From the Last Bench

The Last Bench Boy

In a quiet government school in Tamil Nadu, there was a boy named Ravi, who always sat on the last bench. He wasn't very good at studies, didn’t talk much, and most teachers didn’t pay attention to him. His uniform was never neat, his shoes were worn out, and he often came to school without homework.

The other students called him “Thanni Ravi” because he used to drink a lot of water and keep running to the bathroom. Some teased him, some ignored him. He never fought back — just smiled or stayed silent.

One day, a new English teacher joined the school. Her name was Meera Miss. Young, energetic, and kind, she wanted to know her students well. On the first day, she made everyone stand up and introduce themselves.

When it was Ravi’s turn, he stood up nervously.

“My name is Ravi… I like drawing… and… that’s all,” he mumbled.

Some boys giggled. Meera Miss noticed the awkwardness and simply smiled. “That’s good, Ravi. Drawing is a beautiful talent.”

Over the next few weeks, Meera Miss noticed something — Ravi never answered questions, but he always drew in the last pages of his notebook. Small sketches. Simple ones. Trees, houses, cartoon faces.

One day after class, she called him.

“Ravi, can you show me your drawings?”

He hesitated, but then slowly opened his notebook. Meera Miss flipped through the pages and was surprised. The drawings were detailed, full of emotion, and far beyond what she expected from a 13-year-old boy who always failed tests.

“These are amazing, Ravi! Why didn’t you tell me you could draw like this?”

Ravi looked down and said quietly, “My appa says drawing won’t get me a job. I’m not good at anything else.”

Meera Miss felt a knot in her throat. That night, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ravi.

The next week, there was a notice from the District Education Office — an inter-school art competition was being held. Without telling Ravi, Meera Miss submitted a few of his best drawings. When the selection results came, Ravi’s name was on the list.

The next morning, she called him to the staff room.

“You’ve been selected for the art competition next month.”

Ravi looked shocked. “Me, miss? I can’t go... My parents won’t allow it.”

“Let me speak to them,” she said.

That evening, Meera Miss visited Ravi’s house. It was a small one-room house. His father, a daily wage worker, sat outside polishing tools.

She gently explained Ravi’s talent and how this competition could open doors. His father listened quietly and then said, “If he wins something… maybe then we’ll believe drawing has value.”

On the day of the competition, Ravi wore a new shirt borrowed from his cousin. He clutched his drawing kit tightly. Dozens of students were there, all from fancy schools, carrying expensive art materials. Ravi felt small.

But Meera Miss knelt beside him and said, “Don’t look at them. Just draw what you feel. Let your heart speak.”

Ravi nodded.

The topic was “My Dream World.” While others drew robots, space, and futuristic buildings, Ravi drew a simple picture — a small house, a school, and a family sitting under a tree, smiling. The judges walked around. Some barely looked at his paper. But one old judge stopped. He stared at Ravi’s drawing for a long time.

A week later, the results were announced. Ravi won the first prize.

It came with a certificate, a medal, and an offer — a scholarship at a well-known art school in Chennai.

That evening, the headmaster of the school called an assembly. Ravi stood on stage, holding his medal. For the first time, he wasn’t on the last bench. He was in front. The students who once laughed at him clapped the loudest.

Meera Miss stood in the corner, smiling with tears in her eyes.