I've
been travelling most of my life. From the hills of Assam to the southern shores
of Kanyakumari, my family moved, changing homes and friends. I found this nomadic
existence traumatic as a child, but years later I began seeing myself as being
better off than many of my friends who have never gone beyond the South.
I began my schooling in the hills of Assam. A tiny little school inhabited by
Bengali speaking teachers and students got me started. Dressed in pretty little
outfits along with appropriate shoes and socks, I began each day by screaming,
"I won't go today." I was forcibly dragged into the car and sent to school and
then the rest of the day was spent looking out of the window. Meanwhile, my
silly classmates repeated nursery rhymes that I had mastered long ago, with
actions.
Soon I found myself in Kendriya Vidyalaya. In a class of thirty something, I
was the only one who spoke fluent English and Bengali. I flaunted my English
speaking skills in front of the teachers and comfortably shifted to Bengali
(in their absence), when speaking to friends. My drawing abilities weren't as
good, sadly enough. And for years after that, I could only draw the palm tree
that I'd learnt to draw in Class One. But I was good with memorising poems and
enjoyed being the student that the teachers depended on to teach others the
Queen's language.
Four years flew by and we were flying to Madras. After a comfortable week in
a five-star hotel there, we took a cab to a nearby township called Neyveli.
My parents were faced with the ordeal of finding a house and a nice CBSE school.
The only CBSE school in Neyveli (named after Chacha Nehru himself, Jawahar
Vidyalaya) had a terrifying monster for a principal. Tales of boys being whipped
and girls' heads being smashed on walls floated around till the day I was there.
An autocrat, he insisted on long assembly hours under the sun, where he humiliated
older students who had got low marks. The few of us who fainted due to the heat
were helped into a nearby classroom for water and then sent back into the line.
Homework in each subject kept us busy each day.
For four years then, I spent my life writing questions and answers, five to
ten times. The Principal sent home flying squads that checked to see if students
in the 12th Class were studying. If you were caught in the market enjoying an
ice cream, even God wouldn't be able to intervene to rescue you. But the fees
were minimal and the results great. The sweeper who cleaned our drains retired
in time, as his son (a Jawahar product) had entered a popular medical college
on merit.
After a terrifying four years, it was time to move. Dad made plans of going
to work in the Middle East (he couldn't because the Gulf War broke out then).
So for a year, we were in Cochin. I joined the famous "Bhavans Vidya Mandir,"
after an entrance test in which both my brother and I stood first. My mom got
sick around that time and I managed to stay away from school, thanks to my dad
who just couldn't see me cry.
But from the hospital bed, my mom managed to mutter instructions to my aunt,
who came with me to school the next day and interfered with the seating arrangement
(I had been sitting alone and so was feeling lonelier). So the teacher obliged
and put me beside a talkative girl, who made sure I didn't feel homesick. My
aunt also made me promise that I wouldn't miss class again. So I continued with
school.
I hated Sanskrit, which was my third language. After a year of Sanskrit in Neyveli
where we were only taught meanings of certain words, I was now in a class where
everyone was talking to each other in Sanskrit. I sat unhappily and this class
was followed by art and stitching class. Depressed at how the previous class
had gone, I settled down with some cloth, a needle and thread. And when the
thread refused to go through the eye of the needle, I sat and wept, much to
the amusement of my new classmates. But my mood was back to normal when I went
for music class. I had been going for Carnatic music classes earlier on, so
this class was familiar. The teacher thought I was good and soon I was part
of the choir. I was never much of an actress, but I was part of a play where
I was one of the people killed in the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. So when my
friends armed as policemen opened fire, I fell to the ground with many others,
laughing hysterically.
Despite a miserable start, I enjoyed my year in Cochin. During lunch break,
tiffin boxes were exchanged, as I preferred my friend's onion masala
to my fried rice. Then we played games or sang songs, depending on the mood.
Life there comprised of a tomboyish Sangeeta, a touchy Dinesh, a pretty Kalyani,
a flirtatious Vidya, a dressy Divya and the singing genius Binju. Like all classes,
we had our studs and babes who were forever in love. Meanwhile, we secretly
nursed crushes on good-looking seniors.
All festivals were celebrated and we always came dressed up on those occasions.
During PT class we played volleyball and I continued to struggle with my stitching
till the end of my one year there.
Soon that year ended and we were packing to move to a new place.
To be continued...
©
2001 - 2002 Roopa Sarah Thomas
