As I stand at the front of my classroom, chalk in hand and a topographic map unfurled on the desk, I’m struck by a thought: teaching is a lot like surveying. Both demand precision, patience, and the ability to chart uncharted territories. But while surveying maps the contours of the earth, teaching maps the contours of the mind. And in that sacred act of guiding students through the peaks and valleys of knowledge, I’ve found my life’s proudest purpose.
The Joy of Lighting Lamps
There’s a Nepali proverb that says, “A teacher is like a lamp that lights other lamps.” This resonates deeply with me. My journey began not in a classroom but on construction sites, as a civil engineer with dusty boots and a hard hat. Years of designing bridges, estimating costs, and managing projects taught me the science of construction. But it was teaching—sharing these skills with wide-eyed students—that taught me the art of building something far more enduring: futures.
Every time I explain the intricacies of theodolites or break down the mathematics of road gradients, I see sparks ignite. One student, hesitant at first, recently calculated a complex land survey error independently. Her triumphant grin mirrored my own pride. These moments—when theory becomes understanding—are the quiet victories that fill my cup.
The Legacy of Great Teachers: Carrying the Torch
History’s greatest teachers understood that education is not about filling buckets but kindling fires. Socrates wandered Athens asking questions, teaching us that curiosity is the foundation of wisdom. Anne Sullivan, Helen Keller’s teacher, proved that patience and adaptability can unlock even the most hidden potential. Like them, I strive to be more than a lecturer—I aim to be a mentor.
In my classes on Construction Management or Estimation, I channel this ethos. We don’t just solve equations; we debate real-world scenarios. “What if the budget collapses?” “How do you lead a team when deadlines loom?” These discussions aren’t hypothetical—they’re rehearsals for the challenges my students will face as engineers shaping Nepal’s infrastructure. And knowing I’ve armed them with tools to problem-solve? That’s pride.
The Tightrope Walk: Warmth vs. Boundaries
Students often tell me I’m “friendly,” a label I cherish. We laugh over coffee about their campus crushes or the chaos of Kathmandu’s traffic. But I’ve learned that respect requires balance. When deadlines are missed, my tone sharpens. “Civil engineering isn’t just about building structures—it’s about building discipline,” I remind them. It’s a tightrope walk: too soft, and they won’t grow; too harsh, and they’ll stop reaching out.
This duality is familiar to teachers everywhere. Like Mr. Keating in Dead Poets Society, who balanced poetry and pragmatism, or Miss Honey from Matilda, who nurtured courage alongside curriculum, the magic lies in the mix.
Proudest Moments: When the Bridge Holds
“Sir, your lessons on slope stability—they saved us. We rerouted the road just in time.”
- A former student during Nepal’s monsoon season
Last monsoon, a former student messaged me. He’d been tasked with surveying a landslide-prone village in Gorkha. His words humbled me. This is the invisible reward of teaching: you never know when your lessons will become someone’s lifeline.
Another moment etched in my heart: a shy, first-year student who struggled with drafting. Through extra hours and encouragement, she not only aced her exams but now leads an infrastructure project in Pokhara. At her graduation, she handed me a khada and said, “You believed in me before I did.”
The Hard Truths: Teaching in Nepal’s Reality
Yet, pride doesn’t erase the struggles. Teaching here means battling scarce resources—outdated textbooks, overcrowded labs, and salaries that don’t reflect our worth. Sometimes, I buy materials with my own money. Sometimes, power cuts derail a lesson on CAD software. And while I push students to dream big, I also see the brain drain as talents flee abroad for better opportunities.
But these challenges only deepen my resolve. If I can equip one student to innovate, to improve Nepal’s infrastructure, to stay and fight for progress—that’s a ripple effect worth striving for.
The Surveyor’s Heart
In the end, teaching is my act of faith. Like a surveyor, I measure progress not in immediate results but in potential. Every lesson is a stake in the ground, marking a path forward. And when I see my students become collaborators, critical thinkers, and compassionate engineers, I know I’ve helped lay the foundation for something greater than myself.
To fellow teachers: our work is a symphony of small acts that shape generations. We are the blueprint-makers, the compass-holders, the quiet architects of tomorrow. The classroom may be our construction site, but the future we’re building? That’s our masterpiece.
And that’s why I’m proud to be a teacher.
