In the gentle light of morning, I rise,
Mother\'s red tea cup, my daily prize.
On an old-fashioned superhero bike, I ride,
Through life\'s struggles, I steadfastly abide.
From Kalita to Vaishya neighbour, I teach with care,
Guiding students through knowledge\'s glare.
To school I go, my duty ever clear,
A private school teacher, year after year.
Yet, I don\'t possess bank accounts of my own,
The language of GPF and CPF, to me, unknown.
Government budgets and tax calculations for March,
Eid, Bihu, Puja, I reach out to the school\'s starch.
Dreams of a stunning home through self-owned schemes,
Cruising in a lavish car, on a private loan\'s gleams;
Yet, I struggle to muster that sense of pride,
In my humble abode, where hardships reside.
Nestled among old files, my cottage awaits,
Degrees and certificates, a silent narrative states;
A graduate, a post-graduate, with teaching degrees to claim,
But still, a private school teacher, all the same.
Grandma\'s asthma meds, dad\'s diabetes care,
Funding brother\'s education, the burden I bear.
Adding extra hours to my tuition time,
Yet, in the shopkeeper\'s ledger, I remain mum, a dry lime.
Supposedly a private school teacher, yet the struggle persists,
Juggling responsibilities, amidst financial twists.
Even if I don\'t win in the salary competition\'s fight,
I\'ve emerged victorious in the competition of success\'s light.
Every spring, I nurture bright luminaries,
On Teachers\' Day, the gift proclaims, with sincerest pleas:
\"I am also a teacher,\" I declare with pride,
In the noble profession where my heart abides.
✍️Written By Arifur Rahman & Rendered into English by Mottakinur Rehman