The First Smile — A Glimpse of Yesterday

The clock stood quietly at 1:15 PM, as if time itself had slowed down to watch me walk this new path. It was only my second day at school — and yet, the air carried a weight of memories waiting to bloom. My heart held a strange blend of nervousness and silent hope.

I entered through the school gate, each step steady yet unsure, and walked toward the headmistress’s office. The door was slightly open, like it already knew I was coming. I paused, then knocked gently.

“Assalamualaikum.”
“Walaikum Assalam,” came the warm, composed reply.

There she was — Madam Shazia. Dignified, calm, and graceful. Her eyes carried quiet wisdom, and though her smile was small, it carried a kindness I could feel. She neither overwhelmed me with words nor made me feel unseen. Her presence was balanced, respectful.

I softly asked, “Madam, which class should I go to?”

She looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Go to Miss Rehana’s class today.”

I nodded politely. “Where is her class?”

She smiled lightly and pointed ahead.
“Take the stairs in front of you. Go to the first floor. The last classroom — that’s the one.”

I thanked her and stepped out, heart fluttering.

The staircase stood like a quiet gateway to another world. As I ascended, each step felt symbolic — like climbing back into time. The hallway upstairs was filled with a soft hush — the distant rustling of paper, the whisper of wind from the open corridor, and the low hum of young voices from nearby rooms.

As I reached the top, I stopped at the first door I saw — a class labeled “Class 3”.

Inside stood a teacher — hands decorated in delicate henna, gently holding craft paper, guiding her students in an activity. Her poise and grace stood out. There was something calm yet confident about her.

I greeted her:
“Assalamualaikum. I’m new here. Madam sent me for the first class.”

She looked up and smiled,
“This is Class 3. The first class you’re looking for is at the end — the last room in the corridor.”
Her name was Miss Ghazal.

I thanked her sincerely and moved on. Her brief kindness gave me courage.

Finally, I reached the last classroom. I hesitated for a moment… and then stepped in.

“Assalamualaikum!”
Suddenly — like a chorus of little hearts — a roomful of children greeted me together, their voices echoing in sweet unison.

I froze.
Not in fear — but in overwhelming warmth.

It was the first time in my life that so many young souls had welcomed me, all at once.

I smiled softly, eyes full, and whispered, “Walaikum Assalam.”

Two teachers stood near the board. One of them introduced herself as Miss Rehana. She welcomed me with calm kindness.

And the other...

My eyes met hers — and my world paused.

A stillness filled the space between us.

That face. That calm gaze. That serene aura.
Miss Meena.

But she didn’t recognize me.

I did.

In that quiet moment, I was no longer a grown woman with a degree and a job —
I was that little girl again. Sitting on the wooden bench, clutching a pencil, looking up at Miss Meena in awe.

There were no dramatic words. No emotional scenes.
Just a soft smile from her — and a storm of memories in me.

She looked at me, curious but unsure, and asked,
“So it’s you? That little girl? You’re a teacher now?”

I smiled gently.
But deep inside, a voice whispered:

“Yes… that same little girl. But today, she returns with a chalk in her hand — and dreams in her heart.”

That day, I didn’t teach. I just watched.

It was my first class. My first experience.
I sat silently to the side, watching the students.
Watching Miss Meena teach.
Watching my life turn a full circle.

The whole day passed like that — wrapped in wonder, in reflection, in awe.

And then came the final bell at 5:00 PM.

The silence broke into laughter, footsteps, cheerful noise. Children began to rush out — their energy bright and wild.

I stepped out of the classroom alongside Miss Meena, quietly descending the stairs. And just as I reached the ground floor, the universe gifted me something else.

Another familiar face.

In the crowd of uniforms, I saw her —
Miss Muneeza.
My other beloved teacher from childhood.

Without a second thought, I rushed forward — and hugged her. Once. Then again.
That hug carried years. Gratitude. Nostalgia.

Two of my childhood teachers — both standing before me.
Both smiling at the woman I had become.

And in that moment, I knew —
This was no ordinary day.
This was a miracle stitched in time.

****_____****

To be continued in Chapter Three...
Written by: Sumaiya Parveen Shaikh