Us │✔

03 | ~ds.

Maahi~

"Lavanya ma'am is absent! Lavanya ma'am is absent! No art today! No art!"

Of course, that had to be the breaking news of the day.

And a free period meant that I had nothing to do, literally nothing. Now, it was not that my books were complete; I had too much pending work or better said, I had to buy a book first. Yes, it took me almost half-the-year to figure that out.

What was the point of maintaining a book when you had something called a textbook whose each and every line had to be memorized? That is, excluding those 'look at figure 12.8' kind of sentences, they were not that necessary I suppose. However, since it was CBSE, I wouldn't dare to risk even that.

But my hands were feeling lazy, not ready to do any work.

And studying was out of question. Who goes to school for studying?

My nose scrunched in disgust, watching the two girls sitting in front of me, peeling Fevicol off their hands. What had the world come to? And then their were Parth and Amaan, one on top of the other, just a minute away from falling off the bench while running away from the lizard sitting on the ceiling right above their heads.

Turning around, I asked, "Guys, let's do something?"

"Name, place, ani—"

"Too much writing."

"Bollywo—"

"Laysa, writing means the art of producing words on a surface or platform using an instrument which is capable of creating a visible impression. That thing requires writing as well."

"How about we take a tour of our school? Oh, and that was not a suggestion cause we are doing it."

Just as she, Kiara, dragged me out of my seat to the entrance, our legs paused abruptly. Scurrying back to our benches, our little trip was put an end before it could even begin because of the appearance of our Vice-Principal at the door.

The class was in utter chaos as no one was in their seats. Some out of it—like us—while others were on top of it. And so, the man entered questioning our audacity to create mayhem when his office was right next to our classroom.

Psst. Look at him, prioritizing himself to the extent where he deems himself as important.

He looked over the blanket of silence we generously provided him.

"Who teaches you Social Science?"

"Lata ma'am, sir."

"Hmm. Does anyone have any Social Science textbook?"

I peeked inside my bag. I could see the shrewd Economics textbook staring back at me, her eyes glinting. A finger on my lip, I whispered 'Shh!' at that green book, keeping it locked safe and secure, so that it wouldn't run away into the hands of that evil man.

The whole class was silent as few chose to respond with a meek 'no', while other conveyed the same using their heads. Lata ma'am was the kind who would enter the class in a whoosh and divide the board into three sections, writing straightaway while dictating at the same time. Her notes were literal 24-karat gold, priceless. But I preferred the textbooks cause I liked the subject.

And so, we were never asked to bring the textbooks for that subject. But still, her board tests would force us to keep them in our bags, precautionary measures. Yet here we were, refusing to hand over a textbook despite having it. Why? We were lazy, simple. And no one was in a mood to learn Geography or anything of that sorts.

"Anyone? Textbook please?"

Amidst that silence, rose that one hand. A tall one.

"Sir, I have History textbook."

"Give it."

The man brushed his hands over the pages. One hand in his pocket and the other balancing the book, he spoke out, "Take out a pen and paper!".

Was he going to make us do the writing work? Did I mention how much I hated writing notes?

"Question one, describe situation at Balkans, three mark. Question two, briefly explain the Napoleonic Code, three marks. Last one, define imperialism, two marks. This is your test which you will be writing in these fifteen minutes. Your papers will be checked by Lata ma'am and then handed over to me."

And then he stood there, his hands clutching the textbook as if his life depended on it.

He stared at us, we stared at him.

He glared at us, we did not glare at him.

Instead, we chose to glare at Kiara, my dearest friend who handed over the textbook.

You know those certain once-in-a-lifetime moments when you detest the subject you are passionate about? This was one of those moments for me.

Accepting defeat I started out with my scribbling. God knew what I was writing, I could not even think straight. And it was extremely difficult to write something at all, owing to the various nudges I was receiving from all directions. Demands for answers.

"Maahi! Answer bata de! I'll treat you with food!"
[Please share the answer.]

"Khana moh maya hai. Go pester Kiara, I don't even know what the fuck I'm writing!"
[Food is an illusion.]

Writing something or the other, I was stuck at that last question. From what input my memory was providing me, there was no proper definition for imperialism in the textbook. It was just a rushed paragraph titled 'Nationalism and Imperialism', the last bit of that chapter.

Not able to understand what to write for two marks, I wrote the whole paragraph as it was, word by word. Man, how do these Amnesia people survive?

The man snatched the paper away from my hands. Well, his loss not mine. He just gave away his opportunity of reading a splendid answer. As Lata ma'am entered at the ring of the bell, she was taken aback by the presence of the always-invisible-man in our class.

A few words here and there, she got to know that these rat-bitten traces of papers were supposed to be checked by her. Rat-bitten in the sense, some sheets were so tiny—just one-fourth of an A4 page—indicating that no one had much to write.

Well, I was blessed in that department. Making a mountain out of a molehill, I was good at that.

As her facial expressions changed into smiles and silent smirks, I almost  fell from my bench eyeing the 1.5 out of 8 Amaan got. That was after all possible efforts of cheating. Deciding to be a bit more secretive, she changed her angle, hiding the paper from my view.

Smart lady.

Five minutes, that's all it took for her to correct forty-eight papers. Stacking those papers, she called me and Kiara out and asked us to hand them over to that wretched man.

Rushing out of the class, I stopped on the way as Kiara started noting down all the marks I was dictating on her palm, something which we were to report to our class. As I reached my name, a smile etched on my lips which turned into a frown and then into a smile again.

Ladies and gentle-beings.

That is how I scored a 7.5 out of 8 without knowing what I was writing and how I, in fact the whole class, found something against Kiara which was used against her for the whole of her existence and also whenever she managed to bring up my thirty-inches-slip-up.