Notebook
Every school demanded you make notes of what’s being taught. We did the same, however, it involved extra risk for us folks. Maybe the teacher can’t stand your handwriting, maybe your book is incomplete, maybe your parents didn’t sign your book after homework. There would be reasons why a kid would just not want to submit their books for correction. I got whacked once although my work was complete and up to date. I was just afraid to walk up to the teacher. She had already steel-scaled a couple of boys before me for not doing their work! So I had laid low and did not approach her for two weeks. When I was personally called to submit my book her face glowered.
My dad had bought me a bright white Quiksilver backpack from Australia while I was in class four. It was a fairly unusual and attractive backpack because it was all white canvas. You did not find such quality back then locally. So one day after school I left the backpack in the back seat of the car with the window half open and the chauffer asleep at the wheel. When I came back with my mom the bag was missing. With all my notebooks gone, I was told by the principal to start writing everything from the beginning. I spent about nine days re-writing everything, about nine notebooks. It was several month’s worth of notes. The thought of writing everything all over immensely dispirited me. I spent extra hours in the night finishing notebooks. It didn’t do any better for my academic score and made my soft fingertips ached. My thumb, index finger, and middle finger were more flat and red than usual. The pencil would leave its impression because of my tighter grip and after an hour’s break, it would resettle, like memory foam. On the tenth day, in the morning, my mom gets a phone call on the landline. It was some man speaking from a taxi stand saying they found my school bag abandoned over there. They got the phone number from the school calendar. So, I attended school while my parents went over and got it back for me. My notebooks were all there, a little wet from the rain though. Some pages were a bit smudged but acceptable overall. The stationaries were missing though. The sad thing is I had rewritten all my new notebooks practically up to the old ones.
The very first epic fright of my life came about in kindergarten. We had three Splitz, two white and one black. My teachers were always on their toes with me present. There was some alphabet homework and my teacher had warned me that this is my last chance, failing which she would lock me in the classroom overnight in the dark. No worries, I did my homework diligently and went to bed that night. Hazy-eyed, I amble down the staircase the next morning and notice dozens of white things flying about the living room. It was my homework! The dogs got to it! Ha! I felt myself go weak in the legs. Mom must have dragged me to school that day for sure. I do vaguely remember some kind of panic and commotion in the morning. When I walk in through the classroom door, my teacher immediately demands my homework. Thankfully my mom had escorted me and explained everything. There was a moment of strong disbelief on my teacher’s face. Then we showed her the pages. I don’t know if she was still convinced, but I was given another day’s time, albeit after she took me to the principals office.