Aurobindo Patra

Drama

4.4  

Aurobindo Patra

Drama

Girls Be Right And Boys To Left

Girls Be Right And Boys To Left

11 mins
280


Shifting of my family from Daitari to Bhubaneswar in 1982 is one of the most painstaking. Few days had passed, my being promoted to class-V that one late afternoon, father arrived from Bhubaneswar with visible annoyance on his face. He was transferred a few months earlier. Being a trade union activist in OMC was ordered to vacate the quarter within 48 hours. (The fact was explained to me afterward after I grew up.)

 

Returned home after playing up too late in the evening, imbibed immunity at my father's presence. Later came to know about our leaving the very next morning which meant I would hardly have any chance to meet my friends again. Few of the names still I have not forgotten viz Dick, Richi, Pintu Bhai, Kuni Pua, Bada Pua, Raju Sahu, Rabi Jena, Jagdish Bashkey, Rajesh Chawda, Tushar Mahapatra, Kaberi Dutta and last but not the least a big-eyed boy whom we used to call Mahabala Bagha (Royal Bengal Tiger), of course at his back but his real name I have forgotten. I Hope, it may happen that someone recalls me, after reading this story, if at all get published.

 

Shifting was not a problem for a man of my father's standing who was one of the vibrant union activists. But the problem with me was getting apart from a lot many friends (names few still I recall and many forgotten) with obscure chance to meet them again.

 

I would miss the jillion twirling sal flowers covering the overhead sky, being blown in the summer wind for few hundred meters from the gigantic trees, giggling jungle streams that suddenly start roaring making few pockets inaccessible after a flash rain at the distant hill top, suddenly hiding behind dense cloud cover, fighting out the chilly wintery nights around a log fire at public places, fire on the distant mountain, in patterns of the glittering necklace in autumn nights, scintillating eyes of the abandoned sheep & buffalos by the road side under dark night often making me tighten my grip over my father's palm, jungles in whichever directions one sees and singing of cricket, the zigzag walking of an intoxicated localite with an aura of the pungent smell of rice-wine, gulped stomach-full, the enchanting madala beating (2 sided drum of tribal people) behind the not-so-far-off horizon of the small valley that leads one to imagine the tribal girls and boys dancing with frivolous to-and-fro stepping in a circular movement, criss-crossing their hands behind each others' waist, more and more boys and girls joining the spree with the rise of the moon up above the horizon as evident from the intensity of madala beating and occasional singing that is sailed with a favorable wind but the madala beating continues till the lazy ears fail to hear "dikcha...dichang... ... ...dichang...dichang... ... ... dikcha...dichang... ... ... chang...chang...".    

 

I would also be deprived of the fortnightly OMC sponsored open-air movie shows that we used to enjoy sitting right below the big screen and often sliding back at the sudden appearance of a ferocious lion at arm's distance, free open stage opera two-three times a year, a big garden of our quarter where I had planted many trees, occasional bathing in a huge pond near the sole Shiv temple where I was almost drowned once but was lucky that my youngest uncle saved me with stomach-full muddy water, iron ore loaded trucks following a beeline on the gradient bobbling road at a speed that one can walk past at ease, Daitari U.P. School and its nearby perennial stream that we stealthy ventured during recess and often had to splash the bone-chilling water after attending a call of nature behind a dense bush or a giant tree avoiding being spotted by a passing-by onlooker.

 

As I recall, it didn't take time to adjust at the new environment of high rise buildings (3 storied) of OMC Colony, good asphalt road and government quarters all around. School and tuition home-works, learning the intricacies of a new game called cricket, occasional rickshaw ride, illuminated street giving another hour or half of the extended evening play, etc. left me with little space to lament for Daitari days. Moreover, the Rajbhavan U.P. School gave me a pool of friends to cherish lifelong.

 

Passing class-V meant that I was scheduled to be admitted to Govt. Boys' High School, Unit-8 for further studies. But the very first day to the school had many contrasts with our U.P. School days. Our U.P. School had no uniform. During the recess the students with their colorful attire engaged themselves with a variety of games, scattered in the playground, resembling a bunch of butterflies flying all around with all the possible colors of the world. But after I was allotted admission to the High school, my father took me to a tailor, near-by our colony, for stitching of a pair of black half pants and half-sleeve white shirts, school uniform.

 

With my steel school box, filled with textbooks and notebooks, putting on my newly stitched school uniform, I left home for the morning class. On the way joined by few friends and entered the school main gate with a pounding heart as our U.P School didn't have a boundary at all. An asphalt road was running at the periphery of our school building and playground where we used to play during recess and occasionally on holidays. No more colors were around except sky blue, girl's uniform. Before you ask me, I must clarify that my new school had co-education for Class-6 & 7 th and boys only thereafter, hence named, Govt. Boys' High School, Unit-8.

 

Unlike the previous 12 months ours being the strongest and stoutest, we were the youngest with few seniors twice our height and some on their gushing cycles passed us on our way with the continuous ringing of bells. Unlike our single floor U.P. School building, the new school was of 2 storied. Passing the main gate, the high wall boundary around cuts one off from the outside world.

 

Unlike prayers in the open air at U.P. School, we were made to stand in a queue in the open-air hall in the middle of the 2 storied building. With eyes shut and palms folded, in praise of the Almighty, followed in chorus to a Class-7 student, leading the prayer solo, at front. Teachers spread at every nook and corner around, to keep a vigil. After prayer, the front guy roared, "Bharat Mata ki..." the assembly, punching a fist in the air thundered "Jai..." that rebounded from all the four walls. Punching of a fist in the air got more vigorous with echoing of "Jai..." in that rectangular well of the 2 storied school building as the adulation went on for our freedom fighters Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Subash Bose, and Sardar Patel.

