I attended a modest school near our home, but when we moved to downtown, my life changed momentously.
The headmaster of a better-known school persuaded my father to move me to his institution. As I was switching from middle to high school, the key argument was that superior education would be greatly in my interest. It was a larger school with a bigger building located on a major avenue. The big sign proclaiming its pretentious name certainly made me aware that I was in a different circle.
A curious factor reinforced the awareness. I had always been a good student, kept company with other good students, sat in the front bench (an individual desk was an inconceivable luxury in India) and was recognized as a brown-nose ‘good boy’ by teachers and students alike. But, before joining the new school I was required to take an admission test, and the result had somehow placed me in the lowest quartile of the new class. Much to my parents’ anguish, I had to join the fourth and lowest-ranked section of my class in the new school.
The headmaster of a better-known school persuaded my father to move me to his institution. As I was switching from middle to high school, the key argument was that superior education would be greatly in my interest. It was a larger school with a bigger building located on a major avenue. The big sign proclaiming its pretentious name certainly made me aware that I was in a different circle.
A curious factor reinforced the awareness. I had always been a good student, kept company with other good students, sat in the front bench (an individual desk was an inconceivable luxury in India) and was recognized as a brown-nose ‘good boy’ by teachers and students alike. But, before joining the new school I was required to take an admission test, and the result had somehow placed me in the lowest quartile of the new class. Much to my parents’ anguish, I had to join the fourth and lowest-ranked section of my class in the new school.
The section had the worst students and the teachers had the lowest expectation of them. This was a new and intriguing experience for me. Earlier teachers expected consistently good answers from me. Now, if I gave a half-way decent answer, the teachers looked askance at me, as if I had performed a miracle. I liked to surprise them, but I quickly learned to offer the correct answer only if the teacher directly asked me. In the present body of students it would never do to raise a hand to show that I knew the right answer. That would invite class-wide derision and swift contemptuous labeling as a ‘teacher’s pet.’
I craved to be one of them in the class, to be, in fact, one of the recognizably naughtier ones, and wear the prized halo of a wicked lad. If it meant to remain mute when the teacher asked a question of the class, I elected to do so despite an inner good-boy urge to pop the desired answer. I gained credit in class standing instead by doing naughtier things, like ascribing witty names to teachers or writing off-color limericks about them. My standing peaked the day I sketched and circulated during the math class a picture of the well-endowed girl who stood occasionally at the window of a neighboring apartment to the everlasting prurient interest of our class.
After that I longed to do something more dramatic and gain the adulation of the class. The best opportunity was the practice of Shorty, our literature teacher to encourage us -- doubtless to spur our reading habits -- to bring a favorite story to the class, read it publicly and lead a critical review of the story. Through diligent search I identified a short story by a reputed author that begins innocuously as a family story and ends in a shattering, literal account of an abortion. In the next literature class, the moment the teacher broached the idea of a story several classmates pointed to me on a cue and yelled that I had been skipping my turn.
I craved to be one of them in the class, to be, in fact, one of the recognizably naughtier ones, and wear the prized halo of a wicked lad. If it meant to remain mute when the teacher asked a question of the class, I elected to do so despite an inner good-boy urge to pop the desired answer. I gained credit in class standing instead by doing naughtier things, like ascribing witty names to teachers or writing off-color limericks about them. My standing peaked the day I sketched and circulated during the math class a picture of the well-endowed girl who stood occasionally at the window of a neighboring apartment to the everlasting prurient interest of our class.
After that I longed to do something more dramatic and gain the adulation of the class. The best opportunity was the practice of Shorty, our literature teacher to encourage us -- doubtless to spur our reading habits -- to bring a favorite story to the class, read it publicly and lead a critical review of the story. Through diligent search I identified a short story by a reputed author that begins innocuously as a family story and ends in a shattering, literal account of an abortion. In the next literature class, the moment the teacher broached the idea of a story several classmates pointed to me on a cue and yelled that I had been skipping my turn.
My reading began. It was a good story and everybody paid full attention, including Shorty. Near the end he started fidgeting a bit, possibly intuiting something untoward was about to happen. When the climax came, the whole class was stunned and silent; nobody had anticipated the ghastly and explicit outcome.
Shorty looked mortified, not just from the story, but also the inappropriateness of such a story read by a student to all other students. Almost incoherent, he muttered, “Well, well…That’s not the kind of story I expected!” After a pause, he declared, “I don’t think today we will have a discussion of the story.” He didn’t, couldn’t say any more. He got up and left.
I had made my mark. I became the hero of the class.
At the end of the year, based on my results, I moved to the best section of the next class. I returned to my erstwhile role of being the good student and good boy.
Shorty looked mortified, not just from the story, but also the inappropriateness of such a story read by a student to all other students. Almost incoherent, he muttered, “Well, well…That’s not the kind of story I expected!” After a pause, he declared, “I don’t think today we will have a discussion of the story.” He didn’t, couldn’t say any more. He got up and left.
I had made my mark. I became the hero of the class.
At the end of the year, based on my results, I moved to the best section of the next class. I returned to my erstwhile role of being the good student and good boy.
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