Reflections of a teacher: Shyam Venkatesh
As the academic year wraps up, I’m looking back at my High School Class that I taught this year – and honestly? I think I was the one who got the real education.
I started this year with a very heavy, very dusty suitcase of “nostalgic baggage.” My hidden agenda was simple: I was going to “save” these kids from the modern world by anchoring them to a “glorious past.” It took me a few months to realize that my “wisdom” was just a barrier. I was walking into class with a teacher-knows-best attitude, which is a fantastic way to ensure absolutely nothing sinks in.
Through the practice of Viveka (intellectual discrimination), I eventually had to admit that my sense of superiority wasn’t spiritual insight—it was just my own vāsanā-s (past impressions) being stubborn. I was looking at their “bold and brash” energy and judging it as “decadent.” Looking back at my own BMI model (Body, Mind, Intellect), I realized my intellect was just churning out “I’m right, you’re wrong” tapes on a loop. It was a humbling moment, realizing that my supposedly “pure” spiritual teacher ego was, well, kind of annoying.
My teaching style underwent a bit of a mid-life crisis. I traded my didactic lectures for Śravaṇam (sincere, active listening)—mostly because I had to. When these kids challenged our traditions, I stopped taking it as a sign of the apocalypse. Instead, I turned our class into a Socratic dialogue, opening up my own rigid positions just to watch them get poked and prodded by 16-year-olds. It was terrifying at first—to have your arguments dismantled by teenagers—but that’s Mananam (reflection) in motion. It forced me to actually understand what I was teaching, not just recite it.
I also had to rethink Satsaṅga (good association). I used to define it as “people who agree with me.” This year, I learned that Satsaṅga is actually sitting in a room with a bunch of kids who refuse to accept things at face value. It forced me to practice Vairāgya—detaching from my desperate need to be the “correct” one in the room—so I could prioritize Śreyas (the path of long-term growth) over the cozy comfort of being nostalgic.
I even had to clean up my vocabulary. I’ve dropped the “we versus them” narrative, which was exhausting anyway, and moved toward more inclusive language. I’ve realized the Purusharthas apply to everyone, not just people who act exactly like I did when I was seventeen.
So, here I am, ending the year with fewer answers than I started with, but much better questions. I’m trading my “nostalgic baggage” for a bit of actual wisdom, and I am profoundly grateful to these students. They challenged me, they corrected me, and they made me a much better seeker—even if they did make me feel a little bit like a dinosaur along the way.