AT the end of June during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, a man walked steadily
towards the gates of a school in the village of Ratanwal, in Punjab. The man was hard-
working with a strong constitution; he wore simple clothes, and although he could beat ten men in a fight, and work from dawn to dusk without tiring on his farm; he grew nervous as he approached the school gates. For Farmer Balraj was not an educated man and this was a sore point with him; but the nervousness also concerned his son, who was eight years old and walked reluctantly by his side.
The farmer entered the dusty school- yard and walked towards the single-storied white building. He took of his shoes at the entrance, though there was no real need- the son felt awkward to do so, but the glare from his father soon changed his mind. The boy wore a clean white shirt and long brown shorts, especially ironed by his mother who had been the impetus behind this decision. And when he took of his shoes he felt half-dressed, but without a word the young boy followed his father into the Headmaster’s office, standing close next to him.
The Headmaster Mr. Lal J. Prasad sat behind his wooden desk writing out yet another tedious report. Behind him on the plain white wall hung a framed picture of Mahatma Gandhi looking down at him. The ceiling fan rotated swiftly, but still the heat was stupendous, a couple of flies buzzed past the new entrants.
Under the photograph was written in bold black letters, ‘He who learns to respect knowledge, has the world at his feet.’
The young boy looked up at the picture and then at the words but since he couldn’t read or write, it made little sense to him. The Headmaster peered over his round glasses, which he then took off and looked up at the farmer.
‘Balraj, I think,’ he said.
‘Yes Saab,’ fumbled the farmer.
‘And that’s your boy.’
The farmer nodded, he was very nervous now, and he wondered greatly why he had allowed his wife to badger him into bringing his son here. Why couldn’t he follow his two other bothers onto the farm. What need was there for education and all this nonsense.
The Headmaster pulled out a white form and filled in the relative details in neat handwriting. He looked up at the farmer and said, ‘I need your signature here, so that the boy can be enrolled.’
Now the farmer grew pale, and he narrowed his eyes looking intently at the white form on the desk. Perspiration suddenly appeared on his brow and he felt acute embarrassment. The boy looked up at his father and saw the great hesitancy, and felt saddened at his state, for he had never seen him look so beaten.
The Headmaster realizing his mistake smiled slightly and pulled back the form and wrote out the farmer’s name in the blank space. The boy looked down at his feet, he realized that his father couldn’t even write his name, and a slight anger grew in his heart.
Mr. Prasad stood up and smiled at the boy, he was sympathetic towards him for he
Knew that he had already lost three years of education, and settling into his new class would be difficult. The boy didn’t smile, he was still conscious of the fact that he wore no shoes, and when he saw the tall headmaster come round the desk, the first thing he noticed was that he wore new polished black shoes- and now he felt half ridiculous. Especially as he saw his father’s large feet covered in dust and the soles hard from working in the fields.
Mr. Prasad took them both down a long wide corridor, where the recitation of times tables and the alphabet could be heard loud and clear. This was only a small school poorly furnished, but it was kept clean. They followed the Headmaster into a class, the teacher was writing on the blackboard, and when the class saw the new entrants they looked up from their desks and lost all interest in their studies.
The young boy felt very vulnerable just at that moment, he had already noticed one or two giggling at him, and pointing at his feet. In his embarrassment he put one foot over the other in an attempt to hide his discomfort. The Headmaster spoke, ‘This is the new boy, he will be admitted to your class Mr. Murthi.’
The teacher turned around and looked at the boy and fixed him a stern look- might as well let him know who was in charge from the first moment. He had dealings with farmer boys, and they were always the cause of trouble.
It was perhaps fair to say that the young boy also took an instant dislike to the stern look. Feeling awkward, he had half an eye on a fat boy sitting just three feet away, and who was pointing at his feet and giggling quietly.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the teacher in a cold voice.
The boy didn’t answer. His Father, who had noticed that the other boys were laughing at his son on account of his shoes, felt even more nervous and fidgeted uncomfortably. He also cursed his wife to his heart’s content. This would be the first and last time he entered school. The boy looked down, and the class started to titter a little louder.
‘Quieten down,’ said Mr. Murthi. ‘Now boy, what’s your name? He demanded again.
‘Dilip Balraj,’ said the boy slowly.
‘A little louder,’ said the teacher.
Both the father and the Headmaster felt this was unnecessary. But the boy who had been feeling awkward, feeling embarrassed allowed his quick temper to get the better of him, and he shouted.
‘Dilip Balraj!’
The laughter in the class rose slowly at first and then pandemonium broke out, with all the boys laughing and cheering. And they repeated his name in a chorus.
‘Dilip Balraj! Dilip Balraj!,’ and cheered and laughed loudly again.
The teacher banged down his ruler onto the desk.
‘Quiet! Quiet!’ but the shouts had little effect.
The fat boy pointed a finger at Dilip’s feet and laughed the loudest. In the moment it takes for an eyelid to close over an eye, the farmer’s boy had grabbed the pointing hand of the boy and pulled him off his chair; and in the next moment had planted a small fist on his nose. The boy cried out in pain, and now there was complete chaos in the classroom, as chairs went flying, and books rose in the air. The boys fell over themselves to get a better view of the fight.
It took a few moments for the teachers to react, in which time the poor boy was bleeding on his lip and through his nose. The farmer’s boy was pulled off the fat boy firmly, after which the Headmaster restored order. It took a good half an hour for the class to settle, as Mr. Murthi took the bleeding boy out of the classroom for some first aid.
After the class had been set to copy out time- tables, the Headmaster took the farmer to one side and reassured him, that everything would be fine, and that there was no reason to worry unnecessarily. Although the Headmaster was kind, farmer Balraj felt very embarrassed; but with a resigned look on his face he left the school gates and walked wearily back to his farm, on the edge of the village.
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Reviewed by Rahul Mitra
4/22/2007
First Day by Vijay is a wonderfully written story of both the father and the son. It reflects life in a village in India, but in a very optimistic way. Well done.
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