Lal Miss

Lal Miss

Going back to school always brought about a hodgepodge of emotions, but summer school was especially challenging. As a ten-year-old, waking up on time to be at school by 7 AM made school unbearable.

After many attempts from my poor mother with tactics ranging from bribery to threats, I’d finally make my way out of the bed, rubbing my eyes, and trying to think of an excuse to skip school. You would think the teachers would cut you some slack for having to be at school so early, but no sir. The same rules applied regardless of the start time. Our uniform, white shirts, blue pants, which at least for the summer were blue shorts, had to be spotless and neatly ironed. With pants, the teachers meticulously checked for a single crease, so shorts were a welcome break both from the heat and as one less thing to pay attention to. They still had to be clean and free of wrinkles. Even in the blistering heat of the summer, though, the neckties had to stay on. White socks and black shoes completed the rest of the uniform. The socks had to be pristine white, and the black shoes needed to be freshly polished and shined.

The smell of the school bus’s diesel exhaust brought a faint sense of urban life to our village. We were drawn to that burning smell, often chasing after the occasional buses and construction trucks that made it to our neighborhood. I watched from the dusty window as young children ran next to the school bus. I was thankful to finally be the kid on the bus. The diesel smell was equally strong and satisfying inside the bus. I sat down on the wooden seat by the front and watched the driver in awe as he constantly moved between the steering wheel and the gear handle, all the while balancing a cigarette in his lips.

The morning assembly was anything but fun as we stood there in the heat following the teacher’s command to stand at ease and attention. Though at the time I did not know that is what they were saying. The way the teachers mumbled all the words, I heard stanatis and 10son. I did not know the meaning of the words. All I knew was how my body was to follow those commands, and most importantly, to do it in unison with the rest of the assembly, lest we wanted to stay behind and repeat the procedure. The teachers always stood on a podium upfront, with shade and a fan blowing air at full speed.

After the assembly, we took turns grade by grade to head into our classrooms. We settled in our designated spots, girls on the one side of the room and boys on the other. The day started with the class teacher taking roll call, followed by an inspection of our hair, nails, and teeth. Teachers who barely spoke any English taught us English, often doing most of the teaching in Nepali itself. Reading the text from a book in English was the English part of the teaching.

We were learning about fruits and colors on this specific day. There was a poster with pictures of a variety of fruits and colors hanging over the chalkboard. One by one, Lal miss, our class teacher, called on us to name the color or fruit she was pointing at.

“You,” she said, pointing at me with the ruler in her hand.

I promptly stood up and tried to maintain my attention pose, which was expected of us.

She pointed at a picture of a peculiar green fruit and asked. “What this?”

Between playing in the mango trees, riding my bike, and time at my grandmother’s home during the summer, I had all but ignored school. At the beginning of the summer, I had received a used bike from my cousin, and I had spent much of the summer fiddling with and fixing the rusty old thing. I could rattle the name of every part and could probably even build a bike from scratch if someone handed me a tub full of parts. When it came to schoolwork, though, I had forgotten most of the things from last year, let alone learn new things. I hoped we would slowly ease into the lessons as we did in the previous grade. Sweating from the heat and nervousness, I quickly realized that would that not be the case.

“I no” I uttered.

“Ok. Answer,” she said.

“I no,” I said louder but being careful not to sound disrespectful. I noticed a thin layer of dust starting to settle on my shoes as my head hung low in shame.

She shifted her chair back, fixed the ruffles on her flowery green saree, and walked close to me.

“Answer!” she yelled, slapping her hands on the desk and leaning in front of me, her chin inches above my forehead. Her long black hair, parted midway and tied in pigtails, was now resting on my shoulder. I tried my best not to glance at her large, pendulous breasts, even as they got so close that they were threatening to maul my face.

I tried to hold my attention position, my legs shaking as I prayed for my bladder not to betray me. I had heard about Lal Miss before. Every kid who ever intended to attend the Marigold school had been warned about her. Neighborhood kids who had previously attended Marigold before spoke of Lal Miss with profound fear. Even in the playground miles away from the school, they looked around, their faces suddenly white as they spoke about her. Now I was learning how she got her namesake as Lal Miss. Lal, which meant Red in Hindi, was the color of her face as she looked over at me in indignation and screamed in her native Bengali language.

“Last time. I ask. Answer!” She shrieked, her voice getting louder and her face getting redder with every passing moment. Her face now looked like it could explode any second, spraying blood all over the room.

I felt a warm trickle on my thigh and tried to clench my leg, giving up my attention position. With my chin resting on the knot of my tie I mumbled again, “I No..” This time it came out more like a question rather than a statement as I was no longer sure what was happening.

