My Dearest Sham Ji,
Do you remember the mulberry tree?
It stood in the corner of that courtyard,
its gnarled roots breaking the earth like the knuckles of a wise old hand. The
summer heat would make the air thick with the scent of ripening fruit, staining
our fingers purple as we sat in its dappled shade. That is where my memory of
you truly begins—not just at the tuition desk, but under that tree. You would
lean against its trunk, a book of poetry in your hands, and the world would
fall away. The cooing of the doves, the distant clatter of kitchenware, the hum
of a passing scooter all became a soft soundtrack to your voice.
It was there, on a particularly warm
afternoon, that you first taught me “Go, Lovely Rose.” A cool breeze, heavy
with the promise of evening, rustled the mulberry leaves above us, and you
began to speak.
You said this was Edmund Waller’s
best-known poem, and that it shone because of its structural unity and symbolic
depth. You spoke so gently, so passionately, and I—oh, I was all ears, soaking
in every single word like soft rain on thirsty soil. My skin prickled with
goosebumps, not from the cold, but from the sheer presence of you. I can still
feel the rough bark of the tree against my back and the way my heart would beat
a little faster whenever you looked my way.
You said the poem was written in the
mid-17th century, when ideals of courtly love floated through poetry like
perfumed air. To be honest, Sham Ji, back then, I didn’t quite grasp why the
poet used “thee” and “thou.” It sounded old, distant. But when you said those
words, they felt intimate—almost like secrets whispered between close friends.
It wasn’t until I studied English in
my MA that I truly understood. But even now, when I read that ABAB rhyme scheme
or trace the lyrical grace of the poem, I hear your voice. I hear you.
You said the commanding mood runs
through the poem, with the rose sent forth like a gentle messenger. I remember
how you paused, looked at my face, and said, “The poet urges a young woman to
recognise her beauty and accept admiration before time steals it away.”
Why did you pause, Sham Ji? Why did
you look at me just then? That moment stayed with me—like a rose pressed in a
book, its fragrance lingering long after the petals have dried. In that pause,
under the mulberry tree, I felt a shift. It was no longer just a lesson; it was
a message meant for me.
You went on, explaining how beauty’s
worth is tied to being seen, and how the poem carries a subtle urgency: “Beauty
from the light retired” has “small is the worth.” And then, the closing
stanza—so tender, so true—about the fleeting nature of all things rare and
sweet.
Sham Ji, your words echo in my heart
even now. You made poetry feel alive, like it was breathing just for us. I
admired you so much back then—your calm, your clarity, your quiet passion. You
made me fall in love with literature. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit with
you too.
I knew you were young, a brilliant
tuition master with a polish in your speech and a warmth in your gaze. You said
Edmund Waller’s style was smooth, graceful, controlled—but your teaching was
anything but controlled. It was alive. It stirred something in me that still
hasn’t settled.
