Ramu

The nickname "Ramu" caught on like wildfire. To this day, I can’t explain how stupidly brilliant it felt at the time. My friend Shivu and I coined it on the pebbled street between Sapphire House and Emerald House, laughing like hyenas over our latest inside joke—until a senior overheard and connected the dots.

“How dare you speak of our principal like that?” The snitch probably tattled, though I don’t remember how that panned out for us—or for her.

I like to imagine Ramu found out and probably had a good laugh about it. That’s who she was.

My first adult friend, though “friend” is generous. To her, I was probably just the disaster sprinting between buildings, being in places I shouldn’t be, saying things I shouldn’t say. Ramu clocked me instantly: a certified problem child.

You see, naughtiness is a spectrum, and most kids fall somewhere in the middle. I was in the deep end—too clumsy to swim, too chaotic to save.

But Ramu? She came in to Dead Poets Society the hell out of us. Ramu was born to teach. Like Lata Mangeshkar was born to play cricket and Sachin to swim. (Kidding. Obviously.) Years later, she’s still the best teacher I’ve ever had. Her lessons on Frost, Shaw, and Shakespeare have stayed with me even to this day. They are my ticket to snobbery in adulthood.

And the wildest part? Ramu hadn’t the slightest clue that she was like the Pied Piper of teachers. With a single glance, she’d sort out fights (more specifically, between me and my sister), drop wisdom bombs, and patch up shattered egos—all before lunch.

Once, while I was suspended for yelling “FUCK” on the basketball court, she told me I’d “make something of myself.” All because I was able to solve a puzzle that no one else could in quiz class.

Most teachers would’ve written me off. Not Ramu.

And God, could she tell a story. She’d stride into class and spin tales so vivid, you’d swear you could hear the Holy Spirit pass by. She started as our English and GK teacher, but when Mrs. Mathur retired, Ramu was the obvious choice for school principal. She’d taught us that real merit could outshine anything.

Let’s be real, though: our batch was her personal hell. By 12th grade, we were in full notice-period mode—checked out, rebellious, and proudly rotten. The worst Hopetown had ever seen.

Smartphones smuggled in lockers. Love letters passed to boys’ schools like secret treaties. Bribes. Me, caught smoking. And Ramu, our exasperated ringmaster, losing her damn mind.

Yet she saw us. Not just the chaos, but the potential beneath it. She called us “hormone-crazed retards” (affectionately?) and once dubbed me a “highly kohled tart” for wearing kajal on a trip. (I was weirdly honored.)

In 11th grade, after I threw a tantrum over not being allowed into the dining hall with slippers, she hugged me, wiped my tears, and pointed to a paper on her desk. “See your name?” I braced for the naughty list. Instead, she said, “You’re going to be Captain.”

That was it—the pivot. Ramu didn’t just spot my potential; she revealed it to me like the Philosopher’s Stone in the Mirror of Erised. Where others saw a menace, she saw a loudmouth who loved books and could rally a crowd.

Next week, I fly to China for leadership training. Joke’s on them because I already learned from the best.

Funny though, isn’t it?

While I was busy mocking her name, Ramu was busy clearing mine.

Her name was Mrs. Vijaya Ramamurthy.