LIFE AND LIES #26 | Six to Eight
Somebody whispers my name from the back. I ignore it for the umpteenth time, concentrating on the homework.
Six to eight in the evening is
called Prep time. Once the games period is over, we spend two hours in the
classroom going through our books and notes. At least everyone pretends to. The two hours are spent scribbling
on notebooks, playing TIC TAC TOE and for the most part poking the guy sitting
in the front.
"What!" I turn around, glaring at the
boy who poked me. His name is Ujjwal, one of the infamous lot, the kind whom my
mother warns to stay away from.
“Here, see this,” he produces a piece of paper,
completely unfazed by my irritation.
I take a look at the paper and then at the
teacher sitting in the front. Our English teacher. He is old of age and nearing
retirement. For the entire two hours, he remains confined to his chair. And his
nodding- off serves as an artistic inspiration for many, who crudely put it on
paper. One of those many sketches is right before me: a huge pair of
spectacles, a bulging nose and a few strokes symbolising a handful of hair on
his otherwise bald head.
I find it amusing but I control my urge to
laugh, not wanting to encourage Ujjwal.
After I turn around to continue my homework,
the sketch goes around the class bringing out giggles here and there. Soon the
class is drowned in a murmur.
At some point, the teacher comes to life,
enraged. With a quickness unexpected of a man of his age, he picks the duster
lying on the table and brings it down on the table in three loud bangs. The
class switches to pin-drop silence. A puff of chalk dust swirls in the air before
settling on the table. All the heads bow down in order to distance themselves
from the probing eyes of the teacher which scan the class for the source of the
nuisance.
The bunch of seven-year-olds have mastered the
art of jumping back to their seats and feigning a sincere expression, all in a
fraction of a second. Even then, sometimes, an unlucky someone wanders too far
from his seat than he is supposed to or lags a bit in controlling his
expression. Caught in the teacher's glare, that someone serves an example for
everyone else.
Today, it is my friend, Prakash.
"You there," the teacher's voice
echoes across the classroom. "Come here."
My friend knows in his heart that he is doomed.
Still, gathering all of the courage and hope he can muster, he asks, pointing
to himself, "Me, Sir?"
"Yes, you." The teacher’s huge nostrils
flare with anger.
Reluctantly, my friend drags himself towards
the teacher, taking all the time in the world. As he comes close to the table, the
teacher shoots his hand in the air the way a frog's tongue aims for a fly. Getting
ahold of my friend’s left ear, he pulls him down till his head almost hits the
table. Prakash winces in pain. His hands instinctively reach upward to the
centre of the pain. That only infuriates the teacher further. Still holding his
ear, he starts yanking him, left then right.
"I'm sorry, Sir," Prakash repeats,
his body bent from the waist up, swaying like a horizontal pendulum while the
whole class sits transfixed. "I'm really, really sorry, Sir."
Either out of exhaustion from all the effort he
has put in or out of the satisfaction of having delivered the optimum punishment he
finally lets go of my friend's ear.
"Don't you dare move from your seat
again!"
Prakash nods, looking at the ground.
"Now, go back to your seat!"
"Sorry, Sir," he apologizes. Clutching
his right ear, he returns to his seat.
Prakash doesn’t belong to what the teachers
classify as ‘naughty boys’. He is more sincere than half of the class. But then
again the naughty ones don’t get caught, do they?
The prep time comes to a close. Everyone rushes
out. I catch up to Prakash and poke him at his waist. That is his pressure
point. His entire body gives a jerk upward. He turns to face me. His left ear is
still glowing red.
"How's your ear, buddy?"
"Don't ask," he replies with a hint
of disappointment. "I wasn't even doing anything. It was Ujjwal. He never
gets caught."
"Relax," I pat him on the back.
The fresh piece of news quickly spreads to
other sections. Everyone in my section tries his best to describe what had
transpired earlier, adding a few bits here and there. When they get ahold of
Prakash, some empathize with him by calling the teacher a senile old man while
others make a joke out of it.
"Silence!"
The matron's voice rings out. The mandatory
roll-call is taken. Then we march on in lines of three.
There are lots of trees on campus. On both
sides of the road, every spare piece of land is covered by them, be it Gul
Mohar or Eucalyptus. The incandescent light of the roadside lamps gives them a
spooky look. From time to time, a small movement between the trees or a rustle
of leaves startles me.
***
The sound of the bell reverberates across the
huge hall. There are five rows of tables with students lined up on both sides.
An assortment of plates, spoons, forks, glasses and serving bowls is laid out
on every table.
The School Captain comes to the centre of the
hall and folds his hands.
"We thank you God...," he begins the
opening grace.
"We thank you God...," the hall erupts
in a chorus.
"For the food, we are going to
receive."
"For the food, we are going to
receive."
That is followed by the dragging of chairs. Afterwards,
the hall is filled with a murmur of students and the sound of clashing steel.
"Nice dinner, huh," I nudge Prakash,
bringing to his attention the contents of the serving bowl.
"Kaddu paneer! My favourite!"
Both of us start laughing.
"Why do they do this? It's like torturing
the paneer and the people eating it at the same time." Then he turns
towards me. "I don't even eat chicken like you people. Paneer is all I
have."
Up until a moment ago, I had been totally
focused on separating the paneer pieces from the rest of the pile. Now I am
sad. Chicken would be served on Friday. I have lost my appetite. Still, I clear
the contents of my plate, spotting the matron making rounds.
The image of surreptitious chicken floats in my
head.
Three days to go.
***
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