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Authors: Lavanya Sankaran
Tags: Fiction
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turns shouting, house by house:
Two Four Six EIGHT,
Who do we appreciATE?
. . . Kensington!
Whisky soda ginger POP,
Here comes Ashley
. . . on the TOP!
North South East WEST,
Who is the Very BEST?
. . . Brunton!
I was competing in the fifty-meter dash. Usually I was part of the scaff-and-raff, the greater lumpen herd, never one of those who won points at school by being good at studies, or who mastered the art of talking chirpily to the teachers and about whom they told parents, “Oh, she’s
such
a nice girl!”; not losing house points was the best I could strive for. Luckily, a lifetime of being chased around my home by my older brother had given me a turn for speed that was unmatched. Winning the race meant winning fifty points for the house and smiles from the seniors and teachers. That one day on the sports field made up for my shabby academics and everything else.
That one day, I would shed the Sports Day skirt that modestly covered the Sports Day shorts below. I would race down the field ahead of everyone else, my braids flailing behind me, the house ribbon fluttering on my arm.
And when I did, for just a few minutes, my entire house, senior to junior, would chant in unison: Two-Four-Six-Eight-Who-Do-We-Appreciate?
Me.
I had just finished my practice run (“well done!”) and had rejoined the rest of my class on the side of the field, when Mrs. Rafter appeared. I didn’t care; teachers often came to watch us practice. I was more concerned with what my friends and I were going to do.
Usually, at practice sessions we hung around the older girls. As temperatures soared, they would casually remove their blazers and look over their shoulders. That was our signal to compete for the honor of holding their blazers, which also gave us the right to talk about it for a whole day afterwards. Not this year, though. This year, the four of us were absorbed in our own private club, which had started a few weeks earlier during lunchtime.
This was the most exciting club I had ever known. It was also the most secretive. It had just four members, Tara “Tash” Srinivasan, Freny “Bats” Batlivala, Susan “Benjy” Benjamin, and myself. And we all knew the penalty of getting caught.
I had just caught Tash’s eye, and started waving in her direction, when I saw her eyes glaze over. I looked around, and knew right away that I was in for it.
Mrs. Rafter had come to a halt in front of my class. She had her ruler out. Today of all days, she was going to do a Surprise Check.
“Okay, girls,” she said, and we all squatted to the floor in a straight line, knees apart. From where she stood, it gave her a straight view down our parted skirts right down to our underpants. They were supposed to be white. I, thanks to Mary, was wearing pink. Mrs. Rafter’s voice silenced the entire great big field, and all the girls on it.
You girl!
Yes, you.
Stand up.
What is that rubbish you are wearing?
Come here.
The ruler in her hand lifted the edge of my skirt high enough for everyone to see.
Look at this, she said. Decent girls wear white, my girl. Doesn’t your mother know that?
Answer me, girl.
Do you have a tongue in your head or is it completely empty?
My classmates, from the safety of white underpants, giggled dutifully.
Hold out your hand, girl.
Why are you crying?
I hated Mary. As soon as I got home, I was going to climb onto the terrace, go to my special hiding place, unearth that fiverupee note that she had given me, and go show it to my mother, and tell her the truth. Then, I would show her my pink underwear, and the red mark of Mrs. Rafter’s ruler that always took hours to fade.
Then, Mary would see.
My friends led me away to one corner of the field, and waited impatiently for me to finish crying.
“Are we having a club meeting?” I asked, drying my tears.
“Yes, of course we are,” said Tash. “Didn’t you get my note?”
No, I said.
“Well, doesn’t matter. It probably fell on the floor and got
Two Four Six EIGHT,
Who do we appreciATE?
. . . Kensington!
Whisky soda ginger POP,
Here comes Ashley
. . . on the TOP!
North South East WEST,
Who is the Very BEST?
. . . Brunton!
I was competing in the fifty-meter dash. Usually I was part of the scaff-and-raff, the greater lumpen herd, never one of those who won points at school by being good at studies, or who mastered the art of talking chirpily to the teachers and about whom they told parents, “Oh, she’s
such
a nice girl!”; not losing house points was the best I could strive for. Luckily, a lifetime of being chased around my home by my older brother had given me a turn for speed that was unmatched. Winning the race meant winning fifty points for the house and smiles from the seniors and teachers. That one day on the sports field made up for my shabby academics and everything else.
That one day, I would shed the Sports Day skirt that modestly covered the Sports Day shorts below. I would race down the field ahead of everyone else, my braids flailing behind me, the house ribbon fluttering on my arm.
And when I did, for just a few minutes, my entire house, senior to junior, would chant in unison: Two-Four-Six-Eight-Who-Do-We-Appreciate?
Me.
I had just finished my practice run (“well done!”) and had rejoined the rest of my class on the side of the field, when Mrs. Rafter appeared. I didn’t care; teachers often came to watch us practice. I was more concerned with what my friends and I were going to do.
Usually, at practice sessions we hung around the older girls. As temperatures soared, they would casually remove their blazers and look over their shoulders. That was our signal to compete for the honor of holding their blazers, which also gave us the right to talk about it for a whole day afterwards. Not this year, though. This year, the four of us were absorbed in our own private club, which had started a few weeks earlier during lunchtime.
This was the most exciting club I had ever known. It was also the most secretive. It had just four members, Tara “Tash” Srinivasan, Freny “Bats” Batlivala, Susan “Benjy” Benjamin, and myself. And we all knew the penalty of getting caught.
I had just caught Tash’s eye, and started waving in her direction, when I saw her eyes glaze over. I looked around, and knew right away that I was in for it.
Mrs. Rafter had come to a halt in front of my class. She had her ruler out. Today of all days, she was going to do a Surprise Check.
“Okay, girls,” she said, and we all squatted to the floor in a straight line, knees apart. From where she stood, it gave her a straight view down our parted skirts right down to our underpants. They were supposed to be white. I, thanks to Mary, was wearing pink. Mrs. Rafter’s voice silenced the entire great big field, and all the girls on it.
You girl!
Yes, you.
Stand up.
What is that rubbish you are wearing?
Come here.
The ruler in her hand lifted the edge of my skirt high enough for everyone to see.
Look at this, she said. Decent girls wear white, my girl. Doesn’t your mother know that?
Answer me, girl.
Do you have a tongue in your head or is it completely empty?
My classmates, from the safety of white underpants, giggled dutifully.
Hold out your hand, girl.
Why are you crying?
I hated Mary. As soon as I got home, I was going to climb onto the terrace, go to my special hiding place, unearth that fiverupee note that she had given me, and go show it to my mother, and tell her the truth. Then, I would show her my pink underwear, and the red mark of Mrs. Rafter’s ruler that always took hours to fade.
Then, Mary would see.
My friends led me away to one corner of the field, and waited impatiently for me to finish crying.
“Are we having a club meeting?” I asked, drying my tears.
“Yes, of course we are,” said Tash. “Didn’t you get my note?”
No, I said.
“Well, doesn’t matter. It probably fell on the floor and got
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