The Teacher Who Put Her on the Train

 In a few weeks, Mahashweta’s short animated fiction film ' The Quest' will be screened at the Busan International Kids and Youth Film Festival.

As parents, Shweta and I feel an immense sense of pride and happiness. It is deeply satisfying to see Kuku progressing in a field that she chose for herself, following a dream that was entirely her own. It was a dream very different from anything that most of us in the family had known. We belonged largely to the world of science, academics and teaching. Art and filmmaking lay far beyond the boundaries of our experience and, perhaps, even our imagination.

But whenever one of Kuku’s creation is screened, or another small milestone comes her way, my thoughts return to one person.

Mrs Neeta Rastogi, her school principal.

She is no longer with us, but I often feel that somewhere along this journey, her hand is still gently resting on Kuku’s shoulder.

This is not the story of how Mahashweta found her way into filmmaking. It is my small tribute to a teacher who recognised a child’s dream, respected it and, when necessary, cleared the road ahead for her - even when the parents themselves were standing uncertainly in the way.

No one in my family had ever worked in the arts. While I was growing up, going to the Film and Television Institute of India in Pune, or going to Bombay to work in films, was not usually spoken of as a dream. It was often seen as the uncertain road taken by someone who had failed to find a more respectable or conventional one.

That was the world I had inherited.

So how did Mahashweta ever decide to take such a different path?

Kuku studied at Sadhu Vaswani International School for Girls (SVIS). When we were looking for admission for her in Standard II in 1993, it may not have been counted among Delhi’s so-called top schools. But it was the school that opened its doors to her even though she could neither read nor write Hindi at the time.

And through the years, the school continued to open doors.

It encouraged her to participate in debates, competitions and almost every activity that caught her interest. The only exception, as Kuku still reminds us, was when she decided that she would also sing and was gently told, “You do not have to do everything.”

The first real step towards filmmaking came when she was perhaps in Class XI. Meenakshi and Vinay Rai had started a Film Appreciation or Filmmaking Club in the school. The couple introduced the students to the many aspects of cinema. The children played with ideas, wrote stories, learnt about scripts and cameras, and began to understand how a film slowly comes alive. They even made a girl-empowerment advertisement for Doordarshan.

They were probably only enjoying themselves.

Perhaps no one realised that one of those children had quietly discovered the road she would one day follow.

Around that time, in 2004, a filmmaking competition called 24 X 7: making movies, associated with Anuradha Parikh and Dev Benegal, was announced. It was to be held during the 35th International Film Festival of India in Goa. Meenakshi ma’am asked the students to submit stories, and Kuku and her classmate Sakshi sent in their entries.

Both were selected.

The challenge was exciting. The participants had to reach Goa and make a film within twenty-four hours. It could be anything from twenty-four seconds to twenty-four minutes long, but it had to be shot, edited and completed within that single day.

The moment Kuku heard that her script had been selected, she was overjoyed

And almost at the same moment, our worries began.

The competition was very close to the pre-board examinations. It may even have overlapped with them. This was Class XII, the year in which every parent begins to behave as though the child’s entire future is balanced precariously on the next examination.

Kuku was not doing particularly well academically that year. The pre-board examinations were approaching. The journey to Goa was long.

We were worried parents, armed with all the usual parental arguments.

So Shweta and I went to meet Mrs Neeta Rastogi.

We explained that although Mahashweta had been selected, the pre-boards were near. It was her final year in school, the board examinations were approaching, and we were not very keen on the trip to Goa.

Neeta ma’am heard us out.

Then, without batting an eyelid, she said, “Do not worry about the pre-boards. She will manage. Let her go.”

There was no hesitation in her voice.

No long discussion about marks, attendance, syllabus or examinations.

She probably recognised that this was not merely another school outing or competition. It was an opportunity that could matter to a young girl trying to understand where she belonged.

She assured us that the school would help organise the journey and ensure that the children were taken safely.

Shweta and I looked at each other. We had gone there perhaps hoping that the principal would support our anxiety. Instead, she had quietly removed every excuse we had brought with us.

