Traces of an old fire(1)
I was 9 years old when my father transferred me from our local Malayalam medium school to the nearby Convent school. With my limited knowledge of 26 alphabets and a handful of words , I was the oddball , trapped in an alien world where everything happened in English. On my first day our class teacher asked me to introduce myself. I stood before the whole class , not knowing what to do.
" M-my name is...Nidhi Mariyam George...." I heared my own voice saying. And then I stood there , overwhelmed by the expectent eyes. so helpless. My eyes stinging with a warmth that threatened to overflow at any moment. With my everything I held those tears back. I just didn't want to be the crybaby above everything else.
Then one day during the lunch break I found myself in the middle of a few of my fellow classmates. I have always been a slow and light eater. But my mom being mom , stuffed extra rice and curry everyday. There I sat before them, forcing all the unwanted food down my throat, along with the fear of being scolded by the teacher, along with the shame and hurt of being forced and threatened.
Later that evening, I finally broke down before dad, and let out all the pent up frustration, hurt, alienation of the past weeks. I cried and begged , forgoing my pride, to let me transfer back to my previous school, or to another or any Malayalam medium school. He just sat there supporting my head on his shoulder, patting my back, but didn't say anything else but a clear no.
That weekend I found an 'English to Malayalam 'dictionary on my table and a few basic grammer books. The lost and humiliated me took to learn from the dictionary, word by word. One page from my science book everyday, for the science teacher was the kindest soul I found in there, the only one who took some extra time to give another explanation for me, in Malayalam. I didn't want to disappoint her.