Shala (3 page)

We scampered up the steps and reached the classroom just as Paranjpe ma’am entered. The prayers began, and I got busy watching Shirodkar. I had a clear view of her face—the yellow ribbons, the flowers in her hair, and those earrings. That’s one good thing about the prayer assembly; everyone looks straight ahead, allowing me to stare freely at her. The boys in the row ahead act as a shield, thus preventing any ma’am from catching me staring at Shirodkar! The dumb girls in my class sing ‘
Hum Honge Kamyaab
’ so earnestly. God only knows what inspires them so. The boys, of course, shuffle about restlessly. Bibikar tries to act smart at times, mumbling ‘umm, umm’ a tad too loudly. A piercing stare from ma’am is enough to shut him up, though.

T
he classrooms in our school are built in a row, like the bogies of a train. Our classroom has two doors; one in the front and the other at the rear. A few steps lead us directly to the playground.

I sit at the back of the classroom, near the door. Desai sits next to me while Surya and Phawdya occupy the bench behind. Desai is a simple soul. He never utters a word, sits quietly in all the classes and copies whatever the teachers say in the class. Chitre was my neighbour earlier and would chat away all day. Paranjpe ma’am noticed that and moved him to the front bench, asking Desai to sit beside me. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise; I can now stare at Shirodkar unhindered.

I get a good view of the playground from where I sit. No other school has such a huge playground. Tope High School has a large one, but it is on hire for plays on most days. Ours is twice their size thanks to the largesse of donors like Surya’s father. Our Appa is a smart fellow; he got the local villagers to contribute a lot of land free of cost when he built the school. He also managed to get them to build the fence.

There are toilets at both ends of the ground; one for boys and another one for girls. There are no separate ones for the teachers. Anyone using the toilet has to cross the playground, giving the person sitting at the door a clear view. In one of his classes last year, we asked Zende sir the meaning of the word ‘vulgar’. He said ‘vulgar’ meant having to go to the toilet in full view of the school! Since then we have a code for peeing; we say, ‘Let’s do the vulgar thing!’

When it rains, there is green grass everywhere in the playground. The grass grows coarse and dry within a few weeks, but it is still fun to watch the field. Our school is on the outskirts of the town, in Kanhe village, hence there are no houses on this side. You can see the tiled roofs of Umbarpada in the distance. The paddy fields begin where the playground ends. The hills of Sonarpada are visible in the distance on a clear day. Surya tells me that the local fair is held in the month of May there. The road on the left leads to Nana’s jungle while the one on the right leads to paddy fields belonging to Surya’s cousins. If you cross over you reach the Mohpada bay where Surya’s father has his business of sand-digging. We all plan to visit the place one day.

I spend most of my time in school either watching Shirodkar or looking outside at the playground. On a sunny day, the sky looks like a steel plate reflecting the sunlight onto the mountains, the grass and the trees. There is a sort of warm silence when school begins in the afternoon. I divide my time looking at Shirodkar and at the sights outside, ensuring that the teachers do not catch me. If they look at me I just stare ahead at the blackboard. I have realized that no one bothers you if you stare ahead vacantly. And I have learnt the art of stealing glances at Shirodkar while looking straight ahead. To be honest, I don’t need to look at her to see her at all; she’s visible to me wherever I look, whether I look out into the playground or when I close my eyes.

Paranjpe ma’am took the attendance and began the lessons. She’s our class teacher and hence takes the first period. The Marathi period is a good way to begin the day. She’s a good teacher and gets into form, especially when explaining poems. She loves to give extra information. She begins by saying, ‘Children, do you know…?’ She has a habit of glancing at the front door from time to time while teaching. Surya, ever alert for such things, is of the firm belief that she’s on the lookout for Zende sir! He is such an idiot!

No one creates any trouble in the Marathi period. School would have just begun and the boys are silent; the girls too. Shirodkar listens to the teacher with her face resting on one palm. She does not look anywhere else. She sits in the third row. Sometimes she talks to Sarwate sitting next to her. If she turns back, she will find me staring at her. But she rarely turns towards the boys’ side.

