MY TEACHERS: IV

Mr. Parate

Class 4 – my behavior, in the eyes of the class teacher Mr. Parate, had become completely wayward. According to him I deliberately solved those problems which he had not given, deliberately wrote lines that he had not written on the board. I found this strange. But who could argue with a teacher whose face looked completely pugnacious. His face was small, roundish with a small crop of disheveled hair on the top and the lips and the nose were slightly pushed out. That gave the appearance of the snout of a bulldog. Moreover, the entire face was full of pockmarks from an earlier pyrrhic victory over chicken pox.

He used to beat me everyday for doing homework that he had not given in the first place! How strange; why would any kid waste his time doing wrong homework especially when that much time got deducted from playing in the fields? This taught me a few lessons and from these lessons came out a few deductions:

1. Time spent in getting caned (2 canes on each palm, Mr. Parate’s standard): 1 minute.
2. Total time spent getting caned over the day (7 periods per day): 7 minutes.
3. Total time spent doing homework on average: 2 hours.

Ergo: If the punishment for not wasting 2 hours away from play was just 7 minutes, why do any homework at all? The moment this postulate came to my mind, I stopped doing homework once for all. The punishment remained the same and I became a happy kid. Gradually my palms hardened and my attitude toughened. The world became a better place to live in.

My image though took a severe beating. From a promising kid I went to a pure nincompoop. Gradually a different scenario evolved which pained me but I had become a hardened traveler (for appearances) of the road I had chosen. There was no turning back now. The new scenario became a routine and went something like this.

Mr. Parate enters the class. He puts down the copybooks and the book that he is carrying. He puts the cane down on the table. He then takes out a handkerchief from his right pocket and wipes his glistening forehead – the only part of the face not invaded by the chicken pox. He folds the handkerchief with all concentration as if that was a life and death matter. This done, he speaks:

“Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”

I stand up. He picks up the cane and walks towards me.

“Hold out your hands.”

I thrust my hands out.

Four times the cane swishes and impacts the outstretched palms. He then walks back. Halfway through to his desk, he stops. Almost as an afterthought, or may be to just confirm and so absolve himself of any guilt, he asks:

“I am sure you have not done the homework.”

“No sir,” I say dutifully. He nods his head and tells himself “I told you so.” He goes back to his desk. “Sit down,” He issues the final command.

I close my hands. Put them in my pockets and sit down. I am smiling to show to the entire class my defiance. Inside I am crying. I am now branded wayward. I do not want to be branded such. But it is too late now and I have to travel this road putting up a brave front.

“It is better to get the first things done first, class. Now that the thing is done, let us turn towards some study. Avinash, it is up to you whether you want to participate in the action now.”

This last sentence completed the routine that followed day after day, each day. And this last sentence was the worst punishment I have ever received. It completely cut me up from inside. It made me cry from a million eyes I didn’t even know existed. And all the tears were acrid. They burned all my insides. They made holes in me so deep they reached my soul.

Lately things had not been good on other fronts too. I have fallen out with my earlier gang which consists of the elites in the class. I have a new set of friends – all of them truant; one of them smokes and that is a brave thing to do. They steal money from their parents and even go out and have snacks in the restaurant opposite the school.

Three students sat together per bench. My friend who sat beside me, Bhupinder Singh, a Sikh who was fair to the extent of being transparent and who was rather pudgy so that you felt you were shaking hands with a mollusk, had not been behaving like a friend. He refused to let me look into his copybook to see what he was copying from the board. Every time I tried to peep, he would tell me that he was disturbed by that. “Why don’t you look at the board and copy like I do?” He would ask exasperated. I couldn’t understand his behavior. He was doing this even when I had stolen a few imported pen nibs from my father’s drawer and given one to him just out of friendship when he had broken his nib and was afraid that he would be scolded at home. I admit that I used to look a lot into his copybook but that was because I couldn’t properly see what was written on the board. I had to narrow my eyes to very narrow slits before the letters on the board made some sense. There is a limit to how long can you narrow your eyes like that. The eyes get tired.

I told him I will put some rose water into my eyes and the things will be alright but for now he must allow me to look into his copybook. My mother was a big votary of rose water, Every time I told her my eyes were tired and that there were big hazy circles around the street lights, she would ask me to put rose water in my eyes. Lately I had been very tardy in doing this. That must have been the reason for my present plight.

Then came the exam. Mr. Parate wrote out a few math problems on the board and asked us to copy those and solve within the period. Bhupinder refused to let me peep. So I narrowed my eyes and copied whatever I saw and solved the problems. When the result came the next day, Mr. Parate asked me to come up front. I went and received a double-dose of canes and was handed over the answer sheet. As I turned, he gave a mighty whack with his hands on my back. That almost sent me sprawling to the floor. I somehow maintained my balance and gave the class a smile and walked back to my seat.

“And get your answer-sheet signed by your father tomorrow,” He said to my back.

That was bad. I had looked at my answer-sheet and had found out that I had scored a perfect zero out of a possible twenty. I am going home to get beaten up by my father.

When I reach home, I am downcast. Somehow I summon up the courage and give my father the answer-sheet and look at the ground. I would welcome if it opened up and gobbled me up like Sita. My father looks at the sheet, looks at me, looks at the sheet and then beats me up. When his anger is drowned in my sobs, he picks up the sheet and goes through it. Then he says something that gets me right up and besides him to look at the sheet.

“But all the answers are correct! How could you get a zero? You should have got twenty! I am coming to your school tomorrow and meeting your teacher.”

Next day he comes and meets him. When I go home, my father is waiting for me.

“You get ready now. We are going to a doctor. You should have told me before. May be I should have guessed.”

Two days later, I am standing on the balcony outside the doctor’s 3rd floor office staring out into the beautiful world. In front of me is the big signboard saying “ESSO” in big, red letters. I can see it quite clearly and the much smaller letters beneath it. No need of any rose water to see so well. The significance of a minus 5 correction for my eyes right in the beginning is lost upon me. My father is worried as he talks to the doctor; I am happy. I know I will be able to see the things on the board quite clearly and that would be the end to my bad performances. I can join back my original gang of top students and will be able to break the ostracism they have placed on me owing to my slipping grades.

I go to school next day brimming with confidence and pleasure. My friends see me.

“Chashmuddin (derogatory for one with specs),” one of them gives a cat call. They poke fun at me. “He is a blind boy,” another one says.

“Now he can see where he is urinating. All these days he was urinating on his boots,” it’s a silly joke but they all laugh.

The class begins. Mr. Parate enters. “Avinash Upadhyay, stand up.”

He comes up with the cane.

“I have done homework, sir.” I blurt out, not willing to be caned.

He stops. He looks at me. “You think you are smart if you have done homework just one day in all these days? Put out your hands.”

I do as commanded. There is no choice. Four times the cane swishes. He goes back. There is no brave smile on my lips. For the first time it is difficult the hold the acrid tears. Before I know and can stop it, the tears come welling out of my eyes and I am standing there, in front of the whole class, and weeping stupidly. My specs are all wet and the tears are collecting at the bottom of the glasses. Through that I see distorted images of all my classmates looking at me and of Mr. Parate. The optical distortion makes them all appear like monsters.

“Your eyes have glasses now. Get some glasses for your brains too.” That one is from Mr. Parate. That is a good punch line, I must admit.

It is back to business as usual. I have to be a bad boy. I cannot transgress that label any more.