“The Subject That Taught Me to Listen Between Words”
There’s a certain smell that lingers in memory—the chalk dust, wooden desks, the faint hum of ceiling fans that seemed slower during exams. When I think of my school days, I don’t remember the marks or the uniforms as much as I remember that feeling—the sudden spark when a subject stopped being “taught” and started being felt.
For me, that subject was English Literature.
It wasn’t love at first sight. In the beginning, it felt like another period to survive between math and physics. But something shifted the day our teacher read aloud a short story—no fancy PowerPoint, no grammar drill, just her voice breaking slightly at a line that carried more weight than it should’ve. That day, I realized that stories were not just about people who never existed. They were about us, disguised as others.
Soon, the classroom became a doorway. Every lesson opened into another world—sometimes a Victorian street, sometimes an Indian monsoon, sometimes a lonely desk by a window where someone was quietly falling in or out of love.
I began to notice how literature made silence audible. A single metaphor could reveal what hundreds of sentences couldn’t. Words became emotional fingerprints—each one leaving a trace of its writer’s pulse.
That’s when I started writing too. Not for grades or competitions, but for clarity. To untangle what I couldn’t say aloud. My notebook became a mirror, and slowly, writing turned into a kind of meditation.
Years later, I’d realize how that habit carried forward into everything else—my work, my teaching, even the way I listen to people. Urban Wellbeing Tips was born from that same seed—the belief that words can heal, that reflection itself can be a form of wellbeing.
But let’s be honest. School wasn’t all poetry and peace. There were the usual clashes—cramming for exams, rushing assignments, the endless question: “Will this come in the paper?” Even then, English somehow escaped that trap. It was the only subject where understanding mattered more than remembering.
And maybe that’s why it stuck. Because life, too, doesn’t test memory—it tests understanding.
In the margins of textbooks, I used to scribble phrases that made me pause—“The road less traveled,” “Out, out—brief candle!” “To thine own self be true.” They became small philosophies before I even knew what the word “philosophy” meant. Later, I’d come across thinkers like Jiddu Krishnamurti, who said that true education is about understanding oneself—not just learning how to earn. That echoed deeply. (You can read more on Krishnamurti’s educational philosophy here.)
Today, when I teach or write, I still chase that same energy—that moment when a learner stops reciting and starts connecting. It’s like watching a window open in someone’s mind. The room stays the same, but the air changes.
I’ve also come to realize how our favorite subjects often reveal who we already are beneath the surface. For some, it’s the structure and logic of mathematics—a quiet love for order. For others, it’s science—the wonder of seeing how everything connects. For me, it was always language—the pulse beneath thought, the architecture of feeling.
Looking back, that subject didn’t just teach me English. It taught me empathy, patience, and the art of slowing down to notice.
That’s a rare thing now. In a time when scrolling has replaced sitting still, literature still demands we linger. It asks for our attention, and in return, gives us presence.
If you’ve ever sat with a line that made your chest tighten or eyes sting—congratulations, you’ve met the real teacher. The one who doesn’t grade you, but grows you.
Even now, when I read or write for Urban Wellbeing Tips, I sense that same classroom hush. The one that held both curiosity and confusion. And maybe that’s the secret—that learning never really ends, it just changes form.
Sometimes I wonder what younger me would think of all this—of turning that old love for literature into a bridge between wellbeing, reflection, and storytelling. He’d probably smile and ask if I still underline my favorite lines. (I do.)
In the end, our favorite subjects don’t stay in notebooks. They seep into how we see, speak, and listen. They become the invisible syllabus of adulthood.
And maybe that’s the real exam—how well we keep learning from the things that once made us feel alive.
After all, education wasn’t supposed to end at graduation. It was supposed to begin there.
If there’s one takeaway from all this, it’s that every subject—when loved enough—turns into philosophy. And mine, hidden in poems and paragraphs, was simply this: understanding is the highest form of learning.
Perhaps that’s why I still read slowly. Why I still pause at a line and whisper, “Yes, that’s it.”
Because somewhere, a teacher once made literature feel less like a subject and more like breathing.
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