School Life Of A Middle-Class Indian Kid

A familiar pictorial representation of my PT teacher (Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash)

My reflexes are considerably strong thanks to a daily ritual practiced in my school.

The way the teacher’s stick would kiss our palms and render them blushing afterward was a motivation strong enough to practice arm retraction at the speed of light.“Who’s your daddy?”, the teacher would say, and ask for our daily almanac to write a negative remark for the dad to see.

And if the delicate teacher found it difficult to handle a class of full-grown apes, a walking blob of fat would be called to take over. Officially employed to impart physical training, the man was instead famous for transferring his class to other teachers to help them cover the lagging syllabus.

The man was so fat he would have to lift his belly with one hand in order to visualise his schlong. Talk about being a role model. The only sports he had us play was a gamble on whether he would be taking his allotted class or transferring it to the Maths teacher.

The truth is, it would have been better for him to transfer his classes to the English teacher and to attend them himself. His language could be classified as Martian:

“Stand in a straight circle.”

“Why haircut not cut?”

“Pick the paper and fall into the dustbin.”

“Both of you stand together separately.”

One would think, with such emphasis on academics, the quality of education would be par excellence. Yet, the only thing excellent was the staff’s ability to churn out an ever-burgeoning homework while all that happened in the class in the name of teaching were students standing and reading aloud a chapter while others pretended to pay attention.

And in case one forgot to do their homework, the teacher would jump to state the all-time cliche, “You didn’t forget to have breakfast, did you?” with the enthusiasm of a clever comeback. No, my dear teacher….I didn’t. But now that I’m an adult, I do. Thanks for the jinx!!

“Obey your parents” was a much-repeated statement in the morning assemblies until it was the time for a trip. The PT teacher would come with an announcement as to how he has arranged a tour to the South Pole at the cheapest price possible. All we have to do is sell a kidney each and we would be on our way to Antarctica. If the cost turns out even lesser, then an additional visit to the Moon could be planned.

Little did they know that we had to beg for ten bucks to buy a packet of Lays. A trip was out of the question.

My school believed in the diversity of plants. Different kinds of trees grown in the garden yielded different varieties of sticks.

The thin, round ones swooped through the air, making a high-pitched whoosh sound, and left a red track wherever they hit. The broad, cuboid ones were a nightmare, too, and had the power to raise a speed-bumper on the skin.

Not to mention the slaps. The heavy, blubber-full hands of those women left imprints on our cheeks. The engagement ring impinged really badly on top of that.

Yesterday, I had a bad dream. My school principal was raining slaps on my cheeks (the ones on the face, thankfully), and a familiar feeling of dread crept up my spine as I stood there like a human punching bag.

When I opened my eyes, you would think I heaved a sigh of relief. On the contrary, I was annoyed by the stupid dream.

Why on Earth do I reminisce this aspect of my past so frequently, as if I am still there at the mercy of those authoritative obese figures? Those pregnant-looking women showcasing a pound of cheese protruding from their belly. But the only thing they wished to lose was our admiration for them.

To be honest, it’s hard to lose something when you don’t have it in the first place, but you get the idea. School was tough. I’m glad I’m out.

Sometimes, recalling those events boils my blood, but what has been done has been done.

TheUnknownDoktor