An eccentric dream

      “Guddu, I am leaving now. I have to reach early today.” My father woke me up. I got out of the bed, closed the door behind him, and went back to sleep. My alarm was scheduled to ring at eight.

    I am fifteen years old, studying in ninth class. I am staying with my father in a small one-bedroom rented house in Bhubaneswar. I study in a school where my father is also a teacher. He is the shift in charge for high school, a rank just below the headmaster.

Today is the nomination day for the school election. In our school, a small election is conducted every academic year to choose the student cabinet. The election is held for four posts, the President, the Secretary, the Sports head, and the Cultural head. Being elected into the cabinet is one of the coolest achievements of school life. High school (eighth, ninth, and tenth standard) students get to vote in the election. Tenth-standard students are not allowed to file nominations because they are supposed to invest more time preparing for their board exam. Though both eighth and ninth standard students can nominate themselves, it is generally accepted among the students that only ninth class students will compete for the President and the Secretary.

I am going to run for President. I slept late yesterday, as I was preparing my speech, mostly an agenda of the things I will carry out if and when I become the President. We have to deliver this speech in the students’ meeting after filing the nomination to convince students why you are the perfect candidate. The election is going to be held next week. Priyanka, Debakanta (from junior batch), and Sushri are going to file nominations for the Secretary, Sports, and Cultural heads respectively as my allies. I am quite confident that I would win. This confidence buds from the fact that, before the election, I was the Cultural head last year and people are familiar with my work. Also being one of the class toppers, directing plays in several cultural events, and winning some prizes in the inter-school competition last year helps.

I heard the calling bell ring. (We did not have a calling bell in our place. A knock on the door was sufficient to announce someone’s arrival.) I woke up, went to the door, and opened it. Rasmi was standing at the door. He was in the school uniform and as I opened the door, he paused for a while seeing me not prepared, “Hey! Bugger (he did not say bugger, he used a word filthier than ‘bugger’). You are sleeping till now.” I looked at the clock. It's five past ten, my alarm had cheated me, the school gate opens at ten-fifteen. I did not have time to take a bath, or even brush my teeth. So I just ran to the washroom, splashed water on my face. I came out and started wearing my uniform. I had washed and ironed it nicely yesterday for the big event (the speech). As I started putting on my blue trousers, Rasmi said “Today is Saturday, why the hell are you wearing these for?”. Ohh Crap!!! I had forgotten. Students’ meeting takes place every Saturday post the morning prayers. Our dress code is all white on Saturdays (shirt, trousers, boots, and socks except for the belt and the tie). My white trousers were not pressed. Does not matter, no time now. I have to wear it. “Put that tiffin pack and those notes in my bag. Also don’t forget the blue cover copy on the top of the shelf, I have my speech in there. “ I cried to Rasmi for help. He is a friend in need. So he obeyed without hesitation. We came out as soon as I was done wearing my uniform and locked the door behind. Shoe-stand was outside. I pulled out my white shoes. Holy Cow!!! (I did not say ‘holy cow’.) - “What?” - “I don't know where the shoelaces are.” In the summer vacation, I must have kept them somewhere after washing the shoes, which I don’t remember now. I opened the door-lock again and went in. The wall clock was announcing 25 minutes past ten. I looked in some places with a desperate hope that I could discover them. I had no luck. - “Let’s go like this. We will see what can be done after.” So it was decided. I locked the door again and we ran downstairs. My bad luck has just begun.

I unlocked my bicycle only to find out the tire was punctured. I kicked the rim in disgust. I hopped on the pillion seat of Rasmi’s bicycle. We rode. Our school was a ten minutes ride from my place, we were already almost fifteen minutes late. On the road, my shoe fell down twice. The second time on cow dung. My socks got wet thanks to water spilled from a municipal water tanker. I picked my shoe up, held it in my hand again, and sat on the cycle.

We passed the fruit shop. Our school was just behind that. Ohh, wait! This fruit shop was not near my current school. This was in front of the primary school I used to go to in my village. How did we reach here? I had no time to think. We parked the bicycle in the cycle stand and ran to the small gate beside the main gate. I got confused because my primary school in the village did not have a gate altogether. It was initially run in a half-broken abandoned house taken on rent. It was founded a year before I joined and we stayed there for three more years. In my second standard, the school was moved to a new place. Golia, the peon of my primary school, came to the gate and stopped us. “You are late. Stand here.” He told us that and went into the office room cum staff room. I was looking at the students praying in the open field (not the big hall of my school in Bhubaneswar). All kids were of age less than eight or nine. High school students who will listen to my speech were missing. After some time Golia came out with Puspa Miss behind him. I realized I had not seen her for quite some time now. Puspa Miss was my childhood school teacher. She died of cancer, some ten years ago. “Why are you two late?”, shouted Miss Puspa. I was trying to say something but words failed to come out of my throat. Instead, a gasp of air came out. “Guddu was not able to find his shoelace.” - “Guddu!!!” - Rasmi never calls me by this name and I seriously doubt he even knows me by this name. I looked towards my left. Rasmi was missing. Kanha was standing there instead. He is a year older than me and my neighbor in our village. Puspa Miss turned towards me. “Guddu!!! Where are your white pants? Today is Saturday. Why are you not wearing a proper uniform?” I looked down, I was wearing blue half-trousers (blue trousers are our regular uniform for Monday to Friday).  I am in high school. I should be wearing full pants, not something which ends above knees like kids. "You are getting out of hand. ‘Golia, go bring my stick.’ Today I have to teach him a lesson.” Golia ran to fetch the stick. Puspa Miss had this nice long stick to frighten children. She seldom uses it. But as children, we all were the most afraid of her among all our teachers. “Besides, “ - she continued, “You seem to have started a rumor, while I was on vacation, that I have died and no student needs to fear me now.” The kids had started looking at me and I was feeling a little awkward.  My heart started racing at a pace that I could hear it beat. My body temperature had spiked. I was sweating profusely. Generally, in situations like this, my ear turns red. “Show me your palm”. She asked me. I hesitantly after two repetitions of the above phrase put my hand out. She was about to strike it when the school bell dropped from Golia’s hand. I was unaware when Golia reached there and why he was holding the bell. The bell made an unusual sound as it hit the ground.

I woke up in my apartment in Bangalore. This time for real. Suddenly, I was twenty-nine. The room was lit with sunlight and a beam was directly on my face causing my ears to redden. Power was not back yet after yesterday’s heavy rain and the apartment’s backup surely went dead. I was sweating under my blanket. As I woke up, I saw Simmy (my wife) keeping a book down on the table in disgust and going to the kitchen to check on our maid. “Tulsi Didi … What are you planning on breaking today?” I could hear her as she went out of the room.

I straightened up my back a little,  put another pillow under my head, and  removed the blanket. The dream was vivid. I looked at my palm. I was smiling. Not sure, I was happy because I escaped Puspa Maam’s stick or I was hoping I had a spot on my palm to prove that she beat me.