<p>Auntie Miss. A petite lady, immaculately dressed in a black skirt and a crisp white blouse and often a tweed jacket, with closely bobbed hair with silver streaks in her otherwise dark hair, held neatly in place by a hair net. I saw her every school day, six days a week. </p>.<p>She would greet every child at their first stop, in front of the two big wrought iron gates that stood wide open, where I often imagined being swallowed into a world called school. She never ever addressed a child by their actual name but always by an endearment of sorts. She would first inspect the uniform, the shoes for a proper shine and the socks with no gaping holes, and further ensure its intended use of full coverage to the kneecap. She would then gently ask us to stretch out our hands. She would squint at the little nails for their length and presence of any unwanted matter underneath. Next came the inspection of the hair. If for boys, it was to be clipped to reveal full ears. And for girls, if the hair was not bobbed and just under the ears, it would have to be braided and pinned up. No fashion statement this was, and no ordinary disciplinarian was she either. </p>.<p>I came to know her by her real name many years later. Mrs Paul.</p>.<p>I unfailingly remember her every Christmas because it was she who lit the spirit of Christmas in me. A tradition that she and her family, who immigrated to the Bengaluru Cantonment many generations ago, followed in its entirety. That the Lord’s Prayer was sung at our daily school assembly did not in any way ebb the freshness of Christmas Day at school. The day meant festivities, including singing familiar carols, a skit depicting the story of Christmas and a party sweetened with cake and biscuits. A Christmas tree stood majestically in the corner of the principal’s office. </p>.<p>Auntie Miss strutted around excitedly dressed in red and green, a bright gold angel pinned on her lapel that, she would tell me upon my enquiring look, was always there to spread mercy. She would transport me to her own church as she animatedly described the mass, the prayers, the delicious food, and the gifts they exchanged among the family. These stories were to become real to me after my first visit to a church with her and many more to follow.</p>.<p>I fell in love with her from my first day of kindergarten. With the generous, perfect-white pearly smile, her gentle yet firm reassuring hug and that unforgettable sing-song greeting, she welcomed me. She was there for me every single day. </p>.<p>I love this time of the year, for all the joy it brings me straight from the heart of Auntie Miss to mine. A blissful warmth melding with the dancing flames of my own fireplace, the gently flickering candles, and the swaying shadows floating with my own happy memories.</p>.<p>Merry Christmas, Mrs Paul!</p><p>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</p>
<p>Auntie Miss. A petite lady, immaculately dressed in a black skirt and a crisp white blouse and often a tweed jacket, with closely bobbed hair with silver streaks in her otherwise dark hair, held neatly in place by a hair net. I saw her every school day, six days a week. </p>.<p>She would greet every child at their first stop, in front of the two big wrought iron gates that stood wide open, where I often imagined being swallowed into a world called school. She never ever addressed a child by their actual name but always by an endearment of sorts. She would first inspect the uniform, the shoes for a proper shine and the socks with no gaping holes, and further ensure its intended use of full coverage to the kneecap. She would then gently ask us to stretch out our hands. She would squint at the little nails for their length and presence of any unwanted matter underneath. Next came the inspection of the hair. If for boys, it was to be clipped to reveal full ears. And for girls, if the hair was not bobbed and just under the ears, it would have to be braided and pinned up. No fashion statement this was, and no ordinary disciplinarian was she either. </p>.<p>I came to know her by her real name many years later. Mrs Paul.</p>.<p>I unfailingly remember her every Christmas because it was she who lit the spirit of Christmas in me. A tradition that she and her family, who immigrated to the Bengaluru Cantonment many generations ago, followed in its entirety. That the Lord’s Prayer was sung at our daily school assembly did not in any way ebb the freshness of Christmas Day at school. The day meant festivities, including singing familiar carols, a skit depicting the story of Christmas and a party sweetened with cake and biscuits. A Christmas tree stood majestically in the corner of the principal’s office. </p>.<p>Auntie Miss strutted around excitedly dressed in red and green, a bright gold angel pinned on her lapel that, she would tell me upon my enquiring look, was always there to spread mercy. She would transport me to her own church as she animatedly described the mass, the prayers, the delicious food, and the gifts they exchanged among the family. These stories were to become real to me after my first visit to a church with her and many more to follow.</p>.<p>I fell in love with her from my first day of kindergarten. With the generous, perfect-white pearly smile, her gentle yet firm reassuring hug and that unforgettable sing-song greeting, she welcomed me. She was there for me every single day. </p>.<p>I love this time of the year, for all the joy it brings me straight from the heart of Auntie Miss to mine. A blissful warmth melding with the dancing flames of my own fireplace, the gently flickering candles, and the swaying shadows floating with my own happy memories.</p>.<p>Merry Christmas, Mrs Paul!</p><p>(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)</p>