“You think this is funny? Joke with teacher?” She said as she put her arm around my face and dragged me out of my bench. Smell was the latest of my senses to fall victim to her rage as I caught a powerful whiff of her sweat. Body odor so strong that I could taste it in my mouth.

“I’ll teach funny. Go bend over by the chalkboard!” She shouted as she frantically paced around the room, looking for a stick.

Her anger continued to rile up as she checked every corner of the room, now intensified further by her inability to find a stick of any sort. I started breathing a sigh of relief, but my body was slowly giving up as moisture continued to appear on my face and around my thigh.

Lal miss, with her veins by her neck and temple bulging and getting redder by the second, looked like no shade of red on the color poster that I was now so up close to, waiting for my punishment. For a brief second, I forgot my worry as I fantasized about asking her whether we’d call the color of her face Red, Purple, or something entirely different.

Unsuccessful at her quest for a stick, she made her way back towards me, pulled me by my belt, this time to upright me.

“Whoo that was close!” I thought to myself as she started her sentence with go.

But I was clueless about what I was up against. There was a reason Lal Miss had instilled such a deep fear in so many kids.

“Go outside and find a stick,” she said, looking at me. Then, for the first time, letting her face relax into a smirk, she added, “Find a good stick. Strong, flexible, and good length. Lucky boy, you get to pick your own punishment stick.”

After taking a moment to take in what she was about to say, she continued, “Remember though, If I find the stick not good, not painful, then I go find a stick. You don’t want me to find a stick.”

“Oh wait!” Yelled out Lal miss, which brought about another dose of hope. This time, a little more cautious.

I turned around swiftly as if I was standing on a swivel, and in a loud voice said, “Yes, Lal Madam.”

“Miss not Madam,” she barked at me

“Since you… no English, let me repeat it all in Nepali,” she added as she took her time explaining everything in Nepali.

At this, the whole classroom erupted in laughter and Lal miss showed her approval by not yelling at them to remain quiet.

The Woman already seemed to revel at the thought of punishment she would bestow upon me. Genius and cruel. The only bright side was that I would get to spend some time outdoors instead of being stuck in the hotbox that was our classroom. With my head hanging low, thinking it was going to be a long year, I walked towards the school orchard in search of my destiny.

When I got back to the classroom, two more students were standing in front of the chalkboard.

Lal Miss looked at me and screamed, wanting to know what took me so long. I wondered if she even had a normal voice. Maybe this terrifying scream was the norm for her. Given her giant stature, that would make sense. Some older kids joked that Lal Miss was so big because she ate all her siblings. Now, seeing her rage, I could believe anything about her.

“Take time to find good stick,” I muttered, hoping that would be a satisfying enough answer for her.

“I’ve better hope that is a good stick. Go stand next to those two,” she said, pointing at the two students who were standing by the chalkboard. I handed the stick to her and stood by the others as instructed.

She swung the stick in the air a few times, making a whooshing noise, and tried to bend it, checking for flexibility and strength. Then, carrying the stick behind her as if we did not know what she was hiding, she and walked towards us.

“Here, you guys will now punish each other,” she said. We looked at each other in horror. This woman was living up to everything we had heard about her, and it was only halfway through the first day of school. She gave us an option to punish each other with 10 sticks or take 5 from her. We all picked each other in a flash.

As we were lining up by the chalkboard, bent over and on display for the whole classroom, she added to the rule.

“I better hear a satisfying noise of the stick slapping on the skin, or else I will come finish the rest,” she said as she walked towards the end of the room. We took turns swinging the bamboo stick to make a slapping noise loud enough for Lal Miss to hear at the end of the room. Our hands slipped a little lower on the wall and each one of us was almost doubling over by the time the last lash of pain left searing red marks on our calf muscles.

Taking gentle steps with my legs that were now burning as if someone had just dropped hot oil on my skin, I made it back to my seat. As I ran my hand ever so carefully over the back of my leg, I could feel the skin rising from the surface to leave proof of the rendezvous with the stick. Sitting down, my face let out a sly smile as I felt glad the beating had not been on our bums. It was difficult to envision being able to sit down after taking 10 lashes of that stick on my bum, even if it was over my shorts.

Back at my seat, I lowered my face again. This time to hide my smile that was getting away from me, dreaming about the end of the day. Back on the school bus, I would get to my moment of redemption. I had a little secret to be proud of. There was a reason it had taken me so long to find the stick. On my way back to the classroom, I had passed the bike rack. Turns out, after you learn how to put something together, taking it apart is even easier. Lal Miss’s bicycle was easy to identify as, like her name, it was also red and had red ribbons tied to the chrome handlebars. When I looked around and saw no one nearby, I could not help but put my recently learned skills to use. Everything I learned about bikes during the summer had not been a total waste after all.