When I was 8, my dad was undergoing a bit of a dry spell as far as jobs were concerned, so I was sent back to India where I lived for the next one year. My mother enlisted me in nearby school called New English School. It was unsettling for me as things were entirely new and different out here. The school was comparatively tiny in area, with quite a lot of restrictions. I hated this one rule of the school which stated that it was of utmost necessity for boys to wear a half-pant as part of the school uniform. It made me feel kinda weird and shy- back in Saudi, the climate was pretty humid, so even L.K.G. students were required to wear full pants and full-sleeved shirts. I was pretty fluent in English and Hindi so I never really faced any communication barrier as such. Indian teachers are strict as hell, they’re always under this impression that the student community was hearing-impaired – they wouldn’t be yelling at us all the time otherwise.
India had an inimitable culture and a unique style of living. Parents would let their children loose as soon as they knew how to walk and talk, which was a far outcry from the prison-like conditions I was subjected to back in Saudi. It’s never easy being an Indian expatriate in a foreign country, because alienation from the local crowd becomes an everyday custom. As an Indian child you would rather want to be in the palm of King Kong’s hand on top of the Empire State Building than roam about the Saudi streets alone. And I learnt this the hard way - once I’d gone out to buy some grocery, and on my way back I’d encountered a local boy. He was smaller in height, but his aggression made up for it. He’d muttered something in Arabic, a language I couldn’t (and still can’t) understand, but the tone of his voice frightened me. He came closer to me, and before I could react, he snatched the bag and ran to his home. I started crying from the shock of it all and went home to dad. I’d explained everything to him. My dad wasn’t very fluent in Arabic, but he’d managed to talk to the boy’s father and reclaim the bag. But in India, things weren’t the same. I managed to get along quite well with the crowd, and that was one of the few things I’d liked about India. Rains were another thing I loved - it rained heavily every year, and I’d look forward to getting all drenched and messy, despite my mother’s repeated scolding’s.
But all wasn’t going to well, especially with studies. One day my parents were called up by my class teacher for a brief meeting about my performance in class. At home that day, my dad came back from work. He came up to me and asked me about my academic situation. I said everything was going fine. He showed me my note book which my teacher’d given him earlier in the meeting. He then proceeded to flip through the countless pages of ghastly handwriting and incomplete notes, in front of me. Terribly angered by it, he started shouting at me. It was the first time my dad had ever reproached me. He asked me why I was being this way, but I was so numb from the bellowing that I could hardly speak a word.
Suddenly, thud - his right hand came upon my right cheek at speeds incalculable. Tears poured out within seconds of contact.
I lied down in my mum’s arms right after; I whispered to her that my problem was I wasn’t able to see the blackboard clearly. Next day I’d sat down in the front row in the class, but still only managed to make out what was written on the blackboard.
Later that day my dad took me to the eye clinic for a checkup.
The next thing I knew, I was wearing spectacles.
