing poetry, I had urged him - almost insisted - that he must begin again, and even demanded a poem within a week. I had completely forgotten this incident.
Only after his speech did it return to me. It must have been around 1991, when we had started our literary magazine Bagar. Perhaps he had delayed sending a poem, and I had spoken with the impatience of belief.
Standing there, listening to him, I felt a quiet fullness within.
It reminded me of something simple yet profound: when intentions are sincere and the mind remains positive, the seeds we sow - through words, guidance, or even a moment of insistence - do return, often after many years, and often in ways more beautiful than we had imagined.
: 25th March 2026
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