In her gentle presence, she became a guiding light, leaving behind a legacy of kindness, wisdom, and unspoken love that will forever inspire us
Sometimes in life, the presence or absence of a person profoundly impacts us. Their departure leaves a void that resonates deeply, making us reflect on the wisdom and guidance they once shared. We often find ourselves yearning for their advice and teachings, reminiscing about the moments when their words provided comfort and direction. However, when we can no longer hear their counsel, the pain becomes even more acute. It is in that silence, in the absence of their voice, that we truly feel the weight of their loss, grappling with the ache of unspoken words and unshared experiences.
It was perhaps the first day of the third semester of my master’s degree. After spending my second semester vacation at home, I had only recently returned to Bangalore a few days ago. Early that morning, driven by a sense of academic responsibility, I made my way to the university campus to attend the very first classes of my third semester. The weather was cloudy, numb, and calm. But today, the campus seemed unusually quiet and almost deserted. Maybe it was because, after the previous semester’s exams, most students had gone back to their hometowns. And, like my Ammi always says, just as a person’s desires and wants are never truly satisfied, in the same way, children who come home during vacations are never content to return to their hostels.
That one month of vacation I spent at home—how it vanished in the blink of an eye, I still don’t understand.
Even now, it feels as if my second-semester exams ended only yesterday. There was still a little time before classes would begin again, so I wandered into the campus cafeteria, carrying a heart full of passing moments and memories I couldn’t yet let go of.
As I looked around, my eyes fell—like every other day—on my classmate Syed, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, completely absorbed in his phone as if he was expecting his beloved to emerge from it. I walked over and greeted him. Syed asked if I had gone home too, how my vacation had been, and so on.
Outside, the weather had started conspiring to drench the earth and the air with new life—raindrops began to fall, as if. I stood there, watching the dance of rain as it soaked the earth, lost in thoughts that carried me far away without even realising it.
There was a time when this rain used to be my dearest friend. I still remember how, in my childhood, whenever it rained at home, my mother would lock me in my room as if I were a criminal, fearing I’d go out, get drenched, and fall sick. But somehow, I would always sneak out through the window to enjoy the boundless joy of the pouring rain. Later, when the chill of the night and a fever would grip my body, my mother would scold me as she gave me medicine. Oh, where did those days go?
When Syed brought up the topic of third-semester classes, out of nowhere, he suddenly said, “Bro, do you know Catherine ma’am is leaving this university?” The new semester hadn’t even started yet, and you had already started with your pranks and jokes. Laughing, I said to Syed, “There you go again.” But Syed turned serious and said, “Bro, I’m not joking. She’s really leaving.”
Hearing this from Syed’s mouth, it was like a bomb exploded inside me. “Are you out of your mind, Syed?” I said. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe it. “Bro, you better start believing it because she herself told me she’s leaving the university,” he replied.
I was so shaken I blurted out, “If it turns out you are lying, Syed, I swear I will cut off your precious, wavy golden locks. I will make you bald!” I said to him in a sharp tone. “You barely have any hair left yourself, but you are always jealous of mine!” Syed replied, running his fingers through his hair with a smirk.
The whole conversation left a storm of emotions inside—misbelief, worry, and the bittersweet pain of perhaps losing a beloved teacher. Even in the midst of our banter, the news weighed heavily on my heart.
“If you really are having such a hard time believing it, then go ask ma’am yourself. A few moments ago, I saw her on the first floor. Right now, she was saying goodbye to her colleagues and friends,” Syed said.
Whatever it was that surprised me—and before I could process or think of an alternative, pun intended—I found myself up on my feet! After picking up my bag, I dashed back down to the first floor, taking the stairs two at a time.
From afar, I overheard the voice of Catherine ma’am. My heart sank, thinking about what I might have to say to her, how I would begin to approach her, how I would— in what words—ask her, ask her why she was going.
On the first floor, ma’am caught sight of me. The moment she began to walk over to me, that’s when my tongue felt like it was tied in a million knots. By some miracle, I pulled myself together and gritted out—I somehow managed to find my voice—”Ma’am, I heard you are leaving this university?”
And my ears heard only what they didn’t want to hear.
“Yes, I am leaving this university.”
The thought of her leaving, of walking these halls without the gentle strength of her presence, was almost too much to bear. She had been more than a professor—she had been a steady light in the uncertain corridors of my university life.
Then, with a gentle smile that was both warm and a farewell, she reminded me, “Now, you all only have one semester left on campus.” “In your fourth semester, you all will be in your internships, and I wish you all enormous success and an aspiring future.” I will miss you all, ma’am said with numb eyes.
