From a strength of 21 students and 9 teachers in 1948, YPS has grown to a student strength of 1400 and staff strength of 100. His Highness, Maharaja Yadavindra Singh, in one of his messages to the school wrote:
"A school is really the place where foundations are laid for our future careers in life. We grow the way we allow ourselves to be influenced by our surroundings, the contacts we develop, and the associations we form while there."
His words still ring true especially for us Yadavindrians. The bonds we formed while at school, the facts we learnt, and the values we imbibed are in a big part because of our teachers who always had our best interests at heart.
Given below is a poem dedicated to the teachers of YPS written by Deep and published in the the first 'Yadavindrian' of the school in 1959.
Teachers of YPS
Teachers we have, they number a few;
They teach us good, they know their cue.
First of all, the H. M. comes,
In our ears Geography he drums.
He rules the roost with severe frowns,
With "Or Else !" our joys he drowns.
English language does S. C. C. teach,
Makes us learn all the parts of speech.
He roars like a wounded tiger in a rage,
When we play without attention to the page.
M. K. A. comes with glasses on his nose,
Teaching us English and Hindi prose,
When out of turn our noses we poke,
He says, "Kia samajte ho! it is not a joke".
In charge of the mess is R. L. C.,
Maths he dishes out to us freely.
He serves us food for thought on a platter,
But makes us eat less and work faster.
Then comes H. S. in charge of games and morning jerks,
Panjabi is the language in which he smirks.
One of the scientists, E. M. is his name,
Coaches at Cricket, for that is his game.
A pull of the nose and a twist of the ear,
Is what his lazy victims fear.
Suave and smiling is the guise of G. S. D.,
Maths he grinds into the dull and needy.
Indian history is a real bore,
But H. K. D. teaches it to the core.
I. D. Singh is a fine long name
Puzzling us with contours is his game.
Chest out, chin in, erect he walks,
With moustaches stiff as pointed stalk,
That quiver in anger and flutter in smile,
That's J. D. S., you can know him from a mile.
B. S. V. the lover of beauty,
Teaches art, for that's his duty.
These are the teachers, at least some of them.
Right from the bottom to the H. M.
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