Kuku, of course, was delighted.

We remained nervous.

But once Neeta ma’am had spoken with such certainty, it became difficult to say no.

She could easily have stopped there. She could have granted permission, wished the children well and left the rest to the parents.

But that was not Neeta ma’am.

The next problem was the railway reservation. There were no confirmed tickets available. If I remember correctly, Neeta ma’am’s husband was a doctor with the Railways, and she said she would try to get the journey arranged.

Soon, a rather unlikely film crew was ready to travel: two Class XII girls, Sakshi and Mahashweta; three much younger children, perhaps from Classes IV and V; and one extremely brave teacher, Shailley ma’am, who had agreed to accompany them all the way from Delhi to Goa.

On the day of the journey, we left from the school to drop the children at the railway station. Neeta ma’am had given us a reference and told us whom to speak to. We were assured that something would be managed.

But when we reached the station, we discovered that all the tickets were still on the waiting list.

The train was packed.

There were no seats.

No berths.

No possibility of accommodation.

And I must confess that somewhere deep inside, I probably felt a small sense of relief. We had tried. The school had tried. There were no seats.

We stood there speaking to the railway staff, wondering what to do next.

Then I turned around.

Neeta Rastogi ma’am was standing beside us.

She had come to the station herself.

“What happened?” she asked.

We explained that none of the tickets had been confirmed and that the train was completely full.

She did not pause.

She walked straight into the station master’s office.

The station master explained that the train was chock-full and that there was simply no accommodation available. Neeta ma’am listened, but she was not ready to accept that answer.

She made it very clear that the train was not going anywhere until her children were on it.

The station master called a Travelling Ticket Examiner and asked him to find some way of accommodating the group. He repeated that there were no berths available.

Neeta ma’am stood her ground.

Finally, the TTE offered the only thing he could - his own seat, a single side berth. The teacher and the five children would somehow have to manage, and perhaps some berths might become available along the way.

For Neeta ma’am, that was enough.

Within moments, porters were called. The luggage was lifted. The children were hurried towards the train. She held up the train until everyone had boarded.

Before Shweta and I quite understood what was happening, they were inside.

There was hardly any time to reconsider.

The train whistled and pulled away.

And five schoolchildren, accompanied by one extraordinarily courageous teacher, set out on a journey of more than twenty-four hours from Delhi to Goa, with barely one borrowed seat between them.

Kuku went on to make a short film titled ‘I Feel’. Both the films from SVIS received a Special Jury Recommendation.

Looking back now, I often wonder what would have happened had Neeta ma’am not come to the station that day.

Perhaps Kuku would have stayed home and written her pre-board examination.

Perhaps she would have scored a few more marks.

But perhaps a small door would have quietly closed.

A young girl might have learnt that examinations must always come before dreams, that unconventional interests are best postponed, and that the safer road is always the right one.

Neeta ma’am refused to allow that door to close.

She saw something in Mahashweta that we, as parents, had not yet learnt to recognise. More importantly, she trusted it. She did not merely encourage her with kind words. She arranged the tickets, came to the railway station, argued with officials and made sure that the child got onto the train.

Today, as Kuku’s film prepares to travel to Busan, I find myself returning to that railway platform at Nizamuddin station.

The journey to Goa was more than a school trip.

It was perhaps the first time someone outside the family told her, through action rather than words, that her dream mattered.

Mrs Neeta Rastogi is no longer with us. Sadly, we cannot call her and tell her how far that train eventually travelled.

But every time Mahashweta's name appears on the screen, every time her work reaches a new audience, and every time she takes another step along the road she chose, I feel that Neeta ma’am is present somewhere in that moment.

Some teachers prepare children for examinations.

A few prepare them for life.

And then there are teachers like Neeta Rastogi ma’am, who recognise a journey before it has even begun and makes sure that the child does not miss the train.

And there is Shailley ma’am too, whose courage carried that dream all the way to Goa, and to whom we remain forever grateful.