You walk towards your class. Your feet feel heavy. Heavy, as they had never been before. You cautiously check the room number. The number fluctuates. Twenty-nine, you see at first. You push your spectacles over the bushy black and white eyelashes—a shadow of time. Twenty eight, you read. Well, how can you be sure? You take out a silver white napkin from your pocket. You wipe your glasses and put them on again. Twenty-eight, that is right. You enter into the room.

You are greeted by a resounding ‘Good morning Sir’, entirely different from those you have been receiving. You take a cursory glance at your students. You try to sense the cause of difference. In no time, the room is fills with a rhythmic applause from all of you students. “Sir, we will miss you!” a boy stands up and says. A chill goes down your spine. And suddenly you realise: you are teaching the last lesson of your life. 

The words fail you. You have arrived at an another stop in the journey of your life. When you look back, you see a bright “you” dressed in blue, checked shirt and jeans and entering the same room thirty-two years ago. Same room?  Well, the almighty has planned the creation amazingly. You have no idea, how time flies. You cannot kneel down in the middle of the road thinking you don’t really have a destination.  You have no options but to keep strides with its changes and with the unbreakable systems of human life.

You consistently stare at the walls, boards and paintings. Your silence creates a friendly chaos among students. “I will miss you all,” you manage to say. “I will miss myself,” you say to yourself.

You move towards the chalk box. You take a few sticks. You have loved its body and its snow-white colour for these many years. You produce a sharp melody as you rub the chalk against the board. The bits of chalk slowly engrave over the smooth green board. Then you stop. You cannot write. Not today!

You observe all your friends who accompanied you in your journey of thirty-two years. You glance at your duster, table, chair, chalk box and the register. They have become a sensitive part of your life. You would caress them every day. You would talk to them. You cared for them so much. You would bid them a momentary goodbye everyday and walk home. But today, you are parting with all of them. Forever!

You will never again be late for classes because you will not have one. You will never be late for assemblies. You will never have busy morning schedules. You won’t have to rush to the bus stop with unfinished meals. You won’t have to prepare for your lessons. You won’t have to toil to set questions for exams and mark papers. You will not argue with guardians. You won’t have to counsel students. And Sarala, she will never pack another lunchbox for you. The aroma of her hand-made Parathas and aloo fries will never charm the class during lunch breaks. Is that a relief?

You will no longer check notebooks after school. And the perfection you felt after getting shaved and dressed in black blazer every morning—that is never going to come. You don’t have to prepare for tomorrow; you don’t have to hurriedly wash your clothes and press them. You have no dates in calendar that you will have to mark; you have to set a reminder on your phone. There is just a vast emptiness in time that you see ahead of you. You have an entire life waiting, but have nothing to do.  Literally, nothing.

All your life, you wanted to have enough Saturdays and holidays. You had less time to be with your family. You had less leisure. You barely went shopping with your kids. And today, when you are getting every bit of leisure at once you don’t feel like taking it. Your hands don’t stretch out to receive them.

Instantly, a shock wave spreads in you. You cannot control your tears. One by one, they start rolling down your cheeks wetting every bit of your face which had been dry and deprived of tears for a very long time. The students play a puzzling Chinese whisper in reaction to your emotion. You smile at your students. Parting is such a sweet sorrow!

You feel the watch, cold against your wrist. You take a quick look. You are alarmed to find that you have a single minute remaining. Alas! Your last lesson was the shortest lesson of your life. The almighty didn’t show mercy and elongate your lesson. Not even by fraction of a second. Reluctantly, you start the parting words.

You wish for success in the future endeavours of your students. Though you will be far from them, they will reside in the inner core of your heart. You teach them to study for themselves, not for certificates or parents or a job. You teach them to study what they like and what they want.  You ask them to make choices which ensure their happiness. You ask them to live for others. You ask them to be perfect in whichever field they choose. You say that life is never made out of purposes. You survive which means you are a message, yet to be given to this world.  You should create your purposes.

You will spend your retired life hearing about the achievements of your students. You will live with the stories of their success. You will see their faces in the front pages of newspapers. You will live with those joys and satisfactions and upon which you will smile until the last moment of your life.

The buzzing of school bell strikes you. You cannot move. You are numb. Today, the kids who rushed out of the class chatting and rattling don’t move a bit. You vividly understand what their eyes are saying. The eyes want you not to go. To Stop? How could you?

You write the last sentences in the board. You bid farewell to all your friends—the chalk, duster, chair, board and the table. “I have lived a wonderful life with you,” you say looking at each one of them. You walk out of the class. The kids there, curiously read the ‘last words’ written in the board. They find a stanza from Robert Frost’s poem that he had taught them a few weeks back.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep!