Siberia

While all of this was happening during Science and Library periods, English was shaping into a nice little nightmare. This was, of course, before I became the “outstanding” student.

This teacher was vicious in her own special way. Which was rather unfortunate, because she was also stunning. Rosy cheeks, a brilliant smile, not a hair out of place — she looked like she was made in a factory. She was always pleasant and kind. Just one tiny problem.

Her grammar was appalling.

And this cruiser, aged eleven and bubbling with confidence, had the audacity to correct her.

I was quite respectful about it. I sacrificed my recess and went to the staff room. I stood outside, waiting for permission to enter. Finally, she beckoned me in. I had copied her sentence into the last page of my notebook. I wrote, "Miss, that sentence should have been..." or something of that sort underneath it. I thought I was being discreet, respectful, almost tactful. I was so proud. Tsk tsk!

Her face turned a magnificent shade of red.

“Wicked girl! You think you know grammar better than me?”

She tore my page out into tiny little strips and chucked them at me while the rest of the teachers watched with various expressions of concern, confusion, amusement, and glee (we all know who that was).

That wasn't even the real problem. Her daughter was in my class, her son two years above.

Between the two of them, they made sure my recess was absolutely delightful.

So, in retrospect, perhaps I should have kept my grammatical excellence to myself. I had corrected one sentence and apparently earned myself a small family feud.

But, like I said, this was before Srilatha and I became the "outstanding" girls.

My mom's snacks were phenomenal. She'd make ragda, spicy with kharam, pulupu and uppu. Or atukula mixture, chekkalu, onion pakodi, roasted and salted peanuts, karappusa.

My woven lunch bag was a carefully engineered piece of logistics: one lunch dabba with a thick napkin wrapped tightly around it; one snack dabba, wrapped in a second napkin; two bananas; and a water bottle.

That second dabba was the reason I had any friends. They wouldn't take my side or anything, but they were by my side during recess. And I shared.

Until Srilatha came along and put an end to all sharing without caring, so to speak. I didn't mind that either. She'd at least keep the sibling-delegation away from me.

But it wasn't all battle cries and picking up pieces.

There was heaps of fun to be had. Only, I didn't know it was fun at the time. There was an abandoned well in the corner of the playground. While the rest of the kids played kho-kho, I was on the raised mouth of the well balancing and singing "takida tadhimi, takida tadhimi, tandana, hrudaya layala jatula gatula, tillana." Or I'd climb the guava tree and hang from the branches. I had this favorite spot where I'd perch and daydream. I didn't eat as many guavas as you'd think. The birds ate them all.

I just looked at the lichens on the surrounding palm trees. They were patches of green and grey making strange, beautiful patterns across the bark — magnificent on one tree, sickly and silver-grey on another. Some formed delicate little lacework; others were gnarly and brown, as though they had been there forever.

All of it — the lichens, the rough palm trunks, the bright blue sky and clouds that looked like soft white pillows — nudged my mind to wander.

And wander it did.

I dreamed of when I'd leave that God-forsaken village and live in a one-bedroom flat in the city, where I'd work at a big office and spend evenings teaching kids in the slum.

Life had other plans.

Stir something?

Do you look back and come to the realisation — I never quite realised how much I was dreaming?

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