My teacher sent me a cryptic text – then I got word of her death

Washing my face and getting ready to go to sleep, I suddenly realised that I needed to check my texts. I went through each message – laughing at some, frowning at most. 

I was too exhausted to reply but I still do, because I shouldn’t ignore them. I cannot ignore them.

This obsessive checking of my messages happens every night – and it’s all because of what happened over a decade ago.

In 2011, I began my first day of year six. I was excited to finally be in secondary school, but felt nervous to meet my teacher. 

Then a cheery older lady, probably in her 40s, entered the classroom with a warm: ‘Hello students! I’m Sonal, your class teacher’. I instantly knew I was going to like her.

Sonal taught us English – my favourite subject. And while I loved studying English, I was weak in the sciences – so, when she suggested I take private tuition from her, I agreed.

She was the first person of authority I gave my phone number to. It felt special to have her number in my phone saved.

I’d send random texts to her along the lines of: ‘Hello miss, what subject are we studying today?’ This turned into full-fledged ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’ texts from her.

Admittedly, I initially felt these texts were a little too much considering she was my teacher, but to be honest, as we developed a bond during her tutoring me, my 11-year-old self was more focussed on how special it felt to have a teacher be personally in contact.

For a while, I loved waking up to her texts because it was nice to know that someone thought of me in the morning. But after a point, it did get exhausting. 

Sometimes, I replied with a: ‘GM, miss,’ or I wouldn’t reply and act as if I didn’t check the texts – but since she was my class teacher as well as tuition teacher, I felt obligated to reply.

While my parents knew that I was in contact with her, they didn’t really mind because she was my teacher and they felt that she would be a good influence for me.

Then, a month before I was supposed to start seventh grade, Sonal called me one evening and told me that she would be leaving due to personal reasons. 

In the two months after she’d left the school, Sonal had continued to regularly send me ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ texts. But as she was no longer my teacher, meaning there was little else to talk about, our conversations were brief at best. 

Then a month after the new school year started, an announcement was made in assembly.  

‘Dear students, we deeply regret to inform you that our beloved Sonal passed away this morning. We request you all to take a moment of silence and remember the deceased.’

Just as this was announced, I thought to myself: ‘How can she die? This is a joke. This cannot be real. I spoke to her yesterday – or did I?’

And suddenly I remember the message she sent to me just days before. 

It said: ‘We remember so many things about so many people in our lives, but it all goes away once they die. But, please remember me when I die.’

I had ignored that message, just because I felt uncomfortable and thought the message didn’t mean anything.

The next few days were a blur. I didn’t go to her funeral because I didn’t think it was right for me to be there – after all, I was a student who didn’t reply to her final message.

I did speak to a few of my friends who’d also been tutored by her to ask if they’d received the same text. As it turned out, they had. 

One of them, who was a bit older than us, even called her – asking if everything was alright, which is when she told him she had cancer.

I remembered thinking it was odd that, after she’d left my school she hadn’t started working elsewhere. After all, I knew that she was a single mother and the sole earner of her family. But I was all too young to really give it much thought.

Now I felt extremely guilty that I hadn’t thought to ask about her health.  

For the longest time after her death, I replied to every single text I received because I thought: ‘What if something happens?’ That I’d live with that same regret if something did happen to them and I hadn’t replied.

I felt anxious whenever I didn’t finish conversations, or was unable to reply to messages on the same day. 

A few months ago, my friend jokingly said that he was tired of life. I became frantic and started calling every mutual friend to find out if he was OK. 

This is when it hit me – all along, I’ve felt partly responsible for not replying to my teacher’s messages, saying my final goodbyes or even asking her if she was OK.

Today, almost 12 years after her death, I’m working on my compulsive replies because I’ve realised that it’s unhealthy for me to fixate on replying to people – my mental health needs to be a priority too.

While not responding to her message has been the biggest regret of my life, I’ve also learned to give the benefit of the doubt to the 12-year-old Pranjali who didn’t know any better. She was a child who didn’t deserve to live a life of regret and anxiety. 

I don’t blame my teacher for sending me that message, but I also don’t blame myself for being passive.

Of course it’s important to check up on your loved ones and, sometimes, reading between the lines is important. But remember, it doesn’t have to be an obsession.

Focus on segregating messages on the basis of your priorities and reply when you can. You are still only human, too.