 

We were directed to proceed to our respective classroom in queue maintaining pin-drop silence. The little butterflies caged in pursuit of a better future or it is the moth accepting seclusion in an earthen shell for reincarnation to butterfly, for a future flight.

 

Reaching Class-6, Section-A classroom, was happy to find many known faces from my U.P. School and the nearby areas of my colony. We were used to free sitting arrangement, in our previous school. Boys and girls sprawled without any order on the floor all around. From front left corner to right bottom and front right corner to the bottom left of the classroom. But here, there were set of two long tables with little passage at the left and right wall and a bigger at the middle, along with a matching bench to accommodate 50-60 students. Well before the class teacher stepped in, we took a seat as per our convenience and comfort level with a fellow boy or girl student.

 

Our class teacher, saree-clad middle-aged lady, hanging a medium-size black vanity with long strap from her left shoulder, spectacles securely placed above the forehead, stepped in that made the whole class sprang on toes and enchanting in chorus "Didi...Namaskar...(Teacher … Good Morning…)". 


The lady, walking up to the pair of wooden chairs and table at the front of the class, waved palm at us, to sit down. Placed the vanity bag and other possessions on the table. Opened her bag, took out a pen and spread the big pages of the attendance register on the table before dropping herself comfortably into the wooden chair.

 

To her calling "Roll No.-1" a fragile voice heard "Present Didi !". This continued for 4-5 roll calls and all the respondents were from the left-hand side where I was occupying a seat. At next roll call a "Present Didi !" form our side made the lady drop her spectacles from overhead onto her nose and gave her first stare over glasses at the class. With visible awe in her face shouted "Are... ye ki Katha? Tume mane kana au U. P. School re achha? Ai'ta High School... jhia mane dahana au Pua mane ba'an pate ... ... Jaldi...Jaldi... (What is ... this? You are no more in U.P. School? This is after all High School ... Girls be right and boys to left ... Make it quick...)"

 

Little murmuring, dragging of chappals on the cemented floor and picking and placing of the steel school boxes, the class settled to a pin-drop silence for our teacher to take fresh stock of the student position. There was something irksome, that she walked along the middle passage towards the last bench on the right side. Caught hold at the left hand of a boy, in a white shirt and black pant, occupying at the edge near a sky-blue frock clad girl, in one hand and picking his school box with another, dragged and made him occupy at the edge of the table at the left side of the class. While retreating to her chair, murmured "Kahili para...aita U.P. School nuhen...aita High School... (I have already told ... its not U.P.School ...  rather High School...)."

 

Reaching the table at the front, was about to drop into the wooden chair that, something caught her attention and all the eyes were glued to her pacing in a rage along the middle passage to the same spot wherefrom she made a boy shifting from right to left as the timid boy was occupying the same position.

 

She caught hold at his arm and pulled him on to his toes. The resistance from the fearful boy, holding the table with both his hands, yielded a clanking sound of the table when the lady dragged him across the middle passage, pushed him violently into the bench that made our little friend into tears. She turned back with thumping foot and carried the steel school box and smacked it on the table, a noise that took a breath away from each student.

 

Tranquillity, following the banging of the steel box, was vitiated with the thumping feet of the lady and the feeble sobbing of the boy, tears rolling down his cheeks. On her return to the front of the class, pushing spectacles up above forehead, with an arrogance of a NAZI guard, entrusted with the duty of segregating the inmates of a concentration camp on their sex, age and physicality roared "Kete thara kahibi ... jhia mane dahana au Pua mane ba'an pate... (How many times should I repeat ... girls are right and boys to left ...)"

 

A frail voice from the left side of the classroom made the lady threw a succinct stare over her left shoulder, on her way back, hissing, "Kiye?... ... kana kahucha? (Who? ... what are you saying?...)"

 

"Didi... se pua nuhen ... (Teacher...he is not a boy...)"

 

As lightning & thunderstorm minifies after pouring of rain, the lady stopped right there, where she was, turned back awestruck, dropping her glasses onto her nose, managed to murmur,  "Kiye?... ... au thare kuha? (Who? ... … Come again?...)"

 

It didn't take time for us and the lady to pinpoint the source of buzz. A girl near whom the boy was occupying a seat was holding her head down, another dropped head over the shoulder was the sobbing boy at the left side and the rest of the class was staring uninterruptedly at these two sobbing faces.

 

A flimsy girl, clad in a sky-blue frock, stood up, controlling her sobbing, cried out, "Se jhia pila ... (she is a girl...)"

 

Wiping tears, the girl dared further, " Tini bhauni re ame di'jana jamaja ... mun bada ... bhai kehi nahanti ... Chau belu se pua bhalia rahi asichi ... Rakhi bi bandhi dau... (We are twin of three sisters ... I am elder ... no brothers ... She is dressed up like a boy since childhood ... we also tie Rakhi(an Indian festival for brothers) ...)" and broke down violently.

The bemused class witnessed, one white shirt and black pant clad classmate, picking the steel school box, dragging feet from the left to right, at the middle passage of the classroom, took a seat near a sky-blue frock clad classmate.

 

The sudden eruption of a long ringing bell subsided the sobbing of the two girls. Whole class wiping their moisten eyes and cheeks, witnessed the bewildered class teacher, picking the half-done attendance sheet and other possessions, leaving the class with no more thundering "Jhia mane dahana au Pua mane ba'an pate...(Girls be right and boys to left ...)"

 

[Sexual discrimination exists in our country in some form or other and is a bane. From some states reported instances are there of drowning a newborn girl child in the river, in pot-full milk as a proffer to the Deity of Life, seeking her blessings for a baby boy, leave apart a million cases of prenatal female foeticide. I salute the parents of my classmate and many others for their being not that fanatic, but they only wanted their girl to be equal in all respect to her male counterparts.]


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