About Cleanliness and Cluelessness.

My convent school memories are like a sepia tinted beautiful musical. All that I look back and laugh has something to do with the disciplinary methods of the school and how we managed to break the rules and regularly ended up in the Principal’s office. The phrases ‘Pin drop silence’, ‘Do not eat with your hands’ and ‘Shoes should be so clean you should see your face on it’ ring in my ears whenever my mind takes me back to my school days.

 I am sure they went a tad too much with that shoe thing. I have never seen my face on my shoes. However some teachers tried to see their reflection on my shoes and failed miserably, in turn subjecting me to their wrath. Logically speaking, this cannot be a judging factor for adherence of school rule number 2, Cleanliness. They also said that Cleanliness was Godliness, and my school shoes just kept proving that I was not God.

In my terms, a clean black school shoe is one that is NOT brown.  I've had my share of brown shoe days (it was a magical time when bad hair days were unheard of) along with many others and on such days our Principal decided that we were unfit to be in class for the first hour. Which means the first hour is basically for shoes and not people? What does that make of those kids who were allowed to attend the first hour class? Theoretically they should feel offended. However they were seen hopping away to the class with much glee and pride. Seriously I still don’t understand certain things which everyone else seems to get.

And then came the eating with hands part. Even when a fork or spoon is used we are still using our hands right? So what is the point in saying ‘Do not eat using your hands’? This can only be possible if Mummy came and fed me during lunch hour, so that I will not be using my hands, but hers. Being pure non vegetarians, our lunch consisted of fish on a daily basis. How are we supposed to eat fried dish from a deep round steel lunch box using a fork and a spoon? The chance of the fish taking off and landing somewhere else was very high. We also had vegetarians in our class and someone complaining ‘Ma’am she threw a fish into my lunch box ewwww’ was the last and only complaint left to be registered in my file. Also I am not ready to part with my fish. Same was the case with all my pure non vegetarian friends and not once in our school days did we use forks and spoons.  

And then one afternoon, I was happily sharing pending stories from the weekend to my friends. The clocked ticked its way towards the end of recess and the bell rang. I hadn't eaten much, my fingers still dipped in a tub of rice, sambar and fish. There was no way I could reach the wash room and be back before the teacher came. And I dint believe in carrying napkins my Mom gave me along with the lunch box every day, I just kept wondering why they even existed. I was caught in a pickle. Suddenly a brilliant idea struck me. I took my water bottle, put my hand out of the window and washed it. The water fell on the sun shade.

The teacher walked in watching me do the dirtiest thing that could ever happen in a convent school. And then she made me write ‘Henceforth I will not wash my hands through the window' in my school diary and asked me to get it signed from my father.

Papa was NOT a terror in our school days, but any failure in following discipline can irk him real bad. Even if I failed an academic year he would not be too bothered. However he does not tolerate bad behavior. That whole day I’d been thinking how to face him and then bring up that diary which could change my life forever. I had no excuse. I had no one to support me. Mummy was like ‘WHAT? Unbelievable! How could you…’. Our house was a complete setting for an intense drama. I ended up looking like a kid who did drugs in school. And that sun shade would have dried up already. It’s not like I drank whiskey and threw the bottle there. Whatever it is even if I say that my friend ALSO washed her hands through the window(which is my most commonly used excuse) he’d just say he dint care about anyone else. Well if he cared about me then he should have just signed that diary!

What happened next is history. Papa refused to sign, there was a lot of angry gyaan, I cried some crocodile tears and then there were talks about how my last name was also his first name and that it was shameful. The next day Papa escorted me to school.  He met the teacher, she was mighty pleased, they spoke and occasionally looked at me, and I stood there facing my shoes.

Papa was very satisfied with how seriously the school took its rules, the teacher happy that someone took her seriously, and I still couldn't see my face on the shoes.