From Rasam to Rasayans: A Tribute to the Gyan of the Gurus

Some lessons come with citations and credentials. Others arrive dressed in a faded cotton salwar suit, wielding a mop like it’s the Sudharshan Chakra!

One such guru was Lakshmi, our house help and unofficial domestic expert. One greasy day, as I hopelessly scrubbed the chimney hood, she appeared like an oracle with a broom. “Yeh daag sirf caustic soda se jaayega, didi.”

“Isn’t that hazardous?” I asked doubtfully.

“Bas gloves pehen lo aur daag se dosti tod lo.”

She didn’t just clean the chimney. She demonstrated the power of chemistry with more conviction than any lab assistant ever could. At that moment, I realized guru tattva isn’t confined to the lectern—it often mops its way into your life wearing a practical smile and a no-nonsense attitude.

The Backyard Jhulas

Before classrooms and chalk dust, most of our syllabi began on backyard jhulas, where storytelling was the pedagogy and bhajans the background score.

There was no whiteboard, only white hair and wise hearts.

My Aaja ji, a living Google of riddles and life truths, had a way of narrating stories that made morality feel like a bedtime treat. Life with him was like a quiet summer afternoon. Slow, fragrant, and full of truths waiting to be unwrapped. And yes, sometimes you fell asleep mid-lesson, but he never complained.

After all, drooling while learning is still learning!

The Answer Sheet Debacle

It was Grade 2, and Holi was just around the corner—read: the real festival, not the moral science exam. Rang, balloons, backyard masti, and cousins loading gulal onto your face. In that Holi-induced delirium, I finished the test, handed over my answer sheet (with the confidence of Kalidas), and skipped home with Grandpa, unknowingly clutching the question paper like it was a gold medal.

At 4 PM, Mom asked for the question paper.

I proudly handed it over.

Her eyes narrowed. “This is your answer sheet.”

I blinked. “No… wait, what?”

Silence..!

Her hand went to her forehead. Mine to my chest!!

She simply said, “Chappal pehen lo. We’re going to school.”

I walked like I was headed for sentencing.

But there she was. Rani Mam, my teacher. Calm as a saint.

When my moral science teacher heard the story and saw my tear-filled eyes, she paused. She thought for a moment, and then uttered words that still echo in my heart:

“I trust you. I know you wouldn’t cheat. We’ll accept the paper.”

She didn’t give me marks. She gave me belief. That day, I promised myself. If I ever become a teacher, I’ll be that kind…

When Rasam Taught More Than Rasayans

Now, if you’ve ever tried understanding fermentation at 9 a.m., you'll know it's like deciphering alien codes while still digesting your Khichdi.

But our microbiology professor? He was an artist. No slides, no jargon. He taught us fermentation through what he called, “Lemon Charu” AKA rasam.

Yes, the simple rasam!

“Think of bacillus like mustard seeds in ghee,” he’d say, “and fermentation like tamarind reacting with jeera.”

Who knew microbiology had a spice chart?

Even today, when someone says bacillus, I involuntarily think of curry leaves tempering in ghee. That’s how lasting learning becomes when your teacher feels the subject.

From IPR to Bhāgavat Gītā: The Teachers Who Transformed

And then came a tribe of gurus who could make the driest topics feel like spiritual awakenings. There was Dhanalakshmi ma’am—our Botany Lecturer—whose passion could make even TS seem glamorous. Sujatha ma’am made Sanskrit feel like a musical hymn. Kamala ma’am’s cell biology classes gave us a peek into life’s architecture like onion rings, while Reshma ma’am’s bioprocessing lectures were rigorous yet comforting. And who can forget Nandini ma’am, who made IPR (a.k.a. the world’s most sleep-inducing subject) feel like Bhaagavat discourse?

Each one didn’t just teach.

They translated complexity into memory and theory into metaphor.

Learning felt like theatre, not therapy.

The Gurus with Chocolates and Sass

Some teachers come with spectacles and registers. Others come bearing Dairy Milk, Gelatos, Rasmalai and a heap of unsolicited sarcasm.

To the friend who once said, “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” right after my heartbreak, to the one who gave a lifealtering advice by saying, “Bhad mein jao wala attitude rakho,” the one handed me chocolates and said, “Eat. This, too, shall get digested”—you’re life coaches in disguise.

While some helped me understand calculus (after years of us both crying together), others just let me vent like my life was a failed Bollywood script.

And some taught me that presence, not preaching, is sometimes the most sacred act of kindness.

The Ultimate Guru

And then there’s life—the teacher who never asks for attendance but keeps sending assignments.

It teaches through breakups, delays, rejections, and those moments where you stare at your ceiling wondering if you missed the memo on how to adult.

Its methods? Brutal.
Its timing? Terrible.
Its results? Transformative.

You don’t always pass the test, but you always come out wiser—and maybe just a bit more sarcastic.

So here I am—stitched together by rasam, rasayans, accidental answer sheets, and whispered bhajans. Each guru, in their own quirky, profound way, has sculpted the “me” I stand as today.

On this Guru Purnima, I bow down to all the Gurus, not just with reverence but also with a broad smile. Because learning wasn’t always serious. Sometimes, it was a caustic soda demo, sometimes a rasam lecture, and sometimes, a moral science miracle!

From caustic soda to sacred shlokas, from Dairy Milk to DNA—thank you, Gurus, for cleaning up our messes and lighting our minds, one lesson at a time! A hundred Pranams, A thousand Giggles & A lifetime of Gratitude…

Link