I was a scholarship holder studying in the best school in Andhra Pradesh – Hyderabad Public School. Until half way through class nine I maintained a record of being among the top three in my class. At that juncture, the engagement ceremony of my sister Gunjan, who is nine years older than me, was announced. For the next three months until the marriage was over, life was a crazy medley of rituals, ceremonies and functions. I missed school for quite a few days and even on the days I did attend, I couldn’t study at home because of the chaos.
I appeared for my final exams with some last minute hardwork. When the results were announced I had slipped to the 12th spot. I was disappointed but quite sure I would be able to make up. One month into class ten, I was infected with malaria and then a relapse. I lost a month of school. When I restarted, I found my classmates had raced ahead and I couldn’t cope up, especially in Math and Science. In the first unit test, I barely managed to pass in Physics. The teacher pointed me out as an example of what over-confidence can do to a person. I was completely shattered. After that things went from bad to worse. There was some turbulence at home which made the situation even more chaotic.
Slowly, I started avoiding school. I would feign some excuse or the other. I just couldn’t face the ridicule of my peers and reprimands of my teachers. I tried my best to explain it to my parents. While my dad (Babuji) was empathetic, my mum’s reaction was brutal.
‘What will you do, if you don’t go to school? Sit in a shop and sell furniture like your cousins?’
‘I shall appear as a private candidate.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. Why do you think we sent you to the top school in the state, paying a fee which we could ill afford – so that you could get the best education? And here you are after ten years suddenly waking up and whining that you don’t like your school.
‘Ma, I just don’t seem to understand what is happening in the class?’
‘You’ll understand only when you go to school. You have been sitting at home for three weeks moping. I won’t allow this anymore. From this coming Monday you have to go.’
Monday was four days away. I started sweating. I couldn’t sleep at night. The very thought of going to school and facing the scorn of my classmates and the irritated looks of my teachers was excruciatingly painful. On Sunday night I made a pathetic attempt to commit suicide by swallowing phenyl. Babuji caught me in the nick of the moment as I was raising the bottle to my mouth. He didn’t shout or yell. He simply enveloped me in a bear hug as I clung to him. Both of us stood holding each other, crying silently.
After this incident Babuji took charge of everything. He warned my mother never, ever to mention my going to school. He got me a new set of books since I was changing boards, looked for a tuition master and chalked out a time table for me. My mother never mentioned anything directly, but her oblique remarks and facial expressions indicated that I was a coward who had made a mess of his life. However, Babuji did not make me feel guilty even once. He was always at my side offering unconditional love and unobtrusive guidance.
For the finals exams he would take me to the centre and sit outside during the entire duration of the exam under a tree in the month of May when the mercury hovered around 45 degrees centigrade. When the results were declared I had secured a first class division.
Even now I wonder how many parents would have reacted the way Babuji did. How many would have provided that kind of absolute support and how many would have played the role of an emotional anchor in a turbulent tide. When I think about the way Babuji reached out to me, I am reminded of Cally Worden’s words, ‘When my children are sad, mad, or frustrated I try hard to first accept and acknowledge what they are feeling… Because loving only the happy stuff is akin to only loving half your child.’
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