It was a September morning in Chennai, where the air was washed clean by early rain and sunlight glanced softly off wet pavements. The city’s gulmohar trees still held a few bright petals from the last bloom of the season. Outside school gates, garlands waited, hand-painted charts leaned against compound walls, and students carried a special anticipation — the joy of honouring the people who had shaped their minds. In India, September 5th is Teacher’s Day, marking the birth anniversary of Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, philosopher, scholar, and second President of the Republic. When his students once sought to celebrate his birthday, he suggested that it be observed as a day for all teachers instead. That gentle, humble redirection captures the heart of the teaching spirit — lifting others higher without claiming the height for oneself. As the old saying goes, “A lamp that lights another lamp loses nothing of its flame.”

The tradition of revering teachers is older than any national day, even older than the cities we live in. Long before report cards and timetables, there was the guru-shishya parampara, the bond between master and pupil. In ancient Tamilakam, learning often took place in the open courtyards of temples, shaded by neem or banyan trees, with the scent of jasmine drifting in from a nearby shrine. The guru taught by example as much as by instruction. Lessons were not merely in letters, but in living — how to listen deeply, question wisely, and respectfully walk through the world. Palm-leaf manuscripts carried the wisdom of centuries, but the human voice breathed life into them. Guru Dakshina was not a fixed fee but a token of gratitude, sometimes material, sometimes symbolic, sometimes a promise to carry the learning forward. In those times, the teacher was not only a source of knowledge but also a moral compass, a model for the conduct of life.

Centuries passed, and the scene shifted to the medieval era, when Tamil Nadu’s learning centres spread into temple halls, mutts, and madrasas. Inscriptions from Thanjavur and Madurai tell of schools supported by kings, where the teachers taught poetry, astronomy, and philosophy alongside crafts and music. Shaiva and Vaishnava mutts kept alive theological traditions, while Islamic schools introduced Persian literature and philosophy to the south. The teacher’s role expanded — still a scholar, but also a custodian of culture, a guardian of language, an interpreter of values. As one old Tamil proverb states, “A good teacher is the bridge that carries the river of knowledge from past to future.”

With the arrival of the British, learning entered yet another transformation. The colonial classroom had regimented rows, the stern master at the blackboard, and lessons in Shakespeare and Euclid mingling with Thirukkural and Tamil history. In colonial Madras, red-brick institutions like Presidency College and St. George’s School became landmarks. Teachers navigated two worlds here — delivering the Empire’s syllabus while quietly planting seeds of self-belief and cultural pride. The chalk in their hands traced more than letters; it outlined the first sketches of independent thought. A professor might alternate between English and Tamil, explaining Vasco da Gama’s voyage one moment and reciting a verse of Bharati the next, weaving global geography and local poetry into a single lesson.

When independence came, the teacher’s role in India was almost sacred. In Chennai’s schools of the 1950s and ’60s, moral science lessons coexisted with algebra, and the annual sports day was as much about character as competition. Teachers were strict but deeply invested; they knew your parents, your dreams, and the mischief you thought was well hidden. They sang patriotic songs with their students, staged plays on the freedom struggle, and encouraged science fairs and elocution contests. The vision was clear — to shape a generation capable of building the nation.
Dr. Radhakrishnan once said, “The true teachers help us think for ourselves.”

By the early years of the new millennium, another change was underway. Classrooms began to glow with the light of projectors; smartboards replaced some chalk-and-talk. Teachers learned to navigate PowerPoint presentations and multimedia lessons, yet they still paused to tell a story or share a personal anecdote. Coaching centres sprouted in Besant Nagar, Adyar, and Anna Nagar, buzzing late into the night with exam preparation. Teachers became navigators through a faster, deeper, and far more distracting sea than before. They were guiding students not only through academic syllabi but also through the noise of an always-connected world.

And then, in the 2020s, came the quiet but profound arrival of artificial intelligence. AI tutors appeared first as curiosities, then as companions. A student in T. Nagar could ask an AI to explain Newton’s laws and receive a perfect explanation, but one tailored to their learning style — in formal English, in colloquial Tamil, or even as a rhyming poem. These virtual assistants were endlessly patient, multilingual, and available at any hour. They never tired, lost their temper, or forgot a lesson plan. It was tempting to imagine a future where AI replaced the teacher entirely. But could it? One wise saying reminds us, “Information is not wisdom; wisdom is what you do with information.” Machines could teach content, but they could not yet teach courage, empathy, or integrity. They could not sense when a student’s silence masked confusion or their sudden drop in grades hid a more profound hurt.

Yet the horizon ahead gleams with possibilities that seem like dreams today. Imagine a classroom without walls, where a child in a modest Mylapore apartment puts on a light headset and gets instantly transported to Ayodhya during the Ramayana. Not as a distant observer, but walking the palace courtyards, seeing Lord Rama, hearing the temple bells, smelling the incense. In science class, photosynthesis would no longer be a diagram in a textbook, but an immersive journey: the student shrunk to the scale of a chloroplast, watching carbon atoms weave themselves into carbohydrates under the dance of sunlight and electrons. The air would shimmer green; you could see — and almost touch — the invisible chemistry of life. In history, you might walk beside herds of dinosaurs across Cretaceous plains, feeling the ground tremble beneath their steps. With AI linked to quantum computing, the fidelity of these worlds would be astonishing. Every detail — the leaf curl and grain in an ancient stone wall — could be recreated until knowledge was at your fingertips and all around you. Any space could become a classroom. One moment, you might be waiting at Chennai Central station, and the next, you will be standing in the Roman forum, in Akbar’s court, or C.V. Raman’s laboratory as he studies the scattering of light.

Still, even in such dazzling classrooms, the human teacher will remain the anchor. AI can reconstruct the streets of Ayodhya, but only a teacher can help a child see Rama’s choices in the light of today’s ethics. AI can show the inner workings of a leaf, but only a teacher can connect that to the urgency of caring for a fragile planet. Teachers interpret, contextualise, and, most importantly, inspire. They remind us that learning is not just acquisition but transformation. As Eknath Easwaran wrote, “The power of a teacher lies not in what they know, but in what they awaken in others.”

From the open-air gurukuls of ancient Tamilakam to the infinite classrooms of quantum-powered AI, the teaching journey in Chennai mirrors humanity’s journey: tools change, but the heart remains the same. On this Teacher’s Day, thank the living gurus who shape our values and the new digital assistants who expand our reach. Ultimately, education is not just about filling the mind, but about lighting it from within — a flame passed from one soul to another, undimmed across the centuries.

– Dr. K. Jayanth Murali is a retired IPS officer, ultramarathoner, and author of Chasing the Lost Gods and Quantum Creation. A passionate advocate for youth empowerment, conscious leadership, and inner transformation, he blends his diverse experiences in law enforcement, spirituality, and storytelling to explore the human condition in a rapidly changing world. He lives in Chennai and continues to mentor young minds toward purpose, resilience, and self-discovery.