Through Jhantu Bhai's diverse moral education, humor, and philosophy of life from his childhood, human nature, morality, self-deception, and various aspects of real life are revealed in this story.
লেখা: দীপু মাহমুদ
We lived in a government residential quarter, where there was a huge open field. Football and volleyball were played there almost every day. The boys from Majmipur Purbachal Club regularly came to the field to practise. They were professional athletes, and for that reason, we admired them enormously.
I was in Class Six at the time.
There are certain teachers who never appear in textbooks, yet their lessons remain with us longer than many university degrees. In my childhood, one such teacher was Jhontu Bhai, a member of Purbachal Club and a familiar figure on our neighbourhood field.
His educational qualifications, however, remained an enduring mystery.
At least four theories circulated in the neighbourhood. One group insisted that Jhontu Bhai had studied up to Class Eight. Another claimed he had reached Class Nine. A third group argued that he had failed so many times that he had eventually developed a kind of familial relationship with the classroom.
The fourth group was smaller but remarkably confident. They believed Jhontu Bhai had transcended the educational system altogether.
Jhontu Bhai himself never participated in this debate.
He simply said, “I did not quit studying. Studying defeated me.”
We did not understand what he meant.
Perhaps that was precisely what made the statement beautiful.
Jhontu Bhai had conducted what he considered extensive research before concluding that excessive education was not necessarily useful.
He occasionally presented his findings to us.
“Look,” he would say, “the first boy in the class grows up looking for a job. The boy who rarely attended school becomes a businessman and gives the first boy a job. So there is a certain amount of financial uncertainty in studying too much.”
I was a Class Six student. My knowledge of economics extended only as far as the money in my tiffin pocket.
Naturally, I was in no position to challenge the flaws in his argument.
Besides, Jhontu Bhai spoke with such conviction that it sometimes seemed that if every incorrect piece of information in the world were delivered with sufficient confidence, it might somehow become true.
After taking an informal retirement from education, Jhontu Bhai devoted himself to public welfare.
His principal occupation was advising children.
In the morning, he sat at the tea stall. At noon, he occupied the corner of the street. In the afternoon, he appeared beside the football field, and in the evening, he could usually be found on a pharmacy bench.
From these strategic locations, he was apparently rebuilding the future of the nation.
I was his most regular student.
Not because I possessed an extraordinary appetite for knowledge.
The real reason was much simpler. Whenever Jhontu Bhai saw me, he called me over. And I did not have the courage to ignore him.
One afternoon, I was returning from school. My schoolbag was hanging from my shoulder, my mathematics notebook was in my hand, and my mind was occupied by the approaching examination.
Then came the inevitable call from the tea stall.
“Hey, come here.”
I approached him.
Jhontu Bhai studied me for a few moments before asking, “Do you want to become successful in life?”
“Yes,” I replied.
He sighed.
“That is your first mistake.”
I was stunned.
“Why?”
“Because everyone wants to become successful. So everyone stands in the same queue. If you want to be different in life, you have to want something different.”
I asked, “What does something different mean?”
Jhontu Bhai thought for a while.
Then he said, “I haven't discovered that yet.”
That day I learned something important.
Great thinkers do not necessarily possess answers to every question. Sometimes they leave the unanswered questions for future generations.
Or, at least, that was how I interpreted it.
At that age, I gradually noticed that Jhontu Bhai's philosophy was intensely practical, although its practical value was sometimes questionable.
He believed that books could help a person pass examinations but could not necessarily guarantee success in life.
Life, he argued, required experience.
And his definition of experience was wonderfully unconventional: hearing someone else's experience and later presenting it as one's own.
One day he called me over and said, “Listen, Dipu. If you want to get ahead in life, you need to learn three things: how to speak, how to change the direction of a conversation, and how to deny something you said earlier when necessary.”
I looked confused.
“What about telling the truth?”
Jhontu Bhai sighed.
“Of course you should tell the truth. But tell the kind of truth that does not cause you unnecessary damage. There is also a safe version of the truth.”