I had practically fled the cafeteria, my mind reeling, unable to grasp that she was just leaving. It simply didn’t feel real. I wish I hadn’t gotten up at all. I wish I had just believed Syed and accepted the truth from his words, instead of seeing it for myself.
In this journey from school to university, we cross paths with many teachers, lecturers, and professors. We learn from them, gain knowledge, and move forward in life. But out of all those countless faces, there are just a few rare individuals who genuinely care about our well-being and our future. In my life, Catherine ma’am and Poornima ma’am were those people.
When I first started coming to university, I wasn’t keeping well. Apart from my mother, the only person who ever said to me, “Do take care of yourself,” was Poornima ma’am. Her concern felt so heartfelt, and in a city crowded with thousands of people, that small act of compassionate thoughtfulness made an extremely big impact on my heart.
Poornima ma’am is so kind and pious; whenever she looks at students, there’s a tender and unspoken quality in her smile that could calm the fiercest storms within anyone’s heart. Her gaze held a quiet warmth, a silent embrace that, even for a brief moment, soothed the chaos inside me.
Some teachers walk with us only as instructors. But then there are the rare few—like her—who become gentle beacons in our lives, seeing us not just as students but as fragile, growing souls in need of care, understanding, and love.
That’s what Catherine ma’am and Poornima ma’am were to me—more than teachers, they were well-wishers who truly wanted to see us healthy, happy, and successful in life. Their departure leaves a space that no one else can fill.
That same evening, I was sitting on the terrace of my rented home, watching the gentle, soft light slowly fade away. My phone rang. It was my Ammi. With a delicate smile in her voice, she asked, “Ruhu, how was the first day of your new semester?”
“It was fine, Ammi,” I replied.
But then, sensing something, she asked with concern, “What’s wrong, Ruhu?”
I often wonder where mothers find this magic—this inexplicable ability to sense the storm in their child’s heart, no matter how far away they are. It’s true what people say: in this world, there is no greater protector than a mother. A mother does so much for her child’s happiness, and no one needs proof of that; her love is felt in every unspoken worry, every gentle question, every silent prayer she makes for us.
Catherine ma’am leaving the university—just as I always shared every detail with her about my professors and classmates. I had always been this way since childhood, laying bare even the smallest events of my life before her.
After listening to everything I had to say, my mother took a long, deep breath. In each exhale, I could hear her gentle guidance. She fell silent for a while before speaking, “Ruh, in this world, what thing or which person will stay with you forever?”
She waited, and when I couldn’t answer, she continued: “No one. That’s the truth. My dear child, don’t let your heart be so burdened by all this,” she said gently. “Truly, you and your classmates have been blessed—with professors who gave you more than just knowledge. Do you remember, Ruh, how you once asked me, eyes full of wonder, ‘Where do professors find such deep wells of wisdom, when the world seems to have so little to offer?’”
“Your professor Catherine ma’am also used to give you advice, didn’t she? Back then, her words would prick at you, and you used to listen with one ear and let them slip out the other. But now, as she’s leaving, why does it hurt you so much?”
I remained silent, perhaps because I had no answer. My mother finished her words and said, “It’s because your heart finally understands just how good and pure she truly is. You never truly valued her, Ruh.”
She definitely had an enormous workload, yet she always had a genuine smile just for you, Ruh—and she always will.
Do you really think earning a master’s degree is child’s play? Even so, she fought against all those deadlines just so you wouldn’t be burdened too much. Somewhere in her own life, she must have struggled a great deal, seen so much of the world.
It’s not by chance that she reached where she is today; it needs a lot of hard work, dedication, and passion to reach. And the same thing applies for your Poornima ma’am too (who cares for whom in this fast-paced life these days?).
“You once told me yourself that you see me in her.”
Letting someone go is a part of life, Ruh, my precious, my naive child. Farewells are waiting for us at every turn in life. What you need to do now is pray for her success and good health, and tell yourself:
“ONE MORE FAREWELL, ALRIGHT.”
With these words, my mother ended the call, and the evening, with all its gentle finality, wrapped itself in a soft blanket of dusk, leaving a bittersweet ache that lingered long after her voice had faded from my ears.
She walked into our lives
Not with noise, but with grace
Soft-spoken, steady
Like the quiet between heartbeats.
She was not just our teacher;
She was our leader.
She left today—
No announcement,
Just a smile
And eyes that knew too much.
And now,
Her chair sits still.
The corridors echo her absence,
And we—
Too late—
Realise what she gave:
Not lessons,
But pieces of her soul.
Farewell, ma’am.
You were never just a teacher;
You were our leader.
You were the warmth we never learned to thank.
Kamran Hamid Bhat
ka************@***il.com