Opinion | Columnists
First day of boarding school
I remember the day I was being admitted to a boarding school. It was my first step inside one. I was four years and was to be admitted to the kindergarten section, better known as KG in India.
- By Vimal Yogi Tiwari, Special to Gulf News
- Published: 00:21 February 11, 2008
I remember the day I was being admitted to a boarding school. It was my first step inside one. I was four years and was to be admitted to the kindergarten section, better known as KG in India.
What KG was I had no idea? I did know that "K" stood for "king" and "g" stood for "guava". But this KG had nothing to do with them. So it was a mystery for me.
At the boarding school, a lady walked straight towards my father. She spoke to him and with an extra-stretched smile turned towards me, patted my cheeks and held my finger. I acted as a robot for it was all quite novel for me. She led me into a room. There were many children there; all as bewildered as I was.
Then a lady, who must have been a teacher, for I came to know the difference between a lady and a lady teacher much later, said, "Children get ready for the admission test".
"Test, what was that?" Was it some reward or punishment? I bolted out of the room despite the lady's protests. I went straight to my father, who was sitting on a chair outside. "Dad I have been admitted; now you go and take the test."
My father smiled, for he being a professor himself could understand the enigma the word "test" caused. He took me to the principal and said, "Sir, this boy does not even know what a test is, so what is the idea of taking one at all?"
So I was admitted into my boarding school without an entrance exam. After the initial formalities were completed, we were all ushered in a place that was called a dormitory.
There were many sobbing and wailing children in there. I was aghast. I turned back to ask my father what was going on, for I never thought my father would ever leave me among strangers. But dad was not there. He had gone.
Realisation
This realisation made me also join the wailing chorus. Till a clap, shocked all of us into silence. "Children," said the warden, "now please, get ready for your bath; you all look so dirty because of the long travel". "Bath in winters?" And my wailing started again.
But this was a hostel, and you were no more a king, but a subject. Orders had to be followed. This also I learnt much later. A servant came and made us stand in a queue.
Then he started unbuttoning shirts of those who did not know the art, me being one of them. The smarter ones did it themselves.
Then we were striped to our underwear to shiver for a while and then were led into the bathroom, which was huge. It must have been, at least ten times bigger than mine at home, I thought. There were about five taps in all, which was a great number for me again.
The floor was very smooth, and I came to know the reason for that. We were made to sit on the floor, and then were slid to the taps of our destiny. The water could have been hotter. After all it was December. But no amount of screaming or yelling could make a difference.
The servants managing those taps soaked us to the best of their ability and then slid us to another corner of the bathroom. It must have been at least a three meters slide.
The servant there was deadlier than the earlier ones. He scrubbed us with soap as if we were some dirty pans and pots. In his zeal he allowed the soap froth to also clean our eyes, nose, ear and mouth.
Half blinded, we were slid back to where we had come from, our respective taps. There again we were washed off the soap and the dirt it must have managed to collect. Then came the final slide.
The man at the other end was waiting with the towel. He scrubbed us and squeezed us dry, tied our towels around our waist. Now we were left to fend for ourselves.
Vimal Yogi Tiwari is a journalist based in India.
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