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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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