For me, that moment came when I was in the 3rd or 4th grade.
One day, I watched my mommy put her thumb impression on a document. She was somewhere in her late thirties then—a short, stout woman who was always draped in a sari, a capable homemaker who managed our family with quiet strength. She had raised children, run a household, and carried responsibilities I couldn't possibly understand at that age. Yet she couldn't write her own name. Whenever a document needed her acknowledgment, she simply pressed her thumb onto the ink pad and left behind an impression that stood in place of her identity.
Something about that stayed with me.
I don't remember making a grand decision. I simply remember thinking, "Why can't I teach Mommy to sign her name?"
So our little lessons began.
Like every serious teacher, I started with what I thought was the obvious approach. I opened my notebook, carefully wrote her name—M. A. Aisha—and asked her to copy it. She held the pen awkwardly, almost like someone trying to use an unfamiliar tool. The lines she drew looked like dry branches on a leafless tree. Not a single letter resembled the one I had written. It was then that I realised something my nine-year-old mind had never considered before: before you learn to write letters, you first have to learn how to hold a pen.
That day, my teaching strategy changed completely. Out came the slate and a piece of chalk.
The slate became our blackboard, any place we could sit was our classroom, and every evening turned into a lesson. Holding the chalk itself felt unnatural for her. Her fingers were stiff, unsure of how much pressure to apply. The letters wandered across the slate, grew too large, shrank too small, leaned sideways, and often disappeared into a cloud of erased chalk dust. But every day they became just a little steadier.
Once she grew comfortable with the slate, we graduated to a notebook and pencil. Only after many weeks did I finally allow her the privilege of using a pencil and later pen.
There was just one small problem.
Being an overconfident nine-year-old, I decided that if Mommy was going to learn, she might as well learn properly. So I taught her to write her name in cursive.
At that age, I had absolutely no idea that cursive writing is difficult even for people who already know how to write.
Poor Mommy patiently followed every loop, every curve, and every connecting stroke. She wrote painfully slowly, concentrating as though every single letter was an examination. Looking back today, I can't help laughing at myself. I had unknowingly chosen the hardest possible handwriting style for a woman who had never held a pen before.
But she never complained.
She simply kept practising.
Then came the day that neither of us knew would become unforgettable. The postman arrived with a telegram. Back then, receiving a telegram was an event. Usually, Mommy would quietly press her thumb impression wherever she was asked. That day was different. She picked up the pen.
Slowly...
Carefully...
With complete concentration... She wrote her name. M. A. Aisha.
Her signature wasn't perfect. The 'S' in Aisha would swell into a large loop that reminded me of a pregnant woman. For a while, I tried correcting it. Eventually, I gave up—not because I couldn't teach her differently, but because I had fallen in love with that oversized 'S'. It made her signature uniquely hers, and somehow that mattered more than perfection.
The postman looked surprised.
"You didn't sign before," he remarked.
Mommy looked at him with the proudest smile I had ever seen and simply said,
"My daughter taught me."
That was all.
No speech.
No celebration.
Just one sentence.
But somehow, that sentence has echoed through my entire life.
From that day onwards, Mommy never went back to using her thumb impression. Every chance she got, she would proudly sign her name. And every now and then, she would tell someone with unmistakable pride, "My daughter taught me to sign."
I don't think she ever realised that while I was teaching her to write her name, she was quietly teaching me who I was meant to become.
She gave me my first student.
Looking back now, I realise this was never just a story about literacy. It was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with teaching.
After Mommy came my younger brother. Then his friends. I even helped my elder sister learn Kannada and Mathematics, subjects she struggled with, despite her being three grades ahead of me. Soon, classmates who needed help found their way to me. Somewhere along the way, I became the unofficial reader and writer of our family. I read letters aloud, filled out forms, explained documents, and happily became everyone's little personal assistant. I never found teaching to be a burden—I found it irresistible. I was often drawn to the most unlikely students, people who initially resisted learning but slowly began to enjoy it. Not everyone continued the journey. My mommy, for instance, stopped after learning to sign her name. She never went on to read or write, but that one signature gave her confidence, dignity, and ownership of her identity. Looking back, I realise she wasn't just my first student; she was the one who awakened the teacher within me.
Years later, my classrooms became larger. My students became more diverse. I taught children, counselled families, trained professionals, mentored women rebuilding their careers, and eventually built My Giggle Garden, where learning once again became the centre of my world.
People often ask me where my passion for teaching came from.
I don't think I found it in a university classroom or during my professional career.
I think it was born one afternoon on a humble slate, beside a woman in a simple sari who believed she was learning to write her name.
She wasn't.
She was quietly laying the foundation stone for my life's purpose.
