Ten past six

Children surrounded the old man like flies hovering around a filament lamp.

One of them rose to say, “Mr Wilkinson, you always read to us from boring books. Read us something new today, a good story.”

“Good story?” The man smirked. “What does good mean anyway? Bunch of crabby school kids like you bragging in front of one another about your expensive possessions, or birthday gifts, summer family trips, and luxuries like that? That is good to you. We never even had birthday celebrations kid, no summer trips. I read you through these mad pages of fiction because this is what you like. You like listening to silly fables. I can tell you what stories real life makes. I’ll tell you the story of ‘ten past six’.”

28 January 1975

I went to a school second to none in the country. Spread over hundreds of acres, it had everything a student could demand from life. What was strange, however, was that it was a world like Hogwarts. Tall British castle type buildings, trees as abundant as in a forest, twelve houses instead of four, labs where we performed back titrations instead of making potions, an assembly hall where the school gathered on Mondays, enough playgrounds but no Quidditch, and a huge dining hall with special reverence for chicken curry. Like I said, this was nearly a Hogwarts. Our Dumbledore was a tall slender guy with grey beard. Everyone knew him by the name Tony Wedgewood.

When Mr Wedgewood came to school, our days became shorter. Time started pacing like a rocket, for we all had to act like Neil Armstrong. The only difference was that that guy had stepped a small step on the moon and mankind leaped ahead. We, however, had to carefully watch our steps, or we could over-leap and get a suspension letter instead. Such was his regime. You break one rule, and baam! Avada kedavra.

Once as I was heading towards my house after classes, a football came rolling out of nowhere. I just could not resist the urge to kick it back to where it had come from. So I kicked. Only to be sorry. I raised my head; Mr Wedgewood was standing right in front. A satirical smile on his face told me something was wrong. Upon reaching my dorm room, I found a piece of paper signed by him waiting on my table. ‘Ten past six’, it read.

It surely meant trouble. But I was unsure what kind of trouble it meant. So I knocked on his door.

“Sir, I would like to know what this paper is about. It was on my table.”

“This is TPS, ten past six.” I noticed that satirical smile of his, again.

“I mean I don’t know what it is. I saw your signature sir, so...”

“So come to the garden pitch tomorrow at 5 am in shorts and vest. And discover for yourself.”

“But sir, what did I do?”

“James, you kicked that ball with leather shoes on. Students are not allowed to play in formal dress. In fact I rolled the ball towards you just to test your civic consciousness. You failed,” he said. “Now, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Come to the garden pitch tomorrow?

Garden pitch wasn’t even a pitch. It was an open space with incongruous boulders and rocks. And what was ‘ten past six’ anyway? Quelled by sappy puzzles, I showed up the next morning shivering in the cold. Mr Wedgewood was already there. I was handed a shovel and an iron pan and instructed to fill it with rocks and sand, carry it to a hollow spot, and then level the field, repetitiously. I did it for an hour or so until it was 6:10. In Mr Wedgewood’s words, I had done a ‘ten past six’.

***

“Didn’t you complain?” The children asked.

Nope. In fact I fell victim to ten past six quite a number of times, and for the silliest of reasons. The first week, it hurt. After a month or so, it became a common ritual. You never go complaining about rituals.

School is a mysterious place boy. If you’re caught alone, you’re doomed. If you’ve got company, even punishments feel like playing six-a-side football—with little fear and pain, of course. Luckily, ten past six was always group punishment. The whole dormitory rushed to the garden pitch in shorts. The fellow with whom you had chicken supper last night loaded your iron pan. The senior who broke track and field records last year was breaking rocks somewhere in the corner. The guy who did forty push-ups every morning was pushing a wheelbarrow. Your best friend was levelling too. So were your juniors. It was like playing age of empires, for real.

It was later that we realised that TPS was a lesson. One that weaned us off of alarm clocks, taught us how to function as a team, and respect rules. In fact, we levelled the place so good that today, new generations of students are able to play football on it. Mr Wedgewood. What an adorable martinet he was. When he left, our days became longer again. Everybody could sense the void.

“Why did he leave then?”

It was a gloomy day. We had lined ourselves all the way from his flat to the school’s main gate. I saw him on a wheelchair. People present in the radius had wet eyes, tears and flowers. He, on the other hand, had a smile on his lips, the same kind that I’d seen after I’d kicked the ball. We accompanied him down the road up to the gate. Slowly. Gradually. The sad news came after a week. Our messiah had cancer.

I remember how good it felt when we friends gathered after ‘lights out’ and chattered about our daily encounters.

...was walking with my formal shoes on the basketball court. Got TPS.

...ate both chicken and paneer yesterday. TPS.

...gotta wake at 5 tomorrow for occupying last bench in his class. The first was empty.

And when one person finished his sentence, the dorm used to fill with laughter. I miss that. I miss everything Mr Wedgewood invented. School doesn’t exist forever. A sweet despair it is. After our Dumbledore was gone, ten past six lost its charm. No fun talks. No chitchats. No daily encounters. Just the formal life.

I met many teachers. All kinds and species. Some were arrogant, some partial. Some liked to party, some maintained distance, some were more of a friend, some as severe as commander in chief. Still, each was definable. Each fell under category. But for Mr Wedgewood, I have no definitions, no adjectives at all. He was one of his kinds.

I wonder if a teacher can devote so much of himself to his profession. But again, teachers are mysterious creatures. It is hard to be one. They come in your life to be part of it. And when they leave like this, there’s a void no one else can occupy. I wish my teacher comes back someday and issues us some more ten past sixes. Wherever he is, I just wish my teacher is fine.

Mr Wilkinson stopped. The children were agape.

- Anik Yadav