I never expected a schoolteacher in a slinky saree to teach me lessons that would last a lifetime, but Miss Vijaya did exactly that.
Teachers don’t just teach from textbooks; they shape the way we see the world, the values we carry, and even the paths we choose. I still remember one teacher whose guidance left a mark far deeper than any exam result ever could: Miss Vijaya.
My early schooldays in Kajang were anything but easy. From Kindergarten onwards, I was the target of harsh discipline and ridicule. A simple mistake like picking up a lost coin could turn into a humiliating ordeal, leaving me branded as a “thief” in front of classmates. Primary school offered no respite. Teachers were strict, bullies relentless, and my gravelly voice after puberty made me an easy target. Restless and drawn to sports and outdoor life, I was often dismissed as a “waste of space.”
Yet amid the chaos, Miss Vijaya saw something different. She intervened when a fight with a classmate threatened my very place in school. Shielding me from expulsion, she planted a seed of confidence that would grow far beyond the classroom walls.
I must confess, as a schoolboy, I also harboured a mild infatuation for her. Miss Vijaya had a simple elegance, often wearing a slinky saree with a sleeveless blouse that a young Georgia Armani might have admired for its understated style. But it wasn’t just her appearance; it was the care she took in her work, even writing me a short, personal note of encouragement that I treasured. I remember feeling equal parts awe and panic whenever she called on me in class; my stomach did somersaults, my palms sweated, and I probably looked like a very nervous badminton shuttlecock.
One moment that has stayed with me vividly happened during a Civics class on the outside badminton courts. Miss Vijaya posed a general question to the entire school: “Anyone know who BB (Brigitte Bardot) was?” Silence. No one dared answer. Then, like a jumping jack flash Mick Jagger from a squatted position would have been proud, I shot up and confidently blurted out that she was a French sex goddess married to Roger Vadim. My source? Clandestine reading in my cousin Rajan’s Playboy magazines. Miss Vijaya, in front of the whole school, smiled and declared, obviously in humour, that my education was nearly complete! That single comment, playful yet affirming, taught me the extraordinary power of peripheral knowledge and the profound effect a perceptive teacher can have on a pupil. She understood the distinction between education and mere academia, hallelujah, as Leonard Cohen might have lyricized.
It wasn’t just admiration that mattered, it was the lesson she taught about seeing potential where others saw trouble. Through Civics lessons, sitting at the back as an outcast, I discovered that knowledge could extend beyond textbooks, and recognition could come from courage and curiosity. One day, I astonished the headmistress, Mrs Richards, by correctly naming the Empire State Building as the world’s tallest, with 102 floors. For a brief but exhilarating moment, I felt seen, valued, and capable of achievement on my own terms.
Miss Vijaya’s influence went beyond academics. She showed me that life’s lessons often come in unexpected forms: resilience in the face of injustice, empathy for those overlooked, and the confidence to pursue knowledge wherever it might be found. These lessons shaped not only my schooldays but my professional life as a civil litigator in England and Wales, where advocating for the underdog became my calling.
Even today, I carry forward the idea that learning is never confined to a classroom. Peripheral knowledge, the courage to stand up, and the belief that a mentor’s faith can make all the difference, these are the gifts Miss Vijaya gave me. They remind me that the most remarkable teachers leave an imprint that lasts a lifetime, long after the school bell has rung.
…And while I may never have climbed the coconut trees my father joked about, thanks to Miss Vijaya, I’ve been climbing far more important heights ever since.
