By the end of the first week, Shalini had begun to sense the gaps. Some students fumbled with advanced chapters, others struggled with simple confidence. It was a story as old as her teaching career — the burden of big dreams, pressed against the harshness of limited resources.
That Friday afternoon, as the bell rang and the halls began to empty, Shalini stood by the window, watching groups of students stream out toward the gate, their laughter spilling over the noise of rickshaw horns and idling buses.
She had seen enough to know what must be done.
Her mind ran through the roll call — Ravi, whose quiet intelligence showed flashes of brilliance but whose fundamentals needed polish. Prayush, whose reading was solid but who hesitated during recitations, tongue knotted by a fear he couldn't seem to name. And a handful of others who had potential buried under too many hardships.
Maybe a home environment would help, she reasoned, thinking of the small drawing room she used as a study at home. It had enough space, a good blackboard, even a sturdy table that could seat six.
That evening, she drafted a notice on pale yellow paper and pinned it to the class board.
> After-school coaching program available for interested students.
Location: Teacher Shalini's residence
Days: Monday to Friday, 4:30 p.m. onward
Focus on revision, problem-solving, and confidence-building. No fee for scholarship students.
She left it there, heart beating a little faster. Offering classes at her own home felt personal, exposing, but also necessary. Some of these children simply couldn't afford private tutors, and she refused to watch their dreams crumble.
On Monday afternoon, a small group gathered outside the school gate waiting for her. Ravi stood there, bookbag over one shoulder, a cautious smile tugging at his lips. Prayush waited beside him, glancing around as though wary of who might notice.
Three other students joined them — Sonali, a girl with impossibly neat braids and worried eyes; Farid, always tapping a pencil against his chin; and Hema, whose voice quivered whenever she tried to read aloud.
"Everyone ready?" Shalini asked, and they nodded, following her like a small, hopeful flock.
Her house was a fifteen-minute walk through a quiet residential lane, shaded by gulmohar trees and lined with worn brick boundary walls. Shalini had lived there since her marriage, and though the house was modest, it was clean and bright, with potted tulsi on the windowsills and the faint perfume of incense in the entryway.
As they stepped inside, she guided them toward the study room. It was neatly arranged — a low table, floor cushions, an old wooden bookshelf stacked with dictionaries, grammar workbooks, and her own college textbooks. A small ceiling fan spun overhead, stirring the still afternoon air.
"Settle in," she told them, pulling the curtains open. Sunlight spilled across the floor, making the tiled surface glow.
Ravi glanced around in quiet awe, while Prayush gave a stiff, polite nod before sitting near the window. Sonali smoothed her uniform skirt nervously, Farid was already scribbling math equations, and Hema shyly looked at her feet.
Shalini took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. Here, in her own home, she felt the power to reach them more directly. No bells, no interruptions, no stern principal watching from the staffroom.
"Alright," she said, voice warm, "today we'll start with the basics. English grammar first, then a little math revision. You can ask me anything — don't hold back."
For the first hour, their hesitation was painfully obvious. Prayush barely met her gaze; Ravi fumbled with tenses though his mind was clearly sharp. Sonali stammered over every answer, cheeks burning, while Farid's restless energy made him buzz like an insect.
But slowly, as Shalini gently corrected their mistakes and praised their small successes, something began to change.
"Very good, Ravi," she encouraged, after he formed a correct passive sentence.
"Try again, Sonali, but take a deep breath first."
"Prayush, don't worry about mistakes — I want to hear your voice."
Little by little, the room loosened. The students laughed when they stumbled over a tongue-twister, then tried again, encouraged by Shalini's patient smile. The smell of masala chai from her kitchen seemed to soften the tension even further, hinting at comfort, at a teacher who was also a mother, a mentor, a gentle guide.
By the end of the two-hour session, they seemed different. Sonali was reading aloud with less fear, Ravi had grown confident enough to challenge a question, and Prayush finally looked her in the eyes as he answered.
"You see?" Shalini told them, gathering up the used practice sheets. "No magic — just practice and courage."
They nodded, relief and pride glowing in their tired faces.
As she walked them to the door, dusk was already falling outside. Avi, who had been finishing his own homework in the living room, poked his head around the corner.
"Ma, who are they?" he asked, curious.
"Some of my students," she said with a soft smile. "They're staying for a while after school. Don't mind them."
Avi's brow furrowed, but he shrugged and padded back to his books.
Outside, Ravi lingered for a moment.
"Ma'am," he began, voice lower than before, "thank you for… for including us."
Shalini's eyes met his, kind and steady. "Of course. You deserve every chance. See you tomorrow."
He nodded, then hurried to catch up with Prayush, who waited at the gate.
As Shalini closed the door behind them, a strange quiet settled over the house. The students had left a different sort of energy behind — a raw, earnest hope that felt almost fragile.
She stepped back into the study, smoothing down the cushions, straightening the books. In the lingering dusk light, the place felt both intimate and exposed.
This is the right thing to do, she reassured herself. And yet, in a corner of her heart, she felt a tremor — a sense that letting these students into her private world might shift something deeper, in ways she had not yet imagined.
When she turned, she saw Avi standing behind her, watching with those same searching eyes that had always been so perceptive.
"Ma," he asked, "will they come every day?"
"Yes," she said, touching his cheek. "Every day. It's good to help, isn't it?"
Avi nodded slowly, but the question in his eyes did not fade.
Shalini sighed, gathering the empty glasses from the table and moving toward the kitchen. The smell of cardamom tea still lingered in the air, warm and comforting, like a memory of safer times.
She took one last look at the little study — its neat rows of textbooks, the faint echo of laughter and shy voices — and closed the door, sealing away the beginning of a new chapter.
Tomorrow, she would open it all over again.
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