The girls and boys in our school do not talk to each other. It is like a crime to be seen talking to the other sex. One might be torn to pieces for doing so. The girls never take the initiative, but then neither do the boys. All we do is pass snide remarks. Girls like Sukdi can retort without a care, but she is a rarity. The other girls keep to themselves. They cover their mouths with their handkerchiefs and giggle if the boys crack a good joke. They cover their mouths even while talking to each other.

Shirodkar never tries to act smart. Kulkarni and Dongre sit on the bench ahead of her. Rege and Mirikar sit on the first bench. We call the four of them ‘birdies’; they chatter the whole day. They love to fight over petty things with the boys. Shirodkar joined our class last year, but I don’t remember the bench on which she used to sit then. She was in the dance group last year, but in the last row. The ‘birdies’ are short and are always in the first row for the dance.

Ma’am asked a few questions on the lesson. I knew all the answers but did not raise my hand; I have decided there is no point in showing off. Some boys and girls love to answer; especially people like Bibikar, Ghasu Gokhale, Teredesai amongst boys, and the four birdies who are constantly raising their hands shouting, ‘Me, Ma’am!’, ‘Me, Ma’am!’ They are in ninth standard but behave like fifth standard juveniles, clamouring for the teacher’s attention.

Barve ma’am did not turn up today for the second consecutive day. I don’t know what is wrong with her. I attend her classes diligently. After all, Hindi is one subject which everyone understands well. You can do whatever you want in Barve ma’am’s class as long as you don’t speak and disturb the others. Usually, we finish our pending homework in it. Bendre’s class after hers. But you can even read novels sitting right on the first bench! Like Surve on the second bench in the corner. He is a bright fellow but lives in his own world of detective fiction. He carries old novels with exotic names like
Kala Pahaad, Jhunzaar, Dhurandhar
, etc. in his bag all the time. He has even lent me a few once.

We were hoping to have Barve ma’am’s period off, but Manjrekar sir came in. We requested him to give us a break, but he decided to teach Social Science with an excuse that we could finish off the syllabus. Manjrekar sir is our hero. In Surya’s words, he is a ‘bindaas’ character. He is the only one who tucks his shirt in and buttons up his sleeves, wears a steel bracelet and has long hair that falls over his forehead. He is unmarried and a jolly good fellow. He loves theatre and even directed a play for us last year. When he is in a good mood, he recites the dialogues from his plays. He speaks his mind and says he lands up in many an argument in the staff room thanks to his outspoken nature. But he is a first class M.A. B.Ed, so no one can challenge him.

He teaches us SS, that is, Social Science, which includes History, Geography and Civics. But he does not take History—that’s Pethkar ma’am’s subject. He should have, in fact, taught us History. For that matter, he should have taught us everything. Alas, our school administration has a policy of giving the tough subjects to boring teachers and easy subjects to good teachers.

Manjrekar sir believes that History, Geography and Civics are the most important subjects, and that all students should be taught just these subjects. He says language is learnt naturally and the other subjects are not worth learning. Earlier, he would express such thoughts freely. But blabbermouths like Ghasu Gokhale conveyed this to the other teachers, who in turn complained to Appa, and Manjrekar sir has been careful ever since.

The next class was Bendre Ma’am’s. The children were happy in Manjrekar sir’s class despite the fact that he sometimes uses difficult words. But now there was pin-drop silence. The moment ma’am entered, she wanted to know if there was anyone who had not done the homework. Lucky for Surya and Phawdya, who were reminded by me in time! But Dashrath, Harishchandra, Santu, Bhaishetye and a few others were caught. As usual Sundri was the one amongst girls.

Ma’am asked Bibikar to fetch his thick wooden ruler. I have told him a thousand times not to bring that thing, but that fellow does it just to impress the teachers. She rapped each of the offenders on their hands twice. Sundri got an extra one on her arm for not oiling her hair. They stood there silently bearing the punishment. Dashrath could have easily gripped the ruler in his hands and not let go. She could have done nothing! But he too silently bore the punishment. The poor souls were lucky Ma’am did not insist on keeping their hand on the desk and hitting them with the thin side of the ruler.

She then checked the notebooks. Ghasu Gokhale the smartie had written ten extra words, over and above the ones given by her.

‘Who asked you to be oversmart, huh?’ she shouted. ‘You want to show off …?’

Gokhale made a sour face and went back to his bench. She did not say anything to Phawdya but caught hold of Surya. ‘Have you written this yourself or copied from someone else’s notebook?’

