"Is the teacher still there?"

The question, seemingly insignificant, lingered in my mind like a distant call from a bygone era. That place remains – the small, one-story house with its rusty, stained tin roof, the red dirt schoolyard, and the teacher's voice echoing through the drizzly afternoons as winter approached.

Illustration photo: Internet

When I was little, I was terrified of going to school. I was afraid of being teased because my family was poor, afraid of not being able to do the homework, and even afraid of my parents telling me to "quit school and help with chores at home." But there was one thing that made me want to go back to school: the teacher's voice. He lectured slowly and clearly, enunciating each word, and never got angry when we were naive and slow to understand.

I remember most vividly those summer afternoons when the whole class stayed behind because it was raining heavily and we couldn't go home. The teacher opened his room and let us in to take shelter. The room was tiny, filled with books. He opened a plastic container, took out several packets of instant noodles, cooked them all in one large pot, and then served them to us. I ate instant noodles many times, but that was probably the most delicious noodle dish I've ever had, and only much later did I realize the reason was probably because I got to sit and eat with the teacher and my friends.

Once, I skipped school to go fishing. I expected my teacher to scold me, but instead, he was gentle and only asked, "Did you catch a lot of fish today?" I was scared, too scared to look at him or say a word. He asked again, "You caught a basketful of fish today, but do you know what you lost?" I thought for a long time before I understood and replied that I had lost a class session. He nodded, his voice still gentle and affectionate, "Yes, you lost a session. But I think you lost much more than that." Back then, I was too young to fully understand, but from then on, I never skipped school again.

My teacher taught me many things that aren't in textbooks. He taught me how to look at others with kindness. He taught me that poverty isn't shameful, only laziness is. He taught me how to keep promises, even small ones, to children. He didn't teach these things in lectures; he lived his life so that we students could see and follow his example.

Now that I'm an adult, living in the city, things are relatively stable. Every holiday, I return to my hometown, passing by the hill to visit my teacher. Without prior notice, he's there, greeting me with a smile that I've remembered since I was six years old.

The last time I visited, I noticed how much older he had become. His hair was completely white, and his back was more hunched than before. But he still woke up early and still opened a class for poor, studious children. "I teach to keep my skills sharp," he said with a smile, his voice soft and gentle. Hearing this, my heart ached; his whole life had been dedicated to the cause of educating and guiding children. Every time I visited, we would talk for a long time. We'd sit and chat for the whole afternoon, he'd ask about my wife and children, about my work, and then tell me about the class now. "The children are much smarter now than they used to be," he said, his eyes brightening, "but it's also harder, more stressful." He confided that some of the students were academically gifted but unhappy, constantly worried. Hearing him speak, I realized he was still the same as before, still caring for his students, even though he no longer taught officially at the school.

Every time I visit my teacher, I'm happy that he's still healthy, still there for me to visit, still there for me to sit and listen to him tell stories...

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