The great bells were ringing. In the year 1994, the world used to be a larger place. Each day almost invariably added something new to my experience. And there were always people whom I could look upto and there were always people to look after me. Days and nights had been an eternal stretch of insouciance until that particular day which was going to change my life forever.
The sun had taken its last yawn and the chirp of the birds had begun to fade. The tolling of the bells, having ceased after a while, had been replaced by a distant hum of the morning assembly. I stood watching that large gate, half ajar, with the sun shining through my misty eyes and the gentle March wind trying to soothe my anxious forehead. Never had been a step more difficult to take. It was my first day at school. Father still stood behind me and behind him was our old jeep. I had my school bag on my shoulders, my water bottle hanging round my neck, little blue half pants, shining new pair of black shoes and a little white shirt. At length, Ms. Roy came to take me away. Father exchanged a few words with her but I was too numb to hear any of it. And then finally she held my hands and lead me inside. I turned back to see him again for the last time, my cheeks were all wet by this time, he was waving a smiling goodbye to me.
The bell tong after each period was rather amusing, but it was also the only amusing thing that happened that day, for I having been accustomed to a life in Hindi found it impossible to comprehend the chic tongue of those Christian missionaries. Surprisingly, I worked out my way “per exemplum” (through example), by seeing the other children. When they would take out the copies from their bags, I would take out mine and when they would close it, I would close mine. When they held the pencil in their hands, I would hold mine and when they sharpened their pencils, I would sharpen mine. I particularly concentrated on a girl sitting in the next row who didn’t have brown cover on her books, like mine, so I could discern which book the others were taking out. The teacher paid particular attention to her and she participated and responded in the class, which made me believe that she would have been really smart. Later, however, on closer scrutiny I realized that the books she was taking out did not match what other students took out. In fact, she was much in the same plight as me, the only difference was she was beautiful and candid.
The day ended with the mark of shrill sound of the bells once again. And I could never describe the ecstasy I felt that afternoon while rushing out to the gate. I ran so hard that I tumbled over, fell down and broke my bottle. Mommy had come to pick me and we returned on a Rickshaw while I described my little adventures to her. School was never my cup of tea, at-least during the first few months, I would be slapped by teachers for not understanding anything, my nose would be eternally flowing, often I would shit in my pants and become an object of mockery of the whole school. But I never felt bad about anything, because I was too stupid to feel bad. Every morning I would try to make some excuse for not going to school but mommy and papa would wake me up and get me ready. Mom would tie the laces of my left shoe and father would do the same for the right, and my brother would be watching all of us sometimes, if he would be awake, or sometimes he would come toddling out from inside the house with one of my books in his hands speaking in his little voice, that I was forgetting it, and then I would tell him that it was not the turn for that subject today.
On a singular day, during the recess, a strange incident occurred which would be with my memories for as long as time keeps ticking. A strong blizzard was blowing across the playground and I was perched on a wooden tree trunk that lay in the middle of the ground, grabbing the jam sandwich in one hand and the little blue tiffin box in the other. I was usually given “paratha” and “sabji” instead of bread for lunch, as mother regarded bread as junk food. But as it often turns out, one’s deprivations often determine one’s predilections. And so as I lay before that jam sandwich anticipating the glorious taste of jam with bread, little did I know of the fate that were to befall unto that piece of bread. Just as I was about to eat it, a huge eagle, with amazing celerity dived towards the ground and snatched away my prize. I was left rused, devoid of sentiments of any kind for a moment. A group of boys gathered around me. I remember someone from the group had shouted, “Why didn’t you put that brick on its wings?” The bell tonged and the recess was over. That was the only day I remember being hungry the whole day.
For a long time I believed I could have avoided my loss that day, had I been a little more nimble in grabbing the brick from the ground and putting it on the mighty wings of that creature, until of course, I grew up a little older to realize that not only was such a thing absolutely impossible but also how foolish had I been in believing such a theory for so long a period of time. I was in class 2 now and father had been transferred from the city to a small town on the border of Nepal. We found ourselves once again in the company of crickets, who would begin their diligent chirps with the the last ray of the sun and continue so until the first ray next morning.
It were an ethereal world. Tall trees, venomous insects and dense flora were all that met the eye.
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