I was eleven years old, waiting for my exam at Saraswati Vidyalaya, my school in Nagpur. "No. 12, please come forward." Kirti, a very fat girl from my class, stepped ahead. I heard my classmates laughing and so I tried to stop them with my eyes. But my good intentions were mistaken. The next morning, my teacher, Mrs. Kamble, told me, "Ashwini, I've received a complaint about you." I was shocked. The girl I was protecting thought I'd been laughing at her. I tried to explain but the teacher refused to hear me out. She punished me by making me stand by the door. I knew I was right. Such punishment to a class topper was simply unheard of. But, slowly, my pride disappeared. Instead of being angry, I understood the other students who have been punished at times. For the first time, I felt humbled  . Three years later, I was in the math class. Mr. Prabhuraman, wrote an equation   -- one he'd taught us the day before -- on the blackboard. "Anyone who doesn't know how to solve this," he said, "please leave the class at once." I knew I could solve only the first two steps. But my pride made me stay there. Unfortunately, the one who was asked to solve it was me. I just stood there, chalk in hand, trying not to look foolish. I prepared myself for a good talking-to  , but Mr. Prabhuraman told me kindly, "Go back to your seat." Today, two decades later, those incidents have made me think. One teacher punished me for something I didn't do; the other forgave me for something I did wrong. Both experiences had an effect on me. They remind me that no matter what you accomplish  , you must always be humble. Why did Ashwini refuse to leave the class?
He felt it would make him lose face. He could work out the equation. His teacher believed in his ability. His teacher never asked him any questions.