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“Sir, I didn’t want to miss your class. English is important, you know.” The whole class broke into a chuckle at his innocent tone. These simple banters between RNB and Krishna became a daily routine as the year rolled around. Though RNB was not firmer with Krishna, some of the friends knew that Krishna was taking advantage of him.

On a Wednesday it was raining like cats and dogs. Krishna was on his way back home after the Club Hour, when something caught his attention. He had left the Tsimalakha market behind, going past the last shop through the short cut with the main road up above and the newly come up carpentry shade with the raw planks left outside on the other. The make shift steps leading down to the Zero Point looked deadly difficult to manage and the plants creeping out on the trail from the fence, made walking even more dangerous when he noticed Mr. RNB trying to walk up the muddy steps. He was completely drenched as normally he did not carry an umbrella. His sweater was soaking to his body with his leather bag clinging by the side. He looked like losing his balance any time soon as his glasses were dripping and hazy. Then it happened, like it happens in the movies. He tried to raise one foot up, not so cautiously either. The other foot became wobbly instantaneously and, low and behold, Mr. RNB was going down like he wasn’t going to get back on his feet again! Krishna stood like a statue. Something in his mind told him – serves him right. He always acts so smart with us. But the other voice, the more powerful one, cautioned him saying that Mr. RNB was like his father. Aged, withered, wrinkled, all by himself in a foreign land. Someone who had spent the better part of his life in teaching young minds like him. Next moment, he found himself running. Yes, you got it right. Krishna was running down the muddy, leechy steps with the grasses and plants snaking out for a hiss, without a care about his own safety. He went down on his knees beside the still body of his teacher. Holding him by the hands, Krishna tried to lift him to his feet, unsuccessfully.

“Sir, are you all right. Can you help me lift you up? Sir, please, can you hear me?” The still body of RNB showed no signs of life. His clothes were all muddied and blood was oozing out of his nose. He also had a gaping cut on his forehead. But Krishna had no time to worry about the bruises and cuts. There was a slight twitch near the corner of the left eye. The rest of the body was defunct, irresponsive. But something told Krishna that there was still hope. The rain had turned into a drizzle by then. He could also hear some voices up above on the main road. Some friends were on their way back after the rain.

“Hello, can anyone hear me? Can you please come down? It’s our Sir, Sir RNB. He’s fallen down, unconscious, badly injured….please. Oh, God, please help us….” Even Krishna was surprised at the trembling voice coming out from inside of him.

They say God always listens to your earnest prayer. Soon help materialized in the form of some students. Someone called an ambulance, someone brought a car. Some other people carried RNB up to the car. He was rushed to the Tsimalakha Hospital.

Krishna became nothing sort of a hero in school from the next day on. The social media was full of his heroics, how he saved Mr. RNB at the risk of his own life. The day Mr. RNB came back to school, he, being a very emotional man, wiped off the tears welling up in his eyes before acknowledging Krishna in the class.

“ I thought I knew everything about every student. You proved me wrong, Krishna. You’ve taught me that even those students we do not seem to care two hoots about think the world of us. We’re what we are because of students like Krishna.”                                                             The End

That’s the end of the story, Krishna, but something still is left, remember? The Title. From the last few lines it becomes clear that Mr. RNB did not think highly of Krishna. In his opinion, he was just like one of the worst, useless students. So, take note of the word ‘worst’. But this very worst student rendered his best services in Mr. RNB’s hour of crisis. Take note of the word ‘best’. From the worst to the best is a long jump, right? So how about entitling our story as “The Best of The Worst Student”? Please let me know if you can think of any other relevant or appropriate title. All the best in your story writing and love you.