Mukhtar Ahmad Qureshi
Life will test us at times, even in ways we could not have anticipated. I have pondered many times about how success is heralded, how milestones are savoured and how worth is gauged by what we accomplish. But what about us, who toiled long and hard, who sweated and sacrificed, only to see every door slam shut? This is my tale, though it could probably be yours too, a tale of grit in the face of adversity.
I began tutoring at Class 12th. Teaching, imparting knowledge, was not merely a way of collecting pocket money. It was passion. Those beginnings shaped me as a teacher, one who realized potential in every child. I recall spending evenings with students late at night, assisting them in untangling the secrets of mathematics and the beauty of literature. There was satisfaction in seeing them excel, a tranquil sense of pride.
Once I finished studying, I became a private teacher. The rooms were not my own, the facilities were minimal, but the passion was still intact. The aspiration to have a permanent government job, to gain respect and stability, was always in mind. Like all of us, I yearned for the security of a permanent position, for the appreciation that my toil was due for.
In 2009, I looked towards the JKAS examination. It wasn’t an examination, it was a ray of hope, a promise of a brighter future for my family. I worked day and night, read books, noted them down, revised again and again. My room walls were filled with reminders and notes, a sign of my perseverance. I had pictured entering those exam rooms with the self-assurance of a well-prepared person, a person who was worthy of a brighter future.
But life, in turn, had something else planned. My father’s unexpected death was akin to having the ground pulled out from under my feet. As the first son, all the debts, the responsibilities, and the weight of my family’s future rested on my shoulders. There was no time to grieve, no room to catch my breath. My father’s death wasn’t just a personal loss, but a social and financial one as well.
Sometimes in life, you have to behave as a father even if you are not married, for the reasons that you are surrounded by, on behalf of your younger siblings. I became the anchor for my family, the guiding hand that held them through the storm. There were bills to be paid, dreams to be fostered, and lives to be maintained. My ambitions were secondary to the need to survive.
The JKAS dream started to fade. I had to act, not as a future aspirant but as a breadwinner, provide for my family. I persisted as a private teacher, clinging to the only firm ground that I had. The same classrooms where I once fostered hope among young minds became my sanctuary, the place where I could escape the crushing reality at least for a while.
My own eyes saw something disturbing during those days. I saw individuals being appointed to various departments, persons who, according to all rational standards, did not qualify for those roles. Their worth was usually secondary to their connections, and their ability overshadowed by their privilege. The resentment was genuine. Why should hard work and ability be so readily disregarded?
It was a betrayal, not by the system alone but by destiny itself. Perhaps you’ve also experienced this, in your life. You read, you prepare, you do everything you should, yet the rewards slide past your grasp and others somehow stroll through doors that never swung open for you. It is an impotent rage, a frustration and incredulity.
But here’s the reality: we can’t alter destiny. It has the last say, with paths and conclusions that are not in our power. What we can alter is how we react to it. I decided to keep going. I decided to draw strength from what I might do instead of being crippled by what I could not.
I kept on teaching, giving my all to my pupils. Each lesson was an exercise in perseverance, each achievement by a student a triumph. I came to understand that although I may not have had the coveted title, being an educator carried its own dignity. I could influence lives, shape futures, though my own had been directed elsewhere.
We tend to gauge success by titles, by rank, by the world’s recognition. But success is in perseverance, in waking up each day and doing your best regardless of the odds. It’s in being satisfied with small wins when the grand ones are beyond reach.
And if you are reading this and you too think the world has been unjust, let me tell you that you are not alone. Your tale counts. Your tribulations, your quiet struggles, they are all part of a story that continues to unravel. Perhaps the doors you pounded on didn’t open, but perhaps there’s a window out there somewhere, waiting for you to discover it.
I learned to redefine success, not in what I got but in what I could give. And though I don’t wear a government badge or an official title, I wear the pride of a teacher whose impact cannot be quantified by certificates or paychecks.
Life does not always provide us with what we desire, but it may provide us with what we need to be who we are supposed to be. I discovered meaning in my teaching, comfort in my students’ achievements, and tranquillity in the knowledge that keeping going, even when it appears to go unrecognized, never really is.
To all of us who persevere in the face of closed doors, keep going. Our tales are not of failure but of quiet, unyielding resilience. And that, in itself, is a victory.
It was really a proud moment for me when my mother, Amina Begum, launched my first book at Tagore Hall, Srinagar. It was like receiving a national award.
(The author hails from Boniyar, Baramulla. He can be reached at [email protected])
