<p>As a student of Municipal Elementary School in Salem District, I had once scurried out to the lone stationery shop situated cater-corner to our school to buy two coloured chalk sticks to write on my black slates. Not just elementary schools, even higher elementary schools employed the time-honoured—now outdated—chalk-and-slate method of teaching. The number of slates I had broken in those days, owing entirely to my insouciance, and the thrashings I received from my mother are beyond measure.</p>.<p>That evening, after school closed, I hurried to the same shop, bought two coloured shale sticks, tucked them under the notebooks in my schoolbag, and began crossing the road leading home. A trench dug next to our school compound for laying building foundations caught my eye.</p>.<p>The passages within it intrigued me; I soon jumped in and began walking along them to the other end. Finding nothing but a maze of narrow passages, I retraced my steps to where I had jumped in. A boy all of seven years, I stood in the trench, about a foot or so shorter than its depth. As I looked around for any easy exit, darkness began to descend, and within minutes it began to drizzle. I shouted, “Is there anyone around? Please get me out of this trench.”</p>.<p>My repeated shouts finally drew someone from the road nearby. With luck in my favour, it happened to be our maid, Veerayi—a short, middle-aged woman returning home after the day’s grind. Noticing me inside the trench, she stood shocked for a moment and asked, “Nana” — as I was called at home — “how did you get in there?” With my school bag hanging from my shoulder, I held forth my hands towards her, pleading to be pulled out.</p>.<p>Lying flat on the ground close to the trench, she yanked me out with a firm grip of my hands and took me back to our house about a distance of a stone’s throw from there. My mother was already aware of what had happened. Fear got the better of me, and I dared not enter our house in anticipation of the usual twitching and whacking. Veerayi left after pacifying me that my mother would not beat me, besides advising me never to go near any trench again.</p>.<p>After Veerayi left, quite contrary to giving me the usual share of whacking, my mother smeared viboodhi (the sacred ash) and applied it on my glabella besides offering me a tumbler of hot coffee, advising me to come straight home after school. </p>.<p>The incident lingered as a pang of nostalgia years later, when I visited the Imambaras in Lucknow. </p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>As a student of Municipal Elementary School in Salem District, I had once scurried out to the lone stationery shop situated cater-corner to our school to buy two coloured chalk sticks to write on my black slates. Not just elementary schools, even higher elementary schools employed the time-honoured—now outdated—chalk-and-slate method of teaching. The number of slates I had broken in those days, owing entirely to my insouciance, and the thrashings I received from my mother are beyond measure.</p>.<p>That evening, after school closed, I hurried to the same shop, bought two coloured shale sticks, tucked them under the notebooks in my schoolbag, and began crossing the road leading home. A trench dug next to our school compound for laying building foundations caught my eye.</p>.<p>The passages within it intrigued me; I soon jumped in and began walking along them to the other end. Finding nothing but a maze of narrow passages, I retraced my steps to where I had jumped in. A boy all of seven years, I stood in the trench, about a foot or so shorter than its depth. As I looked around for any easy exit, darkness began to descend, and within minutes it began to drizzle. I shouted, “Is there anyone around? Please get me out of this trench.”</p>.<p>My repeated shouts finally drew someone from the road nearby. With luck in my favour, it happened to be our maid, Veerayi—a short, middle-aged woman returning home after the day’s grind. Noticing me inside the trench, she stood shocked for a moment and asked, “Nana” — as I was called at home — “how did you get in there?” With my school bag hanging from my shoulder, I held forth my hands towards her, pleading to be pulled out.</p>.<p>Lying flat on the ground close to the trench, she yanked me out with a firm grip of my hands and took me back to our house about a distance of a stone’s throw from there. My mother was already aware of what had happened. Fear got the better of me, and I dared not enter our house in anticipation of the usual twitching and whacking. Veerayi left after pacifying me that my mother would not beat me, besides advising me never to go near any trench again.</p>.<p>After Veerayi left, quite contrary to giving me the usual share of whacking, my mother smeared viboodhi (the sacred ash) and applied it on my glabella besides offering me a tumbler of hot coffee, advising me to come straight home after school. </p>.<p>The incident lingered as a pang of nostalgia years later, when I visited the Imambaras in Lucknow. </p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
