“My name is Major Timms,” his voice echoed in the classroom
of fifty students. He stood 6 feet tall but for his straight spine, slight
chest protrusion and impeccable dress code made him look like a giant. He
towered over you in demeanor. A strange and disquieting feature when one is
just sprouting the adolescent features. He had command. There was no turning
back. If you had remotely patterned yourself towards an easy year, those words from
his mouth dispelled such a thought.
There was something in the way he moved about the room,
gazing back at anyone that dared to see where he was at any one moment. Before
you knew it, he was breathing down your neck, examining the search for answers
in your eyes, “What seems to be the problem?” he would say and you shrugged
your shoulders with a, “nothing, sir, nothing at all!” With a qualified loud
“Hrrmph” he would be perched over someone else’s shoulder with an empty pipe
dangling from the corners of his mouth firmly clenched in between his teeth. The
image had along lasting effect on a twelve-year old mind.
Soon however as the first month of the year passed, you grew
comfortable. It wasn’t like Oliver Twist looking for “more.” It was more like the
plate was always filled with more even without the asking.
Major Timms was a joy as a teacher. His “hrrmphs” got
quieter as he gauged your discipline and desire and then stoked the energies of
the youth. Even the laziest of the lazy were compelled and propelled. Somehow
everyone learned. He allowed questioning at its basic level. The “whys” were
always answered with a “because” if he knew them and “lets find out,” if he
didn’t. He was like an adventurer at the helm of an expedition, always knowing
the currents, tides and winds for the sails to fill and the direction towards
the rising sun.
There was more knowledge received from him then can be
quantified. He would take an algebra problem and equate it to Al Khwarizmi and
how people back then solved complex issues of society. He had a knack for
metaphors, an eye for the needle in the haystack, an ear for the subtlest of
sounds emerging in the youthful understanding and above all he prodded, poked
and stoked the fires of passion to learn. From DaVinci and Shakespeare to Newton and Einstein everyone and everything was fair game.
Every day in his class, I changed my mind to follow a
different goal in life; a mathematician one day changed into an astrophysicist,
a writer morphed into a philosopher the next and in the end the rocket
scientist finally settled on medicine and within medicine later, from an immunologist
to a medical oncologist. But oh, the pleasures of those multiple desires still
evoke a memory that continues to ignite the conflagration within.
I have often wondered if I could find in myself a sliver of
what he had, so I may be able to mold journeys the way he did? He was a
special person. He wanted the best in everyone. He told stories, he brought
fables to life, spoke of myths and fashioned arguments for and against till you
saw the meaning behind the words. He was special indeed. For he gave me the
wisdom to learn and I will forever be grateful for that.
So long Major Timms, your inspiration lives.
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