An old pair of slippers

The icy floor beneath my feet made me hate the cold December morning. I thought of my lost slipper and my heart burst into tears although none of it reached my eyes. I had searched everywhere, in every corner, but to no avail. Gradually, the hope of finding my slippers had faded. I placed my bare right foot on top of my left to protect it from the cold cement floor. I was supposed to brush my teeth but the morning bell rang for prayer time before I could do so. My sleepy dorm-mates rushed to the bathroom. One of them complained about the freezing water. He rinsed his mouth but left without washing his face.

I, the laziest student was sleeping while others prayed vigorously. My sister—who had tied a Raksha Bandan thread on my wrist to signify the profound relationship we would share with each other from that moment onwards—was sitting in front of us. The so-called Captain saw me sleeping. He was indignant, but kept silent. It was eight in the morning. We were waiting for the bell to ring for breakfast. Suddenly, one of my roommates informed me that the Captain was calling me. I knew he would scold me, may be he would even beat me. My heart beat faster as I tried to come up with an excuse.

Though overwhelmed by fear, I had no choice but to face him.

“Why were you sleeping during prayer time?” he probed, a long bamboo stick in his hand.

“I have a headache, Captain,” I lied, my eyes full of tears. I felt certain he would not believe me. I thought he would beat me just as he had beaten my close friend the previous week.”

“Where are your slippers?” he asked.

“My sister bought them yesterday, but I lost them this morning,” I replied, sadly “Don’t you have shoes?” I shook my head, “No”. Then, surprisingly, he told me I could go.

He was in a good mood. Perhaps it was his birthday or his father had sent him some money. I could only guess why he hadn’t beaten me.

System, routine and pocket money

For every act of mischief I made back home, dad set up a clever booby trap with which to straighten me up. I wasn’t alone that day. The other kids were in the same pit I was in.

“You play when I say you play. You study when I say you study. Follow what everybody else does here. Stick to the rules and you will be fine,” someone was announcing before supper. He was our duty teacher, Mr Khatri.

“Have fun, keep your head under the rules, and always remember one thing—no matter what you do, don’t try and mess with the system. As a duty teacher, it is my duty to look after you all, from the moment you wake up until you go back to bed again.”

“Sir, how long do we get to sleep?” popped a guy from the back.

“This is your first day, kid. I am surprised your dad didn’t tell you anything before he got you in here. Like I said, from today onwards you’ll follow the routine.”

It was a harsh reply. “You are part of a boarding school now. Try and enjoy it.”

 That was two years ago. But in here, away from family, two years is a long haul. You get introduced to certain things by the end of the month. After the introductory course is over, get ready to succumb. Or in my daddy’s own words, get ready to straighten up!

 “Kushal, do you need pocket money?” Mr Khatri inquires.

We’re eighty students in a big hall called the dayroom. Theoretically, a dayroom is common room in an institution where people socialise during the day. There is no ‘socialising’ for us though. We come here in the evenings to study. And on Mondays, like today, Mr Khatri distributes pocket money.

“Kushal? Didn’t you hear me?”
“Yes sir.”
“How much do you need?”
“Sir, thirty.”
“Thirty!
“Why thirty? Take ten.”

Kushal is reluctant for a moment but then he knows there is no point in arguing and asking for more. Can’t mess with the system. Moreover, Mr Khatri never ever gave more than ten rupees. They say our house captain got forty once, but I think that’s just plain rumour. It basically depends on your luck.

In the name of house spirit

"And in that dorm room with thirty beds, we slept as dead men. The softest noise could trigger the warden’s black box.”

I won’t tell you I am Spiderman or something. I am not amazing. When Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank prison in 1966, I didn’t even exist. But I went to a Shawshank too, my own Shawshank.

Dad brought me to live in a hostel as a naive kid. No sooner, I was promoted to a house where rules were both strict and weird. A tall, fair guy with brown hair and a well-shaped English accent was our housemaster, our warden. Up to that moment, I didn’t have the slightest of idea. My life in hell was about to begin.

Like Warden Samuel Norton, our house master believed in two things: discipline and duty. We were bound to both. A lot of discipline, and a lot more duties. Everybody knew what he meant on our first night when we were all instructed to get to the study hall.

 “What have you brought for the house?” he had asked. The answers came in all forms. Sir, I am good at Mathematics. I can win trophies to decorate. I like painting. I could print banners and placards if the house needs it. I love sports and can represent us in the Track and Field Meet. I can sing. I can dance...

The warden was unimpressed.

All of us huddled together in a U-shape we stood, as if at some sort of Scouts ceremony. Everybody said something. It seemed they had all brought gifts to the house. My turn came too.

“Aah...I am fond of gardening sir and ...”

I could never complete the sentence. But I tell you this—I had never done as much gardening as I did that particular year.

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.