Sometimes the lack of stimulation is just what the mind needs to develop in a healthy way. I recently thought about it when looking at some reading plans for primary school students.

There was no `reading plan` in the days when I was a primary student, or at least it did not exist in my school, a respectable high school in Hyderabad.

There was no `creative writing programme` either.

Reading and writing still got done in the absence of reading plans and writing programmes, and we all did not grow up unlettered and dumb.

Schooling was an altogether different experience when I was a student, and the constant testing, which reminds me of weave-poles in canine agility competitions, was non-existent. I am sure that if, today, I am able to read and write passably, it is mainly thanks to the child pedagogy hounds and testing eagles leaving us alone to learn at our own pace.

For sure, there were students who found reading and writing a challenge. I should know because, for a short, glorious period in my life, I was the class supervisor, tasked with checking that my classmates had completed their homework.

I must clarify that I was not the class monitor, a position that either went to anaemic scholars or sportsmen, if the classroom did not have any scions of textile industrialists with big, flashy wristwatches.

An expensive wristwatch was a ticket to many socalled privileges in those days, and one of my former class fellows, who is one of Pakistan`s biggest industrialists today, was conferred the honour of striking the gong because two teachers agreed that his watch was the most expensive.

I have not met my colleague in many years and can only hope that he did not go deaf from the thousands of gong blasts he delivered with righteous gusto for many years, each time we had to gather for the assembly, when the period ended, when recess began or ended, and when it was time to go home.

As I only had a measly Citizen watch, I could not aspire to a high status. And yet, I came to be the class supervisor.

There was one renowned teacher celebrated for his fine teaching methods, violent temperament and ambidexterity. Let`s call him Mr P, because it is the first letter of the large, bear-like creature after whom he was named by the students. Mr P would divide the blackboard in two halves with a vertical line, and start writing from the left side with his left hand. Once he had filled up the left half, he would begin writing on the right half with his right hand.

Mr P was fond of using coloured chalks, and the demonstration had the effect of a fine, daily circus to which we were silent, terrified spectators. Terrified, because Mr P also kept a full and relentless watch over everyone in the classroom, even with his back turned to us, and would call out miscreants for disciplinary action while writing on the blackboard. His disciplinary measures, too, were marvellous, and were an early lesson in the shock-and-awe phenomenon.

His legend grew with each passing year, as one batch of students passed on the tale of his depredations to their successors. Nobody knew how he managed to watch over everyone without turning his head. It was commonly believed that he had a third eye, hidden under the thick fur-like hair on the back of his head. In short, everyone made sure that they did not fall afoul of Mr P and, whether dead or alive, they completed the homework assigned by him.

In those days, I fell seriously ill and was bedridden for about a month. Even lying in bed, my mind often turned to all the homework that must be piling up and which, sooner or later, I would have to do because, until then, I had never missed it.

On the day I returned to school, I was looking forward to seeing my friends, but that joyful thought was marred by the oppressive burden of Mr P`s yet-to-be-completed homework. I left about 50 pages blank, to be filled in later with the missed assignments, did only the homework from the day before, and stood in the line of students who had to have their homework checked.

In my turn, I deferentially presented the latest homework. Mr P checked the work and, before signing it, caught in his hands a chunk of pages which I had left blank, and looking into my eyes while rifling through them, asked me: `Have you finished the homework from the days you were away because of your illness?` I do not know what madness possessed me that I answered: `Yes, Sir! I have!` Mr P nodded his head, signed the homework and got up to address the classroom. `Despite his illness, he still finished his homework for the days he was away! Shame on those of you who haven`t done yours!` There was a brief interlude, during which those who had not completed their homework or had made mistakes were delivered condign punishment, before he turned to me and said: `From today onwards, you will check everyone`s copies when my class starts, and find those who have not done their homework!` As the reader can imagine, I walked away in a daze, shocked at my audacity, and the providence which had saved me. I remember deciding that it would bring me bad luck if I now tried to complete the missed assignments and, for the rest of the year, I continued doing my homework in the same copy with the four dozen blank pages. It is a pity that I did not preserve it. (To be continued.) The columnist is a novelist, author and translator.

He can be reached via his website: micromaf.com