That was the beginning of my formal education in what might generously be called Jhontu Bhai's moral philosophy.
“First lesson,” he announced. “Always respect your elders.”
That sounded reasonable.
Then came the explanation.
“Elders become happy when you respect them. When they are happy, they give advice. Once they start giving advice, you can quietly continue doing whatever you were doing.”
He paused.
“And never argue with an elder.”
“Why?”
“Because even if you win the argument, they will eventually remind you that you are still young. So your victory will be cancelled.”
The logic was peculiar, but there was a strange practicality embedded inside it.
Jhontu Bhai understood something about social hierarchy that no textbook had ever explained to me.
Sometimes winning an argument is less useful than avoiding one.
His second lesson was time management.
“Never waste your time,” he instructed.
I immediately noticed that he had already spent nearly an hour sitting at the tea stall.
I pointed this out.
He did not hesitate.
“This is not wasting time,” he explained. “This is observing time. It is preparation for work.”
That explanation stayed with me.
Jhontu Bhai believed that many successful people spent long periods doing nothing before they finally accomplished something because they were preparing themselves.
Preparation, he suggested, often looks remarkably similar to laziness.
His philosophy possessed an almost paradoxical elasticity. It could stretch far enough to accommodate almost any behaviour.
His third lesson concerned honesty.
“Always tell the truth,” he said.
I was pleased. Finally, something straightforward.
But then came the qualification.
“Before telling the truth, first consider whether the listener is ready to hear it.”
“What if they are not ready?”
“Then wait.”
“For how long?”
Jhontu Bhai looked thoughtful.
“People have seasons for hearing the truth.”
At that point, I began to suspect that honesty might be a seasonal commodity.
Perhaps some truths belonged to winter, while others needed to wait for a more favourable climate.
Then came another important principle.
“There is no substitute for hard work.”
I nodded seriously.
Jhontu Bhai then asked me to fetch his tea.
He took a sip and smiled.
“See? I gave you an opportunity to work hard. A good teacher always gives his students opportunities to develop.”
There was nothing I could say.
His ability to transform personal convenience into a pedagogical exercise was extraordinary.
And perhaps that was one of his greatest talents.
The days passed.
I continued receiving new lessons from Jhontu Bhai.
At the time, his words seemed mostly humorous. Years later, however, I began to understand the deeper observation hidden beneath his absurdity.
Jhontu Bhai had discovered something profound about human beings.
We all talk about principles, but we often want exceptions when principles become inconvenient.
We all claim to love the truth, but when the truth turns against us, we prefer to hear it later.
We all praise hard work, yet when an opportunity arises, we rarely object to letting someone else do the actual work.
This was the real value of Jhontu Bhai's lessons.
They were not lessons about morality in the conventional sense.
They were lessons about human nature.
He understood that people are not purely rational creatures. We are remarkably skilled at constructing rational explanations for whatever happens to benefit us.
His teachings therefore possessed a curious duality. On the surface, they were ridiculous. Beneath the humour was an uncomfortable recognition of everyday human behaviour.
Even today, whenever I hear someone deliver a long moral speech at a public gathering, I remember Jhontu Bhai.
I can almost imagine him sitting beside me with a cup of tea, quietly observing the speaker.
Then he would probably whisper:
“The words aren't bad. Now let's see whether the speaker actually follows them.”
And that is when I remember another important lesson.
The world does not suffer from a shortage of moral teachers.
What it lacks are teachers who can laugh at themselves.
Jhontu Bhai belonged to that rare category.
He advised others while simultaneously demonstrating, through his own behaviour, how human beings can bend principles, reinterpret reality and turn personal convenience into philosophical doctrine.
Perhaps he was not the most educated man in the neighbourhood.
Perhaps his academic history remained forever ambiguous.
But his observations about people were remarkably precise.
Jhontu Bhai's education was never really about books. It was about people.
And for that extraordinary, eccentric and thoroughly entertaining education, I remain his grateful student.
How do you feel about this?
