"You can stay in class till the cows come home", announced Father Bryganza (name changed), rather plainly, and sank back into his chair. We had half a mind to retort to our Principal that even cows come home in the evening, but the repartee would have been ill-timed.
"I have all the time in the world. Have no doubts about it. Till the culprit comes clean and owns up the mischief, all of you will remain here, whatever be the time of the day. It is entirely in your interest to end this impasse quickly by confessing."
These threats of being held as hostages in school for the entire night were routine. We never took them seriously. This time though, it looked real. Father Bryganza walked into the class one afternoon, armed with a broomstick, with a visibly shaken class teacher in tow. His eyes had a stern, cold look of a Roman senator who would show no leniency. After all, his reputation was at stake. The class teacher, with only a couple of years of experience under her belt, trembled like a leaf. Her class lay in tatters, as though struck by a tornado!
The Hindi teacher had not turned up after the lunch break. There was no substitution teacher either. With no leash to keep the raucous class of fifty eighth-graders in check, the students went on an overdrive expending their excess energy. The windows and the door leading to the main corridor were first bolted from inside so that the neighbouring classes wouldn't get a whiff of what was going on.
Like an irate mob on the rampage, class hysteria took over, just for the fun of it. With the ceiling fans at full blast, each student took turns hurling full pieces of chalk at the fan! The chalk would strike the fan, disintegrate and the shrapnel would fly off as little missiles in all directions! While this revelry was in progress, someone brought out a full packet of popcorn and had the presence of mind to substitute the chalk with the packet. Sure enough, the effects were dramatic! It was soon raining popcorn from the fan and students craned their necks in an effort to grab some of them with their mouths! Darts, paper planes, rockets whizzed from one corner of the class to the other. For the virtuous, even a blade of grass is a weapon, reads the proverb. In a role reversal of sorts, each student uprooted whatever he could lay his hands on, to continue the pillage and outdo his peers. The only standing item was the broomstick. Bhatia reached out for the broomstick, swung it in the air a few times like a lasso and let it fly out of the second floor window! Of course, we all watched it glide through the air following a neat, parabolic curve. It was unclear what target the broom had in mind.
The principal's version completed the trajectory of the broom. A lady walking by the side of the road, was tonked on the head by the broomstick. With more than just her pride wounded, she went straight to the principal's office. Brandishing the broomstick, we presume, she asked the principal whether he ran a school or a jungle of a different kind.
With that context set, we are back to the chapter of the classroom with just the principal, his bruised ego on one side and us on the other. In a collective madness such as this where we were all partners in crime, it was difficult to pinpoint a single assassin. But the principal's question was very pointed. Who threw the broomstick out of the window ?
It did not have an easy answer. If we gave a comrade away, we would be banished from the pack for good, with no hope of mending fences. That would make everyday life in class miserable. Feigning ignorance seemed the best option. "No Father, I was facing the other way. I could not have seen the broom from my seat!" "Yes Father, my seat is next to the window, but I had to go to the other row to borrow a book!" "Father, I had to leave the class to go to the toilet".
Each student was individually subjected to a lie detector test to narrow down the probable suspects. There was little wriggle room with the spot-light squarely on each one and the principal jotting down any ambiguity in the answers. But the exercise was inconclusive. It looked as if all the students were paragons of virtue who were either in the toilet or if they were present in class, they suffered from a temporary loss of memory or vision!
We were asked to reflect on our behavior or the lack of it and repent.
Reflection and repentance don't exist in the dictionary of an eighth grader. His brain is yet to develop.
Time hung heavy. With nothing to do except stare at the principal or at empty space, it became irksome as the hours ticked away. The first trip, the second trip and the third trip buses had long departed.
It looked ethereal to gaze out of the window and catch the outline of the neighbouring Khalsa college against a darkening sky and still be stuck in school. Cell phones were unknown and anxious parents had no way of reaching out to their wards.
Something had to give in. Everything has breaking point and we were close to it. Would the monitor finally buckle and spill the beans ? Would the teacher's "chamcha" (pet student) give it away ? Would that book-worm creep disclose the culprit ? Would the principal at least relent ?
