Page 13 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

2 BRAWLS & BRUISES

Everyone called me ‘Maymay’ for being the oldest in the class. That made me shun my friends in the school. So, I
sat on the last bench and stayed aloof most of the time.
“Oops,” I said, keeping my hand on my chest. “Wish my friends would call me by a better name.”
Ma’am Kencho with short hair was the class teacher. She chewed on betel leaves all day. And the smell of alcohol
from her breath made us retch. She plucked at our hair and slapped us when furious. Sometimes, she took us out for
the practical lessons. One instance, when I couldn’t find the product of 4x5, stands out. Seniors watched me
grouping the pebbles. I could group the pebbles into four, but could not add them together.
Ma’am Kencho furrowed her brow as she watched me counting the pebbles. “You scatter-brained, how much is
4x5?”
I added all the pebbles in my shaking hands. “Nineteen.”
Slap!
My left cheek throbbed. Seniors laughed down at me from the verandah.
“4x5=20!” she blurted.
Lowering my eyes, I repeated to avoid another slap. “4x5=20!”
“You dumb-head!” she said. “Practice this at home.”
Because skipping classes meant whipping, I attended them reluctantly. But the school captain petrified us the
most. A nasty rogue with a masculine body who always sneered at us. We could not go out to play during recess or
lunch break. He cruised the school premises and harassed the students.
One day, the bell rang when I returned from lunch. “Oh, no! I am late.” I broke into a sprint, but the school
captain was at the gate with a cane in his left hand. “Hell no, I had it now.”
“Why are you late?” he thundered, tapping his calf with the cane. “Don’t know school time?”
“Sorry, captain, but I can explain,” I said, puffing.
He scrunched his face. “Late is late.” He raised the stick and whipped. “Bend down!”
Whoosh!
I winced and lumbered up the stairs in tears. “Enough of your scaremongering, you beast,” I said in a whisper.

***

This skinny boy had his eyes popping out of the shrunken socket. He was dark but affable and fun-loving. Every
evening, he slouched to my place, his hands thrust in the faded jeans pockets. Radhey Shyam was his full name, and
he was from Cooch Behar, India. I called him Shyam. We spent our time, chatting and laughing. When he laughed,
Shyam’s husky voice echoed across the room.
One winter, he left for his hometown and returned after two and a half months. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “Haven’t
seen you for a while, how’re you doing?”
“I am doing good here,” I said, shifting away to the edge of the bench, “I went to my village to help my
grandparents. How’s everybody at home, buddy?”
“I, too, visited my grandparents,” he said.
“Oh, really?” I said. “How are they doing?”
His eyes glimmered. “Fine, but my father is a real bitch.”
“Did you say your father a bitch?”
“Yeah, he is a bitch… a real devil!” He gnashed his teeth. “He tortures us every day.”

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