‘No, ma’am. I did the work myself.’ Surya pleaded.

‘Really? Tell me, what does “gallant” mean?’

Surya was in trouble. She asked the meaning of a few more words, but Surya was tongue-tied. She took out the wooden ruler screaming, ‘How dare you lie to me?’ Surya got a couple of raps on his arm and screamed out loud, though he was not really hurt. He went back to his seat rubbing his arm.

Bendre ma’am began her class. She began conversing with us in English. The whole class was silent. I could follow a little better than most but for the rest, it was beyond comprehension. All of us sat there like mice, scared to death. It was sunny outside. The playground was baking in the bright sunlight. There were no fans in our classroom and it was hot and stuffy inside.

I was busy watching Shirodkar, oblivious to the class, the teacher and all else. She sat there with her eyes focused on the blackboard as she listened in rapt attention. I realized her hair was not jet-black but slightly brown. The flowers set off their brownness. And it blew gently in the air. No other girl has hair like hers. The birdies oil their hair so much it looks all wet and greasy. Even Ambabai does that. They do not realize how foolish they look with such oily hair. Shirodkar is wise. She must have a wise mother, I guess.

I do not know her exact address. I know she stays somewhere in the direction of Sathewadi, which means her house is quite far. I realized Misal too stays that side of the town. He surely knows where her house is. I need to find out discreetly. I cannot afford to be direct in such matters; the boys would rag me to death. Shirodkar has been with us since last year, but I had not noticed her earlier. We normally know the addresses of most of the boys. I don’t know whether she has any siblings; probably none. I need to find out from Misal.

I turned gently to find Misal sitting on the third bench next to Gaitonde. Both of them are quite dim-witted. We never mingle with them; being friends with them is out of the question. But I will be able to extract some information out of him.

The next class was Maths. Halbe sir, though absent-minded, is good-humoured and does not shout at us. He starts teaching the moment he enters, and doesn’t stop to check whether we understand or not. So we are in a fix. I heard someone say that of all the subjects, Maths of ninth standard, in the run-up to tenth standard, is the toughest. Only Bibikar, Ghasu Gokhale and a few others understand the subject well enough. I can, if I try, but I don’t feel up to it most of the time. Chitre too is good at it. He, in fact, likes it. He is usually busy copying everything diligently. So the responsibility of teaching Surya and Phawdya lies with him. But that doesn’t always help. Algebra and Geometry are such topics that everyone flounders.

T
o put it in the language of set theory, which we were taught in Maths class last year, our class can be divided into three sets. The first set is that of intelligent and oversmart boys. There are around five or seven such boys, like Bibikar, Ghasu Gokhale, Surve and Teredesai. The other set consists of us—our gang, and boys like Dashrath, Harishchandra, Santya, and so on. There are some like Chitre who could have, in fact, been part of the first set. The third set comprises the general crowd who are neither in set one nor set two—people like Shembekar, Gaitonde, Misal, Memane, Khandagle, Sadu and so on. They are the biggest set. They are there to fill the classrooms. Their presence or absence makes no difference, but they are needed for a school to run. There are such groups in every school.

The girls too have such sets amongst them. The birdies and a few others form one set. They think they are smart but are such idiots. Then Sukdi, Rairikar and few form another set: the chalu girls. There are not many in that set of girls. I mentioned this to Chitre once but he said that you never know how many belong to that set in reality. Then there are the rest who form the general set—to fill the classrooms. All the dumb and stupid girls are in this set. Shirodkar, quite obviously, is not part of any of these sets. She forms an independent set of her own. Singleton. Just like me. I wonder when our sets would, if ever, intersect.

I
t was time for mid-break after the Maths class.

We ran to drink water and then did the ‘vulgar’ task. We do it quickly. No one bothers to waste time on such activities. We eat at home before coming to school, hence there is no need to carry a lunchbox. But a few boys, like Gaitonde and Ghasu Gokhale, carry tiffin boxes. They huddle together in one corner and eat. The birdies too bring lunch. Stupid people like them waste the entire mid-break eating. Ambabai insists that I carry lunch every day but do I care? Sometimes I carry peanuts in my pocket; they are good to munch on when I get bored in the fourth period.