Bhatia stood up and said calmly: "I did it."
There was a big sigh of relief. We rushed out of school and darted into the darkness!
"I have all the time in the world. Have no doubts about it. Till the culprit comes clean and owns up the mischief, all of you will remain here, whatever be the time of the day. It is entirely in your interest to end this impasse quickly by confessing."
These threats of being held as hostages in school for the entire night were routine. We never took them seriously. This time though, it looked real. Father Bryganza walked into the class one afternoon, armed with a broomstick, with a visibly shaken class teacher in tow. His eyes had a stern, cold look of a Roman senator who would show no leniency. After all, his reputation was at stake. The class teacher, with only a couple of years of experience under her belt, trembled like a leaf. Her class lay in tatters, as though struck by a tornado!
The Hindi teacher had not turned up after the lunch break. There was no substitution teacher either. With no leash to keep the raucous class of fifty eighth-graders in check, the students went on an overdrive expending their excess energy. The windows and the door leading to the main corridor were first bolted from inside so that the neighbouring classes wouldn't get a whiff of what was going on.
Like an irate mob on the rampage, class hysteria took over, just for the fun of it. With the ceiling fans at full blast, each student took turns hurling full pieces of chalk at the fan! The chalk would strike the fan, disintegrate and the shrapnel would fly off as little missiles in all directions! While this revelry was in progress, someone brought out a full packet of popcorn and had the presence of mind to substitute the chalk with the packet. Sure enough, the effects were dramatic! It was soon raining popcorn from the fan and students craned their necks in an effort to grab some of them with their mouths! Darts, paper planes, rockets whizzed from one corner of the class to the other. For the virtuous, even a blade of grass is a weapon, reads the proverb. In a role reversal of sorts, each student uprooted whatever he could lay his hands on, to continue the pillage and outdo his peers. The only standing item was the broomstick. Bhatia reached out for the broomstick, swung it in the air a few times like a lasso and let it fly out of the second floor window! Of course, we all watched it glide through the air following a neat, parabolic curve. It was unclear what target the broom had in mind.
The principal's version completed the trajectory of the broom. A lady walking by the side of the road, was tonked on the head by the broomstick. With more than just her pride wounded, she went straight to the principal's office. Brandishing the broomstick, we presume, she asked the principal whether he ran a school or a jungle of a different kind.
With that context set, we are back to the chapter of the classroom with just the principal, his bruised ego on one side and us on the other. In a collective madness such as this where we were all partners in crime, it was difficult to pinpoint a single assassin. But the principal's question was very pointed. Who threw the broomstick out of the window ?
It did not have an easy answer. If we gave a comrade away, we would be banished from the pack for good, with no hope of mending fences. That would make everyday life in class miserable. Feigning ignorance seemed the best option. "No Father, I was facing the other way. I could not have seen the broom from my seat!" "Yes Father, my seat is next to the window, but I had to go to the other row to borrow a book!" "Father, I had to leave the class to go to the toilet".
Each student was individually subjected to a lie detector test to narrow down the probable suspects. There was little wriggle room with the spot-light squarely on each one and the principal jotting down any ambiguity in the answers. But the exercise was inconclusive. It looked as if all the students were paragons of virtue who were either in the toilet or if they were present in class, they suffered from a temporary loss of memory or vision!
We were asked to reflect on our behavior or the lack of it and repent.
Reflection and repentance don't exist in the dictionary of an eighth grader. His brain is yet to develop.
Time hung heavy. With nothing to do except stare at the principal or at empty space, it became irksome as the hours ticked away. The first trip, the second trip and the third trip buses had long departed.
It looked ethereal to gaze out of the window and catch the outline of the neighbouring Khalsa college against a darkening sky and still be stuck in school. Cell phones were unknown and anxious parents had no way of reaching out to their wards.
Something had to give in. Everything has breaking point and we were close to it. Would the monitor finally buckle and spill the beans ? Would the teacher's "chamcha" (pet student) give it away ? Would that book-worm creep disclose the culprit ? Would the principal at least relent ?
Bhatia stood up and said calmly: "I did it."
There was a big sigh of relief. We rushed out of school and darted into the darkness!
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