Manu Devassia

Drama Inspirational

4.7  

Manu Devassia

Drama Inspirational

The Unknown Author

The Unknown Author

7 mins
407


It was reopening day, and I was eager to carry my new books and bag to school. I couldn't take my eyes away from myself in the mirror because the blue and beige uniform suited me so beautifully. I was really delighted to be promoted to grade IX B with several of my best buddies. My mom repeatedly asked me to come to the kitchen for breakfast, but I ignored her in my excitement. As the clock struck 7.45 a.m., Mom dashed to me with the tiffin box. I somehow managed to find a little space for it in my bag and walked up to the roadside for the school bus. The landscape around me was breathtaking, and the sky was as blue as the sea. The bus honked while I stood there contemplating the world's unexpected metamorphosis. As I was seen in a new uniform, perhaps more disciplined than ever before that day, the neighbors made comments about me. I despised them because they never let a fly escape their scathing remarks.


On the bus, I was greeted by the same old naughty faces. Except for those faces, everything else was new and fresh. I took a seat next to a newcomer. She was glancing around, and I doubt she even noticed me sitting there until we arrived at the school. I didn't have much patience, so I greeted her with a pleasant morning. She, too, greeted me at a difficult-to-hear volume. She never spoke a word to me until we arrived at school. "Hello, where is the library?" she inquired as soon as we got off the van, even before she took her first step to the classroom. She asked me this as if she had joined the school as the librarian. I could not really point my fingers in a specific direction because I wasn't fully conscious of where the library exactly existed.


"Don't worry, I'll guide you there. Let us now proceed to our class. You know....I love books and I am an avid reader like you." I told her as I hurried to our class. Normally, students look for playgrounds, but she is an exception, I thought.

"By the way, my name is Jeevika, and I'm in grade IX." On the way, I introduced myself and expected her to do the same.

"I am Bhoomi Ravat, and I also belong to grade IX," she replied, smiling. I could see she was relieved to have met her first classmate.


We got to know each other better as the days went by. If I recall correctly, she knew more about me than I did because I never left her out of my conversations. I just knew she was from Chennai's Gandhi Nagar region, and that she had lost her younger brother when she was just seven years old. When her younger brother was one year old, he fell into the fish tank in their courtyard. His cries for help were not too loud for anyone to notice. Her parents were working on the land behind the house. When she saw him drowning, she shouted for help before jumping into the tank to save him. The fish tank was not deep enough to take a life, but he had no choice but to surrender miserably because his destiny was so apparent and the terror of death had taken grip of his little mind. Her endeavors were utterly futile as well, and she too was in danger. After that traumatic experience, I assume, she must have become a reclusive personality.


Except for English, she wasn't remarkably good at her studies. Her parents had employed a personal tutor to assist her in improving her communication skills. Most other subjects seemed inaccessible to her senses for some inexplicable reason. I once eavesdropped on one of our teachers informing her parents that she had a learning disability.


The first terminal exams were scheduled to be conducted in the first week of September, but the school had decided to conduct the exams online owing to an unexpected lockdown caused by a massive rise in COVID-19 in our vicinity. We didn't have any issues because many of us were masters at copying and pasting answers from Google. The literary competitions were also held online. In many ways, the online mode was a boon to many of us. We learned to multitask by attending classes, chatting with friends, watching videos, listening to music, and so on, but teachers had to take on new challenges to keep track of our clever games during class. We returned to school as usual after the lockdowns were over. We were all eagerly waiting for the subject teachers to enter the room with the exam results in their hands. I was confident that I wouldn't get a passing mark in mathematics and science. Bhoomi was more concerned with the results of the literary competitions than with the exam results.


Two days were set aside for literary competitions, which I was happy to welcome because those were the days when I could show off my capabilities. Many students participated in such competitions for the first time as they had access to all of the required content on Google. Every year, I win honors for drawing, but writing was never my cup of tea. Bhoomika, on the other hand, appeared to be interested in writing, as she had participated in all of the writing competitions. After two days of competition, the results of the competitions were officially announced.

Many of them were caught red-handed by their teachers for their clever work, and they all had to admit that they had copied ideas. Some of them even dared to copy the entire story of Shakespeare and Ruskin Bond. Bhoomi, on the other hand, was hesitant to accept that the poem she had penned had been copied. Teachers produced evidence to establish that her poem was plagiarised, showing her the same poem on Google.


She kept repeating, crying, "This poem was written by me."

"How do we discover something similar in Google if this is your own creation?" One of the teachers asked her for a justification.

"Miss, that's my own poem." She said it once again.

"I'd want your parents to pay me a visit." Angrily, the class teacher demanded.

"My parents are abroad." She said, weeping.

“Why can't you just accept the truth? All of the other children who had made the mistake had accepted the fault. You're attempting to defend yourself without any evidence to back you up. " The class teacher emphasized with a reproachful tone.

She cried all day long. I tried to comfort her, but she kept on crying. She repeated the same vindicating dialogue. I was also irritated with her since she was denying the truth. Finally, I left her, provoked by her annoying confessions.


The school held a reading activity for all students on National Reading Day. Despite the fact that the school library was overcrowded, the customary silence prevailed. On that day, the books that had been waiting for a review had their wishes fulfilled. Our inquisitive eyes and soft fingers touched almost every book.

"Hey! Take a look at this book and the author. " Dinesh exclaimed in astonishment, oblivious to the library's golden rule.

The librarian cautioned him to be quiet, but he sprinted out the door, book in hand, to the staffroom. Mrs. Kavitha, the librarian, was furious as she followed him around, mystified.

"Miss... Bhoomi was truthful... she never lied..."Dinesh showed Miss Jeena the back cover of the book he was carrying. She carefully read the book's title, "Wings of the Rainbow," as well as the author's name, "Boomi Venkat." The photo on the cover page confirms that the Bhoomi in the school was the same person. In the photo, she appeared to be a few years younger, but it was she.

Her hands trembled as she felt like sinking to the floor. She hastily opened the book and scanned the content page for a poem named "Voiceless Sparrows," the one that she had written for the literary competition.

There it lay on page number 37....


The Voiceless Sparrows

They were endowed with tongues.

But mute, they had been their entire lives.

They belonged to the denizens of the wild.

But never had they behaved so.

"Oh my God, it's the same poem! We were completely wrong. " With the book in hand, she hurried to the other teachers.

Dinesh stood in the corridor, pleased with himself for having discovered a young poetess who had hitherto eluded their notice.

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