Terrors Tall and Small (Junior School Part 2)

One of my proudest memories from Junior school was when I presented a speech in the morning assembly. It was a story on 'consideration' from Shiv Khera's You Can Win. Mini Ma'am had called me out one day and handing me the book, pointed to the passage. She told me that I had to prepare to relate that story in the morning assembly a few days from then. I was allowed to take the book home and Pappa helped me prepare thoroughly for it, until I could recite it with ease.

"Once upon a time, a little boy went to an ice cream parlour. He asked the waitress who approached to take his order, "How much does the chocolate ice cream cost?" "80 cents," she replied. The boy slowly counted out his coins - it was exactly 80 cents. He looked slightly disappointed. The boy again asked her "How much does the Vanilla ice cream cost?" "70 cents," answered the waitress, irritated by the boy's indecision. "I will have the Vanilla ice cream please," the boy said, intimidated by the woman's tone, who took off in a huff. Soon she came back with his order. The boy worked through his ice cream leisurely, thoroughly enjoying it. When he was done, he asked for the bill. Leaving the money on the table, the boy left. When the waitress went to clear his table she found 10 cents in coins left behind by the boy for her." A touching tale on innocent consideration.

I delivered the speech impeccably, to a round of applause from the school gathering. But the greater appreciation for me was when Pappa told me that I had spoken well. I pestered him to know how he could comment on a performance he never witnessed. Then he said that he'd heard me and seen me speak at the small black gate of the school. :)

Some of my worst school memories are also grounded in my Junior School experiences. I had a friend of sorts, who was, and still is, way shorter than me. But she was a right terror in those days. She used to threaten me, saying that she would complain to Sister Headmistress that I'd hit her on her throat. I would laugh away the threat, saying she wouldn't believe that complaint, because how could one hit someone on the throat!

And sure enough, every recess after finishing our tiffin, when we would go up to Sister and wish her a 'good morning', this little packet of trouble would tell Sister that I'd hit her on the throat. The amiable creature that our headmistress was, she graciously smiled at us and moved on to other girls thronging to wish her. But, the truth be told, I was terrified of this mischievous little friend. I would spend my daily teeth-brushing routines in the morning mentally devising ways to guile my parents into not sending me to school.

Some other days when I, and I'm sure a lot of my classmates felt they were better off at home, were the days when we had the misfortune of sitting in Marina Ma'am's class. In junior school, most of the subjects, except Hindi and Computer Science, were taken by the class teacher herself. Therefore it was difficult to appoint a substitute for an absent class teacher. What was done, instead, was a division of the class's strength into three; these smaller groups would then be sent to the other three sections to spend the school day. These refugees would usually occupy the floor near the teacher's table.

I had very successfully dodged getting Marina Ma'am as my class teacher. She was a fearsome woman with ear-length hair always left open, and a face set with a permanently smileless expression. She had a box with a flap lid in which she used to keep her paan. Her lips were always a dark maroon colour, her lower jaw always chewing, and her palm always in pursuit of naughty cheeks. Legend goes that she slapped before she listened, and the contact of hand and jowl could leave you stinging for the whole day.

One unfortunate day, our class teacher was absent. We were divided into three and packed off to the other three sections. On entering the one we were directed to, we realized the monster we were to face for the day. Under her piercing eyes, my classmates and I were extremely meek, and silently arranged ourselves on the floor, not daring to fight for a spot away from her hand's reach. I remember seeing her outside school once, along with some of my seniors. Even though we were positive she wouldn't recognize us for never having taught us, and though we had not committed any misdeed, we sped away on our bicycles, like murderers attempting to flee their crime scene.