“And they say teaching is a calling,” Suzuki Sensei groaned, his gnawing hunger pounding upon his downtrodden spirits. The sun set earlier in winter Japan, adding to the ominous bleakness he felt in his soul. It was 8.36pm, but he was still hustling at the staffroom of the elementary school he worked at. He couldn’t even sigh audibly - most of his colleagues were still around.

Ten years ago, he had arrived at the teaching scene, feeling supremely confident and upbeat. Teaching was tough - he had heard the many horror stories - but so was he. He believed that he had the fortitude to remain untouched by the challenges plaguing the teaching profession. His optimism showed in his demeanour. He dashed to his classes, mixed with his co-teachers and students gregariously and bowed enthusiastically in the earnest way that only bright-eyed amateurs could muster.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when things dove downwards for him. At first, he could keep up with the one hundred and one tasks he had to tackle. Without missing a beat, he recorded minutes of meetings, conversed with parents, sat on the Deliberate Study Committee - and even coached the track and field team five times a week. But, before he knew it, he began to dread in-class lessons with his students. Engrossed in the midst of an urgent task, he dreaded having to lose his momentum when the bell rang and he had to switch to teaching mode. He started to view his students not as lovable little human beings, but as balls of immaturity he had to juggle in the air. He started to develop a professional self — one that appeared to interact deeply with his students on the surface. Little did they know that he was quietly resenting their loud voices, their incessant questions, their childish bickering.

JUST GROW UP! He forced these words down his throat for more times than he could care to remember.

Like a dolphin, he kept one eye on his deadlines always, fearing that he would drown if he let down his guard. Work-life balance? He let out a snort. Don’t make me laugh. He cried.

Should he quit? He asked himself the nagging question that he sometimes entertained at the forefront of his mind, other times pushed to the back of his mind where his exuberance was banished to. He had no answer that night, like always. All he cared about was not to be the last teacher to lock the school doors and gates.

He returned to his task on hand. The clock read 8.38pm.